Alexius Locker

Pikachu: Not your pokemon anymore, Ash Ketchum.

2012-01-29T21:40:00.001-08:00

Three birds always make big bang in the night. Pity thy neighbor's children.

To my once beloved master of mine,

By the time you found this letter on Misty's bedside table, I will be away from you for good. I know, being a loyal, dedicated companion of yours for 15 years, you will be ruck-cracking the almond brain of yours all day why I am leaving so abruptly, and you would still find no reasons why, you silly numskull, good-for-nothing brat. So, discounting the fact that I had paid outrageously dividends back to your piteous berries you always fed me, I shall enlighten you in this letter, saving you the trouble of aimlessly foraying around the forest with hundreds of pokeballs, ready for stoning.

First thing first - Grow up. Eat your mum food. Wear men clothes. You are already 24yo and still wear Fox Kids with childish duck cap. How do you managed to fit into today's society of A&F, of Banana Republic, with NY cap shoved to the back? And How the hell you managed to fit into your clothes in the first place? You Benjamin Button? Or you shower yourself with devolution spray? Even I feel my cheeks burning, BURNING!! with embarrassment walking beside you.(FYI: my cheeks are made scarlet because of you, and its neither natural nor for good reason.)

Second, you are jux plain too greedy. I should have seen this coming when you saw Ho-Oh on our first trip to Viridian City. I rescued you from the assault of one sparrow (A mouse rescuing a healthy, young, combat-fit dude from a small bird - how ironic is that?) and I was heavily bruised by the fight. Midway towards rushing me to hospital you suddenly halt at the hilltop, your eyes transfixed on the shimmering golden bird for full ten minutes, until daybreak. If you got a chance and a brand new pokeball in hand, I bet that you would stone the bird and quietly row me down the hill. I kept on licking your cheeks and acting cute to assert my presence, like 'Halo I am in your arms now and suffering' and you heartless nincompoop kept on glaring as though the bird is your new found lover. I should have sue you for acts of negligent..

Now you got yourself a circus of pokemons, and I congratulate you for that, though all of it comes under my credit, I find myself lacking of any career progression under your amateurish stewardship, to put it in the most polite manner. I shall find more gainful employment with other people, perhaps with Gary, or Universal Studio as a walking billboard. If all my applications were unsuccessful, considering the depressing economy, then don't be thunderstruck that I join Team Rocket.

Sayonara. If I have the bad luck of bumping into you in future, it will be on battlefield. ZAPZAPZAP

Pikachu

'PS: Don't bother finding me at Professor Oak's lab, but if you are wondering where did Misty slipped out from your bed again in middle of the night, she is right there, taming Prof Oak with Nurse Mary.

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Old items scavaged during spring cleaning CNY

2012-01-25T05:56:00.001-08:00

Every year, my family conducts a periodical spring cleaning on the afternoon of every Chinese New Year Eve. A very last minute endeavor, considering that all mops and sweepers must be dropped before 12am, and nothing could be thrown away except bowel movement.

This year is no exception. I wiped off the layered dust from bookshelves and closet, dumped all pest-infested books and soiled clothes, while contracted bronchitis in the process, I ended up reviewing and reminiscing all the old stuff I had with me.


Who wants my trunk? =p

I wore this trunk during my lower secondary school days, when I was around 13-14 years old. It was hastily bought due to a weird protocol imposed by my PE teacher that all students must wear triangular piece, not the squarish ones. So I went to Sportslink and bought it., regretting that I never bought a size bigger. Today, perhaps I did not washed it, ti is still reeked of chlorine smell and sweat and, something else.


A visual transition, from primary school specs till now, emporium Armani

I wore specs since Primary 3. And the spec on the left is my first pair and the least appealing. I remembered losing one in Secondary 2 due to a silly cat and mouse chase around the hallway,; it was dropped three floor down to a garden maze, and lost it ever since. I dare not tell my parents,, a dumb decision which led me to having difficulty reading the stuff from the whiteboard, and eventually led to my dismal O'level results (Yes, I got tonnes of excuses).

First page of my card album

Mia came from a generation of Pokemon, Digimon, and monstrosity. I recalled my powerful pestering power, buttressing dad to buy me that $15 bucks Eevee card (middle row left). I had 5 huge decks and am a league member, and my super fire deck was always triumphant, turning even water decks into steam.

This book is an irony; since most of the smiling faces were made bankrupt during the first dot com bubble. Some of the luminaries include the founders of boo.com and netstore.com, who gave very technical advice on how to seek investor spending and be glamorize as her. Only history will tell that she squander all of that money and made a real boo to the enterprise.

Warhol's Marilyn wannabes

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Analyzing Watanabe girlfriends in Norwegian Woods

2012-01-21T03:47:00.001-08:00

In comparison with other Murakami books that I had read (ie. UFO in Kushiro - a series of short stories that include a talking cat and rat and, contrary to the book title, no UFO in Kushiro), Norwegian Woods is perhaps the least imaginary, least sartorial, more humanizing read - it is about a testosterone-surging loner stepping on two love boats. One tsunamis forward, and the other drifting backward and slowly disappears.

Just like all nostalgic romance stories, Norwegian Woods folded with one boat getting sunk (Naoko hanged herself in bedroom) and Watanabe, like all prudent investors, nestled his future onto a more reliable Midori, after a few raucous sexual intercourses with Naoko's friend Reiki (who, considering her age, could have been their hippy mum) before reaching the revelation that Midori is the one.

Lets analyze the gals here:

Midori is younger than Watanabe by few years, extremely energetic which can also be quite frustrating and irritating sometimes; financially more stable, since she sold her father's bookstore when he died; but psychologically inept. I mean, who would laid in front of their deceased parents tablets naked, or open their vagina and examine supple parts of their bare bodies, talking to themselves and to the post-modem parents like 'Look, daddy this is my cleavage, and here is my uterus, you wanna touch it?' But at least she can cook well and sing song when Watanabe is drunk, making her the perfect Geisha.

Naoko is the same age as Watanabe; a lover to his best childhood friend who was killed in a traffic accident, which made Watanabe the burden of this beautiful liability. In the story she never literally show any signs of mental breakdowns, and it was relayed only via Reiko's letter that she was always mental. Naoko was depicted as sexually deprived in the story, considering that she had no physical contact of the outside world, and her partner in the little cottage was the 40+ yo Reiko, who is bisexual and relatively obese. So when Watanabe visit Naoko in the sanatorium, she was either naked while he was trying to sleep, or busy holding a pole in forested area -with him, of course.

Anyway, excavating the moral value from this amoral story, is to always have a backup. When Naoko dies, Watanabe shag Reiko, and telephones Midori immediately after that that he was madly in love with her.

Thats why I hate Plan-B Watanabe.

Gong Xi Fa Cai, going to play majong now =p

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My New Year Resolution =)

2012-01-04T09:47:00.000-08:00

As the longer hand of my Hilfiger watch finally reston the lower-half of its less endowed brother, the fervent crowd in Clarke Quay, like the year before and a year before that, or in fact every year, exploded out happy new year from the top of their blacken, tobacco-clogged lungs, rang in such sonorous clamor neither the roosters nor my Pokemon alarm clock could ever compete in shaking me out from stupor.

And I did woke up.

2012 is the year I put my first step towards working adult life, I intended it to be The year that I will not repeat the same mistake again.
Instead of scribbling down lists of unattainable desires (ie. Get a new face) on a piece of unwanted paper hoping for some rich dad to rummage my rubbish bin for the tawny paper few months later and hand the presents to me, I would demand for it by posting it on my blog, with dates to determine whether I received it or not.
Not to be idealistic and optimistic any longer, the stuff I now wanted are attainable, provided that I get a decent paying not too tiresome job to fund and support it.

Things I wanted for 2012

March - Able to communicate at least elementary French/ Buy new sets of underwear n socks

June - Gain concrete knowledge on marketing n branding/ Get California Fitness membership

September - A trip to Bangkok/ Get hold of 100 new connections in my hp contact (ppl I like)

December - Get a new gaming desktop / Asking for a raise to perhaps 2.8-3k

Do it like you meant it

2011-12-29T04:17:00.000-08:00

I hate gal robots answering my call.
Similarly, I hate the counter gal @ Long John Silver reminding me of such.
She wore the expression of a wife having yet another sexual intercourse, on a rainy Thursday evening with a burly husband approaching their fifty-year anniversary. The activity feels just like another train ride to downtown Orchard - no feeling at all.
Her eyes as deadpan as the fishes in Seng Siong, and she spoke as if she was not into it and wanted to get it over with, fast.

-WelcometolongjohnsilvermayIhaveyourordersirr?

I felt I was yet another passenger in the traffic she got to patronized, which is actually quite accurate to say that, but I was intrigued as it was my first innocent trip entering this fishy store with a net at Nex.

-Huh? Wha? Got What?

She then, slowly and deeply, suck in, her breath. Ostensibly sucking in all the strength needed to muster another sentence, but now it all came out slow and clumsy as though she was pulling out a long shaft, in agony.

-May-I-take-your-order-sir.

Oh. Embarrassed, and especially so since I was new to the scene, I tucked my hands into my pants pocket, seeking something hard to grab. I felt blood rising, surging, pumping, on the coastal of my earlobe. I ordered the usual (1 fish and 1 chick) and obediently settle to a quiet corner with long stretch of mirror panel at the side. Voyeuring other people, biting fries, sipping straw, reading Norwegian Woods to feign intelligence and, more importantly, utilized it as a shield to cover my flustered face. .

I dun remember I commit such a horrendous crime back when I was manning the frontier at Starhub, Cuppage Plaza.
All I could recall was joy and exhilaration on my customer faces, even though I was totally exhausted at the end of the day, and in serious need of private space to maintain sanity.
I made people their day. Men, women, young and old. Even married men with three children, I managed to made it worth his trip and totally satisfied about the service I gave him, without waking up his child in the cram or alerting his insecure wife.
And they wrote numerous positive feedback forms, raising my status within the ranks, and am a ripping red apple in the eyes of my immediate superior (I guess).

How? Because I do it like I meant it.. I gave more than my job responsibilities, even though I am not obliged to do beyond tapping words on the keyboard and keeping my heads up.
Usually I stretched the servicing time for a quarter to one hr or, if he wants a quick one, just five minutes. That is, if everything else were well-lubricated and the device on his hand functioned properly.

Too bad the Starhub store at Cuppage Plaza was demolished shortly after I left.

I never rang the gratitude bell when I walked out of LJS. I rather went Seng Siong and steam.

Insights from New Rules of Marketing and PR

2011-12-26T20:02:00.000-08:00

It is a repackaging of my principles of marketing textbook (Philip Kotler and some other replaceable co-author), and justification of ideas commonsensical to people less than a quarter of Lee Kuan Yew's age, that's the impression the audio book imparts for the first four CDs.

(I popped in these 'self-improvement' disc to kill time while surfing on the web; to kill coldness while doing my static exercises; and to kill the silence while sucking fresh out of my longan.)

Davide talks about the need to understand who your audience persona is (duh)/ create authentic content for targeted audience persona/ that the web is about delivering useful content at just the right time the audience need/ content should be based on facts, not fluffs/ consistency across media and his impressively clinical voice spirals down to the number of counts the two weights touched each other with a sonorous 'clunk'.By then, listening to him is as exasperating as the kilos I am holding on my hands.

That is, until he uttered something that nudges me to a halt, instantly, almost..

'Treat yourself as a publisher'

I dropped my bar.

As he rattles on, I was beginning to wonder why I haven't thought about becoming a publisher myself?

'Treat yourself as a publisher. Devise a content-strategy, treat your content as a value assets. Understand who are your readers? How to reach them? What are their motivations? What are their problems I can help solve? How to inform and entertain at the same time? What content could compel them to purchase my products directly?'

The more I hear it, the more it sounds like a lucrative speech of a prospective career, though definitely not Mr David Meerman Scott intention to lead me to that caviar of thought. But at least I am thinking now.

I love reading magazines- New Yorker, I weekly, I-S, August Man, Men Folio, Time, Newsweek, Vogue ,Juice, U-weekly, Mens Health- any title between A-Z, regardless of country-of-origins, the only limitation is the size of my wallet.

It is inexplicable why I enjoy browsing the flimsy/glossy magazines, revering the layout, pictures, titles, content inside, and sniffing the smell of print as it flips pass my nostril, and perhaps get high

An irony, considering that the author, the purveyor of new digital media,of blogs, Ebooks, and Webseminars, evokes this innate passion of mine - the traditional, not-so distant past , of rows and rows of magazine racks I visited two weeks ago, in Kinokuniya.

Not environmentally friendly, I know.

Anatomy of cute

2011-12-20T06:41:00.001-08:00

You must be wondering why a guy like me (Yes, a Y-hormon-nian, testosterone-filled, iron-pumping, alpha male) would meddle with such frivolous subject when I have much harder', more arousing things to handle. You might even question my self-described identity bracketed above, after glancing all these aww-so-cute pictures of a teddy in shrinking red tee and start retrospecting: 'eh, but he is a guy leh. Shouldn't he be blogging about mens stuff, like men's fashions and Korean Boybands. Surely not another teddy??'

But let me digress here, before you ponder further down to the s- street and began challenging my orientation.

It was Tuesday evening, 6th of December, 5pm, Raffles Place. I waited for someone to knock-off, I got a to-do list mentally jotted in my mind, and right up the top is to shop for Xmas presents to exchange (sometimes I feel this act akin to barter trading, and the receiver always never benefit- least of all gain any fruitful value from such un-purposeful transaction). Since I got ample time to kill, I did just that.

I stepped into this store and immediately confronted this huge pool of teddies, waiting for adoption.The teddies were easily the only thing that caught my eye, since the store were pretty sparse and dull, with plain cemented white wall, fluorescent lights, and plumbings on the ceiling running amok. I am interested.

'29.90', said the young dude cashier. I hastily took out my wallet and paused. "Is it machine-washable?'

'Erm..' He flipped the teddy up and around, investigating its neck, pushing the fur away to check for any visible tag stuck on its backside. '...I don't think so. Do you want a new one?'

Who doesn't want a new one? I said gave me the new one. So he dropped down, fumbled below the teddy pond and drew out a new one by the paw. It doesn't look dissimilar from the previous one I am paying for, but I still procure the new one and brought it to Burger King to wait for my friend to knock off.

So what is the question?

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I hate SMRT! I hate pervert!

2011-12-17T03:30:00.000-08:00

This is what happened, two days back, Thursday, ard 6.50-7pm, when I was on my way to book club, reviewing a fictional book about one guy getting raped in a truck.

I boarded the train at Douby Ghaut heading towards Marina Bay (yes the red one), counting myself lucky that the door still hadn't shut before me and me managed to squeeze inside the horde.
The train didn't move an inch for the next five minutes, the cabin of passengers and I, though relatively peeved in the mind, assumed that it was just another day the train broke down due to technical faults, and which would be immediately rectified. So we stood for another five minutes, looking at the screen-saver of surly crowds waiting at the station, and they looking back at us; the screen-saver of dummies standing there hoping the train would move to our separate destinations. It wasn't until I reached home at 1 am before I realized that it wont twitch at all.

Then there is the tap on the shoulder.
'____, nice to meet u. I like to be your friend'
I swung around, and my eyes fell to a short guy in red tee, relatively disappointing in appearance, 30++ of age with scruffy hair and few strands of white hair, standing so close a range which, under normal circumstances, would trigger a defensive stance from me. But this is SMRT I am talking about, and since I am already sandwiched between depressing bodies, I got polite with him and, with grave reluctance, said okai.

Then he shoot out his handphone, deliberately scrolled down with gruelingly slow speed, pictures of average length dick. He lost my interest right at that instant. I pulled down my shorts and let him witness the 'real thing' (jux joking).
'Your name?' I gave a fake name, and he typed next to my fake name 'Mrt. slim. orange bag. shopping. girly' Girly? 'But I like girly guys.' I was really pissed at that time and looked away. Then he placed his nose so close to my shoulder I could feel the musty dirty air.straight through my tee.In fact, he is sniffing my armpit!!

'What r u looking at? Busybody.' He raised his voice to a gal in front of me who, either being nosy or curious (isn't it the same?) turned immediately back her glance and looked straight. This is the last straw.

I brusquely grumbled that I wanted to alight, and before he could insult me further with his presence I gazelled out from the cabin and flew up the escalators, never dare to turn my head back.

Reading k-pop love magazine!!

2011-12-12T07:44:00.001-08:00

I ransacked a few magazines from Kinokuniya this year, and this is easily one the most expensive purchase (S$24.70) of the lot. Unfortunately, it is written in Korean, but luckily language illiteracy does not matter for K-Pop Love Boys (Who cares about languages when its targeted readers is merely interested in gaping on these glossy pictures? No wonder K-pop is so contagious).

Daikoku Danji

I bought it because I thought it is time to update my disheveled, scruffy hair, sandal-cladding looks and give it some new fashionable K-style (and, hopefully, a good dose of much-needed pixie-, BB-cream- or foundation- or watever dusts tat could shower me like glamour Shinee K-confetti) So I snap a few pictures that I find beautiful and pretty wearable on me (god forbid), plus a few pictures of faces that intrigued me..

DAIKOKU DANJI
Most Singaporeans might not heard of this boyband yet, but I cannot forget Karam jacket, pants and hairdo.
Hischeckered jackets, polka-dots shirts and skinny striped ties and deep amber pants made him looked preppy like some students from Manga series. To look more affable, he placed a few badges and straightened his long hair to personalize the overall look. I like his overall appearance (wonder what kind of cosmetic brand did he use to achieve that flawlessness?)

Karam

Looks like he is the leader or vocal singer of the group

ZE:A below

I like Siwan hairstyle and military jacket, in fact I like everything, from his swept hair to boots. I could only take a pinch of shameless comfort from knowing that he is 4 months older than me >.<

Siwan

I like how he pose here.

Jeong Hee Cheol, with a very unusal wide jacket collar

SHU-I

Inseok (centre)

Yes, another new boyband (S. Korea roll out boy groups faster than Apple rolling out new products.)

And in this five man tribe, Inseok attracted me the most.

Maybe its because of his checkered shirts and high forehead that captures my attention (I too possess a pretty high forehead, and it is said that these kind of people are more intelligent than other homo sapiens), or that his other band members don on an unfortunate dull palate of clothing, he is, anyway unrelated to the former sentence, 1 year older than me^.^

Other Groups

X-5 they look pretty dandy n rather plain as compared to others.

2PM!! I like Nichkhun n taecyeon e most

(whats his name?) But I like his usage of same fabric for scarf n tee

another look of ZE:A

So I have decided, that besides buying tight-fitting clothes, palette jeans, stiffening hairspray and BBcream; layering, checkered and small accessorize details will be the new style for me to ponder about. And I am still perplex on how to achieve Siwan's 3D fringe hairdo >.<

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one saturday

2011-12-11T04:01:00.001-08:00

Me at Orchard Central Looking pissed
Yesterday I started my morning working out, doing the free weights routine while listening to the audio e-books I borrowed from Central Library (David Meerman Scott 'The New Rules of Marketing & PR', without sweating as my air-con was blasting cold. I stopped halfway my normal routines as I could feel my teeth chattering and boredom looms. So I took a Hershey choco bar for lunch and headed down to Orchard to buy some clothes and to meet a friend.

Runway to the Christmas aisle

I strolled around Orchard Central for a while, contemplating whether to buy the Menaji High Def Powder Vision (a mens concealer) at 79.90 at WhatHeWants. But I am thinking also of a BBcream at The Face Shop so in the end I didn't buy either.

Hot models scratching. Did they wash their pants?

While walking towards Taka, I saw a commotion forming around the opposite block, and seeing that it is the half-naked guys from Abercrombie & Fitch, I made a swift U-turn trip and did some ogling with the about-to-faint gals and voyeuring with other cheekorpehs. Gosh I am memorized by their bare bodies and envy at their height and looks, and jealous of those people who dare to strut up to take pictures. I hope to take pictures with them for souvenir but alas there was no one with me at that time. So I skulk back to Taka, wondering how much they earn merely by standing there as a landmark.

Ngee Ann City always have the biggest Christmas tree in their atrium, and they got the right to boast (since they housed some of the luxury fashion brands and their ceiling is also higher than paragon). It would be nice to see it went inflame though.

Hainanese Chicken Rice @ Island Club

I toured around half an hour at Kinokuniya before my friend finished his badminton. So we toured the sites around Orchard mrt and finally rest our feet at Island Club (Cafe) on 14th floor of Tangs. I got myself a Hainanese Chicken rice set, also $14 bucks, before he announcing to me there is actually a better chicken rice right opposite Tangs (Chatterbox). We chatted for a while before he went back home for family commitment and me, after buying a few magazines at Kino, went back home, forgetting my agenda of going to Orchard in the first place.

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one friday

2011-12-09T18:35:00.001-08:00

ME and my sis @ Q&M Hougang Plaza

Nobody ask me hows my day like today so i will blog about my day yesterday. Yesterday is a hectic day, I went to take chicken pox vaccine w my sister, which cost her 89.90 per jab, collect my prize at sph (sk-11 piteria facial treatment essence) which is as useful as a lingerie, and which i gave it to my sis (let them fight for it), borrowed two novels - my favorite writer Christopher Buckley e Supreme Courtship, and a somewhat porno book e wild boys by William Burroughs. Had Best Fries Forever for dinner ($3.50 for plain, regular. Not very tasty), then at night i met up with e Starbucks group to chat about anything under the tinted olive green of Starbucks (i find tat a large group without an agenda or objective is hard to chitchat). Either way, i hope today can be as jammed-packed as yesterdays =)

Best Fries Forever at Raffles City

Love the can n e elephant, but they never sold in cans.

Starbucks@ Suntec City. Ice Vanilla Latte $6.60

Illuminative vines opposite Raffles Hotel

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Chicken pox!!

2011-12-07T05:32:00.001-08:00

No not me but its my sis who got it, which might as well mean that I got a high chance of getting it as well >.< its jux a matter of time. (The doctor did not want to inject me w vaccine since the infectious period ended 2 weeks before my sis realized she is affected. N it would be another 2 weeks before e doc is willing to jab me with some needle. Gosh I feel that I am sitting with a mobile time bomb, albeit a rather obese one ((according to the BMI Index))).

Backtracking two weeks before, I am always within close contact with her- eating fondue at Swensons, Pizza Hut, watching TV with the whole family n etc - yet I am blessed enough not to be coalesced by her virulent bugs. I wouldn't dare say immune because I believe in Karma but anyway, I am now trapped inside the confines of my own room, typing this post. It is beyond my wildest imagination to even rationalize why a disease-borne person ought to be out sitting at the living room watching TV, while a potential victim of hers should be treated like a prisoner T.T I don't think Nathaniel Hawthorne would plot that in his Scarlet Letter; it would be too illogical to his readers, but it is that way in reality - nothing romantic, always capricious.

One afternoon in swimming pool (incomplete story)

2011-11-13T00:52:00.000-08:00

Beneath the silky veneer hundred and eighty centimeters deep, you can see thunderbolts quivering within the perimeters, a gigantic rectangular basin tinted hyacinth-blue. You can see everything, omnipresent, like god. Everything seems to drift along - time, motion, bare bodies, swallows soaring, the white menacing bloom. There, between the threshold to celestial heaven, one woman in black one-piece waddles overhead, showcasing series of lethargic, slow-moving strokes to push herself a notch forward. A tremendous feat of mobility, considering that she possessed a huge silhouette, wide hips, flabby arms and thighs. There is always an inexplicable pleasure, seeing massive mammal floats on water, denying the nature of gravity and logical notion that pigs are not meant to fly above the heads of humans. She cruised in the many diaphanous whorls unperturbed. Her movement, however clumsy and indelicate, succinctly conjures up vivid images of much happier times, putting me back to the Underwater World visit to Sentosa Island with my parents when I was a kid. Howling in awe, frantically gesticulating to my unobservant dad who somehow coordinates with my childish bewilderment: ‘Look daddy– a hippopotamus!’ They were much more tolerant of my amusement then.

Behind this Botero is a youthful contender in black tights gaining stride. Taking full advantage of his streamline position and nimble legwork, he torpedoes forward, sharp as an arrow, silting through sleeves of cerulean blue water as though blade’s work through the canvas. Even the nearby burst of sun fractures by his velocity. He almost caught up with that giant fat sea turtle that goes hither and thither before I am put out of breath. Upwards, upwards and frantically surging upwards, I propelled myself vertically up to the summer holiday sky till my lips kiss that delicious warm air and take them in by one big gracious gulp. This very act of survival, however, transports my senses back to the other dimension I hate so much. This is the fifth time I tried drowning myself.

It seems foolish to attempt another suicide, right after five consecutive failures in one afternoon, especially when you know without a doubt that this self-inflicted death would bring forth a slew of survival mechanism so ingrained in us humans that, without the aid of a person or some tangible burden to sink with, it is naturally impossible for a pro to drown by his own weight, let alone knowing the fact that there are no perilous waves in the calm lagoon of Hougang Swimming Complex. Even if I tried umpteen times, and fully exhaust myself trying, I would still inevitably rise above the water, floats back to the surface, to live for another day. Neither would the two lifeguards, both in yellow tee, red shorts flaming hot cut halfway the thighs, air-filled floats ready by the side, could be of any help. Stationed high up on metallic chairs in middle of two pools, one facing adult pool while the other look upon shallower water, pretending to look cool and vigilant when one-third of their muddy brown faces hidden by shades. Who knows? Having seen me snorkeling down and up again at the same spot five times in a row for no apparent reason, if they are really wide awake they might already mark me as a potential voyeur. Or perhaps their veiled visuals have detected some lassie’s cleavage and remain plastered to the crescents. Anyway, attempting suicide in Singapore does not come easy than said.

I got out the pool, pull off my goggles, and slovenly walk back to my blue recliner held in reserved by my towel and duffel bag, dripping chlorine aqua all over scorched amber-brown tiles in each stride. If my bare feet are not as sodden, I could have pranced in double-quick steps the way that poor old chap ahead of me do. Probably mid-thirties, Straits Times folded across his hairy armpit, looking thoroughly vexed. He sort of bunny-hop to a vacant seat one recliner beside mine, dump all his belongings and newspaper on the chair before he jump straight into pool, an amateurish leg-first, causing a big tumultuous splash and a caustic ring of sizzling soup. As I pass his seat, I take a sideway glimpse on the latest news, curious about what events on Wednesday, November the twelve, 2011, holds. This is the way I get my updates here, everyday, peeking some snippets from other people papers. There is, however, nothing in that ninety-cent worth interests me, or at least for the first page of the folded halve. Nothing there but chunks of words in beetle typeface, and a powder-blue Tiffany & Co print advertising some silvery bracelet with a superimposed padlock pendant hanging on it. And with that macabre glare it is almost impossible to catch a single word without straining your eyes. But there is something else that immediately caught my eye, easily recognizable even from afar; the three dimensional, the smooth curves, that rustic metallic frame of the latest Iphone model. An Iphone 4GS! My heart is wailing inside the throat, stirring me to do some impulsive act. Glinting alluringly like a slab of ebony gold slightly exposed from the pile of tattered sheets, tempting my conscience to snatch it without the owner’s notice. Just do it, says an inner voice, you are a goner anyway, just take it and go to hell with it. Nevertheless I walk back to my chair, kicking myself up in the very next instance that missed opportunity. This is once my graduation prize, but guess I have to find some temporary jobs to earn it, maybe a cashiering job at FairPrice just like my cousin Bernard. At least he can count notes every day without the need to learn algebra.

Smoothen out like margarine spread; the cobalt towel still bears the fine imprints of my shoulders, though much of it has long been evaporated. Not bothering to dry myself, I lay completely still, not totally horizontal-flat but with slight deviation, relinquishing the recliner’s bony structure creep through the thin fabric to my spines. This is the ideal spot for tanning, smacked at far end of the pool, tinkling on the edge of lifeguards’ visual periphery. And best of all it is adjacent to the open sprinklers, where I could sneak some cursory peek on hot girls and guys, rinsing themselves before making the dip. There are, however, no such things to drool upon in the pool of Hougang Swimming Complex, other than that portly one-piece diver-suit madame. No surprise here, with the Korean trend blowing ever harder, no decent-looking guys and girls in their right frame of mind would ever want an iota of skin expose to sunlight, not without smearing a good dose of whitening cream and sunscreen of SPF eighty, preferably with more whitening effects that, once the sun glare onto the skin, reflects it like an iridescent unicorn. An uphill battle for these creatures, considering we are living in the tropics - a city always in the baking.

My eyes stay shut, chill under the many wondrous sounds, listening to the rhythmic waves lapping over the cesspool, crows roosting softly over verandas, leaves rustle from an occasional spell of zephyr, and the definite ‘tut tut tut’ sound of racket strings striking a cork from the sports hall behind. An exclusive symphony no orchestra could match or ever want to replicate. It almost sounds therapeutic in one sense, especially so since there are no swimming lessons or noisy kids to spoil the tranquility of this premise.

random mobile drawings

2011-10-25T03:43:00.001-07:00

Using my samsung s2 to drawdraw

Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4

wisdom tooth extracted ^.^

2011-10-24T03:21:00.001-07:00

Finally i take out this troublesome decaying teeth on my left cheek. Hope my face can get symmetrical but as for now it keeps swelling like a pumpkin.

But still need to go fill my v decaying molar teeth beside this wayward teeth >.<

Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4

The tragedy of Zhuge Liang

2011-10-19T00:46:00.000-07:00

I love reading San Guo Yan Yi (Romance of Three Kingdom), a historical novel written during the relatively peaceful Ming dynasty about the turbulent six dynasties more than 1000 years apart. It depicts the three kingdoms: Wei, Wu and Shu, the bloodbaths among them and the many manipulative stratagems devised to alter the situation. One infamous figure, and the most intelligent, kick-ass person in the novel (though I beg to differ: I feel Wu's Lu Xun is much more cunning and crafty) is Zhuge Liang. He was the chief military adviser to Lui Bei, and later the premier of Shu under the weak leadership of Lui Shan. Other than the battle of Lian Ting, which he lost to Wei's Shima Yi due to his poor choice of General, his winning streak is nearly, in dota terms, god-like.

However, when I reread the novel this morning, I wonder why such a intelligent person (and a micro-manager: he supervised everything, even military punishments of those above twenty strokes of cane) would buy-in to the notion that Liu Bei, among others, is the direct descendant of Emperor Jing of Han, and therefore hold a legitimate entitlement to become Emperor of Han China. True, Liu Bei is the15th-generation of Emperor Jing, but in-between Emperor Jing to Liu Bei the blood lineage seems to fade and dissipate into the House of Commons. Tracing back his ancestral roots, Liu Bei line could be drawn from one of the middle son of Emperor Jing, whom had 120 children, and to the middle son of innumerate sons, all spreading down to his lowly clerk father and to the 15th generation him, a maker of straw sandals. Logically and historically, Liu Bei argument of entitlement to the dragon-seat sounds weak.

Conversely, Cao Pi of Wei ought to be recognized as the Emperor of China because a) he controls the central government of then capital Luo Yang, b) he exiled the last legitimate-but-powerless hostage Han Emperor to commence Wei Empire, c) recognized by 'international' diplomatic relations of Roman Empire during Marcus Aurelius (one of Machiavelli's four good kings) reign and Goguryeo of Korea and, d) modern historians recognized Cao Pi and not Liu Shang or Sun Quan. Personally, I feel that one of Zhuge Liang tragedy is about him supporting a separatist military regime against a unifying one, thereby consenting to what Cao Cao labeling them as 'Han robbers' (Interestingly, Cao Cao himself never abolish the last Han Emperor, but his son did so on advice of his courtiers).

The second tragedy of Zhuge Liang is the total massacre of his offspring, while Liu Shang, the weakling King of Shu he supported for and Liang's descendents left defending to their deaths, surrendered to Shima Zhao (Shima Yi son who overthrown Cao Pi's grandson - China political history is basically all about overthrowing one regime and bloodshed). It is extremely aggravating to comprehend that Liu Shang never contribute any fruitful works to his Empire, care only about his own leisure and self indulgence and which, in the end, his many descendents survived from his ancestral folly. Whereas for Zhuge Liang, the person whom Liu Bei begged seven times outside his farm house, in the end not only gained nothing in return from this enterprise (he died from overworking fighting with his arch-rival Shima Yi), but all his sons were eliminated defending the wrong regime. So this is the sordid fate of an otherwise brilliant strategist- following the wrong leader from the start.

minister verses ou pa san

2011-10-13T03:39:00.000-07:00

One cannot criticize A&F ad for being too shallow, because it aligns with their business philosophy of being 'liberal and young', and those who are offended by it are clearly not their target audience.

Similarly, Lee Yi Shyan, our regrettable Minister for trade & industry and national development, should not condemn the local Chinese TV drama 'Love Thy Neighbour' for being too shallow, he only watched that one single episode to jump into that conclusion. If everyone base their decisions just on one particular area or situation like Mr Lee does, in this case an episode, and make a vague, overarching statement that wraps up the entirety of the subject matter, irregardless of its heads and tails, progression of events, then wouldn't it be similar to what the foreigners report about the corrupted practices on Singapore politics, that our oppositions won nearly 40% of the votes but only gain six seats in the parliament out of eighty-seven seats? Although the latter is more factual and accurate than what Mr Lee says on 'Love Thy Neighbor', my circumventing argument is the same - that both statements are flawed, the foreign reporters to an extent, Mr Lee to a large degreee.

To post on his FB asking 'why the characters in Channel 8 dramas shout and fight so much' and conclude that the 'characters communicate too little and fail to express themselves sufficiently' conveys not about the quality of the series but the depth of his research and breadth of his intellect in regard to making decisions (must be careful of the wordings here in lieu of his position.) Lets say I flippantly flip and selectively read the middle passage of the Sunset Song by Lewis Grassic Gibbon, I would be expounded by Chae idyllic remarks and what the Scotland people reciprocates:

'Damn folk, we'll all have the whimsies if we listen to any more woesome songs! Have none of you a cheerful one? And the folk in the barn laughed at him and shook their heads, it came on Chris how strange was the sadness of Scotland singing, made for the sadness of the land and sky in dark autumn evenings, the crying of men and women of the land who had seen their lives and loves sink away in the years, things wept for beside the sheep-buchts, remembered at night and in twilight.

Following Mr Lee standard of apprehension, Scottish people, according to Chae, would really seems to be depressing, self-hating bunch indeed! But no, it did not talk about the brave Scotland elites who are sent to the battlefield, or anything about Chris Guthrie. (take out this sentence?)

Also, unless he is an ou pa san which clearly he is not, or a homme au foyer but he is a well-compensated salaried man, he is clearly not the targeted audience of the show, therefore he had in no capacity to audit the series. Criticize can, but not different from the opinion of others. Only by his ministerial authority could his criticizing voice booms beyond the ordinary ou pa sans, and infringe upon the integrity of the series without seeking the permission of these estimated 35-65 year-old, low-to-middle income aunties feelings. My mum loves this 9pm show, I don't, but I did not switch it off because I don't like the show, Mr Lee intended to pull the plug.

Mr Lee pointed out that 'drama serials in countries like China have well-written lines that convey feelings and can touch audiences'.I couldn't believe it when I read this sentence (tatz the reason why I write this post), why use China as a benchmark to set our media standards? Every well-informed third grader knows China possesses one of the most tauten media censorship, and citizens of China themselves implicitly recognized the media is heavily suppressed by CCP, so can these plot lines really convey the authentic feelings and touches audiences? Or just to ignite a few storms in the teacup without changing the old dredges?

To prefer one nation TV program over another country is a matter of personal taste - so in this case Mr Lee would slant towards TV series produced by the autocratic, the red-flag waving, the Confucius-indoctrinated nation, whereas ordinary ou pa sans and kopi-sipping uncles would rather choose to watch local TV series about true, full-bloom heartlanders produced by culturally-varied Singaporeans. Unless he aspires our media to progress/ regress into China standards of severe red-tapes and high-handed censorship, it made no sense why he didn't mention about the well-written plots of Taiwan, Korea or US media, but China? Really? Therefore, to strike a comparison between two countries media, especially one that is severely oppressed is, in my opinion, asinine to the point of mock-able tragedy.

http://news.insing.com/tabloid/minister-criticises-channel-8-drama-serials/id-bcda3e00

I waste an hour blabbering nonsense T.T

random sketches discovered in the notes

2011-10-11T21:08:00.000-07:00

I hate attending lectures, especially lectures that are boring. If I smelled something less than funny, which is often, I would zoom out from that cesspool of alphabets, distasteful slides and old, rambling egomaniac, and occupy myself doing some fruitful endeavors; like 'excusez-moi' to gents sitting on toilet bowl breathing fresh creation; nosing people on FB, or, if I had done both and nothing better else to occupy Time, drew things on the flimsy course notes. This is the compilation of the drawings (plus the sweat and tears endured) I excavated from the 2 years worth of, now useless and worthless, course notes. Some are elaborately sketched (which conveys how much I hate the lesson), some half-baked, but most are grotesquely strange.

Don't ask me what is that.

I love this the best.

Illuminati

can u see the silhouette of a girl?

ghost puppy

Multi-legged puppy rise above the trees and bushes

Dentist swallowing a man head

Practicing the structure of I-ching

Happy Christmas DAY

Fashion roadkill

Tough Pri 4-6 math questions

2011-08-25T17:44:00.000-07:00

Two days ago my 2nd sister brought home from work a load of unanswerable mathematical questions. She, a tuition center teacher herself, said its the toughest questions even most primary school teachers couldn't solve it. Of course she (Bsc English language and psychology) couldn't solve it too. So my eldest sis (Bsc Accounting and finance) and I (Bsc of Business management, marketing major) attempted to uncrack the nuts, and almost crack our heads with this two damn hard questions. So, if anyone had any clue about how to work out this two, plz reply me.

Qn 1) If Andy sells a TV set at a discounted 5% discount rate, he will earn $1000. If he sells it at a discount of 25% from the usual price, he will lose $5000. How much does the TV cost?

Qn 2) If Mirgli gives Lucy 24 beads, they will have the same number of beads. If Mirgli gives Lucy 56 beads, he will have 1/3 as much beads as Lucy. How many beads does Mirgli has at first?

PS: Not that I am dumb dumb, but I did came up with the answers, but the answer is totally different from the ones behind e cheat sheet. Don't use algebra.

A nice critique on presidential symbols

2011-08-18T20:34:00.000-07:00

My god, they are sooo old, loose yellowy skin, intimidating, and foxy(?)

Compared to presidential candidates in other countries, I believe ours scored the oldest aggregated average age, rendering anyone of them to be a legible grandaddy for other youthful presidents (Obama?). But wouldn't that turn Istana into a retirement home, paramedics and nurses to be filled among bodyguards, and the presidential dog a four-footed friend for the three-footed old man?

Although it is expected to add new jobs to the market, it doesn't jell well with Istana brand image, considering the fact that a decomposing body belonging to an old chap had been found near the Istana borders, regrettably demonstrating the lack of care and concern in the facility. Thus, other than the large sum of pension ($5 million a year!!) and a possible chance of getting their coffins towed by a truck with lots of people feigning emotional breakdown, there is nothing enticing to stay inside the retirement prison of Istana. It is actually wiser to take Mr Khaw Boon Wan suggestion of retiring in JB, quieter, cheaper, more serene.

Anyway, this post is supposed to critique presidential symbols, and suggest possible alternatives to score extra doughnut points, and I would began with such. First off, Tony Tan.

Okay I know Tony Tan wears a black, thick-framed specs synonymous to his look, but does he really need to reinforce to us his status as a senior citizen? He might as well flash us his purple ezlink card and received the same recognition. Also, he is easily the most well-known faces in Singapore now; his portraits are plastered in every available lamppost and bus stops it is hard not to bump into him. It sort of connotes the Orwellian Big Brother image, with his piercing eyes protruding out from the rosy-tinted lens, looking directly at us, as though inspecting our every action....

Is that a banana tree, a disjointed hand, or a peacock so ugly that dug its head into the ground? Anyway, Tan Cheng Bock's grotesque symbol also reinforced the image of 'old wood', conveying the more certain possibility of him becoming a 'political vegetarian', a bad image choice to attract the young voters, really.

The heart symbol is so corny and overuse these days it feels like eating a muck of bacteria-infected cheese. Anyway, Tan See Jay is not worthy of love, he associated more with a vicious rattlesnake or a starving obese mouse. If you don't believe me, try giving TSJ portrait to your gf/bf during Valentine days and see the possible reactions.(Yuck)

'Help, I am drowning by your rambunctious voice!' I simply hates Tan Kin Lian symbol, it appeared more like a warning sign that lies ahead than a winning presidential election symbol. Just look at the bubble, it emit out from stage in the dye of evil black, not coming from us, and we can only raise our white hand to surrender to his every blabbering . Isn't it simply dumb design?

Here is my suggested alternatives:

20th century boys!!! This logo is not only catchy, it is symbolic, daring, and clearly different from the other simplistic drawing. I love this movie!!

Since PAP is slowly becoming Singapore N-word and the party 'electric bolt' symbol a visual slap in the face, this 'boots required' symbol succinctly mocks the dominant party, demonstrating the candidate willingness to thread into the danger zone, and still can survive.

Bet nobody would dare to recycle back this logo!! But if someone did, I must applaud his audacity. (Actually, I feel this is the most appealing logo in the world.)

Singapore parliamentary makeup - interesting figures

2011-08-16T08:36:00.000-07:00

With nothing much better to do for this study break, I spent the evening browsing through http://www.parliament.gov.sg/ and saw some interesting figures among the members CVs, interesting....

I particularly like this chart (fyi, I drew out these charts, got watermarks to copyright my work =p), it details the education level needed for those who aspire to chop a seat in parliament in future. There are no diploma and below de.... =/ maybe intro a House of Commons?

I chute those medical practitioners (SGH, KK Hospital), ISEAS and NPO all into private sector, although it sounds weird but I don't want to ratify it. The figures are as follows: biz:= 36, lawyers = 8, civil servants = 39, retired and jobless/ unemployed (Lina Chiam n Tin Pei Ling)= 7, total =90

All these info are based and gathered from the 90 parliamentary members CV in http://www.parliament.gov.sg/.

Learning french

2011-08-14T05:19:00.000-07:00

Bonjour madame! Jux bought a french language (software+booklet) package this morning at Popular bookstore.

Cost me $59.90 (A bomb for a penniless stud). But its up to CEFR Level B2 (A level)which, according to its description, says: 'Can interact with a degree of fluency and spontaneity that makes regular interaction with native speakers quite possible without strain for either party. Can explain a viewpoint on a topical issue.' Voila! Hope what it says is vrai et utile.

I know, I need to axe my Casio Exilim camera soon, Anyway, am going to learn some francais now. A tout a l'heure! =)

Wild Michael Jackson Appeared!

2011-07-28T08:39:00.000-07:00

I would love to catch MJ!!

I love pokemon, its my fav childhood game, console n trading card n etc.

LMAO

urgh pimples!!! =(

2011-07-23T07:29:00.000-07:00

This past two weeks had been a torture for me. Its nothing to do with school, relationship, family or my own stupidity, but I am troubled with the reflection of my own reality. Pimples kept popping up; everyday, beginning from my forehead and zoomed down my cheek. It's a shame the dermatologist at National Skin Centre deduced wrongly how I have coped with the acne problem =( Now I could understand why nobody could ever trust the economists and financial experts, 9 out of 10 times they r wrong, and the obedient audience ultimately suffers...badly =(((

5 minute drawing on two scraps of paper =)

2011-07-07T17:31:00.000-07:00

(self portrait in mirror reflection, light shone from the right.)

I have not been drawing since my sec 2, but I have yet lost my medea touch =)
Last time we utilize brushes of various thickness to draw, now I use a Popular 0.8 fine-tip blue ink pen. Instead of hiding and recoating with new slap of paint, I use initiative and peculiar perspective, even if wrong I would hack care to recorrect. Although its a pity that I can't erase the nosebleed above my lips but oh well...

(2nd sister portrait, in vexation) *My painter dad said I drew this the best =)

This is a major transition for me, since last time I prefer the fauvist style of throwing an assortment of colours to still life and portraits, and carefully selecting odd angles, like Henri Matisse did earlier in his career. But now without the sponsorship or time, I use shorthand to draw and write blog posts instead.

Who knows? with the motivation striking again I might retake my drawing hobby =p

New age positive thinking

2011-07-05T04:21:00.000-07:00

I was intrigued the first time I saw this vid. I was like 'Wow, now I have the power to control everything in me. But according to this clip why has it been hidden for so long ?(must be those bigoted, ultra-conservatives religious fundamentalists I assume)'

Babylon aristocrats breathed it. Albert Einstein knew about it, Beethoven had it, Lincoln lived it. And Oprah bartendering it on her book club in 2006 (wow that must be sooo incredible, soooo incredible). Since I am faithless n somewhat bend towards e nihilists category. So that must be the 'it' for me. The Secret Revealed.

Following the law of attraction of light attracts light, I try to have happy thoughts everyday, avoiding negative aspects in life, smiling from cheek to cheek, until one day it became so plastic I almost believe I got bipolar disorder.

That is, until I come upon this new yorker article
The high regard of this new age movement starts tumbling down before me, and reality sets in, good n bad ones, not e good n good.

Firstly, contrary to what most readers believe, it is not e author who started this train of thought, before Rhonda, there is Oscar Wilde in 'The Picture of Dorian Gray' whose protagonist proclaims such notion 'If one does not talk about a thing, it has never happened.'

Then there is Ralph Waldo Emerson poem 'Nature' -

Build, therefore, your own world
As fast as you conform your life to the pure idea in your mind, that will unfold its great proportions.

Considering that it appears in 1836, there is nothing new about it.

Second, there is a ringing sense of self-fulfilling prophecy here, which pretty much sums up by my Montfort Secondary School motto Ageis quode ageis 'If you believe it you can see it'. I was too innocent then to thoroughly comprehend tat a catholic school had proclaimed to us a new-age principle, for the past 10 years in my life there. Good thing that the motto changes.

Anyway, there is a flip side to this self-fulfilling idea, and that is, pushed to the extreme end of the continuum, self-delusional beliefs and thoughts. Lacquering a situation with a veneer of overoptimism, irregardless of good or bad, could in fact worsen the situation, especially when brainstorming worst case scenarios are neglected or impregnated with false hopes and desires. It is akin to a mad man not understanding about his surroundings, and happily going on with his life in an imaginary world. Happy? happy. But fake.

Just my two cents worth of thought, and I continue still, a Bazarov nihilist.

Potato philosophy from an over-studied, coffee-holic mind

2010-10-21T19:45:00.000-07:00

One Friday morning, after two examinable chapters revised, three cups of coffee groaning in my tummy (refillable at Mcdonald), I got foretold by my stomach, on the fifth floor to my house at sixth, that I got a severe psychological need. So hungry was I to plumage Maslow pyramid of needs to the base, to rummage my house till the last bread crumb I could gather. Forget about Nirvana, since I am no Buddha, I am just a typical, one out of 6.5 billion Homo Sapiens who need to eat to think. Trust me, gastric pain is no joke, my out-of-cabinet flurry friend can validate this. Taking pity on me, he sprung down from the ceiling-high cabinet to my study table with two canisters of Mister Potato Rice Crisp, a tremendous feat of courage (considering his size!) that is no potato chip

One bite didn’t satisfy my protesting stomach, but it brought down tears to my cheeks. My fluffy cuddle-able friend comforted me by imitation, and it became a crying-makan sessions all together. Sharing good things and answer to the people in need, he masters the skill of empathy – thinking from the shoes of others. In this case, he is thinking about my Adidas.

As I place a stack of chips on post-it notes, I found something phenomenal and enlightening but not quite. The uniqueness of these chips can only be explained by quantum physics, sameness (shape, size and colour) and repetitions (slight wedge on the middle, seasoning) make them all appear alike. To prove my point, an experiment was conducted. On my study table, five samples, randomly selected from the two cans (Original and Sour Cream & Onion) were separated and placed on five post-it notes.

While it didn’t look special because it doesn’t, by applying the same pressure at the same velocity, my Itouch broke these crispy rice chips into many different fragments, breaking them into little crumbs. Obviously, I put on my goggle for any experiments I did.

This is a perfect demonstration of what I called irrelevant coherence. Without impact, they appear utterly consistent, with sufficient impact, discrepancies and differences emerged. Similarly, societies, families and friends are like thin rice crisp, they become disengaged when an issue kicks in. The issue, ranging from racial, religion, gender, language and sexual differences to a microscopic problem like ‘how dare you buy Original flavour?’ or ‘I told you Barbecue taste better than any other flavour,’ if handled improper, they could break into many different factions.

Though it is uncontrollable for fragmentalization to occur, since people are culturally diverse in nature on acquiring perspectives, preferences and tastes, it is controllable for one fragment to acquire an ‘within the post-it notes’ outlook to embrace other fragments, the integrative whole as what Gestalt psychology suggest, the ‘putting oneself in other people shoes’ my Hamtaro had exemplified.

Another way to avoid being radicalized and isolated from the interrelated world is to travel abroad to learn other nation cultures, read books and videos out of your own favorite genres, or simply acquire new tastes beyond personal preferences.

Well done, I patted Hamtaro on the back, making it bounce back and forth while I did my desperately needed cardios to cut away the carbos I consumed. Unfortunately, I seem to overeat too much. Fortunately, I am no longer depress like a hungry cookie-monster, so...

...There’s no need to act like a madman because there is Mister Rice Crisps for you to munch on, anytime, anywhere.

THE END

Remembering buyer behavior

2010-10-20T01:50:00.000-07:00

I got a strict evaluative criteria when choosing friends and people whom I want to know. This is to prevent postpurchase dissonance like one of my friend experienced recently. I was glad that he had disposed the friend permanently and operant conditioning it as a valuable lesson learned. His dissatisfaction of the staunch task-defined, reaping benefits-only friend leads to complaint behavior, which escalates into negative word of mouth all over his facebook, garnering tonnes of consoling feedbacks, at the same time ensuring repeat chatters to his profile page. Though this chatters linger temporarily based on the emergency to provide words of comfort, I am sure some are loyal and commited to him. I personally am satisfied from my personal encounter with him, his quality and value of friendship are way beyond the level of competition in my anonymous friendlist.

Enough about my friend, this post should be about myself, the definite I: the student, slacker, swimmer, reader, online-surfer and the blogger. I can match my prescribed roles to the friends I desired, much as what role related product cluster did to show how certain products fulfill certain roles. Subsequently, I can match according to the lifestyle I desired akin to VALs lifestyle system; am I a ideals motivated, achievement motivated or self-expression motivated. Or, if I am ignorant about finding authenticity friendship, the prospect of well aligned conformity friends recommended from reference group serves me just as well.

Now I should reevaluate my personal criteria, though my ultra selective exposure filters out a lot of potential friends. They must attract my attention through physical and personal characteristics, sometimes a situation can too help activating my sensory nerves to the brain for processing. Beyond that, I must be able to cognitively and affectively involved in order to interpret their individual characteristics. Lastly, their personality must be Olympian enough to jump over the just noticeable threshold and stored inside my memory. Of course, if they are celebrities, market mavens or opinion leaders in Gen-Y demographic segment would already be in my evoke set. Alternatively, anyone that could induce me to began the journey of vicarious learning or the complexity of reasoning would definitely be in my friendlist, the double jeopardy phenomenon that clouds my awareness.

Focus!!!

2010-09-29T20:12:00.000-07:00

To prepare for the upcoming exams, I opened my slabs of textbooks one month earlier; wipe off the thin sheet of accumulated dust on each page, and in the process of doing so swap away my focus to the other things around my room. The bed looks more enticing than before, my computer, magazines and the characters outside my study room window too. It wouldn’t attract me much if I am not spellbound to the table, reading theories and concepts needed to be highlighted and jotted down to a blank piece to make vague sense out of it. Or, even if it doesn’t seem logical in the fresh sheet, at least I know I have done my part.

Flow chart and mindmaps I scrupulously drawn weren’t that interesting anymore, and often, while threading the mountains of text along the white lagoon, they either scrambled themselves together, or playing catching with my puffy bloodshot eyes, hovelling above each other or avalanche to the bottom page where the numbers lie. So, a few minutes of that tiresome activity, I give myself some excuses to take a break, and often never returned back.

I have tried my best to delay gratification – prohibiting myself to read stories, surfing Internet for two hours a day, watching just an hour of tv and so far, Confucius forbid, it has been successful. But the productivity on my study didn’t seem to catch up with the sacrifice I made. Perhaps it is still early for the urgency to kick in, since I revised two weeks before exams for my last semester, but for this sem I intend to excel unlike my previous awful average grades (1 distinc n 3 cred). But that self-actualization stage; the tip of Maslow’s Hierarchy of motivation, didn’t seemed to drive me deep enough. Distractions abound within my compound, each one very alluring, very persuasive, but very time-consuming. Maybe that’s why no one in the developed world can achieve nirvana.

My love affair with secret societies

2010-09-27T04:53:00.000-07:00

I love conspiracy theories. especially those that didn't need much brain cells to crack and nuts to decimate. Secret Societies are one of my favorite subject because, on one hand, the mysterious aurora captivates me to readily repulse its negligence of democratic rights in favor of New World Order, and on the other, perhaps somewhat more self-conceptualizing or self-delusional, I am desperate of wanting to join its elite round-table, for a chit chat like those youngsters in Starbucks.

The secret societies I desire is not those mafias and Yakusa, or Singapore version of Hokkien-speaking delinquents, or even religious cults which Singapore in itself owns many Mcdonald-like franchises - those are not powerful enough to start a war or broker a rise in oil prices, or bonding with future politicians, billionaire businessmen and spies that could help me kick-start my otherwise dismal career prospect. I wanted to be involve in Bilderberg Group, whose past members account of the likes of Bill Clinton, Henry Kissinger, Conrad Black, and countless granny-Queens and sugar-Kings for 'Lizard of Aussie' to work his own magic. I want to be accepted into the exclusive Skulls and Bones, where the members practice their concupiscence in the confines of a building in Yale - a structure of no window except shrieks of despair and enjoyment all mixed into inscrutable code oozing out from the tightly bolted door.

To better prepare myself for the possible invite, since I am very forthcoming, I set my watch to the 'babarian' time - five minutes faster than usual, assemble my ancestors lineage to fit according to the princeling bloodlines however distant it can be, and try to practice the correct idiosyncrasies - knifing pizzas or hamburgers, delicate with each slicing, using Victorian English, and sucking in boggies instead of blowing it out because, if I did blew out, it would be improper. I too apprehend their custom and tradition, which its members are to abide to, like giving respect to Madam Pomfrey skulls, be petulant to human rights organizations and postmodernists to 'suck-up' to the elites, and keep in contact with all the European and United States hotels for its whereabouts so as not to miss my appointment when my time comes.

But if the time arrives, three possible scenarios could be anticipated. One, I can be Groucho Marx, with pompous self-gratifying quote like 'I don't care to belong to a club that accepts people like me as members,' which in fact only impedes my future prospect. Two, I can be Salt, playing double agent between two rival organizations, one promoting autocracy and the other democracy, equivalent to a hungry dog chasing after two bones rolling down from opposite sides of a mountain. Three, I can be George Bush, opening up Arbusto Energy corporation with the inner-circles, insidiously handshake with Osama in Carlyle Group, while being shoe thrown by Iraqi Reporters. That analysis can postpone, at least I need my letter of acceptance first.

A dose of motivation

2010-09-24T10:19:00.000-07:00

To all those slackers (me included) who lacked batteries behind their backs, here is a good short clip of what motivates us by Daniel Pink. http://www.danpink.com/

How to unleash the an idea

2010-09-22T18:54:00.000-07:00

How does companies and individuals unleash an idea to the market and, like a

raging hormonial virus, became epidemic? In Seth Godin's 'Unleashing the

Ideavirus' (http://sethgodin.typepad.com/), he simplified for us into one

mathematical formula:

(Reputation benefit to powerful sneezer of recommending virus

X Selfish benefit to promiscuous sneezer of recommending virus

X Smoothness of sharing the virus with a friend

X Power of amplifier used to spread positive word of mouth

X Frequency of interaction among hive members)

Divided by:

(# of times you need to expose someone in this hive in order for the virus to catch

+ # of different sneezers who have to recommend a virus to a given individual for it to ignite)

Multiply all the above with:

(% of infected hive members likely to sneeze

+ # of people the infected sneezer is likely to contact

+ persistence of the virus (how long does a sneezer sneeze?)

+ # of people infected/ (divided by) # of people in the hive)

= An ideavirus, with an additional epidemic of headaches and fever, and occassional sucidal thoughts.

Frat not, Singapore is one resilient nation choked full of antibiotics.Here is my example:

Dae is a bitch and all his friend knows he is one.One day, he intend to buy, say an expensive

computer component but he didn't have the money for it. So he begged for his friends to lend him the

money. Being friends, they obliged to chip him a little, but knew that the money wouldn't be returned

back, knowing him as a bitch and it is not the first time he borrowed money from them.

Being friends among themselves, they all shared the fact that Dae is the bitchiest guy ever, and chat

about his bitchiness consistently, on chatrooms, social media and on blogs. This triggered down to

more friends interrelated to the cluster of firends Dae has. When Dae appeared on the

neighbourhood, the pedestrian thought he is a stranger. Now when Dae appears on the street, the

pedestrians, guy or girl, student or father, straight and gays, know he is a bitch.

Bitchiness abound, Dae became the number one target among the whole neighbour. Without a mirror

of self-reflection, Dae continued asking for more money from other people outside his now-

bankrupted friends to purchase his desires. he carefully beg from those who wouldn't inflict any

physical damage to him, always choosing guys of smaller build Alas, this further add up the number

of people saying 'Dae is a bitch', the message drilled into their cerebus cortex, and persist until his

lone sordid death.

Ugly Singaporean vibe

2010-09-20T23:42:00.000-07:00

Three weeks ago, a degenerate flock of balding uncles and aunties slammed a poor waiter for banging their cheap Aston dinner while serving them, one beaky eyed elder even offered to rearrange his face. Four days ago, I witnessed a middle-aged pedestrian, perhaps after an argument or he deprive of any personal entertainment, deliberately pushed an Indian cyclist towards the rushing traffic, nearly giving him the full bloody satisfaction. Seven hours ago, at the lecture theater, one hairy guy stretched his legs down to the row below him, his cracked legs infused with dried sweat rested RIP-style on the swivel chair, causing a traumatize experience to the group of girls one row down. These girls aren’t good cherries though; words profusely came up from their gaping mouths that just wouldn’t shut up, rendering the lecturer to give them occasional glares. This lecturer, by the way, is relating to us the arrogant, cannot-lose Kiasu vibe typical Singaporeans exhibit.

This ugliness nature didn’t just stop here; it is never ending, always evolving to the likes of virtuous roaches, so much so a blog (www.disgustingpeople.blogspot.com) dedicates wholly to this nasty nest, captured by groups of ‘contributors whom we can inadvertently described as busybodies. A pap-affiliated guy referred to Singaporeans as ‘first class city with third class citizens,’ resulting in massive online slaughter and keyboard flag-burning of the ruling party. An Aussie who commented about Singaporeans rude behavior was similarly impaled and barbecued virtually. This alone came to show even the damnation of Singaporean appalling behavior must came from a) Singaporean themselves b) Not one person alone and c) stamped with ‘responsible’ tag-lines to imply at least there are some pretty Singaporeans around.

Perhaps due to our daily consumption of New Water; our minds and conscience are not as purified or cleansed as those who drank natural Mount Everest dews like Tibetans, we tend to situate ourselves at the center of gravity, everything other than financial gain, self interest or convenience would be discarded to abyss. Conversely, besides blaming on psychological consumption, Singapore developed too rapidly before cultured mannerism could catch up with it. Broken windows theory can also be applied here – when people see others litter, they followed, and this begets miasmic behaviors imbued into our social spectrum. Though the causation is in-apparently multi-dimensional, we can judge the aftermath of Singaporean ugliness vibe – through the increasing readership of tabloid news.

Buzz, my blog has revived!!

2010-09-17T06:56:00.000-07:00

More than a year since my laser mouse crawled into this abandoned blog of mine, I finally make up my mind to let it see the daylight. So to commemorate such auspicious return of something I hardly see a point of reviving, I brightened the dark background with malingering road and clear blue sky, evoking full of energy and hope to chart away its previous memory of neglected death.

But what should I blog about? & (

I should write about something I read on the (hopefully) double-decker bus, charting me everyday from home to school and school to asylum. If it is a single deck bus, I wouldn't have the opportunity to read; with the bumpy ride and blasphemous engine stops and starts like dull-witted pony. Smelly uncles and chanting aunties could distract my reading endeavor anyway, since they dominated the first storey while the 2nd floors are for Gen Y folks who still have the energy to climb up the hierarchical stairs, if there is one to begin with. Or else I would look out longingly through the window and let their rather galling auditory and olfactory Gen X and baby boomers stimulus permeate into my senses. But why criticize these old folks when there is a book to blog about?

The book is a marketing book by Mark Hughes titled Buzzmarketing. It is about how to get consumers and media to talk about the brand. This, or what he thought, can be achieved by creating something exciting that leads to conversations, and through such tedious human activity spreads to friends. It sounds easier to get infected than the flu epidemic now in trend in Singapore. Bogies and phlegms everywhere like promotion flyers. At least we know we got it through some dinky-winkies (irresponsible friends or promiscuous strangers) instead of PAP-affiliated corporations (a.k.a the traditional source)
To start a buzz marketing campaign, according to the gospel of Mark, the marketer have to push people’s button again and again, surely a church Donald Trump subscribes to. The marketer got to eavesdrop on anything people frequently chats about – controversies, secrets, outrageous or unusual stories that are not supposedly meant to talk about but talked about still, in a lowered-down tone, monetizing our sordid, ‘Desperate Housewives’ nature.

And also, buzzmarketer need to research on newsworthy news like tabloids that got people attention, like ‘a homosexual got caught inside a Citylink toilet doing his business’. Then, what a good buzzmarketer should do is Nike it, doing something newsworthy that caught the press attention to get free publicity, so controversial the public mouths became filthy of spreading the corrupted news. Imagine Colonel Sanders doing the same thing in public toilet, got busted by flashing cameras, and featured on citizen-journalist website (indirectly government owned) like Stomp? How much succulent topic the public can say? How many people would venture to KFC encoring to catch the stunt again? Instant marketing bonanza!

Third short story: out of combat

2009-09-30T00:32:00.000-07:00

Five days of sitting in hospital green room, swapping handphones on the sweaty palms of customers enslaved upon different tiers in the food chain, explaining to them in a fastidious, totally uninterested fashion give me a slight guilt.

No, it is not that I hate the shade, considering the two years wearing it. Neither is it that I have lost hope in grabbing the Best Customer Service Awards, even with my hopelessly inaudible, or sometimes extraterrestrial spoken words. What I prayed for forgiveness, everyday in the train riding back home, is for those customers' lost time for their own exclusive self. Imagine Siddhartha halfway reaching nirvana in a reclusive aka ghostly forest and suddenly beep..beep..beep.., his mother calling him to come back to his castle, dinner's ready. There would be no Gautama buddha, no Confucious, no Mohammad. And no Alexius, even though his phone is always on, his selective picking allows some free time for his own selfish endeavors. Such an instantaneous device stole our personal freedom, giving our hideouts away even when we needed some quiet sanctuary.

Anyway, heres the third short story ‘out of combat'. Although I intended it to be a chapter of my novel, it simply doesn’t fit (the story is too stupid anyway). The protagonist is a recruit undergoing his basic combat BMT during NS. He absolutely hates it and attempt to escape by...read it here.

http://lucifer-fables.blogspot.com/2009/09/out-of-combat.html

Finally, a useful bee who contribute to the society

2009-09-18T06:20:00.000-07:00

After one week of cruising around, doing absolutely nothing except knocking office doors, harassing working men and women buzzing like bees inside a hive, spoiling their businesses and bon appetites with my horrendous resumes. I finally found a job whose company was big enough to contain me. Located at Cuppage street (I mistakenly thought garbage street this morning), just a 5 minute walk from somerset MRT. Though I had been shortlisted for 2 other jobs (one a retail associate for Cole Hann, the other a sales and marketing associate for Coundeon advertising Co, if I had the name spelled right), I prefer the stability of working under a bureaucracy. Why? Because there is always a big brother to manipulate and court. Just kidding.

Well, this job is nothing fanciful, just a telesales executive. I like the word executive, it spells the need for action. Executive is the oomph that steers the world economy. Without executives there are no business transactions, deals wouldn't come to fruition and I bet almost half of the world working populations would be recruited into positions such as couch potatoes, Xbox players and L4D slayers. Yes, I am now a useful working bee of 6 months, paid 7 bucks an hour, ferrying the pollens to the hive, contributing sweetness to a country manifested with hives. The salary is meager though. The sales and marketing associate pays $400 more, but I charted it to the furnace because of the steep and dark stairs. The flight of stairs reminded me of some old, dingy, pedophile haven English chapel's bell tower, and clumsy me humpy dumpy down. And imagine that was my first interview of the day!!! Three more to go. Whoohoo.

I went back to Hougang Mall for my second interview. Regretted doing so and on board the train again, without even meeting the person. Why? It was too near my house for comfort. And I didn't like the idea of sitting alone staring at all those gadgets and stuff. So at Orchard MRT I alight.

The next interview was a tricky one. According to the newspaper ad, Cole Hann was located at #01-02 at Shaw centre. But I kept circling around Isetan, inspecting the entire Shaw center facade, even the toilets, Cole Hann's nowwhere in existence. I thought that was just a pretty sarcastic prank, and I almost cried for being fooled. Suddenly a friend flashed out and said hi. I pretended to traipse around, appearing cool. Nobody must know how I really feel inside, since secondary school I had concealed my bipolar disorder like some patients suffering from split personality. Just before the thought of giving up struck me and continue my interview marathon, I flipped open my interview schedule I had mapped out and the contact number smirked at my foolishness. Okay I will make a call and scream at them for cheating on me.

'Come to shaw tower level _______', the friendly voice instructed. Yawned, I took the lift. Looked around. Found the office number, and beeped. 'Oh please come in' the same female voice said. I opened the door, and right in front of the doorway cardboard boxes stacked sky high. Sunglasses, accessories, shoes, all luxury consumer goods labeled and packed inside insignificant brown boxes. Considering how lean I was, I had to hamster through the path in order to shake hands with the lady. We chatted a bit, and after a while I asked her when would I know I am shortlisted. 'You are already shortlisted.' Yay!

'But, since you didn't have any experience in retail, I am afraid you have to sell at the bazaar before they could admit you to the boutique.' Oh, I said, somewhat saddened. 'It would be from 1st Oct to 10 Oct, then we will decide whether you are able to work there at ion orchard.' Oh, I replied again. Start work at 1st Oct...that would meant 2 weeks of doing nothing, wasting life away. No, no, no, I had suffered a year of sedentary lifestyle in NS already, I wanted no more, no more. Nevertheless, I thank the lady again and proceed to the next interview: starhub.

I am not going to blog about every intricate details because of the confidentiality clause I believed I had signed. But the interview went well, I got shortlisted immediately, just before the guy from Coundent advertising called to tell me I am shortlisted there as well. I rejected him, saying I had found a job at other places. But all went well. I celebrate with chicken and potato salad for dinner.

After NS

2009-09-15T19:56:00.000-07:00

Life became a Harley Davidson hellish ride that went kaboom-kaboom-kaboom! Always accelerating, never allowing me to stop and hear the saint Scree-eech as the rowdy speed swept me numb and muzzy. Why the hurry? To try out something new? To have fun with my friends while they still haven’t morphed into a bunch of chao recruits? Or to find a job that appreciates my mojo writing? Hey, a week before my ORD, I am just hoping to finish Atlas Shrugged. Now the brick sized book laid forgotten, accumulating library fines as I dwelled on a new route, albeit wayworn, but fuck it, since right now I am suffering, and celebrating, my post NS syndrome.

Post NS hits me when I went out with my friend? for lunch. (Note: discretion of names and quantity is practiced with rigor, here on my blog. So friend? can be singular, plural or an animal.) It was a hot, sweltering Friday afternoon, pink IC in rightful possession, strolled Orchard Road, molesting some smooth fabrics, and I suggested the wrong restaurant to dine, as usual. We went to Shudoku, blew a hole on my wallet as well as deflating theirs, grinding lousy food in our stomachs, in agony because we were not satisfied by the taste and the quality. I hope my friend? didn’t cut ties with me because of this.

On Friday night I visited my friend? house. We played majong through the night. I began my fathomable multi-tasking; juggling the pouring handphone messages on one hand while discarding tiles on the other. I lost four bucks at the end. Bleary me dozed off quickly at four plus and woke up the next morning seeing and smelling my friend’s round butt. I hoped and pray to the almighty that the sudden burst of air felt on my face during my sleep was emitted from the air-con.

I rushed to meet another group of friend? at PlazaSing. We had lunch together at Carl’s Jr. I had my usual breadless burger and criss-cross fries. We chatted until the cosmos destroyed and us lynched by the preying eyes of passer-bys waiting to dethrone us the gossipy eunuchs. Soon I found that I didn’t brought my handphone with me, its’ rear was pumped by the plug. Realizing that I promised my Friday night sleepover friend? that I am attending their friend? birthday, and without a phone they couldn’t contact me the where, when, what, who. So quickly I disposed my lunch friend? and went home to retrieve my lashed dog barking horrendously at me.

MRT back to PlazaSing on Saturday evening. We went scouting for birthday present. Found one, which I forgot what it was, and bought it. At Swenson I ordered seafood salad, two more holes punched in my wallet as I helped pay for my friend?. Went to watched G-force, a rather lame movie that sang one and a half hour of peaceful lullaby. On the way home my friend? told me that his friend? said I was gay gay. I forgot what my reply was but something like; no lah, I am still hiding in the closet. Imfao I couldn’t sleep at night. So I read Atlas Shrugged, hoping it was another G-force, but it wasn’t.

It wasn’t until my head began to drop and hit the book that time slipped from 7 to 11. I remembered I had engagement with my friend? at 1.30pm. So I quickly changed and mrt to vivo. Once at Vivo it was still early, so I sat in the cubicle catching a few minutes of beauty sleep until an ah pek caught me, racked the door and I ran out, to Pageone. My friend? saw me and I blurted out something silly but it was quickly forgotten. We went to Carnivore, the chefs there wield huge knifes and kept on slicing meats on our plate. I got slightly intimidated by my friend? ability to speak like laser guns and in different languages alien to me, while I still spoke in poor, diluted English, with Singlish stamp of approval. Mandarin was never rolling in my friend? mother tongue, so I was all the more nervous to meet friend? from outer space.

We journey to my friend? Condominium. I forgot most of the conversations because I was too tired, my memory told me that we went swimming, sauna, troubled at the shower and visited Hanabi at Katong Mall; far better Japanese food than Shodoku. And better yet, since my wallet was completely saved from drilling. We taxied home and I threw myself to bed and sleep, never shower, never read bedtime stories, regretted on the next afternoon that nervous me couldn’t stand up in the shower.

I totally screwed up the next Monday afternoon. I was supposed to have a job interview at eleven, but it was already three hours late. I comforted myself with cup noodles and kicking my pikachu alarm clock, which didn’t functioned its job properly. It pleaded its innocence, pointing on its pointy-head that I had pounded on him at nine to shut up. So you wanted me to shout mea culpa mea culpa? I asked him politely. It shut up.

My friend? called, asking whether I want to go gym at four. I said okay, he asked whether I want swimming after that. I said okay. He was a good salesperson, always adding value to the prior statement. We the sadists hurt ourselves in gym, pumping all those cold iron bars, making my hands sore. After the sweat dried one of my friend? said lets screwed swimming and lets go running, so we did. We ran 2.4km, and as usual, I was the first to reach. Watching my friend? panting and failing to catch up their breath was so refreshing; I had my phantom Gatorade already. We had dinner at subway, talking cock, getting scratched by my friend? razor sharp claws. That’s all I want to write for my post NS syndrome.

Slurpin Chocolixir and getting divine wisdom

2009-09-10T07:30:00.000-07:00

On my journey to Marina Square this Thursday afternoon (don't ask me why and what for), I passed the sparsely traffic, air con blasting Citylink. As I was about to saunter up the stairs to exit, marking the end of the excruciating coldness, something struck me - the aroma of a long forgotten friend. No, not from the hunky sales assistants from newurbanmale but the shop before it. Yes, a chocolate store. Not any ordinary chocolate confectionery but a shameless naked lady riding a horny stallion : Godiva. Being a chocolate fanatic, fueled by weeks of staying hands off from chocolate bars, my usual sturdy resistance dropped to a new low. Outside its store front a huge cup of frosty chocolixir advertisement spread on the side, courting those nothing to do lurkers to admire. I admire the ad, and refreshingly heartwarming just by looking at it, as if it was a burning stove in a street of snow. I counted my pennies, exactly ten bucks. Should be more than enough to buy this damn, sinful potion of lust. One thing I knew, Godiva's an expensive, wicked bitch. I floated into the store like hungry ghost finding a lighted incense, the olfactory smell of heaven descended upon me.

'hmm..can i have one chocolixir please?' I asked the counter lady. She was pretty.

'What flavour do you want?'

'What flavour do you have?'

'Oh, the menu's on the wall,' she pointed at the wall behind her. What I could only decipher was wormy words like Arabic scriptures.

'Sorry I couldn't see clearly, can you read it to me?'

'You cannot see ar, there's the dark chocolate...' she read the other three, which my half deaf ear didn't picked up. But I knew I wanted dark chocolate straight away, I needed it. I favor anything that contained antioxidant, to act as reinforcement to fight a losing battle against the rowdy acnes sprouting on my face, taking larger and larger territory.

'Can I have the dark chocolate one,' I said from the counter, sounded rather like a child. The lady turned back and began her work; throwing chopped chocolate pieces into a blender, pouring milk into the blender, throw ice inside the blender, and blended it did. I envied her easy job.

'Do you want some cream on top?' Okay, I replied back. She twirled the whipped cream like Starbucks Barista, popped the cover and pierce a straw on top of it, handing me a napkin, complete.

'Ten bucks,' she said, nonchalantly.

'Ten bucks for a cup of chocolate milk? Are you pulling my leg?' I didn't said that, though I wished I had. I just said okay, and obediently surrender my only note.

I went out, sucked the straw outside newurbanmale. It was indeed hard to drink, with irregular bits and pieces and sometimes chunks of blended ice. But the taste was unusually good, better than the cup of milo my dad made for me every morning, better than hot chocolate as it was cold and slurp-pable. I sucked and sucked and sucked, smiling greedily to myself. $10 bucks for a drink, only a fool can smile at this point. The singlet/ short wearing sales guys in the shop looked terrified at me, as though I was an old perverted ah pek staring at some cubs having fun in the zoo. I felt I just got condemned.

Sitting down on a wooden bench; slurping, enjoying the serenity, with rows of potted trees as my backdrop against the pouring, burning radiance, I felt being at ease once again. At last, tomorrow my two years suffering in pixelated green finally came to a full stop. Now I can become boys again, carefree and sideburns free from the endless scrutiny of my madam. And thinking of madam, my beloved madam of sultry mother of one, I decided to give her a present. Being poetic, I unzipped my jeans, zipped it back (I unzipped wrongly) and unzipped my bags, teared a piece of foolscap, and began to write, easily and without a thought, as though it was a smooth bowel movement.

The Storeman

Rambutans filled my bag
Lizards creeping in the cracks
Six big tears dripping down the cheeks
From my sparkling oh-so-innocent eyes
Wondering when the sun will set

Gazing out from the gridiron window
Your yellow van drifting toward us
Carrying it with you the orange yolk
The reality of work aroused us the sleepy few
I shouted 'on your guards!!!'
Jack, stately, returned to his consciousness
Bloodshot eyes haunted the entire room
Jess unglued from his comfy chair
And went to his haven the armskote room
While I, broom and pail in hand
Swept the office and splash the toilet
Inside the bowl I found myself
Me the hobbledehoy, doofus one
How to get out of this one?

As time flew past on a snoozer
Like the unpredictable weather
Cloudy and rainy, sunny and clear
Your words sharp like kitchen knife
Slitting us by the throats
But the intentions good
Not to mention the sensation
Just as snakes and rats, having fun
While we ran, in their triumph!!!

I woke up, after eighteen months
Eighteen to twenty my age had lapsed
Tears and laughter smeared my memory
Like peanut butter, spread on a porous bread
A dream, I think, and finally did.

I have no idea how to write a poem, but it sounded rather nice, or at least it rhymes. I must clarified though, that I was not a full time cleaner in NS, it was just part of the overall package of being a responsible store IC. Though I couldn't stopped myself from laughing about who the next broom and pail would land on their chained hands, I was just elated that its not in mine.

For the sake of drowning

2009-09-03T06:34:00.000-07:00

Even before the army terminates my NS life, I could feel my employment prospect a possible nosedive to the bottomless pit. I feel at a loss now, like, in six days or less, my yucky green uniform would be thrown down the sea for a wash, leaving me stark naked and cold –crying, if there were no chocolate found lying on the shore. In an island without food and water, and monster mum and dad chasing me around the bushes to find a job! How I wish I were one of the rich passengers in Titanic, with the foreknowledge of wearing an inflatable float around my FOUR PACK GOING SIX PACK belly while alighting the cruise from the dork.

So, before meeting such crucible fate, I would drown myself with a bottle of champagne, possibly piggybacking me to infinite sleep (sometimes, my audacity to say such things on the seventh month astonished me.). I am a light drinker, so Dionysus could party high with me on mugs of Root Beers, listen to Lady Ga-Ga while we went ga-ga.

Anyway, I chanced upon this contest by The August Man magazine, and the prize is A BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE! Just the perfect way to drown my sorrow, saying sayonara to job security, though I can’t wait to run away from servitude to a master I itched to slid its throat.

So here’s the contest requirement and my post.

A celebration would not be appropriate without some Champagne, so we're offering three lucky readers the chance to win each a bottle of Moet & Chandon Champagne this month.

All you need to do is write a concise note to us below this post, in 200 words or less, on what makes August Man 'Singapore's Definitive Men's Journal', why how we appeal to the spectrum of men around the world.

The cool august breeze blows the thinking man, and the thinking man catches the august wind and sneezes. After his consciousness returned, his thoughts recollected and views steadied, here it is the August Man, standing erect, young and strong.

He is a preacher, a high flyer, a fashionista, a lifestyle guru and a friend worthy to befriend. Under his masculine cover and glossy appearance belies a witty personality, a good-hearted devilish streak that illuminates my smile, page-by-page, day-by-day, cheek-by-cheek. He always takes me for a leisure walk through time, with unexpected twist and turns ahead. He is a wild adventurer, but I am unafraid. Under his studied instructions, not the lecturing kind but a fervent, didactic passion, I traveled with him; across societies I desire to be in, across luxuries that tickle my fancies.

Whenever I strolled to the bookstore’s magazine rack, dizzying flashes of faces bombarded me. And every time, yes, every time, I found my friend, waiting, at the backdrop of blasphemous crowds. I wished to own a Ferrari, a Prada bag, a Corum watch, and a fancy retreat to Caribbean. Nevertheless, before I could ever achieve them, I have my friend The August Man to accompany. .

My second short story: A day with Hana at Hougang Avenue 8

2009-06-04T07:42:00.000-07:00

I got speedier in writing the second than the first story - in less than a week, which is indefinately a good thing for me since I need to charter time for majong on the weekends. This story is situated on one day in the street of Hougang Avenue 8, which I lived in. Murrai is meeting Hana in this residential area where there is not much a community, people were living in their own lives without peering to say hi to their neighbours. To reveal more is meaningless since it is less than 3 pages long. There is also a surprise twist at the end, for i love twisted stories > ) Here's the link to the story: http://lucifer-fables.blogspot.com/search/label/A%20day%20with%20Hana%20at%20Hougang%20Avenue%208

Choose me because……………

2009-05-31T08:31:00.000-07:00

.........................................

(I received an email on Thursday and only happened to know its existence only on Sunday night. Here is the content:

Dear Y Bloggists!

Here's your only chance to come back to vie for the Y bloggist title!

We are having a Wild Card round, and you are invited to submit an entry on the following theme.

Theme: "Choose me because..."

Format: Any blog format

Deadline: 2 June, 12 noon sharp)
.

.....................................

Choose me because you are an indecorous gardener who has 15 more beautiful, more vibrant roses to pluck. Instead, you decide on one that is less gaiety, less profane stalk to be placed among the 4 most extinctive, most fabulist bunch in the vase of blogospheric fame.

Choose me because you cruelly acknowledged that Singaporeans craves to witness the localized version of the fall of Susan Boyle and Adam Lambert. Who, despite their immaculate vocal talent that demands standing ovation every time their mouth opens, yet they didn’t sing the triumphant song of winning. Though I am not so arrogant myself as to compare the talent and the fame kilowatt with them, I certainly can smell what they had snuffed out, taste what they had already regurgitated – the onslaught of mainstream conventional taste.

Choose me because you hate videos and audios, photos and drawings, and instead adore lines upon lines, wait, make that chunks and chunks of sinful texts. Yes, sinful is the word, the word Lucifer the fallen angel likes to use. Oh, pardon me for a little bit of pr here, I am currently writing short stories at my sub blog Lucifer Fables (http://lucifer-fables.blogspot.com/). This would be big because I am subtly incorporating my doofus perspective of Singapore’s society into every short story. Besides, there is no larger an alternative brand than Lucifer’s.

Choose me because, sadly, you have no other choices. It is already Sunday, 2 days before the deadline, and there is nobody in the top 15 writing ‘choose me because….’ except the damsel maikospace, (I believe I am under the ‘typical blogger’ category she had mentioned, so I stood a chance).

Choose me because…. Stop, I have overkill the choosiness theme. Perhaps it is rather fruitful for me to end this playful indirection and put it bloody bluntly:

Don’t choose me (no way!)
.
Don’t choose me (never!!)

.
Don’t choose me (how dare you!!!)

Hobbledehoy at pinkdot.sg

2009-05-21T06:36:00.000-07:00

Arriving to the Exit A of the Clark Quay mrt on 16 05 09 at 4.25 pm, my eyes fooled me again – a bed of coquetry pink roses literally moving around Hong Lim Park. Aghast by the sight of defying nature, at the same time contemplating the penne weenie size of this park, which in my mind conjures a much grandeur status since it hosts itself as Singapore’s only freedom podium. But no matter, since the event I am attending opens the narrow-mindedness of the society and conveys a message far beyond this park can contain: love should be free and equal, regardless of sexual orientation. How patriotic can that be?

Rewind back 3 hours, I was buzzing around orchard road for the perfect pink tee. Wayworned by my choosiness in the search – any color and design deems too vociferous or prosaic were tossed around like socks– I finally chanced upon this piece at NewUrbanMale at HMV for S$59.90, quite a splurge for a one time piece, which I intend to wear just for this occasion.

While I was waiting in line, 2 guys, whom I supposed to be gay, were also waiting with pink tees in hand. What a coincidence! We saw each other and nodded in acknowledgement, as if we could predict where our body would lies in the next 3 hours.

‘Going to pinkdot ar’ the muscular cashier with char grilled skin asked me. Shyly, I nodded. ‘We have 6 different varieties of paper bags, choose your favorite color,’ his finger pointed to my right, where 6 brightly coloured paper bags with a large sperm prints on the front and back of the bag, lined up neatly on the shelf. Great, an effeminate guy adorning pink with above knee white shorts and one giant sperm seemingly swims around the midnight blue paper bag. What else can people think of me besides an obvious faggot?

This thought quickly evaporated once I drown myself into the deep sea of rosemary pink. White short shorts, small pink tees, pair up with light brown calf loafers or at least a pair of presentable sandals - everyone got the same taste as me, I mused. And everyone was so joyous, so energized, so friendly and so intelligent; exude from their manner and their ingenious ability to articulate any subjects in their minds. Rattling at machine gun speed, they don’t seem to anguish over choice of words or phrases and just came out from their mouth in perfect sentences with such confidence. These people are destined to be the future greats, if not infamous corporate raiders. Their verbal assault was too much for a tongue-tied, gibberish-speaking guy to bear.

Teetering for an hour or so, I felt like a shy kitten lost in the sea of giant Alices with cojones in wonderland. I was the hobbledehoy there, wondering around quietly, flushed with blushes above the blemishes, bumping occasionally into the rainbow ‘gay’ bear, the NUM mascot and a pockmarked guy prancing around, perhaps acting as a clown but a very bad one. The Alices seems to know each other so well that it feels like a reunion catered for them. Clearly I was the odd one out. Eventually, succumbed to the overbearing evening heat and the smell of perspiration on peoples back, I took myself back to the mrt line and went back home, alone.

Nevertheless, to sound politically correct, it was a great pleasure to participate in such a significant event. Although most Singaporeans weren’t informed of such event despite the loud clamoring on the Internet, it is a crucial step for the LGBT to get recognized and live the life just like every ordinary Singaporean does. Of course, this couldn’t be achieved without first tearing down Section 377A, a penal code better suited to be flushed down the toilet rather than sitting in the law book sucking away the spirits, the freedom and the individual choices of a great portion of Singaporeans. In the meantime, lets hum the sayonara song for 377A.

My first short story: false accusation

2009-05-14T06:36:00.000-07:00

Finally, after several weeks of editing and correcting, procrastinating and dozing off, I had finished my first piece, all 1800 words. It is about a fiancee who accuse his soon to be husband of having an affair with another women, which happens to be their best friends and a renowned psychiatrist. Watched out for the 180 degrees turn at the end of the story. Here's the link: http://lucifer-fables.blogspot.com/2009/05/false-accusation.html

PS: 76 more days to the end of my green uniforms.

Time to crayon the Merlion

2009-05-09T06:22:00.000-07:00

Watching the recent episode of the Desperate Housewives on Channel 5 brought the suspicious dwarf out of me. Bree Hodge, the red-haired Martha Stewart, one of the lucky four housewives in Wisteria Lane who successfully seduced the camera into trailing their surrealistic lives and present to us voyeuristic audience every Monday, got her story cut off. I didn’t realize the snap until the show ended, with Bree’s first commencement scene left hanging dry for us to enquiry on what’s next. Her gay son’s plastic surgeon boyfriend brought her mum to visit the perfectionist. Chit Chats with the old hack. Bree’s 2 minutes of fame then vanished into the precinct sewage pipe of Wisteria Lane.

Before wandering on the possibility of Bree getting smack on her high plateau forehead with a goodbye slip, my inner dwarf lead me to Wikipedia. Suspicion begets curiosity; curiosity begets enlightenment. And I found my nirvana – on the 98th episode, season five, titled ‘Home is the place’. Where’s the scene where Andrew and his boyfriend Alex went searching for a new home, their new nest? Where are the motherly love; the unconditional care and consent showered on their child, as delivered in written words by the omni Wikipedia and not on Channel 5? Oh, I know where it is; left behind at the cold dark dingy editing room with a mission of censorship.

Back from Wisteria Lane to Hougang Avenue 8 bus stop, when I picked up another snipped news on Wednesday morning. It was the Aware’s Comprehensive Sexuality Education program (CSE), scissors wielded by MOE, was concerned that the program is promoting homosexuality. Aware seemed to have negatively blessed by the news media this past weeks. First the Anglican Church Lord Josie Lau heavenly ascend and hellishly busted off, three days after the triumphant victory by the old guards MOE came slapping a pink slip onto Aware’s program. On first instances everybody, including me, conjured the image in our minds of Lord Josie successfully took siege on MOE, build cathedrals on top of the government institution, introducing her manipulated religious doctrine packaged on the form of educational policy and told us to abide by it or else the heaven gate slams shut for the naughty ones roaming on an unconventional route.

No, it was not Josie but her adherents, who probably possessed the same demeanor, the heart and soul, coupled with the high imposing post as an education officer. Moreover, they seemed to share common ground: Adam and Eve shouldn’t consume the apple, not fully at least – as in the case of sexual education given by Aware, or the bruised 98th episode of Desperate Housewives. They viewed that we should be faithful servants of God, instead of seeking for complete knowledge and the relentless pursuit of individual freedom.

Fast forward two millenniums, apples are abundant now in the super market, and the six billions roaming this earth are far more smarter than the first A&E. Perhaps the novelty wears off, or romance flourish in the name of individual choices, among the billions there are some Adam who prefers Adam and Eve who adores Eve. Yet the ignorance, spellbound by their staid traditionalist opinion as fundament to society, framed those outliers as sinners who gravely needed salvation, as though we all are not sinners from the very beginning.

Unless the establishment wants to play god, whose highhanded dictate would certainly be met with bite of utter ashes, for this unavoidable social phenomenon would crayon the whitewashed Merlion fins. Pink, in fact. Thanks to Maiko Kuchiki (a blogger whom I have the pleasure to meet in the top 20 Y bloggist competition) invitation to the Pink Dot Sg (http://pinkdotsg.blogspot.com/), a non-profit movement for LGBT and Singaporeans open enough to embrace the LGBT into the social fabric of Singapore. There would be an event staged on the 16th May 2009, 4.30pm at Hong Lim Park. Though the government response to such event is usually ignoring its existence, it is just a matter of time before the new breed of apple trees start to grow and take root on the island, nourished by Adam and Eve’s manure. Until then, I demand to watch my desperate housewives without enduring the abhorring censorship, the crudely edited version send to us apple-craving Singaporeans. Together with my family to enjoy a good television experience, the more diverse the merrier.

The best therapy

2009-05-04T03:03:00.000-07:00

Though I am completely deranged by the dismal results, I was fortunate to be resurrected by my friends’ invitations- for a game of Friday night mahjong of course. We played until the clock strikes 3.30am; fatigue struck us, and outreached hands struck out for my chips. I lose a few bucks in the process, gain a few spots on my already well-forested face, and the lingering disappointment disappeared into the dark circles around my eyes. What a therapy, I proclaimed to myself, and it is a rather tiring, punishing one.

It occurs to me that I am not the only one who needs a therapist. Flipping through the Sunday times this morning, I saw a picture of 5 seemingly sordid EXCO members of Aware, all under the categories of aunties and ah ma, got ousted by the former veterans. Gay loving, liberal, multiracial, and more importantly not from Anglican Church of Our Saviors, these old guards kicked the droopy asses out with boos and jeering so popularly utilized in our civilized society. Their EGM is equivalent to a hall of jam packed crazy women crucifying these EXCO witches, setting them on fire and watch them burned, their pleas buried under the midst of a cheering ladies crowd. Perhaps that is why most able-bodied, post NS Singaporean males are turning gay, having been traumatized in the world of torturous women. I myself shattered to imagine that bloodbath, which was held at Suntec Conventional Hall on saturday, though it sounds sadistically fun at the same time.

Sidetracked a little from the gory news, I have been dipping my unclipped toes into short fictional writing. Not that I enjoy the process of writing but I love the accomplishment of it. Imagine the pleasure of actually completing a damn hard to write story piece- somewhat akin to the sense of relieve after days of constipation - with the ‘made by Alexius’ stamp proudly embossed on it.

In dedication for my new endeavor as a novelist, I have created a new blog for all my short novels, which is dubbed ‘Lucifer Fables’. Lucifer is not my friend, nor is he anyone whom I want to meet and make a house visit. He is god’s former best employee turned archrival. Think about the relationship between Steve Jobs and former lieutenant turned richest man Bill Gates and you would get the picture. The stories I am going to put up are not going to be antichrist, evil stories depicted from hell, not for this moment anyway. It is just my immortal shrewdness to add a little personality and punch to this new blog.

While still in the midst of setting up Lucifer Fables and writing my first story, I have another blog idea; a trendy, fashionable one. But that is still far from my drawing board. So that’s all from me now, I got to crawl back to my heavily edited, never ending novel. Ciao.

Tears on my keyboard

2009-04-30T08:27:00.000-07:00

I am perfectly morbid, gravely disappointed, completely drenched with blues and grays. I thought I would go far, soar in fact, and meet some new friends during the process of the Y bloggist competition. I viewed this contest, however publicly plankton it might be, offered me the platform, the opportunity and the hope of venturing into the publishing industry with at least a hint of journalistic experience to boost my otherwise empty resume. But today my dream is dashed, completely flattened out.

Yes, as luck would have it, I am not in the top 10. Even William Hung had a far wider spotlight after he sang his best. For me, it is back to reality, back to the drawing board again; the board of my future career. Should I continue to pursue the editorial ladder, which now seems so naiveté and unattainable? Or should I look for other careers, dropping my dream of writing as a profession and view it just as a hobby of mine? As for now, my literate future looks bleak.

Acquiring Impeccable taste

2009-04-26T06:31:00.000-07:00

Last week Saturday, shy little me together with 19 professional looking contestants of the Y bloggist competition was assigned to write a food review for Shokudo. After our reviews was done we post it on our blog, submit the link to the contest moderator via email and do nothing except hope and pray for the judges to love and blow enough salivary filled kisses to flood us into the top 10 threshold. Very much akin to my old school days of handing in a crumpled piece of composition to our beloved English teachers, anticipating for a pat on the head for due diligence, while instead getting a smack on the face for untidy handwriting. How fortunate am I, living in the 21st century, a time when penmanship is a long forsaken art better chart into a disposal bin for storage, perhaps the Singapore museum could be a welcoming host.

This post is not about reminiscing my childhood crush of my sequence of English teachers (I had none), nor am I intending to fire up my thought on Singapore museums as walk-in dumpsters for unwanted crap from the past (which is quite true). As the title suggest, this post is to reveal the age-old, generational mystery of the civilized society: how to acquire the impeccable taste others can only dream of acquiring. In food, culture, politics and style, everything upon which the world stands ready to critique and criticize. Acquiring the perfect taste is equivalent to arming yourself; with shield to protect yourself against the spits from the society; and with sword so you can knife others with your highly perceived taste of yours.

After weeks of flipping through countless books and fashion magazines and online searches, I can finally shout eureka. The answer, hold your breath: there is no one true taste but tastes. Tah tah.

Malcolm Gladwell, author of the Outliers (and a fortunate survivor from a lightning strike, which bestowed him with the iconic Albert Eistein hair, only crazier), once made a presentation on Ted, denouncing that there is no one single taste able to fulfill the masses, so tastes are needed to feed this insatiable society. Though in his presentation he use taste as a sensory term to describe the necessity for the wide deviations of spaghetti sauce, the message is the same: taste is highly particular and personal. One’s milkshake maybe another vomits. Not everyone adores an Ipod, they might prefer other obscure brands that is cheaper, simpler, no screen, or with clearer sound.

What about those connoisseurs of their professions: the editors, movie critics and Simon Cowell? My assumption is that they are mere marketing experts, with decades of experience in their field, who learned the trends of the current market and cast their bet based on their own perception of the future trends. Though they often miss a few times, and being heavily criticized by other knowledgeable connoisseurs who are more than willing to do so. But shrewdly they know how to quietly mop up the dirt they create. So instead of seeing them as a tyranny that dictates the taste of the masses, imagine them as irate individuals who live by the loudspeaker for a living. Surely you could spare some change to Simon Cowell for him to find someplace to store his plain t-shirts, or to Anna Wintour of Vogue for her to have a roof on top of her bob?

Since taste and preference are personal and far from universal, then strong character is required to assert one’s true taste. Reading through some of the food reviews written by other contestants just made me realized how different my approach on the subject is compared to others. My style is wittier, intellectual type, using some profound flowery words alien to our otherwise usual spoken languages. As for the other food reviews, although some I adore for their sharp and immaculate pictures, most I thought it is a tad too long, too distant from the subject matter, and worse, giving me a feeling of trying too hard to pleased. And what’s the fad of the rating system, which horrendously appeared on most reviews? I thought it is useless and doesn’t convey enough messages on the gastronomic experience we had enjoyed.

No offence, but that is just my personal taste. And whats' yours?

Shokudo: Tradition meets Contemporary

2009-04-18T18:31:00.000-07:00

When one approaches Japanese cuisine, words like delicate, simplicity, and sushi comes right to our mind like a no brainer. Shokudo, however, evolve from such a conventional route so often felt from a traditional restaurant, serving us the revitalized form of modern Japanese cuisine – surprises, fun, cheekiness, a range of food choices – it is a potpourri of different cuisines fused from many parts of the world. Shokudo celebrates democracy in the form of food without sacrificing the spirit of the traditional subtle touches.

Instead of being overwhelmed by the wide selection of food, the elaborate décor influenced by western contemporary design, the technology utilized for the comfort of the customers (not to mention the mega-size of the restaurant!!!), it harmonized them. Journey to understand Shokudo began with the front display of brightly lit, neon lighted signboard, conveying a hint of rebellion and defiance to the otherwise down to earth simple wooden display sign - so fashionable to the point of indistinguishability, hanged on other Japanese restaurants.

Once inside, you would find yourself pleasantly lost in a series of Japanese food vendors, each selling their specialty of delicacy. Neon lighted signs and smiling customer assistants set the mood and the atmosphere of walking down the streets of Japan, which, incidentally, are Shokudo slogan, its inspiration and its soul. The meticulous detail given to the whole restaurant decor matches and compliments the quality and the design of food. I particularly enjoyed myself passing by the grilling section, taking a few extra whiffs than usual, but careful, it is highly addictive even for a strict dieter who counts the number of rice grain on her plate; it is difficult to resist overeating.

Now allow me to present their 5 signature dishes that define Shokudo as the Japanese restaurant that reengineered the traditionalists’ approach to food, without sacrificing its spirit.

First up the table is Sakura Ebi Omelette, or Japanese style omelette. The spongy texture of the omelette wrapped the crunchy baby shrimps of vivid red like a blanket, topped with mayonnaise and katsuobushi shavings – a gastronomic display of east meets west. The first bite is equivalent to savouring a nicely done, american style egg omelette. But once you take the second you would feel the fillings slowly reveal itself, so smooth and warm and tender that it actually complements each other despite their clash in originality, in fact it became the authentic dish on its own accord. It could be a wonderful, hearty breakfast for those privileged enough to reside near there.

The next dish is definitely a panda favorite - Bamboo prawn rice. Bamboo steamer cleverly utilized to infused the aroma of natural freshness into the rice. Diced shiitake mushrooms are buried inside the yellowish rice like nuggets of gold; topped it off with five plain boiled prawns as garnish, which is somewhat witty of them to keep the prawns simple and not to diverge our attention away from the rice. This palate plays more on our olfactory system than our taste bud. The aroma alone is just captivating, not too pungent but just refreshing, Japanese style.

Third is properly the most popular dishes among the others- roasted chicken balls, or Csukune balls. Since most Singaporeans had already experienced chicken meatballs before, choosing it doesn’t connote a need to question their choice, or guts of swallowing it, after chewing of course. The meatballs are rough, crusty on the outside, juicy and meaty inside. Clearly, it tastes like every other meatball, though I would still prefer my Csukune balls for none other reason than its inner succulent juiciness.

Fourth is a dish so openly flaunt its fusion of east meets west fashion that leaves nothing to hide. The roast sausage- an all time American favorite food, coupled with Japanese pancake and a dollop of bland white dipping cream. The sausage is moist and tender, biting it brought forth an explosion of plump meaty flavour in my mouth, very much American style. But what is interesting for this dish is the Japanese style pancake; layers upon layers of thin potatoes slices pieced together like Japanese paper (Washi) to form an intricate circular shape. The taste of it is what I like to call ‘subtle complexity’ – the simple appearance masked the vibrancy of texture felt between the tongue and the food. I am no food connoisseur, but at least I know how to differentiate between typical French fries and works of art.

The dessert, tofu cheesecake is a fun dish. The clash of civilization erupted yet again, food wise. It is an ordinary cheesecake with strong cheesy taste, yet possessing the qualities of a Japanese tofu - tenderness and softness. The top layer acts like a white canvas, demanding the creative to draw something on it. It marries well with the strawberry sauce to espouse a sweet taste without being too overpowering. Small but dignified, this cheesecake ended my journey of gastronomic experience perfectly.

So what’s my verdict? Traditionalists might be uncomfortable, even put off by Shokudo’s nontraditional approach to Japanese cuisine. They prefer the simple, un-patronizing, bland taste so uniquely Japanese that any more dimensions added to it taint the spirit of old fashioned, exquisitely Japanese style. The others, me included, favors the more experimentative, innovative Japanese cuisine. Shokudo seems to take on the middle route, cleverly balancing both types of demanding customers. Just like the two expressions drawn on the tofu cheesecake: love it or not, you pick your tofu.

(Me and Boon Ming)

http://boonming.com/ thks for this pic!

(Just a footnote, I love Tofu Cheesecake the best, every mouthful was a delight ;-)

WhooWhooWhoohahaha

2009-04-15T06:33:00.000-07:00

Whoowhoowhoohahaha. I am beyond words to describe my feeling right now. Happy? Joyous? Elated? Damn it, there is not a single word in my brick sized dictionary as expressive, as emotionally felt as the laughter. Yes, the long lost laughter uniquely mine that I am only able to conjure 7 years ago. That’s the year when I proudly venture out of my usual home to school route -- to the orchard road, all by myself. Though it sounds childish and insignificant, for an innocent 13-year-old it is an act of audacity. This is also the period when I boldly swap my milk bottle of 13 years for a pikachu imprinted porcelain mug without breaking any manly tears of separation. This laughter foretells a drastic change coming to provoke my otherwise routine life. So brace yourself, my lovely pikachu cup of 7 years.

I actually make it to the top 20 in ‘the Y bloggist’!!! For a self-declared idiot with a C6 in O level English, it is perhaps the sweetest revenge to all my English teachers and others who treated my essays as toilet paper, fit enough only to wipe the shit out of their flabby ass. Now I am dishing out blog posts faster, with loftier thoughts than your capability to produce solid waste and ruined mother earth. Shame on you. And shame on you again from Al Gore.

So here’s my acceptance speech for being the top 20:

(Applause).

(Clear throat)

First of all I must congratulate myself for the individual, let me repeat that word again, INDIVIDUAL effort that I put in to writing something that actually wins an award. I would certainly treat myself with my favorite chicken and potato salad, which I ate for dinner everyday, with 2 packets of thousand islands dressing instead of 1 just for this celebrative moment.

And now to sound modest and petite like every local celebrities, I must mention the breathing and non-breathing things around me. They give me inspirations to scrutinize, mock at, and even write some interesting stories in which credibility isn’t the top priority, not for me to care about at least.

Nevertheless, the journey to the top prize is still far, far away. I must continue to charge forward, work like clockwork, running with outreached hand to grasp for it. Even if I couldn’t make it (choi), in the name of the late William Hung: I already gave my best, and I have no regrets at all.

(Bow down)

(More Applause)

Good Friday Repentance

2009-04-11T01:33:00.000-07:00

Good Friday is perhaps a good day for repentance, to review all my past misdeeds, cleanse my devilish thoughts and come out detoxified without getting gastric pain. Though I am an atheist, I find making contrition to myself during this holy day extremely effective. Just last year I made a vow not to fart in front of people, out of respect of their presence and concern for their health. With enough practice I got the strength to prolong this socially ungraceful act, while slowly letting out air once the coast is clear of any breathing homo sapiens. I am very conscious of my self-image, mind you. Imagine how much damage a smelly fart can create, especially those that lingers and distinctively yours- a whiff of it and everybody knows who just walk past this corridor, and what the hell did that person eat for breakfast? Glad that my prayer had been accepted and validated.

This year I am going to let it all out instead. Not foul gas but envy. This malicious nature of mine have been flowing inside my blood stream for years, kept hidden aside from consciousness until one fine morning I felt a kick on my stomach when my colleague walked in the camp with Louis Vuitton and Hugo Boss paper bags, while I carry a Topman and Neno paper bags. This is the battle of the branded paper bags, especially important for us NS part timers since our work environment demands uniformity in fashion, where there is no individual style to speak of except underwear and briefs.

Not only am I jealous of wealthy folks, but also the educated folks, the gentleman blessed with social graces and influences, and the good-looking hunks that steal everyone’s eyes and hearts. Obtaining all of which is totally impossible, since each component needs time and energy to cultivate. I had never ever met one who possessed all of these components, but there are many whom I knew are envious about others who are equipped with one. Perhaps that is the reason why I had subjected myself to becoming a snob; an observer sitting, and waiting for anything to drop from the sky is way much more easier than a hunter who always have to chase after their gazelle.

However much I enjoy being a snob, the jealousy in me couldn’t seem to shake off. It appears that one feeds on the other; a snob life is forever trapped inside a life of envy, a life of nobody but a busybody. A life, to speak bluntly, utterly wasted. The antidote is clear and simple- take action, take charge. I got to alter my snobbish lifestyle; from admiring others’ achievements to achieving it myself, from worshiping materialism to acquiring quality goods, from being an isolated emo to become a glamorous socialite. Maybe I sound nostalgically insane, desperate to find a comfortable spot in the status hierarchy, but at least I got the audacity to commit myself.

So what is my 2009 Good Friday wish list? To act and get, not imagine and think about doing. I have wasted years envying others, now is the time for me to slip into my Nike shoes, knot it, and venture out from my house, journeying to the adventure that awaits me. Still, I got 97.5 days of NS to serve, no choice but to walk back to my house, untie my Nike, pull out from it, stomp into my boots, knot it, and busted to camp. What an irony.

The idiot that falls

2009-04-06T06:32:00.000-07:00

Tragic events involving blood, hospital and operation are not something to be taken lightly of, or even laughed at, at least for an ordinary person with feelings. However, this incident, bloody and gory it might be, overturned the pages of the appropriate behavior bestowed for a tragedy, while satirize a situation that is traditionally sordid and serious. Moments of silence are broken by shrieks of laughter. Tears of pain become tears of joy and elation. Irony though it sounds, especially since this is written by a person who is chiefly responsible for the creation of such paradoxical event.

It was Tuesday morning. The heat, the humidity, the restlessness, the same boring colleagues, the work environment deprive of any motivation, everything speaks of the damn weekdays; five days routine grinds like a old croaking wooden wheel. We were supposed to do store area cleaning, a task we tried to deceive ourselves as doing spring cleaning instead of doing what we don’t want to do but was forced to do -slavery is too strong a word for this, but close. We needed extra hand, so we recruited Z to help up, relieving us from some tedious cleaning stuff.

Before I could go any further, let me introduce you to someone whom I admire; for his nut sized brain, his please-hate-me personality, his fat ass with layers of fats protruding out from his stomach like a men’s bulge, and most crucial for all 2 years part timers; a perfect target, literally and figuratively, for the raising rages of the full time men and women in green pixels. Bald, fat, ugly, stupid and clumsy, he was being tossed around in camp. An unwanted child, he might seem, but when you approach him you would discard him so fast as though he was an infectious virus sucking out every of your positive energy. He is, due to confidential reason, Z, the 23-year-old Malay who feasts when all other faithful Muslims are fasting during Ramadan.

The incident that disrupts our otherwise routine morning began when our walled clock strikes 9.30. He idiotically jumped, while standing on the hollow edge of the desk, which is obviously unable to support his mass, and fell with a loud bang after scrubbing the stain from a hanging fan. But it was not the fall that produced the blood, the quick rush to the hospital and the operation; it was the desk that fell together with him provoked this pleasant sequence of surprises. The great relive, on my part, was that 5 minutes earlier I was cleaning the same fan, standing on the same table. Or else I would get my middle and index fingers smashed by the incoming desk, resulting in fractured fingers, plus two candy sticks as souvenirs. He should have read humpy dumpy instead of attending those useless moral education (though his academic qualification is somewhat questionable)- know your own fats before your butt cracks.

There was no sympathy felt for him. Nobody with any sensible mind would care about him. Not that we were unrealistic jerks who hope him to drop died within a blink of eye, but we understood he would, sooner or later, injured himself just to visit his beloved Changi Hospital and his own hospital bed reserved for him. Or better yet, execute a few more stunts that would land him to detention barrack again. Thus not only were we oblivious to his injury, there was no real remorse on my part, for that I allowed him to climb up the table after his constant wanting to taste the dirt on the fan.

FYI, not to forget, I am still counting the days I need to grind the wheel; 107.5 days working days left on the day Z fell. To sound even more heartless, the numbers are more important than…. who is Z?

The whole world dreaming

2009-03-29T10:25:00.000-07:00

I love dreaming- daydream, sleep dream, fantasize, hallucinate, and sometimes even dream about dreaming. Despite countless verbal warnings from my teachers (a.k.a the ‘present’ slaves), I still firmly believe that dreaming are way much more important than their lessons, which are often boring, stifling of creativity, and not as fun as what my imagination concocts. Dreams are like borrowing Hermes’ winged sandals for a moment, granting me the access to an utopia unreachable in conscious state; a paradise constitute of freedom, recognition, achievement, materialism, beauty, love and relationships. Ah, how I wish I could fly off to my destination without ever touching this ground again, this land full of sadness and stressfulness called reality.

But one crucial fact about dreaming- there is nothing tangible about it. We cannot acquire dreams unless we work for it, which for its very own act kills the simplicity, the effortless and the enjoyment – the innate qualities of a dream- and in its place succumbed to ambition instead.

Always analytical and literally hungry, ambitious people cautiously planned the steps towards reaching their goal. Though it can be said that ambition survives in the reality, once they achieve their quest they would impulsively hunt for their next target, as their insatiable hunger for higher standing made them unappreciative of the destination they had reached. Fortunately, there is no roadmap exists for dreamers; only the destination matters, even if it only dwells in our minds.

Before charting dreaming aside as an activity of aloof self-indulgence, think of it this way; it can be a universal tool for world unanimity. People are generally good in nature; only because of external pressures largely derive from social conformity and culture differences, perverts our perception on the world. There wouldn’t be any inner peace without the insurance of external harmony and serenity. Thus our lives, not to mention our forefathers, are embedded into a fight called the survival of the fittest, a war that consumed most of our precious time inhibiting this earth.

Now imagine a world where there are no external hindrance to speak of, and if everyone’s dreams becomes their new reality, I bet that the world would be a much better place. No war, no politics, no history to argue over with, no racism, no disparity of all sorts, and no fear exist among nations, institutions, groups and individuals. The new world would be a big friendly society with every country on a free trade pact.

Wealth, security, status and power is of no use in that space, as individuals, living with no worries on domestic matters, take charge on their life without aberrance to any authority- they themselves are the superpowers. They possess the power equivalent to the Midas hand- and even better. No money is involved as intermediaries; just the breadth of our own imagination is required.

There would be relatively little use of government and rule of law, as people are generally good in nature, except to occasionally nudge her almighty citizens back towards a more equal and healthy society - libertarian paternalism would be the preferred way of governance. Nobody would hold a job for financial purpose, but for contributing back to the society or just does for his or her own enjoyment instead.

Now which idiot would detest for this kind of quality living?

Discovery of an emo

2009-03-21T01:15:00.000-07:00

Call me an incurable emo, and I would gladly accept it with a gentlemanly handshake and genuine smile, without subjecting myself to the bedroom, isolated, banging my forehead on the cabinet in agony and sobbing profusely, murmuring revenge to my listening pal hamtaro, hoping it would somehow comes alive and wallop the person who gave me this nickname. And of course, who can forget the classic penknife, which have been shown various usages under the creative hands of the emo?
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Emo-ing becomes a cool activity here. There are a huge and growing number of sordid people joining this club. Especially in this dire economic situation, when our money pouches are the size of pebbles, staying at home is a wiser economic decision than wasting money investing on trashes. What’s more, even television shows are starting to glamorize this definitely exclusive, single member club. So, ditch your boyfriend/ girlfriend, and start embracing your laptop, TV, your own hamtaro doll and your long lost siblings, who are most probably already a member in their own rooms.
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Thanks to emo-ing, my love for my house has been growing more intense. Never before had I appreciate the urban comfort and the quaintness of living in my 5-room flat. Though it is filled with everyday clutter and certainly not going to win any designer house award, it nonetheless speaks of its unique fusion of old traditional charm and functionality. From the aesthetics of Buddha statues, the collection of calligraphy and paintings, the library of literary books, to the display of highly advertised collectables, furniture and even vivid color contrast from simple household objects arrested my attention. It is more of an art house- a museum that houses traditional substance with modern sensibility. Think Buddha and Andy Warhol arm-wrestling each other, plus the mess they left.

First, my dining and living room.

The collectables. You can tell that we are devoted fans of Mcdonalds. Sad to say that the Hello Kitties are kept in god forsaken places which I dunno where they are hidding.

(We got the complete 101 dalmations, yay)

My dad library room

my Library

Finally, the vibrant, colourful bamboo poles that shout 'shoot me', and I did.

Broken dreams and torn hearts

2009-03-12T06:20:00.000-07:00

‘What do you want to become in the future?’ one cheerful mother asked her kindergarten-aged son. This innocent question, which I, also innocently, overheard, spoilt my appetite on the plate of Chicken Bolognese I ordered. I lost my interest and the stomach to finish it off, just as what this society, this capitalistic and practical society, made us lose the drive and the guts to move towards what we are passionate in. He might just as well replied ‘What’s the point of asking?’
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I have never met a child - my nephews and cousins included- desire to work as an accountant, administrator, or an engineer. Yet these are the jobs most Singaporeans are getting employed into. Ambition changes when reached adulthood? Unlikely. Their dream hits a brick wall on a certain stage and decides to make a U-turn? Maybe. Society, family and financial reasons pressurized us to kill our childhood ambition? Definitely.
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Our dream is often in conflict with money, our envy of millionaires and our parents’ hope of a wealthy son and daughter. Great if your passions are aligned to the conventional path of the rich and success, carefully drawn out for you by your own circle of people and beyond. But mostly this isn’t the case. Artists, ballet dancers, singers and theatre performers are not the career choice that are as well paid and doesn’t hold the same status as directors and entrepreneurs. In Singapore, cultural works are considered leisure activities; real work involves the smell of cash and plastic cards, the swapping of business cards and paper cuts. Paradoxically, the acquisition of cultural knowledge and skills cost a bomb. One master degree in acting from Singapore Tisch School of Arts has a glamorous price tag equivalent to 4 general business degrees combined. Who else, other than elites’ child, can have the resources and the genuine support from their wealthy parents to pursue a career in fine arts, when salary is not that fine?
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We are a rather sad bunch of people with broken dreams and torn hearts, having to cope and follow with the sensibilities of the larger, pragmatic crowds. Once we immerse ourselves into a crowd, there is no inner desire to speak of, but order and a set of rules to follow. Like a well-planned road with steel borders preventing us from derailing off the course, the course of a stable financial life well defined.

The art of cuteness

2009-03-07T19:10:00.000-08:00

This Hamtaro isn’t supposed to exist in my room; it should have gone hiding somewhere around the dark corners in the cave of my secondary one teacher- a tigress that know how to make her students shed tears every single day of her English class. It is a rejected teachers’ day present, which is perhaps good news for this furry pal, since otherwise its own life would be at the mercy of an insatiate shrieking ghoul. Dressed in all black fashion, paired up with distinctive long white socks that reached half of her shin and black heels that made an irritating tick tack sound every time her feet touches earth. A witch, my classmates cried out in unison once she flew out, and certainly out of her earshot, from the class.

But how could anyone, even if this one a bitch, muster up the strength and courage to resist this cute ball of wool from an equally cute 13-year-old student of hers? Is it due to the fact that she rejected others gifts earlier and it might seem bias to accept mine? Or because of my artistic packaging that made her suspicious of what it contains? (It looks like circular shaped dynamite, by the way). If I told her it is a Hamtaro awaiting her, would she accept it because it is a cute cartoon hamster? What if I said it is a real living rat? Would that lead to another conclusion?

Industries understand how to package an image of cuteness onto an object that I couldn’t comprehend and repricate, even if the actual thing by itself isn’t as lovable and adorable as the image they create. I love hamsters, mind you, but I love Hamtaro more. The reason behind is due to the disparities in cuteness factor. Imagine seeing a person, a pet or anything with sparkling shiny eyes; nonchalant good-natured smiles with dimples; in huggable proportion or a size smaller than the beholder; innocent looking yet posses a sense of humor. Hearts would pinch with the sight of such mammal, as mine did when I found this abandoned doll resting inside my cabinet while I was cleaning up my mess. With the play of lights, its eyes sparkle so eminently, so cute that its aura changed from a ragtag, filthy hamster imitator to a living, breathing, world most famous hamster- Hamtaro.

Weekends: the treasured hours

2009-02-28T00:40:00.000-08:00

Its weekend again, Yippee!!! And 48 more hours the Alexius Happy Hours (or simply Ahh, which connotes a more relaxing note to me than the Buddha’s om) would pop faster than a feeble bubble. That’s the sad reality of the urban society- student or working adult, stay at house mom or pap, old folks and their pets- every happy hours have its ending. And then back to the excruciating working days before the happy hours unexpectedly bump on us again.
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I am not as optimistic as other Singaporeans who, in my view, suffered an extreme case of epidemic symptoms called workaholics. I hate Mondays, the day when everyone feels blue but the sky is not. Tuesday is not much better than yesterday, since the happy hours are just a tinge of the past, sugary memory. Wednesday is the definitive day when we decide whether to take a break or not, by harassing the doctor. Thursday is the day when all our resemblance of a dog started to show, after slugging through the dirt and the mud sputtered onto us.
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Friday is a day of calculus, when our eyes are all unconsciously fixated to the wall clock, counting down by minutes and seconds. And once the clock hit 1.30 pm, students would kickoff by performing a round of high school musical 2 the Summer Time, while the teachers ducked if they treasure life. Clock points at 5 pm, every working class people would start throwing f*** you on their superiors, since retribution comes way after their happy hours. Clock hits 6 pm, all the middle aged, male and female otakus would start crawling out from their homes (aka bomb shelter) to do groceries and smell freedom, however foul the smell of airtight traffic can be.
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Clock ticks at 9 pm, the time when the kids, the working adults and the otakus would fetch, or rather, rescue their dogs from the wrinkled hands of the old granny for a walk in the park. Happy hours for a domestic pet begins when it cast the last shit on the floor of their old care lady before embracing its newfound owners. The only group left untouched by the incoming moments of joy is the old folks, whose own true happy hour is, there is not another hour left.
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Until this paragraph, I am deeply sorry to write such a long post, especially to myself since I used up an hour of my Ahh to type this post. But weekends, to me, constitute of friends, books, movies, televisions, shopping and everything leisure to do in my pleasure time. It is a sin and a crime to me to waste such precious moment sleeping. Such activity should be left during the weekdays.

Being a snob

2009-02-21T09:32:00.000-08:00

I am young, so time is still abundant for me to enjoy the fun, yet innocent, snobbish lifestyle rather than start writing my epitome of achievements, which I have yet to penned down. Yes, I am crazy of becoming a snob, a person who, as defined by the dictionary - imitates, cultivates, or slavishly admires social superiors and is condescending or overbearing to others. It is a hell of a job being a snob, that is.

To me, life isn’t all about becoming as rich as Warren Buffet or as iconoclastic as Steve Jobs. To me, and I am sure as to many others, life is about the never-ending quest of obtaining the status of a social, intellectual, famous and wealthy person. Sounds difficult to achieve in a lifetime? How about becoming a snob instead. Akin to voyeurism, snobs love peering through the fences of the rich, the famous, the butterflies and the baldhead. Study their every intricate movement, language and style, and grasped this newfound knowledge to pound on their inferior neighbours next door. Every devoted fan of the desperate housewives knows how this is played out, and maybe even sympathized with me on this society of invisible hierarchy.

The $300 experience

2009-02-20T23:29:00.001-08:00

I know I have to rush this piece, type this post like clockwork. If I don’t I could have easily forgotten about this morning, this expensive and self indulgent morning which resulted in a bean curd- like silky smooth face and a deflated wallet.

3 hours ago I was laying on the message bed, with algae smelling cream spread all over my face, trying to conjure up an excuse for not purchasing the $300, 6 sessions package. To the beautician I may seem poised, relaxed, even enjoying myself under her light touch, while she apply the creams like spreading peanut butter on a piece of self dignified but complicated bread.

My brain is constantly pounding for more brain juice, deciding and calculating whether is it worth the purchase. Just buy it, my automatic, seldom correct intuition tells me. $300 for oil free face is a bargain, and it is already a bargain- the consultant gal told me it would be priced $1300 if I dare walked out from the entrance door without surrendering a dime. The offer is only for me, the lucky winner of the Menshealth December issue sms contest.

Don’t buy in to that, my reflective, slow but at least thinking brain came to the rescue. They are mere salesgirls, and for $300 I can buy 250+ soybean milk, 150 bottles of Evian, and possibly an ipod nano. Moreover, the bunch of creams appied to my face is probably just a gimmick with no proven effectiveness, however nice smelling they might be. (I was blessed by the honey oatmeal cream, which smell and feels like rich nutella chocolate spreading on the innocent piece of bread). The battle between the buy and don’t buy is wage inside my mind, without any obvious dismay displayed on the surface, or rather on my face, much akin to the cold war between the Soviet and the United States.

Ultimately, the free enterprise, money comes, money goes ideology triumphs, just as what history dictates. After 20 minutes of mixed enjoyment and agony, my nets card fell on the outreached hands of the persuasive consultant cum salesgirl. It might seem like she was a very pushy one, but my thoughts played a part in this crusade. Finally both sides reach an agreement; it is an experience. Yes, just an experience.

IPPT dreaming

2009-02-19T05:20:00.000-08:00

Today I have a new personal goal: Getting a gold for my next IPPT. For someone who failed his physical proficiency test in less than 24 hours ago to have such a highly ambitious goal is probably a man without a slap of reality, a boy living in his own corrupted style of fantasy, as for me, both. However, this is the first time I have this wild believe, faith as what the bible might describe it, of actually attaining it. So, despite the smirk drawn on my madam face after I brought up the bad news to her, I still remain pleased. (And the thought on smacking off the smirk on her face with my shining record satisfy me even more.)
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Why am I so certain of achieving the unattainable? I have my reasons. First I failed terribly on my SBJ (for the nincompoops, it is standing board jump,) and chin up (which is still my own personal best score despite the red F word.). I passed remarkably on my 2.4km run and sit ups, so good that my score is rated under the gold standard and wowed by others. I got an average for my shuttle run (which is nevertheless a good thing, because I used to fail this area). So reality does sets in to me this time, and the probability for me acing, in my own judgment, is remarkably high.
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Of course, exercise is a must for me now, waving goodbye to the unhealthy, daydream boy I was since my existence to this world. On top of the regular in-camp training on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, I would commit, or force, myself to the gym every Wednesday evening, rain or shine, no matter. Additionally, I would go swimming with my sisters or my friends when I got invited, no more a Mr. No and start adopting the yes man mentality. Though it sounds more desperate than the housewives, who certainly I am, given the situation; the requirement for a pass ordered from the always-demanding corporation I was unfortunately a part of. What motivate me forward are the carrot or the cane – the $200 or facing the smirking face of a sulking boss. And my faith is on the money side. Amen.

Crying

2009-02-14T02:38:00.000-08:00

Never before since school years have I cry more often these days. No, not because of the work related stress experienced in army, though partly it does contribute to a tear or two. Neither is due to peer pressure: the never-ending argument and feeling of contempt with my colleagues. My eyes easily filled with liquid of sadness whenever I feel sentimental, however slight the stimuli can be. One more pinch on my weak emotional state and tears would overflow from my restraining eyes, always trying to hide the urge of the flood but failed miserably.

This uncontrollable emotion is a personal crisis to my life. It commutes an unspoken yet intense language of sadness and hurt, while emits an impression of weakness and passivity. Though there are some advantages of possessing such a powerful nonverbal communication tool, like receiving a pat on the back or a hug when I really needed, it is mostly detrimental to my reputation and a nuisance to others, particularly people around me. Mind you, they are not bad people who deliberately made me cry, not all of them at least. But their inability to cope with my sudden flood of tears made the whole situation awkward and turned them powerless and remorseful. The aftermath is a two-way path; either they shy away from me, or they made me the bud of the joke, a crybaby or an unstoppable water tap.

I have this problem since I was gasping for air. My sisters, then six and seven at the time, recall twinkles of tears dripped down my rosy cheeks every few minutes, even when there was no intent. To relief me from this curse, I underwent a dangerous eye operation which could leave me blind if there was any mishaps. Fortunately though I recovered from this constant flooding, but it left behind an unresolved question- is there any correlation between the easy flowing tears I experienced now and my birth ‘defects’? If there is none, then I just have to read a book or two on calming down or cheer up. If there is, which is horrifying, I have to revisit my past conditions.
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Of course, my sisters might be feeding me with wrong information; the operation I underwent might not be so serious as permanent lost of sight, and the success rate might be higher than what I heard. Perhaps my out of control emotional act is all about psychology, not neuroscience and not hereditary (I have to ask my dad about that). I believe in fate, and sometimes I ponder to myself why I live so close to the Institute of Mental Health. Maybe it is an encapsulated message for me that it is time to consult a psychiatrist.

Sing to the doom: the unwilling glue Part 2

2009-02-10T07:09:00.000-08:00

Just 3 banging on the head of my morning alarm clock came Wednesday, the d-day. I had hardly practice singing the damn song at all - unless you count the number of times when I discreetly rehearse under the blanket to shelter from my nosey sisters. And these days my blanket smells so unusually alluring, just the scent alone easily put me to my dreamland without my consent.

Once I wake up, I listened to the music once again for the twentieth times, which feel so irritating and emotionless, equivalent to the husband’s depictions of his life after marriage. Feeling not much better, I got out from bed, brush teeth, eat breakfast, and fuss on what to wear. Should I wear a scarf? If the results were poor I could just find an attic beam high enough to hang myself, which is relatively easier and more efficient than digging a hole and jump in. Nah, it is foolish to think of such proposition, singing for 30 plus people don’t quite make up for the lost of a great boy, my logical mind says. And the thin piece of cloth alone wouldn’t support my full body weight either.

So I select, with eyes closed, a piece of white sleeveless jacket cum prisoner stripped t-shirt with a badge on it. It is actually a one piece clothing that ensembles, on my own judgment, the look of a schoolboy, which I very much favored for the sake of appearing young yet fashionable.

I arrived to the mess, or rather, my cemetery. There the festival mode is what I expected it to be - restless and dull as to what army life dictates my 2 years. A quick word about the CCO family; we are brothers and sisters separated by birth. Separated so far apart we don’t share any commonalities. This can be easily shown while we are on board the bus home. We either looked out, give some quick glance or word, and pretty much nothing else. There is no glue sticky enough to make us friends of that caliber I had outside. Most of them are just roaming ghouls in the mess with not much smiles on their faces. Which is unfortunate, for that this supposedly bonding event is a total failure.

I waited, mingled and finally got a chance to rehearse; the first time to actually ruined the entire song to an uninterested audience. To say again, I am tone death. But with the whispers of two guardian angels perfecting my tone while I sang, it sounded to me beautifully. My life is insured.

After the buffet and the lo hei, which is as plain and tasteless as tap water, we dragged our heavy feet back into the mess for the actual event. I am singer number seven, that makes it enough time for me to loosen myself from a pretty much intense morning. Except for the first singer, all of them are so professional; I pretend to clap for them when they hit a difficult high note, but deep inside I was seething with much anguish..

When the sixth singer ended with trembling applause, I take the mic from him, still pretty much at ease due to the success during the rehearsal. The music start, I opened my mouth and, gosh, the first note feels weird. Where are my guardian angels to assist me? Not giving up, I continued singing with a heavy stone saddled in my heart until the whole dreadful journey ended like a shipwreck. I am done for, no chance to redeem myself.

After my (phew) singing ended, I bring up my audacity to ask how is my singing. The feedback? First few sentences are okay, but the chorus part sucks. Reassured, at least I still got a few notes correct. I closed my eyes to foresee what would happen to me, regardless of how my score is. For what I know, the next few days I would be the topic, or better yet, the glue that, unwillingly and accidentally, produce a common topic for them. Which is a good thing, lets see.

Sing to the doom: The search for the hummingbird in me (part 1)

2009-02-05T08:26:00.000-08:00

2009 is the year I dreaded Chinese New Year. Not that I have to constantly put on my fake plastic smile, or enduring the wailing noises produced by some of the nastiest kids that haven’t yet obtain a thinking human brain. The shit is much more stickier than that. Just last week, I heard the devils’ calling; I am going to sing to an audience they called the beloved CCO family. They might as well ask me to cry while chewing poo-poo inside my mouth.

To be honest (when am I not being one?), I love to sing and I yearn to learn the craft. Trouble is I am tone deaf, as what my friends and colleagues diagnosed me. I tried to seek advise from my trusted group of friends on how to deal with the calling and two conclusions came upon me; to sing or not to sing. This reminds me of the phrase from Shakespeare’s Hamlet ‘to be or not to be.’ Thinking four hundred years of advice couldn’t possibly go wrong, I glance out from my window and glaze upon the star, as what the dumb Hamlet did. After moments of wasted time a thought suddenly flashed upon me, what if I am the star? I am just merely glancing at my reflection. I am a freaking star!!! Not to follow Hamlet/ Bush path of inaction during moments of crisis, when great heroes rise out from mountains of corpse, I set my foot to the path I feared the most, the quest to sing like a hummingbird.

And I sing like a crow indeed; I bombarded all of the songs that lie before me; lay waste on every singer that I found in kbox. I might as well sing sayonara instead. Feeling badly beaten up, I went back home, search on youtube for another song that can survive through my verbal torture. Then I found a song strong enough for my malice. A piece sang by Densen Tang. Monotone and simple, yet romantic and cute at the same time, I said to myself that’s the one. It is dead at night, so I got no choice but to mumble to myself the lyrics and tried to sing like a mouse squeak. Hardly a practice, to say the least, but it is better than nothing, for my 48 hours till judgment day is coming so fast you can see a gun shot.

To be continued.....

Random pics and flashbacks from my camera

2009-01-23T05:51:00.000-08:00

All this pics are eating my camera memory for months, and what a waste to delete them all away. So rather than using my camera space i would jux waste the blog space instead : P

This is the pub which me and my friends and my friend's friends visited during a particular weekend. What I remembered was the smell of sweat and vomit and the music so loud I thought i was standing at the airplane landing field at Changi Airport. The Chivas there were a splurge also. It was too overbearing for us that we got to rushed off to another pub in less than 5 minutes of our short stay. Nonetheless, the setting was ubercool, the building reminds me of the arts museum near Cathy and i like museums. We later went to a less glamourous place to drink and I got too drunk to snap any pics. shit.

These were taken when I was jumping up and down like a lunatic while on the way home. The lights were actually illuminated from the HDB flats and the traffic, interwining together to create this effect. It was actually rather depressing to me because i m playing with this newly bought camera and had just set the stabilizer on, sigh.

These impressing effects were rather embarrassing when we were making it. It was during Mid-Autumn festival, and passerbys in the park were possibly thinking to themselves what the heck are we doing, waving those sparklers so vagourously and aimlessly. We had fun though, with mosquitoe bites and limping arms.

What were we writing? Hmm

It was Singapore Electronic sales 2008 (maybe, i forgot what it is), and my interested friends took the disinterested me to this crowded place for no reason whatsoever, spoiling my sunday morning's appointment with my comfy bed and cushy pillow. I am no technology enthusiast, so I escape from the crowd, thought I saw a UFO and snap a few pictures of it.

These were taken on a tampinese highway. We were a bit too full after a heavy dinner. Unable to open our mouths without resisting the urge to regurgitate, we resought to a silent sight seeing instead. This scenes remind me of the evaluation comment i had written to a teacher during secondary school days: the world is at peace if you stop talking. Abis

Tears and a pounding headache

2009-01-15T05:02:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I went home with a blast, today with sorrow, anger and a pounding headache. I even got to hide myself from the crowd while fighting off tears circling inside my eyes. Seeing a NSF soldier tearing himself up would reflects a bad image to the Singapore Army, which is already suffering from compounding smashes of death cases and embarrassing scandals.
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My part, thank goodness, is not so serious that can turn me into a suicidal or a murderer, nor is it so trivial that could reframe me from doing both. It is about the hatred imposed on a woman we loathed, it is about the sordid thirst of seeing her laid dying while her precious possessions: her husband, her son, and her yellow van, taken away from her. Dear beloved madam T**, if stars indeed represent our life, how I, not mine only but everyone’s, wish yours are being sucked up by the black hole and disappeared. Never return to scorch this earth again.
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She is a walking fuck-you, and today she said to me ‘do you know what fuck means?’ at around 5.25pm and drove off with her yellow van to meet her dysfunctional family 5 minutes later without a f***ing word. I can understand her use of expressive, vague language, as she was an ex-gangster. The failure to reform her lack of culture and respectfulness could easily classify her a wannabe into her school’s hall of shame. Had I mention that her brother is a gangster still at large? Come on, didn’t Mindef checked the history of regulars? Death cases might have drop if there is a proper check on regulars’ background.
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One thing I can conform is that I must have stepped onto her furry tail. She wore a smiley mask up until the point when I was preparing to go home for good. She came up to me and query me, with her frowning face (not good) why one of the store is not locked. I answer back, while still curing my headache, that we frequent that store so much so that it is troublesome to locked it. Uh-oh. That’s when all her years of being a cultured human beings, in her own standard, starts pouring in.
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Shocked at her sudden change of personality, I just let the rain pour onto me without an umbrella. After the dark cloud drifted away, she left me with mixed intense emotion impulses: sorrow, angry and a deep desire to break her neck. But no, that would have to dirty my hands and a life record of guilt later on. Her personality would have killed her sooner or later.
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So I went home with a pounding headache and so much tears flowing that I nearly drown myself while boarding the bus.

My boring life

2009-01-09T17:58:00.000-08:00

Yesterday while I was celebrating the end of a tedious morning work, my colleague, a hagrid (obese giant but somewhat friendly to us humans) grunted out a blunt statement 'I am so bored, we are like a work cow and horse, just counting the days for our ord date.'. That is so true, whats the point of doing all this stuff when there is no recognition, promotion or any external and internal motivation but only scoldings, arguments and shoutings?

To be fair, I acknowledge that I am a nincompoop at my job, but there is a staunch feeling of a routine lifestyle grinding over again and again, irresistable for any freewheeling humans to shout STOP. Sometimes I am so bored with my life I just dont feel like living again. Whats the point for a star to radiate itself and sparkle when the gloomy clouds just obscure it to nonexistence?

I am jealous, not sad or dismal as to what my colleagues assumed with my teary eyes while seeing my friend ORD went off two days before. Why not me? I have been counting the days: 169 days of misery left, 169 days of caged life. Maybe I would think differently when the time nears, as to what people suggest, but the time doesnt seem to draw any closer. For all I know, if I am still alive, three quarters of my 2009 is wasted on this routine called my life.

a friend

2009-01-01T03:47:00.000-08:00

I dunno why, but people around me keep asking me stupid questions like;
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do I like Christians? Ans NO
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do I like Muslims? Ans NO
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do I like Indians? Ans NO
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do I like Atheists? Ans NO
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do I like Gays? Ans NO
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do I like Transvestites? Ans NO
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do I like Bis? Ans NO
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do I like Girls? Ans NO
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Then who do I like? Friends. I always hate categorizing people, as if friends can be labelled so distinctively like canned soup in a supermarket, each being sorted to its respective shelves. If canned soup is the metaphor for the nature of a friend, its content must be mixed with chicken/ mushroom/ vegetables/ tomato/ seafood/ clam chowder/ miso/ gumbo stool (yucks though). A friend is not just a representative of his/ her own kind, but also embodies other social aspects like religion, wealth, appearance, family background and sexuality preference that made our relationships so interesting and at the same time so stupid to classify. So for 2009, I hope that we see a friend as a friend, thats that.

Funky christmas trees @ Orchard

2008-11-30T23:47:00.000-08:00

Christmas comes early in Singapore (especially in recession period where retailers, for the first time, have to compete with POSB banks (sigh.)). I snapped a few pics of those special christmas trees while on my way back home.

First stop, Takashimaya.

This giant tree reminds me of the piles of trash Wall E builts up alone on earth, sprayed green. Overexaggerated and unsophisicated; to be honest, it is quite an eyesore to place it at the main hall.

This is a christmas tree which you can hug without fear of getting stinged. It is cute and functional, when functional i mean it can be both a christmas tree and a present for hundreds of children. (though it would be unsightly if left with a skeleton while all the teddy bears are being kidnapped by today rowdy children). Why not replace the one at the great hall with this?

Outside Wisma Atria

I can tell that the designer of this decoration must have taken inspiration from his/ her groaning stomach: 2 huge ice cream/ christmas trees stood erect by the sides of a sponge cake full of ugly people. Ironically, it was just another kind of fake food items on the market (mini toons got a lot of such fake stuff).

Outside Paragon

This is a clever use of crippled mannequins - possibly donated from the courtesy of various fashion boutiques in Paragon, sprayed gold, dressed up, and surrounds the otherwise plain tree. Though they cant talk (which is a pity), I understand how they would feel: the spiky figs is hurting my butt, get me down!!!

Inside Paragon

These minime trees remind me of the one seen in taka (Yucks!!!)

Outside Heeren

This is one christmas tree i would avoid, not that I might break the glasses, knowing how clumsy I am, but it is a perfect holiday resort for mosquitoes breeding. Cocacola really knows how to sell itself, it STINGS!!!

The Singapore School Massacre

2008-11-22T09:44:00.000-08:00

There is a wave of strange revolution and unease among MDIS students. Fashion victim lecturers turned fashion police roamed around the campus corridors give questionable critiques and sometimes dish out verbal assaults towards students’ style. (Think Anna Wintour with the fashion sense of a nincompoop). Bouncers, the first among Singapore education institutions to hire one out from the nightclubs, are spotted throwing students out from the front gate if they didn’t adhere to the rules and standards of the school dress code. It would be quite an eye opener to see big scary looking guys, equipped with rulers and measuring tapes, measuring every student’s clothes that the school wants its customers to abide to. It is sad to know that in this heavily regulated nation, MDIS still insists to limit more personal freedom. More market research and MDIS should be able to find its best location for a new branch; North Korea.
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It is not that the students wore unfashionably; in fact it is the teachers there are an eyesore and a big turn off. There is nothing wrong with a simple flipflop, tight shorts and singlets that matched its overall outfit. To be honest, I smelled a conspiracy, whereby the lecturers there, understanding that they are losing their sexiness all thanks to their mid life crisis, are falling behind the young handsome and beau students. So this dress code restriction, most properly endorsed and supported by half-life lecturers, should be viewed as an acknowledgement from the old folks that the students there are, seem to them, as walking fuck-yous.
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Now, it is right for the students to retaliate. But as for me; not a student, don’t care just watch what would happen next.

My goal to living healthily

2008-11-15T17:35:00.000-08:00

Growing up with pizzas, burgers and fries made me realised how 'dirty' I was, not in psychological terms, but simply being health conscious. While partly temptation is to be blamed, it is my parents, siblings and friends who either dragged me to the nearest fast food outlets or ordered me to dial for pizza deliveries. I can control my cravings if I wanted to, in fact I have been eating salads for lunch and smoked salmon or sushis for dinner when I have the luxury of being left alone. However, not to get excluded from my social circles, I would follow them to any fast food outlets and eat whatever the outlets have to offer, though I would later try to compensate with healthier choices or even skip the next meal.

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What causes me to become such a healthy freak is due to my sudden interest in the benefits of being one. The benefits are plenty, but my 3 reasons of making this shift are that 1) it will make me look younger (though regrettably not old enough yet to catch a few movies) 2) decrease the chances of any health complications later in life that would blow out a hole in my pocket and 3) laugh at others who have lost their looks and plague with illness because of their unhealthy lifestyle.

So, in my quest to live healthily, I chanced upon Andrew Weil in the internet, the expert of integrative medicines. Not the kind of voodoo cleric or crazy chemist, he advocates that a healthy life can be achieved through nutrition, excercise and stress reduction. Food sources can either positively or negatively affects and enhance the person's health. The pic below is the pyramid of anti-inflammatory diet which I would try to follow up with.

1st post: the story of Furball and me

2008-11-11T06:33:00.000-08:00

It is always hard to decide on what to write on the very first post. So instead of using words to describe my complicated, nose bogging feelings right now (which would put you to zzz mode), i decided to use this cute furry creature that i found to tell my story (or my first post, or whatever...).

This is, apprently, a wild cat which I named Furball. Furball is taking an afternoon nap when I first chanced upon him while on my way to hougang mall. His audacity to lie on someone's car shocked me. What a brave cat! I thought to myself. Then i realised that pets didnt understand the individual properties rights and, being a good citizen (did i also mention my furry-pet-lover sister is with me ?), i woke Furball up before the car's owner came chasing him.

He woke up, albeit grudgingly and timidly, jumped down and greeted us with a soft meow. Though I didnt know his language, one look at his expression and I knew that he was dead hungry (If you didnt believe refer to the first pic). Being in a hurry, I have no choice but to left him purring for us while we left, which i later regretted....though later when we returned we did treated him, well, satisfied!!!

Over a short period with him, I felt I can relate to Furball's personality. We shared a lot of similarities; we give the impression of adventurious, simple minded and crazy to some people but inside we carried a deep sense of fear, insecurity and a little bit of loneliness (emo is a good word). We often 'have to' play with fire even though we didnt recognised the iginiter that started the sparks in the first place. To hide just one lie I have to tell a hundred different lies, making life so complex, so unbearable for me to endure. Not to make my first post a bloody sad one (i still wants to blog), Furball is still hanging around the blocks, waiting for his next 'friends' to come and acknowledge him for his existence.