Mr. Strange

I'm sure most of you have your own stories of strange people living around you. The ones that behave irrationally, sound weird or just look a little off.

Today I met another one of Those People. Chinese male. Looks to be in his late forties or early fifties. Might have been a tad younger, though, just looks aged due to excessive drinking which is almost always a given. Short black hair, as usual. On a rickety bicycle. You don't call many bicycles "rickety", do you? This one was. It creaked even when it wasn't moving.

As he rolled along on his bike which had the largest wheels I have seen for some time, I noticed, to my horror, that he was also clad in a tight-fitting long-sleeved shirt. Buttoned up, including the collar and cuffs, despite not having a tie. Then I saw that said shirt was white. With blue-green polka-dots. Big ones. And he completed his outfit with a dirty pair of shorts that looked like he soils himself as a morning ritual and broken slippers. A look made all the more delightful by a tattoo of a huge grasshopper-like thing on his left thigh. Dragons and tigers and eagles and women I understand. But a bug? Not even a spider or scorpion?

As I recovered from being transfixed by the myriad of hues on his person, he started cursing and swearing in several Chinese dialects. Now, I don't speak very fluent Madarin or Hokkein, but I could tell that he was telling some imaginary spectre a few feet above his head to be a dirty mofo, to put it more eloquently.

I could only watch in amazement as he continued on his rickety bicycle and stopped again soon, only to repeat or resume his fit of swearing. A few days ago, I saw a special on Tourette's Syndrome, and if this guy is indeed sufferer, he has my sympathy. But even those victims had better colour co-ordination.

Just as I thought it couldn't get any worse, he stopped. The silence that ensued was eerie, broken only by the unexplained creak creak of the bicycle as he sat there, unmoving. Then he reached into hi back pocket, which was bulging. At first, given the state of the shorts he was weaing, I thought the worst, but he took out a phone.

Not a cell-phone. A phone. You know, one of those cordless ones you have in your living room? Yes, a cordless phone. And he proceeded to talk into it. Cursing and swearing, of course.

He rode off after a few moments, perhaps the reception was poor or he needed to relieve himself somewhere more fitting. But I was left scratching my head and wondering. WOndering to myself, asking myself one question.

"How in the hell do people like that go around in public?"

Of course, like I said before, there are so many like him, in one way or another. Everyone's a little bit crazy, some say. Remember, I'm the one that professed to having the urge to kick babies. Still, I'd wear something less garish if I do go over the edge, I'm sure.

Cameras and the X-Chromosome

Just about everytime I'm out with the girlfriend, she needs to take pictures. I don't quite understand it. And I'm not alone.

The last time I went to the beach, the girls present were more concerned with who brought the camera than the lack of sunblock (much to the chagrin of my skin). Chances are, most gatherings or outings involving members of both genders fall along the same path sooner rather than later.

Nice restaurant. Ooo take a picture!

Fancy car. Picture picture!

Random friend showing up. Eh, take a picture!

New dress. Oh my god, picture!

And so on and so forth. Usually accompanied by uncontrollable giggling and fidgeting with the females in question doing their best to put up their best demure smile while talking at the same time. The guys, of course, are standing aside and looking at each other going "Eh?"

'Cept the one guy who has to play cameraman for a time.

Following which the girls in frame would grab the still-clicking camera from the stunned male and relegate him to insignificant fodder while they pore over the digital image, debating with each other on the apparent girth that the appliance has added to their waists and appendages.

The girls of course must take photos of everyone present. A group shot, couple shot, random trio shot, and more. It's as if they're going to war armed with a broomstick and a horn and the girls might just never see them again. I'd hate to break it to you, girls, but you can actually see pictures of people you know within 5 minutes of wanting to nowadays...

Ever see guys act the same way? Stumbling over each other to grab a camera?

No, not really. I've known one or two who like taking discreet shots of unsuspecting girls, especially the barely-clothed ones, but not much else. What drives girls to such ecstatic throes of picture-taking?

The first impulse, of course, would be vanity. Most would agree, I think. Girls like looking at themselves. Heck, guys like looking at girls too.

"Did you see the new photo uploaded yesterday?"

"Yes! Oh my God! Those jeans are so..."

"Exactly!"

No, you don't hear males talking like that.

Is there another reason? Insecurity on the part of the girls (or nonchalance/indifference from the guys)? Surely there is a reason for the usually reasonable females to pursue the taking of new pictures with such a passion that is almost holy.

Well, I guess it's just another part of the female psyche that us guys will never understand. Until then, I'll be making sure my Nokia still has some free memory for the inevitable new shot that's coming soon.

Day in the Life

Ring, ring

Well, not the classic ringing of a telephone that really qualifies as ringing, it was more of a slightly annoying jingling. Stretching wearily, he twisted round and found that the telephone was out of reach. What use is a cordless phone when it's perpetually, well, far?

"Hello?"

(Middle-aged Chinese woman voice, the kind that tries to sound "educated") "Yes hellooooo."

"Err, yes?"

"Yes, hellloooo, someone called me?"

"No, not really."

"Yes, someone called me."

"I can assure you, you are mistaken."

"Noooooo, someone called my handphone, I have the number now 62429342."

"Well, this isn't that number, it's 624-"

And the bitch hung up. He stared down at the plastic appliance in his palm, wondering how people get like that. If her number wasn't hidden, he'd call her back, tell her what he was actually thinking while negotiating with someone who was, in all likelyhood, a delusional fake-accented spinster. The kind whose fingers seem to have been dipped in jade.

"Hellooooo, is this the woman who called me earlier?"

"Yes?"

"Fuck off."

That's what he felt like doing, but nein. So he continued flipping through the channels, trying to figure out if the sexual impotency of snails was more interesting than reruns of Falcon Beach or Sienfeld, which he's always hated anyway. He settled on the snails, out of morbid curiosity more than anything else. Really. Apparently prozac leads to hermaphrodite snails switching to their less feminine side, but the enlargement of their genitalia leads to the snail equivalent of a vasectomy.

Later in the day, he was dealing with a kind who he's been paid to tutor. The kid's nice enough, and going to his home brings back fond memories of times where school bags were laquered to the ground and brooms were used as makeshift javelins during class.

Only problem he faced was a rather delicate one; how do you tutor a ten-year-old when he struggles to comprehend the meaning of fence. And not even the sport. He takes a week to understand the fundamental difference between freezing and evaporation, even after sticking his head in the fridge to show him that yes, ice is cold.

Getting paid is always a nice feeling, though, and he leaves the place with a sense of acheivement and money in his wallet. The kind that folds, not clinks. He boards the bus, noting the crowd, as usual, includes a bunch of belligerent teenagers dealing with puberty the only way they know how; talking loudly about sexual acts that they can hardly spell, yet alone fathom. The bus would not be complete, of course, without a few elderly folk. Elderly folk who believe that their groceries are more deserving of a seat than a pregnant lady. In their defense, she's just gone out shopping anyway, so screw chivalry, he thinks.

Smelly guy takes the seat next to his. He just has to. The combination of body odour and alcohol gives rise to a particularly pungent trip home, and as usual Smelly Guy is also yapping away on his stone-age Motorola, which looks like it could anchor a battleship.

Getting home, he's in a rush. Has to dress up for a party of sorts. It's a "surprise" birthday party, in that, well, I'm not sure. It turned out well enough. Italian food and candles, wine and Aldo bags being exchanged in between over-excited tittering and the ripping of wrapping paper (newspaper).

Off to The Balcony, it's his first time there. He spots the jacuzzi, and the girls settle down to plan future bashes while the guys sit back to talk about weird naked people in the army. He passes when offered a drink, alcohol has never been his thing, consumed or inhaled.

Finally, back home. For good. Well, he isn't alone, so he's got to walk her home later. Didn't even need one of those cheesy pick-up lines. Something like "Baby, you're like a dictionary, you add meaning to my life." But of course, he's never needed one. No, he isn't some dashingly handsome heart-throb, but he's been with the girl for close to six years now, and not a day goes by where his heart doesn't pound against his chest, thinking of what in the hell to get her as an anniversary present.

He walks her home after some quiet time, especially quiet. Then walks home alone in the empty streets of his neighbourhood. No-one's awake at 2AM there anyway when there isn't a big 7-1 drubbing to catch of ESPN. So he walks home alone, the stray cats keeping him company with their strangled mewling as he realises the next day's already begun.

Where There's Smoke...

I know many people who indulge themselves in a ciggy from time to time. Members of my immediate and extended family, close friends and schoolmates. Some people just have that "smoker" look or vibe, you know? Others, when you see them light up, you go "Oh really?"

The image on the right here isn't exactly a glamourous shot of someone, and I apologise if I've spoilt your appetite or mood, but if you live in Singapore (and the majority of readers at this point of time do), you've seen it before anyway.

For the rest, let me fill you in. The Singapore government runs, from time to time, various "anti-smoking" campaigns. Of course, they also encourage youngsters to marry and copulate safely to enhance our declining birth rates, not to say lah and that chewing gum is evil, but I digress.

This isn't the first time that "shock treatment" has been used by the Ministry of Health to "coax" our citizens to give up the habit. In 1999, similar tactics were employed, with a number of television segments showing scence from what appears to be an autopsy, whereby the surgeon/patholigst removes a random organ from a (presumably-dead) body, and shows us why it's, well, screwed. Brain, lung, artery. Clot, tar, blockage.

Personally, I don't have anything against the whole thing. True, it might be an eyesore, and some parents have actually voiced their concerns that such scenes may be traumatising to younger minds, but I actually think that it works, to an extent.

I don't smoke, myself. Never have, never will. There are cooler ways to die, as some might say. A recent episode of My Name is Earl eventually touched on the fact that smoking lietrally takes minutes to years of your life, a fact that nearly everyone knows already.

A few people have asked me why I don't smoke. I mean, I have a readily available stash of Marlboro Reds just metres from my room, and it's not like either of my parents would object, seeing as how I go and buy cigs for them anyway. Same goes for drinking. Nearly everyone I know who drinks has asked me why I don't. Religion aside, I lump the argument under the same one I've used for that of smoking. I don't quite see the point. And besides, I hate the smell of alcohol. There we go again, digressing.

So where am I? Oh yes. I don't smoke, don't drink. Don't take drugs either, if you're wondering. Just caffeine I guess. Like I said, I don't quite see the point. I get that some get a "high" from vodka martinis and others use nicotine as a way to relieve tension, but doesn't the addiction have a strain on your wallets? I'm no expert on the finances of vices, but even the cheapest smokes cost something. And you run out of them pretty soon when your posse moves in a hazy nimbus too. Don't get me started on pricey drinks at bars, clubs or pubs. A damn Coke costs about as much as a cab home, so I'll just sit and inhale your fumes, thank you very much.

Still, I guess it's a business, and a lucrative one. Jessica Alba promoted Tiger Beer, and she always gets a thumbs-up from Naz. Calsberg usually has not-too-stupid TV ads, so no real complaints there. Malboro has their name emblazoned in bar-code on the Ferrari F1 racing team cars.

What does all of this lead to? Just a question from me really. Even though I do kinda expect the same old answers anyway.

To the smokers (and drinkers) out there, I ask you Why?

Most everyone knows it's bad for you. Cancer, tumors, liver and kidney failure. Bad breath and puking. Still, it goes on. No offence, but it's called intoxicated for a reason. A wise man once told me "You don't smoke a cigarette, it smokes you. You're just the sucker on the end of it."

Then he went to light his third in 5 minutes while taking a swig of Tiger.

Emo Heroes

Singaporean Jessica Lim wrote to our local papers yesterday, talking about how "Emo Heroes" are being popularised in this day and age. In it, she suggested that our acceptance of such "antiheroes" is a mirror to our society today. I'm sure you all have had your own experiences with "emo" kids, either first-hand or otherwise. Here's my take on it.

After reading Jessica Lim's take on the character Michael Scofield from the hit TV show Prison Break, I do have a few rebuttals of my own.

Firstly, him "giving up his future" to save his brother would, of course, be unthinkable to all but the most romanticised of individuals; and indeed the character's behaviour was questioned time and time again during the course of the first season of the show. "Pope", the prison warden, confronted him with the fact, and it was also mentioned how the Scofield character actually suffers from a sort of clinical psychological disorder which implores him to help others (hence his marrying the "hooker" to let her stay in the country, albeit it was part og his "master plan").

Jessica's next point, on the relative short-sightedness of his tattooing the prison blueprints on his back instead of his thighs, also made me raise an eyebrow or two. The high-security prison that he was sent to (and that he helped design) was always portrayed as a state-of-the-art facility, as efficient as it is sprawlingly huge. The human back is perhaps the largest expanse of skin available to a person, and since the whole facility is so big (and remember, he bothered to include detailed blueprints, with power cables, pipes, etc), it would not be exactly feasible to have it printed on his thighs.

Another point to consider about Jessica's suggestion of having the blueprints tattooed on his thighs would be the simple fact that he would have to remove his pants to take a look at them. Now, I'm no expert on the socio-relations and culture within prisons, but I would imagine that while walking around shirtless is accepted, or even common, sitting and staring at your lap when you don't have your pants on would attracts some unwanted attention.

Anti-heroes have always existed. Batman, the "Dark Knight", has never been protrayed as the typical hero. Some even call him the flipside of Superman. Marvel's Wolverine, of X-Men fame, has also been the posterboy for the company for many, many years. While the X-Men movies may not be totally accurate when compared to the original comics, the "anti-hero" portrayal of Wolverine is still there to be seen. Others which fit into this mould would include Blade, Punisher and Todd McFarlane's Spawn.

So while it is indeed a little evident that the "emo" lifestyle seems to be growing more popular (something which is a sort of paradox in itself), "emo heroes" as Jessica Lim branded them, have existed for a while. At the very least, Michael Scofield has kindred spirits in Heros' Isaac Mendez (drug addict), Lost's Sawyer (swindler), Vic Mackey (vigilante cop) from The Shield and even Horatio Crane from CSI:Miami.

Do this "emo heroes" actually influence and promote the "emo" culture today? Television, and other forms of mass media, have always been attributed to the development of culture within a society. In this day and age, where near everyone has the ability to watch anything they want to, be it Barney the Dinosaur or Will and Grace, the argument seems more valid than it might have been in the past. Satellite and cable television, the Internet, simple imports of DVD's and VCD's (pirated or not) allow anyone the freedom to view whatever they please.

The audience however, is not exactly "passive". I seriously doubt anyone in their right mind (remember, Scofield hasa psychological disorder) would commit a poorly conceived crime just to get into prison to break out his wrongfully convicted brother. The same goes for those who argue that "violent" television shows (and video games) promote similarly violent behaviour in teens. The "Dodo bird experiment" (where a group of toddlers are allowed to watch cartoons for a time before being left with a stuffed toy) would suggest that younger children are more impressionable, but that is only natural. They don't know any better; they believe in Santa and the Tooth Fairy. They think Barney is an actual dinosaur and that sponges with pants live underwater.

Lastly, Jessica Lim posed the question, "Can't a hero be cute, brainy, kind - and smart?". I believe it's rather redundant, seeing as how the one she antagonised the most fits the bill perfectly. For three of the four categories anyway, my female friends tell me he's cute, I don't quite know. Of course, the definition of "smart" differs, but you get my point.

Wow!

I dyed my hair today. Yeah. Someone convinced me to do it, after I cut it in a way I've never worn it before. So yes, highlights. Wonder how everyone will react. I've never dyed my hair before, though some of my friends have peered at my pseudo-goatee and asked if I have. For some strange reason, some of my facial hair sprouts in colours other than black, lending me the visage of one of those people who look like they drool bleach.

It was a big decision, of course, but you might blame it on the adrenaline I was high on after I found a dropped wallet with 200 bucks in it and no identificaton. Everyone was just walking over it, so I picked it up. Smooth leather, crocodile, I think. Lying there, calling to me with the allure of sweet mysterious money. The wallet itself wasn't particularly impressive, save that it was made of leather. Didn't smell. I pondered going to the "Lost and Found" department, or the police. And say what?

"Hello, I found a wallet with two hundred bucks and no name..."

"Err... right. Give it here. We'll... take care of it."

"OK!"

No, not really. I'll keep this money, thank you very much. I'm broke anyway.

It was a wonder I saw it to begin with, to be honest. I was without my glasses today, trying out these coloured contacts. Now, alot of you may or may not know, but I'm very very squeamish about my eyes. About eyes in general. When I see someone else inserting their contacts, I feel like there's a bug under my eyelid. So it was not without great hesitation that I undertook such a leap. Not like the red lenses that an old friend of mine wanted, of course. I'm neither a Dracula nor Silas from The Da Vinci Code, and I didn't think red would bring out my, err, eyes. So subtle shade of grey-brown.

On the way home from my haircut, fiddling with my new-found fortune and making sure my retinas don't fall out, I saw him. My cat. My Zig! He ran away a while back, and I've always seen him lurking about, dashing away from me at times. It's always made me more than a little confused. For what could lead a cat, who enjoys the life of a king, to run away from the one that pampers him to no end? But this time, this time it was different. He saw me, as I saw him. He walked up to me slowly, sniffing my fingers and followed me home!

It's also time for Wrestlemania 23. A while back, I wrote a little something about my obsession for pro-wrestling. I don't need to repeat myself, do I? I like watching it, give me a break. But it's Wrestlemania. The yearly event, the big one. This year's one might not be as spectacular. And I get to watch it live! Sometimes its great to have American contacts who get illegal cable and stream video over the Web. I'm so happy.

So yeah, cat, hair, contacts, wrestling and new cash. Not much more one could ask for, eh?

But lo and behold! What do I see today in the daily tabloids? Why, if it isn't a nicely written article about the idiocy of the selection process within the English football team! The very one I wrote not that long back! And an E-Mail from that paper, informing me about openings at their sports desk! Now, I like writing, if you haven't already guessed. I particularly like writing about sports and football when I'm in the mood, and I really abhore certain "journalists" that are employed in Singapore this day. They couldn't tell Maradona from Madonna sometimes.

Today's turning out to be one of the best days of my life.

Too bad it's April Fool's.

Hard To Say Goodbye

You know that really drawn out balland by Andrea Bocelli, usually performed as a duet with someone else? Yeah, this isn't about that.

We all say goodbye sometime or other. Sometimes the "goodbye" is more of a "see you later" and a "nice knowing you". Sometimes its sudden, sometimes its been put off for too long. Sometimes you do so with more than a tinge of sadness, and other times it's with relief and the underlying sentiment of "good riddance".

I'll be saying adios to my Playstation 2 in the near future, if I can find a suitable buyer. It's in good working condition, with two working PS2 controllers and a memory card. But damn, we've been through alot. This set was the one that showed me the glory that was Winning Eleven, and gave me the best video-game wrestling match (Benoit vs Angle, ultimate submission) that I've ever had. This was the set that saw me and a good buddy of mine fight back from 4-0 down to win a match 7-4, leading to half of the losing team, well, losing it and jumping up and down on my bed screaming "What the f*%#!!!". This was the console that gave me and my brother so many NOS-powered great races through the midnight streets of a virtual city. That saw so many epic battles of a boy against a giant, of mutants and superheroes, Jedi, jet-skis, motorbikes, crazy murderers, ice hockey and dragons.

It's a far cry from the humble beginnings of the old Sega Megadrive that I had when I was little. Back then, we marvelled at 2-D Sonic the Hedgehog and Street Fighter. We gasped and sputtered when Sub-Zero super-uppercutted Sonya into the ceiling in Mortal Kombat. We cheered and danced in the livingroom when we brought Italy a last-gasp winner in the final of the FIFA International tournament. Pit Fighter and Streets of Rage seemed to be the pinnacle of action videogames.

Still, I guess someone else might be happier with good ol' PS2. It's sitting on my room floor, a little dusty but still working great, for when me and my brother popped in Marvel: Ultimate Alliance for a bit of fun, we still got our asses handed to us by gigantic flying fireballs. It was the first time we ever failed a mission in the series. We took it as a sign. Laying down the controllers gingerly and watching Captain America and Spiderman flail about after Blade and Thor had already fallen, we turned to each other before coming to the same conclusion: End of an era.

A few of my friends begged me not to sell it. They so love to come over for a game or two when citcumstances permit. But I'll have to disappoint them, the PS2 would be leaving the building, if al goes well. I need the cash anyway.

So, any buyers?

Sony Playstation 2, Modified *hint hint*
2 working PS 2 Controllers, Memory Card
Wide selection of games which include:
Every WWE Smackdown! Except Just Bring It
Prince of Persia: The Two Thrones
Fahrenheit
Winning Eleven 10
Pro Evolution 5
Marvel: Ultimate Alliance
X-Men: Legends
X-Men: Legends 2
Gran Tourismo 3
Need For Speed: Underground
FIFA Street 2
Shadow of the Colossus
Gameshark 2v3

And others!