The number of the day.
It's said that almost everyone is connected to almost everyone else by "six degrees of separation"; the meaning being that if someone you know personally is one "step" away from you, and everyone that person knows is then two "steps", practically the whole world is connected by no more than six steps, in almost every case.
Six flags is one of, if not the, world's largest chain of amusement/theme parks. I've been to Magic Mountain when I was a kid. I remember taking the Ninja and not realising there was a loop. Yeah, it was over pretty quick. Quicker than a particular meeting between two people I know, something I overheard as I was praying that someone wouldn't puke.
This year's Rocky Balboa was the sixth installment of the popular Rocky series, arguably the platform which launched Sylvester Stallone's career. Let's face it, Demolition Man wasn't anything special.
Italian soccer club AC Milan (woo!) retired the number 6 from their playing squad a number of years ago in recognition of the years of service that legendary defender Franco Baresi gave the club, and the number is still unused to this day.
In Singapore, children are required to attend primary school. In most cases, this lasts six years and usually shapes the future of the child. I've seen my share of young geniuses and juvenile delinquents to safely say that such a statement isn't overly exaggerated.
Hannibal Lecter, named the most memorable villian in film history some time ago, suffered from a condition called polydactyly; his left hand had six fingers. The character, of course, was made famous by Anthony Hopkins in such movies as Silence of the Lambs. I highly recommend reading the book.
In cricket, "six" may refer to a kind of shot that's kinda like a home run in baseball. That's all I know about it. The most I've ever read about cricket was a section in The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy where Arthur is learning about the SEP field.
In mathematics, the number 6 is called a "perfect number". This is due to the sum of its proper divisions (1,2,3) equate to the number itself. The next one is 28, in case you're wondering.
In Chemistry, the element Carbon has an ato,mic mass of six. Carbon of course, is one of the most common elements in the galaxy. Living things all contain carbon.
Not to brag, but the 6 series is still parked in my house. I want to drive it very badly.
In any case, I'm glad to know that I don't need six degrees of separation to reach the girl I love.
And I don't need a roller-coaster to feel thrilled and excited. Just the right company.
Sometimes a relationship is like a tough boxer. Gets what looks like too many body-blows, but you can never count it out, it always comes back stronger.
Milan is called the fashion capital of the world. I have my own fashionista, my own diva.
There's almost nothing quite as warm as watching the one you love fall asleep in your arms. On your way to school.
Of course, some people (one girl in particular) doesn't need extra fingers to go around pinching and squeezing bits that weren't designed to be pinched and squeezed.
I prefer hockey over cricket anyway.
And I know another perfect figure that's living nearby.
Plus we do have our own chemistry.
And she's finally stopped nagging about wanting to be driven around.
Happy Birthday, baby.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Sunday, April 22, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
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.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
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.
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!
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!
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Sleepless in Kembangan
It's 8:45 AM now as I'm sitting here in front of my Vaio. Just got out of the shower, heavy-lidded and slightly damp. I've been away for about five hours now.
I didn't wake up before four in the morning to study, or to catch something on TV. I just woke up. After sleeping for all of two hours after failing to get to sleep the night before.
While I'm writing this, I'm trying to sign in on MSN, maybe some other poor soul is around, equally bored. Heck, I might even agree to a game of Minesweeper Flags! But no, error after error means that I won't be appearing Busy on MSN today, in the hope that it might deter some pesky individuals who chitter on and on about how long they haven't seen me.
Ah, backache. Nothing quite like the exquisite soreness that mysteriously materialises one fine day. It's like a long-lost and unwanted relative, come visiting from somewhere far and away. You don't really know how it got there, and as long as it's there, you suffer. And you don't quite know how to get rid of it either.
When I opened my eyes at 3:45 this morning, I thought it was maybe about seven in the morning. The dull hazy light seeping through my curtains attested to that. Of course, I didn't realise, in the groggy state that I was, that that light was probably the excessive lamps lining the apartment blocks nearby that are lit during the less naturally-bright hours.
So I switched my TV on. Flatscreen, you see. And was treated to some random documentary about Elephants, I think it was. Maybe asteroids. Anyway, flipping through the channels, I managed to catch a glimpse of Vince McMahon being pushed over by Donald Trump, and lacking any suitable sports programming at the time, I turned to HBO. Because Star Movies was broadcasting Creep and there is only so many times you can watch a deformed psychopathic killer with cores and boils plunge a large serrated cutting utensil into a helpless woman's privates. But back to HBO.
The Legend of Zorro. Aha! That should be entertaining, right? I mean, it's Antonio Banderas and Catherine Zeta Jones. Can't go wrong with the man that starred in Desperado and Original Sin. Then I realised that those two movies were fun for the guns and Angelina Jolie, respectively. And that Entrapment was really sucky.
Only then I fumbled for my Nokia and saw, to my amazement, it wasn't actually seven, but four. It brings back memories of a young Naz, waking up by himself and thinking he'll be late for school. Rushing to shower, pack his things and head for school. Only his father, his ride, was still snoring happily away. So young Naz nudges him awake.
"Baba, wake up. I need to go to school..."
"Huh? What? School? *&^% It's only 3 O'clock!"
Yeah. Not so fun. So I sat in bed for about two-and-a-half hours waiting for the minutes to pass, since I didn't want to wrinkle my uniform. And back then all I had to entertain me was a Sega Megadrive. And you can only play FIFA International so many times before it gets dreary, even for a kid.
Well, it's light now. Maybe I'll go grab breakfast. But if memory serves me correctly, there isn't much save for some bread and cheese. A simple breakfast then. No croissants and juice today. I just need to remember not to step on the dead lizard plastered on the floor of facing my brother's room. It's already been a long day.
I didn't wake up before four in the morning to study, or to catch something on TV. I just woke up. After sleeping for all of two hours after failing to get to sleep the night before.
While I'm writing this, I'm trying to sign in on MSN, maybe some other poor soul is around, equally bored. Heck, I might even agree to a game of Minesweeper Flags! But no, error after error means that I won't be appearing Busy on MSN today, in the hope that it might deter some pesky individuals who chitter on and on about how long they haven't seen me.
Ah, backache. Nothing quite like the exquisite soreness that mysteriously materialises one fine day. It's like a long-lost and unwanted relative, come visiting from somewhere far and away. You don't really know how it got there, and as long as it's there, you suffer. And you don't quite know how to get rid of it either.
When I opened my eyes at 3:45 this morning, I thought it was maybe about seven in the morning. The dull hazy light seeping through my curtains attested to that. Of course, I didn't realise, in the groggy state that I was, that that light was probably the excessive lamps lining the apartment blocks nearby that are lit during the less naturally-bright hours.
So I switched my TV on. Flatscreen, you see. And was treated to some random documentary about Elephants, I think it was. Maybe asteroids. Anyway, flipping through the channels, I managed to catch a glimpse of Vince McMahon being pushed over by Donald Trump, and lacking any suitable sports programming at the time, I turned to HBO. Because Star Movies was broadcasting Creep and there is only so many times you can watch a deformed psychopathic killer with cores and boils plunge a large serrated cutting utensil into a helpless woman's privates. But back to HBO.
The Legend of Zorro. Aha! That should be entertaining, right? I mean, it's Antonio Banderas and Catherine Zeta Jones. Can't go wrong with the man that starred in Desperado and Original Sin. Then I realised that those two movies were fun for the guns and Angelina Jolie, respectively. And that Entrapment was really sucky.
Only then I fumbled for my Nokia and saw, to my amazement, it wasn't actually seven, but four. It brings back memories of a young Naz, waking up by himself and thinking he'll be late for school. Rushing to shower, pack his things and head for school. Only his father, his ride, was still snoring happily away. So young Naz nudges him awake.
"Baba, wake up. I need to go to school..."
"Huh? What? School? *&^% It's only 3 O'clock!"
Yeah. Not so fun. So I sat in bed for about two-and-a-half hours waiting for the minutes to pass, since I didn't want to wrinkle my uniform. And back then all I had to entertain me was a Sega Megadrive. And you can only play FIFA International so many times before it gets dreary, even for a kid.
Well, it's light now. Maybe I'll go grab breakfast. But if memory serves me correctly, there isn't much save for some bread and cheese. A simple breakfast then. No croissants and juice today. I just need to remember not to step on the dead lizard plastered on the floor of facing my brother's room. It's already been a long day.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
What Are You Smoking, Paula?
American Idol airs at least twice a week in many English-speaking countires. In Singapore, there are as many as four telecasts on the same day across the various channels if you're lucky. Now, I confess to being sort of a fan of the series, in not the most dedicated one.
I watch American Idol mostly for the auditions and the rejects and wannabe "singers" who apparently have friends with no ears. It's almost the same reason I enjoy watching Formula 1 racing, why I pay the most attention to the first lap or so, when the crashes come thick and fast. A car wreck, that's the best way to describe some "contestants" on American Idol at times. Screeching, mangled, twisted and very, very painful.
Some would argue that this season's line-up isn't quite a "talented" as those of previous seasons. Others would beg to differ, pointing at the excellent Jordin Sparks or Lakisha. I'll get to them in due time. But first, to the misses.
One of the last people cut from the show upon receiving the Golden Ticket to Hollywood was someone by the name of... Sundance Head. Now, you'd need to be a star to pull off having a name like that anywhere in the English-speaking world. Can you imagine his childhood? On the playground?
"Sundance Sundance Sundaaaaaaaaaance!!!!"
You need to be really tough to live with a name like that. And with a last name of Head, you're just begging for it. Of course, Nazreen is traditionally a girl's name. But shush.
Then there was young pretty Antonella Barba. From the get-go, I thought she wouldn't make it too far in the competition, and that her looks would far surpass her vocal talents in the votes department. Then the revelation that some ex-boyfriend of hers had secretly taken "intimate pictures" of them together and posted them on the Internet sparked huge controversy. Well, sex sells, they say. She's gone by now, and not before belting out a few not-so-spectacular tracks. Unless you count spectacular misses. I guess Playboy is always an option, eh?
The remaining contestants, at the time of writing, are a pretty diverse bunch. Like mentioned before, there are a few that you lsiten to and go "Hey, there's a hit right there". And others you'd wish would stop getting so many votes.
Sanjaya. Let's start off with him. Firstly, he's still there. He auditioned with his sister, and many originally thought he was always going to be the second best singer there anyway. Week after week, he's widely regarded as the weakest singer out there, but he pulls through and makes it to the next round. Maybe it's the Michael Jackson hair. Or the eyebrows. Or maybe the crying schoolgirl he hugged went home to beg all her equally tear-shot friends to vote for the little Indian man. Others just point out that America has many cab-drivers.
Melinda. She makes Paula cry. But so many things make Paula cry. Still, I'd guess that she's probaby the top two or three pure vocalists in the competition this season. If only she didn't look like a black Shrek. It's the neck, or lack thereof. Still, she appears genuinely nice, and can sing. I mean, really, really sing.
Gina. The resident rocker. Last season, it was Chris. This season, it's like comparing Carrick to Keane. Pardew to Curbishley (at Charlton). The original will almost always outshine the pretenders. To be fair to Gina, she isn't half bad, but she doesn't have the ability or charisma of Chris to make it nearly as far. That and so many other girls outshine her. She's got red hair, that's how many know her.
Stephanie. Latest to be voted out. I never really fancied her. OK, she's a reasonably good singer. Better than Sanjaya, people mutter. Stephen Hawking could probably sing better than Sanjaya. I said to my sister earlier tonight, when they were showing the "goodbye" footage of Stephanie Edwards...
"Stephanie is just a less ugly, less annoying version of Fantasia."
And Fantasia won. And had a movie. Is this season really that bad?
Halle. The one many expect to be out soon. Another one of those "eye candy" sorts, she's just unlucky more than anything else. Unlucky that she wasn't the best looking to begin with, and by no stretch of the best singer.
Phil. The bald sailor. I thought he was pretty good, but he's too inconsistent to go really far, I think... Was sweet what he did during the auditions, though.
Lakisha. The one Randy loves. Simon usually comments on her dressing more than anything, but it's hard to ignore that she's good. Or is it? Is she really a better singer than either Melinda/Shrek or Sparkly Jordin? I don't think so. I have this wacky theory that many... plus sized singers are really overrated because of their size. It's sort of a reverse psychology thing.
"Oh hell no! You aren't anywhere near Idol standard!"
See, you can't say that. Because a part of you is telling you that you only think so because he or she is fat. Really. Think about it.
Who else did I miss? There are two Chris'es and a Blake somewhere, but we all know a girl is going to win this year. Most probably a black girl. Nothing against that, just the probability. And common sense...
You know, I think I've wasted enough of your time here. I'll leave you now with a question of my own.
Why do all female judges in Idol-type competitions always appear and act... high?
I watch American Idol mostly for the auditions and the rejects and wannabe "singers" who apparently have friends with no ears. It's almost the same reason I enjoy watching Formula 1 racing, why I pay the most attention to the first lap or so, when the crashes come thick and fast. A car wreck, that's the best way to describe some "contestants" on American Idol at times. Screeching, mangled, twisted and very, very painful.
Some would argue that this season's line-up isn't quite a "talented" as those of previous seasons. Others would beg to differ, pointing at the excellent Jordin Sparks or Lakisha. I'll get to them in due time. But first, to the misses.
One of the last people cut from the show upon receiving the Golden Ticket to Hollywood was someone by the name of... Sundance Head. Now, you'd need to be a star to pull off having a name like that anywhere in the English-speaking world. Can you imagine his childhood? On the playground?
"Sundance Sundance Sundaaaaaaaaaance!!!!"
You need to be really tough to live with a name like that. And with a last name of Head, you're just begging for it. Of course, Nazreen is traditionally a girl's name. But shush.
Then there was young pretty Antonella Barba. From the get-go, I thought she wouldn't make it too far in the competition, and that her looks would far surpass her vocal talents in the votes department. Then the revelation that some ex-boyfriend of hers had secretly taken "intimate pictures" of them together and posted them on the Internet sparked huge controversy. Well, sex sells, they say. She's gone by now, and not before belting out a few not-so-spectacular tracks. Unless you count spectacular misses. I guess Playboy is always an option, eh?
The remaining contestants, at the time of writing, are a pretty diverse bunch. Like mentioned before, there are a few that you lsiten to and go "Hey, there's a hit right there". And others you'd wish would stop getting so many votes.
Sanjaya. Let's start off with him. Firstly, he's still there. He auditioned with his sister, and many originally thought he was always going to be the second best singer there anyway. Week after week, he's widely regarded as the weakest singer out there, but he pulls through and makes it to the next round. Maybe it's the Michael Jackson hair. Or the eyebrows. Or maybe the crying schoolgirl he hugged went home to beg all her equally tear-shot friends to vote for the little Indian man. Others just point out that America has many cab-drivers.
Melinda. She makes Paula cry. But so many things make Paula cry. Still, I'd guess that she's probaby the top two or three pure vocalists in the competition this season. If only she didn't look like a black Shrek. It's the neck, or lack thereof. Still, she appears genuinely nice, and can sing. I mean, really, really sing.
Gina. The resident rocker. Last season, it was Chris. This season, it's like comparing Carrick to Keane. Pardew to Curbishley (at Charlton). The original will almost always outshine the pretenders. To be fair to Gina, she isn't half bad, but she doesn't have the ability or charisma of Chris to make it nearly as far. That and so many other girls outshine her. She's got red hair, that's how many know her.
Stephanie. Latest to be voted out. I never really fancied her. OK, she's a reasonably good singer. Better than Sanjaya, people mutter. Stephen Hawking could probably sing better than Sanjaya. I said to my sister earlier tonight, when they were showing the "goodbye" footage of Stephanie Edwards...
"Stephanie is just a less ugly, less annoying version of Fantasia."
And Fantasia won. And had a movie. Is this season really that bad?
Halle. The one many expect to be out soon. Another one of those "eye candy" sorts, she's just unlucky more than anything else. Unlucky that she wasn't the best looking to begin with, and by no stretch of the best singer.
Phil. The bald sailor. I thought he was pretty good, but he's too inconsistent to go really far, I think... Was sweet what he did during the auditions, though.
Lakisha. The one Randy loves. Simon usually comments on her dressing more than anything, but it's hard to ignore that she's good. Or is it? Is she really a better singer than either Melinda/Shrek or Sparkly Jordin? I don't think so. I have this wacky theory that many... plus sized singers are really overrated because of their size. It's sort of a reverse psychology thing.
"Oh hell no! You aren't anywhere near Idol standard!"
See, you can't say that. Because a part of you is telling you that you only think so because he or she is fat. Really. Think about it.
Who else did I miss? There are two Chris'es and a Blake somewhere, but we all know a girl is going to win this year. Most probably a black girl. Nothing against that, just the probability. And common sense...
You know, I think I've wasted enough of your time here. I'll leave you now with a question of my own.
Why do all female judges in Idol-type competitions always appear and act... high?
Thursday, March 15, 2007
The Pursuit of Happyness...by Naz
Sometimes I don't pay enough attention to the things that matter. I've been told that I spend too much time online, playing games, reading or watching soccer. That I can be dull on the phone and a little forgetful, at best. About how sometimes it seems I don't put in enough effort, that I've taken things for granted.
I look above me now, there's a picture of a happy couple. The guy looks a little out of place, seated beside this great-looking girl. The picture's mounted on a large card, done up with glitter and a (now-faded) rose. Also attached is a Valentine's Day message penned by the girl in question, ripe with typos scrawled in her strange cursive hand.
Behind me is a charcoal drawing on some sort of wax paper. It sits in a frame, and beside it is another pink frame, yes pink. Both hold pictures of the same couple. Oh, there are differences. Some drastic, others more subtle. Longer or more spiky hair. A trace of a beard, glasses. But they all show the same couple.
In my palm a small silver ring lies. It's little more than a twisted piece of metal really. On the inside are a few letters. One can still discern that they spell out the names of the couple in the photographs and drawing encircling it. Makes me remember the time I lost another similar ring, due to the stupidity of youth (which I still have... the stupidity, not the latter, it seems.). How I scoured through a grassy field for hours, looking for a shiny metal ring. Like the one on my finger now.
But all that is here, and more. Cards in a box. A cute glass thingamajig that I haven't found a practical use for. A mug. Shirts and shoes. A Nike bag and my worn our bermudas. Makes me wonder, makes me remember.
And then I look at everything again and I smile.
Most people ask me "Whoa, Naz. Six years! When are you marrying that girl?" Some aren't as optimistic about long-term relationships and ask "Don't you get bored?" Others have questioned certain instances or occurences; pointed out how a square plug can never fit into a round hole. Still, I take it all in my stride. Let the questions flow, let the comments come.
I said before that I wanted to marry her. And most of my good friend know that too. Sometimes I get frustrated with her. Every couple has their squabbles, I guess. And, before she points out shrilly, I have my own fair share of shortcomings. Some of which I already mentioned, others might be more or less obvious to the ones around me.
But despite all that, she's the one who came and sat by me as I lay in my hospital bed, feeling like Lakisha fell on me. She's the one who walked by my side and held my hand after my wisdom teeth got taken out and I looked like I had a banana in my mouth. She was the one who help me try to convince my runaway Zig to come home. She's the one who went to all those lengths to concoct and create things that deserve a special mention on Art Attack year in and year out.
I guess I don't take the time to tell her all these things sometimes. Most times. Maybe this will make up for it.
I'm happy with the girl I have, and can't imagine anyone else in her place.
All I got her was a talking bear.
I look above me now, there's a picture of a happy couple. The guy looks a little out of place, seated beside this great-looking girl. The picture's mounted on a large card, done up with glitter and a (now-faded) rose. Also attached is a Valentine's Day message penned by the girl in question, ripe with typos scrawled in her strange cursive hand.
Behind me is a charcoal drawing on some sort of wax paper. It sits in a frame, and beside it is another pink frame, yes pink. Both hold pictures of the same couple. Oh, there are differences. Some drastic, others more subtle. Longer or more spiky hair. A trace of a beard, glasses. But they all show the same couple.
In my palm a small silver ring lies. It's little more than a twisted piece of metal really. On the inside are a few letters. One can still discern that they spell out the names of the couple in the photographs and drawing encircling it. Makes me remember the time I lost another similar ring, due to the stupidity of youth (which I still have... the stupidity, not the latter, it seems.). How I scoured through a grassy field for hours, looking for a shiny metal ring. Like the one on my finger now.
But all that is here, and more. Cards in a box. A cute glass thingamajig that I haven't found a practical use for. A mug. Shirts and shoes. A Nike bag and my worn our bermudas. Makes me wonder, makes me remember.
And then I look at everything again and I smile.
Most people ask me "Whoa, Naz. Six years! When are you marrying that girl?" Some aren't as optimistic about long-term relationships and ask "Don't you get bored?" Others have questioned certain instances or occurences; pointed out how a square plug can never fit into a round hole. Still, I take it all in my stride. Let the questions flow, let the comments come.
I said before that I wanted to marry her. And most of my good friend know that too. Sometimes I get frustrated with her. Every couple has their squabbles, I guess. And, before she points out shrilly, I have my own fair share of shortcomings. Some of which I already mentioned, others might be more or less obvious to the ones around me.
But despite all that, she's the one who came and sat by me as I lay in my hospital bed, feeling like Lakisha fell on me. She's the one who walked by my side and held my hand after my wisdom teeth got taken out and I looked like I had a banana in my mouth. She was the one who help me try to convince my runaway Zig to come home. She's the one who went to all those lengths to concoct and create things that deserve a special mention on Art Attack year in and year out.
I guess I don't take the time to tell her all these things sometimes. Most times. Maybe this will make up for it.
I'm happy with the girl I have, and can't imagine anyone else in her place.
All I got her was a talking bear.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
300
Yeah. I watched 300 yesterday, after waiting for it for months. I've been drooling over the brilliantly made trailers and teasers for ages, and now, I need to go watch it again. I haven't seen a movie with more awesome lines than 300. The number of awesome lines and the quality of them. To quote one Adam Copeland, it reeked of awesomeness.
Only Spartan women give birth to real men.
This will not end quickly, you will not enjoy it.
Our arrows will block out the sun - Then we will fight in the shade.
Why are you smiling? - All my life I've looked for another warrior who can give me a glorious death. Perhaps he is down there some where.
My old friend, I did bring more soldiers than you.
Well, enough of that, but if you haven't caught it yet, you must. You just have to. Skip Will Smith's Happyness or the cheesy Happily N'ever After or Hugh Grant and his tight pants in that romantic lyric-thing comedy.
The movie, of course, was classified as M18 in Singapore. Which means, incase you haven't figured it out, that you need to be 18 and over to watch it. Why? Well, boobs and blood in abundance, and a healthy dose of the lead actor's ass. A good friend of mine nearly choked and managed to gasp "Was that really neccessary?!?", while my other friend on my right gushed on and on about the sculpted abs on show. They even counted the abs. They're supposedly heterosexual. Now I'm wondering why I sat in between them.
Still, someone commented that "every scene in the movie is a work of art" and I couldn't agree more. Even without the seemingly meaningless gyrations of a girl in a sheer toga, 300 is by far the movie of the year. Let's see how Spiderman 3, TMNT and Transformers match up to this.
Only Spartan women give birth to real men.
This will not end quickly, you will not enjoy it.
Our arrows will block out the sun - Then we will fight in the shade.
Why are you smiling? - All my life I've looked for another warrior who can give me a glorious death. Perhaps he is down there some where.
My old friend, I did bring more soldiers than you.
Well, enough of that, but if you haven't caught it yet, you must. You just have to. Skip Will Smith's Happyness or the cheesy Happily N'ever After or Hugh Grant and his tight pants in that romantic lyric-thing comedy.
The movie, of course, was classified as M18 in Singapore. Which means, incase you haven't figured it out, that you need to be 18 and over to watch it. Why? Well, boobs and blood in abundance, and a healthy dose of the lead actor's ass. A good friend of mine nearly choked and managed to gasp "Was that really neccessary?!?", while my other friend on my right gushed on and on about the sculpted abs on show. They even counted the abs. They're supposedly heterosexual. Now I'm wondering why I sat in between them.
Still, someone commented that "every scene in the movie is a work of art" and I couldn't agree more. Even without the seemingly meaningless gyrations of a girl in a sheer toga, 300 is by far the movie of the year. Let's see how Spiderman 3, TMNT and Transformers match up to this.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Lost in Translation
Today, I found another thing I find obscenely annoying. Not even the inconsiderate pricks who bring their mangy dogs and let them frolic about in the water and fornicate metres away from a group of sunburnt friends waiting to spring a surprise party on an unsuspecting other friend.
Have you ever watched, listened to or read something translated in another language, and wonder if the so called interpretor was a complete and utter mental retard? Now, I don't aim to belittle these "special" people, but it's just so idiotic.
I was sitting on my arse, watching the television a few moments ago. Flipping channels. Laughing at Chelsea. Wondering what the big deal was about Flight Plan. Muttering that no-one can watch 300 with me. Realising that the episode of CSI playing then had been aired seven times this week already. Then it happened.
A three-minute or so promo about the "hit" "new" "horror" "movie" The Haunted School. It's ironic that I was just talking to someone today about all-time great horror flicks, from Ju-On to Host. But this one, well...
I won't pass judgement on the movie for now, or ever, unless something dramatic like a gunman ordering me to watch a cheesy Chinese movie happens. But let me say this:
Way to go to promote a movie, morons.
As far as movie promos go, they usually follow the generic trend of flashing "key scenes" and interviewing the cast and crew, allowing the audeince a sneak peak into how the movie was made and what we might expect from it. This movie, of course, is a Chinese one. I've seen Chinese movies before. I love the original Kung Fu Hustle. The version dubbed in English is just too stupid, for lack of a better word.
Back to The Haunted School, the promo did fall into the typical fashion of movie promos. Key scenes, interviews. In Chinese. With convenient English subtitles.
"I enjoyed filming the show. The atmosphere was very horror."
"I think it was very difficult, it was a scary place and there was terror."
"I think our audience will enjoy the show because it's a young person problem and there was horror."
Alright, I may be a little nitpicky. But this is supposed to be a promo for a new movie, and this promo was airing on an English Cable TV station during Prime Time. Other than broadcasting to the world that the producers of the show are in dire need of pre-school grammar and vocabulary lessons, I don't know what more was acheived. I don't blame the director or the cast interviewed. They probably didn't do their own subtitles. But whoever did deserves to be shot. And then shot again.
The whole thing was even stupider than a friend of mine claiming that the rising tide at the beach was directly attributed to the increasing number of swimmers that had taken it upon themselves to enter the ocean. This friend is going on to become an engineer. In the future, if you should happen upon a report about a tragic accident involving an engineer's miscalculation of tidal influences, you know, and I know, who that engineer was. He also said there was a Muppet named Hermit.
But back to the point of all this, yes. Translation can be difficult and tricky, at best. For the Malay-speaking readers, take a moment and directly translate a popular English song to Malay and then try not to laugh too hard. Films such as Mighty Joe Young and Miami Vice needed titles that were nowhere near what their English counterparts were meant to be.
Oh well, not much I can do about it really, I guess. It's not as if The Haunted School has lost a potential member of the audience. I'll leave you with this witty exchange that illustrates the trials and tribulations of the art of translation.
"I must agree, whom in the morning a very strong criterion. "
"What does that even mean?"
"You are not a wood gentleman-lower of moron the specialist of semi final. I achieve English better each day now."
"Was that an insult? I don't even know. "
"No not no I wanted to say to insult you whole! Afflicted please. I like to be here, my English will obtain each day, me better know onlybasic at this time but me learn quickly. It is good here to be ."
"Sounds like you're using google translator. That things awesome for nonsensical and quite funny insults. "
"Thank you, this goes back to me lucky and queer. I must hour to leave the tribune and to go to the base before job, but I estimate you a lot and the hopes to turn tomorrow!! "
That wasn't even from Borat.
Have you ever watched, listened to or read something translated in another language, and wonder if the so called interpretor was a complete and utter mental retard? Now, I don't aim to belittle these "special" people, but it's just so idiotic.
I was sitting on my arse, watching the television a few moments ago. Flipping channels. Laughing at Chelsea. Wondering what the big deal was about Flight Plan. Muttering that no-one can watch 300 with me. Realising that the episode of CSI playing then had been aired seven times this week already. Then it happened.
A three-minute or so promo about the "hit" "new" "horror" "movie" The Haunted School. It's ironic that I was just talking to someone today about all-time great horror flicks, from Ju-On to Host. But this one, well...
I won't pass judgement on the movie for now, or ever, unless something dramatic like a gunman ordering me to watch a cheesy Chinese movie happens. But let me say this:
Way to go to promote a movie, morons.
As far as movie promos go, they usually follow the generic trend of flashing "key scenes" and interviewing the cast and crew, allowing the audeince a sneak peak into how the movie was made and what we might expect from it. This movie, of course, is a Chinese one. I've seen Chinese movies before. I love the original Kung Fu Hustle. The version dubbed in English is just too stupid, for lack of a better word.
Back to The Haunted School, the promo did fall into the typical fashion of movie promos. Key scenes, interviews. In Chinese. With convenient English subtitles.
"I enjoyed filming the show. The atmosphere was very horror."
"I think it was very difficult, it was a scary place and there was terror."
"I think our audience will enjoy the show because it's a young person problem and there was horror."
Alright, I may be a little nitpicky. But this is supposed to be a promo for a new movie, and this promo was airing on an English Cable TV station during Prime Time. Other than broadcasting to the world that the producers of the show are in dire need of pre-school grammar and vocabulary lessons, I don't know what more was acheived. I don't blame the director or the cast interviewed. They probably didn't do their own subtitles. But whoever did deserves to be shot. And then shot again.
The whole thing was even stupider than a friend of mine claiming that the rising tide at the beach was directly attributed to the increasing number of swimmers that had taken it upon themselves to enter the ocean. This friend is going on to become an engineer. In the future, if you should happen upon a report about a tragic accident involving an engineer's miscalculation of tidal influences, you know, and I know, who that engineer was. He also said there was a Muppet named Hermit.
But back to the point of all this, yes. Translation can be difficult and tricky, at best. For the Malay-speaking readers, take a moment and directly translate a popular English song to Malay and then try not to laugh too hard. Films such as Mighty Joe Young and Miami Vice needed titles that were nowhere near what their English counterparts were meant to be.
Oh well, not much I can do about it really, I guess. It's not as if The Haunted School has lost a potential member of the audience. I'll leave you with this witty exchange that illustrates the trials and tribulations of the art of translation.
"I must agree, whom in the morning a very strong criterion. "
"What does that even mean?"
"You are not a wood gentleman-lower of moron the specialist of semi final. I achieve English better each day now."
"Was that an insult? I don't even know. "
"No not no I wanted to say to insult you whole! Afflicted please. I like to be here, my English will obtain each day, me better know onlybasic at this time but me learn quickly. It is good here to be ."
"Sounds like you're using google translator. That things awesome for nonsensical and quite funny insults. "
"Thank you, this goes back to me lucky and queer. I must hour to leave the tribune and to go to the base before job, but I estimate you a lot and the hopes to turn tomorrow!! "
That wasn't even from Borat.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Preggers!!!
Some things you don't rush into. Buying a car. Accepting a job. Getting married. Choosing a school. Lending someone cash. Converting religions. This is usually considered "normal" behaviour. Another thing that most people would add to the list is getting pregnant.
Pregnancy is a strange thing, sometimes. The joy of life, parenthood and all that is often harped upon; almost as much as the dangers and consequences that the youths of today are bombarded with even before they get hit with the era of puberty. Little kids who believe that Dora the Explorer is an actual person can name you the various anatomical differences between guys and gals.
Most of us wouldn't be here if pregnancy hadn't occured, of course. Life is a sexually-transmitted disease, as the saying goes, and pregnancy is its first symptom. This condition is usually brought about after the exchange of certain bodily fluids in heterosexual relations, in most cases. Theoretically, it would be possible for two people of the same gender to "conceive" a child, though I don't think it's ever been done. Not that it's never been tried before...
For many (unmarried, unemployed) people, pregnant is something they don't want to be. Active or not, it's something gnawing at the back of their minds. It's the perennial "What if..." that may or may not cause them momentary hesitation or periods of grief and stress as they await the arrival of something they usually abhore.
For some others, however, it seems that being pregnant is a dream. Of course, you would sympathise with the family who've had three miscarriages already. Or the aging couples who just want a little one to smile at and laugh with. But what about 15-year old Victoria?
Clicky
Now, the above begs the question, "What's gotten into her"? And before the smart-mouths out there say "Oh, three guys..." I already thought it first, so don't congratulate yourselves too much.
Seems like the rather ghetto teenager simply has to get pregnant. Not so much the desire for sex, but rather she wants a baby. Her crying mother looks on as she describes her brilliant and well thought-out plan of taking care of the baby, at 15, by prostituting herself and with the "ton of baby clothes" and "three extra pacifiers". Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but that's one of the stupidest things I've heard since Mutant-X.
Don't even get me started on the question on how she's going to prostitute herself after giving birth.
Of course, more than a few people would say the whole thing is fake, or staged. Same people who hoot triumphantly whenever they state the same over similar "talk shows" like Jerry Springer. Personally, I have an inkling towards this idea as well, if only because that damn girl just sounds too... too... too black. Listen to her. She sounds blacker than anything. Now, this isn't in any way racsist or discriminatory, but it's just plain fact. Like how only large-boned African-American women can sing like Aretha Franklin.
Still, it makes you wonder. If that story is true, what the hell is going on inside the head of that girl? A few people would jump at the chance to.. well, jump her. Others would be disgusted. She wants to be pregnant. At 15. Wrong? Natural? Immoral?
Pregnancy is a strange thing, sometimes. The joy of life, parenthood and all that is often harped upon; almost as much as the dangers and consequences that the youths of today are bombarded with even before they get hit with the era of puberty. Little kids who believe that Dora the Explorer is an actual person can name you the various anatomical differences between guys and gals.
Most of us wouldn't be here if pregnancy hadn't occured, of course. Life is a sexually-transmitted disease, as the saying goes, and pregnancy is its first symptom. This condition is usually brought about after the exchange of certain bodily fluids in heterosexual relations, in most cases. Theoretically, it would be possible for two people of the same gender to "conceive" a child, though I don't think it's ever been done. Not that it's never been tried before...
For many (unmarried, unemployed) people, pregnant is something they don't want to be. Active or not, it's something gnawing at the back of their minds. It's the perennial "What if..." that may or may not cause them momentary hesitation or periods of grief and stress as they await the arrival of something they usually abhore.
For some others, however, it seems that being pregnant is a dream. Of course, you would sympathise with the family who've had three miscarriages already. Or the aging couples who just want a little one to smile at and laugh with. But what about 15-year old Victoria?
Clicky
Now, the above begs the question, "What's gotten into her"? And before the smart-mouths out there say "Oh, three guys..." I already thought it first, so don't congratulate yourselves too much.
Seems like the rather ghetto teenager simply has to get pregnant. Not so much the desire for sex, but rather she wants a baby. Her crying mother looks on as she describes her brilliant and well thought-out plan of taking care of the baby, at 15, by prostituting herself and with the "ton of baby clothes" and "three extra pacifiers". Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but that's one of the stupidest things I've heard since Mutant-X.
Don't even get me started on the question on how she's going to prostitute herself after giving birth.
Of course, more than a few people would say the whole thing is fake, or staged. Same people who hoot triumphantly whenever they state the same over similar "talk shows" like Jerry Springer. Personally, I have an inkling towards this idea as well, if only because that damn girl just sounds too... too... too black. Listen to her. She sounds blacker than anything. Now, this isn't in any way racsist or discriminatory, but it's just plain fact. Like how only large-boned African-American women can sing like Aretha Franklin.
Still, it makes you wonder. If that story is true, what the hell is going on inside the head of that girl? A few people would jump at the chance to.. well, jump her. Others would be disgusted. She wants to be pregnant. At 15. Wrong? Natural? Immoral?
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Twenty-One
I just got back. It went well, more than well. Was good, more than good I guess.
Sul's 22nd birthday "celebration" today, and of course it was another SURPRISE one. Not a party though, no, not really. 10 people doesn't really constitute a party methinks, but it was rather a nice informal gathering. With cake.
Of course, someone was branded a liar for misleading the lost birthday girl, and we quiestly snuck into her home while she was in her jammies. I realise this is starting to sound like some perverted story about urban interlopers, but bear with me here.
Then there was the "Oh-my-God-I-haven't-seen-you-in-so-long-I-thought-you-fell-off-the-face-of-the-Earth" stuff and the usual jokes about a certain someone's vertical limit and someone else's singing ability (or lack thereof). Spoiling Heroes for a couple of people...
So there was cake, lots of food, lots of laughing, surveys and the finding out of something no-one knew until I asked rather carelessly in front of everyone. Good job Naz! But I won't go into that.
So why is this brilliant piece of writing entitled Twenty-One? Did I forget her real age (I did, but that's besides the point)?
When the dust cleared and we were tired of watching Will Smith on TV all of us made our way back home. Some hitched a ride from others, others waited with some as they waited for rides from family. In the end, I took a bus with an old friend of mine. We took Service No. 21.
It's been a really long time since I took that bus. I used to sit in it almost everyday, on the way home from school for two years. And on the way home from school even after I finished with school, due to my "Significant Other" commitments. Lots of good times and our share of bad ones. Silent rides, laughing rides. Smiling rides and smelly rides.
It's a wonder sometimes, time. You can remember the days when you thought you didn't have a care in the world except of how to copy your homework quick enough before the lesson begins. Then suddenly most of your friends can watch adult films in the theatre without sneaking in, and some of them are even on honeymoons.
Well, other birthdays are coming, and birthdays have a habit of doing that, no matter how hard you try. The years roll by, as the buses do, even if you're not on them.
Sul's 22nd birthday "celebration" today, and of course it was another SURPRISE one. Not a party though, no, not really. 10 people doesn't really constitute a party methinks, but it was rather a nice informal gathering. With cake.
Of course, someone was branded a liar for misleading the lost birthday girl, and we quiestly snuck into her home while she was in her jammies. I realise this is starting to sound like some perverted story about urban interlopers, but bear with me here.
Then there was the "Oh-my-God-I-haven't-seen-you-in-so-long-I-thought-you-fell-off-the-face-of-the-Earth" stuff and the usual jokes about a certain someone's vertical limit and someone else's singing ability (or lack thereof). Spoiling Heroes for a couple of people...
So there was cake, lots of food, lots of laughing, surveys and the finding out of something no-one knew until I asked rather carelessly in front of everyone. Good job Naz! But I won't go into that.
So why is this brilliant piece of writing entitled Twenty-One? Did I forget her real age (I did, but that's besides the point)?
When the dust cleared and we were tired of watching Will Smith on TV all of us made our way back home. Some hitched a ride from others, others waited with some as they waited for rides from family. In the end, I took a bus with an old friend of mine. We took Service No. 21.
It's been a really long time since I took that bus. I used to sit in it almost everyday, on the way home from school for two years. And on the way home from school even after I finished with school, due to my "Significant Other" commitments. Lots of good times and our share of bad ones. Silent rides, laughing rides. Smiling rides and smelly rides.
It's a wonder sometimes, time. You can remember the days when you thought you didn't have a care in the world except of how to copy your homework quick enough before the lesson begins. Then suddenly most of your friends can watch adult films in the theatre without sneaking in, and some of them are even on honeymoons.
Well, other birthdays are coming, and birthdays have a habit of doing that, no matter how hard you try. The years roll by, as the buses do, even if you're not on them.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Tis The Season
No, not Christmas. Not yet, anyway.
Just the season for celebration, it seems. Three weekends running, it looks to be. A wedding, a surprise birthday party, and...well, Chinese New Year. The last one isn't much of a big deal to me personally, but that'll mean that the crowds are going to be killer and/or most of the shops won't be open this weekend. Plus an added day off next week. Two, for some. And don't forget today. Valentine's.
Another wedding a couple of weeks ago, this time I was actually pleasantly surprised to have been invited. I'm not antisocial, but I guess I wasn't really close to the guy during my school days, and this was probably the first time I've seen him in years. Most of the people there we like "Hey, wait a minute, he has a girlfriend?" Well, not anymore! I won't even go into the discussion of hair extensions that someone started. Or the very over-the-top "speech" given by one of the guys, talking about how they were 14 and stuff.
On to the surprise birthday party. I've never been part of a surprise birthday party. This one went well, I guess, with about half the balloons comitting suicide before the birthday boy arrived. And us dressing him up as a pink fairy was the icing on the cake. Which I didn't have. I'll put up the pictures if you guys want. We also got introduced to Taboo. A great game. But how in the hell do you describe Rod Stewart without saying short, blond or singer??
And last, but not least, today is the big day. Some think Valentine's is just a gimmick to sell more flowers at inflated prices. Others think that it's the day to express how much you love someone. Lots of people will be looking to reveal their hidden tendencies to stalk unsuspecting friends today, lots of people will be smiling while silently resenting the cheap perfume that their boyfriend got. Others will be gushing and rewarding their significant others with a well-deserved... err... reward. I know/hope none of the above applies to me, but it's all good. Hopefully.
All in all, a very eventful end-January and early-February 2007. If the rest of the year continues at thisr ate, I'll definitely be occupied, but broke.
Just the season for celebration, it seems. Three weekends running, it looks to be. A wedding, a surprise birthday party, and...well, Chinese New Year. The last one isn't much of a big deal to me personally, but that'll mean that the crowds are going to be killer and/or most of the shops won't be open this weekend. Plus an added day off next week. Two, for some. And don't forget today. Valentine's.
Another wedding a couple of weeks ago, this time I was actually pleasantly surprised to have been invited. I'm not antisocial, but I guess I wasn't really close to the guy during my school days, and this was probably the first time I've seen him in years. Most of the people there we like "Hey, wait a minute, he has a girlfriend?" Well, not anymore! I won't even go into the discussion of hair extensions that someone started. Or the very over-the-top "speech" given by one of the guys, talking about how they were 14 and stuff.
On to the surprise birthday party. I've never been part of a surprise birthday party. This one went well, I guess, with about half the balloons comitting suicide before the birthday boy arrived. And us dressing him up as a pink fairy was the icing on the cake. Which I didn't have. I'll put up the pictures if you guys want. We also got introduced to Taboo. A great game. But how in the hell do you describe Rod Stewart without saying short, blond or singer??
And last, but not least, today is the big day. Some think Valentine's is just a gimmick to sell more flowers at inflated prices. Others think that it's the day to express how much you love someone. Lots of people will be looking to reveal their hidden tendencies to stalk unsuspecting friends today, lots of people will be smiling while silently resenting the cheap perfume that their boyfriend got. Others will be gushing and rewarding their significant others with a well-deserved... err... reward. I know/hope none of the above applies to me, but it's all good. Hopefully.
All in all, a very eventful end-January and early-February 2007. If the rest of the year continues at thisr ate, I'll definitely be occupied, but broke.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Jeng Jeng
Like Syai so eloquently said on the right, "Singapore! *jeng jeng* Singapore! *jeng jeng*"
No, I'm not suffering a sudden fit of patriotism, just the aftermath of the ASEAN Nations Cup Final of Singapore vs Thailand on Wednesday. First Leg, of course. How could I forget.
Often have the escapades of the national team on the footballing pitch been criticised. Even today, the last trophy we won is still attributed to the "Shoulder of God" and teams playing beneath themselves, scoring own goals. Not the kind of win you'd like to revel in. Like Inter Milan winning the Serie A in 2005/6.
I was there when Singapore beat Pahang in the last Malaysia Cup were in, at the Shah Alam Stadium. Painted faced and screaming fans, the "away" fans as Singaporeans were labelled, outnumbered the Malaysians by at least 4:1. It was a sea of red with a little quiet patch of yellow. And yes, we beat them 4-0.
Now, 2-1 isn't exactly a guarantee that our Lions will bring the trophy back home from up north this weekend, especially with the Thais being the way they are; silky smooth passing and gut-busting pace throughout the whole 90 minutes. The added fire that they'd surely have after the first leg is yet another obstacle for Precious and Daniel Bennet to face.
But that's what I'd like to talk about. Sportsmanship. A long time ago, back when I didn't have to shave and I thought that blaring Linkin Park in a crowded train was cool, I wrote an essay on sportsmanship. It was supposedly good, and I was reminded of it after Wednesday's game.
Thailand, playing away, had pulled back after Singapore got a shock lead. 7 minutes or so before the final whistle, Singapore were awarded a penalty. Replays weren't really conclusive either way, and of course, the team feeling aggrieved protested. Every team does. Most of the time, nothing comes out of it. Maybe an additional booking or two.
But when your whole team walks off the pitch for over fifteen minutes, there really is something fundamentally wrong there. As the commentators in the press-box said in bewilderment, "Get on with it already!"
I really didn't understand the motivation or the logic behind the act. What if the whole team didn't come back on? What if a brawl ensued? What if the ref had fallen after being rough-housed by a few overly-offended Thais? What if I had more cash?
The incident reminded me of Zinedine Zidane. No, not the headbutt. But years ago, France faced Portugal in the European Championship Semifinals. A late penalty was awarded, and Figo threw off his jersey and walked off in disgust. Not Zidane, but I thought it was him at first. Other equally atrocious acts have occured, and will occur (sadly) in the future: Eric Cantona's impersonation of Bruce Lee. Roy Keane taking Alf-Inge Haaland OUT. Arsenal vs Ruud van Nistelrooy. Jens Lehmann and Didier Drogba taking shots at each other and falling like lilies. Paolo Di Canio pushing over a referee. Pires, Ginola, Robben and countless others diving. And diving.
Unsportsman-like conduct happens everywhere, of course. Tyson bit Holyfield. NHL games regularly degenerate into slug-fests (so much so that ice-hockey computer games have the same feature). Basketball matches turn into mass brawls where the fans get involved.
What's exactly happened here? Many say that sport has become too commercialised. Massive amounts of money are being spent in the industry. David Beckham, possibly with his best days gone, is to move to American club LA Galaxy in a deal that will see him net US$250m. Let me spell that out for you. Two-hundred and fifty million US Dollars. That's US$250,000,000.00 Alot of zeros. The team that finishes bottom in the EPL will earn at least an eight digit sum in TV revenue alone. Chelsea's weekly wage might be able to run most third-world countries for a year.
Back to the Thais. I wish our guys all the best this Sunday, but me being pragmatic tells me that the first-leg win is the best they can do. Always a chance, of course, but unless the Thais face disciplinary action prior to the match (as they should), I don't see Singapore beating them. A draw would win it, I know, but don't hold your breath.
Still, jeng jeng.
No, I'm not suffering a sudden fit of patriotism, just the aftermath of the ASEAN Nations Cup Final of Singapore vs Thailand on Wednesday. First Leg, of course. How could I forget.
Often have the escapades of the national team on the footballing pitch been criticised. Even today, the last trophy we won is still attributed to the "Shoulder of God" and teams playing beneath themselves, scoring own goals. Not the kind of win you'd like to revel in. Like Inter Milan winning the Serie A in 2005/6.
I was there when Singapore beat Pahang in the last Malaysia Cup were in, at the Shah Alam Stadium. Painted faced and screaming fans, the "away" fans as Singaporeans were labelled, outnumbered the Malaysians by at least 4:1. It was a sea of red with a little quiet patch of yellow. And yes, we beat them 4-0.
Now, 2-1 isn't exactly a guarantee that our Lions will bring the trophy back home from up north this weekend, especially with the Thais being the way they are; silky smooth passing and gut-busting pace throughout the whole 90 minutes. The added fire that they'd surely have after the first leg is yet another obstacle for Precious and Daniel Bennet to face.
But that's what I'd like to talk about. Sportsmanship. A long time ago, back when I didn't have to shave and I thought that blaring Linkin Park in a crowded train was cool, I wrote an essay on sportsmanship. It was supposedly good, and I was reminded of it after Wednesday's game.
Thailand, playing away, had pulled back after Singapore got a shock lead. 7 minutes or so before the final whistle, Singapore were awarded a penalty. Replays weren't really conclusive either way, and of course, the team feeling aggrieved protested. Every team does. Most of the time, nothing comes out of it. Maybe an additional booking or two.
But when your whole team walks off the pitch for over fifteen minutes, there really is something fundamentally wrong there. As the commentators in the press-box said in bewilderment, "Get on with it already!"
I really didn't understand the motivation or the logic behind the act. What if the whole team didn't come back on? What if a brawl ensued? What if the ref had fallen after being rough-housed by a few overly-offended Thais? What if I had more cash?
The incident reminded me of Zinedine Zidane. No, not the headbutt. But years ago, France faced Portugal in the European Championship Semifinals. A late penalty was awarded, and Figo threw off his jersey and walked off in disgust. Not Zidane, but I thought it was him at first. Other equally atrocious acts have occured, and will occur (sadly) in the future: Eric Cantona's impersonation of Bruce Lee. Roy Keane taking Alf-Inge Haaland OUT. Arsenal vs Ruud van Nistelrooy. Jens Lehmann and Didier Drogba taking shots at each other and falling like lilies. Paolo Di Canio pushing over a referee. Pires, Ginola, Robben and countless others diving. And diving.
Unsportsman-like conduct happens everywhere, of course. Tyson bit Holyfield. NHL games regularly degenerate into slug-fests (so much so that ice-hockey computer games have the same feature). Basketball matches turn into mass brawls where the fans get involved.
What's exactly happened here? Many say that sport has become too commercialised. Massive amounts of money are being spent in the industry. David Beckham, possibly with his best days gone, is to move to American club LA Galaxy in a deal that will see him net US$250m. Let me spell that out for you. Two-hundred and fifty million US Dollars. That's US$250,000,000.00 Alot of zeros. The team that finishes bottom in the EPL will earn at least an eight digit sum in TV revenue alone. Chelsea's weekly wage might be able to run most third-world countries for a year.
Back to the Thais. I wish our guys all the best this Sunday, but me being pragmatic tells me that the first-leg win is the best they can do. Always a chance, of course, but unless the Thais face disciplinary action prior to the match (as they should), I don't see Singapore beating them. A draw would win it, I know, but don't hold your breath.
Still, jeng jeng.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Technical Recall
"Rush to wait, wait to rush."
That is perhaps the most famous phrase when one speaks of his time during National Service. That, and "do anything but don't get caught", of course.
But the former is very much evident when one takes a close look at the inner workings of the SAF.
I was recently instructed to report to my ex-unit for a "technical recall", something that most NS-men are aware will happen sooner or later. However, the way this was done has raised more than a few issues, some of which have perhaps been asked before and some undoubtedly unvoiced.
A friend of mine called me early Saturday morning telling me he had been recalled, and I, like many, would have been feeling privately gleeful that I had "escaped" the same fate as my handphone and house phones showed no calls missed or otherwise. My friend, who was actually in the midst of a Saturday class in his degree program, had to then rush home and get changed into his uniform and lug his Army equipment to the "Mobilisation centre" located not too close to his home.
Later, I did receive the same instructions and also followed suit. Now, I am not annoyed that I was recalled. It is very much expected that all NS-men are recalled sometime or other, but what irks me is the mixed messages that all of us received.
Asking around at the Mob Centre (because we had so much time to), we found that nearly everyone was told to report at different times, from 2pm to as late as 8pm. The ones who had made a herculean effort to rush down to the centre were, as you might expect, very aggravated, to say the least. Timings aside, all of us were told to "sit and wait for furthur instructions". This meant a few hundred grumbling twenty-somethings sitting on bare concrete in a poorly-ventilated vehicle shed. A large shed, but poor conditions nonetheless. Even asking the Regular Officers there (ranging from Lieutenant to Major) procured little reward, they were as baffled as we were regarding what was to happen.
In the end, we were released late into the night, a bunch of angry men with bulky eqquipment. Cab-drivers in the area might still be echoing "Wow, late book-out today huh?".
Now, the questions I would like to raise would be pertaining to such recalls and mobilisations in the future. My friend who I mentioned earlier, for example, had to leave in the middle of a class to get to the Mob Centre, fearing reprimandation should he arrive later than the stipulated timing. I know the SAF grants deferment should an NS-man studies overseas, but what of cases like his? There were also so many who clutched their tickets to Singapore vs Malaysia at the National Stadium as they tore at their (somewhat coloured) hair as the clock ticked.
Such situations like an NS-man being the best man at a friend's wedding, having a relative in hospital, etc would also have to be addressed. The last time anyone I knew asked about this, the blunt answer was "Unless YOU are hospitalised, you jolly well report."
Of course, I understand the government's and MINDEF's stance on national defence, and the military is an integral part of any nation's safety. I spent two years and four months as a soldier in the SAF, and it has left me a better man, and given me many joyful experiences that I can laugh about with my friends.
I also understand that an NS-man should always be ready to report to camp, such is the unexpectedness of any war or conflict that Singapore might be unfortunate enough to be involved in. But so much can be done to improve the core efficiency of the whole process.
The mindset of "wait to rush and rush to wait" is still predominant in the Army, especially, and hopefully can be rectified in the near future. Even a simple means of informing the men of the unit that there is a chance of being recalled at any given weekend would alleviate many of our concerns.
That is perhaps the most famous phrase when one speaks of his time during National Service. That, and "do anything but don't get caught", of course.
But the former is very much evident when one takes a close look at the inner workings of the SAF.
I was recently instructed to report to my ex-unit for a "technical recall", something that most NS-men are aware will happen sooner or later. However, the way this was done has raised more than a few issues, some of which have perhaps been asked before and some undoubtedly unvoiced.
A friend of mine called me early Saturday morning telling me he had been recalled, and I, like many, would have been feeling privately gleeful that I had "escaped" the same fate as my handphone and house phones showed no calls missed or otherwise. My friend, who was actually in the midst of a Saturday class in his degree program, had to then rush home and get changed into his uniform and lug his Army equipment to the "Mobilisation centre" located not too close to his home.
Later, I did receive the same instructions and also followed suit. Now, I am not annoyed that I was recalled. It is very much expected that all NS-men are recalled sometime or other, but what irks me is the mixed messages that all of us received.
Asking around at the Mob Centre (because we had so much time to), we found that nearly everyone was told to report at different times, from 2pm to as late as 8pm. The ones who had made a herculean effort to rush down to the centre were, as you might expect, very aggravated, to say the least. Timings aside, all of us were told to "sit and wait for furthur instructions". This meant a few hundred grumbling twenty-somethings sitting on bare concrete in a poorly-ventilated vehicle shed. A large shed, but poor conditions nonetheless. Even asking the Regular Officers there (ranging from Lieutenant to Major) procured little reward, they were as baffled as we were regarding what was to happen.
In the end, we were released late into the night, a bunch of angry men with bulky eqquipment. Cab-drivers in the area might still be echoing "Wow, late book-out today huh?".
Now, the questions I would like to raise would be pertaining to such recalls and mobilisations in the future. My friend who I mentioned earlier, for example, had to leave in the middle of a class to get to the Mob Centre, fearing reprimandation should he arrive later than the stipulated timing. I know the SAF grants deferment should an NS-man studies overseas, but what of cases like his? There were also so many who clutched their tickets to Singapore vs Malaysia at the National Stadium as they tore at their (somewhat coloured) hair as the clock ticked.
Such situations like an NS-man being the best man at a friend's wedding, having a relative in hospital, etc would also have to be addressed. The last time anyone I knew asked about this, the blunt answer was "Unless YOU are hospitalised, you jolly well report."
Of course, I understand the government's and MINDEF's stance on national defence, and the military is an integral part of any nation's safety. I spent two years and four months as a soldier in the SAF, and it has left me a better man, and given me many joyful experiences that I can laugh about with my friends.
I also understand that an NS-man should always be ready to report to camp, such is the unexpectedness of any war or conflict that Singapore might be unfortunate enough to be involved in. But so much can be done to improve the core efficiency of the whole process.
The mindset of "wait to rush and rush to wait" is still predominant in the Army, especially, and hopefully can be rectified in the near future. Even a simple means of informing the men of the unit that there is a chance of being recalled at any given weekend would alleviate many of our concerns.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Feeling Old
So yesterday was a big day for one of our friends, a day that (should) come along once in a lifetime. And in truth, a day that most of us didn't see coming for maybe another couple of years.
Not that I'm saying it's wrong or too soon or anything.
And someone said while we tip-toed at the back of the gathered crowd of family and friends, "Wow, I feel old."
He also said he was sad, which was met with a few incredulous looks, but then he asserted himself with the comment that said he didn't feel sad sad but rather happy sad so I guess all is well.
But yes, as I've mentioned before, I already found the girl I want to marry, and I'm happy for anyone and everyone who can say the same thing (or guys for girls, or whatever you fancy, you know). Watching a good friend of mine get married is really a new experience for me, especially since I rarely go to any weddings at all. I don't like the normal wedding food. But I guess this is an exception for a few reasons, eh?
All in all, a very enjoyable ceremony, though that in itself sounds weird. I'm not sure why. One of the highlights would have been the cake which seemed to be the epitomy of chocolate, while the low point might be the mystery of my socks being stained brown after walking shoe-less for a few hours...
But when is it really time to tie the knot?
Someone once said, "A man never really knows true happiness until he gets married, but by then it's too late." While I obviously take that with a pinch of salt, I guess that comment might be pertinent to some. Being married is, of course, an obvious commitment and one which can't be taken lightly. Unless you're a siliconed-chested pop-star who has a crush on one of her dancers I guess.
So we were talking and found out that most of us felt that the optimum time to get hitched was around the ripe old age of 25. Seeing as how most of us as 21 right now, maybe a year or two yonger, I guess that's reasonable. I'd have been with Khadi for close to a decade by then, but that's OK right? Hehe. Course, sometimes circumstances might retard or accelerate the date, but I won't really go into that...
So... married life. Not much else to say, really. I'll just leave you with the quote of the day from one lost girl in particular.
"You should be more like Naz, he doesn't make any comments!"
Which is almost as good as...
"...I was driving along the road and there was an old woman walking in front of me and I haunted her but she didn't hear me and..."
And followed closely by...
"You know, it just doesn't feel like one of our friends is married."
The above really isn't spectacular or anything, just something to think over, I guess. And I really didn't want to publicly state my reply to that!
Not that I'm saying it's wrong or too soon or anything.
And someone said while we tip-toed at the back of the gathered crowd of family and friends, "Wow, I feel old."
He also said he was sad, which was met with a few incredulous looks, but then he asserted himself with the comment that said he didn't feel sad sad but rather happy sad so I guess all is well.
But yes, as I've mentioned before, I already found the girl I want to marry, and I'm happy for anyone and everyone who can say the same thing (or guys for girls, or whatever you fancy, you know). Watching a good friend of mine get married is really a new experience for me, especially since I rarely go to any weddings at all. I don't like the normal wedding food. But I guess this is an exception for a few reasons, eh?
All in all, a very enjoyable ceremony, though that in itself sounds weird. I'm not sure why. One of the highlights would have been the cake which seemed to be the epitomy of chocolate, while the low point might be the mystery of my socks being stained brown after walking shoe-less for a few hours...
But when is it really time to tie the knot?
Someone once said, "A man never really knows true happiness until he gets married, but by then it's too late." While I obviously take that with a pinch of salt, I guess that comment might be pertinent to some. Being married is, of course, an obvious commitment and one which can't be taken lightly. Unless you're a siliconed-chested pop-star who has a crush on one of her dancers I guess.
So we were talking and found out that most of us felt that the optimum time to get hitched was around the ripe old age of 25. Seeing as how most of us as 21 right now, maybe a year or two yonger, I guess that's reasonable. I'd have been with Khadi for close to a decade by then, but that's OK right? Hehe. Course, sometimes circumstances might retard or accelerate the date, but I won't really go into that...
So... married life. Not much else to say, really. I'll just leave you with the quote of the day from one lost girl in particular.
"You should be more like Naz, he doesn't make any comments!"
Which is almost as good as...
"...I was driving along the road and there was an old woman walking in front of me and I haunted her but she didn't hear me and..."
And followed closely by...
"You know, it just doesn't feel like one of our friends is married."
The above really isn't spectacular or anything, just something to think over, I guess. And I really didn't want to publicly state my reply to that!
Monday, December 18, 2006
So Many People, So Little Time...
I may have mentioned this before, and most of you who know me know this too.
I hate crowds.
No, no. Really. I hate crowds.
This is probably the single most determining factor in me not liking such festivities as clubbing and shopping.
I hate crowds.
Lately, this problem has grown worse, with the onset of the year-end holidays. Khadi wanting to go to town to get stuff or do something aggravates it as well, of course. Let me tell you how it's like.
Take a walk along Orchard Road, Singapore's pride and joy when shopping is the key to your existence. Oh wait, you can't. Can't walk, that is. Yes, there are too many people. Rain or shine, the streets will be packed. That's a guarantee. Zara, Mango, Tangs, Nike, Forever 21, Lee Hwa, Topshop, every single outlet on our little island seems to be packed with shoppers, which is a relief seeing the angry mob outside each shopping centre.
It's a well-known fact that Singaporeans can't resist the allure of a sale, and old saggy aunties with varicose veins can be seen sprinting during the worst weather when a random brochure of 10% off some trivial item is thrust into their jade-fingered hands.
One week to Christmas. You know what that means, don't you? Last-minute Christmas shopping. And even more "Christmas joy" in the central business district. This actually makes the whole situation worse. I know whoever set it up means well, but it's just not practical.
I'll take a moment from my babbling to explain myself.
Recently several booths or stall-thingies have been set up along Orchard Road. Now, that in itself isn't anything new, there have always been booths set up there, but rarely have so many been erected in such close proximity to one another. And labelled the "Nativity Village" if I recall correctly.
What exactly is the "Nativity Village"? Well it's a series of booths and stall, as you might have guessed already, set to the theme of Christmas. Now, that's alright, I suppose, but like I said, they make the problem of overcrowding in the area much, much worse. Firstly, the sidewalk isn't all that wide to begin with, and when half of it is taken up by these things... during peak hours... you can't even swing a cat in there.
That, and the whole idea is a little tarnished by the fact that little old women are playing "children" and pimply schoolkids are dressed as Greco-Roman soldiers, broom-helmet and all. Oh yeah, spectacles too. Can't forget the glasses!
Sigh, I hate crowds. At least I won't have to deal with the town crowd this weekend, seeing as how most of us will be busy with a common prior engagement.
And I do mean engagement, eh? Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge.
I hate crowds.
No, no. Really. I hate crowds.
This is probably the single most determining factor in me not liking such festivities as clubbing and shopping.
I hate crowds.
Lately, this problem has grown worse, with the onset of the year-end holidays. Khadi wanting to go to town to get stuff or do something aggravates it as well, of course. Let me tell you how it's like.
Take a walk along Orchard Road, Singapore's pride and joy when shopping is the key to your existence. Oh wait, you can't. Can't walk, that is. Yes, there are too many people. Rain or shine, the streets will be packed. That's a guarantee. Zara, Mango, Tangs, Nike, Forever 21, Lee Hwa, Topshop, every single outlet on our little island seems to be packed with shoppers, which is a relief seeing the angry mob outside each shopping centre.
It's a well-known fact that Singaporeans can't resist the allure of a sale, and old saggy aunties with varicose veins can be seen sprinting during the worst weather when a random brochure of 10% off some trivial item is thrust into their jade-fingered hands.
One week to Christmas. You know what that means, don't you? Last-minute Christmas shopping. And even more "Christmas joy" in the central business district. This actually makes the whole situation worse. I know whoever set it up means well, but it's just not practical.
I'll take a moment from my babbling to explain myself.
Recently several booths or stall-thingies have been set up along Orchard Road. Now, that in itself isn't anything new, there have always been booths set up there, but rarely have so many been erected in such close proximity to one another. And labelled the "Nativity Village" if I recall correctly.
What exactly is the "Nativity Village"? Well it's a series of booths and stall, as you might have guessed already, set to the theme of Christmas. Now, that's alright, I suppose, but like I said, they make the problem of overcrowding in the area much, much worse. Firstly, the sidewalk isn't all that wide to begin with, and when half of it is taken up by these things... during peak hours... you can't even swing a cat in there.
That, and the whole idea is a little tarnished by the fact that little old women are playing "children" and pimply schoolkids are dressed as Greco-Roman soldiers, broom-helmet and all. Oh yeah, spectacles too. Can't forget the glasses!
Sigh, I hate crowds. At least I won't have to deal with the town crowd this weekend, seeing as how most of us will be busy with a common prior engagement.
And I do mean engagement, eh? Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Hey Ladies
So this has been on my mind for quite some time. Something that most guys and girls do in public places. Riddle me this, ladies, what do you do in there?
I am, of course, speaking of public restrooms. The fact that you ladies spend an eternity in there while us guys walk in and out. I mean, you have to queue for crying out loud. What's taking so long? I do realise that some ladies are a little more "high-maintenance" than others, with them having to redo their eyeliner, foundation, etc etc every chance they get, but this still borders on the ridiculous.
Take guys, for instance. We find the lil' boys room, walk in, whip it out, take a whizz, zip up, (usually) flush, wash up, f*ck off. But our female counterparts seem to use the restrooms for other matters. It's a mystery I feel will never be solved. Especially when I try asking a girl what took them.
"Can't you see the queue?"
Indeed, I can. Which is why I'm asking you in the first place! The presence of a queue obviously means that there's more than one female in there who's taking her time. And this phenomenon looks like a global one. Certain towns in America have made it commonplace to install at least twice as many female restrooms as male ones in high-traffic areas, in an attempt to ease the congestion.
Yes, congestion, because that's what it is, a human gridlock. Reminds me of a petrol station giving away free car-washes, you see all sorts of models and makes crawling towards to scene, end-to-end. The slim and sporty ones, the old and vintage ones, the new and funky ones, the obviously too-big-to-attract-anything-but-an-eww ones too.
So I'm begging for someone to enlighten me here, what is it that causes the ladies' room to be the hot-spot in the majority of public places. And don't give me the crap about the queue. That's as useful as a c*ck-flavoured lollipop.
I am, of course, speaking of public restrooms. The fact that you ladies spend an eternity in there while us guys walk in and out. I mean, you have to queue for crying out loud. What's taking so long? I do realise that some ladies are a little more "high-maintenance" than others, with them having to redo their eyeliner, foundation, etc etc every chance they get, but this still borders on the ridiculous.
Take guys, for instance. We find the lil' boys room, walk in, whip it out, take a whizz, zip up, (usually) flush, wash up, f*ck off. But our female counterparts seem to use the restrooms for other matters. It's a mystery I feel will never be solved. Especially when I try asking a girl what took them.
"Can't you see the queue?"
Indeed, I can. Which is why I'm asking you in the first place! The presence of a queue obviously means that there's more than one female in there who's taking her time. And this phenomenon looks like a global one. Certain towns in America have made it commonplace to install at least twice as many female restrooms as male ones in high-traffic areas, in an attempt to ease the congestion.
Yes, congestion, because that's what it is, a human gridlock. Reminds me of a petrol station giving away free car-washes, you see all sorts of models and makes crawling towards to scene, end-to-end. The slim and sporty ones, the old and vintage ones, the new and funky ones, the obviously too-big-to-attract-anything-but-an-eww ones too.
So I'm begging for someone to enlighten me here, what is it that causes the ladies' room to be the hot-spot in the majority of public places. And don't give me the crap about the queue. That's as useful as a c*ck-flavoured lollipop.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Meet the Parents, Part II
So, this past Sunday I traevelled all of 300 metres or so, by car, to Khadi's house. With my family. For the return leg of the first encounter. How'd it go?
Well, it went well, for the most part, I'm very happy to say. We got there more or less on time, and I looked supposedly dashing in that shirt I tend to wear for "important" events. At least that's what she told me.
I've been there before, several times, in fact. I've been there to eat, to take random stuff, take a look at a sick cat, even feed a toddler. Who I didn't even kick. But this time was different, of course. It was to Meet The Parents.
Although, that might sound a little redundant as it already took place. So yeah, the away leg, as it may. First leg was a success, now all we need to do is to stay steady...
Dinner was great, surprisingly. I'm not saying they're bad cooks; on the contrary, I've never tasted anything less than delicious spewing from their kitchen. But this time it was briyani. I don't do briyani. But it was alot better than expected, and a real smile eclipsed the half-cringe I had plastered all over my face when I took my first bite. She was, of course, staring at me the whole time, probably admiring how dazzling I looked, but I think I mentioned that already, eh?
But back to reality, the only downside would be that my bratty little sister behaved well, brattily, for lack of a better term. Now, she's someone who deserved to be kicked. Even the best efforts of Khadi's grandma, bribing her with kittens, could only garner a silent nod. Fazlee, of course, provided one of the highlights of the night when "confronted" by Khadi's grandma.
(Conversation in Malay)
Grandma: So, you're still schooling?
Fazlee: (Pause) Oh, yes. I'm studying in a polytechnic.
Grandma: Oh, I see, I see... Finished with your exams for now?
Fazlee: (Less brief pause)
Grandma: (Being grandmotherly silent)
Fazlee Uh...
Grandma: (Still being grandmotherly silent)
Fazlee: What?
I guess it goes without saying that my brother needs to brush up on his Malay if he wants to speak to my future grandma-in-law...
So that's how it went really, nothing "bad" happening, alot of laughing filling in the gaps in between dinner and random chit-chat and cat-sightings. I must say, the fact that our moms hugged each other bodes well for the future, eh?
To Khadi: Love you babe.
Well, it went well, for the most part, I'm very happy to say. We got there more or less on time, and I looked supposedly dashing in that shirt I tend to wear for "important" events. At least that's what she told me.
I've been there before, several times, in fact. I've been there to eat, to take random stuff, take a look at a sick cat, even feed a toddler. Who I didn't even kick. But this time was different, of course. It was to Meet The Parents.
Although, that might sound a little redundant as it already took place. So yeah, the away leg, as it may. First leg was a success, now all we need to do is to stay steady...
Dinner was great, surprisingly. I'm not saying they're bad cooks; on the contrary, I've never tasted anything less than delicious spewing from their kitchen. But this time it was briyani. I don't do briyani. But it was alot better than expected, and a real smile eclipsed the half-cringe I had plastered all over my face when I took my first bite. She was, of course, staring at me the whole time, probably admiring how dazzling I looked, but I think I mentioned that already, eh?
But back to reality, the only downside would be that my bratty little sister behaved well, brattily, for lack of a better term. Now, she's someone who deserved to be kicked. Even the best efforts of Khadi's grandma, bribing her with kittens, could only garner a silent nod. Fazlee, of course, provided one of the highlights of the night when "confronted" by Khadi's grandma.
(Conversation in Malay)
Grandma: So, you're still schooling?
Fazlee: (Pause) Oh, yes. I'm studying in a polytechnic.
Grandma: Oh, I see, I see... Finished with your exams for now?
Fazlee: (Less brief pause)
Grandma: (Being grandmotherly silent)
Fazlee Uh...
Grandma: (Still being grandmotherly silent)
Fazlee: What?
I guess it goes without saying that my brother needs to brush up on his Malay if he wants to speak to my future grandma-in-law...
So that's how it went really, nothing "bad" happening, alot of laughing filling in the gaps in between dinner and random chit-chat and cat-sightings. I must say, the fact that our moms hugged each other bodes well for the future, eh?
To Khadi: Love you babe.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Wrestling
I enjoy watching pro-wrestling. There, I said it.
Many people look down on wrestling fans, and I find that very irritating. Not as irritating as people who think they're wrestling fans, but don't know a damn thing about it. But I'll get to that another time.
"Why do you watch wrestling? Don't you know it's fake?"
Definitely the number one retort that anti-wrestling folks shoot at fans like me. Do you watch Friends? CSI? Prison Break? Sienfeld? Don't you know that's fake too? Yeah, we know wrestling is fake.
Not really.
Owne Hart really died. Eddie Guerrero really died. Granted, not due to wrestling per se, but take a look at Darren Drozdov, or "Droz", as he was known, who broke his neck in a match against D-Lo Brown a number of years ago, and has been paralysed since. Kenta Kobashi, a Japanese wrestler who made the "Burning Hammer" famous, has reputedly killed more than one person due to that very move. Which he still does on a regular basis, and is cheered by almost every Japanese wrestling fan.
I do dislike the over-dramatisation of that prevalent in wrestling today, however. This is especially relevant in WWE programming. Weddings and vampires? Oh come on.
But I love watching wrestling for the pure athleticism that's on show night after night. I remember the first time I saw a hurricunrana, and thought it was the most beautiful and impossible move ever done. Now, the era of 619's and Canadian Destroyers put others to shame.
My favourite wrestler is Bret Hart. Not was, but is. I used to feel so broken-hearted whenever he lost a match (back when I thought everything was legit). And with the screwjob in Montreal, it just reaffirmed my admiration for the man.
Wrestling has come a long way since I first started watching it, no doubt. From the time when a "Japanese" sumo wrestler was unstoppable and a balding man got stronger the more punches he took, to a trash-talking rapper, and the same balding man, but balder. Not too much, I guess.
But to the "point" of all this.
Some of you might know that the "dominant" brand of "sports entertainment" today is the WWE (formerly known as the WWF, formerly known as a WWWF). There's NWA-TNA too, but I won't go into that today. Those among who who are even more enlightened would also know that WWE has a few "shows" and those "shows" are Raw and Smackdown. (ECW, Heat, Velocity, etc wont be discussed today...).
What flashes across the screen before every WWE broadcast?
No, not titties.
The "Don't try this at home" segment. Now, apparently, some people can't read. Those of you who can read, take a look at this. Now, this isn't the first case of some idiotic kid hurting another equally idiotic kid because "they were trying to imitate what wrestlers do on TV."
So the Indonesian authorities have banned the broadcast of Smackdown in the region. Bullshit, you know?
If a kid hurts another kid because he or she is copying a wrestler, the first people who need to be shot are their parents. You let your kids watch things like this, deal with it. Or at least explain to them that the big man in tights isn't really tring to smash the other guy's skull with a chair. And that if you jump of a ladder, you get hurt.
Speaking of jumping off ladders and getting hurt and wrestling being "fake", take a look at this.
The second batch of people who should be shot, are of course, the Indonesian broadcasters who apparently have either (a) telecast a show with definite adult themes during prime-time or something or (b) editted out the "Dont try this at home" segments.
If they aren't guilty of those, of course, feel free to shoot the parents again.
Isn't it moronic, how the media are so quick to blame violent TV shows and video games for the behaviour of a few dumb kids? The Columbine High tragedy was almost attributed to the shooters listening to Manson and playing Grand Theft Auto. I listen to Manson and play Grand Theft Auto. You don't see me guns a-blazin, do ya? Baby kicking is another issue.
So why blame pro-wrestling? Studies have shown that the average Saturday morning cartoon has more instances of violence than a standard episode of Raw or Smackdown. Hard to believe? Well, listen to your own arguments.
"I used to watch wrestling, you know. But know it's so lame! All they do is talk and talk and ony fight for like five minutes."
Now watch Tom and Jerry or Road Runner or something and count the instances of "violent acts" that are shown on-screen. There we go.
Still, this little page of me venting my fustrations won't really affect anything in the long run, oh well.
So, I've come to the end of my rant, quite suddenly.
Many people look down on wrestling fans, and I find that very irritating. Not as irritating as people who think they're wrestling fans, but don't know a damn thing about it. But I'll get to that another time.
"Why do you watch wrestling? Don't you know it's fake?"
Definitely the number one retort that anti-wrestling folks shoot at fans like me. Do you watch Friends? CSI? Prison Break? Sienfeld? Don't you know that's fake too? Yeah, we know wrestling is fake.
Not really.
Owne Hart really died. Eddie Guerrero really died. Granted, not due to wrestling per se, but take a look at Darren Drozdov, or "Droz", as he was known, who broke his neck in a match against D-Lo Brown a number of years ago, and has been paralysed since. Kenta Kobashi, a Japanese wrestler who made the "Burning Hammer" famous, has reputedly killed more than one person due to that very move. Which he still does on a regular basis, and is cheered by almost every Japanese wrestling fan.
I do dislike the over-dramatisation of that prevalent in wrestling today, however. This is especially relevant in WWE programming. Weddings and vampires? Oh come on.
But I love watching wrestling for the pure athleticism that's on show night after night. I remember the first time I saw a hurricunrana, and thought it was the most beautiful and impossible move ever done. Now, the era of 619's and Canadian Destroyers put others to shame.
My favourite wrestler is Bret Hart. Not was, but is. I used to feel so broken-hearted whenever he lost a match (back when I thought everything was legit). And with the screwjob in Montreal, it just reaffirmed my admiration for the man.
Wrestling has come a long way since I first started watching it, no doubt. From the time when a "Japanese" sumo wrestler was unstoppable and a balding man got stronger the more punches he took, to a trash-talking rapper, and the same balding man, but balder. Not too much, I guess.
But to the "point" of all this.
Some of you might know that the "dominant" brand of "sports entertainment" today is the WWE (formerly known as the WWF, formerly known as a WWWF). There's NWA-TNA too, but I won't go into that today. Those among who who are even more enlightened would also know that WWE has a few "shows" and those "shows" are Raw and Smackdown. (ECW, Heat, Velocity, etc wont be discussed today...).
What flashes across the screen before every WWE broadcast?
No, not titties.
The "Don't try this at home" segment. Now, apparently, some people can't read. Those of you who can read, take a look at this. Now, this isn't the first case of some idiotic kid hurting another equally idiotic kid because "they were trying to imitate what wrestlers do on TV."
So the Indonesian authorities have banned the broadcast of Smackdown in the region. Bullshit, you know?
If a kid hurts another kid because he or she is copying a wrestler, the first people who need to be shot are their parents. You let your kids watch things like this, deal with it. Or at least explain to them that the big man in tights isn't really tring to smash the other guy's skull with a chair. And that if you jump of a ladder, you get hurt.
Speaking of jumping off ladders and getting hurt and wrestling being "fake", take a look at this.
The second batch of people who should be shot, are of course, the Indonesian broadcasters who apparently have either (a) telecast a show with definite adult themes during prime-time or something or (b) editted out the "Dont try this at home" segments.
If they aren't guilty of those, of course, feel free to shoot the parents again.
Isn't it moronic, how the media are so quick to blame violent TV shows and video games for the behaviour of a few dumb kids? The Columbine High tragedy was almost attributed to the shooters listening to Manson and playing Grand Theft Auto. I listen to Manson and play Grand Theft Auto. You don't see me guns a-blazin, do ya? Baby kicking is another issue.
So why blame pro-wrestling? Studies have shown that the average Saturday morning cartoon has more instances of violence than a standard episode of Raw or Smackdown. Hard to believe? Well, listen to your own arguments.
"I used to watch wrestling, you know. But know it's so lame! All they do is talk and talk and ony fight for like five minutes."
Now watch Tom and Jerry or Road Runner or something and count the instances of "violent acts" that are shown on-screen. There we go.
Still, this little page of me venting my fustrations won't really affect anything in the long run, oh well.
So, I've come to the end of my rant, quite suddenly.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Here's Your Sign
So, I haven't written anything here for a long time, it seems, other than the odd one-liner here and there at the right side of your screen. I might attribute the lack of updates to studying for exams, but most of you know me better than that.
Today my rant will be about stupid people.
The "here's your sign" comedy routine has been said to have originated from comedian Bill Engvall, though I think that most people familiar with it might have heard it during a Jeff Foxworthy skit of some sort, maybe. The ideology behind the "sign" routine is simple, really.
Stupid people should be made to wear signs, so the rest of the world will know beforehand that they are dealing with such tards.
Now, I don't claim to be the smartest feller in the world, I don't even think I'm the smartest person among the people reading this or anything, but stupid people do annoy the hell out of me. I have a feeling I mentioned this before, so I'll not repeat the phone conversation about the use of foldable beds I once had with an outdoor retailer.
Anyway, I was skimming through our wonderfully named local tabloid The New Paper a couple of days ago and I found a few very "interesting" articles. The bulk of the people who should have the afore-mentioned signs stapled to their heads seem to work in or around the American airline industry.
Case 1: Young couple gets thrown out of an airplane because male had his head on female's lap before takeoff.
Case 2: Undercover US Air Marshall throws someone out of the bathroom becuase he enters less than a half-hour before landing. Rest of flight is made to have their hands on their heads for the remainder of the flight.
Case 3: Jewish man is thrown off a flight because he prays before takeoff.
Case 4: Young white mother is admonished for breast-feeding her child.
ROFLZOMGWTFLBBQLOL
To the (few) Americans reading this, are you all insane, paranoid or just stupid?
Forgive the question, I probably get the impression from your leader.
Anyway, other instances from the same paper that day itself include the story of a young Malaysian man who drowned after trying to save 2 people. Now, that might not seem too stupid, considering he'd also save 8 others before meeting his demise, but the whole situa
tion is. You see, the "incident" happened at some sort of Civil Defence sort of thing, a training exercise as far as I can tell.
Ten people, needing to be saved, during training? And it falls upon the shoulders of one man to do it? He's not Superman, my dear northern neighbours. He's not even Lat. The concept of lifeguards, instructors and/or safe training escapes you, I gather.
Of course, the same country also built a bridge to nowhere recently, so I guess it's only natural. For those who don't know, Malaysia and Singapore are connected by two causeways, the first being the aptly-named "Causeway" and the second link equally originally titled, "The Second Link". Apparently Malaysian authorities took it upon themselves to create a third bridge of sorts, perhaps aiming to replace the "evil" Causeway which apparently hinders economic growth of the country depicted in such blockbusters as Entrapment and Zoolander (I really enjoyed Zoolander).
So they built a bridge. And then asked that Singapore comply and join it up from our end.
scoff
–verb (used without object)
1.
to speak derisively; mock; jeer (often fol. by at): If you can't do any better, don't scoff. Their efforts toward a peaceful settlement are not to be scoffed at. –verb (used with object)
2.
to mock at; deride. –noun
3.
an expression of mockery, derision, doubt, or derisive scorn; jeer.
4.
an object of mockery or derision
That's from dictionary.reference.com, very useful.
Suffice to say, they now have a half-bridge.
So I'll leave you pondering the profoundness of my ranting with this simple quote from my brother.
"Wow, dogs eat meat?"
Today my rant will be about stupid people.
The "here's your sign" comedy routine has been said to have originated from comedian Bill Engvall, though I think that most people familiar with it might have heard it during a Jeff Foxworthy skit of some sort, maybe. The ideology behind the "sign" routine is simple, really.
Stupid people should be made to wear signs, so the rest of the world will know beforehand that they are dealing with such tards.
Now, I don't claim to be the smartest feller in the world, I don't even think I'm the smartest person among the people reading this or anything, but stupid people do annoy the hell out of me. I have a feeling I mentioned this before, so I'll not repeat the phone conversation about the use of foldable beds I once had with an outdoor retailer.
Anyway, I was skimming through our wonderfully named local tabloid The New Paper a couple of days ago and I found a few very "interesting" articles. The bulk of the people who should have the afore-mentioned signs stapled to their heads seem to work in or around the American airline industry.
Case 1: Young couple gets thrown out of an airplane because male had his head on female's lap before takeoff.
Case 2: Undercover US Air Marshall throws someone out of the bathroom becuase he enters less than a half-hour before landing. Rest of flight is made to have their hands on their heads for the remainder of the flight.
Case 3: Jewish man is thrown off a flight because he prays before takeoff.
Case 4: Young white mother is admonished for breast-feeding her child.
ROFLZOMGWTFLBBQLOL
To the (few) Americans reading this, are you all insane, paranoid or just stupid?
Forgive the question, I probably get the impression from your leader.
Anyway, other instances from the same paper that day itself include the story of a young Malaysian man who drowned after trying to save 2 people. Now, that might not seem too stupid, considering he'd also save 8 others before meeting his demise, but the whole situa
tion is. You see, the "incident" happened at some sort of Civil Defence sort of thing, a training exercise as far as I can tell.Ten people, needing to be saved, during training? And it falls upon the shoulders of one man to do it? He's not Superman, my dear northern neighbours. He's not even Lat. The concept of lifeguards, instructors and/or safe training escapes you, I gather.
Of course, the same country also built a bridge to nowhere recently, so I guess it's only natural. For those who don't know, Malaysia and Singapore are connected by two causeways, the first being the aptly-named "Causeway" and the second link equally originally titled, "The Second Link". Apparently Malaysian authorities took it upon themselves to create a third bridge of sorts, perhaps aiming to replace the "evil" Causeway which apparently hinders economic growth of the country depicted in such blockbusters as Entrapment and Zoolander (I really enjoyed Zoolander).
So they built a bridge. And then asked that Singapore comply and join it up from our end.
scoff
–verb (used without object)
1.
to speak derisively; mock; jeer (often fol. by at): If you can't do any better, don't scoff. Their efforts toward a peaceful settlement are not to be scoffed at. –verb (used with object)
2.
to mock at; deride. –noun
3.
an expression of mockery, derision, doubt, or derisive scorn; jeer.
4.
an object of mockery or derision
That's from dictionary.reference.com, very useful.
Suffice to say, they now have a half-bridge.
So I'll leave you pondering the profoundness of my ranting with this simple quote from my brother.
"Wow, dogs eat meat?"
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Hair
Everyone has hair. If not on their heads, then on other parts of the body. And yes, I do realise that shaving is a viable option for some people (or couples...) but that's not my concern. At least not right now.
I've always had short hair. OK, there was a period of time where it grew to cover my eyes, but it was only for a few weeks. I like having short hair. Or at least non-long hair. Have a preference for a rather spiky look, which, admittedly, doesn't always come off the way I envision it but it usually works.
One time Khadi told me I had "sexy hair". But that was when it wasn't syled up at all, so... I dunno.
I like girls with long hair, more or less a prerequisite for me to look twice at them (or once, if at all). Only on rare occasions do I even think for a second that short hair actually works on a girl. The winner of one season of America's Next Top Model would be a good example for an exception to the rule. Zahrah, unfortunately, does not fall into that same category. As Erfen and a few others so eloquently put it, "You look like a very pretty boy."
In addition to the length of hair, curls and/or wavy hair adds more brownie points to the general look of a girl, in my humble opinon. I'm still trying to convince Khadi NOT to straighten her curly hair. If some of you don't know or remember, it was straight before this more glam look.
Fazlee had a pseudo-mullet. I stress had because he did the right thing and had it killed. For the past year or so, he hasn't had a haircut, other than trimming the back a little a few months back. He had even considered a hairband for a time, but decided against one because my sister's ones were "too girly". I'd hate to break it to you, dear brother, but our sister isn't exactly one for tomboyish looks. At least nowadays. Now he's got the "army" look.
Alot of people have a tendency to look semi-good with little or no hair. Francesco Totti and David Beckham don't look too bad. Michael Scofield from Prison Break or the guy from One Tree Hill don't look like complete retards either. I'm not saying Fazlee looks like a moron with his current hair (or lack thereof), but if he wanted the look, he could have looked at this.
Anyway, everyone has their own opinions on hair. Some like it long, other like it short. Light, dark, curly, straight. Dry, frizzy, slick, shiny, whatever. Make your own calls.
I've always had short hair. OK, there was a period of time where it grew to cover my eyes, but it was only for a few weeks. I like having short hair. Or at least non-long hair. Have a preference for a rather spiky look, which, admittedly, doesn't always come off the way I envision it but it usually works.
One time Khadi told me I had "sexy hair". But that was when it wasn't syled up at all, so... I dunno.
I like girls with long hair, more or less a prerequisite for me to look twice at them (or once, if at all). Only on rare occasions do I even think for a second that short hair actually works on a girl. The winner of one season of America's Next Top Model would be a good example for an exception to the rule. Zahrah, unfortunately, does not fall into that same category. As Erfen and a few others so eloquently put it, "You look like a very pretty boy."
In addition to the length of hair, curls and/or wavy hair adds more brownie points to the general look of a girl, in my humble opinon. I'm still trying to convince Khadi NOT to straighten her curly hair. If some of you don't know or remember, it was straight before this more glam look.
Fazlee had a pseudo-mullet. I stress had because he did the right thing and had it killed. For the past year or so, he hasn't had a haircut, other than trimming the back a little a few months back. He had even considered a hairband for a time, but decided against one because my sister's ones were "too girly". I'd hate to break it to you, dear brother, but our sister isn't exactly one for tomboyish looks. At least nowadays. Now he's got the "army" look.
Alot of people have a tendency to look semi-good with little or no hair. Francesco Totti and David Beckham don't look too bad. Michael Scofield from Prison Break or the guy from One Tree Hill don't look like complete retards either. I'm not saying Fazlee looks like a moron with his current hair (or lack thereof), but if he wanted the look, he could have looked at this.
Anyway, everyone has their own opinions on hair. Some like it long, other like it short. Light, dark, curly, straight. Dry, frizzy, slick, shiny, whatever. Make your own calls.
Monday, November 06, 2006
The Aftermath
They came, they saw, they... ate.
Went pretty good I guess, sandwiched between impulsive phonecalls from hyperactive aunts who are convinced that this meeting of the minds is a herald for a grand wedding sometime soon.
Well, it won't be sometime soon, but it'll be grand. Or so I'm told.
Anyway, they arrived under cover of darkness, bedecked in hues of gold and green. And a pen through a shirt-collar. A feast awaited and the guests dined atop the wood and marble. I hope they liked the murtabak.
Enough with the dramatics, it went well, if a bit one-sided. But then, what can I contribute to the conversation when the topic is of rumoured embezzlement and laundering within certain religious organisations? Was I supposed to just go "Hmm, yes. I see your point." or something?
Actually, that really was the bulk of my side of the talking, but still, laughter and smiles from your (not so) soon-to-be father-in-law on your first real meeting would be a good sign eh?
All good, and I'm still getting "So, how do your in-laws love you?" from all sides, and while the L-word wouldn't be suitably-placed in that context, at least it started off on the right foot.
Plus, I got a new cat (OK, kitten) though she's having some problems settling in...
Went pretty good I guess, sandwiched between impulsive phonecalls from hyperactive aunts who are convinced that this meeting of the minds is a herald for a grand wedding sometime soon.
Well, it won't be sometime soon, but it'll be grand. Or so I'm told.
Anyway, they arrived under cover of darkness, bedecked in hues of gold and green. And a pen through a shirt-collar. A feast awaited and the guests dined atop the wood and marble. I hope they liked the murtabak.
Enough with the dramatics, it went well, if a bit one-sided. But then, what can I contribute to the conversation when the topic is of rumoured embezzlement and laundering within certain religious organisations? Was I supposed to just go "Hmm, yes. I see your point." or something?
Actually, that really was the bulk of my side of the talking, but still, laughter and smiles from your (not so) soon-to-be father-in-law on your first real meeting would be a good sign eh?
All good, and I'm still getting "So, how do your in-laws love you?" from all sides, and while the L-word wouldn't be suitably-placed in that context, at least it started off on the right foot.
Plus, I got a new cat (OK, kitten) though she's having some problems settling in...
Friday, November 03, 2006
Sleepers
In 1973, Woody Allen released "Sleeper", a love story about two people who hate each other, 200 years into the future.
"Sleeper" was also the name of a British band in the 1990's, a type of fish, a chokehold and a kind of railway car.
I'll focus on the last definition, tweaking it slightly.
As I mentioned before, I often make use of the generally excellent public transport system here in Singapore, with little or no complaint on most days, other than the odd maniacal cab-driver or late bus.
But, I get annoyed (very easily in most cases...) when someone infringes on my "personal space" in a bus or train. I don't usually have an aversion to human contact, and I'm not anti-social on most days, except for my urge to kick babies I guess.
Anyway, what irks me is how some people love to sleep on the bus or train (the bus, predominantly) and lean on you. Now, sleeping on a bus in itself isn't a bad thing. I used to sleep on buses everyday. But yeah, leaning.
It's inconsiderate, to say the least, when someone is trying to get from Point A to Point B and someone he/she is unfortunate enough to sit beside decides that their shoulder is doing a brilliant impersonation of their bedroom pillow.
Let's not even get started on those who drool too.
Here's what I tend to do when I get on a bus.
-Get a seat near the back doors.
-Sit by the window
-Keep an eye out for anyone who might sleep beside me and lean on me
If the third point (sadly) occurs in its entirety, I'd be forced to carry through with the sure-fire way of making sure they only rest on me once.
A good hard shove. Into the isle.
Works every time.
Try it!
"Sleeper" was also the name of a British band in the 1990's, a type of fish, a chokehold and a kind of railway car.
I'll focus on the last definition, tweaking it slightly.
As I mentioned before, I often make use of the generally excellent public transport system here in Singapore, with little or no complaint on most days, other than the odd maniacal cab-driver or late bus.
But, I get annoyed (very easily in most cases...) when someone infringes on my "personal space" in a bus or train. I don't usually have an aversion to human contact, and I'm not anti-social on most days, except for my urge to kick babies I guess.
Anyway, what irks me is how some people love to sleep on the bus or train (the bus, predominantly) and lean on you. Now, sleeping on a bus in itself isn't a bad thing. I used to sleep on buses everyday. But yeah, leaning.
It's inconsiderate, to say the least, when someone is trying to get from Point A to Point B and someone he/she is unfortunate enough to sit beside decides that their shoulder is doing a brilliant impersonation of their bedroom pillow.
Let's not even get started on those who drool too.
Here's what I tend to do when I get on a bus.
-Get a seat near the back doors.
-Sit by the window
-Keep an eye out for anyone who might sleep beside me and lean on me
If the third point (sadly) occurs in its entirety, I'd be forced to carry through with the sure-fire way of making sure they only rest on me once.
A good hard shove. Into the isle.
Works every time.
Try it!
Monday, October 30, 2006
Worlds Collide
4th Novemeber 2006.
This weekend.
Her folks and mine, or at least the possibility of a meeting.
Well, considering we've been together for five and a half years, and are "practically married" as some of you accuse, it's kinda weird that our parents have never met eh?
Khadi thinks her folks won't be too keen on coming, but you never know. I've met her dad once, never actually spoken to him. Her mom seems to like giving me food and comparing me to something which I won't repeat here for fear or ridicule.
My parents are (thankfully) very accepting of Khadi, though she insists that she does things to piss them off, and thus checks on her "status" with me and my sis from time to time (read: every chance she gets). She's also very motivated to be the "favourite" significant other, and it's really very funny, the way she compares some things.
Still, this weekend would probably be good. Lots of people, food, Prison Break, laughter, money exchanging hands, old friends meeting up for the first time in years in some cases.
If all else fails, I guess her dad could talk to my uncle about badminton...
This weekend.
Her folks and mine, or at least the possibility of a meeting.
Well, considering we've been together for five and a half years, and are "practically married" as some of you accuse, it's kinda weird that our parents have never met eh?
Khadi thinks her folks won't be too keen on coming, but you never know. I've met her dad once, never actually spoken to him. Her mom seems to like giving me food and comparing me to something which I won't repeat here for fear or ridicule.
My parents are (thankfully) very accepting of Khadi, though she insists that she does things to piss them off, and thus checks on her "status" with me and my sis from time to time (read: every chance she gets). She's also very motivated to be the "favourite" significant other, and it's really very funny, the way she compares some things.
Still, this weekend would probably be good. Lots of people, food, Prison Break, laughter, money exchanging hands, old friends meeting up for the first time in years in some cases.
If all else fails, I guess her dad could talk to my uncle about badminton...
Thursday, October 26, 2006
So...
Hypothetical question/scenario here, give me your feedback.
A girl, who I'll call A, has been with her boyfriend, who I'll call H, for a while now. They seem really happy with one another, getting over their age gap, H sneaking into her home for some hanky panky and what-not now and then and again and again. Doing things that people in love do, you know?
So, anyway, A has a "good friend" who she's known for longer than she's known H. And as some of you might have already figured "The friend must be a guy." Yes, you're right. THE FRIEND is indeed a guy.
So, A and H, happy couple right? Wrong. Well, Right, but not totally, or something. Apparently H isn't happy that A is spending too much time with THE FRIEND or something along those lines.
Now, some of you might think "Wait a minute, he's bloody insecure and/or possessive!" but then you're probably a girl. Most guys would think that H has got a point. How'd you feel if your girl was hanging out with another guy alot, going out with him ("But we just go out to eat and stuff!"), taking a ride with him (car ride), etc. Just A and THE FRIEND, one on one.
Personally, I think that there are very few cases where a guy and girl can be totally, 100% platonic. In most cases, it's because the guy is already attached to someone he rates higher than the girl. That might sound crass and really crude, but hey, alot would agree (no offense to all my female friends though...).
It's natural for a guy to try and woo a girl. Look at the animal world. Males try to bang as many females as they can in as little time as possible. Females tend to sift through the crowd, looking for what's in their best interest. It's fact. Sad, but true.
Now, translate that to what's happening between A, H and THE FRIEND, and what do you get?
Yeah. A pretty f*cked up situation where the girl is all "don't worry, nothing's going to happen" and the guy is like "but I don't want you to see him alone anymore, I think he likes you" and THE FRIEND is probably like "holy shit, I think she likes me."
Feedback.
A girl, who I'll call A, has been with her boyfriend, who I'll call H, for a while now. They seem really happy with one another, getting over their age gap, H sneaking into her home for some hanky panky and what-not now and then and again and again. Doing things that people in love do, you know?
So, anyway, A has a "good friend" who she's known for longer than she's known H. And as some of you might have already figured "The friend must be a guy." Yes, you're right. THE FRIEND is indeed a guy.
So, A and H, happy couple right? Wrong. Well, Right, but not totally, or something. Apparently H isn't happy that A is spending too much time with THE FRIEND or something along those lines.
Now, some of you might think "Wait a minute, he's bloody insecure and/or possessive!" but then you're probably a girl. Most guys would think that H has got a point. How'd you feel if your girl was hanging out with another guy alot, going out with him ("But we just go out to eat and stuff!"), taking a ride with him (car ride), etc. Just A and THE FRIEND, one on one.
Personally, I think that there are very few cases where a guy and girl can be totally, 100% platonic. In most cases, it's because the guy is already attached to someone he rates higher than the girl. That might sound crass and really crude, but hey, alot would agree (no offense to all my female friends though...).
It's natural for a guy to try and woo a girl. Look at the animal world. Males try to bang as many females as they can in as little time as possible. Females tend to sift through the crowd, looking for what's in their best interest. It's fact. Sad, but true.
Now, translate that to what's happening between A, H and THE FRIEND, and what do you get?
Yeah. A pretty f*cked up situation where the girl is all "don't worry, nothing's going to happen" and the guy is like "but I don't want you to see him alone anymore, I think he likes you" and THE FRIEND is probably like "holy shit, I think she likes me."
Feedback.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Dun Dun Dun
That was supposed to be dramatic music.
So, I haven't written here in a while...
I've been busy, you know? Lots of things to take care of and... well, not really. Lack of any real topic to be honest. Heh.
It's Hari Raya today. What's that? Well, for one thing, it's the day I get lots of cash.
Hari Raya Aidilfitri, today, is one of the two big events celebrated by Muslims across the world. There are others too, but I don't really know much about them so I'll just say two. Shush.
We've all been fasting for a month, as I mentioned earlier, and now, we riot!
I mean celebrate. Yeah, that's it.
Spent most of today visiting people, hugging grandma's, looking dashin, same old same old. Got me a nice wad of cash too. Pimpin ain't easy you know. Unrelated, but I felt it had to be said.
So, I haven't written here in a while...
I've been busy, you know? Lots of things to take care of and... well, not really. Lack of any real topic to be honest. Heh.
It's Hari Raya today. What's that? Well, for one thing, it's the day I get lots of cash.
Hari Raya Aidilfitri, today, is one of the two big events celebrated by Muslims across the world. There are others too, but I don't really know much about them so I'll just say two. Shush.
We've all been fasting for a month, as I mentioned earlier, and now, we riot!
I mean celebrate. Yeah, that's it.
Spent most of today visiting people, hugging grandma's, looking dashin, same old same old. Got me a nice wad of cash too. Pimpin ain't easy you know. Unrelated, but I felt it had to be said.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
The Trainman
Today, like most everyday when I go to and from school, I took the train. Yeah, I don't drive. Working on it. But that isn't the point.
Singaporeans can be proud of their public transport system. At least, the MRT. I've been to Britain and Germany, where they boast "impressive" public trains for intra-city travel, and quite frankly... I'm sorry Europe, but you suck, for lack of a better word.
Well, maybe only in comparison to Singapore, at least. Now, I'm no patriot. I hate how Singapore is rather dull and routine. Life in Singapore is often mundane at best, and even "breaking news" is mediocre on a good day.
Good evening, Singapore. Our top story today, Prime Minister Lee Hsien Long visits Aljunied GRC. In other news, the national football team lost again to The Association of BLind Paraplegics...
But I digress. As I was saying, I was on the train today, and like most any day, a series of unfortunate events befell your friendly neighbourhood Naz.
Firstly, I was fleetfooted enough to procure myself a seat. Yay. No yay. On the right, a rather large woman. What kind of large? Well. The happily-coloured plastic seats are all joined, right? With those bum-shaped indentations to regulate passenger seating arrangements. She was intruding in my personal space.
If that wasn't enough, the guy on my left was a sleeper. Now, I once launched a rather long and fairly humourous tirade against "sleepers" on the bus and/or train (and I might revisit that in the future...), but this one takes the cake.
He looked like a bum. Dirty striped shirt, half-unbuttoned. Dirtier fingernails. Long fingernails. Patches of hair that were alternating between invisible and out-of-control. Shorts. Broken sandals. Veins.
Now, some of you might argue that "Hey Naz, you aren't quite the fashionista yourself!" but I don't smell of beer.
Which is what this charming fellow did. Very well. I hate the smell of beer. On people. Not wielding a glass. In public. In close proximity.
So in between Drew Carrey's sister and Mr Tiger Beer, I remained seated, because as much as it pained me (a combination of breath-holding and contorting of my extremities), the scene in front of me was one out of a porn flick. From HELL.
Two middle aged (and I'm being generous) Chinese men, holding the hands of two rather skinny Chinese girls. Against their fruit packages. Take a moment to envision that, folks. I had almost a full half-hour to try and not notice.
On a somewhat-related note, why is it that in Singapore, nearly every instance of Paedophilic Displays of Affection occur between members of our large Chinese community? Ok, I get that being the largest racial group would statistically increase the likelyhood of one such as myself catching an unwanted peepshow on the train, but that's just not right. I don't see some old Pak Cik or some old Indian fella doing the same thing. Oh well. No offence, Chinese dudes and dudettes, but is that why China has a billion people? Eh?
So, there I was. Stuck between a drunk and a soft place. Being mentally tortured by the twin visions of poor public porn. Sigh.
Some poor chap dropped his strangely heavy wallet on my shoe as well. And I was gracious enough to point out to the oblivious fellow. But we all knows good deeds are overrated anyway.
Sigh. Only on a Singapore train.
Singaporeans can be proud of their public transport system. At least, the MRT. I've been to Britain and Germany, where they boast "impressive" public trains for intra-city travel, and quite frankly... I'm sorry Europe, but you suck, for lack of a better word.
Well, maybe only in comparison to Singapore, at least. Now, I'm no patriot. I hate how Singapore is rather dull and routine. Life in Singapore is often mundane at best, and even "breaking news" is mediocre on a good day.
Good evening, Singapore. Our top story today, Prime Minister Lee Hsien Long visits Aljunied GRC. In other news, the national football team lost again to The Association of BLind Paraplegics...
But I digress. As I was saying, I was on the train today, and like most any day, a series of unfortunate events befell your friendly neighbourhood Naz.
Firstly, I was fleetfooted enough to procure myself a seat. Yay. No yay. On the right, a rather large woman. What kind of large? Well. The happily-coloured plastic seats are all joined, right? With those bum-shaped indentations to regulate passenger seating arrangements. She was intruding in my personal space.
If that wasn't enough, the guy on my left was a sleeper. Now, I once launched a rather long and fairly humourous tirade against "sleepers" on the bus and/or train (and I might revisit that in the future...), but this one takes the cake.
He looked like a bum. Dirty striped shirt, half-unbuttoned. Dirtier fingernails. Long fingernails. Patches of hair that were alternating between invisible and out-of-control. Shorts. Broken sandals. Veins.
Now, some of you might argue that "Hey Naz, you aren't quite the fashionista yourself!" but I don't smell of beer.
Which is what this charming fellow did. Very well. I hate the smell of beer. On people. Not wielding a glass. In public. In close proximity.
So in between Drew Carrey's sister and Mr Tiger Beer, I remained seated, because as much as it pained me (a combination of breath-holding and contorting of my extremities), the scene in front of me was one out of a porn flick. From HELL.
Two middle aged (and I'm being generous) Chinese men, holding the hands of two rather skinny Chinese girls. Against their fruit packages. Take a moment to envision that, folks. I had almost a full half-hour to try and not notice.
On a somewhat-related note, why is it that in Singapore, nearly every instance of Paedophilic Displays of Affection occur between members of our large Chinese community? Ok, I get that being the largest racial group would statistically increase the likelyhood of one such as myself catching an unwanted peepshow on the train, but that's just not right. I don't see some old Pak Cik or some old Indian fella doing the same thing. Oh well. No offence, Chinese dudes and dudettes, but is that why China has a billion people? Eh?
So, there I was. Stuck between a drunk and a soft place. Being mentally tortured by the twin visions of poor public porn. Sigh.
Some poor chap dropped his strangely heavy wallet on my shoe as well. And I was gracious enough to point out to the oblivious fellow. But we all knows good deeds are overrated anyway.
Sigh. Only on a Singapore train.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Home Away From Home
Alot of you reading this would be familiar with the experience of living away from home for an extended period of time. Guys, NS would have forced that upon you, and as for the rest, well, I dunno.
Khadi's in University. But she's been there for over a year now. Enrolled there, at least. But right now, at time of writing, she's in the University. Yeah, staying in a dorm/hall or whatever you want to call it.
It's a big step for her, since she's blatantly close to her family ("I think I'll miss my sister...") and being away from them for three or four days would be a major change. But, of course, she's in the same hall with "Her Besh Fren" Aisyah, so I guess it'll be easier, in that sense.
And, as Aisyah did so eloquently confess in her blog (Link on the right), the two of them are going to raise hell. So much for an education eh?
But I jest, I know the two of them will be studying hard, almost as hard as they party, of course. I can only wonder what will become of Wednesday nights when Khadi doesn't actually have to go home.
Not seeing her as much is going to be hard. I know, some people ask "Oh my god! You've been with her for five years and see her like every other day! Aren't you sick of her?"
And I say No. Hell, if you want to marry someone (and I do want to marry her so), you're going to see him/her everyday anyway. If you can't deal with that right now, you either aren't as mature or advanced (relationship-wise) as some others, or need to take a look at your relationship proper.
Note: I do realise there are folk who love each other enormously but don't talk to/see each other everyday and are quite adamant about their supremacy. To them, I say "Good for you." Everyone's entitled to my opinion.
But back to Khadi, I will miss her. Of course, I'll speak to her (several times) everyday and the wonders of modern technology allow me to deliver my sweet words of lurve to her every five minutes, or (more realistically) when I can think them up. And when she isn't too busy to read them. Hooray for romance.
Some people say (and repeat endlessly) that you don't know what you got till it's gone. Now, I abhor cliches, but this one is particularly poingant right now. It's her first night in the University Hall (other than candid sleepovers after a semi-wild night out...), and I'm sure it's a big test for her.
But I've got every faith in my girl, and she wants to learn to be independant, if only for a semester, and she'll be fine. Great. Study hard, party hard. As usual.
Ah well, Yo Momma is on, and we all know that spewing gibberish will always take a back seat to strangers badmouthing each other.
I keed.
But really, Yo Momma is on now.
Love you babe.
Khadi's in University. But she's been there for over a year now. Enrolled there, at least. But right now, at time of writing, she's in the University. Yeah, staying in a dorm/hall or whatever you want to call it.
It's a big step for her, since she's blatantly close to her family ("I think I'll miss my sister...") and being away from them for three or four days would be a major change. But, of course, she's in the same hall with "Her Besh Fren" Aisyah, so I guess it'll be easier, in that sense.
And, as Aisyah did so eloquently confess in her blog (Link on the right), the two of them are going to raise hell. So much for an education eh?
But I jest, I know the two of them will be studying hard, almost as hard as they party, of course. I can only wonder what will become of Wednesday nights when Khadi doesn't actually have to go home.
Not seeing her as much is going to be hard. I know, some people ask "Oh my god! You've been with her for five years and see her like every other day! Aren't you sick of her?"
And I say No. Hell, if you want to marry someone (and I do want to marry her so), you're going to see him/her everyday anyway. If you can't deal with that right now, you either aren't as mature or advanced (relationship-wise) as some others, or need to take a look at your relationship proper.
Note: I do realise there are folk who love each other enormously but don't talk to/see each other everyday and are quite adamant about their supremacy. To them, I say "Good for you." Everyone's entitled to my opinion.
But back to Khadi, I will miss her. Of course, I'll speak to her (several times) everyday and the wonders of modern technology allow me to deliver my sweet words of lurve to her every five minutes, or (more realistically) when I can think them up. And when she isn't too busy to read them. Hooray for romance.
Some people say (and repeat endlessly) that you don't know what you got till it's gone. Now, I abhor cliches, but this one is particularly poingant right now. It's her first night in the University Hall (other than candid sleepovers after a semi-wild night out...), and I'm sure it's a big test for her.
But I've got every faith in my girl, and she wants to learn to be independant, if only for a semester, and she'll be fine. Great. Study hard, party hard. As usual.
Ah well, Yo Momma is on, and we all know that spewing gibberish will always take a back seat to strangers badmouthing each other.
I keed.
But really, Yo Momma is on now.
Love you babe.
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