I'm sure many of you have heard of the tragedy that has befallen the Benoit family, and if you haven't, you really need to pick up a newspaper or something. Like RVD has said on his personal website, it's really rare for a baby-killer to have so many people talking about how great a guy he is, and certain recent events have been quite strange.
A few people have discovered that the Wikipedia entry on Chris Benoit was edited about 14 hours before the discovery of the bodies of him and his family. This edit stated that Benoit no-showed a particular WWE event due to the tragic death of his wife, Nancy.
Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but Hiro, Cable and Marty don't really exist.
Together with Fox News trying to link the apparent murder-suicide to Sherri Martel's demise, it's quite a sickening media circus. But we all know about Fox, don't we? Paragons of fairness and journalistic excellence.
OK, jokes aside, I just hope this gets cleraed up pretty soon. Chris Benoit has never impacted my life profoundly, he's never known I've existed, but he's still a legend in my eyes, and I need to get back to the essay I've supposed to have finished a while ago.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Thursday, June 28, 2007
More Than Meets The Eye
"It's just you and me, Megatron."
"No, it will only be me."
"One shall stand, one shall fall."
I'm a Transformers fanboy. I admit it. And when I heard that in the 2007 movie, I almost wet myself. Classic quotes. For. The. Win.
After the disappointments of Pirates of the Carribean, X-Men 3 and Spiderman 3 and the less than fantastic Rise of the Silver Surfer, I had braced myself for a repeat of Alien vs Predator. Well, maybe not so. Nothing could have matched the crapfest that was AVP.
About 150 minutes after walking into the theatre, though, I exited with a smile. And not because it was over. Oh no. It's just that it's been such a long time since I watched a movie that had got me buzzing so much. Totally the best movie this year other than 300.
Only one complaint, of course. The weird fact that the Autobots and Decepticons both used a variety of ballistic and projectile weapons, not the traditional lasers that so many of us are more familar with (and make more sense, if you think about it).
I'm so hoping for a sequal, though I won't discuss what I hope is in it (yet) for fear of spoilers.
Still, the movie could have only been better if they had included but one more quote, from Megatron to Optimus.
"I'll rip out your optics!!!"
PS: No, I didn't watch it for Megan Fox. Prime was waaaaaaaay hotter than her anyway.
"No, it will only be me."
"One shall stand, one shall fall."
I'm a Transformers fanboy. I admit it. And when I heard that in the 2007 movie, I almost wet myself. Classic quotes. For. The. Win.
After the disappointments of Pirates of the Carribean, X-Men 3 and Spiderman 3 and the less than fantastic Rise of the Silver Surfer, I had braced myself for a repeat of Alien vs Predator. Well, maybe not so. Nothing could have matched the crapfest that was AVP.
About 150 minutes after walking into the theatre, though, I exited with a smile. And not because it was over. Oh no. It's just that it's been such a long time since I watched a movie that had got me buzzing so much. Totally the best movie this year other than 300.
Only one complaint, of course. The weird fact that the Autobots and Decepticons both used a variety of ballistic and projectile weapons, not the traditional lasers that so many of us are more familar with (and make more sense, if you think about it).
I'm so hoping for a sequal, though I won't discuss what I hope is in it (yet) for fear of spoilers.
Still, the movie could have only been better if they had included but one more quote, from Megatron to Optimus.
"I'll rip out your optics!!!"
PS: No, I didn't watch it for Megan Fox. Prime was waaaaaaaay hotter than her anyway.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Eh...
Well, I usually don't have too much sympathy for those who've murdered their loved ones, but he was still one of my favourites.
I considered taking down my last post, but it'll stay up for now.
I considered taking down my last post, but it'll stay up for now.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
The Wolverine
I got home today, and went to check out what's been going on in the make-believe world of the WWE. And saw something truly shocking.
Benoit is gone.
It seemed only recent that Eddie Guerrero passed on, and now another one of my favourites has heard his final bell.
I remember the first time I saw Chris Benoit on TV on the (now-defunct) WCW. He was up against Dean Malenko, and it was a brilliant mat-based style wrestling-match. After years of growing bored watching repetitive kicks and punches and the occasional zombie, this match reminded me of Bret Hart, and how I used to love watching him counter the baddies like Diesel and Shawn Michaels.
Till this day, I'll credit Benoit for really introducing me to the technical side of wrestling, which has in turn led to my intrest in MMA and UFC. Of course, there will be those among you who will merely say "Naz, it was wrestling. It's fake." And to those people, I'll repeat what I said before: That's not the point.
Not much more I can say about him really; I was never fortunate enough to meet the man, and with him gone and Kennedy moved to Raw, CM Punk is my only motivation for even briefly considering shelling out some cash for the Summerslam tour coming up.
Rest in peace, Chris Benoit.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Same Crap, Different Name
Yeah, I changed the name of this place. I never really liked what it as called in the first place, and this one seems off too. Open for any suggestions.
Go.
Go.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Video Games
Video games have come a long way since their humble beginnings of Pac-Man and Mario. In this day and age, it is not uncommon for video games to possess special effects rivaling even Hollywood cinema. As such, there has been a rising level of “realism” that more and more games have come to embrace, and that the audience has come to expect. In correlation, some have argued that this level of realism in violent games such as Grand Theft Auto, Mortal Kombat and Doom is a direct and major contributing factor in the rise of societal violence, criminal or otherwise; a notion that is, quite frankly, absurd.
Many are quick to point out the violent lifestyles that certain games seem to condone and encourage in its players. Take, for example, the immensely popular Grand Theft Auto series by Rockstar games. In these games, players assume the role of several characters, usually portrayed as a typical “thug” made familiar by Western media. The goals of the game(s) usually centre on stealing cars and killing all who stand in your way. While this might seem anti-social at best, the argument here is similar to the “Silver Bullet” or “Hypodermic Needle” theories whereby any message transmitted by a source is received and absorbed by its audience without question. There is, however, a rather large assumption made for this theory to be accurate; namely that the audience is passive and interpret the information or message in a uniform way.
In reality, however, people are not passive and homogeneous in their interpretation and reaction to a message. Incidents of a lone Korean gunman mowing down schoolmates after playing certain games or two adolescents who drag toddlers in an imitation of Death Race are not representative of the much larger audience. They are merely isolated events, similar to how some can go their whole lives smoking ten cigars a day without succumbing to lung cancer. It is unfair to assume that because such acts were in some way or shape related to video games, those very games are the root cause of such violence. Not everyone grabs the nearest chainsaw to eviscerate their neighbour after completing Doom, not everyone attacks scientists and soldiers with a crowbar or wrench after installing Half-Life and not everyone kicks adjacent bikers into incoming traffic ala Road Rash. Most people simply put down the joystick and get on with their (non-violent) lives.
One might also view this issue by taking a step back from what is actually being reported and represented. While the relative ratio of violent to non-violent video games has been increasing in correlation to rising societal violence, one might also argue (more forcefully, it would seem) that the only reason for such a phenomenon is that video game producers are only giving the public what they want. Violence and violent video games are both on the rise, but is the former attributed to the latter? Hollywood cinema churns out blockbuster after blockbuster, and nearly every single one of them has aspects of violence brazenly displayed. In fact, fight, chase and action sequences of gory punches, high-speed crashes and loud explosions are usually the selling point of many movies in recent memory. Disney’s hugely-popular Pirates of the Caribbean franchise has countless scenes of death and fighting, many of which can be argued to be excessive, at best. Even Toy Story, also released by Disney, and targeted at a young audience, allows its main characters the use of guns and violence. In the opening half-hour of the movie, viewers can already see “Woody” dealing with the “bad guys” by using his imaginary guns. Other “kiddy” movies like Finding Nemo also have their own violent aspects. Classic Saturday-morning cartoons like Tom & Jerry or Road Runner have also been found to be at least as (if not more) violent than traditionally “violent” programs like televised professional wrestling events. Even in music, violence is condoned, if not applauded. Popular country trio The Dixie Chicks released the song Goodbye Earl, which was about a pair of women poisoning one of their husbands. Other acts such as Eminem and Story of the Year similarly address issues like vehicular homicide and strangling a loved one (in Stan and Until the Day I Die respectively). With so much violence and aggression in the air around us, how can video games be a major factor in this rise in violence in our society? If our societal climate is evolving (or degenerating) into a violent one, would it surprising at all that more and more people play violent video games?
Modern day video games are violent. This violence has existed almost as long as Pong has blipped across minds of gamers. The Jedi Knight series released by Lucas Arts, modeled after the epic Star Wars saga, allows its player to dismember enemies. In Battlefield 2 by Electronic Arts, gamers may fire round after round into hostile soldiers, watching blood spurt from their many wounds. The Mortal Kombat series released by Midway, still going strong, has allowed its fans the glory of virtual death via acid and the ability to rip the arms off unfortunate opponents. Unreal Tournament and Quake encourage their best players to take the heads from lesser warriors. Even in pixellated Wolfenstein 3D, players could kill their “German” captors in the comfort of Windows 3.1. But gamers are people and not merely passive subjects moulded by any one form of media or entertainment. In addition, many more people watch movies, cartoons and MTV which can be said to be more violent than video games by leaps and bounds. Can mere video games be a major cause of the rise of societal violence? Absurd.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Foul-Mouthed Buffoonery
"Check this out..."
"Holy shit, dude that's not a guy!"
"Bro, that man has boobs!"
Now, a few people might have found the afore-mentioned bits of conversation slightly familiar, and have since given me some food for thought. A nasty (not nazty) habit, most of us have been guilty of talkig behind someone else's back at one point or another in the course of your adolescent (or even later) lives.
A long time ago, I learnt of someone who's been badmouthing the members of my household with little regard to the validity of his claims or even his audience. Truly, when you learn that a the significant other of the colleague of the significant other of someone who lives at my address was filled in on the apparent shortcomings of the family at No. 33, it does rattle the cage somewhat, so to speak.
It's not the first time such a thing has happened, and it probably won't be the last; far from it. The particular tattle-tale, who I'll call Anansi (look it up), apparently enjoys embellishing his reports of my family being stingy, uptight and arrogaant pricks.
Now, I'm no Momma's boy, but I can say we aren't uptight. Well, most of us at least.
Back to the point, though, I guess everyone has badmouthed someone. It's an incorrigible habit, but it's something widespread. Sort of like farting. Everyone does it, you just don't know of it, but the stink gets around and you can't figure out where it started from.
Well, I'm a little less annoyed with what I was from my last entry, and I'm hoping that someone lends me some good books to read. I know I'm supposed be lending Silence of the Lambs and The Hunter's Blades to people I know, so someone please save me.
And stop talking behind my back.
"Holy shit, dude that's not a guy!"
"Bro, that man has boobs!"
Now, a few people might have found the afore-mentioned bits of conversation slightly familiar, and have since given me some food for thought. A nasty (not nazty) habit, most of us have been guilty of talkig behind someone else's back at one point or another in the course of your adolescent (or even later) lives.
A long time ago, I learnt of someone who's been badmouthing the members of my household with little regard to the validity of his claims or even his audience. Truly, when you learn that a the significant other of the colleague of the significant other of someone who lives at my address was filled in on the apparent shortcomings of the family at No. 33, it does rattle the cage somewhat, so to speak.
It's not the first time such a thing has happened, and it probably won't be the last; far from it. The particular tattle-tale, who I'll call Anansi (look it up), apparently enjoys embellishing his reports of my family being stingy, uptight and arrogaant pricks.
Now, I'm no Momma's boy, but I can say we aren't uptight. Well, most of us at least.
Back to the point, though, I guess everyone has badmouthed someone. It's an incorrigible habit, but it's something widespread. Sort of like farting. Everyone does it, you just don't know of it, but the stink gets around and you can't figure out where it started from.
Well, I'm a little less annoyed with what I was from my last entry, and I'm hoping that someone lends me some good books to read. I know I'm supposed be lending Silence of the Lambs and The Hunter's Blades to people I know, so someone please save me.
And stop talking behind my back.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Ah, Melancholy
There is a blue wall in my room. Just the one. The rest are white. I can't remember what colour they used to be before the renovations were done. Biege? Green? My memory has never been stupendous.
Boredom is a vile condition. An affliction made worse when one is broke. It's like being... well, it sucks.
Today I was faced with the somewhat unique situation of going home. Now, you might argue (somewhat accurately) that such an occurence is hardly a rarity, but today I had to take public transport.
Well, I've taken the public transport services in Singapore for close to ten years now, and it's mostly been great. Fairly efficient and decently priced. But after driving almost everywhere for a week, it tends to get demoralising lugging your books and other stuff in a train that resembles a moving can of sardines than anything else.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those people who insist on driving everywhere. It's just that the past week or so of driving has really been, well, a breeze. Waking up late(r) for school, getting home in under an hour, and the best part? I don't have to worry about bringing a good read to pass the time on the invariably dull train.
Sigh. Another day tomorrow, buses and trains.
Boredom is a vile condition. An affliction made worse when one is broke. It's like being... well, it sucks.
Today I was faced with the somewhat unique situation of going home. Now, you might argue (somewhat accurately) that such an occurence is hardly a rarity, but today I had to take public transport.
Well, I've taken the public transport services in Singapore for close to ten years now, and it's mostly been great. Fairly efficient and decently priced. But after driving almost everywhere for a week, it tends to get demoralising lugging your books and other stuff in a train that resembles a moving can of sardines than anything else.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those people who insist on driving everywhere. It's just that the past week or so of driving has really been, well, a breeze. Waking up late(r) for school, getting home in under an hour, and the best part? I don't have to worry about bringing a good read to pass the time on the invariably dull train.
Sigh. Another day tomorrow, buses and trains.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
The Shower Scene
The hero steps into the bathroom on a cold and gloomy night. The light flickers. Wet tiles feel grimy beneath his toes and the mirror shows him everything he doesn't want to see. Something flutters outside the window, or perhaps it was in. Too far into the edge of his vision, he shrugs it off while his eyes trail habitually to the cracked ceiling.
The square is still there. Logic tells him it is merely an access to the wiring or plumbing that supplies the bathroom with power and water, but something gnawing at the back of his psyche screams at him that no, there is something there. Something malignant, something that has been watching and waiting to spring for years and years and years. It is inevitable, and the square seems to have followed him throughout his life, in nearly every bathroom in nearly every home. Like a trapdoor to hell, only above and not under its victim.
The walls are tiled too. They reflect and refract the yellow light in eerie hues, a too many pairs of eyes in too many faces too distorted to call his own. A sound suddenly leaps from behind him, and it takes him a fraction of a heartbeat too long to realise it is only water dripping somewhere below, its descent echoed by the single drain opening. He jumps.
The chair is there. Sitting, quite obviously. Like some devilish contraption, growling and howling and moaning and drooling. As a child, the sound of it made his hair stand on end, and now he only raises an eyebrow at the memory, his fears conquered but not forgotten.
Only now are the clothes shed, piled like moulted snakeskin beside the sink. He moves towards to shower proper, and something pulls at his mind again. Something is still wrong.
He stops and turns a full circle, eyes darting, watching a hundred other pairs of eyes glance about wildly, wondering which pair would catch sight of the impending doom that is to befall him, finally.
Nothing.
The square is still closed, and it seems that if anything did emerge, it has all but disappeared again. Or it is behind him.
No.
One deep breath later, he steps into the shower, sliding the clear glass door closed behind him as he does, wincing as it wobbles shut angrily. The water is cold, but the chill he gets from knowing something is still so very wrong has got nothing to do with what is spewing and spurting from the shower head.
What is it?
In his mind, scenes from Psycho and Ju-On replay themselves over and over again. A silent killer with a shiny knife, or a disembodied hand, pale and grey. But there is no knife, and no hands except his own, of which are still empty, save for the shower head. Thankfully, the water has started to warm.
He looks above and behind him one final time, checking to see if for some strange reason the closed and locked window is not closed and locked anymore. Wouldn't want the neighbours to catch sight of more than what they bargained for when they signed the deed for a "house with a view".
And it hits him.
He can see.
He isn't supposed to be able to see. Not here. Not like that.
Almost too aghast to laugh, he steps out of the shower.
And removes his glasses.
The square is still there. Logic tells him it is merely an access to the wiring or plumbing that supplies the bathroom with power and water, but something gnawing at the back of his psyche screams at him that no, there is something there. Something malignant, something that has been watching and waiting to spring for years and years and years. It is inevitable, and the square seems to have followed him throughout his life, in nearly every bathroom in nearly every home. Like a trapdoor to hell, only above and not under its victim.
The walls are tiled too. They reflect and refract the yellow light in eerie hues, a too many pairs of eyes in too many faces too distorted to call his own. A sound suddenly leaps from behind him, and it takes him a fraction of a heartbeat too long to realise it is only water dripping somewhere below, its descent echoed by the single drain opening. He jumps.
The chair is there. Sitting, quite obviously. Like some devilish contraption, growling and howling and moaning and drooling. As a child, the sound of it made his hair stand on end, and now he only raises an eyebrow at the memory, his fears conquered but not forgotten.
Only now are the clothes shed, piled like moulted snakeskin beside the sink. He moves towards to shower proper, and something pulls at his mind again. Something is still wrong.
He stops and turns a full circle, eyes darting, watching a hundred other pairs of eyes glance about wildly, wondering which pair would catch sight of the impending doom that is to befall him, finally.
Nothing.
The square is still closed, and it seems that if anything did emerge, it has all but disappeared again. Or it is behind him.
No.
One deep breath later, he steps into the shower, sliding the clear glass door closed behind him as he does, wincing as it wobbles shut angrily. The water is cold, but the chill he gets from knowing something is still so very wrong has got nothing to do with what is spewing and spurting from the shower head.
What is it?
In his mind, scenes from Psycho and Ju-On replay themselves over and over again. A silent killer with a shiny knife, or a disembodied hand, pale and grey. But there is no knife, and no hands except his own, of which are still empty, save for the shower head. Thankfully, the water has started to warm.
He looks above and behind him one final time, checking to see if for some strange reason the closed and locked window is not closed and locked anymore. Wouldn't want the neighbours to catch sight of more than what they bargained for when they signed the deed for a "house with a view".
And it hits him.
He can see.
He isn't supposed to be able to see. Not here. Not like that.
Almost too aghast to laugh, he steps out of the shower.
And removes his glasses.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Head Scratch
Everyone's had their own "EH?!?" situation.
Like the time I sprayed chili on my windows.
I was recently made aware of a potentially big "EH?!?" situation by a friend of mine. Fairly new position for me, actually. I mean, I've had my share of weird and unimaginable scenarios, but this one blew me away.
Not in a good way, either.
Suffice it to say, I can't really elaborate on it here, to the undoubted dismay of the collected masses, so don't hold your breath. Just know that Naz is sitting here, scratching his head at the revelation.
Not in a good way, either.
It's weird, as you might well have deduced by now. A long time ago, I asked someone why people liked revealing so-called "secrets" to me. I thought it was just a passing trend that, opening up to Naz. But it seems to have come full-circle, and a few other "secrets" have made their way through whispering lips to my iPod-less ears.
Why? I don't quite know. It's not as if I'm in any position to exploit this information either. Not like I'm like that dude who got caught leaking the Coke recipe to Pepsi, or at least trying to. No, I'm just a fairly ordinary, if spectacularly modest and dazzlingly charming, guy. Sitting here, clicking through my news of Manchester United and WWE and Heroes.
And suddenly people come up to me (as much as someone can come up to you over MSN).
"Naz, Naz, I have to tell you something."
"Err, ok?"
"I mean, I have to tell someone this thing."
"Right."
And so on and so forth.
It's weird. Leaves me scratching my head.
I should charge some sort of retainer fee.
Like the time I sprayed chili on my windows.
I was recently made aware of a potentially big "EH?!?" situation by a friend of mine. Fairly new position for me, actually. I mean, I've had my share of weird and unimaginable scenarios, but this one blew me away.
Not in a good way, either.
Suffice it to say, I can't really elaborate on it here, to the undoubted dismay of the collected masses, so don't hold your breath. Just know that Naz is sitting here, scratching his head at the revelation.
Not in a good way, either.
It's weird, as you might well have deduced by now. A long time ago, I asked someone why people liked revealing so-called "secrets" to me. I thought it was just a passing trend that, opening up to Naz. But it seems to have come full-circle, and a few other "secrets" have made their way through whispering lips to my iPod-less ears.
Why? I don't quite know. It's not as if I'm in any position to exploit this information either. Not like I'm like that dude who got caught leaking the Coke recipe to Pepsi, or at least trying to. No, I'm just a fairly ordinary, if spectacularly modest and dazzlingly charming, guy. Sitting here, clicking through my news of Manchester United and WWE and Heroes.
And suddenly people come up to me (as much as someone can come up to you over MSN).
"Naz, Naz, I have to tell you something."
"Err, ok?"
"I mean, I have to tell someone this thing."
"Right."
And so on and so forth.
It's weird. Leaves me scratching my head.
I should charge some sort of retainer fee.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Chocolate Indulgence
Earlier on I posted something about the number 6. Some of you might not really get the significance of the simple digit, but I'll fill you in.I'm in love with someone. I have been for a little over 6 years now. She's always been there for me, and has always been the one who's been able to make me smile when I'm angry or upset, the one who can turn a bad day around.
I remember the day I hooked up with this particular person, it'll be a day I'll never forget for as long as I live. Looking back, it did seem a little dorky of me, what I did, but I'll keep telling myself it was all part of the mysterious charm of Naz.6th of May. Her birthday. And it happens to be the day we hooked up too. Now, you might think "Hey, that's spiffy. You don't have to get her two big gifts a year!"
But have you considered that I'd need to get her something monumental that one time? I hope I did the job this year...
Forgive me for being the less glamorous of the lot in the vast majority of the pictures I've brought myself to share to you guys here. I've never been exactly photogenic, and I don't think I ever will be. Still, a man's got to do what a man's got to do, and it was her party.Food was excellent, the parking a little cramped, and the puking almost non-existent, which was a minor miracle in itself. For which I am extremely thankful for!
So here's the final picture, and here's to remembering all the good times, and looking forward to many more.
To the girl I've loved for 6 years, and the woman I'll love forever more, I love you.
PS: To those extra-friendly guys reading this, the girls in the picture are all taken, especially the one in the middle.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
The Amazing Race
You are the last team to arrive.
But you're not eliminated, just discriminated. This isn't some reality show where groups of people try to get from Madagascar to Manhattan before the other teams. It's the other kind of race.
Nearly everyone has had their own experiences with the issue of racism. Some more than others. I'm technically an Indian, though I speak Malay and look fairly Chinese-y. Multiracial-man, I am. I won't begin telling you how many times some random person has babbled to me in Cantonese or Mandarin or Hokkein when I was younger and fairer.
Popular stand-up comedians Russel Peters and Carlos Mencia often speak of the various aspects of racism. Peters is much more tolerated by Mencia in general though, mainly because he doesn't have to scream and swear to get his point across. Others simply say it's becuase everyone hates the Mexican. Carlos Mencia is Honduran, of course.
When I was in my early teens, my class used to look forward to Physical Education (PE) lessons every week. Rather than boring runs and sit-ups, we usually managed to persuade our teacher to let us play soccer or basketball or even floorball.
"OK class, everyone here? Good. Today, we'll work on our running..."
(Groans and protests)
"OK, fine. Soccer then."
(Cheers)
"Right, teams. Chinese here, the rest, here. I'll play against the Chinese team.)
And the teacher was a Chinese dude. But it was all in good fun, and more often than not, the typical male Malay teenager is a better player than the average Chinese one at football. Basketball's a different matter, of course.
Alot of us are also familiar with the term manjan. For those who aren't, the term is kind of slang for Chinese folk. Some go as far as to extend its reach to encompass Koreans and Japanese too. Loosely translated, it can be interpreted as "yellow-skin", so you might understand how that goes.
Ah, the follies of youth. Where we had manjan vs non-manjan football games with regularity. Where curses of "You stupid manjan!" were as common as "Good afternoon, Sir."
Probably more common, come to think of it.
But I have my fair share of manj - err, I mean, Chinese friends, I think. I actually only know one other Malay guy in school actually. And yes, in case you protest, I'm Indian, but that's besides the point.
Why do people put so much emphasis on race? It's an interesting question. My father once asked me about the demographics of my class in Junior College, and when I revealed to him that there were only three "Malay" students (myself included), he promptly said "Good. You can study better."
Eh?
My dear late grandfather gave me a few words of wisdom as I was to be enlisted into the Army in 2004:
"Be careful in the army. Watch out for all the bad Chinese gangsters."
Right...
Most of us can take the odd racist joke or two. I've called a few people "damn yanks" or "bloody Aussies" and a few others. We all know racist jokes. Let's face it, racist jokes are usually the funniest kind. Besides sexually explicit ones.
Q: How do you stop a (insert random nationality here, eg Indian) from drowning?
A: Shoot him before he hits the water.
Q: How do you stop a Pakistani tank?
A: Shoot the people pushing it.
But enough of that. Most of us also have our own personal perceptions and stereotypes when dealing with members of different (or even the same) race. Only recently I was complaining to a group of friends (mostly Chinese) about the tendencies of Chinese youths to blast techno-crap from their neon Nokias, apparently basking in their ignorance of headphones. Many people in Singapore avoid certain areas at certain times because of the make-up of the crowd and the ensuing aromas that accompany it.
A friend of mine was asked a question a few days ago, and when he got it right he was to be awarded a prize. He got to choose between a cute teddy bear and a cap, and to the dismay of the females chittering amongst themselves, he chose the bear. Would you blame him, when he wears a turban? Another one of my Sikh friends once got called up in school for having long hair.
Even movies and other facets of the entertainment industry have had their own take on racism. Some more light-hearted than others, of course. If you can, catch Undercover Brother. It's better than Austin Powers. Russia has banned every single James Bond movie that I'm aware of. The Malaysian public was outraged by the portrayal of their homeland in Entrapment. Pocahontas. Harold and Kumar. The whole hip-hop genre.
I also remember the days of me being a regular patron of Yahoo pool. I had quite a run of form, and I only stopped because of a few aggravating experiences.
"ASL?"
"Oh, 16 M"
"Cool, 17 M NC"
"OK."
(After the game)
"GG man."
"Yeah, you too. Another one?"
"Sure, what's your name?"
"Naz."
"Naz?"
"Yerp, Nazreen."
"That doesn't sound very Christian."
"Well, it isn't."
"Jew?"
"No... I'm actually Muslim, Singaporean."
At which point the conversation either drifts to "Singapore? That's somewhere in Hong Kong right?" Or the alternative, which is even worse.
"Muslim? Fuck you, you fucking terrorist, burn in hell you asshole."
Stupid yanks. (Sorry!)
Are you a racist? It's an interesting question. I might feel that deep down, most of us are, to a certain extent. It's only natural, in a way. Birds of a feather, you know?
Of course, I've not really addressed the issue of racism, merely babbled again, as usual.
I'm out. And I'm Indian.
But you're not eliminated, just discriminated. This isn't some reality show where groups of people try to get from Madagascar to Manhattan before the other teams. It's the other kind of race.
Nearly everyone has had their own experiences with the issue of racism. Some more than others. I'm technically an Indian, though I speak Malay and look fairly Chinese-y. Multiracial-man, I am. I won't begin telling you how many times some random person has babbled to me in Cantonese or Mandarin or Hokkein when I was younger and fairer.
Popular stand-up comedians Russel Peters and Carlos Mencia often speak of the various aspects of racism. Peters is much more tolerated by Mencia in general though, mainly because he doesn't have to scream and swear to get his point across. Others simply say it's becuase everyone hates the Mexican. Carlos Mencia is Honduran, of course.
When I was in my early teens, my class used to look forward to Physical Education (PE) lessons every week. Rather than boring runs and sit-ups, we usually managed to persuade our teacher to let us play soccer or basketball or even floorball.
"OK class, everyone here? Good. Today, we'll work on our running..."
(Groans and protests)
"OK, fine. Soccer then."
(Cheers)
"Right, teams. Chinese here, the rest, here. I'll play against the Chinese team.)
And the teacher was a Chinese dude. But it was all in good fun, and more often than not, the typical male Malay teenager is a better player than the average Chinese one at football. Basketball's a different matter, of course.
Alot of us are also familiar with the term manjan. For those who aren't, the term is kind of slang for Chinese folk. Some go as far as to extend its reach to encompass Koreans and Japanese too. Loosely translated, it can be interpreted as "yellow-skin", so you might understand how that goes.
Ah, the follies of youth. Where we had manjan vs non-manjan football games with regularity. Where curses of "You stupid manjan!" were as common as "Good afternoon, Sir."
Probably more common, come to think of it.
But I have my fair share of manj - err, I mean, Chinese friends, I think. I actually only know one other Malay guy in school actually. And yes, in case you protest, I'm Indian, but that's besides the point.
Why do people put so much emphasis on race? It's an interesting question. My father once asked me about the demographics of my class in Junior College, and when I revealed to him that there were only three "Malay" students (myself included), he promptly said "Good. You can study better."
Eh?
My dear late grandfather gave me a few words of wisdom as I was to be enlisted into the Army in 2004:
"Be careful in the army. Watch out for all the bad Chinese gangsters."
Right...
Most of us can take the odd racist joke or two. I've called a few people "damn yanks" or "bloody Aussies" and a few others. We all know racist jokes. Let's face it, racist jokes are usually the funniest kind. Besides sexually explicit ones.
Q: How do you stop a (insert random nationality here, eg Indian) from drowning?
A: Shoot him before he hits the water.
Q: How do you stop a Pakistani tank?
A: Shoot the people pushing it.
But enough of that. Most of us also have our own personal perceptions and stereotypes when dealing with members of different (or even the same) race. Only recently I was complaining to a group of friends (mostly Chinese) about the tendencies of Chinese youths to blast techno-crap from their neon Nokias, apparently basking in their ignorance of headphones. Many people in Singapore avoid certain areas at certain times because of the make-up of the crowd and the ensuing aromas that accompany it.
A friend of mine was asked a question a few days ago, and when he got it right he was to be awarded a prize. He got to choose between a cute teddy bear and a cap, and to the dismay of the females chittering amongst themselves, he chose the bear. Would you blame him, when he wears a turban? Another one of my Sikh friends once got called up in school for having long hair.
Even movies and other facets of the entertainment industry have had their own take on racism. Some more light-hearted than others, of course. If you can, catch Undercover Brother. It's better than Austin Powers. Russia has banned every single James Bond movie that I'm aware of. The Malaysian public was outraged by the portrayal of their homeland in Entrapment. Pocahontas. Harold and Kumar. The whole hip-hop genre.
I also remember the days of me being a regular patron of Yahoo pool. I had quite a run of form, and I only stopped because of a few aggravating experiences.
"ASL?"
"Oh, 16 M"
"Cool, 17 M NC"
"OK."
(After the game)
"GG man."
"Yeah, you too. Another one?"
"Sure, what's your name?"
"Naz."
"Naz?"
"Yerp, Nazreen."
"That doesn't sound very Christian."
"Well, it isn't."
"Jew?"
"No... I'm actually Muslim, Singaporean."
At which point the conversation either drifts to "Singapore? That's somewhere in Hong Kong right?" Or the alternative, which is even worse.
"Muslim? Fuck you, you fucking terrorist, burn in hell you asshole."
Stupid yanks. (Sorry!)
Are you a racist? It's an interesting question. I might feel that deep down, most of us are, to a certain extent. It's only natural, in a way. Birds of a feather, you know?
Of course, I've not really addressed the issue of racism, merely babbled again, as usual.
I'm out. And I'm Indian.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Walk The Walk
A recent study has shown that Singaporeans are one of, if not the, world's fastest walkers.
Do you walk fast?
A part of me wasn't really surprised at the announcement, which of course made for a fairly interesting read when I did catch it enbedded between the half-page ads of slimming gadgets and hair implants.
Singaporeans, if anything, are kiasu. Wikipedia defines kiasu as "the fear of losing", which is pretty accurate I guess. Menopausal housewives with jade-covered fingers can be more daunting than The Undertaker when they want to grab that last free gift. Seriously.
So is it really shocking that we are a nation of power-walkers?
Everyone here is so obsessed with coming out on top, or at least keeping up. Kids barely into their puberty are lectured by their parents when they score a measly B grade on a class test, because the kid from the Wong family next door got a B+. Hordes of students and working adults crush everyone else on our public transport systems, defying the law of displacement when they squeeze into already-crowded buses and trains. Human sardine cans.
Myself, I usually walk fairly quickly too. Some might say that I don't have the best sense of direction, so the speed of me moving can be rather confusing. I try not to listen to the doubters, I just hate being inefficient. Same goes for eating. Why spend an hour munching on fries when I can finish the fries, burger and Coke in under three minutes?
There's a flip-side, of course.
I refuse to believe that the study ranks Singapore as THE fastest walking nation. I mean, sure, alot of people here are indeed kiasu and I wouldn't bat an eyelid if I see an elderly wheelchair-bound lady whoosh past just to save a few seconds on waiting time for the next train.
But there are so many people who just don't seem to get the concept of other people.
You know what I'm talking about. The ones that take their time walking. The ones that stroll along while you're fuming behind them. The ones you glare at from behind their backs, maybe clucking your tongue every now and then in the hope that that simple act will suddenly propel them to Brunei.
Of course, I get that sometimes you walk slowly. You don't sprint through an art gallery. You don't dash through the zoo. You don't bust a gut in the library.
But neither do you imitate a sloth at the foot of an escalator. Or start shuffling instead of striding when you see something sparkly in a shop-window, leaving the unfortunate souls behind you with a rather uncomfortable close-up of your rump.
It's just weird, and another one of my pet peeves, I guess. I told you guys before (and many times since) that I abhore crowds. Shopping, parades, clubs, whatever. Crowds. Anathema.
Especially when you're trying to get somewhere fast.
Do you walk fast?
A part of me wasn't really surprised at the announcement, which of course made for a fairly interesting read when I did catch it enbedded between the half-page ads of slimming gadgets and hair implants.
Singaporeans, if anything, are kiasu. Wikipedia defines kiasu as "the fear of losing", which is pretty accurate I guess. Menopausal housewives with jade-covered fingers can be more daunting than The Undertaker when they want to grab that last free gift. Seriously.
So is it really shocking that we are a nation of power-walkers?
Everyone here is so obsessed with coming out on top, or at least keeping up. Kids barely into their puberty are lectured by their parents when they score a measly B grade on a class test, because the kid from the Wong family next door got a B+. Hordes of students and working adults crush everyone else on our public transport systems, defying the law of displacement when they squeeze into already-crowded buses and trains. Human sardine cans.
Myself, I usually walk fairly quickly too. Some might say that I don't have the best sense of direction, so the speed of me moving can be rather confusing. I try not to listen to the doubters, I just hate being inefficient. Same goes for eating. Why spend an hour munching on fries when I can finish the fries, burger and Coke in under three minutes?
There's a flip-side, of course.
I refuse to believe that the study ranks Singapore as THE fastest walking nation. I mean, sure, alot of people here are indeed kiasu and I wouldn't bat an eyelid if I see an elderly wheelchair-bound lady whoosh past just to save a few seconds on waiting time for the next train.
But there are so many people who just don't seem to get the concept of other people.
You know what I'm talking about. The ones that take their time walking. The ones that stroll along while you're fuming behind them. The ones you glare at from behind their backs, maybe clucking your tongue every now and then in the hope that that simple act will suddenly propel them to Brunei.
Of course, I get that sometimes you walk slowly. You don't sprint through an art gallery. You don't dash through the zoo. You don't bust a gut in the library.
But neither do you imitate a sloth at the foot of an escalator. Or start shuffling instead of striding when you see something sparkly in a shop-window, leaving the unfortunate souls behind you with a rather uncomfortable close-up of your rump.
It's just weird, and another one of my pet peeves, I guess. I told you guys before (and many times since) that I abhore crowds. Shopping, parades, clubs, whatever. Crowds. Anathema.
Especially when you're trying to get somewhere fast.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
6
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.
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, 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.
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