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Flu
Nose clogged. Feel like shit. Exciting update.
Somerset - Orchard
I should have obeyed the signs when I walked down the covered passage towards Somerset MRT, ie. the swell of my stomach, its minor rumblings and the tightness in my bowels, but foolishly I ignored the warnings my body was giving me and walked on. Inside, I tapped my Ezlink card and sidled beyond the station's gates as its pincers opened, and down into the belly of a waiting train I walked. As you may have guessed, the moment I stepped unto it my brain registered a sharp pain originating from my gut. Crap, why couldn't the sensation of diarrhea overtake me BEFORE I board? Trapped on the train, now I had a serious case of the runs - so called because that is what a man does for a toilet what he hopes doesn't down his trousers. "Oh shit," I whispered to myself, and I would have, had the light not appeared at the end of the tunnel in the form of Orchard MRT, and I would have sprinted up the escalator towards the nearest washroom but for the fact that Singaporeans have a complete disregard for all the Keep Left notices MRT plasters, because perhaps their attentions are being spent keeping an eye out for untended belongings (if the goddamned announcements are any indication that seems to be what SMRT staff are doing all the fucking time now), and so impeded I had to stand still as the escalator creeped its way upwards. As fortune had it, the escalator was short and my will-power was strong, and the man and his daughter standing behind me never knew the disaster that could have occurred all over their clothing had I lacked fibre both moral and dietary, or were my buttocks less taut. As I hurried past a group of half-naked youths frolicking at the corner near Popular Bookshop just beyond the escalator the odours of a fresh washroom never smelled more inviting. The door opened, the cubicle gleamed, and my fingers undid my zip with a dexterity I never knew I possessed. (Maybe I should try learning the guitar again.) The toilet had an automatic flush, and like all things technological, it annoys the fuck out of me. After the initial, exhilarating expulsion, the rest of my load took so much effort that I hunched over from the strain. As I sat bent the sensor decided that I must have left and triggered the flush - so of course I bucked upright, as people are wont to when a lavatory sends a jet of cold water up one's arse - before bending over to maximise force again, re-triggering the sensor and thus repeating the whole thing. It was like an unholy version of Whack-A-Mole with me as the hammer's target. Of all the toilets I have ever encountered this was without doubt the most industrious. (This is also my review of I, Robot.)
Had a Copyright lecture on Monday
So I thought this would be something interesting for you to sink your teeth in: Music industry drills dentists for royalties And an old, but very funny, comic: 
Where the fuck is my copy of A Clash of Kings?
Bronn tossed the longsword from his right hand to his left, and tried a cut. "Who'd want to kill the likes of you?" "My lord father, for one. He's put me in the van." "I'd do the same. A small man with a big shield. You'd give the archers fits." "I find you oddly cheering," Tyrion said. "I must be mad." Bronn sheathed his sword. "Beyond a doubt." (GRRM, AGOT 1997: 681)
Meanwhile, tens of millions of sperm swarm in the air over Metropolis.
Larry Niven's essay on why Superman doesn't have sex: Man of Steel, Woman of Kleenex (First Printed in 1971) Beware the photo of Larry Niven in a Superman suit. Middle-aged men should not be allowed to go near spandex. Quote: Ejaculation of semen is entirely involuntary in the human male, and in all other forms of terrestrial life. It would be unreasonable to assume otherwise for a kryptonian. But with kryptonian muscles behind it, Kal-El's semen would emerge with the muzzle velocity of a machine gun bullet. (*One can imagine that the Kent home in Smallville was riddled with holes during Superboy's puberty. And why did Lana Lang never notice that?*)
The Parrots
Downstairs I went, to ask for a cup of tea, and in the back of the kitchen I spied the maid surrounded by caged, bathing birds. A mynah was enjoying a shower from a pot the maid held. My dad has an irrational desire for birds, and I preferred it back when his irrational desire was for fish, but then I have suffered worse: he used to hoard karaoke vcds. I would say his current compulsion to own birds had something to do with his disappointment over his children, but then his birds are so like his sons that I have since abandoned that hypothesis: they are noisy, ungrateful, dirty everything, unproductive and bite on occasion. They are also fucking ugly. I stared at Gus, the name the maid calls herself, for a while. She did not seem to notice I was there. "So is this how you wash the birds every day?" I asked. "No... other birds wash by themselves by jumping in water... this one won't," she replied in her halting, Indonesian-accented English. Usually the maid removes the bottom of the birdcage with a water-filled plastic container that the birds frolic in, almost always after defecating in it. Like their bones the birds seem to have very little in between their ears. "That's cool," I said. "How about the parrot?" Mistaking my question about how she keeps the parrot clean with an inquiry about the general well-being of the feathered thing, Gus said: "I think she is not happy. Last time when she was in the front, she used to sing and dance a lot. Now she very quiet. I think no sunlight here. She like sunlight." I turned to the parrot, it looking forlorn and positively hunched, though I am sure parrots aren't capable of such a thing, and I felt a little sad, because he's a cool critter who sometimes puts his head against the bars of his prison and lets me scratch him, which is more affection than most people afford me. (My family thinks the parrot, which they call Farida, is female. I am convinced Farida, or Parrot as I call him, is as male as I am, which makes him extremely manly and sexy and, some have told me, prone to delusion.) "Why not move him back to the front?" I said. "There's enough space?" She says something that is part Malay and part gibberish, and I understand neither. Then she adds: "The other parrot is not comfortable here. I think boss want them to alternate every month." The other parrot (whom I also call Parrot), was apparently given to my dad by an ah pek in a coffeeshop as one half of a pair. I believed him, because they looked mangy as fuck. Unlike Farida, a beautiful green thing tinged with yellow, the Parrot In Front is white and nobody has bothered to name him. The parrot he was with died while he survived whatever afflicted them. When we first had him he looked hideous, with very few feathers and we thought he would keel over at any time. Now he has full plumage, thanks to the maid's care, but he has retained a tremendous fear of anything that moves, and only rarely makes any noise. I guess he deserves a month in the sun.
Mercora
As usual this blog is one month behind everyone else's, but I have to spread the word: Mercora P2P Radio is pretty damned cool. I finally decided to download it about an hour ago and so far it is working like a charm. You listen to other people's playlists, and you stream your own the moment you log on (as far as I can tell there is no way to prevent yourself from doing so). One guy said it is like Friendster meets Shoutcast, and that is a rather apt description. My nickname on the network is Shagga. I expect that I'll be online quite often. Give my playlist a listen (just be aware there will be rarely Mandarin, Cantonese or Hokkien stuff) and drop me a message. You can download it here. (Sadly it is for PC only.)
What the fuck did I just hear?
Wow. William Shatner covered Pulp's famous single Common People. I am in shock. Because... it was actually done pretty well. Can't link the .mp3 but I can email it to those who ask for it.
Fun and Interesting Facts That You Shouldn't Care About
In 1935, ethologist Konrad Lorenz found that a gosling, aged at least 15 hours or less than three days, will fixate on the first moving thing it encounters and follow it. Once imprinted, it is stuck, and will not learn to follow a different parent. When Lorenz tried this will mallard ducklings, he found this would not work unless he made duck-like noises, whereupon they would follow him. Not just any duck: they preferred the sound made by their own species, despite never having heard the call of another mallard duck. They needed both to see and hear their mother. Pure instinct? He then experimented by muting the ducklings by operating on their vocal cords while they were still in the egg, and found that in that case they showed no preference for the species. He concluded that the ducklings only knew the right call because they had heard their own voices before hatching. Pretty cool eh? Just a fact I found in the book I am reading called Nature via Nurture by Matt Ridley, whose other work, The Red Queen, I also own and enjoyed immensely. It is fairly easy to read and very informative. For a book about human nature he does not seem to make use of an extensive amount of social science work, but I wasn't reading this for that and I am pretty much up to my gills in that crap in school anyway. I have no idea why some people seem to find the idea expressed that nature is expressed via nurture in the book controversial. Maybe some people lack a common-sense gene, or something. Anyway, since I'm on the Nature/Nurture issue, the New Scientist published a stunning new discovery: Good mothering helps prevent children from becoming postal workers. Titled "Good mothers stop monkeys going bad", it featured a study done on rhesus monkeys, and stated: For 26 years, she and her colleagues followed the fate of 1037 children born in 1972 in Dunedin, New Zealand. They found that children were much more likely to grow up to be aggressive and antisocial if they had inherited a "short" version of a gene called MAOA. It makes monoamine oxidase A, an enzyme which helps to break down neurotransmitters such as serotonin, and was less efficient in the individuals with the "short" version. But carriers only went off the rails if they had had an awful, abusive upbringing. Carriers with good mothering were usually completely normal, showed the New Zealand study. Now, Suomi has replicated the finding in the monkeys, showing that carriers of the "short" MAOA gene only turned bad when denied good mothering. "Good mothering has a buffering effect," he says. Okay, it sounds pretty dumb. Did we really need scientists to tell us that a good mom prevents fucked-up kids? But it is also quite interesting for it suggests exactly what Matt Ridley proposes in the book, that the environment not only have impacts on behaviour, but also in the very make-up of the brain itself. Very cool.
Hungry? Just add piss.
Apparently the ever-inventive Americans have designed dehydrated combat rations that can be made ready to eat with the addition of piss, which goes to prove the adage: Find a need, and relieve it. Here's the article from the New Scientist (The World's No.1 Science & Technology News Service, as it proudly proclaims). A pity New Scientist did not feature the opinions of front-line grunts, eh? As an aside: Note that we in Singapore have already achieved the feat of making its soldiers and citizenry consume their urea through the invention Newater, a product I still despise for (allegedly) killing my fish. (PS. For those of you who have read Dune, one word: Stillsuits.) (PPS. Here is a fun fact. Urine from a healthy person is sterile. It is free of bacteria. It doesn't mean it's a good idea to drink it, because it is full of nitrogenated compounds that are poisonous to you (may be why the body is expelling all that stuff, eh). Also, it is not an excuse for not washing your hands after using them to aim your manthing or womanthing while pissing, because while mid-stream urine is free of germs, the urea it contains is like manna for bacteria, which thrive on it.)
Damn You, Assholes
BLOODY HELL people, it was raining like crazy. The pitch is going to be wet as hell. WE'RE ALL GOING TO SLIP AND DIE. I barely slept, I kept waking up, and you guys keeping hounding me to go with phone calls. CAN'T YOU JUST LET ME SLEEP YOU WHORES. Oh well, packed my bags, out the door I am going to go. KNN. JLA.
HIM?
I write a column for a free daily newspaper in Singapore, and because I only write about things I observe I chose to write about inter-racial relationships. The response has been strange to say the least. There was no deluge of messages, because I do not have many friends who a.) read the newspaper or b.) take enough of an interest in my private life. But unusually I received a message from an acquaintance whose name and face have both receded from memory congratulating me for landing a job in the newspaper. I would have told him that I am still a student and quite unemployed, but all I said were thanks. Another was an old Everquest buddy (Sup Eronele if you're reading this.) who congratulated me for being in a relationship. And it crossed my mind that I have done two things in the past six months I have never done in my previous 270, that is, worked and loved. They are still quite alien to me. The strangest message though was from a schoolmate and an ex-colleague, who told me the column cracked her up. I have read my column several times and I had no intention of writing it as a humour piece. How strange that people can find mirth in articles that contain so little as long as they have the impression that the author is a funny ha-ha joker. Oh let's not take him seriously, everything is a fucking joke to him. I suppose she was right. If the article was not humourous what purpose did it serve? I was dining with the lead character of my column at the place that got F hooked on shisha when my predecessor at the newspaper came up to me and said hi. To my horror I had forgotten his name, and I was forced to wing it. He is a cool guy who just returned from Australia, who intends to work for SPH. Strange how I remember everything even the details of his last commentary in the newspaper but not his fucking name! "I read your article today, it was very funny," he said. He didn't look directly at Y, my dinnermate, but I knew that my ex-colleagues at the newspaper was going to get a run-over of my date when he gets back. I neglected to introduce her to him because I am a fucking moron. I mean, I still cannot remember what is the Malay word for eight. In fact, when Y offered to come to my house to help clean my room, we dallied until my mom came home and so I practically dragged her out of the house, while between my mom and the television she was watching. At the door Y looked at me and said: "Erm, aren't you going to introduce me to your mom?" "Doh," I said, though frankly it was only 50 per cent forgetfulness. Still the house belongs to my mom and if I bring a friend home it is only polite to introduce each other. So I did. And because I am too lazy for introductions now, I am going to save a copy of the column and just get people to read it. Which was essentially what Y did. Also, she got most of the fan-mail, strangely enough. But it was more than fair; she practically co-authored the piece. But what did the masses say? "HIM? But he is so strange!"
Caricature
Why does one like another person? What are the traits that make a person likeable and accepted as something akin to a "friend"? I propose two archetypes of what friends are: Alexander and Charlie. Alexander is the leader-type, the one who is loved for his virtues, while Charlie is liked for precisely the opposite. Obviously all of us and those people we like have traits of both, but I am sure all of us can imagine somebody who fits into one or the other. While both are liked (to an extent) by their circle of friends, they are liked in very different ways. Alexander is not necessarily resplendant, but he is one who is loved for being essentially good. By good here I just mean having traits other people find admirable. Perhaps he is sincere, temperate, charitable, handsome, tall, wealthy, strong, brave, wise, humourous, valiant, intelligent, cheerful, high-minded, modest... the list goes ever on. It does not matter what his disposition exactly is as long as he is befriended because he exemplifies something that is worth emulating. In him his friends see what they hope they can be or could have been. Therefore, he is almost inevitably a successful person. Again, he does not need to be a superstar, he needs only to be a winner relative to the values of the group. His friends bask in his success, though some may feel some resentment or jealousy, but by and large even if his success outstrips those of others their adoration of him is rarely diminished, but enhanced. Charlie though, is not liked because he is successful, but because he is not. The fact that he is not proficient in the things society find most valuable is why people show him affection, as long as his flaws are not those the group finds intolerable. He therefore constantly skims the edges of friendship. He may be talked about but he will rarely be loved. People laugh at him as much as they laugh with him, if not more. His antics are welcome because they are precisely the things we would never do, and we thus find great sport in them. He is never spoken of thus: "I wish I were him." His friends will at first enjoy what limited success he gets, the same way a crowd giggles when a mentally disabled person manages a three-syllable word, but not if he becomes more successful than they are, because their liking of him is based on their feelings of superiority towards him. Much like the lead character in Flowers of Algernon, after whom the archetype was named, Charlie is treated with as much cruelty as charity (though always condescending) by his so-called friends but it does not matter because even disrespectful affection is better than none at all. We are friends with both Alexander and Charlie because we need them: One to look up to, the other to look up from. (Looks like this is turning out to be pseudo-intellectual week.)
Charity (Possibly Part One)
While supping over some strawberry-based confectionary (a strudel I think it was) the topic of requiring the needy to do good cropped up, and I kept very quiet because I didn't want to start talking and having my dinner-mates (D, N, Y, M) think I was a pretensious yet stupid weirdo who won't shut up, so I bit my tongue and held my thoughts. But I couldn't stop thinking about it, so if I seemed distracted forgive me, these things happen with me sometimes, my brain doesn't always work very well. Anyway it was D who was talking about beggars in Mecca (I think it was), and how her father felt we (in this case I suppose he meant the Muslims or at least the believers) needed the needy in order to be able to do good, to earn "points" in the thereafter so to speak - a thought she said she found distasteful, and why not? It would sucketh if God was a bean-counter, an accountant, or an Englishman. Around a month ago during the Vesak period I wrote two articles about the release of animals into the wild by Buddhists in order to earn "merit". These animals usually end up suffering and the way many Buddhists go about doing their "animal liberation" or "fangshen" only encourage the capture of animals anyway. I interviewed a monk at Bright Hill, and he told me: "Doing things for the mere sake of merit is not meritorious, it may even in fact cost you merit." That is the obvious answer. Whoever weighs the cosmic scales will surely be able to distinguish the truly charitable from the charlatans, or so I hope. But another thing I thought of, and this is probably somewhat tangential, is that if the needy did not exist - if we were not constantly reminded of the suffering that living can be - then we would not need karma or "points" or heaven, nor would we have any fear of hell, because we would have no conception of hell. I got this from D's remark that most religions draw their power not from the promise of heaven as it is beyond our imaginations, but from the promise of eternal punishment because humanity is well acquainted with unending suffering, since two states of being dominate the world: boredom and pain. The best we can hope for in this life is contentment. So no. Take away the uncomprehending tormented, the huddled masses, the sick and the dying, or at least the knowledge that it is all-encompassing, and we would need no merit because we would need no Jesus or Allah or Buddha or Shiva or God. Would the first men who looked into the night sky and imagined the constellations formulated a great beyond if they did not experience not only horrors they could not understand but also a tremendous sense of injustice as well, that some would have it so much better than others? Take away all that and there would be no God, because we would not need a reason for being alive, because just being would be its own good, needing no explanation or creation.
Gaming numbs the senses, or it's probably just me
For the first time in a long time I spent almost the entire day staring at my computer, moving virtual military units around playing Medieval: Total War. I was completely enraptured by it. I didn't do anything else. Immersed, for a while I forgot about the rest of the world -- well, until I went to buy a t-shirt in town, but that was quick and I was back on the seat, mouse-slinger and make-believe commander of Byzantine armies. I never realised how numbing playing a computer game could be. Probably why I enjoy it so damned much, I simply don't think about anything else while doing it - and when the real world intrudes, via meals or telephone calls, my mind has to wrench itself away from the alternate universe into this one - it's strange. Now I'm off to play City of Heroes, but at least that will involve other people.
Supersize Me
I had just returned home from watching Supersize Me at Lido when my mom told me a story, as told to her by our maid, and reproduced herein by me: Behind my house is a pretty major road, with lots of traffic. By the road is some grass, then a pedestrian sidewalk, then a largish drain, and more muddy grass. Pretty unpleasant. Nobody was at home today. My dad was at work, my mother was taking a test, my brother was serenading women with a guitar, and I was out watching Supersize Me. The one person who might have been at home was the maid, but she too was out, buying groceries from the nearest NTUC supermarket. When the maid got home with her goods, she headed straight for the kitchen behind the kitchen (it was a small extension of the normal indoor kitchen), a small open space we had closed off and roofed. And the maid got the shock of her life. Peering through the slits in the wooden fence my dad had erected was a young man, in a white t-shirt, staring intently into my house. Like so many of the women in Spider-Man 2, the maid screamed in the face of danger. And it was only when she was shrieking at full voice that the man ran away. Was the guy planning on burgling my house? Maybe he was just curious, but what could have made him jump over a drain and wade through mud just for a peek?
An Epitaph A Day
For Yesterday: When he went he should have anticipated, That he would die bloated and constipated.
How To Fold Clothes
You have been doing it the wrong way. (Right click. Save as. You know the drill.) Watch this video: YOU too can learn new things when you watch Taiwanese TV. This is the Japanese version of the same thing: I bet the Taiwanese stole the idea from the Japanese. I think the Japanese commentary's cooler, too. I went and folded all my clothes after watching it. More: I ran downstairs and taunted the maid by challenging her to speed clothes folding. She was quite amused.
1870--1916
Despite my misgivings, I am about to tell you, my dear and very precious reader, a secret. I am prolific blogger because I know very little, therefore many things are new to me. That, and because I have an almost kitten-like fascination with practically anything that moves or wiggles, especially if that thing is connected to a female human body. Sadly, I have acquired too the kitten's attention span - okay, so this may be plain from the contents on this blog, but I thought I'd mention it anyway. Anyway, because I know so little, I am poorly acquainted with the vast world of English literature, unlike some of my friends; the only culture I am well acquainted with is bacterial. So in a quite unusual act, especially considering the mouldy mound of unread books that I often imagine may come to life and beat me to pulp with dusty spines, I decided to look for some good books to download off the Gutenberg Project. Anyway, while clicking wildly, I discovered a writer named Saki, or Hector Hugh Munro, and in the book Beasts and Super-Beasts (which I have saved), he opened with this paragraph: LEONARD BILSITER was one of those people who have failed to find this world attractive or interesting, and who have sought compensation in an "unseen world" of their own experience or imagination - or invention. Children do that sort of thing successfully, but children are content to convince themselves, and do not vulgarise their beliefs by trying to convince other people. Leonard Bilsiter's beliefs were for "the few," that is to say, anyone who would listen to him. I laughed. I thought: brilliant. What a guy! Any guy who writes like that has to be a cool guy to hang out with (as opposed to poets, who too are good writers but do not seem to be people you want to party with). You'd hope a person like him would deserve at the very least a happy ending. No such luck. He was killed in France during World War I. For those of you rolling your eyes at my enthusiastic mention of a relatively famous author (I've read his quotes even though I've never read his full work), well, what are you doing here? Also I actually wrote this last night but held it over today, because we all know the golden rule of blogging don't we: No more than two shitty posts a day, and I'm well over the quota and the union is already planning to revoke my membership. :(
No Flash Photography Please
Before having the misfortune of catching the rather poor To Kill A King, in the morning I was having quite a good time in the Jurong Bird Park, despite only having had four hours of sleep and zero cups of coffee. Except for the astonishment I felt when I realised some people actually did not want to see the bird show (involving birds doing silly stunts or tricks, like rolling over for treats or attacking a mock dead buffalo), the thing that stuck in my mind today was the mindblowing inconsideration showed by visitors at the World of Darkness attraction, where nocturnal birds were held. Right as you enter the attraction, you can't miss a sign, written in several languages, that states: Be quiet. No Flash Photography. How hard can following that be? Just turn off your fucking flash and keep quiet you assholes. But no. One family kept taking pictures of an Eurasian Eagle Owl and caused it to fly around the cage repeatedly. I felt a tremendous sense of rage. I would have attacked them, but they were armed with dangerous weapons, like cameras and children. At least they were not Singaporeans, but tourists, which allows me to direct my anger in a xenophobic manner. "They're such bastards! Can't they treat birds better?" I thought during lunch, as I chewed pensively on a mouthful of chicken rice. On an unrelated note, a bird shit on me today. Mandatory useful link: Other forms of attacks include... intentional defecation or regurgitation on the victim, which may occur in areas of concentration, such as rookeries.
I have a talent for catching bad movies, apparently
I went and watched the To Kill A King today (a movie about the English Civil War), and the theatre was mostly empty, and became emptier when some people actually left not even halfway through the movie, because frankly, the story dragged. Still, I walked out liking the movie, because I am a sucker for historical dramas, and I felt the lead actors did well, especially Dougray Scott as Sir Thomas Fairfax and Rupert Everett pulling a very, very ahistorical King Charles, but at least he had some presence. I also kind of liked the fact that the moderate was portrayed as the "good guy" while the radical was psychotic and the conservative sneaky and evil. However, a big portion of the movie was devoted to Olivia Williams as Lady Fairfax, and as a friend said: "All she does is cry! It's so ANNOYING!" And as a historical drama it apparently has very little merit, portraying a very biased portrait of Cromwell and having glaring historical errors (well according to IMDB comments anyway). Was it worth almost two hours of my life? I'd say very barely. I mean, at least it made me really want to look up that period of English history. And there were lots of guys in black hats. And Tim Roth killed a guy. I should've watched Supersize Me instead, goddamn it.
What would you like your epitaph to say
Yes I am so bored I spent the last hour of my life writing all these. I hope you find them as fun to read as I did to write. Beneath this ungainly slab of stone Lies Wifflewiffle, a writer quite unknown; Still oblivious about his lack of craft, He continues, in the afterlife, writing a draft. Well that was the best generic one I could think of. He crossed while the light was red, That was when disaster struck. Now Wifflewiffle is very dead, Because he was run over by a truck. That was for the case where I end up as a traffic casualty. Here lies Wifflewiffle: Though he was very small, His tumour was very big. In life, all he wanted was to get laid, Well, he is certainly laid now. He loved to haiku "It will be the death of you!" He haiku'ed too much. The three above I could not get to rhyme. After she died he did not tarry, After she expired he too took Charon's ferry. Now they lie side by side under the willow To which she used to go, and he would follow. That one is just in case I somehow get a happy ending. Also in case my future wife loves willow trees. Hard to find willows here, but YOU try rhyming Angsana. Well that finally shut him up. In case there's no space. *** This post was inspired by a really good one I read: Here I lie by the chancel door; They put me here because I was poor. The further in, the more you pay, But here I lie, as smug as they. by ANON (on a Devon tombstone) Now friends, write an epitaph for yourself, and share them with us. PS. This may be the beginning of a new theme week, ie. If I died today, what would my epitaph look like, and what would I have likely died of?
Do tell us, Mr Scientist
ONE of my friends forwarded an article from the Straits Times today, titled: Beauty? It's linked to good or bad traits. To summarize, scientists have founded that as you like a person more, he or she actually becomes physically more attractive to you, or vice versa. To quote the story: The bottom line: Beauty remains an ethereal thing, becoming brighter or duller over time depending on the person who perceives it. As somebody famous once said before - Do you love me because I'm beautiful, or am I am beautiful because you love me? Finally an answer to the question, "What could he/she/it possibly see in me, I wonder?" Perhaps love is not a blindness, but a greater clarity. Or maybe the article is just another shitty half-assed half-truth written by a reporter who has no idea what the fuck he or she is talking about. Who knows.
On Clothes (by Kahlil Gibran)
And the weaver said, Speak to us of Clothes. And he answered: Your clothes conceal much of your beauty, yet they hide not the unbeautiful. And though you seek in garments the freedom of privacy you may find in them a harness and a chain. Would that you could meet the sun and the wind with more of your skin and less of your raiment. For the breath of life is in the sunlight and the hand of life is in the wind. Some of you say, 'It is the north wind who has woven the clothes we wear.' And I say, Ay, it was the north wind, But shame was his loom, and the softening of the sinews was his thread. And when his work was done he laughed in the forest. Forget not that modesty is for a shield against the eye of the unclean. And when the unclean shall be no more, what were modesty but a fetter and fouling of the rnind? And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair. from The PROPHET, by Gibran Kahlil Gibran, Lebanese-American philosophical essayist, novelist, mystical poet, and artist
It makes sense if you think hard enough
It's boring here. It is, you know. It's dull and pretty much nothing happens here, a place where, as BBC Singapore correspondent Andrew Harding pointed out in an article last Saturday, a place where "a pothole would probably make the evening news". (Also the article is remarkable in his overfrequent use of ellipses.) He would know, since he did cover interesting things like the second Chechen war and the mass rape atrocity by Arab militia (the Janjaweed) in Darfur in west Sudan about three months ago. Fucked up places are interesting. However, if these bastards are ever caught and tried for their crimes I hope they aren't sent to stand in front of a Turkish judge. You see, I came across a July 1 story from the Herald Sun about a 13-year-old Turkish girl who was married off by her family to her rapist, who paid them "the price of a truck" because Turkish law allows rapists to have sharp reductions in their sentences if they agree to marry the girl. Yay. Two snippets from the article: Turkish law currently allows sharp reductions in prison sentences for rapists who agree to marry their victims. In 2002, 546 men took advantage of the procedure and another 163 in the first four months of 2003, according to official figures. And "They sold me for 10 or 12 billion pounds. With it, my father wanted to buy himself a truck," the young girl told reporters. Her father also accepted to be interviewed by reporters in exchange for money. "I've got to think of myself," he told Aksam newspaper. But not having insane laws that essentially absolve rapists from their crimes as long as they marry the women they rape isn't why Singapore is a dull and boring place. No, the reason why Singapore is a lifeless pit is because we do not have killer kangaroos. "My friend started shouting: 'There's a kangaroo in the pond. It's got Summer'. It was surreal, like your worst nightmare," Christine Canham told the Canberra Times newspaper. "She was screaming and screaming. The kangaroo just stared back at us. I will never forget that."
The National Service Pledge
For those brothers still serving our beloved nation as soldiers, remember: We are the Unfortunate Led by the Unqualified To do the Unnecessary For the Ungrateful Never forget!
Never Again
I've just returned from my paintball session, and this is what I got: 1. Fatigue 2. Paint on NS uniform 3. Bruise on right thumb, right forearm, left ribcage 4. $77 fewer than I started 5. A few pictures 
Team ARMY SLACKS prepares its unstoppable plan of destroying all in its path by hiding behind Kenneth, the Human Tank. As he said repeatedly today: "Wah lau, I cannot fit into my number four already sia." 
Members of Team ARMY SLACKS looking tired after defeat. From left: James, Kenneth, Adrian, Me. Kelvin and Choonhou at back. My eyes are closed because I was THAT TIRED! 
All the action shots turned out to be shit. Don't look at me, I didn't take the damned pix. 
Standing in a circle, wondering why we paid $77 for so much suffering. 
James briefing the team on tactics. That's a shot of me on the right. I am pondering where the fucking toilet is. And the toilet was gross. Damn it, it's a bloody COUNTRY CLUB. Are rich people all so unhygenic?
Eleftheria i Thanatos
Euro2004 is finally over and this was the only match I watched live and in full, and I enjoyed it a lot! GO GREECE. When even football powerhouse Greece, populated by 10.6 million people (only just more than twice Singapore's population) and having no players of any renown whatsoever come trumps in the European championships, surely anything, absolutely anything is possible, if only you believe it is. Anything. Sorry to preach, but I think there is a lesson here: Have hope. Be optimistic. Nothing is ever hopeless. Because you can never know. And it is never dangerous to hope for the best. That, and play with a packed defence. In a few more hours I'll headed to Orchid Country Club for a game of paintball. I'm breaking out my old army Number Fours and a camera. I promise pictures (as long as it is not too goddamned dark). Oh and here is a mandatory funny picture. 
The Wifflewiffle Love Service Presents
How to make your semen taste better Wifflenotes: 1. Drink water, not milk, coffee or alcohol 2. Smoke not 3. Meat and fish produce a bitter, fish taste 4. Asparagus-tasting cum is hellish I recommend a diet of Kellogg's Frosted Flakes so that even your semen will taste GRRREAT! (The places I'd go to just to acquire nuggets of knowledge for you, dear reader!)
The Kelong Mentality
I was on the car with my brother when I had this conversation, of which parts may well be entirely imaginary. In fact I tried to splice it such that I would look clever and all, but I probably failed. On with the tale: For those of you who have been locked in a room without TV, radio or the Internet these few weeks, or are American, the European Championships final will take place very soon. The two finalists are Greece and Portugal. The last time Greece was a world power was a long, long time ago. In fact neither Lee Kuan Yew nor Bob Dole were yet born. It was practically prehistory, except it wasn't, because the Greeks read and wrote (mostly about the exploits of grown men with the bodily crevices of prepubescent kids but let's not get Marcus excited now), which allowed them to record stuff, which endured, and which is what history is, really. In fact, one of the greatest works of Greek classical literature was recently made into film; a Hollywood blockbuster about a bunch of people who spoke Greek and ran around mostly naked*. Now go back all the way to the beginnings of Greece as a military power, and go back another thousand years. Now, THAT was the last time Greece was any good as a footballing nation. So I was not surprised when my brother said: "Portugal will sure win." Why, I asked. Because the way Greece got into the finals showed that the refs were totally kelong**. And the way Portugal got in was too. Therefore, Greece would lose. "But, what if Greece wins?" I asked. "Kelong also, because everyone will be betting on Portugal," he replied. "Wait, doesn't that mean, regardless of the result, it will be evidence that it's all kelong?" I said. "Yeah," he said, arching his eyebrows to add: "Duh." You guys are all fucking unsinkable rubber ducks, you know that? * The Passion of the Christ*** ** Cheats/Cheating *** Okay Troy
Track Five
Well. My lips sting, my tongue aches, I am totally dehydrated and there is a bruise on my neck. I need a damned massage. But it was a good day, in part because I finally watched the Lion in Winter today, and I thought it was pretty good, though nobody makes films with so many monologues nowadays. The second half of the show, however, was a complete blur to me. For some reason, I was having difficulty focusing on the movie. I'll just see it again some time. Also, my right shoulder has been in pain the past few days. Now my left shoulder kinda hurts too. My posture must be all wrong. And I'm listening to your mix tape right now. I would say I'm loving it, but... DAMN YOU Ronald for fucking that phrase up!
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