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Good Times
egg death On Friday the FYP team assembled at one of the coffeeshops opposite the Substation hoping to catch a whiff of the local art community, who supposedly frequented the area. CC and I arrived first. I ordered a breakfast of tea, kaya toast and two soft-boiled eggs. I hadn't had such eggs in ages. I broke them into a saucer where they coalesced into delicious, pure, cholestrol death, which after a hearty beating with a spoon and a liberal dose of pepper and light soy sauce, bore an intense resemblance to cat vomit. I spent the next five minutes trying to gross out CC by threatening it to suck it down like a Chinese grandmother from the side of the saucer. Later Ad arrived and we spent the next half an hour or so working on our FYP, which meant we sat around and talked about things like bras and such. I can't really remember the conversation because it was quite long ago (but you can read it here). It is sufficient to say that my FYP mates are good company, being benignly natured, and surprisingly tolerant of my inane, incomprehensible and something embarassing outbursts of exuberance, threatening me with bodily harm only every few minutes. Though, of course, nobody has shown more forbearance than Cisoux, who, if on some night she should look upon me with any sort of objectivity, would undoubtedly let loose a piercing wail: "OH WHAT THE FUCK!" Of course even for her there are limits. Anyway we interviewed a poet named Cyril, who was the least gay gay person I've ever known. He wore a t-shirt and bermudas to work. Only minutes ago my FYP mates had said that bermudas were passe. He looked more like an engineer than an artist. He was pretty cool. Not gonna talk more about the interview, but this was what I said afterwards: "Man, if I were gay, I'd be him... well, and if I could write poetry." the ugly You know there are some people whom you immediately take a dislike to. While I was queuing up at an ATM near Canteen 1 at NTU, there was a girl standing in front of me. You could not say that she was hideous. But something about her just made me sick. I know I am going to have to encounter her again and again. That's just so wrong. i scored a goal It was cool. The defending was shit. bra attack I am afraid of women's undergarments, when they're not actually worn by women yet and they are hanging on racks. I don't know why. But they seem rather belligerent. But I had some John Little vouchers and Cisoux wanted to drag me along to buy her underwear. Explain to me, why women pay such attention to their underwear? Because damn it, I don't. Who the heck is going to see it? And if the chosen ones see it, isn't their purpose, in the main, to be not worn?
The Crowd
From beyond glass doors I saw the bus was packed. When the bus had disengorged some of its passengers, the doors parted, but after we passed through it was full again. Seemingly oblivious to the ebb and flow of people, an old, bearded man, who wore a white skullcap, hung on by the entrance. Between his slippers lay many bags; maybe he had gone shopping after Friday prayers. At the next stop, unlike the rest of us who shuffled inwards as the expectant pack waited to enter, the old man stood his ground. "Move to the back! You stand there how people get in?" the driver shouted. The old man with the wispy beard replied softly in Malay. The driver commanded louder. After the brief exchange our pakchik hunched his way within us. Where a collective is moving in the same direction at the same time, the weight sweeps one along, there are no stragglers allowed: the ground below one's feet does not belong to oneself. Later another Malay man, in his hurry to escape this cramped airless space, crashed into this old man, who had obeyed instructions and was only minding his own business.
Improve Thyself
I am 24 years old; it means I have officially stepped into Old Age. When one has had his illusions about immortality stripped away one is necessarily old - or at least, he ought to be embarassed to be called young. For us old men, youth is a delusion, or pretension, that we permit ourselves. So today I thought, it should be time for me to extract myself from this youthful muddle of an existence, and construct instead a patterned structure of life - which means, of course, to bring just enough chaos to overthrow everything, so everything can be in order again. Perhaps, to do this, I should draw for myself a routine, maybe even a regime, that I could follow, to become, you know, human crystal. Of course, after a moment, I cackled. I could not do such a thing: It's absurd. Old men have no time to draw lists!
I think my hearing is going
My ears are slowly losing their collective function. It must mean something when the phrase I use most commonly is "Huh, what you say?" Like my father, the frequencies for which I am attuned to are very limited. It may be an evolutionary advantage. After all, we are still sane, despite all the nagging we must endure. It is generally acknowledged that losing one's hearing is preferable to losing one's mind, though whether or not I still possess mine is debatable. Anyway, at class today, for an English GE, I found myself ad libbing my responses to the fellow fourth-year student from my school taking the same subject, because I simply could not discern what she was saying. It was unfortunate, that whenever I am talking to her, all my thoughts turn to Hello Kitty, and such responses are only appropriate half the time. She is a nice person, no doubt, but leaning towards the cutesy side, while I am profoundly gruff, rugged, and manly. And deaf. Quick quiz: What do you get when you cross a bear and a bunny?* A. A bunny with shit on its fur. B. A beany. C: An antelope. D: An alternate lifestyle. Answers on a postcard to you-know-who. *not supposed to make sense
No children were hurt in the making of this post
On the train feeling tired again. Feeling tired again because I was on the train today. On the way to the train a little boy ran into me. He was holding his mother's hand, he was looking at the ceiling. Only children stare upwards nowadays. So they bang into things. The price for not looking straight ahead. I was standing still why did the mother not pull the child away.
Weird rhymey thing
Wah biang, I come home everyday so late. Damn sian! How? Can only kao peh about fate! How come every day like nothing to do, so lazy Yet all the time still feel so bloody busy? No car, no job, no condo, no nothing, Bo bian, zhor bor, sit here, go porn surfing. My friends ah, see my approach Always come and give me this reproach: "I tell you ah, you always masturbate, Scally your balls become as wrinkled as a date, Den you know!" How I know? I thought they were talking cock only Until today, when one testicle disappeared suddenly!
Need help!
I need some quotes for my self profile. So I need your help, people. Send me an email or comment, whichever you like, on what you think of me as a human being, both good and bad. Thanks! PRIZE: IF I USE YOUR QUOTE, I'LL KISS YOU, OR YOUR DOG, OR YOUR CAT.
A man is most absurd when he is ill.
Oh woe! Oh what a drag! I am sick. I hate noses. Damned germs invading my lungs are flushed out through my nostrils. My lungs are viral swimming pools. I am drowning. My dustbin is overflowing with tissues. Tonight, in celebration, I shall have a c(h)oke and a panadol.
letter from a youth to his prospective employer
i liked this one. sir: i refer to my interview & your salary offer: you said i would be given a commensurate salary: commensurate with what? the depth of the filing cabinet or the old bag sitting 3 desks & one right- hand corner away? i am reasonably qualified: quite handsome: my lack of experience compensated by my prodigal intelligence: i shall not expect to marry the typewriter: it's decision-making i am after: that's what i am: a leader of tomorrow: so why don't you make it today? my personality is personable: & all opportunities being equal: i am equal to any most opportune moment: any most momentous opportunity: so take me to your highest superior: & spare nothing: at my earliest convenience: yours faithfully Arthur Yap (from Commonplace, 1977)
A NEW TERRORIST WEAPON?
Today while we watched Singapore overcome a lacklustre Indonesia to become Tiger Cup winners 2005, we saw 7 or 8 policeman surround and extract from the crowd a young man. What was up? As the poor chap was escorted away we saw why. Lifting his hands to the crowd he displayed his highly dangerous weapon: a soda can. Minutes later after he threw away the soda can he was allowed to return to his seat. Why an entire company of policemen was mobilised to get one man, even one armed with COCA COLA, I don't know. Why didn't the cop just take the damned can from him? Was it infected with anthrax? Were there traces with bubble gum on it? PS. INDRA AND DICKSON = GOSU
You can't have a self portrait without a mirror.
It's Saturday evening, and I'm thinking about my father. I never really liked my father, seeing in him many things I never wanted to be, and because he was practically a non-entity for long periods of my life. But on reflection, it seems I am rather like him; perhaps why I've warmed up to him a lot in recent years. Lots of people think my father is smart and funny, and I never really understood it for a long time. If he talked to you the way he did to us, you would find him intensely irritating. He blabbered, he purposely misunderstood you, he made terrifying jokes. You could never tell if he was lying or not. You could not get him to make a serious statement about anything at all. And he is a receptacle and originator of many a crackpot conspiracy theory, though I've found that he is hardly unusual in that aspect since people are fundamentally irrational. When I was an uptight teenager, going to a restaurant with him was a total pain. I mean, I was already the dorkiest human being alive; I didn't need to be embarassed by my own parents. But imagine hanging out with him: a short, slightly pudgy Chinese man, who makes the lamest passes at waitresses, intentionally mispronounce words on the menu for kicks, actually insist on decent service, etc... strange how a few years later I find these traits utterly cool. I only found out why people think my dad is intelligent and funny a few months ago. I went with my parents to a calligraphy exhibition --- it was for a recently deceased Chinese calligrapher whom I had written an obituary for --- and in the resulting socialisation I realised what a livewire he was in a crowd. He's a bullshitter, no doubt, but one who has a very good grasp of public affairs and things related to Chinese arts, makes very funny jokes which actually sound right around people, and not shy at all. I was surprised at how self-deprecating he can be. I had never seen that side of him at home. My mom is quite the opposite of him, she's friendly and likeable, but never the heart of the crowd, and frankly rather bland and forgettable. Afterwards, I (a homebody) wondered if that was why my father, in many ways the quintessential ah pek, who loves birds, hangs out in coffeeshops from day to night, a ex-businessman who has lots of spare time, and talks to everyone, spends so much time away from home. Mom always said he treated the house like a hotel, which was true, to an extent. He sleeps, he eats, he shits, he fucks off. But perhaps he just enjoys the crowd, the conversation, the brotherly contact, the socialising, all of which don't exist much in the home. In the coffeeshop maybe he feels closer to being fully a human being. If he used to treat the house like a hotel before he quit his company and joined a Chinese clan house as a secretary, now he treats it like an aviary. He buys birds all the time and clearly enjoys the company of his winged friends more than that of the family. The shrieks of these avian demons are to him more pleasing than our chatter. And why not? It never seems anybody ever has a good word for him. Certainly not my mom. She nags at him all the time, and I've noticed she does it more when his sons are around. And her constant complaints have coloured my impression of my father, to a great extent. (It is a sad thing, to know your father, whom you live with, mainly through second-hand accounts.) I hate that my mom does that. Even when my mom is being nice to him all her remarks are pointed. What she calls jokes often seem to me thinly disguised reproaches of his behaviour or character flaws, the only difference is that she laughs afterwards. It is one thing to be loving but constantly making jokes and supposedly witty comments that are pointed is just tiresome. It is like she has conflated laughing with him with laughing at him. Even when you like me you insist on unraveling all my human flaws! I have never seen her praise him in front of us with him around, though she sometimes does it privately. She does the pointed joke thing with me too ("I was just joking, why are you so sensitive?" she often says after jabbing yet another damned sliver into my soul and rather torn up ego), but of course, everybody does it to me. Who would not love to return to a woman who is a refuge, even if only sometimes, instead of one who only tries to tear down and reshape in the image she desires --- even with affection? I suspect that my father isn't one of those people who deserves a woman* like that. He is, afterall, still quite the asshole who doesn't seem to give much of a shit about his own family and wife. (*My mom is a wonderful person. Just not in that sense.*) Anyway, he is a dude who never flares up. He must have shouted at me fewer than 10 times in my entire life. I've shouted at him more often than that. The one time I saw him go apeshit berserk was when I failed my Chinese exams in high school. His usually pale complexion ruddy with rage, he came at me with a cane and shouted so loudly my knees quaked. I cried the whole night. He didn't hit me though, has never hit me. Of course, this is the same guy who once came home with a bloody shirt one night after one of his coffeeshop stints, and when my mom asked why, he answered, "Doesn't matter lah, it's not my blood." And recently he has done a few things for me that I've found to be stunningly nice, and unexpected, but I don't want to write about it. Most of the time, I simply pity him. He could have been great. He could have made something of his life. But what has he got? A house he feels little attachment to, a marriage that seems to have lost all its fire, two disappointing children, and I wonder, given the chance, would he not choose to do everything differently, this time?
Laos Day Three (Dec 4 2004) Part One
In the morning a chilled Cisoux came over and was warmed in the sheets between me and Reza. I had messaged her an invitation. Poor Chat, having to brave the cold on her own. Then again, surely, the three boys in the other room must have had heat to spare? After she warmed up, she headed back to her room. I went to take a shower, as did Reza. For breakfast we had to trudge across a street, through an awakening Pakse where lanes of traffic had no meaning and tuk-tuks, bicycles and motorcycles came hither and thither in a sort of Brownian motion. The traffic lights were largely ornamental. They weren't turned on. I do not believe I saw a single traffic policeman or working traffic light in all of Laos. In a country where many things are tightly ruled, traffic isn't one of them. At least traffic is comparatively sparse. But I go ahead of myself. The shop across the street was open air and unpaved, which in my mind is the essential difference between the cities of Thailand and that of Laos. Instead of tiles or concrete the shop's floors were covered with dirt and bottle caps. I quite liked the place. I took a shot. 
I was too lazy to resize or brighten the picture. I had a bowl of MSG-heavy noodles with congealed cow's blood. Yummy. (Not sarcastic.) The Muslims had biscuits and tea. Rather English, I thought. At this point, if I am not misremembering after so long, a taxi materialised seemingly out of thin air, as they are wont to do in this country. For a sum of money he offered to drive us around for a whole day. At first we were shocked at how terribly low the sum was, until we realised we had confused ourselves with the math. Here is a picture of the taxi: 
This may be the last post I write about the trip, since my wonderful, delightful and way-too-smart girlfriend Cisoux is writing a journal that's simply way better anyway.
Self Portrait
Our first class assignment this year is to write profiles about ourselves. We are required to write an interesting, factual snapshot of the mask-that-is-oneself; but not an honest one, fortunately: for that is the hardest thing in the world. I speak the obvious. This is journalism, after all. Correctness, not Truth, is what is held most dear. My first instinct was to compose something vaguely tongue-in-cheek, or funny, but I am incapable of funny -- that I know. I am not a funny person. Closer perhaps to what I possess may be obliviousness, or pointed bluntness (an oxymoron, like myself), or even cutesiness. The truth is that I am a caricature of a caricature of a jester; a grotesque. Is that penetrating self-knowledge? If yes, then strangely enough I may have some of the makings of the comic! But of course I still deceive myself, so I may deceive you.
Whores and Coffee (Last Part)
Actually, it had been drizzling a little before we reached Lorong 20; but it was at Lorong 20 that the rain became too heavy for us to walk in the streets. There were two coffeeshops at the intersection with Geylang Road. We stood at the emptier one, which sold Chinese food and had steamboat (I think), where we looked across to a halal coffeeshop. Traffic was heavy with whores, or are-they-whores-they-look-like-whores? (For a day after my experience I couldn't help but assume every other woman I met was a prostitute.) I took out my notebook and observed the opposite coffeeshop, in a blockish script: Crowded! Multinational! Where else in Singapore can you see such a truly multiracial gathering? It was true. Not even on Orchard Road do you find such an eclectic selection of peoples in a place so small. There were Indian men and Indian women, probably Bangladeshis; women who looked Malay, probably from Batam, and men; Chinese women, some who looked local, some from China, and Chinese men; there was a solitary ang moh; and I even spied children! Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Taoists, Freethinkers... if you wanted to kill a person from every community in Singapore with a relatively small bomb, you wouldn't do badly by planting it there. In sin we are all one people. I suppose this coffeeshop thrived because it was halal, and many of the customers, such as the Bangladeshi men and Batam women, were Muslim. And the point, which I raised to Ad and Cisoux, both raised a response similar to: "Why bother?" I think the question misses the point of what religion means to people. Anyway. I don't remember if it was Ch*i Chin or Adl*na who alerted me to the presence of a white man there. I swear, Singaporean women can detect white people from miles away. It's an evolutionary advantage. It took me a while before I noticed him. He wore red, and sat facing a fat, old Chinese woman, who was touching him inappropriately, on the face and the chest. Because the male looked decent, we were all aghast at the prospect of him being violated by the hag, and I swore I gasped when our Caucasian hero stood up and looked like he was going to leave with her. He didn't, of course, probably when he realised that there are probably a few hundred SPGs who would die for his cock for the price of a single martini in any given bar in this country. Yes, sometimes I wish I were a tall, white man. As I leaned against a pillar jotting down my thoughts, a somewhat plump woman holding a foldable umbrella walked by. She dressed rather conservatively and I assumed she was a resident. She stopped to one side of me and turned her head towards an old man nearby who looked like he was going to cross the road. That man looked 70, and was probably a good 25 years older than the woman. She smiled, and walked so jauntily to the man I thought she was going to start skipping like a schoolgirl. I overheard bits and pieces of their conversation: "Come on... it is very simple... you just have to... hotel..." she was saying. The old man shook his head quite a lot, and I thought he had rejected her advances. But this Chinese lady was good. She looked calm and businesswoman-like, though she was trying to conduct a transaction of a quite different sort than we are used to. And as she walked off with her man, I knew she got her sale. We crossed the road for dinner and research. We had to share a table with a man. Beside the table by the wall was a condom vending machine. On it, words said: "No Glove, No Love. Play Safe, and Have a Preventic Time." Behind the coffeeshop in the backalley a whole bunch of Indian prostitutes, some of whom looked no older than sixteen and very pretty, faced a veritable horde of Bangladeshi men all looking for a preventic time. It was a marketplace for sex. I am not sure about the numbers. I was not about to stand there and take notes. It was a strange experience, overall, seeing attractive women stroke pot-bellied ah-peks in a pseudo-loving manner. It riled me to see dirty old men harass young women, who of course, set themselves up to be harassed as part of their jobs. It disgusted me to see girls pass cigarette packs to their pimps. It was a rather unpleasant side of human nature; but undeniably human nature. Later that night, we went to Changi Village to look for transvestites and reformed drug addicts who ran a coffeeshop, but that is a story for another time.
A paean to Japanese food
Today I discovered that many of those around me have not discovered the glory that is sashimi. How people could not find overpriced slabs of raw fish, often dipped in PURE FIRE in the guise of a green, snotty paste, savoury is beyond my understanding. The fact is, there are few things on this planet tastier than a fatty slice of tuna, sliced defty by an angry-looking semi-drunk Japanese man in a hat, rotated directly into your mouth by one of those cool conveyor belt thingies you so often see in a sushi restaurant. Sashimi are not "disgusting jelly-like things" as claimed by PN. They are the manifestations of bliss. Sashimi is why I forgive the Japanese for tentacle hentai and Hello Kitty slash porn. I love sashimi. UPDATE FOR VANESSA: Site feed instituted. Click under Hobbes to the right.
Whores and Coffee (Part Two)
How does one describe the red-light district of Geylang in the day? It is, at times you suspect, the festering, hidden soul of a city infested with people-for-themselves. It is the Orchard Road for sex; it is a more honest Clarke Quay. A great big genital wart. But you'd never think it. In the early afternoon it looked just like any other part of colourless Singapore (yes, Singapore tries to have colour but always you suspect that, like a painted whore, what lies underneath that oily cosmetic sheen is grey: sexlessness-in-sex, cold cold cynicism, and empty lies, "I love you long time!"). Located at the corner of the Geylang Road and Lorong 24a, City Coffee is a brown, dirty semicircle facing the two roads. Here and there a lone ah pek sat at his table drinking his coffee listlessly. Since we came in the lull in business between lunch and dinner some of the vendors sat at the tables, looking bored. Just like any other coffeeshop in Singapore. One Chinese woman, dressed somewhat suggestively but still well within the limits of decency, was propositioning an ah pek twice her age. She failed, because she didn't disappear with the man nor did he offer to buy her food, so she joined a group of four Chinese women (who looked like nationals from China) for coffee. Because you never, never see groups of women hanging out at coffeeshops for extended periods of time at coffeeshops in Singapore, Adlena, Chaichin and I presumed they were the prostitutes. Some of them were quite pretty. We talked to a shopkeeper and an ah pek who hanged out there for a long time. We wanted to talk to the prostitutes, but we didn't, because we had no balls (me, only in a metaphorical sense), so we talked to a shopkeeper (?) and an ah pek instead. I decided not to publish any quotes on my blog, but the impression was: coffeeshops are a real important hangout for prostitutes in Geylang, especially for solicitation. Some are upfront and ask you if you want to love her long time, suckee suckee, etc; others are subtle, asking you to treat her to a meal or a drink. In recent years girls from China have taken over much of the business. And so on. But we wanted prostitutes to talk to us. And so, from the periphery, we trod inwards, deeper into their domain. There was one coffeeshop we passed that was particularly crowded. Many many pakchiks were crowded on one particularly large table with a bevy of what Adlena said were probably prostitutes from Batam. Nearby, old men played chess, other old men watched them play chess, and still more old men molested passing prostitutes or maybe non-prostitutes. I have never seen so much leering in my life. Everyone looked happy, everyone, though you wonder: is there anywhere else in Singapore with so much loneliness concentrated in one place? (Answer: in LAN gaming centres.) At Lorong 20, it began to rain. Goddamnit. (Got bored writing. Wait for part three if you want.)
Whores and Coffee (Part One)
I was at Geylang a week or so ago, and the impetus to blog it is gone, as is much of the memory and colour. But I have to write it down, if only for the sake of my FYP. Since I am sitting here in school, with nothing to do (the two books in my bag, Kaufman and Habermas, aren't precisely screaming out to be read), I have now whipped out my notebook, and am trying to conjure what images I have left before they are lost. Geylang. In the Singaporean mind, Geylang conjures several paradoxical images. It is the Malay hub: Geylang Serai, the Muslim Converts' Association of Singapore, the Malay village. But it is also very Chinese. It is where the most concentrated cluster of Buddhist temples and societies in Singapore is located, according to one man we talked to. These two worlds are quintessentially neighbours: distinct, separate, brought together in proximity by mere circumstance. At the Geylang hawker centre only a short walk away from Paya Lebar MRT station and the converts' association half the stores are halal, the other half non-halal. Go there in the day and the halal half is packed with women in headscarfs and their men, mostly Malay or Indian, presumably Muslim, while the non-Halal half is emptier, and predominantly Chinese. Such stark delineation. We see the races in their own spheres and the strangeness that multi-culturalism sometimes brings to societies, the natural alienation of difference. But this is not the paradox of Geylang. Walk on, down Geylang Road, in the direction of Aljunied. Low-lying shops, only one- or two-storeys high, flank the heavily trafficked road. Behind these shops, at the end of the lorongs between them, are condominiums, where the rich live behind their walls and their security guards. The road reminded me of Malaysia, for some reason. Odd, because I rarely go to Malaysia. Keep walking. Now Geylang is taking on a new sheen. A new role. Your first clue comes from the Singapore Men's Health Clinic, adorned by posters for Viagra the last time I was there for an interview, that we're transiting to what makes Geylang truly a tourist spot, not the mosques or the temples; what it is really known for despite the pretty pamphlets; why it is where truly the multi-cultural experiment leaves the laboratories of the bureaucrat's mind and brings all the races together in the most natural harmony: sex-on-demand. There were three of us going boldly where many an ah-pek or pakchik have gone before: me, Ad, and CC, the FYP team exploring coffeeshops in Singapore. Our first stop was the Southern Palace Vegetarian Restaurant, which had a name far grander than it was, a white-tiled, spartan coffeeshop adorned with many images of the Goddess of Mercy and assorted Buddhas. We were at Lorong 40 and we had no idea if we were at the red-light district or not. Lost and hungry, I had lunch, a plate of rather delicious fried rice, and a cup of coffee, of course, and inquired, to the gentle, friendly employees, whether we were anywhere near the red-light district. "Erm, I'm doing a project, for my school," I explained, embarassed. My respondent, a middle-aged lady, was enthusiastic and knew quite well where it was: beyond Lorong 26, after the traffic light. Then, we interviewed the owner of the coffeeshop briefly, and left. This would be the last serene spot we would stop at, though we would pass at least one mosque. We were heading into the heart of sin. I must admit, I was excited. After all, I am an ah pek at heart. Still, we were all a little unsettled, because of the pussies we were. I was the male, therefore, I had to protect the other two, which was strange, because despite my possession of testicles, both Ad and CC could beat me to a pulp if they had to. They just didn't want to be hit on. We cross the magical barrier, under the traffic light, and cross Lorong 26. We chatter. "Eh, stop walking so close behind me leh," I said to Ad. "I'd rather be mistaken for your girlfriend than a prostitute lor!" she said. She must really, really, really hate being mistaken for a prostitute. Opposite the Buddhist Library, located fortuitously at the brink of this country's carnal capital, we approach City Coffee, at Lorong 24a.
Couriers
I have been lazy lately, and I am sorry. But SOMEHOW I will get day 3 of the Laos trip up. Here's a fragment of a passage I really liked. It's Kafka, so, make of it what you will. They were offered the choice between becoming kings or the couriers of kings. The way children would, they all wanted to be couriers. Therefore there are only couriers who hurry about the world, shouting to each other --- since there are no kings --- messages that have become meaningless. They would like to put an end to this miserable life of theirs but they dare not because of their oaths of service. (From The Castle)
Footy Notes
Today we went to watch Singapore play Myanmar in the Tiger Cup. I am tired so this will be brief. This was the second leg of a two-leg semi final. Singapore won 4-3 in the last one. My brother and I arrived at the grandstand balcony, and waited for Kenneth and Junde there. It was raining. Kai and Chinwee weren't able to get grandstand tickets and were at the East Gate. The match started late, and ended late. It was the most enjoyable match I've ever seen live. It was not so much an exhibition of good football as an example of the worst in what football can offer: that was why it was awesome. Things of note: 1. The four of us were cheering wildly. Who were we cheering for? Malek Awab, Lim Tong Hai, Jang Jung, Fandi Ahmad, Sundramoorthy, Abbas Saad Steven Tan, Lee Man Hon. We were a throwback to the early 90s. I am ashamed to say I hardly recognised the Singapore team. 2. Junde started the Ole chant (we Ole'd every pass Singapore made at the end.) He remarked that this was only possible because the opposition had eight men left. 3. The Myanmar team and the Myanmar fans opposite us behaved disgracefully. The ones at the grandstand were okay, though. 4. We think Agu Casmir wears number 20 because that's how many shots he needs before he gets one on target. 5. In a display of Singaporean chivalry, when it rained, the guy sitting below us put on a jacket... and not on his girlfriend. Incidentally, Kenneth remarked that she had an awesome figure. I had to agree. 6. A family behind us kept making hushing noises. Hey, uncle, if you want to sit and watch a match quietly, watch at home okay. I go to the stadium to support my team, one. Dumbass. 7. One minute silence for tsunami victims was marred by idiots making noises. 8. Nobody remembers how to sing our national anthem.
To Streats, Goodbye
Yesterday, Streats, the only paper I wrote for, shut down, an early casualty of Singapore's failed media competition experiment. Today afternoon, while I was out with Cis, my friend Chat alerted me to the fact that was mentioned in the vocal pieces (essentially reader feedback) in yesterday's Streats, the very last. I began feeling quite sad. I really enjoyed working for Streats. And despite being a horribly lazy bum, I really worked damned hard while I was there, especially for the first five months. I worked 12 hours every other day, I submitted my own stories without being prompted (too much), and volunteered columns, because I really, really wanted to be published. I liked interning at Streats. There aren't many newspapers with the same circulation that gives interns so much space to do what they want. At no other newspaper would I have been given the same amount of exposure, I think. And I am amazed that, five months on, two of the featured vocal pieces had my name in it, an intern of half a year, who has not submitted a column in five months. And in the main farewell piece by the Editor, he included the April 1 Streats Farewell story, which I wrote. I did not think that, in the last copy of Streats, that me, an intern, would be mentioned even once. Of course, I did not expect to see the last copy of Streats so soon. Fuck, I wish I had continued writing my column. I wonder if in years to come I will look back and rue an opportunity missed? Depressing. Goodbye, Streats. It was a pleasure working there. In a few more months I will be out looking for a job. I hope wherever I go, it will be at least half as fun.
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