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Man vs Woman
"Some of us are becoming the men we wanted to marry." -- Gloria Steinem The Singaporeans among us may remember the "prawn peeling" saga of 2001, a memorable period when men and women traded insults all over the print newspapers over the perceived lack of femininity of Singaporean women: strange, considering that many Western men find the women here quite obliging with their charms. Certainly it has left an impression with my lecturer for my writing class, and so we're supposed to write a commentary in response to the article that sparked it off, by this dude who quoted his friend Parry about girls from China: "A Chinese girlfriend will, without asking, peel prawns for you at dinner without even being self-conscious about it. She will not regard it as lowering herself, or pandering to the male chauvinist ego." The rest of the article was in the same vein. His argument was that the Singaporean woman, within the "elite grrrrl circles" as he puts it, is quite undesirable, self-conceited, pretentious. As a result, to peel prawns entered the Singaporean vocabulary, ironically, as a derogatory term to mean pandering to the male chauvinist ego. I quite admire people who introduce new words, like 1984 or Catch-22. It is lovely to read the first instance of phrase in a lexicon, it appeals to the lexicographer hiding inside me, to know that the etymology began at this point. Exciting, isn't it? The other strengths of the essay were passion, and a blatant disregard for female sensitivities, which I must admit I enjoyed. I took it at first as tongue-in-cheek, a satirical rebuttal to the behaviour of so-called modern women, some of whom have hijacked the quite admirable feminist movement into an outlet for their misandry, but apparently this guy was quite serious in his assertions. Which made it not quite so good. (Naturally, in order to preserve any possibility of partaking in the act of sexual reproduction with any local member of the female species, I am not inclined to agree publicly with his hypotheses.) Still, it is that it is a good reflection of the crap Singaporean women hurl on the men - there were entire N*w P*per spreads dedicated to these women condemning the sorry state of the Singaporean male. Not that you can agree with this essay, because it's one-sided, ranting, incoherent, sexist bullshit; the trouble with the umbrage many women took, of course, is that when the shoe's on the other foot, they see it as self-evident truth, uncontroversial - and if Singaporean men can't take that criticism it's simply more proof of their weakness, unmanliness, lack of chivalry. I beseech the gods to send us a Singaporean Oscar Wilde to mock you (us) silly, hypocritical fuckers, men, women or transgender! That said, you will see from me agreeing enthusiastically with the writer of the piece in my homework, because my lecturer came across as a raving misogynist in class over the essay and everyone knows that it is far easier to score if you pander to your grader's prejudices. And being one of only two males in the class I hold a frightening advantage. In other words: All your base are belong to us.
To the Maid, and the Mother
In honour of the fact the maid will be going home for good come March 2005! Look, I lied, okay? I don't really like the horrible mess my room is in. I don't like living in a dump any more than you do, okay? I would love it if my room was clean and shiny and neat, with the sheets folded, the clothes arranged, and the books carefully categorized and sorted as Fiction and Non-fiction, then Biographical, Historical, Scientific, Philosophical, Humorous, Linguistic, Pictorial and Fantastic, and also by the names of their Authors, and all of them arranged in long continuous rows on wooden bookshelves, all waxed and shiny. My music CDs will be on their racks and not on the floor or behind my bed, and in the right casings. All the things I don't want or need or use would be in the trash or donated to somebody who is needy and doesn't know better. Yeah, I don't like having screwdrivers among my pens or possibly disused ink catridges beside them, or strange Chinese medicines either. It's not true that I can find all my things as long as you leave them as they are, hell, half my mornings are spent hunting down my spectacles. This STILL doesn't mean I want you coming in and moving all my stuff all over the place in little piles of unrecognisable neatness. While the old mess sucked, at least it's my mess. If only it were possible to live in it. Fuck.
They blog, I blog, they're jailed
 Here is the BBC story.
When you can't write it write something else
I've got nothing. I need something for my final year essay, but it's all dead space. I can't breathe. The night stinks of incense and frustration. My mom has been burning mosquito coils all over the house. The days have been so hot and so dry that mosquitoes have risen out of their hiding places, to their deaths in suicidal missions to quench their thirst. There has been some sort of dengue outbreak in the country, she says, one of my uncles swatted a record-breaking nine mosquitoes in one day! So what? Give me mosquitoes over this suffocating air, though smoke isn't the only thing choking me. Nor is heat the only thing making me sweat, or my head spin. Man. I need a drink. There's nothing cold in the house except ice and a few cans of Coke Light, left over from the New Year stash. It's the only stuff left because nobody with tastebuds drinks that shit. Give me cane sugar, baby, not Acesulfame-K. Well, at least it's got caffeine, and it deadens my tongue and it's cold as ice. Why is it so goddamned hot all goddamned day? Aircon? Fuck the aircon. It's just making it hotter for everyone else. I need a line. I've still got nothing.
New
It is good to be forgetful. But who among us counts that among our blessings? Memory is but a curse, a burden dragging us back, until every moment has become the same instant, every place the same space, every person the same face, every wound the same scar, every star the same pale, wretched spot in the same dark sky. Too many of us try too hard to remember, when it is best to let it all fade. But who among us dares to forget? It is a good thing, forgetting, to be able to dance every dance anew, to feel every ache as a new pain, every dawn a new sun, a new life, a new you, everything the same different, no enemies, friends, no longing, no aims, always dreaming, learning, utterly original, no cliche ---
MSN TUESDAY: Everyone is a winner
FKNo1 says: your nick is a lie (snip) No one is a failure at anything, there are only those who give up. says: its true FKNo1 says: no No one is a failure at anything, there are only those who give up. says: tell me why not FKNo1 says: let's say i have no arms FKNo1 says: and i go into a arm-wrestling competition No one is a failure at anything, there are only those who give up. says: n then? FKNo1 says: and we go for the initiation test No one is a failure at anything, there are only those who give up. says: u must ask urself wat is ur goal then? FKNo1 says: then the umpire says: "YOU FAIL THE INITIATION, YOU ARMLESS MORON." FKNo1 says: goal is to win an arm-wrestling competition No one is a failure at anything, there are only those who give up. says: then. well.. if u truly No one is a failure at anything, there are only those who give up.says: really No one is a failure at anything, there are only those who give up. says: want No one is a failure at anything, there are only those who give up. says: desire No one is a failure at anything, there are only those who give up. says: to win an arm wrestling competition No one is a failure at anything, there are only those who give up. says: u wld fix a bladdy arm to urself n win it (snip) No one is a failure at anything, there are only those who give up. says: or else uwin by default No one is a failure at anything, there are only those who give up. says: cause no one can win u No one is a failure at anything, there are only those who give up.says: rite? No one is a failure at anything, there are only those who give up. says: if everyone else can;t win u.. u win! FKNo1 says: then everyone who has arms... has failed No one is a failure at anything, there are only those who give up. says: well.... it all dpends how u look at it... ha.. All Your Base Are Belong To Us says: i have arms All Your Base Are Belong To Us says: i'm a failure
The Very Late Chinese New Year Post
This is my customary Chinese New Year / Oh my god I visited my relatives post. This is the first year I only had two stops on the first day. One was at my paternal adopted (or something) grand-uncle's home and the other at my maternal grandfather's. Usually we would visit our great-grandmother, who used to live with a grand-aunt's family, but the bitch kicked her out and so we don't have to go any more. This means a lot to me, as I could get at least fifty dollars from the relatives who go there. I don't even know how they're related to me, exactly, but I do miss their hongbaos. Over here, inflation and the status of the economy can be gauged by the average amount of money contained within each hongbao. I haven't counted how much I received so far yet, but I'm guessing wallets are light and belts are tightening. Because for the first time in a long while, at my grand-uncle's annual steamboat lunch no abalone awaited us. This was a good thing, sort of, as my parents had forgotten to bring our usual gift of Chinese delicacies. There was however a pleasant surprise. My grand-uncle did not force us to drink beer with him. Good, because I always end up looking like a damned beetroot afterwards. And I so hate Tiger. When we left this first stop, I was sweating. According to the car's thermometer, it was 35 degrees celsius outside, and even that most remarkable of 20th Century inventions, the air-conditioner, proved powerless against the sun's rays scything through the windows. As it turned out, it was the warmest day here in forty years. I felt gooey; my shirt stuck to my back. Still, better this than rain, though I can hardly remember what being rained on is like. Not one drop has fallen on Singapore soil since Christmas. Most of my aunts, uncles and cousins were already at my grandpa's when we arrived. Everyone looked that bit older, a thought I know is pretty much cliche at this point. (Oh if only I knew how to put that fancy accent on the e in cliche.) I was also reminded that I do not come from a handsome lineage. Everyone was fat, or gangly, clumsy beanpoles, or one strange, spiky-haired midget. You see, for this festive day, I decided to experiment with the black morass on my scalp, a process sometimes known as "styling". On a whim, I tried pushing the hair towards the middle, kinda mohawk-like, so as to look, you know, "edgy", whatever that means. The result: "Hey L*an-Yi ah, you going with a rooster-head ah? Might as well dye red?" shouted one female cousin, who was slightly dim and thus considered completely honest by the family. I tried to pick up the shattered shards of my ego and maintain my cocksure countenance by making lame jokes about it being the Year of the motherfucking Rooster, but I have long known that my grasp of style has never been anything to crow about. Luckily mockery is something I have had long years in learning to steel myself against, so I only sobbed a bit in the toilet. An hour later, a large portion of the family decided to go pray for blessings at a nearby temple. I was left behind as there weren't enough transportation. I tried sleeping on the sofa but my grandma led me to the master bedroom and bid me sleep on the bed beside my slumbering grandfather, who was on a mat. Though startled at first into awakedness by the pungent odor of old perfume and old man, I was overtaken by the musty heat and quickly descended into somnolence. After I arose from that uncomfortable half-sleep, everyone had already returned from the rites. I navigated the maze of old women and teenagers to the kitchen, where my mother, my step-grandmother, and my great-grandmother mingled in Hainanese, of which I understood not a word. When one of my cousins entered, my mother asked him whether he had a girlfriend. Before he could answer my grandmother piped up, in her native dialect, "No! Don't date! If you date, your money becomes the woman's money!" She's either very cool, or still very bitter than she got kicked out of her own son's house by his widow. Probably a mix of both, I reckon. In addition to being healthily skeptical about human relationships, and thus in possession of greater mental powers than half the people half her age, great-grandma still looks hale and hearty too. I suspect she may out-live me. My cousin, the poor boy, shook his head and said he had no girlfriend, and wasn't going to have one, upon which his sister shouted: "He's bluffing! He got girlfriend one!" Like in every family gathering with mothers hoping to become grandmothers, and young men and women in the throes of late pubescence, sex is the gossamer web that holds all discourse together. Naturally, I thrive. Anyway, I will spare you the meaningless inquisition into everyone's romantic exploits that occurred, except for one. One cousin, who is also my god-brother, allowed us to look at the pictures he had taken on his handphone. We saw a rather incriminating one which had the girl pressing herself against him. Upon closer inspection, I discovered a suspicious bulge in his pants. Cautiously, I whispered my discovery to him so no one could hear. He laughed out loud and said I was a freak. My brother grabbed the phone, and after a moment, cackled too. And suddenly it spread: without a word, what I had spotted had mysteriously become as plain as day. Of course one cousin had to tell her mom, and immediately the whole household -aunts, uncles, grandparents, and all - became focused on only one thing: his penis. And you know when it comes to that, old women are very focused. Sorry, bud. PS. The Malay neighbours were also having some sort of celebration, which meant that there were a huge number of shoes arrayed outside the doors of two smallish three-room flats. The Malay lady knocked on our door and offered us some of their food (we didn't reciprocate because our food was very, very far from being halal). She told my mom it was also the Malay (or Muslim) New Year. Of course, my mom asked her friends, and I asked Cis, and nobody knows about it. Mysterious!!! (Later we find out the next day was the Muslim New Year.)
But, see, Cupid will not be defeated
It being Valentine's Day, there was an outbreak of heart-shaped balloons and pink bouquets along, among, and above the crowds transversing the long, grey corridors from the South Spine, to the North Spine, to the overhead bridge linking NIE and NTU. This was the annual clockwork explosion of sentiment, sentiment that, much like the balloons clutched firmly by lovers' hands on string, was airy and plastic. I, being wise and clued in to the Hallmark nature of this once fine drunken heathen/Christian holiday, and very much a cheapskate, walked alone. I met some friends at Canteen 3, where I purchased a copy of the N*w P*per. I set next to J, T's girlfriend, who sat diagonally across from her. In the midst of the conversation, I recalled a friend's fantastically expensive gift (by my standards) for his bethrothed, and I would recount it here, but cannot, because his lover sometimes peruses this blog. I am no spoiler of surprises. Let it be said that both J and T gasped. Then I asked T, after telling them of his wallet-burning endeavour, "So... what have you done for Valentine's day?" "Nothin lor, it's pointless" said T. "We don't buy into this kind of thing; they just want to cheat us of our money," said J. Then T asked me: "So, what did you do for Cisoux?" "Absolutely nothing." I thought I felt a wave of pride sweep over everyone at the table. After a moment, J said, "You know, there's this shop at _____, that does the same thing for less than forty dollars?" "If I told him, he'd be so devastated!" I said, laughing. "NOOO! Don't tell him," said J. Well, I have, anyway. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on whether you're a cold-hearted bastard or a whimsical dope, most people buy into the holiday, whether out of a sense of romanticism or duty, with sometimes disturbing results. Why did you think I bought the N*w P*per today? Twenty pages of "lovelines", mostly from suitors expressing their amour or from spouses, some from parents to their children, and an advertisement to all lovers that aroused my interest especially, which praised the potency of Alura Intimacy Cream, a "lubricant that couples love to enjoy the special moments together". "Why do people write these things, anyway?" asked J. Are there people so vain who would scour the N*w P*per just to see if somebody dedicated something to them? Probably more than we thought. Anyway, here's a selection of my favourites, replicating the typography where I can. I hope these extracts will impress upon you, dear reader, that balloons and flowers are definitely milder expressions of desire, and as such, should be encouraged as the preferred alternatives to fecal outpourings of poetry. 1. This one's my favourite, very straightforward and quite lovely: Florence, Dear, You are important to me. I'll shower you with lots of love & $$$. From, Allen *** 2. The font made some words hard to read, but this one nearly made me break out in laughter in the library. It should also be mandatory reading in How Not to Use Pronouns. My lovely Cislyn, I have a Shadow Box, containing my love & friend's shadow. When I show it to them, they are filled with joys! But they can't find yours, COS IT'S IN MY HEART!!! Love U forever Your Annleker 3. There was one, however, that was particularly vile. I swear I did not make any of it up. To Eileen ** Tree never fall, Rose grow beautifully Tree I am, Rose are You, protecting you from rain, shine, wind forever. Thanks for giving me a chance on This Day to take care of you forever. Hope that Today will be in our hearts forever 14 Feb 2005 From your Husband KENJI
Morning Thoughts
It is natural for one, in most situations, to analyse or to read said situations in a way most favourable to whom one momentarily is, so that one may minimise any harm to the ego or change, to keep unshattered one's many assumptions, to retain a vestige of one's sense of rightness and dignity, in short, to avoid having to alter how one already lives or thinks, in order to be in an endlessly corrupting and arbitrary universe. It is, often, I think, the most inaccurate, improbable and, obviously, self-serving of all the possible analyses or readings. But in the end, is it not this fragment (or rather, fragments) of the self that we're too lazy, too ignorant, too oblivious or too afraid to ever change that best defines who and what one is, in the absolute?
The Year of the Rooster
Tomorrow's the first day of the New Year in the Chinese calendar. The next year is heralded by the Rooster, though as far as I know, they just say it's the "ji" year, which just means chicken. But for some reason, chicken doesn't cut it for something as important as a year's herald. So Rooster. Today started inauspiciously but as it drew on became progressively more pleasant and right now I am quite happy, which seems like a good thing for a new year, and a fantastic omen for things to come. So Happy New Year!
Mandarin Ducks
Brightly coloured and beautiful, symbols of love and commitment, who ever talks of Mandarin ducks in the singular? So many poems -- straight streaks of calligraphy beside ink paintings -- have been dedicated to their singular devotion, these fowl who mate for life, that one wonders whether these men of letters and pictures have ever wondered, who write odes while staring at these paired wanderers furiously paddling lazy circles on reflected sky, whether they are indeed happy. Then one thinks further, and must ponder: is one happier, lonely alone or lonely together? But only fools look for answers from ducks.
When was the first time I posted a link?
I'm not heartless, but I laughed. The original video from stoplandmines The altered versions: Alien Airwolf LSD
Late
There's a three hour class at NIE today and as ever I woke up slightly late, and became even later by the need to remove a terribly painful splinter in the side of my first finger of my right hand. My mom came at it with a slightly dodgy-looking needle, which I insisted she go disinfect with hot water or Dettol, or virgin blood, I joked, until I realised that, probably, the only source of said blood was me. After the unpleasant splinter-removal procedure, I rushed out, and reached school only 10 minutes late, which isn't too bad, because I'm a Communications Student and that makes me a quite superior fellow. Or at least, it gives me an alibi. The first time I was late I didn't even say anything. The professor simply assumed I was late because I had to travel, and I nodded, because it was technically true. It was just that my point of departure wasn't the School of Communications and Information. So here I was, in front of the lecture room, and I turn the doorknob, only to find that it was locked. Shit, I thought. The course instructor had just rearranged the schedule and I assumed that the classrooms would remain unchanged. Damned assumptions. The tutorial classroom too was empty. Despondent, I walked to the library about a ten minute walk away, logged on to a computer, and discovered that they had changed the location just TWO classrooms away. Fuck. And that's why I'm typing this, here, now, from the library, as I wait for the tutorial.
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