Digging a hole Update below. Girl: Hello. Boy: Hello. Girl: What are you doing? Boy: Digging a hole. G: Can I dig with you? B: You dig your own. G: I want to dig with you. B: Ok you dig this. I dig another hole. G: I want to dig with you. B: No. G: Why not. B: No. B: Don’t dig my hole. Dig your own hole. G: You’re not my friend anymore. B: Ok you dig here with me. G: No. B: Why not. G: I don’t like to dig. * * * Update: Got some comments about this post not making much sense. I didn’t think to explain it when I wrote it, but I now think it’s a good idea. On the surface, this exchange takes place on a grass patch. The boy, around 5, is randomly digging a hole in the grass using a small stick when the girl comes along to join in - I’ve seen a similar scenario before. On a deeper level, this type of interaction is a reflection of what often takes place in many relationships. But, I wrote this primarily to metaphorically express some feelings and thoughts I had at that time. This part I won’t explain, and try not to read too much into it Taichi petite friend I was having dinner with this petite friend of mine when she decided to show me some taichi hand reflexology acupressure thingy by pressing at some acupoint between my thumb and my index finger. It hurt like hell. Which is supposed to mean I have some serious problem, like some terminal disease or something. And it’s still hurting. Which is why I can’t blog for now, until things get better. How to let someone know you’re straight Saw an ex-colleague get on the bus I was riding in. He spotted me and so, because of social expectations, decided to sit near me. It may be worth mentioning that my gaydar was bleeping. The strange thing is that when we were colleagues, it never really crossed my mind that he might be gay, even though we were sort of working together for a short period. Perhaps I was being extra paranoid today, since it was a one-on-one situation this time, and neither of us were at work. Anyway, we started catching up a bit, and I can’t remember how the conversation veered to this topic, but he asked me, “So are you married?” He’s trying to find out if I’m gay, I thought. Normally, when someone asks me if I’m married, I’d make some wisecrack, like “maybe after I have kids”, or “would you like to marry me?” (a potentially perilous wisecrack). This time, I answered very carefully. “No I’m not. I haven’t found the right girl yet.” I hope he caught the girl part. I smiled smugly to myself. This should vaporize any hope he still has. Hah! Anyway, my stop finally came, so we fared each other well after I passed him my namecard. Half an hour later, I got an SMS from an unknown number. It was great seeing you! The Fall headache. i mean head pain. note to self: #1. you are no superman. #2. when you fall, do not use head to break fall, especially on concrete. Thus said my twitter after my fall yesterday. In case someone out there is concerned, yes, I’m okay enough to blog as you can see. But I suppose the necessary lack of detail in my twitter post made the incident open to the imagination. Like in this conversation: Friend: *pokes* Friend: fell down ah? Me: shuddup Me: don’t poke my head Me: got baluku (A baluku is that lump you get on your head when you hit it hard on a hard surface.) Friend: heh heh Friend: poor boy Friend: walk properly next time lah Another one: [complaining about my pains] Me: anyway this time is badder than usual Me: cos i got baluku on my head Friend: hahaha see lah Friend: who ask u to peep at girls For the record, I got the baluku because of a fall while playing basketball. You may find it weird, but I found the fall particularly interesting. Not so much because for the past few weeks since I started playing with this bunch, there had been a game-stopping injury every week - someone got his adam’s apple jabbed hard (he couldn’t talk for 2 days after that), another guy got a headbutt to his mouth (so his lips naturally bled) - and for all those injuries I was actually the (accidental) injurer, while this time I was finally the injured… It happened like this- The opposing team had possession of the ball. One of them threw the ball to somewhat behind me to pass to his teammate. I expected the pass, so I was fast enough to be able to steal the ball if I dived for it. So I did. Everything seemed to go slow motion from then. As I was near-horizontal in the air and about to reach the ball, I noticed that the opponent who was meant to receive the ball also decided make a dash for the ball. And he was under me. If you’ve played basketball and you’re one who likes to jump, you’d probably be cringing now. Having someone under you while you’re up in the air is bad news. Very bad news. So the bump eventually came - the light bump when our bodies made contact. And all it takes is a light bump when you’re in the air to knock you completely off-balance - exactly what happened to me. So there I braced myself as my horizontal body facing up fell down to earth. I landed on my feet first to regain whatever control I could, but that isn’t too helpful when the rest of your body is horizontal and already about to slam onto the concrete. My butt touched the ground next, but I didn’t want to hurt my tailbone so I let myself roll backwards. But because I went down so fast, the backward roll went too fast - the only part of the fall that wasn’t in slow motion. I rolled straight back, only to have the roll get stopped when I hit my head against the concrete. With a rather loud thud. By then my legs were high up in the air (I was rolling backwards, remember?) and my torso was near-vertical, so those had to come down. By then the fall was already over and all I was thinking about was is my brain still functioning okay? By then a concerned crowd was beginning to form - some of them were carefully observing to see if I showed any signs of abnormality (beyond my usual abnormalities), others were asking if I’m alright. Good I can understand language, I thought as I waved them off so they wouldn’t come too near. I slowly sat up, clutching and rubbing the back of my head. I wonder if I can still speak. Well, I can still form English sentences in my head, but can I speak? I’m certain I was subconsciously thinking about what happened to Jill Taylor, a brain scientist who, when she had a stroke, could only make unintelligible noises when she tried to speak. (Check out her fascinating talk on TED) What better way to find out if I can speak, than by actually speaking? I decided to tell everyone “I’m fine!”, but just before I said it, I decided against it. What if it turns out that I can’t speak, and I start making unintelligible noises? That would make everyone panic! So quietly and slowly, I got to my feet. Vision is still clear. I seem to be thinking straight. I can recognise faces. I seem ok. “Ok,” I said tentatively. A perfectly-formed “ok” came out of my mouth. Which means I still can speak. I’m OK! “I’m OK!” I declared, while my hand rubbed the back of the head. “Let’s play on! Whose ball is it?” * * * Colophone - I was rubbing the back of my head a lot as I wrote this post. Forever Friends I was standing in the MRT as usual, because there are never enough seats for me to sit. But one guy near me had a seat. There was nothing too remarkable about him - he looked like a typical Indian foreign worker - blue jeans, white polo t-shirt, brown leather safety boots, not too clean-shaven. But otherwise quite normal. Then something caught my peripheral vision that made me take a second look. He was wearing a Forever Friends t-shirt, complete with the teddy bear logo. He must have a very close friend. Just a quickie (Update below) So I saw that screamer cleaner again, and I saw that she saw me. And she was still giving me that look. That horrified terrified look, as if I’m the Incredible Hulk or something. Speaking of the Incredible Hulk, I bet his girlfriend liked him because he gets really big when excited. The movie itself was so-so, and the climax turned out a little premature - the bad guy was gone before you knew it. P.S. The bad guy didn’t have his pants on. If you looked carefully, you’d realise that he didn’t have his genitals (or they were really small). No wonder he was so mad. Update: Came across an article on the Telegraph on why we scream: […]people asked to make frightened expressions had a wider range of vision, faster eye movements and an increased sense of smell as they breathed more rapidly through their nostrils. The Scream So there I was, in the men’s restroom at the office. (It took me a couple of seconds to settle on “men’s restroom”, as alternatives like “Gents” “toilet” “men’s room” “restroom” and their combinations went through my mind. Why must there be so many terms for the same thing? But that’s another rant for another post.) I had just micturated, washed and dried my hands, and was about to go out when… (Yes, I always wash my hands after I micturate.) As I was reaching to open the door to go out, someone from the outside pushed open the door and stepped in. It was a Malay woman in her 40s, garbed in the blue uniform of the cleaning company. She jumped a little in shock when she looked up at me, And she Screamed. It wasn’t a long scream of help, but a short scream of shock. But it was definitely a scream. A loud one. I was expecting her to then laugh or at least smile in embarrassment. But no. She continued looking at me. Staring at me. Staring at me in horror, like I was some kind of freak from outer space. Staring at me, until I decided to ignore her stare, step past her, and walk out, wondering, What The Hell. Random kid chat I was at a condo clubhouse reading when a boy and his little sister came in. They started looking at some of the magazines on the shelves, and were generally aggravating each other, like what siblings of that age usually do. Then I opened my laptop. The darned kids had to come over to see what I was doing. Since it wasn’t the best time to surf adult websites, I went on to check my mail. Girl: Gmail! Boy: My daddy uses Gmail too. Me: So where’s your daddy? Girl: In Hong Kong. Me: What’s he doing in Hong Kong? Boy: Doing business. Me: So how old are you? Girl: I’m 7 and he’s 9. Boy: She has a boyfriend! Me: Wow I don’t even have a boyfriend! Boy: Of course lah! You don’t look like the gay type. Gee. I don’t think I ever heard of gays when I was 9. At least he didn’t get any gay vibes from me. Me: So which school do you go to? They told me. Me: Hey I used to go there too, when I was 7! And when I was 9 too! They eventually kicked me out. Boy: That’s because you went to secondary school! Me: Yeah they didn’t want me to be there anymore that’s why I had to go to secondary school. Girl: So are you still in secondary school? I’m beginning to like her. Boy: Of course not lah you crazy. Me: What do you wanna be when you grow up? Boy: A scientist. Me: Ah a mad scientist with curly hair! Boy: Hahahah! Girl: I want to be a scientist and a cook! Me: I think I prefer cooks. That’s because I like to eat! Me: Where’s your mommy? Boy: She’s swimming. Me: And why aren’t you swimming? Girl: Mommy only allows us to swim in the morning and the afternoon. Me: That’s because it’s dark now. If you drown, it’ll be quite hard to find your body. Me: Anyway I think it’s time for you to go now. I think your mommy’s here. I think they enjoyed the conversation. They waved and said goodbye when they left. The downside of amputation (Updates below) My shoulders were hurting the last few days, so I had to complain to a friend as we were having dinner. Me: My shoulders are hurting! Friend: [Proceeds to give me useless advice, none of which I remember.] Me: The most I just have to amputate my arms lor… Friend: Haha don’t be silly… Me: What’s wrong with amputating? Just don’t ask me to hug you anymore… Update I just came across a Newsweek article on Body Integrity Identity Disorder (BIID), an exceedingly rare condition characterized by an overwhelming desire to amputate one or more healthy limbs or become paraplegic. Besides not being able to hug people, here are some other things I might have trouble doing if I amputate both my arms at the shoulders: 1. Shake hands when I meet someone 2. Aim properly when I pee 3. Eat peanuts using chopsticks 4. Lift dumbbells to enlarge my biceps 5. Do that V sign when I camwhore 6. Swim breaststroke 7. Wash the dishes (maybe I can, but no one would want me to) 8. Wear long-sleeved shirts (I can, but I probably won’t) 9. Carry my backpack 1o. Dunk the basketball Come to think of it, I might still be able to hug people. Except that some people might find it awkward. The Bouncer MSN chat with a friend. Friend: are u gay? Friend: secretly gay? Friend: i have a guy friend who’s interested Me: WARRAU!!!!!!!!!! Me: interested in what/!? Friend: in ur macho-ness Friend: he says he’s feeling hot right now just thinking abt u Me: eh he reads my blog?!? Friend: no Me: eh then? Friend: he does now Friend: hahahaha Me: he met me before? Friend: no Me: u better not show him my pics! Friend: hahahaha, why? Me: wait he lose control Friend: he’s a bouncer, u guys can bounce together. Me: lucky i don’t club Me: wait he frisk me thoroughly Anyway, it’s time to review her “friend” status. Free entry to museums! I just found out that entry to museums will be free this Saturday (31 May), as it’s International Museum Day. Of course I’ll be at one of them. Of course I won’t tell you which one I’m visiting. Sorry stalker Anyway here’s a photo I took some time back at the Singapore Art Museum. I was totally impressed by this little girl - she was stopping to admire every painting. She’s gonna be so hot when she grows up. P.S. Here are the official details of the International Museum Day 2008. Curious shorts I don’t feel very articulate today. But I’ll still try to describe the somewhat curious incident today. In short sentences. I was at Starbucks. I was reading. Trying to read. Right behind me were 2 guys. One looked Chinese, the other Caucasian. They were conversing. I could hear them clearly. The Chinese guy had an American accent. The Caucasian guy had some strange Asian accent. Yes, I was eavesdropping. They were exchanging stories. About how people keep assuming that they had a girlfriend or wife. Yes, they were gay. (No, they didn’t hit on me.) I’m hot People who know me well know that I can’t think when I’m hot. When I’m feeling hot I mean. As in, feeling hot because the weather is hot, and not because I’m feeling sexy. Besides, I don’t think I ever feel hot when I’m feeling hot. I mean, I don’t feel sexy when the weather is hot. And the weather today is disgustingly disturbingly distraughtfully hot. I had the misfortune of having to work most of the morning at a cafeteria that had no air conditioning. Of course, I was surly, sweaty, and sticky. Especially for someone like me who loves the cold - remember my post about my 15 degree office aircon? Which makes me long for cold weather. Like the last time I went to Europe… I was at an airport for transit. Having a bit of time to spare, I decided to get out of the building to take a walk outside. It was 4 degrees Celsius. I was wearing a long sleeved t-shirt. My jacket was in the luggage somewhere in some corner of the airport. As I stepped out into the 4 degrees Celsius air outside, I felt a little foolish, as everyone else was in thick winter jackets while I was in my flimsy long sleeved t-shirt. It turned out to be one really cool and refreshing hour of strolling. That same night, I was in another country, settling into my hotel room. The temperature was around minus 5 degrees Celsius. I decided to go for a walk. Yes, with my jacket, over my long sleeved t-shirt. I also had a pair of jeans, a pair of socks. And, a pair of crocs. Within half a minute, I was rushing back to the hotel. The strong wind was freezing my ears and face off. No wonder people needed balaclavas, other than to rob banks. A few minutes later, I was out there again, with a lot more confidence and clothing - a fleece beanie over my head and ears, my jacket again, a wool cardigan, my long sleeved t-shirt, long johns for both my body and legs, my jeans and socks. And the pair of crocs. Amazingly, normal socks were crocs are good enough for subzero temperatures. As I was saying, people who know me well know that I can’t think when I’m hot. And since I can’t think, I can’t blog. Just a quick post to let you know Difficult clients So I was invited for some buffet lunch thingy to celebrate the successful launch of the product that I was involved in creating. It was nice to be back at their office after so long, since they were really a great bunch to work with - friendly, great sense of humour. I guess it helps that all of them are female. So there was I, contentedly munching on my slice of watermelon, when I noticed that I was surrounded by 3 of them in the group. “So, are you attached?” asked the main client rep. If you remember, she was the one mentioned in this post. “Eh why do you wanna know?” “Just answer the question!” She’s very assertive. “I’m detached. Hey but you’re already married. And you have kids!” “I don’t care. That means you’re not attached lah! This is good news!” “Wah you want to introduce some people to me? Sure, you can get them to form a queue here.” “Siao! No lah there’s someone who’s interested in you and she’s recently available. You must quickly grab the chance!” “Who is it?” “You look around - the one who’s tall and slim and pretty!” I looked around. There were something like 50 people there, and around 45 of them were female. “Uhmmm… they all look quite short to me.” “Don’t pretend lah. You know who it is!” Anyone who thinks I have a good job doesn’t understand the problems I have to face in my job. I need surgery Neck, shoulders, arms, hands, back, butt, thighs, feet. I’m not exaggerating, but my muscles in those places are aching like mad today. Seems like only my calves and shin muscles got spared. Notes to self: If you haven’t been playing intense basketball for about a year and a half, take it easy when you’re playing your next game. Your self esteem does not have to depend on how many points you can score. Taking it easy does not mean playing intense basketball for 3 hours. 1 hour or so should be fine. Do a bit of stretching before you start the next time. I know you never ever did that. But you’re slightly older than you were the last time, and now you need stretching. When your thighs start to tighten and cramp up during the game, it does not mean that you keep playing like a mad man. It means that you sit down and rest. When you’re moving slow motion and you can’t jump anymore because your legs feel like lead, it means you should sit down and call it a day. In short, I don’t just need major and radical massage - I need surgery! But hell, I’d do this again anytime. It’s worth all the pain. Office aircon I’m sitting here in a cantankerous mood because it’s past midnight and it’s still so hot. Those who know me well know that I don’t function well when it’s too hot. I’m like a computer CPU chip - when it’s overheated, things don’t function properly, and the computer might even hang. So here I am, sitting in the 30 degC heat. I can’t help but think about an office I used to work in. It was cool. Literally. The office was a small room with just me and my colleague. After he assured me that he liked that cold, I decided to tweak the central aircon vent, so that more cool air could come into the office. The temperature fell from around 23 degC to 18 to 19 degC. On some evenings, it dropped to around 15 or 16 degC. I know because I had a thermometer stuck on my computer monitor. Once in a while, colleagues would pop by the office. Common comments included “So cold in here!” “It’s like a fridge in here!” “How do you all stand it in here?” Anyway, during those days, our boss was this very chatty and sociable person. He enjoyed popping by our office, partly because both of us had pretty wide knowledge so there were many areas we could talk about that was unrelated to work, and partly because we were the only ones who didn’t ignore him. The problem was, he could spend a couple of hours chatting with us, so that it actually interfered with our work. So when he started complaining about the cold, it was good news. It meant that he wouldn’t stay very long in our office. Or so we thought. I still remember him sitting there on the chair, with his arms crossed and hugging himself while bouncing his legs to warm himself, while excitedly chatting with us. It was a strange sight. But his conversations still lasted as long. Ah well. I miss the aircon. 10 reasons why you should jaywalk I’ve been jaywalking a lot these days. I used to walk to the nearest pedestrian crossing if it’s within 30 metres. I used to wait for the lights to turn green before crossing the road if I’m at the junction. Yes, I was just like any typical law-abiding Singaporean. Maybe it’s all the indoctrination I received as a kid. From the school, from the parental elements - they made me believe that crossing the road is a risky procedure, and that following traffic rules ensures that all is and remains well on planet earth. Or at least on Singapore roads. Then one day I saw the light. Jaywalking isn’t as bad as they claim it to be. Maybe jaywalking isn’t a good idea if you’re a young kid, but it’s definitely a good idea if you’re a normal healthy adult. Here’s why: 1. Jaywalking saves time. Every time you wait at the junction for the lights to turn green, precious seconds are ticking away. On your deathbed, you’d be wishing that you spent your time more wisely, rather than waiting like a fool at the junction. 2. Jaywalking is exciting. I often hear people complain that Singapore’s a boring place. Pure bull. Imagine a car 10 metres from you driving straight towards you at 100 kilometres per hour while flashing its headlights. Is that not exciting? 3. Jaywalking is convenient and inexpensive. Sure, reverse bungee-jumping is exciting as well, but can you afford to do it everyday? For jaywalking, you can do it almost everywhere - near your home, near your school, near your workplace. And it’s cheap too! Sure, you may have to pay for it, but that’s extremely rare. And even if you do, it’s still cheaper than reverse bungee-jumping on average. 4. Jaywalking is liberating. After all these years of blind conformance to rules and regulations, you have become like a caged animal. When the door of the cage is opened, it doesn’t occur to you to step out. But remember: you were born free. You weren’t born to be bound by the shackles of stifling rules and regulations - you were born to roam free. You were born to jaywalk. 5. Jaywalking builds confidence and self-esteem. Confidence and self-esteem is important for success. I’m not sure if any research has been done on this, but I’m certain that research will show that jaywalkers tend to be more successful in their careers and have better sex lives. 6. Jaywalking lowers risk of heart disease. Besides career and “interpersonal” gains, jaywalkers, due to the constant excitement, eventually learn to be calm. Because they are used to 1 tonne vehicles screeching beside them and drivers hurling loud words at them, stressful situations in life, like the boss firing them, or catching the wife in bed with another woman, are seen in perspective. Blood pressure doesn’t rise, heart rate remains constant, and the stressful situation is soon over, just like you eventually reach the other side of the road. 7. Jaywalking keeps you alert, and keeps you from becoming complacent. Complacency has become a serious problem in Singapore, which is why dangerous terrorists can escape. When you jaywalk, you don’t take for granted that the car will stop for you. If those prison guards were jaywalkers, you think Mas Selamat could have escaped? 8. Jaywalking keeps drivers alert, and keeps them from becoming complacent. Obviously, drivers have to keep a lookout for you when they drive. Yes, you don’t just benefit yourself, others benefit from you jaywalking too. 9. Jaywalking makes it hard to tail you. Whether you’re a cheating husband or a spy, jaywalking is a good method to keep private investigators or undercover cops from tailing you. When you perform a death-defying jaywalk, it would be very dumb of them to follow you across the road - they risk getting spotted by you, even if they’re not hit by a car. 10. Jaywalking impresses your date. Think about it - your date has probably gone through 10 other dates before you, all of them have been dull and boring, and she is just about to archive you under the “dull and boring” folder when you hold her by her arm and walk into oncoming traffic. After the surround sound of horns and screeches mingled with her screams has subsided, and after she eventually calms down a little, she’ll feel forever indebted to you for snatching her from the jaws of death, while displaying incredible bravery and sangfroid. Perfect timing to give her a comforting embrace if she’s not already wrapped around you. Be careful though - she might take advantage of the opportunity to tear off your clothing. The hot weather these days is driving me nuts. Apology to Wayne Dear Wayne, I hope you’re not bearing a grudge since my last confession to you. Yes, I have another confession and apology to make. You may recall Chemistry, particularly the times we were in the lab. If I remember correctly, you had one of the best Chemistry grades. I, on the other hand, was more interested in conducting my own experiments in the lab. So if you looked at my Chemistry workbook, you would have noticed that many of the pages had stains of different colours - blue, purple, red, yellow, etc. There was even some stain that had silver glitters from some iodine compound. Yeah, I enjoyed “spilling” coloured solutions onto my workbook, for future reference. Speaking of spilling, remember the time when there was a lot of sizzling and smoke coming out from the corner of the lab? Yeah, I “spilled” concentrated hydrochloric acid on the concrete floor. That was so cool. Besides the cool chemicals, who could forget the bunsen burner? Of course, my workbook didn’t just have colourful chemical stains; many of the pages were burnt at the edges. My workbook had character. I’m sure you also remember that we had to be careful not to overheat a test tube, or they would just break. For some reason, my test tubes tended to break a lot. Until we had to pay for broken test tubes. And if the test tube had liquid in it, remember that if you overheated the test tube, the liquid inside would sometimes spurt out? Remember the time when the hot liquid from my test tube accidentally spurted out and landed on you? If you’re beginning to suspect that it wasn’t really an accident, then I must confess that your suspicions are not unfounded. I aimed it at you. I mean, you were after all sitting in the seat in front of mine, so please don’t take it too personally. And ah, the test tube holder. Besides overheating the test tubes, I’m sure you tried overheating the test tube holder as well. Till it became red hot. Well maybe you didn’t, but I certainly did. What does a 16 year old boy do with a red hot test tube holder? Yes of course. He presses it against his workbook to see how many pages it would sear through. (I think it was around 5.) And searing the wooden work bench top as well. I’m sure you understand that one eventually gets tired of searing inanimate objects, so, you know, one starts thinking of alternatives… Like that day when I was holding my red-hot test tube holder in the flame when a thought crossed my mind as you were standing at your seat right in front of me as you usually did, and with your torso bent forward. In other words, your butt was facing me. I mean, it was inevitable that that thought cross my mind, right? Of course, being a good guy at heart, I didn’t really think it was a good idea. I mean, it was a good idea, good as in funny, but not good as in I didn’t really want to do it. I mean, I didn’t want to be the one to do it. That was when I motioned to Nick, your lab partner. I showed him the red-hot test tube holder, and pointed to your ass. He gave me a big grin, and took the test tube holder from me. That was when it dawned on me that he was actually going to do it. Hey, I even cringed! I still remember your loud scream as you jumped up and clutched your ass. Nick and my lab partner Pete were laughing away. Okay, I was probably laughing too, despite the guilt. It was funny. What I didn’t expect was that you didn’t pummel Nick into pulp. You just gave him a very angry stare. I must say that I admired your self control. The other thing I didn’t quite expect was to see you wear that same pair of trousers a the some days later. Yeah, we knew it was the same pair because the brown almond-shaped burn mark could be clearly seen. And it remained indelibly there till we graduated, seared forever on my mind. Your ex-classmate, tinkertailor. Asking for directions Time really flies, but it’s been over a month since I blogged about this type of post, so I guess it’s about time… So there I was, walking along Chinatown area after dinner, and still feeling a little hungry. A guy walking towards me from the opposite direction suddenly stopped and spoke to me as I was about to pass him. “Are you from around here?” He looked Chinese, but he spoke with an American accent. He was wearing a green cap and green t-shirt and bermudas. I didn’t look at his legs. “Yeah,” I replied. He’s probably gonna ask for directions. “Do you know if there’s any gay bar nearby?” Do I look like someone who would know? I felt like retorting. Except that I was afraid that he would answer in the affirmative. “I don’t know.” I wanted to add, don’t ask me - you’re asking the wrong person. I’ve never gone to a gay bar, nor will I ever go to one. Amen. He gave me the most incredulous look, and muttered something under his breath. As for me, I quickly continued on my way, hoping that he wouldn’t follow behind. Confession to Wayne Dear Wayne, I have a confession to make. When I was blogging about pranks in my last post, I remembered you. I don’t know why, but Pete and I had something against you for some reason, even though you were really a nice guy. Yeah, you were the strongest guy in our sec 4 class, since you were the class bodybuilder, the schwarznegger fan, but you never threw your weight around (pardon the pun). Maybe it was because you were the class monitor and represented authority, while Pete and I had this anti-authoritarian streak. Also because you were a nice guy. Too nice actually, which we interpreted as a weakness. You know how cowards target those who don’t fight back? Yeah… In short, you were the prime target for our pranks. Remember the time when the teachers and everyone used to call me “The Instigator”? Because most of the weird happenings in class were attributable to me? Well, The Instigator also instigated pranks against you. Most of them executed by Pete, because The Instigator was the Thinker, the Mind, the One With Ideas, but seldom the one to carry out the ideas, because he was a coward. He didn’t want to get into too much trouble. Anyway, remember that you used to bring one of those 600ml mineral water bottles to school everyday? It’s a small detail, but one that Pete and I would forever remember, because during one recess, we stayed behind in class, up to no good again, when I remembered that you had that bottle in your bag. And a crazy idea came to me. I shared it with Pete, and it got him really excited. In fact, it got me a little worried because he got so excited that he decided that he HAD to do it, even though I didn’t think he would take it too seriously. We proceeded to the toilet, your bottle in Pete’s hand. He went into the toilet cubicle as I waited. He was sniggering when he came out. He had emptied it, and now it was half filled with a light, golden liquid. “What are we gonna do with this?” he asked, too excited to think. “Pour it out, leave behind about one section of it.” I’m sure you know that mineral water bottles usually have these sections or segments? About one-tenth each? He left the bottom segment filled with the golden liquid. “Then fill the rest with water,” I instructed. When it was done, the water looked clear. When Pete wanted to pass me the bottle to examine it, I declined. Even though he had washed it, I didn’t want to get my hands tainted. Some hours later in class, I observed you taking the bottle out of your bag. And drinking from it. You didn’t see me holding back my laughter, because you might remember that my seat was at the back corner of the classroom. When we examined your bag again at the end of the day (I think it was during PE), we were laughing away. Your bottle was completely empty. Pete and I promised that we’d confess to you during our 10th year class reunion. Well, it’s been more than 10 years now, and our class hasn’t had a single reunion. Okay maybe there were reunions, but I haven’t been invited. Wayne, I ask for your forgiveness. Even though I still find it funny. Your ex-classmate, tinkertailor. Why did tinkertailor cross the road The thing about me is that I haven’t outgrown my proclivity for pranks which is really just a facet of my mean streak. Copulate that with my penchant for experimentation (thus the “tinker” in “tinkertailor) you get a progeny that results in the incident of me crossing the road… But first some background. Near my workplace is this road where the traffic is often moderately heavy, and has no pedestrian crossing anywhere nearby. The problem is, anyone from my office building who is tired of the cafeteria food must first cross this treacherous road before they can reach the greener grass on the other side. It is thus not uncommon to see a poor office worker standing by the road waiting forever for that felicitous moment where the road clears completely, allowing them passage in their journey towards fulfillment. Being one of good judgment when it comes to matters of how velocity, acceleration and time affects bodies, I seldom have trouble crossing the road, meaning that I don’t spend as much time waiting beside the road. I soon noticed that others waiting to cross the road are often happy to cross the road along with me. In other words, it seemed to me that people are happy to rely on someone else’s judgement to cross a road, even though that someone else is a perfect stranger. Well that was just a theory of mine, so I had to put this theory to the test. One fine afternoon, I was waiting beside the road, along with 2 others. I decided to step off the kerb. Even though the only way I could have made it across alive was to literally run across. Of course, the whole point of waiting beside the road is to wait for it to be clear enough so that you can comfortably walk across. You don’t want to run across, unless you’re in a huge hurry, or unless you realise your misjudgement just as you’re in the middle of the road. But I stepped off the kerb, and even took a further step. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was - both the other 2 guys waiting with me stepped off the kerb as well. I then stepped backwards, back to the safety of kerb. The 2 guys suddenly looked really confused, and hesitated. One decided to turn back like me, the other made it across thanks to his sprinting ability. I do acknowledge that the experiment was rather evil, so I tried hard to suppress my laughter when I witnessed the reactions of those 2. But hey, I learnt something. And don’t try this at home. Rambling about random stuff I’ve nothing in particular to write about, so I’m gonna be rambling on about random stuff. I’m rambling about random stuff because I’ve noticed that many blogs have “rambling” or “random” in their titles or taglines. Perhaps blogging for a lot of people is about rambling and random stuff, much like running is about muscle aches and massages, or eating is about variety and diarrhea. See the connection? No? That’s because I’m just rambling about random stuff. Dear Corinne Dear Corinne, It was nice meeting you at Borders. I do admit that you’re not too bad-looking, but I initiated the conversation because I was curious about you reading a book on Hinduism, since I don’t know too many Singaporean Chinese girls who are interested in it. Yes, I gave you my card. But that’s because you asked me about my work. Whenever someone asks me about my work, I give them my card. Thanks for sending me an SMS right after I left. Maybe it was rude of me not to ask for your number when we were talking, but I must say it was smart of you to send me the SMS. Now I have your number. Besides your swiftness in contacting me, I must commend you for your swiftness in suggesting that we have coffee. Okay you didn’t suggest it - you hinted at it. And acted coy about it. Corrine, if you want me, you have to ask for me. Then again, I don’t guarantee that you’ll get me. But still, it was nice meeting you. Maybe we might meet again at Borders. Or if you’re lucky, we could have coffee. Yours, tinkertailor. P.S. I hope you don’t read my blog. Mormon underwear I was sitting by the Singapore river reading my book when I noticed a pair of Mormon missionaries - Caucasian men in their early 20s, in their usual white short-sleeved shirt, tie, and black trousers, with a black name tag on the shirt pocket. One of them sat down on a nearby stone bench, while the other wandered off somewhere else. My book was more interesting. Until I noticed a woman sitting down on the bench, right beside the Mormon. Knowing how conservative Mormons are, I waiting for his reaction. He instinctively leaned away from the woman, with a slight grimace on his face. I couldn’t help but smile. That’s how I’d react if a gay sat beside me like that, I thought. He caught me smiling. I knew what was coming next. After the woman left (it turned out that she was just posing beside him for a photograph), he walked over to sit near me (but far enough). “So how’s it like being a Mormon?” I asked him, before he could say anything. “That’s the only life I know.” So he was born into a Mormon family. This means he probably never tasted coffee or coke before (caffeine is forbidden in Mormonism). I’ve seen quite a number of Mormon missionaries in my lifetime, and I’ve read quite a fair bit about them ever since I was a kid (don’t ask), but this was the first time I was actually chatting with a real life Mormon missionary! I found out that he was from Washington, not Utah. He wasn’t married, but he hopes to eventually. “And have lots of kids?” I asked. “Yeah,” he chuckled. Mormons have huge families. His primary mission field was Malaysia - he was there for over a year, and he knows Malay, but he didn’t try to convert Muslims. He’ll be leaving Singapore to end his service in 2 months, and he hopes to become a radiologist. And of course, he eventually turned the conversation to Mormonism. I humoured him for a while, and eventually told him that I was familiar with Mormon beliefs. I even mentioned a bit of Mormon history to him, although I refrained from the controversial parts, like how Joseph Smith (the founder) had many wives (over 20). Then I remembered. I remembered this question I always wanted to ask a Mormon, but never had the opportunity to. But it’s not nice! But dang I’ve been waiting forever to ask this! Heck. “I read somewhere that you have to wear some special undergarments. Is that true?” Not bad - “special undergarment” sounds so much more refined than “magic underwear”. Turns out it was completely true. He even told me that there were special symbols on them. Here’s a Youtube of some Aussie dude who went to Utah to investigate the Mormon magic underwear. It’s strange - I read about this when I was pretty young, but never thought to search for it on the internet until now. Anyway, it started raining. He gave me his card, and we parted company. So now I know what they wear down there. I was going to blog I was going to blog something, but my neighbours are having a very determined session of karaoke that I can’t remember what I was going to blog about. These neighbours live directly above my place. Yes, I can even hear them dancing. I assume it’s dancing, from the thumps I hear through my ceiling and the vibrations from my ceiling lights. It’s been over a year since I was frustrated enough to go upstairs to ring the doorbell and tell the guy in my most murderous look that your volume is rather severe and I would appreciate if you could turn it down. Damned neighbours. At least offer me some food if you want to host a party. Dear Ellen Dear Ellen, Some months ago, I blogged about my favourite food. I don’t think it’s one of my better posts, but I guess some people appreciated it. Thanks for being one of them. Well I’m assuming you liked the post, since you plagiarised it on your blog. Yup I noticed you made some changes too, like “I like laksa!” became “I like sushi!” I felt confused at first - this was almost like a cut-n-paste job, written in my voice, but hey, I’m don’t ever remember claiming that I like sushi! When I finally realised that parts of it were adapted and revised and you gave me no credit, I felt disgusted. I finally understood why so many other bloggers make a huge fuss when they have their work plagiarised. They usually shame and expose the plagiarist, calling them ‘losers’. Too bad I’m too cerebral for that. I won’t give you that kind of attention My disgust quickly turned to questioning. Why did she plagiarise my work? And why this post of all posts? I decided the second question wasn’t worth my time, so I focused on the first. Why did she do it? Looking around in your blog, I notice that one of the main items in your wishlist is to be smarter. In fact, it seems like it’s one of your biggest wishes. Does plagiarising make you smarter? It might make you appear smarter, but I don’t think it’s a good way to help you get smarter. And if you want to be a journalist or writer, plagiarism is probably the worst thing you can do. But you’re not a loser. You made a mistake, but that doesn’t make you a loser, if you can learn from it. Ellen, here’s what I’d like you to do. Keep working on your writing. Keep blogging. Experimenting. Read widely and voraciously. If something is superbly written, read it out loud so that the sound of it sticks to your mind better, so that you’ll develop a better ear and voice. Don’t be ashamed of your own voice. It may not be great now, but if you keep working on it, you will improve. It takes time, lots of time, but you will improve. Focus on improving. Focus on improving - that’s how you get smarter. That’s how you become a good writer. And when you do become a writer, please let me know Sincerely, tinkertailor. Six thirty three “So, what time are you leaving?” asked my friend. We were sitting at a cafe, watching the world go by. “Six thirty three,” I replied. “Six thirty three? Why six thirty three?” “Why not? It’s a choice that I just made.” She still looked puzzled. “But why thirty three?” I sighed. “If I told you six thirty, you’d be asking me why six thirty.” “No I wouldn’t!” “Why not?” “Because it’s…” she was thinking hard. “Because it’s six thirty!” I sighed again. “Look, just because thirty three is an odd number, you’re asking me why. But if I told you it’s thirty, there’d be no questions asked. Tell me, why the discrimination? Why the double standards? Thirty three is a legitimate number too, just as thirty is a legitimate number. Thirty three should get equal rights!” She was flabbergasted, so I continued. “I’m so disappointed with you - you of all people. You believe in equal rights for women and other races, why can’t you believe in equal rights for all numbers?” The only response she gave was a hard whack on my arm. To the psychos out there Ages ago, I started chatting with a girl on IRC. My friend asked me to talk to that girl because he found out that she was studying psychology, and because I knew more about psychology than he did, he wanted me to affirm that she was interesting. She turned out to be more interesting than I had expected. She told me about her dysfunctional family - her parents were divorced and some relatives were involved in some weird religious or spiritual stuff (can’t remember the details). She also told me how she was ‘different’ too - how could to sense certain things that others can’t. Yes, in so many words, she was claiming to have ESP. To cut the long story short, when we eventually met, she kept wanting to do her ESP stuff on me. I eventually avoided her. Anyway, during the time, I had this theory that most people who go into psychiatry are in need of psychiatric help themselves. She liked my theory. I wonder how she’s doing now. * * * I found out today that there’s some truth to my theory. Research published in 2001 revealed that 56% of female psychiatrists have a family history of mental illness, and just over 40% have experienced one themselves - almost twice the rate of other doctors. Undoubtedly as a consequence, psychiatrists have double the rate of suicide of the general population. (via Mindhacks) To my friends out there studying some form of psychology - good luck In other related news, here’s a hilarious exchange between 2 guys who claim to be psychiatrists. Who do you think is the psychologist, and who’s the patient? A must watch if you know anything about psychotherepy. Language of linguistics and linguine I can’t remember how it happened, but it occured to me that the words linguini and linguist are similar. Do they come from the same root? I did know that linguist comes from the Latin lingua meaning tongue. That’s where we get lingua franca as well. But linguini, the Italian pasta thingy? I was disappointed that I didn’t put more thought into it before looking it up, because the relationship turns out to be quite obvious, especially for someone who’s interested in word origins or etymology. Don’t make my mistake - ponder over it for a minute before reading on. Linguini, I should have guessed, comes from Italian. And Italian, I should know very well, comes from Latin. So, DUH! Linguini does come from the same latin root lingua. And obviously, it’s named after the tongue because it’s flat like a tongue. Etymology is so cool. P.S. Those of you who notice that language is vaguely similar to lingua will also be pleased to note that language came from Old French langage, which came from Latin lingua. (French, like Italian, comes from Latin.) P.P.S. A handful (or more) of you might be interested to note that cunni- comes from the Latin word cunnus which refers to the vulva. Enough language education for today What are friends for Connie’s a close friend of mine, so she gets to share some of my secrets. As a close friend, we sometimes go shopping together, where she gets to influence the outcome of my wardrobe, which can leave my wallet quite vulnerable. But that’s beside the issue. This time, I was unloading my work problems on to her through MSN. It was about what happened in the morning when I was at a client’s place for a presentation. Me: i was there an hour early as usual to prepare Me: then this guy in a bright pink shirt comes in 45mins early Me: at first he sat on the 2nd row Me: then he moved to the first row Me: the way he spoke, i suspected he’s gay Me: but nevermind, if they don’t bother me, i’m ok Me: but as he was sitting there, he was just looking and looking at me Friend: WHAT Me: then when i walked by him, his eyes was looking at my crotch! Friend: WTF Me: your fault lah Good friends are there to help you take the blame. Why else do we need good friends? Friend: what???? Friend: my fault???? Friend: my fault Friend: why>??>? Me: i was wearing those sexy jeans u chose! She made me buy this pair of jeans costing over a hundred bucks. And now gays are staring at my crotch because of that. Friend: oh man Friend: i got taste, u gotto gimmi that Me: hahahah Me: ok if that wasn’t bad enough Me: halfway during the lesson Me: he was looking at me Me: and licking his lips Me: i almost freaked out Friend: oh man Friend: i am sorry Me: when he licked is lips Me: i blanked out for a while Me: had to recompose myself Friend: oh man…. Friend: is he good looking Me: WHO CARES!?!? Friend: okok chillllll Me: prob in his 40s Me: i feel violated!! Friend: ok chill dude Me: the perils of my job Me: why?? connie, why?!?! Good friends also know how to make you feel better after a difficult incident at work. Friend: coz u are hot See what I mean? Except that she had to add a bit more. Friend: u just wanted me to say that right Pffft.