Hieroglyphics by Happenchance

For Too Long: A Tribute to Happenchance

2008-05-26T11:03:00.002+08:00

For Too Long

For too long you have stood still
While time and things moved past at will.
For too long the dust has gathered here
Till all forgot 'bout your existence dear.

For too long the memories here have stayed
And those who used to read you have strayed.
For too long, keeping these things of the past
Seemed wonderful; I wanted it to last.

For four years I kept this gateway open
But for months I let it stay so silent.

For too long, far too long,
I have kept this blog.
And this time, perhaps,
I'll find another place to belong.

For some, perhaps, the demise of Happenchance might seem inevitable. The frequent visitors to my Multiply blog might have smelled a rat had they been observant: I have renamed Life, the Universe and Everything to Hieroglyphics (gasp!) and even placed 333 photos of my trip to Melbourne last year on that blog instead.

The truth: This has been a fantastic place for me to write stuff these few years, and though some may say that it never actually fulfilled its promise (and I most certainly agree, but I never made it out for this purpose anyway), it has been a wonderful "diary" of sorts, open to suggestions and ridicule.

I have written about anything under the sun here. If you had caught me in 2004, it would have mostly been about frustrations and musings of school. To some extent, I blogged about blogging in 2005. In 2006 and 2007, the army came into the picture, and in 2008 the love affair came sharply to an end.

In between all these, I have written stories, poems, reviews - and it certainly has been a terrific place for inspiration and my creative juices seem to start flowing every time I hit the Create Post page on Blogger. Some of the stories that I have written were never finished here, but I am proud to say that I did so on the Mindef eForums (though I wonder if they have deleted the two posts yet).

In short, Hieroglyphics by Happenchance was formed because I wanted something to store information, yet it gave me so much more.

It grew up with me. And now, I am about to let it go.

Thank you for the wonderful memories. It's time to move on.

I am not about to give up on my Internet life - not yet, but perhaps it is the beginning of a new stage, less puppy love and more of a mature relationship.

- Decipher on Blogger, deciphering on multiply

Occupational Hazard Entries: Prices of grain - what do cows have to do with it?

2008-04-13T06:48:00.000+08:00

Ah, the wonderful sound of the mooing cows. I still remember watching how they were milked by the farmers when I was in Melbourne, and how the farmer said that we keep "a couple for milk. The rest, we sell for their meat."

And we all know how good Australian beef is. Except most Australians. I was talking to the tour guide, David, and these were his exact words. "They export all the good meat. You won't get any good wagyu or kobe over here."

But have you ever wondered that these peaceful grazing mammals - or rather, our desire for good-quality beef - is one of the primary reasons why in the world we are facing skyrocketing grain prices?

I was reading a primary school textbook recently (published in Australia), called The State of the Planet - and this was the fact that shocked me.

For every one kilogram of beef produced, seven kilograms of grain is consumed by that very cow.

How heavy is a cow? "Well," that very farmer in Melbourne - I regret to say that I forgot to ask his name - "It weighs a ton." Literally, that's 1000 kilograms.

For every 1000 kilograms, 7000 kilograms of grain is consumed.

Think about how many people 7000 kilograms of grain can feed. To be honest, I think that should feed a hell of a lot of people.

To that extent, you may say that we are all vegetarians - it's just which level that the veggies are processed.

Skeptics (and carnivores) will probably shrug their shoulders and say "Yeah, yeah, but that's not the main reason - it's the droughts and such that's causing the trouble."

We've been eating 3 to 5 times as much meat since 1950 - and the population in the last 50 years or so has only doubled. There's probably SOME relation there why we've gotten ourselves in a shortage of grain and an absolutely crazy price rise since the last decade.

Next time you bite on that piece of steak, think about the amount of grain spent to get that onto your table.

Occupational Hazard Entries: The Curse of Consumption

2008-03-21T20:00:00.000+08:00

The Crazy Prices of Commodities

The only problem with being a developed country: People want everything, now, and they aren't exactly willing to part with their time to produce them. As the world grows and becomes more developed and the working class becomes more well off, something happens.

Like what was mentioned in my previous entry, instant gratification sets in. We are arguably one of the hardest-working generations of the human race. We understand that speed, quality, and efficiency is essential for us to improve our lives. Hence we put in a lot of effort to make sure that happens. And while we are working hard thinking of making our lives better, we start to leave the fundamentals to the proverbial "someone else" - as the working class becomes more educated, holds a better job and has an office in the Central Business District, they start to feel that they deserve this.

Farming and mining, two essential jobs in any economy and environment, are soon sidelined. "Leave it to someone else," most of us will say as we move up the corporate ladder. Being under the intense pressure in the corporate world, we tell ourselves we deserve better quality goods and services. We deserve better cars, better fuel, better spaghetti, better oatmeal, better everything -

Where is it going to come from?

But we need someone to produce these things. As we go back to the fundamentals, as the supply of something goes down - in this case, think of agriculture - and the demand constantly grows (think about it, 6.6 billion people all want something to eat), the price will increase accordingly. And as more and more people look for a job with a "better future", the agricultural industry will dwindle.

And looking from a global point of view, we are talking about people in general becoming more well off. The agriculture industry remains an industry where there is little prestige if you do it well and much trouble if you screw up. Of course, you might argue that consumerism has brought the same problem to many other industries as well. Yet other industries don't require you to stay in the cornfields or check the stock of feed for the animals, handling challenging tasks of maintaining them for milking, or slaughtering.

In short, as countries in general become more developed, and their people become more affluent, they become less willing to devote themselves to tasks of production, and prefer to get them now. Consumption will increase, but production decreases because less and less people will want to devote themselves to menial tasks. In all simplicity, a decrease in supply coupled with an increase in demand equals skyrocketing commodity prices for the long term.

Occupational Hazard Entries: The Number Seven

2008-03-16T18:29:00.000+08:00

DISCLAIMER: The following blog entries titled Occupational Hazard Entries will cover some of my accidental discoveries that relate to economics (which is incidentally what I am studying, hence the name Occupational Hazard Entries). Any conclusions made are purely by myself and are not the stand of any other economist. So please consult a specialist if you intend to do any financial decision after reading my blog (though I strongly doubt so). - deciphering

Clear and present danger

Perhaps it is still a little unclear what we are talking about around here. Maybe it will be easier to talk from a numbers point of view. Take, for example, the number seven. Take a good look at this number and think about everything that is symbolises. Yes, 7 is one of those lucky numbers. It’s also symbolic in the phrase the “seven-year itch”.

It’s also a sensitive topic where Singapore is concerned. Here we go:

7% GST: Something happened on the 1^st of July, 2007. We woke up to higher prices in almost every single commodity imaginable. Within months, we started to face the stark reality of higher fuel prices. And within the short span of six months, we talked about another 7 –

7% inflation: We all know that when something becomes less valuable, it probably means that there’s another more valuable substitute that people are coming to terms with. Well, with people losing confidence in the US currency – confidence is what currency is based on primarily – people have been looking for alternatives. And they’ve found them in commodities – gold, silver, platinum, even that black stuff called crude oil. And they are finding it very, very valuable. US$106 a barrel was the last recorded price as of March 2008. Think about chickens, going up almost 25% from its initial price in June 2007. We are seeing spectacular inflation rates all around the world, but Singapore, with the heated economy, is letting off steam.

Expecting inflation to go up

The bad news here is this: Expect for more inflation up till this year ends, at least. Our recent bumper budget promises more money for everyone – but this is not the solution. Money was never the solution to any problem. It is the mentality of the people, the mindset that needs to change. Giving out more money, by going back to standard economics, means a multiplier effect is set to happen and cause a bumper increase in spending in the economy.

Think about it in this way – every one dollar that you spend isn’t just spent by yourself. Think of that same one dollar that you spend for example to buy a snack. The snack-seller can now use that same one dollar to purchase something. Then, the person who sold him the same thing will be able to purchase something else. That one dollar sets a long chain of events – and consumption – that economists call the “multiplier”.

So when you give a person more money, people are quite likely to spend it, unless our savings interest rates start going up as well. Why is it so? If savings rates are low, people are more compelled to spend it on something to enjoy the benefits of now than later. This symptom is called instant gratification.

To be continued.

An Economic View of a Daily Problem

2008-03-07T12:21:00.000+08:00

The smell of the other person's perspiration reeks with the power of a double espresso. Squeezed like sardines, with half-asleep and slumbering people all around, suffocation becomes a real possibility.

It's not a scene from some illegal immigrant drama - welcome to the Mass Rapid Transit crowd of our time.

We are trying to address this problem with a short-term solution. This includes increasing the frequency of the number of trains especially during peak hours.

Traffic - for a country like Singapore, where land is scarce, and people are our only natural resource (but even that, it seems, is running out), it becomes ever more essential to move towards a flawless, commuter-friendly transport system.

The situation especially seems to be getting worse these few years - but what exactly is the reason? I never actually bothered to find out, until I experienced the suffocation for myself.

1. The income divide and the price of petrol: The rich is getting richer and the poor is getting poorer. It's no longer just part of a Santana song. Forbes just registered just over a 1100 billionaires all around the world. Singapore is proud to host approximately 1% of that - yet for most of us, the rich and poor divide is everywhere. If you're HDB, you're poor. If you're in a condo, then you're getting somewhere. The price of land in Singapore is ridiculous. Cars are no longer expensive, but the petrol is. And this is what is causing people to dump their rides and join the train brigade.

2. The ageing population, and the 'solution' that led to a problem: We don't have to kid ourselves that Singaporeans are producing enough next generations. Our replacement rate fell below 1.08 according to CIA statistics in 2007, so to curb this problem, government has been importing foreign talents - now, 60% of our jobs are held by expatriates. Obviously, if you have got this newfound number of people taking our jobs, there's a pretty high chance most of them will get stuck with us on the train as well. What happens is that the number of people within this working group - people who will take the MRT to work - increases, and is a factor that is contributing to Sardine Mornings.

It's not about blaming anyone - I am merely stating what is happening by fact. There are differing views of what people feel about Sardine Mornings. One friend feels that "it sucks". Another one, who is already a semi-retired millionaire, tells me, "It doesn't affect me".

Of course it doesn't. He wakes up at 9am, after the morning rush, after the ERP gantry finishes activation. "What ERP?" He says. "It's none of my business."

If there ever was a reason to be a millionaire, this might be a good one.

Thomas O. Hicks, and George N. Gillett, Jr.

2008-01-19T21:32:00.000+08:00

I'm sure we must have heard of these two names before. My, just a year ago the names were music to my ears.

But one year on, are they really the same people we thought they were?

It seems, however, that the shit has seriously only just hit the fan.

Let's remain objective and check out the history of these two men where their sporting franchises (and club, of course) are concerned.

**

George N. Gillett, Jr. is an American businessman, with a net worth of about £3 billion.

Forays in sports:

2 Jan, 2000: Buys Montreal Canadiens (hockey) for US$185 million.
2000: Attempted to buy NBA Denver Nuggets (basketball), NHL Colorado Avalanche and Pepsi Center with two other partners but failed.
6 Feb, 2007: Buys Liverpool Football Club with Tom Hicks for £435 million.

First comments at Liverpool: “Liverpool is a fantastic club with a remarkable history and a passionate fanbase. We fully acknowledge and appreciate the unique heritage and rich history of Liverpool and intend to respect this heritage in the future. The Hicks family and the Gillett family are extremely excited about continuing the Club’s legacy and tradition."

Interesting note: The Montreal Canadiens have never finished higher than third in a league of 30 under George Gillett. They are still the record league winners, with 24 championships under their belt. (I think I've heard that somewhere before.) They have not won a league title since 1993. (Very familiar.)

**

Now to good old Tommy.

**

Thomas O. Hicks is an American businessman, with an estimated net worth of US$1.3 billion.

Forays in sports:

1995: Bought the Dallas Stars, a struggling NHL team, for US$82m, and transformed it into a team that won 7 Division Championships, 3 Western Conf. crowns, two President's Trophies and one Stanley Cup.
1998: Buys the Texas Rangers baseball club for US$250m with a consortium including George W. Bush. In 1998 and 1999, Texas Rangers were 1st in their division of four teams, but since then have not finished higher than 3rd. (Last year, in 2007, they were last.) Bought Alex Rodriguez, then the league's MVP, on a 10-year contract worth a record US$252m, but shipped him to New York Yankees after a disastrous 2003 season.
6 Feb, 2007: Purchases Liverpool Football Club.

Interestingly, there has been news of Hicks' group doing something related to the reason why Carlos Tevez is at Manchester United and Mascherano is playing for us.

Tom Hicks' investment company had previously invested in two Brazilian clubs - and no, they're not amateur clubs. (Quoted from http://www.playthegame.org/Knowledge%20Bank/Articles/The%20Magic%20in%20Brazil%20Soccer%20Corruption.as)

Corinthians, the second-most supported club in Brazil, and Cruzeiro, another huge club, were invested in by Hicks' company, and they immediately promised these things:

Huge transfer funding; and
New stadiums.

"These deals included promises of construction of new stadiums. Hicks also bought forty nine percent of the traffic television network and dreamed up its own ultimate football business: Hicks teams facing each other in matches broadcast, naturally, by Hicks. Hicks set up a cable channel in Latin America, PSN, acquired national basketball association rights, formula one races and football championships at overblown prices. Hicks invested about five hundred million dollars and in only two years filed for bankruptcy."

What, you mean Hicks from Corinthians equals Hicks from Liverpool? (This question was asked by the a reader to the writer.)

The reply?

"Of course that the Group Hicks of Corinthians is the same. They also wanted to manage argentine clubs. I remember some years ago I wrote an article called Hicks vs Hicks by Hicks TV. Because they also founded a latinoamerican TV channel called PSN (Panamerican Sports Network). Many people believed it was a great excuse for money laundering. The payed 3or 4 times more the rights for Libertadores Cup, Formula One, NBA and so on, a lot of money. Friends from ESPN told me that it was imposible to make a good business with such a lot of money. Just one year and a half later PSN went on bankrupt. Cheers."

Think about that one.

Writing in 2008

2008-01-08T01:18:00.000+08:00

This is an entry that promises all and promises nothing.

1. This entry means that I have just written my first blog entry in 2008.

2. This entry does not mean that I will continuously post on my blog.

3. I am planning on writing, but on a much bigger scale this time.

4. I might be known as Owen or another person, in another form. Yet it will be me, and for those who know it is me, please enjoy the read.

5. In the meantime, I am juggling my time between studies, business, a temporary job, my family, and my friends.

6. Do allow me some time to breathe while doing so.

Happy New Year to all.

The Midnight Man

2007-10-20T00:53:00.000+08:00

In this beautiful, organised garden city, Midnight Men are sometimes unnoticed in the crowd of affluent people.

It is a strange story to tell, perhaps. For me, I feel half-inspired, half-saddened to write it. It is a true story, slightly to my point of view, of a particular Midnight Man that I passed.

I hope that my ending to this story is not truly his ending.

We are capable of the dreams and fairytales that we weave for ourselves, and I know he will realise it for himself sooner or later.

**

The time is 12 midnight at the long stretch of road that is Sims Avenue. The Midnight Man holds on to a strange metal machine that seems like a makeshift stove. It appears to be a galvanised metal cylinder that is placed tilting diagonally on a pair of small wheels, with two small holes carved in the middle and at the bottom. An orange flame escapes from the holes while the Midnight Man rolls it smoothly on the road.

Four other Midnight Men come over after they settle the roadblock to inform motorists that they will be occupying this lane. He doesn't realise their arrival because the cylinder-on-wheels that he is holding is rather heavy, and his oversized bright yellow helmet is about to topple over.

The rest of the Midnight Men hold long metal sheets that they place on the road, surrounding the edges of the road arrow that points straight. The Midnight Man stirs the awkward-looking hook that is on top of the cylinder, and rolls it just above the metal sheets. He pulls the hook and something falls below the cylinder. He rolls it once more, and this time I realise what he is doing.

The road markings that become faded are maintained by the Midnight Men. It seems like simple work, but for five people painting the entire stretch of Sims Avenue, which probably has almost a hundred directional arrows and probably thousands of other markings, it seems like an unreasonable job, especially when only one painting machine is provided.

The paint dries quickly, and the Midnight Man moves as quickly as he can. Pespiration drips into the pure-white suspension that is the paint, and he wonders to himself whether it actually helps to make the paint dry faster. He can tell his grandchildren next time that it really is his sweat that keeps the Singapore roads safe to drive.

He lifts his helmet back to a more comfortable position. The padding inside the helmet is stuffy and smells from overuse. The Midnight Man keeps his mind on the road and the arrows, as he moves on to the next one. After he finishes it, he sighs and moves on once more.

The cars avoid the lane and avoid eye contact - their cars move too fast for them to notice anything unimportant. The people at the bus stop watch on, since they have nothing else to do on a Friday night.

The Midnight Man doesn't notice the attention of the people from the bus stop. It seems interesting to them because they are merely seeing. Doing it is really something different.

When the bus stop finally empties and the Midnight Man finishes what is a quarter of the job - the first lane out of the four he needs to paint, he lifts off his helmet and prays silently to himself, for his father that had come and gone, his mother, wife, and young son.

"I deserve better than being a Midnight Man," he thinks to himself. "All I need to do is to put down my helmet and the machine. Yet for them I hold on to it."

He takes off his helmet and stares at it. "I used to have dreams," he says. "And now it doesn't seem as if it's my life I'm living."

"Do I have a choice?"

The cars continue to move past him without the slightest inkling that he is at a crossroads in the middle of a four-lane carriageway. In the meantime the bus stop is empty and the other Midnight Men, given up on their dreams, continue making our roads safer to drive.

**

Do you believe that the Midnight Man has a choice? I hope so. I believe so. And if he has one, we too have one, which is to achieve our dreams and aspirations.

The Lost Boy And The Stars

2007-10-16T23:55:00.000+08:00

The Lost Boy And The Stars is merely a story that has been told, retold, rewritten in a different language, with a different title, condensed, expanded - and is in so many forms that you can't really consider it unique.

It is a story that walked into my mind after a weekend of feeling blue, raindrops splashing on my window panes, and the sound of the crickets accompanying me while I drifted off to sleep.

It's a short story - not an epic - but a story that I hope will be remembered.

**

The shepherd's son gazed at the bright star above him. Back home, his father called it Polaris, the North Star, the Guiding Light of the universes above. Every thing, he said, revolved around it. Of the shiny dots on top, Father said, "this one fights the darkness with the most ferocity, the most aggression. Look at the way it shines!"

He was alone - worse, he was lost. A moment of inspiration, a moment of mischief, had led to his walking away from the comfort zone of the grazing patch. He had wanted to see the beautiful city that the tradespeople spoke of, yet right now there were only mountains in front of him and hills behind. The shepherd's son, unfortunately, could not differentiate mountains from hills.

Tears formed in his eyes but he blinked them back fiercely. Big boys don't cry, he spoke to himself. Big boys fight Fear like the Guiding Light fights the darkness. Surely he could find a way out from this.

He could wait for Father to send for his sniffers, but he feared that by the time they arrived it could well be a couple of dawns from now. He had to find a way. After a moment of wandering and letting the moist of the grass get to his robes, an idea came to his head. He could ask the stars for help!

He knelt down, closed his eyes, and asked solemnly, "I would like to know the way back home."

"Why, that is a strange question to ask, my boy," A cheerful, rumbling voice replied. He gazed upwards, and wondered which star was speaking.

"Aye, a strange one, there, Polaris," A hushed voice this time.

"For he wants to know the way back, but why does he want to?"

"I'm lost," the shepherd's son replied, hoping that the stars actually took attention. "Sorry, Mr. Polaris, but I want to go home."

"But you left, didn't you?" the hushed voice asked this time. "You told yourself that you wanted to know more about the world, and you left, at midnight, for some place you didn't know?"

"I did," the shepherd's son admitted, "But now I've had it. I wanted to see those cities that Arbert the merchant tells us about every time he delivers our coal, yet I've been walking for almost a day now and I've seen nothing."

"Do you really want to see the city?" Polaris asked.

"Yes, but - "

"I can give you two choices, then, my boy," Polaris said. "You may go back home through the directions by which my light shines, or you may choose to walk on to find the city that you so desire.

Yet I will not give you the directions by which you can head for this city. My light has shone upon thousands of cities and villages, and I can tell you that this brilliant city is real. If you keep on walking, sooner or later you will find it. If you choose to walk back, I fear that you will never have a chance to see the city again."

"Why so?" asked the curious shepherd's son.

"Oh, my boy, the tides change and the sands shift. Wars are fought, borders are moved. The only way we can find this city is to believe."

"Believe?"

Polaris sighed, and the shepherd's son felt a slight breeze on his cheeks. "Before your robes are made, must the tailor believe that he can make these robes from the thread that he weaves?"

"Definitely," the boy replied.

"If you want to see the city, you must first believe that it exists."

"But is it a difficult road?" the boy asked.

"Oh, my poor shepherd's son. Let me tell you this - I fight a battle with the darkness every second that you see my bright light shines upon the villages and towns. I may eventually just fade away - but not for a long time yet. But am I glad to be able to fight! The light that I emit will shine on thousands of people, people who are lost like you, and I know that I will have helped so many people by the time I die.

Nothing is ever easy. The road is difficult - as is always, but if you don't walk it, you'll always be in the same place."

The shepherd's son was struck by the last sentence. He frowned for a moment, and then he stood up and said, "Bring me to the city then, Mr. Polaris."

**

Years Later

A man in strange flowing bright blue robes appeared in the village on horseback, to the stunned presence of the old shepherd. The clink of gold coins could be heard from inside a huge wooden chest tied to a pack-horse behind.

"The city exists, Father," the man on the horse cried. He dismounted, and made to hug the shepherd, but the shepherd shied away from his embrace.

"You're not my son!" He shouted in fear and agony. "He died, years ago, killed by monsters outside the village!"

"Father!" The shepherd's son was alarmed to hear his father's words. "Come with me, and I will show you that it does exist."

"NO!" The shepherd backed away, closer and closer to the shelter of a fig tree. As he approached the trunk, however, a huge fig branch broke and hit him hard on his head, and everything went black.

**

"Am I still alive?"

"You are, Father, just a little stubborn."

The shepherd's eyes opened to the grandeur of the city. For the first time, he saw a teacup made of pure gold. The man grinned, revealing a lost tooth that made his grin a replica of his son's, the son who left years ago without a note, the son who should have died...

He stood up from his bed and pulled back the curtains and was astonished by the crowds outside, the hustle and bustle of city life, and the gorgeous palaces that stood all around the plazas.

"I walked," the shepherd's son began. "The stars told me to believe that the city existed, and so I did. I didn't know how exactly I was going to make it to the city, but I believed. I crossed plateaus, I scaled hills, I trekked for countless days - and just when one day I thought I couldn't survive any more, I saw the first signs of the pure white walls.

It was the city, Father. The one Arbert always talked about, the one you said he was merely joking about. It's not a joke, Father - and I saw for myself the beauty of the city.

I was lost before I believed, and now I have found the city for myself, because I knew I could find it. It took days before I did, and it almost took all my energy, but I did. And it was all worth it."

And somewhere up above the night sky the stars winked - one of them, the one exceptionally brighter than the rest, gave the biggest.

And Even After All The Smiles

2007-09-30T23:39:00.000+08:00

And Even After All The Smiles
By Owen Tan

A chance meeting in a room,
Full of people in joy, and in gloom
But their eyes catch one another within a mile.
The spark, the flame, the beautiful smile.

It starts with the roses and then the date,
And though she comes for the first one late
But the boy smiles and just forgives.
After all, he never knew when she'd leave.

And then two years just fly past.
Though no one doubts that they will last
Till the wedding day,
The smile, one day, just fades away.

And even after all the smiles,
The dates, the roses - after all this while
It doesn't matter any more;
The new one makes the old one a bore.

I wish I could say I knew who they were -
Yet I forget.
The past is the past, and we all move on.
To him I say - even after all the smiles,

It is really time that heals all.

--

Do forgive me if this poem might sound a little incoherent.

It is after all a long time since I wrote one.

The Couple

2007-08-03T22:01:00.000+08:00

A small observation on life.

The Couple
By Owen Tan

Laughing wildly,
Without an ounce of control,
The lover's voice
Is muffled in the loved one's chest.

The Green Man flashes
But they live in a world of their own;
They cross the road when they want to,
Not ruled by traffic.

The bystander will not understand
Whatever she says to her love.
For it is not in the words that the meaning
Is revealed, but from and to their hearts.

And in the crazy evening rush
They dash across the road;
Blind in danger, deaf in the noise,
They just avoid a tragedy.

It does not matter:
The smile and the hug,
As they make it on the other side,
Tells the whole story altogether once more.

Finally

2007-07-28T00:32:00.000+08:00

Finally.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

Yes, I know the ending already, before I've even read the book, thanks to the help of some great friends who had to keep me informed.

Tomorrow (today, actually) is NDP duty day. So I might have some time.

Let's see what's cooking in the Leaky Cauldron.

Robert Frost's The Road Less Travelled

2007-06-05T00:41:00.000+08:00

The Road Less Travelled

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth

Then took the other as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet, knowing how way leads onto way
I doubted if I should ever come back

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence
Two roads diverged in a wood
And I took the one less traveled by
And that has made all the difference

--

That has made all the difference.

--

Some may ask when I will ever finish my stories that I write. Before I answer this question, I should answer another one: Some people ask me why the name "Hieroglyphics by Happenchance"?

It is happenchance because I believe that nothing I write here was properly planned. Having said that, I write spontaneously - for those of you who don't write so much, what I mean is sometimes the ideas come and sometimes, well, they don't.

It is hieroglyphics because sometimes, I don't quite understand what I write as well as other people interpret it. I do not necessarily write to be understood. Sometimes - most time, in fact - I write to vent my frustrations, as though writing is a form of therapy and the Blogger screen, the pretty nurse. Interesting, eh?

For those of you who might want to ask me what The Factory was all about, I can tell you this, and you might be bitterly disappointed: I don't know. It was truly a moment of hieroglyphics by happenchance - and if I ever have the fate to complete the story I might just be able to tell you.

As for the poem... Well, I just thought it might be inspirational. It is one of my favourites.

Peace - Hieroglyphics by Happenchance - Decipher's canvas sheet of the world. Oh, did I mention it was a canvas sheet? Those expecting an organised binded book will need to refer to Kinokuniya. Sorry, over here, it's all first draft, nothing more. It is a disorganised file storing some memories, many fantasies, and sometimes, simply about life.

A Lesson In Fine Print

2007-05-31T21:55:00.001+08:00

If you are a close friend of mine you might know that I had agreed to place some of my money in a savings plan last year - whose name I should have mentioned to you previously but I shall not reveal here, for fear of being sued - and if you remember you might have also remembered that I thought it was a good decision.

It was not, for many reasons, but I can summarise it into one.

I didn't read the fine print properly.

This is a problem that can arise, especially for hot-blooded males who might get just a little bit more distracted when you see the Relationship Manager on the other side of the table has those luscious curls and an above-megawatt smile. Short of money, and undoubtedly having a financial intelligence quotient equivalent to the beggar on the street, I agreed because my idea of a savings plan was this:

1. Savings plan = I save for a higher interest rate.

2. It seemed that I should have been able to take out the funds that I put in (losing my interest gains) if I needed it, i.e. it had almost equal liquidity to my cash savings account. So, I wasn't worried.

3. I thought it was non-investment linked. Savings plan, right? Not mutual fund or unit trust.

4. And to think I even thought they were so nice as to offer me insurance benefits. Any stupid idiot would have realised that it was an insurance plan.

I signed, and picking up the documents for my plan last week I realised these four points were all false.

1. Savings plan? The teller at the bank said it was a savings plan, but the RM said that it was underwritten by an insurance company. And I was deaf to that.

2. Apparently, I could take out my funds any time I wanted, but not all the funds. The earlier I took out the money, the more I would lose. (the word INSURANCE now rang in my head.)

3. Non-investment linked, my ass. No, seriously. That was what I thought, then I saw that I had one lot of shares in two international funds that were apparently reputable. But when I contacted the bank and asked for the cash surrender value, i.e. the money I would get back from withdrawing my whole policy, the RM claimed that I would only retrieve a pathetic $113.85.

3. (cont'd) That figure is my monthly contribution to the plan, and it has been operational for 17 months. Which means, I would have lost 16 months' worth of my funds if I had withdrawn.

What makes things worse is that the figure $113.85 is just one-third of the money that they projected I would have gotten back in the projected returns table.

What I'm saying in common English: when I signed up for the plan, they said if I withdrew after 17 months, I would get back around $300+. However, I would only get back a pathetic $113.85 if I did withdraw (which I didn't).

My real concern is... I'm not a financial planner/Warren Buffett, but:

Aren't the objectives of mutual funds normally about stability and diversification?

From January 2006 to May 2007, the Dow Jones went from hovering below the 11,000 mark to almost 13,700 points. An amazing 2,700 points increase - 25% if you want it in proportion, over a 17-month period.

In 17 months, the money I put in had its value reduced to one third of its original - that is a 66% fall if you want it in proportion.

Do you get the math?

If the funds had been buying the market - as I would suspect most funds do, buying for the averages - then they should have at least roamed towards a humble or decent rate of growth.

But a backward movement when the economy is steamrolling forward? Are mutual funds as "stable" as most people think?

I've learnt my lesson.

4. No wonder they offer insurance benefits. From the returns they're giving out, the investor might have a heart attack reading the balance sheet.

Thank You

2007-05-26T00:10:00.001+08:00

It is only when something major happens in your life when you truly realise who your true friends are.

At this juncture I would like to thank those who have helped. I don't know how else I can describe how grateful I am for your help.

Thank you.

The Multilingual Approach

2007-05-17T00:08:00.000+08:00

Since my rather controversial decision to blog occasionally in Japanese, I realise that I am beginning to enjoy this transition between languages: it is more than just exploring the words and savouring the different ways they may be arranged to give you a meaning, but more about discovering myself with every writing.

If you're grumbling, you can practise selective sight and get your eyes off the monitor for a while, imagine that they aren't there, and scroll to the parts in English.

It's that simple.

(Decipher: In the wake of my slight flu, major fever and diarrhoea - as well as writer's block - I am struggling with The Factory at the moment. Do forgive, but you are more likely to forget, aren't you?)

When The Reds Go Marching In

2007-05-02T22:03:00.000+08:00

Almost all photos courtesy of Soccernet.com.

Match ticket... 32 bloody quid.

New Anfield... 220 million pounds.

Rafa Benitez... Priceless.

For everything else, there's George & Tom.

*****

Absolutely superb banner there.

JUST IN CASE YOU WERE LIVING SOMEWHERE IN BETWEEN A WELL AND A ROCK, LIVERPOOL MADE IT TO ATHENS 2007 LAST NIGHT.

And I apologise if this post might turn out a little messier than usual - I'm taking some time to sort out my exhausted mind and rather mixed-up thoughts.

All I know is, I'm bloody happy right now. Delighted.

When The Reds Go Marching In

Oh when the Reds go marching in

I want to be, be in that number

When the Reds go marching in

Liverpool, Liverpool, Liverpool, Liverpool...

You'll Never Walk Alone

Walk on, walk on

With hope in your heart

And you'll never walk alone

You'll never walk alone

Alone, alone

With hope in your heart

And you'll never walk alone

You'll never walk alone

Alone, alone

More cheers, and applause.

Rafael Benitez sits on the pitch, looking on at the eleven players that he'd chosen for the penalty shootout. Jose Mourinho looks on, and the Liverpool players are all in a huddle.

Bolo Zenden, the first penalty taker, shows that his nervousness is just an act. 1-0 Reds. I hug my cushion and scream. My neighbours the Man U fans scream even louder.

Arjen Robben, Zenden's former Dutch colleague, shows that is calmness is just an act. Reina swings the right way and saves it. 1-0 Reds. I jump up in glee.

Xabi Alonso, the man who missed the penalty two years ago in Istanbul, but slammed home the rebound, showed that he didn't need one this time to redeem himself. 2-0 Reds.

Frank Lampard, the one they mistake for Gerrard at Chelsea, slams home. 2-1 Reds.

The real Stevie Gerrard stands up, steps into the penalty area, looks a little nervous, but reminds himself he's done it all before. "I've got a European Cup winner's medal and you don't," his eyes taunt at Petr Cech.

And gets it. 3-1 Reds. Advantage Liverpool.

Geremi, the one who was substituted because, as Martin Tyler claims, he is a "good striker of the ball", aka a great penalty taker, comes on to do his thing.

He misses the penalty - his only contribution to the game, if you could consider it one - and the final is halfway into Liverpool's reach.

Dirk Kuyt has to do it, and he whistles as he steps back for the penalty.

Petr Cech looks nervous this time.

And Kuyt slams home. 4-1 Reds, simply unstoppable, Athens here we bloody come, for European Cup No. 6.

You better watch out.

A Trip To The Factory - and other stories - have moved.

2007-04-30T00:04:00.000+08:00

They've moved to another blog, Robin, Danielle and Rich.

Right here.

The Rich Bitch Goes To The Factory

2007-04-28T00:10:00.000+08:00

In all my 30 years, I hadn't seen a person who liked to die. Nope, not really. I'd checked with my scribe about basically my entire life, and I remember we were all laughing together when he replied, "But everyone wants to go to heaven, right?"

You're right, ass. As far as I was concerned, heaven was here, in good old California - where I had moved after my retirement. Now in case your eyebrows start raising - and believe me, I've seen enough idiots in my lifetime with eyebrows raised whenever I mention the R-word, let me just introduce my bloody self.

My name is Richard Brich. Don't ask me what it rhymes with, because I'd heard it lots of times, so spare me the effing details. My life was never about details anyway. At least, that was what my career was about. Robert T., the schizo who said that he had two fathers, one rich and the other poor, kind of made money with all this cash flow and stuff.

I'd never had the luxury of time with doing that. I did what I do best - getting money on the plate, and making the money into more money before I make the plate bigger. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I run a casino business, and the cash register rings non-stop. Barring unforeseen circumstances these idiots will keep spinning that roulette wheel and paying for my petrol.

RB Corporation has never managed to squeeze out of the Fortune 500 in terms of profitable businesses - and because I make my plate bigger by going into what is profitable. One day we do casinos, next day we do airlines, and maybe another day we do book publishing. They like to call Mr. Richard Brich (that's me) the Mr. Adaptable of today's corporate world.

Hell yeah, partner. And I bet you don't even have a million dollars in your pocket.

At least, that's what I was thinking when I saw that burning car at the side of the road. The bright red Mazda, drowning in the flames. That I'm fucking in heaven, it's called California, fuck the Iraqis, when I raise the hood of my new convertible and I see that car on the other side.

I thought there was someone stuck inside but to rescue him? No fucking way. Get near? Yeah, maybe. I swing my ride to the shoulder, and check out what the hell the car is all about. Bright red car with orange flames, now that's what I call a picture.

I could see there was someone inside now. Or at least, what remained. The heat was getting a bit unbearable and I thought that the best option would be to get the hell out of this fucking place, get the police to wipe up someone's shit. So I turn away, make a short prayer to God for mercy for the dead man's soul, though I didn't mean it (of course I didn't), and make my way back to the car.

I only made five steps.

A sound like an explosion, then something scorched my back and I felt nothing, except that I was rising and it seemed like I was totally free.

Free from my body even. I saw my body - what? THAT was my body? You mean I'm dead? - lying in the middle of the road, and I saw that the bloody car had exploded. Must have been the fucking engine. Shouldn't have prayed there.

Now that I was rising, I think I was going to heaven - whoa, I never doubted that I would be granted a place, but the way it's happened it all seems that God totally wants me, man. Like, totally. Letting me retire at 30, almost own California in terms of my property, and now, rising like a helium balloon and to the Heavenly Gates. Absolutely bravo.

"Rich Bitch?"

I hated that name. Totally.

"IT'S RICH BRICH, YOU ASSHOLE."

"I don't think you got that right there."

The rising had stopped and I was somewhat in the middle of the clouds.

"Welcome, Bitch... to the Factory."

I frowned. "Not heaven?"

I couldn't see who the hell and where the hell the voice was coming from, but I could picture a cynical smile from The Who.

"No... a long way yet, my friend. A long way."

The Little Girl's Trip To The Factory

2007-04-25T22:50:00.000+08:00

Danielle absolutely hated days when the black clouds came over the sky and took over them like the time the Germans marched in. Of course, she didn't know much about how the Germans did march in, since she doubted she was even conceived then, but the conception itself didn't really matter at this moment. For now, Danielle only wanted to stand in the middle of the endless cotton fields and watch as the storm gathered.

The wiser men in the village called the black clouds the Nimbus, while the witch-doctor Shey preferred it to be named as The Calling. Calling, Nimbus or just black cloud, it swirled menacingly above Danielle right now, and though she was afraid - and that was the reason why she hated black-cloud days, because she was afraid - she loved to see the way the sky melded into a beautiful mixture of black, yellow and white.

The Nimbus called upon its brothers and sisters, and they came in an instant; there was a reason why Shey had given the clouds that name, after all.

"Sometimes the Calling is a response from the Gods," Shey had whispered, his white beard almost touching the ground while he bent slowly to retrieve his walking stick that day. "They come to take something away from us. Sometimes, they think something is wrong with their creations, and they want to... make it better again."

She didn't quite understand what Shey had meant, but it didn't quite matter to her. The raindrops had started to fall, and the black umbrella she was holding seemed more like a willow in the wind than a shelter from the rain.

The thunderbolt came without warning, and when it struck Danielle she could feel nothing at all. She knew something was different, at least; that much she knew, and before she could realise what was happening it seemed that her body was flying all the way up into the sky, into the Nimbus that was above her.

After that inky layer of black the world of fluffy white returned, though she didn't seem to be able to get a good foothold on the clouds. She could stand, but barely - just like you could sleep on a very soft bed, but in the morning you were more likely to get a terrible backache.

"Danielle?"

She turned round. And round. And saw no one.

"Danielle?"

And she turned round and round again.

"This way."

She turned to the direction of the voice, and this time she saw.

"Welcome, Danielle, to the Factory."

A Quick Trip To The Factory

2007-04-24T23:27:00.000+08:00

Sad Songs was still playing on my radio when I first heard the horn, just about five metres or so in front of me. I was absorbed in the song - hell, anyone who had just signed his name on two pieces of paper that would be The Great Wall between you and your wife would definitely be absorbed in the song - and it was pretty obvious I wasn't concentrating. As far as I remembered, I'd been making rounds on the highway for too bloody long, but I had no intentions to let myself down from the road just yet.

There was time for another round, I thought. I'd been driving for just about three hours and the Mazda was getting hot. My posterior hadn't felt this hot since my driving instructor days - happier ones, as well, though my butt burned like Hell whenever I returned home - but I refused to stop. Refused to stop believing that Carine had left me finally.

Anyway, the horn was loud - damn loud. It awakened me a little from my slumber, but when I saw the bloody truck appear in front of me in the rain-filled air that was surrounding myself I knew I would be in for an even longer sleep yet.

One that I may never wake up from.

The bang was loud, but about half a second (I think) later I could feel myself lightened greatly, as if I had always lived with a tether around my feet. And then I remembered that I did indeed lived with tethers around my feet, called gravity. Newton thought of that, but just approximately half a millenium ago he successfully fought his own discovery and rose to heaven. Did he? Well, I was tempted to believe so. God didn't create Newton just for him to discover gravity and die and get himself packed in a box for the Cooking Pot with the Red Man, right?

We should all be rewarded for our contributions to society, right?

Anyway, the gravity. Yes, it seemed as if I had battled the classical physics law and rose to Heaven. I think so. There was no other way. I left the wreck that was my bloody burning bright red Mazda, and I thought I saw my eyelids twitching in the smoke, while the picture became smaller and smaller. Eventually it became obscured by something white, silvery and misty - and I realised that I was inside a cloud now, still rising up.

"WHERE THE HELL AM I GOING TO?" I screamed at the top of my lungs. At least, I think my lungs were still functioning. They just weren't real, that's all, but they were in quite working condition, thank you very much. Didn't quite need speech therapy, thank you very much.

"HELL?"

A voice bellowed.

"YOU... ARE MISTAKEN. WELCOME, ROBIN STEPHENS, TO THE FACTORY."

(to be continued)

Sad Songs

2007-04-24T22:29:00.000+08:00

Some songs just define your mood. And they are absolutely beautiful.

(Elton John - Someone Saved My Life Tonight)
Sweet freedom whispered in my ear
You're a butterfly
And butterflies are free to fly
Fly away, high away bye bye

(U2 - I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For)
I have run I have crawled
I have scaled these city walls
These city walls
Only to be with you
But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for
But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for

(Coldplay - Trouble)
Oh no what's this
A spider web and I'm caught in the middle
So I turned to run
The thought of all the stupid things I've done

And oh I never meant to cause you trouble
And oh and I never meant to do you wrong
And oh well if I ever caused you trouble
Oh no I never meant to do you harm

(Keane - Nothing In My Way)
And why'd you say
It's just another day, nothing in my way
I don't wanna go, I don't wanna stay
So there's nothing left to say?

And why'd you lie
When you wanna die, when you hurt inside
Don't know what you lie for anyway
Now there's nothing left to say

(Elton John - Sacrifice)
And it's no sacrifice
Just a simple word
It's two hearts living
In two separate worlds
But it's no sacrifice
No sacrifice
It's no sacrifice at all

(Elton John - Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word)
Oh it seems to me
That sorry seems to be the hardest word.

Why?

2007-04-24T22:05:00.000+08:00

One-word paragraphs from this point on.

Inexplicable.

Incomprehensible.

Damned.

Impossible.

Why?

Unanswerable.

４月２４日のブログ

2007-04-23T23:09:00.000+08:00

皆さんは日本語で話すことができません。

分かった。

しかし、日本語で書くことが大好きです。わかりませんから。書いてから、私は楽しいです。

今日、生駒学校へ日本語の勉強しました。私はうちを早くでましたが、少し遅くなりました。私はMRTでいきたくないでしたから、５番号のバスを待ちました。でも、バスは６時４５分に来ました。このために、私は遅いでした。

親友の誕生日は忘れました！QYさん、ごめんなさい！来週に忙しかったです。もうすぐ会いましょう！

すみません。今、私の日本語はあまりよくないです。英語でブログを書きます。皆さん、お休みなさい。

And with this I end this entirely torturous episode for you, having to stand with my blabbering in a language that you probably don't understand. And if you did, you'll probably be trying to spot mistakes in my grammar.

Aside: Dan, Babelfish works just as well for Japanese translations, I think. They've even got Russian, though I've always thought that all you need is a mirror to translate English to Russian. Just kidding.

What everything above meant in a bloody nutshell:

1. I like writing in Japanese.
2. I don't know why.
3. I was late for lessons.
4. I don't like to take the MRT. Prefer the bus. I don't even mind being late for lessons just to take it.
5. Happy belated birthday, Qingyu.
6. I shall now write in English.

What I Don't Want To Hear

2007-04-22T23:33:00.000+08:00

"Hey, Owen, long time no see! Grown thinner hor? Eat more leh!" (Sorry, eat too much until got gastritis liao. Happy?)
"I want to follow your dressing! It's so cool! You dress like you're 35!" (Expletives deleted from my side)
"Why your dice-throwing so lousy? MUST FOCUS, UNDERSTAND!??!" (Bloody hell. If I could control the dice, I'd be rolling in Las Vegas, not blogging in Singapore.)
"Do you think this shirt is nice? Copy your style one leh!" (speechless at this point.) "Eh, why you never say anything one?" (Nothing to say.) "Say something leh, I spent $50 on it!" (on a bloody striped polo shirt.)
"Wah, I think (some particular colleague) and Owen are match made in heaven lor? Why Owen never reciprocate one?" (because I have zilch feelings towards her apart from friendship, she's bloody 26 and I'm 20, full stop.)

I am a naturally curious person, as I believe most humans are.

I am curious to know about most things.

But do please stay out of taboo topics. Yes, my luck sucks, and I seriously doubt if there is any element of focus to it.

There are just some things I don't want to hear, don't want to know.

Shirt not nice? Copied my style? Think I'm bloody 35? That's your bloody 35-wannabe problem, not mine. What, you think I'm taciturn? (In English: quiet?) It's because I don't want to say anything to what is a bloody stupid comment, get it?

I understand that this post contains a lot of sickening angst that might make nice people puke, but it is exactly how I feel listening to idiots talking. Or at least, idiotic talk. Or maybe it's both.

This post is supposed to be on The Other Side, but I've decided to put it right here. And it's wrong to argue that it's not supposed to be here. Sorry. Shop closed.

Playlists

2007-04-22T23:03:00.000+08:00

Recommended playlists while driving:

Morning rush!

(1) Shakira - Hips Don't Lie
(2) Bowling for Soup - 1985
(3) U2 - Elevation
(4) Bon Jovi - Livin' on a Prayer
(5) Robbie Williams - Rock DJ
(6) Queen - I Was Born To Love You
(7) Natasha Bedingfield - Unwritten
(8) Evanescence - Call Me When You're Sober
(9) Rihanna - SOS (Rescue Me)
(10) Nickelback - Photograph

Evening Road Home:

(1) Li Sheng Jie - Guan Yu Ni De Ge
(2) Bon Jovi - Who Says You Can't Go Home
(3) U2 - Vertigo
(4) Red Hot Chilli Peppers - Dani California
(5) Bond - Viva!
(6) Billy Joel - The Entertainer
(7) Gavin DeGraw - I Don't Want To Be
(8) Robbie Williams - Something Beautiful
(9) Kitaro - Matsuri
(10) Collin Raye - That's My Story

Night-time Hypnosis:

(1) Li Sheng Jie - Chi Xin Jue Dui
(2) U2 - Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own
(3) Elton John - Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word
(4) Daniel Chan - Bi Wo Xing Fu
(5) Power Station - Wai Tao
(6) Simply Red - For Your Babies
(7) U2 - With Or Without You
(8) Li Sheng Jie - Chong Lai
(9) Coldplay - Trouble
(10) Keane - Nothing In My Way
(11) Josh Groban - Un Dia Llegara
(12) U2 - I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

Good songs last the long miles. Everyone has playlists they'll enjoy, and they're all different. In my humble opinion, these are THE songs. They are subject to change, though. Obviously.

At this point I'll still love them to be on my car stereo, though. (Not that I'm driving yet.)

The Choice

2007-04-22T21:42:00.000+08:00

Ladies and gentlemen, there's a new reality show on the cards.

Prepare to be dazzled by something of even greater scale than Singapore Idol, Campus Superstar, or whatever cliched name you've got on hand.

Introducing Our Choice, a reality show that is guaranteed a participation of the entire Primary Six cohort annually.

In Our Choice, watch your children take on the Great Evil that is the Singapore Examinations and Assessment Board, and the one to vanquish the monster that is the Primary School Leaving Examinations will be The One On The NewMoon Essence of Chicken Poster.

That's right, this prize is coveted by all, and only awarded to the brightest young students across the country.

Please submit your application form today! Then again, your teacher would probably already have done so for you. The nation awaits with bated breath.

TESTIMONIALS

"Joining Our Choice has given me other options apart from going to The Most Prestigious Education Institution in Singapore... Now I think I might be able to fulfill my dreams as a movie star in the future!" - a participant who almost made the cut into the Finals

"I'm very proud for my son. Now he can score 10A1s, get all his distinctions, his Diploma for piano, and still be a celebrity!" - parent of the abovementioned, unnamed participant

"Essence of chicken is the way to go for a balanced life. You drink, you study, you win."

- Essence of chicken manufacturer's post-exam guarantee (or your money back - for the essence of chicken only, though; claims for exams should be settled with SEAB.)

Decipher's aside: To be honest, I'm proud of the two students. I was never in that league.

This Yellow Plate (or Monday, The Day I Was Reborn)

2007-04-19T22:57:00.000+08:00

I stepped out of the time capsule. I should have remembered a lot of things, especially on the 16th of April, 2007, but it seemed a little foggy in my memory.

The sign. It flashed again and again in my head, and I saw it bright and clear in my mind's eye. The plastic shape that held an orangey-red triangle on a bright yellow background.

And then I remembered.

Actually, I decided to stop being lame and admit to everyone that I passed my driving test.

Finally.

Shameful, isn't it, that I'm even trying to boast that I passed when this was my third attempt.

But the P-plate is beautiful, though. Absolutely beautiful.

私の第一回日本語のブログ

2007-04-16T00:33:00.000+08:00

今日、暇でしたから、オチャードの図書館へ行きました。図書館はあまり小さいですが、本を多いです。私は経済の本と、プレゼンテションの本と、サッカーの本見てから、貸しました。それから、紀伊国屋へ本を見に行きました。ジュンシアングさんは会いました。ジュンシアングさんに多いトピクを話して、ビーラドをしました。ジュンシアングさんのプールをいつもしませんから、プールは下手です。

でも、私は楽しくなかったでした。どうして？私は知りません。

I apologise for the audacious use of the language in my blog. Of course, I know my grammar isn't fantastic, so I apologise to that. I've done my best to express myself, but of course everything will come out raw and probably too polite even for a Japanese, I think.

My last sentence stated: "But I'm not happy. Why? I don't know."

I'm supposed to be free for today, yet having nothing to do is a torture in itself.

The Story of The Angel's Tears

2007-04-14T21:26:00.000+08:00

It rained again last week, and it rained again today.

I don't know if you believe in fairytales. I don't even know if I do. That is why this story may sound like a dream, and that is why this story may sound real.

--

Angels were different from us, and every one knew that; they had wings that spread out to twice their arms' length, and wore them with pride. For all their mercy, they had no feelings, and were not supposed to feel any, after all. Angels were workers, labourers for A Cause, and the only The Boss could feel feelings.

Yet one angel was different from the rest; he felt emotion, he felt pain.

It rained whenever the angel cried, and he cried often, and in different places in heaven. The tears would fall all around the world, wherever he stood directly above. On some occasions he cried for humanity and its failings; on others, he cried at his own. Mostly, he cried for injustices bestowed by and to the people who were created by The Boss.

This angel cried once again today. He cried for people feeling depressed, he cried for people who had lost their fathers, lost their children, lost someone who was so very close to them. He cried for the world at their losses.

The tears fell once more in the afternoon and they fell on a small island.

While he was crying another angel hovered past, tsking mildly, but rather coldly. "And you are crying once again."

The angel who was crying paused for a moment, wiping his tears. "Yes, because I am sad."

"Sad for humanity."

"Indeed, sad for humanity."

"A pity," the other angel spread his wings. "Yet consider this: why do you always cry? Surely, eventually, humanity has to find a way to solve its own problems." He patted the crying angel's shoulder.

"There is always hope, isn't it?" The angel smiled and stopped crying.

"Surely."

And outside, the people who lived on the island saw the beautiful sun come out once again from the nimbus clouds that were retreating into oblivion. The afternoon, fading into dusk, saw a wondrous rainbow blend into the vermillion sky. Red in the night, shepherd's delight.

And they said that the angel still cried, on some occasions when he forgot that in every thing, there was hope; but the other angels would be there to remind him.

The rain came and went, and some people on the island believed that the angel existed. Some of them reminded their friends that there was still hope.

Let the tears stop falling, for there is still hope.

U2 - I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

2007-04-12T21:32:00.000+08:00

There are some songs that you listen to once, and you forget; then suddenly the radio plays the song once again, and then you'll find yourself absorbed into it.

There are some songs whose meaning you don't understand; and after listening to it, thinking you should be able to get the meaning the next time round, you realise there's something new about the song that you didn't catch before.

That is the magic of U2 songs.

I STILL HAVEN'T FOUND WHAT I'M LOOKING FOR
From the album "The Joshua Tree"
Performed by U2

I have climbed the highest mountains
I have run through the fields
Only to be with you
Only to be with you

I have run I have crawled
I have scaled these city walls
These city walls
Only to be with you
But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for
But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for

I have kissed honey lips
Felt the healing in the fingertips
It burned like fire
This burning desire
I have spoke with the tongue of angels
I have held the hand of a devil
It was one empty night
I was cold as a stone
But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for
But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for

I believe when the Kingdom Comes
Then all the colors will bleed into one
Bleed into one
But yes I'm still running.
You broke the bonds
You loosened the chains
You carried the cross
of my shame
of my shame
You know I believed it
But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for
But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for

If you check the link for the lyrics on LeosLyrics.com, you can review the extremely long debate on what this song is talking about. For some, it is about Bono's Christian faith; for others, it's about how he has moved the world for a woman.

Whatever it is, the ambiguity of the song is the beautiful part of it.

And whatever happened to my good old self?

2007-04-10T21:26:00.000+08:00

My beloved Hieroglyphics by Happenchance is turning 250 posts old (or approximately three darned years; good and bad, I can't tell for sure, but it's definitely been one hell of a ride).

But age is something that is easy to determine. I mean, there can only be one answer, right? (Unless you are Alan Tam, who personally declared himself "forever 25"; Forever Young must be his favourite song, then.) It's like counting those age rings on the tree trunk. In this post on my own reflections of my life - just in case you still don't know that I'm doing some reflecting of my own - I'm trying to figure out what happened to my character.

My recent pursuits for personal achievement and success seem to have left my soul biting the dust. Being a Scout leader, tackling on a new role in a new business, handling a more eccentric than organised team at CMPB - these are things that are supposed to be so very important in enriching my life.

Yet with every new foray I hesitate: where is this going to bring me? Why is it that sometimes I do things that I don't really want to do? How come I order only green tea for my meals nowadays? Why is it that I give automated, monotonous replies to people I don't like? Why is it even that I don't like some people?

It may be perhaps that one hatred leads to another. A good friend once mentioned to me how much hatred was inside me, and how I should learn to let go of this terrible evil boiling in my heart. I have tried, my friend, but occasionally it returns to haunt me. I wonder how come sometimes I can manage to do everything right - as I have done in terms of academic achievement - and still feel so horribly wrong.

I thought I used to be a gentleman, but I had long since abolished the thought: like I had mentioned in some of my previous posts, I don't do presents, and please don't expect me to say things that I don't mean (like "you are not fat"). I have gradually begun to accept that the world is changing and that I, as part of this transformation, must change with it; yet sometimes I feel that I am only using this fact as an excuse for my misdemeanours.

Then came the thing about me being a so-called articulate, intelligent person. I'm not too sure about that - every tuition lesson (and every mistake made) makes me realise how shallow my knowledge pool truly is, and sometimes it is depressing as a tutor when you know that your student doesn't really need you at all, yet he is keeping you (perhaps?) for the sake of accompaniment (charity?).

Of course, the fact that I used to be a person who keeps profanities to a minimum, and keeps any other form of coarse insults deep inside his heart. Nowadays I no longer resort to euphemisms to express my disgruntlement/discomfort/any bloody bad thing, and I know that I am merely cracking jokes, yet those jokes cut close to the skin, too close for comfort if you ask me on hindsight.

Is it really so difficult to be a good person? If so, I must thank the heavens for not putting it down as a New Year's resolution. But that only, ironically, reinforces my point that there must be something going wrong somewhere in my soul.

(aside: Inspired by Nick Hornby's very funny, very complex-morals book, How to be Good, and later a brainwave hit me while I was driving. So... here you are.)

Shit happens - an overview

2007-04-06T10:27:00.000+08:00

(With special thanks to Ling Yi for teaching me Murphy's Law, Soo Hern for the inspiration on "shit happens", and my gastrologist for making me think about how what comes out from myself might well determine what is going in.

Oh, and by the way, if you can't stand talking about what goes on in the toilet, please avoid reading this.)

So you woke up on the wrong side of the bed, used your grandmother's toothbrush, decided to skip breakfast but missed the bus anyway, realised that you were going to be bloody late, and slammed by your superiors for having a bad day?

Yes, baby, shit happens, and in different colours.

With years of personal experience as well as some research into some restroom shall we say, products, I believe that shit happens in different shades as well.

Note: If you believe that you are suffering from any gastric illness, please stop consulting Dr. Decipher and make your way down to the nearest general practitioner. Seriously.

The typical brown day: It's just a typical dose of bollocks. You probably went for work realising you didn't bring enough money for lunch, and you only know this when you order your mee rebus and you panic because the hand reaching out for the two-dollar note is not very patient.

The black: Having done some research in this, I realise that a black day probably means that something much bigger than your typical brown day is going to happen. Something like your valuables being stolen (or lost), for example. The worst thing on a black day is, of course, a break-up. Then again, black shit typically means that you have a bad case of iron overdose.

The green: While what we've been discussing in the previous two colours indicate the quality of your day, green is just like brown, but so much more sickening. While brown differs from black in terms of the badness of your day, the green day is much worse compared with the brown not in terms of quality, but in quantity. For example, the brown day might mean that one bad thing is going to happen. You cannot predict on how many occasions bad things are going to happen on a green day, though. Of course, you probably have diarrhoea, and the colour of your shit means that you are just spilling out more bile than usual, that's all.

The red: Now we are in for some serious shit. Red symbolises danger, and you are highly recommended to stay at home under such circumstances. However, Murphy's Law cruelly states that whatever you want to avoid can never be avoided. So might as well just prepare for doom. (This is where I personally recommend to you to go to see a gastrologist, because as far as shit is concerned, it's really happening for you.)

Like all doctors refusing to take responsibility for the wrong prescription, I have attached a disclaimer for your reading.

Disclaimer: Dr. Decipher does not have a Bachelor's Degree in Medicine, nor a BBMS, or whatever permutation of alphabet that will show that he even deserves to be called a Doctor in front of his name. He has, however, spent years in personally experiencing the power of what he calls, euphemistically, waste discharge reading. To the common man, shit-reading is a science that is often not studied in detail. It is in the hope of changing this that this article was written.

Just kidding.

Scouting as I thought it would be

2007-04-02T23:30:00.000+08:00

I wrote a post about Scouting, way back in 2005, and it was all about what I thought this wonderful organisation was.

Two years later, I need to remind myself once again.

Some people call it "looking back over your shoulder"; I prefer to think that I am renewing my beliefs.

In the long journey of life, some values get lost along the way, while some of them change, for the better or for worse.

22nd March, 2005

Scouting is...

(also for Junxiang)

...one of the oldest youth organisations in the world, based on B-P's belief that the spirit of adventure may be spread to boys all around the world on its establishment in 1907 in the island of Brownsea.

...being in the hot sun the whole day, getting your body sunburnt in the process, and feeling all the blisters on your hand as you continue to tug away at the manila rope to tighten the wooden pole that you are going to stand on next.

...taking down the tower after you stare at it with pride in your achievement.

...about making friends, establishing and maintaining harmonious relations, even though at times the relations seem distant, unfulfilling, or non-existent.

...about learning when and when not to tolerate, when and when not to speak when spoken to.

...about trying to behave not like gangsters in front of the Girl Guides and not like sissies in front of your Brothers.

...about everybody. Nobody is alone. We are a Scout GROUP for a reason, a MOVEMENT.

And even sometimes, in the darkest moments of Scouting, when it appears that there can be no other hope but to exit from the most populous youth organisation in the entire world, one should always look back and ask himself, "What has Scouting given to me and what can I give Scouting back?"

The question is easily answered...

For me Scouting has given me a sense of adventure, nurtured me to have an insatiable drive even at the toughest times, trained me to become a better person, and I am proud to say that YES, I AM A BETTER PERSON TODAY BECAUSE OF SCOUTING.

Quitting? Who hasn't thought of quitting?

In Sec One, when I was hoaxed into believing that Scouts was a CCA that doesn't do push-ups, and discovered the hard way that it was a lie, I wanted to quit. But I didn't.

In Sec Two when I was beginning to hate a fellow Scout - a person who, to me, was power-hungry, too achievement-oriented, and getting too irritating to bear - I wanted to quit. But I didn't.

In Sec Three, when promotion loomed near, and when I thought I had failed so miserably in the June Camp - I wanted to quit. But I didn't.

In Sec Four, when I failed once again in dealing with logistics matters probably, this thought slipped once again into my head. But once again I rejected it.

Why? Because deep down I wanted to learn from my mistake - and make sure that it did not happen again. Not just to make sure that it did not happen to me, but to others.

I want to be there to help those 12 to 17 year olds whose footsteps I have just walked and would like to stop them from doing what I did. Even if they did make those mistakes, I wanted to be there to encourage them, to tell them that 'I did it before... and I'm still here.'

It is definitely much more important to learn from our mistake than to succeed.

Scouts love to EVALUATE. What went right? What went wrong? What have I learnt? I've learnt that to get something right, you would inevitably have to make some mistake along the way.

Being untalented in sports, I must say that I was the slowest Scout to learn how to ski. When those good strong legs had already learnt how to accelerate and decelerate, I was still trying how to stand properly.

It took them an hour to learn to attack the slopes; it took me two days.

But I finally learnt how to do it, and even though I felt so embarrassed at my total lack of skill in skiing, I felt proud of myself, that I at least had learnt to ski, even though it took close to eternity.

Don't give up. Taking a shot means you have a fifty percent chance, but giving up would mean zero.

The Case About The Korean Driver

2007-04-01T00:12:00.000+08:00

Kim Il-Nam is 52, drives a Mercedes-Benz lorry for a living, and has a staple inhaled diet of approximately 40 cigarettes a day. He doesn't dig Marlboros; in fact, the last time he got hold of those "bloody luxuries" was back in 1989, when he was a police van driver for Korean security. They managed to raid about five thousand cartons' worth of those then, and he had managed to sneak a few into his pocket without anyone noticing.

It was the 29th of March, 2007, and Nam had his feet firmly planted on the 4th best airport in the world (and only because they'd been slacking these past few years, or so was Nam's opinion). He had driven quite a number of Singaporeans around, and he knew from the Playstations and the spectacles their children carried that they had to be of a certain affluence level that poor Il-Nam didn't sport.

He managed to get out of the "Nothing to Declare" counter with the officer in blue looking tightly behind his shoulder. He thanked the heavens for remembering to zip up his tobacco in a nicely-concealed Ziploc bag in between his clothes. He didn't have to worry about those small, thin pieces of paper that looked like Post-it pads that he used for rolling up the tobacco - they were as inconspicuous as plastic bags.

Inside the squeaky-clean compound that was Changi Airport he couldn't bloody smoke - it was fully air-conditioned, people were all around and the smoking point was so bloody far away that he couldn't imagine having to walk the distance just to make himself feel slightly satiated. He had overheard something from one of the tourists once, something about those "yellow boxes" that you could pick up a cigarette in, while in other places if you did so you were liable to be tried in a Singapore court.

Not wanting to risk it, or risk the smoking urge that was rising within him to get to his mood, he stormed out of the airport like an important person being ushered into a car. Well, it was close: he was escorted into a blue Hyundai that, unfortunately, read "Taxi" on top.

"The Amara, please sir, thank you," he spoke in broken, accented English that the driver could not immediately detect was of which country. The driver moved off, and when the meter started moving Nam's heart came close to a heart attack - the bigger number read 2.50 (he suspected in Singapore dollars), while at the bottom right corner a small 2 preceded the number 5.00.

Seven-fifty Singapore dollars to start on a taxi ride. Brilliant. He jumped when he realised he had said that out loud, but the taxi driver raised his eyebrows just a little and carried on. Nam smiled when he realised he'd just said everything in his native language.

Then the taxi pulled over in front of the Amara Hotel, and Il-Nam reluctantly handed over two red Yusof Ishaks to the driver. The driver dives for the fifty-cents change slowly, as though waiting for the passenger to utter the Three Magic Words Spoken When Notes Are Given: "Keep the change". But Il-Nam didn't utter those words - not even close. His expectant look while holding out his right hand meant that the driver eventually, sulkily, handed over the ransom.

Room 345 was a smoking room. At least, it was a hotel room, but it was a designated smoking room, and he could smell it even at the corridor, the all-familiar smell of tobacco. Ah, this was home, all right. Il-Nam's hands were shaking and he was breaking out in a little cold sweat here in bloody humid Singapore, and he almost broke the keys while he had one jammed into the doorknob.

The door swung open as though a gale blew, though, and Il-Nam quickly threw down all his important stuff - the bags, the passport he was holding, the ticket for the return trip to Seoul, and reached out for his most important stuff, the Ziploc bag that was well concealed and the papers that looked like a Post-it pad. He rolled the piece of paper like a pro - he reached for a little tobacco like a Chinese physician would your medicine, and placed it in a neat pile before rolling it up in a nice rolled sushi style. The finish? The glorious sizzling light-up.

As Nam puffed away, he reached out for the remote control, wanting to catch up on the bloody news before he headed down for some R&R at the playground in Singapore they called Sentosa. The television flickered, as a typical cathode-ray, bloody traditional one would do, and then he saw it.

[This is it.]

The teeth came first - that's what most of those horror movies he had watched always done, they'd put the sharpest parts on the highest visibility, shows like Jurassic Park and Jaws, but this set of teeth were neither sharp nor looking capable of any incisive harm. In fact, they were a set of teeth that Il-Nam swore that looked so terrible that they were on the verge of collapse. He could picture Martin Tyler saying to the tone of No keeper in the world could have saved that!, "No bloody dentist in the world could have saved this set of teeth!"

Then he realised they were moving, those bloody teeth were moving. It was part of a face, but Il-Nam didn't want to see it, didn't even care about the face as much as he did the teeth. He realised for the first time when the voice got to him that it was a female, a woman saying something about quitting is hard, not quitting is even harder. And as Il-Nam dragged his eyeballs literally to move away from those terrible teeth, he thought he saw Death standing there, talking to him.

Calling for him.

The call was weak at first, but it came like a wave - like an ascending-volume alarm clock, where you thought you could ignore the clock but it kept getting louder - and then he realised it was going to be over before he knew it. His lungs seemed as though they had stopped functioning, losing control, and both his hands grabbed at the shirt he was wearing, it seemed so tight he was going to kill himself thinking about it -

He took deep gasps, but the oxygen just went in and out like blowing air through a hollow J-shaped pipe - whatever you blew through came back out upwards. Il-Nam knew that the moment was near, Death beckoned but his hands held on to the bloody hand-made cigarette as though it was the only pillar that he could hold so that he could escape from the wrenching grip of Death.

The black spots came next; he was going to die blind, he knew it, and he hated it that way, but he knew he was going to die anyway - the spots were small at first, then grew so big that he couldn't see the television. He was lying on his bed now, in a fetal position - the irony of it all. He was going to die, going to die.

The last thing he heard was the sound of Channel NewsAsia returning with Andrea Cho, the pretty newcaster with slightly too much makeup, anchoring the Primetime News. "The latest anti-smoking campaign has brought both praise and criticism from the public for its usage of shock tactics..."

THE END

It is not the end yet. Not yet, anyway.

Vertigo

2007-03-22T22:19:00.000+08:00

I have been hooked to songs before.

Hips Don't Lie comes bloody close to a song that I'd describe as addictive, yes? But there's just something, something that doesn't quite click in my head compared to listening to U2.

That's right, one of the best bands in the world with an average singer. U2 produced Vertigo, and right now I can imagine myself on a cloud above everyone else.

But why am I even trying to explain why I like this song?

VERTIGO
Performed by U2

Uno, dos, tres, catorce
Turn it up loud, captain

Lights go down it's dark
The jungle is your head, can't rule your heart
A feeling's so much stronger than a thought
Your eyes are wide
and though your soul it can’t be bought
your mind can wander

Hello, Hello
(Hola!)
I'm at a place called Vertigo
(Dónde está!!)
It's everything I wish I didn't know
Except you give me something
I can feel, feel!

The night is full of holes
'Cause bullets rip the sky
of ink with gold
they twinkle
as the boys play rock and roll
they know that they can't dance
at least they know
I can't stand the beat
I'm asking for the check
girl with crimson nails
Has Jesus around her neck
swinging to the music x2
Whoa x4

Hello, Hello
(Hola!)
I'm at a place called Vertigo
(Dónde está!)
It's everything I wish I didn't know
But you give me something
I can feel, feel!

(Bono talks)(Edge Solo)

all of this
all of this can be yours

all of this
all of this can be yours

all of this
all of this can be yours

just give me what I want and no one gets hurt

Hello, Hello
(Hola!)
We’re at a place called Vertigo
(Dónde está!)
lights go down, and all I know
Is that you give me something
I can feel your love teaching me how
Your love is teaching me how
How to kneel
Kneel!
Yeah 15x

(Adapted from LeosLyrics.com)
--

Yes, baby, I'm at a place called Vertigo and I'm swaying to the music - hello, hello, great music from U2, no?

And when Bono screams into the mic that he can feel, feel! I am really convinced that he is indeed feeling an emotional rush - it is a rare moment that I appreciate his vocal abilities.

Leave me alone for a while, and let me continue floating on this cloud.

18 Days Later: I Don't Know Why I'm Doing This

2007-03-21T22:02:00.000+08:00

Blogging, that's what.

In the past eighteen days my glorious achievements include

Books - Conquered Stephen King's The Green Mile and Cell, Nick Hornby's High Fidelity and About A Boy.

Movies - 300 and Letters from Iwo Jima.

Lessons - Japanese lessons times two.

Scouts - Venturing course, handing out Job Week stuff to the juniors, Career Fair 2007, went for Leader's meeting...

In any case, I have been... tagged by somebody apparently to do this very interesting (if weird) quiz, and I shall try to the best of my ability to put six weird things that I supposedly do.

The catch: I can tag someone else too! That's supposed to make it fun, right?

This is what you are supposed to cut and paste if you decide to participate in the tagging game. Each player of this game starts off by giving 6 weird things about themselves. People who get tagged need to write in a blog of their own 6 weird things as well as state the rules clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. After you do that, leave them each a comment letting them know you tagged them and to read your blog.

(1) Some people say that I'm rational. Whoa, that's a big word. Rational means "cannot come to a decision". To put it more accurately, I take 20 minutes to choose a flavour of the bread I want to buy. Just ask Benny.

(2) I have a strange passion towards the Japanese language when, unfortunately, I do not exactly love anime and the like. I am, in fact, a little embarrassed to admit that I am a Chage and Aska fan (from which generation...?)

(3) I am a die-hard Liverpool fan who just can't stop murdering them whenever they play not to my expectations (which is happening a little too often this season). And I try to avoid wearing the Liverpool jersey on matchdays; it seems to jinx them.

(4) I don't exactly think of myself as a great friend. First of all, I don't exactly do presents. Secondly, I normally don't engage in interesting conversations (apart from football and money, perhaps). For some strange reason, I do have a bunch of fantastic people around me, and I take comfort in that.

(5) Sometimes I can be absolutely angelic, other times ruthless. I talk to myself in the mirror and struggle to keep my hostile personality inside me. In short, my life is a battle between two different personalities.

(6) I'm single, but though right now I'm quite happy with being single I just feel that I don't exactly want to be single, but right now I don't have a choice with being single or not since there aren't exactly any single girls proclaiming their singlehood and throwing their single selves at me so that we aren't single any more... well, you get the idea.

The following members of the participating audience have been chosen:

Yumin, stop pretending, you're tagged.
Jin, it's time to show your creative prowess (and let the world get to know you better).
James Ang, I know this is bloody lame and unfortunately, you have been chosen.
Chion, tell me how your world looks like from a pilot's point of view. (And follow the abovementioned rules)
Yixiu, I just gave you a piece of blogging inspiration! (-_-")
Alaric, (see above). Nah, just kidding. Do try.

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.

Signing out.

A move on the cards

2007-03-03T09:58:00.000+08:00

Dear Readers,

There may be very few of you out there who still keep track of my beloved canvas sheet of the world. For those who are, however, I regret to inform you that Hieroglyphics by Happenchance may soon disappear into oblivion.

There are several reasons for me to pull the plug:

a) A terrifying lack of inspiration when it comes to writing enough articles to even keep this blog alive.

b) A terrifying lack of response when I do.

c) A terrifying error that seems to disable this blog's cross-posting abilities between my Multiply blog and this one.

While it is not my responsibility to please anyone reading this blog, I have tried my best to maintain it in as politically-correct yet refreshing a manner as I possibly can.

As W.H. Auden said:

Someone says, "Whom do you write for?"
I reply: "Do you read me?"
If they say, "Yes," I say, "Do you like it?"
If they say, "No," then I say, "I don't write for you."

There are no guarantees that I will move or not; but I thought it might be more polite to inform you readers first.

Cheers.

The Ultimate Girl's Fantasy

2007-02-16T20:58:00.000+08:00

Introducing John Tucker Must Die's male lead and Desperate Housewives' gardener, Jesse Metcalfe, who arguably has the hottest male bod in America.

If you are a girl and you're reading this, please understand my difficulties in trying to picture myself as an acne-prone giggling teenager who claims to watch the above two shows because of the plot. In any case, I'll try.

That said, you girls seem to be adjusting your expectations of men to hover somewhere around, above or just one or two nanometers below Jesse Metcalfe's level. In short, very difficult to please.

Of course, some possessed members of my gender may decide to do a Nip/Tuck and slip away a couple of chins to make themselves look slightly closer to Metcalfe. Maybe. Or maybe pump in some dollars to get an unstretchable Botox-ed face.

Then there's still this issue about protein supplements and steroids. Too little of the "nutrition", and you might be labelled too scrawny for lovin'. Too much, and tongues start wagging about your huggability.

Apart from being a bloody expensive task, let me just speak on behalf of the males all around the world, minus Metcalfe - it is not attainable. Surely, not enough to feed all our females around the world.

And we haven't even got to your topic about the male's personality and character. How can you even complain that guys have lofty expectations of the opposite sex?

When the girls go shopping for males, they want to find them packaged in gigantic cereal boxes that say:

Jesse Metcalfe modification included! Now you can have the shoulder and abs to lean on whenever you please.

The Lovin' Gear-shift: If you find that the life partner you bought doesn't quite seem too responsive during breakfast, turn on the gear-shift and experience for yourself second-gear lovin'!

Chemistry Pack! The new pack promises that those eyes that look at you will charm you so much that you'll forget the time.

Bicep/Tricep Instant Growth Lotion: Help your partner apply this fantastic lotion to make him look good in anything sleeveless (or maybe shirtless), instantly!

Family Web Upgrade: How about a lover that knows the name of every single one of your family members with 0% error? No more embarrassing moments during dates or gatherings!

Height Adjustor: Even the best man doesn't necessarily have the best height. Don't worry, with our new one-adjust-fits-all Height Adjustor, there won't be a need for you to think of whether your guy would need to bend down to accomodate you!

NEW! Language Learner (Singapore Edition): Our Language Learner for our very own Manufactured Males includes the Singlish Upgrade Option, and the English Downgrade Option as well.

Anyone for the ultimate girl's fantasy?

Singapore's media is disciplined, not controlled

2007-02-02T22:49:00.000+08:00

Having lived on this tiny island for all of my entire twenty years, I daresay that there are quite a couple of things I have noticed about Singapore.

First of all, we seem to be a very disciplined people when it comes to work. It is a tradition that has carried us since independence in 1965, and when we faced those economic restructuring challenges in the 70s and 80s. Before this essay soon deteriorates into a national education article, I just want to conclude that well... we certainly did better than the Soviets did with perestroika.

This discipline seems to spread itself unevenly through our own behaviour. For example, we can go absolutely nuts over limited-edition Hello Kitty toys, or maybe the annual National Day Parade tickets, queuing up for up to 48 hours at a time; at other moments, we just freeze - take the lukewarm local arts scene for a perfect example, and the recent half-nude female dancers imported from Paris. Crazy Horse called time even before they had their audience seats warmed.

Where newspapers are concerned, we carry as non-judging a tone as I have ever seen for a local newspaper. The Straits Times is renowned in the region (which is what it says on the cover) as a newspaper that carries itself proudly in terms of design and its dynamism of news coverage. Conclusion: What media control? We're not controlled. We're just disciplined, that's all.

But wait: There might be just one important point about the media that seems to have been forgotten, about the ascension to the Prime Minister's Office for a certain Mr. Lee Hsien Loong.

No derogratory remarks here; it is interesting to see how the papers spoke of his coming into politics, having had a father who, in his three decades as Prime Minister, never truly came out to acknowledge their relations while in office. Mr. Lee Kuan Yew will always be a revered figure in Singapore politics and for his contributions, yet you'll wonder: how is it that the fact that the two Mr. Lees were actually father and son so conveniently forgotten in media coverage?

Perhaps it may be the fact that Loong (as former Prime Minister Mr. Goh Chok Tong calls him) is his own man - he may be his father's son where political prowess is concerned, yet he calls the shots and he wants to show that he is doing so. The media has hence never done any convincing comparison (nor even tried to name father and son in the same breath, for that matter), and this has certainly aided the younger Mr. Lee in office.

There is less pressure (slightly less in the pressure cooker of a job) on Mr. Lee, who is serving after Mr. Goh stepped down in 2004, because it is always difficult - if not impossible - to live up to a father who in his 30 years in office transformed the tiny island with no resources into a bustling knowledge hub.

He is his own man, and now everyone in Singapore knows that. Mr. Lee Hsien Loong is a Prime Minister who had a father who was also Prime Minister, but no one does any comparison or says that "his father was better", though it may be too early yet to say whether the statement is right or wrong.

Why is the media in Singapore so controlled? Sometimes, it is not about letting loose and speaking things that can destabilise entire nations - discipline may well be the key to keeping a country focused on its more important targets of prosperity, progress and happiness.

Singapore 2-1 Thailand: Thais tarnish Asean football sportmanship

2007-02-01T21:46:00.000+08:00

Singapore beat Thailand in controversial circumstances last night, with a late penalty awarded to Singapore deemed controversial and taken even later afterwards by Serbian import Mustafic Fahrudin.

But the win was marred by the disgraceful act of the Thai football team after the penalty was awarded by Malaysian referee C. Ravichandran. The coach and team manager looked to have some right to feel aggrieved about the decision - Noh Alam Shah and Niweat Siriwong, the Thai defender who shadowed the tournament's top scorer looked like they had just accidentally clashed into each other's way - but what happened later totally baffled fans and neutrals alike.

Chanvit Phalajivin, the Thailand coach, decided that he didn't want to protest by himself to the officials. No way. Instead, he summoned his entire team off the pitch, to the bewilderment of the Singapore fans and backroom staff. Coupled with the Thai team manager, who was intent on making exaggerated gestures and unsettling the referee, the Thai football team staged a playing strike that lasted not one, not two but ten minutes of playing time.

John Koh, the general secretary of the FAS, was a haggard man who had to both calm himself and the Thai team manager down - after all, the penalty had not been taken, and he was obviously hoping to get on with the game, yet the Thais seemed to really want to spoil the evening for the 55,000 mostly-Singapore fans holding their breaths at the National Stadium.

The crowd's patient anticipation had dissipated, but Ravichandran seemed not to notice - he held the ball in his right hand, clutched to his side, as if the Thai football team was invisible and he was standing in front of the cameras posing. Maybe not, but if you could give me an alternative reason what exactly he was doing, lunch is on me.

So much for me, a Singaporean born in the days when we were about to exit the Malaysia Cup, Fandi was retiring, and believing that Thailand had the best footballing team in the region.

Sure, you haven't conceded a goal yet in the competition up to the final, and I've been catching up with the S-League long enough to know that Kiatisuk Senamuang and Sutee Suksomkit are brilliant players, but for the world-class technical players, there was a huge flaw that footballing fans saw last night - a flaw in character. For Asean football, yesterday's incidents were a disgrace, whether you wore red or blue that night.

Yet it is only half the story told, and as we await the away leg in Bangkok on Sunday, I pray for a less entertaining finale to what has been a poor-build up to the game.

Rewriting Primary School Essays: My Ambition

2007-01-28T21:45:00.000+08:00

When I was a child, I could think of many things that I wanted to do as a grown-up. But now that I am close to becoming a full-blown grown-up, I seem to be forgetting those things that I once dreamed of.

I do have some recollection of what I wanted to do, however; there was a very vague dream of making it rich, but come to think of it I only thought of the end product and not the process. I think I also thought of becoming a famous writer, but it is kind of appalling that some of my favourite writers just wrote hundreds of books and died, full stop. It hardly seems like a rewarding job nowadays.

In secondary school I stumbled upon this book called Rich Dad, Poor Dad by Robert Kiyosaki, this rich guy who got famous from writing books with catchy titles but always touching on the same topic in those books he wrote, then got even richer since all his books became runaway bestsellers. It made me want to be rich by opening my own business, and made me want to be just like him - give up studies and start up a business as well as start investing.

I carried this belief all the way till I was in junior college - though it was already a miracle in itself that I made it there, considering that I had been ignoring my studies for the almost the entire of the previous four years - and they were cruelly crushed when in my first year the pressure to do well academically got to me. I did the same as most of my good friends did, sleeping through classes and thinking that the pot of gold would be at the end of the rainbow.

Turned out I was on the Devil's rainbow, and when I reached the peak I decided that I didn't want to get retained. The "businessman-who-dropped-out-of-school" idea was beginning to stink in my head, and so I worked hard to get back into the rat race and the paper chase.

I made it, with six bloody distinctions to boot, and for once I felt the illusion that I was untouchable, on top of the world. I could hardly believe myself - where had all my lofty dreams and aspirations gone to? Surely I haven't stooped to such a level, to achieving nothing but a piece of laminated Cambridge print paper?

I applied for the Economics and Social Science double degree course at the Singapore Management University, having already planned for it in my second year in junior college. Yet was it too hasty a decision? When at a crossroads, you need to think, and I was at a crossroads in my life. I watched the movie called Pan's Labyrinth, and in the show Pan gives the girl Ofelia the Book of Crossroads by which it shows her the choice to take.

Unfortunately, the Book of Crossroads is rarer than I thought. But thankfully I have two years to think before I actually enrol into university. Now, lazing about in National Service, I am carefully plotting my next move. And while I think I may not be getting sufficiently close to the full blueprint, I feel that I can start laying the foundations soon.

I want to be a teacher.

But first, I want to take care of my financial security before we talk of anything about ambition. I have set aside some sky-high goals for myself and I want to attain them. Yet even before we talk about financial security, we need to talk about health. Nothing will matter if I am bedridden and helpless. Nothing will matter if I am not in a condition to walk, to talk.

My ambition is therefore, most importantly, to be in perfect pink health. Being financially secure comes second, being a teacher third, but they all come in rapid succession. Like a sailor about to embark on his journey, I pray for a problem-free ship as well as good winds to guide it along.

Let me sail, then.

Rewriting Primary School Essays - My Neighbourhood

2007-01-07T20:53:00.000+08:00

My name is Owen and I have millions of nicknames. I was ten but now I'm nineteen-going-on-twenty, struggling in this time period they call officially "National Service", but unofficially we call it "two years of hell". But of course, some of them don't agree with me because I still get to go home after my daily dose of monotony.

If you have seen a Venn diagram, they always like to do these funny circles blending together to form "intersections". I live in the intersections of three areas - Bedok Reservoir, Eunos and Kaki Bukit. Telling the taxi driver that I live in any of the three areas will bring me home in any case. The road that is just outside my block, however, is called Jalan Tenaga, and is a quaint little road where it is busy on weekdays and quiet on weekends.

Since I learnt that apart from walking and running, my two legs also give me control over a football, I have always wished for a place where I could play football around my neighbourhood. Unfortunately, the grown-ups haven't really thought of the idea, and in fact, they've made illegal my playing football in the multi-purpose halls littered around the area. That is quite sad, not just for me, but also for scores of other children as well as our footballing future.

Around five years ago, the grown-ups decided to label our neighbourhood "Tenagaville". I'm not too sure whether anyone uses this name without blushing a beetroot colour in the face, because it is awkward to pronounce, embarrassing to say and rather difficult to write down. In any case, Tenagaville has been where I've been living for the past fourteen years.

There is just one provision shop in my area and it is very uncreatively called Tenaga Mini Mart. I have known the owners for as long as I've lived there, and they are a bunch of nice (even if they like to slightly overprice things) people. According to my parents and my friends, good people are difficult to find nowadays.

At night, the quiet Tenagaville transforms into a bustling hub though it barely compares with the hustle, bustle and tussle of Geylang, Joo Chiat and Holland Village. On Mondays to Fridays, young parents like to bring their children downstairs to the playground to play. Between 10pm to midnight, children above 6 like to debate at the top of their voices why Catching is a better game than Playing On The Slide. Children under 6 just cry. Parents who can't stand either or both also join in the cacophony.

If I were to cross Jalan Tenaga to the opposite residential area ("village"), it gets even more exciting. People who bet, both officially and unofficially, like to go to the 24-hour coffee-stall to gather around the new Samsung LCD TV not to marvel at the ergonomics, but to watch the English Premier League or the World Cup, whichever is on. I have observed them very carefully and made one conclusion - winners scream loudly and ask for more Heinekens, while the losers sulk bitterly and ask for more Heinekens. In short, the Heineken seller wins.

Well, that is all that my neighbourhood has to offer. It may not be much, but reluctantly I will admit that it has been fourteen nice years here.

NKF absorbs 2% GST hike: Do we applaud?

2006-12-22T23:32:00.000+08:00

Julia Ng reported on Channel NewsAsia that the much-maligned National Kidney Foundation will be absorbing the GST hike for at least the next year.

The charity organisation, which at its peak supported some 270,000 donors, promised to waive even more - chairman Gerard Ee said that as long as more donors came in, he was "prepared" to slash for the sake of those in need.

According to the report, the NKF had a fantastic year in terms of comparing it with the Durai era;

S$7.2 million earned through forward-looking investment;
Ability to maintain the confidence of LifeDrops donors to keep surpluses on S$15.5 million, even after the increase in dialysis expenditure;
By 2007, 80% of patients will pay $400 or less, with 16% of them paying $50 or less.

What truly deserves to be applauded, however, is that the NKF has not shied away from helping patients in need - in contrast, it has stepped forward to bravely receive all the bad egg thrown on their faces.

That deserves respect - yet, am I speaking too quickly? Are we too naive and getting a bit too forgiving? After all, this is a charity that claimed that it was itself running out of money every year trying to sustain dialysis patients - the same charity whose CEOs had gold taps installed in his office toilets.

It is the same charity that encouraged actors to shed the tears they are so proficient at in front of the cameras - the same charity that manages to wrench out every single cent you were willing to donate (and probably more) out of you every year you watch.

It might just be me, but I am not one who can forget as quickly as the rest.

It is just one step forward, but there are still miles to cover before we can be convinced once again that the charity scene in Singapore is honest and clean.

Writer's Block - and Eragon

2006-12-12T21:34:00.000+08:00

My sincere apologies for not landing anything on my blog apart for a pathetic entry on the Greatest Man in Singapore, Lee Kuan Yew.

For those friends of mine who aren't sure whether I'm alive or dead, I have this to say: Life has been so stagnant of late, it almost stinks.

It hasn't always been like this, though. Worst of all, the stagnation of my life has brought about a similar disaster upon my writing.

I can't seem to get any stories that I want to write completed. So it may well be a long time before Decipher starts to go around begging people to read his latest Scratchead Thunderbolt-ish fantasy epic.

Speaking of fantasy, I've been catching up on the genre. I completed Eragon by Christopher Paolini - interestingly, I had never thought of picking it up before I heard that it was going to be made into a film.

It is the first book of a trilogy named Inheritance - in case you haven't read the book or you are just so bloody blind, the book is littered with examples of how people gain (and lose) with things they gain from people: Eragon with the dragon egg, and later the sword of an arch-enemy.

Eragon did get me excited, though. Christopher Paolini is one hell of a writer, considering that he's just half a decade older than me - not too bad for a fantasy writer. Consider this - Robert Jordan, the writer of the Wheel of Time series, is probably as old as my grandmother.

The twists and turns didn't come across as a shock to me, but I'm not saying that I expected all of them - yet even without the big twists that are so reminiscent of Jordan and J.K. Rowling's writings, Paolini spins the yarn as though he was narrating it inside an inn. Simple but clear descriptive language means that it becomes much easier to understand and imagine the troubles of a fifteen year-old farmboy who discovers a blue dragon.

I haven't finished Eldest, which is the second book in Inheritance, but somehow I feel that a grown-up Paolini doesn't have the sparkle of the narration that he used to such great effect in Eragon. The use of language is much more complicated, and closer to Jordan's style of literature than Rowling's. Non-hardcore fantasy readers might be advised to stay clear. Otherwise, enjoy Eragon and the Christmas season, guys.

LKY

2006-12-03T21:59:00.000+08:00

I wouldn't have blogged about this if I hadn't just accidentally read a small part of an article that my brother was reading in his Social Studies textbook.

It was about our very own, undisputed leader of Singapore - Minister Mentor Lee Kuan Yew, and how he rose from being a humble lawyer in the 1950s to one of the most powerful and influential figures of our island.

Flash right back to secondary school, when my classmates were still under the illusion that I was, as they claimed, "gentlemanly". That word still makes me want to regurgitate.

"Reading about LKY?" A classmate asks.
"Mmm," I acknowledge as I fumble through the pages.
"So... what's there that you don't already know about him?"
"Just wanna read it through... He's a legend, you know."
"WHAT? Dude, it's propaganda!"

Tough life, Mr Lee. I mean, you worked your socks off for half a decade, only to retire with swarms of post-65ers thinking that Social Studies textbooks are influenced by the political environment in Singapore. It is sad.

I remember those speeches. The 1965 one, where Mr Lee broke down in tears and mumbles that "this... is a moment of anguish" signalling the beginning of our independence, the one before in 1963, when he shouted "MERDEKA!" to the crowd, the one where he stepped down in 1990 to Mr Goh Chok Tong, and most recently (though strictly, it wasn't really a speech) the session with the post-1965 generation.

The speeches were iterated by a person who exudes confidence, intelligence and experience - but most importantly, they were iterated by a person who has stood by Singapore through thick and thin for its best interests as perceived by himself.

There might have been small hiccups along the way but for every "Stop at Two" plan that he came up with, there is JTC, there is National Service, there is HDB - all of these surely redeeming whatever mistake that we have appeared to make.

We need to give our leaders credit where it is due.

Addicted

2006-11-27T14:16:00.000+08:00

Playing Football Manager 2007.

Don't disturb.

Scratchead Thunderbolt: The Epic Concludes

2006-11-09T22:40:00.000+08:00

To those who were so fanatically chasing after my Scratchead Thunderbolt series, I am glad to say that I mixed a strong brew of Arabica coffee, gave myself a good dose and survived to finish the concluding episode of Peter Smith's adventure.

You can read the story here.

I finally understand the satisfaction that a writer feels when he finally finishes an epic work. He feels... tired. But, nevertheless, happy as well. It is a high that is difficult to explain. Not like Ecstasy, when you just feel like you have such a bad headache that you need to shake your head off - it's a different high altogether.

The epic would not have been possible if not for me. (Not the complete truth, of course. The people whom I want to thank for making this possible...)

Jin.
Junxiang.
Eric.
Yeowsheng.

And of course, the readers (including the four above).

Thank you for the unexpected support.

Bangkok

2006-11-06T10:35:00.000+08:00

A picture paints a thousand words, said some literary idiot from centuries back.

That guy must have had unlimited Flickr upload bandwidth.

In any case, let me share with you the photos I took in Bangkok.

(This action is called spamming photographs. It is not a recommended action for most bloggers.)

Because of this, I have exceeded my Flickr upload limit for this month. Damn.

A photo with an Ang Moh at Pathumwan Princess. Notice the shirt, though.

You can view the rest of the photos here.

Bangkok Trip: Prologue

2006-10-24T21:12:00.000+08:00

It was in a rush that we decided to head to Bangkok. After convincing Damien and Eng Shing that the place was worth going despite the bloodless military coup that had just befallen the country (since it was convenient, cheap and relatively easy to access - it also helped that my Dad often goes there), we headed off to this tour agency in Bugis that offered "relatively good rates", Dad had told me.

They quoted me a price I thought was reasonable, so as I settled for payment I called my family to inform them that I'd booked the tickets already. Instead of the satisfied response I thought I'd have received, they shocked me by saying that I'd been robbed. "Get the refund if you can, boy," my Mum made it sound as though my life depended on it, "Or get out there if you can't. We'll settle this at home."

Dad showed me later that he might have got the price for a three-day two-night trip to Bangkok, free-and-easy, much lower for us - if I hadn't been that hasty. Cursing under my breath, there wasn't much I could do. But it was already over, in any case. Time to think of the good things to happen.

Then three days before I was about to leave for Bangkok, Liverpool lost to Manchester United.

I know, it doesn't matter much to those footballing neutrals, but as a passionate Liverpool fan, it pained me to see that the words "Liverpool" and "passion" didn't quite rhyme with the performance on Sunday.

It may have been pure coincidence, but I fell ill on Sunday night. The day that followed, I used up one tissue box all on my own. My nose just couldn't stop running. And I had a horrible sore throat that made my voice comparable to a broken Bryan Adams record.

Whatever happened, I made it through today, and if you are reading this at 6.30am Singapore time on the 25th October, 2006, I would already be on my way to Singapore's beautiful international airport to the Land of Smiles.

I can't wait.

The Haze: Whose fault is it?

2006-10-22T00:18:00.000+08:00

A shorter post this time. So, whose fault is it that we get to feel like we're being fogged every year?

1. The poor Indonesian farmers who burn the plantations. Fire works much faster than bulldozers, and are much cheaper.

2. The rich Indonesians behind the plantations, who are so stingy as not to provide the bulldozers for clearing them.

3. The (edited: I mean the Indonesian)government, for they had been discussing since April on this issue, yet apparently (and sadly, I may add), the methods suggested doesn't seem to have worked.

4. Us. It seems we haven't worked closely enough to tackle the issue with Indonesia. Surprisingly, we've been quite complacent dealing with the haze problem. To this I say: It's time. (edited: It's time we become more active with them in dealing with the problem. Sometimes, it's better to do some hands-on.)

Notes From An Even Smaller Town

2006-10-21T10:04:00.000+08:00

Here I was in Eunos. Yes, Eunos. The place where I had lived almost my entire life, and where I share a rather dangerous love-hate relationship.

It's the place where I first learnt of the word 'PAP' - of course, like most others, during kindergarten. I didn't really recall attending nursery level in pre-school, but I remember that K2 was spent in the PAP Community Foundation (PCF, as the party people call it, but more people call it by what the 'P' stands for, really) near Block 630 Bedok Reservoir Road.

I abashedly admit that I don't know whether that kindergarten still exists. I did have fond memories of it, though. It was where I picked up the nasty habit of nose-digging and learnt of my love for fish porridge. When my grandfather was still alive, he would bring me there just for the congee, which was always magnificent.

At least, that was then. The stall has been replaced by one selling roti prata - of course, one of my favourite dishes as well - but it is something that has been lost and can only be found in my childhood memories.

I finally walked the area, albeit only for approximately fifteen minutes - it was a short walk, I'd admit, but I'll probably continue on my journey once I can - and at this point, I know someone would start asking, Why the hell are you doing this?

Well, it's just something I thought I'd do before I die, you know. Though I'm not exactly dying yet, I figure since I'm able to do it, why not? And since I've never done it before, I've got no harm trying it - discounting the fact that I'm breathing in 15 minutes' worth of PSI 100 haze.

So a short walk with James Ang begins here. Unfortunately, he has temporarily (I hope, only just temporarily) closed down his blog, so all you'll be seeing are his amazing archived blog entries. They're fabulous.

---

Sorry for the very blurrish pictures, guys. I assure you, I'll sharpen up my skills. Or maybe engage a professional photographer. Or both.

I started off just outside MacDonald's Bedok Reservoir Road. That was Block 632. Right outside stood this gargantuan building that is now vacant - the temporary Block 630 wet market, built simply to hold the market stalls while the old market got renovated, post-fire. (There was a fire only weeks before the market was officially closed for renovation - talk about TIMING!)

This was when James proceeded to tell me something about our good ol' reliable MRT that I had never heard in my entire life. It's just an aside from the actual tour, of course. Anyway, I'm wondering: what is going to be done about this building? Is it even a 'building'? Or is it going to be converted into a food centre or something? Whatever it is, I don't think it should be left here for the mosquitoes to breed.

We proceeded to walk upwards towards Kampong Ubi, where we discussed about the positives and negatives of the town.

Owen: Quite a bit on the quiet side, this place.

James: Hmmm, but I like such places leh... Quiet towns...

O: Maybe lor, but not much facilities here.

J: But what facilities you want? I mean, look at the shopping centres in Singapore. Look at the big ones, they are just like a couple of the small ones combined together.

O: Probably, but I think this town is pretty boring once you talk about entertainment facilities. Where's the arcade, the cinemas? Not around here, man.

J: Yeah, I guess you've got to go to the bigger places for those.

O: Something like this kind of place?

J: I guess so. My girlfriend's been there though, and she says the shops are only around 60% open.

O: Still better than here lah, I think. Over here, nothing much... But I'd agree with you. VivoCity is kind of repetitive, the stalls. What's the attraction there? All the shops there, I mean, I've seen before at some other shopping centre. Akashi, Tangs, Marks and Spencer... I can go to them in town what. What's the point of having another shopping centre? Still... I still consider the bus stop outside my house the 'Escape Route' to something more exciting.

We continued walking up Bedok Reservoir Road, up stretches of places where I remember I'd been when I was younger, and James pointed out a couple of flats where his mates are staying in. Then we hit upon a very interesting-looking lift lobby.

It was the hottest topic of the election, bar James Gomez, and we were seeing the result of that in full force.

Actually, as a resident here, I generally have no complaints about the upgrading works in this constituency. There is a consistent effort to upgrade and maintain the look of the district, even though sometimes I must say they choose some pretty odd colour combinations to paint.

Walking up the road, we noticed a bunch of children playing football at the void deck. Ironically, I was trying to spot the "No football" sign that has become so synonymous with void decks around the island. After the tour, I remarked on the bus to Bedok and pointed out to James that there was one.

"Really seems to contradict the aim to make the World Cup in 2010, hor?" I remarked.

"Dangerous. Imagine, last time some kids like to pump the ball up high, smash the lamps, break them into a thousand pieces and run away. Think of the consequences. Hit someone how?"

How true. But why do they starve us so of footballing facilities around the area? Apart from a field in Ubi that I seem to remember needed a pre-game booking, there didn't seem to be any other places where we could play, at least down this area.

And then I saw this.

A huge stretch of grass for... absolutely nothing. Cannot just play football on this meh? You must ask. The answer? The multiple divots (Paul Robinson-talk for the word 'uneven spots') on the field will make you uncontrollably miskick every backpass into your area and into goal. And the last time I checked, I believe no one wants to do that.

My idea: Why not make a street soccer court here? And cage it, so that the ball won't get a chance to roll onto the road and cause any traffic accidents. At least the kids won't have an excuse to smash those fluorescent lamps, ever.

We reached the bus stop near my house at approximately 4.15pm, and the haze was worsening. After the short walk, I wanted more - next time, I want to explore the other side of Eunos, where bak kut teh, Hokkien mee and the new short-skirted beer girls are the order of the day.

But for now, I'm signing off.

P.S. The Clementi MRT oil-spill collision is real. Try Wikipedia.

North Korea Tests Out BoomBoom.com

2006-10-12T23:10:00.000+08:00

Dear Mr Kim Jong-Il,

We did hear that you just successfully conducted this thing called a nuclear test at 9.36pm EDT Sunday night. We even had evidence of "seismic magnitude" of around 3.6 at the time you did the missile in.

By the way, congratulations for staying in power for the nth year in North Korea.

Keep your hair on. (No pun intended, of course. Off the record, we do have this good Singapore health-care shop called Beijing 101. If you don't need it, think of our celebrated hairstylist David Gan, who ironically doesn't have any hair.)

I also did hear that the United States of America (small fry compared to you in terms of nuclear enrichment, of course... or not?) is going to impose even stricter economic sanctions on you.

But it doesn't really matter, does it? The last time I heard, the sanctions don't really affect you, but your people - and they haven't really been living in the best of times anyway. Just that they don't realise it, and they love you to pieces.

So nothing really changes. You see, we're all too scared to do anything that involves launching a missile and putting it through the middle of your nose at Mach 1 speed. No way. We all understand, at least, what "fallout", "radioactive dust", "dying people" and "world destruction" means. And we don't really want to stoop down to that.

Maybe we should impose stricter sanctions on you. Like, we should ban all DVD imports. We've heard you're this big fan of Hollywood films. You won't get to watch The Departed, Mr Kim! No Leonardo DiCaprio for you unless you stop doing whatever you're thinking of doing.

Think about it. I mean, seriously.

Sincerely and hopefully,

Decipher

Shit, I'm a Life Sciences graduate!

2006-10-10T22:25:00.000+08:00

After reading through Today's recent article on the life sciences conundrum, I felt compelled to write on this even though I am exhausted from work and tuition.

Without a PhD, most of Singapore's life sciences graduates are only qualified to work as research assistants. And both graduates and diploma holders vie for these positions that could pay less than $2,000 a month.

Which means, the financial difference between sacrificing half a decade on studying for an extra piece of certification and not doing so might actually equate to... nothing? Ouch!

The Singapore government emphasised the need to branch into this life sciences sector way back in the 1990s, when the Knowledge-Based Economy blueprint was shown to the country - showing a vibrant Singapore hub bustling with such sectors that can differentiate this red dot from the rest of the region.

Problem is, I suspect that the multinational research companies never reached Singapore with the overwhelming response that we had initially expected. With China producing enough graduates to equal almost a tenth of Singapore's population, and India looming large beyond the Himalayan mountains, it seems the MNCs forgot all about us.

The investment never really came, did it? And even with the establishment of the Biopolis and some other collaborations, I doubt the demand ever really met the supply adequately. And right now, we don't have enough PhDs for the top-level projects. And with degree-holders fighting for jobs that are supposed to be given to diploma holders, life is looking even tougher locally.

So what do we do with the life sciences graduates? Rather, what are they going to do? Some of them have decided not to fight to wash test-tubes for a living, preferring instead to focus on other disciplines (which may be equally low-paying), like insurance, sales and engineering.

Now, it is difficult not to pity these new graduates. It is like being in the movie Singapore Dreaming with you and the people who graduated with you a hybrid between the graduate who can't get a job and the ex-army regular who can't sell insurance for nuts. Whose responsibility is it, then? An economy like Singapore's barely leaves any space for breathing. And for this bunch of graduates, it's either back to school or a lifetime of being unable to practise what you learnt.

Enough of the criticism. I believe the government should step forward to seek jobs for this sector - or the unused talent would be such a waste to a country already lacking in other resources. In any case, I hope that the life sciences graduates do well, whichever discipline they may choose to practise in the future.

But never imagine for one moment that getting a degree means financial stability. It is a well-strung fairytale, but this article has shown in a very harsh perspective that it was never meant to be this way.

Am I Dreaming?

2006-10-08T14:20:00.000+08:00

Am I Dreaming?

So Taufik Batisah's Singapore Idol winning song was not an original, but a "special" composition that was already sung by LeAnn Rimes half a decade ago?

Amazing.

Let's Talk About... Vices

2006-10-08T12:48:00.000+08:00

No, seriously, this will be the last time I'm going to a pub.

I know, my colleagues will feel slightly aggrieved that their attempt to make me into a drunken animal has failed, but I still felt a little out of sorts this morning and I woke up with the smells of their cigarette smoke still in my nostrils.

It didn't help that I washed my face twice and still felt like I had a horrible headache. Being the one with slow reflexes, and bad luck, I was often the one emptying the cup of green tea Chivas.

When the green tea ran out, it turned to Coke. And when both ran out, it turned to nothing but pure, burning Chivas.

We played a variety of dice games that was mind-boggling for the beginner - one of them being a dice version of bluff - but as I downed the Chivas and got more experienced, I had my turn at making my other colleagues drunk.

Karaoke was all about singing to yourself, albeit in a room with people lighting up and laughing out loud, and the sounds of dicing cups in the background.

By 11.30pm - early by their standards - I decided that I had had enough of the smoke and stepped outside into the hazy night. So I bade farewell to every single one of them, hurriedly put a $50 note on the table, and left.

My blurred eyes caught sight of a taxi in the distance, and when I stepped on, I had a sudden realisation of everything I just did would mean nothing when I wake up in the morning. Except, maybe, that I'd burned a big hole in my bloody pocket and provided myself with the after-effects of knocking my head on a wall for no charge.

So, seriously, it will be my last time.

HDB In The Haze

2006-10-06T23:04:00.000+08:00

Sing this to Les Miserables' Castle on a Cloud.

HDB IN THE HAZE

I see HDB in the haze.
How to get the hell out of this place?
All I can do is sit and laze.
In my HDB, in the haze.

Those Indonesians burning trees.
The weather there must cause a freeze.
If not they should have thought of this!
Look how hazy the red dot is.

Our PSI just broke record.
I saw the number, it's a lot.
Smelling the smoke, our lungs can rot!
But breathe in 'cos that air is all we've got.

I Think I Get What You Mean

2006-10-06T22:36:00.000+08:00

After all I've read and felt
And everything I've done and seen,
I see the cards that I've been dealt
And I think I get what you mean.

Blackjack, straight flush, poker race,
Never right, gambling, never has been.
Not when your heart's been flying out of place
I think maybe, I get what you mean.

Vices, tricks all up your sleeve:
Don't like it but then I'm not that clean.
You want to be the leaf in the wind...
Perhaps I should know what you mean.

Life, love, friendship all entwined:
Complicated webs forming in every scene.
I feel all three things combined -
Do you really get what I mean?

And when the webs tighten I get confused.
I worry, I anger, and I can feel mean
When whatever I do is rejected and refused,
I don't think you get what I mean.

The Traditional Concept Is Obsolete

2006-10-01T20:37:00.000+08:00

As I am writing this blog entry, I'm typing every single letter with passion and rage and everything else that I can imagine.

Within the space of three days, it seems that my values are being stretched to the maximum. Is it just me, or are the times a-changing?

The new-age relationship manual does not speak of anything remotely related to being faithful to their partners. Love is a modern-day Monopoly game where you take on approximately three billion people of the opposite sex.

Indeed, she's told me more than once (albeit half-jokingly, of course), that "Owen, you are too traditional lah".

While it seems that she is only trying to make a counter-move against a guy who is actually married (yes, married, and still daringly attempting to make my SUPERvisor - mind the pun, guys) trying to date her, I wonder: how many bloody couples are attempting to do the same thing to each other?

This is Survivor. Outwit, outplay, outlast.

All right. I'll be the first one to be eliminated there, since it is common sense to get rid of a player who doesn't play. It happens in Counterstrike, in DOTA, in WOW, in Gunbound... so it can happen in this game of Russian roulette called "dating" right?

Then now, my good friend, someone whom I really care about, has picked up smoking. Yes, it's experimental - I don't know, I guess first-timers love to say that - but it's happened.

I wonder why.

Back on Friday I heard my course instructor talking happily about successfully quitting the habit of lighting up - for the tenth time. And it seems that she has succeeded, for one year now, though I wonder: if she'd tried nine times and failed, it isn't really the simplest thing to quit, eh?

My values are being twisted, slowly and surely, by the people around me. Perhaps it is due to my background - or theirs. I grew up, sheltered by parents who cared so much for me that they barely dared to let me go about doing the things I wanted to do. And I believed in values inculcated by them, by relatives and friends - and I think I was lucky enough to scrape through almost two decades without having to see anything that truly disturbed these stalwart values of mine.

Owen is too traditional already, lah.

Nowadays, I'm beginning to feel the full force of advice falling on deaf ears. But whatever I put on this blog won't have any effect anyway.

Please take care of yourself.

Singapore and Owen Dreaming

2006-09-24T21:41:00.000+08:00

Spoilers ahead, but no one ever stopped reading because of the aforementioned warning, did they?

Singapore Dreaming started slow, but I thought it brought several issues of the typical local family into perspective.

The obvious point was the chauvinistic male: that one was hard to miss, with Liu Qianyi playing the man approaching retirement who barely has a pension to retire for, until he strikes it rich. In the process, his wife of 30 years stays home to cook, to give him a massage - and does nothing else apart from providing room service in their HDB flat.

It is a sad story, especially for females. Irene (played by Serene Chen) sacrifices her life savings for her boyfriend (Dick Su) in the hope that they could get married once he returns from America with a degree, but little does she know that things could take a turn for the worse.

The rat race, of course, and the paper chase - Seng finds that graduating from America doesn't seem to be getting the perks he believes he should have got, but this is not really the main issue: it is merely a standing issue in a much bigger, bleaker picture of Singapore.

What are you dreaming of? Riches? Happiness? Both? Is striking lottery going to make you happy? How about five credit cards, one for each finger? How about being pushed around by a boss who recalls you from leave just to ask you to photocopy his documents? Worst of all, do you really think that your sacrifices today are going to get you anywhere near marital bliss?

This is not a movie that brings you down to earth: merely, it tries to make sure that the dreams you are attempting to make real is truly what you are looking for. There is a fine line between a dream and a nightmare. In the death of one in the family, the dreamers find that the dream is surely deteriorating. Waking up to reality, to bills and to expectations not being met.

But I think that in the end, the movie also shows that there is no mistake so huge that it cannot be somewhat corrected. I can only hope, however, that Singaporeans can take this movie more as a warning than a prophecy.

Handling A Drunk: A True Story

2006-09-23T12:49:00.000+08:00

Oops. 22 days since I last posted. Sincere apologies for the delay in posting. Apparently, I've not really been missed, though. All right. For those of you who did, I recently experienced this crazy situation.

--

I woke up from my midday nap - they normally call it 'lunch hour', but recently I haven't been feeling fantastic enough to really enjoy any food - and actually made my way back to the front desk. Over at our place, we call it 'Checkpoint One'. Essentially, it means that pre-enlistees (meaning, people who don't want to get enlisted, but don't really have a choice lest they disregard that ignoring the Enlistment Act is a criminal offence) should come over to the front desk first.

Of course, like all government procedures and checks, things never go perfectly in gear. Some idiots love to come over to the front desk to ask "Where to register ah?". Yes, I'm talking about you, the one with the slippers. You too, blue spectacles. Don't try to hide your face, Afro. Basically, we'd like to call these poor creatures "blind", but being the customer-oriented staff that we aren't really but strive to be, we grit our teeth and smile politely and say "Here, please."

But that's okay with me, you know. Life's never better than having a good laugh at idiots every now and then. Hell, I'm even okay if they declare they're homosexuals. But hey, show your thing inside the doctor's consultation room, okay?

So I made my way back to the front desk. Normally there would be another person to handle this stuff along with me, but Linda had left for her lunch hour and that left me with little option but to brave the tide alone. Lunch hour is normally a slow one, so I thought it apt to take out my book and catch up on The Wheel Of Time.

I was barely stifling a yawn and adjusting my seat when I heard some shouting going on to my left. It was Mr Tham once again - the senior lab personnel was known to like to raise his voice at his assistants - but this time the voice was definitely directed towards someone else. Damien and the rest had gone for lunch already.

"Oi! Wake up! Wake up!" Still half-stoned from the hour of trying to take a nap, I shifted my eyes slowly towards the target. Tham was shouting at one of those pre-enlistees again. But that guy looked stoned, sitting on the chair outside Lab. I mean, really stoned. If he'd replied, Tham obviously didn't hear it, but I doubt that he even moved. "Take Subutex is it? Harh? Is it?"

My ears picked up at the drug substitute being mentioned. After all, the Subutex hoo-ha had merely just subsided from the Straits Times. So I picked myself up gingerly from the chair, whose wheels moved when you wanted it to stop and vice versa - Damn. Surely we have better chairs at CMPB! - and went to see what the commotion was all about.

Dr Paul had came out to take a look at the guy too. He was wearing a short-sleeved dark brown tee that revealed his tattooed right arm, and a pair of tight-fitting jeans with unknown brand. His eyes looked as if they were totally out of control. The pupils were spinning in and out of view, and I had a feeling that he was about to collapse any moment.

"EH!" Dr Paul now tried to shake him, but it hardly seemed to bring him back to reality. His drool dripped on the chair as the shaking soon turned into a grip to prevent him from falling face down on the floor. Bloody hell, I thought. This guy looks absolutely nuts.

Dr Paul turned, and saw me behind for the first time. "Shit, Owen!" His expression contained a mixture of disgust, resignation and desperation. "Help me move this guy on the bed!" But Tham was there first, him holding one arm and Dr Paul the other, while they placed him on the bed that I just slept on. Almost immediately, I saw his drool dripping all over the bed and the floor. Looks like I won't be sleeping on that bed for a bloody long time.

Heading back to Lab, Dr Paul was reading that guy's personal file. Danial, that person's name was. I had some vague memory of serving him once at the front desk, when he was brought down by the military police for not turning up for his appointment (you see, "appointment" for pre-enlistees is a euphemism for "order". You must come down. Or, you wait for our police). By the time one of the staff came out to serve him, he was gone. Probably too impatient to wait. What a guy.

"Okay," Dr Paul said finally, as he made some notes in the file. "Cancel his Lab appointment. No point lah. Already sent him to NUH Urology. So we just let him go there, make sure he collects his payment letters here, then it's settled lah, okay?" He looked at me and sighed. "Okay, you pass him his stuff when he wakes up" - you mean, IF he wakes up right? - "And get him out. He's either drugged - or he's bloody drunk."

What left Dr Paul, Tham and I scratching our heads was how the hell this guy managed to get himself drunk, turn up at CMPB to collect his NUH appointment letter, and then fall asleep at Lab station? My chain of thought was broken when the cleaning auntie came in with her mop.

"Which place is dirty ah?" She asked.

Tham was not impressed. "Wah lau! You cannot see meh? Aiyah, come come come," he pushed his way out of Dr Paul, Chong (who's another senior medic), and me, and brought her to the chair where that guy had pissed and drooled all over on.

**

It was around 2pm when I remembered that the idiot was still sleeping at the bed there. Linda had returned by then. After she had a look at the guy, and had me telling her the story of what happened again, she asked, "You sure it's Subutex anot?"

"I'm not a doctor," I said. "But Tham seemed to think he's drugged, but Dr Paul did tell me something about being drunk and all."

"I think I better tell Ginny." She was out of her chair and walking towards the Admin office in a flash. Well, Ginny should know what to do. Our department supervisor was probably one of the toughest nuts to crack around. But probably no one outside her department knows that she actually has a heart - and a big one.

Ginny stepped out of the office, in a black laced dress that took nothing off her image that one had to respect. She did not slow down when she reached the front desk, only walking to take a look at the drunkard before returning and asking simply, "You sure it's Subutex anot, Owen? If it is I'm calling the police."

I repeated that I wasn't sure but I did hear Mr Tham and Dr Paul mention it. Linda glared at me as though I'd said something wrong, and added, "I thought Dr Paul got confirm, that's why I asked you to come out."

Huh!? I got a little confused this time. But Ginny had things sorted out, and she decided that it would be better to call the Regimental Police before we called 999. This was getting to become an exciting day.

The RPs - who spend more time guarding CMPB than anyone else, seriously - came late, but they came in a troop of eight, one of them being 1st Warrant Michael "Jackson" and another Staff Sergeant Choo, two of them the symbolic faces of RPs in CMPB. 1WO was affectionately given this nickname because of his tendency to twitch his shoulders and his head, in a smooth, "Moonwalker" kind of style.

Ginny had also asked Dr Chia to come out to take a look at the now-centre of attraction of the RPs, the Lab staff and even some Admin personnel who were surprised and curious enough at the crowd's presence to join in. The in-house psychiatrist shook him on the shoulder and called, "Brother! Eh, brother, can hear me anot?"

No response. Shortly, Dr Paul arrived at the scene. He shook him once more, and asked for a torchlight so that he could check whether his pupils were dilated. "He's conked out," he said, while Dr Chia wore a pair of latex gloves. "It's getting quite bad, ah."

Crazy stuff. While Dr Chia asked for the lights to be switched off so he could examine that guy a little, the RPs stood by, standing ready to wring the guy by the neck and nab him for the police if he was a drug addict. This is beginning to look like a war.

"What month is this?" Dr Chia said in a clear tone.

"M - March." Danial shifted a little.

"Wrong! It's September! So, Danial, where are you?"

"H - H - Hospital?"

"No! Medical Classification Centre, CMPB!"

After what seemed like an eternity Dr Chia had the lights turned off as he took off his stethoscope. "Nah. He's just drunk," he said, chuckling. The RPs looked a little disappointed, but in any case they left as quickly and suddenly as their entrance was.

"But very drunk." He added as an afterthought.

**

"Oi, Owen, your brother wants to pee," Damien's voice sounded from behind the drunk guy - who looked more like he was about to collapse in front of me than trying to make his way to the toilet.

Getting the idiot to the toilet was already a challenge in itself - I had to stand behind him to make sure he could get the balls out of his pants, literally - but I left to catch some air after Damien had given him a plastic bag for him to empty his stomach in, momentarily.

Coming back a few minutes later, I was shocked to see that he was trying to pee inside the plastic bag instead of the bloody urinal. Determined to set things right, I muttered something on the lines of "bag for mouth, bowl for balls", and made sure he complied this time. To prevent him from falling straight into the urinal, I held him up straight by the shoulders - something I didn't really want to do, unless it was for a thousand bucks - till he finished.

Not a word of thanks, but I didn't really expect it - and as he miraculously managed to walk out the toilet and down the long flight of stairs that led out to the exit, I still could not imagine how an idiotic drunkard managed to slip through unnoticed into the compound. And caused so much trouble in the process.

Where's the opposition?

2006-08-31T20:03:00.000+08:00

So what in the world does Jeanette Aw and Phyllis Quek getting awards in the Star Awards have remotely to do with voting in Singapore? (And by the way, I didn't just choose this picture because they look babelicious.)

After watching Apple Hong's stellar performance in one of the latest Channel 8 dramas, Through It All (which, coincidentally, stars Jeanette Aw as well), I suddenly realised how many talented young actresses that Singapore has. I doubt we have a tenth of footballing talent compared to the amount of acting talent, sadly, but that is another matter.

Apple will probably be one of the contenders for this year's Star Awards, unless MediaCorp decides to be just like voters for their Singapore Idol this season who seem to have, on a majority, sat on their phones and/or accidentally voted for Joakim Gomez week-in, week-out. But that, again, is another matter.

If you're asking, so what? Apple - or rather, the Star Awards - doesn't have anything at all to do with PAP, right?

But if you had been one of those idiots who had been at the television every year during the Star Awards, you might have realised something - that the same people seem to win every single year. Only until recently, when the record winners chose to withdraw from the respective categories. I'm talking about our Ah Jies and the big boys, of course - Fann, Zoe, Li Nanxing and the rest.

The acting business in Singapore (especially where television is concerned) is tough. Only the fantastic actors remain to be adored and remembered, while the rest slither into oblivion. This is the reason why I respect the Ah Jies and the big boys for choosing to let the young ones blossom, instead of stealing the limelight every single year.

Perhaps this is something that the PAP might attempt, maybe just minimally? A small leeway, just a small one, to give the opposition some space. Yes, no ruling party would even think of making things easy for anyone who is thinking of taking over them, but the lack of mercy is sometimes alarming. In this democracy, where is the opposition?

I am not trying to say that the opposition is equivalent to the PAP - where James Gomez is concerned, I still think the WP let down the Aljunied voters, and let us not continue to talk about Chee Soon Juan - but maybe, just maybe, the ruling party might think of some ways by which the opposition may be given some breathing space among the residents?

It may never happen, of course. But I am hoping, certainly, that the PAP might, in a twist of fate, exchange views with the opposition. And maybe even mentor them. Yes, it is a fantasy scenario, but if only it was possible. Then we might just have an opposition that we might be proud of.

Finally, A Poem Not Written By Me

2006-08-26T09:46:00.000+08:00

I found this on the Straits Times Forum, though it is safe to say that this poem has been around for a far longer time. It is a poem that Mother Teresa hung on a wall in the orphanage she founded in Calcutta (exact source is, unfortunately, unknown, though I'd love to think that she wrote it).

Enjoy.

**

People are often unreasonable,
Illogical and self-centred;
Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind,
People may accuse you
of selfish, ulterior motives;
Be kind anyway.

If you are successful,
You will win some false friends
and some true enemies;
Succeed anyway.

If you are honest and frank,
People may cheat you;
Be honest and frank anyway.

What you spend years building,
Someone could destroy overnight;
Build anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness,
They may be jealous;
Be happy anyway.

The good you do today,
People will often forget tomorrow;
Do good anyway.

Give the world the best you have,
And it may never be enough;
Give the world the best you've got anyway.

You see, in the final analysis,
It is between you and God;
It is never between you and them anyway.

**

Thank you, Ms Isis Bernadette Koh Wan Jing for your contribution on the Forum. Indeed, an article for males (and probably females as well) to reflect on what exactly chivalry is.

We do not stop doing good deeds just because someone has done wrong (think NKF). Likewise, we do not stop being chivalrous just because it seems that we are not appreciated.

The world has a strange way of balancing itself when it comes to good and bad - who knows, what we have considered an "unneccessary" good deed may blossom into something far more worthwhile.

Carry the hope that the world is fair - even when you know that it isn't - and we can all take a step forward in making this world a better place.

Scratchead Thunderbolt has moved

2006-08-25T09:44:00.000+08:00

For those of you who are still imagining things about me totally abandoning the Scratchead Thunderbolt epic altogether, it's just that I have MOVED - yes, MOVED - the entire series out to another blog.

You can visit it at http://scratchead.blogspot.com if you want, or more preferably, you might just want to click on that link under my list of Other Blogs. Thanks for all your support - or not. In any case, Episode VI is out for a SNEAK PREVIEW. So you might just want to check it out, leave some comments and recommend it to your friends. (All three choices are strongly recommended but are not compulsory.)

Not By Happenchance

2006-08-19T23:29:00.000+08:00

I am writing this for some people who are feeling down - people who feel they have been pushed into a corner and want to just snap at anyone who wants to help.

I am also writing this for people who can't see a way out, who think that everything has already been arranged by Fate and there is absolutely nothing they can do about to change the future.

A few years ago I was in Korea - a freezing winter night at Phoenix Park. I was shivering even in my thick gloves, holding on to two skiing poles and wearing a pair of skis for the first time in my life. The instructor was a young Korean man, who signalled - he didn't talk much, so I doubted he knew much English - for us to start skiing on a perfectly horizontal slope, and then stop.

I started, but couldn't stop. Literally. I had to force my entire body downwards as though something was sucking me to the ground to finally stop by landing. The instructor didn't look at me - there were others, those who picked up the sport quicker than I did, and he was more interested in teaching them. Of course, there were also those who were only slightly better than I was, but they were losing interest.

The next afternoon, I was still struggling at the horizontal slopes while the better ones - which actually meant most of the rest - were already up the intermediate slopes, having fun skiing from almost three storeys high. I wanted to give up - those idiots who lost interest - had already gone back to the comfort of the LAN gaming rooms to play their DOTA, but I fought on. I wanted to be part of those people on the slopes.

I finally learnt how to stop, and I went up the slopes. I was no fairytale, however - I still fell a couple of times, and I slipped up, but every time it happened I got up, either with the help of a more experienced skier - those friends who realised how frustrated I was after all those countless falls - or by myself. I got up, no matter what. I wanted to ski. I wanted to.

On the last day of my most enjoyable trip in Korea, it was at the airport that the tour guide smiled at me and said something I would never forget. "It is quite something to be a talented person," he nodded to me, "But it is quite something else never to say die. Your determination inspires me."

Now, I'm not saying this to blow my trumpet - but I really wondered how I managed to conquer my problems then. I was that close to giving up, to just throw away those skis and get back to play DOTA with those idiots back then. But I did not. What went through my mind was simple - I wanted to get up there with the big boys, and in the end I did. The tour guide's words inspired me as much - if not more - probably than I inspired him.

I learnt several lessons from this - apart from not giving up, of course - and one of them is that nothing is predestined in this world. It is easy to sit back and say, "I'm born like that," instead of trying to change yourself and saying, "I'm born like that, but I know I can change for the better." People born without a brilliant memory can at least make themselves better rememberers with a pen and a notebook. Those born with a violent streak can, with anger management lessons, can at least control their tempers.

Another lesson that I've learnt is that in life is that not everyone can please us. Likewise, we cannot please everyone with our actions. For people whom I dislike, there is an old traditional course that I take, recommended by Dad: If no choice, okay, but if no got choice, avoid. There is no need to attempt to get too friendly with some people who will just irritate you till hell freezes over and I go to Heaven (probably won't happen, but my fingers are crossed).

I do hope whoever reads this will understand that life is not that difficult to live in as long as we don't make life difficult for ourselves.

Multiply

2006-08-13T20:42:00.000+08:00

I have a new blog. (Yes, guys, you can start screaming in pain. NOT AGAIN, DECIPHER?)

It's on Multiply.

It's pretty cool.

And I might just keep on using it.

More on my view on the Israel-Hizbollah crisis over there. In short - stop bombing, guys.

A Bit Less On Fake And A Bit More On Real

2006-08-13T14:45:00.000+08:00

The title means two things - Scratchead Thunderbolt's latest adventure happenings have moved to a blog of its own. Also, I've decided to focus more on life. Real life. But I do have an FAQ to share first.

Why in the blue hell did you decide to write The Adventures of the Scratchead Thunderbolt?

I still find it a little odd that a relatively small but still powerful thing that happened to me recently caused enough brain-juice to react to form Scratchead. But writing is as addictive as the daily dose of coffee. Once you start, you can't stop. And when you stop yourself, you know that eventually, you'd go back to writing it.

Right... So is everything a planned story? Or is it just pure, unedited inspiration?

It probably is the latter. I never planned for Scratchead Thunderbolt to exceed three episodes, but it did. And like I said, it got more addictive as I continued, so now it's totally gone out of plan and exceeded five episodes. And it's getting longer every episode. I wonder what's going to happen in the end, because my predicted ending (Damn, I'm making it sound as if I don't know what's going on!) has changed so many times.

Now that we know what's 209 in the story, is this number a significant one for you?

Ah, that very post that I introduced "209" was my 209th post on Hieroglyphics on Happenchance.

More FAQs soon, maybe. But Scratchead Thunderbolt is stuck here.

The Adventures of the Scratchead Thunderbolt: Episode V (incomplete)

2006-07-31T21:00:00.000+08:00

Yes, it's been a long time. Episode V took a long, long time. The circumstances have changed, and so has the story. The twists that I had imagined myself writing will probably not come into being. The story that I had planned out in my mind is crumbling even in its formation: this adventure of Scratchead Thunderbolt may well be his last. - Decipher, 31st July 2006

For those seeking a thrill in playing catch-up with the legend, please click here.

Scratchead Thunderbolt, the great, once-revered personality of cyberspace, was but a pathetic figure in the immense cyberworld that he found himself in. He had hoped the meeting with the Keeper of the Land of Apologies might have enlightened him enough to rejuvenate him as well, but it was not to be; his arms and legs struggled with their own weight, pulling him down, wanting him to sink into the ground - a cyberground, really, where he could see every single pixel of the dirt he was stepping on.

The cyberworld was awful to live in, he now realised; his perspiration never really dried in the humidity, and though he was so exhausted that he had to summon every last ounce of strength to battle his failing muscles, he could not fall asleep - it just didn't seem possible here.

And he knew, now, that the cyberworld was a place where great things could be achieved, but if one were to immerse himself completely in this cyber-reality like he had attempted to do (but was, unfortunately, foiled by his arch-rival), he might just die in it. I might just die in it. I never considered that.

"No, Scratchead Thunderbolt, you'd never considered that. But you are a great, are you not?"

It was a girl's voice. He turned around, to see a girl with shoulder-length dark hair and big, brown eyes staring down thoughtfully at him. She's young, Scratchead Thunderbolt thought to himself, and the girl seemed to read his mind, smiling.

"Young? I'm not much younger than you are." The girl smiled again, and Scratchead Thunderbolt decided against answering her. She was cute - she looked barely sixteen, and her smile must have courted many a suitor even for her tender age, and the bright green dress that she wore made her look like a beautiful flower in spring, but she was part of the cyberworld. The cyberworld, or the Lifeforce's?

"Who are you?" Scratchead Thunderbolt demanded. The girl looked just like any girl he would have seen on an ordinary spring day back in London. Okay, maybe not just any girl - she was by far too cute to be considered one - but at least she looked normal. Not part of the pixellated, devilish cyberworld that he had no intention to conquer, after his landing.

"Well, Scratchead Thunderbolt" - she stuttered a little when she mentioned the name, as if it was a very important one to her - "I had never expected to find someone inside this cyberworld before me. I mean, really inside. I thought I was the pioneer of it all, but it seems that my idol has taken this glory with him."

Scratchead Thunderbolt wanted to correct the fact - it was Uncle Darren, after all, who had first entered the cyberworld - but the girl left him with barely any time to breathe, let alone talk. "Scratchead Thunderbolt... I am glad to see you, nevertheless, in person - if this is even real, of course! - so glad. In the cyberworld, they call me the Sunshining Rain." He was even more taken aback when the girl curtsied in front of him.

"Listen, Sunshine - please allow me to call you that," Scratchead Thunderbolt liked to give nicknames to his lesser-known fans, and Sunshine was no different - "I was - am - not the first person to enter the cyberworld. There has been at least one man ahead of me. And I am lost. I have been lost here for at least one cyberday, and it seems that my day would never end. I no longer want to conquer the cyberworld - it's a horrible place to be, to even think of."

Sunshine's big eyes went wide with amazement when Scratchead Thunderbolt said those words. It was almost like Carlos Santana declaring that he didn't want to play the guitar anymore, that he had forgotten how to play it - an idol who decides to give up on the very thing that made him who he was. Is.

"Why?" Sunshine's voice was as gentle and warm as her name.

Scratchead Thunderbolt, grateful that the question had been asked, began to tell his story of his adventure that went horribly wrong. He told her about how he had thought he got the world in his hands, only for his plan to be foiled by the Lifeforce's hack into his cyberworld, mutating it into a place that never stopped raining when it was cold and was dry as a desert when it was hotter. A hack only Uncle Darren - Tigerblade - managed to right, and the crossroads and his eventual choice. And in the end, the Keeper, the Land of Apologies, and the number 209. She scratched her head thinking about the events.

"If the Lifeforce plans to keep you in the cyberworld, you'd better keep walking," Sunshine said after a thought. Scratchead Thunderbolt thought it was the right idea, and they kept walking, down the road that he had chosen.

The road was long and never really seemed to end, while Scratchead Thunderbolt and Sunshine talked and talked along the way. Sunshine giggled at Scratchead Thunderbolt's jokes about the cyberworld and the cyberpeople he had met, while Scratchead Thunderbolt was so relieved and glad that there was finally a real person he could talk to, that he forgot about his troubles. Albeit for a moment, until Sunshine was suddenly struck by an idea.

"I remember now! 209... Your 209th post was the one that had condemned the Lifeforce to an eternity of doom in the cyberworld! Scratchead Thunderbolt, do you remember?" She laughed, a sweet, innocent laugh that made him want to laugh along as well. Her laughter stopped when the arms of Scratchead Thunderbolt hugged her.

"That means... I have to find the 209th post here! As long as I do so, and I bring this to the Keeper, the Lifeforce will be destroyed! Thank you, Sunshine! Thank you!" He was almost choking on his tears then, so happy that he had an avenue to leave the cyberworld, when he realised his arms were around Sunshine.

He quickly let go of her, patting down his clothes while trying not to look embarrassed. Sunshine certainly looked taken aback by the entire episode. Pretending nothing had happened, Sunshine and Scratchead Thunderbolt continued walking. And this time, they kept quiet all the way down the road.

The journey grew more and more demoralising without the constant cracking of jokes and stories that filled the earlier part of the walk. Sunshine still kept quiet, while Scratchead Thunderbolt felt confused himself. Surely I'm not in love with her, am I? His heart raced when he hit that thought, but he ignored it and walked on.

To be continued.

Oesophagoscopy Gastroscopy Duodenoscopy (OGD)

2006-07-29T21:14:00.000+08:00

Have a break from the Scratchead Thunderbolt, dudes.

This short story is based on a true story. My story.

--

Dad and I walked towards Block 7 of the Singapore General Hospital, searching for the lift to get us to the seventh floor. We were still on the ground floor, but I could smell the ward already - it filled my nasal passage and my brain. It gave a bad headache to add to my giddiness from having to fast since the previous night.

We found the lift lobby. Dad and I stepped inside, towards the further corner of the claustophobia-inducing silver box that we now found ourselves in. The lift was crowded with doctors and nurses, and people with visitor and staff passes. Some were speaking happily about last night's dinner. My stomach rumbled.

The lift doors opened and closed for those on their own missions. When we finally hit Ward 77, it was not really what I had thought it would look like. There were several corners I had to turn before I actually got to the registration counter, which looked more like a ward except that the spaces where beds were supposed to be were instead occupied by around 40 chairs.

After filling up an acknowledgement form, I was given a hospital garb to wear, and made to sit down and wait for almost two hours. At least, I think it was two hours - when Dad woke me up, the nurse was standing expectantly at the door.

When I reached the other room, the one where they would conduct the scope, the nurse requested that I take off my shoes as well as my glasses. The doctor waited as I was beckoned to lie down flat at first, after which some throat-numbing concoction was sprayed down my tonsils.

"Swallow." I swallowed.

"How old are you?" the doctor asked. I feebly reply, a little stoned from the entire encounter - and probably also from my hunger - but I didn't feel afraid. Not at all. It was more of a resigned feeling that preoccupied me.

The nurse then shoved a cube the about as big as a golf ball into my mouth, asking me to bite on it. The doctor then fed a black tube that slithered into the hole in the middle of the cube, and down my throat.

"Swallow."

It was a horrible feeling. I don't know if anyone has ever swallowed a snake halfway and survived, but that was what I felt at that time - I was choking. The snake made its way down, and I gagged all the way. I barely heard the doctor's instructions to "breathe through my nose". Damn, I couldn't remember if I was even breathing.

The snake slithered down my gullet. I felt it moving as it made its way towards my stomach. I felt the wetness of the cloth covering the pillow that supported my head. I didn't need to look - I knew it was full of drool.

The black tube finally stopped moving in my body as it reached the final destination. It continued to twitch a little, however; the doctor was turning it so that he could see everything inside.

"Ah... It's an ulcer," he said. I stopped gagging momentarily, relieved that there was finally a diagnosis for my problem.

He pushed a button - I think - and the snake wound back out from my body as though possessed by a fakir. Done. At last.

--

The Adventures of the Scratchead Thunderbolt: Episode IV

2006-07-20T19:53:00.000+08:00

Catching up?

Episode I here.
Episode II here.
Episode III here.

***

Harold Smith stared blankly into the air above the lifeless form of his son, lying on his bed. His mind was in a whirl. He barely remembered anything else except that Melanie had called while he was at his very normal workplace doing his normal routine of holding a cup of Earl Grey in his right hand, while sitting cross-legged on his normal working armchair, and balancing his copy of the International Herald Tribune in his other hand.

"WHAT?" Harold bellowed into the receiver of his mobile phone, the new one that he'd tried to show off to his colleagues only for it to unfortunately slip off his hand and have its screen cracked just the week before.

"Harold," - Melanie's voice sounded weak and unbalanced - "Peter's in hospital..."

The rest of her words seemed to fade into the background as Harold held on to the receiver, while warm beads of perspiration started to crawl down his temples. Found him, unconscious in the room lying on the black box... Heard him muttering to himself... Doctors say they don't know what's wrong... Harold! What is wrong with our son?

It was Harold who suggested that Peter be taken back home - the best doctor in London declared that he knew absolutely nothing about Peter's plight. "Normal," said Dr. Lenny Parsons, scratching his full-grown beard while staring intently at the machines tied to Peter and his bed. "Absolutely normal. This is extraordinary."

"Enough!" Harold roared. Dr. Parsons jumped, and flinched when he saw the raging, senior Smith start to smoke at his nostrils, his face turning purple uncontrollably with every word he uttered.

"I - WILL - TAKE - MY - SON - HOME - IF - YOU - CAN'T - DO - A - SHIT!" Harold uttered menacingly through gritted teeth, while his hands tugged away at every single wire that was holding his Peter down on the hospital bed.

***

Scratchead Thunderbolt was perspiring profusely. The devilish sun burnt through every single corner of the cyberworld, devouring strangers, friends and all else - he was now, feeling the heat, wondering what in the world Uncle Darren was trying to make out to him. The right one, or the easy one... Bloody hell, it didn't tell me to go left or right. In any case, our superhero had already chosen his way as the story progresses here - he had taken the left road, following the hand that he used to write.

And what exactly did that piece of paper mean? His brilliant mind tried to work out a series of permutations for the number 209, but nothing concrete came out of it. He might as well have given me a fortune cookie, thought Scratchead Thunderbolt miserably.

The only positive about the infernal climate was that his shirt had dried - so had the mud, so he was walking, at least, on dry ground now, though he soon began to dismiss this slight advantage with the heat of the ground burning through the soles of his shoes.

Now, I am not too sure how quickly cybertime passed, but I believe it must have been cyberhours since Scratchead Thunderbolt had found himself embroiled in a cyberworld that he would rather have washed his hands off about. He was parched - not just your typical parched, but more of an I'm-so-bloody-thirsty-I-can-drink-a-lake! kind of parched. He needed a drink, and he prayed to every single entity Up There that he would soon get to see a lake. Or a cyberlake - whichever came first.

His prayers were answered. Not caring whether it was a mirage, the not-too-great-looking Scratchead Thunderbolt sprinted once he saw the reflection of the sun from the bright blue waters at the right side of the road. Failing to maintain his balance, he let his tired legs fall like bags of sand, took a deep breath and plunged his entire face into the lake.

And as he finished his nth gulp of cyberwater - which, really, thought Scratchead Thunderbolt to himself, tasted exactly the same as normal water - he shook his head rapidly to dry his head. Yes, he was ready to take on the cyberworld with his newly-satiated self. Bet you didn't think of Uncle Darren, bloody Lifeforce.

The oasis disappeared behind Scratchead Thunderbolt as he continued down the road that he had chosen. Cybertime seemed to have clocked the rest of the entire day - the devilish sun seemed to be setting at last - when he approached a strange (what else?) bridge.

The bridge was made of cold, stony-white granite, and peaked at the middle - it looked plain and emotionless, and was built on top of what seemed a very deep river. As Scratchead Thunderbolt crossed the bridge, he stared down from its peak into the water, and was shocked to realise that the waves made shapes that read like words in the river. He was sure that one of them read hurt; another read sadness.

"Ah, so I see Scratchead Thunderbolt has arrived here," came a rough voice from behind him.

Scratchead Thunderbolt turned around to see a wizened man with a broad face whose blue eyes gleamed with mischief and excitement. He was dressed in a straw hat that was so wide it managed to keep his entire face in the shade, and in a long-sleeved shirt that appeared too thinly-cut. His trousers seemed to be over-patched, and all in all he looked most like a farmer in normal land.

"You look confused," said the old man. "Don't look like the great that Tigerblade mentioned."

"Tigerblade?" this time Scratchead Thunderbolt was genuinely confused, if not already.

"Darren John is christened Tigerblade in our world," the old man replied, adjusting his straw hat such that he could see the face of Scratchead Thunderbolt. "In any case, this is the cyberworld, and I can tell you that you and I are different. But I must introduce myself," he reached out to Scratchead Thunderbolt with a rough, thickened right hand that seemed to have been overworked. "I am the keeper of the Land of Apologies."

The Land of Apologies. This must either be a dream, or a very funny cyberworld. Scratchead Thunderbolt was unsure what he could ask, so he let the Keeper continue with his drivel. "Look all around you. This entire river does not stop flowing - you people are convinced that the computer can replace one-to-one communication, real-life, that is."

"BUT - " The Keeper cleared his throat - "It is not the case. Yes, Thunderbolt, this land stores emotions transferred through fibre-optic and copper cables. The true meaning behind your messages are never felt by the other side."

Scratchead Thunderbolt nodded, slowly digesting what the Keeper had just told him. "Do you mean that this river has stored every single emotion that we have tried to convey to the other side?"

"Not everything, of course," the Keeper smiled in satisfaction that his message had been told rather satisfactorily. "Emotions are funny things. And the computer is not everything in life - telepathy is still the most powerful method of transferring emotions, though it is difficult to attain."

Surely you didn't have to tell me that, thought Scratchead Thunderbolt to himself. But whatever the Keeper said seems to make sense... Apologies, confessions... they never did work online, did they? At least, they didn't work too well for me -

"But you, Scratchead Thunderbolt, you should have had some first-hand experience of this... ah... emotional filtering. Let's see," the Keeper put up his left hand to block the sun, staring into the distance, as if trying to find something very far away. "Ah, there!" his other hand pointed to the north-west, at some tiny waves from far away. The Keeper then made a pulling motion towards the waves, and Scratchead Thunderbolt gaped in surprise when they magnified into visibility, as if he was staring through a telescope.

But as he read the words the waves made, his jaw dropped further than ever.

Scratchead Thunderbolt, 2005.
Filtered: Sincerity, love.
Count: 5.

His mind drifted back to his past, back when he was staring in front of the computer, hands shaking and sweating, as he finished typing his confessional message to a pretty girl that he'd seen in class whom he'd never dared to speak to in person.

The reply from her was dry, tasteless, disgusted.

But the second reply was just the same.

Sorry.

It didn't help. It didn't help at all...

Scratchead Thunderbolt was deep in thought when the Keeper walked towards him and patted his shoulder. "It works both ways," the Keeper smiled at him, eyes twinkling as he took a piece of straw from his hat and started to munch on it. "The filter works on messages that are sent to and from you."

"Why is there a Land of Apologies?" Scratchead Thunderbolt abruptly asked.

The Keeper chuckled, while he threw the remainder of the straw into the river. "There is no why, son, there is none - this is the way the cyberworld works, and this is not what Tigerblade wanted to see happen to you. You have made your choice. Now please cross my bridge, and I wish you the best of luck."

Scratchead Thunderbolt was speechless. It was as though he had just learnt of something that he never would have imagined existed. He had so much to tell the Keeper, but nothing came out of his mouth. He decided, in the end, on a hug. The Keeper just patted him on his back. As Scratchead Thunderbolt turned to continue his journey in the cyberworld, the Keeper suddenly shouted in his direction.

"Thunderbolt, have you figured out what 209 is?"

He turned back, and shook his head, looking disappointed.

The Keeper smiled and shook his head as well. "It's not fortune cookie shit, all right?"

Scratchead Thunderbolt kept the smile on his face as he continued to face the road that lay in front of him. Even the Keeper of the Land of Apologies is such a nice person - there must be hope in this world.

To be continued.

The Adventures of the Scratchead Thunderbolt: Episode III

2006-07-09T09:05:00.000+08:00

Catching up?

Episode I here.
Episode II here.

(Decipher: Some small edits here and there, but won't impede this story's developments. Thanks for all your support.)

---

The floods of slush continued to pour on poor Scratchead Thunderbolt, as he finally began to stop pitying himself for his plight - and started to wonder whether he actually had a minute chance to make it out of the hellhole that he never had thought his arch-rival was capable of creating.

Maybe there might be a loophole in his hack? thought Scratchead Thunderbolt rather hopefully, as he continued bare-backed in the mud, squeezing his drenched shirt that was no longer recognisable from the costume he had always imagined himself to be wearing in the cyberworld.

BOOM!

Before Scratchead Thunderbolt had time to react, a deafening clap of thunder resonated throughout the entire cyberworld - at least, his cyberworld - and just as he was about to breathe again, a sudden flash of lightning erupted right in front of his eyes. The great thunderbolt started an avalanche; the last thing Scratchead Thunderbolt saw was a huge ball of mud rolling at the speed of light towards him - and then... darkness.

***

Wake up, Scratchead Thunderbolt.

This is no land for sleep.

This is not even a real place. DO YOU KNOW WHERE THIS IS??

The last sentence was roared with the cyberpower of a Sennheiser subwoofer in maximum volume. And it had some effect on our superhero (have you forgotten? He is the protagonist of the story, as you'll remember), who stirred, his head still aching from the impact of the avalanche.

He opened his eyes halfway, but had to close them again - he could barely see past the smoky haze that had formed in the aftermath of the thunderbolt flash.

But as he opened his eyes again, he was blinded by a strange, white light that was so bright that its rays extended beyond every single corner of his cyberspace. Scratchead Thunderbolt would have marvelled in this spectacular show of illumination, had he not been blinded to such an extent that his eyes, now closed, were screaming in pain.

He dared not open his eyes this time, and was about to ask the strange entity what it actually wanted from him when it answered, in a booming voice, yet gentle - so familiar, yet so distant - he could have sworn it was one he had heard when he was a young boy.

Scratchead Thunderbolt - Peter - Scratchead Thunderbolt could not believe that this entity actually knew what his real name was - I am not real, as you should have realised... Wait. Why are you keeping your eyes shut?

Scratchead Thunderbolt pointed weakly to the sky and the rays of light that seemed to shine even brighter with every passing cybersecond. Oh, said the Voice apologetically. All right, open your eyes now.

When he finally did so, Scratchead Thunderbolt's jaw fell.

***

Behind a closed blue door in a London house, someone was keying in frantically, silently muttering and cursing that a certain person - or is it cyberperson? - who had disappeared off the radar.

***

The person in front of Scratchead Thunderbolt had a small build, old, round-framed glasses which could barely support a pair of thick lens that looked strong enough to be bulletproof, and was wearing a suit that looked so ancient that it might have been worn by his great-grandfather.

Peter Smith knew who this person was - Darren John Smith, the uncle who had never missed a single birthday for Peter, and never forgot to give him a present even though he moved to a foreign land after he was seven. And by giving him a computer on his sixth birthday, Uncle Darren set Peter on a path typically recommended by a leading network expert of his time - a path that would lead him to cyberfame, and unfortunately, a disaster at this very point in cybertime.

Uncle Darren was never really the most popular person at a party, but he was, beneath his introverted, nerdy exterior, a respected gentleman and a fiercely loyal friend, as he was to Peter. And this time, it seemed that his expertise at the computer had given Scratchead Thunderbolt a lifeline from the twisted, nightmarish cyberworld that he now found himself in.

Listen, Peter - Uncle Darren's voice sounded urgent - This is not a world to build your dreams and future upon. I've seen you grow, and I've seen you grow with the cyberworld. You may achieve great things, and you have, on this world... but it is not real! It is not real, do you understand?

Uncle Darren sighed, as he removed his glasses and started to wipe them with a piece of grey flannel that he fished out from his pocket. Peter realised he looked much older than he actually was.

If you put your faith in my words, you will get out of here alive and become a much better person... This place is curious, and you may find things that you want to keep in it - but trust me, Peter, the two worlds are not, and cannot be confused as one -

The image of Uncle Darren started to flicker now, slowly but steadily increasing in frequency, as he looked at his watch and gave an alarmed expression.

It is not easy - the image flickered once more - but there are two choices, but one thing you can do: the right one, or the easy one... remember, Peter! Scratchead Thunderbolt!

As the image faded down to nothingness, Uncle Darren pointed in the direction of a junction that now appeared straight in front of him, the stony road forming right in front of his eyes - and as he stood at the point where the road split into two, wondering which side he was to choose, Uncle Darren's cyberpresence exploded into a beautiful golden flame, burning down into a piece of notebook paper that only read:

209.

To be continued...

The Adventures Of The Scratchead Thunderbolt: Episode II

2006-07-03T21:54:00.000+08:00

Episode I here.

--

Back in the same normal house in London, it was a very normal morning for Harold Smith, who dug into his newspaper and his toast just like any other normal day. But on the first bite of his breakfast he spat the greatest distance he could possibly have done and snarled dangerously.

"That's some ruddy disgustin' toast you got there, y'know that?" Harold Smith roared into the kitchen behind the normal chair he sat on, as his face remained hidden by the day's copy of the International Herald Tribune.

"I... I'm doing my best," a voice haggardly answered, seemingly distracted from the numerous tasks that a housewife signed on to do together with the unfortunate marriage to a man who would do everything for a woman until they stayed together. Melanie Smith wasn't really that old - She was only 19 when she married Harold, and they already had Peter in her as they walked down the aisle to her mother who cried buckets and her father who couldn't care less. She still had a half-decent normal housewife smile, however, and it was the primary defence against Harold's abrupt attacks on her.

Harold frowned from behind the Tribune, as he reached for the TV remote control with one hand and balanced his read on the other. "And where's that bloody son of ours? Does he even need to have breakfast? Last time I spoke to him about chips he told me it was part of that bloody black box!"

"He'll be coming down," Melanie said, managing to take a break after finishing her routine wiping of the kitchen floor. "Give him a bit more time."

"Couldn't care less," muttered Harold. "Let him do whatever he wants. There's probably a reason why he got expelled - he's such a bloody useless bum anyways."

***

But Peter Smith wasn't really enjoying the journey - his physical self looked defeated, sprawled against that black box that he had assembled on his own, eyes closed as if in a deep sleep. Beads of perspiration continued to build and drip slowly into the ventilation shafts on the box, as sizzling sounds came with every drop.

Scratchead Thunderbolt felt every drop of perspiration from Peter Smith - for every drop, in the awfully-twisted cyberworld that he now found himself in, he would be drenched with a massive deluge of slush and mud. And judging from the appearance of the legendary Scratchead Thunderbolt now, he didn't look much like a legend; and the unexpected meeting - to say the least - with the Lifeforce had given his confidence a much-needed beating. The suit that he was wearing when he first arrived was one of golden satin trimmed perfectly for his size, together with shining silver sequins sewn beautifully at the sides. Right now, the suit had shrunk with the washing he had received from the floods and the sequins had fallen.

Not exactly having this much fun in this world, eh? A voice boomed once again, this time in his head.

Scratchead Thunderbolt gritted his teeth as he trudged forward in the slush. "You'll pay for this, Lifeforce... I swear you will!"

The Lifeforce guffawed so deafeningly that the cybertrees shook and the ground seemed to make way with every laugh. You should have expected this, Scratchead Thunderbolt... A life lived in cyberspace is just as vulnerable as one lived in the real world... Don't tell me the GREAT Scratchead Thunderbolt has absolutely no idea? HA HA HA!

He continued laughing in his vile manner, as Scratchead Thunderbolt continued to trudge through the strange, muddy land that the Lifeforce had modified for his unexpectedly torturous ride in cyberspace.

To be continued.

The Adventures Of The Scratchead Thunderbolt: Episode I

2006-07-01T10:19:00.000+08:00

Peter Smith was always just a normal child. He was born in a normal old hospital, carried by the normal nurses, drank the normal milk, got himself into a normal school, got beaten by the normal gangsters, and got into a normal high school as well. He looked normal - he had those huge, but normal glasses that were just so thick for a normal nerd. He treated his parents normally - he ignored them and kept to himself in a room, just as any normal teenager would do.

Now, what people didn't know was that Peter Smith had an extraordinary side to himself. Once inside his room, he will transform himself from being the normal nerd to an extraordinary one. He was a legend that contradicted the fundamental "normal" laws of cyberspace - because he was omnipresent and omnipotent in it. His other name was the Scratchead Thunderbolt.

Oh, you might say, what a stupid name this is! But that's because you are not in their world, this world is cyberspace... or is it "cybertime"? Thunderbolt crafted the very word, because he realised that in cyberspace, it seems as if time runs on a different clock as well. Cyberpeople worshipped Scratchead Thunderbolt - every chat forum he was in, they would rush to reply; every single blog he touched with his golden type ensured fame and fortune for the rest of that blogger's next generations.

Extraordinary! You might say now. Yes, that is the very word to describe it... a simply extraordinary achievement! And no one had realised that in the Smith family, where Mr. Smith had a day job in fixing old clocks and a night job in fixing his wife, while Mrs. Smith had a day job in being the housekeeper of the Smith family and a night job of being the slave, lay the very legend of cyberspace and cybertime - Scratchead Thunderbolt.

Just like any normal teenager, Peter Smith spent a lot of time in his room, and made sure that no one fouled the sanctity of the place by even attempting to go within a foot of the door, which was whitewashed and always maintained by Peter himself. Every single day, without fail, with or without sunshine, with or without rain, he would carry a small pail filled with water and an old rag that can still barely read 'PETER' on it and wipe this Gate of Transformation religiously and by himself. Yes, this is no normal door; this is extraordinary.

So the story has already begun. But the real story begins here.

It was a normal sunny day in London - and Peter Smith knew absolutely nothing about it, as usual. He was locked away behind the Gate of Transformation, where he was in his guise (or, Peter Smith will have you argue, his true self) of the legendary Scratchead Thunderbolt. His room was painted a dark shade of blue, where the luminous radiation coming from the monitor screen was the only source of light. He had long ago asked for his windows to be fitted with the darkest shade of black curtains.

Yes, people will say, Peter Smith was a bloody right nutcase.

But the fact that he was a bloody right nutcase was rather irrelevant; after all, cyberpeople who flamed the legendary Scratchead Thunderbolt will normally not see the light of cyberday in cyberspace after that. In fact, there is a real-life cyberexample: prior to the legend Thunderbolt, there was already a cyberlegend named The Lifeforce, though he was, at his prime, never adored throughout the cyberworld as much as even half the adoration that Scratchead Thunderbolt receives today. He much decided that he didn't enjoy the competition that the debutant legend, Scratchead Thunderbolt, was giving: and he publicly called him - that's right, a bloody right nutcase for all of the cyberworld to see.

Instantly, the will of the cyberpeople caused an amazing flood on the very forum that he swore on, and while Scratchead Thunderbolt was insulted, he survived, while the Lifeforce looked set to become a contradiction in itself - his lifeforce (no pun intended, REALLY!) had been sucked out, at least, in cyberspace, and it looked as if his cybertime was up already.

If you mention this incident to Scratchead Thunderbolt, he might just give you a cybersmile (like the :), you know?), but he probably won't remember much of the actual cyberincident. I mean, come on, this guy's a legend and you're trying to ask him to remember his own history? There are millions of cyberpeople out there who are typing his cyberbiographies! (At least, I'm one of them.)

But, today especially was no time for the Scratchead Thunderbolt to be thinking of such frivolous cyberevents: today was the day his genius had exceeded himself once again. He now had figured out a device that can instantly transmit his thoughts into every single forum in cyberspace. With that, and his already-adept control at travelling through cybertime (which we will talk about later, I promise), Scratchead Thunderbolt looked set to dominate the cyberworld once and for all! Now that the lifeforce has been sucked out of Lifeforce (sorry folks, I couldn't resist), there is and will no longer be a potential, capable enough competitor to stop him.

The machine - do I need to describe it? It was just a black, rectangular box, but anyone looking at it would instantly be drawn to it - the black was pure and so crystalline in its appearance. Peter Smith mustered just a normal smile, but inside you knew that Scratchead Thunderbolt must have been going "HA! HA! HA!" in all his majesty.

Peter Smith reached for the black box and felt around the sides for a round, green button. When he found it, he smiled once again, and proceeded to give it a push. He picked up his headphones that gave him his cybervoice, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Now, all he needed to do was think...

But something was wrong. He didn't feel his thoughts transforming into cyberwords - and he thought to himself frantically, as beads of perspiration fell from his temples, that he must have failed.

No, he thought to himself. Scratchead Thunderbolt never fails in his cyberconquests.

He opened his eyes.

He was no longer in his room. He was inside a forest - but the strangest one at that. There were no trees to speak of. It seemed that there were only bushes and shrubs around, but they were at least five times the size of normal ones. The flowers were all absolutely huge and pixellated. Only when he touched them with his hands did the pixels disappear and made them appear real.

Worse, he couldn't walk normally. The entire ground was filled with zeros and ones. Literally. Green ones, red ones, black ones... they all converged to make up a pool of numbers. Surely, Scratchead Thunderbolt wouldn't just be stuck here for ever?

He thought to himself for a moment. The legendary Scratchead Thunderbolt doesn't need to think for too long to come to a decision.

He stared hard at one red, big fat zero, and tried to see if he could move it with his mind. No easy task at all.

As the number slowly moved towards him, he smiled. No Peter Smith smile, that: it was the smile of the legendary Scratchead Thunderbolt. Now he knew how he could move through this weird fantasy world.

Or is it the cyberworld in real life? Or did I just make an oxymoron of the previous sentence?

He summoned up all his mind power to move the numbers like a wave towards him, and the numbers behind him to propel him forward. Soon, he was moving through the forest as though he was on a conveyor belt.

Scratchead Thunderbolt continued to admire the surroundings beside this conveyor belt of his: the marvellous bushes that were so exceptionally light green in colour and blended in beautifully with the strange chlorophyll sky. The flowers, he saw, were mostly red and bright orange with extraordinarily beautiful crisp petals.

No wonder they can survive, thought Scratchead Thunderbolt to himself. There are no animals around here.

Just as he finished that thought, the conveyor belt of his stopped abruptly. No way, thought Scratchead Thunderbolt. I can't believe my luck. I don't want to be stuck here. He continued to stare hard at the numbers below him, trying to figure out how he might just keep the conveyor belt moving.

Look up, boy.

A sudden cybervoice had invaded the cyberworld and penetrated every single corner of the forest, resonating as echoes in every other corner and increasing, exponentially, the power of the cybervoice itself. Scratchead Thunderbolt looked up, now frantic from his inability of fixing the numbers to start moving. His panting was uncontrollable as he turned, quickly, in all directions, trying to figure out where the cybervoice had come from.

You can't find me, Scratchead Thunderbolt? That's because you thought I no longer exist!

The last word was bellowed so loudly that Scratchead Thunderbolt thought he might have gone deaf if he hadn't covered his ears.

Now think... reflect... Did you think I would have just disappeared like this? Did you even imagine that I would, for a moment, think of relinquishing my seat so easily to you, power-hungry cyberscum?

Scratchead Thunderbolt realised, in a flash of lightning, that he might have made the greatest mistake of his life. That his ex-arch rival, someone he thought he had got rid of so cleanly in the Flood of the Forum, had disappeared for good.

The Lifeforce was still very much alive. And he was the one that was now keeping him inside this cyberworld of his.

to be continued...

Can't Stop Now

2006-06-29T22:58:00.000+08:00

Can't Stop Now
Performed by Keane

I noticed tonight that the world has been turning
While I've been stuck here dithering around
Well I know I said I'd wait around till you need me
But I have to go, I hate to let you down
But I can't stop now
I've got troubles of my own
Cause I'm short on time
I'm lonely
And I'm too tired to talk

I noticed tonight that the world has been turning
While I've been stuck here withering away
Well I know I said I wouldn't leave you behind
But I have to go, it breaks my heart to say

That I can't stop now
I've got troubles of my own
Cause I'm short on time
I'm lonely
And I'm too tired to talk

To no one back home
I've got troubles of my own
And I can't slow down
For no one in town
And I can't stop now

And I can't slow down
For no one in town
And I can't stop now
For no one

Cauldron of Thoughts

2006-06-28T22:09:00.000+08:00

This post is going to be messy - very messy, but I know most of you are going to say that messy has always been my style, especially with the previous few posts that look good because of the pictures and frivolity but sorely lacking when it came to content.

What has happened to me? I used to stress the importance of depth in my blogging, but recently it seems that I have failed in the principle that I have always sworn to abide to.

It might be perhaps that my mind is blocked: my observations of life have all gone awry, my predictions all wrong, and my health ailing at the moment.

Perhaps, I am approaching the pre-21 crisis. Some say that people experience falling into an endless pit at some point in their lives; indeed, currently, I am doing so. My muscles still seem to be palpitating without my control, my voice sounds hoarse almost the whole time, and the chest pain that I have experienced for two to three months now does not seem to be going away.

Physically I am falling; I am failing.

But in Singapore, at least, no one calls a (relatively) successful A-level student a "failure". So what if I have succeeded? I still have nothing to show but a certificate.

I am in no denial that it took lots of luck to get where I am today. I was lucky to just scrape through to get into the Special stream, and lucky enough to get into the college of my choice. Anglican High, Temasek JC and SMU didn't come across as particularly difficult choices for me, because I had already made up my mind way before I enrolled in any of these institutions.

Blogging-wise, I feel that I have taken a step backwards. Where has all my inspiration gone to? A common encounter that I meet with in the office is a millenia-old strategy called "pointing fingers", and it would be easy to just point to my current working environment to say that it has drained me completely of all my thoughts.

Work is a mindless repetition of small, uninteresting tasks - it is either filing the same documents around a hundred times or so, sending the same letters, seeing the same kind of irritating pre-enlistees who forget to bring their medical questionnaires and give you the blank look when you ask them why they don't know their home telephone number.

And when work starts to take over your life, be afraid. Be very afraid.

You may physically be at home when you arrive, dead beat, at your doorstep every evening, but if your mind cannot shake off the four deadly wallpapers that surround #01-19, Medical Classification Centre, you are in big trouble.

When this happens, you'll probably feel too lethargic for absolutely anything else.

"It's an excuse," says my good friend Yeow Sheng. "Your mind feels tired, but after you go for a jog you'll realise that you feel better."

I explain that I feel nauseous whenever I try to jog. In fact, I reveal to him, I feel nauseous almost the whole time I am awake nowadays.

Brisk-walking, he then suggested as an alternative.

Good idea. I will try, I promise. And I really hope I can keep it.

Where was I? Oh yes - what has happened to my blog entries? I no longer blog about insightful things - unless you find that football is really insightful.

What is happening? If my mind is a cauldron, then someone must be stirring it constantly, because I can't seem to focus as well as I could before.

I might be suffering from information overload: but then again, I haven't had much to memorise in this few months.

I feel that I have really let myself down this year.

The Billy Joel Week: Just The Way You Are

2006-06-26T20:39:00.000+08:00

Australia v Italy: Decipher predicts an upset on the cards with the brilliant Harry Kewell (above) in the form of his life. More...

Back to the evergreen Billy Joel, the musical genius. This is a song that will probably last for years more, even though it has already lasted for almost four decades now - it is a song that serenaders dream of singing to their loved one - for it is, ultimately, a song about love. It is about the present, about now, and it is not about improving oneself: it is really, "just the way you are".

Just The Way You Are - performed and composed by Billy Joel

Don't go changing, to try and please me
You never let me down before
Don't imagine you're too familiar
And I don't see you anymore

I wouldn't leave you in times of trouble
We never could have come this far
I took the good times, I'll take the bad times
I'll take you just the way you are

Don't go trying some new fashion
Don't change the color of your hair
You always have my unspoken passion
Although I might not seem to care

I don't want clever conversation
I never want to work that hard
I just want someone that I can talk to
I want you just the way you are.

I need to know that you will always be
The same old someone that I knew
What will it take till you believe in me
The way that I believe in you.

I said I love you and that's forever
And this I promise from the heart
I could not love you any better
I love you just the way you are.

The Billy Joel Week on Hieroglyphics

2006-06-24T22:28:00.000+08:00

Decipher has decided to declare this week the Billy Joel week.

Remember these points for this week:

It is a cardinal sin not to know at least five Billy Joel songs: Uptown Girl, Tell Her About It, Just The Way You Are, Piano Man and The Downeaster Alexa being the most notable.
Billy Joel used to be neighbours with sibling legends, the Bee Gees.
In one of his hit songs, Just The Way You Are, he claimed to have dreamt of the entire song during one night - such is his humility that he puts his songwriting capability down to a dream.
Before he made it big as a singer-songwriter, he performed as a pianist/singer in a humble bar.

The song that I am introducing here is dedicated to those who are troubled - remember, boys and girls, live for yourselves.

MY LIFE

Performed by Billy Joel

Got a call from an old friend we'd used to be real close
Said he couldn't go on the American way
Closed the shop, sold the house, bought a ticket to the west coast
Now he gives them a stand-up routine in L.A.

I don't need you to worry for me cause I'm all right
I don't want you to tell me it's time to come home
I don't care what you say anymore this is my life
Go ahead with your own life, leave me alone

I never said you had to offer me a second chance
I never said I was a victim of circumstance
I still belong
Don't get me wrong
And you can speak your mind
But not on my time

They will tell you you can't sleep alone in a strange place
Then they'll tell you can't sleep with somebody else
Ah but sooner or later you sleep in your own space
Either way it's O.K. you wake up with yourself

The World Cup Fever Blog #1: Strange conversation

2006-06-22T20:55:00.000+08:00

(via SMS)

Decipher: Yo I think I still owe you Sakae (Sushi). When do you want it? Haha.

Jin: we can celebrate when korea wins the world cup =p

This comment will resonate in my mind for the next half an hour.

korea wins the world cup...
korea wins the world cup...
korea wins the world cup...
korea wins the world cup...
korea wins the world cup...

Certainly, it's possible, but definitely not probable... RIGHT?

I'm not saying that I'm a prophet or a football expert, but at least I know that Argentina, Holland, England, Germany and Portugal deserve some mention before the Red Devils of the Republic (of Korea).

And Spain. And a lot more countries.

And I forgot Brazil.

I'm not playing down your comment - but are you sure you know what you're talking about? (Okay, so I am playing down your comment.)

Dick Advocaat's men don't seem to be galvanised enough to make it all the way to the final - this time, the favourites are much stronger, and I doubt there'll be a fairytale. Argentina comfortably made it through, as well as Spain - and even stuttering England have stuttered through with two wins and a draw.

No pretty football to watch from the Red Devils this time, as compared to the team that Guus Hiddink led to the semi-finals of the previous World Cup - games have been won with scrappy goals like Park Ji-Sung's, and set pieces thankfully taken by a brilliant Lee Chun-Soo this tournament.

Korea winning the World Cup?

1/32 chance.

(Decipher: Jin, no malice intended. Haha.)

Honesty

2006-06-20T22:27:00.000+08:00

...But if you look for truthfulness
You might just as well be blind.
It always seems to be so hard to give.

Honesty is such a lonely word.
Everyone is so untrue.
Honesty is hardly ever heard.
And mostly what I need from you.

I can always find someone
to say they sympathize.
If I wear my heart out on my sleeve.

But I don't want some pretty face
to tell me pretty lies.
All I want is someone to believe...

We are all liars. Truth and integrity are two things we value so much because, simply, they do not exist in abundance - they are rare, endangered.

Honesty is such a lonely, lonely word. And no one puts it better than Billy Joel.

Full lyrics here.

How the hell should England play?

2006-06-19T13:55:00.000+08:00

How I wished England played like this.

More on my suggestions on what England should do if they really, really want to win the World Cup here.

How The Hell Should England Play?

Things That Are Better Left As Memories

2006-06-18T23:01:00.000+08:00

Once again, James Ang of raknax has inspired me to write, after I read his latest entry on that beautiful long-distance relationship he once had.

I never had that fortune; my relationships were much shorter in terms of distance, but unfortunately, stuff made of nothing but one-sided fantasy.

Looking back, they were all some form of stupidity on my part.

It was 1998 and I was 11, and my first crush had shoulder-length hair, perfect fair skin, and eyes that sparkled when she flashed her winning smile. She was the top student in class, but unfortunately I never got to talk to her - it seemed like she was scared off by my courage that stemmed mostly from my naivety. She would, in protest to my advancements, grow a violent streak - whenever I approached her she would throw whatever could be thrown in my face.

After the primary school exams we left for different paths in our academic pursuits. I only met her again last year - a chance encounter. She was with another classmate of mine. One glance and I remembered the bruising past (in more ways than one). But I hid my blushes well (at least, I certainly hoped so).

Fast forward to Secondary 3.

Now, in primary school I was just a nerdy fellow who had an attitude problem who had hair almost as messy as Harry Potter's. In secondary school, however, I was STILL a nerdy fellow who had an attitude problem and had hair as messy as Harry Potter's. That didn't help at all with my thriving inferiority complex.

My previous failure had influenced me to a large extent to take the back seat where relationships were concerned, lest I awake a dormant volcano.

The girl was an ex-classmate, who had shoulder-length hair and perfect fair skin and had beautiful eyes that sparkled with her winning smile (wait, that's deja vu all over again, right?). What made things better was that she was the first person of the opposite sex that I could truly relate to, without a fear of rejection whatsoever.

But things changed dramatically. She soon stopped responding to my SMSes. And afterwards she got hitched. The only response I could muster was that I confessed only after she got hitched. The catch: she knew nothing, or so she claimed, of my feelings for her.

So this time, I learnt something that should have been so obvious to other guys - if you love her, let her know!

Then, last year arrived, and she arrived - but it wasn't meant to be. Love is simple, but life is very, very complicated. Retelling the story might cause discomfort in several people, including me, so let me just give you a gist of the story in words and phrases that are floating in my head.

Pool. Pastamania. Parkway Parade. Walking her home. Friend. "Go for it". Bouquet of flowers. A toy pig. An edited photograph. Two concert tickets. Distracted. 1am at the bus stop. Singing. Being naive. Lost tempers. "Influential". Enemy. Cold war.

No beautiful memories on my part then.

Yes, that's me, digging up the past again, always haunted by those embarrassing images of my life; what else can I say about myself? Friends, I have let go but those memories refuse to leave me - perhaps they are meant to stay, to teach me something in life that I cannot learn from prose. The School of Hard Knocks requires no entrance fee, no pre-requisite, and can teach you a lesson any time it wants.

My parting words to James as I end this blog - keep those beautiful memories well, and learn from them. I'm still learning from mine.

Diary Written While Listening To 'To Love Somebody'

2006-06-15T22:22:00.000+08:00

There's a light
A certain kind of light
That never shone on me
I want my life to lived with you
Lived with you

These few days have been all about catching up with Scouting and my newfound freedom as Assistant Scout Leader.

I bought soft drinks for every patrol, thinking that it would be a good way of rejuvenating their tired and demoralised selves.

There's a way everybody say
To do each and every little thing
But what does it bring
If I ain't got you, ain't got ?

In truth, I didn't do much these few days, but I hoped that I did contribute in whatever small way I could. Together with the teachers-in-charge, Dunstan, and the Sec 4 leaders, we conducted the gruelling four-hour interview of 11 Sec 3s, awaiting promotion to the highest echelon of Anglican High Falcon Scouts.

You don't know what it's like, baby
You don't know what it's like

To love somebody
To love somebody
To love somebody
The way I love you

Times have changed. The new era of Scouting is a challenging one for leaders, having to battle the lack of motivation among new Scouts, as well as the encouragement (or lack of it) provided by those Scouts' parents. It is also one where academic excellence is given priority over co-curricular activity involvement.

This is why I keep returning. Because I believe that I can, with whatever ability I am given, improve the Scout unit and the people inside it. I believe that there is unlimited potential in them.

In my brain
I see your face again
I know my frame of mind
You ain't got to be so blind
And I'm blind, so very blind
I'm a man, can't you see
What I am
I live and breathe for you
But what good does it do
If I ain't got you, ain't got ?

The incoming Sec 3s, I hope, will bring Scouting to an even higher level in this school. I am confident that we are marching towards another glorious era in Anglican High Falcon Scouts history.

It will start this Saturday, with the promotion of the Sec 3s to their respective portfolios and ranks.

Thank you to the Sec 4s, who have done well as the previous Patrol Leader Council - and good luck as well to the incoming PLC, whom I hope will realise everything that they are truly capable of soon enough.

On my honour...

I promise that I will do my best, to do my duty to God and to the Republic of Singapore, to help other people and to keep the Scout Law.

The renewal of the Scout Promise on Saturday will signal the yearly renewal of a troop that has had a wonderful past, but let us now look forward to an even more glorious future.

The Story About...?

2006-06-12T20:27:00.000+08:00

Dreams never smell, but you are allowed to carry over some real life characteristics like instincts and temperament, to identify your slumber.

This must be one of the strangest stories I have ever read.

I am not saying that it is a story that you shouldn't read, however; it is precisely because of its out-of-this-worldness that every single person should try to read.

Reading is something that takes imagination - and this story certainly forces the mind to make use of plenty of that.

Giant Flying Cat: 'That is no cure for a broken heart.'

I feel more bloody shards splinters down from my crunchy chest. They whistle with the breeze of the midnight wind.

The author of this story (who is a colleague of mine) said that he was feeling all weird when he wrote it, and I believe he has succeeded in it just because it is so believably incredible.

No more from me; experience the story for yourself.

Don't Call Me Names

2006-06-09T20:05:00.000+08:00

Bee Cheng Hiang would be proud of a name like this.

Yes, the name is REAL - this is one of the names of many people that have come to do their medical screening at the Medical Classification Centre.

Apologies to those names out there that I've placed on my blogs - this is purely for fun, of course. I've had my fair share of being poked fun of since I was a child too - yes, being called Owen has its disadvantages as well, you know.

You can view the other names here. Enjoy.

Don't Call Me Names!

Aside: Ladies and gentlemen, the WORLD CUP HAS ARRIVED.

And The World Cup 2006 Winner Is...

2006-06-08T23:03:00.000+08:00

Going to be Brazil again?

Decipher doubts it, and he tells you all about his predictions for the World Cup in Germany right here on his Liverpool FC blog, Kings of Europe.

WORLD CUP GROUP STAGES: Predictions and Predicted Tables
WORLD CUP ROUND OF 16 AND MORE...: Includes the predicted score for the final.

*All scores are purely speculative remarks by Decipher. However, in the event of a coincidence one must realise that the scores are truly (I swear) coincidental and that I had absolutely nothing to do with the result whatsoever.

Technorati Tags: brazil, fifa, world cup, football, soccer, germany

How Decipher Became A Red

2006-06-04T13:27:00.000+08:00

Left: Liverpool Football Club - Champions League winners 2005.

YES, Decipher is going to reveal to the rest of the world exactly how he became a Liverpool aficionado - though he lives on the other side of the world.

It was 1996, and Decipher was barely past his 9th birthday.

My primary school classmate, Bani, asked which team I supported. I knew nothing about football then (probably couldn't differentiate Arsenal and Manchester United), so I was rather agreeable when he asked me if I was a Man U fan.

I asked my Dad if Manchester United were the best club in the world. His face turned purple when I asked that question. But he didn't answer, though.

So I forgot all about the episode, all about Bani, all about football. Until 1998.

When I first saw Titi Camara's goal against - who was it then? It didn't really matter to me. He scored, and that was the most important thing.

Dad was glad he saw some potential in me being a Liverpool fan, and he passed me a magazine that contained the history of Liverpool Football Club.

And I read for myself:

18 League Championships

7 FA Cups

5 European Cups

7 League Cups

14 Charity Shields

4 European Super Cups

3 UEFA Cups

And I was enlightened by it all. Move over, Manchester United. You'll never walk alone, Liverpool. The greatest club in the world.

Of course, all those silverware didn't matter much to me - yet. After all, it was still in the past that these things happened. Will they happen in my lifetime?

Gerard Houllier, Liverpool manager (left) till 2004, certainly made an illusion of grandeur look quite real.

The Liverpool team played horrendous non-football during that period, where slow build-up and long balls were the primary objective of every game. Apart from his smart purchases of Patrik Berger and Vladimir Smicer, he blundered in 2002 with the purhcase of the cheating Senegalese winger, El-Hadji Diouf, and another Senegalse midfield flop, Salif Diao.

But in between his appointment and his sacking, he brought one UEFA Cup, one Charity Shield, an FA Cup won dramatically by Michael Owen, and even a League Cup! Not too bad, right?

Not by Liverpool's standards. He got sacked in 2004.

But the most dramatic of victories for Liverpool had yet to arrive - but when it did, a Spanish tactician by the name of Rafael Benitez (bottom) would be the mastermind behind them all.

He didn't promise anything in the first season - he knew it was a period of transition for him and the team, to shake off the negativity of the Houllier era in football.

He is a silent worker - he says that he is a 'loner with a laptop' when designing training sessions - but this silent worker certainly improved the standard of football in Liverpool, with the astute purchases of Xabi Alonso and Luis Garcia.

Then of course, we talk about his achievements.

At half time in the Champions League final:

Liverpool 0 - 3 AC Milan

Paolo Maldini and Hernan Crespo had given AC Milan an unassailable lead. I turned off the television and went back to sleep, knowing that I couldn't stand the heartbreak of watching Liverpool lose like that.

When I woke up (around 6am), I turned on the television fully expecting a forlorn Liverpool team.

But what was this? Benitez was smiling and Steven Gerrard, the Liverpool captain, WAS HOLDING THE EUROPEAN CUP IN HIS HANDS.

I was speechless. It turned out that Benitez had superbly combined tactics, luck and determination together in the second half - plus the heroics of goalkeeper Jerzy Dudek - to give Liverpool their fifth European Cup. Steven Gerrard, Vladimir Smicer and Xabi Alonso had scored three goals in five minutes, and Dudek did a double save to deny Andriy Shevchenko the winning goal.

Liverpool 3 - 3 AC Milan (Liverpool win 3-2 on penalties)

What a night it was. I should never have gone back to bed.

In the FA Cup final of 2006, we were 2-1 down at half time, but after the Champions League final of 2005, I'd learnt my lesson - this is the greatest football club in the world, and they wouldn't let us Liverpool fans down.

They didn't.

Steven Gerrard scored twice to cancel out the 3-1 lead that West Ham United had gained on us in the second half.

The penalty shootout was a matter of Jose Reina, the new Liverpool goalkeeper, turning from zero to hero.

Above: Liverpool players who saw Jose Reina save the deciding penalty to give Liverpool the FA Cup 2006.

Liverpool 3 - 3 West Ham United (Liverpool win 3-1 on penalties)

That's right, savour the moment.

Liverpool fans know that the greatest is yet to arrive.

It's the mrbrown show once again!

2006-06-03T22:18:00.000+08:00

For those of you aren't on the mrbrown podcast-bandwagon yet, here goes.

The following are highly recommended podcasts that you should listen to, no matter who you are and where you come from (but it's better if you're Singaporean).

The Persistently Non-Political Podcasts

No. 6: Jeff Lopez, the Man and his Ideas goes for lunch. This podcast is the talk of the town.
No. 1: All about a fictional political party who plans to be sued before Nomination Day.
No. 11: And this is all just a harmless talk between two innocent children.

No More Bird - mrbrown and Mr Miyagi investigate what happened to all the birds, post-VISA ad.

More of these (which I'm sure you'll be trying to get) is on www.mrbrownshow.com.

Have fun.

Let's Leave Things To Fate!

2006-05-29T22:33:00.000+08:00

Let's Leave Things To Fate!
by Owen Tan

You bought her favourite flowers and laid
Them at her gate?
It's a simple rule; they call it
Let's leave things to fate.

You get her number from her friend
But've never called her, mate?
Even the poorest idiot knows
You're leaving things to fate.

How about taking a detour just to see her
And reach home bloody late?
Then you'll be quietly wishing
That things can be left to fate.

But what makes a guy do the things
That this poet has just said?
I don't know, such things I guess
Are better left to fate.

Decipher: A simple poem for some light enjoyment.

Just Another Rant

2006-05-21T22:11:00.000+08:00

One week or so before just another normal day in Singapore on the 6th of May, 2006, someone decided to repaint the void deck, plus the exterior walls of my entire block.

They painted with such speed that I thought they will probably complete re-painting the entire block by today - approximately three weeks after they had started work.

That is, of course, if they had continued.

You see, after the 6th of May they decided to stop work.

Actually, they only decided to paint the important place where something was supposed to be cast for someone. Yeah, the area where they cordoned off for people who had a duty to do something compulsory and secret - that's the only area they covered.

Am I selfish? Yet, am I not making sense?

I mean, they already decided to paint the area denoted as the voting station, so why didn't they continue with the rest of the floor, let alone the entire block?

But too bad, painting is decided by the Vs (pronounced Vees). Vee is for Voters? No, Vee is for Victors.

The voting station covers half the entire void deck or so. And it seemed like the paint also only stretched exactly that distance.

There is a saying in Mandarin that loosely translated reads: "You only get your dollar's worth, nothing more, nothing less."

And are we going to expect nothing more, nothing less from the Vees, post-election?

Or are they planning to set up the voting station at the other half of the void deck the next time round so they're going to declare that they've re-painted the "entire block"?

Or maybe they're planning to split the electoral boundary such that it runs through only half my block. So the other half of the block is someone else's responsibility.

Yeah, I said all these. But I'm not going to say "sue me", since the last time I heard, it's cliched already.

Truly Da Vinci - complicated, confusing, so dark the con of man

2006-05-21T13:57:00.000+08:00

And for those of you who thought that The Da Vinci Code was going to turn out to be just as brilliant as the book, you can very much think again.

Spoilers ahead, for the other half of the world who are quite lagging behind (better start reading Dan Brown soon, guys.)

Tom Hanks stars as symbologist Robert Langdon, who is soon embroiled in a murder mystery where the Louvre curator, Jacques Sauniere (Jean-Pierre Marielle) is the victim. The detective in charge of solving the case, Captain Bezu Fache (Jean Reno) is a man torn between two worlds - his faith, for he belongs to a devout Catholic sect named the Opus Dei, and the world where justice prevails. Initially thinking that the two worlds were indubitably linked together, he realises that there is a twist to the story (which I will considerately not reveal to the reader here).

Sophie Neveu (played by Audrey Tautou of Amelie fame) is introduced to the crime scene, where her first contribution is to rescue Langdon from the suspecting eyes of Bezu Fache, who had apparently been tipped off by a mystery man that Langdon is the murderer. The escape soon turns into a treasure hunt for the Holy Grail - which Dan Brown controversially puts as something that is not really a chalice, but the bloodline of Jesus Christ.

The controversy aside, this adrenaline-pumping escape-cum-treasure hunt does not seem to translate well on the screen (at least, not to the direction of Ron Howard, who did A Beautiful Mind with such aplomb, however). The scene involving the famous Fibonacci sequence was poorly explained, as well as many of the more intriguing puzzles - it was certainly not at all an enlightening ride for my friends who hadn't finished the book yet.

It is unfortunate that the book was not well-adapted as well - the movie, too, climaxed too early, as many moviegoers who have read the novel will understand, and overall there was little doubt to cast on the people who predicted that the film was not going to be as well-received as the book itself.

Still, it is still interesting to see many of Da Vinci's creations in real pictorial detail - after all, a picture paints a thousand words, and this can certainly be taken literally with Da Vinci's works, Madonna on the Rocks as well as the most-talked about of them all, The Last Supper. Is the person on the left of Jesus Christ actually John or Mary Magdalene?

The questions do not end with a movie that is confusing to say the least.

Decipher rates it 2.5/5

10th of May

2006-05-11T20:47:00.000+08:00

On this day in 1987, a minor miracle was bestowed by the heavens onto an Earth about to go through a major economic crash.

It was Mothers' Day, 1987.

It didn't come with much fanfare - nothing of that sort. It was as quiet as it came this year.

Coincidentally, my lunar birthday also fell on the same day yesterday.

I received two cards - one from Junxiang, and the other from the Community Chest, in appreciation of my monthly contributions.

Of course, the usual suspects sent me their greeting SMSes - I thank (in chronological order) the following people who remembered:

Dad,
Shaorong,
Tien Kwan (who sent me the same SMS twice),
Yumin,
Ling Yi,
Anna,
Kelvin Nai,
Ms Charis Wong,
Qingyu,
and Clare!

The list may not be long, but it certainly is significant. :)

Zeus actually got me a present this year! Thanks for the wallet, bro.

Mum decided to replace the water bottle I lost. Hugs and kisses, please.

Aunt took a gamble with my volatile sense of fashion and bought something different for my wardrobe collection.

And the cake was humble, yet pleasing all the same.

11th of May

Kelvin Nai and Rico actually went out to get a cake for me!

While the surprise was a little revealed to me by the time, I was immensely moved by the thought. Thanks dudes.

Thanks to everyone in MCC who actually wrote a very meaningful card for me - Ms Woon, Ms Wong Lai Kuin, Mdm Gan, Linda Loh and Chan, Siew Huey, Fong Sien, Michael, Nai and Rico.

I'm touched, guys.

This may not be the most lavish birthday celebration, but I'll remember it for life.

2006-05-08T20:57:00.000+08:00

(Decipher: BEFORE YOU READ THIS, here's a colour guide to what I feel about the statements made.)

BLACK - completely untrue.
DIRTY YELLOW - A dirty lie.
ORANGE - getting warmer, but not on the head yet.
RED - the truth hurts, so it's the colour of blood.

Presently, you are trying to break away from a situation that is causing you considerable worry and concern. Things are getting on top of you and you are feeling depressed almost to breaking point. Obviously there must be a way out - but at this time the solution seems to be escaping you. You want to 'get away from it all' and as a consequence you appear to be sullen and introverted and refuse to get involved in any discussion or arguments which could aggravate the situation. Accept the fact that 'as you feel - so your body will respond' and 'pretend' to the world about you that everything is going beautifully as, if you act as if 'all is going well' everything will, whether you believe it or not, work out as you would like it to.

You are lazy - you dream of a peaceful, calm, uncluttered and uncomplicated life. Your ideal would be to share a permanent base with some person or persons who would be able to demonstrate on-going love, peace and security.

You feel that you deserve far more than is being attributed to you, but there is no-one to whom you can turn to for sympathy and understanding. Your pent-up emotions and inherent egocentricity make you quick to take offence, but as matters stand you realise that you will have to make the best of things as they are.

The unwanted situation in which you presently find yourself is causing you considerable stress and frustration and your feeling is that whatever you try to do to remedy this is to no avail. You feel trapped. You want to get away from it all as you feel that you are banging your head against a brick wall getting nowhere. You have turned your aggression inwards and you are furious with yourself for not being able to achieve your goals. You need to go away, somewhere where there are less restrictions and where you can be free to make your own decisions.

You feel worn out - you have no energy and your depleted vitality has created intolerance for any further stimulation. You feel inadequate and this subjects you to agitation, irritation and acute distress from which you try to escape by refusing further direct participation. You have become very wary and cautious but you have an inner strength. You have that determination to get your own way and succeed in the end.

I didn't expect this test to be THAT accurate.

The only "dirty yellow" line, of course, which I claim isn't that truthful, is because I feel that I never try to refuse "further direct participation" - I take what is given to me and try to do it to the best of my ability.

Key word, of course, is "try".

The Liar

2006-05-01T19:29:00.000+08:00

I am such a liar, really.

I pretend to be busy when I am actually the person who has so much free time on his hands.

I like to think that I am a calm and rational person when I am exactly the opposite.

It's Monday, and I'm still in a Sunday mood.

I like to think of myself as a person who has many hidden talents, but where the hell are they?

I like to think of myself as a person who helps my friends whenever they are in need, but what the hell have I done anyway?

I like to think of myself as a popular person, but hey, I am truly kidding myself - I am searching for peace when I already have it!

But I wonder, does an awkward silence mean peace?

A dead silence; peace?

What is peace? What is life? What am I?

Do I even have friends?

What in the world am I saying?

How can I doubt those people around me?

But how can I not doubt those people when they are not around me now, physically? When you're alone, do you even feel secure?

Soul-searching is making me more confused than ever.

I must be blessed.

2006-04-24T20:40:00.000+08:00

It is not uncommon to meet up with my former classmates for a rare moment, be it on MSN or in person, for them to mention something along the lines of "you are so blessed to be in the service side (of NS, that is)".

In fact, that seems to be the only thing I am able to muster something of a reply to: "Erm, yes, well - I must be lucky. I get to go home every day." And after which, they return back to (what I feel) their meaningless drivel on how lousy the SAR is compared to the M16, and how their POP was compared with other COYs, just to name a few abbreviations that I remember.

Nowadays, hanging out with friends is truly unfulfilling, even unsatisfactory sometimes; what else can I talk about regarding the army? I am tired of even talking about my "army" life, for after five days of fatigue-inducing office work, why bring the topic into further scrutiny when you're supposed to be catching up on old times?

Thus I keep quiet during such meetings, trying to avoid the dreaded topic of National Service, preferring to discuss less mundane topics with my female ex-classmates, who seem to be enjoying the topic involving mud, abusive sergeants and cryptic abbreviations less and less.

What am I supposed to feel blessed about, especially during such meetings, when all I do is try to tune in to conversations I barely understand, and hardly even want to know? My typical day involves:

Filing and stamping at least 50 medical reports.
Sending most of them to the available MOs for grading, after sorting the medical reports into different disciplines.
Chasing pre-enlistees for their appointment cards, because there are those idiots who don't send them in.
Trying to distance myself, albeit less successfully each time, from the inevitable office politics.
Rushing to Registration checkpoint when the queue is too long for the staff over there to handle.
Smiling in the rain: Parents who scream that the grading that we have given their son has "destroyed" his life, and parents who deceive the MOs that their son has some unidentified psychiatric problem, have to be treated with dignity, respect and with a smile.
Dealing with more liars: Some idiots try to feign stupid to get themselves a "retarded" tag, to exempt themselves from service. The irony: We know you're feigning, every time - you smart guy.
Calling up hospitals to chase after overdue medical reports.
Trying to keep my files updated in the tracking system so that they are accounted for, and convenient to find.
Thinking of new steps that I can take to improve my work process.
Searching for misplaced medical dockets.
Dealing with phone calls: Can be exceptionally irritating especially when you are trying to get the momentum of your work process.
Dealing with referrals to all kinds of disciplines, most notably for the psychiatric department in hospitals.

Yes, I'm blessed; I don't need to wear this Full Battle Order, nor carry a rifle around with me. I don't need to do guard duty, only camp pass duty. I stay in an air-conditioned office for most of the day.

I'm blessed, right?

I can't seem to convince myself.

Hieroglyphics by Happenchance: A Sanctuary

2006-04-23T16:43:00.000+08:00

Peace is not impossible
In a land of fantasy;
Of paint, lines and words.

Peace is not impossible
If you believe in everything;
Yourself and themselves.

Peace is not impossible
If no one is desperate;
If we all have our stomachs filled.

Peace is not impossible
If we were all the same;
Alas, we are not.

One of the most beautiful and almost-impossible things to achieve in Utopia, the perfect world, is this condition - peace. What is peace? I believe that as we mature, we start to search for certain things in life that we may never achieve in our lifetime. This appears to be one of them.

My idea of peace lies in the heart. A secret hideout where people can choose to completely shut themselves out from the world, be it for five minutes or fifty years. It is a place where a person can temporarily disconnect themselves from the complicated, bustling web of life.

As I grow, I no longer see this blog as a mere publishing tool; it is also an important part of my life, where I can choose to retreat temporarily from the real world and express myself without the fear of meeting a particular deadline.

I like to think that time is forever once I start blogging and this magical spell ends when I stop.

I hope one day, I do achieve inner peace.

Hieroglyphics, by Happenchance, a Sanctuary of its own.

It's published! - albeit on Internet

2006-04-19T20:15:00.000+08:00

And after my third attempt on the Straits Times Forum, I managed to get my article published...

On the Internet Straits Times Forum, unfortunately.

http://straitstimes.asia1.com.sg/forum/story/0,5562,386270,00.html?

Yes, slightly disappointing - but nevertheless, I still managed to get my voice out to a place definitely more far-reaching than happenchance will ever go.

Another Letter To The Forum

2006-04-17T08:52:00.000+08:00

I refer to Janice Tai Jia Ling and Cheryl Lim Chiew Hoon's joint forum article (in the Straits Times, April 16), that junior college students face a daunting prospect of having to rote-learn their way through the first year of their education, with Science Practical Assessments (SPA) playing a major role in it.

Having been a JC student myself I empathise with their situation. While I used to imagine in secondary school that the Sciences were fascinating subjects where I could express my curiosity and harness knowledge through spontaneity, this interest I had was quashed when I entered JC. SPA, being a broad-based assessment, began to take its toll on me. While initially I refused to succumb to the pressure of merely memorising my work - after all, I still believed that Science was very much about yourself and self-expression - I gave in eventually, realising that if I did not do so I would soon be dragged into a downward spiral of academic purgatory, because everyone else would be scoring full marks while I would be doing just mediocre.

Skills A and D, the experiment designing and the evaluation skills, are probably the parts of SPA where the answers given by students become the most predictable. Practical lessons were really theory lessons, but well-hidden in the facade of test-tubes and burettes; I was given a four-page long experiment to "refer" to, just in case I had any problems.

I rapidly lost interest in the Sciences, because it was no longer spontaneous, no longer vibrant; it seemed to me that SPA was nothing but a neverending pursuit towards perfection - not of any "skill", mind you, but only in the skill of identical report-generating.
But my JC life made me realise that if I wanted to learn, I should not be here - after all, we are not really learning for ourselves. We needed the "right answers" to show a particular University of Cambridge. Rote learning, unfortunately, is carried out because the tutors know what the examiners want - and nothing is more important than that. The tutors make doubly hard an effort to ensure that certain topics are memorised word for word - especially for the Sciences - so that the "Cambridge examiners" can guarantee that our answer is perfect.

The tutors are not actually completely at fault here - the generation of new teachers are an overworked bunch who have to juggle between academic tutelage and co-curricular activities. Rote learning must, surely but sadly, the easier way out. But I felt an information overload building up inside me, as the pile of notes grew: must there be so much to memorise? The tutors may say it is for the training of the mind, but surely there are better and more interesting methods to put in place than rote-learning.

--
TAN WAH CHEN OWEN

Personal Collections

2006-04-14T10:50:00.000+08:00

Clicking the link that reads Personal Collections will bring you to this blog entry, which really isn't an entry; if anything, it is more like a link to another link. I store my favourite entries, together with a humble collection of poems and stories, and also my song recommendation entries. Have fun looking through Hieroglyphics by Happenchance.

Last edited 8th November, 2006.

CLASSIC ENTRIES

POETRY AND PROSE

SONG RECOMMENDATIONS

Heartburn

2006-04-11T20:04:00.000+08:00

What is heartburn?

Heartburn is a condition where there is a painful feeling in the chest, or more accurately, in the gullet (oesophagus), because of it being inflamed due to the reflux of stomach acids.

For my case, it affects my speech - for I will feel breathless and make my chest pain worse after talking.

Heartburn is caused by several factors, including:

Eating too quickly and too much, and not giving enough time for the stomach to digest before sitting down
Eating too much spicy foods
Bad sleeping posture
Tight clothing

Several cardiac diseases may be the onset of heartburn, but so far, thankfully, I don't seem to be on track to THAT.

Heartburn can be soothed with the use of antacids, since it is effectively a digestive problem and not a cardiac one.

So good luck to me and my ACTAL pills.

This Small World Of Mine

2006-04-05T21:59:00.000+08:00

I wish I had more to talk about.

Truly, I wish.

I wish I had more people to talk to, and more things to talk to them about without feeling the sense of emptiness - the awkward feeling of silence in the conversation.

But the small world of mine is collapsing inwards - and perhaps one day, I will have totally nothing to speak of, to speak to.

Perhaps one day, I will just cut off all communication from everyone.

For those who have admired the literature on the blog, I'm afraid you'll have to find somewhere else to admire.

Or perhaps, you all already have - the hit counter on the left barely registers a hit nowadays.

This Small World Of Mine

This small world of mine, you know, never really was;
I had to find myself some space and make myself a boss.
Never was much to look at, had nothing much to show
The sides were full of weeds and in the middle was a hole.

This small world of mine, I kept it tightly sealed;
I managed to keep some secrets in that bloody hole they drilled.
But one day they said it was all a-coming down;
And I feared the Outside would find this idiot clown.

This small world of mine will eventually fall one day;
Come what should, come what can and come what may.
It may be nothing much, but it's what keeps me sane
It's what keeps me writing so, even though it's all in vain.

This small world of mine, I believe is magic;
On the surface it is enthralling, but deep down greatly tragic.
You might not understand the words I write now
But the meaning of the poem, even I haven't completely found.