I was checking out the wineries at yarra valley till we came across this celler door.. .... couldn't help but snap a picture. 

Women are from Venus, Men wished they came from Coruscant

It is a very well appreciated and well documented fact that men and women are different. Apart from the obvious, what actually constitutes this ‘difference’ remains a mystery and an enduring interest comparable to man’s romantic fascination with the cosmic alignment. For instance, it still remains unknown why putting down the toilet seat can be an issue that has, over the ages, led to warlike behaviour. It is not in the purpose of this prose to unlock the mysteries of the two dominant entities that walk this earth, but it is hopeful that some insight can be shed based on theories formulated during my moments of insanity (refer to previous blog).

I have got this cool theory; that the men and women differ in their conceptualisation of relationships with members of the opposite gender. Basically women adopt a ‘categorical approach’ to distinctly classify relationships, whereas men adopt a ‘continuum approach.’ Allow me to explain.

When women meet a man, they tend to categorically catalogue the person with labels such as; ‘cute’, ‘holiday romance’, ‘makes a good boyfriend’, ‘can never be my boyfriend’, ‘makes a good husband’, ‘soul mate’, and the most notorious and controversial label, ‘platonic friend.’ I don’t know why they do that; perhaps it is a cultivated habit to label things since the childhood years of pasting pink hello-kitty stickers on pencil-cases. These relationship labels are distinctive, mutually exclusive and enduring. The lady weaves the tapestry of fate and destiny when she places a person in any of these categories, because once you are labelled, it will take an act of god before you may have any chance of having the label changed. For example, if on the first date (speaking from experience), you are being labelled as ‘holiday romance’, you will have better luck cracking a brick wall with your forehead than ever having a sniff of being considered a potential candidate to be the lady’s boyfriend.

It is also for the same reason that important issues arise between interpersonal relationships. For instance, women have this strange perception that there is an existence of this mystical impression called platonic friendships (mind you, never attempt to correct this perception because once the bubble bursts, hell breaks loose). Whereas men, at least following Freud’s theories, are motivated by physiological needs and therefore incapable of feeling sexually indifferent towards women. In other words, men don’t classify women as ‘platonic friends’ because this category doesn’t exist in theirmindset; along with other concepts such as ‘shoe-shopping’, ‘diet’ and ‘cuddle.’

Men adopt a ‘continuum approach’, which means that in any relationship with the opposite gender, there will always be sexual attraction. The degree of attraction differs in a spectrum from weak to strong; which can be measured in terms of ‘how attracted the guy is towards the girl before he’ll do something stupid.’ By doing something stupid, in the mildest degree will include sending the lady home, writing birthday cards, to sending flowers. At the other end of the spectrum, it will include buying gifts which he can’t afford, writing poetry and ultimately expressing himself by saying the three words which when placed in a sequence at the wrong time will make him feel like bungee jumping off a very tall bridge without a cord. It is only ‘stupid’ after he realises that his behaviour defies all sense of logic, upon which he’ll he gets a rude shock that he, as the Chinese will say, “has been playing the piano to the cows.”

So it is peculiar when a woman accuses her ‘platonic friend’ for breaking the trust of friendship when the guy confesses his attraction for her. I would say that this scenario has nothing to do with breaking of trust, or poor emotional management or miscommunication; it was just an honest cataloguing mistake.

type 2 knowledge

They say knowledge is power. I say knowledge is like the ‘occupied’ sign of a cubical door in a public toilet; it is sufficient to get a hint of what lies behind door number one, but you don’t really want to venture beyond that. There are two types of knowledge 1) usable knowledge – defined as the processed information that provides direction towards behaviour and to form the basis of aptitude, and 2) knowledge that you can do without – defined as knowledge that you can do without.

Usable knowledge is the good stuff, while the latter has the same impact on a person like salt on snails. It is like telling someone on the porky side that she is fat; or telling a weekend karaoke-goer that in comparison, slaughtering a chicken with a spoon would sound like a night with the tenors.

For some reason ‘knowledge that you can do without’ has become my central theme of the last couple of weeks. I have been told that I lost weight, although if the observation was phrased in such a manner, it will fall in category 1, but no, I was told that my head looks far too huge for my body. I have been told that my clothes look like what you would fish out of a time-capsule that has been untouched since the 70s.

Really, there are things that are nice to know, while there are other facets of information that only pop the balloons in my life and bring to my attention that lollipops and rainbows are only a figment of my imagination. I do wonder, how my world will be, if I never learned some of the things that I have.

Seventeenth day of the month

It is the seventeenth day of the month.
It is the time when a certain emptiness finds me,
and places doubts in my head
and i will ponder;
if the days ahead will ever be whole again.
The body feels weak,
like the withering stalk
of a neglected daffodil
and the mind licks the wound of exhaustion
from work that reaps so little... ...

it is the seventeenth day of the month ... ... ...

... ... ... ... ... ...I hate paying my rent.

What is Insanity?

Insanity is:

* when you have a strand of vegetable stuck between the last two teeth at the back of your jaw. You would love to wrench it out with your index finger if not for the people around you. You would reach for it after being excused to the wash room, if not for the false conviction that you could tongue the strand of fibre out. You couldn’t. You keep trying for the next hour.

* when you stare so hard at a monitor screen waiting for a moment of inspiration that the space around you begins to shrink and your instincts snaps you out of the hypnotic state only for you to start all over again… … it goes on for another four hours

* when you have the name of a song just at the tip of your tongue. It will roll so sweetly out, but just when you were about to pronounce the song title, all you could say is “blach”. You try to ignore this minor annoyance, but the chorus rings in your head like a jingle of a bad advertisement. You forget about the entire ordeal by the next day, only for you to try to remember what was that tune which you could not recall on the previous day. You remember the tune, but the title is still “blach.”

* when you are at Bugis MRT station waiting for the East-West train to take you to Orchard Road. The board reads 7 mins and you reason to yourself that 7 mins is not really that long as it is only 2 mins more than 5 mins and 5 mins passes by really fast if you occupy yourself with thoughts about how fast minutes pass as they are just a matter of seconds. You are convinced that the train will be here in the blink of an eye, and you check the board to be sure, it says 5 mins. You reason to yourself, 5 mins is fine, but perhaps you should not check the board so often, because time passes by if you don’t think about it. You check the board again, 1 min. You board the East-West train, alight at City Hall to catch the North-South train and at that point you check to see when the East-West train will arrive... ... ... ... 7 mins.

* when you are at the end of a Narruto episode after spending the last 3 hours telling yourself that I will watch only one more episode. Saske is about to kill Orange Boy and you tell yourself that I will stop once the fight is over, even though you know that it will not be over till another five more episodes because the monologues will take the better whole of 20 mins to make sense. But it is okey you tell yourself, it is only 20 mins, the clothes can be ironed later, the dishes can be washed later, and I can always catch my sleep another time.

* when you have another pile of assignments to mark and you are sitting before the computer thinking of moments that make a person insane... ... ... ... ... ...

... ... ... ... ... ... ... i hate marking assignments ... ... ...

Classroom Vibes

I was sitting in my office last night and just before I packed up for the day, I spent twenty minutes preparing for my morning lesson. Looking at my lesson plan, students were to prepare answers to a case study and I would facilitate some sort of a discussion and relate it to marketing. No sweat at all. The case study was a new one, and after a good read-through, my jaw dropped a little with the dumbfounded look commonly found in comics that goes with the thought bubble that says ‘what the….’

The case study was about a lady owner of a lingerie shop contemplating to extend her product offering and venture into uncharted waters selling sex toys. Yes, sex toys. Not toys as in plastic items for children’s leisure, but sex toys as in plastic items for adult pleasure; think mobile phone on silent mode.

I had to prepare a lesson plan and facilitate a discussion on how to market sex toys from a consumer behavioural perspective. I will call myself one who is open minded and receptive towards diversity in cultural views, and actually have a supportive stance in regards to social maturity towards sex education. Nevertheless, to manage a discussion with second year students on a topic like this isn’t like running a focus group about takeaway food.

So there I was standing before my class in the most professional stance I could muster in preparation to embark on a journey threatened to end up in utter embarrassment. I was actually more concerned, rather than worried if some students may find the topic somewhat uncomfortable. After all, it is not everyday their tutor strolls into the class and starts the lesson by announcing “G’day class, lets all talk about handcuffs and dildos.”

I asked the students to divorce themselves from personal or cultural opinion towards social desirability, notions of right from wrong, and judgements of sexual undertones, but instead focus on the case study theme from a purely commercial perspective. Yeah right, it is like telling a 3-year old looking at a dancing monkey wearing orange diapers and a zucchini tied to its head not to laugh. But the show must go on.

I actually thought I did well until I stumbled upon the discussion on behavioural sequence model – a framework that addresses issues of who, what, why, where, when of product consumption. I was quite eloquent when raising the questions, but I was just as quick to realise that I should not offer an answer to the questions I raised. As professional as you can be, but really, what do you think will happen if you ask a bunch of teenagers, “now, tell me, what are the various uses of a vibrator?”

I should be paid more for this job.

type C stress environment 

Stress, procrastination and coping strategies

Whenever you walk into my office, it is only normal for one of your colleagues to offer a nice smile and greet you with a quasi-rhetorical question like, “hi how are you?” The enculturated side of me (after spending eight years in Australia) tells me to retort with “not too bad thank you, how are you? (often without the faintest interest in the other party’s well-being)” or perhaps follow through to spark a small conversation talking about how cloudy the day is unlike twenty minutes ago. But no, the Singaporean blood in me will attempt to redefine what is deemed as socially appropriate and reply with some negative remarks like “I’m stressed” or “I’m just surviving”, or “I’m dying”, or “I’m tired, haven’t had enough sleep.”

My closest friends will take my retorts with a pinch of salt knowing that Singaporeans have a strange tendency to paint the sky grey being the only way we know how to be friendly. However, the locals here will often struggle with a reply because they are not used to communicating with a being of pure pessimism. I stand out like sore thumb in the social arena.

Talking about stress, there are actually three types of stress in my area of work. Type A stress is the kind of stress where you know what you are supposed to do, but you know that you are going to struggle to get it done. Type B stress is where you simply have no idea what to do. Type C stress is when you are stressed over the fact that you are not stressed enough.

I spent the first ten months in my work experiencing type C stress. Life was just too good and you know it when you have plenty of sleep before you start the day off (usually at 2pm, half an hour after you have woken up). I used to say that if I was my own boss, I’ll sack myself. Type C stress is a bitch, because your guilt will kick in to create unwarranted tension and hence accrued stress. The only coping strategy to approach type C stress is through cognitive reasoning; that the feeling of aimlessness is part and parcel of being productive. It is true. Through participative observation, it appears that in order to have half an hour of effective work done, there must be some ritual undertaking of surfing the web, reading news, reading blogs, reading freindster accounts, and reading news again before the ‘work’ can take place. This ceremonious behaviour is better known as procrastination. But once you are able to appreciate that procrastination is an honest prerequisite of work, the guilt subsides and type C stress is conquered.

However, the days of type C stress are over. I’ve moved beyond my first milestone and now left with a clear direction as to where I am heading. I know that I’m on the right track, except I suspect that I may be moving the wrong way. A hybrid of type A and B stress kicks in. My shoulders are sore from the tension and the stiffness in my neck is not allowing my head to turn left; not too dissimilar with Zoolander.

A professional massage beckons.

The 'V' Sign

The ‘V’ sign; a trademark of Winston Churchill as a sign of victory and defiance for the people of occupied Europe back in 1941. Today, the ‘V’ sign lives on, although not in the same majestic league of symbolism, but the ‘V’ sign lives on. Not in the blood of fallen war heroes but in pink candy-like photo booths of Neo-Prints, where teens and has-been teens display their defiance of mental maturity.

One can only take a cyber stroll on friendster (as one would during office hours) to realise that if only you could get a dollar for each picture that displays the ‘V’ sign, you will earn enough for a weekend trip to Tahiti.

This proliferating phenomenon is rather perplexing. I struggle to comprehend or decipher the symbolic representation of making ‘V’ signs in any photo shoot. My initial impression was that it could be in remembrance of the war, but through further scrutiny, it appears that these ‘V’ wielding characters will probably struggle to differentiate Normandy from North Korea.

Then a moment of epiphany struck me as I realised that the ‘V’ wielding teenagers do not appreciate the symbolic connotations, but really to use the ‘V’ as a form of visual communication. Somewhat like how Vulkons in Star Trek use hand gestures to offer salutations while at the same time communicate to Earthlings that “we are aliens from a different planet.”

This line of reasoning will however make sense, if not for the evolution of symbol from a vertical ‘V’ to a horizontal one ‘>’ or ‘<’. Perhaps the variant symbols are used for categorical purposes, such as if I hold up a ‘>’, it means my right brain is stronger than my left one, or ‘<’ means my left brain works better, or ‘V, V’ means I have about enough intelligence to uncap a plastic bottle.

I was caught in utter frustration as my initial deduction appeared to have led me towards a conceptual dead end. But alas, I overlooked the most important consideration in any from of ethnographic study, the consequences of context! Yes indeed, it dawned upon me that teens and wannabe-teens wield the ‘V’ sign only in front of the camera. It all makes sense now. As we learn from theories of self-image and alter personas, the ‘V’ sign is used as a temporal denial of one’s real self, to transport the user in that moment before the camera to a parallel reality where the personified self is positively reinforced with essence of marshmallows and pink cotton candy.

This curious behaviour appears to be mild symptoms of a psychological disorder in what is more commonly known as ‘acting cute’. It defies all logic that by hiding the face behind the index and middle finger, the subject actually believes that he/she can accentuate the photograph. It would perhaps be more logical to place the palm in front of the face to conceal the facial features if a more perfect photograph is the desired outcome.

Or just use a brown paper bag, it is probably cuter that way.

Blue skies

What a week

What a week it has been. Lesson for week 8 in MKF 2111, changes in the makeup of a typical household with an emphasis in the proliferation of single-person household. I asked the class, what is the most apparent need for single-person households and they sung all at once – social needs.

So here I am, on a Sunday afternoon sitting in my lounge over some promptly prepared pasta and stir-fried spinach – a perfect description of a weekend of a single-person household. Maslow will claim that I can’t climb up the hierarchy if I don’t satisfy this niggling tension of pure loneliness. What is a guy to do? My energy is rather spent and the echoing voice in me tells me that ‘wouldn’t it be nice to just spend some time with yourself?’ I wish that the voice can manifest in some physical form so that I can punch it in the gut.

The past week has been nothing less than daunting. No, not that I didn’t enjoy myself, but I feel sapped from the physical and emotional exhaustion. I had two ladies staying at my place for five days. Oh the pleasure I had just to play host; make breakfast; place little chocolate boxes on their pillows, the pleasure was all mine. It was delightful to be able to show them around my second home, with day trips from Ballarat to the Great Ocean Road. Just watching the childlike joy on their faces when the penguins came to shore made it all worthwhile.

I also had my bit of emotional roller coaster ride. Sometimes I feel that my naivety shows in the world of relationships. The learning process is painful, yet bitter-sweet. I guess there is so much more I can do to grow up.