Wonder of the New World

From the Straits Times today:
"World to Vote on Nature’s Top Wonders

GENEVA: The Grand Canyon, Mount Everest and Loch Ness will vie with more than 200 other spectacular places in the next phase of the global competition for the New 7 Wonders of Nature, organisers said yesterday.

Singapore's Bukit Timah Nature Reserve is one of the 261 nominees from 222 countries”

I can’t decide if I should laugh or cry when I read this. A jogging track with a couple of misfit monkeys running to be one of the wonders of the world. Against the likes of the Grand Canyon and Niagara Falls, Bukit Timah is like wood shavings of recycled timber from a dead log somewhere in Tasmania.

I reckon if Singapore really wants to submit an entry to bid for the wonder of the world, we will do well representing the new phenomenon that is sweeping across our urban landscape like a majestic tsunami – ERP gantries.

Mount Everest in all its magnificence cannot compete with the ERP for the daily impact it has on the lives of millions. The Loch Ness for all its serenity pales before the ERP’s quiet efficiency to touch the souls and wealth of the people. The Niagara Falls for all its intensity falls shy before the ferocity and frenzy of the ERP, as it gate-keeps all who bow before its wrath.

It’s a given, ERP will no doubt be crowned the new wonder of the world.

Time to head home and have my life touched by the mercy of the ERP.

Here's to a brand new year

I was out last night for a New Year’s eve-eve celebration. A New Year’s eve-eve celebration is a cheaper alternative to a new year’s eve celebration and less intoxicating because you need to work the next day. Being out on a work night was probably the most rebellious thing I’ve done since I took white bread for breakfast instead of whole meal.

It was a great night out and I feel alive again, in a strange way because my body is sore as a petulant brat who didn’t get enough Christmas presents. For some strange reason the live band decided to play quite few cha-cha numbers and I couldn’t keep those hips from swaying. Life can be dreary but music always picks it up.

This year will be a bit different because as my father always put it, I’ll be counting sheep rather than counting down. Have an early plane to catch to Hanoi on the first day of 2009. It will be a unique way to spend New Year’s day on a plane, but it will be nice to be greeted by a familiar face when I land.

Just hoping that this will mark to a bright new start to the new year.

Prune Juice

I must have forgotten how to write. 03 July 08 was my last entry and I have hardly written a single word since – not a poem, not a nursery rhyme and not a blog entry. Actually, I have written a poem two weeks ago when I was feeling introspective sitting at a café past midnight. The emotions swelled and I scribbled on an ordering note with broken-tipped pencil. It probably was a masterpiece if I remembered to take the note with me when I left the café. I can only assume that the poem now sits in a state of recycled material disguised as a roll of China-branded toilet paper.

I can go on about why the muse of the pen left me but it is for the same reasons that I have not been writing. It is a new life that I lead where the passion for the arts is reduced to spending silly money on inflated theatre tickets dressed as a nonconformist. Time is spent watching figures on the stock market rise and fall rather than digesting nuances of artistry in places which I have unwittingly neglected. In the midst of it all, I become a rodent in a massive race to stand out from the crowd, only to find myself manifest into the product of a cookie cutter ironically because of my endeavours to be different.

This pretty much sets the tone of where I stand.

I figured that if were to rant about life, I rather not do so in my blog. Privacy has become an issue where anonymity has become as scarce as free parking. Often what is felt reflects a particular moment but when written in words portrays an enduring impression. In other words, I have become cautious about what I write. There appears to be too much to lose thus words have to be written with some care.

The year of 2008 has been trying to say the least. 08’ marks a chapter of a new book that no longer resembles a graphic novel. It is not as melodramatic as a Korean soap opera but not as dull as self-help books. It is a mix between tap-dancing and being clueless about how to tap dance – not really sure what that means but it sounds momentarily clever.

If I were to reflect, my highlight of the year 2008 was prune juice. Yes prune juice. I read about its properties as a natural detoxant but goodness have I underestimated its effects. Powerful stuff. One that gives such an experience that I shall now coin the term a 'Royal Flush' to describe the knees-weakening encounter.

As much as this entry begins with incoherent chain of thoughts, I feel it shall only be appropriate to conclude with no sense at all. Thus I pen off with one food for thought.

Prune juice.

A Boy and His Tie

Once there was a boy
who wanted to wear a tie.
But he can’t differentiate his neck from his ankle
and his left toe from his eye.
So he sat there looking silly
not sure where his tie should fit;
a yellow dotted tie,
with pretty orange bits.

Along came Miss Vern
who lent the boy a hand.
The boy gleefully hugged Miss Vern,
as one would hug a friend.

Miss Vern twisted and turned
but could not get it right.
Yanked and pulled did Miss Vern
but the knot would not stay tight.

It was rather apparent,
that Miss Vern did not have a clue.
The boy was being stifled
and his face was turning blue,

When Miss Vern eventually gave up
she smartly released the cord.
But it was just a little too late,
the boy was stiff as a board.

Everyone was sorry about the accident
but none were terribly distraught.
Said the police to Miss Vern,
that it really was not her fault.

Perhaps the boy did not need to die
if he just knew how to dress.
For one who would wear such a tie
probably deserved nothing less.

Dance Shoes

I refuse to buy a pair of dance shoes.

Considering that I go dancing about three times a week, it only makes sense that I treat myself to a proper pair. Maybe a pair of dance sneakers – hardy, no fuss and goes pretty well with jeans; perhaps a pair of ballroom shoes that gleam like a spotlight in a jewellery store.

But no, I refuse to buy a pair of dance shoes.

When I first started dancing, I wore this pair of Nike which I acquired in 1998. Although it is currently in a vegetating state, I still wear them for dance lessons every now and then. The soles are perfectly worn out making spinning a breeze. The fabric, so well acquainted with my feet over the years, hugs them like a blanket around a newly born. The only problem with my retiring runners is that the soles fall apart like a Mr PotatoHead with leprosy.

I remember the first time the rubber soles started flapping. I glued them back with Selley’s Kwik Grip. I was pretty proud of myself that I was able to extend the longevity of my self-made dance sneakers. However, quite a lot of effort was required to keep the shoes intact. I would hit the dance floor once the glue has dried, only to have the soles falling apart again not long after. The entire process of gluing, clamping and drying eventually became too tedious. I was gluing my shoes on a weekly basis and surely I was becoming an addict to the fumes of the contact glue.

Eventually I gave up on ‘98 Nike and turned to my suede Hush Puppies. Weighing less than half of the old Nikes, the Hush Puppies became the essential instrument for fancy footwork. My feet were as light as a student’s wallet and weightless as a hippo on the moon. However, the rubber soles were causing me problems. The rubber soles create more friction than North Korea. To smooth the soles, I sanded them with abrasive paper and abused them by shuffling my feet whenever I walked. After a month of seasoning, my Hush Puppies became the perfect pair of dance shoes. Well, not so perfect because it decided to retire last week after all the punishment. The stitches fell apart exposing a huge hole by the side. My toes were well-ventilated but I could no longer dance in them.

I still refuse to buy a pair of dance shoes.

Immediately, I popped by the nearest Hush Puppies and bought myself the same pair of suede shoes while the old one took a hike in my local trash compacter. Perhaps the money would have been better spent on a proper pair of dance shoes, but I thought I could pull it off for the second time. I was in class three days ago and my attempt to do a double turn was as comical as it was disastrous. I needed to season my Hush Puppies all over again.

Now why do I still refuse to buy a proper pair of dance shoes? I think it is an ego problem. I can’t exactly explain why, but it probably has to do with my stubbornness not to be at odds with a statement I once made to myself years ago…….

……..I refuse to buy a pair of dance shoes.

The Corn 'Corn-tinues'........

Duzbin: DC, have you bought the movie tickets? Please ‘indy-cate’ if you have.

whmok: Duzbin! I’m going to watch with my family this Sunday. Don’t you dare tell me what happens ‘indy-end ah.’

Sentient: It will be very ‘in-dy-cent’ if he told you what happens ‘indy-end’. I should also ‘indy-cate’ to you that I have seen it already.

whmok: It is ‘indy-eed’ annoying how you guys get to watch it first in a different ‘time-Jones’. If you tell me about it, I can’t watch the show ‘indy-ferently’ and ‘indy-pendent’ from your opinions.

---

Q: What is Indiana Jones’ favourite Indian meal?

A: Its in the theme song, “papapapa……… papadom…… papapapa….. papa domdomdom…”

---

TGIF

‘Thank goodness it is Friday!’ We often say this to indicate that the week has been dreary and relief can be found just around the corner. TGIF can be a deceiving catchphrase because behind the light-hearted resonance lies a weighty load of expectations. It is like saying that the value and mood of the week will rest solely on the weekend being a fulfilling one. It is a last minute hope to salvage a tedious week conditional upon an eventful 48 hours – talk about pressure.

Perhaps it is this hope, laden with anxiety that drives us towards extreme measures which results in hangovers, sleepless nights and grumbles of “I’m too old for this shit.” On the other hand, a lack of planning during midweek often renders an uneventful Saturday night. This feeling likened to being swindled by a five year old is really not great.

Weekends are indeed precious; something which I failed to appreciate when I was in Melbourne. Back then, weekends started from 5pm Thursdays and ended on Monday nights. It was something which I couldn’t get sick of and my only lament was why long weekends couldn’t be even longer.

Over the last couple of months, my weekends have been spent at salsa clubs, poker nights with the boys and soaking up the arts scene at the Esplanade. The weekends have been enriching, fulfilling and perhaps bordered on extravagant. A deliberate effort was always involved in ensuring that weekends did not go to waste, that I would not wake up on Monday mornings feeling cheated. I would plan for concerts months before and arrange poker sessions at the start of each week. Planning was essential to ensure a good weekend.

It is strange then, that last weekend, I spent some time with Treeman under the most random circumstances. Treeman is one of my dearest of friends. We go way back to the days where you need to raise your hand to use the bathroom. In recent months, Treeman has decided to take his leave of absence from the social arena because his hands are full with responsibilities which I don’t quite fathom so I won’t try. Last Saturday, it was a rare occasion that he felt compelled to buy me lunch. I suspect it has something to do with the money I lost to him.

So that day, we hung out and did absolutely nothing. We were at a Cineplex but didn’t watch a movie. We were at the shops but didn’t buy anything. We conversed but the topics were so frivolous I can’t remember what was said between the hello and goodbye. Strange, because despite all that, it was heart-warming and the few hours in his company gave me a sense of fulfilment not felt since, well, when I did absolutely nothing with my friends in Melbourne.

Contentment and joy are usually found in the simplest things. However, it is not everyday that you have people around that can share the pleasures of simplicity. Till I find the opportunity to gather my buddies mostly residing in Australia, I guess I will continue to fill my PDA with profuse events dependant on excessive planning.

A Smurfy Day

I feel like a smurf. Yes those little creatures with a poor dress sense – why would one wear just a white hat, white boxers and no top? Speaking of which, ever wondered how a smurf looks like without the hat? I’m imagining a blue mutant frog.

Anyway, I feel like a smurf today.

A couple of issues have been bugging me of late. Nothing dramatic, just a few things I feel obligated to do yet my feet are dragging like a Taiwanese soap opera. There is a paper which I need to revise but the thought of it is making the hair at the back of my neck stand. I have come a long way from academia and the thought of getting back into it feels as daunting as sending aid to Myanmar. The paper revision will possibly take another four to five months with any chance of being invited for a third revision. It is like I’m facing the entrance of a very long tunnel that sheds no light at the end. The alternative, walk away and spend Sunday afternoons at the beach. Believe it or not the decision is a tough one, but I feel rather obligated to finish what I have started.

For the time being, I’ll sit on it like a whoopee cushion till inspiration finds me. It might, but not on a Sunday because I’ll be at the beach.

I Like Lightning

I like lightning, not thunder, but lightning. I’m not sure how I’m going to pull this off; to continue writing an entry that began with ‘I like lightning’. I mean, no short story or prose ever begins with ‘I like lightning’. An opening like this which bears characteristics of closure seems to have ended a story before it has even begun. It is like saying “they lived happily ever after, and three years later…..” I don’t think it’ll work, but I have already typed out my opening and I have no plans to backtrack. I can if I want to, but I won’t because it will be embarrassing, despite the fact that nobody reading this article will give a hoot about its sequential flow. But if for some peculiar reasons that you do, I must highlight to you that there are also four spelling mistakes and five grammatical errors in this write-up.

Technically at this point – which is the point that follows immediately after ‘I like lightning’ – the post may branch off towards three possible directions;

1) a philosophical path – where perhaps I may use lightning as a metaphor hyperbole to share a truth-seeking viewpoint which may shed light to some neglected grey area of life. I think I should be able to fabricate a notion like that. But it will probably be some recycled material I have read somewhere when I was not paying too much attention. The unwitting plagiarism would have rendered the philosophical conception a poor cliché likened to a cop and a donut.

2) an introspective path – where perhaps I could reflect upon how a bolt of lightning which flashed across the horizon has given me a new found hope as I trek along a discouraging gravelled path laden with snags and sneers.

The flow of the article will probably be dramatic, like a Korean soap opera. In which case, a background story is needed to provide an anchor. The story narrates a young boy who grew up in the city of Zita, land of the ravaged souls shadowed by the greed of the noblemen. Now Zita probably doesn’t sound very Korean but it should. That is because Zita is a good name and would have sorted out the North vs South confusion because we would have just called the whole place Zitaland.

Now the boy grew up in poverty and hunger – that was because his parents weren’t very good at making money. Their venture to sell ice tea failed because there was no such thing as electricity those days to make ice, so the parents just gave away empty glasses. – One day, the boy fell in love with a one-legged hamster abandoned by an owner named Trevor. Now Trevor has a very dark secret which he did not tell anyone, and for the same reason I have no idea what that secret might be, although I’m certain that it has something to do with a cauliflower.

At this point, you will probably think to yourself, “the name Trevor doesn’t sound very Korean either.” That is what you might say for now, but I can assure you that you won’t be saying this four years from now. That is because four years later, you would probably have forgotten what you said four years ago.

3) an utilitarian path – where perhaps I can provide a sound description on the functional value of lightning and how it has impacted our lives. Now this is quite challenging because I will need to have a sound knowledge about lightning.

Incidentally, I am well-read and know that lightning was the origins to the Norse god of thunder, Thor, as prescribed by Nordic myth-writers whose names were too long to pronounce, thus we collectively call it 'Marvel'. Now what is so interesting about Thor is that he carried with him a magic hammer strapped in a magic belt. This is intriguing because if the hammer was as big and heavy as described in pagan literature, it would have been very uncomfortable to walk around with it. One then can deduce that it would have been a very tight belt, hence the name, magic belt. The belt also prevented the weight of the hammer from yanking the shorts down all at once.

Yes, Thor wore shorts. With that insight, it brings us to another astute theory that explains why Thor only wore shorts. It is quite obvious really, almost staring us in the eyes. Thor wore shorts because when there was thunder and lightning, it would almost always be raining. Thor wore shorts so that his pants would not get wet.

Thor probably wore sandals too. But the jury is still out on that one.

SMS Dialogue with Sentient

(its raining cats and dogs)

Me: Nice weather. U wanna go to the beach?

Sen: Sure. We will ‘sea’ you there.

Me: I’ve got no wheels. You need to ‘sand’ me there.

Sen: Just ‘wave’ a passing taxi.

Me: But they have high ‘surf-vice’ charges.

Sen: Ok ok. ‘tsun-ah, mi’pick you up then we go!

Me: If I’m not at the lobby, ‘ty-phoon’ me.

Sen: Ok. ‘whale’ do. ‘sea’ u ‘tsun-ah. Mi’ gotta go back to work now and con-‘sand’-trate.

Me: This is getting ‘overboard’, we should ‘seas’ this at once, I ‘shell’ get back to this ‘crab’ which you ‘sea’ is quite ‘urchin’.

Sen: I ‘sea’.

Me: Oh ‘clam’ it!