On speaking and writing.

A good read. And, no, I am not suggesting that it is deliberately targeted at the frequent visitor to this blog, who has a firmer grasp of the English language than most.

There are some typographical errors in the speech that I would forgive, as I doubt that it is an official transcript. It's an excellent speech otherwise; I really must hand it to the old man.


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Kitteh!

Hello Mr Green Genes!

(Warning though, watching the clip too more than once increases the chances of you singing alone to the crazy meow-meowing at the start.)


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Another Putin post.

Because chicks dig him:

I love

Christina Ricci's dresses. I love this one in particular:








I want that dress. I've got a tits, ass and an okay back, but most of all, I've got a forehead to rival Christina's. I DESERVE that dress.


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Scrimshanker!

I'd use it to describe Fatneck if it weren't such a cool word.


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Follow the yellow-brick road.

The government agency charged with maintaining the population's mental well-being has chosen to commemorate World Mental Health Day (10th October 2008, in case you were wondering) with a free outdoor movie event.

The film? Wizard of Oz.

Stroke of psychotherapeutic genius or facetious choice that appeals to the masses? I'm torn. Perhaps the government is subliminally signalling support for the gold standard in a time where no place is safe for your cash. Or maybe it's the only film they can screen publicly without having to pay a royalty fee. It's probably that last one, hey.

Click here if you're (really) bored.


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I'm...

...thinking of getting BOTOX injections to reduce my masseter muscles thus giving my jaw a slimming effect. Thoughts?

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Every horoscope I've read predicts that my "ego energies", "physical energies" and "intellectual and mental energy" will be running at an all-time high for the next few weeks, putting me in the mood to be "cruising for a bruising". Just yesterday I very nearly succumbed to getting dragged into a (e-mail) fight with an astonishingly immature and bitchy man at least twice my age (who spends much if his office hours designing nets and traps for wild birds - another reason why he doesn't deserve to live).

Hence the need to identify various new insanities where I can channel this overflowing fountain of energies, instead of picking fights at work.

(Although I reckon I could give that wimpy bucket of lard a good beat down in five seconds flat. Even my colleague's nostrils - which are larger than his beady little eyes - are starting to offend me in a way that begs for some sort of physical remedy.)


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It's lunchtime.

And since I'm not eating and sick of work, it makes sense to spend time enriching myself with the vast but often useless or questionable information available on the interwebs.

Might I trouble you to direct your attention to this Wikipedia article?

I would also like to highlight the following para, for its unbeatable GROSS factor:

"The first lip balm was actually made out of earwax. It was functional, but the taste was undesirable. However, its popularity has grown in recent years. A small but growing fan base, committed to the use of all-natural products, touts its use as a superior organic alternative to other varieties of lip balm."

So what are you? Wet or dry?


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Hunger.

It's been too long for it to be jetlag; the dogs, frogs and other neighbourhood animals have let silence prevail; and the blasted beetle has finally been banished from my bedroom. And yet sleep is far removed. Is this - insomnia in a person who can usually fall asleep as long as there's something to lie on - a symptom of the quarterlife crisis I thought had been exorcised some months ago?

The spate of weddings this year, particularly that of a good friend in recent weeks, have forced me to question if I can continue believing that my life as is would satiate the hunger of my remaining 20s (and perhaps, early 30s).

It would be an easier question to answer, if I could first figure out what exactly I'm hungry for. Knowledge? I'd like to think that I've already, successfully, taken an active approach to fulfilling that need. Travel? I believe I'm doing as much as I can within the constraints of time and money. Job satisfaction? As before, getting as much as I can within the constraints of time and money. Money? I occasionally envy people with the infamous "hunger" to make a whole lotta money, simply because it makes life so much easier in terms of knowing what to do. But I do just lack that passion. Physical prowess? Work in progress. And then there's the social life - I have what I need and anything more depends on the quality of supply.

Oh yes, companionship. The sort that provides for solicitude and empathy, acceptance and understanding, with liberal lashings of sexual desire and gratification. Emotional sustenance you can't get from a cat (or dog), or any amount of alcohol or chocolates, or religion. Thus far I had embraced the belief that the Big Ones were knowledge, travel and job satisfaction (and physical prowess, although I'm certain the reader would disagree). Companionship was something that happened to most but not to others, and that even when it does, it's just something that comes along when you least expect it.

This afternoon I had lunch in a restaurant next to a table at which sat a man who looked to be in his 40s, and his parents who looked well into the twilight of their lives. The mother, stooped and trembling, just barely managed to slowly ease herself into a restaurant chair, while the father remained in his wheelchair. The man did not bother to run through the menu with his parents, possibly as his choices were limited to the few dishes that his parents could actually consume, given their advanced years. When the food arrived, the man took turns between arranging more manageable pieces on his mother's plate, and spoonfeeding his father with a broth into which some rice was mixed. Every now and then his father would let dribble what which he could not ingest, and the man would have to clean this up with a blue towel that must have been thoroughly soaked by the end of the meal.

How fortunate it was for the aged couple to have each other, and a son who clearly cared for them despite the obvious inconveniences imposed upon him.

What happens when I get that old? I'm doing what I can to ensure that I maintain physical and mental health in old age, but shit happens you know. And when it does, only a lucky few have the real option of ending it all. I've always thought it faintly disgusting that some parents, particularly Asian ones, have children as a sort of "insurance policy" for their enfeebled futures. But wait, children aside, can I really leave it to chance that I might spend the next 50 years devoid of companionship? Is "alone but not lonely" a sustainable concept? Is this PMT masquerading as a quarterlife crisis?

In any case, there's not much I can do about it. So I guess, proceed as is. I'm starting to feel sleepy anyway, and I haven't decided if I should go to Thailand or the Philippines next. Or maybe Laos?

Cambodia?

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Enough of the broody soliloquy click here for some retro Japanese craziness!


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I liked

this.


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Meh.

Back in primary school, filing was a BIG thing. Bigger than actually having brains. You could have intelligent conversation with a teacher one moment and thrown out of class the next, for having an "incomplete" file. Meanwhile, vapid classmates who wouldn't know shit if it flew in their faces would be fucking over the moon with glory hallelujah in their heads about getting a gold star sticker for their fantastic filing abilities. I hated that primary school. HATE.

What was it I wanted to get at when I started this post?

Oh yes. Multi-purpose. Back in primary school each student had to have a "multi-purpose" file for everything that couldn't be filed anywhere else. And now I AM the multi-purpose file. Anything and everything that doesn't fall neatly into anyone's portfolio always ends up on my desk instead. But suddenly I'm not so pissed off by that anymore and now I want to rant about how

KIDS FROM PRIMARY SCHOOL KEEP POPPING UP ALL OVER THE GODDAMN PLACE.

Seriously. It's like being on loop. I keep seeing the same faces, just older each time. Nothing's changed. Even if it's not the same face, it's the same type of person. A week ago an ex-classmate from primary school popped out of nowhere to apply for a job in my division. If he's accepted he will be my colleague. People keep telling me that they know so-and-so and oh-do-you-know-her-too and wow-it's-such-a-small-world and hey-we-should-have-lunch-sometime. (This is going to sound almost pathologically anti-social but...) NO WE SHOULDN'T. Not that I dislike you. Nor that I don't want to get to know you. More like I can't fucking believe it why can't I meet someone completely new and different for a change and I'm afraid this will show on my face or in my actions if I do have lunch with you so it's probably really not such a great idea.

And this is probably why I'm so attracted to people with issues. I love people with issues. Or rather, I love the fact that they have issues. I could breathe, eat, sleep, live issues. Meaty, multi-faceted, malleable issues. Parental issues are probably the best, because it means that the mind has been messed with for the entire lifespan of the issue-bearer. Trying to understand and deal with someone's issues is far more interesting than a conversation on which restaurant serves the best duck confit (sorry, I meant confit du canard...).

I tell you what though, it's bloody difficult finding someone with a good depth and breadth of issues in this country though. Everytime I think I've found one, I realise that he/she is just channelling stuff he/she watched in the movies or on Oprah or read from some book by Paulo Coelho or something. (I've never read Paulo Coelho and I don't think I ever will, ever since some broad in uni tried to have an intellectual discussion with me over whether or not the egg was a living thing that could exist independently of the rest of the world and hence isn't Coelho wrong in his book? I think oxygen transfers to the shell and is used by the embryo. Are you sure? Pretty much. Oh I guess he's right after all... Now everytime I see a Coelho I think about that conversation, shudder, and look away.)

Ugh. Time to go to the gym. Might find some issues there.


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Green-blooded.

For yonks I've been telling people to avoid consuming Chinese goods, particularly food products, but it's only been in the last year that people have started taking me seriously due to the deluge of mainstream news articles over health and safety hazards that have accompanied various Chinese exports. Now I'm telling you that it's seriously not a good idea to live/work/play anywhere close to the petrochemicals industry, i.e. if you're in The Pore then stay as far east as possible. And it looks like CSI's Grissom agrees with me:

(Grissom to Dr. Robbins) "You know atmospheric sulfur levels are on the rise? [In] a hundred years we will all be look[ing] like spinach."

Yes. There is actually a rare medical condition called sulfhaemoglobinaemia, where sulphur is incorporated into the oxygen-carrying compound haemoglobin in red blood cells, which can turn blood a dark green colour. And it's happened before.

The shipping industry has been a key user of sour (i.e. containing high levels of hydrogen sulfide) crude oil - the main source of bunker fuel - and much of the sulphur oxide created during the combustion of a ship's fuel is emitted all over the world along shipping routes. But now various politicians desperate for popular platforms are provoking regulatory changes that will force ships to use bunker fuels with much lower sulphur content.

So where's all that sulphur naturally lurking in crude oil gonna go? It's just a matter of time before all ships will have to use "cleaner" bunker fuel which has had most of its sulphur content removed in refineries. Which probably means that the level of sulphur oxides emitted by refineries will rise rather significantly. You see, nobody wants to use fuels with high sulphur levels because it damages engines and machines. The "invisible hand" has, over the past century, directed the use of high sulphur crude oil towards a use that minimises its cost to society. And now we're about to undo all its work.

The only way to reduce atmospheric sulphur levels is to reduce aggregate global consumption. That means, inter alia, no more bananas for you. Failing that, would you rather have unhealthy levels of sulphur in your body or randomly dispersed the world over? It seems that the latter would be the lesser of two evils.

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I thought I'd post a stunning pic of hammerhead sharks in the sea around the Galapagos Islands because that's where I intend to celebrate my release from indenture in 2011:

US$10

So two weeks ago I was PMT-ing pretty badly and paying some Indian astrologer over the internet to tell me when I'd get married. I've finally received the report - a week after it was supposed to have arrived - not a good omen, on hindsight. Here're the key snippets from the report, for your reading pleasure:

The good news...

"denotes love marriage for the native which would be happy ... indicates approval from parents as well" (that's nice)

"assures a happy married life for the native"

...and then the bad news (in ascending order)...

"rules out the immediate realization of your query"

"points to certain delays and hindrances for your marriage" (hmm...)

"also some cause for concern" (okay...)

"a delay of one to two years for your marriage" (getting hitched at 28 ain't too bad)

(and again) "indicates a delay of a year or so for you to settle down in marriage"

"indicates that marriage is influenced by relations (eh??) and comes through correspondence or advertisement" (really can't imagine that)

"It also indicates difficulty in choosing a partner" (didn't have to pay to know that)

"usually delays marriage till around the late 70's." (late 2070s? or when I'm in my late 70s? either way, NOT GOOD)

Oh well, what the hell. At least now I know and never have to worry about it. And I can go off and pursue all sorts of activities that would be "irresponsible" if I were a married person. Like being unemployed or engaging in extreme sports such as doing water jumps out of a plane. Bright side of things people!

Henri

Brilliant video of a cat experiencing an existential crisis.

And here's the auteur, who also pens brilliant cat haikus.

BIZARRO!

It's been weird today. I spent the first half of my day looking at charts, mulling over colourful lines and pontificating over rocks; being scandalised by the internecine squabbles of the nation's distinguished legal counsels, and rolling eyes over the military's paralysis provoked by the lack of clear and written instruction. My mission was simple - do not commit to anything we can't commit to. To display grit and backbone in the face of adversity by hiding in the lee of bigger ships when enemy cannons are afiring. Easy peasy.

Not that I care anymore, or have at all. Peace and brotherhood and respect for the common heritage of mankind, are more my kind of style.

Sped through lunch to make it to the next big meeting of questionable worth - a "dialogue" session with the King of the Ivory Towers, who wanted to better understand why we're finding it difficult to swallow all that's being rammed down our throats. There are many ways to make it easier - liquid form vs capsules (pound it to a fine powder if it's a tablet and stir it into food or water), honey-coated or administered with a spoonful of sugar, tilt your head back close your eyes and shove it in as far as possible, and if all that fails maybe we can try the intravenous route. But nobody's really explained why we're doing all this beyond a few motherhood statements that assume none of us have been to university.

Bah. I don't care. I do what I do (mostly) because I believe it's right and that's how I fall asleep at night. I'm just working each day to get closer to my next holiday - this time it'll be topping up my tan on the white sands and diving in the crystal clear waters of Redang! I love it when you're jealous. Of me. =)

Bernoulli's Principle states:

The pressure in a fluid decreases as the speed of the fluid increases.

The Principle accounts for the fact that passing ships run the risk of a sideways collision. Water flowing between the ships travels faster than the water flowing past the outer sides, so the streamlines are more compressed. Water pressure is reduced between the ships. Unless the ships are steered to compensate for this, the greater pressure on the outer sides of the ships then forces them together.

More here.

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I rather wish I had pursued a technical proficiency at university, instead of a catchall degree in economics. Not to say that being a generalist is strictly less desirable than being a specialist. But I reckon there's a stronger sense of satisfaction from the work done as the latter. There must be a delicious power in possessing an esoteric knowledge that necessarily shapes pivotal decisions by virtue of the fact that, like it or not, we're all subject to the laws of physics.

Via con dios.

My heart skipped a bit when I saw the headline that a local group will shoot Point Break 2 in SE Asia. The article reports that the sequel will be financed and executive produced by a Pore-based production company - and that a certain Pore regulatory authority would also finance the film.

Now, Point Break was a movie that espoused the philosophy of a human spirit which cannot exist within the structural and psychological rigidities of prevailing social systems - a concept anathema to the Pore. I dread to see how the nexus would be drawn between PB2 and the Pore's own cold and soulless objectives. Already it has been suggested that part of the movie would be shot in the Pore, to show the - get ready for it - vibrant landscape of SE Asia. Somebody's gotta justify the financing hey.

Filming starts in mid-2008 and it looks like we won't be seeing Johnny Utah again, although some sites have suggested that Bodhi will be making a comeback. I'll try to reserve any strong feelings until I've seen the movie.

Brah!

(dénouement)

Gone as quickly as it came. Madness, I tell you (the cat is awake and out and about).

Drama Mama.

(My, what a busy day it's been for my blog.)

I got tired of the office early and left work at 6.30pm today, skipped the gym and headed for home hoping for some productive time to get some work done. As is my usual practice before 10pm, I give my parents a call to find out if they could give me a ride home from the train station (I live about 30 - 40 min away from it). They're both retired and had agreed to this sort of arrangement when I suggested that I might move out to somewhere closer to work and further from the-middle-of-nowhere. But good Asian girls aren't supposed to move out until they're married (and rental prices here are sky high).

I hadn't the slightest inkling of the histrionics that would ensue.

That didn't last long though as my dad decided to tell me unequivocally the moment I got into his car never ever to ask for ride home between 7pm and 8pm because that's when he's praying and stuff. Alright, so I overlooked that, but instead of getting all worked up about it just TELL me over the phone and I'll catch a cab home instead. It's not like that's never happened before and I never kicked up a fuss when it did. I'm quite happy to take cabs and I only ask for a ride because (i) it's cheaper and (ii) my parents are constantly telling me off for spending too much.

But of course I didn't say any of that as it would only provoke more ire and leave me stranded at the side of the road. So silence hung over us like an evil miasma all the way home.

Home was where the real drama happened. One look at my mother's face and I knew that she'd had an argument with my dad before he left the house. And that she wasn't about to let it end at that.

The words tumbled out of her like a derailed train off its tracks, exploding into huge balls of flame as it rushed its target. My dad would not stand down, coolly delivering his deliberately pointed salvos like jet-powered fighters with a single-minded focus. My mother grasped at her hair in despair, as she called the wrath of God upon my dad.

I fed the cat and quietly retired to my room.

I could hear my mother coming up the stairs spewing forth vitriol all the way to her bedroom. After a few moments of wondering if my closed door would be perceived as another slight to her being, I decided to leave it open instead. Not long after my mother appeared in my doorway, wailing and clutching at her abdomen complaining of a sharp unbearable pain deep inside. I head to the kitchen, past the trenches that my dad has quickly dug up for himself, to get some warm water and lots of painkillers for my mother.

I fed the cat again (what a porker) and went back upstairs.

My mother is sat cross-legged on the floor, clutching at her stomach, complaining of the pain she couldn't take anymore, swaying back and forth, asking whoever would listen how my dad could have said such things to her and how would she ever be able to forget those words. I ask her to get off the floor and lie down on the bed, the pain is from the stress and if she relaxed it would get better. Look here I have some warm water and painkillers and all you have to do is take a couple and you'll fall asleep and forget everything and tomorrow everything will be ok again.

My mother says she needs a shower so she goes to her bathroom and I stand around with a mug of warm water and painkillers in my hands. My cat starts to wail for me and I head past the trenches again (where my dad is watching the football) to pick the fat critter up and bring him upstairs to my room away from all the madness.

My mother is out of the bathroom and sat on her bed looking lost and rueing the day she married my dad and oh the pain it's deep inside where does it come from I can't take it. I coax her into taking some painkillers and she does. I switch the ceiling fan on for her and she tells me to switch it off because she's cold. She complains that she's warm so I switch it back on again. She switches on the air-conditioning and I switch the fan back off again. I tell her to lie down and sleep it will take the pain away and she doesn't listen. I ask her if she wants more water and she says no. I take the pills and leave her room, closing the door behind me. I'm in my room now (the cat is cleaning himself).

How did I end up so emotionless?

I felt so awkward dealing with my mother and was more comfortable in the icy silence of my dad's fortress. I was almost tempted to roll my eyes on several occasions during my mother's dramatic displays of pain and distress and victimisation.

I mean, each argument had a point. My dad said that my mother has no right of accusing him of treating her like a slave, and I can't argue with that. My mother has been financially supported by my dad since they got married, my dad has always helped out around the house, the kids cleaned up after themselves most of the time. Of course my dad really shouldn't have gone that step further by then accusing my mother of being lazy and doing nothing at all, when that's clearly not true. (My mother retorted that she'd been working hard taking care of my dad's products - that would be me and my brothers - and that she'd only quit her job because he told her too, blah blah blah.)

And all they had to do was tell me to take a cab instead (the cat is asleep now).

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I'm never having kids. Or getting married. All this madness might be hereditary, you never know.

Guffing in Cars.

You've probably been through this before. You go out for lunch with colleagues, have a good meal and make convivial conversation. Before long, it's time to get back to the office and the bunch of you pile into one car. There's small talk - there's always a pressing need for some sort of conversation to take place when a group of people get in the same vehicle, even if there's really nothing to be said. Usually someone makes a reference to that universal post-lunch stupor, jokes about shutting the office door to kip for a bit. We're all secretly thankful for this as it gives everyone in the car an excuse for not participating in the conversation thereafter.

And then it happens. At first you think it's just a figment of your imagination. You look out the car windows, maybe you've driven past a dump or swamp or really large outdoor toilet. But then it becomes clear that someone in the car has let out a secret stinker, you just don't know who. You try to look around for a guilty face without making it look like you've noticed - you don't want the culprit to feel too bad about himself, and you certainly don't want others to think it's you. You start to get really conscious of your movements, your facial expressions. You become wary that anything you do might be misinterpreted as guilt.

You start to wonder if it's appropriate to break the almost respectful silence by cracking a joke about what just happened. But then you hold yourself back: surely that would seem too defensive and might inadvertently cast suspicion upon yourself. You take into account the fact that the people with you are colleagues - you wouldn't want to offend someone you have to work with. You feel downright uncomfortable and the thought of making eye contact with anyone in the car becomes unbearable.

While your mind races thinking about the appropriate reaction to the situation, you realise the malodourous veil has disappeared (or perhaps you've just gotten used to it). The rigor mortis that had seized your body quickly fades away. You furtively take a long, deep breath to clear your mind and the black spots that were beginning to cloud your vision from all that shallow breathing. You begin to relax and shyly turn to the person next to you.

"You got any meetings on this afternoon?"