On Crisis

So there I was, walking in the general direction of the canteen, promising to treat myself to a nice refreshing cup of tea, which I would doubtless have to order from the man at the drinks stall by shouting "TEH!" right in his ear. It had been a rather hectic day, so I was understandably looking forward to a much-needed pick-me-up.

All of a sudden, there was this huge explosion. Thanks to my robust army training, I slipped into emergency mode, nay, battle emergency mode, and thought, Oh god, one of the gas canisters has exploded. Some idiot must have poked it with one of those rock-hard noodles the mee pok man sells. Whereupon I took off forthwith towards the cafeteria, expecting the worst, but also knowing that I could help all the people in need, so that they wouldn't all die, and I would get commended by the principal.

As I ran willy-nilly towards the stalls, I could see a like-minded vendor running in the same direction; my first impression was that I never knew vendors could be so civic minded, but then I realised it was only the mee pok man trying to ensure his rock-hard noodles didn't become burnt rock-hard noodles.

I was fully expecting a disaster area, but as I stood in the middle of the canteen I saw nothing amiss, and was beginning to feel rather foolish. Then I saw this boy in Physical Education attire walking towards me, with a rather distressed look on his face, clutching his crotch in one hand. Oh god, thought I.

"Hey you, what's the matter?" I called out to him. With a rather mournful expression, he said, "My ball's exploded!"

I cannot deny I was shocked, but maintained the presence of mind to look around for the blood splatters, as I knew it would disturb some of the other teachers. Odd, I couldn't see anything. It was only upon looking back at the boy that I realised he held in his other hand, a ruptured volleyball skin.

I had two cups of tea that day, gulping them down in quick succession, where I usually only take one, and sip it genteely.

A pity Latin went out of style rather than chinese, then I wouldn't be stuck learning a bunch of symbols that I'll drop like whatever it is you drop in a real hurry. I mean, honestly. Who on earth could derive pleasure in memorising words that share the same pronunciations and yet are written differently. All those bloody mandarins with too much time on their hands, in between concubines. Not literally of course.

You'd think sooner or later someone has to have realised they really didn't need a word, two words, four words, a phrase and an adage to sum up some kind of behaviour or action....but no, that's ancient chinese wisdom for you. They invented wonderful little earthquake detectors, made paper, manufactured fireworks, and in their spare time just decided to completely massacre their language.

And another thing, in between all those emperors, what with thousands dying in some inane wall that stretches all the way to the other side of China for no good reason, going off and having a rebellion or two every few centuries, that they could be just a tad more humanitarian, and not have so many damned babies. So of course, with so many mouths to feed, what do they do? They consider that everything that has its back to the sun a delicacy. Which is why you have Tiger Whip tonic, salamander souffle, blue whale bisque, tortoise tiramisu and all other manner of Chinese intricacies. This is of course, the culture we are so fervently encouraged to embrace.

That the chinese were once a great civilisation cannot be disputed, but they've sort of fallen off the terrestial stage and out of the celestial limelight. Of course, being the tenacious chinese that they are, they don't have the good manners to stay there, and hence we see a resurgence of chinese power. So we have the old Chairman dancing around like a magnificent poof, in various shades of green that make him look rather like a gangrenous egg, shooting holes in all the students and spawning a whole line of communist babies. Which is why couples that have recently conceived give out red eggs, they own communist chickens. So which came first, the communist chicken or the communist egg? Well, that's pretty obvious, all you have to do is look at Chairman Mao for your answer.

So evidently, someone thought it would be a colossal joke to come here and set up communist shop, which just happened to be along Bukit Timah road, ask for the communist farm, you can't miss it. You'll recognise all the communist cows, they're sort of speckled, white on top and brown below. If you're lucky, you'll see the SCC's, or super communist cows, they're the ones that don't speak english...and are fondly referred to as PRC's. Or pricks, depending on how you pronounce it. When you do stop by, look around for the communist farmer, he's kind of like Old McDonald, except he's missing some hair, and to the best of my belief does not speak english. Well, not intelligibly anyway. In any case, he's less a communist egg than a communist phallus, which is totally in keeping with the communist phallic symbol the farm so proudly erects as a symbol of prosperity and excellence and dynamism and oh yes, let's not forget..communism. You'll see the founder of the farm too, he's the dark one that stands on a hill...he doesn't talk very much. The farm is quite extensive, and employs many cattle ranchers too. If you're lucky you'll see some by the grazing field, armed with little whistles that are really cattle prods, and also that inhuman stupidity. If you're exceptionally lucky, you'll see the communist cows perform a complex mating ritual, that involves shedding their outer dermis layer and donning traditional yellow and red mating apparel, a lot of sweating, shouting and a convoluted set of movements that masquerades as a physical exercise also known as "whole red river". You will find that the cows are separated into little communist bunches called cowsortia and further herded into little pens of groups averaging about thirty. Closer inspection reveals the cattle are instructed in several subversive subjects by communist farmhands. All in all, you will find that it is a world class farm, with world class cows, world class facilities (see the meat grinder in the corner) and best of all, world class farm management. A veritable world class communist superfarm.

So once again, I fail to see why the Chinese need eight different ways of saying the same thing simply because it's prosperous, and I fail to see why I need to learn something I will eagerly forget, rather like a bad dream, and I fail to see why I need to get in touch with roots I am currently pruning. Oh, did I mention? I don't like Chinese very much.

I just went to Mount Elizabeth today. Brings back fond memories. I used to go there very often for asthma treatments. Good times.

Turns out my grand uncle suffered a minor stroke, and needed hospitalisation. Block B, Deluxe suites, no less. So, going to visit him today, it sort of dawned on me that I'd look something like that in about sixty years or so. In the midst of the visit, my grand aunt asked my father how his mother was. Thing was, my paternal grandmother passed away last year. I didn't think it was quite right, having a little talk about death in that sanitised hospital room, but no one seemed to mind.

My grand aunt is diabetic, so I think she was slightly consternated to discover my grandmother was similarly afflicted as well. Of course it didn't help that my grandmother had suffered a stroke years ago either. Apparently her heart gave out, so there was very little pain involved. The general consensus was that she realised her time had come, as she requested for somehing very sweet for dinner. After dinner she said the meal wasn't sweet enough. That night she said she wasn't feeling well, so my uncle suggested a trip to the hospital, which she acquisced to. This was surprising as she usually vehemently refused medical attention. That night my grandmother asked all her children who accompanied her to go out and have dinner, as she was fine. The doctors seemed to agree, so all my aunts and uncles went for dinner. Upon arriving back home, they received a call from the hospital asking them to come back.

The nurse said my grandmother complained of difficulties, so she went to get a blood pressure machine, and when she returned my grandmother had gone. Everyone was very sad, all the daughters and daughters-in-law were crying, and I did get a stab of pain when I saw her lying in the coffin. It was very sombre, and I do wish I was closer to her. Unfortunately most of the time I spent with her was when I was too young to remember it.

But there we were in that ward, and I have no doubt that death flashed through everyone's minds. You'd think I'd be immune from that, being young as I am, but death is an irresistable force. So there I was, looking at my grand uncle, imagining that I'd be the one lying there in some not too distant future, and thinking about how I would die. I know it's a little early, but forseeing the end of your life is never premature. I wouldn't like too suffer too much, I should think.

I haven't been through too many deaths in my life, but I suppose it's because I'm still young. In a few years or so I'll probably be singing a different tune.

I find that one of the most useful things of going to watch a movie with low expectations in hand is that you rarely ever get disappointed. Tomb Raider has proven the veracity of that theory. After the first scene I correctly treated it as another brainless action flick.

I think Lara Croft brings a whole new meaning to the word "monosyllabic". Throughout the entire robot sequence she was captivating the audience with "uh"s and sighs. The dialogue was unequivocally bad, and the movie sports one of the worst endings I have had the misfortune of laying eyes upon. The flaws in the movie gape so wide I could lose a bloody temple in them, and speaking of which, that last one sported nuts and bolts, not too shabby for a million-year-old temple. It may be just me, but I find blase save the world type heroes incredibly annoying.

Which is not to say Tomb Raider is without it's little perks. Like so many recent movies, it's visually impressive, but I was more enamoured with the beautiful backdrops. God, I love her house, and that museum in Venice where the Illuminati gather. I thought the bungee ballet sequence was more graceful than most people give it credit for. All part of having a lovely house, I suppose.

You'd think she was called Tomb Raider because she raided tombs.

As I recall I wrote a poem about the romanticism of life, or lack thereof, a little while ago. It was rather ham-handed, I hadn't been writing for a while.

Basically I was lamenting the current un-romanticism of life. No one really does anything interesting anymore, no one goes questing, no lavish ballroom parties, no exciting expeditions to temples, no nothing. No philosophising, no inventing, no mysticism, nadda. Everyone's just wrapped up in their busy little lives making money. Not to say that making money isn't good, it's necessary, it's just that every once in a while, people should be able to do something other than counting notes.

How long has it been since we've had a Count de Saint Germaine? As we go along, our society loses mystery, loses things that make life interesting. It would be so nice, once in a while, to read in the paper, "Oh there goes another knight in shining armour, snuffed by that nasty dragon". I suppose that's why fantasy of almost any kind appeals to me so much. We've become too pragmatic, that it's become the norm, and any deviance from that distinction becomes a stigma.

It's not necessarily true that technology has quashed intrigue and adventurousness, after all, who said we can't hunt the Loch Ness monster with SONAR? Or that we couldn't search for Yetis with a GPS system? People's outlooks have changed, it's hard to appeal to their sense of wonder anymore. "Oh look Copperfield's flying. I wonder where the wires are". Technology could easily coexist with mystery, it's all up to people's minds.

Do we live earlier than we should? Do we live a less fulfilling life than we should? Everything has its price. The price we pay for stability and being safe and cozy in our little cottages is control. Singapore's not about to let kids get drunk every twelve hours, nor is the government particularly keen on having illegitimate children pop out like termites from the woodwork. So we're stunted, metaphorically. Thomas Malthus theory, if you will. You're free to wonder why your life is so suppressed and question what your idealogies are as long as you don't blow up a building in the process.

I'm afraid I don't admire philosophers very much. What's the use of pondering the meaning of life when you're spening half of it pondering. You'll die before you ever come up with anything. I know I'm stereotyping, but I don't particularly care.

On a separate issue, has anyone heard the anthem for Beijing's 2008 bid? It's so bloody hilarious. They were showing on the chinese channel today. It's so ridiculously funny.

Everyone has moods. It's a way of life. It just becomes more pronounced at certain parts of your life. Certainly adolescence is one such example. It seems as if at this stage of your life you can't trust anything you feel because it might be simply another mood swing.

Up, down, up, down, moody, happy, grumpy, ecstatic...ride the swingset of your emotions. You feel high as you push off into the sky, then broody as your heart ascends to your mouth on the way down from the apex of your swing. This swingset is special because time does not work the same way. Time slows down and speeds up at certain points of the swing, but you never stop swinging.

Once you do, you stop feeling, or having emotions. Or alternatively you could have died, leaving an empty swing set swaying in the wind.

It has occured to me that my blog has been getting rather impersonal and detached. I'm sure all of you don't want to know what I did last Sunday, you'd much rather be scrutinising all the little thoughts I have floating around, wouldn't you.

Death really isn't so bad. I suppose it all depends on how you go. Doubtless dying of a heart attack is much different from dying a slow, agonising death as a cancer eats away at your marrow. The best death is of course the painless one, those where people quietly say, "He went in his sleep". Unfortunately Death can't be forced, he waits for you, and very rarely is it vice versa. Since death is inevitable, what remains is what we make of our lives now. Brevis ipsa vita est sed malis fit longior Our life is short but made longer by misfortune...I don't fully agree with that, by the way. It is true, though, that life is short, hence it's worth making something of it while you still can.

I have never really feared death, so to speak. I have always had rather lucid thoughts about dying at the the next instant, and then asking myself if I regretted anything. Well, there are a lot of things I haven't done, but I wouldn't regret. I suppose that makes me contented, satisfiable. But that sounds wrong, somehow. I just know that no matter what I get, achieve, I'll be ready to give it all up when I go. It's foolish to cling to life when you're at the door, so you might as well cling to it now, considering you'll have to relinquish it sooner or later. Which isn't to say I'm not going to make the most of this life. I am. I know pretty much what I want, and I plan on getting it. All it takes is a little time and planning. But I recognise the inescapable fact that one day, I will be run over by a truck, or a house will fall on me, or I'll get trapped in some quicksand, mauled by a rabid rabbit...you get the idea.

A pity in life, we tend to overlook the big things and pick on the small details. It really is too bad, the way we remember people for some small action, and conveniently forget about the significant things. I confess I myself am guilty of this too. As much as I hate seeming unfair and nitpicky, it seems to be human nature or emotion to cling tenaciously on to a particular view(s) of a person. Everyone hates stereotypes, but you can never quite be rid of them. I suppose it gives you something familiar to grasp, rather than having to reformulate an impression of a person every few days. So rather than think someone might be intelligent, it's easier to think that they're stupid with moments of inspiration. A pity really, if you think about it, when Beethoven died he could have been remembered as "the deaf guy".

Sometimes I really wonder if relentless introspection really makes us improve. It almost seems that we see what we want to see, or even if we see something that needs changing, we tell ourselves, "Well that's no good, I can't do that by myself". Or we see something, but deny its presence and pretend it's something else more manageable. I suppose death really is the ultimate mirror, when you realise you're really dying, you see yourself in a whole new light, before the darkness. Unfortunately by then your reflection is set and moulded, unchangeable. Unlike one of those imitation mirrors, if you wave your hand at death, I doubt your reflection would wave back, provided you've led the life that fulfills you.

So when Death looks you in the eye, and says, "Time to go then", will you look back at him, or will you kick and scream and make a fuss?

What is wrong with this bloody Blogger? I have to keep hitting "Publish" over and over again. Testing testing, is this thing on?

The more I think about it, the more it seems to me that life is a never-ending struggle. It seems like you can never truly be happy in this life. I think Buddha was quite correct in his surmise that there is no hell except this one on earth.

In a short while I will be going through some rough times. I just hope I'm well-equipped enough to go through it. When does one recognise one needs help? I know of people who would deny help no matter what kind of trouble they were in...let's just hope I won't be so stubborn.

A long time ago, I considered telling someone that no man was an island. I don't think I did, but it was a poignant memory nonetheless. And yet, how does a man avoid being an island if there's a great reef in the sea around him?

Go watch Shrek....it's really a fantastic movie. It's animated, which is even more incredible. I have not laughed so hard at a movie for a long time now. For those of you who are planning to stay away from the movie because you think it appeals to my weird sense of humour, don't. It's really really really good. The ending may have been slightly predictable but overall it was an extremely good movie. Dreamworks is going to massacre Disney with this film. I seemed to have been the only one in the cinema who got certain jokes, I suppose it just appealed to me...All right I'll stop waxing lyrical about the movie now, you're all staring at me in shock.

Why is it, that good movies choose the most inconvenient of times to appear on the scene? It is SO annoying. Tomb Raider, Evolution and all that, it's a bloody conspiracy I tell you.

You know, I would watch movies more often. Really, I would. Except there are several reasons why I don't. First of all, I suffer from demophobia. Fear of crowds. I'm serious, I really abhor walking among the thronging masses of this metropolis. I invariably get a headache whenever I go out. It's either the sun or the crowds, and it can't be the sun since I'm used to it. Second, it's sodding expensive. $8.50 a film is quite a lot to blow. If I went to watch a movie every fortnight, I'd spend...oh about $204 a year. Besides which, I waste a lot of time hanging around, before and after the movie. Thirdly, I'm just too damn lazy to drag myself down to Orchard Road.

Well, there you have it. I'm socially inept. I do fine on a prima facie basis, but somehow parading around on the street does not become me. Actually, now that I think about it, it's not so much I'm afraid of crowds, rather, I hate being caught in one. Oh, all right, so I am a snob =) Horace said it so beautifully in Carmina, "Odi Profanum Vulgus et Arceo". I loathe the uneducated masses and keep them away from me. I'm sure I would have done admirably as a Roman noble. Or any noble, for that matter. I'd just ride out and slaughter the peasantry whenever I felt like it.

There, are you happy now? A fairly decent legnthed blog.

Just made a post on an MSN message board practically incinerating every Christian on the board. In a short while someone should be replying and trying to antagonise me into an argument, as do all good Christians. Well, too bad for them.

Read something really fascinating the other day. The world's greatest linguist spoke 58 languages and dialects, and was the only man alive who could converse with every delegate in the League of Nations in their own language. Now that, is really impressive. I had promised myself yesterday that right now I would be doing an E math O Level paper, but as usual I lack the drive and self-control to follow through. Quite sad, really.

Once again I have close to nothing to say, so I shall just stop here till something monumental occurs.

Had a wonderful home-cooked western meal, steak and mashed potatoes and the works. Very nice...I wish we could have it more often.

The latest episode of The Practice was very nice, sad, happy, dramatic and touching in all the right bits. David E. Kelly really is a genius in what he does. Although his reusing old characters is nothing new, the way he does it is what's so brilliant. He fits them in seamlessly with the new storylines and exposes more of their profiles. He's probably making loads more money now than out of his law practice. It's good that The Practice continues to retain its appeal, rather than go downhill like Ally McBeal. I've never watched Chicago Hope, so I can't comment on that.

I can't believe I'm actually running out of things to put up for public inspection. Well, more's the pity.

Well, I've just finished watching The Mummy Returns. It occurs to me, that for such an important god in the pantheon, Anubis is a bit thick. I mean, his Dogs the Walk Like Men (DWLM) go down like the sandbags they are once you decapitate them. And why exactly, is he helping both megalomaniacs? Hmm...come to think of it I think he favours old Scopion King, what with removing Imhotep's powers and all.

For a mummy, Imhotep seems to be quite powerful. Other than being a telekinetic on a monstrous level, he seems to have perfected a new technique of skin grafting. The only Egyptian looking character was the pharoah, and he got stabbed in the back by that sultry Anck-su-Namun, then butchered by his...priest? Was that what Imhotep used to be?

I did watch this movie with rather low expectations, and in some ways the movie did fulfill them. I hate the blase way they go off to save the world. And isn't it such a coincidence that the father's chosen by God (I thought Egyptians had lots of gods), the mother's a reincarnated (twice) princess and the son's a Chosen One or something. I was slightly thrown when the mother was stabbed, before I realised that's where the Book of Death came in. It's not a bad movie for brainless entertainment, I suppose, the computer graphics did spice things up a bit.

Patricia whatshername isn't too bad, but Rachel Weisz looks pure British. Brendan Fraser looks empty, as usual, and the Rock looked like a perverted centaur. It seems all ancient pyramids, tombs and castles are made for cataclysmic self-destruction once the baddie is killed. Hey! I just realised something...unbelievably there was no mandatory sex scene! Hmm...that brings the writer up one notch in my book. It's so rare not to see one of those tedious scenes nowadays. Then again I suppose kissing a skin-and-bones mummy was bad enough, I doubt even Anck-su-Namun would have had the stomach for a romp around the mausoleum bedchamber with a corpse that was recently animated. Besides, he might have fallen apart.

How interesting, mosquito larvae can swivel their heads around 180 degrees, sort of like Linda Blair =) If you need to know, I'm watching a Discovery documentary about natural bloodsuckers. Ouch...the salt marsh mosquito has been known to exsanguinate cattle. The animal will simply go into shock from being drained of blood by tens of thousands of mosquitoes. What a creepy thought.

I was watching The Simpsons today, and it was a pretty nondescript episode, nothing ourageously hilarious, but near the end there was this incredibly funny parody of The Sound of Silence. It's called The Sound of Grampa, and I'm going to record it here because I want to remember it, and also because I thought it was so damn humourous...

Hello Grampa, my old friend,
Your busy day is at an end.
Your exploits have been sad and boring,
They tell a tale worth ignoring.
When you're alone, the words of your story will
Echo down the rest-home hall,
'Cause no one at all,
Can stand the sound
Of Grampa.

Then later, on Home Improvement, there was a boy who refused to stay for dinner, because "I can't masticate in front of strangers". To which Tim replies, "Who can?" I was laughing for almost a minute. And if you didn't get that, don't bother.

Hmmm...if biosurgery continues to be used, more and more people will be able to say that leeches saved a part of their body. You know, after a day's work, a surgeon could probably sit through any gory movie without batting an eyelid. In fact, I think the documentary on microsurgery I'm watching now is probably more stomach-turning than Hannibal. I don't think I'll ever be a surgeon. I don't mind the blood, it's the feel of the parts I don't particularly like. I've always had a nasty feeling whenever I felt rubber, you know those rubber snakes you can buy from the marketplace, I always detested touching the rubber material. I don't I'd like touching and squeezing spongy, rubbery material, and dismembered fingers and toes are quite like that, so no, I don't think I'll ever become a surgeon.

Well, I got my copy of The Exorcist today. The good news is it was the 25th anniversary addition (well actually they all are), and the even better news is that this was probably the best copy they had ie no scratches. I got The Silence of the Lambs too, so that was good.

Channel 5 has this rather interesting program every Friday, Beyond Belief. The ones that were true were quite nice, about an old man who somehow avenges the death of his son while being stuck in a wheelchair in a nursing home. The other one was about a man who gets helped out by the spirit of a dead toilet attendant. In between they intersplice it with episodes thought up by the series' writers.

Argh. I need to hurry with my revision. This is terrible.