All Aboard the Train of Bad Manners

Sometimes I wish I was Superman, able to fly anywhere I want to in a blink of an eye. Sometimes I wish that I had listened to my parents and got my driver’s license, instead of the crappy learner’s permit that I’m stuck with because I was too lazy to clock enough hours. And sometimes I wish I had a red-haired best-freckled-friend who had a flying car, or a friend who was a know-it-all female wizard (is that a witch, or is that offensive?) and could wave her wand at a car shouting “TOYOTA-LEVIOSA!!”

But until that happens, I think I’ll just take the train. Continue reading →

2012
08/25
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The Random Musings of an Attention-Seeking Author: 19 July 2012

 

I’ve been trying to reconnect with my old friends from across the seas (Australia), and I have to say, it is hard. What do you say when the fellow classmate you say hello to tells you that he got married to another one of your classmates? What do you say when a friend of yours from church informs you that a man you knew passed away? What do you say when your mate casually throws in there that a mutual acquaintance has a baby on the way?

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2012
07/19
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The Random Musings of an Attention-Seeking Author: 14 July 2012

So I’m sitting all by my lonesome at work, while everyone else has gone home.

I’m lazily twirling around in a chair, spouting nonsensical sound effects and exclamations as I dream of adventurous times…..and cake. I’m counting down the mere hours / minutes / seconds till my release and cannot wait until I can race out that door and into the loving arms of my iMac, wishing, wondering, longing for a moment of clarity to enter my head and grant me an epiphany. The best I came up with is, “Walnuts are not the male reproductive organs of walls.”

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2012
07/14
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The Random Musings of an Attention-Seeking Author: 30-06-12

Live! LLLIIIIIIVVVVEEE!!!!!

Just thought I would revive an oldie of mine, where I would chat inanely about my week, and at the same time, write down any random thought of mine that popped into my head. POP!

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2012
06/30
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A Time To Dream

I love to dream.

Sometimes I imagine myself standing on a mountain, no one next to me but a great sense of achievement. I have pride, not the bad kind when you’re arrogant, but the good kind like melted chocolate, that I have climbed the highest peak, the tallest hill, and that I’m currently perched on the king of the mountains spying the world in front of me. I am seeing the bustle of the cities, one with them and yet apart from them, over everything with the sense of achievement, that I have accomplished a feat that will be shouted from the rooftops, whispered in the halls, and spookily repeated over campfires to young little scouts out on their first expedition.

It is possible, you know. It is possible to achieve your dreams. Possible to climb that mountain, possible to get that driver’s license, possible to write that story. There’s a story idea that has been kicking around in my mind like a loose pebble for months now, and for quite a while I have desired to type it out and lay it on an unsuspecting public like bird poop from the heavens, only nicer, more interesting, and less of a mess to clean from your cardigan. I could say that I haven’t done so because I am still in the army, where my effort is spent in defending Singapore from threats physical, psychological and possibly mythological as well (if Cthulhu appears, we shall fight!).

The truth is I have been fighting the great double-headed dragon, apathy and distraction. And by frozen peanuts, I think they are winning.

But I have a secret weapon. And I think that monster ain’t gonna like it.

Yes. This blog is back.

“Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we boast in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.”

Romans 5:1-5 (NIV)

Picture taken from http://jedihawk.net. Used without permission. Tell me if you want it taken down, owner.

2012
06/21
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Respect Your Elders, You Young Whippersnappers!

Salutations, as the spider Charlotte said to the pig Wilbur. How is the general disinterested community today?

The reason why I’m updating is because of an unusual event that occurred a few days ago. No, not the floods, or even my eighteenth birthday – which I spent running around the entire length of the Singapore CBD. No, this is something that is so mind-blowing that it is even more contentious than the whole Team Edward vs. Team Jacob debate. The subject is the elderly.

You know, those shuffling, grumpy old people whose hair is slowly giving up the fight to stay on their heads. The bunch of wrinkly folk who either prefers to spend their time snoozing in a rocking chair or running after/over kids with their motorized death-traps of doom.

Or killing monsters with glowing staffs. That’s just another of their daily activities, after shuffleboard.

But to move on to a slightly less ludicrous stereotype, those who are 60 and over (including those who LOOK 60 and over) tend to populate any place you can see, and just like the different countries, them old folk have differing cultures. Since I have been blessed to live in both Australia and Singapore, I am qualified to pretend to know what I’m talking about.

The Australian old folk are nothing like those frail, dying old men you see on TV. In fact, they probably put that man in the hospital. Those guys keep fit and active through a healthy lifestyle of bowls, speed-walking, and chasing their daughter / granddaughter’s potential suitors away with a shotgun or a well-placed cauldron of hot oil. Heck, in Western countries, the grandparents may even be getting more suitors than their grandkids. In Singapore, it’s almost the opposite. With the lack of space to swing a cat, the pollution so thick that you could feel it, and the fact that most Singaporean older folk prefer to either stay in and watch Cantonese dramas or stay in and gamble, those people can spend ten years in a comfortable rocking chair being sustained on ancient Chinese kung fu serials alone.

Though to be frank, any diseases in your body would probably die when they see IP Man.

However, one thing is for certain: The older generation has lived longer than all of us hip Gen Y folk. They have centuries of combined wisdom between them on a range of subjects life, marriage, schooling, and gambling. At least, the last was more for the Asian community. The Australians probably teach their kids to hunt koalas or ride kangaroos or something. But altogether, most of us obey and honour our parents, whether it’s because of love and deep familial bonds, whether it’s because of a biblical imperative (Exodus 20:12, NIV), or whether it’s simply because they’re giving us our allowance. The question is, do we, as a younger generation, have to obey the orders given by strangers of the older generation?

Of course, for purposes of this discussion, I of course mean legitimate orders given by a member of the older generation (middle age and over) to one of the younger (say, 20 and younger) in the course of everyday life. This does not include illegal requests or orders, or even requests. If someone orders you to do something and you have to biological or emotional prerogative to do so, would you do it?

I, as a partially-Singapore education teenager, have been brought up in a culture that demands courteous respect to our elders (i.e. anyone older than us), because that is our tradition. Family is one of the most important things in Singapore, and tradition states that we must defer to all elders, even strangers. While that all seems sunny and green, it does have a dark side – though I have no time to go through that at the moment. If you would like to do some further reading, have a look at Neil Humphrey’s Notes from an Even Smaller Island.

But why wouldn’t you want to live in a system that respects your elders? You might ask, and I’m sure that many of my older relatives would in a furious tone of voice. In response, may I just tell you a story? Note that all this is true, and it really did happen to me.

I was riding on the bus a while ago in Singapore. As with most public transport anywhere in the world, it was quite full, but thankfully not packed like a can of sardines. Or like the morning trains I used to take to work, where it was so full that the doors would close less than two inches from my face in an Indiana Jones-esque fashion. But I digress. The Singapore buses were shaped in such a way that there were two doors and two distinct ‘parts’ to a bus. The back had the normal rows of seats filled with rubbish and sticky substances and a narrow aisle, while the front had seats facing sideways, and on the other side was a space for people to stand / a wheelchair / some young goats and a goatherd named Peter. If anyone gets the reference, I owe you a candy bar.

On that fateful day, I was standing in that space and attempting to simultaneously peer out of the window to observe Singaporeans in their natural habitat and keep away from direct sunlight lest I either burn, get skin cancer, or sparkle and be cursed to act in a sappy teenage vampire romance movie. On the seats facing sideways (and me), there was an elderly gentlemen in his, I would estimate, late 50s, and his wife sitting comfortably. Between us were about four very young school children, say about 9-11 years old, still in their school uniforms. They were all from the same school, and were situated around the front entrance and between me and the old folk, and then a gap between them and the steps to the back section.

Now that the Agatha Christie novel-style description (long and draggy) is over, here’s where things get interesting. All of a sudden, and breaking my thoughts on whether the first bulldog was actually a crossbred between a bull and a dog, the old man suddenly spoke up, snapping at one of the kids who was standing in the aisle.

“Hey, you! Boy! Which school are you from?!?!?”

The little boy, in confusion, did an  ‘Are you talking to me?’ gesture, before answering the man.

The man grunted in satisfaction, before continuing: “Don’t block the aisles! Don’t block the entrance! Go move to the back [of the bus]!!”

Now, it may seem like a normal request (the snappish way of speaking notwithstanding), save for two things:

  1. The man had no authority to tell them to move on. He was not a bus conductor or driver, nor their father / teacher / cruel overlord. He had nothing but the casual requests of a bystander or fellow passenger.
  2. Even if the man had had the authority, the bus was currently in motion and not stopped. If someone was being blocked by the kids, the order would be perfectly justifiable. Thing was, no one was moving around on the aisles, nor was anyone trying to enter. The man had no reason to order them to move.

However, the man either didn’t know / didn’t care about the two things. Despite the confused ‘WTH‘ expression on the little kid’s face, he repeated his demands. But he didn’t stop there. Oh no. Ordering a little kid around wasn’t enough.

The man glanced to the side and, observing more of the little tyke’s friends clustered near the entrance, decided that he could embarrass all of them at the same time. He turned back to the young schoolboy and said:

“Go. Go tell your friends to move away. Go!”

If I was the kid, I would have hit the old man, or treated him to my best death glare. Or, at the very least, said no. Credit to the little boy, though, he was nothing if obedient. Trading freedom of individual thoughts for the, albeit unwilling, deference to the old man, he trudged back up the bus to the front and tapped one of the kids on the shoulder.

“Hey,” the boy whispered to her. “We have to move. That man told us to.”

The girl gave him the same dumbfounded look that he showed earlier (maybe it’s catching), and with a look at the old man, told the boy, “You go move!”

Ah, childish insults. Or insults of a child. Potato, Po-tah-to.

In the end, the boy and girl did move to the back, the old man sunk back to his seat with an arrogant smirk, and my face now carried the dumbfounded look. Because, I truly was shocked.

Personally, I feel that the old man overstepped his boundaries. By snapping at the children, ordering them around when he had no authority to, or when he had no need to. He had no reason to make them do what he wanted. Either way, he should have asked them politely, and not barked orders like a drill sergeant. Kudos to the children for obeying and choosing not to make a scene. But in a system that promotes respect of elders, what the man did fell far short of the mark. This was not respect. This is an abuse of authority.

Thankfully, not everyone is like this. Here’s hoping that that old man, and everyone else who is like that, realises that respect is a privilege, not a right. Ironically, I learnt that one from my elders.

But perhaps you feel differently. If so, I would love to hear your thoughts upon the subject and the story – post a comment and tell me what you think!

2011
03/18
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There’s Something in the Water

Hey.

How you all doing?

I’ve been a little preoccupied lately with a certain event that has been dominating my mind over the past few days, and it truly is one of epic proportions. People have been, and will continue to be affected by it.

What am I talking about?

My 18th Birthday.

Oh yes, the big ‘One-Eight’. The day where a young boy becomes a young man. The day that usually includes copious amounts of alcohol and/or gambling, and perhaps a celebratory smoke on a cigarette or a cigar. The day that you and your rambunctious friends might decide to spend in a bar getting intoxicated on beer, or maybe a foray into the dancing scene in a nightclub with a hundred other jam-packed bodies swaying and moshing to “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas. The day that, in the case of my brother, resulted in a late night ambush by his friends, attacking him with eggs, flour, and spoilt milk in a lighthearted way of showing affection.

And I would be soon be eighteen.

I’ve heard many stories about being eighteen – now that you become 18, you’re legally entitled to do whatever you want. You can drink, you can drive (not after the first, though), you can gamble, you can enter nightclubs, and you can play paintball or airsoft without a protective vest.

Rambo was so tough, he played paintball without a protective vest AND used real bullets.

I’ve been so excited over this monumentous event that I even compiled a list of presents that I wanted my family, friends, well-wishes and random hobos from Hoboken to give to me. Among others, they include:

  1. My pick of Apple products. Because only Apple makes them cool.
  2. The new Justin Bieber CD. For mad stompin’ on fun!
  3. A pet iguana. Because how many people do you know can honestly say that they have a pet iguana?
  4. Platters of meat products.
  5. Lotion. Or various lotions. That’s why my skin stays so soft.
  6. A whacking stick. For all my whacking needs.
  7. Cigars…and a pussycat. They go in great with my supervillian costume I’ve been dying to try.
  8. An ‘I’m with Stupid’ T-Shirt. For emergencies, in case I ever run into Justin Bieber.
  9. The entire Star Wars collection. Never seen it, would like to. But someone already spoilt it for me – Darth Vader? Really Luke’s father.
  10. A jetski. Do I even need to explain?

The list goes on, but you get the idea.

A few days ago, my mind was rudely jolted out of its party-anticipating stupor by horrific news: Australia had been hit by flash floods of near-biblical proportions. Most of Brisbane, Gatton, Withcott, Toowoomba (west of Brisbane), and other Queensland towns had been devastated, and most of the area was literally under water. At last count, there were fifteen dead and many more missing.

What really brought it home to me is that I used to stay in Toowoomba. I had called the sleepy town home till two years ago, when I moved to Brisbane for university. I went to school there for 9 years, attended a church in the CBD for the same amount of time, hung out with friends at one of the three big shopping centres there. I knew many of the nooks and crannies, the side streets that crisscrossed the small houses, heck, the people that used to stay in those houses. Brisbane, or at least where I lived, was similar. I had only stayed there a year, but I was already familiar with the area around my house and the university. My family and I had made many friends, and I loved that place.

And but for the grace of God, who put me where I am now in Singapore, I would have been, literally, in the muddy soup.

Now, safe in Singapore, I shudder to think of the fear and turmoil that the residents of the affected areas must be going through. The evacuations, escaping the rising tides, or alternatively, sandbagging the house to protect the residents who have nowhere to go. Not only that, but they have to deal with the snakes and crocodiles who have taken it to wage a war on humanity. It’s enough to make many give up in sorrowful defeat.

And yet.

And yet.

And yet the flood waters did not reach the expected peaks, saving many lives and property. And yet the flood waters have already started to receed, allowing the residents in Toowoomba and other rural towns, at least, to start the cleanup. And yet aid in the form of volunteers and international aid have started to pour in to the affect areas. And yet many residents and churches and offered their houses as evactuation centres. And yet places that were affected were not totally destroyed, and are slowly starting to get back up on their feet.

And yet it could have been so much worse.

So, as the days pass, and the flooding continue, let us remember the ones who need our thoughts most – the flood victims of Queensland who are struggling to get back on their feet. Instead of buying that Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese, why not use get some McNuggets and send the money to the flood victims. Instead of throwing out that sweater that your mother-in-law made for you, why not donate it to the residents of Toowoomba. Instead of buying me the jetski, why not send it to the people who need it more than I do.

In the words of Queensland Premier Anna Bligh:

What we have here in Queensland tonight is a very grim and desperate situation. There are many Queenslanders tonight in critical and dire circumstances; emergency workers out facing risky situations and many people facing a very terrifying night. I think we can all say that our thoughts are with them over the coming hours and we pray and hope they’ll be safe when first light comes… [SOURCE]

I fully concur.

To donate to or volunteer for the Flood Relief, please visit http://myhillsong.com/ausfloods for more information.

2011
01/14
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A Cup of Exams with a Dash of Hope

Ladies and Gentlemen, that time of the year has come and gone – at least for me. The time where every one of us squares our shoulders, brace ourselves, and look ahead to our impending doom. The time where excuses are hurriedly invented in an attempt to escape the torture, mental breakdowns under the strain are common, and the stress leading up to it as well as actually undergoing it leaves you feeling distraught, fearful, depressed, and on occasion, murderous.

Despite popular belief, I am not referring to the Harry Potter 7 (Part 1) movie. I am referring to the dreaded curse that is exams.

All of us were students once. And unless you were extremely rich, extremely lucky, or extremely well-versed in playing truant, all of you would have done at least one exam in school. Some would have only done about 40. Others, around 100. The usual amount is often somewhere between 4917 and the number of times Taylor Lautner took off his shirt during the Twilight movies.

Including the times he wanted to rip it off, even when he wasn’t shooting Twilight.

It’s especially hard for us poor university students. Especially those doing law like me. Every single one of us aspires to perform with flying colours and score 7s. Every single one of us aims to smash every exam and assignment while mocking the stragglers, graduate with a HD, and go on to lead a highly successful and well-paid life as a lawyer/judge.

The truth, however, is far less bright and cheery. Many personal accounts by friends and colleagues within the UQ Law Faculty attest to claims that the subjects are extremely difficult. In fact, it was common consensus that for our last exam, Torts A, everyone’s marks were bumped up by 10% to prevent the majority of the students failing.

So, with that cheery thought in mind, I knuckled down to study for my exams, filled with such confidence that only a naive 17-year-old could hold.

I mean, come on. I still believe that David Beckham plays because of a love for the game. not the obscene amount of money.

But what I want to share with you, the readers, is what happened on my last exam. To give a little background information, this was a Torts B exam, open book, and worth 70% of our grade. No pressure. Our orders were to wait outside the exam venue until they called us in. The exam would start at 5.45pm.

I rocked up, feeling relaxed and confident. I even started chatting to some of my friends, discussing holiday plans. Exam? What exam? Bah, we’ll smash it!

Yep, life was good.

At around 5.30, a middle-aged man with a microphone began calling us in, reminding us that no entry was permitted without our Student ID Card. Those that didn’t have it would have to go to the UQ Student Centre and fill out an entry form (no, not to win a prize), and then return to the exam. No extra time will be permitted, and so on. The docking of precious time as well as the demeaning stares of the examiners, the UQ Centre staffers, and your fellow students would be punishment enough.

So, at the sound of the overweight man’s hollering, I grabbed my bag, pulled out my wallet, and opened it to find…

No Student ID.

I paused only for a second to double-check, looking up to meet my friend’s questioning eyes with a look of horror, and took off like the Batmobile to the Student Centre.

Or perhaps like the entire male gender when faced with the prospect of having to watch ‘The Notebook’.

Let’s put some things in context.For want of a better analogy (because I don’t watch movies much), remember Liam Neeson in Taken, where his character had to chase after a ship as it’s leaving with his kidnapped daughter? He had to run his heart out or else he would never see his daughter again. Well, my situation was similar in that I had to race to get the permission slip and return within 10 minutes, maybe even less, or else I would lose valuable time in my exam. And in a Law Exam, five minutes may been the difference between a pass or a fail.

But that’s where the differences end. Unlike Liam Neeson, I was not in my physical prime, but rather was a slightly overweight lad in skinny jeans and a heavy backpack. Additionally, I was not chasing after my daughter, but rather to sit an exam on time. But I was just as determined to get it.

Obviously, I must have misplaced my ID when I was replacing my cards yesterday, and I was thus up the proverbial creek without an ID. Now, the distance between the exam venue and the Student Centre would be around 200 metres. To me, it felt like an entire hemisphere away. Partly because I was stupendously unfit (the most physical activity I ever do was climbing a flight of stairs – and even then I get exhausted), and partly because my bag was filled with a file folder full of notes and a heavy textbook. Yeah, wise choice to bring it.

But finally, I made it to the Student Centre where thankfully I was the only non-staff member there. A guy in his early thirties sitting at his computer behind the counter asked in a dry voice: “What’s your Student Number?”

Lungs burning, I gasped it out, all the while trying not to collapse in exhaustion.

Slowly, the guy started to type, then turned back to me. “I’m sorry,” he said, speaking about as fast as a child who is learning to read. “What was it again?”

Recognising that perhaps my painful gasps could perchance have made my speech hard to understand, I repeated it.

Then, AGAIN, the man asked with the sluggishness of an injured turtle: “Sorry, 4-3-2 what?”

I said it out once more, swearing that I would disembowel him if he asked me again. I was convinced that he was doing it deliberately just to make me late, as punishment for not bringing my ID Card.

Finally, he muttered an “Oh, your exam is at 5.45” and strode off to retrieve the printout. Still panting heavily and now forced to wait for the Human Sloth to get the form, I decided to have another look inside my wallet. Here’s how my thought process went.

“Let’s see…Fifty bucks, my driver’s licence, my student ID, my…”

You’ve gotta be kidding me.

In the confusion of replacing my cards inside my wallet yesterday, I put my Student ID behind my driver’s license instead of in front of it, like I usually do. This meant that, when I opened my wallet to check my cards earlier, I saw my license and assumed my ID wasn’t there, when in reality it was inside all along. I let out a loud “DAMMIT!” much to my chagrin and the shock of another lady behind a computer. By that time, the staff member had returned with the now-unneeded permission slip. Catching sight of my ID card, he drolly commented, “Oh good, you found it.”

I didn’t have time to punch him as I stood up and bolted for the door, heading back to my exam venue. But the cheeky idiota even had the nerve to shout after me, in his mind-gratingly slow voice, “Don’t run! Walk!” I suppose that he thought that making kids late for exams and possibly ruining their lives was a fun thing to do.

Muttering threats under my breath, I started running back to the exam venue. To tell the truth, it was more like fast-walking / stumbling, on account of the fact that I had already used up my month’s supply of energy running there. My legs were cramping, my lungs were on fire, and I was sweating more than when I made sexist comments at a pro-women’s rights rally.

Apparently Popeye has a female counterpart….and she hits harder than a girl.

But somehow, through the grace of God, I arrived at the venue in time – they were still shepherding people inside. Usually, I would be ecstatic at finding my card and not being late, going as far as to be “…walking, and leaping, and praising God.” (Acts 3:8). Unfortunately, I only had energy to be doing the latter, though mentally I was thanking God to within an inch of my full brain capacity.

I stumbled inside, threw my bag down at the designated area and grabbed my notes, heading into the exhibition hall (it was an open book exam, don’t worry. I wouldn’t cheat – I don’t have the skills for it). And that’s when I found out that I wasn’t given a seat number, and as such, no seat. Without further ado, I swivelled around until I found the nearest examiner, and asked him where to get a seat number.

The examiner, a cantankerous old man who looked like he had much better things to do than to, oh, I don’t know, help people, pointed at the door and said “Get one from the guy at the door.” As I was leaving, he added a pointed “Obviously you weren’t listening!” I’m sure that he would have gone on talking about the state of the youth today and the rowdiness of pop music if I hadn’t walked away. But seriously, I wanted to inform him that I couldn’t have listened because I was off on a wild goose chase elsewhere. He probably wouldn’t have been interested anyway.

Oddly enough, he looked somewhat similar to this.

So, once that was all sorted out, I finally collapsed on my chair with my hair dishevelled, my top button undone, sweat pouring down my face, and breathing heavier than the monster in every scary movie when it’s right behind you. I think the girl next to me was giving me strange looks throughout the whole perusal period – either my sweaty and dishevelled demeanour and painful gasps for air made me look extremely handsome (very unlikely), or I looked like I was about to be sick (more likely). I was literally sweating all over my exam paper, so much so that I gave up trying to wring it dry after the fifth time.

In the end, though, I managed to get through the entire exam in one piece. In fact, I might hesitantly say that I would have done well. Apparently, adrenaline is a better boost than studying.

So kids, what have we learnt today?

  1. God, no matter what, can, and will, help you in your time of need. No real need to explain myself in this one: But for his help in (a) giving me the strength to stagger around the university, (b) making sure the student centre was empty, (c) allowing me to arrive back in time for the exam….and so on, I would never have been able to do as well as I would have, or even make the exam on time. Once again, all thanks be to God.
  2. The UQ staff, unlike the previous, will not. The staffer at the Student Centre moved and talked at the speed of the Flash…on sleeping pills. In fact, even his hearing wasn’t 100% – he was out to give me a hard time, I swear. And the old guy at the examination hall was simply despicable to me. If no one got the movie reference, I’m moving on. In summary, the staff at UQ do not care if you make mistakes – they will even try their best to ensure that your mistakes kill you off.
  3. Always check your ID card is in place when entering a University Exam. Self-Explainatory, again.
  4. Your parents will not be amused by your story of heroically making it to your exam on time. When my epic tale of adventure and bravery was regaled to my parents, I expected them to pat me on the back and compliment my perseverance, maybe even laugh at my lack of fitness. Instead, they gave me a lecture on how my disorganisation nearly cost me a seat in the exam. Problem is, they’re right. Bet this wouldn’t be a good time to tell them about the time I dismantled every pen in the house then…..

This story is one of me, though God’s help, overcoming adversity (my own disorganisation) and being able to sit the exam and hopefully doing it well. Unfortunately for my friend, he wasn’t so lucky. He forgot to bring his notes.

Do you have a bad exam story? Leave a comment and tell us about it!

2010
11/19
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A Rant about Stories, Using a Story

Ladies. Gentlemen. That weird guy in the back with a DeLorean. How are things in the future?

Firstly, I apologise for not updating this since July. Three things have demanded my attention:

  1. Uni work, assignments and readings. Self explanatory.
  2. The Australian 2010 Federal Election. Since I’m doing Constitutional Law as part of my degree, the current hung Parliament scenario now is almost like a dream come true. I’ve been boring my parents with the possible legal and pragmatic scenarios that could happen at any time, so much so that they are thinking of switching my degree to Bachelor of Leatherworking. Is that even a real degree?
  3. Plain Laziness. Yeah, sue me.

Today, though, I want to talk to everyone about something that has been bothering me for quite a long time: The State of Writing.

“Huh?” You may say. “Is the state next to Washington?” And then I will hit you.

Or you may ask, “Whatever do you mean?” Good question.

Books and stories used to be really well written, with famous authors such as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Hugh Lofting, and to a lesser extent Captain W. E. Johns producing marvellous works of fiction. Who could forget the best-selling Sherlock Holmes series,

or the intrepid Biggles series,

or even the famous vampire novel, Dracula?

Oh, har de har har har. That DOES serve to illustrate a point, though. Stories today have been “dumbed down” for the shorter attention span of the public, who can’t even sit through a 5 minute speech or 100 word document before getting distrac – OOH! BUTTERFLY!!

But how is the writing getting lousier? The creation of Fan Fiction. Yes, the very thing that allows people to use their creative juices and think of great alternate adventures involving their favourite characters in TV, books, movies and so on leads to a massive lack of quality writing. Many FanFiction writers (not all, I do stress) create stories that have poor grammar, or no description, or their characters inconsistent with the original show/book without saying so. Or even all three.

If you want to have a look, go to FanFiction.net and just click around on a couple of stories. Without a doubt, there will be many that are poorly written. Enough that would make you feel like buying the poor sap a dictionary.

(A/N) I would like to stress here that there are some FanFiction writers who are great writers, and their stories are marvellous. However, those that do not tend to bring it down for the rest of us. No insult is intended. Please don’t sue / kill / use a cattle prod on me.

To illustrate a good story, let me tell you guys one. This is how I got into writing in the first place. A story of love, determination, and friendship.

I was just a young kid, living the high life in the school system. I would painfully meander along to class everyday, strive hard to score good grades, and hang out with my friends during recess. Afterwards, it was homework, television, music, and piano to while away the lonely nights. Life was just, well, mundane.

Until one of my best friends changed all that.

I had known Kelly for a long time, ever since I was young, and she was one of the few people who would give me the time of the day. Often times, people would ignore me and regard me as a weird outcast – but Kelly never did that. Most days we would hang out and talk (always with other friends around, of course), just enjoying the other’s company.

And I committed what, in hindsight, was definitely a bad decision. I fell in love with her.

Oh, it was a gradual thing. I only noticed it when I discovered that all I wanted to do was to talk to her, to hold her close, and be the best friend that she could ever want. Maybe even more. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. And by then it was too late.

Being the romantic that I was, I decided to confess my true feelings to her. Being the coward that I was, I decided to do it by letter. Night after night, when my parents thought I was simplifying a polynomial equation to the lowest algebraic factor, I was actually hard at work pouring out my feelings on paper.

Finally, it was all done. I chose Valentines Day to give it to her (cheesy, I know), and boy, was I nervous. I was figuratively sweating bullets and wetting my pants, and my teeth were literally chattering. In hindsight, I much preferred it that way rather than the other way round.

Gathering up my courage, I strode up to her, card and rose in hand. She was on the phone, and just as I approached, she hung up and turned to me, her pretty eyes aglow and excitement radiating off her face.

Before I could get a word out, she leapt forward and hugged me, words tumbling out in a rush.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe it! Mark just asked me to be his Valentine! I’ve had a crush on him for, like, ever! Ohmigod, I can’t believe it! This is the happiest day of my life!”

***

I still can’t remember how I got through the rest of the year. Needless to say, I burnt the letter and the rose when I got home (to which Greenpeace objects strenuously). I was devastated, heartbroken. But eventually, I got over it. Kelly never knew about my feelings, since I decided that our friendship is more important than my selfish ambitions. All I wanted was for her to be happy. And to this day, Kelly and I are still really good friends.

I started writing short stories after that, as a way of keeping myself occupied. And now it has become a full-blown hobby. Other than assignments, church, and TV, this is what I do in my spare time.

But you know what? I still think of her from time to time. To use a line from a song by a band called The Young Veins:

“I tried to love you, but you still love him, so
I’ll keep my distance and lie to the truth….”

And I’ll never know what would have happened had I told her just one day earlier.

***

So, what was the point of all that? The point was, I made it all up off the top of my head.

But before you start booing and throwing rotten grapefruits, that was done to demonstrate a good story. There was good grammar, formatting, and the story flowed logically. And most importantly, it was interesting. And that’s all that matters.

Before I go, I’m going to leave you with a something written by a real author. C.S. Lewis, author of the bestselling Chronicles of Narnia series and other great Christian books (which I recommend everyone reads), also wrote this great paragraph in is sixth Chronicles of Narnia book, The Silver Chair:

“Gay,” said Puddleglum with a deep sigh. “That’s what we’ve got to be. Gay. As if we hadn’t a care in the world. Frolicsome. You two youngsters haven’t always got very high spirits, I’ve noticed. You must watch me, and do as I do. I’ll be gay. Like this…”

Stirring stuff. I bet Puddleglum voted for the Australian Greens Party.

Did you ever have a bad experience with a poorly written story? Leave a comment and tell us about it!

2010
08/22
CATEGORY
Uncategorized
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A Series of Unfortunate Medical Tests (Part 2)

Good day, friends, enemies, and citizens of the planet Earth! It is I, the author of this blog!

Now that the uncomfortable silence is over, yes, I am still sweating in my homeland of Singapore on my self-imposed exile for reading Twilight, the result of which scarred me for life. Coincidentally, I also have to be here for some tests and procedures in order to serve my time in Singapore’s army. Not willingly, of course. I was persuaded by my overwhelming patriotism, as I am a slave of duty (and also the threat of 3 years jail didn’t help either).

Did you get the Pirates of Penzance reference? 😛

So, when we last left off, I was in a secret location somewhere in Singapore undergoing secret medical tests. Mhmm. Secretive stuff. You can read all about the previous tests here, but suffice to say, I was midway through a medical exam that neither the patients nor the medical personnel could care less about. So, where we last left off, I just did an auditory test, and was off to the next station, which was:

Station 6: X-Rays

Now, the thing you have to understand is that this was not a ‘one-on-one’ exam. There were around 100 boys wandering around going to stations, and anytime you entered a room, there was sure to be at least 5 other boys waiting in front of you.

I gave my documents to the receptionist for the X-Ray station. He gave them a cursory glance, handed it back, pointed me through a door, and told me to take off my shirt inside. I was only mildly shocked. After all, he was a doctor, right?

So I entered. And there, in front of me, was 3 shirtless boys waiting to be called inside another room for their X-Rays. Taking off my shirt, I stood at the back of the line. Yes, nothing wrong with 4 shirtless guys hanging out to get X-Rays. The awkward was so thick, you could have cut it with a knife. It wouldn’t have felt so bad, but the others were in such better shape than I was. 😦

But soon, it was my turn. A woman with a crew cut and who looked like she enjoyed this job a little too much led me to a machine and told me to hug it, then 5 seconds later told me to get out. Either my chest was fine, or it was too traumatic for the woman to look at my exposed torso any longer. So, I hurriedly left and went to the next station:

Station 7: Eye tests

This was pretty straightforward. Stand on one spot, put a plastic paddle-thing over one eye, and read the letters. It was so ordinary, I don’t even have any jokes for this.

Station 8: Dental

Now, I just have to say, like the rest of human population, I’m not a big fan of dental tests. Put your hand up if you enjoy lying helpless on your back while a guy, features obscured with a face mask, pokes around with sharp metal objects inside your mouth. If you enjoy that, you have serious problems. But that was what happened to me. Eerily silent, the doctor did his stuff. Afterwards, I thought it was over. Silly me.

I was then sent for a dental X-Ray, which involved me biting down on a plastic protrusion and gripping a set of handles while parts of the machine revolved around me. I kid you not, I nearly thought I was going to be teleported. I was disappointed when I was not.

After this, I moved on to a huge room where there were about 70 boys waiting with numbers, and more milling around other stations. After taking off my shirt, shoes and socks and putting them in a locker, I went on to….

Station 9: ECG

Basically, this test was simple. You lie down on a bed, the guy attaches clips with wires all over you, and then both of you stare at each other in uncomfortable silence while the heart rate monitor does its thing. Simple…and weird. Anything instantly becomes weird when you don’t have a shirt. Just ask Edward Cullen in the New Moon movie. Everyone in the cinema threw up once he appeared shirtless.

Station 10: Height and Weight, and Blood Pressure

Two very disinterested nurses did these tests. First, I had to stand on a platform while they measured both height and weight, and then I had to stick my arm into a machine that squeezed it so tight, I thought it would burst. That apparently was for blood pressure, but I still think it was a torture device. Make of it what you will.

After this, I put my shirt and shoes back on and took a number. Apparently there was another stop, a doctor’s examination and final write-off. So, I took a number and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

My brother, who was slightly ahead of me, went in first.  I tried to amuse myself by watching Ellen (I must have been really bored), but I couldn’t get the screams of patients past out my my head.

So I waitied some more. And then the unthinkable happened. For those who know my brother, he’s unfazeable. He has an annoying habit of being jocular and being able to laugh through any situation, making stupid jokes and basically being awesome. So when he emerged from the room, face ashen and speechless, I knew something was wrong.

But before I could radio HQ and arrange for an immediate extraction, it was my turn to enter into:

Station 11: The Doctor’s Room

Here’s how the first minute went. Italics are my words, bold are the doctor’s.

“Hey there.”

“Hi.”

<Awkward Silence while I give him my file>

“Go stand in the corner and take off your pants and underwear.”

I immediately replied, “Show me your credentials first, you sick quack!”

After a short scuffle, and after I explained things to Security, he asked me some further questions and told me I could leave. I dashed out of there as fast as I could and called the police.

All that aside, I dutifully went off to the last station:

Station 12: IQ Test

Let me just say here, I have a lot of respect for the Singaporean schooling system. They teach their kids to be geniuses by age 10 and superhuman by age 13. It all goes uphill from there. Thus, you can imagine the level of difficulty of the questions presented.

I spent most of my life in Australia, where freedom and creativity is emphasised rather than mindless repeating knowledge. Needless  to say, that isn’t recognised here. So, let’s see how I did, shall we?

  1. English: Awesome. Australia did at least teach me the English language, which was helpful in answering ‘Train is to Car as Plane is to?’. That was dumb, wasn’t it?
  2. Maths: Fail. I could only answer about 9 of them. But let me put this in context. I have got mostly As in Maths my whole life. Australian schools give us calculators since we were 13. I am studying law full-time, which is a non- maths subject. So, when you are only given a pencil and ONE sheet of paper, and asked to solve 1.76 x 3.34 in 1 minute, you know you’re screwed.
  3. Graphics: Okay. But this was just dumb. You were given a picture of an object in a circle, and asked what it would look like if it was rotated around 45 degrees. How the ‘eck is this relevant?
  4. Physics: Kinda okay, I think. Only in Singapore will there be a Physics section in an IQ test. But again, I’m doing law – Physics is another orbit. And let me just say, my space shuttle can’t reach there far.

The test took 2.5 hours. I was exhausted by the end, but glad that it was finally over. I could go home happy, and secure in the knowledge that the government was happy. And in Singapore, that was all that mattered.

Do you have any questions, comments, or snide remarks? Remember to leave a message and give us your feedback!

2010
07/12
CATEGORY
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