Sign Language.

Ah.

I do so solemnly swear, the next car I see with that yellow, "Baby on Board" sign stuck at the back I will CRUSH KILL AND DESTROY. Seriously. Follow the herd of mindless idiots who think those yellow signs are cute, if you must. But for crying out loud, I've seen twenty thousand different phrases you can buy. Some of them are actually amusing. SO WHY...

No wait, I know: it's the only phrase my LEHLARLOR-English country can understand. HUR HUR BABY ON BOARD SO KEWT WE BUY LAR.

I know what you're thinking, two people and small yappy-type dog. Perhaps well-meaning, new parents just want to tell everyone to be a little more careful, please?

Since I've started seeing the signs, which works out to, say, four months, I have yet to see one fucking baby in the car. Not. One. And some of them are driven by I R SO GLAM young darlings - no prizes for guessing who the Baby is. Look carefully and you can see the planets orbiting their heads.

If you drive, do your part to make the world a better place. The next time you see a car sporting BABY ON BOARD, carefully pull up next to them, tap your horn to get their attention and smile. They can't hear you of course so it's all got to be sign language.

- Point to the back of their car.

- Air-draw a square.

- Do that universal baby-cradling motion: palms turned upwards and placed on top of each other, held slightly below the rib cage. Rock from side to side.

- Do another bit of universal signing. Hold hands up to roughly shoulder level. Keeping palms flat and digits together, point each hand away from yourself to each side. Raise eyebrows and have mouth slightly agape. As retarded as it sounds, people everywhere understand this to mean, "Where?" .

Likely reactions from the other driver at this point include waving, smiling and miming eating a steak. Proceed to last universal gesture.

- Hold fist up to face, with the back of your hand facing the driver. Slowly and deliberately, extend middle finger.



...Happy New Year. Pull your ear.

Must...have... .

It's interesting how our priorities change as we grew older.

When I was about say, nine, the one thing that mattered was Dragonball cards. There was no reason to it. The cards were being sold. All the other kids were getting them. You had to get them.

They served no purpose, either. You bought packs of them and hoped to see shiny holographic designs on a few, which made them Golden. And you could take those and tell all your friends you GOT A GOLD ONE OMFG NEH NEH NEE BOO BOO.

We just didn't understand why the stupid adults didn't see them as the precious artifacts they were.

That died out eventually. Then it was video game consoles. Little pastel eight-bit graphics were the coolest and days were spent at the houses of those who were fortunate enough to have consoles. The number of control-pad combination moves I had memorized, then. Ah.

Then an aunt quite kindly got me a computer. It was arcane stuff to everyone else, but somehow I got my hands on a copy of Ultima Underworld. Must have come with the package. It was my world for gods know, that little 8 x 6 cm of game window. Those were the days when gameplay sold games.

The damned things just never come with a balance player interest and plot length and complexity. RPG after RPG, I lost interest looking for TEH VITAL KEY OF INTAR DIMENSIONAL TRAVEL or the MAGIC ORB OF DOOM, hidden in the secret room of a secret dimension, that you HAD to have to progress in the game. So at about...14? I discovered Magic cards.

It's one of those things. Players are endlessly taunted for being geeks, but it's really an extremely fun game. Prohibitively costly though and after four years or so ripping open pack after pack to see what Uncommons and Rares I got that I could use, sell or trade, I put a lid on it. Yes, I would approach creepy-looking strangers with greasy hair, coke-bottle glasses and acne that looked like it was alive. And say, "Wanna see my cards?"

Let us put that behind us.

"But what of women? The sweet, sweet girlies?", I hear you ask ever so silently. Of course I appreciated a pretty face as well as the next man. But as far as I was concerned, women, like chicken pox, were something that happened to other people. I eventually got the chicken pox, though. And some clueless girls did take up with me. More, "Oh. I suppose so." than "Kiss me you fool." stuff, but we can't all be charmers.

Rightfully, I should be at the point where I've worked out what I want in life and am busy climbing the corporate ladder to get to it. But no, not really. The bills are being paid, with a little left over for the odd (alright, constant) fag and beer and that's about it.

Some people are very driven. Driven everywhere, they are. As above, they know what they want, and they'll stop at nothing to get it. I've got to the "fuck it and be content" stage. I've got a modest income, am not in debt and hey, it's not so bad. Oh sure I have the occasional pang for wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, whatever Avarice dreams about. But it ain't broke, yet.

Sorry, Izzard and Holt. T_T

In case I don't get back here before the 25th, have a merry Christmas. The proper sort, with the fireplace roaring and friends over with a chilled one. Not the crass commercial one, even though it's at a 40% discount.

Rawr.

We now interrupt your regular goatmission to bring you a badly drawn beast from our sponsors.



Though his appearance is fearsome in a comical way, Stuffyouandyourbetterpicturus has a gentle temperment and does not attack unless relentlessly taunted about his social life. As you can imagine, looking like that, he does not get many dates.


Thank you for your patronage. Your comments of "WTF is wrong with this Goat" are very much appreciated.

We now return you to your regular INTARNAT.

The Dark Side in the dark.

Ah, I kill me with my hilarious titles.

Intriguing isn't it, how the difference between day and night down here tends to work out to 72 hours. Would be inappropriate if I took till Christmas to put the rest of the pictures up. Different sort of colour theme altogether.

-wince-

But here we go. The event Vasantha Oli is in two segments. After the active active activities too early in the morning, you get to look at the exhibits and watch performances till about two in the afternoon. Then everybody goes home for a siesta, and come back in the evening for the other half of the party.

And this other half is where the party genes really show.

You know what happens at Chinese-themed events of this sort? About twenty people come to an area with seating for four hundred. Performances inevitably involve Chinese dialect songs from twenty years ago. Sung by people who were thirty, twenty years ago.

The crowd here? Ladies and germs, I present you:


And they weren't there for fifty-cent prizes in a lucky draw, either. Cheering, screaming, whistling and flinging of undergarments aplenty. Well maybe not the last one. I only saw two pair flung.

What I didn't get: A pretty girl comes on stage and the crowd erupts.


Fair enough. Famous singers come on stage to perform and the crowd erupts.


Fairly logical. They were pretty good, too. Even for the little ones performing, the crowd erupted.


I can understand that. They were adorable, and the dancing ones fairly good.

But when nothing happened:









...they also screamed and cheered like Britney Spears just dropped her top, lah.

These people really had fun. Without any sort of overtone, I note that most of the ones MAKING SOME NOISE seemed to be foreign workers, in the sea of people by the side. Sad, how apparent sophistication seems to put sticks up everyone's arses. Though, I don't know, perhaps they were helped along by generous doses of Black Cat or Baron's Strong Brew.

But to wrap up the night, you must meet the person I thought was just fan-fuckin'-tastic. Being a dancer of the epileptic monkey persuasion myself, I nonetheless appreciate good dancing when I see it. The Indian culture, at least to me, is known for dance. Their footwork and booty-shaking started long before Beyonce came onto the scene.

Pictures tend to be unable to do good dancers justice. But I tries.

The way he moved, you'd swear he was quadruple-jointed and smoking that shit. Needless to say, the crowd pulled all the stops out while he was dancing. People living on the twenty-fifth floor of nearby flats must have thought there was a riot.

And my pride and joy of the night:


And meh to you people who think photography is easy, alright?



An enjoyable event, it was. Would have been more so if I didn't have to toast a Sunday on it but if wishes were fishes the smell would be terrible.

I think it's to do with the bling bling. When they're about two years old, a lot of Indian children get their ears pierced for gold earrings? I mean, how could you not grow up happenin' happenin' like that eh? eH?

So now, I have my parents to blame.

The Dark Side has more fun.

Late, late. Always late.

Before anything though, I must insist you two people and small yappy-type dog view this one out of context with the previous entry. Um.

So, yes. Being in Singapore, you don't get many African Americans. Brothas, if you will. We have their Asian counterparts, the Indians. One thing I've found they share in common is the ability to have more fun. The other similarity I have no need to point out.

It's true. Even dismissing my reverse-racist prejudices, it's something out there for all to see. I cannot lie, and the other brothers can't deny. I was covering Vasantha Oli, an Indian celebration of Deepavali of sorts as far as I could tell. It's a community event, organized by grassroots people and Indian activity groups.

Most of the community events I've attended lean toward the constant-checking-of-watch type of event. Very few of the people attending seem to be having any fun. Polite applause aplenty, and all that sort of thing. Like Chinese weddings, really. No one actually knows each other, and it's all chatty aunts, drinking uncles and sullen kids. It's the free dinner that draws them, and the same works for these events.

I did say most. Some can be good fun - but this one had me blown. Away, that is. What were you thinking?

For one thing, the sheer number of people there was amazing. The event started in the morning with a Healthy Lifestyle theme that's oh-so-popular now. They had the whole tent full of people do an aerobics workout, Bhangra-style. You could get the VCD too, for just $2. I managed to restrain myself.


20,000 people doing the Chicken is a sight to behold. And try to wipe from your memory as fast as possible.


Then everyone sodded off to a mass Brisk Walk. I think too much of a deal is made out of it. EVERYONE LET'S ALL GET TOGETHER, WALK A RATHER SHORT DISTANCE AND THEN CONGRATULATE OURSELVES. All in the name of good health though, which I strongly support. With a cigarette and can of beer in hand.

For those who've never seen Chinese and Malay cultural displays, you'll have to take my word as to what they're like. Good luck to you. Chinese dances are graceful, fluttery things. Then you have Chinese Opera, which involves men in heavy makeup playing the part of women half their age. Accompanied by people banging on pots and pans with great enthusiasm.

In my opinion, Malay dances and songs are about the same, 'cept taken down a speed notch. Slower dances, more ballady ballads. Dangduts can be rather lively, though I'm hard pressed to describe them properly. Ok, ok, many Malays in colourful traditional dress sitting down cross-legged on the floor. Generally, the team is in rows of two or three. They play the Malay, bongo-like drums and sort of sing and chant and occasionally flail their arms. ...I messed that up, didn't I? Sorry.

But the point is, in none of them have I seen a Hoss!


Or peacocks!

...though you could say at Chinese celebrations there's pea-co... Nevermind.

Or flaming, angry gods!


Gods can always be appeased, of course. Our friend of the hellfire and brimstone was a lot more mellow after a Fillet O' Fish was sacrificed. Positively jaunty. And they say fast food is bad for you.


Seriously though, those were amazing costumes. And the dances were something else, too. A far cry from the forward-facing chicken dance that has tragically become iconic of Indian dances, our bloke upstairs kicked up a storm. The way he stomped about and the glare he had made you want to run to the nearest McDonald's to buy him another Fillet O' Fish.



Sri Lankan, I believe. Look and learn people. A well-designed outfit will take attention away from any belly and turn you majestic, majestic.



And of course, it's never complete without a pretty girl. Now sold in economical three-packs. I tried to chat them up, but they immediately assumed the SeeNoEvilHearNoEvilSpeakNoEvil pose. And then pretended they couldn't speak English.


On that forlorn note, I left the premises a sad goat. Alright, I lie. An angry god, sans Fillet O' Fish, threatened me with a fistful of curry powder. The event went on for a while yet though, with people milling about prodding the displays and such. Everyone then took a break until evening, where more stuff happened.

How do I know? Let's just say there is reason for my complaints about long hours and negotiable weekends. More is to come, yes. And no, the pictures I took at night didn't all turn out to be sheets of black.

-runs for it-

The Brown Stuff.

We've all done it as a kid. Pursed our lips tightly together and forced air through them. Just for fun, sometimes. And we'd find it killingly funny to do it and then point at other tots and accuse them of farting. Denial is futile.

Go ahead, do it. Sort of slowly at first, and then pick up the tempo to an explosive finish. Good. Keep that sound firmly in mind.

I don't think I've told you three people and small yappy-type dog, but this goat is lactose-intolerant. I've always found the term mildly amusingly. Cannot tolerate lactose. Won't stand for the vile stuff. Evil things, lactoses. Sort of like how the KKK is Black-intolerant.

There're different degrees of lactose intolerance, of course. Some people just get mild stomach discomfort after two pints of milk. Some have acute pains after downing a glass.

As with all things me, I have to be spectacular, spectacular.

I never used to be lactose intolerant. The missus, similarly afflicted, would turn down offers of ice cream. It was great, because I could magnanimously offer to share some top notch stuff and then eat it all myself, anyway.

Then it happened. The first bout of explosive diarrhoea. And we all like to think our shit don't stink, but this was something else altogether. I couldn't lie, and the other brothers could not deny.

Many a clueless...hour-long interval was spent, arms akimbo in what became a porcelain torture chamber. What, you think I took you through those motions at the start for fun? Times like those made being a smoker a blessing. Eventually, I made the connection. The rich, creamy friend I once had was now so much white, fluffy intestinal death.

But like aging men with bits that don't work quite so well anymore, we go into denial. Glass of milk? Well...alright.

Then things actually move in the stomach. I liken it to being four months along, and feeling the baby stir for the first time. Except instead of an "Oh! Oh! Oh my god!", it's more of "Oh. Fuck."

And for the love of all things cute and fluffy, you don't want to let rip a fart just then. I refuse to tell you how I know.


Yes. Had milk this morning.

Mundane melody.

So let's go optimistic for a change, eh?

Been trying to write about and put up pictures of an event I attended. But as usual, everything looked so efficient on the drawing board. Should have them up shortly, at any rate.

There's something to be said for routine and being a stay-at-home nerdgeek - saves money. Abandon all pretense, all ye who enter and that sort of thing. It gets the bills paid, pays for the fags and gives breathing room for when money is needed at home.

I'll leave the flash and splash and spontaneous sex with attractive strangers met at the club to you folks. Cigarrettes, coffee and computer will suffice.

Hmmm.

And can-of-beer. And internet Connection.

There. Most Singaporeans dream about their five Cs, spend their lives pursuing it and drop down dead when the last monthly payment is done with. I've already got them. And don't you start about the technicalities. Cs are Cs.

And when you get down to it really, a pair of Cs are quite sufficent to make any bloke happy.

Applying Shakespeare.

If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a gentle kiss

-Romeo and Juliet, Act 1, Scene 5


The weirdest things come to one at the most cuttingly dull of moments.

I had a...thing for Romeo and Juliet. The true intellectual will lambast my interest for being piqued by the screen version; "Romeo + Juliet", rather than any study of the greatest love story ever told.

But to the pimply, floppy-haired and clueless teenager I was, the whole affair was outstandingly well done. The movie wore a fedora with a matching overcoat. It had the perfect growth of a 5 o'clock shadow, and the smouldering cigar it held loosely at the corner of the mouth glowed crimson against a backdrop of grimy streets lit by a single, yellow street lamp. Complete with an ever-so-slight drizzle.

That dripping sound is the style trickling off the rim of the fedora onto the streets. Stylishly, of course.

Young minds are stupid. Almost without exception. Let's be nice and liken the analogy to unforged steel. I think I had to watch the movie thrice to understand everything, and one of them was with someone I later went outstandingly psychotic on. There was much moping about and wringing of hands. And a brilliant amount of stupidity.

But hindsight is always 20/20. And we learn from our mistakes. Which is why I now keep a bottle of chloroform handy.

Kidding. I think.

So the brilliant idea was, to set up a table in, say, the middle of Borders. Two signboards. "Free handshakes" on one, and the above quote on the other. Two blokes at the table, one doing the handshake and checking back with the other.


"Am I profaning this one, mate?"

"No, no, that's nowhere near a holy shrine. More of a public restroom, if you ask me."

"This one, then?"

"Not as bad, but closer to 'parking lot'."

"Right then. This?"

"Hell, no. It'd be the other way round, and gods know you've got a face only your mother could love. And that's negotiable if she's got a dog."

"...no need to be like that about it. What about..."


And then Brittany Murphy walks into the store, and the two blokes make strangled noises and drop down dead. Too holy, you see.

I refuse to have my taste in women questioned.

Thou shalt not covet.

...no, my neighbour does not have an ox. Don't particularly want one, either.

Though I must say, there's something about squeezing milk out of an udder that's...

Anyway.

Perhaps it's subliminal Hollywood brainwashing, but there's just something about that classic setup of writer-with-laptop-in-place-with-ambience thing that gets me. It's all over the place, isn't it? Writers are glamorized on the silver screen - no work required, it seems.

Just get a sexy, sexy Apple laptop and you're set, apparently. You'll be sitting at the Starbucks down the road, sipping overpriced designer coffee. In ten minutes, you'll bang out something a paper will pay you thousands for.

Or you'll be curled up in a huge fuck-off bed, soft golden lighting the only illumination as you peck pensively at the keyboard on your lap, putting the final touches to yet another bestseller. Then the drop-dead gorgeous, intelligent, funny, buxom blonde comes out the shower in a flimsy bathrobe, sashays up to you and lets it slide off her.

What follows after is probably not something I should be thinking about at work.

My kingdom for a laptop!

But yes, I'm no diva la obnoxia. Peepur lose camera, got fans buy for her, hor. The way it's going now, I'd be lucky to get a solar-powered calculator if the wheezing computer at home ups and dies on me.

Getting antsy.

...no, haven't levelled yet. Slightly less than 50% more exp to go. Now the grind gets...grinding. T_T

But of course, I have my ardent fans to entertain. I've been entirely too EMO lately, and I do apologize. Quite unworthy of me. I mean, if people actually -wanted- to hear whining noises and bad melodrama, there's always Channel 8.

So here is something funny.



...Laugh, damn you.

It's Hammer time!

No, no. Not him.



More of...him.



...Just trying to please everyone.


The words "addicted" and "obsessed" are used too callously these days. So no, I will not use them.

However,

ALL ELSE ON HOLD UNTIL MACE PAGE LEVEL TO 65 AND MAX FINAL ATTACK KTHXBAI.

I have reached the good bit, and it tastes like chicken.

What.

10kg Bags of Emo.

There's a difference.

Between prancing about in the light night rain and delighting in the pecks of rain across arms and face. Glancing around in wonder at the crispness everything assumes in this particular sort of weather, and clenching fists against a strange, delicious cold.

...And trudging home from the bus stop at 11pm, having just got off work. Cold, wet, hungry and unanticipative of any food at home. Narrowly avoiding crunching a snail, and absent-mindedly saving it after a second thought. Preoccupied with bittersweet amusement, that tomorrow isn't going to be much better, but perhaps the weather will change.


The whiny Singaporean male striketh!

But no, I'm not really complaining. He works far harder than I do, and has my respect. I have, however, decided upon a better job description.

Coolie.

Fits, you see. I don't do much actual writing at work. It's more of electronic coolie-ing - the moving about of stuff that needs moving; the setting up of things that need setting. Add up all the others things I do and I could write quite earnestly in the Job Description part of a form, "BAO KA LIAO" .

Besides, it fits the image of the singlet and jeans. It took perserverence, strategy and mild manipulation. But yes, no more Phantom Squirrel situations.


Oh, for a bit more time to do stuff with. But let me not wistfully wish beyond my station. I am but a coolie, and no lofty "freelance writer and professional blogger".

Professional envy? Sure - I don't do denial. But by the tits of ten tremulous tyrants, that phrase of hers pisses me off on forty-two different levels. I just took a look at her site - haven't in a while. It was a genuine, involuntary, "Oh. My. Fucking. God." situation.


Ah, the rain. It falls.

Supplies!

No, no, not my cake. Just jacked it off TEH INTARNAT.

I do think it's curious how those little dinky candles have become ubiquitous. Anywhere in the world, it seems. Birthdays: little dinky, pastel-themed candles. With spirals. There has to be a fuck-off huge company making these things. LUP CHEONG PLASTIC or something. The things just scream Made in China.

But I had quite a lovely time. And yes, that was genuine surprise. It was a grand affair, and I'm not sure that I deserved it, or the people who arranged for it.

And so, in this quiet corner of the internet, let me thank you again. I love you all, in spite of your terribly bad jokes.

Torch (t)his space.

Flip.
More than a week, already? Time doesn't fly when you're having fun. It's just a nicer thing to say. Too easily, one gets sucked into a rinse/repeat life. And then the grains of sand really pour down.


Click.
It would be interesting to track a person's mouseclicks per day. Correlate it, and you could get all sorts of fun statistics. Men who click a mouse an average of 50 times a day for example, could be the group most likely to wear women's undergarments. At the office. That they stole from their grandma.

I'm fairly certain there's a direct relation between average mouseclicks and getting laid. Think tanned, muscled, achingly cute guys who know everyone at the club. And then think pasty, acnefied gamer boy who chats up female nightelves on WoW.

Would explain a lot about my situation, anyway.


Sear
So no, not a whole lot happening here. Yet at the same time, too much
cutting
drama. But hey, you get enough of that on the telly. Available on channel 8 in ReallyBadActing flavours.

Perhaps things will look up when the stars shift, in a bit.
Yes, I sting. Maybe it's time to let that show.


Exeunt

The other side of the Wall.

One thing constantly on everybody's mind is; just why do they call the dish, "Buddha Jumps Over the Wall" ?


The power of really big nipples.


If it wasn't before, it sure as hell is now, anyway.

But, yes. Your favourite goat, three people and small yappy-type dog, has tasted of it today. And he has spoken to the chef! And he knows now, why.

Gotta love the whole refer-to-self-in-third-person thing.

Smack me if I get off the track again. The famous Chinese dish "Buddha Jumps Over the Wall" is a literal translation. Sadly, the etymology is nothing fun, like it being made from the remnants of a fat bald man that hopped over a wall and went splat.

The key word is Four. I say this because the chef explaining it started by saying, "In Chinese, there are four...", and proceeds to firmly hold up four fingers. He then furrows his brow at them for a good two minutes, mumbling the word "four" a few times in between. It seemed like he was trying to figure out why he was holding up four fingers.

He continues, of course. Four. In Chinese, there are four Kings of seafood, and they are Fish Maw, Shark's Fin, Abalone and Sea Cucumber. I agree the other three are nice enough, but sea cucumber?

Did you know?
That sea cucumbers vomit up their intestines as a self-defense mechanism when threatened?

Ow. Look, it's relevant. It explain why they taste so crap.

But the dish, you see, contains all four of these Kings of Chinese Seafood. And when you cook it properly, with pork and chicken, the aroma that wafts up is supposed to be heavenly.

Now, Buddha is vegetarian. He is One with all things and does not eat any form of meat. Yet even he, upon smelling the...smell I suppose, of the cooking, will go OMGWTFHEALPLZ. And jump over the wall to get at it.

That is why the people cooking it constantly look over their shoulder. Because nobody wants a sweaty fat man smacking into them unawares. .

I finally got to eat it, after having heard about it since I was little. It's a class dish you see, wot with all the fancy ingredients. Costs a pretty penny too. And oh it was...

Nothing spectacular, really. Bit of a letdown after so many years of hype. Sure they were class ingredients, but those are just terribly overpriced in themselves, really. Definitely not wall jumping stuff.

I'd perhaps hop over a small ditch for it. And that's just a maybe.

Geriatric gamers?

Go. Go. Go.

The family's semi-dysfunctional, and I have since learnt the mechanics of the normal societal family unit. I now know better than to make calls on something based on what my family does.

One of the things common in families are the historical accolades. Grandfathers, believe it or not, were once as young as you and I. And they did things. Some hardly worth the mention, like the setting of a snail aside into the bush to prevent trampling. Others have an impact on the entire extended family.

My condolences to the ones with the last name "Gates". The "any relation" questions they must have to field...

But, yes. Nintendo's replaced the novel. The Gaming Brethren step back in awe as the legendary AWP sniper smoothly swipes his Barracuda pad off the table and strides off into the sunset.

So just how would they go down in the family history sixty years down the road?


At school:
First kid: "Hey I just found out my grandad was the star player in his school team! I'm gonna be just like him!"

Next kid: "Yeah? Well -my- grandad was '50|iDX5|\|4k3', of the pwNz0r clan. Perhaps you've heard of him?"

First kid: "WHOA. m4d ski||z!"


Two old men having coffee in the morning:
Old man 1: "What a lovely morning eh, Ed?"

Old man 2:"Ahh, yes. I remember it was a morning just like this when my Assassin in Ragnarok Online hit 99. Of course I didn't get to actually see much of the morning. Hadn't slept for a week by then. Knocked out clean for the next three days."

Old man 1: "Heh heh. Good times, those were. Oh remember that time we went after Golden Thief Bug..."


...it's gonna be lost on non-Ragnarok players, but you get me.

Gaming penetration on this sort of scale is relatively new, ainnit? And the crack-addiction type MMOs are even newer. We'll just wait and see what happens, I suppose.

Fire up my nose! Uh, I mean...

Never was that good at Counter-Strike, no.

Trick or teat.

Any number of repugnant men will tell you with conviction that sex transcends cultural barriers. Often, they illustrate this quite nicely by thrusting an extended middle finger into a small circle formed by the digits of the other hand.

Humour does, too. Charlie Chaplin had crowds all over the world roaring way before Rowan Atkinson , who does the same in his dopey Mr Bean persona.

Less discussed is fear. Horror. It's interesting how an American crowd exits the theatre just as shaken as a Japanese crowd, after watching say, The Ring. It seems to be a bond people of the civilized world share. Quite likely insinuated by upbringing and the media, and a rather useless bond, though.

Linking to that is superstition and its buddy...stupidity.

I suppose most people are quite happy with accepting whatever explaination is offered right off the bat. If cannot explain, then is ghost, lah. Perhaps acceptable in certain, rather limited situations, but those are far and few between in our age of technology, connectivity and TEH INTARNET.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.



Wah scary ah. No, really, the effect is there, and I was quite spooked when I saw it. The curious thing is, it came from a fairly...well-known-type of person as an attachment in a forwarded mail. Why paraphrase the orginal when it does such a lovely job of making itself look stupid?

Formatted for readability. WTF is with the twenty thousand >>>s that come up in forwards?

"The guy in the photo went to the Sundarbans with his friends and he asked 1 of his friends to take his picture in that very place. While his friend was taking the picture he screamed and fainted, 2 days later he died in the medical college.

Doctors said he died because of heart attack. When the photos were exposed, in the last photo there was a lady standing right beside him though friends claim that he was standing alone.

Many people said it is a rumor and the picture is the result of the blessings of latest technology. However, the photo itself is very scary and I'm sure you'll also feel the same way I've felt. Here you go with the photo!!!

A navy officer sent this letter to 13 people and he was promoted.. A business man received this letter and threw it away.. not believing in it.. and he lost everything he had within 13 days It reached a labourer and he distributed it to 13 people he was promoted and all his problems were solved within 13 days

So you must send this e mail to 13 pe ople for something good to happen to you; so people. get sending !! :) don't be lazy.. P/S : Do not send back to the person who send this to you!!! "

Well, the original sender did get something right. I thought it was rather scary, yes. And then it gets to the 13 bits and suddenly a smiley face pops up out of nowhere and ta dah no more scarys.

Ahhh, but I went and counted the addresses the person I'd got it from had sent the mail to. Guess how many?

Just to be sure I was laughing appropriately and would not be found in the morning 13 days later strangled to death by a rubber chicken, I ran the thing through abit, and ta dah!



Bit of explaination. You'll notice the picture is taken in the day, in a shaded forest, with a flash. Because no retard goes tromping around the forest at night taking pictures of himself. That, and the telltale bits of bright sky are up there. It's possibly been digitally altered to have everything but the person darkened.

With the shadows gone, see how Miss Luminous Green, once appearing to eerily float out from the darkness, now has a clear, rather oddly-shaped outline. Almost like she was cookie-cut out from somewhere else.

I decided that look on her face was getting to me, really. If you gotta be a ghost, be a happy ghost!


There we go. Much better.

But why stop there? Today, let your favourite Goat show you how to spook up your own pictures!

First, we take an ordinary picture. Nothing and nobody significant in there. He walked right across as I was trying to get a picture of something else.


Now we do the cast everything else into shadow thing. Sloppily done, because um, hooves don't grip the mouse very well. ...what.


Voila. And now, we select from random pictures, a suitable person to ghostify. She was a lovely girl I knew from Ragnarok Online. Forgive me, Luna. T_T


Sorry about the screwy text. Didn't realize low-ressing the picture for faster loading would make it choppy like that. Live and learn, we do.

Next, we uh, dig her eyes out (sorry Luna!) because that seems to be the quinessential Ghost quality. Also, must dress in white. When was the last time you were scared by a ghost in Hawaiin floral prints?


Spookeh spookeh. Almost there, we are. And for the finishing touches...


Yay, ghost!

It's absolutely the wrong setting for it to be believable of course. Just showing you it's really quite easily done. And that I need to plan better usage of my time.

But meh, if you're interested, send me a picture of yourself for me to put a ghost in.

Amaaaaze your friends.

Luke sum ipse patrem te.

It's "Luke, I am your father." in Latin.

I was at the launch of a "crime prevention device" on a weekend some time back. That was all I was told before going there. And yes, I spent a while coming up with theories on just wtf it would be.

I've never had much faith in the Singapore Police Force. Personal experiences that would involve too much re-telling. But if they'd come up with something that detects crime and warns people of it...well, I'd eat my hat. Rather placid vow, considering I don't own any hats.

But anyway. Imagine:


Old lady walks down a dark, narrow alley late at night. Her attention is focused on her footing, and she does not see the sinister shadow that stealthily moves up behind on her.

Suddenly, light floods the area. Sirens go off and a stern mechanical voice booms.

"WARNING WARNING. YOU ARE ABOUT TO BE THE VICTIM OF A ROBBERY. THE SUSPECT IS MALE, CHINESE AND LOOKS TO BE IN HIS EARLY TWENTIES. HE HAS A MOLE ON HIS CHIN AND A BADLY DONE TATTOO OF A BUTTERFLY ON HIS RIGHT BUTTOCK. A POLICE CAR IS BEING DISPATCHED TO THE AREA."


I'd be sold on the "Home Team" slogan the police have. Go, police!

But no. It was in fact...well, I'll tell you shortly.

I was intrigued by a trio doing interviews there. One man, two women. The guy was quite large, standing about a head above my 1.75m. Long sleeved shirt and pants, professional looking bag, glasses, and hair neatly gelled back. One of the two females was in what looked to me to be her early thirties, dressed in what I will call immaculate smart casual, with her hair cut in a neat, utilitarian bob. The last could have been a sweet young thing, in her simple Tee and Jeans. Dark circles marred otherwise delicate features, a sure sign of tight deadlines. Some effort had been put into hair colour, but lack of attention had it frizzed and peroxide-ish.

Interesting also was how they took notes. Big Guy had a pad which he wrote in, but infrequently. Matron's pen almost never left hers. I snuck a peek at Matron's pad - she wrote really fast.

She'd gone and invented some kind of new language altogether, it seemed. I know of shorthand, but hers were just a series of wavy line. The sort you do when testing a pen to see if it writes. Talk about pro.

WorkaholicSYT seemed by far the smartest. She had a voice recorder. I was quite amused at the way she shoved it at the important people speaking. Any closer and they'd be tasting it. It wasn't some budget cassette thing (which I have) either. Slim, sexy, sleek and screaming chic. Yes.

The three worked together, all taking notes (with exception of wSYT) as each took their turn to ask questions. All very efficient, very no-nonsense. I stood by the side and leeched their interview. Think I irked Matron in the process - I'm not sure if those were disdainful looks she gave me.

During a lull, I went up to Big Guy and ExcuseMe-d him. Had to try thrice before he heard me, for the sound to travel the distance up to him. He was very nice, though. Yes, they were from the press. He was writing for a Chinese paper, and Matron was the Straits Times. wSYT I didn't catch. My first thought was she was apprenticing under Matron, but they worked quite independently. Bug Guy spoke very well, and considering he writes for a newspaper in Chinese, all I can say is - outclassed.

Ah, the press. That land of grey paper and ink that is known for its crazy pace, but oh-so-prestigious.

And here are the writeups on the event:

--

Story 1 -

"Thieves" drive home crime prevention message

Two thieves will greet drivers pulling into the multi-storey carpark at Block 126A, Bukit Merah View.

They are not the real deal, mind you, just life-size posters.

The two cut-outs and a sensor-activated lightbox with the anti-theft message "Don't Tempt Me", are part of a pilot project launched yesterday to remind motorists not to leave their CashCards and valuables in their vehicles.

One poster is placed at the entrance of the carpark. The other is on the wall to the left of the ramp connecting the first deck to the second.

When a motorist drives up the second deck, a motion detector on the ceiling near the ramp will activate the lightbox installed at the other end of the deck. The message "Don't Tempt Me" will flash for five seconds, reminding drivers to practise crime prevention and not leave things to chance.

The project was launched by the MP for Tanjong Pagar GRC, Ms Indranee Rajah. It was initiated by Bukit Merah West Neighbourhood Police Centre of Clementi Police Division headquarters after a spate of thefts from vehicles at the same carpark.

Some residents contacted said the project was a good idea.

Madam Judy Tan, 48, a Citizen-On-Patrol volunteer, said: "We hope it will work."


Story 2 -

Making Bukit Merah View a safer place

Prepare to be flashed when you drive in to the multi-storey car park at Block 126A Bukit Merah View.

It’s a new crime prevention sensor, launched on 17 September at the function hall beside Block 126A. Imagine driving into the car park at night, after a long day’s work. Your vehicle activates the sensor, and a dark wall lights up with a picture of someone breaking into a car. Bold text reminds you to lock your car – and not leave valuables behind.

It’s a reminder tired drivers often need. Nobody wants their car broken into – but sometimes we forget not to encourage thieves.

This project was an effort by Clementi Police Division to reduce crime. At the launch, SUPT Anthony Ng, Commander of the Division, also presented certificates of appointment to the neighbourhood COPs – Citizens on Patrol. They are members of Bukit Merah View Zone “B” RC, and patrol the neighbourhood at least once a week in groups of about ten people. Patrols last about two hours, and anything suspicious is reported to the police.

NPCC groups from Crescent Girls’ School and Gan Eng Seng School came to look after the exhibits and answer any questions residents had. Mr Chua, OC of GESS NPCC, felt it was a great chance for the troops to get exposure, and gain experience talking to the public.

Everyone was involved. As Ms Indranee Rajah, guest of honour for the event said, “Tackling crime is not just a police affair. They cannot be everywhere. Everyone must do their part.”

--

One I can only assume was by Matron, and the other is my version that hasn't yet gone through Mr Ancob's editing. Even taking into account the different focuses due to publication, I'd say I have a long way to go before I get that sort of rapid-fire efficiency in my writing. Something a lot of people fail to realize, and I've only done recently, is that plain, unbiased and effective journalistic writing can be the hardest thing.

And I'm not sure I want to lose the eccentric bit of my writing, or am happy about what I've already lost.

But, yes. Was interesting to be able to see what someone a few leagues above myself wrote about the same event.

Let us not forget the issue at hand:
That is one sad crime prevention device.

Its been a long week.

Comparisons, comparisons.

One looks back and thinks: sure I had to work for thankless bosses, crap pay and put up with the scum of today's youth. But at least back then I had a definite number of hours to work, fixed off days, and overtime pay. Was it really so bad?

Yes. Yes it was. Dead end job, possibility of me snapping and taking a chair to one of the kids, and lastly, I wouldn't have been able to bring you this breaking news.

English is supposed to be your second language if you're anything other than Caucasian. Bit different here, where the ones that go to school learn English on a first-ish basis. And a good lot of us go to school, no?

Most do alright in the language. They come out of school with a good working knowledge of the language. Yes, "working knowledge", though many, and I do not exclude myself, think they know English.

Oh, and our official National Language is Malay.

We get along well enough. Not too many Yeats, Dickens or Austens around, but we get along.

Now, it may be presumptuous of me, but I would like to think if you're a qualified doctor, a politician, and hold numerous positions of authority - the standards have to be ever so slightly higher.

We're not asking him to pen sonnets to the Merlion. Just to know the difference between "its" and "it's".

A fair number of people make the same mistake. Most think the two are interchangeable. On an unrelated note, most are high school students.

I wouldn't be bringing this up, but for that the person in question once reviewed a piece of copy both Mr Ancob and I wrote, edited and proofread the hell out of. He put in, let's call them "questionable" changes. He also told us what a bad job we did - that we had poor grammar and sentence structure - and made a note for future submissions to be better efforts.

Yes sir, we will improve. Thank you for you're invaluable feedback.

If I don't say anything in two weeks, BadAss man's got me.

Culling the herd.

The problem with not reading the news is, by the time something everyone's been talking about reaches you, it's become sort of... Olds. And you can't possibly comment without looking like a bandwagon-jumper either way.

But yes, I've just heard two bloggers here have been arrested and charged with sedition, for posting racially inflammatory comments online. They're out on $10,000 bail, now. If convicted, they face up to three years in jail, or $5,000 in fines, or both.

Interesting, on several counts.

"Bloggers", as we know the term, have been in focus so much and so often for...well, getting into shit, that it seems anyone who gets into trouble for saying something online is now a Blogger. One of the arrested duo did post his worthless thoughts on his weblog, but the other one was posting in a forum. A doggie forum. So convenient, though. Got in trouble for saying something online? Must be a Blogger.

I have trouble enough finding time and things of sufficient interest to you three people and small yappy-type dog to write about. Well, fine, just about anything can be made interesting and I'm just lazy. But these people are of a different breed altogether. Stirring up racial angst on a frickin' dog-lover's site?

You would think. You would. That people learn. Our superior cognitive ability is supposed to be what distinguishes us from the monkeys, our closest cousins. How many times have people been shot down for this or that involving their Blogs, for chrissake. The last I wrote about it wasn't that long ago, and there've been plenty since then.

But these people are still of the HAY I M ON D INTARNAT NO 1 KNO WHU I M HUR HUR mentality.

They deserve it. Yes, they do. I'm with the gah'men on this one. We all get angry with other people. Some of us more often than others. And then we pick up whatever we can to justify that anger. In a state of rage, a lot of name calling, mental or not, can happen. But we don't really mean them, and apologize afterwards to have great make-up sex.

There really is no way to have emotions run that rampant when you're typing something. Or to have great make-up sex, but let's stay on topic here.

Screw the fines. Lock them up, I say. I think quite enough has been done to champion this "freedom of speech" thing. Amazing place, America, and some damned fine things come from it. But the sheer number of things people can get away with there, under "freedom of speech". It is nothing Singapore needs.

They can have freedom of speech when they learn how to behave like a human being. I'm not even asking them to be good company, you know. Just shutting the fuck up about their perceived superiority would be good.

Nicholas Lim Yew, 25, and Benjamin Koh Song Huat, 27. Part of the ethnic majority in Singapore. Surprise, surprise. Not so tough now, are we? Too bad you'll probably be able to pay the fines - and that the judge probably will give you pricks a fine.

Would be lovely to see what the Malay and Indian community in prison think about your witty, witty comments online. I'm sure they'd want to...exchange views.

Knackerism.

I'm come a long way from that young indolent who thought waking up at seven in the morning was the most ridiculous thing in the world.

Yes. Now I actually have to do it, you see.

It's been another wake/work/sleep week, and boy will you be thrilled to hear about it!

...If you're that peculiar sort that appreciates the nuances of watching paint dry.

In the abscence of my usual lack of wit, here is a picture of a goat.



Got potential, that one. Remember, all credits go to Songdog.net . His goat, his glory.

The Y-Files.

Was a lovely movie, if you've caught it.

Mel Gibson get electrocuted in his bathtub, wearing make-up and having just waxed his legs. And when he comes to, he can hear what women around him are thinking.

...I need 01 x Makeup Kit, 01 x Wax Strip, and...uh, to fill up a bucket of water. HDB, lah. Sure we could have a bathtub. Just take out some of the luxury, space consuming items. Like the refrigerator. And the stove.

So no, we're not seeing other people anymore. As of a few hours ago, we have lost the ability to perceive other people. Invisible, you lot are.

Screw Vanity. Woman, thy name is Whacked.

...but in a lovely sort of way.

Work-around.

...around the clock, perhaps.

Been quite busy. I do apologize. Twelve hours at the office doesn't leave me fit for much else when I get back.

But, yes. The pictures, they are out. Now, I know I promised nice pictures of our beloved Ministers of Parliament and such. But I had a niggling doubt (of the non-racist variety), and consulted Mr Ancob. After all, they're more or less his pictures.

He explained it quite nicely. In the interest of readability and flavour, I have distilled it down to this:

"You want to put pictures of gah'men on your site. Never die before ah?"

Lovely thing, self-censorship. I did concur, however. So you'll have to take my word on Dr Lily Neo being very, very pretty.

...Really.

...No, really.

Pity. The profile picture link on the previous entry does her no justice. But if I do put anything up here, I might get...



...BadAss man after me. I never did find out his name, but look: no other words are going to come to mind when you see him. He could do anything, and people would never question it.


BadAss man shoves past a 120kg, African-American bodybuilder.

Bodybuilder: "Yo what up wit dat dawg?! You looking to star..."

BadAss man slowly turns around. He looks questioningly at the bodybuilder.

Bodybuilder: "...sir."


He was one of the bodyguards there. Utter respect. One does not manage that grim set to the jaw without years of practice. Of course, he could be cheating and have been born with it. Probably flipped off the doctor as he slid out, too. Badass.

What, you think you could take him? That's just because you're not seeing him in the proper context:


Told you. Badass.

So you'll have to make do with generic cute kid.

Hey don't diss it. You think getting these are easy?


And of course, must have pretty girls.

The beautiful Kelly, runner-up of yet another Idol-type contest, Project Superstar. She does sing very well. And is very pretty.


And there's Kelly with the winner of that contest, Kelvin! ...otherwise known as Wei Liang.

I must speak up at this point. Even in newspapers, I see the phrase. Why is she "Kelly", and he "Kelvin, better known as Wei Liang"? It's a trend, you know. That Chinese male singers go by their Chinese names, while female singers take on all sorts of bopsy monikers. "Apple" and "Fish" are up there. I've heard of someone called "Hymen", though that's unconfirmed.

...why?

But they're very close, as far as I could tell. It was oddly sweet. Cameramen would go up for pictures, and Kelly would tell Kelvin their pictures were being taken. Kelvin would then flash a very sweet smile at a nearby potted plant, and Kelly would put her arm around him and gently swivel his head to the right direction.

I must also mention that Kelvin came very close, several times, to being photographed groping Kelly's boob. Though I will not condemn others for things I would very much do myself, it might be something they want to look into. Just wouldn't look good on the camera, no matter how much we understand that it's an accident. Or two. ...Or nine.

It couldn't have been easy for either of them, you know? Whoever won the contest was going to be called names. Kelly could dress up, sing and dance. Which she did. And people would say that was why she won. Kelvin was blind. An against-all-odds sort of hero. And people would say that's why he won. As it is, I've already had a friend say quite firmly to me, "You do know he only won because he's blind, right?" .

Well, I let it go. They seem to be doing very well together. Perhaps some happy relationship will come out of this. You go, Kelvin! ...or, Wei Liang.


Well, maybe he doesn't need my well wishes.

The other pretty, pretty girl is...Eve, I think. Runner-up of...another contest. It begins to get out of hand.

She's from Taiwan, and also sings quite nicely. I felt a little sorry for her initially. You see, the three of them were sitting quite innocently at the side of the stage. You could go right up to them, like three other photographers and myself did.

Then...they were noticed.

The agents and organizers eventually pried the bloodthirsty crowd of schoolgirls, bengs and aunties off. Then they allowed no one onto the little platform where the performers were seated. Through all this, Eve was...untouched. No requests for pictures, no sneaky sneaky pictures being taken. She looked a little sad, to me. So, being one of the few that could get onto the platform, I decided to make her feel a bit more special by taking pictures of her.


Pretty pretty.

Turns out there wasn't really a need to. Though a fair bit of the crowd started leaving right after Kel&Kel finished their last song, quite a number stayed, intrigued by the sweet young thing coming on stage.

She sang, and though it wasn't magic or anything, she was pretty good. And very photogenic. A group of schoolgirls collaborated to chime, "You're very cute!" after her song, and that cheered her up considerably.

I thought there was some surreptitious checking out on both my side and hers, both before and after I'd taken her picture. But of course, quite probably my deluded self. Her agent was better looking than me.

And way back then, I had a girlfriend.



...It wasn't a terribly interesting day, and not put across in a terribly interesting way.

Story of my life, that is.

Whining noises.

No, nothing much to see here I'm afraid.

It hasn't been one of my better weeks. I figure I should list it, so I have some sort of benchmark. A whine-o-metre, if you will:

- A truncated weekend. Sure, I got to see Lee Kuan Yew and pretty, pretty girls. To one, I was paparazzi scum, and to the other, "that ogling weirdo with the dinky camera". And I suffered the most devastatingly patronizing laugh at one of my attempts at humour I have ever heard. It will haunt me for some time.


- A brief rest, and the week starts proper, with my going to the dentist. He proceeds to drill my face off. Dentist-chair pain is unique. You feel intense, immense pain from a tiny drill that makes a horrible, horrible noise. While staring up at unblinking eyes and semi-invasive lights, alien-autopsy style. Then you pay an obscene amount of money for that pain, and thank them profusely. My heart flutters at the thought of the impending wisdom-tooth extraction.


- I ask her out for a drink in one of my rare, free-a-little-earlier evenings. We sit down with nice beer on a cool night with lovely weather, at an intriguing Jamaican-themed pub with soft reggae music playing.

And she tells me she thinks we should "see other people".


- We submitted a near-completed copy, that really looks quite nice, of something that has dragged on about three months and counting. At the review meeting, we go over the twenty thousand changes that must be made. I'm not complaining about the work. It's there, and I'll do it. But nineteen thousand of the changes look to be made by a geriatric monkey. Who only speaks French. Three other projects must also be done.

They were all due, of course, two weeks ago.


Just the major bits, those. The week is quite far from over, as what can happen in a day shows. The Saturday should be spent catching up with what we've got to do. And some event is coming up on Sunday, though I don't know if I'll have to go.

It's a vicious cycle of coffee, cigarettes and ploughing through rather thankless tasks, right now. I'd like to get smashed silly, but as usual, am running on broke. And not too many...fine, no one to do it with. So I play Maple Story when I get back. Same face-numbing effect, but no trying-to-walk-in-straight-line fun. And zilch chance of drunken debauchery.

Well, not that the last was ever quite possible. Can't pull that off, no.

Oh, I fully understand there are people in the world living far, far worse lives than I am. A better person would square his shoulders and start setting everything in place.

I make whining noises. Like the dentist drill.

So there you have it! The new site starts, virtually indistinguishable from the original. Ceterus paribus, except the address and the title/sub-title. Don't diss it, you have no idea how long it took to come up with those four words. Though, we should not rule out the possibility that other people would be able to do it in two minutes, and I'm just incompetent.

No fanfare, no champagne, no confetti. Just a sort of...whimper.

I apologize.

The little boy that couldn't.

No
more worrying about things to do no
more weighing should and could no
more impatient waiting by the door no
more what i did what did you do

No
more planning and mock-rehearsing
the silly things you'd do at the wedding
the thank-you-for-comings and songs you'd sing
that you never told her about

None.


Amazing what can happen in so short a time, isn't it?

Well, there you go. I'm ambiguously single and available now, it seems. Affected me more than it should.

Than I thought it could.

Revamp! Revamp!

"Thinking about changing the name, we are."

Bah. You people need to watch Eddie Izzard. Then I could just drop references and you'll all be laughing. Saves me a ton of work, that way. The above quote, for example, is hilarious.

No, really.

But, yes. Just as a brand of dog food for small yappy-type dogs made it big by changing its name from "Mr Dog" to "Cesar", so shall TehUneducated evolve. The new name will be...

TehGoat.

...what.

Goats are unique in a way few people see. Dogs bark. Cats meow. Cows moo. Notice the direct working of the actual sound into the word. But the goat! It does not emit anything that sounds like bleat, does it now?

Meh. Mehhhh. Mehhhhhhh.

That was an example, in case you had no idea what a goat sounds like, you see.

So there we go! Cute, horny, and sometimes ornery. Eats anything, too. Fuck with a frying pan if that's not me in two sentences.

Besides, TehUneducated is a mouthful to handle. Not the sort of name that rolls off the tongue, no. And I'm quite tired of trying to explain it as the running gag I mean it to be rather than some sort of complex I have.

Please adjust your television sets accordingly. It will very soon be tehgoat.blogspot.com that will entertain you with his high-pitched whining noises.

Verily, I say unto you:

Meh.

Pseudo-celebrity prelude.

And yes, the job begins to pay off.

There was a Walk-A-Jog today. Yes, another one. This was for the People's Children's Fund, and held at Bishan Park. I'd like to meet the first person who came up with fusing the organization of a mass walk and charity. Don't get me wrong, I think the cause is very noble. But do you see the connection?

It was organized by two Town Councils, and of course the Ministers for Parliament of each had to be there - including Minister Mentor Lee Kuan Yew!

I was a little hyped about it in the morning. In a few hours time, I would get to see the Man himself, in person. I have declared and been lambasted for my lack of interest in politics, but this was the Man. Forget that silly British man who tripped over us in 1819 - he just dug up the clay. Mr Lee was the potter.

...Or so the history books have me believe.

So, yes. I got to see him in person. Or rather, bits of him. From the moment he stepped off the car, he was mobbed. Singapore really loves him, it seems. I found it very amusing how the people I spoke to all referred to him as "EmmEmm". It's like he's lost his name. Mr Lee will do fine, thank you very much. EmmEmm indeed.

They also pronounce the Minster for the Environment's name, "Yakult". I don't know for sure, but is that how you pronounce something spelled "Yaacob"? It was cute the way one official said, "Yes, then Yakult will arrive... . Uh, sorry, I meant, Dr Yakult." I think she seriously was worried I'd go over and tell him.

I also had the most spectacular of my patented Fall-Flat jokes today. I was introduced to a rather prominent person.


PP: "...and yes, they had the place prepared a few days ago by pouring sand onto the grass to prevent it from becoming muddy."

Me: "Indeed? That's quite interesting! Do you know how much sand was involved, sir?"

PP: "No, you'll have to ask them about that. Why, though?"

Me: "Well I just thought it would be a good thing to say, you know. 'And they prepared the grounds by pouring twenty thousand tonnes of sand into it!' ."

PP: "Ha. Ha. Ha. I don't think they'll want you to say that."


He literally said "Ha. Ha. Ha." . It was possibly the most deprecating laughter I've ever heard. The irony is, I really did think it was a good idea to talk about the preparation of that field. Shows they thought about and put effort into it, you see.

I think he got where he was by laughing at his potential competition for promotion. That could stop a randy elephant dead in its tracks. Respect.

During the actual walk, the phrase cheebye Singaporeans, came to mind. Mostly the aunties, really. Repeatedly, I was shoved, jostled and smacked about while trying to take a good picture. They'd just barge into, and past you.

I don't get it. It's happened before, my being stuck in a huge packed crowd. And the pieces of shit who push, shove and poke you in the buttox with a sharp stick are always aunties. Do they all hit some kind of magic age where their brain just snaps and goes, "Right. I'm pushing 50 with a voice like nails on chalkboard, and there's no way I could look good if I tried. Fuck this - It's my way or the highway."

And then they put on the motorcycle helmets, get on their Harleys, light cigars and ride off.

Just unbelievably self-centred, some of them. There I was, being held back at arm's length by security people. I stand on my toes, hold my breath and focus the lens, waiting for a good moment to snap. It's coming. It's coming. IT'S...

-jab-

...

-jabjab pat arm-

I turn back to see if it was Mr Ancob wanting my attention for something important.

"eH boy your arm ah, can eksew me not?!!11," says the auntie whose face I turn into, pushing a camera into my face.

I gave her a look that hopefully conveyed the exact number of painful things she could do to herself before I ekskewed her and got back to trying to do my job, muttering under my breath.


And, yes, the pseudo-celebrities! I was an arm's length from Kelly Poon and Kelvin, the Project Superstar winners! Not really into these "Idol" spinoff winners in general. I am unable to continue eating my food if I happen to see Sylvester from the last one. He just rubs me the wrong way for some reason.

But Kelly very pretty.

And Kelvin has my respect and admiration. I couldn't imagine a life blind. He wins a singing competition in front of 8, 000 people. My metaphorical hat off to you, Kelvin.

I could have gotten a picture taken with them, yes. As many aunties did. But I just figured: if I start now, where's it going to stop? Screw it.

So that's a brief wrap of the day. When the film gets developed I'll try to wrangle and get it up, specially for you three people and small yappy-type dog who read this. Because I Care.

Inside joke, sorry.

I will conclude by saying I quite possibly have all my priorities in the wrong place. I go to an event like that, with a proper pass and everything. I am to take pictures, and write it up later. Mr Lee Kuan Yew, the man who helped build Singapore, is there. I am close enough to him to make out the leaf stuck in the back of his head. And the one thing that sticks out in my mind is...

...Dr Lily Neo very pretty, lah.

"Wider, please."

The human mind is capable of great things. Love. Friendship. Loyalty. Compassion.

Then there's dentists.

We've all had our share of misguided childhood ambitions -

--
Kindergarten teacher: "So Tommy, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

Tommy: "A Fireman so I can help save people and put out fires!"

Kindergarten teacher: "Very good. Jane?"

Jane: "A policewoman so I can catch the bad guys and lock them up forever!"

Kindergarten teacher: "Doesn'treallyworklikethatiftheyhaveagoodlawyerbut Very good! Tessa?"

Tessa: "A reporter so I can talk to people and write their stories!"

Kindergarten teacher: "Wow, that's nice! And you, Mark?"

Mark: "I wanna be a dentist so I can earn lots of money by causing people immense pain and trauma hyukhyuksnort!"

Kindergarten teacher: "...wtf."
--

It's not like, say, photographers. With photography you can discover you have an eye for taking nice pictures, work at getting better and go professional. Dentistry is something you decide on right off the bat. Well I suppose you can discover you have a good talent for causing people pain and enjoying it. That, or discover you really, really like teeth. Not a very healthy thing, either way.

And they lie. They do. It's a bit sweeping to say they all do, but in my experience, yes. The words constantly on the tip of their tongue are "root canal". Because it's one of the more expensive and painful options.

--
Patient: "I've got this..."

Dentist: "Root canal."

Patient: "...bit of a gum bleed. Are you sure that's necessary?"

Dentist: "Oh, yes. Never know what's causing those things. Could be very serious, yes. Better have a root canal just to be safe."

Patient: "Well, I suppose you know better. Alright, then. I've also got..."

Dentist: "Sounds like another root canal, that is."

Patient: "...slight runny nose do you think it will affect the dril..what?"

Dentist: "Oh, nothing. I was clearing my throat."
--

Follow one around long enough and you'll see him at McDonald's ordering, "A Big Mac with extra root ca...uh, lettuce, I mean."

Having a spot of trouble with my wisdom tooth growing out, I went to the dentist about a year ago. It was growing at a very bad angle, she said. What was absolutely necessary was to have an operation where they would cut my gum to pieces, smash up that tooth and extract it. And because I had this weird tooth structure in general, they would need to...

I forget the details. She was very persuasive though, and I figured saving up that close to two thousand dollars for the operation was imperative. It was a very fortunate thing that Miss Procrastination and I have a dirty little affair going on. The damned tooth grew out fine.

Of course, she quite probably was a kind, benevolent dentist who saw a problem that has even now yet to happen, and was acting in my best interests. Five years down the road, that impudent tooth may have me drinking my meals in immense pain.

"Medium-rare steak. I know it's an unusual request, but once you're done cooking it, could you be so kind as to toss the lot in the blender on 'Liquify' for three minutes before serving? Thank you very much."

But just imagine the things she wanted to do to my mouth! With me looking right up at her, adding my nail marks to the twenty thousand others by the side of the chair. And I just know she'll keep giving me that disapproving look and say,

"Wider, please."

The Day's Takings - Finale.

So you see, the secret to happiness is really very simple: set yourself targets that are quite easy to reach, or so metaphysical no one can tell.

I've got the last batch of pictures up, and it's nowhere near the end of the month. Eh?

My next goal is to be born rich and achingly good looking.

But, yes, on with the show. The previous entry ended at about the early evening. The day's fringe activities were over and the performers had packed it up and gone. It was a little weird to see Butterfly Man without his wings. He was fantastic as Butterfly Man...so much that he even looked a bit bug-ish to me without the costume. Zero offence, merely observation. And hey, looking like a bug isn't at all a bad thing. I think.

And so, the beginning of the end -

5.30 pm: Main stage show.

This is where, through the video link on the huge array of screens I was telling you about, we had the Parade and performances at the Padang telecast LIVE OMG. The phrase "MAKE SOME NOISE" started on its arduous journey of abuse here. By the end of the night, it was in a shivering heap, muttering incoherently to itself.

So they switch from area to area - Padang, Marina, Tampines, Jurong and us. At each point, the MCs of the place would get everyone to MAKE SOME NOISE. The people of each venue also had to do that Singapore Workout-ish dance. The people of Yishun were quite good sports. Most gave it a shot.

The Ministers of Parliament for the divisions that were zoned for this celebration then arrived. On trishaws, no less. They were welcomed by many cute children waving flags.

Yes, the children were actually pretty cute. Specially selected for cuteness, you see.

We watched the President arrive at the Padang, and as is customary, all sang the National Anthem. It has been an observation of mine that, besides the schooling kids who have to sing it every morning, no one else seems to know it. Or willing to actually sing it, anyway.

This was followed by the usual slew of performances and song-singing. And then OMG TEH AIR DISPLAY. The MCs announcing it sounded very excited, you see. I am earnestly trying to get that across. What the air display was, though:


It was over in about three seconds. But it was a very exciting three seconds, mind.


7.15 pm: Ha. Ha.

The Mobile Column, that assortment of huge Army and Civil-Dee vehicles, starts driving past the Padang. We get to watch a little, but they're driving on to where we are anyway. So we watch a short video about the founding of Singapore, which is about the same material as what I covered in the Singapore entry but very much more proper. They had a cartoon of Sang Nila Utama sailing and seeing the shadow of a lion and everything.

Then we had...Laughter Therapy. This is where things got a bit weird. They invite some sort of qualified professional up on the stage, and she tries to lead the huge crowd there at Yishun through the various different types of laughter. There must have been about six or seven, but damned if I can remember any one. Her laughter was a bit forced, I felt. Sort of how it would be if someone told you to make laughing noises when your dog has just died.

But yes, the crowd was a sport. They...tried. I just retreated to my happy place when they were doing it.

You'll notice I haven't got many pictures up to this point. The crowd seated in front of the stage was about the size of a football field and a half you see. I'd been out at the perimetres all this time. Frustrated with the lack of opportunities to...shoot things, I hit upon the bright idea of going around looking for happy family/cute kid pictures. Those are always useful. Got space to fill? Put in a cute kid!

Not too many photogenic kids around there though. It could be my lack of skill but hey, what are the odds of that? I didn't get too many usable ones for publication I'm afraid. Some nice ones for my own collection, though...


I thought this was an awesome shot of a happy family. Notice, however, that the young boy is surreptitiously giving me the finger with his left hand. Must...resist...Photoshop...


And this gem. I just find this one unbearably adorable for some reason.

I found out one can get away with quite a lot if he walks around dressed all spiffy and has a camera on a string around his neck, with an official-type bag. Some sort of primal code in the DNA makes people automatically pose happily when confronted with the above conditions. The problem lies in the ones that aren't yet old enough for that to kick in. Quite depressing when a kid runs away from you screaming for his mommy.


Adults, though. No problem. I felt this was real sweet. They were just seated by themselves on a mat, quite content to let the young people do the screaming and shouting while they enjoyed each other's company.


I thought this made a meaningful picture, too. Little girl holding the book like that, with "The Future is Ours to Make". Very nice. As opposed to a picture of, say, some golden-haired ah beng holding it. Then it would be depressing. True, but depressing. Please to ignore the...simian-looking little boy.


It was a film camera, you see. And Mr Ancob had said earlier on I shouldn't need to worry about running out of film. We settled upon contacting each other via our mobile phones should we need anything, like updates, film and sanity.

Ah, so many things seem like such good ideas at the time.

Because at this point I'd run out of film going balistic on happy families, you see. And if you live in Singapore, you'll know how mobile networks tend to jam up on major occasions like Christmas and New Year's Eve, because everyone needs to tell everyone else to have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. It's like they'll forget to be Merry or Happy without being told to.

I wouldn't have imagined it. But apparently we also tell each other to have a Happy National Day, lah.

So the networks were jammed. Twenty thousand redials and all I get is a NETWORK BUSY KTHX signal each time. I was...stuck. I couldn't even go talk to people about the show, because I'd need pictures of them to use so you'll know they aren't figments of my imagination. I wandered around a bit trying to find the pink polo-tee and safari hat. No luck. I was just going to have to sit back and...absorb the atmosphere. Most of the subsequent pictures are Mr Ancob's.

A bit more of my sanity was ground away as they played "Reach out for the skies" again. Then, fireworks. Whee, fireworks. We've all seen them but we just can't get enough of the pretty pretty lights, can we?

This one was different, too. Because the firework cannons were in a cordoned area barely a hundred metres away from the crowd. You could see it shooting up from the ground, into the sky. The organizers were right bastards, too. No warning. And firework detonations, as I learned that night, are loud.


See, see. So close. When it started, the more skitterish kids also started crying. And you saw this wave of people scooting backwards. It really was quite loud. And at that distance, you also find out what goes up must come down. Wot, you thought the fireworks just disappeared nicely into the air? The spent magnesium fluttered down gently as grey, burnt-out flakes.

I actually watched with much amusement as a not burnt-out flake fluttered down onto somebody's back. Some furious swatting by her husband ensued.


They also produce a lot of smoke. Many a handkerchief was whipped out and fastened over nose, there.


Taking pictures of them is very tricky, Mr Ancob told me. You have to use a long shutter to get a nice effect instead of a blob of light. But then you'll also run the risk of getting these. Little fire-worm things which don't look very nice, do they?


A better example of the fireworks, which were really quite nice.


But of course, Mr Ancob, with 44 years experience in the industry, shines through. Those are just spectacular pictures. Front cover material.

AND I WAS OUT OF FILM.

But, yes. The fireworks were the end of the official concert. This was about 8.30 pm. They sang a few more songs, and the MCs closed the video link with the Padang. People started leaving, despite being told the concert wasn't over yet. There was still a sort of post-parade concert lined up, with fabulous artistes from all over, and the Mobile Column was on its way there.

They were still leaving, though.

A good many came back, however, once the post-parade concert started. Once again, NO FILM OMG. Let me try to do it justice.

"Yishun, do you want MOOOOORE?!", said the MCs. Very irritating. The crowd responded, but not all that enthusiastically, and heck, it wasn't like they were going to say, "Oh. You don't. Well we'll just call the whole thing off, then. Good night." .

Performer 1: Reshmonu
I gathered he's a huge thing in Malaysia. His segment was titled "Yishun Explosion" on the programme sheet. As cheesy as it sounds, it was quite explosive. He was this Indian chap with long dreadlocks and he rapped the crowd to rousing rhapsody. Very energetic, he was, and it rubbed off onto the crowd. He overdid the "tell the crowd they are wonderful people no matter what" bit a little, but he was one of the better ones. Everyone MADE SOME NOISE when he asked them to. They drew the line at PUT CHOOR HANDS UP IN DEE AIR, though.

Yes yes, we DO WANT MORE already. The MCs came out and asked again you see. Just to be sure. To verify that we did indeed want more, they actually went and divided the crowd into three sections, and got each one to MAKE SOME NOISE. Quite pleased with themselves, they then brought out the next performers.


Performer 2: Twins
The famous HongKong singers, yes. I thought they were quite horrible, but that's just me. Their selling point was sort of "hey, if one sweet-faced, young nubile girl singing bubblegum-pop can sell records, you can't go wrong with TWO". Maybe I'm just prejudiced, because I don't like that sort of music.

But they have no excuse for saying "Hello" about 17 times through their performance.

When they first came out onto the stage they said hello to the crowd you see. Screamscream, shoutshout. Said it about five times. Each. Then they start singing, and you know how there are little lapses in songs where it's just music and no singing? Some singers will takes the chance to smile and say a quick Thank You. Reshmonu had all kinds of things going on there. Well, damned if the Twins didn't fill each pause for breath with a Hello.

It was said very sweetly, of course. Wasn't sweet enough to take that stamp off their foreheads for me, though. Rhymes with "akimbo".

I'm not sure if it was me, the sound system, or the short Singaporean tongue which I am also occasionally guilty of. But I am prepared to swear that the female MC came out, effusively thanked them for their crap performance, and then declared that the Tits had a present for Singapore - a birthday song! Please, a round of applause for a birthday song from the Tits.

She'd meant Twins, of course. It was probably me. Not that it wouldn't have been just as appropriate, considering there were...

Ok, never mind.


Interlude: Mobile Column.
Remember that Mobile Column that was making its way down to the various Heartland venues from the Padang? Well, they were here! The on-screen camera panned to a view of the first vehicle, a jeep, pulling into the street with its hazard lights on.

...and stayed that way for about a half hour.

No kidding. This was one of the bigger screw-ups of the event. The huge column of Army and Civil-Dee vehicles stretching a few streets pulled up...and waited for about a half hour. The people got fidgety. Then they started leaving. And like the cliched domino effect, just about all of them started leaving. The traffic light junction to cross the street to get out was sardines-in-a-can packed. Traffic itself was backed up for two streets and counting. And this was all because?

Why, because the column had gotten there too early, of course. And we all know utter chaos might ensue from not following the time-table, so there really is not other choice than to sit and wait. With "Reach out for the skies" slowly grinding...

I think the song was the real reason for the mass exodus. Ugh.

To be fair, it was the only major hiccup that day. And as an unintended side effect, it showed the real National Day spirit, at least to me. Because in that ghastly, half-hour pile up of people and traffic, not a single car horn sounded. We're talking about Singaporean drivers who will flip you off for cutting into their lane, sometimes. I thought the lack of even one horn was quite amazing.

It was entirely possible that they simply weren't quite sure about horning a tank, or a five-ton truck full of soldier with guns. But let's be positive, here.

Finally, the time-slot was up, and they started moving. Good stuff, really.


You car. Me tank. You horn, me make small error in driving and crush you like insect. Questions?


The Army's Dial-A-Missile delivery service.


The Army's very advanced remote detonation machine. They placed a mine, then got the machine out to go detonate it you see. The MC warned the people to cover their ears, because there would be a very loud explosion.

What actually happened sort of went like this:

Machine comes out. Trundles to the mine. Carefully, they get it into position. zrrrnk zrrrnk.
Then it is time for it to detonate the mine omg. zrrnk zrrrrrrrrnk. poke.

Nothing.

zrrrnk zrrrrrrrrnk. poke.

Nothing.

zrrrrrrrrrrrrnk zrrrrrrrrrrrrrnk. POKE.

Awkward pause. And then the man in the bomb suit comes out and collects both the machine and the mine and they speed off. I leave you to draw your own conclusions.

The Civil Defence team was not to be outdone! They actually put up a mock building and set the thing on fire.


Using advanced fire-fighting technology, the MC tells us, they will rush in, rescue hostages, and then put out the fire!

What actually happened:

Fwoom. Fire.

Bee borr bee borr bee borr evacuate poor hapless sod very good now put out the fire.

Pssssssssst. Burnburn. Psssssst. Burn. Pssssssssst Burnburnburn.

...burnburnburn.

They never actually put the thing out. The MC happily announced that they'd rescued two hostages and put out the fire as the Civil-Dee team sped off on their scooters, leaving the construct to burn itself out.


Performer 3: Tanya Chua
She's a bit of a local celebrity. In fact, the only local celebrity that was in the post-parade concert. For National Day. A bit of an irony, I felt. Not many people were left by the time she came on. They'd all buggered off during that half-hour holdup, you see. But she bravely went on and sang some lovely songs, followed by a short dialogue session with the MCs.

This second bit reaffirms my belief that something was wrong with the sound system. Once again, I am prepared to swear this is what I heard.

MC: "So Tanya, we hear you're picking up a new instrument. What is it?"

Tanya: "Drugs."

MC: "Ah! That's very exciting! So you'll be doing it for your future recordings?"

Tanya: "Yes, I'll be playing the drugs. It's very new to me."

She meant drums, but it took a bit of figuring out for me. Perhaps I need an ear exam.


Performer 3: Nicholas Tse
For those not in the know, Nicholas is a pretty major-league HongKong celebrity. My theory is he's immensely popular because he has a kick-ass Chinese name. Xie Ting Feng. It just radiates cool, if you speak the language.

Doesn't hurt that he's achingly cute, too.

But he was wonderful. The organizers, the canny bastards, kept him for last so they'd be guranteed at least a crowd of fanboys. Or girls, as the case might be. I don't normally hold with mainstream popularity, as in the case of the Ti...I mean, Twins. But I could see why he's so well received. He was gracious, spoke English and Chinese equally well, and knew how to please the crowd. Many a shed item of undergarment was flung that night. And not all of them female ones.

One bit was quite well done. Obviously scripted, but quite well done.

MC: "So Nicholas, since it's your first time in Singapore in quite a number of years, we want to quiz you on something."

Nicholas: "Aiyayai. Well sure, but don't make it too difficult!"

MC: "Oh, we're sure you won't know this one. It's very difficult. Now, what we want to ask you is, what area of Singapore are you performing in right now?"

NIcholas: "Oh, come on. You must be kidding. How could I not know THE PEOPLE OF YISHUN?!"

It's a little hard to bring across in text, but he started off his answer soft and nonchalant, then turned it into a nice roar towards the end. It got a great response, of course. His voice was the sort that could carry it off. If I'd tried that, there would have been a squeak somewhere in the roaring bit. Zao siah, as we call it. And everyone would look at me stupidly instead of swooning like they did for Nicholas.


So that's the end of my series of little unofficial reports. Each one took me a little short of three hours including sorting, re-sizing and uploading. It was a fun and well-done, if tiring day for me, and I hope I've managed to convey some of that to you.

Plus, I have to write several reports about it soon, so I have to keep it fresh in my mind.

Wot, you thought this was all about you?