Episode 1: The Phantom Squirrel.

Coma.

Punctuating the week rather depressingly is my firm belief that I was a royal screw-up at an important presentation last night. Ah, the preparations. The writing. The re-writing. The setting aside of work we really should have submitted last week. The 2am shopping for decent clothes at Mustafa. The butchers, the bakers, the candle-stick makers. The works.

And I made it all un-happen.

Nothing spectacular like gracefully snorting water out my nose into the eye of the panel, mind. Mr Ancob says I did very well. I suspect he's lying. It was a very classic "My Bad".

Guilty as charged. Of...looking too young to be taken seriously.

It's true. I just can't pull off that look. You'd think two hours of trying on stuff would get me the Professional Writer image I was trying to project. Imagine a squirrel stuffed into a tuxedo. With a serious expression. That about sums it up. Mr Ancob's initial words were "high school kid going to prom". Be still, my bleeding heart.

Lovely thing, hindsight. It very probably didn't help that I was the one managing the laptop set-up. I was "The Computer Guy". I could have lived with that. The laptop welcomed the projector connector with tea and biscuits and all was well.

For about five seconds. Through what could only have been divine intervention, Miss Fujitsu Lifebook decided she didn't appreciate the...intercourse with the projector, and clammed up like a virgin oyster. I pleaded with her. Promised her it would only hurt a little, and only at first. Ran my fingers delicately across her sensitive touchpad, which she always loved. Nothing.

Fine. We settle upon swivelling her gently about. Being Asian, Miss Fujitsu was a lovely lady, but not too well endowed. We figured a 13-inch display beat having nothing. Wounded but far from defeated, we proceed to continue telling the panel why we were the best thing since sliced bread.

Three slides and a growing confidence later, Miss Fujitsu dies on us with the stomp of her dainty feet almost audible. "This can't be!" I cried. "The lovely, hour-long dinner we had meant nothing to you? You told me the voltage was excellent, and you'd enjoyed the meal! Your battery metre was three-quarters full!"

Because we'd charged her for an hour, it never occurred to me the laptop had died because of power. MrAncob, who adamantly insists he knows nothing about "DOS system" laptops, was the one to point out the possibility. A quick glance and...yes. She was empty. With no mirror in the room, I am unable to tell you the particular shade of red I quite probably turned as I scurried along my squirelly way to plug the laptop in. Demoted from "Computer Guy" to "That Boy", my benefit-of-doubt dignity levels fell. Sharply.

Miss Fujitsu, nose up high, announced she was ready for her...work. We ran a quick test with the projector to be sure it wasn't my childish incompetence that had the two not on speaking terms to begin with. Nope. They just weren't meant for each other. Let us ignore my very loud advice to Mr Ancob to tap the touchpad when he wanted the next slide. It worked for me the three times I ran the presentation through at the office. It worked for the said three slides, just. But it would be strung and quartered before it would work now. Fumbling with the mouse button produced sporadic results, which would have to do.

If it wasn't immediately apparent, whatever vague order in the presentation we had was gone. Wasted beyond twenty-five tequila shots at the bar. It was a bit of a surprise to me when Mr Ancob rewinded a little to the bit where I was supposed to speak a little. He'd covered due to my necessary scurrying. Flustered, I pinballed my way through what I remembered I was to say. At the point where the epileptic fit was to kick in and save me, Mr Ancob cleared his throat and said I was pre-empting him. I was? I thought I was supposed to cover this...wait. Where am I and what am I doing here? A few more false starts from me, and he smoothly takes over. Benefit-of-doubt dignity levels negative. Demoted to, oh I don't know, "Pond Scum".

He was wonderful. With the presentation on our part done, it was time for them to ask us questions! Mr Ancob parried and countered, every move flawlessly executed with the finesse only experience such as he had could provide. Our only other member of the team, the designer, had previously refused to talk. She wanted reassurance that she wouldn't have to, claiming all she was good for was doing work. Indeed, she sat quietly through the presentation, playing the part of ravishing beauty. We tense a little as a question specific to Design is fielded to her.

You could hear the crack of the whip as she snapped back with repartee. The member of the panel feigned dignified silence as he shut up. I must admit he played the part remarkably well. A lesser man such as myself would have stumbled, with "PUT IN HIS PLACE" branded across his forehead the way it was.

Myself, I'm surprised no one asked me to be a dear and get some coffee.

I've gone and done it again, turning something I'd meant as an introduction into a full-scale replay. For what it's worth, my penchant for drama has the whole thing blown out of proportion, so take it with that pinch of salt. It wasn't quite as bad as all that, but I did feel my utter inability to play the part I was supposed to had the thing doomed from the start. You can't get very far when one-third of your team looks like he swiped his dad's clothes for the occasion.

My yellow singlet and Levi's. Or death.

Poultry in Motion.

I used to fancy myself as some kind of Bard.

Used to write poetry, and haven't for too long. It's weird, really. Amateurish as my verses are, they at least flowed forth easily before. In a brilliant albeit sick sort of analogy, I seem to have poetical constipation now. Can't do it. Would come across too obviously as trying too hard if I did.

This was one of the -Out of nowhere, pick up pen and start stabbing paper with it- pieces.


It's a superficial world. Deny it if you will.
I don't.
It's a world where covers, not content, sell.
Where the Good are always Beautiful, and true
Evil must have horns and pustules.
Where the heavy-browed are stupid and the
Nondescript person cannot be the killer.

Spare me the inner beauty drivel. The advocates either look like
Movie stars, who can afford to be magnanimous, or
Warthogs, and they need all the help they can get.

This is me now. Or at least, what I look like now. A sort of warthog movie star.
Do you love me? My warthog or my star?
And if one day a vile, twisted magic cleft my lip...severed my ears...
Would you love me then? I can't promise you you but I can promise you me.
And if one day a bright, pretty magic swept me into Brad Pitt?
Would you love me then? I can't promise you me but I can promise me you.
And if me fifty years later met you in the now? Old and cold and frail and pale...
Would you love me
Then?

It's alright. Sometimes I lie too. And like you, I don't know it either.
Sometimes the ugly things just surprise me and scare me so I
Say things I don't mean or mean to seem to mean to seem.
And then I'm not a warthog superstar but a frightened little boy
Staring at the darkness with my pretty, shiny toy.

Shhh.
I'm a warthog superstar.
And the nondescript person cannot be the killer.

-Subterfuge
Secrets of a serial killer.


Hey, I never promised it'd be any actual good. Worth mentioning because, like I said, one of those rare moments I just...did it, and then stared at the page later wondering what kind of weirdo I was. No, no, not going emo on anyone. This was way back, anyhow.

...Beats me. Sorry.

Please queue in an orderly manner for the refund of two minutes of your life.

Placebo Redux - Chicken Soup.

I was going to title it "Sanctimonious", and proceed to tell you about my re-discovered hatred of staff in schools. Yes, you do get the legendarily inspirational teachers that Make a Difference, but for the better part, they remain a bunch of fucktards with over-inflated senses of worth.

Then you look at the average student here in Singapore - Obnoxious pieces of shit, rebels without a cause, now with new and improved Problems You Don't Understand. And you feel sorry for all of them. In a -Kill them all and let gods sort them out- kind of way.

But I am happy, and do not wish to soil the rare contentment with the re-living of the above. Perhaps another time.

So, yes.

Chicken soup and the better part of two drumsticks sit snugly in the belly, providing that warm, contented feeling and occasional braaps of chicken-flavoured air. A common enough experience, but this one made special because - Lo! I made it myself!

It bears mentioning that there is hardly ever food in the house. I get back from a day clomping around some forsaken region light-years from my place to...nothing, usually. The mother will insist on reheating some obscure bits that are technically edible, in a pot for days on end. The fridge yields...condensed milk, if I'm lucky. The Sardine Can population has been decimated by too many moments of desperation, and I usually just mumble "Fuck it.", and toss two eggs in hot water for a bit. Mr Ancob was aghast when I told him we hardly ever ate together, family-wise, except for Chinese New Year's. I decided to spare him the sleepless nights the fact that there normally isn't jack shit to eat in the house would cause.

Lovely things, these semi-dysfunctional families.

But tonight! Tonight was different. I'd actually meant to get a batch of chicken drumsticks from somewhere, having had the craving subliminally infused into me by a segment of Eddie Izzard. Awry went the plans, as plans are wont, and I mumbled as I clonked the eggs into the container.

Passing my sister on the way out of the bathroom, I decided to venture communication, and made strange animal noises at her. Having earned my cursory look, I pottered about my things. The growls must have gone down well however, for in a very uncustomary fashion, she asks me if I wanted anything as she was going down to Holland to meet a friend.

Making appropriately condescending noises at her decadent lifestyle, I then earn an incredulous look with my request for raw chicken drumsticks (Bless thee and thy 24-hour decision, Cold Storage). Sending her off with five dollars and instructions to buy however many that would cost, random internet clickage was in order until her return.

She knocks. I open. And handed I am, a plastic bag of six fat luscious chicken legs, lovingly packaged with cellophane over black styrofoam and cryptically labelled "Chicken Parts". Technically correct. Grammar and syntax in order. I let it slide.

Six. Large. Legs. Chicken. For the low, low price of four dollars. Many an eye will roll at my ignorance of grocery pricing, but I do not care. I run my fingers lovingly across the springy, goosebumped (chicken-bumped?) flesh, creeping my sister out and losing my dollar's change in the process as she runs off screaming. But I do not care.

So I take two of them put them in a pot add salt and ginger and garlic and shit with water and boil 'em for abit after which I take them out eat them and polish off the soup.

...What?

Ne quid nimis.

...Wah. Weekend liao ah.

Rather than pleb about being busy, it's true: I've been too lazy. Curiously, Mr Ancob casually inquired as to whether I'm still keeping TehUneducated alive, to which I responded in the positive. "Well, why do you keep it?", he asks, to which I staccato things to the effect of writing practice, of a different style. He assures me that before long, I'd be heartily sick of it. False bravado aside, it's true. Not the weblog, but of writing in general.

Ne quid nimis (it is given that anything and everything will sound, for the lack of a better term, cooler, in Latin, even if you have fuck-all idea how to pronounce it). "All things in moderation, nothing in excess". Ah, those Greeks. Handling copious amounts of stale, bland text which you are not allowed to flavour in any way, as a career, does indeed leave one a tad wanting of the desire to produce more when left to own devices. Aspiring models discover behind the glitz and glamour a life of obligatory sex with fat balding men and, a diet of celery, cigarettes and coffee (C-Diet omg). Aspiring actors discover a life of obligatory sex with fat balding men and much lambasting before finally giving up and getting a real job. So! , do I discover a life of obligatory...

None of that, now. It really is wearing, sometimes, to have to erase all wit and poise (whatever I had, anyway. Perhaps including penchant for brackets.) from your prose...even the bits you sneakily put in and think - hope - will get through. This is why Writers produce what is called Prose and Copywriters produce...Copy. Vicious, painful lesson.

I don't resent it though, however much and confusingly otherwise I may just have made it seem. With our sort of clientele, it's even more to be a given. Mr Ancob is a wealth of knowledge on producing "good copy (that) has no style whatsoever)", and I'm still learning. Don't give me that look, it's way harder than it seems.

Awfully refreshing to FOR ONCE BE ABLE TO SPEAK IN THE FIRST PERSON OMFG.

So, yes.

Closer to home (as opposed to Greece), the Straits Times' Forums have recently moved on to topics of personal interest. Now, this is the newspaper forum of our national 'paper we speak of. I believe it justified to expect some degree of quality. To be fair, there are indeed some good discussions there very often. Of similar quality though not much actual content is what I like to call "Neh Neh Nee Boo Boo" letters; back-and-forths between random whiner and authorities clarifying.

One NNNBB that stands out, with a happy ending, is where some "superstitious Chinese lowlife" complains to the Town Council about voodoo drawings made outside a flat by Indian Devils. The Town Council informs the Indian lady that her gutless Chink neighbour is scareded of her v00d00 and wants her to remove it. Rather than getting pissed about it and altering her v00d00 to cause genitalia to sprout from said gutless neighbour's forehead, the outstanding woman writes in to the Forums to explain in detail that it is an ancient Indian art-form she has drawn, meant to bring peace and prosperity to her family. I shamefully forget the name of the art. A few days later, Town Council authorities also write in to say they have relayed the message, compliment the Indian lady for her defusal of the situation, and say all is well. Intelligent Indian Lady 1, Spineless Chink fucktard -3576.

Then, there are the letters that make you think. Not about any important issue in particular, but about the sanity of the people who choose what gets printed, and the future of our nation with the letter-writers in it. Having now seen the back-side (NO. PUN. INTENDED) of part of the industry, I am now able to theorize that the people who select these letters have a quota to match of, say, 01 x "People's Concerns" Letters per day. The scary thing is, the ones they do choose must then be the best, and least mind-numbing of the lot.

There was the -concerned passenger- who wrote in about taxi-drivers not reminding people to put on their seat belts, or something similar. There was the -vigilant citizen- who wrote in about mis-named signs. On a whim, I scurried off to check today's papers... -scurryscurryscurry-...

...AND I PRESENT TO YOU, THE -CONSUMER'S VOICE-, REPRODUCED VERBATIM IN FULL TECHNICOLOUR!

"Karaoke Bill Rounded up 9 Cents"

I refer to Mr R's letter, "Bill was rounded up" (ST, June 8).

The practice of rounding up bills happens not only at Swensen's. I frequent karaoke chain kBox and I notice it also rounds up customers' bills.

In my case, it was not a matter of two cents, but a difference of nine cents! If a bill comes up to $24.31, it will be rounded up to $24.30. If there is a need to round up instead of rounding down, shouldn't it be $24.25? I have asked a staff member about this and his answer was, "This is the way we charge".

(ST, June 10)


Of course, with our intent being only to dissect content without any sort of a personal attack, names have been with-held. And uh, other various disclaimers to avoid libel suits.

Look, first and foremost, what kind of cheap bastard are you? No Donald Trump myself, I fully understand the need to be frugal. The thing is, when you go to places like kBox, you exempt yourself from that excuse because karaoke sessions are an extravagance. If this was about the aunty at the market rounding your kangkong up by nine cents, maybe. Just maybe. But it's kBox. No, you may not spring the "Music is my soul! More important to me than food!" excuse. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.

Next: The writer is not alone. Mr R, as is mentioned in the letter, has apparently written in to complain about being overcharged two cents the day before. Swensen's. Sale argument on all counts. Two cents. Ten times the WTF factor.

Last: It takes a very, very special kind of person, to have read Mr R's dissertation on Ye Overchargee 'O Swensenes' and not just dismiss it, or perhaps shake his head at the audacity of these commercial pirates, but to tear with the shared agony of a fellow victim and jump to write a letter about it! Next week: The ghastly tale of the fourteen-cent overcharge, coming to a Forum near -you-!

I've gone and whacked myself entirely off-tangent now, haven't I? I'd meant to talk about the recent spate of letters about Singlish (again) and of online gaming. But aha! Content for another entry. Frugality is the word. Gods know there's little inspiring in what I do daily.

Till then, three people and small yappy-type dog, NIL ILLEGITIMUS CARBORUNDUM!

Nah. Knock yourself out.

Dao Ni: The New Coffee?

Five. Forty. AM.

And I -cannot- fall asleep.

Thus here I sit, chain-smoking Davidoff Classics (decent), wondering if it's that crap of Soybean I drank a few hours ago keeping me up. It's got to be -something-. I have an interview with a prominent public figure in...four and a half hours. At Yishun. I could do without this.

Possibly, it's the Subconscious wreaking havoc upon me for the lovely gash on my knee. Yes, yours truly managed to slip and smack my knee straight into dirt, ripping bermudas in a quaint Levis-esque way in the process. Hurty stuff. And all because I was gazing speculatively at a building silhouetted in a very nice, overcast red sky at two a.m . Instead of looking where the fuck I was walking. Post-apocalyptic stuff, I thought, the little prophet I was.

"For being a retarded piece of shit, NO SLEEP for you tonight!", the Subconscious...seemed to say.

Meh. Too early to be funny. And my knee hurts.

In any case, anyone up for a beer sometime? The fellas just mouth "Yeah take care see you soon." like they mean it, and the missus is suspciously busy meeting varied girlfriends whenever I'm actually free. So let's hear it for fileshare networks once more, the adorable things which are the source of most of my entertainment. I am on the verge of developing a sexual relationship with my monitor. Isn't that right, May?

Maybe the neighbourhood cats. Yeah. Six-pack of Tiger, just sit down and chew the fat with them.

"Heh! Tell the one about that prank you played on Ginger with the rubber mouse again. More Tiger?"

Would be awkward, waking up in the morning to a stretching cat and slow, dawning horror.