Wherein I Finish An Essay

Finished... PS... essay...

Procrastination... in... blood... progress... so slow...

Worst... piece... of shit... ever...

(screech of nails on boards, ominous gnashing of teeth)

Just remembered I have another due in three days.

Drag

Just some random hilarious clip (work safe) of guys doing the thing where you sit in front of your webcam and mouth the words to songs whilst making funny facial expressions... errrm essentially a drag show without the female costumes. I can't really make out what they're saying before they start the clip, something like "Da4 jia1 hao3, wo3 men2 shi4 mei3 yuen4 de4", which I am guessing means they are from the school of fine arts? I hate to stereotype, but...

How long do people take to rehearse for these things?

Wherein I See Really Big Eyes

Rather embarrassingly, I am a regular visitor to Something Awful. Most of the time the American humour makes me a little sick, but the Hentai and porn reviews are usually good for a laugh, and strangely the authors are less racially-discriminating when talking about small-chinese-chicks-with-big-black-dicks than in articles describing "chinky" food. I guess some things are just above (or in this case, below) racial discrimination.

Awful Link of the Day was a website about Ocean, a "musical sorceress" (The Source, L.A.) with the largest eyes I've ever seen on an real human. She looks like something out of an anime-obsessed-geek's nightmare.

As for her music... well, I may not be a literature major, but when someone rhymes "monkey - junkie - money - funny" over an entire song I'm sure all those over the age of twelve will agree with me it's not good. I think this is why most chinese artists don't pen their own lyrics.

Eeeeee. The pictures just freak me out. Worse - I can't detect photoshopping.

---

Another link, this time for charity. Do help put it up on your blog too if you have the time - Special is a community project to help the disabled find jobs, mostly in the IT line. And why not? Most of those in the IT line are mostly somewhat "special" anyway - a hearing problem sounds barely counts as an impediment in an industry where almost everyone seems to have some kind of social adjustment issue (I'm generalizing, I know).

Wherein I See Burning Film

Over the weekend I went out with QR and his girlfriend (I get the feeling I'm going to be going out with a lot of couples from now until the kids start popping out) and she decided that we would watch Flight Plan, the latest trapped-in-a-place-with-evil-movie starring Jodie Foster in a plane acting crazy. My guess is that the increased media representation of women hitting men with fire extinguishers and other heavy objects has led the contemporary Singaporean woman to be a lot more assertive, and men to be a lot less vocal about what kind of movies they want to watch - girls are calling the shots these days (or I just hang out with wimpy guys).

Anyway, as the title of the post suggests, in the final moments of the show, as Jodie punches an air stewardess (as far as I'm concerned the high point of the movie), the film burned. At first I thought it was some funky special effect signifying the air stewardess's loss of consciousness, but it became obvious in a second that it was rather too low-budet looking a special effect. I have tried to recreate the effect in Photoshop:

(Those of you who can't see animated gifs won't be able to see anything, sorry I still use such primitive tech) I was at first at a loss to explain the strange scene, but QR assured me it was the film burning and that he'd seen a documentary or something that had old projectors with burning film. It was the most exciting part of Flight Plan, what with the audience getting riled up and shouting to the poor attendant that they'd better get the thing working again (the movie had major themes of poor customer service, after all).

With luck, when I watch King Kong, we will be accosted by escaped gorrillas from the zoo. That would be ironic (yes, Gary, I know what "ironic" means and this time I'm sure I used it correctly) and interesting.

I already know I'm going to be disappointed in the explaination for the fifty foot monkey.

How Not To Sell Linux

Lesbian sex and linux. Punk rock woman teaches linux virgin how to get down and dirty. Ugh. Check it out.

This has to be the sick, sick fantasy of many a tech-boi. And... if you can get off to it I'd say you're pretty-much-beyond-hope-of-redemption-by-normal society.

(By the way, the same site that hosts their torrents has a copy of Singapore Rebel on it, not that under any circumstances you should ever download it to watch because that would be so very very illegal)

Wherein I Am Not So Different

* just a note - in my previous post, I meant by "I can Pee and Shit like a normal person" that my toilet was fixed and that I wouldn't have to run half a kilometre to take a dump anymore, not that there was anything wrong with me physically that would have made me unable to attend to my sanitation needs *

I had a strange dream - rather out of character and also a little late. In it, I was back in my old army unit, and I screamed at some evil female clerks (I could tell they were evil in the dream, they wore flowing costumes that were inefficient and silly) who were trying to slack off, and they were suitably cowed. A peer expressed his admiration for my guts, and I beamed with pride over my asserted manliness.

Then I woke up, my drool leaking down my mouth.

I've never had a dream where I was aggressive. In fact, I've never been one to be aggressive (except to my family, and only in a rather sublimal and passive manner) and I have never ever shouted at anyone in the army. I just tended to speak rather quietly, review in my head the rules I had been given for being a GOOD LEADER and suck it up the best I could.

Of course, it makes me wonder if I am no different from the actively-aggressive types like Seet and Nick, who pursue bloody (and most ugly) activities like capoeira (the cha-cha is just a dance - capoeira isn't). After all, deep down the same impulses to cause hurt are still there, and I can even recall the intense feelings of satisfaction as the evil-office-ladies (oh who am I kidding. They weren't evil. They were dressed as Chang2 Er2) starting blubbing. I also remember telling myself to keep up the range of volumes and tones so as to keep them on their toes.

It was the most poetic dressing-down I've ever given.

Urgh. Scolding office ladies? Fawning peers? I have deep seated repressed emotional issues, don't I?

Wherein I Can Pee and Shit Like a Normal Person Again!!!

The title says it all. And I'm off to enjoy it.

EVIL WORDS

When the bloggers were jailed for being rascist, I thought it was a rather severe punishment for such an infantile crime. And it was somewhat insulting to have half the nation suddenly turn their attention to bloggers in general and start tirades in newspaper forums about how bloggers produce nothing but EVIL WORDS and are exhibitionist fetishists wasting their time blogging instead of productively watching mandarin drama serials.

I'd hoped the newspapers would publish some of the EVIL WORDS - if I'm going to be warned against producing EVIL WORDS it would be nice to have an example what to avoid. Unfortunately no sign of the EVIL WORDS appeared, resulting in a polarization of ideals - one side possibly imagining the worst and arguing for all rascists to be severely punished, and the other thinking no comments could possibly be that bad and that we should be a little more maganimous. Singapore played safe, as usual, in case anyone reading them should suddenly be mistakenly influenced by the EVIL WORDS.

I managed to net myself a short excerpt of some of the stuff written, thankfully (I wonder if Google has cached, or if the Singapore government managed to get them to remove it?) and after reading it... well, it's not so bad. It's insulting, I guess, and absolutely untrue, but then again Singaporeans should be pretty used to being insulted. I think what got the bloggers stuffed was the call-to-arms. Yes, folks, they encouraged others to join in their little Malay bash and I think that was what our government was trying to say was a BAD THING.

I wonder, if the police had said that they could not charge the bloggers under a public offence, and required an actual Malay to stand up and sue them for libel (which is really a sure-win case), if it would have ended up such a huge affair. What I mean to say is, if the prosecuting party hadn't been the Singapore Government and had instead been that Malay girl who blew the whistle, would Singaporeans have cared as much?

I'm not so sure they might have, though of course, I can't be sure (Singaporeans' concerns are sometimes a little surprising). Which then begs the question - has the government become our moral compass, instead of representing our moral values?

Wherein I Celebrate Another Birthday and (Don't) Want Things

Today was Wei Chuen's birthday, and we went to celebrate at KTV and then dim sum. Didn't sing much, and ate too much dim sum, meaning I was mostly rather bored during the evening, and had a stomachache after. Wei Chuen maganimously ordered everything on two pages of the menu other than the fried food, which didn't meet the approval of the healthy-and-sick-people and we stuffed ourselves on semi-good dim sum stuff.

Sometimes I think classy Chinese food names are the best part of the meal.

Along the way to the restaurant, these taiwanese tourists asked us if we were locals. I said yes, though the alarm signs should have gone off in my head to warn me against speaking to anyone in the Chinese language (I'm so bad at it). They asked if we knew the best place to have Hainanese Chicken Rice in Chinatown.

I was stumped. I seldom eat chicken rice (after a horrible experience with a maid in my youthful years) and even if I did eat chicken rice with any regularity my ability give directions has been commented on as being poor at best (YOU'RE USELESS, ALEX!!! at worst) Luckily Wei Chuen (a Malaysian) managed to point out some street directions to some eateries around the area, but I am now suitably embarrassed that I am Singaporean and I know little of my country's tourism hotspots. My confidence in making it in a hospitality career has died.

Shamed, I went home and checked it out on the internet. Here's some recommendations for good Hainanese chicken rice at makantime, and here's confirmation that any red-blooded Singaporean should know where to find good Hainanese chicken rice - it's supposedly one of our representative cuisines.

Before you mock the dish as having another country's name tagged to it, might I remind you that it's borrowed-name nature very distincively portrays our nation's migratory origins as well as our willingness to import foreign talent to supplement local manpower, making it symbolic in so many ways. The fact that the dish combines so many ingredients of different colours could also stand for our multi... And if that still fails to convince you, two words - french fries.

---

I'd actually wanted to take WC to ride the reverse-bungee at Clarke Quay (WC, if you're reading this you escaped, but only barely), but I thought the only way I could possibly get him to get on it was to have some of us ride with him. I was fully prepared to do it, of course, having done it before and knowing that it's really fun and exciting - just thinking of it makes my balls shrink and gives me that crawling feeling in my gut (or that could be the dim sum) - but I knew that wouldn't get him in and that I needed another certified coward to do it also.

Unfortunately certified cowards are, predictably, rather hard to get to go on reverse-bungee rides. And in the end I scrapped the idea, after being disappointed with answers of lack of money, courage, potentially-popping-blood-vessels and weak hearts.

Strangely enough, though no one had the guts to ride, they still wanted to watch.

Those cowardly friends of mine who have birthdays coming up, be prepared - you can find more information here. In case you can't figure out where it is, here's some maps (courtesy of Streetdirectory.com):

Someone's gonna have an exciting birthday.

---

I've never really noticed it before, but I get bored very easily when I'm with people and we're not doing anything. Things like sitting around in a cafe and talking, or having meals meets the limit of doing things.

I've never noticed it before mainly because 1) I don't really meet people unless there's some activity planned, and 2) my friends are starting to work, meaning they have precious little time to do anything but go for meals or drinks.

I'm not sure if I should envy those who can really, really appreciate good polite conversation.

---

Went home today finally. Mother plied her tactics once more - this time the conversation was strange (even stranger if you don't understand Singapore's housing laws - singles in Singapore can only purchase housing after the age of 35, those who are married or have parents, kids, etc can get them at 21 - for more info, check out the HDB website)

Mother: You know, if you want to buy a house we can sell off this one.
Me: Sheesh. I can't even buy a house till I'm 30. Singles need to be 30. Or 35.
Mother: Dad can sign up for it with you. Then you could get a house now.
Me: What? But Dad's already signed up for this house with you.
Mother: But he can sell off his share of this house and then he can apply again.
Me: What? Sell off his share? Then where would he live?
Mother: We can get a three-room apartment.
Me: What? Then who would live here?
Mother: Whoever buys the flat lah!
Me: What? Why would you want to sell the flat? (As you can see, I'm rather confused by the whole conversation)
Mother: So that you can buy a new flat lah.
Me: Then where would you live?
Mother: We'll get a three-room apartment.
(I am stunned for a couple seconds as my mother's words make an impact)
Me: But why would you want to do that? I don't need your help to buy an apartment. I'll earn the money.
Mother: (snorts in derision) You don't know how expensive it is, you have to pay so much to buy a house.
Me: No need lah. I don't want your money. (This is a blatant lie, I DO want my parents' money, and I take it from them on a regular basis)
Mother: You say that now, wait until you want to buy a house.
Me: Please. Give it to Victor to study with lah. He needs it more.
Mother: Wah. so kind ah, give money to your brother
(I rush off before it can get any weirder)

It's never figured to me before that my parents would ever leave me anything (other than my poorly-constructed body, alienation from my roots and siblings who will want money from me). And it got me to thinking that I couldn't, on any basis, take any money from them, not after telling them for so many years what Bad Parents they were for not being richer, or more well-connected, or having given me a better education (if it sounds like I'm horrible, my siblings are worse - at least I don't complain about not being breast-fed).

It feels a bit too much like extortion. And considering how much they've given me already, I'm really quite thankful. I feel like the evil son that I always read about in the evening tabloids who get headlines like UNFILLIAL SON BEATS MOTHER, TAKES HER MONEY!!!, though it really touched me that my parents were willing to do this for me. They'd probably get the headline that says PARENTS SACRIFICE ALL FOR UNFILLIAL CHILD WHO RUNS AWAY!!!. Yeouch. No way my parents are going to pay for my flat for me (big words for a 24-year-old who still takes money from mummy).

If it ever gets that bad I'll find a sugar-daddy. Daddies not related by blood are okay to take money from. And if there's one thing my parents raised me up to be, it would be to be independant (despite being somewhat tardy about laundry and cleaning the floor) and resourceful.

---

On the other hand, if I did have some money, I would want so very much to do a road trip.

A few glitches:

1. I don't own a car
2. Even if I did it wouldn't matter, because I can't drive
3. Even if I did own a car and I let others drive I don't trust those friends of mine who can drive
4. Being rooted to my country (ie. never been out of it for more than a month) I can only road trip in Singapore
5. A road tip around Singapore is about as exciting as getting your nails polished (assuming you're not Elvira Deville)
6. Assuming the stars align themselves, I'm still too much of a coward and a stick-in-the-mud to drop everything and run off
7. Lastly... I may be too old

I always knew the day would come when I'd start regretting not doing the things that kids do because otherwise I'd never get the chance to do it again because some things you can only do as a child. I just didn't think it would be this soon.

Regretting my youth marks my first step to middle age. Next stop - concealing age. Looks like it's concealer instead of car.

Happy

Just a little article about happiness and Gross National Happiness (such a horrible name). I agree that life shouldn't be an endless cycle of production and consumption!

Note that the whole concept is rather utilitarianst.

Cut and Run

Staying at my parents' place for more than three days has proved to be a trying affair. Not that I don't appreciate the free food and the decent toilet facilities (see previous post), but it's beginning to feel like I'm slowly being suffocated here.

I think it may have something to do with the fact that I work entirely at home and so there's no need to go out other than to buy the newspapers. The high point in my day occurs early in the morning when I conclude after a little justification that I DO deserve another hour of sleep.

Also, because I am a BAD BAD student who spends more time watching sitcoms instead of working on my essays, my deadlines are all over me and images of doom and F grades flash into my mind every time I think of going out to enjoy myself. Stepping into a 7-11 makes me feel bad about shopping.

Oh, and I also have no money, having not been paid by any of my employers. In the cosmic state of things, this is possibly ironic, because I am always late myself (it's a bad idea to make conclusions about waking up an hour later when you're sleepy and not thinking too straight). I'd appreciate the irony if the irony wasn't starving the part of my brain that says "I Give a Fuck".

That's Je m'en fous for you.

In any case, all this is contributing to my feeling like I'm an animal stuck in a cage. It's a pretty comfy cage with good food and decent toilet facilities, but then again so's prison. And in prison you also get sex (though you might not like THAT so much) and exercise to give you vigger muscles and make you tougher (then maybe after that you'll start liking the sex), but you always never hear about people wanting to get in.

Sadly, mother has in the past few days been pressurizing me to move back in. She's gotten better in the past years, and instead of blatantly pointing out that Good Sons Stay At Home With Their Mothers, she instead makes snide remarks about how much money I could save, and how lonely it is at home sometimes when there's no one to talk to (Brother is severely anti-familial relations, sister seems to always having PMS). It doesn't help that the majority of my friends and social circle are Good Sons and Daughters and don't understand why I'm doing this.

And I know, I know that I should just conform to the Asian standard, be a Good Boy and stay at home, but... it feels wrong, somehow, to do that. Even though there were the bad days and it always seems like I have to iron shirts, it's nice to have to be the one to have to do it. Not to say that I enjoy having not enough money and having to live off bread and water for a week sometimes, but it's... so much more than sitting at home watching Friends and waiting for mother to come home with dinner.

I sometimes wonder if it's just my instinct to cut and run, run from my rather dysfunctional family (I'm willing to put mine up with good odds) and get away from the mess and responsibility of being an Asian Eldest Son (which means the parents are my job). I'd like to think otherwise, and that I'm as good a son as I can be given my circumstances, but if it means sacrificing my... (oh, the horror of cliches!) freedom I'm not sure if I shouldn't.

I hate most the fact that my father holds the high ground in this regard, but I know that if he'd had any choice in the matter in his day he'd have cut and run faster than I have, and tossed his belongings behind him and built a wall as well. My mother, whom I resemble more in temperament, is partly the reason I want to go. Mother would stay. She'd stay and stay and stay, no matter how bitter she became. And I don't want that to happen to me - cut the cord!

It's gotten me thinking exactly what kind of circumstances would get me to move back home to take care of my parents. And they look a little too close for comfort. It's always been a foregone conclusion I have that I can run as much as I like now, but I'll return (however reluctantly) should the need arise. It's a Duty to Your Family thing, one of the things my parents taught me well, though I'd much rather they'd taught me Be More Productive and Don't Watch So Much TV or How to Play the Piano instead.

You always read about those awful awful children who put their parents in nursing homes? People who live on Moral High Ground probably don't reside in Reality Lane, or at least find the rent pretty high.

In any case, utilising another Life Skill my parents taught me - Ignore the Problem Until the Last Minute, I'm putting the decision off till December. I already know what I'm going to do, but... we don't always know what happens in life, do we?

Wherein I Don't Visit the Toilet

I won't be posting much, as I'll be spending the week at my parents' place.

The reason?

I've used toilets worse than this, and I suppose having the toilet in the middle of the room does give it a certain artistic and diva-ish flair, but...

The open sewage pipes sealed the deal for me. I'm nesting with Mummy dearest until renovations are over, which will hopefully be this Friday.

Hot and Not Music Videos

How to sell a song.

How not to sell the same song.

(To Nick and Seok: Why not liven up your aerobics class a little?)

Wherein I do Another Cutesy Animal

I don't know why I did it. Another cutesy animal.

It won't be long now before I start doing pokemon hentai.

On a side note, here's a photo of a sculpture near my place.

It's part of a series. There's Man Washing Hands too, and I'm sure a few more up the hill (with many steps that I am loathe to climb). Incidentally, Singapore recently launched an initiative to promote public access to art by putting sculpture pieces all over the place. ... I am unsure if this is part of said initiative - then again it looks more like it was sponsored by the Ministry of Health than the Ministry of Art.

Cat Sketch

Took me a minute to draw and a half-hour to colour in. Sometimes I feel Photoshop is more a curse than help.

And then it was so cute I had to do this.

Wherein I Check In On My Counter

It worries me, just a tad, that the majority of visits I get are from people searching for "Sarong Party Girl", "male escort service" or "pokemon hentai".

You can be assured that I am not a Sarong Party Girl, do not offer male escort services nor do I possess, or intend to ever create hentai in any way related to Pokemon.

Well, but just to satisfy some some of you... I mean, you did come all this way.

Check back in two months when I graduate for male escort service. Perhaps it'll seem a more attractive proposition then.

As for being a sarong party girl... well, I'm never gonna get the girl part so you might as well just visit the original here.

PS. I am a guy, in case the profile picture to your top right doesn't clue you in on that. I don't care what you think about a nick like "Fuzzybunn".

Wherein I Learn Something from my Blog Ads

So I check into my blog to see if anyone's left me any comments (which they never do) and I notice one of the ads has something on "Horror and Terror". Having just watched Apocalypse Now and being a Kierkegaard fan of course I clicked the link.

It is bizarre. Like some philosophy undergrad had taken it upon himself to distill the most confusing and ridiculous concepts he'd learnt in class and dump them here in white-on-black. I didn't even know there was an organization for raising awareness of ontic evil. Hell, I didn't even know what ontic evil was until I checked the dictionary (ontological). I also learnt the new word "comestible", meaning edible.

So Google ads ARE useful for something after all.

That Infamous Napalm Line

Just finished watching Apocalypse Now. Such a difficult movie to watch. First half was okay, but once the bridge started burning I just felt rather out of it, like there was some awesome cosmic significance to Captain Willard that I didn't understand. I suspect it's the machismo attached to understanding a war, and a severe repression of emotion.

Anyway I now know where that line comes from...

I love the smell of Napalm in the morning... Smelled like - victory...

Robert Duvall won an Oscar for that, though his American-Imperialist surfer character steps on my Chinese tail rather too strongly and it's been used almost everywhere (at least, in situations involving conflict). Actually to tell the truth that scene has to be the most insulting one to any country America has ever gone to war with. I can imagine the Taliban getting rather upset over Lieutenant Colonel Kilgore.

Visually the film is stunning, I guess, with excellent contrast shots and superb lighting effects. If it wasn't a war film I would likely have watched it with a little less disgust.

I hate war films. "The horror... the horror...", as Colonel Kurtz would say.

Swim 25m and make it in the Guiness World Records

In yet another bizarre attempt by Singaporeans to get into the Guiness World Records, the Boys' Brigade is organizing a 24hr swim marathon and hopes to draw 2,456 participants to beat the World Record for Mass Participation in a 24-hr Swim Relay.

Got the announcement on SMS (an ad). From numbers, 100 people are expected to swim in an hour. If you go strictly by "relay" definitions that means you only have 36 seconds to finish a lap. That's a tall order, even if you only need to fo a single lap.

Much as I like swimming, think I'll be giving this a miss. Already been part of a record to beat a World Record, think it was Making the Largest Heart Shape Using Pieces of Paper Held Over the Heads of People Who Have Just Finished a 5 Kilometre Run. And getting in the book once is enough for me (though it eventually didn't make it due to insufficient suckers taking part).

I wonder if there are any Singaporeans out there who can lay claim to having been in more than 10 attempts. Or even those who do them once a year, just for the fun of it. After all, Singapore does hold the record for Most Number of Attempts to Break World Records (we even have a company which organizes record breaking events). And I do believe we're mentioned quite a lot in that book... Domino toppling, Kargest Game of Pass the Parcel, Most Strings of Noodles, Longest Human Domino Line, Largest Display of Rice Dumplings...

I love my country.

Small dogs usually bark the loudest.

Wherein I Have a Close Encounter with Death, Or At Least Severe Discomfort

Went to Faizal's to help fix his computer, and he kindly gave me a ride home. Along the way, I mentioned to him that it was a particularly bad day for driving so fast because it was the start Ramadan. Of course, he took this to mean that speeding was a sin (which is why I brought up Ramadan), which was not what I meant at all - I just didn't want him to end up splashed across the tabloids as "Malay boy crashes at start of holy month, mother weeps, says he was a good boy" (though I think that's stretching the term "good boy" a little bit).

Because of his ultra-sensitivity and my inability to keep my mouth shut when discussing sensitive religous issues (it's difficult because most religous issues aren't sensitive to me, just hte people around me), we ended up not talking for a bit.

Then Faizal took a turn out the expressway and suddenly this other car on our left swerved into our lane without warning. Luckily Faizal's a pretty good driver (at least, more experienced than most of my other mount-the-curb friends) and managed to dodge him narrowly, tyres scraping the curb and making the most awful screeching noise. I swear the guy came within 5cm of us. Faizal later told me that the problem wasn't so much the other car crashing into us as us flipping over the curb and dying in a magnificent fireball, leaving both "good boys unrecognizable but for their teeth".

I can't believe we forgot to take down the license plate number.

I was a little buzzed on Panadol, so it didn't really hit me how close we were to dying, but Faizal started screaming like a little girl about how we almost went to heaven (or at least, him to heaven, me to aetheist hell) and how I was a freak for being so calm about it.

Logic being that because I'm an aetheist (which I'm not, I'm agnostic) I don't believe in an afterlife and thus I should fear death more than religous people who have something waiting there for them. I'd do the logic chain and find the flaw, but I'm still a little Panadol-shaky, so that's an exercise for another day.

---

Been looking through some of my old photos and videos, and I realized how much I've become like my parents despite trying to hard to run away from their influence. I look at Dad and think about his limitations, and my own, and his end-of-the-rope looks remarkably like mine. I might be able to move a little higher on the social-economic scale my parents occupied, but whether I can break out of the loop of their limitations, their value-systems, their fears and loves I don't know.

It's like I'm just living the life my parents would have led had they been born 40/29 years later. Any improvement on a personal level for me was inflicted upon by my society.

For some reason that makes me feel so... meagre.

Sad Lives

A most amusing satirical article about eating at restaurants.Read it.

I realize that over the months I discovered Chocolate and Zucchini I've also started reading a bunch of other food blogs. I don't cook myself, but images of good food always make me feel slightly better about life in general.

Check out Cooking for Engineers, which has recipes I'd try as well as amazingly detailed instructions for cooking. Also Obachan's Kitchen, a food blog by a middle aged lady living in Japan.

Although all three blogs are about food, you realize that the style of writing makes them all so different. Obachan, for example, is slightly dark and for some reason I feel sympathy for her constant moans about being all alone in the world (which makes the fact that she cooks regularly commendable!), whereas Clotilde from the Zucchini seems like the bright and cheerful trendy friend that everyone likes. The engineer is a lot like an... engineer.

And its all so wonderful! Each recipe is infused with a personality and becomes that much more interesting. If I cooked I'd probably do Obachan's noodle recipes when I was unhappy and sad, whereas Clotilde's sound like the food I'd cook when friends and family come over. The engineer... well, he's more for when I'm feeling emotionally detached, I suppose.

The point is, read food blogs! They're fun and exciting!

Wherein I am Glad the Kids are Gone

Okay, as promised here's the rundown of the Children's Day Carnival 2005 that I worked at over the weekend.

The banana got me the job - her company is in events management. Working hours were long, from 0900 till 2030 daily and the pay not too wonderful, but I thought it would be fun to work with kids (and also my rent is due), so I took up her offer.

Some pics from when I went for my briefing on Thursday. I laughed out loud when I saw the dino with the large yellow penis, which no one else seemed to get. Then again considering the gerenal ridiculousness you see in a kids' event I guess a large yellow penis is not entirely out of place.

My weekend schedule went something like this:

0700hrs - Wake up from alarm clock ringing from the other end of the room (placed thus to ensure I would have to get out of bed to switch it off), switching it off and going back to sleep.

0800hrs - Wake up to tweeting of birds outside my window. Take a half second to enjoy the sunlight streaming through my window and the sounds of nature before panicking because I'm going to be late. Get dressed in a hurry. Curse birds for not tweeting earlier and louder.

0830hrs - (day 1) fall asleep on the train, (day 2) fall asleep on the train, (day 3) sit uncomfortably in banana's dad's cab listening to small talk between banana's parents. Banana ignores me to listen to music. I would have slept, but upbringing tells me it is WRONG to snore, drool and loll my head about in front of friends' parents.

0930hrs - Make it to work on time, set up the Body Art booth and put some cartoons on the DVD player.

1000hrs - Wonder why anyone would wake up so early to bring their children to a god-forsaken corner of the island to see some exhibition. Change video.

1030hrs - Wonderwoman does her cabaret-type act on stage. Basically she dresses in a skimpy outfit and dances. She is probably the most entertaining thing on stage (to anyone above the age of 12).

The Flash and the Green Lantern come on after her bit with their fake muscles, which make the Flash look somewhat fat and the Green Lantern somewhat unbalanced (poor guy can't sit down in his costume because he can't bend his waist) for a photo-taking session which POSB provides free hard-copies for in an evil ploy to have parents visit the POSB booth and listen to a pep talk on invesment plans for children. Feel rather sickened by the whole affair, but realize that the cheapskate parents who go for the free photos probably won't be buying annuities for their kids anytime soon.

1100 - Wonder why the body painters haven't come yet, worry about the boss finding m at the booth, paintbrush in hand and a lame excuse for the body painters being sick on my lips, with a crying child on the make-up stool crying because the bat-sign I just drew on his face looks more like a turd in black.

1115hrs - Body painting goes underway. The crowd comes in waves. For some reason people only seem to com ewhen they see other people at your booth. I guess it's flock mentality. Children invariably run away from me when I ask them if they want to paint their faces. Screen Ultraman, because despite his lame costume and powers and lack of musculature the boys seem to love him.

1200hrs - Body painters go for their break, complain to me about the idiotic girls who want Powerpuff girl art on their bodies. This girl had all three - one on each arm and another on her cheek, and would have gotten more if not for her mother pulling her away. I anticipate she will grow up to be one of those girls with tatoos all over. (Day 3) we cut the Powerpuff girls and superhero logos form the menu and instantly customer base drops by about half. The power of the girls.

1215hrs - Wash the brushes and palettes. It's not exactly in my job description, but I like to think I'm making it easier and nicer to work for the body artists. Also by day two I'd finished watching all the videos and there was nothing to do, really.

1300hrs - Put on Masked Rider to keep the boys glued to the screen and watch the body painters do their work some more. I think around this time Anabelle Francis comes on stage to do a children's story-telling programme, which I can only describe as the shrieking of a banshee. She is frankly rather sinister, dressed in her outlandish costumes, surrounded by children and screeching in her incredibly high pitched voice about Keeger the Dog (or some such generic animal). The dog sounds like a beast with a commission from Down Below when she mimics the poor animal's voice. I usually beat a hasty retreat to the banana's booth around this time to get away from the aural torture.

1400hrs - Return to help the body painter pack up, close the queue and put some other video on the telly before running back to the banana's booth because now the Yamaha group comes on for their little song and dance.

Yamaha's performance involves really really really young kids about three years old in musical numbers. The poor things. They're herded like show creatures onto the stage to do their pathetic item, some children's song that they invariably forget the words (and tune) to, replete with simple actions that they invariably forget and have to be prompted by their teacher to do them. This is achieved by having their teacher stand in front of the stage to do the actions so the children have something to refer to.

It's disgusting child exploitation. Worse is the announcer going something like "Parents, if you want your kids to be able to perform like that (abysmally) then sign up now with Yamaha! Develope your kids' (lack of) talent!" As if parents are unable to teach children at age three how to sing or dance. You don't need a diploma in the performaing arts to do that, especially not your own kids, whom you're probably comfortable enough with to sing and dance with (assuming you're not dumb or wheelchair-bound). It's just an evil marketing strategy playing on parents' insecurities about not giving their children the "best" (employed by every single corporation in the event, except possibly the ride operators).

1500hrs - More body art! Around this time the kids really start swarming in to get their free body painting. Possibly the only time I actually need to be there to regualte the queue, though say what you want about Singaporeans being crazy about queueing we are also remarkably orderly queue-ers who seldom jump the line, though there is a tendency for the entire clan having to be in the queue at the same time just for the single kid to get his paint fix. By this time I start looping Ultraman, and some kids actually stay there to keep watching it despite having watched the earlier session. One kid was there almost the entire day. I have no idea why his mother was walking around the kids' carnival without her kid.

1600hrs - I close the queue for body art, which disappoints all the parents who come after. Usually they're quite nice about it, and will walk away once I tell them I cannot allow the tiny indiscretion of letting their kid in the queue. I try to smile.

1700hrs - Poor Melissa comes to my booth for a dance-lesson-segment. I try to help her (day 1) but it seems there aren't many kids interested in dance (maybe those who are were at the Yamaha booth). Melissa ended up playing running games with the children. I left poor Melissa to her devices on days 2 and 3, reasoning that there was no reason for both of us to stay and do nothing.

Fled to the banana booth, where they had competitions and lessons for kids. Was shattered by realization I couldn't complete a Rubik's Cube in an hour. Was shattered even more when I saw a kid complete it routinely under ten minutes. Evidently he does it on a daily basis with his dad, who is a mathematician. Also learnt that kids will be amused by the simplest drawing techniques.

1900hrs - Body art started up again. Watch over the last of the kids who want "body art" (COMMERCIAL MARKETING ICON BRANDED ON YOUR POOR INNOCNET FLESH!) and screen the sucky cartoons, because the crowd is supposed to leave. Listne to complaints of body artists (all of whom are fine arts students) who inform me you can earn up to 50 bucks an hour doing what they did (though on a somewhat larger scale) at malls and fashion shows.

2030hrs - Closing shop. More brush-washing and packing. (Day 3) Witnessed the deflated animals (insert bad pun about flaccid yellow dinosaur penis) and then loaded up the banana's company truck for Dhobby Ghaut.

2200hrs - Get home to do my newspaper summaries. Quality of work this weekend sucks due to lack of sleep and energy.

And... that's about it! Now I'm down with the flu, no doubt passed to me by one of the bratty kids whom I got too close with.

On the whole, it was a really fun job, I guess. Kids are adorable, really, and working with kids is hardly like working at all. Especially if all you're expected to do is to entertain them.

I want to be a mascot next time. Those large suits look intrigueing.