patrick!

The Eighteen Months

2009-09-25T14:13:00.000-07:00

Looking at the chronological gap between this post and the one below, one might suspect that I’m undoubtedly exceedingly different from the version of myself who complained about girls in dresses the size of a shoelace. Au contraire. Apart from a few regrettable nights that have taught me the importance of water-proof pants and an accent similar to that of Liam Gallagher’s, I haven’t changed a bit; particularly in the ‘I haven’t gotten laid’ department. But then again, that’s all too familiar to you.
What I can tell you, however, is that these eighteen months have taught me one absolutely certainty in life – Mexicans are crazy sods. Don’t get me wrong. Given the opportunity, I’d gladly watch re-runs of Looney Tunes’ Speedy Gonzales. But there’s something about Mexican alcoholic beverages that will get you red-faced and delirious. Literally.
Incidentally, that shot glass marked the end of my stint as a writer– six months filled with countless hours seated behind a desk, lunch runs and needless tobacco breaks. They say that an internship gives you an insight into the field of your interest and ultimately helps you decide if you want to do it for the rest of your life. Personally, I find it a trifle disheartening considering that my persistent efforts would have been far more appreciated if I were a monotonous vagrant who had a personality similar to that of a carrot. But I digress.
Self-condescending thoughts like these always give me a slight case of the heebie-jeebies. I mean, I’m terrified of the constant ‘what if’ lurking just around the corner. A friend asked himself recently – ‘Where do I see myself in ten years?’ He envisioned himself owning a terrace in the suburbs and putting food on the table for his dog, cat and himself by working as a writer or an anchorman.
Personally, I couldn’t possible fathom being the person I am today eighteen months ago. Granted, I admitted I’m still the very same innocent, bespectacled dweeb with a virgin’s glow. But these eighteen months have given me a whole truckload of lessons, experiences and stories to tell.
So where do I see myself in ten years? There’s no way of telling. All I can do is learn from what I’ve been through and take it as it comes. As for now, I’ll be sure to steer clear of Mexican alcohol and stock up on a pair or two of water-proof pants.
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.

The March School Holiday

2008-03-17T11:26:00.000-07:00

If Garfield had a worst enemy, I reckon he’d be me. Unlike that furry feline, I love Mondays and most especially this one. I don’t mean to go all secondary school on you but today marks the end of last week – the March school holiday. And boy, am I glad. You see, in the last seven days, school children have clubbed and partied more than Michael Jackson did in a kindergarten and Elton John in the gents combined.
Even though my friends and I already made plans to go clubbing on Tuesday, I was initially reluctant. Thing is I hate to get drunk and when I try to dance soberly, the crowd throw me a kind of ‘what are you?’ look and rush off to make a desperate call to the Singapore Zoo to discuss my recapture.
‘But all of us are going to be there,’ my friend pleaded.
‘I know but it’s an underage party.’
‘Indeed it is. Lots of young, naïve girls all scantily dressed.’
‘I see. What time are we meeting then?’
Once I handed over close to half of my entire wallet in exchange for an entry stamp and a coke coupon, it became evident that something was amiss – my personal space. We were herded like cattle and, if you listened hard enough, you’d hear the occasional ‘moo’ from someone in the crowd. And after what felt like a year of my life, we managed to find a spot on the dance floor. Many of them looked just about old enough to watch the Teletubbies and some even danced like them, which is most disconcerting, I thought Jeevan was a one-off.
Just where do these people go during the day? Like vampires, they prowl the dance floors at night looking for female victims and, my god, there was no shortage of eager sacrifices that night all in dresses the size of a handkerchief.
Clearly, there weren’t enough good-looking guys to go around. This fact became painfully obvious when a rather tipsy, underage girl grabbed my ass and gave me a look usually reserved for people in brothels. Now, I’m not going to kid myself but people have remarked that I resemble Tyler Durden played by Brad Pitt – albeit after the fatal shot to his head. Let’s just say the night ended with me running into a cab and crashing at Paul’s place because I was too afraid to sleep alone in the dark.
The big mystery to all of this is, why in the first place are people organizing underage parties to draw these kids out of school and into handkerchieves? Do their parents know about what their kids are doing at night? Because if they do, I suppose a quick call to the Singapore Zoo would help.
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.

The Cards

2008-02-25T21:05:00.000-08:00

My disturbed self was clearly unwell. I mean, what better way to kick off the start of my two-month vacation than to lose a hundred and twenty dollars. Attempting to disprove the theory that Chinese people can’t gamble, I, unsurprisingly disgraced my race. But what can I say, it’s not so much winning money but rather the thrill of playing that I willingly embarrass myself. You see, as soon as you gather cards into your hand, you’d feel confident, alive and focused. And I love that moment – the moment when my world shrinks to a pool of light and nothing else matters but the clack of chips, whispers, snap of cards and the gentle clink of beer bottles. Outside, the world would go about its business but everything there depends on the flip of a card and the intensity in my head. Poker isn’t a game; it’s a soap drama, man against fate. Never crow, never whine, just deal with it.
As much as I hate to admit it, Singaporeans in general don’t see gambling the way I do. And the upcoming integrated resorts won’t help matters. Forget the fancy hotels, snazzy water parks and titillating lounge singers, the much anticipated integrated resorts are just casinos to most Singaporeans. Or perhaps a little less on the nose, they are simply entertainment areas that provide ‘games of chance’. But don’t go there expecting a quiet game of monopoly.
I’m not addicted to gambling and I don’t begrudge people who are. The sad truth is the government made the right decision to build these integrated resorts simply because there is no shortage of insane Singaporeans rushing in to fritter away their life savings on the roulette wheel – the very same people who do it every week queuing at the Singapore Pools. This proves that Singaporeans will never stop playing ‘games of chance’ so the government might as well cash in on this. After all, Chinese people can’t gamble, can they?
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.

The Feeling

2008-01-26T12:59:00.001-08:00

To quote a particular movie that has had a significant influence in my life, ‘I want that feeling – that feeling that comes over a man when he gets exactly what he desires.’ Thing is I don’t even know what I desire anymore; it seems my pilot light went out. I was so comfortable with where I was but I’m not so sure how comfortable I am with where I am now.
They say that once in your life you wake up, look in the mirror and ask yourself, ‘What’s the point?’ Questions like that would kill you. Take me for example; I’m someone living in his own fantasy. And now, I’ve been faced with a rather strange reality – that I have to wake up. It’s a big fucking world out there. It’s messy. It’s chaotic and it’s never the thing I’d expect. But I can’t let that turn me into someone I’m not. Especially when it comes to the people I love.’
I suppose it’s a trifle out of character on my part to have thoughts like these. After all, I am someone who seems rather loopy and nonchalant about most things. But in stark contrast, I guess I’m beginning to change and it’s about time, if I might add. I have to grow up as much as I hate to admit it.
I sometimes walk past my old place to get home, past the apartment I grew up in and the field where I spent evenings at. From my current place, I can just about make out the place. It’s not that far really. If I walked briskly, I could probably cover the distance in just over five minutes. But the journey has taken me a decade to complete and I’m crushed it’s come to an end. I know I’m not just saying goodbye to my childhood. It’s so much more than that. I’m saying goodbye to the best ten years of my life.
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.

The Acronyms

2008-01-10T23:15:00.001-08:00

The overbearing first impression the Australian friend of mine had of Singapore was that its people must have been instructed to speak in short form like some double-speak code with acronyms, abbreviations and initials to confuse our neighbours. When I considered this startling observation, I was initially skeptical. But recent conversations with various people have made me realize how cut-off-my-testicles-with-a-grapefruit-knife annoying Singaporean ‘acronym-ese’ can be. A conversation with a Singaporean could end up a little something like ‘So my CEO friend and I went to the SIR to get my EP to take to the HDB via the MRT with our E-Z link cards before moving on to JB along the BKE for a cheap DVD. Forget Singlish. Welcome to the Sesame Street.
However, I’ll admit acronyms do make our lives a tad easier and, as a result, we’ve all grown used to them. I mean, it was until recently that I realized DJ meant ‘disc jockey’. But it appears some ‘trendy’ kids have taken that to a whole new level. In a desperate attempt to prove they’re au fait with the Singaporean culture, teenagers have adopted this acronym jargon to show they are cool. Or perhaps a little more on the nose, they do it so they can bitch about others without actually revealing their victims' names but more importantly, without revealing their own names.
To make matter worse, these self-satisfied, smug people do this using the type of English usually reserved for factious Englishmen in double-padded blazers. But then again, I guess I have absolutely no right to disparage these people as being daft. I mean, these powerful, intelligent, thesaurus-wielding people have contributed so much to us – gossip, dissent, anger, the list is just endless. Take gossipboy for instance, he certainly isn’t a daft person, is he? He rarely says anything funny or upsetting. I mean, as the source of all disparaging gossip, he can’t. I suppose he’s simply bound to exploring every shadow of everyone’s personality. Every nuance and insufficiency of the many people he plans to gossip about. So allow me to explain, U R A F. Just use your imagination.
Well what can I say, it's just another day in the life of mine.

The Christmas

2007-12-28T08:52:00.001-08:00

My parents have seriously contemplated disowning me recently. I don’t know what that means but I may have to start looking for a new home. And I think I know how and why this came about. I suppose it’s no secret I’m horribly infatuated with the idea of Christmas. And so, being that horribly infatuated guy, I was naturally eager to celebrate and drink as much as possible during that 24 hours. Let’s just say I behaved like the present-day, distraught Charlton Heston banging the floor and quite possibly wearing nothing but a loincloth. I got home round midday the following day with an empty wallet and an even emptier head.
‘Where were you!?’
When I informed the parents that I was out drinking and got terribly drunk, they blew out and spewed the kind of verbal diarrhoea usually reserved for parliamentarians. And so, the peaceful tranquility of the birth of Jesus was shattered and it became something fresh out of the post-apocalyptic world of the Planet of the Apes. I’ve become the Grinch that stole Christmas.
I’ve now realized that my soon to be senile parents don’t understand the concept of being ‘me’. Such contentious issues mean nothing to them. They can try but leaps and bounds they can never make. You see, being ‘me’ is about being free.
If there’s another thing about me that you should know is that I hate violence. Given the opportunity, I’d gladly join the Americans in singing ‘We Are The World.’ You see, the long-harbored dream of taking a trip to KL with my mates was cancelled due to some political tension and the possibility of a riot. This normally wouldn’t have deterred me at all but with my disobedient father refusing to relax, I’ve been forced to imagine we all would have been ravaged by flames and killed should we have gone. I don’t wish to sound flippant but we all know that in the real case of a conflict, I would be running around like a headless chicken and kicking down old ladies to get to the nearest gun shop. But that’s my parents for you. It’s hereditary; the obsessive worrying I mean, not the headless chicken part.
However, I know my parents mean well. But perhaps they should try to be less neurotic and get out more. In the meantime, will someone point me to the YMCA?
Well what can I say, it’s just another day on the life of mine.

The Hero

2007-11-26T22:51:00.000-08:00

Someone once told me that to write well, you must write what you know. This is what I know – My name is Patrick SethRyan Chew, I’m seventeen years old and I look the part of a hopeless romantic. A pathetic sod to the core, I spent most of my life with my head in the clouds. You see, I never really had a proper childhood. When kids were out playing and living theirs, I was busy viewing mine. So, having missed out on a large chunk of my childhood, I suppose I’m eager to relive and recapture my lost innocence.
I don’t know about you but when I was young, I wanted to be a hero and in retrospect, I guess I still do. Forgive the generalization but I find most Singaporeans anything but heroes. Given the opportunity, most Singaporeans would kick down old ladies and slap innocent children just so they can get a seat on a crowded bus. So I guess being Patrick SethRyan Chew – the boy who spent most of his life with his head in the clouds, is convinced he was born to do extraordinary things and stop all this madness. I’m not sure if it was the alcohol, the lack of decent sized testicles or a combination of both because I sincerely thought it was my turn to shine. Let’s just say I ended up with more alcohol and an urgent need to cut my testicles off with a grapefruit knife.
Without wishing to sound too obsessive and also remembering to cover all the angles, naturally, it’s not me. But I have to be accurate when putting words in peoples’ mouths. I suppose it’s the people, who face contentious issues yet still stay true to themselves, who are the ones worth sticking around for. They are my true heroes. To keep my sanity, I now vow to steer clear of any thoughts and deeds of heroism. Perhaps even at a time of emergency, I may just kick down another old lady and take a long bus ride home. Because that makes sense to me now.
What can I say, it just another day in the life of mine.

The Christmas in November

2007-11-06T21:08:00.000-08:00

I love Christmas. Well, apart from getting tortured by over-zealous relatives, it certainly is a great time. But it appears Christmas has come a month early. I suppose I’ve managed to piss some people off, haven’t I? My relative harmless and I daresay boring blog has received more comments than the government did when it imposed their smoking ban. But I must applaud its honesty for addressing a subject even my closest friends consider a taboo subject.
I have been warned that I, I quote, am a fucking loserish, poserish, fucked up piece of shit. No arguments there – in fact it’s right on the ball. That’s why it’s true that I avoid strangers who state that either loserish, poserish, or fucked up pieces of shit need not bother.
The most perceptive comment however, said that I am ugly. Well, I hold my hands up on that one. It is true that I am ugly; and in some aspects obviously so, which is most unfortunate. So I suppose being obviously ugly – that terrible, genetic failure of mine – must have had some subjective bearing on my speech and writing. It somehow causes me to speak with an accent and post some ‘chimology’ words I probably know nothing about. No worries. I’ve already signed up for weekly therapy and a rather inexpensive NTUC English course. But then again, I’d probably be wasting my money. After all, it’s all about looks, isn’t it?
But I have to admit that I’m not ‘un-fazed’ by these comments. If anything, it’s made me realize what an inconsiderate prick I’ve been. You see, I’ve been accused of reflectively, perhaps even glibly showing my compulsive disorder for collecting coins – borrowing money without returning. I apologize. For the record, I hate it when people get pissed off with me over something I could and should have easily avoided. I truly am sorry to everyone I’ve offended and I hope things can go back to the time when neither ‘fucking’, ‘loserish’, ‘poserish’ or ‘piece of shit’ and ‘Patrick’ go in every sentence. I give you my word I won't do it again. I guess that weekly therapy is working.
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.

The Life

2007-10-03T20:54:00.000-07:00

I’d like to take this opportunity to say I feel great. Or perhaps using a more colourful language, I feel fucking great. You see, after realizing what an equivalent of an imaginary tumour I’d been, I felt, at the very least, that I had to be getting impossibly high and dancing around like a fat woman in jeans at a disco party. That thought, however, is nothing compared to the disgraceful homophobia that we’ve experienced over the past 6 weeks or at least what’s felt like 6 weeks.
Without a doubt, these few weeks are easily the highlight of my life these past few months. I have always believed that the biggest drawback of growing up in a small country like Singapore is that there are very few places for people to escape to. There is no space for a caravan park for sex-starved youths and even if there was, I suspect it would lose out to another lucrative shopping centre or a condo. Of all the costal towns in Singapore, only one comes close to a great place to escape to – Pasir Ris. I love everything about Pasir Ris, well, certain aspects about it have made it rather questionable but nevertheless, it’s a great place. It certainly was a great place when all my classmates got together for a night of well-mannered frivolity. No booze, no sex, just heaps of questionably cooked wieners, which perhaps is no coincidence as to why Jesley became a vegetarian. All in all, I guess I’ll remember it as the night Germaine stuck her knee up my ass, which has forced me to have my irritable bowel removed, and the rather gay moment Andrew and I spent strolling to watch the sunrise that didn’t show.
While we’re on the subject of Singaporean sightseeing, this city-state certainly has more to offer than a cross-dressing lion spewing water. Just step into any swimming pool round midnight and you may just find three, perhaps four guys showing you the importance of being well-endowed. It’s amazing how a rugby match at CHIJMES, beer and a fat lady whose boobs have long lost their battle against gravity, can turn us incredibly gay and go, well let’s just say, stargazing. But I have to admit that as we stargazed, I got incredibly hungry – not the most inviting of thoughts especially when everyone could see my cute bird balancing on my balls.
And who can forget the return of Shaun Liew. After spending no less than half a year in Melbourne, I suppose he felt the need to come back and listen to the sweet sound of twits speaking Mandarin. I guess we all learnt that if we were to drink to every hot chick we see in Singapore, we probably would never finish the bottle, but turn on Bikini Destinations and it’s, what Marvin, Sean, Shaun and myself now refer to as, ‘Wooooooooo…’
So you see, there’s more to life than just bunnies. It’s taken me my best friends, plenty of booze, and a few swimming pools to realize that. Now where are the bloody old ladies?
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.

The Chap

2007-08-23T13:12:00.000-07:00

It’s been a whole month and I’m spending what feels like a whole month coming up with this post. You see, this post is dedicated to this chap. And of all the chaps I’ve written about, I got to say this one is pretty bewildering. Considering I grew up in a place where speaking Mandarin barely raises an eyebrow, this is quite an achievement. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that he sleeps fourteen hours a day and shoves fingers up his ass that he’s convince his dick is, in fact, bigger than mine. Perhaps he should get out more.
I trust you now have an idea of who this chap is. Well it’s the testosterone-charged, skateboard-wielding friend of mine – Sean Mossadeg of course, who, if I may add, is in no danger of DSB. One, who certainly isn’t short of character or humour and more importantly, isn’t short at all. After knowing him for no less than three years, I have come to understand two tendencies of Sean Mossadeg.
First is his constant tendency to wander off into his impossible imagination, which attributes to his bewildering dreams filled with skate videos, The OC episodes, ghosts and the occasional appearance of Sara Chan. Second, is his constant tendency to throw letters at you like the Sesame Street. ‘So I was using LOA the other day, bought BF and MOM and completely owned that DK.’
But here is the remarkable thing. Although Sean is always wearing the same cap with the same badges on it and the same tight jeans that forces all the blood to his heart, he always has something new and at the same time, bewildering every time we meet. All I can say is it’s been fun. And here’s to years from now, when we still meet to whistle at pretty girls over a beer and some football. Cheers.
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.

The Box O' Memories

2007-07-25T19:26:00.000-07:00

It’s been a while since I thought of things, plural. Covers all manner of wrong doings, doesn’t it? But I recently found my little box o’ memories that made me think of things – things that have happened over the past ten years. I guess I may as well tuck my willy between my thighs and suggest people call me a pretty little girl but I am rather sentimental as much as I hate to admit it. Considering this startling thought, I checked to see if I still had two distinctive testicles. No worries.
In that little box, are things I thought were too precious and special to get rid off. I found photographs, notes and ticket stubs of significant happenings of my rather insignificant and irrelevant life. But nevertheless it certainly brought back memories. As always, there are stories to tell. There’s a photo of me crying when my father told me I was going to grow up to look exactly like my aunt Elaine. Another of me in a superman outfit. People felt I had a head in the clouds, I didn’t mind. And then I realized something, something I never thought was possible – that I was wrong and Marvin was right. ‘Everything happens for a reason which tend to affect change. And more often than not, you become a better person.’
Thoughts like these always give me a slight pang of sadness. And I miss ‘me’ terribly. And despite what others have told me, it never gets easier. Let me give you an idea of what a truly unique person my father is. Though he rarely says anything positive about me, I mean until quite recently, I’d always thought there was a linguistic rule that stipulated the words ‘Patrick’ and ‘idiot’ always had to go in the same sentence, but nevertheless I know it’s rather difficult for him to see me so down lately. Yet he is always there to share a can of beer and a listening ear.
But I have to concede that my time away from puppies and bunnies had given me a greater perspective on my life. When I considered what Marvin said, I was initially skeptical. And now, I’ve realized just how much I’ve changed. It just hit me how detached I’ve become. I realized that not being able to do anything was not an excuse for me not doing anything. I, quite simply, should have.
Fortunately, I had an emotional crutch to lean on. There are always my loopy buddies ready and ever willing to ‘embrace’ me and appreciate my confused state of detachment simply because these guys are in the same boat as me. We would muck in together, get pissed together, console each other and generally overlook the fact that we look, for a lack of a better phrase, as gay as the night is long.
I’ve now continued with the tradition of storing memories in my little box o’ memories by placing a particular five dollar bill in. The bill tells a story both wondrous and rare about a boy and girl and the times that they shared. I suppose I’ll leave it there till I find it years from now when I’m in need of something to smile about. Perhaps I really do have my head in the clouds but I guess that suits me just fine.
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.

The Vanilla Ice-cream Chocolate Pudding Pie

2007-07-18T09:14:00.000-07:00

It’s finally over. For quite a while there, it seemed like it would never end. No, I’m not talking about the Live Earth concert, but rather the remarkably hectic week of submissions and deadlines I just had. From what I’d gone through, I can safely say prostate examinations are quicker and less painful. If you recall, indeed I’m sure I’ll never forget, the past week will go down as the few days of last-minute work, lots of running and rather large helpings of chocolate covered waffles. Once I handed over countless, sleepless nights worth of work in exchange for well, nothing, it became immediately obvious something was amiss. ‘Whatever happened to all the fairness in the world?’
I guess Marvin will never understand the unusual situation he finds himself in – to find someone you love who would love you back. I mean the chances are always minuscule. Take me for example; apart from my mother and sister, I’ve only seriously liked two other girls in my life – both total disasters. One probably realized she had enough of me, packed up and flew off the Australia faster than you can say ‘kangaroo poo’ while the other casually decides to ignore me for the rest of my life. And to add insult to serious injury, I’ve now begun to fathom the possibility of you (whoever you are), finding me years from now, when you bring your grandchildren to the circus, in the tank getting mounted by some transvestite hippo lady.
I find it, however, a trifle amusing thinking about how friends have asked for me to forget it. No arguments there but they did hint that I was a ‘pathetic sod’, a tad harsh but very true. Perhaps I’ll avoid people from henceforth who state straight up ‘Pathetic sods need not bother.’ Now that’s fair, innit?
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.

The Weeks

2007-07-10T09:44:00.000-07:00

I have an announcement to make. I’d like to apologize for the way I’ve behaved this past couple of weeks. Let’s just say I’ve not been in my usual good humour. But I’d like you to know that I’ve turned a corner and so from hence on, I’ll try to be impressively happy. Don’t get me wrong though, I said I could try but remember leaps and bounds I can never make. For now, I suppose I’ll just stick to a few clichés for a while. ‘You can always do anything you set your mind to.’ Or perhaps the old classic, ‘When God closes a door, he opens a window.’ Although I’ve faced certain defeat, I’ve secretly clung to the belief that life is not merely a series of meaningless accidents or coincidences. But rather it’s a tapestry of events that culminate in an exquisite, sublime plan.
There are many people I’d like to ‘blame’ for forcing me to snap out of it – the ones who reminded me to be all that I can be – all the might and prowess. Forgive the immodesty but simply put, to be the person who tends to shock and awe – Patrick. Marvin, the equivalent of a cut on the roof my mouth that would heal only if I stopped licking it, was convinced that my balls had shrunk to the size of peanuts. So I must thank him and others like him who said, ‘Get back to being that witty bastard or I’ll pop you in the nuts, or what’s left of them.’
The persistence of Sean, the source of most disparaging fart and butt crack jokes, has to be acknowledged as well. After the unexpected night of patient listening, there was always a polite enquiry of whether I was feeling better or not. Within no more than six seconds however, it had given way to, ‘Give me the Bacardi and sod off, you sad little bitch.’ But then again, that’s what buds are for eh? Thanks buddy.
I’m grateful, too, for my family’s generosity. I mean, I’ve nicked just about every bottle of beer and can of Irish stout from them. As always there’s always my inspirational father on hand to say, ‘I don’t know why you even bothered, you’re all crap to me anyway’.
But the days were spent in the incomparable world and company of my French Wine friends, where the people are funny, warm, honest and occasionally insane. I guess the only way I can say it is thanks guys, for putting up with this ugly but, for a lack of a better word, ‘puppy’ sod.
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.

The Violin-Playing Goat

2007-07-08T20:07:00.000-07:00

Assume from now on that I’ll replace a word I had used a lot with the word – ‘puppy’. Well, I suppose I’ve managed to ruffle a few feathers, haven’t I? My relatively and seemingly harmless puppy gestures have generated the sort of response usually reserved for disturbingly zealous people who insist on shaking your hand right after a visit to the bathroom. ‘What does this suggest?’ That we might just be puppy and tolerate shaking the hand of someone that may have been urinated on but don’t mess with us when it comes to being a puppy violin-playing goat or you will really piss us off. Forgive the pun.
For quite a while then, it’s been spectacularly surreal – surreal but puppy. However, I’ve now been faced with a rather harsh reality. Not only did I uncover one of life’s great mysteries – ‘whether getting kicked in the nuts or giving birth is worse?’, but I’ve actually and quite regrettably felt it. I have been and still am constantly reminded that I’m a thinker, and I’ve found it’s been especially true this past week. I’ve been preoccupied with thoughts. Well actually just thought, singular. I’d find myself wandering off into my impossible imagination to remember puppy things that have happened and more often than not, I’d smile to myself. People got out of my way. Or perhaps when trying to make sense of it all, it feels almost like doing one of those silly mental arithmetic problems. It’s truly exhausting work – almost enough to make me say ‘puppy’, in fact.
All right, enough with the puppies. Bunnies are sneaky little fellows, I tell you. They’re perfectly capable of burrowing away quietly without so much as a cursory sound. Perhaps they’ve been busy. It has certainly left me completely unprepared and stunned. Being a violin-playing goat generally generates, at best, a look of puzzlement or, at worst, a withering look of contempt followed by an unpleasant grilling that would have been out of place in a jail. But don’t reach for the sick bucket just yet. Believe me, the feeling couldn’t be much worse than those the puppy-heart is giving right now.
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.

The Purple

2007-06-18T23:20:00.000-07:00

Short of chopping off my head and handing it to my neighbors, there’s nothing much else I can do at home during the holidays. Unlike friends of mine, I can’t chill. On a good day, I would sit for no more than an hour before standing up feeling as if I had just lost what felt like a year of my life. Luckily for me, I have a new game and an incredible friend to cheer me up. ‘The One-Word Game.’ It’s like Trivial Pursuit for Cooper Waxman. You play the game with a friend and, through a series of one-word questions; you learn more about your friend’s interests, thoughts, perhaps even sexual desires. No, not like sex. But you do get extra points for speed.
Good thing I played this game over the phone. Otherwise I’d had gone home with more bruises than a sadomasochist, which, incidentally, is my subtle way of introducing my next topic – purple. To be honest, it salvaged my rather miserable week as far as I’m concerned. Considering this startling thought, I guess it is fair to say happy pills don’t necessarily come in boxes. Without wishing to trivialize the amazing day I had, it was very much like ‘The One-Word Game’. A day of surprises, revelations, fun or what I’d like to think – a long-harbored dream.
From meatballs to misty road, medium browns to San Francisco, it’s hard to imagine we were there all in one place. Most would have liked to end it just there, but not us. We still did things for the first time in a long time. We took slow strolls through trees and had chats just as meaningful. Aside from the rain and a broken nail, it’s difficult to see what else could have made it more awesome. Just let me pick the bowling ball off the floor first.
Purple now, means so much more than just purple. It means awesome, beautiful, slow, and blurry, almost exactly like a waltz. So shall we dance, Candice? No need, you’ve been dancing with me since we met.
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.

The French Wine

2007-06-17T03:41:00.000-07:00

Well, I guess this post may come as quite a shock as when the pilgrims brought syphilis to the Indians. It’s been a while since my last post and boy, have things changed. I’ve learnt and were told things about myself, things I never thought were possible. It is now that I’ve realized how spending four years in SJI has made me quite a bit of a pansie. Having just ‘returned’ from two and a half months of school, two trips to Sentosa and countless clubs and parties, I was reminded of two absolute certainties in life.
First, liquor should not be mixed. You see, I pride myself to be someone who can hold his liquor pretty well. And that gives me the pleasure of watching others get high or drunk. There’s a fine line between getting high and getting drunk – and that line, that line, even I myself am not very sure. I usually find myself watching people while standing on a vantage point in a club. Some bring back faces redder than a blushing lobster while others look as though they were, for a few seconds, in the air and had completed several cartwheels, a double-back somersault and may just contemplate a career in acrobatics. It all seemed pretty common but I swear I certainly wasn’t prepared for, ‘eh…got APA test on Tuesday know?’
Secondly, and more importantly, I’ve realized that I made the right decision in choosing Mass Comm. For the record, I hate sentiment. But I don’t know where I’d be now if it’s not for the amazing bunch of French wine friends I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. I’m intrigued at Candice’s acute observational skills or perhaps even mind reading powers simply by looking at me. I also acknowledge Suffian’s attempts to look as sexually appealing as a grown man in stripy pajamas, which makes him look as sexually appealing as…well a grown man in stripy pajamas. I’m reminded of Marvin’s constant struggle to get Amber to wear her see through lingerie with the attached gutters. Chin Whee’s love-hate relationship with alcohol. Dewi’s uncontrollable desire for either a tuna sandwich or bubble tea. Germaine’s virtual shopping sprees. And Paul, the only guy I know who has more sexual energy than Suffian and I combined.
I can’t lie. No wait, that’s not quite true. I can lie, but I just don’t want to right now. Mass Comm’s great – the course, the lecturers, the people, the whole shebang. Of course, the quirky aspects of the school can be quite titillating but at the risk of writing nonsensical gobbledygook, I suppose I’ll leave those stories for later. For now, let’s just say I’m in a New York state of mind, if you know what I mean.
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.

The Friends

2007-03-21T20:08:00.000-07:00

Among my family and friends, I was fortunate enough to be surrounded by a number of imbalanced individuals while I was growing up. Spending time with some serious cuckoos builds character – at least that’s probably what I’ll tell others if I get the chance. No one can make me laugh like my loopy bunch of friends. Thoughts like that always give me a slight pang of ‘homesickness’. Not the feeling for a country, you see. I don’t get homesick for any country. Flag-waving patriotism is best left in Hitler’s bunker. But I miss hanging out with the whole group of us terribly. People come and go, but I’ll never forget this particular group of friends – Sean, Jeevan, Aaron, Leslie and Shaun.
I guess the glue that held the group together was skateboarding. I mean, without that, we were just lame with bubble tea. I said this before and I’ll say it again – everyone has their ‘thing’. For instance, Frankenstein had ugly, Barney had purple and Alex Ferguson; gum. I believe Sean is no different. His ‘thing’ is his constant tendency to wander off into his impossible imagination. A conversation with him could end almost as suddenly as it started.
‘Patrick, so I read your blog the other day…’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah…hmm.’
And that’s all he would say. He would then stare at something else, grin at it and hum. Sometimes I wish I could see the world as Sean Mossadeg does. Hmm…

If anyone could come close to seeing the world as Sean does, it would have to be Jeevan Mahtani. His ‘thing’ is his complete lack of awareness. The fact that he is Indian only makes it all the more fun. His favorite trick was his ‘cell phone skateboard’. Whether it was stopping at a traffic light, on the way home from school or walking into a LAN shop, Jeevan would whip out his phone, do an unmistakable varial flip, catch it with his fingers and slap it back on his right boob. People moved out of his way.
Aaron is the youngest in the group which regrettably means he’s also the one who gets all the shit. We have no choice. We are ethically bound to exploring every shadow of his personality, every nuance and insufficiency of the many hours when he lies sleeping motionless. His ‘thing’ is making a complete ass of himself when he’s asleep. He would snore, he would shout, he would stand up and run about in his sleep and he would do these almost knowingly. I guess being Sean’s brother comes with its own set of consequences.

Now for Leslie. There’s nothing unpredictable or unmistakable about him. He has that unmistakable laugh, that unmistakable hairstyle and most especially that unmistakable smell when overexposed to sunlight. Leslie’s ‘thing’ is his vulnerability to girls. I guess that’s the best way I can put it. He could see the ‘beauty’ in just about any girl that would, literally, force him to like her instantly.
‘So Leslie, the funniest thing happened the other… Leslie? Leslie?’
‘…I like her.’
Shaun Joel Liew doesn’t just have one ‘thing’. He has many ‘things’. I remember at one point, he had a thing for fishing, which quickly switched to alcohol consumption to ninjas and I think the latest is fashion. What could he be up to next? Only Sean Mossadeg can imagine. Hmm…
It’s been fun for the past few years and hopefully will be for many more. With school quickly coming up and the constant question of ‘what’s next?’, I’m certain I’ll meet more cuckoos. But whoever they are, they’ll have a hell of a lot the live up to. Because my current bunch of friends, in my humble opinion, are bloody great people to be with.
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.

The Claudia

2007-02-22T19:38:00.000-08:00

‘We’re coming to Singapore,’ she said. ‘I’ve been on the Internet and I’ve found some hotels and they’re really cheap. They say Singaporean hotels were expensive, but these are cheaper than anything in Australia. With a bit of saving, we could easily afford the prices.’ My Aunt was so excited.
‘These hotels are budget hotels, but that’s all right. We’re not snobs, are we? They’re also near to buses and trains apparently and not far away from that place, Orchard Road, where the shops and restaurants are.’
‘That sounds great, Aunt Peggy,’ I replied rather enthusiastically. ‘Where are they?’
‘In some place called ‘Gay-lang’. There’s a chain of them called Hotel 81. They say it’s a lively area.’
‘It certainly is a lively area.’
‘Really? Will there be things for your uncle to do? To keep him busy?’
‘Oh, absolutely.’
‘What about your little cousin?’
“I bloody hope not, Aunt Peggy. It’s a red light district.’
‘What? You mean prostitutes? Bloody hell, we won’t be bloody staying there then.’
‘Fair enough, Aunt Peggy.’
‘What sort of place is this Singapore? You said it was safe and clean that you can’t even eat chewing gum. Now you’re telling me the place is filled with old tarts with their bits hanging out on street corners?’
‘Yes, Aunt Peggy.’
‘No, Aunt Peggy is bloody right. We’ll go somewhere else then, somewhere where I don’t have to worry about bumping into some old tart’s tits.’
‘Fair enough, Aunt Peggy.’
Sometimes I wished I hadn’t told her. I can imagine my aunt, who’s not one to keep her comments to herself, expressing concern at the number of women standing in line along the streets.
‘This is terrible. Singaporeans aren’t too bloody bright, are they? I’ve only been here five minutes and I already know the bus stop is further down the road. I’d better sort them out. Excuse me…the bus stop is up there. The buses won’t stop here…I’m sorry? Fifty dollars? Fifty dollars for what?’
I’ve been down to Geylang and Desker’s red-light district several times because there are some decent coffee shops in the area. Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Desker Road enjoys the company of Eurasians once in a while. Gee…I don’t know, Sean Mossadeg perhaps. In places like Desker, a tall Eurasian and his chink friend seem to suggest rather large wallets. So compliments came in thick and fast. We were frequently asked, ‘Hey handsome (pronounced ham-sum), you want a good time? Or ‘Hey big boy, come inside.’ Curiously, I’ve been called ‘big-boy’ on numerous occasions. How’d they know? It’s most flattering, but also, a trifle disturbing.
Well, I wouldn’t have described that night to be an absolute waste of time. I mean, we did find a girl and paid for her. Her eyes were a brilliant light brown, matching her long hair. Her skin was a flawless olive and her body was well, everything it should be. She was an angel of a girl and she looked into our eyes. If Sean were to ever fall in love, he’d imagine it to be exactly like that. We named her, Claudia – she remembered shockingly little of her past and didn’t say much. Nobody said anything when she left with us. She now sits on Sean’s bed, watching him go out with girl after girl but somehow, he would always go crawling back to her. Oh Claudia – Sean’s first love.
However, you won’t find photographs of these things in the Singapore Tourism Board’s Things To Do In Singapore, nor would you expect to see posters at Changi Airport that says: “Welcome to Singapore. Get a tan at Sentosa. Get laid at Desker Road.”
The prostitutes look so fragile, you’d want to rescue them like some patronizing Victorian liberal, you certainly wouldn’t want to sleep with them. Many of them are from China. Perhaps the few I’ve seen are merely keeping up with appearances too. Perhaps, their demure, innocent and slightly startled look is all an act. But if they really are heartless and ruthless money-grabbers, then they are pretty damn convincing.
However, we can’t do anything about it. Banking and finance is down 3 percent, thanks to China. The electronics sector is down 13 percent, thanks to China. And manufacturing is down 28 percent, thanks to China. Fortunately, the hooker industry experienced a 4 percent growth, thanks to China. Keep up the good work girls!
In any case, it would have been entertaining had my Aunt Peggy opted for that cheap hotel in ‘Gay-lang’. My uncle would have had women all over him like a rash. He’ll claim this is nothing new to him, though he’d be secretly tickled by the attention. But I’m sure the novelty would wear off quickly. It did for me, and I daresay Sean too. When an old prostitute, who should be knitting and feeding cats, comes up and says, ‘You want a blowjob? Only fifty dollars.’ You feel like a soldier in a bad Vietnam movie. And you feel sick. Because there’s really nothing funny about the situation at all, is there?
Well, what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.

The Reckoning

2007-02-10T00:25:00.000-08:00

I apologize, I'm not in my usual good humour. You'd understand if you knew the situation I was in. You see, I spent the last week before the release of the GCE results stuck at home nursing an injury sustained in the dubious of ways which I'm not even going to begin to describe.
I guess everyone feels a little lost after collecting their results; I know I do, empty I should say. You see, for the past few years, I've watched Manchester United chase the league title. It was like a conquest, something burning inside. And now, those bastards are about to do it. I guess, like my light went out. We were so comfortable chasing the championship, I'm not so sure how comfortable we are as champions. 'What do we do now?' You might ask. Questions like that would kill you. Questions like 'what do we do now? or 'what's the point?'
Take me for example, I'm about to make a very important decision which would ultimately change my future and apply to be enrolled in a school which would force me to wake up 6am every morning. 'What's the point?'
You don't ask 'what's the point?'. That's the point.
People who know me would ask, '13 points huh? How'd you do it?'
Well, they're forgetting the most important factor - Manchester United. You see, there were two things in my life which I never thought I'd experience. The first was Manchester United winning a treble, which they did in 1999. And then, I thought to myself 'Well, I should experience the other.' Manchester United has at one time or another made each and everyone of us insane. They make us lose ourselves. They make me believe that anything, anything is possible, including, but not limited to the notion that God put every single Cambridge examiner and marker in an exceptionally good mood when they were marking my scripts. So, as a result, the other thing I thought I would never get to experience came true - to do reasonably well for my GCEs.
So here's a toast, to life, to love, but most of all...to Manchester United.
Well what can I say, it's just another day in the life of mine.

The Sausages

2007-01-30T22:54:00.000-08:00

I just have to say that sausages are not something I like to discuss - you wouldn't too of you knew the kind of sausages I'm talking about. I'm often asked impossibly difficult questions like whether I'd prefer drowning or being burnt alive or whether I'd prefer to have my dick or my balls chopped off. I never really knew the answers to these questions. What I do know is that I'd prefer to have my dick and both my balls chopped off than to have to step into the Serangoon Garden Country Club changing room again.
Not that the club's bad - in actuality, it really is a charming place with water features, an Olympic size pool and a bowling alley. But the men in the chainging room are just bloody shameless. A stroll through the men's changing room and you'd see half a dozen naked men strutting around with their chins up, shoulders back, arms akimbo and hips... Gosh I'm not going to fathom that image again. Let's just say I shit myself.
But don't reach for the sick bucket just yet. Now add to that image, the horror of not knowing whether the men would be changing into a pair of pants or a skirt. It was truly priceless to see both my friends' (Sean and Aaron) eyes widen in shock and awe. You, for whatever reason, may be thinking of butch, manly sausages with, I don't know, chunks. But I gotta tell you, theirs were more like cocktails appetizers hidden beneath sizable amounts of hair. I was surprised they didn't have a pair of boobs to go along.
So the next time you find yourself in a similar situation, run away as fast as you can and change your underwear. Or perhaps you find yourself in a situation where you have to squeeze past a changing room full of naked chinese men, ask yourself this question of etiquette - Should I give them the crotch or the ass? Now that's an impossibly difficult question.
Well what can I say, it's just another day on the life of mine.

The Girls

2007-01-12T00:56:00.000-08:00

I like to think girls are attracted to me at social gatherings. I would make other men feel insecure in my presence. I’m a bit of a sex magnet in fact. To visualize this scenario, however, I’d have to imagine the only other males on the room were Mr. Bean, Elton John and Barney the dinosaur, but it’s my imagination damn it and I’ll go wherever it takes me. To be honest, I attract about as many girls as Singapore attracts opposition candidates at general elections. It doesn't really matter whether a guy isn't as good-looking as the girl is pretty. Girls, unlike guys, judge someone by their achievements, their humour and most of all, his charm. That still sucks though, because guys don't give a shit about any of that.
I adore girls. When I see a beautiful girl, my mind wanders invariably to fantasies unrestrained by morality. When I see a beautiful girl, my mind conjures up dreams, wild dreams, but I know that my impenetrable sense of decorum would prevent me from…going any further.
If only, girls are encouraged to like me. If only there were, say, a group of geeks running around making people get together. But who the hell would take the time to create a taskforce to promote romance and coupling?
Stand up Singapore and take 1 proud match-making step forward. About 2 years ago, the government, in a bid to get more Singaporeans to have sex and conceive babies to boost the workforce in 20 years time, started the Romancing Singapore campaign. Wait, I forgot, apparently there are no campaigns in Singapore, only festivals and celebrations. So the government started not a campaign but a festival and celebration of love, my apologies.
Sadly, the celebration didn’t include mass gatherings of sex-starved youths at Sentosa, but rather a taskforce which would ensure Singaporeans celebrate their love. The taskforce comprised of some of the finest military men trained by some of the finest social workers to march into the combat zone armed with flowers and candles.
With such taskforces around, the chances of guys getting the girls would certainly increase tenfold. I mean, I'm not all that pathetic. I can make girls laugh sometimes. Sexy friends of mine often say, “You know, for an ugly tart, you’re quite funny.” “That’s bloody marvelous!” I’d reply. “But how many times does a girl have to laugh before she considers removing some underwear – preferably mine.”
I was usually slapped and deservedly so. If only there had been a taskforce at my side, things would have been different. My tormentor would have been severely reprimanded for destroying our love vibes and any chances of getting together. She’d feel humiliated, I’d bask away in a minor triumph and the taskforce would march along to another love crime. Then the humbled girl would kick me in the nuts and walk into the sunset holding hands with a guy who had a nose shaped like Barney.
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.

The Hip-hoppers

2007-01-07T18:40:00.000-08:00

I ‘love’ Hip-hoppers, (I sincerely hope you didn’t miss the sarcasm). Given the opportunity, I would ‘gladly’ strut around Junction 8, (yup, you saw right through me, Sean), wearing a Newbie shirt and a pair of jeans that would have been too baggy for ‘Krusty the clown’. I mean I have nothing against clowns; just people who spin on their heads acting like clowns. Using examples of…I don’t know…Missy? Or Miss C. Elliot, M.C Hammer, I sat myself down and made a personal vow by saying, “Patrick, never will I do arm caterpillars ever.”
On a subject removed from Hip-hoppers and therefore far less interesting, the United Nations had clearly wasted its time. A good and workable solution to the Iraq crisis isn’t found in the peacekeeping forces wearing blue helmets in the Middle East, not even in the execution of Saddam Hussein. Instead, the answer is found in Singaporean hip-hoppers wearing bandanas at Far East Plaza.
One afternoon, I inadvertently found myself in the basement of the shopping mall, which now poses as the labyrinth of cool. It has become a mini-funky town of cool clothes, music and hip culture. Twits with model looks who personify ‘sophistication’ stand outside the shops looking devastatingly stunning.
I was about the leave, fearing that my beach shorts and white t-shirt was not hip and cool enough, when I heard an announcement saying that a dancing exhibition was scheduled to begin. Ever heard of curiosity killed the cat?
Several elderly aunties, who were, like me, clearly in the wrong place, started crowding round the stage. Apparently, they were expecting a ballroom display or a line dancing routine perhaps by a group of well-rehearsed senior citizens in cowboy costumes. Instead, a group of hip-hoppers, dressed in clothes they’ll never grow into, came out and started spinning on their heads. It was truly priceless. The aunties’ faces transformed from a kind of eager expectation to a kind of ‘what the fuck is this?’ expression. The music was so loud that the baselines made the floors vibrate. There was robotic body-popping, head and body spinning, back flips and cartwheels and the occasional shouts of ‘Let’s go!’ They took my breath away, literally.
The hip-hoppers called themselves Radikal Forze, with a ‘K’ and a ‘Z’ no less. There were 7 of them – 5 Malays, 1 Chinese and 1 Caucasian. And that’s when I realized that the United Nations was wrong and Radikal Forze was right, (…you did not hear me say that.). They were from different races and backgrounds but there were no barriers between them. In the ‘80s, conflicts and disputes between rival gangs on the streets of New York were often settled through break-dancing. A body-popping contest would be held and the 2 enemies would attempt to out-dance the other into submission.
So I figured, if break-dancing worked for gangs and clowns, then it certainly would have worked for George Bush and Saddam Hussein, wouldn’t it? We could have gotten both of them down to the United Nations Headquarters and could have sent out Radikal Forze with both their ‘K’ and ‘Z’ to train the 2 leaders. Then before the world’s news cameras, Missy Elliot could bang out a few tunes and Bush and Saddam would have stuck out their chests and got to work with the arm caterpillar. Incidentally, has anyone noticed that if you say Saddam backwards, it sort of comes out ‘mad-ass’?
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.

The Quitters

2007-01-05T03:05:00.000-08:00

‘Leslie Fernandez, prominent fakie 360 flip asshole’s life in Singapore
ended on the 24th with complications between the love for his country and his sanity. He was 16 years old, out-spoken and obsessive. Leslie never looked the part of a ‘quitter’. But in the final days of his life, he revealed an unknown side of his psyche. This hidden Quasi-Jungian persona surfaced during the Agatha-Christie like pursuit for a reason to stay in Singapore, a reason he had forgotten a long time ago. Sadly the protracted search ended on a late Tuesday evening in complete and utter failure. Yet even in certain defeat, the ‘courageous’ Leslie secretly clung to the belief that life s not merely a series of meaningless accidents and coincidences. But rather it’s a tapestry of events that culminate in an exquisite sublime plan. Asked about the loss of his dear friend, Patrick Chew, the Pulitzer Prize winning author and winner of the Sexiest Man Alive contest, described Leslie as a ‘changed man’ in the last days of his life. ‘Things became clearer for him’ Patrick noted. Ultimately, Leslie concluded that if you are to live life in harmony with the Universe, we must all possess a powerful faith in our ‘natural instinct’ to survive and what we currently refer to as ‘migration’.’
Perhaps, this is what would be like if new papers began writing obituaries for every Singaporean migrating. The Singaporean government is well aware of the fact that Singaporeans are migrating in droves to Australia – you know, that financial oasis with cut-price suburban houses, cheap cars and kangaroo poo everywhere. The government is trying to convince the ‘quitters’ to remain loyal ‘stayers’, but this is no easy task.
However, fear not, because I believe I have found the answer to the government’s ‘five-star Sudoku puzzle’ – Australian public toilets. Usually I wouldn’t resort to toilet humour but this time I believe it would certainly deter Singaporeans from migrating.
Having been to Australia many times, I speak from bitter experiences. The reason why properties are so cheap is because you have to take out a second mortgage to use the public toilets. Every trip costs a whopping 50 cents. You might think 50 cents would get you piped music, light refreshments and a full massage from a Swedish sex siren, well it doesn’t. It even came to a point where my wallet had to make a choice between urinating and eating.
The only negative experiences I have had in Singapore involved being watched by disturbingly zealous female cleaners – you know, the ones you greet on the way into the toilet and ask if you could relief yourself, the ones you’d expect to kindly wait outside until you’re done with your visit, the ones who instead nod and decide that the spot right between your feet, shockingly close to your exposed testicles had to be cleaned at that exact moment.
I’ve also had to use the hawker centre toilets, that means having to side-step unwashed plates of mee-goreng, hop over cigarette cartons and sliding along various liquids of unknown origin. It was only the absence of a giant concrete ball that prevented me from resembling Indiana Jones.
But those public antiquities are in rapid decline and will soon be replaced by state-of-the-art amenities in most shopping centres. The government suggested that if Singaporeans are to succeed, we must become more self-reliant. However, these modern toilets encourage anything but self-reliance. Recently, I went to a toilet, which flushed the urinal for me, dried my hands automatically and released water from the tap without me even touching it. ‘What’s next?’ Perhaps plumbers will install a magnetic contraption above the urinal, which automatically undoes the zip on your trousers. Now that’s worth 50 cents.
So if we want to curb Singaporeans from going Down Under, then I’d certainly urge the government to consider the magnetic zip idea.
Well what can I say, it’s just another day in the life of mine.

-Dedicated to my 'Quitter' friends Leslie, Shaun and Pam
Take care guys.

The News

2007-01-04T02:08:00.000-08:00

Many people talk about various news casting networks as politically bias and want to shut it to 'protect the young'. Is it wise to expose young ones to programmes which send the message you deserve to die if you question their point of view?
Well, before we convict them as networks of conservative values or any values for that matter, let's just remember these are the folks who brought us shows like 'Joe Billionaire' and 'Who's Your Papa?'. It really isn't about political content, but rather a corporation looking to make money. Some of them may have begun as alternative news programmes to grab a market share. They saw ratings and profit in the conservsative demographic and they've been waving the flag ever since. So what? News today, all of it, is infotainment.
Two years ago, a deadly toxin known as ricin was found in the mailroom of the United States Senate Majority Leader. Headline News led with Janet Jackson's exposed breast. Last year, when we were still in the middle of a war, newscasts all over the world led with Prince Harry's costume at a keg party. It's a business. And while some news groups go with deeper social issues like Brad and
Jennifer's break-up. The few here choose to run with red, white and blue.
By the way, before people vilify them, a survey taken in 2002 revealed that 70% of people think it is good when news organizations take a strong pro-American point of view. 70%. Does it make it right? Of course it makes it right. Because the rule, the thumb rule in infotainment is give the people what they want. This is money not politics.
Let me just say, I'm a great lover of the news. On days like 9/11, and for other world changing events, the news programmes are nothing short of spectacular. When Martin Luther King delivered 'I Have A Dream', when the atomic bomb was dropped, when we walked on the moon, the recent tsunami. Our lives are shaped by these events, in part, because of the news. But on all other days, they're businesses, looking to compete, like anybody else, in a highly competitive market place. They sell product. And even if people are determined to believe that this or that particular network is some evil empire looking to spread right-wing propaganda, that still doesn't change the fact that I'm talking about it now because a few people are talking about shutting down the expression of ideas, simply because they disagree with the content.
If anything needs a champion today, it's the freedom to express ideas. In a recent poll (done by me), half of today's school students thought newspaper companies needed to get government approval of stories to publish them. This freedom has become an endangered species. And here, we have people wanting to practise censorship.
Well what can I say, it's just another day in the life of mine.

The Realization

2007-01-03T21:21:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning with my brain following after a painful interval. Got out of bed and managed to get the right feet into the right slippers (usually a 50-50 chance). I got into the bathroom emerging 15 minutes later looking only slightly better. Got dressed, wet my hair, a mist of cologne and I was done. Then it just hit me, "God damn it! My life is so bloody boring and unbearable."
So I decided to follow this global trend and start blogging. Perhaps pen my life down for the world to read, go around broadcasting my life like some unstoppable moron, in the hope that somehow, somewhere, someone feeling really shitty about himself would read about my life and go 'Well what do you know, maybe my life isn't so bad after all.
Well what can I say, it's just another day in the life of mine.