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On Facebook

Over the past month, thirteen people have asked me to go on Facebook. Some were close or close-ish friends. Some were acquaintances. And one was my sister who wanted me to give her a donkey or something like that.

Of course, as you might have guessed, my answers were all variations of “No”. Such as “hmmm… no.” or “pleah… no.” or, if I was feeling particularly courteous, “let me see… no.”

Am I being anti-social? Well, yes I am. But only because being sociable, at least online, has become utterly pointless.

Typically with social networking sites, you fill in your profile, sometimes add a photo or two and then spend the rest of your time fending off the advances of someone called “Lesboboi81″. Is that fun? Really?

And then there’s the problem of association. I remember when I first got a Friendster account, I lived in constant fear that an ex-classmate who had ingeniously named himself “Raven” would find me. The conventions of courtesy would require that I add him as a friend and that would have shattered my social standing completely. After all, what would having a Raven on my list say about me? I’d have been better off announcing to the world that I’d contracted genital herpes from a Viet transvestite named… uhh… Lesboboi81.

The thing about social networking sites is that it’s all about novelty. Whenever a fresh site springs up, millions flock over, typing in nonsensically long lists of favourite movies, music and books, tracking down and pulling in friends from the previous hottest site, checking out the usually pointless new widgets ad nauseam.

And this is exactly what’s happening with Facebook.

New devotees proclaim that Facebook-ing is the coolest thing ever and that only people who still listen to The Carpenters shun it. However, press them a little more and they’ll be forced to admit that it’s really not much different from Friendster or MySpace or Orkut. Or a really neat phone book.

When you think about it, this social networking craze is just a matter of what sort of container you’re putting your collection of friends in till the next big thing comes along. Then the frenzy will just play itself out again.

And really, what’s the point of that?

Dating a poet

The problem when you’re an AS sufferer is that training schedules are almost impossible to stick with. It’s not so much you staying disciplined as it is just hoping that your joints will allow you the luxury of running on this particular day, at this particular time. I’ve had days when I wake up without any aches whatsoever and then, within moments of stepping out of the house, find that there are razor blades in my hip. And when you’ve got a running schedule to stick to, that just makes things so damn hard.

I like to think of it as dating a beautiful poet. One moment she’s composing gay limericks that have to do with bunnies and then, all of a sudden, she’s only interested in words that rhyme with “death”. Like “breath” and “meth” and, umm, yeah.

Fortunately, my poet has been in a good mood of late and as a result, I’ve been able to improve my distances markedly (though there was one night when my hip did give way). It’s still some way off from the half marathon that my colleagues so graciously signed me up for, but I’m getting there. Now I just need to find a way to keep that blasted woman happy.

By the way, it turns out that Jay Chou is a fellow AS sufferer.

I don’t hate him so much now.

Flying the flag doesn’t help

Four days have passed since the National Day Parade which means that my town council can now remove the half a million or so flags that have festooned the entire estate for the last two months.

Actually, I’m being dishonest. It’s more like a million flags.

A large canal snakes through my neighbourhood and the railing along the length that faces the road is covered in national flags back-to-back. Add to that the buntings that have been put up between each and every lamppost and, I’m sorry, but I’ll have to up my estimate again. Two million seems a more likely number.

No wait. There’re still the flags that appeared mysteriously along some corridor parapets, especially those facing large roads. In short, my town council has taken all the cloth that could’ve clothed the entire world’s poor and destitute and used it instead to form the world’s largest eyesore.

The last time I saw this many national flags on display, I was watching a documentary on North Korea. And even that paled in comparison. One should ensure that Kim Jong Il never glimpses a display of patriotism as ostentatious as ours because he might, in between mouthfuls of grilled dog, question why his people are spending so much time growing tapiocas when they could be better employed sewing flags.

Not that I’m comparing our great nation with a failed state like North Korea. After all, North Korea is a country where freedom of speech is an alien concept and whose ruler inherited his position from his father and… Hmmm. This isn’t quite working.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that when the decorations do eventually come down, there will be a collective sigh of relief. Not just because we’ve all had enough of the crescent and stars but also because there is only so much patriotism that we can have forced upon us.

Unfortunately, this respite will only last till the next National Day which will almost certainly involve yet more flags and yet more government initiated “we love Singapura-ra-ing” to make up for the apathy that is slowly but surely seeping into the psyche of the common folk.

“If you refuse to be patriotic during National Day, then we’ll just have to do it for you.” seems to be the government’s modus operandi these days.

Which is ironic because it is exactly this paternalistic approach (which the PAP justifies with constant reminders that they brought the country out of poverty and that they are inextricable from the nation’s welfare) that has turned patriotism into a dirty word.

No ruling party should be larger than the nation in which it governs and, though we haven’t quite gotten to that stage, “Singapore” is now at least synonymous with “PAP”.

Perhaps this inability to differentiate state from party is a reflection of our lack of maturity as a people. Still, who can blame us? Judging from the few National Education sessions I’ve attended and all the National Day Parades I’ve seen, this PAP-centric view is exactly what our government wants to achieve. And that’s what they’ve got. But do they realise at what price?

Put simply, no number of flags will mask a national identity that’s already been shattered. Plus, it’s really very ugly you know.

This will ruin your life

Devilishly simple yet hard as a stripper’s behind. I have spent almost the whole of today watching balls expand and only achieved a miserly score of 15. I suggest you do the same.

Read all this stuff first before you start. And I’d keep the next two weeks on my calendar free if I were you.

Married man cannot go back late

John, of all people, said this to me yesterday over MSN before promptly disappearing ten minutes later. Which is about when reality suddenly sank in like an anvil on the head. I mean we’re talking about John here. Someone whom I’ve known since I was fat and he was, well, not. Someone who never looked like he was interested in all this dating stuff until he was caught with Clara (she who once accused my head of being “large” and who also astutely noticed that I was very fair at one point in time which led to me being described as having a wheaty complexion) at Buona Vista by Adrian who then wasted no time in telling me.

“First time shy mah.” was his feeble excuse.

Anyway, despite all that, it’s been two weeks or so since he’s gone and become all married. To my mother, that means he’s won the race. Everything is a race to her. Marriage, children, grandchildren, first bypass etc. “John’s gotten his first bypass and your cholesterol level is still a disgrace!” I am quite sick of being told that I am “lagging behind”.

But that’s a topic for another day.

For now, it suffices to say that I am happy for the, uhh, happy couple and I wish them many years of, erm, happiness ahead. Don’t get too cocky though, John, that first bypass is mine.

Forget Lambos and big penises.

What will get you the women is cuteness. Such as this video right here. Show it to any unsuspecting female and she will immediately be filled with an irresistible urge to bear you children.

However, should she be a particularly hardy specimen, do not start whipping out diamond rings, car keys and all that sort of thing. Instead, the only gem you should show her should be this. No woman has been exposed to that and not demanded to be inseminated forthwith.

Since YouTube, I have had more than 500 women.

Now soiling the Internet on WordPress

Ah, the joys of a brand new blog. Moist and glistening. A bit like a fresh turd steaming ever so lightly in the summer breeze. Of course, there are still some teething problems such as the fact that the blog banner now doesn’t seem to go with anything else here. And how, despite trying everything including shouting at my laptop and at God, the damn time still refuses to show up when I post.

I am pretty sure that there is a simple solution to all of this which doesn’t require shouting or divine intervention. However, until it presents itself to me, I see no other alternative than to make my opinions forcefully known to both my machine and my (supposed) maker.

Of course, the burning question is: why bother making the switch in the first place? Well, it’s simple. WordPress just sounds so much more writerly than Blogger.

Yes, I can be a pretentious twit sometimes.

I have been saved from myself

Some of you might remember that, a few months ago, I was a regular jogger. I might even have described the act of running as being merely “unbearable” as opposed to being “only preferable to having nails pushed through my eyes”. By golly, I might even have harboured thoughts of completing a marathon. Clearly then, I was deluded and in need of severe medical attention which duly arrived because, after one particularly long plodding session, my back gave way.

Now, before all of you start pulling out your tissues for a good cry, I must say that that was a few months ago. I’m all better now. So much better in fact that, last night, I imagined myself once again pounding the asphalt, cleaving the night air in twain with my svelte runner’s physique. And all while stuffing my face with some fried chicken. Hell, just ten minutes ago, as I popped some nuggets into my maws, the thought of running was running around in my head.

It is with considerable gratitude, then, that I sniffle pathetically into this handkerchief as I have been doing for days now. Thank God for this divine flu or who knows what madness I might have committed.

Once again, unhealthiness of body has proven the remedy for unhealthiness of mind.

My hair is useless

Yesterday, I had my hair cut by someone called Bay. As to why he named himself after either (a) a body of water; or (b) a deep, prolonged growl, I haven’t the faintest idea. What I do know, however, is that the more unlikely the name, the more unlikely it is that the person will actually be able to speak English. Quite naturally, then, he fluffed up my hair and started motoring along in Mandarin. This posed a problem since my grasp of Mandarin is about as firm as Britney Spears’ grip on reality, and I reacted as I would to anything I do not understand: by adopting a pleasant expression and nodding.

This, by the way, is how I got through philosophy class. The lecturer would ramble endlessly about how all renates are cordates or something or other and I would, despite not having the foggiest notion of what was going on, nod sagely all the way through. Note that this is much more commendable than what John did, which was try to mask his sleeping head with just an A4 sheet held discreetly in front of his face. And it might’ve worked too, had we not exposed his devious plan by guffawing.

Another secret to my pass grade was an ability to paraphrase absolutely anything. Except Heidegger, he was completely unparaphraseable.

But back to the salon.

After much Mandarin and nodding and smiling, the actual cutting began. I don’t mean to complain but I’ve lost all faith in hairdressers. No one so far has been able to tame the unruly mess that inhabits the top of my head. One guy came close but the only implement he used was an electric shaver and his “salon” consisted of a single chair which he moved from army camp to army camp. He gave me the sheep treatment but still, just two weeks later, I looked like a dandelion. Yes, my hair’s rate of growth is so rapid that it should, ideally, be measured in km/h.

Oblivious to all this, Bay started snipping. It was a long and laborious process largely, I suspect, because my hair was reproducing faster than he could cut. Still, by sheer force of will and ever larger scissors, he managed it, finishing off triumphantly with what looked like a pair of garden shears.

Then, he started styling.

Actually, I’m using that term loosely because a more accurate description would be threatening my hair with grievous bodily harm. He rolled up his sleeves and, with both hands, pushed up and down and sideways with such force that, at various points in the process, I thought to myself “that’s it, my head’s coming off.” Still, I was rather pleased with the results.

This was, of course, utterly pointless because everyone knows that no matter how good your hair looks in the salon, there is no way in the world that you are going to reproduce that look at home. I have walked out of salons looking like David Beckham (oh, you laugh) and then, just the day after, gone back to being Rene Higuita.

And it was no different this time.

I went home and analysed studiously the waves he’d somehow created on my head. I made careful note of the swirls and the crests and re-enacted the motion of his hands. And yet, this morning, I applied some wax onto my palms, rubbed it vigorously into my hair and miraculously achieved the helmet hair effect. I was distraught. There were no waves whatsoever. Just tears. There’re always tears.