fever

Dammit, I have to somehow get rid of this fever by Thursday. I don't think the airport authorities are going to take lightly to someone feverish travelling, and to Hong Kong no less! Not after SARS.

Well at least I'm well prepared for my stint at home. 6 DVDs to watch along with lots of water and rest.

-Good Will Hunting
-Maria Full Of Grace
-Ray
-Mothman Prophecies
-Shawshank Redemption
-Blues Brothers

And if its not enough I can watch City of God over again. Woohoo! This is looking to be a good recuperation.

I'd better not remind myself of the fact that, in this one week alone, I'll probably put back every calorie I tried so hard to burn in the last three weeks.

Doh.

adidas one

It seems Adidas has a brand new product that, according to their advertisments, can

- open portals to parallel dimensions
- allows you to do the 'God' thing and create terra firma
- run upside down
- run right side up
- run at 30 degress off the adjacent angle of the spin of the earth on its axis (whatever that is)
- provide a novel cure for insomnia

Legend has it that Adidas achieved these astounding capabitlities by implanting fragment's of Dorothy's original magic slipper's into each and eveyone of these magnificent creations. (You know, Dorothy. From Wizard of OZ? You have had a childhood havn't you?) Adidas provided no comment as to the accquisition of these precious treasures but rumour has it that they were taken from Dorothy's room as she enjoyed the attentions of both the Tin Man and the Scarecrow, simultaneously, while the Lion held the video cam. It seems the golden brick road raptured all of them in more ways than one.
Anyway, the fast fingered one was none other than Dorothy's beloved dog Toto, who was actually a top secret undercover agent in the employ of the infamous MIB, an organisation that insists on naming their agents after the letters of the alphabet and have thus condemned themselves to never having more than 26 employees, even if one of them is a talking dog from another planet.
Enroute to MIB headquarters, the transport was ambushed and hijacked by a posse of renegade Republic Commandos who'd just realised that one of the disadvantages of being Clones was that they sometimes got themselves into sticky, uncomfortable and not very pleasing situations. Apparently they'd all been screwing the same girl from the same bar every day of the week and she'd been completely oblivious, and only too happy to comply. Harnessing the power of the slippers, they opened up a dimensional portal and warped themselves into the Chinese embassy in Iraq, thus blowing it apart and making Mao Zedong quite agitated that he'd lost some of his very valuable propaganda Drones. To appease his wrath, and keep him from setting his hair dresser upon them, the Clones agreed to take the place of the Drones and make a lot of noise over a mass of rickety concrete that was due to be demolished anyway. Needing the money, they sold the treasure to the first American they could find, who happened to be an American National Guard trooper whose day job was as a research scientist in one of Adidas's sprawling underground fortresses.

Thus Adidas One was born. All hail.

bash

Sometimes I just wish I was in a room chock full of breakable stuff. Glass, crystal, procelein. Oh and throw in a load of Barbie dolls and cutesy stuffed toys too.
I'd step in, survey the room, and slowly, firmly, close the door. Not slam it. Close it.
Then I'd heft the weight of the hockey stick in my hand.

And go terribly, spectacularly, utterly and completely insane.

How the hell do I wake up on the wrong side of the bed when I can only wake up on ONE side?

roar anfield roar! this is your night! 

YOU"LL NEVER WALK ALONE

What a match! What a comeback! What an end!!!

Rafael Benitez, a whole legion of long suffering Liverpool fans are utterly and absolutely indebted to you. Thank you for making our dreams come true.

Viva La Reds!

come on man, all you need to do is play like you did during last year's euros 

east meets west. red meets, err, red and black

Istanbul. What I wouldn't give to be there now with a ticket to the Champions League Final safely in my pocket. Not in my hand mind you. If it was in my hand I'd probably be spotted, stalked, ambushed, bludgeoned at the back of my neck and removed of my ticket and then my wallet. All in that order.

Liverpool. 8 years supporting them and never have they come to something as climatic as this. All I can do is root for them like I've never rooted before.

Beer - check
Brownies - check
Biscuits - check
Ice Cream - check

COME ON REDS!!!!!!! GO GO GO!!!!

broadband my arse

I am bloody frikkin pissed.

And the best part? I'm not even sure what I'm pissed at.

Get this. I bought a wireless router a couple of months back at the IT fair so my sis and dad and I would stop giving each other black faces whenever someone wanted to use the net and found out that someone else was already online.
So I bring the thing back home and set it up and voilA! Internet connectivity for the whole family! Simultaneously! As you walk around eating and lazing and jabba-the-hutt-ing away, a full episode of the OC is fluttering around in the air and going straight through you! Imagine that. Mischa Barton inside me. In a sick, desperate, geeky kinda way, but inside me nonetheless.
Anyway, a few weeks back, this marvel of home technology starting screwing up big time. Being completely incapable of repairing it, I brought it down to the service centre, where there was this gorgeous girl at the counter who completely took my breath away.
But I digress.
After a few days of testing, the engineer says he can't find anything wrong with it and hands it back to me saying it ought to work perfectly fine. Having no reason to dispute him, I brought it home, albeit sceptically. And lo and behold, once again, it spectacularly refused to work. And to make matters worse, now even the dial up ADSL modem doesn't work anymore. Wonderful!!!
Fucking hell. Its times like these I can understand why some people become technophobes.

Anybody who's really really proficient in this kinda stuff? Who actually knows what the hell is DNS and subnet masking and all the other terms that just make me go glassy eyed and say SMLJ!
Seriously, if you know how to do this shit and are willing to make a housecall, drop me a line. Don't worry, you'll get paid.

Take the quiz: "What Star Wars Character Are You?"

Obi-Wan Kenobi
You are a level headed person who uses the Force to compliment your natural talent

Come on. Give me your best shot. Make my day.

you should get a look at whats directly behind him. 

maybe we aren't what we were meant to be 

open your eyes and see 

elfen lied and the lazy boring not so good day

Sloth is beginning to take its hold on me. The cold evil fingers are beginning to smudge prints. Planned to go gym this morning. Woke up with my whole frikin body aching like a herd of decidedly drunk and stoned elephants decided to have a stag in every last nook and cranny of my body. Aches in "places I didn't even know I had" places.

Gym flew out the window.

Spent the day watching this anime called Elfen Lied. Its got everything those crazy polite little jap bastards love. Sex, violence and a plot that stretches the notions of what you consider right and wrong. Oh and did I mention sex? And nudity. And schoolgirls with big eyes and short skirts.

Tell me the Japs aren't crazy. Then tell me the moon is made of green cheese from a deranged goat out of Switzerland. You'd have a better chance convincing me of the latter.

Why'd I watch it? I like plots that challenge the boundaries of right and wrong. What we consider deviant and normal. Black and white. Or are they?

step aside brownie factory

I have a feeling I've just baked the world's first alcoholic brownies. Well at least the first to be publicly and prominently proclaimed over the world's most widely used form of communication. Shuddup. I'm first!

And the fact that they taste great doesn't hurt either.

It sure beats the amazing self detonating inside out muffins I came up with last time.

Its official. The world's best cooks are guys.

i don't care that its a lightsaber, i still say purple is gay 

oh joy oh joy 

YOU WERE THE CHOSEN ONE!!!!

There's just something about Star Wars that fascinates me so. The spark in a Jedi's eyes as he switches into combat mode. The involuntary sweep of his robes as they unfurl to reveal the silver plated hilt of a lightsaber. The spine-tingling 'pssst' as the blade ignites, taking fiery, furious form, humming its thirst for battle. The static filled scream of protest as its arc is interrupted by the line of coherent, angry light that is the blade of the opponent.
And so it begins. Both blades carving lines in the air, dancing as if wielder and weapon were one entity, the lightsaber an extension of the Jedi's will. Thrust and parry, advance and retreat. Who will taste the cauterizing bite of his opponent's sword.....

Star Wars fan I am.

Wing Commander Tan Kay Hai. Distinguished Flying Cross 

history

It seems that one of the hundred of RAF P-51 Mustangs wreaking havoc on the Nazis on 6 June 1944 ( D-Day for those of you so not so historically inclined. Shame on you. You watched Saving Private Ryan) , contained a Singaporean pilot. And from what I've found out, he might not have been the only one.
114 Singaporeans were sent over to Canada during the course of World War 2 to under the Commonwealth Training Scheme. So essentially, Lieutenant Winters and the men of Easy company could have been flying in, and jumping out of, a plane flown by a Singaporean. It could have been a Singaporean at the cockpit watching the lines of flak reaching out into the night like the fingers of Death himself, could have been a Singaporean flipping that switch for the jump light ot turn green, could have been a Singaporean breathing his last among the shattered remains of his plane on the fields of France.
It seems there was a point of time where Singaporean military pilots weren't the cowardly, overpaid, overrated and glorified taxi drivers they are today.

If anyone has any information at all about what happened to Wing Commander Tan Kay Hai or any of the other 113 Singaporean pilots after the war, I'd really love to know.

These are the men we ought to salute.

music

It seems the music we listen to gives a pretty accurate picture of our state of emotional maturity at each stage of our lives.
Just consider this.

Age 1-10
We don't really give a damn about music. Well other than the mildly gay rantings of an overgrown, yellow talking bird who's best friends with a dysfunctional, paranoid mutated elephant. Oh and then there's the Transformers theme.

Age 11-13
Beginnings of musical awareness. All of a sudden radio stations start having names associated to them. Not that they didn't before. Just that we never really noticed. Good old Michael Jackson is top of the pops and we get hooked to simply listening to the radio even if we can't put a name to any of the songs.

Age 14
The embarassing stage that none of us ever wants to admit. Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Spice Girls and god knows what else. The shocking truth. When I was 14 I actually thought Bewitched was the coolest thing around and saved up long and hard to buy their album.

Age 15-19
Somewhere about now we realise that the world, the people who live in it and well just about everything...sucks shit. And we start looking for music made by people who don't give a flying fuck what the world thinks of em. All of a sudden it becomes cool to be a rebel. All of a sudden, everything that has an electric guitar on overdrive in it seems a just reflection of our rebellion. Rebellion against what, we'll never know. Everyone starts out with the tamer stuff like alternative (Third Eye Blind, Foo Fighters and all). Many make the transition to rock (Creed, The Smashing Pumpkins, Greenday), some to old school like the Rolling Stones and Guns and Roses, and some to the truly hard metal ( Metellica and the like). I will confess to having dabbled in all the aforementioned. Then there is the small group who go overboard and start listening to noisy drivel like System Of A Down and Mushroomhead.

Age 20-21
Holy shit I'm old! You find yourself not wanting to let go of your love for Rock n Roll. And yet an undeniable desire for something more. Something classier. Something smooth. Something swing.
Frank Sinatra starts sounding utterly irresistable. And yet sometimes all you need is the Stereophonics' Dakota blaring out of your Zen Micro. Or I-pod. Whatever.

Age 22 and above
I suppose fuddy-duddy-ism takes complete control of your life and your children will grow up wondering why you listen to such bring crap and that Dad or Mom is just frikkin old fashioned. Well I wouldn't know.

Behold. The soundtrack of our lives.

For Honour And Glory. 

we will be there..... 

where men fear to tread.... 

where the sun don't shine.... 

well versed in combat ops.... 

with heavy resources... 

ex special forces operative 

Mission Log #001 Operation CANDLE SHINE

2355
Team's assembled and waiting at FRV. Minor hiccups in transition to final rendevous but the operative in question managed to recover from the mistake in time. Slightly behind time, but for once time is on our side. Final mission preps on the way, orders being run through, confirmation that everyone knows their role. Objective in sight and being constantly monitered. Insider in place and forward scout has infiltrated and made contact with asset inside objective. Odd though, weird that they assigned an Air Force operative to be the forward scout. I suppose he must be of some good.

0015
Mission time start. Green light has been given. Tactical movement to breach point. Silent breach. Kudos to insider. Special caution taken with OP on high ground. For some reason, sentry is preoccupied somewhere else. Easy breach.

0016
Assembled for door breach. Silent breaching as far as possible. Unexpeted situation. Target is directly behind door! Abort door breach! Tactical positions. Everybody down and behind overhanging cover. We are joined by the forward scout. Situation calms down.

0019
3 minutes of waiting and from what we hear, target suspects nothing. Yet. Door opens and inside asset strolls out looking for us. Signal out. Signal confirmed. Authenticated. Update on tactical situation. Target smells a rat. Had a fleeting glimpse of the forward scout (AIR FORCE!!) and noticed the bundle of equipment left in the insider's care. Not good. Secondary plan in the works. Carry on with infiltration. Direct assault if necessary.

0023
Secondary plan in place. Presentation of sacrificial lamb. The forward scout has nobly agreed to surrender in order to throw target off the scent, allowing the rest of the team to take up strategic postitions. We play the waiting game now. Risky, but its better than allowing the whole team under fire.

0027
Waiting again. almost half an hour from mission start. We have no block party. Should the info be wrong and reinforcements arrive, we'll be sitting ducks. Hunker down, target is approaching. Its working! Capture of forward scout has emboldened him. Confident of his security, he is laughing away, gloating no doubt. Signal out. Three seconds to go.

3 - 2 -1

HAPPY BIRTHDAY NELSON!!!!!!

(the events and happenings described here are based on true events that did actually happen. any resemblance of any of the characters to persons living or deceased is...well..not exactly coincidental)

what do you think? perhaps the military look works for me? 

the solution to, if not all, then quite a few of my dillemas 

i wish this were the movies

When you go deliver a pieve of faulty equipment to the service centre after all your banging and kicking and cursing and swearing has done nothing to make the device stop chao genging and go back to work and you finally admit defeat, you kinda expect to be greeted by a sour faced, seedy looking man or a shoulder padded jacketed middle aged woman who has no idea what she's doing there.
So I suppose you can imagine my disbelief when I brought my router over to the SMC service centre and found, sitting right in front of me, the most gorgeous girl I've seen in a long time. Long gold tinted hair reaching to her shoulder blades, big beautiful eyes, the slim, lanky (in a good way) body with great shoulders. And a smile worth a million dollars. I don't know if she knew that the whole time I was talking to her I was trying very hard not to make it obvious that I was oggling her. So there I sat, left brain spewing out all the crap about how the router's a bitch, right brain bitching at me to cut the crap and ask her out to dinner tonight already.
But of course I didn't. I sat through lunch with my mom with Mr Right Brain and Mr Left Brain having 1x parliament session.

Reasons to ask her out:
- she's absolutely gorgeous!
- whats the worst that can happen?

Reasons not to:
- I looked like an idiot. I was wearing a green shirt that said 'PARATROOPER' and grey shorts which clashed like cars on a greased expressway. And bad hair day just doens't begin to describe it.
- if she actually agrees, then what do I pick her up with? I don't fancy asking her to wait for me at Orchard MRT.
- do people actually do this kinda thing in sunny Singapore?
- I'm too frikkin hum ji.

Obviously I didn't. Sigh. Well on the plus side, my router's gotta 'attend c service centre' till Wednesday. And then I'll be in the same shit again. Same shit. Different day.

Cuz its you and me, and all of the people
With nothing to do
Nothing to prove.
Its you and me, and I don't know why
I can't keep my eyes off of you.

read all about it

sn't it funny that most of us recieve our copy of the daily newspapers way before the sun gets up, but only get down to reading them after the big yellow face in the sky starts getting a bit dulan with everybody complaining about how frikkin hot it is and decides to go smoke out for a while. But I digress. We're talking about newspapers, not oversensitive celestial bodies.
Every night the printing presses work full steam to get us our update on the world as soon as possible. Then in the wee hours of the morning all the old uncles with their lau pok vans and magic balancing act motorcycles will bring stacks upon stacks of the papers to the stacks upon stacks of concrete boxes that most of us call home, whereupon they trudge their way up flights of stairs (because for some reason housing board elevators can't possibly stop on all floors) and leave that bundle of blood (from the papercut the uncle got carrying the papers), sweat (obvious) and tears (the uncle saw President Wee Kim Wee in the obits).

And what do we do with them?

- pick out the 'Life' section and sit on the toilet reading the funnies to distract yourself from the fact that if you bothered to eat more vegetables this wouldn't be quite so painful
- flip to the sports section and start spewing bread crumbs when you find out that Liverpool's in a Champions League final.
- take the Classifieds section and start mopping up the coffee you spilt during your over enthusiastic celebrations
- use the front page to cover your face and act as a shield when your mom starts to kao be kao bu about how the stains will become unerasable and the value of the house will drop and if next time cannot sell the house its all your fault
- roll up the now battered front page and start chasing the pesky housefly that decided to inject some excitement in its life. And yours too.
- use more of the Classifieds to mop up the coffee you spilt chasing the fly that by now is resting happily on your upturned ass and laughing uproariously to itself.

And then there's the proportion of us who actually read the papers, whoever or whatever they are.

and so it is

So this is what civilian life is like. All of those months of eager anticipation, the discussions of what we would do after we got out of the glorified prison called Hendon Camp, the dreams of a life better than what we had. All of them have come to this.
This. Sitting at home all day with absolutely nothing to do. Exactly what I've been doing in camp for the last few months except that there's nobody around to jio to go and train just for the fun of it, and there isn't an olympic sized pool 300m away thats completely free of charge. So it comes full cycle. It brings the circle to a close now that I am complaining about having far too much time on my hands and nothing to do.
Well nothing to do except stare at the computer screen all day playing spider solitaire hoping somebody interesting comes online. Preferably pretty as well. The person who comes online I mean. Spider solitaire was made for people like me. who can't believe they're spending the day dragging coloured rectangles around and trying to put them in numerical order like kindergarten children.
The worst part? Most of the time I don't even manage to win. No win isn't accurate enough. I don't even manage to complete the exercise?

I'm blabbering

unemployment

So this is it. Collected my last paycheque just now. Finally quit nydc. And the paycheque just underlines the main reason why I want to leave. bloody hell. I slog like a pig for two weeks and I get a measly 270 bucks? Thats just plain fucked man. It ain't just peanuts. Its frikkin ground up chinese new year gua ji on one of those useless McDonald's spatulas.

Everyone seems to be going away these days. All over the place they go. to study, to work, to see the world. There they discover and experience completely foreign cultures and mindsets and find they love them so much. Love the freedom of expression and personality. The withdrawal from the rat race. The knowledge that not getting a degree isn't a ticket to disaster. So completely different from what we're so used to here in Singapore. So is our society over here really so completely off-putting that we find other cultures so utterly irresistable? I mean, are we really that devoid of appeal? Sure down here you can't wake up and have the Alps for your rear window view. Or a local watering hole to go to every Saturday to watch the match being played by your local team, Liverpool FC. And you can't act like a pompous asshole and pretend youo nly speak French. But one thing that this place has over the others. I guess all I can say is that it simply feels like home. No Norah, thats not your line.

But then again, who am I to say? After all, I havn't been anywhere further than New Zealand. Where 'Sheep' is a national language. And everybody goes to bed at five after doing their daily chores of sheep shearing, sheep loving, sheep hugging and sheep shitting.

I need to get out of this continent for a while.

alright children, let me give you the lesson of the day 

3 amigos oven baked 

meet eugenia, clara, san tong, anulat, pong and sulat.  

splish splash i'm a taking a bath 

Moove is...err...more? 

movie star looks. if he ever gets out of the village he might make it big 

my humble house indeed. the only building made of anything stronger than wood 

welcome to huay paraai.