grasslands

One's ambitions

2007-03-08T10:50:00.000+08:00

I did a little jump while reading Vonnegut's Bagombo Snuff Box, Uncollected Short Fiction to the last piece, entitled 'Code to My Career as a Writer for Periodicals'.

It brought me to my senses and realisations.

Can I say that my spatial awareness is consciously high?

Vonnegut writes about what it is like to be a native Middle Westerner. He mentions something that strikes me:

To grow up in such a city, as I did, was to find such cultural institutions as ordinary as police stations or firehouses. So it was reasonable for a young person to daydream of becoming some sort of artist or intellectual, if not a policeman of fireman. So I did. So did many like me.

If you were to stroll along the main roads and observe many of the 'billboards' or huge posters that plaster the board next to bus-stops, you would realise that NTU is advertising its faculty, in time for publicity for the university admission. (The polytechnics and ITEs were doing it a month or more back, but that's another story.)

The cynic in me made me laugh when I saw the poster of the Humanities school at NTU. It says you can be an intellectual (in a bold, serious font) if you join their school for the Humanities.

The more I pondered, the more I realised what a huge contrast little Edward is experiencing compared to Vonnegut who grew up in Indianapolis in 1922; the more I wanted to laugh at myself for dreaming to be a great writer in Hougang New Town.

As I set about having my breakfast, getting used to a schedule I've arranged for myself in my neighbourhood, I discover that realities are built differently here. With the history of being once a sleepy kampung area, it is quite natural that old mindsets and ambitions are deeply rooted.

My intention is not be deprave anybody of his or her dignity, but more importantly, is to convey the idea that one is 'very okay' if a young boy finishes school, armed with a higher education than his parents (and his ancestors), goes to look for work. The elusive dream of becoming rich is strongly conveyed through the consistent and dogged play of lottery.

For this, I usually do not disclose to anyone, especially to someone who questions my intention and purpose of this life, that I wish to be a writer. "For someone who loves reading, it is only natural to emulate." As a young child in a neighbourhood, I learnt quickly that adults only ask of your ambitions so they could have a conversation starter, turning to impose their beliefs and stereotypes on you, and most of the time, concluding that I'm likely to be as good as they are, or a bigger loser than they already are. (Of course, we do meet angels along the way.) For this game of wheel of fortune, I like to play along with the adults and reveal to them all sorts of occupations I've come across as a person less than ten years of age: I happily proclaim that I wish to be a chef, a postman or a policeman. My mother, even till today, still reminds me that I used to tell her that I wanted to be a doctor. It is difficult to explain to her that with my Arts background and the rigidity/inflexibility of the local education system that it is an uphill task to be able to switch to a Science background that will allow me to enrol in say, Medicine school. Perhaps I could try now, to explain to her that I could still be Doctor Lim, but not in medicine and in a different field of study. (That might take another five years, to enlighten her, not just to take on a course of study.)

Do I feel weighted down by this seemingly lack of ambition in my home town?

*

And, I do wish to know whether Mister Vonnegut felt pressured to enlist in a profession that lives up to his home town of Indianapolis.

Pretending

2007-03-07T23:34:00.000+08:00

Sometimes I feel like I'm foraging in the jungle for an escape route out of the greenery, or at least, to find the river so I'll have a water source and hopefully as a guide to find the way out. It's been like that, switching on and off like my table lamp, for the past few weeks. It's not exactly tiring, but I get weary of people, of faces and of the body expressions of individuals and groupies.

It is like coming out of prison, and then attempting to find your bearings in a rapidly-changing environment.

I'll be free from national slavery this weekend, but I constantly feel that the shackles are tighter, and the claws are sharper. Digesting Sophocles' Oedipus drew me closer to the realisation that there might be a supreme power, a (mister) God, and Tolstoy's The Death of Ivan Ilyich made me consider about how my life would look like should I be death, in my coffin. One of the main reason why I picked up that book was because I wanted to understand where Kurosawa was coming from as he did Ikiru (translated to 'Living') in 1952, in black and white film. Death does not only have to be in physically and of bodily presence, it can manifest in a special form of stoppage (that does not necessarily accept the termination of life).

Death, in a way of expression, can be found in many of the living, breathing human beings on earth, walking on land. I would like to question where their souls can be found at, but I must learn to understand that the answer does not lie with whom I am questioning, instead, I have to answer my own question.

As I walk out to the open sky, I carry within me the understanding that I'm walking, inching closer to death. I do not question it, but neither have I accepted the Grim Reaper's call.

2007-02-27T10:38:00.000+08:00

I stopped writing this year partly because I was heavily distracted.

I still am, of course.

*

You're in a car ride. A fairly comfortable car ride, with the nuances of everyday-car travel; the air-con, the leather seats with the same smell, your favourite radio station is buzzing in the background, and you're definitely not being driven through a cemetery or caught in heavy traffic.

But you need to get to somewhere, a destination. I do not speculate whether it is important, but it's certainly urgent. As a young, perhaps brash, surely impatient young man, I want to be able to get to that destination right now. Immediately, right now, 'no-sir-ee', I do not want any delay.

Of course it's not possible, because plain logic requires that you travel, and because you need to travel, there is a journey.

Impatience breeds like a gremlin (or mogwai) exposed to water - not lights, because light kills them - within you, and I find myself cursing, even if it happens only in certain areas of my grey matter residing in my head. How do you deal with it? School taught me to tackle the problem head-on, to find solutions using my creative thinking-life skills, and viola, there is no such problem without a solution. Of course, nobody ever mentioned about the Middle East conflict.

I do not know for sure whether churches, temples, or mosques teach their people of worship that one cannot deal with the problem in such a manner for every obstacle in their way. You pray yes, but perhaps if might be worth dealing with the circumstance by 'absorbing' it and accepting everything about it in its way. To some, this might be called the passive solution, and to others, this is a no brainer: there are problems you can solve and there are problems you cannot solve. Those you can, solve it, get on with it, and for those you cannot, live with it, and move on.

*

It is pretty much an accepted piece of law in physics that for a force exerted, an equal amount of force comes back in return. It means, in layman terms, that when one punches a lamp-post with full force, the lamp-post 'punches' right back at him with equal strength, which explains why one feels an intensity of pain when one does so. Natural forces, very much so in tune with the concept of karma.

When you give, can I safely assert that you expect something in return? We stink of revengeful thoughts in our minds, yet only a select few consider the possible repercussions in giving that sucker punch. I have been always intrigued by the motivating force of Mother Teresa, and John Paul II singed to a similar tune, answering his own question with, "... she found it in prayer and in the silent contemplation of Jesus Christ, his Holy Face, his Sacred Heart". Mother Teresa has mentioned this herself:

"Something very beautiful... not one has died without receiving the special ticket for St. Peter, as we call it. We call baptism 'a ticket for St. Peter.' We ask the person, do you want a blessing by which your sins will be forgiven and you receive God? They have never refused. So 29,000 have died in that one house [in Kalighat] from the time we began in 1952."

In accepting death, do we then accept everything wholly and peacefully?
(For the ignorants, Mother Teresa is not Indian. She's Albanian, born in Macedonia. She left for Calcutta in the late 1940s, and years of the harsh sun in India must have made her darker significantly.)

Am currently reading Tolstoy's The Death of Ivan Ilyich, and I suppose it will yield some answers and more questions.

2007-01-12T22:23:00.000+08:00

(In case you missed out on the advertising they've been carrying out in the media, here's it once more- the MOSAIC Music Fest '07. I'm awfully keen on the 7.30pm show on 17th March with Rachael Yamagata, because her voice's amazing and this might be my best chance to take advantage of the concession for the $88 priced seat paid at $60, which two years approaching, I've not used it before. Another to-do before I ORD involves getting a membership at S'pore Film Society.)

I recently completed my first read of a piece of novel by Mister John Irving. Honestly, someone I've been putting off reading for a long while, simply because his novels, or rather the ones I own, do not have appealing covers. Hotel New Hampshire. Fortunately for myself, it was an engaging read worthy of a movie production. It does, strangely, brings me back to my first novel with Jack Kerouac, The Town and the City (actually, pretty much so nobody's first book of Kerouac, since most Kerouac lovers started off with On The Road, something I've still not read, Big Sur or Dharma Bums).

I do not feel strangled today, and I only feel so tonight on my way home because I must had been feeling oppressed all along (which dates a while back , I reckon). It is comforting to know there are various ingenious and surprising solutions which pop up every now and then in this complicating era. The geek in me and you would understand this simple comic strip (a new comic site I discovered and bookmarked with glee), which explains why Pearls Before Swine never fail to cheer me up. Two things to do before the sun gets too hot: have the opportunity to communicate to Bill Watterson and Stephan Pastis how much they've kept me away from the sleek, comfortable, air-conditioned psychology-therapy room because of what they convey with their form of expression.

Kerouac wrote a simple line in Big Sur that caught my eye and has flagged at my train of thought a couple of times now, so I thought I should share them:

"Cliches are truism and all truism are true" [found in Chapter 7]

It is a line that appears in parenthesis, so it probably wasn't that important; he was just rambling on, that stream of consciousness style of writing.

Fast forward to what Mister Douglas Coupland writes in Shampoo Planet:

"In periods of rapid personal change, we pass through life as though we are spellcast. We speak in sentences that end before finishing. We sleep heavily because we need to ask so many questions as we dream alone. We bump into otheres and feel bashful at recognizing souls so similar to ourselves." [page 171]

The more ambitious among us seeketh to be humble and noble. Can I eat my humble pie and declare to myself that perhaps I am not up to the task of assisting in someone else's life, and that it is one noble act to step back firmly and completely, because letting go allows that particular someone to grow, and to achieve?

In Irving's Hotel New Hampshire, Lily Berry decides to label her attempt to write as 'trying to grow'.

I'm trying to grow too.

もおいちど、おねがいします.

2006-12-29T22:55:00.000+08:00

もおいちど、おねがいします.

It is strange to conjecture, from one's hands, that passing a year has made one wiser. Because experience does not necessarily bring about change to one's life, nor can it possible dent some damage in the history of one's life.

'Because I've walked this stretch of road before, it means I will be able to walk this road of stretch of road again without difficulty, and soon, I can even run on this stretch of road.'

Children take things to a new perspective because they are not arrogant, because they are not stubborn. We say children are great discoverers and explorers, and we are inadequate to assist them in their journey. I am holding dearly my belief that there is a metaphorical leap of faith (many such leaps exists in our pitiful life) when we ascend (or descend) from childhood to teenage, and to adolescent. You can see, if you observe carefully, that every individual encompasses such values, beliefs and habits picked up from young. Many such, shatter in pieces when the leaps of faith is done, but some survive. In many adolescents, I see the jagged juxtaposition of the old and the new, and the inability to soothe and piece the jigsaws together. The inability to do so, will kill many.

'Because I am young, because I believe I know everything I wish to learn, therefore I can swagger and behave like a young prince or princess.'

Many, forget to step down from the thrones of being a temporary prince or princess. The throne is not lost, neither is it taken away. Their kingdom, is the one taken away from them. For a while, they muddle around and try to test the waters. A split decision has to be made: should they abandon the throne and join another kingdom as a commoner, or should they continue to remain on the throne, status quo. Again, many linger over the decision made, or cease to come to a decision. The result is a lost kingdom, a kingdom created from their own debris.

*

Welcome back, if you've been reading my blog. Edward has never been away, merely just exploring.

National Novel Writing Month

2006-11-04T12:19:00.000+08:00

What is NaNoWriMo?

National Novel Writing Month is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30. ... Make no mistake: You will be writing a lot of crap. And that's a good thing. By forcing yourself to write so intensely, you are giving yourself permission to make mistakes. To forgo the endless tweaking and editing and just create. To build without tearing down.

To answers, from questions.

Which is exactly what I've been keeping myself busy with in the first week of November. Hopefully my train doesn't run out of fuel - it shouldn't - and come my twentieth birthday, I ought to have a semblance of something I can call my personal own novel.

Can be tough with the amount of possible plagiarising. Still.

the boys i mean are not refined

2006-10-29T20:45:00.000+08:00

the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night

one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross in her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
they boys i mean are not refined

they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite

they boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss

they speak whatever's on their mind
they do whatever's in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance

e.e. cummings

What caught my mind

2006-10-22T13:03:00.000+08:00

What I've gotten from here:

And for Halloween,

2006-09-01T20:55:00.000+08:00

My old secondary school classmate, whom I bummed into in the neighbourhood was surprised when he found out I was way at the bottom of the foodchain at work (national slavery), and was not like him, one step higher than the bottom of the foodchain. I told him I didn't prefer the responsibilities and extra duties I'll have to play had I been as a similar positiion as him.
He mentioned in his part cynical-serious voice that we should be taking on extra responsibilities as we grow older, and it was good lessons learnt had I been in his position.

I think that comment restored back in me part my identity, about what makes Edward tick, and to borrow from our national tourism board, 'uniquely Edward'.
I don't think I shun away from responsibilities. I'd like to think I've got a pragmatic heart, that I was born and brought up with values emphasising on pragmatism -by the Gar'ment and my own Dad - and being practical. However, I'm lucky that I had a 'non-intrusive' Dad; not exactly liberal, he was very strict on certain values (meant for another day's storytelling), but he did leave me to my own devices, and was fairly open-minded and tried to support me whenever I had a new endeavour or interest. That made-gave me a very idealistic mind, which I'm very thankful for today.
Perhaps I didn't grow up being idealistic. Maybe it was because I was innocent, simple-minded (as opposed to being street smart) and an oft-used word on me, naive. But whether I had liked it or not, I also had to go thorugh the rigours of life; I like to see mine as being upgraded from a working-class background to that of a middle-class (screw those who say they're middle class when they stay in condominums and private homes), so I wasn't that sheltered from the harsh realities. I could have been at times, not being exposed, but then, what do you say about people who are growing up in a really sheltered environment?

I might be pessimistic at times, but I do dislike being so, or being cynical. Edward's new thinking is that life's too short to complain, rant and whine about how unfair life is. If one gets too caught up with it, you end up being part of it, part of rolling snowball, and then summer comes along.

Repeated musings

2006-09-01T18:46:00.000+08:00

After taking a peek read at my old writings on my journal book, I've realised how much I missed Milan Kundera's writings, because it seems as if my style of writing (about love) is a copycat of his.

But even copycats need a break at times.
What restores my sanity and makes Edward Edward, besides the overwhelming collection of music in my iTunes has been mainly two pieces of work:
Stephan Pastis' comic strip Pearls Before Swine, and contributions to McSweeney's Internet Tendency.

There has been a lot more moments for the past week - than the number of foreign talent (only those with diplomas degress are considered so, sorry) we have and are getting in our island - that I felt that my words, written-typed-or-floating-in-my-head were insufficient to where the mind was heading to, in terms of places. And I don't mean just my dream world, because I probably can write another book on that.

I've been living in bliss, as in I no longer have to torture myself and my poor butt on vehicles with poor suspensions and seats that attempt to gnaw at whatever is left on your butt. My pretty silly face has been restored to its former glory, and I cease my complaints. My ActionSampler lomo photos turned out better than I could have wished for, but of course, herein lies the trouble; I'm too lazy to scan them in.
I've adopted a new mantra for myself and to hinder my procastination: if something that needs to be done can be done is less than two minutes, do it right away! Get it out of the way.

But I want to have more than two minutes to appreciate the cows and the boughs. In the hurry of completing a major event in my work commitment, I forget to plan after the life-after. I find myself getting caught in a mess of manure , and I say exactly that because one of my superior painted this really bizzare image in my mind: on teamwork and integrity, I had imagined a group of lemming-like people all on the sides of this giant toliet bowl. One falls in, into the toliet bowl, into the sewage of human. The rest, in an attempt to save him, fall into it, in a chain of bodies. With brown stuff on their foreheads and knees, they contemplate and try to haul themselves out of the toliet bowl.
It's an image best presented if it was on a piece of paper as a drawing or comic strip, but that is if I could draw better than stick figures with no distinct genders. It won't work.

I've resolved not to take money too seriously, therefore, on the morning of the day after tomorrow, I will be on my HBB flat's corridor, throwing out change and money of my entire possession. That will happen, only if I did live in Roald Dahl's world (read the Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar).

I have absolutely zero patience, despite having to squeeze patience out of me at work like what the old folks used to do to rocks. The courts have decided on my punishment: to witness a dying kitten, with broken legs and probably spine, reject my supposedly kind gesture of pseudo-milk (read: soya bean drink from a can). I've had a sneak preview: I had to wait for water to boil. I was allowed to throw in more fire starters, but it got me hotter and madder than the mess tin used to boil the water. The leak on the plot of the upcoming, hotly-anticipated sequel to the first picture? I will be forced to witness someone get crushed -metaphorically- by the steamroller, and in the end state, my heart will be broken -literally- and out of sync with my grey matter.

Cookie monster needs the best kept lor-mee secret. The magical Ipoh hor-fun. The habitual special from Soup Spoon. And un-moderated tea. Comfort food and drinks.

Japanese dramas and Sir Elton

2006-08-28T13:31:00.000+08:00

I haven't had much time to write for the last couple of weeks, so I'm just going to drone here and see where it gets me.

A very long time ago -at least I see it as quite some time back- when the cable TV in my country didn't have more than a hundred channels. Way back when I could still say that I was glued to the television programmes, where I was multi-tasking between surfing the web, checking my email and trying to study for tomorrow's little school tests. (I can't-don't do that anymore now.)

I was seriously hooked onto this Japanese drama serial, and I must add it's the only Japanese drama serial I've ever watched on a regular basis (if you exclude Pokemon). It only had twelve episodes (and there are no plans to have another season-sequel or prequel, whatsoever), but in accordance to my obsessive-compulsive disorder, things got to the point whereby I could sing the theme song by heart, in Japanese, without refering to any sort of lyrics. For the parties interested on what show got me so crazy, it's Mokodono!, translated loosely to "My Husband".

I was sorting out my iTunes, again, like the obsessive-compulsive Edward, making sure that each complete album had a nice album cover. And then I decided that my library has really gone too massive for my liking (and my friends' liking) -it stands at 17.6 days long, 33.62GB currently- so I decided to check out what I forgotten about listening after adding to my library. So I came to that theme song I was talking about. Hitoribocchi No Haburashi, by Tomoya Nagase, who's in the group Tokio (or is now an ex-member if I'm not mistaken), and who also plays the main lead in that drama.
Only today, with the help of YouTube and DailyMotion, am I not only able to watch old episodes of Mukodono, but it has also enlightened me, finally (!), what exactly I was singing at that time. It's about toothbrushes, which you can add 'how blooming corny', but you might want to watch the episodes to get a better idea of why toothbrushes.
It's very nice bringing back old memories. Alright, I'll admit I had the hots for the female lead, Yuko Takeuchi at that time. But you see, my vision is great, because she's doing pretty well still, today, in her acting. Now I realise too what it could be that drew me to this Japanese movie, Ima Ai ni Yukimasu, or known locally and internationally as 'Be With You', a 2004 release.

And I haven't even started about how YouTube has made me aware of Elton John's younger, pre-surgery voice. I clicked on a link to this 70s video of Sir Elton performing 'Goodbye Yellow Brickroad' with the Muppets; and his voice was so crystal clear and beautiful, even if you considered him a young upstart. I went into, again my obsessive-compulsive disorder acting up here, comparing his voices, scouring for the old videos (before 1989, when he had his surgery) and listening to the newer videos. He sounds distinctively different, and it made my head twirl because I had fell in love with this digusting old man and his deeper voice, and was never aware or bothered about a younger Elton John.
I kind of see it in this way: had Elton John been less flamboyant, grew up in the American countryside and towns, he would have been something like of a John Denver; another favourite artist of mine, even if his music makes me depressed at times. Add effiminate and more flamboyant to Elton John, and you perhaps would get my other big music idol, Boy George. I've successfully tuned in and watched both Elton John and Boy George (plus Culture Club's) videos now, and their sincerity in singing draws in my soul. It'll be hard to find better performer-singer-musician-songwriter than the two of them.

I've noticed I have more favourite female singers than male ones, and my favourite authors lean towards my own gender than the opposite sex. Food for thought.
My much awaited complete Optic Nerve mini-comics ("32 Stories") by Adrian Tomine has finally arrived from the U, S and A. Please ask me about it - I'll be more than happy to rave and tell you more than you need to know about modern, indie-ish, American comics. I was never attracted to the stereotypes of American comics: your Marvel, Batman, Superman, X-Men type of stuff. What I'm taking in is significantly different. Ask, and I'll be happy to show you what's so different with Tomine.

2006-08-06T20:55:00.000+08:00

The leading reasons as to why I haven't been blogging has probably got to do with eBay addiction (I think I'm still mildly hooked onto it) and my new found comfort in picking up the lousy ballpoint pen to write in my writing pads. Of course, my latest/current obsession involves comparing prices of books sold at Kinokuniya and on eBay; I probably can give you a close, rough guide on how much you'll have to fork out for a particular book that appears on my booklist, where would it be cheaper. And I briefly flirted with the idea of setting up a small quaint bookstore to compete with BooksActually.
But having done adequate homework, I can safely say book prices are pretty competitively priced and you usually don't get more than a five dollars difference between retailers, online and at the real marketplace. That explains why Borders, Kinokuniya, MPH and Times (I've heard of Carefour joining in the fun) gives out discounts almost all the time - every other month or so - because that's one edge they get over one another. Borders used to have this very smart marketing ploy, which offered you in discount of a month's validity, if you bought in one of their discounted weekends. It does try to cultivate the loyalness in customers, which is what Kino has done with their privilege cards.

I know I sound pretty scary when I get obsessed over certain things; I've been quite obsessed to get the best bargain out of any book I get, or those my friends decide to get.
(Right now, I'm pretty glad I got a good price on my friend's request to get Louis-Ferdinand Celine's Journey to the End of the Night, and my own keeness on reading Adrian Tomine's 32 Stories: The Complete Optic Nerve Mini-Comics)

Something struck me reading (after printing it out) Jhumpa Lahiri's Once In a Lifetime, and the perspective was something rather new to me, so it did make me try to write my own, with her style. I haven't given it a title, because I haven't gotten down to editing the piece. So here's the raw piece:

dated 15th July 2006 (or scroll down to the entry titled so.)

I know it has no conclusion: my excuses are that I respect Kafka's works way much, and I was just writing with the flow. It will come, I'm sure.
It would be very nice indeed if anybody who makes the effort to read my short scribe address a short comment or so.

dated 15th July 2006

2006-08-06T20:38:00.000+08:00

I was trying to flirt with ideas about something to write on, when I decided my water-darmaged cardboard box of letters and keepsake items was a good place to begin with.

Yours' the only person's letters which I keep separate, in a previously used-for FerroRoche chocolates. Perhaps it is a sign that your letters are precious to me, more precious than the rest of the letters given to me by the other people. ("All the latters in the big cardboard box are equally precious, but yours are more precious than the rest.")

I think I have at least two letters written by you for the occasion of Valentines' Day. Not that the content was anything lovely-dovely. I appreciated the lines you wrote declaring that you appreciated me, no matter how corny and ridiculous it may sound now, because I guess hindsight about such things has always been corny.

One of the statements I will always remember you made about me (or perhaps, due to my memory slipup, you might never had said this, but nevertheless;) is that you saw something in me and decided to go on talking to me. Now that I do a bit of analysing on that, it might just make you a God, if taken broadly; because I felt that you believed in me, bothered to listen to me (or at least, you did a fantastic job making me believe so) and allowed me to be comfortable with myself.

If I ever think about an example of a good date, my mind will not fail to recall memories of our initial dates together. I was apprehensive because it was my first date: I probably had doressed up too formally, while you struck me as someone who was more comfortable with yourself compared to my comfort level with myself; you were dressed more causually. A couple of 'freezed images' fly across my mind: us, having just boarded the double-decker bus to town from our interchange - you had made me wait half hour or so that I thought I was being stood up, and mobiles were not very widespread among the young then. So, I could take my first good look at you after we rushed up the bus, which coincidentally came as you walked up to the bus berth. I asked you like what a good, polite boy would do, whether it was okay to sit next toy you on the same bus seat. You giggled and gave me a quick 'no, I don't mind' answer, so our conversation started. And I remember after the first five minutes (and at periodic times during our numberous dates) that because we were having a running, interesing conversation, this must be a great date, and that made me smile even wider.

For a fifteen year old boy, it was the closest I've ever been with someone else besides my mother, physically. You had already watched the movie before, but didn't mind watching it again because you said it was a great movie. Even before the movie started, I was worried about what to say about the movie when you would ask me about it at the end; I eventually found a word to describe the movie; I told you proudly that I thought it was a very ' colourful' movie.

Very sick.

2006-07-23T19:44:00.000+08:00

You know the winds of change have arrived when there's a sickening piece of air that lingers at the front of your grey brain matter, and that it clouds everything that is inside your mind.
Like the sick, burnt feeling I felt frequently whenever I felt ill when I was young.

*

"Short note to the present Edward,

My salutations. Allow me to assure you that you are not burnt out; you are merely attempting to do everything you can to save the world from your evil nemesis/alter-ego, Mister Edvard. Your emotions are not exactly in tuned because perhaps you have lost all the little humanity left in you.
Because you might really be diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive personality disorder, I could theoretically throw you a fish and let you choke on the bones. But since you are prone to choking, my sidekick cat has suggested that allowing you to gag for air without external causes could prove to be a better evil plan.
I look forward to writing your obituary.

Yours most respectfully,
Mister Edvard.

*

Some ramblings always help.

2006-07-10T16:16:00.000+08:00

My father, coming back home with my mother from the neighbourhood (they went to pack lunch for me), discovered a group of boys trying to play with fire, at my block's ground floor. In his words, "they were trying to burn my flat down".

The boys hurriedly walked away when my folks were near them.
My dad decided to confront them.
They ran.
My father, whom I think has looks that could knock off as a potential terrorist/communist, gave chase, across the road.

He returned home only after I had finished my lunch and drink.
He didn't managed to catch the group of pesky boys, but at least he tried to. He launched into a tirade of how the Catholic school's standard has dropped throughout the years. Afterall, he's an old boy of another Catholic school which is the brother school to the one whose reputation is at stake and plummeting.

I sneak in a little smile, much aware of whom of my folks I picked up my sense of social awareness and action. Then I cringed, thinking of how my Dad, born in the fifties (and is also in his fifties) would react if I were to reveal and tell him stories about the IJ girls I befriend when I volunteer.

He actually made his way to the school (a stone's throw away from my house) after failing to make contact with the fire-bearing boys, so much wanting to see and talk to the discipline master, but was denied entry into the school grounds by the security man when he refused to surrender his identification card - required to enter. Afterall, this is the same cheeky father who filmed a couple kissing and doing intimate things at the ground floor of the block just behind our kitchen window. With his IT-savvyness, he proceeded to record and transfer the video tape to .mpg/.avi format on the computer, burnt it into a VCD and sent it through mail to the (other) neighbourhood school; without a return address of course.
(The last time my Mum and I saw the same couple in our neighbourhood was many months back, and they weren't in their school uniforms anymore. I presume they've graduated from school and gone on to study in perhaps the polytechnics.)

*
There's a need to tolerate my folks' nagging presence (my Mum's, especially) whenever I'm home for the weekends. But I've discovered the 'old-world charm' in them. My Dad has had several crazy actions, or actions untypical of him, ever since - I think - he finally got a wireless point in his room and started surfing the internet leisurely. I know there's a generation gap when I hear from them that tsunamis might happen anytime in Bangkok, and therefore, they effectively rule out a short vacation there.

"The state of Johor is dangerous because you might be robbed!", so they're also giving the place a miss.
They're still visiting the traditional places like Genting, Malacca and Penang.
Perhaps I'm pretty ignorant about catering to tourism for the fifty-and-above age group. I try to imagine and dream that in my folks' mind, "America's a very far away place where things are almost entirely incompatible with what happens in my world, and we'll never want to travel there."

But I know it wouldn't be too tough to coax the two of them to places like Japan (my Mum dreams of going there), China and our ancestoral land, Taiwan (again!) and perhaps Australia-NZ (again!), if money was not an issue. I suggested East Malaysia for a change; afterall, my maternal grandmother was from the Borneo territories, but my Dad has reservations about flying across the 'vast South China Sea'.

I still remember last week, my Mum's excitement over her best friend's daughter having a wedding in either Holland or Qatar (I admit my failure in being able to understand places' names in my mother tongue), somewhere even her wildest dreams are unable to imagine.

*
I am awfully glad that I finally got people excited about the idea of staging a production, by the youths, at the end of this year. I dropped two places where I'll be overjoyed if we would be able to host the performance there - Drama Centre at the National Library and the Guinness Theatre at the Substation - and they seemed happy to tag along with that idea.
It's been too-long-a-time ever since I plunged myself into a BIG project, and I've always wanted to do an ambitious one to follow up on the hardword-filled Puppet Show production for children.
I don't remember doing anything memorable for the previous year, so I'm determined to head out this year with a big bang.

In the grey confines of my brain matter: it'll be a coming-of-age story, infused with amateur acting, singing and dancing. The soul, the camaraderie and the passion to story-tell will be the focus, the highlight. With backstage and lighting crew members.

2006-07-05T20:02:00.000+08:00

Drumming up publicity for BooksActually // POETRY du BLANC session no. 7

Salut ! salut !

POETRY du BLANC open-microphone sessions strive to celebrate poetry /
prose / words at its organic state -- delivered in speech, in comfort.

Please, recite !
a prose, a poem, a letter, a page, a paragraph, a sentence, a word.
Please, picnic !
cross-legged on wooden floors, surrounded by walls of literature in a
cozy little bookstore.

Do bring along your own mat, cushion or newspaper.
Tea and snacks may be purchased at the bookstore.

We would love for you to come join us for
POETRY du BLANC session no. 7
happening at
BooksActually / 125A Telok Ayer Street
on 8.jul.2006
at 2.p.m.
and enjoy poetry and words
in all its rhythmic, lyrical glory.

Au revoir!

//
Walking directions for little dears:
Tanjong Pagar MRT / Exit G
March straight ahead, along Telok Ayer Street till you pass Al-Abrar
Mosque and Thian Hock Keng Temple. The bookstore is located on the
2nd level of the shophouse opposite Telok Ayer Green Park.

Love,
BooksActually

// 125A Telok Ayer Street
Singapore 068594
// +65 6221 1170

Because today was Family Day, at Fort Canning.

2006-07-02T20:08:00.000+08:00

Shots from the ongoing of the Art Competition (theme was 'Family Day').

(Missing group photo of my whole youth gang)
Five years, Long Service Award.

The magical Primary One girl with a name I'm still unable to spell (who has done outstanding research on ants and is an ant-lover herself), but I can pronounce now! And her younger brother, who tried to escape from the photo-taking; name's Jeff, much simpler to spell.

Some more shots on my flickr stream. My ActionSampler photos won't be developed, after quite a while, I forsee.

Estranged

2006-07-01T23:42:00.000+08:00

My tired hand wrote this:

Addendum: I just found out they're (ie. Big Brother) building an overhead bridge over one of my favourite stretch of roads, near my residence. This means pollution to my scenary. I need to take my photos because it will soon be all history.

An answer to why MJ loves children/kids.

2006-06-24T15:03:00.000+08:00

Mister God must have sent me a rebuke for what I said in my post last week, because this week's meeting-session with the youths were postponed. Instead, they needed help to handle the children to Bukit Chandu for the morning and noon.

The Primary Two boy with the Greek name first pointed out to me how the tinted glass (for the top windows of the bus) made everything look old, "as old as my great-grandmother and father's times"; he was refering to the sepia-toned images looking through the tinted glass.
When I pointed out that the Hougang estate is probably twenty to thirty years old, he proceeded to remark a million times how old is it; because he was born in nineteen ninty eight (or therebouts). He then launched into intense debate as to whether Kovan's Heartland Mall was bigger than Hougang Mall, citing that the latter had more stories than the former, when I mentioned that the former was squeezy and full of people. He decided to to bring in Compasspoint, which I noted to him was probably the largest among the three shopping malls. He concluded his debate by saying how confused he was with all that thinking. The Greek emperor had his fears too; when the bus went into the CTE underground tunnel, he bawled about how afraid he was, how he was going to faint, and he wished we didn't have to use such tunnels. Only after much asking that I discover he was worried about ghosts.

Another tiny girl of Primary One age whose name I had trouble spelling and pronoucing: She reminded me of a much younger Jacqueline Chan Mui Mui, with the two ponytails (but without the air of arrogance), and I found out she had her pet topics as well. After I casually remarked that there was an ant on my hand, she excitedly told me how she liked ants. My attempt to educate her that ants do bite, especially with kids like her, was fiercely rebutted by the fact that only red ants bite, and that black ants do not. I could not catch the part about brown ants, but I did hear her and sense her disappointment about not being able to find black ants in her house. She told me about two ants she used to have, and when I quizzed her about what their nicknames were, she said matter-of-factly that they were dead, killed by her younger brother, with the required hand gestures. She also revealed to me that she has a pet cricket, which I think is awfully cool of her.
Obviously, I was quite disappointed not to have taken a photo with her because she had to rush off for tuition. On a Saturday afternoon, and she's only in Primary One.

And I was happily pleased to discover that one of my youth had gone to Starbucks for an interview, and will try Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf next, after my enthusiastic suggestion.

2006-06-18T16:04:00.000+08:00

(I'm struggling to find an impactful and apt title for this post.)

SPH did us all a big favour by focusing on youths and their activities lately.

I feel compelled to write-type this out; much more stronger response that I had with Senator Mitch McConnell and his stance with Burma/Myanmar stated in the TIME article 'Counterattack'.

I have a plea to everybody who had an instinctual, natural response to the incidents reported in the papers lately about bullying. Whether it was last week's episode about JC bullies - which some of them have reformed and are repentant - or is it about the latest handphone video scandal to hit our island; where a group of ah lians decided to bully, bash and humilate a fellow young girl.

I read, see a a lot of coffeeshop talk, analytical deductions and emotional responses to the videos: (And let's not forget about the not-so-long-ago handphone video scandal that involved young people.)

"Let them spend time behind bars and reflect on their ghastly deeds!"
"I was totally sickened by the whole ordeal. This is sadistic. The police should just put the mug shots of any of these girls on the TV and papers and ask the public for help. The young girl will never make a report for fear or being beaten up by the gang."
"Our youths are really beyong control. Society really needs to be tougher on the youth."
"You know why they are out of control? Because there are NO PARENTS to control them. They are lonely, bored and devoid of love and guidance in thier most critical growing teen years. So they hang out with their peers. Then one bad apple affects another, and another, and then bad things happen."

I'm holding myself back from being apalled by the kind of smart responses in the forums.
I'm rationally channelling my energies to a more worthwhile cause: asking, persuading, telling with a smile and 'please', armchair critics and forum watchers to walk their talk, to stand up and make a difference. I know that last piece sounded old, cliche, boring.
It's easy to begin a debate, especially after such a shocking video is out, to whether youths in S'pore are good or bad. First comes the comparisons. Then comes the call to denounce any judgement. Then comes the questions as to whether our schools, social workers, parents and assorted people are doing enough to help these people. Then there are voices as to whether we are exaggerating and overreacting to situations. They can come in that order, or in any order. But such debates always cover such topics.

I say do something. I urge you to do something about it. Something I never thought of doing to begin with, but I stumbled upon the journey, and I refuse to leave them, regardless.

Do what? Volunteer at your neighbourhood organisation, with a programme that deals with youths.
I've done that for at least three years running. My complaint is that people, or potential volunteers never like dealing with youths. The children are more adorable and energetic, most of all, they're cute with a capital 'C'. Working with old folks, the disabled, the less abled, the less fortunate yields you tangible results within a short time frame.

If you're still reading what I'm writing-typing and convinced by the fact that there's a big need for volunteers at organisations working with youths, then you must know that working with youths is intangible, for the rewards cannot be seen most of the time, and to see any results takes a long time coming.

There is no mistake that should we (the place where I volunteer at) have more volunteers, we would be able to better reach out to more troubled teens, and to do more meaningful work. How do I put this in a descriptive manner? if you start volunteer at a youth programme, there is no room for cussing these delinquents, for dissing them, for calling them ah bengs and ah lians. Reality is tougher; you have to befriend them, you have to try all means and ways to exert a positive influence on them, you have to listen to them even if they're spewing expletives and vulgarities that could make you blush. Educated, thinking people would have realised the causes and factors behind that results in such a troubled youth. Now you are the changing agent in their lives, if you're willing to try.

It might be a lot easier to sit behind the monitor screen, type out a few solutions you think Big Brother of our nation should enforce on our youths today. But 'easy' is over-rated. Feel your heart, and check with yourself whether you were young once, experienced teen angst (or you still think you're young, and am stubborn at any attempt to label some of your anger as teen woe). That will form your motivation to help these group of people (what my buddy would jokingly label them as 'delinquents, juveniles'); my motivation to befriend youths started from there.

If I've managed to surprise myself and convice you, a fellow blog reader, then I'd like to throw in such help.
Our Gar'ment has actually came up with a very help, self-match, search engine that lists the possible organisation that requires help. You can limit results to only organisations near your residence or work area, and even to particular days and time you are capable of forking out time for. It's done by the good men and women at National Council of Social Service; advance search.

If you're feeling talkative, and thinking of giving your two cents worth, drop me an email or leave comments. My youth club/programmes has a dearth of volunteers, or rather, political-correctly, is in great need of people who are willing to sacrifice their Saturdays (I hear imaginary gasps already). Give me some hope. Do something you want to do, besides collecting those mandatory community service hours (which my organisation would gladly give).

"i" Post.

2006-06-17T00:17:00.000+08:00

I keep telling myself how ironic it is that I'm reading Hesse's Siddhartha and using a very pretty (in my opinion) lady's photo as a bookmark.

I am as moody as any old cow in the plains of England/Great Britian at the moment.

I made a smart playlist in iTunes; three actually. The one with all my favourite female singers, I named 'Grrl Power!'. The one with my favourite bands/groups, I thought of 'Chopsticks.' as a decent name. The male singers, often neglected, is called 'Same Side.'
I need music, at least for the time being. Carole King's voice soothes me.

I feel as if the period of optimistic pessimisism has ended, and the era of pessimistic optimism has begun. By definition, I ought to be labelled an optimistic pessmist-optimist.

*

I had the opportunity to head down for an air weapons trials for my unit, and behold, I found two primary schoolmates there. I've never spoken to either when I was a young kid, and neither could I recognise them till much effort.
I declared to the 'people above' that I was in my secondary school team for air pistol, which is completely factful. Upon closer reflection, I realised I started late - training only begun three months after I was in secondary school - and I promptly left the air rifle club after a certain Mister Liang (who deserves the upmost respect) retired. Which couldn't be towards the end of my secondary two year, because by then, I was fiddling with micromouses in nerd club. So strictly speaking, I had at the very most, a year's training, with a lot of play time being part of it. I fondly remember the school giving each of us in the team who went for the competition ten dollars as allowance, which us boys decided to splurge on the latest pirated computer games.
So that's a short story(it could have been longer) for my totally pathetic score for the air pistol trial shoot on a good Thursday morning; any morning spent outside camp is a good morning to me. I do not wish to comtemplate what will happen if I actually get chosen for the air pistol team.

Besides realising the existence of two primary school mates, it was nostalgic being back in air weapon range. The last one I was at has already closed down; there was no air-con and you had to manually wind back and unwind to move your range card. I still remember playful cats being in the fire zone for that open-air range at Bendemeer Road.
I had a good wake-up call about how I've been "all-over-the-shop/all-over-the-place" lately, about how I was trying to be a Jack-of-all-Trades and ending up being a-Master-of-None.

I will have to return to my drawing board, I reckon. (Which really is my virtual desktop with virutal sticky notes.) I'm quite a freak when it comes to organising and planning.

Personal response to S'pore's Elusive Identity Quest

2006-06-12T11:14:00.000+08:00

About five years back or so, when Goh was still Prime Minister, he brought up the idea of two distinct groups of Singaporeans in the annual National Day rally; the comsopolitan and the heartlander. The tags (like 'stayers' and 'quitters') have stuck, and used frequently by the local media.

Back then, I was less street-smart/worldly-wise and I was enthralled by these new labels threw upon us, by the PM, no less. I quizzed my close friend in school which tag would he aspired to be - even before I asked him, I had already fell in love with the idea of myself being comsopolitan (without fully understanding its definitions) - and he immediately answered that he'll stay a true-blue heartlander.

Identity. I am unsure whether Edward's psyche is also the psyche of Singaporeans: if I were to strictly classify myself, I am likely to fall under the category of heartlanders aspiring to be comsopolitans. I've been criticised my close friends for being too CME (stands for Civis and Moral Education) and that I'll probably make an ideal CME teacher, but that's just part of the point. Reflecting, I'm probably carrying too much of the burden of following the ways of the Big Brother; I must be the obedient android in a Philip K. Dick fantasy world. I listen, obey - perhaps too much for my own good - to the state and its mouths. "We need more comsopolitans", he mentioned. "I'll strive to be one", I answered the call.

In striving to be a cosmopolitan, I've picked up an ugly habit of despising heartlanders (evidently seen in my distaste in having to make a trip to my neighbourhood shopping mall to run some errands), and more frightening, rejecting everything that has the heartlander tag. In doing so, in turn, I embrace everything that says 'I'm comsopolitan', both its charms and perils.
Recently (as in the past few years), I got aware that in rejecting everything heartland, I'm rejecting my own roots, and more frightening, my own identity. If I do not wish to have the heartlander tag on my sleeve, then who am I really - I'm quite a nobody if I'm not a heartlander, right? I grew up in the most heartland of all places in the country (they named a mall after that), went to the neighbourhood schools that were all within walking distances from where I lived, and I've never been to supposedly cosmopolitan cities like New York.

My nickname of being Mister CME guy. In seeking education in neighbourhood schools I was pretty comfortable with in the beginning, I was unsettled (largely by reports from the media and naysayings) by the thought of being left out of opportunities in learning - this means the world to me, and is still a bugbear with me even today - because I studied at a neighbourhood school, because I was labelled a simpleton -heartlander. I had my own frustrations and little revolts against such a system I rubbished as elitist and the bane of meritocracy. And then I realised I was a Rat striving to be part of the elitist group, and because I failed miserably to do so, it became a story of sour grapes.

This is the living contradiction in me, which has mellowed in me as I age and inch towards death. In the systems and goings of this air-conditioned nation (if I may be allowed to take that term from Cherian George, whom I respect his writings greatly), because it is such a well-run, tightly-run ship (of course, leaks and trapdoors are still present), I fear that I will forever be slaving away in the boiler room, chucking coal. When the ship is sinking, chances are I'll be among the first to drown and hold no hope in surviving (imagine Titanic). Because of the former, I'm equally heisitant, insecure about being able to make my way up the ladders because any deviation from the norm is generally unacceptable; slip up and second chances are hard to come. Of course, Big Brother does want us to believe that with meritocracy, anybody who works hard enough can leave the boiler room and even be part of the crew that keeps the ship running.

It is exactly because I wish to be part of the crew and captains that I am losing faith, fast, about the enormity of task I have at hand. I've always felt that Big Brother holds no good, decent answer to the question of what happens to people with less merit (meritocracy depends much on relativity, comparing); "We'll try out best to help them", says them. But when the flood waters arrive, they are still the ones to drown first. The management might get wet, but you should never discount the fact that they hold the key to the lifevests and escape boats should the ship really begin to sink.

I'm digressing, but discussions about identity in Singapore always seem to digress, at least in my view. I wish to write and comment, because I feel that this is my way of expressing and also, my own little tool in carving an identity for my homeland. Only recently I have begun to contemplate about the almost inevitable fact of having to leave this country to pursue my dreams and aspirations. I do not think the common excuse of this land 'being too small to do anything' is accurate enough in today's modern times. I would be exaggerating to say that my country has abandoned me because of my ideals; alienation and neglect would be more right in describing. Call me a naive heartlander, but I (still) have the confidence of being able to survive should I leave this island elsewhere. Call me dumb and silly, but I stake more pride in having failed trying to 'live, work and play' (to borrow the official term) in another city, then actually being a failure in my own country, the land of my birth.
This probably stems from years of propaganda and mistaken values teaching, but failing in Singapore, the country of your citizenship, is the much worse scenario in mind, as compared to freezing my arse off in some street in Europe or America. That line of thought is a direct, vicious result from having lost total faith and belief that our air-conditioned nation has the capability AND heart to take care of its own people; the people who were born here and did national service (this lack of regard for its bumiputras has probably got to do with the point about Singapore being a land of immigrants throughtout its history). Jack Neo, the "heartland director" once mentioned, (or included it in one of his films) that in Singapore, you're a first-class citizen, the first wife. Should you migrate and seek citizenship in another country, you'll always be a second, or even third wife. His point is entirely valid, but I've noticed a worrying trend in my country: you're valued more if you're a foreign talent, and the best is for a Singaporean to return to Singapore as foreign talent; meaning to say, an ex-Singaporean deciding to resettle back in his homeland, after years spent abroad. This might not be official policy and status (yet!), but I greatly suspect it to be an unofficial preference: ex-Singaporeans planning to return. This is a big point in my mental list of 'Why should I migrate and leave Singapore'.

In pursuing excellence, I feel that I'm encourging and propagating the idea of elitism. Therefore I have a tendency to be harsh and slam the elite of the society, and to resent them - the classic case of sour grapes, because I fail to get the fruits of labour. What will happen if I find myself being part of the elite one day? Would I change the system and reduce, abolish elitism and thus killing my own position and status, or will I never be part of the system, always the noisy outsider, the fox, the provocative maverick? This case is similar for the tags of heartlanders and cosmopolitans; I harbour guilt in leaving behind and rejecting my own description of a heartlander, but yet, I am unable to resist the pursuit of becoming a cosmopolitan.

Myself, being inwardly the Mister CME guy, still holds a glimmer of hope for the much promised and used terminology by Big Brother: 'strive for a win-win situation'.
(The day will arrive when I stand in front of the outdoor courtroom of Mother Nature (others like to call it the gates of Heaven with an angel), and when there is judgement.)

Coachella.

2006-06-01T20:37:00.000+08:00

I have an ambitious dream.
To organise a similar activity to that of the Coachella Valley Music Festival. The only local event I've been to that comes close (but excruciating far way) was Broadcast. I think I really need to attend a music festival that has Imogen Heap, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, James Blunt, Mogwai, The Magic Numbers and Franz Ferdinand.
But it won't be any time soon I reckon.

My latest obession these days is following the exchange rate for, specifically, the US dollar and the British pound.

Memes.

2006-05-30T20:19:00.000+08:00

Picked this up at serendipity!

List down 12 blogs that you visit regularly:

3 blogs because you love their writing
some fancy piece
dsng.net
the rather mad jac

3 blogs because they make you think/seek information
...thrills, spills & flatliners
mr wang bakes good karma
andrew sullivan: the daily dish

3 blogs because they make you laugh
quirks
there is method in it
pearls before swine - my other favourite comic strip. it's a zoo, i swear.

3 blogs because of their pictures
the artist and his model
bounce back to life - they make me laugh; that unmistakenly s'porean flavour.
vegan lunch box - because i'm such a sucker for kid food.

And tag 3 blogs
walking without rhymth
two faced
mambo rhapsody

Listening, eating.

2006-05-28T18:58:00.000+08:00

This post was made for the sole purpose of announcing that Jolie Holland has a new album, entitled Springtime Can Kill You.

I think she's going to be the next female singer I'll be going crazy about. Yesterday was back to Carole King's classics. The day before was Tina Arena. And once every weekend, I seem to have a craving for Imogen Heap's Speak for Yourself. A month ago or so, it was all about Dionne Warwick.
I'll be looking to Last.fm and Pandora for some more music guidance - Amazon peeps told me about this particular Jolie Holland.

*
On a side note, I've been terribly excited during weekend. Re-arranging my room, partly done. Books-chasing. Market research on wallets. Could be a side effect after spending (jail) time in the Island of Doom. Talking about side effect, does anyone know a good doctor who believes much in dreams and nightmares? Your folks, relatives, neighbours, friends, or any combination of any of the combination.
I've been seriously having nightmares and the strangest dreams lately. Could be an omen (six, six, two, zero, six), could be a sign, could be stress.

On an equally strange note, the people emailing and the people I've been in contact with on eBay have nicknames that are gotten from names of food, or make references to food. I was at the Food Fest/Fair this afternoon and it was a distinctively S'porean event, flavour, taste. One promoter remarked that the new drink product was BOTH tea and coffee (think: kiasu-ism). Another grown man had food particles all over his mouth, like what Roald Dahl would describe (think: famine, kiasee-ism). I've never seen so many people eating, talking, walking and eating at the same time, in the same arena. And as a fellow S'porean myself, I was tempted to plunge into the sales tagged on food in the exhibition hall. Somehow, I think they (the food fest organisers and participating companies) should do this on a weekly basis, along some big street in S'pore -perhaps in Chinatown, or anywhere in Marina South- and maybe, just maybe, it'll bring back the crowds of yestertimes (before we were labelled a first-world country). If only the taxi drivers will to validate and acknowledge such a possibility.

Chuck Palahniuk's Haunted for permanent exchange.