Chamber of Idiots

I've moved!

2008-07-05T06:34:00.000-07:00

Hey people, I have defected to Livejournal. This is my new blog:

http://jumbiez.livejournal.com

Blogspot has been good to me, but I shall have to bid it a fond farewell.

7/8.

2007-12-31T05:05:00.000-08:00

In retrospect, it is hardly surprising that I have chosen New Year's Eve as the "right moment" to start blogging again. For someone which has an irresistible (if hugely superfluous) penchant for the theatrical, it is hard to resist the boundless rhetorical potential that an occasion like New Year's Eve exudes.

Much of this rhetorical potential stems from the fact that New Year's Eve is a particular day where you begin to anticipate the future that lies ahead. There is a certain ethereal charm about today, because New Year's Eve represents a threshold between not-so distant memories, and a tentative, but undeniably exciting future. The confluence of these two elements at a single point in time makes for a heady brew of bittersweet reminiscence and unbridled hope for the future.

Of the above 2 emotions, the former is basically an incoherent outburst of regret about things well past -- emoing, in essentials. The latter treads the fine line between such incoherent outbursts and an objective, rational evaluation of what lies ahead. Hence, at the risk of sounding like a raving idiot feeling too much angst for his own good, I shall seek to explore in greater depth the second option.

It is relevant here to talk a bit of the nature of time. As much as this delineation between years is (if you think about it in a cynical and mechanical fashion) an artificial and consequently irrational construct, the fact that our lives are built around this supposedly "artificial" conception of time forces us to construct realities within such constraints.

One reality that is particularly pertinent to yours truly (and most other readers of this blog, I trust) is the school term. The start of every school term on the 2nd of January represents a multitude of opportunities for students, and a chance for us to exploit them to the maximum. We makes New Year resolutions, promising to be a better person, and start fulfilling these promises with much passion and energy once the term begins. And yet, as the year goes by, fatigue will always contrive to creep in, we start to see failures, and finally, we corner ourselves in a sort of half-defeat, fighting on because it just doesn't make sense to just give up, but doing so with the grudging acceptance that our real dreams, the ones that seemed imminently possible just a few months back, have all but evaporated.

Because of such pessimism, I am a bit skeptical about making New Year resolutions. What, though, is a New Year without something to look forward to? Especially given the fact that I will be entering a new school, making new friends, it seems just a tad misanthropic for me to stop making promises, however empty, to myself. So just for the sake of it, I will continue to hope.

One promise I ought to make to myself, perhaps, is that I ought not to botch up the start of the school year in anyway. One reason why dreams disappear after a while is because you take a wrong step, and screw things up before they even begin. This is a prospect that is dangerously imminent, especially since I am entering completely uncharted waters by stepping into junior college. Despite the proximity between my alma mater and my new school in both name and location (and elitist sentiment), the dimensions and workings of both institutions are vastly different.

The social workings I will have to adapt to are a particular problem for me. Those who know me (and for that matter, those who have tried to know me) will understand that I am not a social animal. Quite the converse, I am reserved and impeccably odd in front of strangers. I thus do not enjoy making new friends, and adapting to new social circles in any way. And yet, junior college is essentially one massive ecosystem of people waiting to be recognized, to be understood, to be befriended. The process of getting to know such people is complicated by the fact that, having spent the most part of puberty in a single-sex environment, junior college lends the impression of being an ostensibly sexual place, for want of a better word. I am thus confused (and maybe a bit bemused) about how I ought to act.

This is where the chameleon in me begins to emerge, and I start to think about adapting to the situation as it calls for. The only problem is, do I know what the situation is in the first place? Do I wish to be the quiet, scholarly nerd, or the outgoing funny-man with a truckload of bad jokes to boot? Or should I instead shut up and not care about anything at all?

Instantly, I feel inclined to apologize for my behavior. For one, I have descended into the "incoherent babbling" that I so intended to avoid. Secondly, and more importantly, I am beginning to feel like a hypocritical, two-faced sycophant for even contemplating the guise of the chameleon, and I am disgusted with myself. Without going so far as to say I have had a sudden epiphany, I have suddenly realized that all I have to do in 2008 is sort of... enjoy myself.

In truth, the only real new year resolution I have to make is to make 2008 a year to remember. Looking through the entirety of this blog has made me realize that I take myself too seriously, and thus try to refashion myself into something I am not. Just like the school term is forced to work around the year, my emotions, and even my persona, fluctuate according to what I perceive to be injustice or idiocy, or quite simply, an artificial burden of expectation. 2008, then, must see a new me emerge, someone who defines himself as what he is, and not what he ought to be.

I am already 26 minutes into 2008. And I trust the next 525,934 of them will be memorable ones to come.

Grades.

2007-10-17T04:35:00.000-07:00

I find it terrible that a post intended to break a 7-month long hiatus from the blogging scene is unfortunately devoted to something as unpalatable as test scores. In a very twisted sort of way, though, it merely proves my point -- that something as insignificant and minute as a blood-red scribble at the top of your Mathematics paper, for instance, can crush your hopes and dreams and mire your ravished soul in insurmountable emotional turmoil.

This infamously dictatorial grip that grades have on an individual's emotions are painfully obvious in the reputedly elitist establishment that I purport to hail from. The contrast between the obnoxious arrogance that accompanies massive expectations in this melting pot of wannabe-elite dickheads and the forcible humility and anguish that characterizes those defeated by their grades is disgusting, repulsive, and pitiful (if only because it looks so pathetic). A case in point is a friend of mine who was so recently vanquished by his English grades. His dejection was possibly quite understandable -- after all, English was something he could "always count on" for good scores. Still, it didn't quite explain his abrupt change in disposition, where he instantly dropped all (pretensions of) pleasant good humor, and suddenly descended into a sort of self-deprecating brooding. Indeed, the only time where he decided to make even the slightest whimper was to snap back sarcastically at me when I tried (obviously to no avail) to cheer him up.

Instantly, the intelligent reader (of whom I doubt there will be very many) will catch that my reason for only just starting to detest the concept of testing is very personal. And I wouldn't argue otherwise. It is clear that what initiated deep reflection about the establishment of testing is the fact that a certain someone went all ballistic towards me because he was mad about English. And yet, however self-indulgent and subjective the entirety of the following exposition will seem, there is undoubtedly going to be an element of truth hidden somewhere inside. Maybe.

After all, if you think about it, it must mean something that tests can provoke such a massive, if unintentional, revision in attitude. Often, that revision is negative. As evidenced by the aforementioned example, tests only serve to exacerbate tensions and generate altercations. Fundamentally, tests play on our inherent, and possibly inevitable, fear of failure. Nobody, not least the supercilious sons-of-bitches that walk the halls of our sacred institution, likes to fail. Indeed, half of us don't even believe that we are capable of failing. Being housed in an ivory tower, shielded from the cold realities of... reality, instills in the average RI boy a sense of invulnerability. It lends itself very well to the whole idea of invincibility, then, that we are known as the "hope of a better age" -- as if we deserve to be assured of a future in various positions of leadership simply because we are categorized as being uniquely Rafflesian.

Tests, then, are seemingly intended, at least in a chronic-overachiever sort of context, to further solidify and ground us in the impression that we are better than all the mere mortals who maraud outside the sacrosanct halls of RI. We are thus subject to test upon test, assessment after assessment, because testing is apparently an important step in "gauging progress" and to prove beyond doubt that we are smart people.

The crushing truth of believing in such a misguided delusion, however, is that we tie our fates to tests. To prove that you are worthy of a H3 in literature, for instance, you need at least a 3.2 GPA. If you somehow scrape a 2.4, but manage a 100% for literature, I hardly think that RJC will consent to let you take advanced literature in JC, because you "cannot cope with the coursework". Does it mean you stink at literature? Hardly. Will you take it to mean that way? Certainly. And why is that so? Because the establishment's idea of grading is that it is a sort of litmus test -- are we suited for the vast depths of academia, or should we consign ourselves to mediocrity?

The point is that grades are not indicative of ability. This is particularly true for subjects where grading is ostensibly subject to personal preference (hello, Aruna!). And yet, people trust grades, mostly because of an innate inferiority complex that betrays an outward portrayal of confidence. We never trust our own judgment -- numbers are infinitely more reliable than us. And thus that red scribble on the top of an English paper is allowed to reign supreme over simple common sense, and govern our emotional well-being. The boy whose English grade so disturbed his fragile mental equilibrium, then, is allowing an injudicious measurement of "metacognition" overrule his claim to the throne of God of the English Department.

The reader ought to beware, of course, of the implications of agreeing wholeheartedly with this blog post. I am not advocating the complete abolition of testing. That is patently ridiculous, because of various (and very obvious) practical issues, and because it is not my place to comment on something I have been similarly consumed by. I fear just as much as the next person of failing my Mathematics test (although that is a foregone conclusion at this point in time), and doing badly for Social Studies, and acknowledge that a failure to achieve a scholarship of some form because of poor grades is testament to my failure in life.

Perhaps, if anything, this is a testament to the fact that we must all come to embrace the inequalities extended to us by an unequivocal conformity to that regrettably draconian process known as test grading.

What a Wonderful World...

2007-02-17T05:17:00.000-08:00

I am quite fascinated by the very angsty undertones this blog is starting to assume. Fascinated, but not particularly pleased with this gradual assimilation of teenage hormonal imbalance, because I personally believe that outward expression of emotional turmoil rather impairs one's intellectual development.

Which is why I have decided, on the eve of the Chinese New Year, that this blog should begin to talk about happy things in general (good grades, happy-ever-after-stories....erm... good grades), and shed the gloom and doom that so pervades this increasingly Gothic mass of HTML and C++.

Think happy thoughts... think happy thoughts...

It should seem extremely fortunate that the Gods have heard the happy thoughts I am trying desperately to conjure, and acquiesced to my will. For, in the past 2 weeks, marvelous things have started happening. In fact, quite aside from the fact that the Mathematics department has found time to ravish my already devastated Mathematics grade, life's been quite the bed of roses thus far.

It all started last Friday, when for some odd reason I hit form, and began debating with a sudden clarity, a magical perspicuity. Everything just sort of fell into place, and I started impressing the judges. For once in my debating career I was actually saying things correctly. And the rosy little cherry on top of the chocolate fudge cake came when the judges decided I'd done well enough to win my first ever Best Speaker award, and at the National's no less. And unless I am becoming arrogant (or at least, more so than I already am), I seem to be debating with far more confidence and accuracy than I normally am.

And just a few days ago, I was playing around with the drums, and sounded pretty good. Good enough, at least, that Kelvin should decide I was Buckley Talentime worthy, and should drum for them at the New Year's Performance! In fact, quite aside from the fact that they should replace me later on with a more proficient drummer and that Buckley should go on to lose horribly, I was for once being recognized for whatever musical ability I should possess.

Right now, as I mooch around in front of a computer screen and blog for all the world to see, I'm beginning to think this is a sign of things to come. Good things, mind, and I'm not complaining. The New Year looks to be a good one for me, if anyone.

But truth be told, I am rather afraid. 4th place at Talentime is not a good sign for Buckley. Nor does it bode well that so many happy things should be happening to me all of a sudden. What if I should suddenly run out of steam at NCS, then we crash and burn? Will I even speak in NCS?

But wait -- I apologize for letting all my insecurities loose in one miserable paragraph. You must realize, that for someone who should interpret being "Between Worlds" as a poor, deranged soul contemplating suicide, it is very exhausting to suddenly write of Best Speaker trophies and Talentime 1st-placings.

At any rate, whilst I begin to reprise my role as the eternal online pessimist, it must be noted that, quite possibly, the outward expression of an inward insecurity is a means of balancing my emotional equilibrium. It is a sort of internal check and balance, through which I cathartically stave off the beast that's roaring inside of me.

Which should mean that my blog is no more the media of entertainment I intended it to be. In fact, unless one should derive sadistic pleasure from watching the angst-driven, misery-motivated rants of a poor, tormented soul, then why bother?

Go think some happy thoughts of your own.

We are the Champions... or not.

2006-12-15T04:19:00.000-08:00

So we're not the champions. We didn't even make it past the semi-finals.

I don't know why I'm writing this entry only now. In fact, I don't know why I'm even writing at all. The miserable aftermath of defeat, the raw emotion in the face of disappointment has all but faded, making writing about the VJC Invitationals a pointless typing exercise. Not to mention, I have better things to do, like get a start on my holiday homework.

Perhaps the reason why I'm persisting in typing out this entry is because I need to get some unspoken, psychological burden off my chest. After all, for someone to get beaten at the hands of a particularly incompetent opponent certainly generates a degree of mental duress.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. To be honest, I really don't feel particularly affected by losing. Maybe it's because I've grown used to playing an unimportant, peripheral role in most of my endeavors, performing the duties of the perennial loser, that losing isn't really painful any longer. There isn't very much emotion compelling me to waste a good part of my holiday writing this blog entry.

It could, of course, be a subconscious desire to flex some of my considerable literary muscle that drives me to write. There is very little point in keeping a blog at all if you don't show off a bit. After all, a blog is a fashion statement, and my writing's the digital equivalent of the Gucci emblem.

But nobody really reads my blog anyway. Save for a few precious souls, nobody actually finds this URL worth the extra line of HTML on their blog. And if all I wanted to do was drool over my own work, there are better ways through which I can admire myself. My (as yet undone) Commonwealth Essay, for instance, beckons. There really isn't any point writing a whole entry just for this purpose.

Quite possibly, though, all I really want to do is thank a couple of people. I'm very bad at expressing gratitude by word of mouth -- maybe it's to do with my ego. Or conservatism. Whatever the reason, there is little embarrassment involved in thanking others online.

So to all my teammates -- thank you for being there. To Anish, Marvin, Samuel and Benjamin, thank you for supporting me and bearing with my incompetence. I'm glad to be part of this team. Special thanks goes to Jing Song, and especially Chere, coaches who aren't really getting paid very much to watch us screw up on the floor, but go ahead with it anyway.

It's quite possible that the people I'm thanking will not read what I've just written. At any rate this is a particularly dry entry, with a particularly uninteresting motives.

But whatever the case, these people are people who have plied their faith in me whatever the odds. These are people who automatically earn my respect, and no matter what, they are the champions...

... or not.

Death.

2006-09-07T06:39:00.002-07:00

This is such a terribly, terribly, morbid title. To fit a terribly, terribly, morbid week. Here's a list of terribly, terribly, morbid events to compliment the mood.

Steve Irwin: Crocodile Hunter unfortunately hunted down by giant stingray. Oh, the irony.

Yew Zhi Hao: Died of mysterious cardiac arrest. Nobody really knows him, but everybody's really sad.

Random Individual in Obituary: Died miserable deaths. Relatives grief over him and spend bomb pasting his black-and-white picture in the Straits Times.

It's just so strange how people tell us that life is important, but only really decide to respect him after he dies.

Hmm. I wonder why.

Steve Irwin has bouquet after bouquet of flowers dumped in front of his home, and people plastering virtual turtles next to their MSN nicks, only when he decided to get stung to death by some stingray's poisonous barb, but not when he had the balls to pounce on massive crocodiles or wrange with vicious pythons.

Then Zhi Hao, who has legions of individuals dressed in the white of RI pouring in to pay their respects to him only after he is killed by a cardiac arrest, and not after he won the PM's Book Prize.

And then we have all these old people who have their pictures plastered all over the newspaper, only after they die of some unfortunate disease, but not when they were alive and working their butts off earning you some dinner.

Hmm. I wonder why.

It's amusing in a very convoluted sort of way, perhaps, that we people only realise that the people close to them are important and significant when they decide to leave us altogether.

Whenever our loved ones are getting on with their lives and doing something for us, we ignore their presence -- like they're a mere, inanimate entity to be disregarded. Yet, somehow or another, when loved ones decide to lie in their graves and not do anything, we decide to respect and love them with all our heart.

Hmm. I wonder why.

Suddenly, I'm beginning to realise that our world is a terribly, terribly, morbid one. Strangely enough, we seem to respect death more than we do life, respect uselessness over usefulness, inanimate over contribution. The dead command honour and respect that all us living mortals can only dream of.

In fact, it's no wonder that the Romans enjoyed watching gladiators getting mauled and killed by lions. Maybe they figured he'd be better honoured after he was dead than when he was alive. And maybe Osama was really a good man, because he decided to murder all those people in the World Trade Center because he wanted them to be honoured for heroism beyond their dreams.

Maybe, if I became some form of high-ranking official in the UN, I would possibly make suicide a legal course of action for poor, neglected individuals. After all, why slog your ass off trying to become the prime minister when leaping off a building earns you just as much attention?

Damn, the world is a terribly, terribly, morbid place.

Hmm. I wonder why.

Truth and Politics

2006-08-14T05:56:00.000-07:00

When you're small and innocent, you take it upon yourself to act grown-up. We take it upon ourselves to parade around in pants about 7 sizes bigger than our waistlines, wear spectacles when we have perfect 6/6 vision, or indulge in Shakespeare when we scarcely understand Enid Blyon.

Ah, the good old days.

I've been waiting, and waiting, and waiting for the time when I would be able to fulfil dreams of understanding Shakespeare, pose around in some really funky pants, and look intelligent with a blazer over my neatly-pressed long-sleeved shirt. The material, the tangible attests to my... maturity, for want of a better word.

But to be truthful, although I am blessed with charming good looks and a frankly brilliant mind (and a big ego to spare), I find myself regretting it all. Because at a ripe old 15 years of age, I'm supposed to be able to redefine, to comprehend... to understand.

But as I conquer unknown after unknown manifested in your average test paper, new unknowns are tossed in the way, hoping to somehow or another trip me up in the course of my merry romp. Trigonometry, medical pamphlets, French... trigonometry...

... and Man.

You will be tempted to turn away from my blog right now, because those who know me will expect the literary reminescings of an angsty kid with too much thinking time to spare. And they're probably right. I think about nonsense all the time. But the thing that preoccupies my (highly intelligent) mind the most is Man, and why we act the way we do.

Adults always tell us that innocence is a virtue, that ignorance is a shield that we are forced under for our own good. And I told them that it was poppycock, and utter hypocrisy. Why in the world are we forced under a barrage of Einstein and Newton when ignorance is what the world seeks?

But adults don't refer to the raw knowledge we extract from textbooks and teachers. Adults refer to Truth. They will for us to preserve the youthful innocence that denies Truth passage into our lives, that protects us from the anger, the volatile emotion that Man wreaks upon Man. And they ought to know, because they are warriors battered by years in the face of Truth.

I fear for my friends. For the past year, there has been politics. The cruel reality of power and corruption is hung for all to see as peer struggles for control, for popularity, for the floor. Peace is disrupted, sides are taken, and friendship is absconded. Everything is inconsequential, except for a ruthlessly utilitarian race for the finish.

I fear for myself. As far as I have tried to avoid taking sides, tried to stand by the sidelines, I fear that I am being corrupted, that I am being dragged into the battlefield against will. I fear that I will awaken to find myself abandoning the innocence of childhood for the macabre of adulthood.

I fear.

So much.

And so I desist.

Of Triumph and Emptiness

2006-07-22T07:44:00.001-07:00

Life is full of little ironies. Take for instance, work. I've been terribly busy the past week, which is understandable -- I've been juggling practice for Prometheum XI and prep sessions for a random, relatively unimportant debate competition that everyone really wants to win, which implies staying back in school till 9 pm when there's a Mathematics TA the next morning.

To the average, possibly unimportant reader of this blog, pity and sympathy for the fatigue that I felt (and am still feeling) is inevitable. To a more sophiscated, more involved creature like me, however, the catharthic effect of the end of the Mayor's Debate Series and Prometheum on Saturday was nothing more than a temporal relief of a mild case of nerves and backaches. Somehow, the conclusion to a truly hectic week seemed so much less satisfying than I had hoped it to be. No, it wasn't the fact that the exhaustion hadn't worn off yet -- that was a matter of rest. Rather, Somehow or another, the end of Prometheum left me feeling... how should I say... empty.

Perhaps it was because I loved what I was doing too much. I like to sound noble, to sound like I'm dedicated to whichever cause I pledge my services to. But really, much as I enjoy putting on a front of self-importance, the truth is that I do enjoy creating musical fusion, so to say, or insulting the intelligence of a sub-par opposition team with the might of language. I claim not to be particularly good at playing the sax or debating, but it's the passion for whichever pursuit I engage in that makes it worthwhile. So maybe -- just maybe, the emptiness I feel stems from what was a forceful divorce from both my two true loves -- music and logic.

Or maybe I feel empty because suddenly my life lacks purpose. For a whole week I felt important -- like everybody needed me at practice. It was a feeling of triumph, of recognition that there were people that recognized my worth. And that felt good. It felt so good.

But I have an inkling that I am not as noble, not as important I as think myself to be. The reason for that void in me is not because of fluffy ideals of love, or because of my contributive ability. No, I am not a man of excellent depth of character, nor a very intelligent one. I just come across as one of these people. Quite the contrary, in fact, for really, the reason for this emptiness in me is a recognition of my real worth.

But I like to keep my identity, my inner karma something of an enigma. I like to make myself a mysterious man. So don't bother attempting to probe into my privacy, to discover the hesitance I've discovered about myself, because I'm not telling. Quite frankly, a blog is not a suitable place to pour out all of my secrets.

This week has been a triumph -- great concert, great music, great speeches. But that only accentuates the tragedy of self-discovery. The fact that this post has been dry, boring, and above all, all about me, will put off most people. But it really doesn't matter -- today this blog is not for entertainment, but more of an avenue for relaying my discontentment, my jealousy, and my tragedy, in a violently botched attempt at filling up the void that now resides in me.

Survivor: Pulau Ubin

2006-01-08T03:27:00.000-08:00

If any of you have ever found life a constant struggle against the infinite tides of inadequate biscuit rations, nagging mums that force-feed you at dinner time like you're an anorexic pygmy, and constant shoulderaches stemming from the 1.5 kilograms worth of books crammed into your bag, then look no further than Outward Bound Singapore for training because the nonsense you're forced to undergo there makes all of the above look as easy as a Maths paper Ryan can pass.

Little OBS advert aside, today's post will be entirely devoted to complaining and ranting on and on and on about the shit I experienced in OBS. It took me one entire day before i decided to get down to my computer and type this blog entry out because of two things:

1. I was too busy nursing mosquito bites, angry abrasions, and a hungry stomach

2. The wires at home short-circuited when I drooled over them in my delirious glee at seeing signs of technology that extended beyond electric lights and fans.

So maybe the second reason was a bit far fetched. The truth was, I was too busy doing other things like surfing the net and playing some computer games to remember what my blog URL actually was. But the part about being happy at seeing technology was pretty much true, because you see, in OBS, all the good stuff like an air-conditioner is reserved for the instructors, who are given the good life mainly because we pay them $300. We, on the other hand, lose $300 just to pitch tents that hopefully shelter us from the elements (which incidentally include rain, muddy ground, and angry sandflies raring for a go at our tender flesh), cook our own rice (that looks and tastes like either semi-crushed pebbles or soggy chunks of mud), and hike for 3 hours down a road infested with mud and puddles of grimy dog urine with a backpack weighing twice as much as a baritone sax (if you play one, you'll sympathise with my miserable plight).

And that's to say the least, because what I and the rest of my watch pals went through was pie (banana flavoured; banana pies are good). And it was thanks in part to the rain that served to annihilate our shoes and tear them ragged beyond recognition. So here's the story:

Raleigh (some Queen's pet whose name OBS adopted for our watch/group) was due to set off for some unknown section of Ubin in the middle of nowhere by kayak (when we could have just as easily taken a speedboat) with the ultimate goal of suffering as much as possible admist wildboar and snake infested swamps. It was hence lucky, though when a thunderstorm broke out as suddenly as a fart after a meal of beans can strike you.

So here I have to digress from the subject topic just a bit to explain this seemingly horrible stroke of luck. To the average layman who has as yet failed to attend OBS (lucky shits), one might think kayaking in a thunderstorm is feasible and an extremely excting thing to do at that. They fail to comprehend, however, the terror of mini tsunamis capsizing your boat then flushing you into the depths of Singapore waters, where baby sharks and stingrays prowl, ready to take a chunk out of you as and when they feel like it. They also miss the fact that a stray thunderbolt might think you a likeably attractive lightning rod and strike you, charring the sunburnt skin and cooking you alive. Ah well, you might make a small meal for those who survive. Better than the rations they give you in any case.

The OBS instructors managed to grasp this fact well enough, and so we stayed on dry land for one more day, pushing the day's activitites to next morning, when we would kayak in the early morning before the sun scorches your pants off and cooks you to a crisp. Plus, because of this postponement, we skipped the entire shitty campsite and moved straight to Camp 1, which was newly constructed and looked more like a resort to the average OBS goer who's been living off nasty uncooked bullcrap for the past 3 days. Oh, and yes, it had cooked food.

So maybe we were the lucky ones to go for the "easy schedule" and not have to do the really hardcore stuff. And you might say we're lucky farts, and that there was nothing wrong with a "change of environment", making you learn more about the world around youl. Easier said then done, baby. Idealist freaks that come up with thoughts and reasons like these and who work on wishy washy theories of goodwill and learning the principles and ropes of life should go for an OBS course. 3 days will be sufficient to make them go boil their heads for a proper dinner.

I mean, come on, even with a slightly slacker schedule, we don't change the fact that we still had to undergo infinitely tiring tasks and survive under conditions deemed absolutely unsuitable for the average Singaporean kid who's lived in luxury for his whole damn life. And if they're trying to make us appreciate life more then they're wrong, cos' we'd probably go back, eat all our food for a few days, sleep and lament about how we should've saved or end up with lives that resemble our time at OBS, then forget all about it for the rest of our lives. Goddamnit the camp was a bloody waste of $300 good dollars that could be spent on a month of decent meals.

But then again, I'm writing this in the direct aftermath of my fiery anguish at being forced through OBS. Truly Singaporean people are pessimistic bitches who complain about anything they see, and ignore the good stuff. This account might be wholly unreliable, and just another lame account of how OBS was a waste of money. There certainly were fun times, like laughing with my friends, laughing at my friends... and... er... just general friendly humour. For all I know, you might be heading off for OBS and returning telling me the exact opposite of what I've just written here. You might find OBS the "enrichingly challenging" experience it claims to be.

Oh dammit, who'm I kidding.

Back From China -- Now for Ubin

2006-01-01T23:28:00.000-08:00

Ten long days admist the freezing sleet and snow of Northeastern China, an array of fiery Chinese salesmen (nothing against them, of course -- they just drive a hell of a bargain), a dumpling feast involving a particularly bitchy and furious Chinese lady and a wide variety of tour guides boasting a wide variety of credentials but never really living up to them.

That little snippet above most aptly captures the essential gist of what happened during my vacation in Northeastern China, which for absolute nutheads at geography like myself lies just a few miles away from Russia. This means 2 things -- that firstly we'd be seeing plenty of Russian Sharapova wannabes, and that secondly (perhaps more significantly as well), the icy winds and barrages of snowy, er, snow that the largest country in the world boasts sort of spilt over into that particular section of the Rising Dragon. Cue four layers worth of clothing for the upper torso and 3 layers for my lower body. And surprise, surprise, despite all that hassle in donning jacket after jacket, sweater after sweater, it was still cold.

To adequately decribe, express the incessant shivering, the frosty gusts of winter wind creeping up any holes in your armoury of wool and cotton, permeating the so-called impregnable walls of your $90 jacket... would to say the least be impossible for even Shakespeare to accomplish. However, I'll attempt what I can in this respect, and tell you how you can begin to understand how I felt there without having to travel to China.

Firstly, empty your freezer of all items, necessary or unnecessary. Then, splosh icy cold water all over your body. Then strip nude and stuff yourself in the freezer. Close the door. Stay in there for a few hours, then come out. Rinse and repeat

Done that yet? Yea. The final two steps were meant to simulate moment of pure solace I found in exiting the freezer after spending time outside viewing absolutely pointless ice sculptures. And as your body begins to adapt to the warmth of the tour bus's heater, absorb the heat that surrounds you, the bloody driver drives so quickly that he reaches the next stop, and we get off only to see more pointless pieces of art that were bound to melt by March in any case.

So now I'm done complaining, I think you guys might wanna hear more about the marvels of Chinese cultures. Well too bad, you've come to the wrong place, because I don't like to think of my blog as an encyclopedia. You can get those off Wikipedia or something to that extent. Instead, I'll waste more space on my blog posting more violent ranting on a particularly bad tour guide we met in China

The first thing that struck me about this joke of a guide was his funny knack for laughing at his own jokes. At first I thought he was just a humourous guy whom I might be able to get along with, but then the intensity and frequency of his laughter kept increasing, it just became annoying. And I would've forgiven him, if his jokes were even good. Sorry to disappoint, but they weren't. And I won't even bother giving an example because they probably weren't jokes in the first place. In my opinion, the old coot was just another miserable bachelor forced into falling in love with himself because no one else would do the same.

So anyway, it wasn't just his laughing that put me off -- it was his sheer arrogance. He started with his self- intro by telling us not his name, but his old job -- an english teacher. He then went off on a long rant about how good his english was and how he loved the english language and how well the foreigners he'd led on tours could understand him. WTF.

And I might have accepted that piece of boasting if he could actually speak coherent English. Too bad, the deluded old freak couldn't!. His first bit of English was attempting to explain how Japanese aggressors attacked and stuff. The dialogue went something like this:

Na me, gong da wo men de ren jiu shi ri ben jun, aggresors, ah, you know aggressors? Xian zai jiu qu can guan yi xi zhe xie aggressors. Eh, wo men jiu getting out of the bus, ah xiao xin ni men fall into the ground. Floor is srippey, ah very fallable, and stimulating.

LOLs.

So we were forced to endure his English and his boasting about how good he was at it. Bullcrap of a guide if there ever was one.

I've run out of juice to write anymore. Have to go pack for my OBS trip tommorow, and hoping I can find a backpack large enough to store my stuff. Hoping I can wake up in time as well -- I've lacked practice, having woken up at 9 for the past few weeks. Ah well.

Long time no see

2005-11-07T04:49:00.000-08:00

It's been a hellishly long time since I last blessed you with my inevitably impeccable words of wisdom, about school life and stuff like that. And naturally, given school's just ended and Sec 2B's been officially (but not spiritually, of course) disbanded, there'd be plenty I have to say with my comeback from incessant Gunbound and Pokemon (yea, you heard me). Lol.

So let's just start with the top of the list -- 2B. Yea, fond memories of stuffing a box on our Royal Jester's oversized head, legendary chronicles of fruit missile assaults and plenty more... I'll miss those days. I'm sure I will. I mean, which other class would have the same chemistry, common blood flowing through their veins even though they aren't supposed to be blood-related? 2B, friends... If you were to allow me to be elitist for just a moment, I think that apart from the so-called "learning atmosphere" the school claims to have, it's these two things that set RI apart from other schools. Its what makes us want to go to school (yes, quite an unthinkable prospect), just simply to laugh (at others) to enjoy each other's company, and above all, to have fun.

So with the advent of subject choices, and the class split, the inevitable has arrived -- the disbanding of our sacred cult. Its a very sad sort of moment, and if you find an uncustomary lack of humour or the occasional flourish of language, it's probably because I'm reminiscing about the past, and thoroughly mourning the misery of seeing friends that've made your school life more than what anyone could ever expect leave for other classes in pursuit of their interests. Yet, I think I ought to take heart, because like any legendary society, any sacred band of brothers, the spirit stays on, and 2B lives on forever.

And now that I'm done dramatizing what appears to be a relatively trivial matter (it certainly isn't though. Mere mortals fail to comprehend the bond 2B shares), let's move on to something that contributed to this class split -- subject choices.

Its funny how teachers, and the education system as a whole, tries to make life easy for you, but does just the opposite. In this case, they force you to make an agonising choice between going with your friends (whom they've made you form an impeccable chemistry with), the "wise choice" for your career, and your interests. Nasty little three way split right there, and I'm caught with a foot in two of them, and my head stuck in the other.

A large bulk of my best pals are taking double science, lit and geog, and I'd love to follow them. But you see, what I'm truly passionate for is actually double science, lit and history, which is a rather unsavoury choice for most due to its heavy humanities dependence. It takes a lot of literary talent (hehe...) to take these subjects, and that's something that I think I have. Yea, ego. I love that feeling.

So anyway, digressions apart, I now realise that that's a bit of a spastic choice, because on one hand, I don't think I'll have many friends helping me cope with Maths and Science and stuff (partly due to the fact that I'll have to make some more, which is not one of my fortes), and that it won't really give me many career choices. I mean... off the tip of my fingers I can think of this -- engineering (which is, by no means on my top 10 favourites list), law... er... law... and that's pretty much it.

But when you consider it, what's the point of struggling through 2 long years of suffering at the hands of scientific material? It simply doesn't make sense! But when I look at it from my career's point of view, it doesn't make any bloody sense either! Man, what is the problem with this choice thing?

Right now, I'm typing this blog entry out, with the subject choice list on another webpage. I haven't touched it yet, so I'm thinking. My minds' slanted towards double science, lit and history, but i don't know. And at the same time, I'm cursing the MOE, wondering why they don't just make us take all the subjects at one go. I mean, that saves us a hell lot of trouble. Besides, we don't have O levels anymore. Why not make use of that extra time for more learning? You mean that as educated people who went through 14 years of education you actually agree with the "teach less, learn more" nonsense?

Puh-leez.

That's the way, Kuang-tus, that's the way

2005-10-14T05:55:00.001-07:00

You know, if I possessed enough courage in life to do whatever I'd always wanted to do, I'd probably be detention-bound for the rest of my life, cos' one of my life-long ambitions has been to stand up and begin lashing out at an unreasonable, yet pitifully unsuspecting, teacher with all the expletives and verbal prowess that I can muster. Sadly, a clearly demarcated line exists between reality and mere imagination, for I have yet to summon that kind of courage. In fact, I doubted that anyone would ever be able to do so, either. Of course, that was before I met Kuang-tus.

Our year head was holding us back after our CTs due to apparent noise-making during philosophy. That was pretty much fine with me. I had nowhere to go after our tests that day anyway, and being held back for 15 minutes or so probably wouldn't hurt.

But 15 minutes would seem too much of a stretch when 2 indians left early after our Lit. Paper, which was right before our HCL paper (er... they don't take Chinese), cleanly (and most conveniently) forgetting our date with YH2. Plus, to lessen the numbers, Hanz left for Science remedial as well, leaving a respectable 34 people in class nonetheless. That was good enough, we presumed.

This wasn't the case, however, with Miss Sim. She completely pwned us by making everyone stay back till every single student was back in class, which was quite impossible if we wanted to go back home by 7. None of us had any feasible way of contacting the 2 indians and hanz, and they'd probably take an hour or two to get to class.

This particular line of logic, of impossiblity, apparently occured to soon-to-be hero Yu Kuangnan. He, as a loyal, outspoken member of the 2B society, started to explain the absence of the 3 students, but it was bad timing, as another student started doing the exact same thing. And for some inexplicable reason I am currently unable to fathom, Miss Sim decided to pick on poor Kuangnan.

What came next was a highly amusing break from the pressure of CTs lying upon our shoulders. To make this anecdote more interesting and accesible, I 've arranged it into a relatively true-to-life dialogue. Enjoy.

Sim: Is that how you speak to a teacher? Talk when another is talking? Raise your hand!
Kuang Nan: I believe this is not class time, and there is no need for me to raise my hand to speak.
Sim: Who do you think I am? I'm your Year Head! I expect respect! How am I supposed to know who to look at when 2 guys are speaking?! Who do you think you are?
Kuang Nan: A student, and as a student I believe I have the responsibiltity to inform you that 2 indians have left the class for they do not take HCL, and that one of our friends has Science remedial.
Sim: So, your class isn't here? Ok, you guys stay back on Monday. I want to see the whole class here, in this classroom. And I want to see you (pointing to Kuang Nan), outside, NOW!

-- Insert resounding applause --

As you can see, Kuang Nan left Miss Sim reeling in his wake, stunning her with sheer cheek and strength of heart. He didn't even get a demerit point! That's pure courage for you, m'lady. Don't look to Braveheart or any of those souped-up, wishy washy sport dramas for tales of bravery and inspiration -- look right here in school. This will remain a legend, engraved in Sec 2B history for all eternity.

And even if it doesn't, and dissolves into nothingness and void in time to come, let's just say it was comic relief for the stressed out soul, no?

Yea, that's the way, Kuang-tus, that's the way

The Teachers Must Be Crazy

2005-10-10T04:39:00.000-07:00

DISCLAIMER: I consider it within my eternal responsibility to make my posts as readable and interesting without crossing the boundaries of morality. Hence, should this particular rant should prove boring and offensive to any one, of you, I sincerely apologize. Just had to get this off my chest.

Fairness is a personal virtue I like to pride myself for. Yet, I don't think I can say the same for the way several of my teachers mark their scripts.

I find it very disturbing how nasty things can take so many forms, and injustice is no exception. This particular dinkleberry takes 2 forms -- bias, and downright unreasonable. And my realization of this irritating fact ultimately boiled down to personal experience. Yeap, I'm referring to test marks.

Now, don't mistake me for some mugger who's sole aim in life is to get 101 marks for every form of assessment (even for CLE, which I personally find useless). Essentially, the only reason I decided to post something about this is because I strongly believe I deserved it. I mean, if, for example, the subject was mathematics or something, and I got 17.5 out of 50 simply because I neglected to mug the day before, then hell, yea, gimme the mark. Smother me in the misery. But what I despise is the feeling of being deprived of something you've earned. I hate people who refuse me, or anyone else, for that matter, the rightful fruits of their labour. So what if they're the ones who dispense these "fruits"? Who gave them the right to be unfair, go against the essential principle and facet of law -- justice and fairness?

So maybe I'm being a little extreme here. Ok, extreme or not, I believe you guys ought to be the judge.

Case study 1: A random subject teacher(that I shall neglect to mention in case I get sued for libel under the Sedition Act or something) made us all do oral presentations about anything we wanted to talk about. We could do a 2 man comedy act, a 4 man debate, a solo speech... anything. We were granted pretty much free rein to do whatever we wanted, and that was fine by me.

Me and my pal Louis paired up to do this prepared conversation. During prep time, however, we are at an absolute loss as to how to go about with our scripts. So we borrowed from two guys who were incidentally doing conversations as well. With that settled, we practiced our mouths off, and perhaps our asses as well, so much so we could practically memorise the entire thing. But then again, to play safe, we went up with our scripts, brimming with absolute confidence.

And that confidence translated into results. Superb articulation, brilliant dramatization... the list goes on. In fact, we were quite sure we did a good job, and at the risk of being arrogant, better than the group that went before us.

Then we got the results back, dribbling at the mouths and hoping for a modest 75, which we thought wasn't really beyond our reach. In the end all we managed was 73, but that would've been alright -- perhaps the random annoying teacher was just being strict.

But what made me seeth beyond boiling point, rage till every strand of hair on my body was burnt to ash, was the fact that groups who gave very obviously inferior presentations actually scored higher than us. They pulled off sub-standard pronounciation, and inadequate content. They failed to understand what they were saying, and very obviously read off their scripts for the first time ever.

If you say it's my over-inflated ego, but go ask yourself -- compare us to any random group with 78s and 75s, and I think you'll find us the better group. If you talk to us about effort, go compare with any other random group yet again, and you'll find us the ones who worked our asses off on a worthless script, then spent hours editing, cutting and practising our scripts and making sure to understand whatever we said to capture the essence of the story. Tell me -- in what way were we less deserving?

At the end of the day, I won't talk about bias or anything, for there ain't no proof. Drawing a baseless conclusion like that simply goes against the fairness I'm trying to promote. But really, how could we have received such scores when really, we deserved much better?

Case Study 2: So onto another random annoying subject. Now, this happens to be my all-time fave subject, and I always prided myself for the ability to produce model answers without relative and significant effort, and still score good marks for it. Yea, sometimes teachers do go for the scientific way of point be point with elaboration and stuff like that, but seriously, we can't score in this subject without a bit of flair involved (hehe).

Yet, as I got my CCT script back, I was shattered. The flair, the gist of my answer was there, but why was it a measly 2/10? What nonsense was that? I couldn't believe it, but seriously, to be sure, I re-read the question, then the answer. It was just a matter of pride there that kept stabbing at my heart, how a possible A+ was reduced to a C with just one question.

Here's the essential gist of the question -- Quote a point of irony in the above extract with reference to what happened later on in the play. So I wrote something that justified my stand, then wrote that later on every character had a part to play in the suicide case that came up next. And what happened? I got only 2/10.

I double-checked my answer, then cross-referenced with another friend (who incidentally got a 10/10). In fact, I saw no disparity in quality between the two of our papers, apart from how specific our examples were. And alas, that was what cost me a full 8 marks out of 30! Apparently, the exact contribution of each character to the suicide case had to be mentioned. In fact, it was 2 points for every example.

I question the justification behind this. I mean, okay, they did say "with reference to" somewhere in the question. Yet, I see no point in elucidating all the nitty-gritty when essentially the question involves simply justifying a very general irony. I had already said that his entire family contributed etc, and that really should suffice as a reference. Where is the use in adding so many examples when a simple one can suffice? In fact, wasn't concision and precision what this random teacher was trying to educate us about? If one'd wanted such a long answer, then wouldn't it be just and proper to tell us about it than let us guess how much reference? It's simply unreasonable to expect everyone to know that more examples are better, when firstly the teacher never told us anything, and when secondly what I wrote was suitably justified.

I'm really pissed off about all the unfairness that's going on in school. I think I'll go fight for my rights. Hunger strikes might work. I'll camp beside the dining hall, with Ryan right beside me so that I don't feel hungry anymore. Or maybe I'll muster up the courage to argue with my teachers. Maybe both. I don't know, but I think I'll go very far to take back what was supposed to be mine in the first place.