“Why is innocence always associated with being sexually ignorant? Isn’t it possible to be innocent while being sexually active?”

(pause)

“Actually this is a very interesting topic. Let’s discuss it over lunch hour.”

On MRT trains being able to move on the track, even if the doors are not fully closed:

Why biology majors make fascinating conversationists:

sotongqueen: “So if a man’s head is caught in the carriage door, and his body is stuck between the outer platform doors, his head will be torn apart from his body when the train starts to move. And the body will still be struggling even without the head, because the nerves don’t get the signal to stop. You know, like how a chicken can still run about after being beheaded. Your head will still be conscious for about a minute though.”

eatcake: “Ooooooh…. So you can actually see your own body kicking about as you leave the station. So how long can the body still struggle without the head?”

sotongqueen: “Errr, as long as the blood pressure is still there lor. I think about a minute only.”

eatcake: (disappointed) “Cheeeaay….”

On the similarity between Men and Pigs:

sotongqueen: “The pig is the closest genetic match to man; they make the best donor animals… That’s why you eat pig brain, pig knuckles, pork chops…”

eatcake: (thinks for a while) “Then how come nobody eats pig penises? Considering how pigs can orgasm for 30 minutes…. Instead we have ox penises and tiger testicles…”

LTA announces that all bicycles will be equipped with state of the art audio detectors to catch parking offenders. Big Brother is hearing you.

Spotted at Bishan MRT station from inside the train. Sick of poorly coded A.I trains always forgetting at every station whether they are supposed to go backwards or forwards, SMRT staff risks life and limb on the MRT tracks to painstakingly draw directional signs (complete with reassuring smiley face) to point them the right way.

It was a pretty insane week. As usual. Well, maybe more than usual. (Wolfing down dinner and lunch at the stairwell three days in a row is a new record though.) Seven days in the blog world where news and comments fly faster than the speed of light, is an eternity though.

I came up for air, only to see a personal story ballooning into a sordid circus fiasco with his story and her story. Yikes. Ugly.

The dark side of blogging. Some things should be better left private.

Lipstick wasn’t always what it was.

200 years ago, you could be burned at the stake for painting your lips. In 1770, the British parliament passed a law against lip colouring; women found guility of seducing men into marriage through it could be tried for witchcraft:

According to Ragas and Kozlowski, Thomas Hall, an English pastor and author of the “Loathsomeness of Long Haire” (1653), led a movement declaring that face painting was “the devil’s work” and that women who put brush to mouth were trying to “ensnare others and to kindle a fire and flame of lust in the hearts of those who cast their eyes upon them.”

In 1770, the British Parliament passed a law condemning lipstick, stating that “women found guilty of seducing men into matrimony by a cosmetic means could be tried for witchcraft.”

But with names like this, it’s a wonder they even sell in the first place:

Some of the most popular lipstick shades in Renaissance England were named Rat, Horseflesh, Turkey, Blood, and Puke. Some names for lipstick colors from 1580 to 1620 included Ape’s Laugh, Smoked Ox, Chimney-Sweep, and Dying Monkey.

- Rumkin Triva

Interestingly, the modern bullet shaped lipstick only came about in World War I. Before that, women apply them from container pots:

“Women - and occasionally men - have coloured their lips since the dawn of civilization. But it was not until 1915 that the lipstick as we know it today - a stick of coloured wax that slides in and out of a containing tube - was introduced to the US market.”

- Collapsible, The Genius of Space Saving Design, by Per Mollerup

I thought nightingale droppings as a face cream in The Memoirs of A Geisha set in 1920s was laughable, and the cosmetic ingredients of ancient makeup even more primitive, but the modern lipstick actually contain fish scales (for the pearly shine) and crushed insect bodies (for the red colour). Ugh.

And amidst the barrage of net search results on lipstick origins, a quiet sobering story from Bansky: Manifesto:

An extract from the diary of Lieutenant Colonel Mervin Willett Gonin DSO, one of the first British soldiers to liberate Bergen-Belsen, the Nazi death camp:

“It was shortly after the British Red Cross arrived — though it may have no connection — that a very large quantity of lipstick arrived. This was not at all what we men wanted, we were screaming for hundreds and thousands of other things and I don’t know who asked for lipstick.

I wish so much that I could discover who did it. It was the action of genius, sheer unadulterated brilliance. I believe nothing did more for these internees than the lipstick. Women lay in bed with no sheets and no nightie but with scarlet red lips, you saw them wandering about with nothing but a blanket over their shoulders, but with scarlet red lips. I saw a woman dead on the post mortem table and clutched in her hand was a piece of lipstick.

At last someone had done something to make them individuals again; they were someone, no longer merely the number tattooed on the arm. At last they could take an interest in their appearance.

That lipstick started to give them back their humanity.

Source: Imperial War museum, England, UK.”

EK on comics at lulu.com forums :

“One thing I’ve noticed in my travels is that everybody everywhere likes comics. I’ve made friends in bars from Sweden to Australia by drawing caricatures of the bartender–the bartenders like it, too, which often results in free booze. I’ve also traded cartoons for food on numerous occasions.

Kids especially like to watch people draw, which is a great ice-breaker, especially in Japan where people tend to be a little shy. And at 6 foot 2, I need an ice-breaker!

But don’t do caricatures in Saudi Arabia–it’s an iconoclastic culture that frowns mightily on figurative art. I almost got a little kid in trouble in Dahran by drawing him a picture of Batman. “

What would you do if you were trapped in a telephone box encased in concrete? What appeared to be an intensely boring flick abruptly flowered into a moving story with a bittersweet twist at the end.

I was slightly stunned when I opened up the fold.

It was my first proper full month paycheck. Not alot to most people, and probably peanuts to, ahem, certain CEOs, but it was a bit of a jump from my previous job. I had figured, after CPF deduction and stuff, there’s probably not alot left, but nooooo.

I had scrimped and saved during my previous job, but I only had the chance to buy my coveted wacom tablet when I received a mini-windfall in paid leave after my resignation. Now I can probably afford to buy one every month.

The offset variable in my paycheck? The OT pay.

Every goddamn dollar is literally every drop of my life draining away into the job. The late nights. The takeaway dinners. Wake up, eat, work, sleep, wake up again. The weekends spent catching up on sleep. Near zero social life, and barely enough time for hobbies. F**k. Really. Just f**k, when I think about it.

“Yao qian mai ming.” my colleague snorted once. (”Selling your life for money.”)

In those TV dramas, when people pull out 20 or 50k to loan to help their family and friends, I fully appreciate the sacrifice. I cannot imagine just coming out with the money like that. It is my hard earned money, maybe not my blood, but definitely my sweat and tears. Every single damned dollar.

—

“Ma,” I bounced into the kitchen and declared, “I am giving you a pay raise.”

She scooped the rice into the bowl as she digested the numbers I was merrily pulling out.

“It’s the OT pay!”

She looked at me.

“No need to give me extra lah.”

“Don’t work so much OT.” she grumbled, “Qian shi zhuan bu wan de. (You can never earn enough money). Save the extra money in your bank account. Now you can save up to buy a flat now. Next time, don’t work until 3am. Or else you will look haggard before your time. Once your looks are gone, it’s difficult to get them back.”

She passed me my bowl of rice.

—

Being economically independent is always on my mind. With money, you don’t have to rely on anybody for handouts. You can afford to pay your own way. You are your own man (or woman).

I was watching the 9pm drama serial. The actress, as the timid submissive wife, was asking (pleading, actually) her obnoxious rich husband for money for a red packet for her father. The irritated look on when he pulled out a few hundreds to toss at her was galling. Ah puuuuuuueeeeei.

“Can’t depend on a man,” I said once. “They die (he passed away from cancer, his children dropped out of school and his wife, having little education, sold all her flashy gold jewellery and took on two jobs to feed the family), they find other women (the wife had to swallow her pride and put up with it because having being a housewife dependent on her husband for twenty over years, she couldn’t see any other way out), they leave you. So better to make sure you can fend for yourself.”

Now I think, there is a very real danger of me becoming a slave to the job. (Well, one might argue I already am… hahaha) Higher income -> risk of higher expenditure -> maintanence of more expensive lifestyle -> dependent on job. The feeling of being trapped in a job you hate because you desperately need the money … is simply detestable.

With all the hullaboo about the government push towards arts and filmmaking, noisesingapore and its hotch potch workshops on grattifi, 3D animation, graphic design, one cannot but feel seduced by the myriad of choices available for self-expression.

I wonder … given the fierce push given to the arts and the media itself (admittedly, more for economic purposes to draw in overseas giants, than any freedom of expression), under the glossy veneer of flashy computer graphics, cool animated MTV logos and self-composed ringtones, beneath all the noise, I wonder… if anybody at the top ever wondered, with so many venues of communication mediums … what will the people use them to say?

Last year December, in a long frustrated email to my writing group:

“I found myself stopping for the same reason I stopped writing years ago. I have nothing to say. Or rather, is this what I want to say? And, how urgently do I need to say it? What am I saying/writing it for? (Prize money? Hahahahhaa.)”

If there is nothing concrete in what you want to communicate … then, that might be all that there is. Noise.

Ten years ago, I gave up a chance to concentrate on literature to pursue the then dazzling field of multimedia. I have since dabbled in animation, clay, writing, graphic design, either as a hobby or as a career. Each field brought with it its own unique insights and its intepretation of the world around us.

I was a storyteller in search of a medium.

Tinkertailor’s growing enthusiasm for the comic artform makes for an interesting case study… He is an excellent writer with sharp insights, and now, I think, studiously learning how to draw.

I took up 3D many years ago with the goal of making an animated short film, like many other 3D aspiring artists. But to make the film, I have to master the art of creating a character. I attempted something like a human. It looked like something from Mars.

Caught up in the intricacies of portraying the human figure, I started studying the human anatomy; I have a dozen books on the animal and human musculature and skeleton. I took life drawing classes. I studied the technique. I forgot about portraying the human condition.

From experience, I think it is no exaggeration to say that it takes a lifetime to master a medium, be it clay, animation or graphic design, writing, or film which in turn, translates to how you will communicate your ideas.

Today, I can model and draw a decent head and sketch something that looks recognizably like a human. But I never got around to making that film that is going to astound the world, touch people or make them laugh or cry.

I stare at the blank canvas on my monitor with wacom pen in hand, back to square one when I first had my first nagging doubts ten years ago, about the stories I want to create, with pen hovering above a flapping foolscap on a scratchy study table in secondary school.

I am a storyteller in search of a story.

Perhaps, my search for myths, delvings into history, nutty reading list and fleeting hobbies, is not only to expand my horizons, but also a desperate attempt to feed something in and broadcast something, anything, out at the other end.

I am a vaccum sucking in anything I can get my hands on in order to spew out something.

But I have nothing to say.

The irony, when people are struggling to be heard, while I am struggling for something, anything, to say. What do I want to say? Why is it I have nothing to say? Is it because I am too comfortable where I am?

“Paul Theroux once said, after living in Singapore for a while, that he understood why there are no famous writers in Singapore and likely there never will be. I’ll leave it for you to speculate if an angry passionate and hungry (and I am not talking about your stomach being hungry either) writer in say, war torn Iraq will make a better writer than a well-fed Singaporean with considerably less issues to worry about. Maybe that’s why we don’t have The Great Singapore Novel yet.”

The website states:

When the sun goes down, life begins in certain parts of Singapore just as the rest of the City is getting to bed. Some people start their day in the middle of the night and some animals come alive when dusk beckons. Come up close and befriend them.

Me to friend: “It’s a mystery tour thingy where you throw away $15 with no idea what you are paying for. The best kind of sales deal for suckers with too much money and no sound financial sense.”

I sent off my cheque the next day.

I am always a sucker for this sort of stuff.

—

The Mystery Ports of Call

Botanic Gardens: Walk In The Rainforest
Geylang: The Chicken Hunt
Senoko Fish Market: Fishy Business

Botanic Gardens

The editor of FHM (Henry Rimmer? Not sure, didn’t exactly catch his name) was the acting tour guide for the rainforest walk. The most interesting part was the fig tree that literally strangles its host tree by growing all around it. If you can hack your way through the fig roots into its heart, there will be this empty circle instead where the dead tree was. I am going down again next weekend, to take a better look at this ingenious tree, if nothing else.

(Damn the mobile phone cam. All the Botanic Garden shots turned out grainy and bad. I need a better camera. Or at least, a handphone with a better camera and flash.)

Geylang

Choice quotes from the tour guide:

“Singaporean girls are educated … so they don’t do this kind of thing. Most of the girls are from China, Thailand …”

“I don’t know why the food business is so good.”

The tour guide went on to something something about yellow card and deportation and girls from China and men and lust, I wasn’t really listening. There are kids as young as nine years old in the bus. Should they be listening to this?

Laws of Geylang

“Ladies and gentlemen, please do not take photos of the girls, you will get beaten up if you do.”

“If you want to enter the forbidden lanes, please take off your heritage tour tags. You will get beaten up if they see you wearing it. Even a strong well built guy like me (eatcake note: wah, tour guide buay paiseh man) will also get beaten up if I wear the tag.”

Dessert at Geylang

Durians going cheap cheap

We made Chen carry the durians. Unfortunately, he hates durians.

Sulky Chen swinging the bag of durians around like nobody’s business

AL was interested in taoist/buddhist temples, clans and associations, so we went down the small lanes to check them out. There were many tucked away in quieter nooks. You get funny juxtapositions like a hotel (”$36 for one night!”) plonked right between two religious temples.

There were lots of men. Men and more men. All of them looking at any girl in sight. (who were surprisingly scarce on the streets.)

I was rather glad I had the company of Chen and AL. It would have been awkward wandering around alone in Geylang. One table of men waved hello at me after we emerged from one of the tamer backlanes. From the intent looks of them, they weren’t just being friendly. I have no idea whether to feel flattered or insulted.

The bus driver shooed us off the bus when we got back. Apparently, durians are not allowed onboard. AL and me went down to sit some way off by the roadside to finish off the durians. Or rather she munched, and I watched. But Geylang, being Geylang, the streets were full of men on the lookout for anything that doesn’t have a dick.

I counted not a few, all standing around looking in our direction.

One pot bellied ah pek, old enough to be my father, strolled over to stand right in front of us, looking down at both of us expectantly, muttering something I didn’t catch.

He wouldn’t go away.

Sh*t.

Chen promptly came down from the bus to ask conversationally, “So is he expecting something?”

The humsup ah pek scooted.

Chen spent the rest of the break, resignedly, durian smell and all, keeping us company. ;p

Senoko Fishery

Tour Guide: “Feel free to ask the fishermen questions, like how long they have been working etc..”

Loud whisper from back of the bus: “They where got so free?!!”

All your fishes belong to us!

Big Fish

Fish looks like it can eat AL’s shoes for supper.

Fisherman taking a breather

The Icemen Cometh

Ice man counting his money