What The Park? Who Changed Its Name?

My new old favourite song right now is 'Moving To New York' by The Wombats. It came to me in a 2-disc CD compilations called Q Anthems. Awesome songs, all of them, as the name of the album implies. (it was almost someone's birthday gift but I kept it instead)

Speaking of names, some bloke in the paper Geraint Wong wrote today that the gahmen had remained Bishan Park Bishan-Ang Mo Kio Park. This is the first time I've heard of this change and like Geraint am equally surprised and a little appalled. The park's been around for 24 years and now after a full generation has known it such, some bugger thinks changing its name is a good idea. It's like changing someone's name after his entry into adulthood. Weird and wrong. (Unless a sex change was involved.)

This placename thing has been in the papers quite a bit. There was Tommy Koh's thing about Petain Road, named after an infamous French general who farked it up a bit and the French aren't quite proud of anymore. Well it's more downright scorn. Then there was someone writing in about the confusion between Farrer Park and Farrer Road MRT stations. That's a nice apt example how the lack of a Ministry of Common Sense has allowed this deceptive trick enter our transport system. The two places are good several kilometres apart separated by Newton, Balmoral, Stevens, Whitley, old NIE and the Botanic Gardens.

One of my biggest problems is that they've decided to name the train station outside Hwa Chong, Tah Kah Khee station. Some of you might go Tan who? Other will nod in appreciation. He was the guy who founded Chinese High and so some people thought it would nice to name the station after the bloke. Intention's all good but seriously nothing else in the area is named after him. There isn't any location that bears affinity to the man. None I can recall. So picking a name like this out of blue doesn't help anyone much less the residents of the area who will use the station every day, constantly reminded of the fact that things don't quite make sense anymore.

Then there's going to be a trio of Tampines stations in Tampines. Two of them will have a 'east' and 'west' appended to the estate names. I can already imagine the lost aunties, laden with vegetables from the market, waiting in vain for fellow oldies who are similarly clueless at other Tampines stations.

Once, girl on the phone, from a travel agency, introduced herself as Carrot. Yes, the root vegetable of Bugs Bunny fame. Alrighty then.

Time will heal this set of wounds I guess unless sanity kicks in sooner.

Last Second Wardrobe Disfunction

So in the last hour, I've had breakfast, brushed the teeth, re-ironed the trousers, sprayed the Hugo on, put all the necessary office attire on, inserted all the implements and tools of daily existence into the right pockets and went to get my shoes. Gave two seconds thought to the colour of the socks i'd be stinking up today (black with grey trim at the top), swung the dining chair nearest the front door to face the escape route, and sat down. RRRRRIIIIPPPPPPPPPP!

Fell apart at the seams. The trousers, not sure how old they are, gave way to generous gap at the seam against my, get this, my right thigh. How odd. Usually it's an equally stressed spot like the bum that enjoys the pleasure of sudden aspiration after a loud tear in the pants. (BTW pants mean underwear to the English and trousers are the proper term for the clothing item I have an issue with morning). I quickly deduced my equally large thighs coupled (don't want to think my right is larger than my left) with my fat wallet led to the literal fashion disaster. Not fat with money but mostly receipts which means I spent money not saved it.

The gaping hole beautifully avoided the pocket seams and progressed nicely down a 8-10cm path from the mid of the pocket downwards, exposing the tucked shirt and boxers and a bit of furry thigh. Sigh. Wrong place for a tear, worse timing for a fashion disfunction. It's not a malfunction like what Janet Jackson had. Her bra got unhooked sort of as Justin was canoodling her on stage exposing her ta-dahs. My pants trauma is a tear. Her problem could've been quickly rectified I guess. Masking tape couldn't save my trousers.

Yes I realise it's strange comparing my calamity to the one a megasuperstar had on stage in front to TV-watching millions. But a problem nonetheless. I had to quickly find and iron another pair (thank goodness the washing dried up nicely) and restart the exit for the day.

Not bad, quite a few fair words about a hole. Not a thesis on black or worm or drinking ones but an actual hole in the pants.

The other realisation that occurred to me while typing away was that all my recent posts are all me, me , me. Terrible egoist in me rearing it's literary head. Horrid. I need to reposition my focus. Well the sky was nice today. Orange dips against low clouds in a baby blue sky.

Dreaming About Dream Jobs

It's not happening in the train this morning.

So I had a brief daydream about what I would like to be doing on a daily basis and somehow eke out a living from.

1. Giving people directions. Yesterday I was going back to the office after acquiring a spot of teh-si when a lady stopped me along the pavement outside ex-SIA Building and asked where the MAS Building was. I brought her to the road's edge and pointed. That's was mildly fulfilling. Didn't have to check my iPhone either. Some weeks, a young lady standing at the junction of Anson and Maxwell asked me where the Ministry of Manpower was. I replied she was got off at the wrong MRT Station. Think she mixed up MOM with MND. Poor thing. So I figure telling people where to find things is a nice enough job. Been reading maps since i was a wee kid so i guess i am a sort of natural at pointing things out. I envision a simple table with a laptop empowered with Internet connectivity and perhaps a small printing device stationed at one of the busier MRT stations would be adequate. A giant "i" above the spot. A not so taxing vocation, not for the whole day of course, it might get dull.

2. Play music - Fun isn't it? Just listening to songs you like. Imagine doing it for money.

3. Taking pictures - Many of us have cameras and some are better photographers than others. Well I ain't brilliant but I enjoy the craft. I haven't quite escalated beyond a more complex point-and-shoot machine but it does the job. It's enjoyable. I see the potential of captured images in many many things, beyond the usual group dinners and pets. There's pattern, shapes, kaleidoscopes, crowds of colour, light, the lack of light to capture. It's seeing the beauty when others ignore it plain sight. That's photography to me.

4. Writing - Perhaps the easiest or the hardest to achieve out of the whole list, depending on when inspiration strikes. We all can write. Whether it's a good story is up for debate. Usually some professional's opinion will come into play and the intense criticism will be too much to bear and kaput, en of ambition. One is meant to pick one's manuscript from the ashes and rekindle the flames of life into the words and paragraphs so that they once again tell a tale worthy of merit. Something like that. No I have not written anything besides this blog. Maybe I should summon up the will and energy to sit down and do something about it. It won't be easy. Much chocolate and coffee and some beer might be necessary (food for thought).

That's it for the morning. Just realised I shouldn't be at work this early. Stood up for a conference call. Wtf.

Watching The Box

I realised after writing that title into the appropriate field that it could lead into a study of Schrodinger's cat or perhaps an essay on the psychology of people who expect something miraculous to happen by just waiting around or staring at things.

I am actually talking about watching television. Some of you will now go "who does that anymore?". I do and I ain't really into compu-tv. Anyway, some of the stuff I'm into is the last season of Lost. Yes, most of you already what happened. For me it's a slow reveal, a climactic end to the crazy episodes of yore. Remember the polar bear and when you first knew of the 'Others'. All that cool plot-twisting is coming to the fore in an ending I'll see next week. Is it a letdown? Dunno, don't care.

The other cool thing on the box now is American Horror Story. Put together by the same people who do Glee (quite refreshingly surprising to know), the show is about this older couple with a daughter who leave the east coast to live in the west coast to escape their metaphoric ghosts. What they don't know is that they've made their home with real ones, in a really creepy house. The story flows and ebbs between the present and past, connecting the dots between current spooky happenings and past gruesome murders. Awesome cinematography and editing. The plot is riveting not because I'm a horror film junkie (oh no, really, no) but human and humourous (yes morbid funny) elements come through quite nicely too. And the actors, goodness. They play their roles so well.

Of course I try to catch the comedies. Life is miserable without the funnies. There's the repeat of How I Met Your Mother and the new season 7; repeats of 30 Rock and Nurse Jackie; season 2 of Community is better now.

Well that's all folks. Entertainment at a glance. I ain't a couch potato. Not really.

Bring Kindness Back

So yeah, I haven't been writing much. Or it's been in separated spurts of mad typing. I figure that a bo-liao free willed post in 10mins in the train couldn't hurt. After all the Internet is about content and any content is better than no content - quite unlike what people say about shutting up when there's nothing good to say. Or at least it'll keep me occupied on the way to work.

If anyone read the last post, he/she will realise that I am affected about how unkind or uncivil people in Singapore have become. Everyone seems to looking out for themselves and oblivious to the needs of others. Someone (Twitter handle @Dustygirl) responded to my tweet about no one giving up their seat in the train to a man on crutches in this way:

"@gurms ppl have e right to remain in their seat as everyone paid fares. It should only be offered out of goodwill or by polite request."

I replied that logic meant the MRT needed to have seats available to all passengers. Everyone pays a fare, don't we all deserve the same on-board experience? Maybe the bit about goodwill or polite request is part of someone being kind and thoughtful. But it's a stretch. What happened to people opening doors for someone carrying bags, holding lift doors open, being patient with an older person? Basically helping someone else. (And perhaps not blaring one's car horn at the slightest hold up.)

Civility, that's what I'm asking for. Isn't that what makes a mature society? There's still a place for it in ever-changing Singapore right?

Or am I turning into a grumpy old man complaining about youngsters? Yikes.

(Time to switch lines. Just in time. )

Strange People In Trains

I've always subscribed to the fact that people are strange. We all are and that makes life interesting. Other people's strangeness (I believe that's a term in quantum mechanics) bearable as long as they don't get in my way or make life in general uncomfortable for me or society. When strange people start being rude or uncaring, then it's time to step in and correct the madness.

Singaporeans can be mad and many of them take the trains. I take the train to work everyday and am arguably slightly insane too. I see many silly things people do and not do that sort of inconveniences their fellow commuters.

There are commuters who
- make it their life mission to get a seat. You see them scamper into the trains, with eyes darting about, looking for a shiny plastic seat to plonk their asses on. They teach their children to do the same. It bothers me when they look for empty seats in greener pastures, meaning they try to weave their way past standing passengers to get to other train cabins without a whimper of 'excuse me' or 'sorry'. It's like they have a right to slither about looking for a dark cave to curl into.

- lean on grab poles. It's as if they have no spines and need an external support mechanism to keep upright. No one else, in mid-fall or otherwise, can get two-fingers on the grab pole because it's just gross touching a stranger in hot, sticky Singapore public transport. These individuals wedge the pole between their butt cracks like a slick manoeuvre used for docking the space shuttle at the International Space Station. When the trains jolts or comes to hard stop, the pole wedgers clench butt cheeks for maximum grip as everyone else around them pick themselves off the floor. Shame on them for not sharing.

- think taking a nap on reserved seats disavows them of any obligation to give up their comfortable spot. Just the other day, I followed a man on crutches into the train at morning peak hour. Poor guy had only one leg. He took a spot leaning on the glass panel beside the door, holding crutches in one hand, other hand gripping a grab pole. In the 2-3 minutes to the next station, no one did anything. I stood watching the tension build. The guy opposite the disabled man was freaking out. So were a few others standing nearby. I could sense them calculating the possibility of disaster from the looks on their faces - the head slightly down, eyes looking up every 5 seconds to see if the man was going to lose his balance, glancing at seated passengers hoping the telepathic connection between nervous people would prompt some of divinely intervened action.

So when the train slowed to a stop, I tapped the man's hand and asked if he needed to sit. He mumbled some sort of yes. The lady next to me who was also part of the tension-affected crowd asked the two passengers in the seats nearest the door to vacate them. So the girl in the reserved seat who was about to perhaps feign sleepy innocence had to leave her comfortable abode for the disabled man. Happy ending. Relief for the transported masses.

There you go. I could add making out in the corner and talking loudly, on the phone or otherwise, and letting children go mad in a crowded space to the list but that'll take another weekend. Damn I've become lazy.