Can't touch me!

...conscience. If you watch it. And mine too. Staying home sick with a bout of flu since Friday (my God, has it really been five days since I left the apartment??) has meant that I have had lots of time to bum around, much more so than usual. Most of the time was spent O2jamming, surfing the internet, more O2jamming, chatting on MSN, youtubing South Park episodes, youtubing Veronica Mars episodes.

I think you get the idea. Not terribly inspiring, or very educational, or particularly fulfilling. Because bumming around can only cure so much boredom. It gets tedious and sickening after a while. And yes, it's not very productive.

I don't usually watch television, because I *cough* download tv episodes *cough*. If I do, it's mostly channel ten shows, followed by (maybe) channel 9; hardly ever channel 7, and once in about 10 months, I watch SBS. Of course, I now realise how foolish I have been! SBS is, seriously, the best thing about TV here.

SBS is the only channel here that shows South Park!! If anything, that was what got me hooked, and I tuned in at 8.30pm yesterday for a dose of "Fun with Veal" (click for link to wikipedia synopsis). After watching South Park, watching the Simpsons just doesn't feel the same anymore. At 11, I switched back to SBS for "The Green Butchers", a Danish black comedy, starring, lo and behold, Mads Mikkelson!!! Isn't that exciting??
.............
Hmm. Guess I should have made myself clearer... Mads Mikkelson, aka as Le Chiffre!!! Now ain't that cool????
............
OK. Heave-ho. One last try. "The Green Butchers" stars Mads Mikkelson, aka as Le Chiffre, the Casino Royale baddie who cries our droplets of blood. And in that long, winding typing process, I've somehow lost all my excitement. Oy, but Suxin and Matilda would be so excited to know that the guy starring opposite him looks a LOT like Wentworth Miller. Girls, it's true - the Wentworth Miller lookalike looks really good in a wifebeater. And he's much much more muscular too. And spends most of the movie brooding in his wifebeater. He goes to work too - in his wifebeater - and SPOILER! chops people up SPOILER END. I won't give too much of the plot away, but Wentworth lookalike also sits around - in his wifebeater - and smokes and contemplates stuff while in his wifebeater. You can try *cough* downloading *cough* this film if the wifebeater descriptions intrigue you.

If they don't, here's my best attempt at a succint synopsis.

Ok, I started watching after Svend the butcher (Mikkelson) unintentionally kills an electrician by accidentally locking him into the deep freeze cooler. Bjarne (wentworth-lookalike) comes into the shop and discovers what happens. Unfortunately the dead electrician is missing a leg - because Svend, in a panicked daze, chops it off, hacks it into little fillets, marinades it and sells it to a customer who's preparing a big dinner. The next day, the guests at the dinner line up at Svend and Bjarne's butcher shop to get some of them dee-licious "Chicky-Wickies". Uh-oh. Svend, with Bjarne's silence and passitivity as a form of complicity, is compelled to find new er, sources, for his best-selling meat. His butcher shop becomes phenomenally successful, but as you would expect, this success is built on very very shaky and illegal grounds.

Sounds good? It's pretty hard to stomach (no pun intended). Certainly, it's not for everyone, but if you think you can manage a chicken meal after watching this, I highly recommmend it. If you don't think you can, the wifebeater is incredibly distracting.

Ah I'm so tired. I've got lots more to blog about interesting SBS programmes, including two other very interesting shows I watched today. I'll have to take a raincheck though - the next show is starting.

Labels: Movies, Television

I have morphed into a Uni Student^tm..

Just a few course and subject information sessions, some wandering around campus, getting my enrolment papers collected and stamped, my photo taken for an ID card, and a diary issued from an enormous pile on a desk in Wilson Hall...

And suddenly, I am Deep and Mature and Grown-up and Wise and Intellectual.

It might have to do with breathing 9 hours of university air yesterday during enrolment; or maybe the fibres from one of the chairs in the lecture theatres sticking to my butt sparked it off, but Something Has Happened. Somewhere along the way I have transfromed from a frightened, anxious, quivering year 12 student into a frightened, anxious, quivering Uni Student^tm.

Wow. So much er, Change. (god, my fingers are hurting from all the shift-capitalising)

It has started to affect my life in profound ways.

As a Uni Student^tm, I find my eyes have been widened, my horizons expanded. None more so than realising how diverse the student population is! Where great minds from all over the world meet, cloaked in bodies of different shapes, sizes, colours and smells. This quiet realisation was dampened only ever so slightly when I realised, upon reflection, that the 97% ang moh population couldn't really be indicative of this special diversity I was thinking I was seeing; after all, I was informed that the international students weren't on campus yesterday, and wouldn't be until mid-February. Hmmmmm. If the population overwhelmingly reflects the make-up of the government, the top levels in the arena of business, academics, science and techonology, media and sport in Australia (i.e because they are mostly white); does that you know, still count?

As a Uni Student^tm, I find myself honing skills that will stand me in good stead in the coming days. A really good example is my ability to procrastinate with the speech thing. Even though it was due to be e-mailed to the school coordinator on Friday, I found myself thinking, "You know, they can't really fault me for sending it in late by 1 2 3 4 days late, because I can always say that I only got back to Melbourne yesterday day after 3 4 days ago."

I've started to adopt the sleep patterns that a good Uni Student^tm should have. Sleeping at 3am, and getting up at 2pm to rush to make it for the second half of the third lecture of the day seems like it will be chicken feet, thanks to the good training I have subjected myself to. Fine ok, sleeping at 3am seems a bit weak, but two days before, I slept at 6 am!! Impressed? It's back to screwed-up-body-clock-recovering-from-London-days, and even clubbing/getting-drunk-at-elaine's-house days! My body is subversively resisting the false and unfairly-imposed 'early-to-bed, early-to-rise' attitude that permeates our society, right down to the grassroots! How's that for you, Political Activist!

I've started to dress like a Uni Student^tm , or at least think like one with regards to style and fashion. When I went shopping with Becky and Leanne at Bridge Road, I eschewed a lot more of the nicer, prettier, more expensive things for an unmistakably Uni-sque $15 yellow cotton top with big brown hearts. I was also particularly sensitive to prices above $20, cringed when any light reflecting from glittery shoes and fabric entered my eyes, and felt calluses develop deep under my skin when anything more refined than cotton, polyester or hemp touched my skin.

And of course, my entertainment options reflect my new status as a Uni Student^tm. My only worry is that the South Park episodes that I've been watching over at youtube won't reflect my new intellectual depth. Isn't it all a little bit too high-brow?

Labels: Shopping, University

I've been meaning to blog about this for a while.
I've been meaning to say this for a while. And if you know me, you know this is a painful obsession of mine.

I am not pretty. I don't think I'm a hideous ogre, but I am plain. And I'm still trying to be ok with that (*takes deep breath* one step a day, people).
I am not thin. I don't think I'm obese, but I am not svelte. And I'm still trying to be ok with that (*takes deep breath* go away, cookies. Go away, chocolate.)

I know lots of people struggle with the same problems, of trying to deal with their plainness and weight issues. Make-up, changing their hair-styles, plunging neck lines (*coughs, shuffles feet*)

For many, blame is centred towards the self ("you have no self-control, piggy"), to parents ("you gave me bad genes"), and to the media.

But only one of them is at fault. Media, stop claiming you are a scapegoat for people's problems. You are, along with the beauty, fashion and advertising industry, a real and willing participant in the business of making people feel bad about themselves. It's time to stop blaming ourselves and start blaming the real culprits here. This sounds so much like a complete re-hasment of what has been said over and over and over again: the media sets up unrealistic images that blah dee blah... but why does this keep getting ignored, why are positive changes proceeding at such a glacial pace?? Why do some people still feel like they have every right to comment on how fuckable a person is and whether they'll 'hit that'? Why do some women do that whole 'elevator eyes' thing and behave so cattily to put other women in their place? Why the obsession with image, from both sexes, towards both sexes ?

Why has a particular ideal been put before us, and why are we told, "conform, or expect to be treated as if you're invisible"?

Why is there a universalisation of human desire?

Don't get me wrong. It's entirely your perogative, guys (and girls that swing that way, I'm not being heterosexist), to find blonde, big-tittied girls hot. There is nothing wrong with only going after Shu Qi types. And if Halle Berry does it for you, good on you. For girls, if you don't like the big meaty Jack Black type, that's fine. If you only date Brad Pitt types, that's fine too. And if the only guys you go after never look uglier than Edison Chen (a personal favourite of mine, I must admit), whatever. It's a personal preference, and no one can ever fault you for that.

The problem starts when the media and societal expectations make it seem weird or wrong to desire people who don't fit the current ideal. I remember reading an article about a guy who had a thing for fat women. He pretended to make fun with them along with his guy pals, because he felt that if he let his preference be known, he would be the one getting ribbed for having a ' fat fetish', or just given a hard time for being plain weird for liking some meat on a woman. Despite his rather self-congratulatory tone in his writing on overcoming his fear and marrying a fat woman, I thought that it was good that he did not succumb to societal pressures to desire a certain type.

After reading a blog entry (on Feministe, I think) that asked people to leave comments about what kind of people they preferred, I was genuinely quite amazed to see how diverse and wide-ranging the responses were. Sharp noses, noses with 'character' big ears, thick hair, thin hair, wavy hair, straight hair brown hair, red hair, blonde hair, curly hair, black hair, small lips, full lips, thin legs, muscular legs, flat stomachs, rounder stomachs, big bottoms, small bottoms, round bottoms, flat bottoms, intellectual types, snobbish types, argumentative types. In fact, I saw so few entries that claimed to prefer the current ideal, (most probably because it was a liberal, left-leaning feminist blog, and no way in hell were the readers going to 'pander to the patriachy').

So go on, folks. It's not a crime to love the big pecs and biceps and broad shoulders, love the big boobs and long hair and slim legs. What's a crime is allowing the media and beauty industries to continue to score big points off people's insecurities by insisting that only a certain type is acceptable. Human desire per se is not wrong, but universalising it is. Any practice that relentlessly and continously bombards broad sections of the population with messages that they are not good enough; any practice that narrows and denies the breadth and diversity of the human experience; by golly, that's wrong.

Labels: Feminism, Gender studies

My mum's just gone to the doctor's at Templestowe. She's experiencing heart pain, but refused to take a cab direct just to 'save money'.

Jesus. I'm scared.

When I stepped into my Melbourne apartment last night, the place was sparkling, the newspapers were stacked neatly, the carpet smelled fresh and clean, the toilet was positively gleaming, and the dining table was spotless.

I'm afraid it didn't last that way for long. As I type, approximately 14 hours since my return, dirty bowls and cups litter the coffee table, the once clear dining table has my highlighters and opened mail scattered all over the place, and my luggage lies open next to the couch, clothes and shoes spilling onto the floor.

Yup, things are back to normal!

My very first solo flight(s) was(were) fine. I've never feared flying, just the immigration and customs parts, where my deepest anxieties centered around some problem with my passport or a pair of soily shoes which would mean getting impounded in Perth with no money and no phone and no one to bail me out. Australian cutoms are damn stict lar, and I was subjected to a full luggage search instead of the standard x-ray machine scan. Why? I don't know, maybe I looked like a terrorist with my enormous luggage, lap top bag and, Mui Kee would vehemently agree, my 'bomb bag' (which by the way, contained fluffy stuff like an eyelash curler, lip gloss, and a copy of Dostoyevsky's Idiot, which the customs lady stared at for a while, as if I had deliberately placed it there to mock her). At least she was kind enough, complimented my boots, laughed at my cow soft toy and apologised for making me wait nearly an hour from arrival at Perth to departure from the international terminal to the domestic terminal. The transfer was simply awful. Even with the free bus transfer, I had to drag my luggage over at least a 100m walk. Which seems like nothing in normal circumstances; but when nearly falling over with trying to keep my 'bomb bag' (Mui's term, not mine) on my ginormous luggage, my lap top on my shoulder, my passport bag on the other, and my boobs from falling out of my shirt, the 100m felt more like a 100km.

Ah well, I survived it, and I no longer fear travelling alone, (as long as I can do a symbolic third finger to the customs people by always placing Idiot face up right on top where it'll be the first thing to see if they decide to invade my privacy). Adjusting to Melbourne again was much easier than the very first time and even the second time.

I'll be meeting Jane, Becky and Leanne for dinner later, but at the moment, I really do miss my Singapore friends! Ah well, I'll put on the biscuit earrings, picture locket (not my secret fantasy, eve) and the clique ring (I really like it, you guys!) and pretend we're still trumping around town, getting obnoxiously drunk at other people's houses, downing peanuts, milo balls (those were not Koko Crunch, Mui!) and Shirley Temples at K-Box; invading our ex-school and 'stealing' food meant for the little girls in blue pinafores.

Labels: Flying, Friends

Ok, I'm going back in 3 days, my speech is due in 4 days, and there's two bloody holes in my only pair of good pants. Which has been soaking in a pile of suddy water for 4 days that it's starting to smell of mould.

I find out what course I'm in tomorrow, I find out when I'm to enrol and then I have to do it next week, and then I have to find a job, and then I have to learn drive, and then I have to go back to school for that dreaded thing, and then I start school. Gah!

My God, life sucks.

Wa zeng hek. Bo piang ta han lo. Wa jia ka zoi ziu. Bo jia zui. Bo gao uk. Ai kao. Kao gao mai.

Give it a week, and I won't even know what I just typed.

But anyway, I'm sorry if I haven't been myself (of if my real self just revealed itself, hint hint to quanmin and jiawei - what was said in Elaine's house, stays in Elaine's house!) but I'm so tired and bloated and dehydrated (yes, it can happen) that I'm nearly going to cry with exhaustion. Plus I'm depressed over something which I haven't quite figured out is.

Happy birthday Trinetta!
And to Matilda: Damn those hair product marketers - my hair has only become bigger and fluffier, not straighter and sleeker! @#$%^&*

The weather is a good indication of my current mood. The rain just makes me want to stay home and sulk. Going out in the rain can be such a pain - feet get grimy and gritty if shoes are open-toed, or just moist and uncomfortable if shoes are close-toed. Plus the ends of the pants get soggy and wrinkled, umbrellas are inconvenient to hoist around, and you get the unpleasant experience of going into Singapore's numerous air-conditioned areas feeling damp and shivery.

(Oh hey, did I mention I'm not in a fabulous mood?)

I am getting really stressed out about the speech I'm supposed to make at school in February. It almost - almost but not quite - makes me wish I did worse in my VCE so I wouldn't have to go up on stage. I know that sounds obnoxious, plenty of people, myself included, would endure the discomfort of facing up to their phobias than to jeopardize their chances of getting into a favoured university course. And of course, had I done badly, no doubt I would give anything just to get a better score. So I have no right to complain and shall just do the stoic thing and deal with it.

Other times not spent going out for movies/shopping/barbecues/dining is spent worrying about whether I can limit the weight of my luggage to 20kg. I came back to Singapore with more than that, aided by some deceitful means such as putting all my heavy documents into my lap-top bag, which they don't weigh. Now that I've got more things to bring back, I forsee paying for overweight baggage, which my mum has made clear she will not tolerate. And I am a little ashamed to say that I've never flown alone before, which I will be doing on 18 Jan. I wouldn't mind flying to Singapore alone, because you know at the end of that long flight you'll be back among family and friends, and a smaller place that's easier to navigate. Flying to Melbourne alone isn't a particularly attractive prospect to me because the end of a journey means an almost empty apartment, pressure to get a job and to learn to drive, and the awful, awful speech thing looming ahead.

Oh and did I mention uni? I'm terrified about this. I still stress out over what to wear when going out, how on earth am I going to find enough outfits to wear to school everyday? Plus the people and the atmosphere intimidate the hell out of me. Primary school/ Secondary school/ college meant a uniform, some degree of familiarity, and teachers who actually know your name. And some structure for those of us who are extremely disorganised. Uni means independence and responsibility, qualities I don't yet think I have. Plus I haven't really been talking to my Melbourne friends, I think it'll take some time before we all get used to each other again. And since we're all going to different universities, it's sad but inevitable that we'll drift apart. Even if we don't, things will never be the same. Something I'm more willing to accept, I suppose, but that doesn't make it any easier to swallow.

(Oh hey, did I mention I'm feeling scared and alone?)

Labels: School, University

Ok, my alcohol tolerance is a lot higher than I thought it would be. Didn't get drunk at all, only a little bit tipsy. (And I think I burnt a lot of calories - yay!) And while I went to bed at 6am and got a bit of a hangover, it disappeared after consuming massive amounts of water and some bed rest.

To Qm, Suxin, Evelyn, Jiawei, Jingchuan: not bad lah right? At least not as bad as I feared it would be (deep down in my heart). And skeptical Quanmin with her adamant anti-clubbing protests actually did some moo-cha-cha-sashaying, ey?? Haha. Although the cost of drinks is horrifying. But Jiawei and I both agree - you may be a crap dancer, but after some alcohol, without a doubt you're the best, no questions asked.
---------------------

SIGH. After struggling to re-adjust my body clock from London time back to Singapore time, I've gone and screwed it up again. Go me!
---------------------

I think I wanted to write something about prescribed gender roles and how they limit each individual, be they male or female, from reaching their full capacities as human beings. Or about advertisements and how they claim to be catering to consumer demand but are actually creating and reinforcing harmful and narrow potrayals of both men and women through techniques like normalisation and exoticization. But because I'm not completely recovered, it'll all end up dribbling out like pseudo-intellectual brain diarrhoea. Which it probably is anyway.

Labels: Alcohol, Clubbing, Gender studies

So this is what it has come to - denying entry to 'old girls' because a few miserly people working in the surronding areas sneak into school, name-dropping a connection to some random teacher for some cheap orange bowl food. And the true-blue, bona-fide, yin-shui-si-yuan 'old girls' get left out in the cold if they haven't made an appointment with any teacher.

Way to go, alienating those who once walked amongst you. Way to go, new system. Way to go. See if the loyalty of your alumni wanes drastically, and then ask, "Gee, why?"

That said, the teachers are still as awesome as ever. Maybe they can't remember our names, but they remember our faces, and even if they don't remember that, they still have words of concern and advice for all of us.

Su Xin, Mui Kee, Evelyn and I decided to drop by St Nicks on the spur of the moment after we went to Yishun to register for their basic theory tests (as for me - I've passed, remember? Da Da da da Da DA!) We were walking out of the driving centre when we saw bus number 268 pass by. ("EY?! That goes past school right? Want to go there and eat lunch?")

And that's what we did.

Unlike my rather unfruitful trip back to school with Pam last year (the only teacher we saw was Mrs Tan who was on her way home, and Chen lao shi, who shooed us out of the staff room with a gruff "you3 mei2 you3 nan2 pen2 you3?"), I managed to see every teacher who taught me in upper sec, and even some from lower sec and from band. And remarkably (or not so remarkable, if you're feeling blasé about the prowess of the orange bowl stall owners) every single teacher asked us, "so have you had the orange bowl yet?"

Ah, orange bowl. I never really loved it to that extent. Or maybe I've just been ordering all the wrong dishes.

Good to have Uncle Mobeen's ice tea.

I really wanted prawn mee from the purple bowl, but it's no longer there.

And maybe that's the where the crux of the issue lies. There's a reason why people lose contact, or why people don't visit their old schools after a while. It's because they move on.
Evelyn was saying how she felt like an 'outsider' when she was in the canteen. The current students stare at us, undoubtedly just curious, but with the unintended effect of making us feel a bit like freaks. (Or movie stars, whichever strokes your ego more).

Funny how I started to sort of hate my last years at school, which now seem much safer, comfortable and innocent. My latest visit was nothing but an empty re-creation of a time long gone... or is it really? The Trafalmadorians will beg to differ. They see time in the fourth dimension, every moment from birth to death spread out like the Himalayas; while we look back, letting the passage of time turn everything into a hazy glow. The Trafalmadorians don't understand guilt, or regret, or nostalgia. They laugh at us while they shuttle through time, suffering none of the pangs of longing that feel like scars healed twice over.

Labels: School, Slaughterhouse-Five

...but really, you don't.

Is it just human nature to want to endlessly compartmentalise and to label and define everything into neat little categories? Because what is known is safe. What is known is comforting. What we don't know and cannot predict is unsettling, dangerous even.

This latest tirade has been prompted by two interesting incidents that occured this morning, but wait, more on this later.

But later - sis and I are heading out to catch a movie. It'll be really good just having a sisters' outing; we haven't spent time together in a while (excepting London/Paris, where we just plain got sick of each other) and it'll be nice to just wear some tatty old stuff and present my unmade kuah-li face to the world.

And on a side note, while many crossed over into the new year watching fireworks, partying and getting drunk (preparing to open 2007 with the mother of all hang-overs) I celebrated New Year's by watching "The Fame List 2006" on British television. By myself. While my sister and cousin were snoring away, and god knows what my parents and brother were doing in their own rooms (not an invitation to speculate, by the way). Alone, bored, watching TV... is this the shape of things to come???

It's been 2 days since I've returned from London/Paris. And I must say, my body has not known such depths of exhaustion.

It was quite an amazing experience, even though I was very apprehensive about going (mostly because, I felt culturally impoverished and country-bumpkinish. Colonial mentality, in other words. Note to self: Stop. putting. Europeans. on. a. pedestal!!)

I do have a detailed daily journal account of the trip, but it's pretty personal, and way too lengthy too reproduce here. But then hor, if I just write stuff like:

I went to Trafalgar Square, and had my picture taken with one of the cast-iron lions.
I walked past Westminster Abbey, Parliament House and Buckingham Palace.
I rode the London Eye.
I visited the British Museum, the Imperial War Museum, and the Tate Modern Musuem, where I slid down one of Carsten Höller's slides.
I window-shopped at Herrods, and ate baked spuds at Covent Garden Market.
I climbed the Eiffel tower and took an elevator to the highest level.
I stood beneath the Arc du Triomphe.
I walked along Avenue Champ Elysses
I shopped at Le Bon Marche and strolled in the Galaries La Fayette.
I visited the Lourve and was astonished at the tiny, overwhelmingly overrated Mona Lisa, and much more impressed by other less acclaimed paintings, especially Jacque-Louis David's The Coronation of Napolean and Eugene Delacroix's Liberty Guiding the People.

Uggh. It's so touristy! (as all first visits must be, I firmly believe)
It seems so matter-0f-fact, sounds so bored and unimpressed, comes out sounding all name-droppish and show-offey, almost as if I were saying:

I had lunch with Prince William, and told him I no longer find him that cute, and his naughty brother Harry is much more attractive.
I gave English lessons to the Queen, and corrected her pronunciation, many many times. It was very difficult, but very rewarding.
I hosted a party for Kate Moss after her own party tanked (and gave her a really really hard time about Pete Doherty)
The Société Nouvelle d’Exploitation de la Tour Eiffel was grudgingly forced to admit that, yes, Singapore's merlion is a superior architectural wonder to boring 'ol Eiffel.
I lectured Catherine Deneuve on skin care, and she cried while promising me not to pick at her skin. She also promised to up the botox concentration next time after several stern warnings.
While backstage at a Parisian fashion show, I laughed at all the supermodels while they bent their heads in shame after taking a look at my oh-so-fashionable Giordano Polo-T, $20 jeans and Bata jewelled butterfly slippers*.

*Disclaimer: just so you know, I don't actually have Bata jewelled butterfly slippers. (I'm not so auntie, kay) It's just for illustrative purposes. Unfortunately, I can't say the same about the $20 jeans. Or the Giordano Polo-T... ...oh what now, as if you don't have one??!!

Ok, I think I'm starting to fly off on a tangent. My main point in that very lengthy digression, is to say that I don't think I can sum up my experiences in a single post (...and I'm doing media and communications next year... FAIL liao!!!) And frankly, I'm lazy as hell.

I truly am grateful for the opportunity, though. The architecture there is bee-yoo-ti-ful. The magnificent stone buildings make Singapore's HDB blocks look like cardboard boxes dipped in the primary colours of a child's watercolour paint set. If I had a chance, I would definitely make a return trip (and all second, third and subsequent visits, I firmly believe, should be dedicated to exploring the less well-known, underrated sights).

So that means no more Eiffel Tower for me. I'll be quite happy never to step within 100m of it: I have officially reached Eiffel-saturation. Next time, no more behaving like a ku-ku tourist. I'll blend in as a savvy local, a citizen of the world! How could I not, with my Giordano Polo, $20 jeans and (hypothetical) Bata jewelled butterfly slippers?

Labels: London, Paris, Travel