I am usually not one for bombastic titles (I usually leave that for those pesky ‘click-me!’ websites with easily misinterpreted pictures and a very compelling question). However, recently I have come across something interesting so please bear with me. I was in this internet forum discussing borders and boundaries, and someone posted an image of the intertwined towns of Baarle-Nassau (Dutch) and Baarle-Hertog (Belgium). What’s remarkable is that in Netherlands, there’s a town which has a Belgian town in it. And this Belgian town has pieces of the Dutch town in it too. The map looks quite intriguing, although many would probably assume it to be a clusterfuck.
Somewhere along the border of India and Bangladesh you get pockets of Indian land in Bangladesh, and Bangladeshi land in India. These aren’t merely land in one country owned by the other—these are actual territories of one, completely landlocked in the other. How did this happen? Well, history can be very complicated, especially when it comes to borders. But this isn’t uncommon. It happens many other places too. The concept is called an enclave—a piece of land completely surrounded by territory of another country. What is unique however, is a third degree Indian enclave in Bangladesh called Dahala Khagrabari: a microscopic bit of India in a tiny bit of Bangladesh in a small piece of India in Bangladesh proper. That’s some scary Banglaception shit right there. Or maybe it’s Indiaception? I don’t know. I don’t even know if it was all a dream in the end. And why did that totem thing jig a little?
BANGLACEPTION.
Anyway, yes that’s it. Read on if you like, but it will mostly be about enclaves: town names and logic and wordsy words like contiguous.
In Bangladesh proper, you have a pretty large Indian enclave (about the size of a small district). In this enclave you have a small Bangladeshi village which perhaps the Bangladeshis wanted to keep some particular reason. In the middle of this village, however, is a football field-sized plot of land that is somehow India. Stepping into one plot of land into another, you are actually moving from one country to another. But of course this is a poor rural area, and the various my country, not my country debates often lead to neglect. So there are no fancy/cutesy signs on the borders, just a concrete stone marker. No immigration, nothing. However, there are people who say they have been shot for crossing into some of these enclaves. And of course bribing your way through these nondescript borders are a norm.
The Belgian town Baarle-Hertog is a Belgian enclave to/in the Netherlands—it is a piece of Belgium completely surrounded by Netherlands. Conversely (of course we’ll need a 'you' to match the 'I'), Baarle-Hertog is a Dutch exclave to Belgium. However, an enclave isn't necessarily an exclave. Argentina has a few islands completely in Paraguayan waters. Lesotho, for example, is an enclave in South Africa—it is completely landlocked. But it isn't a tiny piece of a bigger country—it is its own country—so therefore it cannot be an exclave as it doesn't have something else to be an exclave to. The Vatican City and Rome is a similar example. KL is a subnational enclave to Selangor, despite not being an exclave to anything else.
Russia has an exclave hundreds of miles west of mainland Motherland bordered by Poland, Lithuania and the Baltic Sea, called Kaliningrad Oblast. While it is an exclave of Russia, it isn’t an enclave of anything as it isn’t completely surrounded by any one country. So an exclave-enclave therefore must be completely surrounded by another one country.
And then there are people who stretch the definition. These are called pene-enclaves or pene-exclaves. They are contiguous, but just not connected by land or road or rail or whatever. An example is the northeast corner of Connecticut, USA. Interstate 684 cuts it off, so that American Lane (and with it, Blue Sky Studios, the guys who made the Ice Age animation films) is only accessible through New York state.
Closer to home, Limbang in Sarawak finds itself snug in between Bruneian waters to the north, mainland Brunei to the west and Brunei’s Temburong district to the east. It still is contiguous to the south with the rest of Sarawak, although there is the small matter of Gunung Mulu in the way. Thus the only roads leading to this district is through either side of Brunei. It is sort of exclaved since it’s inaccessible. Temburong too has a case of semi-exclavedness. It is surrounded by Sarawak, but also by Bruneian waters to the north. So a yes and a no. In Petaling Jaya's Section 16 you have streets that are party Selangor and partly Kuala Lumpur; I know someone whose post code is 46350, yet her neighbour's in 59100.
So you see, enclaves are fun! Or exclaves. Or whatever. It’s nice to have a piece of your country in another country (given the right circumstances, of course). It’s like an embassy that’s not so...embassy-ish. There's also negative enclaves. The United Kingdom once ceded a hospital to another country so its exiled ruler can have his son born 'in his country's soil'. Canada once ceded the maternity ward of a hospital (to no one at all) so a Dutch princess could be born 'not on Canadian soil' (because dual nationality would hinder her claim to her throne).
Now, here’s where we digress a little, as most of my writings tend to do. Russia has a hold of Kaliningrad for a good reason—it is the only port that is ice-free all year round. Some may have been irked at its annexation, but you can see why the Soviets wanted it. Why do we need Limbang? We always say we should be neighbourly and all that, friendly and whatnot. So why can’t we just give the Bruneians Limbang? Isn’t it quite annoying having a separate piece of land which requires you to pass through immigration and whatnot? (I’m not sure if there are checkpoints, but still). Does Limbang have something the rest of Sarawak doesn’t? Do we insist on controlling the rivers that flow to the Brunei Bay? Why? Someone enlighten me, please. Or is this one of those things where, if we give them one thing, they’ll ask for another and therefore we shouldn’t? The India-Bangladesh case too. Why have a village in your neighbour’s country, if that village cannot enjoy what the rest of you do? They have no schools, no hospitals. They are born without documentation, and they need visas to get to their country proper, so you have a vicious cycle. Is it that hard giving up your sovereign territory for something in exchange?
Friday, November 16, 2012
Monday, May 7, 2012
Facing Childhood Fears
As a kid I had always been afraid of dentists. The pain of loose milk teeth. The smell of those latex gloves; the taste of them. That bitter 'strawberry'-flavoured numbing gel (what is the point?). The poking and prodding in your mouth and on your gums. The shrill of scaling. The sudden wetness with bits of plaque in your mouth. The aggressiveness of the nurse's suction shadowing the dentist's hand. And then there's the self-inflicted scaremongering through reading/hearing about the worstest dental cases ever: going blind due to nerve-related complications during extraction, the pain of root canals and dry sockets, god knows what else.
This wasn't a pain thing. We've all been through that time when pediatricians (those bastard liars) telling us "it won't hurt a bit" and then inject you with a very large needle that indeed did hurt a bit. And the second time wasn't so scary any more. At least they gave us a lollipop for our troubles--dentists let us out telling us to brush twice a day and lay off the sweets (those bastards). Experience is the best teacher--I believe that now, but not back then. The first few visits were abject failures and an embarrassment to my parents. I wouldn't open my mouth, would push her hands away. I'd ask a million questions and ask for other means. I even went as far as to ask for a way in which I could be "put to sleep" or just have her do it "with my jaw outside my skull". But take teeth out she did. And hurt it did not. Yet still I was never going to easily let them sit me on that ridiculous chair, staring into the light, mouth wide open.
One day in school we had a visit from the government dentists. I was six or seven, Standard One. First I hid underneath my desk, then behind a door, and then in the AHU room where they kept the emergency fire hose. The genius I was back then, I actually moved closer towards the 'treatment room' which was just near the AHU room. So this nurse grabbed me, checked my records, sat me down, asked me why I was crying and why wasn't I ashamed since there were girls in the room. Since I was being difficult, one held my head, and the other did the scaling thing. I remember being weak the rest of the day from being so rigid throughout the whole ordeal. They came again in Standard Three, and although I was less teary at first, the drilling to add a filling took care of that.
Then I went to boarding school, so dental issued had to be done at a clinic, and a fancy one opened just down the street. I had my first x-ray there and although the clinic was a shit load less scary than SKBD's bengkel-KH-turned-treatment-room, the image took care of that. Apparently at the age of 16, I still had three milk teeth. And since their roots were still there, extraction would be "more invasive". I asked to wait. And then I never saw a dentist for the next five years (that's ten missed visits).
After graduating, I realised that however aggressive or frequent you brush your teeth, some things still require scaling to get rid of. More pertinently, I noticed my wisdom tooth growing forward instead of upward. This scared the shit out of me. Of course, you google your problems first. And I found out that I had something called mesial impaction (forward at an acute angle) or even horizontal impaction (90°). These websites say the former isn't that big of a deal and 43% of the time, will not require removal. Needless to say I was hoping it was that, and that I was the 43%. And as time went by, it grew and effectively 'bit' on food with it's neighbour, leaving pieces of food stuck at the end of my jaw, and rendering my tongue lenguh and tired if I tried to remove it. Every night I had to use dental equipment to clean my teeth. That mirror-on-a-stick thing, and that metal toothpick-at-the-end-of-stick thing. And then the not very wise tooth started to hurt. So for the first time, I drove to the dentist--on my own accord.
This was a panel clinic I chose at random. The clinic was walk-in only after lunch, the dentist was rough as fuck, and I left with blood pouring out from around every tooth. And she also said "yes, all four need to be extracted" and told me to come again for an x-ray and whatnot. I instead chose a fancy clinic in Bangsar that would charge an arm and a leg. I figured it was worth it. This clinic was one of those pristine, take-your-shoes-off, have-some-grape-juice-before-we-cut-your-jaw, places. I had to take a crap beforehand, though. For obvious reasons. The dentist then talked me through what would be done. He will drill the tooth and break it into three or four pieces and take it out piece by piece. I thought whoop-dee-freaking-doo, I'm here anyway. So I said OK. What happened next, for those of you who aren't aware of wisdom tooth extraction surgery, was:
And I guess if I can drive myself to a dentist, for surgery, twice, then I can safely say this fear isn't valid anymore. It may not seem like much to many people, but it's not every day that you overcome a childhood phobia. Say what you will, piss on my parade for all I care, but this was a huge achievement and I am proud nonetheless. Good riddance to the fear, to the offending teeth, and to the scaremongering--I'd say everyone my age has been through a lot worse than this surgery. The recovery, however, is a bitch.
You wake up the next day with a huge bengkak on your jaw. Opening your mouth too fast may hurt the wound. And also, for me at least, movement of the tongue affected the wound too. Make sure you get a good regiment of painkillers and soft foods (milkshakes!).
This wasn't a pain thing. We've all been through that time when pediatricians (those bastard liars) telling us "it won't hurt a bit" and then inject you with a very large needle that indeed did hurt a bit. And the second time wasn't so scary any more. At least they gave us a lollipop for our troubles--dentists let us out telling us to brush twice a day and lay off the sweets (those bastards). Experience is the best teacher--I believe that now, but not back then. The first few visits were abject failures and an embarrassment to my parents. I wouldn't open my mouth, would push her hands away. I'd ask a million questions and ask for other means. I even went as far as to ask for a way in which I could be "put to sleep" or just have her do it "with my jaw outside my skull". But take teeth out she did. And hurt it did not. Yet still I was never going to easily let them sit me on that ridiculous chair, staring into the light, mouth wide open.
One day in school we had a visit from the government dentists. I was six or seven, Standard One. First I hid underneath my desk, then behind a door, and then in the AHU room where they kept the emergency fire hose. The genius I was back then, I actually moved closer towards the 'treatment room' which was just near the AHU room. So this nurse grabbed me, checked my records, sat me down, asked me why I was crying and why wasn't I ashamed since there were girls in the room. Since I was being difficult, one held my head, and the other did the scaling thing. I remember being weak the rest of the day from being so rigid throughout the whole ordeal. They came again in Standard Three, and although I was less teary at first, the drilling to add a filling took care of that.
Then I went to boarding school, so dental issued had to be done at a clinic, and a fancy one opened just down the street. I had my first x-ray there and although the clinic was a shit load less scary than SKBD's bengkel-KH-turned-treatment-room, the image took care of that. Apparently at the age of 16, I still had three milk teeth. And since their roots were still there, extraction would be "more invasive". I asked to wait. And then I never saw a dentist for the next five years (that's ten missed visits).
After graduating, I realised that however aggressive or frequent you brush your teeth, some things still require scaling to get rid of. More pertinently, I noticed my wisdom tooth growing forward instead of upward. This scared the shit out of me. Of course, you google your problems first. And I found out that I had something called mesial impaction (forward at an acute angle) or even horizontal impaction (90°). These websites say the former isn't that big of a deal and 43% of the time, will not require removal. Needless to say I was hoping it was that, and that I was the 43%. And as time went by, it grew and effectively 'bit' on food with it's neighbour, leaving pieces of food stuck at the end of my jaw, and rendering my tongue lenguh and tired if I tried to remove it. Every night I had to use dental equipment to clean my teeth. That mirror-on-a-stick thing, and that metal toothpick-at-the-end-of-stick thing. And then the not very wise tooth started to hurt. So for the first time, I drove to the dentist--on my own accord.
This was a panel clinic I chose at random. The clinic was walk-in only after lunch, the dentist was rough as fuck, and I left with blood pouring out from around every tooth. And she also said "yes, all four need to be extracted" and told me to come again for an x-ray and whatnot. I instead chose a fancy clinic in Bangsar that would charge an arm and a leg. I figured it was worth it. This clinic was one of those pristine, take-your-shoes-off, have-some-grape-juice-before-we-cut-your-jaw, places. I had to take a crap beforehand, though. For obvious reasons. The dentist then talked me through what would be done. He will drill the tooth and break it into three or four pieces and take it out piece by piece. I thought whoop-dee-freaking-doo, I'm here anyway. So I said OK. What happened next, for those of you who aren't aware of wisdom tooth extraction surgery, was:
- Steroids. It will shrink the muscles and nerves and reduce inflammatory something something whathaveyou, I'm not entirely sure. But your jaw won't go Quasimodo. Well, not as bad.
- Anesthesia injections across the jaw, both in front and behind the tooth. Six times maybe? I lost count. This part hurt the most, you won't feel a thing after this.
- I'm not sure what it was but he used a thin blunt instrument and outlined the tooth. Perhaps pushing the gums away to reveal the tooth? But that doesn't make sense because after that he...
- Cuts the gums open. I had a bit of a fright seeing a knife stroking around in my mouth, but I didn't feel a thing, not even contact.
- Drilling. He will drill the jaw around the tooth to expose it a little. He will then drill the tooth to break it up. It feels like a drill on your tooth or jaw, but without the pain. As the assistant had awesome suction skill, I did not feel bits of tooth or bone floating around in my mouth.
- Snap. "I'm going to break the tooth off, you will feel a bit of a snap--that's biasa la tu". He'll take pliers of some sort and snap it off. His assistant will hold your jaw as support. Snapping feels and sounds like breaking a chicken wing bone. Except that it's attached to your jaw. This was the most unpleasant part.
- Steps (5) and (6) are repeated until everything's gone. Usually the tooth is broken into three or four. Mine was "complicated a little" so he had to cut it into seven.
- Cleaning the wound. The wound is splashed with water and suctioned off a few times to rid it off debris. You could now feel the empty spot where the tooth was.
- Stitching. Using a self-dissolving thread, the dentist stitched it up in a jiffy. Was pretty slick at it too.
- Bite on gauze. After 15 minutes, the bleeding generally stops. Your drooling, however, won't stop until the anesthesia dies off in a few hours.
And I guess if I can drive myself to a dentist, for surgery, twice, then I can safely say this fear isn't valid anymore. It may not seem like much to many people, but it's not every day that you overcome a childhood phobia. Say what you will, piss on my parade for all I care, but this was a huge achievement and I am proud nonetheless. Good riddance to the fear, to the offending teeth, and to the scaremongering--I'd say everyone my age has been through a lot worse than this surgery. The recovery, however, is a bitch.
You wake up the next day with a huge bengkak on your jaw. Opening your mouth too fast may hurt the wound. And also, for me at least, movement of the tongue affected the wound too. Make sure you get a good regiment of painkillers and soft foods (milkshakes!).
Thursday, January 12, 2012
What's Become of You?
You know when you were little, and you always wondered how you'd be when you grew up? You'd touch your chin (or other parts of your anatomy) and think when will the beard (pubes) grow? And how weird will it be when it does? And then you'd see how the grown ups were pretty strong, and they could run for hours or lift a huge-ass TV (the CRTs we had back in the day, not the LCDs of today). And you see them kick a ball half way across the field, or hit the ball over 200m with a driver, and you'd think 'when will I ever get to do that?'
And before you know it, you're already doing that. All of that.
Yet it doesn't feel the same.
You don't feel as great a twentysomething as you once thought twentysomethings were. When you were a kid, people your age now seemed more responsible, more matured, more... grown up (for lack of a better word).
But that's probably just because what you thought back then wasn't realistic (you were a kid after all).
But what if the child you--the you from when you were six or nine or 15--could see you now today? What if he or she could come over to this point in time and look at you and see you and talk to you. Would they be impressed? Would they be ashamed? Would they be shocked? What would they have to say? What would they ask?
I'm writing this on the back of realizing I had just snubbed my parents twice in the space of three days to read a book. I can paint it any which way I want--I needed some quiet, I needed 'me' time, the book was important (it wasn't), and so on and so forth--but the bottom line is I chose a book over family.
What would 12-year-old me say to this? I think he'd say--no, I think he'd scream--"What the fuck were you thinking? A book?! Kalau konsert ke apa ke takpe gak!" But he is a wuss. So it would most probably be a very nervous "But why would you do that..? And for a book..? I can understand if it was something more important, but..." He immediately hates me because at this age, he thinks it isn't cool reading books (hates school) and working in a bank-that's-not-quite-a-bank (dreams of being an architect). I tell him I also recently started a regime of oatmeal for breakfast every day, and that I have grown used to 'kurang manis' tea and coffee, and sometimes even have them without sugar at all. And I almost never take Coke, unless, that is, if I'm in a cinema because Coke washes down the sticky-sweetness of the popcorn. And I know this comes as a shock to him because he loves Coke, and thinks old people are a bit weird with their tasteless drinks and kencing manis worries ("How does tea with too much sugar lead to amputating your foot?"). I can see him begin to question his own being. As if he couldn't believe he'll fall to the Dark Side. I tell him I can now tee off further than Papa, but he is unmoved. He wouldn't believe I am him, or that he will turn into me, although deep down inside his heart of hearts, he knows. He knows.
The 19-year-old me is excessively happy. He is optimistic about everything and for some reason I don't like him. I want to burst his bubble by letting him know what will transpire, but refrain, knowing that that's the most carefree, jumping around meadows throwing flowers in his head, cheesy happiness he would experience for quite a while (and I'm being modest here). To my surprise (or should I have expected this?) he doesn't ask. No questions about the future. Is he too cocky, or is he taking things for granted? Or does he really believe in the whole 'forever and ever' thing? So I tell him everything except how his love life pans out. He will love eighties music--the cheesy, sappy, low self esteem power ballads and glam rock especially. He will start to like sayur more than ever, especially terung for some reason. He will like oatmeal (without sugar) and have his coffee or tea black only and of course kurang manis. He will have simple wants, but in this world dominated by sophistication and poyo, his requests for minimalism would ironically make him look like the demanding diva he oh-so-wants to avoid being likened to. He will almost never find a watch he likes because they all have stupid fancy bezels and useless stopwatches and dual time and three small clockfaces on the clockface proper, and he also will--in due time--develop a hatred for watches whose second hand does not 'tick-tock' (those annoying ones that go round continuously). He will swallow his words and do many things he thought he wouldn't--like trying weed or cigarettes or gambling or going to a club or keeping his hair long. He tells me "If that's how it pans out--and you seem pretty fine--then I guess okay la kan?" I want to say he will eventually hate everyone around him who is as in-your-face happy and smug as he is right now but the words don't come out. This one he should discover himself. I know I did; and I wouldn't want it any other way.
Seven-year-old me would just keep quiet and nod. He knows where he stands in the world--a timid Darjah Satu student who's way out of his depth in school, who's afraid of the hundreds of faces around him chatting and laughing and crying and playing, and who is very socially awkward. He's learned that shutting the hell up and listening to others is the best course of action for every situation, every time. All his enthusiasm of being able to interact, to learn and whatnot--it's all gone. So he'd nod, and he'll answer 90% of your questions with a nod or a shake of the head, but all the while stare at you with his big round eyes, barely blinking. Which is why he would just nod away as I tell him I am him, and I have done certain things his teachers told him not to, and that I read a book instead of going out with the parents. Ah, there it is, he furrowed his eyebrow at me! He disapproves, yet stays quiet. I do not know if this says more about him or about me or about how he turned into me.
The me in Form Five is much more confident, if only because of a very illuminating experience (and relations) he had throughout the year. At the sight of me, he would probably say "Bahah!" in a way that you couldn't tell if it was a laugh, a smirk or a scoff. He has done much growing up and is very similar to me. Most people wouldn't know if he was being sarcastic or serious. His face will always be stern yet it could probably be a freaking musical in his head. I want to ask him why he never took up poker, but then I realize of course I know the answer. I spare him certain details, for fear of him cheating--I don't want him to know he didn't end up an architect. I only tell him I studied in America ("WHAT? How the hell do you practice here kalau macam tu?") and I have a pretty decent job with a pretty decent pay ("Well, baru start kan... Can't expect to be doing much, can you?") and that we moved to PJ ("Ya ke? PJ? Okay") and that I spent a shit load of time and money in my four years abroad buying shoes--lots of them--and books--lots of that too ("What's with the shoes, weh? And... are they the classics--did I get into that somehow? Or Tom Clancy kinda thing or just any books or flavour of the month novels? Because I read as slow as shit and you know that"). And I say I can't help but buy all the award winning books because I feel they are important enough to warrant a read. And then I'd also tell him I still read as slow as shit but I buy more books a year then I can read anyway so my backlog only ever gets longer. ("Wouldn't that be such a waste, though?"). And I'd do the "Bahah!" thing, and he'd smile knowingly. I tell him I never bother with contact lenses because I'd rather sleep for five more minutes, and he raises an eyebrow ("Some things don't change, eh?"). I see that he's been fidgeting and uneasy the whole time, and I know he's dying to ask the more pertinent questions (he is sixteen, after all), and I answer them one by one. I can tell I have his attention, and his interest because now he is smiling (which he rarely does) and his smile shows teeth too. But I also tell him he'll fuck things up pretty bad too, so don't get his hopes too high, and he bites his lip and shrugs it off ("Win some, lose some."). I like him. He's very idealistic. It's sad to know that so much of this has disappeared due to burn out or due to conforming with everyone else. He doesn't know what I'm talking about, though. Because he only thinks of at most four things--only four, and nothing comes after them or could replace them. He only sees what's in front of him--never beyond that. So he's not that grown up yet.
A nine-year-old me would obviously freak out if I told him what's become of me. But this is only because he was caught peeping under a girl's skirt (she was standing on the desk beside him, yelling out at the class), and was warned by his teacher that any other funny business from him would result in severe punishment which he could never bear (perhaps being sent to the head mistress' office to be asked "Apa nak jadi dengan kamu ni?") and that he was being blackmailed 'duit Milo' on a daily basis by his 'friends' who would threaten to tell the teacher about the time he taught them about the birds and the bees and how men can actually do it with other men and what the words 'lancap' and 'fuck' meant. He lived in fear for much of that year. He was subdued. But he read his first book! It was The Raja Bahrin Story and he absolutely loved it. He then read two more proper novels by the end of the year--the best he'd do for a few years--so he obviously has the highest regard for my mini library. At least this one was impressed, even if only a little. I won't let him ask me any questions because I know the only thing that bothered me in 1997 was why people cared so much about the death of a divorced former princess, who wasn't even that pretty and had short hair.
As usual, I save the best for last. Now is the me from two years ago. This is the hardest because the difference isn't so drastic that we're two different people, yet it's far enough for him to want to know how his current decisions will pan out. In his present state he is numb and depressed and has lost all his joy. He cares not so much for logic or reality so he immediately believes I am who I am and asks me "Does it get any better?" and I stay quiet for a bit, wet my lip, breathe in through clenched teeth and say "Only slightly, to be honest". His forehead immediately shows at least five folds. My god, and he's barely 21. I want to pat him on the back, or ruffle his hair and say it's not that bad, but I feel that self-bromance is a little too weird for me to handle so I keep my distance. We still wear the same pair of glasses, although mine has some of its paint peeling off. He's probably secretly very happy that they'd last a few more years, and that despite the peeling paint, it doesn't rust. At least I think so. I wonder if he judges me for that. I decide he doesn't. He may have been an asshole to many, but he's not a complete and comprehensive one. He knows the longer he wears them the cheaper their cost per year will be. And then he'll stick it to the contact lens snobs. Which is ironic because that's pretty assholic too. But this is him, in a nutshell. His motives are never clear, and almost never 'correct'. I ask him if he has any questions, but he shakes his head and lets out a meek "No". He doesn't care for knowing what will be. I titillate him by asking if he wants to know what my job is like, or how the new house is, but he is too pragmatic and he only says in return "I'm sure it's all fine" because he knows what the parents will and will not accept and what I will and will not accept. So out of frustration, I tell him I got Mama's car ("It's even under my name now, ha!") and he shoots a stare at me and says "Really? That thing can still work?" so I tell him it's a little rough around the edges, gear changes aren't the smoothest ever, but it's alright, and he says "Ah, well, take good care of it. Jaga baik-baik. It could last you quite some time, that car". I want to tell him he'll be fine. Hell, I'm here, surely he should be optimistic about something? He is unhappy but I don't want to talk about it because I know when I bring it up he'll roll his eyes and say under his breath "Macam la kau tak tau, en?" But I ask anyway. I ask him if he was so depressed why doesn't he talk about it? He says it's pointless and a waste of time, especially since no one could help, and he had a degree to complete, and that every time he complained, someone else would have a worse/more dramatic story to tell, effectively 'stealing his thunder', so why even bother. So I ask him then, of all the bridges in Pittsburgh he crosses every day, how come he never jumped off any, if he was so depressed, if he was so sad, so heartbroken, so lonely? He smiles weakly and says "Because that would be too easy".
And this is where the twist happens--because twists only happen at the end. I am always the one with knowledge of the what will be--they were always privileged to hear what I had to say. But suddenly the tables have been turned and Future Me appears. Now I'm the one with the lump in my throat, thinking 'Oh, shit, what am I gonna be?' as I suppress a shiver and take his hand. Would he give a fist for me to 'bones it' like I do to some friends? No, he offers his hand so--dammit, let's not read into this too much. He smiles and tells me despite all the conclusions I made about the other Mes, I'm just as "not grown up" as them. Because this was supposed to be about what they would think or say but I have somehow made it all about me.
And before you know it, you're already doing that. All of that.
Yet it doesn't feel the same.
You don't feel as great a twentysomething as you once thought twentysomethings were. When you were a kid, people your age now seemed more responsible, more matured, more... grown up (for lack of a better word).
But that's probably just because what you thought back then wasn't realistic (you were a kid after all).
But what if the child you--the you from when you were six or nine or 15--could see you now today? What if he or she could come over to this point in time and look at you and see you and talk to you. Would they be impressed? Would they be ashamed? Would they be shocked? What would they have to say? What would they ask?
I'm writing this on the back of realizing I had just snubbed my parents twice in the space of three days to read a book. I can paint it any which way I want--I needed some quiet, I needed 'me' time, the book was important (it wasn't), and so on and so forth--but the bottom line is I chose a book over family.
What would 12-year-old me say to this? I think he'd say--no, I think he'd scream--"What the fuck were you thinking? A book?! Kalau konsert ke apa ke takpe gak!" But he is a wuss. So it would most probably be a very nervous "But why would you do that..? And for a book..? I can understand if it was something more important, but..." He immediately hates me because at this age, he thinks it isn't cool reading books (hates school) and working in a bank-that's-not-quite-a-bank (dreams of being an architect). I tell him I also recently started a regime of oatmeal for breakfast every day, and that I have grown used to 'kurang manis' tea and coffee, and sometimes even have them without sugar at all. And I almost never take Coke, unless, that is, if I'm in a cinema because Coke washes down the sticky-sweetness of the popcorn. And I know this comes as a shock to him because he loves Coke, and thinks old people are a bit weird with their tasteless drinks and kencing manis worries ("How does tea with too much sugar lead to amputating your foot?"). I can see him begin to question his own being. As if he couldn't believe he'll fall to the Dark Side. I tell him I can now tee off further than Papa, but he is unmoved. He wouldn't believe I am him, or that he will turn into me, although deep down inside his heart of hearts, he knows. He knows.
The 19-year-old me is excessively happy. He is optimistic about everything and for some reason I don't like him. I want to burst his bubble by letting him know what will transpire, but refrain, knowing that that's the most carefree, jumping around meadows throwing flowers in his head, cheesy happiness he would experience for quite a while (and I'm being modest here). To my surprise (or should I have expected this?) he doesn't ask. No questions about the future. Is he too cocky, or is he taking things for granted? Or does he really believe in the whole 'forever and ever' thing? So I tell him everything except how his love life pans out. He will love eighties music--the cheesy, sappy, low self esteem power ballads and glam rock especially. He will start to like sayur more than ever, especially terung for some reason. He will like oatmeal (without sugar) and have his coffee or tea black only and of course kurang manis. He will have simple wants, but in this world dominated by sophistication and poyo, his requests for minimalism would ironically make him look like the demanding diva he oh-so-wants to avoid being likened to. He will almost never find a watch he likes because they all have stupid fancy bezels and useless stopwatches and dual time and three small clockfaces on the clockface proper, and he also will--in due time--develop a hatred for watches whose second hand does not 'tick-tock' (those annoying ones that go round continuously). He will swallow his words and do many things he thought he wouldn't--like trying weed or cigarettes or gambling or going to a club or keeping his hair long. He tells me "If that's how it pans out--and you seem pretty fine--then I guess okay la kan?" I want to say he will eventually hate everyone around him who is as in-your-face happy and smug as he is right now but the words don't come out. This one he should discover himself. I know I did; and I wouldn't want it any other way.
Seven-year-old me would just keep quiet and nod. He knows where he stands in the world--a timid Darjah Satu student who's way out of his depth in school, who's afraid of the hundreds of faces around him chatting and laughing and crying and playing, and who is very socially awkward. He's learned that shutting the hell up and listening to others is the best course of action for every situation, every time. All his enthusiasm of being able to interact, to learn and whatnot--it's all gone. So he'd nod, and he'll answer 90% of your questions with a nod or a shake of the head, but all the while stare at you with his big round eyes, barely blinking. Which is why he would just nod away as I tell him I am him, and I have done certain things his teachers told him not to, and that I read a book instead of going out with the parents. Ah, there it is, he furrowed his eyebrow at me! He disapproves, yet stays quiet. I do not know if this says more about him or about me or about how he turned into me.
The me in Form Five is much more confident, if only because of a very illuminating experience (and relations) he had throughout the year. At the sight of me, he would probably say "Bahah!" in a way that you couldn't tell if it was a laugh, a smirk or a scoff. He has done much growing up and is very similar to me. Most people wouldn't know if he was being sarcastic or serious. His face will always be stern yet it could probably be a freaking musical in his head. I want to ask him why he never took up poker, but then I realize of course I know the answer. I spare him certain details, for fear of him cheating--I don't want him to know he didn't end up an architect. I only tell him I studied in America ("WHAT? How the hell do you practice here kalau macam tu?") and I have a pretty decent job with a pretty decent pay ("Well, baru start kan... Can't expect to be doing much, can you?") and that we moved to PJ ("Ya ke? PJ? Okay") and that I spent a shit load of time and money in my four years abroad buying shoes--lots of them--and books--lots of that too ("What's with the shoes, weh? And... are they the classics--did I get into that somehow? Or Tom Clancy kinda thing or just any books or flavour of the month novels? Because I read as slow as shit and you know that"). And I say I can't help but buy all the award winning books because I feel they are important enough to warrant a read. And then I'd also tell him I still read as slow as shit but I buy more books a year then I can read anyway so my backlog only ever gets longer. ("Wouldn't that be such a waste, though?"). And I'd do the "Bahah!" thing, and he'd smile knowingly. I tell him I never bother with contact lenses because I'd rather sleep for five more minutes, and he raises an eyebrow ("Some things don't change, eh?"). I see that he's been fidgeting and uneasy the whole time, and I know he's dying to ask the more pertinent questions (he is sixteen, after all), and I answer them one by one. I can tell I have his attention, and his interest because now he is smiling (which he rarely does) and his smile shows teeth too. But I also tell him he'll fuck things up pretty bad too, so don't get his hopes too high, and he bites his lip and shrugs it off ("Win some, lose some."). I like him. He's very idealistic. It's sad to know that so much of this has disappeared due to burn out or due to conforming with everyone else. He doesn't know what I'm talking about, though. Because he only thinks of at most four things--only four, and nothing comes after them or could replace them. He only sees what's in front of him--never beyond that. So he's not that grown up yet.
A nine-year-old me would obviously freak out if I told him what's become of me. But this is only because he was caught peeping under a girl's skirt (she was standing on the desk beside him, yelling out at the class), and was warned by his teacher that any other funny business from him would result in severe punishment which he could never bear (perhaps being sent to the head mistress' office to be asked "Apa nak jadi dengan kamu ni?") and that he was being blackmailed 'duit Milo' on a daily basis by his 'friends' who would threaten to tell the teacher about the time he taught them about the birds and the bees and how men can actually do it with other men and what the words 'lancap' and 'fuck' meant. He lived in fear for much of that year. He was subdued. But he read his first book! It was The Raja Bahrin Story and he absolutely loved it. He then read two more proper novels by the end of the year--the best he'd do for a few years--so he obviously has the highest regard for my mini library. At least this one was impressed, even if only a little. I won't let him ask me any questions because I know the only thing that bothered me in 1997 was why people cared so much about the death of a divorced former princess, who wasn't even that pretty and had short hair.
As usual, I save the best for last. Now is the me from two years ago. This is the hardest because the difference isn't so drastic that we're two different people, yet it's far enough for him to want to know how his current decisions will pan out. In his present state he is numb and depressed and has lost all his joy. He cares not so much for logic or reality so he immediately believes I am who I am and asks me "Does it get any better?" and I stay quiet for a bit, wet my lip, breathe in through clenched teeth and say "Only slightly, to be honest". His forehead immediately shows at least five folds. My god, and he's barely 21. I want to pat him on the back, or ruffle his hair and say it's not that bad, but I feel that self-bromance is a little too weird for me to handle so I keep my distance. We still wear the same pair of glasses, although mine has some of its paint peeling off. He's probably secretly very happy that they'd last a few more years, and that despite the peeling paint, it doesn't rust. At least I think so. I wonder if he judges me for that. I decide he doesn't. He may have been an asshole to many, but he's not a complete and comprehensive one. He knows the longer he wears them the cheaper their cost per year will be. And then he'll stick it to the contact lens snobs. Which is ironic because that's pretty assholic too. But this is him, in a nutshell. His motives are never clear, and almost never 'correct'. I ask him if he has any questions, but he shakes his head and lets out a meek "No". He doesn't care for knowing what will be. I titillate him by asking if he wants to know what my job is like, or how the new house is, but he is too pragmatic and he only says in return "I'm sure it's all fine" because he knows what the parents will and will not accept and what I will and will not accept. So out of frustration, I tell him I got Mama's car ("It's even under my name now, ha!") and he shoots a stare at me and says "Really? That thing can still work?" so I tell him it's a little rough around the edges, gear changes aren't the smoothest ever, but it's alright, and he says "Ah, well, take good care of it. Jaga baik-baik. It could last you quite some time, that car". I want to tell him he'll be fine. Hell, I'm here, surely he should be optimistic about something? He is unhappy but I don't want to talk about it because I know when I bring it up he'll roll his eyes and say under his breath "Macam la kau tak tau, en?" But I ask anyway. I ask him if he was so depressed why doesn't he talk about it? He says it's pointless and a waste of time, especially since no one could help, and he had a degree to complete, and that every time he complained, someone else would have a worse/more dramatic story to tell, effectively 'stealing his thunder', so why even bother. So I ask him then, of all the bridges in Pittsburgh he crosses every day, how come he never jumped off any, if he was so depressed, if he was so sad, so heartbroken, so lonely? He smiles weakly and says "Because that would be too easy".
And this is where the twist happens--because twists only happen at the end. I am always the one with knowledge of the what will be--they were always privileged to hear what I had to say. But suddenly the tables have been turned and Future Me appears. Now I'm the one with the lump in my throat, thinking 'Oh, shit, what am I gonna be?' as I suppress a shiver and take his hand. Would he give a fist for me to 'bones it' like I do to some friends? No, he offers his hand so--dammit, let's not read into this too much. He smiles and tells me despite all the conclusions I made about the other Mes, I'm just as "not grown up" as them. Because this was supposed to be about what they would think or say but I have somehow made it all about me.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Let's Get Grammar-y and Shit
Simple one first.
Deadline
The closing date. The submission date. The last moment for you to do something. Hence 'dead'. Please don't misuse this again.
Dateline
That city/date combination at the beginning of news reports. Ever heard of those? No? Well, you know those annoying toilet paper things your parents waste RM1.00 on every day to read pointless stuff on? It's the stuff printed on that thing. And in the days before news was reported by jane24 or @ahmadT (follow me!) who could be anywhere in the world sitting smugly with a cup of coffee watching a Skype feed of a riot instead of being on-site, real news was reported by a real person with the city's name and reporting date stamp at the beginning. The city's name would all be in capital letters, so you'd have to be quite oblivious (or stupid, really) to not notice this. It sort of goes like this.
Now here's an interesting one: Why is it never a "ten-years plan"?
I honestly don't know what the rule is called but I should have this line in bold so you'll know this is the next thing
As a noun (if you don't know what that is, please print this page if you can, crumple it up, and go fuck yourself), numbers stick to the normal rule. No hyphens. Pluralise if it's more than one. Simple. It gets complicated when you use numbers to describe something, like a 'ten-year plan'.
Another common misconception of the need for a hyphen would be in the word 'long-term'. Or was that 'long term'? See what I did there? Ha! Anyway, same thing as above, really.
And how do we substitute?
Substitute Crisco for butter
Does that mean I'm using Crisco instead of butter? Or vice versa? Sometimes it sounds like the former is right. Sometimes, it's the latter.
It's the former. You substitute something new/better for something old/not as good. But you change something old/broken for something new/better. So be careful when using "substitute". As a follower of soccerball, I--just as many others--have been corrupted by years of ill-informed punditry and commentary about who goes off the field and is replaced by who.
A few & Few
Let's take this sentence as an example:
"A few" sort of means "many" but with a slight extra to it, as if there were more than is desired, but toned down. It's just an annoyingly modest way of saying "many" without explicitly saying it. Expanded, this sentence can sound more positive or negative, depending on the context:
The opposite is true for "few" (without the preceding 'a'); the connotation to this is that the number is less than is desired. Here's the sentence, expanded:
Why is it like this? Well, I suppose these are like 'its' and 'it's'. It could all have been much less ambiguous. It'd surely have saved millions of teachers having to remind their kids a bajillion times "Apostrophe 'it's', only for 'it is'! Non-apostrophe 'its', only for self reference!"
A similar case is evident in Bahasa Melayu (or Bahasa Malaysia, who gives a shit anymore?) by having the passive voice prefix di- and having the preposition (kata sendi) di. A million signboards out there are wrongwrongwrong! because the geniuses entrusted with this task don't know the difference: Di Larang Buang Sampah; Dapatkan Disini!
But to be fair, way back in the days when people started to actually give a shit about all these rules, they probably weren't as well connected or as well informed as we are now; many must not have gotten the memo. They probably only had candlelight at night--or in the day, if they lived in caves. I don't know. Also, back then people in different areas would obviously have very different understandings (think British-American spelling discrepancy). Yet look at what they've done. Credit to them--no, bow down, doff your cap, worship and peluk-cium them if possible--for what they accomplished. We have so much these days--the internet, the smart-ass phones, the fancy computers, Google and all that jazz (and also all that jizz, badum-pish!)--but honestly, how many times have you Googled about language or grammar? I did some these past two weeks, but only because of work (Ampersand or 'and'? To hyphen or not?). Nowadays, despite having all the help we can get, we've only sped up the fucking up of all their effort.
It's sad, really.
Deadline
The closing date. The submission date. The last moment for you to do something. Hence 'dead'. Please don't misuse this again.
Dateline
That city/date combination at the beginning of news reports. Ever heard of those? No? Well, you know those annoying toilet paper things your parents waste RM1.00 on every day to read pointless stuff on? It's the stuff printed on that thing. And in the days before news was reported by jane24 or @ahmadT (follow me!) who could be anywhere in the world sitting smugly with a cup of coffee watching a Skype feed of a riot instead of being on-site, real news was reported by a real person with the city's name and reporting date stamp at the beginning. The city's name would all be in capital letters, so you'd have to be quite oblivious (or stupid, really) to not notice this. It sort of goes like this.
KUALA LUMPUR, DEC 17---Yours truly attended Ruth Sahanaya's 25th anniversary concert tonight...In case you still couldn't notice it, I made it bold, underlined it, italicised it, and even used a different font. Here it is again, unchanged, for your comparison.
KUALA LUMPUR, DEC 17---Yours truly attended Ruth Sahanaya's 25th anniversary concert tonight...Simple. Also, don't confuse this with the International Date Line, which is the line that separates one day from another, somewhere near Samoa. Crossing this line westward sends you one day forward; eastward sends you one day back.
Now here's an interesting one: Why is it never a "ten-years plan"?
I honestly don't know what the rule is called but I should have this line in bold so you'll know this is the next thing
As a noun (if you don't know what that is, please print this page if you can, crumple it up, and go fuck yourself), numbers stick to the normal rule. No hyphens. Pluralise if it's more than one. Simple. It gets complicated when you use numbers to describe something, like a 'ten-year plan'.
She is eighteen years old.For some reason, in the second case, all three words (or however many it takes to form the phrase) are joined together to form an adjective of sorts. And for some godforsaken reason, you don't have to pluralise--nay, you are forbidden from pluralising! (I did the whole font, underline, bold thing again, so you know I mean business).
That's her twenty-year-old brother.
Another common misconception of the need for a hyphen would be in the word 'long-term'. Or was that 'long term'? See what I did there? Ha! Anyway, same thing as above, really.
Results will be noticeable in the long term.Rules for hyphenation go much deeper than this, but you'll rarely use it anyway, so I can't be bothered. Apparently adjectivising (is that even a word?) any word that has an -ed suffix requires a hyphen. Hot-headed, for one. But of course we couldn't give a rat's ass, so we can cross that bridge when we get there.
This is why it's a called long-term programme.
And how do we substitute?
Substitute Crisco for butter
Does that mean I'm using Crisco instead of butter? Or vice versa? Sometimes it sounds like the former is right. Sometimes, it's the latter.
It's the former. You substitute something new/better for something old/not as good. But you change something old/broken for something new/better. So be careful when using "substitute". As a follower of soccerball, I--just as many others--have been corrupted by years of ill-informed punditry and commentary about who goes off the field and is replaced by who.
Substitute A for B: A comes on for BNext up, the difference 'a' makes.
Substitute A with/by B: B comes on for A
Change A for B: B comes on for A
Replace A with B: B comes on for A
A few & Few
Let's take this sentence as an example:
We've had (a) few problems.Is that a complaint or is that brushing it off in a rather 'meh' manner? Let's see, then.
"A few" sort of means "many" but with a slight extra to it, as if there were more than is desired, but toned down. It's just an annoyingly modest way of saying "many" without explicitly saying it. Expanded, this sentence can sound more positive or negative, depending on the context:
We've had a few problems but we're fine.Here, the number of problems is more than the speaker would wish. There emphasis on the amount of problems, but the speaker is holding back to be modest. Try substituting "many" for "a few" (hey, we're already applying shit we learned!).
We've had a few problems so we're in the shit.
The opposite is true for "few" (without the preceding 'a'); the connotation to this is that the number is less than is desired. Here's the sentence, expanded:
We've had few problems--it's okay, really.In this case, the number is so small it's negligible. Here's an easy tip to help you out. Just add "quite" and/or "very" and it'll all make sense.
We've had quite a few problems but we're fine.This also sometimes applies to "(a) little", by the way.
We've had very few problems--it's nice, really.
Why is it like this? Well, I suppose these are like 'its' and 'it's'. It could all have been much less ambiguous. It'd surely have saved millions of teachers having to remind their kids a bajillion times "Apostrophe 'it's', only for 'it is'! Non-apostrophe 'its', only for self reference!"
A similar case is evident in Bahasa Melayu (or Bahasa Malaysia, who gives a shit anymore?) by having the passive voice prefix di- and having the preposition (kata sendi) di. A million signboards out there are wrongwrongwrong! because the geniuses entrusted with this task don't know the difference: Di Larang Buang Sampah; Dapatkan Disini!
But to be fair, way back in the days when people started to actually give a shit about all these rules, they probably weren't as well connected or as well informed as we are now; many must not have gotten the memo. They probably only had candlelight at night--or in the day, if they lived in caves. I don't know. Also, back then people in different areas would obviously have very different understandings (think British-American spelling discrepancy). Yet look at what they've done. Credit to them--no, bow down, doff your cap, worship and peluk-cium them if possible--for what they accomplished. We have so much these days--the internet, the smart-ass phones, the fancy computers, Google and all that jazz (and also all that jizz, badum-pish!)--but honestly, how many times have you Googled about language or grammar? I did some these past two weeks, but only because of work (Ampersand or 'and'? To hyphen or not?). Nowadays, despite having all the help we can get, we've only sped up the fucking up of all their effort.
It's sad, really.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Seey Yoy Tomorroy Noight At Stay-dium Poot-chrah, Bookit Juhleel!
FAO radio deejays and/or the idiots who are in charge of the hiring and firing of them
Why are there only three types of deejays?
First you have the anchorman-esque guy who speaks fluently and clearly and who would most certainly be the voice of the next public service message. Ross, I think, from Light & Easy or LightFM or whatever they're called now, is the best example. My current pet peeve, apart from the excruciatingly annoying Delicia Waffle ad, is his thing about his friends Lai Ming (sounds like the Chinese girls school tepi KLCC) and an Indian boy and how they were like the poster boys for muhibbah and how this whole 1Malaysia bullshit was how we were and how we still can be. As far as I'm concerned, all I take out of that is that "we're not". But anyway, deejays like him are fine, especially for a station like Light. He may sound boring, he may even sound like your dad--but sometimes you need simplicity. None of that energy or chaos. Just a relaxing (or boring, if you're that cynical) voice to transition you into the next song. I guess he appeals to the demographic. For fuck's sake, they play "Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round The Old Oak Tree". Paham-paham ah kan.
Next up is the annoying twentysomething hipster. They exude coolness and are (sometimes) funny, but, true to the "never went full retard" philosophy of appeal, have a ridiculous fear or vulnerability, gaining them your sympathy or at least an "awwh". These are the ones with a little too much energy, and try so hard to be funny. Sometimes, maybe they even try a little too hard and it gets very lame. They will scream and laugh and be giggling like a 14-year old girl, whether or not they're a guy or girl. Sometimes, their mengada-ness is actually annoying, when they in fact tried to be endearing. I suppose most radio deejays are like this. Perhaps, with a bit of censorship and editing, this paragraph could be a job ad for radio stations? I'm not saying that just because they don't appeal to me, they fail at doing their jobs. No. I'm pretty far away from your average twentysomething. If I have to have the radio, I'll only tune in to Mix or Light. If they can both conspire to disappoint me, then it's Traxx. But alas, I digress. I can understand that you want to appeal to the biggest chunk of the segment and whatnot. But none of them are household names, nor are they rockstars of their industry. Perhaps a change to spice things up?
I know I said three, but I kind of forgot about the third type. In fact, I just realized that my beef is actually with the idiots who record advertisements. And coincidentally At The Beginning just started playing (fuck you, Anastasia's an awesome flick), so let's rewind shall we?
FAO radio advertisement voices and/or the idiots who are in charge of the hiring and firing of them
These are the true culprits. Why do they sound Australian? No. Ows-tryl-yun. Seriously. Why can't a Malaysian radio station pronounce Malaysian names properly? I went to see David Foster & Friends, which was awesome. But the day before the show, I heard an ad for the customary free tickets contest. Yet the voice was Australian. No. Ows-tryl-yun. "Seey yoy tomorroy noight at Stay-dium Poot-chrah, Bookit Juhleel!" he said. Juhleel. Fuck me, are we all that crazy for Mat Sallehs that even an annoyingly thick Aussie accent is what we need? It's not like it was one-off. We've had these Aussie-sounding ads for years now. I doubt Australia enjoys listening to someone with a Glaswegian or Ah Beng accent for all their goings on. Get rid, please. Go scout any public speaking class/contest and pay him/her for your ads. Apa susah sangat?
If they don't sound Australian--no, Ows-tryl-yun--idiots in ads (adiots?) will try as best as is possible to conform to a Malaysian stereotype. You have the Ah Beng ("Eh, we same-same la, Boss. I oso do like dat wan! Chree time you know!"). You can just imagine him picking his gold tooth with his three inch-long pinkie fingernail as he persuades you to buy godknowswhat. Then you have the Macha, whose every W vill be a V (see what I did there?), or was that V becomes W? And their every word that ends in T or D will have it amplified. Like a qalqalah. Go ask your Muslim friend what that means. An Arab-speaker might know this, too. Is tajwid Arabic grammar, then? Or is it just for reading the Quran? If you do know, drop me a line. Anyway. I'm surprised there isn't a conservative "tak baik lah" Minah Tudung option. Perhaps they are confined to Era only. That would make sense, I guess. But what would I know about Era.
Last, but not least, would be the musical ads. Of course radio is for your aural pleasure only, so you make the best of sounds. And music is catchy. Listen to radio for two hours and rate the musical ads you hear. Before you're done, you've probably cut your ears off, then shot yourself to end the misery. Off the top of my head, the current 'favourites' are Delicia Waffles, Sunwhite Rice and newcomer Poslaju. Delicia uses an original composition (at least I think so), but they score no points for originality, and overachieve when it comes to annoyingness:
I love my waffles, Delicia waffles. I love em with ice cream, I love em with honey. They're yummy yummy yummy... !@#$^%&^&*()(*&%%$ ...waffle-waffle-waffle... waffle-waffle-waffle... waffle-waffle-waffleGardenia used to have such a simple and nice ad for their bread. Then they fucked it up with a fancy-schmancy guitar riff and whatnot and have a full song about....bread. No one gives a shit. They buy it, sapu peanut butter, telan. And now they have Delicia, which must mean they thought the bread ad was a success. Maybe (and I shudder at the thought)... it was. Now, if you haven't ripped an ear off yet, Sunwhite Rice will definitely make you do it. Seriously:
Mommmmmmmmy loves the Sunwhite Rice, Sunwhite Rice, Sunwhite RiceGoing to the tune of London Bridge, this abomination of an ad is sung by a Chinese girl who--if you've heard it many enough times--sounds like she knows how stupid it is, but is simply acting professionally to get the job done to get paid. It is that bad. I'll let you judge the Poslaju ad yourselves. They can't even get the syllables right, for fuck's sake.
Mommmmmmmmy loves the Sunwhite Rice, AAA for quality!
Remember the days of "755-2525! 755-2525! Pizza Hut Special Delivery"? They don't make 'em like they used to, I guess.
This is Malaysia. At the end of every sentence we add lah and kan and meh or mah and of course, doh. Regardless of whether or not it's English or Malay we try to speak, it kind of sounds the same at times. Obviously there'll be a bias towards one language but you get the point. But for all the rojakness of our language and the sheer stupidity of the people, come the fuck on--we can't be that dumb to only be attracted to the stereotype? Or annoying songs and jingles?
Why?
Saturday, October 22, 2011
And So It Has Begun
Work, that is.
You see, despite being a central bank scholar for five years, I never quite knew what the fuck we do. All I knew was that we're a bank that's not quite a bank. And all the time we're told great things are expected of us because historically the scholars tend to do better. Right. No pressure then.
There is almost no point in my degree. My four years in university in Pittsburgh--yes. But the degree? Not really. It's been three months since I've joined this 9-to-6 rat race, and I can't quite think of anything from my classes that is reflected in any of my work. But my Excel and Powerpoint skillz (yes, that's with a 'Z'), knowledge of funky 'new' business models (which have been around for years in USA), and of esurance ads ("Technology when you want them, people when you don't")--all of which I garnered through four years in the Steel City--has somehow helped me as I slave away in my cubicle. Also, the cubicle. It's kinked. It can fit six people per island. Not very cubish at all.
But anyway, work isn't as bad as people say. And I say this despite having seven (7) supervisors who can, at any time of the day, call me to menghadap and discuss whatever or just to pass me something due besok before lunch please. They are all sat around me from my one o'clock all the way counterclockwise to my four o'clock. It's a pain at times, but I have to say getting praised for a job well done, or just doing it efficiently or improving on the current process--well it just gives you a sense of satisfaction. And I enjoy this. Somewhat.
My only beef with the workplace comes in the form of the kiasus who can't shut up about their KPIs, as well as broken Engrish. The former first. Anyone who's a fresh grad will not know shit, no matter how high their CGPA, or how classy their British degree is. Even someone who with a shitload of experience will not know the machinations of a new organization. This is a simple fact that any 14-year old can tell you. So why are we banging on about how it's unfair that we can't get high ratings and whatnot? Wait your turn, work your way up. Even if you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth your dad's penis probably put it there. Or your mom's gyne; it doesn't just appear from nowhere. Again, this is a simple fact that any 14-year old can tell you. Fine, maybe not the gyne part but you get my point. If you really are that good, prove it. And that requires time. You don't just have to show that you're awesome. You also have to show that you're not an idiot either. Sure, you did good last week. But will you do the same this week? And next? Really, just shut up and deal with it.
My biggest achievement during my first month was to get someone to say 'expedite' correctly, instead of expedeet. What was good about it (at least I thought so) was the manner in which I did so. I just kept saying it right until said person finally said it right. It made me happy. My lips may not have moved, but I was smiling from ear to ear on the inside. Previously, I have always been the better one; I had a certain authority about me when it came to speaking the language, despite mistakes of my own every now and then. However, in an office where you're the most junior member (and youngest, at that) and you have to deal with people who are mothers and grandfathers and whatnot, how do you say oh that's wrong, it should be this instead? Actually that sounded quite good/okay. Funny how I never thought of that before. But that's one small battle. I can only say I've made a substantial contribution to the war once I rid the office/department/organization from saying 'develop' as 'devlep'. That's the Big One. The Holy Grail. Anyway. That's only pronunciation. There's also grammar (haih), misuse of my beloved apostrophe, and of course the lack of use of the page break in Word.
Okay, that last one isn't English per se. But still. When printing stuff, it should be in Arial 12. But for the warga emas, they kind of want it in Arial 14, double-spaced. And what happens when you increase the font size and spacing? The charts get fucked up, and the title is the last line of the page and that's just not pretty or befitting of something from our department/organization innit. Had these geniuses embraced the wonder of the page break--it's Alt+Enter in Word, UPA--the lives of so many people would be made much easier, blood pressure levels won't be so high, and well, thing would be better.
You see, despite being a central bank scholar for five years, I never quite knew what the fuck we do. All I knew was that we're a bank that's not quite a bank. And all the time we're told great things are expected of us because historically the scholars tend to do better. Right. No pressure then.
There is almost no point in my degree. My four years in university in Pittsburgh--yes. But the degree? Not really. It's been three months since I've joined this 9-to-6 rat race, and I can't quite think of anything from my classes that is reflected in any of my work. But my Excel and Powerpoint skillz (yes, that's with a 'Z'), knowledge of funky 'new' business models (which have been around for years in USA), and of esurance ads ("Technology when you want them, people when you don't")--all of which I garnered through four years in the Steel City--has somehow helped me as I slave away in my cubicle. Also, the cubicle. It's kinked. It can fit six people per island. Not very cubish at all.
But anyway, work isn't as bad as people say. And I say this despite having seven (7) supervisors who can, at any time of the day, call me to menghadap and discuss whatever or just to pass me something due besok before lunch please. They are all sat around me from my one o'clock all the way counterclockwise to my four o'clock. It's a pain at times, but I have to say getting praised for a job well done, or just doing it efficiently or improving on the current process--well it just gives you a sense of satisfaction. And I enjoy this. Somewhat.
My only beef with the workplace comes in the form of the kiasus who can't shut up about their KPIs, as well as broken Engrish. The former first. Anyone who's a fresh grad will not know shit, no matter how high their CGPA, or how classy their British degree is. Even someone who with a shitload of experience will not know the machinations of a new organization. This is a simple fact that any 14-year old can tell you. So why are we banging on about how it's unfair that we can't get high ratings and whatnot? Wait your turn, work your way up. Even if you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth your dad's penis probably put it there. Or your mom's gyne; it doesn't just appear from nowhere. Again, this is a simple fact that any 14-year old can tell you. Fine, maybe not the gyne part but you get my point. If you really are that good, prove it. And that requires time. You don't just have to show that you're awesome. You also have to show that you're not an idiot either. Sure, you did good last week. But will you do the same this week? And next? Really, just shut up and deal with it.
My biggest achievement during my first month was to get someone to say 'expedite' correctly, instead of expedeet. What was good about it (at least I thought so) was the manner in which I did so. I just kept saying it right until said person finally said it right. It made me happy. My lips may not have moved, but I was smiling from ear to ear on the inside. Previously, I have always been the better one; I had a certain authority about me when it came to speaking the language, despite mistakes of my own every now and then. However, in an office where you're the most junior member (and youngest, at that) and you have to deal with people who are mothers and grandfathers and whatnot, how do you say oh that's wrong, it should be this instead? Actually that sounded quite good/okay. Funny how I never thought of that before. But that's one small battle. I can only say I've made a substantial contribution to the war once I rid the office/department/organization from saying 'develop' as 'devlep'. That's the Big One. The Holy Grail. Anyway. That's only pronunciation. There's also grammar (haih), misuse of my beloved apostrophe, and of course the lack of use of the page break in Word.
Okay, that last one isn't English per se. But still. When printing stuff, it should be in Arial 12. But for the warga emas, they kind of want it in Arial 14, double-spaced. And what happens when you increase the font size and spacing? The charts get fucked up, and the title is the last line of the page and that's just not pretty or befitting of something from our department/organization innit. Had these geniuses embraced the wonder of the page break--it's Alt+Enter in Word, UPA--the lives of so many people would be made much easier, blood pressure levels won't be so high, and well, thing would be better.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Required Hate of the Day: Idiots Who Take Forever to Get In/Out of Elevators (or Lifts).
When you press the button to call the lift (or elevator), after a delay of about a second or so, it comes up to your floor. This delay is expected. Yet it's meaningless, even if you were in a rush because you know it has to start up and whatnot.
And then there are times when the lift doesn't come to you directly. It stops somewhere along the way. Fine, you think, it's just a couple of seconds since apa lah susahnya nak keluar/masuk lif kan? Door opens, walk through, door closes. Even if you had something to carry or you were on a mobility buggy, it won't take that much longer. So that's another few seconds then, no biggie.
But then there are those very rare times--perhaps more than two standard deviations away from the norm--when you have something really heavy to carry or you get something stuck, then maybe, just maybe, it'll take a few minutes. But these things only happen like, what, once a week? Once a month?
This building doesn't have ADA-friendly ramps, so no one with a buggy lives/comes here. It's mostly students, who obviously (like me) wake up 30 minutes before class and are therefore in a hurry to get to campus. Also on the college student thing, we don't have rush hours--some have their first class at 8:30AM, some have 'em at 1:30PM--so there should never be that scene where someone else keeps rushing in just when the door is about to close. You have the odd drug dealer, who would obviously want to get the fuck out of the place as soon as possible. All the old people and/or their office-clinics are on the ground floor so they never use the lifts (or elevators). There's never been a trash bag too big, or laundry too much that it takes you forever and a fucking day to shove it in the elevator (or lift) or drag it out of. These instances are not isolated to early/late in the semester when people move in/out--it happens far too often and is spread out too evenly for a possible seasonal/period effect--but even for moving in/out we have a freight elevator (or lift) for furniture.
You'd think the elevators (or lifts) would come to you really quick. You'd think.
So why is it then that, every so often, you find yourself pressing the button on your eighth floor, then staring at the display and seeing it go 1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6... 7... 8... *ding*? It's not just the sixth floor (that's just an example, not singling you out or anything). It's every godforsaken floor, for fuck's sake. And it's not just this building. I'm pretty sure everyone has similar experiences elsewhere.
Why?
It's not that hard, you know, this elevator (or lift) thing. It takes about six seconds from when it starts to decelerate, open its doors, you getting out/in, you pressing the button, door closes and for it to start accelerating again. Noobs don't even need hand-eye or hand-leg coordination unlike escalators. You just walk. That's something you learn even before you learn how to speak.
So tell me, why do we wait ages for an idiot on another floor? Or, better yet if you're one of those idiots reading this, what do you do that takes you so long? You know what, the wait is annoying enough as it is, but continually thinking how you idiots get in/out of a lift (or elevator) is so much more irritating than it should ever be.
And then there are times when the lift doesn't come to you directly. It stops somewhere along the way. Fine, you think, it's just a couple of seconds since apa lah susahnya nak keluar/masuk lif kan? Door opens, walk through, door closes. Even if you had something to carry or you were on a mobility buggy, it won't take that much longer. So that's another few seconds then, no biggie.
But then there are those very rare times--perhaps more than two standard deviations away from the norm--when you have something really heavy to carry or you get something stuck, then maybe, just maybe, it'll take a few minutes. But these things only happen like, what, once a week? Once a month?
This building doesn't have ADA-friendly ramps, so no one with a buggy lives/comes here. It's mostly students, who obviously (like me) wake up 30 minutes before class and are therefore in a hurry to get to campus. Also on the college student thing, we don't have rush hours--some have their first class at 8:30AM, some have 'em at 1:30PM--so there should never be that scene where someone else keeps rushing in just when the door is about to close. You have the odd drug dealer, who would obviously want to get the fuck out of the place as soon as possible. All the old people and/or their office-clinics are on the ground floor so they never use the lifts (or elevators). There's never been a trash bag too big, or laundry too much that it takes you forever and a fucking day to shove it in the elevator (or lift) or drag it out of. These instances are not isolated to early/late in the semester when people move in/out--it happens far too often and is spread out too evenly for a possible seasonal/period effect--but even for moving in/out we have a freight elevator (or lift) for furniture.
You'd think the elevators (or lifts) would come to you really quick. You'd think.
So why is it then that, every so often, you find yourself pressing the button on your eighth floor, then staring at the display and seeing it go 1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6... 7... 8... *ding*? It's not just the sixth floor (that's just an example, not singling you out or anything). It's every godforsaken floor, for fuck's sake. And it's not just this building. I'm pretty sure everyone has similar experiences elsewhere.
Why?
It's not that hard, you know, this elevator (or lift) thing. It takes about six seconds from when it starts to decelerate, open its doors, you getting out/in, you pressing the button, door closes and for it to start accelerating again. Noobs don't even need hand-eye or hand-leg coordination unlike escalators. You just walk. That's something you learn even before you learn how to speak.
So tell me, why do we wait ages for an idiot on another floor? Or, better yet if you're one of those idiots reading this, what do you do that takes you so long? You know what, the wait is annoying enough as it is, but continually thinking how you idiots get in/out of a lift (or elevator) is so much more irritating than it should ever be.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Winter Break 2010
Number of days spanned: 28
Number of countries visited: 4 (Ireland, UK, France, Belgium)
Number of cities visited: 14 (Detroit, Ann Arbor, Dublin, Belfast, London, Leeds, Bradford, Manchester, York, Liverpool, Cheshire, Lille, Paris, Brussels)
Number of airports passed: 8 (PIT, DTW, JFK, DUB, LBA, LHR, BRU, ATL)
Number of stadia/arenas visited: 4 (Motor City Casino Soundboard, The O2 Dublin, Old Trafford, Highbury)
Number of concerts attended: 2 (Air Supply, Meat Loaf)
Number of university campuses visited: 4
Number of museums visited: 4 (Westminster Abbey, The Beatles Story, National Maritime Museum, Old Trafford)
Number of nights spent at friends' places: 24
Number of friends who hosted: 6
Number of nights spent in hotels/hostels: 1
Number of nights spent in airplanes: 1
Number of nights spent in airports: 1
Number of mugs bought from friend's campuses: 0 (semua takde stock)
Number of fridge magnets bought for Fadzillah "I just bought a new fridge so buy me fridge magnets and kalau boleh beli yang getah punya" Aziz: 6
Number of movies seen: 5
Number of movies seen in cinemas: 4
Number of movies seen to simply kill time: 4
Number of movies slept through: 1 (sorry ya, Farah)
Number of French movies seen: 1
Number of runs for something: 2 (bus at Old Trafford, countdown during NYE)
Number of runs successful: 0
Number of laundry days: 3
Number of factory outlets shopped at: 1
Number of shopping arcades/centers entered: 9
Number of H&M entered: 8
Number of friends met (planned): 12
Number of friends bumped into: 9 (4 on Oxford Street on Boxing Day)
Number of friends mistaken by shopkeepers as my wife: 1
Number of friendly salah fahams: 2 (I thought "jom makan" was an invitation instead of a restaurant; I thought "subway" was the Leeds underground instead of the sandwich place that it is)
Number of times bumped into the French girl who gave us directions to the Metro station: 3
Number of times bumped into said girl, not in the direction she pointed: 3
Number of compliments received for the coat: 5
Number of people who assumed I was above 25: 4
Number of people who asked where I worked: 3
Number of times slipped: 5
Number of times fell down: 2 (first at Arsenal tube station; both after Yap arrived)
Number of airplane sectors: 7
Number of express bus sectors: 3
Number of train sectors: 5
Number of public transportation systems used: 9
Number of cab rides: 5 (all in Leeds, except one in Dublin)
Number of hours spent in airplanes: ~21
Number of hours spent in trains: slightly less than 5
Number of hours spent in cars: ~2
Number of hours spent in express buses: 13
Number of hours spent in airports: 27
Number of times stopped by customs: 2
NUmber of times late for flight: 1 (only late for baggage check in)
Number of redirections/rescheduling: 1
Number of meals at Malaysian restaurants: 2
Number of meals at Malaysian restaurants willingly: 0
Number of fish & chips eaten: 5 (3 cod, 2 haddock; 1 with mushy peas)
Number of waffles eaten: 2 (1 Brussels, 1 Liege)
Number of pieces of chicken cordon bleu we were supposed to buy: 5
Number of people supposed to buy chicken cordon bleu: 1
Number of people who bought chicken cordon bleu: 3
Number of pieces of chicken cordon bleu bought: 15
Number of crabmeat sticks in our pot of two Maggi Kari: 11
Number of cybercafes/internet kiosks visited: 2
Number of new facebook friends: ?????
Number of new songs in download list: 3
Number of new movies in must-watch list: 3
Number of new books in must-read list: 2
Number of books read: 3
Number of books bought: 5
Number of sim cards bought: 1 (Orange UK)
Number of text messages sent: >100 (Sent Items limited to 100 only)
Number of text messages received: 186
Number of "Welcome to the Orange network!"-type text messages received from Orange: 8
Number of "Inform your loved ones of your safe arrival" and/or Malaysian Embassy phone number and/or roaming partners text messages from Maxis: 18
Number of missed calls to Esther's phone when locked out of the flat at 4:00am and freaking out for fear of missing flight: 32 (using the Maxis sim...sorry, Pa. At least she never picked up, so there wasn't a phone call per se.)
Number of photos taken: 725
Number of photos deleted: 318 (blurry, wrong settings, similar)
Number of videos taken: 4 (all of them of people playing Wii Dance Central)
Number of Monopoly Deal wins: 5
Number of Monopoly Deal games: 21
Number of Rock, Paper, Scissors/Osom wins: 1
Number of Rock, Paper, Scissors/Osom contested: 2
Number of football games seen in pubs: 2 (Man Utd vs. Arsenal; Arsenal vs. Chelsea)
Number of football games followed online: 1 (Man Utd vs. Stoke City)
Quotes of the Trip
DETROIT
"It's nice to visit a new place. After a career of 35 years it's hard to find places we've never been to before. Now, if we want to be 'Lost In LOve' we have to set the mood right"
- Graham Russell, Air Supply
ANN ARBOR
"Well, yes it's not that clean sebab tengah nak exam. But it could be worse"
- Dian Hikmah on the state of her home
DUBLIN
"Testes--you should be aware of the number, shape, size, lumps and tenderness. It was mind blowing to me when a patient didn't know he was supposed to have two."
- Dr. Arthur Jackson, lecturer at RCSI
"If you have your own concert and you play 'Bat Out Of Hell' as your third number, you'll know what it feels like to be fucking 63"
- Meat Loaf
LEEDS
Text from Farah: Wait, nnt dah smpai train station, msg aku. Jgn amek city cab. Mahal. Kau pegi carik subway dlm train station tu. Lepak situ."
*You can see why I was looking for an underground metro thingy*
Farah: Kat sini banyak bus stop, so nak pergi mana-mana senang je by bus. Rumah kawan aku dekat situ je, One Stop tu.
*You can see why I thought it was 'one stop' away by bus. One Stop is in fact a kedai runcit*
Farah: Baiklah. Situ ada bus stop. Situ pun ada. Aku tak sure bas yang mana, so kita tunggu saja in between dua-dua.
LONDON
"Bodoh la, these facelifts. That car looks like it has a bloody misai. Tak nak lah!"
- Hanaa Zainuddin on why some cars just aren't for her
"Umur aku sembilan tahun pun aku kencing dalam seluar."
- Wawa defending her 6 year old cousin wetting his pants
"Kau cantik, Wawa... dari segi dalaman kau memang sangat cantik."
- Freddy yang jujur
"You don't like the gloves? Too expensive? He doesn't like it. Give it to him for £15. Give him £5 change. And here--free gift for your wife"
- How Imi got free earmuffs
MANCHESTER
"Eh...I actually feel a bit better!"
- A nauseated Julyana appreciates the help of Dr. Pepper
"Yap is diarrhoea. You, Kimbu, are constipation."
- Julyana, when things get rough during Monopoly Deal
"But she comes from Seremban so she's accustomed to that lifestyle."
- Yet another gem from Julyana
"Best gila ada heater! Semalam I tido nyanyuk!"
- Julyana Ng Li-Ling waking us up
"What are you cooking for breakfast? Mee Yaggi?"
- July, the gift that keeps on giving
LILLE
"Eijas, aku bawak Maggi, aku bawak perencah nasi garing..."
- Yaser Nur
"You--I respect. You--I respect. But you--I don't respect. I don't respect you."
- Some black guy on the verge of tears when Yap didn't understand his request for a cigarette
"I was with an Australian girl for eight months now. It's feckin' awesome"
- Emmerich
2 penises + 4 balls + 0 vaginas:
Me: Ok, we should ask for directions. "Ask the young, for they know English..."
Yap: Area sana macam bandar je?
Me: Ok, jom! You do realise we could be walking in the wrong direction?
Yap: Of course. Tapi kita harus yakin!
Me: Ya!
Number of countries visited: 4 (Ireland, UK, France, Belgium)
Number of cities visited: 14 (Detroit, Ann Arbor, Dublin, Belfast, London, Leeds, Bradford, Manchester, York, Liverpool, Cheshire, Lille, Paris, Brussels)
Number of airports passed: 8 (PIT, DTW, JFK, DUB, LBA, LHR, BRU, ATL)
Number of stadia/arenas visited: 4 (Motor City Casino Soundboard, The O2 Dublin, Old Trafford, Highbury)
Number of concerts attended: 2 (Air Supply, Meat Loaf)
Number of university campuses visited: 4
Number of museums visited: 4 (Westminster Abbey, The Beatles Story, National Maritime Museum, Old Trafford)
Number of nights spent at friends' places: 24
Number of friends who hosted: 6
Number of nights spent in hotels/hostels: 1
Number of nights spent in airplanes: 1
Number of nights spent in airports: 1
Number of mugs bought from friend's campuses: 0 (semua takde stock)
Number of fridge magnets bought for Fadzillah "I just bought a new fridge so buy me fridge magnets and kalau boleh beli yang getah punya" Aziz: 6
Number of movies seen: 5
Number of movies seen in cinemas: 4
Number of movies seen to simply kill time: 4
Number of movies slept through: 1 (sorry ya, Farah)
Number of French movies seen: 1
Number of runs for something: 2 (bus at Old Trafford, countdown during NYE)
Number of runs successful: 0
Number of laundry days: 3
Number of factory outlets shopped at: 1
Number of shopping arcades/centers entered: 9
Number of H&M entered: 8
Number of friends met (planned): 12
Number of friends bumped into: 9 (4 on Oxford Street on Boxing Day)
Number of friends mistaken by shopkeepers as my wife: 1
Number of friendly salah fahams: 2 (I thought "jom makan" was an invitation instead of a restaurant; I thought "subway" was the Leeds underground instead of the sandwich place that it is)
Number of times bumped into the French girl who gave us directions to the Metro station: 3
Number of times bumped into said girl, not in the direction she pointed: 3
Number of compliments received for the coat: 5
Number of people who assumed I was above 25: 4
Number of people who asked where I worked: 3
Number of times slipped: 5
Number of times fell down: 2 (first at Arsenal tube station; both after Yap arrived)
Number of airplane sectors: 7
Number of express bus sectors: 3
Number of train sectors: 5
Number of public transportation systems used: 9
Number of cab rides: 5 (all in Leeds, except one in Dublin)
Number of hours spent in airplanes: ~21
Number of hours spent in trains: slightly less than 5
Number of hours spent in cars: ~2
Number of hours spent in express buses: 13
Number of hours spent in airports: 27
Number of times stopped by customs: 2
NUmber of times late for flight: 1 (only late for baggage check in)
Number of redirections/rescheduling: 1
Number of meals at Malaysian restaurants: 2
Number of meals at Malaysian restaurants willingly: 0
Number of fish & chips eaten: 5 (3 cod, 2 haddock; 1 with mushy peas)
Number of waffles eaten: 2 (1 Brussels, 1 Liege)
Number of pieces of chicken cordon bleu we were supposed to buy: 5
Number of people supposed to buy chicken cordon bleu: 1
Number of people who bought chicken cordon bleu: 3
Number of pieces of chicken cordon bleu bought: 15
Number of crabmeat sticks in our pot of two Maggi Kari: 11
Number of cybercafes/internet kiosks visited: 2
Number of new facebook friends: ?????
Number of new songs in download list: 3
Number of new movies in must-watch list: 3
Number of new books in must-read list: 2
Number of books read: 3
Number of books bought: 5
Number of sim cards bought: 1 (Orange UK)
Number of text messages sent: >100 (Sent Items limited to 100 only)
Number of text messages received: 186
Number of "Welcome to the Orange network!"-type text messages received from Orange: 8
Number of "Inform your loved ones of your safe arrival" and/or Malaysian Embassy phone number and/or roaming partners text messages from Maxis: 18
Number of missed calls to Esther's phone when locked out of the flat at 4:00am and freaking out for fear of missing flight: 32 (using the Maxis sim...sorry, Pa. At least she never picked up, so there wasn't a phone call per se.)
Number of photos taken: 725
Number of photos deleted: 318 (blurry, wrong settings, similar)
Number of videos taken: 4 (all of them of people playing Wii Dance Central)
Number of Monopoly Deal wins: 5
Number of Monopoly Deal games: 21
Number of Rock, Paper, Scissors/Osom wins: 1
Number of Rock, Paper, Scissors/Osom contested: 2
Number of football games seen in pubs: 2 (Man Utd vs. Arsenal; Arsenal vs. Chelsea)
Number of football games followed online: 1 (Man Utd vs. Stoke City)
Quotes of the Trip
DETROIT
"It's nice to visit a new place. After a career of 35 years it's hard to find places we've never been to before. Now, if we want to be 'Lost In LOve' we have to set the mood right"
- Graham Russell, Air Supply
ANN ARBOR
"Well, yes it's not that clean sebab tengah nak exam. But it could be worse"
- Dian Hikmah on the state of her home
DUBLIN
"Testes--you should be aware of the number, shape, size, lumps and tenderness. It was mind blowing to me when a patient didn't know he was supposed to have two."
- Dr. Arthur Jackson, lecturer at RCSI
"If you have your own concert and you play 'Bat Out Of Hell' as your third number, you'll know what it feels like to be fucking 63"
- Meat Loaf
LEEDS
Text from Farah: Wait, nnt dah smpai train station, msg aku. Jgn amek city cab. Mahal. Kau pegi carik subway dlm train station tu. Lepak situ."
*You can see why I was looking for an underground metro thingy*
Farah: Kat sini banyak bus stop, so nak pergi mana-mana senang je by bus. Rumah kawan aku dekat situ je, One Stop tu.
*You can see why I thought it was 'one stop' away by bus. One Stop is in fact a kedai runcit*
Farah: Baiklah. Situ ada bus stop. Situ pun ada. Aku tak sure bas yang mana, so kita tunggu saja in between dua-dua.
LONDON
"Bodoh la, these facelifts. That car looks like it has a bloody misai. Tak nak lah!"
- Hanaa Zainuddin on why some cars just aren't for her
"Umur aku sembilan tahun pun aku kencing dalam seluar."
- Wawa defending her 6 year old cousin wetting his pants
"Kau cantik, Wawa... dari segi dalaman kau memang sangat cantik."
- Freddy yang jujur
"You don't like the gloves? Too expensive? He doesn't like it. Give it to him for £15. Give him £5 change. And here--free gift for your wife"
- How Imi got free earmuffs
MANCHESTER
"Eh...I actually feel a bit better!"
- A nauseated Julyana appreciates the help of Dr. Pepper
"Yap is diarrhoea. You, Kimbu, are constipation."
- Julyana, when things get rough during Monopoly Deal
"But she comes from Seremban so she's accustomed to that lifestyle."
- Yet another gem from Julyana
"Best gila ada heater! Semalam I tido nyanyuk!"
- Julyana Ng Li-Ling waking us up
"What are you cooking for breakfast? Mee Yaggi?"
- July, the gift that keeps on giving
LILLE
"Eijas, aku bawak Maggi, aku bawak perencah nasi garing..."
- Yaser Nur
"You--I respect. You--I respect. But you--I don't respect. I don't respect you."
- Some black guy on the verge of tears when Yap didn't understand his request for a cigarette
"I was with an Australian girl for eight months now. It's feckin' awesome"
- Emmerich
2 penises + 4 balls + 0 vaginas:
Me: Ok, we should ask for directions. "Ask the young, for they know English..."
Yap: Area sana macam bandar je?
Me: Ok, jom! You do realise we could be walking in the wrong direction?
Yap: Of course. Tapi kita harus yakin!
Me: Ya!
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Can't You Assholes Name Things Properly?
There used to be a time when you looked at a computer catalog, thought to yourself "oh, this one's a Pentium III 550 MHz" which would probably be faster than another cheaper one labeled 'Pentium III 500 MHz'.
There was also a time when if the rump of a BMW said 325i, you knew full well it was a 3-series with a 2.5 litre engine. The same goes for their compatriots and rivals Mercedes Benz; an E 230 should be an E-class with a 2.3.
But no. This isn't the case anymore. Intel, AMD, BMW, MB, and many more leaders in their respective industries have resorted to using seriously confusing names, and have done so in equally confusing ways.
I can understand lying to name a car 335i despite it having a 3.0, because the 3.0 is turbocharged and therefore not just a 3.0. Mercedes also does this: their 63 AMGs are actually 6.2, and their 65 AMGs are 6.0 but with twin turbos. This sort of makes sense. Maybe they don't want to name their cars 330i TURBO. Perhaps they like a little subtlety.
But then you have the baffling case of the opposite, like the (facelifted, W 211) E 240. Sure, it was a 'step up' from the E 230, since everybody wants a bigger engine nowadays. But instead of shoving in a 2.4, you put in a 2.6-litre V6. What's wrong with naming the car, gee, I dunno, maybe E 260? The realization that it's not what it seemed was even more painful in a country like Malaysia, where our road tax is based on the engine's capacity.
Now you wanna add in sDrive and xDrive. Fine, maybe xDrive makes sense, since you want people to know this car/SUV has all-wheel drive. But why would you want your car to say sDrive, when all it really means is just 'plain old rear wheel drive'? Why?
And then you have microprocessors. It used to just be all about the clock speed. But now we have to take so much more information into account. How many cores (one? two? three? four? six? eight?). What's the front side bus like. How much L2 cache. Any L3 cache? DDR2 only or DDR3 capable? And since every single industry is under pressure by the green squad, you have the low energy versions. In short, you have a lot to deal with. But it's not that hard to come up with a naming system that makes sense.
Intel went from the understandable Pentium line, to the bullshit we have today. First it was Core Solo and Core Duo. Then Core 2 Solo and Core 2 Duo. Was this part two? Will the next line be Core 3 Solo/Duo? Apparently not, because it was Core i3, Core i5 and Core i7. And all of that came with a three digit suffix that wouldn't mean a damn thing to the average consumer. You look at a laptop and you think "oh, this has i5!" but what does that mean? Does it have five cores?
The i3 line is the lower end, and are all dual core. The i5s are the mid-level, and, depending on the suffix, either dual- or quad-core. The i7s are the bad ass gamers wet dream ones. Most are quad core but the special ones, have six. The Core i7-975 Extreme Edition has four cores and the Core i7-980X has six cores. So, bigger number = more cores? No. The Core i7-970 has six cores. So, which one to buy? Consult your geekiest friend.
AMD was worse. Back when Intel's naming made sense (Pentium IV 800 MHz), AMD named their chips based on a number which was ... it's overclocking ability? ... or was it how it compared to Intel's chips? ... I really don't know. Whatever the number meant/was, it sure as hell was not the clock speed (which they conveniently made rather difficult for the average consumer to find out). And people bought PCs based on clock speed. In my opinion, it was a sly tactic by AMD to use bigger numbers than Intel, despite the processor being slower.
Anyway, currently their naming system is pretty much like Intel's, with the suffix and all. But at the very least they also add yet another suffix telling you how many cores there are. So the Phenom II X6 1090T has six cores. Granted, not everyone will know the 'X6' tells you that. But in one sense, it's easier to shop AMD than it is Intel.
Please, just name it whatever the hell you want. Add in however many suffixes you deem necessary. But make sure the numbers make sense.
There was also a time when if the rump of a BMW said 325i, you knew full well it was a 3-series with a 2.5 litre engine. The same goes for their compatriots and rivals Mercedes Benz; an E 230 should be an E-class with a 2.3.
But no. This isn't the case anymore. Intel, AMD, BMW, MB, and many more leaders in their respective industries have resorted to using seriously confusing names, and have done so in equally confusing ways.
I can understand lying to name a car 335i despite it having a 3.0, because the 3.0 is turbocharged and therefore not just a 3.0. Mercedes also does this: their 63 AMGs are actually 6.2, and their 65 AMGs are 6.0 but with twin turbos. This sort of makes sense. Maybe they don't want to name their cars 330i TURBO. Perhaps they like a little subtlety.
But then you have the baffling case of the opposite, like the (facelifted, W 211) E 240. Sure, it was a 'step up' from the E 230, since everybody wants a bigger engine nowadays. But instead of shoving in a 2.4, you put in a 2.6-litre V6. What's wrong with naming the car, gee, I dunno, maybe E 260? The realization that it's not what it seemed was even more painful in a country like Malaysia, where our road tax is based on the engine's capacity.
Now you wanna add in sDrive and xDrive. Fine, maybe xDrive makes sense, since you want people to know this car/SUV has all-wheel drive. But why would you want your car to say sDrive, when all it really means is just 'plain old rear wheel drive'? Why?
And then you have microprocessors. It used to just be all about the clock speed. But now we have to take so much more information into account. How many cores (one? two? three? four? six? eight?). What's the front side bus like. How much L2 cache. Any L3 cache? DDR2 only or DDR3 capable? And since every single industry is under pressure by the green squad, you have the low energy versions. In short, you have a lot to deal with. But it's not that hard to come up with a naming system that makes sense.
Intel went from the understandable Pentium line, to the bullshit we have today. First it was Core Solo and Core Duo. Then Core 2 Solo and Core 2 Duo. Was this part two? Will the next line be Core 3 Solo/Duo? Apparently not, because it was Core i3, Core i5 and Core i7. And all of that came with a three digit suffix that wouldn't mean a damn thing to the average consumer. You look at a laptop and you think "oh, this has i5!" but what does that mean? Does it have five cores?
The i3 line is the lower end, and are all dual core. The i5s are the mid-level, and, depending on the suffix, either dual- or quad-core. The i7s are the bad ass gamers wet dream ones. Most are quad core but the special ones, have six. The Core i7-975 Extreme Edition has four cores and the Core i7-980X has six cores. So, bigger number = more cores? No. The Core i7-970 has six cores. So, which one to buy? Consult your geekiest friend.
AMD was worse. Back when Intel's naming made sense (Pentium IV 800 MHz), AMD named their chips based on a number which was ... it's overclocking ability? ... or was it how it compared to Intel's chips? ... I really don't know. Whatever the number meant/was, it sure as hell was not the clock speed (which they conveniently made rather difficult for the average consumer to find out). And people bought PCs based on clock speed. In my opinion, it was a sly tactic by AMD to use bigger numbers than Intel, despite the processor being slower.
Anyway, currently their naming system is pretty much like Intel's, with the suffix and all. But at the very least they also add yet another suffix telling you how many cores there are. So the Phenom II X6 1090T has six cores. Granted, not everyone will know the 'X6' tells you that. But in one sense, it's easier to shop AMD than it is Intel.
Please, just name it whatever the hell you want. Add in however many suffixes you deem necessary. But make sure the numbers make sense.
Quotes of the Semester
"I added 10 points to your exam scores just to make you guys a little bit happier. In the end I will obviously curve your grades based on how you do in the course. But I guess it's a psychological thing knowing you did 'better'. 10 points for everyone--it won't mess up the distribution anyway."
-- Yaroslav Kryukov, Ph.D
A: You COPIED and PASTED everything she wrote?
B: Yes. Yes, I did. I mean, I'll PARAPHRASE.
A: But you just said everything she wrote was RETARDED.
B: Well I never did say I wasn't retarded, did I?
"Go home and watch 'Dazed and Confused' and the original 'Tron'. I am NOT above putting a bonus question referencing 80s movies in my exams."
-- Rebecca Nugent, Ph.D
"How many of you are going part time next semester? Let me rephrase that: How many of you are going part time next semester just to save 25 grand? You're all losers."
-- Carol Goldburg, Ph.D
"Sometimes... it's safer to be racist."
-- You Know Who You Are
"It's...it's blowing my-- It's blowing my mind. My mind is literally blown. You don't have surnames? Get outta here! My mind is literally blown right now. It, it, it's just, whoa..."
-- Rebecca Hirsch
"Hey! That looks like something you already have!"
-- Safiyyah Mohsin (cis)
"This line of shoes from Rockport are microwave-friendly. That's mean you can put them in a microwave and you don't have to cuci pakai tangan."
-- Yours Truly
"He was talking about his data set, 'coz that's what statisticians do on dates--we talk about our data. He said about 1/3 of it was bad data or stuff that had missingness, and he got rid of them--almost 100 observations from his sample of around 300. Whoa, there. I could stand a really dry first date, but deleting bad observations? Ohhhh, no no no, this definitely won't work out."
-- Rebecca Nugent, Ph.D on a first date with a fellow grad student
"Since we didn't cover that much material since the last exam, this one will be, how you say, more creative. What's a creative exam question? NOW YOU GONNA FIND OUT."
-- Irina Gheorghiciuc, Ph.D
"Go to Belgaufre, on Rue Neuve. Theirs are the best. Oh my god, I love waffles. I'm so hungry, we should stop talking waffles right now. I want a waffle so bad!"
-- Annelies Deuss, Ph.D in no way hiding her Belgianness
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