A Forgotten Ambition

When I was small, I was a victim of Disney and his cartoons. However, despite Robin Hood, Sleeping Beauty and Peter Pan dominating my childhood memory, there is something that I still remember very fondly now as an adult.

I loved reading about Greek Mythology: Jason and the Argonauts, Hercules, Medusa, the Minotaur, Zeus and his wives, etc. I remember I had a book of Greek mythology stories, and I still remember how much I loved reading it over and over again. Perhaps this book was the reason I fell in love with history.

Fast forward a few years to my junior high days. I was mesmerized by Egyptian history. The pharaohs, the pyramids, the culture… I used to wish that I had been born in the 1910s so that I could become a part of one of those expedition groups who uncovered the wonders of ancient Egypt for the first time. I even wrote about the mystery behind Tutankhamun’s death for my final year exam. I chose to do History, a dreaded subject for junior high schoolers but not for me. I would rather learn about the mistakes humanity has done in the past than about how a lush rainforest is transformed into a desert, although the latter is a lot more applicable in today’s global warming days. I remember being so eager in my history class; any question asked by our teacher, my hand would shoot up, and I had this unquenchable thirst for information that I would ask outside the required information we needed to know. Don’t blame me, I was just simply satisfying my own curiousity. Unfortunately, my teacher did not see the same. She started ignoring me, picking on students who had zero interest in the subject rather than identifying THIS particular student who could very well be making a career in the field.

In the few years after junior high, I was expected to develop a career in engineering or the sciences, so history became nothing but a mere reading interest. Even then, with the amount of time required to pursue what was expected of me, I stopped reading history altogether. Then, as I was finishing up my degree at Purdue, I decided to take what I thought would be easy A classes: History of Europe in the Middle Ages and Religions of the West. Little did I know these classes would rekindle the fire I have for history. Combine a great history professor, a controversial subject (Islam, Judaism and Christianity: how can the 3 religion co-exist with each other?) and the beginning of my Robert Langdon fantasy, I started reading more and more of the European history, in particular in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance.

In preparation for my trip to Europe, I have started refreshing my memory in this field, and in doing so, I have this feeling that this trip would be followed by more pilgrimage to the Middle Ages and Renaissance sites. I may even decide to leave Singapore and spend a few months in Italy to study history altogether, and return a teacher. Some people may roll their eyes and say, “There she goes again”, but since my career is in limbo, I’m keeping my options as wide open as possible. I have always loved history, and maybe this is my chance to study and become a teacher who would appreciate her students’ love for the subject than ignoring them because what they want to know won’t be tested in the leaving examination so why bother knowing?

I suppose it’s the mystic and intrigue of history that gives it such a romantic notion to me. Wouldn’t it be exciting to find an evidence of the past that is shrouded in mystery? Imagine the anticipation of decoding it to find out what message from the past it would bring. Imagine the person who created this piece hundreds of years ago, and now hundreds of years later, you are holding it in your hands, linking your life to his permanently.

Note to self- make sure date of return flight can be changed.

The Self- Pity Approach for a Compliment

Remember in school, there is always this one kid who when asked after a big exam, would answer that he think he’d done badly because he had not studied, but (always) turned out to have the highest score in the class? And this kid became the ultimate bane in your existence because then you would think how could he not study and yet score better than I did?

Back then, I just simply hated kids like that because I busted my little ass to do well in exams and yet I could never beat their score. Back then, I wish I was a little bit smarter so I could get through the exams without studying much. Now, I hate this kind of people even more. Now, I realized what this kid wanted was actually something along the line of “Wow, you’re so smart! You didn’t study and yet you scored such a high mark!” You have to announce to the world how horrible you are, how stupid you are, how pitiful you are, to the point that you touch other people’s sympathetic side so that you can milk them for compliments that you KNOW you deserve.

It is a little unnerving that people do not leave this psychological habit behind in their childhood. I read in the papers today that Peter Crouch’s girlfriend, Abby Whats-her-name, called herself ‘a pasty beach whale’ and that ‘her legs looked fat or something’. Have you ever seen her pictures? Please Google ‘Peter Crouch’s girlfriend’ and see how smashing her body is. You can imagine the number of girls who have starved themselves to look like her.

Siena Miller has also been heard saying that she had a very low self-esteem as a teenager because of her body. Do you know what she did as a teenager? She was an underwear model! Low self-esteem indeed!

Are we supposed to feel sorry for them? How sad, even with their blonde hair, gorgeous face, big bank accounts, they are still like us, they are still not good enough. It breaks my heart to know that these women, despite the magazine covers and the photo shoots, are still not pretty enough. The world is so unfair!

I understand the need to hear something nice from your peers every now and again about yourself. I have been guilty of having used this self-pity approach to fish for a compliment, but at least I try to be sincere about it. I would honestly express my fear and insecurity to my close friends not to hear them say things that I know I am good at, but for assurances that only friends can provide. I think a lot of people have issues that beat them down and eat away their confidence, and it is only natural that we would lower ourselves than our expectations in the hope that someone close to us would give us that boost that we need very badly.

But to say things like, “I am fat” although you are a size 00, “I am stupid” although you score a 4.0 GPA, “I can never succeed” although you own millions from running a business… seriously, what do you need? What do you expect people to do or say? The nice ones would say the standard comforting phrases because it is expected although not sincerely meant, the realists (as I have often come to refer myself) would roll our eyes and, the nicer realists would point out how lucky you are compared to the rest of the world, whereas the meaner realists would tell you to stop whining like a baby.

As adults, don’t we have enough emotional maturity to know there are superficial things we shouldn’t lose sleep over? And shouldn’t we be mature enough not to play the self-pity card to get people to compliment us, to say something us for our own egotistical benefit?  Shouldn’t we be aware enough that what comes after such a self-pitying begging is nothing but a false compliment?

The Story of Dolly

Once upon a time, there was a college boy who idolized Drew Brees. So much so that whenever he played football with his friends, he would mimick Drew’s fake pumps, footwork and even attempted to throw the bullet. He got the spin right, the velocity and force was almost there, and he was pleased with himself for being able to play like his hero.

Then, a newcomer came to town. The boy and the newcomer looked oddly alike: same height, same physique, same facial features. Even stranger, they talked alike too; they had the same accent, same intonation, and exactly the same way of expressing their thoughts. They could very well be twins separated at birth.

Because these two boys were so alike, the boy’s friends started teasing him, calling him and the newcomer twins, brothers, coming from the same mother but different fathers, clones, etc. The moment the word ‘clone’ was mentioned,  the boy’s friends started asking if the boy was older or younger than the newcomer.

Unfortunately for the boy, he was younger than the newcomer, hence making him a clone of the newcomer’s. Ever since, the boy’s friends started calling him Dolly, after the cloned sheep. The boy was not very happy with his new nickname, but the more he protested, the more his friends adamantly called him Dolly. As a consolation, his friends eventually added Brees after Dolly so that the boy would have the same nickname as his idol.

A few years down the road, the boy is still fondly known as his friends as Dolly. He has started to accept that he would be called such for the rest of his life, but as one of the instigators of the nickname, I keep reminding him that the moment he is not called Dolly, that would mean his friends do not care about him anymore.

We tease Dolly because we love him.

The Racer Suit

When the racer suit first came out, there was a lot of discussion whether or not it should be allowed to be used by swimmers in races. Is this suit considered a performance enhancer or is it just the natural evolution of the little Speedo swimsuit?

Quite honestly, I did not follow this debate, and quite frankly, I don’t really care considering I abandoned my swimming career a long time ago. However, if you ask me for my opinion, I would say that I am against the racer suit because if this man-made, artificial material that is not naturally produced or attached to the body, can help a swimmer shave off 0.02s, then it is in a way working the same way as performance enhancing drugs do.

My disagreement with the suit increases since the Beijing Olympics started. I am not complaining and accusing the new world record holders that what they wore help them broke the old records and hence they would be considered cheating. Not at all. In fact, Michael Phelps and Park Theawan did not wear the full racer suits when they won their golds, albeit their whole legs were covered. No, no, I will not touch this area because I don’t even know what technical specs of these suits really are.

The reason for my disagreement is purely aesthetic. Female swimmers would wear swimsuits 2 sizes smaller than their usual size; I know this for sure because it normally took me 15 minutes to get into my suit before an event, and the suit was so tight that the straps would bruise my shoulders. The female swimmers till follow this 2-sizes smaller rule even with the new racer suits, I’m sure. The smaller size means the suit is tighter, which means certain parts of the female body are squished flat to ensure better streamlining during the race. Now, when someone puts on a swimming cap and goggles, it’s quite hard to determine the sex from the look alone unless there is facial hair involved. We are assuming there is no facial hair because facial hair actually creates drag in the water which means it may cost you that precious 0.02s. Now, let’s put two swimmers, one male and one female, both in the racer suits, side by side, and you can only see them from the stomach up. I can guarantee that you will have difficulty differentiating the sexes, because with the cap, the googles and the flat chest, these two swimmer would look quite alike.

Now, back to the aesthatic issue. When male swimmers don the racer suit, they look like female swimmers. They look like they’re wearing swim suits for girls. I just simply dislike the look. When I was watching the swimming events, sometimes I did not even know if it was a men or women’s event, and I could not tell by looking at the swimmers in the racer suits! It’s annoying! I don’t like being confused like this.

Then, I could not see and appreciate the male swimmers’ bodies! I spent my childhood and teenage years swimming and idolizing swimmer bodies and now they are covering it all up? For the sake of that 0.02s? Well, actually that 0.02s did help the American relay team win gold, so obviously aesthetic value is less important here. Regardless, us women, we cannot enjoy swimming the way we did in the 1998 Olympics anymore. The bodies are part of the enjoyment of watching the sport, and now this enjoyment has been greatly reduced.

Better switch to water polo, ladies, unless the scientists at Adidas, Nike, Arena, TYR or wherever these suits come from created the water polo equivalent of the racer suit to help the players tread water longer. When that happens, I will lose all faith in water sports.

My Catwalk in Life

My company is organizing a dinner and dance party, and as part of the entertainment, the committee is going to hold a fashion show. You probably know where this is going to; yes, yours truly is selected to be one of the models in the show. I have to spare 2 hours a week for training, and in fact tomorrow I am going for a fitting. I feel like I’m almost in America’s Next Top Model.

I never had an ambition or a dream to be a model. Growing up, I was too much of a tomboy to care much about fashion and the likes. When puberty finally hits, I was so into grunge and rap that baggy clothes became a necessity to me. I think it was in the US that I finally got in touch with my feminine side, and that was when I started dressing up more appropriately.

I remember in 2002, Gap US was holding a model search. Anyone could submit a photograph and a little description of themselves to the company. I submitted my profile, at the urging of Sis B. I don’t care much about fame, in fact I prefer being low profile, hidden in the background, and modeling is definitely not the kind of thing I would like to do for any price. However, the idea of getting free clothes, now that’s a reason I would do modeling. So the only reason I submitted my photo was that in the slim chance I would be selected to model for Gap, I would likely be getting free Gap clothes for as long as the contract allowed.

Then, sometime last year when I was in limbo in Singapore looking for a job, I was approached twice in public by so-called modeling agencies. I was flattered that I was even approached, but the flattery did not last long. I was told (this is verbatim) that my face was not high fashion enough, but I would do well commercially, especially for magazines like Maxim and FHM. WTF? Flattery immediately transformed into insult! I appreciate my body and I love my body, and I feel powerful that I can attract men using my body (if you got it, flaunt it), but to put me up on the pages of a men’s magazine to be drooled on and to be objectified, all that goes against my feminist principles and pride. Also, what kind of free clothes could I possibly get from posing for Maxim or FHM other than underwears and bikinis? No, thanks.

I recalled two incidents in my life, and I have come to recall them as my almost-model moment. First was in junior high, when we needed to create a family album for one of our classes’ project. When my teacher returned me my album, she commented that I was such a beauty as a child, and I still was. I brushed aside the comment, because being the school swimmer and overall sports girl in my class, a ‘beauty’ comment did not actually go with my reputation at the time. However, I must have taken it a little too seriously, because as I was alighting a bus with a friend to go home, I slipped and fell, in front of a group of school boys. It was not very glamorous, and one of the boys actually clapped as I was trying to get myself up. You may be asking, what did my friend do? Well she walked away quietly as I was trying to deal with my fall. We’re still good friends to this day, however.

Another incident occured when I was at Purdue. Remember, I had just discovered the joy of fashion, and bought my first pair of boots. I was so happy and so proud wearing them, and I was meeting a friend for lunch at the university’s cafetaria. My friend, the idiot that he is but a lovable idiot at that (his only redeeming quality), very rarely saw me in anything other than jeans and t-shirt. But that day, I felt extraordinarily feminine and decided to pair my boots with skirt and a more flattering top. He saw me from afar as I was entering the cafetaria, and started shouting at everyone: “Make way, make way, model coming through!” I turned around and walked away.

It would be interesting to see what I would have to do for my company’s D&D. I only have to remember no pointy shoes with wide leg pants.

The Courteous Driver

I have some issues with drivers here. But before I continue, I allow you to accuse me for being idealistic, and I will proudly accept the accusation because I AM idealistic. 

Now, I have lived in Indonesia and China, where road rules and regulations were created for, well, nothing as it turned out, and these are the two countries you will never find me behind the wheel. So imagine my excitement being able to drive again in Singapore, after a 2 year driving hiatus since leaving the States. I learned to drive in Indiana, and  perfected my driving skills in the city of Chicago. Put me on I-90, during rush hour, with 15 minutes to reaching downtown, and I will make it there in 10 minutes. Yes, I’ve gotten that good in moving around congested traffic. I’ve also perfected my flirting skills through talking my way out of traffic tickets. It’s good to be a woman. OK fine, I’m double standard too.

I see Singapore’s traffic being no different than Chicago’s. Two big cosmopolitan cities with pressed for time drivers, heavy traffic, and some idiots who think they own the road. Idiotic drivers, well, you can never get rid of them, so what you do is just accept them and avoid them at all costs. But there are drivers who are just plain rude. And these rude drivers, they seem to be more prevalent here in Singapore than any other cities.

Case #1: I was parking my car at work. I was backing up, when this car drove past me and the driver was staring at me. I can differentiate various kinds of staring; there is the confused staring, flirty staring, curious staring, and unhappy staring. The staring I encountered was the unhappy staring, which would mean I have done something to this guy to make him glare at me. I tried to recall if I overtook him without signaling, or if I cut him off to this parking space… what did I do to deserve this? I did nothing. I did not even see him when I went into the lot, so now I was getting annoyed. Why was he staring at me? It was not even a short stare, it was a long, 10 seconds or so stare. What was his problem? So as I was backing up, I returned his stare and I was pretty sure I was looking mighty unhappy at him staring at me. He moved on, and at this time I was too agitated to let it go. He parked a few cars away from me, and we both got out around the same time. And he was still staring. I had to hold myself back from asking what his problem was. He was a skinny little dude so I was confident if things went awry I could easily overpower him. Now, what was the need of staring? If he finds me cute, or if he likes my car, what was with the unhappiness in his staring? You want to catch my attention, then do it in such a way that you won’t make me mad! 

Case #2: I was driving along that road where Pan Pacific hotel is (obviously I the only road name I remember is the road I live in because I need to tell it to the cab driver in my drunken stupor every now and again) when this cab turned to the main road out of nowhere. It scared the bejesus out of me, and had I not braked on time, I would have hit him. I honked at him, and he showed no reaction. He didn’t even turn to see where the honking was coming from. So I honked again, and again, and again. Still no reaction. I was so tempted to report him to his company. 

Case #3: In Singapore, there is a traffic rule regarding the yellow box. The principle behind this yellow box is you cannot stop in it so that other cars can use it to turn into the road or to let other cars pass. I’m to lazy to explain in more detail or more properly so for the non-Singaporeans, I know it’s a bit confusing, but don’t bother too much about this. Anyway, I was driving home from brunch yesterday with Sis B and this stupid car stopped at the yellow box. So I stopped near his car and pretty much waited for him to get out of my way. The driver, out of embarrassment or just plain ignorance, stayed put in the yellow box. What annoyed me most, there was enough space for him to move forward to so that I could maneuver and get on with my driving. But no, he just stayed there and refused to look at me. I’m not staying he should look at me (or worse, stare), but at least he could just gave me an apologetic wave and tried to make amend by making the effort to move up a bit. 

It annoys me too that when I give way to other drivers, they don’t give me the thank you wave. They don’t even signal when changing lanes. And when I don’t give way to them, they honk at me as if I am the baddie. I can’t read your mind, how am I supposed to know you’re changing lane if you don’t signal?!

I am now on a mission to spread courtesy on the roads in Singapore. I wave, I signal, and I even willingly change lane when I see another car behind me itching to go faster. Isn’t that nice of me?

The best country I’ve driven in is New Zealand. I was so impressed by the kindness and niceness of the drivers there. We were driving on a two-lane road, and we came across this car that was driving soooo slowly. We immediately thought, oh great, we’re going to be stuck here for a while, when, to our surprise, the car in front pulled to the side of the road, stopped, and signaled for us to move first. We were just floored. We were having a great time enjoying the scenery in New Zealand, and this incident just confirmed that New Zealanders are the nicest people on earth because, if you live in a country that beautiful, how can you not be nice? Except for that dude who threw a hedgehog at a kid’s face; he’s the black sheep of the country. Every Singapore driver should go to New Zealand and learn driving courtesy there.

 

PS: Another great thing about New Zealand is, that the country is so damn beautiful that even the animals are nice. This is proven by a group of dolphins who saved a swimmer from a shark attack by swimming in circles around him. When I read this in the news a while back and found out it happened in New Zealand, I thought, of course, it wouldn’t happen anywhere else in the world. I guess I could say this post contains a not so subliminal message for New Zealand tourism.

Movie Review: The Dark Knight

OMG.

I freaking love this movie.

First, the acting is unbelievable. Heath Ledger’s Joker is sick. He is psychotic, disturbed, deranged, insane, wicked… everything that makes a villain great. His body language, his voice, his eyes… it’s such a pity that we will never see him be Joker again. But what a great legacy he has left behind. If he doesn’t get an Oscar nomination for his performance, then the Academy needs to be disbanded, seriously. Christian Bale, Michael Caine, Morgan Freeman, Aaron Eckhart, Gary Oldman, Maggie Gylenhall… you have to credit Christopher Nollan for casting these actors. They really lived these characters, and they really show how they have grown since the first movie. Christian Bale is the perfect Batman. Yes, I am biased, considering I’ve had a crush on him since Empire of the Sun, but it is about time he is being recognized for being the brilliant actor that he is. I’m a bit disappointed that he reached this level of recognition through a blockbuster movie (has anyone seen The Machinist? Yeah, thought so), but I am glad that this blockbuster movie is not the conventional Michael Bay crap (though Transformers redeemed him of his past sins) of blowing stuff up and cliche love story. And can I say how happy I am to see Maggie Gylenhall as Rachel Dawes? As soft and gentle her features are, she has that inner strength that portrays Dawes’ toughness and vulnerability that is more believable than Katie Holmes.

Second, the storyline is so real. The battle between good and evil, the grey areas our heroes got pulled into, and the ethical and moral limits they are pushed against… it’s so real and it makes you think as an audience. This movie is such an intelligent action movie that does more than just car chases and fight sequences. You feel the pain and the moral questions the characters have to answer to. The dialogues are poignant, each scene folds to the next with such edginess that I even found myself holding my breath a few times. Both Batman Begins and Dark Knight stay true to the graphic comics that they are based on, and this is how Batman is supposed to be. The grey areas are portrayed such that you can either go towards the light or keep falling to the dark, and you can justify each action fairly. Even the way Joker rationalizes his evilness, you kind of have to agree with what he says about anarchy and chaos, as sick as it is. If you want the PG 13 superhero movie, go watch Fantastic Four. 

Thirdly, what can I say about the action sequence? If you think Batman Begins is cool, The Dark Knight is even better. There is a sense of evolution in this movie that connects the two movies together. The gadgets, the car, the motorcycle thingy… James Bond, eat your heart out. 

I will be accused of being biased for this fourth reason, and I will proudly admit that I am being biased… Chicago. I literally started jumping in my seat when I saw the Wrigley Building, the Daley Plaza, the Chicago River, the blue and white license plate, the underground roads which, by the way, if you are unfamiliar with Chicago, you should avoid at all costs because you will be stuck there forever.  I know Christopher Nollan chose Chicago for Batman Begins for the El and the underground roads, but I am so grateful that he shows more of Chicago in Dark Knight. It’s so exciting that the superhero world went away from typical (dare I say predictable too?) New York and LA. I am excited that Chicago now represents Gotham City, when previously the fictional city has been associated more with New York. Chicago represents, yo! Now I’m homesick.

I hope there will be a third installment, and the darker this movie gets, the more real it’s become, and that’s what sets The Dark Knight apart from the other superhero movies. Moreover, the storyline is universal and it will never get out of fashion as long as humanity still exists. Kudos to Christopher Nollan and his team. This is THE movie of our generation.

 

PS: A movie that may give Dark Knight a run for its money is Watchmen (released in 2009). I remember spending hours at Borders reading the comics when I was going through my Alan Moore phase, and I can assure you Watchmen will really make you rethink the definition of good and evil. And in the hand of Zack Snyder, the director of 300, you know this movie will blow your mind away. Watch the trailer (http://www.apple.com/trailers/wb/watchmen/) and embrace the anticipation.

Heaven Inc.

As I was driving to work this morning, I was thinking how close I was yesterday to cutting open my eyebrow or losing my two front teeth, thanks to the wide leg pants with cuffs and my pointy shoes. Having been raised as a Catholic in a devout Catholic environment, I tend to believe in the premise of guardian angels. Though I am now a self-proclaimed Agnostic, my Catholic background still creeps up every now and again. And this morning it crept up on me and (believe it or not) it made me rather grateful that someone up there was looking at me.

Then it got me thinking further (obviously the drive to work was rather boring). How many people are there on Earth? 6 billion people, thereabout? So God, if He does exist, is responsible for the well being of 6 billion people, regardless of religion because, if God judges people through what they believe in, then He is not the kind of God we should worship. Anyway, ok, 6 billion people. That’s a lot of people. So I’m sure He has assistants, to help Him look after these 6 billion people. Say, for easy classifications, He divides his assistans and assigned them based on people’s birthdays. So there’ll be some Angel or Saint assigned to each month of the year. Then, within each month, there’ll be more Angels or Saints assigned to date ranges in that month. I know my December guardian angel is Hazkael (or something like that), and I’m sure somewhere in Heaven, he is right now listening to his subordinates on their attempts to help the helpless mortals (i.e. us) from driving themselves further into temptation or disasters. I’m quite sure that there’s some nameless Angel or Saint who is describing to Hazkael now how he prevented me from falling TWICE yesterday. I hope Hazkael asked him why he let me fall the other day in the parking lot. But at least he made sure that no one was around when I fell, so I forgave him for that.

God would probably have monthly meetings with his Saints and Angels too, in his boardroom in Heaven. I wonder what they’d talk about. Does Hazkael update him on his department client servicing activities? Do they talk about the issues in Middle East? Do they talk about how to warn people of natural disasters that are about to happen? Do they strategise how to ‘punish’ people by letting natural disasters happen so that they will repent after losing their family and material things? Do they discuss which soul is to be given to the fetus in a woman’s belly? Do they observe us and laugh at the stupid things we do?

I wonder too if these Saints and Angels fight each other and play office politics to get promoted. Apart from Lucifer, has anyone else been fired from Heaven? Do these Saints and Angels have lunches together? But being the immortal beings that they are, they probably don’t eat anyway. Do they have an annual dinner and dance? Sexual harrassment clause? Do they have a party when it’s Jesus’ birthday?

What I would give to be a fly on Heaven Inc’s wall. But that probably means I’d have to die first. Unless I can build a ladder to Heaven and spy on them myself without the inconvenience of death.

I am my own worst enemy

Background story #1:
Sometime during my junior year in college, my buddies and I seriously got into tennis. So serious that we were actually playing 2-3 sets a day everyday (though it lasted for only a week, but that is a major achievement for us lazy bums). Considering I once represented my junior high in a national tennis tournament, I had a bit of air about me being the best tennis player in our group.
We were playing doubles, and I was serving to this guy, who is overweight and has never hold a tennis racket in his life. I gave him a considerably soft serve, knowing he would not be able to return it otherwise. However, through sheer beginner’s luck, he returned my serve so perfectly that I stopped on my track momentarily before running after the ball. For some reason, I was in shock a little longer than I realized, and before I knew it, the ball hit my crotch. At 120 miles an hour.
I could only imagine how painful it must have been for guys to be hit between the legs until that day. That day, I experienced such immense pain that I could do nothing but keeled over and lay on the ground in a fetal position. I tried not to cry, because there’s no crying in tennis. From that day onwards, I stop underestimating overweight dudes.

2. Background story #2:
Also sometime during junior year at college, we trashed IU in the most humiliating manner at Ross Aide. The student section was just living it up, throwing cups and abuse at the IU bench, and this guy decided to rush the field. Needless to say, the cops were on him immediately. Five minutes after this kid got arrested, the players went up to the student section and started pulling us down to the field. The cops could not be bothered to arrest all of us so they let us roam free on the field. I’m quite sure that kid who rushed and got arrested is still kicking himself for not waiting for another five minutes. It’s almost tragic.
Anyway, we were happily walking on the field, after all, this was our first and last time rushing Ross Aide, and I was happily chatting away as I normally do. The next section of this story is verbatim from my buddy KY: I was just walking and pretending to listen to you (KY is a guy, obviously) when suddenly I didn’t hear your voice anymore. I got worried because you probably noticed I was half-listening and had gotten mad at me, so I turned to look at you. Only I couldn’t find you. I looked around me, and you were nowhere to be seen. Then somehow I decided to look down, and there you were, flat on the ground. The funny thing is, there was nothing anywhere near us that would trip you and make you fall. So how the hell did you end up there?
My answer: there was a TV cable, and by the time KY saw me on the ground, the TV crew had gone elsewhere along with the cable. Of course no one ever buys my story of the phantom cable. But I swear, that was what tripped me.

Background story #3:
I was living in Beijing, and it was fall. I had the urge to eat instant noodles, so I boiled some water. As I was pouring the water into the bowl of instant noodles using my left hand, for reason that is beyond my own understanding, my right hand decided it needed washing. So, I burned my own hand. Despite having put my injured hand under running water for minutes till my fingers turned pruny, gigantic blisters still formed on the middle and ring fingers, and my pinky. What did I do next? I consulted Dr. Peng online and checked WebMd.com. So the next day I went to get some needles and sterile solution, I was going to do it the GI Jane way and treat my own burnt fingers. As long as I kept everything clean, I would be all right.
However, I had a vision of my own clumsiness doing more damage to my already damaged fingers. My overactive imagination started imagining things like what happened if I got myself infected? I was in Beijing after all! The air alone carries so much dirt and germs. So, I let myself be persuaded to see a local doctor at our school’s hospital by my Beijing crew. They were worried for me, but at the same time found the whole thing very entertaining. (Prior to burning my fingers, I tripped over a stool and fell at a club, then a week later, I sprained my ankle). They escorted me to the hospital, which could very well have come out from a Stephen King’s novel. I can’t even begin to describe how delipidated the building was, and how could I even trust that they would do a better job than me using a sewing needle to pop my blisters?
An old Chinese doctor saw me and was shocked at the size of my blisters. He then took a syringe and used it to pop my blisters (see, I could’ve done this at the comfort of my own apartment) . I was in so much fear of the hygiene in this hospital that I started crying. My friends thought I was being overly dramatic; I was at first, but the old Chinese doctor also poked my healthy flesh with the syringe while draining my blister. My limited Chinese was not adequate enough to tell this old guy that his eyesight was failing him and that he was now hurting me more. So I just cried. And he patted my shoulder, telling me “Bie ku le.” (= don’t cry). I would stop crying if you took that needle out of my healthy finger! But he was old and he was nice to me, so I forgave him in the end.
I can still see the faint marks on my fingers from this misadventure that started from a craving for an instant noodle. I use oven gloves now more often in the kitchen.

Why I am writing this post:
I fell down a few days ago at the parking lot. If you ask me how I fell, I’d tell you that there was a TV cable. Truth is, I tripped over my own foot. Luckily, no one was around, but like Sis B said, there probably was an old auntie sitting behind a wheel who saw me trip and fall and started laughing at me in the safety of her car.
Then today, I tripped myself twice and nearly fell. Thankfully I did not fall. Had I fallen the first time, I would probably be needing another 7 stitches on my eyebrows. Had I fallen the second time, I would have lost my two front teeth.
I tried to analze how I could possible tripped myself THREE times.
Conclusion: my obsession for wide leg pants. On both days, I am wearing wide leg pants with folded cuffs. Apparently, my pointy shoes tend to get themselves caught on these cuffs. Hence tripping me over. Note to self: pair wide leg pants with round toe shoes.

If you know anyone who is a bigger hazard to themselves, please let me know. I would love to compare stories.

If I were Ruler of the Universe, I would destroy and ban ALL PCs

I am not stating that because I am a Mac user now.

I am stating that because PCs SUCK.  And I am probably a little bias because I am a Mac user now.

Let me describe to you the battle I go through everyday with this piece of technology called the PC:

Belle arrives at office, turns on computer. She waits for the computer to start up, and she is enjoying her morning coffee while waiting. After about a minute and two sips of coffee, the screen to enter her password appears. She types in the password, and waits again. She continues to enjoy her coffee. After about another minute, the desktop screen loads up. But she has to wait for at least two minutes for the computer to be ready for use. That is fine, since she is still enjoying her coffee.

After two minutes, she tries to open her Outlook. She clicks on the icon and but nothing happens. She figures it will take a while to load, so she opens the internet explorer. Nothing happens also. By now, she has wasted about five minutes waiting for her computer to be ready. Now Belle, contrary to popular belief, is a very busy girl and hates wasting her time at work. If she is to waste her time at work, good food or some serious goofing off would better be involved.

So five minutes have passed since she plopped her tush at her desk, and she has done nothing so far but wait and drink coffee. The caffeine does not help because right now Belle is getting very agitated and about to make the computer work faster by banging the side of the PC. Thankfully internet explorer loads up and she is able to check her personal email. About the same time, Outlook finally loads too and now she can check her work email. Crisis averted. Or so she thinks.

While trying to switch between windows, Outlook to Explorer, to Microsoft Excel, to MSN (used to discuss work issues with her coworkers), Belle also has to wait. There is no smooth transition between windows, which means she has to wait. Again. Belle resists the urge to scream. All this waiting equals to time wasted and nothing annoys Belle more at the work place than time wasted over nothing.

Sometime during the day, Belle is working on her monthly report which includes a lot of data entry and anaylsing it. Suddenly a small window pops up and she accidentally hits enter, because the next step in her data entry is to hit enter, and the stupid small window pops up unannounced and unexpectedly she cannot stop her finger from hitting the enter button until it is too late. She sits in horror as one by one, her running programs closes without any prompt to save. The computer is now restarting. Belle has to get some coffee to calm herself.

When she comes back five minutes later, the computer is still restarting. She sits back at her desk, sips her coffee and thinks of happy things while waiting for the vicious cycle to start all over again.

Now, let’s compare what Belle goes through everyday when working on her Apple iBook. Belle presses the power button, and in 10 seconds (or even less) the screen comes up for Belle to enter her username and password. After doing so, it takes another 10 seconds (or even less) for the desktop screen to load, and within mere seconds, she can open as many programs as she wants and starts working on whatever it is that needs working. Let’s count how long Belle has to wait. And compare that to the time it takes to operate a PC.

Belle easily opens and closes windows, changing between Safari, Office, Excel, Quicktime, iTunes, MSN, Skype, and the list goes on…. No time wasted on waiting. When a Mac needs updating for its software, it does so in the most polite way. There is still a small window popping out of nowhere, but it does not make itself so prominent that you are spared of the consequences of hitting the enter button too fast. Now, isn’t that very thoughtful of the Apple folks?

Now, let’s say you’re a manager of a company of 20 staff, and you all use PCs. They’ll be wasting at least 5 minutes everyday waiting for the stupid thing to load. Now, let’s calculate 5 minutes per person, in a company of 20 people. ONE HUNDRED MINUTES. AT LEAST. PER DAY. Sounds like a lot of time lost over nothing. Compare that to Mac. 10 seconds and 20 staff. See the difference?

I know I should appreciate PC because I would not be writing this right now in this media had it not been invented, but by God, can they PLEASE work on its efficiency? If Steve Jobs can do it with Mac, why can’t the others do the same? (One answer and I’m sticking to it: Steve Jobs is a super genius). So yes, if I were ruler of the Universe, I would get rid of all PCs and replace them with Mac. I’d take care of those war things going on in the Middle East first (I have my priorities), but after that, it’s the PCs I’d be waging war against.

PS: Those who are more computer literate than I am, you are free to comment but do not judge my decision to switch to Mac. And don’t tell me about the features I can use to make my PC go faster or whatever, because that’s not the point. The point is, the PC should work as fast as Mac does without any additional thing that I have to do to make it happen.