7-Year (B)Itch

29th February 2008

"Hello, hello," she said repeatedly, with a smile brightly lighting up her face as she took her seat at the other end of the table.

"Oh, Hi Stella. So how's the wedding? Saw the pics on your Facebook...." Her words slowly faded into the background, as my subconscious took over, and I started scrutinizing the changes on her countenance.

"Oh, Pamela, how have you been? What are you doing now?" she asked eagerly as I continued to sip my Lime Frozen Daiquiri. Time hasn't been particularly kind to her; while still largely recognizable in an instant, closer scrutiny only brought to my attention the changes in the details, particularly the loss of the youthfulness that was locked into my memories. Then again, it is hardly surprising considering it has been a good 7 years or so since I (or any of us, for that matter) last saw her.

She moved down one row of the table and turned to her other side, in shock, unable to recognize the face that was before her. "Deyao?! Wow, I can hardly recognize you, you've changed so much," she uttered.

"Then do you recognize him?" Jason asked, pointing in my direction.

I looked down at the table as I continued to sip my drink.

"Of course, that's the asshole, Jer. Of course I recognize him," she replied. And that was the beginning of the busy laughter-filled conversation that filled the empty halls of the Shanghai Bar on a Friday night.

We spoke of the present, as she wanted to know the gist of our lives; where we worked, what we did, what we were into, who we were seeing, and all the other needless details that only mattered because of the timeless friendship that we shared.

"So what do you do at work then? Just play games?" she asked me.

"Well, partially, but I prefer to call it Game Research," I replied with a slight grin on my face. "But I do a lot of other things too. I'm like an everything-man in the company."

"Oh really? Like what?" she asked skeptically.

"Well, I do presentations, documentation, creative work, and technical implementation; basically everything that sprouts from Design upwards."

"That doesn't sound that hard. You don't need to program or anything." she replied typically.

"Hah. That's where you're wrong. I needed the programming to understand the process and the logic that goes behind the development. Like the limitations for instance." I answered, eager to prove my point.

"Hah. Like what?" she asked, equally eager to disprove my point.

"Like fluids simulation...." as I went on a continuous rant of my knowledge to silence her while baffling the rest of the bystanders.

She was always this questioning, and some things never change.

We spoke of the future. With talk about career advancement, job prospects and (very scarily) marriage; roughly where were we all intending to be and what we hope to achieve in the next 1 or 2 years.

"Its just scary, to know all of you gals are getting married soon," I said.

"Why? What's wrong with people wanting to get married?" she replied.

"Well, for me, its like marriage is not even in the most remote recesses of my mind at the moment. There are so many other things I want to do. But I guess I understand, I mean for us guys, we still have quite a long ways to go; after all men are like wine, and we only get more refined with age. Well, for you gals, I guess most gals at 25 are already starting to realize that they are starting to go *ahem* over-the-hill, so its only natural that most gals at 25 already want to consider marriage," I explained dogmatically.

"My ass, man. Who the hell told you that?" she vehemently rebutted as she slammed down her beer mug. ""Men may be like wine, but women are like... like grass. We are evergreen."

She was always this argumentative, and some things never change.

Most importantly, we spoke of the past. And indeed, nostalgia ran thick as we collectively dabbled in our childhood memories. The catchphrase of the night had to be "Do you remember....", as we used this primer to recount the nitty-gritty details that littered our childhood days; from recounting the bad habits of the teachers that taught us, to our collective attempt in trying to recollect the faces and the personalities of the ex-classmates buried in the deep recesses of our memories.

We laughed about the acts of mischief we got ourselves into: pranks we played on the *ahem* less popular classmates (that were obviously not at the table), and even the rivalries and arguments between the few of us at the table. But the peak of the nostalgia had to be collectively piecing together our sitting arrangement back in Primary 5 for our entire column, filling in the blanks of the spaces in between us with the pieces scattered throughout our collective memory.

Indeed, Primary School was a memorable time; a simple and happy time, where we meant every sound of laughter and every tear we cried much more than we do now. We were far less political, with far lesser agendas, and far more sincerity. The only reason we clicked the way we did was simply because we wanted to; nothing more, nothing less. And while time and tide has pushed all of us in different directions in the Sea of Life, it is good to know that there are some bonds that at least thread on despite the turbulent torrents of Time.

As the clock struck 2, we were tired from laughing and consciously aware of our outstanding presence amidst the empty bar. We made our way out of the bar as she said her farewells; farewells that would at least last another year till she next returns to the island.

"Bye, Roder. It was nice seeing you." she said.

"Bye Jason, thanks for organizing this gathering. Take care of yourself," as she bid farewell to each individual.

Then it came to me.

"Bye, Jer. Stop being such an asshole."

Yep, indeed. Some things never change.

My Fare Lady

Mr. Snyde: You know what date it is today, the all-knowing Dr. Jerkyll?

Dr. Jerkyll: Of course. Its the 29th of Febuary, a rare occurance every 4 years, a leap year. Is there a point you would like to make in regard to this, Mr. Snyde?

Mr. Snyde: Well, nothing except the bugging question of why the hell are you reading Sunday's Lifestyle section 5 days late?

Dr. Jerkyll: Oh, that. Well, that is because there is this particular article that really caught my eye. One titled, "Do Singapore women expect too much?"

Mr. Snyde: Sounds interesting, rather unexpected of such an article to catch your attention, but still, hit me with what you've got.

Dr. Jerkyll: Certainly. The highlight of the article was a survey conducted on some Singaporean women. And the results are as follows.

[Flips open the newspaper]

Dr. Jerkyll: Ah here we go.... it says that 80 percent of Singaporean women expect their boyfriends to pay on dates and 92 percent of men will do so.

Mr. Snyde: Well, you can count me into the 92 percent of obliging gentlemen. Most of the time, at least.

Dr. Jerkyll: Ahem. 50 percent of the women expect men to open the doors to cars and restaurants and 88 percent of the men will do so.

Mr. Snyde: Hmm, this is a tough one. I do the doors to restaurants and all, but cars, well... not so much. But I guess more so than not, so you can count me into the 88 percent of well-mannered gentlemen.

Dr. Jerkyll: I didn't really ask for your involvement in this statistics, but well, no matter. 90 percent of the women expect men to send their girlfriends home after a date and 94 percent of men will do so.

My. Snyde: Oh, for this case, I'm in the 94 percent of thoughtful gentlemen who would ensure the lady's safety. Well... again, most of the time, at least.

Dr. Jerkyll: And "most" being the times which happen to be convenient for you I would suppose?

Mr. Snyde: Tsk, tsk. Details, details.

Dr. Jerkyll: Of course, just some selective omission of some rather "minor" details. Carrying on, 96 percent of women expect their boyfriends to initiate the celebration of special occasions such as anniversaries and birthdays and 92 percent of men will do so.

Mr. Snyde: Hah. This I can say for a fact that I am very much in league of extraordinary gentlemen that make up the 92 percent, considering my repeated emphasis on the meanings behind such occasions.

Dr. Jerkyll: Of course, not to mention the exorbitant amount you spend at each of these "culturally and metaphorically significant" events, to the extent that the annual amount of celebrations you end up paying for in 1 year, outweigh your partner by 14:1. The 1 being your birthday.

Mr. Snyde: Hah. But money is but material, my overly practical Dr. Jerkyll; the meaning behind such memories stretch far beyond the dollar. But still, its not like someone as out-of-the-field as yourself would be able to understand.

[Looks down at the newspaper and reads out in a louder tone than normal.]

Dr. Jerkyll: 88 percent of women expect their boyfriends to dress up for special occasions such as Valentine's Day and birthdays while 79 percent of men will do so.

Mr. Snyde: Hah. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, I am in that 79 percent of well-groomed gentlemen, always dressed-to-the-nines with my hair almost always in perfect form, I'm sure even YOU cannot rebutt that fact, right?

Dr. Jerkyll: ....................24 percent of women expect their boyfriends to carry their handbags and 70 percent of men will do so.

Mr. Snyde: What? 70 percent of men are willing to be such idiots? I'm glad that I'm not one of these idiotic fools and I sure as hell am glad that ONLY 24 percent of bimbotic women have such expectations of their boyfriends.

Dr. Jerkyll: Amusing. So why are you not in the league of these 70 percent of extraordinary gentlemen then, my dear Mr. Snyde?

Mr. Snyde: Hah. The reason is simple, because I don't want to look like a stupid mofo carrying a gal's handbag and utterly ruining my previously mentioned always-dressed-to-the-nines image. There is a reason why I myself don't carry a bag, you know.

Dr. Jerkyll: So its all about the image then?

Mr. Snyde: Well, mostly. But a little bit because of the philosophy of "To each his own burden." And since I take it upon myself to minimize the things in my hands, why should I be covering the asses of gals who can't do the same, despite how pretty their asses might be? In turn, letting them enjoy the privilege that I spoil myself with my planned-minimalism at my expense.

Dr. Jerkyll: Unexpectedly convincing Mr. Snyde. You never fail to surprise me. But there is a greater point of worry here.

Mr. Snyde: What? What could be more important than looking like a stupid mofo?

Dr. Jerkyll: Well, if you would take a moment to step out of your over-indulgence yourself, then you would realise that the bigger issue at hand is actually the exorbitant expectation of Singapore women.

Mr. Snyde: So what bugs you so much then?

Dr. Jerkyll: Well, I'm a distinguished man of science and logic, and I admit that I have hardly any idea what goes behind the clockwork of romance, but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to see the flaws the in concept of "equality" and "equilibrium" here.

Mr. Snyde: What does equality and equilibrium have to do with this?

Dr. Jerkyll: Well, in equality, there is a measurement of fairness; both sides of the scale have to weigh out to be worth the same amount of salt. Considering the mantras preached by these women state that they are worth the same amount of social salt as their male counterparts, it is bitterly ironic that their expectations of treatment from their counterparts stretch well beyond the boundaries of Equality, transcending very much into the realm of being the higher beings, thus deserving of such positively-discriminatory privileges. And what drives you to succumb to bestowing such privileges on the ladies then, Mr. Snyde? If you would please indulge me.

Mr. Snyde: Well, for me, as much as I do see a gal as an equal on a mental and emotional level, I am still more than willing to go the extra mile to give my dates such privileged treatment; not not because they want and expect me to do so, but purely due to the fact that I think that they deserve to feel special.

Dr. Jerkyll: So you are saying that such privileged treatment from you is more like a gift, one on a more emotionally-resounding level, perhaps?

Mr. Snyde: Well, you can put it that way I guess.

Dr. Jerkyll: If that is the case, and if it is entirely out of free-will as you so say, then would it be perfectly fine for you to stop the emotional-generosity and decide to stop handing out such privileges, am I right? After all, if it is a gift, then the power is entirely upon the giver to decide when to give or to not give the gift, isn't it?

Mr. Snyde: Well, yes. Theoretically, that would be the case. BUT, I wouldn't be getting any skirts if I decided to do that.

Dr. Jerkyll: And why so?

Mr. Snyde: Because I would fall way be totally ungentlemanly and probably turn them off big-time.

Dr. Jerkyll: Hah. but the point is, Mr. Snyde, that if it is the ladies are merely receivers of such "gifts" and privileges, then as the respective words suggest, they were entitlements given by the other party, and not anything that even came close to belonging to the ladies in the first place, is it not? Thus, it is wrong for them to form such "expectations" of receiving these gifts without having done anything to have earned them, is it not?

Mr. Snyde: I hate to say this, but in a way you are right Dr. Jerkyll. But still, no matter how logical it may sound when you put it on paper, the reality of the situation is that these "expectaions" have somewhat established themselves as the unsaid rules and invisible price tags in the Dating Game, rules that men have to adhere to.

Dr. Jerkyll: So the situation is that of a very twisted "equilibrium" then, is it not? 1 that exists without the notion of equality. With the unfair expectations developed by women, men have come to terms with forgoing the notion of attempting to achieve true equality and succumb to this unproportionate "norm", and furthering fueling the poisoning words of "should" or "only natural" or "I deserve" in the minds of women, allowing them to continue down this path of warped equality.

Mr. Snyde: Sigh. Sad but true, Dr. Jerkyll. But sader is the fact that this trend is probably not going to change anytime soon, at lesat not in Singapore. Everything on the island comes with a price, and fulfilling such expectations and probably seen as a sort of "fare" that men are willing to pay to even standing a remote chance of getting into skirts.

Dr. Jerkyll: Sadly, such are the circumstances that the thoughts of one man, no matter how distinguished cannot change.

Mr. Snyde: Why thank you Dr. Jerkyll, I think so too.

Dr. Jerkyll: ............................. Well, let's turn the tables around and talk about what you, as a man in the field, expect out of the women that you date then.

Mr. Snyde: Oh, that's easy. I'm a simple man, the gal just has to satisfy any single 1 of my 5 criteria to justify my dating her.

Dr. Jerkyll: Oh? And what might those criteria be, may I ask?

Mr. Snyde: Oh, nothing too tough. The gal has to be either:

#1 Classy and Sophisticated

#2 Sweet and Simple

#3 Hot and Sexy

#4 Cute and Friendly

#5 Cool and Character

Its a case of "or", not a case of "and"; nothing too hard to fulfill. Of course, the more fulfilled, the merrier, but still. See I told you I was a simple man.

Dr. Jerkyll:...................................................

Valentine's Day 2008: Morton's of Chicago

14th Febuary 2008

"Good evening. I will be presenting to you our menu for today," the waitress said, as she pushed a tray of plastic -wrapped food samples next to our table and started going down the list of items on the menu, in an excitedly-hurried tone.

For appetizers, we have..." she went on, as I stared at the five slabs of beef plastic-wrapped on the top of the tray, my eyes fixated on the second biggest piece. "Here at Morton's, we are known for our steaks," she continued, as my ears bent forward to pick up the name of the piece that I was eyeing. "Any questions, I hope you don't have any, because I''m so thristy," she quipped cheekily after finishing her drowning rant that was probably already deeply rooted into her memory.

My eyes glanced down the menu quickly, just for an affirmation of the name of the main course that I desired, before raising up head to absorb the ambience of the restaurant as she continued to stare down the menu, visibly indecisive on what to go with.

The restuarant was generally dimly-lit with the orange glow of candlelight that perfectly suited the required ambience for a Valentine's Day choice of locale. While the restuarant was drowned with the hustle and bustle of busy waiters and indulgant couples, the level of noise in the restaurant didn't deter it from its romantic ambience; albeit in a slightly different way.

True to the "Chicago" part of its name, the restaurant presented a very American vibe, one that had the necessary candlelight, the rowdy laughter and busy waiters, often seen in Hollywood movies; but yet, at the same time, similar to its Hollywood depictions, all the surrounding distractions were hardly enough for the involved couple to continue indulging in each others' gaze.

The Perfect Prop

I stared down at the complimentary opening dish, a dome-shaped loaf of bread, wondering how best to go about consuming it, as I stole glances at the surrounding tables for a hint on the direction of approach; before finally deciding to follow the cue of the elegant lady behind me, and use the most primal of utensils, the hands.

The bread was well-baked with a tinge of herb and spice akin to that of the bread used in tuna-buns, save for the fact that it was entirely blown out of proportion. "This is the filler-dish, the type of dish that ensures that you'll be full by the time you leave the restaurant," I told her, as we proceeded on to place our orders.

The waitress manouevured past the flurry of movement and action of the other busy waiters to serve us our appetizer. It was somewhat ironic that my mental and emotional refuge for the insanely busy week I was undergoing was amidst the hustle and bustle of a busy restuarant on Valentine's Day. But the sensation of being able to sit in the stillness of adorable company proved to be the calm eye in the storm of hastiness and speed; and proved to be entirely refreshing both on an emotional and a mental level.

A parallel to the refreshing taste of lemon that I exerted on over our Scallop wrapped with Bacon appetizer. Dicing it up into managable chunks, I rolled the piece in the provided apricot sauce and sampled the concoction. The taste of the dish was an incredible multi-layered sensation, that provided the fresh seafood juiciness of the Scallop, complimented with the freshness of the lemon as the base flavour, a salty outer-layer of perfectly-smoked bacon, and with a sweet finish thanks to the works of the apricot sauce. It was a pity that the serving only came in the magical number of 3.

Despite the small serving, the appetizers did their part in whetting our appetities and paving the road of anticipation to our main courses, the Grilled Salmon Fillet for the lady, and the very potentially-satisfying Porterhouse Steak for the Count.

The Salmon Fillet was of considerable quality, as the difference between the mid-ranged Salmon Fillet and the high-quality ones fundamentally comes down to the amounts of fine bone in the fillet. And as far as the Salmon for the night was concerned, it was a delight to consume; not to mention the complimenting cream-based sauce that drenched the fillet in aroma and flavour.

Cheerful on Contemplative

But the real star of the night was sitting on my side of the table. I knew she was "the one" the moment that I laid my eyes on her as the waitress narrated away on the menu for the night. The Porterhouse Steak was a slab of beef that has a fillet on one side, and a T-bone on the other. Perfectly grilled to a medium-grill of tenderness, juiciness and bloodiness (perfectly attuned to a Vampire's liking), the steak filled my senses with sparkly-eyed wonder as I took the first bite. Indeed, it was the best beef the Count has consumed since the aromatic Kobe Beef, and perhaps, it does indeed stay true to the restaurants given slogan, perhaps.

Utterly Convinced

In fact, the steak was so good that it even had the darling turning pagan and yearning for more after taking a starter bite. Speaking of which, there has probably been too much talk prior to the date on how Valentine's Day is considered the "Pagan's Holiday" and whatnot. All around, I hear dual-ended cliches, from the melancholic nocturne of "I don't believe in celebrating Valentine's Day" to the saccharine-sweet melody of "Everyday can be Valentine's Day."

Yet, nothing can compare to the sweetness that was the dessert that brought our Valentine's Dinner to a close. The trademark Hot Chocolate Cake was the incarnation of sin, and yet, every inch worth dying for. Served with Haagen-Daaz Vanilla Ice Cream, the hot chocolate fudge oozed out of the corners of the hot, crusted chocolate ring in a marvelous, beckoning splendour; and easily put lesser hot chocolate cakes to shame simply by the merit of the pastry alone.

Hell Freezes Over

Despite all the cynical talk of the over-commercialization of Valentine's Day, with the needless effort to fret over making a booking for a jam-packed restaurant, only to pay exorbidant prices, all in the name of a special occasion; I still believe that Valentine's Day is only worth as much celebration as one chooses to make of it. The detractors will never be convinced, the cynics will never beam in the light and the unintiated will never grasp the knowledge of the meaning behind the occasion. But for those, who can scratch deep under the sound and fury that is commercialization and delve deeper into the signified under the signifier, at the end of the rainbow of romance is the heart of the reason and cause for celebration, and a pot full of golden memories. No prizes on correct guesses on which side of the rainbow she and I are on.

Sex in the Box

Mr. Snyde: Can I ask you a question Dr. Jerkyll?

Dr. Jerkyll: Only if you stop dealing with rhetoric.

Mr. Snyde: Huh?

Dr. Jerkyll: Nevermind. So what can I do you for today, Mr. Snyde?

Mr. Snyde: Well, its about your recent tagline, you know, the "Sex in the Box" one, what in the blue hell does that mean?

Dr. Jerkyll: Well, take a guess. You've got nothing to lose.

Mr. Snyde: Well, if I didn't know you any better, I would guess that it is one of your supposedly witty puns, perhaps of a certain child's toy, the Jack-in-the-Box, perhaps?

Dr. Jerkyll: Partially correct Mr. Snyde, but not entirely. There is a reason for the missing dashes and a meaning far beyond the meaning of the 4 words taken alone.

Mr. Snyde: Hmm, indulge me then, the oh-so-wise-Dr. Jerkyll.

Dr. Jerkyll: Indeed I shall. The key word lies in the word "Sex," a physical drive that is held in regard as the ultimate emotional expression, call it what you like, "making love" and whatnot, but Sex is essentially, well, Sex, no matter how you slice it. And it is commonly believed to be one of the biggest outbursts of emotion that one can express.

Mr. Snyde: Now you got me listening.

Dr. Jerkyll: Ahem, anyway, as I was saying. So when you put Sex, an "expression," a supposedly "free" and "natural" thing, within the confines of the other 3 words, perhaps you will start to see what I am getting at.

Mr. Snyde: ...................

Dr. Jerkyll: Still don't get it? Hardly surprised. Not everyone has the same penchant for irony, I would figure.

Mr. Snyde: Who needs wit and irony when you have killer good looks and overwhelming charisma?

Dr. Jerkyll: Yes yes, who could resist? But as I was saying, so imagine, if even your strongest expression of emotion, through "Sex" in confined "in the box," what more any of your lesser emotions, like laughter, joy and sorrow?

Mr. Snyde: Wait a minute, that sounds awfully familiar, isn't this from a song?

Dr. Jerkyll: Perhaps you are more attuned than I had anticipated. But yes, it indeed is from a song. And as the rest of the song goes:

dream in the box, person in the box

vibe in the box, time in the box

Mr. Snyde: Ok, I'm starting to get it, so what you are trying to say is that all this; all we think, we hold true, we experience, we perceive; are all being confined within a supposed "box" right?

Dr. Jerkyll: Indeed. And no prizes for correct guesses on what that "box" is.

Mr. Snyde: Of course, its freakin' obvious its the walls of "society" and "societal norms."

Dr. Jerkyll: Perhaps there is SOME hope for you afterall.

Mr. Snyde: What did you say?

Dr. Jerkyll: Nevermind, I digress. The point is, everything we do, we think and we feel, are largely contained within this large box; our expression of emotions, our perception of time, our expectations of what it is to be a "person," even many of our dreams are still very much "in the box," no matter how you think that it is totally left to the freedom of your will to determine these things.

Mr. Snyde: Somewhat true I believe, depressing but true.

Dr. Jerkyll: So it begs the question then, what would it mean to be "out of the box"? Any ideas, Mr. Snyde?

Mr. Snyde: Hmm, "out of the box" is such an overused terms, especially from the mouths of educators today. I remember there was this one time, during this Physics class that I attended, and we were discussing the solution to this question that no one in the class could do.

Dr. Jerkyll: You in Physics lesson, this is new, hah. But yes, continue.

Mr. Synde: Ahem. So the tutor was presenting the solution, and after which he said the words, 'for this question, you have to think out of the box to be able to do it,' before he went on to scribble something on the whiteboard and turned around with a smuck look on his face obviously very proud of the work that he had done. Kinda looks a little like how you look all the time.

Dr. Jerkyll: ..............................

Mr. Synde: But the point is, as much as he touted his solution as "out of the box," honestly, I found nothing very out-of-the-box-esque about it. It was just a bloody common case of educators using it as part of their lingo and jargon to make students think that that was what it meant to think "out of the box", which was obviously not.

Dr. Jerkyll: Yes, I have met too many of these delusional cases and have heard the words thrown around too casually. It would seem that for every minute innovative thought that just happens to bend the rules by that little bit, the Hoi Polloi would love to think that they are thinking "out of the box."

Mr. Snyde: A casualty of the lack of introspection and extremely low self-evaluation standards, I guess.

Dr. Jerkyll: Surprisingly true coming from you Mr. Snyde, such resounding and accurate words.

Mr. Snyde: Only a tip of the iceberg my dear Dr. Jerkyll. I mean take it from me, being in the creative line, I come up with new dosage of ideas on a daily basis - good ideas. But still, even with all these new and innovative ideas I churn out ever-so-often, I would hardly dare call myself or my ideas "out of the box;" pushing the boundaries of the box perhaps, but hardly "out of the box".

Dr. Jerkyll: Indeed. For something to be regarded as "out of the box," I would figure that it has to be something radically innovative and utterly revolutionary, rather than evolutionary.

Mr. Snyde: For me, it has to be something, an idea or a concept that tethers on the edge of madness, and yet, it all comes together to make sense in its own very twisted manner. Since I'm a gaming man, I would name Super Mario for example. Plumbers who go down pipes, eat mushrooms to grow bigger, and battles all manner of turtles? Before 1985, if you pitched this to someone, he or she would probably think that it was some manner of extreme virtual insanity. Yet, 23 years later, this said "madness" is widely accepted as an icon. Now, that is truly "out of the box".

Dr. Jerkyll: Yes, even though I am not a gaming man myself, but I can see where you are coming from.

Mr. Snyde: Or how about the idea of using a small sticky ball to start rolling up stuff, accumulating in size, and being able to roll up increasingly large objects; from mice, to humans, to cows, to buildings and eventually, even the moon? Raving madness on paper perhaps, but in the gaming circle, this "out of the box" concept drove a little budget game, known as Katamari Damacy to become a cult classic.

Dr. Jerkyll: Well, enough of the examples. For my academic, prying mind, the burning question is: whether this capacity to think "out of the box" is an innate, in-born ability, or is it a skill that can be honed over the years if you were to sharpen it consistently?

Mr. Snyde: Well, to that, I am no idea at all. But I sure hope its the latter more than the former. Especially, since my livelihood depends on it. Then again, doesn't matter, since I believe I am already "out of the box" no matter which way you slice it.

Dr. Jerkyll: .......................

Chatterbox: Face Value

25th January 2008

"Who's having the Chicken Rice?" the waitress asked, looking for a confirmation before placing the platter down right in front of me.

I gazed upon my well-presented platter, scrutinizing the serving of the portion on each plate or bowl. Patiently, I picked up my chopsticks and dug them into the bowl of rice, taking the first bite. Nicely glossed with a layer of fragrant spices, a mouthful was already enough to validate the quality of the rice used.

Mandarin Chicken Rice: Seven Times Prettier than the Average-Joe

"Umm, the rice is REALLY fragrant." she exclaimed, as I fed her a spoonful of the light-brown quality rice.

Eager to tantalize my taste buds further, I grabbed a off the top layer of the nicely-spread platter of white chicken, bringing it to the level of my nostrils to get an appetizing whiff, before putting it to the test that was my taste buds. The classic-roasted restaurant-quality Hainanese Chicken was relatively more succulent (by a mile, in fact), yet hardly as smooth as the sauce-drenched white chicken in neighbourhood hawker centres that I was accustomed to.

Yes, picky perhaps, but considering that the Chicken Rice in front of me costs approximately 7x as much as your conventional, everyday plate of chicken rice, at a whooping $21.50, I figured that it would only be natural that one would scrutinize all the way down to the underside of the plate just to find the value of where the extra cost went.

In front of her, her bowl of Lobster Laksa was extravagantly presented with two halves of lobster, in portions that were hardly sloppy at all. Richly cooked with the appropriate amount of saltiness, spice and a tinge of sweetness, the Lobster Laksa was easily in the upper-tier of Laksas; of course, the presence of the Lobsters hardly hurt the judgment passed at all. The overall bright orange-tinge of the gravy, complimented with the extravagant serving of lobsters, gave the dish a somewhat flamboyant and obviously upmarket look, instantly validating the $33 price-tag *ahem* tagged to the dish.

Lobster Laksa: Pageant Dish

I reached out to grab 1 of the 7 Fried Dumplings and took a bite off the steaming hot delicacy. With a crispy golden-roasted skin and juicy prawn-fillings, the Fried Dumplings had the taste of familiarity, but with the juiciness kicked into overdrive. What set it apart from the everyday dumplings was when it was thoroughly dipped in the given Wasabi Mayonnaise, endowing the dumplings with a hint of wasabi-bitterness subtly hidden underneath the richness of the mayonnaise.

Fried Dumpling: The Secret's in the Sauce

After moving full circle around the table, I continued to indulge further in my platter of chicken, all while experimenting with the 3 different sauces that were provided, Chilli Sauce, Soy Sauce and Traditional Green Ginger Paste. I realized that the drier texture of the chicken actually complimented the sauces really well, especially with the viscous, black soy sauce provided. But the real money shot hit when I reached the bottom layer of the chicken platter. Soaking it in the light sauce at the bottom of the oddly-shaped bowl, the true flavours of the chicken erupted in my mouth, satisfying my eager taste buds, finally validating the relatively hefty price-tag on my chicken rice.

Perhaps this principle applies to our choice of romantic partners as well. Whereas some of *ahem* us, have our values instantly validated upon the look and feel of our presentations, with an appetizing personality only serving to match up to our initial impacts; there are others who are seemingly simple and a lot more ordinary upon face value, but only to have the true value validated much later into the meal. I believe that she and I are one and the other, but no prizes for correct guesses on who's who though.

Cheeky on Chubby

But whatever the value of the dish, the true value in fine dining comes very much from beyond the platter, as the price encompasses the entire experience of the meal. The feeling of being able to dine amid the atmosphere, painted red and black with the brushes of traditional Chinese furniture against a fusion-based backdrop, more that accounted for the value that was bought with the respective prices stated on the menu with its staple of upmarket local delights.

Again, perhaps similarly, Romance can be seen in this sense as well. As the entire thing about Romance is that it is greater than the sum of its parts; it is essentially doing all the seemingly unnecessary, going the extra mile to put the signified being the signifier, adding an additional layer of meaning to the seemingly ordinary; all in the name of an Experience or a Memory. And yes, deep down under the dark exterior, vampires innately know how to pull the strings of behind the scenes of said Romance, or at least that's what I've had hypnotizing her into believing, hah.

Better Late than Never

Stench of the Rat Race

My glance slid across the walls of the interior of the evening commute, as I took brief glances of the passengers cladded in office-wear surrounding me. Their faces told it all; visible signs of fatigue, carved by the cruel daily cycle that they had succumbed to in the name of "making a living." The Rat Race, a cruel climb up the corporate ladder, a slow and treacherous process that leaves a daily count of weary feet and wrinkled faces, hung blatantly over and entirely overshadowing the supposedly-sharp shirts and blouses of the numerous men and women that lie victim to this painful dedication.

The train reached the interchange station, as the door opened and a new flood of victims turned into canned sardines, all forcing themselves to believe that they are the "one more person" that can squeeze into the already over-crowded commute, all in hope of getting home a little earlier to shake off the chains of the Rat Race.

He believed himself to be that "one" as well, as he insistently pushed his way in, ending up right in front of me. Dressed formally but hardly sharply, he was donned in a light blue long sleeve shirt that was probably from a forgettable departmental-store brand, his pants were black and tapered, and his shoes were black leather, but hardly shine-polished. Slightly over-weight and with a face that was instantly forgettable, he was probably the most archetypical example of the victim of the Rat Race. But the most telling sign that gave it all away was the haversack that he carried on his back over the entire office get-up, a sure-sign of the typical "office-loser;" one who probably worked really hard, but doesn't step too much out of his comfort zone, and would probably not ascend very much higher in his treacherous climb.

As the train accelerated, he lost balance and instinctively reached out for the nearest handlebar, which was just beside me. As he grabbed the vertical bar, I was fully exposed to the view of his armpit area, and immediately, I noticed a little damp patch at the crevice that was his armpit. Little beads of sweat dripped slowly down his forehead, as I noticed the expression of discomfort clearly written across his face.

Instinctively, I held my breath. The proximity between us and the sure-signs ominously hinted at a ravaging of my olfactory senses if I were to do otherwise.

One stop down, the doors opened as some sad faces alighted while a new throng of weary eyes boarded, maintaining the status-quo. He turned, facing his back towards me, to suit the new crowd configuration and also perhaps to seek a greater sense of comfort, even if it only meant a mere rotation.

I had a full frontal view of his back, as I noticed, in the areas not covered by the criss-crosses of his maroon haversack, was a total discolouration of the light blue hue of his shirt, a discolouration that hinted at exposure to something more liquid.

My eyes gawked in horror, as I could feel the capacity of my lungs being stretched and strained from the lack of air intake. I held it in, but the seconds ticked by slowly, too slowly. Finally, at its limit, my lungs bursts open, along with my nostrils. The stench, a sourish, and yet slightly bitter smell of a whole day's staleness utterly ravaged the better half of my more-than-keen olfactory senses, choking me with its pungent nature while I bit the bullet to try to hold my coughing in as to not create too much of a socially ill-fitting scene on the evening commute.

Yep, this was the stench of the Rat Race alright, in every sense of the word. Perhaps I will never figure out why is it that in a climate as tropical and humid as ours, where perspiration is a more than natural bodily reaction to the forces of the climate, the people still refuse to make perfume or cologne or even some form of deodorant a greater part of everyday life.

It would seem that perhaps I am 1 of the minority that was actually exposed to the use of such fragrances being a completely unsaid code of social etiquette, one where to not be offensive-smelling is a personal responsibility and is a personal reflection of one's personal hygiene and grooming.

Indeed, it shocked me that even in my University years, at the not-so-tender age of 19 (for the females) and 21 (for the males), I still discovered (by the worst of accidental means) that some supposed future-leaders of society are perfectly fine with leading the pack by their personal distinct scent (read: odour) more so than anything else.

Obviously, the trend doesn't really change even upon climbing a social level higher from academia into the Rat Race. As the formality of office wear still does nothing to some in their want of need to present themselves in a better light (or scent), being perfectly fine with spreading their joy with the rest of the evening commute, if their joy came in the form of little beads of sweat, that is.

The train reached halfway to my destination as a huge pack of sardines were unloaded, finally leaving me the comfort of a seat and more importantly a relief for my nostrils. I took the seat next to a middle-aged office lady, again, formally dressed but nothing near elegant or chic, probably enough to get by and more likely than not holding the position of a senior staff, but not a managerial one.

Her eyes were staring blankly in front, as a bout of expected fatigue came over her and she drew a long, deep yawn. Through the bad manners and the uncovered yawn, my overly-keen olfactory senses once again got more than it bargained for, as I inhaled the stench of soured-milk, mixed with the concentrated and yet hardly refreshing smell of hours upon hours of stale coffee-breath, perhaps an accumulation of the entire day's bulk of caffeine intake.

Again, it would seem that a large bulk of the bottom of the barrel of the Rat Race is perfectly fine with letting the entire world (or at least the people next to them on the evening commute), know the full entirety of the solid and fluids partaken throughout the entire course of the day, from the overbearing smell of the chilli-sauce in their carrot cake during lunch time, to the 12 cups of coffee needed to perk their smelly rat-asses up during the 8-hours And throughout all this, a simple thing like a breath-mint or the like perhaps doesn't even occur as a distant thought at the back of their minds.

When I finally arrived at my destination, exiting from the pipe-like structure of the train, a thought came upon me. While I have personally managed to evict myself from the constraints of the Rat Race proper, I cannot help but have to be flushed down the same pipes with the rest of the rats that is the evening commute. And with each flush of the daily evening commute, 1 poor Vampire peers through the manhole of society deep into the sewers of the Rat Race, cursing at the Stench that follows.

Christmas 2007: Naughty or... Mice?

24th - 25th December 2007

I was crouching and rising repeatedly, walking circles around the car, trying to detect the source of the lingering, rancid odour that has been plaguing the car for the last 2 days. The smell was a pungent combination of sour and pungent, remarkably distinct and utterly ravaging my more-than-acute olfactory sense.

I lowered my head, examining the surfaces of the tires, trying to look for some signs or hints of brown or black substances. After much smelling, I more or less concluded that the right side of the car was smellier than the left, so I examined it a little more.

Suddenly, at the corner of my eye, I saw 2 houseflies hovering around me. As the saying goes, "... like flies to rubbish," I figured that if I followed the flies, I would be able to find the 'rubbish,' in whatever form it took.

I traced their eccentric movements, and noticed that they frequently hovered around the front-right corner of the vehicle. So I scrutinized every single visible area for some signs of the source of the rancidness, all while continuing to strain my olfactory senses as I tried to use the acuteness of it as an additional aid, perhaps not for the wiser.

Not able to detect any visible sights, I decided to pop the lid of the engine, since it was the only possible area that I hadn't looked into. I looked at the mass of black and grey pipes and parts, not detecting anything out of place or close to a tint of brown. So I lowered my head and decided to rely on my sense of smell instead.

I strafed from the right to the left to the right again of the car engine, inhaling deep breaths of the offensive smell as I went along. "Whatever it is, it is surely coming from the right side, definitely the right side," I turned to her and said, before lowering my head to repeat the process again.

As I strafed from the right to the left and back to the right again, suddenly right in front of me I noticed something out of place. I squinted hard at it, under the shadow of the engine lid that was blocking out the light from the setting sun. There it was, caught amidst the winding pipes and parts, dark-brownish, furry and with its eyes tightly shut... a dead rat, caught between two parts of the car engine.

Squint hard at it and it will Stare back at You.

"Eew... gross," she said, as she took two steps away from the vehicle.

Stunned into silence momentarily, I finally uttered, "Fuck! What the hell? How the hell did a fucking rat die in my car engine?" after recovering from the disbelief.

After chain swearing for another 5 minutes or so, my rationality finally kicked in as I picked my handphone out of my pocket and dialled the Mother, telling her to come down with the Maid with a pair of thongs, plastic bags, and whatever else we might need.

Coming down without the most important of tools, the thong, the Mother passed me a long screwdriver and told me to try to use it to poke the carcass out. I turned the sharp end of the screwdriver at it, and applied pressure onto the dead bastards head, hoping to apply enough force to push him out of the jam. But as more pressure was applied, I could feel the end of the screwdriver slowly impaling into its still soft and probably rather decomposed skull. Deciding not to risk any grey matter explosions, I gave up.

The Mother sourced around for 2 clothes-hangers and tried using them as a makeshift thong to try pulling the bastard out. She grabbed its neck between the two hangers skillfully, and applied inward and upward pressure, as the neck of the rat extended most disgustingly. But every time she used a stronger upward force, she would lose grip of the bastard's neck.

After numerous tries, she finally gave in and told the Maid to try pulling it out with a plastic bag over her hand. Murmuring about how smelly it was in her mother-tongue, the Maid wrapped a plastic bag over her hand and tried to use all the brute force she could muster to try pulling the little bastard out. After 10 minutes of yanking and complaining, we finally gave up.

Driving to the nearby petrol kiosk, we craftily decided to try to seek help under the guise of filling the tank. "Could you please help us check the battery water?" the Mother asked, setting the poor attendant up for a most grotesque encounter. As he popped the lid, we tried to ask, as non-chalantly as possible, "and could you please help us remove the rat stuck over there?"

After payment, we walked back to the car, as the attendant told us, "the battery water has already been checked."

I walked over the the right side of the engine, and saw that the little bastard still lying there. "Uh, could you help us, like, remove the rat." I said.

Perhaps I would never know if he was feinting ignorance or was just purely unaware, but he kept insisting on having done his job and trying to close the lid of the engine. "Uh, the rat is over here, like right here, you see it?" I said, a little insistently and sarcastically, as I pointed out the exact location of it.

Caught dead in the corner, the young attendant realised that he had no choice but to help, yet he lacked the intestinal fortitude. So, he signalled to his Malay colleague to come over, pointing the problem out to him and giving him the most sheepish of grins.

Hiding the shock-expression on his face, the Malay attendant wrapped the plastic bag around his hand, turned his head and started yanking at the corpse of the little bastard. Twists, turns and a good 2-3 minutes of hard yanking later, he FINALLY managed to pull the carcass out of the deathtrap.

At a good 30cm long (at least) and probably weighing at least 1kg, the bottom half of the corpse of the rat was visibly missing a large amount of fur, probably sliced, scratched, burned or fried from the engine activity for the length of time that it was caught in it.

If Santa really exists and rewards people around the world based on the naughty or nice rule, then it would figure that this Vampire has been REALLY naughty this year, to deserve such a foul and rancid gift in my little Gothic Christmas stocking this year.

But this thought soon changed, as Christmas proper was celebrated under the traditional familial warmth of the season, with multitudes of gifts and even more camaraderie. Aside from the usual assorted of accessories and t-shirts, the Sin Harvest this year also yielded a good amount of quality gifts, including the hottest game titles (Ed & Ching and Florence), a Guess Watch (Princess Christy) and 2 sleek killer mugs and a pricey Silver Cross-Necklace (courtesy of the girlfriend). All this and more only served to remind me that perhaps, just perhaps, I haven't been all that naughty the year round to deserve such a bountiful harvest.

Sin Harvest

But this illusion of merit was short-lived, as the foul-odour of my Christmas stocking continued to plague the car up till post-party on Christmas day, when I asked the Father to have a look and see what can be done about it.

After much examination, the Father finally decided to bite the bullet (like he always does) and wash the engine of the vehicle. After picking out loose bits of rat-fur, cleaning dried blood on the under-side of the engine lid and scrubbing the innards of the engine-parts, the engine was almost totally rat-corpse-free as I gave it one final olfactory-check.

Still detecting a faint odour, I peered deep into the innards of the vehicle to notice, wrapped around 1 of the pipes, a faint orange-beige tube-like object. I reached 2 of my fingers into the inaccessible area, and picked out the string-like object.

"I think it's 1 of the rat's intestines," I said in disgust, as I felt the squishy texture of the thing on the tips of my fingers through the thin layer of tissue paper.

"Seriously Dad, out of 20-odd years of driving and owning a car, have you ever had anything like this happen to you?" I asked the Father.

"Nope, not at all," the Father answered, with a slight chuckle.

With my jaw wide-opened in disbelief, I thought to myself, "Man, I must have been REALLY naughty this year."