tenth
11/09/2011
It was evening, probably about 8pm or so. I was down Liang Seah Street having dinner with a co-worker, probably griping about work, when I received a call on my cellphone. My first cellphone, to be precise. It was a tiny blue Nokia. I loved it.
It was my then-manager, and he sounded a little hassled. Where are you, he asks. Are you near the office? I say Yes. (What now, is what I’m really thinking.) Then he says a few words that I didn’t quite understand. I was to head back to the office to update the front page because he couldn’t get to a computer.
I hang up and my co-worker says, what is that?
“Ricki called. He says a plane flew into the World Trade Center in New York.” I was trying to make sense of what that meant, it seemed ridiculous. A plane flew into a building. Was it an accident? Is it the WTC in NY, really?
We didn’t really have it in us to finish dinner, I can’t really remember if we did, but my American co-worker sure seemed quite shaken.
We hurry back to the office – Wisma Alsagoff was steps away – and I update the front page with the news. None of the local news agencies had picked it up, but in the US – the news was a little scanty. I try my best, but it seemed surreal once more news trickles in. We turn the tv on, and hear about the second plane. That’s when some sort of frantic misery swept over me, but I probably neglected to even pay attention to my co-worker, who probably felt 100x more upset.
The next couple of days were a mess. And while it wasn’t an event that affected us directly, the sheer magnitude of what happened had to have affected everyone who could understand the magnitude of the loss that occurred that day.
And we continue to live with the fallout from that one day.
So yes, I remember. I remember who I was with. I remember what I was doing. I remember my friends reaction and anguish. I remember not knowing completely what happened till I got back to the office, and turned on the telly. I also remember looking at it like it was fiction. I remember only comprehending what had been done in the days after. Hearing the accounts, getting feedback from users who used our products to get in touch.
And I suppose it’s something you will never forget.
Coming to terms with getting on (in age)
09/09/2011
(as opposed to getting it on, gutter heads)
So this year, for my birthday I get to move up a box. You know when you fill your particulars up in a form where they collect demographic information? Under 18, 18 – 24, 24-34, etc? Well, I get to move up a box this year. Oh joy.
So on my long commute to work, I fume. Who got into this whole birthday thing anyway? We go around, happy birthday this and that. The birthday person gets treated like a good green tea tiramisu. For what? Just existing? What did she do except get coaxed down the birth canal? Are we all just victims of archaic traditions? Bah, wishing someone Happy Birthday. For what?
But hey, I send out birthday wishes. Why do I do that? Am I a superficial-traditional following conformist?
OMG!!!!
No, when I wish my friends Happy Birthday, I want them to know I care enough for them to want them to be healthy and happy for years and years to come. I want them to love every minute of life.
And I trust that those are my friends’ wishes for me as well, then. They do so because they care for me, and suddenly, my perspective on life turns a rosey hue.
I do not just exist, I now live, because I’m adding value. Somewhere, someone finds it justifiable to wish for my continued existence and well-being.
Now the Confucian will argue that this is Mom’s credit. Why? Because according to those traditional roles, mothers assume the responsibility of child bearing and rearing, while fathers assume the liability of child rearing.
I do believe those days are over. My parents co-operated on Project Me; conception is not a one-man show most times, and while Mom took care of my physical and emotional well-being, my father focused on my education. So while my mom takes care that I exist, my dad makes sure I live. One is meaningless without the other.
That, my friends, is the definition of synergy.
And so, today I made sure to wish my mom a Happy Labour Day, I also IMed my dad to tell him “Good Job”. They were suitably impressed.
And with that, we come back to the original conundrum. To Happy Birthday, or not to Happy Birthday.
It is my opinion, after careful deliberation, that Happy Birthdays, are little pockets of affection, and though we bask in knowing people love us, we are loved because of others.
So yes, absolutely. Happy Birthday away, and know that deep down in my cold, black heart, I wish nothing else but your health and happiness every day, even if I only tell you once a year. And when I do send it, kudos to the people who made you, who care more for your affirmation than credit from me.
Happy Birthdays – the gift that keeps giving.
Happy International Genius Day, friends!
drive time playlist
08/08/2011
oh oh! before I forget! A playlist makes or breaks a commute.
Word.
Now. I really have to go and contemplate my requirements for the next sprint.
Really.
The Definition of Procrastination
08/08/2011
When you harass your program manager for dates that he should have given you (for deliverables) and then you watch the date come by, while checking out hulu and updating your blog about sitting on stuff.
Right after, you’re going to take a shower, and tell yourself you need another cup of tea (which will make it your 5th cup today).
I suppose you’ll need it.
Let me get back to procrastinating.
Management and the Empire
30/07/2011
Poor management abounds, and plagues all organizations. However, it is the leadership skills that can take it back from the brink of extinction.
Classic example: Star Wars. We see from Episodes 1 to 3 that the Jedi, though noble and powerful then, are plagued with self righteous hubris. What happens? Their vision is clouded, they let the Sith in right under their noses. The thing that is going for them is their integrity and their focus on the greater good. They also have a very well established training plan and succession paths are clearly laid out.
In fact, their management trainee program is so good that they spot you, not the other way around. And requirements are so stringent that someone literally had to die to get Anakin enrolled in it; rightly so, cos that dude is a self absorbed whiner. Qui Gon, while well-intentioned, was only focused on Anakin’s “potential”. He ignored the other warning signs like Anakin’s insecurities and incessant whining. Perhaps he thought himself a good mentor, however, he did not take into account his own time with the Jedis might be short-lived and ended up saddling Obi-wan with the baby, so to speak.
We all know how it went down from there. The key takeaway is that it only takes one little cog in the wheel to bring down the Jedi. So while innate skills might be very attractive, personal motivation and attitude is more important. Hiring has to be stringent: never compromise.
Contextual Copy
09/07/2011
Chinese is a complex language. Isn’t it amazing that for all the Chinese dialects we all pretty much use one script.
The script isn’t anything to scoff at either. It’s pictorial, so even if I can’t really pronounce it, or verbalise it, I know what it means. There is a system. And it is a complex system. And even if you and I don’t speak the same dialect, our system is the same, and we have common ground.
Despite all this, though – our language is highly contextual. Words look different but sound the same, but most times we figure it’s one thing and not another from context.
Here’s my favourite example:
飞机(airplane) sounds exactly the same as 飞鸡(fly chicken). However you would probably not fly across the pacific on a chicken. And even then, I don’t think flying chicken is even proper Chinese. If you wanted to say the chicken is flying, you’d probably have to say “Is flying chicken”.
In English, however, words are more specific. You don’t get words that sound the same meaning different things. Maybe because the language is phonetic.
Does that make native speakers of both languages different? Probably. Does it make Chinese native speakers vague in English? I don’t know. Modes of transportation are certainly clearer in English.
I like Chinese
15/06/2011
My folks reminded me of something I used to say when I was a kid during one of weekly chats last weekend. Apparently, my littlest niece has been saying the same thing.
“I speak English. So I’m English.”
Yes, it’s the common kid thing, not being able to distinguish nationality from ethnicity, but a little part of me, aged 4, thought being English meant being educated, being well-bred, and generally cultured.
Decades on, I realise how far it is from reality. We grew up with the image of the English of a bygone era. I grew up not knowing my own culture, my own people, what being Chinese meant. Stupidly, I squandered my chances in school of being educated, and had to find out on my own later. Too late to take back the irreverence and disdain for the language at class, too little respect I paid.
And now, here I am, having to read The Analects partially in English. Confucius is probably crying.
The good news is, I do actually understand and acknowledge that I come from a culture that was already drinking and cultivating tea and eating with chopsticks before the English got out of their caves. Probably. The collective Chinese psyche is so ingrained, that we breathe Confucianism instinctively – dude, that’s years of philosophy, jammed packed into the standard base model.
But what use is knowing all that? I’m so far removed from my brethren from the hinterland that they don’t even consider me ethnically Chinese anymore. What good, is being not English, and not Chinese?
It’s only good for 1 thing: Jay Chou – if you ever need to learn English from a normal, unpretentious person, leave a comment.
[周杰倫, 你如果想跟好人學英語, 流个comment!]
The curious case of the wonky GPS
16/04/2011
We bought our gps Magellan close to three years ago. The prices had just started coming down, and it was one of the cooler ones with a big screen and quick links and all. We brought it on road trips, house hunting trips, lent it out for vacation trips. It was awesome.
Somewhere down the line we tried to use it to get to a Costco in Milpitas. After circling for about 10 minutes in a Cisco parking lot, with Ah Teh laughing in the backseat, we figured we were had. It made for a funny trip memory, but our relationship with Magellan was never the same.
Magellan was a little slower than we remember, and we were a little more independent; I guess we grew apart naturally. So many times we were tempted to replace Magellan with a Garmin, but either never got down to doing it or couldn’t bring ourselves to do it. Magellan still sits snugly in our glove compartment.
Yesterday after work, I wanted to head to the Japanese supermarket in San Mateo on the way home, so we could get some tobiko (yumyum!), saba and maybe some kewpie mayonnaise – (grilled saba + yaki onigiri with fake mentai, anyone?). I wasn’t sure where it was, but Magellan was in our glove compartment, so I whipped him out and started punching it in. Uh oh, he couldn’t find it. I tried “Nijiya”, he only had the Mountain View location on file (and we were already past MV). I tried “Market”, it didn’t show. I knew there was a ramen place next to it – Santa Ramen – so I searched “Santa Ramen” – it showed nothing. I searched “Ramen”, but nothing close showed up. Perhaps I remembered the business name wrong, so I tried just “Santa”. Bam! Magellan found me the entry! “Santa Japanese Restaurant” on S. B Street, San Mateo. That had to be it, thank goodness for Magellan!
We followed the directions, and it looked good at first. But then we took a series of turns in a residential neighbourhood, and doubt started to set in. We finally turned onto S B St, and I said to KF, no this isn’t right. Where is the Nijiya? I remember a small plaza with shops around it, this is a standalone. Damn, we got Cisco-ed again, I thought. KF had a little more faith, and made the turn anyway. Where Santa Ramen should’ve been was a restaurant all right, and a ramen joint at that. It was a hole in the wall, but the hole was almost completely obfuscated from view because of the crowd standing about outside it.
We discuss it, I say, what now? KF says, come on, let’s try this. There are so many people standing outside, by Singapore standards, it must be a winner. The patriot in me found that terribly hard to deny. So despite the hunger, and the annoying change in plans, I figured let’s give it a go.
We parked a block away, and strolled over. The same people we saw just now, were still standing around outside the restaurant. Ramen Dojo, it’s called. Ewww. What a wannabe name. It had better not be one of those places opened by a bunch of weird Chinese kids. KF writes his name down on the clipboard hanging by the entrance; we’re about 24 people down a list. And we begin our wait.
The day is pleasant, not terribly hot, not particularly cold. The area seems pleasant, and most parties waiting along with us were couples or friends who patiently stood around and chatted. There were a couple of families, but not too many. A little Japanese lady came out to call a few names, and there was a little hullabaloo when some irate middle aged Caucasian fella claimed someone else was seated even though she called his name earlier. She apologised, and showed his party in. He said he had been waiting and hour. That was about 20 minutes into our own wait, and my heart sank a little. Do you want to go? I ask KF. He says let’s wait. We wait a little more. At least they seem Japanese, I thought, and tried to take my mind off the wait.
I watch the patrons milling about outside the store. They seem eerily like us, just younger, just more American. That is still a little disconcerting – but I think I’ve got it down. American born Chinese females in the 21-40 age group have a look distinct from their immigrant counterparts. The accent is tell tale, of course, but to figure it out before they utter a word is so much more rewarding. So how do they differ? They dress differently. American fashion vs Asian fashion is the tell tale sign. Most of the time they have Northern Chinese features (but there are plenty of immigrants with those features now), but their make-up and dress is American-school. They go lighter on the foundation, freckles are ok, and they prefer to emphasize the eyes. They’re big fans of eyeliner, and do a great job with it. They also do their brows differently, I think it makes them look mean, but it works for them. Immigrant females of the age group tend to do their brows a little softer, and they prefer the pasty foundation look.
There was ample time to check out the menu. There were only 3 variants of ramen broth – Shoyu, Garlic Pork and Miso. They list all the accompaniments that come with your bowl of ramen: 2 slices of roasted pork, wood ear fungus, chives, sliced chilli, a quail’s egg and some roasted garlic. The broth is made from minced chicken, dried shrimp, shiitake mushroom and chilli. They then list all the extras you can order, and there is a healthy list of appetizers as well.
An hour later, we are called inside and shown seats by the counter. It definitely is a hole in the wall. I’ve made my mind up, after all we had plenty of time to think about it. KF needed a few minutes, but with 3 main items on the menu, it’s not rocket science. We both get the garlic pork broth, and ordered sides of fried squid legs and boiled gyoza. We ordered our broths mild (vs regular spicy and very spicy).
It took maybe 10 minutes for the ramen to arrive. It looked great. Everything was neatly arranged in the bowl, but everything was to spec. It was piping hot – even the earthen bowl was hot to the touch – the only way ramen can be served. A quick initial taste test slurp, our eyes widened and met as the flavours in our mouths burst first with spicy aggression, but then retreated with a light, tender and clean finish. No way, this might actually have been, dare I say it, worth the wait?
15 busy and satisfying minutes pass without KF nor I speaking to each other. In the meantime, our squid legs and gyoza arrive, but we’re focused on what we have in the bowl in front of us. Slurping busily with the rest of the patrons in the restaurant, satisfaction runs through my veins.
The gyoza were home made, and satisfactory. But the squid legs were a winner. Crisp, with the alluring taste of the sea, each bite was playful and delightful. Loved that.
But the real winner had to be the ramen. All the ingredients were fresh and not overwhelming, they worked in harmony to exceed the sum of their total. If that wasn’t synergy in a bowl, I don’t know what is. Yes, I had to get through the bowl of noodles sniffling from the heat of the chilli and the broth, and I burnt my tongue with my overzealous attempt to slurp a good amount of broth, but it was oh-so-good. And oh so worth it. Best ramen I’ve had, ever: unassuming, simple and honest.
And we got there by mistake.
What do you call serendipity + faith + satisfaction? Friday night dinner with KF and the GPS.
I guess sometimes you have a better time when you don’t plan it to a T.
Relief
27/03/2011
Funny how some things tag along at the back of your mind like the last piece of gum that’s been lying at the bottom of my handbag.
Funny how it’s been lying there collecting crap from the bottom of my handbag for a good ten years.
I think I threw it out this morning. I don’t know why it took me a whole decade, but it either just got to me, or I finally understood how to let it go. So while I went to sleep with a decade old piece of gum in my mental baggage compartment, I tossed it out like the piece of trash it is in my dreams last night.
Ah sweet dreams are made of these. 
Dream more, and hang on less.
happy birthday Michael Chang!
21/02/2011
One day I need to count how many times I’ve actually done this on my blog. Funny how consistent you can get when you don’t think about it.
Happy Thinking Day as well, to those that still care about it
