You go, Mraz!

Read in the newspaper about Jason Mraz, who came here for a small concert last week as part of a music festival.

He discovered Milo and started to add the drink (something like hot chocolate, except I think it's nicer when ice-cold) to his Starbucks. He also revealed that he has a habit of pulling up his socks and tying his shoelaces real tight right before a concert as that gives him a "bounce". Haha, that's what I do too, pulling up my socks, when I'm getting ready to plunge into a pile of papers, all waiting to be copyedited, formatted, proofread etc.

In a review of the concert, he was reported to be a riot, bantering with the audience and the band on stage.

The reporter called him a "livewire", and he was jumping around the stage so much that he overturned the cymbal of his percussionist. And he received 2 standing ovations too.

Gee, I wish I had attended the concert. Believe it or not I've not been to a pop concert before. The only music concerts I've been to was by the NY Philharmonic and only because the school made us go. And some lousy violin concert to showcase sub-standard, over-priced Y*m*h* violins. Gave me a headache, that one.

Hold a concert again soon, Mraz!

Retrospection (II)

I never did have much of an ambition. When I was very young, my sister and I role-played as office workers. We put together some file binders, scraps of paper and pens and a toy telephone and pretended to be busy taking down orders of goods or dispatching them (it was always just goods, we never got around to define what they actually were). You could say it was a distinct lack of ambition that made this one of our favourite games.

A friend told me that when I was in primary school, I stated that I wanted to be a reporter. But I don't recall myself saying anything of that sort at all. I wasn't particularly attracted to and didn't show any noticeable aptitude in the language subjects.

What I did remember was how I started to like writing due to a sweet, encouraging English teacher in secondary school who wrote lovely comments on my assignments, unlike the perfunctory "good work" or worse, "take note of the use of tenses" (One of my chronic problems, even now). She thanked me for a gushing review of one of my favourite books, which happened to be hers too. It brought back happy memories of her school days, she said. I suppose it was then I realise that my writing could, in some ways, make people feel good.

We were supposed to keep a log book then, to improve our English. We wrote about boring topics like "my favourite subject" (History?) or "what animal I wish to be" (a whale). Thinking back, what I wrote there was incredibly childish: I grumbled a lot, and poked fun at other people (such as a certain H who wanted to be a bird). But yet, they seemed to elicit kindly responses from teachers. I really should be thankful to them for not chiding me for my childish nonsense. :)

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that kids are impressionable creatures. Terribly sensitive. I think they should come stamped with a label: Fragile, handle with care. Some wise man said something like: be gentle with the little ones. I agree. (nods sagely)

What you say to them is imprinted in their minds, because they are truly the proverbial "blank slates". It's like pressing down hard on a piece of blank paper with a pencil. You may erase the marks and write over them again, but an impression remains on the paper. But I notice that adults are always callous with them. You hear parents in public places threatening to abandon them if they refuse to stop crying/getting on their nerves/crawling all over the place/thumping the parents' heads with rubber-inflated hammers. Apparently they think kids are immune to verbal cruelty.

Actually, that was not what I was trying to talk about; I meant to blog about my latest career ambition, but as usual I went off the tangent, again. Oh, well. Next time.

Retrospection (I)

I was a silly kid. :)

I still am a silly kid, and if I've had you think otherwise, you've been had; you're not the sharpest tool in the box and there's nothing much I can help you with. Bye now. :)

Was worn out when I got home when I saw this old lunchbox on the table which made me ridiculously cheered up. It is a very ordinary lunchbox, light brown in colour, with "Animal Kingdom" printed on it, along with a lion and elephant (in a sailor suit), and bizzarely, a rabbit with pink cheeks.

"Just take a looking!! We are the elite of animal kingdom." Those strange and incomprehensible prose they have on Japanese/Taiwanese/Korean kawaii stationery and water bottles and what not just crack me up all the time.

It was like recalling a piece of fond memory that you thought you misplaced. Being able to use this lunchbox counted as one of those "high points" during my childhood years, a special concession. I had the impression that it belongs to my sister, and as a child, the possessions of your older siblings were like, the ultimate sophistication.

When I was a child, there seemed to be many things that could cheer me up and get me all animated. My memories are foggy, but I recall grabbing my parents' hands, 1 on each side, and swinging myself off the ground as they walk.

They must have thought me strange. None of my siblings ever did that, my mother told me. But it was fun! And I felt connected to them. They lifted me off the ground when I wanted to.

If you thought that there was a point to this blog entry, you've been had. I was just indulging in some personal reminiscing.

Brats we are

I was at a diner with 2 of my friends. WL has been on leave for the past 2 days and she bemoaned having to get back to work the next day. We all know that feeling well.

Just then, I became aware that we were being served by a middle-age auntie. I like aunties, they always take everything in their stride without fuss. They are made of more resilient stuff than the younger ones, the whiny, filmsy brats. I was acutely ashamed of myself.

She was doing manual work, dirty work, serving us, us who are complaining about working in air-conditioned comfort, who are probably getting twice the amount of salary than her, us who were going to a hotel lounge later for jazz and mocktails. And when we are gone, she'll be clearing up the mess we left behind.

She reminds me of my mother. Some years ago, she decided to be a part-time helper at a beef noodle stall near our home. She's had very little formal education and it was, frankly, the only type of work she could get hired for. I remember every night after work, she would come back with a bag of chocolate pancakes that she got at a discount from a neighbouring stall. I never heard her complain about tiredness or boredom. I think she relished the feeling of being able to earn a living, of being useful to people other than her own brood. For her, being able to work is a privilege.

I wonder how the aunties see us. We lament about being submerged in lukewarm water that's too comfy and about the necessity of getting stimulated by hot/cold water once in a while to feel alive. What about those people who have to be in those waters because they really have no other choice?

I will not complain my life away. I will not. That's not the way it should be. I may fumble and stop to rest awhile along the way, but I cannot plonk myself down on the path like a spoilt child and whimper, refusing to go on.

BB mountain (Open Sesame version)

I was walking to a student hostel cafeteria with my colleague one baking afternoon and we saw a black Saab with Elmo and his avian friend on the dashboard:

But you must observe from this angle to really see Elmo's happy, high-till-cross-eyed grin:

Sigh, isn't friendship is a wonderful thing?