Friday, July 22, 2005
Back to that same old place
It's good to be home.
I've been busy catching up on all the foods that I missed, and here they are in chronological order:
1) Prata
2) Laksa
3) Teochew Porridge
4) Nasi Bryani
To make the homecoming complete, I made a trip down to Geylang to fulfil a desperate craving that anyone who's been away for too long would have. A drive down the main street of Singapores red-light district that branches off into seedier lanes would be a wonderful sight to behold for a Singaporean who's been unable to partake of the local pleasures for the past ten weeks.
Row after row of durians lined the street, with the accompanying crudely hand-painted signs proclaiming their price and pedigree. The fruit sellers competed against each other and the din of traffic to make as much noise as they could to draw attention to their wares, almost like the garishly made-up and gaudily dressed women who competed for a different crowd. People strolled across the street in typical non-chalant fashion with little regard for traffic. TV sets from the kopitiams blasted out some drama serial or sports broadcast to add to the aural soundscape for the old, grizzled customers lounging on the once-bright-red plastic chairs to a cheap bottle of lager or stout, complete with a small bucket of ice. Though blasphemous to any true beer-lover, it helps to keep the beer cold on a humid Singapore evening.
This is probably one of the last few bastions of Singapore life that refuses to yield to the sanitizing forces of tourism, a celebration of sleaze with neon-lit KTV lounges, ambiguously named "sports clubs" with heavily-tinted windows and cheap hotels clearly displaying their 2 hour booking rates. Though there’s nothing along the line of "Totally Nude!" or "Live Girls XXX" neon signs that I saw in some parts of Los Angeles, the women walking the streets in their cheaply-colourful get-ups made up for that lack of publicity. After the old Chinatown became the touristy monstrosity that it is now, Geylang remains as one of the sides of Singapore that you don't see in the tourism brochures that often. It’s greasy, dirty and grimy, just like me.
Ok, never mind about that.
In the midst of all this, there is some of the best food to be found in Singapore.
After going through the parking nightmare that is Geylang, my father and I walked to a fruit store, where after some gentlemanly discussions on the merits and pricing of Malaysian durians and some sampling, we ordered a number of out thorny friends and went to the back of the store, where a folding table and faded plastic stools afforded a makeshift eating venue. The fruit seller, a Chinese guy probably around my age from Malaysia, pried open the thick, green husk with the knife he held in his hand, a sign of the (non-violent) trade carried with pride. With his other hand, protected by a dirty, patchy cotton glove, he brought it to his nose, taking a whiff as would a sommelier evaluating a 1952 Cabernet Savignon. He offered his expert opinion as well, except that instead of French-tinged English it was in heavily-accented Malaysian Mandarin.
"Ah, this one very fragrant."
If this is your first time seeing/smelling/tasting a durian, you might have thought he was mocking you. The pungent (some might say malodorous) aroma hits your nostrils with all the subtlety of a sweaty armpit on a crowded subway. The more exaggerated descriptions might include fermented milk, rotting flesh or dead rat, but it you're savvy to the wonders of the King of Fruit, the fragrance is a treat to the senses, even after the durian has long been disposed of and the smell is all that remains.
The flesh varies in hues from deep reddish orange to pale yellow, while the texture and mouthfeel can range from chewy to creamy to almost watery. The flavours are even more varied, mostly a mixture of bitter and sweet. The more fancy street names given to some breeds are "XO", "prawn", "ice-cream" etc. Of course, there's always the D24 designation which apparently is a scientific designation of some sort, but no one really knows or cares as long as it tastes like it's supposed to. It remains a strong selling point, however, and the fruit sellers are ever eager to point it out. They’re not all crude thugs or gangsters as popularized in the mass media, but dealing with these guys is almost a subtle game of psychology. If you show them that you know your thorny fruits and won’t settle for the cheap stuff, they’ll know how to satisfy your taste buds with the quality goods. They almost always take pride in pleasing a demanding customer.
Of course, this pre-supposes that your experience with durians goes beyond the shrink-wrapped seeds bought in supermarkets, which I personally stay away from. I don't really remember a time when I didn't like durians, so for the benefit of those who've never even heard of it, here's an expatriate account.
After demolishing 5 durians between the 2 of us, my cravings were finally satisfied. While I can definitely appreciate and savour the wonderful tastes of charcoal-grilled ribs or freshly-barbequed hamburger beef patties, there’s a certain pungent aroma that will always be lodged at the back of my nose, a pre-cursor to periodic cravings that can only be satisfied by a gastronomic pilgrimage to the heartland of Singapore sleaze.
This is home.
I've been busy catching up on all the foods that I missed, and here they are in chronological order:
1) Prata
2) Laksa
3) Teochew Porridge
4) Nasi Bryani
To make the homecoming complete, I made a trip down to Geylang to fulfil a desperate craving that anyone who's been away for too long would have. A drive down the main street of Singapores red-light district that branches off into seedier lanes would be a wonderful sight to behold for a Singaporean who's been unable to partake of the local pleasures for the past ten weeks.
Row after row of durians lined the street, with the accompanying crudely hand-painted signs proclaiming their price and pedigree. The fruit sellers competed against each other and the din of traffic to make as much noise as they could to draw attention to their wares, almost like the garishly made-up and gaudily dressed women who competed for a different crowd. People strolled across the street in typical non-chalant fashion with little regard for traffic. TV sets from the kopitiams blasted out some drama serial or sports broadcast to add to the aural soundscape for the old, grizzled customers lounging on the once-bright-red plastic chairs to a cheap bottle of lager or stout, complete with a small bucket of ice. Though blasphemous to any true beer-lover, it helps to keep the beer cold on a humid Singapore evening.
This is probably one of the last few bastions of Singapore life that refuses to yield to the sanitizing forces of tourism, a celebration of sleaze with neon-lit KTV lounges, ambiguously named "sports clubs" with heavily-tinted windows and cheap hotels clearly displaying their 2 hour booking rates. Though there’s nothing along the line of "Totally Nude!" or "Live Girls XXX" neon signs that I saw in some parts of Los Angeles, the women walking the streets in their cheaply-colourful get-ups made up for that lack of publicity. After the old Chinatown became the touristy monstrosity that it is now, Geylang remains as one of the sides of Singapore that you don't see in the tourism brochures that often. It’s greasy, dirty and grimy, just like me.
Ok, never mind about that.
In the midst of all this, there is some of the best food to be found in Singapore.
After going through the parking nightmare that is Geylang, my father and I walked to a fruit store, where after some gentlemanly discussions on the merits and pricing of Malaysian durians and some sampling, we ordered a number of out thorny friends and went to the back of the store, where a folding table and faded plastic stools afforded a makeshift eating venue. The fruit seller, a Chinese guy probably around my age from Malaysia, pried open the thick, green husk with the knife he held in his hand, a sign of the (non-violent) trade carried with pride. With his other hand, protected by a dirty, patchy cotton glove, he brought it to his nose, taking a whiff as would a sommelier evaluating a 1952 Cabernet Savignon. He offered his expert opinion as well, except that instead of French-tinged English it was in heavily-accented Malaysian Mandarin.
"Ah, this one very fragrant."
If this is your first time seeing/smelling/tasting a durian, you might have thought he was mocking you. The pungent (some might say malodorous) aroma hits your nostrils with all the subtlety of a sweaty armpit on a crowded subway. The more exaggerated descriptions might include fermented milk, rotting flesh or dead rat, but it you're savvy to the wonders of the King of Fruit, the fragrance is a treat to the senses, even after the durian has long been disposed of and the smell is all that remains.
The flesh varies in hues from deep reddish orange to pale yellow, while the texture and mouthfeel can range from chewy to creamy to almost watery. The flavours are even more varied, mostly a mixture of bitter and sweet. The more fancy street names given to some breeds are "XO", "prawn", "ice-cream" etc. Of course, there's always the D24 designation which apparently is a scientific designation of some sort, but no one really knows or cares as long as it tastes like it's supposed to. It remains a strong selling point, however, and the fruit sellers are ever eager to point it out. They’re not all crude thugs or gangsters as popularized in the mass media, but dealing with these guys is almost a subtle game of psychology. If you show them that you know your thorny fruits and won’t settle for the cheap stuff, they’ll know how to satisfy your taste buds with the quality goods. They almost always take pride in pleasing a demanding customer.
Of course, this pre-supposes that your experience with durians goes beyond the shrink-wrapped seeds bought in supermarkets, which I personally stay away from. I don't really remember a time when I didn't like durians, so for the benefit of those who've never even heard of it, here's an expatriate account.
After demolishing 5 durians between the 2 of us, my cravings were finally satisfied. While I can definitely appreciate and savour the wonderful tastes of charcoal-grilled ribs or freshly-barbequed hamburger beef patties, there’s a certain pungent aroma that will always be lodged at the back of my nose, a pre-cursor to periodic cravings that can only be satisfied by a gastronomic pilgrimage to the heartland of Singapore sleaze.
This is home.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Leaving on a jet plane
It’s been 10 eventful weeks and this internship is finally coming to an end. I’ve met some fantastic people, played with great musicians and been to really nice places (and the not so nice). Somewhere in between that I managed to learn some stuff about mechanical engineering as well. I’m heading back home with a whole bag of new experiences and memories in my head, and it’s going to be one more year of school before embarking on yet another phase of life. This internship has been a good introduction to life as a working bachelor, and living alone in a foreign land isn’t that hard to get used to as long as you’re willing to step out of the comfort zone and explore. Of course, it helps that almost everyone here is pretty friendly and speaks English.
Some of the locals did ask me if I was considering moving here. Well, it’s a really great place and I can probably live and work here for a while, but I think deep down inside there’s still a part of me that’s not detachable from Singapore. It isn’t so much of a mushy or nostalgic reason, but more the rationale that at least in Singapore I’m known as a Singaporean. Make sense?
Maybe this will clear it up. Occasionally, I find that some people will assume I fit the Asian immigrant/student stereotype, but spending time with colleagues from China and Vietnam has convinced me that there’s no way I can really fit into that mold. In a sense, coming from an English-speaking background, having an English education and exposure to American culture (music, TV shows, movies, literature etc) makes me more “Americanised” than the average Asian in America (we’ll leave American-born Chinese out of this), but my external appearance gives rise to certain assumptions about me. It doesn’t help that most of the places I went to didn’t seem to have many Asians.
Confusing? Basically, I don’t feel any closer to either the American or Asian way of life here. Both sides are familiar yet foreign. Somehow the concept of a Chinese guy who speaks better English than Chinese and prefers American music is not a common phenomenon here.
Of course, the Americans I met have been wonderful, did their best to make me feel at home and never gave me any feelings of exclusion. There was never an issue of racism or hate, just some minor social perceptions that needed to be clarified along the way. I’m sure with time I could probably fit in pretty well, but in all probability it would never be a perfect fit.
Since we’re on that, here are some aspects of American life that I’ve picked up on and would like to bring up.
1) Redneck humour
Watching lots of Comedy Central on cable (I don’t usually watch much TV back home), I observed that every racial/minority group has someone making fun of them, usually one of their own. Blacks, Latinos, Asians, Caucasian are all fair game, even in these times of zealous political-correctness witch-hunts. If you maintain an open mind and appreciate most kinds of humour, it can be pretty damned funny and in a way, exaggerating these stereotypes brings them out in the open where people can recognize them for what they are : laughable.
One particular show I liked was Blue Collar TV, devoted entirely to low-brow redneck humour. All the time-tested stereotypes of Southern white Americans are milked dry for tons of laughs by these 3 white guys who claim great redneck pedigree (the closest Singapore equivalent I can think of is Ah-Beng). It’s a fine example of how everyone can benefit from lightening up and not taking yourself so seriously.
2) Social interactions
Many times, strangers from all walks of life started conversations with me in all circumstances; waiting in line, sitting at the bar, browsing guitar stores etc and this is a refreshing change from the typical Singaporean thing, where people can live next to each other for years without knowing one another. Starting conversations with people you don’t know is likely to be met with suspicion, even though we live on such a tiny island. Oftentimes, these conversations with Americans were enjoyable and offered great insight into how they live their lives.
3) Opinions
The individual right to opinion is highly valued here, and it is entirely possible for 2 directly contradicting opinions to be debated without getting personal. This is also something I admire and wish were more commonplace back home, where disagreeing with someone’s opinion is sometimes construed as being against him or her as a person, or even worse, against a whole interest group. Petulant and subjective arguments are things that I see more often in Singapore than I’d like to, even at the highest rungs of society. The underlying mutual respect in most discussions here in America is something to learn from. Of course there’s always a minority of bigots, but the general trend here is to value the freedom of opinion and speech.
To end off this final post before I disconnect my Internet connection, here’s some of the stuff that I’ll miss:
1) Being able to go catch big names in blues within a 45 min driving distance
2) Having the choice of going to blues jams almost every night of the week
3) Big blues festivals
4) Trying out the less common American cuisines
5) Long, scenic drives through the desert, countryside or along the coast
6) Sunshine with cool breeze and not sweating at all
7) Beautiful beaches that make Sentosa look like a playground sand pit
8) Huge selection of great craft beers
9) Less expensive Scotch whisky (compared to Singapore)
10) The freedom to do anything and go anywhere on a whim
11) Not having my cell phone ring and beep all the time for various silly reasons
12) Appreciating the female form of various ethnicities
All right, now for the stuff I won’t miss:
1) Freezing cold mornings
2) Lousy Chinese food
3) Trying to find yet another way to cook the same stuff in my fridge
4) LA traffic – LA residents will know what I mean
5) LA driving – for the most part, fellow drivers were alright but I’ve had too many close shaves with maniacs trying to penetrate the space-time continuum on a crowded highway
6) Having people ask me if Singapore is part of China
7) That damned car whose alarm always goes off in the middle of the night in my neighborhood
8) My thin-walled plywood/chipboard apartment that shakes like an earthquake every time someone jumps in the corridor
Another thing I’d like to do is mention some of the great musicians who’ve been extremely generous with their music and in letting me share the stage with them.
Robert Lucas
The Mama’s Boys
2000 lbs of Blues with Junior Watson
Joey’s Blues Band
Other musicians I’ve had the honour of meeting are:
Nathan James
James Harman
Bernie Pearl and Dwayne Smith
Special mention goes out to “Mama” Laura, owner of Babe’s and Ricky’s Inn and Eric Wagoner of Iva Lee’s.
For every band or name mentioned here there are many other regular guys I’ve had the pleasure of meeting at jams and gigs, all of them great musicians or music lovers on top of being really friendly people. If I ever hit LA again, I know there’ll be some familiar faces in the crowd.
Thus ends the Great American Odyssey.
I wonder what in-flight movies they’ll be showing on the way home.
Some of the locals did ask me if I was considering moving here. Well, it’s a really great place and I can probably live and work here for a while, but I think deep down inside there’s still a part of me that’s not detachable from Singapore. It isn’t so much of a mushy or nostalgic reason, but more the rationale that at least in Singapore I’m known as a Singaporean. Make sense?
Maybe this will clear it up. Occasionally, I find that some people will assume I fit the Asian immigrant/student stereotype, but spending time with colleagues from China and Vietnam has convinced me that there’s no way I can really fit into that mold. In a sense, coming from an English-speaking background, having an English education and exposure to American culture (music, TV shows, movies, literature etc) makes me more “Americanised” than the average Asian in America (we’ll leave American-born Chinese out of this), but my external appearance gives rise to certain assumptions about me. It doesn’t help that most of the places I went to didn’t seem to have many Asians.
Confusing? Basically, I don’t feel any closer to either the American or Asian way of life here. Both sides are familiar yet foreign. Somehow the concept of a Chinese guy who speaks better English than Chinese and prefers American music is not a common phenomenon here.
Of course, the Americans I met have been wonderful, did their best to make me feel at home and never gave me any feelings of exclusion. There was never an issue of racism or hate, just some minor social perceptions that needed to be clarified along the way. I’m sure with time I could probably fit in pretty well, but in all probability it would never be a perfect fit.
Since we’re on that, here are some aspects of American life that I’ve picked up on and would like to bring up.
1) Redneck humour
Watching lots of Comedy Central on cable (I don’t usually watch much TV back home), I observed that every racial/minority group has someone making fun of them, usually one of their own. Blacks, Latinos, Asians, Caucasian are all fair game, even in these times of zealous political-correctness witch-hunts. If you maintain an open mind and appreciate most kinds of humour, it can be pretty damned funny and in a way, exaggerating these stereotypes brings them out in the open where people can recognize them for what they are : laughable.
One particular show I liked was Blue Collar TV, devoted entirely to low-brow redneck humour. All the time-tested stereotypes of Southern white Americans are milked dry for tons of laughs by these 3 white guys who claim great redneck pedigree (the closest Singapore equivalent I can think of is Ah-Beng). It’s a fine example of how everyone can benefit from lightening up and not taking yourself so seriously.
2) Social interactions
Many times, strangers from all walks of life started conversations with me in all circumstances; waiting in line, sitting at the bar, browsing guitar stores etc and this is a refreshing change from the typical Singaporean thing, where people can live next to each other for years without knowing one another. Starting conversations with people you don’t know is likely to be met with suspicion, even though we live on such a tiny island. Oftentimes, these conversations with Americans were enjoyable and offered great insight into how they live their lives.
3) Opinions
The individual right to opinion is highly valued here, and it is entirely possible for 2 directly contradicting opinions to be debated without getting personal. This is also something I admire and wish were more commonplace back home, where disagreeing with someone’s opinion is sometimes construed as being against him or her as a person, or even worse, against a whole interest group. Petulant and subjective arguments are things that I see more often in Singapore than I’d like to, even at the highest rungs of society. The underlying mutual respect in most discussions here in America is something to learn from. Of course there’s always a minority of bigots, but the general trend here is to value the freedom of opinion and speech.
To end off this final post before I disconnect my Internet connection, here’s some of the stuff that I’ll miss:
1) Being able to go catch big names in blues within a 45 min driving distance
2) Having the choice of going to blues jams almost every night of the week
3) Big blues festivals
4) Trying out the less common American cuisines
5) Long, scenic drives through the desert, countryside or along the coast
6) Sunshine with cool breeze and not sweating at all
7) Beautiful beaches that make Sentosa look like a playground sand pit
8) Huge selection of great craft beers
9) Less expensive Scotch whisky (compared to Singapore)
10) The freedom to do anything and go anywhere on a whim
11) Not having my cell phone ring and beep all the time for various silly reasons
12) Appreciating the female form of various ethnicities
All right, now for the stuff I won’t miss:
1) Freezing cold mornings
2) Lousy Chinese food
3) Trying to find yet another way to cook the same stuff in my fridge
4) LA traffic – LA residents will know what I mean
5) LA driving – for the most part, fellow drivers were alright but I’ve had too many close shaves with maniacs trying to penetrate the space-time continuum on a crowded highway
6) Having people ask me if Singapore is part of China
7) That damned car whose alarm always goes off in the middle of the night in my neighborhood
8) My thin-walled plywood/chipboard apartment that shakes like an earthquake every time someone jumps in the corridor
Another thing I’d like to do is mention some of the great musicians who’ve been extremely generous with their music and in letting me share the stage with them.
Robert Lucas
The Mama’s Boys
2000 lbs of Blues with Junior Watson
Joey’s Blues Band
Other musicians I’ve had the honour of meeting are:
Nathan James
James Harman
Bernie Pearl and Dwayne Smith
Special mention goes out to “Mama” Laura, owner of Babe’s and Ricky’s Inn and Eric Wagoner of Iva Lee’s.
For every band or name mentioned here there are many other regular guys I’ve had the pleasure of meeting at jams and gigs, all of them great musicians or music lovers on top of being really friendly people. If I ever hit LA again, I know there’ll be some familiar faces in the crowd.
Thus ends the Great American Odyssey.
I wonder what in-flight movies they’ll be showing on the way home.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Window to the soul
On Sunday, I decided on a whim to drive to Central LA to visit Amoeba Music to pick up yet more CDs. Absent-mindedly though, I forgot to fill up my car with petrol (or gas as it’s called here) before hitting the highway. Upon realising my oversight, I made a quick exit off the highway to hunt for a petrol station.
After slaking the thirst of the gas-chugging monster, I decided to take it upon myself to use the provided squeegee to clean the horrendously dirty windshield and side windows, which were threatening to obscure my vision and cause an accident.
I’d barely started when a soft voice spoke up from behind me, “Hey man, can you help me out with 50 cents? I’ll do your windows for you.”
I turned around and saw a black guy who looked about 40,50-ish, with traces of grey running through his close-cropped hair and moustache. Though his clothes weren’t in the best shape, his once-white T-shirt was neatly tucked into his tattered jeans, which had generous patches of old motor oil or grease stains. The frayed edges on his shoes barely held them together, but they were still very much in service. From his barrel-chested, ham-bicepped build, he could have easily passed off as a boxer, though generally speaking he had a rather benign air around him.
I wasn’t in a hurry, and my windshield and windows WERE filthy, so I replied, “Yeah, why not?”
He picked up the squeegee I left on the bonnet and got down to work. Gripping it with both hands, he proceeded to wet the windshield generously with soap water and remove it with careful, measured strokes. His slow but firm movements resembled those of taichi, and from the sense of purpose reflected on his face, you would have thought that he were painting the sequel to the Sistine Chapel, except that his job was much more down-to-earth. Before the dirty water managed to drip much further, he deftly wiped it up with a paper towel to prevent it from soiling the bodywork, though in this case the bodywork wasn’t a very pretty sight to begin with.
After he went one round with the squeegee, he then took out more paper towels and repeated the soap water procedure with the same approach, meticulously wiping each inch of glass to a spotless shine and scraping off avian excrement (ok ok, birdshit). As he did this, he proceeded to wax lyrical in a slow drawl about his philosophy towards cleaning windows.
“I been doing windows a looooong time man…I may be old fashioned, but I still like using these paper towels to get a good shine to these windows, you know what I mean? My friend gave me a squeegee once, but it can’t give you the same shine like paper towels man. I know it takes a bit more time…”
In the middle of his philosophizing, he stopped to greet the gas station manager with an exchange of familiar greetings. I guess he must be a familiar face around here.
As he went another round doing the windows and carrying on about his style of window cleaning, what struck me most was how much pride he took in what he was doing. It may not be much of a career choice for most people, but he still maintained a level of dignity in his speech, dressing and actions, which is more than I can say of some people I know. His meticulous work ethic is something we don’t see much in todays’ disposable society, in an age of major financial screw-ups and engineering disasters. He may have been doing a lowly, mundane job for pittance, but he did the best job he could, with pride.
Of course there’s a lowlife in every profession, and in this case they’re known as squeegee men. Though I have no personal experience with them, it would seem to me that they’re more thugs than anything else. I’m guessing that they probably won’t do much more than splash water on your windows and demand a fee for that.
Though this might seem a rather trivial observation, if you look at it in the perspective of this whole internship being an introduction to the working world, this window washing guy was showing me a lesson too.
When I think back about some of the people I’d worked with in National Service, school projects, music etc I remembered that there were some of them who could have greatly benefited from better work ethic. Being on the receiving end of shoddy work and mopping up after half-hearted jobs is something I hate and try to avoid inflicting on anyone else. Incompetence or incapability is occasionally excusable under mitigating circumstances, but negligence and laziness don’t go down too well with me. After 3 years in NUS doing countless group projects, some stellar and some downright disgusting, a guy doing my windows demonstrated something that some more educated people are incapable of.
When he was done, I handed him 4 quarters and he flashed a crooked but grateful smile, with a simple word of thanks. Though it was more than he asked for, I drove off all the richer for 5 minutes more at a gas station and some change.
After slaking the thirst of the gas-chugging monster, I decided to take it upon myself to use the provided squeegee to clean the horrendously dirty windshield and side windows, which were threatening to obscure my vision and cause an accident.
I’d barely started when a soft voice spoke up from behind me, “Hey man, can you help me out with 50 cents? I’ll do your windows for you.”
I turned around and saw a black guy who looked about 40,50-ish, with traces of grey running through his close-cropped hair and moustache. Though his clothes weren’t in the best shape, his once-white T-shirt was neatly tucked into his tattered jeans, which had generous patches of old motor oil or grease stains. The frayed edges on his shoes barely held them together, but they were still very much in service. From his barrel-chested, ham-bicepped build, he could have easily passed off as a boxer, though generally speaking he had a rather benign air around him.
I wasn’t in a hurry, and my windshield and windows WERE filthy, so I replied, “Yeah, why not?”
He picked up the squeegee I left on the bonnet and got down to work. Gripping it with both hands, he proceeded to wet the windshield generously with soap water and remove it with careful, measured strokes. His slow but firm movements resembled those of taichi, and from the sense of purpose reflected on his face, you would have thought that he were painting the sequel to the Sistine Chapel, except that his job was much more down-to-earth. Before the dirty water managed to drip much further, he deftly wiped it up with a paper towel to prevent it from soiling the bodywork, though in this case the bodywork wasn’t a very pretty sight to begin with.
After he went one round with the squeegee, he then took out more paper towels and repeated the soap water procedure with the same approach, meticulously wiping each inch of glass to a spotless shine and scraping off avian excrement (ok ok, birdshit). As he did this, he proceeded to wax lyrical in a slow drawl about his philosophy towards cleaning windows.
“I been doing windows a looooong time man…I may be old fashioned, but I still like using these paper towels to get a good shine to these windows, you know what I mean? My friend gave me a squeegee once, but it can’t give you the same shine like paper towels man. I know it takes a bit more time…”
In the middle of his philosophizing, he stopped to greet the gas station manager with an exchange of familiar greetings. I guess he must be a familiar face around here.
As he went another round doing the windows and carrying on about his style of window cleaning, what struck me most was how much pride he took in what he was doing. It may not be much of a career choice for most people, but he still maintained a level of dignity in his speech, dressing and actions, which is more than I can say of some people I know. His meticulous work ethic is something we don’t see much in todays’ disposable society, in an age of major financial screw-ups and engineering disasters. He may have been doing a lowly, mundane job for pittance, but he did the best job he could, with pride.
Of course there’s a lowlife in every profession, and in this case they’re known as squeegee men. Though I have no personal experience with them, it would seem to me that they’re more thugs than anything else. I’m guessing that they probably won’t do much more than splash water on your windows and demand a fee for that.
Though this might seem a rather trivial observation, if you look at it in the perspective of this whole internship being an introduction to the working world, this window washing guy was showing me a lesson too.
When I think back about some of the people I’d worked with in National Service, school projects, music etc I remembered that there were some of them who could have greatly benefited from better work ethic. Being on the receiving end of shoddy work and mopping up after half-hearted jobs is something I hate and try to avoid inflicting on anyone else. Incompetence or incapability is occasionally excusable under mitigating circumstances, but negligence and laziness don’t go down too well with me. After 3 years in NUS doing countless group projects, some stellar and some downright disgusting, a guy doing my windows demonstrated something that some more educated people are incapable of.
When he was done, I handed him 4 quarters and he flashed a crooked but grateful smile, with a simple word of thanks. Though it was more than he asked for, I drove off all the richer for 5 minutes more at a gas station and some change.
Step right out
Hi folks, it’s time for another get-to-know-me session.
This internship at an engineering firm has been quite an eye-opener in terms of preparing for a future career and at the same time, it got me thinking about how I would fit in with the rest of the workforce and what kind of person I’m going to be.
Engineering is perhaps what most people would consider a white-collar job, requiring a degree or at least a diploma to undertake this profession. From an early age, kids (in Singapore at least) are taught to aspire towards being doctors, lawyers, bankers and engineers and such. These vocations are held in higher esteem, presumably because of the higher levels of education required. They are also associated with better salaries and lifestyles, which are reinforced somewhat by the media.
At the other corner of the ring are blue-collar jobs. While they constitute an honest living and in some cases pay better than white-collar jobs, the stigma in Singapore society remains. It is not uncommon to hear parents admonish their children to study harder by painting the grim scenario of sweeping roads or collecting rubbish for a living. This mindset is what fuels the paper chase, from which people graduate into the rat race.
And how does all this relate to me? Well, here I am on the path to a white-collar job (whether I take on one or not remains to be seen) with my fellow peers, and while some of them seem to be embracing some or all aspects of the stereotypical yuppie lifestyle, I happen to be heading off in another direction. Here are some examples:
Food:
Classy establishments don’t go down too well with me, not to mention the inevitable financial drain. Well, I can hold my manners well enough to not get thrown out of such places, but I’d really rather be hanging loose at a more relaxed venue. Given a choice, I always opt to eat at hawker centers or kopitiams, where the food is cheaper and usually better. While some people rave about the latest tiramisu or NYDC desert, I’ll go for a good bowl of chendol, ching-teng or ice-kachang anytime. Sometimes in social settings or with a group of friends, going to such places is inevitable, but you can be sure my stomach has a dream of a better place.
Drink:
The beer vs wine debate is already very well-documented in this blog, so I will not go into gory details. The most expensive liquor that I imbibe would be Scotch whisky, but a good bottle lasts me a long time, since my drinking tendencies are more on the side of sip-and-savour rather then fast-and-furious. Needless to say, concoctions like Bourbon Coke or Vodka Ribena don’t get much mileage in my book. Drinking to incoherence or incapacitation is also not my style, which brings me to my next point.
Nightlife:
I can count the number of times I’ve been to a club on one hand, and none of them were particularly pleasant. Poseur-ish people all dressed to the nines in expensive or pseudo-classy outfits, drinking overpriced swill in excess, dancing (or trying to dance) to mind-numbing beats and trying to pick each other up are really not my kind of crowd. The single biggest turn-off about it would have to be the monotonously irritating noise played at ridiculous volumes. My idea of a good time in the nightlife usually takes place at a pub with proper music, decent drink and good vibes. The ones I frequent are not necessarily the most hip place to be seen, but that’s not a major concern. Though perhaps it would be nice to see some more age-group appropriate female eye-candy.
Music:
When most of the people you count as musical heroes are either dead or dying, it’s not healthy for your Hip Quotient (my quotient died a quick and painless death some years ago from Bluesinitis). For the most part I’m ignorant of the heavily recycled sequence of sounds that passes for radio-friendly hits these days, and unabashedly so. A lot of it also masquerades as flimsy excuses for pretty faces. Normally I don’t have any issue with pretty faces, but I’m a firm believer of music being played by musicians. Even among the newer bands these days, few of them ever capture my attention. Most of them just fall into the same, tired old sound that guarantees radio air time.
The current high-life trend is to be “into” jazz or whatever mutilated bastard-child variants of it have been cooked up. Which is a pity really, because while I do appreciate good jazz, it has been sullied by association with people attracted only to its’ cerebral and complex technical nature, or people just trying to be in the loop. Sadly, both groups of people usually miss out on the underlying groove and spirit behind the music. It has been turned upside down on its head and either dumbed-down or souped-up so much that it’s unrecognizable and in some cases, unlistenable.
In any case, blues is still my music of choice, but even that is not immune to the influences of mass-media demands either. I just have to be a little picky about what I listen to. To me, music is life, not lifestyle.
Fashion:
Those of you who know me in person will probably know that I’m a fashion non-entity. I’ve seen several fashion trends come and go on our little island, and I’m glad to say I didn’t spend any cash on that stuff. That might account for my abysmal luck with the ladies, or maybe not. I won’t tell you how much I’ve spent on guitars, gear and CDs though.
So there we have it, my life preferences in a nutshell. My tastes might change over time, I’m always open to new experiences and if any of you would like to point out something erroneous, please do so. If you’d like to shout out your concurrence, feel free to do so too. Afterall, we do live in a country of (somewhat) free speech.
This internship at an engineering firm has been quite an eye-opener in terms of preparing for a future career and at the same time, it got me thinking about how I would fit in with the rest of the workforce and what kind of person I’m going to be.
Engineering is perhaps what most people would consider a white-collar job, requiring a degree or at least a diploma to undertake this profession. From an early age, kids (in Singapore at least) are taught to aspire towards being doctors, lawyers, bankers and engineers and such. These vocations are held in higher esteem, presumably because of the higher levels of education required. They are also associated with better salaries and lifestyles, which are reinforced somewhat by the media.
At the other corner of the ring are blue-collar jobs. While they constitute an honest living and in some cases pay better than white-collar jobs, the stigma in Singapore society remains. It is not uncommon to hear parents admonish their children to study harder by painting the grim scenario of sweeping roads or collecting rubbish for a living. This mindset is what fuels the paper chase, from which people graduate into the rat race.
And how does all this relate to me? Well, here I am on the path to a white-collar job (whether I take on one or not remains to be seen) with my fellow peers, and while some of them seem to be embracing some or all aspects of the stereotypical yuppie lifestyle, I happen to be heading off in another direction. Here are some examples:
Food:
Classy establishments don’t go down too well with me, not to mention the inevitable financial drain. Well, I can hold my manners well enough to not get thrown out of such places, but I’d really rather be hanging loose at a more relaxed venue. Given a choice, I always opt to eat at hawker centers or kopitiams, where the food is cheaper and usually better. While some people rave about the latest tiramisu or NYDC desert, I’ll go for a good bowl of chendol, ching-teng or ice-kachang anytime. Sometimes in social settings or with a group of friends, going to such places is inevitable, but you can be sure my stomach has a dream of a better place.
Drink:
The beer vs wine debate is already very well-documented in this blog, so I will not go into gory details. The most expensive liquor that I imbibe would be Scotch whisky, but a good bottle lasts me a long time, since my drinking tendencies are more on the side of sip-and-savour rather then fast-and-furious. Needless to say, concoctions like Bourbon Coke or Vodka Ribena don’t get much mileage in my book. Drinking to incoherence or incapacitation is also not my style, which brings me to my next point.
Nightlife:
I can count the number of times I’ve been to a club on one hand, and none of them were particularly pleasant. Poseur-ish people all dressed to the nines in expensive or pseudo-classy outfits, drinking overpriced swill in excess, dancing (or trying to dance) to mind-numbing beats and trying to pick each other up are really not my kind of crowd. The single biggest turn-off about it would have to be the monotonously irritating noise played at ridiculous volumes. My idea of a good time in the nightlife usually takes place at a pub with proper music, decent drink and good vibes. The ones I frequent are not necessarily the most hip place to be seen, but that’s not a major concern. Though perhaps it would be nice to see some more age-group appropriate female eye-candy.
Music:
When most of the people you count as musical heroes are either dead or dying, it’s not healthy for your Hip Quotient (my quotient died a quick and painless death some years ago from Bluesinitis). For the most part I’m ignorant of the heavily recycled sequence of sounds that passes for radio-friendly hits these days, and unabashedly so. A lot of it also masquerades as flimsy excuses for pretty faces. Normally I don’t have any issue with pretty faces, but I’m a firm believer of music being played by musicians. Even among the newer bands these days, few of them ever capture my attention. Most of them just fall into the same, tired old sound that guarantees radio air time.
The current high-life trend is to be “into” jazz or whatever mutilated bastard-child variants of it have been cooked up. Which is a pity really, because while I do appreciate good jazz, it has been sullied by association with people attracted only to its’ cerebral and complex technical nature, or people just trying to be in the loop. Sadly, both groups of people usually miss out on the underlying groove and spirit behind the music. It has been turned upside down on its head and either dumbed-down or souped-up so much that it’s unrecognizable and in some cases, unlistenable.
In any case, blues is still my music of choice, but even that is not immune to the influences of mass-media demands either. I just have to be a little picky about what I listen to. To me, music is life, not lifestyle.
Fashion:
Those of you who know me in person will probably know that I’m a fashion non-entity. I’ve seen several fashion trends come and go on our little island, and I’m glad to say I didn’t spend any cash on that stuff. That might account for my abysmal luck with the ladies, or maybe not. I won’t tell you how much I’ve spent on guitars, gear and CDs though.
So there we have it, my life preferences in a nutshell. My tastes might change over time, I’m always open to new experiences and if any of you would like to point out something erroneous, please do so. If you’d like to shout out your concurrence, feel free to do so too. Afterall, we do live in a country of (somewhat) free speech.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Fire in the sky
I hadn’t been this excited about seeing fireworks for a long while.
To fill you in on some background information, my National Service vocation required me to be at the National Day Parade in 2001 and 2002. This event is the only time of the year that Singaporeans get to see a major fireworks display, and so for those 2 years I got to see them as well. The circumstances, however, were less than inspiring (those who’ve been through it will know what I mean) and the fireworks didn’t leave any lasting impression on me.
Fast forward to the evening of 4th July 2005. Down in Anaheim where I’m living and working, the Angels Stadium was having an Independence Day fireworks display after the end of the home game. I didn’t have anything to do that evening after dinner, so I headed down to the office, which was near to the stadium, in the hopes of catching a good view.
As luck would have it, the loading/unloading bay behind the office building afforded an unobstructed view of the stadium, and I wasn’t the only one there. 2 families had already pulled up in an SUV and a truck and were busy setting up lawn chairs to lounge in while taking in the display. They had the car radio on, blaring out the commentary of the game as it drew to a close. Kids ran around, making merry as I would have if I were them.
In the car park area stood an old RV trailer. I climbed the short ladder and sat down on the ceiling, which was covered with a thick layer of dust. Dust never deters me. A fence and some short trees separated me from the highway about 20m away, but didn’t block my view. I had my perfect vantage point.
Soon enough, the game ended and the first salvo was fired off. Bright streaks shot up simultaneously into the sky, each one bursting into a sphere of coloured streaks and combining to create a giant kaleidoscope. The intersecting circles of different hues were mesmerizing in a psychedelic way, almost as though I could reach out and grab them. Others exploded into a cloud of gold dust which sparkled against the night sky. Some of them overwhelmed with huge bursts of golden showers (no, not those kind) to fill up the whole sky at once, while some created a gentle pouring of golden streams which left lingering traces, almost like a shimmering willow tree in the sky. Throughout all this, smaller streaks continued shooting out from the rim of the stadium like drops of liquid rainbow from a boiling cauldron.
Some of them exploded with a resounding boom, while others crackled loudly like an angry sizzle. The resultant effect was like being under a zinc roof in a thunderstorm, the incessant, infinite pounding of raindrops interspersed with bursts of thunder. The familiar smell of smouldering gunpowder brought back many memories, both good and bad. Even though a cold chill was blowing strong, I sat enraptured on top of the RV wearing a T-shirt, bermudas and a silly grin on my face, occasionally muttering “Oh man…” whenever a particularly beautiful sequence occurred. It’d been a long while since a man-made visual spectacle managed to take my breath away like that, and getting to see it in such a relaxed setting made the experience even more enjoyable.
The choreography of the display was excellent, alternating between filling up the sky with colour and filling it with gold, ensuring that it never got monotonous and culminating in an explosive climax (puns intended) at the end. I lost track of time in my rapture and couldn’t remember how long it was, but what I did know was that I could have sat there and watched even longer. Even as the wind blew the smoke away, I continued to ponder the magnificent display that I had just seen and hopefully will get to see again.
I drove home with the same silly grin plastered on my face.
Current beer in my fridge : Bear Republic Hop Rod Rye, Lost Coast 8 Ball Stout, Stone Levitation Ale.
To fill you in on some background information, my National Service vocation required me to be at the National Day Parade in 2001 and 2002. This event is the only time of the year that Singaporeans get to see a major fireworks display, and so for those 2 years I got to see them as well. The circumstances, however, were less than inspiring (those who’ve been through it will know what I mean) and the fireworks didn’t leave any lasting impression on me.
Fast forward to the evening of 4th July 2005. Down in Anaheim where I’m living and working, the Angels Stadium was having an Independence Day fireworks display after the end of the home game. I didn’t have anything to do that evening after dinner, so I headed down to the office, which was near to the stadium, in the hopes of catching a good view.
As luck would have it, the loading/unloading bay behind the office building afforded an unobstructed view of the stadium, and I wasn’t the only one there. 2 families had already pulled up in an SUV and a truck and were busy setting up lawn chairs to lounge in while taking in the display. They had the car radio on, blaring out the commentary of the game as it drew to a close. Kids ran around, making merry as I would have if I were them.
In the car park area stood an old RV trailer. I climbed the short ladder and sat down on the ceiling, which was covered with a thick layer of dust. Dust never deters me. A fence and some short trees separated me from the highway about 20m away, but didn’t block my view. I had my perfect vantage point.
Soon enough, the game ended and the first salvo was fired off. Bright streaks shot up simultaneously into the sky, each one bursting into a sphere of coloured streaks and combining to create a giant kaleidoscope. The intersecting circles of different hues were mesmerizing in a psychedelic way, almost as though I could reach out and grab them. Others exploded into a cloud of gold dust which sparkled against the night sky. Some of them overwhelmed with huge bursts of golden showers (no, not those kind) to fill up the whole sky at once, while some created a gentle pouring of golden streams which left lingering traces, almost like a shimmering willow tree in the sky. Throughout all this, smaller streaks continued shooting out from the rim of the stadium like drops of liquid rainbow from a boiling cauldron.
Some of them exploded with a resounding boom, while others crackled loudly like an angry sizzle. The resultant effect was like being under a zinc roof in a thunderstorm, the incessant, infinite pounding of raindrops interspersed with bursts of thunder. The familiar smell of smouldering gunpowder brought back many memories, both good and bad. Even though a cold chill was blowing strong, I sat enraptured on top of the RV wearing a T-shirt, bermudas and a silly grin on my face, occasionally muttering “Oh man…” whenever a particularly beautiful sequence occurred. It’d been a long while since a man-made visual spectacle managed to take my breath away like that, and getting to see it in such a relaxed setting made the experience even more enjoyable.
The choreography of the display was excellent, alternating between filling up the sky with colour and filling it with gold, ensuring that it never got monotonous and culminating in an explosive climax (puns intended) at the end. I lost track of time in my rapture and couldn’t remember how long it was, but what I did know was that I could have sat there and watched even longer. Even as the wind blew the smoke away, I continued to ponder the magnificent display that I had just seen and hopefully will get to see again.
I drove home with the same silly grin plastered on my face.
Current beer in my fridge : Bear Republic Hop Rod Rye, Lost Coast 8 Ball Stout, Stone Levitation Ale.
