Joelosophy

new blog

2007-05-14T14:27:00.000+08:00

This one's acting up.

Please visit the new one here: Jouhl

what do we really lose?

2007-02-07T22:20:00.000+08:00

Some people are so afraid of losing...

their jobs,
their income,
their friends,
their family,
their possessions,
their promotions,
their reputations,
their security,

... that they lose the sense of who they are instead.

clarification

2006-10-06T07:09:00.000+08:00

For those who asked:

A soiree (swah-ray) is an evening dinner party typically thrown by people with more 0's in their bank accounts than invited guests. The one held at the Esplanade as recounted in my previous post was thrown by the Government of Singapore for the Delegates of the IMF/World Bank Meetings. It was lavish, decadent and totally indulgent. (I bet it's hard to discuss the ethics of banning protestors when you're enjoying yourself that much.)

A sari (sah-ree) on the other hand, is what an Indian lady would wear.

Conceivably, a lady could wear a sari to a soiree, but not the other way around. If she attempted the latter, that would truly be a feat. But not a fete. A fete would be why soirees are thrown.

post hiatus

2006-10-05T23:15:00.000+08:00

(It's a double entendre. Get it? "Post" as in "after," and "post" as in an "online post." Think about it, you'll get it sooner or later.)

It's been more than a month since my last post. Which means that it's been more than a month since I started working at Radio Singapore International (official motto: We're Unheard Of! No, Seriously, We're Unheard Of.).

In the blogsphere, that's a really long hiatus. Which is rather ironic, when you consider that at RSI, one of the programmes I produce is entitled Blogwatch, which focuses on knitting techniques in 18th Century Denmark. No seriously, it's a programme that focuses on what its name tells you it focuses on.

So far, for Blogwatch, I've interviewed a rather colourful cast of characters. My favourite so far's Frank Warren of PostSecret fame. Frank's insight into the human condition is as amazing as the blog he created. Or perhaps better phrased: Frank's insight into the human condition is amazing because of the blog he created. If you've not visited PostSecret yet, you really should. And if you've not listened to my interview with Frank, or at least read the transcript, in what way do you actually still consider yourself a friend? (I'm kidding!) (Not really!)

The past six weeks have been (inhale...) fun, informative, surprising, fulfilling, motivating, sometimes nerve-wrecking, occasionally vexing, eye-opening, crazy, engaging, insightful, caffeinated, rewarding and exciting (exhale!).

The highlight of my journalistic career so far has got to be interviewing the President of the World Bank, Paul Wolfowitz, when he was in town last month for the nation-wide oral hygiene exhibition. I mean, IMF/World Bank Meetings. Ok, so maybe getting a 15-second soundbite doesn't qualify as an "interview," but hey, Paul Wolfowitz! How I managed to pluck up the guts to approach him as he strode towards me, surrounded by a bevy of muscle (one of whom, a female journalist gushed, looked a lot like Richard Gere) I still don't know (actually I do: it was free flow of Tiger Beer that night). He was initially reluctant when I pounced up on him from the shadows (it was during a soiree at the Esplanade), introduced myself and asked if I could ask him a question (boxers or briefs?). A member of his possie (Richard Gere) sensed his hesitation and placed a very firm grip on my shoulder and said, "Not right now, pal," when what he actually meant to say was, "remove that recorder from my boss's face or you'll be finding out just how extensive your company's healthcare benefits are." But Paul (yes, our relationship's on a first-name basis now) I guess saw the journalistic eagerness in my eyes (actually it was an alcohol-induced glaze) and said, "Ok, just one question," with a kind smile. So that's how I got my 15 second soundbite. It was a moment I'll probably never forget. If I ever do, the handprint on my shoulder will remind me.

The two other notable soundbites I got that night were from Minister for Defence Teo Chee Hean and Minister of State for Something Ho Peng Kee.

So yeah, it's been eventful to say the least.

Tomorrow (three more minutes) will also mark the first time I fly solo on RSI. In other words, I'll be going On Air for the first time, all by myself tomorrow. Wish me luck.

the first day of the rest of my life

2006-08-21T21:56:00.000+08:00

A couple of *really* nice colleagues. A fantastic boss. A potentially really interesting jobscope. So much to learn. My first day of work. I'm pooped. Can't wait for tomorrow.

Goodnight.

an undiscounted act of kindness

2006-08-20T17:30:00.000+08:00

Today my faith in society was partially restored.

I was at the Popular bookstore at J8 this afternoon, shopping for some essential supplies for my first day of work tomorrow and was queueing up to pay. Nothing much really, mostly files and a couple of notebooks. After the cashier scanned all my items, she asked the standard question if I had a membership card which would entitle me to a 10% discount. No, I replied, and proceeded to count out the indicated amount to pay. Before I could hand over the cash however, the lady queueing behind me unexpectedly took out her own card, gave it to the cashier and offered to use it for my purchase. Out of surprise and modesty, I instinctively but politely declined while thanking her for her generosity. But she cheerfully insisted and in the end I relented, with much gratitude.

While the discounted amount didn't tally to more than $2, the profound impression her act of unsolicited kindness made on me restored my faith in a civic society. Her magnanimity made up for all the scowls and heavy backsides which refused to budge for the elderly on the bus and MRT I encountered today. Who needs four million orchestrated smiles when one random act of genuine kindness conveys so much more goodwill.

Now if only such acts of undiscounted kindness could indeed become more Popular.

new beginnings

2006-08-17T19:36:00.000+08:00

Of course I didn't look as the nurse unsheathed the needle and proceeded to extract blood from my vein. I'm not a sadist. But still, the sensation of the initial epidermal puncture exploded in my brain and lingered there for what seemed like half an eternity as I literally felt the lifeblood (albeit just two mililitres of it) being drained from me. A split-second curious glimpse of the satiated vampire syringe as it lay on the table afterwards reminded me how dark, almost blackish, blood actually is.

Although I was confident that the tests would reveal me to be in relatively good shape, I couldn't help but wonder if it would also detect an abnormal amount of adrenaline in my bloodstream. Afterall, the excitement had only just started to quell. Three hours after signing my contract with MediaCorp Radio and sitting in the clinic for my pre-employment check-up, I was still incredulous that this was for real.

For those who still don't know, let me first extend to you a warm welcome back to Planet Earth. (Is there still anyone within my immediate social circle whom I haven't proclaimed this to yet?) Last week, I was offered a job with MediaCorp Radio as a Producer/Presenter for Radio Singapore International. I see the majority of you have glowing question marks hovering over your heads, so let me just direct you to the website of my new employer by way of explanation: RSI. While it's not especially prolific locally (it's more of a regional broadcaster, and it's a shortwave station), RSI does produce some rather qualified programming. Think BBC without the British accent. Yup, it's my pinkie-sticking cup of tea.

It was a very pleasant surprise too that despite being told initially that there was only one position for hire, they decided to hire both me and this other lady. She and I met during our first audition and hit it off rather well. We passed the vocal test as well as the evil written test and a week later greeted each other's surprised faces as we met back at MediaCorp for the personal interview. Last week we were both informed sperately that we were offered the position. Remarkable that both of us, who clicked so well the first time we met, ended up being hired together. And there were at least 20 other applicants, mind you.

Oh, and another pleasant surprise awaited me as I read through my contract this morning. Apparently, as a Producer/Presenter I'm classified as a - get this - "Senior Executive." So at 23, fresh out of NS, with no professional experience, I'm a "Senior Executive" with MediaCorp. Talk about ego rush man! No wonder when they took my weight at the clinic I put on a few pounds; it wasn't flab, it was the head!

So yeah, things are looking bright. I start work this coming Monday and the anxious wait for that to begin has only made this week pass unbearably slower. I would like to take this opportunity to thank those of you who have shared my joy and gratitude over the past week. Especially those of you who believed in me and encouraged me when I seriously didn't think I stood a chance for this position. My sense of good fortune in getting this job pales in comparison only to my sense of gratitude for your friendship.

recreated in his image

2006-07-25T17:59:00.000+08:00

The latest misinterpretation of a previous post is what prompts me to write this. The post in question can be found here.

It is, grantedly, rather cryptic and less diligent readers might not have gotten the point. Then again, no one, not even those I consider more literarily evolved than I, who've read it seem to have gotten the point either. So perhaps I'm just a lousy writer. But still.

Simply put, the whole point of that convoluted exercise in prose boils down to the question: Did God create man, or did Man create god? In essence, is it possible that "God" is merely a figment of Man's imagination, conjured as an insulant failsafe to the uncertainties of life? A device invented to quell Man's doubts and insecurities when things go wrong. You gotta admit, negotiating the highwire act that is life is much easier when you've got a divinely infallible safety net beneath you that is "God."

Those of you who know me from my church days might be a tad scandalised by the mere entertainment of such a thought. The once-oh-so-pious-he-had-one-foot-in-seminary Joel actually questioning the existence of God? Well, yes. Get over it.

Now before you start building a pyre in the middle of the town square, objectively consider the question. Objectively. Does "God" give meaning to your life, or do you give meaning to His existence?

I look forward to your dramatic expressions of disbelief and disappointment the next time we chat. But just consider it, objectively.

a special welcome

2006-07-22T15:42:00.000+08:00

It's been quite a while since my last post. A slightly busier schedule and a temporary cure from the writing bug have kept the blog stagnant. Quite a bit has happened since then.

For one, I recently discovered that this blog has been receiving some rather distinguished guests. Much to my initial horror and subsequent amusement. Horror because at that time, I could not say with absolute certainty that I had not revealed any state secrets here (I have since read through all my posts and indeed I have not), and amusement because for those who know how, it really is remarkably easy to track a person down on the Internet. To these special readers who may still be perusing, I'd like to extend a special welcome and also state for the record that all opinions expressed here are personal. If anything I've written impresses you, I am honoured and glad; if anything offends, it is with a sense of personal integrity that I stand by them nonetheless. I only offer that such personal expressions should be understood within their proper experiential contexts and not taken at face value. And by no means are they meant to be an indictment of an entire corp.

So, dear unexpected guests, a pleasure and honour to have you here. My two years spent amidst the auspices of your authority and patronage have been so much more fruitful than I could have ever imagined. Come 10 August, it will be with bittersweet and unfatigued sentiments that I set aside my fatigues. I consider it a privilege to have served with and under you. Well, most of you.

another shandi post

2006-07-08T14:50:00.000+08:00

A Shandi-shaped outdoor table ornament.

created in his image

2006-07-06T01:22:00.000+08:00

The Creator awoke one day and looked down upon all that existed before Him, as He had done so everyday since the dawn of the ages. He gazed upon the rolling hills that stretched to eternity and the rocky peaks that climbed beyond the heavens; emerald fields which shimmered under cool breezes, gentle winds that meandered through the valleys and forests and carried to Him the very perfume of creation: every wild flowering plant, explosive in colour and festive in fruit; the beasts, of every hide and skill, the prides and their prey; everything that pulsed with nectar and blood, a harmonious and wonderous testament to His benevolence and grace.

He looked upon the awesome beauty that was his domain and was filled with gladness. But as the gusts ebbed, the strange but lately familiar feeling came to Him again. Was there something still amiss? Once more, He peered into the vast expanse of existence. It was as an artist poring over a masterwork, convinced of the perfection hidden in just one last secret stroke. And then He saw the imperfection which had been veiled to His utopist eye. In the far-flung crevices of His domain, lay disease and famine, cancers that blemished an immaculate existence. But how could this be, when all He had known and willed was only goodness? For the first time, He felt uncertainty and fear.

And so The Creator decided to create one last time. It would be a creature that would quell these new emotions that plagued His heart and mind like the disease and famine. So in His infinite mind, He willed forth a perfect creature of unprecedented might and wisdom. A creature that He would entrust to watch over all of existence, who would be a shepherd to His flocks and a keeper of His gardens. He would give him dominion over everything, to watch and care for it, and attribute to him the power to regulate the seasons and the tides. But most importantly, he would be the ultimate cure for His uncertainty and fear, to whom He would turn to in times of trouble.

He created him in a fitting image: His own. And Man named him "God."

shandi's day out

2006-07-04T17:23:00.000+08:00

Just got back from taking the mutts for a walk at East Coast with Aaron. We got there in Aaron's pick-up. I sat up front, Fang had the back seat all to himself and Shandi alternated between the floor, my lap, stomach, shoulders and face. By the time we got there, I looked like a doggie version of the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

I was surprised that when we got out, besides the customary ass/groin sniffing, there wasn't much else interaction. Between Fang and Shandi I mean. Aaron and I have known each other long enough to dispense with such niceties. But it was the first time our canine friends had met. I was also surprised that Fang didn't try to eat Shandi. But then again, Fang doesn't eat anything not prepared by a chef with at least three Michelin stars. (Aaron regularly serves him steak, salmon and the occasional bowl of red wine. You think I'm kidding.)

And for some inexplicable reason, Shandi preferred to tread on the soil and dirt instead of the paved track, eventhough there were very prominent signs that indicated it was a walking track. So it was a good thing I had her on a tight leash. It was not a good thing though, that everytime we stopped for a water break, she would feel the need to thank me by pouncing onto my lap with her freshly soiled paws. So by the end of our walk, a passerby would have thought that I was some kind of pervert who liked to rub dirt over my erm, personal region.

Aaron and I were walked by Fang and Shandi for about an hour until we decided to head home in order to beat the rush hour traffic. So it was back into the pick-up again with Fang in the back seat and a squirming Shandi-shaped lump of dirt on my lap, stomach, shoulders and face. Aaron later suggested that the next time we should bring them to MacRitchie. I thought that was a great idea. He can take Fang and I'll bring a camera, so I can show Shandi the lovely scenary that she missed.

Aaron and Shandi. And some of Fang's... fangs.

Fang, the wolf. Imagine running into this guy in the middle of the night. But I swear, he's got the most beautiful eyes.

The camera puts on 10 pounds. (Don't say a word!!)

To her list of bad habits such as chewing up the garden plants, peeing on the porch and barking at small children strolling past our gates, Shandi can now add another one. Thank you, Aaron.

PS: Shandi and I would like to sincerely apologise to the National Parks Board for the disappearance of East Coast Park. I promise to return it to its proper place once I manage to get it out of my clothes.

numberlology

2006-07-03T12:43:00.000+08:00

Pilferred from the Halls of Mandos, while the Keeper was taking a leak.

- 10 Favorites
Favorite Color: White. Matches the colour of my complexion.
Favorite Food: Salmon sashimi, dipped in soy sauce tinged with whiskey. Gastronomic equivilent of an orgasm.
Favorite Song: A timeless favourite would be Somewhere Over The Rainbow by Israel Kamakawiwo.
Favorite Movie: Man In The Iron Mask, because Leonardo was just so cute in it! No seriously, because the Knights watched it together.
Favorite Sport: The endless pursuit of tar and gravel.
Favorite Season: Winter. Orchard Road that time of the year is such an amazing sight, don't you think?
Favourite Day Of the Week: Friday.
Favorite Ice Cream Flavor: Vanilla, anytime. I'm a purist.

- 9 Current
Current Mood: Anticipation.
Current Taste: Anything European.
Current Clothes: Optional.
Current Desktop: BMW Z4.
Current Toenail Color: Fuscia, with yellow polka dots.
Current Time: 12:57pm.
Current Surroundings: A realisation of Chaos Theory. A butterfly flapped its wings and my room occurred.
Current Annoyance(s): Self-important people.
Current Thought: Certain self-important people.

- 8 Firsts
First Best Friend: Jaime Foo, in exchange for five of my best stickers.
First Crush: The pretty maternity ward nurse who gave me my first suckle.
First Movie: Probably something by Disney.
First Piercing: I won't tell you but I'll show you. *Wink*
First Lie: I have never told a lie in my life.
First Music: My first musical memory was of this hymn, "Yahweh," which my parents used as a lullabye.
First Car: Bentley Continental.

- 7 Lasts
Last Drink: Good ol' H2O.
Last Car Ride: Cab ride home from Mhd Sultan on Sunday morning, after watching the Portugese keeper whack England's balls, literally.
Last Crush: A Coke can.
Last Movie Seen: Cars.
Last Phone Call: From Aaron, arranging an outing to East Coast tomorrow with Fang and Shandi.
Last CD Played: What's a CD?

- 6 Have You Evers
Have You Ever Dated One Of Your Best Friends: Never! That's philocide.
Have You Ever Broken the Law: Everytime I click the "play" button on iTunes.
Have You Ever Been Arrested: Not yet.
Have You Ever Skinny Dipped: Not yet.
Have You Ever Been on TV: Yes. Some short film contest we did in poly.
Have You Ever Kissed Someone You Didn’t Know: Not yet.

- 5 things you’re wearing.
1. Army singlet.
2. Boxers from Giordano.
3. Fila shorts.
4. Stoic expression.
5. I won't tell you but I'll show you. *Wink*

- 4 things you’ve done today.
1. Had breakfast.
2. Arranged to walk Shandi and Fang with Aaron tomorrow at East Coast.
3. Read the papers. MICA's taken issue with mr brown's columns, which it says encourages anti-government cynicism. *Roll eyes*
4. Surfed the blogs. mr brown's posted MICA's issue-taking letter on his blog; at last check, 106 cynical anti-government comments from his readers. *See above ocular gesture*

- 3 things you can hear right now.
1. Devil In The Wishing Well by Five For Fighting.
2. The dense wooden clashing of balls. (Yes! We have a pool table downstairs!)
3. Younger brother acting spastic downstairs.

- 2 things you can’t live without.
1. Internet.
2. Air.

-1 thing you do when you’re bored.
1. Fill in pointless number-based questionnaires.

the men did not move

2006-07-02T21:33:00.000+08:00

What does it say when an accident turns out to be the brightest spot in an event? It could mean that the event was a trial in mediocrity that was kindly vindicated by Murphy's Law, or it could be as an imperfection in a masterfully-crafted work of art that gives it its value in uniqueness. The SAF Day Parade 2006 was the latter.

It happened toward the end of the ceremony, as the parade commander was preparing to order the contingents off for the march-past. Facing the dignified assembly of spectators, with his back to his parade, he bellowed the order for the Colours (flags representing the various formations) to be raised, as he had done so countless times during the rehearsals over the past month. But nothing happened. The men did not move. It took him approximately three seconds to realise his error, that they were not in the correct posture for that command to be given: they were in the "at ease" position instead of the prerequisite "at attention" for them to properly execute the order. Recovering from initial uncertainty and with a remarkably confident "Semula!" (an appended nullifying command) which overtook the few seconds of doubt, he then went on to call his men to attention and reissued his order for the Colours to be raised.

Now this could have turned out to be an international embarrassment in front of the gamut of dignitaries, local and foreign, invited to watch the SAF showcase the regimental skill and discipline of its finest. But that was not to be. Instead, that gaff turned out to be a shining moment, showcasing exactly and exactingly the regimental skill and discipline of the SAF's finest for that one reason: the men did not move.

Those of us who have participated in our fair share of parades know that when a wrong command is given, it is inevitable that the less alert amongst the contingents' members would react to it by attempting to excute it even when they are in an inapproriate posture to do so (it does not help that the commands are given in Malay to a predominently Chinese demographic). In doing this, their sudden movements, which quickly become confused and awkward abortions as they realise no one else moved, are like highly visible fractures in the integrity of the contingents' stolid constitution. It is a given, even amongst the most seasoned parade sergeant majors (the men who orchestrate the parade rehearsals, traditionally known as the "Kings of the Parade Square") that some men, somewhere would perpetrate this; eventhough it would not be entirely their fault, as they were ironically, just following orders. That is how most parades are ruined.

But not the one held on the First of July, 2006. The men did not move. Of the thousand men on the parade square, not a twitch was observed when the wrong orders came. One thousand bodies that shared a singular impregnable mind. It would not have been inappropriate if the applause that had accompanied every sharply executed drill throughout the parade had also rung out in the seconds after that defining command. The silence and stillness that enveloped the square in what could have been cynically interpreted as a disobedience of orders spoke volumes about the alertness and mental fortitude of each individual soldier who represented the SAF on the parade square that day (as the Regimental Sergeant Major of the SAF later remarked, they were truly "thinking soldiers"). Beyond that, it spoke volumes about the effort and conscientiousness the men had put into the countless sapping rehearsals that marked the month before. It spoke volumes about the quality and ethic of the SAF.

It was also volume that marked the recitation of the SAF Pledge and the singing of the National Anthem moments before. The concluding line of the pledge where the men swore to protect the independence of the nation "with our lives!" was shouted with such frightening conviction that the shivers that went up my spine emerged as an emotional lump in my throat. And the anthem that had been sung into numbness at every single rehearsal suddenly came alive again, reanimated by the unrehearsed emotion of the moment.

It is necessary here to record that despite the mistake, the parade commander had been an inspiration for me and my colleagues by the absolute professionalism, conscientiousness and astuteness he displayed during the rehearsals every step of the way. And in fairness, the parade format that he had confidently mastered had to be abridged at the last minute because the President had taken ill and could not attend. Nerves get the better of even the best. Even then, history will associated him not with his oversight but with the greater good that came of it.

All told, it was a humbling and moving experience to have been part of this. Come the tenth day of August this year, I will look back on this day and think that the two years that led to this was worth it. Because while the men did not move, I, and many others were.

prey to their own pride

2006-06-28T17:35:00.000+08:00

My mid-afternoon nap was disturbed today by news that I would be required to go down to SAFTI MI tomorrow for an SAF Day Exco meeting. Aroused at my 39th wink by the ringing purveyor of my requisite presence, I tried to be as cordial as possible to the person on the other end, masking the combined annoyances of somnolistic intrusion and a disrupted schedule the next day. Message received, I hung up and decided to take another 41 winks, to make up for the one lost.

For the unaware, I will be involved in this year's SAF Day Parade in a pretty vocal way. While the Parade Commander orchestrates the drills on the parade square, I will be the one directing the audience on the grandstand with commands to sit, stand and applaud. (Come to think of it, it's almost like that with Shandi, my beagle. Only that the audience will likely be more obedient and I doubt any of them will hump my leg.) Yes, I will be the emcee. It's not a big deal really, as a friend recently pointed out: the guest of honour is only going to be the President of Singapore, with the Defense Minister and a plethora of generals, local and foreign, in attendance. And seeing how I, in the same capacity, once demoted a Lieutenent-Colonel to a Lieutenant at a previous parade, there's no pressure this time, really.

So tomorrow, I will be attending the Exco meeting chaired by a one-star general and staffed by more epauletted crabs than at an all-you-can-eat buffet at Long Beach. I'll have to admit, there's a certain egomaniacal pleasure in being able to saunter into a room filled with so much top brass you see your own reflection. It can be even more satisfying when everyone there knows and celebrates you because of the quality of your speech (which, I've been told, is sweeter than mountain honey and smoother than 30-year-old scotch. Ok, maybe I'm paraphrasing a little). Yes, praise can be intoxicating. But therein lies the danger.

The danger in becoming self-important. With prior successes and the immoderate praise of men, the temptation to believe that you really are as amazing as they say you are becomes heavier. It is like a concrete block dropped from a height onto one end of a see-saw, where on the other end sits precariously one's sense of self-awareness. You lose yourself if not for a grounded self-awareness. It is as the wise say: a good man is unfazed by criticism; a great man is unmoved by praise.

In the course of my NS, I have seen too many good men fall prey to their own pride. Men of stature who because of their rank and status believe it their right, nay duty, to lord over those whose shoulders bear less impressive embroidery than theirs. Men of rank who hide their conceit behind a spurious facade of good humour but with every subtly raised eyebrow and pursed lips threaten their pandering minions' fall from false grace. Ironically the delusions of grandeur of these men are painted for them by those very vassals who would say and do all to get into their boss' good books; it is a shame that in their desperation they do not realise they will appear as mere footnotes in a chapter entitled Ego. How ironic then that I consider these men to be my best teachers during my NS. They have afterall, left the deepest impression on me. In military speak, they are the negative examples to what I ought to be.

So when I walk into that meeting room tomorrow, surrounded by men important and self-important, it will not be with a head held high in recognition of their favour. It will not be a head hung low either, in a practised attempt to appear modest. With a level head, I will go to my seat and take it. For I know my place and I know who I am. And that is what matters most.

advertising advertising

2006-06-27T10:27:00.000+08:00

Advertising does not need to be the desperate hardsell drivel you see on every page you turn and channel you click. The latest Cannes Advertising Festival winners prove it. Works of art, these.

http://www.canneslions.com/winners_site/

saving fish from drowning

2006-06-26T19:43:00.000+08:00

A little tale from Amy Tan's latest novel of the same title. It was delightful read, which embodied a skilled literary development of characters and a prismatically colourful narrative style. The curious title (which no doubt helped move many volumes off the shelves) came from this intriguing folk apologue at the beginning of her book:

"A pious man explained to his followers: "It is evil to take lives and noble to save them. Each day I pledge to save a hundred lives. I drop my net in the lake and scoop out a hundred fish. I place the fish on the bank, where they flop and twirl. "Don't be scared," I tell those fish. "I am saving you from drowning." Soon enough, the fish grow calm and lie still. Yet, sad to say, I am always too late. The fish expire. And because it is evil to waste anything, I take those dead fish to market and I sell them for a good price. With the money I receive, I buy more nets so I can save more fish."

yet another personality test

2006-06-25T20:17:00.000+08:00

Speaking about face reading, some of you would have heard of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI). It's based on Karl Jung's personality typologic theory that there are 16 broad categories of personality types that everyone falls within. Apparently it's one of the most scientifically accurate personality indicators out there.

Here's a simple non-scientific test to identify your personality type according to this theory. I was pretty skeptical myself, but the results proved rather uncanny. Try it:

http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes1.htm

According to the indicator, I'm an INTJ which means that...

"... As an INFJ, your primary mode of living is focused internally, where you take things in primarily via intuition. Your secondary mode is external, where you deal with things according to how you feel about them, or how they fit with your personal value system.

INFJs are gentle, caring, complex and highly intuitive individuals. Artistic and creative, they live in a world of hidden meanings and possibilities. Only one percent of the population has an INFJ Personality Type, making it the most rare of all the types.

INFJs place great importance on havings things orderly and systematic in their outer world. They put a lot of energy into identifying the best system for getting things done, and constantly define and re-define the priorities in their lives. On the other hand, INFJs operate within themselves on an intuitive basis which is entirely spontaneous. They know things intuitively, without being able to pinpoint why, and without detailed knowledge of the subject at hand. They are usually right, and they usually know it. Consequently, INFJs put a tremendous amount of faith into their instincts and intuitions. This is something of a conflict between the inner and outer worlds, and may result in the INFJ not being as organized as other Judging types tend to be. Or we may see some signs of disarray in an otherwise orderly tendency, such as a consistently messy desk.

INFJs have uncanny insight into people and situations. They get "feelings" about things and intuitively understand them. As an extreme example, some INFJs report experiences of a psychic nature, such as getting strong feelings about there being a problem with a loved one, and discovering later that they were in a car accident. This is the sort of thing that other types may scorn and scoff at, and the INFJ themself does not really understand their intuition at a level which can be verbalized. Consequently, most INFJs are protective of their inner selves, sharing only what they choose to share when they choose to share it. They are deep, complex individuals, who are quite private and typically difficult to understand. INFJs hold back part of themselves, and can be secretive.

But the INFJ is as genuinely warm as they are complex. INFJs hold a special place in the heart of people who they are close to, who are able to see their special gifts and depth of caring. INFJs are concerned for people's feelings, and try to be gentle to avoid hurting anyone. They are very sensitive to conflict, and cannot tolerate it very well. Situations which are charged with conflict may drive the normally peaceful INFJ into a state of agitation or charged anger. They may tend to internalize conflict into their bodies, and experience health problems when under a lot of stress.

Because the INFJ has such strong intuitive capabilities, they trust their own instincts above all else. This may result in an INFJ stubborness and tendency to ignore other people's opinions. They believe that they're right. On the other hand, INFJ is a perfectionist who doubts that they are living up to their full potential. INFJs are rarely at complete peace with themselves - there's always something else they should be doing to improve themselves and the world around them. They believe in constant growth, and don't often take time to revel in their accomplishments. They have strong value systems, and need to live their lives in accordance with what they feel is right. In deference to the Feeling aspect of their personalities, INFJs are in some ways gentle and easy going. Conversely, they have very high expectations of themselves, and frequently of their families. They don't believe in compromising their ideals.

INFJ is a natural nurturer; patient, devoted and protective. They make loving parents and usually have strong bonds with their offspring. They have high expectations of their children, and push them to be the best that they can be. This can sometimes manifest itself in the INFJ being hard-nosed and stubborn. But generally, children of an INFJ get devoted and sincere parental guidance, combined with deep caring.

In the workplace, the INFJ usually shows up in areas where they can be creative and somewhat independent. They have a natural affinity for art, and many excel in the sciences, where they make use of their intuition. INFJs can also be found in service-oriented professions. They are not good at dealing with minutia or very detailed tasks. The INFJ will either avoid such things, or else go to the other extreme and become enveloped in the details to the extent that they can no longer see the big picture. An INFJ who has gone the route of becoming meticulous about details may be highly critical of other individuals who are not.

The INFJ individual is gifted in ways that other types are not. Life is not necessarily easy for the INFJ, but they are capable of great depth of feeling and personal achievement."

(Taken from www.personalitypage.com)
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What's your personality type?

physiognomy

2006-06-24T19:52:00.000+08:00

My colleague asked me yesterday if I would be interested in attending a seminar on "face reading." This is an Ancient Chinese Artform (international law requires any Chinese Artform to be described as "Ancient;" it also requires any ancient artform to be attributed in some way or other to the Chinese) that interprets a person's future according to his facial composition. This got me thinking: imagine if someone went up to a face reader and the sinseh, without batting an eyelid tells the guy, "Wah, your future looks damn screwed up man."

baris sedia!

2006-06-23T20:09:00.000+08:00

(Theme Song for this Post: "Respect" by Aretha Franklin)

Do you know what SAF Day smells like? It's smells like sweat. More specifically, it smells like two hundred soaked and tired soldiers who've spent two hours standing shoulder to shoulder under the scorching sun and then with drenched uniforms clinging to their bodies, herded into a hall where they are allowed to further marinate in their own collective perspiratory vapours. You gotta take your beret off to these guys for the effort they've put in.

It is difficult to walk past that hall (which I obviously did) and not be overwhelmed by the inspiration from seeing their perspiration. Even though that inspiration (for those of you who were slacking in bio class, the scientific meaning of the word is "to breathe in," thus qualifying its usage here as a very witty pun) came only as a result of the length of the corridor along the hall outlasting the average person's lung capacity of a single held breath.

But seriously, you have to admire the effort these guys are putting into preparing for our military's single most important event of the year. With the Guest of Honour being the president of our republic and dozens of foreign military personnel on the invitation list for the First of July event, no effort at perfection is being spared. Eight days of rehearsals, four runs a day, over the course of a month leading up to the solemn day.

Even if most of these guys were not initially there by choice, I'd bet good money that on the day itself, not a few heads will be held higher than usual when, dressed to their nines in their Number Ones, they march onto the parade square and see the constellation of epaulettes and other top brass assembled on the grandstand just to watch them perform.

None of you will probably be there (unless you happen be someone from Mindef doing a routine blog check to see if any state secrets are being leaked here) but I have a feeling that the local media will grant it its fair share of coverage. So remember to tune in to the 9:30pm news that day. You might just hear a familiar voice booming over the parade square's sound system. :)

speaking about cool cars...

2006-06-22T19:43:00.000+08:00

I firmly believe that if you don't think this is the sexiest use ever discovered for metal, leather and rubber, there is something seriously wrong with you.

automobiles

2006-06-22T18:00:00.000+08:00

When I read that Pixar was gonna do a movie about, of all things, talking cars, I honestly thought they were in over their heads this time. After megahits like Toy Story, Monsters, Finding Nemo and The Incredibles, I believed that this was gonna be their first flop. I mean, seriously, talking cars? Do five-to-ten-year-olds really have that kinda spending power? How do you make something as prosaic as automobiles anthropomorphically believable and emotionally connect with an adult audience? But when I watched it yesterday, I got my answer: you get Pixar to make it, that's how.

It was simply a piece of inspired story telling. Anyone can make a little fish look cute or weave a tale about a superhero family. But to get the audience to laugh and cry along with chunks of aluminium and rubber takes some serious horsepower, talent-wise. Go watch it. It's a fun ride that'll take you from chuckle to guffaw in four seconds flat.

(I was initially surprised that there weren't many product placements, even though the movie itself had the potential as an automobile branding vehicle. Beside's the main character's love interest, Porsche, and the VW hippie van, all the other main characters were brandless. Imagine the publicity generated if say, some Jap car company with big bucks managed to get the main character branded as one of theirs. A marketer's wet dream come true! Then again, I believe it was probably a conscious decision on Pixar's part to keep its craft as pure as possible. And the tale was better told because of it.)

self-fulfilling prophecy

2006-06-21T10:02:00.000+08:00

Here's a sardonic tale pilferred from one of my favourite authors, Jeffery Archer, who in turn pilferred it from antiquity. Makes you ponder...

A servant in Baghdad rushed home to his master one day with a look of utter fear frozen upon his face.

"Master, I just came back from the market," he explained, "where I saw Death. When he saw me, he made a menacing gesture. Allow me to flee to from here and I will ride to Samara, where Death will not find me."

The master gave his consent and the servant flew at once out of the city to Samara. Later that afternoon, the master went to the market himself. Amongst the crowd, he too chanced upon Death. Angry that he had lost a good servant, he confronted him.

"This morning you saw my servant and made a menacing gesture towards him. Why did you do that?"

Death replied: "I never intended to frighten him. That was not a gesture of menace but a reaction of surprise. I did not expect to see him here, for I had an appointment with him this afternoon in Samara."

why blog now?

2006-06-19T18:18:00.000+08:00

I think I was about four when I almost got into my first fight with a complete stranger. Yes, those of you who know me personally might find that hard to believe. "How could this genteel, erudite and very attractive young man possibly have resorted to violence at such a young age?" You are probably asking yourself. "Looking at him now, it is incomprehensible that he was anything but a vision of cherubic beauty and innocence as a child."

Alas, I'm afraid I have to burst your bubble; there is a side of me you never knew. I was pretty much a brat when I was a kid.

So this near incident of infantile fist-a-cuffs (I like using archaic words like that; makes me sound smart) took place at the toy department of some store. I had seen a particular action figurine (I think it was He-Man. Remember him?) that had caught my four-year-old-or-thereabouts fancy and toddled towards it so that I could analyze its safety disclaimer and to ponder which vintage of whine (get it?) I should serve my dad in order to convince him to buy it for me.

Just as I unhooked the package from the the jutting-metal-spoke-holder-thingy that all toy departmental stores, in accordance with governmental safety regulations, place at the direct eye level of small children in order to protect the rest of their bodies if they tripped, another kid appeared.

Now, this kid was about my age. But he was a total dick. Instead of choosing from all the other popular He-Man action figurines that lined the shelves (you remember them: Man-At-Arms, Cyclops, Skeletor, Evilyn, Spongebob, etc.), he came right up to me and tried to snatch the toy I had picked out right out of my hands! Imagine that!

I swear I would have bitch-slapped the little twerp there and then if I had known what a bitch-slap was. Anyway, a miniature tug-of-war ensued and eventually my dad came along and, being a first-time parent who was naturally over-protective of his first-born son, protectively pried the toy out of my hands and gave it to the other kid. With a smile. Now, I don't remember crying much, which you must admit is pretty commendable for a four-year old under such circumstances. Although the bills for the subsequent parent-child therapy sessions did mean that there were no He-Man toys for quite awhile.

You might be wondering where my mum was in all of this. She, a woman of the female gender, having been endowed by thousands of years of evolutionary maternal survivalist instinct, always stayed clear of toy department on our family outings. She strangely always saw something that caught her fancy somewhere else and needed to go check if it was on discount as soon as my eyes caught first sight of Lego blocks. She'd crane her neck and point to something in the distance and tell my dad, "I think they're selling that red blouse cheap. I'd better go take a look." Even though the woman's department was two floors down. She's a wise woman, my mum.

You may now be wondering what this stupid story has to do with why I'm starting a blog. And why on earth you are actually still reading it. I frankly have no idea. I initially wanted to relate how that kid who snatched my toy was merely manifesting the desire that not having what someone else had only makes you want it more, and how all my friends had blogs and therefore I needed one too. But somehow, I got carried away (it was only after putting up a fierce struggle that I was put down) and decided to go with stupid corny humour instead (real life story though).

Truth be told though, this had been a long time in the making. And it was only recently I stumbled across a friend's blog, "where thy eyes shall suffer the sight of such writing as is unfit for thy mortal vision," that I was inspired to do my part for humanity and share a part of me with the world, in literary form. Good writing begets inspiration. So thank you, Youknowwhoyouare.

This blog will not be entirely about *me* though. It will be about *life*, albeit, my take on it, as the name of the blog suggests (Joel=me, Sophy=wisdom. Oh the humility!). It will be a mix of the mundane and the sublime, the random and the ordered. But most importantly, it will be about the things in life that inspire us to be more of who we are. So here I am at last, late to the game, but here nonetheless.

So if you're still reading this, you must be extremely bored, but thank you for taking an interest anyway. I hope to carry on this conversation with you in subsequent posts (see that "Comment" button down there? Use it). Till then, have a good life!