18 Feet with a Tinge of Wasabi

Legendary Monster of the Deep is Captured on Film

Hmm... look at the photo. Look who captured it. Who wants to bet that some Japanese researcher couldn't resist the temptation of giant 烏賊刺身?

Though with 18 feet left over, that's a good chunk of wasabi...

Why is it indeed?

Comment from Roznani, a friend of Jo's about Katrina:

"Whenever you see pictures of people in Aceh after the tsunami, they're damn skinny and they run like hell for the helicopter to get food. But you see pictures of people after Katrina, they're damn FAT and they walk real slow to pick up their food. Why is it ah? Are they really poor? How come they're so damn fat?"

Teaser Links (pt 1)

Japanese Smoking Etiquette

The most biting editorial cartoonist alive today

Someone has to post pictures of booth babes

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

--Dylan Thomas, 1952

They Throw Rice Too!*

Congratulations, Kalyani!

On Friday I went to see my friend of longest standing (I nearly said oldest friend, but she'd kill me) get married. I've known Kal for 18 years, since 7th grade at ISS, and after all these stops and starts, she's finally gone and tied the knot.

The wedding was at the wedding hall in the Sri Srinivasa Perumal temple on Serangoon Road. I can't begin to count how many people showed up -- Indian weddings make Chinese weddings look like just having a couple of friends over.

I found it quite funny that both Pratap and Kal didn't quite know what was happening -- everything was led by the Brahmin (the bearded guy to the left of Pratap). I suppose it must be profane to rehearse?

The bridesmaids enter (and the one in the middle is really quite cute. Not the one in red, who is clearly far, far too young.)

And there she is, mirabile visu almost attractive**


At the centre of attention, and rightly so.


Around the fire thrice they go...


and congratulations, Mrs Kishan!

*Watch Russell Peters give this immemorial gem regarding throwing rice at an Indian wedding:

Father: Stop! Stop! Stop! See, I told you not to invite these white people, they're throwing all the bloody food around! How would they like it if we went to their wedding and threw mashed potatoes?

**Only joking, tangachi, you were beautiful. It brought a tear to my eye...

A Four Hour Game, A Four Hour Game

I play too much mahjong.

Last week, I spent far too long playing mahjong with roommates. What should be a simple 90 minutes turns into 4 hours, after people insist that they have been gypped and demand a second (third, fourth) round.


Mike counts his diminishing stake.


A traditional response after having your stake being commented on.


Joe preparing for another 13 wonders.


Pat reaching out for a tile. Joe looks like he's fallen asleep waiting...


Ni ma de chut! (A Sinification of matherchod)

A Cast of Digits (Part 2)

The cast is reassembled!

Jo and Pat just got back from India, to take part in a friend's wedding.

Jo, still feeling the effects of a 13 wonders hand*.

Pat, demonstrating the superiority of Singapore's coffee making technology.

* Of course, the listings at that site don't reflect Singaporean scoring rules but whatever.

Au Lecteur

And who are you?

I haven't yet decided who you are. Are you a public audience whom I engage? Just my circle of friends? Or is this a purely shiok sendiri (NSFW) site?

When faced with multiple courses, time and conditions permitting, I take all of them. So I don't think this site's feel and content will stabilize until I'm done kicking the tires of my new-found willingness to write.

Until then, of course, the collective you won't exist.

微力の句作

永遠の夏
霜山の風
を夢見る

楊来春

A New Drug

I have an addiction.

Not quite like this guy, who for all his visible intelligence doesn't have a functioning work/play separation. I do have a S$30-a-day habit though, which isn't a sustainable one in the long term. When I'm not indulging, I feel this emptiness, this constant longing for a fix that is even stronger than my cigarettes. The urge is especially strong during meal times. The worst part is that the containers for my drug build up everywhere, and are scattered all over the house.

Today, I went like a good Singaporean to get a new subsidised fix from the government at this place.

The entry is so beautifully sterile. It still feels like an architect's concept art.


Technology is everywhere, from the account kiosks


to book returns!



There are even automated proximity sensor stations for checkout, but I didn't want to take photos due to the long queues. Perhaps this is not surprising to those living in Singapore but after so long in New York, the promiscuous technology is stunning.


I went to the Pod at the top on Monday to listen to Robert Sawyer, Bruce Sterling and Norman Spinrad* give a talk titled "The future is already here: Is there a place for science fiction in the 21st century?". The view from the Pod of the Singapore skyline was Blade Runner with less neon.

Whenever I need another fix of my methadone-equivalent, you'll find me here.

*In reverse order of interest. Not to say that I don't like Bob Sawyer, but I certainly think that Norman Spinrad was the most interesting, followed closely by Bruce Sterling (who I hope I didn't discomfit with questions at an earlier talk.) The one with the most content on his website was the least interesting. Another plug for Laconia.

A Cast of Digits

I live in a sitcom.

My main exercise is rolling on the floor along with the other occupants, gasping for breath and trying to stop laughing. The laughter hurts more than doing fifty situps in a minute, and always stems from some idiocy or other we've done. At least my stomach gets a workout and the floor gets swept.

Meet our chief instigator, who auspiciously opened the pilot episode by falling off a chair while playing mahjong.



That's more like it!

夜が明けた

今暁の遠謀

In The Jungle, The Shining Jungle

The elusive charger has charged.






At night, from 40 stories high.




At day, from same.

Pictures At Twelve.

The elusive charger has been found.

It's cunning hiding place? At the foot of my bed.

Pictures to follow at twelve.

A Hypertextual Medium?

What kind of blog doesn't have pictures?

Is it due to devotion to the sanctity of the λόγος? The need to remain true to λόγοςοψια? The 废话 I litter prose with?

Or is it due to being too lazy to find my camera's charger?

It's A Long Road To Laconia

I'm a squid.

I spew a cloud of ink at the slightest provocation. It's not easy editing words as I go, but it is necessary. If I do not, all I write will look like my Casaday screed.

Wherever else and in whatever other context I may write, my blog must come from Laconia.

Hujan Batu Lebih Baik?*

I am back.

After nine short years, I'm back in this island where I wander free, land of my birth where my heart longed to be. Those songs from my youth -- trite, compromised, painfully manufactured -- are engraved in my mind.

Why did I start this blog? Today wandering to lunch I saw and heard that song -- sans lyrics** -- being played by a group of uncles in flower shirts.

Childhood sneaks up on you in so many ways, often bearing a plank with a nail through it.

I can't deny it. I agree with the lyrics.

After September 11th 2001, some declared the death of irony; that we lived in a post ironic world, where earnestness, resolution and jutting jaw ala New Socialist Man would prevail. Others took them seriously. Which is more ironic, the serious or the stupid? And who is which?

Or am I both? Because the lyrics are true for me. Maybe 2001 did give me more respect for a secure, boring compromise trade?*** Did I spend too long away to remember how grindingly dull life in Singapore was? Or did I discover that I made my life in Singapore grindingly dull?

Whatever; I am back, though not knowing for how long.

I am back.

* Hujan batu di negeri sendiri lebih baik daripada hujan emas di negeri orang.
A rain of stone in your country is better than a rain of gold elsewhere.

** Lyrics, from memory, to "This is my land"
This is my land, an island where I wander free,
Land of my birth, where my heart longs to be.
Her friendly shores welcomed our fathers long ago
This is our land O Singapore, we love you so!

Arise awake, our land is calling strong and clear,
We will defend this isle we hold so dear,
We all belong to this nation so brave and strong,
This is our land O Singapore, we love you so!

etc etc, more stirring manufactured noises

*** They who would give up an essential liberty for a temporary security, deserve neither liberty nor security. -- some dead old white man who decided he'd rather not hang separately.