Medical Appointments

As some of you know, my AS condition demands that I go for a medical check-up every three months or so. What basically happens during these appointments is that I go to the hospital and wait twenty minutes so that my doctor can stand behind me, ask me to bend over and exclaim “Yes, yes. That’s very good.” Other than being a waste of time, this is also mildly damaging to my psychological health, what with me not being the type to bend over in the presence of male company. Actually, make that any company.

And then there’s the blood test or Procedure 12 as they like to call it. This actually happens before I go in to see my doctor but, hey, it’s always nice to start with a slightly gay-ish story, isn’t it? So anyway, despite the LED display, my number is shrieked out and I trot in to have my arm punctured while some middle-aged woman looks at my blood test forms, tells me what my own name is and then proceeds to expound on how many monikers start with the letter “J”.

“Joshua, Jimmy, Joseph, Jasper…” she rattles away as the first Vacutainer starts to fill. “Jean, Jackson, Janice…” and she seamlessly slots the second one in. “Jacob, Justin, Jacqueline, Jasmine, hmmm… Ok. Press and hold.” and she covers the wound with cotton wool.

It seems apt to point out here that I like watching my blood splutter into the vial. It’s fulfilling in the way that popping zits is fulfilling. Don’t ask me why. Do note, however, that this is different from the way one of my exes claims that she enjoys injections. That is just plain madness from someone who used to cut herself for fun.

And so, with the blood taken and the inspection done, it’s time to pay and there’s this one particular nurse whom I can’t stand. Not only does she refuse to smile, she insists on addressing me as “the patient” while constantly staring at her blasted monitor. “Would the patient like to pay by NETS?” “Would the patient like to have a morning appointment?” “Would the patient like to tell me to sod off?” YES, THE PATIENT WOULD LIKE TO TELL YOU TO SOD OFF!

And that’s about it really. Every thirteen weeks, I get put through this treatment so the next time any of you see me stumbling about all pale-faced and irritable, I suggest you be a pal and buy me some tea.

A Clockwork Orange

I have finally finished Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman and started on A Clockwork Orange which really is like taking a jovial jaunt in a meadow and then running into a cliff. Compared to Murakami’s economical, simple use of language, Burgess’s writing sometimes feels obscure and impenetrable. All this is intentional, of course. A Clockwork Orange is written from the point of view of the protagonist/narrator Alex and his unique lexicon or Nadsat, as Burgess calls it, consists of various words derived from Russian. So droog means friend, litso means face, horrorshow means good, viddy means to see, devotchka refers to a woman and so on. A typical sentence would thus read:

“From inside this malenky cottage I could slooshy the clack clack clacky clack clack clackity clackclack of some veck typing away, and then the typing stopped and there was this chelloveck’s goloss calling: ‘What is it, dear?’”

And then there’s the sheer insanity of the violence. Rape and pillage just for the fun of it is quite unbearable and every time Alex’s gang encounters a would-be victim, my stomach tightens ever so slightly. Yet, despite this, and also despite the fact that I know the plot and the ending and the ultimate message, I still can’t stop turning the pages. Alex’s speak may be incomprehensible at first but there comes a point when it abruptly becomes almost second nature and all of a sudden you find yourself in his world, thinking in his terms; in other words, you become a brother, as he likes to call the reader.

Few books have gotten me so involved and this one is really something special. Alex’s indifference to the “ultra-violence” he inflicts on others leaves one both maddened and sympathetic. But beyond the emotional aspect, Burgess leaves little literary jewels scattered here and there. I simply cannot forget this line from Alex as he takes in a violin concerto, of all things, in his room:

“Oh, bliss, bliss and heaven. I lay all nagoy to the ceiling, my gulliver on my rookers on the pillow, glazzies closed, rot open in bliss, slooshying the sluice of lovely sounds. Oh, it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh.”

Of course, as he gets ever more entranced by the beauty of the music, the images that fill his mind get ever more violent. And therein lies the contradiction.

And that’s where I’ve stopped. More later. Maybe.

When novel writing fails, go buy some new ones

My novel seems to have stalled. I’ve been stuck at the 6,000 word mark for the past two weeks and it doesn’t look like I’m gonna be writing much more. Charles, my professional whistler character, will remain unlaid in Africa. Which really is quite a sucky position to be stuck in but he’ll just have to be patient till the next NaNoWriMo when I get my act together.

Of course, I have my… umm… reasons. Like being caught in the middle of brainstorming for a major new campaign for 2007 for a major client. And the pitch that really wasn’t a pitch except that it was, just not in a creative sort of way. And the fact that I have been feeling somewhat enervated of late which has made me crave sleep more than anything else, including writing on this blog. Note that I am not giving excuses, I’m just saying that it’s not my fault.

On the brighter side, I did manage to make it down to the Penguin warehouse sale today thanks to a tip-off from Yvonne. As a reward, she got dragged down to the Expo with me where our eyeballs promptly fell out. The books were laid out on huge tables like so much fish at a market and everywhere people were picking and flipping and choosing. Beholding such a sight was, quite frankly, magical for people like us and we descended upon the rows of tomes with vigour. Until ten minutes later, that is, when I found my eyes telling me to “Stop soon or we’ll make a run for it" and Yvonne starting doing spontaneous jigs. The thing about two reading aficionados heading down to a book sale is that we both kept picking out books that the other party already had. So there was a lot of “Hey, I have this already” and “Don’t buy that, I’ll lend it to you” and “Oei, I brought this book for you today lar”.

Anyway, here’s my disappointingly short list of scores (all for just the mind-bogglingly miniscule sum of fifty bucks!):

The End of Faith – Sam Harris

Not Quite the Diplomat – Chris Patten

Long Way Round – Ewan McGregor & Charley Boorman

Most of Us Are Here Against Our Will – David Levinson

Making Friends with Hitler – Ian Kershaw

A Clockwork Orange – Anthony Burgess

How to Be Good – Nick Hornby

Add to these Vanessa’s Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman which I have yet to finish and the recently borrowed I Am a Cat plus the recently purchased The God Delusion and I think I’ll have enough reading material to last well into the new year. With any luck, all this literature will give me enough inspiration to write a proper novel, and this time, let’s just hope it isn’t about a professional whistler.

Noodle Nazi

The famous Soup Nazi as portrayed in Seinfeld. Well, I think I just found the noodle Nazi in Singapore.

Was feeling hungry during tea break and decided to get some lor mee at the canteen near my office (and yes, Joel, I'm still eating my lor mee with bee hoon). After she prepared the order, I proceeded to pay, and then added the chopped garlic that usually accompanies it. I didn't want to overdo it, so just added a smidgin. The hawker then said "You must put it daringly", to which i replied "It's enough". (Note: the conversation happened entirely in Mandarin). She then reached out, picked up the garlic spoon, and said "I help you put", after which she scooped a huge tablespoon of garlic and plopped it into my bowl. This was followed by another spoonful of chopped spring onions, and then an attempt to add fried shallots, which i managed to turn down. Being the courteous Singaporean that I am, I thanked her and walked off to my seat before she could garnish my lor mee any more.

At my seat, I recounted what happened to my colleagues before tucking it. It tasted quite good actually, but that's because I kinda like chopped garlic. I can imagine someone being totally turned off by the sheer amount she added to my bowl. After one mouthful, I decided that it needed more vinegar. So i brought my spoon back to the stall to get some. The girl who was behind me has just gotten her order of laksa and the stallholder offered to add Laksa leaf to her bowl. The girl rejected her offer, but alas, the response was "you must add this, it's nice". And she promptly spooned out a full teaspoon of Laksa leaf into the poor girl's bowl. While all that was happening, I managed to get the vinegar I needed and escaped before I was offered anything else. I have never seen a hawker so eager to garnish everyone's noodles at her own expense. I must attempt to make her say "No noodles for you" one day.

URGENT!

Please send 50,000 words now!
Explanation here.