Wisdom collected

Only The Real Thing

I was at a Conference today on the virtues of public consultation (the "collective wisdom" all policy-makers should gather). The Conference's opening speech was delivered by a politician, who remarked that politicians must never lose touch with the people etc etc, especially in societies where class, cultural contexts and social conditions are diverse and divisive. Yet after admitting that ours is a plural society, he went on to say that the politician must always try to understand the concerns of the "REAL SINGAPOREAN".

I was confused. Dear me. Who can possibly be the real Singaporean? Or rather, a fake one?

Which politician would ever dare to name so confidently the "real American/British/Indian/Cambodian"? Maybe only a politician in real Singapore would ply this slippery rhetoric and politics of essentialism, and with such earnestness!

Singa's Last Words

On our way back from the world's best BBQ chicken wings last night (yes, again!), J and I cut across a playground where three girls between the ages of 4-6 were hanging around.

As we walked by, I overheard one of them - short hair, slitty eyes, no front teeth - tell her friend, "I got one hundred lives". I think they were negotiating some game rules.


GameGirl (from Kidnap News - cloth-bound,25 pp,9 copies left!)

Kaypoh me interrupted their negotiations, "I got two hundred lives."

They looked up, giggled. "I got three hundred," No-front-teeth challenged.

"I got one thousand." Kaypoh auntie added.

"I got two thousand." (you get the idea...kids can count)

"I got ten thousand!" J now chipped in, using the monkey bars to do his chin-ups.

They stared at the ape man who has upped the stakes in this competition.

"I got ninety-nine thousand!" No-front-teeth shouted (her sidekicks still giggling).

Their mothers or grandmothers were seated at the benches on the edge, and seemed comfortable enough to let this match go on.

Not to be defeated, J (on his third chin-up) threw this curve ball - "I got one million."

They all stared at J, silenced. What could possibly be more than one million?

After a cold 5 seconds, No-front-teeth, sore at having her ignorance exposed, served up this piece of adult insight - "You, no manners!"

"No manners." Tall Sidekick with large eyes, who has been playing the role of Chief Eunuch whispering into the ears of No-front-teeth, joined in. Her indignation was more obvious.

"No manners," short sidekick, who was clearly the Bubbles of the Powerpuff trio, giggled some more.

Still feeling insufficiently justified, No-front-teeth went on - "You, no manners, NO USE!" And having pronounced this final condemnation, they burst into a triumphant chorus of "no use no use no use no manners no use".

There was more that followed (including Chief Eunuch's parting shout to J - "enjoy your coo coo bird!". Yep, no kidding), but the night was already sealed with this judgement: No manners, no use.

So grown-ups, be careful what you say to kids, lest they fashion and re-cast your words into deadly revolvers and sly boomerangs.

[p/s Remember Singa?]

Dream on!

Somewhat still inspired by Mr Stephen Ooi's grand ambition, I've been thinking of the answers friends have generally given when I asked what was their aspiration when they were young.


"Chuang Tzu's Ampulets: J dreaming he is a security guard dreaming he is J"

Of all the lawyers, teachers and civil servant friends I've asked, none I think ever said that they, as children, had aspired to the lawyers, teachers and civil servants they are today. In fact, often after considering quite carefully my question, most folks say that they never really had an aspiration, an ambition or a dream of what they wanted to do or be when they were young. Grudgingly, a few might say 'doctor'. Most of the time, however, the conversation quickly switches to what they wished they could be now. Then laughingly, the honourable 'Tai-Tai' and 'househusband' would emerge as answers.

Maybe I should have rephrased the question. Aspirations are somehow large, daunting things. You feel you have to cite something really grand. If you must dream, dream big. Climb Mt Everest - thrice. Separate Siamese twins. Be the nation's president.

Perhaps I should have asked instead what they've often wondered about or pretended to be. That might lead in a more modest direction. For me, I've always pretended to be a bus driver, a seller of chwee kueh or some other kind of hawker, a dancer (in a vague way, even if I can't dance, nope), a writer, the voice/dubbing artiste for cartoons... Or in the case of J, I think he once told me he wished he IS a cartoon. Oh well.

I think I much prefer these small dreams - human-sized ones - odd-shaped ones - or even those so small and light they are impossible to hold and see.

Que Sera Sera...

J and I took yesterday afternoon off work and walked around the city (ah, that's how life should be!). We spotted at the Speakers' Corner Mr Stephen Ooi's expression of his aspirations and hopes. No doubt, later that evening on those many podiums he has set up, he would share his vision and promises of the future if he were indeed Istana-bound.



Fellow islanders, ampulets may not have the same presidential aspirations and hopes as Mr Stephen Ooi, but we give you here our wish too for a Better Tomorrow.


Scene from a favourite restaurant#3: A Better Tomorrow (Click to see larger pic)

Just call me Greedy

Yes, friends, the mystery of the abandoned/lost Golden Retriever has been solved by my mother, the neighbourhood sleuth...and to think I was worried about this dog for 2 weeks!

Mom: [Offering dog food] Come here, poor doggie.
Stinky: Wow! Thanks! [Gobble gobble]
Old Lady: You don't have to feed it...
Stinky: Hey old woman, watch what you are saying - [Gobble gobble]
Mom: Why? So poor thing, lost and so faithful.
Old Lady: Haha, no no, it's not lost.
Stinky: ...[Gobble gobble]
Old Lady: It's just greedy.
Stinky: Old woman, don't call [gobble gobble] me names!
Old Lady: It belongs to that house over there, behind. Can see? It sneaks out almost every morning.
Mom: Who's the owner?
Old Lady: You never see him before meh? An old man with many of this kind of dogs? He feeds them once a day only, so this one is very greedy, comes and sits in front of my house to beg me for food every morning.
Mom: Aiyoh.
Old Lady: Yah, very greedy.
Mom: And stinky.

Don't call me Stinky

"Scene from a favourite restaurant#2: Animal Burger"

For the past 2 weeks I've noticed a dejected-looking golden retriever in my estate on my way to work. It keeps its head low, and if it stood on its hind legs and had shoulders, the shoulders would be hunched. And if it had on clothes, the seats of its trousers would be worn thin - as with the balding patches near its tail. It stinks.

It had a thing for one of the houses with a black wrought-iron gate, staring at its inhabitants (as it had been the past couple of days). Once, an old lady had come out of that house, and out through the gate, to trim her sunflowers by the pavement. When she went back in through the gate, the dog merely stared. Old stinky didn't exist for the old lady. For sure, I knew this house never had a golden retriever.

Yesterday, my mom and I finally decided to foster the dog, bring it to the vet, and try to find its owner or to find it a new home. No way my mom's Rusty (aka The Killer peekapoo) would make friends with Stinky here.

"Come, come," my mom coaxed. "Come, doggie, come home."

I whistled, and tried some doggie-type names. "Nicky - Goldie - Silky - Hilary (the name of a golden retriever Lin Dai had told me went missing some time ago) - Pepper - Lucy - Cookie - Queenie." There was no response. "Doggie, come with us, doggie."

Old Stinky tracked us for about five meters, changed its mind and refused our subsequent calls to follow. Instead, it decided to persist by the unresponsive black gate. When it started to drizzle, we gave up our dog-luring efforts for the morning.

"No one in that house cares for you, Stinky." I dog-talked to Stinky, while waiting for a taxi to take me to work.

"What do you know?" Old Stinky countered. I didn't know Golden Retrievers would be so disagreeable.

"I know that the people in there are not who you think they are."

Old Stinky did not reply for some time. "He's in there somewhere." It looked at me mournfully, then fixed its more determined gaze at the house.

"I hope you are not abandoned but simply got lost."

It did not reply. My dog-language powers were fast fading.

"Hey, Stinky, you sure you don't want to bum at my house for a while?"

"No...and my name is..." It didn't look at me when it replied.

Well, my dog-language power now gone, the taxi arrived. The next time I would try to communicate with some dog food instead, and I would try to get a picture to post on the lost-&-found-dogs pages

So folks, please be kind to all animals. And if you have any advice on how to get Old Stinky to agree to being rescued, or wish to rescue it, let me know.

The Impossible

It is not everyday that you get an official email circular with the subject heading "Cessation of Prisons". I admit that for a moment I had actually thought:"no more prisons in Singapore!". Then discounting that as impossible, it occurred to me that maybe there was going to be a day of universal president's clemency! Silly me. Of course, upon opening the mail, I immediately saw that it was just some prosaic announcement that a few drug rehabilitation and facilities were no longer to be considered prisons.

It is late and I'm not quite sure I know what's the relation between the email and this picture, but here's the drawing anyway!

"What I saw at my favourite restaurant #1: The Great Escape"

Thank You has never been this hard to say

Retailers have probably tried to get people excited about Father's Day for years, but to no avail. Socks? Aftershave? A pen with his name engraved? DIY tools? Another shirt?

Plus fathers are generally a non-communicative, unappreciative kind. Oh well, it is also hard to be THAT expressive about receiving yet another new shirt.

In the case of my father, the "another new shirt" (thoughtfully selected nonetheless) from my brother and I resulted in this elaborate alternative to a simple 'thank you': "Why you buy this for me? Why you buy this type? Not nice! I don't want this kind of shirt. I won't wear it.... etc etc." (Hmm, at least this father can't be faulted for being non-communicative.)

"Pater Dictator"

Maybe this is why governments whose methods seem a tad bit oppressive are termed "paternalistic", while even the most naggy, mollycoddling state is never "maternalistic", only a "nanny". For mothers, our imaginations and foetal memories hold fonder associations.

Still, I do wish all dads a Happy Father's Day. It must be tough on you to be so little understood.

From boys to...

I've heard many girlfriends complain when their male/boyfriends/husbands launch into "army talk". Inevitably, many women roll their eyes, make that trip to the toilet, or start making "we've heard that before" remarks. I must admit I love listening to guys talk story about their training/reservist experiences, because usually it's really very funny (even when the stories are repeated - and they usually are).

One of my favourite is of J's army mate, who is blessed with the fortunate name of "Happy". No kidding. Happy, whose native tongue is Hokkien, has many a close encounter with authority in the army because of his name.

Officer: Private, why are you squatting here?
Happy: ... [Looks up]
Officer: Why? What's your name?
Happy: Happy, sir.
Officer: I ask you what's your name, you say Happy? Why? You trying to be funny, is it, Private?
Happy: No, sir, my name Happy.
Officer: You don't be funny.
James: Er, sir, really lah, his name is Happy.

("I Surrender": One Happy Boy)

Several hours ago, before BATMAN BEGINS, J and our friend Ig started on the army talk over a plate of Beehoon Goreng and 2 of HorFun. They were talking about death. Well, not the real kind. But the kind make-believe soldiers suffer in a make-believe battle. During staged scenarios of enemy invasions, death comes swiftly in the form of a Sergeant (or is it the trainer?) who would descend upon the soldier, pointing " you - you - you -you - and you, all dead. That's the enemy tank." And the newly dead would protest, before accepting their afterlife (usually in the cool shade, resting) graciously.

Recounting this now, the story seemed to have lost whatever comic qualities I thought there was. Oh well. I guess because the comedy, really, was in how those stories were told - the exaggerated gestures, the impersonations, the sophisticated Singlish. Whereas it would be too cavalier to laught about the subject of war and death.

But maybe telling and re-telling the story is one strategy for getting by what must be, in reality, pretty unfunny days. Days that are physically draining, dull and even de-humanising (young upstart officers ordering you around, sleeping in your muddy uniform or just squatting around waiting and waiting for nothing).

J likes to say that you just have to pretend you're acting in a movie. A movie also about men donning costumes...like Batman Begins? or something more grim, less happy in its making and conclusion?

Me? I'm just glad us women are spared of the action, but none of the talk :>

Toto and the Beanstalk

It seems apt that we used to call ourselves, and still live under the legacy of the phrase "Garden City". In another act of decisive nation building, the Garden City plan was invoked to counter those middling years of Singapore's rapid industrialisation and the risk of becoming a "concrete jungle".

Unattractive as a "concrete jungle" may be, the idea of a jungle - organic in its growth - holds nonetheless a strange appeal for the garden variety (oops, bad pun)/coffeeshop dreamer in Singapore. But we are wrong to pitch one against the other. Both the jungle and the garden develop according to rules and uphold an order, however different the nature of those rules and order.

But I was given a different take on this by the "Magic Bean Stalk". My brother, always game for a cheap thrill, bought one of these "Magic Bean Stalks" last weekend - pop the can, add some water, leave it under the sun and *magic* happens. It has grown since to reveal "Golden 6 Lucky Numbers", or so the can touts. These numbers were lasered into the bean and becomes visible once it sprouts. The product appears to be imported from Hong Kong.


In another attempt to stake our claim on nature, tame it a little, tease it a little, the Hong Kongers were not quite as ambitious as to come up with a whole garden city. Only this singular beanstalk, seeded in a tin can, its growth secure and certain. Even lucky numbers can be ordered and pre-lasered. But while lucky numbers can be pre-determined, luck can't be. Perhaps acknowledging the limits of human design, the Hong Kong beanstalk maintains that risk is inevitable and individual volition is necessary. So will you, after parting with $6, stake another dollar or 2 on a toto ticket? Our island, meanwhile, places one casino (I mean, "integrated resort") next to a Botanics Garden and another on our constructed offshore Shangri-La.


By the way, the numbers are "02, 08, 12, 14, 20, 45".

[p/s Ampulets does not encourage gambling.]

It's Turtle Time

(I don't mean the TMNT. I didn't expect them to make a comeback after so many years - them and He-man. Why can't the more-than-meets-the-eye robots be on the weekend morning tv instead?)

This is 1 of 24 illustrations planned for J's little poem (a metaphor gone slightly mad). Surprise, it's called "Turtle Time".

Time crawls like a turtle to the dark sea in the evening -
It has laid eggies down in a deep hole we saw it digging -
We peer into the holes - find thousands and thousands of turtle eggs!
Dinner. Turtle eggs.



I am reminded of what J wrote many years ago only by how yawningly slow this past week has been. Ever since the June holidays started, the office has emptied out, leaving those of us still at work even more conscious of the sun outside the window (or the dark clouds...oh if only to laze in bed!); the teenager standing next to you in the train at 8.30am in her shorts & t-shirts, alighting at the next station for some fun; and teachers who are enjoying a month-long holiday because their students are taking the train at 8.30am to the beach instead of to school.

But time plays this trick on us: It is only when the hours and minutes crawl by that we are actually made conscious of their passing, wait and watch their procession. So that when it's gone, we realise the space - never to be recovered - that it has left behind. And only then do we ironically begin to lament: how time passes! who stole it? where has it gone? WHO pressed the fast forward button?

The Colour of Money

Pink the colour of Health. Blue-black is definitely the colour of this somewhat bruisy, pent-up Monday. And green, is green the colour of money?

Well, I wouldn't know.

This is our first "commissioned" work by an organisation/corporation (it's mainly James' design). As such the subject is not a friend or someone we have any reason to be especially fond of - here's a <clue who she is.

But really, it's still unpaid work. One day, it would be nice to be able to make some money doing this and quit the day job!

Biker Gang Boys and Girl

Lazy me decided to sit at the "Study Corner" of the void deck while James ran. Armed with a pen and my sketch book, I continued a picture I had started drawing last Saturday at the Youth Park of a few teenagers working on their spraycan art. At the corner of my eye, I saw a bike approach - bicycle that is - and heard the voices of some boys. Ah, the neighbourhood teenager Biker gang.

"Eh, construction, cannot sit here." A voice behind me.

I turned around- smiled. A kid (maybe 14?) with a trucker cap and riding a beat up bike laughed. I went back to my drawing while more of his gang appeared.

Soon, a group of some 6-8 boys, a few on equally rusty bicylces, crowded around me.

Should I worry?

"Construction lah, cannot sit here." The kid, now beside me but still on his bicycle, repeated and smiled. "What are you doing?"

"Sitting here, drawing lah." Maybe I looked like another forlorn teenager, slacking at the void deck during the June holidays.

"Oh, what are you drawing? Can see?"

I flipped the pages of my new sketch book. Only 4 sketches so far - there wasn't much to see. "Nothing much lah, " I said apologetically.

"Wah, you artist ah?"

"No lah, just draw for fun."

By now, some of his younger buddies have taken the seat across from me. The boy directly across me (his name is Zac, I later discovered), said, "Draw me lah."

Now THAT'S something I can't refuse. He had big black ray ban glasses on, a bright yellow soccer tee, and the thickest lips ever (his upper lip a triangle). So I started drawing. He kept obediently still, stealing glances every once in a while, exclaiming, "wah, look like."

"You don't move, I draw you more handsome lah." I said.

"You draw him, let him bring the picture home show his grandma. His grandma know what he's been doing," the 14 year old laughed. There were a few more jokes about his grandma and HIS grandma and everyone else's.

"Where you go to learn?" Biker asked.

"I never learn from anywhere." Well, that's debatable, but I think he got what I meant.

"Then how you know how to draw?"

"Everyday I draw a bit. More you draw, then you learn." The ex-teacher in me decided to throw in this piece of wisdom, "like you everyday bike, you become very good lah." He didn't look convinced (I admit the analogy is somewhat flawed).

"Why you not artist?" Another asked.

"Artist cannot make money lah." I perpetuated the cliche -truth, half-truth, lie. I tore the page off and handed it to Zac. He asked that I sign it. I did, adding "next time I famous, you rich ah." I was happy, he seemed proud of how he looked in that picture.

They asked to see the sketches in detail, and stopped at the one of James - grinning - with the words "I love Natsumi Burger" across the page.

"Your boyfriend ah?" An impish boy, with the most "stick-out" ears I've seen in a long time, asked. He had a bright pick trucker cap on and the cutest smile.

"Yah." We bantered some more, laughed - I cannot remember about what. Maybe the Natsumi Burgers.

"Every night you sleep you think about him right?" Imp asked (his name is Shah, short for Isham and he wants to be a gangster)

"Of course lah, stupid." Zac added.

"Yah, every night I sleep I dream of my grandmother." It's the grandmother in-jokes again. "You my grandmother," he pointed at Zac. Yah, haha.

Imp Shah asked to be sketched to. I guessed correctly that he was the shortest boy in class. " You cute lah." I said. He didn't seem to have a problem with being called cute.

"Yah lah, he cute." His friends echoed, teased, agreed, teased, agreed.

Realising that the resemblance of the sketch to him may not be as strong, I said - "Aiyah, I think I draw wrongly."

"Nevermind!" Imp Shah said, skewing his pink cap more to the left and trying not to blink. "Nobody is perfect."

Wise words, Imp Shah. That's important to remember.

A boy next to Imp Shah (he looked no more than 10) lit up a cigarette. I heard a lighter click.

"Eh, people drawing why you smoke!" Imp Shah chided.

"Haha, draw him with the cigarette. Show his grandmother what he do!" The 14 year-old biker laughed.

"Ok huh? I draw you with a cigarette, " I gestured, my imaginary cigarette in the air.

"Eh, no." He leant forward to look.

"Draw FTPP on his T-shirt," Zac suggested (FTPP was the acronym of their school), laughed.

"Eh, don't want. Stupid school. The teacher bully me lah." Imp Shah complained. They said something I didn't understand, laughed. "F#@^ing TPP," Imp Shah revenged.

The sktech of Imp Shah almost complete, the 14 year-old Biker asked me to add a dot on his forehead. I dotted it. "Haha, not like this, not like Indian." He sits next to me. I hand the pen to him and asked him to add it in instead. "Like this. He wants to be gangster," he added three dots in a line just between the eyes of Imp Shah's portrait. Imp Shah looked pleased.

"Eh, that one behind your boyfriend ah?" Zac asked.

The crowd tensed. Big goateed James, his t-shirt drenched after his run, looked like he would have 3 dots on his forehead. They got ready to leave, asking where I lived, promising that we would catch up next time for more portraits. James joined our gathering, recognising Zac as a boy he had recently described to me as "a stylo little Malay boy carrying his sister's pink Powerpuff girl backpack - Malay boys are always so stylo, even when they are still young".

"You got a sister right?" He nodded at Zac, smiled (but I bet Zac was worried). "You carry her pink powerpuff bag right?"

"How you know ah?"

"I saw you that day." He looked amazed.

That was about the last exchange with my Biker gang friends. They were off to Blk 8, a slitty-eyed melancholic boy (the lone Chinese?) said, to meet more friends.

I wished I could have kept those sketches (though their grandmothers could have made an appreciative audience), or only if I had a camera with me. But James said he knew where the boys hung out, so we could crash their Biker gathering the next time.

Nonetheless, later than night, I snapped with my phone camera a photo of a butterfly (moth?) in the lift as a substitute souvenir (photo above). These brown and white butterflies - some as large as my entire palm - have been appearing around the block these past few weeks (last month there were caterpillars on the pavement). They linger, still - James told me this was a funereal stillness. The butterly in the lift had translucent instead of the usual white markings. It was a baby butterfly, its wing span just about an inch wide. Surely it was still too young to be making its final rest here, riding the lift up and down all 16 floors.

On hindsight, it was probably not such a great idea hanging out at the "Study Corner" of the void deck even for 10 mins. Not till they have sorted out the upgrading anyway, and removed those danger/construction signs.

Read Reread Read More

Just this weekend was the BookExpo America. OK, right, so? So it was the sheer cultural dominance of America that I knew the event had 30,000 booksellers/publishers attending, was held in New York, and spawned countless articles lamenting the death of reading.

The American press was quick to declare not just the death of reading, but also the the death of browsing. Earlier there were speculations (inaccurate) that digital books inour PDAs would render books (lovely paper, binding, jackets and...dust) obsolete. Even earlier, of course, we have already been told that that the author is dead - though the author still outlived God.

But despite such pronouncements, that weekend I called up a defence:

1. I marched to Kino, browsed, bought 2 books and read Toni Morrison's "The Dancing Mind", in which she described as "disability" a privileged and successful young man's lack of acquanintance with the experience of reading for hours and hours in the company of his own mind.

2. Home and online, I discovered Tym's own adventure, rereading the tracks that memory had left across her bookshelves. Some of them are memories I share...the Robert-Lowell-phase for example. Heh.

3. Both of the above sent me on a hunt for RK Narayan's wonderful little essay about his attempt to clear out his library, changing his mind (possessiveness? nostlagia? greed?), postponing the disposal and finding, one day, that white ants have done what he didn't. How he makes me laugh!

4. Then I remembered Borges, appointed the Director of his country's National Library that same year he had started to become blind. A man who can no longer read, surrounded daily by 1 million books: "I was in charge of, I was told, a million books. Later I found out it was nine hundred thousand - a number that's more than enough. (And perhaps nine hundred thousand seems more than a million.)" - "Seven Nights".

5. Sunday night, reluctant to sleep, I decided to launch my very own reading campaign. And with Adobe Photoshop's help, enlist James as the new poster boy for the campaign. (Yes, if i-only-read-large-print James thinks reading is fun, you will too!)

So friends, don't believe those false obituaries. Spread the word, feel free to use the poster. Read.

The Secret of the Goatee

(This post is dedicated to our friend who runs a t-shirt shop in FarEast Shopping Centre. Ask and it shall be given.)

There is no self-respecting male creative type or wannebe creative type who has not tried growing a goatee (if he is not already the proud owner of one). Many have failed. Not because they lack the inspiration, the creative ability or the will power. But for the lack of good advice. Ampulets decided to conduct this interview with ourselves to reveal, once and for all, the secret to growing a healthy goatee.

Y(vonne): Hello, are you free? Can I ask you a few questions about your goatee.
J(ames): Can, I just finished doing my laundry.
Y: OK, good. I can't grow a goatee. Thank goodness. But can you tell me why and when you decided to grow one?
J: It's quite some time ago already. When I was in University.
Y: That's a very long time ago! And why?
J: Why? Er...could be...my ex. Oh oh. I think she suggested it.
Y: Oh......
J: No no, it was my decision.
Y: You sure?
J: Yes, yes, sure. It was to replace a moustache. Also I've always liked sideburns since I was young, all kinds.
Y: What a disappointing answer. Nothing to do with some latent creativity?
J: Yes, some of that too. It's an extension of my personality. Because I look like an ape. So anyone who grows one should think hard about how a goatee extends his personality. Not everyone will look good with one.
Y: Yes, not everyone looks like an ape! But what makes a good goatee?
J: A good goatee is one that you feel good about when you look in the mirror everyday.
Y: That's a boring answer!
J: But it's true. A goatee is something you have to love and treat well. You must take care of it and cultivate it. For example, you shampoo your hair daily and wash your face. For a goatee, it's very important to trim it. Trim your goatee.
Y: OK, that's if you already have one. What if someone without a goatee wants to grow one?
J: Well, firstly, growing a goatee for Asians takes a lot of patience, unless you have very dark roots.
Y: Is chest hair a prerequisite?
J: Hmm...yes. [Probably looking pleased with himself] Having chest hair means you'll have higher chance of growing a good goatee. You must have a little bit of the goatee gift from God. Some people say that you have to shave more often -
Y: That's like the reverse-psychology strategy!
J: [Ignoring Y] Others say use XO. But I have my own secret way to grow and keep a goatee looking good.
Y: So what's the secret?
J: Sorry, I can't say. I will only share it with the folks who are very serious about growing a goatee.
Y: What? But I already promised at the start that you will tell!
J: Cannot. I don't think it's right for everyone who is not serious about it to try and grow a goatee. It's not right.
Y: Huh? My blog post how? Say something leh.
J: "Be patient" and "Just let it grow".
Y: ... Bye.

Tell this to Donald Trump

Yesterday, a colleague circulated an article from Harvard Business Review "Breakthrough Ideas for 2004". One of those ideas is headlined "The MFA is the new MBA".

The source, American Dan Pink, claims that as only 3% of applicants are accepted into the Chicago Art Institute or UCLA's postgraduate Fine Arts Programme, versus Harvard Business School's 10%, MFAs are far more valuable to have than MBAs. This is evidenced by the fact that American employers are on the lookout for MFA grads (while MBAs in America lose their jobs to $800-a-month MBAs in India). He reasons that with an increasingly crowded marketplace, products & commercial offerings must now be "transcendent - physically beautiful and emotionally compelling". As such, MFA graduates are useful people to have around to bring this about for companies.



Of course, for a moment, those of us who are working on the Arts School project were determined to flash this piece of Harvard-endorsed scholarship in the faces of parents who worry that their 13 year olds will end up unemployed if they have an arts education, instead of something more "academic" or "entreprenuerial". But only for a moment lah.

However much I think art is important (and spending 3 years in a MFA programme would be a very sweet dream), I don't think I can ever subscribe to the ideas of someone who describes the iMac and General Motor's latest car design as transcendent. My iBook's great to use, but the day it transcends its material and functional reality to be emotionally compelling, its owner most likely would have just received her MFA from the Harvard Business School ;P