Friday, September 17, 2004
--- I ---
If I ever get the chance, I'm going to boycott YES93.3.
Fucking hell, keep playing the same old songs, especially one particular song whose title I have forgotten but whose tune I have not because it fucking keeps playing like three times a day - who wouldn't absorb it at that rate?
Anyway I'm deprived of classical music and force-fed pop music every week from Mondays to Friday. The guys don't like classical music, so I have no choice but to go along with what they listen, which are those Mandarin pop songs from China and Taiwan. The more I listen to them, the more I want my kind of music, and the more I despise Chinese pop.
Thank goodness they don't play techno all the time. I hate those music to the fucking core.
--- II ---
Fucking OC aka Doraemon plays with our bookout time again.
We're supposed to have a standby bed at 5:00pm. Then we would have the last parade, send our arms to the armoury and then book-out happily.
No.
At five his car is not even there. He only returns at about 6:00pm. As you can expect, the entire schedule has been harassed. Our early book-out has suffered an outrage of modesty. And we are equally outraged.
The more I look at it, the lower the respect I have for him. On Thursday, while everybody ran five kilometres for our AHM training, he ran 2km and then fell out. Talk about a lieutenant falling out despite a distance of less than HALF of the entire run. At least he can have the decency to finish the five clicks even by walking the remainder of the distance. And he complains that our company has a high reporting-sick rate.
Contradictory right?
Wait, there's more. But I can't say them out, if not some sharp thing will be poking my backside.
--- III ---
The first thing I return home, I pick up the newspapers.
The first thing that catches my eye as I flip through the pages: something about a Navy warship involved in an accident.
The name of the warship: RSS Persistence.
To confirm it: the number 209.
Shit. Benson's ship.
Quickly I call him. He picks up the phone and answers nonchalantly: "Hey, brudder, whatssup?"
"You okay?"
"Ha, I'm fine. You know what, I was ironing my clothes when the ship collided. And I was still ironing! Can you imagine how embarrassing that was?"
Running it through my mind, the vision seems rather amusing: vibrations rocking the ship; everybody nearly loosing their balance, and then wondering: what the HELL is going on; Benson standing there ironing his shirt amidst the chaos - if there were ever chaos.
At least he's okay. And he's received my letter. So the address that I write must be correct.
Thank goodness.
--- IV ---
Hooray, my piano is back at my house!
After six months, I finally have it by my side again.
Not exactly by my side; it can't fit into my room, because it's too cramped already. Again, it's sitting in the living room. To compensate, there is a view of the swimming pool. To the right of the piano are the glass-panelled sliding doors leading to the balcony.
When we moved to our rental flat, we had to move the piano to my grandma's as the temporary place didn't have the room to fit the instrument in. So far I only played the piano on two occasions: during my one and only long weekend during my BMT and the second during my block leave.
We moved into the present, permanent apartment on 31 July. It took two to three weeks for us to settle down. By then, the Seventh Month had begun, so no moving. You know, superstitions. The Hungry Ghost Festival just ended recently, so the piano only arrives back today.
You might probably think that people who live in condominiums expect a quiet evening to themselves and don't like instrumentalists playing late into the night. I think I've been proved wrong. After I return home from camp, I play piano from about 10:30 to 11:15pm or so. I just play a variety of nonsensical stuff: pop songs, own compositions, Broadway numbers . . . anything to flex my fingers for a tinkle on the keyboard. Finally, I call it a day. My father, who happens to walk out of the kitchen, comes to help me close up the balcony door, which has been left slightly open to minimise the echo. He spots my downstairs neighbour (we live on the second floor) looking up at our balcony. The condominium is designed such that the ground floor residences have gardens that protrude further than the balconies of the units located above it. So my neighbour is leaning against his garden fence whilst looking up at us.
My father presumes he's been trying to get our attention so that he can tell us that I've been a nuisance. My father apologises: "I'm sorry if he's disturbed you."
Surprisingly: "Oh, not at all. In fact I like the music. I came out specially to listen to it."
At that moment, I just feel very embarrassed - or perhaps flattered - that I rush to my room to turn on my laptop to check my email. But in all senses that has been an encouragement and I won't hesitate to practice without reserve in future.
¶ 9/17/2004 02:12:00 pm If I ever get the chance, I'm going to boycott YES93.3.
Fucking hell, keep playing the same old songs, especially one particular song whose title I have forgotten but whose tune I have not because it fucking keeps playing like three times a day - who wouldn't absorb it at that rate?
Anyway I'm deprived of classical music and force-fed pop music every week from Mondays to Friday. The guys don't like classical music, so I have no choice but to go along with what they listen, which are those Mandarin pop songs from China and Taiwan. The more I listen to them, the more I want my kind of music, and the more I despise Chinese pop.
Thank goodness they don't play techno all the time. I hate those music to the fucking core.
--- II ---
Fucking OC aka Doraemon plays with our bookout time again.
We're supposed to have a standby bed at 5:00pm. Then we would have the last parade, send our arms to the armoury and then book-out happily.
No.
At five his car is not even there. He only returns at about 6:00pm. As you can expect, the entire schedule has been harassed. Our early book-out has suffered an outrage of modesty. And we are equally outraged.
The more I look at it, the lower the respect I have for him. On Thursday, while everybody ran five kilometres for our AHM training, he ran 2km and then fell out. Talk about a lieutenant falling out despite a distance of less than HALF of the entire run. At least he can have the decency to finish the five clicks even by walking the remainder of the distance. And he complains that our company has a high reporting-sick rate.
Contradictory right?
Wait, there's more. But I can't say them out, if not some sharp thing will be poking my backside.
--- III ---
The first thing I return home, I pick up the newspapers.
The first thing that catches my eye as I flip through the pages: something about a Navy warship involved in an accident.
The name of the warship: RSS Persistence.
To confirm it: the number 209.
Shit. Benson's ship.
Quickly I call him. He picks up the phone and answers nonchalantly: "Hey, brudder, whatssup?"
"You okay?"
"Ha, I'm fine. You know what, I was ironing my clothes when the ship collided. And I was still ironing! Can you imagine how embarrassing that was?"
Running it through my mind, the vision seems rather amusing: vibrations rocking the ship; everybody nearly loosing their balance, and then wondering: what the HELL is going on; Benson standing there ironing his shirt amidst the chaos - if there were ever chaos.
At least he's okay. And he's received my letter. So the address that I write must be correct.
Thank goodness.
--- IV ---
Hooray, my piano is back at my house!
After six months, I finally have it by my side again.
Not exactly by my side; it can't fit into my room, because it's too cramped already. Again, it's sitting in the living room. To compensate, there is a view of the swimming pool. To the right of the piano are the glass-panelled sliding doors leading to the balcony.
When we moved to our rental flat, we had to move the piano to my grandma's as the temporary place didn't have the room to fit the instrument in. So far I only played the piano on two occasions: during my one and only long weekend during my BMT and the second during my block leave.
We moved into the present, permanent apartment on 31 July. It took two to three weeks for us to settle down. By then, the Seventh Month had begun, so no moving. You know, superstitions. The Hungry Ghost Festival just ended recently, so the piano only arrives back today.
You might probably think that people who live in condominiums expect a quiet evening to themselves and don't like instrumentalists playing late into the night. I think I've been proved wrong. After I return home from camp, I play piano from about 10:30 to 11:15pm or so. I just play a variety of nonsensical stuff: pop songs, own compositions, Broadway numbers . . . anything to flex my fingers for a tinkle on the keyboard. Finally, I call it a day. My father, who happens to walk out of the kitchen, comes to help me close up the balcony door, which has been left slightly open to minimise the echo. He spots my downstairs neighbour (we live on the second floor) looking up at our balcony. The condominium is designed such that the ground floor residences have gardens that protrude further than the balconies of the units located above it. So my neighbour is leaning against his garden fence whilst looking up at us.
My father presumes he's been trying to get our attention so that he can tell us that I've been a nuisance. My father apologises: "I'm sorry if he's disturbed you."
Surprisingly: "Oh, not at all. In fact I like the music. I came out specially to listen to it."
At that moment, I just feel very embarrassed - or perhaps flattered - that I rush to my room to turn on my laptop to check my email. But in all senses that has been an encouragement and I won't hesitate to practice without reserve in future.
