Leo Tolstoy's "A Confession" - Spiritual Browbeating

Last Wednesday, in an uncharacteristic moment of weakness, I went to Borders and blew a little fortune on books. As I thumbed through the sundry titles, I finally settled on Leo Tolstoy’s A Confession and Other Religious Writings. And it has turned out, doubtless, to be one of my most astute purchases of the year.

A Confession is a relatively easy read in terms of volume, for it is mercifully short compared to the tome that is War and Peace. And Tolstoy’s unflinching intellectual candidness had me from the get-go. His acknowledgment of his spiritual detritus and hollowness was compelling:

"The place where he had thought faith to be had long been empty and that the words he spoke, the signs of the cross and genuflections he made in prayer, were essentially meaningless actions. Having recognized their meaningless he could no longer continue doing them."

The Cease And Desist Order On Intellectual Thought

Repetition without conviction and passion only breeds mindlessness. And so it is in church. After a while, things start getting contrived and ho-hum, and jadedness creeps in like a thief. Many times I'd sit in church holding the Communion cup and bread, and the prayer would waft through my ears like a platitudinous drone which leaves no impressionable content, and I ask, “What on earth am I doing here at 9.30am on a Sunday morning?”

Methinks a lot of Christians are like that. We are so attuned, so programmed to certain Christian behavioral modes that we stop questioning the meaning therein. It’s as if the Big Guy Upstairs has issued a Cease and Desist Order on all intellectual thought, and nothing apart from mental acquiescence would do. Do not accede to Doubt, cos that makes you a bad Christian! Badger it into submission!

Unwittingly, we are guilty of a helluva spiritual browbeating. Cos Doubt casts a pall of guilt over us, and calls into question whether our faith is the bedrock which we purport it to be. One of the greatest challenges which I have encountered is how to reconcile a faith that advocates belief in God no matter what, and being sufficiently honest to myself that I have not addled my brains when I claim something as preposterous as the fish swallowing Jonah whole.

Thing is, I don’t believe there is such a thing as a spiritual shelf-life. It’s unlike in office, where you are accorded a honeymoon period to be a charmingly bumbling newbie, and thereafter if you still ask silly, simple questions people would cock an eyebrow and go, “You mean you don’t know this after being here all this while?” Methinks God loves it when we shuffle up to Him with our questions like a child, and He delights in unfolding in us Wisdom and Purpose.

The Unrosy Christian

For the longest time, I had thought faith, particularly Christian faith, engendered being upbeat Utopians with beatific smiles plastered on their plastic faces. And to a certain extent, I mock (and still do) this. Cos life is obviously not a bed of roses. Madeleine L’Engle summed it up nicely:

"Those who believe they believe in God but without passion in the heart, without anguish of mind, without uncertainty, without doubt, and even at times without despair, believe on in the idea of God, and not in God himself."

When I first read that, it was illuminating, literally. Doubt is not incongruent with faith!! In fact, it is precisely of Doubt that Faith exists. I don’t doubt that LiverPoo suck, so that’s not faith, that’s merely knowledge (and fact). For those deluded Poo supporters to claim that they’re still in with a shout for the title, now that’s Faith.

So we continue to struggle with doubt, with our indolence and avarices, and we continue to wrestle with the fibres of our beings that go contrary to Christ's teachings. And if despite all that we still believe in God - that's faith.

From A Pile Of Mud To A Beatles CD

So ask away. After all, if it is Truth, it would withstand the most congenital doubters. The Bible is not diametrically opposed to reason; in fact, there’s a tremendous amount of logic which undergirds Christianity. One of my favourite analogies is this:

"If you believe in Evolution, you’re essentially believing that this pile of mud and dirt here would eventually transform into a Beatles CD, Platinum Edition."

That’s an understatement, cos the differences between the befuddling complexities of the human body and the primitive chemicals in the primordial soup are far more accentuated than that between a pile of mud and a Beatles CD. And I quote from Walter L. Bradley:

"If you took all the carbon in the universe and... allowed it to chemically react at the most rapid rate possible, and left it for a billion years, the odds of creating just one functional protein molecule would be one chance in a 10 with 60 zeroes after it."

I can’t assert to be an expert on these theories; what I can’t fathom is how people can incontrovertibly believe in a theory which espouses a haphazard assemblage of chemicals to form living organisms, an occurrence which can only be possible against such astronomical odds and which provides no credible explanation for the meaning of Life itself, and yet dismiss Creationism as superstitious hogwash.

It takes a great deal of faith to believe in Evolution too, you know.

But back to Tolstoy. I’ve only finished the first few chapters, but it looks to be promising material. I intended to pen my thoughts on a few issues, but I realised that I have only touched on the first so methinks I better stop for now! Can’t wait to get back to my (paper) covers.

Tags: Leo Tolstoy, Tolstoy, A Confession, War And Peace, Christianity, God, Religion, Evolution, Darwinism, Creationism

A Fair Result But Am Still Peeved: United 1 - 1 Chelski

For all the hype about the match, the football was largely missing. It was a scrappy first-half, though Saha’s beautifully curled shot was sublime. Did Chelski even try to play football, cos it seemed as though their sole objective on the pitch was to wedge one’s elbows into the opposition players’ faces at every opportunity and commit as many acts of thuggery as humanly possible (yes I’m talking about you Drogba).

At least Mourinho managed to survive all 90 minutes of the game without being irritating *well done Jose, here’s an apple for ya*, or am I speaking too soon – we’ll hafta wait until the post-match comments to be relieved of his whingeing and snivelling.

Lumplard: Ooi, be thankful it was just an elbow in yer face, and not a pickaxe!



United dominated for the first 45 minutes, but played like Italy in the second. To Mourinho's credit, bringing on Robben provided some width and liveliness to Chelski's staid game, in which Sheva and Ballack were largely pedestrian. With Chelski banging in the shots repeatedly, there was an air of inevitability when they eventually equalised with a header by Carvalho, who’s a dead ringer for an emaciated and jaundiced Paolo Maldini. Saha encumbered van der Sar’s save as he unceremoniously headed the ball into his own net in a bungled attempt to clear. Oh well. No blame ascribed though, it’s just one of those days.

I feel compelled, nonetheless, to express a matter of grave concern here. Have aliens abducted Shevchenko and left him gagged up in some unknown backyard shed whilst a cheap, battery-operated imitation clone strides on to the pitch week after week in a bid to bamboozle fans? Cos he is terrible. Beyond words. I loathe Chelski no end, but I feel the pain of seeing one of Europe’s greats regressing into a lumbering, ungainly pile of vegetation on the pitch.

England's favourite Portuguese player tries another wink.



And United desperately needs to bolster its paper-thin squad. The first team is sterling for most part, but we need better reserves if we’re gonna maintain the lead till the end of the season. My heart dropped when Fergie substituted in O’Shea and Fletcher – it’s the same feeling I used to get when Phil Neville came onto the pitch, and it’s one that induces a need for Panadol. The central midfield also needs strengthening – Scholes and Carrick are way too lightweight and can’t provide the defensive cover that Keane used to give. And with Ronaldo injured and an Everton match looming mid-week, our lack of attacking subs is beginning to show up.

One point, in all honesty, is a poor man’s consolation. It was a fair result, and we were left to rue the two missed opportunities to bury the game. Now there’s this ominous portent of what might transpire with Chelski bleating about having secured a more advantageous draw and United due a rough patch. No upsets before the January window, please.

-- An obviously peeved and biased United fan.

Peter Kenyon Tells It Like It Is

P.S. On a related note, savour this gem from Martin Kenyon, beloved CEO of Chelski Evil Hegemony Conglomerate Inc (now christened as Darth Kenyon on football365 haha!).

"Chelsea didn't have a tragedy, didn't have ten years of unbelievable success in the Sixties, which culminated in winning the European Cup, and then the Fergie years. It was a fairly soulless place."

Heheheheh. You mean it was a soulless place before the Russian roubles flooded the place, Kenyon. Ka-ching!!

Tags: Manchester United, Chelsea, Football, Soccer, Premiership, English Premier League, Alex Ferguson, Wayne Rooney, Cristiano Ronaldo, Shevchenko, Jose Mourinho

RV Choir Gathering

Met up with the folks from RV choir - that's River Valley High School Chorale...yesh, RV's my alma mater. Back in school we used to be this loudmouthed, loquacious, snooty, at-times-obnoxious gang haha!

After dinner at Lau Pat Sat we trooped off to Boulevard at the Red Dot Museum and met Xiangjing there. He'd been out with his colleagues and was already completely wasted heheh. Thankfully there was no collateral damage to the furniture from the barfing, but it was a pity that nobody had any rubber bands in their bags so we couldn't give him a spanking new hairdo while he was in that inebriated and incoherent state.

The paparazzi cameras are clicking away to immortalise this moment of shame. We're such sweet friends.



Love this photo and the marked contrast - Xiangjing is obviously in pain and grogged up whilst Di looks completely cannot-be-arsed by the beanbag slumped on him heheh.



Check out the nervous smiles of the folks on the right as everyone generally tries to get out of Xiangjing's way lest he projectile vomits on them.



Ok, he is quiescent for a while on the floor.



I kinda miss choir - the ethereal, delightful feeling of being surrounded by a medley of SATB voices, the rambunctious jokes we made at our watering holes after practice (that's McDonalds at Ginza or Jurong East), the sleepovers at Di's house watching Supermodel contests whilst getting chased around by his over-enthusiastic dog, the flamboyant, chichi fashion disasters (the things people do in their teens heheh!), the choir practices led by Mrs Lim (including on weekends, man we sure slog hard for those Singapore Youth Festival choral competitions!) and the brazen forays into Ah-Beng-hood. It was all madcap but truckloads of fun.

Erm... smile, Eric?



I adore the wallpaper in the background. Like, majorly.



Junyuan and me.



The whole gang, and we're actually not missing anybody! Top marks for attendance. =)



And it's kinda creepy how it feels just like before - almost ten years on and:

- We're still horrid at settling dinner bills and ended up stacking up stockpiles of coins on the table to net each other's sum off, just like bumbling secondary school kids.
- Everyone's still assailed by gobs of spit courtesy of Kiasu Wang.
- Eric is still called Sausagelegs! (I've almost forgotten this one)
- Lijing's still toting designer bags.
- Xiangjing still has that signature loud, gravelly, "huh huh huh" laugh.

Well, it's heartening to know that some good things never change. =P

And on a completely unrelated note, United are gonna trounce Chelski tomorrow. Can't wait.

Thanksgiving

Well the title is somewhat a misnomer cos this ain't about Thanksgiving and turkey and cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie, but the purport is similar.

I was a walking bag of ailments for the past few days, and the stuff plaguing yours truly spanned an impressive array of neck aches, stomach flatulence which gave me a perpetual "wanna-barf-and-burp" feeling, fever and a nose that dripped like a tap. And to top that off, I have two important meetings at work on Tuesday which I needed to sort out over the weekend. On Sunday I switched on my laptop cheerlessly, battling grogginess and a raging headache and feebly typed out the amendments to a policy paper and then hit the hay again. Writing papers can at times be brain-churning work - try doing that when you are all drugged up from the medication and it becomes quite literal.

Anyway, there I was trying to put on the finishes touches to the paper with my brain half-fried and my eyelids weighing like pounds of lead. I couldn't actually remember how I did it, but amidst that dopey and stupefied state I managed to muster enough coherence to complete the paper.

I prayed to God (hmmm, maybe "beseeched" is a better word) to heal me and grant me enough strength to tide it through till Tuesday, and thankfully I was much more sober on Monday and the neck ache abated. I remembered during last Friday's prayer meeting at Kallang, Reina's friend Grace prayed that my meeting would go well and I was a tad disheartened that I fell sick shortly after, but thank God, I was up on my feet again and the meeting went exceedingly well. To be honest I didn't prepare well for the meeting cos I was pretty ill and I was just amazed and humbled that most of our recommendations were endorsed. God answers prayers! =)

Barbeque At Gene's Place

Spent Saturday having a barbeque at Gene's condomiunium. Was late for the ladies tea party though, cos it rained and I decided to hibernate a bit more at home watching Leslie Cheung concerts on telly. Reached West Bay at about 5pm and already Jay and Edmond were lounging in the pool. The girls were porting the food downstairs, and there was a seriously good spread. Pictorial evidence:

This is less than a third of the food - the carnivorous corner and the confectionery selection were outta view.



Dee gets to do the honours cutting her homemade Spanish omelette.



Ok love this pic cos the food is so immaculately arranged heheh.



Unfortunately the Ben & Jerry's I bought were kinda squishy by the time I reached Gene's house. The guys did their Castaway thing getting the fires started and there was an almighty waft of smoke that got everybody choking haha. Gene made this cracker and dip combo which comprised Philadelphia cheese and chili sauce. It sounds like a strange concoction, but actually tasted really good.

View of the pool... wanted Edmond to do one of those optical tricks by getting him to open his mouth wide and pretend to let the spray of water gush down his gullet... but couldn't quite get the angle right.



Setting up the pit.



For the first time in my life, I actually barbequed something. Usually I'd just sit around chatting and waiting for the guys to dish up the grub (since men generally seem to relish this kind of outdoorsy, sweaty, menial job... haha kidding!!). Well guess it ain't exactly comfy standing next to a smokin' furnace, but it was alright apart from the heat emanating from the coals which almost roasted my insides. Gene was doing this daredevil stunt attempting to turn the sandwiches over the gauze with bare hands... and whilst folks were hard at work cooking the food, Edmond and Jay were still soaking it up in the pool heheh!

And for my BBQing efforts plus the ethnic top I was wearing, I got labelled the Nonya Satay Woman. Erm... thanks guys! Suppose this is an improvement from resembling those deathly pale spooky ladies on mooncake boxes hmmm! =P

My doppelgänger according to Chris... well maybe it's the bored, sulky expression haha!



Kudos to the quartet that's hard at work barbequeing.



The loafers... kidding!



Mark quipped that after doing all the cooking he didn't feel like eating anymore, and I felt the same. It was a windless, humid night and the sight of the pool sprawling in a inviting, cool blue vista in front of me only made it hotter than ever. Didn't feel like doing anything apart from watching people eat and generally have a whale of a time together. I just reclined on the chair, people-watching, forming a patchwork of random memories of people and sounds whirring around me. I felt strangely detached, but contented in my own little way.

Elaine and myself.



The gals!

Introducing... The Thirsty Traveler

Usually I stay clear of people showing signs of impending bouts of drunkenness, but one man changed all that.

Meet Kevin Brauch, host of The Thirsty Traveler, a weekly show on the Discovery Travel & Living channel which inducts even the most hardcore alcohol-phobes into the great and wonderful world of German bitters, Jamaican lagers, gin martinis, heady Scotches, delightful ports, creamy vodkas and the like. Check out the show HERE.

I love watching this programme. For starters, Brauch is what I would call a “meat and potatoes” kinda guy. Watch as he flushes the alcohols down his gullet and stuffs his grease-stained face with Cajun shrimp whilst enunciating “kampai!” in a slovenly drawl. There’re no snooty, high-falutin’ affectations here – he downs his beers and wines alike with unabashed, unbridled gusto. In fact, I like this guy so much, I’m even prepared to overlook the fact that he’s an Arsenal fan and lay off the smack for once.

Kevin Brauch with a beer maid during the Oktoberfest in Germany.



Yours truly ain’t exactly a huge fan of alcohol, but if sampling choice wines and a plethora of hearty cuisine whilst travelling exciting destinations is the daily drudgery that Kevin’s job entails, then I wanna sign up. One of my favourite episodes is when he introduces iceberg vodka in Newfoundland, Canada. No kidding, they were lassoing tall icebergs and dragging those giants back to the brewery to make iceberg vodka. Supposedly, the icebergs are so pure that "pesticides, herbicides and other organic pollutants can't be detected even when measured by parts per billion". And when Brauch sampled the pristine water, he gratefully but earnestly muttered, “That’s the greatest nothingness I’ve ever tasted!” Doncha love this guy.

Tags: Kevin Brauch, The Thirsty Traveler, Wine, Beer, Iceberg Vodka, Newfoundland, Canada

Chinese Translation Of My Blog

Ok this is freakin' hilarious.

I figured out that blogger.com can provide a Chinese transalation of my blog - check it out here.

I present to you, the sagely translations concocted by the online English-Chinese dictionary:

1) Mars bar (the chocolate) ---- 火星酒吧
2) I'm as pleased as pie ---- 我是一樣喜悅的像餅
3) United held the ball expertly ---- 團結專家地拿著球 (my fave footy team United is 團結??)
4) Isn't he as cute as a button ---- 不是他逗人喜愛作為按鈕
5) And Rooney, for the love of Pete, get a shave ---- 並且Rooney, 為皮特愛, 得到刮臉。
6) Erupted into a hapless heap of hysterics ---- 噴發入hysterics 不幸的堆
7) I’m not saying this in a hoity-toity, Chinese-is-uncool banana kinda way ---- 我不說這用一個hoity-toity, 中國是粗野的香蕉有點兒方式
8) Senseless grinning ---- 無意義咧嘴
9) But you get the point ---- 僅您得到點
10) Break their fall (as in, prevent someone from hitting the ground) ---- 打破他們的秋天
11) Deliriously delighted ---- 神智不清地高興
12) Spiritual walk ---- 精神步行
13) Thanksgiving to spring from a genuine heart of gratitude ---- 感恩之間反彈從謝意的真正心臟
14) I like to take the piss out of people, including myself ---- 我喜歡採取小便在人外面, 包括我自己

Charming.

Tags: Chinese, Mandarin, Chinese Translation, Dictionary, Online Dictionary, Babelfish

The Good Run Continues: Blackburn 0 - 1 United

Yet another three points in the bag. To be honest, I’m not too affected by the midweek fiasco against Southend cos I don’t care for the Worthless Cup (or whatever it’s called now) anyway. But still, it’s sweet to see United back to its winning ways.

Aside: Just found out that the Worthless Cup used to be called the Milk Cup. I kid you not. The Milk Cup?? Seriously now??! Can you imagine Sir Alex clutching the three-legged monstrosity and yelling, "Wa-hey, we've won the Milk Cup!!!" whilst Rooney and Ronaldo, decked out in fetching infant overalls and mittens, yelp on ecstatically amidst a shower of pastel-coloured confetti and daisies??

My homage to the fabulous "Got Milk?" series... isn't he cute as a button...



Anyway, pretty good game, and considering this is United’s first win at Ewood Park in eight years I’m as pleased as pie. Though for a while I wondered if we’d be made to pay for our profligacy in the first half, especially Rooney, who missed two My-Grandmother-Could-Have-Scored-That chances. That was a poor showing, even he may have been somewhat encumbered by the ground in front of the Blackburn goal, which looks like a mud pit befitting for warthogs. Meanwhile, Mike Riley’s vision impairment reaches critical levels after he denied United a blindingly obvious penalty.

The result was an understatement though. Both teams played purposefully and had their share of forages in the goal area, and had it not been for some solid goalkeeping by Friedel and van der Sar, we would have seen more goals.

Saha's lone goal bagged United three points.



Also, will the commentators get a grip and stop slobbering all over the United players? Seriously, as much as I like United, their sycophantic praise is getting ridiculous.

Commentator: Saha with his unerring accuracy…
*Saha’s shot goes about a mile wide*

Commentator: United has held the ball expertly…
*Scholesy proves his point by promptly kicking the ball, gift-wrapped, to the feet of the opposition player*

As for tonight's match, I haven't quite decided whether to root for LiverPoo or Les Arse. It's like asking Saddam to choose between inviting Bush Senior or Bush Junior to his dinner party. Truly mind-boggling.

And Rooney, for the love of Pete, get a shave.

Tags: Manchester United, Blackburn, Ewood Park, Louis Saha, Cristiano Ronaldo, Wayne Rooney, Got Milk?

Jiang3 Hua2 Yu3

Ok, most of my friends would know that my Mandarin is kinda sloppy. And that’s being kind. Methinks I am quite the charlatan, so I can pull of sounding as if I were proficient in the language (hey, I use to go for hanyu pinyin competitions!) but when it comes to writing or conjuring vocabulary, I’m dead meat.

This happened a while back, but it still made me chuckle. I was explaining to a friend something regarding an insurance policy, and the bolts in my brain were working overtime to recall how one should say “insurance policy” in Mandarin. So, in a halting attempt, I stuttered:

"Erm… bao2 xian3…bao2 xian3…"

The bolts in my brain were working overtime trying to figure out how to say “policy” in Mandarin, when the brainwave struck: Aha! Pei4 tao4!! And I blurted out disastrously:

"Bao2 xian3 tao4!!"

My friend stared at me like I’ve got dirt on my face and erupted into a hapless heap of hysterics (note the alliteration!).

Sigh. And this is just one of the many gaffes I’ve committed. Fact is I’m pretty shite in Mandarin. I attribute the blame solely to those dreaded blue boxes in Secondary School Chinese textbooks which contained definitions of words, which we had to commit to memory and then regurgitate unthinkingly like how babies puke a frightful dross of milk and watery food remains. I hate memorising things, and that about nuked every scintilla of interest I had in the Chinese language.

Well I tried (unsuccessfully) to brush up my Chinese skills but I couldn’t get past two pages of San Guo Yan Yi without consulting the dictionary every ten words. Even now I’d occasionally pick up a copy of Lian He Zao Bao and try to meander my way through the passages in a bid to shape up. Much of my Chinese skills came, incidentally, from reading Japanese comics translated into Mandarin back when I was a teenager.

I’m not saying this in a hoity-toity, Chinese-is-uncool banana kinda way, nor am I saying it's trendy to be crap in your mother tongue. No, it's not. It's pretty shameful, and even more stupid to be proud of it. But as some of you know, I like to take the piss out of people, including myself.

Here's one I’m particularly fond of. I was in Primary 3 or something and us students were tasked with memorising a list of about 200 Chinese proverbs. The teacher was testing the class and I, unfortunately, was summoned to recite the second phrase which followed, “Qian1 li3 song4 er2 mao2.”

For the uninitiated, the answer is “Qian1 li3 song4 er2 mao2, wu4 qing1 qing2 yi4 zhong4”, which means “Travel a thousand li to deliver a goose feather, the gift is light but it shows you have sincerity by the bucketloads.” I didn’t know the answer, but in an admirable exemplar of mastery in improviso ingenuity, I trumpeted:

"Qian1 li3 song4 er2 mao2, wan4 li2 song4 ji1 mao2!" (loosely translated as, “Travel a thousand li to deliver a goose feather, travel ten thousand li to deliver a chicken feather.”)

Hmmm, even at a tender age I was already concocting sagely proverbs a la Confucius. Who would've thunk it??!

Tags: Chinese, Chinese Proverbs, Mandarin, Huayu Cool, Languages, Gaffes

The Proud Man's Contumely

Yesterday I read an email that was practically pilfered with exclamation marks all over. The tone was almost hysterical – you would have thought the writer had won a million quid or something. I read the contents and all the excitement I could muster was probably akin to discovering that I had won a Mars bar from a lucky coupon pulled outta the cereal box.

I don’t get thrilled easily. You know the feeling – your brain tells you that you should be beaming with a gi-normous grin on your face and joy spilling outta your ears, and yet deep down, you feel like, eh what’s the big deal? Have you ever noticed folks during office birthday celebrations – a tad nervous at being the centre of attention, slightly embarrassed by the party hat planted atop their heads by over-zealous colleagues and wishing that the darn birthday song would be over as soon as possible cos their face muscles are starting to hurt from all that senseless grinning. Their countenances and gestures always betray their mild discomfort cos they keep shifting their feet restlessly and staring at the birthday cake as though it’s the most spectacular concoction humankind could engineer outta eggs and cream. Anything to avoid looking at the colleagues straight in the eye, you know.

And that’s basically me, most of the time. When I’m supposed to feel grateful and overjoyed, and I don’t, I get thrown into a brain-freeze. For one, I’m not a very excitable person. Girly high-pitched gushing over featherbrained stuff like movie stars / shopping sales / soft toys absolutely purees my eardrums, and sometimes it’s hard to suppress the strong urge to plunge a rivet into their frontal lobes to get them to quit that squealing and hyperventilating (ok that frontal lobe thing is an exaggeration, but you get the point).

Yet decorum and niceties dictate that I ought to feel thankful at certain instances – if not, I’ll come across as a horrible, ungrateful toad who only deserves Chelski and LiverPoo fans for friends. But seriously, if it takes rationality and niceties for me to feign surprise and pretend to be deliriously delighted, then I’d rather not do it.

Can you imagine hanging out with them?



Some of my closer friends would joke that I’m hard to please, but I don’t know, I hope I’m not being ungrateful. I appreciate a different side of things, and I don’t show gratitude by the bucketloads and get all weepy and frenziedly ecstatic, cos that coming from me would be a tad superficial.

But that begets a deeper question – does my propensity (or lack thereof) to get awed by the smallest of gestures and the simplest of pleasures pose a hurdle to my spiritual walk? Does it belie a heart of thanklessness, and smack of pride? Am I too demanding, my expectations too lofty, my standards too exacting – to the point where I become oblivious to patently good things and fail to appreciate them?

I feel kinda squelched by this dilemma sometimes, being caught in a halfway-house between wanting my thanksgiving to spring from a genuine heart of gratitude, be it to God or others; and a stubborn refusal to celebrate mediocrity.

A classic illustration would be, “Lord thank you for the food… (takes a spoonful) yuck, it tastes horrible!!”

I have a disdain for humdrum, pedestrian and ordinary things, and I’m chronically loathe to lie through my teeth and say, “Wow that’s great, I really appreciate it” when I patently don’t. That reveals pride in itself, but on the other hand I don’t think humility equates to an “anything goes” attitude where standards are thrown outta the window. The Bible teaches us to strive for excellence and I’m still trying to figure out how to reconcile that and harbouring a genuine heart of thankfulness and being bona fide enough to speak my mind about things without shoving my own standards and opinions down other people’s throats.

I suppose ultimately, it boils down to the motives underlying our pursuit for excellence – whether it arises from a self-serving ambition to exalt the Self, or an authentic desire to exalt God. And it may not be instantaneously decipherable. I may be concocting reasons to rationalise how my motives are right, when it may be symptomatic of a pride which I may be too proud to acknowledge (Hahaha! Too proud to acknowledge that one is proud, now that’s an oxymoron!!). After all, the heart is deceitful and an expert at contriving excuses to exonerate and whitewash itself. Gosh, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve curtained my pride by seemingly ascribing it to an innocuous guise to glorify God – “Lord, please help me to do well in my exam / appraisal / meeting cos I’ll then be able to exalt you – but only after my own ego is fed, thank you.”

All a man’s ways seem innocent to him, but motives are weighed by the Lord. – Proverbs 16:2

Pride! I once read that God is not out to hurt your pride, He’s out to kill it. Someone arm me with explosives and atom bombs now, please.

The Most Back-Breaking Work In The World

This was at my cousin's daughter's birthday party in a chalet situated at Elias Road (somewhere off Pasir Ris), also known as the last frontier of the civilised world.

The first little guy is Ryan (named after Ryan Giggs, no kidding - we even have a Keano in the house). He looked like he's about to piss his pants and burst into a fit of tears here cos we were talking a walk in a badly lit park and he was absolutely petrified of the darkness. If only there's a giant switch that reads, "Turn off the lights" which we can flick every time we need them little ones to quieten down.



Love the Death Note hair, by the way.

Allow me to make a small diggression here. I don't know what to make of this next pic.

A very disconcerting picture.



<psychoanalysis>

Under-nourished, sleep-deprived, eyebag-ridden wombats on depressants, with hair so slovenly and bedraggled it looks as if someone has exploded an atomic bomb on their heads, and with shoulders so clouched that Winter Olympians could ski off them. Plus, immaculately plucked eyebrows and heavy eyeliner belie deep-seated androgynous tendencies.

</psychoanalysis>

Alright, back to the tots. Next up is Justin, a ball of boundless energy and pizzazz. He has an impressive resume of feats which include breaking things within a remarkably short period of time, being chronicially incapable of keeping still, and having the guts to take a photo with mouth wide agape and with two front teeth missing. Darkness doesn't work on him; in fact, he quite relishes the shadowy depths.



This is Jonas, another creature of the night. He sleeps at around 2am every night, continuing our family's proud tradition of being a brood of nocturnal dwellers. And he's the smiliest baby I've ever known. I remember carrying him when he was barely a week old and he was just staring at me with eyes popping outta their sockets and a beatific smile platered over his face.



Man, it was back-breaking work looking after these pint-sized ones. The PSI reading that evening was over 100, and they were clamouring all over the playground like monkeys on steroids let loose in a banana plantation. And worse still, it's illegal to use a leash on them. Bleeurrghhh.

I had to crawl through claustrophobic holes meant for below-5s, dodge a barrage of flailing arms and legs and try my darndest to break their fall as they attempt gravity-defying stunts on the swings and slides. It's like being a traffic police warden with drivers hurtling at a dizzying 180mph without crash helmets and safety belts.

The next time, I'll not be in a hurry to volunteer to look after kids unless they are tranquilised ten times over, gagged and chained to the kitchen sink.

Ok, kidding! (maybe not)

Eating My Words

This time last season, we were trailing by miles behind Chelski. 13 points, to be exact. This time two seasons ago, we unceremoniously lost to Pompey after a sloppy, desperate encounter at Fratton Park.

Back in June this year, the team was riven with rumours of Ronaldo threatening to leave the club after the spat with Rooney during World Cup 2006. Ruud has defected to Real and the critics were bleating, "Where are the goals going to come from?" When Fergie unveiled that his most potent weapons this season were Scholesy and Solskjaer, both returning from niggling injuries and already in their 30s, I think I almost broke a rib laughing in disbelief. The transfer season was more memorable for the many signings which never came to pass. Like many others, I joined the ranks of the skeptics as I resigned myself to yet another mediocre season and worse still, watching the moneybags at Chelski lap it all up.

Reality check four months later. United is leading the Premiership table with a comfortable goal difference margin ahead of Chelski and despatched a lacklustre Liverpool two weeks ago with a 2-0 victory. Last Saturday we trounced Bolton by four goals to nil, and put paid to their dream early run in the league. It was an emphatic display of football with positives all round, and Rooney (who's looking as light as a feather after ditching all those pies and shedding the pounds) finally ended his goal drought with a hat-trick. I couldn't remember the last time I was so chuffed about United's performance, it was that long ago.

Rooney: Quit pinching me armpits!



Rumours have it that ol' chum Becks is fancying a return to Old Trafford after a hugely disappointing spell in La Liga. And my friend, himself a Pool fan, messaged me with a screamer declaring that he's a Manchester United convert now after watching the Bolton-United fixture (methinks he's joking, but you never know, the desperation and trauma of being a LiverPoo fan knows no bounds).

Man, I never thought we'd have it so good. Granted, the league ain't over till mid-2007 and there's still plenty of time to screw it all up. But for now, I'm majorly enjoying eating my words, with extra toppings bursting at the seams of my prawn sandwich and a dribble-soaked napkin for good measure.