studio.x-animo.com

… and I know things look really messy here. To be frank, I’m still trying to figure out how to sort out my writings where.

For now, though, you might like to know I created a new blog to focus more on my personal rantings and possibly life in Singapore for the “partly initiated”. You can check out the first 2-3 posts at http://thinksinglish.wordpress.com.

I think I’m going to muck about a bit more, but studio.x-animo.com is probably going to carry more business oriented content and commentary. If you’re interested you should stick around; especially if you’re looking for advice on starting up an e-business or an Internet presence. I’m thinking up some stuff I’ve experienced myself to put into words.

A few years ago when my first niece was about Xander’s age now, my eldest sister once quipped to a friend in an elevator on her way to court or something, “Not say I biased (sic), but I think my niece is really damn cute.”

Fast forward to just a few months ago from today, I get a colleague saying almost exactly the same thing to my wife about her son.

And of course, between my wife and I versus the rest of the world, since Xander was born, we have been insisting our son is hands down the cutest widdle cutie-two-shoos on the face of the planet (let’s be fair, the other planets in the universe might have their own standards in cuteness).

It is at times adorable, sometimes funny even, to see parents or kin take to their newborn blood relations with such open arms. Other times, it can be a little annoying.

My wife and I put up the national flag on our balcony last night in anticipation of National Day. I use the term “anticipation” in the loosest way possible, because I’m not particularly excited. The flag idea was, after all, my wife’s; I probably would have conveniently forgotten all about it like the rest of my residential estate (last flag count was 2, including our own).

That being said, I never would have thought I’d see the day that I would fly the national flag on my very own balcony. It used to be my parents doing it back when we stayed in Ang Mo Kio, and they still do it today, at their lift landing (my family occupies the entire top floor of the apartment they live in, so they pretty much do whatever they want with the corridor and lift landings until the fire safety officers come). Do they have national pride? you bet your white short-sleeved shirt and white pants they do.

Am I proud to be Singaporean? Good question.

The first 18 years of any Singaporean’s life is anything but political. We gripe about our homework, bitch about our teachers, chase skirts and peep into blouses, beat up on other boys, get beaten up, … the days of juvenile gallivanting did not concern the welfare of the country nor its people, only of our own stamina, stomachs and a lot of times smell. And then comes National Service, where (to borrow a little inspiration from the famed author of the Teenage Textbook, Adrian Lim) the boys become men, and the girls also become men (if and when they choose to serve). After that, either more studies, or off to work we go; and this would be the moment where we start the slow and painful process of realising what politics means.

The local media propagates a lot of the government’s praises, while the Internet propagates its many downfalls (often much more effectively). Call it our

I dread reunions.

Why, oh, why do people even want reunions? My own Chinese New Year reunion dinners are, at best, a page out of a script for the Jerry Springer Show that was rejected and sent to Oprah at a specified lunar movement every year. And these are the people I live with; what of people I haven’t seen in years? What would I say? What would they say?

I’ve been reunited with a select bunch of guys from my high school years, and we’ve been having somewhat regular beer sessions, but to this very day I’m confident in saying we still feel a slight tinge of trepidation whenever one of us calls for a meet-up. The fact is, a lot of years have passed in between, and none of us know enough about what’s happened and what’s changed in each other’s lives to hold a truly meaningful conversation that would last 15 minutes, much less 4 hours (the time it takes for some of us to finish 2 pints).

And then recently, I’ve had the opportunity to catch up with some more of my sordid past (some of whom I’ve actually dated, others I tried to date, and then some I didn’t even want to hold hands with). Between them and me stands more than a decade of lost years, during which a large truckload of them got married, had children, carved out high-flying careers (literally) for themselves, moved away to another continent or generally wasted their lives being jackasses who would never amount to much (namely, me).

The past few months of bantering to and fro actually spurred the idea of a reunion that, if all goes according to my reluctance, will be happening in 2 weeks’ time. I’ve come up with all the excuses I could come up with, from “Nine Inch Nails is coming, I can’t go that day” to “I’m going on a church mission to Southern Thailand” (I’m a Buddhist, by the way) to “I got cancer, aw shoot, chemo appointment’s that very night”.

But what am I really afraid of?

There’s them to me; in those lost years, I’ve never really thought of these people. Sure, they’re in my Facebook friends list, but who really talks to every single one of the people you add on your friends list? And the sudden interest in seeing my newly gained weight, hearing about my newly started family, asking about my newly established career, laughing at my newly grown hair… it just wierds me out.

And then there’s me to them; it’s been more than a decade. I don’t know how you’ve been getting along, where your life stands right now, what you’ve gone through to get where you are today. As far as I’m concerned, the only thing I really know about you is your name (and only because it’s on Facebook). If I were to start a conversation, how do I know I’m about to say something offensive (I’ve met people who get offended from even a simple trigger, such as “fat” or “religion” or “Amy Winehouse”)? How do I know you didn’t like me back when we were in school in the first place but never said anything because you’re not confrontational by nature? How do I know I’m not just gonna freeze up, pick a seat on the corner next to a huge plant and silently count the hairs on the back of the hand I use to hold my bourbon coke until it’s time to go?

The fear is further amplified when even before we meet, incidents are already happening (thanks to Facebook, Twitter and Web 2.0, the marvel of the new millennium). Some are shy; no matter how you poke and prod, you never see them comment on anything; it’s almost like you’re being ignored. And then there are those that are not shy; they are so comfortable with their friendships (even though it’s been more than a decade since you’ve seen each other and are now practically strangers) that thoughts and assumptions come flying at you like bullets over No Man’s Land in Afghanistan. Albeit in jest, through separate private conversations with each other, I’ve already been described as a narcissist, a gay perv and a potentially unfit father-in-law (don’t ask where that came from, I’m WTFing it myself) in just over the past 3 days (wow, it really does feel like high school again).

Yes, I have a mentality towards reunions that compares with much accuracy to that kid who says he sees dead people (for the first hour-and-a-half of the movie anyway). I also acknowledge that because of this exact same mentality, I have no friends (according to my mother). I can hear you saying now, “Get off your fucking high horse, you gay, narcissistic excuse of a father-in-law, step out of your cocoon and get a life.” And you’re right. Something needs to change. The principles guiding my life which I have upheld and guarded in the last 10 years are fundamentally flawed. I’ve written all of 830 words so far in dedication to my ire of reunions, blocking my own path with assumptions that ultimately remove any sign of redemption through the use of one simple philosophy: try.

I’m going to a reunion.

The coverage of Reverend Shi Ming Yi’s trial led to a small balcony discussion between me and my wife, and subsequently, a number of lengthy comments between me and a skeptic (with good reason) in – of all people and in all places – local celebrity Ken Tay’s Facebook profile.

For those not in the know, following the very messy and sensationalised NKF scandal comes a new high-tension drama series – “Ren Ci Hospital“, starring the Vulnerable Reverend Shi Ming Yi (I’ll explain the use of the term “vulnerable” later).

The synopsis: said Reverend was arrested in the middle of last year and put on trial a day later after a five-month probe into the hospital’s alleged misappropriation of funds, found in undeclared interest-free loans to individuals and businesses working with the organisation. Digging deeper into the dirt, the prosecution found additional discrepancies, not only of the Reverend’s very fat bank account, but also of his history in property investments here in Singapore and in Perth, Australia, his chauffeur and various cars of significant worth (we’re talking Beemers and Volvos; I drive a Nissan Sunny, and it isn’t even mine), not to mention his allegedly “doctored” philosphy PhD from a questionable educational institution.

Now, we’re talking about a big-time charity figure who’s been earning millions for the organisation(s) he represents, and is known throughout high society (middle and low as well, for that matter) as the foremost Buddhism advocate in Singapore, Johor (and some say Batam). My first real interest in this matter was piqued while I was in the midst of moping about my own finances, when I read a headline mentioning the Reverend’s bank account; my first thought (which I subsequently posted on Twitter because it was less than 140 characters long) was, “You know your life is truly crap when you find out on a newspaper that a monk has more money than you.”

I mulled over that statement with my wife, who had a different opinion of this whole debacle. Here we have the third-largest charitable organisation after the NKF and the Singapore Endowment Fund; the amount of money changing hands on the basis of Singaporean kindness makes charity work overwhelmingly profitable as an induistry. And, as some of us may have learnt from the NKF debacle, it is quite necessary (although not altogether the smartest thing to do) to have it run very much like a corporation, complete with administrative staff, personal assistants, auditors, a board of directors, and the most dangerous job of all, the CEO.

So the monk fucked up. So what? In the face of so much money coming at you like Spanish tomatoes during La Tomatina, the temptation is truly irresistible, regardless of whether you’re a monk, a yogi or the Pope. To be fair, the Hospital itself has flourished and its charges taken care of with the fullest utilisation of the benefits the organisation has earned. Lending a quote from The Straits Times, “The monk admitted that he was ‘easy with money’ but denied he was similarly so with Ren Ci’s money.” With this in mind, we need to ask ourselves, how many people have we helped, the way the Reverend has helped his patients, to be able to fuck up this big-time?

I’ve personally seen as many monks sharing a bouncy red 20-year-old Datsun hatchback as there are monks driving and being driven in Mercedes Benzes and BMWs (I won’t even talk about the airport encounters I’ve had with monks in first-class). Do they deserve to live their lives this way, whether it be in a hatchback or a luxury 2.4-litre German monster? Neither you nor I can say, for we know nothing of their backgrounds and the circumstances behind their gains (even the Datsun boys; at least the thing moves). This is where the benefit of the doubt comes in handy.

Let’s talk about the “loans”. If a truly venerable monk with $5 in his cloth bag were approached by a man who makes his case as a penniless chap in need of $5 to tapow 2 packets of chicken rice back for himself, his wife and 37 children, do you think the monk would say no? Similarly, if the Reverend, hapless as he is about the financial policies set forth by his own organisation as well as the legal boundaries of the Charities Act, were to be asked by the people under his employ, colleagues, or business partners to “help a brother out” after being presented with a convincing case, what do you think he would do? (Even though it is surplus revenue from after his organisation’s beneficiaries had been beneficiarised, a scheming mind might say, “Go ahead”, whereas a naive mind might ask, “Why not?” The outcome may be the same, but the intentions are vastly different.)

“(His PA) told Ming Yi that he needed the money because he had run into some financial difficulties, but did not tell him that it was to pay for the renovations.” [link]

As far as I can see, the misappropriation of funds was borne through a naive sense of doing good coupled with an ignorance of rules and regulations, made possible through the conniving of certain individuals who made their want of money look like a need for personal gain.

What of his property “investments” and bank account then? Supplemental income? Back-up plan for Ren Ci’s rainy days? Part of Mother Theresa’s estate to “all the kind people out there”? In search of the perfect place to meditate in? All my wife and I know is that it is not uncommon for heads of charities to have money on the side for whatever, whenever. Even the hospital’s management committee had this to say during the trial:

“When questioned later by Ming Yi

I’ve been stuck on Twitter the last couple of days. Though I did register yonks before, and have a rudimentary understanding of how it came to be one of the hottest (and most inane) cultural phenomenons of this digital age, it didn’t hit me how useful it really could be until I decided to run It to find out when the iPhone OS update would be rolled out.

Yes, I have an Apple product. No, I am not a fanboy (I still very much love my Asus behemoth laptop running 64-bit Windows 7). let’s move on.

Forgive my lateness in entering the world of instant 140-character, to-the-second news updates. The biggest reason why I avoided using Twitter so long was only because of 2 main reasons; firstly, that I have a tendency to write long passages of pseudo-witty soliloquoys to no one in particular (as may be attested from the bulk of my blog entries), and secondly, I could not fathom an afternoon of updating myself with what some of my friends might consider activities that would interest the Internet world (tweeting “I’m at work” only serves to inform your employer that you are indeed worth your month’s salary, but if you’re a copywriter, it only gives the company more incentive to hand you the pink slip, doesn’t it?)

But in the interests of tracking when the hell Apple will allow me to start using MMS and type with my fingers more fluidly via a landscape keyboard on my severely overpriced, over-hyped, wonderfully intuitive communication device, I decided to run Twitter to see whether anyone else was wondering the same thing and if anyone knew any better.

As it turns out, tens of thousands of people were wondering the same thing (tweets ranged from querying, “Is it out yet?” to pleading, “Please, Apple, please…” to swearing “Why isn’t it f&$@ing out yet?!” to relenting, “Ah f&$@ it, I’m going to bed.”)

In the course of all this ruckus, the keywords iPhone, OS 3, and Singapore hit the top 10 trending topics on Twitter (Singapore having made the list because some twit posted a link on the iPhone OS release date from the singapore website, which caused a big hooha because everyone thought the US side pushed back the release date based on what they saw; cue a few hundred people who knew better furiously tweeting “No, that’s the Singapore site. It’s Singapore… no, Singapore, … Singapore lah!”).

I found the whole discourse utterly amusing, and in the span of 24 hours, I’ve managed to tweet more updates than I have posts on this blog, not to mention add follows to 25 people, 21 of whom I’ve never met, and get followed by another 20 or so people, 8 or 9 of whom keep wanting to show me their naked photos.

I must say, though, Twitter as a growing social networking application certainly deserves a more thorough looking into. As a means to getting a good feel on the biggest topics on the common man’s mind, as a volatile marketing tool, or as a place to get recognized at your workplace as being hard at work without even trying too hard, I’d say there’s a lot more I have to learn about how the world works, and I won’t be surprised if the lessons come in 140-character blurbs.

(By the way, I wrote all this on my post-update iPhone. My thumbs are now ready for competitive texting.)

It’s been a whirlwind month, with no lack of drama (in the interests of self-censorship and sensitivities to our families’ privacy, I can only say hormonal changes and our mothers do not a peaceful confinement month make) and changing habits.

But more importantly, t’s funny how a 1-month-old person can take hold of your life; schedules change, sleep patterns change, daily rituals change, philosophies change, diapers change (Xander’s upgraded from Newborn size to S size)… things have changed so much, I might as well be on Obama’s staff too.

For the first time since I left school 3 1/2 years ago (I was a late bloomer), I found myself waking up at 6.30am today to get ready for work. That has to be the single most significant change I’m going through, since my wife and I are well-known for not being morning people. But of course, because it’s the holiday season, nobody thought to bring the office keys, so I ended up getting into the office at 10.30am anyway.

We’re also trying to catch Xander’s feeding patterns so we can feed him more adequately and be able to rest properly on a more predictable time belt. We saw the paediatrician yesterday, who taught us a formula to calculate how much to feed our kid, which goes something like this:

At 4.75kg, our kid’s feed works out to be 90ml every 3 hours. At night, we try to stretch it out little so we can cop an extra hour of sleep before his wonderfully lung-squeezing cries wake everyone in a 3-unit radius around our apartment.

But the real reason why we went to the paediatrician last night was because we thought our kid had acne.

Yes, zits. On his face. Like a teenager undergoing hormonal imbalance and wondering why everyone in school is avoiding him.

As it turns out though, he’s got a family heirloom passed down from generation to generation from my father’s side to me, and now, to him. My son has eczema. So now he’s sensitive to perspiration (no necessarily his own), tears (the rashes form quite nicely to show where his stream of tears run down when he’s cried) and possibly the baby formula he’s been so happily sucking up. All this time we thought it was normal and will go away in time (which the paediatrician also said it would), and now our kid looks like a miniature Chinese version of Seal.

Otherwise, things are slowly getting back on track. Despite the economic gloom, I’m hopeful for a good year.

Oh yeah, Xander’s got a corporate logo (or something like that, at least; my father-in-law asked for something he could silkscreen on a pillow case as a gift to Xander). And I got another video coming. And we’re planning GRAPHICS for Xander’s room soon!

Xander Tay - Drool Here

As promised, videos. I only wonder what Xander’s going to say when he sees this once he turns 12.

Note: Do turn the volume all the way up to experience the videos to its fullest potential. You might also want to let the video load up fully first; the annotations on the first vid can be a bit buggy initially.

First up, here’s something we took on the second day at the in-laws. I do so love Youtube’s Annotations function.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-JXXqsf5iqk&hl=en&fs=1]

This one was taken a couple of days ago. We’ve been trying to capture Xander’s crying for some time now, and so far this footage has yielded the best results for us. Xander’s infamous cry has been described in many different variations and analysed at length within my wife’s family household. Again, watch the annotations; they’re pretty good indications of what we think of his beautiful wails.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xQ9w0QbMdCM&hl=en&fs=1]

Nice change from the 2000-word essays I usually put out, isn’t it?The annotations might not work

We went into labour fully expecting to get Xander out through normal means. Throughout the 30-hour ordeal, we went from induced normal delivery plan, to assisted delivery, to C-section. The one thing that’s consistent about the way me and my wife do things – be it cable TV channels to buffet lines, and even now in labour – is that we have to try EVERYTHING. And so we managed to do it again this time, even if it was not intended.

But both our hearts dropped when we heard the doctor say the C-word ever so solemnly in the middle of the night. The look of disappointment mixed in with fear washed over my wife’s face, and for me, the thought of a C-section after all the effort we put through trying to keep the delivery normal sent my mind reeling into a tailspin. They prepped my wife for the surgery, and I was ushered out of the room hastily as my wife signed the consent form for the procedure.

The doctor did, however, tell me I could go into the operating theatre to watch. It wasn’t so much of giving permission though, as it was insistence. It seemed after being by my wife’s side the entire time, this is more of an entitlement than a privilege. But it was an entitlement I sort of wished could be handled a bit more subtly.

They got me into a surgical space suit, but I was too tall and broke the zipper, so they had to tape up the front of my suit. Then they brought me into the theatre, and I saw the surgical assistant and our gynae, ready to start, together with the anesthetist over my wife’s head, and my wife – awake.

My God, she was awake.

During the surgery, I realised she was awake by choice, because she kept refusing the anesthetist during the surgery whenever he offered to put her under (he asked her about 4-5 times). SHe wanted to make sure the baby came out all right, and wanted to be conscious when the baby made his first cry. I cannot go into detail about how excruciating the whole process went, but I will say this for all fathers who are likely to go through the same thing as I did; no amount of love will be enough to express how much you feel for your wife after seeing the sacrifices she will go through to bring a life you both created into the world.

After it was all done, I went back to the ward with my son, and after seeing him wheeled into the nursery, the only thought I had in my mind was whether my wife was all right. 45 minutes later, my wife was wheeled into the ward. As she was moved into her bed and I was allowed back into her room, I sat odwn next to her, held her hand, and cried.

It marked the end of an ordeal, and the beginning of a new story.

The title is, of course, the understatement of the century, seeing as “nothing” has made me a father, my wife a mother, and our lives for the next 2 years or so potentially a sleepless tirade of midnight feedings, soothing baby crying sessions, takign turns at eating while the other is bobbing the baby to do whatever it has to do, and everything else tied to the joys of parenthood.

But the title symbolises the deep breath I am now taking as I type out one of the most dramatic 13 hours my wife and I have ever experienced in our lives, and trying very hard not to take anything vital away from every detail of every defining moment of our life-giving exercise.

I’ll start off where I left off. Soon after I finished the last post, I headed back to the labour ward and went to look for my wife. I get directed to the bed where my wife is resting, having had an induction pill inserted into her a few minutes before. And there we waited. My wife told me to go home and catch some Zzzs. So I drove home (oh yeah, I got my license, woohoo) and ended up doing the laundry at 5am because I simply could not sleep. I left the house at 6.30am once the laundry was done and all hung up, and headed back up to the hospital.

By the time I got there, the induction pill was supposed to have taken effect, failing which a second pill would need to be used, and a second 8-hour period to see if it worked would ensue. The pill hadn’t taken effect; though there were contractions, they were too weak nd far between to bear any significance. So we tried again.

At 4.30pm (still on Christmas Day), the CTG still didn’t detect any real sign that labour would be under way any time soon, so the doctor checked. The good news was, baby’s head had lowered to its desired 3cm mark down the cervix, and we could proceed into labour. We were told to wait again while the second phase of the labour progressed, which was to see the baby’s head lowered to 10cm, and thus commence the birthing process.

8.30pm. A check was done again, and baby’s head had moved a grand total of… half a cm. We get moved to a delivery room. Another 2 hours later, and my wife was gradually feeling stronger contractions. We were still hopeful at this point, though the more experienced staff nurses knew better; baby’s head would move at an average rate of 1cm per hour, which meant that if estimates were to be trusted, Xander would only be out about 2.30am, Boxing Day. My wife’s disappointment grew as the minutes passed; seeing her like that broke my heart. Eventually we would both just comfort each other with the fact that at least the kid’s still doing well and his heartbeat’s still healthy.

2.30am, Boxing Day. We do another check, and the boy is now at the 8cm mark. We commence pushing exercises, and continue to do so for the next hour and a half. During this time, I get to see the top of Xander’s head through my wife’s cervix – disturbing, and amazing at the same time. But for the best of my wife’s efforts at pushing, huffing, and puffing, that would be all anyone would see in the delivery room. at 3.45am, our gynae gets called in, and after reviewing the situation, she calls for forceps. When the forceps is inserted, and my wife is asked to push one more time, the good doctor decides after one push, “It’s not working. Sorry, we’ll have to go for a Ceasarian.”

To be continued