The Introduction Night

It recently dawned upon me: within this personal digital page dedicated to dilatoriness, I suddenly realised that I have never endeavoured in mentioning any of my brothers I have gained during my best years. Sure, considering how proudly I parade them to my acquaintances from my other stages of life, there was never a need to introduce them here. Yet for the benefit of my online fans I have never met, such integral elements of my character merit recognition.

I have always integrated myself into groups of four, and this one is no different. Recently, there was an unveiling dinner, even though it was somewhat sullied by juvenile assessments to be of decadent intents. Obviously this was not true. The immaturity of people astounds me sometimes. Nonetheless, petty nuisances were brushed aside as pretty guests were invited to witness the christening of my longest affiliation. It was made known that day of the existence of VICES.

However, I must admit that despite the unification under a new tag, no consensus was met on the actual denotation of the abbreviation. But this being MY blog, I am less inclined to compromise the sanctity of this space by promulgating elitism. So within my world, VICES is the acronym for the Victoria Institution Charming Enigmas – a worthy description of us I believe whilst paying homage to our alma mater among others.

Like most notable band of brothers, I am sure VICES is a kaleidoscope of personalities in spite of the prevalent parallels adopted. Even so - due to the similar origins of the members (explicitly our school for those a little slow today) - it was a challenge to distinguish and subsequently designate a part to each of its members. Credit goes to our alma mater I supposed, which has consistently nurtured versatile high-achievers like us, laudable in most areas.

Yet, for identification purposes, a distinction must be made. With my impressive intellect, what is the probability I would fail? However, before I venture further, be forewarned that there are perils to labelling that could beget a multitude of potentially dangerous implications. Even a moniker as simple as ‘the Smart One’ may trigger an inferiority complex in others, thus do not be foolish and think that the following cognomens illustrate the whole personality of each VICE.

Therefore, purely for entertainment purposes and with no offence intended, please permit me the privilege to present to you the prestigious people affiliated to the Victoria Institution Charming Enigmas, class of forever… *cue regal theme for dramatic entrance*

Bachelor No.1 is arguably the most successful in terms of individual honours with his collection of gold medals in martial arts sparring. Nominated as the Victorian of VICES, Nash is the Muscles of the company with his enviable lean body and his fascination for all things violent… virtually.

Next, Bachelor No. 2 is definitely the sharpest of the lot, considering he was the undisputed top of the class with his grades. Earning the highest already, Yew Boon (YB) is the epitome of Institution among us. Likewise, is there any surprise he is known as the Brain?

On the other hand, Bachelor No. 3 may not boast as many accolades as Muscles or Brain, but he is definitely Charming of the gang. It is Trent who plays the key role in luring unsuspecting ladies into this humble party of ours, since chatter tends to be incessant whenever he is around. Also known as the Face, his achievements varies from Scrabble to Archery; a fine analogy of the multitude of façades within one’s looks.

What about the Enigma then? On contrary to popular belief, I am not the Heart; even though it best exemplifies my influential decisions within the group democracy. Nor am I the clichéd Soul of VICES too, despite my inclination to bring everyone together in all deeds. Nay, I am merely the Arse. Before you demonstrate in dissent for such blasphemy, consider this: with the amount of shit coming out of me, which anatomy would be more appropriate in embodying me?

I rest my case. =)

The Practical Revolution

With the surprising finale of the F1 season for this cycle, I am inspired…

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I must admit that despite my eloquence and my apparent maturity, I am but a youth in his prime. Therefore, it is not strange that I suffer from the adolescent delusion of immortality and juvenile illusion of invulnerability to find it particularly exhilarating to speed on the many highways that are like arteries of our dear nation. Do not get me wrong; I still feel that a horrific accident involving some reckless driver’s brittle tin cans will cause my demise but hey, I am Superman now.

Being a reckless driver myself, prudent parties are not wrong to assume that I am courting Death (heard she is hot, albeit a little gothic) with my lackadaisical outlook. However, with the gridlock of motor inactivity plaguing our urban lifestyle lately, it is difficult - if not nigh impossible - to find a good long stretch when we can spur our mobile metal home to purr like it wants to. Alas, the short winding roads are a worthy price to pay in exchange for the many luxuries we enjoy.

Do not be too discouraged though, because other claustrophobic metropolitans are mushrooming throughout the world, urging an increasing demand for alternative adrenaline inducers. So when a racing-themed movie based in compact Japan was released not-so-recently, like mindless sheep, our nation’s youths embraced this new fad of negotiating tight turns without compromising speed. So while some arses vented their pent up aggression by weaving through traffic in the vehicle of their choice and somehow survived (for now) to brag about it; their equally dimwit counterparts are boasting about their latest drifting stint at some obscure location.

As indicated by my affiliation with IDIOT, I have no interest in swimming in the sea of conformity of course. Besides, with my bold driving and the resulting damages, who in the right mind would want to splash another few hundred dollars to frequently replace their worn-out tires? I seriously doubt any ladies with their wits intact would find the screeching of tires sexy anyway. Talk about torturing the ears! Heck, if you ask me, I would rather play around with this other gear rod of mine to make some other pretty thing scream (in ecstasy). But that’s just me and you did not ask, so let us keep that story for another day in another post.

No, my pursuit for adrenaline comes not from such orthodox endeavours. You will be surprised what little joys I can derive from the daily clogging of roads. If you are proactively looking for it, or if you are as sharp-minded as yours truly, such inconspicuous achievements on your travels will not elude your weak-handed grasps. Similar to other great skills, this guilty pleasure I have been rambling about goes by many names; the most prevalent one being Defensive Driving.

Yes, this is my declaration of my advocacy to Defensive Driving. Which intelligent city rat would not? It is after all tremendously effective (and enjoyable) when navigating within a metropolitan. But wait a minute; do I hear a whisper of ignorance? You should read more, my dear readers. If nothing else, you should know this: it is the failure of one Lewis Hamilton to master this technique that he is not the youngest F1 winner ever (yet).