Lucid dreaming. Do you ever have "lucid dreams" -- the kind where you consciously know you're dreaming, and can control what goes on, at least to some extent? For a while I've been having them, mostly in the mornings in between alarm clock snoozes. There are certain things you supposedly can't do in these dreams, such as flick on and off a light switch -- apparently the part of your brain that controls what's going on can't handle the sudden change in lighting. Well, I've been particularly fascinated with trying to read in my lucid dreams. It's really strange; try "picking up a book and reading it" the next time you're lucid dreaming. Your dream-composer knows it's supposed to be filling in some sort of coherent story, but it can't do it that fast. So what you get (or at least what I get) is a string of almost random words, mostly grammatically correct, but with only just a hint of coherency. It's kind of exhilarating in a hard-to-define way.

I'm trying to figure out how to transcribe some of what my sleep-brain is composing. Sometimes it can go on for paragraph after paragraph, but whenever I try to hard to remember some of it, I pop back into consciousness with only the last few words in my memory.

Bike. I bought a bike today. It's a cheap little mountain bike, and I do mean cheap and little. Got it for S$35 (about US$20), and it's too small for me, but for the price, how could I say no? Basic transportation is a good thing.

It's been a couple of years since I've ridden a bicycle, but it turns out, it's just like riding a bicycle.

A walk on slippery rocks. Forgive my longwindedness tonight. I've decided to start trying to write more.

Tonight's subject is philosophy. No need to run screaming; I'm not going to share any of my personal opinions on the matter with you. I'm just going to talk about philosophy in general.

A while back I had a friend of a friend who was always cold to me, and I never knew why. Years later, I found out the answer. I turns out that when we first met, I found out she was a philosophy major in school, and apparently gave her a lot of grief about it. Now, I have no recollection of this happening. But it sounds like me. I've always thought philosophy to be a soft, and stupid, major. (Part of me was sorry, but another part thought, what philosophy is it that holds a grudge for three years? Don't you people debate a lot?)

Not that I think the subject is unimportant. Some days, it's all I think about. But in the field of philosophy, there seems to be no attempt to winnow out the truth. There's an old joke:

A university dean, facing a budget crisis, decided to chide the head of the physics department. "Why do you need all this equipment for experiments?" he said. "Why can't you be more like the math department? All they need is paper, pencils, and a wastebasket. Or better still, be like the philosophy department. They don't even need the wastebasket!

It's true, philosophy never throws anything away. Take any philosophy course, and you'll be taught mutually exclusive, even highly contradictory philosophies. Some may even be flatly disproven. And yet, they Must Be Taught. I think if a university professor ever tried to espouse a specific philosophy to students, and taught that this or that other philosophy is a complete failure (or worse, neglected to even teach it), they'd ride him or her out of there on a rail.

I've had people try to give me philosophy books to read. I've developed a nice system for dealing with them. The books usually consist of a logical form of argument -- state assumptions, draw inferences, reach conclusion -- and I can at least credit them for that. Usually. But I always see the whole thing as a big shaky tower, built up from the axioms. As such, I usually only read until I reach what I perceive is the first faulty inference. Then I think, if they're just going to build on this, why should I read on? The tower already will not stand. (Not that I could do any better. The small towers I have built for myself have failed to achieve any great unity or height.)

And usually I find that the conclusions these philosophers come to are the ones they were already convinced of before they started their formulating. Their ideas are always a product of their time and place. Like, Ayn Rand escapes communist Russia, becomes a fervent capitalist, then formulates a philosophy. Starting at first principles, she builds and builds upon them until she arrives at -- capitalism! What a surprise!

Okay, I'll say it. I'm basically an existentialist without the angst. If I even understand the term correctly.

I'm mostly through with Albert Camus' The Plague, which got me thinking on these lines. Obligatory quote:

But the narrator is inclined to think that by attributing overimportance to praiseworthy actions one may, by implication, be paying indirect but potent homage to the worst side of human nature. For this attitude implies that such actions shine out as rare exceptions, while callousness and apathy are the general rule. The narrator does not share that view. The evil that is in the world always comes of ignorance, and good intentions may do as much harm as malevolence, if they lack understanding. On the whole, men are more good than bad; that, however, isn't the real point. But they are more or less ignorant, and it is this that we call vice or virtue; the most incorrigible vice being that of an ignorance that fancies it knows everything and therefore claims for itself the right to kill. The soul of the murderer is blind; and there can be no true goodness nor true love without the utmost clearsightedness.

"Me" shirts. You never notice them until they're pointed out to you, then you notice them everywhere. Singaporeans are crazy, it seems, about "me" shirts. That might not be their official name, but I don't know what else you could call them. These are just t-shirts, almost always black, that have some familiar graphic printed on the front, with the word "me" replacing some part. For instance, one of the more common ones is a chessboard showing a partially played game, with one of the squares showing "me" instead of a piece. Other examples include: a maze, with "me" trapped somewhere inside. An eye chart, with one of the "E" letters replaced by "me". A Pac-Man screen, with "me" running around the maze. The I-Ching symbols, with one replaced by "me".

There are at least twenty varieties I've seen. I'm not even quite sure what they mean, though I expect they don't mean anything in particular, except "my life is complicated" or something like that. I have no idea where they sell them -- I know one place that sells the white "Pac-Man" version, but that's it. It's a mystery.

Why our lunch break today was more interesting than yours. We went and saw the procession for the Thaipusam festival. Scroll down for pictures of this amazing event. Now that's devotion.

I have a particularly stupid prejudice where I only expect Western religions to keep up with modern technology. It's hard to imagine the temple that organizes such a festival to have a website, but here it is. Check out their guidelines for devotees.

I'm amazed. I never thought it had a chance of happening. But it appears the Pixies are reuniting.

When asked whether the reunion tour was strictly a money-making venture, front man Frank Black responded "Ha! No! No, my child, this is not my desire." Seriously, I don't care if it is. I just hope they head out this way. A lot of Singaporeans have been clamoring for a Pixies reunion.

No, wait, I'm thinking of Air Supply.

I kid! I kid!

There's a new restaurant within walking distance from us that I've become obsessed with trying. It's called Midnight Curry, and it's only open from midnight until 8 am. Such an eatery might not be out of place in Manhattan, but it sits in a quiet, staid little corner of a conservative town, and there's next to nothing in its immediate area (Clementi and Ulu Pandan). I can't figure out who they cater to, so I am intrigued. Curry after midnight sounds like a recipe for scary dreams though.

For the last month I've been hounded relentlessly by
journalists and fans alike, all wanting to know "Where is your
Top Albums of 2003 list?" Well, you can all stop harassing me
now. The delay was caused by several new albums I got over
Christmas that I wanted to give a chance to sink in before I
ranked them. There's almost nothing novel in this year's list;
mostly just new albums by bands I already liked. In the internet
age, I can hardly blame the musical pit that is Singapore for my
lack of finding anything novel. And so it goes:

10. Turin Brakes, "The Optimist LP". Marjorie latched onto this
one more than I did, but it's pretty solid acoustic rock,
with good harmonizing. Rating: 6.

9. Death Cab For Cutie, "Transatlanticism". Marjorie has also
been playing this one a lot. It's a quality effort. The acoustic
ballad (need to look up title) is one of my favorite songs
this year. Rating: 7.

8. Frank Black, "Show Me Your Tears". More of the same from Frank.
That's a good thing. When bands break up or artists die, you
always end up wishing they had produced more output. Hard to
complain about Frank, who's been averaging a couple of albums
a year. Rating: 8.

7. Quasi, "Hot Sh*t". A somewhat new direction; they've pretty
much abandoned their signature fuzzy organ sound. Lots of
good songs here. Rating: 8.

6. Joe Strummer, "Streetcore". The world has been robbed of Joe's
enormous talent, just one year ago. I still feel bitter and
poignant when I listen to this album, which might be keeping
me from enjoying it more. I don't think this album ranks
up there with his previous two, but you still feel (more than
hear) Joe's greatness shine through, often. No one else could
cover "Redemption Song" and get away with it, I think. Rating: 8.

5. Radiohead, "Hail To The Thief". There's so much expectation
built into every new Radiohead album, like each has the
potential to bring the world crashing down. And so, there's
always a letdown when you first hear it. But, I pulled this
one out again recently, and tried to listen to it like it
was some new band I'd never heard of before, and you know?
It's a damn fine piece of work. Rating: 8.5.

4. Rufus Wainwright, "Want One". Rufus's "Poses" was my album of
the year a few years back. "Want One" seems, paradoxically,
both more stripped down and more full of big, crashing
symphonic lushness. Very satisfying. Rating: 9.

3. Fountains of Wayne, "Welcome Interstate Managers". Glad to see
these guys finally getting the recognition they deserve.
A great, fun pop album. I so wish these guys would take
themselves more seriously, though. Rating: 9.

2. White Stripes, "Elephant". Proving their debut album "White
Blood Cells" was no fluke. Jack White is a hugely gifted
guitar player, singer, and songwriter. Despite the punk
stylings and attitude, this album just seems joyful to me.
Rating: 9.

And Mark's number one album for the year...

1. Nothing. I looked back on my favorite albums of the previous
few years, and decided there's nothing I've heard this year that
deserved to be included in this pantheon. Let's hope for better
stuff in the coming year.

The new Birkenstock, now with a sole that's molded to fit your... Well, it's just molded. This is what happens when it rains for five days straight. Marjorie put up a brave fight with the Lysol, but Mother Nature won in the end.

Equatorial living. Two tidbits about living close to the equator that I bet you didn't know. If I hadn't read about them, I would have never noticed, myself.

The moon appears to flip completely upside down in the process of going from one horizon to the other.

Sunsets and sunrises happen faster than they do at other latitudes, as the sun rises and sets pretty much vertically.

That's all Mr. Wizard has for you today. Remember, kids, sleep with your hands above the covers.

Comments, yay! I've switched services, so you should be able to comment now, if you haven't already moved along to newer, more user friendly blogs. Go ahead. See if I care.

Trip report, a few days late:

Just flew in from Bangkok, and boy are my arms loose and relaxed, kneaded into a doughlike consistency. We took a last minute escape on the weekend of Chinese New Year. A quick trip report:

Friday night: we arrive, and spend ten minutes head-scratching as to how to get into town, and bemoaning our lack of preparedness. Finally we just get in the taxi queue and ride into town without much fuss. No seatbelts, fast driver. The town smells of exhaust. We check in (Windsor Hotel) and discover to our chagrin that the door to the adjoining room is paper thin. A woman is chattering away in Thai (we presume). We go for a walk in hopes that things quiet down. Spot a very interesting small bat, not much bigger than a moth, and not flying much faster than one either, circling the lights of the adjoining hotel. Streets are dirty and smelly, but seemingly safe enough. Walk a few blocks, come home to quiet in the room. Our beds are ungodly hard, and that includes the pillows.

Saturday: Get up late. I point out to Marjorie that the world is now officially our oyster. YA GET IT? Make a run for the Grand Palace. We stop for Marjorie's required Starbucks at a nice, new, upscale mall by the Sky Train station. Take the Sky Train to the river's edge, where we hope to catch river taxi. Decide to have lunch instead. Eat lousy food at a Hot Pot restaurant: cold dim sum, average pork and duck with rice. Realize that we aren't going to have enough time to do the Grand Palace proper (it closes early), so we get back on Sky Train and go to Bangkok's famous market, off the Mo Chit station. Made the obligatory pun with that name. Among countless other things, numerous animals were for sale: puppies, kittens, rabbits, hamsters, miniature squirrels, GIANT fish. One food hawker was selling the following items, all deep fried:

Crickets

Grasshoppers

Water bugs (look like giant roaches)

Grubs

Fetal -- chickens, I guess? Some sort of baby bird, whole.
Sky Train back to Siam station area. Walk by Jim Thompson's House. Area overrun with students in either a red shirt or pink, rival fans attending a local soccer game. Beer at the Dallas Pub. Foot massage next door -- ohhh, migod that's good. Marjorie wonders why she was reluctant at my initial suggestion. We bliss out, for 200 baht each ($8 Sing, about $5 US for an hour). Back to our hotel area (Sukhumvit). Decent German food at Otto Bei across from our hotel -- Marjorie: some sort of schnitzel, me: Jager Schnitzel (pork) mit Spaetzle, my favorite dish. It's okay, but half the mushrooms in the sauce are shitake. Hand and arm massage up the street. At this point we are counting time and money in terms of the amount of equivalent massage. This time is was a half an hour for 100 baht. Back to our severe beds.

Sunday: Determined to get an earlier start, we are out the door by about 11am. Sky Train again to river. We board a river taxi without much fuss and ride upriver surrounded by locals, including monks in full robes. At only 20 baht, this is the way to travel. Pass several other wats on the way. Disembark by the palace. It's closed lunchtime, so we buy some satay from a street hawker (me: marinated chicken, marjorie: chicken wings on a skewer). Walk down to neighboring Wat Po; impressive tiled temple complex featuring one of the world's largest reclining Buddha statues. On to Grand Palace. We were both secretly expecting it to be overly gaudy or ostentatious, but we were both quite impressed. You would know you're a king if you lived here. Eat expensive Haagen Dazs at their snack shop (Marjorie: 1 scoop coffee, 1 macadamia nut; me: 2 scoops macadamia brittle). On river taxi back to Sky Train station, chat with American tourist from California who just got back from a month in Burma. Overhear another pointing out a high rise apartment building that has never been occupied, and we can see why: it is leaning like it's from Pisa. We plan to just go hang out in Lumpini Park, but get sidetracked by some stores and finally decide that it's "massage o'clock". Perhaps even "half past massage o'clock". Back to our hotel area, we opt for hour-and-a-half Thai massage. I love it; Marjorie afterward feels like she's been pistol-whipped. Bad massage is worse than no massage. We shower, then Thai food dinner across the street at Saw Sam Sai. Drinks at a pub up the street, which turned out to be right in front of a "lady-boy" cabaret. The crowd and performers spill out after a while, and we learn from our bartender that they make most of their money posing for pictures with tourists. I snap a picture from a distance.

Monday: After check out we scramble to find ATM so we have cash to pay the 500 baht airport departure fee. Sandwiches at German deli across street. Wait (forever) for Airport Bus. Pet mangy, lame (but collared) dog while we wait. Arrive early at airport, get through customs without fuss. Two hours in plane and we are back.

You'd be surprised how many people from Singapore count on side trips to places like Bangkok just for a bit of seediness and chaos. And, conversely, how many people from places like Bangkok occasionally need to come to Singapore for a little peace, safety, and order. It would make an interesting human-nature study. Our trip was not exhaustive or exhausting (however exhaust-filled), but it was deeply satisfying. Bangkok is dynamic; the people are exceedingly friendly, the touts take "no" for an answer, and there are a wealth of places begging to be explored. Fun.

Other points of interest -- American franchises spotted: McD's, Pizza Hut/KFC (sans the Taco Bell), Dunkin Donuts, Burger King, Swensen's, and a 7-Eleven on every corner. "Rancid" T-shirts spotted: 4.

Comments seem to be broken. Am looking into the problem.

Wednesday night we attended the Wednesday Night Drinking Club, which is often touted on the Expat Singapore message forums. Over expensive beers at Liberte in Chijmes, we chatted with people from Germany, Netherlands, Indonesia, and the UK, and also an American, Ken, who was in town interviewing at Singapore's world-famous Zoo and Night Safari. He invited us out for a free night at the Night Safari, so that's what we did last night. They must really want him to work there, because we were given the VIP treatment; we were escorted to the front of every line, on one of their busiest nights of the year. Ken's a great guy, and we got lots of behind-the-scenes insights on the workings of zoos. I hope he decides to come work here.

Every zoo visit is a unique experience; you never know which animals will be active, or what they'll be doing. This time we had great views of the tarsiers, tapirs, and flying foxes.

Chiromancy. Up early today to go get our fingerprints done, or redone in Marjorie's case. We now have some on the official FBI card -- which we printed out ourselves, so who knows if that will be accepted -- and some on official Singapore forms. For our Singaporean we-haven't-been-arrested-here form, they had a cool digital scanner that read our fingerprints electronically. This part they happily do for free, no doubt so they can have our fingerprints on record.

Brian McBride will now be playing for Fulham, so I'll get to watch him on the telly occasionally. The English Premier League is starting to dip into the American well, not just for the talent, I'm sure, but for the potential market of new fans. Hey, it works. Go Fulham!

Chinatown, where I work, is all festive in anticipation of the year of the Monkey. I must've seen a dozen people today carrying pussy willows, which are a favorite to decorate with. Don't make jokes, but pussy willows are my favorite decorative plant. I mean, don't laugh just because I have a favorite decorative plant. What did you think I meant? We're going to get some of them, and an orange plant, like last year. Red lanterns and cards everywhere.

Turn your head and cough, lah. Today we went together to a medical clinic to get our official health exam for Australia. Eye exam, blood test, chest x-ray, the works -- even, no lie, checking our arms for heroin-use track marks. I had to wonder about the place. The first check they performed was a urine test -- Marjorie got a cup, and I got a little litmus-test swizzle stick. And we were told that the restroom was down the hall, past all the other offices on the fifteenth floor of this office building. So we went, and went, and carried our prizes back past the accountant's office and whatever else. The receptionist just needed a visual confirmation on my pee-stick, so I held it out for her over the reception desk, and she said okay, you can throw it out over there, in the tiny step-to-open trash can in the waiting room, right next to another waiting patient.

The rest of the exam went okay, I guess, except for the doctor having to play stabby-stab-stab with my arm trying to hit the vein. She asked if I exercised a lot, because my blood pressure and pulse were low, so I guess that's good. They do need to get confirmation as to the state of my kidney stones, though, so I need to go try to take of that tomorrow. Nothing about this process ever seems to get taken care of on the first pass.

Bowie fish. Two years ago when we were visiting here we visited Singapore's aquarium, Underwater World. Today we went back, and we arrived at the same consensus: it's too small and overpriced. Alas.

However, while we were out we saw in the newspaper that David Bowie is coming to town in March! So we went and got our tickets already. It can't possibly rival our last time seeing him (in a 1000 seat venue in Brooklyn), but we can't complain too much!

A great read. I read a lot, but not much of what I read do I feel the need to praise here. But I just finished The First American: The Life And Times of Benjamin Franklin, and wow. Putting aside what an extraordinary character he was, this biography was also the first really readable explanation of the factors leading up to the Revolutionary War. And Ben himself -- well, everything he touched, he transformed, it seems; his CV would be the most staggering in history, I think. Truly a Renaissance man. Hard to read without feeling like a worthless sack of shit. But I recommend giving it a shot.

Blogging live. About ten minutes ago, I heard a crunch, like a fender-bender, outside my second-floor work window. I looked down to see a young man lying on the road, motionless, next to a white van. He had just been hit, apparently, but there has been no blood. He eventually was helped up (despite my yells to not move him), and now an ambulance is here. (The ambulance siren as it approached is the first siren I've heard here.) It got here in less than ten minutes, and had the guy out of here in about another five. The victim had blood around one eyebrow, was all that I saw. He was awake and alert on the stretcher. The police are now trying to reconstruct the scene with the help of witnesses. They chalked the street to mark the position of the tires and moved the van away. Half an hour later. The police have called in the situation and are presumably waiting for advisement. The driver of the van, a pony-tailed man of about thirty-five, calmy waits. He seems unphased.

I could have been the first to dial 999. I should have been. Luckily the guy seemed to be okay.

Celeb spotting, Singapore stylee! After a morning matinee of Good Bye, Lenin! (which was just okay), we went to the grocery store, and happened to spot Singapore's biggest celebrity, Gurmit Singh, AKA Phua Chu Kang. He was easy to recognize, even without his trademark big, ugly mole, since he's been in just about every sitcom this country has ever produced. If you saw the Amazing Race episode where they came through Singapore, he was the guy in the apartment that everyone had to go meet.