So much for the efforts of MINDEF's Publicity Affairs department. When Lawrence told me that he was signing up with the Army, it sure wasn't about respecting command or commanding respect.

"MAHNEE!" was the reason he frustratedly gave me, one which, earlier on, had silenced the objections of his parents when they reacted violently to news of his intentions to enlist. He told me he'd also look out for, and fervently fight to get, an opportunity to be posted overseas, because the pay was substantially better. When I asked about his wife and child, he simply said: "I'll just tell her the same thing: MAHNEE! She will definitely agree."

Lawrence has a lot on his mind, for a 21-year old. Being an underpaid salesman. A small family he's beholden to. Plans to buy a flat. Uncanny but expected familiarity with the CPF system. Comparisons between the various payscales of the SAF. And eyes set on a certain Subaru car. For all that, he feels exhausted. "I feel like I don't want to work anymore," he lamented. Still, I haven't the slightest doubt that he'll survive the army, because he's been one of the company's best men since he joined nine months ago. Considering he doesn't have any interest in the uniformed groups, it was surprising to hear that he actually sent in applications to almost all of them. Lawrence flatly told me that the private sector simply couldn't beat the public sector in paying their rank and file employees.

Lawrence's relative lack of options is partly due to his limited education, but I sometimes wonder if uni graduates are really that far better off. Is this the real great Singapore sale, to see everyone being paid sub-par wages, only to be bribed into public service? Sigh. I wish him well. Something tells me that he might even shine in the local army, because of an additional trait that has been and will continue to be useful to him, especially in there: the man doesn't trust ANYONE.

I remember watching my first TV divorce. It was so frightening, so traumatic that it fascinated me the same way that watching news coverage of an earthquake would as well. As I peered with large, young eyes, along with my  younger sister, Cindy, at the violent drama unfolding on the screen, I remember hoping that this was something that should never happen to my family, for the consequences were too earth-shattering to contemplate.

And yet, a few years down the road, when Cindy and I overheard the first screaming match between my mother and father, what struck me then, was the surprising calm that the two of us handled it. Back then, we lived in a two-storey semi-detached house, with thick solid rubber wood doors. And yet, one midnight, an ensuing argument between our parents in the living room downstairs achieved sufficient volume to spread upstairs, penetrate the bedroom doors, and reach the ears of the two of us, who were restlessly trying to go to sleep.

I slowly opened my door with ninja-like stealth. There, peering out from behind her bedroom door as well, was Cindy. We both looked at each other, and our faces both said the same thing.

WOW!!!

This was fantastic shit! And for a moment, I was beginning to wonder if my life was rather humdrum. Here was all that tv-land make-believe stuff, happening for real right in front of us! I remember actually grinning at my sis, as I slowly ventured towards the staircase balcony so that I could listen better. As we listened intently at the quarrel, all sorts of visions flashed through my mind. Divorce proceedings. Living life separated from my sister. Alimony. Visits. Moving out.

WOW!!!

KRAK!!!!

I must've been leaning on that rail for too long, because my back had gotten stiff, and with a slight movement, it complained loudly with a cracking sound that was heard throughout the house. The voices downstairs went silent for a while, and my sis and I were upstairs grinning wildly at each other like we had just pulled off the largest practical joke of our lives. We had to cover our mouths to stop ourselves from laughing out loud.

The quarrel resumed, and still carries on today. Despite our somewhat video game treatment of the whole thing, it's undeniable that the gulf between our parents created a handicap for our emotional upbringing. To compensate for this imbalance, I threw myself into my hobbies and my friends; Cindy threw herself into her schoolwork.

The coping strategies that the two of us chose took us down very different paths. Over time, I became the black sheep of the family. Cindy didn't have it easy either; relatives told me discreetly that she felt pressured, living in my shadow. I try to empathise, though I don't think I will ever adequately do so. Although my parents have never jumped into the fire of marriage dissolution, the many times they've danced near it have been enough to toast me and my sis an unmistakable light-medium shade of brown.

Sometimes I sit back, and ask myself what makes up my world these days. That's when the inescapable answer sinks into me like a slow-acting poison: it's constituted more by my colleagues than by my friends. It's quite ironic, in that I have always dealt with them at arms-length; none of them know what my hobbies are, my political slant, or my ambitions. Part of this lies in the fact that these fellows simply don't relate to some of the things I'd like to talk about, but it's also partly in the fact that I don't want these people to get too close to me. Work is work. Colleagues are colleagues. Right.

Try as I have, they've become like family to me. As the days and hours have passed, I've come to accept them for what they are, freckles, warts, and all. It just tears me apart to know that this is not the final destination of my life. Nevertheless, I have developed a sense of permanence, even of belonging, to this rowdy crew of men and women. It's a cruel metaphor: ultimately, they're just passing scenery. Right now, I can't help but crane my head out of the bus window as hard as I can, to get a good look, before they're finally gone.

When I came in, I was an outsider, the newbie..all I had was this mother hen and three other guys who taught me the ropes day by day. Now I'm at a point where I can work in any of our eight outlets, because I know the ropes well enough to handle any aspect of running a store, while at the same time being able to accommodate any store-specific idiosyncrasies. I'm grateful to the plethora of senior colleagues who have taught me, especially the four mentioned above. I feel like a graduating student who is reluctant to let go of the lecturers who have made him what he is. What depresses me is the knowledge that this won't be the last time that I get wracked with feelings of sentimentality. It will happen again with every community I leave, to join another, only to happen again when I leave that in turn. All for the sake of an adventure that appears larger than the one I'm currently on, at least from my disadvantaged viewpoint of the present moment.

It's probably better to leave now, on a high note. Either that, or stay behind, and watch others leave instead. Heck, some have already. Recently I just realized that I've been patronizing the same salon for the last decade. It's been the same place, but hairstylists have come and gone. One of them has, after years of service, even opened up his own salon in a shopping center across the road, with a large poster of his beaming portrait covering several square metres of the building wall. Also, for the first time, I've come across a new senior hairstylist at the old salon that does things quite differently from what I've been used to for the last ten years. This isn't the same salon anymore. It's dying a slow death as it naturally changes into something else, something unrecognizable, in a process that, to me, is rather akin to Alzheimer's.

So here I am, still on the bus, snapping as many photos as I can, so I'll have something to keep to remind me of the scenery that I'll never see again. This is why I'm trying to brush up on my drawing; in what I hope won't be too large a project, I want to sketch each of my workmates before I leave. Given their camera shyness, no photography can do them justice.

You can hiss and boo now, for I've just admitted that I both accept and do not accept change. It's impossible to use logic alone to explain myself satisfactorily. I can accept it on a detached level, but emotions are seldom rational. If this is the kind of illogicallity that religious people relabel as faith, then perhaps I have a slightly more intimate understanding of it now.

Foreign commentators have complained that the handover of prime minister-ship, about to take place anytime now, is too uneventful. I cannot help but wonder if the powers-that-be intended it to be this way. For all the press and broadcast space being given to the event, it all appears to be nothing but obligatory coverage given to the scion of the longest-serving prime minister.

Over the years, continuity has become so synonymous with "Singapore-style government" that the two phrases are often used interchangeably. I have to ask if there is really any room for maneuver, as far as the new PM's taking the country in a new direction is concerned. Examining the list of new cabinet members reads like a guest list to a private function of any of the two previous PMs; it's still pretty much the same old men who will be wearing white on the next four National Days to come. Hm. Perhaps thinking of new directions is too optimistic. As the ultimate season parking ticket that is the PM post is handed over to Mr Lee Jr., this circle of men who, combined,  arguably wield more power than him, must surely be grumbling that they deserve better.

It is that last statement which brings a fascinating insight into the possible trajectory of Singapore politics. Never before have I seen such widespread doubt of the competency of the next ascendant to the national political throne. The almost desperate attempts by the media to paint a picture of nationwide support jar very sharply with the reality that I observe on the ground (albeit limited in scope).  Perhaps it is lucky for LSL that the decision to put him there is not decided by national vote, for the results would surely be severely skewed in the favour of Mr Goh.

This then begs the question of whether our next prime minister truly leads the country or not. His throne now looks more like a lone cold seat in an examination hall, for a grilling test that will last at least four years. Crucially, the lives of four million depend on him passing at least. The question of the day is: is the group of senior men, standing over him as he scribbles away, going to provide him answers, or be the first to eject him upon failure?

If only it were so easy. The consequentiality of this test demands that they help LSL. Unfortunately, the hubris of the man is not to be underestimated. Many covert whispers to him may simply fall on deaf ears. This is all assuming that these men have the right answers in the first place. Perhaps not, but I'll bet that for some questions at least, these men are closer to being correct than LSL will be. Unlike most other examinations, however, this one is one that is not marked at the end of the test, but rather, continuously, one question at a time. It is done both by the public, and by the largely silent men standing over LSL. Once it is obvious that the test paper is too full of crossmarks to effectively obscure from the citizenry, LSL may find himself being devoured by these very men who work under him. Good luck, Hsien Loong.

"Nation-building" reaches a new low this year. Witness the "moblog" at http://moblog.ndp.org.sg. It's supposed to be a national blog megasite with a twist: replies to the users on the website can be submitted via mobile phone, hence the name. 

A little reflection will show the moblog to be an online version of the National Day parade, where the sms reply capability is a gimmick to inject more interactivity, something they always try to do with the parade every year as well. More on that later. It's basically a portal populated by what appears to be a sizeable mass of people representing our population, culture and values, spewing pro-nation messages. But even this is something I'm not sure it does convincingly.

Given the most prominence are the blogs of the National Day Parade 2004 hosts, local celebs, and local sports celebs. Tell me why these people are taking up 50% of the mainpage. These people, in their own entertainment and sports circles, hardly represent the nation to any degree of accuracy. Why would the government wants to give outsiders the impression that these people are the voice of the national community?

Because they can. These people are under contract, or have a vested interest, to say and do whatever pleases their masters, who in turn work for higher masters. The end result is that what appears to be spontaneous is really guided, by unseen constraints, into unaldulterated national ass-licking.

The next section is SGPassion, where the self-proclaimed passionate people include a musuem director, a man who still lives to tell WWII horror stories, a mother, a teacher, a community services association, and the chairman of the NDP himself! Unlike the previous three sections, these people haven't been randomly selected off the street. They've been handpicked from the outset to provide what appears to be balanced coverage of views. Kinda like "embedding" of reporters into combat units. Organised randomness is never hard to miss.

The last section is a pitiful replication of something typically seen at National Day Parades: children. They're always there, in large numbers, to symbolify that they're the next generation, and that all we do today, we do for them to reap tomorrow. Here, a token four schools, one primary and three secondary, have their logos splashed on the mainpage, each school taking up the same thumbnail space as, say, the smiling pic of a four local celebs above. Says a lot about how important these children are.

Missing here are the colourful intros that boast of the writers' achievements or credentials, found on all the other "mobloggers". 30-odd children, reduced to nothing more than four hyperlinks, and stuck with simple labels like "Student" or "Student Performer". They're treated as website garnishing, used to meaten it up without actually being the meat. Thanks but no thanks, I'll go vegan this year. Goodness knows these little guys will one day be writing meatier, far more authentic stories on xanga, instead of gushing on command over the parade.