The Weary Vagabond

The ways of the world have wrung me worn
And foes have made me forlorn
Though in wealth and privilege I was not born
But to devotion, freedom and liberty I am solemnly sworn

An Ode to Advertising

In my dreary dreams I walked alone
Down a path of shimmering stones
Under the glow of a neon light
I had a peek of the peons' plight

And in the faint light I saw
Believers before their prophet
Straining to hear his every drawl
His promises of power and profit

"Fools," I scorned, "You have no idea
Ensnared by woven webs of lies,
You forsake all that is truly dear."
Alas, none would hear my dire decry

So I trod on with a sigh
His will I could not defy
And so it was and always shall be
But who am I to judge to this degree?

The Grief of Being True

To say the things he truly feels
And not those of one who kneels
Such is the mark of a man

Though in his sun-scorched skin he stands tall
Who will be there when he falls?
For each faithful fan
A dozen more shall pan

The Case of the Pregnant Lady in the Train

A week ago, when I was commuting via the MRT during rush hour, I observed a most peculiar phenomenon. A lady, in the late stages of pregnancy, boarded the train and moved to the middle of the carriage. None of the seated passengers offered her a seat. Now, this was in no way unusual. It was simply the bystander effect occurring.

The bystander effect is a social psychological phenomenon in which individuals are less likely to offer help when others are present. The probability of help is inversely proportional to the number of bystanders. One explanation for this phenomenon is the diffusion of responsibility. In layman's terms, it means that when others are present, you will allow an event, which you would never allow to happen if you are alone, to occur through action or inaction. Basically, you feel less responsible for the consequences.

Minutes later, she moved near a priority seat. I am sure most of you know what it is. It is a seat situated near the train doors, with a clearly visible label encouraging passengers to offer it to those in more need. The man on that seat noticed our protagonist, but to her dismay, he did nothing. She then proceeded to the other priority seat at the other end of the carriage. What happened after was most puzzling. The other passenger too, ignored her. Our unfortunate lady had to stand till the end of her journey.

The first antagonist may have his personal reasons for refusing to offer his seat. Perhaps he had a medical condition which dictated that he cannot stand for prolonged periods. But the second passenger too?

Can it be that the concept of altruism is dead? The main religions of our society and our culture stress the importance of altruistic morals. Even if these men have no conscience, and do not subscribe to these beliefs, it would still be irrational to commit such an anti-social act. Do they not know the effects of indirect reciprocity? What if a conscientious netizen posts their pictures on Stomp, or if a co-worker or friend recognises them? Do they not care about their reputation?

Perhaps they are nihilistic misanthropes or sociopaths, but what are the chances of both being such? How frustratingly baffling!

Summers Long Gone

I got my first real two-wheel
Bought it at the three and flea
Rode it till i bruised my heel
It was the summer of '93

Me and some boys from school
Had a clan and played real hard
Tommy quit, Timmy threw a fit
I should have known we'd never get far

Oh when I look back now
That summer seemed to last forever
And should the sands of time allow
I'd still want to be there
Those were the best days of my life

Ain't no use in whining
When you had a class to pass
Rode up the range to the railing
And that's when I met you, lass

Standing on the hilltop porch
You told me you would wait forever
Oh and when I felt that scorch
I knew it was now or never
Those were the best days of my life

I guess nothing can last forever
Looking at what's came and gone
Now we're lost in our endeavours
Sometimes I still weigh it up and wonder what went wrong
It was the summer of '03

Inspired by Bryan Adams' Summer of '69

The Warrior Within

After such a long hiatus, I'm finally beginning to ease into my training regime. Today's routine didn't feel quite as hellish as the past 2 weeks, although I'm only lifting about 50% of what I used to do. It's really good to see those old faces again, and everyone seems to be bigger and stronger, which is...not really all that good. I'm no longer up there with the best anymore. Paradoxical is it not, that I should be glad to see them, yet be so envious of their progress. But it is such jealousy that propels us to further heights. Envy, for lack of a better word, is good.

And then, there were the naysayers.

"Why do you even bother, Ryan? It's a waste of time!" Scrawny Sam wailed, in between sips of coke and chunks of nuggets. I winced, and gave Sam the most incredulous look, as if he had just asked what was blatantly obvious.

Scrawny Sam was what I would call skinny-fat. He has a small frame, and looks rather thin. He also has a pot belly. Fortunately for him, nobody notices under all that clothing. Sam continued to munch on his greasy fries, his inquisitive eyes peering at me through the kind of huge, dark rimmed glasses which are all the rage now. I had had such questions hurled at me a million times, and I was, frankly, quite tired of such questions. I deftly switched the topic, and sure enough, his curious gaze soon turned to one of nonchalance.

So, why do I train?

Is it a matter of vanity? Of wanting to look better than the average man? Or is it elitism? Wanting to be stronger than the majority?

These are secondary. Weightlifting is my way of getting back at the world. I pick up my 1st barbell consumed with rage and hatred. At the end of a good session, they are all gone, seemingly absorbed and used by the Iron to remold my body into a manifestation of my most treasured values - tenacity, willpower and a disdain for mediocrity.

And now that I have taken this path, it is unthinkable to turn back. The Iron forces me to leave my ego at the door, or be punished by injuries. When I just don't cut it, it tells me right in the face. And it will always be there, like a glowing beacon in the darkness.

It is the best friend I can ever have.

The Value of Beauty

A lady once lamented to me, “Why is it so hard to find a nice, rich guy? I'm good looking, and I have suitors, but many of them just don't cut it.”

I thought that was shallow, and proceeded to preach about the insignificance of beauty and wealth, and about what traits should really matter. Unfortunately, my wise words fell on deaf ears. Now that I've pondered about it, I realised how unreasonable I was. She was simply stating her preferences for rich men. In retrospect, I would have been more helpful had I analysed her predicament based on the two variables she defined, which were beauty and wealth.

Now, what is beauty? Granted, the concept of beauty is complex. Philosophers have, since the beginning of time, tried to encapsulate it. In the lady's context, it should be assumed to be physical attractiveness. Even with such a precise definition, our analysis would prove difficult. As the famous saying goes, “Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.” In short, beauty is subjective, due to exogenous factors, or perhaps even merely the differential preferences of individuals. An attempt to identify all of these factors would be an insurmountable task. In order to make some progress, it would have to be assumed that everybody has the same perception of beauty.

After deconstruction, the lady's predicament was simple. It was an offer of beauty for wealth, the trade of one asset for another. If the value of her beauty matches the wealth of her suitor, it would be a fair trade, no?

Obviously not. Physical attractiveness fades with time. At the age of 45, I'm sure our protagonist will not proclaim herself to be good looking any longer. In fact, when she is a wrinkly old hag at the age of 60, there will hardly be any remnants of her past beauty. It is also apparent that physical appearances deteriorate more rapidly as aging occurs. In economic terms, beauty suffers from accelerating depreciation, with no residual value at the end.

On the other hand, wealth begets more wealth, thanks to the wonder of compounding interest. It can be said that the growth of wealth is exponential. This is, of course, assuming that the rich man in question manages his finances well. Wealth would thus be an earning asset, with new income integrating with current wealth.



The graph above represents the two variables over time. The intersection point would be where our protagonist deems her suitor worthy of her. From that point on, the value of the suitor's wealth would become increasingly higher than her beauty. It is clear that our rich man would reject such an unfair offer. It would make much better economic sense to lease our lady instead!

With such dire outcomes, what should our distressed damsel do? I would love to hear your comments!

PS: Lady in question, if you are reading this, I am merely trying to resolve your predicament. Please do not get upset!

The Dew at Dusk

Dusk's last drop of dew
Fathomed the fate of few
She glided down the blade
Yet lingered at the edge
What allure adhered her to the sedge
As such to abhor the everglade?