Childhood lullaby

I cannot imagine a world without music. The appreciation of music brings me back to the 1990s when i was still in 1st year Elementary School and which indirectly brings about reminiscence of the gd ol' carefree days devoid of society pressure and relations. Ahh.. In those days, being a greenhorn about issues would never render you a label of being ignorant or nerdy but rather as a person taking a small and almost subtle step into a compulsory learning stage whereby you start getting streetsmart and develop basic social and analytic skills in life. How i initially got attracted to music as a form of entertainment and relief remains a mystery even till now. Could it be becoz my brother brought home a cassette(Yea, you read it correctly =D ) of GreenDay, one of the founders of punk rock, home to my grandma's and listened to it 24/7 with me by his side? Or Could it be becoz i snooped a copy of my uncle's cassette of a young Jack Neo & Gang rapping ala Singaporean hokkien style which never fails to invoke loud snorts and a series of giggles in that childish and inquisitive mindset of a 8-9 year old.

Then came the year 1996 BC. when i was ushered into High School and I moved back to Pasir Ris with my parents. Gone were the days of playing "Lego" and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles action figures by the steps, two brothers panting in circles around the circular mahogany dinnertable while waiting for an opportunity to escape from the almighty sword my Grandma has with her which lives by the kitchen wall hook. Handy, isn’t it? Hell, I could even remember times when the slowpoke could never catch us in our stride and resort to whipping the already badly-scratched table and eventually flinging the cane across to our direction like a nuke from America in retaliation to japan destroying Pearl Harbour.

At this point, two rascals would beeline, the smaller sizer following closely behind the main perpetrator, to the gate (yes we do have a gate connecting kitchen and living room), one little winch of the rusty handle and two nutbags would be in a locked bedroom upstairs in a flash chuckling like little chicks in a farm, hot and sweaty from the thrill of escape, lying on the once-tidied uncle’s bed, key snuggling nicely in the palm of the bigger sized walking big mac, never in the world giving a second thought on how to get over the compulsory family dinner gathering later around 7.30-8.00pm. Unofficial, unspoken and followed rule of the house. How efficient.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my granny as much as you love your korkor/meimei/papa/mama/pet, maybe more. *Gulp* Oops. My arm hair seems to be suffering from involuntary action. Trust me on my filial piety. Well maybe thanks to the fabulous curry now and then. The curry she conjures from packets of orange powder, white latex from the rubber tree topic in science textbook, brownish shreads with traces of yellow underneath, and not to mention the magical act of transforming a hairless presumably dead chicken into one thousand and one pieces of blood and gore. It never fails to amaze me whenever the chopper is raised like a bad Hitler’s trademark and rocketed down to earth in a acute angle, splitting the body into two separate halves chaperoned by fireworks, mainly red. Frankly, the sight of the dismembered carcass didn’t move me or even made me disgusted but rather, I was more concerned for the wooden traditional chopping board that was enduring the on-going bombardment since early afternoon. Actually a comparison to being a 1990s modern day “Jack the Ripper” would have been more appropriate if it didn’t sound as barbaric as it already is, considering the average age of the audience viewing the act.

Not forgetting the sprint upstairs of my Grandma's old-school terrace in disorderly fashion after a typical school day, (bag strap hanging loosely on biceps/elbows, a pathetic pale plastic 500ml waterbottle making resounding *clink clank clonk* sounds while you cringe and pray grandma don't come running to the scene) namely the risks taken for the sake of capturing an extra 1min of uncut footage from "HE-Man". Just for the record, I could only watch maximum 15min of cartoon of the 6.00pm slot as opposed to the original promise of half an hour due to the fact that the school bus driver dreads going home and prefers going below or maintaining at 50km/h to avoid activating a remote bomb.( =Þ Watch the movie “Speed”) Nah that’s definitely not a legitimate reason, though rumours are that his wife can’t cook for nuts. Hehehe.

I remember a time when I was obsessed with the 20 cents rubber ball outside-the-shophouse machine. You know those ultra-bouncy eyeball sized balls that majiam got a few clouds captured inside and mixed with a colour? Yep, you got it. Can you believe it? Me and my bro actually managed to play ping pong with it using the bats, say give about 4 returns each person lol. With this newly found power comes great responsibility. And thus unforeseen circumstances. My brother chipped a piece of the “Guanyin” statue and I finished the job by chipping another bigger piece the next day. Apparently, the boys of summer didn’t feel affected or guilty to say the least(after the first chipping) and continued to let our raging fun-factory hormones take over our soul even though most of the time we were becoming our own golf caddies around the living room. I also had a bizarre hobby when it comes to ping pong-ing. You know the gap between the top of the chair and the wall? Two numbskulls would sometimes spend the entire afternoon trying to throw/hit the original orange and odourless (odourless only if you haven’t cracked it like an egg =D) ping pong accurately into the gap resulting in the immense i-dunno-why satisfying sound reverberations threesome between ping pong ball, chair and wall. Wait it gets even more wonderful. The real excitement comes when you realize the ping pong ball is cracked up after all the throwing. And what do we do with the broken balls? Why yes! We throw them at each other’s backs till the chick literally flies out of the egg even though its not fully developed! The stinging sensation thereafter is like being a crack addict. First you feel high then you become more sober after a hangover. No joke. Tested and proven. An old lady gave me hell and made me poorer by 50 cents per weekday.