NDP 2001: I'm getting too old for this

There I was, smack in the middle of the criminally domeless National Stadium, exposed skin grilled crimson under the pitiless Saturday afternoon sun. Sweat was stinging my eyes, but I couldn't - no, I dared not - move.

I was part of the navy's marching contingent for the National Day Parade rehearsals, forming the figure 2 in NDP 2001.



I wanted to faint. I had never felt so old in my life. Guess I shouldn't have skipped breakfast. And it was my 35th birthday. Such is my love for my country.

As a kid watching the NDP on TV all those years ago, I wondered how those soldiers could stand so still in the parade for so long. I would've been contented if I was kept wondering.

Perversely enough, when I was called up in March for the NDP, I was actually thrilled by the prospect of - of all things - donning the No 1 ceremonial uniform. I had worn the No 4 camouflage in the army and No 3 shirt-and-slacks in the navy, but never the No 1.

I was crushed to learn later that only the Guard of Honour gets to wear the No 1. By all accounts, I'm no Guard, or anything else, of Honour. Back to the ol' No 3 for me.

You fantasise about being part of the nation's grandest annual event. But you always thought that when it happened, you would be representing your school or participating during your NS - you know, like when you're young?

Not when you're a paunchy, twice-married over-30 NSman, worrying about your job and children's education and paying monthly instalments on your HDB apartment and Nissan Sunny.

But somehow, being in the NDP made me feel young and old at the same time.

Reunited with long-lost NS acquaintances, I started behaving like when I was in national service, that is, young and stupid, whistling at adolescent pom-pom girls from the pre-parade show until I suddenly realised I am old enough to be their father.

And I realised something else: Like it or not, I've been part of the navy longer than I've been part of anything else in my life, be it school, company or marriage.

I can quit my job, divorce my wife, abandon my children, kill my mother, get a Toyota, but wherever I go, as long as I'm medically fit, the SAF will track me down and make sure I attend my ICT, IPPT, NDP and whatever initials they can think of - at least until I'm 40 (five more years to ROD!)

And I'm a better Singaporean for it.

The most shocking moment for me was during the first full-run rehearsal at the National Stadium, when they started playing the National Anthem.

From where I was standing in the field, I saw grown men in uniform in the gallery instinctively get on their feet and salute in my direction, proudly, resolutely.

We, the NSmen in the field, were there because, well, we had to be. But no-one was forcing the audience to salute.

I thought it ironic that possibly the truer display of patriotism and genuine love for country was in the stands rather than on the parade ground. But that wasn't the shock.

The shock was when I opened my mouth and sang the National Anthem, it actually felt foreign to me. It had been a long time since I had sung Majulah Singapura.

Who knew that in the year when I was part of the launch of a TV station, and Ah Girl - the first show I ever created and named after my 20-month-old daughter - went on air, the greatest highlight would actually be my participation in the National Day Parade?

I just hope I don't screw it up. And pray it doesn't rain.

- Published in The New Paper, 5 August 2001

Pop goes the millennium: Is rock dead (again)?

Boy bands, jailbait divas and more boy bands.

The rock millennium will end not with a bang, but with Britney Spears whimpering that she wasn't allowed to show more cleavage.

Have the last 45 years of rock 'n' roll been a total bust? Whither the next 1,000?

Is rock dead? Again?

Where's the next Elvis? The next Beatles? The next Dylan? The next Nirvana?

Where's the next musical revolution?

It's already here - and no, it's not Coco Lee.



The revolution is not in the music itself, but in the way music is distributed. Yes, it's that ol' Internet again.

Fans can order their own custom-made Beastie Boys greatest hits CD by selecting favourite tracks from the Beastie Boys website.

With MP3, more people are downloading music onto their computers than ever before.
How will this change the music itself? Don't know, but change, it most certainly will.

Here's a look at rock and its many lives, as we review popular music at the turn of the decades:



1959-1960

Rock 'n' roll was born in the '50s. For many music historians, Bill Haley and His Comets' Rock Around The Clock was ground zero.

Chuck Berry introduced the electric guitar as the rock prop.



Pre-dating Rick Astley by 30 years, Elvis Aaron Presley, a white kid who could sing like a black man, changed the world.

But by 1959, there was an anti-rock backlash. Non-threatening pop teen idols like Frankie Avalon and Pat Boone came off the pop factory conveyor belt.



Elvis was doing his NS and Buddy Holly was killed in a plane crash.

Understandably, rock was declared dead or, to quote Don McLean: "It was the day the music died."



1969-1970

The '60s only really began with The Beatles, and the band ended along with the decade. And so, according to some reports, the music died again.

Motown made black music safe for everyone, unfortunately also allowing Diana Ross to inflict her career on us for the past 35 years.



By 1969, the album had become a legitimate artistic medium, not just a collection of hits and fillers. Bob Dylan showed that rock music can be a social force, not just something you can dance to.



Performers were now also expected to write their own material.

Up-and-coming bands Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath and Deep Purple would lead the charge of guitar-based rock that would dominate the new decade.



But just so the '70s wouldn't be all loud, The Carpenters, Bread and James Taylor hit the Top 20 for the first time in 1970.



1979-1980

Early '70s glam rockers Marc Bolan and David Bowie made the world safe for future cross-dressing stars like Boy George and Marilyn Manson.



In the '60s, rock became art. In the '70s, rock became art rock, as "progressive" bands like Yes, Genesis and Emerson, Lake and Palmer bored us with their 20-minute "suites".

The decade was also wimping out with the likes of The Eagles, Fleetwood Mac and Chicago.

Then came punk. Anarchy in the UK and elsewhere.



And suddenly, the rule was no rules. Rock began diversifying to incorporate reggae, synthesisers and, of course, disco.

The Bee Gees became the biggest thing since The Beatles. But then, so did Abba.

In Singapore, Boney M, the Milli Vanilli of its day, was even bigger than The Beatles.



Many claimed that disco killed rock. But by 1979, disco itself was declared dead.

And when John Lennon was killed in 1980, the '60s was finally really, really over - just in time for '60s nostalgia in the new decade.



1989-1990

Just as the '60s didn't really begin until The Beatles came along, the '80s really didn't begin until Madonna came along.

And disco wasn't dead after all - it's just called "dance" now. The 12-inch "extended remix" became the norm.



MTV determined who became pop stars. If you're ugly, forget it. The music video helped turn Michael Jackson's Thriller into the biggest-selling album of the millennium.

Just about everything was synthesised (again, cries that the synthesiser was killing rock), such that when a band came along that used only guitars, like, say, REM, it was considered "alternative".



By 1989, "alternative" was becoming anything but. Rock was getting dangerous again. Hip hop was no longer considered mere novelty music. Dance was permutating into house, techno and beyond. Vinyl's reign was ended by the compact disc.



1999-2000

Nirvana's Nevermind dragged punk/post-punk/alternative rock kicking and whining into the early '90s mainstream, although now it was called "grunge". And then the lead singer went and shot himself in 1994, and grunge was declared dead.

Although hip hop had its share of casualties, namely 2Pac and Notorious B.I.G., the beat goes on.

Hey, if hip hop can survive MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice, it can survive anything.



Post-NKTOB and post-grunge, Take That paved the way for a new generation of boy bands from East 17 and Boyzone to N'Sync and the Backstreet Boys.

Distaff offshoots the Spice Girls and Britney Spears, et al, made this the decade in which the 14-year-old female CD buyer dictated music trends.



The last 10 years of the millennium have also been the Recycled Decade.

Rappers recycle old beats and call it sampling. Performers cover old songs and call it a tribute. Record companies re-release old albums on CD and call them re-issues.

As the year and millennium come to a close, hip hop is hotter than ever, non-threatening pop teen idols like Ricky Martin and Westlife are coming off the factory conveyor belt, and rock once again is in critical condition, Limp Bizkit notwithstanding.



Will it survive? Don't buy that Savage Garden CD and, maybe, it just will.

- Published in The New Paper, 26 December 1999

Condom minion: Meet the female of the species — Femidom

It had come to this: Femidom — the female condom.

"Let's try it," I ventured.

"Sure," my partner said.

But she made me pay for it at the cashier.

Which meant I had to also buy a toothbrush and a box of band-aids just so the whole world wouldn't assume I was at the pharmacy specifically to shop for prophylactics.

The three-pack came with an instruction leaflet which caused my partner to make faces.

"It's so complicated," she whined.

I suggested that it was no more complicated than inserting a diaphragm or a sponge — both of which she had never used before. (And neither had I, for that matter, but I had heard.)

"It's like a tampon," I tried again.

"No, it's not. You're not a woman. How would you know?"

Well, excuse me.

She came out of the bathroom walking like she had something up her — you know.

"My God, it's so huge."

She was referring to the Femidom. "It feels funny."

"You'll get used to it," I reassured her, hopefully but unconvincingly. Who was I trying to kid? I have been using the male condom for years and I never got used to it.



I didn't see my first condom until I became a medic in the navy during national service, distributing the little Pandora's boxes to the seamen to contain their semen. Thousands of "love gloves" were rationed to ships going to Thailand, Taiwan and other exotic playgrounds.

My curiosity was piqued such that I tried one on during a session of onanism just to find out what it felt like.

It hurt.

I couldn't imagine how anyone could still be interested in coitus after the trauma of simply putting a rubber on. And despite claims of "ultra-sensitivity" on the packaging, all I was sensitive to was latex — very. very tight latex.

It wasn't until my first serious girlfriend when I started actually wearing a prophylactic during intercourse. Even then, it was more a contraceptive measure than anything else; my fear of knocking her up was greater than my fear of some dehumanizing STD.

It still hurt.

But condomed sex wasn't all that enjoyable for her either. So we soon became devotees of the rhythm method. Nevertheless, a Durex came in handy on occasions we lost our rhythm.

Removing and disposing a used condom is a rather unappetizing affair as well. It's the kind of thing that could turn you off sex for life.

Or at least the next 10 minutes

That's why I was so thrilled to read about the female condom. Finally, science came up with something useful. Now the shoe would be on the other foot. Or in some other part of the anatomy.

But I was sceptical. Femidom seemed nothing more than a glorified diaphragm. The female condom rubric is apt because that's what it looks like — a female version of the rubber but with rings on both ends, so making a balloon out of it would be tricky.



Those semi-rigid rings do tend to get in the way.

My partner was complaining about those very rings. "I can feel the smaller ring stretching me on the inside and I'm afraid the outer ring might fall in."

"Do you want to take it out?" I asked.

"No, it's OK. Let's try it."

Famous last words.

Moments later...

"Stop! Stop!" she cried. "It's killing me! I have to take it out!"

She hurried to the bathroom.

I could guess what she was going through. All I felt was latex - very, very loose latex.

It hurt.

She came out of the bathroom looking utterly relieved, and held up the crumply, slimy, guilty object for me to see - the kind of sight that could turn you off sex for the rest of your life.

Or at least the next 10 minutes.

"It's OK," I said. "We'll try it again another time."

Sure, she said.

I still have two unused female condoms if anybody wants them.

- Published in Man Life & Style, February 1995



UPDATE: Whatever happened to the Femidom?