Expat@Large

Singapore Blogger’s Blog Fiddling Sends Internet Into Tailspin

Posted in blog fiddling, lack of talent, my friends can be dicks, stupidity by expatatlarge on July 31, 2012

Silly moi. If you kept getting a redirect notice when you tried to get here, as I just did, it was because I was fiddling the other day – not knowing WTF I was doing of course. Nothing new there.

It put up what I thought was an internal, i.e. Blogger, redirect command to double up on the instructions I had made elsewhere, that was supposed to send you FROM “expatatlarge.com”, should you try to get a website of that name, to here, viz: “expatatlarge.blogspot.com”.

However it looks I sent you the other way.

Because “expatatlarge.com” (for which I pay $20/year) already had a redirect command to send you to “exapatatlarge.blogspot.com”, the entire internet went into a closed loop and nothing never went nowhere… I presume this is what caused the blackout in India, yesterday.

Oops. Wondered why my hits went down.

OK, I think it’s sorted now, so get back to enjoying the magic and mystery, the wonder and the witticisms, the whinging and tales of whoredom that is (are?) this blog.

~~~~~~~~~

And to my friend acquaintance J******n who admitted, in his cups on Sunday afternoon(!) – in vino veritas – that he doesn’t read my blog anymore because the writing is crap, I’d just like to politely point out that your lack of appreciation of my prodigious talents makes you a:

I hope there will be lots of questions about America in the pub quiz tonight so you can demonstrate to us all once again your profound ignorance of your own country.

“Which Thursday in November is Thanksgiving?”

“Der, I dunno… The fourth?”

&#171Crowd slaps forehead.&#187

— Joking mate, I still love you, and I mean that most sincerely.* Seriously, I have nothing but respect for you. Nothing but. And not much of it either.

E@L

*And I mean that most sincerely.**

** And I mean THAT most sincerely.***

*** And…ad infinitum… or until you believe me, whichever comes first.

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Hey Nineteen

Posted in immaturity, stupidity, taxis, useless self-pity by expatatlarge on December 18, 2011

Taxi driver (female): Where you go?

E@L: G******* Rd

Taxi Driver: Ah yes,, G****** Rd.

E@L *thinks*: She knows G****** Rd?

E@L:  Yes. Off N****** Rd

Taxi Driver: What number, No 19?

E@L: No, number 11.

E@L *thinks*: She knows G****** Rd in detail!

E@L *thinks again: Why did she say 19?  Do I look like a No 19 person?

~~~~~~~~~~~

E@L ambles back from the N****** shopping centre carrying two plastic bags of shopping (full grain bread, full cream milk, full of potassium bananas, full of pulp orange juice – his staples) with the handles wrapped over his hands so that weight falls on the back of his wrist, a new technique after fifty-four years that takes the pressure off his fingers (can’t teach an old dogs new tricks? – Hah!), up a slght hill, puffing as he tries to whistle some Audioslave rocking beat, thinking of things he has done and said in the past, and occasionally sprouting a “fuck” out loud or “you fucking idiot” as he recalls the stupid and reckless and damaging words he has uttered to girls over the years while trying to make them understand his urgent desires, often ensuring that they would not come anywhere near him and that they now consider him a lech and a creep, thereby exploding whatever trusting and friendly relationship he might imagine they had established over the period (long or short) of their acquaintance.  Expressions of interest [e.g. “let’s fuck”] that work in OT at 2am (“you don’t need to try hard, it’s 2am,” Bruce once told him) do not work on pretty girls he has the hots for at 10pm in pubs and wine-bars along Robertson Walk.  Why does he not know how to woo girls?  Why is he a fuckwit? Even with guys he has no skills at small talk, nothing except deeper conversations at his call and even they only come out after a few alcoholic drinks, when everyone starts feeling philosophical as well.  He sits silent around the table listening to others chat about topics he has  zero interest in, zero knowledge about, or probably has forgotten about (he blames the medications).  Cars, football, cricket, blokie things.  Why is it so hard? 

He looks around to see if there is anyone walking near him who might have overheard his expletive ejaculation, and if there is (he doesn’t notice them because he is listening to the music and day-dreaming about the stupidity that has plagued his existence and, not a bad thing, kept him single these last twenty years) and if there is anyone there, he awkwardly attempts to sing a few muted words of the song in his ears, or whistle them away, hey, these are the lyrics I am calling out, E@L is not a lunatic wandering the streets mumbling foul words for no reason whatsoever.  He has reasons for mumbling rude words – he is a fuckwit, a stumbling tongue-tied failure with women.  

He blames his mum for not marrying again, not giving him a male role-model. He blames not being much good at sports, or not interested in sports as he matured from a high skill level in primary school to not giving a fuck, and so not getting into the change-room banter and stories of what works and what doesn’t in the picking up and making out with the horny Catholic girls from the convent school down the road (it’s muscles mainly that seem to work). He blames the solitary pursuits of surfing and playing the guitar (never remembering the chords, even when he was young – maybe it’s not the meds) and reading on his poor socialisation.  Then getting married at nineteen.  Nineteen.  So young, fresh out of school, or one year out actually, not so much a gap year year as a pit year, a year spent fucking up an Arts course (poetry, what the fuck does Dylan Thomas mean to him, the wind is from the north-west, Southside – the left-hander behind Bell’s Beach [remember point Break?] would be pumping, well it would it there was any swell)  and there was the surfing trip to Queensland and New South Wales in a car with six bald tyres (lots of stories about that trip, if he had the time to  tell them) and the job at Fords engine plant, fettling (yes it’s a word) away some part of a lifter, or bashing camshafts out of their hot sand molds, face black and gritty at the end of a shift. 

And so incompetent at the accurate and reliable deployment of condoms, so young, so fucking stupid.  First ever girlfriend (No 1 son though, what a marvelous lad) too.  Out came the moral shotgun and that was it for E@L.  So E@L never went through those years of pick-up lines, never learnt the chat-up process, never played the game.  He never learned what is nice too say, what is amusing, what is endearing, what shows understanding and interest, what opens a girls legs. No wonder he fucks up.  He only became single, really independent when No 1 one son went to live in England. That’s when E@L moved to his career in the Cosmo-Incompetent Medical Company, was stationed in Hong Kong and there, in Wanchai at 2am, there was no need to try so hard.

He checked out the numbers of the houses on the street.  They seemed to jump enormously from house/condo to condo/house.  55, 47, 33.  And he was almost at his front gate.  Where was No 19 going to be?  How is it going to fit in here, there were only two plots to go, semi-detached units.  The first was 27, the second, even though it was on the same plot jumped down to 23.  Then he was at his gate.  11.  There was no 19.  What the fuck was that taxi driver talking about?

His 19-ness was all in her head. 

Nineteen, he thought again.  Is he a nineteen person?  Is there something of his nineteen history that she saw inside him as she glanced in the rear-view mirror??

~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~

E@L

Ye Olde Post – KTS – EOSS

Posted in books, stupidity by expatatlarge on September 14, 2011

Might have posted the following text (at the end of this waffle) before, but I am in the process of transferring some OneNote files into Evernote so that I can have them at home (on the Xoom, on the Galaxy, on the MacAir), and some are quite interesting and new to me. It’s called EOSS.

Early Onset Stupidity Syndrome, had it since I was a kid. The ability to remember trivial shit, unless it is required for a quiz night, and work/medical related stuff, but forget a person’s name 1.5secs after being introduced. To forget what I had written, what I had thought, what my opinions are.

Saw a tall guy on the street yesterday with severe varicose veins. Instantly I thought – Klippel-Trenaunay Syndrome. Wonder if he has some port-wine body-marks somewhere.

Why do I know this, but not the capital of Uganda? That was one of the question the brains-trust should have answered correctly last night. One of the guys has a PhD. In fluid dynamics, so not much help with African capitals in that speciality, although he was correct in putting down Algeria as the African nation that comes first in the alphabet.

The ‘al’ in alphabet, and the ‘al’ in Algeria are both of Arabian origin, right? No, only the later, Right? FIIK.

BTW, in KTS, the veins become varicose in because there are fewer valves in the superficial femoral veins than is usual, often only one. (I know this from a lecture a friend, the first sonographer in Australia with a PhD I believe. His thesis concerned venous incompetence of the leg – varicose veins.) Once this valve gives way, and it does eventually, even as a kid, because it is holding up a much larger volume of blood than it would if the column were shared amongst several valves, and then the distal veins distend.

Here is the bit of text I found…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I procrastinate. Like the purist marshmallow that I apparently am, I dither. I look for excuses and for distractions. Like Amazon.com

A package arrived today from Ye* Olde** Blightey. Thought I’d lash myself about the head with some of the British experimentalists of the 60’s. Christine Brooke-Rose, B.S. Johnson, Ann Quin. Stuff you probably won’t see on the rotating racks at Suvarnabhumi Airport.

Why? Because. Books make a virtual me.

They are cushions. To rest my head upon, to muffle the gun-shot, to torture myself with, a la the Spanish Inquisition***

E@L

* the Y is “thorn”, a printer’s mark for the “th” sound.

** the “e” is silent. Hence the entire expression is pronounced the same as if it were written The Old Blightey. [Know this from some book by Anthony Burgess, probably one of the Enderby novels.]

*** Cardinals were not involved so much in the Spanish Inquisition. In fact other than the (usually Dominican ) Inquisitor himself, everyone else involved was a member of the laity. [Biggles was not a common name in Spain, at the time, either.]

Great Financial Crisis

Posted in GFC, money, stupidity by expatatlarge on May 1, 2011

E@L was meticulous with a pirate version of Microsoft Money, entering each transaction from his credit card statements diligently at the end of each month.

The $7 thousand (AUD) debt on his credit cards was gone, cleared in three months. He was in the black for the first time in twenty years. He wanted to keep an eye on this transformation. The salary kept rolling in, all income tax deferred till the end of the financial year in March/April when he would have to pay for two years, this one and provisional tax for the next.

“Your Assets Over Time” was his favorite graph. Month after month the bars climbed steadily until it crashed through five figures (HKD), six figures, and just eighteen months after moving to Hong Kong, and even after paying two years tax (pro rata, at about 7%), seven figures.
E@L was meticulous with a pirate version of Microsoft Money, entering every transaction from his credit card statements diligently at the end of each month.

The seven thousand dollars (AUD) debt on his credit cards was gone, cleared in three months. He was in the black for the first time in twenty years. He wanted to keep an eye on this transformation. The salary kept rolling in, all income tax deferred till the end of the financial year in March/April when he would have to pay for this one year (pro-rata) and provisional tax for the next.

“Your Assets Over Time” was his favorite graph. Month after month the bars climbed steadily until the most recent one crashed through five figures (HKD), then through six figures, and just eighteen months after moving to Hong Kong, and even after paying tax, even seven figures.

~~~~~~~~~~~

E@L’s money was “not working for him” it seemed. Malcolm scratched at the small patch of psoriasis at the edge of his moustache, shrugged and smiled. He picked up his cup, sipped at his tea, and then clattered the cup back onto its saucer. The Mouse appeared behind Malcolm with a plate of Anzac biscuits from the kitchen and she placed it on the table between E@L and his financial advisor. “Oh!” he jumped, startled by The Mouse’s magical appearance [it’s not just E@L that she spooks]. “No thanks,” he said as he looked around to where she had just been standing. The kitchen door closed and he turned back to face E@L.

“Have a look at this.” He unbuckled the strap of his brief-case [brown, soft leather, weathered, but well looked after – nice, but appropriately reassuring for a finance guy?] and took out a shiny prospectus folder. He placed the bag down beside his chair and opened the folder on table, moving the cup and saucer away to make room. He spun the folder around easily on the polished table-top and slid it closer E@L, and this knocked a biscuit from the plate. Absently Malcolm took up the disturbed biscuit [name for a band?] and nibbled as he pointed out colour-coded items on the page uppermost in the folder.

“It’s called a leveraged loan. We take a certain amount of your money, right?” E@L nodded. “The Royal Bank Of Scotland will lend us 150% of that sum at 4%, OK?” E@L nodded, a bit more slowly. “That gives us 250% of your initial sum. We have ‘leveraged’ your money so that we have more. You with me?”

E@L looked at him. “Why would they do that?” he asked.

Malcolm brushed a biscuit crumbs from his moustache. “Because, um, they would. It’s an investment strategy for them. They’re making 4%, right?” E@L nodded.

“We invest that loan into a managed fund, one that will give us a good return, at least, say, seven per cent, maybe even ten in this market.” He smiled as he spoke this last phrase. E@L saw the dry skin on Malcolm’s cheek, small white flakes of desquamation, inflamed tissues. Itchy? Market? “That way, we will have a differential of, say, three to six percent.” Malcolm looked up from the chart smiling, and nodded. E@L nodded with him. “That’s good right?”

“Yep,” said E@L and smiled too.

“And when the fund matures, you have made a lot more than you could just by investing your money on its own.” He looked at E@L who was looking at the colour print were it said ‘6%’. E@L wanted top get a coloured pencil and change it to an eight.

“Now, this fund is the one I recommend. It’s a local one. This guy is good. Charles Schmidt. His last two funds made an average of 9% and 10% each year. I can’t say this one will do as good, um… but it started last year, and we can still get in. OK, it will mature in five years. I’ve plugged some numbers in on the next page…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Later that conversation)

“And so when it matures, I get to keep all the money, right?” E@L asked.

Malcolm paused as he brought another biscuit to his mouth. “Huh? Oh, yeah, all of it.” He thought E@L was joking.

E@L thought Malcolm was joking. How could he turn $60,000 into $210,000 plus 6 per cent in five years? Talk about magic. But, hey whatever.

~~~~~~~~~~

(Later that year)

The advisor who had replaced Malcolm phoned E@L. His name was Simon, also a Brit. He wanted to set-up a meeting. When was a good time?

~~~~~~~~~~

“Well, Schmidt had been having a good time with your money, um… and that is not exactly what we anticipated.” Simon nibbled on an Anzac biscuit nervously. E@L wondered if all financial advisors said “um” and if they all liked biscuits. He looked down on the papers, the coloured items encircled, the diminishing heights on the bar chart emphasized with scribbled arrows. E@L thought of his MS Money chart, afraid it was about to look similar.

“So?” asked E@L

“Well, in effect, you are losing the four per-cent on your E210,000 loan every year. That is, um… Look, I’ve run up some scenarios. As Malcolm probably told you [?! Malcolm? See above. No, he didn’t!], there is quite a hefty penalty for exiting the loan in the first three years, so… Um… If we cash in now in order to pay off the loan, there is, um, also a penalty that the RBS have on this type of loan.. so we lose there as well. Are you OK?”

E@L had his head down, almost to the table. Then he looked up. “Did you say Euro? I thought this loan was in US dollars?” E@L asked.

“Um… Sorry, yes USD for the investment in Schmidt’s fund, but the actual loan is in Euro. So with the dollar falling against the Euro, and with peg on the Hong Kong dollar of course, I mean that this is not really a great loan. I mean you can’t predict the future… Um…” E@L nodded.

“So. What is my best option?”

Simon [… was it Simon? or a second E@L had no idea who this stranger was, in his apartment, sending a wrecking ball into his financial security] circled a few coloured numbers with blue pen, a bit clumsily E@L thought, but maybe that was because the papers were upside down to him. There was a buzz in E@L’s ears, something was buzzing loudly.

“Here, and here…” he was saying poking his pen around some very large numbers, “so you can understand [E@L would have nodded but he was distracted by the grain in the wood of the table] that it’s better to ride this out for a year, then have another look. If the dollar comes back against the Euro, you could lose a hell of a lot less. Maybe only 30 thousand.”

Silence. Then E@L asked, “How much did I put in? 60 thousand?”

“Yes, 60 thousand, but if you wait, stick for even three more years, the early repayment penalty drops, right? You will lose even less again.”

~~~~~~~~~~

(Later that day)

E@L held the cold cup of tea in one hand. He looked over the wall of his roof-top, across the park to the weird skyscrapers in the financial centre of Hong Kong. Fucking big buildings. HSBC. BoC. Which one was RBS?

He lent over the wall and looked down to the abandoned construction site. Only four floors on the other side, the entrance, but maybe seven floors on this down-side of the hill. He tipped the last of the tea over the side, watched the lightly coloured liquid turn to spray until it fell out of his focal zone on the descent towards a pile of building rubbish.

Aware suddenly of a presence next to him, he started.

“Mr E@L, do you want another cup of tea?” asked a soft, almost inaudible, voice. E@L turned around and there was a fresh cup of tea and a plate of Anzac biscuits on his picnic table. The Mouse was gone.

E@L

~~~~~~~~~~~

E@L’s money was “not working for him” it seemed. Malcolm scratched at the small patch of psoriasis at the edge of his moustache, shrugged and smiled. He picked up his cup, sipped at his tea, and then clattered the cup back onto its saucer. The Mouse appeared behind Malcolm with a plate of Anzac biscuits from the kitchen and she placed it on the table between E@L and his financial advisor. “Oh!” he jumped, startled by The Mouse’s magical appearance [it’s not just E@L that she spooks]. “No thanks,” he said as he looked around to where she had just been standing. The kitchen door closed and he turned back to face E@L.

“Have a look at this.” He unbuckled the strap of his brief-case [brown, soft leather, weathered, but well looked after – nice, but appropriately reassuring for a finance guy?] and took out a shiny prospectus folder. He placed the bag down beside his chair and opened the folder on table, moving the cup and saucer away to make room. He spun the folder around easily on the polished table-top and slid it closer E@L, and this knocked a biscuit from the plate. Absently Malcolm took up the disturbed biscuit [name for a band?] and nibbled as he pointed out colour-coded items on the page uppermost in the folder.

“It’s called a leveraged loan. We take a certain amount of your money, right?” E@L nodded. “The Royal Bank Of Scotland will lend us 150% of that sum at 4%, OK?” E@L nodded, a bit more slowly. “That gives us 250% of your initial sum. We have ‘leveraged’ your money so that we have more. You with me?”

E@L looked at him. “Why would they do that?” he asked.

Malcolm brushed a biscuit crumbs from his moustache. “Because, um, they would. It’s an investment strategy for them. They’re making 4%, right?” E@L nodded.

“We invest that loan into a managed fund, one that will give us a good return, at least, say, seven per cent, maybe even ten in this market.” He smiled as he spoke this last phrase. E@L saw the dry skin on Malcolm’s cheek, small white flakes of desquamation, inflamed tissues. Market? “That way, we will have a differential of, say, three to six percent.” Malcolm looked up from the chart smiling, and nodded. E@L nodded with him. “That’s good right?”

“Yep,” said E@L and smiled too.

“And when the fund matures, over say five years, you have made a lot more than you could just by investing your money on its own.” He looked at E@L who was looking at the colour print were it said ‘6%’. E@L wanted top get a coloured pencil and change it to an eight.

“Now, this fund is the one I recommend. It’s a local one. This guy is good. Charles Schmidt. His last two funds made an average of 9% and 10% each year. I can’t say this one will do as good, um… but it started last year, and we can still get in. OK, it will mature in five years. I’ve plugged some numbers in on the next page…”

(Later

“And so when it matures, I get to keep all the money, right?” E@L asked.

Malcolm paused as he brought another biscuit to his mouth. “Huh? Oh, yeah, all of it.” He thought E@L was joking.

E@L thought Malcolm was joking. How could he turn $60,000 into $210,000 plus 6 per cent in five years? Talk about magic. But, hey whatever.

~~~~~~~~~~

The advisor who had replaced Malcolm phoned E@L. His name was Simon, also a Brit. He wanted to set-up a meeting. When was a good time?

~~~~~~~~~~

“Well, Schmidt had been having a good time with your money, um… and that is not exactly what we anticipated.” Simon nibbled on an Anzac biscuit nervously. E@L wondered if all financial advisors said “um” and if they all liked biscuits. He looked down on the papers, the coloured items encircled, the diminishing heights on the bar chart emphasized with scribbled arrows. E@L thought of his MS Money chart, afraid it was about to look similar.

“So?” asked E@L

“Well, in effect, you are losing the four per-cent on your E210,000 loan every year. That is, um… Look, I’ve run up some scenarios. As Malcolm probably told you [?! Malcolm? See above. No, he didn’t!], there is quite a hefty penalty for exiting the loan in the first three years, so… Um… If we cash in now in order to pay off the loan, there is, um, also a penalty that the RBS have on this type of loan.. so we lose there as well. Are you OK?”

E@L had his head down, almost ot the table. Then he looked up. “Did you say Euro? I thought this loan was in US dollars?” E@L asked.

“Um… Sorry, yes USD for the investment in Schmidt’s fund, but the actual loan is in Euro. So with the dollar falling against the Euro, and with peg on the Hong Kong dollar of course, I mean that this is not really a great loan. I mean you can’t predict the future… Um…” E@L nodded.

“So. What is my best option?”

Simon [… was it Simon? or a second E@L had no idea who this stranger was, in his apartment, sending a wrecking ball into his financial security] circled a few coloured numbers with blue pen, a bit clumsily E@L thought, but maybe that was because the papers were upside down to him. There was a buzz in E@L’s ears, buzzing loudly.

“Here, and here…” he was saying poking his pen around some very large numbers, “so you can understand [E@L would have nodded but he was distracted by the grain in the wood of the table] that it’s better to ride this out for a year, then have another look. If the dollar comes back against the Euro, you could lose a hell of a lot less. Maybe only 30 thousand.”

Silence. Then E@L asked, “How much did I put in? 60 thousand?”

“Yes, 60 thousand, but if you wait, stick for even three more years, the early repayment penalty drops, right? You will lose even less again.”

~~~~~~~~~~

(Later)

E@L held the cold cup of tea in one hand. He looked over the wall of his roof-top, across the park to the weird skyscrapers in the financial centre of Hong Kong. Fucking big buildings. HSBC. BoC. Which one was RBS?

He lent over the wall and looked down to the abandoned construction site. Only four floors on the other side, the entrance, but maybe seven floors on this down-side of the hill. He tipped the last of the tea over the side, watched the lightly coloured liquid turn to spray until it fell out of his focal zone on the descent towards a pile of building rubbish.

Aware suddenly of a presence next to him, he started.

“Mr E@L, do you want another cup of tea?” asked a soft, almost inaudible, voice. E@L turned around and there was a fresh cup of tea and a plate of Anzac biscuits on his picnic table. The Mouse was gone.

E@L

Faster Lifts : Faster Stupidity

Posted in frustration, lifts, misanthropy, Mr Grumpy, stupidity, wankers by expatatlarge on October 2, 2010

What is it with people and lifts? What is the rush?

When the light on the call-button is lit – obviously someone has pressed it already and one of the lifts will eventually be on its way – why do they have to press it again? The lift is not going to come any earlier because of your redundant poking. Why does the next person come up and, even though they have seen the last person press it, even though the light is still on, why do they press it yet again? The lift is fucking coming, all right? Shit-for-brains.

Leave. The. Call. Button. Alone.

~~

What do these impatient and hateful people, those who force their way into the elevator against those coming out, what do they hope to gain? Why is this millisecond of aggression so important? They’re only going to amble off casually once they get to their floor anyway, chat absent-mindedly on their phones, take emails on their phones, read texts on their phones. What is with the fucking rush to get into the elevator? It’s not going to get you to your floor any sooner.

Why? Because I am still at the back of those waiting to go in. The lift is not going to leave until the last person squeezes in, and that’s me. Maybe I’ll even poke my ample tummy – the tummy you stare at with such contempt, you are so disgustingly rude – into the infra-red beam that senses people coming in. Your pushing and shoving will be wasted. I am taking my fucking time, just to fuck you up, wankers.

~~

And you, hunched at the side of the lift’s interior, why do you hover over the controls floor-buttons in the inside of the elevator as if they were a secret set of controls? Why do you block me? I want to press the button for my floor. Maybe in your mind these are controls to make contact for a 1.21 gigawatt burst of stored static electricity to surge through giant glass discharge balls, to send artificial lightning into a dead body, to bring a hybrid monster to life?

Or do you think your are lift operator? Maybe you have lift operator genes in you? Do you dream of an oversized, two-pronged lever to close the lift, like in the good old days? Are you a throwback to the grandfather on your mother’s side, the grandfather who was a lift operator? Maybe your grandfather was Dr Frankenstein, working-part in a department store?

Get out of the fucking way, let me press the button for my fucking floor, crazy pricks!

Step. Away. From. The. Buttons.

~~

Why do people feel they have to press the door-OPEN button while the other people are coming in? Do they think they are in-charge, or that are being nice. This is an automatic lift with sensors, with retractable inner doors that trigger the reopening of the door if someone or something obstructs them. Anyway, the door is already open, stupid. It is not going to close yet as the infra-red beam has not been broken and the mechanism of closing cannot start. I can open a 99% closed door by running my hand in, either breaking the infra-red beam or holding back the inner pressure-sensitive doors which forces them to make contact with the door opening trigger. I don’t need you help to get in. I am adult. I have a University Degree (equivalent). I can get into a lift by myself.

This is not your ancient HDB lift, one that stops at every second floor (Grandma in her wheelchair has to carried downstairs, welcome to Singapore) and tries to crush Grandma and any slow moving grand-children when it guillotines closed unexpectedly. This is a modern building, it’s not going to happen, this is the modern world. Wake up to the 21st century. The ironic thing is that you are rude and aggressive everywhere else in your mean and petty life; I know your type, arseholes.

~~

Why do those patently rude people press the door-fucking-CLOSE button – jab, jab, jab, jab – when people are still coming in or even while people a few steps away are approaching the lift and who obviously want to go up or down, whichever way this lift is headed (or footed I guess, going footwards, down). You are the nice person in his true colours. Bastards, I hate you.

~~

Why do they all press that door-close button repeatedly – jab-jab-jab-jab-jab – even if the door has started closing already? Once a second or two elapses since the last person broke the infra-red beam, then, according to the design chosen by the lift-making company, the time-circuitry that controls this door is initiated, and the door has commenced to close. The urge for them to press this button seems irrepressible. What mechanism? Maybe there is a small spring-controlled wheel with a dropout area which allows the magneto to contact (the old way), maybe these days there an electronic program on a chip to to do it, but whatever – nothing these people can do will change this timing once it reached its closing sequence. (Industrial lifts have a longer time before they close.)

OK, the lift might close a bit sooner if the close button is pressed immediately after the last person has just entered, in the short insignificant time before the timing mechanism kicks in by itself. Then the spring will be released and the timing wheel will spin a bit faster and allow the contacts to be made a fraction earlier, either that or the hypothetical program will be over-ridden, but what is the fucking rush? The door will close automatically anyway, in fact it’s already fucking closing, dickheads.

Stop. Pressing. The. Close. Button.

~~

Stop. Driving. Mr Grumpy. Crazy.

~~

Hell is other people in the lift. I hate all vertical commuters.

E@L

c.f: James Gleick, Faster