Clubbing and Singaporeans: Some Observations

Interestingly enough, I've found someone else who agrees with my etymology of the word "clubbing": it hearkens back to the time when cavemen hit cavewomen over the head with clubs and "picked them up" to return to the privacy of their caves for unresisted intimacy.

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Last week, we decided to have a matchmaking session: Jasper with Queenie, and Chuck with Janine (I don't of course have friends named as such, in case you were wondering). The designated place for fun and frottage: Zouk. We wanted to feel old, I guess.

Now I know the focus of this entry should be on how Chuck and Janine got on like a house on fire, or at the very least on how Jasper and Queenie failed to get any semblance of a spark going. But with "Just Follow Law" fresh on my mind, I shall have to make some kind of broader point - apologies. I am a creature of habit.

It is a Wednesday, it is Zouk - so, needless to say, Mambo music. We sail along with the crowd, going through favourite after favourite. Everywhere around us hand motions are executed in perfect unison. The sea of sweaty bodies is united by a common love for signage. Everyone is smiling, happy, high, happy for the excuse, any excuse.

Suddenly, we are "Together Forever" no more. In Rick Astley's place, Sting begins to warble mournfully - "I'll Be Watching You". And, almost as if taking the latter's words to heart, our ad hoc leaders on the raised platforms stop signing. Some stop moving entirely, others whip out their handphones to - not look stupid? To have a personal touch in a sea of strangers? No one can tell. One thing is clear, however - the crowd does not like Sting. "At least play the P Diddy version, yo."

It is a classic moment. Singaporeans all of us, unable to dance to anything other than what we are familiar with. We say the government is too paternalistic, too controlling, knows too much of what is good for us, doesn't let us experiment. And yet we decide - spontaneously, full of the wisdom of a crowd, that we *do* want to be fathered, to be led, to be told what to do. No mambo song? Die lah! What do we do with our hands?

Of course it can be contended that the issue is for most part chicken-and-egg; we are mollycoddled constantly by the powers that be, so when confronted with new situation requiring adaptation, we know not what to do. But we cannot complain and at the same time remain incompetent, unexperimental. If we wish to employ the querulous logic of "gahmen say one, so we do lor! what can we do abourrit?", then when we are faced with a situation where we can *actually* do something abourrit, we better do something abourrit. Otherwise, not allow to complain.

Standing there in the midst of the listless, un-dancing throng, I knew that my gripe was that the gahmen didn't let us do our own thing enough. So I took it upon myself to make a political point; I started writhing madly to "I'll Be Watching You", hoping desperately that not too many people were watching. It was an endeavour, however, that was doomed to futility from the start.

Only in our nation do you get people who dance in a gigantic circle; only in our nation do you get synchronized hand movements as the preferred way to dance and to de-stress (okay Japan also got para-para); only in our nation do you get people who wait until around 12 midnight to start dancing (by which time the dance floor is completely congested). The reasons for these perplexing behaviours are manifold. We dance in a giant circle so as not to leave anyone out, to not offend anyone; we use synchronized hand movements because this way we won't look stupid doing something that other people aren't doing, or at least we'll only look as stupid as the next person; and we only get down to the dance floor when everyone else is there already, so we won't appear to be over-eager, and at the same time we save ourselves from (perceived) intense scrutiny on an empty dance floor. As with the Japanese proverb: "The nail that sticks out gets hammered." (Hence they have para-para.)

Fundamentally, however, it all boils down to one reason: we are a nation of poseurs. We are all about the posturing, the appearance, the surface. We don't go clubbing to enjoy ourselves, to let our hair down; we go there to see who's out, to see what's worn, to hear what's being played, to gauge all the relevant trends, to network, to be seen, to feel all sophisticated holding a Shirley Vagina blah blah blah. ("Network is net worth", jesus.) Why else would we be so concerned about how we look to other people? Do you seriously think that anyone really looks at you in a club of hundreds or even thousands? The hand movements are an institution, you argue, as much as breakdancing or salsa are institutions. True, but the hand movements look bad and you wouldn't perform them if it was not for the next man performing them as well. You gain validation in your peers; you are nothing without your contemporaries. Everything in Singapore is of relative value; you must have that handbag because someone else has it, you must stay in Lorong Chuan because that guy who is dumber than you stays there. You must stay late at work because hey, nobody leaves at 6 pm anymore; in fact, 9 pm is a tad early, maybe tonight you'd better pull an all-nighter?

We have elevated relativity to some kind of cult status. We are so internal-perspectived that we no longer can see the value in absolute truths and pleasures anymore. Are you better off than Gurmit Singh's character in "Just Follow Law"? If you are, then you can be happy. It boggles the mind how many people go through their daily lives looking upwards, grasping and hoping and wishing for better, better, better. It's all good enough. We're all good enough. Enjoy time, enjoy your life here on Earth.

I remember the blog of my friend's ex: she writes, in a particularly angsty entry, that she is going to go crazy shopping and that she damn well deserves it, she's been slaving away like a dog for more than a month. I didn't feel happy for her when I read it; to me, that sort of lifestyle cycle is meaningless. The answer is THEN DON'T WORK SO HARD. None of us deserves to own these deified pieces of Louis Vuitton. They are for Mr Vuitton to stuff up his golden arse. Why would you want to own something that only brings back memories of the ridiculous toil you had to get through to own it? "Oh, here are my Manolos, I wasted 96 days of my life to get them!" "Wow, good for you! I levelled my Blood Elf Paladin to 70 in half the time!" (See, I can do irony too. But eh. Blood Elf Paladin is fun OK.)

As I proclaimed to no one in particular the other day: life should not be lived on hindsight. A lot of us say, XXX was tough, but on hindsight it was good. Why? I refuse to talk like that. Life is a process; and at any time that the process is not good going, you should do something about it. "I am having fun" is always better than "Looking back now, I had a lot of fun". The former is honest, in-the-moment assessment; the latter is compensated rose-tinted nostalgia. It is a lie to yourself, an after-the-fact self-rationalization for irrational behaviour.

All this from clubbing and Zouk! Whew I am pooped.