How to Hack your Brain to Being Happy: 21 Days of No-Complaints.

10:45 AM, Today: I wake up to the sound of a small circus coming from my iPhone. It’s a few metres away. Realised I’ve downloaded a new alarm clock app and today was the testing day. Bells, whistles, horns and all sorts of animal noises are now blaring loudly. My brain still wants to sleep.

I say many four letter words that I shouldn’t repeat, get up from my bed to turn the alarm off. In order to do that I have to play a stupid minigame which involves shooting haphazardly moving ducks on the screen, with crosshair is reversed and the sound is getting unbearably loud. My brain is in no state to process this. I curse some more. The phone drops from my hands.

I notice a woolen bracelet dangling on my left hand. It’s got garishly hippy colours.

“Oh, crap.” I say to myself, remembering the significance of the bracelet.

“Now I’ll have to switch it to my other wrist.”

3:45PM, Yesterday: I come across one of my favorite bloggers talking about a new type of thought experiment. I’m all up for self-improvement, so I read on. The post talks about the movement of anti-complaining.

“Will Bowen, a Kansas City minister who had recognized that word choice determines thought choice, which determines emotions and actions. It’s not enough to just decide you’ll stop using certain words, though. It requires conditioning.

Will designed a solution in the form of a simple purple bracelet, which he offered to his congregation with a challenge: go 21 days without complaining. Each time one of them complained, they had to switch the bracelet to their other wrist and start again from day 0. “

You can read the rest here.

I am inspired.

I have been complaining a lot about fickle things lately, and can feel it taking it’s toll in my headspace. Work has gotten me to the point where I see practically everything critically. This is the perfect solution. The advantages were numerous; this could be a great exercise in verbal discipline, because I generally speak my mind. Most importantly, show gratitude and appreciation of things small and large, which I know I take for granted most times.

1:11AM, this morning: I decide to give myself solid rules if I want this to succeed. After all, failing to plan is planning to fail. It takes roughly 21 consecutive days to build a habit, so the bracelet (I have my own, because I’m not one for waiting 5+ weeks the official rubber bracelet, and symbolism is whatever you want something to be) and the wrist switching create powerful channels to your cognitive state on how to prime something to become a habit.

What is a complaint?

Will describes it as “to express pain, grief, or discontent”. Part of my day job involves me expressing discontent. I’m going to feel like I might as well stay a mute for the next 21 days, which friends have suggested.  Therefore, I’m going to follow Tim Ferriss’ definition: “describing an event or person negatively without indicating next steps to fix the problem”. 

Which means, in order for the bracelet to stay on, I will have to think quick and come up with a solution. Path to positive thinking and mental productivity? Yes please.

Other qualifiers: “unconstructive criticism,” “profanity”, “surly humor”, and “gossiping”. 

The bracelet will stay on on most reasonable occasions.

7:00PM, Today: As of now, I’ve had to swap wrists roughly eight times. I didn’t even do anything particularly stressful today either. I’m still optimistic that this will have a positive effect on my life, so I soldier on. After all, the first day is the hardest.

If you decide to take up on this thought experiment, let me know. We’ll compare notes and then complain about how har-AHA NO.

My anti-complaint bracelet. I might as well make it stylish.

It’s the thrill of the fight/risin’ up to the challenge of our rival

“Are you not entertained? Are you not entertained? Is this not why you are here?” – Maximus, Gladiator,

It is a Sunday. I’m in Sydney’s Acer Arena packed to full capacity: all 18,000 seats are filled.

In the centre of the arena is an octagonal structure, akin to a boxing ring, but with two metre chain-linked walls enclosing the entire thing. Inside is where the two titans are unleashed.

From the cheers and  roars at the reception of his name, the tall, olive-tanned man was the arena favorite. He had after all, had his roots in this nation.

Armed with nothing but years of kickboxing and jiu jitsu experience held together by meager six-ounce gloves and an iron will, our champion does his best to overcome his competitor: a pale and stout musclebound German.

This is the Ultimate Fighting Championship, where trained martial artists all across the world for our entertainment. The spirit of the Roman Gladiators, resurrected and modernised to fit the contemporary man.

Four minutes into the first round, the German fighter delivers a left hook that sends our Aussie in the floor. Dazed and on his back, he plays the defensive until the bell rings.

Fists fly early into the second round from both fighters. The crowd chants“Let’s go Georgie, let’s go!” and jeer at the German. Three minutes in this round, our Aussie lands a clean right straight to the jaw of his adversary, rocking him.

The final round was a desperate five minutes of our Aussie trying to wrestle the German to the ground.

It is Rome, AD79 again. The perfect representation to describe the cacophony that follows:

We roar at each valiant takedown.

Much to the disappointment of the spectators, the German seemed impervious to any and all attempts.

We yell in disdain.

Previous fights, the crowd howled for blood. Now, the arena is electrified with a combination of hope and frustration.

The final bell goes.

The judges rule George Sortiropolous as the loser of the fight, but we cheer just as loudly. It’s the perk of having modernised the Roman bloodthirstiness: there’s a high possibility that you get to live to fight another day.

Gracious in defeat, but clearly devastated George Sortiropolous is an icon. In the Roman times, the primus fight would be the event where two of the very best fighters clash for the title of Champion. At this day and age, the coveted Lightweight Championship belt fashions exactly the same statement. George will no doubt be there in the foreseeable future.

Kick-start my heart Part I

She searched the entire city I let her explore/ And now she’s sayin’ she’s more lonely than every before – Aubrey Drake Graham, Fireworks

PART ONE of TWO in my magical, fantastical journey into Hong Kong

The first few days of a holiday is like waking from a nonsensical dream. There’s a series of events, but you don’t really know how you got to where you are in the first place – only snippets of it. I can’t remember much about the flight-in. See, the only thing I could remember was this bad joke I made about a well placed and meaningful airport sign (see, caption below) – everything else is a blur, which makes me retelling this narrative awfully convenient.

Hey, what did Ahmed say to - oh no! STOP! NO! YOU CAN'T...

It is my first holiday in six years and I must admit, Hong Kong hasn’t changed much. The moment you get out of the airport, you are greeted with Chinese people. A lot of them. Seeing Asians in flu masks like a fashion trend can be slightly disturbing to some, but it’s an afterthought to me.

Neon signs hang off sides of buildings, and the streets are always crowded with bustling people. Billboards shouting out brand names; Cartier, Hermes, Rolex etc, plaster the streets with robust, doctored faces of celebrities – Western and Asian alike endorsing them. Some of these billboard-plastered buildings are vined by cheap, decaying bamboo just to add to the irony. As if that wasn’t enough, buses, and trams are decorated with even more brands and slogans.

The whole nation is dictating what to buy, right to your face, whether you can afford it or not. I feel like such a country bumpkin.

But this place is incredibly pretty, I have to say. I’m going to dedicate the rest of this post to pretty snippets of pictures I’ve taken. As much as I love wordly paragraphs as the next writer wannabe, this fortnight’s going to have some literary downtime.

A gigantic cruiser, in the middle of the street, turned into a shopping mall

If imitation was the greatest form of flattery, then I'll have to say NEEEWW YAWWWKKK

Concrete jungle where dreams are made of?

These lights will inspiiire youuu

This was just outside the place I was staying at. Apparently it's a quieter part of Hong Kong, too.

As you can see, my photography is nowhere near as great as my writing skills, and I was equipped with just a phone camera. With 12 megapixels, but sadly just a phone camera nonetheless.

Moral of the story: Hong Kong is a shiny place.

Also, don’t forget to check out Project Popeye to laugh at all the bland food I am eating to prepare myself for my Thailand Kickboxing trip at the end of the year.

He struck you, like a crescendo Annie

We all want to forget something, so we tell stories. It’s easier that way. – Commoner, in Rashomon (1950)

On the 26^th of May 2010 at approximately 9:15AM excitement and drama stirred in the normally quiet and routine suburb of Campsie. I was inside the warehouse of Cincotta Chemist doing menial tasks when Dominic G. – my boss, rushes in claiming that a robbery went on just up the road. The details weren’t precisely clear yet, but it involved somebody getting shot, the po-leece and all sorts of testosterone driven entertainment!

So fifteen minutes later, I did what every self-indulgent, self-made investigative journalist would do in a situation like this:

Well what would you prefer - zucchini or money?

Of course, I wasn’t satisfied with waiting until the seven o’clock news, so I did some digging around myself.  As a disclaimer, I never actually left the warehouse; I used others who were in contact with potential witnesses, so technically their truths may be obscured already – but why would a Store-Boy and Bread-Man lie*?

The first recollection came from Dominic himself, as mentioned previously. He said :

They blocked off all of Evaline St. There are choppers in the sky and this guy got shot trying to rob the fruit market! Why on Earth wouldn’t they rob them! Think of the weekend trading, and all the money there. Did you pull out all the Aisle 1 stock yet?

Around lunch-time, my valued food barterer and all around lovable store-boy Nick came back with another testimony. This time it was from the (least nice**) lady working at Charcoal Chicken: The Best Chickens and Chips on Earth. Now, bearing in mind Charcoal Chicken is right across the road from our store and at least half a kilometre away from the incident. She said:

These guys parked their car vertically across the road, stopping all traffic and shot at the fruit market. God was obviously working his miracle magic all the bullets managed to hit the rear wall of the fruit market (which in rough estimation was about 10+ metres into the store, not including obstacles) leaving nice, round bullet-holes.

All of a sudden I’ve got my very own Rashomon Effect happening. It’s when, according to Wikipedia, observers of an event are able to produce substantially different but equally plausible accounts of said event. But the story continues – or just changes.

Later in the day Nick goes to the National Australia Bank which is adjacent to the fruit market, and is designed to have open three glass walls with the tellers facing directly into the street. So when he came back from the bank, he gives me another recollection – this time from the teller. Now with the description above, she must have the best possible vantage point as a witness, right? Well, read on:

These two guys came out of their car in the middle of the street – then all the four doors of the car opened. The police came right after and they started shooting. The two guys took refuge behind the car doors, shot back for a while – then promptly drove off.

My final recount came early next morning, when Adam, the nocturnal Bread-Man told me the take from the fruit shop owner’s perspective:

This car stopped in the middle of the road, and all of a sudden police came out of nowhere, I heard gunshots so I [commando rolled] into a crate of fruit.

Of course, nobody covers the story better than the SMH, here’s the full account of what actually happened:

http://www.smh.com.au/nsw/police-open-fire-in-sydney-shopping-street-as-gang-ambush-backfires-20100524-w6kf.html

However, if I, Peter Chi, was an investigative journalist, and I had just heard first hand recounts mentioned previously – then my story would have gone a whole lot more awry:

Moral of the story is: If Peter Chi becomes a reporter, don’t give him stories to do with any slight amount of guns, violence, Campsie or smooth criminals.

*I give full operational trust in Nick and Adam’s objective recounting skills. Yesterday, Nick was taught the meaning of faux pas, and is using it to great credibility. Adam on the other hand sleeps at 8PM every single night. That’s sign of a trustworthy person right there.

**Out of the three ladies that work there, she is the indignant one about serving sizes. The other two are pretty awesome.