Aint No Chup-Bowl like Ching Chong Chup-Bowl

Cos the Ching Chong Chup-Bowl don’t stop.  No it never stops, riding off the flavour of the previous post, here’s a few snapshots of how the Choo Choo Ching Chong Chup-Bowl train just keeps on comin’ thru:

(Note: I can say Ching Chong cos I’m Ching Chong.  If you have only the Ching or the Chong or neither, say it only if you like cigarette face burns & 3 fingers left on each hand in the morning.  Ahhh the beauty of controversial racially inappropriate double standards – I’m onto it)

My dad baked a cake by mixing banana & tasty cheddar cheese together.  He argued it was ‘cheesecake’ even though he used cheese meant for pizza.  I was forced to eat it and then I gagged – not in a nightclub laneway ‘well I should keep on going cos the guy at the bar bought me a drink’ kind of way.  But more in a ‘this is what a banana with a bacterial yeast infection tastes like’ kind of way. He might be trying to get this on the menu at Lucky Duck Chinese Restaurant.  Keep on walking.

My dad plays ping pong every Sunday.  He wears these shoes to Ping the Pong.  I think my dad’s in a gang.  And bright orange is their Wu Wong Tang gang bang colour.  I need to look for chopsticks with p.i.m.p inscribed on the side with fake diamonds and hoes hiding in the rice storage bin to be sure.  Meanwhile everyone beware.  If you see and smell a Honda that’s using toilet freshener as car fragrance slowing rolling up beside you on the road – don’t try & be a hero when that ping pong bat points at you through the back window.

     

Dad bought this turbo massage chair.  It’s compliance with health and safety standards is as questionable as the place of birth stated on his Australian passport.  Sit in this chair for 20 minutes with the vibration settings on high and you’ll be circumcised – yes that includes you too ladies.  It’s here to stay so I’ve decided I must de-sensitise myself to its power.  To do this I will lay on it nightly … naked … face down …with a glass of wine … until it’s safe … hey don’t hate the player people, hate the manufacturer…

 

Dad installed this satellite on the roof.  Communist Terrorist – Maybe.  Gangster – Definitely.  Check out the puffer vests below - rocked only by those feared in the hoods cos mum & dad are nothing but pure bad ass Chup-Bowl:  

Not Recommended – Asking for Chup-bowl

In our house, it’s not ‘Trouble’, it’s ‘Chup-bowl’ – I see you struggling to pronounce it.  Ok, drop down to a squat, slip on some kung fu cloth shoes, aim a video camera at the TV, shoot whatever movie’s on (make sure your cousin’s forehead’s visible in the shot as he ducks down past).  Now bark at any 7 year old child nearby to start dubbing & transcribing those subtitles (their small hands can work quicker than yours).  Allow the method acting to transform your speech.  Eventually ‘Trouble’ will become ‘Chub-ble’.  And then slowly feel it chinky-ly transform into the desired ‘Chup-bowl’.  This means the final stage of ethnic speech correction is complete.   

So what’s Not Recommended for this edition?  Home ‘Improvements’ like this:

This is the set up you’ll see in the toilet of my parent’s house.  No it’s not a shelf for guests to rest their chopsticks while eating noodles in a cup on the can.  It’s part of an elaborate hooked up contraption invented by the King of the Temple and Father of the Empress himself in his quest to be the master of water conservation.  From what I can see, but have avoided finding out for sure (the less you know, the less of a reliable legal witness you’re considered), the electrical wire leads to a plug that operates some kind of motor that channels some murky liquid from a huge plastic garbage bin/bucket container in the back garden to a pipe.  The murky liquid is pumped out of the container and travels through the pipe to flush the toilet whenever the button is pressed.  The murky liquid is actually excess water collected from the washing machine every time a load of washing is done. Try this same set up at your own home & you’ll be asking for Chup-bowl.  Get my dad to install it for you (with a hand written ‘Certificate of Safety’ spelt ‘Certifike of Siftte’ provided) and that Chup-bowl is Dup-bowl.

Look closely at the photo: Note the ultra-fine craftsmanship of the barely there wooden plank mounted on the wall.  Appreciate the seamless entry of the electrical wire’s insertion through the plaster.  Every time I flush the toilet I nervously hear the loud constipated choke of the rumbling motor outside (no doubt one of our neighbours has a motorised something that’s now mysteriously missing a motor).  Every time mum does the washing I’m worried I’ll see her thermals again as scrunched up missiles shooting out the toilet hole into my face when I go to flush.  So people of Australia and possibly some living in the other hemisphere, know this:  If you see a saturated little girl with long black hair covered in foaming detergent clutching toilet paper while speedily rocketing through the sky with underwear at her ankles letting off sparks and smoke, it means my dad’s blown the shitter through the roof – it’s not an inventive firecracker experiment we’re trying for Chinese New Year.

Been Medicating, Not Meditating

For those who’ve been with me since last year you’d have noticed an absence – you see I’ve been on a hiatus, up in the mountains, living in a bamboo hut, playing the pan pipes, milking goats, milking monks, milking myself, snorting fertiliser and dancing for the crops.  Some of this is true (everything to do with milking) but most of it’s bullshit as I’ve been nowhere near the mountains.  Just away from the blog. 

I wasn’t away finding myself – who needs to with the availability of cheap liquor,  free flowing prescriptions and loyalty reward points at the local pharmacy (handy hint: don’t be picky with expiry dates – it’s not just liquor that gets better with age).   It’s not the first time I’ve been absent for a prolonged period and it most likely won’t be the last (The Empress can be a scathing bitch but she never makes promises she can’t keep).  But really, as the great distinguished scholars and philosophers in history have posed: Does it really even fucking matter?  I write when I can.  You read when you want – that’s our dance, that’s how we play it, roll it, give it, take it.  That’s blog action, that’s human interaction – all of us removed and individual but intercepting sporadically in those moments when something brings us back to the same point – to either intertwine with or grossly repel one other – we’ll only really know which one when that time comes and it won’t be the same outcome every time.     

So here we are right now at that same point as I break the seal I’ve had on this blog for the 1^st post of 2011.  Yippeee! Go fetch that shady prescription for uppers from Dr Woo Wang Wong and partaaay with me!  Relax I’m not advocating abusing this or that or anything illicit, I’m just advocating thinking for yourself about what’s right for you as I’ve done for me.  If you have beef with that then speak to my agent (which is me and I’m just going to tell you to fuck off).  But I do want to thank the fine people of the blog’s readership for continuing to tune in during my unexplained absence (possibly to re-read some older posts looking for the point – good luck with that) and for enquiring about my long awaited ‘come-back’ (which should occur not long after my even more long awaited ‘come-down’).  So I think I should try to make a point now: 

When you’re back from being far away, when you’ve been off – off-line, off the phone, off all the guest lists for those get-togethers, off in that space in your mind not open for business to serve anyone else – you always know who the good people are when you return: the people who are strong in the knowledge of who they themselves are and therefore know it’s not always about them when you don’t materialise for a very long time.  And those times do come people – you all know this and I’m sure you’ve all been there.  Say the un-sayable and say, ‘here are the greatest secrets that nobody knows’ but only if you want to share.  Share because you want to reveal but not because you feel you owe or are indebted or feel forced to appease and make that well worn and overused criticism of ‘not making the effort’ go away.  ‘The effort’ is in people being able to look outside of themselves to respect that others handle themselves in their own way, in their own time. 

You don’t need to see who takes the chance to fuck your boyfriend/girlfriend to know who’s real – just be inaccessible for awhile and see how your world reacts – watch the needy ego-centric scum rise to the surface crying for an explanation before you’ve even had a chance to adjust your eyes to the light.  Those who command my respect don’t demand a justification.  Those who demand a justification might want to ask why they need to have their balls licked as an apology for me not sucking them whole when I wasn’t in a place to be fucked with the gag.       

If looking at the above pic makes you concerned, don’t worry – the cat’s ok, that’s premium beer he’s on.  Only the best for my pussy.

 

Was It Just Me?

You’ve read this blog.  And no I’m not high when I write my posts (yes, been asked this – you know who you are).  I’m just unconventional perhaps.  I must be because all that’s ‘conventional’ is plain dead uncomfortable around me (yes, been shown this – you know who you are). 

As a child I assumed my experiences growing up were ‘normal’.  But judging by the outside world’s reaction to the adult finished product, I’m starting to suspect not.  

Help me out people.  Was it just me?  I need to know:        

Was it just me … who was forced to wear a traditional bright gold embroidered imperial style padded Chinese jacket for her grade 4 primary school photo, looking like some kind of under-aged warlord midget pimp amongst a bunch of Aussie kids in shorts and t-shirts?  

Was it just me … who had a scheduled ear cleaning session with my father every month where he shone the blinding light from a lamp into my ear like the ear was being interrogated?  And then with an actual ear cleaning stick (they exist – purchased from the Asian grocers, thin with a mini scoop at the end), attempt to dislodge and remove stubborn bits of ear wax which usually turned out to be actual parts of my inner ear?

Was it just me … who was told by her mother that I shot out of her one day while she was on the toilet and looked down to see something random floating in the bowl with a pair of eyes?  Clearly the stalk in the sky explanation couldn’t convey my value as an addition to the family as much as this particular version of events.  

Was it just me … who was forced to fast for 24 hours before we went to an all you can eat buffet restaurant in order to ‘build up the hunger’ and therefore get our money’s worth?

Was it just me … who was then restricted from picking non-protein items and potatoes from the all you can eat buffet because they wasted stomach space reserved for the ‘expensiveful’ offerings – ‘Why eat 3 bowl chips, eat 18kg prawn, we pay saaame pliiicce’.         

Was it just me … who asked my mother for a perm to revamp my generic poker straight oriental hair?  Only to be taken to the ‘local hairdresser’ of my aunty’s garage to be given a perm on purely just my fringe? (my ‘bangs’ for the North American crew). I wanted to go from chinky to kinky.  I stayed chinky except now I had a new mini afro sprouting from my forehead.  Where’s that can of Soul Glo when you really need it?   

Was it just me who … was told by her father that 3 fried eggs piled on top of one another was called ‘quiche’, toast spread with ketchup was called ‘pizza’, and boiled lettuce with soya sauce was called ‘salad’.   Assimilation is his middle name.   Asian ‘fusion’ cuisine is his game.

But chill – perhaps it’s possible that despite it all (and oh there’s so much more … so so much more), it can be argued that I have ended up stable, demure and respectable.  Always composed.  Always refined.  Never out of control.  Never caught off guard.  ‘Only god can judge me’ – Tupac Shakur.

 

Freak & Seek

When I started this blog I decided my ‘target audience’ should be the segment in society called: humans.  That’s right, I really don’t give a fuck who wants to come and read this shit.  You might be a millionaire reading with time to kill between stacking bills or you’re living a more casual cash-in hand lifestyle low on coin reading while sucking man stick for crazy crack and a biscuit. Whatever and whoever, just like with your local Community Legal Centre or the unmarked van with the blacked out windows parked in the laneway, Empress Evelyn welcomes all.   

But some of you out there are some real Mayor of Freaky Town type mother fuckers.  WordPress gives me a daily listing of the terms the peeps using the net have ‘searched’ for through search engines before somehow ending up at me, my picture, my posts etc whether meaning to or not.  Brothers and Sisters, what the fuck?:

- ‘Tijuana Hooker’:  That’s really offensive.  I’m Chinese, not Mexican.

-  ‘Cock Sucking Whores’: That’s really offensive.  Who said I ever asked to be paid.

-  ‘Chinese Person Waving’: Indeed, it’s me ‘waving away’ the money being paid.      

-  ‘Pheasant Puppets’: ?? Do I even mention this on my page anywhere? Interestingly, this search was made on the same day as the next one below, hopefully they’re not meant to be … ‘connected’ …    

-  ‘Anus’: I thought the picture I had up was of my face.  Is it that bad?

-  ‘Busty Asian’: Debatable.  But it’s all relative. I reckon I could easily score a gig at Hooters – Shanghai branch only though.  

- ‘Busty Fucks’, ‘Fuck Anus Women’ and ‘Fuck Bitch Friction’: I think I know what you’re after.  I can arrange this.

-  ‘Bush Pigs’: I think you’re after something like the above.  But with fat hairy people.  I can arrange this.

- ‘Armpits’:   Why would you search for one kind of body part?  With all the friction from the hardcore anus and bitch fucking going on, this must be some kind of ‘back up’ spot.  Man that’s nasty people, you all gots no shame.   

 - ‘Large Rusty Sign’:  Yes, if any part of your body is getting largely rusty, it’s a sign to ease up on all that back up armpit fucking …    

Sorry if all your items weren’t on my site as promised by your search engines.  Empress Ev hopes you eventually hit on what you were seeking for.    And also that your credit card payments weren’t rejected.  And also that your wife didn’t walk in while your pants were undone – as you squatted over your keyboard … So now you all know, it’s rock hard cock work trying to maintain a respectable fucking blog without getting some odd traffic from questionable searches for no damn big black double ended dildo horny Asian twins easy and ready kind of reason at all.

It’s Only Noble if it’s No Bull

Image via Wikipedia

Hey crew – it’s been awhile, I’m not going to act like I was just here yesterday.  What happened?  Life happens.  Things happen, things get fucked up and then you’re caught up not necessarily where you want to be.  But I’m here now and it feels fucking great to be in a space that’s all mine, like I’m drinking, dancing, laughing and fucking upside down all at the same time – how’s that for some No Bull?!

It’s been an intense 12 months as I’ve been living intensely, struggling to decide which direction to go towards, contemplating the crossroads, serving eviction notices to the bull-shit and engaging people in a dialogue about how we make the decisions that we do.  As I said in a previous post, Never Will Be Still (http://empressevelyn.wordpress.com/2010/09/03/never-will-be-still/  – click it son – no shame in cross-pollination promotion), sometimes we all feel really far out and we need a certain something to pull us way back in.  If you don’t get this, then leave now and head back to the meth lab of your mother’s laundry room for your next hit.  This is real talk and even the strongest and level-headed of us all have stood under the decent of dark clouds wondering how the fuck to rise above.  The answer and ultimate way to live is by intuition – that wave of knowing and awareness that you feel in your guts, prostate, heart, colon, whatever.  But for some reason, when all these things are firing signs, shots, and omens towards one targeted clear direction, answer and solution – we somehow manage to brew up some kind of convoluted toxic concoction of a rationale or notion and go towards the completely opposite direction.  

And just like the end-result of any convoluted concoction i.e. like mixing ice-cream with oyster sauce (hey, it was suggested that the salty-ness would complement the creamy-ness) all you end up with is a distasteful combo of heart wrenching regret, vile tastes in your mouth and possibly 3 days of flaming diarrhoea (so I’ve heard).  Here’s a news feed of the past 3 months: someone I know got burnt by a ‘close friend’ real bad, even though she always suspected this ‘friend’ had been sabotaging her behind her back for years.  But she stayed loyal hoping for the best.  But yesterday she found out the deepest betrayal had been done and the dissemination of her deepest secrets was complete.  Someone else went out of his way for his employer, living by his strong work ethic, he did duties beyond the call of duty.  But when judgement day again came for recognition, he simply wasn’t recognised.  It’d happened many times before but he forced himself to tell himself that recognition was coming eventually.  But the real him had known way back in time that he had a better chance of getting his menstrual period every month than a promotion.   

And now here’s one from me: I got the high marks in high school, did the prestigious University degrees, got the coveted job prospects and took the secure respectable job.  My job’s so secure I could shit on every desk in the office and still not get fired.  Management would just send me to some therapy session to complete the ‘Why I need to shit on desks to feel accepted’ self development course.   As I crossed the hazy line from young adulthood into real adulthood I thought living like a robot was the right way even though doing so just kept on making me feel restless, sick, apathetic, manic … and well, wrong.   I told myself that enduring ‘wrong’ meant that I was strong.  As isn’t this what life is meant to be – linear and routine?  I thought over time I’d blend into it, ease into it.  I thought I was Noble by doing the ‘right’ thing.  But Nobility had no place residing inside a fuckwit who was Self Deluded.  Nobility has nothing to do with living in the absence of recognising the truth.  Don’t start sending me Prozac people, it’s all good.  I never claimed to be the prophet.  But when I started this blog I committed to being sincere by writing what I know we’re all thinking, but very often just simply could not say.  So here’s what I say:       

The signs are there, the warnings are exposed for the taking … so fucking take it and own it.  Don’t read into a ‘good’ in people and in things that are unwritten and non-existent.  There’s no dignity in claiming you only wanted to try and see the best in people and find the good in futile pursuits.  Because when you failed to find it, all you saw were tears as you cried crouched like a little bytch in a dark corner.  Own the truth that has been presented to you early on, fuck the fuckers a new fuck hole and walk away never looking back.  No Bull.  Be Noble.  Cull the pest species.  Only then do you walk as the noble one and live with true dignity.

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I want to express a sincere thank you to everyone who contacted me directly about this post.  I’ve received many texts, emails, Facebook msgs and calls regarding the content since I put it up and I appreciate the choice to not express thoughts and feedback through comments publically in this instance.  Turning yourself inside out to put a message out is risky – I know this. 

I was told many times over the post was really confronting.  Good.  Some said it made them feel uncomfortable.  Good.  As I said, I’m no prophet – I’m just a person like you wanting to start a dialogue so we can start saying the un-sayable – whether it’s between you and me, you and someone else or you with yourself – E xx

The Greatest Show on Earth – The 1st Episode

‘The Greatest Show on Earth’ is often used to describe and sell some kind of flashy grand Big Top circus show.  I often use the concept of a circus in attempts to explain and provide insights into the inner workings of my family.  And indeed this comparison is extremely harsh and unfair – to the circus.  Because even the circus as a commercial enterprise has some manner of standards; restrictions on its performances regarding the extent to which the audience should be shocked and baffled.  In fact this is the case with any kind of performance – whether it’s in the movies, on television or up on stage in the theatre.   Even fucked up feral material like people shitting on each other or people trying to hump animals, vegetables, dwarfs etc has classifications to enable degrees of choice and control with what you see & hear. 

There’s no communal cross-shitting or pet pumping going on in my family (that can be proved) but I wish that sometimes I could just be pre-warned about their relentless show-time antics – so I can at least prepare to cover my ears, close my eyes, change the channel, boycott the theatre or just fucking get the entire show banned (and the ‘cast’ deported) altogether.  The family’s a recurring theme in my blog – because the family’s an unavoidable theme in my life.  And I’m arguing that it’s also one in yours whether you currently choose to have anything to do with them or not.  I’m an adult now but there remain things both said and done by them that still continue to unsettle the fuck out of me, behaviours and choices that won’t cease to confuse and unhinge me making me go ape shit crazy whether they’re near or far:

Episode 1: There’s been a long running feud between my mum and her younger sister in China.  It started a few years ago after my mum’s last visit to see members of her WuTang clan back in the motherland.  One moment they’re all close like some fucking ching chong version of Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen and then they abruptly morphed into each other’s public enemy number one.  What trouble brewed in the province?  Who the fuck knows? I don’t want to know (just like I don’t want to know why cash is so strictly enforced as the primary method of payment in the Chinese community).  All I know is that it went from them addressing each other on the phone traditionally according to Chinese custom, ‘Greetings elder sister/ Greetings younger sister, how is you?’ to behind the scenes references by my aunt of my mum as ‘that cock sucking fat slum hag in Australia’ (a loose translation has been applied here, but the overall sentiment is the same).  But then my aunt arrives in Australia recently for a visit and they chat, giggle and cook their way through the month of September.  They were making happy good time wok stir fry music together without addressing to anyone, and I suspect even to each other, the insignificant side matter of their 3 year term of resentment and estrangement. 

They don’t trust each other and it’s likely they thought nothing of talking shit about each other behind closed doors … even while living under the same roof.  But as the bystander watching their reunion and the farcical insincerity of it all, the ‘scene’ made me feel sick because it all seemed way too familiar – because it hit me then that this same show has been played out before way too many other times from the core to amongst the most far reaching branches of my extended family.  It’s a show that’s been staged continuously amongst various family members throughout the past like some mass money making Broadway hit.  And it’s most likely being played out right now somewhere in the present as I write and later on, as you read.  There’s too many multi layered secrets, criss-crossing claimed loyalties, and corrupt versions of re-written history and face-saving cover-ups to ever really know the details of the what, why and how of who’s playing and hustling on who.  I don’t get the plot but I do know this: there’s a large cast with a variety of different actors and many of them were born with the same surname.   It’s the way it goes – it’s the Greatest Fucking Show on Earth, everyone acting their fucking flat arses off.

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‘What the fuck was that?’  Indeed.  Stay tuned, the above is just a scratch on one patch of the mind’s surface.  Like with all 1st episodes of any show, not everything is clear and not all questions are answered.

Not Recommended – Again & Uncut

The first time I said it was here: http://empressevelyn.wordpress.com/2010/06/30/not-recommended/

 Now I’m back to say it again but this time I come with statistics:

-          98.3% of what I do is strictly Not Recommended

-          100% is the certainty that I’ll keep on doing what I do

Ignore the cops – especially when the target is you: When I drive I roll to a selection of loud, hard & mighty tunes.  Even when most of my front bumper had come off after an unfortunate incident with a parked truck, I still hammed up the jams for the rest of the drive home – in fact the sound of half the bumper scraping against the road’s gravel merely added to the car’s solo nightclub atmosphere.  With a thumping baseline my thing is to step on the brakes to the rhythm of the underlying beat.  My music of choice is of the hood, and often life rapped about the hood details how it can be … filled with no good (please take appreciative note of what I did here – it’s called freestylin’).  So one night when I heard police sirens screeching closely behind me I should have pulled over.  But I took it as a clever sound effect incorporated into track #4 of the current CD playing.  I became suspicious when blue & red flashing lights were seen in my rear view mirror.  A bit more when the high beaming started.  Yet clearly not suspicious enough cos I kept on driving … for quite awhile.   So the story ended with a fine and demerit points for speeding, and something about failing to stop.  Looking back I can kind of see that this all happened because I might have been speeding and when followed – had possibly failed to stop.  At least I’m not one to argue with the law (this time).  Because I was remorseful and humble.  And because the cop didn’t meet the level of hotness to qualify for anything on Empress Ev’s menu of sexual favours … joking people … bad boys bad boys … watcha gonna do …

Grope a friend’s butt when you’re unsure if it’s their butt: I’m a gambler. To require complete certainty before being willing to take action is for the broke-ass & mediocre portion of the population.  So when I walked up behind and sighted the target butt waiting to cross the usual set of lights towards the work building – I visually scanned the similarities and mentally calculated the differences against the rules of probability. While resembling the same shape & density, the butt was encased in a hideous pair of trousers uncharacteristic of anyone I’m associated with to be publically showcasing.  But times have been economically tough, so perhaps they had to source some work pants from a stranger’s clothes line on this occasion.  In my mind’s eye I saw a set of scales and the side telling me to reach out and take hold was the one tipping over.  My grip is hard and my nails are long.  But what the scales say, I do.  Some people can really overreact and not be understanding of when mistaken identity occurs.  Just keep this in mind.  My crew and I are tight and butt groping is how we greet and surprise each other from behind.  Who knew this practice was uncommon and unappreciated amongst some groups, especially amongst distant colleagues in serious jobs.  Yes, believe it or not I actually have a serious job.

Never Will be Still

Image via Wikipedia

You might have already gotten the vibe from my blog that I’m an international woman – I like to travel, go global and get the fuck out to see the corners of the big wide world whenever I get the chance. 

 ‘Why’, some have asked. 

 ‘Because I can’, I tend to say.   

And until there’s a way to cross multiple borders and time-zones to arrive in an alternate reality without taking a shitload of LSD then I’ll continue to jet fucking set.  I’ve been told of suspicions I’m frequently smuggling shipment across borders up my butt for the local Chinese triads.  This is offensive as everyone knows that preserved abalone & pickled rhino penis doesn’t keep well up that passage.  That line was so wrong, even coming from me.  No, I travel as much as I can because I have a demonic curiosity to know what the fuck is going on outside of the small box that I live in – because that’s a core way to have a relationship with the outside world, to prevent tunnel vision and narrow mindedness.  Because if you have the financial means, physical strength and freedom to step out bearing witness to the truth with the power of language to report back on what you’ve found – then doing so becomes not only a mad time away but also in my opinion, a kind of responsibility. 

I haven’t been everywhere but I have covered some extensive distance: took a helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon, sailed past waving at the Statue of Liberty, ate ham & cheese under the Eifel tower, skipped along in tight pants past the Colosseum (heaps of hot men in Italy, so must wear tight everything), numbed my cheeks sitting on cobblestones in the city square of Prague, and most recently, imagined myself having a turbo shower staring at Niagara Falls.  Oh and then there was the freaky sight of what appeared to be millions of identical versions of one person huddled together in one place  – this may have been either China or a certain ‘all you can eat’ buffet restaurant at the Crown Casino.

Remember also: travel isn’t just about place, it’s also about people and the more space you cover the more you realise that you’re not limited to the people working in the same office or living on the same street in order to have a genuine connection with another human being.  I decided that I Never Will be Still when it hit me that someone who is usually sleeping while I’m awake, in summer when I’m in winter can be frustrated by the same bullshit as me, have enough insight to argue against my harsher judgements of me, and to just simply find the same shit funny as me.  I’m not trying to make a ‘we are many, yet we are all one’ etc community announcement – I’m just saying that everyone at some point or another will feel a disconnect with the situation and people they find themselves with amongst their immediate reality, and for those times when you feel somehow so far ‘out’, travelling outside where you are is what can pull you way back in.

Disturbing Memory #2

If you missed Disturbing Memory #1, be checking it:

http://empressevelyn.wordpress.com/2010/06/19/disturbing-memory-1/

It’s a jungle out there man – heaps of sneaky traps making you look like a fucking idiot, giving the world many opportunities to mock you, ridicule you, point at you.  What more, there are cunning clowns who exist playing innocent to your face always waiting in the wings to sell your arse out, making you the joke.  I know a group of people like this – they’re called My Fucking Family.  No, My Fucking Family isn’t the name of some nut-case quirky comedy act or performing circus group (well at least not intentionally), they are literally My Fucking Family.  People I am related to (well at least not intentionally).     

It was a stinking hot summer and I was 5 (picture me now but with smaller hands & feet but same height).  We had these public pools near our house and EVERYONE from the area went there – families that lived on our street, kids who went to my school, teenagers from the local high school, drug dealers who dropped out of the local high school, business owners in the suburb, crims who robbed the business owners in the suburb etc.  Mum was still at work and so it was up to dad to take me.  But he faced a Bic Pob-Blum (Big Problem) – he didn’t know where mum kept my swim suit.  So he patiently went through the drawers in my room to look for them knowing wisely he would eventually come across what I needed.  BullShit– this never happened, instead he just grabbed a tea towel from the kitchen (presumably he also didn’t know where mum kept the bath towels) & we jumped into the car & headed to the pools – yes, the PUBLIC pools where I was forced to walk around in front of the entire population of our hood in my Cabbage Patch Kid undies and nothing on top – carrying a frayed & stained kitchen tea towel looking like some kind of child slave forced to work back-burning bamboo crops in peasant China.  I learnt the meaning of humiliation that day people.  And the crowd was not kind.   

But let’s break it down more: this was the 80’s in Australia, fewer Asian migrant families in the area than now.  So I already copped a big daily serving of ‘you ching-chong’ (fingers used to pull up eyes at the corners) shit at school & on the streets (Yo, if you’re reading this now & you were one of those redneck fucks, be watching your back son – my memory is deep & Facebook is one fucker of a big database).  Add to this my lego people style bowl/helmet haircut and the fact that my dad thought the best way for me to learn to swim was to just throw me into the deep end of the pool while yelling and clapping alongside the edge (you get put in jail for shit like that these days) and you get one fucking big Disturbing Situation turned Disturbing Memory.   

They say the best way to overcome your demons is to face them.  And that’s what I’ve done.  As I’ve grown into my adult years I’ve risen above and embraced this disturbing experience: I now walk around topless in my underwear every opportunity I get (visitors who ever came to the Elwood apartment know it’s true).  Can’t wait for ‘Casual Friday’ to be brought back to work.  And My Fucking Family have nobody to blame but themselves.  

Again with the Bad Rap

If you’re reading this right now and you don’t like rap – remain calm and don’t leave.  This post isn’t about rap.  It’s about relationships and perhaps a little bit more.  Am out in Toronto right now and I’ve read some bad press here re Eminem’s song with Rihanna, ‘Love the Way You Lie’.  The word is that the song and video clip are evil in glorifying domestic violence and promoting abuse.  As though the soul destroying experience of a violent relationship – often arising out of intensely complex emotional politics, internal power struggles & fluctuating dynamics between 2 people can be so easily packaged and summarised as being ‘promoted’.  And this is based on little more than 4 minutes of lyrics and images of a man and a woman so entangled in each other that neither seems able to simply leave the self-destructive ruins of their union: ‘Just gonna stand there and watch me burn, but that’s alright because I like the way it hurts.  Just gonna stand there and hear me cry, but that’s alright because I love the way you lie…’          

Since when are long-term relationships (and even friendships) so one dimensional and simple?  He hurts you, you leave.  You walk out the door just like that – as though there is no internal dialogue to fight against, no pull of the past – theirs or yours, no fear of surviving without the other person, no having to painfully retreat from co-dependence … This isn’t about whether the person should leave or not, it’s about the fact that in real life it all just isn’t so simple.  And that’s all the song really intends to do – be a snapshot of real life – 2 people so entangled in and consumed with each other they just keep on hurting each other around in circles – until one or both of them breaks … If I wanted a clear cut linear moral or instructional message about how to conduct a relationship, I’d find a text book espousing the mechanics of building a manageable partnership or find some 14 chapter self-help manual.

I haven’t been in many relationships.  But nor do I live in my own micro-cosmos unscathed from the emotional angst or damage that can characterise even a short period or small part of the most solid relationships around me – if I’m not in one, I’m always the witness of one, in fact I live everyday being the product of one.  Listen to the song.  This isn’t called glorifying domestic violence – this is called a man lyrically conveying the raw experiences of parts of his life.   Music is an artistic expression thru which the artist tells a story. And often as is the achievement of a great artist, his or her story tells wholly or in part the story of somebody else – you, me, that person and the other.

Em Press E in N.Y.C

Image via Wikipedia

Yeah that’s right – the title to the left is a rap and I rapped it as I typed it.  For a girl who grew up in some of the shittiest suburbs of Melbourne (you know, the areas where tracksuit pants are considered as formal evening wear), I was hooked on hip hop and obsessed with rap before my folks got me hooked on rice for breakfast (you’d think we’d be the fattest fucks in the world the way we consume rice – my mum had her first Big Mac with a side of rice all consumed with chinga brand chilli sauce & a pair of chopsticks).  I could relate to the themes of the hip hop genre with its talk of struggle and marginalisation.  Many Chinese elders in the community I knew also had gold teeth so I felt an affinity with the rap artists as well.  And when I think of the home of both hip hop and one of my fave rappers (Biggy Smalls) my thighs vibrate, I go crazy shaky and then I get all warm, sticky and moist (on my forehead) – I hit New York City for the 3^rd time a few weeks ago and as usual the summer vibe there was rocking red hot and on smoky fire!  I didn’t just walk over the Brooklyn Bridge, baby I was dancing over it doing the ‘runnin’ man’ forwards, backwards and on the side with arms waving.  I looked like a smacked up Japanese tourist slash go-go-go dancer on fertile heat.  I love you New York!  And some fine buff bodied looking brothers of the city walking over that bridge too I found – made me go all warm, sticky and moist (on my forehead).          

Just an unanswered question from EmpressEv’s ‘Book of Why?’ that still puzzles me even after my triple visit to the States: Why has a snack food titled ‘Cheesy Nips’ been permitted to continue trade under this particularly ambiguous name?  And how has it done so without instigating racial rioting? Because when I think ‘Cheesy Nips’ I don’t think of a conveniently tasty & crunchy snack in a box, I think more of an image of some whacky Asian chick doing the ‘runnin’ man’ dancin’, skippin’ & gyratin’ over the Brooklyn Bridge…..

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Love You (but been too) Long Time

No I wasn’t sent to serve time in prison nor was I shipped overseas in a container as a mail order bride (nobody’s been making any orders – hurtful).  I know, it’s been a very long time my friends since the last high level literary feature on this site – but as was said in the song ‘Changes’ of the late and great Tupac Shakur: ‘That’s just the way it is’.   

I’ve received many enquiries from the peoples out there re when I’ll be back in the game – so thank you.  Thank you for visiting and thank you for not being easily perturbed.  Not wanting to be a dirty blog teaser, I’ll be regaining a sense of frequency with my entries from this point.  So I’ll take the chance here to say: Feel free to comment – as in if something strikes you then put it out there.  I can’t see you so I’m unable to laugh in your face.  Ok seriously, there aren’t many forums where some of us can express views unedited or outside the backdrop of professions, community expectations etc (I can assume you all know the well worn internet spiel re comments not being racist, vile etc so no need to go there).  Not everything I put on here is heavy tho not everything is light either.  In fact some posts go thru many shades in only a few lines.  But that’s real life and not all situations and observations neatly maintain uniform moods, colours and emotions.  So that’s how I write cos that’s how I see life and so long as I stay sincere I’ll write whatever the fuck I want – silence is boring so feel free to join the conversation.

Not Recommended

Here‘s some shit that I’ve done but I’m telling you now – it’s just Not Recommended:

Take expired medication.  Unlike with some brands of cereal and cookies, the expiry date on prescription medication is actually stricter than the ‘best before’ standard of quality of some other consumable products.  I know this because I took some expired sleeping tablets during my first night in a share house in London.  I woke up in the morning wearing a sparkly silver cardigan that was not mine.  I also have vague recollections of negligently using the lavatory in the middle of the night with the door wide open – no big deal you may say?  Well at the time I was wearing neither any pants nor that sparkly silver cardigan.  However, all this would have been a good way to break the ice with the new housemates.  

Fix a pair of sunglasses with a toothpick.  The right side of my sunglasses fell off.  I’m Chinese.  Chinese people have access to commercial quantities of toothpicks.  We could build the 4^th fucking little piggy house with them if we wanted to.  I took one, broke an end off and used it as a ‘screw’ to re-attach the handle.  Why – Because I thought I could.  Outcome – I couldn’t.  I was driving, then I was pumping out heavy bass hip hop tunes from my car speakers, then I was beating my head to my tunes, then I was feeling gangsta, then I was suddenly blinded by sunlight but only on one side of my face, then I was seeing a toothpick piece down my top, then I was seeing a broken handle of plastic on my lap, then I was seeing a damn fool in the reflection of the rear view mirror…

Eat potato chips in bed.  I did this while reading with the lights on.  And then it was bed time so I lay down in the dark, but while doing so my hand brushed against a stray potato chip.  It had fallen out of the packet onto my mattress.  So not wanting to waste it, I popped the tasty chip into my mouth and started to chew.  It was not a fallen potato chip.  It was a dead moth. The reasonable person would understand how easily such an error was made.  Both a chip and a dead moth are flat, crispy and flaky – however would you believe that both these things actually taste exceptionally different?

Take the Mexi-Coach to Tijuana alone.  This was no venga bus people.  Perhaps I got on at the wrong time because the other passengers heading over the border with me from the USA didn’t look like they were heading  into Mexico for donkey Piñatas, giant Sombreros or a mini Ukulele.  They looked like (and overtly announced) that they were heading over to appropriate and purchase heavy duty quantities of prescription medicines  … yet nobody seemed to have a prescription…  Funnily enough there is a linkage with this last paragraph and the first – see if you can work it out.

Live And Not Learn

Nobody wants to be a stupid mofo.  We all want to think that we can handle our shit and process what’s right and wrong – but the mind is tricky, ego can be a bitch and hectic emotions usually fuck up our good judgement and blur the line between what we should and shouldn’t put up with.  This isn’t just what happens when you smoke cheap easy street crack, this is just what happens:

You have the ongoing friend who always finds the bad in your good situation.  You get a promotion and they keep on highlighting the extra stress, you get a hot new dress and they make out it looks like a shapeless caftan, you get a new guy and they claim to suspect he’s an ex prisoner on the run etc.  Everybody has or has had one – the bullshit friend, the bootleg version of someone you should trust but they’re as fake, cheap and nasty as that canned soya bean cube shit the Chinese grocery shops try to pass off as duck meat.  And each time their mouths shoot the shit out, you cringe because you know it’s not true honesty but poison resentment.  But their number’s still stored in your phone.  Why?  Because you feel there’s too much history between you, the way out is not easy, the social ecosystem of your friendship network risks collapse if this tie is severed.     

Another Example: You have the relationship that has you questioning why you chose him – as in, why the fuck you chose him over a colourful sturdy vibrator instead (boys, this is from the female perspective, but if you can still relate then great – no judgement).  Yes, relationships take work and you need to compromise.  But when you put up with someone who is always possessive, jealous, neglectful, abusive, needy, hypocritical, lazy, hopeless, immature, cheating, threatened by your strength and independence etc then you ain’t doing what’s called ‘compromise’, you’re doing what’s called ‘selling out’.  But you stay with this person even though they’re the human version of a pack of instant noodles with that shady sachet of MSG flavouring – no inherent nutritional value but it’s convenient and you’re willing to keep on having it simply because … it’s there.      

We all do it – see black and white in our mind’s eye but rationalise the bullshit away with our other body parts to why certain situations or people are allowed to continuously cross ‘the line’.  Those close to me say my line is pretty damn solid and uncross-able, maybe too uncross-able and I cut people out too easily and quickly.  But I’ve had my fair share of Live And Not Learn and I suppose I’ve made the call on the above situations that I’m done.  There’s no shame in being burnt.  And then burnt again and another 400 fucking times over until finally getting it.  But at one point you just have to get it – that the other person in the ‘relationship’ or ‘friendship’ is fucked up, pointless and just not worth it.  Some say, ‘But you never know when you might need them’ and ‘But they’ll always be there for me when I have nobody’.  I say, Live And Learn – as though the devil is the one who will save you from hell.

Disturbing Memory #1

I say #1 because there’s more to come.  These disturbing memories may also serve to explain why I seem so … disturbed.  I was a little girl and it was school holidays so rather than have to chain me to a pole outside on the street while my parents worked (watch the news – shit like this happens in real life), my dad took me to the video store to get some tapes so I would be distracted enough for a few hours to not set furniture on fire, roam the streets looking for gangs to join etc.  I really wanted to get ‘Edward Scissorhands’ so I skipped into the shop with excitement, bounced straight over to the New Release section, saw it, ran up to dad who took it to the counter to borrow and pay.  This whole time I’m jumping up and down going ‘I can’t wait to see this mooooviiiie’! 

But as the Chinese would say, there was Sum Ting Wong.  Translation: Something was wrong.  Because upon closer inspection the movie that my father was holding and about to borrow for his child was not in fact ‘Edward Scissorhands’. It was instead a slightly similar yet notably different movie called: ‘Edward Penishands’.  After the video shop guy told my dad that this may not be the right movie (and was probably about to call the cops) I held the cover close to my little face.  I saw a lady who was NOT Winona Ryder.  I saw hands that were NOT made up of scissors. I really didn’t understand it at the time – why the lady had no pants on, why she looked like the women that stand by the road waving at cars late at night, why she was squatting over Edward’s hand like she was about to sit on a chair, why Edward didn’t really look like the Johnny Depp version of Edward but more like a drunk clown from the circus….My dad told me to quickly put the video back onto the self and I had to borrow ‘The Neverending Story’ instead – which probably had a different plot to the original choice of bootleg Edward with dick covered hands.

Female Friction

No it’s not the name of my latest porno movie release (as I’m still in the process of shooting the ping pong scenes – joking, Female Friction isn’t an actual movie … that I know of but I’m sure some pervert out there will Google it just in case).  Female Friction is what happens when you come across an irrationally threatened insecure bitch of a bush pig female who hates you simply for no other reason than because you are another female.  Empirical data that I have obtained from conducting controlled studies (talking to heaps of my chick friends over cocktails and straight vodka – no ice) tells me that this happens everywhere – from the office hag who hates the new girl because she’s seen as a rival for male attention at work to the random chick on the street who hisses at you because she thinks you’re going to leer at and thus try to woo her boyfriend (presumably the poor mutha-fucker who’s walking next to her).   

I don’t get it – I thought we were meant to be on the same side, what exactly do these types of women think that other women are going to take from them? Ironically as I grew up my father warned me about the ill intent of males: ‘Don’t let any boys touch your front bum’ he would wisely advise as I ventured out into the real world.  Well fuck that – it’s not my fucking ‘front bum’ I’ve had to worry about but more my back from being stabbed by malicious women who just don’t get that a basic adult responsibility is to try and sort out their own shit before flinging it out onto others.

In the same ways that sickness makes me grateful for health and hunger makes me grateful for food; the bitter crack-whores out there make me sincerely grateful for the many strong and self-assured females that do in fact exist amongst us all.  I bumped into a guy I knew from University at a party not long ago and we were having this chat about old times, what we’d done after graduation etc, and then out of nowhere some chick appears, storms over, glares at me and drags the poor fucker away but not before hissing ‘We have to go, you cannot talk to her anymore’.  Oh no!  This irrelevant male has a girlfriend!  He’s not allowed to talk to me anymore!  My Give-a-Fuck Factor: – 23.  Her Paranoid-Skanky-Hooker Factor: 97.8.

They Say Never

There are people out there walking amongst us that like to say ‘never’.  During conversations about clothes and fashion they say they’d ‘never’ wear sportswear that isn’t Nike, ‘never’ wear jeans that aren’t Sass & Bide, ‘never’ carry a no-label handbag, ‘never’ wear jewellery that’s less than 24 carat gold, ‘never’ buy lipstick from the pharmacy etc.  During conversations about food they say they’d ‘never’ touch canned vegetables, ‘never’ buy fruit that’s not organic, ‘never’ touch dishes with more than 1 gram of fat, ‘never’ use sea salt to flavour food…it’s got to be rock salt (?) etc. What these people ‘never’ actually do is think about what the fuck they’re saying – what they NEED to do is use less time churning out the pretentious ‘nevers’ and searching for/snorting their rock salt (to me salts just salt – rock or sea, tastes the damn same).  What they NEED to do is spend more time trying to find their way back down to mother fucking reality.     

What is all this’ I’ll NEVER do this, buy that, wear this, eat that’?  Life is volatile, fickle and one big uncontrollable game that you can’t predict.  All the shit you own, the freedom you enjoy, the health you may have, the people you love, the ching ching money in your account, the stability and security is not unchanging, set, solid, forever, guaranteed.  The one who is born with everything can die with nothing and vice versa.  Where you stand now is not where you’ll be standing the day before your death or necessarily this time next week or tomorrow.  The revered and admired can fall from grace and the ones that everyone looks down on now can rise above and blitz us all.  There’s flood then draught, peace then war, empires have fallen then risen only to fall again.  I grew up migrant style with a childhood during the 1980s that was quite unstable.  In economic theory it’s called: Poor as Fuck.  As an adult I’ve lived in an apartment across the road from the beach.  As a child I’ve lived with my family upstairs of a run-down Fish & Chip shop.  I sure as hell like to wear 24 carat gold, but if you gave me some bling earrings that were 9 carat, 1 carat or some cheap rusty metal, if I liked them I’d still fucking wear them (at least until my ears got septic) or … shock, I’m happy to not wear any at all. 

So to the people who like to say ‘never’: shut the fuck up.  Because one day you may damn well need to carry that no-label handbag (and god forbid put it over your head for shelter) or even get that cheap lipstick from the pharmacy – so you better be ready to not only wear it on your lips but eat it or use it for a party trick while you busk on the streets for coins.  Snobby fools.

Bubble Trouble

Bubble tea is everywhere man, any city that has international students will be lined with shops that sell bubble tea.  Hey chill  - I think international students are a good thing, they really pump up and enhance the economy as consumers, especially through shops selling Hello Kitty socks, hair-dressing salons using industrial bleach for that naturally blonde Asian look and buffet style bakeries (tongs and tray?) that make combos like fish-fingers in green-tea muffins.  Also, it’s fun watching international students mounting each other and doing the human pyramid thing as they pose for group photos making the double peace sign.  Hey chill – check back onto my picture under the ‘All about EVElyn’ section and observe, I can go there as these are my crew.  Back onto the bubble tea: it’s super freaky. I really want to appreciate what is essentially a zany combination of rubbery solid and tangy liquid united as one.  How can anyone resist trying a drinkable product that comes in flavours like ‘yam’ – I mean it’s a liquid but flavoured like a fucking potato. Za-ny!

But it’s not for me – it’s just too freaking awkward to drink.  They give you a massive straw like a sewer pipe but the product causes conflict in the throat with each mouthful: to expand for the liquid or to constrict for the solid?  Get this rhythm wrong once and you’ll find yourself channelling Daisy the cow having to regurgitate back up any sago solids that need to be chewed or re-chewed.  Maybe for me bubble tea is like spicy chicken anus with cabbage– there are just some delicacies that my cousins like consuming that I’ll never get the hang of, but the bottom line is that I simply don’t like the feeling of choking on a mouthful of balls.  Remember: if it’s going to make you gag don’t put it in your mouth – don’t say you don’t learn any lessons from the wisdom of EmpressEvelyn x

What Is You Means?

Yeah you read right – What is you means?  That’s what my dad says when he doesn’t get what the fuck someone is asking or saying to him (this is most of the time).  The man has been in Australia for 30 years and he rocks to his own version of English.  But I’ve stolen this line from him in reply to all the times someone comes along and just says some really smacked up incomprehensible shit. A sample:

‘Hey, you can speak English really well!’ – Why wouldn’t I you stupid fucks, I’ve lived in an English speaking country all my life.  Even if I lived in the Chinese ghettos, we’d still need to know how to speak English to deal with the ‘outside’… how else would we be able to sell our pirated dvds. 

‘Hey, I couldn’t tell you were Asian from speaking to you on the phone’- Why not?  Couldn’t you hear my dad singing karaoke and my mum paying the pan pipes in the background? 

‘Do you speak Asian at home?’ – I didn’t even know that one generic language existed amongst over 23 countries.    

‘I was walking down Russell St and I wasn’t used to seeing so many Asians’ – Does this mean they had an allergic reaction to seeing all that shiny black hair?   And my all time favourite….     

‘Hey, you’re kind of nice looking…for an Asian’ – What the damn fuck is you means??      

As a reader of my blog feel free to use this line whenever you encounter a talker of shit, and really try to fuck with them by saying it in a Bruce Lee sort of accent and do some kind of kung fu chopping thing with your hands.  If you recognise me on the streets of Melbourne I’ll do you a demo.

Barbie Blame

A few days ago there was this article in Time Magazine online about controversy over the new Barbie Doll being released in the States, there is apparently concern about her being too ‘busty’.  I’ve seen a picture of busty B and she’s wearing this chic looking suit with no shirt underneath and while there’s some action on top it’s not like she’s wearing little dangly Barbie nipple rings or anything.  She actually looks really hot and chic!  But the ‘bad role model’ proposition is being pumped out again about how Barbie portrays unrealistic body images, puts pressure on young girls…

Maybe not or maybe so, but Barbie is a doll.  Her ‘role’ is therefore to be…a doll.  The ‘role’ of empowering a child to have self-respect and positive self-image is ultimately the central responsibility of the parents.   This role should not be delegated to Barbie – she is too busy choosing her accessories and putting out for Ken.

Many years ago Bert and Ernie copped crap from some other groups for being ‘gay’, presumably because they were 2 guys who shared a bedroom.  Bert and Ernie are puppets, they don’t even have genitals to do anything exciting that we can do whether straight or gay.  And the homophobes fucked up their theory anyway because if they had paid attention they would have known that Bert and Ernie actually slept on their own single beds separated by a chest of draws.  So I’d say they were just good friends.  In Australia we had a kid’s show with a life-sized puppet called Humphrey Bear.  There were talks about taking him off air because while he wore a tie and waist coat, he didn’t have on any pants. Were any big bear balls hanging out? No.  So what the fuck?       

In many cases, the net result of a well-rounded adult has its roots in places beyond a plastic doll.  I’ve never been a parent but I have been somebody’s child and it’s with these somebodys that my self-image ultimately leads back to.  Anyway, if Barbie is meant to be a role model they best be putting out some more multi-cultural versions, otherwise young girls will be yearning for a blonde weave and new eyeballs in addition to the breast job.

Shithouse Date

I’m not an expert on love and commitment but I sure as hell can tell if people sitting near me at a restaurant or bar are on a shithouse date.   The unfortunate problem is when the people actually on the date are unable to identify how shithouse it is.  Look – if you’re sitting there with your drinks (or with your shared milkshake with 2 curly straws etc) and you’re just staring at the table, the floor, the wall or worse still – at me (to the next couple that does this:  I’m going to come and tip your table over – creepy fuckers), you’re clearly not letting the good times roll.   I understand that if you’ve been in a long-term relationship or if you’re married you’ve got this whole comfortable silence thing happening but these couples generally look like they’re in their mid to late twenties max with that ‘been going out for a few months’ vibe about them.  If you have absolutely nothing to say to each other at this early stage or aren’t even making eye contact at the table then you both need to go in search of more stimulating company, pay for it if you have to but at least try to fill your night with some hardcore laugher, hardcore partying or anything that’s just plain hard. 

Why waste your time being there when you could just as easily be doing the same thing sitting at home at the kitchen table by yourself – the effect is fucking the same.  And then they start to listen in on the conversation over at our table (and sure it could be because I talk as loud as hell) but I presumed the purpose of a date was to be so caught up in the other person that you don’t give a fuck if everyone else around you is on fire.  

So unless you’re both in a relationship that’s been going on for so long you don’t even bother to shut the toilet door while doing a shit, this kind of silence is not acceptable.  The last incidence of this I saw was so bad with a couple on a date that the girl was reading the label of ingredients on her coke bottle while the guy was just plain sitting there looking like he was waiting to grow a dick.

Short and Sweet (and sour)

When I was 10 I was tall-ish compared to other kids in my class.  But the joy was short-lived.  What I didn’t know was that I’d actually reached my full height and pretty much peaked right then. I was destined to remain the size of a pygmy nomad and wear what should be shorts in my adult life as full-length pants.  I’m exaggerating, I’m a bit over 5 foot and small build – true it’s partly a genetic thing with being Chinese, after all I tower over many of my older relatives (even more now as they’re  shrinking with age).  I should be pleased over the economic advantages of being able to make a second pair of pants, a cape and some curtains with the leftover material after I have the excess cut off a new pair of pants.  But I live in Australia and not Asia so most of the time I’m speaking to people’s armpits and crotches (those guys over 6 foot ), or I’m pushed and squashed against these body parts on the peak hour train.  Nobody wants to lean against a crotch they hardly know…unless they’ve had a drink first…I’m joking…no I’m not.

Anyway this whole short thing came up because some girls from work were talking about weight and calories (yes – a rare topic amongst women I know) and I made the point that if it’s not weight they’re stressing over, it’ll be something else – crooked teeth, big nostrils, hairy back etc.  I have none of these things (I got the back waxed) but I am known to bitch about being a short-ass and have a tendency to wear high heels most days – not for the fashion but for the height.  Everybody’s got that one thing (at least) that gives them the shits.  For all those that have ‘fat days’ etc just keep in mind that at least people don’t feel so readily free to remark on your ‘sore spot’ like they do with the shorties.  Many people who I know or have even just met don’t think twice about dropping a line like, ‘Hey, you’re really short compared to me’ or ‘I feel really tall next to you’ and then they do this laugh to themselves that becomes awkward once they see I aint laughing with them.  Imagine if I said back to them, ‘Hey, you’re a real fat and ugly fuck compared to me’ or ‘I feel really not like a hippo that’s 56 months preggers next to you’.  I would never say that or even think that about another person as I like to find personality defects to insult instead, but while it’s not a big deal – the same comments are still a negative remark about someone’s looks, it’s just not considered insulting enough to avoid saying I suppose.  Anyway gotta go now to find some yellow pages to sit on while driving…

Being Chinese

I’m Evelyn and my life so far has been ….um interesting and colourful, kind of like a bad SBS comedy show at times and a shady b-grade travel show more recently in my late 20s.  Growing up Chinese in Australia means I’ve lived through the usual cross-cultural dilemmas – my own pursuits vs my parents’ expectations, Buddhist & Confucius teachings vs mainstream Christianity & the storyline morals in Home & Away, forks vs chopsticks (depends on what you’re eating, sometimes it’s easier to just stab chunky foods with a singular chopstick), dim sims vs meat pies (though the same sort of mystery ‘meat’ is exists in both of them doesn’t it?), Chinese school and violin lessons vs jumping on the neighbour’s trampoline and playing board games like ‘operation’  and ‘guess who’ (um yeah….what a dilemma that one was) etc.   This blog isn’t going to be a rant on that already well-travelled road of the east meets west dichotomy, I’m just saying that being Chinese is important to me and being Australian is just as important to me – but it’s a complex hybrid – the combination of which has brought me both great pain and joy in my young adult life, but it’s neither a blessing or a burden but my identity which is born from and wrapped up in both my state of mind and state of circumstances.  Given the topic, I thought I’d had add a pic of a Chinese person to this blog ( it’s my dad!). 

Wallpaper Worry

I’m staying over at my mum and dad’s tonight and I’m looking at the wallpaper I had in my old bedroom…

Animal print mural-like wallpaper on all 4 walls where rabbits are living in big mushroom houses, fluffy bunnies are riding tricycles, a frog is swinging from a tree trunk, a pig (wearing a blue formal suit jacket but no pants) is playing the tambourine, what looks like a beaver is playing the flute (or the recorder), and what looks like a skunk without a tale is fishing in a pond– I swear this wallpaper exists, I’ll try to get a photo of it up on this site.  This wallpaper in my bedroom was great when I was 12, freaky when I was drunk and 18, but by the time I hit my 20s this wallpaper started to speak to me, it was saying: You are an adult with a full licence to drive, look at your 4 walls, to continue with this wallpaper as a full blown adult is bordering on perverted…. so the wallpaper was driving force number one that led me to move out…damn it’s creepy the more I look at it now.