Yearly Archives: 2006

Thanks, And No Thanks

I’ve officially switched from Movable Type to WordPress, the latter of which I’ve decided is a far superior platform. This involved manually copying content from the old database, including every entry, comment, timestamp, and ip address logged. Even though it took me nearly a month, I was able to go through my old entries and make the thumbnails, links, quotes, and formatting consistent.

Thanks to the experiences of every day life, for the people I hate, the people I love, the ones I respect, and the ones who inspire me to do more. It’s these that make sure I never run out of things to say.

Thanks to Trolley, who reminds me with his comments that I always have at least one reader.

Thanks to Aaron and Pat, for showing me that they care when they tell me that they keep up-to-date with my life through this.

Thanks to Bronwen, with whom I’m the person I’ve always wanted to be.

Thanks to Number18, for giving me hope with her daily life, and her über cool input jacks.

Thanks to Tina and Aurora, for their enigmatic entries that inspire me to write better.

Thanks to Winston and Barb, for letting me know that I, in turn, could inspire someone to start writing for themselves.

Thanks to Sikander for being the guy who shares music with me, even though we’ve never met in real life.

Thanks to Sophia, for introducing me to music like CocoRosie, and quoting my own old archived entries back to me.

Thanks to Dru, a design artist I’ve admired for years, for unofficially stealing from me, an unspoken compliment I hold dear to my heart.

No thanks to the stalkers, who say they’ll never visit, yet continue to read on a daily basis. The ones who hide behind services like Anonymouse, naively believing that all their http requests are masked. The self proclaimed hypocrites, who have the FUCKING AUDACITY to tell me about the vices of blogging, yet blog themselves. The exact reason why I never answer my phone anymore.

No thanks to the sequacious commentors who say stuff but don’t say anything, or those who comment for the sake of personal advertisement.

No thanks to the hotlinkers, who continue to steal my images, and in turn, my bandwidth and money.

When I was converting my database and going through the old entries, I could recall each and every emotion that drove them. My writing has become less rambling, less depressing, less cryptic since I started back in 2002. As time goes on and the entries become more recent, there seems to be a subtle, burgeoning hope, a reflection of the experiences I’ve gone through and a changing worldview.

And from the beginning of this blog to the entries I write now, the most important thing is that I always have more people to thank.

Moving And Growing

Thumbnail: Aaron and Karen at their threshold

Moving is often a task I avoid at all costs. The mess of packing, booking elevators, organizing rides, and physically shifting dirty boxes around becomes a lot more complicated than I care for. Being approached to help move by a close friend is a different story, however, as it becomes one of the few times that I can prove how much I’m willing to do for them.

It thus becomes a rather galvanizing scene to arrive with a party of friends at a doorstep, ready to help bring someone else into another phase in their life. This weekend was no exception, when helping Pat and Jen settle into their new place, a newly built four bedroom house out in the west end. Through most of last week, Pat and Jen had already moved the small items themselves, so the only things that were left were the bulky furniture. There were only eight of us, but we were finished before we knew it.

Pat and Jen paid us in beer, pizza, and wings, but given the fact that they had already done most of the work, we hardly deserved it. The rest of the day was spent playing Mario Power Tennis, Donky Konga, and table tennis.

Helping them moving was a reminder of how we’re all growing up. Getting married, getting old.

I once asked Darren, the only other male cousin with whom I share a Generation name, whether he thought we’d end up like our fathers, two brothers who also share their own. Our fathers who are moody, wasted old men who work too hard, and don’t get enough sleep. Before we realized it though, we had already turned into them, surviving the days on mostly restless sleep.

Look at us now. Pat and Jen are engaged, starting their family here. Aaron and Karen are one block away.

And the couples take home leftovers the way the parents do at all the Christmas parties during the holidays.

Summer Housemate

This is what I wake up to every day.

What I enclose in arm and leg at night, or press my back against when I roll over.

They say it takes weeks to get used to sleeping with someone (or without someone, when the relationship is over), but for me, the transition is seamless. All it took was an extra pillow, and some space accommodation for two stuffed animals, and a braided shred of old blankie.

Every day, I wake up between two and five in the morning. It’s an affliction I’ve had for years, something that wouldn’t be so bad if I could fall asleep again, but my mind always races, keeping me up for another hour or two. When she’s next to me though, my thoughts remains calm.

This body keeps me warm, rested, and pacified.

So what will I do when she’s gone?

My Average Life

You ever read any Nietzsche?

Nietzsche says there are two kinds of people in the world. People who are destined for greatness, like Walt Disney, and Hitler. And then there’s the rest of us. He called us “The bungled and the botched”.

We get teased. We sometimes get close to greatness, but we never get there.

We’re the expendable masses.

—Jack Lucas, The Fisher King

When I listen to this song, a post-hardcore blend of catchy, melodic guitar lines and technical screaming, a feeling washes over me. I recognize it immediately.

Envy.

It’s the other, other, Jeff’s band, and he fits the eccentric rockstar persona to a tee. His clothes are all tight-fitting, thrift-store finds and Sally Ann recyclables. Even his frames are a modernized version of the old-school bad-boy sunglasses. An unassuming type until you talk to him about his music, and then he’s a galvanized, animated person. He spends his money on studio hours, and his free-time laying down tracks, mixing songs, jam sessions. I don’t even know the name of his band.

I do know that this song is a huge improvement over the material he gave me a month ago. The structure is less experimental, the sound is more polished. The result of a new drummer, and redone vocals. Jeff’s goal is to get his name out there, win a recording contract, and spend the rest of his life making music. I can already tell that he’ll catch the attention of the right person at the right time.

The envy burns a hole in my chest.

Knowing that this young man, in his mid-20s, is going somewhere, is what fuels it. He has the ambition, the ability, the mindset to achieve greatness, while I remain one of the many.

If I had the time, the money, the ambition, I’d do the same. I’d be a director. A photographer. Things I think I’d be great at. Instead, I simply use video and photography to document my life, as an extra form of expression over the written word. As a result, my desire to improve is solely driven by my perfectionist attitude, not a desire to be great or to make money. I understand that to become one of the few is an investment of one’s entire life, and the risks of doing so are severe. Too severe.

It’s my choice to live like this: risk-free and secure. It’s a part of my personality. I invest in government bonds over stock. I’m a 9‑to‑5 guy, who doesn’t like going out on weekdays, whose primary goal is to pay off the mortgage before I retire. My greatness is a steady paycheque, a cat who jumps on my lap, and eight full hours of sleep. I enjoy the simple things, and satisfaction with what I have.

And I realize that not knowing the name of Jeff’s band is a subconscious choice I make. That way, there’s less chance I’ll learn of his success when I’m reading the paper.

Less chance I’ll be reminded of how average my life is.

No More Tea

Walking in, the first thing to notice is the aromatic smell of freshly brewed tea that permeates the air.

They wait on us using Cantonese with various accents, an assortment of dialects from minor provinces. They rudely throw the dishes on the table, and tell me that I can’t take pictures of the menu. My parents complain to me about the service, about their mainland manners, and say that they’ll never come here again.

I slowly sip my tea, and leave before it’s half finished. Even on a full stomach, I can feel myself getting uneasy.

The caffeine is making me anxious, a subtle reminder of the panic attack I suffered last year.

It’s been six months since I’ve had a glass of authentic Hong Kong style milk tea. No more, I’ve decided.

Saturday mornings won’t be the same.