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A Note On Chinese Titles

Both my Tai Chi teach­ers eschew the title of “Master”, and pre­fer to be called by their first names. As I’ve had it explained to me, even the true mas­ters feel like they need a cou­ple extra life­times to com­plete­ly mas­ter Tai Chi. This is what my teach­ers com­pare them­selves to, so I sus­pect they feel it erro­neous to use the same title, even though they’ve been teach­ing for decades.

I find it very awk­ward. In Chinese, the word “Master” or “Sifu” implies a teacher, not nec­es­sar­i­ly a lev­el of skill.

When I was young, I called my cousin by his Chinese name, because I thought it was insult­ing to address him by his rela­tion­al title of biu dai for “mater­nal younger male cousin” (or “moth­er’s sib­lings’ son who is younger than me”). I thought the “dai” part referred to some­one as “under”, the way “junior” could be used pejo­ra­tive­ly in English. The thing I did­n’t under­stand was that it was appro­pri­ate, per­haps even more appro­pri­ate than address­ing him by name. I’ve since become privy to the com­plex rules of Chinese names and titles, espe­cial­ly rela­tion­al fam­i­ly ones.

As a kid, the first thing you’re sup­posed to do when enter­ing a house is greet every­one — adults most impor­tant­ly — by their title.

People con­tin­ue this tra­di­tion though, and even as par­ents, they’ll address their elders the same way. It’s a way of rec­og­niz­ing and respect­ing the roles in the fam­i­ly. Even though my Tai Chi teacher is Occidental, I feel com­pelled to address my teacher as “Master”, instead of “Mike”.

And it’s hard habit for me to break.

Puscifer Queen Bee

I always thought I’d meet you at a con­cert. One of those moody, bass-heavy shows as if Robert Smith was fronting Portishead telling us to dance, dance, dance through the fire. The music’s good but too loud, and the lights are warm orange and reds.

But you’re too Suicide and I’m too xXx.

Sex and Chocolate

It’s a gen­er­al­ly accept­ed rule that sex is a good thing and choco­late is a good thing so by log­i­cal impli­ca­tion, sex and choco­late must be a very good thing.

I tied the red rib­bon from the box of choco­lates around her neck, the pen­dant a plas­tic heart.

Interpol and Cat Power

I gasped when I found out that Interpol was com­ing out with a new album. Then I threw up a lit­tle in my mouth when I heard the first sin­gle.

Why, Interpol, why? What hap­pened to the min­i­mal­ist, sparse gui­tar riffs? Why did you have to sell out with lighter, more acces­si­ble music?

Turn On The Bright Lights remains one of the most mys­te­ri­ous­ly affect­ing albums of my life. Antics was crap. Our Love To Admire is worse. Interpol needs a return to form.

Oh yes, and I’m in love with Cat Power. Not from her new stuff, which I find pret­ty bor­ing (her mate­r­i­al was a lot more inter­est­ing when she was a drunk), but from the way she dances in the Cross Bones Style video.

[youtube:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXWvjkX446A 480 380]

And while it does­n’t exact­ly make me go out and buy Kleenex at Costco, it does make me rub against the cor­ners of walls and door frames in a felo­nious man­ner.

Don’t wor­ry, Mel der Maur, no one will ever replace you.

Are You In A Lot Of Pain?

People won­der how it got so far. They ask me if some­thing hap­pened and I tell them, “Yeah…my child­hood”.

They ask me if I hate you, and I tell them “hate” isn’t a strong enough word.

It hurts, does­n’t it? Are you in a lot of pain? Cause I was in a lot of pain.

I’m still try­ing to fix your dam­age. Still try­ing to cov­er up the scars.

You deserve this. You did this to your­self.

And I fuck­ing hope it hurts.