john lennon, 1940 - 1980

The world’s a lot less colorful without you.

To even out the emo-ness the previous post contains and to celebrate my impending meeting with a certain person my dad wants me to meet and potentially marry someday, here’s something from xkcd.com:

story of my fucking life

Or not.

I like gay people as much as the next person (which is a lot, just so we’re clear), so this isn’t a homophobic post.

My sister has been watching the new Wu Chun starrer “Hot Shots” and it’s been pretty entertaining so far, if only because Wu Chun has appeared a grand total of two times in the past two episodes.

I have nothing against Wu Chun, except that he’s a lot prettier than me. My sister likes him, by the way, which makes him my imaginary brother-in-law of sorts.

Anyway, in one of the Wu Chun scenes, Jerry Yan (of F4, yes) gives Wu Chun and Other Guy the evil eye for some reason. You feel the tension as the guys appear to be preparing for a serious face-off. Wu Chun and Other Guy then move menacingly towards Jerry Yan. Both put on their motorcycle helmets and scowl for good measure.

They then ride the same motorcycle, with Wu Chun riding shotgun, his arms wrapped tightly around Other Guy’s waist.

Oooooh. How menacing.

And gay.

***PS: I’m gonna get a serious beating from my sister for this. It will be worth it.

There are triad movies, and then there are triad movies.

I’ve always been a fan of blood and gore in action movies. I think the obsession sort of started when I was around seven years old, when my parents would rent betamax (yeah, I just dated myself) tapes of Jet Li and Jackie Chan kicking ass. The homoerotic gun battles of Chow Yun-fat would come much later but eventually become much more influential than the kung-fu movies of my childhood.

People who have never heard of Mark Gor (Ma Ge or Brother Ma) might want to step away from this entry right now.

I have a rather un-girly aversion to romantic and dramatic movies, prefering the testosterone-fueled flicks detailing the lives of Hong Kong triads. I actually have the complete DVD set of the “Young and Dangerous” movies, as well as all three of the Infernal Affairs (Wu Jian Dao) trilogy.

It’s cheesy, over-the-top and the homoerotic undertones are undeniable. Welcome to the Hong Kong triad genre. The stories may diverge a bit, but it all really just boils down to brotherhood and righteousness. And swagger, too, by the way. Lots and lots of scowling and posturing and swaggering.

From the genre-defining (A Better Tomorrow, Hard Boiled, Killer) to the tragically bloody (Moment of Romance, Tragic Hero), I suppose I’ve seen nearly every triad movie I can get my hands on. There are disappointments, of course, like Ah Sao, which is really a stupid drama masquerading as a macho triad movie.

And then, of course, there are gems. I’m not talking about the Infernal Affairs series and the “undercover cop-vs.-triad” movies that appeared in its wake. There are more than a few brilliant triad movies, particularly in recent years, but there’s one that really stands out: Exiled.

Starring five of the island’s greatest triad genre actors (Anthony Wong, Francis Ng, Lam Suet，Nick Cheung and eternal triad baddie Roy Cheung), Exiled tells the story of five assassins — sworn brothers torn apart by a mission. I’m not going into details (I’m sure wikipedia is the place for that), but, well, let’s just say it’s the most beautiful triad movie of the century. With old-world Macau as its backdrop, Johnny To’s luscious cinematography captures the lawlessness and inescapable world of Jiang Hu, where good and bad don’t really matter so much. The first scene opens and you just know they’re all doomed to go down in a beautiful blaze of gunfire.

Inertia in the movie is palpable, with the protagonists held captive by indecision and a realization that there really was no way out. When the ninety minutes are up, there’s really just nothing left to say. Or maybe there is:

Johnny To, you are a god.

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Rant of the Day
a.k.a. “as if this post isn’t long enough”

Kim Chiu, according to the PDI, has released an album named “Gua Ai Di”. The album contains the song “Peng You” which she sang on TV (while inside the PBB house) and the Teresa Teng classic “Yue Liang Dai Biao Wo De Xin”, mistakenly billed as a song “traditionally” sung at weddings. First of all, we don’t have a song “traditionally” sung at weddings. Second, I get the point. She’s Chinese.

AND SO???

A friend’s “short story” post inspired me to unearth something I tried to cobble together a year ago, back when I was jobless and *ahem* horrendously desperate. Ambitious little me thought that, with the chick lit *gag* bandwagon ongoing, I could cash in and get me some moolah. I decided I could go the “Tsinoy” route and write about something I actually knew.

Halfway through the third chapter, though, I realized I wasn’t so sure I could pull it off. Truth be told, I didn’t know how best to handle the “race” issue, since in real life, it’s still a pretty big deal among Tsinoys. So yeah, I got scared, chickened out and left the third chapter hanging.

By the way, it’s not a semi-autobiographical piece. Some people, like Auntie Hellen, for example, are inspired by (unfortunately) real human beings. Don’t go suing me, though. Not yet, anyway. You could wait till I get a publisher for this thing, if that ever happens. Enough with the explanations, though. Here goes:

CHAPTER I – HERE COMES THE BRIDE

“You really should be married by now.”

It didn’t take a genius to know who was hissing at me from across the cramp room. The smell of yards upon yards of fabric wafted up my nostrils. I did my best not to gag. Instead, I kept my eyes down, valiantly struggling to remove a non-existent stain from my immaculate white shirt. But of course those piercing dagger eyes were still on me, trying to drill a hole through my icy, nonchalant façade. Unfortunately, the dagger eyes were winning.

Really, it should be illegal to carry eyes like that without a license.

With short, gasping breaths, I willed myself never to look up, knowing full well the consequences of doing so. The heat of her stare was suffocating. It would be the beginning of another of her numerous monologues – all burning down to the exact same point. A one-sided discussion – one I would never win. Ever. It would be best to avoid the unavoidable, even just for a few minutes. Maybe, if God really loves me, the floor would open up and swallow me now before the inevitable happened.

Apparently, God doesn’t.

The eyes must have gotten tired of staring. A flying pincushion hit me squarely on the head and fell on my lap – taunting. The metal pins stuck out defiantly, burning brightly against the orange monstrosity that almost ruined my already messy hair. With morbid interest, I realized that some of the pins were sticking out the wrong way – a dangerously wrong way. The thought that I could have died on the spot was pathetically enticing. Anyhow, it would have been a much kinder fate.

Are you trying to kill me? Mental telepathy never works. Reluctantly I raised my head and found myself staring into those eyes. I willed myself not to flinch from the waves of contempt and disappointment that radiated from her eyes. It would not be long now. I could almost hear her teeth, grinding in anticipation. She licked her lips and I braced myself for the oncoming blow. Yup, this is going to be one of those goddamn days.

“Come see Gigi’s wedding gown!”

The voice could have rung out from the deepest pit of hell and I wouldn’t have cared. Maybe God does love me after all. I smiled at the figure sitting across me, fighting hard to keep the smugness and relief out of my lopsided smile. I seemed almost … apologetic. Slowly, ever so slowly, she bared her fangs in a sneer, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. Later was written all over her face. Not that it mattered, though. I had successfully evaded another episode of catatonia. Tomorrow? Well, tomorrow is another day, as Scarlett often says. Not that my mother would know Scarlett anyway.

“Sinong Scarlett?”

I stared at her in disbelief. Does she really have telepathic powers? Merciful God! Suddenly, death sincerely seemed like a very viable prospect. It was in this moment of sheer distress, panic and despair that I realized my mother had been saying something else – something that had nothing to do with anyone named Scarlett. My mother, ladies and gentlemen – armed with a withering stare and the power to drive me ballistic with one smirk. No wonder I’ve been diagnosed with paranoia.

Then a bundle of pure joy bounced up and into the room, taking up half of the cramp office’s remaining space. I soon recognized the bouncing bundle as my Auntie Hellen, mother of the blushing bride-to-be. She was flushed, barely able to speak after squeezing out of the cramp hell hole known otherwise as the fitting room. A grin broke her full moon face in half as she battled to regain her breath, vigorously fanning her sweaty mass of flesh with swollen hands. Would it send me straight to hell to wish that Auntie would choke on her own excitement and die?

She didn’t, though, and I could see Mother waiting patiently with a faux smile fixed painfully on her face. It felt like a hundred years before sweaty Aunt Hellen was able to speak. By then my eyes had retreated to the back of my head, enjoying a moment of joyous solitude. My hands – without thinking – had busied themselves picking out old scabs off the crusty couch. A build-up of faux leather crumbs gathered beside me, waving goodbye to the couch they had desperately clung to for much too long.

“It’s gorgeous!” Auntie finally managed to blurt out.

Almost on cue, Gigi stepped out of the fitting room, coyly showing off the gown and her robust figure. The modista was hot on her trail, admiring every single swish her handiwork made. Mother gave a small nod of approval, the same mirthless smile nailed to her porcelain face. Auntie was beside herself with joy, clapping at every little sashay her darling daughter made around the cramp office. She was giddy – like a schoolgirl on cough syrup. Gigi herself was red with pride, blushing fiercely like a marshmallow left out in the sun too long.

I have to admit, though, that Gigi did look beautiful in her wedding gown. The off-shoulder cut magnificently revealed her round shoulders and creamy complexion. The beads, though, were a little too much for my taste. Rows upon rows of beads were sewn into the bodice – creating a massive, indestructible, Mazinger Z armor. More of those beads spilled down the gown, creating a landslide of sorts. The gown was unbelievably long – as most wedding gowns are wont to be – with a detachable train lengthy enough to hang fifteen men all at the same time. Ruffa would have withered in shame.

“So what do you think?”

It took several agonizing seconds for me to realize I’d been asked THE question. I could have run. I could have smiled and nodded. Unfortunately, I didn’t. Gripped by an unseen force and a lethal desire to ruin everybody’s day, I opened my mouth and said,

“It looks okay, but the beads …”
“Swarovski crystals.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Swarovski. They’re not beads.”
“Oh.”

Apparently, it was the cue everyone was waiting for to start ignoring me. Auntie launched into a lively monologue on the fine virtues of expensive, expensive Swarovski crystals. Beads, she spat out in contempt. They’re not beads, she said, haranguing no one in particular. Mother seemed to have lost interest in the proceedings, opting to play “snake” on her cellphone instead. Gigi, of course, was still hamming it up for the full-length mirror, with the modista fussing over her every move. Five grown women and a wedding gown, trapped in a cramp hole-in-the-wall dress shop that no one’s ever heard of before.

It’s a goddamn circus, and the wedding hasn’t even started.

“Where’s the bridesmaid?”

The chirpy modista’s voice rang out, shattering my moment of self-induced comatose. In the flurry of activities, I had almost forgotten what I was actually there for. The thought sent shockwaves through my entire being. The modista beckoned me into the fitting room, smiling. I was frozen, unable to leave my seat. My mouth went dry, and all I could manage were pathetic choking sounds.

“Get up.”

One withering look from Mother, and I knew I had no choice. With leaden feet, I trudged into the hell hole, trying hard not to whimper along the way. What came next was a scene straight out of a horror movie. To say the dress was a monstrosity would be a grievous understatement. In truth, it was a decent gown – a perfectly normal “made for the bridesmaid” one. Except that in the rush of getting things done, no one had taken the time to tell me what color the wedding motif was.

It was yellow. A bright, sunshiny yellow. A lemony, god-my-eyes-can’t-see yellow. Against my skin, the dress reflected a ghastly, emaciated glow that painted “SICK” all over my forehead. My cheekbones protruded in the most frightening way, exuding the image of a richly-dressed refugee. The sight on the mirror was unbearable.

“Married women can’t be bridesmaids right?” I asked.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing.”

Maybe I really should be married by now.

Violent reactions can be sent to my PR person, Raul Gonzales.

I have had this particularly ugly wound on my lower right arm for weeks. If I remember correctly, I got it in early January, while strolling rather aimlessly on the streets of Chinatown. I don’t know what exactly my arm hit at that time, but whatever it was, it’s probably dirty, germ-filled and quite possibly poisonous.

But I’m not dead yet, and that’s not even the point.

The point is that it’s been over three weeks and that damn wound is still here. It’s not an open wound, by the way, as a scab began to cover it like a day after I got the wound. Despite that, the thing looks absolutely gross. I am hoping it isn’t infected as well, and so far, I haven’t started barking like mad or howling at the full moon, so I guess that’s out of the question.

But if it’s scabbed over weeks ago, why is it still here? That, ladies and gentlemen, is the crux of the matter. Technically speaking, the wound should’ve healed completely by now, if I didn’t have this terrible personality flaw.

I have no patience.

Yes, I plead guilty, your honor, to not having any Emotional Quotient to speak of. I’m extremely impatient to the point of being retarded at times. I stand in line, I wait for my turn and stuff, but I’m not exactly happy about it.

And so the answer to that earth-shaking question is simple: yes, I’ve been picking at the wound with vigor every time it scabs over, and then I find that it hasn’t really healed inside. Great. I suppose this scenario has played over and over for almost twenty times over the course of approximately three weeks, which explains the ugly thing still sitting on my arm.

I suppose it could be my body’s subtle means of murdering me, as the wound grows every time I happily tear off the scab. One day I’ll be nothing more than a huge blob of dried out, chewed up, ugly scab, and then I’ll pick at myself all day long. While watching DVDs, hopefully.

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On a much lighter and less disgusting note, belated Happy Chinese New Year to everybody who cares! Remember kids, it’s all about the TIKOY.

I’m for sale.

Or not, considering how my parents really aren’t expecting any monetary compensation for all the years that they’ve had to put up with me.

A door prize is more like it.

There comes a time when a Tsinoy girl gets caught up in a rather unfortunate enterprise imposed by elders who believe that they know better. The time to decide your worth has come, and parties interested in harvesting your genes come knocking. All those years of studying and carving a niche on this dying earth boils down to this crap. It’s time to think of marriage, Tsinoy style.

But don’t worry, it’s not a relationship they want, dear. They want a totem.

And who decides? Not you or me, unfortunately.

The entire thing is so goddamn unromantic even I would rather die than be part of it.

Last Saturday, I gave my mom’s friend and her grandson a ride home. The ride was pretty short, and I, of course, was more intent on the road than on them.

Yesterday, one of my mom’s temple peeps contacted her, saying how the grandmother wanted me to be her grandson’s “friend”.

Ahem.

The definition of “friend” can be quite tricky right here. My definition of “friend” is roughly the same as Webster’s. Apparently, my parents (and the grandmother) were quoting a different dictionary. Accepting a “friend” is tantamount to opening the gates of hell (or allowing a suitor in, which isn’t really any better). Worst, for the Chinese, marriage really isn’t far behind once you get your “friend”.

I have no idea who the guy is. I barely saw his face, by the way, except that I know he’s way fairer than me. I have no biases whatsoever, except for the fact that he didn’t respect my authority (Cartman style) when he didn’t wait for me to unlock the car doors with my omnipotent power lock. Unacceptable.

To be fair, he probably doesn’t want any of this crap either.

It’s extremely flattering that the dear old grandma would think so highly of me, considering we’re an average family and they’re pretty loaded. Selecting a granddaughter-in-law is very political for the Chinese, as it requires both parties to hurdle questions of status, character, family background and *ahem* horoscope. To have someone think that I’m good enough (me, of all people) is really quite a compliment.

Not that any of that bull could convince me.

I don’t want a “friend”. No. No. NO!

My parents have been rather nice, though, allowing me to decide whether or not I wanted to submit myself to the rigorous courting process (insert barf here). But they were pretty excited, considering I’m not getting any younger and have no lovelife to speak of to this day.

For the record, I asked my mom to tell the other party no. I’d rather not jump into the abyss, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, this isn’t the first, and probably won’t even be the last. I don’t believe in finding a husband through this antiquated set-up. Corny as it sounds, you can’t force these things…they just sort of have a way of catching you when you think you’re safely out of reach.

I just wonder how long I can keep on running.