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Monday, June 30, 2003
The food here at Ottawa University can be really gross. The other day, the special of the day was Beef Flakes. It sounds like something you douse with milk inside a cereal bowl. And if you ask me, that’s just plain weird. Like Cow Chips or something.8W is Absolutely Dreamy.. I was just minding my own business. For some reason, I was still in high school, just walking down the hall when an impromptu game of soccer sprang up in the hallway. Several boys, strangers to me, started kicking around a ball and it seemed like fun. It was only when I tried to kick the ball back that I realized how heavy my feet felt. I looked down and was surprised to see, happily taut on my feet, complete with yellow laces, the largest pair of red clown shoes I have ever seen in my life. It’s only in dreams that we have the chance to troubleshoot the ridiculous against a backdrop of everyday normalcy. And, according to this dream, no one would bat an eye. As I was at the end of the hallway, my shoes kept kicking the ball into the corner. The more I tried to get the ball out into the open, the more cumbersome my shoes felt. I tried to turn and kick it out of the corner using a different angle, but my shoes kept getting wedged into the two walls from that same angle. In frustration, I kicked the ball viciously and fruitlessly. Suddenly, to make matters more confusing, the soccer ball took on the face of a girl. These things happen in dreams. But I had the urge to keep kicking her anyway because she was somehow still a ball. I’d like to point out at this time how it’s totally against my principles to repeatedly kick a girl in the face with unbridled abandon. And I’m fully aware there’s virtually no circumstance that makes this maneuver morally attractive. In my defense, however, within the context of a dream, you’re not fully yourself – and you certainly don’t pick out your own shoes. “Stop hurting me!” she shrieked. I hadn’t realized that the girl was upset. We had a frank exchange where I explained that I wasn’t trying to hurt her, but, instead, punt her around the hall. With that, she came out of the corner a little more. But my bulbous shoe stuck on a tile, and while trying to get it unstuck, I accidentally kicked her really, really hard and sent her sailing. She careened viciously into a locker, denting it with a horrible bang. Everyone winced. Well that was nice, I thought. I left the hallway and stepped into the cafeteria, which suddenly became a golden ballroom. The problem with dreams is that they make entirely too much sense. There I was, in the ballroom of my dreams, with floor-to-ceiling windows giving full view to the heavens. A small orchestra was playing in the corner (I draw the conclusion that all conductors must have white hair as a prerequisite) and, swaying to the music, I was holding the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my arms. Her hair was slightly curly, her delicate features glowing from the scintillating chandeliers above. I don’t know how someone like me got into a party like this, but I wasn’t about to start asking questions. While dancing, which even in my dreams I cannot do, she and I started chatting as if we had known each other for years. For no reason whatsoever, I was no longer half-waltzing with the girl of my dreams, but found myself dancing with Amos, which, if you’ve seen the both of us, makes for an odd sight. Amos, who was of course wearing his favourite pants of Astrodome proportions, kept on dancing without even a shrug. Understand that it’s only in an oneiric haze that people’s identities change without warning and we accept it without question. So while his hands were on my shoulders, and mine on his waist, we talked about the latest hip hop movements and the impending release of my upcoming CD in the year 2065. I distinctly remember him having a much richer vocabulary than he does in real life, as he stated, “Slow dancing is where it’s at; besides, my pants deter me from corybantic dance.” Not even then did I think it weird that he was spouting a four-syllable word of rich etymological imagery. (Amos’ most impressive word to date is ‘predicament’.) See, that was weird, but what struck me more was how normal this whole transition was; we always talk about hip hop, always about when my album will come out, and we were still talking in the same gruff way – the only difference was that we were, well, slow-dancing at the same time. He, definitely the more homophobic of the two of us usually, was perfectly calm throughout the logistics of slow-dancing. He complained that we weren’t totally on beat with the music; how he didn’t really like this song; how my hands were clammy. “And yo, watch it. Don’t step on my feet, aight?” I felt bad. “Sorry. Man, it’s these stupid shoes.” So, basically, the moral of the story is don’t eat Beef Flakes. Thursday, June 26, 2003
They did it again.Today, I played the first movement of the Shostakovich Sonata in a public masterclass in Freiman Hall where it became apparent that my name is actually Arian Fung. It makes you wonder, of course, how they were able to spell everyone else's name right, like Raphaël Dubé who, shockingly similar to what happened this past November, gets his two dots and an accent aigu when I don't even get a "d". Next to my name, for further insult, they even took the care to spell Shostakovich/Chostakovich right twice in two different languages. I think it's because my name is too easy to spell. Like, when you have to spell "Aptowitzer", you concentrate a little more. Tuesday, June 24, 2003
So, Adrian, exactly how hard is it to get a place to live in New York City?You know, it's not hard at all if you have a loving sister who will look up the listings for you. It also helps if she deliberately looks for ways that you can cut costs. And it's another plus when she knows what you're allergic to. And comes up with this great game plan. That involves living with a giant hive of Africanized bees. Which, planted very well in her scope of knowledge, would be something I'm very allergic to. But hey, living with a bunch of bees that are already noted for swarming, stinging, and getting mad isn't that bad. Like the advertisement says, I can always close my door and like, never come out. So, in essence, that's how hard it is to find a place to live in New York. Sunday, June 22, 2003
Thanks to exactly eight frantic emails in my inbox, I'm very aware of the fact that there is a glitch resulting in an empty post on my site. Please remain calm as I have not even the slightest clue of how to fix it and, frankly, it's going to be there forever.In related news, you will all be pleased to know that I type 120 WPM with 97% accuracy, a grand total of 1 993 538 points, and the powerful title of Sea Titan. Alli is but a Sea Chicken so you must fully understand the sobering reality that I am indeed made for Typer Shark, also known as the best game in the world. Email of the Week: Stop positing just one lined messages i expet more Saturday, June 21, 2003
This is single-handedly the funnest and best game I have ever played in my entire life. Click on the featured game. I was born for this game. I was made for this game. I wish there was a professional league for this game.On an extremely related note, Paula Abdul and Garfield the cartoon cat were born two days ago. Note to Mom: the only thing I'm doing here is practising. Really. Tuesday, June 17, 2003
Frustration is a sleepless night where your mind whirs with poetic creativity and it revolves only around cheese.
Sunday, June 15, 2003
In what I'd call a much needed stroke of luck and blessing, I'm currently in a University of Ottawa residence where I just plugged in my cable to find that I have free internet access -- even though the receptionist just told me that it's "not working". We'll see how long this will hold up for.On a quick note, walking on the tunnel ramp to board the plane, I realized after turning the corner that it suddenly gave way to clear and sunny skies. At the juncture where we would normally step into the plane, the couple walking in front me simply put down their bags and started to descend the portable stairs in the sun. Suddenly I wondered if this was a dream and I was about to be boarding an imaginary plane -- but it turns out you actually have to walk outdoors to board the smaller jets. I never knew that. So there I was standing at the top of the steps with an increasing number of impatient passengers huddling behind me, grumbling, "What's with the hold up? Just go down the stairs.." And then I looked down and the couple looked up and laughed and waved for me to come down. Suddenly I felt like I was five again, having everyone chide me into jumping into the pool. "On the count of three, okay, Adrian? One, two.. three! Oh, c'mon now.." It seemed like I stepped into the plane, sat down, buckled my seatbelt, drank Gingerale, and stood up in Ottawa. That was nice. However, on a downward note, the flight attendant was one of those miserable people that you wish came with a built-in volume button. On another upward note, I was glancing over my ensemble list and one of the violinists I'll be playing with is Jesus. I wanted to call my mom, "Yo, I'm playing in a Mozart Quintet with Jesus!" But, when I met him coincidentally outside the campus, he corrected my error with a smile, pronouncing it "Hay-soos". In the end, I wasn't as excited to call back home. I'm going to post this quickly so that I won't get kicked off or something. A double bassist, his name is Benji, who will also be my roommate for the next three weeks, just showed me a peculiar looking timetable. There are two of the main cello teachers on the list, followed by a ten minute session with a bunch of cellists' names next to them -- mine included. Whatever it means, I hope it doesn't mean that we have auditions tomorrow to rank the cellists. I hate those. And if they're using our orchestral repertoire to grade us, I'm going to have to politely tell them no. Friday, June 13, 2003
The plane trip home wasn't too eventful. Jascha Heifetz was featured on one of the audio stations; I settled on it when I realized that, since there wasn't going to be any hip hop on the other stations, it was either that or Raffi's Sing-Along on channel nine.Eight-year-old Rachel was unbearably sweet before I left: while she was already off at school, I was packing up my things and found an adorable note she left in my bag, complete with the most endearing example of cacography. Later on in the flight, I started to wonder what was more sad: the fact that I almost lost a game of Chinese Checkers to her or that it took me forty-five minutes of nervous sweat to win. The teenaged Alicia voluntarily gave me something of her own: a Neutrogena face cleanser "that really, really, really helps prevent zits!! You can have it!" (To quote Yogi Berra, it was “deja vu all over again.”) My sister insisted on us driving her new VW Golf -- with me in the driver's seat. After three stalls and two whirling clouds of burning rubber smoke, I think I started getting the hang of it. That’s when Melodie was amusingly encouraging because of her dynamism: after I successfully shifted into first gear, she would explode in uproarious applause; into second, a raucous cheer; third, excited muttering of how good of a standard driver I was; fourth, “Good job!! That was so smooth!!”; fifth, ‘You drive better than me!”; and first again: a tireless renewal of her happiness. (Maybe she was just thankful about her tires.) I’ve been travelling a lot lately and it’s actually a little shocking to me. Tomorrow, I’ll be heading for Ottawa for the National Arts Centre. Depending on internet access there, posts may be very scarce. But keep in mind that whenever I say that, I end posting nearly everyday. Saturday, June 07, 2003
Vancouver’s weather is very welcoming. It was a really sunny day two days ago, not too warm and not too cold. As I type, I’m surrounded by rows of trees; armies of pine, birch and maple against a background of unmoving, heroic mountains far away; the sun kissing them all. The trees in Vancouver dwarf any of those in Toronto, both in majestic size and beauty.And here I was, sitting in the backseat of my grandmother’s Volvo, with a tiny sapling of my own, a just-turned six-year-old bundle of energy named Trisha. Eight-year-old Rachel was in school today, so it was just my grandmother, mother, and her for the day. As I have documented experience with children now, I readied myself for the usual comments about either my sizeable nose, considerable ears or numerous zits. Trisha, however, focused only on the mole that perches itself so proudly on the side of my nose. She asked me what it was and I answered, “It’s a petrified booger.” “What’s petty-fries?” she asked, confused. I seem to always bolster up my vocabulary for some reason when the moment never calls for it. There’s something very daunting about speaking with someone with a much feebler command of the English language. The car ride was taking a little longer than I expected, so Trisha and I played a few games of “I Spy” and “Guess-what-Trisha’s-thinking-about-even-though-it-could-be-anything-in-the-world-and-the-game-has-already-lasted-35-minutes”. Just as I was about to dizzy myself with the possibilities, Trisha herself got sick of the game and made up another one of her own, which she delivered in her irrepressibly scratchy lisp. Basically, she wanted to see if I could twist up my arms in a very unconventional way, with the forearms crossing each other and the hands clasping each other from behind. “Let’s see who can hold it the longest for, okay?” Whatever she was doing, it looked like it hurt. I responded, “Uh, yeah, that’s a great idea.” Her eyes brightened. “Okay, let’s play!” I forgot that, at the age of six, one doesn’t properly grasp sarcasm. “I was being sarcastic,” I said, feeling almost guilty for having taking advantage of her innocence. “What’s sarcastic?” she asked. My back straightened. In hopes that we might break some scholastic ground, I replied, “‘Sarcastic’ is the adjective form for the noun ‘sarcasm’, which, interestingly enough, comes from the Greek word sarkazein; it means ‘to tear flesh’. And basically, when one is sarcastic.. uh.. you.. obviously, you don’t care.” I ended my sentence dejectedly; kids have no expression of protest more moving than glazed eyes and a slight trickle of drool. Her arms were still locked up in the formidable twist, her eyes waiting for me to follow suit. I looked out the window: we were still in the middle of nowhere. I sighed and obediently let my arms clumsily play the contortionist. “Like this?” I asked. She beamed her assent. We sat there for a long time. But, to tell you the truth, the nuances of the game started to grip me. I chuckled to myself, “There’s no way that I’m going to lose. I mean, I’m older. I’m wiser. I’m sure I have more patience.” I looked at her, sitting there; I almost felt sorry for her. I was sure she was getting bored. I liked this game, actually. It meant that we could be quiet. Suddenly, Trisha asked me, pointing towards the top of the car door, “Can you touch that handlebar?” Ha, of course I can. I grabbed the handlebar without any effort. Trisha giggled. “You lose!” My jaw dropped. “I, uh.. I.. meant to do that.” She kept laughing at me. “No, really. I was being.. sarcastic.. with.. my hands..” From her car-seat, she kicked her feet gleefully. Something about her demeanor showed that she didn’t believe me at all. “You’re funny,” she bubbled. Tuesday, June 03, 2003
On the plane to Vancouver, I realized something of utmost importance.I had just taken the earphones off since the news was on and all I was interested in was Shanghai Knights (which, by the way, is an utter disappointment). Every now and then I'd look up to see if the movie had started. The anchorman was chatting away and I decided to see if I could read his lips. "You fuh wee puhlaa wert--" Okay, that was useless. Suddenly, a lady anchor-woman came on and it seemed as if she was seductively interested in world events. She puckered her lips, blowing kisses at the screen. Thoroughly intrigued, I decided to put on my earphones to see what could possibly be so exciting. "Juste qu'au moment que.." She was speaking French! I took off my earphones again and gazed at the screen. She looks like she's thinking something entirely too naughty to be French. I put the earphones back on. Wait a minute: state policy isn't sexy at all. And that's why French is considered such a romantic language with all the 'oo' sounding words, tongue-whipping consonants and lip calisthenics; if you're deaf, you'd be most shamefully deceived. 
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