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Thursday, January 29, 2004
I really appreciate all the feedback and questions, guys. Yes, I'm a guy. No, I'm not a girl.Anyway, I haven't been updating recently because.. well.. I really can't tell you. Not yet, anyway. But I'm so excited I'm about to lose all control of my excretory faculties. Speaking of excretory, something happened the other day and I'm dying to know why I always seem to get myself stuck in social loopholes. I was at school and I was talking to this guy I've known only a week. Expecting the conversation to stop, I said that I needed to wash my hands. He followed me into the men's room, talking the whole time. Now, I'm okay with this. But while still carrying the conversation, which was pretty one-sided in the first place, he goes into a stall and closes the door. "So, like, that piece was so cool, man," he was saying, regarding a concert last week. His belt buckle made a tinny clink when it hit the ceramic floor. Suddenly, it became clear to me that the guy was taking a dump. But he kept talking. What is that about? I have a rule in mind that if one end of you is talking, the other one isn't. And all I wanted to do was wash my hands. Like, I'm done here. I didn't ask for dinner and movie. In mid-grunt, he went on, "I mean, isn't that weird? I wonder if (pffft..) there's some sort of percussion section in the back.." This always happens: I barely know the guy and he's just about to expel last night's fiesta platter special. Like, if it was one of my friends, I would just make a comment about his percussive wind ensemble, laugh, and leave. But no one I know does things like this. I haven't been equipped with the social savvy to get out of this situation. Finally, after a lull, of which his rear took the opportunity to thoroughly communicate the idea of relief, I said, "Bye." Anyway, speaking of gas.. Saturday, January 24, 2004
And You Thought I Was DoneThe Irretrievable 8W has a new update! For those that have bought the CD and asked for background information on some of the songs, here is your installment for "Will We Continue". I'll be writing posts for the most requested songs by email. For those that have yet to buy the CD, a solo cut of the song is available via the link. Upcoming developments on The Irretrievable 8W will include freestyles, other clips from songs within the Lightning Strikes Twice CD, and selections from my recent classical cello recordings. Once again, I'd like to thank Amos for his invaluable help in keeping me from angrily rewiring my computer into a toaster. Email of the Week: Why do you call it a purse?? I showed my girlfriend your site and the picture didn't load up for some reason and she thought from the writing that you were a girl! You know what that means. Anonymous I like how you abandon an inconclusive line of thought with an empty statement. Anyway, I understand that this is a serious issue. Purse. Okay. Here we go. It's not my fault if this is boring. A long-time reader, Avital from Vancouver, notified me that I could just call it a 'murse', since that's what most of her male friends do with theirs. I like Avital. Avital is very thoughtful; she's merely trying to prevent me from further stigmatism. However, this solution makes little sense to me. I mean, when women started wearing pants, did we call them fants? If the first letter of a word ever did anything, then the word 'purse' must somehow give us reason to believe that it is female solely by its spelling. But it doesn't. The word purse was lucky to have two arguable lines of etymology: one from Latin for bursa, meaning a bag or pouch; the other, from the French bourse, which is also where we get the word bursary. In both cases, no one really knows how the 'b' became a 'p'. What I'm saying is that one can only follow this line of logic if the first letter ever did anything. Webster's defines 'purse' as simply a bag to hold your money. Saying 'murse' for 'man purse', then, would force the word to have been initially taken from a portmanteau of 'woman purse', which is 'wurse'. Which is worse. And stupid. I mean, calling a purse a murse simply because you're a guy is to subject the word 'purse' to something that, through unfounded overuse, is exclusive to one sex. And that's what happened to 'nurse' a few years ago. Male nurses braved the cold ignorance that all nurses were female -- making them just really ugly women who might be greatly improved by those little white hats and racy short skirts. But after the battle, do we call male nurses 'murses'? In the name of sexual equality, no. Friday, January 23, 2004
My sister's birthday is today. I know that many people say this, but, actually, I'm the one with the best sister in the world. I've been sitting here for a while trying to explain how my sister is without sounding sappy, and, well, that's hard to do. As I was reading my diary -- I mean, journal -- I came upon an entry where I talked about a dream I had just had. I think it's fitting to post, such as the day that it is:A bunch of us were in a contest and we had to butter as many sheets of paper as we could. (My dreams rarely concern themselves with such snooty things like making sense.) I took a stick of butter and tried to rub it all over the sheet of paper and, though it took a while, I got it done. I had finished three sheets of paper. Everyone else around me was bustling, but I was obviously ahead. It is often that, with the realization that I have a superlative proficiency at something inexplicably trivial, I start wishing there was somehow a professional league for it. Anyway, an ingenious idea hit me. Well, it wasn't my idea; I was actually inspired when I saw Melodie using the microwave, and I naturally concluded that she had melted the butter to butter paper faster. I simply had to admit that this was so much smarter. I saw my sister butter the paper gently and it soaked right into the paper. In that moment, I knew I needed an edge, and so, piggy-backing of her idea, I melted a bowl of butter myself -- but instead, I dipped a whole bunch of sheets in it. This method increased my productivity exponentially. Suddenly, I noticed Melodie pulling out a roasted goose from the oven. She had used the one sheet of paper she buttered to bake a goose! What's with the stupid goose? What is she doing? Were there bonus points for throwing in waterfowl? Why is she wasting her time? This game's about quantity! She's going to lose!! It was only at the end of the contest that I realized Melodie had decided to busy herself with making a gorgeous meal for all of us, instead of running around gunning for prestige and fame (which buttering paper is sure to give you). She was so loving, considerate, and kind while the rest of us let the contest hold the sole driving purpose of our actions. I realize this is not necessarily a good story -- that's because it's just a dream. But sometimes dreams mean something. And it could just mean that I have the best sister in the world. Monday, January 19, 2004
Email of the Week:"You changed to slimmer pants because you thought it woudl be socially exceptable. You're a wimp. I say live life on the edge." And I say 'acceptable'. You'll be happy to know that my box of Kellogg's Muslix expired last year and I ate it anyway. I almost felt a chill at the risk involved. Saturday, January 17, 2004
Amos and Micah came visiting from Montreal. A lot of people think that my sister and I look exactly the same, except I'm uglier. Some people think that we don't look alike at all (because I'm uglier). Anyway, Amos and Micah kind of look the same, and then again, not so much; fortunately, it's not because one of them is a brutishly disagreeable version of the other. They look different because they have very conflicting styles when it comes to clothes. I've had the unique opportunity to see them both exercise their ideas of dress side by side, having taken them to Heartland, a plaza of factory outlet stores. Their mother, (Auntie Cindy, Mrs. Chan, C-Mo), was telling me how difficult it was to find one store where they both would be happy shopping. I didn't really understand why until I saw Micah lubricate his legs with Keri Lotion so he could get himself into the smallest pants I have ever seen in my life. Well, I've seen pants about that big, but they were on my G.I. Joe figurines. You have to understand that Micah has a Club Monaco physique; also known as the ketchup-like ability to squeeze through anything. I once saw the guy enter a building through a keyhole. I'm not kidding. Okay, I am. I have to admit, though, that the clothes he tries on look great on him. On him. Not me. I tried, too. It was a V-neck sweater from Mexx. I'm scheduled for an angioplasty next week. Interestingly enough, Amos operates his fashion finesse from the complete opposite end of the spectrum. Amos' goal is to buy pants, at the very least, 8 sizes larger than Texas. C-Mo and I tried to get Amos to try something smaller. I handed Amos a pair of 34 dress pants, and he kept insisting that it didn't go with what he was 'trying to do'; which was, namely, to be able to fit several barnyard animals within the folds of his clothing. "Amos," I cajoled, from outside his fitting room, where Amos was trying on several pants by seeing if he could stuff his entire torso into one of the pant legs, "You're honestly not a 40. This is like reverse anorexia." "I can't fit into a 34, man!" "What are you talking about?!" There was no answer. I turned to Micah. "What is your brother talking about?" Micah shrugged and said, while looking at the mirror sideways, "Like, if he has to unbutton his pants to get them on, they're too 'tight.'" It doesn't matter that, by this same principle, his pants would fall off just as easily. This is, after all, cool. On a side note, I've decided there's nothing funnier than seeing Amos attempt to run. Anyway, I was convinced that if he just got over the hurdle of getting the pants past his knees, he'd like it. I ran to a rack and got a dress shirt to go with the dress pants. In my excitement, I ran into his fitting room. "Okay," I said. "Just try this outfit, Amos. And come out to look in the mirror." Amos spluttered, "Wuh-what are you doing in-- HOW did you end up in my change-room?!" I looked at the shirt in my hand. Granted, it was maybe a little strange to be in such a tiny, private, enclosed space with him. What would people think? I closed the curtain -- which, I'm sure, made things better. "Just try these on, c'mon. I'm serious. I'm giving you a shot at looking back on your family photos without wincing. Your pants -- they look like potato sacks." On the condition that I leave, he tried on the pants and came out. He hated the pants: For Amos, the principal idea of pants is for obscuring any contour possible -- in this case, we could just make out where his calf ended and where his knee was. I was told that this was unbearably girly. It dawned on me that, because of my slimmer pants -- that is, less room in my pockets -- I now had a purse with me at all times. Amos resents my calling it a purse and feels that it is, in itself, endangering my manliness, dwindling as it is. I had also mistakenly taken jogging pants to the fitting rooms only to be turned back by the clerk at the door with an explanation of sniveling conformity; that is, those pants were ladies' wear. Neither of these bore a good witness to Amos that a change into slimmer pants could have any desirable denouement. Nor did it give good reason to believe anything I say. "Amos, it's not girly," I said resolutely, taking a manly bite from my pink strawberry ice cream sugar cone. Friday, January 16, 2004
It's 7 am, people. I just got home. I was supposed to be in New York City by 10:30 pm -- yesterday. Customs took well over 2 hours to finish checking the six people on-board. In attempts to make up for the lost time, the train proceeded to not move at all whenever they felt like it, for three hours at a time.Amtrak is absolutely fabulous! Thumbs up. (Literally. You might get there faster.) Tuesday, January 13, 2004
It has come to my attention that several people have no idea who is rapping what on the Lightning Strikes Twice CD. Some of you who read this site and who have also bought the CD -- which is not very many of you, seeing that 80% of my readers don't, how shall we put this, like me -- will note that the CD is built up on several songs interspersed with freestyle interludes. In these sessions, we're improvising and eventually, as is my wont, I start to make fun of Epidemic. I do this because, frankly, I've run out of grandiose metaphors for how great I am at everything (unfounded boasting is, somehow, a standard stance for the freestyling -- and not freestyling -- rapper). The freestyle interludes were recorded in Epidemic's makeshift studio, which is essentially in his father's study, and also where Epidemic's family pictures are on proud display. On the CD, Ep and I get into an extensive battle, where I make fun of framed pictures of him wearing his 5-inch thick glasses, long hair, and incriminatingly tight pants tucked into a pair of multi-coloured socks. This climaxes into him kicking me out of his house.Trisha from Boston, after buying the CD, wrote, "I want to know what family photos he's talking about...haha! =) Don't worry, most Asian kids go through nerd phases... Just be glad you grew out of yours!" I sat there dumbfounded. I've been ducking those dark years of my life by moving three times. How could she possibly know that I was a nerd-- Oh, I get it. I wrote her a long and winding email about how she had obviously mixed up who was saying what in the battle interludes -- which, when reading back, I guess sounded much more defensive than it needed. But the point is several people have no idea who is who. This is a cause of great distress for me. Two other readers-turned-consumers wrote, "You sound so angry in the last track, it's hilarious." This is obviously another mix-up since Ep's the one screaming -- you should have seen him. The veins on his forehead were so pronounced I could have used it as a map to drive back home. And here's where I'm baffled: The whole time I'm saying his name, man. "Ger, calm down, man." "Ger, how am I going to get back home?" "Ger, what are you doing with my jacket, dog?! Why are you throwing it out the door?! Ger?!" "Ger" is not another form of "yo", guys. Okay. Enough of that. Here's how it works: In songs, Epidemic's voice is higher, in a way, and he sounds all energetically tough; my voice is generally lower and raspier, and, usually, I sound more laid-back. This is what people say. If you ask me, Ep sounds like he's on speed; I sound like I'm on Claritin Drowsy. However, when we are freestyling, it's the other way around. The problem is that those who know who is who are the ones that also take everything seriously. Another email came in the other day, and it said, "Dear 8W, I feel that you should be more thoughtful with your freestyles. Making fun of your friend's glasses, even with a carefree juxtaposition, is uncouth, immature, and not very friendly. If you freestyle like this, I'm sure you will no longer have him as your friend. Think about it." Just kidding. But, well, you never know. Saturday, January 10, 2004
Email of the Week:I feel that you should be more thoughtful with your site, 8W. Your humour has become stale with the notion that you would bomb several countries if you were the Prime Minister. Writing in this manner at such sensitive times as these is ignorant, uncouth, and immature. If you keep writing with this thrust, I'm sure your audience will diminish. Think about it. Anonymous I really like your spelling. It's flawless. Good diction and grammar, too. I think if you ended the email with 'you ignorant, simpering fool', it would have been the best email I've ever gotten! Thanks for writing. And, for the record, I only wanted to declare war on everybody. Bombing them was your idea. Thursday, January 08, 2004
As I'm part of Canada's Student Awards mailing list, I sometimes get contest applications for essay-writing. One of these essay competitions consisted of answering this question in 1 000 words or less: "What would you do if you were the next Prime Minister?" I could win a cash prize of $2 000, man:Apparently, we have a new Prime Minister and nobody cared to tell me. Granted, I was in New York when it happened. Americans don't really care to talk about Canada in their newspapers unless it's to blame us for the Eastern Seaboard power outages, mad cow disease, bad weather, and that particular morning's burnt toast. So, in New York, I wouldn't have heard about a new Prime Minister. The New York Times -- who have garnered themselves a steely reputation for being cool and collected, as evidenced by their cool and collected perspective on being 'pummeled' by what some call pretty snowflakes -- might just explode into big bold font about a mammoth SARS epidemic constituting one Torontonian with a runny nose, but never anything about a new Prime Minister. Upon arriving back home, however, I couldn't blame the Americans for not caring. It seems that Canadians themselves don't really care. I've been talking to several of my friends and, would you believe this, the issue has never come up. And I'm exactly the type of person you would bring political issues to as well. What's really happening with Paul Martin, our new Prime Minister, is that no one cares. People with two first names for a full name are boring. Look at Sean Paul: his name sucks, but he decided to make things work for him through other means; namely, singing tremendously out of tune. Paul Martin needs to do something big in order to shake Canadians from their hebetudinous stupor. There's no incentive to do anything good for your country when everyone attributes any amount of progress to the guy before you -- and I really don't think it's a good sign when you're the new leader of our country and no one knows who you are and when the other guy left. To illustrate, my friend of unrivaled intellectual height, D-Grey, who wishes to be unnamed, wrote back to my email asking him who the current Prime Minister was, saying, "What is this? A test? It's that John Christian guy." Anyway, Paul Martin tried to get into today's paper; he made it to page nine of the Star. He was standing there with an army jacket some division gave him. He has got to do better than that. When no one knows you exist, it's a mistake to think you can fix the problem just with a new jacket. If you ask me, he needs to do something drastic. You need to start off with a bang. If I were Paul Martin, I'd declare war on the whole world. Then, after a day of spin, I'd say, "Just kidding." For him, it's a no-lose situation: No one will panic if they think you're joking; no one will panic if they thought you were serious. Canada is a little bit like a male professional ballet dancer: healthy and muscular but no one would be scared if you got all pissy. So, therefore, in conclusion, if I were the Prime Minister, I would declare war on the entire world. I think that's less than a thousand words. You have to admit this is a killer essay. Monday, January 05, 2004
Email of the Week:Dear 8W, I'll be travelling to New York next year and I was wondering if you could recommend me some eateries. I figure with your stellar cooking skills, you'd be eating out quite a bit. Haha.. Donny from Toronto Oh, look, it's someone witty. I think you should find another medium to nurse your naked envy, Donald. In any case, I do know of some places to eat. New York pizza is unlike any of those you'll find in Canada. First of all, in New York, it's astronomically priced. I recommend going to Famiglia's. Hot dogs aren't too bad in New York either. Gray's Papaya is at the corner of 71st and Broadway; it's famous for its 75-cent hot dogs. At 75 cents, you'd expect to be eating squirrel. Thankfully, the people at Gray's Papaya scoff at cutting corners. The hot dogs are just really, really, really small. But the best 'eatery' that I can think of is Taco Bell. Some people don't like Taco Bell. They tell me that, at one time, giant syringes would hang from the kitchen ceiling, within arm's grasp; the worker would simply reach up, pull it down, and squirt some beef into a taco shell. You have to admit that this is simply ingenious. You see, when ground beef was first invented, people thought it was weird. Prior to machinery, the only way of seeing meat with roughly the same consistency was after it had gone through the mechanics of violent bodily expulsion. But now, in the happy name of progress, Taco Bell is able to announce that we are getting closer and closer to the real thing. However, I happen to like the consistency of their beef for another reason. Being mature and cultured, I prefer to shovel tacos down my throat, as if in desperation, getting away with as little chewing as possible. I do this primarily because it impresses the ladies. So there you have it. An incredibly thorough Guide to Eating in New York. I'm sure this will help, Donald. If it doesn't, my sister knows a little about New York City as well, though her Guide to Eating in New York is hampered by the fact that she has yet to set foot in the city. I'm certain you'll find my guide more comprehensive and helpful, but I understand if your apparent jealousy of me would beg to differ. Friday, January 02, 2004
8W - On A MissionIf you haven't been in touch with me lately, you will realize that I'm currently endeavouring to find out what I'm good at. I'm doing this because I read that Einstein was a genius in advanced mathematics and physics, yet struggled to the point of nervous sweat when it came to pocket change and separating the darks and whites in his laundry. So what I'm thinking is that maybe I'm not an idiot; maybe I'm a genius. People find this very suggestion highly probable, and they express their support by laughing hysterically in an uproarious display of their unshakeable belief in me. In any case, you must admit it would simply be a shame to be a genius at, say, backgammon, and never have fulfilled that potential because, up until last month, I had thought it was some sort of fish. What I'm really saying is that, in attempts to calculate the tip, it could just be that I spend 25 minutes with a calculator and, in the end, five dollars too much, simply because I'm just really, really good at something else. Like, standing on one foot for a really, really long time. I'm actually pretty good at that. Okay, so trying to figure out what I’m good at is the only reason why I would agree to play chess with my sister. I know a lot about chess. First of all, it's a game. Chess is a game where you sit and stare at tiny figurines like they weren't really boring. In past millenia, humans have steadily climbed the steep ladder of intellect and to the top of the food chain in order to exhaustively concern ourselves with the strategic maneuvering of little plastic objects on a patterned slab of wood. This is our privilege and our duty, as a smart people. We don't do this because it's fun; we do it because we can and we should. It's a little like voting. In my constant strive to be more educational, you'll be happy to know that the inventor of chess was, as evidenced by the omnipotence of the queen and the limping one-square steps of a thoroughly useless king, a woman. That makes chess a woman's game. Which is why the favour was clearly on my sister's side from the very beginning. So, needless to say, she won. I'm not a genius at chess. I can live with that. But she can't stand on one foot for longer than, I'd say, a minute. Can she live with that? Apparently so, I'm disappointed to say. Anyway, one of my good friends, Clement, came over the other day. Asking Clement whether he could slaughter me in chess is a little bit like asking Mike Tyson whether his teeth are sharp. Thankfully, my sister suggested The Game of Life instead. The moment that we started to play, something happened. My illustrious life began with capturing an escaped lion, getting a $4 000 bounty, becoming a doctor, winning the lottery, buying a yacht, having five kids, and discovering uranium. To illustrate how successful I was, my own sister, who didn't do nearly as well as I did, proceeded to vent her jealous rage at me by suing for $200 000. But, surprisingly, I didn't care. My eyes dreamily glazed over with the realization that my true skill in life is to excel at an incredibly breath-taking simulation of it. A counterfeit so realistic that everyone is given a standard-issue station wagon with which one could stick members of one's family, who are essentially blue or pink pegs, into the holes on the roof. But the search continues because I think that you can't really be a genius at The Game of Life. That's a little like saying you're a genius at picking your nose. It's relatively mindless, fairly unimpressive, and you don't really want it to define you when people introduce you at parties. 
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