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Friday, July 30, 2004
Have you ever wished you could just have a conversation with yourself when you were young? Like, to go back in time and tell yourself you're an idiot? To tell yourself, maybe, not to pick a fight with that kid at the baseball field who was twice your size -- to tell yourself the belief that being Chinese will unearth life-saving, atavistic kung fu skills in moments of need is completely ill-founded?While reading my journal, I had the urge to do just that. Here is the first journal entry I've ever written. Thursday, November 13, 1990. I personally don't really like Matt Denly. Well he's okay but sometimes he pretends he's so cool. I actually think that I'm cool. I like Jessica Parker. She's nice. There's nothing really wrong with her. Well, anyways. Today Greg asked me who I liked. I said to him "first you tell me!" But he said "I asked you first." Fortuanitly, I didn't tell him. Because if I told him, he'd probably say (after I told him) "I like mostly all the boys!" I should have said "I don't like anybody!" As you can see, when I was nine years old, I was also a genius. Look, Adrian, I have no idea how you came around to the conclusion that you're cool. Though you struggle valiantly with bed head, you still look like Astroboy. I don't think there's one shirt you wear during the week that doesn't have something to do with Ninja Turtles. (...) Man, you're wearing Punky Brewster shoes. It's nice that you like Jessica Parker, but if you want her to like you back, you have to wait, like, ten years. Though I like how you like Jessica Parker on the basis that there's "nothing really wrong with her". Personally, I wouldn't want to get with some girl that's a head taller than me and picks her nose with two fingers. That's gross. How is this possibly attractive to you? How is there nothing wrong with that? Such witty repartee you quote between yourself and Greg. I thought you had him at the "First you tell me!" line. I didn't think there could possibly be a way for him to wriggle out of that brilliant tactical maneuver. You got blindsided, however, by the old "I asked you first" jab. I'm happy to note that you didn't tell him who you liked; I see that you conveniently left off on the story because, as you remember, you decided instead on a cool strategic response, which was, namely, to run away skipping. Ah, the innocence when we were in third grade, Adrian. If Greg, who was a hawk-eyed little twerp that you for some reason wanted to befriend despite his being an insufferable jerk at all times, had said "I like mostly all the boys", you could have just asked him if he's gay. This seems to be the clinching jibe as you'll find out soon in middle school. However, as the word 'fortunately' proved to be quite the hieroglyphic puzzle for you, I suppose 'homosexual' meant nothing to you or anyone in the playground back then. That said, you should still stop skipping. Wednesday, July 28, 2004
I used to ride the hills with my friend Gabriel for hours in Ancaster, Ontario. His backyard sloped into the deep woods which housed the Bruce Trail. I borrowed the faux-BMX he had bought from Toys R Us, and the weekends would see us exploring hidden fields and gentle creeks flowing down the mountain. The BMX supposedly had five gears, of which only two of them worked. It slowly deteriorated over use; but I enjoyed these outings so much I decided to buy a mountain bike of my own. I've decided there is nothing quite so empty as investing in a bike when you're about to turn a licensed sixteen. The empty feeling might be akin to buying a typewriter a week before you're going to get a computer.My bike is a black Trek with 21 gears. Before this bike, I had wiped out several times. One time, as Gabe and I were nearing a street corner, I noticed a car was coming from behind. I decided that this was the perfect time to signal that I would be turning right. The idea was good and plausible as I conveniently ignored the fact that I had never performed this maneuver ever in my life. Forgetting whether I was supposed to extend my right arm from the handlebar, or lift a bent left arm, I decided that the surest sign would be doing both. As far as repercussions go, there is nothing more sure than asphalt. I wiped out; the car, a 1974 Buick station wagon, skidded out of the way, narrowly missing my head. Every now and then, we all make bad decisions. I justified my bad decision with the solid reasoning that it was imperative the world knew I had every intention of turning right; even more imperative than successfully doing so. But obviously, if you cannot turn right without falling, you have some balance issues. I, however, concluded that what I needed was a bicycle with 21 gears. I suppose if you want to lead an exciting life, you have to be an idiot; in one way or another, my most exciting stories end up unravelling itself to this conclusion. Like somewhere between the novel idea of having fresh toast in the shower and the electric shock, I find myself wondering how my life could be more exciting. This past Saturday, I was riding with my friends Will, Sinh, Allen, Cindy, and Angela. In sore need of a tan, I was wearing shorts and a ridiculously small grey tanktop. I figure if you're going to get dirty and gross, you should dress for the occasion. Linda, who went biking with me on Friday, concluded, after a disdainful glance at my Brooks Tennis shoes I've had since eighth grade, that I dropped twenty style points whenever I went biking. Looking good aside, we all set out to bike and bask in the sunny day and things were going fine. It happened two hours later, on a rocky path. Allen, who is probably most famous for posing half-nude on his Asian Avenue page, and I suddenly broke into an impromptu race. I conclude that a race is basically a measure to see how fast I hit the ground. I'd like to lace this part of the story with drama, excitement, and my just failing to beat the most incredible odds; I'd like to write about Allen's grim determination and how close this race was; to at least throw in a few sharp turns to illustrate how difficult it was to strategically negotiate the tortuous corners because I was travelling at such blinding speeds. But, alas, it was a straight path, no turns were involved, I was about as fast as an ice cream truck on a busy day, and, somehow, I just fell. William called last night asking how I was; his theory is that my shoes didn't have enough treads, so they slipped from the pedal, which caused my fall. I'm ready to concede that this makes a lot of sense and is most likely the reason, as my ego is involved. The truth of the matter is, if I was at least winning, my fall would merely have been an unfortunate Pyrrhic victory; but the fact that Allen was five minutes ahead by the time I decided to fall onto a sharp bed of rocks spells out, essentially, that what I really need is a bicycle with more gears. Thursday, July 22, 2004
Poetry.com keeps sending me emails, everytime nudging me with the most exaggerated adjectives to describe a poem I wrote in twenty minutes. One of the sole reasons why I think the website is a money-hungry, illegitimate title-bearer is the ludicrous idea that anything I write is worth $10 000. That, and their constant badgering via newsletter, 'personal' email, and letter, detailing how my genius can be framed upon a trophy if I would only fund this endeavour. In effect, after a full year, Poetry.com is still at it, and somehow, I think that any organization with some dignity, indeed, any organization that's legitimate, would not stoop to do this every month.So today, after the umpteenth email, I decided to write back: To whom it may concern, If I had won the $10 000 prize last year, I might delude myself to thinking that I have the poetic talent that you laud. However, while I am firmly rooted in reality -- a reality that says that if I have to pay to be published in your leather-bound volume, pay to get a copy of this leather-bound volume, pay for several of your plastic trophies with an unbelievable value of $200, and pay to come to some Poetry Convention glittering with all the promising grandeur of second-rate bands and dusty old business entrepreneurs in tweed suits -- I can only conclude that someone is hungry for money. Perhaps more hungry than I for fame. I suppose this is a good as a time as any to let you know that the poem you so loftily praise was, in fact, about cheese. I have asked to be removed several times now from your mailing list. Thank you (well, not really), Adrian Thursday, July 15, 2004
When you're going through puberty, you look funny. Your voice cracks, you grow more fur, your self-confidence is uncertain. Two of my other friends and I must have looked like circus clowns when we were growing up. Stringbean was, like his name suggested, tall, skinny and lanky. When puberty hit him, it caught him at the awkward period where his legs decided that they should grow, while his torso decided not to. Uneasily, he decided the perfect camouflage for these drastic developments was in never ever taking off his Blue Jays baseball cap. My other friend's voice never changed, so he spoke always in a five-year-old pure, sing-song voice. He had managed to retain all the baby-fat given to him from birth, and so he roughly took on the shape of a round ball. Sometimes, the most awkward thing about puberty may be in not going through it. In any case, though they call this the Awkward Age, I feel as though my awkward age is now. While driving to Hamilton with Linda -- we have been reunited under the name of music -- she looked over at me and said, "Oh, man, that's so gross." "What?" I said, looking to my left, scanning the highway's curb for roadkill. We had passed an unfortunate scene earlier, where a rodent lay flattened to the sun-baked asphalt. We couldn't make out what it used to be, so we settled on 'rodent'. "Is there a dead rodent?" "Not unless a rodent died in your nose." Not only do I have as many zits as I did when I was in high school, I am now going through the puberty that stands between a young man and a gross man: Nose hair. Apparently, I'm going through puberty in my nostrils. Which affords me much time to feel awkward. Puberty for the second time is always tough. I think a grown man spends half his mornings in the washroom trying to deter the spiral down to disgusting. As an aside, a new form of disgusting would have to be in growing out your nose hairs really long and then braiding them. If this has been done already, I want to see proof. Right now, I can think of nothing that would impress the ladies more. Anyway, my worry is that I was really good at puberty the first time around: To this day, my ability to grow zits is staggering; most people would agree it's my super power. All I need is a cape. But I just can't shake this nagging possibility that, once I'm fully finished with pimples, my super power will concentrate its talent into creating virtual jungles in the most inconvenient places. Speaking of inconvenient, having hair in my nostrils is incredibly difficult to deal with. The only thing I can think of that could be worse is if I had to shave the back of my throat.  So, according to those around me, this is what I need. Do you like the leaves next to the package? That is what we call a 'great marketing strategy': People who need to trim their nose hairs will undoubtedly be drawn to the ad if you find a way to involve parsley. The package also says it's an ear hair trimmer. I never thought about it, but if men grow hair in their ears too, there is no orifice we have that doesn't have hair growing in it, around it, or really close to it. Which means as gross as I am now, it can only get worse. I just hope they're on a sale; it's hard to find a good baseball cap these days. Thursday, July 08, 2004
Email of the Weekhey adrian, okay, because i'm your relative, and because I like you as a person, i'm going to say this very politely. PLEASE ...go outside and get a tan on your man thighs. From your digital camera thingy, [in reference to the video on July 2] you are very pale compared to your friend quite significantly. Now I know that new york, or montreal, or toronto, or wherever your staying may NOT have any sun. SO, as a girl ( of course), and as your very nice cousin, I would like to suggest Neutrogena Bronzer Medium tanner, I think thats the name of it. ALTHOUGH, it may have given ME, orange legs and all, it might give YOU a decent looking tan. If you go to Costco, there on sale for 15$ ,and they include the exfoliator( did i spell that right?) now you also might think that putting on bronzer is a very feminime thing to do. HEY, its OK! just think about it, you already displayed your appreication of your pink sweater...and you already showed that you wear flowered print sandals at home..so..putting on bronzer won't be anything worse, TRUST ME! you'll be great, you'll feel great, and you'll LOOK GREAT! from you very nice cousin, Alicia Thank you, Alicia. I'd like to commend your recent improvement, what with your spelling 'exfoliator' correctly -- your interpretation of 'appreciation' and 'feminine', however, was a little off the mark. I suppose, then, that though having an unnaturally titian complexion is appealing, spelling things correctly is not. Whoops, that came off snarkier than I had intended because I really do appreciate your emails and advice. Especially since you're doing this because you like me as a person -- which, admittedly, is a compliment, seeing that you don't like me better as, say, a park bench. Similarly, as I never criticize other Emails of the Week, I pick on your spelling only because you're my relative and I like you better as a dictionary. (winks) I don't know about this bronzer thing, Alicia. I'm inclined to think that what you really want is a cousin who will share in your brief excursion as a clementine. Though you're right that my legs are bright white. I've been thinking about how nice it would be if my legs and teeth somehow swapped colours. Imagine brightening your teeth simply by wearing nothing but pants for three years. You know, I'm in a predicament of sorts because this isn't an instantaneous thing like cutting your hair. Tanning operates on a 'point of no return' scale, where the more someone needs to tan, the more they cannot. The slow process itself is painful for everyone. I'm at the point where I cannot bare my legs without causing some kind of traffic accident. So wearing pants for the rest of my life, it is. Sunday, July 04, 2004
Today is July 4th -- though Americans will tell you this is the birthdate of their country, it's much more important to note that, two years ago this day, I created The Irrefragable 8W. When blogging first started, I said that it was a fad. I told everyone that I could only see myself doing this for one year. At the most. I proceeded to snarkily liken the nature of fads to that of farts. It's nice to note that, if everything I said were true, this blog stands as a two-year-long fart -- which, if you think about it, is monstrously poetic.Over the past two years, the site changed quite a bit. It started as a tacky template a la Mondrian, then a classier nod towards the softer hues usually framing Hallmark poetry, and finally ended in the dual-handed realization from Jonathan Ho and Amos Chan that is now adrianfung.com. I settled on adrianfung.com because 8W.com was taken and every other name I wanted was either too expensive or wouldn't work. For instance, I wanted to get www.me.com. That would have been amazing based solely on the fact that I could get people to email me at: get@me.com. I envisioned going to trendy New York parties and telling people to 'Get at me at get@me.com." Tell me that's not cool. Tell me I'm not full of great ideas. But it reminded me of the time I tried signing up as hotmale@hotmail.com. Someone beat me to it. Regular readers of this site will realize that I get quite a wad of hate-mail. I suppose a lot of this hatred comes from the name "The Irrefragable 8W". This was followed by The Irrevocable/Irrepressible/Irretrievable 8Ws. This all came from the humourously coherent idea that I am not, and pretty much nothing I ever write is, any of these things. However, when people don't know me, they might look up 'irrefragable' in the dictionary, realize that my rap alias 8W stands for Eighth Wonder, and conclude that my head is so big it's visible from distant planets. It's not. My nose, however, is another issue. Normally people pronounce this page wrong; they say"irre-FRAG-a-ble", when it's really 'ir-REF-friggable". To date, there has been only one person who knew what "Irrefragable" meant and how to pronounce it. This impressed me so much, I immediately asked her to be my girlfriend. She politely refused on the basis that I am a loser. Last year, around this time, someone suggested that I list my favourite posts. I was thinking of doing that but I figure that's a little too pompous. I'm of the type that would rather erect a statue of myself and admire it in my bedroom. I will, however, post excerpts from my favourite Email of the Weeks that never quite made it. I basically get three types of Emails: hate-mail, ridiculously-serious-mail, and appreciative-mail. Emails of the Week are usually the first two. Here's a sample: Nobody knows who invented chess. Though it was so long ago that I doubt that a woman would get enough respect to have an idea listened to. I would like to hear where you got that information. In response to ... I am not surpirsed at all that you got beat in armwrestles by girls. Women, something I assume you never have luck with, are full of srurpsies... Dear 8W or Adrian, whatever you call yourself, it doesn't matter you're both idiots. You're like a schizophrenix but not as cool. In response to me as a person. I can't bleieve how ignorant you are. In response to 'everything' I've ever written. Koreans do NOT have big heads you jerk I hate you and your stupidity. In response to ... I like the picture in Irrevocable best. The one where you're 500 meters away. You're an idiot. And you're ignorant. I get nice emails too: Like, no offnse, but you're an idiot. I've been sitting here for fifteen minutes trying to describe The Irrefragable 8W so that people, of whom some of them seem really, really pissed, will realize that this site is not exactly sombre fare. I still don't know how to describe The Irrefragable 8W, though. So far, I think it's about acne, farting, and excruciating diarrhea. In any case, I think it's safe to say that The Irrefragable 8W is not serious. This has become a great stumbling block for some of my readers who will, in the event that I say I'm making omelettes, write me saying how dangerous egg consumption is because men who eat eggs over two days old are statistically proven to get prostate cancer. Which makes anyone wonder how they could statistically prove that, especially since I know of no man who, as a life principle, refuses to eat a three-day-old egg. I know of no one that does that. And maybe that makes the statistic work, seeing that you can't have prostate cancer if you don't exist. But to not exist strikes me as quite a pay-off to avoid prostate cancer. Interestingly enough, another group of people will write saying how I shouldn't eat too many eggs because they're high in cholesterol, which will ultimately result in my dying of a heart attack. These guys should get together and talk it out. Last I checked, the smallest carton of eggs you can buy is of six. To avoid prostate cancer, you'd have to eat six eggs in two days -- three eggs a day (I didn't do the math myself) -- which would then put you in the red-zone for a heart attack. And I guess that's a round-about way of saying that you don't have to take the writing here so seriously. Friday, July 02, 2004
William came to my house Tuesday night to pick me up and go to the gym. He had to wait on my driveway forever because, suddenly, I didn't know if I owned a pair of shorts anymore. You see, over the years, shorts have been weened from my wardrobe. There has been good reason. First of all, seeing that I get unbelievably tired watching people play croquet, my normal day holds nothing that merits my wearing shorts. Secondly, in tune with everything that makes sense, nobody in their right mind would want to see my legs.To me, then, choosing to wear shorts is a little like choosing to wear bowling shoes while I'm nowhere near a bowling alley. Essentially, I'd be choosing to look more stupid and unattractive than anyone gave me reason to. So it took forty-five minutes for me to find shorts. That's when I found a pair of Umbro's from fifth grade. A handy description I would use for them -- and I don't know if I'm the first person to couple together the two words -- is "incriminatingly tight". What I mean by this is that these things were so small I could have went to jail. Nevertheless, my wardrobe afforded no more options, so I took a deep breath, along with a running start, and got them on. Video: You're going to embarrass me. Immediately upon opening the car door, William saw the digital camera in my hands. "Yo, you're not bringing that." I asked him why, and William decided upon an airtight and succinctly reasoned response: "Because you're a loser." Unfortunately, my camera ran out of batteries, so my proposed video documentary was short-lived. It turns out I'm the type of person that gets driven to the gym when it's only two minutes away from my house. Pumping irony. We walked in. Pretty soon I realized that the gym is just an elaborate stage for men to exercise not only their muscles, but their masculine and feminine extremes. To illustrate, men would do very manly things like ripple and roar on their final set of bench-presses. Immediately afterwards, they'd pirouette and primp in front of a mirror with the uneasy admiration teenaged girls have before prom night. Eavesdropping on two huge men complaining about their bodies while working out together, I realized that if I only switched the words gluteus maximus, biceps, and traps with such words as hips, butt, and legs, they would sound like a bunch of girls. However, as I'm keen on survival, I kept this insight to myself at the time. We stayed at the gym for two hours. Fifteen minutes in, all I could think about was how much I wanted a milkshake. I confess that, unlike everyone else in the room, I wasn't as fascinated with big plates of metal going up in the air and then back down. I'll be honest and also point out that when I'm having trouble bench-pressing the naked bar, which alone is a ridiculously burdensome 45 pounds, a part of my brain starts to tell me that what really impresses the ladies is a guy drinking a milkshake. 
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