"You are beautiful," says the cabbie from Chicago

Day 1

The cold blast of air hitting my face as I exited the Van Galder bus confirmed my suspicions - that Chicago was just as determined to freeze my privates off as Madison. I was sitting in Starbucks on that post-Christmas Sunday, being one of those people who would hog a table and read for hours on end, when I was struck by the most ingenious idea that has ever occurred to mankind since the hands-free vibrator. Wouldn't it be lovely, I thought to myself (vanilla latte halfway to my lips), to run away to Chicago for a couple of days and soak up all the city-ness of it all? That very night, after scouring through WikiTravel and making a few reservations for a cheap hotel, I was packed and ready to rumble. 

A four-hour bus ride (could have been quicker, but someone had inconsiderately chosen to crash his car and die along my highway that day) brought me to the biggest city I'd seen since leaving for Madison four months ago. I don't know what kind of hick-town experience Madison has forcibly implanted into my cranium, but the sight of Chicago's towering phallic structures thrilled me to the core. I was like Dorothy visiting the Emerald City - all these wondrous sights... is it for real? I had been so deprived of buildings taller than ten stories that I was ready to drop to my knees and worship a simple rectangular block of skyscraper-concrete. Sights, sounds, people, cars, noises, dirty looks, leering looks were coming at me at all directions, and it was utterly fantastic. Walking the isolated snowy streets of Madison makes one feel as if every move you made was being watched. Among the craziness of Chicago, I've never been so relieved to feel insignificant.

Every turn reveals another incredible sight, and just as I was reeling from the much-ness and sheer immensitrosity, I came face to face with the skyscraper of all skyscrapers (in the US, at least), the Sears Tower. At one point, it held the record of the world's tallest building for 22 years until it was surpassed by Taiwan's Taipei 101, and with the help of its two needlessly long antennas, it desperately hung on to another title for some period of time. The two hours spent standing in line for admission to the SkyDeck was either filled with the joyful sounds of babies screaming or the repetitive roll of Sears Tower's 'fun facts'. "Did you know.. the Sears Tower weights a fucking lot?" Do they honetly expect us to be very impressed by this? It's a huge-ass building, and I know it's not made out of marshmallows, so I'd be more amazed if they told me it only weighed as much as Beyonce's left butt cheek.

With a breezy whizz and a cheerful ding, the elevator proudly announced that it had brought us up a hundred-and-three-stories-high using only 60 seconds. I was duly impressed that one could see clouds floating by far beneath the SkyDeck. I knew it was an unbelievably tall building, but I never expected it to rise above the clouds. For a mad moment I wondered if a plane might come flying into the building, and then I remembered...

The Sears Tower is actually now renamed to the Willis Tower, which made me wonder why with a name like Willis did they not go buy a more phallic, and hence more appropriate building to suit that magnificent name. The basic architecture of the Sears Tower is nothing very spectacular, to be honest. Since when has a few asymmetrically-stacked rectangular blocks been very aesthetically pleasing? You'd think if they had wanted to build the world's tallest building, they would invest a little more time with the actual look of the place, rather than to trust a simple analogy using a roll of cigarettes placed at different heights (which was how the architect pitched his idea, originally.) 

I don't know if it's because I don't have a fear of heights, but trips up skyscrapers never really did much for me. Like many things that I do, I only stood in line and went up because it was the 'thing' people haaad to do when they visited Chicago. I didn't want to disappoint people when they so excitedly go 'oh you went to Chicago!? Did you go up Sears Tower? Wasn't it awwwesoooome?" So up I went, and around I looked, and within half an hour I was ready to beat the crowds heading towards the exit elevator. Hey I had my photos, I had the experience, and most importantly, I had earned my bragging rights, so hell if I was gonna let them trap me up here in a prime terrorist target zone.

Planning for a dinner in Chicago takes a cunning and careful manipulation not many are capable of. The entire city floods into every nook and cranny that has a table and menu set up, so naturally, without any reservations,  or expectations really, that I'd be battling the entire population of Chicago for a decent bite to eat, I was left freezing, desolate and hungry while roaming the bustling streets. The initial naive idea was to dine at The Cheesecake Factory, one heard very often mentioned in The Big Bang Theory, but a table there comes with a 1.5 hour waiting time. To make myself feel better about missing out on Sheldon and Leonard's favourite restaurant, I vengefully looked up negative reviews about The Cheesecake Factory on my BlackBerry and wasn't disappointed. *Read the next line in a childish, whining tone* Yeah, who wants to eat at a countlessly reproduced chain of identical restaurants that served typical, cliched American food with no local identity anyways?  (The Cheesecake Factory shown in The Big Bang Theory is perhaps ten times more lit-up than the actual ones. The almost pitch-dark restaurant gave me a very creeped-out feeling, till I identified the source: every table was filled with couples nauseatingly gazing into each other's dimmed faces. I suspect the nonexistent lighting is to make everyone's lovers a little bit more bearable to look at.)

I eventually settled into the Saloon Steakhouse, and was served a piece of New York Strip steak by a guy who looks amazingly like Sawyer from Lost. Guess we know now that those troubled castaways did manage to find footing in the real world after all. Perhaps I was hallucinating from the hunger, or the dim lighting at work again (is there a light-bulb shortage in Chicago?), but my steak looked exactly like a penis, complete with two balls at the thicker end. It was by far the best tasting thing I've ever put in my mouth for months, and perhaps pursuing whether or not that has anything to do with how it looks isn't the best idea. 

Day 2

The original crazy idea that I had was to wake up insanely early, catch the bus and reach Chicago at 9.30am, giving myself a full day to roam and perform 'Chicago' song-and-dance numbers on the streets before catching the last bus home. The logical, and lazy, side of my brain caught up later on and I convinced myself that it was going to be too ambitious and I was too confident in my body's ability to handle fatigue. Hence here I was, waking up in my cheap hotel off the Magnificent Mile, and ready to tackle The Field Museum. 

True to Chicago's style, there was an insane queue that wriggles round and round before it reaches the ticketing booth. The family that lined up after me, however, provided a spectacle which made that entire trip worthwhile. The kid-leash, something I had only seen on TV and regarded completely ridiculous, was securely fastened onto their littlest son of perhaps 2. The kid was scrambling "away" with his short little legs while being pulled backwards by his dad, and I just thought, man they're gonna start implementing those things for bad boyfriends next. It was a very adorable yet tragic sight to behold. All things that involve little children and inhumane methods give me a thrill of delight deep in the pit of my stomach, but yet I cannot help but wonder if this was where parenthood was headed. Cattle prods were creative, leashing is really just crude.

Being a dinosaur fanatic (I've always insisted that my lifelong dream is to be the hero of Jurassic Park), I was completely blown away when I found out that the T-Rex fossil in the main foyer of the Field Museum is the largest and most complete T-Rex skeleton ever uncovered on Earth. I was in the presence of a majestic beast that once terrorized unworthy creatures, inflicted chaos and unleashed utter desolation onto the land it ruled. Just picturing how those piercing sharp teeth and fiercely powerful jaws crunched into hundreds of helpless prey struck me down with awe. I was, without a doubt, standing before my biggest (literally) influence in life. 

To call the Field Museum cavernous is akin saying that Chris Brown has a slight temper. A wrong turn brought me into the land of Native Americans, and try as I might, I just could not figure out how to get the hell out of this maze. At every turn, I was assaulted by tedious facts even Native Americans would not find interesting, and confronted by bowls and cutlery no more interesting than the ones I have stacked at home. If they wanted to make their culture look the slightest bit engaging, they should have just put up gigantic high-def pictures of Taylor Lautner and showed us how he magically turns into a wolf.

I have very firm beliefs that I was an ancient Egyptian in my past life (either that or a pterodactyl, I haven't decided which yet), and I was appropriately delighted to see a replica of an old Egyptian tomb. The fake pyramid was like a labyrinth, twisting about with sarcophagus and mummies placed at strategic points to scare the crap out of you. According to the free tour guide person, the whole point of an Egyptian's life was to prepare himself (or the pharaoh, rather) for a good eternity in his afterlife. All the pyramids, the offerings, mummification, murals and whatnot seemed like an elaborate way to convince themselves that death was not the end. (This, of course, was not said by the tour guide person. He wouldn't be that mean and ballsy to critique his station.) Their whole society revolved around the principle that proper burial procedures and praying to the right gods guaranteed a wonderful eternity in Egyptian heaven, so they spend their living days obsessed with the day they die. Pretty morbid way to spend a life, I'd say. I must have been a bad Egyptian back then if I didn't manage to spend a glorious eternity in my afterlife.

The exhibit that completely took my breath away was, of course, the paleontology section. Fossils of velociraptors, triceratops, stegosauruses, all poised and looking ready for action (of the hunting variety, nothing perverted). I was easily transported in my mind back to the Triassic/Jurassic/Cretaceous period, whatever you fancy, and roamed about the giants that ruled the Earth 65 million years ago. I had to cut it out cause my screeching and hiding behind the bushes was scaring little kids, but you get the idea - it was like Disneyland for the ferociously carnivorous. The only thing that stopped me from rearranging the exhibit to portray a Jurassic Park version of the Virgin Birth/Manger Scene was the presence of many security cameras. Can't you just picture it? A T-Rex Mary cradling a raptor baby, with the triceratops-Joseph going, "That's not my son!"

Perhaps the craziest part of the journey happened not at any tourist hotspot, but in a common cab. 

"Hey, how are you doing, enjoying Chicago?" The Turkish cab driver brightly inquired. 

"Oh yes, I love it here, I never realized how much I missed a city until I stepped into Chicago." 

"Where are you visiting from?" 

"I go to school in Madison, but I grew up in Singapore, you see, so I'm much more accustomed to cities"

"Ah Singapore! The people there are very beautiful." 

"Really? That is most nice of you to say..."

"Singapore.. Indonesia.. I don't know what it is about you guys, but your people are very beautiful"

Now at this point the warning bells are going off like crazy in my mind, but I thought perhaps he was just being very vocal in his appreciative of Asian features. I mentioned that I was leaving that evening for Madison, and things just got craizier:

"You are leaving today? Oh that is such a pity, can't take you out for lunch or something then. Hahaha, just kidding."

Keep in mind that this is a cabbie in his 50s. Sure, he kept saying I was "a beautiful boy" and that "'James' is a beautiful name", which I wholeheartedly agree with, but it was really pushing the boundaries of harassment. Besides, you've been in America for 20 years, learn another adjective other than 'beautiful'! For example, I respond extremely well to 'ravishing', 'spellbinding', 'bewitching' or 'enthralling'.

"You know what? Next time you're in Chicago, you should give me a call! It would be an honor to drive someone as beautiful as you around Chicago for free, show you the city. Here, this is my number." 

"Oh... Ah, yeah sure, I will most definitely do that." I didn't want to reject his offer right out front, it seemed very cruel to strike down someone so mesmerized by me. But naturally, that slip of paper with 'Jesse' and his number on it was magically lost in Gap sometime later. 

As I walked through the legendary Millennium Park and gazed upon the gigantic silvery structure nicknamed The Bean, I couldn't help but feel an incredible confidence surge through me. Disgusting as the situation was, it still felt wonderful to be bestowed such lavish praise in a part of the world where you're practically unknown. With the windy city living up to its name, I took one last walk down the streets of Chicago, looking up in awe as the week-old Christmas decorations all lit up at dusk. For the first time since I left, I could finally feel as if I was right where I needed to be. 

So Jesus Was A Conman After All

"I am stronger than a holiday" was the mantra I had been repeating to myself since Christmas Eve. Due to time constraints, it apparently wasn't cost efficient to have me fly back to Singapore during Winter Break, so here I am, spending Christmas alone. I'm not even gonna try and sugarcoat it like how some people would, speaking about inanimate objects as if they could offer them some companionship."It's just me and ole' Mr Cheesecake tonight." I'm not going to evade feeling these emotions by making a little joke out of it - I'm facing it head on, and admitting that I've spent a very pathetic Christmas. 

But you know what? I was actually a tad disappointed at how easy it was to get through the seemingly hardest 24-hours of the year. I thought I would be bawling my eyes out in the bathtub (if only I had a bathtub), naked (when you're in a bathtub, it's only polite to be undressed) and finishing a whole bottle of champagne (must there really be a good reason for champagne?). Sure, I felt the familiar 'OMG IT'S CHRISTMAS!' jolt that snapped me wide awake and for the first time ever, it was accompanied by a sinking feeling, knowing I was going to be facing the worst Christmas of my life. 

Browsing through the Sci-Fi collection on Netflix, I came across 'Aliens'. Now under normal circumstances, gory-looking monsters with droopy slime-saliva would definitely not be on my to-watch list. However, seeing how it's Christmas and how this day has very different connotations for me now, I somehow began watching Ripley, played by Sigourney Weaver, fight her way out of an alien infested planet. Our lives have a lot in common, I thought. Sure, I may be in a comfy couch with a hot-fudge sundae while she's crawling in extraterrestrial gunk, but her fight to stay alive pretty much mirrors my day.

I do realize that there are hundreds of thousands, perhaps a million people out there with worse Christmases. Kids are starving to death by the thousands every single day, even on Christmas. So while I'm still alive, I have nothing to complain about. I have people who love me, even if they're on another continent, so what if I have to be alone on the one day it's considered absolutely necessary to spend basking in the warm glow of familial love. So what if they're feasting on honey baked ham while I'm having leftover fried rice. So what if.. Actually this self-motivation thing is kinda starting to work a negative effect. 

After 'Elf', I got so cramped that I decided a good walk around the lake was just the kind of nostalgic/thoughtful evening I needed. As I neared the lake, I realized that it was completely frozen over, and was covered entirely in fluffy white snow. There were footprints on it, indicating that either Jesus had a second coming, or that it was safe for people to walk on it. I tentatively stepped onto the lake and sunk a whole foot into the snow. It was an extremely nerve-wrecking experience, considering I had actually fallen into an icy lake once in China. On hindsight, it was probably not that good of an idea to attempt this while it was so dark out and with no one around. I brushed off the snow around my feet, and uncovered the actual frozen lake beneath. I was ecstatic - Jesus' whole being-able-to-walk-on-water thing didn't seem that much of a miracle anymore. I took a few confident steps, and was soon running all over the lake like Jesus on drugs. 

And then I saw something that made my heart completely freeze over - a few feet before me was a pond-sized area that wasn't covered with snow. It did look like ice, but then I saw that the wind was causing ripples to blow across the surface. I was terrified that my weight would cause the ice to break, seeing how it's this close to unfrozen water, and I ran as fast as I could to the shore. Never. Again. Jesus can have this fucking miracle back, I'm not that eager to disprove it anymore.

One of my favorite new Christmas songs (apart from the entire new Christmas album from Mariah, of course), is the Glee version of 'Baby It's Cold Outside'. Darren Criss' Blaine duets with Chris Colfer's Kurt, and it's so refreshing to hear a gay love duet on TV. Having heard another version of it today on 'Elf', I was very inspired to record my own version with my one true love - Me. Singing lyrics like 'man, your lips look delicious' to myself does not gross me out at all. It's more of a self-affirmation, if you will. I assure you, this is not a cry for therapy. It's just bringing narcissism to a whole new level.

Today is also marks the fourth whole month I've been here. With the new year just a week away, I couldn't help but wonder if I had achieved all that I thought I would. After repeatedly shutting myself off from the dating world when I was in Singapore (due to my imminent departure), I was under the impression that I'd already be hitched and have a very spiritually and emotionally-fulfilling bond with the perfect one by now. A series of false starts and slutty nights later, I've come to realize that maybe it isn't the environment that's my issue. It's impossible to take anyone seriously when I go into it with the mentality of a shopper - if there's a slight defect, exchange it for a better one. I suppose I'm still waiting for someone to send me that spark that'll make all of the negatives look as appealing as the positives.

In other aspects, I've grown so much more than I had previously thought possible. Spending holidays like Christmas completely alone used to seem like Mission Impossible, but when you've gone through something, you realize there isn't much to it. I can entertain myself sufficiently, I have time consuming hobbies and most importantly, I'm comfortable being alone. Perhaps the most valuable lesson learnt while studying abroad is the independence you would discover yourself to possess, and that your well-being and happiness is and always has been in your own hands.

State Street

Of Winter Break, Oedipal Complex and Swedish Massage

"Hamlet is clearly crazy cause he wants to bang his mommy, but his mommy would rather suck off his uncle." The only time you can get away with nonsense like that is in a Shakespeare final exam, which is, coincidentally, my final final of the semester. Of course, I didn't put it quite as crudely as that, but the general idea was there, and I might have thrown in a few of Sheldon's 'coitus-es' for good measure. It was the final exam after all - the last two hours standing between my hard earned freedom and I - so who can really bring themselves to care about the utter bullshit that's pouring out onto my exam script. The girl humming behind me during the exam certainly wasn't in the mood to worry her pretty little head over it, and neither was I, with my pretty big head. 

I walked out of Humanities 3650 a changed man. The refreshing icy wind on my face and the weight of the world lifted, I was free as a bird as bored out of my mind. I had spent so much time anticipating the end of the finals, that I didn't actually think of what I was going to do when the time came. A teeny bit deflated but still jolly and determined to enjoy the formal start of my winter break, I resolutely strutted back out of the building, Levi's duffel in hand, and promptly slipped on the gathering ice.

One thing I had to look forward to this evening was a full body Swedish massage. Last night, struck by a sudden inspiration and flash of insight - that I deserve something splendid after all that I've been through these months - I began pounding furiously onto Google Maps to search for the nearest Day Spas. I hadn't typed this excitedly into a search engine since that video of Miley sucking a big one surfaced. The first and biggest bubble that popped up on the map of Madison pointed to 'Rising Sun', on 117 West Main. Looks promising, I pondered, looking at the 4/5 star rating the Google-reviewers gave that place. The more I read up on the review, however, the more shady it sounded. Things like 'Specialties: 12 Female Attendants To Serve You', when put in the context of a massage, manages to sound even sluttier than Halloween with the Kardashians. 

One apparently very satisfied reviewer: "I visited today for the first time. 70 for room and 70 for the service. Ryan welcome me and took to the room and the shower and back in room. Ryan an old girl that I want and is very cooperative and nice body. She did whatever I asked and gave a good service. Nice lady and nice body. I will visit again for the same girl. The end was happy and pleasure"

Needless to say I tried to back out of that browser page as quickly as possible, before my cursor catches some STD from poking around the wrong places. To my surprise, I discovered that the Kaivalya Yoga in my very building has massage services, so I went ahead and booked an hour's slot for today. 

That classic dilemma of whether to keep your underwear on while on the massage table is one that plagued me relentlessly. If I took everything off for the first time, would she think I was an uninhibited looney foreigner with no basic regard for propriety? If I kept my boxers (delightfully snug, I might add. Makes me feel very sexy indeed) on, would I be seen as an uptight snob that needs to loosen the hell up? Worst of all - what if the massage got a little too comfortable, especially on the inner thigh areas... Seems like what started out to be a relaxing massage ends up stressing me out even more. I was more afraid of how the massage therapist might judge me than anything. "Look at this skinny little slut, lying here naked on my massage table as if he's a freaking gift to God's green Earth."

I ultimately decided to wear my loveliest pair of boxers with the most subtly sexy light-blue hue. She may judge me for not being brave enough to go all the way (story of my life), but she can't deny this prude's got some cute underwear. The massage itself was phenomenal. (At 65 dollars per hour, it had better be.) The interesting part, however, was all the 'Friends' flashbacks that kept popping into my head. Face-down on the face-brace, I could see the masseur's feet, just like how Rachel saw through Phoebe's fake Swedish masseur act through the many anklets she was wearing. I resisted the urge to start moaning, and was reminded of Monica moaning and scaring Phoebe away. It started to get incredibly ticklish around my waist section, partly my fault cause I asked for the firmest pressure to get my money's worth, and I was squirming a little. Not unlike some occurrences in the past, but stories of the bedroom should remain as such. 

An hour passes with astonishing speed in the massage parlor.  At the end of the session, I was in such a daze and heady confusion that I really had to take a minute before I could sit up and orient myself again. A lot of water was recommended, so my body can begin flushing out all the toxins it had been accumulating. For a wild moment, in my disoriented state, I thought I heard her asking me to drink more alcohol, and thought for once I had found my true spiritual leader. But nah, as usual they're all asking us to drink less of it, or the sore effects of the massage would hit you harder. Pfft, you find your way to nirvana, I find mine. 

I walk out of Kaivalya feeling utterly relaxed - so relaxed I'm not even sure if I'm still alive. And in my state of total relaxation, the one truly important question of life floated constantly through my mind: 

... Did she like my blue boxers?

Christmas Greetings 2010

Every year, it's traditional for our family to produce a report of sorts to close family friends. If you've watched 'Friends', this would be our equivalent of the 'Gellar Yellar', except better written, because I'm the one who writes it. So here you have it:

To family and friends of the Zhangs family,

The whirlwind year of 2010 has almost drawn to a close and the wonderful holiday season of Christmas cheer is once again upon us. This is James, writing from Madison, Wisconsin, USA --- It is both a great pleasure and an honorable duty for me to wish everyone out there a truly joyous Christmas, and to duly report on the ins and outs, as well as ups and downs (mostly ups, though - this is Christmas, after all), of the Zhang family. 

Perhaps the most drastic change for our family this year is my moving to Wisconsin. A few colleges have extended their welcome to me, including Purdue University, where I was previously set on going. When the chance to attend the University of Wisconsin – Madison (College of Letters and Science) presented itself, however, I knew that the choice was clear. It was a chance to rediscover my family's history here in Madison, and to experience college life in my very birthplace. The transition was very smooth, and I have since settled into a very comfortable, if intellectually stimulating, environment.

Madison is really as picturesque as my parents have described it, with views of an endlessly expansive lakes on both sides of the city, and it is a welcome change from the concrete jungles of Singapore. They weren't kidding about the severe winters either – I've experienced my first blizzard, and it really taught me a thing or two about suiting up appropriately to combat snow. On the academic front, I am pursuing an Honors degree in Liberal Arts, with a major in Sociology that focuses on Criminal Justice. Some courses I have taken this semester includes Psychology and Shakespeare, with French, Criminal Justice and elective Theatre coming up in January.

I especially adore the close proximity to things I would once only hear of and dream about, like the broadway play Wicked, and I actually got the chance to see it while it was touring in Madison. I hesitantly opened my eyes to “Greek” life, expecting fraternities to be the stereotypically portrayed party-houses one would expect to see on TV, but had surprisingly found myself surrounded by gentlemen. With Pi Lambda Phi, the first non-sectarian fraternity founded, I have discovered a home away from home, and have made some truly sensible friends. I will not be able to return home for Christmas this year due to the time constrains of an extremely short winter break, and so I'll look forward to seeing everyone again back home in June.

The year has found Dad mostly in Beijing on academic sabbatical. Taking a well-deserved nine month break from his usual workload, Dad has been working on further expanding his horizons in China and garnering new inspirations for his future work. On the publishing side, 2010 has been an especially illustrious year for him: the 3-volume set of Nanostructured Thin Films and Coatings was published in June, and it can be found on Amazon.com. His 2008 textbook has now been adopted by five colleges in USA, and looks to be well on its way into every aspiring engineer's bookshelf. It has been translated into Chinese and published by China's Scientific Publisher in Oct this year. In addition to China, Dad has also ventured into Rome, Italy, and he's now apparently also an aspiring travel journalist. His literary notes on his various ventures and misadventures can be found right here, under each appropriate header.

Mom has been accompanying Dad on the trips around China since June, and the pair has had a real blast vacationing, returning to Singapore only in December. An especially significant event Mom had been awaiting– my Grandma's 80^th birthday celebration – was held in September in Chongqing with much grandeur and tasteful fanfare, and was reputed to be a great success of a party. Other highlights of their six-month trip included the sharing of collective nostalgia in Xi'an at Dad’s Northeastern University “Class of Superalloys 77” Reunion, a trip to Sanya, Hainan Province, and satisfying their mountaineering aspirations at Huangshan. Mom's health, however, was not in tip-top condition as one would have liked, but was rather worrying during certain parts of the trip. The double-food-poisoning that plagued both Mom and Dad (after consuming some roadside-vendor chicken in Beijing) certainly didn't help matters. Fun was definitely had during the super-vacation, but I breathe easier now knowing they're both safe and resting in Singapore.

I am extremely proud to share the stellar academic achievements of my big sis, Jessica. After layers upon layers of examinations and interviews (with a final interview by the director of A*Star), she received a full scholarship from the Singapore government to pursue a Ph.D. Degree in Biomedical Engineering, started in July. Her intellect and pure drive has definitely paid off, and we couldn't be prouder of her. She has also recently become the mother of baby Chloe – a Holland Lop rabbit as a gift from boyfriend Dan. The baby rabbit seems to be getting along famously with Ovine, our beagle, and it does tickle me to hear of a rabbit-hunting-hound getting along with a rabbit.

The spirit of Christmas and familial warmth never abandons you, no matter which corner of the globe you're on. It is only after this separation from my family did I begin to sincerely appreciate the blessings of a home. The Christmas message I wish to convey this year is one of love – that love never takes a vacation (or a sabbatical), even if you're tens of thousands of miles away. Have a safe and memorable Christmas, and a blessed New Year.

Happy holidays,

James and the Zhangs

The End of a Semester

December the 15th brings us to the end of the Fall semester. In the blink of an eye (actually 2 million blinks, seeing how a person blinks 17000 times a day and I've been here for four months), an entire semester has flown by. Back when I was still in Singapore, the prospect of facing school and exams, all that whole nine yards of actually doing something, really worried me a little. And just like that, after a constant bombardment of little tests, countless Shakespearean plays, endless parties, missed lectures, nameless classmates and a bizarre PiLam initiation later, the first one-eighth of my college life was over.

Have I achieved all that I had planned to in that all significant first semester? Most people think they're going to somehow will themselves into developing fantastic study habits after 12 years of slothfulness, and magically get top grades in everything. I am, sadly, one of those delusional fruitcakes. If you think being motivated is hard when you're surrounded by people that breathe down your neck, try being motivated in a situation where you're completely unsupervised. The hardest part about being in college isn't necessarily the exams or the workload. It is the daily routine of forcing yourself to get out of bed and to attend each class, however menial they may seem, just because. It is easy to surrender to the illusion of freedom, that you can now do whatever the fuck you want to, now that no one's around to police your actions. But are we really as free as we imagine ourselves to be? Freedom implies that we're also free from consequences, but obviously, that's not the case when you miss classes and discussions. 

Now that I'm in college, I think a lot more about how what I'm learning now is going to help me when I'm out in the 'real world' fighting for work. I can barely secure a job as a lowly office assistant as it is, and I'm only competing with people in my school. Makes one wonder about the slaughter and bloodshed out there when the Harvard and Yale graduates are set free into the world and given a free reign at our exposed, soft necks. Sure, the oldest lie in the book is that employers look for extra curricular involvements and personality in addition to certifications. There are tens of thousands of those elitist bastards, do they really expect us to accept the lie that all Harvard grads are personality-devoid zombies? Really, the things we invent to comfort ourselves. Right along the lines of 'I'll just run another round to make up for snacking on this lovely piece of cheesecake." 

Starting a new life 9000 miles away from home is tough, I'm sure I have said that time and time again. But it really is, I don't think anyone who's not done it can really imagine the many implications it has on one's life. On most days I can function like a normal person - go out with the frat brothers, party like a rock star (with a bottle of red wine in hand), be social. But on rare occasions, these bouts of intense loneliness creeps up and it just empties you from the inside like a vacuum. It's a profound sense of isolation, with the 'there's no one within thousands of miles that I can rely on' feeling. There are people around me that I know on a superficial level, sure, but there's no one from my 'previous life' and no one I can really feel comfortable enough relying on. It's not that I'm being a paranoid schizophrenic about the intentions of people around me. On the contrary, I know that I'm surrounded by good people, but there's still a distance between trusting someone and being willing to let them help you. 

Would people diagnose this as being 'home-sick'? It is really not the physical environment that bothers me, but rather the sheer exhaustion from having my guard up and looking out for myself all the time. I would be just as happy being here, if only there was just one familiar face around me. Still, I'd say I did pretty well for myself tackling Madison. I did not (as a cousin of mine did) fail everything I ever took a test in, did not (as some family friends darkly predicted) succumb to the drastic change in weather, did not (unlike most Asians here) stick fearfully to the Asian club, and I did not (as some previous seniors did) quit the pledging process during PiLam's initiation. I did, however, develop addictive online shopping tendencies and an unhealthy obsession with NetFlix, but I'm sure they can be pursued in therapy.

On a side note, I can't believe I used to live without the wondrous NetFlix. It allows you to watch thousands of movies and TV shows without commercials, unlike Hulu, and they would mail you DVDs that you would mail back to them when you're done with it, like a rental process. Pure brilliance. Am renting all 8 seasons of Will & Grace right now.

People still give me the judgmental look when I tell them that I'm in a fraternity. One even went as far as to say I'm paying for friends. If only it was as easy as simply paying. Not to give too much away, but the whole process involves history lessons, exams, projects, community service events and initiation rituals. Nothing sexual is involved, so porn enthusiasts can stop looking at me like that, I know what you're thinking. It's hilarious if one thinks he can simply pay up and get in - if no one in the frat likes you, you're not going to receive a bid to begin with, so tough luck trying to get in. That's right, membership is exclusive and that's the way I roll, bitches.

My goals for spring semester? I've signed up for French, Criminal Justice, Sociology (Contemporary American Society, whatever the fuck that means), Theater and Music, which makes a total of 16 credits. I intend to become very good in French under the tutelage of professionals, and I want to be good enough to understand if Celine speaks a little French during the concert. So it'd be best if she just sticks to "bonjour, ca va?". Being in a frat has opened my eyes to a lot of Greek-society workings, but I still intend to pursue something I'd feel more at home with. Which is why I'm gonna go for more acapella group auditions and actually sign up for more than one. Maybe I'd even audition for the all women group just to try my luck.

So that's one semester down, seven more to go.

Margaret Cho on 'Being A Fag Hag'

One of the most beautiful pieces I've read, by Margaret Cho:

I am fortunate enough to have been a fag hag for most of my life. A fag hag is a woman who prefers the company of gay men. The marriage of two derogatory terms, fag and hag, symbolizing the union of the world's most popular objects of scorn, homosexual and woman, creates a moniker that most of those who wear it find inoffensive, possibly because it smacks of solidarity.

Some women have come to me urgently expressing their desire for a new name. Countless fruit flies, queen magnets and even a swish dish or two have begged me to reconsider the title of such an important entity. While no woman wants to be thought of as a "hag," you must acknowledge that the gay man in your life is not concerned with your youth and beauty. He wants to know your soul. He loves you for your courage and intellect. Whether you are lovely or plain, you are beautiful to him for these qualities -- and many more.

Similarly, most of the homosexuals I know bristle at the word "fag." It conjures up images of awkward, limp-wristed adolescence, of the taunts and catcalls of bullying jocks who are insecure in their own sexuality, all too willing to lash out to mask their fear.

But when you put these two words together, they seem to cancel each other out. The pain vanishes, and as you know, bees without sting offer only pure honey.

As a teenager, I found myself drawn to the slight, sensitive young men in my theater group, perhaps because they reminded me distantly of my beloved Forbes and Dante. High school was a dangerous place, and my search for sanctuary led me to gay men once again, even if they didn't yet know their own sexual identities. Or maybe they did know and just weren't telling. The only thing that mattered was that we found each other. If you are a gay man, think back on the girl you took to the prom. She was your first fag hag.

I was a loud, fat girl, and saw as my natural companion the fey, lithe boy. We were both scared. Thank God we met.

Growing up, getting older, shedding baby fat for womanly curves, my fag, Berry, watched me burst forth from my fleshy cocoon, and I was suddenly seen by the world as the butterfly he always knew me to be.

I heard his voice get deeper, saw his long limbs become corded with lean muscle. His lips, once hesitant and shy, blossomed sweetly, confident and ready. When we walked down Castro Street together, longing looks would be cast his way, and I saw he was beginning to return them.

We never went home with anyone back in those baby days. We just stayed with each other, watched John Waters movies late into the night, daydreamed while listening to Roxy Music's "Avalon," cut each other's bangs and talked about Madonna and what we'd do when we left school and all the bullshit behind.

Berry cried in my arms after he told his family he was gay, and he let me throw things and break them when I was rejected by my first boyfriend because his friends thought I was too fat.

We sneaked into the gay hustler bars on Polk Street and laughed as the chickens and the chicken hawks cruised each other and ignored us. We dressed each other up and took pictures. When we both got lovers, we weren't jealous. We grew up, but we didn't grow apart. When Berry was gay-bashed on Market Street, greeting me the next morning with a black eye and a smile on his face, he tried to make the best of it, dismissing the whole thing as, "Truly funny, if you really think about it," but I knew that it hurt him more than he could say.

When my parents told me they hated me because I was a failure at everything, Berry baked me a cake, made me a mixed tape and loved me madly.

Berry and I dressed more and more alike as we got older. We told everyone we were brother and sister, but it is almost as if we were closer than that.

We both tended to pick boyfriends who cared little about us, which makes me glad that we had each other to love.

We are friends even now, in what seems like a lifetime later. We grew together, grew apart, then together again. We still love to make dinner together and talk about the days when everything was new and life was so exciting because it was just beginning.

If this relationship sounds familiar to you, it is very likely that you are a fag hag. We are from all walks of life, all classes, all ages, all races; straight, lesbian and somewhere in between. We are as diverse as we are numerous. The common bond that we share is our alliance with gay men, a connection that is both nurturing and powerful, sweet and sour, retail and wholesale.

Although our fag hag experiences vary greatly, there are generalizations that can be made. Fag hags usually make all the plans and see that they are carried out in a manner that pleases both the fag and the hag equally. This is because most of us have a knack at organizing and mobilizing. We are leaders and keep our troops in line.

Fag hags like to be the center of attention. It is ironic that at a gathering of men, coming together for the sole purpose of meeting one other, they will all spend the better part of their evening hanging on the only woman's every word.

Unfortunately, this situation does not last. By the end of the party, a fag hag often finds herself alone in the room, in the midst of the overflowing ashtrays and half-finished drinks, deserted by all her admirers -- who have paired off to admire each other. This brings us to the next fag hag rule of thumb: We always drive ourselves to events, and for the most part, we enjoy going home alone. I suppose it could be looked at as a depressing end to an evening, but I find it joyous. I love to sleep in bed alone, tossing my body in slumber every way I can, waking up without having to kiss some sour mouth or awkwardly realizing I have no idea whom that sour mouth belongs to.

I can carry on with plans I made for brunch without having to consult or bring along the "trick." I don't have to gauge his expression to see whether our drunken episode resulted in a fight and try to gauge his mood. I don't have to dress quietly and duck out the back door or learn a new language. Tricks are always much more trouble than they are worth. That is why, every Halloween, when I am asked "Trick or Treat," I always err on the side of chocolate. Yes, it's true. I do live in paradise.

Fag hags, contrary to the wisdom of popular culture, are not "beards." The term "beards" refers to the complicit relationships between some women and gay men, wherein they pretend, for the "benefit" of family and sometimes employers, that they are a conventional straight couple. This is so that they might enjoy the "status" of being "normal" heterosexuals.

I find this a violation, a travesty and an aberration of the fag hag/fag relationship. However, I do not wish to judge those who find themselves in the kind of predicament that requires such a facade. It is not their fault, but the fault of the ignorance of those around them. In my world, honesty rules above all and the truth helps everyone. So have a beard if you must, but I would prefer that you be clean-shaven.

We fag hags love drama and are skilled thespians on the stage of life. We also crave scandal and gossip. Be warned, we don't keep secrets, we harvest them. Of course, we do know when and where loyalty is required, and in these cases, we are true to our beloved. Bitchiness is always appreciated, and insulting others behind their back is a favorite pastime. This is a way for us to repay the world for the way we are treated. Women and gay men have long been considered second-class citizens by the dominant culture. How do we keep our strength? By talking shit about those who think they can oppress us. Herewith one caveat given me by a particularly elegant and flamboyant gentleman: "Fight fire with flame!" Do not underestimate the power of our wagging tongues. Cross us and you will get burned, not licked.

Most of us like to shop and love to be taken to lunch at a restaurant in a department store. Not the food court, mind you. We are still ladies, regardless of how we behave at times.

I still lobby for a "Fag Hag Day," when we might be shown the gratitude we deserve en masse. We are important. We are the backbone of the gay community and, as such, should be honored! Consider that there are holidays as innocuous as "Secretary's Day" -- with special greeting cards to celebrate them. What might a "Fag Hag Day" card look like? Possibly a photograph of a winsome young man in an evening gown, with a darling bit of verse at the bottom: You have stuck by me now and then, Even though you know I like men. We are so close, my sweet fag hag, Sometimes I think you are me in drag!

Gentle reader, if you wish to join us, I bid you "Welcome" with open arms and an arched eyebrow. Let it be known, however, that this is certainly a profession that chooses you. Many of us did not plan to become fag hags, we just looked around one day and realized that was what we were. Others aspired to greatness, and then greatness materialized around them in the form of a group of cute advertising executives spending Labor Day Weekend on Fire Island.

The fastest way to become a fag hag, if you are so inclined, is to get a job as a makeup artist, but this is not practical or realistic for most. (I do not offer the perfect solutions, only the ones I know work.) Another is to become a grand dame of the stage and screen. For myself, this route has been most rewarding. This way, I can "hag" as many "fags" as I like, and bring to the world this kind of love story that is so common, yet so often overlooked.

Whatever road you take, when you get there, be good to the men in your life and let them take care of you. Know that what you have is precious and holy. Remember, regardless of sexual orientation, men and women will always need each other.

So if you've nothing nice to say, go sit next to the cutest, most elegantly dressed and well-mannered guy at the party. He will appreciate it, I promise.

I'm Thankful I'm Not A Turkey

In the United States, there are few holidays as celebrated and highly regarded as Thanksgiving Day. Also known as Turkey Day and Mass Slaughter of Unsightly Fowls Day, this is the time of year where families and treasured acquaintances gather over the promise of baked turkey, mashed potatoes and pie, and share what they're thankful for. Having no family around me, I freeloaded a dinner at my dad's old friend's gathering and partook in the festivities as a persona known as Depraved Exotic Foreign Student Who's Never Had Thanksgiving, to their American friends at least. 

According to the knowledgeable (and definitely highly accurate Wikipedia), "The event that Americans commonly call the "First Thanksgiving" was celebrated to give thanks to God for helping the Pilgrims survive their first brutal winter in New England." The day that Americans celebrate Thanksgiving, on the third Thursday of November, was declared 'Thanksgiving Day' by then-President Abraham Lincoln during the Civil War. How turkeys got singled out for this mass slaughter is not made very clear, for I had seen a whole list of poultry from the 'First Thanksgiving' they could have picked from, though I suppose people just wanted an excuse to off these monstrous looking birds. 

Although we didn't do the 'go round the table and say what you're thankful for' thing at that particular gathering, I know there's a lot to be thankful for in my life and I don't need a Thanksgiving Day to remind me of it. Under different circumstances, I could very well be sloshing through the mud in the humid jungles of Singapore this very moment, hunting down imaginary enemies and swatting real ones from my veins. I am therefore very thankful for my father's unbelievably high-powered brain and resolve that got our family to where it was today, and for setting the stage for my crafty escape from the Ministry of Manpower's evil clutches. So I'll pretend that I enjoy turkey just because y'all army types can't have any. Mmm dry tough meat has never tasted better.

It's not the easiest life I have here, I'd be the first to admit it. True, I escaped national service, but what I'm living through right now really is a different type of hard, with different demands. It's difficult having to physically exert yourself to the brink of your limits, but then you're returning home every so often where you'll receive the attention and support that you need. But is it perhaps more difficult, in a manner, to accomplish something you can be really proud about, and then return home to an apartment of strangers, with no one to share your moment with you? I am unspeakably grateful to the small handful of amazing friends I have made, who didn't let me leave their lives, even though we're physically so far apart. Skype and BlackBerries are obviously far from being able to substitute a real-live presence, but until life sized holograms (in full color too, I will not accept those gaudy green ones) are released to the public, I'm gonna have to make do.

On a more superficial note, I thank the heavens above, and the greedy banks out to suck the life out of the unsuspecting public, for the invention of credit cards. They really can drive you bankrupt (if my mom's warning stories can be believed) if you go crazy with it, but used with discretion and deliberation (much like using tongues when kissing), it can open up your life to that many opportunities. Just that day, I booked Damian and I Class A tickets to see Celine Dion in Vegas next year, all just through keying in a few little numbers.

Convenience like that should not only be taken for granted - it should be exploited, taken advantage of and throughout abused. Online shopping, for instance, lets you find stuff you might not even find if you're personally there at the store. I say this with the utmost confidence of someone with personal experience - I was over at Macy's after watching Burlesque (just go if only to see the striptease), and there I was, running round and round about the place and it's always either the wrong color, or the wrong size, or the wrong price. I settled for some Black Friday deals like $50 Calvin Klein jackets (thankful for that too), but still, I went home disappointed. It was only after I went through Macy's online store did I find everything that I had previously wanted, in all the right sizes and everything, and all right there at my desk.

I guess most of all, I'm thankful for being born into a world of opportunities, incredible technologies and on certain levels, acceptance. While we may not have reached that stage of total elimination of prejudice, we're definitely much closer now than we were just a couple of years ago. That major change could be right round the corner, and I would definitely be thankful to be a witness to that.

Deathly Long Trip To See The Hallows

Madison's downtown area has no cinema. I had originally thought that the Orpheum theater was it, but they seem to only repeatedly show movies that have either been playing for ages, or live sketch shows, or some acapella concerts and whatnot. There is no actual cinema you can go to for the latest releases, which really disturbed me. What do these people, I wonder, do with all their time? Were they going to fly to cinemas on their broomsticks to watch the latest Harry Potter?

The nearest Sundance Cinema was more than 2 miles away. It was closer than the West Towne Mall I had previously went to, but it was still too far to walk. I have a bike now, a slight improvement from my pedestrian days, but the freezing rain and bone chilling winds made me really reluctant to bike for twenty minutes. Plus, I didn't really know the way, even though Google Maps had already mockingly drew a very simplistic map for me, hoping it would be enough to lead me there. Once again, I was being forced to take a cab. 

"What movie are you watching at Sundance?" The cabbie inquiries. 

"Harry Potter, it just came out." I replied.

"Bwahahaha... Oh, I don't care for all that Harry Potter nonsense." The bitch.

"Good thing I'm the one going then." And then uncomfortable silence.

I had already bought my ticket online, seeing how quickly these seats filled up for such a big-deal movie. There was, thankfully, one seat left in the last row, with all the rest being either really close or entirely on the screen itself. I collected my one ticket at the box office, endured the pitying 'aw you're here alone?' gaze of the cashier, and made my way into the auditorium. Fans were singing the Harry Potter theme as the cinema filled up, and smatterings of applause were heard as the Harry Potter logo (followed by ominous music) filled the screen. As this was a Harry Potter movie, the filmmakers could surely magically hear their applause.

At last, after a year of waiting, Harry Potter: The Deathly Hallows part 1 was starting. Boy was it dark - the lights were all switched off. The movie was very frightening too, of course. Two minutes in and I was already welling up. There was no need for any intense, scary death scenes - the simple act of Hermione erasing herself from her family's memory, so that she can freely hunt down Horcruxes with Harry and Ron, was powerful enough. I don't know if it's because of the situation I'm in, and that I can relate to removing myself from my family, but none of the other deaths in the movie, not even Dobby's, hit me as hard as that scene. 

Truth be told, I wasn't really anticipating this movie very much. It was one of my least favorite books in the series, as the main draw for me had always been the enchanting Hogwarts. Harry's blind heroics and his selfish, manipulative behavior irks me from time to time, and plus, there was no Dumbledore at all in this one. While the movie was very entertaining, with all that fast paced action and infiltration of the ministry, I never really did feel like it was a Harry Potter movie. With all that running through the woods, it was even starting to feel a tad like that distasteful Twilight.

I do applaud the decision to make a part one and two. The characters finally had some breathing space to really develop, and we got to see some emoting, rather than just racing from action scenes to big magical explosions. My favorite character, however, was missing for the first time in a Potter movie. I suppose Prof McGonagall is only gonna show up in the last bit where they fight it out in Hogwarts, but I really missed the Transfiguration professor and her 'That's enough, Mr Weasley'. 

Possibly the best part of the movie happens between Ron and Hermione, as they sort out their obvious mutual attraction, and staunch denial about it. More than a few people in the cinema went 'awww' as he talked about how the ball of light touched him in the heart, and he apparated to where he instinctively knew they would be. Although a deviation from the book, this version was admittedly quite moving. The number of outfit changes they manage to fit in while in the wilderness was quite incredible. I know Hermione's bag can fit in quite a few more things than it looks, but Burberry's entire fall collection, for all three of them? She must be a more resourceful witch that she looks.

Random note: has anyone noticed how short Harry is? Even Hermione is taller than him. Are we supposed to believe that a shorty (not of the shawty variety) beat the Dark Lord? What's next, Justin Bieber wins the Quidditch Cup? 

This is also the movie where we are introduced to the Deathly Hallows, the three most powerful objects in the Wizarding world, although we have already seen two of them. Harry's Invisibility Cloak, Dumbledore's Elder Wand, and the Resurrection Stone are known to conquer Death itself. Voldermort wants the Elder Wand, as he believes it would allow him to finally kill Harry, seeing how his own wand revolts against killing the owner of its twin. At the end of the movie, Voldy finds out that Dumbledore's wand is indeed the Elder Wand, and the movie closes with him triumphantly standing over Dumbledore's grave, after looting it. Voldermort, however, still has a few surprises to find regarding the ownership of the wand, which I suppose will be resolved in the second part of the Deathly Hallows. 

This movie is definitely recommended, though I know I'll enjoy the second one so much more, if only to see the sexy Voldermort for longer periods of time. Was that a very disturbing image? I thought so too.

By the way, Darren Criss, from that fantastic glee episode, acting as Kurt's new gay friend Blaine? He was in a Harry Potter musical parody starring as Harry. Loved it. 

Taking The Plunge

A couple days back, something I had thought was completely trustworthy turned its porcelain back on me - my toilet had went on strike, refusing to swallow yet another load of human excretion. As I watched in utter horror, the toilet just filled and filled as I desperately and repeatedly (which, on hindsight, was a pretty stupid thing to do) pressed down on the flush button. It was, on many levels, very much like a mother trying to coax her child to take another spoonful of medicine, except a mother wouldn't be screaming vulgarities while sobbing and gasping on the bathroom floor. "Please... Why don't you want to take my offerings... Are you mocking me?!" 

The situation was devastating, and I've decided that I definitely wouldn't put up with this outrageousness. So like all proactive college students, my course of action was to sit and wait it out, while praying to the lords above - whichever lord with sympathetic dispositions towards bowel movement - that the toilet would come to its senses and just take one more gulp for the team. The water level would slowly and painstakingly take its time trickling to the hole level, and each time I eagerly try to flush it yet again, I only end up disappointed. I had taken to going to the bathroom 3 levels down in the food-court toilet (there's something very magical about their mirrors. It seems to have the perfect soft glow lighting that makes me feel very good about myself. I've been caught fawning over my fake reflection on more than one occasion by people coming in, and I quickly pretend like I'm straightening my shirt.) The problem is, sometimes they close the entrance to the food-court early, and there doesn't seem to be another public toilet anywhere else in the building. 

Max The Suitemate seems to know of some sort of drain-unclogging-liquid that you can just buy and pour into the toilet, and it's supposed to do as its name suggests. It was finally purchased tonight, and after waiting, breathless (partly because of the fumes from the liquid), for an hour, there was still no sign of recovery on the toilet's part. I knew the Gods of Toilet Tragedies wouldn't have let us off that easily. Just pour liquid into a toilet, and expect it to magically unclog itself? It was like expecting to put out a bushfire with spit. The vision that came to me at that instant was crystal clear - on this Indian Summer night, James Madison Zhang was losing his toilet plunging virginity.

A trip down to Walgreens gave me a variety of plungers to choose from, and of course, I picked the one that said 'Best Plunger Ever Manufactered!" If they could claim that, it definitely had to be true. If I was plunging my first toilet, I had to roll with the best. For some reason, I didn't want to walk into Walgreens and only buy a plunger. It was like buying condoms, or pregnancy test kits - you don't want to embarrass yourself and only buy that one thing, so you buy a few stuff to disguise it. Plus, you can never walk into Walgreens and come out with only the item you set out to buy, it's very much like the Ikea curse, where everything looks as if they're necessary in your home. Amazingly enough, the cashier manages to fit every single camouflaging item into one bag, and asked if I wanted to carry the plunger in my hand. I'd have plunged his face with it, if I hadn't been so eager to get out of public. 

Back home, I peruse the instruction tag that came along with the plunger. (Yup, there are apparently instructions on how to do this.) I was under the impression that you simply stuck the thing in there, and exerted a back and forth motion. Clearly, plunging a toilet, like sex, wasn't as easy as it may appear. This very high tech appliance I had purchased came with a valve for letting air out, and you're supposed to open the valve, push it into the hole, twist the handle so that it closes, then plunge. I don't think aircrafts came with that many instructions. I had completely no idea what the mechanism behind any of that was, and after ten minutes of vigorously pushing the damn thing in and out with no progress made, I was ready to turn to a higher power - Google. 

Apparently, what I was doing wrong was that the toilet was too full when I was plunging it. Take this as a learning opportunity, boys and girls who have yet to face the perils of a clogged toilet. The toilet should preferably be almost empty when you start to plunge, so you can do it very vigorously and not be afraid of the water splashing out. In my case, the toilet was already pretty full, so I had to use the plunger sort of like a dropper, sucking up water, tilting it so the water stays inside, then disposing it in the drain. It was pretty bleak work - I had no idea what I was doing, or even if any of this would even work. 

When the water level was finally appropriate for some serious plunging to go down, I gave that damn toilet everything I got. I plunged like I had never plunged before, and at last - I hear the sweet sounds of a delightful gurgle as it sucks down the water. After all that lunacy, my toilet was finally brought back to life. I gaze upon it with the tenderness and love only someone who's plunged could understand, and I gave it an energetic flush and a pat for good measure. Some take pride in their child's minor scholastic achievements, I take pride in knowing that my bathroom had a well functioning toilet thanks to my hard work. 

It felt very empowering, knowing I wouldn't be stumped by a tantrum throwing toilet anymore. Perhaps this was life's big secret - plunge anyone with a tantrum, and I'm pretty sure they'll stop. An obstacle, as I've said many times, is only a test of how much you want something. I really want to take that leak, so you're shit outta luck, Thomas. (Yeah, I named the toilet. I don't know about you, but I certainly can't have that intimate of an encounter with something and still call it an 'it'.)

Dating Ex-Cons

Now while I may be known for being pretty open-minded with the 'wrong type' of people I date (the naughtier the better), I draw the line at ex-cons. Thankfully though, I'm not the one who has to make that decision whether or not to go on dating someone who has been all too familiar with the insides of a jail-cell. It would have been kinda romantic if he had been jailed for beating up someone who was harassing his date, or embezzling funds to buy an extra special present for the special someone, or breaking into a lobster restaurant to free all the doomed crustaceans for his PETA member of a lover. In this case, however, we're dealing with his dealings with a particularly promiscuous boy prostitute. 

The exact nature of Paul and Vincent's (both fake names, obviously) relationship was very strange to me to begin with. I know the dating world isn't the ole' reliable tradition it was before, with a classic dinner and movie, but somehow, nothing they did suggested that it was anything more than two childish kids (one of them was already nearing 30, mind you) being idiotic. This apparently thrills the both of them, and it seemed that they were having a good time. The borderline illegal nature of the things they were doing did ring alarms in my head, and I had been having misgivings about this secretive new guy Paul was seeing. "What did he have to hide," I kept finding myself asking, every time Paul told me about some new layer of deception Vincent was using on social platforms, even generic ones like FaceBook.

As it turns out, of course, Vincent did have plenty to hide. After a Googling of his name, Paul comes across a startling 2-year-old report about a group of men jailed for having sexual relations with a then 15 year old boy. One of them, surprise surprise, was the guy he had been dating, and claiming to have fallen in love with. I won't go too much into what the exact nature of the crime was, but the basic idea is that the little slut of a boy needed money, and these seven men, on separate occasions, paid him for sexual favors. So now this big revelation was made about Vincent having been in jail for 3 months, and suddenly Paul found his "love", if he can call it that, evaporating just a tad.

It's not that I want to hold someone's past against them, but one's destination is a buildup of the choices he has made in life. To knowingly engage in sexual acts with a minor, and being fully aware of its legal ramifications, simply reflects upon his lack of maturity and morality. It wasn't as if it can be excused as being a stupid thing one did in his youth. He was well into his twenties by then, and is supposed to bear the full consequences of his actions. Sure, he has served three months in jail to supposedly repent for his actions, but this isn't us talking about sending a kid to the timeout corner. When it's over, it isn't simply over. Was Paul really ready for that kind of commitment to that kind of person? I suppose it isn't my place to impose judgment, but given a choice, would anyone sane willingly choose a registered sex offender that you've only known for a few weeks, over someone who's - let us place our expectations a little lower for now - actually law abiding? There are 3 billion men in this world, I'm sure asking for a non-sex offender isn't exactly reaching for the stars. 

I'm sure what Paul is facing, and many of us have felt at some point, is a fear of being alone. Unlike many types of 'boo boos', this is one that doesn't fade by waiting it out - if anything, the feelings can intensify over time. It's a paralyzing fear that creeps up to you at your most vulnerable, and its one that can't be kept at bay by simply removing yourself from a situation. Where are you going to run to at night, when you're all alone in a dark bedroom, curled up by yourself in bed? How does one push away those feelings when you're the only one standing alone in a party of pairs? Sure, it's tough, but that certainly isn't the cue to jump into the waiting arms of an ex-con, just because he happens to be there. You've been waiting that long for a good one to come along, why settle now for someone you're clearly embarrassed by? 

Now one might say that it's discriminatory of me to feel that Vincent the Sex Offender doesn't deserve to be in a real relationship. But this case is totally different - Vincent wasn't born an ex-con, his decisions made him one. Are we allowed to be discriminatory against people who've made terrible choices? I do think so. It's an issue of his character we're judging, not his race, religion, sexual orientation, chocolate preference.. Who are we going to discriminate against, if not the morally unsound and sexually deviant? The world isn't an anything-goes kind of place - we live with the decisions we make. If he's truly sorry about it, I don't think he would have made that much effort in hiding his real name. If he did like Paul, would he have kept something that huge from him? Secrets don't have a place in any relationship, and Vincent's whole smoke-and-mirrors thing with the fake FaceBook profile is only showing the world how little he's able to accept responsibility. 

As one saying goes, dating is about hiding your flaws, relationships are about hiding your disappointments, and marriage is about hiding your sins. Well that's one big ass flaw he was trying to hide. I'll say the quickest, most painless way to resolve this is to terminate it as soon as possible. Let the ex-con find his piece of heaven elsewhere, and let Paul grow up a little and realize he should start learning a new word - standards.

Strength

Seeing most people's response towards my living here alone (usually a mix of incredulity and suspicion) is making me wonder: am I really living up to that image of strength I'm making myself, and others, think I possess?  How does one quantify, or define emotional strength? Does it lie in the difficult choices you make, the convictions you have to find the courage to keep, the ignoring of all the what-ifs, or is it reflected in simply keeping your head above the water? Is strength used to trigger a release of energy, an explosion, of sorts, or is it used to prevent yourself from imploding? 

I'd like very much for people to think I'm a strong, willful, independent young man who is gleefully capable of managing his own life. There's nothing I'd like more than to be seen as someone who's able to live though something that someone else would find impossible to handle. To be looked up to, or admired, even envied, to a degree. But once in a while, these self-doubting little monstrous thoughts would start surfacing, and I begin to wonder if I'm really doing the courageous thing, or did I choose the easier way out. To stay in Singapore would mean a mandatory two years of military servitude, which would be something i know I can't, and wouldn't in a million years, do. The easier path for me was to escape that restricting law, to migrate back to the home of the brave and the land of the free, where people who don't want to wear complexion-contrasting green for your country wouldn't be forced to. 

So the decision to move away from home was one of the easiest I've ever made. I'm gaining an education in such a vastly diverse environment, I get to live in the country of infinite possibilities, I get to live so freely, and to top it off, I'm skipping that two years of NS. That moment (if 20 hours counts as a moment) where I migrated was one of the easiest steps I've had to take, so I'd say strength doesn't come in the form of one momentary burst. The hard part was having to actually bear with the daily routine of solitude, to confront that ever present notion that there's really no one around that I can fully rely on. Is this what it feels like to be a grown up? Does growing up mean we have to face eternal worry? Gone are the days where laundry is always done, something is always ready to eat during meal times, and there's someone to physically talk to about anything. And most of all, gone are the days of living with people you actually know.

I do get what they say, about how sometimes you can feel most alone when you're surrounded by the most people. Is there someone on this side of the pacific that *doesn't* like football? By football, I mean rugby, but I don't like the regular English football anyways, so screw them both. I did try, but I must be weird, because I can't seem to get the significance behind a group of too-muscled guys tackling each other and falling down every few minutes, with no semblance of actual skills and structure being displayed, and the ultimate goal seems to be the hospital. There's only that much one can take before admitting you're not cut out for all that pretend enthusiasm directed at players who can't even hear you. So is strength displayed by sticking to it even though you're not entirely enjoying yourself, or is it knowing when to pull yourself out?

I'd really like to finish my thought, but I seem to have lost track of where I was going with this. Oh well...