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...