Perpetual Kid

The single most delightful thing about the Internet is its capacity to allow you access to all the junk floating around the internetal-space. Because the internet is made up of all the empty air around us, and information is just.. floating around us, isn't it? I don't know, I'm neither a computer science major nor a loser. What StumbleUpon provides us is a service that basically spoon-feeds us rubbish, instead of us having to painstaking look for it. With a click of the 'Stumble Again!' button, pages upon pages of delicious nonsense pops up for your easy reading pleasure. And like all things bad for you, I am completely addicted to it. Who wouldn't want to stumble upon videos of cats playing the piano, read about the social and economic benefits of marijuana presented in cartoon form, or photos of squirrels suckling on cat tits? That's right, ladies and gentlemen, after thousands of years of civilization, I sincerely believe that we have reached the pinnacle of entertainment.

A truly titillating site I stumbled upon was PerpetualKid.com, an online store that sells quirky and imaginative household items. (If you're getting mistakenly excited about the word 'titillating' because you see 'tit' in it, please look it up on the dictionary. I'm sorry but it has nothing to do with breasts.) They offer the cutest kitchen and living wares, some practical, some not, but all equally delightful to look at. What immediately caught my eye was 'The Ex' knife holder set, a wonderful contraption shaped like a man, that basically holds knives in the deep wounds you put in him. One through the head, one through the leg, one through the crotch - I've never seen anything more adorable. It retails for $70 and comes with all the very study knives, so it was a very good deal to someone who needs knives very frequently, being a domestic-god and all. Now if they only had a photo holder in the head area to slot in a picture of a real ex, it would just be absolutely perfect.

Something else I've always wanted but never had the ability to buy (due to my previous lack of a credit card and geographical issues - living in SG puts such a cramp in online shopping) was the Shark Fin Ice Tray. You put water into an ice tray shaped like shark dorsal fins - and when it's all solid and hard, because that's how making ice tends to work - you just pop it into a drink and sing the Jaws theme as the fins bobble merrily in your drink. Problem with this though; the fins don't really stay as upright as one would like it to, making them look more like sharks with hangovers or serious vertigo. Nothing is less scary than a shark with a limp, crooked dorsal fin. I also realized that just having ice fins was not as fun as I thought it would be, which is why I'm now in the stages of finding little ice people i can put in as screaming-swimmers.

As it's nearing the end of my semester, as well as my lease here at Lucky, I'm not really getting a whole lot of apartment-stuff. I most definitely would for my new place in the fall, as I'll be living alone in my totally all-me apartment. I don't know what possessed me last year to think that I could live with strangers. The blame certainly falls on damn TV shows, for making me believe that everyone's random roommates would turn out to be beautiful, funny and loyal like the Friends, as well as clever and wisecracking like the Golden Girls. Oh, the things I would do when I finally have my own place. I'd do everything completely butt-naked, for one thing. Not that I'm some huge weirdo, but I just like to have the option of lying on my own goddamned couch with everything spilling out and not have anyone judge me, except for that creep across the street watching me with his high powered binoculars, but I would just let him because it makes me feel charitable and giving. Hell, I'd even cook naked. Except for foods that splatter, of course.

The Invention of Lying

Have I told you about Netflix? *Bimbo voice on* Gosh, sweetie, it's only, like, the most amazing thing to arrive on the internet since three-way midget porn. Okay imagine all your favourite TV shows, movies, documentaries (can anyone really have a favorite documentary? I would if they did an insightful piece on offensive tattoos that features the word 'grandma', but till then...), whatever. Now imagine them all on the same website, categorized into hundreds of sub-genres and most ready for instant viewing, all for the insubstantial price of $10 a month. Now considering that one season of any show costs at least $50 to $60 on DVD, a subscription to Netflix is practically a steal, seeing how you have un-friggin-limited access to any show you can think of. 

For shows that you can't stream on Netflix, you can have the DVD shipped to your place of residence, one disc at a time. The cleverly designed envelope doubles as a return-envelope as well, with the postage already paid and everything. They have a queue you can line up your wish-list on, and they'd just ship it to you one by one, every time you return the previous disc. If you're fast, you could probably receive up to 3 DVDs in one week. They have a 'predictive-suggestion' system, meaning they'd judge your tastes based on what shows you've watched and how you've rated it, and suggests films for you based on your perceived tastes. 'Woman On Top' is a top pick for me. They clearly don't know me well enough. 

Their 'Taste Preferences' survey can get a little intense. Netflix seems to have monopolized the market in sub-categorizing movies, so if you want a 'steamy' 'cult' 'thriller' with a 'father-son' and 'dinosaur' storyline, released in the '1950s' featuring 'deadly disasters', 'martial arts' and 'sacred classical music' with a 'Jewish' culture preference and 'hip-hop and contemporary dance', based on 'classic literature', you can probably find it. And while we're at it, why not throw in a 'Polish' language preference just for the hell of it. 

I've been doing some first-rate procrastinating since the discovery of Netflix, and have been watching some utterly fantastic shows including Drop Dead Diva, Parks & Recreation and Better Off Ted, but what really caught my attention was the Ricky Gervais comedy, The Invention Of Lying. Sure, it's not the funniest thing ever made, nor was it very aesthetically pleasing with Ricky Gervais as the lead, but it was definitely thought-provoking and original, and you know how I love having my thoughts tickled and provoked, and often stimulated. And aroused. 

So the movie. It's set in an imaginary world where lying doesn't exist, and everyone has to tell the absolute, cold, hard truth. This is where most of the humor stems from, as waiters greet their patrons with 'this is a demeaning job and I hate it, and you're very attractive, which makes me hate myself even more', instead of the usual pleasantries. This is a universe where niceties are never uttered for niceties' sake, and every word out of their mouths is an uncensored reflection of what they're really saying. 

Ricky plays Mark, the only guy in the world that has figured out how to tell a lie. And because everyone only tells the absolute truth, no one questions any of his lies. He tells an attractive woman that unless they have sex immediately, the world will end, and she literally drags him to a motel and screams at him to get naked for the sake of all the children. Mark initially abuses his new-found powers of deceit to get obscenely rich at a casino, but soon realizes that little white lies can brighten up the lives of people around him, even dissuade his neighbor from committing suicide, especially since they sincerely believe that things will get better. 

The real message Gervais is pushing becomes clear halfway through the movie, where Mark's mom lies dying in the hospital bed. She says that she does not want to face death if it means spending an eternity of nothingness, so Mark lies and comforts her by making up a 'heaven', where everyone who's ever died will be there, and you would be filled with warmth and joy, surrounded by the people and things you love. The surrounding doctors and nurses hear what he's saying and is utterly bewitched. Unbeknown to him, he has just started the first religion.

Things steadily get out of hand from there, as he gets pressurized by the crowds to write the 'ten commandments', do a sermon on the hill, basically satirizing Christianity and God, or as Mark called it, Man Living In The Sky. The lack of logic in religion comes up, as the crowds question the sheer absurdity of this religion, and in one memorable scene, the furious crowd all raise middle fingers at the sky and shout 'Fuck you, man in the sky!' (They were just told that The Man In The Sky was responsible for every bad thing that ever happened to them, including cancers and natural disasters.)

It's not hard to see why a movie like this wouldn't be universally well received. Christian groups utterly hated it for suggesting that the bible wasn't written by a drunk who was just making things up to see what he could get away with, and for basically saying that everything they stood for was made up because we feared death. As illustrated in the movie, something meant to console someone in pain eventually turned on itself and consumed its followers with its ridiculous rules of 'three strikes and you're in hell' ("like baseball!") and for promoting the idea of complacency. Why do anything now if you can enjoy an eternity of bliss in heaven?

I've never been a fan of sugar-coating words, so all that cutthroat honesty was truly delicious and refreshing for me. I don't want to be mean, I just want to be able to extend the courtesy of truth, and have others do the same for me. Of course I want to hear it if my attractiveness is making someone feel threatened and insecure, are you kidding me? And I would reciprocate by telling them that they have absolutely nothing to worry about, because they can spend their lives trying to catch up with me and never make it, so why even be stressed out about it at all. 

Go on, tell me I'm hateful. *Bright smile*

"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds"

Who doesn't despise a pretentiously elitist 'oh look at me I'm in college and well educated' boy dangling big quotations around as if he understands it, when it's obvious he doesn't and is just trying to make you feel bad too? Yeah, no one wants to be that guy, but I'm stepping up to the plate and claiming that unwanted throne for myself. It's basically the gist of what the quote advocates, that conformity and desperate yearning to fit in is a ridiculous concept. Either that, or little goblins are taking over the world. That's right - back off, nonexistent competitors, for James is ready to be that guy.

I'll admit it, I was terrified of standing out. Who wouldn't like to simply two-step into a new environment and be absorbed instantly into the established cliques. So I started telling myself I can sit through another inanely boring football game, another pointlessly unfunny "approved-by-the-masses" movie, just so I'd be viewed as "one of us". I was so concerned about how I appeared to an outsider.  Sure, I had sat there for hours, drinking and laughing along, appearing for all intent and purposes one of the gang. But not for one moment did I really feel like I was where I needed to be. I had forgotten my own mantra, that it is the ikran that chooses you, not the other way around. (I'm sorry, that might have been from Avatar.)  Only when you're really comfortable with who you are, will you find company that truly matches your interests. I was so preoccupied with how I was being viewed, that I forgot that all that didn't matter if I wasn't viewing myself favorably.

Obviously, I wasn't sinking into a pit of self-loathing, I'm way too narcissistic for that. What I was doing, however, was censoring and twisting my true self to fit the norm here. Anyone who really knows me would find the very idea of me conforming to be highly amusing, and it's partly embarrassing to admit that I have been trying. But as all deep-rooted personalities go, I'm most comfortable when I'm not just one of the crowd. There's really nothing I like more than to be regarded as very different in a quirky and lovable manner, the way I have been perceived all these past years. Disregard any tags from people claiming I'm a monster, they are all high on THC and cannot be trusted.

I don't fit in - that's always been my thing. I scorn the common passers-by with my small group of equally delightful friends, celebrating differences instead of trying to quash them. I need to find that snarky bitch inside me again, and unleash it onto the unsuspecting Madisonian public. In small doses at first, I'd think. "Is that the fastest you can pack, you dim-wit llama? Oh I apologize, is that very rude of me? Yes by credit card please. I SAID paper bag. Does your bulbous forehead not contain a little piece of brain tissue? Thanks, you have a great day too!"

That might be slightly bipolar, but you get the picture. I don't have to like the messy game of football just because I live among the country's most raucous fans. I don't have to pretend that the only thing I'm celebrating today isn't the return of Glee and not the Superbowl. I am not ashamed to stand up and let it known across the land that the only superbowl I'm interested in is a superbowl of nachos and cheese. I came to America in search of diversity, and perhaps now I'm finally getting used to the idea.  It has never felt better to say that I'm not one bit like any of them, and I couldn't be prouder. 

The Parade of Pathetic Holidays

It's really so much clearer to me now - the holidays we've grown up programmed to love really don't have much meaning behind them. Christmas supposedly celebrates the birth of Christ, but our family and friends arn't religious, so what was all that big deal behind it? New Year's Day heralds the beginning of a new year, but it's really just another day. It's people's obsession with categorizing everything that really invented time, dates and calendars. We call ourselves intellectually advanced, and here we are, still primitively rejoicing over every rotation the Earth makes around the Sun. Innit very much like how they used to perform rituals during eclipses to ward away the Celestial Dog that was swallowing the Sun? You'd think a dog blessed with a heavenly ancestry would know better than to gulp down a big ball of fire. 

The fact of the matter is, holidays are meaningless. It is a human concept, not a magical day, so it is the people you get to celebrate it with that make it special. I spent Christmas alone and New Year's Eve under the covers counting down on BBM with Jiahui (she was not in bed with me, she was in Singapore, just so we're very clear on this), and I came to the freeing realization that these festivals people get so hung up over - it's just another day. Nothing very Christmasy happens when you're alone. Reindeer droppings won't fall on your head, Santa doesn't commit breaking and entering on the pretense of giving you presents, and you don't magically grow wiser at the strike of twelve on New Year's.

So here we are, at the turn of the new year. And according to Mayan-worshipers, the final peaceful year we have before the complete destruction of the world, so tastefully portrayed in the movie 2012. I'm going on record to say that I don't believe in all that bullshit, but I am very excited to see how paranoid people are going to get. I have never been too good at keeping any New Year's Resolutions, seeing how "I resolve not to be a whoring slut" always gets broken within 24 hours of making that resolution. So this year, I've decided that resolutions should be kept simple and easily achievable. As a result, this year, my New Year's Resolution is to continue to be devastatingly handsome and awesome. Done. 

Everyone has their amazing NYE stories, I'm sure. And let me just say now that I do not want to hear about it. No, I don't wanna hear how you got 'shitfaced, dude', throwing up in the toilet with a cross-dresser holding back your hair while rented-strippers do a harmonized version of Auld Lang Syne with their hoohoos. Actually, if your NYE was anything remotely like that, I do wanna hear about it. But no, everyone has their version of basically the same story, and insist on telling their variation one after another, as if there are that many ways to chug eggnog with your great-uncle Walter. To me, acceptable ways to start a NYE story include 'I adopted the only obese, middle-aged Zimbabwean ', 'I'm Clarissa now, not Clarence' and 'I was stuck in an airport due to heavy fog'. Anything else, just save it. 

Coincidentally, I was stuck in an airport due to heavy fog. I was due to fly from Madison to Chicago, and then transfer to St Louis to spend Christmas Eve with the Songs (specifically why, I'm not sure, as I ended up spending the night in bed recovering from the strain of the messed up flights.). My flight was supposed to be at around 2pm, but due to the heavy fog, the planes wouldn't even fly in from Chicago. It wasn't until around 4pm that the pilot finally had the balls to fly my plane in. Thankfully, I didn't miss my connecting flight as the entire Midwest was having severe weather conditions. The place I was flying to - St Louis - had a devastating tornado that ripped through a street not too far from the Song's place. I say 'thankfully' (not because I'm a sadist and enjoys watching people's roofs get torn off) because all the flights were delayed, so even though I was late, I was able to make it onto the connecting flight with plenty of time to spare. Just wish I had known that before I sprinted wildly around the Chicago airport screaming about the bleeping fog. 

As far as I'm concerned, St Louis only deserves one visit. In fact, half a visit is plenty. The Songs are the most amazing and nice people (and I'm not just saying this because I have a constant fear that anyone I mention in my blog is gonna put a price on my head), but boy is St Louis empty. There's that St Louis arch that looks way too flimsy to be climbing up and down and messing around with, and to make things worse, you go up in a 4 feet high capsule that uncomfortably fits five. It goes up for an agonizing four-rickety-and-grindingly-slow minutes, after which you enter the top portion of the arch. It has 16 super thin windows, not nearly enough to make me feel comfortable in that restricted space. I've never been the claustrophobic type, but that tiny space with the limited windows, including all the people cramped in, gave me a creepy tinge of suffocating oppression, the kind I haven't felt since leaving the Communist State of Jurong Junior College. I took an obligatory and quick view out of the two sides of the arch, earned my bragging rights, and eagerly headed towards back towards the minuscule capsules.

Exactly 24 hours after leaving St Louis for Madison, I was once again back on the plane heading towards Reno, Nevada. Another family my parents were good friends with lives out there, and I was eager to expand my resume of states visited. The uncle promised that I would be brought skiing, which left me very confused. I thought that Nevada was a desert, where do they get enough snow for skiing? Apparently it does indeed snow on the mountains surrounding Reno, and skiing's a very big thing over there. Any senior citizen can whizz by on skis faster than you can say 'you're gonna break your hip!'. I had never gone skiing before, but if my experience with ice-skating had taught me anything, it was that babies born in Wisconsin are magically blessed at birth by ski-suit-wearing gay fairies to be amazing at winter sports.

After a lesson with my Australian ski instructor, I could comfortably ski down the student's slope. More importantly, I could comfortably slow down and stop on the slope. I suspect I could have learned more from the instructor, but most of the time I was distracted by the most awesome Australian accent. How does he convey his meaning to anyone, if everyone else are as captivated as I am by Aussie-speak. He could be muttering gibberish for all I cared, as long as he does it in the amusing accent. Oh I've got it! They sound exactly like English-Texan hybrids. ~Love~ it. (That was supposed to be read in that falsetto, high-pitched, self assured way.)

The student hill soon got too boring for me. It was extremely short and, I suspect, built for grannies who've just had hip-replacement surgeries. I was ready to take on the green-level slope, the one my instructor said I was definitely ready for. Or at least that's what I think he said, I was still very tickled by the accent. And if my instructor from the Land of the Emus think I'm ready, I'm not going to wait another minute. I confidently and cumbersomely make my way towards the ski-lift that was going to bring me up to the basic-level hill. I should probably have taken off the skis, carried them to the lift and then put it on, but the praise from Kangaroo-Lord was getting to my head and I wasn't thinking clearly at all. By the time I got to the lift I was sweating and panting from pushing my way up with my ski-poles. Why they would have an uphill slope to the lift, I'd never know. I'd also like to take this time to apologize to the toddlers' faces I smacked with my ski-poles. Hey, it's not my fault you're still that short. 

My confidence began dwindling as I surveyed the hill while going up on the lift. There were a few slopes in between that were a little steep, and as I watched some snowboarders and skiiers roll down the hill, I began wondering whatever possessed me to think I was ready for this. By the time I reached the top I was almost ready to stay on the lift and take a journey back downhill. Trying to remember eveything the instructor had said, I performed an expertly maneuvered move off the lift. Now for the actual slope. My heart raced as I stared down the snowy white (actually yellow, cause I was wearing ski-goggles) hill I was sure was gonna claim my life. I say a little prayer to Aretha, gulped once, and launched myself towards the slope. I confidently zoomed towards the opposite side, flipped, and landed on my back within seconds. I cursed the slopes, cursed the damned liar of an instructor, cursed Reno and cursed the heavens that poured this ungodly snow on this goddamned slope.

I pushed myself up and started back down the slope. To my utter surprise, I actually began doing something looking surprisingly like skiing. I was making the zip-zag turns down-slope, remembered the instructor's words about weight distribution and feet maneuvers, managed to avoid the dangerous, unpredictable snowboarders, and made it to the end with only 2 more tumbles (including one spectacular one that involved losing a ski). The second time down, I got through it without falling once. Was this possible? Within four hours I had transformed myself from a ski-virgin to someone who just screwed (or at least dry humped) the brains out of the baby-slope. I was unduly proud of myself, and promptly used my Blackberry to change my Facebook display picture to one of me skiing. The world, all 123 other occupants, needed to share in this delightful development.

Reno, of course, is mainly famous for being a mini-Las Vegas. Casinos peppered the downtown, with bright flights sleazily flashing their names. We took a look inside, to show me the inside of a casino. I was expecting something out of Ocean's Eleven - glamorous, filled to the brim with desperadoes and fancy millionaires being pampered by the smartly dressed staff, with inconspicuous managers surveying everyone with the eye of a hawk. What had greeted me instead was a scene of utter silence. There were perhaps fewer than five people, all senior citizens, lifelessly feeding coins to the slot machine. Nothing reflects the dwindling economy better than a casino - the uncle says that just a few years ago, the place was completely full, and now its only a ghost of what the place used to be. No one has any money left to spend on necessities, much less gamble away. The place was fully lit up, which was perhaps what made it look so sad. Every machine was eagerly waiting for someone to use it and fulfill its money-sucking, soul-depraving destiny, but no one was gullible or generous enough anymore.

You know how people get so annoying about having seen famous landmarks? 'Oh, I was on the Golden Gate Bridge, it was so amazing, but I don't get why it was red though..." Big deal, you saw it, come brag to me about it if you built it. But yeah, I'm going to annoyingly do exactly that. San Francisco lies a 4hr drive from Reno, and we drove there on Saturday or Sunday (I've been drinking and I can't remember which), and I was just an absolute pest about seeing the Golden Gate Bridge. We crossed a reddish bridge that looks exactly like the GGB (that's industry-speak for Golden Gate Bridge, dawg), and I just going berserk about it before I was told it was just an imposter, built to look like the real thing. Damn, and just when I was going to start singing God Bless America. 

We came before the real thing after driving past the piers. I would say that it was absolutely breathtaking, but that would still be selling it short. It was like seeing a celebrity in the flesh - you'd seen pictures, videos, likenesses, on key-chains, postcards, screen-savers, their faces superimposed on random naked bodies, wallpapers, everything, but you still don't really believe it's something real. And there it was, the most famous bridge in the world (apart from the structurally questionable London Bridge that always seems to be falling down), majestically stretching from coast to coast in all its non-golden glory. I squinted to see if Leo or Paige from Charmed was at the top questioning the Elders, but I suspect the heavy fog was blocking the shimmering blue orbs from view.

And now, here I am, back in Madison after 4 days in St Louis and 10 in Reno. Perhaps the aura of the Shrine of the Overachieving (inside story) rubbed off on me, but I am quite excited to begin the new semester. Some French to break into Celine's full catalog, some Criminal Justice to build the base for the crowning glory of Criminology, and some Theater just to fulfill the stereotype. *Somebody* has to do it. 

And now for the real New Year's Resolutions: Bs for everything, A for Theater. Lord (my Lord is the Reduced Fat Very Berry Coffee Cake from Starbucks, only $2.50) knows I need this.

So, fellow college students, have a wonderfully fucked up new year so I can freeload my success off your failure. Don't be selfish, you'd do this one little thing for me, won't you?

"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.