Unhappy birthday

"You said something stupid like love steals us from loneliness. Happy birthday. Are you lonely yet?" - Idlewild

June 27, 1996
I was a pre-pubescent girl. I aspired to be rude like the boys, uttering fowl words in Hokkien in class like it was nobody’s business. (I do not know about you, but there is something really coarse about rude words in Hokkien. It is probably the rudest language of profanity ever to walk the Earth). The American way was the way to go. We spoke in English despite studying in a Chinese primary school. We listened to English songs – it was the reigning years of boybands and Backstreet Boys were our Gods – and would not speak of our past in the Chinese culture. I aspired to be cool and to be cool was to be bad.

It was not a huge party but quite a close-knitted one with my then best friends – Melissa (you are so reading this right now, lol), Genevieve, Chia Yiing and Khun Hooi. We gathered in the apartment I called my childhood home. I probably ordered pizza for the first time over the phone, a very “grown up” gesture for a kid like me then. We cranked Backstreet Boys and 911 to the top volume and did stuff we thought it was cool then. Of course, my parents were not at home.

Somehow, we got bored of what we were doing and decided to hit the streets. We were all dressed in black, some were in their oversized Backstreet Boys T-shirts (I was not because I was a poor kid and $15 a T-shirt was something my parents would not understand), and the day was stifling hot. We were kids; we did not have the licence to drive nor the knowledge to hail a bus. Yet, we walked on our own two feet to a bookstore in the next suburb and argued a little over who should purchase that issue of Bop on the shelves. Back then, it seemed cool. I failed to understand why it was cool the very next year.

I guess the novelty of coolness wore off when we were too tired to walk back and I called my dad over the payphone to pick us up at the nearest bus stop. My dad was not pleased when he showed up. We were red-faced and sweating twice the normal amount in our heat-absorbing outfits.

It was downright silly. But I was a kid.

June 27, 1999
I did not have much friends but I liked the term “the more the merrier”. I decided to have a birthday party without really planning it. What to eat. What to do. What to listen to. The shits. I just thought, “Hey, it’s my birthday, come on over and have a blast” without working on the “blast”.

I mentioned to Ethan about this and told him it was cool for him to bring over some of his friends. Never in my wildest imagination that the kid sitting next to me in primary school and snatching my entire exercise book during spelling tests to peek on would have an entire army of friends. I was new the teenager world and I wanted to be cool and coming from an all-girls' high school, I had the idea that having boys in my "party" would win me ten cool brownie points. Boy, was I wrong.

Things started off mellow. My friends swung by, probably just a handful. I was not a popular girl and I was quite picky of the friends I hung out with. And then, Ethan and his army gate-crashed my so-called party. Literally. They lingered on the street outside my house and by the looks of it, I knew it was a bad idea to get them in the same room as my parents. They were boys, for fuck’s sake. How were you when you were a teenager, huh? Rude and rowdy. When boys were 14, they were not one to be on a line-up where my parents pick which to be their future son-in-law.

I freaked out. Probably got in an argument with Ethan along the line of “I said a few, not an army!” They could not attend my “party” so the job was to get them out of my neighbourhood before someone starts a bigger scene. It was quite an embarrassing act; you told a guy friend who told his buddies it was cool to crash a chick’s birthday party, but before they could go in for some food they were shooed away.

I think my dad came out and talked to Ethan about it. I apologised profusely to him as he escorted his homies out of the neighbourhood to the nearest kopitiam. He was not pleased. Nobody was. I bet they hated me that night, saying it was cool to crash my “party” but throwing them out before they could get in.

When I got back to my “party”, my aunt was conducting a Christian sing-a-long to my guests. I was half-glad the boys did not make it past the gates. It would just be downright embarrassing.

June 27, 2003
My 14th birthday scared me. I was too afraid to do anything for my birthday in years that followed. I even resorted to nothingness for the oh so popular Sweet 16. Besides, I was a moody teenager. My parents gave me my first Discman and wrote in the birthday card of my bad temper and how they still loved me anyway.

But I guess I forgot all about it when I turned 18. I was fresh into college and I thought it would be a good idea to rally my different groups of friends in the same room for a birthday gathering. I refuse to use the word “party” because you shall understand later on.

I did not want anything fancy so my dad thought it was a good idea to have a buffet dinner at a hotel. His friend was the General Manager for say hotel and he easily secured a conference room with bad birthday decorations for the event. I had friends from my high school band, friends from my college and friends I usually hang out with: Ames, Shu Wen and Yi Shu. Ying Swee was already in New Zealand so she was missing all the fun. Not. And my family members.

I shall tell you why it is a “gathering”. It was like a fucking conference to meet well, me. My friends were segregated as mentioned above and they took turns to take pictures with me in groups as mentioned above. It was a bad bad picture. Stop picturing it. It is a bad bad picture. Granted I went clubbing for the first time past midnight. (I told my parents my friends and I would be hotel staying in another hotel; it was the perfect excuse to go get drunk and sexy; fine, neither happened).

Lame is the word. And that was the final straw. On my 18th birthday, I decided not to have a birthday party. Ever. I am a bad party hostess and an official party pooper. So to save my friends from boredom and myself from further dork embarrassment, I shall withdraw myself from such annual celebrations. Unless someone has the heart to organise one for me, I would appreciate you give me my presents when you chance upon me or just mail it to my home address. Thank you.

 

Inspired by Frankie Issue #14 "My Worst Birthday".
Feel free to leave a comment with your worst birthday or birthdays.

A review: Little Miss Sunshine

Disclaimer: Spoilers ahoy!

IMDB / official site

The story is about a dysfunctional family’s impromptu road trip to get the youngest (and probably, the most normal) member of the family to participate the Little Miss Sunshine Pageant in California.

Little Olive Hoover (Abigail Breslin) is thrilled when she received news that she is qualified in the pageant after months of preparations. Despite the family having another bout of arguments, she is busy packing up her bags and excitedly chanting, “I’ve won! I’ve won!” around the room.

Prior to Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris have been long time partners working on various music videos for famous musicians, such as Red Hot Chilli Peppers, R.E.M, The Smashing Pumpkins, and Weezer. For first timers in the movie business, I would say they have done a pretty decent job.

Things kicked off in the Hoover family when Sheryl (Toni Collette) welcomed her brother, Frank (Steve Carell), into her humble home after he regretfully failed to commit suicide. Immediately, from there on, all the nasty habits of the family members were revealed over a noisy dinner of chicken in the bucket. Father Hoover, Richard (Greg Kinnear), was an overachiever promoting his self-motivation scheme and would not tolerate losers, where one of them happened to be Uncle Frank. Brother Hoover, Dwayne (Paul Dano) decided to stop talking nine months ago just because of Friedrich Nietzsche and hated everyone. Grandpa Hoover, Edwin (Alan Arkin) snuck snorts of heroine in the bathroom and coached Olive’s talent performance in the backyard. Mother Hoover, Sheryl, just wished everyone would get along.

Having faith was what kept the family going all the way to California for the pageant. (Well, they have to, or not there will not be a movie altogether). Throughout the journey, the Gods were unkind to them and befell one after another an unfortunate event on every single one of them. The clutch on the old VW van broke down and everyone had to push the vehicle before getting it fired up. Richard learned that his self-motivation scheme failed to turn heads and bankruptcy was soon to occur. Frank bumped into the grad student who initiated the suicide attempt when he rejected Frank for another scholar. Grandpa died. Uh, yes. And Dwayne found out that he was colour blind; his dream of becoming a pilot totally shattered. There was a particular scene where everyone was so into in their own problems, sitting on their white asses moping and sulking. They were halfway down the road when they realised they have left Olive behind.

But as the saying goes, “when there’s a will, there’s a way”. Despite everyone’s loss in life, they were determined to keep Olive’s dream alive. They refused to let her into the adult’s life of deprivation and depression while she was at such a young age. She would have the rest of her life to get herself acquainted with the dark side of the moon but in the mean while, while she still can, it would be nice that she lived her age and be happy.

One scene that got me was when Dwayne found out that he was colour blind. At that one split second, a lifelong dream he has been anticipating for, one that would fly him away (all the puns intended) from his dysfunctional family, crashed and burned just because of this teeny weeny handicap. Literally, he was about to combust after not speaking and holding everything in for nine months. It was scary but it was sort of something I could relate to being the lacked of speaking one among family and friends. But then, his dialogues kind of went overboard with a hell lot of the F-word.

DeVotchKa provided the scores for the movie and it was a unique and good choice. The quartet trod the lines of Sicilian and Gypsy music with haunting vocals and heavy strings, and chanting chords of the sousaphone, piano and percussion. There was also an accordion, a trumpet, a bouzouki, and a theremin. No, I do not know what the latter two are. It was a good combination as the group ventured down the highway with DeVotchKa crooning at the background.

This is where I wrap things up with something, hopefully, profound and persuading. Of course it will fail but I shall say it nonetheless. Little Miss Sunshine, Fox Searchlight’s indie movie of dark comedy and adventure. The movie avoided the popular Hollywood clichés of someone in the group falling in love along the journey, or a close-ended curtain call where everybody finally gets along and live happily ever after. (OK, maybe even a Hollywood would not go for such old school cliché). But I guess this is what indie movies are all about, going along with the simplest things in life, things that matter to everyone personally, things that we have gone through before. Or not. (Here I go: something profound). The truth is, there are bound to be obstacles in life before reaching the finish line, stopping you from achieving your goals and hoping they would kill whatever hope you have in life itself. But I guess the key is to persevere and stay faithful. I guess it is how you choose to deal with these demons that will make your life’s story special. And maybe someday, hit the silver screen.

QUT : Year 1 Semester 2

Our mid-semester break was not until the tenth week. By the time we returned to Uni for classes, I just wanted to die already. I felt so lethargic and I just kept on skipping classes for no valid reasons at all. Also, curse those evening lectures. Bah. Despite that, time flew. Once again, I was left confused as to how I have managed to waste my time away. Had I been daydreaming in classes again. Had I been sleepwalking. Alas.

Class #1: Narratives in Creative Industries
The core subject for this semester and the last that I will see ever in this course since I have been exempted from the other two. I am not really a big fan of this subject. When am I ever for core subjects. I was confused in the first few lectures when they were telling us about simple and complex narratives. I did not even know what narratives is all about. Maybe I still do not.

The main lecturer was an old Irish Australian. Everybody loves him; I do not know why. He had applauses after every lecture, which was not a lot. Half of the time, it was another woman delivering lectures and another quarter is scattering guest lectures. So he was a funny guy, he jumps around when conducting his lectures and he speaks about controversial stuff that everyone loves. But I do not think he deserves applauses after every lecture. He was probably as funny as my other lecturer. I do not see that guy getting applauses. Sheesh. Besides, he has a tendency of either being late or not showing up at all. Some of our lectures were cancelled because he was off in another part of the world. That kind of ticked me off.

This lecturer has an assistant that is the unit coordinator for the subject. I still do not understand him following the lecturer around and apologising to us when the old man cannot turn up on time. The news was that he had to step up to the plate at the last minute because the previous unit coordinator bailed out at the last minute. So each week’s topic was a little out of control and we always get last minute emails about tomorrow’s postponed/cancelled class. The assignments did not really align with the ones mentioned in the outline as well. But I do not blame this guy. He is positioned at the last minute. I mean, I would definitely fuck things up too if a huge project is shoved into my arms just like that. Besides that, he is a flamboyant fellow I like to check out, carrying his big Country Road duffel bag with his pair of aviator shades on. He arranges his hair a little too often and walks around with a slight jig in his steps. He had me at hello, announcing himself the whipped boy and the bitch.

But God bless my tutor. She is such a lovely lady. I have her tutorial before the lecture on Mondays and truthfully, I have gotten more out of the subject from her than from the lectures. We watched shows and movies every week that has something to do with the week’s topic. We watched The Simpsons, The Family Guy, The General, Singing in the Rain, Fahrenheit 9/11, Doom and so on. I looked forward to the tutorials because I get to see shows and movies.

The assignments were a little unclear because we were free to do practically anything. Just because it is narratives. Of course I would freak a little since I do not know what narratives is. I tread the assignments cautiously. Fortunately, I have gotten decent grades so far. So I hope the final assignment, which was the largest portion of the percentage, did me well. The first assignment was to write an essay about our “first”. The second part for it was to dissect another tutorial mate’s essay according to stuff we learned in the lectures. People wrote about first heartbreaks, first encounter with death, first day of school. You know. I wrote about my first time smoking. Yeah. I rule. The second assignment was to dissect two narratives pieces. I have no idea what I did in this assignment but I scored well so alright. The third assignment, we were to create a narrative piece on an autobiographical or a biographical memory. We can choose whichever ways to present say memory: dance, art, story, music. Whatever. So I chose to do a collage instead of writing. Look, when in a course all you ever do is write, when there is a chance to do your assignment in another form, heck yeah. I unintentionally stayed up the entire night working on this assignment. Which was the first since I got here. The artwork was generally a good idea when I first came up with it. But halfway through putting it together, I found it rather ridiculous and diagnosed myself an official creep. Because I am. Oh gawd of course I am not telling you what I have done. But if ever I score a say, 6 for this subject, maybe I will consider putting up a picture of the artwork. Sure, it has something to do with my Eskimo friend.

 

Class #2: Creative Writing: The Short Story
Word had it that we would only be working on a short story for the entire semester. How fucking cool was that? But we had to submit twice so we might as well work on two stories.

The first assignment was the earliest assignment so far; submission in Week 5. Of course I freaked out. It would take me about two months to get used to a new semester. I have not got my head wrapped around the subject and already I have to get a story up? Yikes. So needless to say, I handed in crap.

I wrote – no, rewrote – a story I had a very long while back. It was about a bunch of manmade robots I named Artificials. Because it was supposed to be a novel, there were plenty of scenes to work on when the decision was made to cram everything into a 1500-word piece. At first I settled for a scene that would go deeper into a father and son relationship. I was about to expand the horizon when I realised just last semester I did such a plot for my Film and TV Scriptwriting class. Just like that, the idea was eliminated and I went for one with a lame futuristic fight.

It failed quite miserably. Everyone thought it was a bad idea, including me. My Eskimo friend warned me not to ever write a sci-fi story again to at least save the present people’s fantasy on a futuristic world. The rewriting process was tedious and every single day working on it, I could see myself stabbing it to death as if it were a baby. I could not wait for the day I submitted the story in to put the poor thing out of its misery.

The lecture for this subject was one of the two in the evening. 6pm. But I liked showing up. The lecturers were fun. The main lecturer hardly conducted lecturers but they were fun times when he did. However, I had a perpetual fear towards him. It may have something to do with his honorary title “Prof”. Like he was sort of out of reach or mean or something. But he turned out to be a funny guy so I guess it was all alright. But still he stayed out of reach with his QUT sweatshirt and jogs down the stairs to the front to conduct his lectures. He published two books – one a children’s book while another, a grown up’s – based on the same concept of a creepy wombat.

My tutor was hilarious. He reminded me a lot of Sean Astin. So there you have how he generally looks like. His jokes were almost the same and he had the tendency to run off with his words with spontaneous mumbles on the sudden desire to talk with a German accent. I doubt he was even remotely German. We had two-hour tutorials every week and I felt like I was attending some group therapy session in a room with light blue brick walls. We would sit in a circle and critique each other’s work/assignment to pieces. He would time us and go ‘ding’. At first he brought along a glass and a spoon to do that but he realised that did not really make him any less ridiculous than saying ‘ding’ so he forwent the idea in the next class. He was a very busy man so half of the time when I emailed him about something I kind of expected him not to reply.

But the tutorials helped a lot because you got everyone’s take on your story. Like, everyone. So by the end of the semester, you would probably have a good grasp on what everyone likes in a story. I just like the attention. Heh. No, the classes helped improved my story too. And helped me work on my second assignment more seriously.

I really took the second assignment seriously. It was yet another old plot bunny because God knows these days I can barely copulate any working ones. I wrote about Death Angels and I was so vague I practically scared everyone in my classroom. See, a creep. But I was proud of the idea. I tried not to rewrite it too often but took my group mates’ advices all the same. In the end, I handed in a happy and living assignment. Yes. I pray for a satisfying grade.

Anyway, here be links to both stories. Bad sci-fi story entitled Versus. And. Good morbid angel story entitled A Movie Script Ending. If you ever wonder what my writing style is, the latter would be it. Yes. It is nothing like what I write in here. This blog is just a cover up of something much much more darker than you can ever handle.

 

Class #3: Corporate Writing and Editing
Gawd, I hated this class so much. Mainly because it had everything to do with serious business writing. You know I am not for all these professional crap. Ugh. But alas, I have to learn something useful for my future. The world is cruel for creative writers.

The lecturer was the same I had for my Writing for Creative Industries subject last semester. He is still as funny and I would have attended all of his lectures if they were not at 6pm on Tuesdays. The tutor, however, I loathed her. (Just because ‘hate’ is a strong word). She reminded me a lot of a primary school or high school teacher. She was wrinkled yet her lessons showed us that she had been to places. I think. I just did not like the way she talks; it is threatening and I definitely know she hates those that do not show up in class. Seeing that I showed up for only half of her classes, of course I was not really pleased when she said, “of course you guys present are going to get the better end of the bargain than those who do not show up at all.” And there is something goodie-goodie about the students in my tutorial. Especially the group of girls sitting in the middle. They seemed smartass-esque and they looked at me funny when I actually utter more than two words in class. Because I did not even try bonding with anyone from this class. I tried to a Singaporean in the second tutorial but she did not show up most of the time so no more bonding. So yes, not my favourite tutorial class.

For the first good weeks for this subject, we delved so deep into grammar I almost suffocated myself not being able to find the surface again. I became sensitive of everything I read and saw. It was really, really annoying when I was going through my assignment for The Short Story. It hindered with my personal style because I was looking out for potential grammar mistakes. So maybe I do blame this subject for the spawning of a crappy story. (But fine, it was a bad plot to begin with anyway). But it was irritating those few weeks. Very irritating.

We had a mid-term test, which I totally fucked up. I wasted too much time and ended up not finishing half of the paper. First time for me because regardless of knowing the subject at hand or not, I would still spill crap on blank papers. Never not going through half of the questions. So I ended up at the bottom end of the grading curve when the goodies from my tutorial emerged at the top end. Everyone was a happy camper. I was sort of ashamed and my tutor always kept an eye on me. Which was freaky.

Two assignments dubbed Portfolio A and Portfolio B. I kind of poured my heart and soul into these assignments after the messed up test. And I came out quite well for Portfolio A. So maybe, there is still hope for me. Portfolio B, though. Hmm. Blame it on the end of the semester because I always get indifferent when things are about to end and the new page is dangling in front of me waiting to be flipped over. I just hope my half-heartedness is enough to walk me through.

Also, an examination. My only exam in this semester. How annoying.

Yes, it is a boring subject for me. But, I will not deny that it has informed me a lot about serious corporate writing. I know one day it will work wonders for me in the working world and I may look back on this semester and thank myself for choosing it over Feature Writing. Probably email my lecturer and thank him for his welfare in this subject. Maybe email my tutor as well. Or not. Till then, I am just glad I am (almost) through with this subject.

 

Class #4: Creative Non-Fiction: Life Writing
It did not really occurred to me that this is a Year 2 subject until much later and I found out fuck, this is going to be tough.

For this subject, we were truly working on one assignment. A big ass one. 70%. Holy shit. And for a 70% assignment, I can honestly tell you and I did not put in enough effort for such a huge allocation. This was a research-based assignment. I hate research. I had a brilliant idea to write a profile on a busker in the Queen Street Mall. I fantasised on how interesting he was going to be and how much adventures I would be getting myself into while digging up stuff about him for my assignment. Alas. There was not really much to talk about and I lost half of the enthusiasm before the final draft was due. I hogged four library books for almost two months, letting them gather dust in my messy room while I get my head together to limp through this. I procrastinated a lot for this assignment. I submitted a crappy draft for auditing and felt very ashamed when my group mates wrote better articles already. But I prevailed in my next draft. I guess. 70% is a heavy burden so I will not put too much hope into this.

The lecturer is the same for last semester’s Introduction to Creative Non-Fiction. And this is when I know I will never ever do well writing a non-fiction piece, regardless of it being creative or not. So yes. Lectures were still guest lectured and were still quite boring.

My tutor was helpful. Very helpful. I would never forget the first tutorial when she walked in with blood red lipstick and a Styrofoam cup of coffee. She seemed to know what she was doing and she provided so much information for us. I never had such an informative tutor before. She taught us things we would not get to learn from the lectures. Probably would not from other tutors as well. And I loved her for that. She was serious about her shit and she was not afraid to use it. She was a busy woman as well, running around publishing books and conducting classes in QUT and Griffith University. Or study in the latter, I would not know for sure. But yet, she still found time to look through my assignment and track-changed from head to toe. Wow. I liked her a lot. God bless her too.

The udder one

"I like the flowers, I like the daffodils
I like the sunshine and the rolling hils."
- Fliss Dodd ; @

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