As it comes time to write personal for scholarship and graduate opportunities, I struggle to find the right words. The reason why so many autobiographies are written in the third person by the author is because it’s difficult to really sell oneself as being intelligent, likeable, sociable, whatever, without totally sounding like a narcissistic son of a bitch. By turning the ‘I’ to a ‘he’, the author is able to considerably soften the lies he or she is about to unleash on the reader.
Now nothing would please me more than to hand in a blank page for my personal statement except for the the phrase printed at the top in 12 point Arial font:
I am fucking amazing.
You know it, baby.
But if I know anything about proper manners and modesty — and boy do I ever — the right thing to do would be to go with:
Phil is fucking amazing.
Thank you very much for your time.
Because the latter is so much less presumptuous. And more polite too.
5:00 pm
So I’m lugging this pot of soup. It’s fucking huge. My dad’s carrying a few smaller pots, and my mom’s holding a grocery bag full of Tupperware containers.
The first rule of an Asian party is that all the guests shall bring enough food to feed an army. Or Mainland China.
6:00 pm
There were three of us.
On the left couch sat the brother, a 15 year old suitably mature for his age. Spikey hair and glasses, he was still going through that whole awkward stage of high school. On the right couch sat the sister, a 19 year old student from the University of Ottawa in biology. She was tiny in size – ‘pocketable’ I had told her, long black hair, and cute, I guess, though definitely not my type.
There were three of us. And we sat there in silence.
6:05 pm
“So uh…how long do you figure?” I ask, glancing at the kitchen where crowds of adult women were simultaneously giggling and preparing the meal. Then I turned my gaze towards the TV room, where the men were knocking back beers and being unbearably rowdy. “I’m hoping 6 hours.”
“Are you kidding?” says the brother.
“By 12, they’ll only have taken out the karaoke”, confirms the sister.
7:00 pm
The second rule of an Asian parties is that the men and women shall remain separate. The women crowd in one room and talk. The men crowd in another and talk. The women eat in the dining room. The men eat outside.
I guess it could also be a symptom of married life, though it would be a real bitch if one of the men had the hots for one of the women – there goes all possibility of making an inconspicuous move, buddy.
Then again, everybody in this goddamn house is married. Except for me. What a bummer.
10:30 pm
Much to my delight, I begin to hear the rhythmic thumping of a subwoofer and Asian pop music begins to waft up from the basement. Like busy bees to honey, the women all head down to the basement.
Curiously enough, the men are still cheering in the adjacent room, oblivious to the disappearance of their wives.
11:00 pm
The men begin headng down to the basement where I can already hear the horrendous off-key crooning of many Asian females, tipsy enough to be oblivious to the boredom of the three young adults they’ve held hostage in the upstairs living room.
The third rule of an Asian party is that the only way to unite both males and females at such a gathering is by plopping them in front of a large television, slipping in a DVD of some infamous Asian pop sensation called Nan Quan Ma Ma, Fly to the Sky, Shinwa, or whatever, then handing them a microphone so they can sing their heart out while the others watch on with a mixture of glee and shameful amusement.
12:45 am
“Do you want to go?” asks my mum.
Do I want to go? Hot damn! Was Weierstrass ever ugly? In reply, I bounded to my feet, grabbed my keys, and stood by the door…
1:30 am
The forth and final rule of an Asian party is that the guests will stand by the door and talk their assses off for half a fucking hour before parting company.
During this precious time, the mothers go around and gushed at how good looking you are (what else are they going to say, really? “What happen to ya, son? Looks like you got hit with the ugly stick, fell outta the ugly tree, and got hit by every goddamn branch on your way down”).
Then the men go around and I FUCKING KID YOU NOT, feel your arms, and go, “Ooh. Check out his arms. Do you work out, son?” Well big surprise if I don’t seem like the typical malnourished Vietnamese lad eating a bowl of rice while plowing the wheat fields back home.
And worse, much worse, are the drunken ones who love to draw comparisons between you and (once) famous celebrities. I’ve heard it all: Asian pop stars, Tom Cruise (What the fuck? Do you see me jumping on any couches?), and this time by a very confused man, Richard Gere. How much booze do you need to draw a link between myself and a greying white actor? Really, how much?
But whatever. It’s over. Thank GOD. The next time I attend an Asian party, I’m bringing y’all with me for backup. But at least you’ll know how it’s going to play out.
2 months ago
‘Clear your calendar for the last Saturday of August’, said my mum in Vietnamese, ‘One of our friends is hosting a party.’
‘Our friends?’ I asked, outraged, ‘you mean one of your friends is hosting the party. And you want me to tag along.’
‘The children will be there, of course’, my mum explained as if I was 10 years old, ‘And they’re your friends.’
‘No. They’re not my friends. They’re children of your friends. Why should I come to a party I have no affiliation with just so I can babysit the other kids while the parents compete in some twisted contest to one-up each other in determining which particular offspring has accomplished the most since the last time they — ‘
‘You’re coming. Clear your calendar. No work. No going out. One day.’
That’s the thing with Asian families, y’know? They throw god awful parties that are attended not only by the intended group of friends, but by their fucking extended families as well. It’s like those giant Greek parties in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, but with no Greeks in sight. And with a helluva lot of karaoke.
There’s simply no way I was getting out of this one. I was fucking doomed.
Before me are all the required elements for a mellow Friday night:
One (1) mug of coffee for cat-like reflexes.
One (1) book of Integrals, Series, and Products (Gradshteyn & Ryzhik) for my research.
One (1) bottle of Sherry, to be feverishly opened when I realize the breakthrough my supervisor and I have been waiting for all these months will NOT be happening tonight.
I saw Waldo today. Waldo is a familiar face from high school — not a familiar friend mind you, but a familiar face. In fact, though his name isn’t really Waldo, everybody calls him that because he bears an uncanny ressemblance to Waldo from Where’s Waldo? (Wally for you Brits)
He was surrounded by his posse: a ragtag assortment of ghetto-fabulous white homeboys and girls long overdue to outgrow that whole goth phase they pick up so well way back in high school.
‘So what are you up to?’, I asked him.
He paused, as if wondering whether the reply, ‘I’ve been living with my homies, eating packets of ketchup, and spending whatever I swindle from me mum and dad on booze and smokes’, would impress me or not.
‘I’ve…er…been working at Midway. But I’ll be going to Algonquin College soon’, he chose instead.
I slowly backed away and feigned an enthusiastic wave goodbye.
It’s sad y’know? Real sad. Some people never grow the fuck up.