When I started this blog I decided my ‘target audience’ should be the segment in society called: humans. That’s right, I really don’t give a fuck who wants to come and read this shit. You might be a millionaire reading with time to kill between stacking bills or you’re living a more casual cash-in hand lifestyle low on coin reading while sucking man stick for crazy crack and a biscuit. Whatever and whoever, just like with your local Community Legal Centre or the unmarked van with the blacked out windows parked in the laneway, Empress Evelyn welcomes all.
But some of you out there are some real Mayor of Freaky Town type mother fuckers. WordPress gives me a daily listing of the terms the peeps using the net have ‘searched’ for through search engines before somehow ending up at me, my picture, my posts etc whether meaning to or not. Brothers and Sisters, what the fuck?:
– ‘Tijuana Hooker’: That’s really offensive. I’m Chinese, not Mexican.
– ‘Cock Sucking Whores’: That’s really offensive. Who said I ever asked to be paid.
– ‘Chinese Person Waving’: Indeed, it’s me ‘waving away’ the money being paid.
– ‘Pheasant Puppets’: ?? Do I even mention this on my page anywhere? Interestingly, this search was made on the same day as the next one below, hopefully they’re not meant to be … ‘connected’ …
– ‘Anus’: I thought the picture I had up was of my face. Is it that bad?
– ‘Busty Asian’: Debatable. But it’s all relative. I reckon I could easily score a gig at Hooters – Shanghai branch only though.
– ‘Busty Fucks’, ‘Fuck Anus Women’ and ‘Fuck Bitch Friction’: I think I know what you’re after. I can arrange this.
– ‘Bush Pigs’: I think you’re after something like the above. But with fat hairy people. I can arrange this.
– ‘Armpits’: Why would you search for one kind of body part? With all the friction from the hardcore anus and bitch fucking going on, this must be some kind of ‘back up’ spot. Man that’s nasty people, you all gots no shame.
– ‘Large Rusty Sign’: Yes, if any part of your body is getting largely rusty, it’s a sign to ease up on all that back up armpit fucking …
Sorry if all your items weren’t on my site as promised by your search engines. Empress Ev hopes you eventually hit on what you were seeking for. And also that your credit card payments weren’t rejected. And also that your wife didn’t walk in while your pants were undone – as you squatted over your keyboard … So now you all know, it’s rock hard cock work trying to maintain a respectable fucking blog without getting some odd traffic from questionable searches for no damn big black double ended dildo horny Asian twins easy and ready kind of reason at all.
Hey crew – it’s been awhile, I’m not going to act like I was just here yesterday. What happened? Life happens. Things happen, things get fucked up and then you’re caught up not necessarily where you want to be. But I’m here now and it feels fucking great to be in a space that’s all mine, like I’m drinking, dancing, laughing and fucking upside down all at the same time – how’s that for some No Bull?!
It’s been an intense 12 months as I’ve been living intensely, struggling to decide which direction to go towards, contemplating the crossroads, serving eviction notices to the bull-shit and engaging people in a dialogue about how we make the decisions that we do. As I said in a previous post, Never Will Be Still (https://empressevelyn.wordpress.com/2010/09/03/never-will-be-still/ – click it son – no shame in cross-pollination promotion), sometimes we all feel really far out and we need a certain something to pull us way back in. If you don’t get this, then leave now and head back to the meth lab of your mother’s laundry room for your next hit. This is real talk and even the strongest and level-headed of us all have stood under the decent of dark clouds wondering how the fuck to rise above. The answer and ultimate way to live is by intuition – that wave of knowing and awareness that you feel in your guts, prostate, heart, colon, whatever. But for some reason, when all these things are firing signs, shots, and omens towards one targeted clear direction, answer and solution – we somehow manage to brew up some kind of convoluted toxic concoction of a rationale or notion and go towards the completely opposite direction.
And just like the end-result of any convoluted concoction i.e. like mixing ice-cream with oyster sauce (hey, it was suggested that the salty-ness would complement the creamy-ness) all you end up with is a distasteful combo of heart wrenching regret, vile tastes in your mouth and possibly 3 days of flaming diarrhoea (so I’ve heard). Here’s a news feed of the past 3 months: someone I know got burnt by a ‘close friend’ real bad, even though she always suspected this ‘friend’ had been sabotaging her behind her back for years. But she stayed loyal hoping for the best. But yesterday she found out the deepest betrayal had been done and the dissemination of her deepest secrets was complete. Someone else went out of his way for his employer, living by his strong work ethic, he did duties beyond the call of duty. But when judgement day again came for recognition, he simply wasn’t recognised. It’d happened many times before but he forced himself to tell himself that recognition was coming eventually. But the real him had known way back in time that he had a better chance of getting his menstrual period every month than a promotion.
And now here’s one from me: I got the high marks in high school, did the prestigious University degrees, got the coveted job prospects and took the secure respectable job. My job’s so secure I could shit on every desk in the office and still not get fired. Management would just send me to some therapy session to complete the ‘Why I need to shit on desks to feel accepted’ self development course. As I crossed the hazy line from young adulthood into real adulthood I thought living like a robot was the right way even though doing so just kept on making me feel restless, sick, apathetic, manic … and well, wrong. I told myself that enduring ‘wrong’ meant that I was strong. As isn’t this what life is meant to be – linear and routine? I thought over time I’d blend into it, ease into it. I thought I was Noble by doing the ‘right’ thing. But Nobility had no place residing inside a fuckwit who was Self Deluded. Nobility has nothing to do with living in the absence of recognising the truth. Don’t start sending me Prozac people, it’s all good. I never claimed to be the prophet. But when I started this blog I committed to being sincere by writing what I know we’re all thinking, but very often just simply could not say. So here’s what I say:
The signs are there, the warnings are exposed for the taking … so fucking take it and own it. Don’t read into a ‘good’ in people and in things that are unwritten and non-existent. There’s no dignity in claiming you only wanted to try and see the best in people and find the good in futile pursuits. Because when you failed to find it, all you saw were tears as you cried crouched like a little bytch in a dark corner. Own the truth that has been presented to you early on, fuck the fuckers a new fuck hole and walk away never looking back. No Bull. Be Noble. Cull the pest species. Only then do you walk as the noble one and live with true dignity.
I want to express a sincere thank you to everyone who contacted me directly about this post. I’ve received many texts, emails, Facebook msgs and calls regarding the content since I put it up and I appreciate the choice to not express thoughts and feedback through comments publically in this instance. Turning yourself inside out to put a message out is risky – I know this.
I was told many times over the post was really confronting. Good. Some said it made them feel uncomfortable. Good. As I said, I’m no prophet – I’m just a person like you wanting to start a dialogue so we can start saying the un-sayable – whether it’s between you and me, you and someone else or you with yourself – E xx
‘The Greatest Show on Earth’ is often used to describe and sell some kind of flashy grand Big Top circus show. I often use the concept of a circus in attempts to explain and provide insights into the inner workings of my family. And indeed this comparison is extremely harsh and unfair – to the circus. Because even the circus as a commercial enterprise has some manner of standards; restrictions on its performances regarding the extent to which the audience should be shocked and baffled. In fact this is the case with any kind of performance – whether it’s in the movies, on television or up on stage in the theatre. Even fucked up feral material like people shitting on each other or people trying to hump animals, vegetables, dwarfs etc has classifications to enable degrees of choice and control with what you see & hear.
There’s no communal cross-shitting or pet pumping going on in my family (that can be proved) but I wish that sometimes I could just be pre-warned about their relentless show-time antics – so I can at least prepare to cover my ears, close my eyes, change the channel, boycott the theatre or just fucking get the entire show banned (and the ‘cast’ deported) altogether. The family’s a recurring theme in my blog – because the family’s an unavoidable theme in my life. And I’m arguing that it’s also one in yours whether you currently choose to have anything to do with them or not. I’m an adult now but there remain things both said and done by them that still continue to unsettle the fuck out of me, behaviours and choices that won’t cease to confuse and unhinge me making me go ape shit crazy whether they’re near or far:
Episode 1: There’s been a long running feud between my mum and her younger sister in China. It started a few years ago after my mum’s last visit to see members of her WuTang clan back in the motherland. One moment they’re all close like some fucking ching chong version of Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen and then they abruptly morphed into each other’s public enemy number one. What trouble brewed in the province? Who the fuck knows? I don’t want to know (just like I don’t want to know why cash is so strictly enforced as the primary method of payment in the Chinese community). All I know is that it went from them addressing each other on the phone traditionally according to Chinese custom, ‘Greetings elder sister/ Greetings younger sister, how is you?’ to behind the scenes references by my aunt of my mum as ‘that cock sucking fat slum hag in Australia’ (a loose translation has been applied here, but the overall sentiment is the same). But then my aunt arrives in Australia recently for a visit and they chat, giggle and cook their way through the month of September. They were making happy good time wok stir fry music together without addressing to anyone, and I suspect even to each other, the insignificant side matter of their 3 year term of resentment and estrangement.
They don’t trust each other and it’s likely they thought nothing of talking shit about each other behind closed doors … even while living under the same roof. But as the bystander watching their reunion and the farcical insincerity of it all, the ‘scene’ made me feel sick because it all seemed way too familiar – because it hit me then that this same show has been played out before way too many other times from the core to amongst the most far reaching branches of my extended family. It’s a show that’s been staged continuously amongst various family members throughout the past like some mass money making Broadway hit. And it’s most likely being played out right now somewhere in the present as I write and later on, as you read. There’s too many multi layered secrets, criss-crossing claimed loyalties, and corrupt versions of re-written history and face-saving cover-ups to ever really know the details of the what, why and how of who’s playing and hustling on who. I don’t get the plot but I do know this: there’s a large cast with a variety of different actors and many of them were born with the same surname. It’s the way it goes – it’s the Greatest Fucking Show on Earth, everyone acting their fucking flat arses off.
‘What the fuck was that?’ Indeed. Stay tuned, the above is just a scratch on one patch of the mind’s surface. Like with all 1st episodes of any show, not everything is clear and not all questions are answered.
Now I’m back to say it again but this time I come with statistics:
– 98.3% of what I do is strictly Not Recommended
– 100% is the certainty that I’ll keep on doing what I do
Ignore the cops – especially when the target is you: When I drive I roll to a selection of loud, hard & mighty tunes. Even when most of my front bumper had come off after an unfortunate incident with a parked truck, I still hammed up the jams for the rest of the drive home – in fact the sound of half the bumper scraping against the road’s gravel merely added to the car’s solo nightclub atmosphere. With a thumping baseline my thing is to step on the brakes to the rhythm of the underlying beat. My music of choice is of the hood, and often life rapped about the hood details how it can be … filled with no good (please take appreciative note of what I did here – it’s called freestylin’). So one night when I heard police sirens screeching closely behind me I should have pulled over. But I took it as a clever sound effect incorporated into track #4 of the current CD playing. I became suspicious when blue & red flashing lights were seen in my rear view mirror. A bit more when the high beaming started. Yet clearly not suspicious enough cos I kept on driving … for quite awhile. So the story ended with a fine and demerit points for speeding, and something about failing to stop. Looking back I can kind of see that this all happened because I might have been speeding and when followed – had possibly failed to stop. At least I’m not one to argue with the law (this time). Because I was remorseful and humble. And because the cop didn’t meet the level of hotness to qualify for anything on Empress Ev’s menu of sexual favours … joking people … bad boys bad boys … watcha gonna do …
Grope a friend’s butt when you’re unsure if it’s their butt: I’m a gambler. To require complete certainty before being willing to take action is for the broke-ass & mediocre portion of the population. So when I walked up behind and sighted the target butt waiting to cross the usual set of lights towards the work building – I visually scanned the similarities and mentally calculated the differences against the rules of probability. While resembling the same shape & density, the butt was encased in a hideous pair of trousers uncharacteristic of anyone I’m associated with to be publically showcasing. But times have been economically tough, so perhaps they had to source some work pants from a stranger’s clothes line on this occasion. In my mind’s eye I saw a set of scales and the side telling me to reach out and take hold was the one tipping over. My grip is hard and my nails are long. But what the scales say, I do. Some people can really overreact and not be understanding of when mistaken identity occurs. Just keep this in mind. My crew and I are tight and butt groping is how we greet and surprise each other from behind. Who knew this practice was uncommon and unappreciated amongst some groups, especially amongst distant colleagues in serious jobs. Yes, believe it or not I actually have a serious job.
It’s a jungle out there man – heaps of sneaky traps making you look like a fucking idiot, giving the world many opportunities to mock you, ridicule you, point at you. What more, there are cunning clowns who exist playing innocent to your face always waiting in the wings to sell your arse out, making you the joke. I know a group of people like this – they’re called My Fucking Family. No, My Fucking Family isn’t the name of some nut-case quirky comedy act or performing circus group (well at least not intentionally), they are literally My Fucking Family. People I am related to (well at least not intentionally).
It was a stinking hot summer and I was 5 (picture me now but with smaller hands & feet but same height). We had these public pools near our house and EVERYONE from the area went there – families that lived on our street, kids who went to my school, teenagers from the local high school, drug dealers who dropped out of the local high school, business owners in the suburb, crims who robbed the business owners in the suburb etc. Mum was still at work and so it was up to dad to take me. But he faced a Bic Pob-Blum (Big Problem) – he didn’t know where mum kept my swim suit. So he patiently went through the drawers in my room to look for them knowing wisely he would eventually come across what I needed. BullShit– this never happened, instead he just grabbed a tea towel from the kitchen (presumably he also didn’t know where mum kept the bath towels) & we jumped into the car & headed to the pools – yes, the PUBLIC pools where I was forced to walk around in front of the entire population of our hood in my Cabbage Patch Kid undies and nothing on top – carrying a frayed & stained kitchen tea towel looking like some kind of child slave forced to work back-burning bamboo crops in peasant China. I learnt the meaning of humiliation that day people. And the crowd was not kind.
But let’s break it down more: this was the 80’s in Australia, fewer Asian migrant families in the area than now. So I already copped a big daily serving of ‘you ching-chong’ (fingers used to pull up eyes at the corners) shit at school & on the streets (Yo, if you’re reading this now & you were one of those redneck fucks, be watching your back son – my memory is deep & Facebook is one fucker of a big database). Add to this my lego people style bowl/helmet haircut and the fact that my dad thought the best way for me to learn to swim was to just throw me into the deep end of the pool while yelling and clapping alongside the edge (you get put in jail for shit like that these days) and you get one fucking big Disturbing Situation turned Disturbing Memory.
They say the best way to overcome your demons is to face them. And that’s what I’ve done. As I’ve grown into my adult years I’ve risen above and embraced this disturbing experience: I now walk around topless in my underwear every opportunity I get (visitors who ever came to the Elwood apartment know it’s true). Can’t wait for ‘Casual Friday’ to be brought back to work. And My Fucking Family have nobody to blame but themselves.
If you’re reading this right now and you don’t like rap – remain calm and don’t leave. This post isn’t about rap. It’s about relationships and perhaps a little bit more. Am out in Toronto right now and I’ve read some bad press here re Eminem’s song with Rihanna, ‘Love the Way You Lie’. The word is that the song and video clip are evil in glorifying domestic violence and promoting abuse. As though the soul destroying experience of a violent relationship – often arising out of intensely complex emotional politics, internal power struggles & fluctuating dynamics between 2 people can be so easily packaged and summarised as being ‘promoted’. And this is based on little more than 4 minutes of lyrics and images of a man and a woman so entangled in each other that neither seems able to simply leave the self-destructive ruins of their union: ‘Just gonna stand there and watch me burn, but that’s alright because I like the way it hurts. Just gonna stand there and hear me cry, but that’s alright because I love the way you lie…’
Since when are long-term relationships (and even friendships) so one dimensional and simple? He hurts you, you leave. You walk out the door just like that – as though there is no internal dialogue to fight against, no pull of the past – theirs or yours, no fear of surviving without the other person, no having to painfully retreat from co-dependence … This isn’t about whether the person should leave or not, it’s about the fact that in real life it all just isn’t so simple. And that’s all the song really intends to do – be a snapshot of real life – 2 people so entangled in and consumed with each other they just keep on hurting each other around in circles – until one or both of them breaks … If I wanted a clear cut linear moral or instructional message about how to conduct a relationship, I’d find a text book espousing the mechanics of building a manageable partnership or find some 14 chapter self-help manual.
I haven’t been in many relationships. But nor do I live in my own micro-cosmos unscathed from the emotional angst or damage that can characterise even a short period or small part of the most solid relationships around me – if I’m not in one, I’m always the witness of one, in fact I live everyday being the product of one. Listen to the song. This isn’t called glorifying domestic violence – this is called a man lyrically conveying the raw experiences of parts of his life. Music is an artistic expression thru which the artist tells a story. And often as is the achievement of a great artist, his or her story tells wholly or in part the story of somebody else – you, me, that person and the other.
Yeah that’s right – the title to the left is a rap and I rapped it as I typed it. For a girl who grew up in some of the shittiest suburbs of Melbourne (you know, the areas where tracksuit pants are considered as formal evening wear), I was hooked on hip hop and obsessed with rap before my folks got me hooked on rice for breakfast (you’d think we’d be the fattest fucks in the world the way we consume rice – my mum had her first Big Mac with a side of rice all consumed with chinga brand chilli sauce & a pair of chopsticks). I could relate to the themes of the hip hop genre with its talk of struggle and marginalisation. Many Chinese elders in the community I knew also had gold teeth so I felt an affinity with the rap artists as well. And when I think of the home of both hip hop and one of my fave rappers (Biggy Smalls) my thighs vibrate, I go crazy shaky and then I get all warm, sticky and moist (on my forehead) – I hit New York City for the 3rd time a few weeks ago and as usual the summer vibe there was rocking red hot and on smoky fire! I didn’t just walk over the Brooklyn Bridge, baby I was dancing over it doing the ‘runnin’ man’ forwards, backwards and on the side with arms waving. I looked like a smacked up Japanese tourist slash go-go-go dancer on fertile heat. I love you New York! And some fine buff bodied looking brothers of the city walking over that bridge too I found – made me go all warm, sticky and moist (on my forehead).
Just an unanswered question from EmpressEv’s ‘Book of Why?’ that still puzzles me even after my triple visit to the States: Why has a snack food titled ‘Cheesy Nips’ been permitted to continue trade under this particularly ambiguous name? And how has it done so without instigating racial rioting? Because when I think ‘Cheesy Nips’ I don’t think of a conveniently tasty & crunchy snack in a box, I think more of an image of some whacky Asian chick doing the ‘runnin’ man’ dancin’, skippin’ & gyratin’ over the Brooklyn Bridge…..