Aint No Chup-Bowl like Ching Chong Chup-Bowl

Cos the Ching Chong Chup-Bowl don’t stop.  No it never stops, riding off the flavour of the previous post, here’s a few snapshots of how the Choo Choo Ching Chong Chup-Bowl train just keeps on comin’ thru:

(Note: I can say Ching Chong cos I’m Ching Chong.  If you have only the Ching or the Chong or neither, say it only if you like cigarette face burns & 3 fingers left on each hand in the morning.  Ahhh the beauty of controversial racially inappropriate double standards – I’m onto it)

My dad baked a cake by mixing banana & tasty cheddar cheese together.  He argued it was ‘cheesecake’ even though he used cheese meant for pizza.  I was forced to eat it and then I gagged – not in a nightclub laneway ‘well I should keep on going cos the guy at the bar bought me a drink’ kind of way.  But more in a ‘this is what a banana with a bacterial yeast infection tastes like’ kind of way. He might be trying to get this on the menu at Lucky Duck Chinese Restaurant.  Keep on walking.

My dad plays ping pong every Sunday.  He wears these shoes to Ping the Pong.  I think my dad’s in a gang.  And bright orange is their Wu Wong Tang gang bang colour.  I need to look for chopsticks with p.i.m.p inscribed on the side with fake diamonds and hoes hiding in the rice storage bin to be sure.  Meanwhile everyone beware.  If you see and smell a Honda that’s using toilet freshener as car fragrance slowing rolling up beside you on the road – don’t try & be a hero when that ping pong bat points at you through the back window.

     

Dad bought this turbo massage chair.  It’s compliance with health and safety standards is as questionable as the place of birth stated on his Australian passport.  Sit in this chair for 20 minutes with the vibration settings on high and you’ll be circumcised – yes that includes you too ladies.  It’s here to stay so I’ve decided I must de-sensitise myself to its power.  To do this I will lay on it nightly … naked … face down …with a glass of wine … until it’s safe … hey don’t hate the player people, hate the manufacturer…

 

Dad installed this satellite on the roof.  Communist Terrorist – Maybe.  Gangster – Definitely.  Check out the puffer vests below – rocked only by those feared in the hoods cos mum & dad are nothing but pure bad ass Chup-Bowl:  

Was It Just Me?

You’ve read this blog.  And no I’m not high when I write my posts (yes, been asked this – you know who you are).  I’m just unconventional perhaps.  I must be because all that’s ‘conventional’ is plain dead uncomfortable around me (yes, been shown this – you know who you are). 

As a child I assumed my experiences growing up were ‘normal’.  But judging by the outside world’s reaction to the adult finished product, I’m starting to suspect not.  

Help me out people.  Was it just me?  I need to know:        

Was it just me … who was forced to wear a traditional bright gold embroidered imperial style padded Chinese jacket for her grade 4 primary school photo, looking like some kind of under-aged warlord midget pimp amongst a bunch of Aussie kids in shorts and t-shirts?  

Was it just me … who had a scheduled ear cleaning session with my father every month where he shone the blinding light from a lamp into my ear like the ear was being interrogated?  And then with an actual ear cleaning stick (they exist – purchased from the Asian grocers, thin with a mini scoop at the end), attempt to dislodge and remove stubborn bits of ear wax which usually turned out to be actual parts of my inner ear?

Was it just me … who was told by her mother that I shot out of her one day while she was on the toilet and looked down to see something random floating in the bowl with a pair of eyes?  Clearly the stalk in the sky explanation couldn’t convey my value as an addition to the family as much as this particular version of events.  

Was it just me … who was forced to fast for 24 hours before we went to an all you can eat buffet restaurant in order to ‘build up the hunger’ and therefore get our money’s worth?

Was it just me … who was then restricted from picking non-protein items and potatoes from the all you can eat buffet because they wasted stomach space reserved for the ‘expensiveful’ offerings – ‘Why eat 3 bowl chips, eat 18kg prawn, we pay saaame pliiicce’.         

Was it just me … who asked my mother for a perm to revamp my generic poker straight oriental hair?  Only to be taken to the ‘local hairdresser’ of my aunty’s garage to be given a perm on purely just my fringe? (my ‘bangs’ for the North American crew). I wanted to go from chinky to kinky.  I stayed chinky except now I had a new mini afro sprouting from my forehead.  Where’s that can of Soul Glo when you really need it?   

Was it just me who … was told by her father that 3 fried eggs piled on top of one another was called ‘quiche’, toast spread with ketchup was called ‘pizza’, and boiled lettuce with soya sauce was called ‘salad’.   Assimilation is his middle name.   Asian ‘fusion’ cuisine is his game.

But chill – perhaps it’s possible that despite it all (and oh there’s so much more … so so much more), it can be argued that I have ended up stable, demure and respectable.  Always composed.  Always refined.  Never out of control.  Never caught off guard.  ‘Only god can judge me’ – Tupac Shakur.

 

Disturbing Memory #2

If you missed Disturbing Memory #1, be checking it:

https://empressevelyn.wordpress.com/2010/06/19/disturbing-memory-1/

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.  

Em Press E in N.Y.C

Brooklyn bridge at night, New York city, NY.
Image via Wikipedia

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…..

Love You (but been too) Long Time

No I wasn’t sent to serve time in prison nor was I shipped overseas in a container as a mail order bride (nobody’s been making any orders – hurtful).  I know, it’s been a very long time my friends since the last high level literary feature on this site – but as was said in the song ‘Changes’ of the late and great Tupac Shakur: ‘That’s just the way it is’.   

I’ve received many enquiries from the peoples out there re when I’ll be back in the game – so thank you.  Thank you for visiting and thank you for not being easily perturbed.  Not wanting to be a dirty blog teaser, I’ll be regaining a sense of frequency with my entries from this point.  So I’ll take the chance here to say: Feel free to comment – as in if something strikes you then put it out there.  I can’t see you so I’m unable to laugh in your face.  Ok seriously, there aren’t many forums where some of us can express views unedited or outside the backdrop of professions, community expectations etc (I can assume you all know the well worn internet spiel re comments not being racist, vile etc so no need to go there).  Not everything I put on here is heavy tho not everything is light either.  In fact some posts go thru many shades in only a few lines.  But that’s real life and not all situations and observations neatly maintain uniform moods, colours and emotions.  So that’s how I write cos that’s how I see life and so long as I stay sincere I’ll write whatever the fuck I want – silence is boring so feel free to join the conversation.

Female Friction

No it’s not the name of my latest porno movie release (as I’m still in the process of shooting the ping pong scenes – joking, Female Friction isn’t an actual movie … that I know of but I’m sure some pervert out there will Google it just in case).  Female Friction is what happens when you come across an irrationally threatened insecure bitch of a bush pig female who hates you simply for no other reason than because you are another female.  Empirical data that I have obtained from conducting controlled studies (talking to heaps of my chick friends over cocktails and straight vodka – no ice) tells me that this happens everywhere – from the office hag who hates the new girl because she’s seen as a rival for male attention at work to the random chick on the street who hisses at you because she thinks you’re going to leer at and thus try to woo her boyfriend (presumably the poor mutha-fucker who’s walking next to her).   

I don’t get it – I thought we were meant to be on the same side, what exactly do these types of women think that other women are going to take from them? Ironically as I grew up my father warned me about the ill intent of males: ‘Don’t let any boys touch your front bum’ he would wisely advise as I ventured out into the real world.  Well fuck that – it’s not my fucking ‘front bum’ I’ve had to worry about but more my back from being stabbed by malicious women who just don’t get that a basic adult responsibility is to try and sort out their own shit before flinging it out onto others.

In the same ways that sickness makes me grateful for health and hunger makes me grateful for food; the bitter crack-whores out there make me sincerely grateful for the many strong and self-assured females that do in fact exist amongst us all.  I bumped into a guy I knew from University at a party not long ago and we were having this chat about old times, what we’d done after graduation etc, and then out of nowhere some chick appears, storms over, glares at me and drags the poor fucker away but not before hissing ‘We have to go, you cannot talk to her anymore’.  Oh no!  This irrelevant male has a girlfriend!  He’s not allowed to talk to me anymore!  My Give-a-Fuck Factor: – 23.  Her Paranoid-Skanky-Hooker Factor: 97.8.

They Say Never

There are people out there walking amongst us that like to say ‘never’.  During conversations about clothes and fashion they say they’d ‘never’ wear sportswear that isn’t Nike, ‘never’ wear jeans that aren’t Sass & Bide, ‘never’ carry a no-label handbag, ‘never’ wear jewellery that’s less than 24 carat gold, ‘never’ buy lipstick from the pharmacy etc.  During conversations about food they say they’d ‘never’ touch canned vegetables, ‘never’ buy fruit that’s not organic, ‘never’ touch dishes with more than 1 gram of fat, ‘never’ use sea salt to flavour food…it’s got to be rock salt (?) etc. What these people ‘never’ actually do is think about what the fuck they’re saying – what they NEED to do is use less time churning out the pretentious ‘nevers’ and searching for/snorting their rock salt (to me salts just salt – rock or sea, tastes the damn same).  What they NEED to do is spend more time trying to find their way back down to mother fucking reality.     

What is all this’ I’ll NEVER do this, buy that, wear this, eat that’?  Life is volatile, fickle and one big uncontrollable game that you can’t predict.  All the shit you own, the freedom you enjoy, the health you may have, the people you love, the ching ching money in your account, the stability and security is not unchanging, set, solid, forever, guaranteed.  The one who is born with everything can die with nothing and vice versa.  Where you stand now is not where you’ll be standing the day before your death or necessarily this time next week or tomorrow.  The revered and admired can fall from grace and the ones that everyone looks down on now can rise above and blitz us all.  There’s flood then draught, peace then war, empires have fallen then risen only to fall again.  I grew up migrant style with a childhood during the 1980s that was quite unstable.  In economic theory it’s called: Poor as Fuck.  As an adult I’ve lived in an apartment across the road from the beach.  As a child I’ve lived with my family upstairs of a run-down Fish & Chip shop.  I sure as hell like to wear 24 carat gold, but if you gave me some bling earrings that were 9 carat, 1 carat or some cheap rusty metal, if I liked them I’d still fucking wear them (at least until my ears got septic) or … shock, I’m happy to not wear any at all. 

So to the people who like to say ‘never’: shut the fuck up.  Because one day you may damn well need to carry that no-label handbag (and god forbid put it over your head for shelter) or even get that cheap lipstick from the pharmacy – so you better be ready to not only wear it on your lips but eat it or use it for a party trick while you busk on the streets for coins.  Snobby fools.