I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.

My folks reminded me of something I used to say when I was a kid during one of weekly chats last weekend. Apparently, my littlest niece has been saying the same thing.

“I speak English. So I’m English.”

Yes, it’s the common kid thing, not being able to distinguish nationality from ethnicity, but a little part of me, aged 4, thought being English meant being educated, being well-bred, and generally cultured.

Decades on, I realise how far it is from reality. We grew up with the image of the English of a bygone era. I grew up not knowing my own culture, my own people, what being Chinese meant. Stupidly, I squandered my chances in school of being educated, and had to find out on my own later. Too late to take back the irreverence and disdain for the language at class, too little respect I paid.

And now, here I am, having to read The Analects partially in English. Confucius is probably crying.

The good news is, I do actually understand and acknowledge that I come from a culture that was already drinking and cultivating tea and eating with chopsticks before the English got out of their caves. Probably. The collective Chinese psyche is so ingrained, that we breathe Confucianism instinctively – dude, that’s years of philosophy, jammed packed into the standard base model.

But what use is knowing all that? I’m so far removed from my brethren from the hinterland that they don’t even consider me ethnically Chinese anymore. What good, is being not English, and not Chinese?

It’s only good for 1 thing: Jay Chou – if you ever need to learn English from a normal, unpretentious person, leave a comment.

[周杰倫, 你如果想跟好人學英語, 流个comment!]

oohh lights

Been stewing over a couple of things unrelated to work, that’s keeping me up.

It’s been 2 months now since I started working again, and I guess I’m feeling a little more adjusted. The routine works, getting to and from work is a long commute, but it’s fairly easy. I’m also trying not to get heady with glee at being able to tell when garbage is being spewed and it is taking a lot more to stop myself from saying rude things and rolling my eyes. Honeymoon is officially over.

Also, my mentor of sorts – the person who was parceling off parts of his job – left for Bangalore today. On a jet plane. Not likely to return again.

It wasn’t me. I don’t think.

I’ve also been telling myself I’m feeling great this time around, because I’m not really being paid to give 2 hoots; so I feel completely alright leaving work at work, though I suspect deep down I’m really trying to convince myself that. The baggage though, I’ve managed to leave behind, and working in a new department on areas that were completely foreign to me is great for that. Alas, though I’m afraid I fall back into similar patterns, and find myself back at square one.

What then? I don’t know. I’m quite determined to do this swimmingly. And if there are some similar patterns, I suppose my only consolation is knowing it’s only temporary. Work life is quite enjoyable with an expiry date. Liberating.

What I’ve learnt in two months:

I’m incurably addicted to small eyes. Northern small eyes.

Incompetency is universal.

I still love working on the internet, and the Big Why is a warm bath.

I can drive and have my conference call, but not accomplish either very well.

Time flies. Even when you’re not having fun. I’ve traded my live-free life for gainful employment, and though it pays the bills, I’d rather be not working. Ah well, we all haveta do what we don’t like sometime.

Well, work life this time around, is like going to school. I get up super early, then go catch my ‘school bus’, which to be fair, is a large-ass 80 seater, with tables, cupholders and wi-fi. The bus ride takes an hour and a half (in traffic) and drops me off right in front of my building. That’s of note, since the campus is fairly large. Then 9 hours later, we reverse the whole activity and I get home 12 hours later, a lot grumpier, and annoyed I’ve 2.5 hours to have dinner, get cleaned up, finish any miscellany and get to sleep. Rinse and repeat.

At the office – more like school. I try to keep quiet, I don’t ask very many questions, and I only have 2 friends. I constantly harass my friends from the previous grade (co-workers from a previous life) because I don’t really mix with my own classmates very much. I don’t know if it’s cos I find it naturally hard to make friends, and I do, or if it’s because we don’t have a lot in common. Maybe both.

In other news, found a bunch of my classmates on Facebook cos someone put an old class photo up. Looking back, those were pretty fun times too. Maybe in 20 years I’ll look back on work and find it fun.

Sunrise

To everyone who gives a damn, Happy Independence Day! On 2 Jul, 234 years ago, 12 colonies voted for independence and 1 abstained, thus severing ties with Great Britain. 2 days later, after edits were complete, the Declaration of Independence was approved, and sent to the printers.

It is interesting to note that it was only signed about a month later, on 2 August. However everyone seems perfectly satisfied celebrating the day it went to the printers.

And so the brave New World came to be, and the people here lived with the entitlement of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness thereafter.

The end!

I’m liking this Cantonese boy (almost as much as the original by Estelle). Yeah, I know it’s made its rounds around the tripledubs, but it’s got that cute stuckinyourhead kinda catchy thanks to the original tune.

By most accounts, weather in the Bay Area is considered pretty friendly. We don’t get horribly hot summers, or frigid winters. And when you do, they are the exception, not the norm. Some people attribute Mark Twain as saying the coldest winter he ever saw was a summer in San Francisco, but that hasn’t been verified. And it really isn’t the case.

The last week or so, the Bay Area saw a series of storms and it wrecked quite a bit of havoc all around. As usual, with most storms, trees were downed, power went out, some homes flooded, potholes appeared, hail the size of quarters showered in some places and people freaked out at the sound of rain pelting and thunder droning. What is unusual about the storms this time is that it isn’t a whole day of moderate rain, but intervals of really heavy tropical thunderstorm-esque drenchings, with the accompanying thunderbolts and lightning, but not all that very frightning, eh!

When you come from the tropics, you’re used to and prepared for the inconveniences of rain, and you don’t bat an eyelid at the deafening gush of all that water just spewing. Thunder and lightning is not a big deal either. If anything, it’s a signal for me to sleep in.

True Bay Area-ites, I suppose, are less used to it. Low lying homes had to be sandbagged because the water levels started rising after the first day. On the second day, roads near the beach like the Great Highway were closed off because the ground started eroding and the sides of the road started collapsing. Gusty winds downed branches and trees and disrupted power in a few neighbourhoods. Some cars were light ablaze by downed powerlines, which is pretty freaky. And some people were injured (some fatally) by trees falling on their vehicles. On the third day and beyond, rivers broke their banks and some roads were completely flooded.

Well. Before these really wet five or so days, there was an apartment complex in Pacifica that was already evacuating residents because the bluff that their building stood on started eroding badly. The building management tried to get permits to add rocks to the bottom of the bluff to reinforce it, but by the time they did it was too little too late. Residents had to stay out, and it was unclear if the building could be salvaged.

With the recent rain we’ve been getting the situation got worse. What was once about 80 feet to the cliffside was now sand on the beach 16 storeys below. Even the building next door had to be evacuated. I was telling KF they should just drop the “a” at the back of Pacifica, since it’s pretty much now just the Pacific. Ocean. Ha! Anyway, when we got a break from the rain today, we took a drive over to kaypoh a bit.

It doesn’t look like much now, but they used to have a pretty large backyard! The street in front looked like a war zone; it was cordoned off and workers were walking in and out. Some residents milled around, in and out of the neighbouring apartments, but there were more people ogling at the spectacle than there were in the units.

They do get a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean, though. But I wonder if it’s really necessary to live right next to it for the view.

Anyway. The rain will start picking up steam tomorrow night, and by Monday it’ll be rainy again. It’s a little annoying, but it sure beats water rationing.

Brett Favre, Minnesota Vikings Image from SFGate.com

We’ve been watching American Football since the season started, so it’s pretty much 3-4 months now. Last year I caught on to it late, and managed to only get warmed up to it by the Superbowl (AKA American Football World Cup, although of course, the World in this case is confined to the United States). Also with more understanding of the game, I can now root for teams based on some sort of identification of their style or quarterback instead of picking them by the team logo/mascot, hahaha. That’s

American Football though, is a needlessly overstaffed, complex game with too many rules. The saving grace is its throwback to Roman times. Indeed, the game involves a (semi-) armed combatant engaged in violent confrontations with other armed combatants, wild animals (AKA the defensive line and linebackers) and condemned criminals (almost!). While European come across as relatively more refined metrosexuals with their fancy coifs and equally fancy underwear endorsements, traipsing around a ball, coaxing it almost into a goal, American Football will show itself up to be brash, boorish, wild and loud. Moves are magnified, tackles are explosive and half-time entertainment nothing short of spectacular – remember Janet’s wardrobe malfunction?

But like any other game, once you get into it, it gets pretty entertaining. There is something special about sportsmen; guys that get to play for a living are awe worthy creatures. There aren’t all that many of them to go around, but they live the dreams of many.

The quarterback in the photo above is Brett Favre. I’ve never heard of him before I got here. But over these parts he’s a bit of a legend. He’s probably the oldest quarterback in the league – he’s 40, and he had some problems making up his mind about retiring. Twice. Now he’s playing for the Minnesota Vikings and they’re 1 game away from the Superbowl. He’s a fantastic player, and oh so fun to watch. The closest comparable quarterback (in terms of age,experience and quality) would probably be Kurt Warner of the Arizona Cardinals, but Warner’s not fun at all to watch. Here’s our theory why: Favre plays to win. Warner plays to make a living. Favre is fun to watch and you’ll find yourself rooting for him because he’s playing to score. He’ll take the spills of the game to enjoy the thrills. There’s little else in his mind besides winning the game, and it almost seems like he sheds a few years off his age with each touchdown he scores. Warner plays with so much baggage – will he be able to keep playing, provide for his family, will he get hurt – it’s tiresome to watch. Kurt Warner and the Cardinals received a whipping yesterday, from the New Orleans Saints whose quarterback, Drew Brees, is younger than me. Bleah.

Anyway, I’m hoping the Superbowl match up will be between Brett Favre & the Minnesota Vikings vs Peyton Manning & the Indianapolis Colts. It’s a long shot, because to get to the Superbowl the Vikings have to first beat the New Orleans Saints, and that’s a tough team. A tough team because they’re mentally tough, and aren’t afraid to come back from a deficit. It’s going to be a slugfest next week. And even if the Vikings do beat the Saints, they will (most likely) be up against the Colts, and those guys are even tougher.

Needless to say, my weekends for the next three weeks are going to be glued to the telly. Next week 24 Jan, four teams will slug it out for their respective football association’s championship. On 31 Jan, they’ll play the Pro-Bowl (AKA American Football All-Stars Game). Then on 7 Feb, it’ll be the battle royale known better as The Superbowl. Half time entertainment this year will be provided by the relatively less provocative The Who (whose claim to fame is the opening theme to CSI:Miami).

Can’t wait.

We went to Target today – we find ourselves there at least once a week – and as I headed past the eyedrops section I spied a petite twenty-something, maybe thirty-something Chinese lady helping a large built new age sixty-something Chinese man. I was about to past them when I noticed that the lady spoke to the man in Mandarin, and the man responded in Cantonese. But they weren’t really communicating – he was looking for something, and she was mostly saying she had difficulty understanding him. She looked up, saw us, and immediately asked, “Do you speak Cantonese?”

We stopped to help. The man sounded like one of those typical middle-managers or small business owners from Hong Kong. He was looking for eyedrops for an eye condition he had. He described what his symptoms were, and I relayed it to the lady (and I don’t know how she was roped in to help, since she obviously didn’t work there), she seemed pretty well informed, especially about eye drops, and she would try and offer suggestions, but he seemed to be looking for something specific.

The lady was mousey-looking, with glasses that covered half her face and a Mandarin accent that was crisp, but not first generation. I’ve met those types, that size, that face, that speech pattern, that accent, those sized glasses. Strangely the other two I know that fit that description are both students at Berkeley.

In the end, the bridge between the two Chinese languages turned out to be English, which was the weird bit. It was easier translating what the lady was trying to put across in Cantonese, than it was for me to translate everything the man said back into English. Mostly because he had a lot to say. Not about his eye condition. But about how the Americans do business, and how he can’t find anything. He merrily went ahead to tell KF in great detail how he could find it in Hong Kong, and what it was, and how he can’t seem to find the equivalent here, not knowing that KF only understood probably 40% of the content.

Anyway, in the end she suggested the lubricating eye drops (the stuff like tears), and after I relayed it and she saw that the dude found KF interesting, she beat a hasty retreat. After he finished his ditty to KF, the guy picked up the product the lady pointed to, thanked us profusely, and went on his way. I bet he’ll be trying his luck in Chinatown tomorrow.

And all I was left thinking on the way back was how wouldn’t have happened back at home. Mostly because of the Mandarin factor. And if that fails, there’s always Hokkien to fall back on.