When I first arrived in New York, a full week before move-in day at my dorm, my friend and I rented a cheap room in a hostel called The American Dream.
The room’s window faced a finger-distance solid wall, the public toilet was a hole in the wall with a hole in the floor, and walking down the stairs you had to be careful not to trip over any of the 9000 cats beloved (and individually named) by the hostel owner, but god help us if we weren’t the happiest people alive.
Blackened roadside bagels were authentic, hobos were refreshingly outspoken, and, best of all, the road system made sense.
Here, we thought, is a place that recognizes the reason for which numbers and the alphabet were created. Streets run numerically from 1st Street to 127th Street, and Avenues likewise from Avenue D to Avenue A, and then 1st Avenue to 12th.
Easy, we thought. And so we chucked our maps, determined not to be one of those tourists standing on road corners with maps flapping into their faces.
Of course, we proceeded to get thoroughly lost, and then even more lost, and then Jack Nicholson on Oscar night-lost, until finally, standing somewhere between Elridge and Hester (or, as we called them, Wherever and Whatever), we gave up and hailed a cab.
Since then, I have gotten lost a lot more times. Once, I set out at five in the afternoon for a five-thirty dinner party in Little Italy, and arrived at eight, smelling of roast-duck and chicken-rice from my three-year vacation in Chinatown.
You see, the thing about the Manhattan road system is that when you think you’ve got it all figured out, it sucker-punches you when you least expect it.
Roads that are supposed to be straight veer off at weird 32.5-degree angles and change their names. Orderly blocks are intersected in odd places by criss-crossing alleyways called Vandam and Gansevoort.
One moment you’re safely walking along 3rd and 5th, right on time, and the next you’re wondering why Mr. Bayard-Pell and Mr. Wooster are messing up your schedule.
It is, of course, in Chinatown that all hell breaks loose. My teacher once lived in Chinatown, and I wondered how he survived the move from Manhattanville to Salvador Dali-town. There are no cross-roads in Chinatown. There are only octagonal-roads and swirling intersections, where Henry, Madison, Monroe, Mott, Oliver, James, Chatham and Mosco meet, dance, and have tea-parties at poor unsuspecting people’s expenses. I wondered how my teacher managed to make it out of Chinatown before 2030.
But then I remembered that my teacher was already a voting Singaporean long before he moved to New York, much less Chinatown. And if a person can go to sleep as a East Coast-er, and wake up as a Marine Parade-r, when the actual Marine Parade is a 40-minute bus ride away, you’ve got to figure that that person is well equipped for the bizarre ways Manhattan carves itself up while being seemingly well-ordered.
So here’s to Singapore, from New York, and excuse me while I go buy myself a map.
Monday, March 06, 2006
The New Paper Column: Night
On a late night several weeks ago one of my floormates was getting sick of being killed by zombies in Resident Evil 4. Another was hungry, a third “kind of remembered where this really famous 24-hour place was”, and that was how I ended up going out at three in the morning in search of the elusive Papaya Dog.
Papaya Dog, by the way, is an American chain that sells ‘hot dog with papaya juice’ combos. No, I don’t understand it either. But this is the country that greenlighted Son Of The Mask, the country that allowed Britney Spears to have a baby, and the country that continues to tolerate the Bush administration, so I suppose ‘hot dog and papaya juice’ companies make about as much sense as anything else.
In any case, it was three in the morning, and, because my floormate had insisted that he could remember where the place was without a “wussy” map, we were always “almost there”.
Drug dealers who would laugh in our faces if they knew how much money we had were offering us crack, police cars were having fun slowing down when they drove past us, and hobos were yelling things about our mothers this family paper probably couldn’t print, but we were “almost there, really. The next avenue, I think”.
The thing is, after forty-five minutes of ‘almost there’s, you start to tune out the sound, much like the way you automatically begin wondering how many fingers will fall off from the cold, and the way you start trying to remember the exact definition of ‘justifiable homicide’.
But at the same time, little details begin to catch your senses. The way drunks weave, stagger, and twirl one another around, for example, with oddly poetic grace (this is, of course, before they all fall down, like a weird NC-17 nursery rhyme).
The way people who are gangsters in the day enter Dunkin Donuts at night and ask politely for croissants.
The way the empty streets almost glow in the fluorescently amber hue of night lamps, as bits of paper and pages of newspapers flirt and dance above the tarmac ground.
The way friends, gathered in the a.m. hours under alfresco awnings, reminisce, gossip, and laugh in ways you just know would never happen at any other time, their voices seemingly coaxed out of their mouths by the night itself.
We did find Papaya Dog in the end (“Man! I totally told you it was here, didn’t I?”). And about half an hour after we found it, I was staring outside my 13th floor NYU dorm clear glass window. Some apartment lights that were switched on before we left were still on, and I felt really sorry for them.
My mother had warned me about Manhattan after dark (my brother, on the other hand, warned me that most drug dealers after dark were really undercover policemen), but she didn’t put much effort into it.
Maybe she knew it was futile, but I also think that maybe she also knew she’d brought me up in a way that would allow her to sleep at night while I’m here.
Because, really, my mother’s too smart not to know that people, especially teenagers, won’t just switch off after 11 p.m.
Papaya Dog, by the way, is an American chain that sells ‘hot dog with papaya juice’ combos. No, I don’t understand it either. But this is the country that greenlighted Son Of The Mask, the country that allowed Britney Spears to have a baby, and the country that continues to tolerate the Bush administration, so I suppose ‘hot dog and papaya juice’ companies make about as much sense as anything else.
In any case, it was three in the morning, and, because my floormate had insisted that he could remember where the place was without a “wussy” map, we were always “almost there”.
Drug dealers who would laugh in our faces if they knew how much money we had were offering us crack, police cars were having fun slowing down when they drove past us, and hobos were yelling things about our mothers this family paper probably couldn’t print, but we were “almost there, really. The next avenue, I think”.
The thing is, after forty-five minutes of ‘almost there’s, you start to tune out the sound, much like the way you automatically begin wondering how many fingers will fall off from the cold, and the way you start trying to remember the exact definition of ‘justifiable homicide’.
But at the same time, little details begin to catch your senses. The way drunks weave, stagger, and twirl one another around, for example, with oddly poetic grace (this is, of course, before they all fall down, like a weird NC-17 nursery rhyme).
The way people who are gangsters in the day enter Dunkin Donuts at night and ask politely for croissants.
The way the empty streets almost glow in the fluorescently amber hue of night lamps, as bits of paper and pages of newspapers flirt and dance above the tarmac ground.
The way friends, gathered in the a.m. hours under alfresco awnings, reminisce, gossip, and laugh in ways you just know would never happen at any other time, their voices seemingly coaxed out of their mouths by the night itself.
We did find Papaya Dog in the end (“Man! I totally told you it was here, didn’t I?”). And about half an hour after we found it, I was staring outside my 13th floor NYU dorm clear glass window. Some apartment lights that were switched on before we left were still on, and I felt really sorry for them.
My mother had warned me about Manhattan after dark (my brother, on the other hand, warned me that most drug dealers after dark were really undercover policemen), but she didn’t put much effort into it.
Maybe she knew it was futile, but I also think that maybe she also knew she’d brought me up in a way that would allow her to sleep at night while I’m here.
Because, really, my mother’s too smart not to know that people, especially teenagers, won’t just switch off after 11 p.m.
The New Paper Column: NS
I was trying to explain the concept of National Service to my roommate. “Twelve or more guys share a bunk, each has his own small space, and they all try not to kill each other,” I said, to begin with.
“So it’s like us,” my roommate replied. “Except with more space.”
Despite the disturbing news that my roommate had been trying not to kill me, I realized that he was right. Living in a New York University dorm is remarkably like being back in Singapore and serving National Service all over again. As weird as that might sound, the lessons of both are actually quite similar.
For example: Your fellow third sergeants won’t turn off the television because they’ve decided to watch pirated DVDs until four in the morning the night before an exercise. You try not to kill them. Your floor-mates decide that four in the morning before an exam is the best time to relieve stress by belting out rock songs on their guitars. You try not to kill them. See? That’s tolerance right there.
In fact, living here in New York has taught me some lessons that even National Service could not teach.
Take area cleaning, for instance. During National Service, servicemen are forced to clean their sleeping and company areas, in an effort to instill in them the virtues of housekeeping. I have two elder brothers, and I can safely tell you that I don’t think a week of fear-induced cleaning has ever encouraged anyone to clean some more when he gets home. Quite the opposite, in fact.
But after a semester at Columbia University, my elder brother immediately started volunteering to help my mother mop the floor twice a week. I used to wonder why. I don’t anymore. I’m guessing he probably found week-old pizza slices under the couch. Or he just got tired of stepping on wasabi peas constantly. Or maybe he stepped on a fork that was bizarrely on the bathroom floor. These are only guesses, you understand, but for some reason I’m pretty sure one of them is right.
And then of course there’s the fact that National Service is supposed to teach you discipline, through the inculcation of routines, timetables, and all that fun stuff. I don’t know. I don’t really find myself obsessing over whether my toothbrush is placed exactly correctly, or whether my shoes are placed in a certain order. I do know, however, that the one hour I spent trying not to stuff a drunk sorority girl’s head into a microwave probably taught me enough discipline to last a whole life’s worth of drunk people.
Why am I so sure? Well, if I didn’t do it when she said this: “Am I hot? No. Really? I’m hot? No. I’m not hot. My boyfriend tells me I’m hot. Did I say I was hot? I’m not hot. I’m hot. I’m hot, right? This is a nice microwave. Can I borrow your microwave? You have a very nice microwave. Am I hot? Hot? Not hot? Don’t lie to me. I’m hot. I’m so hot. My boyfriend tells me I’m hot. Wow. Like, awesome microwave. I’m not usually like this. I’m so totally usually not like this. I’m awesome when I’m not drunk. Really! I’m so hot.” And so forth… and forth… and forth.
I could go on some more, about many other things, but I think you get the idea.
Which is why, if I make it back to Singapore in one piece, without any homicides, or drug raps, or alcoholism problems on my record, I’d have become a pretty good person, right? And if I were also to bring fame to Singapore? Like say if I were to become… a world-class pianist?
“So it’s like us,” my roommate replied. “Except with more space.”
Despite the disturbing news that my roommate had been trying not to kill me, I realized that he was right. Living in a New York University dorm is remarkably like being back in Singapore and serving National Service all over again. As weird as that might sound, the lessons of both are actually quite similar.
For example: Your fellow third sergeants won’t turn off the television because they’ve decided to watch pirated DVDs until four in the morning the night before an exercise. You try not to kill them. Your floor-mates decide that four in the morning before an exam is the best time to relieve stress by belting out rock songs on their guitars. You try not to kill them. See? That’s tolerance right there.
In fact, living here in New York has taught me some lessons that even National Service could not teach.
Take area cleaning, for instance. During National Service, servicemen are forced to clean their sleeping and company areas, in an effort to instill in them the virtues of housekeeping. I have two elder brothers, and I can safely tell you that I don’t think a week of fear-induced cleaning has ever encouraged anyone to clean some more when he gets home. Quite the opposite, in fact.
But after a semester at Columbia University, my elder brother immediately started volunteering to help my mother mop the floor twice a week. I used to wonder why. I don’t anymore. I’m guessing he probably found week-old pizza slices under the couch. Or he just got tired of stepping on wasabi peas constantly. Or maybe he stepped on a fork that was bizarrely on the bathroom floor. These are only guesses, you understand, but for some reason I’m pretty sure one of them is right.
And then of course there’s the fact that National Service is supposed to teach you discipline, through the inculcation of routines, timetables, and all that fun stuff. I don’t know. I don’t really find myself obsessing over whether my toothbrush is placed exactly correctly, or whether my shoes are placed in a certain order. I do know, however, that the one hour I spent trying not to stuff a drunk sorority girl’s head into a microwave probably taught me enough discipline to last a whole life’s worth of drunk people.
Why am I so sure? Well, if I didn’t do it when she said this: “Am I hot? No. Really? I’m hot? No. I’m not hot. My boyfriend tells me I’m hot. Did I say I was hot? I’m not hot. I’m hot. I’m hot, right? This is a nice microwave. Can I borrow your microwave? You have a very nice microwave. Am I hot? Hot? Not hot? Don’t lie to me. I’m hot. I’m so hot. My boyfriend tells me I’m hot. Wow. Like, awesome microwave. I’m not usually like this. I’m so totally usually not like this. I’m awesome when I’m not drunk. Really! I’m so hot.” And so forth… and forth… and forth.
I could go on some more, about many other things, but I think you get the idea.
Which is why, if I make it back to Singapore in one piece, without any homicides, or drug raps, or alcoholism problems on my record, I’d have become a pretty good person, right? And if I were also to bring fame to Singapore? Like say if I were to become… a world-class pianist?
The New Paper Column: Shows
Winter hiatus. It takes place every year in America from late November to early February, and is the time during which TV networks regroup, reschedule, rewrite, and, while all that fun stuff is going on, repeat.
In other words, this is when there are 999 channels but nothing to watch.
Luckily, within any ten-block radius in New York City there are anywhere between 50 to 100 DVD shops. From monster-hits like Lost and Desperate Housewives, to critically-acclaimed (and therefore nobody-watched) gems like Veronica Mars and Firefly, to shows including Scrubs and Newsradio, if it once existed, you can bet that it’s probably languishing on a shelf somewhere in DVD form.
Which brings us to the DVD that I found two days ago. It’s called Sports Night, and ran between 1998-2000 (tagline: “It’s about sports. The same way Charlie’s Angels was about law enforcement.”).
Sports Night never really caught on, and was axed by ABC despite 10 Golden Globes and 21 nominations. But although it shared superficially nothing in common with Sex And The City, which also premiered in 1998, it was as brilliant as City, and for the same reasons.
Most of the people who watched City will tell you that they started for the sex, but stayed for the stories. It’s easy to be ground-breaking, but there’s got to be something there underneath the surface if you want people to stay. Friends was a pop culture phenomenon because beneath all the canned laughter and glitzy living was heart. Joey looks headed for cancellation because it’s a shiny but ultimately shallow product. The creators of Lost don’t stress how much money the pilot cost (US $10m), but keep repeating in interviews that it’s a story about people and how people relate to each other.
It’s about people and how they relate to each other. It’s a simple enough maxim, but one that isn’t followed very often. That is why, after having channel-surfed through enough shows to know, I can tell you definitively that America is just as capable of producing entertainment garbage as Singapore is (and has). But the flip side of that argument is that Singapore is as capable of producing quality shows as America is. And when it does, people do notice.
Royston Tan created the international festival-touring Fifteen. Eric Khoo’s Be With Me only failed to qualify for the Oscars on a technicality, and Tan Pin Pin’s Singapore Gaga actually did win an Oscar. Even Mediacorp, creator of the vomit-inducing Beautiful Connection (better known as Jiu Ceng Gao), the atrocious Living With Lydia, and the current rehash Love Concierge, once fanned a national fervor comparable to that of Lost and Housewives with its unmatched drama-thon Holland V.
All of these were quality shows because they were about people, real people, and about how these people related realistically to each other. The gangsters of Fifteen weren’t just Ah-Bengs. The cast of Singapore Gaga revealed the reality of Singapore behind Tourist Singapore. Mo Wanwan wasn’t just a fierce dragon-lady, Mo Yanyan wasn’t just a Villain, and Mo Jingjing wasn’t just innocent and cute.
Singapore is just as capable of telling good stories as America is. But it’s not an easy job, and you have to keep working at it, just as we journalists have to keep working to find the best ways to give you the best stories. And so it is one of my wishes for 2006 that Singapore excels not just economically, but artistically as well.
And yes, that means you too, Mediacorp. So can you please lay off the ‘conniving and evil sister’, ‘secretly rich and handsome guy’, and ‘innocent damsel-in-distress’ stereotypes already? The Mo family would be ashamed.
In other words, this is when there are 999 channels but nothing to watch.
Luckily, within any ten-block radius in New York City there are anywhere between 50 to 100 DVD shops. From monster-hits like Lost and Desperate Housewives, to critically-acclaimed (and therefore nobody-watched) gems like Veronica Mars and Firefly, to shows including Scrubs and Newsradio, if it once existed, you can bet that it’s probably languishing on a shelf somewhere in DVD form.
Which brings us to the DVD that I found two days ago. It’s called Sports Night, and ran between 1998-2000 (tagline: “It’s about sports. The same way Charlie’s Angels was about law enforcement.”).
Sports Night never really caught on, and was axed by ABC despite 10 Golden Globes and 21 nominations. But although it shared superficially nothing in common with Sex And The City, which also premiered in 1998, it was as brilliant as City, and for the same reasons.
Most of the people who watched City will tell you that they started for the sex, but stayed for the stories. It’s easy to be ground-breaking, but there’s got to be something there underneath the surface if you want people to stay. Friends was a pop culture phenomenon because beneath all the canned laughter and glitzy living was heart. Joey looks headed for cancellation because it’s a shiny but ultimately shallow product. The creators of Lost don’t stress how much money the pilot cost (US $10m), but keep repeating in interviews that it’s a story about people and how people relate to each other.
It’s about people and how they relate to each other. It’s a simple enough maxim, but one that isn’t followed very often. That is why, after having channel-surfed through enough shows to know, I can tell you definitively that America is just as capable of producing entertainment garbage as Singapore is (and has). But the flip side of that argument is that Singapore is as capable of producing quality shows as America is. And when it does, people do notice.
Royston Tan created the international festival-touring Fifteen. Eric Khoo’s Be With Me only failed to qualify for the Oscars on a technicality, and Tan Pin Pin’s Singapore Gaga actually did win an Oscar. Even Mediacorp, creator of the vomit-inducing Beautiful Connection (better known as Jiu Ceng Gao), the atrocious Living With Lydia, and the current rehash Love Concierge, once fanned a national fervor comparable to that of Lost and Housewives with its unmatched drama-thon Holland V.
All of these were quality shows because they were about people, real people, and about how these people related realistically to each other. The gangsters of Fifteen weren’t just Ah-Bengs. The cast of Singapore Gaga revealed the reality of Singapore behind Tourist Singapore. Mo Wanwan wasn’t just a fierce dragon-lady, Mo Yanyan wasn’t just a Villain, and Mo Jingjing wasn’t just innocent and cute.
Singapore is just as capable of telling good stories as America is. But it’s not an easy job, and you have to keep working at it, just as we journalists have to keep working to find the best ways to give you the best stories. And so it is one of my wishes for 2006 that Singapore excels not just economically, but artistically as well.
And yes, that means you too, Mediacorp. So can you please lay off the ‘conniving and evil sister’, ‘secretly rich and handsome guy’, and ‘innocent damsel-in-distress’ stereotypes already? The Mo family would be ashamed.
The New Paper Column: Sex
The view from my dorm’s common room window is amazing. You can see the Empire State Building in the distance, the Manhattan Bridge nearby, and, every Thursday night, the free sex show from a college student in the opposite tower.
Yes, you read the last statement correctly.
The first time she brought a guy over, she forgot to pull down the blinds. The second time, it wasn’t because she forgot. In the third week, a unanimous decision was made in my dorm that we should watch The O.C. somewhere else. Since then, various elevator conversations have convinced me that That Girl’s show is even more regular than network TV (and a lot less censored).
You would think that this exhibitionistic behavior was mostly confined to the West. In Singapore, for example, you would never walk in on university students having sex in a Starbucks toilet (which has happened to me twice in the last month).
But are Singapore and the US really that different? In last year’s Durex Global Sex Survey, Singapore was second last out of 41 countries when it came to frequency of sex. But according to various articles in The Straits Times and this paper, sex shops have penetrated downtown and heartland office spaces in the past year, making exciting profit figures selling erotic toys to naughty boardgames to kinky lingerie.
According to my friends, it’s also long been an open secret that, among other places, you can catch a R(A) movie if you walk by a certain downtown school that has glass-walled study rooms.
With Singapore’s first-ever Sex Expo soon to open, we seem to be gradually adopting the West’s openness about sex. But we’re also similar in another disturbing way.
Sex education is a divisive topic here in the US. Morning-after pills targeted at 17 or older females can prevent pregnancies if taken up to 72 hours post-sex. Last month, a vaccination was also invented that can prevent cervical cancer, a disease that stems largely from a sexually transmitted virus. But both are being blocked from reaching the masses because the government prefers pushing the message of abstinence, and so it can’t be seen to be condoning teenage sex in any way.
We are facing a similar situation in Singapore. Teenagers are becoming increasingly blasé about sex, but the increasingly out-dated message of abstinence is still being pushed. And the result has been published by The Straits Times in various reports, one as recent as two weeks ago: The age-group of 10-19 now make up 6 percent of all sexually-transmitted infection cases, a handful of seventeen year-olds have been diagnosed as HIV+, and the AIDs infection rate has been steadily on the rise. And yet we continue to prevent condoms from being handed out at nation-wide parties, and we continue to think that the abstinence message is working, despite various online studies showing that at least 60 percent of Singaporean teenagers have had multiple sex partners by the time they’re 18.
The results of this year’s Durex Global Sex Survey will be released on Tuesday, but we already know the really important sex numbers. The question is, will we continue to preach only abstinence, when we can all see (sometimes literally) that the college student next door is having sex 53 times a year, at the very, very least?
Yes, you read the last statement correctly.
The first time she brought a guy over, she forgot to pull down the blinds. The second time, it wasn’t because she forgot. In the third week, a unanimous decision was made in my dorm that we should watch The O.C. somewhere else. Since then, various elevator conversations have convinced me that That Girl’s show is even more regular than network TV (and a lot less censored).
You would think that this exhibitionistic behavior was mostly confined to the West. In Singapore, for example, you would never walk in on university students having sex in a Starbucks toilet (which has happened to me twice in the last month).
But are Singapore and the US really that different? In last year’s Durex Global Sex Survey, Singapore was second last out of 41 countries when it came to frequency of sex. But according to various articles in The Straits Times and this paper, sex shops have penetrated downtown and heartland office spaces in the past year, making exciting profit figures selling erotic toys to naughty boardgames to kinky lingerie.
According to my friends, it’s also long been an open secret that, among other places, you can catch a R(A) movie if you walk by a certain downtown school that has glass-walled study rooms.
With Singapore’s first-ever Sex Expo soon to open, we seem to be gradually adopting the West’s openness about sex. But we’re also similar in another disturbing way.
Sex education is a divisive topic here in the US. Morning-after pills targeted at 17 or older females can prevent pregnancies if taken up to 72 hours post-sex. Last month, a vaccination was also invented that can prevent cervical cancer, a disease that stems largely from a sexually transmitted virus. But both are being blocked from reaching the masses because the government prefers pushing the message of abstinence, and so it can’t be seen to be condoning teenage sex in any way.
We are facing a similar situation in Singapore. Teenagers are becoming increasingly blasé about sex, but the increasingly out-dated message of abstinence is still being pushed. And the result has been published by The Straits Times in various reports, one as recent as two weeks ago: The age-group of 10-19 now make up 6 percent of all sexually-transmitted infection cases, a handful of seventeen year-olds have been diagnosed as HIV+, and the AIDs infection rate has been steadily on the rise. And yet we continue to prevent condoms from being handed out at nation-wide parties, and we continue to think that the abstinence message is working, despite various online studies showing that at least 60 percent of Singaporean teenagers have had multiple sex partners by the time they’re 18.
The results of this year’s Durex Global Sex Survey will be released on Tuesday, but we already know the really important sex numbers. The question is, will we continue to preach only abstinence, when we can all see (sometimes literally) that the college student next door is having sex 53 times a year, at the very, very least?
The New Paper Column: Memoirs
“She’s sold her soul and betrayed her country. Hacking her to death would not be good enough.”
The above quote appeared late November in The New York Times, The Guardian, Reuters, Yahoo! News, and MSNBC, among other international media. Is it about a terrorist? Or a traitor caught selling national secrets? Or even just a defector badmouthing her birth country? No. It is about none of these things. It is about Zhang Ziyi, a China-born actress who took on a Japanese role in an American film.
Do not get me wrong. The casting of director Rob Marshall’s latest film adaptation Memoirs Of A Geisha is, at best, insensitive. The Japanese have their right to complain that, for a film about Japanese culture, none of the lead roles have gone to Japanese actresses. The Chinese also have their right to complain that, given Japan’s brutal occupation of China in World War II, Chinese actresses should not be playing sympathetic Japanese roles. Both countries naturally also have the right to complain that Memoirs is a deplorable American film that not only stereotypes Asian actors and actresses, but also Asian culture itself.
But while we should have the right to voice all of these complaints, let us not forget that Memoirs is not about a Chinese actress taking on a Japanese role in an American film. Memoirs is, in order of priority, an American film, starring Chinese actresses, about Japanese culture. It is a blockbuster aiming for ticket sales and Oscars, not a documentary aiming for cultural dialogue and Politics. If a Chinese actress had burned a China flag in Tokyo while pleading eternal allegiance to Japan, this column would be markedly different. But when Marshall himself has emphasized his careless-ness by saying repeatedly that “realism is not (his) chief concern” and that Memoirs “is really meant as a fable”, quarreling over whether Zhang Ziyi should be hacked into tiny little pieces for her participation is like quarreling over whether Jet Li should be castrated for playing an American’s collared Asian pet in the movie Unleashed.
Yes, Memoirs’ embarrassing situation might truly be the only one of its kind, if research gleaned from 47 websites has taught me anything. And yes, Memoirs’ casting director’s cultural cluelessness and general inability to differentiate one ‘yellow-face’ from another is insulting. And yes, Zhang Ziyi could have held out for another less controversial American debut. But this is Hollywood, baby. America’s dream factory is exactly what it is – the maker of two-hour dreams that are sometimes moving, sometimes boring, and sometimes shocking, but always, ultimately, only dreams that don’t really matter, because we know that they’re not accurate.
All that a Hollywood movie tries to be is entertaining. All that we want a Hollywood movie to try to be is entertaining. Blaming Hollywood for not being culturally attuned is like blaming a five-year old for not understanding Plato. In Hollywood, resemblance to reality is first and foremost only a bonus. If we really wanted realism, we’d skip Tinseltown and go straight to newspapers.
It is true that the West could do with a lot more education about the East. Memoirs is only the latest example. But it is also true that the East could stand to care a lot less about the West. And that depends on you and I to know what really matters, and what is just a silly inflammatory sentence spread into flames by flapping media.
The above quote appeared late November in The New York Times, The Guardian, Reuters, Yahoo! News, and MSNBC, among other international media. Is it about a terrorist? Or a traitor caught selling national secrets? Or even just a defector badmouthing her birth country? No. It is about none of these things. It is about Zhang Ziyi, a China-born actress who took on a Japanese role in an American film.
Do not get me wrong. The casting of director Rob Marshall’s latest film adaptation Memoirs Of A Geisha is, at best, insensitive. The Japanese have their right to complain that, for a film about Japanese culture, none of the lead roles have gone to Japanese actresses. The Chinese also have their right to complain that, given Japan’s brutal occupation of China in World War II, Chinese actresses should not be playing sympathetic Japanese roles. Both countries naturally also have the right to complain that Memoirs is a deplorable American film that not only stereotypes Asian actors and actresses, but also Asian culture itself.
But while we should have the right to voice all of these complaints, let us not forget that Memoirs is not about a Chinese actress taking on a Japanese role in an American film. Memoirs is, in order of priority, an American film, starring Chinese actresses, about Japanese culture. It is a blockbuster aiming for ticket sales and Oscars, not a documentary aiming for cultural dialogue and Politics. If a Chinese actress had burned a China flag in Tokyo while pleading eternal allegiance to Japan, this column would be markedly different. But when Marshall himself has emphasized his careless-ness by saying repeatedly that “realism is not (his) chief concern” and that Memoirs “is really meant as a fable”, quarreling over whether Zhang Ziyi should be hacked into tiny little pieces for her participation is like quarreling over whether Jet Li should be castrated for playing an American’s collared Asian pet in the movie Unleashed.
Yes, Memoirs’ embarrassing situation might truly be the only one of its kind, if research gleaned from 47 websites has taught me anything. And yes, Memoirs’ casting director’s cultural cluelessness and general inability to differentiate one ‘yellow-face’ from another is insulting. And yes, Zhang Ziyi could have held out for another less controversial American debut. But this is Hollywood, baby. America’s dream factory is exactly what it is – the maker of two-hour dreams that are sometimes moving, sometimes boring, and sometimes shocking, but always, ultimately, only dreams that don’t really matter, because we know that they’re not accurate.
All that a Hollywood movie tries to be is entertaining. All that we want a Hollywood movie to try to be is entertaining. Blaming Hollywood for not being culturally attuned is like blaming a five-year old for not understanding Plato. In Hollywood, resemblance to reality is first and foremost only a bonus. If we really wanted realism, we’d skip Tinseltown and go straight to newspapers.
It is true that the West could do with a lot more education about the East. Memoirs is only the latest example. But it is also true that the East could stand to care a lot less about the West. And that depends on you and I to know what really matters, and what is just a silly inflammatory sentence spread into flames by flapping media.
The New Paper Column: Food
I don’t know how any Singaporean could really be homesick in New York City. In the past few months, I’ve discovered not only Singaporean Fried Rice, but also Singapore Mai Fun (mee-fun, or vermicelli), Singaporean Noodles, and, my personal favourite, Singaporean Cookies.
(The search for Singaporean Steak, Singaporean Hot Dog, and Singaporean Salad is still ongoing. Stay tuned!)
There is, of course, nothing even vaguely Singaporean about these ‘Singaporean’ dishes.
But that problem hasn’t stopped enterprising five-dollar restaurants from exploiting our name, betting on the fact that most broke American college students still think of Singapore as some exotic locale. Sadly, for the most part, these restaurateurs have gotten it right.
Whether served in an American-run Japanese sushi-bar, or in a Taiwanese-run Chinese takeout place, I’ve seen (and complained about) countless fellow students literally swallowing the whole “Singaporean Experience” hook, line, and sinker.
Of course, the co-opting of foreign cuisines to local tastes is nothing new. Singaporean fish and chips differs from Australian fish and chips differs from British fish and chips according to local preferences.
So I really shouldn’t be surprised that in Manhattan Chinese food is not so much Chinese food as it is what Americans think Chinese food should be.
But where, then, does localization end and bastardization begin?
If Singaporean Chicken Rice is simply white rice fried with soy sauce, should it still be called Singaporean Chicken Rice, or should it be renamed American Singaporean Chicken Rice, or American Chicken Rice, or something else altogether?
This question, of course, is compounded by an additional problem: Does Singaporean Chicken Rice actually exist? If it does, why should we believe what we have is Chicken Rice in all its definitive Singaporean-ness? And if it doesn’t, how are we to agree on what would actually make our Chicken Rice Singaporean?
And even if we ever did settle on one definitive version of any Singaporean dish, we’d have to figure out one more thing: Do we insist on the purity of Singaporean flavour, and attempt to sue, torch, behead, kidnap, or otherwise eliminate all other rivals who claim to speak for us?
Or do we stand idly by and wait for non-Singaporeans to invent satirical Singaporean Burgers, Singaporean Falafels and Singaporean Pasta, which we will only know about too late when we see them in international supermarkets?
It would be so easy to think that Singapore’s culinary fate rests between these two extremes, but add in Singaporeans who struggle to explain to others why Singapore has no distinctive cuisine, Singaporeans who themselves laugh about Singapore’s melting pot of all foreign foods, and more, and the issue becomes a lot more complicated.
If somebody starts selling Singaporean Cheesecake one day, I don’t think I could arbitrate between the person selling it, and the person picketing outside, because there is no right or wrong here, only different priorities, and to ‘settle’ the question with platitudes about the freedom of selling cheesecake or “rights coming with responsibilities” (as one letter in a local paper read recently) is simplistic and naïve.
But I will say that if the day comes when even cheesecake is a hot-button issue, I hope that by that time we will have learned the value of dialogue, and not have to resort to either jerry cans of kerosene, or spiteful rhetoric in national papers.
(The search for Singaporean Steak, Singaporean Hot Dog, and Singaporean Salad is still ongoing. Stay tuned!)
There is, of course, nothing even vaguely Singaporean about these ‘Singaporean’ dishes.
But that problem hasn’t stopped enterprising five-dollar restaurants from exploiting our name, betting on the fact that most broke American college students still think of Singapore as some exotic locale. Sadly, for the most part, these restaurateurs have gotten it right.
Whether served in an American-run Japanese sushi-bar, or in a Taiwanese-run Chinese takeout place, I’ve seen (and complained about) countless fellow students literally swallowing the whole “Singaporean Experience” hook, line, and sinker.
Of course, the co-opting of foreign cuisines to local tastes is nothing new. Singaporean fish and chips differs from Australian fish and chips differs from British fish and chips according to local preferences.
So I really shouldn’t be surprised that in Manhattan Chinese food is not so much Chinese food as it is what Americans think Chinese food should be.
But where, then, does localization end and bastardization begin?
If Singaporean Chicken Rice is simply white rice fried with soy sauce, should it still be called Singaporean Chicken Rice, or should it be renamed American Singaporean Chicken Rice, or American Chicken Rice, or something else altogether?
This question, of course, is compounded by an additional problem: Does Singaporean Chicken Rice actually exist? If it does, why should we believe what we have is Chicken Rice in all its definitive Singaporean-ness? And if it doesn’t, how are we to agree on what would actually make our Chicken Rice Singaporean?
And even if we ever did settle on one definitive version of any Singaporean dish, we’d have to figure out one more thing: Do we insist on the purity of Singaporean flavour, and attempt to sue, torch, behead, kidnap, or otherwise eliminate all other rivals who claim to speak for us?
Or do we stand idly by and wait for non-Singaporeans to invent satirical Singaporean Burgers, Singaporean Falafels and Singaporean Pasta, which we will only know about too late when we see them in international supermarkets?
It would be so easy to think that Singapore’s culinary fate rests between these two extremes, but add in Singaporeans who struggle to explain to others why Singapore has no distinctive cuisine, Singaporeans who themselves laugh about Singapore’s melting pot of all foreign foods, and more, and the issue becomes a lot more complicated.
If somebody starts selling Singaporean Cheesecake one day, I don’t think I could arbitrate between the person selling it, and the person picketing outside, because there is no right or wrong here, only different priorities, and to ‘settle’ the question with platitudes about the freedom of selling cheesecake or “rights coming with responsibilities” (as one letter in a local paper read recently) is simplistic and naïve.
But I will say that if the day comes when even cheesecake is a hot-button issue, I hope that by that time we will have learned the value of dialogue, and not have to resort to either jerry cans of kerosene, or spiteful rhetoric in national papers.
The New Paper Column: Face
If we Singaporeans do only one thing better than the rest of the world, it’s saving face. So we’ve had a really horrible year of negative international publicity, with the A*Star debacle, our Press Freedom Index ranking, and now accusations of treating Australia with contempt regarding Australian death-sentenced drug trafficker Nguyen Tuong Van. If we know anything about saving face, it’s that it means never having to admit that we’re wrong, even if we are (and I’m not saying that we are, necessarily), and never having to say sorry even if we do admit that a mistake has been made. Since we have done neither despite considerable pressure, I can say that we are indeed very good at saving face.
But I’m no longer sure that we save face better than everyone else.
Unlike Singapore, a person in America is more likely to get run over by a cyclist than a driver. Unlike Singapore, there is only one 7-11 in the whole of Manhattan. But like Singapore, Americans are just as good, if not better, at saving face.
Hands up if you are now the owner or soon-to-be owner of an Xbox 360. Okay, for those of you now being stared at by everyone around you, I have more bad news. Of the power cords sent out with the 360s, a fraction easily overheats, making the entire system crash. Barely fifteen minutes after the launch of the 360 in America, buyers started reporting a range of error messages (much like Microsoft PCs’ infamous Blue Screen of Death, only black). Microsoft spokeswoman Molly O’Donnell responded that the distress calls represent “a very, very small fraction”, and offered to replace damaged systems. The official stand is that “with any launch of this magnitude, you are bound to see something happening”. All well and good – except that in March this year, Microsoft recalled 14 million Xbox power cords. Coincidence?
Of course, Microsoft’s mini-maybe-disaster is nothing compared to the cases of Apple and the American arm of Sony Electronics. Just days after the Ipod Nano’s launch in September, disgruntled consumers reported that the Nano’s screen scratches “insanely easily”. Despite initially denying, denying, and denying (head of Apple’s Ipod division Jon Rubenstein said that perhaps buyers should not “keep it in a pocket with your keys”), Apple was forced, five days and thousands of complaints later, to admit that “less than one-tenth of one percent” (sound familiar?) was shipped faulty. Even today, there has been no further admission, or apology, despite an ongoing lawsuit brought by consumers from the US, the UK, and Mexico.
As for Sony Electronics, well, where to begin? At least 52 Sony BMG titles have been identified so far as containing the vicious rootkit program, a copy-protection program that unfortunately invites hackers and viruses. But instead of issuing an apology in the first week of November, when the problem was identified, Sony issued two weeks later a software patch that created even worse problems for the computers. Only on 18 November did Sony issue an official apology – an apology that contained a lot of technical jargon, an exchange program, but not the simple word ‘sorry’, or even the phrase ‘we were wrong’.
Of course, it might seem petty to quibble about Microsoft, Apple, or Sony’s face-saving. After all, you might say, no one got physically hurt, or even killed. But think about the soldiers in Iraq who are dying because an American president won’t admit he is wrong. Think about Singapore’s reputation, which has been battered in international papers this year, with some blows not entirely undeserved. Sorry seems to be the hardest word, yes, but sometimes saving face means knowing when to say it.
But I’m no longer sure that we save face better than everyone else.
Unlike Singapore, a person in America is more likely to get run over by a cyclist than a driver. Unlike Singapore, there is only one 7-11 in the whole of Manhattan. But like Singapore, Americans are just as good, if not better, at saving face.
Hands up if you are now the owner or soon-to-be owner of an Xbox 360. Okay, for those of you now being stared at by everyone around you, I have more bad news. Of the power cords sent out with the 360s, a fraction easily overheats, making the entire system crash. Barely fifteen minutes after the launch of the 360 in America, buyers started reporting a range of error messages (much like Microsoft PCs’ infamous Blue Screen of Death, only black). Microsoft spokeswoman Molly O’Donnell responded that the distress calls represent “a very, very small fraction”, and offered to replace damaged systems. The official stand is that “with any launch of this magnitude, you are bound to see something happening”. All well and good – except that in March this year, Microsoft recalled 14 million Xbox power cords. Coincidence?
Of course, Microsoft’s mini-maybe-disaster is nothing compared to the cases of Apple and the American arm of Sony Electronics. Just days after the Ipod Nano’s launch in September, disgruntled consumers reported that the Nano’s screen scratches “insanely easily”. Despite initially denying, denying, and denying (head of Apple’s Ipod division Jon Rubenstein said that perhaps buyers should not “keep it in a pocket with your keys”), Apple was forced, five days and thousands of complaints later, to admit that “less than one-tenth of one percent” (sound familiar?) was shipped faulty. Even today, there has been no further admission, or apology, despite an ongoing lawsuit brought by consumers from the US, the UK, and Mexico.
As for Sony Electronics, well, where to begin? At least 52 Sony BMG titles have been identified so far as containing the vicious rootkit program, a copy-protection program that unfortunately invites hackers and viruses. But instead of issuing an apology in the first week of November, when the problem was identified, Sony issued two weeks later a software patch that created even worse problems for the computers. Only on 18 November did Sony issue an official apology – an apology that contained a lot of technical jargon, an exchange program, but not the simple word ‘sorry’, or even the phrase ‘we were wrong’.
Of course, it might seem petty to quibble about Microsoft, Apple, or Sony’s face-saving. After all, you might say, no one got physically hurt, or even killed. But think about the soldiers in Iraq who are dying because an American president won’t admit he is wrong. Think about Singapore’s reputation, which has been battered in international papers this year, with some blows not entirely undeserved. Sorry seems to be the hardest word, yes, but sometimes saving face means knowing when to say it.
The New Paper Column: Edu
I am secretly convinced that someone has arranged for a robotic spy to masquerade as my roommate at New York University.
We have both been in New York City for two months now, and my roommate, whom we shall call Caleb, has watched exactly one movie, zero plays, and zero Broadway or off-Broadway shows. In fact, not counting a day walking along Fifth Avenue, his exploration of Manhattan has not exceeded a five-block radius from the NYU campuses.
But it’s not what he hasn’t done that convinces me he is on someone’s payroll. It’s what he has done. For almost every single day now, he has managed to cram in ten-hour reading sessions at the library, in addition to writing papers in our room afterwards.
He even makes disagreeable noises when I’m slacking. Yes, he is even more Singaporean than I am. This is why I am convinced that he is a spy.
As for why I am convinced that he is a robot, just consider this. He has not touched the X-box, nor the Gamecube, nor the Playstation 2 in our suite’s common room once, and if I didn’t switch on the TV in our room occasionally, I am fairly sure that he wouldn’t even have watched a single second of TV. I’m sure you agree that there is simply no way he is even remotely human.
Of course, realizing that you are sleeping (in the same room) with a robotic spy who is likely taking note of your every action is enough to make anyone slightly paranoid. In fact, it is so paranoia-inducing that I’ve taken to recording down my own movements, grades, and time-management in multiple Excel spreadsheets.
Just in case he has managed somehow to install recording devices in my classrooms, I have also taken to shaking my head and making disapproving sounds whenever my professors and schoolmates say and do anything offensive.
When my classmate, who was asked to write and present a monologue, came to class dressed as a transvestite, and described things that even the Karma Sutra would blush at, I tsk-tsked and told him afterwards (just in case the camera was watching) how wrong his monologue was.
When my Terrorism And The Modern Man professor suggested that al-Qaeda’s actions and ideology were understandable, though not tolerable, I almost left the room (I didn’t, because grades are lowered for every two absences).
Even when I’m walking to my classes, I take care to keep a wide distance from those people protesting against either political party, against various laws, against the ban on marijuana as medicine, against student fee hikes, and just in case, even protests against Starbucks. I’ve seen Terminator: Rise Of The Machines, and if Kristanna Loken can be a shape-shifting T-X, then so can my ‘roommate’, right?
I have to admit, though, that all this looking over my shoulder is making me very tired, cranky, and careless. Just the other day I almost cracked and started paying attention when my Literature professor claimed that Hamlet is a badly constructed play, and in the next breath advised us to read Salman Rushdie’s books.
So I’m thinking that maybe I should transfer back to Singapore for a semester or two. I miss the food, I miss my family, and I miss my friends. And more than all of those things I miss the stress of simply having to study and not worry about anything else, especially about why my ‘roommate’ is now staring at me.
What do you guys think?
We have both been in New York City for two months now, and my roommate, whom we shall call Caleb, has watched exactly one movie, zero plays, and zero Broadway or off-Broadway shows. In fact, not counting a day walking along Fifth Avenue, his exploration of Manhattan has not exceeded a five-block radius from the NYU campuses.
But it’s not what he hasn’t done that convinces me he is on someone’s payroll. It’s what he has done. For almost every single day now, he has managed to cram in ten-hour reading sessions at the library, in addition to writing papers in our room afterwards.
He even makes disagreeable noises when I’m slacking. Yes, he is even more Singaporean than I am. This is why I am convinced that he is a spy.
As for why I am convinced that he is a robot, just consider this. He has not touched the X-box, nor the Gamecube, nor the Playstation 2 in our suite’s common room once, and if I didn’t switch on the TV in our room occasionally, I am fairly sure that he wouldn’t even have watched a single second of TV. I’m sure you agree that there is simply no way he is even remotely human.
Of course, realizing that you are sleeping (in the same room) with a robotic spy who is likely taking note of your every action is enough to make anyone slightly paranoid. In fact, it is so paranoia-inducing that I’ve taken to recording down my own movements, grades, and time-management in multiple Excel spreadsheets.
Just in case he has managed somehow to install recording devices in my classrooms, I have also taken to shaking my head and making disapproving sounds whenever my professors and schoolmates say and do anything offensive.
When my classmate, who was asked to write and present a monologue, came to class dressed as a transvestite, and described things that even the Karma Sutra would blush at, I tsk-tsked and told him afterwards (just in case the camera was watching) how wrong his monologue was.
When my Terrorism And The Modern Man professor suggested that al-Qaeda’s actions and ideology were understandable, though not tolerable, I almost left the room (I didn’t, because grades are lowered for every two absences).
Even when I’m walking to my classes, I take care to keep a wide distance from those people protesting against either political party, against various laws, against the ban on marijuana as medicine, against student fee hikes, and just in case, even protests against Starbucks. I’ve seen Terminator: Rise Of The Machines, and if Kristanna Loken can be a shape-shifting T-X, then so can my ‘roommate’, right?
I have to admit, though, that all this looking over my shoulder is making me very tired, cranky, and careless. Just the other day I almost cracked and started paying attention when my Literature professor claimed that Hamlet is a badly constructed play, and in the next breath advised us to read Salman Rushdie’s books.
So I’m thinking that maybe I should transfer back to Singapore for a semester or two. I miss the food, I miss my family, and I miss my friends. And more than all of those things I miss the stress of simply having to study and not worry about anything else, especially about why my ‘roommate’ is now staring at me.
What do you guys think?
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Play: 'Fuck' Is An Easy Word
Dennis is watching T.V. Joey enters and sits. A beat.
JOEY
What are we watching?
DENNIS
Buffy.
JOEY
The vampire show?
DENNIS
Yeah.
A beat.
JOEY
I don’t think I’ve actually seen an entire episode of this before.
DENNIS
It’s great. Joss Whedon is a fucking genius. (beat) I can loan you the DVDs again if you want.
JOEY
That’s okay. I didn’t like it in ‘99 and I’m not going to like it now.
A beat.
JOEY (CONT’D)
(grimacing) Oh man. Why did he do that? Why did he have to do that? That was a perfectly good eye.
DENNIS
It’s to increase the stakes. Dramatic tension, give Buffy a stronger incentive to defeat the First Evil. It’s really well-crafted if you really think about it. (beat) But yeah. Sticking someone’s eye out is pretty gross.
JOEY
I’m glad you think so.
DENNIS
But that’s not the worst part. There was an episode –
JOEY
No, no, that’s okay. (beat) God. You need to warn me when stuff like that’s going to happen. (shudders) I should probably stick to Family Guy.
A beat.
DENNIS
I thought you were doing homework.
JOEY
I was doing homework. (beat) Physics.
DENNIS
I’m so glad I dropped that. I sucked so fucking bad at it.
JOEY
Yeah. I remember. I think you traumatized McMahon for life.
DENNIS
That’s what the fucker wrote in my yearbook. (beat, smiling) What a dickhead. Fuck him. Still got here, didn’t I?
A beat.
JOEY
You still got an A for physics though.
DENNIS
That’s because I did all the questions in the fucking RedSpot book. Twice. (beat) It’s always the same questions year after fucking year after fucking year. I could have done it with my eyes closed.
A beat.
JOEY
Yeah. College physics is a lot more interesting, though. We’re learning some pretty cool stuff.
DENNIS
Like?
JOEY
Quantum physics – that’s stuff to do with time. Space-time continuum. Um. The Banach Tarski Paradox.
DENNIS
Are you just making shit up now?
JOEY
No. I’m not. It’s all in the textbook. I can show you if you don’t believe me.
DENNIS
Uh, no, that’s okay. I believe you.
A beat.
JOEY
So what’s going on in your classes now?
DENNIS
Nothing much. Just boring shit.
JOEY
“Boring shit”? Four months ago you were like, “Yes! I got into Tisch!”, and now it’s “boring shit”?
DENNIS
We’re just doing stupid shit now. Four-page scenes, five-minute colloquiums, bits and pieces. (beat) Plus I think my classmates are all fucking morons.
JOEY
Why?
DENNIS
They’re just so fucking stupid. No. Some of them. Okay. Maybe just one. (beat) We’re supposed to write our opinions on these white cards for colloquium, and someone wrote “Yeah man! Racism Is Kool” about something I did on racial discrimination. Cool with a ‘K’. (beat) Stupid fucker. Didn’t even write his name. (beat) Or her name.
JOEY
(tactfully) Yeah, that sucks.
DENNIS
I bet nobody does that in your physics colloquiums.
JOEY
We don’t have physics colloquiums.
DENNIS
Yeah, see? You guys are smarter already. Colloquiums are stupid. (beat) Fucking stupid.
JOEY
Physics isn’t much better. It’s just a bunch of stupid numbers and equations.
DENNIS
But you like it, right?
JOEY
Well, yeah.
DENNIS
And you’re good at it. No. You’re fucking good at it. McMahon drooled all over you. It was so fucking awkward. Like a man-crush. Except creepier.
JOEY
He wasn’t that smart, actually. (beat) And I’m sure if you keep working at your scripts you’ll get better.
DENNIS
It’s not like physics. There’s no magic book I can read. (beat) If I suck at it I suck at it. And I probably do.
A beat.
JOEY
Yeah. Maybe you do.
DENNIS
Thanks.
JOEY
Yeah. Maybe you really do.
DENNIS
What’s your fucking problem, huh? Why’re you being such a fucking dickhead?
JOEY
I’m tired of you making fun of physics. Physics is not stupid. And it’s not easy. And there is no “magic book”. God!
DENNIS
Okay! I’m sorry. Physics isn’t stupid. It’s very hard stuff for very smart people.
JOEY
Oh, fuck you!
A beat.
DENNIS
I don’t want to quarrel with you, okay? I’m just trying to watch my show.
JOEY
Yeah. Sure. (beat, then almost uncontrollably) You think watching these stupid shows is going to magically improve your writing skills? Please. You suck because you’re lazy and you think it should come easy to you.
DENNIS
Shut the fuck up.
JOEY
Because everything should come easy to you, right? Straight A’s in high school, scholarship…
DENNIS
Hey, I worked for that shit, okay?
JOEY
Please –
DENNIS
I’m a fucking workhorse, grinding away –
A beat.
JOEY
Yeah. Whatever.
DENNIS
(half-angrily) I’m sorry, okay?
JOEY
No, you’re not. You’re sitting here feeling sorry for yourself, but you’re thinking that you’re still better than me because you’re not taking physics anymore. Because you’re a Dramatic Writer now. Big whee.
A beat.
DENNIS
I just don’t like the subject. I’ve told you before. Nothing to do with you personally. I fucking laugh at physics Nobel Prize-winners. Every fucking year I Google the winner and I laugh. You know that. It’s not like it’s fucking new or anything.
A beat.
JOEY
Why are you saying ‘fuck’ every other sentence? It’s not – “awesome”.
A longer beat.
DENNIS
Fuck it. I don’t know. I said ‘fuck’ once, and then I said ‘fuck’ again, and now I can’t wake up without saying ‘fuck’. It just – kinda happened. (beat) You should try it. ‘Fuck’. It’s really easy.
A beat.
JOEY
No… I’m not a ‘fuck’ kind of guy. I just look stupid. Like if I try to say ‘babe’ or ‘dude’. (beat) Or ‘chick’. Some guys just look stupid saying ‘chick’. Or ‘fuck’.
DENNIS
Yeah. (beat) I can’t say ‘babe’ or ‘dude’ too. (beat) You wanna go get a movie from Hollywood Video later? I have a lot of self-pity to wallow through, but I could squeeze in a movie. Or two. If you’re feeling rebellious.
JOEY
Yeah. Okay. (beat, then awkwardly) I’m going to go finish some homework first though.
DENNIS
Yeah. Okay. (beat) I’ll be here.
JOEY
Okay.
JOEY
What are we watching?
DENNIS
Buffy.
JOEY
The vampire show?
DENNIS
Yeah.
A beat.
JOEY
I don’t think I’ve actually seen an entire episode of this before.
DENNIS
It’s great. Joss Whedon is a fucking genius. (beat) I can loan you the DVDs again if you want.
JOEY
That’s okay. I didn’t like it in ‘99 and I’m not going to like it now.
A beat.
JOEY (CONT’D)
(grimacing) Oh man. Why did he do that? Why did he have to do that? That was a perfectly good eye.
DENNIS
It’s to increase the stakes. Dramatic tension, give Buffy a stronger incentive to defeat the First Evil. It’s really well-crafted if you really think about it. (beat) But yeah. Sticking someone’s eye out is pretty gross.
JOEY
I’m glad you think so.
DENNIS
But that’s not the worst part. There was an episode –
JOEY
No, no, that’s okay. (beat) God. You need to warn me when stuff like that’s going to happen. (shudders) I should probably stick to Family Guy.
A beat.
DENNIS
I thought you were doing homework.
JOEY
I was doing homework. (beat) Physics.
DENNIS
I’m so glad I dropped that. I sucked so fucking bad at it.
JOEY
Yeah. I remember. I think you traumatized McMahon for life.
DENNIS
That’s what the fucker wrote in my yearbook. (beat, smiling) What a dickhead. Fuck him. Still got here, didn’t I?
A beat.
JOEY
You still got an A for physics though.
DENNIS
That’s because I did all the questions in the fucking RedSpot book. Twice. (beat) It’s always the same questions year after fucking year after fucking year. I could have done it with my eyes closed.
A beat.
JOEY
Yeah. College physics is a lot more interesting, though. We’re learning some pretty cool stuff.
DENNIS
Like?
JOEY
Quantum physics – that’s stuff to do with time. Space-time continuum. Um. The Banach Tarski Paradox.
DENNIS
Are you just making shit up now?
JOEY
No. I’m not. It’s all in the textbook. I can show you if you don’t believe me.
DENNIS
Uh, no, that’s okay. I believe you.
A beat.
JOEY
So what’s going on in your classes now?
DENNIS
Nothing much. Just boring shit.
JOEY
“Boring shit”? Four months ago you were like, “Yes! I got into Tisch!”, and now it’s “boring shit”?
DENNIS
We’re just doing stupid shit now. Four-page scenes, five-minute colloquiums, bits and pieces. (beat) Plus I think my classmates are all fucking morons.
JOEY
Why?
DENNIS
They’re just so fucking stupid. No. Some of them. Okay. Maybe just one. (beat) We’re supposed to write our opinions on these white cards for colloquium, and someone wrote “Yeah man! Racism Is Kool” about something I did on racial discrimination. Cool with a ‘K’. (beat) Stupid fucker. Didn’t even write his name. (beat) Or her name.
JOEY
(tactfully) Yeah, that sucks.
DENNIS
I bet nobody does that in your physics colloquiums.
JOEY
We don’t have physics colloquiums.
DENNIS
Yeah, see? You guys are smarter already. Colloquiums are stupid. (beat) Fucking stupid.
JOEY
Physics isn’t much better. It’s just a bunch of stupid numbers and equations.
DENNIS
But you like it, right?
JOEY
Well, yeah.
DENNIS
And you’re good at it. No. You’re fucking good at it. McMahon drooled all over you. It was so fucking awkward. Like a man-crush. Except creepier.
JOEY
He wasn’t that smart, actually. (beat) And I’m sure if you keep working at your scripts you’ll get better.
DENNIS
It’s not like physics. There’s no magic book I can read. (beat) If I suck at it I suck at it. And I probably do.
A beat.
JOEY
Yeah. Maybe you do.
DENNIS
Thanks.
JOEY
Yeah. Maybe you really do.
DENNIS
What’s your fucking problem, huh? Why’re you being such a fucking dickhead?
JOEY
I’m tired of you making fun of physics. Physics is not stupid. And it’s not easy. And there is no “magic book”. God!
DENNIS
Okay! I’m sorry. Physics isn’t stupid. It’s very hard stuff for very smart people.
JOEY
Oh, fuck you!
A beat.
DENNIS
I don’t want to quarrel with you, okay? I’m just trying to watch my show.
JOEY
Yeah. Sure. (beat, then almost uncontrollably) You think watching these stupid shows is going to magically improve your writing skills? Please. You suck because you’re lazy and you think it should come easy to you.
DENNIS
Shut the fuck up.
JOEY
Because everything should come easy to you, right? Straight A’s in high school, scholarship…
DENNIS
Hey, I worked for that shit, okay?
JOEY
Please –
DENNIS
I’m a fucking workhorse, grinding away –
A beat.
JOEY
Yeah. Whatever.
DENNIS
(half-angrily) I’m sorry, okay?
JOEY
No, you’re not. You’re sitting here feeling sorry for yourself, but you’re thinking that you’re still better than me because you’re not taking physics anymore. Because you’re a Dramatic Writer now. Big whee.
A beat.
DENNIS
I just don’t like the subject. I’ve told you before. Nothing to do with you personally. I fucking laugh at physics Nobel Prize-winners. Every fucking year I Google the winner and I laugh. You know that. It’s not like it’s fucking new or anything.
A beat.
JOEY
Why are you saying ‘fuck’ every other sentence? It’s not – “awesome”.
A longer beat.
DENNIS
Fuck it. I don’t know. I said ‘fuck’ once, and then I said ‘fuck’ again, and now I can’t wake up without saying ‘fuck’. It just – kinda happened. (beat) You should try it. ‘Fuck’. It’s really easy.
A beat.
JOEY
No… I’m not a ‘fuck’ kind of guy. I just look stupid. Like if I try to say ‘babe’ or ‘dude’. (beat) Or ‘chick’. Some guys just look stupid saying ‘chick’. Or ‘fuck’.
DENNIS
Yeah. (beat) I can’t say ‘babe’ or ‘dude’ too. (beat) You wanna go get a movie from Hollywood Video later? I have a lot of self-pity to wallow through, but I could squeeze in a movie. Or two. If you’re feeling rebellious.
JOEY
Yeah. Okay. (beat, then awkwardly) I’m going to go finish some homework first though.
DENNIS
Yeah. Okay. (beat) I’ll be here.
JOEY
Okay.
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