Porn, Slurpees and Calculus

I just read this little article from The Daily Intel about a school that displayed porn to a bunch of kids during a screening of what was supposed to be Camp Rock, rather than...Camp Cock.

How could this have happened? I'm assuming one of the teachers who owns the DVD of Camp Rock also has the porno version (with jizz jazz hands, choreography and all!) and could have mistakenly swapped the two after a morning romp with her husband. Or what if one of the teens working behind the desk at the local Blockbuster switched the DVDs when one of the teachers went in to rent the movie? Or Ms. Janet could have left Camp Cock in the DVD player when she was watching it with gym teacher, Mr. Colton that one night she stayed behind to "mark" the fifth graders' vocab quizzes.

Either way, these kids are lucky--they got to watch 45 seconds of porn. When I was in kindergarten, I was forced to play with a guinea pig that I was allergic to.

I hated preschool. Where do all these cheerful people come from? I never slept during class naps. I remember laying on the dirty carpet not knowing what anyone was doing.
One time during Christmas, we were gathered all around the carpet and (once again for the millionth time that week) singing songs about Jesus when one of the three teachers accidentally stepped on my hand. I hardly felt it, but she was so apologetic. "Sorry, sorry, sorry", and then kissed my hand as if a kiss would heal it all. I remember feeling so uncomfortable after class from that moment of intimacy. It was like my hand had just been dipped in taint. I came home that day and went directly to the washroom to scrub my hands clean. I felt so ashamed that I even had to ask my nanny to wash-up with me. I blame this teacher for my present promiscuous ways.

Another abusive teacher was Mrs. Ratzlaff, who I had for kindergarten and the first grade. She was the worst of all. Here I was, totally petrified of all these new people (I started school mid-year, therefore my classmates were already friends with one another) and getting bullied by a middle-aged woman who prides herself in her shiny track-suits. Mrs. Ratzlaff never failed to remind me how rude I was (I believe she was taking out her racial anger on me). Every time I spoke to a Chinese classmate (because Chinese was the only language I could speak), she'd yell at me. "We're not in China! We're in Canada. Speak English."

But some of the most memorable moments was when I upset Mrs. Ratzlaff so much that she had to drag me to the principal's office by my hair (and sometimes ears). Illegal.
When I was young, I had a weird addiction to pinching my classmates' butts. I went around pinching but often not hurting anyone at all because some of them still wore diapers (Christina). I don't know why I did it. It was probably equivalent to a greeting--instead of saying "Hello! Good morning, how are you?" in my broken English, it was easier to pinch and then giggle by the corner. One day, Mrs. Ratzlaff got so sick of the complaints from other students about my touchy hands that she had to make an announcement to the class.
"Students! Listen. If Jacky has pinched you, I will let you pinch him back right now!"
And like a herd, all the students ran to me forming a giant circle pinching me--even students who I have never touched. I blame Mrs. Ratzlaff for my inability to commit to a relationship (because I am now abusive like Chris Brown).

Mr. Bodden was my seventh grade teacher, he was a man's man that didn't take crap from anyone. His tough persona often made us more afraid of him than listen when he tried explaining the rights and wrongs of the latest hockey plays (he was a huge hockey fan). There's been multiple times where he threw temper tantrums at us.

Ms. Hobbs was our school counselor and was liked by all of us because she was always nice and bribed awarded us with dollar-store crap gifts. I remember when Ms. Hobbs told us, "if you've been good for the week, I would take some of you to 7-11 and get you all a slurpee." We were twelve years old, the local 7-11 was right across the street, and slurpees costs $0.79. Whether she bought us a slurpee or not, we would have walked over there after school to get one anyway. So when Mr. Bodden told us about this "treat," one of my classmates made a very sarcastic "woopity doo" comment. Mr. Bodden lost it. He was so upset because we were unappreciative of the "nice gestures" from Ms. Hobbs that he started screaming at us. Not in a "you kids are spoiled" way, but like a coach would yell at a referee...and then he threw a math textbook against the wall. We had a very fun year because we'd be on our toes everyday waiting for one of us to say something that would piss him off. He somehow managed to get a vice-principal position at a nearby elementary school the next year. I blame Mr. Bodden for my inability to love calculus...and the dent in my wall.

[picture courtesy of Disney]

I'm a Believer!

The Apprentice is one of my favourite shows. It's awesome because it makes New York look like a playground.

School is slowly coming to an end and yet I'm still internship-less. I've decided to take this summer semester off from school. I think it'd be a great time to use these four months to go out and really chase after my goals. A marketing gig, an assistant at an advertising agency, working behind the scenes at a television studio, office bitch--something along the lines of my career aspirations in marketing/advertising/coffee-fetching/acting would be ideal. But now I have to fix up my resume, CV, and cover letters. Yes, I'm quite behind, I'm aware. For any of my coworkers reading this: Yes, I do intend on taking a momentary (or eternal) break from my job as a stock boy/cashier this summer. Quick! Inform management that Jacky intends on leaving. That'll probably be easier than having that awkward conversation about wanting to eventually leave. I can't believe I just wrote that. I do have a few gossipy coworkers who read this influential blog. I don't care! What? You expect me to stock condoms forever?--I'm chasing after my dreams and you ain't gonna stop me! I'm a Believer! Don't stop, belieeeeving! Everybody loves a good Journey reference.

Going away to New York just sounds exciting. I want to spend $7000 on overly expensive rent. I want to meet people from the Bronx who say cwoffee instead of coffee, or siggs instead of cigarettes. I want to be that guy who rescues drunken people from subway trains. I want to get mono from making-out with classy hobos after a drunken night at some dirty joint. I want the full New York experience! Let me tell you, when I get my Bachelors of Commerce degree, I'm flooding the post office with resumes to New York. Once I find a job that pays well and makes my penis twitch, I'm boarding a red-eye straight to New York. I want to be woken up every morning at 4 a.m. by my alcoholic boss. I want to (at least once in my life) get mugged for wearing my iPod's white headphones. I want to go shopping on the weekends at vintage stores to look like a garbage man wannabe-hipster. Just joking...no I'm not.

Since I'm addressing vintage shops, let me elaborate. A lot of people think it's so fashion-forward shopping at secondhand stores. They walk around in their 10-year-old plaid shirts they bought for $3 and their worn-in jeans they got for $7. I think they look dirty. I'm not saying they are dirty, cause I'm sure they've washed the clothes before wearing them, right? I'm just saying they look like they've been rolling around in dirt. And the oversized-80's T-shirt isn't cool--some obese guy with a pizza-problem donated that!
"I want to look vintage thrifty. Not dumpster thrifty," a friend once said as she intends to scour all the vintage shops of New York one day.
Listen, I'm all for consignment, thrift and secondhand shops. I think they're a great idea, especially the non-profit organizations like The Salvation Army. I'm not talking about the stigma people carry around for shopping at Value Village. I'm talking about people who think they look great wearing vintage from head-to-toe when really, they look like they quickly grabbed the fabric they use for their dog's bedding to wear as they rushed out the door...whilst looking for breakfast in the dumpster (HA HA!). But heck, what do I know about fashion?
I made the mistake in first-year college telling my whole marketing class about my cheapness and ended up embarrassing myself.

Marketing prof (MP): So why do people buy things endorsed by celebrites?
Me: Because celebrities are in the spotlight and people look up to them and want to be them. For example, some people buy clothes just because some actress wore them in an ad campaign.
MP: Correct. *looks underneath the table*. Jacky, you're wearing jeans. Where did you buy them?
Me: Oh, I'm not an example of celebrity endorsement. But umm, my jeans were from The Gap.
MP: How much did you buy them for?
Me: $22. They were on sale =)

I was so proud of my great find until Mr. Metrosexual behind me screams out, "$22?! My 'True Religions' costs at least $300!". Good for you, fashionista. Now fuck you and go to hell--bring my jeans with you, I don't want them anymore.

[Now, back to the internship...]

"A Poet's Walk" by Henri Silberman. The poster I have in my room.

Whenever I tell someone about my plans in New York. They automatically jump to an accusatory statement, "You're wanting to become the male version of Whitney Port or Lauren Conrad from The Hills?!" I've even had people ask me if I wanted to become the next Sarah Jessica Parker!

Hold your horses. I'm a little frustrated with this. Not because people ask if my role models are fictional TV characters. But I'm more frustrated at the fact that New York is associated with lame MTV and HBO shows. No, I don't want to become the next Whitney or LC. I don't intend on working in fashion at all. And no, I don't want to become a fulltime hoebag/columnist. I'm in advertising and I'm an actor. I'm a Believer!
Ask anyone from high school who I've had intimate chats (and romps) with, they know how much I want to screw-around with New York. Tickle her a little bit, snuggle up by the warm fire, perhaps even nibble the ears...I have a poster of Central Park by my bed ("A Poet's Walk by Henri Silberman). Why? Cause I wanna do New York!
Any marketing firms out there who want a bitch? I'll be yours.

[pictures courtesy of MTV, HBO, NBC, Henri Silberman, and The Salvation Army]

I've Brought SexyBack

This new year, I decided to be proactive and take initiative towards my dreams. I listed out a set of goals. Things such as, "lose virginity" or "spank any girl wearing blue jeans on Tuesdays and Fridays". So in January, I started going after one of my most passionate desires. To become an exotic dancer. Done.

Next, was to start acting. If you read my blog, you would know how I feel about acting. It's something I've always wanted to get into. 

To jump-start this interest, I would have to find myself an agent--a principal agent to be exact. These are the people who get actors into auditions for commercials or television shows. But before getting signed, I really needed to perfect my art. No agent is going to sign talent without any experience (high school plays apparently don't count in the 'real world'). And even if you do get signed, you must feel absolutely confident in the audition room. 

So I enrolled in acting classes at a local studio. This class was quite interesting. We talked a lot more than act. Hours of text analysis. "What is she trying to evoke when she says 'I'm hungry'". We also talked A LOT about our emotions as well. "So, how did you feel when your father told you you were a mistake?" Every week, I felt like I was sitting in the audience of a Dr. Phil taping. I plan on taking more classes after final exams are finished.

If you remember, I also did some extras' work in the past. Becoming an extra really doesn't require any acting experience. They're always looking for losers extras to "dance around as if you're in a concert" or "walk around the coffee shop, then walk towards the door, and count 10 seconds, come back in but walk like you're from the ghetto".

Extras' work can be quite fun. There's a lot of waiting though. 13-hour days sitting on broken chairs, staring at our "Kraft services" consisting of month-old trail mix. Some extras enjoy those 13-hour days where they just sit in the tents reading. I guess this could be an example of "easy money." But I don't know how anyone can sit around for that many hours. Whenever the wranglers look for volunteers for a scene, my hands are the first to go up. I can't stay in that tent all day--I try to avoid the extras who offer me drugs and sexual favours. I also enjoy watching the production team work.

Although it's fun seeing myself as "a student rushing to class" on Psych, I think I'm done with extras' work.

Whenever I tell someone who's signed to a principal agent about extras' work, they always give me the same answer. "Stop it!" Rumor has it that once you start doing more and more extras' work, you'll be known as "the extra". As an aspiring actor (a real actor), I cannot be thought of as just an extra. I'm also the extra with the amazing flexibility. Or the extra who can fart with a snap of a finger.

This episode came out a few weeks ago. If you want to see my sexy back, check out 2:05 and you can see my in my grey, striped polo.

The last extras job I did was for The L Word. Season six, episode five, to be exact. This job lasted two days (13 hours each). A long day of sitting around and filming inside the "coffee shop". The next day, we had to come back wearing the exact same clothes. I had one specific job: come in through the entrance of the coffee shop just as one of the main characters (played by Leisha Hailey) rushes out the door in a PMS-fit. We filmed that scene quite a few times in different angles. Each time, she would ram her bony shoulder into my chest. Bitch really got into the scene.

Anyways, I've had a few friends give me the numbers to their agents and told me to phone them. "The easy way in." Problem is, I can never get a hold of the agents. Either they're so busy on the other line with casting directors or they're screening my call. I can just hear them saying to each other, "HAHA, look Dana, it's that 'JACKY CHUI' guy calling again. Let's just screen his call like we usually do." I'm going to keep trying. But in the meantime, any Vancouver agents looking for an obese, 20-year-old, 5'11, Chinese, male (occasionally drag) to be signed to their roster, please leave me a comment.

I'm tying to think positive and "attract" my goals towards me, but I have to be realistic too. In the entertainment industry, what's the probability that an actor would work full-time as an actor (especially since I'm Asian) in Hollywood. But yes, I am looking towards the positive because I am an optimistic person.  Acting is something I've always wanted to get into. But if it doesn't work out, I have many other interests and goals that I'm also pursuing and aspire to. For example, one of my fallbacks would be, as I've mentioned, my career in exotic dancing. They don't call me Banana Man for nothing.

Twitter Paparazzi

*tap tap tap...CRASH*

"Excuse me? You spilled coffee on me!"

That's a common line I hear on the daily. Why? 'Cuz I'm on frickin' Twitter! You try maintaining good posture with a 10-pound backpack attached to your shoulders all the while balancing a large double-double from Tim Hortons AND tweeting on your cellphone. For those of you who, by now, still scratch head when you hear about Twitter, well then let me give you a quick run-through of what it is. It's basically the "status updates" we have on Facebook. If you don't know what "Facebook" or "status updates" are, then you probably don't even know how you stumbled onto this page, correct? You were probably looking for nudes of Vanessa Hudgens, weren't you? I knew it. That's the page with the highest traffic on this blog. Everyone still wants a piece of Baby V and her...V. Click on the link above and you'll be redirected to a semi-nude Vanessa with Zac Efron crotch and nipple tassels.

I can't get enough of Twitter. I joined last month, and have been having a blast with it! Stalkers, feel free to follow me @jchui. It should ease the pain of my constant absence from blogging. If you want this relationship to go further, please e-mail. Romantic booty calls accepted.

Aside from school, I haven't done anything interesting. I've hardly been going out with my friends...because I don't have any friends. Twitter is my only buddy =(

jchui: is breathing like a gorilla. Damn allergies + constipation/bloated stomach. Laxative + antihistamine please.

Last week Friday, I was sitting at home at 5pm (see, told you I'm a loser) and preparing for my Calculus midterm. I walked out of my room to get a glass of water. As I looked outside, I saw four patrol cars right outside my house. What the hell? There was a young, shirtless man sitting on the floor, handcuffed, and bleeding all over his arms and stomach! Surrounding him was about 10 police officers (it looks like there's only four in the pictures above, but the other 6 were scattered around the street). They all stood there as if they were discussing the finale of The Bachelor: I mean, like, oh my gaw. Like totally! (in valley girl voice).
Was there ANOTHER shooting in Vancouver? (Vancouver has had some serious gun violence since January of this year. From my count, we've had about 35 shootings now). I call dibs on the production of CSI: Vancouver. So yes, needless to say I was crapping my pants when I saw the cops.

Did the young man get shot? Hmm... but victims of shootings aren't usually handcuffed, right? Unless he pulled the trigger on...himself? Anyways, the first thing I did was grab my BlackBerry and started snapping pictures.

I screamed out, "I'm gonna be rich and get instant Twitter recognition and finally have more than 25 followers!" to my sister who just looked at me with a blank stare and said, "What's Twitter?"

My neighbor walked by and I quickly ran outside to ask him what went down. He said the man had been stabbed! A stabbing? My quiet neighbourhood got action? That's more action than any one on my street has got in the past six months (I would know).

The next day I talked to another neighbour and he said police were trying to arrest the man. The man was running away and tried hiding in my neighbour's yard by submerging himself into the tall, wall of bushes--hence the reason he was bleeding all over; from scrapes and nicks--not a shooting and not a stabbing. Boring: no wonder this incident didn't even make headlines or get responses from my "live news coverage" on Twitter.

If I were to tell my friends about this, I'd probably change the story around. I'd say the young man's meth lab blew up. He was so devastated he decided to commit suicide by running around in only shorts outside in the freezing Vancouver cold. He went into my neighbour's garage, grabbed a bucket of paint wanting to disguise himself as the red Dr. Manhattan when the police arrived.

I have no clue how this last part came about. It's 3:20am and I'm still up having had my last midterm today (technically yesterday)--exhausted.

[pictures courtesy of Twitter and The Warren Report]

Do the Can-Can in San Fran.

School has begun! As you have probably read in my last entry, I didn't have much of a life during the holidays. I was either working, or sleeping (because I was overworked). Even my vacation to San Francisco felt a little like manual labour (steep roads). Sometimes one just needs a couple of days to integrate their ass into their love seat, polish off a few buckets of Ben & Jerry's and scratch themselves in areas that are usually a primary hygienic concern during bath time. Unfortunately I did no such things.

The cool clothes Geoff, Scott and Ryan bought at Macy's!

School seems to be going good so far. My instructors are not the best, but I won't let that affect me from working my hardest this semester.

My Sociology teacher has pretty good ratings on RateMyProfessors.com but after meeting him, he seems pretty stuck-up and pretentious.

"I'm Dr. Robert Smith. Get used to calling me Dr. Smith or Robert. When I received my Ph.D, I lost the privilege of being called 'Mister'. So get used to it. In this course we will talk about sensitives issues. Some of the things we will mention might make you feel uncomfortable. But it's my job to make you all feel safe in this classroom. For example, we will examine the fascination of homosexuals and peep holes through bathroom stalls. We will examine that and how it relates to our society".

When I registered for an introductory sociology course, I did not know I signed up for this. This is just my elective!

Les Miserables...sans Nicky.

My statistics instructor, on the other hand, has no sexual desires. Instead she leads the class with her harsh Chinese accent. It's very distracting because I wouldn't understand what she's saying OR she would say something that doesn't make sense .You should hear her say "version."

"Who has dease virgin of da taxbuuk? Vee arr using da new virgin of da taxbuuk".
"How do we cunt dease numba for dease data-sat?"

<---Yes, we're all Asian, and we all look alike. That's why I made name tags for ya'll to differentiate. *Yawn and stretch* Not much has happened in these few weeks except for school and a bit of work. But anyway, let's backtrack and talk about our awesome trip to San Francisco.

When we left Vancouver, it was still snowing. We usually have a bit of snow during the winter (and it almost always misses the Christmas mark). But this year, it snowed way before Christmas and all throughout the holidays. Just when we thought it was warming up, the sky dumps another load on us. I tell ya, the sky works very similar to my bowel system (yes, I do crap snow). But anyway, we had a good couple of weeks without the cold. And just when we thought it was time to embrace, massage and erect the new season, yet another 10cm of snow fell from the heavens above last night. My back cannot handle anymore of this! My shoes have no traction and I always fall on my juicy-doubles. It's pretty embarrassing when I'm walking down the street and then suddenly break out into this weird dance move because I'm trying to regain the balance lost when I slipped on black ice. I do that dance on the daily.

But anyway, let's get back to our San Francisco story.

When we arrived (on the 31st), we spent a good amount of time dragging our luggage to the hotel. The subway took us to downtown San Fran, and our hotel was in downtown too, but trampling over drunk girls who were getting ready to booze up some more for the New Years was pretty difficult.
We didn't even attempt to get liquor since we're underage. At about 11:50pm, we went downstairs to the Union Square area where the majority of people were...doing nothing. It was just a bunch of drunk people screaming at the sky. No joke. The picture on the top left corner was taken during the NYE raucous. The rest of the pictures on that collage was taken on day 2, while we roamed the downtown streets bright and early (while everyone was still puking their guts out from the night before). We also found Tony Bennett's heart.

The pictures above were during our bike ride to the Golden Gate Bridge. It was pretty tough. It's not like Vancouver's Stanley Park where the trail is smooth and bumpless. This route was pretty steep. Nice view. Lots of tourists. Highlight of our trip.

And these are just some randoms of us having coffee, touching each other, and selling our bodies.

[pictures courtesy of Geoff, Scott and myself]