Qi ge long dong qiang dong qiang.

...wo men qu bai nien.

Still on time, I think. Terribly and tragically busy. See next entry for details.

Yes, the title is yet another series of mouthed cymbal-and-drum noises. Yes, also song. This fragment translates as, "With a series of godawful noises, off we go to inflict ourselves upon relatives!"

We'd left off at the point where the holiday arrives. Unlike other holidays, the eve of Chinese New Year has its own special significance. Planes are packed full. Train carriages resemble so many little tins of sardine. We're all rushing back for the Reunion Dinner, you see.

Every Chinese New Years' Eve, one is expected to return to the home of the immediate family for a meal. The Dinner itself is a warming Chinese tradition that shows the deeply rooted culture of close family bonds and filial piety. At least, that's what you'll read in a tourist guide. I suspect the tradition caters more for the families who hate each other's guts. You'd only have to see the other bastards once a year. After an evening of forced smiles and strained conversation, the nights tend to run on into mahjong. Children are also allowed to stay up past usual bedtimes without being smacked to shit. In a strange, twisted sort of deal, the longer they stay up, the longer the parents of said children are supposed to live.

...Should have gone to sleep earlier, all those times.

That's the Eve done with, then. At the core of the actual holiday lies the Visiting. Every Chinese New Year, I am painfully reminded that I have relatives. Relatives I am duty-bound to visit on pain of being a Bad Boy. The colour red, which is considered auspicious, is the colour to wear when you go visiting. And to ensure additional luck, one must be wearing new red clothing. Unfortunately, this being hard to carry off without looking flaming homosexual, I tend to just wear any old thing. It explains my terrible, terrible karma.

It's the favourite time of the little ones. For no apparent reason, they get little red envelopes stuffed with money. The system of the red packets work thus: if you're not married, you receive them. If you are, you give them away. This works well up to the onset of adulthood. Then it becomes embarrassing.

"Hello, hello, happy new year and all of that. I have nothing to do with you the other 364 days of the year, but if you could see your way to giving me some money in a red envelope that would be great, yo?"

At least, it's how it goes for me. I figure I earn it though. In exchange for random and more often than not pitiful sums of cash, I have to listen to the same bloody converstion year after year. What are you doing now, then? Shouldn't you be continuing your studies? That's very important, you know? Why, during my time...

The ante was upped this year. I explain to a bitch aunt that I saw for the first time in ten years or so that yes, I know a degree helps, but I simply cannot afford to be financially dependent anymore. Also, in the business I'm in, the work you produce counts for something.

"No. I've been in the outside world. Listen to me. You must go study."

Aunty dearest, fuck you. Unless you're going to be paying for said education, why don't you shut the fuck up, choke to death on an orange and make the world a better place? I'm sure I've never "been in the outside world" like you have. I'll get that experience eventually though, while you'll still have a face like a retarded horse (she really does). Tell you what, I'll throw your fucking six dollars back in your face and slap you with a fifty. How's that for outside world.

Pfft. Outside world, indeed.

So no, I don't usually enjoy the visiting. I did have some sweet experiences this year, though. At my grand-aunt's place, where I had the misfortune of running into horseface, I coincidentally went on the day and time when another aunt was there.

I've talked about my dysfunctional memory when it comes to my childhood. Where other people can tell you about the things Daddy did to them when they were five, my long-term memory doesn't seem to extend beyond the past five years.

When I was little, I was apparently looked after by that other aunt and my grand-aunt. They talked about how adorable I was and this year, brought out pictures of me when I was little. It was a little surreal, looking at myself, age 4 or so, sitting on an elephant at the zoo. Ever so faintly, the memory is there. And myself, banging away merrily on a two-dollar drum, having the time of my life.

Looking at the wistful, poignant smiles on their faces as they narrated the story of my little life, I wished desperately to be able to say, "Yes" each time they asked me if I remembered it. They would deflate a little bit with each refutation, then forcefully laugh it off. Of course he doesn't remember. We're being silly. He was so young back then, after all.

I'm sorry. I wish I did and that I was more in touch. I truly do. And a little part of me longs for the time when happiness only cost two dollars.

That concluded my visiting, this year. Still not enjoyable, but on some subtle level, it was educational. Maybe it's part of the growing-up process. I don't know.

And that's all, because there's ten thousand things to do and me to do it with.

May you wag your year in prosperously, doggy-style.