Best Happiness (VCD)

Author: He Jiong
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-01-01
Features: On April 28, 2004, He Jiong turned thirty! Though he had reached the age of thirty, the author never felt awkward about it and stubbornly believed he was still relevant, not discouraged, and not old. He thought his age was either a mistake by his parents or a joke played by the universe on him, and he still couldn’t get used to, accept, or acknowledge this fact. It wasn’t until one day he suddenly realized that people were calling him "Brother Jiong" that he understood that all the actors in the crew addressed him as "Brother Jiong," and it wasn’t out of politeness—it was genuine. He was indeed the one among them who was the "oldest." The new book contains one hundred thousand words, recording He Jiong’s reflections on life, emotions, acting work, travel, and more. When a reporter asked about the emotional content, He Jiong frankly admitted that it included his thoughts on the emotional stories of his friends, including Li Xiang, describing his feelings about emotions "very thoroughly." Of course, this part also details some personal moments between him and his girlfriend, which was a first for him. "Previously, I was very reluctant to talk about love, but after turning thirty, I felt I could discuss it." Additionally, the book includes many photos of He Jiong, along with a VCD. This VCD was personally made by He Jiong, featuring behind-the-scenes footage of him recording albums, hosting "Happy Camp," and clips from interviews on "Behind the Story." In He Jiong’s words, this VCD is "very exciting."
Preface: On April 28, 2004, I turned thirty! I dared to announce this somewhat awkward news so openly because I was still stubbornly convinced that I hadn’t lost my touch, hadn’t given up, and wasn’t becoming overly old. I believed my age was either a mistake by my parents or a joke played by the universe on me, and I still couldn’t get used to, accept, or acknowledge this fact. When did it start that people called me "Brother Jiong"? One day, backstage at a play, my brother heard someone call me "Brother Jiong" and was overjoyed by the affectionate nickname, finding it very unfamiliar. It was then that I realized that all the actors in the crew addressed me as "Brother Jiong," and it wasn’t out of politeness—it was genuine. I was indeed the one among them who was the "oldest." Later, I noticed many signs reminding me of this: for example, the "Happy Camp" I had been hosting for years was about to celebrate its seventh anniversary; I was asked to serve as a judge at an awards ceremony alongside other seasoned professionals (the word "seasoned" was definitely linked to age); when filling out forms, I no longer found a suitable option in the age range section; in the music charts, seventy percent of the songs I no longer genuinely liked, and twenty percent I barely understood anymore; a colleague told me his birth year, while I was almost finishing high school; almost no children called me "brother," and suddenly everyone referred to me as "Uncle He"; I couldn’t remember what I ate last night; I was becoming more fond of reminiscing and looking back; and without even thinking, I chose such a theme for this book.
One day, there was a small conflict in our play crew, and I tried to mediate. Just as things were getting lively, I remembered that my medicine for my voice was about to expire, so I went inside to take it. Later, I felt deeply ashamed of myself, realizing I had been very unhelpful. When I was younger, I wasn’t like this. I remember a time in college when a group of drunks were harassing a girl, and I bravely rushed in, only to be cornered in the hallway of the girls’ dorm by a few drunks and beaten up. My friend came to my aid, and we were surrounded by a crowd of girls, getting beaten up without being able to fight back. It was a brutal scene. For a long time afterward, my face was covered in bruises. But that scene was so youthful and exhilarating, so full of boldness and spirit.
Now, how could I think about that bowl of medicine expiring in such a tense moment? Back then, I once thought that if I reached my twenty-fourth birthday, which is considered a "lucky" year, I would be much more mature. Later, when the year 1998 came around, I was twenty-four, but there were no obvious changes. I was still living day by day in the same way. Later, I thought that if I reached my thirtieth birthday in 2004, I would be much more mature. Now, it seems that in the blink of an eye, that deadline has arrived. It still seems like there haven’t been any significant changes, but everything is different. I once thought that at thirty, I would be very clear about what I wanted. But later, I realized that the reason my goals no longer seemed vague was because I was increasingly realizing how little I could actually grasp.
Zhang Ai-jia said, "At twenty, you can wear whatever you want, and it looks good; at thirty, there are many restrictions—this can’t be long, this can’t be short; by forty, there’s hardly anything that fits you, and once you find something that’s both suitable and beautiful, you refuse to take it off." What she said applies not just to clothing.
One day, I came across a post by a good friend online, describing a picture that accompanied an article titled "The World’s Last Day": it was a hand-drawn scene of a family of four gathering together in the evening. The mother was drinking coffee, the father was pouring it, and the two daughters were building blocks on the living room rug. Many young people didn’t understand and questioned why the world’s last day could be so ordinary. The message of the post was that true happiness lies in going to work and home on time, spending time with loved ones afterward—reading, watching TV, chatting, and then hugging before sleeping. These seemingly routine chores are actually the best kind of happiness. Maturity is about understanding life’s ultimate pursuit, perhaps being surrounded by family, drinking a good cup of tea when the leaves turn red, and having a fresh bed to sleep in at the end of each day.
Suddenly, I found myself accepting this perspective, though I also knew that many young friends probably couldn’t agree and were still yearning for a vibrant, romantic, and thrilling life. Because of this post, unwillingly from another angle, I realized that I had already grown up. I’m stuck in this way—I don’t want to be an adult, but I don’t want to be treated like a child either. As 2004 flew by, I noticed that while I was still lingering over turning thirty, I was also eagerly approaching thirty-one. I then realized that thirty had also easily become an age to be cherished.
2004 was kind to me. I had my first solo album, "Can Love He Jiong," which earned me some professional awards, including a Golden Eagle Award for a host, my first attempt at playing the lead in a drama, "Zhengde Yanyi," and now, after three years, my fourth book. If you like me, you don’t need to buy this book—this collection includes the words I’ve written over the past three years in my column or elsewhere, and friends who follow me have likely read them; if you don’t like me, you don’t need to buy this book either, because it records my most inner and genuine feelings—perhaps you won’t be interested if you don’t like me. But if you yearn for happiness, you should read these words, and if you believe in happiness, you should look at the carefully curated photo collection that comes with the book. A man at the age of thirty, though not claiming to be experienced, has become increasingly aware of what happiness truly is. If you resonate with this, then that is my best happiness.