All Hail Meat Cake!

No, I’m not talking about that terrible (yet strangely intriguing) monstrosity involving several layers of ten-inch diameter hamburger patties or meat loaf patties, with mashed potatoes smeared in between as filling, and on top as frosting. (Google “meat cake” for images...amazingly appalling stuff.)

I am actually referring to the meat cake, or yuk beng (Cantonese; 肉餅) of my youth. This yuk beng is a Southern Chinese “country” dish that consists of coarsely ground meat (usually pork), and various mix-ins such as mushrooms, water chestnuts, pickled vegetables or eggs, combined in a shallow dish (pie-plate like) and moulded to form a “cake”, seasoned simply with soy sauce and sesame oil, then steamed until done. The end result is a lovely, subtly flavoured dish of warmth, homeyness, and heartiness. The dish is meant to be shared family-style, so everyone would break off a bit of the meat cake, spoon a bit of the clear broth-like sauce tasting of soy, sesame, and pork fat over their rice, and tuck in. This is how steamed meat cake looks like:

I love this dish because besides being tasty, it is rustic, filling, easy, economical, and energy-conserving, since it is usually steamed in the rice cooker while cooking rice, hence saving on energy consumption. I especially love it because it is the star of my earliest food memories. I remember being four years old, watching my grandmum break off a bit of meat cake, spoon over its tasty juice and mash it all with rice in my pink enamel rice bowl, then command me, in her gruff Taishanese dialect, to heck fon, or eat up. And boy, do I remember eating up! I was a skinny kid (yeah really!) and my grandmum liked to boast how she fattened me up with her famous meat cake. We had it every week, sometime more than once, since there are so many meat cake variations (while I like the classic, I also adore the egg custard variation, which uses salted egg for extra flavour. I am not a huge fan of the salted fish version, though, since I am a little turned off by the notion of fish bones.) Plus, there is a non-steamed variation in which the ground meat is moulded with egg as a binder, formed into smaller patties, then pan-fried to create delectable little meat “cookies” of joy. The steamed version is the more common version, and the one I’ll be focusing on here.

In short, yuk beng equals hearty, homey, family comfort food for me, akin, I suspect, to meatloaf in more Western households. Yuk beng reminds me of my grandmum’s love and affection (when I was older, and we lived in different households, she would make yuk beng when I visited her, or she would bring me Tupperware containers of the stuff when she visited me. And she would still spoon the meat and sauce over my rice for me, no matter what age I was!) After my grandmum passed, my mum would continue the tradition of making yuk beng, because it is such a staple dish in Cantonese homes, and I would still get that same feeling of warmth and love from my mum’s version.

After I left the nest (albeit temporarily) for Hong Kong, while I am basically hapless in the cooking arena, I felt compelled to try to make yuk beng, since being far from home on my own can be a bit depressing. In Hong Kong, whose local cuisine is predominantly Cantonese, it is fairly easy to find casual diners that will serve some variation of this homey dish. But eating the dish outside of the home seemed wrong. Aside from the lack of "homeyness", the restaurant versions tasted saltier and fattier, more processed and fake, somehow. So when I finally bit the bullet and bought a rice cooker, I decided to try my hand at making yuk beng. After googling “steamed meat cake recipe” and finding a few workable possibilities, I set off for the supermarket. First stop was the meat department. I found ground pork neatly packaged and dropped a pack in my cart. But my eye was caught by a section with pre-prepped, ready to cook entrees. There was a selection of pre-moulded, seasoned, ready to steam meat cakes! And for nearly the same price as the raw pork – so you can imagine how quick I was to switch packages!

Now I know what you’re thinking. “That’s cheating.” Well, yeah. But it works for me -- don’t even need to mess around with chopping things and mixing things and measuring things.

I skipped home (ok, maybe skipped is too strong a word, but it was bouncier than my usual trudge) washed rice, popped the pre-fab meat cake into a shallow casserole dish (HK$10 at Jusco's $10 store -- I heart Jusco!), and placed it in the rice cooker’s steam rack. Thirty minutes later, I had fresh, piping hot rice, and a lovely little steamed meat cake to call my own. Here’s a picture:

The taste transported me home. I felt warm, loved, protected, and cherished. It’s almost as if grandmum worked some mojo from her swinging porch chair in heaven (or during a break from a marathon mah jong game) and zapped the pre-fab meat cake packages to my supermarket. The success of this initial foray into steamed meat cakes was lovely. Yes, it probably doesn’t really count as “cooking”, but by my standards, it does! I do vow to attempt to make one from scratch next, probably a salted egg custard version, since I imagine that would be difficult to pre-prep and package. I will be sure to report on that culinary experiment when it happens...but for now, I deeply encourage you all to give the meat cake a try. Here are a few recipes I bookmarked that seemed idiot-proof/Mable-proof:

• http://chinesefood.about.com/od/pork/r/meat-cake.htm
• http://chinesefood.about.com/od/pork/r/steamedcustard.htm
• http://www.1chinesefoodrecipes.com/chinese-recipes/pork-recipes/recipes-steamed-meat-cake.php

Yuk beng will change your life, or at the very least, be an easy, hearty dish with a bit of grandmotherly love and warmth mixed in. Viva la Yuk Beng!

Mainstreaming the Man-Purse

As much as I can appreciate girly things (fashion, makeup, sparkly glitter, etc.), in practice, I am the most ungirliest chick ever. Case in point: accessories. I live in sneakers, because they are comfy (plus I am still working through a traumatic heeled shoe incident) and carry messenger bags and backpacks, because they are utilitarian and free up my hands for holding maps, shopping bags and street food, or gesturing animatedly or obscenely, whichever the situation may call for. Purses or handbags live in my closet, but never really make it out to see the light of day except for special occasions due to the fact that they clash with my daily androgynous wear.

But that all changed when I moved to Hong Kong. Thanks to the prevalence of man-purses here, I too have acquired a purse for everyday use. Gaspety gasp! Now, when I say "man-purse" I don’t mean the ubiquitous leather messenger bag that appears when you google “man bag” or "man purse" (Um, be careful when you google that. Some conservative search filters may think you are looking for something slightly more risqué. Unless you are. I’m just saying.)

Man-purse refers to, for all intents and purposes, a large handbag with shorter tote handles/straps (and sometimes a larger shoulder strap), that is usually worn slung over one shoulder, very much how a woman would carry a handbag. (See pic below) In Hong Kong, I have seen scores of young men carry a black nylon bag in this manner since August 2008, and gradually, I began to want one too, because carrying a bag in this manner was now ok for men…making it unisex and androgynous, thus aok for my ungirly style.


As to how the man-purse became mainstream for men in Hong Kong, I can make a few conjectures. The influence of Asian male pop idols is one reason, definitely. Pop idols from Japan and Korea are fashion role models, and their adventurous looks have slowly trickled down to the masses. Male pop idols are unbelievably skinny and pretty, and can pull off some really progressive metrosexual looks. Things that they have sparked a trend for include the skinny scarf, sparkly man jewelry, and of course, the man-purse.

Another reason for the mainstreaming of the man-purse is the blurring between a travel carry-on overnight bag, and a shoulderbag/purse. One fashion house in particular has profited greatly off this blur – Agnes B. Agnes B came out with a line of Voyage luggage and bags a couple of years ago, in understated black nylon (think Prada’s signature bag in the 1990s), with simple, clean lines. The most popular bag was an overnight tote/duffel with short handles that you could hold in your hands or sling over your shoulder like a shoulderbag, and a removable longer strap, so the bag could be worn messenger bag style. While the bag was meant for travel, it was adopted by the masses for everyday use. The availability of cheap knock-offs sealed this bag’s status as the ubiquitous “It” bag of men and women alike. So while technically, it is a unisex overnight bag, the way the bag is worn, shoulderbag/purse style, makes it a man-purse when men wear it, dammit. This is how the Agnes B travel duffel looks. Credit to http://mymanybags.blogspot.com for the image.

Another reason why the man-purse has gained mainstream acceptance may also be attributed, I think, to the scores of men forced to carry their female partners’ purses out in public. It’s an interesting sight to see men (ahem!whipped!ahem!) carry their girlfriends’ or wives’ designer handbags in public. What’s cool is that they do it unabashedly, and often sling them on their shoulders purse-style (as opposed to toting them sheepishly like briefcases). More power to ‘em.

So that, my friends, is how the purse/shoulderbag became acceptable for the masses of men here…and for the unequivocally ungirly and androgynous as well!

Weekly Irk: Jerks on a Train

Lots of things annoy me. An unreasonable amount of things irk me. In fact, it has gotten to the point that I have suspected it may be a problem with me…but no, it can’t be – it MUST be everyone else. I am far too reasonable and rational for it to be a problem with me. I mean, I have lots of issues, but this ain’t one of ‘em. At least I hope not. Because I really can’t handle having yet another issue. But I digress.

Anyway, this week, the thing that has reached the top of my irk list is jerky, inconsiderate behavior on public transit. Sidenote: Public transit in Hong Kong is bloody awesome. You can get anywhere easily and cheaply in Hong Kong thanks to the excellent network of metro rail, buses, ferries, and taxis. But back to the jerky behavior. This is beyond not offering seats to the needy (i.e. elderly, pregnant, disabled, people with young children.) For the most part, there are still lots of considerate people who will do that, which helps maintain my faith in the goodness of people.

However, the behavior that irked the hell out of me this week is hogging entire vertical hand rails by leaning jerky, inconsiderate arses against them, while several surrounding, short, people are struggling to grasp the higher, hand straps in order to avoid toppling over like cute, short weeble-wobble-like dominoes. It’s like, dude, if you were not leaning against the rail, blithely texting or talking loudly on your phone (which is another jerky thing, but I will leave that to another time and another rant) several people, including some tough little old ladies who look too healthy and scrappy to warrant a seat offer, would be able to comfortably hold onto the rail and steady themselves on the train, instead of risking injury or strain due to trying to grasp a high hand strap on their tippy-toes while the train chugs full-speed ahead. What makes me even madder is that often times, even the high hand straps are unavailable due to crowding, so there are people who are not able to hang onto anything to steady themselves, and the risk of falling over increases greatly, while the one jerky tool is still hogging the entire rail. Makes me want to pull a Samuel L. Jackson (or several Samuel L. Jacksons, depending on the movie) and screech exasperatedly, “I've had it with these mutha-f#@king jerks on this mutha- f#@king train!” Then I’d intimidate the douchey tool with a crazy-eyed, Kill-Bill, Die-Hard, death glare, followed by some Mace Windu, "Get off the rail or else" Jedi mojo, until Mr. Tool relinquishes his selfish arse-hold on the rail. Then I’d move on along the train, with lots of Shaft-esque, "Ya damn right" swagger, because goodness knows I ain’t staying in that spot and touching a handrail in which some jackass’ sweaty arse was just leaning against. Ya damn right.

Me, Myself, I and Po Po

As I am currently living alone, far away from home, family, and close friends, it’s not out of the ordinary for me to spend a day without substantially speaking or interacting with other people. Perhaps it sounds a little sad, but I have experienced days where the only people I talk to are restaurant or retail staff, in the limited capacity required to conduct transactions. (i.e. “I’d like this and this and this…Check please.”) I usually kind of like those days, as my default mode seems to be along the lines of Sartre’s “Hell is other people”, which I often distill down to the more childish “I hate people” or “People suck.” (I keep saying I will put those on a T-shirt…someday…) But anyway. When it’s just me, I rather like not needing to please anyone except myself, or put forth the effort to be sociable, courteous, or nice. In short, I like being left alone, in all my anti-social, snarky glory, without being bothered. Plus, there is no strife or boredom as the company (me) is witty, and absolutely spot on in every possible conversation topic. I agree with me on all issues completely, and think I have the most interesting opinions and thoughts, well, ever. Yes, perhaps that is a little sad, but come one, you have to admit there is a certain appeal to being by oneself.

So I was just musing about the above to a captive audience (me) in a café today, and agreeing wholeheartedly with myself that it was so very nice to be able to spend a day immersed in whatever I wanted (a really good Neil Gaiman book, with a foofy, blended fruit drink, for example), lost in my own world, in a bubble where strangers whirled around me, respecting the “leave me alone” aura that a lone person with a paperback novel emanates.

Suddenly, though, that bubble was burst. A little elderly lady, with a kind, pleasant face, sitting at the table next to mine, asked me what type of fruit was in my drink. I set my book down and answered “pineapple”, and it may as well have been “Open Sesame”, because lo and behold, the floodgates opened. The lady (who said I could call her Po Po, which is what I called my grandmother) began chatting with me about nearly everything under the sun, from how good the drinks were in this café as opposed to the other one, to excellent bargain meals she’s recently had, to her grandson’s university exams, to the job prospects of her neighbors, to how highly educated the maintenance staff at Disneyland were, to how expensive hotel buffets were, to how smooth Elvis Presley’s voice was, to how good Liza Wang, an aging Hong Kong celebrity diva, looked, to how awesome the Discovery Channel was, to how her neighbor had their car jacked, to how disastrous a Hong Kong Police Officers protest would be, as well as many, many other topics.

She was clearly lonely, and needed some form of human interaction. She reminded me a little of my grandmother in much more mellower times, so that, coupled with the lady’s kind, eager face, prompted me to not shut her down abruptly with some sort of made-up excuse about being late for an appointment. So I sat there, amiably chatting with her in Cantonese, for nearly an hour, laughing and nodding and making proper facial expressions and responses. Yes, I did zone out a couple of times, and yes, perhaps “Kill me now” drifted across my mind once or twice. But overall, I think I enjoyed the interaction almost as much as she did. It reminded me a little of something familiar, of home (listening to my Dad’s stories, or listening to my grandmother’s rants), and it was actually very nice to be able to possibly brighten someone’s day by patiently listening and sharing smiles and laughs with them.

So what do we take from all of this? Well, impersonal, apathetic bubbles can sometimes be nice, but human interaction and contact is absolutely vital. Also, some people suck – but some don’t. And people need people. (Doh. Have I resorted to quoting Barbara Streisand lyrics? Laaaame.) Also, if even the snarkiest of chicks can let her guard down and be patient and sociable with a rambling little old lady she’s never met before, so can you. And finally, choose café tables in dim, dusty, shadowy corners, where sweet, rambling little old ladies usually avoid. Kidding! She was really sweet and I’m glad we chatted.

Where is Da Love?

Note: This post reeks of self-pity, like cheap designer-impostor cologne at a seedy singles bar (or so I've been told), as well as "under the influence" self-righteousness, so you are forewarned!

A few weeks back, I attended a totally awesome concert for a Cantopop boyband from my youth. (Oh blessed youth. Oh blessed boybands...) I left the arena in insanely good spirits, which were lifted by the previous three hours of energetic booty shaking, excellent songs, and the lovely sight of tanned, chiseled torsos that the boys (well, men, who are pushing 40, but work with me here) treated us to in their final encore.

I hate crowds, so I am forever darting through them trying to get the hell out of them...this time was no different. I should note that while I am naturally clumsy, I am very good at elusive and evasive maneuvering ("Run away!!!"), so I am usually able to get through crowds at a fair speed and with little disruption to other people (no matter how much I feel like shoving peeps aside and screeching "Move along, dammit!"). So all was going well, until I reached the steps above the entrance to the Hung Hom Coliseum MTR station, where somehow, I missed a step, and took a face-first tumble down a short flight of eight concrete steps. The damage? Most of the impact was on the right side of my face, near my right eye. The skin was scraped up pretty badly, yes, there was blood. (Eeeek. Faint. Eeek.) But thankfully, my eye was not damaged, though I could feel a soreness and tenderness that foretold of epicly nasty swelling and bruising later. I did not lose consciousness, and in fact, when the 5 second free-fall down those steps to the first landing ended, I was able to stand, check that all limbs were operational, and continue down the steps. When I reached the bottom, I staked a spot out of the way of foot traffic, pulled out my ubiquitous tissue pack (in Hong Kong, tissue packs are a necessity when on the go: to mop up sweat from the godawful humidity and heat, as well as for use in local diners --instead of greasy spoons, let's call 'em greasy chopsticks-- that don't supply napkins) in order to stem the bleeding. All of this occurred in less than two minutes.

So what? You may be asking. Sh*t happens, so deal with it. I agree. All the medical personnel I've been in contact with have told me that it could have been worse -- I could have damaged the eye, smashed in a temple, broken bones or suffered a head injury. So I'm just happy to be alive and kicking. But my painkiller-fueled self-pity and righteous rage is on a roll here, so humor me for a tic.

What bummed me about this accident was not the actual damage (X-rays showed no facial fractures, thank goodness, and the scrapes and cuts, while deep, didn't require stitches), but the fact that NOT ONE PERSON asked me if I was OK, let alone offered assistance, after I fell down the stairs. I mean, it's not like it happened in a secluded area, in the dead of night. There were many people witnessing my, well, downfall; nearly all were audience members of the same concert I had just attended. You would think a chick falling face-first down some steps should at the very least break the rhythm of the crowd's flow! But nope, business as usual, as harried people continued on their way...

Oh, and here's the irony icing on top of the "Woe is Me" cake: One of the last songs of the concert was a Cantonese cover of "What the World Needs is Love"! The artists asked the audience to engage in a touchy-feely "We are the World" moment, linking hands with neighbors, regardless of if you knew them or not, while singing along and swaying in unison, in an effort to get the audience thinking about how showing a little more humanity and love to each other will help us get through tough times. I kid you not. Let me tell you, not ten minutes later, those same concert goers definitely weren't showing a bloody, facescrubbed chick any love!

Yeah, I was a little depressed about that. My faith in the goodness of people was, like my face, a bit banged up. True to form though, I was able to rationalize the lack of any Good Samaritan behavior by the fact that it happened so quickly, that I was conscious, and able to get up and walk on my own. I sincerely hope, though, that if I had lost consciousness, if my head had popped off, or if my appendages had twisted like twine, that SOMEONE would have come to my aid!

This experience has given me a peek at the uglier side of people: the lack of spectator concern or aid when the accident occurred; a flatmate who, when confronted with my bandaged face and swollen black eye, head-on, opted to stare and say nothing; rude, cold, indifferent stares at my bandaged face and eye. But more importantly, this experience has shown me the better side of people, and has made me appreciate simple, human gestures more: A kindly maid going out of her way to fetch more bottled water for me ("Hydration helps healing!"); a waitress sharing home remedies for bruising; a nurse spending extra time re-dressing my wound in order to make it as comfortable as possible; a sympathetic smile and wince from complete strangers; friends and acquaintances asking me if I was OK, offering assistance and words of concern.

All of these things helped me regain my belief in the inherent goodness of people, and also made me more sensitive to how a small, human gesture can have a significant effect, even on complete strangers. It's weird, corny, and quite insignificant, but I have found myself holding doors open for people more, smiling at strangers more, and generally being more cognizant that we are all human beings, who have the capacity to be kind, to love, and who deserve kindness and love. Don't worry, I'm still a snarky cynic, but a snarky cynic who is showing a tad more humanity. But in response to "Where is Da Love?" -- I think that Love is inside of us...sometimes it may need a little coaxing to appear, but it's there. Else, life would really suck, wouldn't it?

Peep Peep Peep

Caveat: I am going to write about something rather sensitive and serious. I am going to be very tongue-in-cheek and snarky because I can't help finding elements of the ridiculous in, well, everything. I guess this is my way of dealing with situations like this...

A few weeks back an e-mail from the Hall Master of my Student Residence Hall popped into my inbox with the title "Re: Peeping Tom". Deeply intrigued, since, A) We rarely receive any communiques from the "Master"; and B) "Re: Peeping Tom" -- come on, that is an eye-catching headline if there ever was one; I clicked, read, paused, then giggled. The giggle was inappropriate. After all, reports of a peeping tom (a voyeur spying on a person in a vulnerable state), who is grossly violating the privacy of an individual in the most cowardly manner, is no laughing matter.

I get that, absolutely. I'm all for rooting out the sick bastard, stripping him nekkid, tying him to a splintery wooden post and handing the violated a paintball gun.

What is it about this matter that gives rise to inappropriate giggles? Well, there's an inherent ridiculousness to the term "Peeping Tom". The word "Peep", which used in the context of this term, means to look furtively or slyly, yet for some odd reason, it has an almost harmless connotation to it, due, I think, to alternate definitions (i.e. "peep" = a chirping bird sound), slang uses ("peeps" = people), and innocent, delicious sugary candies (i.e. "Marshmallow Peeps").

Next, I wondered where this odd term came from. Thanks to the magic of the Internet, I discovered that the term "Peeping Tom" has origins in the story of Lady Godiva, who, in the 11th Century, in an act of protest against her husband's excessive taxation of the townspeople, rode through town on a horse, unclothed, with only her long hair to protect her modesty. Before her ride, she asked the townspeople to stay indoors. However, one man, named Tom, cut a hole in his window covering to catch a glimpse of (or peep on) Lady Godiva. He was struck blind upon peeping, and thus, the term "Peeping Tom" was born.

Finally, the term gives me the giggles because of a more obscure pop culture reference. The term "Peeping Tom" sends me back to 1989, Sunday night, crouched in front of our ancient TV, desperately adjusting its bunny ears while ensuring that the tape in the VCR is cued to the right spot. As the digital clock flicks to 9:00pm, like a maestro, I hit the "Record" and "Play" buttons in unison. Perfect. "Love and marriage..." Frank Sinatra begins singing the opening bars to the awesome, brilliant Fox sitcom "Married...With Children".

The episode is titled "Here's Lookin' at You, Kid", and revolves around, yes, a peeping tom. This evil fiend is terrorizing the neighborhood women....except Peggy. As every woman, except Peggy, is subsequently peeped, the frenzy, panic, and vigilante efforts grow. And making things worse for our woeful shoe-selling, former high school football hero Al Bundy, his wife Peggy's self-esteem takes a nosedive (she believes she isn't desirable enough to garner the peeping tom's interest) and consequently, her wails to Al grow louder and shriller. In short, Al's life, consisting primarily of an ungrateful family, cheap shoes for large, obnoxious women, and wistful, rose-tinted memories of "four touchdowns in one game", high school football glory, is made even more unbearable. His patience wearing thin, and convinced that his life will be more peaceful (or at least less sucky) once Peggy has been peeped, Al commences Operation Peep on Peggy. Of course, given Al's luck, the episode ends with him successfully peeping on Peggy, getting caught, and then lynched, by the frenzied neighborhood vigilante women.

To sum up, when I hear the term "Peeping Tom", I envision Al Bundy, his comical visage encased in a pair of pantyhose, the silky "legs" sprouting from his head like bunny ears, rasping "Peep Peep Peep" outside his bedroom window in an attempt to get his wife's attention. So while the term "Peeping Tom" is inherently ridiculous, it is made even more so for me by this giggle-inducing image from my VCR, bunny-ear TV watching youth.

The Fountain of Youth

My skin is glowing, my heart is light, and my eyes sparkle like puppies frolicking in sunshine. I walk, nay skip, with a youthful buoyancy. (Which could be due to my new Dr. Scholl's gel insoles...I be gellin'...like a...um, melon? Never mind.)

In fact, I feel like a teeny bopper again. I feel a compulsion to tease and hairspray my bangs, tuck my pegged jeans into my double socks, obsess over a suspicious red spot on my face, pout sullenly at dinner with my parents, and squee on my pink princess phone with my bestest friend in the whole world. (Yes, I am a child of the late '80s…sigh.)

So what brought this on, you ask? One word, three syllables, five pretty boys of squishable cuteness and hotness: Arashi. What is Arashi, you ask? Oh just the most awesome Japanese-pop boy band EVER.

(Click image to enjoy full-size Arashi Kawaii-ness )

I discovered them by accident last year while watching "Hana Yori Dango" and "Hana Yori Dango Returns", a Japanese drama series based on the manga of the same name. Arashi sings the theme songs for the drama, and also features one of the group members, Matsumoto Jun (squee!) as one of the male leads.

My interest in the theme songs, and Jun, led me to the group, and thanks to the magic of Youtube, I discovered the wonderfulness that is Arashi. From the music videos (PVs) to live performances, to subtitled clips from their variety shows (all hail fansubbers…they are gifted, generous, dedicated super-people who can walk on water) I have come to know, and love, all the members of Arashi. This love was solidified when I went to their concert in Shanghai. (See my looooong regaling of that fangrrl weekend here.)

Now, I can go on and on about these boys (and I have...I will, however, spare you from the fangrrling which is all documented in my FanGrrl LiveJournal!) but suffice it to say that for me, Arashi is more than just pretty boys who dance and sing...through the genius of multiple channels of Arashi exposure (in addition to their music-related commitments, they collectively host three weekly TV shows, each member has a radio show, and they all have solo gigs acting or hosting) we get to see Arashi as wacky, funny guys who have amazing chemistry with each other (they celebrate their 10th anniversary this year), and who are not afraid of showing their un-idol-like, dorky sides, be it via wacky science experiments, quirky athletic trials (aka Idiot Athletic Meets), and insane culinary creations. (By the way, what is it about cute guys who act like dorks? Adorable. Sadly, this does not hold true for dorky-looking guys who act cute. Hey, that's life...things are tougher for the un-cute. I should know. Thankfully, some of the un-cute get brains, personality, rich parents or other things that level the playing field.)

My love for Arashi grew to epic proportions when I watched them, for the 101st episode special of one of their shows, drag a fresh giant whole tuna (worth US$10,000) into the Fuji TV headquarters in order to thank Fuji TV for their continued support. Yes, they put a visitor's badge around the tuna's neck. Yes, they conned a top executive, drunk on fresh ootoro, into signing a proclamation giving Arashi a prime TV spot during Golden Week. And yes, they asked the executive to put his thumbprint (using fresh tuna blood) on the proclamation. My God, these boys are funny. And cute. I watched that episode three times in a row and giggled every time.

Yes, I giggled. Like a giddy schoolgirl. And that, my friends, is truly proof that fangrrling is the fountain of youth.

On Pettiness and Passive Aggressiveness

The straw that broke the camel's back was a 30 cent roll of toilet paper (TP). The fact that a math dunce like me took the time to calculate the price of one roll of TP already shows how petty things have gotten! But I digress. Let me set the tiled, porcelain stage for this petty little interlude.

In a small flat shared by four girls, there are bound to be some things that grate on not only the most obsessive compulsive, but also the most mellowly tolerant: Toothpaste splotches left on the vanity, soaking wet floors caused by aggressive clothes-washing, stacks of dirty dishes piled by the sink, refrigerator space hogging, loud phone conversations, spilled fish soup in the microwave. But these are relatively infrequent, easily tolerated incidents. A mildly obsessive-compulsive control freak like me has borne all these occurrences with a deep breath (except when fish soup was involved), and an internal "Ohm" chant, "Ohm" being short for "Ohm...mygod. Bloody effin hell. I need to spork something. Ohm...mygod."

But even the Ohm chant didn't help when I ambled into our bathroom one morning to pay witness to a formerly full roll of TP replaced by a lonely little cardboard tube with a one-ply (of three-ply, mind you), thin length of toilet paper dangling wanly from it. Oh no they di-ent! That raggedy one-ply flag was a firing shot. A slap in the face. In fact, I may have actually said, ala Bugs Bunny, "Of course you realize...this means war."

Let me explain the rather strange toilet paper mechanics of our happy little temporary household. We each buy our own and we each keep a roll in the bathroom. Since I was the first to check into our residence and christen our toilet lo those many months ago, I had staked claim, so to speak, on the toilet paper dispenser by filling it with the inaugural roll. I was happy to share as long as we all contributed, but as my flatmates seemed to be toilet-speak shy, they preferred to buy their own and keep "their" rolls on the tank or on the little ledge behind the toilet. No problem...the system seemed to work. As time passed, however, I began to realize that while there were four occupants of the flat, there were only three rolls of "active" TP in the bathroom. Even this dunce is able to do the math...Methinks there is a free-rider in the midst. While I didn't notice any major acceleration in the depletion of my TP supply, I had an inkling that by rote of being in the most convenient place (the TP dispenser), my roll probably was being used by guests to our flat, and possibly, by other flatmates during emergency situations...I didn't mind, really. I'm not that petty.

But this...this completely flagrant, blatant act of finishing the roll, then affixing a single-ply to the empty cardboard tube in order to make it look like it wasn't depleted, was utterly unbelievable! I decided to leave that roll as is, sad little length of one-ply and all, while my new roll of TP now sits on the ledge behind the toilet.

Petty? Yes. Passive aggressive? Hell yes.

Need further proof? It's been a week since the incident, and that roll with the sad little length of one-ply is still there. And it gets worse: one day, I walked in and saw that the one-ply sheet had fallen on the floor, probably due to a strong breeze from the window. So of course, I picked it up, and affixed it back to the empty tube again. It's become a sort of a game for me.

Petty? Yes. Passive aggressive? Oh hell yes.

Finally, the piece de la resistance...today, I walk in, and the one-ply sheet is gone! Someone actually decided to use it, and then, simply left the empty tube there! Well-played, my friend, well-played. I laughed at that...though am actually a little sad to see the one-ply gone. So now, an empty cardboard tube sits on the TP dispenser, a proud, blatant symbol of pettiness and passive aggressiveness.

Petty? Yes. Passive aggressive? Damn straight.

Schwag Appeal

Ya know, the best way to get me to write is to offer me a chance at schwag...I subscribe to the Time Out Hong Kong e-newsletter, which usually has some form of competition to win some form of schwag (i.e. free meal, tickets to events, books, etc.). They typically ask for all your deets, then ask you to describe why you like/want the schwag in 50 words or less....thus far, I have won one thing, tix to a world drumming performance, but I continue to soldier on. Following are some of my previous entries...see if you can guess what they're for. By the by, I suspect the magazine chooses winners at random, not by the quality of the entries...else I'd win every time, yeah?!!!

Midnight blue cashmere tuxedo jacket, graphic t-shirt featuring a frog doing something rude to a glass slipper, worn blue jeans and John Varvatos Converse sneaks. Oh, and a shiny satin cummerbund.

Fondue creates community and promotes touchy-feeliness;
Friends break bread, then dip it in a communal pot of rich, flavorful yumminess.
Fondue is versatile, it can be savory or sweet;
Add a flavorful liquid, something yummy to be melted, then some heat

Beef, butter, oil come together to create a savory symphony,
Chocolate, oil, and dippables combine to form a sweet melody.
And beautiful cheeses wed wine to produce something heavenly…

My favorite musical instrument is the cowbell. While highly underrated, this fine instrument provides an irreplaceable note of warmth and completion to any composition. Its distinctive sound makes it difficult to mask mistakes, but when used correctly, the cowbell satisfies, certainly more than a wussified triangle. “I need more cowbell!”

Brunch is better than dinner because it allows you to sample foods from two meal genres. You can have pancakes and rib tips, waffles and chicken, eggs and shrimp. Finally, brunch’s amorphous, free-flowing state allows it to last much longer than dinner, which translates to more Mimosa time…