FedEx uses door tags as substitute to actual delivery

If only FedEx is as diligent in delivering my packages as they are in leaving door tags that accuse me of not being home, then they wouldn't need the door tags in the first place.

Many times I sat and waited, a prisoner of my own home, for a package that unfortunately was coursing through the FedEx delivery network. The wait would often be uneventful, with no knock on the door or a buzz by the doorbell to disturb the calm and quiet. And yet, by some act of God, a FedEx door tag would be hanging by the knob of the front-door, snootily informing me that I was not vigilant enough of FedEx's efforts of delivering my package to me.

Tired of this routine, I decided one day to stand watch by the street, in front of my house where my vantage point would make it impossible for me to miss any approaching hint of a FedEx delivery attempt. Their website loftily declared "Out for delivery," and so I stood watch. And waited. And walked. And tensed up each time I heard the rev of a truck engine nearby. Until it became obvious that FedEx was not coming.

I tracked my package and lo and behold a "DELIVERY EXCEPTION." Apparently, FedEx attempted delivery but no one was home to sign for the package. By attempt, it meant that they saw me 2 miles away and decided to dig an underground secret passageway into my home which is exclusively accessible only to FedEx and attempted delivery behind my back. This time they didn't even bother leaving a door tag. Must have been lost with all the digging.

With all the door tags I've collected for the many times I was forced to use FedEx's service, Mr. Smith is well disposed to fold up his delivery service and focus on printing door tags. I'm not sure if there's a market for that though, since UPS rarely has a need for them. Try DHL.

The Fall

Occasionally, we see a movie we have never heard before and be blown away. And that's us being spontaneous.

It started with a spate of uninteresting Summer shows and ended up with "The Fall," a 2006 movie by Tarsem Singh. As I was watching the vivid visual wizardry, I couldn't help but wonder whatever was I doing in 2006 that I hadn't heard about this movie. Oh right. I was moving across continents and trying to catch a foothold.

"The Fall" is a story between Alexandra, a guileful little girl with a broken arm and Roy, an injured stuntman with a death wish, whose relationship blossomed amidst the atmosphere of malaise and death. Roy's despair drove him to device an ingenuous story of 5 mythical heroes, luring Alexandria to inadvertently abet in his suicidal attempts.

Roy's fantastic tales of valor, revenge and hopelessness were paralleled with his own desperation and the depressing reality of life at the hospital. Oblivious to Roy's ultimate aim and deeply immersed in the story, Alexandria persevered with Roy's seemingly innocuous requests and at one point frantically scrambled to do his bidding in exchange for a promise from Roy to continue with the story. And from this plot emerged one of the most poignant scenes cinema has ever produced: a little girl with a broken arm taking a fall for a friend whose life she believed she was saving but in reality, she was helping to put an end.

The surreal world Roy created for himself and Alexandria were matched vividly by the movie's stunning cinematography. Bold, dramatic scenes follow one frame after another that one would be tempted to freeze-frame at random and hang the flat screen on the wall as testament to visual art.

The earnest portrayal of the lead actors, and the striking visuals elevated "The Fall" from a beautiful movie to a memorable one. Catch it if you can.

Ordered Chaos

H and I are poster-children of arranged marriages, if only because we prove that regardless of our feelings and attachment to each other, our compatibility is almost zero. Simply put, he sporadically makes me want to punch his face and he to strangle my neck.

An arranged marriage would have juxtaposed our interests, manifestly indicating that every so often, we'll find ourselves in a situation in which I'd want to be anywhere but home, or play either tennis or badminton or at least learn some new sport, or maybe walk aimlessly into the woods or perhaps watch a funny movie that doesn't expect me to laugh just because the sidekick inadvertantly punched a character in the face, and will he feel like doing the same things?

And we would have found out that the answer was aboso-fucking-lutely NO. That far from being away from home, he'd rather not venture out of its comforting perimeter barring life and death situations, that he have no interest at all in playing, so much so that he didn't bother to define if he meant playing competitive sports or what about video games and just lumped all of them under the no goddamn way category, and that a movie is funny only because it is slapstick.

That when I do manage to drag his ass out of the house for a lovely meal at an exquisite restaurant, our choices would be limited to anything vegetarian, Indian and sweet. That for some miracle of nature he decides to take a walk with me, I shan't expect to break a sweat for going around the block, once, is more than what he'd bargained for. That weekend well-spent for him would be tortorous hours on the computer installing ubuntu, linux and their iterations, only so he could uninstall them and reinstall the operating system he had to begin with, to be repeated next weekend. And he'll be damned if you don't have something as interesting to do.

Arranged marriage would have told us that we are no match.

There goes a pillow, a shoe and some other random things that make noise; frustration thrown against a wall of....dissimilitude. We cry, we make up and we do it again.

And so the laughter that rings out in our home, the unforgiving perverseness we push each other to outdo, the comfortable silence we sporadically share, the late night talks in the dark about everything, from the mundane to the life-altering, the kitchen experiments that occupy us, the little games we play on each other and others, giving in to what the other wants, the paralyzing fear of it all coming abruptly to an end--they are an anomaly.

Technically, we should have killed each other by now.

Like a frog on a lily pad

I have not won an argument in quite some time that it's starting to get to me. The problem is, halfway into the argument I enter into a zen-state and start to think "fuck it." Instead of churning out irrefutable and inarguable comebacks, my mind becomes too busy to be bothered. The funny thing is I still seize potential altercations zestfully only to find myself abandoning the effort just when it gets interesting.

Take for instance my Thai-incident the other day. As a backgrounder, this Asian restaurant plays Avril Lavigne while one tries to enjoy their pad thai. Sure, they didn't have to play some ethnic, exotic, eastern music--but Avril? I don't think my pad thai goes well with a whining, wannabe punk child. It wasn't a matter of bad pop radio station choice--I nearly listened to Avril's complete album. What about soothing, ambient, silence?

My ocassional, inexplicable, completely irrational craving had taken us to the above-mentioned Thai restaurant. Husband is not a fan so it was decided that I'll order to go. Promptly after ten minutes, my order was ready, only to be klpd'd at home just when I was about to enjoy it.

So I called the restaurant, huffing and puffing that the sticky rice was missing to which the attendant replied snippily "Well you have to tell me which one." Which one? Is there another one? In Thailand, from my experience, it was universally understood that when a non-Thai asked for sticky rice, it only meant one thing: sweet sticky rice with mango. But at this restaurant, apparently, it could also mean PLAIN white sticky rice. Imagine your garden-variety rice and replace it with glue and that's what I brought home with me.

On the phone, I was being led to believe that I wanted to have glue for lunch which was why I ordered and paid for it. But instead of arguing that that wasn't the case, my mind tuned out and started to play "fuck it" so I was left to mumble "Um, er, so next time I'll just let you know that I meant dessert." Good thing I swallowed my burgeoning, uncalled for apologies. I saved lame from pathetic, yay.

The annoying thing was, as husband belatedly pointed out, there weren't any other sticky rice written on their menu, except for that sweet thing under dessert. So there really was no reason why I should elaborate that I wanted it edible and not for an art project.

Anyway, two days later, I got two mangoes, steamed sweet rice, heated coconut milk over medium heat, added salt and sugar and voila, I had sticky rice with mangoes and I didn't even get into an argument as to which one.

Everything is peachy in my pad. I'm sure Phil Jackson will be proud.

ATTENTION PASSENGERS!

...PLEASE STAND BEHIND THE YELLOW LINE....among other things booming in my ear early in the morning. Waking up to a caffeinated guy barking inanities through a megaphone would have made me run for the hills. Except I already am. USGA at present is disrupting the peaceful life I've been having under my rock, by making sure that golf aficionados will not be trampled tragically by a speeding train. Between my precious sleep and potential profit-loss, it's quite apparent what the USGA is prioritizing.

Not cricket, not tennis, not football, not even basketball-- we (H & I) have to be at the epicenter of a sport we care nothing about. In the process, we lamely try to get sucked in and soak some fodder for small talk since people in this country is so fixated in doing that. All I can say is, USGA, I did okay in Wii Golf, although I didn't even manage to connect the club with the ball in the actual thing, nevertheless it's still cricket/tennis/football/basketball for me.

It would have been more exciting if we could capitalize on the sudden influx of tourists in our area. But we couldn't come up with anything more novel than what our neighbors already did. Parking, shuttle. Forget lodging. Two years of shared apartment living proved definitively that it's not for me.

Urgh. Three more days of this madness. Whoever said living under the rock is peaceful? Maybe in ten years, a couple of million dollars, arthritis and a few missing teeth later, I'll enjoy the game.

For now, I have ten other things to bore me.

The view is great from up here

I am ensconced quite comfortably in the cozy chair I had set-up on my little pedestal while I gaze down on mere mortals who struggle feebly in the kitchen. I can't help it if the very first time I attempted to make roti, alternatively known as the bellweather for a nubile girl's marketability i.e. marriageability, the lovely thing puffed as though a veteran Indian-housewife made it.

Since then, I never looked back. Pooris, parathas, stuffed or masala-enhanced, were similarly a walk in the park so to speak. The kitchen staple, pressure-cooker, became my best friend and together we collaborated on a variety of dal-chawals. I conquered a crucial part of the South's cuisine with my perfect dosas. And what meal would be complete without a sweet ending? So forth marched gulab jamuns, jalibes, laddoos, which culminated to my halwai-status after mastering sooji ka halwa, besan halwa and gajar ka halwa.

The kicker is I didn't grow up to these dishes. In fact, I never even liked them. My initial (and subsequent) foray into Indian cooking was akin to a blind man being led by another blind man. Mostly, I followed husband's instructions which helpfully had some measures against which I can ascertain success or failure. But don't make the mistake of thinking he's a cook.

And so the main reason why I find Indian cooking easy is because I am a stickler for following the rules. At least in my case, that's all I needed. H insists that it's partly at least due to my instincts on how the dishes should taste and how they should look in their various processing stages. After all, instructions can only get one so far. If cooking is as straightforward as following recipes to a T, then everybody who does so can be a great cook.

And yet, I am still reluctant to give my "instincts" any significant credit. Whatever it is, it's something I am born with of which I can only be smug about. That's mostly where my smirk comes from whenever I hear of others' travails in the kitchen. I just can't relate. It's like telling me that you don't know how to walk despite the fact that you were born with a healthy pair of appendages for that purpose--that's just absurd.

But I suspect women, in the age of liberalization, have started to gradually distance themselves from stereotypical identifiers which had them pegged and restricted for a long while, such as housewives, or even wives for that matter, MUST know how to cook. One result of which had me talking to women who proudly wear their ineptness in the kitchen with pride as though it was a point scored in favor of the progressive woman and to others who disdainfully utters "domesticated" as a sort of a shameful epitaph.

Speaking as someone who merely benefited from age-old fight for gender-equality, I suppose it is unfair to quibble about a cynicism which keeps everybody on guard against taking a big step backwards...But I can't help to be disappointed with women who feel they need to assert their non-homeliness as though being one is something women shouldn't strive for.

Cooking is one of the few things I am good at and I'll be damned if I were to be shamed to admit it. I'll be equally damned if it's the only thing I'll be appreciated for.

In this mad world, we all could use a win occasionally. Mine happens to come from the kitchen most of the time.

That nagging feeling

H: *Raberr-y

M: Rub-ry

H: Berrr-y

M: I don't care about pronouncing it right.

H: Brrry

M: Rub-ry

H: You're not a woman--you're an argument.

*Rabri - thickened, sweet milk

Well, he's not a man, he's my husband.

***

No one wants to be that wife, I would think, who nags the husband beyond marital bliss. We see that character on tv or other media outlet and we think to ourselves, I'll never be like that. But what is it about resolves against turning into something we detest: we almost invariably become so.

I hate to be a nag. I know how futile it is to badger someone over a particular point; if through reasonable means the point can't seem to traverse through the divide, then dressing it up in nagging details will not work either. If anything, it will just contribute further to the divide as it has the tendency to piss the other parties involved.

Besides, nagging uses too much saliva to expect "reason" to survive that violent inundation.

And yet, I find myself bereft of other recourse when I have a very important point in my hands and the other party (mainly the husband) refuses to acknowledge it. I must nag. Must get the point across. Play in loop the same tired arguments until exhaustion, reason, whichever is more potent, tears down the walls my words encountered en route to the other's ears.

The only silver lining I see is that the husband claims I only nag when he drives. I suppose I AM a backseat-driver nazi who seats next to him most of the time. But what the ferk, dude. You drive 10 over the speed limit, swerve rather unsuave-ingly through your turns, and boast of slithering out of two speeding tickets.

I hate to be that person, but sometimes, you. just. ask. for. it.

!

Jesus Christ, could there be a more irritating movie than Mama Mia! 

Everybody! Was! Happy! Happy! Joy! Joy!

I don't know exactly what went wrong. Fans of the movie guaranteed satisfaction, if not mild entertainment, to those who enjoy Abba's music.  While I do not consider myself a fan of their music, I do find them tolerable bordering on likable, and yet I got neither satisfaction nor mild entertainment. In fact, the key takeaway of the movie for me was grating annoyance. Could it be that the pedestal I built for IKEA had me pegging other Swedish-related products on a stratosphere beyond the reach of reasonable expectations? No, that would be silly. 

Besides, I already mentioned that I am not a fan of Abba.

But while the music did nothing against my sensibilities, the over-the-top, hyper-sensationalized histrionics jarred me to my core. As I watched Meryl Streep gyrate her geriatric hips in front of the camera with what I can only assume to be a medically-induced exuberance, I kept asking myself: Why? why? why?

Why is someone of her acting calibre debasing herself, er, happily like this? Why did my auntie's friends enthusiastically recommended this movie? And why in God's name did it become the best-selling dvd in the UK for 2008? 

Of course it has to be over-the-top, you say. It's a musical. It can't merely be larger-than-life--it has to be Adam Lambert excess. 

It would be unreasonable to expect for each and every film to live up to what I deemed to be its quintessential representative in that particular genre. But I can't help but wonder how less irritating Mama Mia! could have been had it been Baz Luhrmann's pet.

God, get back to me on this. 

Goodbye, Scrubs

Scrubs is Ithaca, circa 2006. Those many afternoons I have spent at H's apartment, alone, waiting for him to come back from his classes. There was no TV and we were living as close to an ascetic lifestyle as what was permitted in an urban setting. But there was internet and we did have a portable multimedia device and so the familiar strains of Lazlo Bane's "Superman" frequently blared from it as I happily whiled away the time with JD's inner monologues and Cox's protracted rants.

Scrubs is "Our Love" by Rex Smith, "Dreaming of You" by Coral, "Good Time" by Leroy, "Winter" by Joshua Radin, "Hallelujah" by John Cale, "Question" by the Old 97s, "Light and Day" by Polyphonic Spree, "How to Save a Life" by The Fray, "Tell Her This" by Del Amitri and most recently, "The Book of Love" by Peter Gabriel.

Scrubs is goodbye, so long, don't ruin your perfect ending.

39 Steps

H and I have been on a roll lately, in terms of exploring the world beyond the four walls of our apartment. We are trying to reverse the degeneration of our socializing skills, and by we I mean, me. Under the present circumstances, I still exhibit recluse-esque behaviour which will not bode well for me when it's time to go back to school (more on that later).

So on a whim one slow Thursday, we booked tickets via telecharge.com for 39 Steps. My only foray into Broadway had me sat through what most veteran broadway patrons had presumambly sat through: The Phantom of the Opera. As I recalled, it was a approximately a couple of hours of live entertainment that I didn't dislike. And with this glowing recommendation, H was sold.

Helen Hayes Theatre is among those nondescript theatres that line up 44th Street. The inside exudes old-world glamour reminiscent of La Dolce Vita. Ornate carvings, red carpets, deep crimson curtains and grand chandeliers are some of the accouterments that imposes on your visual senses as you take in your surroundings.

As my luck would have it, I was seated next to an auntie who was an incarnation of the dratted American fixation on small talking. About 10 minutes prior to the start of the show, I was volleying "No, have you" to her "Have you seen this before? Have you been to this theatre before? Have you seen abc show?" I must say, she tried really hard to keep the conversation going but one can only do so much with pithiness. 

Fortunately, the show started on time and H and I were soon treated to a visual display of innovative hilarity. Between four stage actors, there were 139 roles to be portrayed which called for quite a stretch at resourcefulness and ingenuity from the cast. Coupled with a sparsely appointed set and props, imagination was definitely among the major characters of the show. Chase scenes from atop a moving train and aerial shots of airplanes buzzing near the ground were stripped down of any special effects, leaving the audience to fill in the gaps.

Hitchcock lovers would enjoy the many references to other Hitchcock movies woven into the story, most notable of which was the shower scene from Psycho replete with din-din-din sound effects.

The play tend to drag a bit in the middle, especially with the Irish part where the routine was a little overdone. But it eventually picks up to maintain its verve as it rollicked through 100 minutes of "fast-paced fun and thrilling action."

Catch it if you can. 

Brash Young Cinema

In college, my friend D and I went to this "underground" cinema which featured indie and classic films. My first film in this hastily set-up, stodgy living room cum renegade cinema was "Twelve Angry Men." This someone's living room soon became a part of my personal revolution against Hollywood formulaic films and my orientation into its anti-thesis.

My frustration with formulaic films collided with three disconnected developments: after-class discussions with a film professor, befriending an indie films dvd supplier and the discovery of a renegade cinema, which inevitably culminated into the fine-tuning of my film preferences. In that period, I was schooled in the fim noirs of Orson Welles and Dario Argento. I saw sci-fi films as how David Cronenberg interprets them, not only in "The Fly" but also in "eXisTenZ." The dark comedies of Jean-Pierre Jeunet before "Amelie" made Jeunet more accessible. The wrenching stories of Guiseppe Tornatore whom I previously reckoned to have made only porn. Same with Kubrick. And Wong Kar-Wai became more than just a wonky name.

I judiciously saved up for "Trainspotting", "Requiem for a Dream", "Pi" and "Monty Python" dvds. I searched the video rentals for "Blade Runner", "The Usual Suspects" and the "Seven Samurai". D and I hotly discussed "In Realm of the Senses" as though we would be quizzed on the subject any time.

Suddenly, movies weren't predictable and I didn't bother who the actors were on the screen. I saw new camera angles that I never thought possible much like new cortotions I never thought the body is capable of. I was not spoon-fed of the plot; key points in the narrative did not zoom pointedly to the center of the screen but instead subtly hinted at. Endings were not always clear-cut and often, the story continued to unfold in my head long after the movie has ended, redefining what "twist" meant. In short, I was treated as a discerning, intelligent movie-goer and I liked it.

Despite the exposure, my film preferences are not as refined as that of a bona fide cineast. The first few minutes of "2001: A Space Odyssey" I found utterly boring and I had a hard time validating the very graphic scenes in "A Clockwork Orange" although I suppose they were not meant to be validated. I know the book only equalled if not surpassed its lurid details. And then there was "Salo: The Last Days of Sodom", arguably one of the most challenging films to sit through to its entirety, which rendered itself to the stereotype of how art films are merely glorified pornography and made me question if a distinguishing line exists between films like Salo and a Ron Jeremy special.

I also had a hard time seeing past Benicio del Torro's paunch in "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." Of course, Johnny Depp was hardly acting; he was in his natural element surrounded by his er elements. Nonetheless, I was less than enthralled by the film.

And so, my film snobbery may not be as comprehensive as I'd hope but good enough to recognize little-known film such as "Don't Look Now" (at least I've never heard of it) as a gem, and open-minded enough to give "Slumdog Millionaire", independent of the hype, a chance.

I don't know what happened of Brash Young Cinema. Before senior year, I stopped going there. The last I heard of my professor, he was part of the production management of a television network. My dvd supplier has long closed shop.

But the "revolution", continues.

So this is how outside world looks like

Been living in a cave the past few months, venturing out only for minor annoyances such as Jollibee and grocery shopping, that it was refreshing to be reintegrated into society once again. I had almost forgotten the heart-warming abrasiveness of New Yorkers and the pee-tinged scent of the subways.

H and I caught Lily Allen's last show on this side of the world. Apart from Jars of Clay, I have never been to a concert before so it was tad disappointing that an attention-starved, teetotaler pop tart was the one to initiate me to it. I am familiar with only one song of hers and as my charmed-life would have it, was performed second to last. So the hours passed in a blur of cheating boyfriends, and other sappy but cheeky love songs until I could finally relate. Her fans, in particular the girl in our vicinity, embraced every anecdotal segeues with squeals of "What! It was about her MOM! I THOUGHT IT WAS ABOUT HER EX..." which reminded both H and I that we missed the bus for the whole concert/club/moshpit culture years ago.

Regardless, I wouldn't dismiss the show as a total waste. Especially when H, whose cussing rival the most foul-mouthed sailor on the planet, stood appalled as the crowd raised their middle fingers in the air, whilst enthusiastically singing "Fuck you, fuck you very very mucchh" along with Lily. Yeah, like mc/bc'ing all the drivers on the road is any less vulgar.

H on the other hand, didn't grasp much of it although he didn't outrightly say so. But in describing the whole experience as going to a garden variety bar with live band music, I drew my own conclusions. Besides, Lily didn't sing from her nose, which is quite a departure from the kind of music he enjoys.

In the end though, it never really mattered who it was on stage, not when everybody else was intent on karaoke-ing with the artist. With all that racket going on, who gives a hoot about music?

It's all noise.

Gmail Autopilot

Nice one, google. Not going to fall for this one.

Happy April Fool's everyone.

Karma chameleon

Jesus, karma is after my ass. Mostly, it has caught up on me and giving me quite a smack down. Judging by the size of it, I would say karma has been working on my case for at least five years or maybe even more. At the end of it all, I can only bow my head in a limp acquiescence that indeed, I deserve it.

My wanton torching of bridges, brutal and unrelenting, left me ravaged in a deserted island that is connected to nowhere. But Jesus, karma--was it necessary to make your point that painfully clear?

I have been planning on doing something about it. I recognized the signs earlier, as well, unlike those so-called financial gurus who were hit by the financial meltdown like deer-on-headlights. I knew that when I was more interested with a dog's name than with the potential friend's or when I found all those networking sites so detestable that I without effort resisted from adding to what I already have and deleted what I did, that I was spiralling down into an anti-social behavior. But I thought I will snap out of it. After all, making friends, even of those who are averse to any form of a social contract, are an integral part of my skill set. Heck, that was how I got a husband. But like my lousy forehand, my follow-through sucks.

Yeah, you might point out that it's something I have reinforced through the years through my merciless weeding of people from my contacts list who, by the way, prior to my ultimate decision of deleting said contacts, I have had several pained and forced conversations with in an effort to keep up with that stupid, stupid social contract. I shouldn't be held accountable for losing all contact with those people when clearly, I did all of us a favor when I saved all of us from repeated, tired exercise in pretension.

And don't bring up about the vanishing act I performed on my friends approximately three years ago. I have been to enough bon voyage parties to know that the people come mostly for the food and to ascertain that the subject of the voyage shall in fact culminate into destination reached. I didn't want the fuss and the hoopla of good byes. Besides, how was I to explain to people that I was leaving which may or may not be for good? My bon voyage would have had one heck of a complex.

Plus, you cannot really hold it against me for having made a decision which alienated me from some people I have known because I chose to value a lifelong commitment over a social contract. Like House, but a much watered-down iteration, I do not have much regard for social contracts.

And I suppose we have come to the whole point of our confrontation--I should. I should have more regard for social contracts and that hypocrisy is an essential if not integral part of any social dynamics. Sometimes, it makes sense to feign sincerity and interest in order to keep a dying friendship on life-support for much longer. That there is no mercy in mercy killing. That not all friends are created equal, some would be a leech, while some would be completely unreliable. That one doesn't make friends so one can crib to them, that's mostly what husbands are for. Which is why it is OK if they are as self-absorbed as one is.

That for the most part, one makes friends and more importantly, one keeps friends so later when one is incessantly raped by boredom, one will have a more favorable option other than logging into a chatroom or ranting about karma in cyberspace.

Point taken. I thought I have learnt all this in my undergrad but apparently, I have not. Now will you please stop whooping my ass?

Update #2: Jollibee in Queens, NY now open to....fleece you!

If you were inside the newly opened Jollibee in Queens around 5 past in the afternoon last Friday, sitting on one of the plastic orange chairs, splitting french fries between the three of you and nothing else, then you might have been among the recipients of my evul-eye or H's death-stare. It was just our luck that on one coldest nights of the year, we were out stuck in a long queue snaking around a block, partly because the fellowship of the fries wanted to painstakingly savor every piece of the potato stick. 

We went on a Friday, less than a week after the opening day, thinking that the hype has died down. Oh we were wrong. The queue was long and the wait-time was longer. I kept telling H, half-shrieking, half-whining, than I was not getting in line--but you know how that ended up. In the queue, we were handed a generic Staples ticket, which they stop distributing at 6pm. 

I thought my pink ticket was exhibit A to the efficient service I was to expect. Wrong again. The line was definitely long but not long enough to make the more than 2-hour waiting time reasonable. What exacerbated the waiting time was the bouncer's erroneous assumption that everyone in the queue would be dining in. Hence, he was trying to regulate the crowd in a manner that would ensure everyone will grab a table inside. For an establishment that seats 70  (allegedly), and with no more than a cursory glance by the bouncer to ascertain available seating, it was no surprise it took as long as it did, although it did not make it any more excusable. While the hype is at its fever-pitch, the management will do well to have separate queues for take-outs and dine-ins and dedicated cash registers accordingly. Although I can understand why Jollibee would want to keep the lines as long as possible; It made quite an impression on everybody else not in the line and certainly piqued their interests as to what we were in the line for. 

After about a couple of hours I finally made it to the cash register--and then I was mugged. It was mystifying. As if on a trance, I reached for my credit card and handed it to the mugger. I even flashed my driver's license for identification and then signed the permission slip for her to conclude the thievery:

Palabok Family Pack - $17.79

Jolly Crispy Fries Large - 3.59

(1) Peach Mango Pie- 2.29

(2pc) Chicken Joy - 4.99

Plus tax. While the rest of America is scaling back on spending, Filipinos fall in line to do the opposite, albeit forcibly. To answer the pressing question buzzing in the heads of those rubbernecks and curious passers-by in the immediate region of 62-29 Roosevelt Avenue in Woodside, we were in the long queue to pay our respects to hyperinflation.

I wish to God Krystal's Palabok was up to par with my expectations. I have a feeling my days of relative financial security are numbered. 

Kitchenomics or the weekend we made ghobi manchurian

We are making full use of our kitchen. In our last budgetary meeting, we ruled out eating out as an unnecessary expense; it is now one of those luxuries that we can only sporadically afford. And so the weekends have been transformed into teaming up with H and whipping up restaurant-style feasts. Jalibes, gajar ka halwa, pooris, laddoos, pesto, putanesca, banana loaf bread, etc streamed out of our kitchen with increasing regularity.

Our latest effort was ghobi manchurian. Preliminary research confirmed H's suspicion that it's doable and in these kinds of exploits, youtube, in particular, and google, in general, are your friends. We found enough resources to guide us in our virgin attempt at indo-chinese cooking. Word of caution: be wary of this chap's youtube version of cooking demo as he has a habit of leaving you out of the loop when it comes to exact measurements, "Add 1 cup....but I tasted it and it wasn't right, so add a little more of this....".

The first batch of ghobi manchurian was such a success it emboldened us to go a step further and paired it with vegetable manchurian. We had faith in our guide since he was supposedly a Vaas-Chef. With an overstretched smile plastered on his face, he explained why ajinomoto (MSG) must be used sparingly albeit inconclusive scientific study that it is carcinogenic; In a bid to preempt a hail of hey rams from strictly vegetarian audiences, he assured us with a sheepish grin, that no eggs were needed.

His video demo was a reliable guide for the most part, though his version of a "little bit" had us befuddled when he saw him showering quite a bit of the said ingredient instead. Precision in measuring ingredients has eluded a lot of these cooking demo-ers although it might be because most of them were playing by ear, so to speak. Auntie Manjulaji of Manjula's Kitchen definitely stood out when during her demo she made perfect rotis by "adding half a cup of water to half a cup of flour".

In the end, after about 3.5 hours of cooking and deliberating on whether to put up our own cooking demo, we had a very late/very early sumptuous lunch/dinner for less than $20 plus tip it would have cost us at Masala Wok. And that is kitchenomics, in a nutshell.

Griping about Krystal's Pancit Palabok

Standing pathetically in the cold outside of the still unfinished Jollibee in NY, arguing who will take the photo of a growing irritation that is this restaurant, was how Saturday evening was spent. Owing to a little insipid piece of investigative blogging, I thought I would redeem myself by personally inspecting the progress of the construction and documenting it with photographic evidence. Redemption should not be resolved in winter, I must add; it gives one an air of I don't give a damn.

Along the way, we passed by a couple of Filipino stores which coquettishly suggested that whatever Jollibee will have they already do. Reminded of a comment about a recommended palabok, H and I walked inside Krystal's. The place was busy which I welcomed as a good sign. H also spied some "green with creme" pastries from the bakery counter which he wanted to try. I scanned the menu quickly for the pancit which so far eluded me and ordered.

I began to suspect that there was something about me which renders the food we crave for elusive when I couldn't for the life of me find the "green with creme" pastry H was alluding to. I had to ask him if he hallucinated the pastry into existence but he was adamant of what he saw. In the end, I settled for the "beige with creme" which didn't really do it for H.

My excursion for the "green with creme" pastry had my pancit palabok waiting for me when I got back to our table. Only, it was an impostor, a sad copy of what it should supposed to be. The universe is conspiring against me. The bitter cold can leave one bitter.

Sorry, Krystal, but I was expecting my palabok to have thin rice noodles. The fat rice noodle that you used would have been more appropriate for pancit malabon but not pancit palabok. The jarring difference might have been lost on you but it wasn't on me. I understand that it wasn't exactly pancit malabon hence, I suppose, your reluctance to call it pancit malabon. But it was definitely not pancit palabok, either--so why the unfair relegation of a name which has a nuanced meaning to it on something lacking that nuances?

The pancit, which from now on I won't refer to as palabok, was not unsalvageable. The sauce was quite decent although I would suggest to get rid of the pork fat rinds which don't add anything to the dish. If you are thinking of fat flavor, well that's not really palatable is it? And the shrimp could be a little less steamed to a pulpy death, but now I am just being nitpicky.

Most importantly, though, you need to put your noodles on a strict diet. They need to lose at least a couple of inches from their girths. I don't know any fat loss techniques for noodles, for god knows I am as clueless when it comes to my own, but it has to be done.

Otherwise, rechristen the dish as pancit malabon and I will forever shut my trap.

Husbands wash dishes after all

Yup. They know what to do with dirty plates on the sink which doesn't involve leaving them the way they found them. I married a maharajah; euphemistically put, he assumes that domestic chores, particularly washing dishes, magically sort themselves out whilst he's sitting on his princely ass.

And so the heavens broke into a song and a choir of angels mellifluously filled the air with their hallelujahs, as I stood in stunned reverence upon the vision of the powerful maharajah deigning to wash piles of dirty dishes.

Unfortunately, this phenomenon does not happen to anybody; it happens to the select few who can wield the spatula masterfully and whip-up a phenomenon themselves. Never underestimate the magical spell of homemade gajar ka halwa, gulab jamun, sooji ka halwa and jalibe. These are the potions with which you can reacquaint the maharajah with his mortality and the domestic chores that come along with it.

And so it shall be to our kitchen where the hopeless housewives will flock to believe, for it was the site which shall be remembered as the place where a miracle took place and wonderful secrets revealed.

UPDATE: I don't know when Jollibee, NY is opening now open!

Update #2: Jollibee, NY served its first batch of crispylicious chicken joy on Valentine's Day '09, after multiple false opening dates. One caveat, as earlier commenters noted, the fares are on the ridiculously costly side. However, this did not deter other Pinoys from lining up. Be prepared to stand in line for over 2 hours and temporarily forget about the recession. 

DISCLAIMER: The January 16 opening date is posted on Jollibee's storefront; apart from this, I have no inside "source." Apparently, at least according to a commenter, January 16 is still iffy. One way to know for sure is to visit Jollibee on the 16th with all fingers crossed. Or, there's always google. 

To answer the sixty-four thousand dollar question: Jollibee in Queens, NY is set to open on January 16, 2009 as announced on its storefront. If you have a Pinoy relative missing, wish to attend an impromptu reunion with your kababayans, or collar a Pinoy friend who owes you money, then be sure to visit Jollibee on opening day. I have a feeling that all the Pinoys in the east coast will converge under the fluourecent lights of a tangerine-themed restaurant as the smell of familiar Pinoy-style food wafts comfortingly in the air, reminding one of that tiny island thousand of miles away.

It is rather comical how this junkfood restaurant is much sought after. It is after all just your average, garden-variety fastfood which will be the death of anyone who were to diet exclusively on its fare. But I missed this deathtrap. I suppose it has something to do with the nuanced way they flavor the Chicken Joy which particularly appeals to my palate, or perhaps, I prefer kamote for my fries (not really). Or that there aren't that many choices for Pinoy comfort food in this part of the world. Or maybe, it's simply because that Jollibee makes the best damn palabok in the whole wide world. Jollibee, NY better be prepared for a deluge--I would raise hell if after travelling 35 miles I am told that they sold out of palabok.

This weekend, follow the orange brick road and it will lead you home.

***

Hey, Gerry, when are you joining the party?

Something Unbelievable Happened

I was idly watching a sci-fi marathon on TV when J's voice pierced through my half-dead state ,"I don't like strip clubs." That got my attention and disbelief. I focused my gaze on this shameless poseur expecting to see the sarcasm that was absent from his voice to be written all over his face when H's voice caught me off-guard and chimed in, "Yeah, me too."

I am going mad, I thought. "They are hot, sexy and beautiful...." J babbled on. Ahh, normalcy. "....but it just doesn't feel right." I am hearing things! "You see them there and you just tend to pity them somewhat. It seems desperate too," H contributed. I must be drunk out of my wits. But J had more on the subject, "It's not really pity. I took my cousin there just a few weeks ago since he was hankering to go like how most of them do on their first time here but after a few minutes I just couldn't stay inside. I had to go out."

J continued, "The women actually enjoy it more. At the club we went to, the women were hooting loudly and enthusiastically--one even got up on the stage and danced. Their boyfriends or partners or whatever were just looking on more reservedly and looked like they'd rather be somewhere else." I can get used to this. But H had ideas of his own, "Nah, the women don't enjoy it. But they'd want to look like they do so they won't seem like they are insecure."

Never thought whiskey can cause lucidity in men. I expected the hallucinations, though.

Bumble and Dumble

Finally took the plunge and got my meticulously planned haircut at the much researched salon. My stylist was good fun and his assistant doubly so which is why I am reluctant to admit that I was not impressed with the end result, especially considering the investment involved. There was no denying that the transformative cut I was expecting did not happen. I suppose it did not help that the woman next to my station squealed excitedly at her reflection upon the "big reveal," effectively peaking my expectations to the highest degree of gorgeousness. I was made to feel like a very important model, though, which I suppose where the part of the money which should have gone to my hairstyle transformation absconded to. Oh yes, it also went to the scenic view of the Hudson River, which I could not appreciate because I am blind as a bat without my specs. Husband did not even notice the difference (hmmpf) but women did and they were actually crowing how good it looked.

But will I go back to Bumble and Bumble? Heck, yes. Only next time, I will be more of an active participant during consultation and be clearer as to what I am expecting. I still have faith that despite the recession, $100 can still make a significant impact on one's life.

Husband meanwhile thought he'd get a hair cut from the hastily set-up House of Bumble and Dumble (B & D) with crude equipment of armpit shaver and kitchen scissors at its first branch in our bathroom. It did not bug him that the senior stylist at B & D had never before cut (or even attempted to cut) human hair (there were random experiments with family pets and dolls). He sat on the salon chair and took the plunge.

It did not start well; at one point the back part of his head had at least three layers of varying length-size and the sides were in the midst of a belligerent disagreement. But with perseverance, the back part took on a semblance of a decent cut and the sides reached an accord: His hair is actually looking hep, if I do say so myself. It will be tested on Monday when he goes back to work and model B & D's cut to his office aunties who had been hankering him to visit a barber. If all goes well, we would set up tent at Central Park and offer cuts for $10. The problem would be how to transport our salon chair seeing as it is our bathroom potty. Hmmm.

Hello, 2009

Spent the dying hours of 2008 gawking at the glittering lights of Times Square together with 997,000 extremely pushy NYE revelers. We were miles away from our families, we were not allowed to burst crackers, so the next best thing we thought was to increase the body count of an already massive crowd to cheer on a crystal ball as it drops at the stroke of midnight. The air was thick with excitement and anticipation that it was impossible not get sucked into the whole spirit of merrymaking. But we could not shake off the idea that we were standing in the blistering cold ten blocks from where all the action will actually take place being pushed and shoved by hyperactive, overeager idiots for the spectacle of a crystal ball succumbing to the laws of gravity and maybe a heartfelt hug from a random stranger (shudder): our hard work just did not seem as though it would be justly rewarded. What would? A few drinks, we thought.

Well, at least it started with a few. How it ended had a slightly different version. Being more into bursting crackers, this was the first time that I rang in the new year at a bar. And so it was a pleasant surprise to find out that bars distribute champagne on the house as a grand welcome to the new year. At least this one did. There's nothing like imbibing drinks with grown-up sounding names to feel more of an adult than our choices suggest. That is until someone puke his/her guts inside a subway and pretending it was not his/hers to an equally wasted teenager (ahem).

We thought of passing by Jollibee in Queens since we were in the vicinity to see what the heck is going on with the construction. Rumor has it it will open on January 16 (maybe 15) but given it's a rumor (and that the source was an arbit comment in Facebook), I remain a skeptic. Anyhow, the opening date initially was pegged by summer of 2008 moved to some time in 2008 until it was finally clear that it will not open in 2008. I am feverishly hoping that the investor was not swindled by Mister Madoff, re-routing funds that should have been for my Palabok to the bulging pockets of a crook. Chances of that are rather bleak but who knows. Even Argentina would seem random but as we now know, was swindled as well. I am madly waiting for this restaurant to open and I think I am going to burn some serious money once it does.

Speaking of the Madoff fraud, didn't Kevin Bacon transcend Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon to a whole new level? Not only can he be linked to any actor through their film roles, but he is also apparently six degrees (presumably even less) separated from the victims of the Ponzi scheme.

It's hard not to poke fun of rich folks losing money but no matter the size of the bank account, nobody deserves to be swindled of hard-earned and judiciously saved money. I was/am too poor to be swindled--how sad is that?