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?

Countdown to 2009

2008 started with a 5-hour transcontinental flight and lots of snow. Got burried in files of work soon after and became obsessed with the idea of quitting. Saw folks 2 years after leaving home. Travelled to Texas to be with friends and ended up being with hundreds of people all of whom were craning their necks for a better view of the July 4th fireworks. Came back with an exorbitant purchase and a curse that was to haunt me months later. Left the beautiful university town for a slightly bigger one, nearer the City. Played house for a while until sober second thought dictated otherwise. Started an affair with a dream that is still far from reality. Finally closed a chapter in our story and began a new one. A city was ravaged and heroes emerged. Got haunted by 3 numbers, and rematch was sought. Faced the same disappointment and now fighting to keep the hope alive.

It was fulfilling, disappointing, vibrant, monotonous, violent, calm, intresting and dull. Cheers, 2008!

A High School Less Ordinary

What the Catholic-run private schools would not want you to read.

I went to an all-girls high school run by nuns. It was not a convent though the strict rules of piety and near-asceticism could confuse anybody into believing so. I went there after 7-years from an all-girls elementary school run by the same nuns. My parents were not trying to punish me; in fact just the opposite. Where I came from, Catholic-run private elementary and secondary schools were some of the best, if not so, in the country. So parents were almost assured of a quality education, with the virtues of Catholicism considered as an added incentive.

We had our staple of queens, sluts, and outcasts. The fourth type is somewhat the great social leveller--much like how death is to all of us. The queens, the sluts and even the outcasts, at some point, belonged to the fourth group, the homosexuals.

Ironically, homosexuality thrived at my Catholic all-girls high school. Ironic because Catholicism is much opposed to homosexuality and does not recognize ( even condone) same-sex relationships. Even the present Pope was recently quoted metaphorically exhorting the holy flock to save (fast vanishing heterosexual) men like they would, erm, trees.

Ostensibly lacking male-jocks, our school bred female ones. And almost invariably, they formed the core of the Sapphic culture. They were members of the school varsity basketball and volleyball teams. In effect, they were the "rock stars" or the "football jocks" of the school. The girls every other girl wanted to be with. Girls across the social hierarchy (the queens, the sluts and the outcasts) had "crushes" on an all-girl school's equivalent of heartthrobs. Girls squealed at the sight of their crushes; the bold ones openly pursued the object of affection, unabashedly showered them with attention and flowers. Chocolates. Teddy Bears.

Bolstered by all the attention, the jocks swaggered around the campus like the hot shots that they were. They were the epitome of coolness, well at least to those who agreed to play along. The stratospheric rise in the social ladder of a freshman attracting a senior lesbian was not unheard of. The coolness factor undoubtedly attracted the dregs of high school hoping to have a semblance of an interesting life while in school. They dressed like boys and reviled the mere idea of wearing a skirt--forget ribbons in their hair. Their hair was shorn as near to their skulls as possible to look as close to a boy they will never become.

The hair style became "the chicken or the egg" issue with the nuns. Did these girls cut their hair very short and then became lesbians? Or vice versa? Apparently, the nuns subscribed to the former persuasion and they imposed rules to curb the hirsute transformation. And so, it became illegal to cut one's hair shorter than two inches above the neck. A girl who had dermatitis had to secure a medical certificate so she could keep her hair boyishly short. Those without a justifiable excuse (being a lesbian obviously not acceptable) were suspended. Might have been until their hair grew back.

In the end, it did little to impede, well, anything. Girls of all hair lengths, short, medium long were, at some point, all involved with another girl. Parents who assumed that lesbians had a singular portrait of buzz cuts, loose shirts and baggy jeans missed the romance their long-haired, skirt-wearing daughter was having with another girl. As long as their little girl did not balk at the sight of a frilly dress and the idea of looking feminine, then their girl must be into boys.

I never witnessed it personally, but rumours abound of girl A and girl B making out in the cafeteria during recess or lunch break. I wouldn't know if any of them went all the way but if there were, very few of them did (it would have been known in lurid detail, otherwise). Most were content with spending the break, walking along the corridors of the school, holding hands and displaying their mutual admiration for each other. Others were satiated with the attention and collected a string of admirers. They wrote letters everyday (some had notebooks with which they recorded everything that was happening with their relationship) and celebrated milestones in their relationship every month dubbing it Monthsaries. The customary greeting card and gift exchange, grand romantic gestures inspired by the hit rom-com at the time dotted their togetherness.

Courtship between girls was simple enough and was as close as possible to the heterosexual prototype. In my day, it started with being penpals, exchanging correspondences chronicling their daily lives. This was the route typically followed by the "admirers" who wished to pursue the "admiree." The daily liaisons would progress to "dates" during recess and lunch. So for 30 mins and an hour (respectively) per school day, the two would spend the time together. At this point, if the "admirer" believed that she had a shot, it would then enter the next stage. The next stage was marked with the showering of gifts. If say the "admiree" was fond of Mickey Mouse (we were teenagers, after all) the "admirer" would then gift anything under the sun that has Mickey Mouse on it: a magnet, a pen, a wallet, a trash can, etc. If the "admiree" was fond of the color blue, then she will be showered with everything blue: blue socks, blue notebook, blue shirt, etc. Considering we were depending on our lunch money for funds, courtship was undeniably very costly. For most others, all the expense took them to the next and final stage: the proposal and the MU (mutual understanding) stage.

There were girls in my school who unashamedly tried to be the Casanovas. One proposed to the other girl outside of her class just as the lunch break was over. She knelt down on one knee and declared her love for the girl with a rose (or whatever was the favorite flower of the girl, down to the favorite color) and everybody else gawking at the sight. It was as contrived as it sounded. Of course, some found it bone-chillingly romantic.

And so the three words would be spoken. If everything goes as planned, three (or even four) words would be spoken back. And then, they would officially share a mutual understanding (which is the ultimate goal of the courtship, by the way). Here they would choose their relationship theme (official) song, the (official) date with which to celebrate the aforementioned "monthsaries" and their (official) pet name for each other. Babykins, munchkin, sweet, coffee, sugar and other nauseatingly saccharine epitaphs were the popular choices. It was similar to having an official uhm BFF, only you kiss your BFF passionately with tongue and call her sugar.

The strange thing was (although it was normal to us back then) even the nerds and the "good girls" had crushes or lesbian inclinations. Our class topper was illicitly involved with another girl, our official class nerd had an incurable crush on another and other girls who seemingly knew better, were one of them. We even had a woman teacher who carried on a homosexual affair with another student. I do not know how much of an "affair" it was, but being the children that we were, our version accepted frequent phone calls and mail exchanges as an "affair." The point was, everybody seemed to break the stereotype and subsequently established a new one: nobody was straight.

By senior year, most of the attention shifted from the local school jocks to boys from other all-boys school. The sluts came out of their closets where the gays ironically shuffled back in. The most-awaited event was the class interaction with the boys. It was a school-sanctioned group first-date as it were. From here, many lesbian relationships ended up in the bifurcated road of homosexuality and heterosexuality. Some were caught in the middle, prompting a boy to famously opine "Does she realize she'll never grow a dick?" about a girl he was competing against for the affection of the class beauty.

Most of these girls are now girlfriends, fiancee, mums, and wives (in a more traditional sense) and in all appearances a woman. But the road that led to their femininity was certainly paved with less-than-good intentions. Along the way, they redefined the portrait of Sapphists and introduced a Pavlovian effect into homosexuality.

It was an "all-girls school" in every sense of the word.

Slumdog Millionaire

In the '90s, he asked us to "Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a starter home. Choose dental insurance, leisure wear and matching luggage...But why would anyone want to do a thing like that?"

This time, Mr. Danny Boyle wants us to choose Slumdog Millionaire. I did and I did not even have to ask why I did. It was endearing, it was hilarious, it was wrenching and poignant all at once. In its periphery were the ugly consequence of religion, the exploitation of children, loss of innocence, the eternal hopelessness of poverty and squalor. At its core unfolded the love story of two children of the slums who beat the odds because "it was written" that they should be together.

It reminded me of Cidade de Deus (City of God) but less violent and, well, still different. I'll let Mr. Boyle tell the story. He sure knows how.

Merry Christmas

I checked under the tree for a gift with my name on it. Only there was no tree and no gift. There was, however, the "Rules of Engagement" with my name on it.

Let the games begin.

Shopping Disorder

PMS lately has been accompanied by this tendency to do a mad shopping spree. As opposed to frantically foraging for something to eat, as was the norm, my appetite becomes voracious for something to buy. The scope is rather broad, from the utilitarian domestic (dust rag) to the damn frivolous (an overpriced shirt). Grocery shopping becomes more frequent and conversations with husband are suffused with bargaining deals for an out-of-reach purse. Buying anything, something, becomes an unexplainable need that if not satisfied will morph into one gigantic tantrum.

The poor creature is perplexed by the situation. Under normal circumstances, he would just have to deal with my pendulum-inspired temperament. And just when he's getting the hang of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (my mercurial mood has become a source of much amusement to him, as he's able to release his creativity via his convuluted conversation gambits that always lead to a swing or a see-saw--get it?) I throw him a doosra. Now, he has to figure out a way to medicate a shopping disorder on top of everything else.

During these times, he would be like a spiritual coach, coaxing me to fight my demons (the retailers). When I walk out of a shop without a purchase, he would dispense lines like "I'm so proud of you," and will manage to sound proudly, too.

My options are looking rather enviable. It seems that for the weeks (yes, mine lasts this long) prior to my gender-based agony, the kilos I would not gain I would lose in my bank account. There's an existentialist question for you: would you rather become fat or become poor?

Beware the Gmail Dot Bug

I married my husband thinking my secret dossier on him was substantial enough to be incriminating if the need for leverage arises in the future. After five years, one tends to take some assumptions for granted. Gmail tried to test the strength of this assumption just like how a logical reasoning item on the LSAT (law school admission test) might.

For instance, was I aware that my husband has a bank account in the Cayman Islands? Or that he was recently appointed to a cream position to some company abroad? Or that he was still looking for a wife? (!!!) These are just some of the emails that snuck their way into his inbox courtesy of gmail's dot bug.

If you have a user.name@gmail.com email address, gmail's dot bug explains why you sometimes read emails intended for username@gmail.com. Gmail does not recognize the dot and does not differentiate between user.name and username. Based on the emails that idly wander into another user's inbox, it can be a threat to security and a serious privacy issue-the kind of bug that Nixon would have found especially useful.

For gmail's dot bug has a latent bugging system: one can intrude and "listen" in as it were on the lives of others through emails that were essentially for their eyes only. It's especially interesting for people whose names are quite common. One minute you are an influential president being addressed respectfully with all candor, the next an enterprising investor getting turned down on a loan. Information about namesakes ranging from the mundane to sensitive converge in the inbox of an eponymous email account--with an inconsequential dot that breached all confidentiality and intimacy of a personal account.

What is not clear is whether we are getting copies of emails for the eponymous email account--or the others are. It's hard to tell whether the emails we received that were intended for others were also received by the intended recipient. As a corollary, have been receiving all the emails that were supposed to be ours or have they wandered over to the dotted side?

Voyeurism can definitely go both ways: are we outside looking in or inside looking out?

11.26.27.29.08

Always remember.

Little shop in the corner

There is a little shop in the corner from our office. Its size betrays its great utility to the offices nearby, especially to us. It is the place we go to when our office runs out of toilet paper, when we are in the mood to hunt for a snack in the middle of a slow day, when the boss decides to shower his suspecting wife some gifts, and would send one of us along to forage for a gift wrapping paper, or when we are in need of a duplicate key made. I was there when my face was splotched with angry red welts due to hives, buying an antihistamine. Because, yes, this little shop is also a little pharmacy. And, if ever our office decides to make an impromptu toast to a job well done, we would be running to this store, too, for an emergency liquor raid.

If that is not peculiar enough, none of the wares has sticker price on them. If you need to know the price of the balaklava, for instance, you have to ask him. "One dollar, 99 cents, one dollar and 75...," he recited once, with automated precision, as I held up one item after another. Amazed, I asked the obvious question, to which he replied nonchalantly, "No need to put price on them, they are all up here," indicating his head.

I chat with him, occasionally, while I wait for the bus that is perpetually late, or while I refill my lungs with fresh air, of which I am deprived while working alongside an office that smells of that stink you wish to God is not coming from the bottom of your shoes. One day, he told me of how he came to America, armed with youthful folly and without any expectations. Soon, he got married and settled down with his wife who bore him three boys. He opened this little shop in the corner as a means to an end. For several years this shop supported the family of five, up to the day the wife passed away. I asked if four ever became five again, to which he gruffly replied, "What's the point of marrying again? women are all the same; she was enough for me," fair enough, I thought.

His intelligence was overshadowed by his apparent diligence borne of a simple philosophy that urges one to believe that hard work yields fruitful dividends each time. And in his case, it did. Two of his sons have graduated from college and are each supporting a family of their own. And the youngest proved to be his capstone--a senior Engineering major at University of California, San Diego.

He knew he deserved the awe and respect that were reflected in my face. Intoxicated by this, he pointed at his little shop and revealed,"This is paying for his tuition... no scholarship." As if to emphasize how much blood that university is siphoning off of him, he buoyantly exclaimed that his son will graduate soon, and all the tuition payment schedules will just be a nightmarish anecdote in the past.

His little shop is badly in need of a fresh coat of paint, a more decipherable signage and updated interiors. But he would stand outside his shop with an air of a master surveying his vast domain. His little shop stands in the corner, unassumingly, ever reliable, and just as easily forgotten, quietly fulfilling an immigrant family's American dream.

Girls just *don't* want to have fun

Yep. Most of the time they just want to whine. Take a look at this blog for example. But because I have come to terms with this genetic inclination, I find it easier to have some sort of a relationship with boys than with girls. Unless the girl in question is like a boy (not necessarily a lesbian) then she's the exception that proves the rule.

One problem with having a girl friend (not to be confused with a homosexual) is that they are too sensitive. I revel in being nasty and in spewing thoughtless remarks so I cannot possibly have a girl friend who can tolerate my abuses. Boys on the other hand do not take it personally. Tell them they are fat and it will not bother them (the guys I know at least). The best part is, because they are aware how girls do not take being called fat favorably, they often refrain from regurgitating the same bullet. So you can make fun of their paunch and they will not make a snarky remark about your waist line.

Another issue is that they do not condone dictatorship with another female. After years of male domination, most women are all about equality, except for when it comes to their own male partners. Often, they will tolerate men domination but never by another woman. Gender equality is all about being equal among all women. And that's a problem because I have a mild-case of bossiness. I sometimes like to have things done in a specific way (which is my way, by the way) because I am just more important. If the friend is not willing and able, then constant bickering will be the main feature of the relationship dynamics.

And then there is the whole beauty regimen and superficiality culture. I respect women who find time to do the whole beauty ritual. From make-up, moisturizing, manicure, pedicure, to waxing, shaving, threading and the whole gamut of beauty 101. I often wondered how these women keep up with it. They look perfect, nary a hair out of place. I tried , but I have long ago accepted that my patience can only accommodate three of the above which sadly, did not include make-up, manicure, pedicure, well most of it. So confronted with a woman harassed with these matters, I cannot relate. I do not shop for make-up, manicure/pedicure does not excite me and I do not need to wax/shave given that I was born mostly hairless.

Sometimes I try to get excited by these things, just to play up to the stereotype. But the farthest I got was to get excited by the prospect of a $150+ haircut in the city and have a dramatic update on my look. The possibility of that happening seems dim now, considering the pecuniary imprudence involved.

But being a girl, I still like to shop. I can justify a $1,600 purse and consider a Marc Jacobs marked down dress of $316 a delicious bargain. Of course I can be superficial. But shopping for me is not a group activity. I do not enjoy shopping with a woman, actually with anyone; I have the most fun doing it by myself. So there goes the hallowed bonding experience between 2 women.

PMS might be the winning argument, though. I cannot stand being hormone-induced snapped at, regardless of the time of the month. I can take ridicule and censure when I deserve it. But when I do not then I just implode. Heck, I cannot even stand myself when I am swinging from one end of the pole to another, equal parts weepy, equal parts snappy, so I sure will not tolerate anybody else's.

The only times I get along well with girls are when they behave atypically and act more like boys. They are not overly sensitive, they are nasty so they can take nastiness themselves and what's more, they understand that female urge to boss people around.

I did not realize that my post was shaping up to be some sort of an obituary, but cheers to these 6 remarkable women I have known. I hope to god you are not a dying breed.

Symbols

Husband and I have been talking some time ago. Americans are obsessed more with the symbol than with what the symbol actually represents. I hope Obama was not elected because he is Black but despite of it.

Even then I still do not completely comprehend the hype. He is half-Black and half-White; how are we to know which part of him got him elected? Maybe the whites voted for him not because they have taken a giant leap forward on their bigotry on race but because Obama is still half-White. Or that a lot of them are irreversible Democrats that they would have voted for Sarah Palin had she decided to cross borders toward the left and carried the Democratic banner instead of Obama.
I understand the intense support from the Black community for Obama but I wonder if most of them realize that Obama did not experience the racial injustices and black prejudices which led Martin Luther King, Jr. to stand up and say enough. In fact, he was not even there. He was in Kenya where the majority was Black and equality between races was not even a national issue. Sure, he's had some brush with discrimination, some of it from his own grandmother. But not to the extent as how some people were playing it up to be.

In the end though, he did not have to and it did not matter. Black or white, the central consideration in the majority of voters was the economy. Consumer spending is lagging, job losses at unprecedented rates and a a major automaker on the brink of brankuptcy, it does not matter what the color of the skin is of the man who will steer America out of this quagmire.
Amidst dimming prospects of the future and depressing (pun?) economic performance, I have to wonder: Did America vote for the man most suitable for the job, or for the man most symbolic of the changing times?

It sure did make a lot of people proud of America--again.

Queen Bee: Jollibee in Queens still to now open!

Update: Jollibee in Queens, NY now OPEN!

Made a pilgrimage to Queens one drizzly Friday night, filled with visions of palabok and orange bucket of fried chicken in my head. Somehow managed to convince husband to travel 45 minutes for something he intensely despise (he is, ahem, we are vegetarians but I wanted to have chicken). He left work earlier than expected which raised my expectations up several notches.

It might be that the reason he was amenable to the idea was that he wanted to drive our very first conjugal asset. She is a beaut and a beast on the highway--so I would not be surprised. Whatever the reasons were, there we were in that part of Queens at 7 past, standing amidst the din of the subway above us, gawking at a sign that should have more appropriately read K.L.P.D. but instead went like this: Jollibee in Queens, NY COMING SOON!

I initially wanted to think it was a mistake. Maybe the original site was that particular corner bordered with cardboard walls but the owners ended up setting up shop further down the block where I vainly tried to strain for that familiar neon orange lights or that ubiquitous giant bee in prison-orange striped suit. Husband must have known there was nothing but disappointment down there so he half-dragged me back to our car.

The worst part was we ended up eating at Subway in Queens, 33 miles away from our place, when we could have done so at our very own friendly neighborhood Subway--a 2-minute walk from home. I did not like my dinner that night and did not hesitate one bit to have it known, much to the consternation of the husband. He soon bounced back and had the tantrums pegged as that time of the month.

Which was a bit unfair. Hormones might have had something to do with it but most of it was the irate mindset which "is often difficult to counteract its effects upon analysis and decision making processes," thank you, wikipedia. And how was the irascible mindset formed? Via Jollibee.com which shamelessly tricked me into venturing into that part of Queens which under normal circumstances I have no business in venturing into, by inherently claiming that the Jollibee there has opened by virtue of the absence of that very helpful line on their site along the lines of "under construction," in listing its US locations. Husband also claimed that this particular branch was reviewed in Yelp.com but that's most probably Jollibee the grocery and not the fast food.

I am still sore about the whole thing and it might assuage me to think that I will not be the only one who will be duped into taking that pilgrimage prematurely by concealing the fact that it has yet to open. At the end of the day though, I just want to know when that damn restaurant is opening and would someone please let me know about it.

***
Jollibee
62 -29 Roosevelt Ave.,
Woodside, NY 11735

To the Rescue

Interesting conversation I had with the husband inspired me to do this post. You see, he was more than peeved by the fact that Gambhir (Indian cricket player who recently schooled the Australians on how to score a double century) was banned from the remaining test matches because Gambhir was silly enough to shove this Aussie boy who, incidentally, sportingly tried to block Gambhir from making runs, all in the fair spirit of the game. Husband was also nearly seething when he read the comments of some of his compatriots from that Southern part of India where the sun seems to shine the strongest. He is of the opinion that these people tend to not to stand up for their countrymen.

His deep-seated reaction to the whole thing was not merely because of some game--it's cricket. The same game I had to frantically make heads or tails of (wicket? boundary? lunch break?!?) when I have decided that I cannot compete and possibly win against Tendulkar for my husband's time and attention.

I would be the first to admit that I rarely play that swashbuckling anti-discriminatory hero, even in the midst of a fusillade of racial slurs. Most of the time I find the affronted Asian (to supply the cliched example) needlessly sensitive. Or the Westerner's (again the cliche) ignorant remarks, well ignorant. I shrug my shoulders and bury the 'discriminatory incident' with my brand of snobbery that just cannot tolerate stupidity.

But when someone important to you takes the very same thing seriously, you tend to re-evaluate the whole thing as how that someone sees it. So, here's my shot at standing up to my brown brothers, or in this case, that beloved Bee:

Pamie.com blogged of her experience of eating at this particular fast food restaurant which does not ordinarily serve the burgers and fries the obese Americans are used to. She tried this peculiar fast food joint, not to satisfy her fat cravings, but mostly to test her fear of the unknown, reminiscent of Fear Factor. In similar vein, she (with her friends) ordered unfamiliar grub such as Palabok ("hard-boiled eggs, shrimp, pork, noodles and some kind of brown sauce") and spaghetti dogged with hot dogs among other things. Pamie and friends approached their food as though they were just about to have raw bull's testicles for appetizers, uncooked goat's penis for the main entree and fresh buffalo eyeballs to finish off the meal. Most of the "food" was in unfamiliar color, form, or sauce which terrified one of pamie's friend by even the innocuous fast food's main selling point "crispylicious and juicylicious" fried chicken. A little transcript (for pamie after all is a script writer) of their conversation during the epicurean adventure was appended, if only to state the obvious that wit and wisdom were not party to their tryst.

To her credit, pamie tried not to sound so mentally vacant. But whether her woeful writing skills had anything to do with it, she alas, ultimately, ended up making a poor, smelly 7 year-old living in the slums of Manila appear infinitely smarter in comparison. For instance, this dirty squirt will not fry her brain trying to hazard what "burger steak" can conceivably be, especially with visual aids available, she can correctly guess that it is a "burger patty in steak *brown* sauce with mushrooms." *Ding! Ding!*

Or that the "funny smell" pamie's friend noticed was the smell of food that can only be made possible when your waiter did not urinate or defecate in your food, as presumably, most of her friend's food had been. On second thought, that might actually have been Asian urine. Oops.

And what is so inconceivable about having hot dogs with spaghetti? Seriously. The next time pamie puts a penis in her mouth (or am I being too presumptuous?) she should realize that vestiges of human refuse are not among the ingredients in this hot dog + spaghetti combination. That in itself should make it palatable. Or is that why it's not?

My point, pamie, is this. You do not have to jaunt off to every Asian or Ethnic restaurant to be a culinary adventurer. The occasional "ox-tail" or "blue-veined, tan chicken" are hardly daredevil dishes. You do not have to look far. The normal food you eat is filled with the sickeningly, terrifyingly inedible stuff you frequently find in your food trips that you can have your adventure simultaneously as you eat your normal breakfast, lunch and dinner and everything in between.

Consider Phosphoric acid in your Coke Cola, tap water (PWS) in your mineral water and the yogurt that became pink thanks to a crushed bug. Hardly appetizing, and yet, at some point in your life I am sure you had one of these and found it yummy. These questionable ingredients and other artificial additives commonly found in American food is maybe why so many of your people are obese, so many of your people have diseases that are unheard of in other parts of the world, and partly, maybe the reason why your brain is sufficiently malnourished and your mind necessarily narrow.

Incidentally, I found your blog via a google search of "Jollibee USA." I was craving for some of that crispylicious goodness.

500

500 words or less should have been a breeze to write but it's not. It does not help that a lot is riding on these 500 words.

My Personal Statement in 500 words. It's what stands between me and the rest of my life.

Verizon Flex Fumble

Anybody else having headaches about Verizon Flex Bundle? They started with pandering the service as a counter to contending with multiple bills per month. By consolidating the bills from your Verizon Wireless, Verizon Landline and Verizon Internet accounts into one bill, you get the monumental nuisance of One Bill. They enticed consumers like us into converting by throwing in a savings of $7.99 per month if we signed up or 0 savings otherwise. It is plain to see how 7.99 being, 7.99>0, is rather convincing.

The problem is we have not been receiving our One Bill. We tried several times to access our accounts online, hoping in vain that we would be able to access our Flex Bundle but we kept getting error codes. For three months we were lulled into thinking that our bills have been sent to the Verizon Blackhole, dragging along our intent of paying them.

We soon remembered that Verizon is a money-sucking machine--not paying for their services cannot go on interminably. And so we resolved to get the matter sorted out one fine Monday afternoon. By Thursday, the whole thing was still a mess.

The time that passed between Monday and Thursday was not at all rosy, largely due to Verizon's incompetence (ie they suck) and only a small part is due to how Verizon decided to compartmentalize its services far removed from each other so that the different departments will refuse to communicate with each other. I wished the irony of how a communications company communicate inefficiently internally escaped me, but it did not.

Try searching for a customer service number for Verizon Flex Bundle and while you are it, try to fly using your spread-eagled arms. I am almost sure you will have more success with the latter. Try to call Verizon Wireless and they will transfer you to a different department. After several transfers, you are back with Verizon Wireless customer representative wondering whatever did you do to deserve such a rousing tour of the company's blundering service. Apparently, poor service is not limited in one department, it is a contagion infecting the entire company.

I would have thought that sorting out a simple matter such as a lost bill is straightforward enough. But with the way I was passed from one department to the next made me realize why Verizon is calling it as The One Bill. It is that elusive.

The Meat of It

Adherents of strictly vegetarian diets (at least the Hindus) are arguably amongst the most finicky people one can ever meet. It is not just that they refuse to eat meat, but they are also pretty adamant about other people refusing meat. It is not just that they subsist exclusively on vegetables but that they require that there be no signs of meat within a 2 mile-radius of where their food are made and where they dine. Maybe not 2 mile-radius. More like 4.

Some vegetarians, though most of them are fast becoming extinct, do not insist on other people's adopting a similar lifestyle on the grounds that a similar exhortation on the part of meat-eaters will not be very much appreciated: Why do you insist that I eat only vegies? I do not require you to eat any of my chicken. Indeed, why can't you pray to your God while I'll to mine own without either of us converting?

But for others, they find it is worth their time to impose on others a lifestyle they prefer. Some attach a sort of advocacy interest in that they do it in recognition of the latent rights of animal to life. After all, if they are giving up something gastronomically significant, it might as well be for the salvation of the "lesser" creatures. Others do it because this was how they were brought up and moralized the whole practice as an afterthought. In most cases, they do so without ever knowing what they are excluding.

Admittedly, there are dishes that challenge the whole morality of killing animals for sustenance. A roasted pig on a stick, which for the most part, still looked as it were before it died but crispy and golden brown. A steamed fish on a platter the eyes of which are glassily staring into nothingness. An array of death served on a table for a feast sounds morbid if not for the promise of a gastronomic delight.

However, as for any preferences, meat-eating or otherwise is grounded on a particular bias. It is therefore hard to moralize an eating preference in favor of adopting a particular one. Majority of Hindu vegetarians are strictly vegetarians because of a bias reinforced by habit not because they value the morality of it. They were fed nothing but beans, bread, root crops and vegetables as kids and are surrounded by people who do the same. Their environment likewise mirrors their preferences that even famously meaty fast-food restaurants such as McDonald's and Pizza Hut have robust vegetarian selections. Their food-markets are mostly free of any meat and sell copious supply of what vegetarians patronize.

Which explains why some of these strict vegetarians, when after being transplanted from India, start to eat meat. Because when exposed to an influence and environment that do not espouse vegetarianism, the bias and habit of eating pure vegetables are less and less reinforced the longer one stays transplanted. Some would claim that it was a matter of convenience that they gave up being pure vegetarians. They had a hard time finding sources of the usual dishes that they eat and decided to include those dishes that are more readily accessible, never mind if these new dishes contain meat. If in favor of convenience one gives up something, can morality be very much a factor in it?

Just as most of the strict Hindu vegetarians are born into their vegetarianism, so are these meat-eaters who were raised by generations and generations of meat-lovers and who have not known of another lifestyle. They were surrounded mostly by people whom they share a love of meat-eating with. The environment and influence they grew up in sustain this preference and reinforce this habit.

So if you, being a strict vegetarian, find it very hard to give up this lifestyle, why can't you understand that these meat-eaters will feel the same?

cellphones annonymous

The evolution of mobile phones seemed to have picked up in the last five years. It seems it was only yesterday that we had mobile phones the size of a phone booth, and which required a ten-foot pole to finagle a signal. The fact that a part of the phone can be "flipped" at one point had us very excited, and when a version came out which allowed us to customize our phones with different covers we lost our minds.

Nowadays, even a phone with video and camera capabilities does not satisfy us. It just does not have to be small and thin, it has to be an iPhone or Blackberry. Consequently, relatively new phones are discarded despite the fact that they are functioning well and are serving their purpose. Because how else will one sleep peacefully at night without the most hep phone at one's fingertips?

Without the touch-screen and all the applications that are embedded in it, how can anybody make a phone call? How can I possibly expect anybody to send an sms using a phone that does not even have a qwerty? These are sacrifices that no one is allowed to ask of anybody.

How to Become $1,000 Poorer and Have Nothing to Show for It

Step 1. Think of buying a car-this includes researching on the current value of the car/s you are looking at and their corresponding residual value. The latter is a crucial information in deciding whether to lease or finance. Analyze the subtle and the differentiating merits between one model and the next. Aesthetic considerations such as color and accessories to be included are deliberated at this stage.

Step 2. Test drive cars that made it to your short-list-all research, and analysis cease at this point. The important thing to iron out at this stage is to decide when to go for test-drives. It will not hurt to wait for imminent holiday sales or for the end of the month. The former is for obvious reasons the latter is because dealership scramble to meet sales quota per month and is therefore desperate to make a sale.

Step 3. Neglect to research on which dealership to buy from- Go to any dealership with the assumption that they will kiss your feet and treat you like kings in order to make a sale.

Step 4. Wander innocently over to Toyota Huntington Station, NY-this is regardless of the fact that you are not interested in purchasing or leasing a Toyota. This dealership in particular is the catalyst of the series of unfortunate events that will haunt you after making a deal at this place.

Step 5. Prepare to be sales pitched for all the cars except for the one that you are interested in-You are interested in the 2009 Camry? Why don't you look at our second-hand 2005 Camry owned by an affable grand pa? Sure you want a V6? But why do you when V4 is practically the same except the engine is subtly inferior? If you want to lease, do not be surprised if they talk to you about financing. If you are convinced about leasing, you will be told of their great financing deals and rates. At this point, you try to remain firm and display restraint. Because this is the easy part.

Step 6. Settle on the price of the car and not on the monthly installment price-prepare to be dazzled with attractive numbers that suggests affordability and be snapped at when you ask for the interest rate and the base price from which these attractive figures come from. Following their arithmetic, there is no fundamental difference between paying $500/mo for 60 months and paying $450/mo for 72 months. At this point, you will realize that they do not and will not kiss your feet regardless of what day of the month it is and that they do not hesitate to use intimidation and condescension in order to close a deal. And also, regardless of what they say (500 * 60) < (450 * 72).

Step 7. Delude yourself into thinking that such is the case everywhere else-sit there and tolerate these indignities and focus on the end result: a car of your own.

Step 8. Pay $1,000 down payment to reserve the car-leave the dealership assuming that you will drive your own car the very next day.

Step 9. Prepare to have an argument with the dealer on what exactly was agreed upon-You'll pick up the car today?!? I didn't tell you you can pick up your car today.

Step 10. Five days, four seizures, three heated arguments, and two years shaved off from your life later-Congratulations! You are now $1,000 poorer and have no car to speak of.

***
If you wish to become $1,000 poorer and have something to show for it, make sure that you skip step 3. To say the least, it is a good idea to research on the car dealerships you have in your area. Otherwise you will miss out on valuable background info such as this. Doing your homework on the car and snagging a good deal for it is not a guarantee that you will drive home the car. Toyota Huntington Station, NY made sure that we realize as much.

When the door taught me a lesson

I have anger management issues, that is, I don't manage my anger at all. I can flare out with the slightest of provocation and at times, even with a complete absence of one. The boy woefully complains about it. But then again, he should just be man enough to take it.

One fine day, after erupting over a non-issue, the boy huffily walked out on me and out of the apartment. I ran after him and punctuated his dramatic exit by banging the door shut behind him. The walls of our apartment shook in approbation. Well, approbation or not, they shook nonetheless.

Having no one to argue with, I started to miss the boy. And soon after, guilt crept in.

Mmm, why am I so fussy; should have just left it alone....
Poor thing wasn't wearing a coat; must be freezing outside....
.....ack left his specs also....

Reason finally decided to regain control over my rapidly shrinking brain, having previously relinquished the authority to fury. I was all ready to call up a truce when somebody up there (or maybe down there) decided to teach me a lesson in anger management. Or, more accurately, a lesson in why one should not bang the door shut.

The door, which earlier very helpfully enhanced my histrionics with its reverberating echoes of defiance, is now steadfastly refusing to open. I did not know what to do. Multiple scientific experiments revealed that jiggling the door handle and kicking the door did not help.

Fortunately, the boy came back a few minutes later. However, he was hardly in the mood to rescue a damsel in distress. At this point, having been made acutely aware that I was locked inside the apartment, I struggled to tell him that he was inversely locked out.

It can be surprising what agents reason sometimes use in forcing us to realize how foolishly we were behaving. Locked inside a cell of my own creation, I forlornly looked at the person I hurt through a keyhole with shameful admittance of fault reflected in my face. The filmi quality of our situation did not escape us and we were close to recapturing a poignant scene from Romeo and Juliet when apartment maintenance decided that we both learned our lesson.

The next time I try to angrily close the door behind him, I hopefully will remember what I am invariably closing in and what I am inadvertently leaving out.

A check in the mail

But it is no ordinary check. It represents the culmination of a month-long battle against a spurious system that systematically devours deposits meant to be reimbursed. No longer! Included with the check is a reference to an apartment immaculately maintained with promise of a glowing recommendation addressed to our future potential landlord.

Thank you, Ithaca Renting Company, for restoring our faiths in an inept system and proving to us that sometimes, even inept systems work. If you find yourself homeless in Ithaca, NY or thereabouts do not think twice on renting one of their properties. They can be officious and unnecessarily fussy but they refund your deposits %100 plus interest for as long as you empty and clean the place before you move out.

To give you a sharper picture, in contrast, if you rent from Ithaca Rentals & Renovations, Inc., in particular the Westview Apartments, then you can kiss at least %50 of your rental deposit good bye. They will charge upwards of $500 for painting per room, which is roughly %40 of your rental deposit. Other miscellaneous charges will undoubtedly eat the remainder. Admittedly, we left the place in a distressed state but nothing that a $70 cleaning service cannot manage. The deductions were unwarranted and the raped refund took 6 months to arrive, visiting the rental office and insisting on getting back the deposit included.

At Summer Hill, according to a friend's experience, his rental deposit was battered by fees that he would have thought he already covered since before moving out a. he retained the services of the same cleaning lady that the management uses to clean the place after a tenant moves out and b. he had the carpets professionally cleaned. However, both were still deducted from his rental deposit providing no plausible explanation for the redundancy except of course that they can do it.

In case it is still not obvious, you will have the least headache dealing with Ithaca Renting Company. You can consider it as a paid advertisement on behalf of the company. After all, they did send back my deposit check.

Confirmed: Vijender Singh Gets the Bronze

A little bit more details here.

Fixated

It is a fact that citizens of at least two third-world countries, do not depend solely on paper or other synthetically manufactured products in complying with the sanitary requirements of the bottom (i.e. butt, ass, behind, junk in the trunk etc). They might not be able to afford a forest equivalent of toilet paper supplies but they manage without. Call them poor or impoverished but in these backward states, people perform ablutions of the bottom after every "noble deed." With soap and water. Something that I am beginning to suspect is unheard of in these parts.

Water impurity or lack of it does not deter these impoverished citizens from depending on water for support in bottom after-care and from living a self-imposed independence from toilet papers. A compelling evidence to this assertion is that a pail or variations of it is considered a standard fixture in their bathrooms. The more progressive ones have fitted their toilets with a jet-spray, from which one's bottom can enjoy direct water hit, rendering the pail unnecessary. The even more elite installed toilets that came equipped with the jet-spray.

Another such proof can be found in their bathroom accessories department. Wander down these aisles and without fail, one will find an array of multicolored pails in all shapes and sizes. Adjacent aisles feature shower heads not only for the typical shower but also for the jet-sprays I have mentioned above.

In comparison, even an inspired search for pails of this purpose, or even jet-sprays, in the retail stores in this country, from a behemoth chain to a localized one, yield unfortunate results and several unsavory inferences of the general hygiene of this country. One of which is that, people, after several swipes with the toilet paper, wash their bottoms while perched on the bathtub thereby eliminating the need for any water pails. However, this leads to several more unsavory inferences and more mystery: bathtub as repository of "particles" which are the by-product of the official toilet business? and what about those homes without a bathtub and are equally bereft of pails?

Perhaps, because these pails are rather unsightly and as a matter of utility rarely go well with the established decor, people here are wont on hiding these essential bathroom tools whenever they have guest/s. As such, since my sample size was mostly derived from bathrooms I have visited as a guest, if this were true, explains a lot. However, I am rather sure this is not the case.

It can also be true that after toilet paper swiping, the official business is wrapped up. In which case, euggh. I know that facial tissues are now equipped with aloe and similar nonsense so as not to hurt the nose when one is infected with a cold. However, I have not come upon a toilet paper product which is lined with soap and water that in using it alone is enough to meet the sanitary challenges of an official bathroom business. There are these innovative wet wipes which closely meet this function but still not quite. Besides, these wipes evolved from the wipes used on the bottoms of babies. And, babies' bottoms need wiping because they cannot wash their own bottoms, yet. What is the official adult excuse?

I do not know when this questionable practice started but I hope it be displaced soon enough. I do not want to imagine what all sorts of hygienic regimens will soon be substituted by toilet paper swiping. Taking a bath? Washing er wiping the face?

It is not an entirely hopeless case. It is not like the people here are afraid of the water. They do find hand-washing important, which in itself is a positive start. There is even a federal law which requires business owners to post notices reminding employees to wash hands prior to handling food. Is it too much to ask to include bottom-washing as well?

The next time you snootily raise your nose in the air upon hearing the filthy and backward practices of citizen X of poor country Y, they might be inclined to snootily raise their bottoms in the air in retort. Considering the above, there is just no winning argument against that.

Hans

There are many mysteries in life, one of which bothers me the most while I am browsing through the internet. It is the inexplicable behaviour of people to continue visiting/reading sites they avowedly disdainfully dislike. And this is something that affects me as I can be an exhibit A to this phenomenon.

There are about three blogs which I banned from my reading list either because the writing style does not appeal to me, the subject matter does not interest me or the combination of the two. Despite being able to define my reading list preferences, I still find myself on the same three sites that largely define what I, erm hate in blogs. In short, I am what I'd like to call a Han--a hating fan.

Many blog sites benefited from people like me, catapulting them to the most visited sites in all of cyberspace. Perezhilton.com is one such classic example of a hated website benefitting from the inadvertent support of the Hans. A cursory glance through the site's comment section will show that at least a handful of people took the time and made the effort to visit the site, read through at least one of the posts and hurl their insults at the site and author. Time and time again. In fact, "Most Hated Website" is an honor which the site triumphantly wears as an accomplishment.

I guess such behaviour reveals a curious inadvertent effect of hating and the alternate reality that exists with it. Typically, what happens is if one dislikes to an extent that one hates something, one will not support its propagation or its continued existence. In this case, however, the more the Hans hate, the more that it contributes to the existence of the object of hate.

So, even though I think these three blog authors should stop writing, but because I keep going back to these sites, regardless of the somersaults that my sensibilities are doing, they will continue to write. Because they are guaranteed of at least one reader, albeit a Han.

I should have one of those.

Tedious

This word sums it all up. I would have thought the process would be straightforward and simple enough. Google for apartments for rent within your budget and voila--move in. I do not know when apartment hunting suddenly became as stress-inducing as appearing for your life-altering job interviews. But it has. It has become very much akin to job hunting that savvy apartment hunters advises neophytes like me to treat meetings with potential landlords as one would a job interview. You have to say the right things and make sure you hold your tongue on the wrong ones. My favorite tip for instance is to not dazzle the landlord with your interior decorating plans of the place especially if it involves drilling and their walls. It is considered as a deal breaker in their circle. The only comforting thought is that there are more available apartments for rent than there are available jobs.

The tediousness is a bit comical, especially in the present economic situation when I doubt anybody is even considering paying anything above $0. Previously gainfully employed professionals are getting the pink slip everyday and the trend seems only to suggest that such will be the case for a while. Gasoline prices seem perpetually to be on the verge of getting a woman's period--swinging erratically from one end of the pole to another--influencing a similar behavior in the markets.

It's a Boy

I just found out that birth certificates in India do not bear the name of the child it is supposedly certifying the birth of. It does indicate whether a child born on March 22, 1979, for instance, is a boy or a girl. Which I guess is pretty much useful in India since the parents need to know whether to expect a dowry or to save up for one. Considering this, the less traditional families have almost no use for the birth certificate except to remind themselves of the misfortune/blessing that befell them one fateful day.

I may sound mocking but that is mostly because I am. But I am not as quick to dismiss any rational explanation for the nameless birth certificate. Tu Desi? Please enlighten a fool.