To Riverdale: A Photo Tour

Today's weather was a ruthless reminder of the trappings of urban living. Downtown was engulfed in a sceptic mix of hot exhaust fumes, white noise, and the body odour of the living multitudes. I picked my way through Chinatown in the mid-day sun, dodging the chive ladies and street hawkers, trying in vain not to get irritated by the seemingly more-gruesome-by-the-day Falun Gong displays. Garbage cooked in the garbage bins along the street, giving off that familiar sickly sweetness; I was convinced my own legs were slowly cooking too in my jeans.

I ended up in Riverdale Park East, the piece of land east of the Don Valley that was once Toronto's own mini-penal colony. Now as the whole wide universe knows (or Torontonians tend to think), it is a piece of prime park land bordering one of Toronto's most prettified upper-middle class bastions, whose ethos is but a faint echo of its working class past. Didn't Paul Martin buy into neighbourhood in the early 2000's? Or so I thought I had read from Toronto Life a couple of years ago. In any case, the popularity of North Riverdale (north of Gerrard) was such that poor cousin South Riverdale (Toronto's other Chinatown) was able to cash in on the good press. I'm sure more than a few eyebrows were raised this side of Gerrard.

---

Riverdale (and the whole East End in general) to me has always had this sort of tangibility to it . I remember way back one year in September when my mother and I went to the Taste of Danforth. A few minor mishaps and a couple of wrong turns later we found ourselves there at the very end of the festivities (and food), stared at the few remaining bereft-looking corn cobs, and decided to just walk around. The walk took us to Broadview Ave. just when the lights were coming on--white, cold, furtive lights beckoning from the million windows of downtown skyscrapers acorss the valley, and on our side, fuzzy yellow beams streaming out of solid, squat-looking Victorians and Edwardians, more grimey-looking than I (a suburbanite then) was used to.

When Toronto takes a momentary respite from its mad dash towards being the ideal place of post-industrial cool, and re-appraises its working-class roots and mythology, this is the place it will turn to. In West Queen West and Little Italy there are hipsters galore and the latest drama in the rise and fall of indie bands, but in Riverdale there are weathered but solid two-storey houses, streetcars clunking by, and tall maple trees instead; nothing but decent lives, quiet industry and Anglo-Saxon rectitude, which, willy-nilly, pervades our history.

Stop, breathe, take stock--we can't and shouldn't walk away from history--and that's why I'm here.

---
Not suprisingly, few were out in this hot and muggy day. Riverdale Park East to many downtownites is a forgotten place, and happily so. On my admittedly few trips there I'd never seen more than 10 people on the gigantic grassy slope, though many families did walk by on their way to the pool, a sudden flurry of sandals on concrete, garish swimwear, bronze flesh, white teeth, and childish giggles lingering in the distance.

Tanning on a muggy day like this definitely sounded better on paper. I fidgeted uncomfortably as the farawy cityscape simmered in the toxic brew.


---
At five o'clock I packed up my stuff and headed down Broadview, intent on crossing the DVP on Gerrard. Chinatown East at Broadview and Gerrard had the same autumnal air that every dying neighbourhood seems to be infected with; not particularly interested in witnessing squalor and decay, I quickly turned on Gerrard towards the west, across that sad parody of a highway, the Don Valley Parking lot.

At Gerrard and Broadview was the Riverdale Public Library, whose front steps many able-bodied yet unproductive men had for some inexplicable reason taken a liking to. A few Chinese men in their 40s squatted on the garden terrace and gawked at me as I walked by.

Also at that intersection was the Don Jail. While taking this picture an elderly east end-type (read: forlorn-looking) named Floyd approached me. We were very happy to share with each other our views on Walkerton, world religions, and the relative merit of Toronto-area senior homes.

And I did walk past the infamous Regent Park. Beer bottles littered across the lawn was a in-your-face reminder of poverty and the abject failure of 1950s social engineering. The vast expanses of trees did look enticing enough, and vaguely recalled sylvan Stuyvesant Town. But alas, the mis-matched curtains in the windows pulled me back into reality, and reminded me that being poor was not quaint afterall.

---

Half an hour of trekking landed me in the heart of hip Cabbagetown. I checked into Jet Fuel, reputedly the best coffee shop in the city. The barista smiled at me until I asked for a drinks menu--"Do we look uncool enough to carry menus?" she seemed to ask. A curt look, and an espresso landed angrily on the counter; we are back in the familiar playground of the young and the hip.

All this Riverdale expedition has managed to do was to deepen my appreciation for my expensive, albeit heavenly, espresso fixes.

THE END

When Culture Jamming Goes Wrong

Oh-so-crude, and oh-so-funny:

fuckthiswebsite.com

Oh the Trappings of Online Identity

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The Trashy Side of Me Couldn't Resist

But I felt like I had to post this entry from urbandictionary.com

azn

-Asians (mainly from California) who shame their race by bleaching their hair blonde and trying to develop the personality of a 'ghetto' negro. Ironically, these azn's do nerdy things such as hang out in arcades playing Tekken and DDR, but they still uphold their 'ghetto' personna online in chat rooms and blogs/xanga accounts.

azn: look, my hair is blonde
white guy: you're not white

azn: yO nIgUh?
black guy: you ain't black

azn: got rice?
asian guy: you're not asian

The Chronicle of a Shitty Day

I woke up at ten in the morning, noticing the conspicuous absence of the hot fuzzy sunlight that usually pours into my east-facing bedroom window by this time in the morning. There were funny cloud formations in the sky: yet another leaden day. I grunted, flipped listlessly through a few pages of the slightly trashy Foreign Babes in Beijing, and went back to sleep, only to wake up at one in the afternoon, head throbbing, nauseaus and hung-over with sleep.

The flip side of sweet languor is obtuseness.

I stared unseeingly out of the window while lying on my back, clouds inching across the sky and rain drops rattling the window. There was (a lot of) work to be done and no motivation to do it; I felt really lonely; by my pillow was Foreign Babes in Beijing and its ludicrous cover--I couldn't even get up, let alone face the day.

I finally dragged myself out of bed at three in the afternoon and arranged a coffee date with a friend, at no place other than the Chinatown Starbucks. Sad how this unspectacular event was the highlight of my day. We people-watched, chatted about how Jude Law and Sienna Miller made an appearance at the humble store my friend worked at; I was informed that I tend to unconsciously make inappropriate jokes in the presence of girls.

The rain had let up by the time I was walking back. A weird diffused light descended upon the streets of downtown Toronto, investing the scene with a ugly luridity--the wet, gritty alleys, the overgrown, weedy gardens, and the chain-link fences--stuff I've walked by a million times but only somehow choose to see on occassions like this. I chuckled at myself.

Well, everyone gets to be ridiculous once in a while. Might as well get it over with on a Sunday.

I suddenly want a facebook account.

Noteworthy, or Just Worthy of My Note: A Review of 6 Movies

I caved into Match Point just about when everybody around me had seen it. That I would be so willing to bypass a Woody Allen movie was due in part to the disappointment I had with his later films, and also in no small part to the good folks at NOW magazine, who panned the film.

Points off for NOW, because actually watching the film was a small delight. Moving from his familiar milieu of Upper Westside Jewish intelligensia to the refinement of London's high society gave fresh impetus to the film's theme of luck and questioning of the notion of justice. The story is familiar enough: poor Irish boy from the province (Chris Wilton, played by Jonathan Rhys Myer) accidentally broke into Waspy high society and stole the heart of rich heiress Chloe Hewett(a rather insipid performance by Emily Mortimer); everybody fell in love with the young, hardworking, upwardly mobile Chris, but he himself couldn't stay settled but accidentally knocked up a drifting American actress Nola Rice(Scarlett, who else?), who, alas, was once due to marry into the Hewett family herself.

As the film itself was not shy to point out, the story had a lot to say about luck contrary to society's prevalent teachings about hard work. Luck saw to it that Chris Wilton would achieve the kind of lifestyle that, had he relied on hard work alone, he would have never attained; luck also set colliding trajectories for Nola and Chris.

The extent to which the plot stretched luck required a small suspension of belief (some are understandably unhappy about it); another charge levelled against this film--and I agree with it--is that most of the supporting characters were mere caricatures. The rich Hewett family seemed like an assembly of rich people stereotypes: the insipid, good-natured daughter Chloe, the slightly irreverrent and langourous son Tom, the measured and reserved father, and the anal-retentive bitchy snob of a mother. Well, it hardly needs to be said, but not all rich Waspy matrons have to a bitch and have names like Eleanor.

Where the film truly gets points though is Chris Wilton's character and the palpable chemistry between him and Scarlett's Nola Rice. Chris Wilton is a poser: in an early scene he was filmed reading Crime and Punishment (for self-enrichment), but gave up midway and started reading the Oxford Companion to Crime and Punishment instead. His purported love of culture was his passport into high society, which he met with a latent inferiority complex and a faint sulkiness. All this was readily understood by Nola, herself an outsider, whose attitude towards Chris's attempt was in equal measure sympathetic, amused, and slightly disdainful.

This nuanced chemistry was most evident when Chris and Nola sat in a bar after a chance meeting, bonding over their mutual outsider status. Then all of a sudden Nola lost her nuanced touch and became this psychotic and possessive bitch. Why this was the case I can't say, but I suspect it was bad acting on Scarlett Johanssan's part (gasp!!) But Chris's rags-to-riches story was sufficient to drive the story along, his evolving relationship with money, power, and his own desires closely paralleled by our identification with him, lending plausibility to his climactic actions.

It may be an old story, but it surely worked. I found myself much more satisfied in the end than at the end of Crime and Misdemeanor, a similar story but more contrived in comparison to Match Point.

I can't say much about the much-hyped London setting; that "touch" Woody Allen has with New York is conspicuously missing in this movie. Also gone are the quips and witty one-liners. I miss these two things: that spectacular opening sequence to Manhattan and his famous witticism and dissection of neurosis in Annie Hall. Match Point can't match the height of those two movies, and I find the philosophy of it a bit trite. But if only for telling a good story, Match Point still marks a sort of return to form for Woody Allen.

And finally, Scarlett Johanssan was a disappointment. Loud and annoying, she was hardly the femme fatale she was supposed to be. Seduction works when it is (or at least appears) effortless, not when she struts around wearing too much make up and uttering lines like "you are playing a very aggressive game".

And while on that subject, Woody Allen needs to go back to film school to study directing more convincing sex scenes.

---

I went into A Scanner Darkly with a free ticket, which probably explains why I liked it more than I otherwise would--instead of caving to my urge to yell "Shut the fuck up" when the characters talked too much, I just sat back and reminded myself that I wasn't paying for this.

And plenty of that I did. This Linklater film was, in the same vein as Waking Life and Before Sunset, talky, and a lot of the conversations were no more than exchanges between stoners, one of them played by Keanu Reeves, an undercover agent investigating a brain-damaging superdrug called substance D as the drug flooded the country in a functioning but dystopic near-future. As he was forced to take the drug and the damage began to take effect, he found himself gradually assuming the identity of the very person he was investigating.

This was the founding premise of the main theme of identity. It was further complicated by the availability of "scramble suits"--protective clothing that completely disguises one's identity. Agents were required to wear them for security, and of course, secrets lurked beneath these sinister looking contraptions.

The scramble suits nicely reflected the air of paranoia in the Orange County of near-future: the film's greatest success was creating muted fear within the decaying world at large and the quiet horror of one man's private hell as he was eaten away by brain damage and drug-induced hallucinations.

But the film's attempt at being thought-provoking never really took off from there but was instead undercut by its persistent attempt at not-so-subtle current commentary. The government appeared so sinister with all of its survallence activities, that you almost expected a conspiracy from the outset; and when the conspiracy was revealed, all it got from me was an indifferent shrug.

The use of rotoscope animation was useful for a) creating the kind of hallucination-ridden world seen through the eyes of drug addicts ("are those sofas moving or is it just me?") and b) disguising Keanu Reeves's bad acting skills.

Too self-conscious and bent on becoming an instant cult-classic, a Scanner Darkly is bound to become an instant cult-classic among high school art majors.

---

I've been getting my fill of CGI-ladden films lately: Superman Returns, X-men, and Pirates of the Caribean. All three were surprisingly entertaining, although regrettably none of them had enough things being blown up. I mean, that's what they are for, right? And what's with Brandon Routh's face?

Also saw Devil Wears Prada; trivial frivolous fun.

A Healthy Dose of Sentimentality

Visiting these forlorn and stagnant pages of my blog has been a difficult exercise lately. My sincerest apologies to my loyal readership, for whom logging into these pages is probably just as difficult.

I hate to come across as a poser--although this will most definitely make me one--but the impetus for committing anything on this blog really only presents itself in one of my contemplative moments, when vague notions and half-formed jokes begin to take a more concrete forms; these "moments", among others, include:

a) me taking a long contemplative walk late at night, staring vacantly at the streetscape while looking pretty;

b) me taking my breakfast at an empty diner early in the morning, staring vacantly out of the window while looking pretty;

c) me taking the streetcar, staring vacantly out of the streetcar window while looking pretty.

And the sad thing about my summer so far is that there haven't been enough of these moments that lend themselves to poetry; hence the sparse update.

Well, at least you can't accuse me of not living introspectively.

---

So the long and short of my life's story at this moment is that I'm working an un-inspring job (although the title elicits a few "wows" before they find out my exact job description), taking an art class, and just getting generally comfortable with my routines. Terribly unexciting, and a far cry from my grandiose plans at the beginning of the summer.

I did get to indulge in my cinephilia, and actually meet some pretty splendid people. Soloman deserves a special mention if only for the truly bizzarre story of how we met and the hilarity that ensued.

And I threw a dinner party last night on a whim: curry, creamy leek and potato stew, and various grilled goodies, washed down with cheap wine; a small but happy and lively gathering.

I suspect this is what life would be like in ten years' time: routines after routines, and the occasional (literal and figurative) dinner parties; truth be told, I don't exactly mind it. (ha, yesterday I just gave a speech on how I hate people who lead white-bread, unintrospective lives, but under the influence of alcohol of course) There is a satisfying sense of down-to-earth everyday-ness to it, and frankly, what beats having good friends to take care of and be generous to?

Wow, that was totally a Life Network moment.

Love the job...Lovin' it

Before I settled down to work this morning I chatted with everyone on my MSN that's actually up at this ungodly hour, read everything in the Epoch Times, and browsed two backissues of the Varsity.

New Music Genre: Tart Pop

Introducing my own Academy of the Overrated

"-Levitt's overrated. In fact, he may be a candidate for the academy."

"-Right!"

"-Mary and I have invented the Academy of the Overrated for such notables as"

"-Gustave Mahler"

"-Isak Dinesen and Carl Jung"

"-Scott Fitzgerald"

"-Lenny Bruce. Can't forget him, can we?"

It's scary when you watch movies like Last Days, Elephant, and My Own Private Idaho and listen to Gus Van Sant talking about his exploration of the human condition, because what are we supposed to make of a world that heaps all of its adoration onto this supposedly serious artist when we all know that the world is not nearly as vacant, senseless and devoid of motives as he "observes" it?

Comfortingly, most of the films for which he wrote the script were panned by critics.

To someone as boring, irritating, self-indulgent, and nihilistic as Gus Van Sant, my only response is "Up Yours!"

...And you think herpes is scary?

Jane Jacobs Dead; Siqi Lives

The glorious(??) but ubershort run of my blog (one month all in all) is a testament to my amazing stamina and the seriousness of my literary aspirations. But it's not really all my fault: some may attribute it to writer's block, which is untrue and entirely too flattering; and I say it's just an unfortunate mix of inertia and working an academic job.

Working as a summer researcher (read: paper shuffler) in one of the drabbest buildings on campus is analogous to eating too much potatoes: you get little out of it and end up farting a lot. I pray to my stars that my supervisor will never see this--to his credit, he's the nicest and most congenial professor ever, and climate change is a good research topic in so far as it appeals to my do-gooder, public-sector, anti-car side--but should the frigging babushka at Butler's Pantry ever call me back for a second interview, I'd switch jobs and don a waitor's outift in a heartbeat.

Collision of the Worlds

But life does have some surprises in store even in the drabbest corner of the universe. I walked into the registrar's office today to borrow a sharpie and there he was: a fellow blogger whose identity and blog I somehow (creepily) stumbled upon on facebook and creepily followed.

As is the case with most stories this one began with a bit of tainted intentions. Bored on facebook one day I decided to search the most fob-ulicious names: Walter, Walt, Edison, Lawrence, and eventually Soloman. Lo and hehold there is actually a Soloman here at UofT, a diva no less, with his own blog.

I guess the blog, which was really interesting, erudite, and updated, redeemed it all. I figured the whole Soloman thing was just a sad mistake his parents made after watching the History Channel in a boozy state; and as far as parental misconduct goes, it's really not all that bad. My parents once told me for whatever reason that I looked ugly when I smiled and the gap between my teech showed; someone should have called social services in on them.

Summer in the Annex

I have an air conditioner and am thankful for it. Every day when I come home hot and sweaty, I throw away the fact that I'd spent the entire day researching climate change and jack the air conditioner all the way up. The sheer pleasure of suppressing guilt is unparalleled.

In good weather I'm prone to long walks. I frequent Harbord Fish and Chips; the smell of frying fat makes it the most congenial place on earth.

Other pleasures are more unexpected. I found the book "Metropolitan Life" by Dorothy Parker-lite, Fran Lebowitz, in mint condition in a garbage pile on Major St. A good read, but I just hope I won't pick up some random bacteria from it, like, Garbagitis (haha).

Movies

I tried to review movies when I get the time to. But then the last movie review dates from March so apparently that was successful. I finally saw Stardust Memories but could see nothing except for Woody Allen's genius cracking under his own fame. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was quite good (finally dragged my lazy ass to see it), and Art School Confidential was a bummer. What is it with people like Max Mingella who think that just because they can act drippy they are good actors?

I saw X-Men and liked it. Not to say it's not shitty but I went in with really low expectations. So don't ask.

Today I was called in by the Public Space Committee people to help screen and critique films for their upcoming film festival. I was unlucky enough to see first-hand this rancid travesty of a home video called Winking Circle.

Nothing good comes out of small town Ontario, Avril Lavigne being the case in point. So when you are about to watch a bunch of grade 11s from Uxbridge, ON exploring individual expression through basement pot parties, painting their parents' pick-up trucks, punk rock concerts in the garage & skateboarding, you know it's not gonna be easy. But it felt more like someone holding my eyelids open and giving my eyeballs paper cuts, because 1) this "Wink Circle" organization actually exists, and 2) people beside me were nodding appreciatively.

(See the horrors for yourself)

I hope people from my organization never see this, but I hereby resolve that, should this movie pass screening, 1)I would quit this thing once and for all and 2) I shall pray day and night that the God of Good Taste will strike all these people down.

There, I've taken all you dear readers into my confidence. But confidence comes cheap these days, so don't get excited 'cause you are still not my friend.

Urban Legend

Jane Jacobs, 1916 - 2006

“I love New York so much still,” she (Jacobs) said. “But the traffic is the worst I’ve ever known it to be.” (In a chapter in her new book, she explains briskly why one-way streets, designed to streamline traffic, only complicate it.) “New York still has so much pizzazz, because people make it new every day. Like all cities, it’s self-organizing. People looking for a date on Third Avenue make it into a place full of hope and expectation, and this has nothing to do with architecture. Those are the emotions that draw us to cities, and they depend on things being a bit messy. The most perfectly designed place can’t compete. Everything is provided, which is the worst thing we can provide. There’s a joke that the father of an old friend used to tell, about a preacher who warns children, ‘In Hell there will be wailing and weeping and gnashing of teeth.’ ‘What if you don’t have teeth?’ one of the children asks. ‘Then teeth will be provided,’ he says sternly. That’s it—the spirit of the designed city: Teeth Will Be Provided for You.”

From the New Yorker, "Cities and Songs," May 17, 2004

p.s. A new post coming up soon.

A Call to Stratford

Had the most brilliant idea the other day: we should all go to Stratford after exams (or during the summer), bring some good books, get some good food, some wine, and catch a show or two--the Glass Menagerie looks really good. What do you say, friends? (tickets are only $20, drop me a line if you are interested)

I never professed to be a big theatre person, and the only experience (musicals don't count) I've had with real theatre is limited to this understandably embarassing one time at Angels in America with my potentially homophobic mother. But I always liked Tennessee Williams--the gentle and tormented genius, last relic of the fading genteel south; all romantizations aside, I'm also addicted to a Streetcar Named Desire.

On that subject, while dining with (haha I love dining at New Ho) with Aliza after life drawing we bumped into two really burly obnoxious men from Louisiana who listened in to our conversation and joined in at their liberty, and burped liberally. God, what's more pathetic than being a hick and having your home washed away by Katrina?

Three Times, and Other Tidbits

Apologies to my dear readers for the lack of updates, but since seeing Three Times on Friday I've felt like I owe it to this blog to write a movie review, which, as I remember from my Innis Herald days, can become really excruciating.

It wouldn't be impudent to draw parallels between Hsiao-hsien Hou's Three Times and the noltalgic pieces of that other demigod of Chinese cinema, Wong Kar-Wai. Both are awash in lush colours and oriental melancholy, and evocative of the semi-mythical places of yesteryear (Hong Kong, Taiwan). Yet almost over-indulgently Three Times prized style over characters and story, and suffered for it.


Chen Chang and Shu Qi appeared as lovers in three separate stories that spanned almost a hundred years. A Time for Love was a convincingly awkward love story between a soldier (Chen) and a poolhall mistress (Shu Qi) in the pre-modernization Taiwan of 1966. It was the most accessible story out of the three, granted, but also the most charming. The landscape of dilapidated houses and noisy roadside snack joints, symbols of a more innocent and restrained existence, provided the perfect backdrop as the young lovers gingerly fell in love. Shu Qi and Chen were clearly comfortable in their respective roles, and made up for Hou's economy with characters with nuanced and believable acting.

The other two segments, set in 1911 and 2005, respectively, were much more forgettable. There is something to be said about Hou's ambitions--to chronicle of the changing nature of love and relationships throughout the century; but his tendency to linger over scenery and overlook characters proved to be a serious handicap. In a Time for youth, Shu Qi had the very thankless job of portraying an epileptic lesbian singer whose infactuation with a man threatened to destroy her established relationship with another girl. There was supposed to be inner turmoil and confusion, yet with Hou's quick and broad strokes, little of that came across; Shu Qi's character appeared genuinely callous, even loathsome.

Three Times should have been three seperate movies, instead of only one that managed to be both contrived and boring (3 hours!!!)

Having said that, it was gorgeous to look at. The lush interiors of the 1900s brothel dripped with saturated colours and a pervasive sense of claustrophobia; 21st century Taipei was instead shown in a harsh, bluish, searching light that perfectly communicated the quiet anguish of the young and the lost. Unfortunately that was all Three Times was--a beautifully shot dud.



In other news, the Squid and the Whale recently came out on DVD. I beseech you: do yourself a favour and watch it. It honestly is one of the best of 2005, and embodies the best qualities of American independent cinema. It's at once witty, contemplative, incisive, and emotionally honest; if for nothing else, watch it just to see Jeff Daniels (at his best here) as the failed intellectual: his snobbisms are quite something.

A Hilarious Look at Sushi Etiquette

http://www.atomfilms.com/af/content/japanese_sushi

Biatch

I've decided to celebrate the 10th post of this blog with a picture of everyone's favourite , Bai Ling. Move over Paris Hilton: Bai Ling was in this business before you could even pronounce "c-o-c-k".

Quite a picture I must say. She looks like a cobra in some sort of a bizzarro ballerina's outift. Hmm, delectable.

Good Laughs

I forgot to mention this. Go to this blog, Bent Yellow Boy, scroll down to the entry titled "Celine Dion as fag hag" on March 20, and watch the music video. Note the trademark wind-blown hair.

I was like "holy crap" when I saw it. Goes to show how the 90s really was the golden age of civilization.

Really funny stuff. His whole blog is.

It's All Uphill From Here

Poster for my design project: it's worse than it looks

Design demonstration was on Wednesday and no parts of my machine worked. The humiliation was however brief (thankfully). The elaborate ritualistic burning of the machine that I had for so long planned never happened either--I thought I could for once do without all the negativity and strive for a small measure of fineness. So I went to New Ho King and doted on a plate of beef & brocolli instead.

Thursday was eventless; I skipped classes and made a creamy leek and potato stew and had people over. Good times.

More good times on Friday: went to Kensington Market with Aliza and met up with newly-hitched Sam. It was gray and windy, altogether a terrific day for coffeeshop-lounging and conversations galore--movie snobbery, new apartments, enticing prospect of drinking forties on a Annex patio--all of this over expensive coffee, which I drank not entirely without guilt. Kensington Market is gentrifying, and we've got blood on our hands.

Today was one of those days when you thought you'd been working hard but got little done. A supposed study session at Future's degenerated into people watching; saw the Failed Artist, Sandra Oh's mom (no not really), and an awkward blind date where a golddigger worked a professor; discussed the role of dogs and babies as the facilitators of social interactions between otherwise lonely but staunchly aloof urbanites.

There is this web service called China Bridal that hooks up rural Japanese men with women from China's northeastern rustbelt; and there is this advertisement I saw in the Spectator (the voice of elitist conservative Britain) that markets "elegant Japanese ladies" to successful British men. Here is the real problem: that the world is full of lonely people all over, including all of us, to a certain extent.

And that includes my rowdy neighbours and their group of obnoxious parties animals. You sad bastards, I sit quietly cursing.

p.s. I need a blog name that's actually not lame. I'm open to suggestions.

Having the March Blues

That battered garbage bin at the back of my apartment reminds me of me.