Unbalanced Vision

Tomorrow

Annie
The sun'll come out
Tomorrow
Bet your bottom dollar
That tomorrow
There'll be sun!

Just thinkin' about
Tomorrow
Clears away the cobwebs,
And the sorrow
'Til there's none!

When I'm stuck with a day
That's gray,
And lonely,
I just stick out my chin
And Grin,
And Say,
Oh

The sun'll come out
Tomorrow
So ya gotta hang on
'til tomorrow
Come what may

Tomorrow!
Tomorrow!
I love ya
Tomorrow!
You're always
A day
Away!

You are a complete literary geek, from knowing the
classics (even the not-so-well-known classics
and tidbits about them) to knowing devices used
in writing, when someone has a question about
literature, they can bring it to you and rest
assured; you know the answers.


How much of a literary geek are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

(It appears that if you've read one book in your life, you can be the Bard; other than that you are George Bush.)

Me and S were wondering if Little E will single-handedly make us an Easter lunch like what he did last year. As it turns out, everyone was so focused on the fact that E cooked us a feast, we vaguely remembered that S was actually Santa's little helper. To avoid this anonymity, for those of you who will be listening to HY's show-and-tell this afternoon, the wonderful and incredibly observant picture with two blokes dressed as Santa taking peoples' temperature in front of Taipei 101 was taken by memememememememememememe. Thank you.

On Monday, we went to HY's coworker's 30th birthday dinner. It was taken place, suprisingly enough, at a gastropub (The Duke of Cambridge) I had just read reviews about the night before. Located off the busy high street in Islington, this place boasts to be the first restaurant in London to introduce organic food; therefore, everything should be organic. Indeed, some guy ordered a pint of Eco-Warrier, I had a starter of organic scallops and HY digged in a giant organic dead pig. There were organic leaflets on organic tables that protested anti-GM food, and organic tampons to use in the organic ladies' room. Eating organic dishes amongst the valley of the thirty somethings, I felt young and healthy, or let's just say, am truely feeling like a callow youth of 25.
On Tuesday, S kidnapped me to zone 4. We took the Northern Line to a bloody in the middle of nowhere place called Collindale. It was pouring rain, the air was freezing and the houses looked dingy and grim. Just as I was thinking why on earth do I bother to come here in this crappy weather, a quintessential suburban-style cavernous white building appeared before our eyes. This is the Oriental supermarket, which includes a Sega world, an enormous supermarket, various shops that sell Japanese and Chinese kitchenware, clothing and CDs, etc. Of course there's the fantastic food court that provides Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Indo, Korean cuisine at fairly reasonable prices. I know for some dishes such as Shabu-Shabu requires a bit of discomfort to enjoy it properly, but after having to deal with a bowl three times the size of my face, I refuse to order anything that involves DIY. I had a set meal of tempura and sashimi, and S ordered don. At home now I have rice cookies that may supply for a lifetime.

Hehe, just watched the final episode of SATC, something the British viewing public will see until the 19 March. It's one fine ending I must say: Miranda becomes a loving mother, wife and daughter-in-law, Charlotte and Harry are expecting the arrival of a Chinese baby, and Samantha finds true love with Smith. As for Carrie--Big accidentally finds Carrie in some Paris hotel lobby after her fight with the Russian, wins her back to NY, and after all these years, tell her she's the one. (awwww~~~) The best bit, of course, was when Big phones Carrie on her cell phone and the screen displays the name, 'John'. I was so right about that! It is when SATC comes to an end that you start thinking about your favourite stories. I am especially fond of the episode when Carrie falls flat on the catwalk and courageously gets up again to finish the show, and the episode when Big tells Carrie that there's loads of gorgeous women out there, but in the end you stay with the one that makes you laugh. Americans are so good at creating these optimistic, heart-warming and uplifting story plots, and call it cheesy if you want, sometimes I bloody will buy into it!

The last season and final episode of SATC has held me in eager anticipation. According to the second to last episode, Big is very likely to dash off to Paris and win back Carrie's heart. I don't really care if Big and Carrie will live happily ever after, but will HBO finally reveal Big's name!!?? Me and S have been trying to give Big a name, perhaps it's something really common, like 'John Smith' which signifies the Everyman. Today I've decided that Big is going to be named 'Donald Trump'. See Trump quote, 'I like thinking big. If you're going to be thinking anything, you might as well think big'. On the other hand, Carrie's latest beau the Russian sure is getting on my nerves. It's not the age that's bothering me, but the accent and his romanticism, and how Carrie gets all flirtatious around him. Though now looking back at the past episodes, it seems that the Russian is a swift runner and can kill rats. Next week, he's even going to dance for Londoners at the Barbican.

Infernal Affairs is showing at cinemas near you (with English subtitles for suckers who don't understand the language)! This film has created a sensation as I was told back home in TWN last year, my brother says it's like the Chinese version of Godfather, with three episodes as well. Played by some of the yummiest Cantonese blokes, I have desired to nick the film poster off the walls near Euston station for a while. Last night with the help of another criminal HY, the wrinkled and smelly poster is now inside my room. *satisfied grin*

This week I have chosen to sit at seat 2383 because it is closest to the issue desk and open shelves. Today I saw a weedy man in red kilt talking to a librarian, then he walked towards me and sat two desks away from mine. You rarely see men in kilts walking about in the reading room, and as Samantha in SATC tells us: rumor has it that they wear nothing underneath--I wonder if it is true of that gentleman. Then again is the annoying old geezer who only chats up young Asian women, especially when they are the most unarmed, ordering books in the computer section. As usual, today a poor black-haired girl had to bear with his presence. My tutor reminded me that some studious-looking senior citizens might be distinguished scholars, and the old geezer could be one. I sincerely doubt it, for if I were famous I wouldn't bother talking to random people in the library. On a different note, seat 2383 is a bit noisy--there's a kind librarian who always bothers to explain everything in detail; I would sit further back in the room next week.

I wasn't sure it was her. Mariella Frostrup, the agony aunt in the Sunday Observer Magazine, who is noted for her wise relationship advices, her sarcastic tone and impishness of making fun of troubled spirits in her column, is actually talking about happiness in last week's Sunday newspapers. Even stranger still was that she was shown cuddled up with her husband in the Highlands with a real happy smile, the kind that wipes out the cynicism. I've seen her in other pictures, single, looking smart and introspective, or on holidays on some tropical island. This was quite different; Frostrup is pregnant and happy. In fact, one of her hands is placed on the tummy. I understand there's nothing more blissful than expecting the arrival of a baby, but this leaves me wondering do we need a new life to teach us about happiness and the joy of giving? And do we need someone else to teach us how to be happy? It's true that helping people solve relationship problems is a way to make them happy, and I have no problem with that. But instructing us readers to 'enjoy the micro-moments... your baby's smile, a friend's fortune, the first scent of spring, church bells on a sunny Sunday morning, kindness from a stranger', etc. is starting to make me miserable.

I have been to see the Weather Project at Tate far too many times than I have hoped for, and now the yellow sun looks pretty damn boring. If I knew where the main power switch to the art work was, I would gladly volunteer to turn it off. Knowing that this is sheer fantasy and cannot be realised, instead make a pleasant departure--Hop upstairs to level four and visit Donald Judd's blocks of iron and aluminium, nice solid dark colours, and the empty spaces in between.

I have taken over Rachel's blog because yesterday I learned some new information that will shock everyone: Rachel is afraid to go to the toilet in the middle of the night. Imagine my surprise when I learned that the reason she gets up so early in the morning is not because of her industriousness and energy, but the fact that she's been holding her pee in all night. Here is the true story of Miss Lin's nighttime pee-fear.

"Dear Readers--I hope you permit this unworthy author the liberty of telling a story which has come to my attention. This is the true story of one R--, an elegant young woman whose unlined face belied her twenty-five years of age. R-- was an orphan from the age of 10, when her parents had died in an unlikely pleasure-boating accident on the River Derwent, in D--shire. She was sent to live at Plimpton Manor, the residence of her only remaining relative, the tyrannical Mr Weatherby. Weatherby had made his fortune in the speculation of beaver hides in the Colonies, but he was an unpleasant man whose wealth was not tempered by mercy. He kept only two servants on his vast estate, and much of the grand manor was uninhabitated, save the servants' quarters and Mr Weatherby's own suite. Upon R--'s arrival, she was met by Timothy, a sullen young lad with dark and brooding eyes, whose dour countenance filled R--with a feeling of deep foreboding. Timothy was the stableboy, and he helped her out of the carriage silently, but with a look of resentment that chilled R-- to the very marrow of her bones. His great-aunt, Mrs Ridley, the house-keeper and cook, greeted young R-- at the door with a look of suspicion. R-- was shown to her room, a dusty chamber filled with old mahogany furniture, and she asked Mrs Ridley if she might soon have the pleasure of meeting her benefactor. Mrs Ridley replied that the master was out on a hunting-party, and often stayed away for days. That evening, as R-- prepared her toilette for repose, there came a knock on the door. There stood Mrs Ridley with a warning for the young lady: "Whatever ye do, use not the commode during the night, for danger awaits ye there." R-- repaired to bed with this warning in her mind, but a few hours past midnight, she was seized with the urgent need for relief. Brushing aside Mrs Ridley's words with the careless urgency brought on by both youth and her bladder, she took up a candle and made her way to the water closet. After performing her duty, a cold breeze blew over her and she spied a ghostly figure clad in a white night-dress. R-- shrieked and ran to her chambers, whereupon both Mrs Ridley and Timothy came to discern the source of the troubles. When R-- told them of what had transpired, Mrs Ridley cackled and said "Ach, lassie, did I not warn ye?" Timothy had a look of grim satisfaction upon his visage, as if he had expected these events to come to pass. Mrs Ridley then told R-- the story of the ghost: "The wraith which you espied is the spirit of young Timothy's mother, deserted by a debauched and ungrateful husband. She attempted to drown Timothy in the commode, and then shot herself. Mr Weatherby rescued Timothy, but his mother was beyond help. Since that day, her spirit has haunted the water closet. I advise ye never to use it again in the darkness of night, lest ye too be carried down to a watery grave." Mrs Ridley abruptly turned and returned to her quarters. Timothy watched her leave, then hissed to R--, "If me mother's spirit doesn't kill ye, I shall have to finish the job...." Thus ends the story of Miss R--, and sadly this author does not know the fate of the young lass."

And that's why Rachel is afraid to pee at night: a commode-haunting lady-ghost.

By way of Twelve

The Weekend Guardian magazine always introduces these homey lust objects that make you drool. After looking at Twelve's oak desk organiser, I found this shelf on their site which seems like a nice, solid home for your books, a very limited amount of paperback books that is.
My mum and dad have also came home from a one-week holiday in Guang-Xi. Yes, the scenery as described is breathtaking, and no, they did not catch the bird flu. However, they did try some meat which was thought to be pork, but turned out to be flesh of another species. Ignorant of the knowledge of what was actually in their mouths, they were horrified by this experience when truth was revealed.

Picture taken by Dad. As the old saying goes, 桂林山水甲天下

For Photo Friday

This is the view through S's window at our lovely postgrad student hall--Mount Pleasant becomes a glamourous post office at night.

After having lunch with HY, I bumped into Henry on my way home. Henry is Little E's coursemate's flatmate, get it? We met each other at our old student hall, the day when Little E's coursemate (I always forget her name) made us a delicious Thanksgiving Day feast. So Henry asked, 'Don't you remember today is Chinese Lantern Festival?' Hum, I absolutely forgot about it. This holiday is celebrated every year 15 days after Chinese New Year's Day, and families go out in the evening to look at the display of beautiful lanterns. Children like to carry their own, and I used to make my own lantern--the traditional ones that have candles. I find the modern electric light bulb lanterns quite ugly. It is also a tradition to eat Yuan-Xiao: they look like tiny white doughs. Anyways, Henry was on his way to Chinatown to buy these very doughs. He added, 'Did you know that this holiday is also like the Western Valentine's Day?' Hum, again, I didn't know that. Therefore he joyfully said, 'I'm also going to Chinatown to try my luck'. Now how would one find love when buying Yuan-Xiao at Chinatown is an optimistic mystery, but still. Henry sure has a sense of humour.

S thinks she's special cos she's the only person you'd know that is willing to make donkey noises early in the morning just to entertain you. I think I'm special because so far I'm the only Taiwanese-born person on Rice Bowl Journals that resides in the UK. The majority of listed Taiwanese bloggers live in the States, Australia or Taiwan.

'jeudi, janvier 29
Snow yesterday afternoon--near UCL, students dashed out of the Union and Archaeology to gather up handfuls of snow and throw them at each other. Clusters of girls walked by in twos and threes, huddling under umbrellas. Though it had gone dark, the light was calm, diffuse: a warm glow of streetlights reflecting off the puffy duvet-sized flakes coming down.'
by Belle de Jour

It appears the protagonist of 'Diary of a London Call Girl' was walking pass Little E's grand Archaeology Department building last Wednesday, just how cool is that? So, who is she anyways, the winner of Guardian's best written blog last year? Some have guessed that she might be London based young writer Zadie Smith, using nom de plume 'London Call Girl'. I haven't read any of her works yet so cannot really tell. The fact is: people can't seem to accept the existence of an educated prostitute. Just like ones who can't imagine Shakespeare, a fine country lad who has no clear evidence of receiving university education compose such masterpieces. However, London Call Girl did go to uni, and as quoted, she 'studied a wholly academic humanities subject useless to the world at large'. This makes me quite worried for I am falling into the same category--S says she is most likely to be either a Philosophy or an English major. I admire her ability to remain anonymous; I, on the other hand, find it difficult not to tell a secret.

How to fold a Brompton: watch and learn.

Step 1

Step 2

Step 3

Step 4

Step 5

You are ready to take off!

'MTV Statement on Super Bowl XXXVIII Halftime Incident
Sunday February 1, 11:03 pm ET
HOUSTON, Feb. 1 /PRNewswire/ -- The tearing of Janet Jackson's costume was unrehearsed, unplanned, completely unintentional and was inconsistent with assurances we had about the content of the performance.
MTV regrets this incident occurred and we apologize to anyone who was offended by it'.

Some family they have. To balance the over abundance of male testosterone at Super Bowl, and big bro's trial for child molestation, Janet kindly exposes her ultimate shield with the help of Justin--I saw it last night on telly.

Thanks to TorrentBits, ideally I'd never have to step inside the movie theatre again, unless somebody drags me to watch wonderful films like Underworld. A few nights ago HY and I watched the much praised Lost In Translation on this very 14 inch screen. This movie, in my opinion, is best watched in the length of its trailer, for besides the interesting portrayal of cultural shock and lonely companionship you'd have to deal with the minutes of tedium in between. HY said he doesn't give a toss of people singing karaoke for 20 minutes, while I almost fell asleep with Murray and Johansson when they were lying on the bed exchanging sporadic dialogues. Don't get me wrong, I have a high tolerance for slow-paced movies, but this work seems to me that it has ran out of things to say. On the other hand, besides giving blow-by-blow accounts of the characters' inner psyche, HY kept on wondering if Murray and Johansson are ever going to have sex. It would be such a let-down if they did though--sometimes visiting a foreign place is not really about searching for the exotic, but merely about finding the familiar.