Vietnamese Wedding Reception

The son of one of my dad's Vietnamese clients got married today.

My family was invited to the wedding reception, Vietnamese style according to the bride and groom's families. A Vietnamese style wedding reception is quite similar to a Chinese wedding reception, in which both share a common anthropological and social origin resulting in a similar culture, and in which both are heavily westernized. That, and the reception was held in a Chinese restaurant.

Both the bride and the groom have huge families, so the reception was attended by about 700 guests - and that's with a lot of absentees. It was like a massive family reunion, so everyone was chatting away at other tables. Thus, it took so long to get everyone together, sitting down, and paying attention that we didn't actually start to eat until about 9PM. That was worse for me, because I pretty much knew nobody in the wedding, so I felt very uncomfortable and out of place; the more festive things got, the lonelier I felt. Therefore, all that I was focusing on and looking forward to was the food.

Then, my mom started giving me shit about not socializing enough. What am I to do? Start randomly going around tables and chatting up/annoying people that I probably won't be seeing again, because they mostly come all the way from Abbotsford? Besides, everyone's already going all out on the wine, and will be too drunk to remember me anyway.

But that was probably because my parents both got a little bit drunk on wine, too. Once, they never even drank one drop of alcohol. I guess taking up being winos was part of the sweeping changes they have implemented on their lifestyle when they went through their mid-life crises. Because they started their foray into alcoholism so late in their lives, their capacity for alcohol is worse than a 14 year old on a trip to Tijuana.

And speaking of getting drunk, when the time came for the groom to carry the bride around the banquet area, this one red-faced uncle sitting at my table wouldn't stop shouting, "CARRY HER WHILE YOU STILL CAN, BEFORE SHE GETS FAT!!!"

I'm just glad my mom didn't get so drunk that she started to randomly go around tables inquiring with girls on their interest in being a bride for her son. That would be a new low point in my life, although, as I said before, I probably won't be seeing any of those people again. Nevertheless I do wish the bride and groom a happy life together.

And most of all, the food kicked ass.

Ignorance And Bliss

The weather this weekend was just amazing.

We've earned it after an entire season of getting soaked. I can feel it. The air has that "warmer" fragrance, charged with sunlight and blooming plants, just like the way that fabrics laid out in the sun have that distinctive smell of freshness. With this, I also feel the pressure from Mother Nature/God to get fit and shape up sooner or skip the beach altogether.

Speaking of getting fit, today was also the annual Vancouver Sun Run, a 10k run through downtown sponsored by our local newspaper, the Vancouver Sun. My friends wanted me to join them, but there is no way I have the stamina to even run to the fridge to get a slice of cheese, let alone run 10 km. So I opted to give them moral support from the distance of my home.

This year, like pretty much all other years, the winners of the Sun Run for both the men's and women's categories were from Africa, Kenya this time. I asked my mom if she noticed how it's always African people that win first place in the Sun Run.

"Of course! They get so fast from chasing all the animals around when they hunt in Africa!"

I was horrified, and also guilty for finding myself suppressing laughter at such an ignorant and silly comment. Fortunately, we were at home. I immediately warned my mom that she can't say those kinds of things.

Don't misunderstand my mom. She isn't maliciously racist; she actually thought what she said was true. Even if it is somewhat true, I don't think it's a very pleasant stereotype. I'm sure at some point in our lives, our parents will say something racially outrageous. You don't have to be a first generation; as long as your parents grew up and lived in a monocultural clique, chances are they will know nothing about other cultures. Ironically, this can be the case regardless of your race.

Feeling sure that my mom will exercise caution when opining in public, I decided to spend the rest of the lovely Sunday doing what anyone without available friends or a life would do - hang out at the greenhouses of home gardening shops. I first became interested in plants and home gardening when I moved into this house. The contractor that was hired by my home's developer did a fraudulently crappy job at landscaping the property, so me and my mom had to spend a summer doing some heavy gardening to overhaul the flora.

I find the fresh air and the quiet atmosphere to be quite relaxing at home gardening shops, other than the clamor of bored kids wheeling themselves around in plant carts waving cacti around. The variety of plants grown there are actually pretty cool by my geeky standards. This time, however, I also had a specific purpose for going there. I was looking for a particular plant - the Fragrant Olive, known as Osmanthus fragrans var. aurantiacus to horticultural nerds.

When I first arrived in Japan six years ago, it was during the fall. While exploring the streets of my town, a sudden waft of sweet, seductive fragrance captured my heart and has not released it since. It was later that I learned, from a Japanese teacher at a school I taught at, that the aroma came from a plant called kinmokusei in Japanese, a wonderul smelling member of the olive family. I have been looking for it ever since I came back to North America, hoping that a potted specimen would bless my room with its natural perfume.

Fuck Glade, this is the real shit.

So it would figure that a plant I covet so much is not available at any store that I went to. On the advice of one staffer I talked to, the plant would probably be in stock during the fall, when it blooms.

Well I can't wait that long. I want to acquire my fragrant olive before it blooms, so that I can enjoy the plant in all of its olfactory glory, through the tragically brief lifetime of the scent it grants me each year. Since I need a plant in my room anyway, I might as well get it now. An inquiry with the Botanical Department of UBC would perhaps be the solution.

At least I'll be able to run faster from chasing all those botanists around.

My Purple-Haired Mama

It has begun.

She is becoming one of them. I sort of got the hint that this kind of thing was going to happen when she came home from the hair stylist with red highlights in her hair. Now it's starting to tint towards the purple end of the spectrum. This is it. My mom will join the ranks of nearly all Asian women at her stage in life.

Why must they dye their hair purple? Is it an attempt to resolve their mid-life crisis through the re-enactment of adolescent rebellion, in hopes that their delusional state of youth will somehow avert the complications of old age? Or is the purple hair simply a diversion from their faces, which they find hideous because the first wrinkles have begun radiating from their facial features? Or could it be denial, in its purest form, of the inevitability of graying hair and old age?

But these conjectures don't explain why these women have unanimously chosen purple for their hair color. Why not green, or pink? Could it be an evil cadre of hair stylists plotting to turn every Asian woman into clowns? Well, unless the conspirators can find a way to convince them that purple hair would make their skin prettier, or their figures slimmer, it's not likely that the otherwise practical Asian woman would opt for the California Raisin look.

Ergo, there's only one logical explanation - genetics. Just as every woman has a gene in their X-chromosomes that kick in at around 40 years of age compelling them to get a perm, Asian women has an additional gene that compels them to dye it purple once they hit around 50 years. This would make perfect sense, as not every woman does this to their hair, which is because their expression of these genes are not as strong as in others.

So let that be a lesson to all of you punks: The next time you think you're a badass, take a walk in Chinatown!

Deathly Silent Easter

My aunt came to visit from Hong Kong last night..

So the first thing we did today after lunch was to go visit Grandma and Grandpa at the mausoleum. My mom wanted me to talk to them, but I felt rather awkward talking aloud to a vault occupied by the dead. After all, my grandmother can't hear me because her ears are no longer functional now that they're embalmed, and my grandfather can't hear me because his ears are now ash.

Instead, I spoke to them in silence, through that ubiquitous connection that binds to the common provenance all that was, that is, and that will be in the universe. In other words, I communicated to them the same way I communicate to God in my prayers, when I need Him to give me the strength to stand up when I fall, to give me the determination and resolve to fulfill my goals, and to keep my parents from finding out that I got the dog really drunk.

Being the Easter long weekend, there were a lot of people at the funeral home/cemetary complex. One thing I noticed, though, was that nearly all the occupants of the mausoleum were either Chinese, or Italian. I guess that some from other ethnicities and cultures would rather have their deceased relatives under six feet of dirt, to keep them from coming out and exacting their wrath on their living kin for blowing off their hard-earned inheritance on beer and potato chips. Or perhaps for getting the dog drunk, too.

After the solemn visit, we took my aunt to Metrotown Centre for some shopping. Being perhaps the largest shopping mall in the Lower Mainland area, we weren't surprised to find the mall open, but we were appalled to see all the stores closed. Yet there were so many people wandering around the mall with no place to go.

This is really stupid. In fact, why don't you follow me through the cognitive path of the successful businessman's mind? Yes, you can do it. Trust me. Follow me as I ask you these simple questions:

(At this point, if you think I should be saying "businessperson", then please fuck off. You damn well know that I don't mean the male gender in particular, so I don't need the likes of you to confound my language with political correctness bullshit.)

If everybody's on holiday for the long weekend, would you expect more, or less people in your shopping mall?

If there are more people in the mall, would you expect more, or less business?

If there will be more business, would you want to open, or close your store?

I hope you reached the right conclusion, assuming you want to make money. And no, you cannot cite the Easter long weekend being a religious holiday for not opening your store. Religion has been used as an excuse to justify things from skipping final exams, to blowing people up.

And certainly don't blame Jesus if you don't make your quarterly profit forecasts.

It's Better This Way...

Well, the Vancouver Canucks blew it.

Their loss to the San Jose Sharks this Thursday put the nail in the coffin, and for the first time in six years, my team is not going to the playoffs to vie for the coveted Stanley Cup. Oh well, at least it'll save them the embarrassment of crawling their way into the playoffs, only to be eliminated in the first round with the whole world watching.

It's not just this season, it's not just these players, nor is it just this coach. The franchise has been constantly plagued with inconsistent performance. One game, they could be playing brilliantly, and in the next game, they could suck hairy balls. And all the time, they could be ahead in the game, only to blow their lead and let the other team catch up.

And to pile up more guilt on the Canucks for screwing it up, their failure will also gimp Vancouver's economy with a gaping hole estimated at $5 million per game they would have played. And that was just the figure for regular season games. (Source)

Sad to say, but this season, the Canucks got...

Liberated

The local media have been all over this for over a week.

Actually, they were all over it because of what they couldn't find out. This young guy called Graham McMynn, who comes from a rich family, was kidnapped from his car at gunpoint. What was so weird about this case was that the kidnappers never contacted the family for any demands.

All this time, the police kept quiet about the incident and their investigation, until today when they finally rescued him in a 14-house raid. Arrests were made, but a motive for the kidnapping still hasn't been established yet. Despite facing lots of pressure from the media to cough up some information, the police admirably stuck to their guns and kept their mouths shut for the sake of Graham's safety.

Sometimes the media gets overzealous and uses the public's entitlement to know as leverage, in order to pry out some news regardless of the consequences. We, as the public, are not entitled to know everything, and unless it has a direct and immediate impact on us, some things are best left alone. Just like accountants and CEO's, journalists also have to abide to a code of ethics, or else their actions will demean themselves to the lowness of a bunch of paparazzi filling cheap tabloids with dirt.

As a member of the public, I want to know, but certainly not at the expense of the victim's life.

(Source)

Super Capoeira Awkward Nickname

My capoeira class at Simon Fraser University has just ended its term.

Since the next class will be at the Student Rec Center at UBC in September, and since I have the misfortune of having an accounting class at the exact same time as that capoeira class, I decided to take my classes at my mestre's (master) studio on Broadway. I went there today to talk to my mestre so he could tell me which level of classes I should take.

Now before I go any further, I should probably let you know that Brazilian people have this custom of giving each other nicknames. My guess is it's because they have so many words in their names. Names of famous Brazilians like Pele and Ronaldinho are actually nicknames (with the latter meaning "little Ronaldo", to distinguish from his teammate Ronaldo, who also happens to have the same first name). In capoeira classes, instructors also keep to tradition by giving nicknames to their students.

Some nicknames are characteristic of the person. Others are downright unflattering, as was the case with Mestre Bimba, one of the "founding fathers" of modern capoeira, with "bimba" being a word in Brazilian Portugese for the male genitals. This was given to him at his birth in 1900, and you have to hand it to the guy for sticking with the nickname all through his life. The story goes that his mom made a bet with the midwife that she'd have a girl, and Mom was wrong. Let this be a lesson to you all about the dangerous effects of your gambling addiction on your children. Why can't she just stick to betting on the horse track?

Okay, with that aside, back to the present. I went to my mestre's studio today, but he wasn't there. Instead, there was a class going on, and I believe the instructor teaching it is nicknamed "Superhomen" ("Superman"), on the account of a Superman "S" tattooed on his chest. On one wall of the studio, he has a photo of his baby daughter, also with the Superman "S" on her chest (drawn or tattooed, or genetically inherited, I don't know).

Superhomen has taught at a couple of my SFU classes, and he's a really cool guy and it's lots of fun when he's teaching. I suppose you could also describe him as "super". Unfortunately, he doesn't speak much English, but we can usually figure out from his body language what he wants to say, or a student in the class would know a little bit of Portugese (or has been working on pick-up lines for Brazilian girls) and can translate.

He likes to greet me or express pleasure at my progress with really big bear hugs. Such was the case today, as upon seeing me again, he literally swept me off my feet with a big, vice-like crush of his mucular arms. After I regained consciousness, I asked him if I could join his class. Not only did he let me, but before I could finish my request, he happily shoved me into the washroom to change into my capoeira gear.

The class was a little bit advanced for me, especially when compared to the SFU class, but I managed to keep up. Noticing I was able to do so, Superhomen rewarded me with another rib cage crusher. But then he interrupted the class to have this really weird conversation with me.

"You know boloyo?"

"Huh?" I went with my trademark confused face.

"You know, boloyo. He is Chinese movie star!"

"Huuuuh?" reiterated I.

"He know Tai Chi! Really big! Grrrrrr!!"

"Oooooh, you mean Bolo Yeung!"

"Yes. YES!!! YOU ARE BOLO YEUNG!!!"

So that was Superhomen's nickname to me. He didn't really bother to know my name, he just referred to me as Bolo Yeung henceforth.

I don't think it suits me to be nicknamed after the great Bolo Yeung, who was best known as the bad guy in the movie Bloodsport ("You are NEXT!!!"). After all, if I ever stood next to "The Beast from the East", I'd look like a broomstick. If it had to be a Chinese action star, why not one of the less hulkier varieties like Jackie Chan, Jet Li, or dare I say, Bruce Lee? I guess it was the only one that came to Superhomen's head at the time, and only time will tell whether my mestre will also use this nickname. That's a helluva tough nickname to live up to.

I mean, we're talking about a guy who swam from China to Hong Kong in order to dodge commies, for crying out loud!

"My chest is bigger than your mom's!!! GRRR!!!"

Learning To Hate Mondays

Dammit, Garfield is right.

I'm starting to think that no matter how much you like your job, Monday is the day you look the least forward to. At least for any healthy person who's not spiralling his life down the workaholic drain. Whatever's got you pumped during the weekend, Monday's guaranteed to dampen it, a big dry sponge in the aquarium of life.

The fact that I lost an hour, because we all had to set our clocks ahead for Daylight Savings Time, didn't really help me get out of bed either. The things that we go through to save electricity and money. It's also caused a lot of confusion in the US, where not all states have adopted DST. Indiana has only just started to join the 20th century. Until now, chronic drinkers in adjacent states would risk life and limb to stagger or drive(!?) into Indiana to get that extra hour of alcoholic consumption, because Indiana refused to to turn their clocks ahead.

Although I don't have a hangover to deal with, getting up with one less hour of sleep is still a chore. My only reprieve came in the form of the regular trip to Tim Horton's for a coffee and bagel on the way to work. However, this is one of those Mondays were that reprive feels hard-earned.

It seems that the white chick working the sandwich and bagel station hates her job more than anyone else. She wasn't afraid to let the whole restaurant know, as she came short of blasting the Indian trainee for entering the order wrong, and short of beaning me with my bagel.

Granted, I never liked Tim Horton's lack of a system to assign a number to each order, so that people don't end up taking someone else's food by mistake. At every franchise that I go to, the number of angry customers due to the order mix-ups must be nerve-wracking. Nevertheless, she's lucky that she decided to vent her multigrain rage upon me, and not one of the dozen disgruntled office workers and truckers patronising the small establishment, all of whom are probably more than happy to snap, jump over the counter, and beat her with her own toasted pastry products.

With that obstacle out of the way, I was finally able to enjoy the coffee and bagel that was nearly flattened against my head only minutes ago. So far, work is good, but some little things in the environment are starting to eat at me. Our boss is cool enough to let us listen to the radio on the internet while we work, at a reasonable volume level, but this is turning out to be a mixed blessing.

This one girl at work, which I get along well with, always has her computer tuned into Z95.3. Now I understand, as a local hit radio station, they have to play hit songs over and over again. But the reason why this radio station sucks is that although they are obliged to repeatedly broadcast hit songs, the do not change their song list for months. So if you play this station for the whole work day, not only will you have listen to the same songs over and over again, but you also have to listen to them over and over again everyday for months! Within such a long timespan, someone surely must have written/cookie-cut a "new" chart-topping pop song that is worthy of broadcasting.

I swear if I ever hear about me being someone's "dirty little secret", or Pink whining about how she doesn't want to be someone's "stupid girl" one more time, I'm going to go down to the radio station and beat them with their own toasted pastry products.

Coming home from work wasn't the end of it, as this Monday had another surprise waiting for me.

More accurately, a surprise left by my cat, which I nearly stepped on. Of all the days, it has to be today that she misses the litterbox for the first time. I conjected that it was less likely for her to miss the litterbox since she does her business completely inside it; it was more likely that the turd stuck to her ass and fell off on her way out. She'd probably notice she still has a turd stuck to her ass, but being a cat, she literally wouldn't give a shit. God, I need a way to vent my Monday stress.

Maybe I'll beat the crap out of someone with a toasted bagel.

Agaric Anarchy

You thought I'd update yesterday? Haha, April Fools!

Okay, seriously, it's been a busy week. It appears that we also have retards on the other side of the supply chain. One of our distributors was scheduled to send a couple of trucks over to pick up a huge shipment of mushrooms Tuesday morning. As you'd expect, not a single driver came that day.

So what happens when you're running a mushroom farm that churns out a thousand cases of fresh picked mushrooms a day, and none of it is going out the shipping dock? It's like the Apocalypse, only mushroomier.

Our coolers are already filled up, so we had to line up all 32 pallets of mushrooms along the main hallway. The owner/president of the farm, the Mushroom Monarch himself, saw what was happening and was pretty pissed off at the distributor for not dispatching their trucks as scheduled. Never had I seen so many fresh mushrooms lined up to the horizon.

We phoned the crap out of the distributor, and found out that they had only two trucks scheduled to be available that day. Two. And they were both tied up on hours-long trips to pick up smaller shipments of mushrooms from far-away farms. They were too dumb to look at our harvesting forecast, a copy of which they have, and see that we're scheduled to pick a big load for them. (I'd call them incompetent, but I'd be giving them too much credit by implying that they have intelligence, but not aptitude.) They were too dumb to figure out that they should put their priority on us, the bigger and closer supplier, so that they can get all the mushrooms they need to sell sooner, with time being of the essence on a perishable product.

At the end of the day, the trucks finally came, and we made a thorough check through the whole mushroom shipment to see if they were still fresh. Luckily, it was a cold day, so the mushrooms were still in surprisingly good condition. We knew if this was summer, all the mushrooms would be trashed, and the distributor would have to compensate us for the screw-up as per the contract. Although we were financially covered for any loss, it would still be heartbreaking to see so many fresh delicious mushrooms go to the garbage, when they would have been feeding many starving, poor suburbanites.

So that's the latest episode, from this hectic week in the ultradynamic, cutthroat world of the mushroom industry. I'm glad I could cap it off with a trip to the gym, and to afterwards make up for all that healthy exercise I did, some all-you-can-eat pizza with one of my best buddies at the Flying Wedge Pizza down the mountain (CAD$10 plus bottomless drink? How the hell are they making any money!?!?).

I was certainly relieved that my pizza wasn't short on mushrooms.