HK Day One

I awoke to an overcast, yet visibly bright day.

It's cool to arrive somewhere that you've either never been, or have not been in a long time, under the dark cover of night, then have everything unveiled to you the next morning. Such was the case, as I haven't been to HK in six and a half years. Aside from some visibly new developments, things haven't really changed that much.

Hong Kong is such a fast-moving city that it doesn't even let people sit down for free. The whole metropolis is one giant shopping mall - without a single bench or chair for its shoppers. That's because if you're sitting down, you're not shopping. If you're not shopping, you're a liability to Hong Kong's economy and therefore, you are a piece of shit. You can try to sit on the floor of a shopping mall if you're desperate for a break, but eventually, a security guard will come and tell you to fuck off because of the piece of fly-orbited excrement that you are. The only way you can legitimately sit down in a HK shopping facility is if you're at a restaurant, an overpriced cafe, or the toilet. Wait, forget the latter, as they still use kneecap-popping squat toilets.

That being said, if you're an avid world shopper who detests places with cultural and historical value because they take up space that would otherwise have been a shopping center, then you'll wonder if your plane had just crashed and you've landed in heaven instead.

Thus, I spent the first day Hong Kong going to Cityplaza mall in Tai Koo with my aunt, one subway station (or 15 min. walk) away. I didn't have anything to buy in particular, since nearly everything on my shopping list needs to be acquired in Japan - most are for me and the others in my iaido club. So today was just basically looking around.

Like any shopping mall, there usually is some themed event going on that distracts people from realizing that the crap that they are buying is exactly the same as that day the year before. This time, the theme was Japan and its cherry blossoms. Interested in seeing how HK people interpret Japan (since most of them want to be Japanese anyway - I'm sure I'll elaborate later), I checked out their plaza stage event schedule. There were several traditional dances and koto drum performances listed, but what caught my eye was a sumo demonstration going on tomorrow. I'm definitely going to check that out!

I hope it's the real thing instead of some tournament with those stupid and tacky padded and velcro-fastened vinyl suits, complete with culturally inaccurate hair helmets, that you rent for a birthday party or for crushing your neighbor's pets.

Other than that, the only thing of note in the mall was a freakin' skate rink - something Canadians probably only see at West Edmonton Mall. The people skating there were actually really good, and it's nice to see them dedicated to something other than figuring out ways to financially drain themselves. There were also these badass shirts that I saw at a department store, but those could wait until I come back from Japan after acquiring the more important things on my list.

I met with my aunt at our designated meeting point, and she took me for a quick lunch at some fast food joint. Other than unadulterated shopping with abandon, there is another aspect of Hong Kong which can't be beat - the fast food. Their idea of fast food is probably our idea of a five star meal. Of course, there's always the artery-clogging Western chains like McDick's and KFC that managed to expand their franchises into the rest of the world, regardless of differences in culture and market. But as McDs' are open 24/7, they serve as much as a place to crash and await the reopening of the transit system after a late night out (in which case we call those people "McRefugees"), as they serve as a place to wreak havoc on your circulatory system.

Café de Coral, Maxim, and Fairwood are the three major HK fast food chains that serve really good food. In fact, I'd say the quality of the food is no worse than the food you'd get at a good sit-down-dining restaurant. Only the packaging looks unappealing, but it's necessary to efficiently serve such an overwhelming volume of customers; you would usually find your baked pork chop on rice in a foil container, not unlike the kind you get for take-out Chinese food. But if you're like me, who gives a rat's ass if the food is good and won't make you sick or die? (Incidentally, if you've ever seen the back of the kitchen of any Chinese restaurant, you'll wonder if you've just received a rat's ass...in your food.)

Dinner was much more festive, as my aunt and uncle took me for a birthday meal at a high end restaurant, with its complement of aquarium-size fish tanks where the customers can witness the freshness and vivacity of the sea animals condemned for consumption. Although the crabs and lobsters were pretty big, but the pièce de résistance is a giant bass that's bigger than most of the tables there - the poor thing would have to be eaten in stages. For being taken to such a meal, I promised my uncle I'd take him somewhere if he ever came to Vancouver on one of his business trips. It was a lavish meal, and the way the Chinese prepare seafood is one of the most euphoric of culinary experiences and is unforgettable.

Provided that you forget about the back kitchen as aforementioned.


My first look outside my aunt's window

Four Days In HK...And Into A Long, Anticipated Vacation

It has finally come to this.

I've been planning this two-month summer vacation to kick off my final summer before work starts. I'll spend the first few days in HK to submit my application for my ID card. While that is being processed, I'll spend a month in Japan. After that, the application should be processed, and I'll spend the rest of the time in HK getting the ID card done and finally for some well-earned dicking around. It took me months to put together the application (with my parents producing the necessary documents), get the tickets, save up the funds, and to arrange the accommodations in Tokyo.

I was surprised that I had no trouble sleeping the night before, given the level of excitement that had been culminating over those past months. I woke up as usual, and my uncle came and picked me up to go. We had some classy Shanghai food in Richmond, and before I knew it, I'm past all those post-9/11 security checks and am sitting down at the waiting area in front of the gate.

I wanted to use my laptop and kill time on the internets, but the shitty battery doesn't even have enough lifespan to boot the damn thing. So it was back to the Stone Age and entertaining myself with less technologically advanced means - Mad and Maxim magazine. To give some sort of indication that I have at least a trace degree of sophistication to the other passengers, I bough Popular Science and Time magazine as well. I considered buying some of the "top-rack" magazines, but finally decided to hang on to my porn budget until I reach overseas, so I can collect them for...uh...cultural studies. Besides, the above mags were more than enough to kill the hour before boarding.

Just as I was about to unwrap and savour Maxim's annual 100 Hottest Girls edition, the announcement came for my ticket group to board the plane. Now my usual luck when it comes to co-passengers is that I end up with a guy who won't take a bath, stop eating, and/or shut up. But this time, not only was there no one beside me, but I also got the frontmost row in the plebian section. That way I don't have to deal with some asshole who suddenly tilts his/her seat all the way back while I'm eating or reading, thereby winding me in the gut with my book/dinner.

Unfortunately, like most things, this was too good to be true. I was awakened from my state of bliss by the stewardess, who introduced me to a gentleman whose in-seat video console wasn't working. This guy's arms were so God-mocked hairy that although his arms were courteously taking up only half the armrest, his arm hairs took up the other half. If his arm ever hogged the entire armrest, I would have no escape from his hair. I thought maybe I'll amuse myself during the long flight by shaving an "Asian tattoo" into his arms, or to shave them completely and make little Chia pets with his hairs while he's asleep. Hirsute limbs aside, the guy was well-behaved and practiced decent personal hygiene, so my grievances shall end here.

Same couldn't be said about this little shit a few rows behind me that wailed his/her way all the way across the Pacific. As I said before, a crying baby is to be expected on an airplane, but one who has the stamina to bawl for almost 13 hours must surely be the illegitimate spawn of Satan. One or these days, I've got to patent a soundproof, fully-breatheable (or maybe not...I'm tempted...) "Baby Hood™". Hell, I don't care if anyone steals my idea - someone's got to do us all a freakin' service. And while you're at it, make a "Pet Hood™" and a "Chinese Mother-If-You're-Still-Single-At-30-Years-Old Hood™" too.

The long trans-continental ordeal concluded, I made my way through Hong Kong International Airport. Even after almost five years, I still managed to find my way through the place to the rapid train that will take me from the airport to Central Hong Kong. The cool part about arriving during the nighttime is that most of the sights are still shrouded in darkness, so when the morning comes, you are greeted with a surprise when the place is laid out in the open, and you try to retrace where you passed the previous night.

I finally arrived at my aunt's place where I'll be staying for the next few days before leaving for Japan. It is a complex of six really tall 72-story apartment buildings. Well, not exactly 72 stories, since Chinese people are so superstitious that they skip over every number with a 4 in it (except all the numbers in the 40's besides 44, since skipping nine levels would be going too far), because the number is almost homonymous with the Chinese word for "death". Yeah, and you thought apartment buildings in every Western country are being silly for not having a 13th floor. I never bothered to understand Chinese or any other phoenetically-based superstitions. If words are a human contrivance, and that the phoenetics of words can directly influence the causality of events in the world, does that mean that humans, through their verbal pronunciation, can directly control everything that happens around them? Hell, no! To believe in such nonsense would really be an act of hubris on the part of humanity.

Enough digression, back to the apartment complex. There are many families from Japan and Korea, probably because the dads have been stationed here in HK for work. Regardless of nationality, most of the families I saw in the common area are follwed by a Filipino domestic servant carrying their luggage or kids. Here in HK, many Filipinos may take up jobs here as servants, but on Sundays when they all get the day off, Filipinos rule Central HK, camping out all over the streets to lounge off the day by eating, listening to music, and playing cards.

My aunt's apartment is really small, and the room in which I will be staying even smaller. It's almost as small as a walk-in closet. Nevertheless, this is a very nice apartment for HK. There is a bunk where my cousins used to sleep, but they have long since moved to Toronto.

After a long day of travel (and mentally accumulated ranting, as you may have noticed), I passed out like a log.

Iaido Test

It's been a year since I've started iaido.

Now a seminar will be held in Victoria, and a lot of high-ranking sensei's will be there from the headquarters in Japan. The highlight of that seminar is the examinations at the end, and I will be taking the test to attain my 1st dan ranking (most people call this 1st degree black belt if there was a belt ranking system).

I've been preparing all year for this, and have practised really hard. Although there are set techniques and we do not fight, each technique requires precision, proper stature, and full control. I don't think my sensei would've approved me taking the exam if it wasn't for my efforts.

I also haven't been going to Victoria in a long time. A long time as in 10 years. This will be a fun road trip, and the drive there wouldn't be as boring as the one to the Vernon seminar (thank God for sunflower seeds). I also wondered how much Victoria has changed over the past decade, as a whole bunch of people trapped in an island would surely get bored and try to make life more exciting. Yeah sure, they have a ferry to the Lower Mainland, which is how I'm incidentally going to get there, but when you have to pay the exhorbitant fares to get your car across, you're as good as trapped.

While parked in the waiting lot for our ferry, we had a nice tailgate party. One of the people in my club brought out some tea and Japanese-style snacks. It was a beautiful day to be close to the water and everything seemed perfect. Too perfect.

When we finally got into the ferry, it was already packed, with the queue to the buffet already encircling the entire cabin area. All waiting to get fat on food that'll make you feel seasick at ridiculous prices. The ride was fairly smooth, with a little bit of rocking. I was disappointed not seeing any orcas or sea lions out into the distance. Poor things probably have been run over enough times to know that it's best to stay away.

After making it to our hotel rooms, we looked around the immediate area, but there wasn't anything much except for a strip mall. We found a White Spot, but got fairly ripped off at the hors d'oeuvre sized portions. At least there was a liquor store so we can get drunk in our hotel rooms.

The next day was the first day of the seminar. All the workshops took place at the gym complex in the University of Victoria except for the last day, which is at a community gym/swimming pool facility closer towards the ferry terminal.

I was surprised at the sheer number of wild hares hopping around the UVic campus. At least if the apocalypse occurs and everyone is trapped on campus, no one will probably ever starve. I've always wondered what rabbit meat tastes like. Probably like chicken, only a little gamier.

The next few days was spent very productively at the workshops. I was glad I didn't have any bloody accidents like last time. We went over all the techniques that I've learned in the past year, with meticulous detail. You'd have to be pretty strict if you want to preserve a martial art that's been around for more than 500 years, and especially if that martial art is being exported far beyond its provenance.

Then the time for examinations came.

It consists of a written component, and then a demonstration component where I have to demonstrate four techniques which I've selected. To be more exact, the actual examination occurs throughout the seminar, as they judge your capability, attitude, and character throughout the weekend; the demonstration is more of a ceremonial role.

I was pretty nervous, but I was more determined not to screw this up. I've failed a 2nd dan kendo exam before, and only because I fucked up the technical demonstration by stepping back with the wrong foot. I know how horrible it felt to fail, so I wasn't going to let it happen again...

...and so I passed. I was very pleased, and so was my sensei and all the senpai's who put in all that time to teach me over the past year. We were talking about it all the way out from Victoria.

The trip back was met with the much more urgency, as we almost did not make it into the last ferry. Being a Sunday evening, everyone was in a rush to leave the godforsaken island to go home for work the next day.

In the ferry, we were met with the same line of the gluttonous, so once again, it was to hell with the buffet. Instead, there was plenty of room in the coffee lounge. For $5, we had all the hot beverages, fresh fruits, and cheese that we could eat. And the chairs were nicer an we had a better view of the scenery, not only because of location but also because the sights were not obstructed with fat people trying to stuff their faces.

I had so much coffee that I could've just jumped overboard astern and paddled the ferry across the Juan de Fuca Strait with the engines inoperative. The only reservation I had from doing so was the fact that this would be a purely voluntary effort, and I would therefore be left without financial compensation for my caffeine-fueled services. Well, that and my abhorrence to providing anything ad gratis to BC Ferries, which is on the contrary gouging anyone on wheels with its exhorbitant fares.

So all in all, it was a very nice trip. In fact, the only heartbreak throughout the whole trip was when my senpai borrowed a $20 bill from me in the car, only to allow it to blow out the open back window because he didn't hang on to it.

As of now, he still owes me that 20 bucks.

Blockbusting Action Bus

I was on the bus and a couple of punks stepped in from a stop.

No, I don't mean "punks" as in the skateboarding, weed inhaling genre that listen to Bad Religion, MXPX, The Ramones, or whatever. I mean "punks" as in those who not only have absolutely no worth in life, but also degrade the community with their very presence because they feel entitled to do so after their parents fueled their teen angst with shit like "rules" and "responsibilities" - to sum it up, the floating turds in the jacuzzi spa of humanity.

So since these turds didn't pony up any cash, the bus driver asked them to show their bus passes. The quickly flash a video rental coupon or something in a sad effort to fake a bus pass, then quickly went down the bus aisle. You know these punks are trouble when one of them looked like he just got his ass kicked. The driver yells back at them to go back up to the front and pay up, or get out. The punks opted for the latter and proceeded back to the front exit.

Suddenly, one of them turned around and spat on the driver, then they both took off. What a pathetic attempt at being a badass, by copying what another passenger did in a previous incident which landed the news. The bus driver chased after them. Although he was not allowed to leave the bus running and unattended, if I were in his position, I wouldn't let those two little shits get away with it either. Unfortunately, with a sufficient head start, it looked like those two will get away with it...

...until a cement truck driver passing by, who somehow managed to see all the action, pulled over up ahead. What I saw next really made my day. The cement truck driver takes a dive out of his vehicle and spear tackles the punk that spat on the bus driver, nearly cutting him in half!! Everyone in my bus cheered! He kept the little miscreant pinned to the curbside lawn, while the other punk made a pathetic attemt to free his accomplice by screaming hollow threats at the cement truck driver, until the police came and hauled the two away to a place where they won't pose a nuisance anytime soon.

I made sure I issued a consolatory remark to the driver before I got off, seeing how he had a tough day. Take heed, punks. Postal workers are no longer the only public employees you don't want to piss off.



P.S.Sadly, this is a futile message because this blog radiates with so much bushido virtue power that it will make any punks' (and hippies') eyeballs explode upon sight.

Back From Oz

I'm back from my brother's graduation from vet school at Kansas State University.

The campus is located in this little college town in Kansas called Manhattan, because this little rural patch of obscure land uncannily resembles the bustling concrete district in New York, and also probably because this is a great way to deceive tourists to come to this town. On the bright side, there is plenty of peace and quite here, so long as you avoid the student residence neighborhoods, the pub district, or the campus altogether. Of course I can fit a five-day, four-night trip into one post, because there is really nothing much to do there.

Me and my parents met up with my brother at Kansas City, which is really located in the neighboring state of Missouri, because other than naming small towns after major cities and districts, there really isn't enough geographic ambiguity in this region to generate the confusion that makes the National Geography Contest interesting.

After an hours-long drive to Manhattan, we made it to our hotel.

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The next morning, we went to my brother's apartment.

There were boxes and bags all over the place because he was moving out and into our house. Since airplanes still don't let you check in your car with your luggage, he was planning to make a road trip all the way up to Vancouver with his girlfriend, which was also how he was going to celebrate his graduation.

Most importantly, we were introduced to his cat Oliver, which we were charged with bringing with us on our flight because a long road trip would be hell on the poor animal. Fortunately, my brother could easily procure from his vet school all necessary documentation to allow us to bring Oliver home on board the plane. Furthermore, he had one of the vets prescribe some pills for the cat so that he mellows out on the plane. I gingerly stashed a few for myself. Oliver is much slimmer and better-behaved than Fat Bitch back home, and far more active and friendly. I immediately took a liking on the cat.

My brother also proudly showed off his Wii and Playstation 3, both of which probably took him a day of waiting in line at Wal-Mart in the company of the socially inept. The graphics on the PS3 were impressive, but the overall gaming experience was not much different than the PS2. The Wii, however, was something entirely new and fun, and a good indication that Nintendo is about to steal a big chunk of Sony's market share.

I considered strapping the player 2 controller on the cat and see how that would further improve my gaming experience when he runs around freaking out.

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The day for the graduation ceremony finally arrived.

My brother was definitely agog to see the culmination of years of hard work, but didn't do a very good job coolly hiding it with an attitude of indifference. The theatre for the ceremonies was packed with family, all eagerly waiting for their kin's name to be called out. Everyone was quietly listening, with the occasional cheer when someone hears the name of their friend and/or family member. Well, that and the incessant, tympanically devastating bawling from what appears to be a nursery in the back rows.

Nevertheless, I wasn't surprised. When you have more than 200 people gathered in any venue, chances are good that at least one of them is a baby. Babies cry over all matters severe or menial, such as lack of milk (or more like the lack of the warm comfort of the mother's breast to satisfy their Oedipal urges), soiled diapers, the need for diversion with toys, unfamiliar environment, the big scary head of some creepy stranger making a pathetic attemt to amuse them, or the unsupervised pitbull gnawing on their faces.

Therefore, the question is not whether there will be a crying baby, but how long the babies cry. The proper metric is the percentage of total ceremony, movie, or trip time, rather than number of minutes spent crying. Nevertheless, the only thought that could divert my mind from contemplating infanticide was the satisfaction that someday, those babies will grow up to have one or more babies of their own, thereby depriving them of sleep and peace with more crying. Yes, just a sliver of hope splintered from the Wheel of Kharma when it hits a speed bump.

In the evening, me and my brother's friend's families went to a celebratory feast at, of all places in Kansas, a Korean restaurant. I had no idea what a Korean family is doing in this state; even if they are stauchly mea culpa Catholic like many Koreans, this region of the US is not a place for Catholicism, despite being called the Bible Belt. I think I overheard from the parents' discussion that some Korean lady married one of the servicemen from the nearby air force base, and this her family that she managed to bring over. The food was pretty good, and I could be pretty damn sure that I just had authentic Korean home cooking. The evening concluded with a dessert trip to Baskin-Robbins.

Aaahh, 31 ways to deliciously widen your ass...

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The day to go home had finally arrived.

Time sure flies when you're having fun. Unfortunately, this wasn't the case, as small rural towns are apprarently surrounded by temporal anomalies that makes time stop. After going over all the cat's vaccination and physical examination documents with us, my brother stuffed his beloved drugged-up feline into the kitty tote with some toys and a blanket.

When we finally made it to the airport, we said our goodbyes to my brother and went in. After examining the documentation, the check-in and security staff let us and the cat through with little trouble. So far so good...until I got on the plane.

Once again, as discussed above, I had to spend most of my flight with a crying baby across the aisle from me. As if that wasn't enough to torture the passengers, airlines have the gall to force its passengers to sit through chick flicks. I've enough to worry about sitting for hours in a steel tube hurtling at near supersonic velocity at an altitude incapable of sustaining life, than to have to sit through propaganda made to cultivate a puppyishly and unrealistically naive view of relationships in women as a great disservice to the male gender (or "romantic comedies" for short). My emotional scar resumé from such meaningless crap include Never Been Kissed, Forces Of Nature, Win A Date With Tad Hamilton!, and...oh God help me...The Wedding Planner.

This time, the emasculatory media du jour was Music And Lyrics, starring Hugh Grand and Drew Barrymore. Although it did well to incorporate fun music, like all romantic comedies, the cast and premise may change, but the plot always remains the same - guy meets girl, they bond, some major conflict drives them apart, they somehow get back together to end the movie with a kiss and a tampon commercial.

Fortunately, I do have remedial measures against such a terrible ordeal in aviation - I take off the headphones and try to imagine what the characters would be saying. Thus, a conversation in my ad-libbed version of Music And Lyrics would be something like this:

Hugh Grant's Character: Shall I partake in nuzzling my head betwixt your lusciously bewitching mammaries?

Drew Barrymore's Character: Methinks not. My bosom is to avail not but for the affections of my lesbian companion.

Hugh Grant's Character: Ah, woe is me! O love is save a crimsom dagger to be plunged into the fathoms of a desperately beating heart of lust! Let's go watch nude mud wrestling and solicit the kindness of the county brothel instead.

Because Hugh Grant is British, I decided to give it a bit of Shakespeare's Elizabethan air for the sake of cultural enrichment.

Throughtout the flight, my poor Dad was unwell with airsickness, but would've been alright had the plane not passed through a storm front. Near the end of the trip, he suddenly puked all over the place, the barf bag inconveniently tucked into the seat pocket, so close, yet so far. The cat, however, looked on with drug-induced(?) indifference. My mom asked if he was alright, then chastised him for not heeding her warnings when he downed that greasy burger before the flight. He would eventually fill two plastic bags with his gastric contents. Ironically, we were so worried about the condition of the cat throughout the flight, but in the end, the cat held out far better than Dad. Maybe we should've given Dad the same drugs we gave the cat.

If there is ever a next time that my family goes to Kansas, it's best that my Dad come home in ruby slippers instead.