something from the archives

I sometimes find that a writers block can be eroded by going back to a random notation from the past. I'm hopping this one will unhinge something.

"Oblivious to the greater social ramification, Ling and Charles Curr, named their newborn 'Wan'."
-'Good Intentions' from Cheaper Than A Moleskine (Jan 13, 2006)

The Battle of Confetti - opening salvo

Off we go to ChinaMart, where mum can indulge her best-price antics.

aside- I cringe when she does this, and still get night-frights from the Bhamjee's Shoes shop name-drop debacle (no, we're not related to the family that owns the store, however this did not deter my mum from mentioning that I am late Abdul's grand-daughter, who used to be a friend of the family. Yes, we did get a discount. Yes, I was a walking vat of essence of mortification. Mummy, I know you're reading this.)

So there we were at ChinaMart having just stumbled upon a store that sold gift bags and papercraft-goodie-things for cheep-cheep.
Our mission that Saturday morning was to shop for wedding favour stuff.
I hate when people give ornamenty-garbage clutter at weddings. I know it's the thought that counts, but how about one that actively engaged some sentient process? The cabinet in our lounge is filled with such crap of this ilk; kitschy plastic fruit floating in a bottle, a little white porcelain ribboned giftbox that looked much like a Lilliput coffin, a cloudy chocolate mould my gran wouldn't eat because there was some prayer written on it in gold dust and about a million shot glasses which your typical teetotal-ling muslim family will never find a use for, all sandblasted with something along the line of "Thank you for sharing with us the day we finally get to shag without incurring hell-fire."

With all of that in mind, we decided on something a bit more utilitarian. But even utilitarian needs to look a bit pretty and flouncy for a wedding. Which is why mum and I were squashed in the corner of the overstocked shop digging through a box falling over with organza circles that niftily pull together to form a pretty and flouncy wrapping.

I managed to find something that wasn't too garish. However, mum wanted the organza with the big gold hearts. Big gold hearts are just ghagha to me. And big gold hearts on wedding favours are the ghagha-est of anything ghagha ever. If you don't know what ghagha means, think about big gold hearts emblazoned on gold organza, that's ghagha.

At this point I ducked her and went to look at the cardcraft stuff instead. I shouted over a box of wire-butterflies that I did not want the ghagha gold organza heart wrapping. The chinese lady at the door smiled to herself. Perhaps this was not the first time she had witnessed such mother and daughter exchanges.

My mum insisted. I was incensed.
She had that tone in her voice.
I'm a dutiful daughter.
We compromised.
We walked out with 100 ghagha organza circles printed with big gold hearts.

I would like, if I may, to take you on a strange journey.

5g33k did not pick me up on Saturday night wearing fishnet stockings.

This meant we would be of the more staid bunch at the theatre that evening.
However, the row behind us consisted mostly of Dr Frank-n-Furter tributes, each wielding a water pistol and legs from here to Transsexual Transylvania.

As per fan script, the Rocky-Horror-Showlings mad-libbed lines at the stage.
Frank (played by Brendan van Rhyn who pulled off a black corset and porngroove heels rather effectively) said, "So come up to the lab and see what's on the slab. I see you shiver with antici..."
"Pation!" was thrown from the fourth row.
Frank didn't miss a mascara-lashed blink, "Wait fucker. Pation."

The show had started and we were time-warped.

---

Saving conversation:

Magenta: I ask for nothing!
Frank: And you shall receive it, IN ABUNDANCE!

Frank: Do you think I made a mistake splitting his brain between the two of them?

Frank: One from the vaults... Don't be upset. It was a mercy killing. He had a certain naive charm, but no muscle.

The Criminologist: And crawling, on the planet's face, some insects, called the human race. Lost in time, and lost in space... and meaning.

---

Happy VD...

... If you're feeling all warm and fuzzy, it's probably a yeasty one too.



And for that special drooler in my life:


heart graphic source

Do those who are that shade of moral-grey, also scare you more than barefaced thieves and murderers?

Requiscat

We are friends here and strangers there.
You once told me you were old enough to be my father.
And now you've joined him.
Peace Brainhell, for you and your family.

fong-konged!

At first glance the blob photographed above looks very much like something the Jolly Green Giant would expectorate.
It is in fact Wasabi, or what I thought was Wasabi. But let's have a little lesson before we get into that.
Wasabi japonica aka Japanese Horseradish aka sneaky-bastard-stuff-that'll-make-your-nasal-passages-feel-like-
they've-been-rinsed-through-with-battery-acid, is a regular accompaniment to sushi. Apparently, the condiment has certain anti-microbial properties, pretty handy I'd say, when you're chugging back raw fish (is there Japanese etiquette for vomiting politely from the food poisoning?)
I say it's sneaky because at first taste, the unassuming stuff lays a bit of sweet on your tongue before it proceeds to puncture your sinuses with a million hot needles. And once you get pass the sensation of your brain being pulled out of your skull by the crown, you'll be reaching for just a little more. It's potent, wicked, addictive stuff.
Now that's what I thought I was shnarfing. Wasabi.
Not so, according to a plethora of online sources. Genuine wasabi is difficult and expensive to cultivate. So much so, that only a small percentage of sushi-ya in Japan actually serve it. The green blobs we've become accustomed to are usually a mash of ordinary horseradish, mustard and green food colouring.
The real makoya is a greenish root that's chopped into little bits with a fine-toothed grater. According to this site, aficionados say, "The taste of genuine wasabi is like a warm explosion that quickly fades away to a slightly sweet afternote."

Knowledge can be something of a party-pooper.