I think I need to stop overexerting myself. Or at least, plan my days well with effective time management so that I don't always end up coming back home and dropping dead on my bed.

It's increasingly hard to maintain my lifestyle (working at the paper from 9am-2pm, working at the lab from 2pm-10pm, editing a student magazine, on top of that getting all my research done, writing up drafts every two weeks, doing freelance writing for a montreal publication and soon starting classes). I was always ambitious, but never to the point of exhaustion where I find some of my work a burden.

Surely this must mean I'm doing something wrong. I haven't been eating well and my sleep hours have diminished ever since I arrived in Montreal. It's about time that I look past the stigma of quitting, and drop a committment or two for the sake of my mental sanity.

Also, I have a feeling that my Masters supervisor found this blog. In any case, if he's reading this, I would like to say how I can't ever thank him enough for his perpetual helpfulness and lending me his copy of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. It made my nights alone in Chinatown just a little more charming, and I'm glad I have someone I can share my nerdy gushes for British humour with.

Maybe I'm getting older, but I'm more and more appreciating those quiet nights in the Montreal summer, especially with a cup of my favourite vanilla tea.

today i realized that i really hate communists.

also, happy national identity crisis day!

..i'm off to see the fireworks!

first draft of my 50-pg research paper due tomorrow morning. none of my cell lines lived like they were supposed to.

my apartment is infested with fruit flies.

i'm getting so sick of dirty carpets, insects and wet mouldy bathrooms.. all for the sake of cheap rent.

nearly got run over by a van this morning. old asian women really can't drive.

reality is slowly starting to creep up.

pee kills

sometimes i wish i could run away from all responsibility. in normal times, that would be called cowardice. in my current state, i see it as relief to my permanent battle wounds.

Today, I bought a Miles Davis album for 99 cents.

A flower salesman by the name of Ray handed me a free rose. If only he were 40 years younger.

My neighbours aren't geriatric. They're just funny-looking crackheads in their mid-20's who have a pet cat named Stiffy. He's really friendly but stinky.

I got lost on the subway. But I never once looked at a map, because the Montreal'ers I asked were friendly and went out of their way to help.

There are no hobos who pee on the side of my building. My street does have one homeless violin-player, though.

A poutine from Montreal is 100x times better than poutines elsewhere in the world. I swear this on my grave.

There are cute street artists everywhere. I met a guy who gave me a deal and sold me his Van Gough-esque painting of a nebula starship for $5.

I am falling in love with this city. Way too fast.

shut the fuck up.

yours,
Aya

sometimes you wish you could come out of university feeling like you've closed all doors except one. unfortunately the doors never close, advice given is never taken and answers are never present when they should.

next friday i officially start my life alone in the tangled urban jungle known as montreal. cultural clashes are expected. and no more late night dinner packages from mom or random visits from an ill-prepared older sister. instead, i'll likely encounter daily arguments with geriatric neighbours and the homeless who pee on the side of my building.

i still need to figure out the subway route from my place to campus, re-configure my old coffee shop habits and find my own niche in that city. half of me is terrified and the other half thrilled.

this also excludes my notion that mcgill is to western what new york city is to new orleans: a bustling metropolitan of intense research with the added flare of a nation's history, as opposed to a well-documented reputation for luscious parties and underage strippers.

i'm terrified and thrilled.

A treat for misogynists ...

Video Captures Stoning of Kurdish Teenage Girl:

http://www.aina.org/news/20070425181603.htm

"From the clips it appears that the girl was first stripped naked to symbolize that she had dishonored her family and her Yezidi religion. She is lying on the road naked while her smashed face is covered with blood and still breathing."

Today, I went to the outskirts of town to collect field data on wildflowers for my supervisor. A local farm was nearby, and our group got to see several horses and cattle lurking our company in curousity.

Without realizing, I found myself leaning against the wooden fence keeping the pasture and farm property from bordering the university-owned fields. One curious cow, with gentle eyes and a blonde tuft of hair, placed her nozzle on my sleeve. She wouldn't leave my side the whole hour I was there, and could not care less about my other two lab mates who came close to pet her. Maybe she liked the scent of my hand creme. Or maybe it was simple curiousity. Nonetheless I was the center of her attention. And in spite of her adoration, she continually "warded off" other curious cows who were coming to see what I was all about - as if she wouldn't share! I felt like a loved crush. (I duly note that I am anthropomorphisizing the situation, but that isn't what I'm getting at.)

Later while procrastinating on a paper, I went browsing for 'popular' vids on YouTube. Then I came across this:

In some places in festered agrarian economies, they feed cattle leftover carcasses, parts of other cattle, human garbage, fertilizer and sewage waste. They'll feed them living chickens. The emancipated cow will eat it. Of course, all this would have at least something to due with the fettered economic state of the developing nation and its corresponding heaps of poverty.

In light of the people who own the farm from the video, I'm sure the social-political-economic decay of their situation isn't likely going to "speed up" their ability to regret the absurdity. But god-forbid those obese 16-year old tools who amuse themselves watching the footage while gorging on McLard burgers. You just made yourselves that much more useless.

Gackt is the probably only reason why I have not given up on asian men. He's like a walking anime character - those surgically-enhanced eyes and airbrushed abs are crafted cartoonishly (as with all aspects of Japanese pop culture) with gravity-defying hair, mimicking something out of a fantasy RPG game.

with Julie Andrews (wtf)

How old is he? Apparently he's somewhere in his 40's, smokes compulsively and has a weakness for 'kimchi cake' (that is, bakery-sweet cake topped with korean ginseng-marinated kimchi.) Middle-aged, but looking like an oversexed St. Asshole embodying all that is the Japanese archetype for bishounen.

In spite of possibly being born before an era where calculators cost more than my rent, he still looks like an illustration from some pseudo-popart yaoi manga. How does that work, in all seriousness, on a biological level? Are his cells just frozen in a state of eternal youth and gorgeousness? Does his body just not senesce due to some super rare mutation after injesting radioactive crack? What does he eat and drink, if at all? Even in Hollywood, plastic surgery and botox injections can only go so far!

He has the chest of a 19-year-old. For a man in his 40's, that is amazing. This confirms two things: super genes and a shitload of money to sustain his high-maintenance beauty regime. Imagine having sex with him. The weirdest porn wouldn't even compare. Like an in-real-life sex scene from some fucked up hentai.

My birthday is in August. The only thing I want for my birthday is his sperm, in hopes I can create offspring that'll never die or age to end up drinking prune juice while obsessing over Jeopardy reruns. That would be a dream.

There was once a period where I was intensely angry, but I realized it was a substandard denial phase to cover up for the fact that I am intensely self-loathing.

I blamed it on my family, but it the end it's really the product of my imagination. (Thank you, therapy! You've stolen my money as well as my expectations in my fellow man.)

I envy the days when I had nothing to do. I'm chained to a desk, in front of a mind-frying computer under the florescent lights of a cold office. When I'm pretending to work, I'm thinking of masturbation.

I occasionally find some pleasing sadistic amusement when I watch fat people get into car accidents, but then I feel sorry for myself after realizing the person's not really dead because their fat probably cushioned the blow.

I wish I were born in the 19th century. At least then, people credited God for their stupidity. Now, we blame everything else except ourselves!

Why is it that whenever I google image search 'Stephen Colbert,' I get more links to right-wing blog sites than any liberal entertainment shellouts?

(Gratuitious Colbert image:)

I wish I had money so I can have gold-plated eunuchs spoon-feed me endless caviar and bathe me every night in Cristal. Anyway, I'm leaving for Montreal in a month! Hooray for French Canada! May they always be as lame as their food and arrogant as their politics.

(Resuming back to angsty pining by your typical starving and despairing pre-grad student ...)

This weblog is my responsibility. Hence, I've decided that whenever I can think of nothing to write about, I will randomly post a picture of Stephen Colbert in order to keep this blog continuing, afresh, and alive.

Better than my honest neglect, you'll get a full dose of visual awesomeness. Your corneas will ooze with pleasure. And you'll thank me everytime, because god only knows you're probably too lazy to google pictures of him yourself.

Stellar. Incorrigible. Truthtastic. Sex god. YOU'RE WELCOME.

A favourite person, writer, and subculture enthusiast: my super-talented Toki is going to Japan <3. Considering the many years I've known her, never would I say anyone else deserves this as much. She is all the brilliance of Tokyo and amazingness.

http://www.36moons.net/gallery/Toki_3Times3_36Moons.jpg

I will miss you!

RIP (1922 - 2007)

Kurt Vonnegut made my teenage years bearable. When I was still hooked on boybands and teenyboppers, he took me into a realm of flawed characters and exceptional circumstances that would make Hitler look like a soft-bodied social reject. I had gained life experiences through his characters that I knew I could never have in my own life. Literature was one of my biggest influences and Vonnegut transformed this into another huge aspect of my life. Usually, when people of his stature die I show no major qualms, but Vonnegut was special.

I have a fascination with this recent wave in German cinema. As of 2007, the quality of German films has been nothing short of amazing. It started with Goodbye Lenin and then onto Der Untergang and The Edukators. Most foreign films tend to lack accessibility - plots are confounded in cultural technicalities and more-than-often precocious dialogue - yet this new wave of German filmmaking maintains its originality while keeping their audiences intellectually engaged. It's certainly even more impressive that actors like Daniel Brühl can deliver every line with perfection, without the dreaded overacting or sleepwalking through any scene (i.e. this loser). Instead, Brühl epitomizes what every young actor should strive for: a subtle, repressed yet impassioned actor's toolset for moving, dynamic character creation.

Daniel Brühl, The Edukators (2004)

I highly recommend Run Lola Run and Goodbye Lenin. The latter is especially the best for cozying up on a plush couch to watch with your favourite person, cuddles or no cuddles. Daniel Brühl steals every scene, and the remaining cinematic exploits keeps your thought process achingly curious.

I GOT U OF T! ooooyayayyayaaaaaa

I love Toronto and all, but it's the one location where I've had my ass groped randomly on the street twice already. i've lived there once, and i've been to the U of T campus, yet nonetheless i'm also accepted into mcgill for the biomed graduate program and i have an ardent love for montreal. it is the one location where one confused hipster randomly asked me to rate him from 1 to 10 on a "hipster scale" - the experience was too amusing to bear.

i love this man.

BUY HIS ICE CREAM:

IT TASTES LIKE AMAZING

I can capture so many blessed nobodies and nothings in them. Like an experienced painter, yet instead of paint my medium is the splatter of temporal nuances spread amongst my inner glories of summertimes (happytimes). Or put more quaintly, nostalgic gems of my intimate notes on life.

i feel like la merde pathetique, but i cannot for the life of me get over that fickle philosopher who left this country, leaving it (and me) lacking his smiles.

i am also dead inside after watching this clip. i died from excess cuteness.

see http://www.redpandaproject.org/getinvolved.php. china usually turns them into these:

a biochem final tomorrow, yet i refrain from my supposed mental activities and end up here, at 3am, reading and googling irrelevant information.

not irrelevant in the worldly sense of the term, but irrelative to what i'm supposed to do: that i have a final weighted 60% tomorrow evening, and all i have reviewed up to is page 4, the incredibly drab Menten-Michalis eqn. alas only 12 more hours of cramming to go!

from my voyages into the realm of internet blogging, i stumbled upon a certain picture that won the Word Press photo of the year in 2003. i find that it is too powerful an image to be simply dismissed in my procrastination misadventures. then again i have this blog as my own outlet for journalistic expressions:

The photo was made during a rare moment of humanity in a war zone, Bouju said, when a father who had been taken prisoner by American troops was allowed to hold his 4-year-old son who also was taken when the man was arrested. The boy, Bouju said, was panicking and crying, so an American soldier cut the plastic handcuffs off.

Another observation made by one reader follows:

"I know a lot of conservatives may view the photo as just a knee-jerk selection by an organization keen on portraying the U.S. as a cruel attacker of an innocent father. No doubt, to those who are sympathetic to that view would see the picture that way. To me, however, the picture is a testimony of just the opposite. What kind of country would capture what it viewed as an enemy combatant, assure his inability to wreak harm, yet allow him to remain with and comfort his young son?"

This blog is going to die soon, for about several months.

reasons:

med school applications.. soon. my mcat results turned out better than expected. i am crossing my fingers. but i am having doubts on whether i should apply. whether i should devote 8+ years of my life to a position where i no longer express any passion or enthusiasm. to something i don't necessarily care innately about (your typical reflections of a someone experiencing a quarter-life crisis.)

i have embraced my passions again but with entirely different people and places. i'm contemplating whether i should take a year off and genuinely LEARN, rather than educate this feeble brain of mine with a + b = c's or quantitative reflections on whether your white blood cells really give a shit about other white blood cells.

i feel i'm not equipped enough, if that makes any sense. a spoken word artist i met in ottawa told me a story of a black man in the 19th century at queen's who won 14 academic awards and funded an entire year's budget of his university to keep it from shutting down. he was commemorated (coloured by racism) with a tiny, rundown room in the corner of one of their buildings. essentially, people like this have existed; their works have impacted many, yet they were people once just like me. occasionally i wonder what the fuck i have done to enrich this life of mine. to enrich the lives of others. it is a blank slate still after 21 years.

my thesis this year was in immunology. frankly, it was great to work in a lab alongside some amazing brainiacs, and to contribute (even though it was nothing compared to what professionals do) to this incredible pool of scientific knowledge. but this is nothing close to what i can learn if i disregard my microscope, walk outside, and catch a virus myself.

also, a lot of doctors are douchebags who lack brains. i have met at least five that are on my 'to kill for their idiocy' list. interestingly enough, it is the patients who are the most inspiring, and ones who can educate.

i pretty much feel as if i'm locked inside a torture room for hours and days on end.

"Being born, living, and dying is a long, difficult, and time-consuming process that can take up to 112 years to complete. It involves a great deal of stress, unhappiness, and physical pain, and many participants give up long before finishing. But for those who have the perseverance and dedication, being born, living, and dying can be a deeply rewarding experience that they will carry with them forever. The purpose of this guide is to provide you with the skills and techniques you will need to be born, live, and die successfully and efficiently.

From Infancy to Adolescence to Middle Age to Old Age, topics include:

Healthy Body Image for infants ...

As you begin to walk around the house, you will probably encounter your reflection in a mirror at some point. Don't be alarmed to find that you have a protruding belly, a double chin, rolling thighs, and a massive, chunky rear. This is entirely normal at this stage. Starting a vigorous fitness regime of jogging, active sports, and weight-lifting may help tone your figure somewhat, but do not attempt to diet. Even the most advanced, trendy new diets will harm your development at this stage, and Gerber does not currently offer low-carb alternatives in its wide variety of food-mush products. You won't need to really start obsessing about your obese, gelatinous figure until early adolescence.

Adolescent Romance ...

Even though your sexual organs are not yet developed or active, it's not too early to start dabbling in the game of love. Develop childish crushes on girls you know. Pretend to be "boyfriend and girlfriend". Play "House". These silly displays of farcical romance will delight your parents, and will probably not be much different from your future adult relationships.

Starting College ...

As soon as you graduate high school, you will start feeling the pressure to go to college. College can be a great place to grow up, learn, expand your mind, find yourself, do drugs, build for your future, spend thousands of dollars and hours on impractical degrees, get into Led Zeppelin, and father illegitimate children.

Middle Age Conversation ...

If male:

1. Make work the primary topic of conversation. Talk about your respective occupations, exchange anecdotes and stories of work-related hardship. Complain about bosses, co-workers, customers, etc. Try not to let the conversation stray from this area.

2. Use a lot of well-worn phrases and old sayings, like "Same old same old" and "Oh, can't complain" (even though you can).

3. Frequently make references to the state of the world. Complain about politics, modern music, TV shows, gas prices, then nod or shake your head wearily, and say "Yep. That's how it is."

If female:

1. Talk about whatever it is middle-aged women talk about

Dying ...

Now that you have completed all the stages from Birth to Old Age, you're ready for the final step: Dying. Toward the end of the Old Age phase, you will want to contract some terminal disease or condition to assist in your departure. While it is possible to accomplish the act of death without outside help by simply being too old, having a fatal condition helps make the dying process quicker and more efficient. Some popular conditions are Cancer, Stroke, and Heart Attack. Unnatural causes such as falling down stairs or blindly backing out into oncoming traffic can also be highly effective."

- Isaac Marion (http://www.burningbuilding.com)

HOW THE FUCK DO YOU GO FROM THIS:

TO THIS?

i will pay anyone a billion dollars if they can invent me an elixir for eternal youth. i don't ever want to age past 22. if you look outside, there are 23 yr olds who look like they're 45, ie. sienna miller.

on a more positive note this gives me an excuse to OD on green tea and blueberries, and other good stuff with antioxidant properties.

a friend of mine who's 19 found a strand of white hair on her head. yes, a fucking REAL STRAND OF WHITE HAIR, NOT THAT PSEUDO-KIND THAT KIDS WITH MUTATED GENES HAVE. my frosh-year roomie also is getting wrinkle lines on her forehead. this is insane.

so i saw her picture, and realized that to him i must have been the darkest shade of grey after a rainstorm, while she was the peaking sunlight exuding the only genuine warmth.

nothing is worse than feeling relieved after coming across a picture of the two on facebook at 5am, and discovering that she isnt the 6ft tall supergenius beauty queen you imagined. 2 seconds after i was overjoyed with a contagious form of superficial laughter, i was overcome by a disgusting shred of misery.. treatable only through his actions (which is impossible, hence i'm permanently cursed in an unquenchable thirst). i stopped staring.

what's even more despicable is that i truly wish him all the happiness he desires. he's still every bit treasured, and i adore him still. but with my competitive edge and constant vigilence against his affections, in addition to my INTENSE pride and shyness - i endlessly confused him, hence he had nowhere to go except away. he was better than the rest in realizing he's no lab rat or an ill-fated stereotype. to think of what he's done still astounds me now.

to you with significant others, or those silently in love without expressing it, let me say that it'll happen only once. to hope for something "better" is like blind gambling against the matters of one's happiness: it is beyond stupidity, beyond emotions, beyond what every wonderful and happy person will ever encompass and anyone who accepts it is worse than the dumbest animal. so pursue him passionately, if in right (if say, without him in the room, you feel ill at heart, and if he is, as if no greater moment exists).

mr. german nerd, who inspired me with his breakfast pancakes and laudable philosophical pinings, has taught me never to devalue a good man's affections.. most importantly, if these affections are genuine. you never realize the value of something until it is irreversibly gone.

i have an insatiable crush on richard dawkins.

Not a huge fan of deleting entries. But some were too wistful to bear. I realize those ethereal and ephmeral magic times of blissful summer nights steaming up the air around me are now only sepia-coloured memories.. treasures to be kept tightly locked, never to see the light.

Deleted they are.

I find that I am becoming engrossingly addicted to tea. Coffee or espresso has always been my beverage of choice, but the sumptuous flavours of lingering tea leaves and herbal fragrances leave my buds tantalized to no avail. For the record, my favourite is vanilla and pear white tea by Celestial Seasonings, who make the best tea products ever. Even the exquisite tea vendors in all of Montreal and Toronto combined can't tear me away from my love of their sweet apple chamomile and cranberry apple zingers.

Tea also reminds me of those pre-victorian ancient days, where herbal concoctions and spices mediated a part of everyone's diet. I think of these: candied nutmeg, cherry-blossom water, sage, juniper berries, candied ginger, lemon syrup, orange peels, syrup of violets, oil of sweet almonds, lavendar, dried rose petals crushed into fine powder ...

I would someday love to have all of these collectively placed on a decorative Victorian tea table, and have a tea party while wearing a dress made of pearls and vintage lace.

I will rape you, and give your mother cancer.

Best,

J.H.

Please go to bed.

Yours,

the biochemistry midterm on wednesday.

I miss you.

Most ardently.

Love,

J.H.

From now on, I won't ignore the pasty iconoclast geeks that stalk the library. Instead, I thank you for sparking my crush on them.

Sincerely,

J.H.

My ideal life would include only food, sex, entertainment, and sleep.

And, shelter.

Breakfast is a rarity for me, but this morning Kevin and I went to Plantations where we gorged on delicious high calorie goods. I had goat feta cheese infused with peppercorn and olive oil on a toasted French bagette sprinkled with oregano, with a fragrant cup of Turkish coffee. Kevin had the same, except with a side of extra cripsy thin bacon pieces like none other. I think they cook everything using super fresh (likely imported) extra virgin olive oil, because the oil tasted velvety and sweet instead of greasy. Then we splurged some more, and ordered two buttermilk pastry puffs which we dipped in whipped cream and blueberry syrup. The entire meal was finished off with the most refreshing brew of peach tea.

What an excellent way to pack on the pounds on top of Thanksgiving and a tumultuous breakup. I can picture myself in 20 years with a decaying metabolism and cankles the size of Kirstie Alley's imploding breasts. Cursed aging.

When I was little, perhaps during the time when I had my first crush, I idolized characters like Jo March from Little Women. For one, she could act like a complete jackass and never scare off any potential suitors, yet underneath the tomboy exterior she had a certain feminine flavour that pretty much epitomized every man's dreams of girly innocence and youth. Much of this admiration for tacky girls able to meet handsome and glorious men has stuck to me subconsciously throughout my growth - even through those awkward puberty years. Psychologically, I think that much of my attitude towards the opposite sex is revolved around this "dogma" of mine ... though as much as I try to twist, mould, or alter it in any way, I always find myself treating my boyfriends like they were superficial playmates rather than loving partners.

Past the stages of self-insecurities, I owe much of my failing love life to my parents, who've tormented much of my childhood by insisting that "no boy in the world deserves you!", which all-in-all sounds sweet enough, but in reality it's a flimsy facade to mask the fact that they're deathly paranoid of the promiscuous lifestyles of modern teenagers. So they use flattery and almost too-hasty admiration to ruin my social flexibility, and prevent me from ever coming close to a boy while conditioning my childhood brain to think that I'm better than 50% of the population (it took me roughly 10 tormentous years to figure out that what's true is the exact opposite).

Breakups hurt. Especially if the departing person had the power to turn one into an utter state of ecstacy, despair, anxiety, passion, beatitude, or splendor in a single motion of his hand or lips. Yet instead of bemoaning on a bed eating a tub of lard ice-cream, or turning to drunk embraces of whiskey and stale beer, I'll turn up my music to the highest dial, and grasp even harder to the dying shred of optimism that my remaining dignity can engulf.

Hanging around with pretentious art people will make you feel like the lowest common denominator. This is what I've experienced for the past 2 hours ... sitting on an uncomfortable couch, next to a failing artist and a snobby English major who makes the "lol disgusting" face when she thinks you're not looking. Moments of killer awkwardness and boredom ensues.

This is probably one of the main reasons why I'll never switch into the arts. I'll remain with my test tube-loving nerds, thank you.

Yesterday night, precisely when I had finished eating a dish containing ham, I had to be at a physiology lab. The instructor spent 15 minutes discussing the plans for the following weeks before sitting down, glaring at us rustically, and announcing (in summary):

One of my dreams is to marry a footballer.

Wouldn't it be the day if this were to actually happen?

Today I was approached by a crazy person on the street and that is what he called me. Apparently it means nipple hair. I gave him a certain look (the kind where I don't exactly know what was said, so I retaliate with a "what is going on" look) then he literally reached out and groped my butt. lol and this isn't even Toronto.

This sketch was written for Peter Cook & Dudley Moore's Not Only But Also in 1966, where a restaurant owner (Streeb Greebling) talks to an interviewer about his unique restaurant (where the only dishes on the menu is a bunch of tadpoles in a peach or a peach in a frog). This is one of the most funniest comedy sketches I've ever seen or read, and probably my most favourite comedy sketch due to its sheer absurdity alone. Only Peter Cook could couple the most uncomely ideas together and created a famous sketch that still rings of his unique humour and talent 40 years later.

Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Good evening.
Interviewer:	Good evening.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Good evening.
Interviewer:	Good evening. We're talking this evening to Sir Arthur Greeb-Streebling.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Streeb-Greebling.
Interviewer:	Oh, I'm terribly sorry, I thought it was Greeb-Streebling.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	No, Streeb-Greebling. You're thinking of Greeb-Streebling. The "T" is silent, as in "fox". Good evening.
Interviewer:	Good evening.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Good evening.
Interviewer:	Good evening.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Good Greebling.
Interviewer:	We'd like to ask Sir Arthur actually about his rather unique restaurant, the Frog and Peach.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Good evening.
Interviewer:	Good evening. If you would tell us something about it, Sir. Arthur.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Yes, well, ah, the idea for the Frog and Peach came to me in the bath. A great number of things come to me in the bath, mainly sort of mosquitoes and adders, but in this case a rather stupendous idea. I suddenly thought, as I was scrubbing my back with a loofah, I thought, "Where can a young couple, who are having an evening out, not too much money, and they want to have a decent meal, you know, a decent frog and a nice bit of peach, where can they go and get it?" And answer came there none. And so I had this idea of starting a restaurant specializing in these frogs legs and, er, peaches, and on this premise I built this restaurant.
Interviewer:	These premises, in fact.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	In these precise premises. Good evening.
Interviewer:	How long ago did you start this venture? Was it recently?
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	It was certainly within living memory. Shortly after the First World War.
Interviewer:	Ghastly business, wasn't it?
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Oh, absolutely ghastly business. And, er, I started it shortly after that and ever since then, it's sort of been here, y'know.
Interviewer:	And how has business been?
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Well, ah, business hasn't been, in the strict sense of the world. Rather, let me answer that question in two parts. There hasn't been any business and nobody's been. It's been a quiet time for the last 15-18 years, really, in the business.
Interviewer:	But don't you feel in a way you're at some disadvantage being stuck out in the middle of Dartmoor here?
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	I think the word "disadvantage" is awfully well chosen there, yes. This is what we're at. We're at a disadvantage. You see, when I had the idea, I weighed up the pros and cons and I came to the conclusion, rightly or wrongly, or possibly both -
Interviewer:	Or neither.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Or neither, or nye-the, as they say in some part of the country.
Interviewer:	Or cointreau.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Indeed. I thought that the pros outweighed the cons by two and a half ounces, and I thought the people in Britain were crying out for a restaurant where there wasn't any parking problem. In fact, I heard somebody in the street crying out for a restaurant without a parking problem. Norwegian sailor, I believe, on leave. He was saying, "Oh, for a restaurant without a parking problem!" And this sort of inspired me to start this one. There's no parking problem here, situated as we are in the middle of a bog in the heart of Dartmoor. No difficulty parking. Some difficultly extricating your car, but otherwise well-situated. Good evening.
Interviewer:	Good evening. Don't you feel, again, you're at a disadvantage because of your menu? I mean -
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	The menu! Oh dear! Yes, that is - Oh! This has been a terrible hindrance to us building up a business. The menu is the most - have you seen it?
Interviewer:	Yes, I have.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	It's the most appalling thing. There's so little to choose from. You start with - what's that?
Interviewer:	Spawn cocktail.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Spawn cocktail. One of the most revolting dishes known to man. Then there's only two other dishes really. There's frog a la peche, which is a frog done in Cointreau and with a peach stuffed in its mouth And, ah, then, of course, there's peche a la frog, which is really not much to write home about. A waiter comes to your table. He's got this huge peach on it, which is covered in boiling liqueur, you see, and he slices it open to reveal about two thousand little black tadpoles squiggling about. It's one of the most disgusting sights I've ever seen. God, it turns me over to think of it. Squiggle, squiggle, they go.
Interviewer:	Rather nauseating. Who does the cooking?
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	My wife does the cooking and, luckily, she does the eating as well. An amazing creature. Of course, she's not a well woman.
Interviewer:	No.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Not a well woman at all, so she very much resents having to go down the well every morning to sprinkle "Swoop" on the toads. An amazing creature, my wife, an amazing creature.
Interviewer:	Yes.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	I met her during the war actually.
Interviewer:	You did?
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Yes, she blew in through the drawing room window with a bit of shrapnel, became embedded in the sofa and, you know, one thing led to her mother and we were married in the hour.
Interviewer:	Um, yes, I suppose actually -
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Would you like some pond water?
Interviewer:	No, I won't actually.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	It's two shillings.
Interviewer:	No, no.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	It's revolting stuff. I wouldn't touch it.
Interviewer:	No .... um.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Good evening.
Interviewer:	Good evening.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	What are you about to ask me about?
Interviewer:	I'm about to ask you, um, I suppose this sort of menu could, in fact, appeal to the French.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	It could appeal to the French and I've tried appealing to the French over Radio Streeb-Greebling which, as you know, is situated in the moat, not a stone's throw from here, but, ah, the response has been - oh - it's not been excessive.
Interviewer:	No.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	It's been nil.
Interviewer:	Well, it all sounds rather disastrous to me.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Catastrophic, I think, would be a better word, really, for it.
Interviewer:	Do you have any other plans for other business ventures?
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Nnnnn-- yes and no. I thought of starting a sort of sophisticated restaurant with kind of, ah, sophisticated music somewhere up in Peebleshire. Somewhere where a young couple who're out for the evening, y'see, who've got about 85 guineas to spend to get a really decent meal.
Interviewer:	Hmm. What are you going to call it?
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	The Vole and Pea.
Interviewer:	What sort of food?
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Well, ah, I was thinking largely: simple English roast vole, you know and, ah, a decent British pea. Put the two together and I think you're on pretty good ground.
Interviewer:	Yes, indeed. Do you feel you've learnt by your mistakes here?
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	I think I have, yes, and I think I can probably repeat them almost perfectly. I know my mistakes inside out.
Interviewer:	I'm sure you will repeat them. Well, thank you very much, Sir Arthur.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Thank you very much.
Interviewer:	And good night.
Sir Arthur Streeb Greebling:	Would you like one for the toad?
Interviewer:	No, thank you.

Moments of awkwardness are so bad, especially at work. My lab supervisor bought us lunch and the subject of our conversation went to the World Cup, in which he mentions how 'efficient' Koreans are, especially with their "partying skills in Germany." Like how they cleaned after themselves in Berlin. I don't know exactly why, but it made me feel uncomfortable. Particularly because now I assume he must think I'm one of the 'efficient Korean masses', and accordingly this leads me to feel more uncomfortable than ever at work. He's foreign, I suppose he thought he was giving me a compliment by commenting on behaviour of Korean soccer fans. Yet in my head I'm thinking the whole time: please stop. It felt so awkward while he generalized on those minor stereotypes, thinking I'd be flattered by the mention, and worse yet foregoing the thought of my individuality as a person altogether, and grouping me into another "nationality" whose people apparently all behave the same way.

Someone with a PhD from Harvard should know better? Especially when mentioning these things to an obviously whitewashed yet a still impressionable young worker? Yet in all fairness, I may have interpreted his intentions the wrong way. I felt like shooting myself. Still do, now that I'm thinking this over. Wish I didn't take him up on that lunch offer, or even mention football.

I've never been a diehard football/soccer fan, but I've been following the World Cup (knowing rather shamelessly that the S Korean team wouldn't exceed expectations in WC2006), and trying to identify and weigh out the skills and luck of each nation's team participating. Knowing the rules of the game (thanks to my annoyingly soccer-obsessed foreign boyfriend), one player caught my attention in particular. Little did I know that this one player who added so much spark into the undaunted nature of the game of football was literally the "virtuoso, a hero" to not only his country, but also to the masses of soccer-lovers on a global scale. As the son of immigrants, I could relate somewhat to the difficulty, if not a certain yearning, to overcome obstacles that challenge immigrant youth, and the competitive desire to devour native rivals. He came a long way from a young boy playing football outside his backyard to the national hero he is: winning France the World Cup in 98, the European Nations Cup in 2000, the Champions League for Real Madrid in 02. I cannot help the certain part of me which finds this aspect of his life almost like a fairy tale. A tragic one however, because his creative brilliance, his skill, his drive and unbreakable determination mattered to almost nothing when a single moment of folly befell upon him at the last moment of his colourful career.

I think that most of his fans can understand, because admist the years of sheer ecstacy he's given to France, this short and bitter moment only proves relatable to us: that he too is human, and we must stand by our hero rather than strike him when he's down. Sadly, I've got to learn of him at the twilight of his career, seconds after he had committed an act almost criminal in the highest game of international sports, but I am in time to join the legions of admirers in honouring his brilliance in saying "Thank You" to the coolest player of our generation.