Ohmygod that is so, so, so, so, so, so gross. So, so, so, so, so, so gross. Oh, god, yuck. Oh, yuck yuck yuck.

She said, “What are you doing tonight?” and I said, “Nothing, what are you doing?” and she said, “Having dinner with you.” So at nine we converge on the lovely Lucien down on Houston and First, me and V. and Tom, and it’s cozy and candle-icious in a corner in the back of the room. And there’s crusty bread, a tasty Malbec, an asparagus salad with mesclun and mustard, sea scallops and capers in a butter sauce, and a large, warm cappuccino. And there’s talking and laughing, and feet up and lounging, and, as seems to be our m.o., we shut down the place. And all too soon I’m waiting for the train at Second Avenue, surprised at how it got to be a quarter past one in the morning.

My public service announcement of the day is this: If you try to blog and do laundry and make coffee and steam milk all at the same time, chances are good you will burn the coffee.

In from the snowstorm, turn on the shower so hot everything looks blurry, so hot I can swallow the steam.

In class today, Professor Mitterand was flipping through an Aragon book, and I saw a small scrap of brown paper tucked into the pages, and for one brief, sparkling moment, it was so clear to me that it was a biscuit.

I don’t support thievery, but I heart guac! Mmm. . . “warty, thick-skinned booty.” Oo-er.

It’s been a great party when some people leave your house at five a.m., and some people don’t leave at all. And it’s so much easier to face the mess the next morning if you have a Tom around picking through the rubble with you, and then taking you out for a coffee and a chocolate glazed at the counter at Donuts Luncheonette.

Today: six hours of cleaning—including taking out nine large bags of trash (one big enough to hold a toddler); vaccumming and mopping every square inch of this place; and doing two loads of laundry and so, so many dishes.

There will be leftover mushrooms for days!

Some days I think, Eh, why blog, alls I did today was run a bunch of errands, who cares? But then some days even the errand-running seems to have some kind of happy magic to it, like when today started with an early-morning grocery trip to Hong Kong Supermarket in an as-yet-quiet Chinatown; then home to vaccuuming and scrubbing and all kinds of meditative deep cleaning accompanied by a soundtrack of Mandy Moore and the Ramones and Ute Lemper; then a satisfying grilled-chicken sandwich lunch at Dizzy’s over Donna Tartt’s five-hundred-and-something-page The Little Friend—I’m thisclose to the end and I can’t turn the pages fast enough; then poking around in Slope Cellars looking at wine bottle labels; then taking the agar-agar fish out of the fridge and unmolding it perfectly, following which, celebrating the unmolding loudly and madly in my apartment; then receiving four boxes of tastiness from FreshDirect and unpacking said boxes and laying out all the vegetables and fruit and cheese, and eating sweet, crunchy bean sprouts and luscious cherries over the sink, and ohmygod my kitchen smells soooo good right now. Soon, a shower, and then back to Chinatown for a rowdy dinner with funny friends. Yay,

Of all the nerve. Apparently Columbia University (ooooh, Columbia) is also throwing a Chinese New Year party Saturday night. Apparently it is the “biggest Chinese New Year Celebration party in the Eastern USA.” Apparently the party will include:

* Traditional spring festival dinner with delicious Chinese food;
* Wonderful performances by well-known professional Chinese artists and students;
* Lottery, gifts worth of $1,600 will be given out to lucky audience;
* Prize-awarding ceremony for the first time: Outstanding Chinese Scholar Award and CUCSSA Contribution Award will be given;
* Riddle games with prizes;
* Grand dancing party with professional DJ and lighting;
* Exhibition of painting;
* Chinese movies;
* CCTV Spring Festival Show Video;
* KaraOke; ......

Wait, do I need to go to the Columbia party?

If the lanterns are up, the agar-agar fish is setting in the fridge, and twenty pairs of chopsticks are standing at attention in an empty Hand Brand Longan in Heavy Syrup can, it must mean my Chinese New Year party’s tomorrow. Will all the noodles be cooked in time? Will there really be a vegan version of Thai tang hoon? Will the spring rolls turn out the way they look in the cookbook picture? I believe the only proper response at this time is, See how, lah.

What snack food are you?

You call to ask a simple question. . .and three hours later you’re getting off the phone with CC in Sydney. Part of the three hours of conversation included CC reading the questions and answer choices to the Dolly magazine quiz, “Who is Your Celeb Sister?” and me picking from A, B, or C. Because Dolly is an Australian magazine, I guessed that one of the three Celeb Sisters offered was Delta Goodrem. Because all the “A” answers were skanky, I guessed that another of the Celeb Sisters was Christina Aguilera. But who was the mystery Celeb Sister?? After choosing an “all-American stud” as my ideal boyfriend (the other choices were “Latino lover” and “sporty” someone-or-other); a “bracelet from Tiffany” as my ideal gift from my all-American stud; and “a skim cappuccino” (not the “double short black” nor the “hot chocolate”) as my drink of choice when hanging out with my friends, among twelve other similarly revealing answers to twelve other similarly thought-provoking questions, it turns out. . .my total and utter celeb soulmate, ohmygod, hold your breath. . . is. . . Reese Witherspoon!!!! Ohmygod, I totally, totally always knew Reese and I would get along like ponies. Finding out for real was like winning prom queen. Well, I guess it was like what I imagine being prom queen would be like. Either way, whoa, I was stoked. I can still see that moment I found out the results, playing slow motion in my head—jumping to my feet, my free hand fluttering in front of my mouth, itself making a small “o” of happy shock and excitement.

The table all the way to the back and to the left in Great N.Y. Noodletown is the best one in the house, ’cause, if you and Tom sit on the same side, backs to the wall, Mafia-style, over your meal you get to watch all the action in the room—the butcher dude with his cleaver and his collection of roasted duck and pork in the window; the waiters maneuvering in tight spaces with plates and plates of steaming, glistening what-nots—while also being as far away as possible from the door and the biting wind that rushes in at every chance. Plus, the seats face the clock, which tells you, when you’re done with the duck porridge and the mixed seafood in a taro bird’s nest, and when the sliced oranges and moist towelettes arrive, that it’s time to motor and head over to the Knitting Factory for some tunes.

The boy was right, you really can’t see anything at the Knitting Factory. Maybe things would be different if we weren’t hobbit-sized. Still, it’s nice to sit in the dark with a pal and listen to the absolute loveliness of Rilo Kiley.

When I woke up this morning, it was grey and cold and raining assily, and I was talking to Schmio, and she said, “Yeah, this rain is the worst, if only it were at least snowing or something else,” and then we got off the phone and the next time I looked out the window, the rain’d stopped and there were beautiful light white bits of snow floating around. Schmio, are you magic??

Sometimes a quiet day to yourself is alls you need. After the snow, the sun. Still, it’s cold as a mutha. Even with the heat cranked up, my apartment’s ice cubey. Went to the local B&N to see if they’d offer me some love. That, and free magazines. Found myself a table in the café with a latte and The Believer, which has a funny article on Sweet Valley High; Us magazine. . . Oh, Britney, why? Why?? I try to be behind the girl, but sometime she just crazy!; and Eye, which I almost bought but then didn’t ’cause I wasn’t in the mood to spend $28 on a magazine, even if said magazine is, as always, gorgeous, and had a v. interesting-looking story on film-title design. Maybe tomorrow.

Had to walk home with clenched jaw, ’cause sometimes it’s so cold you yell at the wind, and sometimes it’s so cold if you open your mouth to yell at the wind your teeth freeze.

Will it be duck porridge tonight? I think so. And then will it be an orange hot chocolate? Oh, yes.

Me and Jason, cheap red wine, G&Ts, spaghetti with pecorino and cracked black pepper, a po’ boy sandwich, crusty bread and good butter. Schiller’s Liquor Bar can be a scene, but if you show up at seven on a chilly Tuesday night, you’ll get a table no problem. Then you can sit and watch the scene develop over the next hour and a half, and oh, yes, the scene will develop, even though it’s a chilly Tuesday night, and people will bump into you, and later you’ll have to fight your way to the restrooms. It’s just as well, then, that by then it’ll be time to leave ’cause yous two have a date with the Thrills, all the way from Dublin, Ireland, to the Bowery Ballroom. Happy rockin new year, indeed. Lead Thrill said: “We’re so happy to be in New York Fuckin City!” and “Mah baby!” and “Why thank you!” There was clapping, there was jumping, there was the beat thumping through your chest.

When you get back to the city after having been away three and a half weeks, there sure is a lot to do besides blog. (Yah, Tom, this goes out to you.) And then when you do do it all, even going to the gym the day you touch down from a twenty-one hour flight, you sure all of a sudden one night need to go to bed at eight.

Rested now. Got up to snowing. Perfect time to inaugurate my new egg cup. Soft-boiled egg, soya sauce, white pepper. Mmmm. Accompanied by an article in an old New York Times Magazine about Jude Law. Mmmm.

So I got off the plane Sunday, and was duly fingerprinted and photographed. Even with the jovial immigration dude (“Say cheese!”) at the helm, it was a wholly uncomfortable experience. Look, America, I’m as law-abiding and servile and obsequious as they come. Give me my fingerprints back.

Happily, there was soon cake to follow, at India’s Ladies’ Tea. Lots of cake, even a lemon tart and a giant doughnut. And tea, especially a winning white melon tea. And, ohmygod, a pile of homemade truffles. And, uh, a bowl of carrots. Wha-ha? Silly India, that space on the table could have been much better used by a large cupcake.

Monday night brought a short walking tour of downtown Manhattan as T. McC. and I looked for a sushi joint that would take us in and ply us with fish. Tomoe packed and its queue outside showing no sign of getting any shorter, we headed for the Yama on Seventeenth Street. It’s a funny thing about the Union Square Yama, you can always be sure you’ll sit next to some loudmouthed asshole. Monday night we got two black-suited businessmen (insurance? stocks?) who started out slow, talking only to the people at their neighboring tables, then moved on to making proclamations to the room. They seemed especially pleased to meet the hippies a couple of tables away from them—one boy hippie, three girl hippies, dreads, a yoga mat, and a didgeridoo. Eventually the suits got one of the girl hippies to play the didgeridoo, after which they said, “That was good for me, was it good for you?” Chortle, chortle, yuk, yuk. Sigh.

Outside again, full and happy from the edamame and seaweed, the crazy hotate mille-feuille, the salmon and avocado roll, the sea-eel sushi, the yellowtail. Tom glowing orange from a streetlight, roadworks smoke rising behind him.

God damn, it’s cold. I can feel my tropical tan fading away by the second, and the last couple of days in my apartment have involved yelping sprints from the bathroom to the bedroom.

By some miracle, everything fits. I’m sure my luggage far exceeds the weight allowed me by the airline, but right now I’m just relieved everything fits.

Ren came by this morning for a last-minute breakfast date and we headed to the very tasty Casuarina Curry—thanks, Yu Mei, for the intro—home of such varied pratas as chocolate and strawberry. Just like Glico Pocky! One paper dosai, one mushroom-and-cheese prata, one chicken murtabak, and a dish of curry later, we found ourselves trying on shoes at Om Pedder in Takashimaya. Shoes on sale. Beaut pointy red shoes on sale. With a kitten heel. Look, lady, wrap them up already!

Things are always better with a Ren.

Last night in town, feeling down, down, down.

I don’t know what it is, maybe it’s that I’ve had an especially great vacation or something, or maybe it’s just that I’m a big lazybones and don’t want to go back to school, where my recent life of late mornings, long lunches, and midday movies will be replaced by homework. The last few days I’ve been wondering how I can get off the current career path and head toward the one marked “socialite.”

After feeling crappy all day, went to Andrea’s birthday dinner at Garibaldi. You know it’s bad when the incredible duck salad on mesclun with ewe’s milk cheese, the gorgeously tender cod drizzled with truffle sauce, and the melt-in-your-mouth tiramisu fail to lift you out of the mopey hole you’re in.

But then waiting for the MRT home at City Hall, I ran into a friend I hadn’t seen in something like ten years. And I don’t know what it was, we really only chatted for the two minutes it took the train to arrive, but seeing him again made me smile, like a goof, on a crowded late-night train, all the way back to Bishan.

If only all the people I know and love lived in the same country, things would be much easier.

Argh. If Friendster would actually bloody work even just half the time, I’d be able to write to this guy. Dude, sorry, but it’s so not me that’s lame.

Howlin and yowlin. Stray cats in the garden gettin it on.

This time next week I’ll be back in Brooklyn, where it will be cold and where I will once again have to do my own laundry.

It is both good and not good having two places to call home. To make sure I’ll be able to see all the people I want to see before I leave here, I’ve had to plan my last week of meals down to the last breakfast. But—too many people, not enough mealtimes; by the end of all the noshing and nattering, I still don’t think I’ll be ready to go. And yet I’ve already got plans with the New York crew, brill plans, tasty plans, rock ’n roll plans. It’s gonna be a good year.

Just when you think the Taiwan porridge dinner at Goodwood Hotel can’t get any better, what with the sweet potato porridge, the boiled peanuts, the preserved vegetable omelette, the garlic sautéed greens, the spicy eggplant, the fried pomfret, even the dubious braised duck—just when you think you’re done, what comes out of the kitchen but a remarkable crêpe stuffed with fresh durian and topped with durian ice cream, the plate drizzled with durian syrup. Incroyable.

“Lock up your crazy things, the twinkies are in town!”

If you wake up at 6:30 in the morning, especially if you have a CC, there’s quite a bit you can get done in a day, like: make a breakfast of apricot-raisin toast and fresh strawberries and vanilla yoghurt; ride the MRT during rush hour, watching the blank faces of the office crowd as you plug yourself into A-Ha’s “Take on Me”; go to the dentist; buy a blue plastic bangle in flower shape; get some rilly good Japanesey stationery at Kinokuniya; share a White Chocolate Dream Latte and a Black Forest Ice Blended at the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf while filling in the quizzes in a teenage-girl magazine; run into an old school friend on her lunch break; have an aimable chat with a store-manager sort; poke around in the downstairs food hall in Takashimaya; try samples of champagne chocolate from the very accomodating Royce chocolate girl; split a roast beef and horseradish sandwich and a mango lassi in the pink-tiled paradise that is Toast; plan a Chinese New Year party; wander the candy aisle in Cold Storage; pretend to be Japanese tai-tais with a new friend at the Royal Copenhagen Tea Lounge; play several shaky rounds of five-stones; and head back to the heartland. Then, after a refreshing evening shower, you can also: take a cab to meet the girls at Da Paolo in Club Street for salmon carpaccio on rocket, tagliatelle with crabmeat and green peppercorns, and chocolate profiteroles; dash over to the Boom Boom Room for some local-like over-the-top variety-show nuttiness; have a chill nighttime drive with Ren, the half-moon following you home; and let yourself in the gate quietly, quietly.

quiet.
new.
nice.

There sure are a lot of bugs out here in the tropics. Last night I had a battle with a large brown beetle who kept buzzin around my room. I tried to kick him out, but he wasn’t having any of it, and latched on to my calf—it’s surprising how much six pointy little legs can hurt. Finally I got him out the door, but then he paced outside, biding his time, for a good many minutes.

Also, every morning I wake up and discover new mosquito bites. Today there were five, including two spooky dark pink ones on my right wrist. They’re each a couple of millimetres in diameter and they’re about three-quarters of an inch apart, like a large-ish (for a bug) vampire bug attacked in the night. Yike.

It’s always a good day when CC’s in town. Even if I only get like five hours of sleep ’cause I was up talking to Thusha till the wee hours about random bizniss. ’Cause the waking up early is for a totally non-assey reason like, we are going to take a little stroll to Ya Kun Kaya Toast in Bishan Junction 8 for an old-style Chinee breakfast of kaya toast, two googly soft-boiled eggs doused in soya sauce and generously dusted with white pepper, and coffee with a small pond of condensed milk at the bottom. Yes, please!