The Only Fruit

Yesterday I broke free from the CNY routine and met up with Don, Michelle, Shu and Alec for karaoke at Party World KTV, Cuppage Centre. I love Cuppage Centre. It's incredibly kitsch and undeniably sleazy and caters to the various vicarious pleasures of Japanese businessmen.

After that we dined alfresco at an Italian restaurant along Princep St. A good husband-and-wife effort, although we only ordered pasta. This drew looks of derision from the wife who was taking our orders, probably since Alec happened to be white. The woman must think that every ang moh is a 4-course wallet.

I headed down to Stanley's place, wine and oranges in hand. He had a cozy little get-together of 30-somethings which included Tara, an Australian qigong master, and Leslie, an Australian Korean.

Sensing that I was out of my depth, I shut up, drank, ate grapes, smiled, and aaahed charmingly as we meandered from CISCO to Camilla to Psychics to how Koreans celebrate their CNY, which they apparently do.

And they don't care for red, nor oranges; prefering to adorn their homes in pristine and deathly white. They display fruits with all the tops cut off, supposedly lending a rounder shape to otherwise imperfect apples and pears. No wonder why these people are constantly at war.

My last stop was a beautiful East Coast house party hosted by a couple, Dylan and TJ. I don't remember what went on there because by then I had drank all the wine at Stanley's, so I decided to call it quits before I did something embarassing, like wash my face in the punch.

Why do people always name-drop in their blogs?