I like this song.

Three things about Hong Kong: Originally colonized by the British, its official languages are Chinese (spoken Cantonese) and English. It’s the most densely populated city in world. If it is your first time visiting, you might want to book your trip for longer than a weekend.

Ralph Lauren shirt (from Francis’s closet), UO bag, Jeans from outlet mall, Dolce Vita boots
We stayed at the Imperial Hotel on Nathan road just next door to Chungking Mansion. This is where Chungking Express was filmed. Now all I need is my sunglasses, Burberry trench and a Marilyn Monroe wig and it would be enough to say, “eat your heart out, Faye Wong.”

If you are a born and bread island person, there will be a lot of firsts for you.

Things like commuting via metro

coming out to play in Disneyland

The live theater show, I enjoyed most of course

riding a crystal cable car suspended 112 feet high

goofing around the Avenue of Stars, wataaah!

vintage sweater, Korean boutique pleated skirt

meditating in sacred places

I am like totally zen

Neneee romper
and generally experiencing the hustle and bustle energy of a big city.

City people weren’t always as curteous as the island peeps I am so accustomed to, but you have to hand it to them for keeping it real. “You no buying, no take pikchar. I am not actress,” said the starlet above.

One thing I was super looking forward to was shopping at H&M, but it was pretty much a let down. Over rated and not so different from shopping at Macy’s or any other commercial department store on Guam, even shopping at Disneyland was way more exciting. The provincial markets on Temple street, Tsim Sha Tsui and fisherman’s village yielded the best novelty prezzies to take home.

Bruce Lee tee, various types of Chinese teas: jasmine, pu erh, lychee, ti kuan yin, white and orchid, Little Prince marshmallows–if only for the packaging, Mickey Mouse chocolates, classic Mickey tee (which would look even better after a one billion washes), MMJ make-up bag, remote control helicopter, lots of black workwear, cheap clothes, expensive shoes
“Bring two empty luggages and a lot of money.” That’s what Mieko said when I told her I was going. It’s a good thing I kept it in mind and also stuffed an extra duffel bag into the front pocket of our check-in baggage.

Eat your vegetables!

If there’s such a thing as buyer’s remorse, even worse is the antithetical nonbuyer’s remorse. I’ll forever regret not buying those miniature wind-up dancing robots and funny splatballs from the old man with no voice and kind eyes at the Tsim Sha Tsui market. Our intuition is good; the problem is we ignore it. I need to learn how to be more implulsive. Like when we decided to have 3 dollar 32 ouncers (amazing!) literally smack dab in the middle of the street. Those were really nice served with poached snail thingamagiggies in a dark chili sauce. I forget what the dish is called, but if anyone knows, please please please drop a line.

Last week I finally scavenged eBay only to find those little dancing robots and splatballs I so wanted but tried to convince myself I didn’t need. I bought them anyway. So I don’t need them per se. So what? They are just cool things to have around. Like in case of emergency, break glass and play with these, they’re fun! And since they are being shipped from Hong Kong, I imagine they are coming from that same kind old man in that same crowded old market.

A final note on commuting in Hong Kong: drivers are either suicidal or insane. Or both. Every time we decide to hop in the back of a cab or bus, I find myself hanging on for dear life. All the while The Smiths are playing There is a Light That Never Goes Out” in the back of my head. That song could pretty much sum up the entire duration of our stay.

Best,
Yuko
1 October 2010 4:40pm EDT

Omiyage from Japan:

Dream girls… not.

Yuko wears: dress by Anthropologie, shoes by Anne Klein and (the cutest apple pendant) necklace by Unoaerre via Gilt Groupe.
I am wearing: self-made velvet romper, necklace from *can’t remember, deadstock tights from Salvation Army, and shoes by F-Troupe.

Thanks for visiting, Yuko!

Francis has been going on about Cinnabon ever since I let him try one last week. While we’re having our morning coffee he says, “This would be so good with Cinnabon.” After dinner he puts his fork down and says, “You know what I’m craving for dessert right now? Cinnabon.” On the couch I am applying warm vanilla sugar lotion to my feet while watching the latest episode of Mad Men. He leans in with a big dorky grin, closes his eyes, catches a whiff and says, “Mmmmmm, smells like Cinnabon.” When it got to the point where he was whispering Cinnabon while brushing past me on the bathroom toilet, I knew for sure it was time to get this boy some Cinnabon.

“You can thank Reena for that,” I said. She always insists I try these amazing specialty foods that I wouldn’t be brave enough to try by myself (really, 880 calories for a pastry? crap). Stuff like Deli Manjoo and Beard Papa’s and in the case of our last date, Cinnabon. I love Reena.

Did I tell you about my ongoing theory that the better your are at driving, the better you are at handling life experiences? I am accident prone. You know the terrible Korean driver you poke fun of because ONLY SHE could hit a parked car? *ahem* That would be me. But Reena—I am constantly stepping on the imaginary break pedal from the passenger seat of her car. The lunatic of a driver. Even behind the wheel, she has the practical joking down. She’s the character who will tell you to roll up all your windows just so she can pass the deadliest gas and wait for a reaction. She does not warn you about it and refrains from laughing until just the right moment because it makes the stink all the more unbearable. EVIL.

There’s plenty of crude jokes and more use of the word ‘fierce’ than I can handle, but one thing’s for sure—it’s never boring when Reena’s around. We are different in more ways than we are the same, but I think that might be why we get on so well. She is the frosting to my Cinnabon.

Back from limbo. Ah, it’s such a relief to be done with wholesale orders after 3 weeks of solitary confinement! Okay, maybe I wasn’t completely alone. Evan Dando was still chillin’ in my squeezebox to keep me company.

Gosh, has it really been a month since my last post? I guess this makes me a bad blogger. Sorry sorry x_X Here’s the only conclusion I can come to—it’s either got to be sewing or blogging, but I can’t do both without one or the other suffering. Idk how Jenny Gordy does it! Sewing is the easiest thing in the world to do, but there’s no way around it being incredibly time consuming. Well, at least not without sacrificing workmanship. Which is something I’d rather not do. And you know how the internet vortex goes—one hour online leads to two hours leads to three leads to there goes my entire day. So ultimately I’ve chosen to make stuff first and then come to the surface for a breath of fresh air every once in a while. Hi, how are you?

Today is the first day in a long time I wake up without anything pressing to complete. I’d like to take a trip to Tokyo Mart and pick up a copy of ViVi. Maybe we could make a picnic of cheap beer and deluxe combo sushi. You know, the kind with packaged soy sauce and weird plastic grass separators. They always load it with too much rice and not nearly enough filling and then comes the carb crash 30 minutes later. But I guess you get what you pay for buying sushi at a grocery store, right? Tonight, it’s dinner with the bff and then Dinner for Schmucks. I’d really just like to get out of the the house if only for a short while before starting on a new collection again. I am feeling a little out of it and need something to pull me back in.

Robert Pirsig talks about this feeling a lot in Zen and the Art of Mortorcycle Maintenance—how traveling is better than arriving. He says he always falls into a period of depression after reaching a goal and has to reorient himself toward a new one. Even if he was a little cuckoo, still, it’s comforting to know I am not alone in feeling that way—at a loss for what to do next.

I knew exactly what I wanted to do last night though. And that was enjoy a meal that didn’t come in a bar or shake. For our ulam, I baked unagi and served it over a bed of brown rice. Then I used this recipe (which was incredible) and this (which was meh) for our side dishes. It was nice all in all.

“Am I that predictable?” Close enough, the first was Wet Hot American Summer—a cult classic including the gay sex scene that will never again let me revere Bradley Cooper in a devilishly handsome heartthrob sort of light. Instead I will only ever picture him—him, with those piercing blue eyes, that wind-swept dirty blonde hair, my god the titillating five o’clock shadow—taking it IN THE BUTT.

Way to ruin it for a girl.

Spot on, the second was Rosemary’s Baby—a classic horror/thriller/drama. Except it wasn’t all that scary as I anticipated. I kept waiting for goosebumps crawl up my arms like the way it did when Georgie winked through the photograph in It; or the closet scene from The Ring when the school girl is curled up at the corner in a fetal position—nothing could prepare you for an expression of sheer terror like that. But the truth is, although very suspenseful, Rosemary’s Baby wasn’t scary at all. Discounting the idea of having super snoopy next door neighbors, which is pretty alarming in itself.

Instead I found myself distracted by protagonist Rosemary Woodhouse’s wardrobe and styling—teeny trapeze minis, over-sized lapels and collars, dainty pea coats, timeless Ferragamo flats, strappy summer skimmers, and best of all, babydoll silhouettes galore! *Sigh* She had a closet made of dreams.

Images above courtesy of mptvimages.com

In one scene, Rosemary arrives home with a fresh pixie cut and asks her husband Guy what he thinks of the iconic new ‘do. Without a doubt, Guy says something along the lines of, oh, idk…it sucks. A familiar reaction. Just then, Francis and I both sneak sideways glances at each other. He must have caught some glare from the light bulb hovering over my head ’cause right away he says, “Nope, don’t even think about it. You promised you’d grow your hair out!” What’s it with dudes and a preference for long hair? This is an argument I can never win because a promise is a promise. Even though I’m terribly tempted to hack it all off with sewing shears in the next room.

braided hair headband – eBay
bow tie – self-made
gold onyx ring – heirloom from Mom
dress – reconstructed vintage

photos by Francis

At the Micronesia Mall movie theaters, the early bird special is the first show of the day. It usually accommodates very little people. The kind of people who prefer to watch a movie in quiet than with a huge crowd. The ones who’d like their pick of the best seats in the house. They’d rather sneak in a footlong Italian BMT with the works on honey oat bread and extra provolone cheese than order a large popcorn at the concession stand. Also, they are willing to wake up 3 hours earlier than usual to save the extra 3 bucks. Hard times, man.

This is what I wore to watch Ironman 2, which wasn’t bad by any means, but wasn’t mind blowing either. The climax might have been seeing Scarlett Johansson in a catsuit. What-a-babe. Robert Downey Jr. is a curious fellow. I think I like him for his character flaws just as much as his razor sharp wit. I guess it’s just a whole lot more interesting to read the stories of people who have colossally screwed up and come back better for it. Rather than the ones who’ve done things right all the time from the start.

neneee carnival dress - (self-made)
neon glitter bracelet – gift from Kristen
classic friendship/beaded bracelets – thrifted
silver studded bangle – self-made
aqua bike shorts – flea market
sequined bowler shoes – wantedshoes

On the coffee table, there’s a mountain pile of tissue soaked in green phlegm, 1 Logitech universal remote control, 36 short films amounting to 11 hours on 4 DVDs of Charlie Chaplin’s short films, 1 copy of The Entrepreneur’s Guide to Sewn Product Manufacturing by Kathleen Fasenella, 8 caplets American Fare Cold & Flu medicine (may cause drowsiness), 2 empty wooden coasters, the Maxx Barry novel Syrup, 1 Webster’s New World Pocket dictionary, and a tube of cherry-flavored chapstick. On the couch, there’s me and a black corduroy comforter. Bah, it’s been over a week. What the duck, antibodies?! Get with it!

After we took these photos some few weeks ago, I asked Francis to scrap them because my outfit was sort of plain Jane. Thank goodness he didn’t because today I’m caving to the sound of those awful chirping crickets.

Sometimes I find myself more open to an outfit/collection/artist/opinion/everything if I can see where it’s coming from:

Cover art for the Broadway musical Once on This Island. This also prompted me to blast the original score on repeat for three-days-straight. You should have seen Francis’s head explode. Poor guy.

I’m not quite sure what’s what with teenagers these days—somehow I get the impression it’s gotta involve that Michael Cera dude or forget about it—but back then, professing your love for Broadway musicals was tantamount to committing social suicide. The art kids created visually stimulating drawings. The band geeks made magic brass and string harmonies. And the choir could lull you off to oblivion like Sirens.

But the theater guild (read: drama freaks)—we were like the bottom feeders of the fine arts electives. Not the surgeons saving lives and stuff, just the dentists pulling teeth. The irony was that people I’ve met through theater were always the most genuine and sincere in real life; they were the coolest. Either that or they were really good actors. Which, let’s face it, is not the case particularly with live theater when everything has to be over-exaggerated for the stage.

Reena used to say, “I have no room for drama in my life,” but she lied because our lives revolved around it.

peasant dress & wooden necklace – self-made
beaded bracelet – Gallop USA
silver rings – gifts from Loraine
mint green sandals – Ecote

Photos by Francis

Babysitting duties and a conversation with my boyfriend and niece… babysitting my boyfriend, not my niece, just to clarify.

Francis: You wanna watch Alice in Wonderland?

Kristen: Oh, I watched that! There’s a rabbit with the watch and it’s ticking. Then she falls in the hole and her hair’s upside down…

Francis: I don’t think she’s seen it; it’s not even out yet.

me: She probably saw it in the theaters. Listen, she’s explaining the entire plot.

Kristen: And then she gives the monster back his eye. And the white queen—

me: Play something else. What about The Fantastic Mr. Fox? Have you seen it?

Kristen: Oh, I know that

Francis: Hmmm… I doubt you’ve seen that one, what happens then?

Kristen: Uhhh, their neighbors are not like, that fantastic.

striped top – Comme des Garcons
necklace – originally Francis’s pocket watch (I used it as a pendant xD)
trousersuit – self-made from men’s trousers
silver rings – gifts from Loraine
socks – eBay
checkerboard shoes – Betsey Johnson

How cool is it to find the ultimate present for your mom in the toy department? She can spend months on end assembling her 10,000 count jigsaw puzzle, admire its completion for five minutes, then take it all apart and toss every piece back in their box like it isn’t anything. WTH. If you want to know where I inherit my OCD tendencies from… Thanks, Mom!

One time, Francis and I worked on a jigsaw puzzle together. This was a very long time ago—when our metabolism was more forgiving and we were still easily upset by things beyond our control. When he would wait for me to clock out at the corner of the bar, meanwhile slipping little haiku’s written on the back of beer labels or prose on paper towels into my jacket pocket whenever I served him his next round. Still very restless after hours, I’d hijack borrow a bottle of Black Label from inventory and a liter of Coke and with that, we’d plop down on my back yard and talk about absolutely nothing.

What I remember him saying was, “Did you know Courtney Love used to be a stripper on Guam?” and I said, “Ah, you read Spin, too?” And there was something familiar in somebody whom I didn’t have much in common with. Like feeling at home in a foreign country; that’s how I wanted to get people, how I wanted to be gotten. Even if we both felt a little smug in our knowledge of the most random useless information. Blame it on adolescent arrogance if you will.

Another time brought us well into sunrise. We took a drive to 7-11 in my beat down piece-of-crap ‘92 Jeep Grand Cherokee for the largest cup of butter toffee coffee ’cause it was too late (or technically, early) to fall asleep and the chemical that tells your brain to wake up when sunlight dilates your pupils had already kicked in. We found ourselves crashed out on my bed by afternoon only to wake up still dressed in the previous night’s attire with bloody bad breath and boogers in our eyes and no weird feelings about sleeping together without ever actually, you know, sleeping together.

“Sorry I left without saying bye. You were still asleep and I needed to take a dump. I’ve been thinking about you all day though; I even thought about you in the crapper,” he said. A regular Casanova.

The things I come away with from those days—a dozen crinkled Bounty sheets, a magazine subscription circa 2004, a completed jigsaw puzzle—sentimental reminders of a time during courtship and carelessness. At first glance they don’t amount to much, but there’s something to be said about that. Something The Sunday Best said well, best when he quoted so-and-so (I forget who) in defense of fashion, “‘You can’t have depth without a surface.’”

straw boater hat – eBay
pink jabot top – reconstructed Kamiseta
denim shortalls – thrifted Calvin Klein
bag – Jill Stuart
mint sandals – Ecote