(Or, The Company Christmas Party)
Of all the topics that I imagined would be the first from my blog series from home, this was the last. Tonight, I went to a Christmas party/dinner with my dad's coworkers at a local steakhouse. As these things usually go, it involves a bunch of coworkers, the majority of whom could care less about the other and just want to get the goddamned thing over with (please pass the wine), a few set meal options to aid in efficiency, some corny games and lots of awkwardness. Whether I'm in China or America, I swear situations like this simply follow me.
As we Yeungs are prone to doing, my father and I arrived fashionably early. Of the 40 expected guests, only a small crew of 5 ladies were seated in the upstairs group room. I don't know what's been put in America's water, but for many American white ladies over the age of 50, something awful happens to them after that special time known as menopause. They shrink to toad-like dwarf size, asses ballooning out in all directions, creating a weird human blob in the shape of a pear. With a short, dyke-y hairstyle, lots of makeup, and bad perfume. There must be a secret manufacturing plant for these lasses somewhere in the Midwest, the heart of obese housewife hell. Five such examples of this species were already knocking back martinis when we walked in. I could immediately sense my dad's inherent Chinese awkwardness in social settings click on to alert mode, immediately adopting the nervous loud-talk to make it seem like he was happy to see these people, while at the same time frantically screening the area for a separate table to claim so that we wouldn't have to sit with them all evening. After the required pleasantries of "Hello, nice to meet you" and "Really?! THIS is your son!? I don't believe it, he's so white and you're so yellow!" we retreated to our table and started drinking.
As the rest of the employees arrived, I realized that I was in an episode of The Office. Albeit a less enjoyable one for lack of any Pam doppelgangers. First of all, the place was packed with Phyllises. Tall ones, short ones, ones with hats. Fat ones, fatter ones, a heffer in a moo-moo covering her enormously large ass. These ho-hum broads would benefit from sprucing up a bit to emulate their queen, Phyllis, who is, believe it or not, far better put together. Oh the horror.
To serve as the peanut butter to the tubby, fem-jelly of this suburban PB&J nightmare, the dudes were no less interesting. To be fair, all of these folk were polite and nice. But something about seeing a bunch of fat, balding white men with faint strains of rosacea and nauseating neck ties just rubs me the wrong way. By all accounts, wearing a tie that depicts each of the Twelve Days of Christmas should be reason enough for execution. Call these the Bob Vances of the bunch, but just not as interesting. After having my poor hand mangled by a steady stream of these chuckling behemoths, I was momentarily thankful to work in an environment where the majority of the male employees are the same size as yours truly. If I see one more Christmas-themed tie wrapped around another ham-neck, I may snap.
During the evening's quiz game (oh, fun!), the MC showed pictures of famous pop culture celebrities who "resembled" one of the colleagues in attendance. The bald white dude with the pointy nose? Dick Cheney. The fat bald guy with big eyes? Homer Simpson. And what about the token black guy in attendance, the only person of color for miles around (my dad not included)? He's gotta be the dude on 24! I'm sure he didn't feel awkward at all... At one point, the MC noted that a certain audience member looked like George Washington, which is all fine and dandy except for the fact that she's a woman. So, so flattering.
No amount of wine could have prepared me for the Michael Scott Award for Awkward Social Antics winner. Sitting at our table (Dick Cheney's wife), this overweight little creature could only be described as a typical Boston-area working class white lady who thinks she's down but really doesn't have a clue. I don't know how else to put it, because at certain points, I swore she was some distant relative on my mom's side. You know which one: the aunt that introduces me as her "Oriental nephew."
Upon hearing that I was in town on vacation from China (and repeatedly insisting that I could not possibly be my dad's son for lack of resemblance), she happily told the table that she spoke some Chinese.
Me: "Oh really?!"
Her: "Yes!" *smiles* "Shay-shay!"
Me, pausing: "Oh, xie xie! That's great!" *trying not to roll eyes at this retarded wombat*
Her, reaching into the cobwebbed recesses: "What else? Oh, and ah-wheez!"
I looked at my dad, he looked at me, we didn't have a fucking clue what she was trying to say.
Her, again and again: "Ah-wheez!"
Me: "Erm...."
Her: "You know, 'ah-wheez' is how the Chinese say 'Louise'. You know the Chinese can't pronounce 'L's, so that's why they say 'ah-wheez'!"
At this point, I almost fainted. Was she seriously telling us what "Chinese people say"? Did I miss something in my upbringing, during my collegiate training, and in China? And she didn't stop there.
Her: "Oh yeah, back then, everyone knew I spoke Chinese. So whenever one of those Chinese ladies called [our company], they'd hand me the phone to talk to 'em!"
And then, Lord help me, she said in the chinkiest accent you can imagine, eyes squinted, head bobbing up and down like a Hollywood coolie or rickshaw man, "Ah-so, mee-sa liking ask'a qwestion ah la wah so ching chong chang" or some other fucking bullshit, with the straightest face possible as if she really knew what she was talking about. As the table went silent and my neighbors' jaws dropped, I turned to my dad and said "I need another drink." Behind me I heard another, "Ah-so!"
Having received a valuable lesson in how to speak Chinese, we were rewarded with coffee and dessert. As soon as the last bite was swallowed, my dad and I swiftly made our way to the door. Although I was happy to share a meal with the token brother, our current vice president, and one of the most ignorant people I've ever had the fortune of meeting, I just wanted to escape this suburban corporate Twilight Zone. My dad was happy and proud to show me off to his cronies and I was happy to be put on show-and-tell, but one more tutorial from that idiot would have made me lose my dinner all over her face.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
The Battle Rages On
(Or, The Continuing Competition For Silliest Name In The Land)
Now that the Beijing Olympics are thankfully relegated to the history books and the painful memories associated with those weeks of fierce competition have been neatly filed away in the far recesses of your mind, allow me to drag it all back for just one moment. I will not stand idly by and let complacency get the best of you. Why? Because the Chinese never rest.
Despite winning all those golds, they are too proud to admit that losing the total medal count to the USA will forever be a splinter in their big stinky paw. Just as the US government would rightly have you believe, the treacherous Chinese are currently continuing efforts to plot their glorious uprising to take over the world and crush democracy with poorly chosen monikers. You saw what they did at the Opening Ceremony; now imagine all that manpower armed with bad names instead of drumsticks. I pray for my unborn children.
During this sensitive time, it is vital to educate yourself and know all you can about this threat. It's time to enter the mind of the Yellow Peril. Thus I submit to you, the 2008 name audit. By studying their names, you can learn all you need to know about them.
First, we have the clever ones who have chosen the names of America's own, a diabolical tactic to appropriate our cherished heroes. We've got some television stars (Scofield, Locke, Simpson), some film icons (Bourne, Rocky (and his Viagra-loving pal, Rocky Dong - ha!), Neo) and actual real-life heroes (Kobe). American institutions aren't even safe (Yahoo, Google, Disney, Navy).
Names Stolen From Your Beloved Bald TV Stars
They also get mythical, pillaging not only Roman and Norse legends, but also Tolkien: Triton, Thor, Elven
Dipping into the eternal battle between good and evil, we come upon some Judeo-Christian imagery (you will note that now we have TWO fallen angels at the company...):
Sunday and Moses vs. Lucifre and Daemon
Next, the ones that fly under the radar with names of seemingly innocuous random objects:
String, Bottle, Wine, Stone, Coin, Jet, Orange, Jar, Shoulder, Blazer, Jam, Echo, Cherry
Digging deeper, we find the ones who lure you with the sweet stuff, like strangers in a big white van:
Sugar, Candy, Cookie, Vanilla, Cheer, Dreamy (a dude), Smile, Magic, Semon (we've got TWO, but the winner is surnamed Wang...)
Moving on, we come to the nature lovers:
Cloud(y), Leaf, Snow, Ocean, Alps, Fjord, and the sickeningly saccharine, Summer Sun
Close behind, we have everyone's favorite - the people that insist on naming themselves after animals. This never gets old: Lion, Tiger, Pony, Phoenix, Fish, Fly
Delving into more mundane subject matter, we've got some adjectives (Real, Ready, Brisk), verbs (Freed, Tear), a gerund (Wondering) and two creative adverbs (Gayly, Radly). Most curiously, one wonders if "Gayly" is merely happy or fancies a nice buggering every now and again...
Speaking of buggering, consider these lovely gems:
Blondie Poon, Lolita, Titi, Action, Dicky Huang
As we come to the end of the audit, I present those villians who deserved special recognition with their very own categories:
The Return of Scooby Doo Award: Rorry
Bodega Beauty Award: Yolanda
Son Of Pika Award: Kaka Chu (but is he advocating the futbol player or poop?)
Inexplicable Choice Award: John Son (that is his first name...no relation at all to his Chinese characters)
And finally, we end with the most dangerous of the bunch, the ones who defy categorization and logic, though not to be confused with the ones using pirated versions of Microsoft Office with broken spellcheck (Jewerl, Sily, Rechal, Belive, Kidy, Likeit). Clearly, these names must be some sort of secret code used to communicate confidential Communist messages. To dismiss them as gibberish would be foolish. Never underestimate the enemy, especially an adversary with such creative nomenclature as this:
Tant, Smoll, Grissom, Soff, Turble, Phoonsure, Kubbc, Robbiet, Vosing, Hutter, Hinate, Ficom, Jeery, Clize, Linkevinse, Sunbow, Hud Woo, Jackiet, Risehong, Vigoss, QQ Ding, Zakbo, Jocose, Chitty, Madoka, Kama, Elliv, Conrite, Aquila, Cret, Feinny, Jarry, Yearnwade, Panny, Shaha, Crice, Sinba, Givty, Newjie, Kelpy, KingSea, Rabe, Famy
Luckily, there is hope. A mole has infiltrated their ranks, and in a bit of cross-straits confusion, one of China's own - Xu Hai - has changed his English name to "Hayes Hsu," clearly using the Taiwanese Romanization conventions for his surname. This brave soul has some hard espionage duties ahead, most dauntingly, against the leader of this Chinese Bad Name force, the most fearsome of all, the man so bold in his national pride that he named himself after the motherland:
I can't make this stuff up, people. As a vigilant patriot, I implore you: do not let the Chinese win this battle. Do your part to help Uncle Sam. Pick an equally ridiculous Chinese name for yourself, like Courageous Dragon, Big Mountain or Friendly Barbarian. You could even get some random Chinese characters tattooed on that strapping red neck of yours. Please don't underestimate what they can do, for as you have seen, with every passing year, these mind-boggling names just keep coming. Until 2009...
Now that the Beijing Olympics are thankfully relegated to the history books and the painful memories associated with those weeks of fierce competition have been neatly filed away in the far recesses of your mind, allow me to drag it all back for just one moment. I will not stand idly by and let complacency get the best of you. Why? Because the Chinese never rest.
Despite winning all those golds, they are too proud to admit that losing the total medal count to the USA will forever be a splinter in their big stinky paw. Just as the US government would rightly have you believe, the treacherous Chinese are currently continuing efforts to plot their glorious uprising to take over the world and crush democracy with poorly chosen monikers. You saw what they did at the Opening Ceremony; now imagine all that manpower armed with bad names instead of drumsticks. I pray for my unborn children.
During this sensitive time, it is vital to educate yourself and know all you can about this threat. It's time to enter the mind of the Yellow Peril. Thus I submit to you, the 2008 name audit. By studying their names, you can learn all you need to know about them.
First, we have the clever ones who have chosen the names of America's own, a diabolical tactic to appropriate our cherished heroes. We've got some television stars (Scofield, Locke, Simpson), some film icons (Bourne, Rocky (and his Viagra-loving pal, Rocky Dong - ha!), Neo) and actual real-life heroes (Kobe). American institutions aren't even safe (Yahoo, Google, Disney, Navy).
Names Stolen From Your Beloved Bald TV StarsThey also get mythical, pillaging not only Roman and Norse legends, but also Tolkien: Triton, Thor, Elven
Dipping into the eternal battle between good and evil, we come upon some Judeo-Christian imagery (you will note that now we have TWO fallen angels at the company...):
Sunday and Moses vs. Lucifre and Daemon
Next, the ones that fly under the radar with names of seemingly innocuous random objects:
String, Bottle, Wine, Stone, Coin, Jet, Orange, Jar, Shoulder, Blazer, Jam, Echo, Cherry
Digging deeper, we find the ones who lure you with the sweet stuff, like strangers in a big white van:
Sugar, Candy, Cookie, Vanilla, Cheer, Dreamy (a dude), Smile, Magic, Semon (we've got TWO, but the winner is surnamed Wang...)
Moving on, we come to the nature lovers:
Cloud(y), Leaf, Snow, Ocean, Alps, Fjord, and the sickeningly saccharine, Summer Sun
Close behind, we have everyone's favorite - the people that insist on naming themselves after animals. This never gets old: Lion, Tiger, Pony, Phoenix, Fish, Fly
Delving into more mundane subject matter, we've got some adjectives (Real, Ready, Brisk), verbs (Freed, Tear), a gerund (Wondering) and two creative adverbs (Gayly, Radly). Most curiously, one wonders if "Gayly" is merely happy or fancies a nice buggering every now and again...
Speaking of buggering, consider these lovely gems:
Blondie Poon, Lolita, Titi, Action, Dicky Huang
As we come to the end of the audit, I present those villians who deserved special recognition with their very own categories:
The Return of Scooby Doo Award: Rorry
Bodega Beauty Award: Yolanda
Son Of Pika Award: Kaka Chu (but is he advocating the futbol player or poop?)
Inexplicable Choice Award: John Son (that is his first name...no relation at all to his Chinese characters)
And finally, we end with the most dangerous of the bunch, the ones who defy categorization and logic, though not to be confused with the ones using pirated versions of Microsoft Office with broken spellcheck (Jewerl, Sily, Rechal, Belive, Kidy, Likeit). Clearly, these names must be some sort of secret code used to communicate confidential Communist messages. To dismiss them as gibberish would be foolish. Never underestimate the enemy, especially an adversary with such creative nomenclature as this:
Tant, Smoll, Grissom, Soff, Turble, Phoonsure, Kubbc, Robbiet, Vosing, Hutter, Hinate, Ficom, Jeery, Clize, Linkevinse, Sunbow, Hud Woo, Jackiet, Risehong, Vigoss, QQ Ding, Zakbo, Jocose, Chitty, Madoka, Kama, Elliv, Conrite, Aquila, Cret, Feinny, Jarry, Yearnwade, Panny, Shaha, Crice, Sinba, Givty, Newjie, Kelpy, KingSea, Rabe, Famy
Luckily, there is hope. A mole has infiltrated their ranks, and in a bit of cross-straits confusion, one of China's own - Xu Hai - has changed his English name to "Hayes Hsu," clearly using the Taiwanese Romanization conventions for his surname. This brave soul has some hard espionage duties ahead, most dauntingly, against the leader of this Chinese Bad Name force, the most fearsome of all, the man so bold in his national pride that he named himself after the motherland:
China Wang
I can't make this stuff up, people. As a vigilant patriot, I implore you: do not let the Chinese win this battle. Do your part to help Uncle Sam. Pick an equally ridiculous Chinese name for yourself, like Courageous Dragon, Big Mountain or Friendly Barbarian. You could even get some random Chinese characters tattooed on that strapping red neck of yours. Please don't underestimate what they can do, for as you have seen, with every passing year, these mind-boggling names just keep coming. Until 2009...
Friday, November 7, 2008
November 5th, 2008 (Shanghai time)
(Or, Yes. We. Did.)We did it. After eight years of mind-numbing bullshit, we finally have a new leader. It is a truly historic day that I'll never forget.
Growing up, my memories of presidential elections drew exclusively from the fact that they were so close to home: first with Michael Dukakis, a former Massachusetts governor, in '88; then Paul Tsongas, a senator from my hometown, Lowell, in '92. That year, Clinton defeated Tsongas in the primary and went on to become President. So aside from assuming that all presidents had to somehow originate from my home state (foreshadowing unsuccessful runs by Kerry and Romney), politics were not a priority in my life. This trend would continue into adolescence.
As the Clinton years went on, I began to develop a better idea of the importance of the position of President of the United States. Despite my admitted lack of deep political knowledge, I tried my best to at least maintain a basic grasp on the situation. Playing saxophone, good. Sex with interns, bad. Compared to Bush Sr. and the Gulf War, impeachment hearings for a paltry semen stain seemed silly to me. I couldn't see what the fuss was about. I suppose hindsight really puts things into perspective. None of this was more apparent than in 2000, the year I cast my first ballot.
Now, we all remember that year with mixed grief, disbelief and anger. In my dorm room at UMass, just as we began celebrating Gore's "victory" with skunked beer spilling on ruled notebooks, what would become one of the worst presidencies in American history had begun. It's a little unnecessary to rehash the details of the past two terms. The entire world is painfully aware of those realities. In retrospect, I find it interesting that my formative adult years are inextricably bound to that presidency. Pretty much all of our lives were influenced by it. So for me, this current election was - and probably will remain - the most important in my lifetime.
In the days and months leading up to Election Day '08, it felt like the most excruciating countdown to the most uncertain decision at the most unstable time ever. Lofty. Even though the general mood in the final days was positive, everyone knew that we couldn't rest until it was official. We had all been fucked at the last minute before, mind you. For me, this felt like the final inning of Game 7 in a Red Sox/Yankees playoff series that we were *just* about to win, with me hanging off the edge of my seat, knees shaking my ankles into the floor, mouth agape and eyes glued to a TV screen. Maybe it's this Boston mindset ingrained in my psyche, but I just can't rest easy until the outcome has been confirmed by at least ten separate media sources, a victory parade has been scheduled and a trophy or speech has been given before a crowd of cheering onlookers.
Bright and early on the morning of November 5th (i.e. late Tuesday night in the US), over a hundred compatriots and I played hooky from work and set up camp at a local American bar, fueled with heaping breakfast plates ("Breakfast with Barack" har har), free flow caffeine (sorry, ran out of coffee, only have Coke), and enough Chinese "Obama 奥巴马 2008" swag to make a killing on eBay years from now. The energy was high, though that nagging uncertainty still overshadowed my mood.
Affirmative Action Wet Dream
Viv and Neil: Obama's Biggest Campaign ContributorsThe crowd was a big old mix of Americans, who would summarily hoot and holler their hometown allegiance whenever CNN announced their state's winner. While mostly white, there was also a healthy dose of black folk, some ABCs, and an Indian dude. Even a few witless Republicans somehow managed to wander in thinking it was just an "American" gathering, not an explicit "Obama" gathering, the idiots.
Malone's First Floor
Ebony and Ivory! Perfect Harmony Starts Now
This Kid Loves Obama(and, on a side note, boogers too. I saw him eat like 10 in the span of a minute!)
The Friendly Local PhotogsWatching CNN, I felt like we had tuned in to the wrong channel. At points it felt like Monday Night Football, with the booming music, swooshing sound effects, and overblown anchorperson shouting. I was half expecting a CGI football to go flying past Wolf Blitzer's grizzled head, hitting Anderson Cooper in his pretty face. Then the very next minute, like New Year's Eve in Times Square, with the ominous CNN PROJECTION (TM) graphics counting down the seconds until the next batch of states were announced. I got a few laughs from the scant coverage of the Republican base in Phoenix, especially their frenzied boys choir performance. Wow, they sure bring out the heavy hitters. My personal favorite bit came during the insanely hallucinogenic hologram segments. If you haven't seen it yet, CNN basically beamed in anchors from different cities via freaky 2-D hologram, Star Wars style. Like Leia in A New Hope, even Black Eyed Peas frontpea, Will.I.Am, made a quick cameo.
"Help me O-ba-Ma Kenobi, you're my only hope!"(Certainly I couldn't think that I was the only one that thought of this within the first 2 seconds of seeing this awesome advance in technology?)
At the start of the coverage, I expected a nailbiter. However as each hour passed and state after state proved their ability to vote for the right guy, the possibility of a landslide had me secretly grinning like a fool. But I didn't want to jinx anything, so the anxiety and nervous shaking continued.
At noon, about 11PM US time, CNN's hyperactive "Breaking News" animation flashed across the screen for the first time.
Barack Obama Elected President
The room exploded in celebration. As Stevie Wonder blasted through the speakers, it was pretty much official. Seeing the screaming (and crying) crowds in Grant Park, Kenya, and before my eyes in Shanghai, I too was moved to tears. We finally did it, together, and it felt so damn good.
Watching Obama's amazing speech in Chicago, before a crowd so massive that you'd think Lollapalooza was back in town, I couldn't help chuckle to myself at the sight of all those white people nodding their heads and shouting out "Yes we can" in response to Obama, gospel church style. In addition to hope, he's also going to inject the country with soul ~Mmm-hmm, das righ'~ Needless to say, the speech was moving and emotional to watch, but seeing Oprah leaning on that fat white dude just pushed me over the edge. Hand me more tissues...
Although it's going to be a rough start, I believe Obama can bring the change he's promised. Hopefully he doesn't get as much criticism as Taiwan's Ma Ying-jeou, who not only shares an alma mater with Obama, but also has the astronomically unfair expectation to clean up eight years worth of accumulated shit in a very short span of time. [Editor's note: they are both also dashingly handsome and quite eloquent too.] In the very least, we'll be able to reclaim a more positive image in the global community, which is something every expat American can be thankful for. Though I will truly miss the inspired comedic soundbites that spew forth from Bush's retarded mouth, it is time for a change. My dear friend, Jigga, summed it up best by saying:
I've never felt this proud to be an American. I have a feeling I'll be telling my grandchildren about this monumental day: the day a black man, nee, a fellow halfie, became President of the United States of America.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
The Ego Has Landed (Or, Kanye West Is Coming "Home")
Jesus didn't walk last night, but we had a great time all the same. On the final stop of his Chinese mainland trek, Kanye West played a modest (see: short) set that kept the crowd on its toes, which is a feat in itself considering most Chinese audiences often resemble the pile of stinky, dead fish on the melting ice chips at your nearest Carrefour. Unfortunately, he left the mega-LCD screen and spaceship back in the States, making this billing as a Glow In The Dark show a bit of a misleading misnomer. However, from start to finish, the energy was high and the setlist was tight. In the 4 years since I last saw the man, he has really come a long way.Mr. West, the college dropout who eventually re-registered (late, mind you) and finally graduated, was not the first performer I would have thought of had you asked me "Who do you think will come to China next?" He's just too hip and cutting edge and, after Bjork, I assumed we were done for. I would have thought someone safer and more boring, maybe another stint by the Black Eyed Peas. So after his initial date was scrapped and then rescheduled in order to fit in a gig in Beijing, a hefty 380 RMB per ticket (for the "cheap" seats!) was shelled forth in anticipation for one of the best hip hop artists alive.
Remarkably, We Each Paid 380 RMB To See This Man.News of Kanye's impending arrival got me crazy excited in all the right places. As most of us would learn, this was a "homecoming" of sorts, according to the overexited Chinese press. You see, back in 1987, Kanye's mom Donda (R.I.P.) took a Fulbright teaching position in Nanjing, site of the eponymous massacre north of Shanghai, and brought her then ten-year old son with her. His Mandarin apparently got fluent enough to "translate menus" at restaurants. Hrm... Oddly, he didn't utter a word of Chinese during the entire show, so maybe he forgot it all during his 21 year absence from the mainland. His beloved mother, the unfortunate victim of a botched plastic surgery procedure, got a proper shout out though, via his heart-wrenching tribute, "Hey Mama," which gets my vote for the Best Momma Ode By A Rapper Award (suck it, Tupac).
Although no one would ever accuse Kanye of being the greatest rapper alive, his lyrics are thought-provoking, oftentimes hilarious, and don't need to resort to the typical violence-drugs-and-bitches sludge that clogs other rap catalogs. His long list of collaborations is equally inspired, reading more like a fantasy dream team of duets plucked from my iPod playlist. Jay-Z. Mos Def. Common. Lauryn Hill. Lil' Wayne. Chris Martin. Daft Punk. Lupe Fiasco. Adam Levine. Even John Mayer isn't safe from Kanye's greedy clutches. At one point during the set, the band launched into a familiar tune (Journey's "Don't Stop Believing"); familiar to soft-rock radio stations, not stadium rap concerts. Yet they managed to pull it off effortlessly. Kanye's self-appointed status as "genius" is starting to make sense to me now.
The show thumped to a start with strains of "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger" - a track Kanye is slowly but surely usurping from Daft Punk - then morphed into "Good Morning," the first track off his latest album, Graduation. Controlling the crowd with his rhymes, Kanye blazed through hits like "All Falls Down" and "Good Life" (with laughably out-of-place show opener, Vanness Wu of LA Boyz and F4 fame) without a word of nihaoxiexie filler in between. Although the show wasn't a sell-out, the people in attendance were fully capable of going nuts. The suckers with expensive 1000 RMB-plus seats managed to partially recoup their money, filling out the front of the floor section, as if we were at an actual general admission concert. Whether because of the high expat percentage or simply because he was that amazing, the audience was fun and rowdy, something you don't see very often around here. Even though he skipped "Jesus Walks" and "New Workout Plan," the energy was palpable, making the vibe more like a sweaty club show than a gaping indoor arena.
From the swaggering "Gold Digger" to the anthemic "Touch The Sky," Kanye's ability to keep both the energy and the spirit positive is one of the reasons I like him so much. His music makes you feel good without dumbing down the message. Even when the subject matter gets heavy, there is always an addictive beat to back it up and make that head nod. On those more foreboding tracks - most notably "Diamonds From Sierra Leone" (my personal favorite) - he exhibited a passionate intensity that I usually only see at rock concerts, with lighting production to match. Trent Reznor would be proud.
Flashing. Liiights Lights Lights Lights~Much to the delight of the Brits in attendance, Kanye whipped out his verse from Estelle's "American Boy," the huge UK (nee, "you, K") summer hit. Proving just how painfully hip he is, the bloke drops some "rubbish", namechecks my favourite superjuice Ribena, and knows the proper use of the term "wag." I'm convinced that Estelle was hiding somewhere backstage singing her choruses, but it could have also been a prerecorded loop. Part of me secretly hoped that her fellow countryman, Chris Martin, would magically appear for "Homecoming," during which I would have willingly shit my pants in excitement, but I assume he was stuck back in merry old England with Estelle.
Mr. WestUnfortunately for me, my dreams of hearing the new tracks from the soon-to-be-crowned break-up masterpiece, 808s & Heartbreak, were dashed. All we got was a verse from "Love Lockdown," which, without the aid of Kanye's new best friend, the auto-tuner, sounded a little out of place plopped at the butt end of "Touch the Sky." The Singaporeans should consider themselves lucky, as they not only got "Lockdown" but also "Heartless." I wait patiently for that album to drop on November 25th. In any case, it is just a minor quibble in an otherwise strong set. Speaking of "strong" (oh ho, ho, what a segue!)...
Still on a high from "Diamonds," "American Boy," and "Flashing Lights," Kanye finished me off with the explosive "Stronger," which is the closest I've ever come to the pure ecstasy of live Daft Punk. Although some complained of poor speaker quality, that percussion hit me in all my sweet spots and I was as happy as a rapper swimming in a pool of gold necklaces, booty sweat and big titties.
As the show came to a close, Kanye stood at the center of the stage illuminated by a megawatt flood light, arm in the air saluting a rabid crowd. And just as suddenly as he had entered, Yeezy bounded off the stage and the house lights flickered to life. Touch the sky, Shanghai.
Kanye West "Glow In The Dark" Setlist
(more or less -- if you were in attendance and have a more complete list, let me know...)
"Good Morning"
"I Wonder"
"Heard 'Em Say"
"Through the Wire"
"Champion"
"Get 'Em High"
"Diamonds from Sierra Leone"
"Can't Tell Me Nothing"
"Flashing Lights"
"Gold Digger"
"Good Life"
"Hey Mama"
"Don't Stop Believing" (Journey Cover)
"Stronger"
"Homecoming"
"Touch the Sky" ("Love Lockdown" verse only)
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
What's Worse?
1.) Public urination.
2.) Encouraging your little toddler to drop trou and piss all over the floor of the subway car.
3.) Clapping and cheering as the pee puddle flows triumphantly down the train with the forward momentum.
I tell you, some things in China still shock me. Yeah yeah, "been there, done that" you say. But seriously, in four years I don't remember seeing the mom and grandma applaud the Little Emperor's urinary skillz. Luckily I witnessed this from a distance; the look of disbelief on the dude sitting next to them was priceless. If a local Shanghainese is taken aback by such behavior, I suppose it's a good sign that things are changing slowly around here. Kids pissing on the metro is a lot better than a bum taking a crap on a train in Manhattan...
2.) Encouraging your little toddler to drop trou and piss all over the floor of the subway car.
3.) Clapping and cheering as the pee puddle flows triumphantly down the train with the forward momentum.
I tell you, some things in China still shock me. Yeah yeah, "been there, done that" you say. But seriously, in four years I don't remember seeing the mom and grandma applaud the Little Emperor's urinary skillz. Luckily I witnessed this from a distance; the look of disbelief on the dude sitting next to them was priceless. If a local Shanghainese is taken aback by such behavior, I suppose it's a good sign that things are changing slowly around here. Kids pissing on the metro is a lot better than a bum taking a crap on a train in Manhattan...
Sunday, October 26, 2008
The Big Move (In Three Parts)
It has only been a little over a month since I packed up and moved to a newer, bigger place. After four years in one flat, it was half stressful, half liberating. I suppose I could say it was putting a close on one chapter and starting a new one. In the weeks that followed the move, I didn't have time to post this. So here it is, a little later than expected.
Moving On Down - A Tribute to 31-710
(Or, Finally Packing Up After Four Years, Part 1)
I am a sentimental pack rat. This makes moving quite difficult for me, as a shift in accommodation is perceived as a violent uprooting of my soul. Not to mention the daunting task of reining in all the accumulated detritus that four years of blind collecting can accomplish. Luckily for me, there hasn't been much actual space to fill with those useless attachments.
For the past four years, I have lived in an apartment roughly the size of a prison cell. But with comfy accoutrements like cushioned furniture, a toilet that isn't out in the open and the luxury of showering without fear of shivving by a sharp instrument (either of the stainless steel or fleshy knob variety). For those who have never had the pleasure of visiting, trust me when I say it is a really tiny place that would inspire most regular human beings to aspire for early release on good behavior or, failing that, willingly sign up for death row. Not me. Since 2004, it has been my own little haven. So as I make my imminent move to a larger apartment, I'm experiencing some separation anxiety. It may seem counter intuitive, since an upgrade should be a no-brainer. I mean, from the cramped bedroom to the cluttered living room, the impostor kitchen and the bathroom more suited for a dwarf, it is almost miniature. Yet, due to my superhuman organization and aesthetic prowess, I managed to make it very comfortable. And I loved it, in some ways.
In all honesty, I've actually attempted to switch abodes a few times already. However, a deadly combination of laziness, indecision and uncontrollable external factors put a damper on it all.
My first attempt was in the summer of 2005, when I was wooed by a wicked witch who was willing to give me access to her unused 2-bedroom apartment for a nominal monthly fee. I decided to give it a 30-day test trial before returning the keys. It felt huge, cavernous, wasteful. What business did a single guy have with two bedrooms, a living room, dining room, kitchen and two tenth-floor patios? I convinced myself that I didn't need it (which, in retrospect, was pretty stupid of me...I could have been living the life for the past 3 years if it weren't for my pesky frugal habits).
The second attempt to escape from the shackles of monastic life came two years later in the fall of 2007. Some poisonous thoughts were inserted into my head by two tricky jokers (see: my parents) convincing me that I ought to buy an apartment in downtown Shanghai. We looked at one amazing flat in the northwest sector of the city (Putuo District) that neighbored one of Liu Xiang's properties, but the deal fell through because we shot too low. Eventually, I found a charming split-level apartment right near the center of town (off Nanjing Road) that completely won my heart. The price was reasonable and everything seemed to be proceeding swimmingly.
At the time, I figured it'd be a great way to settle, a good motivator to find new employment, and, finally, a chance to bring my childhood dreams of recreating Tom Hanks' badass loft from Big (but without that lame bunk-bed in the middle of the room) into fruition. On the practical side, real estate is a smart investment and I eventually need to learn how to make money work for me. To my parents' credit, it was and still is a decent idea. But the ensuing drama that snowballed into a mountain of misery is something I do not want to relive.
In a lawless and dog-eat-dog market such as Shanghai's, making a big purchase like a 2.5 million RMB apartment is no small feat for an inexperienced chump like me. Especially when all the legalese is in Chinese and my choice of knowledgeable interpreters are slim. Without the bank's guarantee of a loan, the reliability of a decent agent (they simply don't exist in China), or the actual capital for the down payment (international wiring is a bitch), it turned into a big mess of poor planning on our part, deceptive practices from the seller, and hilarious incompetence from agents from two rival agencies competing for my commission. The negotiations fell through and, after receiving threatening text messages from one agent who sounded more like a jilted lover than a professional broker ("this is not over!"), Neil's First Foray Into Homeowning was put to rest. Critical naggers will shake their head at my pitiful lack of fiber and annoying optimists will remind me that "hey, at least you learned something," but I've left it in the past. In the end, I lost twenty-thousand RMB and a month of my life.
Now, on my third attempt, I've found success. Ironically, the apartment I moved into is the same model that I originally applied for before arriving in Shanghai in 2004. At that time, I didn't know that you had to argue and fight for everything in China, since I had been raised to believe that if a useless HR representative tells you "there are no apartments with kitchens available", then by Jesus' left hand, there really are no apartments with kitchens available. Lazy snatch.
In any case, it's a modest upgrade from 38 sq.m to 60 sq.m. One of the more hard-to-get models, it is an ideal size for a single renter. Not too big, not too small. I finally have a kitchen, a bathroom with a sink (the sink in my old place was in the non-kitchen, which was just a nook with cabinets), an open living room, a full wardrobe closet for my mountains of clothes, an accessible patio (the door to my old patio was blocked by the aforementioned mountains of clothing), and enough windows to actually allow for potted plant action. I'm getting hard just thinking of all the interior designing possibilities.
Over four years living in my teeny flat, I have grown very attached to it. Seeing as I've been pretty nomadic ever since leaving home for college in 1999, this chunk has been the longest stretch of my life that has been grounded in the same location [if we're counting total amount of days here, I've actually spent more of my life in Shanghai than Westford]. I turned the proverbial lemons to lemonade, transforming an apartment the size of a walk-in closet into a comfortable and quirky haunt, complete with the patented Neil-character that left no visitor unimpressed by its charm and warmth (generated either by the comfy, cushy feel of the place OR the busted air-con that made it feel like a sauna in the dead of summer). It was my nest, my sanctuary, my escape from all the scary and overwhelming monsters lurking outside my door.
As I began the hurried process of packing up my valuables, bagging my clothing, and lugging my heavy machinery a few flights down the stairs into the adjacent building, I plastered a bittersweet smile on my face. I know life in a bigger apartment is exponentially more comfortable and I can finally have the pleasure of living in a place that is more private residence than impoverished dormitory. But my overly sentimental nature tugged at my heart strings, not quite ready to part ways with my first real home-away-from-home.
Of Moving, Mold and Mushrooms
(Or, Finally Packing Up After Four Years, Part 2)
Moving sucked. I don't know how that simple bit of reality could have eluded me for so long, but it really blew. In addition to the migraines brought on by packing and cleaning four years of life sediment, the entire process of switching residences is so much more complicated than I remember. And I only had to move mere meters away.
In the happy land of China, it's no secret that efficiency, quality work and common sense have long ago gone the way of the Yangtze River Dolphin. For those in the audience who don't recycle or drive SUVs, that means extinct. It's a fact of life we must deal with, like PMS, inevitably succumbing to cancer and Republicans. So the actual move didn't happen as soon as I was told or in a manner befitting of a moderately developed city such as this.
Before signing the housing contract, I had to take a look at the place first. Nowhere in the world is this of the utmost importance than China. For all you know, you are being sold a home that is minutes away from collapse, which you won't find out until after you are legally bound and the agent has fled back to the countryside to share the booty with his village. So it shouldn't surprise you to know that the place was a hot mess when I inspected. I'm not sure who lived in this place before me, but they might have either been blind, without a sense of smell, or just disgusting, filthy pigs who got a kick out of wallowing in squalor.
The wood on the bottom of each doorway - the segment roughly one foot from the floor - was decaying. Actually, it had already decayed, turned completely black, and was starting to slough off bits of filth in neat little piles on the floor. The host of ants and silverfish partying in these mounds seemed to be enjoying themselves. The shadow of decay had wrapped around the lintel and traveled into the bedroom, creating a nasty, moldy mess one of of the in-wall dressers. A little disgusted, but not completely in shock ("it's China!"), I implored the housing people to replace the wood before I could even consider signing anything. For the next few days, as I patiently waited for the repairs to be finished, I was still partially confused as to what self-respecting individual could have lived in such a dirty state. How could you pass hunks of rotting wood everyday and not think to fix it?
The days of waiting turned into a week. The weekend I had set aside for the moving was thus wasted and the only update I got was "wait a few more days." Apparently the repairmen were backed up and there was just nothing left to do but be patient. So I continued to wait.
When word finally came through that everything was ready, I bolted to the apartment to take a look at the wondrous improvements that I knew were waiting for me. I opened the door and was immediately punched in the face with a big stinky wallop. I was momentarily transported to those happy Chinese roadside rest stops that house open pits of human waste and lots of friendly flies. Such happy memories. To confirm my suspicions, I reluctantly crept into the bathroom and found the culprit of that stank. An unflushed poo. Yeah.
Now, I know that the water was shut off, as is customary when there is no one living in an apartment, but those repair dudes should have known better. God knows when that dump was deposited, but it had already created a kind of soup in the puddle of remaining water that had accumulated in the toilet basin. He could have just shat on my floor (which I wouldn't put past any Chinese worker...you seriously can't imagine), but was it that urgent? After quickly turning the water on and flushing the offending turd, I remembered that I had come to inspect the repairs, not figure out how to dispose of an anonymous migrant worker's shit surprise.
Standing in the foyer, I scanned the area with a puzzled look on my face. It was obvious that the wood had been replaced in the doorways: the musty black had been hacked away and new shiny boards were unevenly forced into the open space like a faulty puzzle. You take what you can get here. But just how did this whole affair proceed? It looked like there had been a turf war between rival tree gangs in my apartment. The crime scene on the floor was covered with, literally, about an inch of sawdust, chippings, shavings and unidentified toxic gloop that I still can't seem to wash away. On top of that, cigarette butts, bits of metal that may have been nails, even some powder from the scarred floor tiles that had been blatantly sawed directly onto as the workers cut their boards to fit the doorway. I've seen some outrageous instances of Chinese worker worthlessness, but this was pretty bad. By comparison, those mysterious footprints that I found on the wall facing my toilet in the first apartment seem natural. At least that dude flushed.
So now, in addition to moving my stuff, I had some serious cleaning to do. In four years in China, I have never once employed the services of an ayi (see: maid). Something about paying someone to invade my private space and clean my shit just doesn't sit right with me. But this, good people, was not my shit. Thus, after spending 2 hours cleaning away the mess that the workers left (yes indeed, 2 straight hours), the apartment was returned to the same condition it was upon my very first inspection. Which is to say, a filthy mess.
The next morning, my friend's ayi stopped by and went to town on the kitchen, bathroom, and, God bless her, even went over all the floors that I had spent the previous night sweating over.
The tinge of guilt I felt at the thought of her on hands and knees disinfecting that hellacious bathroom was quelled later that day when I discovered, to my horror, that she really hadn't done that good of a job. Some spots of the bathroom were still a little bit funky. Basically, there was some kind of microcosmic ecosystem growing in there. Not only were the ants and silverfish still happy residents, but they seemed to frequent a specific area under the bottom of my sink basin's cabinet. From my towering giant vista above, it looked like puffy orange protrusions which I assumed were dried blobs of that insect killing foam. Not quite. They were some kind of fuzzy fungus. And from the mystery growth sprouted a long and snake-like mushroom. I thought this was just a sick urban legend that was only whispered in the darkest corners of our living quarters, but oh-ho-ho, I have fucking mushrooms growing in my bathroom. I tell you, there's nothing quite like taking a dump on a shiny porcelain toilet that is a foot away from a patch of stuff that I usually only see stir-fried with beef and green peppers. Like camping, only more comfortable.
Once I got everything moved into the new digs, I had to say goodbye to my old place. As I took the last photo from the collage I had been crafting on the back of my front door for the past 4 years, I had to fight a small urge to get emotional. What can I say, I get attached to things. As I stepped out of the apartment and shut the door behind me, I made my way down a few flights and to my new home. Although it had been cleaned (mushroom friends notwithstanding) and every box, bag and clothing rack successfully transported, it was still an unsightly heap of disarray, clutter and numerous headaches just waiting to happen. With half of the move complete, I was just getting started.
Door Collage (2004-2008)
Is This The Fun Part?
(Or, Finally Packing Up After Four Years, Part 3)
Lying in bed on the first night in the new apartment, I had to acclimate myself to the lovely sensation of a functioning air conditioning and all the new sounds that would provide me with the nightly symphony that accompanies sleepy time. Living closer to the ground, the cricket chirps were noticeably louder, though far better than the duck and goose mating squawks I had to endure for the better part of this year. Also, with the addition of a neighbor living above me (previous 7th floor apartment was on the top floor), I'd have to get used to the foot shuffling, coin dropping, and abusive shouting (I'll get to that later). Although I was surrounded by unopened boxes, piles of wrinkled clothes, and a landscape of infuriating clutter outside my bedroom door, I was too tired to care. I slept like a baby.
Bright and early the next morning, a full half hour before my usual wake-up time (bastard!), the fellow living above me unleashed what would be the first of many (so far) temper fits. To be honest, it scared the crap out of me. "Yelling" reminds me too much of what women do, "screaming" is a little more on the frightened side, and "bellowing" is something for scary giants or trolls. What this guy was doing involved a little bit of everything, but with an added dash of annoying irrationality that could be potentially dangerous. His volume was so extreme that it sounded like his throat would pop in a bloody mess, yet was also so low and bellowy that he could have self-induced vomiting simply from the friction on his esophagus. And it didn't stop. For about 15 minutes he railed on, like an escapee from a mental ward, the sound of his screaming interspersed with some shattering porcelain (I can only assume, since the sound was heavier than broken glass). It ended with a slam of the door and the muted muffle of someone sweeping up the shards of whatever he just hurled at the wall. In a week, he's done this about three times and I'm getting pretty fed up with it, especially the fits past midnight. It's putting a damper on dream time and I'm sure whoever he's directing all that anger towards isn't sleeping so easy either. Hopefully this is the last you'll hear of it, since I will be filing a complaint soon. I'm not a huge fan of domestic violence.
Verbally abusive nitwits aside, the first few days were hectic in their own right. After getting the satellite dish reinstalled, I inadvertently wasted valuable unpacking time with my new distraction. Like Rip Van Winkle, it seems that time proceeded to carry on as I was sucked into the glory that is the Discovery Travel and Living, National Geographic, Animal Planet, and my old friend, MTV Philippines. I tell you, there is nothing more dangerous in the world than good television programming.
When I wasn't disposing of precious time in front of the tube, I did succeed in spending four hours at Ikea accumulating even more junk for the bigger space. I love that fucking place for so many reasons. For the price of a clearance item from Bernie & Phyl's, I got a sofa addition that has transformed my existing 2-seater into a charming L-shaped corner monster. I also got curtains, which weren't that vital before, but given my habit of walking around naked, are somewhat more necessary now that I have real windows and a balcony for people to unwittingly spy upon my little guy. I even stocked up the new kitchen with the basics...now all I need is some food.
Among the beautiful delights that Ikea offers, there is none quite like the satisfaction that you get by "making" your own furniture. Not only does it keep the cost of the product down, but it's also a lot of fun. If you do it properly. I don't know how many times I've fucked up with a stubborn Ikea item, reducing me to tears of rage and reaching for the drill to make my own goddamned holes if these ones don't want to cooperate with the prefitted screw. Agggh! But when you do it right, man does it feel good. Like you're a kid again, putting together a really big and relatively more expensive Lego monstrosity that could topple over and kill you without the proper wall mount. I managed to piece together all of my shelves and racks without too much blood loss and in a relatively short amount of time. Yes, I'm simply that good.
With all the pieces ready, I only needed to get everything organized and in place before it could truly be deemed home. Although I didn't have much time to get it all finished before other, more pressing engagements arose, I successfully pulled it off. Nevermind the unopened boxes of random useless shit that still lie hidden in my bedroom. I'll get to those later. For now, the apartment looks great. Homey, comfortable, colorful, charming. All the bits I tend to bring to whatever environment I find myself thrust into.
Moving On Down - A Tribute to 31-710
(Or, Finally Packing Up After Four Years, Part 1)
I am a sentimental pack rat. This makes moving quite difficult for me, as a shift in accommodation is perceived as a violent uprooting of my soul. Not to mention the daunting task of reining in all the accumulated detritus that four years of blind collecting can accomplish. Luckily for me, there hasn't been much actual space to fill with those useless attachments.
For the past four years, I have lived in an apartment roughly the size of a prison cell. But with comfy accoutrements like cushioned furniture, a toilet that isn't out in the open and the luxury of showering without fear of shivving by a sharp instrument (either of the stainless steel or fleshy knob variety). For those who have never had the pleasure of visiting, trust me when I say it is a really tiny place that would inspire most regular human beings to aspire for early release on good behavior or, failing that, willingly sign up for death row. Not me. Since 2004, it has been my own little haven. So as I make my imminent move to a larger apartment, I'm experiencing some separation anxiety. It may seem counter intuitive, since an upgrade should be a no-brainer. I mean, from the cramped bedroom to the cluttered living room, the impostor kitchen and the bathroom more suited for a dwarf, it is almost miniature. Yet, due to my superhuman organization and aesthetic prowess, I managed to make it very comfortable. And I loved it, in some ways.
In all honesty, I've actually attempted to switch abodes a few times already. However, a deadly combination of laziness, indecision and uncontrollable external factors put a damper on it all.
My first attempt was in the summer of 2005, when I was wooed by a wicked witch who was willing to give me access to her unused 2-bedroom apartment for a nominal monthly fee. I decided to give it a 30-day test trial before returning the keys. It felt huge, cavernous, wasteful. What business did a single guy have with two bedrooms, a living room, dining room, kitchen and two tenth-floor patios? I convinced myself that I didn't need it (which, in retrospect, was pretty stupid of me...I could have been living the life for the past 3 years if it weren't for my pesky frugal habits).
The second attempt to escape from the shackles of monastic life came two years later in the fall of 2007. Some poisonous thoughts were inserted into my head by two tricky jokers (see: my parents) convincing me that I ought to buy an apartment in downtown Shanghai. We looked at one amazing flat in the northwest sector of the city (Putuo District) that neighbored one of Liu Xiang's properties, but the deal fell through because we shot too low. Eventually, I found a charming split-level apartment right near the center of town (off Nanjing Road) that completely won my heart. The price was reasonable and everything seemed to be proceeding swimmingly.
At the time, I figured it'd be a great way to settle, a good motivator to find new employment, and, finally, a chance to bring my childhood dreams of recreating Tom Hanks' badass loft from Big (but without that lame bunk-bed in the middle of the room) into fruition. On the practical side, real estate is a smart investment and I eventually need to learn how to make money work for me. To my parents' credit, it was and still is a decent idea. But the ensuing drama that snowballed into a mountain of misery is something I do not want to relive.
In a lawless and dog-eat-dog market such as Shanghai's, making a big purchase like a 2.5 million RMB apartment is no small feat for an inexperienced chump like me. Especially when all the legalese is in Chinese and my choice of knowledgeable interpreters are slim. Without the bank's guarantee of a loan, the reliability of a decent agent (they simply don't exist in China), or the actual capital for the down payment (international wiring is a bitch), it turned into a big mess of poor planning on our part, deceptive practices from the seller, and hilarious incompetence from agents from two rival agencies competing for my commission. The negotiations fell through and, after receiving threatening text messages from one agent who sounded more like a jilted lover than a professional broker ("this is not over!"), Neil's First Foray Into Homeowning was put to rest. Critical naggers will shake their head at my pitiful lack of fiber and annoying optimists will remind me that "hey, at least you learned something," but I've left it in the past. In the end, I lost twenty-thousand RMB and a month of my life.
Now, on my third attempt, I've found success. Ironically, the apartment I moved into is the same model that I originally applied for before arriving in Shanghai in 2004. At that time, I didn't know that you had to argue and fight for everything in China, since I had been raised to believe that if a useless HR representative tells you "there are no apartments with kitchens available", then by Jesus' left hand, there really are no apartments with kitchens available. Lazy snatch.
In any case, it's a modest upgrade from 38 sq.m to 60 sq.m. One of the more hard-to-get models, it is an ideal size for a single renter. Not too big, not too small. I finally have a kitchen, a bathroom with a sink (the sink in my old place was in the non-kitchen, which was just a nook with cabinets), an open living room, a full wardrobe closet for my mountains of clothes, an accessible patio (the door to my old patio was blocked by the aforementioned mountains of clothing), and enough windows to actually allow for potted plant action. I'm getting hard just thinking of all the interior designing possibilities.
Over four years living in my teeny flat, I have grown very attached to it. Seeing as I've been pretty nomadic ever since leaving home for college in 1999, this chunk has been the longest stretch of my life that has been grounded in the same location [if we're counting total amount of days here, I've actually spent more of my life in Shanghai than Westford]. I turned the proverbial lemons to lemonade, transforming an apartment the size of a walk-in closet into a comfortable and quirky haunt, complete with the patented Neil-character that left no visitor unimpressed by its charm and warmth (generated either by the comfy, cushy feel of the place OR the busted air-con that made it feel like a sauna in the dead of summer). It was my nest, my sanctuary, my escape from all the scary and overwhelming monsters lurking outside my door.
As I began the hurried process of packing up my valuables, bagging my clothing, and lugging my heavy machinery a few flights down the stairs into the adjacent building, I plastered a bittersweet smile on my face. I know life in a bigger apartment is exponentially more comfortable and I can finally have the pleasure of living in a place that is more private residence than impoverished dormitory. But my overly sentimental nature tugged at my heart strings, not quite ready to part ways with my first real home-away-from-home.
Of Moving, Mold and Mushrooms
(Or, Finally Packing Up After Four Years, Part 2)
Moving sucked. I don't know how that simple bit of reality could have eluded me for so long, but it really blew. In addition to the migraines brought on by packing and cleaning four years of life sediment, the entire process of switching residences is so much more complicated than I remember. And I only had to move mere meters away.
In the happy land of China, it's no secret that efficiency, quality work and common sense have long ago gone the way of the Yangtze River Dolphin. For those in the audience who don't recycle or drive SUVs, that means extinct. It's a fact of life we must deal with, like PMS, inevitably succumbing to cancer and Republicans. So the actual move didn't happen as soon as I was told or in a manner befitting of a moderately developed city such as this.
Before signing the housing contract, I had to take a look at the place first. Nowhere in the world is this of the utmost importance than China. For all you know, you are being sold a home that is minutes away from collapse, which you won't find out until after you are legally bound and the agent has fled back to the countryside to share the booty with his village. So it shouldn't surprise you to know that the place was a hot mess when I inspected. I'm not sure who lived in this place before me, but they might have either been blind, without a sense of smell, or just disgusting, filthy pigs who got a kick out of wallowing in squalor.
The wood on the bottom of each doorway - the segment roughly one foot from the floor - was decaying. Actually, it had already decayed, turned completely black, and was starting to slough off bits of filth in neat little piles on the floor. The host of ants and silverfish partying in these mounds seemed to be enjoying themselves. The shadow of decay had wrapped around the lintel and traveled into the bedroom, creating a nasty, moldy mess one of of the in-wall dressers. A little disgusted, but not completely in shock ("it's China!"), I implored the housing people to replace the wood before I could even consider signing anything. For the next few days, as I patiently waited for the repairs to be finished, I was still partially confused as to what self-respecting individual could have lived in such a dirty state. How could you pass hunks of rotting wood everyday and not think to fix it?
The days of waiting turned into a week. The weekend I had set aside for the moving was thus wasted and the only update I got was "wait a few more days." Apparently the repairmen were backed up and there was just nothing left to do but be patient. So I continued to wait.
When word finally came through that everything was ready, I bolted to the apartment to take a look at the wondrous improvements that I knew were waiting for me. I opened the door and was immediately punched in the face with a big stinky wallop. I was momentarily transported to those happy Chinese roadside rest stops that house open pits of human waste and lots of friendly flies. Such happy memories. To confirm my suspicions, I reluctantly crept into the bathroom and found the culprit of that stank. An unflushed poo. Yeah.
Now, I know that the water was shut off, as is customary when there is no one living in an apartment, but those repair dudes should have known better. God knows when that dump was deposited, but it had already created a kind of soup in the puddle of remaining water that had accumulated in the toilet basin. He could have just shat on my floor (which I wouldn't put past any Chinese worker...you seriously can't imagine), but was it that urgent? After quickly turning the water on and flushing the offending turd, I remembered that I had come to inspect the repairs, not figure out how to dispose of an anonymous migrant worker's shit surprise.
Standing in the foyer, I scanned the area with a puzzled look on my face. It was obvious that the wood had been replaced in the doorways: the musty black had been hacked away and new shiny boards were unevenly forced into the open space like a faulty puzzle. You take what you can get here. But just how did this whole affair proceed? It looked like there had been a turf war between rival tree gangs in my apartment. The crime scene on the floor was covered with, literally, about an inch of sawdust, chippings, shavings and unidentified toxic gloop that I still can't seem to wash away. On top of that, cigarette butts, bits of metal that may have been nails, even some powder from the scarred floor tiles that had been blatantly sawed directly onto as the workers cut their boards to fit the doorway. I've seen some outrageous instances of Chinese worker worthlessness, but this was pretty bad. By comparison, those mysterious footprints that I found on the wall facing my toilet in the first apartment seem natural. At least that dude flushed.
So now, in addition to moving my stuff, I had some serious cleaning to do. In four years in China, I have never once employed the services of an ayi (see: maid). Something about paying someone to invade my private space and clean my shit just doesn't sit right with me. But this, good people, was not my shit. Thus, after spending 2 hours cleaning away the mess that the workers left (yes indeed, 2 straight hours), the apartment was returned to the same condition it was upon my very first inspection. Which is to say, a filthy mess.
The next morning, my friend's ayi stopped by and went to town on the kitchen, bathroom, and, God bless her, even went over all the floors that I had spent the previous night sweating over.
The tinge of guilt I felt at the thought of her on hands and knees disinfecting that hellacious bathroom was quelled later that day when I discovered, to my horror, that she really hadn't done that good of a job. Some spots of the bathroom were still a little bit funky. Basically, there was some kind of microcosmic ecosystem growing in there. Not only were the ants and silverfish still happy residents, but they seemed to frequent a specific area under the bottom of my sink basin's cabinet. From my towering giant vista above, it looked like puffy orange protrusions which I assumed were dried blobs of that insect killing foam. Not quite. They were some kind of fuzzy fungus. And from the mystery growth sprouted a long and snake-like mushroom. I thought this was just a sick urban legend that was only whispered in the darkest corners of our living quarters, but oh-ho-ho, I have fucking mushrooms growing in my bathroom. I tell you, there's nothing quite like taking a dump on a shiny porcelain toilet that is a foot away from a patch of stuff that I usually only see stir-fried with beef and green peppers. Like camping, only more comfortable.
Once I got everything moved into the new digs, I had to say goodbye to my old place. As I took the last photo from the collage I had been crafting on the back of my front door for the past 4 years, I had to fight a small urge to get emotional. What can I say, I get attached to things. As I stepped out of the apartment and shut the door behind me, I made my way down a few flights and to my new home. Although it had been cleaned (mushroom friends notwithstanding) and every box, bag and clothing rack successfully transported, it was still an unsightly heap of disarray, clutter and numerous headaches just waiting to happen. With half of the move complete, I was just getting started.
Door Collage (2004-2008)Is This The Fun Part?
(Or, Finally Packing Up After Four Years, Part 3)
Lying in bed on the first night in the new apartment, I had to acclimate myself to the lovely sensation of a functioning air conditioning and all the new sounds that would provide me with the nightly symphony that accompanies sleepy time. Living closer to the ground, the cricket chirps were noticeably louder, though far better than the duck and goose mating squawks I had to endure for the better part of this year. Also, with the addition of a neighbor living above me (previous 7th floor apartment was on the top floor), I'd have to get used to the foot shuffling, coin dropping, and abusive shouting (I'll get to that later). Although I was surrounded by unopened boxes, piles of wrinkled clothes, and a landscape of infuriating clutter outside my bedroom door, I was too tired to care. I slept like a baby.
Bright and early the next morning, a full half hour before my usual wake-up time (bastard!), the fellow living above me unleashed what would be the first of many (so far) temper fits. To be honest, it scared the crap out of me. "Yelling" reminds me too much of what women do, "screaming" is a little more on the frightened side, and "bellowing" is something for scary giants or trolls. What this guy was doing involved a little bit of everything, but with an added dash of annoying irrationality that could be potentially dangerous. His volume was so extreme that it sounded like his throat would pop in a bloody mess, yet was also so low and bellowy that he could have self-induced vomiting simply from the friction on his esophagus. And it didn't stop. For about 15 minutes he railed on, like an escapee from a mental ward, the sound of his screaming interspersed with some shattering porcelain (I can only assume, since the sound was heavier than broken glass). It ended with a slam of the door and the muted muffle of someone sweeping up the shards of whatever he just hurled at the wall. In a week, he's done this about three times and I'm getting pretty fed up with it, especially the fits past midnight. It's putting a damper on dream time and I'm sure whoever he's directing all that anger towards isn't sleeping so easy either. Hopefully this is the last you'll hear of it, since I will be filing a complaint soon. I'm not a huge fan of domestic violence.
Verbally abusive nitwits aside, the first few days were hectic in their own right. After getting the satellite dish reinstalled, I inadvertently wasted valuable unpacking time with my new distraction. Like Rip Van Winkle, it seems that time proceeded to carry on as I was sucked into the glory that is the Discovery Travel and Living, National Geographic, Animal Planet, and my old friend, MTV Philippines. I tell you, there is nothing more dangerous in the world than good television programming.
When I wasn't disposing of precious time in front of the tube, I did succeed in spending four hours at Ikea accumulating even more junk for the bigger space. I love that fucking place for so many reasons. For the price of a clearance item from Bernie & Phyl's, I got a sofa addition that has transformed my existing 2-seater into a charming L-shaped corner monster. I also got curtains, which weren't that vital before, but given my habit of walking around naked, are somewhat more necessary now that I have real windows and a balcony for people to unwittingly spy upon my little guy. I even stocked up the new kitchen with the basics...now all I need is some food.
Among the beautiful delights that Ikea offers, there is none quite like the satisfaction that you get by "making" your own furniture. Not only does it keep the cost of the product down, but it's also a lot of fun. If you do it properly. I don't know how many times I've fucked up with a stubborn Ikea item, reducing me to tears of rage and reaching for the drill to make my own goddamned holes if these ones don't want to cooperate with the prefitted screw. Agggh! But when you do it right, man does it feel good. Like you're a kid again, putting together a really big and relatively more expensive Lego monstrosity that could topple over and kill you without the proper wall mount. I managed to piece together all of my shelves and racks without too much blood loss and in a relatively short amount of time. Yes, I'm simply that good.
With all the pieces ready, I only needed to get everything organized and in place before it could truly be deemed home. Although I didn't have much time to get it all finished before other, more pressing engagements arose, I successfully pulled it off. Nevermind the unopened boxes of random useless shit that still lie hidden in my bedroom. I'll get to those later. For now, the apartment looks great. Homey, comfortable, colorful, charming. All the bits I tend to bring to whatever environment I find myself thrust into.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Take What We Can Get
Sweet Lord on high, this is one of the lamest songs I've ever heard in my life. Even more baffling are the positive comments on YouTube. Maybe I'm just out of touch... In any case, this video from Australian duo Empire of the Sun would be totally disposable if not for the sheer saving grace of its setting: Shanghai. Peep Lujiazui's skyline, the Longhua temple and our lovely yellow taxis. While I'm sure the locals who got to witness these two poofs poncing around the city might have thought it a riot, I'd have preferred more suitable musicians to stop by and shoot a video. Like Bjork.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
The Lost Torch Bearer
Over the tumultuous fortnight of the Beijing Olympic Games, I forgot to mention the important tidbit that I was one of the Olympic torchbearers. You'll forgive my lapse in memory. As a formal apology for my misdeed, please accept the following picture, which gives me a nice little feeling of warmth inside my happy place. I hope it nails you in all your sweet spots too (but highly unlikely)...
Behold, the Olympic Torch Jump!
Behold, the Olympic Torch Jump!OK fine, so I obviously wasn't one of the torchbearers. This is actually the torch that our CEO, Das Chang Meister, ran in the final leg of the Beijing Tech Zone's portion of the relay. Oh happy day.
Holding the lovely shaft was surprising, mostly because it was so light. The handle itself, a rich hue of lucky red, had a kind of rubbery grip to it. The upper portion of the torch was decorated in the now-famous auspicious cloud motif that was all over the Olympics. A very classy and handsome piece of plastic.
For more Olympic torch action, check out the Beijing Games site. I personally love the '94 Winter Olympic Games' (Lillehammer) torch. That shit is damn sexy.
Holding the lovely shaft was surprising, mostly because it was so light. The handle itself, a rich hue of lucky red, had a kind of rubbery grip to it. The upper portion of the torch was decorated in the now-famous auspicious cloud motif that was all over the Olympics. A very classy and handsome piece of plastic.
For more Olympic torch action, check out the Beijing Games site. I personally love the '94 Winter Olympic Games' (Lillehammer) torch. That shit is damn sexy.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Quality Time With Our Former Colonial Overlords (Or, Neil's Trip To The UK)
Bonus Episode: PHOTO EXTRAVAGANZA TIME!
It's been two months since I got back from my heavenly trip to the United Kingdom. I suppose I miss it so much that I'm going to force some more Anglo-love down your throat. But panic not: I won't bore you with my long-winded babble. It's just picture time. What better way to get to the real heart of Britain.
So you've all heard of Engrish. But what are you supposed to call funny English signs found in native English-speaking countries? Who can say. Either way, these were quality enough to elicit a few chuckles from yours truly. Enjoy. It's not only in Asia that you find comedy just walking down the street.
Oh, the good old Hoxton Whores. I'm sure their parents are proud of their choice of group name. I haven't the foggiest who these people are, but apparently they like clubbing. Whore it up, kind folk! (Edinburgh)
Talk about bold statements. On one hand, it's great to see freedom of speech in action; these types of shenanigans would result in death or "disappearance" in the good old PR of C. On the other hand, it's a little disconcerting to see that some Scots want to break from the English. More power to them. May they have more luck than the Quebecois. (Edinburgh)
For Little Nasty (Edinburgh)
Billy Corgan wuz here (Edinburgh)
This I know! (Edinburgh)
Hallo friend, "take a look"! (London Chinatown)
Totally! (Loch Ness)
Even their signs begging you to clean your dog's shit are polite! (Fort Augustus)
Wow, that's quite the damning accusation if I've ever seen one. (Edinburgh)
GW mongers war, they monger cheese (Bath)
I don't know... (Bath)
Brock Street Clinic's biggest fan (Bath)
It's probably for the same reason I have mine... (London)
Sticking it to the Mao (V&A Museum, London)
Seriously? No one thinks this is too easy a target for a pub? (London)
"Beer", unless you're in China, in which case it's just "another person". (London)
It's all really how you use it... (London)
In the case of this blog? Tons (Kensington Tube Station, London)
And finally, in keeping with the recent theme, here's what some Londoners think of our poor Friendlies pals. Killjoys! (London)
Monday, August 25, 2008
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