Neopolitan

The Final Name Audit

2010-04-26T13:44:00.006+08:00

Now that my tenure as a corporate desk monkey in China has drawn to a close, I look back upon all the happy memories. The good times, the bad times, the disastrous times, and even those times where I yearned to be freed from this hell, ending my misery with a sweet, sweet death brought upon by plunging chopsticks into my brain via my vulnerable ear canals.

Above all, I will miss my local colleagues, those creative wonders with fantastical names plucked straight out of my high school English teacher's darkest nightmares. Such baffling appellations can only be described as a cultural phenomenon. If not for these special people, I would never have had the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to take an elevator ride with Demon, sit on a bus beside Yahoo, or get a customer service request from Viking. These are blessings from God.

But now my heart is heavy. Over these many years charting the course of name evolution, we stand here today in a time and age where Apple and Bear receive nary a chuckle. What kind of world do we live in where I can't even get a laugh at the expense of someone named Rainy or Linko?

Like our jaded millennial society, so extreme and unfazable, we have no other option but to get hardcore. Nobody cares about naming yourself after fruit (unless you choose Banana, tee-hee!) or a random woodland creature (can we get a Weasel up in this mofo, please?) anymore. The challenge now is choosing a name that will really stick out. Like Mouthwash or Whisker (I've yet to see these in use, so you can consider it my gift to any of you out there with a baby on the way. Congrats.).

So let us join hands and take one final trip into the wilds of Chinese English names, to remember the good times passed and pray for the future of our planet, a world where Fish walk, Bacon talks, Alien makes contact and Gandhi (indeed) lives again.

[Editor's note: It goes without saying, a (sic) should be assumed next to every one of these babies. I vouch that every one of these names belongs, or belonged, to a real employee at our company at one point during my duration of employment from 2004 to 2010. You really could not make this shit up. Believe me, I've tried. My imagination fails me.]

Welcome To The Jungle

The last time we took a peek into the twisted minds of these crazy name people, it was 2008. Since then, we've welcomed a few new superstars, some of which take the cake for sheer audacity and balls. To wit:

Gandhi.

This guy is a fucking legend. I would have been satisfied with a Motherteresa, Martinlutherkingjunior or some other such untouchable humanitarian. Maybe Bono. But this? Us mere mortals should commend this genius for accepting nothing less than Gandhi.

I approve.

Keeping in line with iconic dead guys, we also have a pair of Elvises and a Christ, which aren't that outrageous. But how about naming yourself JOHN DENVER? (John Denver Zhang, to be exact.) Inspired.

Stealing names from the deceased can be a noble way to honor those that have passed. Naming yourself after living or fictional characters is also bundles of fun. Whether plucked from mythology, television or sports, this is simple hero worship.

We've got the baller-loving Kobe. The one-two double punch of Keanu/Neo. Also the inexplicable Seinfeld fan, Kramer.

In all his Technicolor Glory

Maybe some of these folks like their mythology a bit too much (I can't blame them). Like our buddies Christ and Lucifer, this may be a little sacrilegious:

Jove, Adonis (who is this guy kidding???), Atlas, Apollo, Titan, Triton, Odin

In fact, poring through the web of names year after year after year, one pattern is quite clear: many people, like those hero-worshipers above, pick names bearing qualities and characteristics that they would like to have. Something to aim for, an ideal to capture, a way to be. Something to inspire them to be even better. The Wish Listers.

Courage, Fancy (and his archnemesis, Fancyer), Wish, Lean, Perpetual (aiming for immortality here), Power, Pretty, Super, Keeper, Sweety, Hansome, Midas, Loyal and, a personal fave, Man Li.

The past couple years have also seen a spike in confused ethnicities. In the beginning, the only confusion stemmed from reading the pinyin "Juan" as the more familiar Spanish pronunciation (made even more confusing by our buddies named "Huan"). But now we've got a whole slew of wannabe Romantics.

The Spaghetti Lovers: Angelo, Claudio, Adele, Marco, and Adriano (note, these are all local Chinese, not to be confused with our Euro/American friends with the same names.)
The Latin Lovers: Juan, Lopez, Luis, Raul, Yolanda (5 of 'em!) and Jorge

Not to be outdone, we also hired a genius whiteboy who chose a Chinese name no less ridiculous than these locals we've been ridiculing for the past few paragraphs. Taking one for the team, Yao Ming.

Sigh.

Then of course you've got the group on the bottom of the barrel. Perhaps they chose these names as a form of daily self-flagellation, a way to remind themselves they are meaningless dirt in this great universe, just a speck of nothing in the eyes of God, a symbol of our mortal foibles and warning of what not to become. Or they are simply in dire need of some Prozac. These are some of my all-time favorites.

Coma, Burden, Insomnia, Odd, Freaky, Crazy, Peyton, Demon, Simple, Stuck, Tiny, Hermit, Boredom, Worm, Scud

My buddy Worm (coincidentally also the nickname of one of my real life childhood pals) has got a whole zoo-load of friends in the animal department, which has always been a crowd pleaser. There's just something special about dialing an extension and asking for Piggy, Pony, Penguin or Rabbit, as if a magical talking creature were on the other end of the line. Like in a Disney movie (we've got a Disney too, just so you know. And a Walt)... a really sad and depressing Disney movie where the protagonist's soul is crushed by corporate bureaucracy (shout outs to Simba and Nemo).

As for fruits (Apple, Cherry), it's just cute. This is the realm of the ladies, who want to feel like adorable little dolls, naming themselves something sweet. But what about the rest of the edibles? These names are, excuse me, good enough to eat.

Celery, Chocolate, Kiwi.

Yum.

Now that you've put the kids to bed, we can get a little freaky deekay. The teenage boy within me will never, ever grow up, so I salute these comrades for choosing names that never fail to make me quietly guffaw to myself (God help me if I have to ask for one of these people on the phone...), as I sit at this computer screen scrolling through bullshit names for your reading pleasure.

Pipi, Cream, Semon (THREE OF THEM), Swallow, Juicy, Winkie, Dick Gu, Dick Yu (get it? Dick you! oh man, never gets old!), Titi

Of course, as a soon-to-be New York Times bestselling author, my favorite names also include those that, in the proper context, would seem mundane and boring. But when you take an adverb, gerund or a preposition and slap it in front of a Wang or a Zhang, it becomes comic gold for the bookworm set, like Wondering, Rising, and Feeling.

Another personal favorite are the THINGS. The names plucked from a random list of nouns. These might be nicknames for folks overseas, but here, we address emails to professional clients with these names. I am considering following suit and changing my name to Scarf (or Stock, lol).

Limit, Mallet, Hammer, Meteor, Money, Piano, Shoulder, Skin (bleagh!), Sniper, Soul

Since everyone and their mamma is going green these days, let's salute this bunch for doing their part for Mother Earth:

Cloud, Thunder, Tree, Soil, Wind, Snow, Sleet, Sunrise, Moonlight, Sky (a whopping 22!!!), Twig

I'll wrap things up with the perennial favorites. The WTF?!? Batch, The Spellcheck All-Stars, and then the failed Lord of the Rings characters. I will forever remember these jokers.

Huwk, Jick, Leer, Leging, Luger, Mysality, Phase-Change, Purp, Sonic, Turble, Uzid, Vigoss, Weickham, Yeedith, Zephylos, Zoro, Giggs, Keyinfour, King Kong, Linkevinse, Sbean, Winkle

Unexpected Thoughts and Reflection

When I did my last audit in 2008, I was flabbergasted to discover the most Chinesiest of all names, the formidable China Wang (upstanding socialist brother to good old Russian Lai). He named himself after the entire motherland. Since then, he has been joined by other like-minded comrades, whose likely goal is to create an entire gang of Young National Chinese Superstars of the New Order. Who are these icons in the making?

Sino, head of the Ministry of Latin Prefixes.

Orient, head of the Ministry of Archaic References To The Motherland and Purveyor of Fine Carpets.

And my personal favorite, the cuddly Minister of Endangered National Mascots and Eye-Bag Concealing Cosmetics, PANDA.

I hereby submit my application to officially change my name to United States Yeung...

Moving along...

In the beginning, I would double over laughing like a kid in 5th grade peeking through the reproduction section of the biology textbook whenever I came into contact with Fantasy, Vanish or Pinky. I mean, who were these retards with the crazy names and how did they expect to be taken seriously? But aside from a small minority of us English-speakers who were in on this elaborate inside joke, almost all of our local colleagues never seemed to notice. To the Chinese, Juicy and Petros were just the English names that Wang Bing and Liu Li chose for the email directory and meetings with foreign customers.

After working with them for so long, I got to know many on a personal level. I had, after all, been working under a woman named after the period of the day between dawn and noon for almost 6 years (my dear Morning). The silly names became secondary and I didn't notice so much anymore (unless I came across any particularly heinous cases like Cuckoo or Gadfly...yeesh!). It was no longer a matter of working with some idiot who named himself after a kitchen utensil or landscaping feature, but rather, working with Oven from the IT department or helping Smile from Accounting carry a package to the mail room. In a way, instead of the name turning their respective owner into a joke, these folks made the names their own. And rather than focus on the name, I ultimately focused on the human it belonged to. *Cue sappy Lifetime music*

Don't get me wrong, I still get a kick out of fresh faces like Penguin, the short, chubby guy who actually wore black and white for his directory picture; Yao Ming, the white dude from our school who decided to throw his hat into the opposite cultural end of the Bad Name ring with that ridiculous choice of Chinese name; and T-Bag, the freak who either named himself after a pedophilic sociopath from the late Fox hit TV show, Prison Break, or his favorite oral sex activity (either way, both not very healthy). But it takes quite a bit of creativity to spark my interest after being exposed to this comedy for so long. It's a part of the scenery now.

Proof!!!

Thus after such an extended period of cowork and cohabitation with these mad name scientists, I can conclude that all things are relative, especially cultural norms and naming conventions. In a group with Heaven, Hebrew, and Hunkey, chances are I am actually the odd one out. After all, I'm the guy named after a past-his-prime crooner...

My Top 20 Super Best All-Star Hall of Fame

And now I present to you the best of the best of the six long years I've been wasting valuable company time scrolling through the directory:

20. Demon
19. Jock
18. Only
17. Odd (last name? Hung. Classic)
16. Superiority
15. Vagabond
14. Vanish
13. Fantasy
12. Rorry (ruh-roh! that good old Scooby Doo winner from 2007)

Ruh Roh!

11. Spawn
10. Buddy Ryan (the English alias, both first and last name, mind you, of one Mr. Ren Wan Chun)
9. Boredom
8. Insomnia
7. Coma (the Trinity of Depression!)
6. Hermit
5. T-Bag
4. Lucifer (I still don't know how THREE of these guys got past our old CEO)
3. Christ (had to put him up front, since it takes bigger cojones to name yourself after the Messiah)
2. Bigtree (not Big Tree, but Bigtree. and dude is TALL. Perfection)
1. Gandalf (Middle Earth meets Middle Kingdom. Oh. My. God.)

At no other time in my short, pitiful life will I ever have the extreme fortune to work in the same organization as the most badass wizard of ALL TIME. And for this I extend my deepest gratitude to the citizens of the People's Republic of China and their wacky ways.

Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!

Here in China, you can truly be whoever you want to be. You are only limited by your imagination.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Anticlimactic Epilogue

Lest you think the entire nation is filled with silly names, take note: among the Canraders, Turbles, and Hooks, the bulk of our colleagues actually have stiflingly uncreative names.

A recent report estimated that 24 million single chaps in China won't get to experience the wonders of wedlock with a fellow Chinese lady (more than enough guys to pair up with, though). There just haven't been enough chicks born (and kept) for these poor bastards to mate with. It seems they've taken this dearth of selection and applied it to their name selection. Judging from my very small sample group at the company (10,000 employees out of a 1.3 billion populace is like 0.000000001%), there's a shortage of male names around here too.

On the far opposite end of the creativity scale, we've got these generic duds. With so many colorful options out there (as you have been reading above), why become yet another one of the faceless millions of Michael Wangs? Even yours truly is not immune: since 2004, when I had to share my name with only one other guy, an explosion of Neils has resulted in a whopping increase over 6 years. Now I've got to compete with thirteen others as of 2010! Whatever happened to strong names like Notebook and Papercup? Copycats, I tell ya....

Apologies beforehand if you happen to be the proud owner of one of these names below; you probably have some unknown Chinese relatives lurking on the family tree.

Kevin (99)
David (79)
Jack (74) (Not including Jacky, Jackson, Jackie, Jackey, of which we've got 61 additional, driving the total up to 135 and the First Place Prize over Kevin...)
Andy (67)
Jason (63)
Stephen (19), Steve (5), Steven (37), Stuphen (meh? 1) (62 overall)
Michael (60)
Tony (57)
Jerry (57... one is a woman, she was removed)
Eric (54)
Frank (50)
Alex (44)
Peter (43)
John (41)
Leo (39)
James (37)
Tom (31)
Daniel (30)
Chris 24 (+3 Christopher) (27 overall)

Jack, the ultimate All-American name, making waves in Shanghai. The rest of the list is filled with similarly classic English names. Surprising then to see Michael and James so far down the list.

The ladies can't even compete with the sheer number of the guys at this company. Like China, our company also seems to have a shocking lack of estrogen. I mean, there's only one Lauren, one Justine, one Margaret, one Natalie, two Stephanies, one Valerie. Most shocking is the nosedive in the figures. The women seem to be far more creative, with no name receiving more than 40 members in its exclusive club. Also, unlike the guys, some of these names are far from conservative.

Variations on "Ann(e)" come up the clear winner, but look below. Sunny, Cherry and Apple? Certainly a revolution in popular naming in our little microcosm.

Ann (7), Anna (14), Anne (6), Annie (11), Anny (6) (44 total)
Sunny (36)
Amy (36)
Jenny (28) (Jennifer? Only 9, making for 37 total and edging out Sunny and Amy)
Lucy (27)
Helen (26)
Jane (22)
Grace (21)
Cherry (19)
Apple (12)

[Editor's Note: Thank you everybody for the support and following the Name Audit from the very beginning!]

Peaches Penetrates Shanghai

2010-04-24T02:59:00.005+08:00

It's been a long ass while since Shanghai was graced by an international act worth seeing. Ever since Bjork went and screwed us all by making it harder for foreign acts to receive government approval, this place has been a veritable ghost town devoid of overseas musical talent.

Owl City? *Eye roll*
Andrew Bird? *Zzzzz*
Michael Bolton? Are you kidding me?

Thus, when it was confirmed that raunch queen Peaches would spread her gospel of filth onto our fair city, I nearly burst from my boxer briefs in premature excitement. With the Expo mere days away, it's a shock that the authorities even let her airplane onto the tarmac. Luckily for old Peach, she flies so low under the radar that the All-Seeing Eye of the Ministry of Culture couldn't stop her. Poor Bob Dylan was blocked mere days from his scheduled performances, while Peaches-disciple Lady Gaga had to cancel an entire PRC/ROC/HK tour because Beijing wouldn't allow her disco stick into the motherland.

When we arrived at Mao Livehouse, openers Reptile & Retard were wrapping up a typically insane set. I didn't care about missing these wacky Danes (they'll perform at the Expo, I'm told); I had been waiting for Peaches for months.

We like it hardcore

As the intro music blasted through the wall of dry ice smoke fuming from the stage, the crowd of idiots began to inexplicably smash their glass cups and bottles onto the floor. Some dickwad behind me -- a foreigner, of course -- tossed not one, but TWO glasses onto the floor, sending shards of tumbler all over the place.

I will pose the question again and again with exasperated anger: how the fuck do these people get here? It's not like it's easy for a lowlife Westerner to just relocate to Shanghai without a job or school. So are these jack-offs releasing pent-up anger from a day at the office or classroom, or are they dreaded hipster scum come to China to metastasize like skinny-jean-wearing, high-top-rockin, 80s-throwback-wannabe cancer? I didn't move halfway across the world to be followed by this scourge. Go back to Williamsburg.

My rage was quelled as soon as Peaches rose from a backstage hydraulic platform. Dressed as a giant mop.

Relentlessly slamming through a mix of old hits and tracks from her latest album, I Feel Cream, she executed one of the most enthralling shows I've ever seen. She crowd surfed, played a laser theremin, and even walked across the audience atop a sea of upstretched hands. "Jesus walked on water, Peaches walks on YOU!" @__@

This woman is over forty years old. I was in awe.

Behold the Peach!

While singing such child-friendly fare such as "Fatherfucker," "Lovertits," "Shake Yer Dix," "I Feel Cream," "2 Guys 4 Every Girl," and all-time playground favorite, "Fuck the Pain Away," Peaches changed wardrobe about a bajillion times, from that aforementioned shag suit (looked exactly like the Beck Odelay dog) to a bath towel, a glittery cape and cowel, skanked-out leotards and the infamous Pussy Light, as seen below (apologies for the crap quality).

The crowd unfortunately remained obnoxious through most of the show, but all was forgiven because I was probably being quite annoying as well, with all the jumping and jamming and head banging and screaming. We really need more shows like this in Shanghai. Full-fledged loss of sanity and surrender to the performance. It's been so. long.

Our Caped Crusader

By the end of the final encore, Peaches challenged us to a little contest: to see if Shanghai was crazier than the other Asian tour stops. How would we prove ourselves? By stripping. You can see where this is headed.

As she egged on the crowd, it was apparent that most folks preferred to remain robed. Myself included. No one wants to see what lies beneath my impeccable clothing. But some minx behind me grabbed my shirt and demanded it be separated from my person. I had to oblige. No matter how self-conscious, above all I am indeed a ham.

Luckily I banged out a couple of push-ups before the show, because my flab was flying alllll over the damn place. Looking up at Peaches, wiping fake blood from her mouth and looking like an overused tranny hooker from an alleyway, I felt empowered. Here is this nasty ass woman who sings filthy, filthy songs about guy-on-guy action, copious fornication, tits, balls, ass, pussy and dicks (in Chinese! 摇你的奶，摇你的蛋!), even the Shocker! and yet there is something so electrically sexy about her while she is performing that even I am disgusted by my admission. If she is comfortable in her skin, why shouldn't I be?

Hands in the air, I continued to jump up and down to the beat. Peaches is all about breaking down stereotypes and prudishness. If that meant baring my flesh to a crowd of drunken hipsters, so be Peaches' will.

V&K couldn't bear being blinded any further, they had to cover up my love handles!

My Favorite Gigs of the Decade

2009-12-30T18:40:00.009+08:00

We all know I'm a concert junkie. So compiling my favorite gigs of the past ten years was actually quite an undertaking. Although the volume of concerts I'm able to attend has been severely depleted due to current locale, magnitude and insanity have more than compensated for the lack of weekly concerts. Over 200 bands, spread throughout six countries, with a dear team of devoted and dedicated friends to share each experience. For me, music is life. And concerts are as important as school and church. Here's to another ten years of artist and fan interaction.

20. JJ Lin
Marathon Concert, December 23, 2006
Jiangwan Stadium, Shanghai, PRC

At this point in history, JJ Lin (Lin Jun Jie, 林俊杰) was my favorite Mandarin singer. When it was announced that he was included in a jaw-dropping "marathon" concert that included my favorite Taiwanese rock group F.I.R., up-and-coming boy band Fahrenheit, pop tarts Evonne Hsu and Wang Rong, and Taiwanese pop legend David Tao, my friends and I scrambled for tickets. The show was indeed a marathon, stretching from noon into the late hours of the freezing December night. Our accumulated excitement was ignited when JJ took the stage, culminating in some inspired insanity that involved a lot of blood-curdling screaming (us) and petrified stares (locals nearby). It didn't matter if we were the only people standing on our seats or making noise; waving glow sticks is not what we do at concerts. Much like the yearly events that American radio stations organize during the holidays, this was no less epic. Shanghai hasn't seen anything of this Mando-pop magnitude since.

Sorry ladies, show's over...

19. Mandy Moore
September 29, 2000
Eastern States Expo, Springfield, MA, USA

This show, which really wasn't a concert so much as a well-timed PR stunt to get Mandy Moore into the hearts and wallets of American teenagers, deserves special mention. Not only was it held in the center of a classic American fairground -- fried dough, candy apples and pony rides aplenty -- but out in the boonies of Western Massachusetts. It took some dedicated effort to convince my mate, who was much too gracious to say no to a potentially embarrassing situation. And what a situation it was. I don't even remember what songs she sang ("Candy" had to be in there), but when her set was complete, she was whisked off the stage into a nearby limousine. And as her car drove by, I thrust my camera into her backseat window and snapped a photo of her luscious blond locks. It was my finest paparazzi moment.

18. Rammstein
Mutter World Tour, July 18, 2001
Hammerstein Ballroom, New York, NY, USA

I drove down to New Jersey to join up with some college metalhead friends for the huge summer Rammstein gig in the city. When we got to the ballroom, we realized we forgot the tickets back in New Jersey. Thank god for parents. A couple years prior, I had seen them closer to home without any ticket mishaps, experiencing the full circus that is their famous live show, which included a ridiculous amount of pyro, flame throwers, laser beams, S&M weaponry and simulated sodomy with a gigantic, squirting dildo. My best friend got an unforgettable pop shot that night, something he won't soon forget. For this gig, things were different. Just as theatric, but with the bigger budget that comes with more success, the Rammstein show was transformed into a psychotic sci-fi laboratory that was more horror and doom than perversion and fake cocks. Pummeling us with mountains of riffs and irresistible melodies, the German techno metal monsters made Hammerstein shake. Ending the show with their cover of "Pet Semetary" (thank god for YouTube), an encore ensemble that included surviving members of the Ramones and one of the Misfits, it was an inspired melding past and present, Europe and America, punk and metal. After the show, we met Jerry Only (Misfits) in the parking lot. As the hulking demon in make-up drove away in a green Saturn station wagon, I had to quietly thank Rammstein for one of the most absurdly unforgettable evenings of my life.

17. American Hi-Fi
February 21, 2003
Webster Theater, Hartford, CT, USA

Crammed into the tiny Webster Theater in a quiet neighborhood in Hartford, a mixed group of Taiwanese and Japanese exchange students and a couple of us Americans enjoyed five bands for only $5 bucks. Though the show received the most buzz for being one of the first gigs that a young band called Evanescence would play after finding success with a song called "Bring Me To Life," my dearest memories are from the American Hi-Fi set. Front and center in the pit, we jumped and pushed and dodged crowd surfer boots and fists for the entire time, happy and carefree as we jammed to the simple pop-rock gems. I hoped that my foreign friends enjoyed their first American concert as much as I enjoyed sharing it with them.

UMass family, c. 2003

16. Oasis
Dig Out Your Soul World Tour, April 5, 2009
Singapore Indoor Stadium, Singapore

This gig is notable for extremes. Flying to Singapore (after the Shanghai show was canceled) to see not only one of the hugest bands on the planet, but also one of the bands on my "MUST SEE BEFORE DEATH" list. After hours of waiting in line, we rushed to the head of the floor section to secure positions mere rows from the stage. But as soon s the first chords of opener "Rock and Roll Star" blared through the speakers, things got a little hectic and I thought I was going to fulfill some sort of sick prophecy and DIE now that I had "seen" Oasis. The crowd was sick, nearing late '90s nu-metal proportions, and I almost got trampled to death. Escaping the scrum to the safety of the sidelines, I could enjoy the rest of the show like everyone else smart enough to have avoided the pit in the first place. But something wasn't right. The songs were there, the band was playing, but it wasn't what I had dreamt about. I'm glad I saw them before they broke up a few months later, but this show will be memorable not for how awesome it was, but for how disappointing. Perhaps it was my fault for building it up over almost 15 years of fandom. Or perhaps because Liam is a twat.

Yes, you, Liam. You are a twat.

We've Just Been Violated

15. Interpol
October 15, 2003
Hammerstein Ballroom, New York, NY, USA

Although I was alone, I thoroughly enjoyed this show. Perhaps because I was flying solo, it felt so different. After classes, I rushed downtown to join the mob of bandwagon hipsters that had descended upon the ballroom for Interpol's homecoming show. A year before, I had almost missed them in Boston because of a snowstorm, getting stuck in the back of the club as a penalty for being so late. This time, I was front and center. Though they were still touring their debut album, they blessed us with new tracks that would go on to become "Narc" and "Evil" from their sophomore effort, Antics. We were hearing them for the first time, before the world would subsequently dub them classics of the '00s indie decade.

14. Sasha
November 4, 2005
VIP Room, Shanghai, PRC

For a complete idea of why this show was so unforgettable, read here. Seeing him spin almost 3 years later, I could finally sweat through the complete sonic experience, which was an unforgettable workout. But nothing compares to the pounding surge of house beats in your ear drums as you spend a blood-soaked night in the emergency room.

13. Celine Dion
Taking Chances World Tour, April 11, 2008
Shanghai Stadium, Shanghai, PRC

I'll forgive the chuckles and derisive laughter now, as I stand by my assertion that Celine Dion puts on one of the best shows around. And it is purely due to her voice. Every song, every hit (you'd recognize more than you realize) was pitch perfect. I felt like I was listening to the radio. In such a cold and empty venue as Shanghai Stadium, her voice filled every corner, every empty seat and all of my aching heart. And don't even get me started on what happened when she whipped out the Titanic song. Even though we could barely see her from our seats in the back, we could hear her every note. And that was all that mattered.

Amazing seats...

12. The White Stripes
April 20, 2003
Orpheum Theater, Boston, MA, USA

High atop the rickety balcony of Boston's historic Orpheum Theater, my cousin and I shared one of our most unforgettable concert experiences with our favorite band (at that particular moment), the White Stripes. Though there were only two of them, they almost rocked the theater into a pile of rubble. Between Meg's laughable drumming and Jack White's insane guitar skills, the entire theater was bouncing up and down in unison. The balcony was actually moving under our feet. But the threat of death wasn't enough to distract me. The red-black-and-white duo on the small stage before us were worth the risk

11. Incubus
March 13, 2008
Yunfeng Theater, Shanghai, PRC

Usually, if a band member as important as the bassist falls ill, a group might cancel the gig. For their first ever concert in Shanghai, Incubus decided to forge ahead acoustic. Thus, in a chance twist of luck, we were treated to a unique and unforgettable show, an intimate and private audience with a severely underrated band. For one night, the band was ours. I had seen them with Deftones back in 2000, when every lush layer of the band could be fully appreciated. Yet I'll never forget the stripped down versions of my favorite songs, in Shanghai, of all places. Incubus, kinda unplugged, the most welcome surprise of my concert year.

10. Fucked Up
March 21, 2009
Logo Bar, Shanghai, PRC

This was one of the most disgusting shows I've ever been to. Not only was it held in the dankest and filthiest "club" in all of Shanghai (seriously, this place smells like an unwashed jock strap), but the air conditioner was weak and the crowd was soaked through with foul sweat and spilled whisky. It felt like an old fashioned basement show. To top it off, Fucked Up's lead singer, the charming Pink Eyes, is a massive beast of a man that perspires like a champ. And he was wearing nothing but underwear. Oh and the PA was busted. But I'm seldom fortunate enough to be at the center of something so visceral, primitive and raw. The band was spilling off the low stage into the audience, standing at the same level as the freaks in the pit. At one point, they stopped and asked for a song request. I had the feeling I was one of the few actual fans in the house (no offense, posers), so I screamed out my choice as loud as I could. Pink Eyes looked at me and smiled, then the band launched into "Crooked Head." That, and meeting him after the show, totally made my night.

Yes, I Just Lost My Lunch, Too

9. The Rolling Stones
A Bigger Bang World Tour, April 8, 2006
Shanghai Grand Stage, Shanghai, PRC

Shanghai has seen its fair share of mega icons pass through the city in recent years (Eric Clapton, James Brown, Obama), but the arrival of the Rolling Stones received a mix reaction. Would Keith Richards be able to smuggle his drugs through customs? Would they even live to see that concert date? Would locals pay such high prices to see a gang of decrepit sacks of bones play outdated classic rock? Our group of American youngsters could only afford nosebleed seats, actually filling out the very last row at the back. So when a Stones roadie came up to collect bodies to fill the embarrassingly empty sections near the front of the stage, we couldn't believe our luck. From a vantage point that would have made Mick and the boys about an inch tall, we were thrust into spots where we could actually see the thousands of collective wrinkles on stage before us. Even though they were all pushing 70, they put on such a high caliber show that would put younger bands to shame. Mick writhed like a horny snake and had more hypersexual energy in his tiny frame than a basketball team at an away game. Rollicking through hit after monster hit, we could barely contain ourselves. I almost tore the seats out of the floor in a primal rage, fully taken over like a wild man by this balls out rock and roll. After the concert, we spilled into the Shanghai night singing Stones tunes at tops of our lungs, stretching our battered throats to the limits. We didn't want that feeling to ever go away.

Ni hao, Mr. Jagger

8. Faithless
Yue Festival, October 5, 2007
Zhongshan Park, Shanghai, PRC

On a clear autumn night in downtown Shanghai, lights from surrounding skyscrapers illuminating the heavens, Faithless headlined a modest little festival held in a grassy clearing at the center of one of the city's biggest public parks. From the front rows, my friends and I danced away to a thumping mix of throbbing, old-fashioned UK house fronted by the bald and gangly Maxi Jazz. Like a mad preacher, he turned that field into a straight tent revival, connecting to the crowd in glorious unity, especially on their biggest hit, "God is a DJ" ("This is my church, this is where I heal my hurts... tonight, God is a DJ"). However it wasn't until they closed the set with "We Come 1" that I understood the unifying power of their music. The drunken Brits stopped picking fights, the slobbering exchange students put down their drinks, the ambivalent locals stopped talking over the music. With everyone in the crowd jumping up and down, fingers raised in the air, joined by the music in that brief span of time, I felt so much joy my heart wanted to explode. A glorious revelation to restore faith to anyone.

7. Dave Matthews Band
September 24, 2003
Central Park, New York, NY, USA

Skipping grad classes and office work for the afternoon, my friends and I waited for over an hour on Central Park West with throngs of other fans eager to get a spot at the front of the Great Lawn for this historic show, which would prove to be DMB's biggest audience ever. Tickets for this AOL-sponsored benefit were free, but you had to win them. To win them, you had to first find random AOL folks on the streets of the city and try your luck by pulling tickets from a stack of potential duds. Luckily, after days of coordinated efforts and loitering on street corners, we cobbled together enough tickets and were set for history. From start to finish, the nearly three-hour marathon was a non-stop jam of hits, covers (here and here) and special guests (Warren Haynes of the Allman Brothers and Mayor Bloomberg). This wasn't hippie bullshit, but one of the tightest rock and roll bands in the world. Not since Woodstock '99 had I been at the front of a crowd so massive. Fortunately there were no fires and destruction here, just the biggest block party the city saw that year.

Perfect NYC Night

DMB Can Do No Wrong

6. Radiohead/Bat For Lashes
June 25, 2008
Victoria Park, London, UK

As if seeing Radiohead in a giant field in southern London were not sweet enough, you top it off with an opening slot by Bat For Lashes and it is the 2-for-1 deal of the year. Nestled at the center of an amazing trip to England and Scotland, the sold-out gig was the second of a two-night, hometown residency, part of a summer European tour showcasing Radiohead's recent album, In Rainbows, which they played in its entirety. Of the two nights, we were the ones that got "Paranoid Android", for which I am eternally grateful to the universe. But to be honest, the most religious moment for me came during Bat For Lashes set. Awash in the warm glow of the late afternoon sun, the wind blowing Natasha Khan's robes and hair, the strains of her electric medieval tunes floated over the crowd like a potent spell. For a moment, I was transported to a land of knights and unicorns, which, as ridiculous as that sounds, sticks in the mind more than getting moshed to death by hyperactive OK Computer fans.

Goodbye, Radiohead

Natasha Khan, Bat For Lashes

5. Coldplay
Viva La Vida World Tour, February 14, 2009
Kobe Kinen World Hall, Kobe, Japan

The lead up to this show was too much to handle. After waiting almost a year to witness the Viva La Vida monster, the day was finally upon us. In Japan, near Osaka (Kobe) and on Valentine's Day, no less. The day was unforgettable, but the show itself was epic. Even though our seats were further away than we had hoped, it was every bit the religious experience we had prayed for. Swarms of butterflies, the famous "Yellow" balls, huge singalongs and joyous dancing in the aisles. Would it have been any better from the floor? Maybe. But it was good enough all the same without having to wonder about what ifs.

4. nine inch nails
Fragility v2.0 Tour, May 3, 2000
Providence Civic Center, Providence, RI, USA

The first time you see your favorite musician, one of two things can happen. You will have either built up the experience so much in your little head that it all comes crashing down when it doesn't live up to the hype, leaving you so disappointed you want to kill yourself onstage in front of the audience, or, it is a mind-bending revelation. After devoting over six years of my aural life to this band, I finally got to see the famous recluse and his misfit band of marauding musicians on their first tour in over three years. A large group of us went, all die hards, many of whom had been waiting ages to get this first taste. As the first notes of openers A Perfect Circle filled the darkened arena, we made a mad dash from the stands, over the barricade, and onto the floor. Diving past meat-headed security guards, we broke into the mosh pit like a prison break in reverse. One guard managed to get his meaty fingers around my arm, but I squirmed free and was lost in the crowd. God bless those tiny biceps. The rest of the show was spent in front of bassist Danny Lohner, ex-NIN bassist who looks remarkably like Brad Pitt. Though we had all been separated by the heaving wave of stinky bodies in the pit, I was content to experience this on my own, just me and the band. Come to think of it, though I enjoyed the performance, the overall experience was something so much more, which will probably be one of those things I recount to my kids over and over again until they tell me to stop.

3. Muse
Spirit of Taiwan Festival, February 28, 2007
Chung Shan Stadium, Taipei, ROC

Of all places, Muse decided to include Taiwan on its Black Holes and Revelations tour, which was cemented into history with the HAARP concert recorded at Wembley. And we were eternally grateful for this. Even stranger, they were the headliners for this Taiwan Pride event backed by Ah-Bian and the DPP. So extremely random. After a string of unknown local and foreign talent, Muse took the stage and I lost my fucking mind. I almost fainted during the first song from expending all of myself. To my delight, the local fans were more subdued, so I didn't have to worry about being moshed to death. They are rock superheroes and, that night, I felt just as confident, strong and powerful.

2. Coldplay
Twisted Logic Tour, July 10, 2006
Singapore Indoor Stadium, Singapore

Taking the first of what would become many international concert trips, my friend and I proved we were dedicated (and crazy) Coldplay fans, flying all the way to Singapore for a taste of our favorite band. Waiting for hours in the disgusting humidity of the Singaporean summer just to get a spot at the front, we were successful and enjoyed a perfect, sweat-soaked night. The pure joy and elation at the center of that massive sing-a-long was ineffable. We were so close Chris Martin could drip on us. When all was said and done, we were completely dried out by sweat and tears. Italy even won the World Cup. It was a perfect weekend.

The Suckers Stuck Behind Us

Unplugged Time

Count The Chris Martins

Pop Goes The "Yellow" Balloon

1. nine inch nails
Beijing Pop Festival, September 9, 2007
Chaoyang Park, Beijing, PRC

Of all my collective memories from the hundreds of concerts I've had the honor of attending over the years, this show is one of the most special. The Beijing Pop Festival, one of the most eclectic line-ups ever. Over two days, a mixed crowd of local and expat rock fans tasted the raw power of the Ramones (what's left of them, that is), the classic sleaze of New York Dolls, my first rap obsession Public Enemy, China's own Springsteen, Cui Jian, and the headlining spot by my favorite band in the world, nine inch nails. When they came to the stage after sunset to the cool evening air, the entire crowd was still. The sky was black, there was no wind, and the collective energy of the audience was focused squarely on stage. From the opening chords of "The Beginning of the End" to the standard closer "Hurt," I sung along to every.single.word. Screaming, thrashing, head banging and losing myself in the thrill. Standing on a metal barricade a third of the way into the crowd, I leaned above everyone, the highest point in the audience save for the band. It was me and NIN. Revelers behind me be damned (thanks for your understanding, guys), I stayed perched above everybody for the entire show. Afterward, my shins were bruised, my knees were scratched, and I could not talk. I was dizzy and high from the pure power of that music. My amazing concert partner regretted not recording some footage of my complete loss of mental stability, but some things are best left to the memory banks. I will never forget that show for as long as I live.

Me, Alicia and The 2nd Craziest NIN Fan In Attendance

The best of the rest: No Doubt, Metallica, Deftones, Marilyn Manson (2000); Aerosmith, Depeche Mode, Bjork, Tori Amos, System of a Down, Slipknot, Poe, Coldplay, The Cranberries (2001); Tool, Sheryl Crow, Queens of the Stone Age, Paul McCartney, The Strokes, Shakira (2002); The Donnas, Juliana Theory, The Datsuns, Brian Wilson, Blur, David Bowie, R.E.M., Wyclef Jean, Jet, The Darkness (2003); Hoobastank, P.O.D., Linkin Park (2004); The Start, Jay Chou, Paul Van Dyk (2005); Backstreet Boys, U2, Maximo Park (2006); The Roots, Ayumi Hamasaki, Christina Aguilera (2007); Club 8, Bjork, Kanye West, Franz Ferdinand, Jay Chou (2008); Jose Gonzalez, Neil Diamond (2009)

And now, to balance out all of that feel-good bubblegum joy, I give you my FAILS of the Decade:

10. The Raveonettes (March 6, 2003) Avalon Ballroom, Boston, MA, USA
Opening for Interpol, we missed them because of a snow storm. I may never get over it.

9. Black Eyed Peas (June 22, 2000) Fleetboston Pavilion, Boston, MA, USA
Opening for No Doubt on the Return of Saturn tour, this was when they still made backpack "conscious" rap music, before blowing up with Fergie.

8. Pink/Lenny Kravitz (July 20, 2002) Tweeter Center, Mansfield, MA, USA
Lenny got sick and, instead of treating the fans who had sat in the sun all afternoon to a quick set, Pink decided she'd sit it out too, the lazy trollop. To their credit, they rescheduled and ticket holders could take another crack at it. But I was busy. Too bad.

7. Alanis Morrissette (December 3, 2001) Fleetcenter, Boston, MA, USA
For this headlining set, poor Alanis got sick. Instead of bailing, she joined Barenaked Ladies onstage for a couple BNL renditions of her hits. The night wasn't a total loss. In fact, it was a stunner because a couple little bands kicked off the show in style: Coldplay and The Cranberries.

6. Eric Clapton (January 20, 2007) Shanghai Grand Stage, Shanghai, PRC
Shoulda gone. I even wrote a piece on it. When he dies, I'm so going to regret this.

5. Beyonce (November 5, 2007) Shanghai Grand Stage, Shanghai, PRC
WHY did I not go to this? Granted, we hadn't yet been introduced to Sasha Fierce, but to see those monumental thighs shaking to "Crazy In Love" would have been worth the ticket price alone.

4. Maroon 5 (March 22, 2008) Shanghai International Gymnastic Center, Shanghai, PRC
Little did I know that a year later I'd be hooked on their album, It Won't Be Soon Before Long. I even escorted my friends to the venue after a pre-concert dinner. Sigh.

3. Coldplay (June 16, 2008) Brixton Academy, London, UK
This failure was epic. Read about it here.

2. Nine Inch Nails (August 12, 2009) Nankang 101, Taipei, ROC
Originally slated to be their last concert ever (as if), it then became their last Asian show "ever." And as luck would have it, the promoters failed to get things set up in time and the band had to cancel a couple days before the show. We should have gone to Singapore for an epic three night jaw-dropper with NIN, Keane, and Lady Gaga.

And all that could have been...

1. Kylie Minogue (November 28, 2008) Hongkou Soccer Stadium
After waiting almost a decade to see my pop diva love, she decided to stop by Shanghai a week after I had to leave the country for a home trip. I kicked myself for that early plane ticket for months afterward. Thanksgiving could have waited.

Until 2019, keep on hippin', hoppin', rockin', rollin', groovin' and, of course, jumping.

Living The Glamorous Life

2009-12-27T14:44:00.005+08:00

(Or, Diary of an Unemployed Writer)

Week 1

My reaction to the first day of "freedom" was unexpected. It was just another day. I didn't do anything crazy to celebrate, as everyone expected (for some weird reason). There was no alcohol and illicit drug binge, no orgy in my cramped apartment, and I didn't go out and trash a suburban neighborhood with a baseball bat and spray paint. I swiped out of the office as usual, caught a ride home with a friend, ate dinner, and went to bed. I slept 12 hours. Something I haven't done yet this year. In fact, I don't even remember the last time I had that luxury.

Interestingly enough, I didn't finish writing my book that first weekend either. This came as a surprise to some people who overestimated my superhuman writing powers.

"How's that writing going?"

"What're you doing today? Writing?"

"Why are you out? Shouldn't you be writing?"

"You finish your book yet?"

And yes, I assure you, I actually got that last line multiple times from very serious people. Now, I'm aware that folks are just being supportive, but who could possibly write a book in less than a week?!?!

Now I'm slowly honing the stock response for when people ask me, "so what's the book gonna be about?" I know you're dying to hear it, so here goes:

"It's about my travels in China thus far, excluding Shanghai, which will come later in another book."

Most responses I get fall into the introspective-nod-and-"iiiinnnnnnteresting" category, at which point I need to elaborate to try and hook in potential book buyers and future fans.

"Yeah, since I've been traveling since 2004, I'll chart a journey through all the provinces I've seen so far and try to impart some history and culture in an entertaining way. Most China-travel books are written from a pure foreigner perspective, mostly using China as fodder for jokes or fawning over modern China and how it's gonna rule the world, as if. I'll be able to offer a different perspective."

If the eyes don't dull over at that point, at least I succeeded in keeping that person in the conversation. This is actually harder than I thought. Selling myself, in a way, which has always been one of my more underdeveloped skills. I'm going to need to beef this up if I expect to self-publish, as I am planning.

If the eyes DO glaze over and said counterparty looks close to coma, I'll hit 'em with a "of course, if you buy the book, I'll autograph it too!" To which, 9 times out of 10, these comedians reply:

"What, you're not going to give it to me for free? You should give me a free copy! What's your name again?"

Silently, I curse them and remind myself not to include a personalized message in the autograph, instead providing only a signature. That'll teach them, the damned leeches.

Back to freedom. It's a tricky prospect. I've never been so free in my life. Ever. Unless you count the days when I was shoving toys up my nose and eating chopped up mush from a toddler bowl. Think about it. Even summer vacation ends after a couple months, and I'm looking at a very long haul. To be honest, this can actually get a bit boring.

In the first week, I met up with some friends during off-work hours (see: weekends and after 6pm), which I have recognized to be the only possible opportunities for socializing as long as I dwell outside the "normal" job market. Conversation is noticeably slimmer:

Poor working Joe: "So, what'd you do today?"

Lucky little me: "Uh, not work?"

Social activities have become solo activities. I went to see a movie alone, a luxury I'm only now starting to appreciate. Spent some time wandering around Shanghai at a slower pace. Quiet coffees by myself. For someone so talkative and social, it is actually a refreshing change of perspective.

It is OK to be quiet. It is OK to simply do nothing.

This is blowing my mind.

Also, in another hit to the activities of social animals, I avoid shopping now that a budget must be observed. It's actually a good thing, since I don't need to dress up for work anymore, I can wear whatever the fuck I want, like the good old days. Some splurge purchases from years ago can finally see the light of day, now that I don't need to worry about how I look in the office.

Likewise, I can no longer go out and drop hundreds of rmb on deluxe dinners anymore either. Which may help the waistline. So far, this has been the biggest change in my life.

Food.

On a normal office working day, consumption of foodstuffs occurred as follows:

Breakfast - yogurt, digestive biscuits, soy milk (optional)
Coffee
Lunch - either a fresh sandwich with salad or chips OR a bowl of noodles
Coffee
Afternoon tea - junk food snacks from the convenience store
Dinner - either eating out with multiple courses and beer/wine OR a quick meal at home with dumplings, pasta or pizza

As you can see, nothing too gluttonous or disgusting, but hardly a controlled diet.

These days, eating consists of the following:

Breakfast - plain oatmeal with cranberries, raisins & brown sugar; French-press coffee with low-fat milk and brown sugar; digestive biscuits
Lunch - sandwich (PB&J or grilled cheese), plain yogurt, green tea, orange juice
Afternoon starvation blocker - granola bar, citron/pomelo tea
Dinner - if I don't go out for a cheapo meal, either dumplings, pasta, cereal and toast, or pizza (as you can see, not much has changed here)

Without too much activity during the day, I don't get hungry as much. And when I get in the zone, sometimes I forget to eat (I know, save the lectures).

In the first week, it took some time to get into the swing of things. A typical day would transpire as follows:

1. Wake up
2. Actually get out of bed (time range from "immediately" to "four hours later")
3. Throw on a hoodie and stumble to the toilet
4. Turn on computer and heaters
5. Boil water
6. Breakfast
7. Waste time on internet
8. Alternate with spats of inspired writing
9. Eat Lunch (or, if I forgot, eat Dinner)
10. Waste more time on the internet

As you can see, this schedule sucks. The amount of wasted time made me want to kill something. Even though I got rid of my television to reduce temptation and the chances of brain off-time, the Internet is still the devil. Let's not forget the ease with which we can download whatever viewing materials we want now. The ditching of the TV seems to be purely symbolic at this point, though it did free up a quarter of my living room, which is now my "office" space.

This shitty schedule lasted a week before I got so frustrated that I had to restructure. Re. Structure. Precisely what I was missing: structure. Even though I was writing, there was too much wasted time in between. And there's nothing I despise more than waking up and going to bed in the same clothes without realizing a whole day has passed. It's just disgusting and too lethargic for me. I needed a change.

Week 2

After week 1's "getting to know you" phase was finished, I capped it off with a weekend of revelry and gluttony. But as my pals returned to work on Monday, I too cracked down.

1. Wake up before 10am (this was all I could negotiate with myself)
2. Get dressed (you'll be surprised how much this single action can affect the mentality of an entire day, as you are making a statement to yourself that you are getting prepared for something other than being a lazy fuck.)
3. Brush teeth (again, scheduling and routine are important, just ask my bowels, which have been sent into a tailspin without my beloved corner stall in the office)
4. Turn on computer and heaters
5. Boil water
6. Breakfast
7. Read morning news while eating (routine, routine, routine)
8. Tackle a chunk of writing, whether it is something simple (like this) or a larger project (like a travelogue or pieces of Book 1)
9. Eat lunch and take a mental break (Dexter and Sopranos have been helping me here)
10. Back to the writing, catching the late afternoon wave of inspiration that usually hits me about 5pm
11. Dinner
12. Whatever (shower maybe?)

Again, this is for a regular day when I don't have any real plans. So far, it is working better than the joke that was week 1.

Planting the seeds of my empire, I've set up a "professional" blog that will be strictly for travel and the activities associated with it (see: eating, exploring, jumping), which I hope can slowly start to get people interested in my writing. I also finally got onto Twitter (for me and for food) and Last.fm. Better late than never.

As the weeks carry on, I'm sure there will be other tweaks and changes to the routine. Money will slowly disappear and I'll need to start exercising to combat sitting in a chair for the bulk of the day. It's all a process that I'll slowly get the hang of, while I stave off disease and malnutrition.

To increase productivity, I stopped shaving, so that should free up about 5 hours per year (given that I used to shave three times a week for about 2 minutes per shave on average, resulting in 6 min per week, 52 weeks in a year). That means, if my calculations are correct, I should have some semblance of facial hair growth within 7 months. If I'm lucky. Combined with my projected weight loss, I should be as fit as Christian Bale's Machinist in no time.

He is Batman, you know.

Sticking to my plans, 2010 should be a very interesting year.

End of the Year, End of the Decade

2009-12-14T22:59:00.008+08:00

2009 injected a much needed spark of vitality into my new music consumption habits.

While 2008 was not a year to scoff at, it wasn't until the waning months of the year that an increased output of goodness saved the day (re: Killers, Kanye, Keane, Kings of Leon). Those releases ended up being so good that they dominated much of 2009: not only did we get one of the biggest hits of '09 from the most unlikely of sources (Kings of Leon's "Use Somebody"), but we also got the Face of 2009, Kanye West, who released the best album of '08 and ruled over '09 (until he went and messed it all up by bullying a little white girl).

I haven't been this excited about a year in music since 2007, when we got nailed with a trio of this decades new classics (M.I.A.'s Kala, Radiohead's In Rainbows, and Amy Winehouse's Back To Black). Let's face it: my 2008 only had one contender -- Coldplay -- and that wasn't even a contest.

So in 2009, the wealth of great music that we've been inundated with should hopefully be indicative of great things to come for the next decade. Much like 1999, which was a turning point that saw the over-saturation of nu-metal and teen pop implode on itself, paving the way for the early '00s rock renaissance, 2009 was also a year when things were shaken up a bit.

Indie music became mainstream. Hello Twilight: New Moon soundtrack!
Teen pop has morphed into light rock, with every Top 40 poplet employing a guitar riff or two.
Lazy auto-tuned rap finally killed itself and Jay-Z saved us all.
Pop-punk/emo will hopefully die with the "hiatus" of Fall Out Boy and the ascendancy of Green Day into the untouchable stadium rock echelon.

The lines are blurred again and there is nothing quite definitive about the current state of popular music, except that anything could define the next decade (if I have my way, "anything" will be Lady Gaga). When the top selling artist of the year was a genius whose premium output first saw the sun over twenty years ago and has not been topped since, you know we are in dire need of a new icon, a new sound.

I myself get older and more removed from the pop mainstream, entering that dangerous realm that we all must face sooner or later: the dreaded time in everyone's life where we just don't understand what the kids are listening to these days. Still shaking my head, I only hope that the "kids these days" catch wind of any of the albums below, some of which are so amazing that I have trouble comprehending the awesomeness. Without further babble, my favorite albums of 2009. As I've taken the time to include links, just do me a favor: right click those mofos and give the music a chance. You never know what you might discover.

10. Franz Ferdinand: Tonight

The most underrated album of the year, which is near-perfect(definition: every song is good) and yet got little to no recognition. Why is beyond me, for this is sublime dance-rock, the grooviest stuff Franz have ever recorded, and with such a slick sheen that "Take Me Out" sounds almost amateur. The swagger and confidence on these tracks absolutely drip with lust and danger.
Please try: Ulysses, No You Girls, Live Alone, What She Came For

9. Yeah Yeah Yeahs: It's Blitz!

They went dance-pop and got a lot of shit for it, but this is also their most accessible and delicate record to date. Karen O, the sexiest Korean halfie to ever fellate a microphone, still howls like a banshee in a gangbang, but the jarring guitars and frenzied insanity have taken a backseat to dance beats. It's Blitz! is shockingly pretty.
Please try: Zero, Heads Will Roll, Soft Shock, Dull Life, Hysteric

8. Tori Amos: Abnormally Attracted To Sin

After a disappointing decade with my favorite singer, there is hope. She's toned down the adult-contemporary crap and canned the schlocky guitars (mostly), with a few gems reflective of her early, sparser arrangements hidden in this overly long, overly produced record. Forgive the awful album cover (why'd you get a face lift? WHY?!?) and enjoy the sweeping melodies. [The "That Guy" 007 Bond version is awesome.]
Please try: Welcome To England, That Guy, Fast Horse, Ophelia, Lady In Blue

7. Royksopp: Junior

This one came out of nowhere (Norway, actually). Built on the strength of supreme guest vocals from Robyn, Lykke Li, and Karin from The Knife, this album is a cohesive piece of work, flowing from start to finish without any filler. So catchy you can just leave it on repeat and keep dancing.
Please try: Girl and the Robot (with Robyn), Vision One, This Must Be It (with Karin from the Knife), It's What I Want

6. Bat For Lashes: Two Suns

Amazing. As Bjork and Tori have fallen off the creativity wagon, the world is lucky to have Natasha Khan and her Bat For Lashes. Lush arrangements, haunting melodies, and a beefed up rhythm section have resulted in a record more confident than her first, but unfortunately not as demanding of attention as her first disc. Nonetheless, with only half an album's worth of songs, she's already blown most of 2009's competition out of the water. Mind can be blown below...
Please try: Sleep Alone, Daniel, Pearl's Dream, Moon and Moon, Glass

5. David Guetta: One Love

The best dance album of the year. Hands down. Every song is perfect. Every guest spot (Akon, Kid Cudi, Mr. Hudson, Will.I.Am, Estelle, Ne-Yo) clicks. After repeat listens, it remains fresh. If it could resurrect the career of Kelly Rowland (a.k.a. the unfortunate JC Chasez to Beyonce's Justin Timberlake), it could do anything, like save the world. One dancefloor anthem at a time.
Please try: When Love Takes Over (with Kelly Rowland), Gettin Over & Sound of Letting Go (with Chris Willis), Memories (with Kid Cudi), If We Ever (with Makeba)

4. Noisettes: Wild Young Hearts

Much like Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Noisettes ditched the din and racket of their previous hard-edged, punk sound and released one of the best records of the year. Front woman Shingai Shoniwa has a set of pipes better than Amy Winehouse (if we're sticking contemporary) and every melody is thoroughly catchy and addicting. The lyrics shine over eleven lovelorn, post-breakup anthems. Underrated and likely unheard by most ears, you have got to give this album a try. You won't regret it.
Please try: Don't Upset the Rhythm, Wild Young Hearts, Never Forget You, Saturday Night, 24 Hours

3. Silversun Pickups: Swoon

I originally dismissed them as Pumpkins rip-offs for the longest time, but eventually I saw the light. It is rare these days for an artist to respect the smart listener with a fully realized album that is meant to be listened to from start to finish. Things really have changed since we were younger and didn't have the option of playlists and single-song downloads. But this album is totally worth it, filled with 50 minutes of intensity, beautiful orchestral accompaniments, and a driving passion that recalls the early 90s. Perfect for headphones
Please try: The Royal We, It's Nice To Know You Work Alone, Panic Switch, Sort Of

2. Lady Gaga: The Fame Monster

Perfection. Period. From the insane genius of "Bad Romance" to the Ace of Base tribute "Alejandro," the cannibal love goodness of "Monster" to the Vogue-redux "Dance In The Dark." Even a track about wanking for good measure ("So Happy I Could Die"). This short player tacked on to her already perfect debut The Fame is so good it boggles my mind. I haven't been this excited about a new artist since... I can't even remember when. Standout gems "Speechless" and "Teeth" take some time getting accustomed to, but the payoff is worth it. And nothing this year is as catchy as her duet with Beyonce on "Telephone." Nothing.
Please try: every.single.track.

1. Muse: The Resistance

The rock superheroes return to bless us with gigantic anthems, crushing riffs and brain-boggling new arrangements. It's the soundtrack for the X-Files movie that was never made, paranoid and genius. Like their previous album, Black Holes and Revelations, each song stands on its own and could be a potential single. They are that strong. However, The Resistance is tight and focused, more complex and layered, and must be listened to a couple times to be fully grasped and appreciated. The reward is phenomenal, especially on the 12 minute, three-part epic symphony, Exogenesis. Truly the best band on the planet (sorry Coldplay).
Please try: Uprising, Undisclosed Desires, United States of Eurasia, MK Ultra, Exogenesis Symphony Part 1: Overture

The Rest Of The Best:

11. Shakira: She Wolf - wacky world pop perfection (drool away with "She Wolf")
12. Paramore: Brand New Eyes - more mature and intense, masters of the huge chorus (enjoy the morbid Alice take on "Brick By Boring Brick")
13. Arctic Monkeys: Humbug - dark, gloomy and heavy turn in an exciting new direction (take a toke with the sludgy goodness of "Crying Lightning")
14. Fever Ray: Fever Ray - hauntingly scary electronic throwback to trip-hop (develop a new nightmare with "Seven")
15. The Prodigy: Invaders Must Die - back on track with rave-rock anthems aplenty (lose your shit with "Omen")
16. U2: No Line On The Horizon - still not as good as their old stuff, but "Magnificent" comes very close to EPIC.
17. Natalie Imbruglia: Come To Life - awesome electro-pop turn for my Aussie dream girl, with a little help from Chris Martin (fall in love with "Lukas," a Viva La Vida session track written by Coldplay)
18. Regina Spektor: Far - delicate and quirky piano ditties with lush arrangement and some touching vocals (indulge your inner songstress and sing along with "Eet")
19. Empire of the Sun: Walking On A Dream - nutty electro-pop in a dark 80s vein from a pair of wacked out Aussies that make Flight of the Conchords sound legitimate (get out your LSD for this shit... "We Are The People") [Note: yes, I gave them shit before, but I succumbed to the madness... Mea culpa, guys.]
20. La Roux: La Roux - simple dance records that won't change your life, but will add some pep to your playlist (envy that hair on "Bulletproof")

My Favorite Songs of 2009:

Air return with Do The Joy.
Amadou and Mariam team up with Blur/Gorillaz Damon Albarn on Sabali.
Backstreet Boys hunt vampires in Straight Through My Heart.
Black Eyed Peas rule the US charts in 2009 with Boom Boom Pow.
Beyonce sends Sasha Fierce to the 80s with Sweet Dreams.
Bloc Party freak me out with Mercury.
Ciara and Justin Timberlake get me hot and bothered with Love Sex Magic.
Coldplay take me back to Japan with The Hardest Part/Postcards From Far Away.
Craig David has transformed into the Incredible Hulk in dance smash Insomnia.
Dave Matthews Band get super intense on Time Bomb.
Death Cab For Cutie deliver for the Twihards on Meet Me On The Equinox.
Depeche Mode make one of the best videos of the year with Wrong.
Florence and the Machine make a sacrifice on Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up).
Friendly Fires make an amazing "black and white" electro pop video for Skeleton Boy.
Fucked Up bring me back to one of my favorite shows of the year Crooked Head.
Green Day channel Marilyn Manson on East Jesus Nowhere.
Hey Monday rip off Paramore (nicely) with Homecoming.
Horrors take getting used to, but pure genius on Sea Within A Sea.
James Morrison and Nelly Furtado sing a heartbreaking duet on Broken Strings.
Julian Casablancas (lead Stroke) transports us to the 80s with 11th Dimension.
Julian Plenti (Interpol lead singer Paul Banks' side project) lulls you to sweet, sweet sleep with On The Esplanade.
Kanye West takes Rihanna to Sin City in the noir Paranoid.
Karen O and the Kids show you where the wild things are in All Is Love.
Kelly Clarkson makes a comeback on My Life Would Suck Without You.
Keri Hilson causes a Kanye/Ne-Yo showdown on the makes-me-miss-Aaliyah, Knock You Down.
The Killers concoct a pure ridiculous spectacle with peppy Spaceman.
Kings of Leon make such a lazy video for such a great song Use Somebody.
Kylie Minogue reminds us why she is the Queen of the club on Boombox (LA Riots Remix).
Linkin Park one in for the lame Transformers movie with New Divide.
The Lonely Island release their debut comedy album, but I can't stop listening to Jizz In My Pants as an actual, viable pop gem.
Marilyn Manson has lost all his credibility and his hanging on by a string, but the bitingly intelligent We're From America gives this fan a bit of hope.
Mew take you to the shrink on Repeaterbeater.
Michael Jackson reminds us in death that he will always be King. Ample evidence found here on the greatest video ever made, Thriller.
My Chemical Romance get me and Dylan all amped up on the Watchmen soundtrack's, Desolation Row.
Norah Jones returns with some funk, in search of Johnny Depp on Chasing Pirates.
Owl City wishes he was as good as Postal Service, but can only produce the gem, Fireflies.
Peaches may be one ugly broad, but she knows how to sex it up on Talk To Me.
Pink scares the bejeezus out of me with the sublime Please Don't Leave Me.
AR Rahman touches the sky with one of my favorite songs ever, Slumdog's Jai Ho.
The Sounds want you to break out the old stereo and dancing shoes with Beatbox.
TI squeezes out another monster hit with Justin Timberlake Dead And Gone, before he went off to jail.
Temper Trap give us the indie anthem of the year with Sweet Disposition.
Vitalic blow my mind with the heaving blast of Chicken Lady.
White Lies channel Joy Division, New Order, Interpol, et.al. on the gloomy groove of To Lose My Life.
The XX ("double cross", get it?!?) make some spooky sounds on last minute entry, Crystalised.

Burger Wang

2009-10-13T19:06:00.003+08:00

(Or, Junked Meat and Coronaries)

Today I nearly killed myself. It all started a couple weeks ago, when advertisements for the new Burger King specials began popping up around local subway stations. Riding the trendy Year-Of-The-Ox wave of the punny use "niu" -- homophone for "cow" and the slang for "cool" -- BK unveiled a line of burgers in China that I can only assume was aimed solely at causing heart attacks. They call them the BK Stackers.

One "niu" (just a boring old "cool" stacker single) gets you a regular bacon cheeseburger. No harm there.

Two "niu" (the "hen niu"/"very niu" stacker double) results in a double cheeseburger.

Three "niu" (the "chao niu"/"super niu" stacker triple) is a mammoth triple combo that could sate the hungriest of hungry Jacks.

So far, nothing out of the ordinary. It's the final option that is so perverse I just couldn't pass up the challenge: the mondo quadruple-bacon-cheeseburger, a sandwich so hefty it requires a detachable jaw just to take a real bite.

All hail "bao niu", the aptly titled "explosive niu" (Stacker Quad), King of the Coronary: four flame grilled beef patties topped with four slices of cheese, bacon, mayo and barbecue sauce. Depending on your persuasion, you are either salivating right now or reaching for your nearest trash bucket that may or may not catch your vomit in time.

According to the nutrition index, the quad is 8.8 ounces of goodness (that's over half a pound, if you're keeping track). Perhaps the Chinese thought those lucky 8's were worth the caloric onslaught. Clocking in at 1010 calories, 70g of fat, 30g of sat fat, 3g of trans fat, 210 mg of cholesterol, and 1800mg of sodium, I'm just glad I'm reading about these facts AFTER consuming this evil, evil thing.

Before I ordered the burger, I wondered whether french fries were necessary. Logic told me that I didn't need any further intake of awful, unhealthy doom to exacerbate the day's quota for Things-That-Could-Kill-Me-In-10-Years-Or-So. But I knew I'd get sick of the taste of chopped up, discarded beef bits. So I went with the meal for 42 RMB (single quadro-burger is only 31 RMB) and a whopping total of 1780 calories, which is way over my recommended daily caloric intake. When the BK girl asked if I wanted to super size, I shot her a quizzical look and asked her "Are you serious?" She giggled and entered the standard "Medium" size for my fries and Coke.

And then she smiled and pointed to the glowing advert on the overhead menu. "Your meal also comes with a free sundae! Which flavor would you like? Strawberry or Chocolate?" I inadvertently scrunched my face up in a disgusted quiver. The thought of Crisco-based soft serve with high fructose pink topping almost made me hurl the breath mint that I had downed a few minutes earlier in preparation for the lunchtime onslaught. I politely waved at her, "No thanks, I don't need it." She replied with an urgent, "But it's FREE..." Brushing aside my manners, I just laughed at her and said "Are you crazy? I don't even know if I can finish that burger! I'll pass, thanks." She just shrugged as if it were my loss. My arteries breathed a sigh of relief.

Behold!

Hunkering down at the table, I lifted that holy burger with two hands and watched as the steaming patties glistened with dripping fatty oil, shiny yellow cheese and those flaccid strips of pink, fatty bacon. The smell was intoxicating. Furtively peeking at the people around me, I noticed no one else had the balls to take on this gigantic beast. Lightweights. I opened my mouth and went in for the kill. I admit I felt a little naughty.

Yes, it is the size of my fist. Lord on high!

The first bite was bliss. As my teeth sunk through four burger's worth of processed flesh and an assortment of toppings that would make my primary care physician blush, I could actually hear the squish of the layers condensing in my mouth, entering my mouth in a heap of unbridled goodness. Somewhere out there, I swear I could hear a vegan crying.

Wow, Would you look at that!

Midway through, it started to get a little challenging. I had conducted a similar experiment in December 2008, tackling a triple burger at Wendy's, which I swore would be my last foray into Extreme Burger Sports. My better judgment was laughing at me now. Staring into the heart of this behemoth, I wanted to stop eating, just put down the wretched thing and cut my losses, thus saving myself further guilt and a few kilometers on the treadmill. But I am not a quitter. Taking another bite, my eyes began to well with tears.

It's rough, so, so rough...

With a few bites left, food coma had already begun to set in. Guilt and regret followed the queasiness. I cried out for my mommy to come and save me, but there was no help here. The only way to end the pain was to finish it once and for all.

Totally gonna hurl~

When I was finished, I handed my tray to a smiling BK worker and sheepishly crept away in shame, as if I had just done something extremely heinous, like whacking off into someone's sundae or accidently crapping myself at the table. Walking out of the restaurant (can we even call it that?), I hung my head low and made my way to the subway station.

After that damn burger, I had enough protein in my belly to make a hooker jealous. For a second time in ten months, I make a half-hearted vow never to do it again, no matter how attractive an advertisement for a heart attack on a sesame seed bun may look at the time. For those in the West that fear China will eventually take over the world, you can take heart in knowing that the USA will get the last laugh. If the popularity of this monster burger is any indication, American fast food will see Chinese obesity rates spike and heart disease and clogged arteries should start killing off the Red Threat within the decade. Nothing "niu" about that.

Xinjiangren

2009-10-12T23:01:00.003+08:00

(Or, Prejudice and Picked Pockets)

Her eyes were the color of ice. Set into her long, angular face, they were cold, blue and almost crystal clear. She didn't look anything like the child strapped to her chest with a strip of fabric. The infant, a drooling little fat Chinese baby, clutched to the woman, his expressionless face resting against her bosom. They stood out quite clearly in the crowd of commuters at the Shanghai Railway Station.

Behind them, a taller and more masculine female followed closely, briskly shuffling at the heels of the younger woman with the icy eyes. They were covered in a faint layer of dust and dirt, but they moved with a hurried, focused swiftness. The intensity in their eyes was disturbingly frightening. The poor guy walking in front of them couldn't even see them coming.

The cheeseburger waited in my hand, but I didn't take a bite. I stared out the window, mouth agape. The girl with the blue eyes unzipped the outer pocket of this guy's laptop bag, foolishly slung behind the clueless man's back. Delicately extracting her prize with slender fingers, she stuffed it into the crevice between her stomach and the baby's, turned on her heels and immediately hustled in the opposite direction, the mannish woman following closely behind. It was over in a matter of seconds, so fast that I spun around to the tables around me, eyes begging to connect with someone else who had just saw what happened. A pair of older aunties at the table next to me shook their heads with crooked smiles and simply muttered, "Those Xinjiang people..."

It was not my first time witnessing a pickpocket in action. However this was the most fluid execution I had ever seen, so efficient that I was actually a little hesitant to go outside when my burger was done. But what struck me the most was the way the aunties dismissed the whole affair, as if it were perfectly normal for that Xinjiang woman to be a thief. The city is filled with local Han Chinese thieves, but no one seems to notice. These folks from Xinjiang have an especially bad reputation in China.

The Xinjiang Autonomous Region is located at the northwestern quadrant of China, a massive area larger than the size of South Africa, with a population almost double that of Greece. Bordering Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Afghanistan, Pakistan and India to the West and Russia to the North, it is symbolic as a significant segment of the ancient Silk Road. Most people here -- the Uighurs -- look distinctly different from the Han Chinese, with fairer Eurasian features that are more akin to the neighboring 'Stans and Middle Eastern brethren, and most are Muslim. Much like its politically hyper-sensitive Himalayan neighbor to the south, this region is highly disputed and a volatile flashpoint that makes headlines fairly often, especially whenever the Chinese government wishes to add a little more fire to the already negative reputation the general Chinese populace hold towards Xinjiang people. Today, the deliberate influx of Han Chinese threatens to squeeze out the indigenous cultures and efforts by the government are also aimed at Han-ifying the area, thereby erasing as much of Xinjiang's culture as possible. Without harming the lucrative tourist trade, of course.

As early as the Han Dynasty (60 BC), the Han Chinese have staked their claim to the area. As any student of Chinese history can attest to, keeping track of the dynastic changes is challenging enough; tracing the dealings of each dynasty and the Xinjiang area is equally complicated. Feel free to read all about it in your free time, for I have neither the energy or qualifications to do it justice here.

In Shanghai, observers have the opportunity to see the fallout of this cultural conflict with their own eyes. To be fair, there are a lot of Xinjiang thieves. But there are also swarms of Chinese ones too. They just blend in better. The locals brush these outsiders off as barbarians from the North who are only here to thieve and grill up delicious lamb skewers at street-side barbecue stalls. In recent news, accusations of AIDS-filled syringe attacks have further fueled prejudice against these migrants.

Last year at the fake market, I was in the midst of a hard bargain session with a shop boss who was trying to swindle me with an absurd price inflation for a few crappy paintings. I was in no mood, so I gave her my final offer, which cut her starting offer by almost 90%. She laughed at me, so I walked away toward another stall. In typical fashion, she chased after me as I left, waving me back in to her store, the universal sign for "OK I give up, you have a deal." As she wrapped up my purchases, she asked me where I was from. Cutting to the chase, I told her I was mixed: dad Chinese, mom American. She scoffed at me and said with a dismissive sneer, "Your father must be from Xinjiang then," implying that my shrewd bargaining was attributed to the assumed genetics of a thieving and tricky race. After correcting her ("Daddy is a money-hungry Hong Konger, duh..."), I wanted to smack her on behalf of my non-thieving Xinjiang brethren.

Back in Burger King, I looked at the two aunties sitting next to me. I asked, "Did you just see that?" and they nodded in affirmation. They probably took one look at me and wondered whether I was in on the swindle too. Finishing my meal, I continued to chat with my buddy who was sitting across from me. The pickpocket tag team appeared again, closing in on yet another hapless victim. My friend got up and walked outside, ever the American hero. Standing on the sidewalk, he waited. When the ladies came back our way, he stared them down with determined eyes, psychically instilling whatever message of justice that happened to be swirling in his brain. The younger girl furrowed her brow, visibly disturbed by my friend's gaze. The older lady just smiled at him.

Red Pill, Blue Pill

2009-09-14T19:05:00.003+08:00

(Or, (Likely) Adventures in Shanghai Dealing)

Usually when I see a black guy in China, I get a little excited. Perhaps it's for nostalgia's sake, reminiscing of my homeland and the daily interaction with various, chocolate-hued folk. It could also be a subconscious longing for my little brothers, as if by exchanging a glance or a kind word to these fellow foreigners-in-China, I am also sending a small bit of love back home. Therefore, it was strangely soothing -- after a long day of work and long night of moonlighting -- to see a black dude standing beside me, waiting for the subway to pull in. When the train arrived, we stepped on together.

Without an empty seat to rest my weary ass, I leaned against the doors and turned my iPod up to drown out the noise. Twelve stops to go before I reached home.

Eyes shut, about to doze off, I felt a tapping on my shoulder. My friend from the platform was standing next to me, already clear past the comfortable border of my bubble space. I could smell that familiar nicotine and cocoa butter scent that I knew so well from days gone by. He gently pulled the earbud out of my head and smiled.

"Do you speak English?" he asked in a thick African accent.

Still bewildered -- I usually expect this type of upfront behavior from locals looking to make fast English language-exchange friends, not black guys in flat-rimmed baseball caps -- I nodded and smiled. He passed over a red Nokia mobile phone, clearly the cheapest of the cheap, probably about 200 RMB at Carrefour and cheaper if it was second-hand (trust me, I know: I own a cheapo shit brick myself). If The Wire has taught me anything, it was that this phone was very, very disposable, if you know what I mean.

"Can you tell me what does this mean?"

The message read: "Don't use the word love so much. You don't use the word love with a complete stranger! Don't ever call me again!"

Awkward.

I instinctively puckered my lips and cocked an eyebrow, mulling over my options. This was going to require a lot of tact.

"Umm, this girl, she, uh... she doesn't want you to call her. You know? No calling. She said do not use the word love. You just met her, eh? Well if you like her, you will still call whatever she says. But she said do not call her."

He looked confused. "Do not call her?"

"Yes. She said do not call her. But you gonna anyway, eh?"

I was just trying to mask my anxiety with a little humor defense mechanism, nervously laughing to an invisible crowd. Bitches, they straight crazy! He just smiled and nodded. Persistent. If that girl was any bit smart, she'd change her number.

At this point, he was almost leaning against me. The swaying of the train didn't do much to help. A few younger local folks were staring at us, likely transfixed by the ebony and ivory exchange that they'd only seen in Hollywood buddy cop movies. My friend hadn't said a word in a few seconds, so I hoped he was finished with the uncomfortable exchange. Then he reached into the pocket of his loose denim and pulled out another beat-up Nokia, an identical model to the first, except this one was blue.

"Read this one."

I took a deep breath. Should I be charging him for my services? Not only do I get annoyed by being bothered by complete strangers, I also don't like when my precious "me" time is ruined unexpectedly. But I didn't want to be rude. Or murdered. The fact that his eyes were literally bugging and he looked a little cracked out didn't do much to ease my nerves. The dry, ashy skin around his chapped lips, yellowed fingernails, and milky white eyeballs were familiar. I'd seen faces like this many, many times before, so I thought it best to just be a polite little boy and help the nice man.

This message read: "I got the good stuff. Don't reply with messages." It was signed "Your good friend."

I was pretty sure what the "good stuff" referred to, so I tried my best to play it cool.

"Hmm... This says that 'he' has some good stuff" -- at which point I gave him the wink-wink-I-can-be-trusted-don't-kill-me face -- "and you should call. Do not send message. Call."

I wagged my fist near my head, extending my pinky and thumb toward my mouth and ear, respectively, in the universal 'phone' motion. Just in case my English wasn't clear enough.

He looked puzzled, like a puppy. "So I should call? No message?"

"Yes, call."

Pushing the red Nokia into my hand, he politely asked, "You type message for me. 'I have the good stuff. Don't message. Your good friend.' You type." Apparently my hand signal wasn't clear enough.

I looked around, half expecting a narc team to swing through the windows and arrest me for being an accomplice to a potential drug deal, until I realized that we were barreling through the Shanghai underground at top speed. Glancing around, I decided that the ladies in sheer-panty-ankle-socks and guys flicking the airline business cards posed no viable threat to my life outside of Chinese prison. I quickly entered the message and passed the phone back to him. A guy sitting on the seat across from me had been staring at us the entire time. I gave him a weak smile and raised my eyebrows. What else was I supposed to do? I had always heard that the Nigerians were the big suppliers in China -- one was supposedly even murdered recently outside a bar by the local cops in a drug bust gone awry -- but I didn't realize it wasn't just an assumed stereotype. This was just ridiculous.

At the next station, my friend looked at me and said "My stop." I breathed a sigh of relief as he alighted the train. Best of luck to that girl he's after and whoever was on the receiving end of the "good stuff." Now I know what expats in Shanghai refer to when they say they are in the import/export business.

Blood, Piss and Mr. Bean

2009-09-12T16:21:00.005+08:00

(Or, Getting Examined in the PRC, Vol. III)

The old man looked at me and said, "Lift your shirt."

I complied, sucking in my corpulent gut. I didn't want him to think I was too slovenly, what with the multiple folds of flub decorating my midsection.

Rubbing his pudgy hands along my back, applying pressure here and there, he cooed, "Hmmm, looks good. My, you have wonderful skin!"

Embarrassed, I forced a sigh and a giggle. "Thanks."

Pointing south with his gloved hand, he asked with a playful smile, "You want me to check out what's going on down there?"

I politely declined, but he persisted. "You suuuuuure?"

"Yes, thanks." It was a little too early for me to get fingered by an old man. It wasn't Saturday night and I was quite sober, so this could only mean one thing. Yearly medical check-up time!

My old friend was clearly disappointed by my rejection, but there would be other soft-skinned foreign boys for him to bugger with his geriatric digit. He scribbled a note onto my checklist near his "Internal Medicine" section: "asshole and genital exam refused." He gestured for me to confirm with my initials, lest I come back later to sue him for missing my enlarged prostate or elephantitised testes. Breathing a sigh of relief, I exited his office and moved on to the next station.

A few minutes earlier, I was jabbed by something significantly less fleshy.

I had spent the previous sleepless night dreading that 0.4 second instant when the soft fleshy crevice of my elbow-pit would be pierced by the sharp glimmering needle, but it wasn't so bad. Even as my blood was being stolen from my very veins, I gazed calmly down at the pierced dermis, registered the foreign agent penetrating my life force, and didn't even faint or feel terrified. Never in my entire life have I been able to meet the gaze of a hypodermic needle, much less one rammed into my arm. How on Earth was it possible on this day? Because Mr. Bean was there to help me.

All I Need

Shanghai's Mei Nian (MN) Healthcare is one of the coolest clinics I've ever had the sweaty panicked fortune of visiting. From the outside, the all-glass surface of the cubical building gives it a modern edge that is further exaggerated by the dirty and dilapidated old hospital building next door. MN is just for check-ups, conducted in classic Chinese fashion: like an assembly line.

In the past, upon arrival, we had been given a piece of paper -- the checklist -- which we would carry to room after room, getting poked, prodded and examined like animals, just nameless faces in a steady stream of endless patients. One doctor in each room, one check-mark for each exam. When the hunt was finished, we would return the wrinkled paper to the front desk and go on our way with a hard-boiled egg and steamed bun as healthy rewards. At MN, we were given a clipboard with our checklist and an electronic sensor card. Then the fun could begin.

For the first time in my life, I could see the benefits of simple technology applied to such a routine task. Once I had my eyes checked, the doctor input some incomprehensible Chinese into her computer, swiped my card to save the data to my file, and instructed me to the next stop, the ears-nose-and-throat check. Above each exam room doorway, the name of the next patient in line would scroll across an LED screen, listing out all those pending in the queue for that particular exam. In such a furiously hectic and confusing country, this is a giant advance in common sense and convenience. I nodded to myself in delight and sat down on the brown patent leather sofas filling the central waiting area, waiting for my turn to check my blood pressure.

Everything about this place was designed to comfort and soothe. As Mr. Bean made a complete fool of himself on the big HD screen near the blood test area -- a perfect distraction for weak-kneed wussy boys -- quiet music was piped through the hall. Potted plants and flowers rested silently on clean glass tables. There was no rushing, no pushing, no commotion of the sort that I had experienced at past medical check ups in comparatively more outdated, Soviet-style settings. Everyone knew where they were supposed to be, everything spaced and timed for efficiency.

Even the urine test was a breeze. Often my favorite part of the day, simply due to sheer nastiness. At my last visit to a hospital in the suburbs, I emerged from the bathroom with a plastic cup of clear amber brew. The proud smile on my face (no spillage!) was shattered into a million bits when the piss-collecting ayi started to yell at me. "Too much! Agggh!" Then she grabbed my cup with her sticky-dried-piss hands, spilling some on the floor and my wrist. She ripped off the cap and dumped the excess into the garbage can, splattering my essence onto the filthy tiled floor, replacing the plastic cover and tossing the more-manageable specimen onto a table of samples stacked ten-high and five-deep. The smell could make a lesser man faint.

Shuddering at the memory, I was smarter this time. As I approached the bathroom, for one, it didn't smell like used baby diapers. The pee auntie sat at a desk patiently with a pair of tongs. I watched as she delicately lifted a cup of piss between those metal tweezers, pouring out the extra into a designated piss bucket. The splatter spray almost got me, but I nimbly skipped back to avoid the flying droplets. The rest was gently dribbled into a test tube with the patient's name on it. This was actually clean. Questions of sterility can't apply to anything in this country, so you take what you can get.

I hovered over the urinal with the plastic cup in my left hand -- there was a convenient indent on the edge just for our holding convenience -- and deposited just the right amount that I had seen her pour into the other test tube. I just wanted to make her day easier. Happy with the clarity and color, I slowly walked my properly-hydrated self over to the pee auntie, making sure not to spill. Instead of assaulting me with dirty pee hands, she smiled and received my cup. She seemed happy to avoid that communal bucket.

Apple Juice or Wee-wee?
(Hint: it's drinkable)

The morning passed with similar ease and efficiency. Before I could even ask the doctors where to stand and where to rest my chin, the X-Ray flash went off and snapped an intrusive look into my chest. Check.

The ultrasound goo gave me a tingly little chill as it was smeared across my abdomen, providing ample slide for the sensor that would confirm that all my organs were still in the proper location. Check.

The snapping pop made by the EKG suction-cup sensors as they were pulled off my chest made me giggle, as did the firm fondling I received by the doctor charged with examining my torso. Check, check.

After many times down this same road, I was delighted to finally have an experience that I would not need to disclose in therapy sessions 10 or 20 years from now. The only issue raised by any of the dozen doctors that had seen my quivering flesh that day had been that I need more exercise, as if I didn't know that already. Overall, a clean bill of health.

And really wonderful skin.

Malaysia Boleh!

2009-08-30T17:34:00.011+08:00

(Or, A Short History of Malaysia in Three Parts, Part TIGA)

Kuala Lumpur:
The Authentic Singapore

As the AirAsia jet ascended into the blue Penang sky, I waved goodbye to my beloved food wonderland. Already missing the kuey teow, I hoped our final destination, Kuala Lumpur, would hold similar culinary treasures. In less than an hour, we touched down at our old haunt, the LCCT, and caught a city shuttle bus (8 RM, one way) to the heart of town.

After four days in relatively sleepy and chillaxed environs, the hustle of KL was jarring. The urban sprawl stretched forever into the distance, streets crowded with hordes of people, all beneath a cruel sun intent on sweating us out like pigs on a spit. Nix that, lambs on a spit. No pork here, got to keep it halal. When I stepped out of the comfortable air-conned bus into the humidity of midday KL, I involuntarily shuddered in disgust. It was gross. This was going to be a very long weekend in the city.

Mr. Kitty Is Hot Too

Once we checked into the hotel, we made quick use of the remaining daylight hours and rushed to the Golden Triangle, home of the iconic Petronas Twin Towers.

Though the actual distance from our hotel near Chinatown to the Petronas complex was not that far, the connections and transfers required between the subway lines was a pain in the ass. Like in Japan, the metro system in KL is a confusing mess of tracks that are owned by different entities, requiring different ticket purchases, and a whole lot of escalator riding. In the heat of the day, it is frustrating and exhausting.

From our above-ground light rail, we transferred to the subway at Masjid Jamek, the namesake of the gorgeous mosque that nests in central KL. At about 2 RMB per ride, we ended up paying 4 RM each way, to-and-from the hotel. That's about 16 RMB, more than 2 USD. Hardly crushing to the finances, but if you think a ride in a more convenient and time-efficient Shanghai subway car is only about 4 RMB each way, it feels like a rip-off.

Who Needs The Monorail?

Our destination stop connected to the basement level of the Petronas mall, one of the best shopping spots around. We hadn't eaten a full meal since the morning in Penang, which was still giving me residual orgasmic chills just thinking about the kaya toast and kopi. As we were back in civilization, we decided to be naughty and skip the hawker stuff for some nice corporate chain food: Nando's.

Nando's, a fabulous Portuguese-inspired chicken joint from South Africa, serves up meal plates similar to those found in Boston Market or by our old pal, Kenny Rogers. Except with a more suburban-strip-mall, fast-food-but-trying-not-to-be, Chili's vibe. It's a popular eatery in Malaysia, not least because it is halal, quite affordable, and really damn good. I tucked into a plate of their famous roast chicken covered in peri-peri spices (medium heat) and a side of sweet coleslaw and crunchy corn on the cob. Dashing on a daring blast of the mega-hot peri-peri sauce, I was actually pleased to be eating in a clean, indoor place with actual silverware. Mouth-fire extinguished with an icy homemade apple soda, it was time to brave the muggy twilight for a glimpse of the towers.

Peri-Peri Deliciousness

Outside, we had to walk approximately 5 miles just to obtain a suitable angle for taking a picture of these beasts. Launching into the sky like two upturned javelins, the Petronas Twin Towers are gorgeous peers to my personal favorite megascraper, the JinMao Tower in Shanghai, and far more graceful than the out-of-place eyesore, the Taipei 101. Once the tallest building(s) in the world, it no longer holds the crown, as it was out-scraped by the aforementioned 101 in 2004.

Behold Petronas!

One of many creative ways to get a shot of the entire building from top to toe.

Petronas - which is short for PETROliam NASional, the government-owned Malaysian oil and gas company - boasts 88 floors of office and entertainment space and is designed keeping Islamic motifs and aesthetics in mind. The skywalk that connects the two shafts also serves as a tourist draw, the tickets supposedly selling out every morning. I just wanted to get a good look at them from the ground up. Maybe do a little jumping.

JUMP! Petronas Towers

Once my memory card could no longer fit any more shots of the towers (there are only so many angles one can shoot from), we returned to the cool bosom of the air-conditioned mall. Exhausted from a day of transit, we surrendered early, biding to conserve our energy for our final day of endurance on this heretofore amazing adventure.

Masjid Jemak

At last, the ultimate day of the trip had arrived. My mixture of burned skin and competent shading had blended together to form a nice tan, I was getting used to the icky and sticky air, and my speech was already being butchered by an abundance of "la"s and lax Mandarin inflections. Before flying back to the polluted place I call home, it was time for another day of hard pavement pounding.

Which Way Do We Go?

From the Chinatown area, we returned to our old friend, Masjid Jamek Mosque and began our walking tour. Heading west (?) beneath the light rail overpass, the cramped downtown suddenly opened up to Dataran Merdeka, or Independence Square.

Familiar?

At midnight on August 31, 1957, British rule came to an end and the curiously Stars-And-Stripes-looking Malaysian flag was hoisted for the very first time on the square's towering flagpole, allegedly the tallest in the world. To the frenzied cries of "Merdeka! Merdeka!" the country had gained its freedom from colonial rule.

In the morning sun, the vast square left us naked and vulnerable to the UV death rays. Tour buses filled with Hong Kong and mainland tourists were pouring their loud, umbrella-wielding varmints onto the green grass, blocking the previously pristine photo-ops. Nearby, St. Anne's church bells were ringing for morning mass, one of the many reminders left behind by the Brits.

JUMP! Merdeka Square

Merdeka!

Ladies Love Merdeka

Details, Details, Details!

After some circuitous confusion, we headed south towards Jalan Raja, the old school market area. On Leboh Pasar Besar, the colorful shop houses and store fronts exploded in every tint and hue imaginable. Blasts of graffiti covered the concrete walls down gritty alleyways, the minarets of Masjid Jamek clearly visible in the distance beyond the canal. The pedestrians grew increasingly local, head scarves, turbans and batik gowns abounded.

Teal

Abolish ISA

Green and Gold

Crossing

At the famous Central Market, a Chinese lion dance created a massive racket with the thudding drums and exploding firecrackers, threatening to steal our good hearing. We quickly ran through the doors to escape the din. Inside, natural light flooded the gallery, the shop stalls abuzz with tourists bargaining for cheap souvenirs and other goodies to take back home. I decided to save my ringgit for better spoils, so I didn't buy anything. We were half tempted to get the fish spa treatment, but good sense got the better of us. There's no way I would enjoy hundreds of sausage-sized fish nibbling away the dead skin on my feet and legs, so we opted for lunch instead.

1888, Luckiest Year Since 888

Who's A Good Little Lion Dancer?

Fish Exfoliation = Bleagh!

At Old Town White Coffee, the purveyors of the best kopi putih klasik in the land since 1958, we took our first break of the morning. It was the perfect time to rest my bloody feet in the nicely cooled market. Despite a disappointing meal (overly sweet nasi lemak and some nauseating Balinese noodles), their iced white coffee was bliss. As I harped on many, many paragraphs before, this stuff is amazing. We bought a few boxes of the instant packets for future Shanghai consumption and then returned to our hotel for check-out.

Hotel Winsin

Fuck ISA

Old Town

My Favorite Facade In KL

With a good half-day to kill, we were at a loss. There were many things we could have done, but we must have been either too burned out or just confused with how to structure our time. There were a few things remaining on the list, of course involving food, so we decided to stay focused on our gastro-journey and nail the big one. The queen mother of the land: the humble durian.

Though I've seen durian before, this would be my first time actually consuming the revered fruit. In the past, the closest a durian ever came to my mouth was about 5 inches away, at which point the sensors in my nose and tongue told me to toss that fucking thing across the room, lest I suffer dearly for my foolish experiment. However, if I didn't try durian in Malaysia, it'd be a shame. It would be like going to the US and not having apple pie or a carb-loaded, deep-fried pile of something. I admit the butterflies in my stomach and tense anticipatory sweating might have caused an exaggerated response, but I was equal parts excited and terrified. Such a mythical fruit, so pungent and revolting that hotels in the area have "No Durian" signs outside their doors, so desired and delicious to some that it is also known as the King of Fruits and inspires fanatic worship by durian connoisseurs the world over.

Not Today, Pal

Even Mother Nature is in on the joke, trying her best to keep the luscious fruit protected from greedy mouths: the thick husk, covered in rock-hard spikes that could literally crush someone's skull into a pulp, is designed to keep you from getting to the goods within. I had to see what the fuss was about.

Luckily, our taxi driver just so happened to be a durian fiend and he knew just where to get some. As we pulled up to a streetside stall in the middle of a shaded square, we could see the bulbous death balls hanging from wooden sticks, their heady aroma drifting over to the parked cab. We chose one particular strain, the Mao Shan Wang (Cat Mountain King) variety, supposedly one of the best on Earth. Not cheap either: each of the soft wedges housed in the spiky stronghold was 9 RM each, about 20 RMB a slice. Our entire fruit was almost $10 US.

Taunting You

Like the longyan, lychee, mango or any of the other "heat" fruits, you can't eat too much durian in one sitting, unless you want explosive nosebleeds. Diabetics, like our taxi driver, need to be careful too. With so many factors against the fruit, why would anyone want to eat these things?

Gloves on, I picked up the soft wedge and examined it. It had a milky yellow hue, like a cooked egg yolk made of silk, soft to the touch like an infant's pudgy forearm. The bouquet wasn't too overpowering, at least not as nasty as other varieties I had smelled before. With no other choice but to take a bite, I placed the fruit in my mouth and took a hefty bite.

Stinky Gold

First reaction: felt like I was biting into a stick of butter. It was that squishy soft. The "skin" of the wedge gave way to a creamy center, which covered my tongue in a sticky mush that hit all of the taste buds. To be honest, it wasn't that bad. I didn't want to violently spew my day's food all over the farmer, I didn't pass out in disgust, and knew that my stomach wouldn't cave in on itself in protest to this fetid fruit.

Yet for some reason, my body and brain weren't connected. I knew there was nothing wrong with the durian, but my overall feeling was not pleasant. I understand how people can be hopelessly devoted to the stuff, but I had to expend a lot of mental energy to overcome the averse gut reaction my body was slowly building.

I finished my piece and appreciated its worth, but my gut was giving me a very clear warning that any more durian and I'd pay the price tenfold. Something about the faint hints of meat and cream and fruit blended together with the consistency of solidified baby food. It'll be a while before I yummy down on any more durians.

Doing The Deed

Salt Rinse For Luck

Washing our mouths out with salt water, our satisfied taxi uncle drove us to our actual desination, the Berjaya Times Square shopping complex. The final goal of the trip: Krispy Kreme donuts.

In a glorious twist of cultural exchange, I would have a chance to expose my Malaysian pal to a distinctly American treat that I daresay completely obliterates the durian in terms of enjoyability and pleasure. Krispy Kreme is part of the American culinary fabric and, apologies to hometown Dunkin Donuts, the best donut on the planet. God bless those deep-fried rings of heavenly dough, which I hadn't been blessed with since my trip to North Carolina in 2008. I was quite excited.

This shop, the first in Malaysia, had its grand opening the day before, as if they knew I'd be in town. As such, it was packed. The line was out the door, a massive team of workers trying their best to take orders from people buying 3 to 4 dozens at a time.

Waiting For A Ring Of Heaven

Patiently waiting, I glimpsed through the kitchen window to see the assembly line creation of their signature glazed donuts. Watching the tiny rings climb the metal gear ladders, they plop into the deep fryer for a quick bath, then get dragged along the cylindrical rack where they get doused in a constantly flowing ooze of delicious, delicious sugar glazing. I began to feel some excitement in my pants, and before any of my own sugar glazing could ruin the precious moment, I ordered my pile of donuts and iced latte. One step closer to bliss.

Seriously, Best Thing EVER.

Needless to say, approximately 1 minute after that first bite, my plate of scrumptious donuts had disappeared. I collapsed into the brand new arm chairs and almost dozed off like a lion that just gorged on a soft, sugary wildebeest. To go the full, decadent mile, we got one of the best massages ever at the ReBorn Massage on the 3rd floor of the mall, stall 03-38, by one beefy Dalian woman and a strong little Thai guy. My involuntary shivers were ample evidence of having experienced maximum pleasure at the sticky hands of Mr. Kreme and the skilled fingers of the ReBorn crew.

Unfortunately, the time had come to part ways and begin the penultimate portion of the Malaysian excursion. Left alone in the wilds of KL, I was exposed and vulnerable, like a lone piece of chocolate cake thrust into the midst of an obesity support group. The only pressing issue would be making my way from downtown back to my old pal, KL International Airport. Rather than go the ghetto route and take the cheaper express bus (8RM), I decided to try the KLIA Ekspres from KL Sentral Stesen [Editor's note: you'll please forgive the lack of "sic" designation for those mangled English words, which should read, in order, as "express", "central" and "station." But I'm sure you were smart enough to figure out the Manglish already.]

Olde Station

JUMP! Old Station

The "ekspres" train was cheap nonetheless, costing only 35RM for a ride that took less than an hour and was enjoyed in relative peace and quiet. Arriving at KLIA, I looked at my watch. I still had about 7 hours to go before departure, so this was primed to be a very, very long evening.

Should you find yourself in a similar monotonous circumstance, refer to the following:

Neil's KLIA Survival Field Diary

Hour 1 - Airport pretty nice. Clean, spacious. Doesn't smell. Sure beats China. After checking in, rushed to the bathroom to clean off the day's filth. Used the trusty ass-blast hose to clean the dirt off my flip-flopped feet. Contacts out, glasses on. Ready for the long haul. Went to the viewing platform. Not very interesting and too far from the main terminal. Expected to see planes taking off and landing, but instead saw a bunch of people equally as bored out of their minds, waiting for their own flights that were hours away. Hungry. Wonder if there's anything good after customs?

Hour 2 - God bless McDonalds. My last beefburger in Malaysia. Customs and immigration were a breeze. Luckily I don't have swine flu. I see the quarantine areas, but nobody seems to be detained. Sigh of relief. What to do now? Terminal A is a fucking ghost town.

Hour 3 - Took tram to Terminal B and C where all the action is. Felt good to take that giant dump in peace. Five pounds lighter, I gather. Checked email quickly on the free terminals. Facebook was blocked. Apparently "dating" sites aren't allowed here. I didn't know Facebook counted as a dating site... Now how am I going to find my future Muslim wife?!

Hour 4 to 6 - KLIA wins the award for best waiting area. The seats here are extended with foot rests and in reclining positions for weary travelers stuck here with nothing to do. Grab a water and hunker down with a book I bought yesterday. Chuck Palahniuk's Snuff. He's one of my faves, met him a few years back. This one is about a porn star who is going to break the gang bang world record. Classic literature, if you ask me.

Hour 7 - That was a good book. Quick chai latte at Starbucks and tram back to Terminal A. All I need to do is find the large group of loud and obnoxious people. There it is, flight back to Shanghai. God, I don't want to leave this wonderful land...

On the plane, I strapped on my air pillow and pulled my hooded sweatshirt over my face. It was almost 2AM and I had to be in the office in a mere 6 hours. I'd have murdered someone if I didn't get in a good dose of sleep. Luckily, I was exhausted enough to pass out almost immediately.

Five hours later, we landed in Pudong. Back on Chinese soil.

When I reached home and hurled my bags into my room, I stumbled into the bathroom to clean up quickly before work. Staring into the mirror, I was happily surprised. Nice, even tan. Refreshed look of contentment and happiness on my face. Hair stylishly disheveled. I was a walking zombie, but strangely enough, a sexy walking zombie. Vacations really do work.

Malaysia Boleh!

2009-08-09T18:38:00.014+08:00

(Or, A Short History of Malaysia in Three Parts, Part DUA)

Penang:
Skeletons of Imperialism & Makan Madness

If there were one place in the world where I would happily relocate purely for the food, it would be Malaysia. From the jumbled mess of cultures that officially call this country home, the cuisine of the land is the true melting pot that America could never be. The glorious cultural threeway of the Malay, Chinese and Indian locals has given birth to one of the most distinctive food scenes in the world, one which I am surprised isn't more well-known or globally recognized. All the better: best to keep this little secret to ourselves, shall we?

From morning to night, it's all about eating. The Italians, Japanese and Chinese, though superior cuisines they may claim, have nothing on Malaysian street food. The Thai and Taiwanese nightmarket scenes come close, but fail to even catch a whiff of the Malaysian hawker's sandaled-foot as he runs off into the insanity of the nightly hawker market chaos. The sheer variety is staggering, whether you're in the mood for heavy and spicy Indian curries and rice, that familiar Chinese noodle goodness or a little Muslim-safe halal Malaysian.

The hawker centers are the places to be. A sprawling open-air market that focuses solely on food, no frills and no pretense. Singapore is full of them; they've even gone as far as creating a sterile and centralized version - the Makansutra Glutton's Bay at the Esplanade - which is just another example of Singapore's Disney-fication of the real stuff up on the northern mainland.

Here in Malaysia, hawker centers are grimier, packed with voracious eaters, buzzing with multilingual yelling, enthusiastic slurping and open-mouthed chomping, and an anxious level of intensity seeping from the pores of these laksa-craving zombies on their nightly hunt. Gangs of young folk, families out for dinner, lovers trying their hardest to walk hand-in-hand through the thick crowd: the hawker center is the great equalizer.

If you love your food done right, this is where you come.

Walking into the walkway rows at the hawker centers, which are flanked on both sides by wheel-able pushcart stalls serving up anything your gluttonous heart desires, you'll need to engage in improvised dance to avoid being scalded by open bowls of steaming noodles, attacked by plates of hot fried fritters, or molested by an overly touchy auntie (or uncle) who is out on the prowl for some young meat. And don't forget the endless piles of plastic tables and chairs, covered in splatters and drippings from night after night of satisfaction. It would be best to leave that new pair of white shoes or trousers at home.

Nowhere is this crazy awesomeness better illustrated than on the sleepy island of Penang.

In Penang, the premier hawker spot is on Gurney Drive, a prime seafront boulevard that overlooks the ocean along the northern coast of the island (about a 15 RM cab ride from central Georgetown or the ferry jetty). Stretching out as far as the eye can see, and conspicuously bisected into halal and non-halal sections, the Gurney Drive hawker center is paradise. I almost started weeping with joy when we stepped foot onto the sticky concrete and began our walk of reconnaissance up and down the aisles, trying our best to choose just which stall was going to have the privelage of serving me my very first assam laksa. To say that it is overwhelming is a slight understatement. If you've ever been to a Chinese nightmarket, you know how crowded it can get. Now multiply that by a couple digits and you have an idea of what it's like here.

On our first visit, we were wise enough to come before the evening crowds descended like crows to a delicious, spicy carcass. It was before 6pm and the final gasp of the day's sunlight provided natural lighting for our meal. We effortlessly found a full plastic table all for ourselves, giving us enough space to spread out all the spoils. Commence makan madness.

Gurney Before Sunset

First, the laksa. A noodle soup with spicy broth base, laksa is typically made with a creamy coconut milk-based soup - popular in most of Malaysia and Singapore - but Penang has it's own version, called assam laksa. My tongue felt that this variant was closer to Thai flavoring, since it uses a thinner, less creamy soup that is quite sour from the lime and basil and ginger. And spicy. Very spicy. Topped with assorted bits of pork and fish and green veggies and sprouts and love, it was a very good start, though my heart still belongs to the creamier versions found in Singapore and Sarawak.

Assam Laksa

Next, we enjoyed one of my personal favorites: char kuey teow. In the local Hokkien dialect, "char" is the same as Mandarin's "chao", which means "fried." Basically fried rice noodles or ho fun. In the Malay-Chinese style, they toss in egg, cockles and more spice, giving it a sweeter and spicier tang (whereas the typical Cantonese version most Americans are familiar with would have bean sprouts, sliced meat and green scallions, with a salty soy-based gravy). This is not to be confused with plain kuey teow, which is not fried, but rather swimming in a clear soup broth with some corpulent fish balls and blanched veggies (scroll down a few paragraphs). In either state, kuey teow is amazing.

Char Kuey Teow

Now we come to a little source of controversy. The carrot cake. Carrot cake, you say? How did one of the most delicious of Western desserts become a Malaysian favorite? Because of the misnomer. Or rather, the cultural misunderstanding that may make it seem like a misnomer.

I have always called this stuff luo-bo gao (Cantonese "lo but go") or radish cake, one of my favorite foods ever and made expertly by my old man every Chinese New Year. Much to the chagrin of my Malaysian pals, I refuse to acknowledge this holy dish as "carrot cake." However, their argument is as follows: in Chinese, white radish are called white carrots ("bai luo bo") and those long orange things that rabbits eat are called red carrots ("hong luo bo"). So technically, "luo bo gao" could be translated as carrot cake. I still grumble at the inconsistency between Chinese communities, but who am I to be picky. Whatever it is called, the stuff is almost the same, incorporating the shredded flesh of a hefty white radish into some flour and assorted salty food bits, which creates a soft cake perfect for steaming or frying in slices. Here, they use the same cake, but chop it up into bits and fry it with egg, resulting in a pile of fried chunks. Results are neither "carrot" nor cake. Silly Malaysians.

Similar in chunky appearance to the aforementioned carrot-confused dish, we have the Taiwanese staple: oh-ah-jian, the fried (jian) oyster (oh-ah) pancake. Almost as simple as the carrot cake, this dish takes a heaping crapload of juicy, briney oysters, fried with fluffy egg and green chives into a glorious glutinous mass topped with tangy sweet pink sauce. Over in Formosa, you'd be a fool to pass this up at the night markets. Here, you'd be the same fool if you missed the oh-ah-jian.

Oh! Ah!

My least favorite of the sitting was the otak-otak. Nothing personal against this sticky log of steamed egg and fish bits in a banana leaf. It had a strange consistency, kind of like soft custard, but with a strange texture that unfortunately reminded me of the cooked coagulated blood that clings to a nice steak or burger fresh from the grill. If that description doesn't get your food libido boiling, I don't know what could. In any case, I find no need to try this dish ever again. I'll go out on a limb and say I'd much rather tackle another durian, purely for the masochistic experience. To each his own.

Oh-no, otak~!

Iced Water chestnut Juice = YUM

Once the eating finished, we topped ourselves off with banana fritters and some retail therapy at the nearby Gurney Plaza mall and entertainment complex. Oh how lovely it was to shop in an environment without Chinese clerks crowding around you, smelly people fighting over sale racks or queuing for hours just to use a fitting room with spit and other assorted mystery fluid on the floor. In British India, a sort of Banana Republic meets safari outpost, I experienced service that I daresay have never even had in the US. It was like having my own personal shopping assistant; I didn't have to leave the dressing room! And lest you think it was due to the fairness of my skin, you'll note that my Malaysian friend also got the same top treatment. Malaysian hospitality at its finest.

It had only been a few hours since last stuffing my face with a tasty morsel, but digestive logic be damned, I was hungry again. Luckily for my American heart, there was a McDonalds on the ground floor of the mall. To balance out all the Malaysian food I had been consuming, mind you. Here, in order to protect the Muslim populace from any potentially disaster via consumption of pork products (see: Allah's wrath), hamburgers go one step more specific and are labeled as "beefburgers." The breakfast sausage patties are also noticeably made of chicken or beef. There's no bacon burger here, for which I quietly weep. Value meals also include ayam goreng (fried chicken) and McCongee (bubur ayam, or rice porridge), the latter of which surprisingly has enough calories to rival a pile of french fries. Go figure. After getting down with my Filet O' Fish and french fries covered in sweet chili sauce, it was time to call it a night. Mere hours in Penang and I had barely cracked the surface of the makan fantasy land.

Abandoned Building in Penang

The next day at a nearby Mr. Pot, our food tour (disguised as proper sightseeing) began with a classic breakfast staple: kaya toast and kopi. While the Brits and Australians have such nonsense as marmite and vegemite, the Malaysians were sensible enough to create an actual ENJOYABLE breakfast spread to be culturally associated with.

Kaya is made of egg, coconut and pandan. The egginess depends on whether you're eating Malaysian or Singaporean kaya. Creamy, grainy and fragrant, like a thick applesauce without the tartness, kaya is spread over thick, wheaty toast and garnished with a huge square of butter. Paired with kopi ("coffee"), it is bliss.

In Malaysia, they like their coffee white. And I like my white coffee cold, taking the thick black coffee and mixing with generous amount of milk and sugar, shaken vigorously with a handful of ice cubes. On a humid disgusting day where even the morning air is thick with moisture, there is nothing like it. If Dunkin Donuts learned how to make this kind of iced coffee, I can guarantee American obesity rates would triple within months.

Kaya Toast and Kopi

To pass the time in between meals, we resigned ourselves to some sightseeing. Luckily Penang is not only one of the best places for food in the country, but it is also a prime locale for anyone looking to immerse themselves in rich and eye-popping heritage sites.

Knock, Knock

The central hub of the action is Georgetown, the northeastern quadrant of the island. This is the place the British set up shop along their imperialist trade routes, injecting the grandeur of English architecture and landscaping into a previously rural tribe land.

Nearly everything in the area holds some kind of historical value, so a leisurely stroll under the intense and blinding sun will afford you a pretty good idea of why this entire town is a protected UNESCO heritage site. From the grandiose electric-blue Cheong Fatt Tze mansion to the pair of marble-white churches (St. George's and the Cathedral of the Assumption), the stately Supreme Court complex and Convent Light Street girl's school, we got a quick taste of the layered history of the island within a half hour.

Cheong Fatt Tze Mansion

Church of the Assumption

Olde British Tombs

Protestant Cemetery

Wandering down a quiet side street, we ended up on the waterfront, just in time to catch some local Chinese Malays doing their morning fishing. It was peaceful and heartwarming to see some non-tourists engaging in real life activities, but the day beckoned.

Catch Me A Winner

Past the imposing Town and City Halls and sweating to death under the brutal late morning sun, we arrived at the centerpiece of the Colonial District and the big must on any visitor's itinerary: Fort Cornwallis.

Penang Town Hall

Penang City Hall

The fort (also known as Kota Cornwallis) was the first outpost and settlement established by the British in 1786 by Captain Francis Light and his merry band of colonizing men, women, children, chickens and horses. They renamed Penang (properly spelled Pinang, the Bahasa word for the bloody betelnut) as Prince of Wales Island, a name that stuck until Malaysian independence was attained in the mid-twentieth century.

Within the protective red brick walls of the old fort - built on the blood and sweat of convict labor! - the expanse of the interior stretches considerably into the distance. There's a spooky and very ascetic chapel on the grounds (the first built on the island), a stock house, even a prison room to lock up the naughty men caught buggering the goats in the dead of night.

She Swore She Was 18!

The brick and stone are overrun with grass and weeds, lending a pleasant ruined flair to the site. I was surprised to see a pair of old horses still grazing along the upper turrets, sadly abandoned by their masters, who must have kicked the bucket over a hundred years ago.

Off To The Glue Factory

Along the sea-facing wall of the fort, a series of cannons wait patiently for the day when they can be used against any potential invaders. The queen mother cannon, Seri Rambai, found her way to the fort after being passed around like a cheap hooker, first from the Dutch to the sultan of Johor (southern Malaysia), and then the Acehnese, then the sultan of Selangor and finally relocated by pirates. Such a complicated journey for such an unimpressive weapon that time and technology have rendered useless. From island protector to tourist snapshot.

JUMP! Kota Cornwallis

Local Muslim Women, Not To Be Confused With The Middle Eastern Tourists
(You can tell by the head scarf that allows their faces to show)

These days, if anyone ever wanted to invade Penang, they'd just have to dock at the jetty and have one of the taxi uncles drop them off at the nearest hotel. However, a note of advice to potential colonizers: make sure to bargain hard for the taxi fee or check with your hotel beforehand, because they don't use meters in Penang.

We learned the hard way, after getting swindled out of 10 RM by a lovely taxi uncle named Ah-Fook, who even had the balls to offer us a ride to the airport on departure day. Wouldn't you know, the first and only time we got tricked in Malaysia was by a Chinese. We would luck out on subsequent rides, most comfortingly with Uncle Yeoh (the local pronunciation of my last name, Yang/Yeung), an ex-school teacher turned cabbie who played us Rod Stewart and Barry Manilow joints. He even told dirty jokes and called me "young boy," thinking I was just 18 years old. Gross flattery and toilet humor: the keys to my heart.

Penang has the best license plates EVER: most of them start with "PEE"!

You'll note it has been a few paragraphs since my last mention of food. Apologies to the fatties and foodies in the audience for my egregious transgression. Like you, at this point, we were right famished. Our original plan was to have afternoon tea at the grand Eastern and Oriental Hotel, but Lonely Planet failed to correctly note their times of operation (note: starts at 2pm, not noon, and there is no strict dress code). Quickly rearranging our schedule, we wasted no time. Ride forth, young soldiers, to Chinatown and Little India.

Strolling Down The Back Streets

A few blocks south of the colonial heritage district, the big British buildings fade away and the rows of streetside shops dazzle your eyes in the midday sun with their colorful rainbow facades. Peach pink, seafoam green, canary yellow. It looks a box of Crayola blew its happy load on the entire neighborhood. Total sensory overload.

On one block, the rich smells of food float from doorways, the fragrance of incense wafts from the Chinese temples. A few paces down, dense crowds of chocolate brown men with black mustaches scuttle from shop to shop, the tunes of Bollywood jams blasting from crackling speakers. Then, the air is pierced by the cry of the imam beckoning devout Muslims to salat (prayer) five times a day.

Kapitan Keling Mosque

This is more like it.

For lunch, we conveniently happened upon the best kuey teow shop in town (corner of Lebuh Pitt and Lebuh Armenian). Sitting at our ancient plastic fold table under the warm blast of the wall-mounted fans, staring at the jumble of framed critic reviews and celebrity photos hanging from the dirty walls, we tucked into a steaming hot bowl of these divine noodles.

The white rice noodles were covered with a generous portion of buoyant fish balls, a leafy green or two, and some crunchy mystery bits. Dunked into soy sauce with local fiery chili peppers, the fish balls were chewy mouthfuls of goodness. Washed down with a tart spiced nutmeg ice drink, it made me completely forget about that uppity British tea. Once we finished the noodles, we were still hungry, so we ordered some fresh deep-fried spring rolls, wrapped the minute we ordered them. For just a few bucks, it was a perfect lunch experience.

Kuey Teow Soup with Fish Balls

Springrolls

Nutmeg Ais

"Moved to Here":
Great, glad we found you!

Carrying on with the sightseeing, we meandered down a few blocks to the famous Khoo Kongsi (Khoo Family Clan House/Temple, located at Lebuh Pitt and Jln Masjid Kapitan Keling).

Beforehand, I was cautious about this visit, having been templed-out from my travels through the Chinese mainland. But surprise, surprise, this one was a stunner. Much like the Taiwanese folk temples, the explosion of color and detail at the Khoo temple was astounding. Schizophrenic even. Pictures cannot bring justice to this site; there aren't enough megapixels to capture all the minute detail covering every millimeter of the building.

Khoo Kongsi

Inner Doorway

Nice Lantern

Buddha Is A Sabbath Fan

At this point in the day, it was hot enough to melt sneaker soles into the pavement and so humid my thighs were trying to break out of my pants for a breath of fresh air. The heat was so intense that my dripping sweat was actually washing my sunscreen off my body, which resulted in pretty white skin lines ribboning through patches of red sunburn. Like a patchwork kilt on my chest.

Nowhere To Hide From The Sun!

After a few blocks of trudging past dilapidated old shops and stores closed for the holiday weekend, we found solace at the amazing Pinang Peranakan Mansion. The Peranakan people of Malaysia, also known as Baba- (man) Nyonya (woman), were the original Chinese inhabitants of the area, even more ancient than the waves of Chinese immigrants that followed over the centuries. They were the first to step foot on this land. As such, they were some rich sons of bitches.

Peranakan Museum

Stepping foot inside the lime green villa on Lebuh Gereja, you can taste the luxury and grandeur in the air. Though, for some reason, it didn't feel nouveau-riche tacky like a wealthy Chinese mainlander or American ghetto superstar. Most easily described as decadent Victorian charm mixed with the most dynastic of Chinese tastes, the interior decor clashes two very different cultural aesthetic sensibilities into one gloriously ornate, over-the-top mess.

Stairwell

Dining Room

Sitting Room and Dining Room

Time for another food check. It has been three paragraphs, so now's as good a time as any for another foray into food.

Are You The Delivery Guy!?

The Eastern and Oriental Hotel (10 Lebuh Farquhar) was established in 1884 as the swanky hotspot for all the hottest Brits in town to mingle and swap tales of malaria and secret miscegenation with the locals. Rudyard Kipling, Noel Coward and Charlie Chaplin are but three famous faces that have passed through the doors of this colonial landmark. I would be yet another, enjoying a spot of tea in the lazy haze of the late day sun.

E&O

E&O's afternoon tea runs from 2 to 5 pm daily. For about 40 RM (80 RMB or a little over $10 US), you get a choice of fragrant tea in a bottomless pot with all the milk and sugar fixings, a pile of sweet and savory goodies, like chicken pie and pasty, scones with jam and cream, cheesecake, chocolate tarts, cookies, and finger sandwiches filled with roast beef, salmon or cucumber. Seriously filling and a hoity-toity change of pace from all the streetside hawker gorging. I've had better (see: Ritz Carlton in HK or Sally Lunn's in Bath) and I've had worse (see: Peninsula Hotel in HK). Overall, very good value for money and a moment's solace from the heat and hustle waiting outside the huge French doors.

So. Good.

Luxury

After tea, we went for a short stroll along the hotel's seaside walkway. Peaceful waves lapped against the rocky shore, the bright blue afternoon sky creating shimmering diamonds on the surface of the water, the ivory hotel gleaming in the afternoon sunlight.

Peace and Tranquility

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a crow barreled from the sky and nailed a little bird in mid-air, grabbing its pitifully small head in its dagger-like beak. This all transpired about 5 feet from my face, the faint "pufft" from the feathery impact making me cringe away like a naughty child about to get smacked by a parent. The unfortunate prey, which looked like a chickadee, was squeaking and futilly flailing about as the crow landed along the cobblestone pathway and just tore it apart. There were two fat local kids playing on the hotel lawn nearby who stopped dead in their tracks and just started screaming. It was hilarious. Nothing like the cruel ferocity of nature unfolding in front of you while you digest your cucumber sandwich.

They Will Be Scared Of Crows For The Rest Of Their Lives

That night, having completed our itinerary in a shockingly efficient amount of time (Seven hours, 9:30AM to 4:30PM, about 20 sights total), we were free to do whatever we wanted. Which was to go straight back to Gurney Drive. Since we had just topped up on pastries and tea, it wasn't yet time for Gurney hawker makan. So we did what any deprived, long-term China resident in a considerably-less-totalitarian foreign land would do with a few hours to kill. We went to the movies.

Without getting too tangential, I will state the following: X-Men 1 was good. X2 is a classic. X3 is worthy of the drippings of sick that cling to my ass after a real bad diarreah explosion. X-Men Origins: Wolverine occupies the dangerous crevice between X1 and X3. While I enjoyed it - primarily for Deadpool and Gambit, my two favorite childhood favorites - it lacked that depth and meat that made X2 a classic of the genre. And now I've gone a put half of you into a nerd-averse coma. Apologies, let us continue...

After getting berserk with Hugh Jackman - during which time I just couldn't help myself and had a bucket of sweet caramel popcorn and big cup of Coke, whaaaat?!? - we ran to the hawker center.

The night before, we visited before sunset, before the crowds. On this night, Gurney was in full swing. It was like a Chinese train station during holiday season. Like making your way through a mosh pit. Everyone was out tonight. Traffic gridlocked, crowds packed into any empty space available. The noise level had increased tenfold, entire families staking claim to free tables that were now as scarce as a pube on a pornstar. Luckily the people were relatively civil, unlike in China where I'd have already flipped my durian and gone ballistic. Under the glow of hundreds of exposed lightbulbs illuminating the haze, I found one small table and held down the fort while the night's food was retrieved by my ever-so-patient buddy.

Hi Ivy!

As I sat in wait, the tables around me were buzzing. One group of ostentatious queer boys were hamming on about something in high-pitched Manglish (Malaysian mixed with English), while a family of chunky locals hunkered down beside them for a full dinner spread. Behind me, a group of older aunties staked claim to a table and waited for their friends to bring the food, just like me. The uncle from the beverage stall stopped by their table and asked if they wanted anything to drink. They politely refused and he moved on. I ordered some water chestnut ice drink and continued to wait.

When he came back, he passed me my drink and immediately shot a mean glare at the table of ladies behind me. After they had refused beverage uncle mere minutes beforehand, one had gone off to get drinks from another beverage stall in a different section. This is a big hawker makan no-no, kids. Very poor etiquette, like crossing gang territory and wearing the wrong colors or dillying your best friend's sister in a pub bathroom. He wasn't having any of it, so he stormed over and asked them why they went off and gave their business to someone else, when they were clearly sitting on his turf. He told them they had to move. The harsh penalty for their grievous faux pas. After words were exchanged and much whining ensued from the gaggle of ladies, I suppose some deal was cut in the form of hastily purchased drinks. They remained seated and he went away. A quick lesson in the dos and don'ts of the hawker universe: don't fuck with beverage uncle.

My attention returned to the agenda at hand when the food train returned. First up: fried pig intestine noodles (zhu chang mian). But not really pork innards. Just noodles that LOOK like pig intestines. Duh, such obvious naming conventions. These thick glutinous rolls of white rice noodle were doused in sweet hoisin sauce, red chili and soy, making for an overwhelming carb-overload that nearly filled me up. A quick bowl of tangy assam laksa was also wolfed down, followed by the Malaysian version of wonton noodles, i.e. dry, no soup, tossed with thin egg noodles, barbecued pork (char siu) and leafy greens.

Makan Happy Times

The crowd was building and our stress level was noticeably increasing. Once the last wonton was deposited into my belly bank, we had to escape. It was relatively early for a weekend night, but the crowds were reaching China levels. We caught a taxi and returned to the hotel to digest, hibernating like boa constrictors after a really sweet kill. We would leave bright and early the next day for the final leg of the journey, Kuala Lumpur. After partaking in all of the local ambrosia, I did not want to leave Penang.

Next episode: Off to the big city, Kuala Lumpur!

Malaysia Boleh!

2009-08-09T15:40:00.017+08:00

(Or, A Short History of Malaysia in Three Parts)

If for some unimaginable reason I was only allowed to return to the Southeast Asian subcontinent just one final time in my entire life, I would go to Malaysia.

Over a mere six days of traveling, I had the opportunity to take in three wildly diverse locales that gave me a nice sense of what Malaysia is all about. And I want more. Starting from the beach paradise of Langkawi island, I time-traveled back to the colonial days in Penang - the gastro-heaven I want to go when I die - with the trip ultimately culminating in the capital city, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia's modern cosmopolitan statement to the world. This country has it all. And with the freedom to speak in both Mandarin and English (or Chinglish), it really feels like home away from home.

Each place offered something new and exciting, be it the nature in Langkawi, the food in Penang or the exciting urban sprawl in KL. Weaving through it all, Malaysia's diverse racial mixology - a simplified hierarchy (from top-to-bottom) of Malay, Chinese, Indians - has created one of the coolest cultures in Asia. And these people love to eat. It's like Singapore, but not as artificial, with all the interesting crusty edges left intact.

Though almost everybody speaks English ("Ingerris"), it may be handy to learn a few choice terms before planning your own jaunt. Let's start here before the trip begins.

Important terminology:

makan - THE most important word you need to learn for the following pages of Neil dribble. This means "eat" in Bahasa Melayu (and Bahasa Indonesia). Like "mangia" for the Italian set. If you engage in just one activity in Malaysia, it is makan.

uncle/auntie - the polite and respectful term when referring to men or women older than you, whether directly addressing them or talking nastily behind their gross wrinkled backs.

KL - short for Kuala Lumpur, the capital of Malaysia and home to the famous Petronas Twin Towers.

lebuh/jalan - Bahasa words for street/road, the latter abbreviated as "Jln" on maps and street signs.

"-la" - tack this on to any word, any phrase, anything in general (hell, you can even exclaim "la" on its own) to be super local. A staple of Manglish (Malaysian-English) and Singlish (Singaporean English). Examples: "Hey uncle, why you so like that la?" (Translation: "Excuse me sir, why must you behave in such a manner?") or "I order cheeseburger la" (Trans: "I would like to order the cheeseburger.") or even "No la" (Trans: "No...la"). Bonus points if you can get the hang of the Chinese spin on "la," pronounced as "lao" or "liao." (Also popular in Hong Kong and Taiwan)

Now that you're fluent in Bahasa, let's begin.

After a five-hour flight from Shanghai, I caught a glimpse of land during our descent from the unpolluted skies above Kuala Lumpur. Wide swaths of palm plants covered the bumpy hills surrounding KL International Airport and I could already feel the humidity of the tropics. On our itinerary, the first stop would be Langkawi Island, an hour away by domestic jet. All we had to do was take a 20-minute shuttle (5 RM) from the KLIA terminal to the neighboring Low Cost Carrier Terminal (LCCT) and we'd be that much closer to the beach.

As the Indian bus driver uncle pulled up to the LCCT, I spied a Coffee Bean And Tea Leaf. My addict cravings were giving me a slight tick, and the faster we checked in, the faster I could get my soothing ice coffee. Inside the terminal, our flight to Langkawi was conspicuously absent from the departure listing. With over four years of China travel under my belt, I just chuckled at our luck. I knew this wouldn't be pretty.

Luckily we didn't catch this...

Flying on discount airlines like AirAsia are extremely convenient and cost-efficient (think EasyJet). However, being a cheapo carrier, you also put yourself at some minimal risk due to shady horseplay aimed at increased revenue. As I guessed, our flight had been canceled - probably because it wasn't full - and the next one out of KL would be at 9:30 PM, a good four hours later. With nothing to do but grumble and wait, we sought solace at the Coffee Bean, our home for the next few hours.

Sitting at the table with an icy coffee in my hand, condensed humidity running down my arm from the plastic cup, I was in hell. Not only were we forced to wait in the ghetto terminal, the comparative luxury of the indoor, air-conditioned Starbucks, McDonald's and Duty Free shops laughing at us from KLIA, but we had to wage battle against the swarm of flies buzzing all over the place. Funny, though I had only been in the country less than an hour, I didn't notice any rank odors, any open sewage, or any otherwise obvious signs that would warrant the number of flies at this place, but I guess the open doors and abundance of eateries had something to do with it. The real icky danger of a fly flying into my mouth as I took bites from my sandwich did nothing to calm me. The dude sitting near me in a banana yellow shirt must have had his flight delayed long enough to get used to the unwanted company: he was covered in about 20 flies. I counted.

Almost as annoying as my little winged friends were the abundance of grungy misfit white dudes who were probably making pit stops in between surf jaunts in Bali and ladyboy sightseeing in Thailand. A good rule of Life: white people should never have dreadlocks. Ever. Especially one creature I saw, who had shaved the top of his head in a weirdly Manchu queue fashion, leaving the back of his noggin to shower a nappy waterfall of grungy dreads down to his ass. Where do these people work? What do they do for a living? How do you function in society looking like an overgrown mop? I was missing the relative conformist civility of Singapore, but I kept the faith, knowing it could only get better.

Looking at my watch, barely any time had passed and we still had a few hours to go. I continued to people watch, alternating between frantic hand waving and sputtered expletives every time a fly landed near any of the choice orifices on my face. I pity those starving children in Ethiopia not for their lack of food, but for all the goddamned flies. Poor, bloated souls.

White folk aside, I realized there were a lot of Muslims around. Girls in head scarves, women fully covered in black, dudes in skull caps. In my t-shirt and jeans, I was sweating like a pig (apologies for that filthy reference to all the Muslims in the audience), so I couldn't imagine being wrapped in mummy noir in that heat. Why is it that the major Muslim strongholds in the world are all in super hot places? I'm sure covering yourself in a thick black cape that only exposes your eyes would be extremely helpful in a harsh, windswept ice box such as Siberia, Canada or Portland, Oregon, but in the 100-degree heat of the desert in Dubai? Good Lord, I'll take the flies over that torture any day.

At a certain point between food coma and heat stroke, my buttcheeks fell asleep and it was time to change scenery. We took a stroll around, past the tiny duty free shop, bookstore and KFC. McDonalds looked attractive, but when I realized it was also non-AC'ed and open to the elements, I decided to save myself the trouble of swatting greedy flies away from my delicious burger. We ducked into Body Shop, empty but for a pair of giggling clerks who wouldn't have noticed if we stole all their Body Butter, and quickly left after seeing about ten dead flies on the otherwise clean white floor. At the end of our rope (why don't I ever get stranded in the COOL airports!?), we decided to stock up on some snacks and beverages before going through customs.

Inside the convenience store, I browsed through the aisles, rolling my eyes at novelty Malaysia t-shirts and overpriced counterfeit purses made in China. In the food section, I was perusing the biscuits when a shady looking Chinese guy with bleach-blond hair and grimy clothes slid up beside me like a lecherous snake, tapping the top of his wrist with an urgent, bony finger. Mere hours out of Shanghai, I guess I was still in China-mode; I thought he was trying to sell me a watch. I scowled and shook my head, politely waving him away with a "No, no!" like the flies I had fought with at the Coffee Bean minutes before.

He shot me a look of disgust and said, "Aiya, NO," shaking his head in frustration, "time, man, TIME!"

He just wanted to know what time it was. Embarrassed and confused that I had not, in fact, just been accosted by a watch peddler, I extended my arm to let him view for himself, which I suppose was even ruder, as I couldn't even be bothered to tell him the time. What has China done to me?

Lest I bore you into a similar state of catatosis that we experienced that endless evening, I'll fast forward a few hours to when we actually boarded our plane. It was almost 10PM, the only solace provided in the preceeding hours coming as the result of hearing Muse's "Starlight" on the Duty Free shop speakers (I am easily pleased) and snagging a pack of sour cherry candy strips. After a quick flight, we finally landed in Langkawi after 11PM and, by a stroke of planning genius, had to walk only 5 minutes from the airport to our temporary hotel lodging for the evening. After a full day of travel that was supposed to have ended many hours earlier, I passed out as soon as my bags hit the hotel room floor.

The next morning, breakfast arrived via room service. Nasi lemak (coconut rice and various fixings) and roti canai (toasted Indian naan bread with curry) with some teh tarik (pulled milk tea). These were nectar and ambrosia compared to the grub that we had to share with the flies the night before and a "taste" of things to come.

Recharged and ready, it was finally time to get this trip going.

Langkawi: Eco-Paradise On Eagle Island

I am not a beach holiday guy. This may surprise some of you, as my amazingly bronzed skin is famous the world over. I just find lounging about on a strip of sand for extended periods of time to be a colossal waste of money spent for the purpose of actually learning about a new place, as well as a phenomenally inefficient use of otherwise valuable sightseeing time. What a buzzkill, I know. Therefore you'll be shocked to learn that, not only did I make it to the beach, I actually got some color. As the icicles begin to crystallize on Satan's goatee, let me introduce you to Langkawi, not-so-hidden gem of the Andaman Sea.

Unbeknownst to me, Langkawi is a pretty popular destination. Just because I hadn't heard of it before, doesn't mean it doesn't attract hordes of people during the high season. Luckily we arrived in the golden lull between the rainy season and the summer tourist bonanza. For during our very short stay, it was pleasantly quiet and relaxing.

Langkawi ("lang" = eagle, "kawi" = strong), named in honor of my favorite Hindu bird-god, Garuda, who supposedly used the island as a resting place in between his Vishnu chauffeur duties, rests snugly off the northwestern coast of Malaysia, near the border of Thailand. As such, visitors can expect the same white sandy beaches and crystal blue water, but without the high-pitched *manick-phrik-phaaang* click-clack chatter of the Thai. For those such as myself who crave a little more to their vacation than lethargy and skin cancer, the island is packed with adventure options, like mangrove forest riverboat treks, rainforest hiking and nature-appreciation guided tours, the latter of which was the highlight of my time on the island.

Berjaya Resorts

We stayed in a quaint bungalow deep in the rainforest near Pantai Kok (Kok Beach, minds out of the gutter!) at the Berjaya Resorts. Honeymooners, take note: this place is fucking awesome. In the spirit of foresight, I already left a down-payment for that momentous day in the distant and unknown future, when I will duly get my freak on to the sound of lapping waves and screaming macaques. Assuming that's OK with the little lady, of course.

Though a little inconvenient (the resort is massive and requires tram pick-up just to get from your room to the lobby), it is a little piece of tropical paradise. The resort's beach, along the western fringe of the island, had some of the softest sand my toes have ever touched, so refined by the swarms of itty-bitty crabs that burrow deep into the earth every morning and night, in line with the flow of the tides.

Paradisio

Once we had checked-in and settled our things, it was time for a little beaching. I'm ashamed to admit that this was the first time I had ever seen such a classic Southeast Asian beach in its prime. Scanning the pristine sky and clear warm water, I could understand how one might forget about the real world and just stay here forever. However, this is still me we're talking about, so after enjoying a quick dip, it was time to get down to business.

Zipping speedily through the island's vast paddy fields in the shadow of the lush green mountains, we made a quick trip to Langkawi's "downtown" area: Kuah.

Jump quota for the morning

Kuah, the Bahasa word for "gravy" (I shit you not), is the busy hub of the island, the entry point for daily ferries that can ship visitors north to Thailand or south to Penang, the place to get all your duty-free shopping done in a flash (the island was granted special duty-free designation in 1986, making it very popular for alcoholics and those folk who stubbornly resist quitting their disgusting smoking habits). Here you'll find your Starbucks, your 7-11, your Baskin Robbins, your KFC, and most importantly, your Kenny Roger's Roasters (how that man created a profitable empire of roast chicken restaurants in Asia is beyond me).

At the Kuah jetty, we bought ferry tickets for our trip to Penang the next day, an affordable 60 RM for a 3 hour cruise. Then it was time to eat.

Our first official Malaysian meal consisted of Indian cuisine. Given the choice of chicken microwaved in the name of a country legend or thick mutton curry, it was a no brainer. Walking into the restaurant, which was set up more like a cafeteria, the dude who I can only assume was manager immediately latched on to us.

"What you want, eh? Got meee gorrrrreng, got mut-tuuuhn, ayum. What you like, hunh?"

I wanted everything.

We started with a plate of biryani rice and rich mutton stew. The white rice grains were tossed with colorful bits of veg, fragrant and full of aroma. The tender mutton strands fell apart with the fork stroke, the spicy red sauce soaking into the biryani. I could eat this - and the toasty naan bread with chicken kuruma that followed - everyday.

Nasi Biryani

Next, the mee goreng, or Indian fried noodles. This concoction - a result of the local Chinese influence - consists of dried ramen stir-fried with a crapload of Indian spices. Our mee was tossed with tandoori chicken for extra bite. Though yummy, I found my spoon wandering back to the rice that was so wonderfully sopping up all the mutton curry.

Mee Goreng

Washing it all down was teh tarik halia, a traditional pulled milk tea infused with the spicy heat of fresh ginger. It was my first time having this ginger variety, and I was wowed. The hot ginger mixing with the hot milk tea on a hot Malaysian day was surprisingly cooling, even helping to dull a little of the burning sensation on my tongue brought upon by the food.

While digesting, we took a stroll along the jetty to Dataran Lang, or Eagle Square. This frightening tribute to the island's namesake centers on a giant eagle statue, seemingly in the midst of take-off. The talons are the size of small horses, making it look like a prehistoric nightmare. Or the monstrous Eagles from Lord of the Rings. A Garuda statue of this size would be epic, but I'm guessing it would terrify small children and the elderly. After helping some Indian chaps snap pictures of their crew in front of said eaglezilla, I made my own pitiful attempt at flight with a few jumps, just as the daily afternoon shower began to pelt us with raindrops.

Amazing Wing Span

Seeking solace in Starbucks, I enjoyed a satisfying chai (why don't they serve these in China!?!?! gah!) in a big fluffy armchair, reading about my fabulous new idol, the glorious homo Chef Wan, in the local expat mag. It was interesting to see that expat life in Malaysia is quite similar to that in Shanghai, i.e. lots of complaining and a sense of superiority to the locals, but with vague attempts to hide this contempt by showing weak examples that make it seem like the expats happily enjoy learning about local culture and interacting with the local populace. Look at the picture of our expensive expat school, we included a brown kid and a girl in a veil (children of the lunch lady and cleaner, respectively)!

When the rain ceased, it was time to return to our rainforest sanctuary for the next item on the day's list: the cable car and sky walk. Barreling back to Berjaya in a demon minibus with a pair of Germans, we were dropped off at the neighboring Oriental Garden tourist area, which was like a Malaysian Epcot Center. The big draw here is the Langkawi cable car, which carries visitors up a vertigo-inducing climb to the top of Gunung (Mount) Machinchang, over 700 meters above sea level, the highest point on the island.

Going Up!

Thank God We Weren't Riding With Her

As anyone who has ever traveled with me knows, I am deathly afraid of heights. Not to the point of fainting or anything silly like that. More like a feeling of deep and visceral dread, where my testes simultaneously burrow UP into my body and feel like imploding from fear-induced pressure. Like a pelvic black hole. I break into a cold sweat, get pale, start to shake, and require the nearest pal (usually, to my shame and embarrassment, a female) possessing more fortitude than yours truly to guide me back to safety before my nuts pop out my butthole. That kind of fear. So, I was surprised to find that the ride up to the viewing station 600+ meters above sea level was not that bad. Until I got to the viewing platform.

Almost to 700!

Trying VERY Hard Not To Cry

Suggestions? Provide Diapers.

From atop the mountain, the wind picked up speed and the clarity unveiled the entire island. An occasional gust of fog would mist past us, but overall, it was so clear we could see our bungalow in the rainforest below. At this point, my nuts were halfway to my kidneys, but they were in for an even bigger surprise. Hopping back on the cable car, we continued across a cavernous ravine created between the two summits, and up to the highest peak, home to the fabled sky walk.

This bit was terrifying

The Sky Walk!

The Langkawi sky walk is a semicircular walkway suspended between two mountaintops, supported precariously with a couple flimsy beams flirting with the sides of the mountains below. Barely four feet wide and less than two minutes across with eyes closed at a brisk speed-walking pace, it is a very cool engineering marvel. See for yourself (link here):

My first go across was terrifying, especially at the halfway point, which is the least stable and succeptible to the high wind gusts that happily blow through this natural wind tunnel, shaking and swaying the bridge. The creepy mist didn't help my nerves either. Before losing control of my bladder and sphincter muscles, the whole ordeal was over. Happy to have experienced it, overjoyed to be back on stable land.

Whoa! Ankle Shot! Scandalous!

JUMP! Langkawi Sky Walk

On the way down, we caught sight of the Telaga Tujuh, or Seven Wells, a waterfall hidden in the rainforest below. We had originally planned to take a trek to this natural wonder, but time constraints and common sense got the best of us. Since there is no real pathway to get there, most tourists stumble through the trees to reach the falls. Guidebooks, hotels and local guides all recommend that this trip is made before nightfall, as the lack of lighting, potential disorientation and dangerous terrain make it very unwise. Getting eated by a python isn't too fun either. In Berjaya's guest handbook, they even mention that hotel guests have gone missing in the past. Lovely prospect, but we had better plans.

Poor Mr. Stick Man

Back at the resort, we arrived just in time for the evening's free nature walk, hosted by Dev of Dev's Adventure Tours. Waiting in the lobby, I saw a tall, dark man the color of coffee beans stride forward in hiking boots and rolled socks. His coarse, graying hair was shorn close to his scalp, barely hiding the receding hairline, and his fierce eyes hid behind wire-framed glasses.

Say hello to Dev, the Malaysian version of Steve Irwin. But far less annoying.

Dev is the head of the aforementioned eco-friendly tourism company, a conservationist, nature-lover, scientist, library of factoids and multilingual whiz (6 languages, including Mandarin and German). Each night, he offers free walking tours at Berjaya, spreading awareness and appreciation of the resort environs and the exquisite ecosystem of the Langkawi rainforest. It's all part of the cause.

The best part of his tour is the infectious passion that he exudes. This man loves nature and cares about it as a loved one. While nowhere as fervent in my convictions, I was overjoyed to meet someone else as unabashedly curious and interested in the natural world. If I were any younger, this guy would be my hero. Aw, who am I kidding, this guy was one of the coolest humans I have ever met in my life. But enough fawning for now, it's tour time.

From the hotel lobby, we began our walk through the resort grounds, which were filled with amazing creatures hidden right before our eyes. While avoiding getting run over by the hotel's tram cars - which Dev angrily pointed out were polluting gas-guzzlers he was trying to have converted to electric Smart trams - we made our first stop.

Dev plucked a firm leaf from a nearby tree and snapped it in half. Running his finger along the rip, he showed us the white powdery film left on the fingertip. The chemical substance in the leaf, he explained, was currently be researched by pharmaceutical scientists because it could potentially serve as a way to combat something big like AIDS or MS (sorry, I forgot what). Because of this, he lamented that the ongoing destruction of Malaysian rainforests for timber was a tragedy, as we could potentially be losing entire flora species that might one day cure some of our scariest diseases.

This little guy, in order to attract insects to pollinate it's relatively boring orange flower and hidden placement within the brush, developed huge white leaves in order to attract insects from farther away. Mother Nature is genius.

As the mood got a little grim, Dev's eyes lit up like spotlights and he wheeled around toward a tree nearby. Near the top, clinging to the trunk and camouflaged perfectly, was a flying lemur. My mouth dropped open and, dumbfounded, I craned my neck back to stare at this creature the size of a small infant.

Now, we've all been to zoos. We've all seen various forest critters ambling about our backyards, destroying mom's rose garden or plucking up the carrots, more of a nuisance than anything. But for some reason - perhaps the novelty of it all - seeing my first wild lemur was monumental. This one, a female, had a tiny baby clinging to her stomach. They just hung there, peacefully, almost as unaware of us as we had been of them just minutes before.

Sorry it's so blurry. It's that lump on the right side of the trunk.

This was almost too much for me to process, so I whipped out my trusty notebook. As I asked Dev a bevy of questions that were my lame attempt to seem eco-educated (thanks, Discovery Channel!), he cocked an eyebrow and suspiciously asked me, "Are you a reporter?"

Embarrassed, I chuckled and told him that I had just been an avid nature lover from childhood and only wanted to record everything he was explaining, like a good student taking notes from a professor. This registered with him and I'd like to think we were buddies for the remainder of the tour. Later, I could follow him home for more fun and - why is the front door padlocked? - tell his wife and kids all about our intense spiritual bond and everlasting friendship. Oh it would be wonderful - why are the girls crying? I'm Daddy's best friend! - best friends forever! Are those police sirens I hear?

The lemur, which had climbed up the trunk of the tree during my brief, delusional stalker fantasy, is biologically more akin to a monkey, making it also closer to us on an evolutionary scale. The "flying" bit of its name is the result of the giant skin flaps that connect its limbs, allowing it to actually glide like its cousin, the flying squirrel, not fly, like a bat. Its giant bugged-out eyes serve as mini calculators, registering depth and distance for its trajectory in "snapshots" that it must consider before gliding from tree to tree in the dead of night.

Twilight

As the sky grew progressively darker, the air was punctuated with distant cries. The macaques, those dastardly monkeys that wreak havoc throughout Asia like gangs of horny teenaged hooligans with a taste for garbage and gang bangs (see here, no shame!). In 2007, I was nearly stripped of my shorts in Bali when one of these little fuckers snatched a water bottle from my cargo pocket, almost tearing the fabric in the process, so I already had a high level of prejudice and distaste against their kind. Damn filthy shits. Worse than gypsies.

As I scowled in the direction of the macaques, Dev enlightened us on the freak habits of these lovely creatures, who copulate up to thirty times per day. Yes, you read that correctly. THIRTY. TIMES. PER. DAY. I don't know about you, but my weiner would be worn down to the proverbial bone and snap off if I had to pump the love hose every 48 minutes for the duration of my adult life. Because of this frequent fornication, these heavily touristed areas are overrun with the things, like a rat infestation in a crowded tenement.

Dev told us that, in the coming days, he would be leading a scheduled cull of the horniest males (i.e. the ones with the biggest balls, as he said so eloquently in his British accent) in an attempt to control the population. As he noted, this was necessary every once in a while, lest the Berjaya tourists experience more attacks on the resort grounds, more destruction of other indiginous species by these voracious omnivores (they even cannibalize, yum!), or more bungalow break-ins by hungry monkeys, who are quite literally a thieving menace. Atop the roof of a nearby bungalow, a group of these macaques loitered lazily in the cool dusk air, unaware that their alpha male friends were in for a little surprise very, very soon. Blam, blam.

Another nuisance to the area is the population of feral cats that prowl the forests. Mangy distant descendants of stray domesticated pussies, these are a big killer of indigenous bird species and, in general, a completely unwanted presence. As Dev spoke of this problem, a nasty little black cat with nappy fur, sticky eyeballs, and an infected asshole came creeping out of the ferns, emaciated and bloated with a litter of soon-to-be-born pests. I was disgusted at the sight of the thing, my contempt increased as Dev explained the trouble they cause for the native Malaysian fauna. I was half tempted to kick it into the path of an oncoming tram, but that would have been cruel. Let a hungry macaque have at it.

Suddenly, there was a big *whoosh* past our heads, as a giant brown disc swooped down and up into a tree in front of us, like a monstrous skin frisbee. The lemurs were out for their evening exercise!

Dev directed our attention to a tree that had snapped at the top, leaving the hollow trunk exposed to the sky. He told us that huge pythons lurked in those dark holes, waiting for unsuspecting lemurs to swoop nearby, at which point they extend their bodies, shooting out into the air to capture their prey. Once the lemur is clamped in their jaws and the life is constricted from their frail little bodies, the snakes devour them and hibernate in the hole for a month while they digest. Bonus points if they snag a mother with child. He said that on a recent tour, the guests were lucky enough to catch a glimpse of one attack, which terrified a 7 year old in the audience so badly that he had to be taken back to the bungalow, a screaming, crying mess. Lightweight little pussy, I'd have traded all my GI Joes to get a chance to see such carnage when I was a boy. Kids these days...

With that, we continued forth into the denser areas of the resort, out for our next target: the flying squirrels.

In our particular area, there were two types of flying squirrels: giant reds and pygmies. Lucky for us, we caught a glimpse of a giant red, which swooped down in similar fashion to the flying lemur.

The pygmies, on the other hand, were just that: fucking tiny. Thankfully Dev is an expert, so he could point them out with his giant handheld spotlight. About the size of an infant's closed fist, these little guys climb as high as possible and glide-hop from tree to tree like little puffy ping-pong balls being thwacked between branches. They were so tiny, I mistook them for falling leaves at first.

The forest was also inhabited by an assortment of hairless non-mammals too. Cicadas, tree frogs, giant geckoes, and huge spiders. Just hanging out along our trail without a care in the world as we passed them by. Other resort guests out for their nightly strolls must have thought we were insane, this motley crew of eight, craning their necks up to the canopy like their spines were made of jelly. For all they knew, the forest was devoid of life. But with our new knowledge, we could see it was almost as lively as the dance party going on in the lobby that evening.

Near the end of the trek, Dev bounded up a hillside with his flashlight, as if he just caught sight of the Loch Ness Monster or a Yeti. He came to a halt below a high branch and ordered us to be silent with a long finger against his lips.

Hoo, hoo...hoo, hoo.

I think I saw tears in his eyes as he informed us that we were witnessing something extremely special: a collared Scops owl.

Apparently on these tours, catching an owl in the feathered flesh is pretty rare, so we all made our best attempt to enjoy it. It was actually my first time seeing an owl in its natural habitat with my own eyes; we usually hear these things in our backyard, but that's about it. The small ball of feathers just sat there giving us a hoot-show. I couldn't have been more entertained.

As the trek ended, we caught a few more glimpses of flying lemurs, the females with babies attached to their chests and a few males marking tree-territory with dangerously powerful streams of piss. I kept my mouth closed for the remainder of the canopy gazing, lest I get treated to an impromptu golden shower.

I chatted with Dev for a bit, trying to squeeze as much Nature Channel info from him as I possibly could. In my younger days, this type of job was a dream for me. It was either this or paleontology. If I wasn't watching MTV or cartoons, I'd be watching nature shows. Actually, my TV consumption habits haven't changed much in 28 years. Meeting someone like Dev, a first for me, was the high point of my time on Langkawi. I would return to the island just to chat with him again. After all, the mangrove kayak tour and bird watching treks did look pretty fun.

Still high on eco-fumes, it was time for dinner. Of the choices at the resort, we settled on the ala carte restaurant, which thankfully served up a healthy dose of local cuisine. On the menu: samosas, randang, nasi goreng and some ice cold pints of Carlsberg.

The samosas were delicious, the little pastry puffs covered in thick mango chutney going down smooth with big gulps of the draught beer. The beef randang - hearty chunks of meat covered in spicy randang sauce - was competent, but nothing special. I've had better homecooked versions, which were also a lot cheaper. The nasi goreng (nasi = rice, goreng = fried) was also enjoyable, but reminded me of how much I love Malaysia's other nasi dish, my personal all-time Malaysian food favorite, nasi lemak.

Although nasi lemak is traditionally a breakfast dish in the area, I prefer to have it for lunch or dinner, as it is savory and spicy. Served on a big green banana leaf, nasi lemak consists of coconut-flavored white rice (not as fragrant here as in Singapore), maybe a piece of fried chicken or fish, some crunchy roasted peanuts, crispy fried mini anchovies and a dallop of spicy sambal sauce, which is hot and sweet. There is usually a side of fresh cucumbers to dull the heat, but the fire is all part of the joy. I love this stuff to death.

That night, I crashed fast and hard, sweet visions of flying lemurs and squirrels the size of Mary Poppins' umbrella floating through my head.

The next morning, we squeezed in some last minute swimming and sunbathing before our ferry to Penang. As I skipped down to the beach, I was just in time to catch the end of the morning dance of the crabs.

Hey Ladies~

Scuttling about in swarms nearly a hundred deep, these tiny translucent crabs tip-toed at light speed with the ebb and flow of the tide. As the water receded, they'd bury down into the soil, twisting in circles and scooping sand around them, like corkscrews with shells. As I hobbled over like a sunburned Igor, some would pause, their pathetically fragile claws extended upward in defense, as if they could really protect themselves from my big, stomping feet. I tried not to bother them (or crush any accidentally), so I kept a safe distance.

Hello Mr. Crab

From where I stood, a sweeping range of miniature sand mountains popped up on the beach like a million mosquito bites on brown sandy flesh. By the time I got my camera from the poolside, it was too late. The swarm had disappeared and only a few of the slowpokes remained, digging as fast as they could into the wet sand before the tide went out and the midday sun roasted them into delicious crustacean crisps.

There's A Crab Beneath Each Little Mound

Hightailing it to the jetty, we boarded our ferry for the long haul to Penang, culinary mecca and gastro paradise, where we would gorge for two days on the best food the country had to offer.

Bye bye Langkawi!

Before that could happen, we still had about 3 hours on a high speed cruise boat. The on-ferry entertainment was an endless loop of videos from 80s German audio-abortion Modern Talking, deft performers of such hits as "Atlantis Is Calling (SOS For Love)", "Lonely Tears in Chinatown", "Cheri Cheri Lady" and the club smashing monster jam, "Geronimo's Cadillac." I was dumbfounded to learn that they are the biggest-selling German music act in history and, at one time, were huge in Iran, which might explain their appearance on this ferry to Penang, which was packed with Middle Eastern tourists.

Luckily for my sanity, it was a perfect day, so I spent the majority of the trip on the open-air top deck, where I could enjoy the breeze and sun. I would later pay dearly with some candy-apple red sunburns on my thighs and knees. The resulting burn looked like I was wearing pink leggings. The high price to escape the musical bonanza in the cabin below.

As Malaysia is a Muslim country, there are a buttload of Middle Eastern tourists, since it is an understandably Islam-friendly place with halal options everywhere, convenient prayer rooms in every establishment, toilet-side water hoses to wash off dirty bungs and poo-covered left hands, even cool arrows pasted onto ceilings in hotel rooms to show guests the direction of the Kaaba in Mecca. There are even a few mosques here and there. Without the potential discrimination that they might face in other countries not accustomed to seeing traditional Muslim folk, Malaysia is thus a no-brainer getaway.

Prayer Room

Western Toilet, Local Hose (left, on wall)

I used this to wash off my lower half after the beach. Ha!

Qibla (or, Kiblah/Kiblat), points to Mecca

That being said, there were many fully-shrouded women, head to toe in black, nothing but their gorgeous eyes showing. On the ferry, the wind gusts blew their garments up a few times and I caught some covert peeks. Naughty infidel! One girl sitting next to me with her boyfriend was actually quite pretty, as evidenced by the accidental face glimpse that I stole when the wind carried her scarf up like a kite. To watch them interact was another voyeuristic pleasure. Since public displays of affection are forbidden here, every now and then I'd catch a quick love pat, a brief holding of hands, even a delicate nuzzle against the back of the neck. Knowing that they could potentially be arrested for this, I was very touched to see these fleeting connections.

Cute couple

Since this was all very new to me, I now find myself fascinated with how modern Muslim females balance their culture and religion with the modern world. I mean, this one girl had on red hightop Converse, faded grey skinny jeans and a t-shirt, with a bunch of bracelets. Basically she dressed like any other stylish modern, urban woman, but just covered with a giant black bedsheet. How do they incorporate contemporary life with a seemingly outdated rulebook? Since talking to these ladies would result in my death and their inevitable execution by stoning, I need to get my hands on some enlightening literature. Suggestions, please.

As the sun began to set over the sea, we finally made port at the considerably more developed and bustling island of Penang. Time to feast.

Next Episode: Penang makan madness!

Love and Friendship

2009-08-01T16:55:00.014+08:00

(Or, Wedded Bliss and A Photo Booth)

Photo By Abby Christensen

"Wow, you look so young to be a minister!" the strange lady exclaimed.

"I'm not a minister," I politely replied.

"Oh, then you must be a Justice of the Peace."

"No, not a JP either...," I said with a smirk.

She paused in thought, confused. Wanting to painlessly finish this awkward exchange, I came forth with the quick explanation.

"I got a one-day designation from the State."

"Oh really? You look like you've been doing this for a long time. You should be a professional!"

This was the general small talk, chit-chat conversation that I had with quite a few strangers after the deal was sealed between two of my best friends. By me, of course. And as much as the thought of officiating weddings as a career move sounded enticing, I think once was enough. It's all I'm legally allowed in the State of Massachusetts anyway.

It was my first time marrying anyone, and I must say it was monumentally emotional.

Back in late 2008, two of my closest childhood friends decided to finally tie the knot after a 10-year courtship. I was asked to officiate the ceremony, a request so huge and intimidating that the gravity of the task didn't hit me until a few weeks before showtime, when I had to buckle down and write the script for the proceedings.

How does one go about writing something special enough to commemorate such an important occasion, while making sure to include a healthy balance between sentimental slop and heart-warming funny stuff? For a first timer, I was shitting my pants.

Inspiration came from many places, but in the end, the theme of friendship and love became the glue. Luckily for me, my scribe duties were deemed acceptable by the happy couple. Now all I needed to do was ensure I didn't fumble during the live proceedings. Public speaking is not one of my fortes, but I needed to deliver.

In the days leading up to game time, I was shocked at how serene I felt. Perhaps the stresses of family life and the busy day-to-day activities at home were a suitable distraction. But when Day One of the three day wedding activities arrived, I began to get a little wary.

The Bachelor Party

For those of you looking to get your vicarious rocks off to a couple paragraphs of sordid lechery and hilarious male antics, please search elsewhere. The Hangover is probably still in movie theaters. No, for this bachelor party, there would be no Siamese midgets with flame throwers, no man-on-donkey hilarity, no ping pong balls shooting out of any dark orifices, not even the traditional stripper with natural D-cups and really strong abs. We were going beyond old school. We were headed back to childhood and what it means to just hang with the guys. Or boys, as it were.

The day began with a triathlon of sorts, but without all the competitive drive that makes actual triathlons so exhausting. Mini golf, go-karts, and batting cages. Once the disappointment of learning that there would be no naked whores spinning around poles and chairs passed, I tucked my wad of one-dollar bills back into my pocket and got in my zone. It was game time.

With his emerald green golf ball in hand, the groom-to-be teed off on the first hole. I followed with candy-apple red, then the neon orange best man finished on par. Many holes, a few accidental plops into the running water, and a few bratty kids with swinging clubs later, the game was over. Predictably, the best man took first place, as always. And, as always, the groom took last place. I was all too happy to be sandwiched between two such fine male specimens and their round balls.

Next, go-karts.

Now, when I was a kid and a driver's license was still but a dream, this sort of thing would have really made my day. Granted, there's nothing quite like whipping around a dangerous curve in a tiny metal car that is mere inches from the hot asphalt below, but when the speed peters out at a mere 20 mph or so, I find my mind wandering. The huge signs that read "No Bumping" killed whatever hopes of fun I had in my heart. I so wanted to ram a few of the adolescent troublemakers off the track in a heap of burning wreckage, listening while they screamed for mommy as I burned rubber into the sunset. Maybe next time.

Hellbilly Deluxe

After a refreshing Black Raspberry ice cream and chocolate sprinkle interlude, we finished ourselves off with a few rounds in the batting cages.

For anyone that has never had the pleasure of thwacking a fast-moving object with a heavy metal bat, you've really got to try it out. In the interest of avoiding jail time, nailing a few balls is highly recommended over low-flying birds or small humans. After many wasted swings, I got some valuable coaching from my pals, who are naturally more sports-inclined than yours truly. That made all the difference. The quivering of my hands after the shock of ball-to-bat impact was truly satisfying.

Even more satisfying? Slurpees.

Driving a few towns over, we finally found a 7-Eleven, symbolically important as not only the mecca for icy goodness, but also because of the wedding date.

Much like most of the days activities, I hadn't partaken in a slurpee in years. The brain freeze head rush was just like old times. Although my nether regions hadn't been stimulated that day and my dollar bills remained without a g-string to call home, bonding with the boys on a sunny New England afternoon was a reminder of what was truly important in that moment. In a couple days time, our friend would officially join the love of his life in adulthood, passing into the next stage of maturity where priorities would no doubt change and opportunities like this would not come often. For a few hours, we were kids again. No worrying about job stability, mortgages, children or market crashes. Just us and a few plastic balls.

A Free Man, But Not For Long

Officiator, Best Man, Groom

That evening, our trio joined up with the brother of the groom and a handful of dudes who have also been a part of our lives for many years. We dined in luxury at the Capital Grille on Boston's swanky Newbury Street, supposedly a local favorite of the Boston Red Sox. Inside the dimly lit restaurant, packed to the walls with other carnivores, we enjoyed some of the best steak I've ever had in America.

Capital Grille

Three Wangs

Beneath ancient light fixtures, spooky faces of colonial paintings peered down at our round table from the walls above. Waiters in charming olde-tyme uniforms zipped about the floor, seemingly trapped in a time warp when patrician men wielded monocles and top hats, while their wives socialized at home over tea and the help wrangled the children dressed in petticoats and loafers. The place dripped with old Boston charm. It was nice to dine in such opulence with pals who could afford to partake in this meal. Why, just fifteen years ago, we spent our hard-earned pocket money mere blocks down the street, at the decidedly more affordable TGI Fridays.

Joey, Jovan, Ping, Kevin, Jason, Neil, Andy

The day of man fun came to a close with three games of bowling at King's, which was aided by a few pitchers of Harpoon IPA. Hits from the 80s blasting from the speakers added to the overall nostalgia, but the videos from current chart toppers made the venue even more worth it. By the power vested in me by "Boom Boom Pow," yours truly placed in the top 3 each time, much to the bafflement of my old school chums -- previously accustomed to watching me lose, but that were now there to witness their own thorough thrashings.

As the evening came to a very conservative, pre-midnight close, we stumbled from the lanes with sore wrists and pulpy fingers. The next time we would see our friend, we would be ushering him into a life of wedded bliss (or at least going through the motions at the rehearsals).

The Rehearsal

Cutest Chocolate Ever

The last wedding rehearsal I had the fortune of participating in was an awkward drama-fest. I had a feeling this would be different, but I still said a few quick prayers.

I parked my car along a suspiciously dodgy back street in the South End, tangled weeds, torn chain-link fencing and crumbled sidewalk concrete welcoming me to this forgotten section of urban industry. The bright midday sun was kind enough to welcome me into its arms with melting rays of UV destruction. My stuffy shirt and trouser combo was a far cry from the breezy short and t-shirt set. Making matters worse, I unwittingly parked too far from the venue, so when I arrived, I was covered in sweat and looked like I just emerged from a tropical jungle excursion. The perfect image of a guy set to perform one of the most hallowed and meaningful acts of his life.

The Artists for Humanity compound -- the chosen venue for the matrimonial proceedings -- consisted of a gaping gallery of hard, gray concrete. From the mezzanine, onlookers could peer over quirky guard rails made of old auto windshields. The only circulation was provided by open windows and ceiling fans, as there was no central air-conditioning system. This was hardly the conventional spot for a wedding.

The party was all present and waiting, the smiles and laughter masking a suspicious, nervous energy bubbling beneath the surface. Once introductions were made, the wedding planner whipped us all into formation like goose stepping soldiers.

On the first go, I controlled my nerves to the best of my ability. Flanked on both sides by the groomsmen and bridesmaids, I did my best to remain composed. As the couple made their way up the imaginary aisle, the pressure was on. I could not let them down on the biggest day of their lives (thus far).

After the third try and a few mistakes, we nailed it. I managed to project my voice so that everyone could hear me, enunciating like a skilled politician and standing stiff as a board with pride and confidence.

Both sets of parents, the best man, the groomsmen, the cartwheeling maid of honor, the stumbling bridesmaids and the jittery ring bearer -- all ready to go on the big day. Standing in the warm glare of the afternoon sun with my two friends, I felt confident that we'd be just fine.

That night, over a boisterous rehearsal dinner, both clans united for some good old fashioned Cantonese banquet cuisine. At our table, the wedding party bonded over stories and memories, some happy and sweet, others that should have remained unannounced to avoid potential embarrassment.

The Bridal Party:
Sena, Alyssa, Ingrid, Elissa, May

The Groom's Side:
Joey, Dan, Jovan, Ping, Neil

It all felt strangely adult, looking back over the long and surprising decades that brought us to that day. From childhood tales of bullying and spite, to the curious adolescent years when hormones start to peek through every tiny action, revealing deeper intent and uncovering a load of complicated emotions that we only barely start to understand now. No matter the degree of friendship, everyone's personal bond with the bride and groom revealed a whole picture of who they are as people and just how much we love having them in our lives.

Ya'll Ready?

The Big Day

We've already established that this was not a traditional wedding, by any means. A lapsed Catholic with open views of faith conducting the ceremony, which was being held in an art studio for inner city kids, for a couple that had courted for a whopping ten years. Even the bachelor party -- painfully absent of any debaucherous antics -- was out of the norm. So on the big day, it wasn't surprising that things wouldn't be as sterile as they would have been with a significantly more stale couple.

Early that morning, the boys joined forces for some pizza, a little Michael Jackson memorial, and ironing. The jitters were palpable, as even a highly offensive South Park episode couldn't even elicit one good chuckle (too soon...jam-on~). A few miles away in the Back Bay, I wondered if the girls were having the same trouble relaxing.

Once we were suited up in our different suits (navy, charcoal, heather gray, brown and black) with matching ties (yellow and orange, surprisingly sexy once you seem them in person), we piled into a cramped clown car and began to steam ourselves to death in the midday sun as we drove to meet the women.

Pulling up to the Back Bay brownstone that has been a home base for our collective friendships for as far as we can remember, we emerged from the sweaty hotbox ten-pounds lighter. Sticky and burning, like lumps of bread being pulled out of a vat of stinky fondue cheese.

We were beckoned to wait inside, hidden and out of the way, so that the bride and groom could be reunited for their "first meeting." In the welcome shade of the trees lining the quiet street, he waited at the foot of the staircase for the unveiling of his blushing bride. When she emerged and descended the steps in a glorious, backless white gown, the sparkles in his eyes were so blinding we were forced to put on our sunglasses.

A furiously inventive array of photographing following, which saw the entire wedding party running up and down the street, barely avoiding instant death under the wheels of passing SUVs filled with gay men and soccer moms. There was some jumping, of course, and last minute thug shots of our group as gang members loitering against the red-bricked walls of the historical heritage buildings. We were quite menacing in our crisp white shirts and magenta, fuchsia and orange dresses.

I Tell You, That Shoe Was SO Heavy

Hey Boys!

Hey Ladies!

Lucky Man

Lucky Lady ;)

I would have been happy taking silly photos all day, but alas there was a wedding to attend to.

Piling back into the moving saunas, we made our way to the gallery, which had been transformed into an elegant and understated garden of flowing white sheets and bright yellow roses. From our mezzanine roost, we could see the horde of people, over 200 in all, mingling and chatting while we made our best efforts to suppress the butterflies and nerves that threatened to burst from our well-coiffed skulls.

The Incredible Hulk, Their First Choice For Officiator

Girls Attempt To Hulk Out, Look Constipated Instead

Jump all you want, you guys are next!

Naughty Hamsters

Say Cheese!

In a stuffy back room, we waited for our signal. Mere minutes from the real deal, we sat in relative silence, getting last minute cosmetic touch-ups and pep talks, distracting ourselves with artsy photos taken with the giant fish-eye mirror hanging in the corner of the studio. It felt like -- what I can only imagine to be -- the moments before the big game when the players are corralled in the locker room, the deafening sound of the expecting crowd seeping through the cracks in the walls and driving the dread deeper and deeper into the heart of every person in the room.
And then it was time.

Lining up in the order that we had practiced so many times the day before, the procession began. First, the parents of the bride. Then, the parents of the groom. Then, me. Walking down the steps, I could see my buddy, the groom, keeping pace behind me. I hurried forward to get out of the way, as the oohs and ahhs from the crowd alerted me to the start of the frantic picture taking of one half of the happy couple.

Waiting at the head of the room, I was joined by the groom, whose smile was so wide I momentarily wished I was in his place at that second, marrying the girl of my own dreams. The best man and groomsmen followed, then the maid of honor and the bridesmaids behind them, just barely avoiding a slipping disaster from the pesky flower petals littering the floor. Then that old familiar tune kicked in and the bride began her descent, high-fiving father on her arm and a faint glitter in her eyes.

At the front of the room, our trio stood close together, bathed in sunlight. We could have been the only people in the room. As the couple gazed intently into each other's eyes, the connection and energy caused my chest to swell. When their unspoken words were conveyed, they turned to me. I cocked my eyebrows and waited for their signal. With a quiet nod, they gave me the go ahead. We all smiled. It was time to begin.

Though we had rehearsed this speech time and time again, nothing could compare to the gravity held by each word during the actual ceremony. Tears spilled from the bride's eyes and the tension was broken with a collective giggle as she wiped them away with a conveniently-placed tissue.

Photo By Abby Christensen

Photos by Andy Wang

With the power vested in me by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I finally declared them husband and wife. As they kissed and walked down the aisle hand-in-hand, I let out a huge sigh of relief. Taking the arm of the maid of honor, we were reunited with the newlyweds in our mezzanine hideaway.

The Ceremony
Photo from Sharon Hsu

It's Official!

The ceremony had gone by in a blur. I think I might have had an out of body experience, since it also went off without a hitch, unless you count my fumbling of the rings [note to prospective officiators: give the BRIDE'S ring to the groom, not his own]. Otherwise, it was shockingly efficient, as if we had done this hundreds of times before. We said our lines without mistakes. I even got a laugh out of the audience. I've never been so proud of myself -- and I mean that in the most sincere way possible -- to have been a part of something so special.

Until Next Year...

After the nuptials, the requisite motions followed: pictures with the new couple; the expertly executed first dance; speeches from the best man, maid of honor and happy father of the bride; and an unconventional (but delicious) family-style dinner. The party goers danced the night away to a combination of mashed-up pop hits, copious amounts of MJ, and modern favorites that seemed aimed squarely at our demographic. I was only too happy that the Chicken Dance, Cotton-Eye Joe, and YMCA didn't make an appearance, as that would have sullied the entire mood of the evening.

Dinner Time

Cheers!

Ping, Elissa, Sharon, Neil
Photo from Sharon Hsu

The NECYSC Gang
Photo from Sharon Hsu

In between glasses of free flowing wine and uncomfortable slow dances with random drunken family members, attendees were encouraged to get shots in the DIY Photo Booth. The photos would be pasted into a keepsake album and signed by all, the perfect gift to remember this day.

Stuffed inside the cramped booth with old pals and new friends, it felt like old times. The days gone by when our group of awkward adolescent ABCs huddled together at Chinese camp, taking picture after picture of each other in an effort to capture all the happiness and joy of that moment, one of the most special times of the year when we were all truly ourselves for an entire week in each other's company.

In a time before unlimited digital pictures, each photo meant something. They represented a tangible piece of our history that we would file, save, share and cherish for the rest of our lives. Over nearly twenty years, we have collected enough snapshots to fill encyclopedia volumes. A lifelong testament to our friendship, our love, our bond.

Back in the photo booth, we were in the midst of celebrating a much bigger bond between two of our ranks. One could say the ultimate bond. With each burst of the flash and inappropriately naughty pose into the camera lens, we were creating fitting additions to the end of an era that began decades before. The chapters chronicling our youth could now be closed to the chiming of wedding bells that would find all of us eventually. Our wedded friends were about to move on into the real adult world. We too would move forward, beginning new chapters of our collective story.

We will marry.

We will have kids.

We'll be the Aunties and Uncles to each others' kids, who will know us as the people that drop by unexpectedly on the weekends, telling crazy stories and sharing laughter with their parents about a time long since passed, a time that might as well be ancient history to a child.

As these children grow up together, they will continue what we started when we were their age.

And when we're old and gray, flipping through the dusty keepsake photo albums created in our youth, we'll remember just how much we mean to each other.

Amazing Photo By Abby Christensen

Dreaming of the Osaka Sun (Or, Coldplay and Kansai)

2009-07-04T06:49:00.017+08:00

Part 5:

Without You It's A Waste Of Time
-Osaka 大阪-

After Coldplay, our heads were shrouded in a lovely cloud of combined glee and shellshock. You know the kind of feeling after a particularly amazing gig is over: you wish you could immediately relive the show, still reeling from the awesomeness of it all, sweaty clothing gripping your clammy skin in the evening chill, skipping to whatever mode of transportation is carrying you home that night, singing along to nothing at all with a gigantic smile plastered across your face. That night was no different, but with the faint traces of Chris Martin's sweaty palm still clinging to Sandra's hand, I admit it took a lot longer for us to come down from the high.

The next morning, it was time to part ways. From Shinsaibashi to Umeda, back to the New Hankyu Hotel for the return bus to Kansai Airport. This would be good practice for my eventual departure a few days later, though I'd have preferred if our traveling duo didn't have to split in the first place. Waving goodbye at the thick protective glass wall of customs and immigration, waiting until the last speck of her rolled-up Coldplay poster was out of sight, I was suddenly and quite literally alone. With a heavy sigh and shrug, I slowly made my way back to the bus and began the solo leg of my trip.

In less than an hour, I was back at Umeda. With a full day to see the city, I tried my best to plot out the most efficient route. First, I needed food before I fainted in a pool of my own cold sweat. Across the street from Hankyu Hotel, a towering shopping mall beckoned. Like some concrete Venus fly trap, the big sign advertising an eighth floor Uniqlo and food court was too convenient to pass up.

You can see the Hankyu Hotel behind the band and Coldplay puppets. Mall directly across the street on the left. We must have crossed paths that day.
(From coldplay.com)

The first floor was a sprawling orgy of electronics and gadgets. Bright yellow paper signs with huge red writing hung from every available spot on the ceiling, advertising the latest sales and ridiculous bargains. The floor was buzzing with shoppers, but there was no racket, nauseating smell or wads of phlegm on the floor, as you'd find in any number of Shanghai electronics markets. Ascending floor to floor via the escalators, I eventually set foot in the upper reaches of the building's food court. I didn't expect it to be so daunting.

For some reason, my shyness took over in those first hours alone. I circled the sprawling food court, unsure and not ready to commit to anything. The place was packed with young people enjoying their Sunday over a plate of curry, bowl of ice cream, or set of curiously artistic dishes that I couldn't recognize. I wanted something Osakan, but couldn't make out all the Japanese on the menus. Finally, I spotted a window full of plastic food on display to passersby. On one plate, one of my Osaka-food-must-haves: omu rice, a big pouch of tomato-flavored rice wrapped in a fluffy egg omelet.

Rushing in, I was promptly seated. Eyes wide and sparkling with joy, I blurted out "Omu rice, domoarigatogozaimas'!" The waitress gave me a pitying look and replied, "Sumimasen, dinnah on-ly." Faaack. Thumbing through the menu, I was horrified to realize that I was in a Korean restaurant. So not only was my omurice unavailable, I couldn't even have Japanese food. Oh well. Stone bowl kimchi rice (bibimbap) it would be. Japanese or not, that shit is good no matter what country you happen to be in.

Next item of business: actual sightseeing. Since I didn't have the luxury of multiple days in Osaka, I settled on two main sites: Osaka Castle and the Osaka Aquarium.

From Umeda, I took the metro, switching at the Chuo Line, to Temanmachi-4 station, a mere hop-u, skip, and-o jump from the castle. This area was far quieter than the bustling shopping mecca of Umeda and Shinsaibashi. The Osaka headquarters of NHK - Japan's biggest TV station - towered above the spotless sidewalk and the wide avenues. In the distance, the bright ivory-colored castle glimmered in the afternoon sun.

Behold! Osaka Castle

The beauty of it all? It's free to enter the park and wander around the castle grounds (though you will have to shell out 600 yen if you want to enter the castle itself, sold conveniently via vending machines at the gate) at your leisure.

Ticket Vending Machine Genius

Outside the rampart walls, a group of Grease-wannabes were doing the jig and the jitterbug and mashed potato and the twist and whatever else you want to resurrect from the 50s. Leather jackets, polka-dot skirts, leggings and penny loafers, big old Harleys and slicked back hair. It was pretty awesome to see this crowd of middle-aged Japanese adults engaging in such a public display of fun. Passing the dancing gang, I ascended the wide cobblestone ramp towards the huge wooden gate that would grant my entrance into the grounds.

Happy Greasers

The place was packed with people on afternoon strolls, relaxed bicycling and dog-walks. Vendors selling the local snack specialties (takoyaki and grilled squid on sticks) and freshly blended drinks. The atmosphere was electric with children and pets running around, people jogging, and families laughing. It made me really happy to see everyone enjoying themselves. My solitude was beginning to take on a very unwanted brand of loneliness. I just wanted someone in particular to share all of the new sights and sounds with.

Mr. Pug, My Only Friend

Crossing the moat into the inner walls of the interior keep, the crowd started get denser. Like a giant picnic of sorts, families and friends were scattered throughout the courtyard, eating, drinking and playing games. Street performers and artists, jugglers and magicians. The entire scene reminded me of a sunny day at the fair, except I was in the shadow of a giant castle that was central to Osaka's medieval history.

Built and rebuilt a number of times, this restored version is a complete reproduction constructed for those tourist dollars. I'm quite sure the Tokugawa shogun did not have a functioning elevator in the 1600s. Though it isn't the actual structure that saw many wars and uprisings over Japan's bloody medieval period, it seemed to be authentic enough to provide some history and culture, as it is basically a museum. Starting from the top level - which is reached after an excruciating ascent via a steep staircase cut into the center of the castle - visitors get a 360 degree bird's-eye view of the city. Unlike China, you can actually see the city, and not just a cloud of pollution that muddies your vision barely 10 meters out. The cool, crisp breeze and golden sun were spectacular.

View From The Top

Dude In Uggs: OK, This Is Too Much For Even Me...

Making my way down through each level of the museum within, I tried my best to absorb as much of the area's history as possible, though it was quite hopeless: 99% of the stuff was in Japanese. Nevertheless, the scrolls and paintings were beautiful: intricate and minutely detailed masterpieces illustrating the bloody history of the castle and the shoguns that dwelled there. Most intriguing were the miltary relics, like the elaborate helmets, frightening face masks, and paper-thin sword blades.

Obasans

As the afternoon dragged on, it started to get quite chilly. The day before, I was sweating in the midday sun in a T-shirt, yet today I was starting to shiver under two layers and a scarf. Quickly making my way back to the Chuo line, I set off for the next stop: the Osaka aquarium.

Situation along the harbour waterfront, the Osaka Aquarium was perhaps the most important site on my list of things to do. Moreso than Osaka castle or the treasures in Kyoto that would come the following day, the aquarium was priority for one reason. Well, actually, two reasons: the whale sharks.

From a young age, I've always been obsessed with the natural world. From dinosaurs to modern mammals and everything in between, I devoured any book or Discovery channel program about animals...before there was even a Discovery channel. On my list of Holy Grail creatures, the whale shark occupies a space in the highest echelons. Not only is it the biggest fish on the planet (reminder, actual whales are mammals, ancient precursor to DEER over eons of evolution), but it's also the most peaceful of the generally scary shark family. I'd been waiting since I was a kid to catch a glimpse of these behemoths, which were now mere subway stops from where I stood.

Admission to the aquarium is a steep 2000 yen (about $20 USD), but I would have paid double. The anticipation was getting a little uncomfortable, especially since the flow of the aquarium forces you to start at the top floor (rainforest land) and work your way down to the eventual money shot of the ginormous tank that contains the whale sharks. Huge sea otters, tubby seals, waddling penguins, sleek river dolphins, glowing jellyfish, giant sturgeon, hundreds of species of fish and even a three-toed sloth call this place home, providing plenty of eye-candy and non-flash photo-ops for people of all ages. Apologies to those creatures, but I blasted my way through at a lightening pace. I couldn't bear to wait any longer.

Sorry, Mr. Sloth. Got whale sharks to see!!!

My first view of the tank as I rounded the sloping spiral ramp was filled with giant manta rays and sun fish. Depth perception was a little off, but I remembered this was one of, if not THE, largest indoor tanks in the world. So when I finally arrived at the thick glass, I could see just how deep and wide the tank was. I swear you could fit an entire mansion in this thing, it was so massive.

That is some thick ass glass!

Then, in the murky distance, I could see the silhouette of the first whale shark.

*Cue Burst of Tears*

Whether I'll ever admit to it or not, there might have been a tear or two that formed in my eyes. Unfortunately we'll never know. In any case, I was very moved. I spent a good 45 minutes watching the mighty beasts swim in circles, sitting on various benches along the way down to the ground floor. Personal wonder aside, this is a great aquarium for peaceful, relaxing and unrushed appreciation of the animals on display. Ironically, I must have come on couple's day, because it seemed like every bench was occupied by a different pair embraced in a loving cuddle. Even the whale sharks had company. As I sat by my lonesome, I would have liked to rewind to the previous day, when there was someone to laugh with me and see these magnificent sights together for the first time.

Holy Shit, It's a whale shark!!!!!

After I had my fill, I reluctantly said goodbye to the whale sharks. I could have sat there all night, but I was getting hungry and needed to fill my belly with some underwater friends of the whale sharks. There have been a handful of moments in my life where a glorious sight moved me to such a spiritual extent (such as the Sydney Opera House, the dinosaur display at Auckland's Natural History Museum, the first sighting of the Terracotta Warriors, my first Tori Amos concert, to name but a few), and this was no different. I felt very lucky.

Outside, the purple twilight air was perfumed with the fresh smell of the ocean. The seaside development that houses the aquarium is also home to a gigantic ferris wheel and big mall and food court. Whether I was being particularly sensitive that evening or it was just my luck, young Japanese couples were everywhere. Queuing for a romantic ride on the world's tallest ferris wheel. Sharing a drink and snacks from the food vendors. Making out. I tried to focus. It was dinner time.

Inside the mall, there was a huge food court laid out in a charming alley-like style selling all sorts of local eats. Since I didn't know which vendors sold the best of each specific variety, I wandered around for a bit. In the back of the maze, I happened upon a takoyaki stall. Lucky for me, it claimed to be the oldest and most revered in town. I popped in for a taste.

Takoyaki are fried dough balls filled with chunks of octopus and a creamy batter. Like a deep-fried fishball, fondue style. I'm probably not doing them any justice with that description, so trust me when I say they were very yummy. I ordered a plate of the basic "classic" balls, to be washed down with an ice-cold Asahi. Foolishly picking up a bottle of the soy sauce, the guys behind the fry-molds screamed at me "no sauce-o!" so I devoured them one by one with nothing but their natural flavor. Fifteen takoyaki for 500 yen - this was a steal. The chewy chunks of octopus nestled inside the elastic "skin" of the dough ball were a great contrast. And filling. By the time I reached the tenth or eleventh orb, I was already getting full.

Rock On, Calpis!

Masterful Ball Makers

Making my way back to Shinsaibashi, I passed by all the shops we'd seen on the first night. If you remember, there were a certain pair of red beauties waiting for me. I couldn't disappoint them.

Inside Sneaker World, I made my move. I tried on a bunch of other styles - much to the dismay of the store clerk who had to endure my stinky socks as I switched from shoe to shoe - just to make sure I really, really was committed to the crimson babies. Though the black versions were most subtle and stylish, I couldn't deny the desire for the far-more unique and special red ones. I dropped the required fundage with a grimace, looking away as the pile of money was pushed into the hands of the clerk at the register. So proud of my new conquest, I wore them straight out of the store.

I LOVE YOU

After one more stop in Uniqlo (purchases: dark green trousers and a cream colored, button-collar longsleeve t-shirt), I made my way into Dotonbori, the center of nightlife in Osaka.

At first, I was hypnotized by all the neon signs. This is like Times Square or Nanjing Pedestrian Street, but on steroids and with much cooler Japanese writing. The street was packed with fellow revelers, but it wasn't overwhelming. Restaurants, clubs, karaoke bars, souvenir shops, stores, food vendors. We should have come here the first night. Without a jacket, I was freezing in the night air. I decided to skip all the flashing lights, find the next food on my checklist (see below, or check out Bourdain in Osaka), and grab some takeout to be consumed in the comfort of my hotel room.

Okonomiyaki ("as you like it") is a thick Osakan pancake filled with whatever scrumptious ingredients you want, but usually seafood and egg. Topped off with ribbons of mayonnaise and bonito flakes, it is a carb-loaded and filling snack that must be tried.

For 400 yen, I ordered a basic seafood pancake, which the stall-keep covered in a fried egg, a few strips of fatty pork, and a literal handful of bonito flakes. Rushing back to my hotel, I scarfed down the entire thing. The last time I enjoyed okonomiyaki was in Tokyo, where we cooked it ourselves on a tabletop grill. This was different; this was so much better. Maybe it's the Osaka air that adds a special touch, or maybe I was just too hungry. After the pancake had completely disappeared into my belly, food coma came hard and fast and I konked out for the night.

Next episode: Kyoto, the original capital city...

Further Information:
Osaka Kaiyukan Aquarium
Address : 1 Kaigan-dori, Minato-ku, Osaka City
Telephone : 06-6576-5501
Business Hours : 10:00am - 8:00pm (A part of spring, a part of autumn : 9:30am - 8:00pm, Obon holidays and Golden Week : 8:30am - 8:30pm)
Access : Subway Chuou Line to "Osaka Minato", 5 min walk.
Fee : Adults: 2,000 yen

Part 6:
Now My Feet Won't Touch The Ground
-Kyoto 京都-

On the last full day of my trip, I would attempt to do Kyoto in one day. Many told me it was a crazy stunt that could never succeed, but I had no other options. I would see as much as I possibly could. In fact, unbeknowest to me, I had crammed so much into my itinerary that it would prove to my eventual undoing. Lesson learned, Neil, lesson learned.

The Plan:

1. Kyoto Station
2. Kinkaku-Ji (The Golden Temple)
3. Ginkaku-Ji (The Silver Temple)
4. The Path of the Philosopher
5. The Kyoto International Manga Museum
6. Gion, home of the elusive geisha

Looking at the maps and thumbing through the guidebooks, I figured it would be a piece of cake. However, I forgot to take into consideration the following:

1. Bus schedules
2. Unannounced relic renovation
3. Drastic changes in weather

I also failed to remember one of the cardinal rules of smart travel: never, NEVER, wear new shoes when planning on a day of steady walking. My vanity got the best of me on that note. So now let's begin this madness.

Kyoto, ancient Japanese capital and Boston's sister city, is not only home to Nintendo HQ and the highest concentration of UNESCO World Heritage Sites in Japan, but it is also an ultramodern mix of ancient relics and cosmopolitan charm. To be quite honestly ignorant, I had no idea it was this cool.

Is That A Deceptacon?

After a mere 45 minute train ride, I arrived at Kyoto Station, a massive glass and steel marvel that looked like a reclining Transformer. Across the street, the white-and-orange shaft of the Kyoto Tower stabbed the clear blue sky, jutting high above the neighboring skyscrapers like a needle in a pin cushion. The temperature was significantly lower in Kyoto, rendering my measly hooded jumper quite useless. With the blowing wind, I would have been better serviced with a thick wool overcoat. In these conditions, I feared it would be a very long day...

At Kyoto Station, a lovely obasan working at the tourist kiosk hooked me up with a bunch of maps and a bus day-pass, circling all of the spots I wanted to see and advising me the order in which to see them. My itinerary was now reversed, and so I decided to change everything up on the fly. First stop: Ginkaju-ji, the Silver Temple.

On the warm public bus, I regained some feeling in my fingers and toes. From the station, the ride to the Northeast section of town took about a half hour, as the tourist bus had to stop at nearly every major site along the way. Every stop was announced in Japanese and clear, understandable English. The effort and care that they put into the city's tourist industry was quite remarkable. Even though I couldn't even speak their language, this was far easier than traveling in most parts of China.

The bus dumped the last of us remaining passengers at the Ginkaju-ji area, mere yards from the Path of the Philosopher. In the interest of time, I decided to skip the lengthy and tranquil stroll along the pathway and headed straight for the Silver Temple. To my dismay, I giant sign outside the entrance announced that it was under renovation. Yet people still were paying admission and streaming in by the group-ful. I wasn't about to shell out money to see a temple covered in a tarp, so I backtraced to the bus stop to make my way to the Golden Temple. Unfortunately for me, the bus schedule was not going to cooperate.

Future Kyoto tourists take note: buses are not very frequent. Especially the tourist lines. The next bus passing my way would come after a phenomenally wasteful 45 minutes. As shops hadn't even opened yet, I had nothing to do but wander around in the frigid air and wait. In retrospect, I should have just run in for a quick peek at the Silver Temple.

When the bus finally arrived, I jumped on and felt the heat slowly thaw my freeze-dried limbs. Bus riding is one of my favorite activities, no matter where I happen to be resting my weary ass. Whether discovering new parts of an old place or being introduced to a completely fresh environment, riding a bus allows for maximum absorption of the surroundings. Like watching a documentary in real-time, without any narration to distract you. Kyoto was in full noontime swing at that point, so there were more people on the bus, a wild mix of young people and old folk. It was nice to see something other than a salaryman.

Kyoto Buses: As Peaceful As A Spa

Arriving at the Golden Temple (Kinkaku-ji), the sky began to turn and the sun poked through to bestow some much needed heat. Glittering brilliantly off the shiny surface of the temple, the sunlight shone as brightly as the bright yellow building. The crowds had yet to fill the temple grounds, so I decided it was time to get in a few jumps. Finally.

As I have continually lamented in these here recollections, it really blows without a travel partner. Not only is it lonely (so ronery), but it is a pain in the ass to get a good jump shot. Forget about trying to teach a Japanese local without the necessary language skills, I couldn't even get past the assumed embarrassment of asking a complete stranger to waste their time. I know, I dig my own grave. But in any case, I had to do it myself. Luckily some friends had recently given me perhaps one of the best gifts ever: a bendable tripod with rubber grip. Propping up my camera in a less conspicuous area - to avoid not only gawking crowds but also culture ministry guards who might take offense to jumping in a serene temple area - I began my experiment.

These Little Buggers Thought I Was Nuts

After many, many failed attempts with my 10-second timer, I finally got the hang of it. A group of schoolkids, likely on a field trip, giggled their way past me. No matter, this gaijin was elated to finally have a clear jump shot.

~SUCCESS~
JUMP!: GOLDEN TEMPLE

The Golden Temple grounds didn't have to suffer any more of my antics. I strolled peacefully through the rest of the site, into quaint, sun-bathed wooded areas and by old smoky temples. After the morning's failure with the Golden temple's silver cousin, I was happy to have had at least one successful sightseeing visit this day. A quick lunch of hearty hamburger curry and another frustratingly long wait for the bus later, I made my way back to the city center.

Traditional Chic

At this point, I realized that the bus system was not as accomodating as my elevated sense of efficiency would desire. At Kyoto station, I tried plotting the rest of my day's adventure according to the bus timetable, lest I waste any more time. Wouldn't you know: the next item on my list wouldn't have a bus passing through for another hour. I practically missed the prior bus by a minute or two. With nothing to do, I retreated to my old mistress, Starbucks, for a shot of caffeine, where I could further fine-tune my itinerary.

The *NEW* Plan:

1. Kyoto Station (done)
2. Ginkaku-Ji (The Silver Temple) (failed)
3. The Path of the Philosopher (glimpsed)
4. Kinkaku-Ji (The Golden Temple) (done)
5. Fushimi Inari
6. The Kyoto International Manga Museum
7. Gion, home of those still-elusive geisha

A mate of mine that had been to Kyoto highly recommended the Fushimi Inari, a shrine site situated at the base of Inari mountain. The main draw here consists of hundreds of radiant vermillion torii, towering gateways that are purchased by those who wish to show their gratitude to the gods in the form of a charitable donation. The Central Park Gates project of 2005 was likely inspired by Japanese torii. As far as diamonds in the rough go, this was truly the highlight of my day.

The bus from Kyoto station to the Fushimi Inari area departs roughly once per hour, so plan accordingly. From the station, it was a modest walk up a winding backstreet, over train tracks and through a residential neighborhood. The significant lack of pedestrians and city noise was welcome. Though the clouds had put an icy damper on the afternoon, my excitement provided enough energy to keep me heated. Between great big sign boards listing the names of all the torii-donators flanking the entrance path, I could see the hillside and a few huge temples. There was hardly a soul in site.

I had no idea where to go, so I made my way past the colorfully decorated temples in the pavilion, into the heart of the forest. As I came to the foot of the hill, there they stood, the rows of torii so dense that it was hard to distinguish one from the other. By chance, I entered the pathway from the back, separating me from the few people sharing the mountain with me that day. Then I really started jumping.

Going Up

Wrap Around

Tripod standing faithfully on the concrete pathway before me, I made a quick wink and prayer to the fox spirits lurking in the orange nooks and crannies that surrounded me and signalled for lift off. I think I got a bit too into the zone, because after a while, my feet started to hurt. You'll forgive me for being such an idiot, wearing brand new shoes on a day where I knew I'd be on me feet for at least 12 hours. After about twenty straight sets of press button - crouch in anticipation for 10 seconds - jump! - land - run to camera - press button - repeat, I was out of breath, a little high, and wishing I had bought a pair of Crocs instead (Lord save my soul).

JUMP! Fushimi Inari

Having got the hang of self-timed jumping, I slowly made my way along the path and up the hillside. The afternoon sun shimmered through the holes in the forest canopy and washed the trees and rocks and underbrush with a warm fuzzy glow. It was like Princess Mononoke without the little white ghosts and killer wolves. I can see why the Japanese revere trees and the forest's spirit; the energy is tangible, especially with no humans around to interrupt your personal commune with nature.

The length of the path wound up and down the hill, flanked by little villages of shrines, both tiny and grand, all guarded by stone foxes and their living, stray feline cousins who call the area home. Though I passed a few locals on my way, I still felt like the torii were my own, relishing the solitude and peace as much as I could. Plus I think I was still high from the elevation and constant jumping, so my brain may not have been functioning to capacity.

Cute Kids & Stone Foxes

As I neared the exit, some strange stuff started to fall from the sky. Funny, the sun was still shining and, though cold, it wasn't freezing. Investigating the little bits that had fallen on my sweatshirt, I realized it was ice. Snow, to be precise. After a brief WTF-moment, I couldn't help but smile like a fool. All around me, little bits of precipitation were glimmering in the afternoon sunlight like diamond confetti showering down on these ancient temples. From the heat in Kobe to snow in Kyoto, I was getting the full value experience.

Ahh, The Effects Of Climate Change

In the time spent walking from Fushimi Inari back to the bus stop on the main road, that pretty snow had turned into a bitter cold foe. The sun disappeared and the sky turned grey. It was freezing. Glancing at the time table, I had a good half-hour before the next bus. The fox gods smiled upon me: there was a coffee bar just feet away.

Inside the toasty bar, old time posters decorated the walls, a US radio station was streaming on the speakers, and a middle-aged man was drying cups behind a gorgeous hardwood bar. I felt like I was in a speak-easy in the Wild West, except here I could order a mean cappuccino without worrying about getting shot by a six-shooter. Plopping down at the bar, a faint sigh of relief drifted from my battered feet. Pointing at the menu, I ordered my drink and was surprised when the bar keep looked at me and said, "So, where are you from?"

Exchanging details, I learned that he was a former resident of San Francisco, which explained the decorations and Bay Area DJ who was announcing the next song on the speakers above me. It was refreshing to be able to converse with someone for once on this solo trip. I love Japan and would have enjoyed connecting on a deeper level with more locals, but language will always be a barrier until I learn how to speak Japanese. Over my steaming cup of coffee, my heart was warmed more by the human contact than by the caffeine streaming through my system.

I paid for my cuppa and said my goodbyes, darting out into the snowy wind gust just in time to catch my bus. The next item on the agenda: the Kyoto International Manga Museum.

Ever since catching wind of this world-class museum in the center of downtown Kyoto, I was antsy to get a peek. In hindsight (thwarting me again!), I probably should have gone to Tezuka Osamu World, a fun-filled memorabilia museum dedicated to the manga master responsible for my two favorite anime characters: Astroboy and Jungle Emperor Leo, the inspiration for Disney's Lion King.

From Kyoto station, I took a bus a few lengthy blocks north into the modern downtown area that strangely resembled NYC. Looking on my map, the museum seemed close enough. A half-hour later, hypothermia setting in and my feet reduced to bloody pulps, I finally closed in on the refurbished primary school that now houses one of the world's best collections of manga memorabilia. The Kyoto tourism website and my trusty Lonely Planet both assured me that closing time was 8PM. So, at 6:59PM, I ran up the entrance ramp, ready for one solid hour of Japanese comic appreciation.

Inside, exagerrated and colorful characters greeted me from every surface of the entrance hall. The gift shop was packed with goodies and some anime was streaming on the flatscreen televisions along the walls. Another white dude was in front of me with an look of equal excitement plastered on his face. As we both neared the ticket desk, I was horrified to notice a big red rope conspicuously blocking the entrance to the museum. The docile woman behind the country patiently tipped her head and pointed her open hand toward a new sign that notified us of the NEW closing time, 7PM. I made it just in time.

Until Next Time (Yeah Right)

Completely dejected and furious at my shit luck, I stormed out of the museum and back into the cold. Though I pride myself on being a solid and patient traveler, I think I finally reached my breaking point. For the first time in my heretofore glorious traveling career, I was bested by a museum dedicated to bug-eyed comic book characters. In the darkness of the early night, wind blowing through me and my eyes watering from the bitter cold, I would have traded anything for Astro Boy to come rocket me away to a cooler landmark or somewhere with suitable heating. Or the hotel room just sitting all alone, waiting for me, in Osaka... The prospect of waiting god-knows-how-long for another goddamned bus in the Arctic ice box made me want to throw myself in front of a passing Toyota. Though frustrated, I still had one item on the list that I had to go for: Gion, the famous home of the mysterious geisha.

The fastest way to Gion district was via subway and then another public bus that I luckily caught as soon as I emerged from the metro station. At this point in the evening, although it was relatively early, the streets were pretty much dead, save for a few rogue groups of foreign tourists. The temperature had seemingly dropped another 10 degrees and my teeth started to chatter. The discomfort would not help what awaited.

Batman?

The main drag of Gion is a strip of businesses, ranging from dessert shops and restaurants to souvenir stores and institutions providing suspicious entertainment options. I honestly felt like I was in a fabricated tourist trap, but this was supposed to be the holy site of Gion! Home to the Japanese geisha, that fetishized object of obedient desire that men, both white and yellow, secretly crave in their darkest submissive fantasies. Most obviously, there were no geisha roaming the streets as I had foolishly assumed. Even when I popped down a back alley, all I could see were sketchy dudes trying to lure me into a KTV or massage house. Maybe on better days I could have been seduced, but my mounting anger and frustration at yet another failed item on the checklist made me livid. Then, I just gave up.

Looking at my map, I had to switch buses two more times before I could reach the Kyoto train station and my ticket home to Osaka. It seemed like millenia away. My fingers and toes were getting numb, my nose was running and had to improvise a little jig in order to keep my blood flowing as I awaited the bus with a group of similarly freezing tourists. Finally, the bus pulled up and I dove onto the nearest comfortable seat.

Dozing off in the intoxicating warmth of the heated beast, I was jolted back to reality with a blast of cold through the opened door as we stopped to pick up more passengers a few blocks down. A portly and grizzled older man with crutches made his way toward the doorway, stumbling forward. He was also blind. As he lifted one leg to board the bus, he tipped backwards and toppled over, cracking his head with a mighty pop on the sidewalk. Floundering on the concrete like a turtle flipped upside down, he was groaning in pain. I quickly hopped off the bus with a salaryman and a middle-aged woman. The man insisted he was OK, assuring us he was fine with a string of Japanese peppered with the only words I could understand: "daijobu, daijobu!" ("it's alright, it's alright"). However, still immobile and flailing his crutches in a wild attempt to hook them on something to pull him up, it was clear that he needed some help.

Stuffing my hands underneath his moist armpits, I felt momentary solace from the sensation of heat returning to my extremities. I was pulled out of my split-second of joy after realizing that, indeed, my hands were wedged into a sweaty fat man's sensitive shoulder-crotch. No matter, we were here to help. The driver had stopped the bus and ran back to check on us. He dialed for an ambulance, which must have been a prospect too embarrassing for the blind guy to bear, so he started respectfully yelling some more "daijobu"s to avoid such a shameful fate. My ass was starting to freeze again, so I desperately tried to communicate to the others that we should at least lift the guy off the ground. "Up, Up, OK!?" They seemed to get it. After a quick ichi-ni-san, the three of us pulled him up onto the bus and he sat down on the nearest seat, no doubt feeling the uncomfortable gaze of a busload of gawkers.

The bus driver politely ordered us all off the bus, which mortified our handicapped friend even further. I felt really bad for him, as I would have been equally as embarrassed by it all. Luckily he couldn't see just how many people alighted. As we queued up to wait for the next bus, the driver pulled forward, killed the engine, and sat with the man at the back of the bus, waiting for the ambulance to come. Needless to say, I'd bet my left nut that this would never happen in China, the bus instead running over the unfortunate cripple with both back tires before speeding off like a bat out of hell. Back in the cold again, I waited patiently, secretly feeling a little warmer at having helped a complete stranger. And my hands didn't even smell that bad.

In the cavernous terminal of the train station, I boarded the express train back to Osaka with the horde of commuters during Monday rush hour. I was exhausted. I felt like I had run a marathon through Siberia and was still a train and a subway ride away from the comforts of my hotel. In some ways, I felt like a lightweight ninny. Who packed so much into one day? Who wanted to see as much as he could see in just one pitiful day? Who bought those delicious red sneakers and decided today would be the day to break them in? I only had myself to blame. No matter how things turned out, it was a day I'd never forget.

Part 7:
In The End We Lie Awake And Dream Of Making Our Escape

Dotonbori From My Lonely Hotel Window

When I returned to Osaka, I couldn't even drag myself a few blocks to buy some street food in Dotonbori. After the endurance test in Kyoto, I honestly had but one target in mind: McDonalds.

Now before you berate me for doing this again, in my defense, Japanese advertising works wonders! On the train from Kyoto, the current advert of choice was for McDonalds' Quarterpounders. They were plastered everywhere. And like a weary traveler in need of some familiar comfort food, that sweet, sweet burger called out to me like a bath house trollop.

From Umeda station, I took the metro back to Shinsaibashi and enjoyed one final stroll down the shopping street to Amerika-mura, the consumer district dedicated to all things American just a few blocks from my hotel. I distinctly remembered seeing a McDonalds there the day before, and would not be disappointed by my superior memory skills. Tucking in to my steaming burger fresh from the microwave and the scalding-hot fries that were just pulled from the grease vat, I could have cried tears of joy. The brain freeze I suffered from the icy Coke was masochistically elating.

Simple Pleasures of the Simple American

Back at the hotel, I saw two familiar faces waiting for the elevator on the ground floor: the Guam girls from the Coldplay concert. Cautiously approaching them so as not to cause alarm, I said hello and assured them that I was not, in fact, stalking them, and that I happened to be staying at the hotel as well. I even flashed my key card for good measure. They didn't hit me with the mace, so I assumed we were cool.

When I reached my floor, I waved goodbye to this pair of souls of equal insane devotion and crashed through my door and onto the bed. To my happy surprise, Sandra called to make sure I was alive and hadn't gotten myself into any trouble with the karaoke whores. It would have been ideal to share my day of Kyoto hardship with her, but on second thought, it probably wouldn't have been as harrowing, as she is usually the one to calm me down when travel-stress gets the best of me.

I slept like a hibernating grizzly that night.

Even The Sewer Tops Are Pretty

The next morning, I began the depressing process of packing up and checking out. Walking the familiar path that I'd traversed each day of this trip so far, I said bye to each restaurant, manhole, potted plant, pet store, coffee stand, convenience mart and quirky street sign that had greeted me for the past three mornings. The locals were all off to work and I joined the ranks on my way to Umeda station.

How Perfect, I Couldn't Resist!

As the airport shuttle crossed through Osaka and onto the web of highway overpasses, I noticed I had just barely cracked the surface of this amazing city. If not for the food alone, I will be back.

Back at Kansai, I whittled the time away documenting the trip in my travel journal, writing a pair of heartfelt postcards and enjoying my first coffee of the day. The post office near Starbucks was a convenient blessing.

As the hour of departure drew near, I went to check in for my flight. At the kiosk, I was unfortunately notified by two tilted heads and polite frowns that my flight would be delayed, I'm so-so-so solly, but that my troubles would be paid-off with a voucher good for use in any of the airports 50-something restaurants. Grabbing a coupon with a look of feigned sadness, I thanked those wily fox spirits for blessing me yet again and I ran off toward the 3rd floor eateries with only one thing on my mind.

I had my takoyaki. I had my okonomiyaki. I gorged myself on Kobe beef, hamburger curry and numerous bowls of ramen. But one item was missing: that omu-rice. Frantically searching each storefront, I knew I'd find it. As I burst into the nearest restaurant with the plastic, window-front display of that glorious yellow globule, I think I knocked over an unsuspecting waitress with my backpack. Before she could put the menu on the table, I bellowed "omu-rice!" with a crazed expression and the wide eyes of a mental patient that just broke out of the institution. I was shaking with excitement, splattering bits of salad dressing all over the table as I impatiently awaited the main course. When it arrived, steaming and fresh, I immediately put it out of it's misery with a swift fork thrust and devoured that tomato-y goodness within minutes. Osaka kuiadore checklist for this trip is com-plete.

Strolling out of the restaurant as if I had just proudly conquered the most beautiful woman in the land, I spied from the corner of my eye another beautiful sight: Uniqlo. This proves the Japanese are true geniuses. How else could you describe the pure smarts of putting a Uniqlo in an airport? I was beginning to wish the plane would be delayed even further, but my nagging sense of punctuality got the best of me and I decided to get to the gate.

Customs took minutes and I was left with a lot of time on my hands. I did some last minute shopping, made a huge McDonalds deposit in the airport restroom, and checked my email and Facebook on one of the many free high-speed internet kiosks that stand guard at nearly every departure gate. My Japanese winter paradise vacation would soon come to a close and, as always, I began to feel that intense sense of bitterness at the prospect of returning to stinky polluted China. Spirits of my ancestors forgive me, but I really love Japan. It just keeps getting better and better on each trip. With even more experiences under my belt from this weekend, I was confident that my next trip would be even easier and more fun. Assuming, of course, that I remember how to properly use the subway ticket machines.

Domo arigato gozaimasu to Ayako Yoza for all the help and support, as well as David Evans, Brian Sun, & Mike Chen for the travel advice.