Monday, May 30, 2005
"Fornm Deboom!"
Accompanying a cartoon picture of a dog with a bone, "Fornm Deboom!" was the slogan on the T-shirt of a casually dressed and somewhat hefty Cantonese matron sitting next to me in my bank's waiting area today. The enigmatic message more or less set the tone for what transpired when my number was finally called.
The young female teller at booth 8 was wearing a surgical mask, whether to supposedly protect herself or others from some imagined viral scunge wasn't clear but the mask along with her limited English skills sure didn't aid communication through the 3-inch thick clear plastic security screen.
Briefly thinking that someone with a mask was traditionally supposed to be on my side of the bank counter, I nonetheless sucked it up to do some financial business.
Me: "I'd like to transfer some money from my account here to an account in the United States."
Teller/plague victim: "Mmmph! Wha bmlinigh? Mmmgulrhph. Okay? Quglurph! Quglurph?
Me: "Er, I. Would. Like. To. Transfer. Money. From. My. Account. Here. At. M.S.N.B.C. To. An. Account. In. The. YOU-NI-TED. States. Please."
Teller/plague victim: "Whmgklrgh!" Leaves. Returns and shoves paperwork through cage slot.
Me Fills out form. Shoves it back with Hong Kong and bank ID card.
Teller/plague victim: Points frantically at a section that I hadn't filled out because it said 'For internal use only.'. "Kwalurph! Swalurmmph!"
Me: "I can't understand you! Can you please take off your mask?" Mimes removing a mask, smiles bleakly
Teller/plague victim: Shakes head 'no'! frantically. Bends close to useless intercom microphone. "You shmoupmxrh! You shmoupmxrph!" Points to 'internal use' section again with pen and then scrawls something "Gurlmph? Okay?"
Me: "Uh.ummm..okay."
Suffice to say, business was eventually transacted though I'm not really secure regarding the ultimate result. Either the money will arrive or it won't. Either my checks will bounce or they won't and if they do I'll just hope for a non-masked teller next time.
As they say in Hong Kong: "Fornm Deboom!"
Accompanying a cartoon picture of a dog with a bone, "Fornm Deboom!" was the slogan on the T-shirt of a casually dressed and somewhat hefty Cantonese matron sitting next to me in my bank's waiting area today. The enigmatic message more or less set the tone for what transpired when my number was finally called.
The young female teller at booth 8 was wearing a surgical mask, whether to supposedly protect herself or others from some imagined viral scunge wasn't clear but the mask along with her limited English skills sure didn't aid communication through the 3-inch thick clear plastic security screen.
Briefly thinking that someone with a mask was traditionally supposed to be on my side of the bank counter, I nonetheless sucked it up to do some financial business.
Me: "I'd like to transfer some money from my account here to an account in the United States."
Teller/plague victim: "Mmmph! Wha bmlinigh? Mmmgulrhph. Okay? Quglurph! Quglurph?
Me: "Er, I. Would. Like. To. Transfer. Money. From. My. Account. Here. At. M.S.N.B.C. To. An. Account. In. The. YOU-NI-TED. States. Please."
Teller/plague victim: "Whmgklrgh!" Leaves. Returns and shoves paperwork through cage slot.
Me Fills out form. Shoves it back with Hong Kong and bank ID card.
Teller/plague victim: Points frantically at a section that I hadn't filled out because it said 'For internal use only.'. "Kwalurph! Swalurmmph!"
Me: "I can't understand you! Can you please take off your mask?" Mimes removing a mask, smiles bleakly
Teller/plague victim: Shakes head 'no'! frantically. Bends close to useless intercom microphone. "You shmoupmxrh! You shmoupmxrph!" Points to 'internal use' section again with pen and then scrawls something "Gurlmph? Okay?"
Me: "Uh.ummm..okay."
Suffice to say, business was eventually transacted though I'm not really secure regarding the ultimate result. Either the money will arrive or it won't. Either my checks will bounce or they won't and if they do I'll just hope for a non-masked teller next time.
As they say in Hong Kong: "Fornm Deboom!"
Pretty Colors
Given the semi-tropical clime here it's a little hard to tell when spring has sprung. It's not as though greenery suddenly bursts from once frozen barren ground or naked branches. There's no crack of the bat or growl of the lawnmmowers - or even hissing of summer lawns. A sudden boost in humidity combined with frequent acid rain showers was about it; that is until late last week when the blankets and winter clothes began to bloom.
Outside on the stair and entrance railings of select "blocks" of my apartment complex many residents have hung out their winter wear and bedding to dry. Permission was granted in the form of memos posted in our lobbies detailing which blocks and dates the laundry could be legally aired. Suddenly there's been an explosion of multi-colored and textured blankets, comforters, sweaters, parkas and other heavy garments and wraps - most too warm here for my Colorado-accustomed self even during the coldest weeks - like fluttering randomly patterned foliage.
Children's parkas hang length wise, one after another climbing and sliding on rails like so many small multi-hued ghosts. I look at the blankets and comforters swaying, hanging and flapping and wonder at their stories. What winter night sweats, tears and fears did they enfold? Whose bliss did they wrap? What new lives were made under them? Who threw or kicked them off in anger and who pulled them tighter with a sigh?
They're free now to stretch in the late May sun, airing their stories with one another before being collected, carefully folded and stored for another trip around the sun.
Given the semi-tropical clime here it's a little hard to tell when spring has sprung. It's not as though greenery suddenly bursts from once frozen barren ground or naked branches. There's no crack of the bat or growl of the lawnmmowers - or even hissing of summer lawns. A sudden boost in humidity combined with frequent acid rain showers was about it; that is until late last week when the blankets and winter clothes began to bloom.
Outside on the stair and entrance railings of select "blocks" of my apartment complex many residents have hung out their winter wear and bedding to dry. Permission was granted in the form of memos posted in our lobbies detailing which blocks and dates the laundry could be legally aired. Suddenly there's been an explosion of multi-colored and textured blankets, comforters, sweaters, parkas and other heavy garments and wraps - most too warm here for my Colorado-accustomed self even during the coldest weeks - like fluttering randomly patterned foliage.
Children's parkas hang length wise, one after another climbing and sliding on rails like so many small multi-hued ghosts. I look at the blankets and comforters swaying, hanging and flapping and wonder at their stories. What winter night sweats, tears and fears did they enfold? Whose bliss did they wrap? What new lives were made under them? Who threw or kicked them off in anger and who pulled them tighter with a sigh?
They're free now to stretch in the late May sun, airing their stories with one another before being collected, carefully folded and stored for another trip around the sun.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
'Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear...'
But not enough of a bite, it seems to withstand the money grasping, blood soaked mitts of Mickey Mouse. An Asian-fried version of Disneyworld is due to open here in September, something that's had the HK tourism board and related industries - most with eyes to the lucrative mainland market - aflutter with excitement. As such there've been a number of nauseating pre-opening promotions -- US$200 special edition Cinderalla, Sleeping Beauty T-shirts, is one and another offering couples a chance to pay a hefty price to be married Disney-style.
Whether Goofy, Donald or Mickey will officiate is unclear, but what's definite are plans for Chinese banquet-style wedding receptions at its Hong Kong Disneyland Hotel starting from HK$11,457 (US$1,470)per table. The fairytale marriage menus will feature "traditional" banquet delicacies such as roast suckling pig, sliced abalone and .. shark fin soup. It's this last banquet item that has drawn the ire and concern of the likes of Greenpeace and local environmental activists and experts.
As Brian Darvell, a former chairman of the HK Marine Conservation Society wrote in an (unanswered) letter to King Disney Rat Michael Eisner ``I think this is a mistake of the highest order. No matter that such soup is perceived as prestigious by some consumers, from whom you simply wish to make money, shame on you.''
Disney has continued to duck the criticism despite an e-mail campaign and efforts by the Standard staff to shame them. Hiding under the leaky umbrella of "cultural sensitivity" their local flak, someone named Esther Wong wants to have it both ways: ''Hong Kong Disneyland takes environmental stewardship very seriously and we are equally sensitive to the local cultures,'' she recited by rote. ``It is customary for Chinese restaurants and 5-star hotels to serve shark fin soup in Hong Kong as the dish is considered as an integral part of Chinese banquets.It's a fine balance, basically, between environmental stewardship and [keeping] it sensitive to the Chinese culture.''
Ethnic Chinese opposed to the practice of slaughtering millions of fish simply for their fins for what can be a US$400 bowl of soup, have slammed Wong as patronizing.
``The irresponsible way out is to throw in the cultural argument -- and that is exactly the cowardly and spineless option Disney took,'' Singapore-based environmentalist Victor Wu said. ''This is a campaign initiated by a Chinese and supported by Chinese people around the world. It belittles the Chinese people to suggest that we are not also environmentally conscious and concerned about shark decline.''
Another trouble, I'm thinking, is that sharks don't exactly have the best PR image. From Jaws to Finding Nemo they've been cast in decidedly non-cuddly roles. If Disney were offering something like panda salad or capuchin monkey smoothies, perhaps the outrage might be greater. But until then we can only hope that Disney ultimately does the right thing, perhaps when pigs and elephants fly.
But not enough of a bite, it seems to withstand the money grasping, blood soaked mitts of Mickey Mouse. An Asian-fried version of Disneyworld is due to open here in September, something that's had the HK tourism board and related industries - most with eyes to the lucrative mainland market - aflutter with excitement. As such there've been a number of nauseating pre-opening promotions -- US$200 special edition Cinderalla, Sleeping Beauty T-shirts, is one and another offering couples a chance to pay a hefty price to be married Disney-style.
Whether Goofy, Donald or Mickey will officiate is unclear, but what's definite are plans for Chinese banquet-style wedding receptions at its Hong Kong Disneyland Hotel starting from HK$11,457 (US$1,470)per table. The fairytale marriage menus will feature "traditional" banquet delicacies such as roast suckling pig, sliced abalone and .. shark fin soup. It's this last banquet item that has drawn the ire and concern of the likes of Greenpeace and local environmental activists and experts.
As Brian Darvell, a former chairman of the HK Marine Conservation Society wrote in an (unanswered) letter to King Disney Rat Michael Eisner ``I think this is a mistake of the highest order. No matter that such soup is perceived as prestigious by some consumers, from whom you simply wish to make money, shame on you.''
Disney has continued to duck the criticism despite an e-mail campaign and efforts by the Standard staff to shame them. Hiding under the leaky umbrella of "cultural sensitivity" their local flak, someone named Esther Wong wants to have it both ways: ''Hong Kong Disneyland takes environmental stewardship very seriously and we are equally sensitive to the local cultures,'' she recited by rote. ``It is customary for Chinese restaurants and 5-star hotels to serve shark fin soup in Hong Kong as the dish is considered as an integral part of Chinese banquets.It's a fine balance, basically, between environmental stewardship and [keeping] it sensitive to the Chinese culture.''
Ethnic Chinese opposed to the practice of slaughtering millions of fish simply for their fins for what can be a US$400 bowl of soup, have slammed Wong as patronizing.
``The irresponsible way out is to throw in the cultural argument -- and that is exactly the cowardly and spineless option Disney took,'' Singapore-based environmentalist Victor Wu said. ''This is a campaign initiated by a Chinese and supported by Chinese people around the world. It belittles the Chinese people to suggest that we are not also environmentally conscious and concerned about shark decline.''
Another trouble, I'm thinking, is that sharks don't exactly have the best PR image. From Jaws to Finding Nemo they've been cast in decidedly non-cuddly roles. If Disney were offering something like panda salad or capuchin monkey smoothies, perhaps the outrage might be greater. But until then we can only hope that Disney ultimately does the right thing, perhaps when pigs and elephants fly.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Do It Again
Herein is my Standard column for this weekend which rehashes most of my last couple blogs, but with some additional and slightly rewritten material I didn't include at the time. My thanks and appreciation to any SZ Zen archivists who care to wade through the rubble in search of those lukewarm tidbits.
The government lets you paint your house any color that you want?'' asked C, who hails from the mainland. ``Cool!'' It was her debut visit to the United States and my first trip back in two years.
We were in my brother-in-law's car on our way from the Syracuse, New York airport to my sister's place _ which is painted a modest white _ after spending two nights in Brooklyn. Along the route C had noted several brightly hued abodes, some more garish than others. It had never occurred to me on the mainland house colors were regulated but that's a little of what the trip back did for me. It had me looking at China as well as my native land anew, but mostly through her eyes.
The arrival bordered on surreal at some points. After about 20 hours of flying and a numbing 6 hour layover in Seoul, we decamped from JFK airport straight to a Polish neighborhood in Brooklyn where we crashed in the basement of a kind, enthusiastic friend of my son's, Nate, a student at New York University.
It was culture shock all over again, coming straight from Hong Kong to Little Poland. Excepting the architecture and possibly the SUVs, someone plunked down with a transporter beam with no warning might well mistake it for a slice of Krawkow. Polish was what was largely being spoken on the streets, even by the kids in their hip-hop thuggery attire. The older folks mostly looked as if they'd been pulled out of storage by central casting to fill roles as grim, hardened. flinty, squinty eyed Eastern European shop, steel and dock workers. Posters and clipped out pictures of the late John Paul II were pasted everywhere along with notices in near-all consonants for concerts featuring the likes of: ``Jolly Jkresky Truszkowski & Swrblzwg Plka Feztivalz!''
C was surprised and a little amazed to find another college friend of Nate, an American named Julie who spoke fluent Chinese. It turned out she'd spent about two years putting off what she called ``real life'' in order to study the language in Beijing and the two and rapidly fell into a several hour Chinese chatfest about the two countries and guys. Mostly guys, though.
C took a nibble out of the Big Apple and a huge chunk from some credit cards in Manhattan courtesy of Nate who squired us patiently around Washington and Union squares, NYU, shopping throughout SoHo shopping and on a mile or two of Broadway followed by a respite in Central Park which she recognized from pirate DVDs of Friends and Sex and the City.
``I'm never going home,'' she remarked several times. ''Where do I apply for political asylum?''
But three of C's primary goals while in the US were:
1. Eat American Chinese food.
2. Visit a strip club. (None on the mainland, but the corrupting influence of Hollywood had whetted her curiosity).
3. And after shmoozing with a fellow Chinese tourist she met on a boat tour of the 1,000 Islands Lawrence River area who loudlyand repeatedly hailed the price and selections found in a Best Buy electronics store, find a Best Buy.
We accomplished two out the three, though not for lack of trying. The strip club and browsing a Best Buy weren't exactly on my ``must-do'' list. I dunno about you, but if I'm only spending 10 days in my native land, about the last two things I want to do besides go to a hospital emergency room is to hit a strip club and a mall chain store.
But mission accomplished. Wiith guidance of my brother-in-law we managed to find a flesh pot called Bada Bing that didn't charge an arm and a kidney for cover, had no monster trucks or Harley's in the parking lot and where there were other male/female couples checking out the silicone. The three or four ``dancers'' we saw didn't so much dance as slouch their way through some hip-hip, though one managed to do some impressive near-45-degree lifts on the pole, her surgically enhanced, gravity defying breasts remaining plasticized and perky in relation to the floor.
``It's all the same thing,'' C remarked upon leaving, a little disappointed that it wasn't like in the movies. She was also a little amazed that neither my brother in law or myself admitted to never indulging ourselves in a lap dance.
``The last time I was at a place like this was in 1983 for a bachelor party,'' I told her. ``The groom had too much to drink and fell on the dancer while trying to put a dollar in her g-string. He told us later he thought there were two or maybe two-and-a-half of her and missed.''
But if the Bada Bing wasn't like the flicks, Best Buy in the Syracuse Carousel Mall on Sunday afternoon was like the movies. Like a stimulating cross between a Soviet-era Lithuanian documentary on flax production and a 1962-era American Meat Council film strip on ``Pork: America's Nutritional Keystone!''
``You're bored, aren't you?'' she asked somewhat rhetorically as I watched her painstakingly compare prices on iPods and digital cameras for 45 minutes as a service guy as old as me tried to make ends meet and close a sale by jabbering on about what a great day and purchase opportunity it all was.
Syracuse, though, does boast one authentic Chinese restaurant overseen by a former Guangzhou, by-way-of-Taiwan-and-Manhattan chef. While the rest of our group mulled over a selection of dishes I recalled eating in Hong Kong and Shenzhen, C pointed to one that was new to her.
``Chop suey? I think I want this. Is this the American Chinese food you talked about?''
It was indeed. But after conferring in putonghua with the waitress, C found that though chop suey was listed on the menu, the waitress had never heard of it. She was dispatched to the kitchen to see if it was available and returned with bad news. ``She says no one orders it,'' C said. ``Not even Americans. It's an old menu.''
Me? While recoiling from the shock of not being able to get chop suey in a Chinese restaurant, viewing television reinactments of the Michael Jackson trial which featured lookalike actors reciting from court transcripts, and paying US$6-$7.50 a pack for cigarettes I answered a lot of questions. Some were about menu terms like ``premium'' and ``draft'' for alcohols, ``chimichaungas,'' ``baby back ribs,'' ``enchiladas''; others were about (to her) outmoded home entertainment appliances - (``It's called a `turntable.''' ``Oh! My parents had one. But why do they have that, but also a modern refrigerator?'') and, of course, house paint colors and lap dances.
In the meantime I got requainted with grocery store aisles wide enough for three people and their monster carts, the heady smell of freshly mown grass, the sight of dandelions pushing themselves up to greet the sun, wide embracing blue skys, my nephew playing Little League, and the sound of rapid-fire Spanish being spoken by blacks and Puerto Ricans.
It was good to be back. Thanks for having me.
Herein is my Standard column for this weekend which rehashes most of my last couple blogs, but with some additional and slightly rewritten material I didn't include at the time. My thanks and appreciation to any SZ Zen archivists who care to wade through the rubble in search of those lukewarm tidbits.
The government lets you paint your house any color that you want?'' asked C, who hails from the mainland. ``Cool!'' It was her debut visit to the United States and my first trip back in two years.
We were in my brother-in-law's car on our way from the Syracuse, New York airport to my sister's place _ which is painted a modest white _ after spending two nights in Brooklyn. Along the route C had noted several brightly hued abodes, some more garish than others. It had never occurred to me on the mainland house colors were regulated but that's a little of what the trip back did for me. It had me looking at China as well as my native land anew, but mostly through her eyes.
The arrival bordered on surreal at some points. After about 20 hours of flying and a numbing 6 hour layover in Seoul, we decamped from JFK airport straight to a Polish neighborhood in Brooklyn where we crashed in the basement of a kind, enthusiastic friend of my son's, Nate, a student at New York University.
It was culture shock all over again, coming straight from Hong Kong to Little Poland. Excepting the architecture and possibly the SUVs, someone plunked down with a transporter beam with no warning might well mistake it for a slice of Krawkow. Polish was what was largely being spoken on the streets, even by the kids in their hip-hop thuggery attire. The older folks mostly looked as if they'd been pulled out of storage by central casting to fill roles as grim, hardened. flinty, squinty eyed Eastern European shop, steel and dock workers. Posters and clipped out pictures of the late John Paul II were pasted everywhere along with notices in near-all consonants for concerts featuring the likes of: ``Jolly Jkresky Truszkowski & Swrblzwg Plka Feztivalz!''
C was surprised and a little amazed to find another college friend of Nate, an American named Julie who spoke fluent Chinese. It turned out she'd spent about two years putting off what she called ``real life'' in order to study the language in Beijing and the two and rapidly fell into a several hour Chinese chatfest about the two countries and guys. Mostly guys, though.
C took a nibble out of the Big Apple and a huge chunk from some credit cards in Manhattan courtesy of Nate who squired us patiently around Washington and Union squares, NYU, shopping throughout SoHo shopping and on a mile or two of Broadway followed by a respite in Central Park which she recognized from pirate DVDs of Friends and Sex and the City.
``I'm never going home,'' she remarked several times. ''Where do I apply for political asylum?''
But three of C's primary goals while in the US were:
1. Eat American Chinese food.
2. Visit a strip club. (None on the mainland, but the corrupting influence of Hollywood had whetted her curiosity).
3. And after shmoozing with a fellow Chinese tourist she met on a boat tour of the 1,000 Islands Lawrence River area who loudlyand repeatedly hailed the price and selections found in a Best Buy electronics store, find a Best Buy.
We accomplished two out the three, though not for lack of trying. The strip club and browsing a Best Buy weren't exactly on my ``must-do'' list. I dunno about you, but if I'm only spending 10 days in my native land, about the last two things I want to do besides go to a hospital emergency room is to hit a strip club and a mall chain store.
But mission accomplished. Wiith guidance of my brother-in-law we managed to find a flesh pot called Bada Bing that didn't charge an arm and a kidney for cover, had no monster trucks or Harley's in the parking lot and where there were other male/female couples checking out the silicone. The three or four ``dancers'' we saw didn't so much dance as slouch their way through some hip-hip, though one managed to do some impressive near-45-degree lifts on the pole, her surgically enhanced, gravity defying breasts remaining plasticized and perky in relation to the floor.
``It's all the same thing,'' C remarked upon leaving, a little disappointed that it wasn't like in the movies. She was also a little amazed that neither my brother in law or myself admitted to never indulging ourselves in a lap dance.
``The last time I was at a place like this was in 1983 for a bachelor party,'' I told her. ``The groom had too much to drink and fell on the dancer while trying to put a dollar in her g-string. He told us later he thought there were two or maybe two-and-a-half of her and missed.''
But if the Bada Bing wasn't like the flicks, Best Buy in the Syracuse Carousel Mall on Sunday afternoon was like the movies. Like a stimulating cross between a Soviet-era Lithuanian documentary on flax production and a 1962-era American Meat Council film strip on ``Pork: America's Nutritional Keystone!''
``You're bored, aren't you?'' she asked somewhat rhetorically as I watched her painstakingly compare prices on iPods and digital cameras for 45 minutes as a service guy as old as me tried to make ends meet and close a sale by jabbering on about what a great day and purchase opportunity it all was.
Syracuse, though, does boast one authentic Chinese restaurant overseen by a former Guangzhou, by-way-of-Taiwan-and-Manhattan chef. While the rest of our group mulled over a selection of dishes I recalled eating in Hong Kong and Shenzhen, C pointed to one that was new to her.
``Chop suey? I think I want this. Is this the American Chinese food you talked about?''
It was indeed. But after conferring in putonghua with the waitress, C found that though chop suey was listed on the menu, the waitress had never heard of it. She was dispatched to the kitchen to see if it was available and returned with bad news. ``She says no one orders it,'' C said. ``Not even Americans. It's an old menu.''
Me? While recoiling from the shock of not being able to get chop suey in a Chinese restaurant, viewing television reinactments of the Michael Jackson trial which featured lookalike actors reciting from court transcripts, and paying US$6-$7.50 a pack for cigarettes I answered a lot of questions. Some were about menu terms like ``premium'' and ``draft'' for alcohols, ``chimichaungas,'' ``baby back ribs,'' ``enchiladas''; others were about (to her) outmoded home entertainment appliances - (``It's called a `turntable.''' ``Oh! My parents had one. But why do they have that, but also a modern refrigerator?'') and, of course, house paint colors and lap dances.
In the meantime I got requainted with grocery store aisles wide enough for three people and their monster carts, the heady smell of freshly mown grass, the sight of dandelions pushing themselves up to greet the sun, wide embracing blue skys, my nephew playing Little League, and the sound of rapid-fire Spanish being spoken by blacks and Puerto Ricans.
It was good to be back. Thanks for having me.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
I'm So Tired
My mind is writing checks the body can't cash or something like that. Can't recall if that line is original with me or a variation of some song lyric long buried and just pushed to the surface. Arrived back in the "Big HK" as Julian terms it at about 1am Wednesday after about 20 hours total in transit and couldn't sleep worth the proverbial tinker's damn. Awoke at 7:30am Wednesday, mulled around listlessly until hunger and thirst and an empty fridge forced me out to shop and consume prepackaged edibles and then reported to work where I found I'm not due back until Thursday.
Some flashbacks: Two of C's primary goals while in the US were:
1. Visit a strip club. (None in China or Hong Kong that I know of, but the corrupting influence of Hollywood whetted her interest).
2. After shmoozing with a fellow Chinese tourist she met on the boat tour of the 1,000 Islands area who loudly hailed the price and selections of electronics at a Best Buy, go to a Best Buy.
I dunno about you, but if I'm only spending 10 days in my native land, about the last two things I want to do is hit a strip club and a mall chain store.
But mission accomplished. I know many guys would kill to have a girlfriend who is eager to soak up a titty bar, and I guess I count myself lucky in that regard but the places generally depress the hell outta me. Syracuse was no exception, though with guidance of my bro in law we managed to find one of three that didn't charge an arm and a kidney for cover and where there were other male/female couples checking out the silicone. The three or four "dancers" (I use the term loosely) we saw didn't so much dance as slouch their way through some hip-hip, though one managed to do some impressive 45-degree lifts on the pole, her surgically enhanced, gravity defying breasts remaining plasticized perky in relation to the floor.
"It's all the same thing," C remarked upon leaving, a little disappointed that it wasn't like in the movies. She was also a little amazed that neither my bro in law or myself have ever indulged ourselves in a lap dance.
Best Buy in the Syracuse New York Carousel Mall on Sunday afternoon is like the movies. Like a stimulating cross between a Soviet-era Lithuanian documentary on flax production and an American Meat Council film strip on "Pork: America's Nutritional Keystone!"
"You're bored, aren't you?" she asked somewhat rhetorically as I watched her carefully compare prices on iPods and digital cameras for 45 mintues as a service guy about my age in a blue uniform jabbered about what a great day and purchase opportunity it all was.
I think one of the things that jeebs me out so badly about an American shopping mall is the huge number of folks my age and older in ludicrous uniforms trying to make a barely living wage. Combined with the forced cheer, the bad lighting and the general mall denizens, in darker moments it all just makes me want to lock the garage in the home I don't have, swallow a combo of vodka and pills that I might have, and turn the ignition on in the car I don't have.
I could be one of those folks, and have previously come closer to that station in life than I care to recall. Something I have never confessed to C.
My mind is writing checks the body can't cash or something like that. Can't recall if that line is original with me or a variation of some song lyric long buried and just pushed to the surface. Arrived back in the "Big HK" as Julian terms it at about 1am Wednesday after about 20 hours total in transit and couldn't sleep worth the proverbial tinker's damn. Awoke at 7:30am Wednesday, mulled around listlessly until hunger and thirst and an empty fridge forced me out to shop and consume prepackaged edibles and then reported to work where I found I'm not due back until Thursday.
Some flashbacks: Two of C's primary goals while in the US were:
1. Visit a strip club. (None in China or Hong Kong that I know of, but the corrupting influence of Hollywood whetted her interest).
2. After shmoozing with a fellow Chinese tourist she met on the boat tour of the 1,000 Islands area who loudly hailed the price and selections of electronics at a Best Buy, go to a Best Buy.
I dunno about you, but if I'm only spending 10 days in my native land, about the last two things I want to do is hit a strip club and a mall chain store.
But mission accomplished. I know many guys would kill to have a girlfriend who is eager to soak up a titty bar, and I guess I count myself lucky in that regard but the places generally depress the hell outta me. Syracuse was no exception, though with guidance of my bro in law we managed to find one of three that didn't charge an arm and a kidney for cover and where there were other male/female couples checking out the silicone. The three or four "dancers" (I use the term loosely) we saw didn't so much dance as slouch their way through some hip-hip, though one managed to do some impressive 45-degree lifts on the pole, her surgically enhanced, gravity defying breasts remaining plasticized perky in relation to the floor.
"It's all the same thing," C remarked upon leaving, a little disappointed that it wasn't like in the movies. She was also a little amazed that neither my bro in law or myself have ever indulged ourselves in a lap dance.
Best Buy in the Syracuse New York Carousel Mall on Sunday afternoon is like the movies. Like a stimulating cross between a Soviet-era Lithuanian documentary on flax production and an American Meat Council film strip on "Pork: America's Nutritional Keystone!"
"You're bored, aren't you?" she asked somewhat rhetorically as I watched her carefully compare prices on iPods and digital cameras for 45 mintues as a service guy about my age in a blue uniform jabbered about what a great day and purchase opportunity it all was.
I think one of the things that jeebs me out so badly about an American shopping mall is the huge number of folks my age and older in ludicrous uniforms trying to make a barely living wage. Combined with the forced cheer, the bad lighting and the general mall denizens, in darker moments it all just makes me want to lock the garage in the home I don't have, swallow a combo of vodka and pills that I might have, and turn the ignition on in the car I don't have.
I could be one of those folks, and have previously come closer to that station in life than I care to recall. Something I have never confessed to C.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Little Pink Houses
"The government lets you paint your house any color that you want?" asked C. "Cool!"
We were in my brother-in-law's car on the way to his place in Syracuse after spending two nights in Brooklyn. She'd noticed several abodes, some more brightly colored than others during the drive. It had never occurred to me in China that house colors were regulated -- an entire country of covenant housing regulations -- but that's a little of what the trip back here has done for me. It's had me looking at China anew as well as my native land, mostly through her eyes.
The trip has bordered on minor surreal at some points. After about 20 hours of flying and a numbing 6 hour layover in Seoul, we decamped from JFK airport straight to a Polish neighborhood in Brooklyn where we crashed in the basement of a kind, enthusiastic friend of my son's, Nate, who is going to NYU.
It was culture shock redeux, coming straight from Hong Kong to Little Poland. Someone plunked down with a transporter beam with no warning might well mistake it for a slice of Warsaw, excepting the architecture and vehicles. Polish was what was largely being spoken on the streets, even by the kids in their hip-hop thuggery attire. The older folks all looked like they're straight out of Central Casting as grim, hardened flinty, squinty eyed Eastern European steel and dock workers and pictures of the late John Paul II are pasted everywhere along with notices in near-all consonants for shows featuring "Jkresky Swrblzwg Plka Feztivalz!"
C was surprised and a little amazed to find another college friend of Nate, a woman named Julie, who speaks near-fluent Chinese and rapidly fell into a several hour Chinese chatfest about the two countries and guys. She got a taste of Manhattan courtesy of Nate who squired us patiently around Washington and Union Squares, NYU, SoHo shopping, a mile or two of Broadway and a slice of Central Park.
"I'm never going home," she joked several times. "Where can I apply for political asylum?''
Me? While recoiling from the shock of viewing daily TV reinactments featuring lookalike actors reciting from transcripts of the Michael Jackson trial and paying $6 a pack for cigarettes, I answered a lot of questions, some about menu terms like "premium" for alcohols, "chimichaungas," "enchiladas;" Some about outmoded home entertainment appliances - "turn table" - ("Oh! My parents had one. But why do they have that but also a modern refridgerator?") and house paint colors. Currently in Syracuse where after a day of touring the 1,000 Islands Lawrence River area bordering Canada I've just seen C off for a business-related flight to LA for her company for a couple days.
I'm marveling at grocery store aisles wide enough for four people and their carts, the heady smell of freshly mown grass, the sight of greenery and dandelions pushing themselves up to greet the sun, comforting, wide embracing blue skys, my nephew playing Little League, and the sound of rapid-fire Spanish being spoken by blacks and Puerto Ricans.
It's good to be back, even if it is on the wrong side of the country. Thanks for having me.
"The government lets you paint your house any color that you want?" asked C. "Cool!"
We were in my brother-in-law's car on the way to his place in Syracuse after spending two nights in Brooklyn. She'd noticed several abodes, some more brightly colored than others during the drive. It had never occurred to me in China that house colors were regulated -- an entire country of covenant housing regulations -- but that's a little of what the trip back here has done for me. It's had me looking at China anew as well as my native land, mostly through her eyes.
The trip has bordered on minor surreal at some points. After about 20 hours of flying and a numbing 6 hour layover in Seoul, we decamped from JFK airport straight to a Polish neighborhood in Brooklyn where we crashed in the basement of a kind, enthusiastic friend of my son's, Nate, who is going to NYU.
It was culture shock redeux, coming straight from Hong Kong to Little Poland. Someone plunked down with a transporter beam with no warning might well mistake it for a slice of Warsaw, excepting the architecture and vehicles. Polish was what was largely being spoken on the streets, even by the kids in their hip-hop thuggery attire. The older folks all looked like they're straight out of Central Casting as grim, hardened flinty, squinty eyed Eastern European steel and dock workers and pictures of the late John Paul II are pasted everywhere along with notices in near-all consonants for shows featuring "Jkresky Swrblzwg Plka Feztivalz!"
C was surprised and a little amazed to find another college friend of Nate, a woman named Julie, who speaks near-fluent Chinese and rapidly fell into a several hour Chinese chatfest about the two countries and guys. She got a taste of Manhattan courtesy of Nate who squired us patiently around Washington and Union Squares, NYU, SoHo shopping, a mile or two of Broadway and a slice of Central Park.
"I'm never going home," she joked several times. "Where can I apply for political asylum?''
Me? While recoiling from the shock of viewing daily TV reinactments featuring lookalike actors reciting from transcripts of the Michael Jackson trial and paying $6 a pack for cigarettes, I answered a lot of questions, some about menu terms like "premium" for alcohols, "chimichaungas," "enchiladas;" Some about outmoded home entertainment appliances - "turn table" - ("Oh! My parents had one. But why do they have that but also a modern refridgerator?") and house paint colors. Currently in Syracuse where after a day of touring the 1,000 Islands Lawrence River area bordering Canada I've just seen C off for a business-related flight to LA for her company for a couple days.
I'm marveling at grocery store aisles wide enough for four people and their carts, the heady smell of freshly mown grass, the sight of greenery and dandelions pushing themselves up to greet the sun, comforting, wide embracing blue skys, my nephew playing Little League, and the sound of rapid-fire Spanish being spoken by blacks and Puerto Ricans.
It's good to be back, even if it is on the wrong side of the country. Thanks for having me.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Goin' Home
Shenzhen Zen will be taking some time off for a short visit back to the Big Rock Candy Mountain. Posts will probably occur, but not at any predictable interval. Thank you for your continued patronage and we look forward to serving you again. Please ensure that your seat belt is securely fastened and please return your seat-back to the full upright position.
Shenzhen Zen will be taking some time off for a short visit back to the Big Rock Candy Mountain. Posts will probably occur, but not at any predictable interval. Thank you for your continued patronage and we look forward to serving you again. Please ensure that your seat belt is securely fastened and please return your seat-back to the full upright position.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Imagine
While I'm an agnostic who counts atheists, Buddhists, Jews, a Wiccan or two and Christians of various stripes as friends, I'm beginning to see the simple logic and ignorant bliss of growing up in a godless state.
What brought this about was recent discussions with C regarding topics like Terri Schiavio and the newly annointed Papanazi/Panzerkardinal. Trying to explain the differences between the Old and New Testaments, Christians and Jews ("Yes, Jesus was a Jew, but...") Catholics and Protestants and the various Protestant schisms and denominations and that they're all "Christian" (but different) and why it's so often political in the US to someone with no similar religious/cultural reference points is boggling, especially as ultimately it's logically nonesensical even if you grew up in it.
But it has come to a head again regarding C's first friendship with a Westerner, who happened to be a female student from a small, obscure (and yet to be accredited, according to its website) southern Bible college in 1999. I'll call her old friend M. C had recently rediscovered a 6-year-old letter from her, as well as a New Testament Bible that M had bestowed as a gift before going back home to Hookworm&Pelegra, Georgia. M had been at C's college in Dalian, China as part of a three week program where she taught English and apparently also engaged in modest undercover missionary work.
C's flirting with the idea of reestablishing contact, which, thanks to the Internet would be simple enough. But beyond a letter to her last known address or finding an e-mail address via the college's alumni office, she also floated the idea of somehow arranging a reunion when we're in the US later this month. Based on what C had told me of M and after perusing C's college's website and reading her last letter to C which raved about the joys of being temporarily housed with 7 other coeds at school in a "four-bedroom, double-wide trailer, it's just like home!" and warned of the impending Y2K apocalypse, my flesh began to crawl a little at the thought trying to arrange a meet-and-greet that included my Volvo-driving, Kerry-voting kin folk.
She'd also shown me a photo, and while it's unfair to judge the proverbial Bible Belt white trash book by its cover, let's just say that M, while smiling and looking cheerful and healthy enough, also bore a striking resemblance to someone whose family has been in-breeding, handling snakes and eating clay for at least five generations.
"It's hard to explain," I said by way of backing into the explanation. "I know I've never met her and her friendship was important to you, but I think we'd all be pretty uncomfortable around each other except for you two."
I looked over at C's ma, the genial, retired Party propaganda dept bureaucrat who can still rattle off verbatim an arcane, post-Mao bit of socio/political hoohah called the "Three Represents." She was serenely watching Hong Kong capitalist multicultural TV: a Korean soap opera dubbed in Cantonese with Mandarin subtitles.
"It would be like if I invited a strong Tibet or Taiwan separatist to meet your mother. They would both probably not be happy."
C said she understood the comparison, sort of.
"Good, I'm glad. I'm also just glad that M isn't a hardcore Mormon."
"What's a Mormon?"
While I'm an agnostic who counts atheists, Buddhists, Jews, a Wiccan or two and Christians of various stripes as friends, I'm beginning to see the simple logic and ignorant bliss of growing up in a godless state.
What brought this about was recent discussions with C regarding topics like Terri Schiavio and the newly annointed Papanazi/Panzerkardinal. Trying to explain the differences between the Old and New Testaments, Christians and Jews ("Yes, Jesus was a Jew, but...") Catholics and Protestants and the various Protestant schisms and denominations and that they're all "Christian" (but different) and why it's so often political in the US to someone with no similar religious/cultural reference points is boggling, especially as ultimately it's logically nonesensical even if you grew up in it.
But it has come to a head again regarding C's first friendship with a Westerner, who happened to be a female student from a small, obscure (and yet to be accredited, according to its website) southern Bible college in 1999. I'll call her old friend M. C had recently rediscovered a 6-year-old letter from her, as well as a New Testament Bible that M had bestowed as a gift before going back home to Hookworm&Pelegra, Georgia. M had been at C's college in Dalian, China as part of a three week program where she taught English and apparently also engaged in modest undercover missionary work.
C's flirting with the idea of reestablishing contact, which, thanks to the Internet would be simple enough. But beyond a letter to her last known address or finding an e-mail address via the college's alumni office, she also floated the idea of somehow arranging a reunion when we're in the US later this month. Based on what C had told me of M and after perusing C's college's website and reading her last letter to C which raved about the joys of being temporarily housed with 7 other coeds at school in a "four-bedroom, double-wide trailer, it's just like home!" and warned of the impending Y2K apocalypse, my flesh began to crawl a little at the thought trying to arrange a meet-and-greet that included my Volvo-driving, Kerry-voting kin folk.
She'd also shown me a photo, and while it's unfair to judge the proverbial Bible Belt white trash book by its cover, let's just say that M, while smiling and looking cheerful and healthy enough, also bore a striking resemblance to someone whose family has been in-breeding, handling snakes and eating clay for at least five generations.
"It's hard to explain," I said by way of backing into the explanation. "I know I've never met her and her friendship was important to you, but I think we'd all be pretty uncomfortable around each other except for you two."
I looked over at C's ma, the genial, retired Party propaganda dept bureaucrat who can still rattle off verbatim an arcane, post-Mao bit of socio/political hoohah called the "Three Represents." She was serenely watching Hong Kong capitalist multicultural TV: a Korean soap opera dubbed in Cantonese with Mandarin subtitles.
"It would be like if I invited a strong Tibet or Taiwan separatist to meet your mother. They would both probably not be happy."
C said she understood the comparison, sort of.
"Good, I'm glad. I'm also just glad that M isn't a hardcore Mormon."
"What's a Mormon?"
