Amelie and the Bosses Wife

I met a woman at one of the coffee shops here, or rather a girl… its hard to tell the two apart sometime. At any rate, she didn’t look Chinese and spoke notably good English- presumably from the amount of time that she had spent traveling the rest of the world with English speakers. It’s very uncommon to meet a chinese person here who has left the country for the sole sake of travelling to see another place. Amelie had large dark eyes and wore too much mascara to accentuate them. She had small pursed, doll-like lips, and spoke with awkward pauses in a hushed tone that made one think she was ashamed to be heard. She had come to Changchun from Beijing because her cousin was the owner of the Café she was currently working; and needed some help running the place during spring festival. Amelie seemed perpetually unimpressed with life, and only usually lightened up to proudly exhibit some odd abstract paintings she was working on. She was someone you wanted to make laugh, cry, scream, anything at all. Just wondering if there was actually a spirit hidden somewhere deep down there, or that seemingly emotionless shell was all there was.

The boss was perpetually away on business in Beijing, leaving his wife as the acting manager of operations at the shop. She was a former stewardess, and carried herself with a flirtatious grace, that certainly left a lot to the imagination. At least, retroactively imagining what I always think about when I see an attractive stewardess on a plane. But I digress. She would smoke thin cigarettes and cross her legs effortlessly as she watched on of the occasional live bands play in the evening. She was lonely, and made no secret of the fact. They once invited me to eat a meal with the staff in a small room in the café. The Boss had apparently come back for a few days to kiss his wife on the forhead and cook for us. He was a massive man who wore his pants very high. He obviously didn’t give too much of a shit about anyone there, and seemed as though he was home for the obligatory husband dance, rather than any real interest in the place. That’s all well and good, and I was probably reading too much into the whole thing… but that’s what makes a good story.

What makes it even better is that one day, Amelie confessed life at the café had become increasingly unbearable for her and the rest of the staff. Apparently, the Bosses wife had recently received an unintentional phone call from her husband- made from a hotel room as the boss was engaged in salacious acts with another woman; that certainly wasn’t the Bosses wife. The Bosses wife listened on the other end of the line, hundred of miles away, for as long as she could bare. For the following week, she would confess to Amelie her pain. She would keep Amelie awake to the early morning hours (they often shared a bed as sisters) and would take it out on the staff of the Café during the day. As one might expect, there were flights of rage and unreasonable expectations from those around her; undoubtedly as the details of that phone call rattled about in her brain, making it impossible for that wonderful device to work properly.

She became jealous of Amelie, and despite the fact we were only friends, she also seemed to think the attention I lavished as a friend, was also an indication that I was choosing another woman over her. I couldn’t tell the Bosses wife I knew about the situation, but part of me had a deep desire to comfort her, followed by some appreciative love making. This, of course, is absurd and inappropriate, but sometimes its good to accept these deep dark inclinations before they blossom into reprehensible actions.

I asked Amelie why the boss and his wife wouldn’t just split up, divorce, anything to address the truth of their dysfunctionality as a couple, and move on with their lives. I learned divorce in China is neither common, nor generally accepted as a possibility to deal with grave flaws in a marriage. The boss and his wife also had a child together, which, in china, is essentially the glue that will keep an unhappy marriage going till death finally parts.

Amelie eventually couldn’t fix any of the problems that weren’t her own, and returned to Beijing with a small suitcase of clothes and defeat. She is happy now. The Bosses wife still smokes thin cigarettes and crosses her legs, looking hopelessly into some horizon far away. A place she would like to be, but will more than likely never get to; one more reminder to cherish the freedom of choice.

Relief for Japan

I have been making music now and again with a friend here who is vastly more musically talented than me; and tolerant enough to let me sing on many of the tracks he puts together. He sent me an email with a “great idea” (as follows)

Hey,

My dad's best friend is the owner of japan's youtube (www.nicovideo.jp/). He said he could help us make a song go viral if it is just ukulele+vocals and is written about the japanese earthquake. The song will get millions of views and be sold for 1$ a pop with 100% going to japanese charity. There isnt a lot of money to be made for us, but it would definitely put us on the map and help us with getting a massive amount of views and followers. The catch is that it has to be done within a day or so.

There are people currently writing some lyrics in japanese for us, and I just finished putting together a ukulele track. Can you make a melody on this song tonight, and maybe some basic lyrics about standing together collectively as a group to be strong in the face of the earthquake? We can record your vocals tomorrow and it should be able to go viral by tomorrow night or wednesday. (end email)

I then received some vocals written in Japanese. It should be noted I literally know nothing about speaking Japanese, nor have I ever attempted such a feat in earnest. (lyrics as follows)

sono choushi da kotoga a ru
(that's the spirit, such a thing happened)

Jikan ga sakusei shi, sakusei
(time makes it, preparation)

tensai kei kaku do-ori
(disaster, just as planned)
nanigotomo yuujou hodo taisetsu dehanai
(nothing is as precious as friendship)

nippon ga tsuyoi
(Japanese are strong)
sore wo mite watashi ha ikiononda
(when I saw it, it took my breath away)

Jibun jishin o sai kōchiku sa seru
(letting ourselves rebuild)
haigo ni aru wareware no hakai o nokoshite
leaving our destruction behind
Koukiaru
(glorious)
toki to shian ha mottomo tsuyoi kanashimi demo yawarageru
(time and thinking tame the strongest grief)

(end lyrics)

This did seem like a reasonably sound idea when I first got the email, but that was before actually sitting down and trying to “sing” the above lyrics in any fashion that might remotely be considered Japanese… or anything other than random mumbling that might as well not even be lyrics. I was skeptical of this song getting off the ground, letting alone being able to imagine some dude in Tokyo listening to this piece of crap on the ipod and actually enjoying it.

At any rate, we recorded it. Oh, did we record it. It was difficult to distinguish lyrics from laughter in the end, as every track started off with some somber line about a nation recovering from grief, and me breaking into hysterical laughter about how retarded this idea was. I really couldn’t imagine anyone understanding a single word… maybe Nippon. Unfortunately, I don’t think that track is going to make its way over to Japan, but sometimes, it’s the process that counts.

On a serious note, Tsunamis are really bad. Really, really, bad.

Just Another Near Stabbing in the Land of the Lost

I saw this wild haired Moroccan guy named Amin nearly get stabbed with a broken beer bottle last night. It was exhilarating. I had never actually seen a person smash a bottle like that, and then proceed to brandish it as a weapon. It was exactly how I had seen it portrayed in films, apart from the added element of my own personal fear and surprise; that made the situation difficult to process as an un-invested bystander. I heard the explosion before I felt the glass, little tickles on the arm hair, accompanied by a fine mist of beer. I suppose that’s what happens when you get a Moroccan, an African, a few Chinese people, and an American in a bar together. It seems like I should have a better joke to tell with that crowd. Having not heard whatever was said to incite the attempted beer stabbing, I just did what everyone else did, stood up and backed away from the guy holding a bottle like a knife, intermittently lunging at the man standing next to me, covered in alcohol and pleading sanity to deaf ears. It’s strange to look around at everyone else in that moment, everyone seemingly paused in time, incapable of motion; due to uncertainty as to what the appropriate action might be.

Its amazing to me that things like that have the capacity to happen, that some combination of words, will actually force someone up out of there chair, break a bottle, and actually try to murder someone with it. I suppose because I am generally the person behind the barbed insults and offensive comments, its difficult to relate to someone allowing something as insignificant as an insult affect the outcome of the rest of their lives. I can’t believe anyone can justify that level of bodily harm- not to mention jail time, over a few words strung together (or cartoon depictions of Allah).  I understand reactions to physical attacks, when the fight or flight adrenaline kicks in, but what part of an insult actually sets those glands into action? I just don’t get it. Apparently, Amin said to the guy, “by the way, I fucked your wife”. Granted, that’s a good non-sequitor comment to get someone up out of their chair and ready to duel, but a stabbing? Shit.

At any rate, the moral of the story is to not sit next to Africans or Moroccans, someone else is probably going to try and stab them

A Chinese Pimp

In most any place I travel for a few days or more, the first thing I like to go is get a cheesy local map from a hotel that has landmarks in friendly pictoral form. Any picture that isn’t represented by a miniature representation of the actual place really isn’t worth seeing.

This is a palace of a former chinese ruler I went to- that I literally remember no factual information about. I was going to google if for the sake of writing something remotely useful, but that just feels disingenuous. I remember that it was a pretty big miniature castle on the map; that I needed to take a cab ride to get to, and previously housed a former ruler of Xi’an / China. I think.

After years of traveling and attempting to occasionally write about it, you realize that the historical significance of a place is fucking boring. The thing that makes a story worth telling is the complexity and relative insanity of the local people one meets.

This particular ridiculous scenario came in the form of a wiry, greasy little man, who had an unnerving habit of swiping at the few oily strands of hair that perpetually hung in front of his face. Almost as soon as getting out of my taxi, his squirrelly figure was upon me, fingers yellow with the tar of cigarettes and a suit stained with whatever other nefarious endeavors he partook of in his spare time. He was relentless in ignoring my pleas to leave me alone, and after repeated efforts to physical push him away, I finally acquiesced, and allowed him to give me a 30 yuan tour of this great historical landmark. With enough harassment, a pushy salesman could probably pressure me into letting them give me a b.j. Or maybe even me paying to give THEM a b.j. but that’s one hell of a good salesman.

In retrospect, I remember almost nothing about the history of this place, but the mental photo of this strange man remains vividly engrained in my memory. His horrifically awkward company was worth much more than the ticket of admission to whatever the hell this place was. Its interesting to think about what you remember. Is it the typically amazing things? Or the ones riddled with the greatest amount of absurdity?

This particular tour started with some unintelligible English, as I wandered from place to place, ignoring any of the verbal jibberish that came out of my tour guides mouth, until he occasionally brought out a piece of paper, and crudely scribbled some words on it.

They read as follows:

Cave

1936

Japanese

C.c.p

President

I imagine going to give a lecture at a university, and only having this one page of notes to take with me. I look down to try and remember what I needed to mention during the course of my speech and thinking “oh fuck, I shouldn’t have been so high when I wrote this down”.

It wasn’t soon after this first page of notes, that my guide thought another very relevant word to write on its own dedicated paper, was the very clearly spelled out word “SEX”.

This came with a follow up question. “You like sex?”. This is an interesting question to have to answer on the spot, because your first reaction is “yes, I like sex very much! Thank you for asking!”. However in the context of this greasy squirming man, you have to be aware that an answer in the positive is going to lead down some very bad, but distinctly familiar roads. In this situation, the desire for the unexpected is highly tempting. Where could this lead? However, due to prior experiences with such thing in many different countries, I am forced to reply “no, I don’t like sex”.

Ones heart sinks with such proclamations.

The moral of the story is that sometimes its fun to waste a few bucks to meet a Chinese pimp.

Terracotta Boner

Another check mark on the great bucket-list of life was visiting the tomb of the terracotta soldiers in the ancient capital of China, Xi’an.

The truncated story is that there was an emperor who wanted to die with a lot of protection. He apparently wanted to show up at heavens gate with an entire army that could take down not only Jesus, but the father, the holy ghost… the whole mythical shebang. He had people working round the clock on these lifesize representations of individual soldiers, each one having their own unique facial characteristics, fingernails, even lines of hair etched into their terracotta heads. They were arranged in military formation, as if this still army might actually encounter foes in the afterlife. Horseman guiding the way, archers for back up, and multitudes of foot soldiers prepared for hand to hand combat

This massive army of afterlife protection was only uncovered in the 70s, a random farmer digging a well, accidentally unearthing his future career as a signer of books at a xi’an gift shop. There’s a photo of Bill Clinton shaking his hand.To be fair, one of my dreams has always been to discover something rare, and then have a lifetime of comfort based on being lucky. The reason that no one had known about this man made wonder of the world previously, was that everyone that had worked on, or had any knowledge of the soldiers was subsequently murdered- or quieted in some other violent manner. The craftsmen entrusted with creating this posthumous protection for their ruler, lived breathed, and eventually died for this work.

The Soldiers were originally painted all kinds of glorious color, but apparently, the paint oxidizes once it is unearthed, and the paint quickly deteriorates before the dismayed archaeologists, watching their precious heritage fade before their watery eyes. Despite modern technology, science still hasn’t found a way to unearth the remaining soldiers without destroying the paint… so a good portion of the terra cotta treasure remains buried.

I was pretty certain I had a simple solution that no other archaeologist had figured out yet, involving shoving a gigantic fish tank 50 feet under ground- but all I managed to do was to upset my guide. Fucking idiot.

The best way one can pay homage to the awe inspiring terracotta soldiers, is to have oneself photographed in the traditional garb of one of the qing dynasty soldiers, while also using a spear as a giant phallis. Its what I like to call “respect, American style”

Anything you want

Yesterday I had an experience that blew my mind for some odd reason. Reminding me that there is still so much here to notice, to be amazed by.

In China, if you need something done, almost anyone will do it for the right price. If you need to move furniture and don't have the number for a moving van, a man with a donkey will certainly suffice. I recently decided a flatscreen tv would be an appropriate purchase (it wasn't) and decided to ask a random man at a small shop about mounting brackets to put it on my wall. I also decided to ask if he knew someone who could help me with the manual labor. He promptly walked out from behind his counter, said something to another man that was roughly translated as "we will now go to his house" and the other man agreed with no reservation whatsoever. I gave them around 14 american dollars to come to my house, mount a television, clean their mess, and offer me cigarettes afterwards.

I think in America, the idea of what you will do for money has a certain amount of moral dilemma associated with it. Granted, I believe almost any human being will bend their morals for a certain price, but in China, it is on display in the most shameless fashion I have ever noticed.

A week or two before the television, I also bought an exceedingly large sofa, and had no way to move it. I gave a man around 6 dollars to load my couch, my coffee table, and me; riding the sofa- in the back of his van. He also gave me a bunch of cigarettes, but also started singing a song that I believe was directed at me not giving him enough money.

Money rules china. If you ask people here what they want, or what they want to achieve, its not a pat on the back from the communist party, its a handful of cold hard cash. I dont know why thats hard to understand for other countries.

I am going to ask the next person I pass on the street to come to my house and fluff my pillows for 200 yuan.

Back to the Beast

 I am back in China. Year # 2. Before I start the next chapter, I wanted to wrap up a return to America, and the subsequent decision to come back to Changchun.



I was offered a freelance job in Washington DC, making political ads for the recent elections. I happened to land in DC the same day as a Tea Party rally that consumed the city like a plague of uneducated, racist, fat, rats.

It was my first time back in America to be able to speak my native tongue to others, and I found myself engaged in multiple conversations with fatties draped in American flags; particularly about what they were marching for. It wasn’t long before the sea of zenophobic posters and signs came washing past me like a tidal wave of hate. There was Barack Obama as Osama bin laden, Barack Obama as the devil… even a massive effigy of Barack Obama. Tarred and feathered.

Is this the America my students in china were so enamored by? I realized that in America, freedom often means “freedom to be retarded”. This was also supported by the fully retarded kid I met at the rally. I thought; “that’s about right”.

It wasn’t long before I was back at the old 12-15 hour days of animating. Only this time, all limited to political mudslinging, the RNC the DNC, the AARC and a whole sea of acronyms that cease to mean anything more than “bullshit” after the first 5 or 6 ads. I originally had reservations about working for the republican side as much as the democrats, but after you meet the bastards from the agencies, and try to digest their messages.. the lines become blurred, and there is no right or wrong in the realm of getting out the vote. Another day, another dollar.

These dickheads that shape the political discourse in America, sitting behind me, giving creative “input”- the entire time checking facebook, talking about which senatorial candidates they would be willing to bang, and how they keep fit during a strenuous political season.

I hated America for 3 months straight. I also hated myself for being willing to churn out this garbage for the almighty dollar. Granted, it was a lot of dollars, but I hope I can have the conviction to turn down that crap in the future. I often saw the spots I made on television, and never once proudly announced to others “I made that fucking thing!!!”

I missed teaching. I missed the kids, and I missed being fulfilled. I missed that fat little chinese kid who laughed about something stupid until tears rolled down his face… I missed laughing with him.

At any rate, I made my dirty money, and ran back to china. It was great to see family and old friends.. I love you mom!... but here I am, ready to enjoy life again.

I love you.