Zero Visibility

My eyes are bleary, and my cheeks sting a bit. I asked the cab drive to take me home, then when we got into the complex I inexplicably asked him to stop so I could get off. I paid the good man, he drove off, and then I realized that I had no fucking idea where I was. This was not my home. All the buildings look the same, but I was pretty sure this was not the front of my house. I walked around for a while in the rain, hoping that my key would work in one of the doors. A nightwatchman came and saved me from further wandering.

Tonight was all consuming. Shanghai is caked in a foggy frost. The drive home was through a thick ocean of fragmented streetlights. Shanghai is a city of skyscrapers, but it is also a city that shuts down and hibernates in the middle of the night. The lights only illuminate these giant dark and lumbering sculptures. It can get scary at night here.

Tonight ended so comfortably, so familiar. 3:30 am in the morning, my sitting at Bi Feng Tang ordering plate after plate of dim sum, striving to satiate something perhaps not quite satiable. My appetites are huge. John Digweed is in town, and a few us went to Club Rojam to listen to him spin. We arrived at 10 pm; it would not be until 1 am that the famous DJ meastro would grace the room with his holy hands. Plenty of time for us to cross the street, down a few liters of beer, and get totally baked outside before heading back in. We dragged an unsuspecting bespectacled local girl in with us for free; wonderful things happen in Shanghai when you're with a white person. Our new friend stayed with us for 30 minutes, displaying her creepy attitude by hovering near us, squeaking for us to go dance with her. She got the pictures because we didn't.

Digweed performed to a half-empty house. It reminded me that I was in China, and not back home, where people would have been falling out of the balconies. It had been a while, so I was thoroughly baked and cooking, and thought it would be cool to start talking some Asian-Am 101 with Judy. We concluded that Asians in America are afraid and insecure, so they put on the face that they want the rest of us to believe is them. It sucks that it has to be this way.

I'm still baked. The beers really did a number on me, too. The evening started with a few Mrs. Fields cookies, which I futily waved away when first presented to me. But cookes and I are kindred spirits. I devoured them because they were there for me to devour. I love it when things work my way.

People slowly start drifting out, perhaps because they don't get why there was so much Digweed hype, and also probably because it gets really exhausting when you're trying not to be yourself. Chinese people can't really dance. The fog machine was in full gear, and it smelled of the melting expectations of the diminshing crowd. Digweed is talented; he keeps it flowing, detached from the languid energy emanating from his audience. He is focused and calm, perhaps bemused by the weird gyrations of the two girls on stage. He is talented, but there are many like him lurking in the shadows of discos and raves and clubs throughout the world. Digweed is here and hyped because he is Digweed, and his name connotes a larger than life sense that we want to witness.

The fog in the city rapidly descends. The rain here has been unwelcome of late, but at 3 am in the morning, emerging from a sweaty bout with electronica, the cool moisture in the air wage battle against the beadlines of sweat still cling for their lines on the forehead. Not tonight, because we are headed for dim sum, in the middle of the night, the alcohol and bud wearing off, and there is only that appetite that remains unsatiated. Dim sum may help. It definitely won't hurt. We are trying to wash the party from our hair.

The cab-ride home on the elevated rode was ethereal. A tunnel made of dimming, melancholy lights passes through my weariness, the bulbs in rapid succession. Perhaps I haven't recovered yet. This solitary drive home is a familiar prelude; I often go home alone at this, trying to stay awake so that I don't end up in Guandong (which would be very very bad). My stomach is full, my appetite for decadence currently in remission.

Why do we have to grow old? We will miss nights like these when we grow up. Lights, fog, hunger, music, the deliberate drumbeat of an uncertain destiny. Shanghai mostly sleeps at night, but it stirs and we feel, dream, and things within us pulsate. Pursuit of satisfaction: it leads us down blind alleys, and there is always zero visibility. Would we have it any other way?

Cross This!

The weather here in Shanghai is getting colder and harsher. Today, after a noble attempt at studying at the Starbucks a 20 minute walk away, I had to slodge (I don't think that's a real word) home in some pretty pregnant rain droplets. I was careful not to step into any puddles, but somehow my eyes were deceiving me today and I landed in quite a few. I had to Urkel my pants so that I could walk without being dragged behind.

Whenever I have to take walks like this by myself, I try to capitalize on the alone-time that I have and think about important things, like my career and my priorities, but I inevitably end up thinking about random things, like today when I thought about what I wanted to eat for lunch and where I can buy Lucky Charms in China. I mixed and matched and came up with four different kinds of dumplings that I could order on my way to the food court, and after 10 minutes of deliberating with myself, what do I do when I get in front of the cashier but stand there with my mouth open, staring blankly at the menu and not having a clue what I feel like eating.

When the weather gets bad, I make like everyone else and stay at home. With only three English-language channels on TV, however, my distraction choices are greatly limited. This is how I ended up watching Britney Spears in "Crossroads" on Friday night. I had been avoiding watching this movie at all costs, but Tyrone, that annoying little voice inside my head that speaks to me when I am at my most embarrassingly vapid moments, always told me that I'd watch it one day. So here I was, watching a terrible movie with terrible acting and a ridiculously dull plot line...and enjoying myself! I even tried going to the bathroom and violently splashing water on my face, yet I could not pull myself away from the television. It was as if Britney had cast a spell on me. What a bitch. I had to take a long hot shower afterwards to watch away the sugary grime that I felt all over myself.

*I am inserting this comment here to indicate that, at this point, I had written a very long and drawn out exploration of how I either loathe myself or love myself, and I realized that this was dramatically divergent from what I normally put in this blog, so I took it out and am leaving this behind. Maybe I'll regret it later, but probably not*

I ended up having a little film festival after Britney. On Sunday, I watched American Wedding, Kill Bill, Gigli, and The Insider. That's nearly 10 hours of movie-digesting, folks. For those of you curious about how bad Gigli truly was, I have to say that I'm not really sure, because I ended up more interested in the plastic coating that this God-awful movie came in than the movie itself.

Kill Bill is the shit. I knew there would be trouble when Uma Thurman got into a big yellow truck with the pink words "Pussy Wagon" on the back. I've missed you, QT.

Just now, I re-watched "My Best Friend's Wedding," which I say is the best romantic comedy in the past 10 years. I mean that. The writing is intelligent, the acting is fresh, and even though the girl doesn't get the guy at the end, you still end up knowing that the right thing happened, and you're pretty damn happy about it. Of course, I had to cry at the scenes where everyone cries. You know what I'm talking about, that scene when Julia Roberts rips her maid-of-honor dress, and when the Rachel Griffiths character has her tongue stuck on the ice sculpture's dick. Those two tragic scenes get me each time; I thought I could hold it back tonight, but no dice. I guess I'm the same Eric, and my crossroads still loom ahead and not behind.

50 Cent, I mean, mao

I probably forgot to mention this, but my friend Judy Tsuei (try saying that with a mouthful of peanut butter) has been working at an English language magazine here in Shanghai called "that's Shanghai" for almost two months now. We both came to Shanghai around the same time, and while I chose to take the exciting path of studying for the LSATs, Judy ended up taking the intiative to leave her less than desirable teaching job (albeit in a bit of an unorthodox fashion...running for her life) to become the Arts and Entertainment editor at "that's Shanghai."

From this, I have benefited greatly. I officially became a freelance writer when I wrote an article for their Health and Fitness guide about the influx of Western health supplements in Shanghai. It probably served as the first time our friend Mike Wong was quoted intelligently in the media (I don't count that time he screamed 'Wang Zhi Zhi, Go Chinese people' at the Mavericks-Warriors game a few years back to a local reporter). I also wrote an article about the growing availability of wireless internet hardware here in Shanghai. For both of these articles, I am getting paid about $185, which is not bad considering I got my pet monkey Richard to write both of them.

More recently, I've assumed the role of food critic, as Judy has assigned me 10 local restaurants to go check out. Two weeks ago, Mike and I went to review a new bar out in a kinda-sorta remote area of Shanghai called the Yangpu district, which doesn't have much going for it except a few major universities and a pronouncable name (Judy lives on Urumuqi Lu...try saying that with a mouthful of...ya get it). We ended up chatting with the owner of the lounge, who had a long ponytail, one long fingernail, and the very traditional Chinese name "Jerry." He was heavily pushing his new establishment, talking about how much he loved hip-hop and wanted to promote hip-hop music to all the Shanghai masses. He told us that a couple of years ago, people just didn't "get the hip hop culture." Apparently, he was a part of a few MC battles where the contestants dressed up in suits and ties because they felt it was appropriate. Now, he said, things are getting much better. He claimed that fans are getting more attuned with true hip-hop culture, that they're dressing in authentic hip-hop gear, and are thus becoming more "real," per se.

I'm not going to pretend that I'm an expert on the chronology of authentic hip-hop culture, but I definitely do know that it takes more than just dressing in a certain style, walking in a certain way, and being able to dance to a certain beat that will delineate you from the casual fan. In this case, I felt that Jerry was illustrating another example of how eager and desperate the Chinese are to "catch up." Like I mentioned before, the culture of cool is firmly entrenched in the attitudes of young people here in Shanghai, and while it is admirable that this society is forging ahead so aggressively, it also allows for many missteps that, on a grand scale, may be collectively more damaging than helpful. I didn't want to tell Jerry what I was feeling, because what right do I have to tell someone that what he likes isn't cool; I'm only making a personal observation.

When I first came to China in 1997, businessmen would order an expensive bottle of Bordeaux, then mix sprite with their red wine. They weren't accustomed to the taste, but because they knew that red wine was the sophisticated drink of the West, they felt compelled to order it anyway; sort of a status thing. In a country that used to see suppression of individual expression and art, any and all of these new interests is truly a Great Leap Forward unto itself. Still, I can't help but feel that the marketing of cool here in Shanghai, so steeped in the popular attitudes of corporate America, will just result in another indirect, but similarly suppressive mechanism of cultivating homogeneity. I'd almost prefer that the MCs dress up in suits and rap about experiences that are uniquely and culturally their own, rather than see them try to be Chinese versions of 50 Cent. Maybe that movement is there, and I just haven't seen it. But Jerry probably isn't going to be the one televising the revolution anytime soon.

Studying for the LSUCKS

As some of you know, I've now completely diverged from my original intention of joining the cast of "Riverdance" and am now focused on getting into law school by next fall. Given my tardy (some would say re-tardy) decision to alter my life-path, these first few months in Shanghai have turned out to be quite the thrill-ride. It's the kind of excitement that I used to feel back in Berkeley scrubbing Roger's toilet with my toothbrush because I forgot to fold his socks in the way that he wanted them, all balled up with the Victoria's Secret logo on the outside.

But I digress. With all these letters of recommendations to get together, transcripts to order, and hundreds upon hundreds of LSAT problems to study, my mind is turning into the mush requisite for proper and unhindered inculcation into the homogenous world of soul-sucking attorney-hood. Oh great and powerful CA State Bar, please bathe me in the warm waters of your undying cynicism!

Shit, I digressed again.

Anyway, I guess I'm feeling particularly despondent right now. Let me explain. I signed up for one of those Princeton Review online LSAT courses. Trust me, I'd rather have spent the $500 towards something infinitely more entertaining, such as liposuction. Anyway, this course is full of annoying little Flash animation, irritating graphics, and obnoxious and cheesy voice-overs that are supposed to emulate the in-class experience one gets from being physically present at Princeton Review's famously annoying, irritating, obnoxious and cheesy review courses. Each of these online "lectures" are intermittently injected with practice multiple choice problems...you know, for practice. If you pick the wrong answer, the purveyors of the online course try to shame you by transmitting a huge groan from your computer. Concomitantly, each correct answer is greeted with a wholesome digital cheer that I guess is supposed to sound like you just hit a home run at Yankee Stadium or something.

Well, the point of expressing all of this to you, dear reader, is that despite initially being irked by these little bells and whistles, I have now reached a point where the entire hull of my self-esteem now rests on these little aural "gold stars." I look to the cheers to validate my existence, to make me feel like I matter to this world. I smile when I get the answer right and "they" cheer for me; I weep and pound the desk with my fists when "they" groan. At night, I keep hitting "refresh" and let the cheers lull me to sleep, always with an elephant-sized smile on my face. One time last week, I clicked on the right answer and the window popped up that said "Bingo! Great Job!" But alas, no cheer followed. I was devastated. I frantically refreshed the window until it finally came, and THUS SPOKE ZARATHUSTRA! I collapsed onto the floor in a pile of steaming and sticky white relief, and thanked the heavens above for allowing me to continue breathing, living, and damn it, just testing!

I need some help, and soon. I need to get away from these damn prep books that either make a religion out of logical reasoning (a la the "Logic Games Bible") or make it seem like a team sport at which YOU (indirectly meaning "I") can be the star athlete (strong and masculine words like "PowerScore" and "TestMasters"). I need to breathe fresh air again, I need to stop thinking in terms of analytical logic (i.e. Eric --> blogger --> loser, therefore Eric --> loser) and return to being irrational (any other Detroit Lions fans out there?). I want to be like George W. Bush and claim that cutting down forests is the best way to prevent forest fires. I want to be calmed by the tropical waters of accepting mediocrity, rather than be chilled by the cold harsh winds of pretending I'm not mediocre. It's 2:30 AM and I've spent 5 hours studying, what I really need is some sleep!

I hope that one day, not so far down my life path, there will be that one shining moment where I run out to people cheering for me and have it not come from my stupid Princeton Review online course. I know that day will come soon. I will stand there and soak it all in...right up to the point where they start throwing garbage at me for running out into Pacbell dressed like Britney in "Hit Me Baby One More Time." No, wait, it'll be more like "Oops I did it Again" with that killer red body suit. And you, folks, will be able to say to those next to you, "Eric --> LSAT --> institutionalized." And though shalt be proud.

HeyJude -- Stream of Consciousness, Visually Compelling

I Pee'ed on my Moustache

Halloween used to be about the candy. It used to be about the Sweet Tarts, the Snickers, the Gummy Bears, the M&Ms, the Reese's Pieces. It used to be about eggs and toilet paper and little cute girls in princess outfits. It used to be about something pure and noble. Damn it, it used to be about SOMETHING!

*taking a deep breath*

Sorry I get so worked about this. It's just that as you get older, the meaning of Halloween seems to get more and more lost. I mean, our Founding Fathers created Halloween so that Native Americans could ride reindeer and go to each house and look for colorful buried eggs. That innocent and patriotic spirit has been drowned in the painful cacophony of multinational corporate commercialism. Instead of it being about little kids living out their American dream, the holiday is now marketed toward adults who have money to spend on pre-packaged costumes, hideous orange undergarments, and lots and lots of beer. The very least that can be done, I say, is to put M&M's IN the Heineken. That would help. A little.

Halloween in Shanghai was not much more than a blur of this aforementioned yupplie-driven drive to drink and dance and debauche. That's OK when you're in a city like San Francisco, what with all the wonderful freaks and fracas to keep the wicked energy buzzing. The people in Shanghai, for whom the concept of dressing up in hideous and gawdy apparel is reserved for the daily work-day, Halloween is nothing to crow about. For us Americans, who remain firmly entrenched in the quest to make fools of ourselves and show off our insane amount of free time, this narrows the Halloween options down considerably.

I ended up dressing up as Super Mario from Super Mario Brothers. My partner in crime was someone named Tim, who was willing to go as Luigi. Earlier last week we met up with Paulina, who was hosting her own little Halloween shindig at her apartment, to go to the Shanghai fabric market and design and purchase our own costumes. At first I was a little taken aback. I asked her, "Wait, you mean people actually MAKE clothes?"

Paulina laughed. "Where do you think you get your clothes from silly, a magic fairy?"

I was quiet on the outside, but inside I was re-examining the existence of Gwynelda, the Magic Clothes Fairy that I had thought lived in my closet back home and created clothes with her magic wand. Damn, I was sheltered!

Anyway, I was standing with Tim at the tailors that were going to make our Mario and Luigi costumes, and as the gentleman was about to measure our heads for our hats, I heard one of the funniest things anyone has ever uttered in my presence: Tim turned to me and the girls we were with and said, "I have a really big head, so I hope the hat fits."

I spit out whatever I was eating and/or drinking at the time and looked incredulously at his puny head. It was all I could do to keep from laughing my head off...except my head doesn't even come off with the jaws of life. Of course, this non-argument was put to rest when the tailor measured Tim's head with one tape measure, and then had to fetch two tape measures to adequately measure mine.

"Are you sure you want a hat and not a boat-sail?" he asked.

I ended up taking the boat sail.

On the big night, we all started the evening at Paulina's Halloween bash. It was the first time meeting lots of new people, and my initial shyness eventually melted away into uncontrollable fever with each glass of Johnny Walker that I downed. I ended up jumping up and down, pretending to break bricks and throwing imaginary fireballs like the real Mario. I think it was funny for most people up until the point that I began lighting people's faux tails on fire with some matches. We ended up heading out to a few clubs that were hosting Halloween parties. I attraced a lot of attention on the dance floor at the second club we went to, and at first I was feeling pretty good about myself what with all these young girls trying to talk to me, until I found out that they all thought I was Italian.

And then Luigi came up to me, without his moustache. Apparently, he was so drunk that he let it drop into the toilet when he was using it and pee'ed all over it.

"Dude, I pee'ed on my moustache."

I looked at him, my saddened little brother Luigi, and I couldn't stand the thought of him so alone in this world without his moustache there to protect him. So I did the only thing an older, more rotund and mature brother would do.

I ripped off my own moustache, dropped it on the dance-floor, and pee'ed on it myself.

Now THAT, my friends, is Super Mario.

Hope you all had a Happy Halloween!