The Old Guard and the Old Dog
I just got back from one of the most surreal moments of my entire life. My uncle, well over the age of forty, had been anxious for quite some time to take me out to a bar or a club in Shenzhen, correctly understanding that my brother (visiting from the States on winter break) and I were mired in a slow death-by-boredom while staying with our parents. Though the thought of chilling at a bar with an older relative was a bit bizarre, we finally caved in and hit a huge night club and karaoke bar downtown called, get this, Las Vegas.
It being a high-end club and tonight being Christmas Eve, the three of us were shocked that there was a cover-charge of about $40 US dollars per person to get in. I was fine with getting clobbered at the many dive bars across the street, but I could sense that my uncle was eager to check the place out, perhaps thinking that he could finally find his misplaced youth at the Las Vegas club, so I opened up my wallet and bought our way in. Still smarting at the brutal cost of just getting into the place, I was somewhat demurred by the Christmas gift bags they gave us, which consisted of a Santa hat and some party favors, my favorite being the plastic stick with three plastic hands at the tip, which I guess is a tool for the incredibly lazy or applause-challenged to clap without having to clap. Since my brother and I are in the first category, we knew we would end up having a great time.
What an over-judgment. No one was on the dance floor while possibly the worst DJ of all time was trying to get the crowd pumped. Instead, we were surrounded by rich Cantonese businessmen who were surrounded by wholesome, attractive hookers. A pleasant nice on a normal day, but a little too seedy for me on Christmas Eve. I could only muster a few half claps on my clapping tool.
Then, the performances. First, there was a Ukrainian ballet duo, who did a cute little rendition of Swan Lake in the midst of this gaudy nightclub. I looked at my brother. What the hell was going on? Ukrainians in this Chinese outpost of a town? A head-scratcher indeed. Good thing we had our little fake hands to scratch our heads for us. The pair was followed by a group of Ukrainian break-dancers, who oddly enough decided to open their performance by miming the smoking of joints, and then proceeded to do a terrible Backstreet Boys impersonation by synchronizing their uncreative gyrations, before launching into some truly remarkable breaks. I think I was both in awe of their dancing as I as the fact that there were actually white people here! Dancing! To Dr. Dre!!! I wish I had made this up. Then the ballet dancers came back, at which point my brother and I decided to wander past all the karaoke rooms.
A note about karaoke in China: karaoke bars usually consists of a bunch of small to medium-sized rooms, with plush couches and a state of the art sound system. Usually a haven for horny businessmen, the patrons settle down with some wine or scotch, put on some of their favorite songs, and then watch as dozens of young, beautiful women are herded into each room, at which point each patron is supposed to pick a girl to accompany him for the night. Sex and prostitution are not officially sanctioned, so most of these girls end up just holding the guy’s hand and playing drinking games with them, but sometimes the playfulness can escalate into something more. I really don’t know what happens in these rooms, it’s all hear-say, but I do know that it’s fun (in a tragic kind of way) to walk down the corridors and see these glamorous young girls being shepherded in and out of these rooms. Many of these girls can make more money in a month than they can an entire year in their home-village, so usually they stay on as karaoke girls for a year or two, then head back home and get married and settle down with their savings.
After about 4 Heinekens, my brother and I were ready to hit the dance floor, which we did after a series of songstresses and songs that we just couldn’t understand. Our uncle ended up on the dance floor as well, grabbing some glow sticks and bobbing his head to the funky techno being spun by, again, quite possibly the worst DJ alive. I had never seen such an “old” person act so, well, “young.” I hope that when I get older, I’ll be able to cut loose and be a dork, too.
Anyway, one of the party favors that came with the gift package was a little plastic mallet. I was so engrossed in the dancing and the bobbing, that I didn’t notice that some local girl was tapping me on the shoulder with her mallet. Later on, I realized that this was probably a friendly or flirtatious gesture, but at the moment, all I knew was the someone was taking a mallet to me, so I whirled around and pounded her face a few times with mine. It was Christmas Eve, so I was in a very giving mood.
Still, that doesn’t top my uncle’s story. As we were walking out, he told me about one of the girls who came up to him on the floor, asked him if he was having a good time, then started tapping his chest. My uncle then pointed at where she tapped him, which happened to be a pocket holding his wallet.
“These girls are cunning. They’ll pull this kind of shit where they act all cute and innocent and ask you how you’re doing, but really they’re just trying to jack your money.”
So I asked him, “What did you do?”
He replied, “What else could I do? She tapped my chest, so I grabbed both of her tits.”
Hmmmm. Retribution can sure be sweet, can’t it?
Well, I’m off to Taipei until New Year’s Eve. More relatives to visit, more food to eat, more Chinese people to see. However, there is one thing that is really REALLY beginning to bother me, and that is the slow but calamitous realization that I am pretty much getting sick of Chinese food. Big problem when living in China. If any of you have fix-it solutions, I would much appreciate it. A freeze-dried burrito from Juan’s or Mario’s in Berkeley would do it, too.
It being a high-end club and tonight being Christmas Eve, the three of us were shocked that there was a cover-charge of about $40 US dollars per person to get in. I was fine with getting clobbered at the many dive bars across the street, but I could sense that my uncle was eager to check the place out, perhaps thinking that he could finally find his misplaced youth at the Las Vegas club, so I opened up my wallet and bought our way in. Still smarting at the brutal cost of just getting into the place, I was somewhat demurred by the Christmas gift bags they gave us, which consisted of a Santa hat and some party favors, my favorite being the plastic stick with three plastic hands at the tip, which I guess is a tool for the incredibly lazy or applause-challenged to clap without having to clap. Since my brother and I are in the first category, we knew we would end up having a great time.
What an over-judgment. No one was on the dance floor while possibly the worst DJ of all time was trying to get the crowd pumped. Instead, we were surrounded by rich Cantonese businessmen who were surrounded by wholesome, attractive hookers. A pleasant nice on a normal day, but a little too seedy for me on Christmas Eve. I could only muster a few half claps on my clapping tool.
Then, the performances. First, there was a Ukrainian ballet duo, who did a cute little rendition of Swan Lake in the midst of this gaudy nightclub. I looked at my brother. What the hell was going on? Ukrainians in this Chinese outpost of a town? A head-scratcher indeed. Good thing we had our little fake hands to scratch our heads for us. The pair was followed by a group of Ukrainian break-dancers, who oddly enough decided to open their performance by miming the smoking of joints, and then proceeded to do a terrible Backstreet Boys impersonation by synchronizing their uncreative gyrations, before launching into some truly remarkable breaks. I think I was both in awe of their dancing as I as the fact that there were actually white people here! Dancing! To Dr. Dre!!! I wish I had made this up. Then the ballet dancers came back, at which point my brother and I decided to wander past all the karaoke rooms.
A note about karaoke in China: karaoke bars usually consists of a bunch of small to medium-sized rooms, with plush couches and a state of the art sound system. Usually a haven for horny businessmen, the patrons settle down with some wine or scotch, put on some of their favorite songs, and then watch as dozens of young, beautiful women are herded into each room, at which point each patron is supposed to pick a girl to accompany him for the night. Sex and prostitution are not officially sanctioned, so most of these girls end up just holding the guy’s hand and playing drinking games with them, but sometimes the playfulness can escalate into something more. I really don’t know what happens in these rooms, it’s all hear-say, but I do know that it’s fun (in a tragic kind of way) to walk down the corridors and see these glamorous young girls being shepherded in and out of these rooms. Many of these girls can make more money in a month than they can an entire year in their home-village, so usually they stay on as karaoke girls for a year or two, then head back home and get married and settle down with their savings.
After about 4 Heinekens, my brother and I were ready to hit the dance floor, which we did after a series of songstresses and songs that we just couldn’t understand. Our uncle ended up on the dance floor as well, grabbing some glow sticks and bobbing his head to the funky techno being spun by, again, quite possibly the worst DJ alive. I had never seen such an “old” person act so, well, “young.” I hope that when I get older, I’ll be able to cut loose and be a dork, too.
Anyway, one of the party favors that came with the gift package was a little plastic mallet. I was so engrossed in the dancing and the bobbing, that I didn’t notice that some local girl was tapping me on the shoulder with her mallet. Later on, I realized that this was probably a friendly or flirtatious gesture, but at the moment, all I knew was the someone was taking a mallet to me, so I whirled around and pounded her face a few times with mine. It was Christmas Eve, so I was in a very giving mood.
Still, that doesn’t top my uncle’s story. As we were walking out, he told me about one of the girls who came up to him on the floor, asked him if he was having a good time, then started tapping his chest. My uncle then pointed at where she tapped him, which happened to be a pocket holding his wallet.
“These girls are cunning. They’ll pull this kind of shit where they act all cute and innocent and ask you how you’re doing, but really they’re just trying to jack your money.”
So I asked him, “What did you do?”
He replied, “What else could I do? She tapped my chest, so I grabbed both of her tits.”
Hmmmm. Retribution can sure be sweet, can’t it?
Well, I’m off to Taipei until New Year’s Eve. More relatives to visit, more food to eat, more Chinese people to see. However, there is one thing that is really REALLY beginning to bother me, and that is the slow but calamitous realization that I am pretty much getting sick of Chinese food. Big problem when living in China. If any of you have fix-it solutions, I would much appreciate it. A freeze-dried burrito from Juan’s or Mario’s in Berkeley would do it, too.
posted by sushipanda at 7:22 PM
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