Ode to Poedah

We all have items from our earliest youth that carry fond memories til this very day. When I was very young, still in a crib, I had a little red stuffed dog. It's tongue was a piece of red felt stapled underneath its snout. I don't remember playing with the dog, but somehow I remember the feeling of that soft tongue between my fingers. Years later, when I was old enough to be cognizant of my earlier years, I uncovered said dog in a box of old stuff. It was covered in dirt, but the little red felt tongue was still there. I toyed with it between my fingers, and some feeling came flooding back to me, but I wasn't quite sure how to describe it.

When I was 10, I lamented at the cancellation of my favorite cartoon series, "The Transformers." Hell, I even wrote a letter to Hasbro, asking them at the very least to bring the toys back to retail. They wrote back to me, and I still have that letter. I met a boy in junior high named Jacob, who was willing to sell him his entire collection of Transformers for 20 bucks. Although I was aware of the appreciation potential of the toys, I bought them mainly because they gave me that same feeling that the little red dog did. It was the feeling of home, the warmth of safety and unfiltered happiness that came with being a child.

When I was 13 I shop-lifted a "Street and Smith's Pro Football Guide" from Vons. It was 1991, and it was the first thing that I ever stole. I read that thing from front to back, including all the statistics. I've bought many a pro football guide since then, but I still have my original 1991 copy. And when I see "Street and Smith's" on the newsstand, that same feeling of familiarity and happiness engulfs me. That is home, as well.

Nostalgia has permeated my evening, made me long for that feeling of home. Two days ago, I received a package from one of my dearest friends. Included in the package were pictures that we had taken a couple of years ago, on a visit to San Francisco. I hadn't thought about those few days in a while, because I find that I often get caught up in the past, ruminating on moments of purity and joy that seem to come less frequently nowadays. It makes it hard for me to live the life that I have now. I understand that the past, particularly the happy parts of it, are indelibly tinged with blurry subjectivity. Still, looking at those pictures, I could not help but drown myself in the comfortable waves of memory. My physical home is ephemeral; my real home, which consists of the people I love and the memories akin to my little red dog, are everlasting. Even when I can't take all of them with me, one of my "safeties" sends them to me via airmail. It's only a miracle if you never thought it could happen to you. I can still long and ache like a Greek tragedy...with Chinese subtitles.

It's 5 am in the morning here. I just got back from another one of those nights, doused in alcohol, cigarette smoke, and bad food at too late an hour. In front of the DJ, a greasy whiteboy in shades had his shirt unbuttoned, then his undershirt torn off by a clueless Chinese girl. She then started feeling his chest as those around me howled with either excitement or revulsion. He was in love with himself.

It was at that moment, the very second the wannabe Adonis revealed his ego to me, that I realized how I longed for home. For the people who love me, at least enough to send me a bit of home via airmail.

The Art of the Hard Bargain

They say that everything has a price. In China, everything has at least 8 of them.

Everyone has their way of bargaining and negotiating; in some circumstances, it’s a sign of weakness if you don’t do it. Like at the job interview I had at the law firm last week. After stammering and sputtering in Chinese, the interviewer finally asked me what type of remuneration I was expecting. I told him “I don’t care.” He looked offended, as if I had no sense of value or worth, since I clearly didn’t know how to assign a figure to my own contributions.

“You don’t want to negotiate your monthly salary?”

“Money’s not the most important thing to me,” I replied.

The concept was lost on him. He was Shanghai-nese, after all. With a smile, he ushered me out the door. I had failed at the art of bargaining.

When I gave the same response to the prostitute in front of the barbershop, however, there was no dispute from her at all. See? It all depends on the circumstances.

There is no better place to be immersed in the crazy art of price-bargaining in Shanghai than at XiangYang Fashion Market, where a few hundred vendors provide a bootleg buffet feast for anyone daring enough to venture in. I shan’t mention the mosquito-like dealers who shuffle about, ambushing shoppers with incessant calls of “DVD! Purse! DVD!” You have to swat them away with the grace and elegance of a fat pizza delivery man with sweaty armpits. “Me no want, go away!” I always respond, for some reason forgetting how to speak proper English. When you tussle, you gotta tussle!

Most of the vendors don’t solicit, however, and will only approach you once you’re inside, thumbing through their wares. A funny thing happens in these places, however: the longer you stay, the better their product becomes. According to them, that is. For instance, here was an exchange I had recently with a woman selling scented candles.

“So how long will this candle burn for?” I asked her.

“Well, I’d say 20 hours, but for you…30,” she responded.

Hmmm, still not long enough for me. I wandered around a bit, sniffing the other candles and picking at my ear. I returned to her 5 minutes later and picked up the same candle.

“You know, this candle smells pretty good, but it’s not quite what I’m looking for.”

“That’s no problem, it’s really because of the humidity and the temperature that’s making this candle smell this way. When you take it back to your place, it will smell exactly the way you want it to smell,” she retorted.

I still wasn’t sure if this was the right candle for me, so I furrowed my brow in thought and strolled around some more. I returned again and picked up the same candle. The woman leaned over and whispered, “You know, this candle will actually sing your favorite lullabies before you go to sleep.”

“Is it a male voice or a female voice?” I inquired.

“Male.”

I said “No thanks,” and started walking away.

“You American asshole, I should stick this candle up your ass and light it on fire!” People at XiangYang Fashion Market are really affable folk..

When you actually do find something that you want, then the bargaining begins. Different people have different methods, and some things are simply out of your control. For instance, if you speak Mandarin and not Shanghai-nese, they immediately know you’re not a local and will give you the “Chinese, but not local” price, which is usually at a 40% premium opening price. People like me usually get quoted this price, unless we take our local friends along. Watching a Shanghai-nese person negotiate price is like watching Robert Crumb drawing something on a napkin at a diner: you just don’t want to look away while it’s happening. My friend Pei Pei likes to laugh at the vendor’s opening price, no matter what it is. A recent exchange regarding a red Nike sport bag went something like this:

Pei Pei: How much for this bag?
Vendor: 120 RMB
Pei Pei (laughs)
Vendor: Ok little lady, how much then?
Pei Pei: 50 is more like it, but maybe if you’re nice I’ll go 51 RMB.
Vendor: Are you insane?
Pei Pei: Sure, if you say so.
Vendor: 90, and that’s the lowest I go
Pei Pei (slowly dropping the bag): Wow, this bag is heavy, it seems to be slipping from my grip.
Vendor: Fine, 85, but you’re really robbing me.
Pei Pei: Gosh, this bag is about to hit the ground.
Vendor: Don’t you want me to make a living?
Pei Pei: Don’t you want me to have this pretty bag?
Vendor: OK, it’s getting late and I want to go home. How about 60?
Pei Pei: 50 sounds pretty good.
Vendor: It’s only a difference of 10! What’s the big deal?
Pei Pei: If it’s really not a big deal, then you can sell it to me for 40.
Vendor (beaten): Fine, Fine, Fine. Looks like I won’t be making any money today.
Pei Pei: Wow, this bag is suddenly a lot lighter!

When you go in without local reinforcement, the problem is that no matter how hard you bargain, you’re just not quite sure if you’re still getting ripped off or not. Just because you get the vendor to go down to your opening price, how do you know that your opening price was too high to begin with? The worst scenario is when this happens:

Eric: How much for this silk brassiere?
Vendor: 80 RMB
Eric: No way, that’s way too expensive.
Vendor: Then what’s your price?
Eric: How about 60?!
Vendor: Sure, no problem.

And then the vendor starts wrapping the thing up, and you’re standing there just knowing that you got shafted. And it’s not a candy-coated feeling.
At the end of the day, the most you can hope for is to put up a good fight and walk away with something at a price that you yourself are content with. Still, I often leave the vendor after a round of bargaining with a sense that I paid just too much because I’m not local. And then I inevitably walk by a handful of American tourists, trying their best to haggle in English.

Tourist #1 to Tourist #2: This price of 200 RMB is the lowest he’ll go.
Tourist #2 to Tourist #1: What a bargain, let’s take it!

They fork over there money, the proud new owners of a red Nike sport bag.

I smile, and feel much better about myself.

Return to Pegasus

It's 3:30 am here in the Paris of the East, and I've just returned from a romp at Pegasus, the nightclub famed for it's Thursday hip-hop nights. Of course (OF COURSE!) you'll remember that Pegasus was where I first ventured out into Shanghai when I arrived oh so many moons ago. Tonight marked my triumphant return, and since some of you have inquired about the various fun activities that are available out here, I'll go ahead and give you my layman's anthropological report:

Thursday nights at Pegasus is one of those few places in Shanghai where the ratio of expats to locals is about even. I arrived at around 11:30 by myself, and at the door immediately found myself immersed in a throng of young white males, otherwise known as Testoster-predators. After paying my 30 RMB cover ($4 US), I squeezed myself into the club and began searching in vain for my friends.

There's a Chinese adage that goes "ren shan ren hai," which literally translates to "people mountain people ocean," and it essentially connotes a place that is overflowing with human beings. This is Pegasus, or what I like to call "The Orgy of the Clothed." The dance floor is full of young people trying to dance, but looking more like fleshy-pink LEGO pieces, stretching each of their limbs into whatever open space is available.

The following are categories of people that compose the "ren shan ren hai" at the club:
1) Testoster-predators
2) Asian expats guys (usually from the States)
3) Local girls looking for (in order) Testoster-predators, Asian expats
4) Local girls who are too afraid to do anything but dance with their own friends
5) Local guys (these guys get shafted, because no one is looking for them)
6) Expat women (usually looking to just dance and nothing else)
7) Casual observors (like myself), also known as "Guys with no Game"
8) Hookers

I eventually found my friends, who managed to get one of the rare tables at the place. Draft beers are discounted tonight, so I gleefully order two for myself at 25 RMB a pop ($3). The fellas I'm with are all Asian expat guys, and as usual I find them surrounded by local girls, who are all donning the appropriate uniform for attracting men: Tank tops, cute hats, ugly boots, and shaved armpits (which unfortunately are still a rare occurence in Shanghai).

The dance floor is simply too overflowing to do any dancing, so a few of us sit at the table and try our best to look cool and disinterested. My method of doing this is to look up at the ceiling and furrow my brow, as if I'm scoping for locusts. I'm inept at engaging in small talk, so after doing the traditional male greeting (double hand-shake and a pound-on-the-back hug), I find myself observing representatives of the aforementioned demographic. The local girls who haven't been picked up by the predators and the Asian expats are standing off to the side, daintily smoking cigarettes, some bobbing their heads to the beat. The expat women who came to dance are indeed dancing, resigned to the fact that most men see them as either friends or simply impossible to sleep with, so they jive and jook in their own little worlds. The local men are trying desperately to look cool, but instead flail about like drowning fish, and many of them give up and huddle with each other, sort of like Ross Perot's Reform Party in American politics.

On this night, the predators and my friends are doing quite well. The guy who has it the best is Mike Lane, who's dad is white and mother is Chinese, and who can speak English. It doesn't hurt that he's well-built, charming, and good looking. He makes pains to introduce everyone to everyone else, especially his harem of hooched-out Shanghai-nese girls to all of us guys. They smile at me, but of course, I exude the most exquisite sense of undesirability, so they quickly move on and search for other men. This leaves me in the company of my beers, and a few of my friends' "girlfriends," who are willing to take time off from observing their boyfriends dancing with other girls to engage in polite small-talk with me. We talk about a variety of mundane things, from what kind of jobs they hold to how to get Ecstasy. I douse myself in beer.

Much like my first experience here, Pegasus does not hold much promise for me. Suddenly, the tone of the evening changes. An American master of ceremonies jumps on stage. He looks like a cross between 50 Cent and...well, from where I was sitting he looked like 50 Cent. I guess he was in the mood to add a little touch of down-home American chauvinism to China, as he began asking the crowd for volunteers to go up on stage and show off their G-strings. The familiar frat-house hooting fills up the dance hall, and one lucky (clueless) Chinese girl gets on stage and gets jiggy with the music, all the while slowly pulling her jeans down to reveal...

...of course, I don't know what she was revealing, because being the good Mormon boy that I am, I averted my eyes and began praying for her soul. But it must have been titillating, because everyone else around me was standing up to get a better view. Lord help them.

The evening got better because of one reason only: someone forgot to tell the DJ we were in China, and for a good hour or two he ran off a string of unbelievable hip hop that made me feel like I was back in the Velvet Lounge in San Francisco. Jason and Joe would have been proud. Like any jazz band that has to play standards like "My Funny Valentine" and "The Way You Look Tonight," any hip-hop club has to include the following: House of Pain "Jump," Nelly "Hot in Herrrrre," and N by N "Hip Hop Hooray." But after the standards, the DJ started getting fierce with Gangstarr (Full Clip, Mass Appeal - back to back!), Tribe (Wallet in El Segundo), KRS One (Step into a World)...and the grand-daddy of them all, the guy fucking played "Mr. Dobalina" by Del the Funkee Homosapien (who you guys know is my favorite MC of all time). I couldn't believe my ears, and I was on my feet the whole time, banging my left knee against the table and screaming at no one in particular.

Music is very soothing. As I got my coat to depart, leaving my friends to continue their mack, draped by local girls (or were some of them hookers? it's so hard to tell), I was happy that I felt like I was back home again. Now if only they served burritos at Pegasus.

The Next Stone Phillips (my hero)

I am finally back in Shanghai, after what was supposed to be a three week vacation in Shenzhen (including a pit-stop in Hong Kong to take the LSATs) turned into a two month hiatus from my new home. Not that I am seeking much pity, since all I did was watch DVDs and work on my golf-tan while my comrades back in Shanghai were freezing their ass-hairs off. Sometimes, the best things just happen to the most undeserving of people.

However, stress has crept back into my life as I begin searching for a job, something I haven’t seriously done since my first semester of my last year at Berkeley. Actually, it wasn’t an effort that many people would consider calling “serious.” Now that I think about it, “half-assed” is a much more appropriate description.

Example: Here was an exchange I had during an interview with the investment bank CIBC.

Eric sits down across from the interviewer, who will hereupon be known only as Asshole Guy.

Asshole Guy: Good afternoon. So you’re interested in working for CIBC, are you?

Eric (smiling): Most definitely. Among all the other interviews I have, this is one of the few at which I am really hoping to perform well.

Asshole Guy: Great, then I’ll start by asking you what the letters CIBC stand for?

(3 full minutes pass in silence)

Asshole Guy: Eric? Do you know the answer?

Eric: Um, the Canadian International Bank of…Canada?

Asshole Guy: Sorry, it’s the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce.

Eric: Should I leave now?

Asshole Guy: Yes.

I’ve had an overwhelming fear of job interviews ever since. I only got the job at Intel because I slept with the CEO, and if I have to resort to using my body again, however lithe and sexy it may be, in order to secure a salary, I may have to up and move to another country. Again.

My point is, the stress is creeping back into my life. In the mean-time, I’m doing some freelance writing work to make some money so that I can buy some long underwear. Apparently, the arts and entertainment editor at the English-language magazine That’s thinks that I’m bilingual, so she called on me to interview the producer of an upcoming play for an article in the March issue. Little does she know that I only know about 50 basic words in Chinese, most of the curse words, but I’ve spent many an hour at home practicing my pronunciation, and at this point I can pronounciate the HELL out of those 50 words. Still, I needed the money, so I agreed to do the interview, and diligently spent a few hours in the afternoon researching how to say “play, actors, inspiration, and burrito” in Chinese (the last one was for my own edification).

Anyway, here’s a little sample of how the interview went from my perspective:
Eric: I’m just wondering what the basic premise of this play is?

Mr. Bai: Sure, we’re trying to dhfjskdhfjsadhfjahdsjfhkasdhfkadfhjhadsk

jfhjdhfjadkfjhd. Eric: Uh, I seeeeeeeee… Mr. Bai: And really, what we’re trying to do is, sadjfhkjsdhfjkahdjfhasdkjfhasjkdhfjakdhfjsdhfjhsfjksadhfasdfjhaksdfjasdkfhaskdfhjasdfkjhadsf Eric: Ah, I see. Interesting… Mr. Bai: You have heard of us doing kajsdhfkadhfjkahdsjhfklsadhf before, right? Eric: That sounds illegal. Mr. Bai: Excuse me? Eric: Should I leave now? Mr. Bai: Yes It’s all a bit hyperbole, of course, but it just made me realize how much more I need to go before I attain my goal of being the next Stone Phillips of China. First, I’d have to change my passport to reflect my new name, which will take about 4 months to process, and then I’d have to register to become a citizen “of China,” which will take another few years. It makes my head hurt just thinking about it. As I type this right now, I’m staring at the collection of DVDs sitting on my desk: The Simpsons (Complete Third Season), South Park (Volume 8-11), the complete Hayao Miyazaki collection, and the first three seasons of The Sopranos. I did a quick calculation in my head, and after 10 minutes I whipped out the calculator, and after punching a few numbers I surmised that I have about 48 straight hours worth of entertainment sitting on my desk, of which I have watched 24 minutes. Underneath the desk sit about 80+ DVDs, most of which I have yet to watch. I am a man-child literally engulfed with media. Shopping for DVDs has slowly become a dangerous addiction for me. I’ve been back in Shanghai for about four full days now, and have already walked into various DVD stores 7 times now, never walking away empty-handed. I am quite proud of my collection. From the classics (Lawrence of Arabia, The Graduate) to movies that have yet to be released (Dogville, Elephant); from the testosterone-ridden (Ronin, The French Connection) to the meditative (English Patient, The Thin Red Line); from the patently commercial (S.W.A.T., Matrix Revolutions) to the intellectual art-house film (Russian Ark, The War Zone, Backstage Sluts 4); I’ve got them all. And what do I do but spend 4 hours a day on my computer playing Freecell. I’m lousy at utilizing resources, but pretty fucking great at Freecell! I used to feel bad about buying all these bootlegged DVDs. I once spent $70 (US) at a Best Buy for the entire Godfather DVD Collector’s Edition, and didn’t wince when I saw it being sold here for $3.50 (US). But something funny happens when you’re swimming in a sea of Chinese soap operas and terribly grating variety shows: you learn to shed your own moral chastity belt and just got for it. With no burritos in sight, it’s one of the few connections I have with the States. Guilt dissipates quickly when you’re forced to watch old re-runs of Communist farmer propaganda from the 50’s. Sanity dissipates, too. I guess that’s how the Reds got hundreds of millions of people to wear grey for so long.