Shanghai Vixen

Bjoston is here. Bjoston is here. Bjoston is here. Bjoston is here.

In Shanghai.

Bjoston is here.

The love of my life has appeared on my doorstep with his wife. The childhood sweetheart he told me he’s never loved, but feels obliged towards. Who he left me for.

I never stopped loving him. But I grew disgusted with him, how he’d live a lie, a sham relationship that he admits to everyone except her, as if wanting it to trickle back.

And now he is here. He has moved to my country, my city. Which is pretty fucking weird.

Bjoston is here.

I love China.

I love Shanghai.

Immensely fucked up place it is, annoyingly trendy and misconstrued, and all the horrible things that happen here – it is my home and I love it.

I’m now wincing my way through the film “Jesus Camp”. It is hard to watch: it is the story of my childhood.

The physical landscapes of the film are moving and appalling. They remind of what freaks me out about America whenever I return there.  More bleakly corporate, soulless and miserable than a Chinese sweatshop factory, they echo against this ignorant celebration of “Americanness”  as its own oblivious virtue. Obese overconsuming ignorance subsidized by Chinese sweatshop workers.

I love the idea of America – but the reality is rather obscene. The structure and ideology of China disturbs me, but the reality is amazing.  I love the idea of America, and much of its reality: the opportunity, the meritocracy, the diversity, some of the people. I love a lot about America.

I love America.

I love the actuality of China. The squirrelly individuality, the water through rocks stubbornness of the people, their practicality, their jaded idealism. I love a lot about China.

I love China.

“Jesus Camp” disconcerted me on so many levels. That self-righteous, xenophobic provincialism of Americans, even the non-fundies, is creepy.

What got to me most were the flashbacks it inspired to my own youth. I was a hardcore kid like the three featured in the film. Less outgoing but equally zealous. I protested abortion clinics for several years in my tweens. I was the most holier than Christian in the fundie school. I was hardcore. My only sin was pride.

My problem then with Jesus camps was how redundant and boring they were. If a “good” Christian kid, it was such preaching to the converted. I was always the most serious kid at bible camp, so the usual exhortations were just dull to me.

Those bland auditoriums all blend together, as do the sermons. But it was at one, when I was twelve or thirteen, that I couldn’t take the repetitive boredom anymore. Desperate for distraction, I: started picking at my cuticles.

And that, my friends and frenemies, is Christianity’s biggest legacy for me. I bite my cuticles until they bleed, and the skin down past the knuckle sometimes. It is a disgusting but comforting habit that has stuck with me to varying degrees for two decades. I shake it for a while, but as soon as I’m stressed or whatever I return to form, often without even noticing until my thumbs are oozing blood.

Jesus Camp upset and enlightened me so; including remembering how and why I started to eat myself alive. Physically, metaphorically.

First, the old tennis ball rolls into view. Pause. Then I hear the heavy beating breath of an excited Persian. Wheeze. Silver Lining attacks: frantic kill mode ensues for about forty seconds. Then he wanders off, bored now!, and meticulously licks his ass.

Ah, cats.

It is not one night but three – actually four – that usher me forward. Today, Saturday, was one of those nights that are so promising but turn out slightly disappointing. I gunned over to Shanghart, and had a good gamble with some old friends, including being taught some good dirty jokes in Shanghainese. As Lao Wen was writing them down for me, his eight year old daughter (usually a shy kiddo after my own heart) kept demanding to see. Kids are like cats, contrary like thats.

After the opening, there was a caravan from Moganshan to the far south of Shanghai. Back by the South Station, site of my first two residences in Shanghai. Bad old days. (And my third was blocks from Moganshan – bases covered.) We took the scenic route, may I say. To an “art Karaoke” selected by our friends at Shanghart: the boss had bought lots of works by edgy Shanghai artists and installed them around the venue.  Effect: very strange.

The gallery had a big room, and a buffet in the hallway. I was the Twipper at first, but soon joined by my ex-colleague and fellow art writer Gilly. “I can’t sit with you. It’s embarrassing when the only white people stick together.” Soon, though, the Caucasian ranks expanded and we felt freer to interlope. Gilly is someone I need to have a good long talk with during my Big Think, but it was too loud for it tonight.

As the white ranks expanded, they included a woman I met at the Chanel party – where she had groupied me up. “OMG, you’re [Shanghai Vixen], I want to be you!!” To which I am, all, “Eeep?” She had scared off an important contact for me then, but had seemed such a nice eager kid that I sent her a friendly follow-up email with some job offerings that seemed at her level. She never responded. But, with the champagne and exhaustion goggles, I barely recognized her. She’s actually older than me, and acted quite the party crasher socialite wannabe. This time she pretended to barely recognize me: she went from knowing my entire personal history to “forgetting” even my name. Huh. People are weird.

I was for once bad at the integration. I blame KTV. I am a rocker wench, and my oldest Shanghai community consists of musicians. Their disdain for KTV out-drips mine for white tourists in knee socks and fanny-packs. I lived in Shanghai for nine years without going to KTV; and that was a group of Cantonese artists who mostly re-sang the same five Chinese rock songs over and over. My second KTV experience was Kazza’s birthday last year, consisting of me, her, her boyfriend and lots of Abba. She is Hongkonger. Note trend. Tonight was largely Shanghainese, and bad pop galore. There exists a lot of bad “music” for the sole purpose of making drunks sound good at KTV. As someone who loves music, I loath loath loath.

I fled to Mao to heal my ears with a good dose of New Pants. They did not disappoint, and the two hot singers took turns crowd surfing at one point. Caught up with Jifu, at one point jokingly tapped his head for forgetting something big with me. Oh, yeah: can’t do that. Physical contact and jesty familiarity with the ex-spouse I work with and still mutually love: brings out the awkward that we’re still trying to kill kill kill.

His hair is so soft. Things I’m better off forgetting.

Adding to the erm of the night, Jifu was joking around for a long while with the ex-girlfriend of Unmilitary. Best friend and bandmate of my last love Yaya, Unmilitary is stunning and sweet, one of the best men I know. He was with this girlfriend throughout my mess with Yaya, which he was a great shoulder for. I’ve always adored Unmilitary, but he was taken, and just as well: old rocker, old pal of my rocker ex and other rocker friends, problematic crushage 101.

It was summer when I bumped into Unmilitary at Yuyintang and he informed that his girlfriend had dumped him. The notice sent me immediately into a spin: on the one hand, I have always wanted to fuck him and his cheekbones; on the other, I do not want life with an unemployed high school dropout (however sweet and gorgeous), and I will not casually fuck an old friend and member of my community. And then there’s Yaya.

Anyhow, I feel weirder about seeing Unmilitary’s ex than my own.

Last night was James Cohen gallery opening, a good crush of good friends. No Tata this time, surprisingly, but I did come late. Dinner after was interesting as I plopped next to this so fascinating Wenzhounese-French guy. I have heard before about the European-educated generation of Wenzhouning who end up speaking no Mandarin, no English, just Italian or French and Wenzhounese. He was not quite one of those, but with spotty Mandarin and really interesting identity issues. We bonded over the neither-nor of our respective identity dilemmas, and the semi-racist self-importance of most foreigners in China. Funny that I am more comfortably “Chinese” than he, but I have spent more of my adult life here than he. And, as a progressive (or trying to be) ethnic-European, I am very self conscious and careful about “Chineseness” in ways that an ethnic Asian or Han would not be.

This all pulls us back to Thursday. Ah, Thursday! What a night. Wednesday was good too, but normal good. Friends, drinks, conversation, yeah. But Thursday. Started at Elisabeth’s, met a cool Taiwanese-American girl who I think will become a good friend. Then to Fellini, dragged there by Santos, who stood me up there. Instead, I encountered Tata, and spend a wonderful long night getting better to know him.

Tata: so cool, so interesting, the more I know him the more I like him. Much more there than meets the eye. Turns out he’s not just T-A, he grew up in Germany, and is quite European in many ways. He, his family, his education, all interestingly unique.  I always knew there was a “there” there with Tata, and this is only the surface of that there. Not sure whether or not romantically, but: iLike.

He hung around for a while, and the 身体语言was good. We swapped respective cultural freakishnesses, career insecurities. I felt a something – but Tata fled first. But not before requesting my number, and joking that we’ll probably encounter again soon anyhow. Now he has me, I lack him.

Itchy, I wandered on to the Cantina Agave party around the block. I bumped into Susu’s exish-girlfriend, had a long talk with her. That included her jokingly encouraging me to date him, so he’d be in good hands; if there was ever a time I wish I liked white boys, Susu is HOT, but it would be like dating a cousin. This week, Susu and Minty: I so wish I were attracted to these guys, but I’m not. No reflection on them, just my sexual imprinting didn’t go that way. However, it’s great, there is something so wonderful about having hetero guy friends without sexual tension. I have girl-crushes on them both, such pleasant safe zones.

At Cantina Agave I met Ali, a hot young sourcer from Dubai. He is pretty, and I am feeling brave: after snogging some he talked me into going to his hotel room, albeit with agreement that the door stays open and he behaves. I have a healthy fear of date rape.

“I JUST met you. I will not fuck you. I am rather conservative sexually, respect that.” Future reference: I should not admit to my blue belt in these situations: some men find that a dare.  Ali was alright, but still pressuring, and at one point it took a mean nipple twist to get him to…calm down.

(I did not learn that at my dojo.)

That was fun. Despite his  employment of “Ooh, I want to put it in your ass” as a pick-up line. Really, does that ever work? Geez, men. I am curious whether Ali will call me. He has my number, I don’t have his. I am probably in the ranks of “too much effort” even for a blonde trophy; not high maintenance, just cautious.

How odd that my last post was on Ah Ren, ah again. Even his re-re-return recently failed to motivate me to ruminition - here at least. At least I remembered to tell him I love him. “You too,” he replied, in the safe neutrality of text messaging, after my unsuccessful attempt to kiss him goodbye - again, again - but in a way that could be blamed on alcohol and/or air-kisses in a moving vehicle.

Even that, a month ago, feels epic lifetimes ago - while decades nip at my heels. I interviewed Karl Lagerfeld, I protested a racist fashion event, I lost my job…so much has happened, so much has changed this month so far. I am exhausted yet feel a decade younger, so ripe and drippy with possibility.

Joblessness is scary, and yet - I know I am so intelligent, skilled, competent and capable that I will land on feet. I want to avoid hubris, hubris got me into my current crisis=opportunity. It was not even of the arrogant kind, my usual achilles, but rather of the physical overestimation sort.

Thoughts, terrors, hopes. I am finally able to eat again, after a week of frenzied exerciise on an empty stomach - fueled by coffee and milk, hardly friends to any internal membranes but at least I haven’t gone any worse than woozy. Now it is sleep that evades, at least at convenient hours. I have been minimizing alcohol in hopes of circumventing a seasonal and/or situational funk, but the boozy woozies have been replaced by serious insomnia. Oh, if only I could work well late at night! I can, if on deadline. But otherwise - nah.

I have a three-pronged priority structure for the next two weeks and the beginnings of 二十一十: 1. Book. 2. Freelancing. 3. Revenue. I hope to finish chaptah twah of the book before the end of the year; dare I admit it is undoable? Trying not to. This is one improbable deadline that won’t cost me my job. If I say I can, then I can. And other fatal attitudes.

The past ten days have been a time of much brain-wracking and soul searching. Whither my life? Or else wither my life. My life has been withering for so long, a comfortable stagnation of habit.

The last several years have been groundhogs days, the same articles over and over again, just different information in the templates. Textile moods good, bad, uglies. Famous designer comes to China, says stupid things about it. Rinse, repeat - and you can never rinse hard enough.

I grew fat, comfortable, complacent and unhappy. My life was on pause until I finished the book, but I could never finsh the book under that situation. Oh, it so sucks how it ended - so pathetic and stupid and pointless - but I am now so glad it did. It wasn not a bad job, but it had become a bad world for me. The rut that I allowed to hijack my life.

I have been much curled up with my diary and notes, accounting for and hopefully learning from my fuck up, and exploring the myriad what nows.

I plotted out a lot of plans and ambitions, more specific than and in advance of my year end usuals. What do I need to happen in my life? Book out. Find a partner. Be financially more secure. The big things, the decade’s bucket list, is a little more flexible.

Other things aren’t. I want to have my first child when I am 36. That means that, two years from now, I will be pregnant. Which - makes me want a drink.

I don’t want to get married, but I want to find a partner I adore as much as I did Jifu, but who I can spend my life with. I don’t want to procreate with a random or bland boy du jour. I want to love madly, and be loved by, someone who both fits me and who tickles me in places I don’t yet know exist. I want to meet someone who catches up with, who challenges, but doesn’t condescends to, me. Boys I want to fuck are everywhere; boys I want to cleave to and make pretty babies with are not so easily come by. I am brainy, geeky, nerdy, complicated, culturally convoluted: as I get older, career gets s omewhat easier but loves gets harder.

At the succession of Chanel events that proved so fateful and bizarre, I reconnected with Jiudelai, a Hongkonger photographer I have know for many years, but never very well. It had been months since I had seen him, and at the dinner we beamed at each other. Surprised, nostalgic, awkward. The following day, at the party, we reencountered, and it was obvious enough even for my thick skull: we like each other. I stole a few moments with him, before rushing home to work and file - nothing juicy, just friendly and cuddly. And quite deliciously close to kissing.

I had ran out of name cards, so Jiudelai gave me his. A distinctive design so familiar: I realesized how many copies I must have of his card. How many times I have forgotten his name, unintentionally blown him off. He has taken many of my favorite photos of myself and my friends, he has always been around and smiling so shyly and beautifully - a good photographer yet so unintrusive.

Has he always liked me? I started to like him two and a half years ago at that Versace thing. Jiu De Lai, long time coming, indeed.

And now I cannot find his card.

Even in my transitional mess, I pulled it out as a precious thing, left it in a precise place. Thinking, I do not know if he is what I want and need, but he could be. Now: where? I am so desperate to find him.

Last night at the gym, I saw Biteable for the first time in a year. He is, the same. Gorgeous, awkward. I was busier ogling a hunky ABC, who talks in Mandarin with the ol’ timers (not that I hear much through my news podcasts) but his expressions, wardrobe and body language so give him away. Decent but hardly Biteable, but he has enough of that ABC awkward to endear me — and I admit at point my current bulge battle he is prettier than me.

Tonight was an event at a department store - ah old histories, and also old friends, invites not job contingent. I encountered Tata, a T-A ex-journo with convenient initials who always confuses me. Straight-laced but dryly humorous, handsome and intelligent. Flirty but reserved towards me. He either, 1. is very Christian, 2. has a girlfriend, or 3. semi-likes me back but has hangups: I am white, I am too fat, I am too famous, I am too weird, et al et al.

Onward to the That’s annual Christmas huh. Two years ago I was getting over Ah Ren - that went so well. A year ago I first met Worm in person - that went so well. This time, besides connecting with some old friends, and the odd of a Worm friend hitting on me, it was pretty bland. But Su was there, and it was my mutual friend with Worm who got me in.

Thanks to her, and apologies, but it was a sad little party. Too loud, a creepy club of a venue - Sin - which reminds how little Shanghai’s nightlife has changed in eleven years: from crappy, to crappy and obnoxious. House music is genenic engineering of the worst of pop music: cheesey but fond old music hybridized with the most marketable whack whack whack beats and tunes of of the newest trends.

“This music makes me want to cut myself,” I winced at Su.

“It reminds me of when I was a nerdy left-out kid,” he shrugged. “But I am happy to see people happy.”

“Even mockery would not ameliorate the misery this music is causing me,” I did not say but remember feeling.

I should always, ALWAYS, pack earplugs.

After Ah Ren left a month ago, I largely forgot him. There was this fling shortly after, its own bizarre story, a head cold and a lot of work. Ah Ren left me with a quantity of books, CDs, DVDs; I have not yet tackled the books, but the rest… I have become addicted due to to him to “The Wire” - and see how much it informs his work in the US, and fascination with the US. (And I think his boredom with China reflects his hanging out with the wrong people. Ie not enough of me.) His music is that of a soul resembling an ingrown nail, even more an introvert than I.

Ah Ren was startled to discover my chronic shyness; most people are. Yet he, surprisingly, is too. How much has our weird flirtation kept us from knowing each other?

I have since hung out with the other girl, probably in my same “encouraged flirtation but going nowhere shoes”. Easy to be friends in his absence.

It’s these expat boy men and their commitment issues: they can’t even commit enough to say “no” - let alone yes. They drag out, jerk around, like one of those creepy toy chipmunks-in-bag. Ah Ren, Worm, Chairman…all the same boat. I understand, I’m a bit there myself, but I at least can commit enough to say yes or no - even after a while of maybe, apologies to Gym Boy.

Thing is, even with all their man-boy shit, I could…maybe not settle down, but at least really try, with Worm or Ah Ren. Utterly different relationships, yet they leave me with the similar what the fuck-age sort of feeling. It simply is hard. I still love them both; Worm is down the street but a battle to even still see, Ah Ren is another continent yet will answer my emails immediately and I suspect would be giddy should I call or skype him. Yet I feel I barely know Ah Ren. Our last day was a display of awkward, exemplified by our goodbye: he went to kiss, I went to hug, and it all came out wrong. None of the messy if brief intimacy I had with Worm - something else, perhaps fucked by the tension and mystery?

“I Love You” - Sarah Mclauchlan

I have a smile
stretched from ear to ear
to see you walking down the road

we meet at the lights
I stare for a while
the world around disappears

just you and me
on this island of hope
a breath between us could be miles

let me surround you
my sea to your shore
let me be the calm you seek

oh and every time I’m close to you
there’s too much I can’t say
and you just walk away

and I forgot
to tell you
I love you
and the night’s
too long
and cold here
without you
I grieve in my condition
for I cannot find the strength to say I need you so

oh and every time I’m close to you
there’s too much I can’t say
and you just walk away

and I forgot
to tell you
I love you
and the night’s
too long
and cold here
without you

Dear Blog.com:

Your new user interface is a lot more new coke, and even less new facebook. In other words, it sucks. I really miss the old, convenient interface.

Between force of habit, and that you’re not blocked in China, I’ll stay around for now as a free content provider. However, I must protest that the old dashboard and user interface was waaaaaaaaaaaaaay more convenient than the new one. New one is a fucking pain in the fucking ass - especially here in China where every “special” page takes weeks to load.

You should give users a choice between old or new interfaces, and a chance to specialize between them. Surely the programming is not that hard.

In this city here, I feel an endless transience: for myself, no; but friends come and go and with violent abandon. I have such friends/family here, but yet their reliability is cobwebby. The only thing I can rely upon is the strangers who recognize me, the opportunists who kiss my ass,  the heat and my cat.

My best friend Brilly has returned home, and it makes a world of difference, and yet so much has shifted.

And Ah Ren has also returned, appropos in inconsistant spurts. He contemplated staying for good, racheting up the F factor in our always confusingly flirty friendship.

There are moments when he feels like home.

Mutually? But, once he decided to return to his native shores again, a subtle distance emerged. Well ahead of my knowing of his decision.

He leaves tomorrow night. We’re hanging out in the afternoon. He showed up, at my invite, to an art event tonight. In tow was a young woman, a mutual acquaintence. When Ah Ren was here last November, she had tagged along to dinner with us and some friends of ours she knows. She is nice, but a bit clueless. She is almost a decade younger than me, and fifteen years younger than Ah Ren. Tonight I noticed that she is clinging to, crushing upon him. There was a vibe where I felt like he was playing the two of us, two women he knows like him, against each other.

It pissed me off. I know well that he enjoys stringing along adoring younger women, but… But.

“She’s kinda mousy”, Brilly or someone volunteered. “How can she be competing with you?” No, she’s a great young woman, but if Ah Ren encourages her schoolgirl crush, it’s just creepy.

That playing is an assholy thing to do, subtle enough for a male feminist but shitty in the romantic context.

I could also be faulted, I was slightly aloof tonight. Not deliberately. Not totally deliberately. I do not want to monopolize him. Well, I WANT to monopolize him…it just seems like I shouldn’t. Well expired beyond chasing, that window was almost two years ago. So fast gone. The initial fascination is gone, but such affection replaces it, and I find that there is always more to find about him.

I have done 90% with him, and now 49.99999999999999999999999% is all I can offer. I don’t know how to handle a spasmatic 37%. I know that I care for him, he is so dear to me. I don’t know what to do except let him go. Again. And again. And again. And again.

Which is the opposite of what I want to do, but I cannot imagine doing anything else.  And yet I cry at the imagining. Is this something I should tell him?

I first fell for him as an idealization; since I have realized how very weird he is. I prefer the oddity to the projection, his quirks to his image. I continue to discover so much about him. I find it impossible to abstractly sexualize him, because….he is my friend, my Ah Ren, and I long sense isolated if not cauterized those emotions toward him.

Yet, here I still am. Loving, annoyed with, Ah Ren.

I never let myself fall. For him. Or for Worm. Is this wise? Or emotional suicide? Until it is too late. Too late.

This tornado loves you.  This tornado loves you. This tornado loves you. This tornado loves you. This tornado loves you. This tornado loves you. This tornado loves you. This tornado loves you.

What will make you believe me?