Shanghai Vixen

Yay! I have a date!

Sort of. I think. Well, it's an accepted invitation to what appears to be a datish sort of thing, made under highly flirtatious pretenses, without the date for the possible, um, date, set.

Have I mentioned that I suck at this?

I'm good at relationships. I know how to do relationships. The daily bump'n'grind I excell at; it's getting *into* the relationships that I have never figured out. It seems to require much "Eek!"s and "Huh?"s and general telling of brain to shut up already, which should surprise no one is not my strong suite.

I have already mentioned the hot new white belt at my Taekwondo class, who I've been ogling for a while (he seemed to be ogling back, for once I was right) and finally exchanged "nong hao"s with last week. Well, I went to class tonight, and there he was, earnestly struggling to master his roundhouse kick. (It killed me as a white belt too.) After class, he was lurking watching the black and red belts show off, and I passed him on the way out.

"你好!"
"Hey." The ice we broke last week, this part was easy.
"So, how many classes are you at?" Ah, martial arts pick-up lines. At our school, after 15 classes you can test for the next belt promotion.
"Fourteen. You?"
"Thirty or fourty. I can't come that often, and am still struggling to master the twirly kick." The twirly kicks a fucking bitch. But I will - I WILL make it my bitch. No matter that I have the balance of a lopsided hippo.
"Do you still go to the gym?"
"Yeah. Huh? You go to [my gym]?" At his affirmative, I cover, "Oh, no wonder you look familiar!"

Bull. Shit. Vixen. He doesn't look remotely familiar (apart from eerie resemblance to Manila Moxie), I just found him very (very, very) cute. And: how long has he been observing me for at the gym? Eek! (This is where the eek!s and huh?s come in.) I've been going to the same gym for six years; probably every single one of the two million occupants of Xuhui Qu have seen me there or en route in all my scruffy, sweaty, scraggly glory. 古怪小老外! Great. Just great. See previous post re: foreign pet factor. Not to mention double dose of shitting where you eat. Why does it seem I only meet hot hetero men when I'm concentratingly exercising and hence in scruffy, sweaty, scraggly 古怪小老外 mode? Further proof: men are freaks.

I asked when he goes, he started describing his elaborate gym schedule, which often includes mid-afternoon. I asked why he has such an odd work schedule, he explained he's in advertising. My excuse? Journalist. "Ah, no wonder!"s were exchanged. I asked which company, he explains that he has a freelance design company, I explained that I do some advertising coverage. He then suggests dinner sometime, "I'm sure we'd have lots to talk about!" I too eagerly agree. So: date, or not a date? I guess we'll find out. Am I jinxed if I admit it seems promising?

He then runs to the men's locker room to get me his name card. As we swap, he leans over to study the artsy-fartsy stylized characters on mine. Sweat is dripping off his chisled chin, I fantasize about lapping it up. Mmm. This is where it got funny. Again with the foreign pet factor, I am the only foreigner at our school, so besides the people I know and practice with (and even them to an extent), they're all rather curious about me. As he peers over and tries to decifer the confusing 字, suddenly we are surrounded by six classmates - all male.  They're all like, "Why does *he* get a card?! We've been beating you up for years!" although they're too polite to say it. The guessing game goes on for a while, finally I relent and tell them, joking that my name card is the ultimate Chinese exam.

The white belt's name is punable for "Biteable", so I shall call him that, and he definitely is. At this point, grinning sheepishly, we bid fairwell and reiterate dinner intentions.
"那, 就这样!" (Ok, that's all! Which actually isn't rude in Chinese.) I start backing out.
"就这样!" (That's all!)
"以后再联系吧." (Be in touch.)
"或者在锻炼房见." (Or, see you at the gym.)
"对.或者下次见." (Right. Or see you at class.)
"是啊!" (Indeed!)
"好的. 呗呗了!" (Ok. Bye!)

This possibly could have gone on much longer, except I have learned one rule, namely "leave before you embarass yourself."  Did I mention that I suck at this?

Anyhow. Damn he's cute. Apart from being a six foot something, Chinese, male version of my five foot, female, Jewish, blonde friend Moxie, he has a really striking face, great chin and cheekbones, yet more accessible due to the geeky Clark Kent glasses. Amazing body, great butt and shoulders. Really sweet and polite so far, didn't ask any of the usual obnoxious "meeting a laowai!" questions, nor did he do the usual freak out at my amazing capacity to converse, just an aside that "your Chinese is good, how long have you been here?" At my answer, he grinned, "You must have moved here as a baby!" Hardly, but it feels like it sometimes.

So, I'll be heading back to the US for Christmas through January, and need to book my ticket and plan the trip already. I'm procrastinating on it because of the deeply conflicted feelings I always have about going "home".

Those can be summarized in one word: Momsie. She called me a few days ago to inform cheerily that she had "accidentally" drunk Lysol - an American cleaning fluid - the night before. Typical cry for attention from Miss Melodrama herself. She had bought groceries and had the Lysol next to a bottle of soda on the floor (yes, apparently she serves herself off the floor), and didn't bother turning on the light before pouring herself a cuppa and having a swig, which she didn't swallow. She then spent three hours on the phone with poison control making sure she wouldn't die.

This is the short version of course. One could wonder why it took her three hours to receive an explanation that would require five minutes, but consider that this is a woman who calls the cops several times a week because she misplaced an earring or something and is convinced that "someone" (my obnoxius uncle J) broke in and stole it. In other words, she harasses whoever she can find because it's the only human contact she can get, since her paranoia, accusatory rants and general whinyness have alienated all of her friends and family.

Even talking to her on the phone stirs a desire to take razors to my flesh. She's taking to talking in this cutesy falsetto baby voice. I don't know if she thinks it's appealing, or it's a sign her mind is going further. Possibly both. Combine this trait with the fact that not a word comes out of her that's not complaining about whoever's "abusing" her lately and why her life sucks, perhaps you can understand the razor fantasies. I think I handle fairly well the baggage that comes from deeply despising both of my biological parents, but contact with my mom just riccochets me back to self-loathing teenage insecurity.

So, already I'm having the intense anxiety nightmares that preclude any visit to San Diego. I'm going to spend Christmas with my adopted family, the Buffs, and of course to see all my US friends, my extended "real" family. The dilemma, though, is whether to spend part of Christmas with mommy dearest. I suppose it's unavoidable as I want to see my grandmother, who would never keep the secret of my presence from my mom. And Momma Buff  is a too kind soul who takes pity on her and guilt trips me for avoiding her. So, I will have to navigate a delicate path between obligatory misery with the biological family and having a merry Christmas with my adopted family.

My plan is to make the obligatory mom time more sufferable by planning activities. The idea is to distract her from talking constantly. She was a surfer girl when young, and I really want to learn to surf, so I'm thinking of buying her a session or two of surfing lessons for Christmas. Taking her scuba diving is also very tempting - no talking! - but she'd probably panic. Another idea is to buy her a cookbook or two and learn some recipes together. The problem is that she only likes WASP food and tex-mex; attempts to introduce her to "ethnic" cuisines (unless really crappy Americanized "Chinese" food) have failed.

It's worth the grief, though. The following day Jersey Girl, one of my best friends from college, called me up. She's in DC working in government, and totally sucks at staying in touch, but compensates by making long phone calls once or twice a year. Can't wait to see her, and all of you. Will probably bop up to LA for new year's with Theramini and others in the lala crowd, then spend most of January visiting those of you on the east coast. Manila Moxie will be back in Boston as well, so that will balance the expected bittersweet of seeing my lost love Bjoston again. Yeah, US visits deluge me with a lot of emotional intensity packed into a few deliriously short weeks.

Oh, and La Espanita is back in Argentina (where her mom's from), and I have a standing invite to go hang out with her in Buenos Aires. Her mom is already boring her senseless. Very, very tempting. But, can I really afford the money and time?

I don't read much Western coverage of China, even by my friends, much anymore, let alone bloggage about China coverage. Since I'm already attached directly to the teat of the source, much of it is redundant to me. A lot is also painfully idiotic.

I'd say most my foreign correspondent colleagues do fairly good jobs, although there are a few I consider incompetent idiots. Mostly they are constrained by editors who want very stilted, silly China copy. The idiocy of what many readers and editors want in their China stories is a major reason I mostly work for trade or Hong Kong based publications. They do not request of me what I call the "Ooh sparkly neon!" coverage.

As my pal Paul French, author and market researcher, puts it, "Neon is cheap. But it always seems to impress the visiting journalists so."

I have developed a deep loathing for visiting journalists. It's become popular with a lot of publications, even those with professional correspondents already here, to send over one of their star staffers to live in Shanghai for a couple of months and do diary/blog sort of articles about life here. Invariably they all write the exact same stupid, condescending, delicate grasp of the obvious pieces.

Such as:
* Shanghai has a construction boom!
* Juxtaposition of old and new! Of "East" and "West"! (Accompanied by a photo of an old Chinese guy in his pjs eating at McDonalds.)
* Piracy is ubiquitous!
* The Chinese dress funny!
* Chinese traffic is scary!
* The produce comes still alive!
* The Chinese eat funny stuff!
* Young Chinese are so "Westernized"!

Etc, etc. Imagine doing the same in coverage of America:
* Americans are so fat!
* Americans have no sense of geography!
* American malls all have exactly the same stores and products!
* Americans exhibit a sense of entitlement!
* Americans aren't actually all Caucasian!
* Even many poor Americans own cars!
* Americans will actually pay a lot of money for casual wear!
* Americans don't drink tea, and when they do, it comes in baggies!

Man, America's so *different*! So, imagine a reporter for Slate or the San Francisco Chronicle or The Atlantic doing separate articles on each of those topics and you have the idiocy of these visiting journalists' China stories. Only my American list is arguably more nuanced because, you know, it's made by someone who has spent more than five minutes in the place and actually speaks the local dialect (although my American getting rusty).

Right, they're idiots who simply embarass themselves, so why should I care? Well, for one I'm jealous and angry. Because they make more money and write for better-regarded publications than I do. It's a common phenomenon: local hires get no respect and crap pay, even though we do a better job than the shipped-in clueless expatriate. If I wanted a staff correspondent job for a big publication, I would have to: move to the US, work in a local office for several years, and cue up for the desirable China job, probably watching bitterly as colleagues with no language ability or China experience are given priority because they have seniority within the publication. Ah, one more reason to stay freelance.

But it bugs me more on a philosophical level. My personal mission, along with supporting the emergence of independent creativity in Shanghai, is to capture and convey what's really going on in my adopted city and country. So I resent these simplistic and condescending characatures of them as depicted in these touristy stories.

Ah, yet another article about China's so-called "blogging beauties", but at least one that makes fun of them. The most hilarious thing about these self-obsessed girls who blog (or, worse, write books) praising their own beauty and sluttiness is that most of them are quite unattractive. Muzimei is a total dog, and this latest "Guoxue Spice Girl" is quite average. I think Sister Furong is rather cute, since she has the t&a that are so elusive for most Chinese girls, but in China that makes her "portly". (Whatever.)

It amazes me that some women think that having sex with lots of men proves their attractiveness. Men are easy, and an undiscriminating and shameless woman of almost any appearance can get laid quite easily.  

In related news, my friend in the industry informs that Bai Ling was just in town shooting the film version of "Shanghai Baby". Ah, yes, the kind of face that only a drunk, aging laowai could love.

Narcissism produces cyber celebrities

By Li Qian (Chinadaily.com.cn)
Updated: 2006-11-22 17:04

Another Sister Furong has made an appearance in cyberspace as narcissistic amateur celebrities continue to flood the cyber world. The Beijing Youth Daily took a look at these people on November 20.

Self-proclaimed 'Guoxue (national studies) Spice Girl' Bai Luming recently attracted attention from Internet users by posting her coquettish photos taken in front of the Confucius statue at Guo Zi Jian, the Imperial College of the Yuan, Ming and Qing dynasties, onto the web.

The nineteen-year-old senior claimed to be highly civilized-reciting ancient poems at one, chanting lections at four, learning all kinds of musical instruments at five and performing folk, hip hop and tap dancing at six.

She also claimed to be the 53rd descendant of the great Tang Dynasty (618-907AD) poet Bai Juyi, but Bai Jian, secretary general of the Bai Juyi Descendant Commission, announced on November 19 that she was not.

Most netizens, however, didn't care about Bai's civilized life, it was her madcap remarks that interested them.

'I'm the best at attracting men. I could even attract Confucius," she wrote. "Confucius, are you lonely? I feel alone too." The young girl even claimed to be worth 100,000 yuan for a one-night stand.

The girl's daring behavior incurred fierce criticism from netizens, who accused her of sullying Confucius and of trying to use her sexy talk and photos to become famous.

China Youth Study editor-in-chief Liu Junyan said that "loving yourself is good as long as its within reason. Unhealthy displays of private opinion or one's body is not civilized social behavior."

The Guoxue Spice Girl is just one in the long line of 'cyber celebrities' that began to appear before the new millennium.

Mu Zimei showed off her thin figure and recorded her numerous romances with men on her weblog. Sister Furong was well known for posing like the letter 'S' in photos and dancing while shaking her portly body.

'February Girl', 'Nasty Swallow', 'Tianxian Sister', and 'Megranate Brother' soon followed. Despite their differences in many aspects, they have a common characteristic - narcissism.

Amongst the joys of living in a universe as immense as China is that there is an endless supply of new experiences. Amongst these is a gradual sampling down the list of services offered at my local bathhouse.

I am very fond of the grungy, old neighborhood bathhouses. Sea Cloud is not one of them. It is a five-story, gleaming establishment dedicated to servicing the upwardly aspirational middle class. Think stained glass and Kenny G, with dinner-time floor shows. The women's section boasts a whirlpool, three medicinal baths – hot, lukewarm and cold – a sauna and a jade steam room, plus service areas and private barrel bath rooms. The men's section is twice as large, and the array of ablutions my male friends have described inspire my sole incidence of penis envy. Fuck sex, if I had a dick for a day I'd explore the men's section of Chinese bathhouses – and try not to stare.

Beyond the baths are: a restaurant, a teahouse, a beauty salon, a hair salon, pool rooms, Majiang rooms, pingpong rooms, a Chinese medicine and massage room, a fishing pond, a children's playground, a net bar, various other game tables, and an expanse of sleeping rooms with television screens. Open 24 hours, these places are actually a great means of cheap accommodation, and gaggles of young Chinese backpackers are always the main late night clientele.

Sea Cloud is located three blocks from where I take Taekwondo, so I go periodically to soak the aching muscles and get a chabei, an aggressive and unforgiving full-body loofah. Highly recommended, especially followed by the milk or sea salt treatment. Several of the chabei ayis, all hearty and cheerful peasant women who unusually seem to like their jobs, have befriended me – one more place I'm the resident foreign pet. You do bond with people when they've repeatedly manhandled your naked body while gossiping to you about their family and colleagues.

I love taking visiting Americans, especially men, to the bathhouse, as they tend to wax very squeamy about the communal nudity. It amuses me. I love how you see entire families, two, three, even four generations, getting naked and soaking together. Why I fared well in Finland: they were all ready to haze the modest American, not expecting nonchalant Chinese sprawlage. American prudery is so unhealthy, and I so appreciate the casual indifference of most other cultures. It's also quite nice to be touched in a non-sexual way, much in the same manner that I enjoy my gay male friends' fondness for cuddling.

Tonight I went with La Turqa and two visiting male friends of hers. Her idea: as a good Turk, she's a big bathhouse aficionada, but she'd yet to sample the Chinese variety. They were all three omnivores, and linguistically impaired ones at that, so translation duty ensued, and while waiting for their dozenth massage I tried a few new things. Basic ear cleaning: tickly, but enlightening. I need to do the scary wax one sometime, but not tonight. I sampled the sea salt treatment for the first time, have to say I prefer the milk, but definitely good for the creeping cellulite. And then I ba guan-ed.

Ba guan is a traditional Chinese medicine treatment involving round glass spheres in which a fire is lit before they are attached to one's back, thus sucking skin and muscle into the sphere. Like guasha, it supposedly releases bodily toxins, plus is good for muscle aches. And it leaves the back pocked with round hickeys. Amazingly, I'd never done this before (Jifu's disdain for TCM mixed with my own for my Gege's infatuation with "Eastern Medicine"), but have long been curious to try. It was the oddest sensation, intensely uncomfortable at first but then surprisingly pleasant. The practitioner, chatting me up all the while, was a little too liberal with the touching, to my annoyance until done and realizing he was cute. Anyhow, it still feels nice, although the resulting welts will likely exacerbate the frequency of the tiring, “Wa, you're so Chinese for a foreign monkey!"

La Turqa is a fellow Cancerian Dragon, which supposedly means we're both highly competent, overly emotional and endlessly thirsty. Being a superstitious Western Asian who follows this stuff, she informed that tonight was supposed to be a very romantic one for us. Ah. This would explain why I got hit on at Taekwondo despite being sick and not having washed my hair for three days. There was a random dweeby fellow green belt who accosted in broken English – points for bravery – then sighing, "Oh, thank GOD!" upon discovering I can speak. Then the very yummy red belt who shot me a grins and thumbs-ups whenever I mastered a tricky move. Best was the adorable white belt. He looks disconcertingly like Manila Moxie, no matter that he's a tall lanky Shanghainese, she's a diminutive blonde Jew. Humanity is hilarious that way. As one would expect from a tall Chinese male version of my Moxie, he's strikingly handsome, and I've been ogling him shamelessly since he showed up. He's ogled promisingly back, we've shared a few smiles, and tonight we exchanged our first "Nong hao"s. Yay! He seemed about to attempt further conversation, but I scuttled nervously off.

For all my empty bravado, I am most comfortable at the glacial speed. Months of shy, avoided looks before even hello, more giddy over first conversation than first date or first kiss or first… I may shove myself spluttering into the footlights, fake it from there, but at heart I remain the frumpy librarian.

Blech. Such news is commonplace in contempory, commercialized China, but it still icks me out. Look, I'm against prostitution, but straightforward sex for money is a hell of a lot more honest than sex, children and your whole life for money. It's better to rent out your cunt than to sell it, your womb, your body and your future.

I am well aware of the extreme economic disparities and pressures that prompts young women to so disrespect and dehumanize themselves, and it's the same in varying degrees throughout the developing world. And they must feel it beats honest work. I feel sorry for these young women, nothing but disgust for the men, and some satisfaction that the former will probably suck the latter pretty dry. Ew, unfortunate choice of metaphor. The boldings are mine, I'm amused by the logic of these men who want to use money to marry a woman for her looks, but don't want the woman to marry them for their money. Huh.

Well, here's to the belief that a human being's worth is measured not by his (or her boyfriend's) bank balance, and to all my kickass feminist Chinese gal friends who insist upon living as people, not cattle/chattle. 

Matchmaking party targets millionaires

By Cao Li (China Daily)
Updated: 2006-11-14 07:14

All of the male participants must have assets worth at least 2 million yuan (US$250,000), and all the women must be good-looking and desirable, said Xu Tianli, the event's organizer and the owner of www.915915.com.cn, a matchmaking website.

"Actually, half of the men who registered for the event have more than 200 million yuan (US$25 million) worth of assets," Xu said.

"They have all come here in search of a serious relationship."

More than 20 men have signed up to take part in the event.

Xu said his website provided matchmaking services only to the country's elite. He said that at least 3,000 millionaires throughout the country have signed up as members.

"Rich men are normally very busy, and most of the women they meet are there for work or business, which these men consider to be unsuitable for relationships," Xu said.

"Every man has certain criteria for his future wife. What these rich men want is a woman who is a bit more than normal,

"Matching criteria could be a good start for love," he added.

One of the millionaires taking part, who identified himself only by his surname Sun, said he is looking for a woman who is good looking and has a nice personality. Sun, 34, said he had more than 4 million yuan (US$500,000) and owned a logistics business.

"I often find pretty women on the street, but many of the women I meet in person are not the kind to win husbands," he said.

"Appearance is most important to me," he added.

Sun said he paid 20,000 yuan (US$2,500) to the website to register, and would pay another 20,000 yuan if he married someone as a result of its matchmaking services.

"Surely there are women who are here just for the money, but I think I can see through that."

"I don't want a woman who only wants to marry me for my money."

The website has selected nearly 30 out of the more than 1,000 female applicants who applied to take part in the cruise.

"We have consultants throughout the country who interviewed each woman and examined their merits," Xu said. "Only those who were attractive in every category can take part in this event."

Xu said that some millionaire women had also entered the event.

"But they are looking for men who are richer and more successful than they are," he added. 

I have the flu. Go figure, after the schedule I've been keeping the last two months, that my body would eventually declare "Enough, already!"

"Okay, you win," I told my body, but it's a sore winner. Thirty hours of sleep has given me an achy back, and I dreamt restlessly of travel, as relaxing as a week on a hard-sleeper train. Now, I can't sleep anymore, but feel too gross to do much of anything else.  The piles of work still loom, but I doubt my mental facilities are up to it today.

The Silver Lining is very happy to have mommy homebound, the clingy feline. I'm sore in part from him sleeping on me, precluding my tossing out from an uncomfortable position. He seems very pleased with himself about this.

That, though, is the upside of being sick, things like quality cat time. Catching up on emails. Organizing my digital music library. Curling up with a book and a cup of chrysanthemum tea. And reassessing my priorties - because when sick, the little topics just can't hold the attention.

The main thing I'm bummed about is that yesterday I missed the second day of the Fringe Symposium, and Saturday I was already too ill to be all "there" while there. Too bad: chance to catch up with several old friends, and to meet lots of luminaries in the global indy theater scene. It was the first time in ages I've seen my old pal Honor the Military (ah, early 1970s Chinese names!), an Anhuinese playwright. He's the sort of man I'd like to marry someday: sweet, smart, honest, humble, intensely talented, wryly observant, and with a smile that lights up the room. I quite envy his wife, and kick myself for missing my chance with him many years back, but it's great to have a few men I can look up to.

Honor the Military jokingly guilt-tripped me about how little I come to the theater these days, a far cry from the several years wherein I went to every production that went on in Shanghai. "I know, you're too busy partying!" he teased. Yeah, but I get paid to cover those parties, and so far I've found little chance to get paid to plays, alas. I want to be able to attend: every gallery opening, every rock concert, every play, every book reading, every fashion party, and every club opening, plus get to Taekwondo two nights a week, but ultimately I'm forced to chose, dammit. 2007 resolution: see more plays.

No matter how fuzzy my brain, it was lovely talking with Honor the Military and the other Fringe organizers. Yes, sighing about the woes of organizing arts events in Shanghai, but also brain-storming about how to improve the situation. It's so frustrating the way the government deliberately sabotages everything, not censorship but rather a fundamental suspicion of anything original and independent.

It's an uphill battle, but one so worth fighting. The people in this city have such a brilliant creative spirit, I so admire those who continue to struggle to express it, and I want to do more to help them. Chronicaling their efforts, publicizing their events is a start, but I could and should do more.

I am behind on my news. I am behind on everything. Let me give you an idea why.

October 28, just another Shanghai Saturday. I contemplated skipping town to attend the Valentino party in Hangzhou, good excuse to skip the gazillion events on my plate, but then came word of the Pomipou press conference that same afternoon.  Damn, stuck.

So, I got up early intending to write half an article and hit the gym, but did neither in favor of the usual web putzing. Then, dressed and off for the 3pm opening ceremonies of the Fringe Festival, where I met up with La Turqa. It's funny how every year I adopt a new freshman, because after a year most people lose their interest in going out to things, while freshmen are always up for almost anything. La Turqa, her appitite whetted by Shanghai Tang, was now gunning for the next adventure.

Fringe is being organized by several of my good Hongkie friends, including Little Goose and CC. I swear, there are more Hongkongers in the arts in Shanghai than there are in Hong Kong. I also had a long chat with the Italian curator Big Bean. At some point after year six or so I entered the elite fraternity of the Shanghai lifers, and beyond the secret handshake we have a common language that baffles outsiders. He was telling hilarious stories about visiting FotB American museum elite, one of whom stepped on and destroyed an installation piece at a gallery without so much as an Oops. Interspersed with the latest gossip about arts censorship, complete with exaggerated sighs of, "Ah, you KNOW what it's like, [Vixen]!" we segued to a favorite peeve of the lifers: China hype. "Oh my GOD," gesticulated the Italian, "if I read one more superlative crammed article about Shanghai, I am going to SCREAM!" It is what I call the "Ooh sparkly neon!!!" school of China coverage, with all the nutritional value of a pound of glitter inhaled like crack.

Yes, we lifers are impossible to impress. Three young Hongky bands played at the opening, heavier on the teenybopper adorableness than musical uniqueness, but I quite like them. "[Vixen], have you met the music promoter?" La Turqa pulled me over. "Oh. Hey. Um...weren't you a photojournalist last time I saw you?" I recognized the squat, oddish Macanese from the Foreign Correspondents Club a few years back, where we rejected him for full membership because he lacked the required work experience. "So now you're a 'music promoter', huh? Good for you." Hey, the Hong Kong underground needs all the help it can get. Even worse, Little Goose introduced me to the Fringe's music directors, two European women from Singapore, and some ten Shanghai bands were lined up. "So who's playing?" "Um..." I start listing names, including the musician manager of the bar where the music section is held; they stare blankly. Sigh.

La Turqa and I then battled for a taxi to the Pompidou presser, where we met up with Brilly and several immensely rude French journos. The presser was the biggest fucking joke ever: such an exercise in evasion. "We will open a Pompidou China someday, somewhere in Shanghai, doing something." I got up and asked: when, where, what, to the snickers of the Chinese press wondering the same but too polite to ask, got nothing. Brilly asked about their funding, likewise. Fucking waste of time.

Then La Turqa's husband, the Venezuelan-German, let's call him El Aleman, joined us, Brilly bustled off, and the three of us went for Xinjiang food. Hastily, we still had another thousand events to hit. Then up to SuHe for a quick tour of the Island Six show, then to M50. On the way, however, I managed to re-twist my ankle, which I'd initially wounded after partying with Donatella Versace the week prior. Long story, that. BizArt was having a show, but the elevator was shut off already, and no way I was heading up 10 flights of stairs all gimpy like. So, first we went to a design space opening. There was a German guy droning about design and branding, to the annoyance/amusement of El Aleman. A guniang I'd met the week before and didn't remember at all who had called me like five times insisting I come was fluttering about me. If she wasn't so cute and nice, it'd be creepy. Ah, literary groupies. Also there, ugh, was this really cool late-30s female Chinese artist who I've met dozens of times, hung out with a lot, but for some reason her name never registered, and now I'm too embarassed to ask. I am getting senile. And...I know too many people.

My friends decided to climb up to BizArt, so I waited for them down at Bandu, the Chinese folk music bar. Love that place, such an oasis, and a lot of schmoozing-adverse artist friends hang there. That night encountered the Shandong Buddha yet again, he always cracks me up. When the posse returned, we taxied down south to Yuyintang to catch the Brain Failure concert. Not my speed, but I'd never seen them play before, so was curious. I'd say they're good performers, but typical Beijing grungers on the musical content side.

It was La Turqa and El Aleman's first Shanghai concert, and they were very amused. Okay, what is it about most white men, that they are completely delusional about their own attractiveness? At Brain Failure, there were two white guys walking around shirtless and spewing their sweat on everyone like fountains of ick, only thinking themselves total studs. (Geez, just because a couple dozen slutty Chinese girls have fucked you for money doesn't make you sexy.) Okay, it is an efficient way to gain personal space in a packed room, I'll grant you that. One of the guys was fairly buff, albeit overly beefy and with a scary face; the other was short, chubby, neckless and a shag rug front and back. Waxing, I can give you a number. Even worse, I've seen the shag rug twice since, once at another concert, once on the street, and at my glances of recognition he gave me this "Yeah, baby!" smirk. Okay, I have just been guarenteed at least another decade of dating Asian men. (And some of the shirtless Chinese guys at the concert...Mrreow!)

Brain Failure had some good encounters too, plenty of the usual music quan, plus, amusingly this tiny, proper, insane and alcoholic Japanese woman I'd met the weekend before via Good Bug. She was headbanging. It was disconcerting.

Then we proceeded to the opening of Volar, are new "exclusive" club on the site of a former Japanese restaurant where I took Jifu's family five years ago.  The place was billed as the work of a famous New York designer. I have already trained La Turqa well, though, and she squinted at the fine print to identify that he was merely the "guest of honor", probably not even there. Still, it was a happening party, with all of the glitter-not-gold people (a rank I seemed to have joined, unprobably, despite being fat and unfashionable), and the Moet flowing obscenely. Bumped into lots of friends, including Cloudy and the Gay Greek, and met lots of others I doubt I'll see again unless the fashion party ticket policy really relaxes. Lots of loud, young, rich kids of Huaqiao enterpreneurs here to cash in on Shanghai's "Ooh sparkly neon!"ness. I met this 20-year old Fujianese-American girl, dressed tip to top in Dolce & Gabbana animal print, and it just so didn't work on her, because, Fujianese=short, plump, 5' and a size 8, even anorexia will not make you look like a 5'10 size 4 Shanghainese girl. I know this, I'm built more Southern myself. This girl was totally sweet, but couldn't speak Mandarin or Cantonese, her English was total spazzy sorority-speak, she was majoring in PR (who majors in PR?!), and she was soooo excited to be in CHINA! Oy. Bla, my dapper middle-aged Taiwanese "Is he gay, or is he hitting on me?" friend, who I did not see amongst the throngs that night, emailed me the next day complaining about all the "obnoxious, clueless, freshly arrived, pushy ABCs" at the party. Ha. You know this freshman class is bad if they're even scaring the Taiwanese - considered by the locals to be the epitome of rudeness.

La Turqa, being slightly insane in a good way, was partying down, meeting people, helping me hit on cute waiters, dancing. Her hub, being a German mathemetician above and beyond his latinness, was being completely the stiff little Aryan. We mocked him, but then I made bad jokes in Spanish to make up for it. Or make it worse. Eventually we left, they deposited me at home, and La Turqa called the next day to make sure I was alright. "Honey, that was nothing."

Having been raised amongst the right-wing wackies, I'm pretty wary of most -isms except sketic-, but since my teen years I have been a decided adherent of Humanism, plus its rational offspring of Feminism. Both have fallen rather out of vogue, but their values remain so essential in this post-enlightenement era.

Below is a good essay on the contemporary threats to Humanism. I don't agree with all it's points - particularly on environmentalism, overpopulation IS a massive problem - but it's an interesting and thought-provoking piece.

Putting the human back into humanism
The real threat to humanism today does not come from religious cranks and creationists, but from an army of secular misanthropes. 

"It is perverse that twenty-first-century society, which relies so much on human ingenuity and science, also encourages deference to Fate. At a time of widespread disenchantment with humanity’s achievements, it is important to restore confidence in the capacity of people to reason and to influence events. This is the challenge facing everyone who upholds a human-centred worldview. The task may appear as a modest one compared to the grand visions of the past, but in our anti-humanist, pre-political era its realisation is a precondition for the restoration of a human politics." [Continue reading]