Shanghai Vixen

The autumnal social flurry is having its weeks of final spasms, ecstatic yet exhausting, a time consuming rush ushering in the sudden realization that the year is nearly over. And I barely can remember the whirlwind last quarter of it.

Last weekend was a shitload of arts events, good bad and ugly. I hate what the Shanghai art scene has become, as much of a haven for rich wankers to show off their wads as the fashion scene - but at least the latter is more honest about it. The Fang Lijun and Zhou Tiehai alike were see-be-seen, show off your best finery and accessories be they cloth or human, air kiss and enthuse.

Saturday I caught a respite at the Zendai pan-Asia show, which was startlingly beautiful and engaging. At dinner later, I met a slew of fascinating artists from Indonesia, Kurgystan, Lebanon, India…and had slews of fascinating conversations about our respectively changing societies and ways to reflect and react to them. Then it was back off to the loud pretentions at Bund 18, and my happy high was ended.

Sunday I went to the weekend Creative Bazaar, which was pleasantly cute, then had a long cold walk looking for a bank, nibbling at street snacks all the way, before proceeding to the Fang Lijun show. Not much of a show, but lots of people on display. I passed on socializing, swigged some wine, and rushed to meet Yi for the Linkin Park show.

Yi informed that the shitty and pointless Beijing band Shou Ren was opening for LP - a bad fit, and not announced. Despite being freezing, the stadium was nearly full, and the crowds screamingly enthusiastic. Until Shou Ren came on.  As soon as the audience realized they weren’t LP, they started booing them off, “Xia Tai!” get of the stage was the chant. Hah: I can’t feel bad for them, they are a bad band with big egos, and their singer is a complete jerk - I know this as Jifu’s band did some shows with them a while back, and I met them then.

We had good 800 kuai seats, but this meant folding chairs on the sports field. And everyone was standing on them. This meant, as a little squirt, I was screwed. Add to that that Linkin Park came on two hours late - Shou Ren partly to blame, that it was freezing, and that I was in heels and had been on the run all weeked: I was exhausted. It was a great show, but I left after an hour, feeling ill.

The early crash did little to mitigate the next day, with a slew of interviews for a Tuesday deadline. Fun music industry story, but I was feeling like hell underwarmed. Cannot say it was a fun few days. Today I just have the pool and then a boring but brainless sort of deadline tonight.

Then, coming up is a friend’s departure party tomorrow, the Paris Hilton MTV hell Friday, ShanghArt Saturday, Diane von Furstenberg Tuesday, another of Diamond Ho’s scary dinner parties next Thursday, and then the Loft opening.  I never thought I would ever look forward to a Diamond Ho event, but this time I am: Ah Ren is coming along.

After our hangout the weekends before, friends have been accosting me with “Oooh! So?!!!”s about him. I answer honestly: I like him a lot, really enjoy his company, but don’t really know what his situation is or what he thinks of me.  Wednesday I went to an art/design event at Moganshan Lu with Brilly and her husband, and spent most of the night hanging out with his assistant, a cool young chick from Suzhou who was really excited to bitch to me about the social and family pressures she is facing. Afterwards, a group of us crashed this design talk that was just laughably, hopefully idiotic. All the more so because they took themselves so fucking seriously. Brilly and I have been joking about starting a blog and/or secret society, the Bad Art Salon, and she was inspired to take furious notes at the farce.

The group of us fleed, hijacking with us Liu, Shanghai’s most famous musician and DJ, a quiet guy I barely know but admire and have a bit of a crush on. We retreated to Hanging Bee’s studio and cracked open a wine, but my and Brilly’s Sangheiwu couldn’t keep up so soon the conversation split linguistically, with her wanting the juice on my Ah Ren crush. I told her Sunday’s story with Gallery Girl going home with him. Brilly, who pays much closer attention to gossip than my lalala! self, informed me that GG tends to pretend to be much better friends with people than she in fact is - come to think of it, me included - and also hooks up randomly a lot. Advising that GG’s clinginess to Ah Ren is nothing unusual for her, Brilly advised: if you like him, go for him. Wise and simple.

So: I am trying. I invited Ah Ren to lunch the next day, but he was out on assignment. But, this progressed to a procession of email and text message flurries over the weekend and this week, my joking about the wacky art parties he was missing, him groaning about being stuck in a freezing suburb for work. I’ve invited him and he’s accepted to the Diamond Ho and Loft things, both fairly formal so I’ll have good excuse to gussy up. But those are a ways off. I’d like to see him sooner, but hard to find the time this week, and he hasn’t bitten bait for any of the more immediate events. His sense of humor is ironic enough he would probably enjoy the Paris Hilton thing, but that AND Diamond Ho’s are more than I can subject anyone I care about to in a single week.

Ah, crushes. The days he emails/texts a lot, I am *happy!* and the days of radio silence I start beating myself up for being so silly and getting hopes up over someone who I really barely know and who isn’t even my type and I need to talk myself out of this because of course I’ll get hurt sooner or later. I hate my brain on crushes. On the other hand, it’s good for my diet, as angst is an appetite suppressent, albeit curiousity and crushage allows more moderation therein than the head-over-heals heartbreak of Ya Ya this summer.  And while the yoyoage of “he maybe possible kinda likes me?”/”he’s just being polite and doesn’t mean it that way” is headache inducing, it is nonetheless a win-win situation. The best case scenario is that I may have met a great guy to date, the worse is that I have made me a cool new friend. I know how it turned out last time with such a scenario, but dealing in real time and real life keeps it more grounded. Somewhat, anyways. Regardless, the ride can be fun.

Two interesting editorials; their perspective I agree with, that the worship of money and status has gotten waaaay out of control in China. It is worrying, and sometimes I think the current “spiritual civilization” here is more dangerous and toxic than the polluted air.

‘I can’t give you anything but love’: Get lost, Baby

By Wang Yong 2007-11-14

http://www.shanghaidaily.com/sp/article/2007/200711/20071114/article_337985.htm

TO understand many people’s preference for money over love in today’s China would require a little tinkering with Hungarian Sandor Petofi’s famous poem.

Here’s the original: “Liberty and love, These two I must have. For my love I will sacrifice

My life.

For liberty I will sacrifice

My love.”

There’re people in China who still hold onto Petofi’s noble idea, but for many Chinese, the poem’s last two lines should be turned around like this: “For money I will sacrifice my love.”

Southern Metropolitan News yesterday cited a survey among residents in Guangzhou as saying that “love” had slid all the way since 1990 down the ladder of value, and it came after “money” in 2000 for the first time.

This year “love” has slipped even lower down the value chain of most Guangzhou people, according to a survey by the Guangzhou Social Trend and Public Opinion Study Center. The center has conducted a survey each year since 1990, polling about 1,000 each time.

Another finding of the survey is that money has always meant more than love in the eyes of most women in Guangzhou. This means, the researchers said, that Guangzhou women are more and more independent-minded.

This conclusion doesn’t follow. It assumes that independent-minded women would prefer money to love, that love cannot make a women independent and that only money can.

If anything, the survey can only show Guangzhou people’s growing disillusionment, distrust or even dislike of love.

Many may challenge the validity of the survey, and it’s certain that you can always find contrary examples. Such surveys are not perfect, but they do indicate a trend if the basis of the samples is large enough. One thousand respondents each year plus 18 years of continual study should not result in total nonsense.

And, at any rate, one does not need these latest “statistics” to find that love has become an underdog after money not just in Guangzhou, but nationwide over the past two decades.

So often you see or hear of girls marrying for money and men marrying for lust, either on TV, on the Internet, or during class reunions. Love is no longer an openly worshiped ideal, money is.

Daily discussions and observations often beat dry statistics and work wonders in illuminating what’s going on.

Even about 10 years ago, many cities and communities elected “model families” every year and each family would get an award in the shape of a red paper, on which four Chinese characters were printed: wu hao jia ting (A family with five merits).

One of the merits was love and harmony between the husband and wife. Now you seldom see these red papers.

One day my wife attended the 20-year reunion of her class of ‘85 in Nanjing. To her surprise, most of her former classmates and roommates pressed her with the question of how much she earned a month - nothing else.

They never cared whether she had a happy marriage. No, it was all about money, a car and house, and if you didn’t have a car, you were scorned.

The mockery of love happens not just in bars and brothels, it has also found its way into the hearts of many Chinese men and women who falsely believe that money, and nothing but money, can make them “free and independent.”

The other day I chatted with a friend who is a magazine editor. She shook her head in disbelief that a friend of mine had never gone to bed with another woman in his 15 years of marriage.

And she was not the only person who expressed amazement at my friend’s fidelity.

---

Worship of fast, easy wealth leads to contempt for work, modest means

2007-11-16

http://www.shanghaidaily.com/sp/article/2007/200711/20071116/article_338237.htm

RECENTLY, a girl born in the 90s created quite a sensation by circulating online a picture of herself grabbing thick wads of banknotes.

Striking a nauseating pose, she frankly ridiculed those poor folks not pampered by family wealth who have to fend for themselves.

There have been similar instances before.

A young woman driving an Accord boasted she had a small Chery car smashed after the modest domestic brand dared to overtake her imported car.

Another man became the center of attention by burning money to light a cigarette.

The Internet has become a stage for various eccentric people and strange things.

Such eccentricities are actually not abnormal in a society that views everything in terms of money.

Our society is full of eulogies for wealth and those possessing wealth.

Who still extols hard work?

There is even tacit contempt of those who have to support themselves by their own labor or those who cannot even support themselves with their work.

Work no longer earns, while the ability to obtain money effortlessly is everyone’s envy.

Money suggests a successful career, comfortable life, sound personality and exceptional gifts.

Put it another way, money serves as a comprehensive proof of its owners’ excellence.

In contrast, those who support themselves by their own labor are viewed as veritable failures.

It has become not only pathetic but also disgraceful to eke out a living by using one’s hands.

The erstwhile respect for work is now replaced by worship for money.

Becoming rich has become an aim in itself.

The root cause of all this bizarre behavior is our new social norm of “getting rich is glorious and being poor disgraceful.”

In a certain sense, the eccentrics are more deserving of our pity than our condemnation.

(Southern Metropolitan Daily)

Angsting endureth for the night, but a shout of abashment comes in the morning.

I always get mad at myself after a binge of self-pity. Wallowing does not become me. I know I have the life I make for myself, and if I have issues with it: then shut up and change it, bitch.

Diet/health/weight/drinking, work and projects: I am my choices.

Today, I chose to have a light lunch and then go cruise a cafe while writing the daily 500 words on my book. My first tackle of it all month! (Bad Vixen!) Then, I shall go swim for at least 45 minutes and hopefully wash the crushing crushes out of my hair like accumulated chlorine. Then there’s an FCC talk; I will not drink though tonight. Then home to finish an article and do a big translation project for Little Face’s latest film. Probably a late night.

Despite the WiFi at the cafe, I am at 400 words already and approaching a good suspension point. Yay. I am checking out the new Pacific Coffee Company at Novel Place (ah, cheesey Shanghai property names!) across from where my pool is. I feel very knocking-off of Hong Kong’s Hemlock. It is a good environment, although no in-house loo, and has lots of power outlets. There was a resident hooker installed when I first arrived, with a grossly fat and old client cupping her boob and thrusting his flabby hand down her too tight jeans - in full view of the entire cafe. I am amused and unflapped by the random oddities of Shanghai life.

And, oh! Short notice that Manila Moxie is incoming tomorrow, albeit on a whirlwind few days of due diligence. It’s been a few years since we last met in person, although with such old friends where we stay in pretty regular touch, it doesn’t feel like it. Yay! I’m excited. Moxie is always like a shot of emotional espresso, so energic and efficient and cool and funny and snarky. Equally good for comiserating/smacking me out of my moods and complatience. Moxie is always good.

I suck in air. Dive as far down as I can go. Bleary visions of neon blue chlorinated tiles blur through my goggles. I paddle madly, against the betrayals of air and buyancy of human flesh. For those moments, I am a child again, in the pine needle strewn Golden Way. Diving for pennies in the nine foot deep end with my gege. Or a wicked little tween late night giggly skinny dipping with my Buff sisters and EmC.

I dive.
I strive.
I surface.
I gasp for air.
I keep swimming.
As if for dear life.

It is my usual pattern; I rarely even think of it. But…

It takes all my strength and all my energy to survive. I am trying to pick away, get beyond survival, but that is such my default mode I am afraid of leaving it.

Fear and hope are the twin sides of terror. Hope is worse. I met a boy. Who could, just maybe, finally, be my imperfect perfect. Or, not. But…but…

I met him two months ago. I first saw him around and about in the company of various friends of. Eventually I was out with the wacky posse of Taipei Trixie. Ah Ren and his friends meandered over, chatting up my hotter than me friends. That night remains in the blog archives.

The next day, I penged into another friend who knows Ah Ren well, gossiped him out and talked him up. I was already intreagued, and became more so. We proceeded to have a few interactions, he came over for a Martini Night, was a good addition but it made me shrug him off: no sparkage.

A few weeks ago, I was supposed to go to Beijing to cover an opening, and heard he was there then so invited him along. He didn’t respond. I was hurt. Then flights were cancelled due to pollution, I didn’t make it. Then he finally got back to me, apologetically, and a brief series of minimalistic, uncommittal emails ensued. Ah Ren returned last Monday to Shanghai; I’d hoped he’d call me up, he didn’t.

Friday was a big bash. I invited along my favorite crazy Texan, who is social sandpaper but there were people I wanted her to meet. Ah Ren was there too, and social sandpaper came theeeese close to telling him about my making out with a male model fiasco two year ago before I violently pulled a “look over there!!!”

I spent most of Friday night ditching social sandpaper to hang out with Ah Ren. He is very conventionally handsome in a macho sort of way, which along with the caucasian shag rug factor is the biggest strike against him. It means that gaggles of girls, mostly girly-girls, Euro and Asian both but mostly the latter, toss themselves at him. I…I like him. He’s becoming a good friend. In everything but looks, he seems quite great, and the looks I’m past already. But, not so happy about battling off the bee-aches: did that with less scary versions attacking Jifu for too long already.

That night, though, I…I originally thought Ah Ren was - as the gossip source described - rather bland and nice and innocuous. Oh, no! He is opinionated and a bit bitchy and smart.  I so enjoy talking with him; although the indifferent ease with which he trashes our acquaintences who are in fact my good friends (although I completely agree with his critiques of them) makes me suspect he is just bitchy, and may backstab me as casually.

But, so far, I appreciate Ah Ren’s bitchy side.  Today, started at brunch at our mutual friend’s gallery; I was with Yi and her friend, Ah Ren was with his own posse. We’d tersely emailed before; then greeted with a mix of touchy feely warm fuzzies and the AWkWarD! Hilarious. I informed I was going to an opening at MGS, he offered to come along but left for it early with his bachelor posse. I and Yi meandered over through the labrinth of memory palaces that is SuHe, past the place I lived my first two years in Shanghai with Jifu and Sanwei and Mr Wonderful. Yi realized she was barely there for me: I was in a whole different world. She cracked up over my interactions with the gawking nongming. Easier by myself; harder with the now blonde hair.

At brunch with Yi and her friend, I told the tale of my beloved and lost Ahmulin and Mr Darcy. Ahmulin was my best friend in the world, and after she left New York for Iowa she disappeared entirely. I miss her greatly. Mr Darcy was her brilliant budgie that Jifu and I birdsat for two months. Many stories there; Mr Darcy was more of a person than most humans. He was also a lush. So Yi and I got to telling our drunken parakeet stories, and I thus decided that a great term is to be as or more giddy than a drunken parakeet. Because: love them unbudging budgies, they are crazy even when sober! Drunk: daaaamn!

The other term. Yi at one joke did a double flip-off, to me and to her German friend. I thus told her about Brilly’s recent comment about how her Shanghainese husband’s old friends treat her like an “exotic bird”. “I’ll provide an ‘exotic bird’!” I offered, literally flippantly/flippingly. This shall go far: ‘exotic bird’ = the finger from us caucasian ‘birds’.

Yi walked me to Moganshan, but then hopped a taxi to meet up with Happy Fish. I went to the gallery, a so so show, but was glommed onto by the gallery directors. Yikes. Ah Ren was there, I’d invited him to meet up there, as was the first gallery gal and others. When the opp came to escape with him and his posse, I eagerly did so.

I was planning to walk to the subway, but Ah Ren and gallery gal were both heading to closer places, so I hopped along for the taxi ride. Then, as the taxi swirled along the gaojia, gallery gal declared a lust for miso soup.

So, we went for Japanese food, at a hole in wall Ah Ren knows. It is downstairs from the place where Jifu celebrated his 28th birthday, which resulted in our brief and stormy reunion. Ah Ren and Gallery Gal had a lot of inside jokes, but it was mostly Ah Ren and I blathering intensely, to GG’s apparent indifference. The boss was doing a shufa orgy, and dragged Ah Ren over to embarass himself. He did: he misspelled his own name. My turn…but I actually used to study calligraphy, not very good but I can at least write my name with flair, and replicate other zi. The standing ovation for my mediocre shufa was overkill. Ah Ren was cutely self-depricating about being such the huaqiao cliche. Hah. Inbetwixt, Ah Ren and I had many a good blather about things American and Chinese, with non-Mandarin speaking GG out of the loop but okay with that. The two of them had lots of fond joking, but I thought nothing of it…

…Until, we caught a taxi, and the elucidated that they were both going to Ah Ren’s house. She almost got out with me at the ditie to get money to pay him back for dinner, but he assured there was an ATM at his place.

I was totally blindsided. I knew they were pals, never thought they were dating. But: are they? They sit apart at a dinner they were both enthusiastic to have me at, where GG was conversationally isolated, but not remotely upset or jealous about it. Friday, and previous parties, they were both present but only passingly hanging out.

The more I think about it, the more I doubt they’re hooked or hooking up. Sometimes “friends” turn out to be simply friends, I cannot assume either way. I don’t know. GG is really cute and really cool; and Ah Ren is deliciously dishy on so many levels. I could, should be happy for them both, but dammit, I want that dish for myself. Bad for my diet, maybe? Despite his being fluffier than my pet persian, I quite want to grab his hand and skip off and away, giddier than a drunk parakeet.

But he took my friend home with him. I should…hold my breath, dive deep and hard, come up gasping, and smack myself: Vixen, you lost your chance. But, dammit.