Shanghai Vixen

A gray winter gloom hung over Shanghai this morning, making the forklifting of myself out of bed even creakier than usual. A flu turned head cold that has vascillated through my system for a month returned with new phlemmy vengeance yesterday morning, repayment for my tiring myself out on the party I threw the night before.

I like staying home over Chunjie, Chinese New Year. Quiet puttering about the house, catching up on cleaning and errands and emails, mellow hang-outs with friends. There’s not much I can do work-wise this week, with all offices closed and their staffers far flung to their native provinces, so it privides a rare moment to be still.

The party two days ago was a big success, only extra work since I departed from my usual cocktails only format and cooked up a storm, with people rambling in starting in the afternoon. I actually am a pretty good cook, and concoct the bulk of my meals at home, mostly out of fresh produce from one of the three wet markets in my neighborhood. However, I do not come off as a particularly domestic woman, my Cancerian core is hidden under the public face of the gadfly. So, it was nice to show off: my pumkin and feta pasta, my stuffed mushrooms and peppers and zucchini, my crustless quiche, and my salad…and I didn’t have a chance to make one of my excellent soups or curries.

Good crowd of about twenty people, mostly Shanghainese, including filmmakers, a rock star, a government cultural organizer, an art historian, an interior designer, a professional socialite, a photography curator…fun, food and many martinis were had by all.

My fuck buddy Gym Boy also showed up briefly, and although there was little language issue with the Sinophone crowd, he was intimidated and fled. My gay friends backslapped me for having a hot stud in waiting.

On Chinese New Year’s eve, right after I had run a bath and was deliciously plotting all the reading I’d get done that night, Gym Boy called suggesting we go to Longhua for the ringing in of the New Year. Not in the actual temple, that’s too expensive, but the area around it is known to be very lively.

He picked me up, dried my hair for me, and we headed over. It was actually pretty disappointing, very schlocky, cheaply commercial, and not at all the old style temple fair it reportedly used to be. Gym Boy bought us the ribbons to write our wishes on toss on the fortune tree. There were four: one each for health/longevity, work/money, love/family and luck. The first two were easy for me; the latter two stumped me. I still have them in a pouch on my desk.

Luck - that’s the thing with luck, it’s not for what you hope for or expect but what you chance upon. Otherwise, it’s not luck, right? It is more what La Turqa calls “gifts from the universe”. Surprise me, universe!

Love…I suspected Gym Boy was writing on his that I would finally cave and marry him. Sigh. What could I write? I didn’t want to write Net Boy while out on a date with Gym Boy, and I don’t even know if Net Boy is who and what I really want.

Because I don’t know who or what I want; I’ve never been opportunistic in love, I’m not out for a financial windfall. All I know is a vague outline: someone on my mental and emotional wavelength, someone I can really talk to, someone whose company I enjoy as much as my own, someone who “gets” me. Someone who fits me. The rest - looks, background, profession - are comparatively insignificant. Surprise me, universe?

When one sleeps until noon, the afternoon slips effortlessly away. Had a good crowd over for martinis last night, but today recovering. The Silver Lining is also quite conked out after the enforced socialization.

At martinis: a Dutch photographer, Italian and Shanghainese filmmakers, Shanghainese-Malaysian-British writer and historian Ling, Northern Chinese gallery owner Plum, food writer Cloudy and her chef husband, a Finnish journalist and her actor boyfriend, a Belgian artist, and my adorable little assistant and her friend. It was fun getting to expose Xiao Wen to my friends, she’s so earnest and smart and cute, and I think she enjoyed herself after a spell of initial nervousness. Cloudy and I had fun watching her and her friend accross the room: Xiao Wen chatting animatedly with the historian - who is a very cool, impressive, sophisticated grand dame - and her friend between them looking lost and miserable. I think Xiao Wen’s friend is made of the same substance as my cat.

I was really glad that Ling came, and seemed to have fun. She is the best writer in Shanghai as well as a very impressive and fascinating person, and is not the biggest social butterfly so is a bit hard to get to know. I am a big fan, and it would be great if she becomes more of a friend and mentor. 

You know, I am pretty confident of myself, but I still get all giddy when people I admire, the people I think are way cool and so look up to, like and befriend me. It goes both ways, I suppose, like how I enjoy watching and hopefully helping shape Xiao Wen and other cool younger women (and some young men too, but mostly keeping it to the cunthood).

Thursday night I went to a dinner party at a cosmetics mogul’s house, and despite it being a swank place with a lot of swank people, it was a very mellow and friendly affair. It lacked the prepostorous pretentions of “Diamond Ho’s” parties, which sinks under the weight of her self-importance. I met a lot of people who were really nice and interesting, and that they are titans of industry and mainstream media rather than the literati bohemians I usually run made for a nice change.

I bumped into a Taiwanese-American acquaintence who I have met many times but don’t really know, and she plopped me with her Shanghainese mother-in-law, like Ling one of those lao ling Lao Sanghei women I so enjoy and admire. We had a fun chat comparing Shanghai to Taiwan to California. I am reminded how much I need to make a pilgrimage to Taiwan, that strange little place that has been a conduit of most of my nearest and dearest, as well as of many a passing acquaintence. Ah, the Taiwanese! The Mainlander vs Taiwese-Taiwanese rivalries, the psychological abuse particularly of their male children, their neuroses about “Chinese”ness, their Japanese/KMT facist anality, their hostility towards us whities and…everyone. The place seems fascinatingly fucked up, and yet has produced about so many of the people I love. There is something about Taiwan.

I ended up sitting with this lovely old lady again at dinner, along with her teenage daughters. The younger, 13, was more my sort of girl: chubby and quirky and geekish. But I was sitting next to the older, 16, who was a tall skinny superficial, popular babe in the making. I was astonished that we got along great. She’s so so SoCal, a spoiled little expat teenager at the American School, but turned out to nonetheless to be a cool person. She’s angsting over college aps, and wanted to pick my brain about getting into and attending Brown.

She is really infatuated with the idea of being in a sorority, based on watching US tv and movies. I hope I helped talk her out of it: she’s the sort of pretty, perky young woman who would be embraced by that world, but I think it shapes people quite negatively. (I was an RA sophomore year, and my 50 charges were placed between a frat and a sorority with like twenty members each, and despite our paying the same or more for our board they had about five times the residential resources we did. Because, in my day at least, the greek system, which was 10% of the Brown student body, was 95% of the student government. So, in my Junior and Senior years, I went out for student government, was on both the general student council and the residential council.) Honestly: they are useful networks, but at the cost of conformity and cliqueishness and secrecy. Not all haze, make you strip to skivvies and circle your flab in permanent marker, not all kick out their fat or non-white members, there are all sorts of sororities. But, by being in one, you declare yourself as a certain sort of person, and that…shapes you.

Brown had an International House, which several of my friends joined. It was a good community for international and transcultural students, and was a very warm tolerant laid-back environment. It was also a year-to-year thing, rather than a three-year commitment like the greek houses, and their events were open to and encouraging of guests.  They also took ordinary Americans, as long as they had suitably globalist outlooks. After the racial indifference of my SoCal high-school, the whitey-hating of the Taiwanese- and Chinese-Americans at Brown was pretty upsetting; my friends weren’t of that bent but they had friends who were. But the international students were very diverse and accepting and cool.

By the end of dinner, before the cherry stem tying competition, I had convinced (I hope!) that an International House or equivalent would be a better fit for a Shanghainese-Taiwanese-Californian expat brat than most sororities. And then we discussed “Ugly Betty” and its portrayal of fashion journalism.

On New Year’s eve, I bao-ed jiaozi at Plum’s house. Much fun, but wow Plum really only hangs out with foreigners! Apart from her, the only other Chinese in attendence was a married-to-a-whitey and lived abroad, and their two mothers. The Northern mamas and I did all of the dumpling work, but since my roomie Happy’s jiaozi parties in college, I love making dumplings, find it comforting, although the mamas kicked my ass in terms of skill and efficiency.

Ah Ren was there, and as always I blathered nervously at him, to his good-natured amusement. He has become my social comfort zone, he feels to me warm and dry and safe. Crushage aside, I have become so immensely fond of him, and really enjoy his presence. He was off to the US the next day, and will be there several months. Hopefully enough time for me to get over him and/or lose enough weight that he sees me as a hottie not a meimei. He almost moved back to the US this time, but decided not yet; personally, I want him to stick him around, but he does seem rather at loose ends angsting over where to go, what to do. For his own sake, I wish he would just pick a place, any place, and start putting down some roots, but I suspect he’s still recovering from being very rooted but unhappily so in Beijing.

Mmm, I have stuff I should do today, but nothing I have to do. Recipe for more martinis and a late afternoon nap. I shall start another detox spree tomorrow, combined with some power writing and a date to hit the reopened gym with Cloudy, but today is for hair of dog martinis and maybe an afternoon nap.

Snow continues to cascade over Shanghai, a rare phenomenon especially given that it has lasted for three days, and today it is cold enough that some of it is sticking. The GaoWan Xiaoqu is quite white, and this time it’s not the smog of pollution providing the monochrome. There is a community of pigeons and sparrows in my lane: the family accross the way keeps a lot of caged birds, and much of the seed from his 2F balcony falls to the roof below. A handful of wild birds have now taken up residence there, and today about six pigeons and four sparrows are huddled up pathetically as the snow piles upon them.

It is thus a good day to stay in and work, huddled over the heater in my womb-like bedroom with computer and cat vying for lap space. I don’t know whether it’s the weather or the lingering illness that has my body insisting upon sleeping ten hours per night, but that plus an overly active weekend has me much in need of a few quiet days on the ketchup.

Friday was a delightful afternoon spent interviewing author and historian Lynn Pan about her new book on Shanghainese design heritage. Cool, funny, knowledgeable, Pan is always fascinating to chat with. I consider myself quite lucky in my life and work, that I get to be friends with some of my favorite authors. That evening was a dinner party at the home of wacky honkey [Diamond Ho]; these events are always enjoyable but very strange and calculated affairs. I took Cloudy as my “date” this time, she was entertained and shared my assessment of the whole scene. We are both friends with plenty of people who are famous for actually doing stuff, and so someone like Diamond who is “famous” because she has a rich daddy and has hired an army of PR agents is rather underwhelming. At dinner, I sat with a museum director, who recruited me to co-curate a show with Taipei Trixie. This could turn out fun, although no doubt also a massive headache.

I rejoined Cloudy on Saturday. She and her chef boyfriend have been consulting for new restaurants, and recruited me to train the bartenders at their newest. I went over that afternoon, and we redid the drink list, some from my cocktail book, others improvised and expirimented. I had tippled the night before at dinner - those events require it - and then again at cocktail class. We had quite a lot of trial drinks to finish off between the three of us and the bartender, and all got quite loopy. Next time, I’ll have to bring Kazza along as the booze disposal. I tried to teach Cloudy how to tie cherry stems in knots with her tongue - I find it so easy - but it evaded her. Then I headed to the opening of a photography show at MoCA, and since I’d already been drinking I had some wine there too. Not much, though, and after learning some new Shanghainese terms from a few strange, scruffy artists, I headed home early. And Sunday was quiet, my only outing being to Brilly’s lecture, and back to the dourness of being the only person in the room not drinking.

So, Ah Ren is back. I gathered he was from a spike of activity on what Mr. Kaoru calls Crackbook, so I knew he’d probably surface at MoCA. I’ve spent the past month trying to purge him from my system, boy detox, but just seeing him online made my heart flitter and twitter. Dammit, Vixen. Seeing him Saturday night, more and worse of the same. I’m not sure if the earlier cocktail tasting made it better, or worse. We had a few nice chats, punctuated by his leaving whenever the scruffy artists accosted me, and his apologizing after that he can’t deal with those weirdos. Which, fair enough. Then he fled very suddenly when Gallery Girl showed up, of course she pinned him first, and watching that body language accross the room was fascinating: her being very aggressively forward and flirty, Ah Ren crossing his arms and leaning back as he does when uncomfortable, but also being very superficially polite. I really wonder what the story is there, but doubt either will ever tell me - and if they did, they would probably tell very, very different stories! Hmm.

When I got home, I sent him a - I hope - nice but neutral email saying it was nice to have him back, that I missed him, and joking about the Shanghainese phrases from the scruffy artists. I wonder if it was too much? I know he doesn’t “like” me that way, and I know he knows I do like him that way, but we are friends so that is the dominant narrative. I don’t want to be another Gallery Girl, throwing myself at him, embarassing myself and annoying him. I enjoy having a crush on him, crushes are fun dammit, even though I know it will never pan out. Whether it is because I am too fat, too white, too weird, because he wants to leave China or doesn’t want to date within the social/work crowd - who knows? It doesn’t matter. While crushing is fun, I need to get over it, and the best way to do so is to find a new crush.

Gym Boy is still around, hot sex on autodial, should I want it. I haven’t seen him since before I started hanging out with Ah Ren, and now I am only temped to fuck Gym Boy to assuage my ego. Which isn’t good. Not that Gym Boy minds my using him for sex, oh, not at all. Another problem is that Gym Boy kinda annoys me, so I can only enjoy the hot sex when drunk, which is problematic in a mostly dry spell. Not really sure what to do: I need to formally, finally dump him in person, but we’ll probably have break-up/good-bye sex. And part of me does want to keep him around for the physical comforts.

Last November, at a dinner of cooler Shanghainese artists than the guys Saturday, the only young chap in the group kept giving me flirty little looks accross the table. He was cute, although looks a bit like the Boy Toy I dated briefly in college, which is really not my type when it comes to the variations of Chinese features. We chatted, he’s the nephew of the artist who’s show was opening, we swapped contact info. It was that weird night when a hot young stranger then tried to hit me up on the street, and then a few minutes later Ah Ren called me up suggesting a late dinner. All too much, I went home and hid under my bed. The Artist’s Nephew has emailed me a few times, I didn’t respond as was crushing on Ah Ren, but now finally has. Probably blown him off for too long for him to still be interested, and I am probably more relieved than anything about that - off the hook! - but we’ll see. Sure, give it a try.

Then there’s a friend of mine who I need to find out whether he’s single or not. He’s very cool, kinda shy but once he gets talking we have great blathers. Cute, overaccomplished, creative doing some awesome stuff. On paper, he sounds perfect. Find out his status, then concoct excuses to hang out more and see if there’s clickage.

Yeah, I really need a new crush. The one on Ah Ren is getting moldy and unpleasant - he’s so last year! And while crushes are abstractly fun, there is an errosive element to rejection.

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.

Yesterday was my second day “dry”. Thursday night was a crazy swirl of art parties: the SGA opening, the Contrasts opening, things at Duolun and DDM and elsewhere I didn’t make it too. By the time Brilly, fellow writer A, and I went to the SGA party, I for one was already a little *whee!* There, despite having the waiters put me on a steady IV of water, I quickly became more so.

It was a good party for a really good show, but somehow it - or maybe the general art fair madness - made a bunch of usually cool, laid back scenesters suddenly trot out airs. It was discomfitting. I highly recommend the SGA show, very interesting and the usual LJH wryness I so appreciate. Contrasts was another story, chinesey “traditional” design mixed badly with superficial modernism. About one piece, an actual antique chair that had been dismembered and then bred with pieces of glass and metal, I exclaimed, “My god, they raped that chair!”

But it was more the overall fog of foreigner art snootery that had me pounding the champaigne with too much abandon at [Diamond Ho]’s party. Brilly and I joined with Happy Fish and other art scenesters, but that we were so outnumbered by the tourists and the interlopers, and making nice about another “Ooh, China is so different!” conversation was getting hard. I was fading by the time we got upstairs for the dinner; sitting down was the last thing I remembered…

 

…until I woke up, still completely drunk, at 6am Friday morning. “Well, this could be worse…” I managed to think as I did the post-blackout-check: phone, ipod, wallet, camera, earrings, all items of clothing did make it back intact, and no injuries sustained. Still skunk drunk I sauntered out in pursuit of breakfast, getting a chongyoubing, a youtiao and some xiaolongbao from the Gaoan Lu street food vendors, enjoying my neighborhood’s early bustle. I brought them home and scarfed them, washed down with doujiang, while beginning a reread of Harry Potter 7 - just to spite Brilly, who the night before resumed her mockery of me for liking that series and other escapism. Until the xiaolongbao made my violently ill, and barfed then went back to bed.

The blackout scares me. I recognize that I am bad at self-control in these free flow situations. I am a guzzler of all fluids, which makes it hard to sip at the booze. I am not an alcoholic, it’s not a craving, but it is a dependence, a crutch, a social dependence, and I drink to drown insecurities and social inadequacies and my intrinsic shyness. I am not an alcoholic, but I do have a drinking problem.

The answer for me is to stop - not forever, hopefully, but long enough to kick the dependence, and when I do resume imbibing to do so more carefully and consciously. The benefits are obvious: more energy, fewer calories, more work done, more money made and less wasted, spurring the progress on both book and body. I had already been contemplating going dry for the fall, with its piles of work and of parties.

Spurring momentum was the nervousness that I had made an ass of myself Thursday after blacking out. I couldn’t reach Brilly yesterday, and was afraid I must have said something horrible to offend her when drunk. Towards all friends, one has little pings of dumb jealousy, incomprehension, criticism that one’s conscious mind dismisses but one’s evil drunk doppleganger can seize upon and bloat into a fight for a fight’s sake. So when Brilly wasn’t answering my calls, I thought, oh shit!

But, I saw her at Ms. Piggy’s show opening last night, and she informed that all was well, we left the Diamond Ho party right after we sat down, which is when I blacked out, and it was a welcome excuse to leave early. Phew. But, still, I should not be getting to that point at all. Bad Vixen - no champers for you! Although, sober and caffeinated, my sense of humor thus prompted from her, “What, you’ve given up booze - to take up crack?!” What, I just voiced ideas for art pieces based on menstrual blood…

Previous to that, Saturday was a Bad Ayi Day. First, my Ayi bitched away that I wanted her to change my bedsheet - I want it once a week, she does it every month or two (gross), and only when I remind her several times. Then, to get even, she started throwing away some things that had fallen on the floor under the bed, which were very obviously important personal/work documents and items, and I got very upset about it. One of them was my yearly planner, which I’d already spent an hour that morning looking frantically for. She just laughed at my being upset - wacky foreigner!

Then, I ran errands, came home to be informed that she had broken my coffee pot. I am attached to my coffee machine, it’s taken care of me for seven years, was a big deal Christmas present from Jifu our first year living together. So, of course, I want to replace the pot, not buy a new machine. “Look, you broke it, you replace it,” I said to her. “It is your responsibility.” She: threw a fit. It’s not the money, it’s the time and the principle - and add to that she was probably careless as already upset about my, like, asking her to do what I pay her to do. So we went round and round this way, both upset for our different reasons (my coffee pot!!! sob!), for nearly an hour. My point was that, whoever paid, she should do the work of replacing it - otherwise I would have to hire my assistant to do it, and charge my Ayi for my assistant’s time. I explained to my Ayi she would just have go to a department store, look for the brand, find out their office number, and call to order a replacement part. (Fuck if I was gonna, she broke it.) This all seemed upsettingly complicated to her, so I caved, went online, found the model/part number as well as several Shanghai service offices, called to check availability and price. She’ll pick it up, I’m not clear which of us will ultimately pay for it, and I’m also unsure whether or not she’s quitting. Whatever: I overpay her to do shoddy work, and a Chinese employer would have fired her ages and ages ago. Sigh.

After bitching on phone/online to Kat and Smackeling, I headed off to the excellent Rejected exhibition, joining there MocaD, who since she complained about her lack of a nickname herein will hereforth be Taipei Trixie. Until she complains again. Joined by her visiting friend E, another Taipei alumnus, we taxied over to Moganshan Lu, collecting Trixie’s colleague M to hit openings. We ended up at Island 6, enjoying the street food BBQ on the divine patio there. Being out with such hard partying friends while not drinking was a new adventure: just as fun, but definitely requiring a lot of self control. After, we decided to check out an expat party thrown by friends of theirs.

On the way out, we discussed the cute Eurasian guy who had sidled up to us at the BBQ, and then had a gab fest about guys in general. It was fun being out with a gaggle of swinging, sexy, single gals, as most of my best friends are married. We all shared an appreciate for hot “halfies” as they put it, and did a giddily self-mocking assessment of our out respective fetishes: E, American, and a prettier and better-figured version of Angelina Jolie, likes the latin men; M, mixed-Asian American, dates anyone but entirely-Asian; Aryan-blonde Trixie like me goes only for East Asian or part, except she disdains my preferred Shanghainese. We concurred that the Chinese- and expecially Taiwanse-American men were out, even more likely than the skankiest white boys to sexually exploit impoverished Chinese women (*cough, Yaya, cough*), and are often obsessed with racial “purity”. We had a great big lust-in for Trixie’s cute Aussie. That’s the problem with the cute “halfie” hunies - on the one hand, they rarely skank out like most white or ethnic-Chinese foreign men, on the other, EVERYONE wants them, including the otherwise “no Asian men” women. Heh, that’s why they can’t skank out - they’d get ripped and shredded in the scuffle if they did!

The expat party was truly scary: mostly white, FoBby, sleezily male, but with plenty of fat white girls scantily dressed in desperate hopes of scoring. We were totally the babe brigade there, but it was rather useless. “Even if you met a decent guy at something like this, would you want to date someone thus met?” I observed. “This wouldn’t even be fun with free drinks!” moaned Trixie. “Wow, I’m a minority again! This IS less diverse than SoCal,” quipped M. Eventually all of us but Trixie, who was looking for someone, fled to wait outside, making snide comments about the incoming party-goers and their growing proportion of age-inappropriate Shanghainese girlfriends. E recalled how living in Taipei made her racist towards white people, which was hard to shake after she moved to New York. I sighed and nodded. Why I avoid them, and am fortunate to have circles where the language and sensibility barriers keeps the shabi laowais out.

Anyhow, I should go out with Trixie and her entourage more often: hot chicks on the prowl for pretty men, with senses of snark as devestating as their smiles. It was difficult not drinking with such a hard-partying crowd, damn them Taipeiers!, but not as bad as I expected. Walking, not stumbling down my lane, with head and wits as clear as they ever are, was quite pleasant. I could get used to this sobriety thing.

I think it was topped off when my study lightbulb exploded, showering me in glass and sending my Lao Shanghai crashingly, smashingly towards the ground. I was too exhausted to even be upset.

It started out well enough, with a lunch pilgrimage to Dadi, one of the two Old Shanghainese-Western restaurants on Nanjing Dong Lu facing demolition. Great place, classy-silly in that old sort of way, full of dignified old men chattering the afternoon away. The pasta was mediocre, but the borscht was meltingly delicious. Afterwards, I mosed over the the MoCA presser for the Gaudi opening - an hour late, to miss the speeches and get a catalogue. Had a nice hang out with D, one of my only remaining friends at the staff-hemeroughing museum. Afterwards, I lounged in People’s Park, fielding a call from Good Bug in Beijing and three accostations from the tea scam people; I just laughed in their faces, to their apparent bewilderment.

Home barely in time to head back over to MoCA for the opening party. I saw A, who’d been in Holland, for the first time since her drunken debacle there back in April; I felt bad about how bad she felt. Iski and Otter, newly hitched and so cutely blissful they invited smacking, were visiting from Nanjing. W, another of the former MoCA staff, was leaving Shanghai the next day, so that crowd - who can party even me under a table, which is rather alarming - were in hyper spirits.

D introduced me to a friend of hers, a breathtakingly cute Aussie. He and I got blathering, with me geeking out with local rock and art stuff and Chinese history trivia at him. He seemed fascinated and flirty, or at least bemused, and asked to come along for the concert I was heading to next at SiLive. We tried to round up D to join us, only she had this tacky Hongky’s birthday party to go to, out of work politeness. She talked us into going with her, promising we’d only stay 15 minutes.

On the way over, the Aussie and I decided that we need to popularize the word “Tongky” for the Taiwanese, so when we make fun of them and Hong Kongers it will rhyme - extra fun! But, this party, ugh, aesthetic and social nightmare of the Hongky-Tongky new rich. The birthday was for this “designer/artist” who has gotten rich making furniture and such that is both fugly beyond words and really cheap quality. And the crowd was the sort of sycophants and wannabe culturistas such would attract.

But, open bar: The Aussie and I bantered over champagne while D bravely did some work schmoozing. Then people we know showed up, and quickly the fifteen minutes turned into several hours.

Eventually we extricated, around midnight, and sloshed our way over to a concert that supposedly went until 3am. Nope: over when we got there. I was curious, because the show was billed as a “preview” for an upcoming festival, [Dumb Name]. [Dumb Name] was launched last year by my pal Unmilitary and his friend F, who I interviewed online but don’t really know. This year, Unmilitary organized year two of [Dumb Name], but at a different venue and under a better name. It was a qualified but clear success. So, when I saw annoucements for [Dumb Name] Rock Fest 2007, I was naturally bewildered - it had already happened. I asked Unmilitary about it a week or so before, after swapping Cure concert anecdotes at our community fruit stall, and he had also seen the announcements but didn’t know what the story was.

At the door of SiLive, I encountered Gangdu, one of the managers there and who is the indisputedly the most vile, despised, manipulative and arrogant jerk in Shanghai’s rock scene. My altercations with him have been minimal, but all of my rocker friends have one if not dozens of Gangdu horrer stories. Still, I make superficially nice, in the interests of work and of scene unity. So I asked him what was up with this [Dumb Name] 2007×2, who was organizing it. Sure enough, it was Unmilitary’s former co-organizer, F. No big, people part ways, fight over strategies, whatever. I then asked why F split from Unmilitary.

“[Unmilitary] was never, ever, at all involved in [Dumb Name],” accused Gangdu. “He is a liar and a cheat to claim otherwise.”

I was aghast and appalled. First, I interviewed both Unmilitary and F before and after [Dumb Name] last year, and while F supplied the money, the legwork was mostly Unmilitary. Second, Unmilitary is the furthest from a liar and a cheat you could find. I like and respect him a lot: cool, silly, grounded, a big ol’ music geek, but also quite competent and tough when he needs to be.

So, I indignantly retorted to Gangdu, ”We both know that’s not true.” I must have dithered something else, but it’s all an angry blur in my head. Probably none of the wittily cutting retorts that I imagine now. I marched off, my confused foreign friends in tow, insisting we go to 288 for some mellow musical detox from the pretentious and the obnoxious. I unsuccessfully battled tears as we strode down Taikang Lu; I get so upset at these sort of divisive, petty personal politics, which keep so much of music and arts here stillborn. The minor dislikes and avoidances, the separate circles, are bad enough, but downright slander is a new low.

288 was chill and pleasant, although that last drink did me in. I woke up at 8am, still tipsy and pissed off, and went out for cash as my landlord was coming for rent in a bit. Walking down the street, I spotted a gaggle of metal band t-shirt-clad kids carrying guitars heading into Unmilitary’s building accross the street, and grinned. At that very moment, I heard shouts, and turned to gawk.

Lately three or four general goods peddlars have joined the cacaphany on my block. Unlike the rice guy and melon guy and chicken guy and so on, who keep moving, the general goods guys usually stake out a spot for hours at a time, selling from a pallet atop their sanlunche carts. The shouts were the cops, trying to arrest one such peasant peddlar, and he was cycling furiously to escape, but had to get out of a walled area before reaching the street. He was nearly, nearly home free - when his cart careened and toppled over.

The cops strode up, grabbed him and were looking on the verge of casual violence. I wandered over and started watching intensely - there are times when it is useful to be a laowai. More importantly was the cacaphony of neighborhood Shanghainese taitais that immediately gathered, and began berating the cops as they berated the peasant peddler.

He at first just lay on the ground, sobbing in dry heaves, anticipating the bootfalls. Not coming, he slowly got up and shakily righted his cart and began lovingly picking up his sundry goods, still sobbing. An efficient taitai started to help him; realizing that my joining the greek chorus against the cops would probably be counter-productive (“foreigners telling us what to do?!”), I silently joined her. Picking up batteries, ear cleaners, dish sponges, hair ties, screwdrivers, etc out of the gutter. (“Look, even the foreigner is helping him!” the taitais berated.)

Once the goods were picked up, chaotically jumbled onto a heap, the cops summoned the peasant peddler over to their car. The taitais insisted on going with, demanded to see the slip of paper requiring he report to the station. The cops left, the peddler slowly regathered himself, the taitais continued their chatter. “It’s not like he stole anything, he committed no crime.” “Life is so hard for the rural migrants, at least he’s found an honest way to get by.” One of them walked with me after, running commentary as I continued on to buy a chongyoubing for breakfast, “He really does a service for us zhumin, residential people. All the little stores here have been torn down, and young people have cars and can drive wherever to buy what they need. We old people have no where to shop, so the peddlers helpfully bring the shops to us.” “Also, neighborhood peddlars have been part of Shanghainese lane life for 150 years,” I chimed in, “and it’s really wrong for the police to oppose the survival of this cultural heratige.” Even the taitais think I’m a geek.

My landlord came over, and brought me birthday presents: a huangjiu cup set matching the one I already have, and better, an antique tiaoliao (condiment) container set, and silver filigre egg cups with matching platters. (You know I’ll use them for vodka.) ”We know you like this stuff, and we never use it…” Aww. They’re funny, my and Jifu’s enthusiasm for Old Shanghai Deco caught on with them, and now their place is similarly furnished. He stayed chatting for about an hour, was way too excited to hear about my love life - he always harasses me to get married already - and disapproves of my continuing to date Shanghainese men. “You should find you an American!” Yeah, that’s worked out so well for me. Tried to explain the two-tener (two-twenty for the huaqiao-men) phenomenon to him, but it just didn’t register.

In the afternoon, I went to my friends’ daughter’s birthday party at O’Malleys; anywhere on Laowai Lu, as I call Taojiang, is bizarre, but that place and that crowd is very Gee Toto! to me. Cool people, but a critical mass of going-to-seed once-cute “all American” white boys with kick-ass Shanghainese wives and cute kids, a bit crazy. Look, I realize that me and mine are a bit odd to some, but these men have the White American Male syndrome - they are always normal, everyone else is “strange”. They’re very sweet to me, a bit protective and big-brotherly as older male friends should be, but they do never shut up about how “strange” I am to like and date Chinese men.

I met one fascinating character who is third-generation Caucasian-Asian; his grandfather was a military advisor in WW2, his mom was born and grew up in Taiwan, as did he, and he’s live a bit of everywhere on the continent. We bonded over political and military history geekage, and I really enjoyed talking with him. But, J tells me he’s often quite bitter and angry, which I could sense a little in his edginess. And the 50-something, unattractive white man dating a hot Chinese woman in her early twenties, I always find disturbing. I went for dinner with the two of them and J, and the girlfriend and I ate mostly in silence - we don’t speak their attitudinal dialect, but can always revert to the Sangheiwu in revenge. Anyhow, yeah, decent guys - but en masse it’s a bit crashing the frat party.

Long week since, lotsa work, including a finance story that was a major pain. Come next month, this’ll be nothing, but I am still battling them summer lazies. Lunch with Birdie today, some great interviews, getting to Taekwondo and nearly ready to test for my blue belt…a productive week, but still insufficient. The boy has been in Dongbei for work these two weeks - comparing respective schedules, I joke “This is why we’re both still single.” But a relief to be minus one distraction (not to mention the chance to flirt with cute new men!); feeling a need to recalibrate my social life, to much of me, guests, assignments coming and going. The usual ebb and tide of Vixendom.

Pouring rain. Shanghai’s skies are rather feeling like I did Wednesday night. Somewhere upstails a not-me dragon is having a tantrum. I do love the sound of the rain, pouring into the Lu that was formerly the Zhao Jia Bang, a spit’s way outside my window.

I come home to a cute, sweet, long email from Either Or. I feel so guilty for my disinterest in her, try to rationalize that she’s not hitting on me, just over-exuberantly friendly. I really wish I was attracted to her, she is so cool and wonderful. But I am not.

Tonight was comparatively mellow; yesterday was crazy ass! Yesterday, I had a morning interview, a lunch date with W - that will take its own post - an afternoon interview, then went home and crashed for a few hours, as needed after over stimulation. I was planning to go to a Live Bar concert with La Turqa, and last minute recruited Yi (manager of Sweet Fish’s band). Then La Turqa bailed on me, I subwayed over to Renmin Guangchang to meet up with Yi and her friends - two rather prissy Spaniards who quickly decided all this was too much trouble, as it took forever to get a taxi. (They thought insisted on waiting St Regis queue…and nothing says “Rip me off!” like…)

We finally found this great, wonderful, nice, professional taxi driver (and taxi) - we will both call and commend him - and got our asses to Yangpu. Island 33 was less interesting live than in their recordings, but nice folks. Then Ferris Wheel came on and rather sucked - but they sing in English, so the shabi laowai contingent loves them.

“Shall we get out of here?” Yi suggested. We piled out, and contined to 4 Live. My Beijing pal Lao Kai was playing, and the joy of seeing him head-banging to rocker god delusions always cancels out my dislike for their bad metal music, to make me smile. I love Lao Kai.

Bored with the music, Yi and I headed upstairs to find Jifu, Old Devil and Early Pine - old friends of both his and mine, but that he retained in the divorce. It was actually fun seeing him; having recently fallen in and out of love, I can enjoy him fairly neutrally. For about ten minutes. May I say, it was a very gratifying exchange: two months ago, I went to the opening of Old Home’s new bar. We were barely acquaintances before, but we’d become pals over interviews and via Iski. Jifu, at the event, very cattily asked why I was there, “It’s not as if you are friends with anyone here.” Fuck you, Jifu: I am friends not only with the boss but with his entire band (although we don’t hang out much now, because of him) and several other bands playing or out for the opening. Last night though la, Jifu rather reluctantly asked my help in recruiting young Sanghei bands for his record company, acknowleging that I am oot and aboot more than he is.

It is very…nice, in a way. For six years, I was “Jifu’s laowai laopo” and then I was his ex. With a few people who know me well, I have always been simply “me” (whatever the fuck that is); but it general it has been really only this past year that I have stood on my own feet. Jifu early did notice that while my love of the Shanghai rock scene started with CB, it progressed immensely beyond. Lo siento, I shouldn’t give a flying fuck about his opinion, but his recognition and expression of my position in this community did actually quite mean something to me.

I bopped back downstairs to say hey to Lao Kai, a quick hug and fondnesses, insincere nicities to Yi about Sweet Fish’s band, then he stalked off griping about how the caliber of roadies has deteriorated, and Yi wanted to go. Lao Kai la: a former mentor/gege, we’re not so much in touch these days, but we do love each other. He was a skanky laowai for a long time, but at least (Yaya gives me some perspective) consistantly dated/cheated on/skanked on cool strong women. He is now very happily married to an amazing woman, has two fabulous little kids, and finally has a “real” job. I still can’t take him very seriously, but…I so love Lao Kai. Yaya reminds me of him just in terms of flakey laowaimen in the Chinese rock scene, and I used to think Yaya was though less of a loser; now I owe mental apologies to Lao Kai for the comparison. For however infamously skanky Lao Kai ever got, he always went for cool, strong, interesting women - not girl-pets like Yaya.

Yi and I continued on to see if 288 was open - she’d heard it was zhuangxiu-ing. It was open, and thriving. We enjoyed Crazy Mushroom Brigade, and I dragged her over to meet and hang out with the band. They’re really interesting, musically and personally.

As we were rocking out, a Chinese girl came over and told us in influent English that the men over there wanted us to join them. We glanced over, two meh caucasian men in their fifties: ew, old! Plus, both Yi and I are rather disinterested in white men. The girl came over several times, pestering us. What the fuck? Just because we are 1. two women out together, and 2. two WHITE women out together, we must be…what? desperate?

We continued to refuse, but after much pesterage, I said, what the hell, let’s go talk to them. Petty businessmen, frequent travellors, quite boring. Margaritas or something immediately arrived for Yi and I - 1. Thanks for asking, assholes! 2. I don’t even like sweet stuff. 3. We both feared roofies and only sniffed at them suspiciously.

We bailed quickly. The amusement factor was short-lived. Seriously: men, go wave about your American passports/fat wallets/supposedly large white dicks, the financially/face-desperate Chinese gals will flock on over. (And quickly take over your lives - ha! Awesome.)

Caucasian men in Asia who still go for same-race women think they deserve a fucking sticker or something for it. Whatevah: they’re still less attractive, interesting, and age-appropriate than minimum 90% of Chinese men. Not all of us ingest the stereotypes celebrating/fetishizing white men and the “exotic” “sexy” Asian women while demonizing white/western women and Asian men. Such. Bull. Shit.

Oh man, I so often meet amazing, cute, cool men who appreciate my curvy, creamy, tiny self. Alas, they usually already have wives or girlfriends (but no girl-pets) who they adore and babble adorably/adoringly about. Tonight was La Turqa’s and Brilly’s shared birthday party, great fun and fun people of course. I’m still a bit, “Waaaiiit, you two know each other?!” but such is the Shanghai mafia. The hot Chindian showed up, was a sexy but annoying cad as always. I met this hot/dorky architect who went to grad school with F, my high school best friend and platonic (and gay) prom date.

I had a great time hanging out with him. La Turqa early on advised that he has an awesome girlfriend, and he soon started gushing to me about her. Cool. I can happily have flirtatious friendships with unavailable men, enjoying the dynamic. I enjoy men even more if they are in love with and dedicated to amazing women. Doesn’t help my own Boyquest very much, but: it maintains my belief in the dickhood.

It’s delicious, delectable. What confidence, that this guy can share a company, a home, a life with his kick-ass girl, and still flirt freely. I was explaining my semi-vegetarianism, always problematic at barbeques, and he was all, [looks up and down], “You’re on a diet?! Why?! You look great.” Doll. I’d have kissed him, except that he and I both respect his girlfriend too much.

I love confident men, and I love the strong women they love.

The rain, now, is violent, brilliant, beautiful.

I confess. I am motherly. For all my efforts to escape or transcend sex, I have a very maternal sensibility. For all my desire to flee the sinking ships of my biological family members, I have an opposing drive to take care of people when needed, if and only if (unlike the biofam) I can make difference to them, set wounded wings a-flying. (But people like my mom who demand constant care are emotional leeches, and should be squished just as satisfyingly.)

Yesterday was the Guggenheim Art in America opening at MoCA, and protective Mama Fox kicked in at the party when my friend Yata got piss drunk off her ass. Yata’s cool, but she does toe the line between eccentric and nutty – although a lot of that is probably because she’s Dutch. The Dutch I know are all completely fucking bizarre; Yata’s the sanest of the batch. She is in her early sixties, divorced a couple of times, a photographer who has lived here a long time but speaks fairly insufficient Mandarin. She is a fabulously brash, unapologetic character with corresponding fashion sense.  

Last night she was so drunk she could barely stay on her chair. I held her up, force fed her water and tried to forcibly extricate her wine glass. That did not go well. Gave up and rationed it as negotiating for her drinking her water like a good girl. She was petulant. (Damn, am *I* this annoying when drunk? If so, apologies. I don’t think I’ve been that drunk for many years, and apologies and thanks to those of you who put up with me back when I was.)

I recruited some people to help me escort her to a taxi, and then was planning on seeing her home and tucking her in. Again, have myself been that drunk enough to not let friends in that condition alone, even when they insist the I’m fine! Um, no. Except: she managed to escape our clutches. As soon as I got home I called her mobile, didn’t have it in my phone, to make sure she was okay. She had managed to get home alright, and was a bit annoyed with me for waking her up.  

And then how to explain to my editor why I’m late in filing that article?

Yata was one of two inebriated older European women melodramatizing my evening. The other was this Viennese woman – let us call her Goth Gran – who left her European husband about five years back for her lover, a Chinese artist who lived in Vienna for years. He is a horrible artist, really really bad but so self- and her-promoting, and they are both a little strange in my book, but nice enough.  

I was in the bathroom about to go out, and the Viennese was coming in, and she pushed the door shut behind her with a rather worrisome thunking sound. I had seen as she hadn’t that the cleaning lady was about to come in behind her. “Oh, I think you hit the ayi,” I remarked upon the thunk. It was not accusatory, my meaning was that she may have accidentally hit the ayi with the slammed door, but the Viennese was very drunk, and her English is sketchy, so she thought I was accusing her of attacking the ayi.

She proceeded to scream at me, What sort of person do you think I am?! You think I am someone who hits ayis! Sigh. I should have been all, whatever bitch, but I patiently tried to explain what I had meant. I’m fine with people hating me, plenty do, but it should be for a valid reason, not because someone completely mistook the meaning of an offhand, innocent comment. But she would not listen and just continued screaming at me.

I went back outside, and a friend who had overheard the entire exchange reported to me that she was sobbing in the bathroom. When she came out, she proceeded to give the death glare, so I went over and talked to her and her boyfriend. Since her limited English had caused the misunderstanding, I started explaining to him in Chinese. That pissed her off even more. People who live in China for a long time without learning any Mandarin are very defensive about it. Eventually I just gave up, and will try to talk to her again sometime when she is sober.  

The thing about Yata and the Viennese is that I fear I will be like them someday: aging, eccentric, drunken foreign women washed up on China’s shores. Aging well is a challenge for all of us: physically, my genes have me fairly set. But, in terms of lifestyle, outlook and behavior, the bulk of my friends and acquaintances in their forties, fifties and sixties make me go a bit, holy shit. I don’t want to be partying like a twenty year old in my forties and fifties. There is a basic standard of age-appropriate decorum that so many expatriates discard, with no family or community to keep them grounded. I suspect it boils down to attitude, a practical positivity. Being realistic about who and what you are, and accepting and celebrating that; rather than insecurity, fear, trying to recover past glories or fix past mistakes. Like Mrs. Din in Florida, so gloriously full of life and energy, and so wise and loving. It is the way to be, at any age.

Yesterday was the big H&M launch in Shanghai, I was in the store half the day for interviews, then shlepped to Pudong for the opening. I had scored two spare invites, one for a Swedish friend who actually works for the company but couldn’t get an invite, another for my visiting friend Xiao Xu. But the latter got sick after our Putuoshan excursion, so her ticket went instead to a gay PR friend who had been pestering me to get him in. He’s very sweet, but a little bit clingy. And I have too many fay fashion friends to be anyone’s full-time beard.

Gay men are fun, though. They are much better than hetero men at showering women with the attention and consideration and little compliments that make us happy. The heteros could learn a lot from them. But just don’t learn to squeal like a girl whenever anyone mildly famous comes into view. Because that’s mildly annoying.

Anyhow, I’m bitter: Hong Kong H&M got Madonna, we got some random Australian poplet named Kylie something. Never heard of her before, and despite a tedious night of frenzied explaination from celebrity whores about who she is, I still don’t know why I should have. Another generic skinny blonde. Meh. White folk all look the same. I’m not much even for celebrities I have heard of, to be fair, although I enjoyed meeting Pierce Brosnan last month, and am psyched at the prospect of meeting Sonic Youth. The latter, though, is mostly because if I’m hoping to get a backstage pass for one of my Shanghainese rocker pals who’s obsessed with them.

I came down with a cold in Putuoshan, and did not make for a fun day of interviews yesterday. Shopping afterwards, though! I got two black-and-white funky patterned dresses (No, I cannot have too many of them. Shut up.) and a nice black pencil skirt that I will be able fit in about two kilos later (67.4 today, my lowest this year!). I am seriously contemplating returning for a cream leather trench coat with a price tag of about US$300. Not too fitting with my ambitions to save up to buy the lane house of my dreams in a few years, but such are the hazards of working in the fashion industry.

Afterwards, I was walking along Huashan Lu towards the place I get my legs waxed, and was grabbed by a bunch of guys who I assume from their wacky ‘dos were touts for a hair salon. Yes, the fun game of let’s harass/assault the laowai. I managed to extricate myself from their clutches and hurried down the street, saying angry and rude things over my shoulder. The same happened when I took the subway to Pudong for the party that night, at the Science and Technology Museum. Touts for the fake market got in my face, grabbed at me, followed me with lewd commentary. Yes, it’s bad enough when I’m not dressed up for a party, but a single white female in miniskirt and heels is harassment central. The Kejiguan market is much worse than Xiangyang ever was, there’s something creepy and dirty and literally underground about the place, and I feel quite unsafe there. Last time I was there, on my way to the Zendai Art Museum, I literally smacked a guy, accidentally: I’ve found that a “buyao” never works, I have to hold the palm of my hand to their faces, and this one was behind me, I wasn’t looking, and smacked him. The guy thought it was hilarious.

So, after this gauntlet, I then had to walk another half mile, in heels, through a harassing gauntlet of touts, around the Kejiguan to the back door where the party was. At the entrance there was a chorus of 300 Chinese girls singing bad pop songs in off-key Chinglish, it was like a bad dream. David Lynch, Tim Burton, they have nothing on the surrealism of ShangHigh Society. THEN I was told I had to check my camera, and to do so had to walk several hundred meters back the way I came, then back again, through the gauntlet. By the time I got in I was in a pretty grumpy mood, not to mention sick and menstrating, only to find that no one else had checked their cameras.

The space looked great, though, very very sparkly, and lots of my friends were there: Cloudy, Gay Greek, the Israeli photojournalist, and of course all of the Scandinavian crowd. The Israeli has gotten in the habit of subjecting me to impromptu photo shoots whenever I see him; last time it was coming out of a sketchy latrine at an art warehouse complex.  Of course, I am a very cooperative subject. I’m such a ham.

The Kylie concert annoyed the crap out of me. It interrupted a perfectly good party with annoying pop music and huge surging crowds trying to get a glimpse of her. Gay Greek squealingly dragged me to one precarious ledge after another so we could get a glimpse of her, a tiny blue-clad blonde speck: boring. I left soon after when the champaign dried up. The swag was a towel and a scarf, a B- in the swag rankage I say. I landed a fabulous taxi driver back: fast, efficient, and really nice - chatty but not annoyingly so. I sometimes call and complain when I get an asshole driver; I am going to call and sing this guy’s praises. I mean, not bilking a drunk laowai in Pudong should qualify him for siji sainthood.

小徐来了! Xiao Xu is coming! Yay! So is Kellara! Yay!

Kellara’s my babe from Indiana who married a Swede, and they time split between Oxford, Amsterdam and Stockholm. She lived in Shanghai many years, is now doing a linguists PhD, and comes back about every spring. As the rest of you ex-Shanghailanders should.

Staying with Xiao Xu in Brooklyn was the second best part of my recent US trip. Number one was continued bonding with Camus, my cool lil doctor babe to be cousin and my top reason not to hate my gene pool. Two was bonding with Xiao Xu, long time casual friend and classmate I never knew very well before. Three was getting to know Joshua Xanadu, and he’d tie for two but I didn’t see that much of him. Four was visiting Happy, five was Jersey Girl. It was all great. Xiao Xu will be around for a while visiting her grandma, and we’re discussing taking some trips while she’s here.

I started out tonight at CreekArt, showing around visiting journos from the Independent in London and Vanity Fair in Italy. Londoner was cool but I kept getting her name wrong. Italian started out aloof but became nicer as I got to know her. I enjoy showing off for its own sake, but I hope to be quoted and even more to be commisioned by new clients. As if I weren’t already worked to death.

Then to Moganshan Lu, where we went to Shine’s show with its tacky collecion of drippy Mao paintings. Then up to Artsea for a much better show and crowd. We briefed another opening gallery, what Good Bug calls hanghua: kistchy oil paintings of minority women.

Island 6 was meh art wise, crowdwise was lots of young Euros. I met a friend of La Turqa’s from last night, and she introduced me around, including to an F. F is a white American artist from DC who’s lived in Europe for 14 years and is in the latest Shanghai Moca show. We got into a great discussion of politics, both of us originally intended that as our callings before getting distracted  into the arts. The usual conversation of Clinton versus Obama electibility, whether the American is more sexist than it is racist. F asked whether I still vote in the US, and at my affirmative he hugged me. He’s in the Hillary camp, saying she reminds him of his mom, who’s a lobbyist for Planned Parenthood. Cool guy; if only he were ten years younger, and, um, my type. Still, I enjoyed this encounter much more than last night’s flirtations.

I then headed to M on the Bund for a friend’s going away party, only it was such a packed house I barely saw her. Hung out instead with S, a Canadian gal who’s also been here for eight years and has spent those dating a Shanghainese DJ. Only met her recently, but we have a lot in common and a lot of fun when we meet up. Then, finally, to the grand reopening of Shuffle, renamed Pirates. It was crammed with 19-year-old French guys from Jiaotong and the DJ was loud beyond imagination. What sort of live bar opens without a live show? Not promising, not promising at all.