Nay, Nay, D’Orsay

Before I start, let me just say how much I appreciated my free flu shot. Wednesday was the first day of vaccinations and I thought that getting there a few minutes before opening would save me time in line, but no, these Bo' kids are serious about their flu shots. There were about ten kids already waiting, and a steady stream followed behind me. But come on, free flu shots plus a goody bag of candies and a toy? Life does not get better than that. Unless of course, you count grandfather being released from the hospital, brother finding a job, finally narrowing down my honors topic, cafe milkshakes (that're really frappes) and the prospect of homemade paella. Those are good things, too.

The Musee D’Orsay, up until a few days ago, was my favorite museum in the entire world. People, I don’t use that phrase lightly. I’m a retired Sri Lankan textiles worker and I have seen a lot of the world. (As my mother explains, I go to an expensive school, where I have learned to like expensive things because I think expensive = good.) My eyes have seen the ancient treasures of China in its millenniums-old palaces, and also the real treasures from those palaces stored safely in Taiwan. I have seen the the Met in NYC, the Smithsonian and the Museum of Natural History in DC, not to mention Boston’s smaller offerings. The were the numerous National Galleries throughout Great Britain, the Tate Modern, the Red Cross Museum in Geneva, and there was even that random one in Quebec. I have seen a lot of museums, people. And I chose Musee D’Orsay as my favorite.

That is, until I realized that they royally ripped me off.

Take a gander at this beautiful picture I have here from the museum gift shop, a copy of Piet Mondrian’s work. It’s small. It's cheap. No one will ever mistake it for the original. But it is still Mondrian and tasteful, an affordable piece of 'art' for say, a high school junior on her first trip to France.



Until, I took the picture out of its plastic wrappings last week, flipped the picture over and remove its cardboard backing that's not even attached. This is what I discovered:


A postcard!? Masking tape!? They couldn't have bothered to at least use clear tape? To print off reproductions instead of use a postcard? Even world class museums with all the money in the world isn't above ripping its patrons off.

Night Light

 

















On some weekday evenings, roommate Amy (not to be confused with me) moonlights as Captain Kilowatt, fearless leader of Team Tungsten, combatter against the dark forces and of course, always at the center of the spotlight. 

Watt's in a Game

 













O Sweet, electrifying irony. Even Captain Kilowatt isn't immune to the shock of the world's greatest game, eXtreme Lightning Reaction. 

The Sunshine Band

It's been too long since we've had any direct mention of professors. They've been on such good behavior lately. And I have been so un-awkard. Here, finally, some recent highlights of the Band Man.

(In our junior and senior seminar, setting up a meeting time with the Band Man.)

Band Man: I'm free all day on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and on Fridays.

Moi: That's a lot of free time.

Band Man: Well, yeah, I don't really do much. I've got a wet bar set up behind my desk and I just start drinking at noon. All by myself.


(Trying to find a spot at lunch)

Band Man: I try to sit as far from students as possible.

Moi: In the student dining hall?

Band Man: Yeah...


(Regarding our readings on tax reform...)

Band Man: What'd you guys think of the readings?

Class: (Lots of groans and mumbles)

Band Man: I apologize for assigning that. I don't know what I was thinking. The first time I read it, I thought it was ok, but going back this week, reading it gave me a rash.

Inner Beauty

Bobs has too much time on his hands. I don't. I have many stories to tell, some vaguely amusing, some not so much, but I don't have the time to process them for you. Instead, I will share with you this delight from Bobs. Because he had time to urbanup the Bo' when he was bored. Because he had the time to be bored. Note the carefully placed arrows. His carefully placed arrows make my day. Please click on the image for the full, glorious page.















Honestly, I feel violated. Somebody took that entry straight out of my diary. But no, I will not get bitter at this characterization of my school because that's just being predictable, he expects me to get angry, so I won't. Because I have a great personality, unlike the ugly butthead that posted this.

The Wayback Machine's Cool Kicks

I am devoid of anecdotes. My life consists of work and not sleeping. I had lunch with the Band Man this week (when he asked me, for the fifth time, what my plans were for next year, because that's his natural small talk instinct, and oh God we're only in October) and there was not a single awkward moment I could take away to share. Except when, in a sweet reversal of fortune, we discussed the fact that he had no friends in college. And even then, it was less funny than just... odd?

And so we look to the glorious past in this entry, harken back to a time when life was simple, when my choices in food were between lamb and lamb, and my choices in companion were between distant aunt number one or distant second cousin number four- namely, we are going back to China.















This is a distant uncle I like to call "Vic," because his name means victory in Chinese. Seated next to Vic is his wife, who I like to abbreviate as "VW." As you can see from the picture, Vic has led and still lives a life of hard work. His arms are strong and his hands calloused. In his sixty-some years, Vic has been an accountant, a cart driver, and a farmer, but his time as a farmer far more surpasses his other careers. He has a mule, chickens, cows, a few kids (the goat kind) and a few kids (the human kind). Vic's life is simple, as is his dress. His older sister tells me that he never buys clothes for himself so she sometimes buys shirts for him. But despite all this, Vic has a very cool pair of sneakers.















Honestly, I wish I had my distant-farming-old-uncle's sneakers.

Partridge and Au Pair Tree

When Neurobiologists Include A Video In Their Presentation, It Must Be Important



It's been awhile. That's because my life is busy and important. Tremble at my significance.

Last night, I found myself sitting on the floor of the trunk of a van with an au pair from Austria as our vehicle winded through the dark country roads of Massachusetts subrubia. When's the last time you did that, people? That's right. I have very important things to do.

Last week, much of my conversations with Vita-K revolved around the lecturer at the neuro talk we had to attend. And how intelligent and funny he was. (He showed us the clip above as part of a lecture on the olfactory bulb.) And how I found out he was our neurobio professor's boyfriend. And how much Vita-K now hated our professor.

Last weekend I was mistaken for the mother of my former roommate Rio.

Like I said, very busy and important. Now tremble, tremble at my significance.

Coloured People

I never realized this until Maria, the CSRC's wonderful department coordinator, who never spots me on my way to the library, pointed this out today. And now I can't stop thinking and shaking my head about the office's paper recycle tray. It is racist. I am not allowed to use half of the papers in the tray.

  

Three Poeteers

It's the first Poeting meeting of the year, we're going around the circle playing a long and arduous alphabet game. It's Darren's turn and he has the letter X.

Darren: Xenophobic Darren.

I thought this was an interesting choice, especially given that Darren is the only white kid in the group. The rest are brown, black, or me.

Me: What!?

Tony: Xenophobic, one who is afraid of xenons.

Jonique: But she was a warrior princess!

Three Little Letters

Dear Kid in the LIbrary Eating a Few Carrels From Me:

Now, I love sneaking food into the library as much as the next person, nay, perhaps even more, but there are limits to everything. And your food, my stealthy friend, is a too loud for my taste. Why not chicken noodle soup, man? Or breadsticks? Or maybe a nice thick milkshake? Personally, I would recommend the vanilla milkshake with a shot of espresso. Whatever alternatives you choose, the viscious crunching has got to stop. The crushing noises you make (what is it, peanut brittle? pretzels? the sound of your teeth shattering one by one?) disturb me.

Sincerely,

Distracted.



Dear Student With Barefeet Up on the Chair Before Him in Physics:

Boy, stop rubbing your nasty soles on the chair in front of you. Good people rest their heads on those chairs! Just nasty! And you wonder why there's a lice epidemic in the freshmen dorms.

Sincerely,

Disgusted.


Dear Girl Who Walked into Neurobio While Class Was Deep in Session and Didn't Realize that You Were in the Wrong Class Until Quite a Few Minutes After You Sat Down and then Silently Walked Out of the Class Again-

HA HA HA HA HA. You first years bring me joy.

Sincerely,

Delighted.

Hanging Low

My days as a suave senior have hit a new low.  I mean, I've been a senior for many years, ever since I left Sri Lanka, but this year, I'm an academic senior and not as suave as I used to be.

 

I was the first kid in the library today.  In fact, I was there two minutes early, and had to take a detour just to kill time until they opened their doors.

 

My only consolation is that it was H&L, and not the science library, but really, that's not much of a consolation. 

 

 

(At breakfast, before this terrible deed happened)

 

Moi: So you guys are sure H&L is open?  I don't want to go there only to find it locked.  That's embarassing.

 

Tim & EB: Oh yeah, I've done that before.

 

Moi: That's not that comforting, actually.

 

EB: What?  Being in the same boat as the dorkiest people you know?

 

Moi: You're not the geekiest person I know, EB, you're a gender studies minor.  That's not just humanities, that's woo-whee humanities. 

The Band Plays On

I bumped into PuMan yesterday, a pleasant surprise on a beautiful day. He didn't call me by name but acted as if he still remembered me. There was a hug (but no awkward kiss a la Leash and PuWife, phew) and he told me that he thinks of me now, whenever he drives down 495. Yay Interstate!

Bumping into a famous professors you haven't seen in a long time is so much more fun than say, having to go to a professor's office every other second for petty things. For the past week, I have had to stop by the Soc/Anthro department every single day. Often more than once. We are at the point now when Lori, the department coordinator, questions if I actually go to classes, or if I just hang out at the department. Sometimes, I'm not quite so sure myself. Today, since the internet server was down and the Band Man is impossible to find in the phone directory, I had to go to his office to find out if a meeting we had with a community partner was pushed back or not...

Moi: Hey, look, I don't mean to come to your office every day-

Band Man: And yet you do.

Touche.

Oh. I'm also eating lunch with BSketch (who, it turns out, did not sketch the sketchy sketches) on Monday. The Band Man knows where I live (I pointed it out to him, we were right across the street). And Riles has a comment for every outfit I wear. I need a sabbatical from my professors.

Correction

We did not steal eight sandwiches from Common Good Day yesterday. After the roommates took out a couple for their road trip into Boston, there are still twelve sandwiches sitting in our fridge. Twelve delicious roasted eggplant and brie sandwiches. I can't wait for lunch tomorrow.

Not UnCommon Ground

Today was the Bo's annual Common Good Day, where once again, record numbers of student, faculty, staff, and friends signed up for a day of service in our local area. I'm actually pretty proud of my office for what they pulled of this year, 500 participants (we've only got 1677 kids total) and most impressively, sunshine on Common Good Day for the first time in four years. The weather was so good that we were actually at a loss for words, for actions, for anything. We've never seen sunshine like this in September. I just wanted to snap pictures so I could show you how ridiculously beautiful my tiny campus can be when it's not snowing. And when I'm not going to classes. Or doing any work. Oh, a it was a day of friends (some surprising, others not so much), service (I got to relive my BP glory days and lead a painting project), followed by free food. And if I hadn't spent the last three hours reading and doing school work, it really would have been the perfect day.















Quite possibly the best morsel of food from our 'Best in the Country' dining services. This eggplan brie sandwich, which I've only had on three separate Common Good Days, pretty much makes the Bo's skyrocketing tuition worthwhile. We may have stolen eight of them. And those eight may or may not be sitting in our fridge right now.

View from the registration table I was stationed at, looking onto a piece of our quad and the renovated chapel.













A pair of legs, a curious Emily, and a sturdy oak. What more do you need me to say? Roommate Amy (not to be confused with me) is holding her breath as Mike prepares to fart on her.










After our all-you-can-eat dinner tonight, (not that every meal in the dining hall isn't all-you-can-eat, but this was a free meal at an outside restaurant, thus making it extra special.) new and old roommates are discussing my eating habits.

(old) Lisa: Yeah, I remember that you can really eat.
Moi: When did I eat a lot in front of you? I tried not to eat too much in public.
(old) Lisa: No, I've seen you eat a lot.
(new) Amy: You do!? We've got to have an eating contest.

Yes, Dan

I hate it when I don't realize that there are crumbs to my lips until after I've applied my lip balm. Because then, when I try to lick the crumbs away, I just taste lip balm. Actually, wait, maybe that's not such a bad thing. This way tastes nice.

Wayback Machine Goes Back to School

A view outside of my aunt's apartment, from my first day in Ningxia.

The 'aunt,' her apartment is sandwiched between a middle school and an elementary school, ensuring that her walls always filled with echoes of the songs of sweet cherubs. This picture makes me glad that I am in my senior year at a ridiculously expensive private liberal arts college in New England instead of a public elementary school student in a communist country. No uniforms. Entrance exams. And most importantly, no gathering in the field at the same time every day, doing morning calisthenics to the same tired pop tunes day after day after day. A lot of big department stores and restaurants also like subject their employees to morning calisthenics, done collectively on the sidewalk, everyone in uniform, for all passerby to see. For all the sleepness lights and heavy course load this year, at least I'm not standing outside of any malls and there are no supervisors telling me told to put more spirit in my jumping jacks. That really makes college worthwhile.

Natural Selection

Today, before Band Man's seminar class, we're sitting around discussing physics. Or rather, I'm sharing how awful and draining Physics 104 is and Nuge is telling me that I should've taken Physics 50 instead. It's about music and not real physics.

Band Man: Who's teaching that?

(Conversation follows on how the professor that teaches it is nice and cool, and that not all physics professors are like that.)

Moi: Oh no, they're all nice professors. It's just the class that's evil.

Band Man: Who teaches your class?

Moi: [Na-coo-lick]

Band Man: Yeah, no, we don't like him.

And A Step to the Right

My question of the week: Favorite root vegetable?

Before you answer, remember that to qualify as a 'root vegetable,' the item must be both a root and a vegetable. Shallots, for instance, Tim's proud answer after many minutes of silent meditation, is a great example. Things that do not constitute as root vegetable (despite some ridiculous protests)? Peanut, pineapple, and pumpkin. Especially the pineapple, man, not even close.

It's been a crazy week. And the semester is just starting. The hours are just disappearing from me. I'm drastically cutting down on my updates. And life outside of work, classes, and physics problem sets in general.

Plus, my life is riddled with crises. There are too many freshmen for my little brain to wrap around. Mysterious hooks hang from my ceiling. And I have a new tendency to accidentally wear the same outfit as the people around me, most noticeably Roomate Amy (not to be confused with me) and of course, Vita-K.

On the plus side, I have yet to fall asleep reading in library this week. That may or may not be due to the fact that I haven't had the time to go to the library or do any of my readings this, but whatever. I'd like to focus on positive side.

My Chums, My Chums

Like you'll read about below, there was a BCF co-sponsored showing of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe tonight. Despite her semester in Australia, New Roommate Amy (not to be confused with me) had difficulty understanding the English. And that made me suddenly miss my British friends. So we're going to learn about some American friends of mine.

This is Tim. The cotton candy he is holding is made from all the leftovers on the side. It is stiff and not fluffy and in appearances, it is not unlike wall insulation. But this picture is also the happiest I have ever seen Tim, so I guess he digs the candy.








Tim's also a little paranoid. So I introduce him to New Roommate Amy...

Amy: The name sounds familiar, I think you've mentioned him before.

Tim: You have? I always sound bad when you mention me in a story.

Next we have Mr. Editor-in-Chief himself. Here, he is not taking pictures of underclassmen girls with his gigantic camera. Or at least he's doing it in the name of official paper business. Bobs is so smart that he can tell you everything you'd ever want to know, like why Tony Snow is not the White House press secretary. That's just a random question I thought of, but I bet Bobs could answer it, and many, many more.

Lastly we have Megan. I haven't seen her much this year and we haven't hung out, but she's wearing adorable boots. And posing as if she had just spotted a genuine Baltimore Oriole. Despite her stubborn loyalties to Moulton over Thorne, she's a great kid and one of my favorite juniors. Her cotton candy was pink, light, and fluffy- just like her, and the antithesis of Tim and his cotton candy.

The Parting Glass

I have eaten a heart attack, people. Actually, a heart attack and a half. And that is why, before I go to bed tonight, I am writing you this entry. For if it falls unto my lot that you should rise and I should not, then I'll getnly rise and softly call, good night and joy be with you all.

It all started with brunch here, at Grand City Variety. Grand City is the diner/variety store in town where the elderly love to frequent.













I did not take this picture. Amazing Photographer Drew ('06) did, I just stole it from google. For brunch, I had egg over easy, some extremely buttery white toast, home fries, and my favorite diner food ever- corned beef hash. For dessert, there was homemade apple pie a la mode. There's good diner food, then there's Grand Variety. I think the pie is the only thing there they actually made from scratch.

Then there was dinner. To start off, the establishment I ate at is called Fat Boy's. It's a drive-in greasy spoon that's cheap and part of a long local tradition.





























These pictures would have been more fun had Mac and I not been ditched by everyone on their planet and their mothers for dinner. It's hard not to look like a stalker when you're snapping pictures and there's only one other person beside you. That's why I quickly took these and started chomping. Plus, it started raining. I had fries and a fried clam cake sandwich slathered generously with mayo and butter. And the thickest coffee frappe this side of the Mississippi. Note the use of 'frappes' instead of 'milkshake.' We're in New England, baby.

As if those two meals were not bad enough, there was a BCF co-sponsored movie tonight, and with it, cotton candy, buttery popcorn, and hot cider. And I may have bought some Pringles to "balance out the sweetness." Honestly, I am not sure if my heart will be ok. But hey, if my heart does fail, I'd be excused from my physics problem sets. So really, whatever should happen, it's a win-win situation.

Missing a Little Sunshine

National Weather Service, I'm putting you on probation. You didn't lie per se. And I wasn't wet today, so thank you. But you did say it'd be very warm, and only cloudy in the morning. And that's why I wore a short skirt today. It was warm for a minute, National Weather Service, then it was very cold for a very long time. I was cold for a very long time.

But really, it's ok. I had a very good day today. Great food, movie, music, friends, lost things found, and yes, maybe even a little nap in the library (I've got to stop doing that).

Oh, and 'Why Do These Things Happen To Me? Story #772'

Me: Hi, I'm calling to make changes to an order I had placed for balloons earlier this week.

Clerk: Balloons? We don't do balloons, this is Hannaford's.

Me: Um, I know. I called yesterday and placed an order.

Clerk: Like helium balloons? We don't do that at Hannaford's.

Me: But I've already placed the order yesterday. I was told that I could pick up at the service center, so could you maybe transfer me to the service center?

Clerk: This is the service center.

Me: Could you check your records then? Because somebody took my order and I ordered something yesterday.

(Many more minutes of arguing over the phone as I provide clerk with information on when I called, what I ordered, and how much everything was... the woman still had no idea what I was talking about and luckily for me, all of her managers were busy. And no one she asked knew anything about the balloons. Or any balloons of any sort. And this is why Tesco's is going to take over the world, and not Hannaford's.)

Law & Order

At the science library, trying to check out a book on longitudes because Walty said so...

Librarian 1: It says here that this book is reserved by Professor Battle for 2000.

Moi: Does that mean we have to duke it out for the book?

Librarian 1: Yes, it does. You have to settle this with a fight.

Moi: Will there be mud involved?

Librarian 2: Well, we usually meet on Saturday afternoons in the back. It's a surprise medium every week, so sometimes it's mud, but it could also be jello or spaghetti sauce.

I love smart mouth librarian kids.

Later in the evening, at the BCF "speed dating" event, Tim is sitting there with two freshmen girls hanging on to almost all of his words...

Moi: So you guys are listening to Tim's advice on econ classes? That's so cute.

Tim: I'm probably the wrong person to ask.

Freshman Girl: What? You're interested in law enforcement? Like a cop?

Sleepless in Senior Year

In a meeting this morning, my professor asked if I was still asleep. It was a one-on-one meeting. He then broke out in laughter, presumably directed at me. And I'm not even in his class this semester. Oh, Walty. Just when one professor stops making fun of me, another steps right in.

In the library this afternoon, I dozed off many a times and tried to wake myself up by switching seats every few pages. There are a lot of comfortable chairs on the third floor (where my senior carrel is). And finally, I fell asleep on one of them until Tim walked by.

And all through out today, I just kept thinking, "No, today can't possibly be a bad day. I haven't even had a full week of classes. These things aren't really happening to me."

In other news, I cut through iron today.

(In the lab, miraculously, as a Lab Assistant)

Me: Do you have some wire cutters for these?
Martha (the lab instructor): I'll see if I can find some scissors for you.
Me: What, I can't just use my teeth?
Martha: No, you can't. (Then leans in to whisper) Ok, you can, just not in front of my students.

And that's why, despite the sleepless nights, I'm working in the lab.

To the Victor

Tonight, I put on the kettle (instead of microwaving water) and made some green tea. Then I pulled out my adorable pink thermos and unscrewed it for the first time since last December. Big mistake. Probably should have cleaned it out sooner. Because I had forgotten to take the tea bag out in all those months. The tea didn't actually go moldy, no, that was fine, but it was my British way of drinking it that got me in trouble. You know how milk smells sour after a few weeks? Yeah, try nine months.

Moi: When you were in Australia, did they use the kettle a lot?

Amy: Yeah! They loved it over there! I used it all the time.

What is it with these countries and the Queen and the kettle?

Whether the Weather be Fine...

Weather.com, I go to you for a reason. For two reasons, actually. One, because weatherunderground has poor graphics and two, to know what the weather will be like. Like many people in this fair land, the weather affects me greatly. Not so much because I work the land, but because I ride a bike to classes and my bike has no mud guard. And, I decide whether to wear a raincoat or not depending on the weather. And let me just say, I am very disappointed in you. You promised no rain, yet I got caught wet with my bike two days running. You're the weather channel! It's your only job! Oh the empty promises and lies!

Back to the Top

 

Another picture from the wayback machine. The Great Wall had cool trash cans. 

BANG!

Sorry to have worried you guys. Even though I haven't updated for awhile, I am still alive. And indeed, I am up north now at the Bo', with the moose and the lobsters and the only Maine Street in the US of A. I have moved in, classes have started, but I am not completely unpacked. Already, I have bought the wrong text book and consequently did the wrong reading (Mac's response: "How do you buy a wrong textbook? Not even freshmen do that."), forgotten to send an attachment to a professor when I said I would, and asked for an extension on a report. I am right on track for being a suave senior. Also, I live in the Bat Cave. My bedroom has no windows. I wake up in darkness every single morning. But don't feel sorry for me, because my cave is quite big. Oh, and I may have had a dream that I was distantly related to Chien-Ming Wang and got to meet him, which made me very happy and would have made up for an entire summer of meeting incredibly random and non-baseball affliliated relatives had it not all been a dream.

It's busy. It's tiring. But it's also going to be an awesome senior year. Hope all's well on your end, and that those who are seeking are finding, that way, I'll have one more reason to be excited for seeing Boston when break comes.

Like It's Hot

We joke a lot about how studious Mac is. Give him a hard time for spending too much time with the books, ignoring his friends, and generally never having any fun. And now, this delicious story from Bobby, roommate of Mac two years running. Last year, their toilet was clogged for awhile. No one knew why. Well, there were many hypotheses but no one was sure. Until the plumber came. And removed a pencil from the toilet. Yes, someone had dropped a pencil into the john. It takes a brave man to face up to such an act, but a brave man he is. Mac admitted to doing his homework on the toilet, and maybe dropping in a pencil at the same time.

I missed so much last semester.

My Summer Pie

I am leaving the 'burbs for the 'Bo in about an hour. And I am still not completely packed yet, though I'm not sure what I've forgotten to pack. I guess I'll just have to be surprised when I get on campus. Hey, look, my TI-86. I think I need to pack that. But before I put that and Dakota the Computer away, some farewells.

Goodbye hard coffin bed of China, mosquitoes, and being woken up by phone calls from relatives every God-forsaken morning. Goodbye cousins, first, second, and third, aunts and uncles distant and near. Goodbye squatters square and oval, and grounds in the hole- I think I hate you. Goodbye Ningxia lamb, taxi rides, and lima bean porridge- only one of you will be fondly missed. Goodbye Chinese card games, magic tricks, junk food, and the folks I shared them with- you guys got me through the summer. And goodbye receipts- I have no reason to keep you.

Goodbye to my luxurious life at home- sleeping late, showers, and sudoku, feeling lethargic, eating leftovers, being lowkey. Air conditioning, softest bedding, very, very light reading.

Hello to endless hours transcribing, reading, writing, in the lab, on the computer, without sleep but among friends. Band Man, Riles, 104, and bio lab reports- I'm not ready, but here I come.

It's Not Easy

Sweet and sour ribs ain't easy. But Mother makes the best kind. Just as Dan's mother is queen supreme over cookies, so Mother makes the best sweet and sour ribs I know. They're not like the restaurant kind. Or the kind other moms make. They're dark, dark brown and wonderful. So this week, I asked Mother to make them. And today, she gave in, after letting us eat nothing but leftovers for one too many meals.

Her recipe is simple. Ribs, soy sauce, vinegar, sugar, and a bit of ketchup. Today, the bottle of normal ketchup (i.e. supermarket brand red ketchup) was mostly empty, so Mother tried something adventurous. She reached for the bottle of green Heinz ketchup I miraculously convinced her into buying a few years back, during a period in my life when I thought green ketchup was cool. ("But we've had that ketchup for years, I was still in high school!" I said. "So? Ketchup doesn't go bad.") Because my mother is freaking awesome and thought well, green ribs will taste the same anyway, and maybe the change will look cool.

Unfortunately, it didn't. And no amount of soy sauce or the last vestiges of normal ketchup could save it. The ribs tasted fine (a little off the A-game today, too much ketchup, but great nevertheless) but looking at it, I felt like I was eating rotten meat. Forgive me for being unimaginative, but that's the only other circumstance when I've seen green meat.

Peter Pockets

We have a ping pong table in the basement. In fact, my father cares about ping pong so much that he bought a ping pong server just so he can play against the machine instead of be disappointed with the poor athletic acumen of his offspring. We also have a washer and dryer in the basement. And because we don't care for ping pong as deeply as my father, we often dump the contents of our pockets there when we're about to do laundry. It's not uncommmon to find tissues, spare change, little plastic toys, and scraps of paper on the ping pong table after one of us has done laundry. I like to scoop up the change and keep it for myself.

This morning, I went downstairs to finally claim my clean clothes from the dryer after four days and discovered these items on the table. I think they belong to my brother:

An old hatchet. A plastic bag. An orange CD case in three pieces. An unopened envelope containing what is presumed to be a bill. And the top two tips of some decorative and harmless spear. A black leather belt. A fork. And a copy of WIRED magazine.

He must have really big pockets.

Wayback Machine #12

These pictures come from my first day in Beijing, before I went into the northwest. My mother and I visited Tian Tan (the heavenly palace) and then the National Palace Museum. The first two pictures are from Tian Tan and I hardly took any pictures in the Museum. Mostly, I was just hot, tired, and sick of the paint fumes. I would have gladly traded the history lessons and the thousands-year-old artifacts for a nice cup of bubble tea and kept telling my mother that, but she wouldn't listen. Something about once-in-a-lifetime opportunities and appreciating your roots. I don't know. The last picture is from the People's Square, across from the Palace Museum. I had seen that image many times elsewhere, in movies, on TV, and in books and finally there I was, standing by the square. And it occured to me then, "I'm really in China." Then, a second later, I realized that being outside wasn't a quarter as nice as being in the AC'ed car and wanted back in. But no, we went to the Palace Museum instead.

Come On, Party People

I am not cut out for party planning. Last week, Tim and his Chu brothers (though we did not know all of them as that at the time) hosted a few Boston BCF'ers for a most excellent barbecue. By the way, spellcheck just wanted me to replace BCF'ers with bugbears. Awesome. Anyway, it was a great affair and our only regret was that it was too short and we didn't do enough catching up.

So, this week, with Tim finally out of the State, I suggested we all hang out again, this time to catch up some more and talk about the Chus. I, of course, don't actually live in Boston, so I came up with the grand idea of having Ranwei both host and cook for us. Because I am generous and great at planning like that.

Fastforward now, to the night of the event. Ranwei and I are sitting in her room, watching the Food Network and waiting for folks to arrive:

Ranwei: So who's coming? People got back to you, right?

Moi: Oh. I don't know. I assumed they'd tell you, since we're at your place.

Ranwei: I didn't call anybody. I thought you were organizing.

Moi: Oh.

In the end, our lovely get-together consisted of four whole people. And watching Lethal Weapon I on Spike TV. And listening to nerdy Greydon explain how Snakes on a Plane is more fun if you bring your own copy of the audience participation script with you and teach all you fellow theater patrons ahead of time. Did I mention that he works with computers? To salvage the night, Ranwei offered us peach crisp with hand-picked peaches from Outlook Farm. The crisp was splendiferous.

After all that poor planning, walking to the T-station, I just happened to see my roommate-to-be. Out of all the people and all the places in the greater Boston area, I bump into Amy. It was amazing. And once again, proof that God plans things a lot better than I do. Maybe from now on, I'll assign the party planning to Him.

Laughter's Labor Lost

At dinner with family and Friends of Brother-

Friend O'Brother: In sewing class in middle school, we learned to make boxers and [I forget what she else said].

Moi: Yeah, I made boxers, too! I made boxers and a pillow.

Brother: When I was little, I sewed Nike sneakers at school. And on top of that, they paid me 14 cents a day. It was awesome.

Moi: That's 'cause you weren't good at math, or else they would have promoted you to the crack class. That's what I got to do.

Brother: Sweatshop jokes are funny.

Wayback Machine #11

Beijing, China. Middle of June.














Chinese city-dwellers love parks and public squares. It's where they go to stroll, hang out, and cool off instead of turn on the freaking air conditioning. (To be fair, I had an aunt who was good about turning on the AC, but she was evil and made awful porridges so I still didn't like going to her house.) The parks can be quite crowded anytime past 6pm on a summer evening. The elderly especially like congregating in parks to dance, practice Tai-Chi, and socialize, early in the morning and/or at night. It's quite common, and always adorable, to see large groups of old women and men moving to music. Here, in Tian Tan, a slightly more sophisticated group (they've got fans) is striking a pose for me.

"Suffer a Little, Save a Lot"

Not only does Building #19 sell 'slightly' expired foods at low costs, it also manufactures its own cereal. Cereal that my mother happily purchased. That's right, we are the proud owners of the breakfast of cheapskates. This Jerry-O box is actually the 'new and improved' version. The original had a topless Jerry which consumers complained about, and no random synchronized swimmers.

Note how they put no effort into the re-drawing but simply scribbled some brown over the original naked body.

Sarah: Did your mom buy this as a joke?
Moi: Oh, I wish she did.

No Adspace Unturned

 I snapped this in Shuzhou, China, about an hour's drive from Shanghai. That's classy, McDonald's, very classy. Advertising on tricycles. 

Hairspray, Meet Gospell

This is my father's hair on a Sunday night, when the hair is at its messiest and my father at his most tired. The last time his hair was this long he was about my age, and thought the long hair, thick-rimmed glasses, and mustache looked good on him. I thank God daily that my mother was able to look past the ridiculous surface and marry him. He would have much preferred another picture, which showed a bit of his face and the Reader's Digest condensed novel he was reading, but hey, it's not his blog to decide. At this point on Sunday night, the radio reports on the Red Sox were still bringing comfort to his weary soul.


About three years ago, my father started a new church. Not a new church in the way of the Rev. Sun Jung Moon, but a plant church to the one he was pastoring at. The original church was in Massachusetts, and seeing the ever growing Chinese population across the border, my father felt called to establish a church in New Hampshire, the first Chinese church in the area.

Now, many moons have passed and it is time for the church to seek a building of its own instead of renting space from a local church. In fact, the church urgently needs a building of its own for growth and for the fact that the space they're using is to be torn down and renovated very, very soon. A few times these past months, they came close to finding their ideal church, but in the end, the deals always fell through. It has been some intense months of prayer for my parents and as a sign to his rather moderate congregation of how serious and committed he is about finding a church building, my father has announced that he is not getting a haircut until his church has a new, permanent home.

Styling tips and prayers welcomed.

Moi: So what do your congregants think about your hair?
Father: They're afraid to comment.

Lion's Mane

 

A shot of my mother's hair. It is black, almost always curled, and its colour changes by the day between gradients of brown, black, and gray. Her hair is among the shortest in my family, second only to me. She hates to be photographed and would rather be concentrating on the DVD of My Own Swordsman that I bought her. 

Oh My Darlie

 
 
 
























These toothpastes have long been known to, and made fun of by the Asian expat community the world over, or visitors to Asia. But for my sheltered friends, I bring you these pictures I snapped in Taiwan. Darlie Toothpaste. In Chinese, the brand translates to 'Black Man Toothpaste' (Hence the White Man ripoff below). In less PC times, the picture of the black man was more offensive, and Darlie was called Darkie. But we've moved on since then. And now, Darlie doesn't just come in the plain yellow tube it was offered in for decades, but all kinds of snazzy packaging and flavours, like herbal, special whitening, peroxide, and whatever the blue and gray box says.

White Man's Burden

Once upon a time, my brother gave Mother a book as a present. And now he's asking for it back, because she never reads it anyway and he'd like to. My mother, behaving in an equally classy manner, cannot locate the book, recall what it looked like, or even repeat the title. She's never even read the whole cover.

 
 


























Oh, the picture. A ripoff of the well-established Darlie brand toothpaste, long-popular all over Asia. White men or dark men, the toothpastes are used by Taiwanese folks like me. 

Rock-a-bye Ranwei

"Yeah, Tim likes older women."

Said Ranwei, referring to herself, Ellie, and me. Tim's brother had innocently asked if we'd all graduated (Tim hasn't), and out came Ranwei's reply, followed by awkward chuckles all around.

Best inappropriate line of the summer.

Dusty With Us

I thought we were already friends... didn't I declare it on Xanga or something?

The Last Supper

The night before I left for home, in those last wee hours of the darkness, the mosquitoes of Beijing feasted on my body and blood one last time before we parted ways. No one knows the hour I'd return again, not even me. That had a certain blasphemous ring to it. I'm sorry. But I digress. It wasn't just one last sumptuous for the gang of mosquitoes, there was a show as well. The Itchy & Scratchy Show. Which kept me up for most of the night, so that I was only really asleep for three hours tops. That, however, was time aplenty for them to partake of my blood.

Here are some of the damage:


Three on the right forearm.

And three on the left back arm.

Plus one to the right elbow, one to the left forearm (they're symmetrical, you see), one on the back of each hand, five on the fingers, and three on the palms. And just so the legs don't feel left out, one on each thigh. These were not just mosquitoes at work, they must have been operating in conjunction with some other bugs. I mean, who bites the palms of the hands?! Oh, and these were not normal insects we were dealing with, in case you couldn't figure out by the twenty-one bites in three hours, but they're special action movie terrorist bugs. Because they either flew in through the window at nine floors high, or came in through the air ducts of the air conditioning that never worked (hence the plethora of bugs), either way, very cunning of the bugs. And either way, I've been in miserable itching pain for the past three days.


In other news, the old and infested hotel-dormitory that I stayed at the last night was my cousin's place (I got the place to myself because she was gone for the weekend, which meant that I alone suffered through the bugs) and she had the tiniest roll of toilet paper I'd ever seen. It was adorable. And soft. And made me feel like I was wiping with gauze bandages.

Sticking It To The Cat

Finally, some pictures from Chinar. Eventually, I hope to post a lot more here, when the wireless signal at home doesn't fail me every other second. And I'll post even more on my flickr site. What? Didn't know I had a flickr account? Oops.



This is my boy Pamn. He is my grandfather's late sister's great grandson. Or my mother's cousin's grandson. I don't know what that makes him and me. Second cousins? I always forget what a second cousin actually is, and just label whoever I can't think of a second cousin. I've only met him twice, but both times he was very well-behaved adorable and wearing this shirt. I like it. Pamn. It's got attitude, challenging the authority of all the so-called 'legitimate' brands. A curse to them and a knockoff all in one. PAMN!



This is Pamn's great uncle to the left and the headless body to the right is Pamn's grandfather. And that's a whole lamb in the middle, that they brought when the whole group of them came to visit. And conveniently split right in the kitchen so the lamb would fit into the fridge. And that's blood you see, dripping on our kitchen floor. The whole splitting of the meat took less than ten minutes. These people are really, really good at their butchering. It was just one of many, many, many whole dead lambs I saw in my time in Chinar.

Welcome Back, Blogger

I heart Japan. And its tolerant government that allows me to see my blog for the first time in over two months as I try to kill time during my layover. Hooray sketchy wireless network that allows me to not use the pricey* Narita Airport connection. O, the risks I go to for you, blogger.

*I'm not actually sure if it's pricey or not. I don't know the exchange rate. I just assume that it is, since we're in Japan. And I buy things from airport cafes and boutiques with reckless abandon, just guessing at the prices until it's printed for me on my credit card receipt. I. Love. Grants.

in other news, I'm pretty sure these are my last few hours in a squatter country and I'm pretty psyched all around. I'll catch you on the flush, I mean, flip side of the globe.

Fisher of Men

When I say that this is a godless country, I do not mean it as an insult. I am not intoning anything else. Godless country. No public and free faiths or religions. Especially in an isolated region like here, most people have very little encounter with religions.

And so when I pulled out my dad's card to show my two nephews (adorable twins entering seventh grade), they got a bit confused. They had been excited to examine all the contents of my wallet, to go through the ID cards and paper bits, and to find that my dad's name card was in two laguages.

"Pastor?" They read the Chinese portion aloud. "He's a pastor?!" They asked again. Just like it is in English, the Chinese word for pastor has roots from the word 'pastoral.' Thus, making the connections in their own heads, they asked in a slightly disappointed voice, as if they had bigger hopes for Father, "Well, what does he herd, sheep or cattle?"

"No, no. A pastor takes care of people, not cattle."

Shining Shimmering Splendor

I think I'm ready to go home to the States (T-3 days), then I check my email and read a story like this in the NY Times. And I think 'Huh? What country or planet are these people from?' (May have to sign-in for the link- so it's for pretentious readers only.) I forget sometimes that the Times don't actually talk about real people. Oh, and Israel? Lebanon? Lieberman? What? The only news heavily discussed here is the ever-lowering price of watermelons. Really, these may be the cheapest watermelons anywhere in the world. It's too bad that I chose watermelons as my least favorite fruit. I have to disappoint people by turning down their watermelon slices, chunks, and halves at least four times a day.

In other news: I am so done with squatters. And countries with weak flush systems (that means you too, UK). Just 3 more days.

No Room for Proctor

You know all that crap you hear about how the Chinese people value their families a lot? I know Mr. Duffet liked to talk about it, and always turned to me expectantly and asked for me to concur. I think he half-expected me to bow when I said yes. You know what my relatives do when they get together? Gamble and drink. That pretty much sums it up. Sometimes, they throw in some karaoke, but gambling and drinking covers most of it. Sometimes, there is food. But have I mentioned gambling and drinking? Chinese families are not very suitable for young children.

And how have I adjusted to all this? I am fed a lot of beer. And I turn down even more cups of beer, though I manage to slip off the hook when it comes to the vile spirits that they drink. And yes, even in China, people like to laugh when your face turns red after a few sips of beer. I do not play mah-jongg, because I'd lose too much that way, but have learned a couple of popular games with playing cards that I manage to be halfway decent with. And I always pretend I don't understand what they're talking about when they start mentioning playing for money.

In other news, I saw an authentic, traditional Chinese wedding in the farmlands, a badminton competition, and lots of people burning incense in hopes of receiving a son, but not all at once.

Laughter, Insulin, and Factor VIII

Norm MacDonald once told his audience that laughter was the best medicine. Unless you're diabetic. Then of course, insulin is the best medicine.

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. And by the state of Denmark, I really mean my food supply. Junior High Niece (JRN) and I have eaten identical foodstuffs for the past two to three days and our stomachs have turned in anguish for just as long. At this point in my stay, I can no longer blame the pain on maladjustment, especially since JRN is also affected. This is something specific and malignant. But we don't know what. And no, I refuse to blame it on the fact that I had Capico Potato Crisps (BBQ flavor) for breakfast for three days in a row. Especially since I didn't have any this morning and my stomach was still in pain. In fact, packaged junk food is the only thing not bothering my stomach these days.

Oh, and my throat's been bothering me for a few days so today, at a cousin's house (a marvelously hospitable cousin, might I add), I asked her for some throat lozenges. She gave me some. Then two white pills that I could not identify. All I know is that it's for colds and would make me sleepy. And then, for good measure, she also gave me some sweet medicinal tea to drink. It was sugary and delicious, but I'm not sure how all three things would react together, or if in fact, I am falling ill or it's only my throat. She almost made me take antibiotics, too, before her husband intervened. Please make sure that I don't fall sick, people. I've been to the hospitals here and I don't want my doctor to be smoking as he's examining me, as I've seen a couple of doctors do.

In other news, my parents expect my life to be interesting whenever I call and are always disappointed when I've nothing much to report. It's always I watched yet some other random relatives play drinking games together or I sat in my aunt's living room for another five hours, not doing anything at all, or hey, when I interviewed my uncle he told me how he lies on budget reports. Stuff like that.

Wish List

I wish that lambs would stop being slaughtered then presented in the whole in my honor. Oh, what the heck, let's make it 'honour' as a shout out to my British pals.

Last night, there we were treated to dinner at this Mongolian-hut type place and had a whole roast tiny little lamb. The lamb was accompanied by some wine ceremony. Which brings me to wish number two.

I wish that people would stop toasting me.

And lastly, I wish for, among many other foodstuffs, Chinatown food. Is it wrong to miss Chinatown food whilst in China? Not Chinatown as in the faux-Chinese restaurant in Brunswick, but Chinatown as in places where people of Chinese origins congregate when in another country. I don't miss Americanized Chinese food. But Chinatown food, definitely longing for it right now.

To make up for the lack of Chinatown food, however, I've grown attached to the potato crips here- the Pringles rip off variety. I haven't seen the greasy Lays-type potato chips yet. Like in the UK, the crisp flavours here are plentiful and funky, and quite different from those in the US, but unlike the UK, they're unbelievably affordable here. Less than a quarter USD for a snack-sized bag. My love for this exchange right pales only slightly for my love of Asian junk food.

Losing Face

Yesterday, had a facial at a salon (because luxuries at home are affordable here). I don't know what it is about dentists, orthodontists, hair dressers, or cosmetics people. But they don't like me. People that have to touch me, especially. Doctors treat me ok, except for that time that they locked me in the exam room for an hour, but for the most part, we tight. All those other professions, however, tend to disapprove of me. I'm sure it's them though, and not me.

It's always that myteeth are not clean enough, straight enough, or my hair grows funny and goes against the grain or my pores are clogged and never their fault. I find this quite hard to believe. Especially considering by the appearances of the lady that gave me the facial; I'm pretty sure her skin isn't that nice either. Now, for many people, facials are relaxing and wonderful and refreshing. But not so if you apparently have the worst skin since God said 'let there be.' Those ladies tortured the life out of my little head and I left with patches of red all over my face. That's right, I looked worse off after my facial than before. That's just the type of special customer that I am.

I'll Be Watching You

I think I've complained about my mosquito bites already but it bears repeating. The stings of the mosquitoes are so viscious and merciless that I have three bites alone on my left ankle. Do you know how big an ankle is? Within a one-inch diameter, there are three bites. I only have so much blood, people and mosquitoes of the world! My fingers, legs, back, arms, multiple bites on both elbows...I've lost the will to sleep at night. And it'd be ok if I slept in my own(ish) bed, where I have a most satisfying electric zapper right by my pillow, ready to use at moment's notice, but none of my other relatives' houses have the fantastic swatter (in the shape of a tennis racket for easy swatting- oh, the crispness of the zap when it strikes is fantabulous). So nightly I dread falling asleep and always pull the blanket high over my head, which causes profuse sweating and uneasiness of breath, but that's just the type of price you have to pay to avoid getting bitten. Help!

My Life is Not My Own

Every morning, before I am even awake enough to think of going anywhere, I must first tell my grandfather, eldest and second eldest aunt where I plan on spending my day, where my meals shall take place, and where I will rest my head come eveing. Mind you, I did not meet either of these two aunts before coming here, but now that I've arrived on their turf, I am theirs and theirs alone. And what should happen if I rebel and fail to report to them? They've got minions and minons abound, I tell you! I once made the mistake of believing a cousin when she said I could sleep late at her place after they'd left for work and slept until the ungodly hour of 8:45am and not answering the phone at this distant relative's house when I heard it ring (thinking perhaps that I should not go around answering the phones of people I didn't know). Frantic calls were made back and forth all unbeknownst to me and within the hour, a cousin arrived at the doorsteps to escort me to her house, lest I get lost between the two-minute taxi ride in a city the size of Portland (Maine).

A couple of mornings ago, when I was about to join second eldest aunt and my grandfather for breakfast, he suddenly asked me if I had called my eldest aunt yet. I had spent the past 72 hours all within sight of him since the two of us had gone on a trip visting more distant relatives I didn't know about, had not planned on going anywhere that morning, and was sitting right between an aunt and grandfather, why would I need to call my eldest aunt? Absolutely stumped, I asked what I needed to tell her. That I'm back, of course! Oh foolish, worthless me, why didn't I think that I needed to call my eldest aunt to say that I've safely arrived when we've been with relatives all along the trip? When my aunts called to check on us every day? When two out of three triumvirates where sitting right there? Why did I think it was unnecessary? Or think that it'd have been more proper had my grandfather, her father, called her instead of me.

Verily, verily, I say unto thee, when I wast young, I girded myself and walked whither I wanted. But now I am old. And I must report to three guards over me before I can go anywhere or do anything.

(Quick, reference the verse that was modeled after without looking and there'll be a prize for you... in heaven!)

Caveats

Way to be careful DJ, I almost always add the 'r' to Chinar. It's the Bostonian in me. In the realm of this blog, the Scottish capital is Eddie Bert and the motherland is Chinar. I like my pillows firm, plums sour, showers in the morning, soup over salad, rigatoni instead of spaghetti, and an 'r' at the end of Chinar.

So erm, the English textbook that one of my nieces is using is teaching her all these erroneous things, like fiber is spelled with 're' and that there are these snacks called 'crisps.' No idea what they're about. And she goes to a good high school at that. How's one supposed to learn English this way? Maybe after a decade or so with the language, they can adapt to these things and learn to discern right from wrong, but to be burdened with these things from the start? What's next- chips over fries?

What Happens in Chinar...

Deep into her sleep a couple of nights ago, my niece suddenly exclaimed "A pair of queens!" then dropped back to sleep.

Perhaps we've been playing too much cards lately. But can you blame us? It's so much better than trying to sleep, three people to a queen bed, with mosquitoes hovering by our heads all night long and the air oh so humid.

Come Back Another Day

Dear British Reader(s),
First of all, I worry about the state of your oral hygiene. No wonder folks on the other side of the Atlantic make fun of you so. I may have bad flossing habits, but at least I recognize that I ought to floss.
Second of all, the AC comment need not apply to you guys. It doesn't get hot in Britain, it gets vaguely warm, especially in Eddie Bert. But here? Oh, it is so hot, hot, hot. Temperatures are in the thirties daily (they use Celsius here, just as you humble folks do. This translates to the nineties and beyond in Fahrenheit terms. How proud am I that I can spell Fahrenheit right? Probably more than I should be).
And third, I miss my mosque curry, or, as Dan calls it, 'holy curry.' (American Dan, not to be confused with British Dan.) There are many mosques here and many Muslims (bet you didn't know that about Chinar, yeah, this province is a special autonomous region for Hui Chinese, who are Chinese Muslims. Don't ask me details, because I'm fuzzy about them and their history), but no curry. Your silly but endearing accents are also sort of missed. Along with all those funny museums with no entrance fees. Entrance fees here totally rip people off and you have to pay so many of them just to see one 'attraction.' Like a mostly empty underground tomb of one of the many, many, many important emperors of some bygone era. And their wax figures aren't as funny as the ones in the People's History Museum. And I would say that I miss you guys, but then all my throngs of readers on the other side of the Atlantic would get jealous, and well, you guys already lost pretty badly in 1776, I wouldn't want y'all to lose face again, so...
Fourthly, as you people say, if today was opposite day, I'd be in Eddie Bert (or even Maine) instead of here. They. Get. No. Rain. Here. EVER. Last week, it poured for about six hours straight, the really heavy stuff you see in New England summers. Many roads were flooded, crops ruined, and ceilings leaked. It was the worst rain they'd had in fifty years. Six hours of work. Many people had never seen rain like it. SIX HOURS was all it took. A few years ago, the region went two years without a drop of rain. How easy was the weatherman's job? Just like the Eddie Bert weatherchannel forecast, rain rain, everyday, but in reverse. Imagine if Eddie Bert stayed dry for two weeks, nay, days. SIX HOURS.
I think my work is done here. See you the next time I get internet access.

This Is You

When I was little, I loved watching America's Funniest Home Videos.

First off, touche, Dusty, touche. I wish I knew how to put that little accent aigu (is that what we call it?) mark over the e, but alas, we have to make do. We're under a whole different political system and can't just go around adding accent marks over letters.

Now for a little mid-summer Hot or Not of Ningxia:

What's Hot: Pretty much everything. The food. The climate. The temperature in which they serve the water.

What's Not: The people. And staying cool, like using electric fans or AC. Not even in cars. Or houses with AC installed.

What's Hot: Lamb. Mosquito bites. Parasols. They love their parasols.

What's Not: Tans. Privacy. Flossing. Have yet to see floss other than my own, which I don't mind admitting, I don't use enough anyway.

What's Hot: Not owning one's car or driving, but having drivers or ordering taxis. (I could get used to this...) Fine, they also walk or take buses, but I prefer taxis. It's 15 cents per kilometer, with a $0.65 minimum.

What's Not: High speed internet access. Oh, how I miss thee!

By the by, there's this TV show called My Own Swordsmen, the only half decent sitcom I've seen here, and I'm pretty much addicted. They play reruns of it more often than Friends and Simpsons reruns combined in the States. It's not great, but beggars can't be choosers, especially when it comes to Swordsmen.

Animal Farm

It's been too long since I've updated, Faithful (?) Reader. Let's see. I rode a camel for about five minutes. And then I had the best wine I've ever had in my life. Ok, so it's not water-to-wine good, but the name redeems it for all its vile, 33% alcohol, chock full of Chinese herbs qualities:

Velvet Deerhom and Three-Penis Wine.

If I read the ingredients list correctly, cow penises were involved in the making of the wine. But I'm glad to report that the wine did not taste especially cow penis-y.
What's deerhom? I wish I knew. But I'm pretty glad that I don't. And now my blog has turned vulgar. Way to go, Chinese wine.

I wanted to post a couple of pictures of relatives splitting a chunk of lamb in half, but the computer I am using is so old that it has no USB ports so I cannot upload my pictures into it. Oh well, your loss.

Silence

Mary had a little flock. And I ate it. And the flock's distant relatives. Ningxia, the province where I am, thinks it's famous for its lamb. And I've been fed lamb every day since being here two weeks ago. Yipee?

Speaking of pee, if you take a good whiff in any Chinese city, that's what you'd smell. Except maybe Shanghai and Beijing. And if you take a good whiff of the rural parts, you'd most likely smell manure. Not sure which I prefer. Public urination among the young seems to be quite encouraged here, and it's all so convenient, because for young toddlers, they all have a butt crack in their pants so they can go whenever they bend over. I so wish I was making all this up. In the bushes in front of the apartment building. Atop the Great Wall. And in the MIDDLE OF THE FREAKING TILED PARK. All likely places to find urinating children. Because why bother climb those two flights of stairs home? Or why bother hide in some corner, when you can just go right there? Do you know what happens to the pool of pee in the middle of the park? It does not get absorbed into the ground, because it's tiled, but baked by the sun for full smellerfertation. And then there's my cousin's kid. Who just goes anywhere in the apartment I'm staying in. Lovely. I know, there are lots of cultural differences and differences in standards of sanitation and I shouldn't impose my cultural views on practices here. I know the soc talk. And I try not to judge. But restraining our children from peeing in public? I'd like to think that that's something we've learned in the past 5,000 years, people.

Open Letter to Claire-

I wish I could read my blog. It really is banned here. I am that dangerous. (Well, I, along with all the other bloggers, including those gentle ones from the midwest.)

Scorpions taste crunchy, like the oil they were fried in, and not much more. Also, I tried to swallow as fast as I could to make sure that I would taste nothing but crunchiness. The fear of eating them dissipated after the first one, but the stingers still scared me a bit. They're too little to taste like anything, especially chicken.

I have also had donkey meat. But in my excitement to talk about scorpions, donkey just seem so... boring. Tasted like beef.

I nod a lot when people talk to me. And smile. The universal sign of "I have no idea what you're saying but I'm pretending that I do." I can understand the kids. And the city adults when they talk to me. The old aunts and uncle, I can catch anywhere from 65-85% of their conversation, depending on who they are, what they're saying, and who they're talking to. The rural cousins I can catch a little less, especially when they're talking to each other. But usually, they're good about treating me like an idiot and talking slowly. A few times though, I've had to just completely guess what's going on. All in all, my Chinese comprehension is top-notch, but the local accent comprehension, I'd say 55%? But then again, I haven't been responsible for understanding what's been said to me yet. That comes when the interviews start and the real test begins.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have old people to report to.

Leave It To Cleaver

Oh wonderful people and wonderful comments. You are wonderful. Almost as wonderful as being able to use the internet two days in a row.

You know who's not wonderful? This man I saw on the news last night. He held a hostage at knife point for a couple of hours. It was your regular ol' kitchen cleaver that he held to a poor man's neck, the man on his knees. I don't even think the hostage was bound. And the man, I don't think he had demands, the news just said that he had failed in love. And there he was, on a big, open sidewalk, holding a kitchen cleaver to a poor man's neck. How was this cunning menace finally apprehended? The clever cops got him from behind and tackled him. How do you not notice five armed cops in full uniform running from behind you in a completely open street? I don't know. I just can't believe the reporters even bothered showing up for this story. And the failed-in-romance hostage taker just made me sad in so many ways and I have a plethora more of questions for him.

Has he not seen any action movies? Why not a gun? Why not some place other than an open sidewalk? How did you even get your hostage? Oh, China.

Do You Smell What the Rock is Cooking?

I ate scorpions the other day.

That's right. Scorpions. I ate them. Not just one or two, but four scorpions fried to the crisp, stingers still attached. Feel free to worship me.

I have met dozens of relatives the past few days. Many of them are very odd. My grandfather's cousin invited us over to her house after lunch. Then made us take naps. Mandatory naps. She also brushed both my mother's hair and mine. I am both fascinated by and scared of her insistent, erratic ways.

Is it wrong that I learned more about China in one visit to a movie studio tourist attraction than I did in all those visits to old museums and palaces and pagodas and stuff? Pagoda, now that's a word I like.

Oh, British children, you are now off the hook as the worst dish washers in the world. Went to the rural, farming areas, and definitely saw dishes wiped 'clean' with dirty rags. Othertimes, I saw them do all their dishes in one basin, without rinsing or changing water, much like, hm... British children. I can't wait to be surrounded by proper dish washers again.

Sweet Scent of Success

I have been in Beijing for the past couple of days and seen some famous sights. Here are my final thoughts before I leave for the boonies later today:

The Palace Museum? Reeks of paint.

The Great Wall? Reeks of urine in many places. And I cannot believe that they didn't have cable cars until a few years ago. Thank God for the cable cars.

The Ming Tombs? Reeks of moldy basement with a slight touch of urine.

Speaking of urine, am thinking of the bathrooms of the northwest with increasing trepidation. Apparently, I should be hoping for holes in the ground because they at least don't smell or look as scary as really dirty and run-down indoor ones. With advice like that, well, what's there to fear?

Oh, they won't let me upload pictures so er, learn to use your imaginations, people.

Vroom Vroom

So we joke a lot about bad driving everywhere. And how people in certain cities, say Taipei, Boston, London, Shanghai, etc., are viscious drivers. And that people use traffic lights as mere reference tools.

Well, I've been in Beijing for a day and honestly, this is the worst driving I've ever seen. We were actually plowing through traffic today with cars, bikes, and people coming toward us horizontally in both directions. I'm pretty convinced that our driver did not actually look at the traffic light as he drove, but just drove with determination, making his way through the sea of people. I just kept thinking, "there's a red light and yet we're moving." Also, I appreciate that phrase now, 'sea of people,' because I have seen Beijing. Hopefully, I'll be able to see through many more days alive. With the way people drive here, I'm really not sure.

Summer Hiatus

Very quickly now: I'm leaving the comforts of Shanghai. Heading for Beijing. Great Wall. Then up to the northwest in Ningxia. Don't know about internet access in the coming days. But distant relatives, here I come!

Violated

Had a two-hour massage session today. My very first. Because in Shanghai, if you have the money, you can. I don't have the money. But thank God for generous friends. After the rigorous session, I feel quite violated, albeit well-rested and relaxed. And it really was too bad that I felt an urge to use the restroom for the last thirty minutes of my session but was too lazy to speak up because the massage kept making me want to pee even more. I've realized that I'm too passive for massages. Instead of asking the masseuse to be gentler or not to rub a certain way, I just internalize all my discomfort and figure I should learn to take it. And whenever she asked if everything was ok, I said yes, it was perfect. I guess I'm just not cut out for this line of luxury. But man, I sure feel good right now.

Access Denied

Apparently, I am blocked from viewing my own blog. Ah, the wonders of living in a free and democratic society. Apparently, it's not an official ban (it used to be), but many carriers block blogspot sites anyway. So pretty much, I have no idea what I'm pumping out. Maybe the servers will be different in the northwest. We'll see.

Whose Words These Are

I have been having trouble viewing this site ever since flying out of the land of apple pies, baseball, and taxation with representation. I don't know why. Anyone else having troubles? I guess if you're reading these words, you're not having those troubles. But thought I'd mention it anyhow.

Sweetest of coincidences, I got to meet up with Professor Riles and kids from the Bo' yesterday. If any of you ever get the chance, take a course with Riles. If you don't have the chance, I suggest that you make some changes in your life so that you would. These include but are not limited to rearranging schedules, changing majors, and moving across the Atlantic. Just some suggestions.

Anyway, this is Freddy Adu.



I did not see Freddy Adu yesterday. But I did see Joe "poet on the run" Adu, who is of no relations to Freddy. I just wanted to mention a soccer ("football") player so I'd seem all hip and in with the World Cup thing. This is Joe:



And he showed me around Shanghai yesterday, which struck all of us as amusing. Oh. I have a tailor now. That's pretty cool. You know what's not as cool? Watching two moms pick out fabrics and bargain prices for fifty eight hours straight.

Le Tired

Have finally arrived in the Motherland. No, not that one. And not Taiwan, either. I'm talking 'bout motherland of motherlands. I am presently in Shanghai. In about 10 days, I'll be in the rural farmlands to the northwest where I don't know if I'll be able to update. For the next few days, however, I'll have internet access. No pictures though, we're still working on that. And yes, that was a use of the royal 'we.'

What have I been up to in the past week? Taiwan, that's what's up. Ate an incredible amount of food there (including one involuntary visit to Pizza Hut- what?) and had my weight commented on by quite a few relatives, including ailing grandmother. Awesome. Also had iced Heineken green tea. It tasted interesting, pretty much like lemon iced tea but because there was Heineken in it, they charged a little more. Got my annual summer haircut by brutal Chinese hair dresser. You know, I think I'm quite afraid of Taiwanese hair dressers. They really break you down before they build you up and convince you that your new haircut makes you look incredibly gorgeous. And well, haven't I always been incredibly gorgeous? Oh yeah, I also got lost at a night market and bought some cheap faux-Chucks. What have you been up to*?

*Don't really care to know, just a formality more than anything else.