Laurel and Hardy: Hong Kong

Vacations are a funny concept. Growing up middle class, vacations usually consisted of loading up in a car with my entire family (six people in all) and driving to some destination for the purpose of relaxation plus usually some ulterior motive like a business opportunity for my dad. Basically something like Little Miss Sunshine minus the quirkiness and soft lighting, so basically like National Lampoon‘s Family Vacation. Most people go on vacation for the purpose of looking at sights, (often sights that are as fascinating as things in their own city) taking pictures of said sights, eating, drinking and shopping. Families actually save money and set aside time so that once a year they can buy junk and look at things in a different locale than where they usually buy junk and look at things. And we often call this “fun” little journey a “trip.” And it is a trip in the colloquial sense of the word. It’s a stimulating, short-lived experience that messes with your head. I can’t say that my and Laurel’s trip to Hong Kong was life-changing, but it was definitely a trip.

Tune in, turn on, drop out

The night before our journey began my school held a staff party. Staff parties are usually something I try to avoid, but I was actually looking forward to seeing a bunch of people who never go out (the Chinese staff) get hammered. It turned out to be a disappointment. The buffet was ludicrous and the Chinese staff stayed relatively sober, not to mention the fact that I finished second in the beer drinking competition. I left around midnight, pretty drunk from the lack of caloric intake plus eight pints, and went to another bar with some co-workers (none of them were Chinese). By two a.m. I was in my bed. Of course I hadn’t packed yet.

The next morning Laurel and I had our usual difficulty getting out of bed [Ever since winter started, it’s been hell to wake up on time. Our Chinese class ended two weeks ago, so reasons to actually leave the bed are suddenly scarce.].  We left the dormitory at noon to make our two o’clock flight on time. It took thirty minutes to find a taxi and when we did finally locate one, he was carrying a passenger who needed to be driven into the middle of the city. We arrived at the airport at one fifteenish. We made the flight on time, but both of us suffered several near heart attacks.

The plane touched down in Shenzhen [Shenzhen is a popular city to fly into when going to Hong Kong. From there you can get to Hong Kong by bus, subway or ferry. I suggest subway which is the method we used to return to Shenzhen.] at four o’clock. We then caught a bus to Hong Kong and arrived in the city around eight o’clock. We checked into our hostel at Chunking Mansions [Featured in the film Chungking Express, Chunking Mansions is a gigantic building consisting of around twenty or more hostels. There are three “blocks.” We stayed in Block A the first two nights and Block B the last four nights. There is no discernible difference between the blocks. I forgot to mention that the moment you step foot in front of Chunking Mansions you will be offered a suit, a watch and every drug known to man. This is in no way an exaggeration and it's actually quite annoying after the second day when you've been accosted for the four hundredth time.]. We asked the concierge/owner (concierge is obviously a generous title for a hostel owner, but he was a really nice guy), Peter, what to do and he outfitted us with a map, circled the hotspots and warned us to steer clear of the “girl’s bars.” He meant the bars that were gigantic whore houses. We went anyway of course, but we’ll come to that. We said goodnight to Peter and took hold of the city.

Sight-Seeing

I always tell people I’m a bad tourist and usually I take a strange pride in saying this, because I can’t stand when people go to a city and try to experience it by seeing some landmark that all of its residents ignore on a daily basis. Tourism is kind of stupid in that regard. I’ve always been more of a fan of getting drunk and wandering through a city. It’s what I did whenever I went to San Francisco during college, including the time I went with Laurel. So needless to say, we didn’t see to many sights. Luciano lent me his camera before he went to Austria for the holidays, so I snapped some photos. We went to the Hong Kong Arts Center, but it was closed by the time we made it [The journey to get to Hong Kong Arts Center lasted around two hours. We couldn’t find the thing to save our lives and we kept getting turned around. Hong Kong has an amazing subway system, but you still have to walk a lot because each station is like it’s own little city with multiple exits that allow you to choose which area of the district you want to enter. It can be very confusing.].

Laurel had mentioned a gondola ride that I flat out refused to do (I‘m scared of heights), but I told him I would come along with him. We went on the third day. The gondola trip lasts an hour and takes you past some points of interest like the world’s largest iron Buddha and some other novelty sights. At various points during our vacation Laurel and I would ask each other if we were making the most of the trip; shouldn’t we be seeing more tourist attractions? Aren’t we wasting our time sitting in coffee shops and getting drunk every night? I had one of these bouts of guilt/anxiety as I sat at Starbucks reading a book and waiting for Laurel. I had lent him my camera, but I started to think what was the point? Those pictures weren’t my experience. My god, what was wrong with me? Why not just hand the camera over to any Tom, Dick or Harry I might see and ask them to snap photos for a couple days? Then, I could pick it up later. It didn’t help that the entire time I felt like I also needed to pee, but sometimes you’re so worried you can’t use the bathroom. Not to mention that there was a cute girl sitting across from me who was obviously also waiting for someone. I thought of going over and introducing myself, maybe making a joke about both of us waiting for someone, but instead I glanced at her over my book every three minutes. She was into it.

When Laurel finally returned he explained that not only had I not missed anything, but that he had regretted going on the gondola the moment it left the station. He also was unable to figure out the camera, thanks in part to my brief thirty second tutorial, and so my guilt was alleviated, having no pictures for which to feel bad. According to Laurel, the best part of the trip was when an Australian man called his mother from the gondola via Skype and Laurel said hello to her. After that we swore off sight-seeing, although we toyed with the idea of going to Sun Yat-sen Museum and the unfortunately named Repulse Bay, but we managed to come up with excuses for not doing either of those things.

Eating

I tend to regard eating as a bodily function. I’m awfully primal about it in fact. It’s like I have no taste buds. Laurel is man who enjoys a good meal, but is by no means a foodie. At any rate, we both ate like gluttons in Hong Kong. Our first meal in Hong Kong was like the feeling of the come up on whatever drug, when the music starts and suddenly you realize that you can see vibrations. Over the course of six days we had Peking duck, pizza, kebab, burgers, curry, dim sum. I know that in Los Angeles I could drive down almost any street and see all that variety, but Laurel and I hadn’t eaten like that in months. Months! One day we ate five times and none of those times were snacks. The final meal was a mammoth burger and a bucket of fries that I ended up eating myself. We felt a little guilty after that, but we knew what it would be like once we returned to Nanjing [I’ve been here for less than twelve hours and all I’ve eaten is two servings of instant noodles because everything is closed for Chinese New Year. I should have eaten fifteen burgers that night and lived off of the fat for the next week.]. It’s tough to say what the best meal was (I might be partial to the Peking duck we ate the first night), but it’s easy to say what the worst was. We ate a Japanese meal one night with a person Laurel knew through about three or four degrees of separation.

The meal was incredibly expensive and did nothing for us in the way of satisfying our hunger. Instead of a menu there were ten or so cards with different categories of food on them: mostly skewers and ramen. We had to order two or three times and the service was slow, but that wasn’t really the problem. I don’t really care about bad service, I care more about bad company and it was painfully obvious within about ten minutes that Laurel’s “friend” didn’t have too much in common with us. We knew that he worked as a consultant and after spending a couple days in Hong Kong we knew what that meant.  Hong Kong is essentially New York minus the culture and most of the grime. It’s just Wall Street. Everyone is flying around at an incredible clip, wearing nice suits and designer heels and talking on blackberrys and iphones and what have you. It’s kind of incredible to watch, especially when these same people get drunk, but it’s nothing I would want to do for a living. So we knew what to expect from the Consultant, but even still it bothered me mainly because there was no reason to dislike him. He was so pleasant and nice and had a nice story for every little thing that you might say and he wasn’t objectionable or disagreeable in any way. Just fucking pleasant. So we spent three hours talking to this suit with a pulse and afterwards I had to sit down, smoke a cigarette and collect my thoughts before I could even think about going anywhere. It was a strangely taxing experience. It’s not a knock on business people, it’s a knock on people who are lacking an indescribable quality. Later in the trip Laurel and I both realized that neither one of us could remember what he looked like. All we could remember was a grin and a bunch of words.

Drinking

We drank every night until four in the morning or later. We had no choice. Also, we thought that it was strange for us to have a vacation because our day-to-day lives are not very stressful. We figured we had to really amp it up a notch in order to truly be on a vacation. Here are some snippets of six days of perpetual drunkenness.

“Sex is everything like money is everything…” - Laurel. This was overheard by some girls who stopped in their tracks. We greeted them and asked them to join in the conversation, but they said they had sex, they didn’t talk about it. It would have been a good burn if they were attractive.

“We’re rockstars” - Hardy. A pep talk I was giving myself and Laurel so that we would do the right thing and get drunk for the third night in a row. This night was the same night we met a guy from Canada named Conrad and a fella from South Carolina named Holden. Both unique names, the latter one all but forcing Laurel to buy Catcher in the Rye the following day and reread it, something he had been meaning to do.

“I had to huff your dick fumes all night long.” I’m not explaining this one.

“Dance you fucking [racial epithet for a Chinese person].” -Anonymous. I was appalled as you are.

There are essentially three areas to drink in Hong Kong according to everyone we asked. There’s an area by Central Subway station called Lan Kwai Fong and an area by Wan Chai Station. Also there are a decent number of bars by Chungking Mansions, but they usually have less tourists and more locals. Laurel and I spent an even number of time at all three locales. Lan Kwai Fong is by far the swankiest in terms of prices, atmosphere and clientele. Lots of European chic and high heels [I don’t care if  I never see a pair of high heels again. Sure they look good, but there is a direct, exponential relationship to the height of heels and the amount of bitch in a given person.]. Everybody in Hong Kong is incredibly well-dressed, but they’re all wearing the same thing. If I saw a girl wearing pumps or flats or canvas shoes, I almost went insane. Anyway, our Lan Kwai Fong protocol was to buy a beer or two at a bar that wasn’t in the middle of the storm, and then by tall cans from seven-eleven and watch the parade of idiocy. A lot of middle-aged people awkwardly dancing or guys and girls our own age acting like they were in their thirties. The third time we went there we left and went somewhere else. It was getting depressing.

The area by Wan Chai station was cool except for the whores. [I had gotten all upset about a prostitute over in the other area of the city because I couldn’t understand why she was a working girl. It wasn’t like I had never seen a prostitute before, but this one affected me and I asked her why she was working. She said she needed the money, but I thought she could have landed one of the suits and drained him for a couple months. Better to be a gold-digger I thought. I mention this because once I went to Wan Chai I didn’t feel bad about any one of the girls on that stretch and it‘s a strange contradiction I can‘t explain.] There’s about ten bars on this street, Lockhart St that is, and the women working the door will physically grab you to get you to come inside and when you do, you realize it’s a big mistake. I convinced Laurel to go in one night because I was curious even though he told me it was stupid (He had been to Hong Kong before). He was more than right. We got inside and bought a beer and then they asked us if we would buy the girls a round. We said no and after about thirty seconds, we left, our beers still full. A complete waste of time. The first night in Wan Chai we stood next to a bar drinking tall cans. That was where we met Holden and Conrad. The second night we walked all up and down the area but there wasn’t much going on that night. All in all we had a good time. We talked to some girls, made fun of people, laughed like idiots. The usual.

Shopping

I hate shopping. When I need something I go get it. This is a common trait of most men, but I really hate it. It produces an anxiety in me that didn’t exist when I was younger. I don’t know what changed, but shopping malls make me angry. Hong Kong is the wrong place to be if shopping makes you angry. You’ve never seen malls like these. Malls with seven or eight floors and a couple hotels inside. And there’s like ten of these kinds of malls. They’re massive and crowded and impossible to navigate without asking for help. We didn’t spend too much time in the malls, both Laurel and I are not very good for that kind of thing, but there were a couple purchases we had to make.

Laurel wanted an ipad, so we went to a mall called IFC and found the only Apple store in Hong Kong. It’s two stories and has a view of Repulse Bay, so that while Laurel got his free setup, I enjoyed the most touristy activity of my trip: reading the newspaper and looking out at Repulse Bay from the Apple store window.

A couple days later we went to Mang Kok (HAHA) subway station to buy some Vans at the only Vans store in Hong Kong. This was a Saturday and the mall was packed. The street outside the mall was packed so much so that when we finally did leave the mall we got on the subway because it was too crowded to find a coffee shop. We found the Vans store after going up six escalators and fighting our way through a crowd of people taking their picture with a pink dragon [Okay, so we stopped and took our pictures too.]. And wouldn’t you know it, they only had size eleven. In all of Hong Kong! Size eleven! I had been waiting for months to come here and buy shoes that fit. Laurel and I fantasized about what they do to people who are born with feet bigger than size eleven (“Sorry Larry, but that foot is going to have to be chopped in half”), before realizing that those people just didn’t buy Vans. Poor bastards. We were so flustered that we practically ran downstairs for a cigarette only to discover that there was a movie theater on the eighth floor. We both wanted to see a movie and we knew there was only one way to find out was playing. Of course when we got upstairs, the best movie playing was the new Muppet movie, but neither of us were drunk so we didn’t see it.

Of course most of the shopping Laurel and I did was at bookstores. We even managed to find a used bookstore where Laurel found a book by Alice Munro, an author I had been compulsively searching for all over Hong Kong. I read the entire collection of short stories in two days. Laurel finished Catcher in the Rye as well, so it was a productive trip. There’s that word again.

The Come Down

I don’t think I left anything out. We saw the new Almodovar film. It sucked. He’s great though, but this new one stinked. In my notes I wrote down that sparkling water is nonsense. It is. Hong Kong is a cool place to visit for three days. Don’t go there for six days. You’ll get bored unless you’re the type that enjoys taking photos and spending egregious amounts of money to look at iron Buddhas and the world’s largest pudding pop (To my knowledge this is not actually in Hong Kong). Also, Hong Kong is expensive. Especially if you’re used to Mainland China prices. It was like jumping into a cold pool… if you’re really hot beforehand. Oh, I did forget to mention the entire purpose of the trip. I got a new visa, like a passport visa. I guess I lost track of what was important. The last day we were there was pretty mild by the way. We ate dim sum for lunch and then took two trains to the Shenzhen airport where we luckily found a Costa Coffee that was open so that we didn’t have to go hungry for another four hours. We arrived at our dorm around eleven thirty and we immediately realized how good we had it in Hong Kong. Never mind the expenses and the go-go corporate lifestyle and the dick fumes. Never mind any of it. Hong Kong was nice. But you know, as I type this in a coffee shop were there are only fifteen other people and most of them are also writing, it’s kind of nice to be back in Nanjing. Plus I can smoke indoors again, so take that Hong Kong.

Laurel and Hardy Week 13 or so

Clippings



Last night I had a dream that I met Method Man on a street in China. I was sitting at a table on a random street with Laurel, drinking beer and conversing; maybe we were with other people. I spotted him walking towards us. Well, not exactly towards us, but he was walking on the sidewalk. He was wearing a fresh white T and walking with a few other guys, but I'm not sure if they were Wu-affiliated. Anyway, I told him that his performance in The Wire was excellent, in particular the episode in which he has to shoot his dog. I became somewhat emotional during the exchange, but Meth was cool; he didn’t call me a bitch or laugh at me. He seemed to be genuinely pleased that I was so moved by his performance. We shook hands and parted ways. Five minutes later, the previously empty street was filled with people sitting at tables. Everyone was dressed in white. Laurel and I decided to leave.

...........................

A few days ago I had dinner with the married couple that I tutor. Afterwards I headed to a bar called Sancho Panza to meet some friends. I got off the subway at zhu jiang subway station and walked down guang zhou lu. I needed to buy some supplies for the evening: a pack of cigarettes and a few bottles of er guo tou (er guo tou is the name of a particularly rough brand of baijiu. It’s kind of like drinking plastic bottle vodka from a super market…but worse). After obtaining said supplies I continued on my way to the bar, but as I walked I suddenly realized that I needed to use the bathroom. And then I realized that I would have to use a squatter. I walked to KFC (because their bathrooms are usually cleaner than other bathrooms in China) and checked the stall for toilet paper. Mei you (It had none), which is what I suspected. I walked across the street to suguo (the name of a chaoshi (supermarket)) and bought a roll of toilet paper. I could have bought a packet, but I remembered that we didn’t have any back at the dorm so it made sense to stock up. By the time I returned to KFC someone was in the stall. I waited. And I waited. And I waited. Thirty minutes! How can anyone squat for thirty minutes?! When I went into the bathroom to check on the person in the stall I smelled cigarette smoke. He must have really been enjoying himself. I left and went to the corner of Shanghai lu and Guangzhou lu where there is a giant building that looked like it may have had a western toilet. I took the elevator to the second floor. No bathroom. Third floor, no bathroom [the second and third floor were shady; completely empty, every door was closed and it looked like it had been that way for a long time.] The fourth floor was a massage parlor. I asked the front desk guy for the bathroom, but he didn’t understand. I said, “Ce suo?” [I tried to say cesuo (pronounced tse sue-o) but I was so flustered who knows what it sounded like. I also said shishoujian (also bathroom), but it took another five minutes to get him to understand.]. He said, “Wu lou” (fifth floor).

By now it was actually an emergency. I couldn't even pretend, when I got to the fifth floor, to have some motive other than relieving myself in that coffee shop bathroom. The employees knew this and they laughed as a I hurried to the men's bathroom. I got into the stall and peeled off all of my clothing, because I still don't know how to use these damn toilets, and as I was removing my pants I heard a PLOP! My first thought was that my wallet full of money and ID's just fell into a toilet. I was scared to look down, but I forced myself and what should be floating in the three inches of water but one bottle of my precious er guo tou. I'm ashamed to admit that my first thought was whether or not I could salvage the fallen bottle; my second thought was that a bottle of er guo tou costs $0.80 and what the hell was the matter with me? My third thought was, "Oh yeah, I still have to shit!" I realized that I couldn't shit on the bottle of baijiu so I got dressed and switched stalls. In the next stall over I carefully removed my clothing and proceeded incident free. I heard someone enter the other stall and express disbelief upon seeing the bottle of baijiu. I felt kind of bad.

I left the coffee shop and on the elevator ride down to the lobby I had a strange conversation with a Chinese person. I don't remember what was said. I finally made it to the bar. I was only an hour late.

..................

The night after the toilet debacle I was back at Sancho Panza. This time it was Laurel's idea to go. Not too much to report from inside the bar besides the usual. We left around midnight or later and walked down Guangzhou lu because Laurel wanted KFC. As we were walking [here I should point out that I was drunker than Laurel] Laurel spotted a couple of people arguing in the street: a Chinese man and an American girl. He wanted to intervene which is completely out of character for either of us [To wit: About a week after this incident we were walking to a bar to meet friends. A drunken idiot on an electric bike ran into Laurel and then ran into a group of students and then he fell over in the middle of the side street we were on and then he got back up and turned onto Guangzhou lu, not into the designated bike lane but the actual street which is very busy, and stayed in the middle of the street for a number of minutes. Laurel and I just watched and kind of thought about doing something, but we didn't. Maybe we learned our lesson from the previous incident or maybe we're sexist. I don't know.]. I didn't really think there was much trouble. It seemed that two people were arguing as couples sometimes do and sometimes that argument is in public. As we got closer, however, I could see that the girl was crying and he was yanking her around and she was begging him to leave her alone [She, for the record, probably could have kicked this guy's ass. She wasn't huge or anything, but she was cut from American stock and he was definitely a little fella.]. We approached them and asked if everything was okay. He was yelling at us and she was crying and people were walking by and the whole thing was a mess. He quickly hailed a cab and shoved her inside and tried to take off, but I held the door open. I kept asking her if she was okay, but she was crying too much to respond and she kept asking him to leave. I asked if she wanted me to take him out the cab, but between her crying and his threats ("Do you know who I am?" "You'll regret this!" (I'm pretty sure he had seen too many movies)) I couldn't get an answer from her. Finally I grabbed him by his collar and said something (an expletive filled threat) to him that worked in that he stopped talking. Well that's the first time I've done something like that. He shut his mouth and I asked her again what she wanted and she took a while to respond and then finally told Laurel and I that she was okay and so we let her go. I kind of couldn't believe it. We were handing her a get out of jail free card and she didn't take it. I felt like an asshole afterwards; maybe we shouldn't have intervened at all. Maybe it was none of our business. I don't know. Laurel and I went to KFC and let the whole event wash over us.

.....................

The other night Laurel had a hankering for some skewers as we were walking back to our dorm so we stopped at the corner were the Chinese Muslims sell street skewers, lamb only, for 2 kaui apiece. Laurel bought 3 and the Muslim asked us where we were from in Chinese, but I'm pretty sure he was speaking dialect and so it took a while to understand the question, but eventually I responded in Chinese and then he asked if we were from the same place. Again it took a second to register but I caught enough words to understand and respond that I was from California and Laurel was from New Mexico. And then he said "As-Salāmu `Alaykum" and immediately repeated the phrase in Chinese and asked me to repeat it. After a couple seconds of sorting out what he said I got it. Then he uttered another Islamic phrase, one that means praise to Allah and followed it with the Chinese, but as he said it he made the "slit your throat motion." Needless to say Laurel and I found this quite vexing. He seemed like he was being friendly and maybe that motion means something else in China, but he kept saying the words and doing the motion and finally we decided we just didn't know enough Chinese to figure it out, so Laurel took his skewers and we left.

..................

That's what it is. I'm sitting in class right now watching a film that is supposed to illustrate the differences between Chinese and American culture, but it is actually just a really cheesy movie from the 90's that seems to be hell bent on proving that Americans can't understand other cultures. So far I'm not convinced. Until later, zaijian.

Laurel and Hardy Week 11

Ni xihuan wo mao mao chong ma?

The above sentence is a very important one in Chinese, at least to me it is. Literally translated it means, “You like my hairy worm?” A hairy worm is a caterpillar, and no, I have not been saying this sentence as a pick up line (you know because a hairy worm could be a euphemism for penis). It’s how I’ve been asking people if they like my mustache. The actual word for mustache is huzi (who-zi), but it’s way funnier to see the confused expression on people’s faces when I ask them about my caterpillar (again, not my penis). The cause of this tomfoolery can be attributed to me catching Movember fever. I thought it was just a passing craze and I was even looking forward to the 30th so that I could finally shave this thing off of my face, but I’ve been getting terrific feedback on the old maomao chong. I think that people were so tired of the old face that they feel like anything is an improvement. I think the best assessment came from my language partner, The Sus (short for Susan), who said that with my gigantic eyebrows my face would look strange if I didn’t have facial hair. The Sus knows what’s good. So it’s settled, the mustaches stays. Editor’s note: My mustache is not a handlebar mustache as stated in a previous post. It is actually a horseshoe mustache ala Hulk Hogan, Shaft and Ken Norton Sr.

It’s officially cold in China. Today I wore my tweed jacket over my hoodie and I felt a twinge of guilt because I had always made fun of people who donned this look in Los Angeles, but that was mainly because it wasn’t cold in Los Angeles. By my standards it’s freezing here. It’s 44 degrees. I have low standards. Keep in mind, however, that I’ve never had a real winter and that it’s only about to get worse. Much worse according to both of my teachers who take some kind of weird pleasure in scaring foreign students by describing in great detail the brutality of a Nanjing winter. I get paid in ten days and the first purchase will be a winter jacket at a store that sells foreigner sizes or so says Elena laoshi (teacher). Last time she told me about a store like this they didn’t have anything bigger than a large. Worst case scenario I get a really nice jacket custom made for $80.

Clippings:

My computer won’t start unless it’s plugged in and I’m starting to realize that eventually I will have to buy another computer. They need to make the lifespan of these machines closer to that of a car. And I mean a Honda, not a Ford.

I’m going to Hong Kong in January on business. And maybe a little pleasure. It should be pretty cool and it will be nice to get out of Nanjing for the first time in three months.

I recently finished a book, on the Rumble in the Jungle, written by Norman Mailer. A few observations:

1) That Mailer really liked himself. Jesus Christ. 2) Joe Frazier died right before I started this book and so I read a piece by Bill Simmons on his website and then I read a piece he recommended which was written by a Sports Illustrated writer the night of the Thrilla in Manilla. I’ve read two or three books on Ali and seen all of his fights, but somehow I never really took into account the awful things he said about Frazier. Nevermind calling him ignorant and a gorilla, that’s just talk, but calling him an Uncle Tom is probably the worst possible thing you could say to a guy who grew up with nothing and literally fought his way to the top. Kind of tainted the way I view Ali. 3) I guess I didn’t realize that George Foreman was essentially Tyson before Tyson. 4) Did you know Don King has killed two people in his lifetime? Look it up. 5) That Norman Mailer really liked himself. I mean really. A lot.

I’m estatic that the NBA is back. At one point, I actually got so worried, I believed that maybe all the NBA players would come to China and find out how much money they could make and maybe they’d never come back. This fear was thrown into hyper drive when I watched a couple CBA (China Basketball Association) games with NBA players. Anyway, crisis averted, and I can set up a fantasy league with my friends. All is right in the world.

I’ve crossed the first threshold in my Chinese education so that I can communicate effectively, but I have to cross the next one which is like being able to express complex thoughts and doing so with minimal thinking time plus comprehending what I’m hearing more effectively without saying “yibian shuo” (repeat that). I think it will probably take the rest of the year to get there and maybe a bit longer, but basically I can pronounce everything and I can talk to a person so long as they take into account my laowai (foreigner) handicap. Which they usually don’t.

Well sir, I think that about does her. I’m sitting in a Café right now as a write this (which is exactly what I’d be doing in LA right now…well not exactly because it’s like midnight there, but you get my point: not much has changed even when I’m thousands of miles away.) and the entire time I’ve been looking over at this Chinese girl who works here. Last night our friend told Laurel and I that in order to get a Chinese girl you have to wait and make eyes with them and then go over and talk to them, but there is no sense in just approaching them. Last night we didn’t listen and sat down at a couple tables and were either ignored or flat out rejected. So today I’m taking his advice, but I’m getting pretty impatient. I might go up and say, “Damn baby, you looking as good as dinner!” Or I might just ask her if she likes my hairy worm.

Laurel and Hardy Week 10

Hipsterdom in China

If you have three hours to waste and you’re in San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York or some other American city with a Chinatown, make the trip downtown, where I assume all Chinatowns are located, and try to explain No-Shave November to a Chinese person. [By the way, No-Shave November is legitimate: it has its own wiki and it is an actual event to raise awareness for men’s health issues. The last half of that sentence was lifted from the wiki article.] I would explain to a Chinese person that November and No-Shave start with the same letter and so it’s kind of clever to name it that. They would nod. I would say that the mustache served as a reminder for men to get check ups for diseases that only affected males. The person I was talking to would nod their head. And then I would give examples of some of the diseases it represented and they would nod. And then I would light a victory cigarette, proud of myself for crossing the language barrier, and they would ask, “But what is the connection between a mustache and testicular cancer; if you don‘t grow the mustache do you get testicular cancer?” As if it were some kind of superstition. What’s even funnier is that for the first two months here I couldn’t cough on the street without being stared at but as soon as I grew out a mustache nobody notices. I mean when you meet a Chinese person here they will comment on everything: you’re shoe size, hair color, your resemblance to whatever American celebrities are in your ethnic group. Grow out a mustache, specifically a silly handle bar mustache, and nobody says word one. To be fair there are a lot of people here, maybe I’ve started to blend in.

The Great Sweater Search of 2011 is over. I found a green hoodie at H&M that fits, just barely, and it was literally the only XL piece of clothing in the store. I still need to find a winter jacket and it would be nice to find shoes, but that’s totally unrealistic. The largest American size I’ve found so far is 10.5 and the pair of shoes, Vans, cost $80 which raises an interesting question about the price of a product which costs twice as much here, where they make it, as it does in America [Apparently this is because products which are made by American companies, even if it’s not American labor, are heavily taxed so that China comes away with some money.]. I also bought a tie and a belt because my belt broke the previous day and I had to work with a key ring holding together either end of the belt; kind of like a hobo. I bought the tie because I only brought one tie and I’m tired of wearing the same one every Sunday which I’ve designated as “dress-up” day. I also have to dress nicely for presentations [A special class once a session in which the students’ parents observe the last forty-five minutes of class so that they can see that they’re not wasting their money and so that they can hear their kid say the word “apple.”]

I’ve been borrowing Luciano’s bike which is a fixed gear bike as are many bikes in China. It’s a regular hipster paradise. The bike says Flying Pigeon on it which really makes me happy. I also bought a cactus to liven up my room [I wanted a cat, but I don‘t know if they vaccinate the animals here. I‘ve heard they don‘t. Also, the only place I know that sales animals is fuzimiao, but I‘ve heard the animals there only live for two days when you bring them home because they were just clinging to life at the pet shop. Apparently they’re given shots to keep them alive until they’re sold…My friend suggested I talk about cats on my blog if I wanted people to read it. Somehow I don’t think this is what he had in mind.]. I named it Warren [Laurel and I went to dinner with some friends after we finished shopping so we had to carry all of our stuff with us. Our friends saw the cactus and they suggested we name it. We? Why do people feel this is an okay thing to do? I don’t want your suggestions for my cactus’s name. It’s mine. I rejected all of their names.]

KTV

Tuesday night I went to Karaoke with Laurel and some of his students who are in college. Laurel had told me about his KTV experiences and because of that I was hesitant to go, but his students, for some reason, were really anxious to meet me. We played a game with cards in which eight cards are handed out one of which is a joker. Whoever draws the joker is the King (I don’t know why they don’t play with a king) and has to make a rule. For example, if you draw the king you might say, “Whoever has cards five and seven must remove a piece of clothing.” That might be something that Americans would do/say and then with the aide of alcohol the game would devolve, or evolve depending on your perspective, into a bunch of drunk naked people hooking up or at least fondling and what have you. Well sir, no such luck in China. First of all the beer they drink can’t get you drunk and secondly the rules they made in the game were things like doing push ups while someone is underneath you, playing suck and blow [Just in case you never saw Clueless, that’s the game where you hold a card to your mouth by sucking in and then someone takes the card from you with their mouth. I’m not sure where the blow component comes in, but that’s besides the point. You’re suppose to intentionally drop the card and steal a kiss, at least I think every red-blooded American male would do that. Unfortunately my number was not called and I have no international incident to report. Of course none of the Chinese guys pulled that move.], or telling an embarrassing story. By the end of the game we convinced them to actually kiss. My card was called, but it wasn’t an open-lip kiss. Still, it’s the most action I’ve gotten in China besides riding the bus during rush hour.

Earlier in the night one of the students, Andy was his name I think, asked me a bunch of questions about black people. He professed his love for “black man music”, a genre that I’ve always enjoyed myself. And then he said he loved niggers. Don’t we all. I quickly explained to him to never use that word if and when he makes it to America. He really didn’t understand what was wrong with it, but I set him straight. My good deed for the day. Overall the night was really boring and we eventually went home without even a slight buzz.

Bureaucracy

Like so many young Americans I have to pay student loans. Nothing like getting paid and immediately handing over a couple months worth of work to something that isn’t tangible. I’m paying for the things that were put inside of my head. Anyway, I had to send some money to America so that it could be taken out of my account. For a week I tried everyway possible to send the money. Western Union in China doesn’t allow you to send money to businesses or banks. I tried American Western Union online, but that didn’t work either for several reasons that I’m too tired to explain. I tried to pay with a credit card, but it had to be American. Last Friday I opened a Chinese bank account so that I could send the money to America. It takes two to three days and my payment was due on Monday so I couldn’t risk it not going through because obviously weekends aren’t work days. I was worried that my loan company would do something terrible to me like send an agent to China to publicly flog me. I missed the payment and honestly I felt kind of relieved. At least it was over. I asked my school to have someone come with me to send money to America. As it turned out I really needed them to come because I wouldn’t have been able to send it myself. Something to do with not being Chinese. So I accomplished that task yesterday. And the really bad thing that my loan company did? They raised my payments $7 every month. That was certainly worth inducing a stress related ulcer [I have to point out just how ridiculous all of this is: 1) To send money you have to exchange it for American money, but when I finally did exchange the money they didn’t hand me $700 they just took my Chinese money. It‘s not as if they are physically sending the money to America in an envelope after I leave. [Another aside: the lady tried to charge me 4900 kuai instead of 4500 kuai. I wasn’t sure if she was trying to play me or if she made a mistake. The TA who went with me couldn’t decide either.] 2) My TA had to open an account at that bank in order to send the money even though she didn’t have to deposit the money in her account or anything. She says she has five different accounts for problems such as these. 3) 2-3 days seems like a long time to send a glorified e-mail. I mean wiring money is really just China saying to an American bank, “Some asshole wants $700 sent to his account. We’ll total everything up at the end of the month and then you can pay.” 4) They really have to be kidding with this wujiao thing. I love a nap as much as the next person, but things are getting out of hand. Americans already despise banks for their hours. Imagine if the hours were cut by a third and that third was in the middle of the day and certain functions couldn’t be performed at that bank. Doesn’t that sound like fun? 5) I get that they want to keep it in the family, but maybe let me send money to my account back home. It’s not such a crazy idea.]

Last Night

I went to a German bar last night that I had heard a lot about. I was taken there by a married couple that I tutor [So I got this gig through my language partner. These people want to learn spoken language so every Tuesday and Thursday we meet for two hours. They buy me dinner and pay me 100 kuai an hour. And last night they brought me to the German bar and bought me drinks. They wouldn’t let me pay. I feel bad. It’s like they’re paying me to be their friend. On the other hand, I am teaching them helpful American phrases. I really thought I had rid myself of a conscience, but the old fella still has some life yet.]. After we ate dinner we headed to the German bar. Laurel met us there as did one of their friends who lived in New Zealand for six years. He was to serve as the translator but instead he regularly angered the wife as he was more prone to speak rapid English with me and neglect his duty to his friends. Funny guy. This place, which I forgot the name of, has real beer, none of that Chinese piss water. Like real beer served in real steins. Each stein cost 100 kuai ($15) and probably holds at least three beers. I drank two of those and they ordered a bottle of Johnny Walker of which I drank a considerable amount. Plus some Tsingtao (which should be spelt qing dao and pronounced ching dow). Around midnight they went home and Laurel and I walked to Ellen’s. I remember smoking outside and I think I made it upstairs. I did because I remember talking to Leticia [Leticia is a Chinese girl we met weeks ago who kept saying, “I smoke dat shit” over and over again because she heard it in an American film. Great stuff.] She introduced us to her friends who were unattractive and I’m not sure if it was them or the alcohol, but I told Laurel I had to go home, vomit, or collapse where I was standing. He stayed behind. I don’t remember anything past that. I took a taxi home and I woke up with my door open. I managed to get my shoes of as well, so kind of a success in some ways. Fucking Germans. Nothing ever changes.

Tomorrow I have my first presentation class. The students are three years old so it should be pretty easy and funny. And I get to wear a new tie. Alright, that’s all. I have to go finish my laundry. [Does it ever bother you that when you’re doing laundry you are wearing clothes that are now technically dirty and that you’ll eventually have to wash? It’s like you never actually have all of your clothes clean. I think the only way to obtain this feeling is to do laundry in the nude. And if I combine this idea with my idea for a Laundromat that also serves alcohol, I could host Nude Tuesdays. Other themed nights include Whites Only (white clothing of course), Ladies night (Ladies wash for free) and Colors (black people only). Interested parties can contact me for investment opportunities.] Zaijian.

Laurel and Hardy Week 9

Holy Scatological Saturday Batman!

[Warning: The following post contains graphic details of my recent bathroom experience in China.]

My back is back. I feel fit as a fiddle, right as rain and such and such. There were, however, other problems on the horizon. Unforeseeable problems. Once my stomach repaired itself, I started to eat and drink normally. Or what I deem to be normal. Laurel has discovered a sandwich shop that he goes to everyday. I’ve started to accompany him on his trips there from time to time and indulge in Western cuisine, specifically a tuna fish sandwich on whole wheat or cibatta bread. Laurel has given up on Chinese cuisine and has taken refuge in Nanjing’s available laowai (lao-why, foreigner) supermarkets. They sell things like cheese, olives, bread and other Western staples. Anyway, I started partaking in some of this cuisine as well as not managing my water intake. Add to this the rapid change in climate here, from humid as hell to pretty cold and dry (like dry enough for my skin and lips to react negatively), plus my affection for noodles (specifically cheean (sic) zai jidan mian, which is handmade noodles, green vegetables and a chicken egg in a broth), and you have a perfect storm of constipation. Cut to last Wednesday when I realized I hadn’t been to the bathroom in two days. I was concerned and also in a considerable amount of pain as I went to my language partner, but I decided not to cancel our meeting as I would have to tell her that I couldn’t meet her because I felt like I was sitting on a pile of sharpened dildos. So we met and I uncomfortably shifted from side to side for two hours before returning home. That was the beginning.

For the next two days I self medicated with fruit and water and tried to cause some movement down there, but every time I would go to the bathroom the result was not unlike my sexual experiences: a lot of grunting and sweating and not much substance. On Friday morning, during class, I asked Elena to verify a word I looked up in the dictionary. The word was laxative. I went to the pharmacy after class to purchase a xieyao (shee-ai-yow). It didn’t work. I want to make sure that I’m expressing just how much pain I was actually in: on Thursday and Friday night I was supposed to go out with Laurel and some Chinese girls, but I refused because I couldn’t sit without feeling like I needed to go the bathroom. I had to spend Thursday and Friday night in the dorm room, laying down and watching movies while receiving mocking text messages from friends which were, admittedly, well-deserved. Who the hell gets that sick from constipation?

I awoke Saturday morning and faced the reality of going to work while feeling like my stomach and asshole might literally explode. The night before I had researched enemas, a word that I knew only from peripheral experiences. I was reminded of the episode of Seinfeld in which Kramer is mugged on his way to the bathroom and subsequently can’t defecate for days. He tries fruit, water, and everything else before turning to the “dreaded apparatus.” I had reached that point. I jotted down the character for enema and painfully rode my bicycle to the pharmacy, taking note of each bump on the road. I had considered calling into work sick, but that seemed silly, or rather I was ashamed to call in for something so stupid. Luckily I woke up early enough to insert said apparatus and be on my way. Except that the pharmacy didn’t have enemas. So I rode to the university clinic. Closed.

I dressed for work and rode my bike to the school, the whole while looking for pharmacies that might offer some relief. I didn’t find any, but I thought that if I went to school, clinched my teeth, ate nothing but fruit and smoked a few cigarettes, I might be alright. My first class on Saturday mornings is preschool-aged children. We run around and sing songs and play silly games. Five minutes into class I realized that I couldn’t do it. There was no way I would last for eight hours. I called Thomas, the foreign teacher director, during the class break. He immediately understood my plight, though he couldn’t relate [Mostly people get the shits while in China, which I also experienced, but almost every teacher at our school got “sick” in some sense of the word within the first two months of being here. I am not a unique and special snowflake.]. He arranged for the TA (teacher’s assistant) from my second class to take me to the hospital, since they would be canceling my class anyway. It should be mentioned that all of the TA’s are young, fairly attractive Chinese girls, so that I had to explain the finer points of my ailment to a pretty girl who best understood when I pointed and used graphic language.

We took the bus (bump, bump, bump) to the hospital. We arrived at 12:30. Right in the midst of wujiao (siesta time). We had to wait an hour before the doctors started to work again. I sat hunched over in the hospital waiting room clutching my stomach. After an hour we registered and ten minutes later I went to see the doctor. She asked me what was wrong. In the interest of not being graphic, specifically not graphically explaining to my TA what was wrong with me, I told her that my stomach hurt and that I hadn’t used the bathroom in five days. She recommended an x-ray; the main reason for the x-ray was to make sure the doctor wouldn’t be held liable for any medicine she prescribed. I completely understood this stance, so I cooperated.

In the x-ray room the nurse told me to take my pants off, but then she locked herself in a room that protected her from the radiation and subsequently there isn’t a steamy hospital sex scene to describe here. Also it would have ended with me shitting on myself. After she took the x-ray she told me, by which I mean the TA [It should be mentioned that when the doctor called my name she read every letter of my name, in lieu of trying to pronounce it, over a loud speaker and the entire hallway of people started laughing as I limped into the x-ray room.], that all we had to do was wait two hours. Two hours! I demanded we go back upstairs to the doctor. I told my TA to tell the doctor that when I sat down it felt like small men were walking on gravel on the inside of my anus and I pointed at my butt. She got the picture. So did the doctor. The TA went downstairs with a prescription while I waited on the second floor [In China you always pay first and take a voucher to the place where the product is. In a mall for instance you pay for a toaster and then take a ticket to the toaster department. At a hospital you pay for the x-ray and then take a voucher to the x-ray department. Ridiculous maybe, but a surefire way of collecting a bill.]. She returned ten minutes later with two bottles of clear liquid that had nozzles on the ends. They looked similar to the bottles that food coloring comes in, but they were twice the size. Apparently I was to insert and squirt and then wait five minutes. If I could.

I waited two minutes. That liquid creates an interesting sensation. The place, by the way, that was designated for me to perform this graceful act, was a Chinese hospital bathroom. Maybe the three most disgusting words in the English language when used in succession. I went into a squatter which is exactly what it sounds like: a toilet in the ground which you squat over [One of my few neuroses (I think I only have a few, really) is bathroom hygiene. I didn’t use the toilet outside of my house until I was fifteen. I never used a school toilet until I was in college. The only exception to my toilet usage before the age of fifteen was if I was at a family member’s, or friend’s, house and the time I went to Mexico when I was twelve. I used the bathroom twice in seven days and the first time was after a four day standoff with my stomach.]. If you needed any more evidence of my pain, this is it; I had vowed to never use a squatter as long as I was in China or on the planet earth. I took off every scrap of clothing and hung them in the squatter because I was scared that I would somehow shit on them. [Also I generally do this whenever I go to the bathroom, but typically I leave the shirt on in public bathrooms.]. After two minutes I relinquished and a little dribble dropped into the toilet. For the next five minutes I pushed like the little engine that could. There was a point where I felt like giving up or asking for more of that magic liquid, but I knew once I put those pants on that I had waved some kind of terrible white flag. Possibly it would be made of toilet paper [Which isn’t stocked in Chinese toilets. Another awkward little thing I had to ask my TA for; awkward for me, but quite normal for her because Chinese people ask for tissue from each other quite often.]. The sweat on my brow built and I hovered over the hole in great consternation. I decided to go for broke. I would put everything into one last push, no matter the pain or consequence. I gritted my teeth and pushed at the walls and grunted. Suddenly a great rumbling was heard. Babies in the maternal ward were awaken and began crying. A car crashed into a fire hydrant shooting a stream fifty feet into the air. I looked down and saw the effort of my labors and for a moment I relaxed. And then came the real ordeal. It took every ounce of my energy and it looked like three butterfingers held together with duct tape. It felt like anally birthing a baseball bat. Relieved, elated, I cleaned up and went into the lobby where my TA was waiting for me. I was whistling.

We went back to the school. By the time we arrived they had canceled another of my classes, but I didn’t care. I was happy to be healthy again. I went to the bathroom and washed my hands [Most Chinese bathrooms don’t provide soap either. Gross.] and listened as my TA told the other TA’s about what happened and they laughed and asked me questions. In some ways it’s embarrassing, but what’s funny is that because so many Westerners experience discomfort in China I really had nothing to be embarrassed about.

So it’s been two days since that happened. When I got home that night there were a few aftershocks and I was a bit tender up until yesterday, but now I’m feeling good. The fridge is stocked with fruits and I’ve been taking care to eat the right things for lunch and dinner. I didn’t go to Chinese class this morning; I’ve designated Monday as my day off. I’ve been relaxing and hanging out and now I’m ready for another week in China. Nothing else to report. Zaijian.

Laurel and Hardy Week 8

I threw my back out last week. I’m not sure how it happened. I taught my morning class; it’s an hour long and all of the kids are 3-4 years old so there‘s a lot of movement. Then I had a twenty minute break and then my second class began. That class is ninety minutes long and we have a break in the middle. During that break I sat down and when I stood up something popped or snapped or whatever and I instantly realized and verbalized that my back hurt. Maybe I got cold after running around with the little, little kids, I don’t know. I continued teaching, but I could tell as the day wore on that it wasn’t going to be good later. After work I usually tutor, but they cancelled, thank Jebus. I took the bus home, which I’m sure didn’t help my back. I limped up the six flights of stairs and collapsed. Before I go any further, I should explain all of this happened last Sunday. Last Friday Laurel and I and some friends went to the local beer garden and got boozy. The usual. The next morning I was so nauseous that I didn’t eat until eight at night and I had the shits. They didn’t go away on Sunday. So Sunday night I was making trips from my bedroom to the bathroom every twenty minutes and walking like an old man with a hip replacement to the point where it would take me a full minute to walk a distance of twenty-odd feet. For the next three days I didn’t leave the dorm. Laurel and Luciano brought me bread and water and whatever else. I had no appetite and I was also scared to eat anything else. I was even more scared that the back and stomach thing were related, which would have meant that I had a serious intestinal issue. On Wednesday I went to the university clinic and the doctor gave me some antibiotics and assured me the two ailments were unrelated. My stomach had already started to feel better, but the drugs completely cured me.

On Thursday I managed to go to class. I also had to work later. I went in to work and stood the entire time. On Thursdays I go into work a couple hours early to make lesson plans for the week. I stood for four hours and then I went into a spare classroom and I laid down for a while. I got through class and went home to change. Thursday was my birthday and my coworker, whose birthday is the day after mine, organized a party at his house. Laurel and I took a taxi, stayed out all hours of the night, and missed class Friday morning [I only went to one class all last week because of my back]. When I woke up Friday my back felt much better. I think riding my bike to work and then the drinking, somehow loosened something up back there. It’s still stiff but improving. I can’t touch my toes yet, but I can sit down again which is good.

I miss Halloween. Tons of expatriates dressed up for Halloween which they celebrated on the 29th because it was a Saturday. I found this unsatisfactory. Also, it just wasn’t the same as Halloween in the states. Alas. The night consisted of many of the staples of Halloween: drinking, sluts and pictures. Oh God, the pictures. Chinese people would stop out in front of the bar and beg people to take pictures with them. Like a drunken asshole with a beer and a cigarette would get asked to pose with someone’s seven year-old. Kind of strange. That was probably the highlight of the night.

I don’t think I’m going to accept the scholarship to the university here. I’m not sure it’s really up to snuff and I think I’d rather work instead. Seems like the right thing to do.

Alright, I think that’s it. I’m going to a birthday dinner tonight. All you can drink and eat for 160 kuai ($25). Should be a good one.

Laurel and Hardy Week 5

“Walt Whitman, an American, one of the roughs, a kosmos…”

I’ve started reading Whitman’s Leaves of Grass to make sure I retain a healthy level of patriotism. It’s full of life-affirming prose and romantic language about America.

My school has three different locations in Nanjing. I teach at the location nearest my university three out of four days. It is twenty minutes, walking, from my dorm. Last Saturday was the second time I had to go there and I was a bit confused about exactly where it was, but luckily one of the school secretaries, a native, wrote the address down in hanzi (characters) and English and even provided several bus routes that I could take to get there. Saturday morning, I hopped on the number 56 bus and got off after four stops as per her directions. Right away I knew I was in the wrong area. I walked around for an hour. I had left the dorm around 9:30 AM to arrive at my school by 10:30. I wasn’t teaching the 10:30 class, only observing, but I was getting worried nonetheless and so I flagged down a taxi and showed him the address. He drove me to a bar. I called the school and had a secretary talk to the taxi driver. They argued for a while [I think. For all I know they could have been talking amicably.] and then he drove me back to pretty much the exact location I was at before. I walked around some more and tried to find it. After another hour I decided to eat something. I grabbed some baozi and a coke and kept walking. 12:00. I called the school and asked for someone to meet me at the mall that is a block or three from the school. I waited outside the mall for thirty minutes. My phone died. Tired, sweaty and angry, I walked home. My next class wasn’t until three, but I was having crazy thoughts. I considered quitting and accepting a job at a different school. I fantasized about cursing at the secretary who couldn’t give adequate directions. Finally I made it home, disrobed and slept for thirty minutes while my phone recharged. When I woke up I felt better. I called Thomas, the kiwi in charge of foreign teachers, and he said he would send someone to meet me at the mall. I arrived at the mall at three and they led me to the school which, had I remembered, was very close to where I was walking around all morning. Very frustrating. The day went well besides that.

That night I went to Nanjing Daxue (University) and hung out for a while. The cab ride over, which should have cost 10 kuai, cost thirty kuai because I butchered the pronunciation when I told the cabbie where to take me. We were driving on the freeway and I realized that he had gone way too far. He pulled off of the freeway and into an industrial part of town. People were outside singing karaoke and there were food stands in the middle of the street. It was not a place for a louwei (foreigner) but I was intrigued. I wanted to get out but I realized that if I did I would never get another taxi.

The next morning I woke up late because I accidentally turned my alarm off before bed. I missed my first class, this time at the other location, and had to take a taxi to school. I was once again fortunate that I wasn’t teaching. Tomorrow I start teaching a full load of classes, so I can’t get too drunk tonight. I think.

Laurel and I bought bus passes because it’s a real pain in the ass to get change every time you want to hop on the bus. And you save 8%.

I took my first Chinese bike ride on a bicycle my roommate Luciano let me borrow. The bike is from the Ming Dynasty. It has a mind of its own and often it would try to venture into oncoming traffic. I was able to tame the beast and make it to work safely.

I went to the tailor to have some pants made. I first tried buying pants in China, but even though they had my size, the legs were extremely snug. I then flirted with ordering pants online but ultimately I decided to visit the tailor. Luciano took me. I bought a pair of pants and a pair of jeans for $40 each. I can get a tailored suit for $110. I can’t wait. The pants are ready Wednesday. My only other pair recently sprung a leak and I’m hoping the school doesn’t say anything. I’m also hoping my Johnson doesn’t poke through while I’m teaching little kids.

We went out last night and ended up staying out to late. We missed class this morning or most of class. We showed up with thirty minutes left. But despite all of this, we actually are doing quite well. A few hiccups here and there. The Chinese is going good. I study 2-3 hours a day. It’s completely necessary in order to keep up with the pace of the class. Ummm. I think that’s it. Peace.