Really.

I put on this act of worldly sophistication but in truth I’m just a country bumpkin. This means I trust far too easily and am pretty much blind to the wicked ways of the world.

Well, most at least. Words like ‘quaint’ and ‘gullible’ only go so far in describing my singular ability to misread the most obvious signs and step into danger.

Today’s story took place years ago on a cold winter’s day in Beijing near the Wangfujin district.

My mane had grown long and shaggy and in dire need of a haircut. So one Sunday afternoon I strolled out into the frigid Beijing air and set off for the barber pole not half a mile from our hotel.

A cute, bouncy girl two funky pony tails sticking out the sides of her head and too much make-up on greeted me. She asked if I wanted ‘full service’. Thinking this meant a wash and cut I said, “Why not!” matching her infectious enthusiasm.

I was then ushered into the back and handed off to a more demur woman named Xiaomei. She proceeded to wash my hair and cut it. Timid with the scissors, I couldn’t help noticing that it seemed as if she’d never cut hair before.

I watched her botch my haircut right before my eyes in the mirror. At one point – I guess when she inadvertently snipped off a piece of my ear, drawing blood – I thought about stopping her. But I was mesmerized by her complete lack of skill. When she was done I looked like Sid Vicious on an off day.

At this point she started to massage my shoulders. Hmmmm, I thought, this is weird, but it feels pretty good so I let it ride. I got so comfortable I closed my eyes. The next thing I knew she was attempting to unbutton my pants. Startled I jumped out of the chair.

She seemed genuinely crestfallen when I refused her ‘full service’ and skedaddled out of there looking a bit worse for wear.

Later in recounting the story to my colleagues at work they howled in laughter at my naiveté. Apparently, the barber pole was the common symbol for brothel in China. To think I went there for an actual haircut and left after paying for services not rendered.

Have you ever had a haircut, perm, etc. go awry? Watched it befall a loved one?

I might be considered a late bloomer as I did not find alcohol all that appealing until my early twenties. In my teens I think maybe I held myself in too high moral regard. While she cavorted with my friends, I smugly watched them fall under her spell. Or maybe it was sheer indifference. Either way she eventually caught up with me and extracted a painful retribution for my youthful insolence.

Not in my twenties though. Those were the halcyon days when our relationship thrived. I developed a penchant for sultry foreign beers that tickled my tongue and went down smooth. I was a promiscuous little jack-o-nanny. I experimented with luscious reds and soft liqueurs. The kinkiest I ever got was mixing Kahlua and vodka in a fit of frenzy. But I always came back to the warm embrace of beer. In those days we enjoyed each others company in relative moderation.

Then came my thirties and China. Things got a bit out of hand. I suffered abuse and bear wounds that still plague me to this day. I got caught up in the vortex of China’s rush to modernize its wireless infrastructure. Growth in the business was akin to shooting Koi in a barrel (I know that’s Japanese, just testing your oriental knowledge).

The key moment in any business negotiation came down to ‘The Dinner’. After long, tedious negotiations it always distilled into two or three sticking points that ‘the bosses’ had to resolve over a meal. Thus I would sit at these grand banquet tables and engage in a sadist ritual: see who could get the other drunk thus impairing his or her judgment and winning better terms.

The weapon of choice … Laojiu or a clear liquid that makes rot gut whiskey seem like bottled water. I think the old lady doubled as rocket fuel in the budding Chinese Space industry. She smelled of trouble. Older, experienced, with a harsh acidic burn as she went down. You didn’t drink her as much as inhale her. Small glasses. Large thimbles. They seemed harmless at first. But with each ‘ganbei’ or bottoms up, the thimble got heavier, the room swirled faster, and I lost my steadying grip on reality.

Eventually my morning sickness signaled something had gestated in me. I visited the doctor to find my stomach lining had just about been eaten away by her lavish attention. An ulcer just months away from birth. I took medicine to control it. But my job required the dance. So I improvised (but that’s a story for another day). In the end she had her way with me. My stomach has never fully recovered.

I’m now to the point where I can drink a beer or wine or two. If I let myself go to that third, however, I begin to sense that gnawing feeling again. So I live under a kind of a forced peace. A balance restored in the relationship by fiat at last.

How about you? What is your relationship with alcohol?

Always Look on the Absurd Side of Life

I am physically nondescript. Boring, really. I don’t really stand out in a police line-up. And, knock on wood, I’ve survived more of those than it is probably prudent to share here. I don’t have any good stories to tell about my experience to tug at your heart strings or mist over your eyes. Although I have been known to contract curable cancer on occasion and carry around stray puppies in seek of sympathy. I don’t even have a discernible philosophy of life. Well, that is if you discount the ultimate redeeming spiritual value of soccer and beer. In fact, I don’t know what crazy idea possessed me to try to answer that question.
Ah, wait, I do know, there is one thing that I believe in! I believe in the absolute absurdity of life. I mean how else do you explain the world today: grand triumphs such as the microchip or edible underwear; and sullen tragedies like abject poverty, war and Reality TV?
Having grown up down south, middle class in the 1970’s I am unabashedly a child of the earlier TV generation. I grew up on a steady diet of Monty Python’s Flying Circus and M.A.S.H. I have never wanted for much of anything. But conversely, I have never given that much either. I have drifted through life like Huck Finn down the Mississippi – without so much as a care bout nothin. But along the way for some unexplainable reason, I developed a deep affinity for this world and its inhabitants.
In my late teens I traveled to China and saw great suffering up close and personal for the first time. Later I visited other countries and saw other people a thousand times less materially well off than me. I taught English as a second language in Japan and made more money in a day’s wage than half this earth’s population made in a year. The only rational reason I could come up with to explain this was, well, looniness.
Later still, I married and we had kids. And now my daughter and son are growing up in a post 9/11 world. A much more dangerous world where wacko terrorists kill and maim innocent civilians; and where we traipse off to war in faraway lands full of bravado.
I fear that a group of nations is ultimately like a class of unruly kindergarteners. And somehow we’ve cast ourselves as the class bully. I fear the hubris of our generation today will only beget sorrow and suffering for that of our children’s generation tomorrow. And that makes me a bit sad.
But hey, I try to never despair too much while thinking about these things that remind me the ludicrousness of life. Why, you say? Because, in the immortal words of Eric Idle, “Always look on the bright side of life!”

Now for today’s question, I’d like to create a new ‘this I believe’ tag. Hell why not! So I would ask anyone who reads this and feels so inclined to please write an any-length essay on what they believe. Hell you could even submit it to NPR! I think I might even submit mine.

Here are the NPR stated guidelines: “Tell a story: Be specific. Take your belief out of the ether and ground it in the events of your life. Consider moments when belief was formed or tested or changed. Think of your own experience, work, and family, and tell of the things you know that no one else does. Your story need not be heart-warming or gut-wrenching—it can even be funny—but it should be real. Make sure your story ties to the essence of your daily life philosophy and the shaping of your beliefs.”

So consider yourself tagged – what do you believe (be sure to link back here)?

Brian (Eric Idle) on the cross …

The week prior to that fateful train trip we were nestled around a circular table of a ritzy hotel restaurant high above the Shanghai skyline. Around the dais sat my friend Dave, his girlfriend, his Japanese godmother, my mom and me.

An outbreak of Hepatitis A raged in the streets below, apparently ignited by a rogue shellfish some days earlier. I could be wrong but I could have sworn I saw crustacean wanted posters dotting the city. For the uninitiated, Hep A spreads like wildfire, mostly through improper food handling. The Chinese government had practically locked down the entire city. Food stands and most low-end restaurants were shuttered. And it seemed as if banks were being robbed right and left as everyone wore suspicious white face masks.

Being the self appointed expert, I took the liberty of ordering a pot of Jiaozi, or boiled dumplings, for everyone. I then haughtily went about explaining the proper technique for eating these scrumptious delights properly.
“First step is to grab your bowl just like so.”
I poured a smidge of soy sauce into my square bowl.
“Not too much, not too little.”
“Dip in just like so … and eat.”

Everyone fired silent darts at my condescending and typically long-winded explanation as they were hungry after a long day of sightseeing. When the dumplings arrived, they soy sauced up their respective bowls and dove into them with gusto. Just then the waiter came up and with a look of sheer horror blurted out,
“You are all eating out of the ashtrays!”

Everybody simultaneously barfed up their partially digested dumplings. My face beeted red. The waiter immediately changed out our ashtrays for proper dipping bowls. I tried to make light of the situation,
“Look on the bright side. At least by using ashtrays we were significantly cutting down our risk of contracting Hep A!”

So tell me, what’s your most embarrassing moment?

© 2008 Bluntwit.com

The wellspring of my guilt occurred in the yingwo, or hard sleeper section, of a 35 hour train trip from Beijing to Hong Kong some years ago. I was traveling with my mother who had decided to visit China for the very first time and take advantage of the fact that her eldest son had been studying there for a year. He neglected to tell her he still couldn’t use chopsticks or even fly a kite properly.

Ah, and for the uninitiated, the accommodations on the train to Hell are more comfortable than your average yingwo.

Anyway, when we arrived at our assigned cubby hole there were folks huddled around the single fold down table puffing furiously on unfiltered cigarettes.

Ok my memory might be playing tricks on me. Let’s try again.

Anyway these two smokers barely noticed us through the haze as we piled into the upper bunks on either side. The shorter of the two wore black and sort of glared at the world through the shifty eyes of a possible serial killer. The other one had that dull stare of an unwitting accomplice. Together they scared me.

Once the train had pulled away the two men redoubled their smoking. My Mom, clearly in agony, looked across at me and said, “Tell them to stop smoking. I can’t breathe. And if you don’t, I WILL.” (Not that she could, as she only spoke the sliverest of Chinese and they didn’t speak even a wink of English).

Now I had a quandary. I had lived in China for a while and had various run-ins with these lawless types, impervious to any of the decorum that keeps a normal, polite society from falling to pieces. They would sooner kill you as spit on you. And there was the whole ‘face’ issue. You must never, ever cause such ruffians to lose face. So I wavered. And my mother suffered and seethed. She again threatened to take matters into her own hand when suddenly it came to me!

“Cough,” I said to her, “Loudly and often.”
She looked perplexed so I repeated my entreaty with maniac zeal.
“Cough. Cough. Cough.” She hacked.

I approached them nervously. I noticed the smaller man’s yellow, nicotine-stained fingers as he took a long, lazy drag.
“I apologize in advance,” I said in Chinese, “but the woman here is my mother and she has been afflicted with a bad case of Tuberculosis and your cigarette smoke is inflaming her raw, gnarled lungs.”

At that both men’s eyes grew wide with fright as they extinguished their cigarettes and rushed off to find a safer locale. Thus, we enjoyed the entire trip in relative smoke-free seclusion. My mother asked me what I said to them and I told her that I had simply asked politely that they not smoke as it bothered her.

To this day I have not confessed the fact I afflicted her with such a malevolent, spur-of-the-moment imaginary disease. I thought putting the story out there and confessing in the relative anonymity of the blogosphere would start the healing process. Sorry Mom.

Do you have any deep, dark secrets you to want to own up to and assuage your conflicted conscious?

Anyway, as a student we had to wash our clothes on a washboard, there was no hot water in the shower, and we were watched closely by our communist handlers. We compared our living conditions to that of being on an extended camping trip in prison.

There were no 7-11’s, no slurpees, no Coca Cola, nothing to quench your thirst on a hot day. We bought fake antique Chinese vases and created a miniature water factory filling them with scalding water and letting them cool before pouring them into our canteens.

We took these water vessels with us on our various excursions. One was to the Great Wall of China, a couple of hours drive north of Beijing. Maybe you’ve heard the canard that “the Great Wall is the only man-made structure that is viewable on earth from the moon.”

Anyway, we got up there on a crisp summer morning. It had been boiling hot in Beijing with the hot sands whipping across the city from the Gobi desert and into our eyes. Thus we were woefully unprepared for the surprisingly cold, freezing wind up on the wall, dressed in our shorts and t-shirts. So we bought Russian fur caps and extra layers of clothes for spare change from the hawkers milling around.

Being stupid kids we hiked away from the crowds further and further along the wall. I half expected to come across Mongol hordes filing in through the various cracks we surveyed. At one point my roommate and good friend Andy gave me his camera and said wait until I say go. He climbed to the highest point on the wall, lowered his pants and flashed his plaster white butt in my general direction and yelled “Go.”

Later he developed the picture and added this caption … “The only man-made moon to be seen from the Great Wall of China.”