Chuc Mung Nam Moi (Happy New Year), or I Believe in Captions

I could give you the play-by-play, but I think instead I'll just relate one anecdote. We were in Ben Thanh Market, in the heart of Saigon (officially named Ho Chi Minh City), perusing the coffee, handicrafts, piles of shrimp, and myriad of utensils carved from yak horn...and a skinny, toothless older man in an undershirt and shorts is sitting on a stool in one of the narrow corridors of the market. In a high-pitched, cartoonish voice with a remarkably authentic American accent he asks us, "Do you want to buy a post card?"
We walk a few steps past him and we hear, "WAYt a minute!" and then, "Oh, noo..." His accent was so perfect, his voice so comical...we had to giggle and turn back to look at him, but he was on to the next person, asking them, "Do you want to buy a post card?" and the inevitable, "WAYt a minute!"....."Oh, noo..."
I read somewhere (Lonely Planet) that some of the older Vietnamese generation have learned phrases from American GI's and imitate them perfectly for tourists. So charming, so consistent, he sounded like one of those dolls with a string in their back that you pull and release.

I wish I had a picture of him. Here are some other pictures instead, in no particular order.

This moment at dawn was by far the most beautiful of the trip. (Mui Ne Beach)

Muddy waters, blue skies. (Mekong Delta)

Menu of indoor/outdoor restaurant. Goat penis, Breast She Goat...I like "Offer to King Salad". (Saigon)

Posing with a helicopter left by the United States Army (War Remnants Museum, Saigon).

The chaos of Saigon (District 10).

City center near Ben Thanh market. (District 1, Saigon)

MY first drunk posting.

How exciting. How vulnerable I feel right now. I am drunk on Qingdao, Chimay, and vodka and that is great. I have promised myself not to change this posting post-drunken stupor, despite how much I'll detest the grammatical errors. It's just the way it will be. TOnight we set off fireworks. Real fireworks, that shoot 20 meters into the sky and make a bomb noise or sparkle showers onto the street in front of the K-wah Centre. I heard from my boss that some people, to scare off the bad spirits that awaken for 春节 (Chinese New Year), play a CD or cassette of fireworks explosions. My boss, she said that they are fooling themselves but I think it's all in the mind anyway. I mean that in a respectful way. There is a reason for it in the mind and it changes the world.

I hear that this year of the pig is symbolized by fire atop water; a turbulent ymbol. There will be lots of explosions this year, but by the end of the year resolutions will come. Most Chinese soothsayers believe this means new governments will be established. We shall see. When did legitimate governmental control over its nation become such an elusive situation?

ANyway, what do I know. Do you know what I know? What the fucking hell do I know. I know a billion Chinese picturing fire atop water is gonna impact the world somehow, that's what I know.

爱， 爱， 爱

From Twelfth Night:

If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
That strain again! it had a dying fall:
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour! Enough; no more:
'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
O spirit of love! how quick and fresh art thou,
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soe'er,
But falls into abatement and low price,
Even in a minute: so full of shapes is fancy
That it alone is high fantastical.

A Hymn to Him

He and I.
He and I part so easily, just a wave and a smile and on to the next thing. Today I felt the steps up to our kind of love like soggy hills and valleys. Push the beds closer, so good, I can’t get enough.
Into a repetitive motion, when will it end, with no oil found and no goal in sight? Energy has limits, he and I discover.

He and I part ways with a slap each time, I to his ass, playfully, he to my face, insulted, tired of me. I get tired of myself with him, but I love his long locks, his lovely looks.

Oh, he and I just get food together sometimes, as friends. No, really.
When weren’t we friends?
There was that awkward moment in our conversation:
“They have these Christmas lights on B---- Road…they’re beautiful! They’re shaped like icicles, with the lights cascading down them. They’re sort of…sensual.”
“Sensual? You get turned on by the lights?”
“Maybe.”
“ So you’re like, walking down the street going, ‘Oo look at these hot lights’ like, getting your panties all wet?"
No, not like that. I don’t know what to do with him, but I can’t seem to avoid him.

We.
When we have to part, it’s like all the heat we’ve made together disperses in an instant.
When we have to part, we whisper and listen hard enough to hear each other’s smallest puff of breath. We store our memories. We play the song over and over. We throw bottles into the sea of our desires and break, and break, and break each time.
When my back is turned away from him, I shudder and shiver.

Sex and the Chengshi

While Da and I were grabbing a latte from XingBaKe (that's Starbucks) after spending a wonderful night together, I noticed a slight chill in the air. Was my Burberry-copy coat that I had made at the Fabric Market coming apart at the seams? Had I forgotten to wear socks under my black canvas a'yi slippers (15元 at Yu's Pile of Shus!)? I couldn't help but wonder: why so cold all of a sudden?

It wasn't the weather that sent shivers up my spine. It was Da. Although we'd hit our stride in the bedroom, outside of his apartment...we were stumbling. Why is it that just when a man reveals his sensitive side to you, the side that doesn't crave to hump you, he throws a big black cape over it, like a magician hiding what's in his hat? Are we supposed to just assume the rabbit is in there, and hold on for the big finale? Why are we such a captive audience?

As I kissed Da goodbye and walked to work sipping my milky coffee, I couldn't help but wonder: Is there Magic between us, or is it all just a cheap trick?

I Complimented a Corporation and All I got was this Lousy Brochure

Yes, I sent this letter. No, I didn't get a tshirt. Or any eggs. Yeah, it's all made up. Cadbury Creme Eggs always gave me weird mucous in the back of my throat.


Dear Makers of Cadbury Creme Eggs,

Hello, my name is Amy ****. I am a junior majoring in English at C*** University. I am writing to say how appreciative I am of your wonderful product, the Cadbury Creme Egg. Ever since I was a little girl, my family and I have always enjoyed them. They have been a part of our Easter celebrations for as long as I can remember. The most sought after prize during our annual easter egg hunt was always agreed to be the Creme Egg.

I love everything about this delicious treat; I remember the excitement of opening up the rich chocolate shell to reveal the creamy yolk center. My father tells me that once, when I was about two years old, we were all eating breakfast and I asked him to make me an omelette out of my favorite chocolate eggs!

Since I left for college three years ago, I have left some of my family traditions behind. I am unable to fly home to celebrate Easter, but I know, no matter where I am, a part of my Easter tradition will always be available for me to enjoy. Thank you so much for being a part of such fond memories.

Sincerely,

(signed)

P.S. I would absolutely love to sport one of your tshirts on campus. I am a size M. And maybe some Creme Eggs to get me through midterms? Thank you so much, for everything.

Harelips: A Tribute and Two More

Back in 2005, an artistic explosion occurred in New York City. It took fifteen minutes. Over AIM. Among three people. One of whom is me.

Inspired by ExplodingDog, we frittered away our study time making MS Paint drawings. The first four stunningly colorful pieces are by dear Jon, who was fascinated by harelips and our common intention to master the Chinese language.

The last piece is a strange journey into the mind of one tall awkward Fellow. Cute. All images subject to Chinese copyright laws. HA!

Proper props and Modern Mops

It went as follows:

Me: why doesn't china have a discernible culture of their own, outside of food?!
Molly: they used to
Me: yeah and then communism and a humongo population turned everyone into drones
Molly: and now they are scrambling to become modern
Molly: and they'll take anybody's modern
Me: yeah
Me: anybody's modern, i like that
Molly: hehe
Molly: mm, that was some goood doufu la
Molly: what is the correct pinyin for "tofu"?
Me: dou4fu3
Molly: ok thought so
Me: 豆腐
Me: yum

Ok, you get the picture. Two gals, mouthin' off on China like it's a Borg cube. A delicious cube of Borg tofu. But the gem of the conversation, assimilating anybody's modern, originated with my dear friend and co-expat-at-large Molly. I like the simultaneous flexibility of the phrase and the idea.

I don't know. We can try to understand. We ought to try? A global warming up to each other. Ha. Shit.

Weekend Update

I went to Hong Kong this weekend with Da. We stayed at the beautiful and fragrant (I swear, the lobby smelled like ylangylang) Kowloon Shangri-la Hotel in East Tsim Sha Tsui. First we ate a lovely breakfast with all the Eastern and Western delights, then picked up Daniel's suits at Sam's Tailors, which had pictures of celebrities posted all over one wall, including David Bowie! I wonder if Sam remembers what fabric Bowie used...it was probably white.

We took the Star Ferry to HK Island, with it's crazy pedestrian walkways connecting one office building to another. Lunch at a restaurant in Hong Kong Park, then we parted ways and I dropped some serious money on a Nikon Coolpix S8 and various silk goods. I really wanted this mod bashful geisha statue but decided against it. I pictured myself constantly dusting her little bent head...

Hong Kong felt so nice. Historically, it's far from the culture of my Chinese ancestors from Ningbo and Beijing, but its seamless combination of British and Chinese influences sits quite harmoniously with the modern me, big black-haired halfie that I am. If only they got rid of the Cantonese...no I take it back, any language that incorporates such sing-song phrasing is ok in my book. Mmmgoi, la la la!

Now I ask myself, am I really going to keep up the diary entries? They're kind of dry, aren't they. Maybe I need a theme, or at least a method. Alpha-Femmes-at-large? (Gotta give Karen Fu props for the term Alpha Femme. More later.) Musings on Modern China? Hybridity? Travelogue? HOW TO PUT FORTH INVISIBLE UNTOUCHABLE A-MUSINGS?

A B C 1 2 me

Well, here we have it. A forum for exhibition of all that captures my attention. An outlet for my erratically composed take-it-or-leave-it commentary on life in this, our crazy time and fucked up place. My personal staked space, carved out of the blog bog like so much stinky peat, fuel for...thought? procrastination? well-behaved discussion? the legitimate pursuance of pictures of half-naked women (see above)? or men?

Or, demand for refrigerant is low from December through late February, so today I commence with the blogging as a way to pass/publish the 9 to 5. And track each of your visits on Google Analytics.

This post's half-naked person is a book jacket painting by Frank Frazetta for Edgar Rice Burrough's Savage Pellucidar.