The weather the past few days has taken a slight turn for the better, and during this part of the year it usually means that the weather gods of Shanghai have removed the “scrotum-sucking cold” finger out of your ass and are about the cram the “rain until your socks are moldy” finger into it. Still, I live for the moment, and I was able to take advantage of the temperature to comfortably ride Julie to and from work without steam from my head fogging up a 10 meter circumference around me.

One key thing that I’ve learned from riding my bike on the streets is that it really isn’t a great way to pick up girls. Women in Shanghai tend to be attracted to men with material offerings of consequence; hence the preoccupation with BMWs and Italian-sounding name brands. The sweaty dude on the bike just doesn’t really cut it. This reality really hit me like a bag of snot when I approached some cuties this evening on my ride home from work, only to have them scream and run away like a castrated pack of coyotes. I realized that, perched on top of Julie, I really was not an impressive sight to behold. Or it could have been that I had forgotten put my penis away wear pants, and I had my Donald Rumsfeld Speedos on. I would have run too, I guess.

Today was Valentine’s Day and you’d be surprised at how equally popular and loathed it is here in China. When I told my coworker Audrey today that some people back in the States believe that the genesis of Valentine’s day was some sort of massive conspiracy between greeting card makers, chocolatiers, and florists, her response was: “So? That’s ingenious.” And cheers to Chinese mercantilism as its best.

What about me, you ask? I’ve always been quite indifferent to Valentine’s day, ever since my tender heart got stomped on by that unequivocal whore after college and I got smacked off the “Romantics” team and onto the dreary world of the “Hater” team. This year, I’m especially disgusted by the Chinese populace lunging full-throttle at this most blatant form of cultural imperialism…and by not getting any love or chocolates in return. Boo to you, St. V, and may that “V” one day stand for something more indicative of the cliched confetti of consumerism that thou hast sprinkled upon this great and ancient people; “venereal,” perhaps?