Babyface, before the chaos

On Wednesday night, we had dinner at a famous Shanghainese restaurant with Grace, Angela (my angel from the north, see previous post), Alex, his cousin Kevin, and a Shanghainese girl named Stella who had a deep, gruff voice and a penchant for bouncing up and down on the dance floor. I don’t particularly like Shanghainese food, and I liked it even less when, while we were all standing outside, a rat the size of a small pony scampered from the street and into the restaurant. There was no indecision involved; it made a bee-line right into the kitchen. As the ladies shrieked in revulsion, I marveled at how genuine this scene was in China. And I also wondered what the mysterious, grayish meet that they served as an appetizer consisted of. Terrific.

A trip to Babyface followed, and once the whiskey and green tea were partnered together at our table, I knew that there was absolutely no way that I was going to sleep before sunlight. Another party evening had commenced, and as I sat there pounding glass after glass with a cadre of UCSD Lambdas visiting Shanghai, my mind inevitably arrived at the question I always ask when I find myself hijacking my liver on a weeknight: “What the hell am I doing here?” A sudden *poof,* and on my right shoulder was Darwin, and on my left was Freud. Debate ensued: was I conditioned by my surroundings to surrender myself to Johnny Walker, regardless of day, or was this who I was in the deeper recesses of my being? Was I nurtured, or was this part of my nature?


Alex and Angela and old-timer at Babyface

I would postulate that simply being in Shanghai is conducive to excessive partying. Anthropologists and sociologists who study rituals in various societies and cultures should take a close look at the culture of partying in this increasing decadent metropolis. It has often been said, by luminaries such as Lucy and Chace, that a year of partying in Shanghai is tantamount to three years of partying back in the States. If that holds up to be true, then I’m nearing my mid-thirties; and yet the constant ritual of partying, drinking, and destroying one’s body lives on in an unabated rhythm.

What drives us to these means of fulfillment? Or, more appropriately, what drives ME to these ends? How do I find myself out at 3 am on a Thursday morning, with two presentations and a handful of meetings that require my attendance in another 6 hours?

Why do apes throw feces at each other?

Some questions are best left unanswered. Nature vs. Nurture? Who cares, let’s all get smashed (and in some of our cases, throw feces at each other).