sushipanda

Just had dinner with Lucy, Chace, Jamie, and a couple of his buddies at Duck King (鸭王). Many regions/cities in China have their own specialty cuisines and dishes that are famous within China, if not around the world. Lanzhou is Gansu province is famous for its long noodles; Chongqing in Sichuan province is known for its spicy hot-pot; Guizhou province is known for its famous “fuck-the-pot” chicken (see pic below); and Beijing has its famous roast duck.

The Chinese really take their translation seriously!

What happens with Beijing roast duck, at least at Duck King, is that you purchase an entire roast duck, which the servers bring out to your table and start cutting up. What they end up cutting off and serving to you is the portions of the duck that have the crispy skin on them, which in actuality isn’t very much. Then they cart the rest of the duck away, never to be seen again. So basically, you end up paying a lot of money to eat duck skin wrapped in a bun…which is pretty damn good, but not all that fulfilling.

Perhaps it was the slight nature of the duck, or the fact that it was five guys in one very small room, but the conversation invariably moved from the inane to the consequential. We talked about the duality of humanity (”that girl had a broke face, but a smokin’ body”), the onset of cynicism as we advance in age (”this soup tastes like shit”), and the benefit of truly understanding yourself (”I’m a pretty big pervert myself”).

And ultimately, we talked about the brutal honesty of life and all it has to offer.

“Chinese girls are so open and honest. A really cute girl called me and told me, ‘Sorry I can’t come to your party, I ate something bad and have been shitting runs all over the place since last night!’”

We all looked at each other and took pause to appreciate the courage with which the Chinese face life’s challenges and difficulties with nary an eye towards prevarication.

“Damn, that’s disgusting. That really is.” And it really was.

After the bombast of Friday night, Saturday was decidedly more low key as we got a couple of tables at DKD and proceeded to watch the tired faces from the night before roll in and many more cancel as they couldn’t get out of bed. Angela and her little sister were visiting with their parents and stayed long enough to pick up a few games of liars’ dice and bask in the sheen of China’s native drink, green tea and whiskey. Chace, Lucy, Mike, Eddie were good sports, as it became abundantly clear that we all would have rather been at home watching “Desperate Housewives.” Or re-runs of “Martin,” in Mike’s case. It made the affair more intimate and I was very grateful. Still, not to disappoint, we all ended up trashed anyway, and while struggling to cram pieces of mutton into my mouth at hot pot around 3 am, I suddenly asked myself “what the hell are you doing here” and quickly left with Wilkie, the pot still bubbling as we got into the cab.

Same bat-time, same bat-channel: the four returning members of last year’s birthday romp

Sunday was what I had planned to be my “PG-rated Day of Rest with No Alcohol.” I invited some co-workers from Intel for…not much. I hadn’t though ahead, and when I forced myself up at 10 am, I was struck with the sudden realization that I did not know how to entertain Chinese people. There are a lot more rules and regulations here, from little things like offering slippers for guests who walk in the door to big things like farting at the dinner table if an elder farts first. In the end, the problem of not having anything for the guests to do was solved as I decided to just relax in front of the TV and let them take care of everything, from the cooking to the cleaning. My co-workers paid me back by employing the ancient Chinese kung-fu battle tactic of smearing cake frosting all over my face, but it was small retribution for the free Heineken and diarrhea inducing pig-ears that my guests brought.

The good sport. 好甜哦!

Monday was the day of my actual birthday. After dinner at Simply Thai, Eddie and Mike and I headed to karaoke with Selina and all my old friends who worked at my favorite bar before it shut down. There are worse things in life than being shut in a small room with seven gorgeous girls and two bottles of whiskey. Both Mike and Eddie were exhausted from the previous few days, and though I felt bad that they were out here near sleep directly because of me, I didn’t know how to make it up to them except for making them drink and drink, which they gamely did. They were probably too tired from playing the “use your mouth to first pass this tissue, then this playing card, then this can of ginger ale to your neighbor” game. I rocked at the game; the other boys sucked nuts. Eddie should stop smoking, and Mike should learn how to inhale. What a strange world this is.

Look at Mikey go!

After a while, Eddie just couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer and bolted, while Mike took a power nap on the couch, leaving me in compromising positions with the other girls. Not that I was complaining or anything; it was more blubbering like the stupid drunken idiot I always am.

The night was only beginning for me, with a midnight snack and a visit to two more clubs, in addition to more singing until 7:30 am. The weekend had finally come to an exhausting but fulfilling end, crammed to the brim with good friends, party pals, and lots and lots of liver-damaging gulps. I’ll definitely remember these past few days forever…at least, the parts that I remember.

Chace, me, and friend

As I was collapsed on the sofa at Guandi at around 1 am, I suddenly found myself enveloped by a towering, hairy creature gutterally garbling and flinging his bunyan-esque limbs around my every body.

Then I realized it was Chace. He was hollering: “Eric, get your ass up! I just spent a hundred US dollars on a surprise for you!”

I quickly did the math. Well, not quickly, since I had stumbled into Guandi from Pegasus riding tne all-you-can-drink wave, but eventually concluded that he had just claimed to have spent 800 RMB on something that he promised I would enjoy.

“You got me a hooker?” Chace had sprinted off, leaving me alone, wondering what I was going to be doing with a hooker surrounded by all my friends on this, the kick-off to my 27th birthday bonanza. Morever, being as drunk as I was, I was afraid it was going to be a colossal waste of RMB.

When Chace returned he had his arms wrapped around a shiny bottle of champagne. “Here ya go, man, happy birthday! The most expensive thing they sell here,” he shouted ebulliently.

I had alcohol up to my throat and couldn’t even lift my head (a feat few can accomplish, by the way), and here Chace was trying to pour a glass of champagne down my throat. And not just any champagne. The most expensive thing they sold at Guandi.

Flashbacks of last year, with me waving off Jeff in vain as he tried to get me to slam down one last shot at Cotton, only to result in the patio being awash in birthday vomit, pounded my memory. Puking outside Cotton was one thing; to do it within the legendary confines of Guandi was completely another. Guandi is as much a temple as anything else in Shanghai, and I for one have experienced untold glory within its walls. I started to wave him off; no need to desecrate these floors with any of my expulsion.

“POP THE CORK YOU BIRTHDAY BITCH!”

Suddenly, the two hands which I had planned to use to feebly push Chace away were clutching the champagne bottle. I had never held one in my hands before; the closest thing was Martellini Apple Cider at my high school graduation part. Without hesitation, however, the powerful Force that magically bridges the gap between men of weak constitution and booze took control of my physical being. I looked down to see my two hands confidently twisting the wire to loosen the cork, and then my right thumb slowly eased the little barrier between me and bubbly bliss out of the bottleneck.

**POP**

Before that champagne bottle had been popped, I was enjoying an evening of unadulterated gaiety. Friends, both old and new, had made their way out to wish me well at Pegasus. Timmy had booked me a big table next to his, and he and Eddie chipped in for a bottle of Black Label that was gobbled up in 30 minutes. Both Tina and Wilkie were in town, albeit short-time, and with Mike along it was a “Go Bears!” festival that brought me back 5-6 years. Anabela and Nicole and Kei were clamoring to dance with me as if I were [insert sexy male celebrity name here], which just goes to show how much they had been drinking. Every other song at Pegasus made me jump up and down and scream and spittle. It was glory set upon glory.

At Pegasus, when I was still able to stand up

Now here was Chace, my Morpheus offering me the blue pill vs. red pill choice: dip into the tempting champagne waters and forego all memory of the evening, or resist and enjoy as much au natural birthday joy as possible.

Let’s just say I didn’t forego ALL memory. I do remember someone handing me glass after glass of water while I made camp over the Guandi toilet. I remember the DJ was spinning the Roots. I remember passing out after Mike put me in the cab in front of Xin Wang, and then waking up every few minutes to scream out “Why does she have Don King in a headlock” in Englisht to a much bewildered cab driver.

Most of all, I remember the feel of popping that cork, the satisfaction of plummeting headfirst into the carnival of decadence irregardless of what consequences lay ahead. Many a night in Shanghai has unfurled in this very manner, and as I crossed the threshold into my late twenties, popping that cork was akin to giving the impending gloom of true adulthood a big fat middle finger.

Thanks, Chace.

On the final night of the festivities, we forgot it was Monday and had a celebration with all of our friends from the former La Disco bar (aka, Eric’s favorite bar). Not your typical Monday, but as you can see a great night to end my mid-twenties.

And on Sunday, he rested. My closest co-workers from Intel came over to my house for some nice food, conversation, and overall mirth. A welcome break from the high-volume of the previous two days.

My 27th birthday celebration was kicked off on Friday. Pegasus first and then onto Guandi. Many people got blitzed, but none more so than yours truly. Saturday night was decidedly more low-key at DKD, but nevertheless still enjoyable. An ode to binge drinking.

I’ll say it right now: I love my birthdays.

I’m not confessing any sort of vanity or narcissism here, but I will be undeterred in my honesty. I love it when my birthday rolls around because, well, it’s nice when people pay attention to you, even if it is just for one. Particularly when you’re living in Shanghai and all your best friends are so far away. It’s hard enough to keep in touch as it is, and I’ve been guilty of missing some birthdays of people back in the States. But just one familiar voice, once reminder of remembrance, is better than all the cake in the world.

Oh wait, I also forgot: the binge-drinking isn’t so bad, either.

I just got home from work, on my way to have dinner with Tina, and then it’s off to the lethal Pegasus/Rouge/Guandi trifecta. Well, we’ll be lucky to make it to rouge, but for all-you-can drink, there is no sweeter birthday topping. Lucy, Chace, Anabela, Mike, Eddie, Timmy, Kira, Kei…how much more love could I guy ask for? Even if they’re there for the love of booze and not the love of hu, I can’t complain. Hell, even Wilkie and Rayfil are making an appearance.

Tomorrow night will be at DKD, with some of the same crowd plus Peter and Michael and Shell and the whole Mandarin-speaking gang. I will definitely try to keep the camera still for the pictures.

The birthday weekend has already started out splendidly. I got crap done at work (yay!), and on the way home I was pleasantly awoken by Jean, calling from Morocco. Now, I normally spit fire and flames whenever someone wakes me from my necessary after-school nap, but this time her giggles and anecdotes about karate chops and Bruce Lee were just what I needed to jump-start the inevitably enervating weekend. It’s good to know that you can always go home. Or Paris. Thanks, Poe Poe.

The great thing is, even after the weekend is all said and done, I’ll STILL be 26. Let the festivities begin…I’ll try to keep the puke to a minimum. Wish me luck.

Took a weekend off to head up to Beijing and visit old and new friends. Wilkie was in town, and Dave had just moved up. Didn’t see much of the sun, but definitely had plenty of fun.

Happy Beijing faces

“Do you want to get some authentic Beijing treats for lunch?”
“No thanks, I already ate.”
“What did you have?”
“Instant noodles.”
“What? You came to visit Beijing and you’re eating instant noodles?”
“This is my second bowl.”
“But…why?”
“I don’t know…but it’s pretty damn good.”

Three nights in Beijing, one of the biggest cities in the world, teeming with smells and tastes the combination of which can not be found anywhere else in the world. And for two days in a row, my breakfast and lunch consisted of a bowl of 3 RMB instant noodles. And I had no complaint whatsoever.

Such was life for me on my visit to Beijing. Dave had recently moved up there from Shanghai, and Wilkie was on an assignment there that was fast coming to an end, so I thought I’d drop by and have a taste for the kind of life they were living. Given that I went to work on Friday, bought fake Chairman Mao t-shirts, and then never saw daylight again as we bounced from a table at one club to a table at another club, I’d say the verdict is clear: Beijing is just like Shanghai.

The weather was hazy and humid, and as such my memory of my three days in the capital of China was similarly blurry. Amid the greyness were lucid memories of happiness, of course:

- Friday lunch with Shell as she just happened to be in town. “How about the dish of cold peanuts as a starter?” “Don’t worry Eric, I’m going to expense this all on the company.” “How about we start off with this crab stuffed with curry, then move on to the seafood salad and see where that takes us?” Thanks Shell. Morever, thanks Oracle Corp.

- Negotiating with the doe-eyed salesgirl at Xiu Shui Street, Beijing’s version of Xiang Yang Market. Wilkie thought he could get a t-shirt down to 10 RMB, but I was happy to score 25.25 RMB per shirt. Of course, i it took my razor sharp negotiating skills to wither her down.
Eric: “These four shirts for 50 RMB”
Girl: “No way. 110 RMB for four at most.”
Eric: “I won’t pay more than 50.”
Girl: “I guy as good looking as you shouldn’t have to worry about price.”
Eric: “Here’s 200 RMB. keep the change”

- Friday night ended with a drunken cab-ride back home to Dave’s, followed by a long, sexy talk about AMD’s cash balance and how it correlates to its stock price. Wood…oops, I meant, word.

- Saturday was all about getting to know the Intel ladies in Beijing, Clare and Karen. Practicing my Beijing accent was foremost on my mind, but that soon disappeared after I discovered Yan Jing beer, Beijing’s local specialty. Five bottles later, I could have sworn I was speaking Hindi, but it sure sounded good to me. We had dinner at a great restaurant in Hou Hai, which is this little lake surrounded by bars and restaurants. Normally it would have been only slightly romantic, but on the night I visited an unbelievable amount of electricity was in the air as Hou hai was besieged by a plague of old, fat Chinese men who felt compelled to lift up their shirts to reveal their hanging bellies. One guy even had the gumption to leave one of his tits exposed, perhaps just hinting at the untold treasures he had yet to show.

Beautiful scenery…trees, lake, and gut

- Later that night, at the Beijing Babyface, we reserved a huge table and proceeded to tear up the dance floor, ostensibly much to Clare and Karen’s delight. After a few drinks, they joined us, and as a group we were joined by Clare (II), Viva, Maple, and some random guys who drank our whiskey and danced with our women. I was too happy (and drunk) too care, however, and insisted that we go singing afterwards, even thought a thin film had begun to glaze over my eyes. Went to bed at 7:30 am this time, no talk of Intel…just boobs and such. Very academic.

- Sunday afternoon: best…instant noodles…ever.

And now, ladies and gents, the announcement that the greatest film of all time is coming in about two years: Transformers is coming to the big screen!

Ok, so most of the general population will respond with something along the lines of “WTF? Who cares?” and for the few knowledgeable Transformers fans out there, you might scratch your head and want to mention the first movie, which came out in 1986. None of that matters; all you need to know is that this one is being directed by Michael Bay and produced by (drum roll) Steven Spielberg!

Who’s got the touch?! Who’s go the power?! Steven Spielberg does!

I’m stoked about this because Transformers was a big part of my childhood and, I’m embarrassed to say, my very awkward adolescence. Shitty memory #29: when I was almost in high school I rekindled my love of the toys and started collecting them again, rummaging through garage sales and buying them off friends for cash or porno mags. I remember getting my hands on an immaculate Perceptor, complete with functioning microscope and little plastic red gun.

I still have this beautiful creature…crammed in a box somewhere in my parent’s garage

I was so enamored with this collectible that I carried it around with me one Saturday while running errands with my parents. It wasn’t until one shop-owner raised a curious eyebrow at me and incredulously asked “You’re STILL playing with toys at your age?” that I realized that I had probably set my abilities with the ladies back at least half a decade lugging that toy around. I underestimated, of course, to which my current lack of any semblance of smoothness can attest. At least I still have Perceptor (and a decent Optimus Prime, without one of his arms) to keep me warm at night.

Transformers did contribute to another one of my favorite activities: fucking around with my little brother’s head. I loved to ride in the car and point out vehicles on the road and tell him that they were real Transformers. I even pointed out Optimus once, though I had to tell him that he was undercover and in disguise. I don’t know when my brother stopped believing that Transformers were real and that they did not actually live in the San Gabriel mountains harvesting solar energy and wind for their Energon cubes; in fact, I may have completely forgotten the part about revealing that the whole thing was a gag.

Andrew, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry. Transformers are still very real and one day Optimus will return from the dead (if he’s dead at all) and show us the path to wisdom and virtue.

Anyway, July 4th 2007 will be marked on my calendar. I’ll be almost 29 years of age by then, which is what I long ago decided would be the cut-off age for me to stop sleeping with Megatron under my pillow in case a burglar came into my room so that I could scare him off; what a perfect way to send my childhood companions (I’m such a loser!) off hurtling into the past.