sushipanda

I’m sitting at the 5-star Sheraton in Chengdu, Sichuan province, wondering if it can get any better than this. I’m here on Intel’s dime, a business trip to help the new factory set up their forecasting processes. Originally, I didn’t expect to even consider leaving Shanghai for, well, anywhere else. But here in the land of pandas, spicy food, beautiful landscapes, and even more beautiful women, I’m tempted to just hide here in the Sheraton bathroom and not catch my flight back home on Wednesday.

Chengdu is the capital of Sichuan, as well as capital of the more famous “Land of the Hotty Boom-batties”

There are still a few days left in my stay here, but there have been plenty of highlights so far since I landed here on Thursday afternoon, stumbling through the airport on two hours of sleep (Wednesday night was another firecracker of an all-nighter at the new Shanghai Babyface, but I believe I’ve inundated this blog enough with my whiskey exploits).

- Who would have thought that the best Mexican food I’ve had in Asia (EVER) would be in Chengdu, deep in the western and land-locked part of China? One of the managers took me to Peter’s, a tex-mex house founded by a 20+ year-old traveler who somehow managed to finagle authentic salsa into the Chinese hinterland, much to the delight of the very small expat community in the Sichuan capital. I went there again today and ate enough cheese to feed a small Austrian village. The first night I had a plate of chimichangas, and I’ve concluded that the person who invented the idea of taking a burrito and deep-frying it must be somewhere high up in the Himalayas, the destination of thousands of pilgrimmages from Mexican-loving worshippers like myself. I praise thee, mine Chimichanga lord.

- Gavin, my Chengdu-nese co-worker who I’m helping to train and who was assigned the dubious task of showing me around town, revealed himself as a card-carrying member of PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals). This, after he ordered lunch yesterday for the five of us with meat being the primary deliverable. Though he may be one of hundreds (even thousands) of vegetarians in Chengdu, I’m pretty darn sure he’s the only PETA member in town, perhaps even in the entire province. Since I paid for lunch, I’d like the ask the following question: Gavin, as a vegetarian, why the hell did you order a 280 RMB fish that you weren’t planning on touching with a 20 foot chopstick? More on fish later in a later blog entry. The idea of ethical treatment of animals in Chengdu, by the way, is pretty much lost on the populace. So is vegetarianism. So is not eating every entrail and limb of the animals. Which leads to…

- Spicy Rabbit Head, a Sichuan delicacy that is exactly what it sounds like. It’s spicy. It’s rabbit. And it’s the poor rabbit’s fucking HEAD. Of course, I had to try it, even though the vision of my ex-beauette Shirley getting mad at me for ordering rabbit at the Fog City Diner in San Francisco back in the 90’s entered my mind more than a few times. Shirley would have loved the sight of me chowing down on bunny noggin just as much I would have loved the sight of Dubya winning re-election.

Oh hold on…damn it! Never mind.

The taste is similar to…wait, we’re talking about rabbit head here! I’m guessing goat head and elephant head taste wildly different, but it’s not my place in the world to find that out. Let’s just leave it at that, while I try to erase the memory of those rabbit eyes staring up at me. Although it’s hard when I have a picture below, hehe.

Want a taste?

- Saturday was spent at Leshan (乐山) a couple of hours outside if Chengdu. It’s the site of the famous Big Buddha, a 71 meter high engraving into the cliffs along side the intersection of three different rivers. If that sounds way cool, well actually looking at the Buddha’s big toe is even cooler. It doesn’t end there; there are stairs all along the cliff, and since I and my co-workers have the stamina and health of one normal person (the four of us combined, that is), we climbed up the stairs along the cliffs and reached the inner recesses of the mountain, where most tourists were unwilling to venture. There we found peace, tranquility, and poor farmers selling Pepsi for 2 RMB each (go globalization!). I realized that there are a lot of places in China that are beautiful and peaceful, but you have to fight through thousands of people to get there. I’ll probably never visit Leshan again, but I’ll always know that me and the Big Buddha will be tight since we must share the same interests; namely, 20 meter boobies.

A peaceful moment of rest as we climb away from Big Buddha

Anabela was the belle of the ball on her birthday. She graciously hosted us at Shikumen Bistro at Xintiandi, then we headed over to JZ for some jazz and cocktails and conversation. Epilogue at sketchy Julu Lu not posted here

Dumb teen: Hey, look at this! It says ‘Train for jobs in beeyotch.’
Smarter teen: Fool! That word is biotech. Why you gotta be ignorant all your life?

The above is just a tidbit overheard on the streets of New York, taken from one of the coolest websites around right now. Shanghai, with its swarms of people hurrying to one place or another, is a good parallel to New York City, and while you may hear some pretty crazy things from time to time, the top 10 things (as decided by ME) you will NEVER hear any Shanghainese person say are:

10) “I wonder if they make fake Louis Vuitton bags out here.”
9) “What fresh air!”
“I got a pocket full of rubbers and my homeboys do too
So turn off the lights and close the doors
But (but what) we don’t love them hoes, yeah!
So we gonna smoke a ounce to this
G’s up, hoes down, while you motherfuckers bounce to this”
7) “I love George W. Bush”
6) “Those crazy Taiwanese look just like they’re Chinese!”
5) “Free Tibet!”
4) “The Japanese are our friends.”
3) “Hey, anyone up for Chinese food tonight?”
2) “These DVDs appear to be fake! Let’s go somewhere else!”
1) “Excuse me!”

One thing I was surprised to see, but nonetheless pleased, was this posting by the folk at Zapata’s, where I once was conned into buying a girl a 50 RMB margarita and never saw her again. I hope she can read.

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).

Grace called me on Sunday and asked me for a favor. She had a friend named Angela in town who was visiting for a few days from Beijing, and as circumstance would have it she needed a place to stay. Did I know anyone who could offer their apartment or house for a few days?

Eric: I’m not sure, it’s kinda weird for people to be hosting random strangers, don’t you think?
Grace: She’s really cute.
Eric: I have a spare key, and am on my way now to buy flowers so I can sprinkle my walkway with petals in honor of her arrival.

So Angela from Beijing moved in. The trouble was, both Grace and I had to work, so Angela was on her own in trying to entertain herself. She assured both of us that it would be no problem, she would just go shop on her own. Sure, I thought to myself, she might not have been a Maria von Trapp, but her addition to the house would surely be a nice break from the monotony of living by myself these past few weeks, ever since Keith left. Also, I had given my maid some time off so she could go back home and hang out with her kid, so the house seemed emptier (not to mention messier) than usual.

After work I had a nice dinner at South Beauty with Sylvia and Joyce, and it was fairly late when I got back home to discover that someone had folded up the bedsheets that had been hanging on the balcony ever since the maid departed and put them on my bed. Odd, I thought, did the maid come back? Nah, couldn’t be, time off doesn’t come by easy for these maids who live pretty tough lives. I went to the balcony, parted the curtains, and lo and behold all my dirty laundry had been washed and was hanging out to dry. This load happened to entirely consist of socks and underwear.

It slowly dawned on me that Angela must have:

1. Folded up the stuff (bedsheets) that had been hanging up there for over a week (I’m not very proactive when the maid is gone)
2. Reached into my hamper and tossed all my dirty socks and underwear into the washing machine
3. Took the stuff out after it was done and hung up, one by one, to dry

It was mostly #2 that really got to me: pretty girl had dug up strange (and somewhat dodgy) dude’s used undergarments on her own volition. I don’t even like touching my dirty underwear, and here she had gingerly draped them over the dry-rack. Additionally, everything on my desk had been neatly re-organized and the trash had been dumped out.

Mommy, can I keep her?

I have often heard that women from the North (i.e. Beijing) are more friendly, hospitable, and considerate of others; women from Shanghai have the reputation of being bossy, incapable of adding value to routine work, and constantly complaining. Since most of my co-workers (including my boss) are Shanghainese women, I like to constantly rib them about this reputation, especially since it’s pretty true! Being in Shanghai, I’ve had more than a few Shanghainese guests bunk here without even making the bed, let alone picking up my underwear. One time someone even took a T-shirt and an ashtray as souvenirs. Here was proof-positive that in this regard, I live on the wrong side of the river.

I came back tonight and the underwear and socks had been folded neatly on my bed, there was a big bowl of fresh salad in the fridge, the dishes had been washed and dried, and the floor had been mopped. Angela had decided it was too hot to leave the house and decided to try out her best maid imitation on me. Tomorrow, we’re going to dinner and to a club, and the next day she leaves for Beijing.

So folks, that gives you all less than 36 hours to help me come up with a scheme to keep her in Shanghai (more specifically, my house) for, well, forever.

Winner gets to wash my underwear. C’mon, everyone’s doing it!

I’m definitely starting to feel my age. On Friday, in honor of little Alex returning from New York for a monthlong hiatus, I found myself cold-sweating while downing Chivas all night at La Disco, then heading to Guandi not at all enjoying my state of stupor, as I usually do. Bouncing between three tables and not really talking or dancing with anyone, I left by my lonesome at 3 am and something just didn’t feel right.

Though I have kidded many a time about the vast difference between age 27 and age 26, there is some considerable heft to that whimsy. Not that there’s a wholly tangible demarcation between your late and mid twenties, but the years of fancy-free and self-indulgence slowly begin to emerge when your mind itself begins to recognize limitations, both physically and mentally. For instance, before venturing out on Friday night I stared numbly at the television screen, watching Mark Wahlberg and Charlize Theron zooming around in Mini-Coopers while transporting Edward Norton’s gold, and all I could think to myself was: What’s the name of this goddamn movie? My memory, once razor-sharp to the point of pachydermic proportions, has eroded to the point where my forehead literally bulges from trying to conjure up the title of oft-viewed (by me) Hollywood fodder. That most likely set the tone for the rest of the night, as I immersed myself in the comfort of Chivas but still could not completely escape the realization, at Guandii, that perhaps I am done with this scene. Youth ends and age begins, and only in the backdrop of the glamorous decadence of Shanghai does this fact become illuminated in such a stark manner.

In welcoming this inevitability, I did not venture out of the house for the entirety of Saturday, instead choosing to go online and surf for my old man’s cane and potential bridge partners for afternoon tea. When you’re at home doing nothing all day but feeling sorry for yourself and staring at a computer screen, you find a measure of comfort in realizing that there are probably millions of people out there who are doing the exact same thing: feeling their mortality. And what better way to solve it than to manufacture inane Internet nuggets, like this video of all the familiar voice-intro artists all in one car.

Fittingly, yesterday was Chace’s birthday, which made me feel slightly better about being old because, well, he’s even older. Not that he’s celebrating much, since I didn’t get to see him and I’m pretty sure no alochol was involved. Still, a birthday can’t go by without a beep, and I believe that in my malaise yesterday, a greater power was leading me to just the right method of celebration. Chace, here’s to you, in a slightly, no wait, VERY un-PC nod to your humble origins and your future aspirations. I KNOW somewhere on this lonely planet, Keith is going to get a crack out of this. Happy birthday, mate.

A few notes from my very brief trip to Lijiang in Yunnan province (photos have been posted):

- The Han Chinese (of which I am a member) is the largest Chinese ethnic group, and contributes to 91% of the total population on the mainland. There are 56 officially recognized ethnic minority groups in China constituting the remaining 9%. And after visiting Lijiang, which is home to many of these minorities, I discovered that even though everyone is classified as Chinese, these sub-groups can vary dramatically from each other in terms of tradition, culture, communication, food, dress, and X-box playing habits.

- Lijiang is composed of folks mostly from the Naxi minority. Rule of the thumb here is: if it looks like a Han, walks like a Han, and quacks like a Han…in Lijiang, it’s probably not a Han. A lot of the old Naxi culture has been withered away and consolidated into a few tourist traps. It was surreal to see a senior dongba, or Naxi leader, do a traditional song and dance on stage with dozens of flashbulbs popping off. I had to take a picture of it.

90+ year old dongba wooing the ladies

- One other defining trait of the Naxi people is that the women are the ones who find a mate and propose marriage. The man must then “give” himself to her and pledge himself to a life of, well, basically doing jack shit. The Naxi women not only do the money-making and the cooking and the cleaning, tradition calls for them to physically carry their husband into their home on the night of their wedding. I was so intrigued by this that I had a slew of questions for our guide, Xiao Zhang, a diminuitive young Naxi woman who was about to get married at the end of the year.

Me: So, is this groom-carrying thing, really true?
Xiao Zhang: Yeah, I’m working out every day until my wedding so I can be strong enough to carry him home.
Me: Do you have to carry him all the way back from the wedding site?
Xiao Zhang (laughing): No, just from where you get off the car to the apartment.
Me: What if the apartment is not on the first floor?
Xiao Zhang (pausing): Shit, looks like I’ll have to work out even more than I originally thought.
Me: That sounds pretty damn cool, think I could get hitched to some girl out here?
Xiao Zhang (looking me over): Probably not. Unless she’s Xena the Warrior Princess, you’ll be hard pressed to find someone to carry you on their back.
Me (crying and running away): You’re so mean! I hate you!

- While the Naxi men have it pretty good, it’s the Mosuo dudes (another minority group) that have it the best. In a Mosuo village, there are no fathers, only uncles! Sounds like one of those IQ riddles, doesn’t it? It’s not; basically, there is no such thing as marriage in the village. Men “pay a visit” to single women at night, and then leave the next morning. This happens continuously until the woman gets pregnant and has a kid. The kid grows up not knowing who their father is; he or she is raised by the mother. All the men in the village are known as “uncles” (in the West these men would be known as “scumbags”) to the children, who have no idea who their biological father is. And now that I think about, they don’t know who their biological brothers and sisters are, either! Talk about the antithesis of feminism! Where can I sign up?!

My dad and I excited about moving to Yunnan and being uncles…j/k!

A trip out to Lijiang in Yunnan Province, supposedly one of the most beautiful cities in all of China. Indeed it was, despite the non-stop rain, and had some quality family time to go along with it.

I have not one, but TWO canker sores on my tongue. I know that doesn’t sound pleasant, but hearing it is about a thousand times better than how it actually feels. I’m quite depressed right now, so much so that I’m contemplating staying in and sobbing for the next two weeks. One is bad enough, but two? What did I do to deserve this? I rarely kick little girls anymore, and only shove little boys on Tuesdays and Saturdays.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been eating jars and jars of this stuff called “Man Kou Su” (满口酥) all last week. It’s basically deep fried red pepper flakes stuffed with sesame seeds, mixed in with roasted peanuts. It’s also fucking good. Sanjay used to call it “heroin,” and I don’t disagree with its seductive pull. However, I don’t think it was meant to be poured down one’s throat and devoured as a meal within 10 minutes, which is what I was doing all last week. Now I’m paying the price; these cankers are driving me fucking crazy! I feel like a leper (all lepers out there please don’t take offense); I’m so depressed. Maybe some more stuff from this “Man Kou Su” jar that I’m staring at on my desk will cheer me up…

So crunchy, so spicy, so sexy

Science fiction stories have often successfully led the audience to ask questions regarding their own humanity and character. Perhaps it is because the limits to the narrative are fewer, or because the genre fundamentally exists upon hypothetical scenarios; the most memorable science fiction writers allow us to identify with these characters placed in fantastical circumstances. That is the reason for the simultaneous sense of wonder and anxiety that so many science fiction movies purvey, either blatantly (can anyone say “Independence Day”) or very subtly.

“Primer,” famously shot and edited for $7,000 in the home of its writer/director Shane Carruth, as is out-of-your-face as can be, yet it packs a wallop that few other sci-fi films have been able to do in recent years. For the most part, however, the joy of the film is in the crescendo of suspense as the director pulls back the curtain on what initially appears to be nothing more than a deft portrait of grass-roots enterprise in its noble infancy to reveal a seemingly realistic story of the potential corrosiveness of the most disruptive (and time-honored) science-fiction premise in history. Carruth, who was majored in mathematics and worked as an engineer before deciding to veer into filmmaking, shows a commitment to realism that is a stark contrast to the material. This technique is what will draw you in unexpectedly; the absence of the polished effects and action that is almost standard in the recent canon of sci-fi films brings an unexpected depth and seriousness to the story.

“Primer” begins by showing us four friends working together in a garage, volleying tech jargon back and forth. The garage belongs to Aaron (Carruth), who along with his best friend out of the other three Abe (David Sullivan) has ambitions greater than his current company will allow him to achieve. In the process, Abe and Aaron stumble across an invention so vast and unthinkable that the first half of the movie successfully holds us in suspense as the nature of it is revealed to us in incrementally exciting scenes. This is by far the most fascinating part of the film, and it is also where Carruth is on his surest footing. The scenes have such a real texture to them; the dialogue is littered with scientific terminology, but remains surprising accessible to the non-geek and allows us to slowly realize what the two have at hand.

What follows is how both Abe and Aaron grapple with the rewards and ramifications of their discovery, and where Carruth delves into questions about the murkiness of human nature. The movie can succeed entirely without these developments; the exposition is really that fun to watch. Still, Carruth’s own ambitions in showing the corrupting nature of power add a nice narrative engine to the material, and the last thirty minutes are sure to have you pausing and rewinding multiple times to figure exactly what the hell is going on. The film is constructed and laid out so naturally and beautifully that once you are drawn into the story and identify with the characters, the complex madness of the ending are akin to a dizzying spike in altitude of which no fan of suspense and interesting ideas should deprive themselves.