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[31 May 2004|03:41pm] |
I drink excellent dry red at reason of two bottles a day for a mere 3-4 bucks,
I acquired a very fancy dvd player for 70 bucks and I pay 1.5 buck to own a movie, sometimes before it's out in the theaters, if I'm lucky and three bucks for audio cds, I have more sexual opportunities than I desire. And I feel very sick and I'm really fed up and I wanna bawl like a beat up baby.
But now, I gotta get back to my painting and shoot some polish vodka into my veins.
(And fuck the people one cares about; let only be the nice superficial relationships be my social stapple meal)
On a brighter note: what a slendid day, today. 30C under cover, killing sun, singing birds, barking dogs, growling cats, yapping kids, kissings boys and girls and a new pack of cheap toilet paper.
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[30 Apr 2004|12:32pm] |
After a bunch of slacking activities between Beijing and Hongkong, I decided to postpone the biking trip indefinitely, surfed a number of couches, lived in a old atomic bunker converted into a hostel, shared bed until I came to the point of getting me my own little hutong pad, perched somewhere on a second story, amisdt the crowns of a few trees in the Haidan district, all this for a mere 800 kuai a month. Next priority being now to find a way with the visa shit that won't explode my budget (any suggestion welcomed), before I can envisage my new BJ plan which is to open a cafe/venue in my new district, which happens to be students'main hangout, place of study and residency.
Yesterday, I received fifty kuai worth of kawa (cafe rico) coffee from Mtl and invested cheerffully a hundred kuai in a electric grinder as I ordered whole beans, matter of keeping the coffee as aromatic as long as possible.
My sexual prowesses are somewhat ashaming, my brain getting too much into the way all the time, barely able to get my share of the cake half the time.
Generally, life is quite allright and offers more than enough interesting prospects at short, middle and long term.
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[20 Feb 2004|10:35pm] |
My Chinese journal may now begin as sit my ass in the relative, if cold comfort of a couch located in the living room of my new Beijing Chaoyang pad, which I share with
a girl self westernly named "tammy". Godspeed's westerniest twangy, somewhat sleazy guitars are being played thru the DVD player.
With 36RMB in the wallet, even by Beijing standard, and this is the result of my first bought into airport taxi scams-being charged about five times the normal rate-plus having
mistakingly grabbed the wrong bag, once off the plane, too pressed to get my luggage off the damn dispenser, off the place, forcing me to enlist Tammy to hit back the airport ASAP, on a (fair) taxi, where I had to pay a 100kuai fee to have the bag taxied back to the victim of my impatience and recover my own bag.
*
Having jogged, following day, my way down to the International Post Office, I got to finally feel rich again, a brieve transaction later, therefore allowing myself the luxury of a 2.25L jug of
genuine 100% orange juice which had be denied to me earlier by lack of funds, shaving foam and even some soap, damnit.
*
One bad thing about Beijing is that you get to eat too much, too good, too cheap in this town of millions flavours: this is the place to get fat real quick. Delicious lotus buns stuffed with meat'n veggies in sublime vinegar, big squishy chrysalid/worms dancing a belly dance before being grilled and exploded between one's barbarous teeth, releasing this ton of flavourful sweetness supposed to contain as much as an egg per critter, dog meat, supposed to keep you warm and safe from the Winter's vicissitudes, bunches of steamed glutinous rice stuffed with various melanges and wrapped in lotus leaves, chicken feet, hotpot of lamb and other sweetness, potato noodle and about three or four more millions dishes coming from cultures as diverse as the Nordic Jilian/Rusky folks, Muslim (yet often big drinkers) Uighurs, Tibetan with their unique yak butter tea, Cantonese known to eat absolutely everything that is edible (and some more), Sichuan folks with their taste for the mighty bite of REAL spicy spices, Mongol, Beijinese and everything in between.
*
Panjiayun fleamarket is the place where the white ass is to feel like a kid in a fairy tale: so much unthinkably old and exotic junk with which your candid eyes get submerged, from the
antique Mongol helmet, to the corniest Mao memorabilia, trad arts, bones stuck in silver work Tibetan style, ETC...
I acquired the ugliest root carving of a tiger and a large ancient teacup with its inside stained by generations of tea aficionados, thus giving it much more qualities than the best
brand new cup you could find but which I mostly used to receive my screw drivers. My bargaining experiences seem to indicate that one should never pay more than a third of the asked price.
Folks watching me run around holding the repugnant root carving parted away from me as if I was holding a dead kitten loaded with a particularly virulent variant of the black plague.
My favourite spinach bun maker in the Dongdaqiao alley behind my courtyard got accustomed to my habits quite fast, just like my fave mornin'lotus stuffed bun maker did,
thus definitively disinteresting me from the supermarkets and bigger food joints found on the more "respectable" commercial stripes.
*
With rigorous constance, every morning, I would eat these steamed, meat stuffed buns made on the spot next to my fave table, at this joint, along with construction workers who made me discover the wonders of this
bitter'n sweet vinegar.
*
Around Factory 798-this old Bauhaus style industrial compound converted into a trendy artistic hive, my first found was this Maoist experiment which is essentially about celebrating the Long March with various artistic deeds, but also has the pretention of sincere self-questioning. On a hiatus, the project kept active this f798 space as much as a showroom as a working space for old Wen Wai to keep working on his passion and brand: keeping alive eternal Mao, the Chinese Pharaoh, via the craziest sculptures representing the revered icon in all the forms and outfits coming to Wai's mind, ranging from the Mr.'n Mme Mao, Mao the Pharaoh, Mao the mountain and whatnot. Naturally well versed on Bethune, I had a nice chat with him, thru this Natalie Ohio girl whose raison d'etre seemed to serve as an interpret and introducer to the project in question.
*
With SARS probably still rampant, despite what the govt BS states, I believe my jogging habit is quite an excellent thing, as it tends to stimulate the imunitary defences.
*
Three kids downstairs play'round. They try not to act out Kung fu HK flick scenes or play cowboys'n indians, they just try to form a group choregraphy.
*
Beijing folks may appear to be rude, but rarely with attitude and they can be the most helpful and friendly folks, when you learn that "rude" doesn't mandatorily mean "hostile".
Beijingers are punks and that's partially why this China is poised to become the next superpower.
*
Special Fiery Fairy Baby Bee Wine
2 portions of red dry Xinjiang wine for 1 portion of 67% Laobaigan and some Honey. Add water to drown the baby bee a little, should you be afraid of the sting.
*
So far, found nothing in Beijing as strong my ol'Mtl 94% alcohol des futailles.
*
Was greeted by the prettied Uighur chick as I dropped by this Xinjiang food joint at the bus depot next to my pad where I had a feast of kebabs for a mere thirteen kuai (twelve kebabs + a typical pizza style bread).
Coming equipped with a fiery little boyfriend who already got a kid out of her, she alas isn't ripe for even an attempt at seduction, unless I feel like staining my hands with
blood (bet it that of the little guy or even my own), naturally.
*
Hitting once more that Panjiayun market to find some earrings to replace those I lost, matter of keeping the holes in my ear from closing up, I only find good food and a smooth
little green stone bowl imprisoned in silver work and which ended up leaking this green junk whenever you pour liquid in it, thus making it definitively improper for food consumption.
*
Out to the centre of town, close to the eastern gate of the forbidden city, across the China art gallery, I acquired painting material, among which this 70kuai tripodal stand to
facilitate my painting activities over the city.
*
This morning, I found this strange orange moss growing courageously on the cap of my screw driver thermos bottle. Does it comes from the dangerously lively Beijing water or is it just the result of my terribly negligent attitude in the sanitary domain? Maybe a bit of both. In any case, cheerfully orange moss was a first for me and I was almost delighted at the sight of it, once the initial reaction of disgust was gone (somewhat like when you meet a sturdy cockroach in the piss room of a nice, if dirty bar and manage to resist the urge to flush it thru the drain with a jet of piss and begin to truly marvel at its various features.
*
Waiting for Manhong and her German roommate at some crappy Starbuck (as if they weren't all crappy McDonald's style coffee joints), I got to leisurely observe the fauna with, catching my interest the most, this phenomenon of the lousy, ugly white ass who's got a OK job and acquired the "love" of a local, literate but needy girl. This girl, if I believe my sense of observation, is the middle point between the trashy Chinese bitch who's after money and, hopefully, a ticket for the West and hangs on anything that's got a good wallet and a Western Passport and the intellectual Chinese girl who's just interested into Western culture, tends to be usually seen reading some good Western literature and sometimes even seems more financially independent than her Western dude.
After introducing Manhong and Mareen to Factory 798, I let myself be invited to eat at some restaurant next to their pad. In the morning, I woke up very early and got to watch HebephrenicCTV3 where I saw reports on corny pop opera diva, death tolls, massacres, in monochromatic display, followed by a fully coloured schizo-paranoid presentation on the scary cockroach by some old sixty-five to seventy years old white haired and bearded white fucker mouth farting absurd abominations on this slick amateur of human filth this insect can be. Remember, damn fat dumb dirty bipedal ambulatory trash loads: if you have to deal with cockroaches, it's only due to your filthy selves, as it's all they thrive on.
*
Shostakovich and other Russian muzakers accompanied me back to the point and 'net cafe where I was poised to catch at the last minute this e-mail from a certain Natalie about whom I had forgot everything and who was inviting me to join her at some art expo around so called courtyard art gallery. I ran back at my pad and called her, catching her as she hadn't yet left her apt way in the west, so we decided to meet several minutes later at the base of the big ass column monument at the Tiananman square to which I cycled my ass and where I let some girl be photographed while I diligently wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Seems that Beijingers and other out-of-town Chinese tend to be terribly touristically mooded when they hit Tiananman square and that being photographed in front of this column monument next to a "foreigner" is the big trend. When Natalie came, a tad late, she turned out to be Ohio chick who was doing a stage at the
Long March project set at the 798 factory art district.
After parking my bike while a red book peddler tried hard to sell us a plastic cover copy for a bunch of Kuai, I followed Natalie girl to this so called "Gaudy art" expo, a display of rather kitsch pop art by the Luo brothers at this courtyard gallery of which the curator was this Cleveland boy who had this smooth Mile End accent inherited from having had this Montreal ex girlfriend. All in agreement with Nat's need to get out ASAP from the atmosphere of hollow pretention found in this crowd, we shuffled quickly thru the works, avoiding social interactions to head out towards this sort of Hutong/Market southwest of the Tiananman sq, grabbing my bike on the way, where she bargained some earrings for me and introduced me to a friend of her who was into the business of dealing VCDs and DVDs at this decently spicy-by Beijing standard-Sichuan food joint, before we wandered a bit until I decided it was cold'nuff it was time for me to retrieve the comfort of home, parting with'em at Tiananman sq.
*
Chinese folks, including Mongols and Uighurs, cant's drink very much, thus making me a local phenomenon which might be something to exploit.
*
Chinese space jet fighter leaves a stream of white, blue and purple smoke against the December night lit up rice paper sky of Beijing.
*
This morning I met with kind young king at some linguistic school. It started out as follow: After usual morning exercise and mild drunkening routine, I bypassed breakfast to check my e-mails at the internet cafe, then shat profusely as soon as I got home. A loud and rather smelly activity which left me quite relieved, when Eddie knocked desperately at the door- apparently, the phone hadn't been properly hung up and so he hadn't been able to call me to let me know when he had arrived in my back alley-begging me to rush up as he had been forced to leave his friend behind, in the car and she was also counting on getting a job at this school. I was still in fact pushing hard on my intestine and felt a bit underservedly pissed at Tammy for having answered the door so quickly, letting some loud grunts and bursts of foul smell escape the bathroom when he came in the apt. Nonelessly, timing was still decent'nuff that I quickly was out of the crap room to greet him, still warmly accompanied by odorous, toxic fumes and, palabres later, head out with him to meet this fresh Berkeley graduate of Taiwanese girl whom he had met thru the net. This school seemed to be willing to accept second rate teachers, but I guess not third rates ones, because it didn't go thru past the New Year's last e-mail I received from my contact inside. As I was dragged back to my pad, I promised to accompany them to the great wall at Badaling, maybe the following week end, pressed I was to just go back fetch some drink and work on my last painting.
*
Flickering stellar movement in the corner of the eyes: the girl was drugged by the signup signal sign sight, concupiscent and contemplative. You see, one dying Chaoyang night I couldn't bear any longer the frustration brought up by the dilemma of having to turn on the light to be able to paint accurately or turn it off to be able to stare at the nightly wonders; the paradox of having to kill away the source of my inspiration to be able to paint it. So I decided to use lights instead of paint or, should this fail, paint as a blind, once for all. Like the three or four more genuine paintings I managed to do this way, back in Montreal.
*
A scene of the Chinese workers: A worker in Blue overall and his colleague wearing a green overall, both wearing the same orange helmets, are working at breaking down an old block of concrete which used to be part of a now destroyed building's foundation.
Green is holding a steel rod, pointy bit resting on the concrete surface, while Blue goes at the rod with all his soul, using a heavy sledgehammer. Behind them is a huge monster of hydrolic power sitting there idle and its main purpose is to break apart old blocks of concrete.
Meanwhile, another worker- this one wearing a beat up grayish/brownish sport suit without a tie and the same orange helmet as everyone else on the construction site- came by and, after a moment of mysterious pondering, as he seemed to understand the nature of the scene, quickly hopped at the machine's commands to man it into obliterating in a few finger flicks and wrist twists the block of concrete and making ground meat of his two former colleague in the process, so appalled, I can only presume, by their conduct putting such shame on their profession.
*
Tonight's a gust of cold dusty wind rappin'an old Hutong, finding its way into all but very few of its antique orifices.
*
What ah hear thru my very own virginal clean ears: Bbbuurrpshh ouais, chuis un vrai jeune homme, yeah, yeah! J'mange jamais d'eperlan, yeah, yeah! Ch'fais du mal mais jamais du porc, yeah, yeah! Quand chuis sorti avec mes amis et que j'porte des vetements noueres et que j'espere que tous les soueres y vont tous l'temps me vouere. C'est debile, c'est de la gelatine, la du monde sans espouere! Ouais, baby, chuis un bebop Canayen! Yeah, yeah, yeah! J'ai les cheveux comme un bonometre, yeah, yeah! J'travaille chez Monsieur Dismat, yeah, yeah! Yeah, yeah, c'est, yeah, yeah, yeah, ouais, yeah, yeah oh yeah, yeah, oh ah yeah, eeeh oh yeah, of yeah, oh yeah, chuis un vrai jeune homme, uh.. yeah, yeah! J'fais J'mange jamais d'ver blanc, yeah, yeah! J'fais du mal, mais jamais du porc, yeah, yeah!
*
Drinking too much inhibits your sense of enterprise as much as it stimulates it. While it helps you to lower certain social barriers, allowing you to behave with more freedom around your little society, it also tends to abrutish, bludgeon you into a state between bliss and irritation which has for results that you are no more productive than a catatonic patient. Sometimes a situation leaving you feeling genuine hatred for your fellow living beings (Quebecer, Squareheads, Frogs, dogs, cats, etc) and even things, such as doors, bicycles, telephones, toilet paper supports, to name a few. A hatred rarely if ever barely justifiable, even less in these particular conditions when it's obvious even to yourself that you are simply trying to divert the guilt for your ineptitude onto someone or something else, as, of course, you're the only one to blame, damn drunkards, junkies and other raclures de bidet.
*
In Beijing, it's very easy to set up a team of imbecilic brutes to destroy a whole Hutong in a matter of days, but it can take several month to fix a computer in a post office.
*
Saddam, the dirty, beardy, ratty resistant pulled out of his hole by the Empire du Mal, probably to be shown around as a war trophy before being given a semblance of convincing Democratic, Humane treatment (if the Puppet Emperor's advisors consider it advisable) or, more likely, simply unheard of, buried under other lure-news, the way they did with the freedom fighters of Afghanistan.
*
Out of the immense, dark, decaying gut of the Bauhaus style factory complexes, huge black Zeppelin balloons slowly made their way into the lit up sky of a gray, rainy Beijing night in a concerto of deep humming drones, each traveling to its intended destination before crashing down very slowly with its Chinese kamikaze crew still on board, the target being some Hutong, disturbing district or some building branded "architectural patrimony" which blocked the way to the wind of Change, the erection of these immense bright dark towers of Progress. The immense bellies full of flammable gases offering a tremendous spectacle as they exploded into bright, warm flowers of fire, but what they left behind reeked of a mixture of charred flesh, putrefactive gases, burned wood and crushed mortar, among other fragrances forming this rather rough perfume so hard to swallow, accompanying this firepot of rotten meat and bones boiled into body grease, blood, urine and other fluids (some of quite obscure origins).
*
They find this butchering man eating predatory creature which fools its preys into getting close'nuff, within reach, by various tricks of mimetism, mimic and patience, before, in a great leap, snatching them out of life, tapping into their brains with a long, sharp piercing appendage unfolding from the bottom of its head, hard'nuff to break thru the thickest of skulls and which it uses shamelessly to drain'em out of their gray matter before regurgitating it back in its original receptacle under the form of a brown/orange bland puree completely devoid of any nutritive value. And these people can still live and perform basic bodily tasks and labor, modern automatons.
They find the creature encocooned comfortably into a thick smelly crust of decades old newspapers glued together by all sort of dry or putrid organic matters, set up in the narrow, dark crevice formed by the brick walls of two adjacent buildings joined by a common roof of cooked clay tiles, hutong style.
And they decide to make it into a clown for kindergarten children. They realised that its unique mimetic ability would make it perfect for the job, so they intend to make it into a great clown by osmosis: placing it in a milieu full of the greatest clowns in the world. So you have clowns from Russia, Italia, Bohemia, etc. A great milieu where it can learn AND feed at the same time. To avoid decerebration of the kids isn't the goal. In fact, such occurrence is more like one of the primary intents. Happy and dumb, that's how we like our People. Makes for lotsa dough & punch. Alain.
*
In the Land of Saving the Face, hypocrisy runs rampant, yet honesty keeps the People from being subtle or credible. It's a bit like saying:
-"No, I didn't see you eat donkey balls thinking it was chicken nuggets!"
Chinese folks seem to be artificially blind to most faux-pas, but they let it be shown with such honesty that it leaves not doubt they're not trying to fool you, simply doing their best to abide to social convention intended to be polite. No matter what, this impression is somewhat difficult to digest.
*
In the Land of the Tiny People, basketball and scam products promising you to become tall are exceptionally popular.
*
Tiny little Beijing adolescent Joe wakes up every morning at five and goes down his flat, in the yard, to train. He practices basketball movements and then start to run a bit around the block. In the evening, he lobs the ball for a while into the basket he installed in his living room. He's quite dedicated to become as good as can be a basket player. What tiny Joe doesn't seem to realise is that the sport is a cruel bitch who has no pity when rejecting those she sees unfit, such as little shorty guys like him, kickin'em expertly in the nads when they've done their declaration of love, admission of naive ambitions and projects, shoving their face in the mud when they're down, still clutching at their sore balls. I tell you, someone would do better to hurt him gently and NOW, effectively, before the love of his life destroys him in a subway second.
*
The glass cup falls on a floor so Christmasly hard and slick that the glass shards travel very far, very fast all across the room, some bits even managing to slide their way into the next room. I hate Christmas, you see, but I however wish someone took me to a Midnight mass at, let say, Beijing's Catholic cathedral. I miss ye, Mtl.
*
Cats still exist in Chaoyang district, the locals assuring me that if dog meat is highly prized for its subtle taste and great properties against cold and other Winter vicissitudes, there's not much if any of a cat meat market. I saw my first two Chinese cats hangin'on the lower roofs of my courtyard.
One of'em I stopped with a "Hey!" (in cat talk, of course) from the height of my pad. I swapped a few words with him and that Chinese cat sure was surprised a human being could or would even bother to try to speak Cat.
Further proofs of a small but tight cat scene in Chaoyang: the concert I caught in the morning, just half a hour before sunrise, coming up from a tiny, messed up courtyard, very noisy, full of brutal singing alternating with smoother interludes, a tad like some kind of Beijing opera.
*
Today I returned modestly to boxing training, despite the lack of a boxing club or even a decent gym. Maybe I should seek for and try the local flavour of the Noble Art.
*
This night, I was assigned to re-establish contact with motherland thru a similarly expedited Mtler who was into making short flicks, the assignment coming from Holly, quite revived as she had recently got an abortion performed on her sore belly.
In a room loaded with a stash or two of special tobacco, much booze poured down throats, dicks got throbbin' and cunts drippin'n smoking.
*
I had a hard time fixing this lovely image of a lovely little baby boy who just couldn't be touched or even approached without starting to cry, not even capped on photo, unless what you wanted was to stare at the ugliest photo of a congested red faced, screaming baby. So, once he got sleeping, his cute little mouth opened up a bit and so I quickly injected it with a special substance of which I have the secret, almost instantly freezing the scene forever into a superb little statue of crystalised skin, hair, bones, tendons, internal organs (cardio-vascular system, nervous network, stomach, intestine, liver, etc.), entirely devoid of life, even the feces, urine and other bodily liquids fossilised, opened glass eyes however seeming loaded with thunderstorms. The room was quickly the theatre of intense emotions as the blessed parents cried and pulled their hair out, doubtlessly out of extreme blissfulness and gratefulness. It looked like the best root carving in the world, damnit.
*
As the Chinese girls were already fiercely rubbing their collective cunt on the (half white, half yellow) present dudes'collective nose already dripping with social lubricant, Mr. Paranoia (A name I decided to give to this otherwise smooth financial reporter from Ontario also known as Phelim) and I ran to a small back alley convenience store which had been kindly kept open a bit late for us, sans doute an object of suspicion for the kind little red soldiers tucked up in their oversized, olive, heavy overcoats. Dancing like damn birds around the damn fuck fountain, rubbers on, on music that's just barely proper, then pretending it's the Foufs in '94, trashing the place for the Monday cleaning lady who'd have to come over to rescue the people buried alive under the remains of the party massacre, such as the crushed bodies and bones of the unlucky ones who had been tramped on by fuck charge or asphyxied as they tried to swallow and sniff at the same time this overwhelming mixture or just got trapped too tight in a pair of thighs.
Masturbating brains while letting warm convulsive, concupiscent chick hands feel my body around, supposedly looking'round for my Pen, but only finding my Knife. No pen, but this rusty, nasty knife that hurts and infects. Bongo girl's the only one not trying to intoxicate me with her cunt fumes the first night and I'm glad of it as she may help me find a guit and be more than a cunt to lick and fuck.
When fellow Mtl slacker P. declared to her, out of the blue, that I was guitarist, I start to fear we're not just a bunch of neo-Victorian-baroque-post-modern hybrids. birds.
Quite early, the short lived birds left and let five of us standing, all gathered in the bedroom.
Weed girl, communist boy, Mr.Paranoia, Mr.Flicky, and yours truly, Mr.Tigerbird-digger-littlelovetiger-andwhatnot. Alas, with the special Yunnan spice laid on the bed, the Communist boy asking the wrong questions too many a time and urging Weed girl once too much to leave and be respectable, Mr.Paranoia stormed out of the room, dragging me in the same move, so that we could conspire smoothly in the living room about Cboy who really had managed to put him into high alert mode.
The plan, we decided, would be to pretend we were all leaving in a taxi but really take a refreshing walk around the block, while Mr.Flicky would gently get rid of Cboy for us and then quietly hit back the apt for a safer weed session.
A few moves later, Cboy out of the picture, we taxied our asses back to Mr.Flicky's pad. Last second, however, before rushing out, Mr.Paranoia finally decided to stay in the taxi cab and go home straight, pretending a serious need to sleep matter of being fresh'n ready for work the following day, effectively (intentionally or not) getting away with the spice in question I had quickly bagged on my way out of the bedroom (to protect Mr.Flicky's ass, in case of police raid) and handed to him after he had insisted on me not stashing it behind some construction junk (and idea I had as we rushed down the staircase, his paranoia having infected me quite easily as I tend to live in a mild but abruptly changing kadelioscope of paranoia and complete trust in the inherent goodness of people).
All this led me to switch the object of my paranoia from Cboy onto Weed girl, then eventually to Mr.Paranoia himself. But things calmed down in the sharp smoke (Newspaper joints aren't the best for smooth smoke, but that's all what I had on hand), quieter music and Beijing bedopera phased with dreams of fucking business card flicking in-the-face, face fucking business, cunt licking, dick handling, heading and so many damn cranes. We're in a Hutong. After a glance at the jungle of gigantic cranes erecting new, fucking tall junk all over the raped remains of hutongs, over Chaoyang district, I look down at the "hutong", managing to catch in my sight a little bit of clay roof, half demolished, already marked to become an asphalted parking lot.
*
Extracting myself out of the Pat's pad to jog my way out of this hangover in the dusty morning and into the internet cafe next to my own hideout, I promise Mr. Flicky I can come back to help later, if he'd like so, to clean up the ugly mess of a maelstrom we made with his place. But later, cos'he's still working on Weed chick. Done with my business at the 'net cafe, I puke a bit at the KFC's lavatory amenity before hitting my place to find Miss Beizin' in the middle of a cloth washing session. I always choose McDonald's or KFC outlets to puke, because if they ever complain, I can always say with authority and a sentiment of legitimacy that what I'm puking here just came out of their hideous kitchen and that a full suit's waiting to hit the court of justice, sir, m'am.
*
Time: Timeless existence. There's no minuted time anymore. The occasional impression of urgence or the impression of no time, total availability of existence replace the minutage. Need/desire/fancy time, you may try to call it or sumthin'else: need to take a leak: take a leak. Want to have drive for screw? Rush for it! But, otherwise: no need to Do, Make, Say, Think anything: no need to even exist when you feel no need.
*
Always been subject to nocturnal hallucinations when I was kid. Once, I dreamed (awake, that is) that there was a dwarf woman standing next to an open chest (coffin?) I had in my bedroom to store my toys.
Now, I hallucinate about chicks shoving business cards in my face, alternated with others sticking their dripping cunts in lieu of business cards. I can barely breath, at times, and on this I wake up briefly to realise I was sleeping.. well, not sleeping: slumbering. This state between genuine sleep and wake.. and, anyway, I just realise I'm in the middle of a fuckfest.
*
Kicked out of my pad with a Jealous Boyfriend pretext, I have now to find a new place to live. The Aussie chick is a decent but stuck up and expensive alternative.
*
Often, my diseased brain makes me say weird, mean, hard, nasty junk. But beautiful small things such as a great flute/clarinet player pushin'his lungs out in some decaying depot, or a smooth little girl dancing with all the guts she can find in a parking lot 'round my humble little pad in Chaoyang'round Dongdaqiao make me feel like I'm being moved from Naked lunch onto Some of the Dharma!
Two three self whacks on the head, then I find myself running downstairs, out on the parking lot, to sit real rough on a some fucking Audi junk on wheels which was obstructing my sight of the dancing kid, pissing off the ass who owns the car only the time he's gathered'nuff mind to realise what a cool show I'm lookin'at and take the time to appreciate it fully, far from the corny, tacky TV spotlights.
*
*
At the 18th floor at Hou Dan's pad, very local, very old, with the sound of the antique elevator mumbling continuously thru the walls,
from early in the mornin' to maybe nine in the evening, I allow myself to enjoy my roommate's sweet folly, after having had to carry
a few hundred pounds of material on my bike from my old hideout to my new place, starring alternatively at the monitor of my old laptop, the
cool sight one gets from the 18th floor and, of course, enjoying a good ol'screwdriver, local style accompanied with a zest of rusky muzak
(Shostakovich being predominant), I'm mentally preparing myself to take a break from partying every nights (I said that yesterday, but
then I jogged my way to a xinjiang party at the jam house with pat, Phelim, where I only half managed to score but however playing pool
better than ever (not even ripping the mat)) and getting back to a somewhat healthier type of existence, such as dragging my ass to
parks and some cool strip, on my bike, with Houdan sitting on the rear luggage rack. In any case, tomorrow night should be b.bourguignon
night as I got a load of beef cubes macerating gently in Xinjiang drwine, which will make for more than a whole day, when I'm ready to
roll it down flour and make it sing in da wok.
In the early morning, replacing my cat opera, I'm usually awakened by trashy women screaming in the most vulgar way to their kids who
didn't satisfy momma's ambitions of the moment, making me want to kill, while the kids retort by sobbing. But it's okay: while I was told
"people don't like westerner to stay here", I can say that said people's helpful and friendly attentions I get tend to disprove this
impression.
*
Enjoying Houdan's cookin' (quite underrated by her friends) I allow myself to be invited to spend the next month among her family, during
spring festival. The following day, I decide she's ripe for a genuine bourguignon (with the 24hours maceration and all), yet, she actually
has the audace of not being there in time! What can I say?
The "landlady" who keeps coming to ask if my roommate's here and my hunger and anger risin' I cook up the junk and too bad for her if her
dinner's to be cold. I feel like a fuckin' frustrated housewife.
*
In the morning, the phone's ringing and at the end of it is Houdan, terrified by the landlady who wants me out and plots, anyway, to
get away with the damn deposit worth two thousands kuai. I let the troll come with her lapdogs (A small barky pekinese toy dog who
keeps blowin'himself off when he's not humping mamma's leg) and a small timid husband who obeys every of her orders'n whining. A bit later,
seeing I ain't gone yet, the troll lady comes back in the kitchen and it's time for me to realise that I gotta play the "man in da house"
'cos this smooth Houdan who tried to appease the monster by bringin'her some nice roasted duck instead of yelling for her rights sure was
getting overwhelmed for good and I was on the way out.
*
Getting this nasty troll of a landlady out of the way proven to be quite an easy job and an unexpected way to seduce dangerously the very nice
but too hubby seekin' Houdan, whom I will have to treat as platonically as friendlily possible.
The following day, however, the "landlady"'s lapdog (husband?) came with'nuff convincing bs to have Houdan relocate me to this basement
hotel, where for 50kuai I get a private room in a hospital-like environment.
*
The friend/colleague comes to give me a local booze treat and leaves assuring Houdan he's well known to be a tough drinker but that I'm
quite better'n that. We part huggin'each other like dudes: like damn ol'bros, altho we don't really give a fuck, beyond the funny corny piece
of social humour.
*
Sex, unlike vengeance and Chinese food, isn't a dish you can enjoy cold. Unless you have very particular tastes, but let's not drift too
far away from the intended meaning.
*
Bowlin', latin dancing and picture swappin', this taiwan girl pleases me, in some way, with her decent span attention, sleazy sort of
mindfulness and good weed habits.
*
During that trip thru several nameless northern metropoles, I eventually started dreaming'round, in the middle of a slumbering session...
Waking up late, I realised I wasn't in the same train anymore- a darker interior composed of long rows of disclosed superposed beds from
which bunches of rags hung pele-mele-and that it was stopped. Politely, we were all herded out thru the end of the wagons, out in the warm
morning of a coldly industrial little hot southern Asian town. An army of women wearing the sareau were busy preparing what seemed to be shredded fish
jerky (squid?) which they laid down on the concrete surface of a loading dock platform, while a number of passengers were invited to visit
the installation, the remainder being ordered kindly and firmly to enjoy a free decontaminating shower.
The general (colonel?) came in a white limo, wearing his oversized Russian officer-style hat over the piece of white gaze with which he partially
veiled his rotting skin- once yellow and typically Asian, but now white cum, falling utterly apart, slimy membranous shreds-and approached, with
all the attitudes of daddy kindness, one of the little girls who sung, all tucked up in their little cute Chinese costumes, obscenely little ditties
made to appease sex pervs, mad murdering flesh aspirators and whatnot. The girl was afraid, but smiling and very polite, so accommodating as
to stand still as the General's rotten hand patted her forehead, feeling the young fresh skin and leaving in the process shreds of slimy
epidermic tissue, running down her face at various paces and following different paths, underlining its geography glossily.
-"Your skin is so soft, so perfect, eh? Ha, haw!"
-"Oh but it was very dirty and ugly, this morning, before I cleansed it and put on make up", assured the accommodating, trembling little girl.
You see the last visitors were now invited to take a shower, like the preceding group. The preceding group came out, later, from the basement's
industrious heart loaded in carts, removed of all their skin which was now being processed into this shredded jerky I had previously seen
achieving to dry up on the loading dock. The folks, boiled down to the bones, their limbs and ribs mixed together in the carts in such
apetizing ways that the dogs rushed madly for their meal. I somehow supposed that this skin product was somehow used to try to treat the
General's skin condition, or at least limit the progress of the disease. The man looked like a bloated Michael Jackson who'd have spent too
much time rotting underwater, at the expense of whom myrhiads of fishes would have lunched a bit too often. But the eyes; the eyes, small
but sharp luminous, coldly piercing thru the brain back'n forth.
Guys in gray and green broom brown uniform inspected the most intimate regions of the train with chromed iron tin flashlights but seldom found
any terrified bit of meat hanging tight after some oily, metallic protuberance, niched under the train's essieu or in a less mentionable
hideout.
Nonelessly I woke up after a brief sexual interlude which almost had me cum in my pants and I really feared we had missed Changchun,
till I was reassured by Houdan telling me it was to be the terminus, allowing myself to relax a bit, listening to the obscene, uncanny
recording of a little girl's voice singing after every stop the train made.
*
One day after arriving in Changchun, I got to go fetch my big ass hockey bag loaded with all sort of important goodies... Among broken things: My pretty old tea cup and a bottle of black water colour which stained lots of crap, meaning a real hell of a cleaning session, very dirty business, as Houdan is rigorously turned inside out by the mess I'm deploying around her rents'place and, out of irritation, I give up trying to explain her it's just water colour which wears off with just a little bit of water and carry on with my business till the last trace of the mess is vaporised, just like a good gentlemen specialised into cleaning up murder scenes. Feels like a fucking Tarantino flick as the chick is about to hit an heart attack and that I treat it with vaguely annoyed phlegm and professionalism.
*
Changchun, northern metropolis, not quite used to white faces, treats you with a melange of curiosity, fear and desire. Entering a bar, for
a white ass Mtler is a sure way to be an important part of tonight's attractions.
Running in this cold town represent a hazard, if you are the active sort of runner, yet it brings a sense of thrill not found in more
policed towns where automobilists are severely controlled and pedestrians scared of being accused of lacking good manners.
Loads of Xinjiang Uighurs guarantee a great supply of meats and all sort of tofu and veggies flavours passed thru the kebabizer aswell as
a generous output of human warmth, sometimes stimulated by wine'n baiju.
Found no drugs but underpowered fuel (less than 60 degrees) and ciggies (which I don't smoke cos I dig my athletic lungs and don't want to
go back to that hideous period when they were nothing but piles of rotting fungus). No matter what, this experience is only beginning, right?
*
After cookin'up a bourguignon for the family, I jump out of the window to jog my way to that corny bar, when I bump into ol'bro
and my fave barmaid who both help me with decent booze to become a real Disco Stud, for the greatest pleasure of the local crowd,
so thirsty for that kind of kitsch macho attitude, which, as during the precedent night, induces guys and chicks to come outta shyness
to measure their stamina and corniness to mine! When everyone is dead, I walk over the bodies and go back spend some time doing the tongue
swappin'thing with a few guys and girls, before coming back to the dancefloor, cos I noticed some bodies still moving a bit...
Then, I'm dragged to a terribly spicy seafood Sichuan resto as ol'bro's other friends arrive to pick us up. Since Beijingers are real
wussies'bout spicy stuff, Sichuan folks and other amateurs of red hot peppers roomin'in the capital are often used to even eat the damn little
pepper they use, as the cookin'really underpowered! But in Changchun, Sichuan food isn't for wimps: it's the real thang, lemme tell ya!
Even the damn pepper are damn mini nukes! (I'll probably think twice'bout it, before swallowing one of'em again).
Mornin', gut ache and hangover killed by suckin'up some bone marrow and oatmeal.
*
Today, we went out, dad'n mom with me, to find the ingredients I need for my special steamer salmon in white dry wine. Mom bought me wool
gloves to stick in my leather gloves, but all we find in matter of food is unsuitable, so we only come back with the veggies...
I'm angry at the situation and I therefore run outta the window without any explanation (I could kill innocent people, so pissed I am,
so it's better I just run away) and eventually find out the damn fish and wine... Small weird market on XinJiang rd. 3kg of fresh salmon
for less than 200kuai. It's a big expense, for my budget, but, in Mtl, this price is a joke. I also find the dry white wine which is almost
mandatory for the proper taste. When I come back, happy, the father is delighted by the smell and everybody's thrilled, except the mom, who
thinks the price tag is way too high and needs to be revised (sending ol'bro to reclaim a few kuai!). No matter what, I grate the monster's
scales off in the bathtub, then cut it in nice steaks on my new fave cuttin'board (a slice of a big old tree) with the chopchop I master
impressively, if I believe their compliments. Half an hour later, I made'nuff of my special preparation for seven to eight folks. Tomorrow,
we'll see how well I did, as the fish and veggies will have macerated smoothly in the white wine overnight.
But the true bottom line's that Xinjiang folks saved my day once more, making'em the champions of my Chinese experience.
Life could only be smoother if I managed to find a boxin'club in Changchun, to bust my soon-to-be lard ass. I mean, hell... I was 65kg,
I'm now'round 72.
*
Moribund fish, lovely doomed gal floating on right flank, in cold water, destined to be cut up alive to cheer up some palates and tongues.
*
One day, I'll retrieve my lost love and, this time, I'll hang on tight: no whining, no diva queen shit, but just coal smoke comin'outta
chimney of a cozy cocoon pad in a old beat up Merkin'hutong, behind an hospital crematory facility that feeds on coal and cold corpses.
*
Chinese new year, spoiled little immature tight assed vieille fille, irritable drunk Kanook, lotsa bangers that'd be illegal in most western
countries: might prove very explosive if laobaigan is available in conjunction with reasonably slacked asses.
That would suck, however, for the simple good souled parents, if this important night sucked too bad.
This night which led me to wonder, after we ate and just sat dumbly in front of television, watching some corny show ala "byebye ", what people used to do, in
China, before TV, being answered:
-"Errrrrrr We listened to radio.. ma?"
-"Before radio?" (Answer following after MUCH thinking):
-"We talked and played music.."
-"Why don't we talk or play music?"
-
*
So, nothin'speshul, but I woke up in the middle of the night to ponder in the dark and masturbate about Guandong, Texas, Xinjiang, Jilian,
Beijing, Montreal and Taiwan girls, among others. The pondering was about biking and blubber bustin' + memories of sights I had from the
train's windows. After having almost entirely given up on a bike trip, I've now taken the firm decision of going back to Beijing till the end
of my first half of the visa, then hit HK by train to reenter Guandong, thus activating the second portion of my visa.
Then back to Beijing, and then leaving alone or not on my bike to Shanghai and, then, maybe will I go west... Will I stay a couple months
in Shanghai to do some boxing or will I continue my trip towards Nepal? We'll see... But, no matter how, it appears I'm quite likely to go
to Praha before I come back to my love (and maybe some half serious studies at Concordia). This morning, I will eat a bowl of oatmeal, some
of my special salmon stuff (which delighted all present palates, last night) and run towards cultural sq., Renmin sq., then all the way up
to the train station.I give me about two hours of prep, to allow the booze level in my blood to drop to a reasonable level, as I took a
medium screw driver, when I got out of bed, feeling quite trembling and weak from a much too sudden drop in proper blood mix, due to last
evening's abuses and fast imposed by sleep.
*
At six thirty in the morn, H's mom turns on the neon in my room which door I had left unlocked for similar purposes. I had said "bang on the
door", but the light just works as well. I make us some oatmeal, then we rush out in the blisteringly cold blue morning of Changchun to this
small public installation involving a patch of land covered with a snowy, icy runnin'track, restrooms and some gymnastic stations, such as
parallel or chin up bars. I'm quickly forced to run back home to get a couple more layers for my wussy Mtler head and even there, I'm forced
to resign at my second try after only fifteen minutes of running and a few painful chin ups and leg stretches later, while my partner's still
up'n running after a session of Tai chi, stunning stretching routines that'd make all the boxers I know envious and a bit of running.
We however both agree that I may not be perfectly equipped, in matter of pants or even gloves, for that matter... Mittens are probably more
appropriate and my pair of light South American cotton pants probably are best suited for a summer day in Guandong or Katmandu.
*
The porcelain throne had its own room, the bathroom being limited to a bath, a sink and a washing machine. This crap room was very thigt and smelly, so tight my knees
were always tightly pressed against the door, banging it each time I sat down. I will never miss such a shittin'installation.
*
Am I a cynical bastard or am I just normally perspicacious? I don't know, but here's my impression, right now: the immature spoiled child
hasn't got her western boyfriend but only a friend and she wants to kick me outta her parents'place. If I let her get her way, I'm out in
eight days. If I decide to stay, I might feel like a burden, altho I don't think any of this bullshit has anything to do with her parents or
brother. So maybe I root myself in for two more weeks and ignore the chick, unless the mom tells me otherwise (but she's so willing to drag
me'round town and make me go out with her for her training sessions, in the damn cold, and hoping I will go do some Tai Chi with her and her
teacher... Hm?).
*
I really wanna tuck myself up into some hutong... Curl up on a warm bed next to the coal burnin'fireplace, in my tiny old beat up room
tightly integrated in this hyper organic architectural-human hive. Even better if it's behind the big white building (bathroom porcelain style with
a large red brick chimney and a bunch of smaller black tin ones with these funny little pointy cones straight out of 19th century western
novels about the roofs of London or some such industrious, coal burnin'town) between our pad and my lovely little beat up hutong which, I
learned, is the crematory portion of the neighbouring hospital: that's where the people who didn't get to walk out by the door end up. Most
people hate the idea of going all the way to this area to drop their garbage where the intended emplacement is located, so they just leave it next
to their door, in the alley, and a service just drags it down the spot. For my part, I like takin' a peek at my dying (but not without a fight
) hutong, so I drag the trash all the way down, next to the crematory's entrance.
*
This mornin'mom wasn't to the rendez-vous for the cold exercise routine... Still, I got my act together and did a great 1 hour intense
training session, to a point I had to drop layers, in this -27c blue-then-sunny morn, down to wearing only my wife beater and this thin shirt
part of my winter undies recently acquired to survive the rigour of winter. I like to think I'm back to my good ol'healthy habits, but I
consider it too early to call it an habit.
Later on, I let H rush for my ticket, assuring her that I have to hit western union, first... The real matter, tho, is that I want lunch,
first.. and read a bit. She in fact came back before I even left with a 188kuai ticket.
- "Smooth", I said "that's cheap and if I manage to pack my stuff real tight, then I can even save the extra luggage fee...".
I started lookin'round for junk to drop behind me and managed to scrap off a few pounds in the form of a metal thermos container, some nice and useless cup and a few
bad classical music cds. She was very thrilled by the "gifts", so she gave me a cell phone sheath.. Now, all I need is the 1k Kuai phone + the 300kuai service.
No matter what, I ran to WU after a nice lunch and found out the place was closed, so I ran back, got some orange juice and more booze and proceeded back to home, where I was
informed that we were gonna ski tomorrow as mom shown me my tickets for a nice day of skiing, skis and danger included. Having not tried alpine skiing since I was
twelve years old, my usual phlegmatism was stained gently with a little bit of apprehension : good thing.
Got my first accident with a reckless taxi cab: the fucker didn't expect me to be that reckless as I usually am, so he kept drivin'on and hit me straight with the right portion of the bumper...
I was instinctively ready for such eventually, so I bounced smoothly, reducing the impact to the equivalent of a poor kick on the side of my tight and even managed to stay up, make
a 180degrees (helped by the kinetic strength of the impact) and leave my sig in the car's hood with my right fist as it sped away. That sort of use-the-adversary's energy-to-your-advantage
instinct is what remains from my few years of Judo during my childhood. I love what I believe to be the essence of Judo: the energy exploited which leads you to victory must
almost come from your adversary.. The more energy you involve in your moves, the more you risk to be defeated as your adversary takes it to his advantage.
A concrete example: when someone tries to fist you... You not only try to avoid his fist, but once you managed to get out of the way, you do your best to grab his arm and pull
in the same direction it's going, while rotating your ass against his belly, using all the power and weight he put on that move plus a bit of your own strength (just'nuff to focus and
drive the move with more precision) and the guy just literally ends up throwing HIMSELF over your hip for a nice fall on his back and, naturally, you let his weight make you fall on
him and gently locked your right arm under his neck, your left arm/elbow on his right arm, your right shoulder against his left shoulder/neck and your legs wrapped around his
legs (the left one, ideally, since, if you are on his right, your whole bod already immobilise his right leg). From there, you have some time to think about how you're gonna hurt him, before
he manages to free himself (if he ever manage to do so). I think I'd just hit his forehead with mine, as I have a thick skull and it's therefore a safe bet with most people.
*
It was cold nightly winter in this small industrial and farming town of eastern township, Qc, and Christmas wasn't even over, yet. The old mother of a forty-six years old son who
still inhabited his childhood bedroom walked to the main entrance which linked her two bedrooms country-city apt to the outside world- she could see and hear the ice
skaters on the frozen river and pond, from the nearby kitchen's window, visible straight from said door at an angle of 90 degrees and looking pretty much like some kind of painting
a la Bruegel the Elder-the door ring havin'rang annoyingly late (to her taste), as it was nearly seven in the evening.
-"Hey, bonjour, Madame! J'aideschocolatsavendrepourunesortiescolairederandonneeach'val!", assured the rosy cheeked stereotype of a little French Canadian Winter girl.
But, before the old woman could open her mouth, the kid noticed something in her old busy right hand and carried on with:
- "C'est-tu que vous aimez Kafka ou c'est juste le proces qui vous interesse?"
A tad puzzled and on the way to buy some of that crappy chocolate -seduced- the old mom asked:
- "Tu lis-ca du Kafka, a ton age?"
- "Correct" confirmed the future employee of the public function at the provincial level.
- "No, you don't really read it" old mom said "you're only in it for the numbers". Nothing the kid could've ever said or done, then, could've convinced the old woman to buy
any of her damn fake chocolate with real almonds in it. That's life. Sometimes, even tho you're pretty focused on your business, you can't fool even a fool.
*
At four in the morning, I couldn't sleep anymore and resigned myself to jump outta bed at five, using the small electric heater to warm up my ass a little while I messed around my
laptop, writing a bit, arranging some pictures, etc... Then H's mother burst in the room'round 6:32 to inform me she was ready to go out training, altho I wasn't expecting her
at all since she had retorted, last night when I asked her out, that since we were to go skiing, maybe the mornin'training would be a tad too much for her...
I jumped into gear and we had some healthy, frigorific fun. I still prefer to go train a little later (maybe around seven-thirty) when the sun is up and warms up the place a little.
Mr.Tai chi (her old classmate, I learned) was there, doing his usual routine of barehanded stuff followed with some sword play. With his white filter mask, he looked like some
kind of short, agile ninja. I trained thirty-seven minutes before my toes got on the verge of freezing up. Damn little runnin'shoes.
Spoiled H pissed about a little incident about me not wanting to be moved'round like a toy in the kitchen more'n once, after the good training session I had, decides to keep silent about
what her parents are planning for today's skiing, resulting in her storming my room as I'm reading with an injunction to be ready now or never to go skiing. Skiing being
cancelled, I feel bad for the mom who wasted money on the tickets, but the spoiled child doesn't seem satisfied'nuff with it. I play nice, into her game: I'll be nice, careful and
I'll get out of it better'n bad. Only need to keep my nerves on ice till tomorrow night, afterall.
The parents sure are much better people, including the bro... The chick sure is the wart on the face of this nice little warm'n welcoming homely family.
When I fel the need to grab a picture of the rents and I (first time I feel like grabbing someone for sheer emotional reasons, on this trip, altho I appreciate quite a few folks in
the region), the realisation that I really got fuckin'tubby hit me like a ninety pound right on the chin.
*
Martin dude looked like he was about to take a jump down the tube, down the damn industrial drain that led straight down the waste disposal system but, last second
thought, I presume, he made a 180 degrees to ask me if I wanted a smoke (so stupid a question after I got subjected to so much secondary smoke at this jazz joint).
-"I don't smoke", I said. "Are you gonna jump or what?".
-"'Take a fall', you mean!" he said, not wanting to be accused of being tendancially suicidal.
-"Whatever, druggie... You're out of stuff and you're too pussy to go thru it till the next fix, but don't think an instant I'm trying to stop you or I even care a lil'tiny bit:
you're not worth much to my eyes than whatcha think you're worth, right now...". At this point, he realised he valued himself a lot better than he thought and he seemed
to get I cared just about as much as he did.
-"So, what about sumthin'to drink? You don't spit on it, do you?"
So we were off to the coke joint where there was nothing for him to sniff or inject but lots for me to drink, as decent price... So, satisfied, I offered:
-"Still got some of my latest herbal test on the cupboard"..
-"That nasty junk..." he began.
-"Better'n nuthin or regular booze", I stopped.
That's the night we got really high on mint, anise and other herbal junk that had spent some time in 94 percent pure wheat booze. In the same move, I got my weirdest
self-portrait out and told myself I'd better keep it for myself, so I hid it before even *he* could see it. Even trashed the candles I used to light up my working spot.
What woke me up was a violent cramp in the left calf... BANG! It's like the muscle's gonna contract till it's torn down to shreds... Horrible.. (Get it when you lack too much
potassium or magnesium vs calcium). Feels like your muscle isn't under your control anymore... Some horrible asshole's pulling the strings for you and he's havin'fun makin'you hurt,
like a fuckin'crew cut kid tearin'wings off a fly's back. You can hit that damn limb as much as you want or yell, whatevah, the pain only stops when it stops.
I rushed across the st, got some steamed rice from the Chinese joint, a banana from the arab convenience store and stolen some wood from a construction site.
Martin woke up, so I stuffed rice in his mouth while I had already feasted over the potassium laden banana. Got some rice aswell, but not too much... Too fuckin'fat
already to my taste.
- "No sauce, nuthin'?" I had trashed the soy junk...
- "Chinese folks don't put sauce on their steamed rice... They've got too much respect for it, moron! It's like the banger thing!"
He muttered some crap, ate and went to the bathroom to puke a bit: needed something else than food to be able to actually keep in the food he ingested...
I remembered this morning I ran up this small mountain in the rockies, west of Banff: this was my deliverance after too much Vancouver junk, altho I felt almost like
shittin'my pants when, late, I realised I hadn't found yet a safe spot as the sun was'bout to hit the bed. See, I have this instinct, when I get very close to the wild, which
pushes me off the road,off the beaten track, way into the wildest wild... Never got lost, so far, altho I never used a map or a compass to find my way back to "civilisation".
He made some coffee while I pretended I was washing myself up, just masturbating in the bathroom about western girls, and then we finally dragged ourselves out to Casa'n
the mountain, Martin, for some strange reason, seeming to forget'bout his need for "sumthin'". That was cool with me, cos his incessant, cumbersome whining'bout that
crap had seriously begun to make me think'bout trashing him outta my bit of existence.
Philip called me on Martin's cell phone (I don't have a cell phone and probably never will have: people annoy me already'nuff with others'cells) as we were just climbin'up the
"mountain". He just asked
- "Yo, whassup?" I just laffed friendlily and said
- "Walkin'up the mountain with our dope fiend..friend.. err Martin." I waited for the repartee... and it came. You know what? If you can't make the answer he gave me by yourself,
then you're not worth the effort of writing it out for you, sincerely. Let just say it was very predictable, so I hung up. But he called back.
- "I think the contact was lost!" he said.
- "No, I just hung up."
- "Err, anyway.. I was just calling to let you know we're going back to the lake TO MOWRＲＲＯＷ!"
- "We?"
- "We."
Assuming it was the good "we", I went this way:
-"Come get me in the morning, if you want, but I'm leaving Martin behind or not comin'" and, of course, the deal was set while the Martin in question looked at me with this
hurt face you get when you get kicked in the gut while you're already down kicked in the balls, which is exactly what I had done to him, figuratively speaking.
-"Got not excuse to provide, but-trust me or not- you don't wanna be there when I hit the lake, tomorrow...." He was annoyingly silent, so "I'll be back Monday or earlier, tomorrow
night... Christ, sometimes I feel we're a couple of homos, dude...".
I ran all the way back to the pad, to get some junk ready and have somewhat of a nap. I never saw the Martin dude again.
*
This morning, I went training with mom again and her ex-classmate, friend and Tai chi teacher wondered where my variant of Tai chi came from, in a mix of broken but well
articulated English and Hanyu (I've noticed people out of BJ like to say Hanyu, not Puthongua).
- "Jiarnada... but.. err bu shi.. err bu Tai chi.. It's western boxin' warm up routine!", and I went doing some typical boxing moves, but even them look a lot like Tai chi, from the
jab, the right to the left hook.. It's all so fucking similar! I know, now, why Chinese keep saying "Chinese boxing" when they speak English about Kung fu : it must be very
similar to Western box, just like Taic chi, but with feet and maybe less brutal (altho real Western boxing, like my Nazi polish coach thought us, is not this grotesque parody
of boxing we see in the professional circuit), so maybe, afterall, I'm 100% right when I half honestly pretend that Olympic boxing truly is a "noble art" rather than the "violent
activity" people like to believe it is.
I believe I will miss Changchun. Not as much for the city itself, which I didn't get to visit'nuff to have a good idea or any real tie to it, but for the few people I met there and
really... err As close as you can be to "loving" while not having spent'nuff time with the object of this sentiment to really say "loving".
As I was typing this entry, mom comes up to me, fetches out a piece of paper and a pen and painfully writes out "10:00 out... open..." and shows me a few tai chi moves
aswell as my laptop's cd drive.. I assume
- "Oh! So we'rr. er women (not the English "women", the chinese "we", that is) err... gonna see a Tai chi demonstration with music? Cool!"
Later, I'm to discover that she, Houdan and I are out for shoppin', cos she wants to get me a Tai chi vcd as I expressed interest in it. We don't find anything she finds suitable (I believe she thinks
I'm already practising a form of western Tai chi because of the warm up routine which comes with my western boxing polish style, so maybe she wants me to add some
Chinese flavour to it, which is quite a good idea) but I find a pair of cheap earrings for three Kuai so I fix'em to my two old holes on the left ear so I now have three rings on
this one and no fear of hole occlusion any longer. Mom then wanted to drag us to a Korean restaurant, knowing my interest in trying this mythical dog meat supposed to
have great virtues and such a deliciously subtle taste.. Alas, no dog served this day, so it'll be for another day.
Later, back home, dad's getting a great hotpot feast ready while Houdan's friend's tryin'a impress her by showin'me some Kung Fu tricks... I play politely (especially that I'd
really like her to hook up with him, if there's any chance) then load him up on my shoulders WWC style when she looks away, threatening to throw him across the room and so
on with this fun routine till dad calls us for the hog party. I feed like a pig, of course. The only thing I won't miss from Changchun's the mass feeding which made me gain
so much blubber.
When it got time to say goodbye, mom wanted to add even more to the bulk of my load with foods and other practical items and I had to decline when she wanted to stuff me
with a huge box of way too good caramel and chocolates. Since my first day in China, mom'n dad are the only two people I felt the NEED to give the bone crushing hug
before leaving, so that's why I did, in the cold, outside, as I was done loading my junk in the car of H's friend.
*
In the train, babbling with timid but courageous Changchun girl who lacked confidence in her great English, I was spared trouble a few times by her linguistic interventions
between train staff and I. We eventually parted as she helped me load my junk in a taxi, since she was heading in a rather different direction, probably happy to not be seen
in the presence of a foreigner having the audace of wearing a huge black Russian fur hat. The day's warm and sunny and it feels like real Spring.
Returning to my old Laobaigan thrill, this evening was one of relatively high and sudden drunkeness which surprised me early, forcing me to throw the towel after some
wandering with Patrick'round Chaoyang district. As I left him behind at this 'net cafe to go grab some rest at my pad, I rapidly realised I wouldn't come back at him for our
intended ass shakin'trip to some nightclub'round the Workers'stadium... I felt a tad bad'bout letting him wait a bit at Huxley's where we had decided to meet priorly to hour H,
but I couldn't find a so called "public phone" as all postal newspaper stands were closed and so I just crashed miserably on my bed from maybe twenty h to early morning, maybe
around six.
*
After a tad of running towards the Workers'stadium where I had a small but honest go at these outdoors installations which look like crude but functional nautilus machines, I did some
net junk at my old 'net cafe and grabbed a few drunk items at my good ol'second fave supermarket. Back home, I opened seriously the electric kool-aid acid test for the first
time whilst drinking some rice wine and Xinjiang red wine. Later on, I hit pat's p
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[19 Jan 2004|05:04pm] |
Today, we went out, dad'n mom with me, to find the ingredients I need for my special steamer salmon in white dry wine. All we find is unsuitable, so we only come back with the veggies...
I'm angry at the situation and I therefore run outta the window without any explaintation (I could kill innocent people, so pissed I am, so it's better I just run away) and eventually find out the damn fish and wine... Small weird market on XinJiang rd. 3kg of fresh salmon for less than 200kuai. It's a big expense, for my budget, but, in mtl, this price is a joke. I also find the dry white wine which is almost mandatory for the proper taste. When I come back, happy, the father is delighted by the smell and everybody's thrilled, except the mom, who thinks the price tag is way too high and needs to be revised (sending ol'bro to reclaim a few kuai!). No matter what, I grate the monster's scales off in the bathtub, then cut it in nice steaks on my new fave cuttin'board (a slice of a big old tree) with the chopchop I master impressively, if I believe their compliments. Half an hour later, I made'nuff of my special preparation for seven to eight folks. Tomorrow, we'll see how well I did, as the fish and veggies will have macerated smoothly in the white wine overnight.
But the true bottom line's that xinjiang folks saved my day once more, making'em the champions of my chinese experience.
Life could only be smoother if I managed to find a boxin'club in Changchun, to bust my soon-to-be lard ass. I mean, hell... I was 65kg, I'm now'round 72.
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[18 Jan 2004|01:06pm] |
After cookin'up a bourguignon for the family, I jump out of the
window to jog my way to that corny bar, when I bump into ol'bro
and my fave barmaid who both help me with decent booze to become a real Disco Stud, for the greatest pleasure of the local crowd, so thirsty for that kind of kitsch macho attitude, which, as during the precedent night, induces guys and chicks to come outta shyness to measure their stamina and corniness to mine! When everyone is dead, I walk over the bodies and go back spend some time doing the tongue swappin'thing with a few guys and girls, before comming back to the dancefloor, cos I noticed some bodies still moving a bit... Then, I'm dragged to a terribly spicy seafood sichuan resto as ol'bro's other friends arrive to pick us up. Since beijingers are real wussies'bout spicy stuff, sichuan folks and other amateurs of red hot peppers are often used to even eat the damn little pepper they use, as the cookin'really underpowered! But in Changchun, Sichuan food isn't for wimps: it's the real thang, lemme tell ya! Even the damn pepper are damn mini nukes! (I'll prolly think twice'bout it, before swallowing one of'em again).
Mornin', gut ache and hangover killed by suckin'up some bone marrow and oatmeal.
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[16 Jan 2004|01:43pm] |
So, in short, since I can't use my puter to hook locally on the net, so I can't cut'n paste my journal entries in this e-mail here's an expeditive listing of the last recent events:
Got eventually kicked out of my place, after gently fighting with the landlord, then allow him to save his face by finally offering to pay back the damn deposit if I accepted to hit the hotel nearby. Houdan got me a room across the st, in a basement hotel of such cleanliness, it's like a fucking hospital, with people actually wearing sareau and being utter friendly and fascinated, all that for 50kuai a day. Weird dreams, partying later, it was finally time to leave for Changchun, the northern metropolis of about 2.3 millions folks. Long train trip later, thru a succession of nameless sky scraping metropolises, which consisted in dreaming strange dreams in overheated bed and drinking my fave local screwdrivers while talking with folks between two wagons, we eventually arrived at destination, where I got to meet gege (ol'bro), mom'n dad.
Very friendly, they take at heart to make me fat like the fattest pig in the world. I actually end up puking more than twice a day: no alternative, until I get a map so I can start to explore town running like mad every day. I know I get fat when skinny chinese quit yelling I'm in fact way skinny when I complain about my tubbiness.
Last night, we went to what I first believed to be a lame karaoke/live band bar where I got royally treated by the bro (so I guess it's my turn to invite, now!) Eventually, only the guitar boy remained and he played a few great numbers. Chicks were very thrilled by the canuck dude and it was a tad embarassing, at times, but nonelessly heart warming.
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[04 Jan 2004|05:32pm] |
At the 18th floor at Hu Dan's pad, very local, very old, with the sound of the antique elevator mumbling continuoustly thru the walls, from early in the mornin' to maybe nine
in the evening, I allow myself to enjoy my roommate's sweet folly, after having had to carry a few hundred pounds of material on my bike from my old hideout to my new
place, starring alternatively at the mon of my old laptop, the cool sight one gets from the 18th floor and, of course, enjoying a good ol'screwdriver, local style accompained
with a zest of rusky muzak (shostakovich being predominant), I'm mentally preparing myself to take a break from partying every nights (I said that yesterday, but then I
jogged my way to a xinjiang party at the jam house with pat, phelim, where I only half managed to score but however playing pool better than ever (not even ripping the mat))
and getting back to a somewhat healthier mode type of existence, such as dragging my ass to parks and some cool strip, on my bike, with Hudan sitting on the rear luggage
rack. In any case, tomorrow night should be bourguignon night as I got a load of beef cubes macerating gently in xinjiang drwine, which will make for more than a whole day,
when I'm ready to roll it down flour and make it sing in da wok.
In the early morning, replacing my cat opera, I'm usually awakened by trashy women screaming in the most vulgar way to their kids who didn't satisfy momma's ambitions
of the momment, making me want to kill. But it's okay: while I was told "people don't like westerner to stay here", I can say that said people's helpful and friendly attentions I get tend to disprove this impression.
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[02 Jan 2004|10:21pm] |
Gee, got kicked out of my pad... Boyfriend matter.. A bit of luck Pat could hook me with this nifty gal I briefly met at some party. So now I have a new apt for the next two weeks (as she's then going back home in the south to see mom during what I can only call "chinese xmas"), but I gotta move hundreds pounds of junk on my damn bike.
I'd like to live in some real dirty, basic hutong, next.
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[02 Jan 2004|12:00am] |
My new "holiday" lovely decadence at various parties took its toll on my bod and so I went from 65kg up to nearly 70. Without forgetting the occasional bout of delirium tremens, the ghost people I started to literally "see" in the dark.
I walk inside the dark entrance of my flat around eleven in the evening and I see this small old woman... It's very dark, but I think it's the old woman I help every now and then to carry heavy junk at her pad. She's dead silent and starts slowly moving backwards as I enter, like she's trying to get outta my way as I want to go up and she wants to go out... I'm not drunk, but I hadn't had a "real drink" (Read "at least 60degree booze") since noon or so... my hands shake and I feel weird as shit... You know... I walk towards the staircaise and the woman moves down, in some recess under the stairs... I ask, "yo okay, m'am? Ni hao ma, uh?" but she remains silent... I hit the staircase with my feet, which turns on the upper level's staircase light and.. err no woman.. nothing at all, not a soul, nothing, nothing, nothing.... One of the most concrete hallucinations I ever had: to me, it was hard real and it lasted for as long as it was dark.
Or these people I saw appearing in the underpass (the underground passages like subway entrances which allow you to avoid traffic at intersections)in front of my face and disappearing only when I "bumped" into'em, the only real person, however, being this guy I scared nearly to death (as I always run.. but in a completely dark tunnel, I can imagine hearing someone run in your back might be a bit discomforting, I guess).
I believe that this net service I'm using maybe in fact one of these free isps. But I need to find an dial up ISP with lotsa local numbers around town.
Tonight, I dragged patrick in human hive of workers. They all move around, such as ants in tunnels dug thru the building in construction, with light bulbs hung along the way, each carrying an iron bowl which they feel with great simple found to be found in pots every now and then, small groups gathered around the piece of food which is closest to their fave ethny. I said let's get in the flow: adopt the same walking pace, so that we can, some form of mimetism, be tolerated, like ants of different type can be tolerated by the "host" when they feel like doing an incursion in foreign territory and it quite worked. But then, we got at the bottom of the hive, where a huge kitchen was going on: we decided to stand semi-still and had a convo in french, allowing then the pace illusion to be broken and everybody seemed to realise for the first time these two dudes were actually a pair of damn jianadaren! They were very happy and almost exploded out of thrill when we managed to swap a few words of english and puthongua.
Cats aren now giving me a good beijing opera show comparable to that I heard at the somptuous restaurant we found in the middle of this old imperial courtyard.
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[31 Dec 2003|05:42pm] |
Currently abusing some poor careless guy's 263 account via the used ibm laptop puter I got from him for 2.7k kuai, here I am, on the verge to hit new year's eve with my fellow mtl party trooper'round sanlitun lu and local flickmakers with my gallon of local poison and some liters of good orange juice.
The BEAUTY of beijing is real, but it's more to be found in a toothless guy playing flute like a better version of miles davis on the trumpet in some poupli service spot or a little girl dancing like a freak virtuoso in my courtyard.
Sometimes, I feel there are two alain dudes. You've got the cynical bill burroughs type quite often, but, sometimes, the candid kerouac comes out of nowhere, like an accident, just the way good things that change your mind arrive.
Well, byebye,
alain.
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[27 Dec 2003|06:10pm] |
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Cats still exist in Chaoyang district, as a few of'em proven to me, furtive and roof rovin'. Besides, this morning, they served me a show dign of the best Beijing opera and I'm sure many sleepy folks dreamed of getting their hands around these mighty feline necks. For my part, I sure dug it all I could, while doing my mornin'exercises.
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[25 Dec 2003|09:26am] |
Two popular workers stand over a big hump of armoured concrete. One's wearing a blue overall, while the other's got an old green military outfit, but both adorned their skulls with yellow plastic helmets. Blue holds a big steel rod on top of the piece of concrete which used to be an important element of some now destroyed building's foundation. Green, equipped with a big sledgehammer, is going at the rod with all his soul's content. Next to them, sitting iddle, is a huge piece of hydrolic machinery which principal purpose is in fact to break apart huge pieces of armoured concrete. Another workers passes by, wearing an old beat up greenish brown suit and the same yellow helmet and after a brief ponderous stop, starring mysteriously at'em, he hops into the big machine which he mans to utterly obliterate the whole piece of concrete in a few finger flicks'n wrist twists, making in the same move juicy ground meat of his two former colleagues whom conducts, I guess, he found much too dishonouring to his profession.
He sure was a weird guy: he wouldn't let things happen their own way: he needed badly to be in control or at least see others handle things with intent rather than semi-passively: he was an abnomaly to his locality and sans doute still is.
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[13 Dec 2003|10:27pm] |
So, drunk and dirty, on my way to do net junk in the night and acquire some food items, I hear this flute/sax sound coming from sone low building around my pad.
I talk lotsa giberish chinese with the guy who plays so well his weird chinese flute.
We swap lotsa words and I make sure he gets I dig his sound and skills and hell was it good. Like a great folk pipin'from the highland or err.. folk clarinet virtuoso performance.
To this, I must add details, such as the damn breath steam crystalising in the cold night air, the late Bejing starlit sky as the town turned off most of its neon signs, the guy, backlit by the old bulb burning in the windowed office stuck in the middle of this hutong style hangar, as he leans back against a flank of windows and push the tunes at different paces and modulations, to show me the potency of his simple instrument, spittin'steam out of the end of it and this damn cool music that he prolly wouldn't get half as good if he didn't miss a few upper frontal teeth or sumnin'.
Later in the morning, after dreaming of makin'up an artsy flick with jackie chang, I watch on HebePhrenicTV3 a report on death tolls, massacres and lost tourists followed by a white haired and bearded ass serving us a schizo-paranoid portrait of the cockroach, this slick filth digger, so inclined to survive. Don't complain, populo, as if you have to live with cockroaches, it's because of your filth, as on human filth they thrive and nuthin'else, you filthy, smelly swines!
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[13 Dec 2003|09:53pm] |
So, I wake up at four in the mornin'to find some orange moss on my screw driver thermos bottle. Half between disgust and delight, I get my eyes down a few mm to admire this moss which I guess must be born from the contact of orange juice, booze and beijing fucked water. I sheer as I get a good load of details added to the pencil drawing which will soon be my first beijing watercolour and then, drunk and warmily encouraged by the building's women, I rush to gongretierrmenwai(?)'s starbuks located in some mall intended for white assed fucks. That's where, after pissing all my soul down the drain, I get to meet Manhong and her new German roommate, whose name I shamelessly forgot but might get to learn as she's quite into bikin' and look physically apt to at least not slow me down too much, altho she's a tad nervous'bout the damn beijin'traffic. If the gal goes with me, I'll just take care of scarring off the pussy macho drivers and she'll follow me. We went to factory 798, a disctrict a lil'bit like griffintown, but smaller, and entirely devoted to modern, cuttin'edge art, at the people's level aswell. I may someday expose my junk, here. Menwai (the maon fan sculptor) wants to see my paintings so bad, yet I dunno how to get him to see'em conveniently, damnit.. Anyway: at least, I got a crashspot, as he sleeps and works on the spot and invited me whenever I want.
Anyway, while waiting for'em gals, I noticed the interesting phenomenons of chinese chicks hooked on westerm dudes: two major categories: the trasy bitches lookin'for money hooked on anything white (or black) which gots a thick banknote holder and blind eyes and the cultured, avid of western culture type which reads good western books, wears glasses and seems sometimes even more fortuned than her white assed dude. I'd say Mahong is of the latest type. Well post-educated, quite complex (and complexed), she's hooked on some aussie, but the guy seems a bit too ruff and basic to meet her complex (jealous, not too compatible with "chinese" mind, too homestuck, etc.), surprisingly POST-modern psychology.
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[12 Dec 2003|05:57pm] |
The wine I got wasn't allright for the recipe: It was sweet junk, pretty much like vermouth. The result, however wasn't bad at all and my roommate loved it. In fact, after tasting more appropriate red xinjian wine, she said to prefer the sweet stuff. But still: gotta test the real recipe on a local victim. Drawin'some junk downstairs, I was invited by a middle aged women to get into a warmer spot to continue my drawing, with some cha'n all. So I guess that I shouldn't bother too much'bout finding hospitality among chinese folks if I can find it even in the capital's hearth.
Poem:
Hutongs full of fresh veggies, meats and fruits. I don't care about the inspector's seal.
Got much more to babble'bout, but my time's counted, so, baibai for now.
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[08 Dec 2003|04:53pm] |
I wanna make a beijing guide that bust all other lame assed guides, including those which have the pretention of exploring the less touristic stuff. It'd be so easy: I already completely outdone'em in the understanding of local market exploration/bargaining variety/biking like a real warrior/and everyday social interaction domains.
My advantages: I have no shame and will therefore do crazy things that sometimes have great results (Like finding out you can even bargain on food, especially if said food is illegal.) I hooked up with some really tasty locals who each have their own human skills and knowledge with the local fauna.
I could make it online, for free and a portable paper version for a few dozen kuai. I bet even some locals would buy it as some are often surprised of things I find in their own town, so...
Well, gotta go get ready to treat my roommate with some country french cuisine, puntaingueu'de diou! (ouais, bon, c'est mon accent campagnard du midi, eh?)
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[08 Dec 2003|11:13am] |
These last few days were spent having the weirdest dreams of all.
Dreaming of chinese people as calm, but very strange amphibian/aquatic people, reptilian, waiting in the swamp water most of the day, patiently, for the fly or small furry animal that would come close'nuff to become *sluurrrrp!* dinner. I dreamded of bugs contained in food and water which grow up and crawl/dig their ways out of your purulent flesh, big'nuff to not be afraid to attack you, when out of yer bod. I dreamed of many other stranger things, but I forgot most of'em. I guess that thru the haze of booze and nightly inspirations crowded and clumsy, some things get lost and disappear quickly. I dream this arab kid and his older bro came to my place (in mtl, with mom'n pop hanging'round) to steal our junk'n money and we got in a fight. I killed the older bro with his own blade (a small round blade used to skin animals when ya go hunting in the woods, y'know?) and the younger kid, armed with large scemetar, hung out out of our place, mad with sorrow for his lost bro and need for vengeance, threatening more than once to manage to break and enter the place (and I didn't want to kill him). He came back later with cops and all his damn family. As if he could win his case against us (we were the victims, afterall) but, when we indeed seemed to win the case before any court trial even began, the pained father yelled his very young little son to do something, the lil'kid yelling a cry of war, rushing towards me and, last second, I saw a needle's glare and before he got it out of my arms, he said "SIDA!" (AIDS, in french). heh..Yeah... And many dreams like that. I also miss mtl quite a bit. Still, Bejing's pretty cool and some folks I got to meet warm up my heart and are quite interesting.
Byebye for now. I want fairmount bagels, tho.
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[06 Dec 2003|09:39am] |
Found factory 798 and found some very interesting modern chinese moves that seem quite influenced by german and other darkish asbtract expressionism. In another gallery of the district, I found this mao zedoung fan who only makes sculptures of mao. Small ones, gigantic ones, realistic ones, surrealist ones and loads of other genres and flavours. With a local girl and one from ohio serving diligently as interprets between us, I was treated to a quite enthusiastic intro to mao and flatteringly compared to the great men in many ways, ranging from my practical clothing or interests in life (such as my bikin'being compared to the long march).
When I returned the next day, to show the place to a girl I met, I was then greeted, this time, with a good cover on chinese icon, ex-montrealer Normand Bethune who served, magistrally, as a doc, during the long march.
The girl in question, Holly, thinks I must've been a bird, in my past life. Yep. Because of the highly mobile, sharp eyes and my perpetual need for freedom and adventure. Interesting, since I generally tend to just associate myself to my "official" chinese animal, the tiger. But a bird? That's quite new.
The same day, I acquired'round the silk alley boss jeans for ten bucks (I needa eat and I'm poor, I assured the vendor) and a thirty yuan silly and formidably warm russian fur hat.
Yak butter tea is the next coca cola, if a damn capitalist ever realises its marketing potential ;)
Well, I'm supposed to go out and find some painting supplies, so bye bye, for now.
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[03 Dec 2003|11:44am] |
Yesterday, I went'round the silk alley and acquired a good warm chinese vest from 380 down to a hundred rmb, which my roommate considered to be a damn great bargain, as she would've considered a good deal to have made it go down to 200. I'm therefore getting better, I guess, at this art so foreign to me which bargaining is ;)
Later, I was invited by her to this interesting "ethnic" restaurant where I first ate a day or so ago. Jing Zian, I believe, is the name of that ethny of turkish/north african looking folks who dig booze and lamb a lot. Tammy told me they like to drink a lot but that I could probably outdrink'em. I'll assume it was a compliment ;)
She also said that they often only drink, drink and drink, without eating anything, whereas chinese (who also dig drinking a lot) will always have some little things to eat while drinking... Well, after having drank a good bit and eaten a LOT at the same time, I understand all the wisdom behind this Jing Zian (I really have to get the name correctly) habit, as, just after I went to bed, I felt the dizzy urge to puke most of my meal.
Well, I'm late and busy, so baibai for now.
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[01 Dec 2003|07:27pm] |
Today, I tried to find a back alley, last remnant of an entire district of a particular ethny of people, somewhere btween arabs, persia and turks. I failed, but,next to my hutong, I found a small food joint ran by some of'em. If you don't mind cockroaches running over your table (i've become an expect at catching'em with chopsticks... Next things I'll start eating'em like hors-d'oeuvre) and enjoy rude, amicable humanity, then it's the place for you, cos it's fucking cheap, fucking good and fucking human. For 13kuai, I felt twice as much fed as for the 30kuai I paid on the donghamen food strip, where I ate grilled dog, insects, snake and squid (ah yeah and the more exotic chicken aswell). Poor kids have a preference for big black grilled bugs and I can understand'em... that shit's fucking delicious. I almost regret generously giving my string of grilled bugs to that little kid.
Well, I'm babbling a lot and not hauling my ass very far as I do so and getting fat, so I should move out, now ;)
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alaincis's journal