The Original Pawns of Comedy

It's a Numbers Game

2008-04-28T20:58:00.000-07:00

The crab fleet is hard at work and so far, it's not going too well, at least for Captain Phil. Cornelia M's caught fewer crab than Captain Phil's drunk Red Bulls. (Phil drank 56 Red Bulls in 5 days.)

It's okay, though! "It's a numbers game." Nobody says that when things are going well.

"How'd your job interview go?"
"Great! I got the job, and more money than I asked for."
"Well, you know - it's a numbers game."

"So Ish, you have a date for the prom?"
"Yeah, actually I have a date with twin bikini models. Who are also neurosurgeons."
"Well, don't worry - it's a numbers game."

This is the point in the season when Things Get Serious. The crews are working their asses off. The greenhorns are starting to realize that this crab fishing is some hard-ass work, not some well-paying Outward Bound adventure. The captains are getting very uptight, because this is when they need to catch crab. No crab, no money. This is also when the deck bosses shine.

See, the captains are being hard-asses - especially Sig. Sig's driving the crew hard, all night and all day. He needs to keep track of the numbers of crab, and the crew is messing up the count. So Sig is NOT happy. The crew is near exhaustion, and Sig is acting like a 4 year-old who just had his juice box taken away. Enter deck boss Edgar Hansen.

Here's why I love Edgar Hansen. These guys are working 24 hours straight, risking life and limb, trying to make a bunch of money in a few months. If they don't find crab, they don't have money to put food on their families. Thus, tension. Tempers can run high. Captains can lose their shit.

In the midst of all this, Edgar Hansen sees the image of Jesus in the rust on a winch on the Northwestern's deck.

Northwestern Deck Boss Edgar Hansen

The Greenhorns on the Wizard are getting tested - one is making it (Lynn), one isn't (Moi). Moi's a little older, probably a little too experienced in life to be a humble hand on a crab boat. He knows that compared to any other job, this job is H-A-R-D. Moi wants to do well (bless his heart), but he may not be ready for life on a crab boat. (Probably should have been tipped off when he negotiated the title of "Vice President of Chum.")

Another way the crab crews relieve tension? The pranks. World-class pranks.

Captain Johnathan had said he wanted a new truck, so the nice fellas on the Cornelia M. help Johnathan out - they put a rusted truck body on his boat.

Time Bandit returns the favor by attaching it to one of Phil's buoys - he gets a surprise trying to pull up that pot. Captain Phil is suitably impressed; game recognizes game. Phil dumps the car in the Bering Sea. (ERA on line 1 for you, Phil.)

Of course, you're not gonna catch a pickup truck on every trip. But hey! Don't worry - it's a numbers game.

Deadliest Catch Season 4 Episode 1

2008-04-18T17:32:00.001-07:00

The show opens cold, and they get right back into it – boom, rogue wave hits the Wizard, puts a hole in the hull, and they’ve got gear rolling around topside.

(And I get right back into it, using expressions like “gear rolling around topside” like I know what I’m talking about.)

And then they hit me with that opening lick from Bon Jovi’s “Wanted: Dead or Alive.” Aw, yeah. It’s on.

Discovery Channel's Deadliest Catch is back, baby! And I know I’ve been jonesing for a while now. I can tell, because it’s not normal for a guy who works in an office in San Francisco to look out the window and think: “I wonder how Opilio crab season is going.”

Fishing for crab is incredibly hard work, and seriously dangerous - last year, a boat sank, and with heavy equipment swinging around on a pitching, slippery deck, a lethal injury is a constant possibility. But when the crews hit it big, when they are "on the crab," it's also rewarding and lucrative. The crew members can make up to $40,000-$50,000 for a few weeks' work. But what work it is.

Most of the same crews are back from last season:

Cornelia Marie, with Captain Phil.

“Looks like I picked the wrong week to give up…everything.”
Bonus Trivia: Lives on Marlboros and Red Bull.

Northwestern, with Captain Sig Hanson.

Or as my friend Em calls him, "Captain Sig Handsome (wink)!”
Bonus Trivia: Sig and Edgar were on Martha Stewart earlier this week, and apparently helped design a crab fishing game for XBox 360. (Both true.)

Time Bandit, Captains Johnathan and Andy Hillstrand.

Johnathan looks like a roadie for Molly Hatchet.
Bonus Trivia: Andy has a horse farm in Indiana. My girlfriend thinks Andy’s hot.

Wizard, with Captain Keith Colbrun.

Might actually be retired baseball star Wade Boggs, I'm not sure...
Bonus Trivia: Elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame in 2005.

There are a lot of family ties in the crab fleet. Every boat has either brothers, or fathers and sons. Two boats, Northwestern and Time Bandit, have 3 brothers, of which one stays in the background. On Time Bandit, Johnathan and Andy are out front, Neal’s in the background. On Northwestern, Sig is out front, Edgar is running the deck, and Norman is keeping the engines running. It’s like they each have a John, a Paul, and… a Ringo. A Groucho, and Harpo, and... a Gummo.

This season, Johnathan’s 25 year-old son Scotty is on the Time Bandit, joining the ranks of the second-generation, along with Captain Phil’s sons Jake and Josh.

(So, okay, I thought Johnathan was about 40. A weathered 40. He has a 25 year-old son? And why does he look more like Andy than Johnathan, hmm?)

What does Phil do in the off-season to stay in such terrible shape? smoke, drink, anything else? He looks like he’s been on a losing streak at a third-rate card club with no sleep for about six months.

Phil’s sons are apparently actively trying to kill the old man. For the second year in a row, they went nuts in town with Dad’s credit card. This time, Jake bought a $800 plasma TV for the boat.

The captains gather at the local watering hole for a final drink and to place the traditional wager - winner is the captain who hauls the best string of pots. They toast with a drink of Crown Royal, Bailey's and Kahlua - called a "duck fart." It's a little priceless to hear Mike Rowe, the narrator/host of the show and Ford pitchman, say "they sealed the bet with a round of duck farts."

The crews take care of all the last minute business before they set out. Northwestern is having some engine problems, which they get fixed by a guy who looks like Pete Seeger. (A lotta guys in Alaska are sporting that look, based on the show.)

Johnathan and Andy do their ritual pre-trip call home, and during the call, their mom predicts tragedy. Nice.

"Have a good trip! But someone's gonna die." Thanks, mom. Glad we called.

"Andy's hot," says my girlfriend. Okay, I get it.

And then, they're off to the fishing grounds to set the pots, and haul... wait for it... The Deadliest Catch!

Captain Keith on the Wizard is a little superstitious. En route, he sees whales - good omen. Also, he needs to have a Cup-o-noodles in the wheelhouse before he'll set gear. (I should do that before I start a new spreadsheet or powerpoint presentation.) Uh-oh, crisis: no Cup-o-noodles on board. (And of course I thought: "Just like Mrs. Hillstrand prophesied.") They set pots anyway, despite Keith's misgivings.

First pots for Cornelia M. - ooh, ouch. Nada. Second string? not much better. Not a good start.

In Case You've Forgotten What Sport You're Watching

2008-03-22T13:42:00.000-07:00

I believe I just heard the color analyst on TV say the following:

"This is a basketball team that, if they don't have [So-and-so] in there, will have trouble putting the basketball in the basket. And that's why they're losing this basketball game."

Things that are Comcastic!

2008-03-17T12:30:00.000-07:00

When Comcast launched its new ad campaign, wherein they attempted to convert their corporate name into an adjective, the first ad I saw was a takeoff on the old game show "$25,000 Pyramid." In case you don't recall, in $25,000 Pyramid, contestants work with a celebrity as a 2-person team. One is facing a pyramid-shaped board. One by one, from bottom to top, the cards reveal a word or phrase. The team member facing the board would give clues for their teammate guess. If you got them all right you won $25,000, presumably stacked in the shape of a pyramid. (Wouldn't a check have been easier? I guess "The $25,000 Check" doesn't have much of a ring to it.)

Why don't game shows have awesome answers like this anymore? More proof that the 70s were a Magical Time.

So the Comcast ad went like this:

Clue-giver: "Butterflies...Santa Claus...freshly baked cookies..."
Clue-receiver: "Things that are Comcastic!" dingdingdingding!!!!

So the message was: Comcastic is a synonym of awesome.

Except.

Except this has not been my experience at all.

I appreciate some of the things Comcast does for me. Like bringing me broadband access - I appreciate that. Or the best reality show on television, Deadliest Catch. Thanks, Comcast.

My real issue is with the digital video recorder. My question to you, Comcast: if Comcast is so awesome that its very name is synonymous with awesomeness, why is the Comcast DVR such a piece of crap?

But Ish! The DVR is chock-full of features that make it awesome! Did I say awesome? I mean Comcastic!

I hear you, italicized rhetorical device, but I'm not buying it. Here's how the "features" work on my DVR:

Fast forward. Hit fast forward once- fast forwards for about three seconds and then freezes. Hit it again - nothing. Hit it a third time - it races forward 2 minutes past the commercials you were skipping, and right into the middle of the next scene, spoiling the suspenseful conclusion of whatever you were watching. Bonus: if you are in the last ten minutes of the program, automatically deletes the program.

Rewind. Hit rewind once- rewinds ten seconds and then freezes. Hit it again - nothing. Hit it a third time - it rewinds so fast you actually get younger, the show you were watching doesn't exist yet, and your younger siblings start to fade out of old family photos. ("We've got to get back to the DeLorean, Marty!")

Record Season Pass. I'm told that this is the feature that allows me to record every episode of a favorite show. But I must have missed the secret setting that says "record every episode of "Family Guy," as long as it's one of the same six episodes from 1999. Whatever you do, do not record any of the newer episodes."

Memory full - 100%. This is the message you get when you've used about 60% of the recording space. You delete one of the episodes of Family Guy from 1999, and suddenly, voila, you're only using 20% of the recording capacity. (It's okay, the DVR will record that Family Guy episode four more times tomorrow.)

Stop. Has no features.

I think "Comcastic" should more properly be defined as follows:

Com-cas-tic adj. Characterized by the absence of awesomeness; the exact opposite of awesome. Ex. "The bubonic plague's symptoms were comcastic."

I want to spread my definition - because I believe that, in the words of Mahatma Gandhi, you have to be the change you want to see in the world. (Yes, I'm still talking about cable TV.)

So allow me to demonstrate the new, proper usage of "Comcastic:"

Me: Did you see that accident on the freeway last night?
You: Why, no, I didn't! Why don't you describe it for me.
Me: Oh it was bad, awful. Blocked all four lanes. The traffic was Comcastic!

Another:

Me: So then I dropped the cinder clock on my bare foot. The pain was Comcastic.
You: (Nod sympathetically.)
One more:

Me (yelling at DVR, frantically stabbing at stop button): STOP! Stop fast forwarding, stop- NO! DON'T delete! DON'T delete! You Comcastic piece of crap!
I don't know if my one lone, cranky voice can make a difference. But maybe, if we all work together, we can. (Still talking about cable TV.)

No, I Don't Got.

2008-02-26T11:52:00.000-08:00

All right, I'm happy to concede that the "Got Milk?" ad campaign was cute and original. I myself have probably drunk thousands of gallons more milk than I might otherwise have.

But. Please, everybody. Everybody. STOP taking the "Got...?" formula and applying it to every other thing under the sun. It's over.

I've seen Got Homes, Got Wood, Got Junk, Got Shoes, Got Wine, Got Lunch. Enough. No I don't Got. And based on your sad copycat marketing, I don't plan to Get any time soon.

Really, is that the best you could do? I mean, even if you're a mom and pop furniture store doing a low budget ad campaign for Comcast Spotlight* it's okay. I don't have high expectations. But really? The best you could do?

I guess we can all count ourselves fortunate that this idea didn't catch on in certain quarters, such as public service ("Got Amber Alert Suspect? Call 911...") or healthcare ("Got to Pee Frequently During the Night? Ask your doctor if Flomax is right for you.").

Again, let me reiterate: to the guys who came up with the ORIGINAL "Got Milk?" campaign? Hearty congrats, major props, big ups to you. But to all the others just borrowing it? That's just sad. Pathetic and over. As over as a thirty-something white blogger using "major props." As pathetic as same blogger saying "big ups."

*Comcast Spotlight, for those of you who don't know, is, essentially a response to the TIVO phenomenon, as only Comcast could conceive of it. It's a channel on cable that shows...commercials. As in, "Hey, we know you fast forward through all the ads now, but if you'd care to watch nothing but poorly produced commercials for local merchants, it's right here!" It's Comcastic.

Randy Jackson has trouble with numbers.

2008-02-08T10:32:00.000-08:00

I'm a fan of American Idol and I like Randy Jackson, but seriously, I'm not sure he has a firm grip on the meaning of numbers. Example:

Randy listens to auditioner #1. He's good. Simon says yes, Paula says yes. What does Randy say?

"For me it's a thousand percent yes, dog. Welcome to Hollywood!"

Cut to auditioner #2. She is also good. Simon says yes, Paula weeps and says "you have a beautiful heart," Simon audibly rolls his eyes. And Randy says:

"One million percent yes! You're going to Hollywood!"

Did Randy really like auditioner #2 a thousand times more than he liked auditioner #1? Does Randy mean it when he conveys to us the fact that he believes that singer #1 has only 0.001 as much talent as singer #2? I doubt it. I suspect he has a limited capacity to understand the meaning of numbers.

In fact, the modern world and its number systems have created limitless potential for hyperbole. Randy's on a slippery slope, I think. Soon, he'll say yes to someone "infinity percent." And then he'll wonder: where to go from there? Infinity plus 1? Infinity plus 2? No! Infinity times 2! No, wait! Wait! Infinity squared!

And then his brain will go pop! and he'll start sounding like John Nash from "A Beautiful Mind." Paula will seem lucid by comparison.

I wonder if Randy has similar problems with spatial reasoning, and other measurement concepts.

Officer: "Do you know how fast you were going, Mr. Jackson?"

Randy: "Well, I would guess I was doing about... four tablespoons."

What if Randy gave you directions to his house?

"Take the 405 north and go about 2000 miles to the exit for Sherman Oaks, and then turn right. Keep going on that for about 6 or 7 years. My place is the 86th house on the left."

Randy wouldn't have had this problem in a more primitive society. He still would have been hyperbolic - that's what show business people do - but he would have had fewer options: 1, 2 or many.

Cut to Primitive American Idol:

Simon: "Paula?"

Paula (weeping): "I... you know, you just glow up there. And I love your deerskin slippers. I say 'one-yes.'"

Simon: "Randy, yes or no?"

Randy: "For me it was a 'many-yes.' Welcome to Hollywood, dog!"

An added bonus of Primitive Idol is that the chances of Ryan Seacrest being devoured by a Sabre-toothed tiger would increase by at least, I don't know, a million percent.

Mustache Rides: After 30 Years, Still 5 Cents

2008-01-24T09:52:00.000-08:00

Everyone knows the economy has been getting a little rocky of late. There is one group that has definitely suffered. I'm talking about Mustache Ride Providers.

The fact is, as prices of fuel and other basic necessities have continued their relentless march upwards, the unsung mustache provider has had to make ends meet selling his service at a price of $0.05 - five cents. And that price hasn't really budged in 30 years. I ask: why?

Analysis

Based on my research*, the prevailing cost of a mustache ride remains, after more than 30 years, mired at the level of $0.05. Five cents. That's not to say that there aren't some providers out there able to charge a quarter, 50 cents, even a dollar. But they are exceptions, probably because they bundle their rides with other services (car wash, income tax preparation, etc.), or because they have a local or regional monopoly.

The fact remains that in general, over the last thirty years, the price of a mustache ride has barely budged, while the costs for other indispensible consumer items have increased dramatically. Why?

Substitute goods/new technology. This is a possible culprit. After all, we live in an age of technological revolution. It's possible that, in the whirlwind of advancement in the area of personal electronics (and here I'm thinking of cell phones and ipods, and nothing other than those two things), the humble mustache ride has been bypassed.

Oversupply/New Competitors. I don't think this is the answer, since, according to my research* the number of mustache ride providers has ebbed and flowed over the years, reaching a high-water mark in the mid- to late seventies. And in the nineties, the number fell, and yet, prices remained the same: a nickel.

Intensity of Competition. Again, the number of competitors has ebbed and flowed, but prices have remained remarkably constant.

Decreased cost of production/new technology. Again, it's possible that over time, the costs of production have decreased, much like personal computers. However, the basic cost inputs to making a mustache ride are the same for all providers, and appear to have risen considerably over the last 30 years.

Buyer power. It's possible in theory for a buyer or buyers to concentrate sufficient might in the market so as to be able to name their price - not unlike a "company town" that has its pick of all the laborers in town. But in this case, the buyers are diffuse and unable to collude effectively, so I discount this as a cause.

So in the end, I don't know what is holding down the price of mustache rides. What I do know, is that it's hard out there for a mustache ride provider.

*I didn't do any research. I did loosely apply the "5 Forces" Analsyis, pioneered by Michael Porter of Harvard Business School. Thanks, Mike.

I Have Some Opinions About Stuff

2008-01-22T11:23:00.000-08:00

Well, I still don't know if I want to blog, or what to write about, but I'll see what I can figure out. And by the way, isn't that an irresistible come-on? Just in case the title of the post didn't clinch it for you.

Hey! Come read the blog I may or may not write, I haven't decided! What's it about? I don't know! I'm totally uncommitted!

So whatever. I'm the Fred Thompson of blogging.

One of the things my comedy sensei, Miyagi-san, taught me was a trick to help generate material when you're out of ideas*: make a list of things ~~you have negative opinions about~~ about which you have negative opinions.

Okay, that's one right there: the prohibition on dangling participles. I mean, you start caring too much about where prepositions go and before you know it, your dialog doesn't sound conversational anymore. It just sounds fucked up.

Or perhaps, grammar fascists, I should say, "it sounds like a thing, up which is fucked." Happy?

***

Another thing I hate: most TV ads, starting with the current ad campaign by Southwest Airlines featuring "Nick," the sales guy who's flying Southwest, which is enhancing his productivity, resulting in speculation that he is somehow cheating to gain an edge. You see? It's really a ~~clever commentary on the current scandal involving athletes and performance enhancing drugs.~~ stupid, stupid ad campaign. So stupid is it, that I hit "mute" the instant it comes on so that I don't have to listen to it for the .05 seconds it takes me to change the channel.

***

Another Ad I Hate: those Schwab ads featuring the cartoonized people speaking directly to the camera. Oh, yes, those are very persuasive. Again, as a comedian, I am constitutionally required to wonder out loud how that pitch meeting went down:

Ad Man: "So the idea is this: did you see the movie 'A Scanner Darkly?'"
Schwab Guy: "Scan her what?"
Ad Man: "'A Scanner Darkly.' Great flick.
You really ought to see it. Anyway, it had this great look, with real actors made to look like animated cartoons."
Schwab Guy: "What? Like mimes? Or clowns?"
Ad Man: "Hm. Not quite. They used digital effects, not makeup."
Schwab Guy: "We should use cartoon characters to sell investments?"
Ad Man: "Again, not cartoon characters per se. [Ad Man makes mental note: look up the term"per se."] They're real people."
Schwab Guy: "Well... if you're sure we can't get the gecko or Jared, then go ahead."

Color me unconvinced. Here's my problem:

Do you see why I'm having trouble with it?

***

One last one: the ads for "Lunesta," the sleep aid. The ones that feature the creepy glowing butterfly of death, which flits down upon your restless body and with a single touch, ~~snuffs the life out of you~~ puts you into a deep relaxing sleep. Ah, sweet release of ~~death~~ sleep.

I would probably be asleep already if I weren't afraid that a large radioactive butterfly might float into the room to send me on to eternal rest.

***

Update: Yeah. So apparently some time in the last 6 months or so, I became a cranky old man. I really am the Fred Thompson of blogging.

You kids stay off my lawn!

*This assumes you have actually tried to write. This doesn't really help you if your problem is that you're too lazy to actually engage in the activity of writing jokes.

Next: What's the matter with young people these days?

Welcome to my annual blog post!

2008-01-05T14:27:00.000-08:00

fanofIsh said...
will you please start writing again in the new year? or today, today would be cool too. I really liked your china stories and the stuff before that. thank you. happy new year.
10:34 AM

Happy new year to you too, fanofIsh. Thanks for your nice comment. You've been waiting AWFULLY patiently for me to write more. To which I say:

Thanks mom. But what took you so long? (Bada-BING! See? Still got it!)

Truthfully, I don't know if I'll post more or not. What would I write about? Write about comedy? Like what is wrong or right about the comedy scene in San Francisco? Or write posts with comedic intent?

Movin' on up

2007-01-29T17:07:00.000-08:00

I am moving out of my apartment, my studio in the TenderNob. This is more than just an apartment; it is also the premise for half of my act. Am I going to change my act? Heyyeelll no. Just because I'm moving out doesn't mean I have to leave the comedy gold behind. That was not in the lease. No, I'm taking that with me.

I'm only moving three blocks, but it's a definite upgrade for me. The new place is bigger, brighter. And it's across the street from both a liquor store and a hospital. (I wish I had a $10 co-pay set up with the liquor store.)

I'm hiring movers to move my stuff. I don't have much, so I could probably have done it on my own with some help. But: 1) moving a small apartment 3 blocks isn't that expensive; and 2) I'm a grown-ass man now. I just can't do the whole "rent a truck and a dolly and co-opt your friends and make them hate you for it" thing.

I just don't want to do it anymore. Asking friends to help you move is big. It's a big boundary to cross. It's a big, awkward imposition. It's better than giving them herpes, but not by a lot.

You might think I'm exagerrating. But if you've ever had the pleasure of trying to get a sofabed down three flights of winding stairs into a truck parked on a hill, and then back out of a truck and back up three flights of winding stairs, you're probably thinking, "how bad could herpes be?"

2007-01-16T10:58:00.000-08:00

There are two car ad campaigns running right now that I hate, and it's hard for me to say which I hate more. The first is the Chevy Truck ad campaign. They feature John Mellencamp singing his patriotic, rugged manly song, "This Is Our Country."

(Actually, is even a song, or is it just a jingle? An ad jingle for a jingo ad? Anyway.)

The song runs over a montage of men doing manly things, along with little tag lines meant to show in stark relief how pointedly NOT wimpy they are. (And by not wimpy I mean not like you or me.)

Sample: showing a fork lift lifting a huge stack of lumber, the tag line reads: this is our breakfast. Or: a couple of good ole' boys at a coffee shop, with the tag line: this is our chat room.

Oh, snap! All you people who work at desks, and use computers and whatnot? You got served!

The whole commercial has an overt political tone, too, which I don't want to over-emphasize. But the clear subtext of the commercials is: people who chat at coffee shops, do hard physical labor, and drive trucks that get 10 MPG? They’re patriots. People who do not...are not.

The message comes through loud and clear: “This is our country... (not yours).” (And Woody Guthrie does flips in his grave.)

The whole commercial is a procession of shameful pandering to base instincts. Right, and that’s so different form other commercials I know, but it seems even more crass to me. Drive a low mileage truck? Don’t use a computer? Don’t read newspapers? It's okay, buddy! You're a patriot!

And then there are the Volkswagen “Safe Happens” ads. I can summarize these fairly succinctly:
Some people – people just like you and your friends, in fact – are driving along, having a conversation - the kind of conversation you might have with your friends, in fact. And then BLAM! Out of nowhere, some a**hole runs into them.

It’s sudden and jarring. It gets your attention. It makes you never want to ride in a VW again.

That’s a great idea for an ad campaign! “Let’s show our car getting wrecked over and over and over....”

“Let’s connect our brand, in consumers’ minds, with traumatic accidents.”

In one of the VW ads, 2 guys are riding along chatting, when BLAM! Just like that, out of nowhere, they get hit by a car. Well, actually a truck. A pickup truck.

I think I heard music coming from the truck: “This is our country…”

An Appreciation

2007-01-09T14:33:00.000-08:00

I was watching the crawl on the TV news this morning, when I saw a familiar name, but I couldn't place it: Iwao Takamoto had died at the age of 81.

Then the story came on and it became clear. Growing up I'd seen his name every Saturday morning. Iwao Takamoto was one of the great animators of his time. Working with Hanna-Barbera and Disney, he created a huge chunk of the cartoons that feel like the backdrop for my childhood. He was instrumental in creating "Cinderella," "Lady and the Tramp," "The Jetsons," and "The Flintstones."

And of course he created a gangly, clumsy Great Dane, and named him Scooby-Doo.

2007-01-04T16:16:00.000-08:00

I just ate a frozen entree for lunch - Green Curry from Trader Joe's, so pretty good stuff as far as it goes. But still, frozen entree. A genetic descendent from the TV dinner. (Salisbury steak, potatoes, and apple pie. That is *the* Swanson's Hungry Man TV dinner.)

The box had a picture of a beautiful plate of green curry, with garnish and everything. In small print, it said, "Serving Suggestion."

So I'm guessing that their serving suggestion is, "if you want to eat something that looks like this picture, throw this frozen stuff away and go to a decent Thai Restaurant."

Great holiday, but Dad can't choose the movies anymore

2007-01-02T15:36:00.000-08:00

So, new year. I promise I will post twice a day everyday all the live-long year.

Hm, no, not really.

So, what's what?

I had a really lovely Christmas and New Year holiday. (Thanks for asking.)

Oh - k. got me only the awesomest Christmas present ever - a turntable! Not just that, but it has a USB port, if I want to digitize.

"But Ish," you say. "You don't even own any records."

Not true, bitches! I now own "The Beatles" and "Abbey Road," again courtesy of k.*

Back story: we were hanging out with friends a month or so ago, and they have a turntable and records, and I just played with them for about 3 hours straight, and it was an absolute blast.

For instance: playing the entire album "Abbey Road" on CD? That's a 8 out of 10. (It's awesome, but you have to have somewhere to go. I'm tough but fair.) Now then: listening to Abbey Road on a turntable, with the scratch and hiss after you drop the needle and before "Come Together" starts, and again before "Here Comes the Sun"? That's about a twelve.

I went back east and spent time with k's family on Nantucket, which was a lot of fun. We ate, drank, played games, read and occasionally slept. There was a lot of laughter. What more could you ask for?

I grew up in a resort town, so I have noticed that resort towns tend to have a number of things in common:

1. T-shirt shops
2. Candy shops.

Okay, so maybe not a large number. (Sorry, I thought there would be more.)

No town is really a resort town if you can walk around the town center without having an opportunity to buy a sweatshirt or fudge every fifty feet.

And I guess when you go on vacation, you tend to buy souvenirs like t-shirts and hats. But what's with all the candy? Who's going on vacation saying, "man, I sure hope [Park City/Martha's Vineyard/Hilton Head] has saltwater taffy!"

I also went to visit my family over the holidays, which meant more airports and more opportunity for disaster, but I came through unscathed.

On one flight I was in an exit row, so the flight attendent had to come and give everyone a speech.

"You are sitting in an exit row. In the unlikely event of an emergency, it may be necessary for you to assist the crew in an evacuation by opening the emergency doors. Are you willing and able to perform this task? I need you to respond in the affirmative, or I will arrange for you to be seated elsewhere."

So the flight attendent asks everyone, and they say "yes," or yeah."

I really wanted to give a Dwight Shrute-like reply: "oh my God, are you kidding me? That would be AWESOME! Seriously, how cool would that be? Totally, I'd be pumped to do it. How's it go again? Pull, and then lefty-loosie, right?"

(By the way, "unlikely?" Really? That's a bit subjective. Unless you mean that it's unlikely that we'll have an accident that's so minor that we can actually get up and do all that stuff. In that case, yeah, I guess so. But a lot of the time, the whole "who was sitting in the exit row?" question is pretty academic.)

I sat next to one woman on the plane who wore her down jacket the whole flight, and never got up in four and a half hours. During take-off and landings, she clutched in her hands what appeared to be a smoke hood. Relax, ma'am. If that door needs to open, I am ALL OVER IT.

Time with the family was good - food, sleep, a little exercise, and time to catch up with people. The only drawback was seeing "The Good Shepherd," a Robert DeNiro movie starring Matt Damon. Skip it, for the love of all that is holy, skip it. My dad chose it. I should have known better. I have revoked his movie-choosing privileges.

The movie is about the founding of the CIA by a whole bunch of Yale grads, Skull & Bones, old money-types, spanning the time period 1939 to 1961. From 1939 to 1961, a period of 22 years, Matt Damon appears to go from looking like a young man of about 24 to a man of about... 24 and ten minutes. Seriously, just absurd.

Not so his wife, played by Angelina Jolie. They manage to age (and hag-ify) her plenty with makeup. (Good makeup, then no/bad makeup.) The only thing they changed on Matt Damon was his glasses.

(Everyone wears these British Socialist medicine glasses. Everyone. They must have been on sale. I guess the theory was that they'd make everyone look crafty and serious, but in fact, the opposite was true. I was waiting for someone's nose to come off with their glasses. Ridiculous.)

By 1961, Matt has a son who's graduated from college and also joined the CIA. I don't know how they were able to find someone young enough to play Matt Damon's son who wasn't already committed to the final Harry Potter movie. You could tell he was young - he didn't even get to wear glasses.

Oh, and? It was THREE HOURS LONG. Also, it had only the suggestion of a place where a plot ought to go. 3 hours of cloak and dagger suspense that goes nowhere.

If this had been directed by a newcomer, someone from the studio would have come in and said, "yeah, justa couple notes. One, you need to trim it to an hour and 40 minutes. Two, it has to make sense." But it's DeNiro, so who's gonna tell him his movie is a steaming pile?

I bet Dwight Shrute would love to do it.

*And the Sgt Pepper's Movie Soundtrack courtesy of Sam and Mike. Thanks!

Back to our regularly scheduled program...

2006-12-13T13:15:00.000-08:00

So.

I'm done with my China Stories (at least for awhile), so I'm going to go back to comedy blogging. I will still post sporadically, and no one will read it and that is okay.

Yes, I'm still doing comedy. I was part of a sketch comedy group for about 6 months. It was fun, but we weren't quite gelling. I felt like I barely had the time to contribute, and that I needed far more time to really make it as good as it could be. Nevertheless, it was fun - I enjoyed the performances. We did two skecthes I wrote - one worked really well, one didn't. I did get a better understanding of how to write for sketch, and why that one sketch didn't work.

Standup has been going okay. I probably perform a little less now than I was say 6 months ago. But I have a pretty steady schedule of decent shows.

I need badly to write new material, and retire some of what is my "A" material right now. I'm just not feeling it as much as I used to, even though it still works well. I'm working on that. I've got a whole bunch of half-assed bits, which I am hoping to convert to full-assed.

After 10+ months of sitting in the back of the Punchline on Sunday nights, I finally got on, which was great. I had a good (7-minute) set, so that was great, too. Now I sit for another 4-6 months, probably, before I get on again.

China Stories Pt. 37: Epilogue

2006-11-27T13:17:00.000-08:00

"Epilogue" sounds a little grandiose for what is really just the last in a string of scattered recollections of things that happened to me 18 years ago. But there it is.

The first couple of days in Hong Kong were a blur, and caused something akin to whiplash. I stayed with Katherine's family, in their sprawling high-rise condo with epic, sweeping views of Hong Kong harbor.

On our second night in Hong Kong, a friend of Katherine's family invited us all out to dinner - at the Hong Kong Jockey Club. So we descended from the 35th story apartment and drove to the racetrack, where we were the guests of honor at a meal of obscene splendor.

Fine wines were poured. Enormous steaks were foisted upon us. From our table, we had a view across the racetrack, where an event taking place. It was a pop concert, a benefit for the students. We could follow the action, such as it was, on the giant "diamond vision" screens to the side of the stage. They showed pictures and video of the protesters, defiantly flashing their "V for victory" signs.

Our host proposed a toast.

"To freedom," he said, raising his glass of wine.

I felt a little ill. I looked at Bob and Katherine, and I could tell they felt likewise. We certainly supported the sentiment. But we were not even two days removed from being among the students, who were living on the cold pavement of the square, surviving on donated food, and facing the very real prospect of violent suppression at the hands of the army. We had gone from being with these people who were making real sacrifices for democracy, to sitting in this lavish environment, expressing a sentiment almost perfectly devoid of any substance. Our friends (and our friends' friends) were still out there. It seemed perverse, even a little profane.

Of course the crackdown came, as we felt sure it would. In the early morning hours of June 4, 1989, we watched it unfold on TV with a mix of shock and grief. We watched, cried, and spoke little. And we worried, since there was so much uncertainty - how many were killed- hundreds? Thousands? Would there be trials? Executions? And what had happened to our friends?

After the fact, I felt tremendously guilty about having left before the crackdown. I felt guilty for leaving in part because I had come to feel that those of us who had spent time with the protesters had taken on an obligation to bear witness, and that by leaving, I had failed the students. But a lesser part of me also felt a tinge of regret for leaving before the "action," because I wouldn't have those stories to tell. I wouldn't be able to say I was there on June 4th. I felt ashamed for having such selfish thoughts.

Our friends were, thankfully, okay. One of my Chinese friends came to the US not long after June 4. She had been on the streets on the evening of June 3, and had been beaten by the army. She was extremely lucky to have gotten out. One of her supervisors at the University knew that she had participated in the protests; so had he. But he supported her application to go abroad. Shortly after the crackdown, she'd had to undergo numerous interviews to get permission to go abroad, and despite Beijing's stifling summer heat, she'd had to wear long-sleeved shirts to the interviews to cover the bruises.

I was able to spend Thanksgiving 1990 in Beijing with two more of my Chinese friends, and they subsequently came to the US to study as well.

After returning from Beijing, Bob earned a PhD in International Relations. He went on to pursue a career in academia, international affairs and government. I believe he currently holds a Post of Some Consequence at the United Nations.

Randy stayed past June 4, and did bear witness to the brutal aftermath of the crackdown. After returning home to Iowa, Randy founded a program to teach Mandarin to high school students. I was fortunate to be able to go back to China with Randy, serving as a chaperon for a group of his students in 1994.

Katherine lived in New York for awhile, but then got married and moved to the northeast. We eventually fell out of touch.

I became smitten with Hong Kong, and returned to live there from 1991 to 1993. I moved back to Beijing again, too, from 1997 to 1999.

Apparently, I hadn't gotten China out of my system. I probably haven't still.

China Stories Pt. 36: Leaving Beijing

2006-11-21T13:56:00.000-08:00

Bob, Katharine and I decided we would go to Hong Kong together the next day (assuming we could get out).

Our last night, we had dinner with some of our Chinese friends, in the Italian restaurant in the Shangri-La Hotel. It was bittersweet for all of us - we had made some good friends, and we were leaving them. We laughed a lot, and we talked about what we would do next. Our Chinese friends would probably try to come to the US to study, but it was uncertain whether or not they would be able to.

I gave one of my friends the key to my bike. It was a rite of passage.

The next morning, we set out for the airport. We were given the additional last assignment of getting one of CBS's senior cameramen on a flight to Tokyo. Thus the final words from my boss, Susan Zerensky, the CBS Producer Calling The Shots: "if Warren doesn't make that plane I'll kill you."

I can't remember how we got to the airport exactly, but I think one of "our" drivers took us in a small bus. My friend Randy, with whom I had shared the responsibility for the drivers, saw us off. He was staying.

We had to go a roundabout way to get to the airport, to avoid the army and to avoid the roadblocks that had been erected to keep the army out. Along the way, my adrenaline was building, bracing for the scene at the airport.

The airport on a normal day is somewhat chaotic, but after my experience with the train stations, I was not unaccustomed to that. And it was a chaos I could understand. On that day, the chaos was definitely greater, but it wasn't "fall of Saigon" chaos. I wasn't particularly worried about the possibility of not getting out. If I didn't get out, I'd go back to the Shangri-La and try again the next day.

We got in line for tickets. When we got to the front, we asked for tickets to Hong Kong. The employee simply took out boarding cards and placed stickers with seat numbers on them. (You didn't choose your seat. You got what she gave you, and that was that.) She asked me if I had luggage to check.

"Two pieces," I said. Now I knew we were going.

I remember being a little nervous about customs. What if someone had been paying attention to what we had been doing? What if they said, "you've been working illegally, and you violated martial law. Come with us." But I wasn't too concerned about that because a/ China is still run by a gigantic, inefficient bureaucracy; and b/ I was pretty much insignificant, since I hadn't done anything to foment protest. And even if they'd noticed or cared, they'd probably want me to leave anyway, which was fine with me.

The customs officer looked at my visa a little longer than I thought necessary, but then stamped my passport and slid it back to me while looking off in the distance. He couldn't have cared less.

We boarded the plane. I was excited - I was looking forward to being in Hong Kong. My parents were still there for another day, so I would get to see them. At the same time, I had a creeping sense of sadness. This adventure was drawing to a close. The showdown between the students and the government was growing ever tenser, and I had left the arena.

After the plane took off, we circled, I looked down, seeing nothing in particular, but in my mind I saw my friends. I saw my drivers, going about their day just as they did any other - smoking, laughing, sleeping on the job. I saw the students - tired, cold, hungry, scared, but defiant. And then the tears came and I couldn't see anymore.

China Stories Pt. 35: Time to Go

2006-11-07T12:58:00.000-08:00

"The Government called troops into the capital this morning and imposed martial law in parts of the city to crack down on China's growing democracy movement. But tens of thousands of people rushed out of their homes to block troops from reaching student demonstrators in the central square.

"The Beijing municipal authorities imposed strict limits on the activities of foreign journalists, banning interviews or taping on the streets or at government offices, schools, factories and mines. ''Any violators will be stopped according to the law,'' the order said.

"In mid-morning, loudspeakers on Tiananmen Square in the center of Beijing announced that martial law had been imposed in some parts of the capital. The announcement said this meant restrictions on movement within the city, but it did not give details. The crowd of workers and students in the square had swelled by then to about 200,000."
- Nicholas Kristof, New Tork Times, May 20, 1989

"Huge throngs, possibly amounting to more than one million Chinese, took to the streets today to defy martial law and block troops from reaching the center of the capital, effectively delaying or preventing the planned crackdown on China's democracy movement. Troops approaching Beijing on at least five major roads were halted or turned back by the largest crowds to have gathered so far in a month of almost continuous protests. Students and ordinary citizens erected roadblocks or lay in the path of army trucks, while others let the air out of their tires.

"[ The Associated Press, in a report Sunday from Beijing, said soldiers had set up roadblocks to the center of the capital and occupied its train station. The report also said as many as 70,000 troopers may have moved into the city center by subway and followed connecting tunnels to the walled palace, the history museum and the Great Hall of the People on three sides of the vast Tienanmen Square. ]"
- New York Times, May 21, 1989

"There was exhilaration as well as exhaustion on central Tiananmen Square as dawn broke this morning, for many of the tens of thousands of students occupying the square had earlier written their wills after widespread rumors that brutal repression would begin during the night. While many still fear that there will be violence, there is a sense of triumph in the capital that ordinary citizens have been able to prevent the Government from carrying out martial law more than two days after Prime Minister Li Peng ordered it."
- New York Times, May 22, 1989

The introduction of martial law, and the attendant dire warnings of consequences for those who violated it, changed the tone of events. It also specifically forbid the activities that I was engaged in on behalf of CBS. As a person who planned to have a long-term association with China, I started to really think about what it might mean to be arrested or expelled.

Around the square, the atmosphere grew much more tense. Helicopters flew low up and down ChangAn Boulevard, and circled the square. Students (and others) placed wet handkerchiefs over their faces, fearing that the helicopters would drop tear gas. One definitely got the sense that something was imminent, that the endgame could happen at any time.

Then they arrived by train and occupied the train station. This was really, to my mind, the beginning of the end, the point when regular people started to see now way around a violent confrontation.

Around this time (it was May 19 to be precise), I was in the northeast corner of the square, where CBS had set up. We had been in the square all night. At some point in the wee hours of the morning, a student came over to give me a tip.

"Zhao Ziyang is in the square. He came to talk to the students."

I was polite to the student, but skeptical. Why would China's Premier be in the square talking to students? Besides, I had heard many many rumors by this point - Deng Xiaoping is dead, Li Peng is stepping down, Li Peng was attacked by his bodyguards - that I discounted it heavily.

Well, it was true. Zhao had come, in effect to apologize to the students that he couldn't protect them. He had been relieved of all of his positions, dismissed. In hindsight, this too, seemed like a fateful step - here was the final brake on the senior leaders' impulse to crack down, and he was saying, in effect, I tried. I'm sorry.

By this point, it was very difficult to maneuver around the city - it could still be done, but it required ingenuity and knowledge of the back streets, and more than a little guts - especially for the locals. It was getting harder for us to be useful to CBS, too.

Once martial law was declared, and the train station was occupied, most of our taxi drivers ceased to work for us. A few stayed on, tempted by offers of more money. Instead of making $70 a month, they were making $100 a day. Even then, they wouldn't go near the train station.

At this point, my parents' tour had concluded, and they were in Hong Kong. They called me and said, calmly but urgently, "if you wanted to come to Hong Kong, NOW, we would be very much okay with that. We think that might be a really good idea."

I discussed it with my friends, and decided. May 23, 1989. It was time to go.

China Stories Pt. 34: "The People Love the Army!"

2006-11-07T12:08:00.000-08:00

So. My parents continued on with their tour, I continued to work at CBS, and the demonstrations continued as well.

As the days passed in the middle of May, a confrontation became increasingly likely. The People's Liberation Army was moving into Beijing, numbering in the tens of thousands.

But as the Army tried to enter the city, an amazing thing happened: people - regular people from every walk of life - blocked them from entering. They created barricades of cars and buses, and even laid themselves down in front of trucks, slowing the PLA's progress. They showed the recruits - young, very apprehensive. They were mostly rural boys with very little education, who barely spoke Mandarin. People would speak to them, try to start a dialogue with them. They'd say, "the people love the People's Liberation Army! And the Army loves the people!"

These poor kids were in a very tough position. Imagine if a bunch of 20 year olds from rural Kentucky, or Alabama, or Idaho, were asked to occupy Times Square. Or Union Square in SF. (I wish that sounded more absurd than it does.)

Somewhere in the midst of all this a couple of things happened that stick in my mind.

One day, Wu'er Kaixi came to the CBS offices to be interviewed. He was the student leader from Beijing Normal University. A native Beijinger of Uyghur descent, he had Matinee Idol good looks and loads of charisma. In the televised meeting with the Country's senior leaders, Wu'Er Kaixi made strident remarks, still dressed in a hospital gown (I can't remember, but I think he'd been hunger striking). He dramatically fainted at the end of his speech.

I remember that we sent a car to get him and that he brought along his girlfriend. Then I also remember him sitting around at CBS for half a day, drinking beer. This somewhat tarnished my view of him as a leader.

Then, for some other story, I was called into do a voiceover of the English translation of someone speaking in Mandarin. It was for either the CBS Evening News, or a piece for 60 Minutes. Anyway, my voice was on the broadcast, so I called my grandparents to let them know so they could listen for it. So that was kind of cool.

China Stories Pt. 33: Change of Plans

2006-10-31T12:01:00.000-08:00

Bob and I had made plans earlier in the spring to leave China in June via the Trans-Siberian railway. There are a couple of different routes, but we planned to go from Beijing to Moscow, then on to Berlin. From there, I was going to find my way down to Paris before heading back to the States.

The process to do the Trans-Siberian trip is relatively straightforward - you need to reserve the train tickets, which we had done. Then you need to get visas for each country, in reverse order. I can't remember if I needed a visa for East Germany, but I do remember going to get the Polish visa, which I needed before I could get the Soviet visa, which I needed before I could get the Mongolian visa.

Getting visas was a little bit intimidating - I'm in a Socialist country, going to the embassies of other (still) Socialist countries. In actuality, it was no big deal - just an inconvenience.

I biked and subway'd across town to the Polish Embassy. In the consular section I went up to a window to fill out the application. Over the shoulder of the consular official I noticed a calendar. It was the kind of calendar you expected to see in a garage - there was a woman leaning on a car, wearing a jumpsuit open to the waist. She had one breast exposed. I felt like It was watching me as I filled out my paperwork.

A couple of weeks went by, and I went back to retrieve my visa. Under the watchful eye of the government of Poland and of The Breast, I retrieved my Polish visa. Now I had to go to the Soviet Embassy.

I made another cross-town pilgrimage to the Soviet Embassy. The Soviet Embassy was a giant complex - it felt like a college campus. There was a TV blaring in the waiting room. There were Chinese-looking people speaking Russian, and Russian-looking people speaking Chinese. It was a little confusing. I submitted my application, and was told to come back for my visa in two weeks.

But I never made it. Everything Started Happening, and I never picked up my visa.

I hadn't changed my plans, so much as they were simply set aside, overtaken by events.

Bob and I (and many others) had originally planned to extend our stay in the University's dorm until our mid-June departure date. This was pretty typical, and was all arranged. But after the demonstrations started, the school changed its mind and kicked us out on short notice in mid-May. It wasn't a big shock, since they weren't too thrilled that we had stopped going to class and were working for CBS News. In any event, I hadn't stayed a night on campus in at least 2 weeks. I'd been staying at the Shangri-La hotel, in one of the many rooms CBS had rented. I went back to my dorm room one last time, and had about 10 minutes to pack. I just dumped all of my belongings into my backpack. (Later, I found that some of my momentos from my CBS stint were gone - I think my roommate Chad had appropriated them.)

I got so busy at CBS that I forgot all about my visa, and in any case, at some point Bob and I both knew we weren't going to make the trip.

We didn't know when we would leave. Why should we leave at all? We were so wrapped up in what we were doing, so focused on what unfolded everyday, that the idea of planning to leave simply receded into the background.

China Stories Pt. 32: "They're shutting us down."

2006-10-30T10:18:00.000-08:00

One of the more dramatic moments at CBS was when the government officials came in to shut down our satellite link.

We had had a satellite link-up which allowed us to beam live broadcasts back to the US for numerous CBS news shows - the morning and evening news shows, plus 60 Minutes, and CBS Sunday Morning.

One day a couple of bureaucrats showed up at our offices and informed us that they were shutting us down. I don't recall that there was any reason given. I do recall that CBS played it for all it was worth. CBS televised someone - I think it was Dan Rather - trying to bargain with the bureaucrats through an intepreter. But of course, there was no bargaining with bureaucrats. Then in dramatic fashion, we went off the air.

I imagine it looked pretty dramatic. In practice, all it meant was that now in order to get stories on the air, we had to courier videtapes out of the country, which was actually not very difficult.

Frequently, there were CBS people leaving the country anyway, and they would be asked to carry videotapes with them to Tokyo or Hong Kong. From there, the stories could be beamed back to the US.

If no one was leaving, they would send people like me to the airport, and we would find people willing to carry the tapes for us.

At one point, I remember that we sent some tapes out to Tokyo with a somewhat unlikely courier: the Cuban National Women's Volleyball Team.

("Hi, Frank, the tapes are on their way. Look for the group of six-foot-tall women wearing matching red track suits.")

China Stories Pt. 31: Mom and Dad Show Up

2006-10-07T17:16:00.000-07:00

In the middle of all this... my parents came to visit. They had planned the trip months before, well before any of the current demonstrations started, so... hi, son!

I was working 18-20 hours a day for CBS. My parents were on a tour, so they were fairly busy as well. It was too bad that I couldn't spend more time with them, but I was happy and relieved to see them. It had been about 4 months, the longest I'd ever been away. I think that seeing me helped to ease their concerns about what I was doing.

They were in Beijing for just a couple of days - they'd come from Shanghai, and soon would be off to Xi'an. They did the usual tourist things in Beijing, though circumstances dictated some adjustments to their itinerary. First of all, they couldn't visit Tiananmen Square. And in traveling to other destinations, they had to make some detours to avoid demonstrations. Their tour guide, they told me with great amusement, called the demonstrations "parades." As in, "we have to take a different way to the Temple of Heaven, because there are many parades today."

Seeing my parents was terrific., and being seen by them was terrific. I was really happy and immensely proud of what I was doing, and thrilled that they could see me "in my element."

There was one great moment when I was walking through the lobby of the Shangri-La with my parents, and one of the bell captains I had become friends with came over to chat. He walked along with us, chatting and joking with me in Mandarin. For a moment, I felt like Rick in Casablanca - like I knew all the people and all the angles in this very foreign place.

Later, I joined my parents and some of their fellow travelers for dinner in the hotel. I was naturally the center of attention, which I don't mind saying, I rather enjoyed. As we ate and chatted, my old friend Cliff came up to the table.

"These your parents?" he asked me. He turned to them.

"I just wanted to say hello and let you know you've raised a fine young man here."

I'm pretty sure I beamed.

China Stories Pt. 30: Tiananmen Square at Night

2006-10-01T20:16:00.000-07:00

The hot day gave way to a chilly evening. The students talked, and huddled together to stay warm. They'd been sleeping outside for many days, with inadequate clothing and shelter, and subsisting on cheap instant noodles and food brought to the square by concerned citizens. The hunger strikers have their own section of the square, where the are monitored by doctors and given fluids intravenously. The hum of the students conversations is broken only by the Euro-style bi-tonal sirens of the ambulances that come and go with regularity, carrying the worst off hunger strikers to the hospital.

Brad, John and I walked around the square, occasionally stopping to shoot. We were only interested in what was new, and newsworthy. All that matters is what will get on the CBS Evening News. There is considerable competition - not only from the other CBS crews spread around the city, but also from other current events. (In the middle of the demonstrations, Lucille Ball died. It was quite clear that unless there was a coup, or somehow the demonstrations had a "Lucy" tie-in, nothing we shot that day was getting on the news.)

We visited the hunger striker area, where I snapped a few personal photos with no flash. One of the hunger strikers, wearing a headband and getting an IV, flashed me the "V" sign.

Without warning, the large speakers hanging from every light pole crackled to life. An announcement was made to the effect that everyone in the square was advised to pay attention for an important announcement. At the end of the announcement, the hush was replaced by excited whispers and speculation.

Twenty minutes went by, and then the speakers came alive again. Several of the senior leaders spoke in turn. I don't remember everyone who spoke, and I don't recall what was said. (In any case, I probably caught at most 75% of what was said.) The one speaker I remember was Yang Shangkun, who had been a General in the People's Liberation Army. His voice was low and gravelly. He sounded haughty and pedantic, like a teacher scolding a student. The square was completely silent, with everyone listening, and looking at the speakers. The effect was eery - the quiet darkness of the square, punctured by the disembodied voices. It reinforced how disconnected the leaders were from the students.

Although I can't remember what was said, the gist of the message was this: students, leave the square. Your time is up. If you don't leave, we will have to take alternative measures.

The students were unmoved.

China Stories Pt. 29: "Make sure the syringe is new."

2006-09-25T14:39:00.000-07:00

One night, I got a call asking me to take someone to the hospital.

Cliff was a satellite technician. He was from Oklahoma or Texas, I think. He was probably about 50, balding with glasses. He'd one of his arms had been amputated.

One night I got a call that Cliff was sick – he was having some kind of allergic reaction, and needed to go to the hospital. He needed a car, and he needed someone to accompany him. I arranged a car, and headed downstairs.

When I got downstairs, there was an ambulance, too. Apparently, his head was swelling, and it was decided that he needed medical care more urgently. Cliff would ride in the ambulance, and I would follow in a car driven by Mr. Xu. I felt responsible for making sure Cliff didn't have anything done to him that he didn't understand and consent to. Secondly, I was there to be reassuring.

We headed out of the hotel, the ambulance ahead with its light blaring. We tried to stay with the ambulance, but since we weren't allowed legally to run lights like the ambulance, inevitably we lost it. I got mad at Mr. Xu for missing the light.

I was agitated – I was supposed to be taking care of Cliff, and now I was lost. Mr Xu told me he knew a shortcut. I was skeptical. We set off, quickly leaving the main street for a smaller street. Mr. Xu sped along in the dark, cruising through intersections without stop signs. We turned off the street into a "hu tong" – an ancient Beijing alley, still as narrow and crooked as it had been for hundreds of years. It wouldn't have taken more than a three-wheel bicycle to block our path, which would have meant backtracking. I was nervous – was Mr. Xu lost? Did he know what he was doing? I urged him to hurry. I guess I figured if we're going to get lost or stuck, we might as well get there sooner.

But we eventually emerged from the warren of alleys, and Mr Xu adeptly swerved across several lanes of the main road, and into the hospital. Cliff was just getting out of the ambulance.

Perfect, just as I’d planned. I was relieved, and I apologized to Mr. Xu for ever having doubted him.

We were led to a room, where a nurse took Cliff’s temperature.

"So, not feeling too well, huh?" I said. Ooh, nice. Smooth bedside manner there. I'm sure Cliff was impressed.

"Nope." He said simply. "I don't know what happened, I had dinner, and then I was up in my room and my head started to throb, and I got dizzy."

I didn't really know what he had looked like before, but I guessed his head was quite swollen. It was red and blotchy. His skin looked angry.

"Do you have allergies?" I asked, as I leafed through my little red English-Chinese dictionary to look up the word. (What, am I a doctor now? Just try to be helpful.)

"I have had, yes. But not to food, so I'm not sure what this might be." I can't imagine it gave Cliff a lot of comfort to be in a Chinese hospital in the middle of the night in the care of a 20 year-old carrying a dictionary.

Meanwhile, I was just thankful I'd had the presence of mind to remember the dictionary.

The doctor came in and asked some fairly basic questions, which I translated. Occasionally I looked up words. I think I had to look up dizzy. Headache, I knew.

The doctor said he thought it was an allergic reaction, and said he wanted to administer a cortisone shot. (I knew the words for injection, and eventually figured out we were talking about cortisone. I knew it wasn't opium, the one injectable thing I knew how to say in Chinese.)

I explained this to Cliff, and he thought about it. I felt that he was trying to read in me whether or not I had confidence in what was going on here. And in fact, I did believe that we were in pretty capable hands.

"Well," said Cliff, " okay. Will they use a disposable syringe? Make sure the syringe is new."

Okay, I thought. That's a good point, and I should make sure about that. When the doctor got back, I did make a point of asking him if he was using a "single-use" only syringe. Yes, he replied patiently.

"It's never been used, you say?"

"Yes," he said, this time with a hint of reproach. I think he felt mildly insulted. To me, this was reassuring.

The doctor told me that the shot would have to be given in the buttocks, which I dutifully explained to Cliff. They gestured a little, at which point Cliff began to, um, prepare for the shot. We actually talked as this was going on, about what I don't remember, but it helped break the tension.

A nurse sterilized the area where the shot would be given. Then the doctor came over, holding up the syringe, still sealed in a plastic sheath.

Cliff nodded approvingly – not an easy thing to do while bent over an exam table. Then he said, "tell him to let me know when he's going to put it in."

Just then, before I could say anything, the doctor inserted the syringe. It was a pretty physical activity, since the shot had to be into the muscle. And this was no baby syringe, either. The doctor was sort of leaning into it. Cliff was clearly a tough guy, and he endured it stoically. It was an odd moment for us to be sharing. But memorable.

We sat in the exam room for an hour or so, and then the doctor came back to check on Cliff. He was improving dramatically. Eventually, he gave Cliff another medicine, an antihistamine or something, to take later. We thanked the doctor and returned to the hotel. It was about 4 am – time for work again.

China Stories Pt 28: Waldo Zai Nar?*

2006-09-19T16:28:00.000-07:00

Song Shui! Dui Hua!

Protestors confronted a cordon of People's Armed Police around the Great Hall of the People, and got very close, but never caused a confrontation. The PAP were severely outnumbered and there were no barriers - beyond the PAP, one had only to bound up the step and be inside the Great Hall. As a result, the PAP were VERY tense. But the students were very disciplined - remarkably so for such a large, uncoordinated group. In fact, at several points when it appeared that a confrontation was imminent, the students policed themselves, booting any troublemakers to the rear.

I remember two chants from these confrontations (though they may have taken place at different times):

"Song shui!" Bring us water. I think this started off as a literal request. The square was hot during the day, and the students were there for days on end, so it was no surprise that they wanted water. But it was most certainly symbolic as well. The students were asking the government to show more compassion and concern for their plight. This appeal was probably instrumental in eliciting the sympathy of the general public.

"Dui hua!" Dialogue. As the students were emboldened, they asked for a dialogue. And to a degree that was all they wanted. They never asked for democratic reforms as we might think of them - one man, one vote. Rather they wanted greater transparency and accountability. They wanted transparency in government dealings, and accountability. And they wanted to be able to express their opinions about it, but not necessarily to vote.

Waldo Zai Nar?

One day I was out with Brad and John, shooting video on and around the square. We'd started early in the morning and by mid-afternoon we were hungry, but we weren't ready to pack it in yet, so they sent me to get food. As luck would have it, there was a Kentucky Fried Chicken not far from the southwest corner of Tiananmen Square. I came back with Original Recipe, mashed potatoes, cole slaw, and sporks.

So there I was, wading through Tiananmen Square with my chicken (and sides!). I weaved my way through tens if not hundreds of thousands of Chinese students demonstrating in the name of democracy.

Stand back, protesters! Coming through! I've got lunch.

Since I was carrying a big box with red and white stripes on it, I thought the scene must have looked like some sort of "Where's
Waldo?," cultural hegemony edition.

*Yes, that would be "Where's Waldo?" in Mandarin.

China Stories Pt. 27: May 4, 1989

2006-09-13T12:15:00.000-07:00

Note: I have a bunch of pictures and other stuff, but I do not have a scanner. As soon as I get one (or get access to one), I will put them up.

Over the course of April and May, I spent several days and nights out with a camera crew covering the demonstrations.

The days blended into each other, and I have lost track of when I saw the various things I saw going on in the square. I will try to recount a few of the more memorable moments.

Mostly, I was out with the Beijing-based crew. The soundman was American. Bradley was the guy who had previously studied in our program, and come out to recruit us. The cameraman, John, was American-born Chinese. He'd been based in Beijing for 10 years or more, and wasn't going anywhere. He liked living in Beijing, he had a wife and kids there, and I think his father had retired there as well.

May 4 promised to be a big day in terms of demonstrations. The May 4th Movement was a patriotic movement that originated in response to what were perceived as the very unfair (to China) terms of the Treaty of Versailles. In the treaty, China's sovereign interests were ignored, as German-occupied territory in China was turned over to Japan, rather than returned to Chinese sovereignty. (One area occupied by Germany was Shandong, including the port city of Qingdao, famous for its nearby mineral springs. The Germans used it to make pretty decent beer – Tsing-tao.)

This sparked demonstrations for greater Chinese nationalism and for modernization, and against China's feudal society based on Confucianism, which was seen as weak. Intellectuals and students were at the forefront of this movement, and led demonstrations. On May 4th, 1919, thousands of university students went to Tiananmen (Gate – there was no square at that point) to protest the "unequal treaty." Some of the leaders of the May 4th Movement later became the founding figures of the Chinese Communist Party- such as Li Dazhao, who helped found the CCP, and who had hired a young assistant librarian at Beijing University named Mao Zedong.

We started the day early at Bei Da. It was the first time I'd been back on campus in 10 days or so. Before we got started, I bought a commemorative stamped envelope at the Bei Da post office. I don't know why – I was there, it was there. I still have it.

Brad, John and I positioned ourselves for the beginning of the march on the roof of the apartment building directly opposite the main gate of the university.

Once the march began, a large group numbering at least 10,000 flooded from the gate, jubilant, triumphant. They set off for Tiananmen Square.

We followed the group all day. As it made its way to the square, it swelled to number in the tens of thousands, maybe over 100,000. (Significantly, the protests had begun to attract people from all walks of life, not just students. This was the cause of grave concern to the leadership.) We would drive ahead of the crowd and find a position – say, on an overpass. I would carry the tripod, help set up, and then keep the crowd from jostling the crew (as best I could). We would follow the protesters for awhile, and then get back in the car and leap ahead again.

The march grew tense at one point, when the police had set up a cordon to try to prevent the marchers from getting to the square. The police were not prepared for the sheer size of the crowd, nor were they prepared to use violence against the crowd. In any case, the crowd was quite peaceful, even jovial. When they came to the police, who stood with arms linked, they simply pressed their way through.

At one point, we drove out to Beijing Normal University, where we heard that one of the student leaders was speaking. We got some footage of one of the young leaders, a young man named Wu'er Kaixi. He later joined other student leaders in holding a televised meeting with senior leaders in the Great Hall of the people. Wearing hospital garb and with an IV in his arm (he'd fainted earlier, I think, and had been taken to the hospital), he spoke defiantly and directly to the assembled senior leadership of China. His lack of deference to these elders was shocking, but he was articulate, forceful, and above all, charismatic. It was riveting. (Imagine Bush and Cheney consenting to sit down with student leaders from UC Berkeley or Harvard, on live TV, and having the student leaders tear the POTUS and VPOTUS a new one.)

(Hang on a sec, I'm still savoring that image. Heh.)

I saw another leader that day – the main leader of the group from Bei Da, Wang Dan. He was a young history student, 20 or 21 years old. He was smart, articulate, and quiet. He probably had been one of the people who spoke before the first march to the square, but I'm not sure. I took a picture of him on May 4, because I thought, "here is a person who is playing a major role in this event. One day he'll be a political leader. Or a martyr."

Eventually we made it down to the square itself, which was teeming with well over 100,000 people by now. We walked all around the square, shooting footage of whatever was happening.

I thought back to the demonstrations I had seen on tv, while I studying Chinese back in Vermont two years before.

I asked John, "how do these demonstrations compare to the ones in 1987?"

John looked at me in disbelief. "There's no comparison. These are about a hundred times larger."

China Stories Pt. 26: Dan Rather and Me

2006-09-07T11:50:00.000-07:00

I had two encounters with Dan Rather, both of them pleasant. And actually, I'd heard nothing bad about him. My friend Bob had ended up in the (somewhat) enviable position of being Mr. Rather's personal China production assistant, so he spent quite a bit of time with him, and didn't have a bad word to say. My own encounters were more comical.

The first time I met Dan (I'm sure he'd be okay with me referring to him by his first name), it was 11 in the evening or so, and I was minding the car pool. We had a handful of drivers on call, and there wasn't too much going on. The phone rang – someone said, "Dan wants chocolate ice cream." Okay. I don't remember why this request ended up coming to me, but I went up to Mr. Rather's room and delivered a bowl of chocolate ice cream to him. He answered the door, clothed, perfectly normal and civil, and said thank you. I assume that afterwards he ate the ice cream. (To be fair, I did enjoy imagining what else might have been going on beyond his hotel room door when I dropped off the ice cream.)

Dan Rather in Tiananmen Square. Not my photo - found it on the website of the Houston Chronicle, which said he was he was "the only network news anchor broadcasting from the pro-democracy uprising."

The next time I encountered Dan was a little scarier.

I was running the car pool, and it was a slow day, not much was going on. My friend Topher called. "Hey," he said. "I need to run out to the airport to change some tickets, then stop at the Friendship Store. Can I get a car?"

"Sure," I said. "Take Mr. Fu."

I liked Topher – he worked hard, had a good sense of humor. I liked Mr. Fu, too – he was one of my favorites, too, and since he drove one of the Mercedes, he didn't get out as much, since we kept the Mercedes in reserve for the VIPs.

A half hour later, another call comes down, from one of the producers. "Dan wants to go out," he said.

"Sure," I said. "Let's see…"

I looked around. I knew I didn't have Mr. Fu, one of the two Mercedes drivers. Where was Mr. Duan, my other Mercedes driver? Where…oh. Oh shit. I'd sent him out, too.

"Um, okay, I'll uh, meet you in the lobby."

I went down to the lobby, and met the producer, whose name I don't recall. Let's call him Tom the Sycophant.

"So, unfortunately, I don't have a Mercedes for Mr. Rather right now," I said. Tom turned ashen. For a split second, I think he felt sorry for me, but then he came to his senses and began feeling sorry for himself.

"How could you do that? What are you going to do about it? Call them, tell them to come back!"

Of course I'd thought of that. But there was no way to get in touch with Topher or Mr. Fu, and I didn't know where they were anyway. Likewise Mr. Duan.

Tom sounded absolutely sick. Distraught. In his mind he was being frog-marched out of the hotel with a banker's box of his belongings, because of me. It was the apocalypse.

Seeing how wrecked this guy was, I started to really worry – would Dan Rather dress me down in the lobby, and then summarily fire me on the spot? Would he hit me? It looked as though Tom thought that was possible.

I decided to take responsibility for this situation, which I had created, and deal with it head on. (This is really out of character for me, by the way. You can ask anyone.)

Tom's radio crackled – "He's on his way down," said the radio.

Ding! The elevators opened, and Dan Rather strode out, wearing his safari vest. (A bit of an affectation, but whatever. He's Dan Rather.) My stomach tightened and my heart raced as Dan approached the entrance, where Tom the ashen-faced Sycophant and I awaited. As we exited the hotel, I said, "Mr. Rather, I'm sorry, but I don't have a Mercedes Benz available for you right now. I hope that this car will be okay." I indicated the Toyota that had just pulled up.

Dan regarded the car evenly.

"That's okay," he said, sliding into the front passenger seat. "I doubt it will change the course of human events."

Tom the panic-stricken Sycophant climbed in the back. They drove off, and I went back inside. My pulse rate returned to normal.

Mr. Rather seemed slightly surprised, but composed. I'm guessing he didn't get shoe-horned into a compact Japanese car very often. I had fucked up, no question. But it hadn't been the end of the world after all. Although after that, I made damned sure I never again let both of the Mercedes leave if Dan was still in the building.

China Stories Pt. 25: Live from Tiananmen Square

2006-09-05T00:29:00.000-07:00

We assembled in the cool darkness just outside the hotel entrance at 2 or 3am. Inside, the hotel staff changed the carpets in the elevator and polished the marble floors and brass fixtures. Then we loaded up and headed to the square, a convoy of a half dozen cars and vans full of equipment and people.

We pulled up to the steps of the Museum of the People's Revolution, set up, and then, as the sun came up behind us, Dan Rather was beamed into American living rooms. (Especially living rooms in the not-so-coveted 45-54 demographic.) Then around 6 or so, we broke everything down, and headed back to the hotel. Back into the little island of quiet and order. Time enough to shower and have breakfast. Then it was time to go back to work.

I'm not sure how many times we did the broadcast from the Museum. Rather also anchored evening news broadcasts from the Tiananmen gate itself.

This was all by prior arrangement with government authorities, of course - it had been set up for Gorbachev's visit. Later, when the demonstrations were in full force, we just parked a flatbed truck in the northeast corner of the square and broadcast from there. By that point, students controlled access to the square, so we had to get their permission to enter the square. The students even issued press credentials and vehicle passes. And not just one group - there were multiple groups of students controlling access at different points. I don't know if they appreciated the irony. ("Down with bureaucracy! Can I see your papers?")

I held no job of any consequence in this undertaking – at one point, I may have held a sun reflector during the broadcast, but that was the extent of the excitement for me. My main role was to keep onlookers a reasonable distance back from the broadcast. I stood there with the students watching what was going on. "Where are you from?" they would ask. "America, CBS News," I'd reply. "Oh, good." They didn't know CBS, really, or Dan Rather, but they were happy to have the international press covering the demonstrations.

I was very cognizant of the fact that I was working for the media, and so therefore had some obligation to be objective. (Such a quaint notion!) I was also very aware that I was a guest in China, and I was engaging in activities inconsistent with my visa status. This meant that in theory, I could have been kicked out of the country at any time. Since I intended to have a longer term involvement with China, getting expelled would have been a bad idea.

I felt that I had no active role to play in this. I was a foreigner. I didn't have any skin in the game. I was especially sensitive to this point - I wasn't so presumptuous as to think that I was in any way an active participant in these events. I was there to help tell the story, and most of the students were very happy to have us there.

I'm glad I recognized that I didn't have anything like the same stake in events that the Chinese students had. But in hindsight, I wish I had been a little bit more expressive. I wish I had let the students know how much I supported them, and hoped for them and for their cause. I think they knew. (This was way back in the good old days when the US was considered a beacon of free speech and civil rights.) But I would have felt better if I had expressed myself more.

China Stories Pt. 24: The Shangri-La

2006-09-05T00:27:00.000-07:00

Did you see the movie "Lost in Translation?" Even though the movie was set in Tokyo, the hotel reminded me a great deal of the hotel where CBS was encamped. Watching the movie I heard the "ding" of the elevator, and I was transported right back to the Shangri-La on Zizhuyuan Road.

The large marble floor was constantly in varying stages of being cleaned and polished, as was all of the brass. There was a large atrium where coffee and tea were served; in the afternoons, a string quartet played. There was a coffee shop, with a breakfast buffet including an omelet station. There was a steakhouse restaurant. There was a fancy Chinese restaurant that served Cantonese food. There was, in the basement, an Italian restaurant called Peppino's. There was a little store that sold Tylenol, Colgate, Scope, candy, magazines, newspapers. There was a gift gallery that sold... mostly overpriced crap, but hey, that's what some people want to take home from China, and it doesn't seem overpriced to them, so God bless them.

The staff dressed immaculately in black and white uniforms, except for maintenance people who wore overalls, or security people who wore suits and had radios.

The elevators were gleaming. The carpets showed the day of the week in English and Chinese.

The rooms were fairly nondescript, but nicely appointed – a big king size bed (or two); a desk and a dresser; a minibar stocked with candy bars, nuts, gin, whiskey, scotch, vodka, wine and beer. The bathroom was marble with gold fixtures and fluffy white towels. On the mirror was a small sign informing you that the water was not safe to drink.

In the closet were two terry cloth robes, and two pairs of slippers. There was a safe, and a bag for laundry.

There was a TV that carried local stations, plus CNN international, the Hong Kong stations and a Japanese channel. There were a couple of movie channels as well. I don't believe the hotel received CBS.

China Stories Pt 23: Back to CBS

2006-08-22T21:41:00.000-07:00

More than 10,000 people took over Beijing's central square on Tuesday night in a rally for democracy. Several thousand students then marched to the Communist Party headquarters, where those in the front of the crowd tried to force their way in to see the nation's leaders.

- New York Times, April 19, 1989

A crowd defying a ban on public protests swelled to more than 100,000 Friday night in Beijing's central square to press demands for more democracy. It was by far the biggest protest in China since the end of the Maoist era more than a dozen years ago.
- New York Times, April 22, 1989

Events came in a rush, both the political events that were unfolding, as well as those on a smaller scale. For instance, I'm not sure exactly when we went back to work at CBS, but it couldn't have been long after that first protest march. I remember that at first, I was concerned about missing classes, although the program coordinator was sympathetic. In any case, it soon became irrelevant when all of the Beijing area universities went on strike.

The CBS work started, and we worked 16 or more hours a day, so I basically lived at the five-star Shangri-La Hotel. I got reacquainted with bellboys and other hotel staff. We had a generous meal per diem, so we ate very well.

At CBS I returned to my job of coordinating cars, and I was reunited with many of the drivers I'd met in February. We had 20-some cars and drivers at our disposal. We had a variety of vehicles. Mostly they were Toyota sedans, but we also had some minivans, a large bus, and a couple of big Mercedes sedans. The sedans were for the VIPs, such as Dan Rather.

The CBS crew that descended on Beijing was bigger than it had been back in February. They were already planning extensive coverage of the upcoming Gorbachev visit, but they expanded it. Dan Rather would be anchoring the CBS Evening News from Tiananmen Square. They had a number of other high-profile correspondents as well, including Bruce Morton, Susan Spencer and Bob Simon, who subsequently became a prisoner during the (first) Gulf War.

CBS imported editors, producers, correspondents and technicians from around the globe. Running the show was a dynamo of a producer named Susan Zirinsky. She was energetic, driven, tough. She was the model for Holly Hunter's character in "Broadcast News." (When I left China, her parting words to me were: "if Warren doesn't get on that plane, I'll kill you." I digress.)

Unlike during the Bush visit, this time I spent part of my time detailed to the Beijing based camera crew going out to cover events. This meant I got out of the hotel more often.

China Stories Pt. 22: To the Square

2006-08-13T10:48:00.000-07:00

BEIJING, Tuesday, April 18 - Several thousand students marched through the capital in pre-dawn hours today, chanting democratic slogans and singing revolutionary songs as they mourned the ousted Communist Party leader Hu Yaobang and called for a more democratic government.

The demonstration was the most significant sign of unrest in China since student demonstrations for democracy were crushed more than two years ago.

- The New York Times, April 18, 1989

Bob and I hustled back over to the plaza where students were gathering. Students were milling around, waiting for something to happen. Occasionally there were short speeches, followed by applause and shouts. Then a buzz went through the crowd and a cheer went up. This was at about 11pm.

The crowd, which I would estimate at about 1,000, started moving toward the University's main gate. I'm not clear if the group was only from Bei Da, or if there were also students from Qinghua University (which is next door). As the group made its way south past People's University, students from that university joined in.

The group was made up mostly of students, but there was a significant contingent of non-students, which also grew along the route. There were also teachers, some foreigners, and some (foreign) photographers and reporters.

The atmosphere was festive. There were songs. They sang the Internationale, which is like Socialism's theme song. They sang "We Shall Overcome." I say "they" - I didn't really know the words to the Internationale, although later one of my Chinese friends taught me. Many of the Chinese students knew the words to "We Shall Overcome" better than I did. They shouted slogans - "down with bureaucracy!" for instance, and "Li Peng step down!" Li Peng was the Premier at the time. He had been elevated to his position in the wake of Hu's dismissal. Even though he was the adopted son of Zhou Enlai, he was a conservative and a hard-liner and consequently, he was not well liked.

Along the way, I struck up a conversation with a first-year science student from Fujian province. He said he remembered the protests from 1986 and 1987, and that he was excited to be part of something like this. I saw some of my teachers, and a few of my fellow exchange students. We exchanged looks as if to say, "can you believe we're doing this?"

Map of the Route to the Square (by my recollection)

I don't know how far it is from the university district in northwest Beijing to Tiananmen Square - 10 miles, I would guess. (I would have thought that in the internet age, that would be a relatively simple thing to look up. Not for me, anyway. Prove me wrong, kids! Prove me wrong.) I had my bike, but at times the crowd moved so slowly that it made more sense to walk. It was crowded enough that I worried about running into someone.

I was familiar with the route, having done it by car, by bus and by bike before. But it seemed completely different now. Even though it was midnight, then one, two, three in the morning, the group was exuberant, energized by a unity of purpose. At the same time, the city around us was calm, silent. There were virtually no cars on the road. The streets were dark, since all but the major avenues did not have streetlights. Our group may have been full of energy, but this city had been here for centuries, and had seen dynasties and republics come and go. It seemed to sleep soundly as we marched by.

The excitement and tension gradually built during the long walk. After three or four hours, we reached Fuxingmen, the intersection with Chang'an Jie, the wide boulevard that forms the northern edge of the square. Chang'an Jie, the Avenue of Eternal Peace, is the main east-west street in Beijing. It is Broadway and Pennsylvania Avenue combined. As we turned to head east on Chang'an Jie, the sense of anticipation was palpable.

The majority of China's senior leaders live in Zhongnanhai, a large walled compound just northwest of square, and almost directly across Chang'an Jie from the Great Hall of the People. (In fact, there was a tunnel connecting the two, so that the leadership could get back and forth underground.) Our route would take us right by Zhongnanhai's (well-guarded) main gate.

As we reached Zhongnanhai, with the square and the Tiananmen Gate coming into view just ahead of us, a tremendous roar erupted, and everyone around me began to run. It sent a chill down my spine - it still does when I think of it. I ran a little ways before clumsily hopping back on my bike.

This group - euphoric! triumphant! - poured into the vast empty darkness of the square. This group that had seemed so big and full of energy seemed to diminish and then nearly disappear into the dark center of the square. The voices which had seemed loud and strong moments before now dissipated. Tiananmen Square was the civic equivalent of a black hole.

I rode my bike into the square and parked it well back from the crowd. I remember that I locked my bike - I didn't want someone to steal my bike. Despite the idealism in the air, I regarded that as a real possibility. Who wanted to walk the ten miles back to campus?

The group reassembled in the center of the square, around the Monument to the People's Heroes. Everyone waited and watched, as some students tried to figure out how they would get the wreathe, and themselves, onto the ten-foot high base of the monument. Eventually one of the students was able to scramble up, eliciting a wave of shouts. "Hao! Hao!" they shouted. Good.

I looked behind me, at the giant portrait of Chairman Mao staring placidly down. I looked over my right shoulder at the Great Hall of the People, at the large windows that faced the square. I wondered if anyone was paying any attention. I didn't see anyone looking out, but the lights were on.

The first student up helped a second up, then a third. Everyone shouted encouragement. Other students then handed up the wreath. The students read the list of conditions which they'd read back on the campus. They reiterated the demand that the government reevaluate the career of Hu Yaobang. They called for an end to official corruption. All of this was met with continuous cascades of applause and cheers.

After awhile, it seemed that the event had run its course. Then several Beijing city buses showed up. I didn't know what was going on until one of my friends explained: they were there to take students back to the University district. (Apparently during the previous demonstrations in 1986 and 1987, this had also happened. "Okay, you've made your point. Back on the bus.") I guess someone had been paying attention after all.

Those of us who'd ridden our bicycles got back on our bikes for the ride back to campus. The group riding back was fairly quiet now. We were tired. Around us, the city was waking up - there were people out for morning jogs, and many older people doing tai chi. Then, not long into the ride back, I realized I had a flat front tire. It was still too early in the morning to get it fixed, so I just had to ride on the flat all the way home. We got back around 6:30 or 7am. I just had time to grab some breakfast and get to class on time - though that didn't concern me greatly.

China Stories Pt 21: Mourning on campus

2006-08-08T15:44:00.000-07:00

Note: At this point, my chronology may get a little iffy. I am trying to go chiefly by memory, though I'm occasionally doing some fact checking. Apologies in advance for any errors or omissions.

Returning to the Beijing University campus after our meeting at CBS, I started to sense that something was stirring. Posters started to appear in a small plaza near the center of campus, by the post office and the campus store. Hu Yaobang was a reformer, and was well regarded among the the "intelligentsia."* But this seemed a bit excessive.

Throughout the next day, more posters went up. Students milled about talking, wandering among the posters, reading and discussing them in hushed tones.

In the early evening, Bob and I went over to see what was happening, and ran into a couple of Chinese friends. One of them was actually one of my teachers, and I addressed him as such, which was customary, even informally. He shushed me, and asked me not to call him teacher. I think he did not want to be viewed as some kind of authority figure in the crowd. He didn't want any of the students to think he was The Man.

As we walked among the posters, our friends helped to de-code their meanings. My teacher was uncharacteristically animated as he translated the posters for us. This poster, he explained, is about a Ming dynasty century ruler, but is actually suggesting the current government is corrupt.

In typical Chinese fashion, the messages were elliptical, and were really only accessible to very well educated people - people who, let's say, had studied classical Chinese and knew Chinese history backwards and forwards. Imagine someone criticizing President Bush by quoting Shakespeare, or better yet Chaucer. Try that the next time you log on to Daily Kos or Atrios, and see how far it gets you.

One of the posters which generated a buzz in the crowd was a great deal more succinct, and so straightforward that even I could understand it. I paraphrase:

Those who should not have died already died;
Those who should die live on;
What is to be done?**

A ha. Mourning the death of a popular leader, and using the occasion to be critical of the government. The story my friend Jack had told me, not a month earlier, of the 1976 Tiananmen Incident, was still fresh in my mind.

Later in the afternoon, a student climbed up on a ledge and began to speak. He said said they were raising money for a funeral wreath, and that they planned to deliver it to Tiananmen Square. I'm not certain, but I think he also raised the demand that the government "reassess" Hu's career. At hearing this, the crowd erupted in applause and shouts.

Were they really going to do it? Were they really going to go to the square?

As evening turned to night, I was back in Shaoyuan, in my room. Around 9pm or so, as I sat studying, the quiet evening was punctuated by a distant roar coming from in the direction of the plaza by the post office. The cheers continued, and grew louder. What was happening? More speeches?

After a few minutes, there was a frantic knock at my door. It was Bob.

"They're going to the square!" he said breathlessly.

"Really? Wow." It was all I could think to say.

"Well?" Bob said. "Shall we go?"

In an instant, we rushed down the stairs into the courtyard. We grabbed our bikes and began walking over to the plaza. After a few moments, we heard another loud roar - we looked at each other, and hopped on our bikes. We didn't want to miss anything.

*By Chinese standards, any college student would qualify as "zhishifenzi," an intellectual.
**The pinyin, as best I can remember it, in case you're interested: bu gai si de dou yi si /gai si de shang wei si / zen ma ban?

China Stories Pt 20: April 1989

2006-08-06T14:45:00.000-07:00

I joined my classmates and a few others at the CBS News Bureau for an orientation session.

Having worked for CBS when they covered President Bush's visit earlier in the year, they were preparing to hire us again to help them cover the upcoming visit to China of Mikhail Gorbachev.

Gorbachev's visit was truly historic. China and the Soviet Union had had a schism in the late 50s early 60s. In the late 60s and early 70s they had numerous skirmishes on their common border, some of which threatened to escalate into full-scale conflicts.

Gorbachev's visit represented the highest level contacts between the two Communist giants in 35 years.

As a result, CBS News planned to cover the event in depth. The were even going to have Dan Rather come over to broadcast the CBS Evening News live from Tiananmen Square. In addition, they would have numerous other correspondents working other angles on China-Soviet relations, doing in-depth reports on China's reform efforts compared to the USSR's, and the like. So there would be the figurehead of CBS News broadcasting live to the US, and multiple camera crews and correspondents in Beijing and around the country. There were producers, camera- and soundmen, videotape editors, technical personnel.

I'm not sure what the exact numbers were, but I would guess that overall, CBS brought somewhere around 100 or 150 people to China. The CBS bureau in Beijing consisted of just three people: the correspondent/bureau chief, a camera man, and a soundman. They needed a lot of help with the logistics of running this show.

Our meeting revolved around logistics - timing, pay, transportation, general areas of responsibility.

The meeting itself was not noteworthy, but for the fact that I remember that I was sitting next to the Xinhua news "ticker." It would periodically crackle to life and spew out a story. For the most part, it was typical of Xinhua to carry a lot of news that tilted towards propaganda. ("Shandong Governor vows that spring floods will have 'minor impact' on sorghum crop yields.")

But I happened to look over, and watched the machine type out the announcement of the death of Hu Yaobang.

During a lull in the conversation, I said, "hey, it just came across here - Hu Yaobang died."

Nobody had much of a reaction, which was understandable. I had a reasonably good knowledge of Chinese history and current events, and it didn't strike me as an event of great significance. I had a dim awareness that Hu had been one of the earlier members of the Chinese Communist Party, and had participated in the Long March. He had become a member of the Politburo, but he was pushed out in a power struggle. The notable reason was that the hard-line conservatives believed that, during the student demonstrations that had taken place in 1986-87, Hu had been too lenient, too indulgent of the students. Hu was known generally as an advocate of reform.

The death of Hu Yaobang and its significance would become clearer over the days and weeks ahead.

August 2, 1990

2006-08-02T14:18:00.000-07:00

It was 16 years ago today that Saddam Hussein launched his invasion of Kuwait.

I remember the date very well, because it coincided with the date I left on my first real business trip, which was a 4-week trip to China. I'd worked for this company that did import-export* with China all through my senior year in college. After I graduated I took 2 weeks off, then I started full-time. I was just shy of my 22nd birthday.

My itinerary went like this:

- van shuttle from Philadelphia to Newark
- Northwest Airlines from Newark to Detroit
- NWA from Detroit to Seoul
- NWA from Seoul to Hong Kong
- Overnight in Hong Kong
- CAAC flight from Hong Kong to Qingdao
- 3 hour van ride to my final destination, a leather tannery in the town of Rizhao.

I could hardly design a shittier itinerary if I tried, but I was thrilled. I didn't sleep - I was too excited! I was going to China! For my job! How cool is that?

*We were in some weird businesses. We imported normal things like ceramic mugs and clothing, but we also imported hog bristle for brushes, and human hair. Yes, human hair. For wigs. We exported leather tanning chemicals. Hence, I was going to a tannery.

China Stories Pt 19: The Holidays

2006-07-24T22:05:00.000-07:00

I don't mean Christmas. This being a fairly linear narrative, I'm talking about holidays in the spring. Spring has holidays, oh yes.

On St. Patrick's Day, I ended up drinking beers with some students from UCLA in a bomb shelter on the Beijing University campus. It seemed appropriate.

After the PRC split with the Soviet Union, Chairman Mao became extremely paranoid about being attacked by the Russians. Among the crazier things Mao did was move entire industries to remote, protected areas. Equipment, families, schools, everything. He did this with Second Auto Works, China's largest truck manufacturer - relocated it from Shanghai to a remote valley in central China. Imagine picking up General Motors, lock stock and barrel, and moving it into the Appalachians.

"Kids I've got good news and bad news."
"What's the good news?"
"Daddy got promoted today! And I still have my job."
"What's the bad news?"
"Well, the whole company is moving to Gnaw Bone Holler, Kentucky. And because our society doesn't allow any individual freedom of movement, chances are our family will be stuck there for generations. What's for dinner?"

Mao also built bomb shelters all over Beijing. The downtown area was riddled with shelters and interconnected tunnels. One of them was used as a shopping arcade.

***

On Easter, I got up early with my friends to go out to the Great Wall for a sunrise service. It was a long drive out there, maybe an hour or so, so we left in the dark. It was so quiet and peaceful, the throngs of tourists blissfully absent. It was beautiful to be on the wall as the sun came up.

During the service, three students in front of me kept whispering. It was mildy annoying. At first I thought they were just being rude. Then I realized that one student was translating the Chinese to English for the second student, and then that student in turn was translating it into French for the third student, who was African. That was pretty cool.

(Many Africans come to study in China. Frequently they are not well prepared for their studies, speaking a little English and no Chinese. They don't have much money, and are unable to return home until they are done. They are even less prepared for the culture shock of living in China. They were generally treated very poorly - especially if they socialized with Chinese women. But the rare opportunity to be trained as a doctor or an engineer was, I guess, highly motivating.)

After the service, we explored the wall a bit. Since there wasn't anyone out there yet, it was exhilerating. We weren't asses-to-elbows with ten thousand other tourists! Nobody was yelling "hello!" at me randomly! Nobody was harrassing me for an hour to buy a t-shirt!

We went all the way to the end of the restored section, then continued on the unrestored section of wall. (There was nothing saying we couldn't - it was just not as easy.)

The wall itself is...um, great. But the place that most tourists visit - the place where we were, Ba Da Ling - has been meticulously restored. No doubt it was necessary from wear. But everything is new, so it has an ersatz quality. Like everything in Las Vegas.

(It reminds me of a Chinese classical music show I attended once, where they announced in solemn tones that the instrument that was being played was over three hundred years old - but each part of it had been replaced.)

(Lots of parentheticals today. Sorry.)

Climbing on the unrestored part of the wall was something else - it was much easier to get a sense of the age of the wall, and what an achievement its construction must have been.

After our hike we returned to the city and gorged ourselves on brunch at the Jian Guo Hotel. I spent a good-sized little chunk of my CBS money on champagne and pancakes.

Fortunately, I was about to have another opportunity to earn some spending money courtesy of CBS.

China Stories Pt 18: Mao's-o-leum

2006-07-24T21:39:00.000-07:00

I made the obligatory visit to Chairman Mao's Tomb. It was a sunny spring day, but still a little cool, I recall.

There was a long line that snaked back out into the southern flank of the square, full of Chinese tourists making their first (maybe their only) trip to Beijing. Tian An Men Square was as much of a tourist destination for Chinese as it was for foreigners; probably more so, in fact. The Tian An Men gate, where the portrait of Mao hangs, is the place where Chairman Mao announced the founding of the People's Republic of China in 1949, and the place from where he watched National Day parades, and waved to throngs of adoring Red Guards. In the fevered heyday of the Cultural Revolution (1960s), a trip to Beijing and the square was a quasi-religious pilgrimage. While American hippies were hitch hiking to Haight Ashbury with flowers in their hair, young and idealistic Chinese Red Guards were hopping trains to Beijing (for free) in hopes of catching a fleeting glimpse of the beloved Great Helmsman, Chairman Mao.

Now they lined up and waited, patiently, orderly, pretty certain that this time, they would in fact see the Chairman.

There were rumors that when Mao died (in September 1976), China was not prepared, and did not have the skills to properly prepare him for public display, so they had to send for a Soviet expert do it. In the intervening days, there had been some, um, degradation. So there were stories - that one of his ears was completely fake; that something had fallen off; that he was shrinking.

My friends and I had a little local knowledge, which was that foreigners didn't have to wait in the long line; they could go directly to the front. This was not uncommon. Sometimes, you sensed hostility from the locals, but more often than not, they didn't mind. They seemed to accept that we received this preferential treatment, and just ascribed this treatment to our bizarre foreign-ness. Now that Chinese are more accustomed to Westerners, I can't imagine that type of deference exists anymore. It seems quaint, vestigial. Familiarity breeds contempt.

As we wound our way inside, the suspense was building. There was a sign that asked you to remove your hands from your pockets and keep them at your sides. I believe the primary intent of this directive was to create an atmosphere that was solemn and respectful, though it was probably a security measure as well.

We got to the front of the line relatively quickly. They kept the line moving - and why not? A lot of people want to see the Chairman, and frankly, once you see him, there's not a lot of reason to hang around.

He didn't appear lifelike at all - it was hard, really, to believe that this was in fact, the actual person Mao Zedong. Rather, it was just a profoundly lifeless figure, posed under glass and white lights, like a cake at a diner.

I don't think we actually stopped moving, so before we knew it, we were being pushed out the rear of the building into a gauntlet of souvenir shops, all selling Dead Mao memorabilia. Because after all, what better way to remember the somber occasion of seeing the Great Helmsman than with a commemorative plate? No? How about a baseball cap?

I had to buy something. I debated getting the lighter that played "The East is Red" when you opened it, but opted instead for a set of chopsticks that said "Chairman Mao's Tomb" in Chinese characters on them.

I know I made the right choice. Buying a lighter would have been... I don't know, crass.

China Stories Pt 17: The Square

2006-07-24T21:19:00.000-07:00

After President Bush left town, everything settled down for awhile. I went to class, hung out with my classmates, taught my little English class. I did the normal stuff you're supposed to do (as opposed to working for CBS News and spending 18 hours a day with two dozen Beijing taxi drivers).

I did a little local sight-seeing: visiting the local Tibeten buddhist lamasery (Yong He Gong by name), riding my big-ass Flying Pigeon socialist bicycle out to the Summer Palace, and the Old Summer Palace. (The new one was quite an upgrade - it included a marble boat on the lake out front. A boat. Made out of marble.) I went to the Forbidden City where China's Emperors had lived. I went to Jing Shan park behind the Forbidden City where, if I remember correctly, the last Emperor of the Ming dynasty fled and hanged himself. This would have been in 1644. (The hanging part. I was there in 1989.)

I went to Tian An Men Square with Bob. He took the picture of me that you saw earlier.

Seeing the square for the first time was exciting. As I got close to it, I was slightly giddy with anticipation. In front of me I could see - sky. The unbroken skyline could only mean that there was a large expanse of open space ahead.

I'd seen pictures. I'd pictured it in my head many times. The giant portrait of Chairman Mao staring placidly out across the square. Finally, I was there.

Tian An Men Square was awe-inspiring. It's enormous, and it's surrounded by giant austere granite buildings. To the west, the Great Hall of the People- the seat of the government of the People's Republic of China. To the east, the Museum of the Chinese Revolution. To the north, the Tian An Men Gate* (after which the square is named) and the Forbidden City. And to the south, Chairman Mao's mausoleum.** Tian An Men Square is imposing, and its location, its physical and political context, give it added gravitas. Its scale makes the individual feel tiny and insignificant.

This is not an accident.

*Beijing is laid out very logically and geometrically - and has been for hundreds of years. From north to south and east to west across the city, there are gates that are all aligned with each other, and aligned with - I can't remember, I think astronomical observations. I could have looked it up, but that might have compromised my blog's sense of spontaneity and immediacy. Also? "Men" means gate, as in "Gate of Heavenly Peace." So Tian An Men Gate means "Gate of Heavenly Peace Gate."

**Yes, of course I called it the Mao's-o-leum. I couldn't pass that up.

China Stories Pt 16: Hi! My name is...

2006-07-15T23:46:00.000-07:00

I had a job teaching English classes a couple days a week to employees of CAAC, the national airline. It was really fun- especially the first day, when my co-teacher and I helped our students pick English names.

Some students already had names, either because they had been given names by prior teachers, or because they had chosen names for themselves. Some students were more successful than others at choosing names. My class included a man named Sally.*

One interesting aspect of choosing names was learning my student's real names, and what they meant. Chinese given names can be descriptive, and revealing of the time they were born. For instance, at the time of Communist "Liberation," in 1949, many boys were named "Guoqing," which literally means "national holiday." Later, in the years when Mao was focused on modernization and catching up to the Soviets and the West, popular names included "Hongjun" (Red Army), "Guoqiang" (strong country), even "Gang," which meant "steel," or "Hong" meaning "red."

***

I have a name in Chinese. My name in Chinese is Bai Qingyun. It was given to me during my first year studying Chinese by one of my professors. The teachers tried to give us all names that were in some way reminiscent of our real names, but also sounded like real Chinese names. In earlier times, foreigners didn't really have Chinese names so much as Chinese characters that imitated the sound of their foreign names. So Frank became "falangke," John became "yuehan," Mary became "meili."

My surname, Bai, is also the name of an ethnic group in southern China. It's not one of the most common surnames; those would be Li (pronounced Lee) and Wang. Bai means "white." I took some pride in the fact that I shared the surname of my professor.

Qingyun literally means "celebratory clouds." White celebratory clouds. Cool. I thought it sounded Daoist.

On a few occasions, well-intended Chinese people told me to change my name. They said that the character "yun" had a feminine connotation. One of the taxi drivers suggested a new name for me, one which was more masculine: Bai Qinggang. White celebratory steel. I declined.

Bai Qingyun is my name in Chinese. It just is. It's been my name for almost 20 years. It's become a true part of my identity.

***

In my English class, one of my favorite students was Wang Jun. (Jun means army.) His English name was Jack.

He was born in the 1950s, in the early days of the PRC. He'd grown up in Beijing, and was an airline mechanic. We became friends - really, he was my first Chinese friend besides my teachers. He was the first Chinese person whose home I visited. It was a nice, clean little apartment, and he made dumplings, which I love. (I don't know why, but my experience has been that Chinese men don't cook, with the exception of dumplings. Men make dumplings.)

He was eager to learn English, but also amenable to speaking Chinese with me. Alternating between English and Chinese, we talked a lot. I was fascinated because he had lived through all of the recent Chinese history that I found so interesting.

We would walk and talk after class, but mostly he humored me, answering my questions. He had been a Red Guard during the Cultural Revolution, for instance. He had been present for an incident of interest to me.

In the waning years of the Cultural Revolution, Chairman Mao was in declining health and had been effectively co-opted by a group led by his wife, Jiang Qing. They were known as the Gang of Four. They were nominally left-wing radicals who claimed to speak for Mao and advocated "continuous revolution." They were said to have been the prime movers behind the Cultural Revolution. After their fall from power, they became the scapegoats for the entirety of it. They certainly deserved some of the blame, but also neatly shielded the beloved Chairman Mao from any blame.

One of the few brakes on the most radical and destructive impulses of the Cultural Revolution and the Red Guards was China's Premier, Zhou Enlai. He was one of the original leaders of the Communist Revolution, along with Mao. Unlike many of Mao's other colleagues, he had deftly avoided being pushed out of power. He was China's leading diplomat for decades, and he was almost universally respected and loved by the Chinese people.

Zhou's death in January of 1976 prompted an outpouring of grief. Thousands of people mourned his death by going to Tiananmen Square on April 4 and 5. April 5th is Qing Ming, a holiday where people honor their ancestors by sweeping their graves.

The mass turnout in Tiananmen Square was something more: it was a daring act of dissent and defiance, a bold demonstration of dissatisfaction with the government. The government cleared the square of all of the wreathes and poems, which only aroused greater anger among the public. The turnout alarmed the leadership. They - the Gang of Four, supposedly with Mao's assent - decided to use force to clear the square.

It became known as the Tiananmen Incident, or simply "4-5" for short.**

My friend Wang Jun had been there - he told me about the people he saw, on the bus on the way to the square - people crying over the loss of Zhou. Many people wrote elegies for Zhou which also contained a subtext of criticism of the Gang of Four. He told me about a professor who sang a tribute to Zhou. About people being beaten.

This was something I had read about in books, but Wang Jun had been there- right there in the Square, in 1976. Imagine that.

*As names went, Sally wasn't too bad. In Hong Kong I met a Ringo and an Adolph. In Beijing, I knew a woman whose Chinese name was Rong Rong,so naturally her English name was...Echo.

**Much the way a later incident became known as "6-4."

China Stories Pt. 15 1/2: Your questions answered.

2006-07-15T21:10:00.000-07:00

Sometimes in the course of telling my little story, my readers* bring to my attention points that require elaboration.

For instance:

frazzeeee said...

i have a ton of questions!

- was it a bad thing that you missed classes?
- was it competitive to be selected as a temp. employee for CBS? (i would think lots of people would be signing up)
- what were other people/students being employed to do?
- what did the cabbies think of you?
- was the food different? american? why was Roy complaining about it?

(sorry, just curious!)

So I'm taking a moment out to answer these questions.

Q: Was it a bad thing that you missed classes?
A: Not really. I learned a ton, and I was speaking Chinese day and night because I was stuck in a hotel room with two dozen Beijing taxi drivers. I doubt the classroom could have done as much to improve my language skills.

Q: Was it competitive to be selected as a temp. employee for CBS?
A: As I recall, it was not competitive. The CBS cameraman based in Beijing was an alum of my study program, so he sought us out. My program just had an "in."

Q: What were other people/students being employed to do?
A: A lot of things, including serving as translators for camera crews and reporters. Some people did odd jobs such as fix airline tickets. I will have more to say about this later.

I should add that the other broadcast networks (plus CNN) were covering the event too, and we were all in the same hotel. I distinctly remember watching Brit Hume walk off an elevator. We made eye contact, and as we did, he tripped over a bunch of cables snaking across the lobby. In retrospect I wish I had laughed at him.

Q: What did the cabbies think of you?
A: You know? I'm not really sure. I think they liked me, but thought I was an oddity. They probably thought that about most foreigners. I was this twenty year-old kid with a beard, and I was telling them what to do. I tried to get them food that they would like and bought them cigarettes. In 1989 in China, a pack of Marlboro Reds was still a great way to smoothe over any misunderstanding. Much like Mentos are now.

Q: Was the food different? American? Why was Roy complaining about it?
A: We had the five-star hotel cater Chinese food, and the drivers hated it. I understand - it was mostly Cantonese food, which tends to be light, a little sweet, and heavy on seafood. But the main problem was simply that it wasn't local food, such as dumplings and mutton hot pot and bok choi. These guys did not have cultivated palates, nor were they interested in broadening their horizons. They were interested in going to sleep full.

We tried western food as well. One time a driver came in late, after the catered dinner was over, so I ordered him a hamburger from room service. It came open-face, the way hamburgers do. On one side of the plate was a meat patty sitting on a bun; next to it, another bun with lettuce and tomato. The driver proceeded to use a fork to break up and eat the bun and patty, and then did the same to the bun with the lettuce and tomato. I'm certain it never occurred to him to put it together and eat it with his hands - that would just be weird. I know it never occurred to me that someone wouldn't know how to eat a hamburger.

Why didn't I show him how to eat it the right way? Well, I told him, but he didn't go for it. Maybe he thought I was playing a joke on him. He was content to use his own method.

Eventually we started giving money to one of the drivers, who would go out and bring back food more to their liking.

*Okay, reader.

China Stories, Pt. 15: Back to School (Sort of)

2006-07-07T14:02:00.000-07:00

I was back at Bei Da, and back in class, which was nice. I settled into a routine of going to class, and studying. For a while.

Basically, here's how my days went.

7:00 am - wake up; walk down the hall to take a shower; shave (optional).

7:15 - make coffee (NOT optional); eat Muesli with local yogurt.

8:00 - class (I can't remember - grammar? listening comprehension?)

9:30 - some other class

12:00 - lunch

1:00 - do homework back in dorm room.

1:30 - take nap (they cleaned the hallways with kerosene, and the fumes made taking a nap seem like a good idea)

3:00 - study

7:00 - dinner

My roommate Chad had shown a decided lack of interest in scholarly pursuits. While Bob and I had gone to Sichuan for Spring Festival, Chad went even further, to Xinjiang. Because it's farther away, he had left early. This meant missing classes, which the program supervisor discouraged. Nevertheless, off Chad went to Urumqi and Kashgar, cities closer to Kabul than to Beijing. Even though he had left early, he had returned late, again, missing classes. He had decided this was not so much a problem for him. He was not even getting college credit for this program, so he reasoned that if he thought that the opportunity to go to Xinjiang was too good to pass up, he would go to Xinjiang.

I didn't object. I had to admit it sounded like a pretty cool trip. Besides, I enjoyed having the room to myself.

***

Routine was nice, but it didn't last long.

Emperor Hirohito died in late January, and President Bush planned to visit China after attending Hirohito's funeral. CBS News was planning extensive coverage of the President's visit to China. As a result, they were in need of some temporary employees. I signed on, even though it meant missing classes. How could I pass up a chance to be part of a Presidential visit to China?

Besides, they would pay us $100 a day, and give us a per diem of about $25, to allow us to eat in the hotel. $100 seemed like a lot, and after eating noodles in the cafeteria, I hardly knew how I would spend $25 a day on food. (I figured it out.)

The visit itself I don't remember much, but the experience was tremendous. CBS News took over a whole floor of a five-star hotel. They rented a couple rooms at other hotels, which I had the run of for two nights. I went to the breakfast buffet everyday.

My friend Randy and I spent most of our time on one task: managing a car pool. That meant, essentially, babysitting 20 Beijing taxi drivers until the CBS folks decided to go somewhere. Randy and I enjoyed being with them for the most part. We had nicknames for them - one was Roy, because he looked like country singer Roy Clark. Another one we called Bluto since he looked (and acted) like John Belushi's character in "Animal House." One we called Sleepy because he looked like one of the seven dwarfs. So we had conversations like this.

"Bruce Morton wants to go to the Friendship Store - who shall we send, Roy?"

"No, let's get Bluto out of here. He's clipping his toenails and it's disgusting."

"Okay. Let's send Roy too. All he's done is complain about the food for two days."

I can't imagine learning as much Chinese in a classroom as I did sitting around a hotel room watching TV with a bunch of Beijing cabbies. If you can understand a roomful of cabdrivers talking with each other, you're starting to get some significant language comprehension.

It probably wasn't the healthiest way to learn, since the cabbies smoked their way through every waking hour.

I was happy - I learned a lot, made $500, and made numerous trips to the omelette station.

Best of all, CBS told us they would hire us again in April, for Gorbachev's visit to China.

China Stories Pt. 14: Home to Beijing

2006-06-20T00:00:00.000-07:00

Bob and I were going hard sleeper on the return trip to Beijing. The hard sleeper was different from soft sleepers in a couple of notable ways. The soft sleepers had 2 bunks on each wall, whereas the hard sleepers had three. The hard sleepers did not have a volume knob for the dreaded loudspeaker. And the hard sleepers were not enclosed in a compartment - they were open to the passageway that ran the length of the car.

On the way back, we didn't really want to chat with people - not as much as we had on the way out. Now, we didn't have a door to close for privacy. Fortunately, sleeping or pretending to sleep worked pretty well.

Once again, we were graced by sharing our trip with a couple of characters. This time it was an eight year-old boy. He was on his way to Shandong, where his parents were in the opera. At age eight, he was already a decent Peking opera singer.

The budding opera star in our train car.

He sang for us, and man, he was actually good. Not only could he sing, but he had the facial expressions, the gestures...the whole package.

He also wrote a poem for me, about my "yellow beard."

We shared our "bay" in the car with a family, including a cute little girl. She was made no less cute when she sat, staring at us and smiling, while gnawing on a chicken's foot. At her dad's urging, she offered Bob and I each a foot. We declined, politely. I may have said something about not being able to eat chicken for dietary reasons. (My language skills must be improving! I'm becoming a liar!)

The journey passed uneventfully. The biggest adjustment was not being able to control the rattling speaker that helpfully announced anything and everything even remotely noteworthy along the way. Regardless of the time of day.

Returning to Beijing did really feel like coming home. It seemed relatively familiar. It was nice to see my classmates, whom I had known for less than a month. I was thrilled to be reunited with the remainder of my belongings in my room. This was especially the case with my clean clothes. (I think that made everyone happy, in fact.)

Bob and I had had an incredible trip. Nearly everything I had experienced, from morning to night, was new. It was exhilarating. Part of the thrill was what we experienced; and part of it came from knowing I could DO something like this. It was a good feeling.

But now I was happy to throw on my old familiar (and relatively stink-free) clothes and relax. As an added bonus, my roommate Chad was not yet back from his holiday trip, so I had some time to myself.

That night I thought about the trip, about home, and about getting back to studying.

And I slept very, very well.

China Stories Pt. 13: Leshan

2006-06-18T11:54:00.000-07:00

We started the Year of the Snake riding a bus to Leshan. It was about a four-hour trip. By Chinese standards, this was nothing. It didn't really even qualify as a long-range bus trip. Long range buses that made 12-, 18-, 24-hour trips were common. They were outfitted with bunks instead of seats. I never took one of these buses, but I can't imagine it was pleasant in, say, hour 18. The first hour on the four-hour bus certainly wasn't.

Our bus was like a school bus – bench seats, small and close together. Bob and I squeezed into a bench near the back. We were the only foreigners on the bus. And since we were heading into a more remote part of the country, quite a few people on the bus were not ethnic Chinese. That is, not of the Han ethnicity, which comprises 92% of the population of China. The remaining 8% of the population is made up of 55 different ethnic groups, most very small and located in the outlying areas of the country. I really hadn't encountered non-Han Chinese people before. Our fellow travelers to Leshan looked very different than Han Chinese. They wore brightly colored clothing. They reminded me of indigenous people in Mexico and South America.

I'm guessing we were at least as interesting to them as they were to us, since they stared at Bob and me continuously for four hours. They didn't feel any shame or embarrassment about it. Being stared at all the time took a lot of getting used to.

The road to Leshan was not a freeway. It was a winding two-lane dirt road that meandered between hillsides. It seemed to be in no real hurry to get to Leshan. Every square inch of hillside was planted with tea. The steep hills with their neat rows of tea looked like green wedding cakes.

We went through a few small towns along the way. Billboards everywhere touted China's family planning policy, showing smiling couples with one child. (Oddly enough, many of the families looked white. I don't know why, maybe they're easier to draw.) I saw one sign that said restaurant in Chinese, and next to it, written in English, "RESTQURQNT." I figure the owner had found someone to write out the word for him, and in handwritten lower-case letters, "a" had looked like "q." It's pretty understandable – there are a lot of Chinese characters that look pretty similar, but are completely different.

***

Once our bus arrived in Leshan, Bob and I went to find a room. There was a brand-new hotel in town, touted as being "five-star." We were skeptical, so we opted to head to the older, more established place. I can't remember, but I think it had an evocative name like "Guest House No. 2." After we checked in, we headed downstairs for dinner.

In the restaurant, we ended up sharing a table with a couple of backpackers. They were from New Zealand, and they'd been traveling in China for about 4 months.

We exchanged a little bit of small talk with them, I don't remember what about. Probably the usual traveler chatter: where they had been, where they were going.

Travelers, especially of this backpacking sort, had this kind of ritualistic exchange about their travels. You always go over these same well-worn questions and answers. Then, at some point, each would try to one-up the other as to who was roughing it the most, who was spending the least money. There was some perverse sense of nobility in this I guess.

"You paid to take the bus here? Really? Wow, that must have been nice. Oh, us? Yeah,we hitchhiked down in a truck loaded with raw hides going to the tannery. The smell was awful, but it only cost us one pack of Marlboros."

There was something a little odd about these guys that I couldn't put my finger on. They clearly hadn't done a lot of shaving since being in China, but that wasn't it; that's just backpacker chic. I just remember immediately wondering if they were in China hiding out from the law.

As became apparent, they did not speak Chinese. The waitress came to take our orders. They spoke a few words of Chinese, and pointed. They did it with a kind of hostility, like it was a tremendous inconvenience to them that no one spoke their language. It didn't matter that people made an effort to try to speak English, and that they didn't seem to try very hard to speak Chinese. I'm sure that over a period of months, it made them feel a little helpless, and frustrated.

The fact that Bob and I could speak Chinese, and could actually communicate with the waitress, must have galled them. The small talk lapsed into awkward silence.

After we were finished, the server came back to clear the table.

"Finished?" she said in English.

"Yeah," said one of the backpackers. She began to clear the plates, then he added:

"Hey, when you come back, do you think you could suck my d**k?"

The server just stood there for second, uncertain and uncomprehending. Then the guy laughed. Then the server laughed nervously, and retreated to the kitchen.

We finished our dinner, paid, and left. Bob and I walked, and said nothing.

***

We walked around the town a little bit, and eventually found our way to the new hotel. As we walked through the lobby, Bob did a double-take.

"Mitch?"

"Bob!" Mitch was our classmate from Bei Da, and Bob's roommate. Here we were, four hours from Chengdu, 1,400 miles or so from Beijing, and we run into Bob's roommate.

We knew he had gone to Sichuan, but didn't know where. He was traveling with a Chinese friend, Lu, to visit Lu's family. (Lu had lived with Mitch's family in the US.)

We went up to see their room, to get the full effect.

The hotel had very few guests, so it had an eery, abandoned feeling. I half-expected to see Jack Nicholson or Scatman Crothers. (Yes, that was a "Shining" reference.) And apparently, the lack of guests meant they would not so much be heating the hotel.

The room was perfectly generic – it could have been a Ramada Inn in Indiana. Except instead of being connected to a Waffle House and having pay-per-view porn, this Ramada Inn only had hot water until 8pm, and got three TV channels, CCTV-1, CCTV-2, and the Sichuan TV channel. After visiting with Mitch and his friend for an hour or so, we departed. They were getting up early to drive on to Lu's family's house, and we had to get up early to go see the Big Buddha.

The Leshan Dafo is the tallest Buddha statue in the world, at 71 meters. It's located on the side of Emei Shan (Mt. Emei), one of the four sacred Buddhist mountains in China. As such, it's a destination for Chinese travelers as well as foreigners. Bob and I were an added attraction for the Chinese tourists. Some even had their pictures taken with us. We were getting used to it.

The statue is carved out of a mountainside at the confluence of three rivers. To get to it, we walked onto a pontoon dock extending into the river. From there we took a small ferry across to the other side. Once the ferry seemed full, they loaded another, oh, 18,000 people aboard for the short trip across the river.

We joined the long line of tourists snaking along the shoreline, over to the foot of the Buddha. From there, we climbed six or seven flights of stairs that stood just to the right of the Buddha. At the top we took some pictures – right next to the Buddha's nine-foot tall ear. Then we descended the stairs on the other side.

At the foot – er, feet – of the Buddha, tourists milled about taking pictures, eating snacks. There was no barrier to keep tourists from crawling all over the statues feet, which they did. One after another, they would scramble up onto its crumbling toes to have their pictures taken. At this rate, the Buddha's 1,000 year-old feet would crumble to dust in a generation. (Now there is a protective railing.)

In the afternoon, we took the bus back to Chengdu, where we would spend one night before catching the train back to Beijing. Bob and I agreed that after three nights spent in cold guest houses without running hot water, and before spending two more days on the train, we could splurge a little and stay at a hotel with hot running water.

We checked in and I took a long hot shower. I have never appreciated hot running water more than I did at that moment.

Bob and I grabbed some dinner, then returned to our room where we watched an episode of the American TV show "Hunter" dubbed in Chinese. Then we packed for the train trip home.

That's how it felt – we were going home. Beijing, thousands of miles from my real home, where I'd only been for a couple of weeks. But after traveling another 1,300 miles into even stranger, less familiar surroundings, I was looking forward to getting home to Beijing.

China Stories Pt. 12: Chengdu

2006-06-14T12:09:00.000-07:00

After thawing out from our first night in the guest house, Bob and I set about accomplishing priority one: getting our return tickets. Which meant going back to the train ticket office.

The Chengdu train station was like a caricature of the Beijing train station. Beijing was crowded? Chengdu was more crowded. Beijing was loud? Chengdu was louder. The posters warning of the dangers of fireworks were even more graphic and disturbing. And I thought the people in Beijing were pushy.

It was as though we were trying to buy tickets on the roof of the American Embassy before the fall of Saigon. It was every man for himself, pushing and shoving, flying elbows everywhere. Somewhere in the middle of it were two Americans whose sense of fair play was offended, wondering why people couldn't just wait their turns.

Fortunately, we were seasoned travelers now, and fortified by our success in Beijing. We got in line and we were ready to give as good as we got. There were some pushy grandmas who discovered the taste of my elbow on that day, I can tell you.

We coped as best we could with all the pushing and jostling, but eventually it became too much. A guy barged into the line ahead of us, and that was the last straw. It was time to play the foreigner-in-China card. The toddler-in-the-grocery-store card:

"Oh, so you think you can treat me unfairly without any consequences, do you? Well, think again."

Another variant is the crazy-guy-on-the-bus card. If people don't know what to do with you, they disengage and leave you alone.

Last Straw hadn't even bothered to pretend he wasn't doing it. So we raised our voices. In Chinese.

"Don't cut in line!" I said to this goof. (A useful phrase I'd picked up from our experience in Beijing.) He ignored me.

Bob got right close to him from behind and said something like, "most Chinese are courteous! But there are others aren't so courteous. You know what I mean?"

I replied, again inches from the back of this guy's neck, "apparently, some people don't understand how to be wait in line."

Not exactly a "going postal" kind of outburst. No profanity. But because we were blond-haired blue-eyed American devils, and we were saying all this in Chinese, and loud, everyone was staring at us, and by extension, at Last Straw.

I'd like to tell you that he ran out of the building, and the onlookers applauded us.

So I will: He ran out of the building, and the onlookers applauded us.

Only that didn't really happen. After awhile, Last Straw did find some excuse to move away from us – he probably found a better place to cut in line. After that, no more people cut in front of us. We got our return tickets to Beijing and got out of there. (This time we would be going hard sleeper instead of soft sleeper. And again we had succeeded in paying in RMB. Score! Another $7 saved.)

Our next order of business was to get bus tickets to our next destination, the town of Leshan, a few hours to the south of Chengdu. On the bus ride down People's Avenue, we passed by one of Chengdu's biggest attractions, the statue of Chairman Mao.

Chairman Mao, after all, had inspired the phrase "cult of personality." At one time there were thousands, probably tens of thousands of Chairman Mao statues all over China. But under Deng Xiaoping in the 80s, as China modernized and reformed, this type of leader worship was deemphasized. Deng did not allow any statues of himself to be erected, and Mao statues around the country came down in droves. In fact, the last statue of Mao at Bei Da* had been pulled down shortly after I arrived. Not many statues remained. (Sidenote: I always wanted to acquire one of these. I wanted to have a Chairman Mao head, maybe 5, 6 feet tall, in my back yard.)

I was fascinated by the Cultaral Revolution, and by the cult-like adoration for "the Great Helmsman." Though it was disappearing quickly, there was still quite a bit of evidence of how things must have been in the 1960s. There were the Mao badges that everyone had worn, now being sold to people like me. There were large slogans painted on walls. I remember walking onto the running track at Bei Da and being taken aback when I saw a political slogan on the wall, in characters that were probably 6 feet tall. Fading, but still there.

Bob and I found the bus station, and fortunately, buying bus tickets was much easier than buying train tickets. I guess not many people were planning to spend the first day of the new year taking a four-hour bus ride.

So there it was. We'd spent our first half-day in Chengdu doing nothing but organizing our escape. This was the rhythm of traveling in China, especially outside the major cities, that I became accustomed to. As soon as you arrive, figure out how and when you're going to leave.

Bob and I visited the Wenshu Monastery, which was literally across the street from our guesthouse. It was a real functioning Tibetan Buddhist monastery, with novice monks in saffron and brown robes circulating through the grounds.

We were there at an interesting time. It was New Year's, so many people were visiting to make offerings – to light incense and bow before the various altars. Furthermore, we learned that the 10th Panchen Lama had just passed away.

The Panchen Lama was the second highest ranking lama, behind the Dalai Lama. China had "liberated" Tibet in the early 1950s. In 1959, Tibetans staged an unsuccessful rebellion, during which the current Dalai Lama fled into exile in India. The Panchen Lama remained in China as the highest ranking lama in China.

The Panchen Lama had been a somewhat controversial figure. Was the Panchen Lama upholding and representing the Tibetan people, the spiritual leader who stayed to fight for his people? Or had he been co-opted by the hated Chinese occupiers? He had been jailed by the Chinese government. But he also married a Chinese woman and had a daughter. Before he died, he had made a speech highly critical of the Chinese occupation of Tibet.

The monastery was crowded with worshippers paying their respects. There was an altar adorned with a large portrait of the Panchen Lama, flanked by pyramids of oranges. People crowded around the altar to light incense.

I definitely had the sense that we were seeing something unusual and significant.

***

The next day, we visited another temple, on the outskirts of the city, called Baoguangsi. I don't remember too much about the temple - it had the usual assortment of ghoulish looking deities, which I've never enjoyed all that much. Mainly I remember that there was a somewhat prominent calligrapher there, and Bob and I talked to him. Bob found some connection with him, because Bob had attended UCLA, and the calligrapher's daughter was there. Something like that. He ended up making a poster for each of us. My poster, which said something about US-China friendship, is now hanging in a bathroom at my parents' house.

We also went to an open air market to replenish our snack supplies for our bus ride the next day. Since China didn't have a national highway system to speak of, the goods for sale in a market in Chengdu were really quite different than those in Beijing. Everything was a little different – clothes, books, and especially food. Imagine going to a grocery store in Cleveland, and almost none of the same goods are on the shelves that you're used to seeing at home. I was especially struck by how the market in Chengdu had different vegetables than what we saw in Beijing. Well, not only that, but I saw vegetables I'd never seen before. There were bright red radishes that looked like giant radioactive carrots. I wondered if there were giant rabbits with x-ray vision in the Sichuan countryside.

***

That night was Chinese New Year's Eve. The fireworks were getting louder and more frequent. In the evening, I took a shower. A "shower," you may recall, consisted of heating kettles of water on gas burners and pouring them over yourself as you stood in a tiled basin.

I heated my water, then stood in the basin. I mixed the hot water from the kettles in with some cold water. I poured it over myself. This was the first real shower I'd had since Beijing. It felt wonderful to be warm and clean. Wonderful, but then I realized it was still about 40 degrees in there, and I was freezing. I had to hurry up and do it again. I poured out my kettle, and poured it over myself, but I didn't get completely rinsed off, and now I was out of hot water. I needed to heat more water.

Wet, shivering, I set about quickly refilling the kettles. With shaky, wet hands, I tried to relight the gas burners. For a moment, it didn't light.

Just at that moment, a GIANT firecracker went off outside the window. For a split second I thought: great, I just blew myself up. What a way to go, too. They'll find me, sprawled naked in this tiled basin, covered in third-degree burns and goosebumps.

***

Chinese New Year's Eve was a little like Christmas Eve – what if there weren't any open restuarants? But then we reasoned: even though it's a holiday, some restaurant will be open. And odds are, it will be a Chinese restaurant.

We ended up sampling one of the local delicacies, Sichuan hotpot. It's kind of like a big pot of boiling oily soup, into which you add meat and vegetables, sort of like fondue. And also? It's very very spicy. The hallmark of Sichuan cooking is that not only is it spicy, but it also has a special peppery spice that makes your tongue tingly and numb. Regular spicy is "la." Sichuan spicy is "ma la." It's delicious, and it's rarely replicated in Chinese food in the US. (It also made for fun jokes with servers. You could ask someone, are you afraid to eat tingly-spicy food? That would be: "Ni pa ma la ma?" Or: "Ni pa bu pa ma la?" Isn't that fun? Anyone else? Just me? Okay.)

We watched the CCTV New Year's program as we ate. We drank terrible local beer out of the plastic bowls provided by the restaurant. The servers invited us to go into the kitchen to select what we wanted to add to our hot pot. We chose a lot of vegetables, and some pork. We politely declined to have one of the sheep's brains that was neatly lined up on a tray.

The next day, Bob and I boarded a bus for a four-hour ride to see the largest sitting Buddha statue in the world.

*In case you missed it: Bei Da = Beijing Daxue = Peking University.

China Stories Pt. 11: The Work Unit Guesthouse

2006-06-13T12:16:00.000-07:00

After our train arrived in Chengdu, our new friend took us to his work unit guesthouse. It was nice to walk out of the train station with someone local. Coming out of the train station can be intimidating. There are unlicensed taxi drivers standing around, who try to get you to go with them. They take advantage of your being disoriented, they don't have meters, and its very easy to be taken advantage of.

We were happy to avoid the shady characters outside the train station. But on the other hand, we were getting into a van with a guy we met on the train. Were we crazy?

Well, no, I don't think so. It felt completely above-board. I'm pretty hazy on this particular detail, but I think Bob and I both felt pretty comfortable.

For the most part, as a foreigner in China, I felt pretty safe from the typical run-of-the-mill crime. Foreigners were still somewhat... exotic. Set apart. People didn't really know how to deal with us. Nobody wanted to have much to do with us outside of transactional situations ("I'll have a bowl of noodles."). The threat of creating a spectacle sometimes came in handy.

The work unit was not only centrally located, it was virtually across the street from a famous Buddhist temple, one of the main tourist attractions in Chengdu.

Our host led us through a dark arch way into a small courtyard, and told us to wait. After a few minutes, our host came back, and led us to the guesthouse.

The "guesthouse" was really just a four-room apartment. It had two bedrooms, a sitting room and a bathroom, sort of. It didn't so much have a bath, as it had a tiled basin you could stand in. And it didn't so much have running hot water, as it had a couple of gas burners and kettles. You could heat water for a bath in the kettles, and then mix it with cold water in a small wash basin and pour it over yourself. No problem. It was just for a couple of days.

Bob and I with our hosts at the work unit in Chengdu. Room temp: about 40 degrees F.

It really looked quite comfortable. We set our bags down, and our host insisted on making us tea. While he made us tea, a couple of other people came in to talk to us. We made small talk. It was made smaller by the fact that our new visitors had Sichuan accents, and we could only understand about half of what they said. I did a lot of nodding.

They were speaking Mandarin, but it was somewhat different. And some words were completely different. "American" in Mandarin is "mei guo ren." In Sichuan, however, it sounded like "mei gui ren."

"So what?" I hear you asking. Well, "gui" can mean "devil." As I heard this walking around in Chengdu, I wondered: were all these people calling us "American devils?"

Eventually we were able to clarify.

After a cup of tea, our hosts took their leave, and Bob and I looked around our little apartment.

"Hey," we thought. "This will be just fine."

We took the dust cover off the TV and turned it on. Since it was Spring Festival, CCTV was showing their giant spring festival special, a program that lasts, I think, 3 days. Seemed like it.

We saw a foreigner on the program, Dashan. He was a Canadian expat who frequently appeared on TV and who spoke, to my ears, near flawless Mandarin. I mean, really good. He was accomplished in something called "xiang sheng," a type of comedic dialogue that relies on speed and puns/homonyms. It's similar to Abbott and Costello's "Who's On First." (I had seen him at Bei Da, where he was a student. I'd heard that he frequently wore a "Canada" Hockey sweater because he did not like to be mistaken for an American.)

Anyway.

The Spring Festival TV show was punctuated by loud bursts of firecrackers coming from outside our windows. As the city geared up for New Year's, we knew that it would get steadily louder until it sounded like we were under attack.

Eventually we got tired, and decided to go to bed. Then we realized: hey, it's cold in here. No problem, we thought. We'll just.... Oh. There's no heat.

Bob and I cheerfully adapted to our surroundings. I went to bed that night under a heavy comforter, wearing long underwear, pants, two pairs of socks, two shirts, a jacket, a hat and gloves.

I heard a rustling noise from the next room.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm running in place under the covers to try to warm up," he said.

I tried running in place too, and it did help a little. I lay on my back, watching my breath curl up towards the ceiling.

"At least we're saving money," Bob, said.

We both laughed, knowing that the small amount we were saving by not staying in a real hotel in NO way made up for the lack of heat and running hot water.

Yet we also knew that no amount of money spent at a hotel could have given us such a unique experience.

Since you asked...

2006-06-13T11:33:00.000-07:00

Tiananmen Square, 1989.
Click on thumnail for larger image.

China Stories Pt. 10: Train to Chengdu (II)

2006-06-09T10:16:00.000-07:00

We napped and read as our train chugged westward through the rugged terrain of central China. The compartment had a loudspeaker that crackled to life every 10 or 15 minutes. Sometimes it helpfully alerted us to some attraction. ("Attention, we are now crossing the Yellow River.") Sometimes music blared, jarring us awake. Fortunately, one of the benefits of the soft sleepers was a volume control. (Hard sleeper and hard seat did not have such a luxury.)

The scenery was new and fantastic now we were in rural China. Every inch of arable soil was cultivated. Impossibly steep-looking hillsides were planted with neat rows of crops. There were water buffalo, occasionally with children riding on top of them. We saw other trains, including an ancient looking steam locomotive that wouldn't have looked out of place in the old west in the 1800s.

Steam train. Not the one I saw, probably, but a decent facsimile. Courtesy of the internet.

Somewhere in Shaanxi (not to be confused with Shanxi), the train stopped, and we got off. It was nice to breathe a little fresh air, stretch my legs, and get something to eat besides the snack food we had brought along, and the fairly terrible food that was available on board the train.

If I thought I had been stared at before, I was mistaken. Out here, Bob and I were the main attraction. Having tons of people staring me was a new experience, and I found it a little unnerving. I bought a bun of some sort, some White Rabbit candies, and a chocolate bar, and got back on the train.

(White Rabbit candies are like taffy, I guess. They come with an outer wrapper and an inner wrapper. The inner wrapper is made of rice paper, and is supposed to be left on and eaten. I really liked them, but after 40 or 50 on the train, I decided to take a break. The chocolate bar was a total loss. It was like eating a flat brown candle without a wick.)

The train got back underway. I sipped tea from my mug. My mug was just a tin cup coated in white enamel. It had a lid, and it was big enough for instant noodles, or "fang bian mian" — literally, convenient noodles. I'd put some tea leaves in my mug, and then fill my mug with hot water from the thermos. Every so often, I'd take it down to the lavatory at the end of the car to throw out the leaves. Loose leaf tea only, of course. Tea bags were not that common. And anyway, I was in China, I wanted to have my tea the same way everyone else did.

As the sun went down on our second night on the train, our young roommate started to open up a little bit to us. He was one smart kid. I was flabbergasted when he told us the names of the leaders of the Allied Powers during World War II. (Meanwhile, American students struggle to identify Mexico and Canada on a map.)

***

The next day, it dawned on Bob and I that soon we would be arriving in Chengdu, and we didn't really know what we were doing. One of our fellow travelers made us an offer.

"My work unit has a guesthouse. It's nice! It has two bedrooms, a TV, a bathroom. You should come stay there."

The work unit was one of the main building blocks of Chinese society. When people joined the work force, they were assigned to work units. Work units provided people with housing, healthcare, even food rations.

This was intriguing. It would be fascinating, wouldn't it, to visit a work unit? And it would be cheaper, too.

"Oh no, we couldn't. You are too kind." We had to decline at least twice.

"No, it's as it should be. Please, don't be so polite."

After declining again, Bob and I agreed. Tonight, we would be guests at a real-live work unit guesthouse!

I was excited, but also nervous. In a couple of hours, we would have to leave our safe little train compartment, and enter a city of close to 10 million people.

China Stories Pt. 9: Train to Chengdu (I)

2006-06-08T08:41:00.000-07:00

It was time to go to Sichuan. I packed my backpack with lots of warm clothes, since it was February, and Sichuan was reasonably cold. Furthermore, many buildings in China had poor or nonexistent heat. I had my food, my tea and teacup. My toilet paper. I was ready.

Bob and I made our way down to the main Beijing train station. The Beijing train station was bewildering, and a little bit frightening. Since it was Spring Festival, the station was packed with travelers coming and going. Plus, countless thousands of poor peasants who came to the city in search of work camped outside the station with their belongings.

The main Beijing train station. Courtesy of the internet.

Bob and I found our way inside the station. It was noisy and crowded. Everywhere we walked we were met with blank stares. We didn’t know where to go, and what few signs there were weren't very helpful. And by the way, the signs were in Chinese. (The nerve!)

We stood around trying to get our bearings, trying to figure out where our train was and when it was boarding. Bob and I eventually found our way to the “soft sleeper waiting lounge,” which mercifully was quiet and less crowded. It was not exactly the Red Carpet Club, but compared to the main halls of the station, it was heaven.

Finally it was time to board. I was excited, but a little apprehensive at the same time. I’d never been this far from home, and now I was going even farther away.

The soft sleeper cars were divided into enclosed cabins, with an upper and a lower bunk on each wall. During the day, the upper bunks folded up so that the occupants could sit. There was a small table in the middle of the compartment, and a thermos bottle of boiled water for tea.

Bob and I boarded the train, and the attendant took our tickets, and asked for our passports. We handed them over. He looked at them, and then gave us plastic tokens.

"What are these?" we asked.

"You keep this. When we get to Chengdu, you give me the token, I'll give you back your passports."

I had read about this, but it still made me nervous. Letting my passport out of my sight was a little bit nerve-wracking. It was part of my security blanket.

We put our packs in the storage rack, sat down, and took a deep breath. With the hurly-burly of the station behind us, we could finally relax a little.

After a few minutes, our "roommates" arrived: two middle aged men, one traveling with his son, about 4 or 5 years old. They were well-dressed, and seemed nice. The man with the son worked at some sort of research institute, I can't remember exactly what. It was clear from the fact that they were traveling soft sleeper that they were, by Chinese standards, well-to-do or well connected, or both. They did not seem overly perturbed to be sharing their accommodations with foreigners, nor did they seem uncomfortable around us.

The little boy was shy, but curious. We spoke to him. "Hi. What's your name? How old are you?" He hid his head. We continued talking with his dad. But then he reached out and touched the back of my hand.

"You’re hairy," he said. True. By any standard, I had a fair amount of hair on my arms and hands.

"Your face is hairy, too!" he said. Also true. If you've seen the picture in my profile, this may surprise you. But once upon a time, in 1989, say, I still had a full head of hair, and I had grown a beard. By Chinese standards, I was a blond Sasquatch.

Eventually the train pulled out, and we were underway.

"You're hairy!"

We sat chatting. Sometimes, people walking past the open door to our compartment did a double-take: we have foreigners in our train car! Some of the passersby were bold enough to stop in for a visit. They wanted to talk to us, which was great-- this was why we were here, right? To meet people, to speak the language? To break down cultural barriers?

"What country are you from?”
“America is great. It's a rich country.”
“Do you like China? China is a poor country.”
“How old are you?”
“Where did you learn to speak Chinese? You speak very well!"
“Would you like a cigarette? Are you sure?”

We really enjoyed the interactions, at first. But over and over, it was always some variation on these same questions. About two hours in, it started to get tedious.

I’m American.
Yes, I like China.
How old do you think I am? 35? No, I'm 20. That’s right, I'm 6 years younger than him.
I learned Chinese in college in the US. Thank you.
No thank you, I don’t smoke anymore. (Much easier than trying to explain why you didn’t smoke at all, which was odd.)

It got to the point that we really only enjoyed the people who asked different questions.

"Does your family own a car? How much money does your father earn? Are you married?"

We got to talk a lot to a lot of different people, which was good. But eventually, both Bob and I just wanted to rest, read, and look at the scenery. But the well-intentioned visitors wouldn't leave us alone.

I began to wish I had never spoken, so that I plausibly could have pretended not to understand, and gone back to reading my book. Over the remainder of our trip, on several occasions I pretended to be asleep so that I could stop talking for a little while.

As we chugged westward towards the setting sun, we drank tea, chatted with our guests and watched Beijing peel away. Then suburbs gave way to farmland, and we continued westward, into the night.

June 4

2006-06-07T10:00:00.000-07:00

Just a quick note. June 4 just passed, the 17th anniversary of the massacre in Tian An Men Square. I always remember June 4. I always will.

I was not in Beijing, not in the square on June 4, 1989. I had been before, but by June 4 I was in Hong Kong.

I will have more to say about where I was and what I was doing when I get to that point in the narrative.

China Stories, Pt. 8: Making Travel Plans

2006-06-07T08:23:00.000-07:00

I had just gotten to China, and already I had a week off. I wasn't sure what to do, until my classmate Bob asked if I wanted to travel together with him, and I agreed. We had decided to go to Sichuan.

After looking through our guidebooks (Lonely Planet), we decided we would start off by going to the provincial capital of Chengdu, and then travel out from there to Leshan. Our first and most important task was getting train tickets. (We were only getting our outbound tickets-- we could only buy our return tickets once we got there.)

Spring Festival in China is the holiday-- it's the time when everyone returns home. It's Christmas and Thanksgiving combined. Oh- and Fourth of July, since fireworks play a big role in the celebration. It's the busiest travel time of the year by far, so we were worried about being able to get tickets. We were certain that getting the tickets would be a hassle, since everyone else was getting tickets too.

Bob and I rode our bicycles down to the Xizhimen train station and made our way into the station, which was packedwith would be travelers. There were posters on every wall warning of the dangers of fireworks, complete with colorful graphic photos of gruesome injuries.

There are 4 classes of service on trains in China: soft sleeper, hard sleeper, soft seat and hard seat. For long trips such as we were taking (47 hours, two nights and two days), the sleeper berths were absolutely the way to go. But plenty of Chinese traveled those kinds of distances by hard seat, because of the cost, which was probably 1/2 the price of hard sleeper, which in turn was 1/2 again the price of soft sleeper. Spending two days and nights upright on a bench seat--with a hundred or so other people-- did not sound like my idea of a good time. Fortunately Bob and I were in agreement: no need to be a hero. We would go hard sleeper.

We made our way through a pushing, grabbing mass of people to find the right line. We had to be vigilant to keep people from breaking into the line. We were being stared at by virtually everyone, most of whom were probably from small rural towns, and had not had much contact with foreigners. People were curious about us. But they had no compunction about pushing their way in front of us.

When we finally got to a ticket window, we asked for hard sleepers.

"Sold out," the ticket woman said.

She was about to help someone else, which would mean we'd be out of line and out of luck. Bob kept talking while I held back a human tide that wanted to push us away from the window.

"How about the next day?"

"Sold out," she said again.

"How about soft sleeper?"

"Soft sleeper...how many? Two?"

"Two." Okay now we were getting somewhere.

She started shuffling papers around.

"230 FEC each,"she said.

Bob and I were flabbergasted. That was a lot more than we were hoping to pay.

"But we're foreign students. We pay in RMB."

"No," she said dismissively. "Foreigners pay in FEC. 230 each."

Bob and I just kept talking - just to stay at the window. It was as though we were talking someone in off a ledge. At the same time, people behind us in line were trying to push us off a ledge.

"We're just students. We don't have FEC, only RMB. We can only afford to pay RMB."

She paused to consider our argument. We held our breath. If she asked for our green cards, we would be out of luck.

"Wait," she said, and walked away. Was this progress, or would we never see her again?

While she was gone, Bob and I had to physically protect our position at the counter.

She came back.

"Okay. 115 RMB each."

Bob and I were only too happy to pay and get out of there. When we emerged from the station with our tickets, we were physically and mentally exhausted. The effort to get to the window, to stay at the window and to finally get our tickets had been taxing. We were elated to have paid in RMB, and we hadn't accounted for the extra savings from paying the regular price instead of the jacked-up foreigner price.

We spent the afternoon in comparative relaxation buying other things we would need for our trip-- food, loose tea, a teacup. Toilet paper. Reading material.

In less than a week, we would traveling by soft sleeper to Chengdu, a 47-hour trip spanning more than 1,300 miles, for the cost of about US$15.

China Stories Pt. 7: Eating and Drinking

2006-06-06T22:40:00.000-07:00

My roommate Chad and I set about getting settled into our dorm room, and making it comfortable. Chad in particular was willing to make some sacrifices to make this happen.

Chad and I went shopping. We bought some cheap carpet to throw down on the cold linoleum. Then Chad got inspired.

"We need a sofa," he decided.

We went to a little furniture shop just outside the University gate. We bought a cheap loveseat and carried it back to our room.

"There's not enough room," I said.

Chad studied the problem.

"Let's try this," he said.

He dragged his desk out into the hallway, shifted his bed and voila: now we had a nice little sitting area in the corner of our (now carpeted) room. Chad seemed untroubled by the prospect of not having a desk. Sacrifices were necessary. The desk eventually ended up on a balcony at the end of the hall.

We were getting comfortable in our surroundings, and getting to know our classmates. We were in China to be sure, but most of us were still college kids. We had parties.

Beer was cheap and plentiful. China didn't have much of a national transportation infrastructure, so beer was basically a local product. (Tsing Tao was sort of national, but it wasn't widely available. It was really more of an export product.) In Beijing, the beers of choice were Beijing Beer or Five Star Beer. It wasn't great beer, and occasionally a bottle would have the distinct odor of the formaldehyde that was used to clean the bottles. But once you got over that, it was okay.

We bought wine bottle-sized bottles of beer for the equivalent of about a nickel a piece. We lugged a couple of crates full of these beers back to the dorm. The ledge of our window in January kept them plenty cold. For two or three nights in a row, our room was party central. For two or three mornings in a row, I awoke amidst party debris - empty and half-empty bottles, some used as ashtrays. Our dorm room was just like any other dorm room anywhere. I was just another college kid with a hangover. Except when I woke up, I had nothing to drink but the thermoses of boiling hot drinking water that were left by our door each morning. It's hard to take aspirin with boiling water.

There were also some more high brow affairs. Randy (the schoolteacher) and his wife Patty invited Bob (grad student) and me (hungover but mature 20 year-old) for a dinner party in their dorm room. We fanned out over the city to find the ingredients for our feast.

In those days in Beijing, the search for little creature comforts was a kind of city-wide scavenger hunt. Finding something like peanut butter seemed like a big score.

"The Renmin Binguan (People's Hotel) has a bakery that makes croissants," so off we would go on our bikes.

Another classmate had a Chinese friend who flew to Italy for CAAC. She brought parmesan cheese.

Randy and I shared a love of coffee that bordered on a fetish. We went to the Friendship Store to buy Melitta coffee.

The University was located in the northwest part of the city, while the Friendship Store was just east of the downtown area. It was a 30 minute cab ride, but we didn't go by cab. (For one thing, taking a cab would mean going through that whole RMB-or-FEC ordeal.) We rode our bikes from the University down to the northwest corner of the subway system (Xizhimen Station), and then took the subway the rest of the way.

The subway was pretty basic- it had one loop around the downtown area, and one spur that stretched out to the west. (It has since been expanded,and is being expanded further.) It was cheap and efficient if it went where you were going. I still remember the announcements they would broadcast:"Attention passengers: the next stop is Jianguomen Station. Passengers going to Jianguomen Station, please prepare to disembark."(This was in Chinese. Frequently when I am asked to "say something in Chinese!" this is what I say.)

By bike and subway, the trip was probably an hour and a half each way. It was a lot of effort, but for the luxury of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, it was worth it.*

Dinner was pasta with crab meat, if I remember correctly, and it seemed exquisite. It was nice to be having some quiet conversation, after the more raucous nights.

"What are you doing for Spring Festival?" Randy asked.

That's right. We'd just gotten here, but in a couple of weeks, we would have a full week's vacation for Spring Festival, aka Chinese New Year. It seemed like a waste to stay on campus. But I had no idea what to do.

"I'd like to go to Tibet," said Bob. "But I think it will take too long."

"That would be incredible," I ventured.

"You wanna go? Together?" Bob asked. "Maybe not to Tibet, but... somewhere?"

"Yeah!" I replied.

Of all my classmates, Bob was the one I would feel most comfortable traveling with. He was an experienced traveler. He was adventurous, but sensible. He was not going to do anything crazy. This was no small consideration for me. I had just traveled, I don't know, 8,000 miles from home, and now I was contemplating traveling into the hinterlands of China with someone I'd just met. It was a little scary.

"We could go to Sichuan," Bob said.

"Sounds good."

Bob and I worked out a rough itinerary, and then began to prepare for our trip.

*I was living in Beijing in 1997 when the first Starbucks opened. There are now 51 Starbucks outlets in Beijing.

China Stories Pt. 6: I Buy a Bicycle

2006-06-05T12:24:00.000-07:00

You just couldn't live in Beijing and not own a bicycle. A bicycle was absolutely indispensible. It was still the predominant form of transportation. They were affordable for the average person, and they didn't take up a lot of space. As China has become more affluent, more and more people can afford motorcycles and cars, with disastrous conequences. The air and noise pollution are already terrible, and getting worse. The traffic congestion is getting worse all the time.

By 1989, there were many bikes to choose from - different styles, different shapes-- there was even a choice of colors! Not a lot of colors, but still, this was quite a departure after years of drab, monolithic conformity. For decades, bicycles were black. Period. There were multiple brands, but these were really just different factories building the same basic design. It was China's version of the Model T. Big, black, clunky. Relentlessly utilitarian.

That was exactly the kind I wanted.

There were three main brands of bicycle that I remember: there was "Feng Huang," or Phoenix, "Yong Jiu," or Forever, and "Fei Ge," or Flying Pigeon.

Based on names alone, I wanted a Flying Pigeon. Phoenix and Forever were probably very nice bikes and all, but come on! Who wouldn't want a Flying Pigeon?

I decided that I was definitely going to buy a used bike, so off I went to the neighborhood used bike store. I test-drove several, and got many helpful suggestions from the onlookers who had stopped just to watch me shop for a bike.

"Too small," said one.

"That one's no good," offered someone else.

"Hey! I'll sell you my bike- $100 (US) dollars!" Wise guy.

I chose one and haggled over the price. After the usual dance of bargaining, I had my bike. I paid the equivalent of around US$11. I don't know if that was a good deal or not, really. I just know I thought I got my money's worth out of it.

Just as I had planned, I came home with a large black Flying Pigeon.

A boy and his bicycle.

China Stories Pt. 5: Change a Money?

2006-06-02T11:20:00.000-07:00

In China in 1989, the Yuan was not freely convertible. You could not get it outside the country, and if you took it out of the country with you, you couldn't convert it into other currency. Furthermore, when you went to exchange Yuan back into foreign currency, you had to have receipts showing you had exchanged at least that much money into Chinese currency; in effect, you had to show that you were taking less money out than you had brought in.

Back then there were actually two currencies. One was "the People's currency," called "reminbi," or simply "RMB." ("Yuan" is the formal name of the currency, but nobody calls it that colloquially.) The other was "Foreign Exchange Certificates," or "FEC." FEC was for foreigners, and RMB was for local Chinese. Many foreign goods, such as TVs and washing machines, were only for sale at certain stores, and those stores only accepted FEC. So if a local wanted to buy an American washing machine, they might have to go to the "Friendship Store**."And they would have to have FEC.

The exchange rate for the FEC was held artificially low, so in effect foreigners were overcharged for everything. Meanwhile locals wanted the FEC, because they needed it to buy the washing machine. Foreign students didn't want to be overcharged, so we wanted the RMB. Thus, there was a flourishing black market exchanging FEC for RMB.

Back of a 50 cent Foreign Exchange Certificate. Zzz.

Front of a 1 RMB note. Woman driving tractor. Much cooler than FEC.

We had our own nickname for the currency. Since "RMB" sounded like "R & B," as in rhythm and blues, we called RMB "rhythm and blues," or just "rhythms." As in, "Hey, would you mind paying for the beer? I'm all out of rhythms."

(I don't know if any other foreign students did this, but my friends and I did. Maybe we were just weird. Really, don't discount that possibility.)

Here's how I got my rhythms:

I went to the bank, and exchanged money - say, a US$100 traveler's check. For simplicity's sake, let's say I received 360 FEC. I then took my little wad of monopoly money and headed out the small south gate of the University, into the winding streets of the surrounding district, Haidian. In Haidian, I wandered around. There were shops - a book store, a bike shop, a tea shop. There were outdoor food stalls. There were people playing pool. Pool was very popular then. Since a ban on it had only recentlly been lifted, there were pool tables set up outside on sidewalks all over the city. Eventually I spotted My Guy.

My Guy was about 5' 7", with black hair. (Yes, I know I just described about 400 million men in China.) He had longish, thinning hair, and a wispy beard. He was sort of tough looking, in his leather jacket, but not really menacing. (Kind of like watching The Wild Bunch or West Side Story today. You say, "aww, remember when we found that threatening?") People did get have trouble occasionally, but it wasn't a major concern.

He stopped playing pool and walked over to me.

"Change a money?" he asked.

Then we did the dance. He threw out a number.

"1.6," he said, meaning he'd give me 1.6 RMB per 1 FEC.

"No way! That's way too low! I got 2 to 1 yesterday!" I replied, feigning indignance.

He looked me skeptically. (And rightly so, since I was lying. I had gotten 1.8.)

We went through another iteration, really more of a formality.

"1.7."

"1.9."

Then we arrived where we both knew we would end up anyway: 1.8. I gave him the 360 FEC, and he counted out 650 RMB, peeling the bills off a massive roll.

Yee-haa! It was like I had just gotten a 45% discount on everything in China (outside the Friendship Store). Well, actually, it felt like we had just avoided being fleeced by China.

It wasn't always easy, because not everyone wanted to give us the 45% discount. Foreigners were only supposed to use FEC, unless they had a special card called (ironically enough) a "green card." Green cards were for long-term students or foreigners being paid in RMB, such as teachers. Still, RMB was widely used by foreign students. Even though my classmates and I didn't have green cards, we finessed it most of the time. Most of the time, but not always.

One time I went out with a group of friends for dinner across town. Afterwards, we were looking for a taxi back to the University. A driver stopped.

"FEC or RMB?" he asked.

"RMB," we said. "We're students."

And off he drove. The University district was a long way out, and this guy wasn't going to go there for RMB. Finally a taxi picked us up without asking us FEC or RMB, and we didn't volunteer it. The driver clearly thought he was getting FEC. When we arrived back at the dorm, my friend Randy (the schoolteacher), handed the driver RMB. The driver was dejected. He insisted that we were foreigners, and that we must pay in FEC. Randy refused, got out of the car and started towards the dormitory. The driver became livid, and pursued Randy. He demanded to see his green card. Randy kept walking. The driver grabbed Randy, and they exchanged blows. Nothing big, but the driver had to be extremely angry to engage in that kind of spectacle: fighting with a foreigner was a big deal. No good could come of it. Eventually he left, hurling obscenities and empty threats as he did.

On one hand, I felt bad for the driver, since he didn't get what he thought he would get. On the other hand, "what he thought he would get," seemed to us to be a big rip-off. And we got ripped off and price-gouged enough that it was hard to feel bad for the guy.

Even when we used RMB, we would be overcharged. I'd walk through an open air market and feel like a big pinata full of money. The fruit vendor's eyes would light up, thinking, "I wonder just how ridiculously high a price I can charge this guy for a pear."

*There were some exceptions. You could exchange FEC at the Bank of China in Hong Kong. Not sure where else you could do that.

**Nice name, huh? The Friendship Store, at least the main one, was on Jianguomanwai Avenue, near the embassies. It was useful for buying little luxuries such as english language books and good coffee. These things were not widely available in China in 1989. More on that to follow.

China Stories Pt. 4: Thepeopletalkfast

2006-05-30T16:10:00.000-07:00

In most places, the Chinese language that is taught is the "standard" Mandarin dialect. It is the most widely spoken; it is the official language, both in the PRC and in Taiwan*. It is the dialect that connects a country that has countless hundreds of dialects. Some dialects, such as Cantonese, are spoken by tens of millions of people. Others are vanishing, spoken by a scant few dozen people in remote areas.

Local dialects can vary wildly, even over short distances. In some places, a person could go just a few towns over, and not understand the local language. Imagine going from Washington to New York, and not being able to communicate with a taxi driver. Okay, bad example. But you get the idea.

I was learning the accent most common to northeast China, considered by many to be the "standard" accent. "Standard" was good in this case. Being told that your accent was "very standard" was high praise. Ideally, we would all sound like the evening news anchors on China Central Television.

But the average Beijinger's accent is not quite so standard. First of all, they speak very quickly, much more quickly than any of my language teachers ever had. And the Beijing accent in particular involves adding an "err" sound to the end of many words. So "mian tiao" became "mian tiaor." It was as though we'd gone from studying Peter Jennings to talking to Larry the Cable Guy.

With time and practice, I was able to understand the Beijing accent pretty well. Those "err's" even began to appear in my speech. I grew to love the way it sounds.

It's funny, even now, I can be sitting in a restaurant, and forty feet behind me, over my shoulder, I can pick that distinctive Beijing accent out of a crowd.

*In the PRC they call it "Putonghua;" in Taiwan, it's "Guoyu." But it's essentially the same.

China Stories Pt 3: I order noodles

2006-05-25T12:08:00.000-07:00

I lived at Shao Yuan*, the foreign students' dormitories. Building number four, back and to the right. The facilities were, like the airport, rather spartan, and had an antiquated feel to them. The main building was four or five stories, U-shaped. The center housed offices and classrooms. The wings were dorm rooms. Behind the main building were three other buildings: two dormitories and a cafeteria.

The cafeteria was basically like any cafeteria-- a kitchen, some lines. Rows of tables. They didn't accept money. Rather, you had to buy "fan piao," literally, rice tickets, in varying denominations with which you could then "pay" for food. They were little plastic tickets about the size of a domino, and they had the denominations written on them in Chinese characters. I remember thinking that this was kind of cool- I mean, these little things were kind of like the ration tickets that people used to get for all their food-- one kind for rice, another for cooking oil, and so forth.

My first trip to the cafeteria was a little scary because it dawned on me that for the first time since I had started studying Chinese, I was about to have a transaction with someone who did not also speak some English. A moment of truth.

There were several different lines at the cafeteria-- a couple of lines for Chinese dishes, a line for "Western" food (a concession to the barbarians). (I later discovered that they also sold milk that came in bags, and freshly baked bread that was excellent.)

As I recall, I got in line for something I knew how to say: noodles. I would get a bowl of noodles. As the line inched forward, I became more nervous, and rehearsed the line in my head. I dreaded the idea that I might be forced to resort to pointing-- as a student of the language at Bei Da? Oh, the shame.

Finally, there I was, at the font of the line. I was face to face with this cook wearing a t-shirt and apron, both stained. He looked kind of sweaty, kind of greasy - like he'd been sauteed.

"Qing lai yi wan mian tiao," I managed to get out.

He turned and walked away from me, without saying anything. What happened? Did I fail? Could he tell how clueless I was?

A moment later he returned, and dropped a bowl of noodles on my tray. Then he spoke.

"Yi kuai ba," he said. Oh, crap. I hadn't really worked through any scenarios where I would have to comprehend his reply. I must have looked like an idiot, standing there with my noodles and my mouth hanging open.

"Yi kuai ba," he repeated. He looked at my hand. Where I was holding my meal tickets.

Oh right! I had to pay. He was saying how much it cost: 1.80. I gave him two 1 RMB coupons, and got a .20 back. I was off and running now.

*The literal translation of "Shao Yuan" is "spoon gardens," which we thought was meant as a little joke, since we barbarians didn't normally eat with chopsticks.

China Stories Pt. 2: Beijing

2006-05-25T11:15:00.000-07:00

Yes.

So I departed for China in January 1989. The first stop was Hong Kong, where the group would assemble before "going in" to Beijing. I ran into two of my former classmates from Middlebury, so I was relieved that already there were a couple of familiar faces. I was really excited, but also a little scared. I'd never been this far from home, for this long. I was 20 years old.

I checked into my room at the Hong Kong YMCA. I remember sleeping a lot, because of the jetlag, but I also made a note in my journal that my second day there, the day before we flew into China, was the day of George H. W. Bush's inauguration. I celebrated with a couple of beers at a watering hole in Kowloon called "Ned Kelly's Last Stand."

The next day we gathered our luggage, and after breakfast, headed to the airport to fly to Beijing. The People's Republic of China.

China! Where paper and gunpowder had come from, and later this peculiar form of Socialism. Where Chairman Mao had launched campaigns that amounted to massive social experiments. They sounded like science fiction, but they were not. I was utterly fascinated.

In the previous 40 years, China had undergone social and economic upheavals on a scale I could barely conceive of. Campaigns like the "Hundred Flowers" movement and the "Anti-Rightist" movement; the Great Leap Forward, which led to the deaths of 20 to 30 million people between 1959 and 1962; and the Cultural Revolution, in which young Chinese became Red Guards and turned into such a destructive, anarchic force that Mao had to call upon the People's Liberation Army to restore order.

Given the enormity of these movements, and the dire consequences of dissent, I was also fascinated by the trickle of dissent that had emerged in their aftermath. There was very little dissent, and it obviously took tremendous courage. I had heard of the Democracy Wall movement, and of the Chinese dissident Wei Jingsheng, who had been jailed for writing an essay that advocated expanded individual liberties.

In 1987, just after I started studying Chinese, there had been some student protests. One of the senior leaders, Hu Yaobang, had been blamed for letting the protests grow too large, for being indulgent of the students, so he was forced out of power. I'd seen the protests on TV.

All of this was swirling in my head on the CAAC** flight to Beijing. As we descended, I took in the landscape: the farmland which had been subjected to the throes of collectivism; the farmers, who had been forced into communes; and finally, the city itself, Beijing.

Beijing was profoundly gray and colorless. The air was gray, the buildings were gray. At this time, even in 1989, although the majority of people had ceased to wear "Mao jackets," there was very little in the way of colorful clothing. And since it was a late winter afternoon, it was already getting dark. We disembarked by stairway onto the tarmac and walked to the terminal.

And the smell! Coal. My first, strongest and most lasting impression of Beijing.

It was winter, and Beijing stayed warm by burning coal. The air was heavy with the scent of burning coal. Not just the scent, actually; the air was also filthy. That was another of my early revelations, the black that was expelled whenever you blew your nose.

Every now and then I will catch a whiff of coal smoke. In an instant, I am right back there, a 20 year-old student stepping off the plane into the People's Republic of China, into this descending gray.

We entered the terminal, and then waited in line to go through customs and immigration. It was an imposing process. I'd had to send my passport away to get a visa, which took up a full page. I had had to fill out an entry card, a health declaration, and a customs declaration. Soon I would be standing in front of a uniformed official. In my mind, he was the People's Liberation Army.

The official, a young man probably in his twenties, took my passport and my cards. He looked them over. He looked up at me once. I did my best to strike a pose of respectful earnestness. He looked back down, sleepily stamped my passport, and slid it back to me.

I was in.

The airport had a ramshackle feel to it-- like we had somehow landed in the 1950s. Linoleum floors, dingy whitewashed walls. Rattling single pane windows. Considering that this was a major international capital, the airport seemed shockingly small and spartan. The international terminal had maybe 6 gates, and two luggage carousels.

As we waited for our luggage, the students continued to get to know each other. It was a diverse group-- ages ranging from 17 to 32. Students from all over the country. A high school teacher, who was accompanied by his wife; an older student who had been traveling and was applying to graduate schools; a girl whose family were expatriates living in Hong Kong.

(As an aside, I had noticed that by and large, my classmates in Chinese language classes were not particularly interesting. I had hardly met any that I wanted to spend time with outside of class. But in my group in Beijing, I met a few of the finest, most unforgettable people I know, whom I will introduce you to shortly.)

We boarded the bus for "Bei Da," as Peking University is called. Along the way, people began to find roommates. I was a little late in realizing this was going on, so I ended up with a roommate mostly by process of elimination. My roommate would be Chad. Chad was from California. He was taking a year off from Princeton. He'd just spent the fall living in Taiwan. He was a good looking guy, very social.

"Okay," I thought. "West coast guy, goes to school back east. And he's fun to hang out with. I think this will work out fine."

We dropped our bags and set off to explore our new surroundings.

*(There are, I believe, three different "YMCA" hotels in Hong Kong. It can be a little confusing when you don't know your way around. You tell a cab driver "YMCA" and he promptly takes you to a hotel you'd swear you've never seen before. Add to that some jetlag and general disorientation, and it'll mess with your head. For the record, we were at the one in Tsim Sha Tsui, in Kowloon.)

**Civil Aviation Administration of China- one of the many quaintly anachronistic, anti-capitalist names I have come to appreciate.

China Stories Pt. 1: The College Years

2006-05-23T09:11:00.000-07:00

So as I mentioned, I studied Chinese and lived in China. I have never really written about it, so I thought I would throw a few things down here about my China experiences.

I began studying Chinese at Middlebury College in the fall of 1986. It was just about the time of the tenth anniversary of the death of Mao Zedong (or if you prefer, Mao Tse-tung; same guy). Despite having been asked a lot, I am not entirely sure why I started studying Chinese. I think it was because it was exotic. I had been reading books about Buddhism and Chinese history, and it was so profoundly foreign, I thought it was cool. Plus, it seemed like a cool thing to be studying. I think I thought the ladies would find that interesting. (They did not.)

First-year Chinese is a pretty intense experience, and Middlebury is among the best places to study it. It takes a lot of work-- the Professor asked some people to drop it. I was proud of the fact that I was doing it, and I knew I would feel a great sense of accomplishment when I got through it.

If I remember correctly, at the beginning of the year, they told us that by the end of the year we would know something like 1,200 or 1,500 characters, and we would read this book which did NOT look like "See Spot Run" in Chinese.

In Chinese, words are represented by characters or combinations of characters, which are pictograms. There is no alphabet, there is no way to look at a character and phonetically know how to pronounce it (until you know a lot of other characters, and then you have some clues). The grammar is different. And there are tones.

In Mandarin Chinese, which is the most widely spoken and the one most commonly taught as a foreign language, there are four tones: high, rising, falling and low. The inflection completely changes the word. It's as different as saying "cup" and "cap."

I've never worked so hard, before or since. Through the darkest coldest winter I ever experienced, I spent long hours repeatedly writing out these complicated little characters, and repeating the sounds with the proper tones. I spent night after night visiting the language lab, getting to know the staff there, plus the Russian students. There was a mutual admiration between the Chinese and Russian language students, since we collectively looked down upon the students of French, Spanish and German-- the "short bus" foreign languages.*

I was aided enormously in the task of learning Chinese by the absence of any social life to speak of. Not having anywhere else to go or anything better to do was a real leg-up. I left Middlebury after my first year to go to the University of Pennsylvania.

I studied Chinese at Penn for another year and a half, and then I applied to spend a semester in China. I debated whether to go to Nanjing or Beijing. Nanjing was good - a little smaller, more temperate city. Maybe a better program. But Beijing was where things happened - the seat of government, the center of power. A big city. I opted for Beijing.

I left for Beijing in January of 1989.

*Speakers of said languages, please don't take offense, I kid. I remember how hard Spanish was - from high school. Again, kidding! As I like to point out, how hard can Chinese really be? There's 200 million kids under ten that can speak it just fine.

Would you like to know a secret? I suck.

2006-05-16T10:34:00.000-07:00

I suck in about a thousand different ways. I'm 37 years old, and even though I have sucked my entire life, to lesser or greater degrees, I am only just now beginning to be okay with that.

I'm *not* saying I suck at comedy; I don't. I don't know that I'm the next Bill Cosby, but I know I don't suck at it. I'm just saying that in my life so far, I have made a number of mistakes. I've done things I regret, still. I have been lucky to survive a number of self-inflicted fuck-ups.

My adult life has been a process of iteration. Maybe everyone's is, I don't know. I feel like I've been trying on identities-- walking around in them, looking at them in the mirror-- and then deciding, no, this one isn't quite right. So I try on another one. This one's okay, I think, then oops! Probably shouldn't have done that. On to the next one.

I have been extremely fortunate to do some cool things. I learned how to speak Chinese, and I lived in China on three occasions. I was smart enough to get into really good schools, and blessed enough to be able to attend. I look back with mixed emotions. Sometimes I think, "wow, I really accomplished something, didn't I?" Other times I think, "wow, imagine what you might have done if you'd made more of an effort, if you'd really *cared* about what you were doing."

None of my identities has fit yet. Each has had its own mix of pluses and minuses.

Are all my tried-on identities the product of who I am? Or vice-versa? It's iterative. The person I was at 20 affected what I did when I was 25, which affected my choices when I was 30. And so on.

The iterations continue because, well, they just do. I keep trying to do better, keep trying to reach that illusive point where talent, passion and opportunity converge.

Have you ever seen someone engaged in an activity and said, "Look! That person is doing something they love, and by God, they are gifted at it! How cool." To me, those people always look like they glow. I know people like this. I think my dad is this way. My brother-in-law, too. Who knows how, but they happened to find the place where their talent and passion converged with opportunity in an alchemy of human fulfillment.

I've read stories about people having the "eureka" moment of discovering this convergence: of Tiger Woods discovering golf; of Paul Simon writing his first song. I don't know what it's like in reality, but I think of it as a light being turned on.

How many people ever get to know that feeling? I think it must be a small number. There must be far greater numbers of people who were great at basketball, like Jordan-- but they were 5'7". Or people who had the potential to be great scientists-- but never got to go to school.

With each iteration, I'm trying to nudge myself closer to that magic convergence, to improve the odds of my light turning on.

Maybe it never will. I realize that. I accept that. I labored for a long time under the delusion that, at some point, I would find the Right Fit, the Light would Turn On, and then, huzzah, life could begin. And until then, nothing mattered.

But then it finally dawned on me: this is it. This process of trying things on, finding what you like and don't like, and then trying something else-- this *is* it. And mostly, it's fantastic. The light coming on can only be looked at as a happy accident, like winning a prize on a bottle top when you were happy just to have the soda. To view it otherwise - as a right, as an absolute imperative - is to be disappointed constantly.

If my light turns on, I'll be happy. But if it doesn't, I will be happy anyways. That's my plan, at least.

Do you have a better one?

Thanks for close to nothing, Mr. President

2006-04-26T10:36:00.000-07:00

President Bush announced yesterday that, in order to provide consumers some relief from high fuel costs, he has ordered the government to defer purchases of crude oil for the nation's Strategic Petroleum Reserves (SPR) "until the fall."

"Every little bit helps," said the President.

Just how little a bit are we talking about? Here are my back of the envelope calculations.*

Rate at which US usually adds to the SPR (the "SPR fill rate"): varies, but approximately 2 million barrels per month, or roughly 67,000 barrels per day.

US demand for oil: approximately 20 million barrels per day

US SPR fill rate as a percentage of US demand: 0.34%

Worldwide supply of oil: very roughly, 80 million barrels per day

US SPR fill rate as a percentage of worldwide supply: 0.08%

So in effect the President is saying that we are going to: 1) increase the available supply of oil worldwide by less than 1/10 of one percent; and 2) decrease US demand for that supply by less than 1/2 of one percent. And that will lead to lower gas prices.

Hmm.

So, let's just assume that the impact of this measure goes straight to the gas pump, because:

- oil sheikhs, ever so sensitive to a minute change in demand from the Great Satan, immediately panic and reduce their prices;

- oil companies, though rapacious by nature, somehow act completely out of character and instantly pass this savings on to consumers at the gas pump. (This despite the fact that crude oil accounts for less than 50% of the cost of a gallon of gas. Transportation, refining, marketing, taxes and um, embarrassingly large profits comprise the rest.)

Okay, we can probably agree that in order to believe that the foregoing assumptions are at all realistic, some drugs that are not covered by Medicare would be required.

Even so what would be the savings to consumers? 1%? Here in San Francisco, that would translate into about $0.03/gallon. $0.50 each time you fill up. Say you fill up twice a week? That's a dollar. By the end of the summer, you will have saved maybe $16.00.

Huzzah! It's a windfall! Fire up the Escalade, honey! We can go visit your parents afterall!

*I am not an economist, not even remotely close. I'm just a guy with a blog and broadband access.

If a blog falls in a forest

2006-04-25T13:08:00.000-07:00

I gots plenty of stuff going on in my life. Some of it is fodder for blogging; some not.

Right now, the latter is kicking the ass of the former, and absorbing the majority of my discretionary bandwidth. So a lot of what's going on with me, I can't blog about, and it's taking up a lot of my time and energy.

The good news is, now that I'm blogging less, I'm more productive at work!

No I'm not.

Greetings from Seattle

2006-04-11T12:28:00.000-07:00

It is raining for the 1,035th day in a row in San Francisco. Yes, it's been raining for over 3 years. I don't know why this hasn't gotten wider press coverage.

Our new motto is, "if you don't like the weather, just wait ten minutes. It'll be even worse then, so you'll appreciate how good it is now."

Did a set last night at a club where I frequently perform. I haven't been getting up there as much recently because, it seems, they haven't gotten my phone messages.

The system basically works like this. You call them on Sunday for spots on the Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday showcases. So I'll call and leave a message saying I'd like to get on the Monday night show, or Tuesday, or Wednesday. (See how that works?) More often than not, I have gotten on. It's a good show. The audiences are usually small, but they can be pretty good. They are also mostly tourists from out of town, so you get some sense of how your jokes would play outside the warm liberal embrace of SF, where the well-funded, right-wing, conservative candidate for Mayor was the Democrat (Gavin Newsome), and he almost lost to the candidate from the Green Party (Matt Gonzales).

Lately, I haven't gotten on as much. Twice in the last 3 weeks, the booker claimed he didn't get my message. Maybe not, but twice in 3 weeks? Hmm.

Last night I was on, but I had the "bitch spot." I was first, and I only got 5 minutes. Actually, the host does his time to open the show, so I was after him. Still, you get a fairly cold audience, and 5 minutes isn't a lot of time.

I did okay, and I didn't complain. I won't complain. If there's one thing I know, it's that bookers generally (this one is no exception) don't like prima donnas. So it's all right, I will work my way back in to the heart of the lineup.

I have spent some time (too much I am sure) entertaining paranoid fantasies-- that I committed some sort of slight or faux pas. It's possible - at one show I had my time cut, and I made mention of it in a joking way. Then I ran the light, I went over my allotted time. That's never a good idea, and I have only done it a couple of times. Maybe that pissed the guy off, I don't know. It's possible. Maybe I'm not paranoid.

Anyway. My confidence isn't exactly soaring at the moment, but it'll come around. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Make Your Cuts

2006-04-06T00:08:00.000-07:00

Hi ho!

Someone told me I had a blog here, so I thought I'd stop by and see what's what.

I haven't done a show in a week. Partially a product of schedule, partially ennui.

I've got to get some writing done (stand-up and other), and I've got to get up and do some shows. I might see if I can get a set on Saturday. Otherwise, next week.

Two places where I have been able to get up pretty regularly haven't given me spots the last few weeks, so that partially accounts for the lower level of activity. I'm a little paranoid that I did something to bug them, like say, not be funny enough.

I'm not too worried about it, though. I have gone through these kinds of fits and starts before, where I don't write and don't perform and then bang bang bang, I write a bunch, and I get shows all over the place. It'll come back.

***

The writing. I need to write new stuff, and I need to tighten up some of the current stuff. For new stuff, I have ideas in my notebook that are just sitting there, like dirty laundry. (To extend the analogy then, writing is like dropping off my clothes for the ole' wash-n-fold, and performing a new bit is like picking up my clothes. Or maybe it's more like putting on clean socks. I think that analogy is like... some other, somewhat similar thing. Ah, screw it.) I have a few promising new bits which I just haven't quite got down yet. The premises are good, but the setups and the punches are still sloppy. They need to be trimmed and refined. Anything that doesn't help me get to the funny needs to go.

As the comedy teacher Stephen Rosenfield likes to say, "make your cuts."

***

The performing. If I have a self-diagnosed performance issue right now, it's pacing. Sometimes nervous comedians, especially novices, tend to "shotgun" their sets. They don't give the audience any time to think and react-- just when they might have laughed at a joke, the comedian is already off to the next one. Sometimes this results in a beginning comedian taking the set that was perfectly timed out at 7 minutes at home, and doing it in 5, 5/12 minutes.

My problem is the opposite now. I am TOO comfortable with long pauses. The longer the pause, the better the punch line has to be to justify it. If it isn't big enough, the audience loses energy. A couple weeks ago I did a show where I made a conscious effort to keep my pace a little quicker, and it definitely seemed to help. Another reason for the long pauses sometimes is laziness, pure and simple. I might put together a few fragments of a set, but unless it's pretty important (which could mean an audition, a contest, or getting paid), I don't really time it out. I just know that I may need more material, or I may need to cut some stuff. As a result, sometimes, I take a healthy-sized pause between jokes. That's because I am trying to figure out what to do next.

***

Went to LA last weekend, which was cool. I saw two of my oldest, best friends. It was great to see people who know me from way back. It helps me tap into parts of me that I have forgotten about. I am back in touch with my inner 12 year old.

Ronnie James Bio

2006-03-27T14:03:00.000-08:00

"The grand wizard of classic rock. A poet of hope for the
downtrodden. The single most important vocal technician in the
history of heavy metal. All of these accolades have been garlanded
upon the royal roar known as Ronnie James Dio."

"The Dio canon is now regarded as above and beyond trend, one of
the few hallowed metal collections composing the very definition
of "classic rock". May the man preach, pontificate and power-chord
for many years to come. "

(www.ronniejamesdio.com/bio_dio.asp)

Troubadour. Truth teller. Sweater comic. Ish has been called all of these things. But perhaps more than anything else, he is a healer. He heals with his unique gift of laughter. He brings us together to celebrate our common humanity. He raises up the oppressed with his message of hope.

Ish may be the single greatest humorist in the history of mankind. He combines the cutting wit of Dorothy Parker, the folksy appeal of Will Rogers, and the incisive social commentary of Lenny Bruce. Immortals all, they look down upon us, titans astride the Olympus of American humor. But soon, they will be joined -- nay, eclipsed -- by Ish. And for the opportunity to watch his gift unfold we should be grateful.

He burst onto the comedy scene like a supernova, or some other similarly bright object. By turns sardonic and sincere, erudite yet unfailingly humble, he bypasses traditional performance interaction to connect directly with the souls of his audience. From the moment he first hit the stage, there was a sense that the comedy landscape would be altered forever, or at least for a fairly long period of time. His emergence heralded the beginning of a new age in comedy, when the very form itself would be reconceived and reborn. Comedians and critics alike were forced to ask themselves hard questions, such as "what is hack, really?", "did you ever notice?" and "how long has he been up there?".

His sets are not mere recitations of jokes. Rather, they transport you on a metaphysical journey that never returns you to the place you were, even if that's what you would have preferred since it was closer to where you parked.

His classic bits, such as "best study ever," and "banana/vagina" have already taken their rightful place in the firmament alongside such timeless classics as "Who's on First?", "7 words you can't say on television," and "you might be a redneck."

Watch. Enjoy. Savor this moment, for a giant walks among us.

I question the efficacy of medical marijuana

2006-03-21T18:01:00.000-08:00

Here in San Francisco, the use of medical marijuana -- that is, weed prescribed by a doctor -- is fairly popular. It's used to treat numerous illnesses, such as glaucoma.

And they say it is effective. Fine. But I remain skeptical.

I mean, if it's so great, then why is it that since medical marijuana became available, the number of people diagnosed with glaucoma has SKYROCKETED?

According to records*, 6 in 10 San Franciscans have been diagnosed with glaucoma. And almost all of them seek to be treated with medical marijuana, many in my neighborhood. And very casually dressed pharmacists always seem to be available to attend to their patients' needs.

Nobody seems to get better, you know?

You just don't hear about people saying, "you know what? I think I'm better. I guess I can stop burning blunts." No.

What you are more likely to hear: "damn this glaucoma of mine. Why don't we spark up a prescription-strength fatty, eat some nachos and watch 'VH-1's Best Week Ever'?"

*I made this up. But it sounds plausible, no?

Sex is like riding a bicycle

2006-03-21T17:16:00.000-08:00

"Sex is like riding a bicycle," so they say.

Maybe that's true.

There's the chafing, the cramping...

the scrapes and bruises, the helmet-hair...

...and sometimes when you're done, you feel like you need to convince yourself it was worth the effort.

"Phew! That was fun, huh? We should do that again."

H.L. Mencken Updated and Applied to Television

2006-03-21T16:00:00.000-08:00

"As ~~democracy~~ [TV programming] is perfected, the ~~office of president~~ [prime-time lineup] represents, more and more closely, the inner soul of the people."

"On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart's desire at last and ~~the White House~~ [ABC Tuesdays at 8/7c] will be adorned by ~~a downright moron~~ [Jim Belushi]."

- H.L. Mencken

"As democracy is perfected, the office of president represents, more and more closely, the inner soul of the people."

2006-03-10T08:51:00.000-08:00

"On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart's desire at last and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron."

- H.L. Mencken

Blog Dump

2006-03-08T11:51:00.000-08:00

So it has come to this. I've become such a neglectful blogger that I have two blogs languishing, collecting dust. I suck at blogging.

I tend to get bound up at the thought of writing an entry-- I have to figure out what to write about, I have to write it, I have to decide which parts of it aren't so horrible that I shouldn't delete them. Then I have to obsess over what I need to add or change.

And then I worry about whether it's funny or not. Or more specifically, whether or not YOU will think its funny. That's right- you! Not me.

And it becomes so daunting that I do other things. Hence, my high degree of suck-tivity.

Well, I'll try not to let my fear of sucking get in the way.

I GET CAREER ADVICE ON THE BUS

So the other day, I got career advice from a man on the bus. We were the only ones on the bus, at about 10pm. Well, no, okay. There was the driver. But he seemed more like part of the bus, part of the mise-en-scene, if you will. (If you will allow me to use a french phrase, probably incorrectly.) And the driver couldn't very well participate in our discussion, since he was trying to minimize the number of pedestrians he hit. (That's a big initiative with MUNI right now- to cut down on the number of pedestrians they hit.)

Anyway, it was very enlightening. I will call him Dave, for no reason. Dave had two shoelaces - one in his shoe, the other holding a pair of broken glasses around his neck. I am guessing here, but based on his general jitteryness and tiny little pupils, he may have been have been experiencing the effects of methamphetamine. Though it could have been a french press pot of Peet's Coffee, since the effects are similar. But he only had about half his teeth, which is what nudged me over in to thinking yeah, probably the meth.

DAVE
Hey... you that Russian guy?

ME
What?

DAVE
You that Russian guy?

ME
No.

DAVE
You look like this Russian guy, lives over in Potrero Hill.

ME
Oh.

DAVE
What are you?

ME
What?

DAVE
Are you German or English or what?

ME
English, I guess.

(I tried to think: what answer is most likely to end this conversation? And the answer came back: none. Impossible. Nothing you can do.)

DAVE
A lotta Russians come here, and they get jobs as security guards.

ME
Really?

DAVE
Yeah. They don't hardly speak English, but they have friends, see? Help 'em study for the test. And they pass it.

ME
Ah.

DAVE
Some people come here, like Germans, they become electricians and stuff. It's good to have a trade, you know?

(BEAT)

You know?

ME
Huh?

DAVE
It's good to have a trade.

ME
Yeah.

DAVE
It's good. But some people, you know, they don't wanna work. They'd rather just run around in the streets.

Me
Yeah.

At this point I got off the bus. But smarter than when I got on, you know?

You know?

And the Winner Is, Part 2

2006-03-02T12:46:00.000-08:00

It also just occurred to me that, for about the third year in a row, I will be participating in an Oscars pool without having seen a single one of the big nominated films.

The good thing is that this way, my own opinions don't get in the way of making picks. I don't have any stake. I can be totally dispassionate, and just pick based on the "buzz."

So I guess I will be voting for Brokeback Mountain in every category. Even categories in which it isn't nominated. When it wins "Best Animated Short," remember, you saw it here first.

The Winner Is...

2006-03-02T12:34:00.000-08:00

#3. As we speak, printing presses are rolling.

I appreciate all of the nice (and occasionally naughty) feedback! Especially after the- well, let's call it "tough love"- I received over the first batch of headshots.

It's a little odd, being objectified in this way-- I'm not at all accustomed to it. Not saying I couldn't *learn*, though.

Now all I have to do is get funny.

New Headshots!

2006-02-23T12:17:00.000-08:00

Check it out boys and girls! I got new headshots. Against my better judgment, I'm posting a few here for you to peruse and criticize. I hope you will at least agree that they are better than the last batch.

By the way? Had an awesome show on Tuesday night. Crushed. (That's good.)

(God, I'm such a narcissist.)

1.

2.

3.

This is no way to run a railroad

2006-02-10T11:28:00.000-08:00

Numerous scandals have recently rocked the White House-- from Hurricane Katrina response to electronic surveillance without a warrant. Leaking classified information. And this was *before* the Vice President shot someone in the face with a shotgun. All of these scandals at the highest levels prompted me to refresh my understanding of the line of succession to the Presidency. It's not a pretty picture. When you are kind of intrigued by the idea of the Secretary of Agriculture becoming President, it's time to worry.

Here is the current line of succession to the Presidency:

1. Vice President Dick Cheney. The Rifleman. He might be indicted before the President. Next.

2. Speaker of the House of Representatives, Dennis Hastert (R-Illinois). He called for an investigation into who leaked information about secret CIA interrogation centers in Eastern Europe. He also accused George Soros of being funded by "drug groups."

3. President pro tempore of the Senate, Ted Stevens (R-Alaska). A tireless (and tiresome)advocate of oil drilling in Arctic National Wildlife Reserve. Attempted to place appropriation for drilling in military spending bill, in violation of Senate rules. Obtained $223 million in federal funding for "bridge to nowhere," a bridge which would replace a 7-minute ferry trip in a sparsely populated area; furthermore, threatened to resign from the Senate if the money were redirected to Hurricane Katrina rebuilding efforts. Actually makes me long for the waning days of a senile Strom Thurmond.

4. Secretary of State, Condoleezza Rice.

"No one could have imagined them taking a plane, slamming it into the Pentagon -- I'm paraphrasing now -- into the World Trade Center, using planes as a missile."

"I believe the title was 'Bin Laden Determined to Attack Inside the United
States.'"

5. Secretary of the Treasury, John W. Snow.

President Bill Clinton left office in 2001 with a federal budget surplus of $127 billion. President George Bush ran a deficit of $319 billion in 2005. So who deserves more credit for fighting red ink? No question, says Treasury Secretary John Snow: It's his boss, Bush. Sipping a latte at a Starbucks coffee shop with reporters in Washington two days ago, he said that "the president's legacy will be one of having significantly reduced the deficit in his time,'' and said Clinton's budget was a "mirage'' and "wasn't a real surplus.'' (link)

Put down the crack pipe, John. I miss Bob Rubin. Sigh...

6. Secretary of Defense, Donald H. Rumsfeld. No body armor for you. Next.

7. Attorney General, Alberto Gonzales. The funny: "President Washington, President Lincoln, President Wilson, President Roosevelt have all authorized electronic surveillance on a far broader scale." The not so funny: He has been a proponent and key architect of the (legally dubious) idea that the Authorization for War passed by Congress on September 14, 2001 gave the President near-absolute power, including the power to conduct domestic surveillance without a warrant.

8. Secretary of the Interior, Gale Norton. I cannot take seriously anyone who will carry water for the "Clear Skies Initiative," the "Healthy Forests Initiative," or the denial of the existence of global warming. Next.

9. Secretary of Agriculture, Mike Johanns. From the Onion: Secretary Of Agriculture Keeps Bragging He's Ninth In Line For The Presidency. This is all I know about him, and already I like him better than anyone else on the list.

10. Secretary of Commerce, Carlos Gutierrez. Ineligible, born in Cuba.

11. Secretary of Labor, Elaine Chao. Ineligible, born in Taiwan. Bonus: Married to Mitch McConnell (R-Pork Barrel).

12. Secretary of Health and Human Services, Michael Leavitt.

13. Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, Alphonso Jackson.

14. Secretary of Transportation, Norman Y. Mineta. Really? Still?

15. Secretary of Energy, Samuel W. Bodman. Honestly, did you even know we *had* a Secretary of Energy?

16. Secretary of Education, Margaret Spellings.

17. Secretary of Veterans Affairs, Jim Nicholson.

All I want to know is: where's Barack Obama on the list? And how can we move him up?

I'm Helping the Homeless!

2006-02-09T18:28:00.000-08:00

So I'm walking to work this morning, drinking my Major Dickason's and rocking out with my iPod*, as I do, when I come to one of my regular homeless guys. I say "my regular," because I tend to patronize** a few homeless guys in particular more than others. It's partially a function of geography, since I walk the same way to work most of the time. Over time, I guess I've developed more of a rapport with some than with others.

Anyway.

I get to one of my "regulars," in front of Peet's coffee. I dig some change out of my pocket, and I drop it into his cup. I'm walking away, once again rocking out.* As I do.

Then I have a thought: In addition to my change, I may have dropped 20mg of Paxil*** in the guy's cup.

I check my pocket, and sure enough! The little happy pill is no longer there. For a brief moment, I weighed the idea of going back. But then I played it out in my head.

Homeless guy in front of Peet's coffee: Spare any change today?

Me: Hey, I'm sorry to bother you, but remember a minute ago? When I came by and dropped some change in your cup? Yeah, I think I may also have dropped in a pill of a popular anti-depressant.

Homeless guy: What did it look like?

Me: It was pink, round--

Homeless guy: Paxil?

Me: Yeah-- what?

So I decided to let that particular pill go.

Then I had another idea. Maybe I should make that kind of my calling card! I give a little change, a happy little pill.

So I'll say it now, just to get it out of the way. If you are in San Francisco, and you meet a homeless person who seems better adjusted and able to cope with his problems? That was me, and you're welcome.

------

*First song, as I left home: "Rockin' the Suburbs," Ben Folds. Second song, as I met up with the homeless guy: "Savoy Truffle," the Beatles. I am not paid to endorse Ben Folds, the Beatles, or the iPod.

**Here I am using patronize in the sense of "to be a regular customer/sponsor of," as opposed to in the sense of "to treat in a condescending manner." Condescending means talking down to.

***Paxil® is an antidepressant medication in the class of agents as selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs). As with any prescription medication, Paxil® may cause some side effects, which are usually mild to moderate and may fade or disappear completely over time. Common side effects of Paxil® may include nausea, infection, diarrhea, dry mouth, constipation, decreased appetite, sleepiness, dizziness, sexual side effects, nervousness, tremor, yawning, sweating, weakness or insomnia. Medicines known as monoamine oxidase inhibitors (MAOIs), thioridazine or pimozide should not be taken while you are taking Paxil®. Ask your doctor if Paxil® is right for you! I am not paid to endorse Paxil®, either.

The louder he talked of his honor, the faster we counted our spoons. - Ralph Waldo Emerson

2006-02-06T14:13:00.000-08:00

The Stretch, Part Two

2006-01-24T14:07:00.000-08:00

It happened again.

You may recall that a few months ago, a couple of my comedy colleagues got big breaks-- one won a contest, and another got paid work from a prestigious club. Now it has happened again.

Another one of my comrades in arms got a really good paid gig. And good for him. I like him, I'm glad he got it. And yet...jealous, table for one.

I have also finally seen a comedian at early stages about whom I would say, "yes, he's going to be a star. He's going to be big." This guy is young, just starting out, but man! He's already very, very good. I've seen more seasoned vets look at him and just shake their heads. It's exciting, but at the same time, discouraging. You work hard to get good, and then you see it come so effortlessly to someone else. It's inspiring, but it can be hard.

And my friend got a paid gig that I want. And you know what? I'm good enough to get it. I know that. But it's hard - no-- it's impossible not to let at least a little jealousy seep in.

I understand a few things. For one, these things wouldn't bother me if I didn't want to be good and I didn't have the desire to succeed. For another, I know that this type of thing happens to everyone, and it happens at all stops along the way. Who knows? A year from now I could be whining because one of my friends got Premium Blend and I didn't.

I also realize that each time I have a breakthrough, there will be someone who feels the same way about me. Happy for me, sure, but envious too.

It's also a reminder that I can't take anything for granted-- I need to use everything I have to be successful. I don't want to wonder, "what if I had pushed myself?"

Going Postal

2006-01-23T10:47:00.000-08:00

I'm just back from the post office. Which is always fun, and never more so than when you're up against the deadline for mailing stuff to the IRS.

So not only did I have to write a check to the government (those phones don't tap themselves you know!), but I get to stand in a long line and contemplate that fact for about 20 minutes.

What I find mind-boggling, though, is this: the post office is open...what? 300 days a year? And there are maybe 5 other days of the year when there's a real time-crunch at the post office.

So why is it so much MORE likely that that's the day that complete idiots come to the post office for no apparent reason?

I don't know how postal workers do it. I really don't. They have an amazing amount of patience, when you realize what they have to deal with. I'm just surprised that they don't "go postal" more often.

I would not be long for that job.

Here is a dramatic reenactment of a random 2 minute sampling of the post office I was in on Tuesday, at about 4:15pm.

Postal Worker: Next!

Customer #1: Hello, I would like to mail this package please.

Postal Worker: What are the contents of your package?

Customer #1: A jar of pickled beets, 2 sticks of dynamite and a dead bird.

Postal Worker: Uh huh. What were you planning to send them in?

Customer #1: Oh, just this grocery bag here. I wrote my name on this side, and my brother's over here on the other side.

Postal Worker: Yeah, no, we can't accept that. You will need proper packing materials for the beets to minimize the chance of breakage, it's illegal to send explosives and you can't send a dead bird through the mail.

Customer#1: Why can't I send the bird?

Postal Worker: You just can't, sir.

Customer# 1: But I never had this problem with the other dead birds!

Postal Worker: Sorry sir, post office regulations. Next!

Customer #2: Hi, I'd like to send this.

Postal Worker: This envelope is completely covered with one cent stamps. Where's the address? How will the carrier know where to deliver it?

Customer #2: See I thought you might say that, so I wrote it on this card, and I thought I'd just tape it to the bottom of the envelope here.

Postal Worker: I'm sorry ma'am, but the address has to be clearly visible on the piece of mail, not attached to it. Otherwise the automated sorters won't be able to process it, and the address my get torn off, and then your letter wouldn't be delivered.

Customer #2: Why do you have to make it SO HARD for a NORMAL PERSON such as MYSELF to mail a SIMPLE LETTER? The post office USED to provide GOOD SERVICE! I will complain to the Postmaster General! My congressman is going to hear about this! Good day to you, sir!

Postal Worker: Next?

***

Now then: here's what it would have sounded like had I been the postal worker, and why I am not a postal worker.

Me as Postal Worker (MaPW): Next?

Customer #3: I would like to peruse the Great Merchant Marine Vessels commemorative stamps collection, please.

MaPW: (Sigh.) Okay. Here you are.

(2 minutes later.)

Customer #3: Okay, I believe I have come to a decision.

MaPW: Excellent.

Customer #3: Yes... I would like 20, please.

MaPW: They come in sheets of 25. That's how many vessels they honored. 25.

Customer #3: Oh. But I don't want all 25. I only want 20.

MaPW: Right you only want 20. Buying all 25 would be too simple.

Customer #3: What?

MaPW: Nothing.

Customer #3: Let's see... maybe you could remove five of the stamps from the book and put them somewhere else.

MaPW: Well, I guess I could do that, if it will help me to get to the other 20 people who are trying to mail their tax returns.

Customer #3: Now let me just decide which five I want to remove.

MaPW (twitching): Here's what I'll do, sir. I'll tear off the bottom row here, okay?

Customer #3: Oh, heaven's no! I definitely want the S.S. Terre Haute! She was a beautiful ship. She used to come into San Francisco about every six wee--

MaPW: --That is utterly fascinating! Wow! Is there any way, any way at all, you could be a bigger pain in the ass right now? Because I'm guessing not, but hey, you've already surprised me.

Customer #3: Maybe you could take an X-acto knife and just cut out the five that I don't want.

MaPW: Oh, I really don't think giving me a knife right now would be a good idea. Hey, I have an idea! Maybe you could come back at 5.

Customer #3: Don't you close at 5?

MaPW: Yes. Yes, we do. Next!

A Cheapy

2006-01-13T13:25:00.000-08:00

This is going to be a cheapy entry, mostly because I feel obliged to write something, and yet I don't have that much time or inspiration.

So here's where I am at:

Stand-up: I have two shows tonight, the second of which is a kind of "Tough Crowd"-type show on which I will be a guest panelist, cracking wise about the latest headlines. I'm doing an audition on Monday to a giant room full of empty chairs and desperation. Good times indeed. I have stuff Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, too. (See below.) But other than that, I'm wide open!

Improv: I have been taking a class, I auditioned for a group, and I was invited/co-opted into another group. Something's got to give-- as much as I like it, I can't keep up with all of them. The group I auditioned for is meeting on Saturday-- I'll try to get a sense of that before I make any decisions.

Writing: I have a couple of other top-secret writing projects that are going okay. The main reason they are top-secret is to minimize my accountability to you, internet. It's so that I don't have to answer questions like, "so what ever happened to that thing you were writing?" Because I might not like the answer.

Here's a typical week, comedy schedule-wise.

Monday: improv class
Tuesday: show (hopefully)
Wednesday: stalk bookers at 2 clubs; also supposed to meet with other improv group
Thursday: stand-up class
Friday: Show
Saturday: Improv (afternoon)
Sunday: stalk booker at local club (evening)

"So when," you may well ask, "do you find time to write?" Ah. Good question. That why I have to pare down this schedule. It's too hectic as is, so I'm waiting for a couple of things to shake loose, and then we will reevaluate.

Otherwise, two double ought six is off to a promising start.

5-8-0-0-8

2006-01-02T10:39:00.000-08:00

In the 1960s, a Stanford professor came up with classifications for the people who help spread technological innovations. There are the "early adopters," people who buy new gadgets as soon as they come out. There are the "late adopters," who wait until a technology is well established.

Then there is my dad. On the technology spectrum, my dad falls somewhere between "late adopter" and "Amish."

Not that he shuns technology completely, he just doesn't exactly cuddle up in its warm embrace, either. Take the cellular phone.

See, my dad does own a cell phone. It’s just never turned on. He seems to get that cell phones are an important modern convenience, he just maybe doesn’t get why.

I mean, he's already on his second cell phone. Why? Because he threw the first one away. Why did he throw it away? Because the battery was dead.

"You know, they're rechargeable, Dad."

"Really? That must have been that thing that came with it."

"Yeah, that was probably the charger. What did you think it was?"

“I don’t know. Some kind of holder-thing that plugged in.”

So now even though he seems to understand the rechargeable nature of cell phones, I’m still not convinced he’s totally on board. His policy on using his cell phone is a little bit like other people might have for using, say, a flare gun.

"Dad, you spent the night in the car in a snow bank! Why didn't you call?"

"Oh, I was all ready to! If it had gotten bad."

Sigh.

And even when he does decide to actually use his cell phone, it’s still pretty clear he doesn’t quite get it. He thinks that cell phones are like walkie-talkies, and you have to talk like Mission Control calling Apollo 13. It’s like he thinks he’s being charged by the word: “Ish, Dad. Lunch? 12:30? Okay, see you.”

All my cell phone voicemails from him sound like this: "Ish, Dad. If you can hear me, pick up. Pick up!"

At least he's less subject to the cell phone peer pressure than I am.

Like at work, whenever there’s a break in a meeting and everyone immediately jumps on their cell phone, I have to, too. I mean, I’m hip! I’m popular! I have someone to call too, probably! Usually I just check my messages. And usually, there is just that one from my dad asking me to pick up.

But it’s true. I'm not exactly an early adopter myself. I always have the least cool phone of any of my friends. They all have these great Inspector Gadget-y things that do everything.

(During break in meeting.)

Me: Hey man. Whatcha doin?

Friend: Oh, just paying a bill, taking some pictures, sending an e-mail. Taking a picture of my bill, and then e-mailing it. How about you?

Me: Me? Haha! I just spelled the word "boobs" upside down. See? Yeah, it's 5-8-0-0-8. You should try it some time. You can do "boobies" too. Use the one for an "I" and the three for an "E."

There is a simple reason why I always have a crap phone, and it is this: I am cheap.

I mean, we all have phones, we all need phones, so I find the prices that Nokia and Motorola want to charge for their latest gizmos a tad offensive. And frankly, since I can be endlessly entertained by spelling the word “boobies,” I am happy to settle for older technology. (Though I prefer to think of it as "seasoned" technology.)

This is how I shop for a phone:

Me: Hi, I need a new phone.

Sales Guy working on commission: I can help you with that. We've got this new one here, it's a PDA, it's web-compatible and comes with Java and Blue Tooth. It only weighs 2 ounces. It's $399.

Me, nodding knowingly: Yeah, I don't think I need that java tooth thing. What do you have that's like, free? I don't want to pay anything at all.

Sales Guy, now oozing contempt: (Sigh.) Okay, let's step down to the other counter.

So now we're at the Island of Misfit Toys. It's all the old phones, and the ideas that never caught on. (Apparently the market for a combination cell phone/commuter mug never really materialized.)

Me, pointing to large grey brick of what appears to be space junk: Hey, how about this one?

Sales Guy who wishes he was on break: That’ll work. You'll probably want to get the steel reinforced shoulder harness. And by signing up, you'll automatically become a party to the class action lawsuit over the tumors. Just sign right there, where it says "plaintiff."

So sure, I get what I pay for. The phone’s menu is all in Croatian, but that's okay since it has so few functions. And it still does most of the same stuff the fancy phones do: it drops calls, it dies without warning, and it’s got the same annoying ring tones.

I try not to take my space junk phone out around other people’s cool phones. Plus, by the time I get it set up on the tripod and crank the dyno, the break is over anyway.

It was probably just a message from my dad.

My new hero: Patton Oswalt

2005-12-15T16:31:00.000-08:00

A comedian friend of mine sent me this link to an interview with Patton Oswalt. For those of you who may not know, he is a comedian probably best known for playing a supporting role on the TV show "King of Queens." He also spent some of his formative years as a comedian in San Francisco.

Here's the link, followed by some of the highlights.

http://www.aspecialthing.com/phpbb/viewtopic.php?t=1465

You can't go up and hate the audience, but you also can't go up and need the audience. It's gotta be just this -- you better be having fun. "I'm so happy to be up here. So happy you guys came out. But I'm gonna do what I do. And you can come along. Or not. But if you don't come along, it's all the same to me, 'cause I'm happy to be up here period.

I had an opportunity to live this observation last night. I did a show at a Filippino restaurant. This one table of people just talked non-stop right through my set. I tried a couple of different times to get them to stop, to no avail. One guy talked (loudly) on his cell phone for most of my set. But you know what? I still had fun. They became part of my set. They weren't being mean, just inconsiderate and clueless. I had fun with them, for the benefit of the rest of the audience. I would have preferred they listen, but it's okay. I still had a good time.

***

I think George Carlin, there's a quote from him that's like, "I'm here for me, and you're here for me. No one's here for you."

***

I hope all of you reading this are granted the gift I was given in the summer of '92 -- watching everything you believe to be true un-fucking-proven right before your eyes. I hope you get to face a blank page and no way back. There's nothing more liberating, nothing more instantly evolving than to be proven wrong.

***

isoS: So you were still trying to form your identity? How long did that take, to really figure out who you were on stage?

PO: Well once I moved to San Francisco, which was '92, I'd been doing it for four years at that point, and it took me another three years to really get comfortable. So it took about seven years to get over -- I just openly aped the people I was gonna ape until I got over it. It's like the cure for heroin being more heroin. So I was like, Fuck it, I'll just do it 'til I was like, okay, enough, I got my own thing now.

Seven years! I've heard that Seinfeld said the same thing. I'm at 2 years and counting. I'm getting more comfortable on stage, and getting more comfortable with being myself, but that's a process. I see others do it, and I know I do it too-- we write jokes and tell them in the styles of comedians we admire. I think the biggest reason for this is because we are just too damn scared to really be ourselves, to put ourselves out there that far. It's probably just as well that you don't realize how far you have to go until you look back. It would probably be demoralizing.

***

Yeah, I'm always hopeful. I mean, it just takes -- If Louis C.K.'s show is a success, then they're gonna say, "Well where did that come from? We want more of that." And they'll go looking in places like the UCB Theatre and the M Bar and Largo. They'll go looking there, and they'll see -- God, I mean, I hate to sound like a sleazy producer, but there are people there that are ready to be given shows. It baffles me to see the kind of stuff that for the most part is being picked for Comedy Central and even Spike and networks. It's like, if you want a show, it's just sitting there! And not even raw and needing to be developed -- well formed, well thought-out, ready. Hire the fucking cameras, hire a staff and shoot this goddamned thing, it's ready to go. It drives me crazy.

But I'd also love to -- there are so many comedians that are doing the UCB every week that have had zero exposure that are so fucking funny I can't believe it -- and I'd love to do a show where it's me and some people that I know can draw, but we're not in the show, and we each get to bring up someone that we're excited about and say, "Folks, I'm really glad you came out, I'm glad you're fans, you're a fun crowd, but this is someone that I really like that I want you to be able to see and this is his first time on TV and here we go." And just cut that show together. It's their first time, and we're fans, and we want to bring them to you.

There it is, another free plug for the UCB. It's true, though. I have never been doing stand-up, and been on a show with someone where I said, "oh, that guy's going to make it big." But there are a solid 5-10 or more people at UCB who can and will have major roles on TV shows.

Plus, how cool would it be to have a big-time comedian pick you out and say, "folks, I really like this guy, and I want you to see him."

Got another show tonight, last one before Christmas. Then nothing until New Year's Eve. Whee!

PS- I didn't get the Las Vegas Festival. Not that I expected too. But I am joining an improv group, so I'm excited about that!

I'm Alive

2005-12-14T08:52:00.000-08:00

I have been a very bad blogger the last week or so. So I'll catch you up on recent events.

Last Thursday night I had a gig in Tiburon at a restaurant/bar. My parents were in attendance, along with a certain young lady friend of mine. The audience was tough - very quiet crowd. There was this one white guy with dreadlocks who didn't crack a smile. Are those things correlated? White-guy-dreadlocks and no sense of humor? Maybe it was just this one guy. Anyway.

I didn't have a great set, but it wasn't terrible either. I didn't find too much fault with myself, so I felt pretty good afterwards. Put it this way: I don't think my parents were cringing much. They've seen me a half dozen times or so, and they've yet to see me have a truly *good* set. It would be nice if that would happen.

Friday night I had a show for a church group in Santa Cruz. Yes, a church group. It was a young adults group, so ages ranged from 18-35. Politics ranged from right to slightly more right, which in Santa Cruz, puts you on the fringes of society. The minister told me that not only did I have to be "clean," I had to be extra "clean," because the head minister was there. I was a little worried about this because, while I don't do a lot of dirty material, I have some bits that at least involve some racy subject matter. And I didn't want to repeat an experience I'd had before, which was launching a bit, giving the setup, and midway through it, realizing I couldn't tell the punch to this crowd. Not good times.

Anyway.

I figured out my "clean" set, and it went very well. They were a very responsive audience, and appreciative. I had a great time. I was a little nervous, though, because ahem, I tend to pepper my daily speech with terms that would offend this crowd. You know, words like, "damn," "ass," or "Democrat." So I was looking out at the crowd thinking to myself, "did I just say shit? Did I? Is he looking at me funny? What did I say? Did I just curse?" Well, I managed to avoid offending, and they were very receptive. And... I got paid. Woot-woot! Okay, so it was only $50 bucks, but that's better than nothing.

On the way back to SF from the gig, my friend Tom and I were talking about the greatness of Richard Pryor. I even said, "I think a lot of people think he's already dead."

Next morning, I find out Richard Pryor has passed away. So Tom and I aren't going to talk about our comedy idols anymore. The next drive we take together, we will talk at length about the greatness that is Pauly Shore.

Thanks for coming to the show. Both of you.

2005-12-09T14:22:00.000-08:00

I did a show the other night where there were 6 comedians and four people in the audience. It's usually optimal, in this business, if there are more audiences members than comedians. But hey, that doesn't always happen, and because I am a professional, I went out and did a show.

But it's weird with that few people. The dynamic is definitely different. In a bigger group, more people will laugh, and then others laugh along. With such a small number, you might only make 1-2 people laugh, and that's not enough to create momentum to bring the others along. If anything, it works in reverse. There's not the same anonymity in the audience, so everyone can see what the other people find funny. People can be self-conscious about what they laugh at.

Plus, in such a small group, audience members are more likely to get, um, conversational. Sometimes I will talk to people in the audience, ask them a question-- where are you from, do you have kids, can I have some money-- you know. And in the small setting, people are far more likely to ask me questions back. Not their fault - to be fair, that's the risk you take when you ask questions. But sometimes people keep going-- they keep on asking me questions. "Where are you from? Do you have kids? Do you live in the city?" Sometimes it's a little jarring, but then the whole experience, performing for a tiny audience, is a little that way.

My gig for the high school kids was cancelled. Apparently a member of the group saw another one of my shows and decided that we (me and one of my friends) "were not a good fit for their event." And I already got the grommits in my earlobes! Oh well...

A Check-In

2005-12-05T12:54:00.000-08:00

I did an improv workshop over the weekend with Seth Morris from the Upright Citizen's Brigade Theatre. It was really great. at first I was a little nervous-- I wanted to be good, you know? I didn't really know anyone else in the workshop, and I didn't want them to think I sucked. So I was a little hesitant, a little bit in my head, but eventually kind of settled down and had a lot of fun.

Busy week this week! Got a show Wednesday night in SF, Thursday night in Tiburon, and Friday night in Santa Cruz. I am going to try to hand-off my usual gig hosting an open mic on Saturday.

I have got a couple of non-standup, non-blog writing projects that need a nudge, so I am going to attend to those projects to the probable detriment of my standup material and my blog. (Even though I am the only one who reads it, I think.)

2005-12-01T09:01:00.000-08:00

I auditioned for the Las Vegas comedy festival yesterday. They are watching several hundred comedians in order to pick about 30, so the odds aren't that great. Better still, I traveled about an hour to do a three minute set, at 12 noon, in front of a bunch of other comedians who I am competing with. Hi, welcome to the open audition!

Actually, I wasn't bad. I had a pretty good set. It's hard to tell-- who knows what they're looking for. And I think they can see through the fact that it's noon, and the audience isn't exactly warm. I'll find out in a couple of weeks. If I get it, I'll announce it. If I don't, well....

I've got a few shows coming up, and this is a tough time of year to try to get people to come to shows. The week before Thanksgiving people are either bracing for visitors or planning to travel, so they stay home in droves. The holiday weekend itself, not that many people around. And now, this in between period, people have holiday parties, relatives visiting and shopping to do. Plus, the weather can be foul, which can have a major impact on whether or not you get an audience.

Does it sound like I'm bracing to do a few shows for empty chairs? Yeah, I guess I am. But I will still bring the funny. Oh yes I will. Those chairs will go home thinking, "man, that show was awesome. I just wish we weren't inanimate objects!" The curtains will be like, "dude, that one thing you said about cell phones? That totally sounds like a friend of mine. That cracked me up!"

I think my material plays really well with furnishings.

I'm doing a show for some high school holiday party. I'm really gonna try to understand these kids, gonna try to get in their world. So tomorrow I'm going to get a tongue bolt and a tattoo.

I asked my sister what kind of tattoo I should get. You know, what could I get that would say, hey, this is who I am, this is what I'm about.

She thought about it for a minute and then said, "maybe you should get a tattoo of hair. On your head."

Ah, family!

Thanksgiving Recap

2005-11-29T08:16:00.000-08:00

I hope you had a great Thanksgiving. Mine was very nice, thank you for asking. Had lots of turkey, which was delicious.

We had the fried turkey and let me tell you, it rocked. The skin gets nice and crispy, and the bird stays nice and moist. In this respect, it was quite different from the traditional dried out turkey. You eat that dry turkey, along with some nice dry corn muffins, and you need to drink a gatorade to fight off dehydration. I remember one year having muffins so dry, just pitching a dozen or so of these into New Orleans would have dried that city out in about an hour.

After the turkey is done cooking, you're left with a huge vat of boiling oil. What are you supposed to do with that? Well, if you lived in a castle and were under attack, it would be a delicious way to repel an attack. Next year, I'm going to be prepared-- as soon as the turkey comes out, in go the twinkies. Fried turkey and fried twinkies? Now there's something to be thankful for.

I have a co-worker at my day job who told me that in order to accommodate his niece, who is a vegetarian, they had tofurkey.

Yes, tofurkey. Tofu turkey. Tofurkey.

What the tofuck?

You wanna eat vegetables? Fine, go nuts! Eat vegetables! But must you perpetuate this silliness of pretending they are meat? Why not just use your imagination and pretend that the broccoli you're eating is honey-baked ham? Hell, why not imagine it's ham with magical powers? And I will pretend that my second helping of turkey is really a small green salad.

This is not how we do things at my Thanksgiving table. No sir.

You want tofurkey? Oh, I'll give you your tofurkey. And here-- here are the mashed potatoes. Only this year, we've made our mashed potatoes using a potato substitute-- called turkey.

More salad, please!

And another

2005-11-23T12:22:00.000-08:00

Egg nog. Egg nog lattes. I love a good nog.

One thing to be thankful for

2005-11-23T12:20:00.000-08:00

Since I eat and drink too much all year, my body is already accustomed to the kind of abuse I will subject it to over the next month.

Ahoy from the engine room

2005-11-19T12:31:00.000-08:00

Okay, if the world of comedy were a cruise ship, then I am somewhere near the engine room. I am trying to get a room above the water line, and then, eventually, a state room on the lido deck. But for now, I thought I would just provide an update on things down here near the engine room.

I did three shows last week. Last Saturday I was at 50 Mason Lounge, a club where I perform about once a month. That show went well-- got lots of good feedback. Then on Thursday, I produced my first show at a bar in my neighborhood. I have hosted lots of shows, but this was the first time I did everything-- I found the place, I promoted it, I booked the comedians. I invited everyone I could think of who might come, and none of them came. I understand, you know? It was a Thursday night, people get busy, people forget. Still I expected a few people to come.

I put up posters and distributed flyers in the neighborhood, and I thought that would generate some people. Not so. As far as I could tell, everyone was there incidentally. That is, they were just there to have a drink, and then didn't object to the comedy.

So anyway, not many people, and what people were there were somewhat indifferent. Oh well, it happens. So I opened/warmed up the crowd. It was a great line-up - a veritable dream team of some of my favorite friend/comedians in the area. The crowd grew a little bit through the show, but never got really engaged.

About halfway into the show, and old guy, very drunk, wandered in, sat right in front, and started trying to make conversation with the comedian on stage, and with the bartender. At a VERY high volume. I don't think he meant to be a giant disruptive pain in the ass, but that's what he was. He was a huge distraction until he finally wandered off.

Anyway, I was reasonably happy with how the show went. As much as I did to promote it, I have to do more next time.

Last night I did a show at the comedy college. The audience was, shall I say, small. Okay there were two people. Two. There were a handful of other comedians, but only two real audience members. It was frustrating because I had been out flyering, which, if you read my earlier post, you know how much I enjoy. Two weeks ago, we filled the room to standing room only, and had a killer show. Last night, two. It's a little tough to do a show for two people. But you know what? I did it, I lived, and I'm moving on. I'm hosting an open mike tonight, and then I think I can take it easy until after Thanksgiving.

And Still, "According to Jim" Lives On...

2005-11-11T10:23:00.000-08:00

"All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."
- Edmund Burke

I'm depressed. I just found out that "Arrested Development," my favorite new TV show of, oh, the past 10 years or so, is being thrown on the trash heap. It hasn't been cancelled, but Fox didn't "pick up the back 9" episodes for a full season. They only bought 13 episodes. That is not a good sign for a show. Ever ever ever.

This is an amazing show. I could sing its praises endlessly. It has a terrifically talented cast, including Jason Batemen, Jeffrey Tambor and David Cross. And the writing! Oh my God, how great is the writing!

I decided last year that I wanted to write a spec script. "Spec" means that you will never earn a dime, or "speck" of money for writing it. No! That's not true. It's speculative: you write an episode of an existing show to showcase your writing ability, with virtually no prospect of it being sold or shot.

I decided that I wanted to write an episode of "Arrested Development." It's a structurally complicated show, with multiple plotlines that tie together. I could have picked an easier show to try to write, but I just love Arrested Development, I love the characters. If I can write a decent spec script for AD, I reasoned, then I can write an episode of a simpler show.

Anyway. Fox, in their infinite wisdom, decided to take the Emmy award-winning AD off of Sunday night, where Fox is usually strong (Simpsons, Malcolm in the Middle). Where did they put it? Monday night. Opposite Monday Night Football. Did they promote the show? Not much. And they certainly didn't give it the kind of promotion that say, NBC has given to "My Name is Earl," or CBS has thrown at "How I met Your Mother." Please. Fox said, "If you can build an audience, we'll place the full order." Then Fox put it in a position where it was near to impossible to build the requisite audience numbers, especially with weak promotion.

Meanwhile, what shows does FOX hang their hat on? How about "Skating with Celebrities?" Or "Trading Spouses: Meet Your New Mommy?" Oh. My. God.

And People! People. This is what kills me, breaks my heart. "According to Jim" lives on. This awful, painfully common, excruciatingly trite piece of shit sitcom is back for its fifth season. Fifth!

I will not bring a child into a world where Arrested Development gets the axe while "According to Jim" comes back for a fifth season.

(Sidebar: I have to wonder what incredibly odious act Courtney Thorne-Smith committed in a previous life to deserve the karmic destiny of not only co-starring in a dogshit sitcom with Jim Belushi, but a long-running dogshit sitcom to boot.)

Shows very rarely get reprieves, but it can happen. The most notable example of this occurred this past season on Fox. Fox cancelled "The Family Guy" in 2002, but brought it back in 2005 due to viewer interest and more importantly, strong DVD sales.

So I say to you: watch the show while it's still on. Buy the DVD's. Write to Fox, write to your congressman. Together, maybe we can make a difference.

"Your Call is (Only Sort of) Important to Us!"

2005-11-08T08:55:00.000-08:00

I open my cell phone bill last week, and after I sift through all of the unrelated junk mail in the envelope, I see that they have "upgraded" me to a new more expensive plan.

They are always upgrading the plans, never upgrading the service.

And this is when my nightmare begins, because now I have to call my cell phone carrier.

They have one of those annoying voice-recognition systems, where you talk to an overly agreeable automated voice. Like the soothing tones could even begin to compensate for the agony of navigating their customer service "network." So polite. Like the voice of HAL 9000 from 2001: A Space Odyssey.

I enter the phone tree, knowing full well that they have designed it at least in part with the intention of causing their customers to become discouraged and give up. But see, I know this, so I am mentally prepared. I will see this thing through. I will not let them beat me! Okay, cell phone carrier: it's go time.

They always tell you that your call is important. Uh-huh. It's just not important enough to like, answer it. "You're call is important." Is it? IS IT? Because it doesn't seem like it after I've been on hold for oh, six hours. I'm beginning to think you don't really mean that. I'd have so much more respect for you if you just told me the truth. "Look your call is important to us, yes, but not enough to hire someone to answer it." At least then I'd have closure and I could move on.

So HAL says, "please enter your 10-digit cell phone number, area code first." Area code first, huh? Is there another way to do it? Maybe just throw it on at the end? Maybe I want to scatter it throughout, is that okay? So I say, "415-555-1234*." And HAL says, "let me make sure I heard that correctly: did you say 4...1...5..."

(Pause.)

"5...5...5..."

(Pause.)

"1...2...3...4?"

"Yes," I say. Urge to kill...rising.

Now I get to move on to level two. "Sure, I can help you with that. But first, please enter your 10-digit cell phone number, area code first." Uff, okay. "415-555-1234," I say, rapid-fire. "Let me make sure," HAL says agreeably. Always agreeably. "Did you say, "4...1...5..."

(Pause. Oh sweet Jesus.)

"5--"

"--Yes," I say. Yes, I fucking well did say that.

Now I move on to yet another menu, and the vicious cycle starts again. Starting to get more than just a little pissed off. This time when it asks for my phone number, I say, "415-fuck you."

"I'm sorry, I don't think I got that. Please say it again."

"415-fuck you!"

"I'm sorry, I don't think..."

I feel somewhat relieved by going all Dick Cheney on HAL, yet it hasn't really gotten me anywhere. (Sigh.) I give HAL my phone number yet again.

Then finally-- miraculously!-- I get to the menu that says, "if you wish to speak to a customer service associate, please press or say zero." So I finally speak to a real live human being. And what is the first thing this guy wants to know?

"I can help you with that sir, I just need to verify your 10-digit cell phone number." I decide to mix it up a bit. I say, "sure, it's 415-555-2341."

"Hmm, okay that isn't the number you entered before--" "

"A-HA! I KNEW it! You guys don't need to get my phone number 4 different times, you're just trying to wear me out. You're probably all sitting around the computer saying, 'ooh, make him do it again! See if he'll do it again!'"

Anyway, I calm down to explain my situation. "Oh yeah, we made that upgrade to your service about 3 weeks ago."

"Oh...but I didn't order that."

"Well, we changed our packages. When you signed up, you had three hundred fifty minutes, with unlimited nights and weekends. Now we only offer two hundred fifty or five hundred minute plans. When we changed the packages, everyone who had the three-fifty was bumped up to the five hundred automatically. And now you automatically get free roaming in Hawaii and the Northern Marianas Islands."

Oh, sweet corn! Because those roaming charges on my visits to Saipan and Tinian were killing me.

"Well, I don't want to be bumped up. I want to be bumped down."

Then he tells me: "Well, I don't know if I can process that, but I can put in a request for it."

Look, I'm paying for something I didn't order and don't want, and you're saying you can put in a request for it? Like you're doing me a favor? Say, I have an idea! You know how you did this in the first place? Without my permission? Yeah. Now do the opposite of that.

"Well, is there a supervisor I could speak to? Would that help?"

"I don't think so. But I can have someone call you back about this, definitely."

"Okay thanks, I'd appreciate that."

"No problem. Now, what's your phone number?"

*415-555-1234 is not my real phone number.

Dr. Phil Talks to Britney and Kevin

2005-11-01T23:07:00.000-08:00

From MSNBC's Jeanette Walls:

Britney Spears had some harsh advice for her hubby regarding his nascent singing career: Don’t get your hopes up. Kevin Federline recently brought home some music he’d recorded and he played it for Spears, according to the new issue of In Touch Weekly.

His efforts were “greeted with hurtful laughter from his superstar wife, who was unimpressed,” reports the mag. “She said his debut CD might sell ‘a hundred, maybe a thousand’ copies if he was lucky,’” an “insider” told the mag, who added, “Kevin looked really hurt.”

Fade in:

TV Studio Int.- Day.

Studio audience is applauding.

PHIL

Welcome back. Kevin and Britney have been married for a little over a year. They just became parents to a baby boy. Their busy schedules, combined with these major life changes they've been going through, have put a strain on their relationship. Britney has been nagging Kevin and putting him down, while Kevin has been staying out partying.

(PHIL turns to KEVIN)

Kevin? Kevin. What are you doing? You're staying out late, going to night clubs, and spending your wife's money on drugs and strippers. Do you have nothing better to do with yourself than that, Kevin?

KEVIN

Yo, Phil, me and my crew, we's just keepin it real's all. You know how we do, son!

PHIL

I'm glad you mentioned that, Kevin. You're a father to a new son, right? Your son wants and needs to be with his daddy, okay? That is your responsibility.

KEVIN

Phil, my shorty and me, we's tight, you know what I'm saying? He know what it takes to be a player! I don't need no babymama gettin' all up in my grill, tellin' me I gotta pick up Pampers on the way home, and that I need to spend more "quality time" with my boy. I ain't hearin' that.

PHIL

Yeah... now Kevin, you are a slightly successful hip-hop dancer, correct? And your wife, Britney, is a hugely successful pop star. She makes quite a bit more money than you do, doesn't she? That means you aren't really the breadwinner in the family, right? Uh-huh. And that may be a challenge to your manhood, to your notions of family roles. You may be acting out of some resentment about your wife's success. That's something I think you need to take a look at.

KEVIN

Yeah, ah-ight. I guess maybe I been acting a little passive-aggressive.

PHIL

And as for your music, Kevin, listen to me. Britney has sold millions of records, it's true. But she ain't doin' that based on musical talent--

BRITNEY

Hey!

PHIL (to Britney)

You will not talk when Dr. Phil is talking!

(To Kevin)

But I understand: she's your wife, you want her to support you. But Kevin, you're not there, changing the diapers. You're not there, getting up in the middle of the night to heat up a bottle.

BRITNEY

Tha's right, Phil. Tell it!

PHIL

Britney! This is my show and you will shut your mouth! Kevin? She might feel a little resentment about you're not being around and helping her out. You might want to think about that.

KEVIN

I feel ya, Phil. But check it: I don't feel like, appreciated an shit. I haven't been like, able to communicate that.

PHIL

There you go, Kevin!

KEVIN

Yo, I just wanna send a shoutout to my brother Brandon, who's getting his pilot's license today, and to my personal trainer Dale. Peace!

PHIL

Kevin? I want you to shut up. Just sit there and be pretty. I'm gonna speak to Britney now, okay? Britney? Do you understand that what you said hurt Kevin's feelings? If you really didn't like his music, couldn't you have found a more sensitive, constructive way to express it?

BRITNEY

Yeah, I guess so, but damn, y'all! You shoulda heard it, Phil! It sounded like a bad hair metal cover band. But no, I probably could have said it nicer than I did.

PHIL

Yeah, that's what I thought. Britney, this isn't really about Kevin's music, is it? What's really bothering you? You need to look at this, and you need to get real.

(Britney starts to cry.)

Ask yourself, why am I really mad at Kevin? Is it really that he is a half-rate talent, a gold-digging himbo? Or is it something else? What would be a more productive approach to dealing with it?

Britney, why don't you tell Kevin what's really bothering you.

BRITNEY (Sobbing)

I'm afraid you won't find me attractive after the baby.

PHIL

What about that, Kevin? You did dump Shar Jackson for Britney while Shar was pregnant with your child.

KEVIN

You know, that's true but that ain't gonna happen this time. For reals, this time I am in it to win it, yo.

PHIL

Good. And what are you going to do differently to meet her needs?

KEVIN

I guess... I guess I should spend less time doin stuff like getting my hair braided, and more time being an attentive father and husband. And bein' a better communicator and whatnot.

PHIL

And Britney? What are you going to do differently?

BRITNEY

I'm gonna try to be more understanding of his need to feel like he contributes something to the world.

PHIL

Good. You two need to understand that communication is the foundation of any healthy relationship. That communication is gonna take work, and you can't always get your publicist to do it for you.

(To camera)

After the break, we'll catch up with Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey, and see how they're doing.

Studio audience applauds.

Fade out.

Why Improv Rocks; Shout-out to the UCB

2005-11-01T10:15:00.000-08:00

I am taking a month off from doing the stand-up classes. I am taking an acting class and an improv class. I'll still be doing stand-up shows-- so far I've booked shows for November 4, 11, 12, 17 and 18.

I decided that I need to recharge my batteries, devote some time to writing new material, and exercise some different comedy muscles.

I really love doing improv. It is quite different from doing stand-up, which makes it fun and challenging. In stand-up, you are the whole show-- you control everything that happens on stage. In improv, you are just a piece of what happens, your ability to control what happens is very limited. In stand-up, you are funny because you find funny things to say. In improv, a lot of what is funny comes because you are playing straight, which makes something else stand out as funny. The more and the longer you can play it straight, the funnier that other thing becomes. My instinct, from stand-up, is to hear a line and say, "hm, that's good, now how can I top it?" In improv, I have to make sure that I build on that line, and let the scene build. I don't want to throw out a punchline, because that probably ends the scene.

Sometimes the scenes are great, sometimes not. It's fun to do something more collaborative. Plus, it frequently stimulates my thinking for writing stand-up material.

I took classes at the Upright Citizen's Brigade Theatre in New York, and I just loved it. The teachers there, who are also performers, are top notch. They can be seen frequently on Conan O'Brien, VH1 and Comedy Central.

Occasionally, people have asked me if I have ever seen a comedian and said, "that guy is going places." The answer is generally no, as far as stand-up goes. But the top performers at UCB are right on the cusp. Any of them could be on Saturday Night Live, or become big-time comedic actors a la Jim Carrey and it wouldn't surprise me. One of the founders of UCB is Amy Poehler, who is currently on Saturday Night Live. (Truth be told? I have a small crush on her.) Another UCB alum, Rob Riggle, is also on SNL.

If you are in New York, I highly recommend going to see a show at the UCB. I especially recommend ASSSSCat 3000, which they do twice on Sundays. It frequently features Poehler, along with other SNL cast members such as Tina Fey, Rachel Dratch and Horatio Sanz. The early show is $8, the late show is free. There's a reason why people wait in line for 2 hours to see it. It may be the best entertainment bang for the buck in NYC. (Technically I guess if the show is free, you can't really calculate the bang per buck, since that would necessitate dividing by zero. Anyway, just go see the show. It's funny.)

I Violated the Protocol

2005-10-26T09:13:00.000-07:00

Let me set the scene:

Awhile back, I'm at a dive bar in the Mission. I walk in with a group of friends, and the first thing I see as my eyes adjust to the darkness is two enormous dogs wrestling on the floor.

Typical dive bar in the Mish. You know.

There is a third dog, "Bandit," who is fetching a beer coaster thrown by patrons of the establishment. She's good, too-- she catches the coaster in mid-air, brings it back, and then stares at it, waiting for it to be thrown again. She's 100% focused on the coaster. What a good dog!

I love dogs, so I start to throw the coaster for her. The first time, she runs and catches it, brings it back. I throw it again, she brings it back. We're playing. We're having fun! Right?

Then I reach for the coaster again, somewhat absent-mindedly, and all of a sudden, Bandit bites my hand. It shocked me more than it hurt.

I'm looking at my hand to assess the damage, when a guy at the bar says, "she'll do that. You don't want to grab it til she's ready."

"Oh," I say. "Sorry."

Apparently this is Bandit's owner. He's wearing extra long shorts, a wife beater, a Yankees hat and a not insignificant amount of tattoo ink. He looked like a cross between Kevin Federline and a Sharpie. This look is known in the Mission as "totally normal."

Fortunately, Bandit didn't break the skin. It was just a nip, Bandit's way of letting me know, "hey, I wasn't ready. Pay attention."

"It's not like she's got rabies or nothin," chimes in another guy at the bar.

Of course not, I wasn't worried about that. Bringing a rabid dog into a bar would be irresponsible. Everyone knows that.

The friend who brought me to this particular establishment was sympathetic, but also kindly explained to me what must have happened.

"I guess you violated the protocol," she said.

What is this, a United Nations meeting? Were we following Robert's Rules of Order?

"Mr. Chairman, I'd like to introduce a motion that I be allowed to throw a beer coaster for a dog in a bar. Second? All in favor? Opposed? The motion is carried."

I should have known, actually. If I had been paying closer attention, I would have noticed that Bandit really did have a protocol. She would retrieve the coaster, then fiddle with it a bit at your feet before dropping it and taking a step back to signal that, hey, human, time for you to throw it again.

I wasn't paying attention, so I missed the signal. Thus, the nip on the hand. My bad.

I mean sure, it would have been nice if K-Fed/Sharpie had shown a little interest in my well-being. But hey, I did violate the protocol.

Coffee and a Muffin; Is That Too Much to Ask?

2005-10-20T15:49:00.000-07:00

So I'm running to work the other day, and I stop off at my neighborhood grocery store to get breakfast. I don't have any cash, and they take plastic.

I grab coffee and a muffin and head for the check stand. I swipe my card.

"May I see your card, please?" the cashier asks.

I hand him my card.

"May I see your driver's license?"

Come now. Is this really necessary? I'm buying COFFEE. And a MUFFIN. I'm starting to think this cashier is intent on having the Employee of the Month award renamed in his honor (which would make it the "DAVID").

But fine. Fine. I just want to get my breakfast and get to work.

"This doesn't look like you," he says.

Okay, how am I supposed to respond to that? I haven't had my coffee yet. He sounded amiable enough though, so I say, "yeah well, it's pretty close though, isn't it?" I try to lighten the mood with a little humor. Ha ha! Joking. That's what I do.

You get that, right? It's not like I was at airport security, and someone asked me if I had any explosives and I said, "why, what do you need?" That would be bad.

I was just being friendly, I thought. Breezy! But I guess David is not feeling that. He calls Enrique over.

Enrique is the Manager. At least I am assuming so, because he has a little swagger, and he has keys. David shows Enrique my license and my credit card. He's hanging onto to both of them, and it's making me nervous. I went into the grocery store, and now I feel like I'm trying to sneak through Customs.

"Yeah, this doesn't look like you," says Enrique. David shifts his head just slightly, I think to signal his vindication.

"Yeah, well, I used to have hair. That's an old picture," I say. I'm being serious now. Clearly, this was not a good time for me to be testing out material.

While they are looking at my card and license, the charge goes through, and I sign the receipt. David takes the receipt.

"These signatures don't match either," says David. Criminy.

"Yes, well, normally I don't sign my name on a desk the size of a sandwich with a pen on a 2-inch long chain."

Yes. Yes, I was starting to lose my patience. Did I mention that I hadn't had my coffee?

"Look, if the card was stolen, I wouldn't be here using it to buy coffee and a bran muffin."

Apparently Enrique is swayed by this. Besides, I think he also wants to let David know who the decision maker is around there. (Hint: not David. Not me.)

"Are you a regular customer?"

Regular. Heh. "I will be after I eat that bran muffin," I reply.

Oof, that was bad. Now I'm glad they're not getting my jokes. I make a mental note to write that down anyway.

Finally Enrique rubs his chin, then gives David the nod and swaggers off to hold court at another check stand.

David surrenders my card and license. "Thanks for shopping with us."

From now on, whenever I get a new credit card, I'm not going to sign it at home. I'm going to wait, and then sign it at the grocery store, with their crappy pen on their crappy little desk.

Oh, maybe I can use one of my headshots on my next driver's license! Then David will say, "you look like you're trying to be funny." Perfect.

My Headshots Suck

2005-10-18T11:22:00.000-07:00

Well, that seems to be the prevailing opinion, concisely stated.

I appreciate all of the feedback, and um, candor. It was nice that so many of you made sure to say nice things like, "I'm sure you're a good looking guy, but..." to preface your comments. That helped to soften the blow.

Many of you asked, "can't we see more choices?" Well, possibly. The implication seems to be that it's simply not possible that out of 50+ shots, these two were the best. Well, I think they were, and I don't even think it was a particularly close call. I may post a few of the other ones, if only to illustrate a) how bad most of the other photos were, and b) how good these two were by comparison.

I guess the conclusion is, if you use a cheap photographer, you will get what you pay for. Maybe a second conclusion is that the next time I get a paid gig, I should use the money for new headshots by a better photographer.

You live and learn.

This week is less busy than last, thank God. So far I only have one show booked this week, on Friday, which is fine with me.

The Results are In, and the Winner Is...

2005-10-14T10:08:00.000-07:00

Well,

Thanks to the many of you who offered an opinion about my headshots. 40 comments (so far) is a lot for me! And to think, all I had to do was ask you to judge me.

Without further ado, here are the very unscientific results:

The clear winner...

"None of the Above, Try Again."

Some of the highlights:

Kirin said...

Is it ok for a comic to have a headshot where you look attrative? I mean just because you are a comic, must you have a goofy photo?(I am being sincere, not snotty. don't take any offense. I mean I implied you could be attractive;)

Well, I didn't know I had a goofy photo. But I think it's appropriate that a comedian who is only funny-ish would have a headshot that says, "hey, he could be attractive."

Anon 2:15 said...

Well..since you asked...I never have cared much for #1 since you put it up. I agree with kirin..it looks "scowly". #2 is kinda cute but goofy but at least better than the scowl. I'm just sayin is all...

Loopy said...

I definitely like #1 better -- stronger personality. The thought bubble I imagine over your head is, "Hmm ..." as if you're mulling over something someone's just said to you while you keep intense eye contact. If it's a scowl, it's one of an intelligent person's concentration; not unfriendly. But I don't get the bemusement aspect, though. ;o)

Now we're getting somewhere! This is more along the lines of what I saw in #1.

k's sis said...

i like them both....but when i make the face you're making in the first one,it gives me a headache. you look more comfortable in the 2nd one! = )

Hard to disregard k's, sis! I'm actually pretty comfortable with both faces, but I don't want to give anyone a headache. I don't really want to hear, "Look, honey! It's the comedian that gave me a migraine!"

Changeseeker said...

You're not going to like this, Ish, and frankly, I have no idea what makes for a good commedic head shot and these are clearly professional quality, but I don't think either one is what you want.

Oof. And these two were the best ones. Out of fifty! Look away, I'm hideous!

riseyp said...

I want more to choose from!

I do too, but I paid $220 for these headshots, which is cheap. Out of fifty photos, these were the best ones. (There weren't even that many contenders.) I guess you get what you pay for.

haji-o-matic said...

try again

Candor, thy name is, apparently, haji-o-matic.

Anonymous 4:57am said...

Hi,I don't really care for either of those shots either.. you do look kind of "mean" in the first shot, and the other one makes me think you just got a wedgie...

Ha-ha! Funny story about that...

Anonymous 7:56am said...

#1 makes you look like you're going to kill someone in a cabin in the woods.
#2 makes you look like someone just surprised you by sticking something up your ass.
Do we have any other choices?

As I said above, sadly, for now, these are easily the best two. #2 was the one where the photographer said, "Now, make a face like I just stuck something up your ass," so it's good to know that that came across.

kim e said...

In the first pic, it looks like you're saying, 'wtf are you talking about, idiot?'. The second one is a little too clowny. Too obvious for a comedian. Sorry.

Serrephim said...

It depends on what you're going for. The first one screams "I'm hot and fuckable" The 2nd suggests you're a comedian. Is there a 3rd option combining the two?

No, but something tells me there will be...

Anonymous 10:27 said...

How about having your eyebrows land somewhere between sorta menacing and could be a doofus? In the first photo, you look like a bouncer. In the second, you appear scared of the camera. However, the composition and clarity and of the latter are vastly superior. I vote for back to the drawing board.

Okay then! How about having your comment land somewhere between candid and abrasive? (I kid.)

I think we're done here. (I hate it when my mom posts anonymously.)

So the conclusion is: None of the above, but if we had to pick one, it would be #1. But try again.

Thanks to everyone who came by! The polls are now closed.

What do you think of the headshot?

2005-10-13T10:36:00.000-07:00

I had headshots taken a couple weeks ago. Out of 50 or so pictures, I came down to two I really liked, one of which is to the right, as well as below.

Ish #1: Bemused, wry, sarcastic.

Some people think I appear to be scowling in this photo. I'm not, really. It's more a look of bemusement, with a hint of a smile; like I just made some witty, sarcastic remark. At least that's what I see.

The other one (below), has more of a sense of whimsy, I think. Maybe I seem a little more likeable or approachable. But on the other hand, maybe it doesn't make as strong an impression as the other one.

Ish #2: Whimsical, approachable

Which one do you prefer?

The Night After the Night After

2005-10-13T10:17:00.000-07:00

Just to provide some closure, I had another show last night, and it went really well. I got really good feedback from the audience, as well as from other comedians.

The show was at a brew-pub in the 'burbs. The audience was great, very into the show, very attentive and enthusiastic. I couldn't ask for more. (Except maybe to get paid enough to cover my transportation, but whatever.) I had a guy taping my show, and I think that will turn out really well.

The headliner was a long-time comedy vet from Sacramento. He was fun to watch. His act is totally clean. He doesn't do a lot of club shows, but he gets a lot of private gigs-- banquets, church groups, that sort of thing. He had a lot of energy, he really seemed to enjoy himself, and the audience felt that. He tore it up. I hope I'm doing that 20 years into my comedy career. (Not so much the working a brew-pub in the 'burbs, but definitely the tearing it up and enjoying myself.)

The Sleepless Night After

2005-10-12T08:31:00.000-07:00

I couldn't sleep last night. The Crap Set kept coming back to me in bits and pieces. I've heard that's the way post-traumatic stress disorder is.

As they say in the world of comedy, I ate it last night. I bombed. Probably the worst response I have had from an audience, ever.

Right out of the gate, the audience didn't get my opening bit. They were mostly tourists, and the bit required at least a tiny bit of familiarity with San Francisco. Apparently, they did not have that. Not their fault-- my fault. That first punch line is so important! It gets the momentum started. Or not. If there's no momentum, there's inertia. It gets progressively more difficult to get laughs after that. The tags on the joke worked, but they couldn't overcome the inertia that began to settle in after that first punch line.

The next bit, close to nothing. I attribute that to the inertia. And then, for some reason, I decided to do a tag that I had pretty much abandoned. Why, oh why? If I had thought that it was going to turn it all around for me, I was wrong. I hadn't planned on doing it. I guess I figured, well, nothing else is working, let's throw this out there.

My set was only 5 minutes (thank God!), so I'm already getting the light. I do my final bit, and it's a little better, but not much. I exit the stage to tepid applause.

I just listened to it again. (I tape almost all my sets. Sometimes I even listen to them.) There were laughs, yes, but for the most part, it was as bad as I remembered it. Bad enough that afterward, the host gave me one of those patronizing man-hugs-- the kind that says, "you'll get 'em next time, slugger."

And then he asks me, "were you working out new stuff up there?"

Ouch.

No. No, I wasn't. Those were all jokes that have worked elsewhere.

Oh I almost forgot! To start my set, the host announces me, then as I'm walking on stage, he accidentally turns off the microphone. So for an awkward beat or two, he's standing there turning the mike back on, and I'm just standing there watching him. In hindsight, an omen.

If I had it to do over again, I would have abandoned my material all together, and I would have called the audience on their lack of response. Not in a mean way, but just to let them know that I know they aren't digging my act.

Everyone, even the best comedians, eats it occasionally. That's just part of the game. It happened, it sucked, but I lived through it, and I will be okay.

Upon further review...

2005-10-11T22:12:00.000-07:00

Blogging from a fetal position is difficult. Which is why I am, temporarily, sitting at a desk.

I did a set at the club where I've wanted to get in. I had a crap set.

Crap set, Ish? You? Say it ain't so!

(Sigh) Yes, annoying italicized voice, I had a crap set. How do I define crap set? Well.

I was first. Meaning, the MC did his time, then me. Those are rough spots, because the audience is completely cold. That's your job-- to get the audience rolling a little bit. Those are tough spots for getting laughs, but you play your role. Sometimes, you kill. Sometimes... not so much.

Tonight was decisively in the latter category. The audience did not warm to me. Don't know why, exactly. Maybe it was me, maybe it was them. Whatever. Thus the fetal position.

It was humbling.

I have another show tomorrow.

Performing vs. Writing, Part 2

2005-10-10T22:20:00.000-07:00

So if you read my previous post (and judging from the number of comments, you didn't), you know that I recently concluded that I need to perform a little less so that I have more time to write (and do laundry).

Well, all of 72 hours later, and here is what my schedule looks like:

Tonight - class
Tuesday - show
Wednesday - show
Thursday - class
Friday - show
Saturday - show

So what happened to all that nice talk of balance?

Well, a couple of things. For one, I went to check out a new class last Thursday, and I liked it, so I decided to take it. Then today, I got booked on the Tuesday showcase at a club I've wanted to get into, so I was happy about that.

I'll shoot for balance next week.

I'm sending my laundry out.

Performing vs. Writing

2005-10-06T08:51:00.000-07:00

So.

I've been getting up a lot lately. Between classes, shows and stalking bookers whom I want to book me, I am out about six evenings a week.

And I love it. I love doing the shows, talking shop (and talking shit) with my fellow comedians. So I rarely turn down an opportunity to perform. For the most part, if I can do it, I will do it.

The thing is, that leaves precious little time for writing (to say nothing of reading or watching TV). And I need to write. I need to develop new material, so that my shows don't get stale.

Generally speaking, I believe that the more shows I do, the better I get. Or to be more precise, the better my performances get.

At the same time, I need to write in order to generate new material. The more I write, the better my material gets. (And the more material I have.) A former "Daily Show" writer once told me, "it's never wrong to write."

So might I be performing too much? Do I need to spend more time writing?

(Cue "Sex and the City"-style close-up of computer monitor as I type)

What's the proper balance between writing and performing?

I think I have enough opportunities to perform that I can be a little selective. I can let some of them go by, for the sake of having some time to write new material, and just having a life with a little more balance.

I also need to do laundry.