I’m not here to be a hata’ (is that how you spell it?) I was just perusing the newspaper as someone of my considerable intelligence does at least once a month (Hey kids! Reading is great! You’ll be just like your dad!) and I came across another story on PETA. You know the group, the (People for the Ethical Treatment of All C-List Celebrities and Over-Parented West Coast Children Who Hate Testing on Animals and Fur Unless it Affects Their Career or Their Ability to Get Laid Then It’s OK Under Certain Circumstances.) I have been around or involved in a lot of groups in my lifetime that people have hated like the Press Your Luck Posse and the Mr. Mister Mob but is there an organization currently that has a worse reputation than PETA does right now? If you had to rank the popularity of the KKK, a terrorist splinter cell and PETA, I’m not sure how most people would make their list.
I’ve tried to figure out why so many people hate PETA and I think it comes down to three basic tenets. One, their “faces” are usually actors or models that we hate and people see them as spoiled anyway. These Hollywood types, yes I’m looking at you Cheech Marin, get so much free swag just for being a star that we don’t think they should invade on our right to have a rat stuffed with Diamonds. Liz Taylor’s White Diamonds, that is. By the way, who wants to smell like Liz Taylor? I have to think that she reeks of a cocktail that smells like low-grade plutonium, tile cleaner and feet mixed in a wet cardboard box. That’s just a guess, I have never been “officially” invited to the Taylor compound.
Another reason people hate PETA is that we are addicted to the newest thing. Whether it is the iPod, the phone that can speak to you in Pig Latin or that origami set, we want new things and we want them now and them we want to dispose of them unsafely somewhere in New Jersey. So why should PETA stop me from getting the closest shave with a Gillette razor that may have been tested by performing the “6-blade boogie” on what is commonly referred to as a rabbit. I have nothing against rabbits, but if they have to go with a little bare skin so I can avoid stubble, well then, so be it.
PETA also tends to be a little too dramatic. Yes, Kentucky Fried Chicken probably doesn’t treat their chickens as well as other workers at the company, but that’s why it’s not called Kentucky Fried Accountants. If it was, I would prefer to be a chicken there than an accountant. PETA is always throwing blood, and using words like Murder! Killers! and obfuscate. I’m kidding. There is not a single member of PETA that has seen, used or could spell obfuscate.
They feel to get attention they need to do things that will shock the world. I’ve got one – howabout a non-violent march on the headquarters of the companies that you have an issue with, and in Washington to have the elected officials hear you. And then, while you march I am going to shave you, pour a new drug treatment down your throat and spray you with red paint. I’m kidding – but doesn’t that seem unreasonable?
If you’ll excuse me – I have a hankerin’ for some fried chicken.
(Please note: no animals were harmed in the creation of this post)
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Fu Da Wen Says Hey
The alarm buzzes at 5:00 am and I am up like a shot. Actually, I’m up like a guy who only got three hours of sleep but is hoping to make up for it as he crosses the Pacific for what will be a neverending flight. No relation to the neverending story – because, in truth, I hate unicorns.
It made fiscal and time-scal sense for me to take a car service to the airport instead of parking my car there. I searched the thousands of listings for car services in Atlanta and literally ended up with one called “Flava Limousine.” That’s right, a car service as dependable and reliable as everyone’s favorite bachelor and hip-hop mogul. Who sent this, VH1? If there is some guarantee that I could have Punkin spit on New York again while I sat in the car, I might have felt better about the whole thing.
So Flava pulls up, on time I might add, in my driveway – and it is not a car, or a limo. It is a totally pimped out white stretch limousine that could have fit me and every one of my friends. I know, I know, that means it seats at least 3. Even my dog, (not dogg or dawg) whose tastes run more urban than mine, was offended by it. She began to growl – but stopped and quietly whimpered to be let back in the house.
Flava helped me put my oversized bags in the trunk. (His name wasn’t Flava, I think it was James, as if that matters). I get in and immediately the smell of incense-laden love is in the air. The ceiling had those lights that swirl and change color like the license-plate holder of every Italian that goes “cruisin’ for broads.” I was tempted to pick up some 17 year old kids and take them to the prom. Do kids still ride in these? Did I just call them kids? And with that, my balls just dropped another 4 inches.
Other than the décor, the unfortunate gas mileage, and the lack of dignity, the biggest issue with a stretch limo? It’s cold. Yes, it was quite chilly on Saturday morning and it’s hard to keep those bad boys heated. Now, when they are filled to the brim with drunken revelers – it’s not an issue. One doofus who lives in the suburbs with 2.1 kids? Freezing.
Flava gets me to the airport in plenty of time for flight #1. He helps me get my bags out of the car and then gives me the black half-hug (BHH) as I tip him. You know, the handshake to back pat staying on one side. It wasn’t that good of a tip – maybe it was Flav’s first day but I was thrown by the BHH. Maybe he appreciated that I didn’t bitch about sitting in a car that was in a different zip code than he was. I’m not sure but what I do know is I need to use this around the office when I get back. Hey Dave, I grabbed your stuff of the printer – here you go. Hey – BHH. Uhh, dude, too much.
So I’m among the great unwashed early commuters. The reason I have to fly twice is for some reason Delta, who has 8 flights a day to Inbredretardo, Mississippi – does not have a direct flight to Shanghai. And you say Delta is bankrupt? Hmm, interesting. So I have to fly to Chicago first and then fly American, with whom I have as much status as I do the Screen Actor’s Guild, to Shanghai.
The check-in folks at Delta were very nice and they put me on the upgrade list AND checked my bags all the way through to Shanghai – that was nice. I weaseled through security (without any liquids or gels – new rules be damned) and made my way to the gate. Because I began to worry again about how I would keep myself entertained for 18 hours of flying, I bought more magazines in the airport. As I perused the selections, I wondered how or why someone might purchase the “adult” magazines they have listed. Do people do that? Are there guys on the flight who are thumbing through High Society after they finish scanning the SkyMall catalogue? I hope never to sit next to the guy who pulls out his Hustler and says “‘scuse me, I need to go to the port-o-john and rub one out.”
And then, something wonderful happens. Something that is hard to describe without using flowing praise and words like amazing, utopian and really good. (I ran out of words already). I got upgraded. I am sure this happens all the time to the big muckity-mucks (can I get a ruling on that word) but it is still a great feeling when you don’t know, and then it happens. And nobody enjoys having their ass cradled in a seat like I do.
With my lack of sleep the night before, I knew that I was going to spend this flight, this roomy comfortable flight, asleep. I settled into 1C, (not a big fan of the bulkhead, yet I digress) and began to nestle in to it when I noticed a trend. And it was disturbing. Yes, indeed, it was a disturbing trend. Are there other kinds of trends? Things can be trendy. And things can trend upwards or downwards. But if you are describing a trend, it better be disturbing or you are throwing the literary world on its ear. Or on its ass.
The disturbing trend? Thin people. I know, they disgust me too.
But these were no ordinary supermodels in training. They had the crunchy look of a lesbian in Denver. But there were a lot of them. As if they were getting on the plane only to be dropped off on a mountain and hike down. It took me a few minutes until I realized AH-HA – the Chicago Marathon was Sunday and these people were going there for it. Huh, pretty smart by me, yes. But it made me feel huge. As if I wouldn’t tower over an entire people once I get to Asia, now I’m the fattest guy on a plane. You never want to be that guy. Come on, you’ve seen Lost, or Airplane or the very special episode of Mr. Belvedere where Wesley gets molested? Or was that Dudley and the guy from WKRP?
I land in Chicago and hoof it (get it, Chicago, hoof it? No? Makes you think of Renee Zellweger? My bad.) over to American Airlines. And I only have 3 hours to wait now that the flight has been delayed. One thing about O’Haire (Irish for O’Rabbit) Airport is that you will never be without fast food choices. There is more grease flying around that concourse than there is in Jose Canseco’s towels. Ronald McDonald is the cultural attaché and anything can be fried. I truly felt at home.
After several more ID checks and one frisking (per request) I get on my 16-hour flight to Shanghai.
Now, this next bit is important – whether your next flight is 2 hours or 2 days – the seat-mate is one of the most complex and important relationships you will have. You can try to scan the check-in area and pick your perfect seat-mate. For me, I look for midgets or bulimics – but get your own system. But don’t jinx yourself. In over 10 years of somewhat regular flying, I have yet to pick someone in the waiting area and have them be my seat-mate. But there have been a few “if that smelly son-of-a-bitch sits next to me I will…” moments. All you are looking for is someone who might say hello, maybe have an intelligent conversation or something relevant to your business or at the very least an attractive woman who is frightened to fly and will want to hold you tightly during takeoff and landing. Basically, you are looking for Parker Posey. You know, not the lead, the good 2nd banana who is cute and will talk if you want to but won’t disturb you if you are sleeping
So I take my coach seat (thanks, company process) in row 41 seat A. A few moments later a guy ambles into the seat next to me and he seems harmless enough. Looks like a copier salesman, insurance adjuster or adjunct professor – you know the type.
“Is this your first trip to Shanghai?” he asks.
“Indeed it is,” said the protagonist.
He then tells me he has been going there for the better part of 30 years. He gives me a history of Shanghai and how their government is changing and how the economy affects ours and all of these mostly interesting things. This goes on for about 20 minutes and I am feeling good about being educated by my seat-mate. Thank you, Parker Posey.
And then it happens.
“So, are you going to have a Chinese wife?” Parker asks.
“Whosaidwhatnow?” replies a stunned passeneger.
Parker (nope, can’t call him that anymore, he has moved to annoying second banana – he is now Willie Aames.)
Willie goes on an even longer diatribe about how Chinese wives work. They will help you with all of your business negotiation with local manufacturers, they will help make sure you are working within the government rules and they will set up your trips with visas, etc. And don’t worry, he adds unnecessarily, they also take care of all of your biological needs as well. Seriously. When I get to the point that I am referring to sex as my biological need, it’s time to hang it up.
Now, I have known Mr. Aames for just less than an hour and he has described to me, in detail, how the Chinese wives have helped him in business and personally, there’s very little they won’t do. But, even though they said they were cool with it, all 3 of his ex-wives couldn’t get past it. All 3? Terrific. Not sure how that conversation starts with a wife, but I know how it ends - in front of a judge.
And now, like all good defensive coordinators before me, I go into the prevent defense. I get the headphones on, get the magazines and books piled up around me and pretend like I can do sudoku (translation: Americans are bad with numbers). This guy is one step from giving me the difference between anal bead types so I need to prevent any further conversation.
The rest of the flight was pretty harmless. Between small naps and a few mediocre movies I was able to make it to Shanghai relatively unscathed. Actually, I was scathed. Can you be scathed?
As I strolled through the airport I was struck by how utterly English many things were. Signs for food, which way to baggage claim and even the restrooms. The restrooms also had an interesting sign. Over all of the urinals there was a sign in English and Chinese saying “Please Take Another Step Forward.” Basically, the government was telling everyone two things - 1 you have terrible aim; and 2 you have tiny genitals. Nothing like having big brother call you out about the size of your crank.
Through more customs and picking up luggage and then out to the Chinese masses. The pick-up area was completely surreal. You come out on one side of this large room and you wind your way through people who are lined up in as if you are in a parade. Lots of screaming, sign-waving and clapping. Honestly, it’s like this for me in any city I travel to, but it was weird for everyone else to be involved. If you picture the running of the bulls in Pamplona, take out the bulls, Pamplona and the Spanish prostitutes and that’s what this was.
As I am trying to adjust to sunlight, standing up and the overpowering smell of Asia, I have to look for the driver that is going to pick me up and take me back to the hotel. I have to assume, stereotypically, that he will be able 5 foot 6 with dark straight hair. Good - that limits it to every guy here. After 2 trips through the sudoku (translation: Americans can’t figure out mazes or math) of the airport I find the driver. He had the smallest sign of anyone in the airport with my company’s logo on it. When I got up to him, I asked if he used a matchbook to write the sign on. His response? “OK, I get your bags.”
The hour-long trip from the airport to the center of Shanghai was marked with contradictions. The silver buildings that seemed to have been finished about 20 minutes ago left jagged shadows that barely hid a line of poverty that was glaring back at it. Much of this housing is paid for by the government and it is 4 walls and a roof. I am sure that the situation is better for many of the people because the lid of communism has been untightened, if not completely taken off. Usually I spend long cab rides fiddling on my Blackberry or calling people back that I want to have an artificial deadline with. But not this time. I stared like a child leaving the neighborhood for the first time and tried to figure out what real life was like here.
But once the cab (all of the cabs are Volkswagen Santanas, which everybody forgot about until they sang a duet with Rob Thomas…boy, that was funnier in my head when riding in one) pulled in to downtown Shanghai near my hotel everything changed. I am in the Asian New York City. Only, in a horribly stereotypical way, everything is a bit smaller. I don’t agree with analysts that say this city is faster or more vibrant than NYC because that is simply not true. This is not the bias from the “Boy Who Grew Up in NJ and Believes Everything in New York is Best” (starring Joe Piscopo) but it is reality. I believe that 30 years ago Shanghai was a city that focused on manufacturing and producing goods cheaply to strengthen the country. Now, it has glitz and glamour and progress and that’s great – but it’s not quite there yet. But it has one thing that no other city can match – a lot of people. I mean a lot, lot of people. Shanghai specifically and China overall will succeed because there are so many people there to do one thing, and do it well. My gift to my children will be to teach them Chinese so they are better equipped for the world in 2020. And don’t end up on 20/20 in one of those “Stripper Who Hated Her Dad” segments.
I could bore you for thousands of words like the Fodor’s Travel Guide describing everything I saw in China. Instead I will break it down into tiny McNuggets (which are even tastier in China after you have spent most of the week eating “yak sack.”)
1. There are no laws on the road. None. Trying to make a left turn at an intersection in Shanghai is like trying to get your engagement ring back from a woman you cheated on. You can attempt it – but you’ll probably be killed.
2. People aren’t quite as short as you think they are. In the cities, the size of people look like any other city. Short and tall, thin and me.
3. The difference between good looking people (some were stunning) and ugly people was as vast as the ocean. It was almost Sneetch-like.
4. The stereotype of the demure Chinese was completely obliterated when I went to the marketplaces and was referred to as “Hey, American, come here!” Also, walking along in front of bars where hookers called me specifics “Hello, big boy,” and generic “Hey businessman!”
5. The government is biding its time and keeping their currency low to get worldwide companies comfortable and addicted to paying for their cheap labor. Once they get further control of outsourced goods worldwide, they will raise the currency level and hope that companies are too invested to leave and won’t try to find the next China.
6. True Chinese cuisine is spicier than a Cajun’s seminal fluid. Was that necessary?
7. Everybody works as if they were going to be unemployed tomorrow. I can’t imagine what some of them have seen or lived through. It is a people that are by nature cautious yet inquisitive and they will continue to leave their foot print on the world, and not just in Asia.
My stay there was invigorating, exciting and something I hope to be able to repeat. The flight home was nothing much to write about. A smaller woman sat next to me for the flight back and she had no such stories about having a Chinese “husband.” And a mere 6 months later, I have been able to put together this 3,000 word masterpiece.
It made fiscal and time-scal sense for me to take a car service to the airport instead of parking my car there. I searched the thousands of listings for car services in Atlanta and literally ended up with one called “Flava Limousine.” That’s right, a car service as dependable and reliable as everyone’s favorite bachelor and hip-hop mogul. Who sent this, VH1? If there is some guarantee that I could have Punkin spit on New York again while I sat in the car, I might have felt better about the whole thing.
So Flava pulls up, on time I might add, in my driveway – and it is not a car, or a limo. It is a totally pimped out white stretch limousine that could have fit me and every one of my friends. I know, I know, that means it seats at least 3. Even my dog, (not dogg or dawg) whose tastes run more urban than mine, was offended by it. She began to growl – but stopped and quietly whimpered to be let back in the house.
Flava helped me put my oversized bags in the trunk. (His name wasn’t Flava, I think it was James, as if that matters). I get in and immediately the smell of incense-laden love is in the air. The ceiling had those lights that swirl and change color like the license-plate holder of every Italian that goes “cruisin’ for broads.” I was tempted to pick up some 17 year old kids and take them to the prom. Do kids still ride in these? Did I just call them kids? And with that, my balls just dropped another 4 inches.
Other than the décor, the unfortunate gas mileage, and the lack of dignity, the biggest issue with a stretch limo? It’s cold. Yes, it was quite chilly on Saturday morning and it’s hard to keep those bad boys heated. Now, when they are filled to the brim with drunken revelers – it’s not an issue. One doofus who lives in the suburbs with 2.1 kids? Freezing.
Flava gets me to the airport in plenty of time for flight #1. He helps me get my bags out of the car and then gives me the black half-hug (BHH) as I tip him. You know, the handshake to back pat staying on one side. It wasn’t that good of a tip – maybe it was Flav’s first day but I was thrown by the BHH. Maybe he appreciated that I didn’t bitch about sitting in a car that was in a different zip code than he was. I’m not sure but what I do know is I need to use this around the office when I get back. Hey Dave, I grabbed your stuff of the printer – here you go. Hey – BHH. Uhh, dude, too much.
So I’m among the great unwashed early commuters. The reason I have to fly twice is for some reason Delta, who has 8 flights a day to Inbredretardo, Mississippi – does not have a direct flight to Shanghai. And you say Delta is bankrupt? Hmm, interesting. So I have to fly to Chicago first and then fly American, with whom I have as much status as I do the Screen Actor’s Guild, to Shanghai.
The check-in folks at Delta were very nice and they put me on the upgrade list AND checked my bags all the way through to Shanghai – that was nice. I weaseled through security (without any liquids or gels – new rules be damned) and made my way to the gate. Because I began to worry again about how I would keep myself entertained for 18 hours of flying, I bought more magazines in the airport. As I perused the selections, I wondered how or why someone might purchase the “adult” magazines they have listed. Do people do that? Are there guys on the flight who are thumbing through High Society after they finish scanning the SkyMall catalogue? I hope never to sit next to the guy who pulls out his Hustler and says “‘scuse me, I need to go to the port-o-john and rub one out.”
And then, something wonderful happens. Something that is hard to describe without using flowing praise and words like amazing, utopian and really good. (I ran out of words already). I got upgraded. I am sure this happens all the time to the big muckity-mucks (can I get a ruling on that word) but it is still a great feeling when you don’t know, and then it happens. And nobody enjoys having their ass cradled in a seat like I do.
With my lack of sleep the night before, I knew that I was going to spend this flight, this roomy comfortable flight, asleep. I settled into 1C, (not a big fan of the bulkhead, yet I digress) and began to nestle in to it when I noticed a trend. And it was disturbing. Yes, indeed, it was a disturbing trend. Are there other kinds of trends? Things can be trendy. And things can trend upwards or downwards. But if you are describing a trend, it better be disturbing or you are throwing the literary world on its ear. Or on its ass.
The disturbing trend? Thin people. I know, they disgust me too.
But these were no ordinary supermodels in training. They had the crunchy look of a lesbian in Denver. But there were a lot of them. As if they were getting on the plane only to be dropped off on a mountain and hike down. It took me a few minutes until I realized AH-HA – the Chicago Marathon was Sunday and these people were going there for it. Huh, pretty smart by me, yes. But it made me feel huge. As if I wouldn’t tower over an entire people once I get to Asia, now I’m the fattest guy on a plane. You never want to be that guy. Come on, you’ve seen Lost, or Airplane or the very special episode of Mr. Belvedere where Wesley gets molested? Or was that Dudley and the guy from WKRP?
I land in Chicago and hoof it (get it, Chicago, hoof it? No? Makes you think of Renee Zellweger? My bad.) over to American Airlines. And I only have 3 hours to wait now that the flight has been delayed. One thing about O’Haire (Irish for O’Rabbit) Airport is that you will never be without fast food choices. There is more grease flying around that concourse than there is in Jose Canseco’s towels. Ronald McDonald is the cultural attaché and anything can be fried. I truly felt at home.
After several more ID checks and one frisking (per request) I get on my 16-hour flight to Shanghai.
Now, this next bit is important – whether your next flight is 2 hours or 2 days – the seat-mate is one of the most complex and important relationships you will have. You can try to scan the check-in area and pick your perfect seat-mate. For me, I look for midgets or bulimics – but get your own system. But don’t jinx yourself. In over 10 years of somewhat regular flying, I have yet to pick someone in the waiting area and have them be my seat-mate. But there have been a few “if that smelly son-of-a-bitch sits next to me I will…” moments. All you are looking for is someone who might say hello, maybe have an intelligent conversation or something relevant to your business or at the very least an attractive woman who is frightened to fly and will want to hold you tightly during takeoff and landing. Basically, you are looking for Parker Posey. You know, not the lead, the good 2nd banana who is cute and will talk if you want to but won’t disturb you if you are sleeping
So I take my coach seat (thanks, company process) in row 41 seat A. A few moments later a guy ambles into the seat next to me and he seems harmless enough. Looks like a copier salesman, insurance adjuster or adjunct professor – you know the type.
“Is this your first trip to Shanghai?” he asks.
“Indeed it is,” said the protagonist.
He then tells me he has been going there for the better part of 30 years. He gives me a history of Shanghai and how their government is changing and how the economy affects ours and all of these mostly interesting things. This goes on for about 20 minutes and I am feeling good about being educated by my seat-mate. Thank you, Parker Posey.
And then it happens.
“So, are you going to have a Chinese wife?” Parker asks.
“Whosaidwhatnow?” replies a stunned passeneger.
Parker (nope, can’t call him that anymore, he has moved to annoying second banana – he is now Willie Aames.)
Willie goes on an even longer diatribe about how Chinese wives work. They will help you with all of your business negotiation with local manufacturers, they will help make sure you are working within the government rules and they will set up your trips with visas, etc. And don’t worry, he adds unnecessarily, they also take care of all of your biological needs as well. Seriously. When I get to the point that I am referring to sex as my biological need, it’s time to hang it up.
Now, I have known Mr. Aames for just less than an hour and he has described to me, in detail, how the Chinese wives have helped him in business and personally, there’s very little they won’t do. But, even though they said they were cool with it, all 3 of his ex-wives couldn’t get past it. All 3? Terrific. Not sure how that conversation starts with a wife, but I know how it ends - in front of a judge.
And now, like all good defensive coordinators before me, I go into the prevent defense. I get the headphones on, get the magazines and books piled up around me and pretend like I can do sudoku (translation: Americans are bad with numbers). This guy is one step from giving me the difference between anal bead types so I need to prevent any further conversation.
The rest of the flight was pretty harmless. Between small naps and a few mediocre movies I was able to make it to Shanghai relatively unscathed. Actually, I was scathed. Can you be scathed?
As I strolled through the airport I was struck by how utterly English many things were. Signs for food, which way to baggage claim and even the restrooms. The restrooms also had an interesting sign. Over all of the urinals there was a sign in English and Chinese saying “Please Take Another Step Forward.” Basically, the government was telling everyone two things - 1 you have terrible aim; and 2 you have tiny genitals. Nothing like having big brother call you out about the size of your crank.
Through more customs and picking up luggage and then out to the Chinese masses. The pick-up area was completely surreal. You come out on one side of this large room and you wind your way through people who are lined up in as if you are in a parade. Lots of screaming, sign-waving and clapping. Honestly, it’s like this for me in any city I travel to, but it was weird for everyone else to be involved. If you picture the running of the bulls in Pamplona, take out the bulls, Pamplona and the Spanish prostitutes and that’s what this was.
As I am trying to adjust to sunlight, standing up and the overpowering smell of Asia, I have to look for the driver that is going to pick me up and take me back to the hotel. I have to assume, stereotypically, that he will be able 5 foot 6 with dark straight hair. Good - that limits it to every guy here. After 2 trips through the sudoku (translation: Americans can’t figure out mazes or math) of the airport I find the driver. He had the smallest sign of anyone in the airport with my company’s logo on it. When I got up to him, I asked if he used a matchbook to write the sign on. His response? “OK, I get your bags.”
The hour-long trip from the airport to the center of Shanghai was marked with contradictions. The silver buildings that seemed to have been finished about 20 minutes ago left jagged shadows that barely hid a line of poverty that was glaring back at it. Much of this housing is paid for by the government and it is 4 walls and a roof. I am sure that the situation is better for many of the people because the lid of communism has been untightened, if not completely taken off. Usually I spend long cab rides fiddling on my Blackberry or calling people back that I want to have an artificial deadline with. But not this time. I stared like a child leaving the neighborhood for the first time and tried to figure out what real life was like here.
But once the cab (all of the cabs are Volkswagen Santanas, which everybody forgot about until they sang a duet with Rob Thomas…boy, that was funnier in my head when riding in one) pulled in to downtown Shanghai near my hotel everything changed. I am in the Asian New York City. Only, in a horribly stereotypical way, everything is a bit smaller. I don’t agree with analysts that say this city is faster or more vibrant than NYC because that is simply not true. This is not the bias from the “Boy Who Grew Up in NJ and Believes Everything in New York is Best” (starring Joe Piscopo) but it is reality. I believe that 30 years ago Shanghai was a city that focused on manufacturing and producing goods cheaply to strengthen the country. Now, it has glitz and glamour and progress and that’s great – but it’s not quite there yet. But it has one thing that no other city can match – a lot of people. I mean a lot, lot of people. Shanghai specifically and China overall will succeed because there are so many people there to do one thing, and do it well. My gift to my children will be to teach them Chinese so they are better equipped for the world in 2020. And don’t end up on 20/20 in one of those “Stripper Who Hated Her Dad” segments.
I could bore you for thousands of words like the Fodor’s Travel Guide describing everything I saw in China. Instead I will break it down into tiny McNuggets (which are even tastier in China after you have spent most of the week eating “yak sack.”)
1. There are no laws on the road. None. Trying to make a left turn at an intersection in Shanghai is like trying to get your engagement ring back from a woman you cheated on. You can attempt it – but you’ll probably be killed.
2. People aren’t quite as short as you think they are. In the cities, the size of people look like any other city. Short and tall, thin and me.
3. The difference between good looking people (some were stunning) and ugly people was as vast as the ocean. It was almost Sneetch-like.
4. The stereotype of the demure Chinese was completely obliterated when I went to the marketplaces and was referred to as “Hey, American, come here!” Also, walking along in front of bars where hookers called me specifics “Hello, big boy,” and generic “Hey businessman!”
5. The government is biding its time and keeping their currency low to get worldwide companies comfortable and addicted to paying for their cheap labor. Once they get further control of outsourced goods worldwide, they will raise the currency level and hope that companies are too invested to leave and won’t try to find the next China.
6. True Chinese cuisine is spicier than a Cajun’s seminal fluid. Was that necessary?
7. Everybody works as if they were going to be unemployed tomorrow. I can’t imagine what some of them have seen or lived through. It is a people that are by nature cautious yet inquisitive and they will continue to leave their foot print on the world, and not just in Asia.
My stay there was invigorating, exciting and something I hope to be able to repeat. The flight home was nothing much to write about. A smaller woman sat next to me for the flight back and she had no such stories about having a Chinese “husband.” And a mere 6 months later, I have been able to put together this 3,000 word masterpiece.
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