Tuesday, December 05, 2006
It's not bullshit, it's legerdemain.
First of all, yesterday was Jacob's birthday. He's legal to smoke, buy porn, get drafted, vote and be tried as an adult. Welcome to the party.
I am feeling very proud of the once and future Baby Benito, though: today, he had his first major college paper returned to him. The paper, however, was for a graduate-level conservatory seminar in the History of Opera, which he magicked his way into at the beginning of the semester. We are not talking Physics for Poets here. Knowing only that he knew nothing when it came to writing graduate-level essays, especially for a music class, he slaved and wailed and broke his brains in working on this paper all in the ardent hope that he might eke out a C.
不知道怎縻搞的, but he got an A.
92.6. Don't ask me how one gets a .6. It doesn't matter. We are "literally astoundished." The boy is seriously good at what he does. And we are very, very, very proud.
I, too, have acquitted myself tolerably. I wrote a paper for Contemporary Chinese Culture on three novels, Shanghai Baby, Beijing Doll and Candy. These are the three most famous kiss-and-tell, masturbate-and-sell novels written in China in the past few years, and they're pretty roundly terrible. Sensationalistic and confessional, saturated with graphic sex and drugs, and extremely quick reads, Beijing Doll, Shanghai Baby and Candy were swiftly translated into English upon publication, and dozens of other languages besides. All three are barely disguised autobiographies, written in the first person by an attractive young woman who is very, very easily plied by the attentions of men, virtually all of whom are thin, brooding, long-haired, emotionally (and often physically) defective men with a large CD collection. The sex across all three is downright ghastly, with men using women's bodies like tissue paper, and inevitably growing cold and contemptuous afterward--which inevitably comes as a surprise to the girl, who begins to cry. Nor do any of the men exhibit any qualms about foisting themselves on grossly underage girls. Beijing Doll is especially gruesome: it's rare that you encounter something which is hands-down, no-contest, the very worst of its species. I mean, it's really rare. But Beijing Doll is without any doubt the single worst book I have ever read. Name a bad book. I dare you. I guarantee you Beijing Doll sucks worse. Two sample lines: "I like poetry, it's beautiful." "The air at Xidan was saturated with the smell of material stuff." In the first, she could have at least put a semicolon. Jesus. And don't go blaming this on the translator, either; it was translated by Howard Goldblatt, one of the best in the world. It reads like it was written by a retarded and horny 13-year old. In reality, it was a retarded and horny 17-year old. Charlotte Brontë, this one is not. Isaac discovered it in China, and his literary agency, to our enormous consternation, subsequently signed this woman. Her book is atrocious, but it's a the softest sell anyone's ever seen.
Anyhow, I wrote a paper on these books--and why they're such soft sells, despite sucking--without having finished any of them. I only read about 10 pages of Beijing Doll (it was on reserve at the library, God only knows why); Shanghai Baby and Candy I'd read about half of, but I hadn't looked at Candy since August. The paper was written at warp speed, was generally slapdash and trite, was handed in late and unedited and somehow I scraped out an A-. More pleasing than the grade is the comment: "Very interesting paper! You provide an excellent reading of Shanghai Baby and Beijing Doll and a fine reading of Candy..."
Laughing all the way to the bank, suckaz. We are back in business.
So what did we learn in school today? We learned that no matter what the class, or what the subject, never, never write anything but English papers.
I am feeling very proud of the once and future Baby Benito, though: today, he had his first major college paper returned to him. The paper, however, was for a graduate-level conservatory seminar in the History of Opera, which he magicked his way into at the beginning of the semester. We are not talking Physics for Poets here. Knowing only that he knew nothing when it came to writing graduate-level essays, especially for a music class, he slaved and wailed and broke his brains in working on this paper all in the ardent hope that he might eke out a C.
不知道怎縻搞的, but he got an A.
92.6. Don't ask me how one gets a .6. It doesn't matter. We are "literally astoundished." The boy is seriously good at what he does. And we are very, very, very proud.
I, too, have acquitted myself tolerably. I wrote a paper for Contemporary Chinese Culture on three novels, Shanghai Baby, Beijing Doll and Candy. These are the three most famous kiss-and-tell, masturbate-and-sell novels written in China in the past few years, and they're pretty roundly terrible. Sensationalistic and confessional, saturated with graphic sex and drugs, and extremely quick reads, Beijing Doll, Shanghai Baby and Candy were swiftly translated into English upon publication, and dozens of other languages besides. All three are barely disguised autobiographies, written in the first person by an attractive young woman who is very, very easily plied by the attentions of men, virtually all of whom are thin, brooding, long-haired, emotionally (and often physically) defective men with a large CD collection. The sex across all three is downright ghastly, with men using women's bodies like tissue paper, and inevitably growing cold and contemptuous afterward--which inevitably comes as a surprise to the girl, who begins to cry. Nor do any of the men exhibit any qualms about foisting themselves on grossly underage girls. Beijing Doll is especially gruesome: it's rare that you encounter something which is hands-down, no-contest, the very worst of its species. I mean, it's really rare. But Beijing Doll is without any doubt the single worst book I have ever read. Name a bad book. I dare you. I guarantee you Beijing Doll sucks worse. Two sample lines: "I like poetry, it's beautiful." "The air at Xidan was saturated with the smell of material stuff." In the first, she could have at least put a semicolon. Jesus. And don't go blaming this on the translator, either; it was translated by Howard Goldblatt, one of the best in the world. It reads like it was written by a retarded and horny 13-year old. In reality, it was a retarded and horny 17-year old. Charlotte Brontë, this one is not. Isaac discovered it in China, and his literary agency, to our enormous consternation, subsequently signed this woman. Her book is atrocious, but it's a the softest sell anyone's ever seen.
Anyhow, I wrote a paper on these books--and why they're such soft sells, despite sucking--without having finished any of them. I only read about 10 pages of Beijing Doll (it was on reserve at the library, God only knows why); Shanghai Baby and Candy I'd read about half of, but I hadn't looked at Candy since August. The paper was written at warp speed, was generally slapdash and trite, was handed in late and unedited and somehow I scraped out an A-. More pleasing than the grade is the comment: "Very interesting paper! You provide an excellent reading of Shanghai Baby and Beijing Doll and a fine reading of Candy..."
Laughing all the way to the bank, suckaz. We are back in business.
So what did we learn in school today? We learned that no matter what the class, or what the subject, never, never write anything but English papers.
Monday, December 04, 2006
All right, all right
It's pretty clear this blog is dying, but here's another quixotic attempt at rescussitation.
I think I might have mentioned a few months back that, on a lark, I put in a job application at the West End. Nothing ever came of it, though. Last wednesday, though, Nick and I decided to head over and scope it out--it's been redone and is now called Havana Central at the West End. It's supposed to be Cuban-themed affair, but as it stands, the dining room isn't finished, nor is the kitchen, and all there is is the bar in the front, which doesn't even have glassware yet, just plastic cups, and an insultingly paltry four beers on tap (Bud, Bud Light, Miller Light, Dos Equis). The night we went was karaoke night, and karaoke is something that should be done only by drunken Oriental businessmen or North Korean waitresses. Even then, it should never be allowed to dominate the central bar area; instead, it must be relegated to small and soundproofed private rooms. The whole operation was a disgrace, and Nick and I were accordingly outraged, and spent the night loudly giving vent to our displeasure.
So two days later they called and I start training tomorrow.
There has clearly not been enough irony in my diet.
I have a new computer, a bright and cheerful Macbook. My old machine was "an old bitch gone in the teeth," creaky and wheezy and liable to go at any moment. I am much pleased, mostly because I now have the ability to watch dvd's again (the old one's dvd player didn't just break, it held my dvd's hostage, stuck fast, and now it refuses to release the Unbearable Lightness of Being. More irony). So I spent friday night happily glued to old episodes of Julia Child.
If ever I write an epic poem, it will be an Ode to Julia Child. I firmly believe that the only culture a growing child needs is Prairie Home Companion, Julia Child, Calvin and Hobbes, Greek myths and Leonard Bernstein. All the rest is dross.
I need to learn about Chinese Civil Society now. I have a presentation coming up. So far I've got a pretty good idea of what "civil society" actually means. I think it's an important first step.
I think I might have mentioned a few months back that, on a lark, I put in a job application at the West End. Nothing ever came of it, though. Last wednesday, though, Nick and I decided to head over and scope it out--it's been redone and is now called Havana Central at the West End. It's supposed to be Cuban-themed affair, but as it stands, the dining room isn't finished, nor is the kitchen, and all there is is the bar in the front, which doesn't even have glassware yet, just plastic cups, and an insultingly paltry four beers on tap (Bud, Bud Light, Miller Light, Dos Equis). The night we went was karaoke night, and karaoke is something that should be done only by drunken Oriental businessmen or North Korean waitresses. Even then, it should never be allowed to dominate the central bar area; instead, it must be relegated to small and soundproofed private rooms. The whole operation was a disgrace, and Nick and I were accordingly outraged, and spent the night loudly giving vent to our displeasure.
So two days later they called and I start training tomorrow.
There has clearly not been enough irony in my diet.
I have a new computer, a bright and cheerful Macbook. My old machine was "an old bitch gone in the teeth," creaky and wheezy and liable to go at any moment. I am much pleased, mostly because I now have the ability to watch dvd's again (the old one's dvd player didn't just break, it held my dvd's hostage, stuck fast, and now it refuses to release the Unbearable Lightness of Being. More irony). So I spent friday night happily glued to old episodes of Julia Child.
If ever I write an epic poem, it will be an Ode to Julia Child. I firmly believe that the only culture a growing child needs is Prairie Home Companion, Julia Child, Calvin and Hobbes, Greek myths and Leonard Bernstein. All the rest is dross.
I need to learn about Chinese Civil Society now. I have a presentation coming up. So far I've got a pretty good idea of what "civil society" actually means. I think it's an important first step.
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