Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Procrastinator Supernova
I just want you people to know that I am studying for tomorrow's Chinese final the only way I know how: writing a great walloping e-mail (yes, in Chinese) to someone. It's working out fairly well, actually: it's almost 1200 characters three times longer than anything else I've written, and I'm just throwing every grammar construction and idiom I know in. I've even given directions from my dorm to the West End, because that's on the test. This is like when I studied for my Critical theory final in Dublin by writing a gonzo essay on Deepthroat--which, incidentally is being published on Friday by Columbia's pseudo-porn mag, Outlet. I'll link to it when it's up. Here's the guy I'm writing to:
That's Qiang, my bartending buddy in Dublin (actually, my lifesaver, but that's a very long story--summarized here in very brief detail, but I do like the phrase "Jesus fuck."), who invited me into his home in Dalian, a small town of 6.5 million people no one never heard of. Here are two more pictures, because I don't show you guys nearly enough love anymore.
That's Li Baba on the right, Li Mama on the left and off to the side is Li Nainai (paternal grandmother). Clothes for the men are strictly optional; I was in my undershorts as well, and Qiang's briefs were even briefer than his father's. It was hot out. On the table are many very very tasty things, not including jellyfish soup, which was served the previous night, and which was the very first dish with which I was presented in China that I refused to eat. The night before that, I had happily put down pig ear, duck brain (absurdly tasty, like foiegras), spicy frog (unsurprisingly excellent, just far too spicy even for Qiang) and, of course, the infamous live shrimp. All washed down with two pitchers of beer. Per person. And so I don't think it shameful or dishonorable in any way that I felt no burning compulsion to try the jellyfish soup. I can handle a lot at this point, but I feel I am particularly susceptible to 口感, or "mouthfeel," and of all the textures I actively hate, jellyfish ranks right up at the top next to yak butter tea (which is Tibetan for "rancid snot"). So I passed.
This did not bother them; they knew they'd run me through the gauntlet the first night. But they weren't going to let me off the hook so easy, not after Nainai found out I'd sung "The East is Red," the great Communist anthem, at karaoke that night--very, very much against my will. She had missed it, though, and was not going to let the chance to fuck further with the foreigner slip through her fingers. Her bony, gnarled fingers. Might I add, I was the first foreigner Nainai had ever seen with her own two eyes. This is the result:
I'm writing this, I think to remind myself why I'm half killing myself to learn this language in the first place.
That's Qiang, my bartending buddy in Dublin (actually, my lifesaver, but that's a very long story--summarized here in very brief detail, but I do like the phrase "Jesus fuck."), who invited me into his home in Dalian, a small town of 6.5 million people no one never heard of. Here are two more pictures, because I don't show you guys nearly enough love anymore.
That's Li Baba on the right, Li Mama on the left and off to the side is Li Nainai (paternal grandmother). Clothes for the men are strictly optional; I was in my undershorts as well, and Qiang's briefs were even briefer than his father's. It was hot out. On the table are many very very tasty things, not including jellyfish soup, which was served the previous night, and which was the very first dish with which I was presented in China that I refused to eat. The night before that, I had happily put down pig ear, duck brain (absurdly tasty, like foiegras), spicy frog (unsurprisingly excellent, just far too spicy even for Qiang) and, of course, the infamous live shrimp. All washed down with two pitchers of beer. Per person. And so I don't think it shameful or dishonorable in any way that I felt no burning compulsion to try the jellyfish soup. I can handle a lot at this point, but I feel I am particularly susceptible to 口感, or "mouthfeel," and of all the textures I actively hate, jellyfish ranks right up at the top next to yak butter tea (which is Tibetan for "rancid snot"). So I passed.
This did not bother them; they knew they'd run me through the gauntlet the first night. But they weren't going to let me off the hook so easy, not after Nainai found out I'd sung "The East is Red," the great Communist anthem, at karaoke that night--very, very much against my will. She had missed it, though, and was not going to let the chance to fuck further with the foreigner slip through her fingers. Her bony, gnarled fingers. Might I add, I was the first foreigner Nainai had ever seen with her own two eyes. This is the result:
I'm writing this, I think to remind myself why I'm half killing myself to learn this language in the first place.
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