Amish Porn

It’s the last day of August, 4:35 in the afternoon. I step out of the arctic cool of the air-conditioned business park into the blast furnace of the Austin sun. My quirky cabbie has shown up at the appointed hour to drive me back to the airport.

“Did you find your apartment?” I ask, picking up the thread of our last conversation.

He did. We fall silent.

“Are you a football fan?” he asks.

“Not an avid fan,” I reply, “ But I’m from the Bay Area, and it’s always been fun following the 49ers.”

He tells me his son is a big 49er fan, which surprises me because I know, from our last conversation, that his son lives in the local area. I ask about that, and he tells me that the attraction goes all the way back to the golden years of Joe Montana and Jerry Rice. That sends us both skipping down memory lane.

“I can’t believe the summer’s over and it’s fall already,” I muse.

“I know. It just seems to go by faster and faster, doesn’t it?”

“You know what really gets me,” I confide, “When I have to fill out an application on line that asks for date of birth. They often want you to enter the year with a scroll wheel, and I just keep scrolling and scrolling. It’s hard to believe it’s that long ago.”

“It’s amazing isn’t it?” He concurs, “Think of all the change we’ve lived through.”

“I know. I’m sitting here checking my flight on an iPhone, and I still remember what it was like buying my first answering machine. But I guess that’s no more extraordinary than the last generation that went from the horse and buggy to the automobile.”

“I remember when eight track was breakthrough technology,” he adds.

“In fact, I remember how exciting it was when I moved away from home to the city where I met my wife. She had a record player, and because things were a little more liberal down there, her folks didn’t throw it out of the house.”

That catches my attention.

“Are you saying that having a record player was taboo in your family?”

“You bet!” He laughs.

“Sounds like your folks were pretty religious.”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” He says deeply surprised. “I thought that when you made that comment about the horse and buggy you knew. We were Amish.”

Turns out he was the youngest of thirteen kids. He has one brother who still lives in the community. All the rest have moved away.

Our conversation is interrupted when he picks up a call on his cell phone. It’s his son. He becomes quite agitated. Dish network had come to install their equipment, and his son had presented them with the flyer they had sent him that promised $199 off the initial setup. The installers refused to honor the deal over some technicality, and charged him $532 dollars. He finishes the call, and tells me that we are almost at the airport.

I yawn, starting to feel the accumulated exhaustion of this relentless schedule of travel and training.

“Sounds like you’ll be catching some shut eye,” he says.

“I sure hope so.”

“Don’t take any Nyquil,” he says laughing.

What I think he just said makes so little sense to me I’m not even sure I heard him correctly.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

He repeats it, and then explains.

“I heard about this girl who took Nyquil on her flight so she could sleep. Knocked her right out. When she wakes up she finds the guy sitting next to her has got his hand her pants.”

“Sounds like that guy’s going to jail the minute he walks off that plane.”

“Oh you bet,” he says emphatically, “that’s sexual harassment plain and simple. Although if you took it, it might not be so bad if you woke and found her hand in your pants.” He chortles.

“I don’t think that would sit very well with my wife.”

“Sorry. I was just joking. Certainly didn’t mean to offend.”

I obviously embarrassed him. That’s the last thing I wanted to do. I tell him it’s fine, no offense taken. I wish I could tell him what a gift he’s given me: the perfect end to our little mutual adventure … Amish porn.

It's Weird Everywhere

I wrapped up my Twilight Zone tour of Asia ten days ago with my return from the sessions in Shenzhen. It was the toughest engagement by far. The language and cultural barriers were enormous. I might as well have been communicating with two cans and a piece of string. So when I got home we felt this enormous sense of elation. I had done it! It was like winning the Boston Marathon. From here on out it was all cruising down hill. My last out of town gig was in Austin just three and a half hours away by plane, and right here in the good old USA: Piece of cake, right? What’s more I now had my headphones.

Anticipating the challenges of that last China trip I finally broke down and parted with the $300 bucks for the Bose Quiet 15 headphones. I’ve coveted them for years, but couldn’t see spending that much money, and was sure if I waited long enough the price would come down. They out-waited me. Turns out it’s the best investment I ever made. I pop them on as soon as I check-in, start listening to the full four hour performance of the Brandenburg Concerto, and I am in a world of my own, indifferent to the lines, the waiting, and the grueling all night flights.

I’m still in headphone bliss as I walk to the cabstand at the Austin airport, give the grizzled little cabbie the address for the La Quinta Inn & Suites, and climb into the back seat. The traffic is awful. It’s 4:30 p.m. right at the peak of rush hour, but I could care less. I’m listening to my music, reading David Suzuki’s “The Legacy,” and don’t have a care in the world. But that’s because I’m not up against a deadline. That won’t be the case however two days from now when I head back to the airport to catch my 6:50 p.m. return flight. My class is supposed to end at five. This could be tight. The anxiety starts seeping in.

The headphones come off. I ask the driver how long it will take to get to the airport on a Friday at 4:30 (I’ve already decided I’ll need to end the class a half hour early)? He tells me the traffic will not be this bad coming the other way, and that it will probably take about forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes is fine. I feel relieved. I’m about to retreat back into my sonic cocoon when he asks me if I’d like to have him pick me up on Friday for the return trip.

“That would be great!” I say with real enthusiasm. I can now check another rather important detail off my to-do list. We exchange phone numbers. I give him the address of the company I will be at, and he mentions that he is actually going to be looking at an apartment in that area right after he drops me off. If all goes well he hopes to move in this weekend.

“Boy, moving: that’s a big undertaking,” I say to be polite.

He really doesn’t have any choice. Turns out he’s been living with his son and daughter in-law for the past six and a half years. When they first bought the house they asked him to live with them because they needed help paying the bills, but after six and a half years he’s worn out his welcome. She doesn’t like the relationship he has with his son, so she gets on the son’s case, and the son then starts fighting with dad. Clearly it’s time to go.

“Young couples need their space,” I say sympathetically. Then I give myself a little pat on the back. I feel like I’m getting quite good at this small talk thing. That’s two appropriate responses in a row.

He agrees, but admits he feels torn because he knows they still need the money, and he doesn’t want his son to be under any more stress having almost just died.

“What do you mean he almost just died?”

Apparently he had to go into the hospital for a sphincterechtomy. He had a fistula that wouldn’t close, and so they needed to go in and snip the muscle wall so that it would stop spasming, and hopefully that would then give the wound a chance to heal. But they screwed up when they closed him up, and he got an infection that almost killed him.

“Is he alright now?”

He’s fine now, but the last thing he needed, when he’s barely back on his feet, was to get hit with this whole nightmare about the kids.

“You mean your grandkids?” Exactly!

Seems the wife took the kids to her cousins so she could spend more time at the hospital while he’s recovering. Well, the cousin takes the kids to her ex-mother-in-laws place in the country, and one thing led to another, and now the police are involved investigating accusations about some inappropriate stuff.

“That’s awful!” It’s the best I can do. I don’t even know where to come in on this story anymore. I can barely keep up.

“Then wouldn’t you know, they drag me into it.” He laughs bitterly.

Evidently when the cops are questioning the little girl she says something about him touching her pee pee. He has no idea what this is even about. Maybe one time when he’s playing with her, his hand accidentally brushes her there or as she’s wriggling around she brushes him. You know, these things happen.

I’m starting to feel like Woody Allen driving with Christopher Walken in Annie Hall. Lesson learned: never take off the headphones.

We pull up in front of the hotel.

“Boy, this is out in the middle of nowhere,” he says echoing my thoughts exactly.

I’ve heard so many glowing stories about Austin: the fabulous river walk, the really hip music scene, and the great nightlife. I’ve been here several times on business, and never seen any of it. I get to stay in places like this:

With that little pale moon, and the ominous clouds it reminds of a southwestern version of the Bates Motel.

The guy at the reservations desk is really nice (but then so was Tony Perkins.) He checks me in, and hands me the little paper slipcase with my electronic key card, and tells me I’m in room 321, the top floor. I get on the elevator, and go to push the button. Here’s what I see:

I’m not superstitious, but having my floor blacked out feels troubling to me, especially after the cab ride. I get to my room. It’s nice, normal. The free Wi-Fi works. Yay! I look out my window. There’s an empty parking lot backing up onto a large overgrown field. I hear what I can only imagine to be a coyote howl. A large, round tumbleweed blows across the parking lot. It’s like I’m staying at a slightly sinister Texas theme park.

I’m starving (haven’t eaten since 10:30 this morning), and call down to the front desk. They don’t have food at the hotel, but just across the road there’s a little mall with a very good Vietnamese place. As I approach the restaurant I notice there’s a rather large cautionary sign stuck inside the front window:

I can’t read it at first, but given it’s an eating establishment I imagine it says something like “no smoking,” or “no shoes, no shirt, no service,” but that is incorrect. I am in Texas, and in Texas they have other concerns. Here’s what you need to worry about when you want to grab a bite in this part of the country:

Just as I’m about to go into my little internal rant about Texas, and guns, and how this would never happen in the civilized world (meaning the Bay Area) I remember a sound bite I heard on the radio driving to the airport.

The San Francisco board of supervisors was passing an ordinance to close a loophole in an ordinance they passed last year banning the open carry of pistols and revolvers in public. Since the measure only specified pistols and revolvers the feisty fourth amendment crowd had taken to walking into their local Starbucks with shotguns, hunting rifles, and assault weapons (unloaded of course.) It seems the police, and many of their fellow latte sippers had no way of knowing if they were really unloaded, which made them a tad nervous: Hence the new ordinance.

I walk in, sit down, and immediately the owner comes over, tosses a one-page menu sheathed in clear plastic on the table, and in almost incomprehensible English asks me if I’m ready to order. I say no that I need to look at the menu first, and he walks away quickly, which makes it seem like he is irritated with me. The menu is a little confusing. When I try to order he asks me questions that I don’t really understand through the thick accent. I smile and nod. He takes my order, and leaves. I feel relieved. I wish I had my headphones. My great insight from my world travels: it’s weird everywhere.

Do-It-Yourself Home Surgery: The Real Romneycare

To: Mitt Romney

From: Paul Ryan

Subject: Free Enterprise Trumps Obamacare

Just came from a meeting with the senior team at Reamco. They’ve produced millions of the home surgery kits, and will be ready to ship the day we start running the ads. Karl sent me a copy of the spots they’ve produced, which I am enclosing below. I think this is the game changer we’ve been looking for. It will reframe the focus of the debate away from your tax returns, and the “legitimate rape” nonsense back onto Obamacare where it belongs.  Let me know what you think.

Fade In:

Here’s the truth about Obamacare:  it does nothing to stop the runaway cost escalation of healthcare, it forces millions of Americans to buy a product they don’t want or need, and it’s paid for by gutting over seven hundred billion dollars from Medicare. And, worst of all, even with this big government take over of health insurance, an extended hospital stay can still saddle you with tens, even hundreds of thousands of dollars, in uncovered medical costs. When Mitt Romney’s president he’ll work with America’s job creators to create a private enterprise health care solution that will slash costs, save Medicare, and it will be completely voluntary.

Hi, I’m Doctor Able Proctor here to tell you about an extraordinary medical breakthrough that puts control of complex surgical procedures right back where it belongs: in your own hands. That’s right, the do-it-yourself revolution has finally hit the surgical industry, and that means huge savings and convenience for you.

Sound incredible? Hey, you pump your own gas, you place your own phone calls, and you run your own elevators. Isn’t it time you did your own surgical procedures as well? You know that cutting out the middleman saves you money. When that middleman is your typical jet setting, country club surgeon, the savings are outrageous. In fact, you might say the first simple, money-saving operation Reamco helps you perform is a “surgeonectomy.” Bye-bye high-priced medical establishment. Now say “Hello!” to the savings, fun and adventure of performing complex surgical procedures right in the comfort of your very own home!

“It sounds complicated.”

A lot of people think so, but the easy-to-read, step-by-step, illustrated guide that comes with your Reamco Starter Kit makes surgery as simple as changing your oil. You’ll be amazed how quickly you progress from one exciting procedure to another. Soon you’ll be performing operations on all your loved ones and friends.

“But doesn’t it require a lot of sophisticated equipment?”

If you’ve got a kitchen table the Reamco Starter Kit provides you with the rest. Many of the most desired operations require little more than a box cutter and tweezers. Even operations that once required elaborate life support systems can now be performed using only a turkey baster and an enema bag.

“This sounds too good to be true. I’m afraid to ask how much it costs.”

Before I tell you the unbelievably low, low price, let’s look at everything you get:

• You get our illustrated surgical guide, “Cut & Run.”

• You get our multi-purpose cutting tool with a bonus compass in the handle.

• You get five different cut-on-the-line patterns for our most requested operations

• You even get the surgeon accessory package which includes:

-       paper scrubs

-       a sterile mask

-       magnifying eye glasses

-       a diploma with gold seal, and

-       a Cuban cigar

• And, if you order right now, you’ll also get a one year subscription to “Hobby Surgeon” magazine.

With this kit you’ll be able to perform: tracheotomies, colostomies, appendectomies, tonsillectomies, hysterectomies, even biopsies. And that’s not all! With our simple, step-by-step instructions, you’ll even be doing your own by-pass surgery. So go ahead, break out the bacon and whip cream!

Isn’t that incredible? For the unbelievably low priced of $699 you could be performing all these money saving (and potentially money making) operations today. Or, if you prefer, you can take advantage of our convenient monthly payment plan. With only ten payments of $599 you’ll save even more. Or pay with your credit card and receive our special thank you bonus CD, “Cash In On the Home Cosmetic Surgery Boom.”

We’re so confident that you’ll love the convenience and huge savings of home surgery that the folks at Reamco are offering an unprecedented guarantee: if you don’t save at least twice the cost of this kit with your very first home operation we’ll return your entire purchase price with interest, no questions asked, and you can keep the kit! But, hey, don’t take my word for it. Just listen to some of the success stories from folks who have already taken the Reamco plunge:

“Sure I love the money I’ve saved but that’s nothing compared to what Reamco has done for my self esteem. Everyone in my family used to think of me as a big loser, but not anymore! They couldn’t believe that I took out my own spleen in just one weekend. I know it sounds incredible, but here it is, and I just feel fantastic.”

Ronnie Kusic, Dallas, TX

“My hemorrhoids were killing me, and nothing I tried helped. Then I heard about Reamco. Within a week of receiving my Starter Kit I literally carved myself a new asshole. I feel like a kid again. I can’t recommend these products highly enough.”

Somerset Butz, Des Moines, IA

Aren’t those stories incredible? Now it’s time we heard from you! This is an offer you can’t refuse. It can’t get any better than this, OR CAN IT? If you call 1-800-CUT-NRUN right now, in addition to the kit, the guide, the patterns and the Cuban cigar, we’ll also donate 10% of your purchase price to a needy person. Isn’t it time you took those big healthcare decisions out of the hands of the medico-fascists and put them back where they belong, right on top of your pool table or kitchen counter? Don’t wait! Call right now!

Talking to the Tea Party

Two words: Airport Security. I bet you feel a little irritated already. The security line at SFO International looks like a horde of fleeing refugees. It backs up like a clogged toilet all the way to the currency exchange kiosks. It advances in geological time. And what’s worse: travel to other countries that are just as safe (if not safer) than our own, and you know it doesn’t have to be this way. 

That’s what the chunky guy in a short sleeve white shirt, khaki shorts and flip-flops was bemoaning when I chimed in. It’s unbelievable! I find myself spontaneously kvetching with a total stranger. I don’t do this. Unless I’m getting paid lots of money or on one of my rare caffeine jags I keep my mouth shut and my thoughts to myself. I assume most people only want to hear what they already think. But spending months on these security lines changes you. The insane, impersonal, bureaucratic oppression of the post 9/11 world has been distilled into this one pointless, plodding moment, and me and this guy, we’re in it together.  We’ve reached the boiling point.

“Go to China if you want to see how quickly and efficiently this can be done,” he says to no one in particular, “and you certainly don’t have any problem feeling safe in China.” As long as your agenda is business and not politics, I think to myself, but out loud I agree with him emphatically, with an empathy and enthusiasm that’s almost backslapping. Next thing I know we’re swapping travel stories. You’ve been to Bangalore, Pune, Hyderabad? Me too! Man the security lines in Taipei, it’s like it used to be here in the eighties. We could almost hug each other.

How did it get like this: all smoke and mirrors, all show and no substance, squeezing and squeezing people relentlessly? We talk about how the security equipment industry has cashed in at our expense, and the decline of America in general, and before you know it we’re talking politics. I let him do most of the talking.

Here’s what I learn: He’s originally from Alabama, but now lives in Houston. A self-described southern conservative he thinks social security is a scam (it was sold as old age insurance, but all that money just goes right into the general fund so it was really just another Washington bait and switch scheme to suck more money out of the middle class,) FDR was the worst president ever (set the country on a path to ruin,) and that the US is in desperate need of great leadership instead of mealy-mouthed lapdogs who run the country by poll numbers. Unfortunately there hasn’t been anyone to fit that description from either party since Andrew Jackson who knew how to deal with the corrupt moneyed interests (When Biddle wanted to set up a Central US Bank Jackson threatened to drag him out on the dueling field and kill him.)

I have to admit that the thought of a shit-kicking American president ready to teach the oligarchic bastards that are still robbing this country blind a lesson by dragging them one by one onto the front lawn of the White House and popping a cap in their asses is very appealing.

Beyond that I disagree with just about everything else he had to say, but he explained simply and in compelling terms why he feels the way he does, and it makes perfect sense to me. This is a good man I’m talking to, a decent man. What’s more we share many of the same frustrations and concerns. We just differ in our understanding of the causes and solutions. I’d like to learn why, and because we’re stuck on this endless security line I have the opportunity to find out.

“You know,” I tell him, “I understand what you’re saying about social security, but I’d be interested know your thoughts about this. I heard on the radio recently that before social security the number of the elderly and the number of children living below the poverty line in this country was over eighteen percent. Today that number for the elderly has been cut in half. When Johnson’s programs for the war on poverty were fully funded the number of children living in poverty also dropped to about nine percent. But now that those programs have been gutted over the last thirty to forty years the number of kids in poverty is back up over 18%. Compared to what we spend on all these wars, for a relatively small investment government programs can really make a difference for the most vulnerable folks in our country if we’re willing to spend the money.”

He agreed. He is every bit as compassionate and concerned about others as I am, but here’s the problem:

“I used to work for a defense contractor,” he tells me, “and we used to make a sensor for the F-15 fighter. Part of the assembly required a special Teflon tape that we bought from 3M. So I call my contact there to get a price on these rolls of tape, and he tells me twenty-five dollars. Then he asks me what are we going to use it for, and I tell him. I hear him sigh, ‘This is for a government contract, isn’t it?’ he asks me. I tell him it is, and he says that means he has to give me a different price. He checks the price schedule for government work, and tells me the tape will cost $150 a roll. Before I can say anything else he tells me he knows what I’m thinking, but he explains that they have to fill out so many forms and jump through so many hoops every time they sell anything to the government that even at six times the price it’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

Then my Alabama friend says to me, “For every dollar we send to Washington we’re lucky if we get a nickel back. Don’t you agree?”

That’s when the light went on. We’re both just sick of living in a kleptocracy and being ripped off. All he wants is a fair return. We’re not so different.

“So if you knew that we were getting eighty-five or ninety cents back on every dollar would that change the way you feel about these programs?”

“Absolutely.”

Could it be that simple? I think if he and I continued this conversation over dinner, by the end of the meal we might be able to sketch out a set of principles and guidelines that we could both agree would move this country forward. We wouldn’t solve everything obviously, but from this one brief conversation I know we could make a damn good start.

I think most people in this country of every political stripe would like to buy government like they buy a car. There’s a reasonable price for a base model that includes defense and a negotiated bare minimum of social services.  Then there’s a list of clear costs for packages of additional services that come with credible accounting so that people feel confident that they are actually getting what they are paying for. I bet my conservative friend might actually want some of those upgrades under those conditions, and I might be clearer about which add-ons I could live without.

I don’t mean to suggest that the solutions are simple, only that they may be simpler than the noise from the echo chamber allows us to see, and that our common humanity may allow us to discover that we are closer to each other than we think.

So let’s put the political divide in the resolved column, shall we? I will be working on the energy crisis tomorrow, climate change on Thursday, probably take a breather on Friday so that I will be rested and ready to take full advantage of the security lines coming home to sort out the Israeli/Palestinian conflict once and for all. I know what you’re thinking so let me conclude simply by saying, “You’re welcome.”  I’m going back to bed now to try and grab another hour of sleep.

What Waits on the Third Floor?

At six in the morning the grandeur of the Kapinski Hotel in Shenzhen feels like a set from the Twilight Zone.  The lobby is monumental. The art and design are exquisite, whimsical and tasteful, but there are no people anywhere: no bellhops scurrying, no janitors cleaning, no concierge smiling, no reservation clerks reserving. It’s like it was hit by a neutron bomb. 

I’m in the lobby searching for assistance because the free Internet connection in my room doesn’t work, and without that I am completely adrift in a very foreign land. I tried calling the front desk from my room to ask for help, but the phone has only one service button, which is labeled (quite appropriately) “service center,” but when I press it (continually) I am met with a series of irritating beeps. Then the line goes dead. Isn’t that the perfect opening for a Twilight Zone episode? A jet lagged westerner in an opulent Chinese hotel presses the only service button on his phone only to find it connects him to nothing. Cue the eerie music.

ROD SERLING: “Meet Barry Flicker, a Premier Platinum traveler of the world. Twenty-four hours ago he boarded Untied Airlines flight 889 bound for Shenzhen, China. But unbeknownst to Mr. Flicker, when he changed planes in Beijing, his ticket was upgraded to a very special one way excursion…  to the Twilight Zone.”

SCENE 2: 

Placing the useless receiver back in its cradle, Barry throws on some clothes and storms out of his room determined to get these people to provide the service to which he is so fully entitled.

CUT TO THE ELEVATOR BAY: 

They have mirrored doors, but inside the elevator the walls are mirrored too, so early in the morning, without glasses, it’s impossible for Barry to tell whether the doors are opened or closed. He stands there impatiently waiting for an elevator, growing more irritated by the second before he finally discovers, through the use of his hands, that he has been standing in front of an open and waiting elevator for five minutes.  

CLOSE UP: 

Barry’s irritation turns to wonder as he stares transfixed by the elevator floor.

POV THE ELEVATOR FLOOR:

We see a striking black and gold marble mandala with the four directions marked by gleaming brass railings stretching out like compass markings traditionally meant to symbolize the all embracing vastness of the universe.  But this is an optical illusion created by the mirrored walls. The floor is only a quarter circle and only a single brass railing extends along the side and back wall of the elevator. Is this illusion meant to reveal something deeper and more ominous? Perhaps the universe is really just an elevator with very clean mirrors?

MEDIUM SHOT: 

Barry steps out of the elevator into the empty silence of the lobby. He is confronted by an unoccupied seating arrangement.  A couch with end tables and lamps in front of which is a classic oval coffee table, flanked by two side chairs. He thinks nothing of it at first. This cozy cluster would be typical of any grand hotel until, on second look, he notices the backs of the side chairs. They are eight feet tall. The chairs also have only one arm. What kind of beings would require chairs like these? Does this explain the missing humans?

LONG SHOT ENTERING THE GRAND HALL:

What last night at check-in appeared to be merely lovely recessed ceiling lights can be much more clearly seen in the light of this new morning for what they really are – the underbelly of the mother ship, and suspended beneath it is its sparkling embryo about to be lifted through the assimilation portal for final incubation. No doubt whatever is to emerge from this dazzling and grotesque life form will soon be sitting in one of those chairs sipping green tea.

CUT TO HOTEL ROOM: 

Unnerved from his outing Barry has returned to his hotel room, the only place he feels safe. He is seated on the edge of his unmade bed. The phone rings with a harsh, blaring trill. He picks up the receiver. He is told that shortly someone will come to his room to fix the Internet connection. He hangs up the phone and waits. There is a knock at the door. He opens it. A man and a woman in dark suits enter. They are smiling and polite. The man runs some tests on his laptop. They converse in Chinese. Their exchange is tinged with sadness. The woman explains that there is no wireless Internet connection in the rooms, but that there is a large business center on the third floor with “almost no people” where he can go to get service. They apologize profusely, and emphasize repeatedly that all he needs to do is go to the third floor. Why are they so eager to have him go to the “third floor?” They don’t know that he has seen the end chairs and the sparkling embryo in the “lobby.” He thanks them and then fastens the security bolt on his door as soon as they leave.

Now he sits staring out the window of this 10^th floor room at the towering tract of apartment buildings across the way. He sees endless vacant windows and empty balconies, but no people. Down below a scattering of cars and trucks drift slowly around the roadways. A few pairs of legs make their way through the light curtain of rain sheltered by colorful umbrellas. Are there actually people under those umbrellas? They certainly want him to think so down on the third floor.

Typhoon in Taipei: August 1, 2012

I just didn't feel moved to write about all the little quirks and annoyances that sprinkle my days on this particular trip. Then this morning, awaiting the landfall of a typhoon that may significantly alter my training dates in Hsinchu, I actually noticed the framed painting hanging over my bed, and had to share. It passes all understanding. As you can see, it's a little crooked.

Ghost Notes from Shanghai

Sunday, June 24, 2012

Our flight path to Shanghai took us over Japan. As we flew over, the flight map indicated we were crossing just north of Fukushima. In that moment, the whole world felt like a village, and everything everywhere felt like a local event. No matter how often I go through this compression of time and space it still feels like the Twilight Zone: leave SFO in the late afternoon, watch a few movie reruns, eat a couple of crappy meals, awake from a vaguely uncomfortable nap, and step off the plane in China. I know people do this all the time, but it still leaves me feeling ghostly.

What a difference between China and India. They both have extremely modern airports, but in China it feels established and well used, in India it felt like it had just been unwrapped and they hadn’t installed the batteries yet. Going through customs is extremely quick and efficient, no lines, but I keeping thinking the airport smells a little like crispy noodles. Walking into the main reception area there is the usual mob of waiting people behind the metal barrier. I scan the endless signs looking for my name. Towards the end of the line I see a guy in a pink oxford shirt and designer jeans holding a placard that says, "Barry Flicker." I smile and point to myself. He smiles back and indicates where I should go to meet him on the other side of the barrier. We meet, and he says something that sounds like "bags." He takes them, indicates for me to follow, and that is the last word we exchange for the rest of the trip. We get into a brand new Audi. There is no radio, no music. That's fine, but so different from India.

Leaving the airport I see that every few feet, they have spotlights illuminating the outer walls of their elevated freeways making them look like ribbons of light floating in the evening fog.

It's a very lovely effect, and very futuristic, but it ends not far outside the airport perimeter. From that point on I could be driving into any metropolitan area back home. The freeways are wide, well lit, and very new. The cars are big, and boast the same mix as on any US interstate. But then, every once and awhile, a building comes looming out of the fog in extravagant Chinese neon, so that the freeway landscape looks like rows of typical Queens apartment blocks punctuated every once in awhile by Grumman's Chinese Theatre.

The hotel is interesting. There's a shot of the lobby below. I pulled it off the net, but the Google Menus are all in Chinese so I had to guess which one got me to the graphics. You can see that it's quite slick and very post modern, but then they have all the bell hops wearing those little round pill box hats from the 40's. It's a very funny juxtaposition. As I'm checking in I notice that the black marble wall behind the counter seems to be illuminated by beautiful little colored lights from behind, which is crazy because it's solid rock. The stone is ribboned in stripes of matte and polished bands. They have high intensity pin spots shining on the wall so that the polished bands reflect the colored light as if they were shining through the matte stripes from behind, making the rock appear translucent. It's a very pretty design effect, a beautiful attention to detail.

But then I look down at the surface supporting the computer on which the clerk is checking me in, and I see that the bamboo veneer in many places is worn through to the particleboard underneath. When she grabs one of the little cardboard folders in which to insert my electronic room key I see that they are stored in a corroded block of dirty white Styrofoam, like something you'd pick up when cleaning garbage off the beach. It made me feel like I was checking into a Hollywood set, an elaborate facade with nothing behind it. I think that’s what I mean by ghostly; I feel a little like a Hollywood set myself.

One thing that seems to be universal whether in China, India or the US is that the first electronic room key they give you rarely works. What's different is that back home you have to schlep back downstairs and correct the problem yourself. In Asia they do it for you with effusive apologies. I may be a ghost, but I will not be ignored.

Monday, June 25^th

I wake up at about 9:15am to a gray day.  Getting undressed to take a shower I notice, while hanging my robe back in the closet, that on the upper shelf, highlighted by soft bottom lighting, are two bright red plastic boxes, about the size of kid’s lunch pails, with a picture of a spaceman wearing a silver Mylar helmet against a cartoon background of the city in flames. I can’t imagine what these are doing in a business hotel, but am fascinated to see what’s inside: toys, candy? I take one down, and attempt to open it, but am stopped by a green and silver foil safety seal. Reluctant to incur some unnecessary hotel charge I inspect the box more carefully before breaking the seal. It is covered with Chinese characters. I feel like Howard Carter unsealing Tut’s tomb. 

Then, on one side of the box, I find the English instructions entitled: XHZLC40 FIRE ESCAPE MASK.

At first this seems like the hotel has made an extra special effort on behalf my safety, as I have never seen anything like this in any hotel I have ever stayed at. Then another less comforting thought occurs to me, and I quickly glance at the ceiling. Instead of going to the unnecessary expense of installing smoke detectors and automatic sprinklers they have apparently come up with this clever cost saver: Halloween masks.

I get in the shower. I pull up the single handled control and turn it all the way to the left. After several minutes getting nothing but cold water I try turning it all the way to the right: cold, cold, cold, cool, and finally warm approaching hot. Even this small success makes me happy. I take a long shower, one of my great pleasures in life, but feel mildly disappointed that the water feels like it’s being heated by candles. I push down on the handle to shut of the water, and it goes crashing to the floor. Oops, somebody forgot to tighten the setscrew. Sometimes this all feels so absurd I wonder if there are hidden cameras, and I’m going to wind up on some Chinese versions of Candid Camera.

The Dragon Inn

Wednesday: June 27, 2012

After three days of eating breakfasts and dinners at the adequate hotel restaurant I decide that tonight I will venture forth and attempt to eat some real Chinese food. It’s rained most of the day, and now the evening air is balmy and moist. Next door to my hotel there is something like a mall. The complex seems to be built around three basic businesses: banks, massage parlors, and restaurants. I stroll past the big glass windows watching the diners at their tables. I am looking for appealing dishes, and more importantly, a menu with pictures, as nothing but the restaurant names seem to come with an English translation. The Dragon Inn looks like it will do as I can see the menu comes with big color photos just like at Denny’s. Probably not a ringing endorsement for the food, but it gets me past my terror. I walk in, am escorted to a table, and am handed the picture book menu.

“Would you like something to drink?” the young waitress asks in perfect English. This looks like it will be easier than I thought.

I begin perusing the menu, and discover that it too has English subtitles, and a good thing too. I would never have guessed by just looking at the pictures what the hell I was ordering. Here’s a sample of my possible choices: Chicken Gizzards in Chili Sauce, Seasoned Fungus (thank God it’s seasoned!), Cold Lotus Roots with Vinegar & Sugar, Steamed Fish Head with Diced Hot Red Pepper, Super-fine Noodles in a Slightly Gelatinous Soup with Pork Intestines (unfortunately I don’t eat red meat,) Steamed Pork Blood in Cubes, and finally, Assorted Chicken Innards Soup. I am not making this up!

I decide to go with a plate of snow peas and mushrooms with a bowl of white rice. The food turns out to be great. The snow peas are wonderfully crisp, the mushrooms firm, and all of it delicately flavored in a very light Chinese sauce. Having ordered successfully, I now feel added pride in my deft handling of the chopsticks.

My growing confidence suffers a severe setback however when I look at the check. I have no idea what it says. I put down 100rmb assuming that it will be more than enough to cover the tab, and figure I will learn what the meal cost when she brings me my change. The waitress comes by, picks up the check and my money, smiles and disappears. She is gone for a long time. Maybe she thinks that was her tip? I’m too embarrassed to ask. Finally, I decide the hell with it, and am getting ready to leave when she returns with the change. The meal cost 22rmb. I leave her 5rmb tip. My big Shanghai night on the town has cost me about $4.50. Proud and happy I head back to the hotel. That was enough excitement for one night.

Sympathy for the Dragon

Sorry if I’m going overboard with these posts, but I’ve been here for five days now, have no one to talk to, and really nothing to do, it’s like being under house arrest, so I do this. I just keep reminding myself that it’s email, and if you’ve had more than enough you can just delete. Oh, God, please don’t delete me.

Anyway, in the shower this morning I got to thinking about last night’s menu. I felt so vulnerable and anxious about the outing that I really didn’t have much capacity for self-reflection, and when I started reading those gross food descriptions my self-protecting judgments just kicked in: “My God, I can’t believe people even eat this stuff much less put it on a restaurant menu!” But suppose instead of “Seasoned Fungus” it said: “Mushrooms in Butter” or “Truffles in a compliment of wild-crafted herbs?” Or if the “Slightly Gelatinous Soup with Pork Intestines” had been called a “lightly thickened consume’ with seasoned Italian sausage?” How lucky I would have felt to have stumbled upon such tasteful and elegant cuisine right here in Shanghai.

Judge not lest ye be judged. I’m working on it.

Chinese Bagels:  Saturday 6/30/12

Perhaps this photo will help you understand how vast the gulf is that we are trying to bridge across the cultural divide. What you are looking at is a stack of dinner rolls covered in sesame seeds. They have been shoved onto a wooden stake, which pokes a whole in their center. To the Chinese this now makes them bagels. Oy vey!