Yeah bwoyyyyy - Chengdu. Now this was a city with a ubiquitous cancer riddled atmosphere I was more than willing to tolerate - for appreciation of its deeply resonating ethos centered on carnal satisfaction easily trumped desire for longevity! Speaking of longevity, I bought an incredible piece of Chinese artwork which boasted 100 different fine, scrupulously calligraphed black ink hanzi logograms embodying the concept of "longevity" arranged into perfectly-spaced row and column. And I mean every ounce of weight behind "scrupulous;" the artist told me she slowly crafted it over the better part of two weeks. Inspection of the finessed strokes would lend credibility to her claim. I nearly felt guilty pulling out my holographic Jew card in order to engage haggling proceedings... nearly. 100 hanzi... and to think the Eskimo thought they were the shit for creating a couple of extra words for snow. Truth be told, that does happen to be a perpetuated fallacy I am aware of and, thus, have no right employing in shameful comparison. Maybe they should get to work in that department though, so I don't have to feel so remorseful about this means to a literary end. The dedication to distinction in lexicon the Chinese have historically fostered, however, really inspires jealousy in me. Imagine all the subtle nuance just begging to come together and lyrically synergize unequivocal meaning on a shitty blog somewhere! It's pretty incredible that the Chinese have fashioned, at least, 100 different neat ways to denote this concept over the years and that someone out there may have their collective stroke orders committed to memory. I think the artist revealed to me that her work was the product of considerable research and. thus, would not be that person. Nonetheless, this piece of artwork was one of my favorites obtained in China. I would later gift it to a girlfriend during a period of myopic, smitten, infatuation. That relationship lasted a few months. Talk about ironic - or am I using that incorrectly? But back to our exciting new milieu. Everything about this city speaks to me, FROM, the, “on some next level shit,” they’ve got going on with finding increasingly more creative and productive ways to deprive their trademark Sichuan cuisine of any vitamin or mineral that might have had a, fleeting round or two of, all but depleted, out of shape and near retirement, puncher’s chance of survival, had it not then been boiled in, days of accumulated hot pot grease, oil, and miscellaneous myriad residual food sediment, only to then be rolled in a porcelain dish of MSG crystals, that, even from a point of distant vision, mild drug addicts would still salivate over - despite being fully aware that it can’t be snorted to any worthwhile high, is not a drug, and is just a flavor-enhancing food additive that has been maligned and integrated into the media’s insidious utility belt for purposes of hurtling, “batarangs of concern,” with reckless fear-mongering flourish, into the public’s sheepish, “new worry” loving hearts, while harboring no actual desire for improved safety, but rather, a need to sell a headline or two, with literally zero interest in factual inquiry, which, had there been, confirmation of no legitimate scientific underpinnings for unease, other than a rare, every now and again, headache in a lab rat or two, would be substantiated and documented – something they would actively have to engage in obscuring had the public at large EVER historically demonstrated ANY interest in vetting truth, and, thus, forced their active sponsorship in fanning the flames of panic to actually become a marginal exercise of crafty strain, TO, the gangs of bicycle enthusiasts who are just champing at the bit to either, become involved in fatal traffic accident where the mutual dearth of “giving a shit” mindsets and joint death wish shared between the respective parties involved claims ultimate victory, or, otherwise terrorize and run you over in some sort of dystopian, “Mad Max, never even saw us emerging from the dense, opaque, strata of pollution-esque” fashion. Love this city! Perhaps my favorite hypothetically sprawling urban landscape in China – a, low on concrete support skeletal assumption that can only be amassed from the rarest of days when the environment briefly pulls on the elastic string of its, “awaiting death in hospice care, alone, unvisited, with relatively next to no hope left,” mask, only to allow the most minimal space needed to extend its tongue in mocking fashion before letting go and snapping it back so everyone can return to their familiar world of Stage IV lung cancer.
Despite such a clarion lens of harmonious environmental perception, I am having difficulty identifying the colossal effigy in the distance. I’ll say this much, he appears to be letting the world know further commentary is unneeded and that he has, already, gleamed the gist of your humdrum narrative and would like to interject with his own particular, sans contemplation, however still, far more meritorious two cents. If I were a betting man, who I am not, ever since losing the farm on the loaded dice of that Hangzhou hunch, I would put money on it being a sculptured tribute to former venerable American athletic director - John Heisman. Here the man's stiff-arm, one can only assume, has been rendered to metaphorically embody the Chinese government’s paucity of interest in what the public has to say. While I’ll admit this conjecture is grounded on quagmire of indication, I would still wager 50 trillion on its confirmation; I do have a mystical bonsai garden to erect after all, not to mention an increasingly more concerning gambling addiction. Just don't get involved in any action with Suge Knight and you're good Josh...
Okay, here I am with significantly closer perception yet, nonetheless, hazy detail continues to preclude categorical assessment of previous speculation, though, I am now, somewhat, less certain about the whole Heisman thing, but remain resolute and a big enough man to keep that 50 trillion confidently splashed upon the table.
Phew, good thing there were no takers! Looks like it’s an enormous statue of former Chairman Mao Zedong. I wasn’t really willing to relinquish my belief in the whole John Heisman supposition, however, as an uneducated and culturally destitute friend pointed out to me, the horseshoe hairline, coupled with the fact that we are in the People’s Republic of China, really lends certain credibility to a Mao theory. Notice my selective diction there – “theory.” It’s a little too early to make any definitive proclamation here, especially as the stone may as well be fully indiscernibly amalgamated into the grey, apocalyptic atmosphere. In fact, it took several inspections to simply distinguish the outlines of this hypothetical Mao Zedong/generic footballer construction. If it weren’t for the muted red of the hanji advertisements, I would have been convinced this photo was unintentionally taken while directed at the sky. Well, the Mao Zedong thing will have to skate on the same unstable thin ice as the ilk of other open to widespread doubt theory does – that of evolution and global warming first springing to mind.
This photo really has no business passing the highly vetted selection process of this blog; however, I just thought the aegis of red velvet rope was mildly comical; like, “Hey, I know you’re all dying to throw caution to the wind by risking a mild dampening of your garments and touching the sweet brick which tantalizes and taunts you behind the deathstar-like security of cascading water, however, you should probably think twice because this is fortified with red velveteen sinew.” Shitty commentary aside, this was actually the elegant hallmark which distinguished the exterior of our hotel in Chengdu. While I reached dangerous, irresponsible levels of intoxication nearly every night in China, I do remember waking up in a room here with a hangover that burdened me with serious introspection. This brooding albatross nearly had me enlist within the feeble-minded ranks of the born again Christian, however, I wisely opted to, once again, get smashed off cheap beer and liquor that night instead.
Would anyone like to speculate on our current whereabouts based solely on this photographic clue? If you guessed Des Moines, Iowa – give yourself an attenuated, geriatric golf clap before you ultimately pass away to no one’s greater bereavement, because you would be ever-so-slightly off. It’s the, “Chengdu Research Base of Giant Panda Breeding!” I Just googled this location in order to give precise, scholarly appellation. The official website’s link title contains a spelling error - “researh.” Really China? I won’t protest to know how to spell, or draw, or whatever, even the most primary of Chinese words, yet still, if I were running a prominent worldwide organization, I would probably get my transliterations write. That incorrect homophone marking the terminus of the former, disparaging sentence was intentional, however, I will admit, was a direct result of drunk typing and a mistake I would have otherwise corrected had I not seen springboard for further declaration. That declaration being: I caught that shit moments after my finger had depressed the “period/write angle bracket” key - pretty quick on the draw for a drunk! I mean “right” angle bracket key – fuck! Anyway, my criticism and disappointment still stands. How long have you guys been letting that spelling error in link title fester after all?!
Hey ladieeeees! Are you ready to collectively piss your pants from cute infant death syndrome? Wait, that was insensitively crass, made no sense, and was clearly a product of an inherent lackadaisical prosaic effort. Yet, here we are: unable to become miffed over my vulgar rhetoric whilst mentally preoccupied by the vexing vision of having no choice but to accept remote parking at the mall, pass the stoner working the counter of the costume jewelry kiosk, before finally arriving at Victoria’s Secret to acquire some fresh panties. Looks like I win out again. Sometimes I can't help but think life’s dice are loaded in my favor. Anyhow, I promise to make up for my lack of refinement with some more heart-warming shots of idiotic panda, however, before I do so, I would just like to make an editorial note: I chose to focus on the timber in the foreground here and not the pandas in order to whet your appetite and reduce urinary discharge – not because I’m a shitty photographer.
Just kidding – totally a shitty photographer! Nonetheless, I think you can, unscientifically, anthropomorphize an emotional display of happiness here. And, If that doesn’t warm your heart with childlike blaze, well, then, you might not be an idiot.
Hey, look! There goes one not in the midst of sleeping or playing. Those of you who have been afforded the mild pleasure of observing an assembly of panda before could attest to the truly extraordinary nature of this phenomenon. I would get National Geographic on the line if the photo weren’t dull as dishwater. It’s a good thing this guy wasn’t shaved and without trademark patchwork coloring. That might be the kind of image nightmares are stitched together with.
Does this asshole really think he can scale that beam?
Holy fucking shit! He’s nearly done it! No doubt he’ll tumble to his comical misfortune before taking another three hour nap, waking up, and eating twenty pounds of bamboo virtually devoid of an iota of nutritional value, which, in some sort of odd evolutionary kink, the species peculiarly can’t get enough; an idiosyncratic love that might insinuate nature’s desire for their extinction and otherwise contributes to the myriad additional obnoxious quirks humans are required to hurdle in order to assist in their silly survival. Seriously, most male pandas demonstrate complete lack of interest in mating and may not even know how. Once in a decade or so, they may attempt to, more or less, rape a female before being rejected, unnerved, and scurrying away. They are the retarded 40 year old virgins of the animal kingdom. Don't count their lack of game out just yet though, as you can foster continued opportunity for one to, with any providence, successfully rape another some day by way of charitable contribution towards their preservation. That's right folks, don't pass up the opportunity to cradle a baby version of one of these lovable scamps for the mere low, low introductory price of $100! Shit, act now and they'll even throw in a photo with the deal so that you can be eternally reminded of your benign donation and the olympic-sized pool of countless Chinese tchotchkes you could have otherwise been swimming in like Scrooge McDuck had you shrewdly allocated your funds towards proper cause. Then again, I suppose I shouldn't be casting stones from a house I'm gleefully paying $6 per bottle of Corona in - a beer I, actually, somewhat dislike. So go on then, who am I to suggest expenditure towards the recall of touching nitwitted fur is any less pragmatic than the purchase of, say, a custom-made large double dragon stone stamp with one's, presumably correctly, transliterated name engraved at bottom in badass hanji. After all, there's a relatively good chance one who acquires such a, one-of-a-kind exclusive artifact of trademark Chinese mold, will never take it out of its decorative box and simply place it in storage somewhere to one day be discovered like, "Oh yeah..." Granted, likelihood of events playing out in this fashion is slim, but I can't tell you how to play your cards, I can only present the odds.
Shit, I really think this asshole is gonna do it! This panda is like the “Rudy” of the, maintained in captivity to exceedingly comfortable and mollycoddled standards, artificial habitat world. Fuck it. I’m on board now. Panda! Panda! Panda!
Yep, he fucking did it. I’d be lying if I didn’t harbor some doubts, or even desire for calamitous misfortune, along the way, but you really gotta hand it to the guy. He exhibited the kind of tenacity, talent, and heart none of the professional sports teams I support can ever seem to harbor. Good going little buddy! Or is that, “giant” buddy? Get it? Because he’s a giant panda.
Well, made it to the top! That was some, “Rocky scaling the Philadelphia Museum of Art” type shit - surely more physical exertion than anyone could ever rightfully expect from just one panda. Best I decompress and catch some Zzzzs before waking up and eating twenty pounds of bamboo virtually devoid of an iota of nutritional value, which… Oh wait…
This one pretty much says it all: I’m either gonna lie prostrate on the ground, or comfortably on my bottom while engaging in a languid imaginary tea party until my end of days. The jealousy within me could cut like hot knives through the frozen butter of life.
Seriously, who the fuck does this gaunt bamboo think it’s fucking with? Does he not know I go through 40 pounds of him per day? Shit, this stalk will be snapped more quickly than a winning streak belonging to any given one of Josh’s professional sports teams of choice.
HALP! Like a modern day Goliath to David, I’ve underestimated the latent vitality of this stalk! I've chosen to use biblical simile in hopes that an easily-vexed member of the religiously affiliated will errantly come across this blog via a search string of that subject matter.
They had to call the firemen for this asshole. After his successful rescue from the several meter high tree and subsequent “comfort” consumption of 20 pounds of bamboo, he slept soundly for the night relieved the torment was behind him. Several days later, however, he began to experience sharply rendered night terrors revolving around the frightening ordeal, which, even when manifested through abstract symbolic form, were beyond palpable. It didn’t take Doctor House to diagnose this development, although he was contacted on a consultant basis for rest-assured corroboration; everyone would agree, this was a clear-cut case of acute post-traumatic stress disorder. It wasn’t long before this illness domineered every moment of his being. No longer could he lazily lie within the reads or occasionally perform playful, comical tumblesault. It was only a matter of days before he proved too unhinged to provide shallow entertainment to the listless and, now irritated, patrons. The Chinese had no choice but to slowly torture it through increasingly more creative and grisly means before releasing it to the wild - shell-shocked, unable to fend for himself, and ultimately dispirited. He chose a remote location deep within the Southern Sichuan Bamboo Forest to actively deprive himself of the endless, albeit weak, nourishment surrounding him. He, in turn, died an agonizing, prolonged death owing to starvation; a choice he made in a display of unfathomable existential courage to continually face flashback, each one more gripping and manic than the last, in hopes that he may at one day come to terms with it all. He never was able to accomplish that aspiration. Even in death, some say, wherever his soul has made its way to, he continues to drudge up memory of that petrifying day. A recursive nightmare I would, under normal circumstances, lament, but, honestly - fuck that asshole.
I’m sorry, but I have to call regulatory bullshit on this one. I brought a porcelain bowl and a bag of MSG for nothing! I did forget my chopsticks, however, so I guess I would have been shit out of luck anyway. I suppose you can find a silver lining in just about anything if you try hard enough.
Yeah, as much fun as it’s been constructing yarn around empty photos of idiotic panda, I’m gonna go ahead and call it quits after these. Y’all need to award me a Pulitzer or something by this point anyway. It’s 2 AM on a Monday morning and I have to be at work in six hours. Seriously, what the fuck am I doing with my life? If the protracted, accrued time I just spent exhaustively composing fictional drivel, no one other than myself will ever read, is not categorical evidence for mental disorder, then the DSM-IV is in need of some slight revision. This sole supplemental entry should be justification enough for the publication of a new, slightly less glossy, printed on thinner paper stock, more expensive - especially in consideration of inequality between relative inflation and gross income stagnation – edition.
Well, well, well, if it isn’t the much beloved, far superior to giant panda, nostalgically evocative of the “tanuki suit” in Super Mario 2, red panda. By now, everyone should be able to reason, if not cite direct textual evidence for, the disconcerting verisimilitude of my Grinch-like heart - the one before Whoville fucked it all up with their compassion and grace, you know, the black one. Anyway, I’ll just go on the record right here and state, I fucking love red pandas. I don’t, however, love this photo. I, in fact, have many more far superior doozies just frothily awaiting their chance to sink the sum total of their ones and zeros into the Internet’s privileged, undeserving carotid artery. I only chose to post this one first as I wanted to address the caretaker’s boots here. Is it just me, or are these rubberized galoshes the same exact pair you’ve ever seen any Asian person doing anything outdoors in? I mean, I know they’re just generic, white means to an end, but still…
Seriously, if you’re not head-over-heels in love with every fiber of the red panda’s being, then I’m not sure I want to be your friend. Although, those of you who have stuck around this blog waaaaay too long for their own good, would know that my friendship is not exactly an olive branch you want to cheerfully take ahold of. I’m not sure if that metaphor works in a non “peace” or “victory” kind of way, but I like it, and I’m gonna roll with it. Moving on… One of my travel companions remarked that the red panda was the, “true showstopper” in this reserve – a sentiment I can, only, wholeheartedly concur with. I mean, just look at that fucking face; so goddamn mischievous! I love it! Anyway, now I can never come across the word “showstopper” in any form of discourse without thinking about, both the red panda, and this woman who animated this all-too-perfect designation to life - seriously, these guys stop shows. Anyhow, it’s funny how these things work. With the power of one statement, this woman, who may have well since become a permanent resident of the polar ice caps for all the chance I have of ever seeing or hearing from again, has forged an eternal bond between her, a word, an animal, and situational memory. Not one of those things can step before me without the other. Goddamn I love the starved piece of shit, often at ends with each other, yet altogether workhorse remaining, denizens whom continue to compliantly and persistently rotate the oxidized, ill-joining, corroded to critical capacity cogs through the grey matter of my brain - fed up as they may be that it is now 3 AM, I have to be at work in five hours, and my cupboards haven't been stocked with a morsel of food for days. I’d kiss you if you weren’t actually hiding behind my lips. I suppose if I tried hard enough though… No, that’s like licking your elbow… Actually, come to think of it, I think I’ve seen someone pull that off. But still, I don’t think this feat has any chance of joining the freak show circus. Anyway, back to the woman who made the proclamation; there’s much that could be said about her. She was, yet another, awesome art teacher. I only realized just how cool she was towards the tail end of the trip. There are volumes I could garnish this entry with pertaining to even the limited engagements afforded to me from this late discovery. Nonetheless, I will opt not to, as I have given her more than her fair due already, simply by virtue of the manifold searing into memory I have formerly delineated. I will say this much, however; she had this really cool Frida Kahlo shirt which bared her portrait. I was pretty jealous of that article then and still am now.
Yes, yes, go in boys! We have an Internet to plunge our showstopping teeth into. I know that previously this was employed as a metaphor for the pictures of us as a whole, but let's transform it into one about personal attack now and fatten up the sinews of our jaw muscles to hideously, grotesque professional bodybuilding levels. We shall flex them in increasingly stranger configurations of opulent display before taking our places upon Olympic pedestal. Then, we'll make for the carotid artery like an amped up Dracula after returning from a quick pitstop to the barrio on the wrong side of the tracks during his holiday vacation in Medellin, Colombia.
These series of unassuming photos document the nefarious beginnings to an act of disturbing, passionate savagery following shortly thereof. Those of you with tender hearts, or perhaps with any heart at all, may not want to continue this journey – you’ve been warned! Setting the wheels of tragedy in motion, Bao-Zhi momentarily takes pause of his feasting, only to espy another red panda, presumably, flirting with his girl. It could, in all honestly, be innocuous water-cooler small talk over the grim state of increasingly darker shades of grey the sky has been making a bad habit of fading into lately, but Bao-Zhi just doesn’t have a good feeling about it. He actually kind of knows the would-be playboy, his name is Fu-han, and from what little he’s experienced from him, would say he’s a pretty stand up guy. Nonetheless, covetous fury courses through his shitty essence. Later that day, following an organized red panda riot Bao-Zhi had gone through laborious lengths to formulate, coordinate, and set in motion while maintaining airtight alibi, Fu-han would find himself on the wrong side of a shiv fashioned from the diminutive stalk of furtively smuggled-in bamboo. Pooling out blood to the horror of listless patrons and arriving to his ultimate death, Fu-han would first, somehow, muster the intestinal strength to form his final words, “I hate your shitty essence, Bao-Zhi!” When the pandemonium within the conservation had finally all but died down, the spongy thud of hysterical sprint in ubiquitous white galoshes - belonging to a previously unseen keeper - echoed through the epochs before, at last, arriving to Fu-han’s motionless frame. With unmitigated sorrow, he dolefully confirmed that which his mind was miraculously able to find creative new ways to mislead him into newfound distortion each woebegone stride of the way and betray what his eyes and heart could patently discern – Fu-had seen his last carotid artery, not even Ahura Mazda, the great Zoroastrian creator, could save him now. In all likelihood, in fact, he was probably elevating at this very moment to unite with the fravashi to form a “united fravashi,” a guardian angel that would then watch over the conservation. Consenting to bitter fate, the keeper dismally began to slowly bring Fu-han’s eyelids to a close, considering all of the equally enticing methods in which to prepare him for dinner and what would pair most synergistically with each, when the uncanny sound of air being penetrated and whipped through at supreme velocity rang out twice in instantaneous succession – the trademark signature of an expertly executed suppressed “double tap.” Hailing from unknown distance and direction easily obscured by the grey cloak of day, the two tungsten-tipped .50 caliber bullets met Fu-han’s long dead sternum with a marksmanship that can only said to be, “Mark Wahlberg’s character-like from the 2007 slept on classic, Shooter.” While no one has ever been able to successfully confirm Bao-Zhi’s collusion in this redundant assassination, it remains a hotly debated bone of contention for conspiracy theorists to this day. One thing is for certain, however, dinner was ruined and the keeper was fucking pissed. If there were any break in the clouds from this whole ordeal, it was that the listless patrons had all vacantly moved on to keep tabs on the pandas’ napping and occasional undertakings of the silly, thus not making them bystanders in the senseless overkill. I suppose you can find a silver lining in just about anything if you try hard enough. **
In interesting causal appendix, labor unions across China have since employed Fu-han’s parting aphorism, and gift to the world, whenever united in strike against poor working conditions, physical browbeating, or whatever the oppression of the month may be. “I hate your shitty essence, Bao-Zhi! I hate your shitty essence, Bao-Zhi!,” they’ll repeatedly roar in increasing decibel, riling the congregations of fed up laborers to heretofore unforeseen levels of percolating fervor. While this chilling mantra has, ostensibly, served as a venerable conduit for Fu-han’s remembrance, a recent survey has revealed that 96% of the Chinese populace does not even know who he was or any one particular horrid detail giving rise to the rallying cry. Moreover, not one labor strike that has employed his words has proved efficacious, as, in the end, poor working conditions, physical browbeating, or whatever the oppressions of the month may have been, actually increased. Nonetheless, I’m gonna miss that guy. Fu-han – this bargain-counter baijiu is for you!
** Some of the more eagle-eyed of you reader, who, surely never miss a trick, may have picked up on these two asterisks earlier. If you suspected they were merely brocade for the former elaborately woven fabric, then you would be incorrect - although, I could not fault your guesswork. They do, however, bear meaning after all. You see, those asterisks denote the successful implementation of just about every clichéd stereotype and joke, heretofore exploited, into just one entry. Many have vehemently asserted that it couldn’t be done and I would be lying if I said I weren’t glowing with pride at the present moment, however, until I can have the narrative officially evaluated by a group of assholes, I will reserve declaration of my pièce de résistance.
Here’s a corroded waterwheel, or something, that sat just outside of a restaurant we ate at. I believe they used this mutilated contraption to retrieve water from the pond to later employ in various culinary delicacies. This is only a theory, however, the set of food we received, which matched every other previously dined-in restaurant’s offerings (down to the last bean sprout), tasted slightly better here, so this speculation has some pretty sturdy legs on which to stand. I made sure to get up mid-meal to rudely document this wonder of technology.
Here we are now at the Chengdu Jinsha Relics Museum. I’d like to fabricate some vitriol towards this place, however, it was pretty fucking cool. We actually had an English speaking tour guide show us around. I couldn’t help but admire her command of the language. It’s always pretty impressive to hear someone Chinese with a near native-like mastery of English when it’s otherwise obvious she has never lived in an English-speaking region of the world. Moreover, it’s rather humbling in its capacity to have me reflect on just what a lazy sack of non-polyglot shit I am. Not only was this tour guide, evidently, erudite, but also rather cute – every tiny little part of her. I remember fashioning more than one fantasy around her and, to this day, she has secured herself dominant position and regular rotation within the constantly expanding universe of my spank bank. I found it rather comical, however, that she employed the use of a microphone and transmitter so that we may all individually follow her stimulating narration via personal earpiece - as the museum was relatively empty and our group none-too-large. Perhaps, however, it served dual purpose to keep notorious meandering museum drifters continually informed even when out of earshot. I'm not sure who among us would fall under that flippant category, however, I am certain there must have been, at least, one person in the group committing such discourteous flight. As it turned out, ironically (am I using that word correctly?), her voice registered in such low frequency, that even with amplifying technology, one found himself foolishly bending ear towards her direction as if that would improve matters. Anyway, as you can see, the relics contained within these walls were fucking superb while holding equally compelling story of discovery I can, at generous appraisal, only partially recall. You should Wikipedia it though. Now would be a good time actually, as my words to come, admittedly, will not hold anywhere near the level of engrossing, enriching interest. Now, while I cannot tell you just exactly when or where this artifact, and others to follow, were unearthed, what I can state is that this shit is extremely fucking old and, as I think both the least and most scholarly of us could surmise, was crafted from alien hand. I am half-serious about the conclusion to that former statement - very half-serious.
As I eloquently informed you of before,
this shit is extremely fucking old. I’m talking, like, crude tools not even forged
yet old. So, Mr., “I know so much more than Josh,” Smarty Pants, tell me, just
how was this massive stone slab cut with such utter precision and smoothed to
levels Eddie Murphy’s character in “Boomerang” would gain new strata of mac
daddy insight in studying? Don’t have an answer, do you? Didn’t think so. I’m
not sure I should lay out the following implication to you, as I desire not
your eternal jealousy… oh wait, actually I do – I had a whole swollen post
about that very precise lust earlier. Well, anyway, I’ll just go ahead and say
it: I have smoothly run my hand across the product of alien toiling. Let that shit sink
in, Mr., “I know so much more than Josh,” Smarty Pants asshole! Speaking of
Mr. Smarty Pants, I would be remiss in not bringing up one of my favorite lines uttered by this, so-named, character, from the more than awesome cartoon show of my
youth, “The Tick.” It might add a little velocity to the quote’s punch if you
first know that Mr. Smarty Pants was a trained performing dolphin gone malevolent.
His transformation was actually somewhat tragic and a satirical insight into
the ethnical nature of confining wild animals to captivity – amongst other things. Now, I'll get to my favorite line, however, it needs a little set up first. I can’t recall
with complete certainty, however, I think Mr. Smarty Pants had captured his
maltreating, heartless former trainer and was now, ironically (?), making him perform
his own, equivalently exploitative and debasing, crafted for humans, set of stunts. The trainer was, thus, at some point asked to
create a haiku under conditions of high-pressure and danger. Upon listening to it’s poorly assembled excuse for poetry, he
states, “You call that a haiku? You’re just counting syllables!” Dear god, the
hilarity of that statement! Anyway, I now use that quote in metaphor to
judgmentally evaluate the masses at large, that is to say, I see most people as
taking the path of least resistance - absently counting syllables to construct
meaning in their life, rather than aspiring for and fighting through onerous, highly-mulled
over, creation of true, sublimely evocative, enlightening poetry that may take
shape when more than syllables are solely considered. A bamboo forest is comprised of
more than, simply, the stalks held within it.
And here’s some more intriguing, mysterious, alien shit - so awesome it bares need for cylindrical glass encapsulation. It's anybody’s guess to what these artifacts were used for. I’ll take a weak, blindfolded, wiffle ball bat swing at that ancient piñata though. My theory is that shit inside the cylindrical glass was used to power the aliens’ spaceships. You know, kind of like something from that insipid, disjointed, “did somebody actually think this script made sense?,” ham-fisted, reel of utterly disappointing celluloid, “Prometheus,” that I am, accordingly, unwilling to put forth any real effort to derive factual fodder from and fashion appropriate analogy with. Perhaps one of you circle-jerking Ridley Scott sycophants can fill in the blanks here.
So getting back to my very half-serious considerations, I’ve gotta say, I’m becoming more and more tempted to upgrade this longhair judgment to a solid 4/7ths, possibly even 7/10ths probability of occurrence. Yeah, I’m pretty resolute now; these guys created the universe or, at the very least, passed through from another galaxy with god-like intentions of spreading the seeds of civilization here. Oh dear Ahura Mazda, the great Zoroastrian creator, did I just make another “Prometheus” parallel? I’m not sure because no one could rightfully claim to know just what the fuck was going on in that mess. Anyway, I think these are pretty viable theories. It’s either that or a coyote vomited up the cosmos. Believe it or not, there’s actually an underpinning for that abstraction. It stems from a reading my 4th grade class has recently engaged in, Longfellow’s epic recounting of Native American lore, “Hiawatha." I misunderstood what a student had asked about one of the characters and, in double take, asked her, “Did you just ask if the coyote vomited up the universe?” To which she replied, “No.”
It’s a good thing they put these things behind all-too-awesome cylindrical glass as, otherwise, I would have been fiercely tempted to take a highly unique souvenir home with me - perhaps more unique than, say, a custom-made large double dragon stone stamp with one’s presumably correctly transliterated name at bottom in badass hanji. Although, as nice as it would have been to get my filthy mitts on that mask, the logistics behind the caper needed for this theft would require some “Mission Impossible” style analysis and preparation, which, actually, provided I could have employed the services of Bao-Zhi, may have been feasible. Damn! These past few lines have been brought to you by: reference to former shit. Anyway, I’ve just spent far too long zooming into the reflection in order to employ this enhanced scrutiny in the potential identification of any of the people from my travel group (it’s Friday night by the way). It’s too early to suavely slip on the Caruso sunglasses, but I think I may have made out one or two. As for my own identification, that required no need for an exasperating, “Where’s Waldo” style hunt. My trademark, “one foot slightly ahead of the other with minor recumbent back leg” pose gave it away. Speaking of Waldo, though, the other day I found myself lost in a half-conscious world of artistic creation while constructing a project that my class, I guess, had finished a couple of minutes prior. This gave key for students to unfetter themselves and pursue their own set of autonomous, “do as you please while unsupervised,” initiatives. One student decided to use her time productively and draw a miniature depiction of my face on the white board – a convenient vehicle for narrative complement rendered under conditions which probably would not have germinated if I had not been rightfully distracted in a world of origami rabbit creation. When I saw her portrayal, I couldn't help but see an uncanny resemblance to Waldo. I asked her if she knew of the character, which she did not. Kids these days... but don't let me get started with that. I mean, granted, there’s no reason for them to know of Waldo as universally as my generation, he patently isn’t the same cultural icon to children 25 years later, not to mention, she’s only just recently moved to this country from the Dominican Republic where I couldn’t even say with any measure of certainty that Waldo ever garnered acclaim, but… Shit, I told you not to let me get started! Anyway, after revisiting a little childhood nostalgia with my students through projection of some Waldo searches onto a large screen (which totally makes shit easier by the way), I found myself incredulous over the fact that I've never contemplated being Waldo for Halloween before. Perhaps it's the clichéd nature of the costume that accounts for this neglect of consideration, but I think it genuinely took her laudably spot on portrayal of my ubiquitous white boy with glasses look to really have this one sink in. Anyway, so I resolved to be Waldo for Halloween this year, that is, until a better idea crossed my mind. "Why not
always be Waldo?" Seriously, I could forever adorn the costume, hang out in a bunch of shitty NYC tourist traps like Times Square, and get lost in the sea of people who are exceedingly proficient in precluding others’ advance. Think about all of the photobombs I'd be pulling off without even the slightest need to arrange opportunity for them. I'll bring so much joy into the lives of random people getting in the way of others, when, upon later scrutiny of their shitty photos, they discover me, in repose somewhere, doing any given awesome variation of the "Marlboro Man." Of more substance to me than enriching the lives of others, however, is the prospect of possibly being able to establish some sort of stupid reputation which, in turn, may even generate some money - much the same way that idiot the "Naked Cowboy" makes a living. I'm pretty sure his painful brand of street performance has amassed at least a couple of sawbucks over the years. Anyway, I haven't fully deduced the algorithm quite yet, however, perhaps this is where you guys come in, as I have the basic framework of the action plan sorted out and solely require the filling in of one elusive gap.
1. Acquire Waldo sweater, tuque, and cane
2. Aimlessly meander around shitty tourist traps
3. ??????
4. Profit
Actually, who am I kidding about this all? While this venture is certainly bound by sound structure, I'll have invariably lost the rationale and enthusiasm to take it to the streets by the time someone figures out what step three is. This will virtually ensure a harrowing moment of clarity when, after sitting around on my couch playing "Words with Friends" with a bunch of assholes I highly suspect of cheating, I finally muster enough initiative to enter the bathroom and shave, only to look in the mirror and realize I've been dressed up as Waldo, alone in my apartment for weeks.
At this point, I’m fairly certain we’ve all come to expect the sort of elaborate, circuitous measures I’m willing to go through in order to give rise to the coarse, off-color shitty humor this photo inspires. This ease of assembly, however, kind of takes all the wind out of those monogrammed sails. Thus, I think it best I push this boat towards other direction. The artifact seen here depicts one of our creators rowing a space boat. Unfortunately, like a little bitch, the space oar has surrendered to the annals of time. In a subsequent outcome of disastrous deterministic fate, this omission of artifact has played pivotal contribution in the robbing of just enough inspiration needed in order for Ridley Scott to make a watchable “prequel” to “Alien.” Leading the pack amongst other preeminent tragedies in the post-millennial era, somewhere between the Fukushima meltdown and Hurricane Katrina, is the fact that I did not make a double handjob joke here. Lost upon the sea, along with the glimmers of reflected sunlight surrounding it, exists the most heavyhearted of sailboat advancing towards unknown vanishing point and depriving the world sight of its brilliant nylon as it gently fades away.
I’m on top of the world! Oh wait, my bad. Make that the Chengdu Jinsha Relics Museum. Still though, this view might give the top of the world a run for its money.
Boy, this lonesome footbridge is just begging for the joint romantic hand-in-hand jaunt of some smitten couple out there. Just why exactly aren’t there any couples around here anyway? As a matter of fact, forget couples, is there not even one person with a little free time on the hand, somewhat accepting of storybook surroundings, and willing to endure some light exercise in order to get there? Come to think of it, apart from our group, I can’t really recall too many other people in the museum either… If any others at all… The more I think about it, the more uncomfortably odd this whole abandoned outing feels. What in the name of unlikely probabilities is really going on here? Somebody better start laying out some possible ingredients to the recipe of this thoroughly unlikely premise. I’m serious; I’ll take whatever you’re baking. I just can’t
personally fathom what sort of yeast would permit such a bizarre occasion to rise, or even what supermarket you’d be able to find it in to begin with! Is this some shit you’d have to go to Trader Joe’s for? I am really not trying to make a run to Trader Joes right now. I hate that shopping center. The parking lot is always like the dead, piled up jigsaw configuration of highway stretch immediately following a zombie pandemic. Not to mention, I’ve never even really accepted the sort of unspoken tacit notion that considerable greater value and quality puts it a stride or two past the competition. Although, I will say their employees are relatively cheerful and always seem content while going about their day. I actually look so forward to the small talk with the cashier that the line to reach it sort of fuels my excitement towards that eventuality, not unlike what a few 600 horsepower revs before the starting pistol fire ushering in the start of a drag race that can only be expected to be nothing short of epic does to my adrenaline. I wish I could say a similar air of well-being and exhilaration permeated the, comparatively asbestos-lined, ducts of my workplace. In fact, Trader Joes would actually kind of be a nice environment to spend the better part of one’s day in. Maybe that’s why it’s always so packed with people jubilantly procuring their ingredients………. Holy shit! The rationale behind this perplexing premise was hiding in the very metaphor that paved the road to its eventual discovery! Trader Joes could possibly be where everyone’s hiding! This could possibly be possible! Actually, are all possibilities possible simply owing to the laws of possibility? That is entirely possible… Although, I suppose it’s also possible that this isn’t even possible. But, could we possibly get real here for a minute? I mean, what could possibly be the possibility of that possibility? Possibly someone could calculate the possible odds of that possibility, but then again, that could possibly be outside the realms of possibility. Although that assumes this possibility is even possible. One thing is possibly for certain; I am possibly really, really high. And you could possibly be even more bored by way of possible logic. Or possibly, you’re just higher than me. That could possibly be a sweeter possibility provided that shit could even ever REMOTELY be within the range of possibilities; although, I could possibly be out of compliance with my own possible reason here. Either way, one could surely possibly come to appreciate possibilities from all these possibilities. But let’s be honest, in all possibility no one other than myself is possibly bothering to read this – right? Or have I once again possibly violated what we possibly know of possibility? At any possible rate, thanks so much for possibly providing us with all these contingencies, likelihoods, feasibilities, and chances - ALIENS! Any possibility you were taking some notes? RIDLEY SCOTT!
The Chengdu Jinsha Relics Museum looks like the aliens could have designed it themselves! That would certainly contain a level of irony I think we could all appreciate, although, perhaps not those of you who know just where the demarcations of those semantic borders lay. But who amongst us is really trying to be a card-carrying member of Mensa here? I know I’m not. Shelling out cash to take the Mensa test and the potential subsequent yearly membership fees doesn't really seem like something anyone with a shred of intelligence would do, especially in light of how vague, varied, and ranging in scope intelligence can be. In fact, if you’re not intelligent enough to see this for yourself, then perhaps seeking membership in Mensa is the intelligent path for you after all.
While en route (which way did you choose to pronounce that? I’m never sure what my methodology for selection is there, but it seems to be governed by rigid guidelines I’m continually a fingertip away from grasping) to dinner, our bus driver endeavored to fuck as much shit up as possible, as he was neither licensed nor capable of feeling compassion towards others. As you can see here, he has a little “Grand Theft Auto” experience under his belt, so knocking out the entire street’s power lines, via the bus’ inability to clear them, was all too easy - his words, not mine. Following his handiwork, he literally pulled out his best “Mortal Kombat II Shao Khan” impersonation and directed his mocking, scornful laugh at the citizens scurrying in contest to see who could gape at the damages the hardest. After through revelation in this act he blared, “ALL TOO EASY!” By the way, If you’re wondering who won that gaping contest, it was your boy to the right with arms comfortably interlocked within each other. If you’re wondering about the caliber of the bus driver's impression, well, if memory permits truthful recall, I would have to say it was disconcertingly spot on, almost as if he practiced it before the mirror each morning and possibly even the night. Funny thing about memory, though, the more you reminisce over the same event, the more distorted and subject to inaccuracy its playback becomes. I think one could find truth in this statement if he or she has ever evoked even a slightly diverging account from another present at the same event. It’s a good thing I don’t reflect on this experience too often, as I would hate to not trust my recall of just how hilarious this shit was. Not only did it withdraw entire nuclear families from their holes in the wall only for them to observe in silent protest of shit they could do nothing about, but it also managed to engender some particularly fiery belligerence. One especially pugnacious old woman saw to the voicing of the collective community’s joint ire - a spectacle which, though I could not understand, really set my mirth off. We're all familiar with the idea that, “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” well I’m fairly certain the events leading up to the genesis of this adage took place somewhere in China. You just
do not want to fuck with an old Chinese woman who has more than likely seen a world of shit best suited to a lifetime of non-disclosure. She has shouldered like an ox and dedicated scrapbooks towards a litany of soul-shattering and morale killing events which, if one were to simple take a cursory disinterested scroll through their wikipedia entries, would generate levels of post traumatic stress so entrenched in one's psyche, he would invariably find himself homeless and babbling on the street within days. This woman was a certified boss the way she dug into our bus driver like a red panda. I really respect this particular Chinese manifestation of gender rights equity. Of course, the men find plenty of other ways to continually debase and subjugate them, but at least they have the right to bitch while the men chain-smoke in their face with casual, silent disregard before eventually putting the keys back in the ignitions of their buses and driving away without ever glancing back in the rearview and feeling the slightest pang of remorse.
Those of you who, oddly, have not spent every waking moment of your lives obsessively revisiting each highly-cherished memory forged from the shitty embers of this blog, may actually be able to recall, without aforementioned bias, just how much the Sichuan like to drain any spark of nutritional life from the “Johnny Five” circuitry of their cuisine. I, arguably, made pretty detailed reference towards this in the very first auspicious Chengdu entry when I described their love for “hots pots” – an image of which you can see above. This was taken at a fairly swank joint and, thus, those spoons may not have contained certain pandemic spreading bacteria prior to their ostensible sterilization within that enchanted scalding elixir of fat, grease, and indeterminate flavors. The previous night I had gone out with a few people to a more authentic and traditional, “race you to the first health code violation,” spot. There, I’m fairly certain the hot pot was more of a bucket and Bunsen burner kind of “git ‘er done” set up. It was there, also, where flavors had been gathering through residual food sediment left within the highly chemically altered and possibly even sentient at this point toxic bath. These types of joints with unassailable dedication to the culinary craft are always invariably packed in Chengdu. This allows for the emergence of a pretty fun ruckus in which to select, with altogether unfamiliar dispassion, at least 30 different miscellaneous skewers of suspicion origin for the sociopathic purposes of bringing them to a joyous, agonizing, “imp with magnifying glass on a hot day”, funeral pyre death while throwing back a few $1 liters of beer, putting on your best “Shao Kahn” impersonation, and rolling the remains of your torment in an even battering of MSG. After indulging in this delicious tradition, one just discards his skewers in a different bucket (certainly containing pandemic spreading bacteria) under the table. Or one could just toss that shit wherever he pleases; this is China after all, and not some region of France where people press their slacks in preparation of a full day’s lounge on the couch. When it’s all said and done you’ll find yourself bloated, resenting everything about yourself, and well on your way to unleashing your dark drunk side just in time for someone to come around and count up all your skewers o appraise whatever the pittance of a total may be – a value you will, nonetheless, accuse him of artificially inflating. The next day, you’ll wake up to the comfort of familiar hangover, which you will immediately take to the hair of the dog that bit you so that they may kiss, make up, and revel in several hours of spirited fetch together, before finding more room for self-loathing and opting to go out for hot pot again that night.
After a laborious night of raping and pillaging the, unidentifiable to even those who skewed it, contents of whatever your local hot spot joint has consigned from only the finest of dumpsters, one might consider elevating the barometer of his cultural appreciation with a little Chinese opera. Here you’ll find cymbals so regal they’re bedecked with red cloth and beat with such paradoxical perfunctory indifference even the guy next door, who has entered another plane of musical existence while playing his hand-me-down whatever the fuck, will briefly consider stepping out of his deep meditational state just to fashion a look as if to say, “Seriously, what’s going on there bruh?”
I could be wrong, but the base of that whatever the fuck appears to be lined with snakeskin? This would make its construction an undertaking of questionable opulence and, thus, provide my speculation sturdy legs to stand upon. This flair alone should really generate enough gratification for empty stare Shihong over here to try a smile on for size. Shit, coupled with those lustrous, ornately embroidered silk OR scrubs, one would expect she’d, at the very least, curl up the corners of her lips for the sake of us highly-appreciative tourists. The longer I look at this, the less convinced I am that I didn't drunkenly stumble into a wax museum.
After being fired for his listless cymbal beating, Chongkun was replaced by equally lifeless Chonglin, whose lack of enthusiasm went slightly under the radar as, while the new guy next door’s performance didn’t exactly encourage one to vibe out, his form was beyond reproach and can be noted from the precisely symmetrical equilateral triangle his arms have come to instinctually position themselves in following a childhood of perpetual practice fostered by way of malicious parental browbeating. As an editorial note, I would just like to add that Chongkun translates as, “second brother Kunlun Mountain” and Chonglin, “second brother unicorn.” Chonglin really got the shitty end of that syllabic stick.
You know what would set off the framing of this iconic Chinese lamp? A hanging red tassel in the foreground. Come to think of it, perhaps we’re not employing quite enough tassel suspension here in the good ol' US of A. I know it’s kind of the Chinese’s shtick already, and I’m not trying to step on any grotesquely disfigured foot-bound toes here, but perhaps we could do a little cultural swap or something. We’ll cede you rampant apathy, you give us a few tassels. In expectancy of your agreement towards these terms, I'll be a little proactive and have my team draw up a contract forthwith. I would advise you not to comb through the fine print, however, as it just contains your garden variety boiler plate legalese. I assure you, it's of no significant denotation and otherwise uninterpretable to laymen like us anyway. *
* Compliant with our mutual interests and to be bundled along with rampant apathy, shall be the pervasive patriotic indoctrination blinding those to the corporatocracy holding them accountable for a set of standards it can, not only disregard, but, exploit with impunity.
Guy to the far right: forehead, eyes, and nose obscured. Guy to his left: face entirely obscured. Guy to his left: face in complete, unobstructed view. Guy/girl to his left: haunting my dreams from now into eternity. This photo in its entirety: raising difficult questions that will forever remain incapable of being fielded with even the slightest modicum of clarification. This is the kind of enigmatic, “Wait, what?” stuff that would stop anyone in his tracks upon initial sight of it. One could be inured to all things interesting, a blanket hater of photographs, an inanimate object, a comet hurtling through space, or even completely blind, but if this photo is within even the most outstretched limit from which his eye can espy even the faintest muted pixel, you can be certain complete corporal inertia will set in. Even if that perceived pixel were actually a speck of dust or a sun spot - inertia all the same. Don't ask me how this works, it just does. And don't ask me how inanimate objects, comets, and the blind could possess ability to see this in the first place. These are just questions you don't ask. Perhaps some of you oddly retain doubt towards the veracity of my word; well then, let me put this irrational suspicion to bed with a furtive, pillow out of the pitch dark, smothering analogy. If someone were to covertly slip this photo into a pile of Dan Carlin's notes readied for podcast, the very moment need for citation brings his dexterous, rapid-fire hands to leaf through this scholarly stack and pass this photo wholly unseen, his canny mind would find way to make registry of its curious nature even when his eyes could claim no sight of it. This is all it would take to ensnare his intrigue with its one-of-a-kind mystique and foment the unwaveringly formulaic chain of events to follow. While he would momentarily retain command of his captivating oration, the seconds remaining before he would invariably find himself gazing with stoic detachment at the twisted metal pileup wreckage of what surely would have been yet another meticulously crafted sprawling epic narrative would fleet away with clinical disregard to this ensuing aftermath. Upon compulsive itch to leaf back to a photo he couldn't quite recall seeing, his narrative instinctually tremors when his mind's eye clouds, obfuscating the next ten segues intended to logically spread saga. As he begins a cursory appraisal of the photo, an aberrational stammer and momentary pause of elocution present portentous brooding fear to anyone within earshot. Continuing his plunge into the abounding depths of curiosity the photo has now all but withdrawn from him, his narrative then trails off with unprecedented circuity. Desiring greater scrutiny, he draws the photo closer to his face while his larynx seizes tighter and tighter with each centimeter of advance. He attempts to clear his throat, but loses interest before his muscles can even respond to the initial intention. By now he is producing monosyllabic utterances without self-cognizance and has forgotten where he is and the phalanx of adoring fans soon to find themselves crestfallen. The wheels of the narrative begin their nails-scraping-blackboard death rattle. His vision tunnels, ushering in a vacuum ensconcing him in pure pitch black. As the fabric of the universe collapses, existential purpose culminates into brief synergy between him, the photo, and the austere blackness framing them. His mind corrodes with ineffable questions for which no amount of erudite scrambling could permit fashion of plausible answers. Foaming from the mouth, mind effervescing in violent paroxysm, he tips from his chair, losing grip of the virulent agent along his calamitous descent. Shell-shocked and dubiously sentient, the cold linoleum gives way to minor sensation as the shroud of darkness begins its progressive withdrawal. Locked in catatonic state, his bleary eyed vision struggles to create meaning from the fuzzy haze of chaotically strewn shapes lying before him. Bringing his eyelids nearly to base in agonizing squint, he discerns only the empty outline of several hulking masses of disfigured machinery. After pissing and shitting himself, his vision clarifies allowing for slightly greater definition and minimal depth perception. His forlorn gaze, enigmatically affixed on the crumpled masses of copper and iron, provides a startling backhanded slap to a hippocampus recovering from a paralysis beset by intrigue. As it rises from its blackout with wavering doubt, each leg demonstrates mistrust as strong for the other as it does for itself. Taking hesitant, calculated steps across several deceptively slick mossy rocks, it clears the riverbed of its dysfunction only to fall to its knees upon identification of the masses of metal indiscriminately stacked and torn into unique configurations only the hands of physics’ myriad cruel laws could begin to dream up. Though in chaotic disarray, the amalgamated mass of jagged, interlocked remnants coalesces into wretched awareness of implication and agonizingly penetrates the thick film of denial coating his psyche to present crushing image of what once was. At last he moves from his frozen posture, only to assume fetal position and gently rock his back in vain attempt to mollify a reality whose intricate shatter could never be repaired. Here Dan Carlin secures final position, fruitlessly persisting this rocking to an imperceptible beat; one his neurons follow like lemmings to the cliffs of their demise. Hand-in-hand the rocking abates along with his ability to feel. All but immobile now, a faint ember hides in the corner of his eye, only to be ironically extinguished by the torch of stoic detachment he would forever carry with him whilst eternally gazing into the twisted metal pileup remains of what surely would have been another meticulously crafted sprawling epic narrative. I kind of embellished that last "forever" part. He had a pretty meticulously crafted sprawling epic narrative on the French Revolution a couple of days later. It was actually a two-parter. Normally, I don't usually give a shit about anything French, but he found a way to make it interesting.
These bizarre photos may lead one to logically conclude that this androgynous fella was belting out some fine Chinese opera for a minute there; however, this was not the case. What's seen here is actually documentation of a treasured cultural pastime - a little game the Chinese like to call, "grape in one." These shots were taken during audience participation hour, an intermission designed to afford us all a chance to get in on the fun. Little did I know just how serious this contest could get. After we were all meted a small bag of grapes and it was my turn to play, the fella captured above would, somewhat mockingly, encourage me to, “Drain one from downtown - you fucking pussy!” Despite my most earnest effort, I was unable to do so. My kingdom to have landed
just one grape in this fella’s big, fat mouth! Boy, I could just visualize that now: Just as the grape is released from my fingers, the world swiftly descends into slow animation. As the grape gingerly advances as if floating in zero gravity, my head tilts to observe its gradually forming arc. After careful observation of its current trajectory, I extrapolate the theoretical path it will continue to follow. After thorough analysis, however, I cannot definitively state that this kinetic embodiment of my scorn will successfully reach the intended target. Anticipating yet further failure, I begin to swivel my head away from view of the ostensible let down when, abruptly, without phased transition, real space-time physics returns. I momentarily lose sight of the grape, as in contrast to the previous few seconds, it moves now as if shot out of a canon. From the corner of my eye I catch momentary glimpse of the grape as it distrustfully banks off his bottom lip before bringing me to my knees upon sight of its unexpected carom into his mouth. The sides of my lips begin to curl upwards in unfamiliar formation. The crowd goes wild... Though, actually it didn’t, because I didn’t – drain one from downtown that is. In my defense, however, this sport was far more difficult than it sounds, I was playing under antagonized duress to begin with, and, compounding struggle further of my own accord, was standing well behind the line with gratuitous cocksure bravado - an affected composure my latent insecurities compulsively manifests. Crestfallen as I was by my overall performance, I did save a little face when one, particularly plump specimen, grazed the side of his cheek at, or very near terminal velocity. I felt pretty good about this until he craftily exploited this minor success by erecting platform from it. This elevated plane would then provide strategic vantage point from which to catapult the fodder he was currently molding into flaming stones of ridicule. He began his salty blitzkrieg with a jeering belly dance and sang out with dripping sarcasm, “I’m a graaaaze for you,” which, while I appreciated the slight throwback pop reference, took me a second to make connection between the previously hurled grape that "grazed" his cheek and the accordingly adapted lyric. Thus, despite actually finding it kind of hilarious, I would have to label it a dubious first thrust. If my understanding of the parallel was delayed, what chance would the rest of the crowd have in following him? I wasn’t so sure it was the most practical foundation to build from. Personally, I would have attempted to curry as much favor from the audience as possible with my initial advance, perhaps with something like, “Don’t graze me bro!” However, this was his show - not mine. Besides, I was more than willing to take some wanton pun abuse for a portion of the night, for I had an ace of spades buried deeply up my sleeve. In the meantime, however, this guy was digging deep down in the dungeon to retrieve some doozies with which he could supply round to his gatling pun: “I bet you bank with Graze Manhattan,” “Hey Jimi, pass the purple graze,” “This is just graze one, prepare yourself for graze two,” “Shouldn’t you have a cardigan beneath that grazer?” “I hope you brought sunblock cus the forecast is calling for some light UV graze,” “What was on your Christmas list last year, the complete boxed set of graze anatomy? You pussy!” Just when I was certain his ammunition was all but fully discharged, something materialized out of the very thin air! It was some sort of flying drone with gunmetal finish, but there was something peculiarly antediluvian about its design, like it was dreamt up in the Renaissance or something. Anyway, this thing killed two women and children in the audience before slipping back into the molecules somewhere and ceding the performer the full limelight he needed to unleash his pièce de résistance, a veritable pun salvo - withdrawn from a cache I had foolishly assumed deplete! Following a subtle, almost imperceptible head nod to cue the soundman, Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” came strutting forth from speaker indulging in her opulent entry with full shit-eating grin. I had little doubt where the next pun was going... The performance which would accompany it, however... Well, let's just say was far, far, less predictable. The man began with composed, balletic stride in my direction - a progression as graceful as it was flamboyant. Each step drawing him nearer carried greater provocative suggestion than the last. Closer he would near with unrelenting steadfast commitment to the lock of his amorous gaze. I really didn't like where this was going, but as a guest in his country, I had little choice but to let it play out until, at last, tête-à -tête we stood… Now, even prior to what is to follow, my highly checkered past had seen me inexorably involved in enough ineffably wacky situations that I could have easily justified putting a down payment on a pastoral country plot of land suitable for erection of ranch with porch and rocking chair so that one day I may recount this folklore justly, as not only are these the literal surroundings I recurrently visualize whenever I think about things, but also the sole logistical environment capable of providing a consummate raconteur the appropriate visual backdrop to both support and complement the magnitude of his yarn; HOWEVER, full, unabridged account of the performer's ensuing serenade would tear asunder
even this idyllic haven for cherished anecdote. The prologue alone would rip the toile wallpaper straight out of the sunroom, propel the weathervane into orbit, cause every piece of homemade pottery on the shelf to spontaneous explode from the center out, and pull up every floorboard into brief, portentous levitation, before simultaneously firing each one off in unique direction with presumable intention of seeing just how much shit the Z plane is willing to take. You see, not even the ranch I visualize whenever I think about things could suppress the full destructive force of an unabridged account of the performer's subsequent disturbingly seductive serenade. So, for now, this is all I can offer: As he delivered each sultry, bewitching lyric in passionate recitation, “Graaaaazzzzzy, Grazy for feelin’ so blueeee….” he was somehow able to remarkably coordinate tantalizing, entrancing movement in flawless accompaniment. For instance, lightly brushing my skin with slow-moving, dragged fingertip, intermittently shifting to my backside in order to escape periphery and invoke curiosity, peering deeply into my eyes with ever-increasing penetrative depth, and finding progressively craftier ways to make surreptitious advances towards my crotch. The ease with which the entire performance integrated with mellifluous grace led me to believe that this was not his first rodeo... Unfortunately, dear reader, the omitted and remaining lion’s share of the tale will have to wait another 10, possibly 20 years, at which point enough hard work will be under my belt and the necessary structurally reinforced platform for it's telling can be erected, as I will finally be able to visualize it whenever I think about things.
So yeah, the Chinese Opera always finds a way to take the bizarre, toss it in The Large Hadron Collider, do some science stuff, and transform it into the utterly bizarre. Which, honestly, I’m pretty sure is just the old bizarre with a fresh pair of relatively cheap sunglasses. And you know what? It’s exactly this type of bullshit that fuels my advocacy for continued, across the board, austerity measures towards all sciences. Sorry science, we don’t need Chinese Opera in sunglasses, we need more expensive, efficient, destructive, disturbingly imaginative machinery explicitly engineered to kill people discreetly. And we need a lot of them. Right now, for instance, it would be nice to know that someone were, say, drafting a modern day drone adaptation of one of Da Vinci’s death machine mock-ups. I don’t really care how closely it resembles the original to be honest, just make sure it has a gunmetal finish and some sort of cloaking ability so one can furtively flee the scene with impunity immediately after converting the collateral damage deaths of several women and children into freedom. I'm sorry if these ends necessitate egregious funding, but let's face it - freedom ain't cheap these days. I mean, given the option between freedom and the pursuits towards greater understandings of the world around us, I'm pretty sure we can come to mutual consensus over which of these candidates provides marginal utility to society and is thereby deserving of short shrift. I think I’ve made my point, science, however, if you know of some way one could use The Large Hadron Collider to similarly convert immaterial items into freedom, now would be the time to speak up…. Oh, and while you’re mulling that over, see if it's capable of slaughtering women and children in the process. My guess is it can't. Although, to be honest, I know nothing about science, so… Wait… By the looks of this thing, I feel as if it should meet no significant impasse in the butchering of women and children. Seriously, can we kill women and children with this collider? Does any one of these buttons convert them to freedom? Damn, this shit is kinda crazy. Now that I’m actually looking at it rather than going to extraneous lengths to remain ignorant towards it, I could kind of see why someone might want to toil around here. I wonder what’s inside? Holy fuck, this shit is like, “2001: Space Odyssey!” Which is kind of weird if you think about it, since that was made, what, 45 years ago? So nothing’s really changed in the world of science aesthetics since then or something? Damn, someone needs to get you guys some funding… Hey, what’s that floating object way down at the end of this corridor? And how the fuck is it floating while I’m not? I feel like it's floating towards me in slowmo. It looks... kind of like an ace card… Actually, yeah that is an ace card… Spades, is it?... Hard to say for sure... Maybe I can get a better angle elsewhere, because from here I can just barely make out its trajectory, which... actually looks kinda like it's headed ------- THWUUUMP!!!!!
Well now, it’s looking like that impulsive Dan Carlin narrative may have been the equivalent of jumping the gun before the firing pistol could even be brandished only to immediately thereafter perform a record setting series of ill-coordinated “QWOP” maneuvers ultimately culminating in a, simultaneous tear of the ACL and hamstring, spread-leg, head-first collapse slide into the gilded, ornamental, baroque frame housing this awesome photo. Well, what’s done is done. I, nonetheless, stand by the veracity of that former yarn. There is, however, a new chairman of bizarre in town and someone appears to have eaten the horse it rode in on; and judging by the fine sheen on those hairs, I’d venture to say it was of strong Mongol stock. Not much anyone can do about that now, not the way your man is fortifying the perimeter with an unruffled self-possession that, had he been half the man and able to similarly harbor, may have even found Scarface alive, smoking Cubans, and breading his chicken in cocaine to this day anyway. I’ve got big plans for this photo. I think I could structure a prank show solely around the repeated luring of folks from all walks of life into scenarios where, whilst innocently going about their day, this photo makes curiously unexpected appearances only to be picked up on impulse, scrutinized, and paid due consideration before unalterably provoking each person into contorting his or her very own particular assembly of the, raised cheek, furrowed brow, “Wait, what?” gut reaction expression. You just know at some point a histrionic black guy is going to take things to a level that, if only half as hysterical and comically flabbergasted as a typical black guy's response to even the most mild of unforeseen street magic reveals, would have YouTube dedicating new servers to his idiosyncratic, viral reaction alone. The unconditional potential behind this show would all but guarantee that no level of corruption or pandering to the established regime of Hollywood could ever prevent the hailstorm of Golden Globe Awards from falling and leaving craterous impact upon the industry as they land at the show's feet.
You know, I’ve been playing this whatever the fuck for years and I’d still be willing to accept that it’s actually a croquet mallet. Although, I’m not sure why anyone would line his croquet mallet with snakeskin, that would make its construction the product of questionable opulence. Then again, perhaps there's something I'm overlooking. Could this allow for some sort of acoustic effect? I dunno. I mean, this shit only has one string as it is, you’d think structural considerations for sonic enhancement would begin with the addition of, at least, one more… You know what, seeing as I mostly play with my eyes shut, I can’t even say I’ve ever conducted a thorough visual examination of this whatever the fuck before. Is this even snakeskin? Let me take a closer gander…
Holy shit, it’s a beehive! What. The. Fuck! Seriously, no one thought this merited disclosure? Not even you Chongkun? Or for that matter, you - Chonglin! To think, you guys were like second brothers to me…
Is it odd that, thus far, I find this to be the most questionable getup to ever ignominiously come to arrangement following its indiscriminate emergence from the radioactive waste engulfing the Chinese opera’s closet. There’s just something about a head-to-toe powder blue ensemble that will forever confine it to eternal imprisonment within the fortress of bad fashion. It could never possess the sort of moxie it would take in order to scale the perimeter fence and experience the galvanizing invigoration of increasingly more sprightly flee towards fashion freedom when each successive stride releases further burden and becomes impetuously complicit in the symbolic suggestion formed by the the collective life time sentences jettisoned and scattered haphazardly on trail behind. No, no! The reality is: on its mad dash out through the yard, my gaydar will invariably sound alarm, leaving the jailbird several fleeting moments to forge petrifying final memory of its desperate, vain surge towards towering razor ribbon fortification before the ensuing monsoon of scoped, high caliber rounds rains down with gratuitous, hell-bent intention of custom tailoring manlier garb, and leaves it in such frayed tatters, even its mother wouldn't know what she's looking at. As you can see, I bear rather strong sentiment towards this all. I've actually been honing an axe to grind with this wayward tandem since the early 2000s; an era in which a brief garish misstep, off the path of what fashion could have honestly considered to be both mod yet sensible, displaced some cats
just far enough astray to find themselves aimlessly wandering throughout the thicket to unnecessarily prolonged extant when the suspiciously large trademark pockets of their powder blue Karl Kani velour jumpsuits had, ironically, rendered any effort to retrieve compass an exercise in futile optimism. Opting to drape oneself in this shade back then was, to me, all the smoking gun evidence needed to forever condemn and impeach even the most well-connected from the “True Playa 4 Real” office. The white ruffles this performer has embellished on top of this historically flawed garb, however, add an extra layer of sickly buttercream icing atop the whole suspect cake; and you just know as soon as you move to blow out those candles, Johnny six-pack is going to come bursting out in a banana hammock, toss a couple of handfuls of confetti, and manage to find a way to lisp, “TA-DA!!” before you've even had enough time to consider all the ways in which this event will forever present scar upon your fragile psyche. Nonetheless, I am willing to look past my deep-seated hatred for powder blue ensemble in light of the overt passion the puppeteer manifests whilst lost in exploration of the regions within the woman’s dress.
Passion aside, this act, even when distorted through the all too easily entertained lenses of my beer goggles, still managed to relegate itself to the lame pile of the Chinese Opera, which, while odious and in pronounced need of a light Febreze misting, would nevertheless merit selection over anything within the pile of freshly laundered and pressed, immaculately folded and stacked traditional opera. Even so, I kind of find this variety of puppetry to be questionably enduring. Had this awkward spectacle of fanciful flourish not been contrived hundreds of years ago in some sort of last-ditch imperial effort to brighten up the day of a disillusioned, sullen emperor miring in cognizance of his own stifling, artificial existence, I’m not so certain someone would have been able to trudge across the untilled soil of a modern generation bereft of imagination and sew the seeds of interest for this ho-hum craft with any reasonable expectation of being met with fanfare similar to the reception the, "skated in on the coattails of tradition" conclave of indoctrinated opera goers so readily doled out. As a matter of fact, I’d be willing to wager that at some point during his debut performance, this intrepid, starry-eyed, pioneering puppeteer would be met with more than one or two forms of rancid, feculent produce before the first act of dainty pageantry could even reach closing curtsey.
You have brought undue dishonor to my name. Prepare to meet the remorseless, cold steel edge of my Damascus! Formed from deposits of ore so irreproachably pure only the most remote bend of the Zhaxi could have permitted their spawn, forged and honed into contour so observably razor-sharp and deadly only the acute precision of Master Huang of the Tiger Belly Mountains skillful, war-hardened hands could have given birth to its dread, so assured and studied the fingers that brandish it that my vengeance shall come as swiftly as it does effortlessly. Have at me!
Bitch please! I’m about to lodge this arrow so deep-like in one of your motherfuckin' vital organs, even Braveheart would take just cursory glance at it and be like, “Daaaaamn...” before declaring you a lost cause and letting you bleed out.
And out comes my cyan cargo net and alternate white silk - classic misdirection! Good luck trying to free yourself from its maddening enmeshment of tethered bonds. As you squirm and wriggle appendages in vain, superficial dance incapable of liberating them from fate your mind has already yielded concession to, I will casually saunter over to your huddled, exasperated mass and phlegmatically observe the fight drain from your hardheaded nerves until this gradual grind to inert halt presents definitive evidence for final go-ahead initiative. As I slowly withdraw ornamental hilt in direction which refracts light from looming blade into one last brilliant, colorful reminder of the transcendental beauty from which you will shortly depart, I will call the puppeteer back to stage and have him forever perform in nimble, circuitous stride around the saddened heap of what has become your eternally tortured existence.
“Li Qiang, can you crack my back?” “Cracker, I hardly know her!” “Hahaha.” I don’t think I’m too far off from the sort of threadbare ilk that permeated this tiresome act of comedic exchanges I, in all likelihood, would have appreciated even less had I possessed even the most rudimentary foundation of Chinese language basics. I can lend a distinct level of assurance to that speculative dismissal, as the roar with which the crowd responded to their hijinks was so inflated, it could have only been filled with the sort of stale, dull, unimaginative air of mass-appeal humor that, had a cursory appraisal of the apathy in those too lazy to have priorly manufactured a set of rigid comedic standards not ceded what little insight and inspiration it needed to conspire towards its initial assembly, would have never been given agar for eventual flourish; the initial bacterial growth of which surely gained thrust when mere analysis of each of your painfully similar empty excuses for unique identity revealed just what little it needed to take into consideration in order to draw up an infrastructural blueprint that might best exploit growth within this insipid culture and even, perhaps one day, find itself rewarded the sort of eternal carte-blanche needed to toxically permeate atmospheres - not unlike the one you currently find yourself complacently festering in - with complete and utter indiscrimination. Thankfully, the dizzying volume of baijiu imbibed earlier in the night had, at this point, all but dissolved within the water of each vital tissue of my body and provided the necessary anesthetic of tolerance one would need in order to forestall tempestuous exit to a hot spot joint in mission to procure forms of rancid, feculent produce. Packaged in with this gift of intoxicated tractability, however, was an impassioned dress rehearsal my hands could only carry out with earnest zeal in anticipation of their forthcoming leading roles in a Parkinson's documentary. Thus, one should expect a little noise and tilt in this series of stupid photos.
Hey look, some mawkish shit just happened. Please audience, appeal to your assenting nature and find tolerance for cheap, capricious shifts of emotion. It’s time to feel sad. *frowny face*
But guess what? Now I’ve got a fucking flaming bowl on my head! How did it even get there? Bet you didn’t see that one coming. Claw your way out of the labyrinthine expanse of disconsolate sewer system and take a deep breath of fresh air – one part oxygen, one part freshly renewed hope – cus this next round of laughs is on us! Don’t let empty stare Shihong steer this emotional rollercoaster back down, she wouldn’t recognize comic relief if it entered her unalterable line of sight!
Oh gosh, I hope some sort of chaotic transition is around the bend. I’m not sure I have much left inside the ol' zany tank forever keeping this gas-guzzling archetype of American insensibility safely upon the road and on time to his pedicures. I’m running on fumes of optimism here! Though, there's
a little something about this photo that has me thinking everything's gonna be juuuusst fine...
Why is he lying prostrate?! Empty stare Shihong – do something! Don’t just stroke that whatever the fuck in blanket indifference!
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! You fucking callous bitch! How can you just stand there in a haughty, detachment even Zeus, eternally resting atop Mount Olympus occasionally paying marginal regard to the persistent shrill shrieks of the eagle forever gorging on Prometheus’ regenerative liver*, would give up map props to.
* In Greek mythology, the liver symbolized the cradle of human emotion
You fucking bitch. As if the flaming bowl weren’t enough, you’re now subjecting this asshole to some sort of gauntlet of human degradation. Little do you know you’ve gone and upset that guy with snakeskin croquet mallet back there. You know what they say about revenge, don’t you? “Revenge is a dish best served to the side of the head with a snakeskin croquet mallet.”
TA-fucking-DA bitches!! He's not going to budge from this posture until each and every one of you assholes pulls out his or her smartphone and shatters any possibility I may have had of deriving mere ephemeral pleasure from existing in a world once-was in which the masses are capable of living their lives within the moment rather than invariably scrambling to bedazzle one more superficial sequin upon whatever costume of validation they have recently decided to stroll the streets of the ghost towns of their existences in when opting to cheapen their own experiences by potentially culling trifling pleasure from a few "likes" following a united legion of view obstructing cameras withdrawn for the express purpose of mobile upload, which, ultimately presents microcosm of the chimerical, preposterous modern impracticability of my optimism to begin with. Oh, however shallow, fleeting, and ultimately self-defeating these quixotic delusions of unobtainable pleasure may be, even momentary leap between those clouds sheds worthwhile modicum of solace before society invariably drops the needle to the maddening vinyl within the house of mirrors and the circus of my mind takes over, eternally fomenting the sort of chaos that will forever deprive me of just one night's restful slumber. Oh would somebody please make it all stop!!!!!!!!
Jeepers Creepers! This guy had to have been, at the very least, marginally complicit in the metaphorical murdering of Brandon Lee. While I’m sad the world was deprived of what surely would have proven to be a long and storied badass career that brought untold joy to the hearts of billions, I was nonetheless pretty stoked to observe, in live action, the fire breath that precluded this all from happening. The answer to the million dollar question of just how this poor player would like to take exit from this stage, after strutting and fretting his hour upon it, could in all certainty be inferred from just how much he desires to once again see that mystical dance of combustion perform intimately before him - only this time, from the comfort of his very own front row seat.
These guys liked to radically interchange pieces of their neo-retro matador and Snow White costumes. Keep an eye out for any subtle shifts in their arrangements in the bizarrely evocative pictures to follow.
Did you espy any new arrangements of costume? Personally, I’ve been peering into these photos for far too long and now find myself unable to extend any significant support to the groundless suspicions I am currently harboring. Honestly, for how high I am right now, we could be looking at two different characters performing in a dimension previously unbeknownst to me and I would still give my gut instincts the short shrift that they would merit. Nonetheless, who gives a shit about potential minor wardrobe change when these fans are clearly stealing away with the show with such elegant finesse?! Even empty stare Shihong can’t help but smile. Then again, I couldn’t confirm this rare phenomenon unless a corrective Photoshop touchup cleaned up the blurry milk that my Parkinson’s hands permitted spill of after haphazardly tipping the glass containing it over and saturating this photo. Not a day has passed since where my hands have not persistently cried over this ultimately trifling misfortune, which, has really left me no choice but to forge greater animosity towards their very existence.
Thank you! Thank you! I’ll continue to perform this act to the fullest extent institutionalized indentured servitude is capable of whipping from me. One day, in the not too distant future, I think we’ll find that whip will prove just
a tad too unreasonable, when I finally keel over mid swap of costume and thereby reveal the trade secrets which I prophetically declared to take to my grave. In the meantime, thanks again for your show of support and the charitable check made out to torture you have thereby tacitly endorsed. But hey, no one’s judging you here.
Enough respect to your man in the back, permitting not even the slightest seed of interest to germinate into errant desire to express any visual amusement derived from this vapid tedium. One can just imagine how bitterly the snakeskin croquet mallet vibrated in passive resistance when the tremor of his hand could barely eke out the untold self-discipline needed to restrain swift justice from ensuing. Holy shit, what I wouldn't have given to have performed an immaculately composed jump kick into this asshole's shit-eating-grin of a face.
Look, it’s going to take more than a mustache and a discomforting gaze to get a rise out of your man in the back. This might even present the height of his stoicism. Read his unyielding lips: no new amusement and no new taxes. Fuck off Chinese opera, you’ve had an admirable go at it, but next time we’ll leave this to the professionals; and when that day comes, I’m sure those keeping score at home will derive great pleasure as the margin ever so slightly widens: USA: 234723847, China: 2.
This is the kind of photo that, had been afforded a tripod and a photographer who knew what the fuck he was doing, probably would have turned out pretty sweet. I suppose if one has a reasonably fun-loving imagination though, he might be able to convince himself that the light emitted from the street lamp were actually the blazing sun. In which case, the collective framing of it, the moon, and pagoda all within one picture might give that tripod and expertise an all too deserving run for its crack money, which, honestly, is the sort of situation that might just find a man compromising his moral integrity in illicit acts of desperation and, thus, not something I wish to foment. This would perhaps, however, lend my thesis, that imagination will always trump calculated planning and dedication to study of craft, just enough credibility to finally merit peer review before instantly being picked clean of the limited meat that was surrounding the bone of its scholarship.
Gee, my limited ability to convey intended recounting really deprives this photo of its warranted narration. Nonetheless, I think it may have just officially become… STORY TIME! So, apart from this being our local watering hole of choice for the night and encapsulating the essence of Chengdu in one measly, mundane exposure, also hiding within this all is an Easter egg only the most perspicacious and hyper-vigilant of my readers may have picked up on. If you were leaning towards the buckets (certainly containing pandemic spreading bacteria), then you would be as cold as the steel edge of my Damascus, as it’s actually Jeff!! Who’s Jeff you ask? Jeff is mind your own fucking business! Which, coincidentally enough, is what he’s doing as he rests his head against the tiles in innocent repose - a decision he would surely later regret when, following a mere Skype session that created a theoretically tangible
enough proxy to permit their commendably athletic transition, his children would obtain the lice now festering within his scalp. Apart from enjoying rampant lice wantonly traipsing through his hair as if they had just dipped their feet in several different shades of paint in efforts to demonstrate just out easy it is to create “modern art” and prove a point to their asshole bohemian hipster art friends who wax romantically over the type of shit that could only be the products of artists so pretentiously caught up in their own bullshit they have convinced themselves that two splashes of faint yellow on a large white canvas carry myriad profound implications the regions of your brain
should be so lucky to engage in obscene quarrel over, Jeff also took a modicum of pleasure spending most nights binge drinking with me in locations so suspect, our resolute endeavors to continually outdo them would actually become sources of considerable stress in our lives. Jeff was also in the foreground of a much earlier photo taken in Hangzhou. Now, tell the truth, can you actually conjure recall of this? If you can answer yes to that with steadfast honesty, then, seriously, I think it would be in your best interest to employ a witchdoctor, break free of the hex this blog has cast over you, never revisit, and perhaps consider work for a non-profit or something. Anyway, a lot can be said about Jeff, so much so that, in fear of invariably falling short of presenting all the potentially enrapturing anecdotes involving him, I will tell you only this: mind your own fucking business! Also, he was one of the two professors who, sort of, directed these wacky adventures through China. This one, however, was not a raving a lunatic. I would even go so far as to call him my homeboy. From the very moment we met in an elevator in Chicago, where our travel group first convened (Chicago that is, not the elevator), and casually struck up friendly banter under no mutual suspicion that either of us was even taking part in the same program, I had a good feeling about this guy. For one, his exceedingly slim frame, contrasted by an exceedingly protruding beer belly, let me know this was the kind of dude I could, in all likelihood, roll with to some degree. He also retained a very folksy, laid-back air of friendliness and humility that would betray what his unquestionably erudite background could have potentially given rise to. One might assert these traits stemmed from the sort of salt of the earth character his home state of Arkansas inspires, though, I would prefer to chalk it up to the fact that he was just a rather cool dude. So cool, in fact, that since I've begun carving away at this precious marble, I've been toying around with the idea of, perhaps, sending a link his way when it's all said and done - despite having not spoken to him in the three years since this trip ended. Restraining this inclination more than the prospect of public knowledge of this blog somehow landing me behind bars for any number of felonious contingencies I have failed to consider, is the fact that this trip was partially funded by an association his face, ultimately, must stand behind, and, in all certainty, had been made aware of this elaborate would not quite be able to find grains of salt substantial enough to peruse through this all while maintaining firm tongue-in-cheek. Nonetheless, I think I've made my appreciation for Jeff somewhat apparent and I feel safe in saying he'd probably get a kick out of all this. Expect more to come on him later after my brain refuels on beer and free radicals and may then present judicious yarn with which to gently wrap and ensconce you in a sort of ineffable comfort you could otherwise never experience. I think it would be around a point similar to this that Dostoyevsky would begin obtaining revenue for his regular installments of highly awesome shit to say. Let’s hope I might follow suit and maybe even amass enough capital to finally erect my mystical bonsai garden!
In my previous post I lamented my inability to construct befitting composition to capture just what the photo merited, however, I feel I may have, once again, employed weighty proclamation in advance of more appropriate circumstance. Nonetheless, I shall endeavor to put forth mild effort in the recapturing of this series of photos. Some of you have probably already raised the question, “Why am I looking at a blurry, filthy back alley in Chengdu?” This would be the very same inquiry I found myself lost in while actually there, although the blur I was able to easily attribute to the obscene volume of baijiu and beer I had just recklessly imbibed in the fine establishment you had the great fortune of viewing in the previous photo. This alley was somewhat adjacent to that roach den, and, from the best we could gather, the first squalid corridor beginning the quest to free one’s bladder of the septic elixir currently effervescing to unknown ends within. As one can note, turning down the first alley you see and relieving yourself without second thought is not such an unbothered undertaking in China. It is nearly impossible to find an alleyway anywhere within the country that does not house a vagrant, or perhaps even a well-to-do playboy of some sort, curiously passing the time alone in the dark as if waiting for a confidential informant to drop by and deliver codified message. In this particular photo, we find a woman impassively leafing through a magazine, a man staring at a steel shutter, and another retrieving refuse from the ground. You see what I mean? Seriously, what the fuck China? So began the first chapter of this urinary gauntlet…
After successfully traversing the grimy underbelly of this ludicrous edifice set on pushing my bladder to its infantile limits, I made a clueless assumption that the toilets might be located somewhere up above amongst all the various foods hygienically blanketed under polio-ridden tarps - a disease, most of us have been vaccinated for. Good looks on that one China; you could have easily opted for the SARs tarps, but in the end, you made the ethical choice. Anyway, to my complete and utter stupefaction, I did, in fact, locate some toilet stalls off in the corner somewhere. In perhaps the most paradoxical twist of my journeys thus far, the facilities were fitted with antique, hand-painted, glazed, ceramic Portuguese tiles and rounded vanity marble sinks resting upon ionic columns. I can’t say I cared for the beige stone they chose, however, it did complement the rich midnight blue of the tilework. I’m sure a lot of you are scoffing at this worn-out sweater of humor I recurrently warm the body of my works in, but this is honestly as I remember it. I will, however, concede distinct possibility that my brain has fashioned false memory of this development after the H7N9 bird flu I acquired upon mere initial sight of the stalls set in motion an odd sequence of neuroplastic transformation reconfiguring recall of some of the more harrowing incidents I experienced whilst in China. One detail that is not subject to doubt, however, is that there was, in fact, a man in a stall adjacent to mine. I guess those one billion people need to be hiding somewhere and there’s just simply not enough Trader Joe’s to go around. Upon my return to the watering hole, I refused to give Jeff any insight as to how to find this El Dorado of bathroom stalls. Hours later, when he returned looking like Schwarzenegger mere moments after defeating the predator, he casually let go of an epithet, I am absolutely certain, the two of us will forever immediately summon whenever anything remotely related to China is of topic – “I think I kicked a fish!” That’s right, on his liquored up stumble back through the serpentine twists of putrefaction, he, in all likelihood, kicked a random fish lying agreeably amongst the grime it would later be fried up in. That line will forever evoke boisterous guffaw, as the implications within that simple phrasing are just oh so precious; he was uncertain as to whether or not it was even a fish to begin with, could, nonetheless speculate fairly confidently towards it, yet, lacked enough interest to procure confirmation as there was far more pressing matter concerning the need to imbibe further baijiu and forge unforgettable memories with me. This folks, is the sort of texture I could only dream of every slice of life offering.
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