Howling at the Lunacy

This has to be one of my least favorite days of the year...the day when many businesses give their employees an opportunity to prove just what idiots they are. Here's what I mean. On October 31st of last year, I go into a bank to tend to some important business. The vice-president, or whatever the title of the person with whom I'm speaking, is dressed like a werewolf. I guess if you spend every day of the year dealing with massive growths of ear hair, Halloween is a godsend.
But get real. How can I discuss my personal business with some moron who thinks it's acceptable to come to work like that? Same thing at the dentist office. The assistant wants to probe my mouth, but she looks like a witch. I mean like a real witch. She has the pointed hat and the fake mole (or maybe it's a real mole, I didn't test it), and the black dress. I really don't want something like that putting her hand in my mouth.
I refuse to go into restaurants or stores which allow their employees to dress up for Halloween. My thinking is that anyone who thinks it's okay to do business while wearing some ludicrous costume, is not someone with whom I want to do business.
I used to work for a major customer service center, and I hated going in to work on Halloween. While most of the employees chose some sort of ghoulish costume, there were a significant number of the guys who looked like they were straight from Transvestylvania, if you know what I mean.
I don't think it's prudish to expect men to dress like men, even if you do allow them to put on some ridiculous costume. Call me sissyphobic if you will, but I really don't feel comfortable in that environment.
Something else I don't get is why people wish one another "Happy Halloween." What exactly does that mean? I'm talking grown adults speaking with other grown adults. Is there some gayety (no pun intended) about the day that I'm not getting? How does one have a happy Halloween? It's not a day off from work. It's not a day to gather with the family and reflect on life's blessings. It is a day when almost every year I come close to mowing down some kid with a mask over his eyes, wandering back and forth across the roadways in the dark. I don't find it particularly happifying. There is only one thing I like about Halloween...the day after. Not just because I won't have to deal with the stupidity for another year, but also because that's the day the candy goes on sale.

What About Snob?

I received a phone call yesterday. And now my disposition, which is generally cheery, has been soured. Of course, I'm sure you want to hear all about it. Okay then, you shall.
Let me preface this by mentioning that our fall issue of Chesterfield Living Magazine is now out. And, if I must say so myself, it looks marvelous. The cover story features Reed's Landing, one of the county's premier communities. There is a beautiful picture on the cover taken in one of the Reed's Landing homes.
So, there I was, sitting at my desk, basking in the afterglow of the release of the magazine, when I get a phone call from Thurston Howell, III. Well, actually it wasn't really Thurston Howell, III. But it was from an effete snob who was doing a pretty good impersonation. Only he wasn't trying; that's really the way the guy talks.
Seems this poor little rich man was upset that we only mentioned one builder and one realtor in Reed's Landing. "I just want to make you aware of the fact that Billy Stinson is not the only builder in Reed's Landing," he whined.
"I'm very well aware of that," I told him. I have nothing against rich guys. But, haughty, self-assuming windbags is another story.
I highlighted this particular builder, Billy Stinson, along with realtor, Karen Berkness, because they were very accommodating. Actually, I had phoned other realtors - those who deal in estate properties - in putting the story together, but most had reacted as if I were a wart on the butt of life.
Billy and Karen were very helpful. And, may I add, they acted just like regular folk. (I'd also like to thank the homeowners who very very gracious in allowing us to photograph their home.) Somehow I can't see Mr. Gotrocks (name has been changed in case you couldn't figure that out) being nearly so accommodating or so down-to-earth. He did conclude the conversation by saying, "If eveh I can offah you any assistance, please do not hesitate to contact me." At least he didn't call me "boy."
I started to ask him if I could borrow fifty bucks, but, exercising my good judgement, I refrained. I know this is just a minor irritation, but, just in case my caller is ever in the online slums and comes across my blog, I just want to let him know that despite his polished, big-boy dictionary words, and his Southern charm, he's as transparent as my (former) mother-in-law's bourbon-rich egg nog.
But, being the gracious Southerner that I am, may I say, "If evah, Suh, you have the need to talk down to someone, may I please offah my assistance." Gee, maybe that sounds sarcastic.
And, because I do happen to, as a rule, like wealthy people, may I just add, that I'm not belittling Southern aristoracy. I even eat FFV cookies. But there are some folks who are just plain, mind-numbingly, tedious. And, you, Suh, are one of them.

Final Thoughts On China

Well now that I'm safely back on American soil, i can reveal something that I was afraid to say while in China. Believe it or not, my blog was censored over there. If you go back and read the things I wrote about China, you'll see it was totally non-political, and, for the most part, rather complimentary. But, as soon as I got into Communist China (if you don't consider Hong Kong Communist), I was unable to access my blog.
Talk about being paranoid! And, I'm talking about myself, not those Chinese leaders who banned me. I got to thinking that maybe those Chinese cab drivers were only pretending to not understand English. Maybe they were taking note of what I was saying to my fellow passengers in the cab, and then immediately calling "headquarters" to report me.
I woke up one night about, about three in the morning, and tried to get on the internet. The whole thing shut down on me. I looked out the hotel window and a light in a window across the way immediately went out. I knew they were spying on me. I could feel their creepy breath against the back of my neck. My hair stood on end, as cold chills ran up and down my spine. Sorry, I was practicing my hand at writing a novel. Did that sound pretty scary?
Actually, I did get a little paranoid, too paranoid to actually mention in a blog (written while I was there) that I was being censored. But, now that I'm back, the whole truth can be told, and I'm telling it.
The interesting thing about Communist China is that, besides the censorship thing, it didn't feel very Communist at all. Of course, when it comes to understanding what Communism feels like, I'm probably about as ignorant as they come. But, the police officers I encountered, were pleasant young men. There were soldiers standing rigidly at attention on little platforms in front of some public buildings. Even when I tickled their armpits they refused to laugh, so maybe that's Communistic. But, really, except for the fact that everything is written in Chinese and everyone speaks Chinese, you really couldn't tell you were in China. Oh yeah, the dogs hanging in the marketplace along with the chickens and fish was a little revealing. But, really China is filled with people who smile easily, who are willing to provide a stranger with directions, who get up, go to work, care for their families, and do all the stuff we do.
The culture is quite different in some ways, but people are people. No one wears a big scarlet "C" around their neck, or pinned to their Chairman Mao t-shirts. On a couple of occasions I heard that European siren coming down the street. You know that wah-wah wah-wah sound that they use in all the old World War II movies. The siren sounds like it's saying "Na-zi Na-zi." But, each time, as I would dive for cover and peek out from behind a trash can or whatever, it was just an ambulance. Unless, of course, those devious Commies are pretending to be EMTs, just so they could track me down. You know I never considered that possibility. I wonder if any of them followed me back to America. Excuse me. I'm going to go hide. If you don't ever see this blog, please let me know.

The Really Ugly American Returns

I'm baaaack. It is good to be home, back in the U.S.A., where I don't have to worry about crossing the street without being hit by a runaway rickshaw. True, I do have to worry about being mugged on the sidewalk, but once I'm in the middle of the highway, my worries are behind me...til I get to the other side, anyway.
I'm having a problem with jet lag, so I'm just now waking up enough to write this. Plus, I came back with some sort of a cold. My co-workers have assured me that it's probably just a mild case of bird flue. There was this woman sitting in the back of the plane on the flight home who hacked and coughed and wheezed the entire 14 hours. I would have suggested she cover her mouth, but I don't know any Viet Namese. One thing I did notice in China, is that the people don't seem to mind spitting, sneezing, coughing, and whatever with no regard to where their bodily fluids may fly. Anyway, now I'm hacking and coughing. But, at least I'm covering my mouth.
I had to go get my blood pressure checked this morning...not that I'm not a picture of perfect health, but I'm in some sort of national research thing, testing a cholesterol medicine...or else I'm gagging on a huge placebo every day; I'm not sure which. My blood pressure was a little high, and the lady there asked me if I'd put on any weight while I was in China. I don't think so. Dodging automobiles is good exercise.
I do think I know why my pressure is high though. I'm watching the local TV news again. I'd forgotten how bad it is. At least when all the programming is in Chinese, you can't tell how inane it is, unless, of course, you speak Chinese.
Is it just me, or did Gene Cox have a frontal lobotomy while I was gone? Probably just me. I watched him last night, and he breathlessly (I think it's his age, not his excitement level) said, "We're following a breaking story out of Detroit. Rosa Parks has died." Now, Rosa Parks died yesterday afternoon, but at 11:00 last night it was a "breaking story." And, just how do you follow this story? She's not going to do much of anything else at this point. She's dead. I'm sorry she's dead, but pretty much that's a done deal. Gene said he'd keep us updated. I'll have to call him this afternoon and see if she's still dead.
And, then on channel eight, the brainiac newscaster used that line this morning that drives me straight up a wall, and probably elevates my blood pressure. The news anchor said that the police had caught a guy who beat up a Chesterfield man and his dog. But, he put it this way, "You'll never guess where police captured the assailant...." First of all, why would I try to guess. It's not some sort of a game. And, since I imagine he (he, being the newscaster) will tell us right after a commercial break, I don't really need to guess. And, thirdly, if you're keeping count here, it's not like they caught the guy on the moon, or hidden in some cave in Morocco. They caught him in New Jersey. Whoop De Doo!
I guess I never would guess, because the answer is too boring. That "you'll never guess" thing is so stupid. It's the very thing that causes my blood presssure to go up. If I have a stroke, I'm suing Gene Cox and that guy at WRIC.
The results of this medicine/placebo test, of which I'm an integral part (one of about 3,000 testees), could be skewed by my blood pressure being artifically elevated by TV newscasters. This test continues until several hundred of us die. I guess they figure the people being tested are in such poor health, that they'll have no trouble with enough of us buying the farm within the next few years. But, if I die, I want it be because of what I'm eating, not because of watching the news. That would be a really bland way to go.
How did your husband die, Mrs. Cook?
Oh, it was an overdose of Gene Cox.
You see what I mean. That would truly be a senseless death.
But, keep an eye out for me. If you see my name in the obituary, please let Gene Cox know he's partly responsbible.

One Last Thrill For The Road

Well, it's 8:30 Sunday morning in Hong Kong. In about 90 minutes, I'll be on that great silver bird (airplane, for those of you who aren't in to hip talk like we savvy world travelers use). I have had the most miserable night, and yet, here at 8:30, I'm very happy...tired, but happy. Who'd have thunk it.
First, the bad part. I arrive in Hong Kong at about 10:30 last night from Shanghai. I just need a cheap hotel room for the night, but given the way things turn out for me, that's not in the cards. Almost all hotels are booked solid for a trade show. The only rooms left are in the 400 dollar (and I'm talking the real, green ones) range. I'm resigned to spending the night in the airport, when an "extremely helpful" cab driver shows up. He knows a great little hotel, room only that costs about 350 Hong Kong dollars (50 US). So, after he swears he's phoned the hotel to confirm, I get in his cab. I'm kinda suspicious of the fact that he has the meter covered with a rag, and the place where the driver's ID picture is supposed to be is empty. But, hey, this is Hong Kong.
He seems nice enough as we drive the 30 minutes into Hong Kong from the airport. We get into town and he starts driving up one seedy street and down another. There's a police blockade at one point, which, I think, he used to his advantage. "There's been a fire at the hotel," he tells me. You don't have to hit me over the head with a brick to wake me up. I'm really suspicious now. He stops on the seediest street so far and gets out, telling me to wait there.
About twenty minutes he's back, saying he found a room. He says the manager will be coming down to the street to meet me. I pay him, get my luggage and tell him to get lost.
By this time, it's about 1:00 AM, I'm standing in the middle of a really crumby street with three pieces of baggage. I stop passers-by (they're out all hours in Hong Kong) and a woman walking a poodle tells me there's a decent hotel a couple of blocks over. She leads me half-way there and points to it.
I haul me and my luggage to the front of this hotel. It's so classy that there's a guy sleeping on a cot at the front door. The hotel is two flights up, and there's no way I'm going to leave my luggage there with Cot-Man. So, I heave and ho and huff and puff and get the luggage up the stairs. The woman tells me the room is 600 Hong Kong, which isn't bad, except the place is horrible.
So, down the steps the luggage and I go, past the sleeper and into the streets. I hail another cab and head back to the airport. Total cost in the green money - about $80.00.
I then settle in on an extremely uncomfortable lobby chair, using my carry-on as a pillow. Keep in mind that the next night will be spent crammed into a clothes hamper sized United Airlines Economy Seating seat. Anyway, at about 6:00 this morning I go to the United check-in counter (they're closed overnight) and check in. I ask for an aisle seat. The nice woman says that she has an aisle seat, but it's in the back of the plane. She tells me that I had purchased an economy-plus seat, so I'd have to downgrade for an aisle seat.
Evidently what I sat in coming over was not the worst seat United could come up with. Nonetheless, I'd rather take a downgrade and get the aisle. I'm anxious to see what Economy non-plus is. I'm rather suspecting they'll ask me to clean the toilets every couple of hours.
But, remember at the outset I said I'm happy? Well, I am. Here's why. After passing through immigration and security, I head for the monorail to take me to my gate. I see a sign advertising a lounge for all travelers. The Business- and First-class passengers already have a nice lounge to wait in away from us commoners.
I decide to check this lounge out. It is the greatest thing to happen to air travel since the Wright brothers.
For 20.00 US, I get nice comfortable chairs, newspapers, magazines, CNN (okay, you can't have everything), a breakfast buffet, and a hot shower. I feel good...very tired, but good.
Anyway, I gotta go butter up my hips so I can squeeze into my seat on the plane. The next time you'll hear from me will be when I'm back on earth, I mean back in America.

Shanghai By Night

Well now, finally, I'm in China. At least, I've finally arrived in the sort of China I was hoping to find...Shanghai. This city of upwards of 20 million inhabitants, may be, at least by night, one of the most beautiful cities I've ever seen.
We arrived, by air, yesterday afternoon (Wednesday). Traffic is horrible, but what can one expect with a city of this size. But, the Shanghaiese have an appreciation for beauty, as well as their own culture. Unlike Guangzhou, Shanghai is a city that loves to have fun. There are zoos, amusement parks, football (pronounced soccer) stadiums, restaurants, and so much more. There is also much greenery. Flowers sit in boxes atop the "jersey walls" that line the roadways. At night, I'm told, trucks slowly drive by, watering the flowers.
I am traveling with three American businessmen. In Shanghai, we are met at the airport, and escorted around town, by, Mei Ling, their Shanghai associate, an attractive woman in her mid-thirties. Like most Chinese women I have met, Mei Ling is very soft-spoken. However, I am told, that in negotiations, she can be very aggressive and demanding.
She takes us to a narrow, almost alley-like, street in the old town section of Shanghai. The street is flooded with motorbikes and bicycles, and even a few automobiles. As we creep through the street, in our six-passenger van, we see beautifully-lit restaurants on both sides. Suddenly, two men with armbands begin banging on the windows of the van. Melodie's driver rolls down his window to speak with the men. Another man goes to the passenger side and bangs.
I'm thinking we're in the middle of some international incident. Perhaps, there is some sort of Chinese law about escorting Americans in a van. I'm wondering if my wife will see me on CNN as I'm hauled away to spend the rest of my life in a dingy Chinese prison. I really don't know how dingy they are, but I've seen plenty of movies.
Turns out, that what's happening is that these arm-banded men work for the various restaurants. Their job is to go out into traffic and lure in customers. We get lured in. Crossing the street here is the biggest pedestrian-related adventure thus far. You literally have to just step in front of the motorbikes and hope the driver will slow down enough to just slightly graze you.
I admit I'm somewhat scared. So, to answer the question, "Why did the chicken cross the road?" To eat authentic Chinese food, that's why.
Upon entering the restaurant, we see huge acquariums, filled with every sort of sea creature imaginable. I soon realize that these are not pets, they're dinner. Somehow I just couldn't actually go pick out my meal from among the living. I can just imagine the fish looking at me with a tear in his eye, thinking as he meets the cleaver, "that fat American did this to me."
Fortunately, I don't need to make such a selection. Mei Ling leads us into the elevator. These restaurants are several stories high, with private dining rooms of varying sizes on each floor. I've seen that in movies as well, and usually someone gets killed in one of those rooms. Well, long story short, I didn't get killed. In fact, there was no violence whatsoever, except for the way we tore into some really delicious food.
I've been in Chinese restaurants throughout the United States, including Chinatowns in D.C., and New York, but I've never experienced Chinese food like this. We feasted on chicken, fish, tofu, soups, vegetables, you name it. The attentive staff kept our glasses filled with beer or cola or whatever we desired. There were six of us and we all ate heartily. And then the bill arrived...about 300RMB, or, in U.S. currency, a little over 35.00. What a meal, and, for about six dollars a piece!
After dinner, we headed over to a hotel overlooking the Bund, one of the most beautiful spots I've ever seen. The Bund was the international political center of China in the 19th and early 20th centuries. Many of the Consulates were located here, and the architecture is truly amazing. There are so many styles including Gothic, Baroque, Romanesque, Classicism and Renaissance. Although I've never been to Europe (but, I have seen movies), the Bund looks to be more of a European city, than one you'd find in China.
For many years, after the Communist takeover, the Bund was deserted, but in recent years, there has been a major renovation. At night, the lights shine brightly on the beautiful buildings. Behind the Bund, hugh skyscrapers tower above the city. Their multi-colored lights shimmer and twinkle and change colors, making for an awesome kaleidoscopic appearance.
Because service in many Chinese restaurants, including the one at the top of the Panorama Hotel, where we sit, is exceptionally "relaxed," we have plenty of time to admire the beauty.
The Bund sits on the banks of the Huangpu River. The tour boats that ply the waters below are also beautifully decorated with many lights. They share the wide river with freighters and small Chinese junks. It all makes for one amazing site. Shanghai is definitely a city to which I would come back.
It is now about 7:30 Thursday morning. I'm going out to see the city by daylight. I'll let you know what I find.

Life in the Chinese Fast Lane

There are ten million people in Guangzhou. And every one of them must own a cart, a bike, a motorcycle, or a car. And, at any given moment about half of these ten million vehicles are on the city’s streets.
The interesting thing is, traffic moves more freely than in most major cities in the U.S. I have yet to see an accident, despite the fact that there are very few traffic lights. There’s one intersection where six roads converge. Vehicles of all shapes and sizes cross lanes, all without any traffic signals, and things move smoothly, frighteningly, but smoothly.
As I mentioned earlier, crossing the street is one of the great Chinese adventures. Pedestrians cross one lane at a time, and some city streets may contain seven lanes in each direction. You don’t wait for traffic to pass and then start out into the street. You simply move as closely as you can to the vehicle in the lane, and then slip around it and wait to slide in between vehicles in the next lane. Some of the locals are so good, they can do it without even looking towards the oncoming traffic. It’s like they have a sixth sense for this sort of thing.
Bicycles are a major means of transportation…not just personal transportation, but huge loads of cargo as well. It’s not uncommon to see a cyclist with water jugs, packages, or pillows strapped to his bike. I don’t know what’s with this pillow thing, but often a cyclist will be so laden down with big, square, colorful pillows, that it’s impossible to see the bike itself.
Frequently, you’ll see chickens in cages strapped to bikes, or motorcycles, being taken to market. It’s really somewhat sad. The little fellows seem so happy to be taken for a ride. Their heads are poked through the openings in the cages, and they seem to be really enjoying the breeze. Little do they know it’s a death ride.
No matter the time of day, the streets are going to be filled with this concoction of pedestrians and vehicles of all shapes and sizes…all defying the law of physics that says that two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time. And, rarely will you hear a horn blowing…maybe an occasional toot to warn someone, but everyone seems so polite as they share the roadways.
The people of Guangzhou are perpetually busy. The little shops are always open. In fact, I don’t believe many of them even have fronts to close and lock. They look more like garages with the door lifted up. Within any given block, you’re apt to find a store selling tires, next to a produce market, next to a “store” filled from top to bottom with plastic water jugs.
There are little food stands, stores selling paper products, auto repair shops, and just about anything else you could imagine. And there are people…so many people. I think many of these families that operate the little stores either live in them, or in one of the small apartments above them. You get the impression that these hardworking people are born in these little shops, grow up in them, live and work in them, and then die in them. One thing you don’t see on the streets of this major Chinese city are toddlers. In Hong Kong, the young children are everywhere. Parents can be seen walking through the markets with three or four children hanging on to them. Occasionally, here in Guangzhou, you’ll see a parent with one small child. But, one is the limit, not just the limit, the law.
China is, in many ways, exceptionally technologically advanced. The group I am with is here for a major export fair. We have seen building products, home appliances, electronics, and an assortment of other items that are very well made. But, for all the technological advancement, there are many parts of the country that seem to have remained virtually unchanged over countless decades. One can see a spotless black Rolls Royce sharing the road with beat-up bicycles and pull-carts.
It makes for a very interesting mix. It’s not at all as I had imagined a Communist country to be. And yet, in many ways, you are constantly reminded of the realities. I’d like to tell you more, but that will wait for another day.

Chinese Food For Thought

Here’s a little tidbit of information from China that you may find hard to believe. I know I’m finding it that way. There are no egg-rolls! None. At least none that I’ve found, so far.
There is plenty of food, however. Here in Guangzhou, restaurants are everywhere. Our hotel, the Yihe, is about twenty minutes outside of town. It’s a beautiful hotel, designed in a Japanese-resort sort of way. There are four restaurants here. One, which is on top of a mountain behind the hotel, is designed to resemble a Pagoda. The folks here at the Yihi have named it The Pagoda. I can understand why. There is also a barbecue hut, which, for some reason doesn’t open until nine in the evening. I’ve never seen it, but it’s called The Barbecue Hut. There are two primary restaurants attached to the hotel. One is a Western-style restaurant (not cowboys and Indians type western, just opposed to Far Eastern), and the other serves Chinese food. The creative minds here at the Yihe named the Western-style restaurant, Western Style Restaurant. Want to guess the name of the Chinese-style restaurant?
These are the only two restaurants in which I’ve eaten here in Guangzhou. I’ve passed a great many others. There’s one restaurant, not too far from the hotel that serves a variety of meat and fish dishes. Interestingly, it has pictures, of the animals it serves, painted on the window. There is a picture of a rabbit, so wild game must be on the menu. There is also a picture of a lobster. That sounds good. There are also pictures of a dog and a cat. I’m sticking to the hotel restaurants.
Even at the hotel, as you enter the restaurant, you pass the kitchen area. This is by design, evidently, perhaps in order to whet one’s appetite. There, hanging in the window, is the typical dead chicken, with her little head tucked up under her neck. My appetite is sufficiently whetted.
One of the businessmen in our group, a builder named James, from Virginia Beach, has spent considerable time in China, visiting many of its factories. He tells of a restaurant in a rather remote area in which he once dined. He said that many of the items in the refrigerator-less facility were totally unidentifiable, so he settled on half a chicken. What he received was exactly half a chicken, including half a neck, half a head, even half a tongue. And, says James, “It was bright yellow, just like those rubber chickens you see.” James also told me he was so hungry, he ate that whole half a yellow chicken.
He said in that particular restaurant, if the patrons didn’t like something they were eating, they’d simply spit in on the floor. Now, that’s a Chinese tradition, I’d like to institute at home.
As you enter the hotel restaurants, you’re greeted by at least six or seven smiling waitresses and/or hostesses. The waitresses are always in some cute, modest uniform. The hostesses wear colorful Chinese kimonos (if that’s what they call them in China). They then proceed to escort you to your table. And, I do mean THEY. While one might expect one of the ladies to escort you, here, they all lead you. And, it’s like they’re oblivious to each other. They’re all pointing to an empty table, sometimes they’re pointing to different tables. I told someone I felt like I had been gang-waitressed.
Some of the waitresses speak pretty good English. Others speak none. Ordering can be a real adventure. Fortunately, many items on the bi-lingual menu have pictures. But, even when you point to the picture and the item in Chinese characters, they seem to be confused. It’s as if they don’t realize we’re saying we’d like to order this. They point at the items. They get this puzzled little look on their faces. They often go get another waitress to come and point and get a puzzled look on her face too. I’m not sure if they’re really that unaware that we’re in the process of ordering, or if they’re playing a little game to see how frustrated Americans can get.
I don’t think it’s the latter, because they seem very sensitive to our emotions. They like it when we smile and say “Taste good" (a la Tonto). But, if we are displeased with something, they continuously bow and apologize and bow some more. We had one young hostess yesterday who almost broke down in tears. I was really worried about her. Not too worried that I can’t eat, however. I’m on my way to breakfast now. I’m looking forward to some baked beans and corn on the cob.

A Yen to Spend

If nothing else, this trip to China has given me greater empathy towards foreigners, visiting or living in the United States. I’m sure, that to these Chinese people, I look like a doddering old man who can’t understand even the simplest words. I’ve seen that glazed-over look in the eyes of foreigners with whom I am speaking. No doubt, I have that same glazed-over look in my eyes when someone is giving me directions in Chinese.
Interestingly, the Chinese do exactly what I do when I’ve been in their shoes. They keep saying the same thing over and over, louder and louder, figuring that eventually, when it gets loud enough, I’ll become fluent in their language. “Just turn right,” I’ve screamed at little old Chinese men in the past. “I said, ‘Just turn right!’”
It just doesn’t work. And so I do what those little Chinese men have done with me. I smile and thank the person trying to help and wander away as lost as ever.
Fortunately, it’s all a big adventure…this going out and getting lost thing. We did just that on Thursday. Our waitress, the night before, a lovely young woman, who has just completed a six-year course in English, told us we should visit the City Center, for shopping. She wrote it in Chinese characters, so we could just show it to those from whom we were seeking directions.
It worked well. We were directed to the proper bus, and although we started off in the wrong direction, when shown the paper, the bus driver did a little circle motion with his fingers indicating we needed to go the other way. So, we jumped off, crossed the street, and caught the same numbered bus going the opposite direction.
Now, I mention crossing the street as if there were nothing to it. On a life-threatening-things-to-do scale, I’d rank it at about an 8.5. I have been brainwashed, through decades of life in the U.S. into believing the pedestrian has the right-of-way. It’s just the opposite on the opposite side of the world.
Although, I never actually saw a pedestrian get hit (at least not thus far), it wasn’t because the motorist, or even bicyclist, wasn’t trying. Vehicles change lanes incessantly, even, in the case of the two-wheeled ones, going onto the sidewalk when necessary. You cross the street one lane at a time, and hope that while you’re standing between lanes, a vehicle doesn’t need that space you’re occupying.
We did make it, finally, into the downtown-shopping district, with the help of a lot of people who couldn’t understand us, and whom we couldn’t understand. Guangzhou is, in many ways, a very modern city. And, yet, in the City Center, there is a mixture of the new with the very old. Next to skyscrapers, stand small stone buildings that look as if they’d been there for centuries. Turn off the main street, into dark, ancient alleys, and you could easily imagine you’d traveled back in time.
Interestingly, while an occasional old man might stare at us, very few seemed to pay attention to strange Americans wandering through the courtyards of clusters of their apartments. This is quite a contrast to the hotel complex in which we’re staying, where, it feels as if everyone is watching you. I’m not sure if that’s an indication of distrust, or if they simply want to be sure our needs are satisfied.
Back to the streets of City Center, one can find an amazing array of wares. There are many small shops, selling baubles and bangles, shirts and skirts, hosiery, produce, you name it. These are run by merchants who stand at the entrance of their stores and call out to passersby, primarily tourists, I imagine. Some stores use more aggressive tactics, sending salespeople out into the streets to accost tourists, virtually attempting to drag them down the street, around the corner, and into their stores. At first, we politely followed. But the accosters became so numerous and persistent, that eventually we just pretended they weren’t there. I hate being rude (believe that, if you will), but there is no other way to deal with these people but to ignore them. “No,” is not in their vocabulary.
Perhaps it’s because there are a billion people in the country, but, even in the smaller stores, there may be ten or more salespeople. While in the store, even if you’re speaking with one salesman, it is not unusual for two or three others to be bringing you items to try on or look at. In one such store, after I had walked out, a salesman follows me and shows me a picture of a young Chinese woman. “Pretty,” he says, pointing to the picture. “You want?” I don’t think he’s kidding.
City Center is filled with these small stores and aggressive merchants. But there are also some very modern shops as well. Grand Buy easily rivals any department store I’ve ever visited, including Macy’s in New York. It’s an eight-story building filled with all of the things one would expect to find in a department store…fashions, jewelry, cosmetics, furniture, electronics, even a very modern grocery store.
The electronics/appliance department contains the very latest in refrigerators, washing machines, and, of course, HDTVs. I’ve never seen such brilliant, sharp images on television as on the TVs displayed there. And, I’m told, they’re all made in China.
I would have spent some money in City Center, but I didn’t have any yen. I tried several ATMs, but, they offered no English option, and when it comes to my debit card, I don’t want to just start pushing buttons. I went into a couple of banks, but, for some reason, banks are very busy places.
When you enter, you take a number, and wait. It’s not unlike the DMV. There were waiting areas in both of the banks I tried, and there were large numbers of people waiting.
I didn’t have the yen to wait, so we hopped on the bus and returned to our hotel. It’s a very interesting facility in its own right, but I’ll tell you more about that another time.

Mr. Cook's Wild Ride

It’s difficult to type right now, as I reflect on a somewhat life-threatening ordeal we have just come through here in Communist China. Our adventure began after we passed through immigration and customs. On our way out of the train station, we were stopped by a man who asked us where we were going. The man wasn’t wearing any type of uniform, but being a little unsure of what to expect, we gave him the name of our hotel. He ran and grabbed another guy and said he’d obtained a taxi for us. He quoted a price, which seemed a little high, but, hey, we’re newcomers in town. So we said if the ride would be no more than the price he’d quoted, that was fine. He and the other guy then grab our bags and head down the steps. We’re following closely behind as the two guys and our luggage careen through an area under construction and into a restaurant adjoining the train station.
We’re right behind them, through the restaurant, around the tables, past the booths, diners staring at the sight of two Americans chasing their luggage through the restaurant. We leave the restaurant and enter a small parking lot. This doesn’t seem like it would be the place to catch a cab, and I’m starting to get a little suspicious; but again, we’re in a whole new world.
The guy starts packing our luggage into the trunk of a fairly modern Toyota. The car has no markings to indicate it is a cab, nor is there any driver’s I.D. posted in the car. I’m getting a little antsy, but figure by this point, if these guys weren’t on the up and up, it was just a matter of whether they’d kill us in the parking lot or in some out-of-the-way spot that had been predetermined.
The first guy who approached us gets in the front passenger seat, and the other guy is sitting behind the wheel. The first guy says I’ll take my money now. I go ahead and pay him, hoping that he’ll just make this quick and painless.
He takes our money and hops out of the car. The cab driver starts the engine and immediately becomes a raving maniac. He’s weaving between cars, trucks, bikes, motorcyclists, pedestrians, blaring his horn, gunning the engine and slamming on brakes…somewhat simultaneously.
My friend, Rob, who is traveling with me on this leg of our trip, observes that it doesn’t appear the driver has the foresight to realize that if he changes lanes, he’s only going to have to almost immediately change again because of traffic blocking the lane he’s just changed to. I think the guy just doesn’t care. It’s like playing a video game. The driver takes one obstacle at a time and moves on to the next.
But my mind is on more important matters. I’m sitting there thinking about how I can prevent our being murdered. I’m pretty positive that we’re about to meet with foul play. We pass a policeman in his cruiser. I think maybe I can use some sort of international symbol for, “Hey, I think this pseudo-cab driver is going to kill us.” Being unable to recall that particular hand gesture, I contemplate taking my shoelaces out of my shoes and strangling the driver. I’m sitting right behind him and, from reading a good many mysteries, I think I know how to pull it off. The only problem is that I’m wearing loafers.
So, I begin to determine if I could quickly grab him by his hair and slam his face into the steering wheel. Now keep in mind, I wouldn’t do that until he, the driver, made the first move. But, as soon as it looked like he was ready to kill us, I was ready to be the hero. I was halfway daydreaming and worrying at the same time…daydreaming about crushing the driver’s skull and worrying that I might not grab his head just right and just end up irritating him. I was also wondering just what that first move on the driver’s part would be and would I recognize it in time. After all, when it comes to killing a cab driver/kidnapper, timing is everything.
All of a sudden he starts shouting and slams on the brakes. I came that close to grabbing the driver’s head and slamming it into the steering wheel, when I realize he’s shouting at a school kid who has come running out in front of the cab. I was so unnerved, that I decided that should anything happen, the driver could just go ahead and kill me. I just wasn’t up to any head-slammings.
Within a few minutes we pull up to the hotel. The driver gets our luggage out of the trunk and drives away. I have to admit I’m relieved, but slightly disappointed.
Later in the day, when I confess to Rob that I was on the verge of killing the our driver, he admits that he was trying to figure out what he had on him that he could use to defend us. “I figured he didn’t have a gun,” Rob said, “but, he might have a knife. I was trying to decide what I had in my pocket that would be a good match for a knife.”
Fortunately, neither of us had to kill anyone…on this particular day. We lived to tell the story. But, just barely. Besides, did I mention that there were no seatbelts in the back seat?

A Fast Train to China

It’s been a week of firsts for me, and today’s first is a real doozie. I’m in Communist China, although, come to think of it, I haven’t heard anyone use that term around here.
We caught the morning train from Kowloon, the mainland portion of Hong Kong. About ninety minutes later we were in Gangzhou, formerly known as Canton, and I’m not talking Ohio.
On the rather pleasant ride, I sat next to a computer systems salesman named Dzhou. Dzhou, a native of Hong Kong, travels extensively throughout China. I asked him what changes he’d seen since the Communist government took back its control of Hong Kong in 1997. “It has opened things up,” he says. "I can now do business throughout China. Dzhou thinks the Communist take-over, coupled with a more business-friendly attitude, has been good for the economy.
Dzhou is a pleasant sort of guy, quick to laugh, willing to talk, so I take a chance and ask him about the down side of the takeover. He laughs. He says that in subtle ways you know you’re under a more rigid regime. But, he adds, “As long as you don’t think about it politically, things are good.”
I’d like to find out more, but Dzhou has an arsenal of cell phones which are constantly ringing. And, apparently, he enjoys talking.
The train is modern, clean, comfortable, with plenty of leg room. I wish I could fly it back to the United States, rather than that ridiculously cramped 747 that awaits me in about nine days. On the tain, there are about five women, smartly dressed in blue uniforms. Some of the women are tending to the passengers as they struggle on board with various and sundry pieces of luggage. The car adjoining ours bustles with activity. Other blue-uniform clad women are busily moving pots and pans around, pouring various items (I can't distringuish what) from one pan to another. I’m anxious to see what’s going to happen.
Shortly after the train departs the station, the women don crisp, white aprons and commence to selling anything they can find in that adjacent car.
First one comes out carrying a tray loaded with cartons that look much like Chinese take-home containers. In a lovely sing-songy voice, she offers her wares. She's speaking in Chinese, so I can’t tell what she’s offering, but she sounds pleasant.
Next, another woman comes out with a handful of various newspapers. Turns out she’s offering those for six dollars (Hong Kong) a piece, which in exchange rate is less than a dollar.
Before long another lady comes through and she’s got chicken legs for sale. At least there were no necks and heads being served up. Then some soup or noodles are proffered. After that one of the attendants comes by carrying a book, showing it to everyone. She shows it to me, but doesn’t try and sell me anything. Later when she comes back with the book, singing her little sales pitch, she translates for me. She’s offering stamps.
She’s followed by another young woman with a bowl filled with corn on the cob. It looks good, but it’s a little early in the day for my American-trained palate. Evidently, a lot of Chinese agree with me, because when she comes back through, her bowl is still filled with corn.
As the landscape flies by, I notice that the high-rise condos and apartments which fill Hong Kong, are equally as prevalent once we're outside this Special Administrative Region. I would not have realized we had entered the true Communist China, had not Dzhou called my attention to the fence at the border. I was distracted by another onboard sales pitch. An attendant wheels through a huge cart, fully loaded with bottles of liquor and cartons of cigarettes. I’m guessing she was offering duty-free products.
"Here's the border," Dzhou says, bringing my attention back to the world outside. On the Hong Kong side, it just looks like a fence. However, on the other side, huge rolls of barbwire send a stern warning that, while things may have loosened up, the gates have certainly not swung wide-open.
Still another attendant comes through offering something in little metal containers. She sings her song in Chinese, but when she gets to me, she sings, “coffee or tea?”
Outside I notice miles and miles of high rise housing roll by. As we get out "into the country," I see terraced produce gardens, and a few irrigation ponds. A field here and there dot the landscape, and, just as in all the National Geographics, there are workers tending to the crops. Soon, factories begin to compete for space with the housing. The agricultural areas are very sparse in this part of the country.
Again, I'm distracted by yet another trayful of take-out containers being melodiously offered by one of the attendants. Dzhou has told me how there’s money to be made in China. Apparently, the Chinese have become very adept at the marketing game, even here on the train. I’m not complaining. It appears that good ol’ American capitalism has come to China. This is not your father’s Red China, I’m thinking. In fact, it’s not even my daughter’s father’s Red China. Growing up in the fifties and sixties, I’d heard plenty of horror stories. I had pictured China as being a combination of George Orwell’s 1984, Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, and the 1973 motion picture Soylent Green. That's definitely not the picture I'm seeing now.
Hong Kong is, in many ways, not so very much unlike many large American cities. I’m suspecting that when I get to Gangzhou, I’ll find more of the same…just a big Chinatown. Maybe? I'll fill you in tomorrow.

Two Different Worlds

It's 4:30 AM, Thursday morning here in Hong Kong, which means for those of you on the East Coast, you're finishing up your Wednesday work day. My body has lived in the Eastern time zone for so long that it's having a hard time adjusting. That's not a bad thing, though. It just means I'm sleeping about three to four hours a night. But who wants to sleep when you have two weeks to spend on the other side of the globe. I want to see as much as I can. Of course, that means a lot of late night/early morning Chinese TV. Thanks to satellite and cable, the hotel, here in Hong Kong, offers about twenty-five channels. And, if you think American TV is bad, just come to Hong Kong. Last night, there were about 5 late-night hours of televised bowling. It's broadcast in Chinese, but, hey, it doesn't take a lot of comprehension to catch on to a bowling tournament. It was interesting watching the way the cameras panned in on the crowd reaction. You'd have thought it was the World Series. And, as a brief aside, speaking of the World Series, I'm just glad I was out of the country and didn't have to watch the way the Braves bull-pen stunk up the joint in that last game with Houston. By the time I get back to the states, baseball, 2005, will be history.
But, back to Chinese TV - Bowling is the second most boring sport on the planet, second only to the other sporting event which dominates Chinese television. And that's soccer. Watching soccer is like watching kids play with a ball in the park. It's interesting for about 35 seconds.
In China, soccer is, apparently, of great importance. They even have an entire soccer channel. Plus, during the course of the overnight, one can watch soccer on five or six other channels simultaneously. There's also great Chinese drama. Thankfully, they use English sub-titles, so I'm able to better understand just how boring the shows are. The actors are all pretty bad. They're so amateurish, they do everything but turn to the camera and wave.
One thing I think is interesting is when one of the local channels will occasionally show an HBO movie, they'll edit out the profanity. I got to thinking how paradoxical it is, that America, which claims (at least many do) to be a Christian nation, can so freely accept filthy language, and yet a supposedly atheistic nation (at least for many) finds the same language unacceptable. Kind of makes one wonder.
I haven't spent the entire time watching television. Once the sun comes up, we're out and in the streets. I've walked so much that my thighs are raw. I know, thats TMI. But, it makes each step I take rather unpleasant. And yet, there's so much to see. On Wednesday we took the subway over to Hong Kong island. We're staying on the Peninsula, in the part of Hong Kong called Kowloon. To get to the subway, which by the way, is ultra-modern, we have to walk about five blocks through the street markets. The streets are crowded with old Chinese men and women hawking their merchandise. The people are apparently poor, but hard-working. They're not looking for handouts. They're not beggars. They're are just simple merchants, who get up early each morning and who sit all day in the hot sun, hoping to sell enough of whatever they may have to sell, to support their families. And, while population control is government mandated in most of China, that doesn't appear true in Kowloon. Children stream out of doorways, all dressed in clean school uniforms. The children laugh easily, as do their parents. The people seem to be happy...poor, but content.
There are little food shops along the way displaying a variety of roasted carcasses. Dead ducks, browned and ready to eat, hang from racks. All have their long necks and cute little Donald-Duck-like heads attached. I don't think I could eat anything with the head attached, although the ducks do look tasty.
When we get off the subway on Hong Kong Island, we're in the heart of what may be the most modern city I have ever seen. The cars are big and black and shiny. The businessmen and women (although it appears to be very male-dominated), are small, but all dressed in shiny, black suits. The men wear well-starched, immaculately-white, dress shirts with a smart, stylish tie. One of the guys in our group commented that when everyone wears the same "power suit," it ceases to be a power suit. It becomes more of a uniform, much like the ones the schoolgirls we passed earlier in the morning were wearing. The only difference is that, unlike the schoolgirls, the businessmen (and women) aren't smiling. They have tired, haggard expressions on their faces. Many, those that don't own those big, shiny cars, pack themselves into the subway with us for the evening ride home. Somehow, despite the fact that the humidity is high and there are twice as many passengers in each car than comfort would allow, their shirts and suits are still wrinkle free. Their ties are still pulled tightly around their necks.
We rode the subway one day. It was an adventure. These business people do it every day. They don't look as if it's an adventure.
I wonder if at one time, years ago, these men and women were little boys and girls, who kissed their parents good-bye each day and headed through the street markets, past the fish stands, and the duck heads, and headed off to school, determined to get a good education and, one day, maybe, one day, make it to the top. And, they made it. They work in the sleekest, tallest, most modern buildings anywhere on the planet. In the evening, they return home to one of the hundreds of high-rise condominiums and apartment buildings. They climb in the most modern elevators, which whisk them up. The more successful they are, the higher the elevator takes them.
They were determined to make it to the top. As an outsider, I look at the poor, simple, hardworking fathers and mothers who peddle their wares each day. And, I look at the successful business people who live and work (and, probably seldom play) in the city's high-rises. And, I wonder, which way really is the top.

It's Wednesday. I Must Still Be In Hong Kong

Well, it's day 2 in Hong Kong, certainly the most unique city I've ever visited. If you've never seen Hong Kong, the best way I can describe it as what you would have if you took New York City and stuck it where Miami should be, and then let Chinatown take over. It's a relatively clean city, even in the poorer sections, someone is always out in the street sweeping up trash.
The crowds are unbelieveable, and, I'm told that this is nothing compared with what I'll find in Shanghai. That worries me because not only am I a hypochondriac, but I'm a claustrophobic hypochondriac with a tendency to hyperventilate in crowds. I narrowly escaped causing a scene on the airplane. I felt so pinned in that, at one point during the flight, I started to think that being forcibly removed from the plane would be preferable to sitting in that cramped little space. If I had been abolutely sure that no straight jackets would be used, I would have caused quite a stir. So, we'll see how I handle this Shanghai thing in a few days.
A friend, who is on this trip with me, happened to mention that the Chinese view light-complexioned people as very attractive. With my pasty-white body, the Chinese must think I'm gorgeous. That may be why last night at least fifteen women approached me and asked me if I wanted to go out on a date. I declined them all, I must say.
The street markets here are fascinating. As the sun goes down, the locals gather in the street to shop, visit, and eat very unusual-looking things. Various merchants set up their wares. Some simply pile their merchandise on a blanket lying in the street. Others are set up under tends. They have microphones to attract the crowds to their booth. It's kind of like the state fair, except with everyone speaking Chinese, they're a little more understandable than the hawkers at the fair.
I was drawn to one booth by the sound of a flute. "Ah," I thought to myself, "I'm going to find something ancient and wondrous at this booth, perhaps jade statuettes or other treasures of the Orient." Turns out the guy was selling used computers...and playing the flute at the same time. Those Chinese are talented.
As I was walking through the market place, I saw a crowd gathered. Again, I did some thinking to myself. "Oooh," I thought, "perhaps the folks are looking at a group of Chinese acrobats." Indeed the crowd seemed to be really enjoying the show, whatever it was. And, I hurried towards the throng to find out. No acrobats or jugglers or mimes. Just an old man yelling at a group of police officers who were trying to calm him down. The police, all dressed in those little uniforms and hats that you see in the movies, were very polite to the angry man...very restrained. Not a one of the police officers was clubbing him. I stood around for a while, thinking maybe I'd see a good old-fashioned clubbing. Nothing ever happened. They sure aren't making Communists like they used to.
Well, I gotta get out and see more of this strange, new world. Hopefully, I'll talk to you tomorrow. Unless that Communist crack ruffles a few feathers.

Good Morning Hong Kong

Have you ever seen one of those grade-B magic acts where the magician puts the girl in the box and then sticks swords in the box? I'm sure you have. Once, for whatever reason...maybe the magician was drunk...anyway, he (the magician) let us come up onstage and see how he did it. There was the poor girl squeezed up in this small box, with her knees up around her neck, in some horribly-contorted ball shaped human sort of thing.
I would never have thought I could have squeezed myself up that way. But, I just completed a 16-hour flight to Hong Kong, on a United Airlines 747, and, you know what, it can be done. United calls it "economy seating." I call it greedily cramming as many passengers into the plane as humanly possible.
Besides the fact that I was boxed in between the window and two (very nice) gentleman from Singapore, the flight was fine. Plenty of food, drink, and exceptionally bland movies that I never would have paid to watch. But, when you're balled up in a wad, using every sort of self-psychotherapy to keep from hyperventilating and creating a scene, you'll watch just about anything, including Martin Lawrence in Rebound.
The food wasn't good, but it was a diversion. I ate every bite of everything they offered, figuring it would help me keep my mind off the fact that I was totally devoid of any ability to move. Actually, I lie. I did move some. I'm sure to my seat-mates, I was a rather pathetic twitching old man. I kept having to scratch my back. And, every time I did, my elbow slammed into the guy next to me. Add to that, the fact that every twenty minutes I had to get both of the other passengers next to me to let me out for a restroom break, then just when they'd get settled back in, there I was standing in the aisle, begging to be allowed to climb over them again. I kept hoping they'd offer to move in and let me have the aisle seat. Nope. I guess they figured they'd rather get up than having to be boxed in themselves.
I really am a klutz. On my last trip down the aisle to the restroom, I noticed after I'd travelled about half the length of the plane that when I had put my shoes back on, I had stepped on the handle part of a plastic bag I had lying on the floor. The bag contained some snacks I had purchased just in case. Anyway, here I was dragging this bag down the aisle with me. I'm sure I looked liked the total goober I am.
On a more interesting note, I did not know the plane would be flying north over the Arctic Circle to get to Hong Kong. That has to be one of my bigger thrills in life. Just to have the bragging rights to say I've flown over the North Pole is huge. I'll see how many conversations I can work that in to. We must have spent five hours or so over the Arctic Circle. I was only keeping time by the number of horrible movies it took to fly over. It really does look just like the pictures, which I guess makes sense.
Anyway, as I write, it's Tuesday morning here in Hong Kong...Monday evening EDT. And, there's a whole world out there waiting to be discovered. I'll tell you more tomorrow about what I find.

More Tragedy In The News

I heard a tragic story on the news this morning. I could tell it was going to be tragic because the newscaster got this real somber sound in her voice. It's that sound that goes from happy to horrified in one fell swoop. I can't really describe it in print, but I'll write a typical newcaster sentence and you can do the imitation for yourself. The newscaster is joking around with the weather guy, they're laughing about a typhoon or something, and then the news guy says in his quickly going from silly to somber voice, "Ha, Ha. Right, Jim. On a more serious note..."
Well, anyway, that's what this newscaster did. So, I could tell a sad story was next, and, boy, was I ever right. The newscaster introduced the story, "Bill Witchett (I made the name up because I wasn't paying that much attention), raises horses. He also wears glasses. Here's Belinda Bettleton (another made up name, but a kind of neat one, don't you think?) with the story."
Well, Belinda sounds even sadder than the woman who introduced her. She proceeds to tell us that Bill wears bifocals (already, the story is more tragic than I had first expected it to be). And those glasses fog up when Bill is out in the stable. I don't think the specific reason for the glasses fogging up was given. But anyway, the poor man has to do his job with foggy glasses. A tear begins to form in the lower right corner of my left eye. But wait! It gets worse.
"And," Belinda says, "If Bill takes off his glasses, he can't see the holes in the bridle."
"Oh, the humanity!" I'm wailing by this time, not just for Bill but for those poor horses. And, evidently Belinda is telling the truth, because next thing you know, Bill is confirming it.
Bill is very sad looking. He whimpers, "I can't see the holes in the bridle without my glasses." Obviously this poor man has suffered in ways most of us can't even begin to imagine. Personally, by this point, I'm beside myself with grief. So, I look over at my other self and say,"Why don't you change the channel. This is too tough for you."
I'm about to agree with myself, when I hear a glimmer of hope in Belinda's voice. "Hold on," I say to myself. "Maybe there's a glimmer of hope."
Belinda is speaking, "Up until now lasik surgery was not available to wearers of bifocals. But..."
As soon as she says, "But," my tears begin to turn to those of joy. "Yes!" I say, again to myself. "My wildest dreams are perhaps coming true. Bill will be able to see the holes in the bridle again...maybe."
"...thanks to a new experimental procedure," Belinda continues, "lasik surgery can now be done for bifocal wearers."
Seems that Bill is not as daring as I thought. His brother had already had this experimental procedure done successfully, so he says, "what the heck," and he gets the experimental procedure himself. And, guess what. Yep, Bill can see those holes again. Bill is smiling now. Evidently, when he was crying earlier, he'd already had the operation, so either the memories were that painful, or the news people asked him to recreate his emotional pain, like they do on America's Most Wanted, when somebody that was kidnapped and then rescued does the little vignette of their being kidnapped. Only, on America's Most Wanted, I don't think they're using the real kidnapper in the re-creation, or else, they could just go ahead and arrest him, when he came in to do the filming.
Anyway, Bill is fine now. And, even though the surgery is still experimental, Belinda did offer some good news. Seems she saved fifteen percent on her car insurance.

An Idea of Mine (This Title Was Suggested By a Marketing Executive)

I think I have a good idea that can both deal with the illegal alien issue as well as take care of other problems. Now, keep in mind that I'm no expert on this subject, but here goes. Often when the issue of illegal aliens is being discussed someone will invariably ask, "But, who is going to do those menial jobs that Americans don't want to do?"
Here's my suggestion. I say we make everyone with a degree in Marketing do those jobs. Think about it. Have you ever known anyone with a marketing degree to really understand what makes for a good promotion or an ad campagne? I haven't.
Sure, they have plenty of graphs and charts and demographics. But, when it comes to understanding how to really, sucessfully promote a product or service, they are clueless. I'm sure there are some exceptions. And, if you're marketing-degreed and a client of our company, you are one of those exceptions.
But, as a rule, I see the "brainiacs" on a fairly regular basis, making such asanine decisions. Here, I'll give you an example. We were speaking with a realtor recently who had hired a marketing consultant to help him promote his business. The consultant had told the realtor that to really have a successful print advertising campagne, he shouldn't put his name or phone number in his ad. Huh?
Seems that, according to Mr. Big-Shot Marketing Guy, if you don't put your name or phone number in the ad, it will make the truly wealthy prospects put forth the effort to search for you. My suggestion to the realtor is that he pay us not to put his ad in our magazine. Then the exceptionally wealthy prospects would have to work even that much harder.
Something else you see done by those marketing professionals is to spend more time mentioning your competition than your client. That's been true in political advertising for years. And, think about how stupid it is. For instance, take the current governor's race in Virginia. You did know their was one, didn't you. Most of the ads I hear for Jerry Kilgore mention Tim Kaine far more frequently than they do Jerry Kilgore. I heard one this morning that was Tim Kaine this and Tim Kaine that. Now, I was driving down the highway, not really paying attention to the radio, and the only name I'm hearing is Tim Kaine's. Then at the end, this guy comes on, with an accent that suggests he's auditioning for the role of Li'l Abner, and he says, "I'm Jerry Kilgore and I paid for this ad."
Now, I'm guessing the ad must have been saying something negative about Kaine, but, I'm only guessing that because I doubt Jerry Kilgore is campaigning for his opponent. I'm sure a number of people will go to the polls and vote for Kaine because that's the name they recognize, and not because of any knowledge of who he is or what he stands for.
It's not just political advertising. I've seen soft drink commercials on TV. They're either for Coke or Pepsi. I can't remember which, but the commercial shows both. Why would you spend millions of dollars to show millions of people pictures of your competition? I'll answer that, if you don't mind. You do it because some Marketing-degreed moron tells you that makes for good advertising.
I think it's these same guys who are responsible for the extermination of creativity in advertising, as well as broadcasting these days. They're so anxious to hold on to their jobs, and they realize (or think) the only way they can do that is by trying to out-bland one another, that no one is willing to suggest anything exciting.
And so what are we left with? I'll tell you. We're left with hundreds of television channels and the most popular shows are things like Dancing With the Stars. Arthur Murray came up with that idea fifty years ago. But, it gets good ratings, so now we have all these creative geniuses proposing shows like Skating With Celebrities and Knitting With Athlethes and Scrapbooking With Former Models. Well, I have a great new reality show I'm pitching to the networks - Picking Lettuce With Marketing Executives. And, I'm pretty sure UPN is going to pick it up for a mid-season replacement.

Things That Go Bump In My Brain In The Night

I think I may be going through some later-than-mid-life crisis. Or else, I'm just plain losing my mind. I'm supposed to be finishing up the fall issues of our two magazines, West End's Best and Chesterfield Living, and I can't get my mind on my writing. I think my head is just too filled up with worries about what some may feel are very minor issues. Nonetheless, in order to clear my mind, I'm going to come right out and tell you all the things I'm obsessing about these days.
For starters, the space bar on my keyboard is not working properly. I have to pound it. My thumb hurts. But, that's relatively trivial.
On to the big stuff...I stayed awake all night last night trying to come up with an Australian term for vomit. Why? Well, I had a late dinner with several friends at Outback Steak House. The food was actually quite good, but the waitress, who was also very good, kept bringing loaves of the bread, which was, itself, good. It was the way she would bring it...a brown loaf stuck on a skewer. I kept thinking she had caught a big Australian rat and was showing it off. Anyway, the subject came up as to whether there is an Australian term for vomit. I think down-underchuck might be good. But, boomerbits is a close second.
Something else that really bugs me is that I'm forced to use "he/she" when I'm talking about individuals who could be of either or both genders. I have an old boss of mine, Kim Stanley, to thank for that. She explained to me that if I'm speaking singularly, I can't use the word "they." Perhaps an illustration is in order. This would be incorrect: "If someone comes in the front door, they must remove their shoes." This would be correct: "If someone comes in the door, he or she must remove his or her shoes." Really, wouldn't "they" and "their" be much easier? I'll answer that...YES. But, thanks to Kim Stanley, I can't do that.
So, in an effort to clear my head, I'm instituting a new rule for myself. From now on I'll use the appropriate masculine word, and you can fill in the "or feminine" words in your mind. Of course, if I write, "If someone has this sympton, he might have prostate problems," you won't have to add the "or she" in your mind.
Moving on to a totally unrelated matter. Why do some people feel the need to take their fingers and make the quotation sign when they speak? Usually, they're (I'm talking about several people here) trying to make some sort of double entendre, or a pun, so I'm guessing they think we're too dumb to catch on.
And, why do persons who are chairing meetings or seminars call their opening comments and general announcements, "housekeeping"? For some reason it grates on my nerves when a seminar is about to begin (of course, I hate seminars anyway), and the chairperson gets up and says, "First, we have to take care of some housekeeping." Why not just say "Here are some announcements."? Do they think that we attendees are going to pay more attention because it's housekeeping?
And that brings up another gripe. In an effort to be gender-neutral, we now use the term "chairperson." Actually, the word "person" has come to mean "woman." Because if it's a guy, we say, "chaiman." But, if it's a girl, we say, "chairperson." Why not just say "woman." It's a nice word.
These are the sorts of things that have been going through my head lately. You may not feel they're major issues. Perhaps, you're right. But, they are affecting me.
I was driving in to work this morning worrying about these things, when I get behind a big tanker truck...you know, like they haul fuel in. On the back of the tanker, in big lettering, was written, "INEDIBLE."
Why? Did these tanker people think someone's going to get a spoon, and break into the tank, and just start eating whatever he found in there?
As I got closer, I read, in smaller lettering, "Technical Animal Fat." What's that? Well, if you want to get technical, it's animal fat. Even if it were non-technical animal fat, why would anyone want to eat it straight out of a tanker? I mean think about. There's always a McDonald's just down the road.
So, now I have this tanker thing to worry about. I don't think this column has helped me at all. In fact, now I'm thinking of even more things that don't make sense. But, I'll save those for another day, when I have nothing worthwhile to say.