Dear Today, You Were Awesome. Here's Why...

The stars have aligned, or the gods were smiling, or I had just the right amount of coffee, or something.

Today was one of them days. As Louis C.K. says, "Everything is amazing, and nobody's happy." Today, everything was amazing, and I was happy. Am. So, suck it, Louis.

Some reasons why:

I showed up at the subway station where the driver meets me in the morning at the exact same time he did. No, I don't have a driver. I'm teaching English at a company t

hat's practically in Tianjin! For you Chicagoans, that's like saying "practically in Naperville." For you Angelinos, that's like saying, "it was a regular day and I had to drive a shit-ton." We laughed about it, because he had dialed my number as he pulled up to the corner (it was a new driver today) and he watched me answer my phone. I heard him get out of the car and say, "Oh wait, I see you" (more or less). Not through my phone. Cos he was like three feet away. So, that. So we smiled and laughed at each other. Which, incidentally, are the same character: xiao, or 笑。

I did indeed drink some super-duper-delicious coffee this afternoon. The old days of instant only are long gone, at least in Beijing. We've been buying Shangri La coffees here. It's a fair-trade, organic, I can feel good about my heart-jumpingly strong cup o' joe, hand-harvested in Yunnan, & cetera. And it's cheaper than Starbucks. Something about opening a fresh bag, too: aaaahhhhhh. Just makes me smile thinking of it.

The weather's been pretty phenomenally phantastic here lately. Low 30s (high 80s), but just breezy enough to make every day pheel just perphect. Sun on my face and a nice breeze brings a smile every time.

So, I's been riding my bike lately. Here's my fixie I purchased some weeks ago from Natooke, owned and operated by Ines Brunn, a professional trick cyclist from Germany: damn straight that's a red chain and gold hubs.

It seems to ride better in the sunshine. Seriously, the bike lets me know when it's having fun. I can feel it smile at the road.

There was a song running around in my head that I'd heretofore never been able to track down. Because it's out of print. Because it was on a soundtrack to a Greg Stump extreme ski movie back in the day. Because the band no longer exists. But, a song stuck in one's head, caffeine and the internets can combine to make wonders. I done found a downloadable zip file on a ski chat forum. Whoo-ha! For those of you who see a mohawk when you hear the name "Plake", for those of you that can remember pulling on long johns early in the morning with Warren Miller flicks playing in the background, for those of you that know that Scot Schmidt always pulled the biggest air and went for the most extreme line, the link to the soundtrack download is here. It's mostly Nasty Rox, Inc., with a bit of 808 State, Kissing the Pink and Hoodlum Priest peppered in. And it's as awesome as ever. Close your eyes, and you can just make out Mike Hattrup, about to cowboy over the rocks. I'm doing it, and it makes me smile.

There was a weird wrench thrown in at about 5:25, just as I was finishing up one class, when I received a few urgent texts and phone calls asking, "Can you come teach a class at 6:00 at Zhongguancun?" At Zhongguancun. At least a half hour ride from where I was. At 6:00. Just over a half hour from right now. I've prepared nothing for the class. I will be sweaty. I will likely be smelly... Let's go.

Turned out to be an English Corner (an all-levels discussion about random topics) about Western dining. There was a tall, older white dude in the room with the Chinese twentysomethings when I arrived (yes: sweaty and smelly). I assumed he was the teacher filling in 'til I got there. Nope. He's a Frenchman who's learning English. In China. Go figs.

Some loverly person had printed out a one-page description of a typical western-restaurant experience. Scrapped it. Half-discussed, half-role played simultaneous group meals at a typical restaurant in Beijing, and in Dijon. Burgundy and Bai Jiu do mix, after all. All the students including Olivier, Younger and Harry Potter (not kidding) loved it. And they didn't seem to notice (or at least care) about my soaking wet shirt. This too makes me smile.

Stopped at the store on the way home to grab a couple of stuffs. Just a regular visit to the ol' Carrefour. A regular visit to the ol' 家乐福 that was interrupted by Deuce damn Bigelow. Yeah. That one. Male Gigolo. See, what happened was this: I turned the corner into the snack aisle and came face to neck with a girl, probably in her late-teens, who towered over me by at least 5 inches. That's 6'7", for those that don't know me. And immediately, like damn immediately, I hear that stupid line from a Rob phucking Schneider movie: "That is one big bitch!" And now I'm giggling. And instantly feeling bad, because she's prolly like 18. And for a girl, in China, you're pretty much way tall if you're over 5'8". And she's nearly a foot taller. So, I cross over to another aisle to giggle to the ridiculous Rob Schneider quotes running through my head. Because I don't want this girl, who's prolly already suffered enough at the hands of her peers and classmates, to see me, a grown man (at least physically) smirking. Even though it's the stupid movie, not the fact she's tall. I mean, come on. I'm not 12. I'm like at least 14. So anyway, so then I catch her just gliding from one aisle to the next, and I look at her, and I realize, "this is the most confident person I've seen in years." Some sweaty, smelly, weird-bearded foreigner's snickering isn't going to throw her for a loop. I don't need to feel bad for her at all, with all that confidence. That, and she's most likely already been recruited to play on the next Olympics' Basketball/Volleyball/High Jump squad, and prolly has her every need catered to by professional coaches and the like.

Either way, the effects of the giggling has me higher than a kite right then, I practically hug the cashier. I just smile instead.

On the way home, my stomach tells me "Pull Over Now! Feed Me! Feed Me, Seymour!!!" So I do. Who am I to argue? There's a row of restaurants lining the street, so I take a slow cruise by until I spot a small alley running north from the main restaurant street. Seems the best, cheapest, and friendliest restaurants are never on the main streets here in the Jing.

I pop a squat at a sidewalk-table and order some delicious grub and a big ol' beer. Putongde pijiu, she tells me: common beer. Perfect, Yanjing is fine. It's a possibility anyway that if I went and bought a more expensive import around the corner, I'd still be drinking Yanjing.

Aboot (sorry, was just reading hockey news--go Hawks--and my inner Canadian snuck out...everyone has one)... about halfway through my meal, a couple worn looking dudes, prolly in their early forties, but possibly in their late three-hundreds sat down to chat awhile. I made some chatter as best I could. (As best they could understand my Chinese, and as best I could understand their Hebei accents.) At some point, I asked them if they'd eaten and, when they said they had, offered to share my beer with them. 不喝, not drinking, they said. I realize now that I should have been more insistent with my offers. The Chinese take great pride in being hosts themselves and often, almost have to be forced into playing the waited-upon role. It's like a politeness role. Eat, eat. No you first. No, you first. No, you first. And cetera.

After some more minutes of chat, they left, and I shame-facedly realized that I'd been keeping an eye on my bag the whole time. It's a thing: in any American big city, if two grubby looking dudes sat down at your al fresco table while you were eating, you'd be justified in thinking they were, any second, going to ask you for money. Or at least a cigarette. Or steal your stuff while you were distracted by one or the other of them. Here in the Jing, people are simply generally friendly, and generally curious (generally if they're non-Beijingers themselves) about foreigners, especially those that can speak a little bit of their language. I had nothing to worry about. Having nothing to worry about leaves you nothing to do but smile, and hop on your bike, and ride home through the cool night, clutching your full belly the whole way.

So, now, as I finish up the fourth consecutive listening of the License to Thrill soundtrack (Nasty Rox, Inc. is singing "Plake!" at me over and over again right now), all I can do is smile.

'Night.

Stateside Swing, Part Three: Los Angeles

"They call Los Angeles 'The City of Angels'. I didn't find it to be that exactly... but maybe that's why I find the place so durned interesting..."

So says Sam Elliot's "Stranger" in the opening monologue of The Big Lebowski. (Aficionados, give me some leeway here with the rearranged text, eh?) We blew into town just like the tumbleweed in the movie's opening credits, and blew out again seemingly too fast. Visited with all them angels, anyhow. What with all the Humpers, and our host AL, and M&D, and the Panks... heck, even Les an' Kurt drove up all the way from San Di-ago. Which some folks take to mean as a female whale's underparts. Don't know if I agree with that exactly, but I haven't studied the etymological history of Californian cities' names, and when in Rome...

Managed to take in a flick while we there. In fact, the Lebowski Fest just so happened to be in town, opening the festivities at The Wiltern. Never seen so many "Dudes", "Walters", even a few sets of "Jackie Treehorn's Thugs" all in one place at one time before. Evidence below:

Note to Lebowski fans: unless you're really into shitty Creedence cover-bands, or seeing Jeff Dowd dance (and hearing him ramble on), you can probably skip all of the opening night (except for the actual viewing of course, good fun when surrounded by so many other fans), and head straight for the bowling alley/costume party on night 2. An 11:30 start time for a flick isn't that late, but when you arrived at the theater at 8:30 to wait in line... Still, it's Lebowski. Hell, there was even a "Man in the Black Pajamas" there. He may have been a "Chinaman", it was hard to tell. But, as Walter says, "Dude, Chinaman is not the preferred nomenclature. Asian-American, please."

Only one pre-child-type-person on this trip. (Can't really call him a baby anymore.) Unless you count the sea monkey that will be J's sibling one day. S/He'll have big shoes to fill. You can see how big in the pics below. Seriously, that kid's in my top ten "Awesomest People" list already, despite his potentially racist tendencies. (It was a simple misunderstanding, really. I blame Denny's.)

All other adult-type-people made the end of the voyage wonderful, wonderfully fun, wonderfully worth it. Thanx.

Oh, and yes: we satisfied our doughnut craving one last time. Incidentally: doughnut holes are not as good a hangover cure as one might have expected.

Be well, 'Merica. See you on the flip...

Stateside Swing, Part Two: Seattlympia et al

Tough to say exactly what happened out West way, as it all happened so, so very long ago. Suffice it to say that it was all great. I do remember making a Thai feast not once, but twice, in Olympia at M&G's, and again, in Seattle at the B's. (In truth, I'm just the sous-chef to Valerie's master. So, credit where credit is due.) An alliterative feast at Pat's Pub, pub-grub at O'Blarney's, home-cookin' in the hills above Hoodsport, and of course... Top Pot doughnuts. Yes, we did more than just eat our way from city to city. But food is love, and love lasts a lifetime, and a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips. Something like that.

Met a few new members of our extended families' families: a Siberian Husky named Silka, and a young lad named Kellen. One has piercing blue eyes, is covered in hair, and loves to run laps around the garden in the back yard. The other is a dog.

We also had the opportunity, thanx to a George's planning and efforts, to drive our lonely Subaru. I'm pretty sure it missed us too, although it, being a car, couldn't accurately express the emotion inherent to a reunion such as this. It may have just been leaky wiper fluid, but I think I saw tears on the windshield.

F'reals, though, it was a great trip all around, and the most shocking development may have been the switch at M&G's to a one-cup-at-a-time coffee pot. This new method of beginning one's morning one cup at a time, however, assured against my usual over-caffeination in the face of a full pot and a lazy morning. Either way: perfect.

Found a great supermarket in Seattle, carrying all sorts of imported Asian and Mexican sundries. Ask me where it is. Go ahead, I dare you. I may even remember how I got there, or what it's called. Gimme a map and I'll figure it out.

Thanx to our myriad hosts in the NW. See you again soon. Selected pics below:

Stateside Swing, Part One: Chicago, and Babies

Back in the Jing. The Big Jing. The Big, crowded, Jing.

I'd said, after being here for a few months, that Beijing, and by extension, major (Tier 1) Chinese cities, aren't that crowded. Sure, there are lots of folk around. Always. But, that's life in the big city, sure! Returning to Chicago reminded me just how skewed my perspective had been.

First, on the El down from the North Side on Friday morning. I was severely ill at ease with the mortuarial silence on the train: no screaming into cell phones, no coughing/hocking/spitting, in general, lacking the noise and hum of more than 5 million people per day. It wasn't until about the Belmont station, when it got crowded enough that a young upwardly-mobile gal's handbag occasionally brushed my arm, that I began to relax. Second, the sidewalks. Sweet Merciful Crap! they're huge. And, despite their hugeness, they aren't crowded with tens of thousands of bikes, and trees, and underground passageways that take up a full 90% the width of the sidewalk, forcing anyone staying aboveground to squeeze, lemming-like, around the edges of the ramps and stairs. Third, where the happy-hell were all the people? It was a lunch-hour on Friday by the time I got downtown. And I could walk nearly a full city block and pass only a dozen people! What the what!!! This is the second biggest city in the country (nice try, Los Angeles, you have to be a "city" to qualify as a city), and I could actually stretch my arms and twirl. Were I so inclined. Which I was.

I've since realigned my thoughts: Beijing is crowded.

Anywhatnot...

The stay in The Big Shoulders was a whirlwind of food, family, and babies. So many babies. And so much food. From late-night donuts and Big League Chew, to pizza with the cousins (credit to Jon and Christina for the idea), to buffalo burgers straight off of Cornsey's grill, to the best-slash-grossest-slash-awesomest bagelwich I've ever had, to the better-than-just-pub-grub at Bar on Buena, to Mom's french toast, to smiley-face cookies, and ending, of course, with a visit to Greek Islands. Bob would be proud. Did I forget anything? Prolly. But, I just got full typing that sentence, so I'll call it quits there.

Sure, there was the near-constant stuffing of our faces, but there were also visits to and from little people. Like, babies; not Little People. Boys, girls, twins (boys and girls), newborns, older infants, younger toddlers. All totally kick-ass. Except you. You know who you are, and you know why you didn't make the list, you baby. But other than that one kid (icy glare), seriously, all parental units should be seriously proud: you have made excellent humans. We look forward to noting their development electronically, if not occasionally in person.

There were older babies, also known as "kids", as well. These "kids", most in the form of cousins of some removal, crowded into Maw and Paw's basement for a Harry Potter and throw-the-toys-around fest. We mostly avoided said basement for fear of having to clean up said toys. Also, for fear of sitting down and losing three hours describing who Bossk is, and just what kind of bounty hunter scum he hangs out with.

Special shout-out to N-squared. Those two dudes get cooler every time we get together. (Next time, we're riding dinosaurs!)

And then, it being Chicago, we made sure we scheduled in at least a day of liver-punishing. Thanks to the aforementioned Bar on Buena on Saturday, our gracious hosts on Wellington on Tuesday, and Taste, Bandera, and Vertigo, the rooftop bar of Hotel Dana, we punished our livers quite thoroughly and quite severely.

We were happy to bring a blast of warm weather for you, Chicago. We were also happy to bring you snow. Ahh, Chicago in Springtime: perfect weather for the schizophrenic. (Apologies to schizophrenics who do not actually suffer from multiple personality disorder, as they certainly are distinctly-different diseases, but "perfect weather for the person who suffers from multiple personality disorder" sounds pedantic and dumb.)

Below is evidence of babies and liver damage. The food part, you'll just have to trust me:

Go!

What is it about newness? New car smell (second only, in my professional opinion, to new running shoe smell, preferably Saucony), the thrill of being in a new city, the sensation of tasting something totally new. And, of course, falling in love with a new album.

It's been awhile since I've experienced a truly great new album (the closest I've gotten in years was U2's No Line on the Horizon, and let's be honest, U2's top priority this past decade hasn't exactly been thrilling fans with their music), but I haven't forgotten what it's like. And I likes it. It likes it a lot.

There's something about listening to said new album six times in a row, just because you can, that makes you feel like a kid again, sprawled on your bed, reading the lyrics and album credits, right down to "Photography and Illustrations by Lilja Birgisdottir and Inga Birgisdottir." There's something about finding a new note, an instrument you hadn't detected before, an echo that that gives a song a totally new meaning. There's something about falling in love again. It makes you want to totally and completely absorb the object of your affections, to know it (her, him...) inside and out, right away, and to shout its virtues from the rooftops.

So, apologies if this reads like a review. (There are certainly better album reviews out there.) I just wants to share:

If you haven't heard the new album, Go, by Sigur Ros frontman Jonsi, go listen to it now. (You can stream the whole thing on his site.) It's so damn filled with explosive joy and wonder that it captures the way a child looks at the world on a sunny day. Maybe it's because I spent most of the last three weeks (more posts on the visit coming soon... promise) surrounded by babies and other child-type people, maybe it's the onset of Spring in Beijing, with its flowers blooming and birds chirping and ladies fan-dancing in the parks, but I can't help feeling a sense of child-like wonder and youthful renewal listening to Go. Even though I can't always understand what he's singing about (this album, unlike most of Sigur Ros's, is sung almost entirely in English, but his falsetto can still make individual words difficult to decipher), I feel completely uplifted. A nice change of pace from typical Sigur Ros stuff. Don't get me wrong: I like Sigur Ros. Muchly. But, after listening to a whole album, back to front, I too feel like holing up in a cave for the long, dark, Icelandic winter, and brooding.

Not so, Go. It's just a big damn sonic celebration.

Go, get Go. Listen. Enjoy.