Yes, it's in 3 D, but it still went down

God help me, I spent a weekend judging English talent, everything from three year olds dancing charming little dances and lip-syncing to recordings to young adults reenacting the worst bits from the most horrible plays ever. Every act was to be cut off after 10 minutes and the producer naively decided everyone was going to follow the 10 minute rule, that the next performance would immediately begin without delay, and...well, I leave it to you to judge for yourself what kind of drugs this woman was on because most people, actors in particular, don't give up the stage that easily. Some of the acts dragged on for 20 minutes or more and there were waits of up to 15 minutes between acts. Six acts an hour? Count on three. As a consequence I was there for over 12 hours viewing forty plus acts (I hesitate to call them "talent") and of these only a handful were interesting or even, well, good. (This would include the group I directed.)

One act featured an original play based on Cinderella which included changing the names of the leads to Jack and Rose (a la Titanic, no doubt so the lead actress could say she had played Rose on the stage) and it also featured a hip hop dance to "Nobody But You" which was very disturbing at it featured a group of five year olds, a Harry Potter backdrop, use of the Harry Potter theme music, and several characters dressed up as the monk and pig from Journey to the West. This was one of the more tasteful shows. I went to the competition in the next building to say hi to the judges, both old friends, and ended up getting home horribly late. I haven't had time to process quite how yucky it all was--how we weren't even given supper--how my group was given McDonald's hamburgers but the other judges the next building over were given only the French Fries--one hamburger and one bottle of water per judge for a 12-plus hour day... Gone are the days when just asking us to stop by for a photo shoot entailed a four hour banquet.

The Words Change, But the Melody Stays the Same

A conversation going on all over Beijing at this very minute:

He: (white guy on cell phone to Chinese girlfriend) No, go ahead and eat dinner, I told you I was eating out.

He: Eating out! With people from the office! I told you! So go ahead and eat.

Pause.

He: No, I'm not leaving now to bring you a bowl of noodles. You know how to order them, you speak Chinese. 

Pause.

He: So, then have something from the fridge.

Pause.

He: Yes, she's here. Of course she's here, she's my boss! She's like, 14 years older than I am. Chill out!

Pause.

He: I'm sorry you're in pain. So take a pain pill. No, I don't know what cramps feel like.

Much high pitched squealing emerging from the cell phone. He listens, grimacing, then starts taking notes.

Two minutes later: he gets off the phone, orders some noodles and leaves, take out container in hand. His colleagues sigh and return to discussing tomorrow's big presentation. You know, the one HE is supposed to lead.

However, I heard a variation tonight. I should mention that I have recently become pals--and nothing more, btw--with a much older Australian self-made millionaire. I was initially attracted to what's beneath the belt (and I don't mean wallet) but a few dinners out convinced me he's a lot more fun over a dinner table than under it. (Enough said.) He IS fun, and I've learned a lot, and that's what counts.

Since he's wealthy as all get out, he has a string of young admirers, and a handful of mature ones too. We met for a quick pint so he could get my take on a business venture (he loves my brains, a feature I find highly desirable in any man) and as we gulped down a cold one his phone rang.

"Bloody Xiao Xiao again," he grumbled. "Oi'm teyeking this outsoide." (Which is where we were.) So lucky me, I got to hear the following:

"Oy, yeah, hell yeah it's me. You rang me. Who the hell did you think you were calling?"

Pause.

"No one at home? No food? And you have cramps? Well, ain't that a right pisser?" Click!

He turned back to me with a beatific smile. "I'm the only white  guy in China who idn't pussy whipped yet. Jesus, I feel sorry for the poor Yank bastard who married that bird."

Note: Sadly, I know the poor Yank bastard who IS married to that bird, and guess what? He thinks she's pregnant!

I promise to start writing about sunshine rainbow pony club again, and all that goes with it, but pardon me a tad while I smirk.

Just the Part About the Puppet Sex, Please

Note: This is a partial reposting for a friend with with limited time for shuffling through posts. If  you're wondering how fat white guys get laid in China, this is a partial answer, and every damn word is true.

I have the pleasure of knowing not one but TWO Elvis impersonators here in Beijing and only one is gay. The other makes a living in a variety of performance pieces including some brilliant work with puppets. So, The Rose is over there one day, just hanging around and watching TV with Elvis Impersonator Number One (Elvis in his later years, with a stooped back, advanced myopia, and very thin hair) , when a Chinese girl comes over. They sit and chat for a moment, then Elvis One disappears into the bedroom. The Rose knows there's a bathroom back there and he figured oh, hell, he just nipped back there for a quick toke. But no: within a minute or two, Elvis One slips back into the living room, clad in clown pants, clown shoes, and a cowboy hat. One of his puppets, a Muppet-like creature that is mounted on Elvis One's fist with arms controlled by two thin rods manipulated by Elvis's free hand, beckons to the girl suggestively. The Rose is startled: reckless hedonist he may be,  even he is appalled by the presence of a clown-clad puppeteer soundlessly beckoning a stranger for sex through the seductive come-hither gesture of a knock-off Muppet. The girl jumps up, strides to the bedroom, and within seconds the sound of hot monkey lovin' fill the air. The Rose wonders if he should leave--and is very very relieved they didn't ask him to join them--but fortunately, after ten or so minutes, the girl wanders back into the room, a fist full of 100-kuai notes in her hand. She nods goodbye and leaves, as silent as the  Muppet which sprawls open-mouthed in post-coital abandon across the door sill. Elvis One reappears, freshly toked. "Ah, she's a nice girl," he remarks. "She's not a whore or anything, we just hook up when I have an extra thousand."

Talk Talk

I've had the oddest weekend; I have a jillion work projects, all with screaming deadlines screaming at me, a sinus infection due to hay fever, and a general sense of laziness. I haven't had a day off in about two months, and I have the usual messes to sort out, trips to tailor, out to buy guinea pig feed, and all that jazz. I won't even mention what five minutes of practice on my ukelele did to my manicure.  So rather than sitting down and doing MY work, I ended up taking two trips out of the way which ate up a lot of my precious precious time, and I don't regret either.

Trip one, to introduce a colleague to a producer over at a television station to drum up some work or some contacts. Afterwards,  long talk over beer and pizza. While I usually confide in my friend Teri, who is the coolest missionary on the planet, I tend not to listen much. And yet, I listened to what this person had to say, made some sharp comments, and hoped in the end that I was insightful, rather than shrewish. As for tonight--I should have worked on a project due Thursday (two are due Thursday, actually) but I ended up babysitting someone's mother from out of town while he went off on a hot date. As this is a friend (he of the "You're too big!" bitch girlfriend) it seemed only fitting to take care of his Mum while he went out on town. Little did I know it would turn into eight solid hours of listening to this woman discourse on everything from forgiveness to her sister's five pound tumor that popped right down into her vagina. Interestingly enough, while she was hip enough to say "vagina" she referred repeatedly to "cancer of the back door." I am not suggesting that either was boring or dull or that I took delight in their pain. Friday Night Colleague was a study in how different two lives can be and I was glad to listen. Saturday, a lesson on letting go and not being bitter.

Perhaps we don't all really need counseling, as I stated to Colleague One on Friday. Maybe we just need a healthy dose of forgiveness, and the strength to move on. Does it take more strength to cling to the edge of the pool, or to cast yourself into the water and move straight and confident through the deep end? I've been in this relationship where I'm clinging to the edge and now I'm thinking, why put this  much energy into maintaining the status quo? I was drowning in his eyes: why not just let go and swim past the pain and into whatever and wherever the current leads me? Or better yet, strike a path towards something strong and straight and true, instead of clinging to the crumbling edge of the crap I already know. So there you are: I'm getting deep again, but knowing me, will be back to writing about crisps and ice cream and blow jobs again tomorrow. As colleague number one said, "First you write about sex and evil Chinese women and then there's a recipe for fudge." Well, Friend, that is my life, and you don't have to read unless you want to.

The Fifteen Minute Orgasm and Triple Testosterone Dilemma Deux

Gentle Readers, apparently it is not enough that I have become a Modern Siren, but now I'm supposed to get a four-hour body and have 15 minute orgasms as well. Being a woman of a certain age, I don't want to cut out carbs in order to triple my testosterone and I don't want to lose enough body fat to have clear muscle definition. I'll stick to being healthy and aim for being able to cross my legs in hot weather unaided, thank you very much. While I admire people who take their health seriously, who is to say I don't? I have a black ancestress who bequeathed me her black woman's butt along with another ancestress who gave me blue eyes and skin that burns in ten minutes in the shade. It makes for an alluring combination to some men, and if someone isn't interested in me as I am, too damn bad for him.

I should also mention a rule not learned at my mother's knee but one which I imparted to my own dear child: don't shag where you eat. These two rules, plus a healthy dose of self-respect, have kept my countdown of paramours low, but well worth it. So there.