Summer Weekend

Saturday I woke up around 1.30 PM. Rolled half-way up and leafed through the May issue of Vogue. It marks the first time since August 2006 that a model was featured on the cover... so, you know, that's cool.



Then I played outside for a few hours by myself, walking down to Astoria park, running on the track for the first time in months, pretending not to die, more walking. Astoria Park was crowded in a nice way. Not a lot of eye-candy as McCarren Park, according to some Long Island City boyz.

Then I went to a thrift store and bought some awesome kickass clothes, including a flourescent green/yellow hoodie windbreaker. I'll post some pictures tomorrowz.

Finally I met up with Eugina in Union Square. Then we took the L and picked up Anna from the Lorimer platform. Then we went all the way to a place where we could take the M. It was far, like 9 stops into Brooklyn! Then we took the M back west to Flushing stop. Then we got out and found Dan, who lives there. Then we all piled in his car and got lost. Then we finally, finally, got to our destination, Alison Brady's party for her gallery opening in Chelsea. I've featured her work on here before, and like I said, she's incredible.



At the party we met up with Ryan, whose awesome magazine, Spiral, is coming out very very soon! He had a CD and showed us the mag on Alison's laptop. The Mandate of Heaven girls are on it! Also, Alison's work is in there too. In a smallworld moment, Ryan pointed to two adjacent pages of the magazine, each full page featuring one of Alison's imagez.

"This is Eugina," he said, pointing to the right image. Then he pointed to the image on the left, "Who's that?"

"Oh my god, it's me!" I squealed. (Oh, forgot to mention, I had some drinkz.) Then we all squealed, and took pictures and danced and stuff.


Then I went home, sharing a cab with the aforementioned LIC boyz. I got home and was so wired. Josh fell asleep so I watched YouTube. Then I fell asleep as the sun came up.

And that's how I do summerz. With little sleep and lots of zzz's...

Weird Chain of Events From Last Weekend, Epilogue

Continued from part 6. Which in turn came from part 5. And the rest is here: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4.

Alright, so remember the wet-faced guy in part 5, at the Banquet and Talent Show? The one that was pestering Bianca and me, with his inexplicably wet face? Well, he asked for our email addresses, and when I saw that Bianca gave him hers, I figured maybe he wasn't all that creepy, and gave him my email address too. Anyway, it's just email, right?

So guess what I found waiting for me the very next day? An email from Wet Face, curiously titled, "Special Response to a [my last academic institution] Grad from BJ."

If you haven't figured it out from the Asian stereotypes you see in the movies and on TV yet, one of the ways that Asians evaluate each other is based on where they went to school. Of course, many other cultures and other social groups do the same... except somewhat less obviously, I'd venture. Anyhoo, here is Wet Face's email, in all its [redacted] glory:

hi, Dear [My Fall Collection],

nice meeting you last night at our party...
sorry, we did not have chance to talk too much...
(you were busy too.. I had long week and had fever...I might not look so well, but I still came down to care about your return...)
I was too tired to send you this email after coming back last night

I am very impressed by your experience... you are smart and pretty... please do not misunderstand... I have no time to bother anyone...
I was chairman of cssa at [name of academic institution in New York] before...
I went to [name of another academic institution in New York] too... I work for a major bank...
(I went to top school in china too...)

where did you go to undergraduate?

My phone number is [number]. Please call me when you have chance... I like to know your special experience and may introduce some opportunities to you...
I helped people like guy who brought you in last night...

any other show this or coming weekends?

have a nice weekend.
Smile
[name]

[number... again]

In a Vice (Magazine)!

Did I ever tell you that I was a Vice Do? I didn't even know until someone sent me the link. I was pretty nervous for a while because the Vice website also had it up and it allowed reader comments. And you know how that goes. Anyway, here's the pic:


I was at a concert of some sort. And I remember not liking that outfit very much and being sort of in a foul/insecure mood as a result. And here's the accompanying text, which rendered the whole thing impossible to show my parents:

Holy shit could this ball of rice be any more put together? From the embroidered jean jacket right down to the perfectly coordinated fuck me boots, she's so flawless she's basically a logo.

The comments weren't as bad as they could be. Here are the comments that were directed at me, to which I reply herein, in the classical passive-aggressive fashion:

Subject: riceball
Date: Mar 26 2005 02:22:04 AM
Author: erik

Isn't that breezey "riceball" the same one who was photographed and put in the DO's for looking so hot for just coming off the dancefloor? I swear it's the same girl.

My Fall Collection Response: Yes! Yes that's me. In fact, going forward, please attribute all memories of hot or even mildly attractive or even "at least she dances well" Asian girls to me.

Subject: rice ball
Date: Apr 14 2005 01:37:18 PM
Author: boredinthenorth

yeah, put together rice ball.
is that like sushi rice "sticky rice"
maybe? hot


MFC Response: Wha? Um. If it's not too demeaning, then maybe.

Subject: Lice
Date: Apr 18 2005 11:23:50 AM
Author: Lola

Like everything, but the ball of rice is shitboring.


MFC Response: Oh yeah? Yeah? Yeah Lola? Guess what Lola, I think your poorly supported accusation puts you in the minority. Yeah yeah, why don't you ask boredinthenorth whether s/he thinks I'm boring or not, hm? Yes yes, look at that. Who has egg on her face now, hmm, hmm? Certainly not this ball of rice. Balls of rice don't have egg on their faces. By definition! Otherwise we would be fried rice. So there. So there.

Subject: it's ok
Date: Mar 18 2005 12:02:59 AM
Author: melting

cops are a don't. Cops+vice mag are still a don't. vice writers masterbating to trannies is a do. The dude with the broken nose may be a do, but he's way fucked up. And rice ball is waaaay hot. I love you rice ball.

MFC Response: You see this, huh, Lola, you see this? Hm? Melting loves me. L-o-v-e-s me. Who loves you, Lola, who loves you? [in a whisper] Lola, does anyone love you, does anyone? Anyone at all?

The weird thing is, I was workin' somewhere else, at another law fleet, when this happened. And I was obviously trying to brag about it to everyone, but like, 1 person had heard of Vice magazine. So it was kind of anticlimactic... and telling.

Anyway, here's the link.

Saturday Night Puberty Session

Who needs silicone when you've got knees?

Weird Chain of Events From Last Weekend, Part 6

Continued from Part 5.

Late that Friday night, Mr. X calls me and tells me that the shoot tomorrow is a go. I am to bring white people. We are going to be reporters in a scene of the Chinese TV series being shot by Director Zhou Sun.

I used to do extra work as a teenager to supplement my $20/week allowance. I even had an agent who tried to cast me as a Thai prostitute on a weekly basis.

"But don't you want to meet Mark Walberg? Marky Mark?" she begged once (between putting me on hold for egregiously long periods of time).

"Nah," I shrugged, opting instead to hanging out with a cute boy. Sadly, later I found out that Chow Yung Fat was also in the movie and the cute boy broke up with me via the tried and true Turkey Dump") tradition.

Lately, now that my weekly allowance comes from a company instead of mom and pops, I haven't been interested in extra work. But, wishing to see the director again and to distract myself from an odious amount of work that had to be done that weekend, I decide to go.

At 1 PM, I meet Mark, a white friend of mine who also got a kick out of being in a Chinese TV show, at the Starbucks around 5th Ave. and 32nd st.

We approach a section of the street that has an unusually high number of asians standing around --which, since we are in Koreatown, is somewhat misguided. But Mr. X, in typical fashion, had given me an intersection and no specific street numbers.

A boy gathers us and about ten other people into a semicircle. He introduces himself as "Tiger."

"Did he say Tiger?" I whisper to Mark.

"Yep," he nods, rubbing his hands excitedly. We can already feel that madcap will ensue.

Tiger gives us our assignment. The main character will come out of the revolving door of the fancy highrise we are standing in front. He has just donated all of his lottery winnings to a charity. Everyone is mad curious. We, as reporters, will swarm him and pepper him with questions. Since everything will be dubbed, it doesn't matter what we actually say. We will follow him in a 'razzi swarm as he gets into his limo at the curb, at which point he will be driven away and we will stand in the street with open mouths and unanswered questions and a faint and quickly passing sense of mopery.

Props are passed out. I get a small microphone with a wire coming out of it. I plug the wire into a buttonhole in my cardigan.

"Action!" someone yells in Chinese.

The revolving doors spin forth the main character and his caucasion lawyer. There is a shy pause, and then madness! As a dozen of us run towards them thrusting microphones and mini tape recorders and cameras at them.

A short woman to my left yells, "Why did you give your money away?"

The actor stops, grins at her, thinks, and answers in heavily accented English.

My turn. "Excuse me, excuse me, but... what is your favourite colour?" I yell.

I'm pretty proud of my ridiculous question until Mark one-ups me, "Mr. Yao, Mr. Yao," he shouts, "What about the children?"

By now everyone is trying to be a comedian.

"Are you gay?"
"What is your favourite restaurant?"
"Do you like New York?"

All asked in super urgent tones. The actor continues to grin and either shake his head and murmur, "No no no..." or nod his head and laugh, "Yes, yes yes."

It's fun and we do this scene a few more times with the camera at different places.

During one of the breaks, the director comes over and stands about two feet from me.

"Are you... are you the girl that I met yesterday?" he asks.

"Yes, yes I am!" I try to tone down the look of unadulterated happiness on my face. Which, I guess, means trying to look somewhat adulterated... why don't people say adulterated as much as unadulterated?

We nod and smile and Mark thoughtfully turns away to give the Director and I maximum opportunity to continue our shy exchange.

"So... you live here?" he asks.

"In New York? Yeah, yeah I do."

You know how every once in a while you meet someone who is so down to earth that you can't stand holding eye contact because you're not used to how they look at you so steadily but not in a challenge-you-to-a-staring-contest kind of way? Just in a simple studying kind of way? It was like that with the Director.

Eventually I have to look elsewhere or devise something to say to break the down-to-earthiness a little bit. C'mon, if I was better suited for this, would I be living on the east coast?

"Um, how long are you going to be staying in New York?" I ask.

"Oh, we're leaving on Monday. Have to go to [Chinese that I don't understand.]"

We nod some more. I'm pretty happy but also just about to kill myself from all the realness.

I remember a thing Mr. X told me on our drive to Flushing the day before, about how a NYU girl he had introduced to the Director the day before had totally inappropriately asked the Director to come give a talk at her school, inappropriate because she had bypassed Mr. X and asked the Director directly.
The Director was too polite to refuse but he was also too busy to go. He felt bad and told Mr. X about the girl's request. Mr. X was mortified and declared the girl completely immature, waving his arms indignantly above the steering wheel as he relayed the story to me.

So it was with some hesitation that I ask my next question.

"Do you have a card?" I finally blurt out. I feel bad for asking such a cheesy question to such a down-to-earth guy. But dudes, he's leaving on Monday, what else am I suppose to do?

"No, I don't," the Director says apologetically. He doesn't even pat his pockets, which suggests that he probably never carries such things around.

"Do you have one?" he asks.

I shake my head no. For some reason, it feels like our mutual not-business-card havingness has upgraded our relationship somewhat --like we just recognized each other as members of a small club. To be honest, it's not that I'm too un-cheesy to carry my business cards around; it's my forgetfulness that prevents me from spewing contact info at everyone I meet.

"I can give you my number..." the Director offers.

I of course do not have a pen on me either.

"Mark, Mark!" I scream at the top of my lungs. Standing half a foot from me, Mark turns and kindly avails himself to me pawing through his jacket pockets for a pen. After we locate a pen on his body, we realize that we don't have any paper.

I look down and see a used paper plate with a ketchup smear (or blood) smear on it. Without thinking, I pick it up to use as paper. Mark and the Director visibly recoil in disgust. Embarrassed, I drop it back onto the ground and sheepishly accept a piece of receipt from Mark's wallet.

"Okay, I'm ready," I announce.

The Director opens his mouth to say his number, then interrupts himself and asks me in the same shy way, "Do you know my name?"

I nod, touched at his humility. Everyone on set is basically treating him like a god or successfuly warlord, and he's still able to remain totally unassuming!

I write down the Director's number, my hand trembling both from the breezy March weather and from barely concealed excitement.

A small and stupid girl interrupts us to ask the Director for his signature. I shoot her a dirty look that she totally misses. I find Mark and slap him around in sheer drunken exhilaration. It has never been my modus operandus (how sad/odd is it that I've used this term twice in this series?) to get a cute boy's number, but now I know exactly how triumphant it feels to do so.

Because we are all decked in reporter gear and look somewhat convincing as a mob of media, passersby, especially tourists, stop to wait with us fake reporters to see who walks through the revolving doors.

One of the extras, a super nerdy guy who claims dubiously to be an investment banker by day, starts telling passersby that we are waiting for the vice-president of Taiwan.

"High five!" his other nerdy and also alleged investment banker friend exudes.

Finally, after we shoot last scene, and it is announced that we've shot the last scene, everyone claps and woos a little and disperses. For the whole shoot, Mr. X has been in turns driving an equipment van around, preventing people from parking where we are shooting, running after a small toddler who for some reason seems to be part of the crew but has no responsibilities other than to run around and look cute, and coming up to me every once in a while to advise me to "get in front of the camera more, turn your face to the camera, maximum exposure!"

Mark and I are about to go grab some chow when, somehow, we end up in a Chinese photo barrage. A CPB is when someone whips out a camera and some excitement, and this causes a chain reaction so that every Chinese person has whipped out a camera. And then they basically boss each other around happily until there is a picture of every combination of people possible. No it's true, I think you can find this in the Finite 101 course in any respectable college. (e.g., 15 people total, pics of 2 to 7 people, how many different combinations can you make?)

Because Mark is white, he gets to be in every picture in a CPB. (This too, obviously is worked into the more challenging Finite questions.) So we end up staying there for at least another five solid minutes, sowing our wild oats into a multitude of online photo albums.

NEXT POST: EPILOGUE...

(Photos from Order of Appearance: Beijing Film Academy, alma mater of The Director; my headshot, the fotog did pretty good considering how I'd just got hit in the neck playing street hockey 2 hours prior to the shoot.)

My First Yankees Game

So I got some free tickets from work and went to my first Yankees (is there an apostrophe in there?) game this past Sunday. It is the third professional baseball game I've ever attended. I'm not gonna lie, I'm very ignorant of the world of spectator sports.



Also, enough Sox and Mets fans and plain ol' anti-Yankees fans peeps over the years have impressed upon me the belief that Yankees fans are the worthless spawn of Satan and I was a little bit expecting to witness mothers throwing babies down from the bleachers in mad fervours and fathers frothing at the mouth with burning eyes.



So I was pretty surprised to have a really good time and not be as bored as I get when I accidentally catch baseball on TV. It made me think back to twelfth grade, when Mr. Ellis tried to tell us about how baseball is an iconic American sport, and to Shoeless Joe. Unfortunately I never really paid attention in class and didn't manage to finish the book, so my thoughts about those things were quite shallow. But still, I thought.



Unfortunately, it snowed a bunch and I was chilled To The Core. I can't wait to go back in the summer with a big group of friends, sit far far up in the bleachers, a cold beer in one hand!

Weird Chain of Events From Last Weekend, Part 5

Continued from Part 3, with txt msg accompaniment by Part 4.

I look at Mr. X, his legs and arms slightly bowed, beads of sweat on his smiling, eager, plastered-looking face. He is not slim but he is shorter than me and I worry whether he can support my weight.

"Come child, we don't have a lot of time," the Magician says in a low voice.

I take a deep breath, run the three measly steps that the small space would allow, jump up, and hold on. My face is three inches away from Mr. X's; I try not to look at his pores.

"Bend your knees so that your legs aren't sticking out, it'll make it easier on Mr. X," the Magician coaches.

"Yes, yes that's it! Good kid! Now, at this point, say the second line I taught you."

I draw a blank.

"I've missed you so much?" I guess feebly.

The Magician's face falls and Mr. X gives me a quizzical look, slightly buckling under my weight.

"No, no, no!" the Magician scolds. "You are suppose to say, 'Will you ever forgive me?'"

I say the words, eager to get off Mr. X and stand on my own two feet, except instead of letting go, he excitedly creates additional dialogue.

"Will you call the cops on me ever again?"

I am stumped.

"Then you say," Mr. X changes his voice to a soft falsetto, "No, I'll never report you to the police again! I miss you so much!"

I obediently repeat after him, trying to commit them to memory and to ignore the fact that I am still basically straddling Mr. X in a small closet under the watchful tutelage of a Chinese magician in a vest.

"And then he carries you off the stage, and we're done," the Magician concludes.

I finally hop off Mr. X; the men wait for for me to smooth my skirt.

"So... um guys? So when I first walk on stage and cry 'Peter!', am I looking around for him, or have I already seen him?" I ask worriedly.

"No no no, it's not 'Peter!', it's 'Peterrrrrrrrr!'" Mr. X chides.

Great, it's the only English line I have, and I basically have to do it in a Chinese accent.

We shuttle back to our seats around our table, and waiters place one dish after another before us.

"Um, do you know when we perform?" I ask Bianca the young Chinese actress.

"Nope, I don't know anything," she shrugs.

We watch as the Magician goes up first and pulls out a mechanical pigeon from his hat and lights things on fire. Next is a woman who does not stop singing very loudly in a white prom dress while her shy modest looking young daughter hangs around by a corner of the stage looking miserable.

Every once in a while Mr. X reappears with a new person to introduce us to, and then he runs away and the person either awkwardly makes up an excuse to go too, or awkwardly sits down for a few minutes first.

At one point a man in his thirties comes up to Bianca and me. His face is soaking wet as if someone just used it to catch a bunch of rain, and he looks... well, crazy.

"Are both you girls actresses for tonight's show?" he asks excitedly.

Bianca and I nod coolly.

"Great! Great for you girls. What is your name? Where do you go to school? That's great that's great!"

The man, who is wearing a white ill-fitted suit, will not leave us alone. He buzzes around us with his wet face, threatening to drip on our belongings at any minute.

Getting restless, I slowly pull a book out of my bag to read, hiding it on my lap. I have been trying to find a monologue and the book, called "Modern American Theatre Monologues for Women," consists of about 30 monologues for women, as the title clearly indicates.

"Hey, what is that?" one of the older middle-aged women on my right side chirps, eagle-eyed.

"Uh... this? It's a ...book."

Apparently, this answer is enough to catch the interest of the woman's friend beside her as well.

"Oh, what is it about?"

"This? Oh it's like... " and having no idea how to say monologue or even many of the other necessary descriptors, I squirm a lot, wave my hands in the air, and mutter something about, "different people talking."

"You know," the more Stepford looking woman announces with pride, "I get all my what-to-read suggestions from what other people are reading."

Next thing I know, the book is snatched out of my hands and the women whip out pens and and paper to carefully copy down the title of my monologue book.

"What is it about?" one woman asks.

"Uh... it's a... lot of stories."

"Where is the author's name?"

"Uh... there's a lot of... authors."

"Great, I'll definitely pick it up at the bookstore."

They pass the book back to me and I shove it back into my bag. Boy are they going to be disappointed when they try to read it!

Finally, we are summoned to go! We're up! Right after a group of Kung Fu boys! We giggle to each other, Bianca, me, and a third girl who is a clarinetist at Columbia.

"How do you know Mr. X?" Bianca and I ask the Clarinetist.

She shrugs uncomfortably. "I called him about an ad for a room for rent and somehow... I'm here."

Bianca and I nod with understanding.

"He keeps on promising me that he's going to get me to play a duet with Bill Clinton, " she continues skeptically.

"He keeps telling me something about a director," I add.

It dawns on us that Mr. X has a certain modus operandi.

The girls shrug, I shrug. We all look into the mirror in the small closet and titter nervously.

My part isn't until the very end. I hear my cue, Bianca, say, "The whole country is doomed!"

I take a deep breath and step onto stage, yelling, "Peterrrrrrr!!!" The whole time leading up to this moment, I have been an anxious wreck. But by the time I'm on stage straddling Mr. X, telling him that I will never call the cops on him again, I have already resolved to be a clown. And as Mr. X carries me off stage, I turn sideways to the audience with a dumb grin on my face and wave slowly and exaggeratedly at them. When in Rome, right? The crowd laughs, I mug, and Mr. X toddles off stage.

"Great work!" the Magician greets us backstage. He pats me on the back and gives me his business card, with folds and has trick playing cards on the backside.

Bianca, the Clarinetist, and I run to our seats like released felons and throw on our jackets while Wet Face stands watching us, wringing his hands.

"You girls are done already? Where are you going? You're leaving already? Will you get home alright? Can we take a picture?"

We grab our bags and bid Mr. X goodbye in unison.

"Ahhhh! You're going already? Oh, ok ok. Did you have fun girls? That was fun right, you got to have fun, had some great food, made some good friends, right?" Mr. X turns to the Clarinetist, "Clarinetist, next time I'll get Bill Clinton to do a duet with you, okay?"

We all roll our eyes and laugh good-naturedly. "Byyyyyyeeee Mr. X!"

"Ok ok, bye girls! Bye bye you good girls! Be good! Ying, call me tomorrow morning okay? We might need some reporters for Director Zhou Sun's TV show. Do you have any white friends? Bring them bring them! Black friends too. Call meeeee!"

Mr. X's voice sets in the distance like a bright light. I take the 7 train and wonder what will happen the next day.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Mandate of Heaven, S/S 07

Cashmere playsuit by Mandate of Heaven. Music by cutest band in the world, The Glow. Boots from DSW!

Weird Chain of Events From Last Weekend, Part 4, txt msg version

Continued from Part 3.

8:04 PM TXT to MS
Rite now im at a chinese banquet and im gona be in a skit where i hafta jump in to the arms of an old man! How did i get here?!

8:09 PM TXT to MS
Im in flushing. Wats flushing? Is there subway in flushing?

8:46 PM TXT to MS
I am now at the same table as an award winni

8:52 PM TXT to MS
Magician! A mechanical pigeon!

10:23 PM TXT to IC
I am in flushing! Feels like a parallel universe@

10:25 PM TXT to MS
I have to call him tomorrow morn.

10:37 PM TXT to IC
I was at a chinese year thing for jiangsu ppl. I had to do a skit! In chinese! Very surreal. Half the ppl were prolly counterfeiters. Um is that racist?

10:46 PM TXT to IC
Yea! I thought 4 a second that i was being kidnapped! I met the director of that gong li movie with the train.

12:43 AM TXT to MS
Its a go! Well eighty percent certainty! It will be at one. One 5th av at 33st. Bring a slr if u have. And dress like a reporter!

2:34 AM to TXT MS
U can bring a white friend.

Weird Chain of Events From Last Weekend, Part 3

Continued from part 2.

We finally stop at a multi-storied Chinese restaurant. I follow Mr. X up to the second floor.

"Wait a second," he says and slips into the men's bathroom to put on his white tuxedo pants.

I look around. There are Chinese people everywhere. Old ones, young ones. Mixed babies. An old school Italian dude with a Chinese wife, both silver-haired. I love seeing older mixed race couples. While it might not be that big of a deal to be with someone of a different race nowadays, imagine how daring it must've been back then, and for the older generation!

There are balloons and banners everywhere. They announce that I am at a Chinese New Year celebration for Chinese folks from Jiangsu Province. I can't help but feel a little uppity. You see, for a Beijinger like me, going to a Jiangsu event is how a pretentious New Yorker would feel going to a New Year's Eve party for people from Wyoming. Dig?

At one end of the huge banquet hall is a slightly raised stage with microphone stands sticking out like aloof birthday candles. What am I doing here?

"Come here come here come here!" Mr. X rushes out of the bathroom and pulls me towards a table in the back of the room. There are two middle-aged women, a younger girl, and most spectacular of all, an older Chinese gentleman with a long pony tail and a colourful beaded vest. He actually looks Native American --when was the last time you saw a Chinese man with a long pony tail and a vest? Yes, exactly.

I am shoved into a seat and introduced thusly: "This child is a lawyer!" I feel slightly freakish as the middle aged women gasp and look closely for eye wrinkles and the younger girl frowns at me suspiciously.

"This man here, he is a teacher, an award winning, foremost of foremosts, magician," Mr. X boasts, gesturing grandly towards the man in the vest, who nods with a smile that is just a little bit grim.

Then Mr. X flies away to other tables where he seems to be excellent friends with at least three people at each table, punctuating loud excited greetings with flecks of spittle.

I sit alone at the table, a little bit overwhelmed, and make small talk with the middle-aged ladies, which mostly means answering to their interrogations: where did you go to school? how old are you? how long have you know Mr. X?

To which I respond, "a few hours."

"Doesn't he seem kind of sketchy?" the younger girl interjects. I learn that she is the daughter of a famous Jiangsu opera singer, who is now also here in New York to accompany her daughter as she takes acting classes.

"Hey," the Magician beckons me towards the empty seat beside him, "come here for a second."

I obediently sit as instructed.

"So, you're going to be in our skit," he nods.

I smile nervously.

"Two very easy lines --Bianca, Bianca, what's your last line?" the Magician asks the young Chinese actress.

"The entire country is doomed."

"Ok, so after she says that, you, run on to stage, then look around," here the Magican pretends to look around frantically, "and say --Bianca, what's his name...? Oh, okay. So you yell, 'Peeeeterrrr!'"

I nod easily.

"Then, you jump into his arms and say, 'Forgive me!'"


Huh? What's this about jumping into someone's arms?, I think to myself.

Well, whoever's playing Peter, I hope he's decent-looking.

Suddenly Mr. X returns to our table, looking even more flushed than before, with another Chinese girl beside him. "Let's go let's go let's go! We have to rehearse!" he yells anxiously and motions for us to follow him. The Magician and I hurry after him, practically at jogging speed, as we thread our way to a small closet by the side of the stage.

Mr. X closes the door behind us, accidentally trapping a small sequined girl inside with us. After we release her to her worried mother outside, Mr. X closes the door behind us again and stands facing me, arms outstretched.

"Wrap your legs around him when you jump into his arms," the award-winning Magician instructs.

Only two hours ago, I was in mid-town sitting at a desk reading a multi-pronged argument and now I was in Flushing, beyond the reaches of even the far-reaching 7 train, locked in a small closet with two of the most eccentric Chinese men I have ever met, getting straddling instructions.

"Jump where?"

TO BE CONTINUED

Patricia Field Party

Monday went to Patricia Field (Sex and the City, The Devil Wears Prada) party at her boutique on Bowery and after party on Orchard at ...Core, was it? Met up with Eugina first at Angelika first. She's a dear. At the party, we bumped into a bunch more dears, the Mandate Girls! I also saw a big blonde bunny with a small bunny around its neck. (Sounds like a character from Waiting for Godot, non?)




(Images by Eug!na)

Weird Chain of Events From Last Weekend, Part 2

Continued from Part 1.

Mr. X turns to me, with an exhilarated expression on his cherubic face.

"There's the director! There's the director!"

He stops the van in the middle of the street.

"Get out! Hurry, get out and take a picture!"

I don't even know why, but I get caught up in the moment too, eyes widening, and tumble out of the van to stand shy and panting on the street.

"Where's your camera?!" Mr. X yells at me with utmost urgency.

I scramble back into the van and return with my Razr. (Ok, one quick emphatic public message: do NOT buy the Razr. Or accept it in exchange for anything of value. It is the slowest, brokest, worstest phone ever. I want my Samsung back.)


The Director, whose two most recent movies both starred Gong Li and include Zhou Yu's Train, smiles at me. I try to look at him With Meaning.

"This is Ying Ying! She looks like a kid but she's a lawyer! A New York lawyer!" Mr. X shouts giddily to the Director.

"You, um, you're a lawyer?" the Director whispers.

I nod sheepishly.

"In New York?"

I nod again.

It's like we're trying to be as quiet as Mr. X is loud.

"Alright alright, how do I do this?" I rush over and show Mr. X how to take a picture with my phone.

"What kind of camera is this?" Mr. X grumbles.

"Here, use mine," the Director says quietly, pulling out a camera from the bosom of his flannel jacket.

"Stand closer together, closer, closer! C'mon, stand closer!" Mr. X screams happily at us as the Director and I grow increasingly uncomfortably close, and just plain uncomfortable.

"Alright Mr. X, just take the picture will you?" the Director laughs. I laugh, or pee my pants, I don't know which, at that point I was nervous enough to do both.

"Back in the van! We gotta get to the banquet by 7!" Mr. X yells. I smile bye to the Director and scramble back into the van. It is 6.30 PM. On a Friday. In Chelsea, Manhattan. Yikes.

On the drive to Flushing, which takes about an hour, Mr. X hangs his phone around his neck and tries to answer all his calls. Every call pretty much goes the same way. First, I am sent to climb to the back of the van to find an item of great import to the caller. Second, at about three minutes into the call Mr. X starts looking around for cops and gets paranoid that he's going to get a ticket for talking on a cell phone while driving. At which point he tosses his phone at me and makes me take the rest of the call. But not before yelling into the phone, "Here, speak to a lawyer!" Which confuses not only me but the person on the other side of the call.

"Good kid, good kid. I'm gonna give you a job at my new company," Mr. X promises vaguely but soothingly as he watches me try to jot down some notes from a caller on the back of a receipt.

Finally, we park and walk towards the banquet hall. I hold a pair of white tuxedo pants for Mr. X as he shrugs into his white tuxedo jacket while we walk.

This is only my second time in Flushing ever and I have no idea where I am.

"Is there a subway around here?" I ask.

"Subway, hmm, yes, subway..." Mr. X murmurs absent-mindedly.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Weird Chain of Events From Last Weekend

So in the middle of a very busy week at work, my mom calls.

"The Chinese director Zhou Sun is making a TV series in New York!" she shouts in response to "What it is, ma?"

As she excitely goes on and on, I can't help but tune out for a bit --c'mon, I'm not an asshole but I do act like one with my mom.

"Do you want me to give you the phone number?"

"Huh? Whose number?" I grumble, toggling anxiously and uselessly through various Windows applications. Adobe. Excel. Outlook. Adobe. Excel.

"The guy in New York! Look, I already called him. He's expecting your call. If you don't call now, he'll never remember who you are."

"Alright alright. I gotta go!" I flip my Razr phone closed angrily and slink further into my chair. Damnit! What is this new thing that I have to do? Call who? Someone in New York? To meet a director... is that it?

My mom is pretty well-known in China nowadays as a novelist who works with a famous director (Zhao Bao Gang) to adapt those novels onto screens big and small. So, it's not 100% odd that she called me about a Chinese TV show. Just 80%. But I did later find out that she didn't even learn about it through her insider-status channels. In fact, a friend of hers had seen the phone number for the "guy in New York" on a Chinese cable channel commercial for god knows what.

"Might as well get this over with," I grouse, and flip my phone back open and jab the appropriate numbers.

"Wai, nihao!" a man yells back.

"Uh, hello? Um, I'm [mom's name]'s daughter." I stammer back in Chinese.

"Oh! [Mom's name]'s daughter! Yes yes. Okay, good. Why don't you come meet me tomorrow. Yes yes. Do you have white friends? Bring them too. How tall are you? Ha same as me, same as me, you're tall for a girl! And then you can come to a party on Friday night. How would you like that? It's in Flushing. A banquet. I'll introduce you to the director tomorrow, after I meet you first. Did you know that I put on a Chinese New Year celebration at Yale? Yes, yes too bad you already graduated. It was phenomenal. You're a good kid, Ying Ying, I'll see you tomorrow."

I hang up in a daze and recupperate via a few more clicks of mindless toggling.

So, the next day, Friday, after work, I take the train down to 23rd street and 6th. The man on the phone, Mr. X (no seriously that's the first letter of his last name), had told me to meet him at that intersection and would not tell me a street number when I asked for it.

"Just look for the most handsome man in your vicinity," he had joked (I think).

I get there and give him a call.

"Wai, nihao?" he shouts into the phone again. I am getting used to this.

"Uh, it's Ying."

"Where are you, Ying?" he shouts back. He has the kind of speech pattern that gurgles his syllables, I picture him talking with a big smile as words overflow and slide out of his mouth. Does that make sense?

"I'm at 23rd and 6th," I answer proudly.

"Oh good! I'm on 23rd, between 6th and 5th. I'm in a white van. Come find me!"

I start feeling a little bit like I'm participating in my own kidnap. "Won't mom be shocked," I think slyly the way Tom Sawyer thought before he ran away from home, "won't they be sorry!"

I find the van, a huge moby dick of a van, closer to 5th. I go around to the passenger side, a small Chinese woman (who looks like the woman that designed the Incredibles' super hero costumes) slides the door open and the driver, Mr. X, shouts me in.

Inside I am introduced to a tired looking man in the passenger side, who isn't paying any attention to me beyond what bare manners necessitate, and the Incredibles woman, who speaks in the exact reedy voice you'd expect her to have, and an old white man beside her, a friend of the woman.

"How old do you think she is?" Mr. X points gestures towards me.

Before anyone can answer, he giggles, "doesn't she look like a student? Just a student? So young!"

Mr. X starts to drive slowly the five of us slowly around the block.

"What are you doing, my friend?" Ms. Incredibles asks worriedly.

"I have to keep moving, keep moving!" he cries back. Just like a shark, I note.

"Oh, Mr. X, you need this... " Ms. Incredibles rummages through her purse and pulls out a small box of tictacs. "You're an important man now, you need this."

She dumps a few in his palm as he nods eagerly with importance.

Eventually we end up back at our starting place, and Mr. X tried to park his huge Moby Dick in a tiny tiny space, with Ms. Incredibles murmuring, "watch it, watch it, oh Mr. X, watch it!" beside me.

We manage to seriously anger a rich looking couple in a Lexus (i.e., not so rich out of towners), holding up the whole street behind us, and then bump unceremoniously into the van in the spot behind us.

"Don't worry! That's one of ours!" Mr. X yells.

The impatient man in the passenger seat pops out, and then Mr. X leaves too. I sit in the van with Ms. Incredible and her white friend. We chat. She works at the Met as a tour guide. She's here to be in a scene in the TV show. She had played Mr. X's wife on Broadway(!).

Suddenly Mr. X's chubby face appears through the driver's side window. "Come out come out, come take a picture with the actors!"

We stumble out of the van obediently. I'm the first out and I have no idea which of the half dozen Chinese people standing around are the actors until Mr. X shepherds me towards two of them.

Pictures are taken, with as many arrangements of people as you can think of. I'm pretty sure there were some pictures with just me, Ms. Incredible, and Mr. X.

Finally Ms. Incredible and her white friend are led inside a building to shoot a scene. She gives me her card.

"Do you have one?" she asks.

"I forgot," I answer sheepishly. I really have a hard time being one of those people who always have a fresh business card to give.

"You can't go home," Mr. X says to me, anticipating my exit.

"You have to come with me to a party. A banquet. It's a show. In Flushing," he says as he removes things and adds other things to his van.

"You have a part. In a skit. Just a small part. Two lines. It'll really help me out..." he continues.

I sigh. "How long is it?"

"Two minutes, two minutes! You can go as soon as you're done your part, or you can stay for the whole thing up to you!" he shouts through an armful of white tuxedos in clear dry clean bags.

Fuck it, I think, I haven't had an adventure in a while.

"Alright, let's go," I announce more to myself than to Mr. X.

We get in the van, pull out of the parking spot, and just as we're about to cross 5th, Mr. X spots the director Zhou Sun on the sidewalk.

TO BE CONTINUED.