A Quick Message to My Extended Family and Family Friends:

Apparently my parents are “shocked” at the level of vulgarity contained on this page. This struck me as odd because they’ve been raising me for 25 years. I figured if any two people know how vulgar I am it has got to be them. And it’s not really vulgar, I prefer to think of my webpage as indecorus and ribald. Admittedly I do use swear words in my Montaigne-esque essays (even I’m not buying that), but I feel I use them well (my college professors would concur) and when you use words well it’s not vulgar, it’s eloquent. Our naughty words are the strongest part of the English language. No other language can swear like ours can, it would be a disservice to turn my back on these words. If I use them poorly (and I rarely do) it would be vulgar and I’ll admit it (like in the essay to Daniel), but on the whole I don’t, so although my prose might seem low brow (which it may be) please note it’s also sincere and honest.

But I know my parents are concerned (they evidently gave out my URL before reviewing the site) so I’ve come up with the following list. Below are the names and dates of the articles that can be read by family members and family friends. Though I’d prefer that it all get read I understand some of this material is innappropriate and I would like to get invited to and received with a modicum of respect at the next family gathering.

Dear Friends and Family please only read the following entries: October 20th (Rapists Love Ice Cream), October 16th (Weekend at Kana’s…), Oct. 11th (Sock Essay), October 7th (On Being Alone), and October 6th, (the first praragraph of the original entry way at the bottom of the page.) DO NOT read October 13th (the open letter to Daniel) or some of the earlier entries down at the bottom of the page. The comments that follow each essay (and I use the word lightly) are also brash and full of swears but I didn’t write them (okay I wrote some) and 90% are complimentary.

So in closing I apologize for all profanity. Rest assured it was used for humor’s sake and there was no malicious intent behind it even though it may sound like it. I love you all. I’m not a bad person. And Momma, I promise I’m not just being profane because I got a job with Hustler although I wouldn’t object. All those unattired women, percolating with lascivious desires. That job would be so fuckin’ sweet! Larry Flynt my resume’s in the mail!

Rapists Love Ice Cream

So I’m downtown at a teahouse with five of my students and my friend Leather (pseudonym), whom I can’t thank enough for enduring this weekend with me, when one of my students emotes that I am a very nice person and a good friend to him and the others (you’ll notice they didn’t compliment my teaching ability…bastards) and he would like me to think of myself as a member of their little social group. I am flattered, because these are some of my favorite students and I explained to him how happy and honored I was that he would say something so nice. Leather (pseudonym) was also touched by the gesture and inquired if their group had a name, like the “Diamond Satchels,” or the “Coronets.” They said they had. They called themselves (are you ready for this?) the, “Rapists.”

Well sitting outside with five “rapists” isn’t my idea of a good time but I got to admit, Leather (pseudonym) and I were anything but intimidated. The only thing these upstanding, young boys were raping was the complimentary buffet and the Qing Teng Cha Jia (Ivy Tea House). One of the more masculine, “rapists,” hammered down six and a half bowls of ice cream not to mention a myriad of fruits, meat dishes and cakes. The table average was 3 bowels of ice cream per person, yours truly abstaining becasue I have a figure to worry about but these boys packed it on, and they (like rapists) didn’t take no for an answer when it came to seconds.

At the time we (Leather (pseudonym) and I) were completely caught off guard by what they said. “Did they know the severity of what they were saying?” I thought, “Did they know how heinous an act rape was?” I figured they didn’t. Like with the word “fuck.” They just say it thinking it’s a cool thing to say yet they have no idea what it means or how to use it. I could teach a full semester on nothing but the innumerable uses “fuck” has and they still probably couldn’t use it correctly. In fact I know they couldn’t. But I felt pretty confident that they were unaware of what their name actually implied, so I asked them. And they said, “It means a very strong man.”

Things do indeed get lost in a translation when the worse crime one can commit in the West becomes a compliment in the East (or China at the least.) I had spent the large majority of my weekend with my kids and I felt bad that Leather had taken so much time out of her day to help me out so I politely excused us and we headed out for what all English teachers in China need after six days of contact with your loving, but sometimes (and I mean this in all politeness) overbearing students: hard, stiff drinks.

Leather (pseudonym) and I headed to House Bar which is blazingly loud but has a very relaxed upstairs area with semi-private booths with comfortable chairs and couches. The gin and tonics were wonderful, and at only 10 kuai (a little over one American buck) they were quite good considering they were ninety percent gin and there wasn’t a bubble of tonic to be found (neither were limes but they were using Seagram’s Lemon Gin so it had something of an oily, citrus taste to it.) We gulped down three and left to hail a cab.

Leather (pseudonym) lives on the opposite side of town, so she got the first cab and I thought I would wait for another. Well I wasn’t quite done drinking and I couldn’t find a cab I liked (the one filled with naughty Chinese debutantes) so I decided to stay downtown a little longer. I had spent almost two full days (75% of those weekend days) with my students. I had drinking to catch up on, not to mention I needed some quiet “me” time with my good friend Sudsy McBrauhausen (he’s Irish and German.) So I stopped at the first bar I saw which was the Night & Day cafe. It was a very chic place and the bathroom proved it. Whenever you are using a urinal and in mid-stream you stop and think, “Is this the sink?” you are in a nice bathroom.

Anywho it was a wonderful place, similar to Kana’s but the music wasn’t as good. Well it was but in a bad karaokae sort of way. I sat there listening to the crooners and watching a J-Lo Live in Puerto Rico concert wondering about the ways of life and love and all that other hoo-hah we occupy our time with when we are drinking by ourselves. And then, like a drunken, middle-aged and balding male siren I heard the sweet poetic words of Bob Dylan open my eyes once again like they always had before.

Well it must have been a rare version of Dylan’s Blowing in the Wind, because I never heard this rendition. Regardless, it struck a chord and the answer was so obvious all along. “The answer my friend is bro’ing in wind. The answer is bro’ing in the wind.”

Rummy McTonedeaf also strengthened my resolve for a war free world when he belched out the line: “How many times must cannonballs fly? And all the people in the skyyy!”

How true crazy, drunk Chinaman. How true. Anywho’s it’s time to drink.

Saturday Night at Kana’s and the Baozi Debacle v.2 (With Restaurant Reviews) (I cannot begin to describe how inexplicably pissed off I am considering I just wrote all this and then hit a wrong button and erased it all. God Damn it.)

Anyone who knows me can attest to my penchant for drink. Oh, how I love to embibe the sweet spirits that send my head swooning into thoughts of fancy and soothe my aching muscles from too many trips to the weightroom (by the way ladies, GregEZ a.k.a. Big Cookie is looking totally Diesel.) Along with drink’s good friend, Mr. Cigarette McSmokessogood Esq. the two coalesce into my most favorite duo of vices. (Yes, more than my love for the tactile ecstacy that is the commingling of cocaine and black women I find that smoking and drinking are the two things closest to my plaque covered heart.) Similarly to the way a fine, aged Cabernet Sauvignon compliments the taste of a tender, rare filet mignon, I find the combination of cigarettes and alcohol to be my most welcome companion in any social setting where lively conversation and good times are the name of the game.

As the old saying goes, “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right,” and a bender is no exception. One must properly prepare and a good meal is the first step towards an enjoyable evening out, “Ty Cobbing,” it with friends. One must know to eat the right things when planning on drinking in excess, and nothing absorbs alcohol like fat (actually nothing else absorbs alcohol). Don’t delude yourselves out there. Bread does not work (sorry frat boys), in fact I would keep my carbohydrate intake to a minimum. An appetizer plate of Genoa Salami has saved my ass more times than dinner rolls and spaetzle ever have.

There is absolutely nothing wrong to treating yourself to a fine dinner after a long week of work. I find it most necessary every once in a while to spoil myself with a fine meal with friends. In Hangzhou there are two restaurants this newcomer (please read: me) knows of that fit the bill to a “T.” The first is the Shamrock Pub, a gorgeous bar and restaurant located in one of Hangzhou’s beautiful historic districts. There’s live music (which we didn’t stay for but by God they have it) and a wonderful set menu consisting of a three course meal in which I highly recommend the Greek salad, either the pork chops, or New York Strip, and the apple cinnamon fritter a la mode is to die for. It costs 90 RMB (a little over U.S. $11) and comes with either the house red wine (which is divine) or a Carlsburg which comes in a mug slightly smaller than a stein. Slightly. Coffee and/or tea is also gratis. The proprietress is a lovely woman from Manchester who knows how to cater to the needs of her clients as we were taken care of wonderfully through out the course of the evening.

The other establishment is the Hill Street Bar and Grill (which isn’t on Hill Street and thankfully has no affiliation with that crappy cop drama from the early 80’s). The main draw of this place is the bacon cheeseburger. After living in China for a while and subsisting on Chinese food a familiar taste from home is truly appreciated and the Hill Street Bar and grill has, by far, the best burgers I’ve found in town. In fact the first time I went there with my friend, Brussell (pseudonym), we were almost brought to tears by the sheer taste alone. It’s really good. Expect to spend around 77 RMB (a little less than U.S. $10) for the burger and fries and about 22 ounces of Carlsburg (it’s an abundant beer here). I recommend the Carlsburg because a can of coke is only 2 RMB less expensive and isn’t nearly as satisfying. Tack on a another 25-48 RMB for a dessert which is alright but ultimately forgettable and not worth it.

For the man on the budget however and the man on a mission. (Mine being to get drunk and then some.) I had to forgo the fancy dinner and resign myself to a more common fare: streetfood. Now don’t scoff, streetfood here actually differs from streetfood in the United States. It’s actually good. My personal favorite being baozi. Not only are they delicious but economical as well. As where the two meals mentioned above will cost you close to 100 RMB a piece, the going rate for baozi (at least the baozi I eat) is 1 RMB for two (about 12.5 U.S. pennies.) You can’t beat that with a stick as far as I’m concerned and they are deliciousness squared.

For those of you who don’t know, baozi are steamed buns filled with anything the chef desires. Typically meats and vegetables, but sometimes seafood and even sometimes fruit. Technically I guess you could cram anything in there like batteries or dog vertebrae and call it baozi but people around here tend to stick to more traditional ingredients. My favorite are the meat baozi or as my students call them, “Chinese Hamburgers.” Below is a picture of baozi:

Anyway, back to last Saturday night. School was over for the week, Friday night was a non-event, or I just can’t remember. (Actually it was quite eventful, but it was all a blur until Ralph (pseudonym) reminded me just now.) The Philadelphia Flyers were dealt a detrimental early season blow towards their run at the Stanley Cup when John “God Among Hockey Players” LeClair sustained a foot injury that put him out of the line up for two to four weeks. Thankfully I had Carl there and he knew just what to say to pick me up. “Dude, we need to get some fuckin’ baozi up in this bitch!” I concurred. Baozi was the perfect drinking base to use to fill up my duzi (stomach) before I started bombarding it with libations. There are a myriad of streetfood vendors (All basically the same. A cart, heating elements, food, plastic bags and chop sticks.) outside the gates of ZUCC but only two do I frequent with any sort of regularity. One of them is the baozi lady. A slightly rotund older woman with no feeling in her hands and a style of spoken Chinese we all find incomprehensible. Well, anyone speaking too quickly is incomprehensible to me but that’s because my Chinese sucks, but it’s getting better, but I digress. Her Rou Baozi (steamed buns with meat) are the best. They are filled with just the right amount of pork and garlic. She also pan sears her baozi which gives them a wonderful chewy/crispy texture that’s mouthwatering. Carl and I beelined for her cart and ordered ten only to find that she had none ready, we would have to wait. Well Carl and I were really stoked for these baozi so we had little recourse. This lady had the best baozi by far of any I had and she was also the closest so we gritted our teeth till they were done. However upon their completion she took them not to the usual tray she used to cool them but hurriedly starting dropping them, five each, into two bags (we had ordered ten. 10/2=5.) One bag for me and one bag for Carl. I quickly paid the nice baozi lady and gingerly (as gingerly as a man as manly as me can) walked back down the street towards home. That lasted about 3 steps when I felt something fall on my foot. The blazing baozi were so hot that they melted through the bag and had fallen all over the road. My delicious bag of steaming deliciousness was now littered all over the road, a karmic sacrifice for the dogs to dine upon. I was pissed off (about as pissed off as I am right now for having to type this all again.) I was swearing in English and Chinese to let everyone know how pissed I was. At twelve and a half cents for two I could have just as easily gone back and bought more but I felt at the time that that would be a major loss of face. Chinese culture is very much concerned with this concept of losing face (public embarrassment or disgrace) and we were as susceptible to it as anyone else. The greatest thing about Carl is that he is always right there by my side to point out that I have lost face. The manner in which he alerts me of my folly is also quite comforting because not only does it add to my initial embarrassment but also notifies everyone else within a five mile perimeter that the white guy he’s laughing at is a total biter. I tell you with friends like Carl who need self-respect. Confidence?! I never heard of it! (For the record, I love Carl.)

So needless to say, I was pissed. Our substantial ten baozi meal was now down to a paltry five, two and a half a person. Carl’s bag was holding strong as he handed it to me while he went inside the convenience store on campus to buy drinks. I stood outside, fingers carefully hooked around the fragile handles of what have to be China’s crappiest plastic bags while my other hand hammocked about a inch below the satchel of scalding “flavor orbs” (my name for baozi if I ever market them in the U.S.) I should have made prior plans for the inevitable breakage of said bag but chose to think optimistically which was stupid because the fucker melted and broke about fifteen seconds after Carl set foot in the store, leaving me alone to juggle five demon dumplings that were of a temperature ungaugable to anyone outside the field of volcanology. I saw Carl peek his head around the farside of the first aisle trying his best not to laugh embarrassingly loud at the scene playing out before him through the shop window. No don’t run out and help the guy dancing around like Rupricht the angry monkey. Just stand there and laugh and taunt him with a handful of cold drinks. I sat outside for close to a minute yelling Hot! Hot! Fuck! Hot! Shit! Ow! It Burns! Fuck! Help! But no one did. I finally had to run into the store yelling in pain and desperation where the clerk, God bless her, deftly opened up a bag of high enough integrity to contain these sizzling spheres of Satan.

On our way back home I was seething and in between bouts of laughter, Carl tried his best to make me feel better. To a large degree he succeeded (as he usually does) because by the time we got to his place I was psyching myself up for our night out while I cooled my raw hands on some icey Pabst’s Blue Ribbon. To his credit he had a strong arguement, which was pretty much, “Greg, dude, there’s no reason to stay upset, because it can’t possibly get any worse for you tonight. You got no place to go but up.” And thus far he was right. I wasn’t attacked by dingos nor did I accidently shit my pants at anytime walking back to our apartment buildnig so nothing but sunshine and smooth sailing for the rest of the night (please note that for the entirety of the evening I did not soil my trousers.) Furthermore, we were hanging out with some friends of ours from across town and we always have fun with them so after a few more PBR’s we were off.

The plan was simple. Carl and I were going to grab a cab and head downtown to a bar called, Kana’s Pub, with our friend, Dwayne (pseudonym). It was here where we were going to hook up with our friend’s from across town, Renny, Karah, and Leather (all pseudonyms). Kana’s is a really chill place run by this pleasant guy named Kana (coincidence?) It has a full restaurant (review coming) upstairs and a wonderful bar and DJ downstairs. We started the night with pints of Carlsburg while we waited for the others to arrive. Carl and I were rounding third beer when Renny and his lovely girlfriend arrived and ordered some really good looking mixed drinks. Nothing special, just a Long Island Ice Tea and a White Russian, but when you are drinking Carlsburg everything looks more enticing. About thirty seconds later Carl and I looked at one another in a way only two people as close as us can. A way that needs no words to communicate because everything we need to know about one another is written all over our eyes and our eyes read, “We need shots.”

A good bar should always have a lot of variety in their selection of shots, shooters and mixed drinks, as well as a staff that can cater to the needs of today’s drunk. Kana’s obliges without hesitation. Not only is there selectin great but they have concoctions I haven’t found anywhere else. For example, the shots were a pretty standard lot until we got to the last one on the list, and it was apparent that that was the shot for us. The name alone beckoned us and it quickly became a moral imperative to take this shot on the sole fact that it was named, “An Abortion.”

An Abortion is basically a half shot of Sambuca and a half shot of Bailey’s Irish creme, with a little aesthetic twist. After the shots are poured the bartender adds a shot of marichino cherry syrup that taints the frothy Bailey’s head red with what appear to be drops of blood. As the syrup falls through to the clear Sambuca layer it coagulates and twists into this red clump at the bottom of the glass. Disturbing to say the least. Carl and I were aghast because we didn’t see him add the marichino syrup we only saw what appeared to be a tiny, bloody worm resting at the base of our shot, but like troopers, we toasted with, “Fuck it. It’s China.” and slammed them back, and I have to admit (and this is probably the only time I’ll ever write this) abortions are delicious! We had two more like fifteen minutes later.

Carl and I were almost crying from the fits of laughter brought on by just how innappropriately named that drink was but we were able to choke back the tears. We were unable to show the same kind of restraint though when Kana’s became inundated with Europeans. Not just any Europeans but a special minority of Europeans that can be recognized by their complete lack of style, their gravy-thick arrogance and their complete disregard for common hygenical practices. Christ, this one French queef smelled like he bathed in sewage and Brut. Hence the tears. These increasingly not so rare folk come from all over Europe but can be spotted congregating in large groups and chances are you’ve seen more than your share on TV shows like E!’s Wild On: Ibiza. They are called Eurotrash. Now I don’t want to get in a big thing about this but they are a pestilience. There is not a landscape they have not tainted with their foul existence and attitude and apparently there isn’t a destination exotic or remote enough where you won’t find these obnoxious, backpacking slugs sliming their way through to this year’s “hot new disco.” For a good description of these types (remember they only comprise a very small percentage of Europe’s population) check out:

Carl’s Pertinent and Well Crafted (not to mention funny) Diatribe on Eurotrash

And for those of you who don’t get the E! channel here’s a prime speciman:

They aren’t all that ostentatious but you get the idea. Some of them look like you and I, just smellier, like the clean cut Aryan, Hitler youth that was trying to box me out at the bar where Carl and I had been waiting patiently to order more Abortions. I had to shove him with my back because he was jamming his elbow into my ribs so he could get the jump on the bartender and order three “Kah-Lo-Nahs” for his equally pretentious friends, Dieter and Gerhard. Well needless to say he didn’t get them before we got our drinks (because we were there first! ASS!). Hey Gunther! You’re country’s full of pussies and you haven’t provided shit to the realm of good music since Brahms! I poop on your country, and your fuckin’ suck ass rock bands like Rammstein and Kraftwerk. You’re whole fuckin’ scene is pathetic. You are a joke, you’re fucking clownshoes! Prick. Nice outfit.

On the whole, besides the Eurotrash, the night was great. We had a lot of laughs (Dwayne, Carl and Renny cracked me up), did some dancing (this 6 foot Russian bitch had the most incredible ass! if she hadn’t been fifty and really haggard I would have been all about it). I spoke with Kana for about 20 minutes and he is a really cool guy with a great sense of humor. I also had nice conversations with Karah and Leather who loves the Chinese guys (just kidding).

Overall it was a good night (Kana’s ruled!) and it did only get better like Carl had earlier prophesized. Grant it I still went to bed alone but that’s not so bad. I was apprehensive towards bar girls in the States, in China, with Eurotrash?! I’ll sugar my own churro thank you very much. Below is a picture of churros:

An open letter to Daniel: China’s future savior

[Since you had the audacity to completely deconstruct my friend, John B’s, missive to you, I thought I would take the liberty to deconstruct yours. You deluded, spineless Asiaphile.]

“I don’t enjoy sleazy content, and I’m sure a good deal of visitors will think you lack morals and decency. Keep in mind your host, sinosplice, is not some pornography site; don’t assume you aren’t offending people.”

Evidently my racy tirade on socks just got your water boiling didn’t it? You must be a Birkenstocks fellow I assume. I am glad though that you informed me of the fact that you don’t enjoy “sleazy” content. I forgot I was authoring this site expressedly for your enjoyment. And as far as “sleazy” content goes, I’ve been pretty tame. In fact my host, sinosplice (our beloved John), chastised me on my own comment list, about censoring myself. He supports and nurtures my need to express my self my way. He did in fact warn me though that another boring sock entry would not be welcome. So evidently my host has no problems with my content. What are you? Amish? And as for the “…good deal of visitors will think you lack morals and decency…” remark; I don’t have a web statistics program (e.g. Webalizer) on my site, so I cannot say for sure how many people are viewing it, but I have a strong assumption there aren’t that many. And of that small population that actually visit my site, I know the majority of them and they know my character better than you, so fuck you you dumb fucking twat. You impotent, overly liberal shit. You probably voted for fucking Nader because your head’s so far up your own ass you can’t see daylight. Cunt. Thanks for putting Bush in office.

“Moreover, I’m astonished by the level of negativity in so few posts after so little time in China. This is something I really resent about TEFL blogs.”

First off, I would really appreciate you not comparing my site to other Chinese TEFL blogs. Those sites, by and large, contain “information” that might be “helpful” to people thinking of travelling or working in China, as where my site has absolutely nothing of value whatsoever. My site is for my friends, family and anyone else who wants a cheap laugh. It is not for people who, like yourself, have absolutely nothing better to do with their time than to read a whole bunch of boring fuckin’ blogs and then bitch about them. I would really appreciate you going home this Christmas, finding your dad’s gun, and blowing your fucking head off. (You see?! That’s funny. The other teachers over here are reading what I’m writing and laughing hysterically. Your death is funny to us.)

“I would KILL to be in China right now.”

The other teachers and I are quite concerned that you wrote this. Seeing as you obviously have no sense of humor we all have concluded you are sincere in your wanting to murder. China doesn’t need violent, socially retarded Americans such as yourself lurking about its safe streets, searching for victims to satiate your violent bloodlust.

“I would love nothing more than to walk down the street and be “assaulted” by captivated Chinese people wanting to say “hello” or start a conversation. You don’t know how jealous I am—I have to put a lot of effort into meeting and befriending Chinese people, whose company I cherish.”

First off, it’s obvious you’ve never been to China, and although textbooks help, they are no substitute for actually living here. And if you did, you wouldn’t have written the above. Everyday, a dozen people yell, “hello” towards me and ninety percent of the time I reply with a polite form of greeting, however I don’t have the time to strike up a conversation with everyone who says “hello.” Most of them don’t want to talk, they just want to illicit a wacky response out of the “gawky laowai.” I’m over here to teach people who actually want to learn how to say more than, “hello.” I would also like to assume (if I may be so brash, and I may) that you expell a lot of effort in ANY social situation not just in your creepy obsessive acquisition of Chinese friends. Rereading your comments I am starting to assume you have lodged more than a few corpses into your crawl space.

“When I see these blogs I just think, “I should be in China, not you! You should be in America, not me!” “

Well I am and you’re not so…Ha Ha haha ha!

“I could never say a bad thing about China.”

Because you’ve either never been here and/or you’re crazy.

“China is where I belong (and no, I’m not Chinese-American, I’m as white as you).”

Well so you know, because I’m a nice person you judgemental fuckhead, I hope you graduate soon and achieve your dream of coming to China to teach (although I’m pretty sure you just want to fuck Asian women because you can’t score in the States. You Asiaphiles are as low as rapists in my book.) The majority of us here came to China to help, not prey on helpless Chinese women. Sorry I assumed again I just can’t seem to help myself. You’re such an exquisite caricature of everything I despised about college. And by the way I’m German and Sicilian which means I’m 33% African.

“Excuse my harshness. You don’t deserve the totality of this tirade—I’m very jealous of Americans in China”

Of course you are excused, I tend to get somewhat harsh as well when I let my emotions get the best of me. Oh, and here’s a couple tips for when you come.
1.) Keep your expectations low or you are going to get dissappointed, and this country is too wonderful too sulk through. 2.) Don’t come to Hangzhou. We don’t want you here, and you won’t want to be here. 3.) I’d highly recommend you take a couple crash courses in humor, you are going to need a sense of it when you get here, or you are going to have a really bad time.

Post script: If the color-scheme didn’t clue you into the light-heartedness of this site, then you are a blathering fucktard (that’s John B’s word). Unless of course you are colorblind then I apologize, queef. Don’t take things so seriously, no one really wants you to shoot yourself in the head, and I would never in a million years harm any citizen of this amazing country. It’s all a joke. Live a little. Oh and one more thing:

Well, my site, in all its vivacious infancy, has had its proverbial wings clipped before it was able to truly fly and “Go Where Eagles Dare.” The Sinosplice administrator who has preferred to have his identity remain anonymous (John Timothy Pasden) requested that I watch the content of my site, and make sure it doesn’t get too, “crazy,” or, “over the top.” So in adhering to his wishes as I would any of his wishes because his smile lights up my life the way a cuttlefish lights up the briny deep of the ocean I will for the remainder of my stay in China write only about my socks.

Going abroad for an extended period of time can be a frightening experience for anyone, especially when it is a culture and society so markedly different than your own (like China for instance.) You really start to cherish the little things from home, like all you can eat night at the Ground Round, and quality toilet paper that doesn’t let you down in the softness department. The worst part about embarking on a journey abroad is realizing you forgot something that you cannot get in your host country. I forgot quite a few things when I hastily packed two days prior to my departure (my Chinese textbooks, my CBGB’s shirt, my lupus medication etc. etc.) but one thing I remembered to pack and in great quantity was socks.

In China you walk a great deal. Even if you were affluent enough you probably wouldn’t want to choose to purchase a car and drive, because most roads (in Hangzhou at least) are not the safest around. Most people here don’t so much have an idea of how to operate a motor vehicle as much as they have an innate instinct to survive in what is, in essence, an asphalt simulacrum of Hawkin’s Chaos Theory. Add to this that most people here drive with the urgency of a sprinter on crystal meth-amphetamines you can understand that walking is probably the safest bet. Although motorists in Hangzhou won’t hesitate for a second to pull into a lane of oncoming traffic to try and bypass the line of cars in their own lane, they haven’t yet developed the audacity to drive on the side walks.

Since I’ve been here I’ve probably walked close to a million miles. My footwear has atrophied, but my socks remain strong. I came to China with the health of my feet on the forefront of my mind. Contained within my 90 pound uber-duffle, were no less than 32 pairs of socks. All less than a month old and top of the line. My everyday socks are 16 black pairs of Hanes all cotton athletic crew socks with reinforced toe and heel zones. I specified their color because black allows an effortless shift between standard sportswear and more formal ensembles. It is important to have a durable sock for all occasions. For more energy intensive outings such as hiking, soccer, and late night panty raids with Carl and Alf (which, for the parents out there, has never occured), I have 8 pairs of Wilson double soled crew socks that cushion the feet more effectively for high impact activities. The aformentioned socks have been greatly cherished by my feet but their quality pales in comparison to the two pairs of Prince all-pro tennis socks I brought with four times the heel, toe, and arch cushion of any other sock on the market! I almost need to go up a shoe size whenever I slip them on! Bar none the Prince all-pro tennis sock is the best sock I’ve ever worn. They have provided a soft yet durable support I have not experienced in any other foot-related under shoe garment. This is the sock I would wear if I ever decided to fight a yeti. I really can’t say enough about these socks. I could wear these socks on an all day excursion sloshing through the banks of the Yangtze and not only would my feet stay dry, but they’d actually smell better than before I went out. Cults and religions have been borne on less of a foundation than these socks. They are fantastic.

The remaining pairs of socks that found their way into my collection were brought more for their aesthetic qualities than functional qualities. Although they don’t hold a candle to my Prince socks they are much more pleasing to the eye. I usually wear them in combination with my handmade Italian leather walking shoes, or my leather Wolverine dress clogs with dura-shock sole technology (which is hands down the softest shoe I’ve ever had the pleasure of slipping on my tootsies but lets not get too crazy here, this entry’s about socks not shoes!)

All in all there are things I miss, things I regret having forgotten back home and it can be kind of disheartening…but you won’t hear my feet complaining! (I hate you John.)

This is just a quick shout-out to my friends (“posse” if you will) in Tallahassee (mainly my Momo’s crew). Joe (my alter ego and close friend) I hope all is well and hope the drudgery of college isn’t taking too much of a toll on you. You have a wonderful mind, let it take you where it may in your search. Luke (Run D.M.) Lassiter (I apologize if I spelled your last name wrong) keep it real brother, and I hope all’s going well with the band and the free-styling. Randy (you sexy Portuguese lothario) I hope all is well with you and Ashley, thanks for letting me win at Golden Tee my last night there in Tally (oh wait you didn’t! I beat you like a bitch. I’m just kidding.) Look after your brother, he’s can get kind of wacky. Ryan L. (also sexy but in a more annoying, drunk Brad Pitt sort of way) keep up the culinary studies. I plan on weaseling a lot of free food from you when I get back. Jerome (you underwater Adonis) go for that underwater archaeology degree. There are mad sites over here ready to be excavated and China’s still in its infancy in the field of underwater archaeology so….? And Brandon, my brother who’s actually a brother (word), if you are serious about visiting my door is always open to you (and everyone else for that matter). I’ll try my best to see that you have a great time here. Okay some Chinese guy is throwing me out of the office so I have to cut this short, I miss you all (especially Carla even though she’s a tease) and hope all is going well for you (all) (I like parentheses.) Jarret stay away from waterfalls and embrace the three jewels of the Tao. Miss you and love you all. I’m Audi 5000.

On Being Alone (part 1 of what I’m sure will be many):

I’ve only been in Hangzhou for a little over five weeks, so I’m hardly what you could refer to as an “Old Hat” in this Hangzhou game. But I feel I’m acclimatizing quite well. Actually I’m having an incredible time and the other foreign playas here at ZUCC have proven to be invaluable assets to my mental and emotional health. Truth be known, they are the main reason I am having the time I am, and I doubt very little I’d be having as much fun anywhere else. I’m very thankful I’m here and proud to straight represent the Poison Tea Leaves (fo’ rizzle).

Lately however, at the end of the night, I find that I am alone. I don’t like being alone. I miss the warmth of physical contact that only came from my love (you know who) and by the innumerable number of prostitutes that took you know who’s place when you know who wasn’t there. But I miss human contact. The guys here are great but I hardly want to sleep with any of them. Well one, maybe, but it would take a lot of Bushmill’s and a wax job.

I’m not even talking about sex. Carnality aside, I’m only talking about the comfort that comes from having another person’s heartbeat near your own. That sense of security that comes from having someone in your bed that you can hold or snuggle up to when its cold (this is in danger of getting very Dr. Seussy). Perhaps I’m just needy or insecure, or both as well as a myriad of other neurosis inducing psychological shortcomings that have found refuge in my brain.

I’ve always searched for this sense of security in other people because I’ve never quite been comfortable with myself, and I think it largely explains my penchant for oral sex (“muff diving” to the layman). It has that “return to the cave/womb” feel to it (I remember that term from some Freudian book on the nature of man but I never really paid too much attention to or had that much interest in it so I can’t site the reference as accurately as I’d like but you get the picture) that I find very calming. Having your head affectionately nestled between the thighs of a groaning woman tends to have a soothing affect on me.

But lo, there are no thighs for me to burrow between in China, or at least none I am particularly interested in. Even if I were it would do little good. My Chinese is barf (please infer: of poor quality) which means I have no way of communicating with women outside of miming sexual positions and parading around bars with my cock out which I’m not going to do and I think is illegal. There is the off chance I could find someone who speaks some English but how do I ease into, “Listen, I don’t want a relatioship, in fact I don’t even care if you tell me your name. I just want to bury face in your crotch because I’m feeling very vulnerable and alone right now and that tends to help.” I’m not foreseeing a high likelihood of success with that method but it’s the best plan I got going for me at present (I’m not good with women).

So everynight as I prepare for sleep my bedroom feels a bit colder. Everynight’s a little more sterile and solitary than the night prior. Up until I finished my Oscar Wilde collection I could at least go to my slumber with dreams of being a 19th century British Dandy swooning about my melon but now I don’t even have that, and if I read Ex-Libris one more time (which I believe would make an even ten times though some of the essays I’ve read over thirty) I’m going to cross into that freaky realm of book enthusiast I’ve never been comfortable with. Regardless the book kicks supreme ass and is written by Anne Fadiman (you should read it) but I’m straying far from the point and you know this so I don’t know why I felt the need to draw attention to the obvious, but anywho. I guess at the heart of the matter is that it can get lonely in a foreign country (duh), so if you can’t get pussy you better have enough to read.

On the previous post my dear friend Constantin commented:

“And how about you answer the REAL question we’re all wanting to know… uh huh. You know the one.”

I, in fact, DO know the answer to “the one” in which Constantin is referring, and it was not easy to find out. It took several drunken treks to some of your more seedy “massage” parlors but I have definitive proof (my own eyes) that Chinese women do indeed have sideways vaginas.

Well the blog is up (finally) so I should probably put some content on here that might be pertinent to anyone interested in coming to Hangzhou, Zhejiang province for either business or pleasure, though I recommend you never mix the two.

I have to start by prefacing that China is wonderful. I’ve yet to travel outside of Hangzhou city but I am so enamoured by the people and places I’ve come in contact with that I hardly see a reason to leave. There is a kindness and warmth here that you are not likely to find anywhere else. From the friendly smiles and smells of all the street food vendors who set up and peddle their delectables right next to a rancid mountain of fucking garbage, to the warm demeanors of the Public Security Bureau officers that seem to embrace you with their disarming body language as they come within millimeters of hitting me with their God Damn bicycle on Zhoushan Donglu the other day. This city tries to kill you with kindness, and I for one am ready for Hangzhou’s dagger of ardency to be thrust betwixt (yeah ‘betwixt’ you wanna fight about it?) mine breast bone and allow myself to be embraced by the collective pious hands of these glorious people.

Like all the glorious people that jibber-jabber in Chinese and snicker while eye raping you as they walk past, then shouting towards your back, “Hello!” Apparently this is hysterically funny to the Chinese though I find the humor is lost on me. This happens quite often and they mean no malice by it. It’s quite innocent really, for the most part they just want to talk to you because you are an object of interest. They want to be your friend and they sincerely want to learn about your way of life. Most of all I think they just want to be liked by you and whenever they yell, “hello,” I usually respond and smile, but sometimes you know I just want to stomp their heads into the concrete till my shoe’s covered in their brains.

I should probably let everyone who doesn’t know me know that I am kidding. This was written to make the people I know laugh. It is not meant to be taken seriously. If you like it I’m truly happy if you don’t I’m sorry and I don’t care. Hangzhou IS a wonderful city and I couldn’t be happier. Almost getting hit by various modes of transportation just makes you more alert. Just because a street food vendor’s set up next to a landfill doesn’t mean his or her food contains garbage, only the aroma of garbage which is delicious. And lastly, the people here really do kick ass. They are very nice. So some people want to practice their English or coax a reaction out of you by vociferating, “Hello!” or, “How are you?” Don’t be a prick, smile and respond. You’re possibly making someone’s day brighter.

I’m An Uncle!! (and I’m in China)

Thus far my five weeks in China have been an eye opening experience, and those experiences will be touched on later. For now though, on the inaugural post of my totally kick-ass weblog, I would like to announce the birth of my sister, Stacey’s, baby. A 5 lb. 11 oz. little boy named (are you ready for this?) Dominic Vincenzio Parlotto. Can you say future head of the Five Families? Anyway I’m now an uncle, and to celebrate the change in title some friends and I got drunk off a bottle of opium-laced cough syrup and watched Reign of Fire. Congratulations Stacey and Brian I’m overjoyed with this latest addition to our family and cannot wait to see pictures of the little capo. Everyone here in Hangzhou sends their best as well.

From here on out, this will be the place to go to find out what’s going on with me while I’m existing (I couldn’t call it ‘living’ because I suck too much) in China. Mom and Dad I apologize ahead of time (Carl just farted up my snoot) but I will be profane so let’s just get this out of the way now: Shit! Fuck! Cock! Ass! Whore! Twat! Jism! Nuts! Cunt! CUNT! CUNT!!! BITCH! Douche Slut! Knuckle Fuckin’ Glue Sniffer! Pecker Snot! Cock Barf!

I love you mommy and daddy.