Pardon the technical difficulties folks! There are two windows that contain no video. It's an engine problem thanks to the jerks at google. Or thanks to my technological challenged ass. Enjoy!
x mum
This man tried to give me crabs. Literally.
A tomato from my garden. That happens to look like a butt plug.
Looks like the hog carcass from Carrie. Poor fucker.
Finally. Melons in China that were bigger than mine.
It's Friday possum! And the weeks end is nigh. So grab some booze, pop a pill sit back and demand your local government to screen The Muppet Show every fucking morning in lieu of the news.
So in today's posting we will take a peek into the culinary world of Chinese cuisine. Now many of you live in big cities and have enjoyed Panda Express, P.F. Chang, Wow Bow and all of the 'hood Cantonese greasy spoons--and if you are in the mood to pay for Chinese food that's high as giraffe pussy on the off chance that you'll spot some celebrity cum stained princess passed out in the bathroom--then you can dine with the champions at Mr. Chow.
I don't eat bullshit in the states, and I sure as hell wasn't going to eat bullshit far east. Sure there are posh restaurants over there, but I have to tell you, some of the best food I ate in Shanghai was street food.
So here's a video taken on the streets of Shanghai. My Black Russian baby doll Liza and I had just spent a wonderful evening at the spa. Our treatments included a 2 hour massage, and facial. If I look stoned in the video it's because that goddamned massage was so relaxing. And my face looks like a pumice stone because that tiny Chinese lady was exacting zits from my face like a bird looking for worms.
Ack. Every time I hear my fucked up vernacular I want to scream.
The olfactory (what you smell) is directly connected to your tummy. I used to work in perfumery and one thing I learned is that typically if you enjoy the way something smells, you will also like the way it tastes. So for example, if you enjoy the smell of ginger, lavender, and even rose...you will most likely enjoy the way they taste.
I like to know my food source. I'm always curious to see the animal, plant, root, flower that I'm eating. What I'm smelling.
I am a Taurus. I'm a foodie. I revel in all things epicurean.
I scour over Food & Wine Magazine like it's a vintage Vanessa Del Rio centerfold. I watch the Cooking Channel and Food Network like it's--well porn. One day, I hope to have a cooking show. Where I get stoned and challenge myself to make delicious meals for invited guests. And if you take my idea asshole, I call a pox upon your genitals.
My mother is a cook, as was her mother--and I dare say, I know my way around the kitchen & grill. As an American tourist, I didn't want to be one of those assholes who only ate at McDonalds or KFC. I wanted to experience authentic local food--local customs. I really did think I was Anthony Bourdain, because one day I wandered my ass into a local market. Now from the outside it appeared to be a tiny farmers market. But something told me, that it wasn't your run of the mill Piggly Wiggly. So I started following the path...noticing that there were no Westerners or non-Asian faces. Well this both excited and terrified me. As I marched toward this indoor market, I kept thinking "Surely there are other non-Chinese faces in there. No? Oh damn, maybe they think I'm Condeleeza Rice--sent here to spy. Okay, just be cool. Just pretend you're watching an episode of Iron Chef. Yes, own your stride. You are Gordon Ramsay. Don't fret. The spirit of Bruce Lee will protect you if someone drops a live crab down your D-cup. Be invisible. In China. Fuck, impossible. Come on?? Am I really the only fly in the buttermilk?"
Yep. I was. But I didn't care. I was going to knock the black knight off his horse, jump the moat and storm the castle. Wait, does that make me the black knight? Since I'm Black? Nevermind.
This tiny market turned out to be the size of a fucking airplane hanger. Fresh fruit, veggies, fish, poultry, lions, tigers and bears for as far as the eye could see. I could not resist following the rabbit hole. So I gave chase, and boy was I in for a treat. So are you! Enjoy the videos, and still photos. And please forgive the poor cinematography. But after you see all the creatures, and sharp instruments handled like Shaolin warriors, you'll understand why my hands were a bit shakey.
This is a picture of my darling friend Pau from Spain.
Sorry. That's a picture of a smooth perenium--speaking of smooth pereniums, Here's Pau!
Spanish Cary Grant circa 2011
This is the brother I was telling you about. Pau Palacios. Pau found the cure to Polio, was the first scientist to discover Ukrainian unicorns; the first to defeat a Nazi in the game of backgammon, and he even dated Halle Berry. He speaks 45 languages including Spanish, Catalans, English, French, Italian, and I bet he even speaks DEAD languages. Whatever the fuck they spoke in Mesopotamia, Pau speaks it too. He's a brilliant theatre artist with Agrupación Señor Serrano based in Barcelona. You all know, I'm an easy lay for terrific talent. Well let me tell you, this man has all the makings for my future ex-husband.
All jokes aside, he is a kind and intelligent man. His work is really adept and versatile...much like his personality. Pau was always calm, cool and collected. His smile could stop a war. And voice was smooth like butter. He had dat Spaaneesh accent that almost made me forgive their role in the African slave trade. His accent even trumped the delusional love affair that I had with Javier Bardem. Yes, Javier was MY MAN until that fuck face petite asshole Penelope Cruz came and messed up our love affair by having a baby. She KNEW everyone would love her because of that--baby.
Fuck you Penelope and that--well. I can't say "fuck that baby." So I'll say FUCK YOU AND THAT OSCAR! Yes. Take that golden statue and shove it up your urethra! I don't need Javier anymore. I have Pau.
(*Javier you can come on back home any time you ready boo. I luff you.)
"Buenos Dias Neecole. Como esta mi amor?" Pau would croon. I swear there were days I considered dying my hair black and penciling a mole on my face, so that I could look like Carmen from the opera and really set off the love affair. Some days he'd look at me from across the room and exlaim "Ay Dios! Yo tengo Neecole en mi corazon..." And then he would weep, and have to be escorted out of the room. Yep. I drove a man to madness because he loved me. Okay maybe he wasn't driven to madness because he loved me--maybe I just mad him mad. Come to think of it I think he may have just said "Uh--hi Neecole. Please stop staring at me, this is unprofessional." But he did actually weep when he cried "Neecole, please release me from this closet. You cannot lock me in here forever! You're going to end up in the Hague criminal court along side Mugabe, Kim Jong Il and Rick Perry."
Fuck you pretty Rickey.
Maybe it's just an American thing, but I don't see anything wrong with using Ether to render someone unconscious, lock them in a room and when they come to, hope that the victim--I mean lover will propose marriage and insemination.
Just a few nights ago, when I got home and checked the post Pau had sent me a little gift. Not only was this parcel all the way from Spain, but it was set piece from his wonderful work Catastrophe. Just like I was surprised to find a Black Russian who understood hair--I was surprised to find a crazy good looking Spaniard who understood ghetto's and man made disasters. Pau and I connected because I revealed my ambivalent feelings about my sweet home Chicago. Pau isn't what we'd call a "straight actor". He is however a theater practitioner and I hope you people with resources will hire him! Here's a quickie
Catastrophe is narrates the ficticious story of a valley and the advanced civilization inhabiting it which is destroying itself. The play is examing the interraltion between the forces of nature and human force. And it is ultimately asking if nature's indifference to men does justify the indiffernce of humans towards other humans.
Hmph. Sounds like a village ghetto land to me. Pau, if you're reading this darling : uno momento.
That's pillow talk. He'll get the joke.
I love you Pau! Keep on creating beauty! My hope is that everyone will be exposed to your talents!And now a picture of a femoral canal. Just cause. Just for scuzz.
x
http://www.marimon.cat/srserrano if you'd like to know more about their company!
So a couple of postings ago I virtually introduced my darling friends & colleagues to you. Artists from Europe the Americas and The Federation. Unfortunately due to bureaucratic donkey turds, our brothers from Africa (Cameroon and Sudan) we not able to join us in China. It was a bummer to me, because I was looking forward to working with these gentlemen. But I know it will not be the last time I will have the opportunity to work with African artists. Someday I hope to arm girls and young women in Liberia with the weaponry called Theatre & Dance. Yep, I wanna teach the babies one day.
But getting back to China and the league of extraordinary fuckers--I really do adore these people. And over the next few postings, I'll share with you videos, pictures and adventures that I had with each person. Like Pau Palacios of Spain. Pau (pronounced like Pow!) is tall, intelligent, well built gentleman. I have to speak kindly of him because he's my colleague and may read this posting. But if he doesn't read this post, I can tell you he's a fine mothafucka! Tall, tan, with a killer fucking smile. He looks like a dude from the 70s French Rivera. This dude is so dope. He speaks 6 or 7 languages, has cunning and wit and every time I laid eyes on him I thought "yeah, I bet he has a perfectly smooth perineum."
More on Spanish Cary Grant later--ladies first. I'd like to introduce you to my little sister Elizaveta Martinez Cardenas. Of Russia. Oh, did I mention she's black?
Yes. My little Lisa. She arrived a little later into the rehearsal process. When she arrived on day 3 to the rehearsal room we were all sweaty and deep into trying to figure out what the fuck we were creating. I'll shed more light on the creative process later. Back to the Black Russian. When Emilya producer of the show and my mentor told me that this young woman from Russia was going to be my flat mate, I was intrigued. I said, "Please tell me more about her." Emylia flashed a smile that I recognized: Mischief. She said "Well, she's born and raised in Moscow. She's worked with Katori Hall (playwright of the Broadway hit Mountain Top), her name sounds Spanish--but she's Russian by nationality. And she's Black."
Now listen, when I was a kid my mother did me the greatest favor. She always told me that Black people where everywhere. Whether they got their my migration, generation or asylum who fucking cares. They're there. All over the globe. So you needn't be afraid to go anywhere. The world is yours--become a citizen of it. So when I travel, I always give the nod to a Black in passing. But I wasn't quite ready for a Black Russian with a Spanish name???
*For the record, Liza will NOT read this blog. I know her extremely well. She would say "Niccggy. I don like to read. It is, boring no?" She would approve of my description of her though.
Liza is tiny. She has one of those bodies, that most Hollyweird types would kill for. Her rack stands at attention and her back is erect--ballerina strong. A bit shy, but undeniably Russian. She walked into the rehearsal room with 4 inch heels, hair cascading down her back, nails perfectly manicured and a tiny smile hidden behind a stern expression. She was stunning! I looked at her and thought "Damn. Thanks for fucking it up for me "sistah". I had set the bar low for Black women in the rehearsal room. The Chinese kids thought I was the one with swagger. They thought the mustard stains on my yoga pants were cool. Then here you come with this Siberian Pussy Cat doll get up, and now I have to bathe and comb my hair? What an asshole, this one! I'm the loveable American! Now people are gonna mistake my charm for sloth. Thanks you Russian fuckhead! Yoo stoopid good looking...." Suddenly I understood what the cold war was all about. And my finger was on the nuke button.
"Allo Niccggy. I am Leeeza. Emilya says we are rooming together. I am happy for this."
Oh shit. Is she trying to give me some Black love on the sly? Maybe this girl is okay.
"Hi, yes it's quite a pleasure to meet you. Maybe we can hang out tonight post rehearsal?"
"Da! Da--you and me. We drink? No?"
Oh I like this mothafucka. I can't believe I'm in China, about to kick it with a Black Russian. Fuck the natural order of things--this is the diaspora I've been searching for my entire life. A Russian blactress! How could I not adore this woman?
"Da! Mothafucker! Let us drank and drug!" cried the uncouth American.
Right after rehearsal, most of the group decided to go visit the Bund. A district nestled along side the Huangpu River--it has dozens of historical buildings, little shops and everything a tourist could ask for. We broke into smaller groups and in my group was Elena (Cyress), Ana (Luxemborg) Liza (Russia) and myself. The Bund or Old Shanghai as some call it, is fucking wild. I felt like I was on an acid trip. Vendors shouting out to you, seizure inducing lights and the air is filled with mouth watering food. We dipped in and out of shops buying fans, silk and trinkets. It was fun. Until Liza looks at me and goes "Niccgy. We must find..." she motioned to her head. "Oh do you have a headache?" "Nyet!" She stroked her hair. Oh shit. This shit just got real. Did she mean-- "Hair??" "Da! we must find hair. Becos--dey Chinese people...they will have hair for us."
I have traveled some 6,000 miles to the Orient to find a Black Russian in search of hair? Thank you white Jesus! I have a hair companion! And no one will low ball her because she's a scary Russian! YES! DAAAAA! WE GO FIND HAIR!!!!!! Between the Chinese and Lisa's broken English, my linguistics also started to sour. I had a weird European lilt, and at times communicated like I was a mime. Seriously when you spend 10hours a day and you're the only person where English is your mother tongue, it's inevitable. So to Madonna, Tina Turner and other Americans who escaped to live in other nations--I apologize for laughing at your linguistic affectations.
"Niccggy you are too soft. Dey Americans--you speak too poem like. You must speak like Russian, when we look for hair. Strong. No more nice hello sir American talk." So she taught me a few Russian terms right there on the crowded streets of Shanghai. Then we took our no Mandarin speaking asses set out to find the best weave. My friends, if you don't see the beauty in this story--then I curse a pox upon your house.
Lisa spotted a shop from 300 yards away. "We go." She stomped into the shop. "Allo. Hair. Real. Now." And do you know that woman pulled out bags of hair along with a calculator? Lisa inspected the hair while the Chinese lady and I both cowered. The Chinese lady didn't speak English. Liza didn't speak Chinese. And I didn't speak Russian. It almost felt like a tense drug deal in a warehouse. Lisa sucked her teeth. She was not impressed by the texture. It was too silky. "Nyet spasiba. Niccggy. We go."
"We go to dat shop there." Stomp stomp stomp. "Allo. Hair. Real. Now." I spent my days and nights with this crazy harlot. Ordering food, making art, drinking, laughing and even crying. I'll leave you now with one of our souse filled evenings. Enjoy possum.
So this video is taken on the first morning after my arrival. Believe it or not, it's taken in a business district--matter of fact, the building was a World Trade Center. Shanghai is such a wild girl...enjoy!
Heeeeellllllloooo mummy's little possums! Happy FUCKING Friday! I hope that your bank accounts are in the black, the kids are tucked away in bed, and your boss is still scraping his tongue because you peed in the coffee pot at work. Haha fuck you Mr. Furley! WE AIN'T PAYIN THE RENT! ATTICA! ATTICA! ALTAMONT! CHICANO POWER!
Your rollicking wet nurse is here with tales of scandal and fuckery! So pick out your favorite Russell Stover chocolate piece from the box and lets get this mothafucka cranked!
*unhooks bra.
America's First Family circa 1981
MonRoe ain't got shit to do with my trip to China. I just love Too Close For Comfort, and just wanted to add it to the mix for no goddamn reason at tall. Some of you dweebs born after 1983 have no fucking clue who these people are. Shame on you. TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT made America what it is today. This sitcom caused the wall in Berlin to fall. THIS sitcom freed the Aborigines in Australia. It gave American Blacks the right to vote. Why? Because Every body wanted that goddamned set as their living room. And who didn't want uncle Ted as their cranky father? TCFC! Ooo! Okay drinking game! Every time you read the word "Too" "to" or "two" you MUST take a drink! And yes the latin "tu" counts as well! Grab your booze. YAY! Starting now.
So where did we leave off in the Red Series? Oh yes, I had just arrived in Shanghai. Too.
After surviving the taxi ride and quickly checking into my hotel room, I had about 10 minutes to meet the group for our first official engagement--
*You know as I type this, I realize many of you haven't a clue as to how I ended up in China. If you're thinking I was scoping out cities for my inevitable ex-pat future, OR planning to take Basketball Wives to China starring me and Yao Ming--then you are correct. I can say in all honesty, that I would live in Shanghai in a heartbeat. I felt like Grace Jones. I was tall, exotic and spoke with an accent. Tu.
Oh that doesn't make sense to you? Well YOU try to tryping a blog entry while playing a drinking game.
Too.
International Theatre Institute (ITI) is a World Organization for the Performing Arts. It was created during the Cold War by UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) An agency of the United Nations established in 1945 to promote the exchange of information, ideas, and culture. The congress convenes once every two years and it's a big whoop de do! There are about 64 participating countries from around the globe with delegates. I was invited to perform by NPG---okay look I know we're all drunk and stoned and I'm throwing a shit load of acyrnoyms your way, but I promise not to give you blue balls. It'll pay off.
So NPG (New Project Group) is under the umbrella of ITI--and I was invited to perform with 13 other artists from around the world. I was representing the United States of America. *Fuck Yah.*
I almost can't believe it as I type. 1 artist from each nation, and I was there reppin the US--sort of like the Olympics. Hey baby, do me a solid? The next time I bitch and wine about "not working as an actor" slap me square in the cervix okay? Mkay.
So that's why I was in China. Official business. An international theatre congress--I was there to work as an artist. An American artist *smiles brightly, drinks congratulatory vodka.
Back to my arrival. I quickly checked into my room at the Xindonfang Hotel, took a quick ho bath and ran back to the lobby to meet the lady who would escort me to the restaurant. I was still loopy from the flight and the car ride, but I have to say I was in a pretty good mood. Its sort of like when you get totally shit faced and you're just happy that you don't need sobriety because you're not driving. That's how the jet lag felt.
"Hello Brooks."
Why is she calling me by my last name like I'm on the track team?
"Hi...uh I mean Nee How! Actually you can call me Nic"-
"You are late. The others have gone. My name is Lisa. I will take you to them. Go now."
This was my interpreter. Her chosen American name was Lisa. Her real name is Xie Jingying. She was statuesque but tiny, and always wore an ankle length skirt with a large back pack. Coming from LA, I immeditately thought "She's such a pretty girl, why doesn't she let her hair down? And damn, why she gotta point out that I'm late? Its not like I drove here from Mongolia, I flew here from the other side of the world. Anthony Kiedis says California is the edge of western civilization--and that's pretty fucking accurate geography. So, relax lady!"
"We will take taxi." Lisa was no nonsense.
While we waited for the taxi, I tried to think of how to say: Baby girl, I'm Negroid. And Californian so-- dude, cheer down. So what we late. They ain't going nowhere. What they gone do, recite Shakespeare's sonnets without me? Talk about Chekovian women's influence on Noh theatre? Of course not. They'll wait."
But then I remembered I was in China.
The Chinese are very efficient. That's why everything has the label "Made in China." Because they get shit done, and the Chinese don't play. And if I was late to meet the group, it may have reflected poorly on her--oh no, what if Chairman Mao would have given the command from his grave for her to Hari Kari herself? I know that's Japanese, but I was scared and jet lagged! Then I thought Bruce Lee's spirit would have round house kicked me in the spleen! It's not my fault I was late--my flight got in--wait...Oh my god. I'm in China. Fucking China. It's communist here. And every body is good in math! Except me. Oh shit. I knew all those "Ancient Chinese secret" jokes would come back to haunt me.
The taxi arrived and Lisa took the front seat. I took the back. And on cue, the driver took off like a fucking maniac. But I knew what to expect this time, so l just closed my eyes and took a deep breath. You'd be surprised at how quickly one can recite the Lords Prayer when you have a Chinese cab driver. I'm telling you, it scares the tampon right out of the shaft.
But you wanna know what I didn't expect? A beautiful city. Bustling with all kinds of people. Stunning architecture, and a night sky that wasn't quite dark. The sky was filled with lights and pollution. As the city passed before my eyes in the back of the cab a familiar feeling came over my soul. That feeling you get when you're at a concert and your favorite artist is about to take the stage. That feeling you get with the lights lower in the theatre and you silently wish the actors luck. It's a feeling of love and contentment. I didn't expect that from her. She's a beguiling mistress, that Shanghai. And before I knew it, I was ambushed by beauty.
"Okay, we are here. But we have to walk 2 minutes to the place. It is a one way street."
"Where are we?" said the misconfused American.
"We are in the French Consession."
The French Consession."Damn, the Frenchies took over here too?" I thought.
It looked and felt like SoHo in New York. Or Abbot Kinney in Los Angeles. Armitage in Chicago. Any tiny street in Nice. A beautiful winding road filled with shops, restaurants, and galleries. It was very sleek and fused with European contrivances.
"That is where you will work."
We passed a building with large pillars and shiny glass & golden doors. The building was Grecian, yet unmistakably Chinese. It was beautiful.The Shanghai Dramatic Arts Centre. Holy shit. I am in China. I am performing in China.*Que the Alexander O'Neal & Sharelle. Does the whop, and the snake.
"We go in here. Up the stairs."
We entered the restaurant, a few doors down from the Dramatic Arts Centre--which was actually an art gallery, a winery and cafe. We walked 4 flights up to the roof, and once again She dared me to take a deep breath and inhale her beauty. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Shanghai, you bitch. I'm totally in love with you. The sky to some may have appeared gray, and filled with light pollution. But to me, it was filled with clouds of unknowing.
The roof top was reserved for us, the citizens of the world. My mentor Emilyia Cachapero, a fellow American and top dog in theatre chimed "Hi Nicky! Welcome to Shanghai! Here are your fellows:
BANGLADESH: A.K. Azad
BELGIUM: Laurence Moletta
CAMEROON: Andre Takou Sa
CHINA: Wang Yin, Li Mengze, Ma Qing Li, Xu Zidong
CYPRESS: Elena Agathokleous
GERMANY: Lukas Anton
LUXEMBOURG: Anne Mareike Hess
MEXICO: Adriana Resendiz
RUSSIA: Lisa Martinez Cardenas
SPAIN: Pau Palacios
SUDAN: Tarig Ali Mohmad Saad
SWEDEN: Amelie Thoron
and yours truly USA: J. Nicole Brooks
I can't wait to introduce you to my darling friends! These people became my family. I gained so much in China. Including terrible skin. I know it's vain, but PLEASE excuse the Nestle Crunch like skin I have. The pollution in China, invaded my poor pores and had me looking like I was 17 again. Which isn't a bad thing. Because at 17, I felt that anything was possible. I had that same feeling in China....
thank god for clouds of unknowing.
Clouds can change your plans.
I like this.
So its been 10 days since I've last posted and its because I've been busy trying to get my shit together. I have a lot of nerve to ask you to stop your busy life of work, school, Occupy protesting, childcare, dick licking and finger banging to check out my Red Series. But mummy's neglect is a forgivable offense and I promise never to do it again. No, really. Drunken hosebag's honor! If I stay away from the blogesphere this long again--may I be forever damned to a life of Well vodka, Yaki weave and HPV inducing Camay soap.
So where did we leave off? Ahhh yes. China. The mysterious orient. You may not have enough frequent flier mileage to travel the 6,000 miles across seas to see Yellow Mans Land for your self--but don't you worry. I have gone there, and am willing to share with you every ancient Chinese secret known to man.
As you've already witnessed in the video posted above, the birds eye view of Shanghai is quite metropolitan. Of course I didn't think China would be filled with buck tooth, spec wearing Chinamen with one single long braid down the back, rickshaw in tow and confusing R's for L's (These are all stereotypes I grew up with thanks to the pea brained animators at Warner Bros, Walter Lantz et al) but I must admit, I didn't quite know what to expect. I had hoped Shanghai would look like Bill Murray's "Lost In Translation". It didn't matter to me that he was in Tokyo. He was a foreigner in Asia. He was a puzzle piece that didn't quite belong. And I thought, I too wouldn't belong. Boy was I wrong.
You'll have to forgive me if I describe things as an ignorant American. I mean after all, I am an ignorant American. I've spent my entire lifetime with a myopic view of Chinese culture. But I don't feel too bad about this because I'm certain that the same fucked up things they were thinking about my black ass, I've already thought about them.
LAX to PVG
When I deboarded my 14 hour flight, I was glad to be on solid ground, and thanked God we made it. I was sweating like a hooker in church. China Eastern Airline is far from luxurious. I felt like Eddie Murphy going to Tibet in Golden Child. It was cramped, noisy and well--nerve wracking.
Flying can be traumatic, and that's exactly what my flight turned out to be. Not because we had cruised at altitudes at or above 30 thousand feet...not because there was a bomb threat...not because the food on the flight was gross and could have made me quite ill...there wasn't a gremlin on the wing trying to make the plane go down...and or not even because I was incommunicado and wasn't able to text, tweet, phone or call up a pal and say "Hey, dude! Wanna go to Whole Foods, buy expensive wine. Drink it. Fill the bottle back up with grape juice and vinegar. Return it to Whole Foods and say "This vino is rancid. I do not like it. Refund please." I was ready and willing to deal with any obstacle. What I wasn't prepared for? The in flight movie. An American film called Faster starring Billy Bob Thorton, Carla Gugino (a chick I'd totally bang) and Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson. This movie totally blew the corn out of my stool. It was so fucking terrible. All I kept thinking was "the Chinese nationals on this plane are going to simultaneously look at me and yell "Woooodaaaa! Judo chop this Amelican yank! This movie is tellible! Dwayne The Lock Johnson is black like she! Put pee pee in her coke!"
I'm not that fucking racist. I've been around Chinese culture my whole life. Kung Fu theatre was my shit growing up. Plus, my mother always made La Choy stir fry when I was growing up.
All jokes aside, I did feel great shame that this American action film was being shown. Seriously, it's the worst goddamned movie ever filmed.
Chinese Nationals Queue// Foreign Queue
Holy shit. I'm a foreigner. Damn. I was in line with all kinds of faces. A few passengers appeared to be Asian--but most of us foreigners ranged from Nordic faces to blue black African skins. I don't know why it was so striking to me, but it was.
"Hello Miss. Welcome to The Peoples Republic of China. Look into camera please."
The immigration agent had a kind face. But the agent looked like she didn't fuck around. I was intimidated and loopy. My circadian rhythm was all fucked up after crossing that pesky international date line. I was doing my best to appear normal. I didn't want to be some "strange acting black person--why is she behaving so strange and have people thinking I was about to be another Nigerian bomber NPR story."
"Ni hao." I smiled brightly and waited as the agent examined my passport & visa. I had learned a few Chinese phrases from watching a kids show called Ni Hao Kai-Lan. It's about a cute little Chinese girl, and you know other moral shit they show on kids tv programming. I couldn't afford Rosetta Stone CD's--but I did get stoned and the network of Nick Jr. was my language tutor. Watching that Ni Hao Kai-Lan I learned to say: Hello, dance, thank you and ice cream. So I felt pretty good about going to a communist country home to over 1.3 billion people and only able to say: Hello. Dance. Ice cream. Thank You.
"Okay. Next." The immigration agent granted me entry.
"Xie xie!" Thank you! Fuck yeah, thought the black girl. I'm about to be all up in China! I am gonna be the next Anthony mothafucking Bourdain. A bad ass in search of the worlds best Gucci bags, weave, and electronics all at cheap Chinese prices. Ni hao yellow man! Here I come!"
The moment I stepped outside the airport, the humid air enveloped my body. The reverb of native tongues was bizarre and beautiful. The Chinese languages sounded like cicadas. At first it's frightening--and then before you know it the high pitched drone is kind of awesome.
"Hello, I am your escort. I will take you to your car." My escort was tiny. She looked like Knives Cho.
"Hi, I'm Nic. What's your name?"
"Ummm...You may call me Amy."
I could tell she made up the name on the spot. I wondered why she did that. But I didn't press.
"Okay, the cab will take you home. Bye-bye."
"Oh--you're not getting in the taxi with me?"
She was gone. The cab driver placed my bag in the trunk and motioned for me to get inside. I got inside the small sedan, and before I could look for my seat belt, the drive had gone from 0-80mph in 20 seconds.
I was fucking terrified. He was driving like a maniac. Flashing his lights, narrowly escaping death every 0.5 miles. Suddenly I understood the Asian bad driver stereotype. I couldn't find a seat belt. I certainly couldn't text or call anyone for fear of a $2,000 phone bill. All I could do was call on Jesus, and speak the little bit of Chinese that I knew. I didn't know how to say "CONFUCIUS SAY SLOW THE FUCK DOWN CABBIE! I DON'T WANT TO DIE WHILE I'M JETLAGGED. THAT'S NOT FAIR." I hoped that he was sensing my fear, and slow down. He didn't. He drove like a hot rod car in a Tex Avery cartoon. I thought of tapping him on the shoulder and using sign language to suggest that he slowed down. Instead, all I could do was cower into the back seat, and close my eyes whisper "Bin qui lin!"
CIAO FUCKERS! I had such an amazing journey to China. So many stories and anecdotes that you may find a bit boring--but the trip was enlightenling. It was wild and a fuckload of fun. It was nice to be 6,000 miles away from talentless dickheads that saturate film/theatre/tv. China shook me away. The experience there certainly straightened by pubic hairs. So I'm gonna work a bit out of sequence. This excerpt from my diary was written while I was on a plane and recovering from water/food poisoning. I was sick as a dog for a few days...and to torture me a bit more, mother nature decided to give me my period. So I was out of it, but at at least I lost weight! I was sick, seriously sick. But not too sick to take pause and bid farewell to one of the best lovers I've ever had. Shanghai. Enjoy!
An unedited excerpt from the journal of J. Nicole Brooks
19 Sept 2011
Sadly at this moment I am departing my beloved Shanghai. I have many great friends here now; and this I did not quite expect.
We are currently on the tarmac and in 120min we will be in Xiomen (Lord willing). As I was looking out of the window, a sadness descended because the aircraft moved to join the take-off queue. In slow motion we began to leave and at that very moment I saw 2 Chinese workers; they were airport employees. They smiled and waved at us as we slowly drove by.
I am a frequent flier.
I travel mostly in the U.S. sometimes abroad. Never have I had such a pleasant take off. That simple gesture (sincere maybe; or perhaps mandated protocol) means a lot for my spirit.
I love America. I am proud to be American. For many years I saw my western heritage as something to be ashamed of--I felt as if I only had a lifestyle that was bigoted, myopic, fast, and without pleasure. Living in America (I can only speak as a city girl) can make you cold and unfeeling. We have so many supermarkets, malls, and fast food one can forget the simplicity of the 5 senses. Shanghai violently shocked my senses out of a coma. She challenged all things for my eyes. Ears. Mouth. Hands/feet.
The heat (which I loathe) was therapeutic and somehow loosened my joints, and gave my agility. She tickled my tongue with hyper spices (and as much as I hate to admit, some of the best European bakeries I have ever eaten.) and cold beer.
The city is vast, yet intimate--everyday was an adrenaline rush because the cars nor bikes obey traffic signals. They do not yield to pedestrians, forcing you to move forward the best way you can--Romantic? Corny? Perhaps. But I learned a great lesson by walking thru the streets of Shanghai's traffic. The metaphor cannot be ignored: here if you do not move quickly or if you do not pay attention, you will be run over. I think this will help re-start my career.
The sounds. Horns blaring, bike bells dinging, rapid native tongues. The trees in the wind sound like a cheerleaders pom poms.
Mine eyes? "Oh my god!" As my Russian sistah Liza would say. Scores of people on bicycles, motor bikes 2, even 3 at a time. ON ONE BIKE! Imagine seeing a Ringling Bros. circus act, except pedestrian. Without pomp. Just cool and unfazed. I loved seeing couples on a bike. The girl would sit causally on the backseat, sideways. She would never bother to wrap her arms around the drivers waist. Though they did not touch, it was an intimacy that I witnessed daily.
I think Chinese women are very beautiful. In many ways they are like dainty flowers. But make no mistake they will kill an ant with a sledge hammer. Do not be fooled by their sprite like appearance.
Shanghai is much like New York, except I like Shanghai better. Maybe I can make that statement after only having been here 9 days. But there's something about communist reminders that make you think "wow these are a hardy lot."
*** And the Chinese people are quite tough. I may not agree with their politics and wouldn't speak against the Republic (because I'd like to return!) But I'll say this much. China welcomed me with open arms. I simply adored my time there. I have more excepts from my journal to share. I also have wild videos and beautiful pictures. The Red Series may be a bit longer than my normal postings--but travel can make you seem like a new parent. You want to show the world every picture, ticket stub, and trinket--because each item has a story. So hopefully you will enjoy my fucking kid. Thanks for reading!
