Nerdin it up in Hong Kong!

A fine fine day in Hong Kong

Much of my time in Shenzhen is uneventful, a routine of work and minor pleasures rushed through until the relief of a wasted weekend, which comes with the familiar territory of Monday thru Friday jobs, dating back at least to Hong Kong. Still, I try to make the time for novelty, and often enough a change in the formulae comes with my monthly sojourns out to Hong Kong.

Again with the visa bureaucracy, but at least I got Monday and Tuesday off work. But first, let us begin with my Sunday night. I read in the Shenzhen Daily that a Beijing pop punk band, Recycle, would be playing a show here at the Base Bar, and even though it was a school night I’d been looking forward all week. It didn’t prove disappointing, the best rock show I’d seen yet in the fourth-and-one-half months outside of the West. Lots of friends were there, sweaty pogo-dancing and bruised moshing, expensive drinks compared to 7-11 prices but relatively cheap when I do the math and convert to US dollars. Like, thirty kuai to get in, which my first instinct is to complain but then I realize that equals less than five dollars.

Being a Sunday night, it cleared out quick. Midnight and empty, and I played pool with Olivia – two bad pool players makes for a game that takes forever, but I won for once, by virtue of the preemptive eight ball shot – and then hanging out outside smoking with Chris and talking about youtube movie ideas.

Unfortunately I got home late, and had to wake up very early the next day. It takes about two hours to get from Louhu to Tsim Sha Tsui in Hong Kong, waiting in line for customs and that nervousness when they stamp the last entry of the visa because there’s a chance they won’t let me in the country again. At least I gave my girl the spare key in case of emergency.

Tired and hungry, I went to the Sikh travel agent and paid 2000 Hong Kong dollars. Something I’ve done every two months since I’ve been here, but this time I was promised a six-month multiple entry for my troubles. No more L’s, I was to get an M! And be free! Now I had nothing left to do but wait until noon the next day to get my passport back.

Time and time to kill. By virtue of google, I’d finally learned of some American comic stores in Hong Kong, and took the train to Causeway Bay. Now, there is of course an abundance of Japanese nerd culture in Hong Kong, but most of this is translated into a language I am only in the marginal beginner stages of. Occasionally I’m lucky enough to get DVDs with poor English subtitles. But this time, I might actually catch up on Green Lantern, finish up Final Crisis, and fill the gaps in Justice Society.

It was heaven, but I spent all my money. All in all, plus buying the English editions of Naruto manga and the fascinating McMafia nonfiction real book, I spent about a thousand Hong Kong dollars (maybe 150 US), and this ever reminds me of the immense difference between my mainland Chinese salary where everything is cheap and how much things cost in a fully developed rich country. But I do what I must, and always spend too much money on books when I go to Hong Kong. Its worth it, and I make up for it in cheap bootleg DVDs back in Shenzhen.

Still, no matter how busy and cool a city, it can get quite boring in Hong Kong when I wander the same touristy Kowloon and HK Island locales every damn trip. I rarely have time to wander to the beach and surrounding islands and the more authentic Cantonese experience. I went wandering at Golden Fish Market looking for souvenirs, and window shopped all the cool anime toys in Mongkok. Eventually I met up with the couchsurfing.com people.

I was hoping for a free place to stay that night, but it was too last minute and I ended up only making it for drinks. I had sushi with Laetiticia and met up with some guys from the Netherlands and Thailand, and it was too much fun going out late at the wine bar and talking about US and Chinese politics. Well after 1:00 AM I was stranded, but I’ve been in cities before with no place to stay at this time of night and it always seems to work out. I found a cheap guest house, inbetween a hostel and motel, and it was only 150 (about twenty bucks US). With African guys drinking beers outside and call girls holding hands with Indians, it was not a good place to stay for a long time but the mattress in the small room was just right for my needs. I even got to watch some Hong Kong television.

Late at night is the only time to call overseas, and I used my HK phone to call back home. Mom wasn’t home, and I woke up Dad and talked for a while. I don’t even know how to call the US from the mainland, but I assume it’s more expensive and honestly I’m fine not talking to my family for month-long durations. It’s a nice buffer. I talked to Dad for a few minutes to catch up and say “hi I love you,” but I have the great excuse that it’s a pricey call and can’t talk long. Then I decided to call Raven, and talked for an hour. It was great; the only time I’ve called someone who wasn’t a family member, and well worth the keeping up with her. There are many friends I miss, and I try to email everyone on occasion, and Facebook is good for minor stupid comments just to remind you all that I still exist, but sometimes I require a long gossipy conversation like the old days. Raven was always my favorite to chat with.

The next day I checked out and went to get my visa. There were no complications, and I finally had it. My six-month pass, level M, with only thirty-day durations of stay but infinite multiple entries. For the next six months, I don’t have to worry. After all the troubles with the two-entries that I have to update every two months, and having to get my new passport in Guangzhou when the old one expired, and when they almost didn’t let me into Thailand, and finally I am free! No more bureaucracy until September! And we’ll just have to see where my life is at by then, and where I want to live...

I went shopping, I mailed some stupid Bruce Lee shirts back home, ate the last chance of delicious Western food before back in greasy mainland, and took the train ride back to Shenzhen thru the Louhu border. I had plenty of reading material along the way, so it wasn’t boring. With minimal problems with the new visa, though they did doublecheck to make sure it was real, and I went home. Another errand, I had to get a bank account – which the didn’t let me do because of the expired visa but this time it worked out – and then finally I was done slugging the super-heavy backpack and I was back at my apartment. It was only the morning before when I left, but it felt like I was gone for weeks. I proceeded to be completely lazy for the rest of the day, and I read some comics.

Now it’s back to the dull routines. I go to work at the different schools, I teach simple English to uncaring Chinese kids, I study Mandarin, I read on the bus, and I watch DVDs at home. And I beat myself up for not being more productive in the meantime. Really, I should work out more, meditate, do some writing. Sometimes I go to my girl Dawn’s house, sometimes she comes here, but mostly the weekdays are just a wait-out period until I can do something for myself by Saturday. This weekend perhaps ye olde expat pub, or a show, or simply catching up on my to-do list. I’ll fulfill all the social obligations, and I will checkmark the days on my calendar until the next vacation, and hope for the new, the novelty, the something interesting.

Hollywood Meanderings

Moderately interesting weekend indeed.

So: I woke up super-early on Friday, as usual with my bloody job. I went to work and typed mindlessly and snuck in personal online time when nobody looked, watched some Richard Dawkins clips on atheism, and then I went home. I was lucky enough to have a car and so that gave me an extra hour of life. Eight-and-one-half hours later at home and I didn't have a car anymore.

I sorted through my stuff and attempted to dandy myself up. I thought about dressing in drag for the gay art gala event, but that's a bit much. I mean, I haven't shaved my legs in weeks. And makeup? Please. But I parted my hair in the middle and wore the emo girl-jeans ensemble and that would do.

I took the train up North, and meanwhile read some JSA comics, and Robin, and Nelson Algren's Man With the Golden Arm, and Stephen Hawking's Brief History of the Universe. JSA is always good (and as part of my weekend itinerary, by the way, I was to meet Geoff Johns, but that is to be told later . . .) Robin is okay. Usually I expect better of Chuck Dixon. Come now, Batman & the Outsiders is just not up to par. Though I do admit to excitement now that **SPOILER ALERT** (literally) Spoiler has been brought back to life! "Now you know why there's no memorial in the cave." Nice. Man With the Golden Arm I've been reading slowly. Its good stuff, harsh underbelly of 40s America and all that, but its quite wordy and taking me a while to sort through. Brief History of Time is nicely readable, poppy theoretical physics for me to philisophically mull over. Does time have a specific starting point or not?

The time came and I walked out to the Hollywood & Highland exit, full of energy. Usually I'm rather depressed when I find myself in Hollywood yet again, but today I was all positive energy. I went to meet with a guy from couchsurfing.com who expressed interest in the event, and I had a drink of vodka and cranberry juice in his swanky apartment, I shared some absinthe I brought, and we talked about 2012 and psychedelics and aliens and that kind of fun McKenna-esque conversation. EveryoneI've met on couchsurfing has been quite damn cool, I am glad I've been utilizing the site lately. We walked nearby to the art gallery for the M For Madonna show, all Madonna themed art and subsequent Andy Warhol ripoffs. Full of D-list celebrities! The best!

This is me and RuPaul. He was rather all-over me...


This is me and famous gossip columnist Perez Hilton, someone I honestly do not care about whatsoever, but what the hell, here's a pic.


But mainly I was interested of James St. James.


I have been researching club kid history lately, and before I even knew about this show I watched the Shockumentary ordered his book. Unfortunately Amazon didn't send me my Disco Bloodbath yet, I would have loved to get it signed, but from what I've read of it James St. James is a junkie literature writer par excellence. Synchronously, just as I get interested the opportunity of this show presents itself.

He was nice to me, though very busy. "I'm always at the gallery, come down in the day sometime." If possible I'd love to talk to him about literature, how to improve in this sort of thing, keep in touch . . .

And various others I knew came down. Some acquaintances, some gays, some CSers, and various others. My one friend in particular was mad at me. She works at the gallery as a matter of fact, and this insider connection didn't help me whatsoever. I wasn't even on the list (though I still didn't pay for the show). We've been in email bout as I've been trying to communicate this sense of vague betrayal. I want to be let in on her world, but she keeps me at a distance, and lately I'd rather just not even be friends anymore. But all the vicious things I typed were nothing compared to the knowledge that I deleted her from my MySpace friend's list. Apparently this is the absolute worst thing you can do to a person. She was pissed. Oh what a culture we live in.

So it goes. Afterwards, some keen gay guys from the band Shitting Glitter invited me to a poshy secret dance club in downtown LA. One fellow really wanted me to spend the night at his house, but I don't know about all that. Still, a musician acquaintance already told me I could crash at his apartment, and even though he was hanging out with a girl he let me tag along. We drove around for a while, the girl talked and talked and talked, and they smoked pot from s bubbly bong, I nodded off, and an hour later I did indeed find myself at the gay club. Shits and Giggles on 8th and Broadway is an odd place; the entrance in an alleyway, and the inside with a huge dancefloor, with projected gay porn on the walls. Some even dressed in insane club kid attire - a polite refference to the past. This club has only been open for a few months, and I'll have to make sure to come again before it is inevitably shut down. I woke up, and I danced, and gay guys are just so lovingly pervertedly came on to me - "Hey want to stick your dick in my mouth and cum?" I must admit to being a tad uncomfortable. I tend to edge the borders of the gay/bi-curious identity, as it is fun, but these propositions are just too gross. No I don't want to look at your erection man. Sheesh.

Still, it was entertaining enough. I didn't even have to pay to get in by the way. And then the girl said that she heard about a hot tub roof party going on at a nearby apartment. We walked around the empty downtown streets and went to this loft building, just walked right in and the security didn't say shit, and went up to the roof. No one was there, they never showed up. There was a gate, but fuck it, I jumped over easily. There was a pool and a heated jacuzzi. We were here, and so what the hell we went through with it and stripped naked and hung out. A unique atmosphere in the windy cold and LA skylight (what there is of that), underneath your head in heated water. And, I got to hang out with a naked girl. These kind of things are always outnumbered by guys - why just the weekend before as a matter of fact I coldly (shrinkagely) skinny-dipped after a bonfire party in Huntington Beach - but as long as there is at least one girl getting naked its worth it. Although I must disclose, this girl would not stop talking about nothing and it was a bit irritating. Who knew a girl, moderately attractive and a pretty enough face, with her breasts hanging out and relaxingly sitting next to me as I am equally nude, could be so annoying?

I felt bad that I may have been cramping my acquittance's style. He probably would have preferred to be alone with her, duh, but I had to go and tag along. Still, he was very cool about it. Drying off was cold and kind of sucked, and then drove home at about 4:00 and went to his dirty apartment and I comfortabely slept on the floor. Next day we had a lunchtime/breakfast in Echo Park, fine conversation (he didn't really like that girl so much either apparently), and I was to be dropped off at the Vermont station. From there I went up to Universal City. Normally I despise this horrid touristy area, but I had to go the Thing From Another World comic store because of the Geoff Johns signing I'd heard about. Brilliant writer of about half of all decent comics coming out of DC, from JSA to Booster Gold to Action Comics, and I cannot wait for Rogue's Revenge and Legion of Three Worlds. Johns is living the dream, and oh how I'd like to pick his brain . . .

And there he is! Normally I'd only see him from far away at a con, but there he was right up close:


What a weekend. RuPaul and Geoff Johns, both on my phone. I wish I brought better comics to get signed though, the Justice Society's were actually what I happened to already have. He drew a Dr. Midnite on the cover for me. Didn't know he could draw, he's not bad.

I'd love to talk about literature with him. Where does he get all his energy? How does he go about doing research? How many hours a day does he sleep? What's it like being you? Without being to fanboyish, I'd like to really learn something and see how he got where he is. While through the signing process I attempted conversation, "How do you like Southern California? You're from Michigan right? Can I talk to you sometime about writing?" "Sure man." I tried to hang out at the comic store, waiting until the line got slow so I could talk to him more one-on-one. And while he was cool about it, the owner of the store was am asshole and said I had to go. What, am I like a stalker fan or something? I shook hands, "Sorry I have to go Mr. Johns, but can I email you?" and I left. I did give him my minicomic.

Well, I had to try. Don't know if its realistic to expect to be his best friend, and what I am but a lowly fan, but I have to give it an honest try. I can be smart about these things, and as long as I don't thoroughly emberass myself every little bit helps. Perhaps I'll email him here on the MySpace, see if he has the time and charity to keep in touch . . .

I had a lot of time to kill till my next even, and went back down to Hollywood for a bit. It struck me how bombarded by mind control it all is. On one side of the Boulevard was a crazy Christian yelling at people "If you died today would you go to Heaven or Hell?!" and with a coffin prop and everything. Across the street was a Scientology center with groups of people taking stress tests. And of course, the center of American consumerism with a sensory overload of adverts coming at us from every angle. I believe I made it through unscathed, but what a test. Most don't tread these waters without some kind of mental bruising. And hence, they go to church and watch bad movies . . .

I had a burrito, and I made a call. My former buddy as mad at me as ever (fuck her anyways). She was rather upset. I don't know if this situation will ever be resolved. If anything, I think I deserve an apology, but I am biased.

"I'm not on trial!" she yelled on the phone. "Ray, you go be postmodern, go be postpunk, but you're a horrible friend and you're so negative and leave me alone!"

Well, I do appreciate being referred to as 'postpunk.' Though perhaps we're throwing around the 'post' labels too freely?

Essentially, this conflict, like all conflicts, stems from ape hierarchy politics. For example, in the macro scale throughout history people get along when every ethnic group knows their place, but when someone tries to rise up they are violently opposed for it. When this friend of mine was content to let me be that nerdy interesting guy in the background, whom she could leech off of when necessary and I would not argue, all was well. But when I expect to be equivalent to her poshy art galleria scene then suddenly I am stepping out of my place, and hence I am pushed aside. But I will not be condescended to, only I get to be condescending to others by God . . . and then conflict ensues.

Basically, all human conflict-behavior just amounts to dogs barking at each other for pack animal position. She won't help me rise up, and doesn't even think I deserve to rise up, so I bark at her.

I don't know. Or maybe I'm just an asshole sometimes. Or maybe she is. Who cares anyways? Life is too short to be polite all the time. None of it is a big deal. People take life too personally.

Ah well, I tend to burn bridges and I think I am preparing myself to move far away from this horrible polite city anyways. But before it comes to that I shall need to continue embrace this city, and so I went to Sunset and took a bus to Fairfax with plans to see another show, last stop on my itinerary . . .

Genghis Cohen is an aptly named Jewish Chinese food shop in West Hollywood, and I guess they have music performances on occasion. I arrived too early though; the show wasn't until 8:00 and I found myself with hours and hours to kill. Had a beer, watched basketball that I had little stake in, walked abound for miles, and still the time would not end. I was down to my last four dollars, and decided to spend it for an hour's entertainment at the internet cafe on Melrose. Four dollars an hour is a bit pricy, and I am nothing if I am not cheap, but what else was I to do?

Note: Earlier I found a dime on the floor at the gas station nearby. I decided to enact the RAW quarter trick, and will upon my reality quarters. Usually for me this amounts to dimes, but I was very intent upon expanding my perception to include higher-priced coins. This comes into play shortly . . .

Now cashless, and I still had to pay five bucks for the show (was I to be on the list? Apparently not), and for that matter I still had to get back to Long Beach mind you (the band, you see, is from San Diego and on the way down the 405 I thought I might get a ride, a possibilty we discussed via email, but this was not completely confirmed as yet). Oh how I despise ATM machines that are not affiliated with my bank, but I surrendered to the necessity and went back to the gas station where I found my dime, and paid my 2.25 charge. I took out a twenty dollar bill. Then a twenty dollar bill came out. Wait, what?

Oh my! Here I was upset about wasting money, and then a free twenty dollar bill is presented to me. The previous patron must have left their twenty bucks here.

Their loss sadly, but my apparent Will. Is money a zero sum game? Perhaps, but we don't feel bad about it when we are winning.

And then, by the way, I found another dime, and then another quarter at the restaurant later.

Something to be written of in my magical diary . . .

Like A Bird showed up, and we exchanged hugs. It was her first show, possibly a historic moment, and I was there. Pretty vocals, and science fictiony lyrics, a pure art, and catchy tunes,; my German/San Diegan friend is quite talented. I am very fond of the music, and recommend it to all; so please click on the link.

Like A Bird


Afterwards we hung out in the parking lot and I was invited to join them in the cramped van to a nearby party - and I was indeed confirmed to get a ride to Long Beach, how nice - and went to Fairfax and Foutain at some random guy's place who works at Pixar. We watched Youtube movies, I proceeded to get very very stoned. It was a terrible experience. And just on pot mind you. But I couldn't communicate, couldn't be witty and funny, everything was weird. I mean, what is the point of doing anything if I can't communicate it? It was a bad TV show, every cut disjointed, and I can make no sense of the flow of reality. Everyone around me is fake and weird. I sat down and stayed still, everything all vibraty and weighty, and I dropped the laptop by accident, and shut my eyes tight to wait for the buzz to pass and an hour or so later my motor skills returned.

I still do not understand why the majority of the population has apparently concluded that a cannabis high is the greatest thing there is. Everyone's neurology is unique I suppose, and mine just isn't a fitting metabolism. Still, I must experiment in many more uncomfortable highs, take notes, make a scientific conclusion or outlandish theory theory of some sort; and get to the bottom of this.

Finally, time to go. It was fun to hang out and party, enjoy company, and watch this pretty German girl on the guitar. I'll have to visit San Diego from time to time once I get some reliable transport. We were all stuffed in the van, four people in a three-seat setup, and I sat very tight next to her as she was falling asleep with my arm on her back . . . and I think I fell a little bit in love with this girl. It happens from time to time.

And the so weekend continues, but I must catch up on my reading, and go to the gym, watch Goddard movies - Alphaville is so-so but Breathless is amazing - and perhaps even write. I even have Memorial Day off, as per the corporate job deal, so now what? Stay home, write about times past, break relationships, forge new ones, and plan for weekends to come . . .

NAMASTE MUTHAFUCKA

Events, culminating.

High-and-low contrasts bend more extreme.

And its slightly fun.

On Wednesday I went to yoga class. Trying to be healthy. And a lady's cell phone kept ringing again and again from her bag. I wanted so bad to scream at her. Yoga was not successfully relaxing. Why didn't she turn it off after the third bloody ring?! And who are these people that call again and again, instead of simply leaving a message and waiting an hour?? I fantasized about starting a fight in yoga class, and that would have been funny ironic.

I was not very relaxed in th end, but I stretched, and I balanced, and at the end I harmoniously repeated "namaste" because the teacher told me to.

Lately on Thursdays my ritual has been to go to the comic store--one day late, I know. I bought Wonder Woman, Suicide Squad, Booster Gold, and Superman. Followed by the library where I returned some CDs and ordered some Irvine Welsh; and I picked up volume 6 of Akira and volume 9 of Sandman. Just for the hell of it I grabbed Invisible Monsters by Chuck Palahniuk. I don't like this novel very much. I support Palahniuk's try, and he's kind of gruesomely funny I suppose, but I don't think he's such a great storyteller. Then I went to Borders and read MW by Osamu Tezuka--which is the darkest Tezuka comic I've ever come across. As usual, I'm in awe of Tezuaka's narrative skills. Then I read The Yage Letters, William Burroughs writing to Ginsburg about his adventures searching for that elusive yage (otherwise known as ayahuasca). So refreshing after reading McKenna's glamorization of South American culture. Burroughs, one of the first white people to trip out on DMT chemicals, has a completely negative and vicious point of view, and seems to hate everything about Bogota and Columbia. That's an honest writer. That's literature.

Friday was a busy day. Firstly, for lunch, I met some new acquaintances at a restaurant in Cerritos. I guess I'm joining a literary art movement or somethin. I've joined some burgeoning movements before in the past, with mixed results, always lookin for the next big thing... the art gallery thing and the psychic astronaut thing... Honestly, I mostly went to this because of a girl. But we shall see where it goes.

Afterwards I hung out in dead Orange County at a coffee shop with my new 'literary' friends. Then I bought some mushrooms. Somehow, after all this longterm fretting and planning over my proper ayahuasca ritual last week--filled with potential and disappointment--an entirely spontaneous outing unfolded into my newest neurological breakthrough. Sadly, I had to go to a money machine to take out 40 bucks, and there weren't any US Banks so it cost me a 3 dollar fee, and I hate that. So I waited for the Asian guy to get the paper bag out of his car I and bought these things, and proceeded to ingest. McKenna says to take "heroic" doses, so I did.

The plan for the night was to go to a poetry reading. By the time I got there I was rather out of it. Everything turned into a cartoon of itself. Synchronicities piled up, and every character put on a show just for my enjoyment. I just hope I didn't embarrass myself too much.

Self-consciousness turns off. Everything is deja vu. Language fails.

I sat with the audience and there were familiar readings in the background, but I sat backwards and couldn't stop staring at art on the wall. I found it more interesting to lock myself in the bathroom and look at the sparkling water.

Bright lights- I put on sunglasses, loud noises- I wore earplugs. Heads turning into skulls. Colors shifted. The floor revealed mesoamerican hieroglyphics. People pop in and out of existence and ask me stupid questions like, "are you okay?"

I've never been so happy in my life. I've found myself thinking: Why the hell was I so depressed yesterday? Everything is so simple. It made sense at the time.

I met up with my other friend who lives downtown, and he walked me to the beach. He opened up his heart to me, his lovelife off and on, and since I could barely control what I was saying I opened up my heart by accident. Again, I hope I didn't embarass myself too harshly. It was very difficult to get cohesive words out. "Um . . ." I whispered.

Everything was a CGI exaggeration, and so many cops out on the street, and the strange tunnels inbetween the alleys, and strange hippies made love on the nighttime sand (the strange things you'd never notice sober), and I laughed at the absurdity of buildings we build and nonsense we crush, and I peed in the ocean.

This was by far the most detailed visions I have ever encountered. Usually drugs are disappointingly interesting for me, but this exceeded expectations. Did I finally encounter anything "cosmic?"

And still I wonder, where do these images come from? Is there an other side I vibrate in frequency with; or is it purely imaginative? Is it spiritual or sensatory?

Probably completely within my head. Probably nothing more than that. But that's okay.

All perception is virtual reality already, nothing wrong with shaking up the antenna-signal every once in a while.

(I'll try again with the "heroic" doses.)

Just don't let me turn into another stupid drug addict, another weird crazy muthafucka on the bus.

I must be careful.

Hopefully, after the languageless brain-fraying, I can be eloquent about it after the fact!


Strange Weekend, to be continued . . .

In which I go to the Hollywood antiwar protest, directly followed by Wizard World Comic Con an hour later, and then I'm depressed and then its St. Patrick's and I'm drunk . . .