Just when you think you're having it tough...

Was having a "Woe is me" morning. Like many teachers, I started thinking that what bad things happened at school mattered in the real world (bad by school standards: truant kids, lost marks, uninspiring essays, et cetera.)

Went to my room for a little self-commiseration and Facebook. Learned that one of my former students has died. 19 years old, struck by a car. Lingered for 4 days. Now dead.

Perspective comes swiftly. I have no problems.

I send my sympathies to Sara Holt's family and friends.

Flight of the Bumblebee.

Woke up at 5:30 this morning to work. Went to the office. Computer had a boot disk problem. This is the issue that IT "feex" last week. Files were saved on that computer, so no work could be done.

Back to my room. 6:10: Noise in the corridor.

Open my door, and Sharon Hawkins is there telling me her room is filled with wasps, or hornets, or some sort of stinging creature. I sympathize, but not empathize. No stingers in my room.

Back in to room. BZZZBBZZBZZZBBZZZ.

Fuck.

Only one, so I Sh-, Sh-, Sh-, then out the door to mark at the office.

BZZZBZZZBZZZBZZZ.

8 or 9 of the bastards flying around. 7am, and my day is off.

Smile. Don't curse. Do NOT hurt anyone.

27 days in and I'm having my first China Day. Not bad, not bad at all.


Excuse me.


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

There. Much bett-

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

-er....

Compare and contrast.

I've been itching for a foot massage since I returned to Shenzhen. I despise most massage, and believe that today's Chinese Masseurs are descended from a long line of Imperial Court Torturers. Foot massages are different, though. They sit you in a room, and give you tea, and bring in wooden buckets of steaming water and rose petals. You soak your feet for 10 or 15 minutes, and then they wrap your legs in towels that are just a notch below painfully hot. After wrapping both legs, they unwrap the first one and start the foot and leg massage. Fifteen minutes of oils and rubbing later, they re-wrap that leg, and unwrap the second. It truly is a pleasant experience.

That in mind, I eagerly awaited Wednesday night when my friend Eimoon and I had decided to go for a massage.

Allow me to introduce Miss Eimoon Jin. 'Moon was a waitress at my friend's Thai Restaurant when I worked at McCawley's. We became good friends. She is not Han Chinese, but is of the Dai Ethnic Minority Group from Yunnan Province. (The Dai are a people that split off from the Thai people, and populate the areas of Northern Thailand, Laos, Myanmar, and Southern Yunnan province. Their language is distinct from Thai, and their culture has also deviated.) Eimoon's name means "Little Moon" in Dai le, the language of her particular subgroup of Dai. She speaks Dai, Mandarin, Thai, and English. I'm mildly infatuated with the young lady.

Wednesday evening arrived, and I was heading to our appointed gathering place, when my phone rang. It was a mildly inebriated Eimoon begging forgiveness, but she had met a couple of people from her home town, and they had invited her for supper. They were running a bit late, and she wondered if we could post-pone our meeting for a half an hour. Nae problem. I headed down towards our path anyway, and took in a half hour off people watching, an absolute favourite pass time of mine. 5 minutes after the alloted meeting time, my phone rang again. A more inebriated Eimoon who didn't think she'd be able to enjoy a foot massage as she was a little too lit. She asked if I'd like to join her and her friends at their apartment. I weighed my options and sitting in a room full of drunk people I didn't know and couldn't communicate with seemed more appealing than going for a foot massage alone. I headed in her direction.

I arrived at the apartment with a few quarts of beer in tow. The television was playing a dubbed DVD of the new Bond flick (frig, those Triads are fast.) The coffee table was heavily laden with dishes of food. 'Moon sat on the couch drinking a wine glass full of Tsing Tao. Her two Dai friends were chatting and smoking. There were two other people on the couch who didn't seem to be in on the party, but were watching the movie. The girl looked familiar, but I couldn't place her, and the gent never once looked in my direction. After introductions, and glass filling and a cheers, the conversation carried on. In Dai.

Actually, this wasn't a bad thing. I was dreading arriving, and being the centre of attention, having people staring, commenting on A) How fat I was; B) That I was bald; C) That Canada was "wery bUdiful" (though they'd never been there or seen pictures of it); D) any number of average conversations between Gwei Lo (literally "Ghost Man" though often translated as "Foreign Devil") and Chinese last 30 seconds and then dries up into awkward silence. This gave me the opportunity to take in my surroundings.

The apartment was newish, and it was obvious that many people lived here. The "dining room" had a curtain hung to separate it from the living room, and a mattress could be seen on the floor. The balcony had been transformed into a closet and there were three bedrooms down the hall. I reckoned there were 5 people living there. (I've since come to realize that there were at least 8.) While I watched, another young lady wearing a traditional Dai skirt came out of the bedroom and sat on the couch to watch the Bond flick. It was at this point that the baby started to cry. The familiar looking girl ran down the hall, and brought back an infant that had a huge cranium. This head had its own weather system. The child got passed from Mother to 'Moon, to the boys, to me. He was a great baby, never cried, and was not afraid of the Gwei Lo. I commented on the monstrous head, and everyone laughed. In their respective languages they all referred to the child as "Big Headed Baby."

While I was holding the child and talking to him about the condition of the Hang Seng market, and whether I should invest in China or not, his mother asked Eimoon something about me in Mandarin. She apparently thought I was familiar, too. After a few minutes of questions back and forth, we realized that her husband, Kevin, had been my number 2 chef at McCawley's. This of course explained the child's head size, for Kevin was always called "Big Headed Cook" at McCawley's.

The evening flowed along with the beer. By the end of it, everyone was talking to everyone else, language differences be damned. At midnight I had to break the party up because, well, it was midnight, and I'm an old man who gets up at 5:30. The night ended with promises of a repeat performance next week at Eimoon's place, and then we were off.

Another reason I thoroughly enjoyed this night was watching Eimoon speaking in Dai, and reminiscing about growing up in her village. Though I couldn't understand the words, I could understand the conversation. These three were talking about a lost time in a village with no electricity, no toys, no money. Simple life on the farms. Hard work. Made up games. It was like watching a group of Maritimers discussing their childhood.

The next night, I had plans with some of my friends in the Expat community. We had booked a private room at a Muslim Restaurant just around the corner from the school. We ordered a full roasted lamb. I arrived a bit late and the crowd was already loosened up. Chins were wagging, and smart ass comments were flying. Jokes about the fat Welshman, and the skinny Scot, and the americans speaking Chinese with New Mexican accents. (The Bald Canadian had a pass. The boys are mildly in awe of the fact that I managed to woo Miss Eimoon.)

All this ruction and riot came swiftly to an end, though, when Little Bo Peep's lost sheep was carried into the room. Everyone was handed a plastic glove. And then the barbarism kicked in. It was a bit like a silent movie though. Everyone drinking beer, chewing lamb bones, and faltbread, and not a word was spoken. After 10 minutes of this someone said "How do you shut up ten fat pricks?" There was a ripple of laughter, followed swiftly by more silence...

When the lamb was half devoured, the waitress brought in a huge bowl of Xin Jiang Stew. This is a spicy stew from Northwest China (Xin Jiang province), full of potatoes, noodles, chilies, and chicken. The broth is red and lovely, and perfect when soaked up in flat bread.

After a couple of hours, I took my leave and walked home. I reflected on my two evenings, and how different they were, and how similar. It was nice to feel comfortable in both settings, and to be able to gather with friends for food and drink.

No real conclusions to draw here, other than I won't starve.

Hope all is well.

Dulce et decorum est...

Ypres:1915

The age of Trumpets is passed, the banners hang
like dead crows, tattered and black,
rotting into nothingness on cathedral walls.
In the crypt of St. Paul's I had all the wrong thoughts,
wondered if there was anything left of Nelson
or Wellington, and even wished
I could pry open their tombs and look,
then was ashamed
of such morbid childishness and almost afraid.

I know the picture is as much of a forgery
as the Protocols of Zion, yet it outdistances
more plausible fictions: newsreels, regimental histories,
biographies of Earl Haig.
It is always morning
and the sky somehow manages to be red
though the picture
is in black and white.
There is a long road over flat country,
shell holes, the debris of houses,
a gun carriage overturned in a field,
the bodies of men and horses,
but only a few of them and those
always neat and distant.

The Moors are running
down the right side of the road.
The Moors are running
in their baggy pants and Santa Claus caps.
The Moors are running.
And their officers,
Frenchmen who remember
Alsace and Lorraine,
are running backwards in front of them,
waving their swords, trying to drive them back,
weeping
at the dishonor of it all.
The Moors are running.

And on the left side of the same road,
the Canadians are marching
in the opposite direction.

The Canadians are marching
in English uniforms behind
a piper playing "Scotland the Brave."

The Canadians are marching
in impeccable formation,
every man in step.

The Canadians are marching.

And I know this belongs
with Lord Kitchener's moustache
and old movies in which the Kaiser and his general staff
seem to run like the Keystone Cops.

That old man on television last night,
a farmer or fisherman by the sound of him,
revisiting Vimy Ridge, and they asked him
what it was like, and he said,
There was water up to our middle, yes
and there was rats, and yes
there was water up to our middles
and rats, all right enough
and to tell the truth
after the first three or four days
I started to get a little disgusted.

Oh, I know they were mercenaries
in a war that hardly concerned us.
I know all that.

Sometimes I'm not even sure that I have a country.

But I know that they stood there at Ypres
the first time the Germans used gas,
that they were almost the only troops
in that section of the front
who did not break and run,
who held the line.

Perhaps they were too scared to run.
Perhaps they didn't know any better.
--that is possible, they were so innocent,
those farmboys and mechanics, you have to only look
at old pictures and see how they smiled.
Perhaps they were too shy
to walk out on anybody, even Death.
Perhaps their only motivation
was a stubborn disinclination.

Private MacNally thinking:
You squarehead sons of bitches,
you want this God damn trench
you're going to have to take it away
from Billy MacNally
of the South end of St. John, New Brunswick

And that's ridiculous, too, and nothing
on which to found a country.
Still
It makes me feel good, knowing
that in some obscure, conclusive way
they were connected with me
and me with them.

-Alden Nowlan


Different war, similar feelings.

I find myself sitting in an office in China on this 90th anniversary of the Armistice, within 50 miles of Hong Kong Island. In the next war (after the Great one) my Great Uncle, Eddy Arseneau, was stationed with the Winnipeg Grenadiers to protect the Empire's "Pearl of the Orient." A late thirties Acadian, he'd been too young to sign up for the Great War, and had to lie about his age to be selected this time, too. By the time of this war he was too old, by army standards.

Found this little bit in a diary online. "Old Ed Arseneau went out to work today for the first time since the crash in the other camp." The man who wrote it was 34 at the time.

In October of 1941, his battalion left Winnipeg and headed for the Far East. On November 16th, they arrived in Hong Kong harbour. On December 8th, the Japanese attacked. By Christmas Day it was obvious to all that holding out any longer was an exercise in futility. After 39 days in theatre and 17 days under siege, 300 Canadians were dead and Eddy was a prisoner of the Japanese Imperial Army. He was eventually moved from Hong Kong to Japan, and was released sometime in late August of 1945.

I've seen the photo of him, taken on the day of his release. He was a skeleton of a man with sunken eyes and a ragged beard. There was no sign of joy on his face, no relief at his liberation. Weariness was all he showed.

Foolishness. A middle-aged Acadian defending an out-port of a dying empire that had committed an act of near genocide against his own cultural group. Under-trained and under-supplied, half way around the world from his family and home. This was patriotism? This was glorious? I don't buy it.

But still...

I can't get past Nowlan's words. "It makes me feel good, knowing that in some obscure, conclusive way [he was] connected with me and me with [him]."

For Eddy, and my other Great Uncles Ralph, Hubert, and Don, and my Uncles, Benedict, Henry, Lawrence, Crumley, Clinton and Seamen, my friends, Darin, Travis, JF, and all the others, take a visit to a cenotaph today, either physically or in your mind. No need for judgement. Just go. And remember.

Cohen May Be Right.

Hi, my name is Frankie. I'm a political junkie.

This is where you are supposed to applaud my courage at making such an embarrassing statement in a public way.

During the Canadian election, I made an attempt to join P-Narc Anon. I failed. When a junkie wants to get away from the monkey on his back, he packs his truck full of food, drives to a cabin in the woods, and sweats on the floor for weeks. When a political junkie wants to do a similar thing, he runs to China. With media blackouts and edited news, it should be easier for him to break from the pack, get away from all his bad influences and walk the straight and narrow.
You can imagine my disappointment then, when I found that even in China I can mainline politics with Live Streaming Coverage of Decision 2008!

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, so here goes.

When Bush and his cronies stole the 2000 election, and made the USA look like a backwards Central American Tin Pot Republic, I winced. When he won the election in '04 I cried "Stolckhom Syndrome". I think today, we'll be able to forget all of that. With what's looking like record turn-outs at the poles, a little thing called Democracy is coming to the USA.

The MSNBC stream I have going is wreaking havoc on my computer, and making it virtually impossible to write, so I'll have to end this now. Here's hoping for a smooth election for our cousins to the south, and here's hoping that if McCain wins, he can impeach his Vice President.

Shekou Morning Coming Down.

When I woke up Sunday morning, was no way to hold my head that didn't hurt,
And the Bailey's I had for Breakfast wasn't bad, so I had 5 more for dessert.
Then I headed down to Shekou, though all I wished was to be sleeping, and inert,
But I ate some Hot Pot, talked to friends, and sweated out the booze from yesterday.

Out in Shekou I saw lots of sights that might seem strange to some, but not to me,
Like the beggars lying on the road, being ignored by all though everyone could see,
And the rich men drinking Tsing Tao, as they thought about their oil companies.
And the expats and the locals and the garbage and the bougainvillea trees.

It's a Sunday down in Shekou, wishin' Lord that I was home,
Cuz there's something about Shekou, makes a body feel alone.
Is it the greed or just the weather or thoughts my mind just can't surmount?
On this grimy Shekou sidewalk, Sunday morning, coming down.

-With apologies to Kris, where ever he is.

Shekou is a neighbourhood of Nanshan District, in Shenzhen. It is where I
ran the Irish Pub, and is traditionally an Expat Ghetto.

To start, no, I'm not really "wishin' Lord that I was home", but it rhymes with making "a body feel alone" and it fits thematically.

I have a minor obsession with Shekou, and it's one I've never probably fully explained to most people. I'm not even sure that I can, but let's give it the old college T-R-I.

If you know me well, you know I appreciate contrast. I love characters in movies that are outwardly one way, and inwardly another. I love foods that pair-off flavours that are traditionally seen as opposites. I like images that highlight poor and rich, harsh and soft, good and evil. Shekou is all of those contrasts and more. It's the Chinese flag, symbolic of the worker's movement, contrasted against all-out capitalism. It's the Oil Executive with his expense account, and the beggar with his bowl. It's the beggars with legitimate disabilities, and those being used by the Triads to make money. It's the flashy shops selling Louis Vuitton next to the push carts selling oranges. It's the smell of jasmine, and the smell of rubbish. It's a place crowded with thousands of people, but so, so many of them are alone.

I should make it clear, I don't love Shekou, I'm just taken in by it. Somedays I like it. Somedays it disgusts me.

Like or disgust, I spent Saturday night there. I went to Teppenyaki with two of the teachers from the school, Jenny Jiang and Petra Kalverboer. After 3 hours of sushi, sake and soba I headed to meet up with friends from my past life. I'll avoid the gruesome details, but my night ended Sunday morning. At 4am I decided I'd consumed and danced enough and went home.

Surprisingly, I was awake at 7am and up for the day, rough though it may have been.

Class time begins today. I'll spend this week observing my classes, and helping out the teachers that have been covering my classes. Much to my surprise and delight, I'm not teaching any ESL classes. I'm doing Social Studies for two grade levels, and Environmental Science. Life is good, indeed.

With that, duty calls.

RIP John McKendy.

Saddened to hear of the death of John McKendy. John was a professor at STU. 34 years on the faculty. Death is always tragic, murder more so. My thoughts are with his family and friends.

Lovely, lazy, laundry day.

Ah, Saturdays. I do love Saturdays. They're idyllic days. Peaceful. Lovely.

Shame I missed half of it by sleeping 'til noon. I'm going to blame this on the jet lag which I claim never to get coming in this direction. Staff had a Hallowe'en party last night. I was there in body and in spirit, though by 10pm, most of my mind had gone to bed. By 11, I decided to follow it. I laid down with my book to read, and fell promptly asleep. 13 hours later I awoke to a thundering fart. The fart itself didn't wake me, but I was unsure as to where I was sleeping. I had an image of Hannah or Aaron ducking for cover in the kitchen and screaming "INCOMING!" (I sleep with my bedroom door open at home.) When I did open my eyes, I didn't know where I was. I cycled through all the potential places, but when I saw the air conditioner it hit me.

Had coffee and Bailey's with Cory and some of the others. Did some laundry. A generally unproductive day.

Not much to report today, other than the flatulence and those of you who know me know my farting is not exactly news worthy.

Should comment that I do have trouble getting onto this site from time to time. If I don't post for a long period, it's probably only because of that.

Take care, and talk soon.

Post Scriptum. I would like to point out Marie-Noel Matthews is my first acolyte...I MEAN..."follower". Hehehehehe. I have followers. Is this what they call a Messiah Complex?