Monday, July 24, 2006

Chinese Idol ... straight from the military

MArt recently got a job as a cook. And thus, he's required (by default of being one's boyfriend) to foot the long-distance charges we've been racking up since I flew to Beijing two weeks ago. Calling cards are a joke here. They're like trips to Costco: a never-ending cycle of unfinished business. Just as you remember something important to say, the line beeps that maddening beep and cuts you off like an AIDS epidemic. He says he loves receiving updates from me; I just think he wants to masturbate. I mean, who knows? Maybe he really does enjoy listening to me whine about the domestically-centered plotlines of Korean soaps.

"Man, why she gotta be so obedient? And her hair: it's just so ... shiny."

I also developed an addiction to informercials. My favourite one -- so far -- is the one shilling for weightloss shoes. Apparently, walking will help you shed the pounds to a slimmer, newer you. It's in the technology of the insoles, you see. These insoles tone you up and tighten sagging buns, and all you have to do is walk. No sweat! because running is for losers.

Another says fat can be jiggled away. Yeah, it's supposed to be absorbed into your digestive tract and shat out your anus. The damn thing looks like a gigantic vibrator to me: One too big for your va-jay-jay, and too small to come with a free TV offer.

Speaking of, the most grating thing about this city is the stuff they have on the tube. Everything's dubbed here. (Just last night, I watched Terminator III. ... And now I wonder when I'd sunk so low.) Well, almost everything. Maybe it's just the shit ma grand-mere has on hers, but most of the 60 channels are like one long Ben Stiller joke. The chick who does the Korean wife also does the Indian girlfriend, and I suspect she might also triple as the Russian femme fatale (with the heart of gold and the steroid bosom of a lactating Barry Bonds).

MArt thinks what I'm saying is hilarious. What he doesn't find so hilarious are guys who want to pursue me. I told him he needn't worry because like all good Chinese girls raised in the West, I'm a bonafide racist. And by that, I obviously mean a yellow man makes for happy parents. And who honestly wants that?

I think my love letter to him finally arrived today. In a true testimony of my spinter beginnings, it ends:

You make me want to live the facade, and for that, I love you.

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