MFW Living in China

你看他穿得多土!

Just look at this fucking dork！

Getting Buff

I sometimes work out at the gym on the college campus where I live. You have never seen a more troubling assortment of overused gym equipment. The keen Chinese business-sense of the woman who manages the place includes the strategy of “never-upgrading-anything-ever,” while gladly collecting membership fees. There really aren't any other options for me if I want to get my hands on some free-weights, aside buying my own.

The leg press makes me fear for my life. It's like sitting under a guillotine, and whenever I climb out of it, I imagine the rusted steel restraints breaking. The weighted press would easily slide down and crush my legs. It's funny, because since I've been going there, I've seen more than one machine with a busted cable. One was a leg extender, another a row machine. I wondered exactly how much stress it takes before one of those cables wears out. Thirty years worth? Well, it wouldn't be a shock to discover some of those items have been there since the 80's.

The place is decorated with these oddly dated photos of body builders. Not sure if they're meant to be inspirational, but I noticed very few of them (if any) are photos of bulked-up Chinese males. Are males of European descent the only ones capable of exhibiting a desirable physicality in their opinion?

The Chinese dudes that go there do some pretty interesting things. Some of them arrive to work out wearing a jacket and jeans. I guess they don't own workout clothes or something. Other guys, after they have had the slightest bit of muscle development, start walking around with their shirts off. In my opinion, they are nowhere near the stage where they've got anything to be proud of, but that doesn't stop them. I sometimes feel embarrassed for them. Put a fucking shirt on.

I heard a couple of Chinese dudes by the bench presses making the loudest grunts as they worked, and when I turned, I saw they had the lowest amount of weight possible on the bar: five pounds on either side. I guess it was high time for them to graduate from lifting heavy writing utensils, like sharpies and highlighters and such. But that's the saddest part of the gym: many of the dudes there aren't getting the nourishment they need to support muscle growth. Protein is hard to come by in China, as they sprinkle meat into meals like a seasoning as opposed to a crucial source of nutrients. It seems they much rather fill their bellies with cheap rice or noodles. As it happens, I think most Chinese folks I come across are malnourished. If you saw the standard garbage considered edible on this campus you would understand why.

Every once in a while, I'll see the true Chinese meat-heads strolling into the gym. These guys have actually have found a way to bulk up despite the nourishment and environmental constraints that come with living in China. Needless to say, performance enhancing drugs are a likely explanation. I don't think that kind of growth would be possible without them. It really makes we wonder about substance control in this country. Someone told me recently in one of my classes that steroids are not illegal here.

Zhong Guo Hua

They say that moving to China is the best way to learn Chinese, hands down. After studying the language for a few years, I'm going to report on some of my personal experiences, and how my decision to live abroad has affected my learning:

I used to have a much more methodical learning process with which I approached the language. I would follow along with coursework, spend hours practicing my characters, and sit with a tutor. But as I realized the probability of mastery would call upon an astronomical degree of memorization, and I would never achieve a useful grasp unless I was able to absorb several words and characters at a time, I started to feel a bit overwhelmed.

It's not just the problem of reading a word, it's also memorizing the tones. And after you've memorized the tones, you still have to think about your accent and the way the Chinese traditionally use the word. And even if you've got that down, it doesn't mean that when a Chinese person says the word to you, you'll recognize it. And then you've got the whole issue of multiple dialects to consider.

Television tries to make things helpful by providing Chinese subtitles at the bottom of the screen. Even the Chinese don't always understand each other, but they hope that characters (different blotches of lines and shapes) will unify their experience. There have been times when I've been able to read whole strings of characters, and know the tones, and still not understand a damn thing. It's because different combinations of characters have a different meaning, and then the challenge is compounded by slang or weird idioms. Sometimes it feels practically impossible to figure shit out. “Get a Chinese girlfriend,” some people advised.

Let's just put it this way: if the Chinese language was graded by the criteria of how effectively it facilitates meaningful communication, it would get a D minus. Let's say that one day someone decides to create a language for the sheer purpose of concise and efficient expression: No one would come up with Mandarin. The language is a tradition of bad ideas that have been compounded by more bad ideas, strained through a sieve of simplification, then stratified by regions and hopeless variations. I visualize Chinese as a system that ties together circular strings of logic where English is designed to provide sturdy rectangular shapes. The manifold learning capacities it calls upon are so different, it's like practicing to ride a unicycle over a tightrope (while spinning a plate on your nose and juggling fish).

And it's unavoidable: after you come to know a few phrases and have the most basic vocabulary, Chinese people will attempt to engage you in conversation. And then you get to experience the joy of understanding only half of what is said, and looking like an ass when you try to reply. It never fails, whenever I get in a cab, I'll end up riding with Chatty Chang. He'll always want to tell me his whole life story. Or worse, he'll want me to describe the intricate details of my own. There are basic, stock phrases that I always have on hand, but I have to be careful. Inevitably, the conversation crosses into nebulous territory, where only the most skilled Chinese linguists may apply.

I was standing at a food stall, getting some grilled chicken. Some Chinese kid came along and started making snarky comments to the owner about me. I couldn't understand exactly what he was saying, but I knew that he was talking shit. He kept looking over at me, in that kind of loathsome manner that comes with Chinese player-haters. Eventually the food owner asked me a question about whether I wanted my chicken spicy or not, and I replied in Chinese.

The shit-talking-kid's eyes bulged. He said with incredulity, “你会说中文吗?” “You can speak Chinese?!”

I just said, “会.” “Yep.”

The kid swallowed, his face suddenly red. Lacking the courage behind his contempt, his buggy eyes darted back and forth before he nervously stepped away. Lesson learned. Don't assume that just because I'm foreign that I can't understand what the fuck you're saying. Even if most of the time I can't.

Comparisons

The kids in one of my classes wanted to ask me about comparisons of expenses between the US and China. I was explaining to them, “Unless you live in a rural area, where no one wants to live, and there are very few jobs, it is nearly impossible to get by without making over fifty-thousand dollars a year. At least that has been my experience. You can survive on about forty-thousand a year, but it would be difficult. And I'm talking about living comfortably at least, in a cheap apartment, with basic internet, utilities, a cell phone, some student debt, and making car payments. You would still live in toxic conditions, with some crime, surrounding poverty, and dangerous neighbors on drugs.”

My students were shocked. “Forty-thousand dollars a year?” they asked. “That is so much though!”

I shook my head. “That's not really anything. But it depends on where you live,” I told them. “In most places in the US, you will be broke making forty-thousand a year. And let's just pray that you can find a job that provides basic medical insurance, because if you don't have that, illness can destroy your financial life.”

“I guess that's one of the things I like about living in China,” I explained. “Things are relatively affordable. You can sustain yourself on about three hundred dollars a month if your rent is covered. Take for example this Pepsi bottle.” I held up a plastic bottle of “百事可乐.” In the US, you may spend as much as two dollars for this item. In China, you pay about three yuan (about fifty cents). Same goes for several other things in China. When I was living in the US, I was lucky to keep myself fed and healthy on less than one hundred and fifty dollars a week.”

“I guess China isn't such a bad place to live after all!” one of my students said.

I almost snickered, because in my head it was the equivalent of someone saying, “I guess the smell of poop isn't so bad after all!”

But that's just the thing: maybe it isn't, in comparison.  

Not a Single Fuck was Given That Day:

我求求你，赶快去洗澡，你身上的味儿比她妈的狗屎还臭！

“I'm begging you, please take a shower, you stink worse than goddamned dog shit!”

I was walking down the street when some kid swerved closely in front of me on his bicycle so that he could make it down the driveway into an office complex. There was no reason for him to cut it so close. He had plenty of room to get by comfortably without zooming two inches from my toes. The shape of his pointy skull coupled with his wanton lack of courtesy prompted me to yell, “Dickhead!” But he seemed inured by my curse. Actually, being a dickhead seems to be pretty ordinary in China, so the offended cries that follow are probably ordinary also.

Still, I shouldn't yell insults at people in public, even if most of them don't seem understand what I'm saying, let alone have time to take issue with it. I know that it's going to probably catch up with me sooner or later. It can just be a challenge to maintain my composure at times. I become disgruntled after Chinese males mindlessly bump into me because they can't be bothered to respect my personal space. I grow weary of the omnipresent symphony of clearing throats that seems to follow wherever I go. Everyone smokes, so the constant hocking of phlegm is like a national sport.

As it is, I think I've come to understand why the people in this country behave in the inconsiderate ways they do. In the States, we are raised to believe that individuality is valuable: that good things can occasionally come about from the enterprising efforts of a solitary soul. This idea of inspiration and initiative being rewarded has a tendency (in some cases) of breeding more gratitude. But here, it seems that people are raised to believe that the outside world has absolutely no obligation to respect your life, on the most basic level. The governing authority, the system of justice, it would just as soon crush you under its heel as look at you. And this contempt just seems to breed more contempt.

“Collectivist” culture, eh? They don't seem to care even a little about each other. They seem to perceive each other only as obstacles, things to be shoved aside or moved around, lest all the resources will be depleted. This is what keeps people behaving as though they are in the thick of scarcity and desperation when they are up to their ears in abundance.

Toilet Paper Privation

Most everyone in China can afford toilet paper, and at any corner store it is available. But you will not find a single square of it anywhere in Chinese public restrooms. Once I asked a Chinese friend why, and she told me it was because people would simply steal it. Who knows why they hell they would do that. I sure there are protective measures that could be put in place to dissuade people from manically heisting every last bit of it, but that's the way this culture is.

They can't trust each other enough to allow open access to toilet paper. Who knows how much money might be lost were public restrooms were to do so? Thieves from all over the Middle Kingdom would arrive to zealously plunder all of the loose amenities like swashbuckling pirates high on meth amphetamines.

Which brings us to the next order of business: Toilet privation. To the Chinese eye, toilets are luxuries developed for the ill and elderly. They think to themselves, “Why would someone need an something to sit on while taking a shit when it's so much more fun to sit on your ankles and squat over a hole?” So this is what we have in the place of toilets in China. The use of these kind of toilets is so embedded in the culture that sometimes, when Chinese folks encounter porcelain thrones for the first time, they may put their feet up on the toilet seat to get the dynamic 'squat effect.' So if you ever find dirty footprints on a toilet seat in China, you'll know why.

Overnight Celebrity

There are certain advantages at times to being a foreigner among a generally homogeneous population. Because some Chinese girls aren't used to having too many options, anything opposed to the norm becomes a breath of fresh air. It doesn't matter. You can be a moderately good-looking white male and still invoke awe among women when you're seen out in public, as though you're a Greek god. That's a pretty good feeling, and I highly recommend it.

I was seated a restaurant when I was approached by a family that wanted to take of a photo of me and their youngest son. The first time strangers ask if they can take pictures of themselves with you can be off-putting. There are times when I've felt like Mickey Mouse at Disneyland. But over time, as you begin to embrace your unofficial celebrity status, you can begin to derive some real satisfaction from being in this foreign land.

Sometimes, when I'm working, there have been female students that have come into my classroom to ask if they can get their picture taken with me. I don't know what the point is. What are they going to say when explaining the image to their friends? Other times I've caught my female students taking photos of me with their phones while I'm trying to teach. Maybe if they told me first I would have at least given them a few good poses. The lighting in the classroom is far from flattering.

It's not to say celebrity doesn't come with a share of weirdness. There was a time a couple of girls started to follow me as I made my rounds around campus. They were too shy to approach me, so instead they lingered five feet behind, giggling behind their hands as they watched me. I suppose I should have been flattered, but it was kind of eerie in a way when they didn't say anything. I imagined them having a creepy discussion about how my flesh would taste after sauteed in garlic sauce. Shivered.

Another night, my colleagues and I were invited to formal event with a high-ranking government official of the province. We were the stock white people present, to give the appearance that foreigners were indeed working in the area, and reinforcing the local economic development. It was a publicized event, with various video cameras and flashes going off around the room. The government official stopped by our table along with his entourage. He wanted the press to get some photos of him proposing a toast to the “foreign experts.” We took a moment to sip some wine with King of Shit Mountain before he went off to mingle with the rest of the commoners. Good times.

Where's the Beef?

Being in China I've had exposure to far more different kinds foreigners than ever before. Every region in the world seems to have representation on the campus on which I live. I remember one day all of the teachers and foreign students that live in my building on campus were invited by the faculty to something of a Chinese New Year celebration. Around that time of year I was feeling pretty agitated as it seemed that the vacation would never end, and things would never return to normalcy. All the local stores and restaurants were closed, making life something of a challenge.

I was seated in this dining hall with a couple other colleagues, and because there were no other available seats, my table ended up getting filled with East Indian kids. They were all medical students, and young, around twenty to twenty-one. Some of them were trying to dress cool to disastrous effect, and some of their hairstyles made me snicker. But they were friendly, and as the waitress started bringing dish after dish of obscure Chinese food to our table, we shared in the grotesque items politely. And then the table wine started to get in the mix.

Some Chinese lady wanted to get up on the center stage and use a mic to deliver a pointless speech over a sorry power amplifier. Her language was muddled and clumsy, and we just wanted her to sit back down. Was she trying to be inspirational or something? Because we were tipsy on table wine, my colleagues and I started shouts of exaggerated enthusiasm for every last sentence she attempted. After the woman finished antagonizing everyone and relinquished the mic, more odd cultural expressions followed. The Jordanian boys wanted to share in the holiday spirit, so they got up and started playing some warped ethnic music over the amplifier via a mp3 player of some kind. Then they all huddled together and started doing some kind of ritualistic circle-jerk dance, where they held hands in a ring and kicked their legs out.

It was the middle of the afternoon, and I didn't think I was drunk enough for that shit. I watched the Jordanian boys dance together with some degree of fascination. I imagined they were experiencing some kind of exclusive enjoyment that can only be afforded by coming from a homogeneous population. Because I'm an American, I will never know what that's like. I share my nation with fuckheads from all over the globe.

After the waitress brought out a dish, some of the Indian kids asked with concern, “Is it beef?” They exchanged glances, looking down at the meal with distrust. My colleague pointed out, “Oh right, because some of you are reverent toward cows, you don't approve of consuming beef.”

I said to them, “Well, for what it's worth, I think your god is delicious.”

I don't imagine I'll be invited as the key speaker for a cultural sensitivity course anytime in the near future.

Take Me To Your Heart

来到中国的美国人常常拿中国和美国比较，觉得中国有许多地方还相当落后。

"Americans who come to China often compare China to the US and feel that China in many respects is still considerably backwards."

I See Dead People

The semester was coming to a close, and as a final project, I had students bring some of their favorite music videos into class via flash drive, to tell us about some of their favorite actors, artists, or performers (in English). For the most part, their musical tastes didn't seem to be dramatically different than what one might expect from a group of Western students. Of course someone was going to mention Justin Beiber and Taylor Swift. Of course there were going to be presentations on Michael Jackson. I didn't expect a girl to express her fondness for Linkin Park, but it happened. But then there was one presentation that kind of freaked me out.

Some kid brought in a video by Danish band with the name, “Michael Learns to Rock.” He wanted to present a song by the title, “Take Me to Your Heart,” as if a more cliched song title exists somewhere. As he started the video, I couldn't really understand what was wrong with the audio. Perhaps there was some kind of phasing issue with the codec, because it sounded weird, as though certain frequencies had been omitted. And then the actual song began. The video opened with some kind of pretty boy with frosted blonde hair, singing the kind of lyrics a child would write. I sneered and thought, “You can't be serious.”

I couldn't put my finger on what was offending my sensibilities right away. I mean, the song is clearly dumb as rocks, but something about it was toxic. I realized: this music has no dynamics whatsoever. There is no building tension, no real release, it is just one long syrupy drawl leaving a strip of slime along the ground of my cognition like a snail. This is music for dead people: people that exist at such a narrow spectrum of human experience, they only understand the difference between pain and pleasure, and everything else is superfluous. And just as that thought crossed my mind, I turned and realized the whole room was singing along with the video! I was aghast! How could something so bland be so popular?

My only explanation is that the song is appeals to Chinese folks because the lyrics are simple and the words ring with the same cliches they enjoy. They can't pass up a song with the words “heart” and “soul” in it. I just want to know what was going through the heads of the creators. I imagine a bunch of wuss-bag Danes woke up one day and said, “Hey guys, let's start a band called 'Michael Learns to Rock,' but the trick is that our songs won't rock. They'll suck ass!” The rest of them said, “Neato!” And then they giggled and did some girlish high-fives.

---

The other theme among the presentations was an expressed fondness for the show “The Big Bang Theory.” I was really hoping that they enjoyed the show in an ironic fashion, as if to say, “Americans are so dumb, they think this show is funny!” But that's not accurate. They actually laugh out loud at the jokes presented. I don't know if they've been hypnotized by the show somehow, or they've been conditioned by friends and family over time to believe the show was actually amusing, but they love it.

“Big Bang Theory” attempts humor in the same way I imagine extremely obese people attempt to make love. The comedy has no balls, and no teeth. It is so harmless and so polite when it casts off these stereotypical geek characterizations. Which is why I believe the show tones down the subject matter and delivery: the people that write it already know it's loathsome. It's contrived, formulaic garbage. But because it flies under the radar of any clear kind of offensiveness, the people who are disgusted with it may find themselves unable to explain exactly why. The trappings of lame comments followed by laugh tracks are too pervasive in modern entertainment. So yet, this is another example of Chinese folks enthusiastically embracing something bland, but at least they are not alone in this regard.

For what it's worth, I would pay at least a couple thousand dollars to see the characters on “Big Bang Theory” submitted to the same of tests of physical and psychological torture executed by Jigsaw from the “Saw” films. Now that would be some quality entertainment: Just to see that character Sheldon wake up in a cleverly concocted death trap, and none of his nasal idiosyncrasies could save him. A disembodied voice would explain, “I want to play a game.” … haha, that would be excellent.

At Da Club

So, you're not doing China right if you don't take the time to check out their upscale clubs. There are a few in the city that I really enjoy going to, and as you step inside: you'll realize that they are pretty similar to those you'll see in the West. There is loud, thumping music: the exact same shit you hear in the States. There are monitors displaying music video loops and animation. There are flashing lights, smoke machines, overpriced drinks. The big difference here is that the West pioneered this whole scene, while the East can only try to mimic it. The West is charged by being at the source of these kinds of cultural concepts, so China is left to try on whatever is left in the bargain bin, like secondhand clothing. No biggie. For what it's worth, they mimic pretty well.

They even get a little inventive at times, having live performances interjected into the musical lineup. Once in a while they'll have someone get on stage and sing a cover: sometimes Lady Gaga, sometimes Rihanna. What surprised me most is that when people get up and under the lights, the crowd actually gives them attention. I imagine if someone tried doing something like this in the States, people would just turn around and ignore it. But the club managers really do whatever they can to give the patrons the impression that “This is what's happening, and if you weren't here, you'd be missing it.”

One functional problem with clubs in China is that they have no designated dance floor. So you just have to dance at whatever table you are standing at and drinking with your entourage. And most of the tables are inconveniently close together. Once in a while, after alcohol gets into the mix, people may bump into one another. One of the staff might walk into you and drop an expensive bottle and a pitcher of ice. People might slip on the liquids and broken glass. But no point in trying to talk sense into anyone there, so you might as well accept this as the hazards of having fun in China.

Sometimes I'll go to the club, and you can tell that there are people really enjoying themselves. Other nights, at the same venue, it seems like they've completely forgotten. To me, having fun at a club should be such a straight-forward exercise that it goes without saying. But no, really, some people show up, get their alcohol, and just stand there drinking with a blank expression, as though their waiting for the good times to show up on their own. Maybe I'm just reading them wrong. Maybe while they seem reserved on the outside, they're having an absolute blast in their own heads, and they are wary of anyone else finding out. Who knows?

After I get my buzz, I'll sometimes find myself playing the role of cheerleader to a table full of mopey-faced Chinese girls. I walk up and start dancing in their general vicinity, and most of the time they will smile and start giggling, as if to say, “Oh yeah, that's what you're supposed to do here.” They just need a reminder sometimes. The other thing that most Chinese girls seem to know about (but are sometimes afraid to try) is the bump and grind. Because they know I am from a Western cultural orientation, they know I will not think it unusual if they come up and start bouncing their tiny rumps against my pelvic region. If you're a white male in China, you're bound to get targeted for these kinds of things.

Be careful though, because though Chinese males won't necessarily mind the idea of Western males taking Chinese girlfriends, they are not impressed at all with the idea of Western males using Chinese girls for casual sex. Who's to say why. They're not exactly the most respectful toward the ladies. I just believe the notion of outsiders having an advantage in the mating game really offends their sensibilities. Sometimes I've felt inspired to explain, “Hey, we live in competitive biosphere, bitch! Get over it.”

Nothing is more irritating than males that expect others to play the mating game with a handicap to make things more fair for them, like women have no say in the matter. Hey, you won't see me biting my nails when Chinese males show up at club in the States to try to scoop up on all the fly booty. I'd like to see them try.

A colleague and I were having a blast at club one night, and were just walking out to take a taxi, when a couple of Chinese dudes called out at us, “Hey! What you think you do with Chinese girl? You think you are to fuck them?” His broken, drunken English emphasized the word 'fuck' in a weird way. Made it sound like he was getting off on the idea.

We were both puzzled. There weren't any girls walking out with us. We didn't exactly understand the nature of their grievance. Quick to a combative stance as dudes that have been drinking could be, we walked over and called back, “What did you just say?”

They didn't appear hostile, just contemptuous. They repeated, “You think Chinese girls to fuck them?” There, he said it again. Weird emphasis on 'fuck.'

My buddy and I exchanged glances before he asked, “What's the problem? My girlfriend is Chinese. You have a problem with that?”

And their English probably sucked too much for them to understand when I told them, “And I fuck your mother all the time. She loves it.” A nice and stupid, drunken comment. They just blinked and kind of wandered away after that. It was such a weird confrontation: a random cry of jealousy in the night followed by sullenness. At no point were we actually concerned that they might try to brutalize us. It was like a mutual understanding between us that they didn't have the nerve to try.

---

Another cultural difference I noticed when going to clubs in China is the weird kind of sexual repressiveness that is subtly tied into the interactions there. Despite the introduction of alcohol, there is still an occasional reluctance to be expressive: to openly show that you find someone attractive, or to reveal that you are turned on, and so forth. There have been times when something that might have ordinarily been fun in a Western cultural context turns weird.

One night I was drinking at a table, just enjoying the music as my entourage was off doing other things. A Chinese girl climbed out of the woodwork, and stood directly in front of me, gesturing for me to look at her. I had been drinking all night, so I just smiled. She wasted no time in taking my arm, turning and arching her back so her ass would connect with my crotch. Her body was certainly decent, and I wasn't about to complain. She then took my hands and started running them over her body. What was strange about the interaction, was that even though it was arousing, there was something about it that was off. It didn't feel like she was doing it for fun. It felt cold, like a business transaction.

Her body language was seemingly pleading with me, as if to say, “I just want to be touched, please! Please. Make me feel like something desirable! I just feel empty inside, and I think what we're doing is depraved and wrong. But, I need it.” These kind of thoughts swirled in my head along with a belly full of liquor. And after a while, she abruptly walked off, leaving me standing there with a stiffy and a strange sense of bewilderment. Why was that so weird? I just wanted to have good time that evening, and instead my buzz got blindsided by a haze cultural oddness. Whatever.

Other nights, you'll find girls that are perfectly Western in their own way, and don't have any of the hang-ups dragged along with traditional Chinese ideas of propriety. I spent an evening dancing with a girl in too-short jean shorts, and she and her friend wanted to take turns grinding against me. She fed me alcohol and fruit, and kept me standing near her table by wrapping her legs around me. I didn't know if she was a pro or not, and I wasn't too concerned at the moment. All I remember is her taking my phone from me to enter her name and number in it.

She held up the lit screen of my phone and with a cute little smile, she said, “I'm Candy.”

Remembering that line from the first “Highlander” film, I replied, “Of course you are.”

Bonus Story

It has been a while since I updated this blog, so I am throwing in an additional bonus story for fair measure. At one of the bars in this city, they keep an assortment of puzzles on the counter: just little items to toy with when you're wasted. One of those items is a Rubik's puzzle cube. One night, after drinking a few beers, I became totally enthralled with it. I don't know why. I was just sure that I could somehow figure the stupid thing out on my own without guidance. Problem was: I was wrong. Perplexed by this development, I found my own 3 x 3 x 3 puzzle cube a small store on the business street near the place I work.

I watched some you tube videos on how to solve it. I then wrote down the algorithms and started trying to apply them to different transmutations. Eventually I figured out how to apply each one to the different conditions the cube presented. A few weeks later, I could solve the puzzle cube on my own, without looking up the algorithms. I then returned to that bar emboldened by my new knowledge, eager to put that scrambled cube to a new resolution. I sat with the thing for twenty minutes. And after another twenty minutes, I still could not solve it. I didn't know what was wrong.

After studying the cube for a long time with a drink in my hand, I realized: someone had already tried taking the thing apart and putting it back together. Only thing was they put it back together wrong, so the stupid thing could not be solved! I felt ripped-off. And struck me as such a profound metaphor for so many other aspects of life, perhaps even the reasons that brought me to China to begin with. How often do we attempt to solve problems that can't actually be solved by the assumed course of action? Many times, I think.