Beijing

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

Get Well.

Give my regards to Mr. Lake. I've enjoyed the bits that I have read of his.

[cranefly]

Sad to say, it turns out that Maya Rudolph is not "the Maya Rudolph."

You may well ask how two people could share such a unique-sounding name. Well, I have a theory about that. I believe she started out as the genuine article, but after my many crushing snubs she transformed herself into a different Maya Rudolph simply to save face.

By the way, at the awards ceremony, she gave her speech in English and then again in fluent Mandarin.

Several others also spoke some Mandarin during their speeches.

I. Did. Not.

[Drunk Monk]

Sorry to hear you came back ill and that it is affecting your visit to J.L. too. It's so hard to stay healthy on a China trip. Try to get some rest soon.

[cranefly]

I am slowly working on my travelog while dealing with other responsibilities (and recovering from jetlag). Hope to post some of it soon. In the meantime, I thought I'd share a couple of mysteries.

Our hosts in Beijing told us some good news midway through the week, which was that Final Draft (screenwriting software) had agreed to gift each of us with a free copy of their product. Alas, just before I went to Beijing, I broke down and bought the competing product Movie Magic Screenwriter. It seemed to get better reviews online. However, when I mentioned having bought Screenwriter, Joshua and another guy had a fit, telling me it was very buggy, and I should not even bother installing it. Odd, because from the reviews I'd read, both products are buggy, and neither company is updating its software anymore, but Screenwriter has a slight edge. Who to believe? I mean, who to fucking believe?

Which brings up the first mystery. Where's my Final Draft? Huh? Where is it?

And then the still bigger mystery: where is my $1000? That's right. I haven't received my thousand dollars yet. True, this whole trip was worth many times that. But still, if they're saying we win $1000, shouldn't we get it? When do I start reaching out to other contestants and asking, "Uh, by the way. Did you by any chance receive a check other than that huge unpackable check they gave us on stage?"

Inquiring minds and all of that.

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

Use Movie Magic all the time. Never had a problem.

[Drunk Monk]

because those are cashable. well, at least, some are. i remember being involved with making one of those but i can't remember what for exactly. it was this special process we did through the bank. must have been one of the tcf charities.

[cranefly]

Really? Now be honest, because I'm pretty gullible. In fact I'm really really gullible.

I carried the check all the way home. Really. It wouldn't fit in any luggage or bag, so I just carried it. I tried really hard to keep the print side facing towards me so no one could read it, but that is hard to do. At San Francisco Airport, while I was in the aisle waiting to deplane, this pretty Asian lady (American, no accent) standing behind me said, "Did you win a million dollars or something?" I told her it was just a thousand. She said, "I don't believe I've ever seen a check that big before." I told her that there were a lot of things about me that were unusually big.

Then at customs, the Asian agent (American, no accent) looked at my return card and said, "So you were in Beijing on business," because I'd marked my trip down as business. Being the talkative cuss I am, I said, "Yes." This turned out to be exactly the wrong thing to say, because suddenly there's eye contact, and he says, "So, this business. You mind telling me a little bit about it?" I tell him it had to do with screenwriting, that the Chinese film industry had me over there about a possible screenplay. I so wanted to hold up the huge check in my hand (which he couldn't see because of the box he lives in), but I didn't. It would have been an outrageous way to prove my story. In hindsight I should have, and Lady Cranefly is very upset with me for not doing so. But I'd said enough and he stamped my forehead and onward I went to the next guy in a box.

So I have that giant check, and I'm fondling it right now.

[Drunk Monk]

If not, get some sort of document saying they won't cash it and submit that to the contest promoters.

Never say 'business' on a Chinese visa form. I thought I warned you about that.

[cranefly]

Everywhere we go and everything we do gives me a sense of déjà vu. After all, I've been to China twice before, and we did all the major tourist stops. But Lama Temple is something I'm not certain about. Maybe DM can refresh my memory. Did we or didn't we? There comes a point when the temples with their Buddhas begin to blur.

Anyway, the bus takes us to Lama Temple. As we're approaching the gate, Malinda gives us fair warning. The vendors are more aggressive here. They won't take bu yao for an answer. They might even clutch at you. She tells us to be firm, and asks us to please not come to her for help. Because if she tries to drive them off, they'll gang up and follow her around cursing her relentlessly. I can tell she speaks from experience.

One of the writers who speaks Chinese tells us to use a stronger phrase than bu yao. I believe it is, "Bu yao peng wo," and means, "Don't touch me." As it turns out, we don't have a problem. Maybe the vendors overstepped the bounds and the officials came down hard on them. We proceed unaccosted.

Lama Temple has a succession of buildings similar to the Forbidden City only on a smaller scale. Unlike the Forbidden City, where each courtyard and building is progressively bigger, here the buildings get progressively smaller and yet taller. Malinda explains that it is a progression from the earthly to the ethereal. I think that's what she says. In truth, I'm not listening to her very much because I'm preoccupied. I've discovered the boy with the gigantic ears.

Now, I've seen people with big ears before, and I'm not easily put in awe. But this boy, who is about five, has face fenders that jump the shark (capable of disrupting the metaphor-building part of my brain). They have a graceful refinement about them, like exotic seashells sculpted by billions of years of evolution. They're narrow where they join the head, but then boldly flare with fluted gusto. Though Malinda is begging us for the umpteenth time to be like sticky rice, not noodles, I have no choice but to follow the boy. For this reason I cannot report on all that the Lama Temple has to offer -- though when it comes to the final smallest and tallest building, Malinda forcefully gathers us all together and insists that we go inside for a gander.

But first I look at the Guiness Book of Records sign on the outside, which says, "This is to certify that the statue of Maitreya in the Lama Temple in Beijing was carved out of a single white sandalwood tree 26 meters high. August 1990." There is another Guinness Book of Records sign next to that one, which says, "This is to certify that the sign to the left is the most obnoxiously placed Guinness Book of Records sign in the world." And next to that is another Guinness Book of Records sign saying, "This is to certify that the sign to the left is the most obnoxiously placed Guinness Book of Records sign identifying a Guinness Book of Records sign that is the most obnoxiously placed in the world." There are further signs, each larger than the previous (because of the growing text), each identifying the one to the left as the most obnoxious on some crazily recursive scale. I follow them around the building and discover a final sign that covers the entire back, and you'll thank me for sparing you its text, which would fill some twenty pages.

At last I venture inside, and once more I call on DM's memory, wanting to know if we've ever been in there. Because if so, I must have been sleeping. Because this Maitreya statue is humongous! You can't photograph in there, and even if you could, it would be hard to capture. For one, a portion of it is underground. For another, the entire upper half is hidden from view by a wall except for viewing from the side of the base. In other words, there is only one vantage point, and that's at the base, where you look almost straight up and can fully see it (except for the part underground). As Malinda explains it, this is by design, because if it were fully viewable from the front, it would be intimidating and cause children to cry and perhaps even adults. The installers wanted it to emanate a sense of protection. It is there to guard the worshippers.

But my god it is huge! It is redwood huge! I mean, what the fuck is a white sandalwood tree anyway? I thought sandalwoods were small, medium at most. I believe Malinda says this one was logged from Nepal, but I haven't had much luck finding information on it online.

It is almost time for us to leave. Malinda gives us free rein but says to meet at the front gate in twenty minutes. That's just enough time for me to relocate the boy with the gigantic ears. And I suppose I should confess at this point that I'm not really interested in the boy. It's the mother at his side who has interested me all along. I've been trying my hardest to catch a glimpse of her ears, because they're bound to be even more spectacular than the boy's. The problem is, she's one of those Chinese women -- you know the type -- who has black hair. And she wears it long. And it's dense, impenetrable. Still, surely there will come a moment when she brushes it aside, or she'll burn incense and bow enough for it to shift out of the way. But as the minutes pass, I feel opportunity slipping away. Then of a sudden her hair stirs. In all honesty it could have been a breeze. But I don't feel one, and I'm convinced her paddlewheel ears are churning at some sound I cannot hear. Then I do hear, the bus is roaring its engine, and the driver dares honk, and all the other writers and Malinda are leaning out windows shouting at me, and there's an edge of menace to their chorus, and though I'm maddeningly close to gazing upon this great mystery, I must turn away and go back to join with lesser company.

[cranefly]

I have a window seat -- 53K -- on the flight out. Two white guys sit next to me. One is borderline Tourette's, which is my future, so he makes fine (if noisy) company. He reads a stack of newspapers and at one point shows his pal a piece on Amish romance novels. They are a hot commodity right now. I resolve to check up on this when I get back, because where Amish romance novels are hot, can Amish science fiction be far behind?

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424...43412.html

We soon discover something screwy about our seats. In particular, my window-seat light is controlled by the button on the aisle armrest, while the aisle seat is controlled by my window armrest. It's crazy, and inexplicable on a United plane. To toggle my light on or off, I need to unbuckle my seat belt, half stand up, and lean way over the guy in the middle to punch the light button on the aisle arm rest. Needless to say, I don't bother much with my light.

Headphones are provided, but they are defective. If I hold the plug halfway in the armrest socket, I get staticky sound. It's not clear whether the plug or the socket is the problem. But it means I don't watch any of the movies with sound.

First up is Oz the Great and Powerful, which soon captivates me with its dwarves -- until Mr. Tourette next to me removes his shoes and socks. To my absolute astonishment, his feet are beautiful. I mean, how does one grow feet like that? They are aesthetically stunning. Has he never worn shoes in his life? Does he get foot massages morning and night? I am aghast at just how flawless they are.

Before I know it we're descending towards Beijing. I had hoped to contemplate the full breadth of the Pacific Ocean, but those feet make the 12 hours pass in an instant. I do have vague memories of other movies after Oz, the last of which is Skyfall. As we descend, we're in the soup. The "clouds" follow us all the way to the ground. Visibility on arrival is maybe 400 meters. It. Does. Not. Look. Healthy.

The Beijing airport is huge and modern, and only a little bit confusing. But one must walk what seems miles to complete the tour of activities required to gain entry. Just when it seems I'm done, I come to the "Please stand clear of the door the train is being delayed" train. I need to take it to Terminal 3, which is where you exit proper. I spend quite a while aboard the "Please stand clear of the door the train is being delayed" train with a lot of other people jockeying for position, and eventually it grows bored with sitting still and begins to move, eventually to reach the mythical Terminal 3.

Terminal 3 has arrows for taxis and buses, tantalizing evidence that the outdoors is imminent, and that's when I make a very wise decision. I hit a restroom. I'm not desperate and consider waiting until I reach the hotel, but am very glad I make the stop. Afterwards, I run the gauntlet at the exit, where a huge welcoming crowd does its best to obscure my view of a tiny sign with my name misspelled on it (Scranefly). Its bearer helps me with my minimal luggage, and soon I am joining Lee, a woman who won in the short film category, in a taxi.

The taxi driver is a talkative soul with a crude understanding of English. He points to cars slipping past on the berm and announces, "Illegal," time and again. Once he says (struggling with the pronunciation), "Ferrari," and yes, it is a bright red Ferrari zipping past on the berm.

Lee has come from Denver, which means she's been traveling by air a lot longer than me. She's held up just fine. But now she asks, sounding desperate, "How much further?" It turns out she is prone to car-sickness. It is rush hour, and we are in the traffic jam from hell. It will take us close to three hours to reach the hotel, and my bladder thanks me for making that stop. Lee asks if I'd mind if she opened the window for some fresh air. I tell her that's fine, but wonder how much fresh air she'll get. The smog is horrific, visibility still around 400 yards. She rolls down her window and soon has her head resting awkwardly half out. She looks sick as a dog, and I can't think of any way to help her. People in other cars and buses gape at her in close passing. I suspect she adds half an hour to our trip because our driver, in his jockeying, allows an extra three inches of clearance on her side so as not to behead her. Eventually it begins to drizzle, and this revives her a bit. We complete the three hour drive to the hotel without a major mishap.

Actually, we don't go directly to the hotel. Our first stop is the Beijing Film Academy. The short film winners are staying there, so that's where Lee will be getting off. Malinda our guide meets our taxi and has us both come inside to get something to eat in the cafeteria. Actually, it's called the Movie Story Theme Restaurant & Bar, and it proves problematic throughout the week, as orders take ages or are completely forgotten. An hour later we've eaten our fill, and I say bye to Lee and get in a taxi to head for the Park Plaza Hotel.

The check-in lady engages in a cruel game with me. She asks if I want smoking or nonsmoking. I tell her nonsmoking. She thumbs through her records, making little humming sounds, and after five minutes singsongs, "I'm sorry. We don't have any nonsmoking." So of course I agree to take a smoking room. I inquire about changing money, but she seems to suggest it would be better to wait until morning. I acquiesce, knowing an awkward moment is coming as the concierge helps me with my luggage. He demonstrates how the elevator requires my room key to work, and then introduces me to my hotel room with its eternally on TV. There is that awkward pause at completion, and then he leaves. I'll try tipping him later (though the opportunity never quite avails itself). I unpack, all the while wondering what the hell I've gotten myself into, and I set up Lady Cranefly's notebook and give the internet a spin. I had read that China's internet is faster than ours, but here at least it is absolutely horrible. When I bring up Skype, it tells me the connection speed is too slow to make a call. That persists throughout my stay. The TV is a steady blare. I try lowering the volume, but can't. I also fail at changing the channel. Neither the remote nor the controls on the TV have any affect. Incredibly, not even the off button will work on the remote or TV. I try various wall switches. Finally, with considerable effort, I work the power plug out of the TV itself. Silence and blankness at last. (Later I learn that everyone else staying at the hotel has to do the same thing.)

I go to bed.

[Drunk Monk]

It might have been the trip that ended in the bus crash. But then again, I could be completely mistaken.

[cranefly]

It rains my first night in Beijing, and by morning it is less smoggy. In the lobby I make the acquaintance of the other feature-length winners. Tim, Galen and Johnny seem nice enough, but Joshua sets off warning bells -- the kind you might hear in a nuclear power plant when the rods are exposed. While shaking our hands and introducing himself, Joshua subvocalizes, "Hope you lose," maintaining a pleasant smile. He's around 25, works at Universal, has boyish good looks, and the grin of a sadist. Or at least that's my initial impression. Here's Joshua (left) and Johnny (right). Yes, they're young. They're all so very young. What am I doing here?

We take a bus over to the Beijing Film Academy. During the ride, Joshua wants to know what our film proposals are about. Johnny, Tim and Galen relate theirs, but as I start mine, Spence -- our facilitator of the moment -- interrupts from the front with a scheduling update. I never do relate mine (which is fine), as Joshua now gives a long account of his film proposal, which I suspect was what he wanted to do all along. His proposal is titled Tusk. It is near future, has to do with wetware, and he's very much into science fiction. Throughout my stay, I wonder if he is aware of my science fiction background. Even now I'm not entirely sure -- though it seems he would have googled all of us and come across it.

At the Beijing Film Academy, we meet the short film script winners. In this photo, Maya is on the far right. To her immediate left (in the background) is Ben. He's a really nice kid, just 19. When it came to college, he had the hard decision of choosing between Harvard and Stanford (he picked Harvard, but hopes to go to Stanford later on). They're all very very sharp.

We take a tour of the Beijing Film Academy. I won't bore you with its history and significance. Check the wikipedia article for that. The true litmus test for a place like this is its cubicles. These are promising, most draped over with blankets so they resemble caves, and in theme they range from the musical to the martial to the kitsche to the cluttered. There's hallways filled with displays and scribbled artwork on boards, rooms packed with models and mysterious works in progress. There's a huge sound room with gigantic consoles and a big theater screen. During a QA session, I ask the head honcho about 3D, whether it is becoming the standard. To my relief he says no, that it has it place, but 2D is alive and well. One hallway has old-style cameras that Greg might appreciate. In a screening room we watch an award-winning short animated feature created by a student. The Academy is so big that after a time everything becomes a blur.

Lunch is a 15-course meal in the Movie Story Theme Restaurant & Bar. There's a huge group in there, which we're told is a film crew. I try to pin down the director and any actors but am at a loss.

Then it's back to our rooms/hotels to rest up and put on awards clothes. This comes as a bit of a surprise for me, because I flew out on Friday aware the awards were on Sunday, but lo and behold this is Sunday (Saturday was gobbled up in some mysterious fashion). Spence asks if I have something to wear. I tell him I have a long-sleeved shirt that's decent. He seems to accept that. As it turns out, all the other guys will be wearing suits and ties. We then all return to the Beijing Film Academy, which is where the awards ceremony will take place. The Academy seems to have rooms for all occasions. I wonder what film stars have appeared in this modest auditorium.

As we take our seats in the front rows on the left, it's obvious there aren't many people in attendance. This puts me at ease, as this won't be a big deal, just a small event of minimal interest that they'll try to pump up to look bigger than it really is. Michael -- on the Beijing side of things -- is tasked with making this whole thing happen on time and in an orderly fashion, but he is running around looking a bit frantic. It's clear there's been no rehearsal by anyone. Michael is up on stage giving instructions to various people. Then he's down telling us how we'll proceed up on stage. One by one we'll take the left stairs, accept the award, go to the podium, give our speech, then come back down the left stairs. As he finishes explaining this, another official points out that we'll all need to stay on stage for group photos afterwards. So Michael says to stay on stage, though there's no further details.

Suddenly Chinese girls are handing us weird contraptions. They have cheap headphones, and it turns out they're translator devices. We're supposed to wear them during the initial Mandarin speeches, which will be translated into English for us. The problem is, we don't know what channel to use.

Someone else now tells us we can't use the left stairs. We'll need to cross in front of the stage and use the right stairs. And now things are getting spookier as figureheads are escorted in to take their seats front and center. At the last second the place is filling up, and one can feel the presence of the power elite.

We're just a couple minutes from starting when more Chinese girls assail us (they seem to come in waves). They will be accompanying us on stage to translate our speeches. For that, they need transcripts of our speeches. I have not prepared anything. The girl tending to me is rattled by that fact. Finally, to put her at ease, I scrawl something on one page of a pocket notebook. I have to tell her what it says, because I've written it so hastily and sloppily. She is aghast and even amused at how short it is. "Are you sure that's all you're going to say?" I tell her yes. She laughs, incredulous. I had intended to say more, but for her benefit I'm simplifying. I don't want to be flipping pages up there. They'll likely fill our hands with stuff, and even though we're supposed to have the podium, I don't trust them.

The short film awards are the warm-up act, while the feature length awards are the pinnacle of the ceremony. This isn't really fair, since the short film competitors had to submit completed scripts while the feature length film competitors only wrote 12-page proposals. Still, it is what it is.

The introductory speeches begin, first by Michael and other competition officials, then by the Beijing elite. The latter are a scary bunch, especially the lady we come to call Madam Chancellor. She's a handsome businesswoman with a tight mane of hair who emanates total confidence and gives a forceful emphatic speech. I sense she's someone you don't want to fall out of favor with.

Once all these speeches are completed, the short film contestants are hustled aside and then onstage. This is when things start getting strange. A winner is introduced, with his/her photo appearing on screen, followed by a capsule description of the story, with the corresponding text shown onscreen. Then comes a comment -- and this is where it turns totally Chinese. I'm guessing these comments were taken from the private remarks of the judges without their knowledge. For instance: "Comment: the protagonist needs better motivation when leaving his girlfriend." We're sitting there, stunned, glancing at each other, at first thinking we've misheard. Then we start to laugh. The next winner is announced, the story described, then: "Comment: Good idea but in need of a plot." And then another: "Comment: Promising start, but needs a better resolution." One by one the short film winners receive their awards, but not before getting their pieces trashed. It's great!

Now it's time for the feature length awards. Someone tells us to hurry across to the right side. As I pull off my translator device, it tangles with one hearing aid and sends it flying somewhere down in the seats. I'm scrambling to retrieve it and reseat it even as a handler urges me to hurry up. Finally I'm on my way and soon join the others on the far right, where another wave of Chinese girls hands us translator devices again. Like we can use them now! We just lay them aside. Our names and story titles are announced, and our photos are shown on the screen, and sure enough, they've used that horrid photo of me that Spence assured me would just be a placeholder until I sent the professional one. Our capsule descriptions are not accompanied by comments, since our submissions were proposals and not finished screenplays. Our handler tells us to go up on stage, but changes our order. Okayyyy. Up there, we stand in a line facing the audience and it is blindingly bright. I should have expected it. It's something performers have to get used to. But it's a deer-in-the-headlights moment that just won't go away. Before giving our speeches, we're each handed a huge check and a large scroll. A Beijing VIP gives us the former, and Madam Chancellor gives us the latter. Handshakes and photos accompany these hand-offs. I'm all fumbly, because I need to keep my pocket notebook hidden behind the large check, and now I need to hold the scroll in that hand as well. As Madam Chancellor finishes with me and steps past, she furtively grasps my hand and wedges the check and scroll tighter into my grip. It seems like something she's done a million times before.

When it comes to the speeches, I'm second to last. The other winners are giving amazing and elegant speeches. I mean, they're impressive! Now, the awards ceremony has been going on for an hour now, and I've had time to reflect. To hell with it, I think. I'll give my longer extemporaneous speech, which will be more genuine. The translation girl can just give the short version.

The guy ahead of me finishes his speech, receives applause, and hands me the mike. It's like I feared. We don't have the podium. We're just standing on stage, needing to hold check and scroll and notes in one hand and the mike in the other. Not that it matters if I'm going to be extemporaneous. So I get five words into my free-wheeling speech and Johnny, who is up next, grabs my mike and lifts it up higher towards my face. He doesn't think it's working. Now, I'm not certain what he's doing. As it turns out, the mike was working fine. But this throws me. Making matters worse, the translator girl on my other side now tries to shove her mike into my hand, thinking there's a problem with my mike. I think Johnny communicates to her that he was mistaken and all is well, because just as I reach for her mike, she withdraws it. Now I have no idea where I'm at, and I need to look down at my notepad and just read from it as a fallback. But I don't have my reading glasses, and my writing is so sloppy I can't make it out. So I blather as few more words and that's that.


Who needs nightmares when one can have them in real life?

Once the ceremony ends, people exit into the lobby. As I try to exit, I am assailed by someone who wants the translator device back. Malinda tells me the person really needs me to return the device. That's all well and good, but how the hell am I supposed to know where it's at? I was handed two different ones at different times and couldn't bloody take them on stage with me. So I dig around where I originally sat and discover the first one fallen down underneath. That seems to satisfy the person. Then it's out into the lobby, and it's loud and crowded and of course I go off where there's a bit of elbow room because that's the kind of guy I am. Michael spies me and comes over to say I did good. He can tell I have my doubts about that, and he says, Really, you did good. Then off he goes to put out the interminable little fires and perhaps not so little, and a couple days later we hear he is sick, and it doesn't surprise me one bit.

We're soon buffeted by a new wave of Chinese girls. These want to interview us. I don't remember much of what I am asked or what I say, but the girl who interviews me seems to think I'm a noted sinologist with a deep understanding of Chinese and Mongol culture and the naming conventions back in the Yuan dynasty. I do recall her asking, "What three words come to mind when you think of Beijing?" Pollution, crazy drivers, and language barrier is what I think, but I blather something else.

Eventually we are rounded up to head for the banquet. For the life of me I don't recall where the banquet took place. But I did take this vague night-shot outside the establishment.

Next time, the banquet.

[cranefly]

Before embarking on this banquet account, let me tidy up a few loose ends. First, the two top Beijing VIPs who handed us our awards onstage were Madam Chancellor and the Minister of Propaganda. Two other Beijing notables were Michael, the poor sod saddled with making this all come off without a hitch (and he did a great job), and Mr. Vise-Grip. I call him that because of the handshake we engaged in at the end of the awards ceremony. As for the large checks, they are not cashable, and we have yet (6/27/2013) to receive real checks, though they're rumored to be in the works. As for our scrolls, those were confiscated from us in the lobby after the ceremony, as they hadn't been signed yet (we got them back a week later on the morning of our departures).

To resume, we get in the bus and go somewhere for the banquet. As mentioned before, I don't recall the name of the establishment, and have only this vague night-shot outside.

We go upstairs and into a spacious room with a view. Before much of anything begins, we have late arrivals. Three people with flight delays who missed the awards ceremony now join us. The decision is made to give them their awards now. Here are photos (apologies for the blur) of Cody receiving the check from the Minister of Propaganda and the scroll from Madam Chancellor.

Once that is out of the way, we go about seating ourselves. There are three large round tables, and each place setting bears a nametag. A pattern soon emerges. Two tables are reserved for the short film winners and various competition facilitators. The third table holds the power. It has all the Beijing VIPs, including Madam Chancellor and the Minister of Propaganda, and the Harvard sponsors and judges. The five feature-length winners are to sit in alternating fashion among them at that table. I'm looking about for my nametag, beginning to sense the worst, and that's when Michael calls to me, "Cranefly, you're over there." Sure enough, I've been misspelled between those twin pillars of power, Madam Chancellor and the Minister of Propaganda. Is this just dumb luck? A Confucian bow to my age? Or is my proposal privately viewed as the hot ticket?

I sit down between Madam Chancellor and the Minister of Propaganda, nodding to each, and I'm up for it, really, I can do this, but Michael seems to be reconsidering. Finally he calls to me and asks if I would switch over to another spot, next to Joshua -- which I do. Michael seems to think I'm a loose cannon, which I'm not. I'm more like a poorly manufactured hand grenade.

There's a bit more speech-making and impromptu filming (Michael with camera), and then the 30-course banquet gets underway. But even then our eating is interrupted as the figureheads come about to do maotai toasts with each winner and a few facilitators. Joshua doesn't drink and seems embarrassed to have to decline -- and to do so repeatedly -- but to his credit he holds to his principles. Spence tries sipping a shot, but doesn't get very far. Me, I down mine in one gulp, because this is what I do, it's what I'm good at, and Mr. Vise-Grip across the table catches my eye, nodding approval that I did it right. Still, I know the danger and murmur, "One," to Joshua, explaining the importance of keeping count of these little bastards. Each toast is accompanied by a business card exchange, only I left mine in the hotel room, so it's a bit awkward taking theirs but not having one to give in return. Then again, mine are lame "technical writer" cards, so just as well. I do four toasts in this way, with Michael, Mr. Vise-Grip, the Minister of Propaganda and Madam Chancellor.

A further word needs to be said about Madam Chancellor, because she is a force to be reckoned with. She's one of those Chinese women who has black hair. She keeps it coiffed short, a dark cloud around her scheming head. In a way, she is the epitome of Beijing. There's something of the snake about her, which isn't meant to be negative, because I like snakes, especially black mambas. The resemblance is not so much in her appearance as in her behavior. When she knocks back a shot -- and she does so frequently and without apparent effect -- she follows it with a hiss, and then venom shoots out her nostrils. It's not a sight for the faint of heart. There's no telling what she's capable of, and I'm compelled to forever keep an eye on her, never letting her slip from my sight. At one point she comes over and whispers to me, and I'm convinced she's asking permission to test my iron crotch. Greg would know how to handle the situation, but I'm not Greg. I turn to the translator girl, intending to tell her to tell Madam Chancellor that I don't practice iron crotch, but at the last instant realize it's an entirely inappropriate subject to broach to someone who looks fifteen. Fortunately, I must be mistaken, because Madam Chancellor hisses, shoots venom, and moves on.

I end up doing 7 maotais, as well as a couple glasses of wine. One would think I'd feel it, but all I get is a bit of a buzz. Maybe it's all the food, plus the adrenalin. It's been a tense day for me, all in all -- a bit more eventful than those two-and-a-half years I spent living in the wilderness.

As the banquet gets long in the tooth, one senses that Madam Chancellor is getting stir-crazy. She's got this hungry look about her, not for sex, mind you, but for sadistic mayhem. She's old school, I feel it. She wants to liven this banquet up with a few choice beheadings. To avoid becoming one of them, I try ever harder to keep my distance from her. Finally we wrap things up, and we're in a conga line of handshakes, and I'm on autopilot by now, exhausted and looking forward to some time alone in my hotel room. Suddenly I feel the squeeze. It's Mr. Vise-Grip. So we meet again. And now, inexplicably, my hand-grenade self rises to the surface. I squeeze back, and not just a little. It's crazy. Suddenly I'm in this contest with him. I squeeze harder and harder, thinking all the while, What the fuck? What the fuck! Because this is totally inappropriate. Being a guest here, I shouldn't be challenging one of the hosts. Yet somehow I can't relent -- not until I hear a loud hiss. Madam Chancellor looms near, glaring at me. Venom shoots from her flared nostrils, just missing my clenched hand. And that's enough to put the pin back in my hand-grenade self and allow me to relent, and soon we are exiting the banquet just shy of a beheading.

[cranefly]

Just got this update:

Hi, Everybody!

Due to the complications of transferring money from China, it has turned out to make much more sense to send you your prizes as wire transfers into your bank accounts rather than as checks. You'll find a "HSBC Fund Transfer Form" attached. Please download this form, fill it in, and return it to us (e-mail is fine for this) and we'll get your money on its way to you!

Sorry for the confusion!

Best,

Spence

[Drunk Monk]

...DOOM party!

Ok, just kidding. Cool story, bro. Go on.