Looking back at Beijing

Well, the whole "follow me as I tour my way through China" plan didn't exactly work out as planned. Sorry 'bout that. Funny thing about government censorship. It's not really a big deal for most of us. Yet when it affects something you care about, the insidiousness proves irksome.

So instead I'll now embark on a recap of my ten days in Beijing, Shanghai and Hong Kong. Ten days isn't much time at all to get acquainted with such a vast and fascinating new place. I did, however, pay close attention and what I've got to work through in my own writing might offer a bit of perspective for others who are also trying to assess  the world's increasingly eastward tilt. Or at least I'll get a bit of what I'd intended to say out there, and do the ol' end around on those short-sighted Chinese censors. That'll show 'em.

For today, look to Bejing. Cooler than freon city. The run-up to the Olympics in 2008 turned over the landscape to historic dimensions. From what I heard repeatedly, residents are still trying to assess just how many changes occurred. Whole neighborhoods were razed for aesthetic considerations. The high gloss buffed onto Beijing for that brief fortnight has mostly dulled into a collection of so-so venues in an otherwise roiling landscape of growth and renewal. Walking around the Bird's Nest (the main Olympics stadium venue) a day after strolling through the Forbidden City put obvious bookends on the new and old for me. As it surely has for millions of others. Still, I was more struck by the contrasts between the meandering alleys (called hutongs) and the luxury goods retailers. Where else can you see people burning trash in the gutter alongside the same street where you can go window shop for Ferraris and Lambourghinis? The contrasts abound. One evening I passed by a bustling Starbucks nestled into the same lakeside strolling district in the Houhai neighborhood where I got solicited repeatedly with the catch phrase of "lady bar", just before wandering the dimly lit hutongs looking for a place appropriately called No Name Bar. Whipsawed forward and back between eras, it all works. Add in countless bits of unintended street theatre, deep deep history and a feeling of being surrounded but completely safe. I know I saw little more than a passing moment when I was in Beijing. A tripwire moment that I'll look to for years to come for when I started paying serious attention to the new edge being cut there.

For tomorrow, I'll touch on what I saw still in the north of China, but outside of Beijing. Along with elements seen as a part of my tour - the reason for my being there, in the first place. 

Some days do turn out right as rain

I can't say I was surprised by a piece about the growing "luxury goods" tourists coming to Europe from China. They want quality, they've got the money, they'll go to the source. Personally, I'm planning to head to the Temple Street Night Market in Hong Kong at the very end of my ten days in China to find an especially interesting fake watch or three. For this guy, quality isn't really the point. I'm talking character. Somewhat different is the consideration I made earlier today in terms of gifts to bring with me to China. Just in case, I'm thinking. I've read a bit on gift-giving etiquette and I thought I had the right idea. Nothing too extravagant. Maybe something with a story attached. So I thought - small writing journals. I then thought - made here in the good ol' US of A. Not to be obsessed about it, but handing someone in China a lit'l something that turns out was actually made in their own country seems, well, about as special as a kiss from your sister. At the University Bookstore near U-Dub, I found the perfect brand. Made in Tacoma, designed to be used outside in the rain. Named "Rite in the Rain" with yellow - or YELL-ow! - covers on a full spectrum of notebook styles. As someone who's always found the Reporter's Notebook to be a simply-awesome, surely-dated-but-who-cares tool, I've found my new favorite Washington State gifts producer. The Chinese can have their Louis Vuitton runs through Paris. I'll take my paper chase right here in the (general) 'hood. I'll keep you posted on whether those I give these puppies to feel the same way. Trust me - they're awesome.

Until the next page turns...may your little soccer player follow practice by consuming a monster dinner, washing her hair, reading you a book and turning out the light without complaint on your last night before a big trip. I'm a very lucky Dad, indeed.

Fondly posting about the Postal Service

I seldom see such an unromantic notion as that of abolishing the U.S. Postal Service for the sake of budgetary politics. This meme has been going on for ten days since the NYTimes appropriately gave it some Front Page dap. I'm still amazed that so few people have risen to defend this transcendent service. With renewed focus on the act of doing so, I visited our local Post Office this morning to pick up an Express Mail package. I waltzed through the door right at 9am, after dropping Maya at school. There was one car in the parking lot, no one in line, and the woman behind the counter greeted me like an old friend even though I've never seen her before. I'm sure that most of us have far fewer occasions than those around the holidaze when such a trip is required. But the thought of losing the overall cloud of things that make up the Postal Service painfully pinches the sentimental core of my brain. Combine all the retro-yet-still-utilitarian coolness in the world - vinyl records, Polaroid cameras, manual typewriters, knitting, growing your own vegetables, beer making, basically anything you'd ever find at a flea or farmers market - multiply it by 10 and you're less than halfway to the appreciation and loss factor I think we as a Nation would feel if we actually stuck a fork in the souffle that is the mail. Speaking as someone with his own stationary who still revels in the chance to use it, the loss of snail mail would be a crushing blow. I imagine most Americans can find distinct, personal reasons to keep the trucks rolling. I fondly remember the huge but still permissibly-sized old Hudson's Bay Company boxes we used to mail all manner of things all over the country. And those 35 boxes of books weighing in at over half of ton we mailed from San Francisco to Seattle when we moved? Thanks y'all - it was actually cheaper than having it go on a truck with the rest of our stuff. Which is surely part of the problem. Still...I fondly remember and relive the courting of my wife via snail mail letters. Yes, I said "courting" - that's how I roll. Come rain, sleet or gloom of night - let it be so for the foreseeable future.

Until the next page turns...may a barista you've not seen in a few months today have your coffee up on the counter before you even ask for it.

Unlacing a bit of the Lacey Act

Most Americans have never heard of the Lacey Act. That's pretty normal for obscure trade laws that date back to the conservation movement in the early 20th Century (President McKinley signed it into law in 1900). As a thumbnail, the Lacey Act controls importation of wildlife, fish and/or plants that may have been obtained through illegal means. Trap a Sasquatch in British Columbia or pick a peck of Peruvian pickle plants for sale in Poughkeepsie and you'll be facing a Lacey smackdown. Yet the evolution of the law - and its political undercurrent - is what's caught my interest as it's been once again placed on the minor current affairs platform. I actually was reminded of Lacey thanks to the music show "Sound Opinions". They picked up the Gibson Guitar company's case of being raided by the Feds for using dubious wood. There are lots of ways to run with that double entendre. The point being, nonetheless, that I'm intrigued by the idea that a law established in the spirit of Teddy Roosevelt progressivism is still being spun over a century later by Conservatives as an example of how the Federal Government oversteps its mandate. That's a really superficial reading on this bill. Especially because it also applies to issues I'm interested in for Pelting Out. But that's about as far as I'm able to get on this today.

Until the next page turns...may your own time spent in a bookstore flipping through travel guide after guide prove to be at least conversationally worth it when you get to the other side of the planet.

Who's "playing" who in this lottery?

I don't expect anyone will learn much from the details of prepping for my trip to China. But maybe someone will see something worth relating to in a totally random moment from my life earlier today. Admittedly, I don't do lotteries. I'm one of the few people on the planet who hasn't even bought a single ticket. Ever. Maybe I'm just waiting for an indescribably lucky feeling that will probably never come. I did, however, have the unique, confusing pleasure of cashing in a ticket today. It came by way of my father-in-law, who has a foolproof manner of playing the occasional lottery. When he'd visited Seattle in May, he employed his system. To the tune of a hunnerd simoleons. A Benjamin. One. Hundred. Bucks. The ticket was handed over to me during our recent visit to California to cash-out prior to the six-month deadline that such tickets apparently have. Without prompting, I chose a 7-Eleven relatively close to us. Thus far, no big surprises. I tried to even act like I knew what went down in this transaction. That's when it got weird. The lottery machine wouldn't read the ticket. The clerk called in a second opinion from the back room. Around the time I felt sure that I was being punked for not knowing some sort of secret handshake, the stars aligned and they saw that I was indeed a winner. The fact that I was due $100 was greeted with disbelief. Disappointment. No dropping balloons or even so much as a mumbled "congrats". I was instead asked if I had "any shopping to do". While the thought of approximately 100 Slim Jims or a massive pile of sudoku puzzle books and microwave pizzas should have come to mind, I answered truthfully. Who, after all, has ever spent $100 in a 7-Eleven without first spending at least an entire evening at a frat party? I then realized the reason for their flummoxed reaction - the drawer couldn't cover my winnings. What to do? To my great surprise, the second man took out his wallet. From what looked to be an entirely healthy wad unless you were trying to find a comfortable seated position on the outmatched wallet meant to contain it, he pulled out five crisp twenties. I innately took the money and signed nothing. I didn't even fold it, choosing instead to just shove it in my pocket like an undelivered short stack of Chinese take-out menus and hightail it for my car. I even checked my rearview mirror on the way out of the parking lot, vaguely convinced that something criminal had just occurred. The point being - will I ever "play the lottery" again? No way, man. I'm out of that game. Well, at least until the next time my father-in-law comes through town.

Until the next page turns...may your own late-ish night visit to REI have you first taking the time to offer humble sympathies at Espresso Vivace. Brian is already missed by so many.

Who knew "Happy Days" was actually, um, interesting?

I still listen to "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me" as a podcast. This morning during a gorgeous run I buzzed through yesterday's show, in which the celebrity interview once more put me in the way back machine. Henry Winkler as the Fonz on "Happy Days" was an icon who struggled mightily to find other roles after the show originated the term "jump the shark" in the 70s. But after being generally quite entertained by the interview with Henry (the dude was on fire), I looked for the actual details. It started simply with checking that the "shark" episode aired in September of 1977 - as the premiere episode in just the fifth season of "Happy Days". Amazingly, the show went on for another seven seasons. You think you know a show - actually I was pretty sure I'd soaked up every possible detail of that seminal Wisconsin show I grew up watching like homestate homework - and then a random connection after all these years gets a guy Googling. To a disorienting effect. Do you remember Fonzie's struggles with his family history - that he was possibly Jewish on the show (I've long since known that Winkler's proudly Jewish in real life)? But beyond that, Mickey Dolenz would have gotten the role if he'd not been so tall (Winkler was cast because he was more on the level with the other actors)? Or that the censors originally denied him a leather jacket because he would look like a "hoodlum" (that sounds like the 1950s, not the 1970s)? Maybe I'm just an easy mark today. Still, consider my mind duly blown.

Until the next page turns...may your own daughter's first soccer league gameday feature a 7 to 1 thumping delivered not received. Not that any of us parents are supposed to be paying attention.

A plane ol' memory

One memory came ambling out of the deep this morning - when smoking cigarettes on international flights was allowed. In particular, I flew from the U.S. to Taipei, Taiwan on Korean Airlines back in the early 1990s. As twenty-ish-year-olds often do, I met some like-minded peers in LAX who were doing the same journey. But when I found my seat, I got instead paired up with a fellow who to this day seems more fictional than real. The backstory came up to the surface with this morning's memory. He (Ron) was a Canadian who'd crossed the border into the U.S. during the Vietnam War to enlist as a Marine. When I shared a flight with him, Ron was an off-duty oil-rig firefighter. He described at length how and at what personal cost he'd earned a fresh pile of cash battling fires in the ruined oil fields of Kuwait. There exist awesome row mates on long flights, although the opposite is generally the rule. Ron was the undisputed King of Awesome, even though I was too young to realize it at the time. Stories dripped off him like the mud in those iconic pictures of Red Adair. Or maybe he was blowing smoke. Either way, once we left Hawaiian airspace on our way to Seoul, he and everyone around me did exactly that. Smoke after smoke after smoke. That now seems an improbable policy - 12 or more hours of second-hand smoke re-circulated through the cabin with only a metaphorical dividing line between the "smoking" and "non-smoking" sections. Remind me to pitch Steven Soderberg this as the pre-quel for "Contagion". Still, I'm now wondering if Ron's still out there. Early Googling's coming up empty. I remember he was headed to a bar/resort he owned in Quezon City, in the Philippines. Other details will come, I'm sure. Because until this morning, I hadn't thought of that story - and that endless chain-smoking conversation with the ultimate long-flight partner - in years and years. Here I am - just another September, readying myself for another trip to Asia.

Until the next page turns...here's hoping your seats don't need to go into a full and upright position for any remaining part of the evening.

Which NFL authentic jersey would you wear to Fashion Week?

I've never been to Fashion Week. Any of them, anywhere - New York, Milan, Paris, Dubuque, Ulan Bator. Not that I'm unfashionable. I'll happily brag that my wife relies heavily upon me to make the call between prospective outfits she's contemplating. My skills are largely those of a fashion idiot savant, with the equivalent assurance of any former speechwriter currently working as a pundit for FOX News. But I'm now paying more attention thanks to my research for Pelting Out. Would I have gone to Anna Wintour's brainchild shoppanal - Fashion's Night Out 2011 - last night in NYC? Yes, I think I would have braved the crowds. Not for the Bieber, mind you. For the actual nuts and bolts of the fashion. It would have given me at least a slightly more hands-on sense of what may be tried on at China's equivalent Fall fashion features later this month. Oddly enough, I expect to see some of that public rendering when I head to the Far East a week from today. Because the only thing more fascinating but way out of my comfort zone than going to some gala fashion soirees in New York or Europe is to do so in a rapidly developing nation. Add in some of tangential thinking I've been doing, thanks in part to a NYTimes piece on China's appetite for collecting Western art and you've got a case of cultural consumption leapfrog that's wonderfully mind-boggling. If you're intrigued by what this might all mean and what I might bring to bear on the discussion, check back. Real observations - not just these hints of what might be upcoming - are promised in easy to consume chunks of cheese on an unpretentious platter.

Until the next page turns...may your own daughter's new soccer season's schedule not parallel your own NFL team's broadcast schedule.

Not just checking for era-specific undergarments

One thing that was true of Septembers not that long ago was the pop culture roll-out of new network TV shows. I'm extra sensitive to this dated concept even to this day, because I grew up in a house with no chance of cable TV (we lived WAY too far out in the country). We got the big 3 networks (FOX was but a feisty upstart with no long-range presence in northern Wisconsin when I went happily away to college). Plus the snowy hint of a channel that sometimes morphed into PBS. Try explaining that to them goldarn kids these days. So this lingering toehold on life in the 1970s and '80s causes me to still look to those new Fall shows in hopes of, I don't know, maybe identifying with something? Almost always an empty proposition, especially with the way TV seasons are split and an endless array of something better being out there a few clicks away. In all, I maybe watch one row of shows off our DVR these days. Still, if I had to put money on a winner this year, I'd go big obvious - "Pan Am" on ABC. Good origin story (as a concept, via it's creators), great case study for an era (the "jet age" and all the hipness it employs even if they've somewhat disingenuously eliminated everyone's cigarettes), and the most awesome logo in a long history of iconic design greatness. Personally, I'll be fascinated to see if something of that era works on one of the old networks where they consistently play it safe. I think it might land well in a growing retro strip. The comparisons to "Mad Men" have flown around constantly even though that trope's about as tired as Andy Rooney's eyebrow wrangler. My final question is, how authentic will the costuming really be? If you're looking for the hint at my underlying angle, there you go - wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Until the next page turns...may the excitement surrounding tonight's NFL Season Opener not pull you away from at least acknowledging that President Obama deserves our attention during the pre-game.

Let the Months be your guide

The start of the school year has me thinking about continuity. That ol' chestnut - the more things change, the more they stay the same. We brought our own daughter to her first day of First Grade this morning much like families all across the country are doing or recently have done. So goes this time of year. For me, continuity is a touchstone not only of these special family moments but the overall structure of Pelting Out. I'm using a timeline that extends across decades, but not in anything like a yearly chronological sense of time. Instead, I'm hanging everything off an eternal monthly calendar. What happens in September, stays in September - whether we're talking 1917 or 2011. That, for me, has allowed narrative threads to be strung between what would otherwise be hard to connect periods of history. When I frame my thinking using the months of the year, I can consider what my Grandfather Harry might have thought on my family's then nearly 40-year-old homestead in northern Wisconsin in September of 1917. Then, just maybe, I can present the parallel with what's going on as I enjoy Seattle's beautiful extended summer. Much like what I experienced for the first time when I arrived here for graduate school nearly 20 years ago. The trick will be to do that over the whole arc I've set up for Pelting Out. Narrative non-fiction is, after all, an exercise in storytelling that requires structure and (hopefully) a unique point of view.

Until the next page turns...I hope you saw your own child skipping into the classroom this morning.