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My son places his toy airplane (as opposed to his real one) on the keyboard while I type and then rolls over and continues his flight. I’m sitting in bed, HBO on because I couldn’t find cartoons for him to give me the space I need to wine down. My daughter is being walked to sleep down our apartment building hallway by the Ayi. Another plane crash on the keyboard and then he’s off again. I wonder if I ever played like that. I doubt it. And I mean I doubt it in a serious way. Another crash. I remember having toy soldiers as a kid and being excited by the idea of playing with them but when I actually did it I was bored. I am always bored and disinterested except by work and things that make me think of less interesting things. He’s now telling himself a story. It sounds like a real dogfight. Yesterday was my daughter’s birthday. I left home for work at 7am and returned home at 10pm. I did not see hew awake. Priorities outside of myself are not my strength. The nice thing about having children is you realize what it’s like to be one and what you missed. He likes to crash the planes. He’s asking me to crash the planes with him. He asks in English which is nice because I don’t understand it when he speaks Chinese. He’s now throwing the airplanes. He makes eye contact and smiles a lot. To be a child, for a day, if not less. ...

I’m walking down the hall at work thinking about my next meeting and how not to embarrass myself at it. How not to make a total fool out of myself. Again. It is just then that she walks by me and whispers “I know”. “What?”, I turn and say, but she is gone, down a hall, into the restroom, into thin air, I don’t know where. I wonder how she knows, but I think she must have known all along. It’s the crazy ones who get to me. Especially the crazy, hyper smart, hyper thin ones. I’m not sure why this is. I guess because I know the hyper thin is caused by the hyper smart and the hyper smart is just a façade for the crazy. This, and if they are crazy, then I will seem sane. So sane that I am interesting to the crazy ones. Until they get to know me and realize what you already know from reading this, that I’m the nut in the basket of eggs. Or perhaps, and I think this often, not that crazy ones appeal to me, it’s just than normal people bore me to death. It’s not that normal people are in black and white vs. the color of the crazy ones, it’s more like normal people are white light and I can’t see them at all. So, now it’s confirmed that she “knows” and I can’t live in denial anymore. I wonder why she felt compelled to tell me, this is the question. If I knew she knew and she knew I knew she knew, then what is the point anyway? I just stepped into the elevator. I’m looking down like I always do and I see her small shoes moving fast trying to catch a ride. Do I hit the close button, or open? I hit open, she angles in even though I’m the only other person in the elevator. I press P for parking and stand back. She turns, faces me, stands very close, and looks up at me. I feel her breath. I notice a tiny bit of facial hair. “I know about her”, she says, and she turns and walks out of the elevator. The door closes, I am still inside. Now, why did she have to go and say that? The elevator vaults upward, I exit on the second floor, and race down the stairs. I reach the garage and see just entering her white prius. Ugly car. “Wait!”, I yell. Well, not out load, that isn’t me. Rather, I run to her car and pound on the window. She lowers her window. “What are you doing?” I ask. “Just thought you should know since, you know, I’m one of them”, she says I do not need to look at her sunken eyes again, I knew she was one of them from the first moment we met. “How?” “The tape”, she says, and she backs up and drives away. Always that tape. ...

They say you should dance like no one is watching. Nice idea. People are watching. And judging. I don’t dance anymore. Save for the occasional wiggles tune with my two year old and the ultraman theme song with my three year old. And maybe the very rare caffeine induced shake to kid rock. When I was in the 7th grade, I was not afraid to dance. I was afraid of girls. Still am mostly. Anyway, in the 7th grade it took some courage for me to ask one to dance. So I usually found one I didn’t like that much and asked her. The dancing seemed easy. I few 360 degrees spins, a finger pointing to the floor, and then one to the air. Girls started to ask me to dance. I was cool. Or so I thought. Turns out they just thought the way I danced was funny. In my 20s I married a girl who met her first husband on a dance floor. So, I thought I should dance too. After a go, she decided dancing was no longer necessary for a relationship. When I was 30 and single again a woman asked me to dance. I told her I don’t really dance, but she insisted and I really liked her, so I went for it. A minute into the song I was feeling pretty good, that maybe my earlier self assessment was wrong. In my best self deprecating tone I said “I told you I can’t dance” and she said “now why is that”. She was not being sarcastic. The single life being what it is, I did not wait another seven years before dancing again. There’s this misconception, held mainly by married men, that single guys are getting hooked up every weekend. That they have to beat the women off with a stick. So many choices, so little time! But, the sad fact is, that a married guy getting his twice monthly bodily function action is doing better than most single guys. It is a lonely life. So, with that as a background you can understand why I tried another attempt. After 30 seconds the woman stopped dancing. At 45 seconds she walked off the floor without excuse or eye contact. At 32, one would think I would have learned my lesson, once and for all. I had a new age friend pushing me to dance “like no one is watching.” She was not convinced by my stories. She wanted me to dance. But I didn’t want to dance with her. She was ugly. Well, is ugly, ugly isn’t something you grow out of even if you are Nicole Richtie. So I danced with another girl, one I used to like but no longer did mainly because she no longer did and halfway through the song she said “Vince, what is wrong with you?” expressing real, sincere concern. She also was not being sarcastic. So, now, when I watch my two year old girl dance to the wiggles I just want to giggle. Why? Because, the dancing is hereditary. She dances like her daddy. But unlike him, she truly dances like no one is watching and her joy is unbounded. For now? ps: the only way to dance like no one is watching to make sure no one is. ...

What’s in a name Dear students of boring topics. Today’s lesson is the street naming convention found around Beijing. To a foreigner, the names may seem a bit exotic or mysterious but once you break them down, they are quite boring. The strange thing is, it’s hard to get a local to break them down for you (like say my wife) but other foreigners are quite happy to. Let’s start with my address: 26 Chaowai Da Jie. Well, the 26 is easy enough. Let’s say you are on Chaowai and looking for #26. It is nowhere to be found. You ask the local security guard, where’s #26? He will have no idea. Even if you are speaking perfect Chinese (which you¡¯re not). Two problems here. First, and most important, Beijingers do not use address numbers. The use relative positions to known landmarks. So you would accurately describe my building’s location as across from Kuntai or down the street from Lan Bao. This, the guard would know. The second reason is my building isn’t actually on Chaowai. It’s one full city block south. A smaller street and a 30 story building, Kuntai, is between me and Chaowai. So good luck trying to find me by address. Mapquest would fart. Now onto the name. Chaowai is short for Chao Yang Men Wai. I don’t actually know what Chao Yang means. Strangely enough it’s the same name as my wife but the characters and tones are different. For that matter, I don¡¯t really know what my wife’s name means either except for the Yang part. But, hold on, I know all about the Men and the Wai part. Once there was a city wall around Beijing and every so often along this city wall were gates for people to pass thru. The wall itself was torn down in the 1950s to build a road called the second ring road. The road itself has since turned into a new type of wall, one that goes in the direction of traffic. But I digress. The word for gate is Men, hence the name Chao Yang Men describes the location where the Chao Yang gate once was. Now, onto the Wai part. Simple enough. Wai means “outside” as in outside of the wall. (laowai, are what foreigners are called, meaning old outsider). So a building on Chaowai means a building outside of the Chao Yang Men gate. Moving on. Da means big. Jie means street. So Chao Wai Da Jie, means the main street outside of Chao Yang Men. The word Nei means inside, so Chao Nei Da Jie, is the same street on the inner side of the second ring road. Make sense? If not, check your brain at the door. Ok, moving on to advanced lessons. A block north there is a street called Chao Wai Bei Da Jie. Can you figure out the Bei? What can I say, you are a genius. Bei is north. Anyway, the names go on like this with direction and size variations. North, south, small, large, outer, inner. So, the small street to the south would be Chao Wai Nan Xiao Jie. Nan being south and Xiao being small. The final trick is written Chinese doesn’t have spaces ¨C go figure ¨C so often the street names run together as in Chaowaidajie. Got it? Now you are ready for Beijng. ...

Never wear white below the waist. Enough said. Never dress like euro trash unless you are euro trash. Always wear a belt. Especially with jeans. No exceptions. If you are over 30, never wear a black leather jacket. Heck, no matter you age, ditch the black leather. If you are short, never go with the long leather jacket. You will look even shorter. Never go half tuck if you are over 35. Don’t dress like you are 19 if you are 25. Don’t dress like you are 25 if you are 35. And never dress like you are a 20 if you are 40. It’s not cool, it’s absurd. Androgyny is for the young. Sexless is for the middle age. Don’t confuse the two. Ok, for the dense: ...

My subway stop is Chaoyangmen and this night is no different when I get off. I edge myself closer to the door and when it opens I push, slide, and sometimes shove my way out. I used to say “excuse me” but after a year in Beijing I realize there is no need for such niceties and they will just slow you down. And to be slowed down here means being pushed back onto the train by the oncoming passengers. I make if off the train, and head for the “wai” side of Chaoyangmen. I take the stairs instead of the escalators up three flights of stairs to the street. Very few people do this and I tell myself I do it for the exercise but maybe it’s just because I have no patience for the escalator. There is no down escalator and at this time of night I am greeted by a flood of people walking down the stairs. They make way for me as I climb up, an occasional bemused smile but mainly indifference. The stairs are a bit steep and to make eye contact going down means risking a fall. At the top of the stairs I emerge into the early evening twilight, like an old car reaching the top of a hill and feeling a momentary resurgence. It’s then that I see her, 150 meters away, but a vision. I see long flowing straight here, a lean look, outlines of a pretty face. At 100 meters shape starts to come. At 50 meters I am obsessed. At 25 I think she sees me too, but I cannot be sure. She’s about 5'4", with a round smooth face, young but not a kid, thin but hips, athletic in he walk, smart in her look. People think I have a “type”. The first assumption now is that I like Asian women because I am like in China and married to a Chinese woman. Asian women are the generalization because whites are assumed to make no distinction between the Asian races. It’s all the same to us, and it’s all good, or so the line of thought goes. While it is true that fairly late in life I discovered my, let’s say, aptitude for Asian women, it is not a “type” for me. It’s more like discovering I like vanilla ice cream too when all I knew before was chocolate. Chocolate can still be damn good. Some people who think the “know” me (all five of them) will presume that my type is “thin” or petite because I tend to go for the thin ones and once was with a way too thin one. I can’t say the thin thing ever appealed to me, but if I am honest with myself I will acknowledge that after the way to thin one became what she became I do notice the unhealthy thin ones in a disturbing way. But sometimes it is best not to be so honest with oneself. So, at 10 meters, I can see she is not looking at me. And as much as I don’t have a type, this woman is it. Everything is right. I want to trip her or something. Anything to get to know her. I can feel the initial pangs of a crush coming on. At 5 meters she stops. Makes a hacking sound with her nose. And spits a luggie onto the cement that would make a sailor proud. This is China. This is Beijing. ...

Jane read the letter for the second time. Dear Jane, It was so nice to have lunch with you today. I smiled the whole way home; I’m just so damn proud and happy to be your mother. When you were three, you used to do the cutest thing. We would be sitting on the coach, and then you would just get up and walk over to coffee table and have a conversation with an imaginary clerk. Some days you would be buying shoes, some days, apples, some days eggs. But you would always negotiate and right from the start you learned your lessons well. Never make the first offer and never accept their first. You were just so adorable then. And now, with a three year old of your own, I wonder if the scene acts itself out all over again. It’s hard to believe you’re 40 now. I must tell you, that was a hard year for me. I really felt a loss of energy and had a hard time finding my rhythm again. If you go through this, don’t worry, it will pass. You will find your step, your way again. And, how do I say this. Another big shift happened when I turned 40. I felt less attractive. The men who used to notice me, noticed me less. The side glances, the turned heads, the innocent flirtations, all seemed to evaporate at once. I adjusted, but it took some time. I had to rediscover your father again. Why am I writing all this doom and gloom? I mean you looked fabulous, you were simply beaming. Tell me, are you pregnant again? I can’t explain it, you just had that certain glow. I’m so glad to hear your new job is going well. It’s amazing they would promote you so fast. But I know you deserve it. From the day you were born I knew you were special. Are special. They say a son goes with his wife’s family and a daughter stays with hers. Well, that is certainly true in our case. You’ve taken such good care of me since Dad died. Can you believe it’s been 14 years? And here it is Mother’s day and you take me to lunch. Next week I’m taking you, it’s long overdue. I was reading the Wally Lamb book you gave me for Christmas. It ended with three things he knew to be true. First, god exists in round things. Second, mongrels make good dogs. And finally, love springs from the depths of forgiveness. May we all find a little forgiveness on this day. Love, Mom. Jane, put her pen down. Satisfied with her writing and the anger it released she tore the paper in to squares each smaller than the last. She took the remains flushed them like a dead rat. Her final stop for the night was the freezer and a pint of ben and jerrys. ...

It’s halftime of the Argentina vs. Serbia match and even though I don’t know much about soccer I know Argentina is playing damn good. They are my new favorite team. My wife likes the players with their flowing hair and clean shaven faces. A friend comments that it’s the beautiful team vs. the ugly team, and he’s right. The Serbians could use a little work on and off the field. Anyway, they have a beer chugging contest at half time. Five people compete to see who can chug a bottle of beer the fastest, the winner getting some meaningless prize ¨C maybe a new liver. It takes some work, but they finally get five contestants, three Americans and two Chinese men. It’s a little weird demographic wise as there are about 300 people in the audience, slightly more than half men, and only a handful of Americans. I can consume plenty of beer myself, but don’t chug. The contest over ¨C a Chinese man beat the Americans ¨C the second half proceeds with Argentina seemingly toying with Serbia. There is one play in particular. An Argentine player is closely guarded, so he kicks the ball through the legs of the defender, runs around him then sidesteps another defender, then curves the ball around the goaltender for a goal. It was pure magic. And, only their second best goal of the night. Game complete, the four of us head over to the Russian nightclub. I was a little hesitant to bring it up ¨C after last time ¨C but it seems the couple actually enjoyed the last time so we went. Besides, I had a bottle of vodka on hold there from the time in between the last time and this time. We arrive, and start drinking screwdrivers. The Russian hookers start to look good. After a few more drinks even my friend’s wife starts to move with the music which she’s never done before. I walk around to check out the scene. My wife is fascinated by some young Russian men at the table behind us. I remind her that men that age don’t even need 15 minutes between rounds. They just reload. This does not discourage her. They put on a dance show. A black man and female crew dancing to Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean”. Then a group of belly dancers one of which eventually makes her way to our table. My friend’s life is complete at this point. He could die at that moment and be happy. Me, I’ve died a long time ago as it is. Then we are treated to a Las Vegas style dance troop without the nudity. Eventually the dancers take a break and a live band comes on. They are pretty good, especially the male singer. They are Russian but sing most of their songs in Chinese. When the band is done, the dance floor opens up complete with go-go dancers. I pay particular attention to a Chinese woman dancing with her Chinese man but looking straight at a hot go-go dancer. My friend is standing directly behind the go-go dancer. Eventually he takes his wife on the dance floor. My wife and I don’t dance, can’t dance really, so we stay behind and just people watch. Feeling pretty wasted but frisky, we stumble home to our small condo. In our bed are our two children. In the tiny second bedroom are my wife’s nephew and her mom. Downstairs is the Ayi. Somehow we still manage. A young Russian man I am not, but I can pretend for¡well..two minutes at least. ...

To the average American my age, the world cup is an event that occurs every four years about a sport that you only care about every four years. Kind of like the Olympics. But in Beijing, and in most of the world I suspect, the world cup is a month long festival of soccer. If you are from Togo (and I must ask you, where the hell is that, it sounds like a sandwich wrapped in cloth) the goal scored against South Korea was not just a momentary cause for cheer but a life long reminiscence. So what if your German born, aging, playboy looking coach quit the team three days before the match only to return the day before. And a fashion tip to all you old German born playboy looking coaches. If you must wear jeans, go with the lose fit. Prefer a sweater to a button down gold chain hanging silk shirt. And by all means, do not smile in a way that makes you look like a horse with dentures. Anyway, here in Beijing, every bar, every restaurant is showing the world cup. A 600 year old temple near my home shows the world cup on two big screen TVs placed on its altar. The sun god, the reason the temple exists, must not be please. Or perhaps the sun god is a world cup fan. The first game comes on at 9pm, the next at midnight, the last at 3am. Colleagues slept at their desks after the 3am Brazil win the other night. Me, I mostly watch at home during the week. Listening to the Chinese announcers on CCTV channel 5 call the game. The only Chinese I can make out is the word for “beautiful” as in “beautiful shot”. On weekends we will go to a bar or a temple to watch. Last Saturday night we went to Browns, the latest mega bar in Beijing. Maybe three hundred people were there and they cheered when England won. England’s only goal was scored when the opponent accidentally hit the ball into their own net. Long live the king. The other night a Chinese new reporter was in Germany reporting on the activities. She was talking with a bunch of enthusiastic Mexican fans. She wore a poncho. Hot. I’m hoping the USA puts up a good fight, at least makes it to the quarter finals, but all signs are against it. If they don’t make it, well, we have another four years before we have to care about it again. ...

She found herself in the produce section staring at the green apples and not knowing why. She always wanted to know why. About everything. It drove her friends nuts. Drove them away eventually. So she told herself to relax. There may be no reason she was in front of the apples vs. say the ice cream, but since she was there she might as well take a look. And look she did. Then she picked up an apple, dismissed it for lack of color, then picked up another and dismissed for too much color. One had too much wax. Another had bruises she could see. Another had bruises she could feel. Eventually she came along a good apple. Maybe not the best apple in the bunch, but a good one. That’s all it was to her, a good apple. She bought the apple, digging through her purse for change, and returned home. She placed the apple in the center of her kitchen table. It was alone. That night, when the warm turned to cold and the only light was filtered from the bathroom, she picked up the apple, washed it, and took a bite. And indeed, it was a good apple. Sweet but not too sweet. Solid, but not dry. She took her time eating this good apple, occasionally flossing the skin that got stuck between her teeth. Satisfied, she relaxed, and sitting in the dark the world didn’t seem so scary. She drifted to sleep with the rotten core barely registering in her dreams. ...