As a self-proclaimed philanderer of men, I must say I have developed a fondness for this FHM “For Him Magazine.” A fine publication indeed not only for the him but for the Moi as well. The wit of the writing and the insight offered, I can only hope, are as thursty and pointed as the staff’s other parts. Fret not, dear Reader, I will return to the unraveling of my bygone days of Shanghai shortly. I must simply indulge in this FHM publication and I hope you will indulge with me.

This fine publication straddles a fine ride between taking a Neantherdal’s and an intellectual’s appreciation of us ladies. Other “for him” publications simply fail so miserably at being…a man. Yes, I know it must be quite difficult for the male members of society to be who they are without being derided as a S.N.A.G (Sensitive New Age Guy) or even that dirty word, sexist! Women’s magazines are no better. Does your guy like what you wear? What is your guy really thinking? Ms. Wu can tell you. They are usually not thinking about anything in particular. Sigh. They just don’t make ladies the way the made Ms. Wu.

FHM’s success lies in its intrinsic knowledge that an absolutely politically correct culture is humourless, and might I add, boring and drab. This month’s FHM “A-Z Guide to Sex” is particularly amusing. This primer, although not nearly as encyclopedic or thorough as my private copy of “The Wanton Ways of Wu,” nevertheless has its moments of absolute ingenuity. For instance, the letter “M” as in “Her Monthly Friend” illustrates (for the simple menfolk) what to do and more importantly, not to do, during a lady’s month exemplified through Patrick Swayze films. Oh, that handsome fool who once stumbled into Shanghai and found his way to my Flower Boat. I digress. Menfolk! This guide should be memorized. Ladyfolk! Take heed. Renting Red Dawn during that time is so much more productive than publicly humiliating him for one’s own wicked amusement.

There are various other highlights in the primer such as letters B, J, and O that are refreshing. Letter C, for instance, coincides with one of my personal annoyances. Camel-toe. “Why?” I ask the sky with askance. “Why camels? And not unicorns? They have cloven hooves too.”

Until next time, I bid you zai-jian,
Ms. Wu

The one that got away. Oh, I sigh and I sigh again! During the summer of my seventeenth year as a fledgling young thing, I experienced a love affair so torrid and fiery that like a wicked tango of the senses has left me in a lifelong whirlwind of longing and earning for the one who staked, conquered, and claimed me as his own. I now have reason to believe that it was because of this senseless (and terribly exciting) love affair that cultivated my particular fondness in the “soft hair for pillows – big round eyes for long lashes” department. It is also because of this relation with that handsome devil of a man (whose name remains a mystery for we never, ever exchanged our names) that I foresaw the opportunity to become the moi of today.
As I have briefly described before, my girlhood was fairly uneventful outside of the usual trysts involving me outsmarting my superiors. Always I knew my fortune was to be made elsewhere, and always I knew that there was something unusual about his brownish-blonde hair that lend him an almost supernatural vigor and pure artistry in his passion-making that no other love force dared challenge. The details of how we met are inconsequential. He was the traveler of many continents. A sojourner of nowhere. An adventurer with an intoxicating combination of monkey-like guile and James Bond debonair. A globetrotter who fed my innocent, gentle ears tales of things to be seen and the things he would do to me. Such terrible pleasures involving many transformations and genius, ah, I digress. He was a soldier of fortune from an exotic place called New Zealand, and I, being the clever fox that I was and still am, wanted my fortune.
He was the forbidden fruit in those days of scarce bai-kues. The few who were bold enough to venture into the Orient were mostly covered with extraneous bodily hair that they seemed barbaric and gorilla-like to my girls. Did I forget to mention? Surely, dear reader, I have made passing remarks of my moonlighting career as Lotus Blossom, the madam of the Flower Boat? Running such a prestigious, covert establishment like the Flower Boat was simply marvelous always with a peppering of danger. I speak of the Flower Boat now in such careless manner only because it has long since disappeared into the misty realms of secret desires of men’s hearts and risks no chances of ever being discovered.

Alas! I have digressed yet again!

Our love was forbidden. As Lotus Blossom, I could not love. I was not allowed to love. The tormented sleepless nights of utmost melancholy I have suffered because of my…limitation. If I had allowed myself that big, juicy, forbidden fruit, the Flower Boat would have sunken to a horrible, unglamorous death. For glamour, dear reader, I had to do what I had to do. I bid my New Soldier the Zealand zhai-jian! He would not leave, but I willed him to do as I bid. The departure brings stinging moisture to my eyes even now, and the thought of him still brings another moisture all together! Our last embrace of the horizontal sort was earth shattering, and as he dozed away and closed his big, round eyes, I clipped a lock of his slightly curly hair for remembrance.
At that moment, unbeknownst to me, I made my fate. Little did I know that this precious lock of hair had a secret so powerful and mesmerizing that it would soon bring me the fortune I so desired and my passport into the world, but that is
Until next time,
Ms. Wu

During this jovial season of holidaying, I must become more sentimental than usual. Often I catch myself in a maudlin display of nostalgia and bittersweet longing sitting around like unglamorous Godiva chocolates at the after-Christmas sale. And I careen back to my childhood spent as a young school girl and the secret pleasures I found.

Ah no ’tis not so simple, gentle reader. Ms. Wu may have quite the notorious reputation among the digiratti for simply being who she is, this not a pleause of that sort. Allow me to light my cigarette before I delve so deeply into my past…the cigarette is the light of my life, fire of my inspirations. Yes I do digress when a good Gallouise is nearby.

As I was saying. When I was but a young girl unwillingly participating in attending boorish institutions known as “school,” I would find multifarious ways of passing the time before I was allowed to leave the terribly drab place. Needless to say, my parents were quite aghast that they had a daughter who did not attain the highest marks in her class, strived to be good at everything she did, and worst of all, I refused to learn the culinary arts. Ms. Wu and the kitchen go together like black and navy. They don’t. A few times they even threatened to marry me off to the Farmer Zhong’s household to be a ya-do, a girl servant. That was never realized because I had found my fortune by then and bid zha-jian! to Shanghai for good. How I gain my financial independence at such a tender age is another story.

A vestige of my rather uneventful childhood that remain with me to this day is my penchant for Ro Suon. No, that is not a boy but a certain Chinese snack. Ro Suon is perpetually misinterpreted on the plastic containers as “shredded pork” when it is more akin to a dried version of southern “pulled pork meat.” Literally, ro zoung means “meat loosened.” Yes, I know it sounds rather bowel-ish and unappetizing, but if Ms. Wu will at times favor a ro suon sandwich over steak tartare served with a wedge of lime slice and a sprig of rosemary, one must begin to understand the unsurmountable sense of contentment and pleasure a ro suon sandwich can bring at the right moment.

Simple and finite in its assembly, the sandwich requires naught but two pieces of bread with zo suon in between. These morsels, delicious and equal to heaven, were made by the old woman selling little snacks outside the school gate. The sticky rice version with zo suon wrapped in the middle with thin strips of egg custard was just as divine! As a young girl already forming her own peculiarities, I would purchase one of these naughty beasts of pleasure and hide it under my desk lid until I became simply overwrought with the sheer boredom of schooling. At that moment I would pretend to retrieve a pencil or something equally plebian from my desk and have a deliteful mouthful. Then to cap off the rest of the bovine school day, I would take a quick swig from my flask of sorghum liquor and wash it all down. Tis how I spent a small, inconsequential part of my girlhood. The rest will unravel in time.

Until next time I bid you zai-jian,
Ms. Wu

As one who is quite particular about clothing, I have wondered as of late whether the resurgence of 80’s-styled fashion is a return of the nostalgic that harks back to an era that exuded power, money, and sex when the present reality and state of economy are quite the opposite. One can say that it is a rather escapist reaction from the fashion world, but then again, one can also say that it is rather dull and uninventive to steal a style so unashamedly without reappropriation, innovation, or improvisation.
Ah, tis sad but true. I cannot bring myself to don clothing that I believe to be the most unflattering (and atrocious!) to exist in the history of garment. In the past unseasonably warm weekends, I have perused many shops in Soho and East Village with a glimmer of hope, that perhaps, designers have moved on from their obsession with recapturing the lost look of the suburbia preadolescent masturbating in a wood-panelled basement room and onto something different, something more Ole! Voila! Voom voom! Ta da! La la! Personally I prefer to wear my traditional Chinese dresses, qipao, when I return home after a long day of being the Woman in Town. Nothing pleases me more than the feel of the finest silk from China caressing against my body, and the way the dress forces my body to shimmy, wiggle, and dance in all its satin glory!
In that sense Mr. Rogers and I share the common love of donning our beloved clothing when we return to our respective abodes. While he puts on his little argyle sweaters, I put on my silver chrysthaneum flowered qipao. While he slips on a pair of plaid house shoes, I place my dainty feet into Flower Madam high heels embroidered by most luscious and creamy pearls of the orient. And while this Mr. Rogers talks to his imaginary friends, Ms. Wu is been pampered and fed grapes to (without the skin!) by her entourage of young men. I do like a good wandering around the home in such a get-up. At times I play music from my Shanghai youth as I place a perfuming lotus flower behind my ear, so intoxicating, so delicious, sooo MOI. Such is the life for moi, and such is the fashion for moi.
Until next time, I bid you zai-jian,
Ms. Wu

Queries from Ms. Wu’s readers have compelled her to come forth and declare that:

A) Ms. Wu is NOT a male of the Caucasian persuasion (as a visitor in the Discussion list incorrectly assumed.)

B) Ms. Wu is of Chinese ethnicity, female gender.

C) Ms. Wu prefers males of the Milky White to Warm Chestnut Beige persuasion. Although she has also played the ol’ Around the World game in her youthful haydays.

and lastly,

D) Ms. Wu’s present standards does not necessarily mean she is “ashamed” of her fabulous self (as an E-mailer incorreclty assumed. She has however met quite a few men in her life time who have developed a fetish for Chinese women, whether that means they are also “ashamed” of their white bodies, she knows not.)

Until next time, she bids you zai jian,
Ms. Wu

The Chinatown Arcade is one of the best hidden spot. It beats nasty frat-boy places like XS and other Times Square based video arcades. It’s a dark L-shaped space with oldskool games like Galaga and Golden Ax, and new physical games like Dance, Dance Revolution. Anytime you go, you can pretty much see people competing with each other on the dance pods. I love to see skinny Asian boys dancing to ‘Like a Virgin’ set on a pop-techno track. ‘You are Cool!’ ‘You are great!’

On top of it all, this is used to be the old Chinatown Museum where you can feed a chicken in a cage and “depending on her mood may or may not play tic-tac-toe” (that’s what the sign above the cage would say).

Unfortunately the chicken isn’t there anymore. The only vestige of any Tic-Tac-To-ing chickens is a picture hanging above the cashier window.