Moby is so annoying. Even Eminem thinks so. That was what I used to say before I started going to his newly opened tea cafe in the Lower East Side. Teany, the place is named. But in my mind I have started to think of it as “Moby’s” with an unabashed feeling of warmness and comfort that familiarity breeds. “Meet me at Moby’s,” I would say. Or, “Let’s discuss the work order more thoroughly tomorrow at Moby’s.” I have grown to love the white sangria, the 96 types of tea, and the delicate and novel tea sandwiches, and like the man himself, Teany is little and humble.

I say this begrudgingly. To further complicate matters, Teany is my music soul mate. This happens rarely as my taste in music is quite dated. Cocteau Twins, My Bloody Valentine, Slowdive. Imagine my surprise when Cocteau Twin’s “Frou-frou foxes in midsummer fires” came on followed by a Dinosaur Jr. cover of The Cure’s “Just Like Heaven” and preceded the previous day by an entire Morrissey album. Could I be more enchanted? As I sipped my lychee iced tea and playing footsies with my Kiwi Wild Jungle Man who was having a dainty old time with his cucumber – tea sandwiches, that is – I was awash with a sudden sense of sadness. Perhaps I have been unfair and judgmental and pulled an Inquirer. So what if he wears stupid star-shaped sunglasses and has an annoying video with Gwen Stefani? And so what if he writes essays on topics such as “fundamentalism,” “vegan,” and “intolerance” on his web site? And the little Moby sketches on Teany’s tiled floor I suppose could be seen as charming and cute in their crudity. The point is, this cafe makes a damn good cup of tea and makes some lean, mean vegan sandwiches that taste good, which I never thought possible. Preach the good word, Moby. Show the world that vegetarianism can taste good. I certainly know that my vegetarian tastes better. (wink, wink).

Then the other day I spotted the white Moby himself sauntering down past Cafe Habana as I was sipping a lime margarita. Despite the fact that Moby appears everywhere on magazines, billboard posters on Lafayette Street, and in random sentences from people’s conversations (“Oh my god, so like Moby is going to be at this party.”), this was the first time I sighted the man himself. He was wearing a red polo shirt, jeans, and black-rimmed glasses. If it werent for the crucifix tattoo on the base of his neck, I would have passed him as a dime-a-dozen film major from college. Why does he, of all celebrities, rouse such vehement opinions in everyone?

Moby crosses lines as a musician and as a celebrity. As a musician, he has licensed his songs to movies and commercials, and by doing that he had committed the crime-de-la-crime in the eyes of the alternative music community. I remember ’93-’94 when he played at small venues in Dallas, Texas, and at the end of the set, he climbed to the top of the stereo and raise his arms upward (like a God) to a maddening crowd hopping excitedly to their new techno god. And to many old-timers, this was the Moby we remember. This is the Moby we want because we want our childhood and memories to remain still. We are selfish products of a consumer society obsessed with analysis. Moby maybe the icon of mainstream and “sold-out-ness” to some, but he resists the tide of mainstream by supporting local economy and travels by foot around town. Moby’s music has grown and matured despite the fact that Eminem doesn’t think anyone listens to techno anymore (besides its ‘electronica’). He has remained as alternative as he can for a musician who has achieved a successful career. And as a celebrity, he makes me feel like I can go up to him and tell him how much I appreciate the cafe, and besides, there is someone else more loathsome and annoying: Vincent Gallo.

Til next long time from now,
Ms. Wu

I moved to the States when I was 17, and I’m 35 this year, which means that I’m over 50% American, that is, if I assumed a linear relationship between the time spent and the amount of cultural influence. However, most things of this nature rarely have a linear relationship. We tend to learn much quicker when we are younger, and I would imagine that at some point, the speed at which we acquire knowledge levels off. Because of this, in some ways, I’m more Japanese, but the fact that I spent the last 18 years of my life here in America, makes me more in tune with American culture than I am with Japanese culture.

Today, I received an Email from a writer of a site called Chanpon. “Chanpon” in Japanese refers to a bowl of noodle soup with a variety of vegetables and meats. The word is also metaphorically used to refer to things that are mixed up beyond recognition. As I was reading the articles posted on this site, I realized that the site is truly chanpon. Some articles are about the experiences of the foreigners living in Japan, while others are about the exact opposite, the experiences of those with a Japanese background living outside of Japan. I’ve always been curious about the experiences of my counter part in Japan. This site gave me a glimpse into that world.

I’ve always imagined that a Westerner going to Japan is easier than a Japanese going to the West, for several reasons. The most significant reason is that the Japanese people adore Westerners especially those of non-Asian race. This is essentially reverse racism, and I could imagine that it could cause some difficulties, but reverse racism in general offers just as much advantage as it does disadvantage, if not more. But, perhaps, this is a glass-glows-gleener phenomenon. One tends to exaggerate one’s own experiences in comparison to others. And, I’m certainly not trying to play a piece of violin music along to the story of my life.

What Chanpon.org is trying to achieve is conceptually quite peculiar. In a way, it is trying to find similarities in the opposites. It is sort of like the axiom in physics, “The only thing that is constant in this universe is change.” Perhaps, upon deep analyses of any relationships between individuals, one may find that the only thing that is similar is the dissimilarity.

“Community” by default seeks similarities. I normally dislike communities for this reason. Don’t get me wrong; I am not saying that communities should seek dissimilarities. I just find the activity of seeking similarities to be boring. I like communities whose reason for forming is not quite so obvious and contrived, especially since the driving force behind seeking similarities is usually a form of fear.

http://www.chanpon.org

After a while, listening to racial politics becomes very tiring. I attended an Asian American conference organized by the Asian American students at the Harvard Law School. I was invited to speak because of this site. I mentioned in my speech that, technically speaking, I don’t belong there because I am not a native-born American. Once I got there, I realized that this was truer than I had expected.

The most pressing issue, among many, that unites them is the American public’s perception of Asian Americans being foreign. Since I grew up in Japan until I was 17, I am a foreigner in many ways, and therefore I don’t expect people to perceive me as an authentic American. Even I don’t see myself that way. However, I can see native-born Asian Americans’ frustration of being perceived a foreigner. Unfortunately there is a good reason why this perception exists, and I am actually part of that reason. One of the speakers mentioned the statistics that 60% of Asians (Pacific Asians, to be more exact) are foreign-born. When this speaker said “we”, he meant the 40% who were born here. So there is a schism of foreign-born and native-born within the Asian American community. Within the 40% group, there is an unavoidable feeling of resentment towards the 60% group who perpetuates the perception of being foreign. I don’t blame them. It must be frustrating. Ideally speaking, even if you were the only native-born Asian American in this country, it would be unfair for anyone to see you as being foreign, but that’s just an ideal. Unfortunately many aspects of human nature aren’t ideal. It’s like your loved ones getting killed in a volcano eruption; what are you going to do? Human perception was not designed to be fair.

If you really want to solve this problem, I do have a suggestion, even though I can’t be bothered to pursue it myself. What you do is to take advantage of its unfairness: consciouslymanipulate it. Part of what makes human perception unfair is that it can be manipulated, and it, therefore, does not reflect the true state of matters. As I said in my speech, it’s just like advertising. Run TV commercials if you have to. It may sound ridiculous, but depending on the execution, it could do a lot. I’m not advocating this idea, but silly problems are usually solved by silly solutions.

At the conference, I felt like I was in an Asian cult group. I could understand the bitterness of some senior members since they had to go through some serious discriminations. And I could even thank some of them for doing certain things to make our lives easier, but if what they wanted was for Asian Americans to be able to live freely just like any other Americans, then they’ve done a fine job of it, and let’s just enjoy the fruits of their labor. Does it have to be an end in itself?

One of the younger speakers complained about kids throwing rocks at her as she was growing up. It’s not like white social-outcasts don’t get the same treatment. I know a plenty of white people who grew up getting picked on. Does it always have to be about race?

We all have problems with perceptions. Race is only one of many. Should bald men unite to fight the perception of being unattractive? Should geeks unite to fight the perception of being socially inept? Should blonde bombshells unite to fight the perception of being stupid? There is no end to fighting perceptions if you start. Besides, some perceptions associated with Asians are beneficial. Even if you are a mediocre computer programmer, people will still think you are a good one. Even if you are bad at math, people will still assume that you are a genius. If you are a fashion designer, because of the precedence and the perception of Asians being exotic, you have a better chance of succeeding at it than most people. The same goes for architects, engineers, news anchors, and even graphic designers.

Certainly there are fields where Asians may face some difficulties, especially if there is no precedence, but that is where you have the opportunity to do something truly unique and revolutionary. In the field where Asians are well-established, it would be easier for the rest of us to follow, but it is harder to achieve something that is truly great since you are always in the shadows of the great achievers of the past. If there are merits, of course, there are demerits. You can’t have everything in life. For those who are extremely success-driven in life, perhaps they need it all. They see some white people getting even more, and they feel that it’s unfair. It seems that the stereotype of Asians being over-achievers seems to be true here.

One of the speakers at the conference expressed her opinion that any successful Asian Americans owe it to the Asian American community, that they are accountable, and that they have responsibility to the Asian American community. If this is not a racist statement, I’m not sure what is. If this is true, any Asian criminals would owe it to the Asian community too, and we should be responsible for them. Guilt by association, or accountability by association, is the very problem of racism. I could not believe that the whole crowd was nodding their heads up and down and cheering on to this politician. It appeared to me that these people were truly sorry for being Asian. They kept emphasizing their pride of being Asian. That just sounds to me as silly as being proud of being bald or full-haired.

Some people don’t seem to know when to stop complaining and start living. Uniting to fight the perceptions of Asian Americans sounds anal-retentive to me, and it is no accident, I found out this weekend, that anal-retentiveness is another stereotype of Asians. (Well, this bit is just a joke, so take it easy.)

Here is my speech.

Hello and welcome to me again.

I apologize for my long absence. With Fashion Week winding down, Chinese New Year, and myself relocating to a new neighborhood, I was busier than I ever was when I was Lotus Blossom and had thirty young girls to manage at the Flower Boat. Although I was quite fond of my previous residence in the golden tower, the stench of equine manure surrounding the space outside my building reminded me too much of the dirty alleys of old Shanghai. Fashion Week came and went with a flurry of show and party passes. Tis was amusing. Chinese New Year found me dining with the Chinatown triad. Silly bunch of old men they were and terrible karaoke singers as well. I bid my leave early on in the night with a toss of my raven hair and a sprinkle of silver laughter. I made my exeunt and flourished my way to my rendezvous with my new conquest.
A young thing he is. So much to learn. And so eager to learn. He fancies himself the pamperer of Ms. Wu with his little gestures and tokens of affection. A massage here and there. Presents under the pillow. A pearl necklace. A wake-up prodHullo! I am getting rather carried away there. Too poor to afford Cartier or Tiffanys, this coltish young man made a ring of wood that he had chiseled and shaped with a knife and presented it to me on Valentines Day. Although a bittribal for Ms. Wus taste, I was quite taken with his initiative and ingenuity. A particular ingenuity that reminded me of a certain Kiwi from my olden days that now brings me back to my tale of lust, betrayal, and unrequited love.
Yes the one who got away. Our separation was untimely and unfortunate. I pushed him. He pulled me. I pushed him again. He pulled me back again. Oh, the drama went out longer than the dreadful running of Cats until finally I succumbed in his hairy, whitey arms for one more night. Fresh from pricking, I pricked him back with my special needle of sleeping potion. As I have said last time, I snipped a lock of his hair for remembrance. But what I had neglected to retell, Patient Reader, was that as he sundered off to a troubled sleep amidst murmuring words of eternal love and a green card, I rummaged through his travel luggage and found a carved jade vessel that appeared to be of the Qianlong period. It was carefully wrapped in thick leather. A strange item for a foreigner to have in his luggage, I thought to myself. The superior workmanship of the intricate design and the vibrant green colour of the jade could only mean that the object at hand was a work of Imperial commission. Of extreme beauty it was, but so were many other things from old China that have been denounced by the revolutionaries. To be associated with anything connected with the four olds of society” * could condemn one to torture, jail, and porridge. I was terribly excited, and I could not discern whether my over stimulated state was due to my discovery, or because lying in front of me, asleep in his naked glory (with a full staff under the sheets I might add), was a…spy.
Until next time, Excited Reader, I bid you zai-jian,
Ms. Wu

* old ideas, cultures, manners, and customs

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