Remember the American-style Chinese food place I mentioned? And the fake fortune cookie fortune my grandfather printed up? Well, I got this fortune from a fortune cookie from Fortune Cookie:
Yes. It says, “Help! I’m trapped in a fortune cookie factory.”
I thought I might be Tyler Durden-ing and secretly running this place myself at night without my knowledge. But it’s signed “Logan” so clearly it’s run by Wolverine.
Got my hair cut at this “hipster” barbershop in Xintiandi. (Note: the kid who cut my hair looked nothing like the guy on the sign.)
Friday night, Eli, Dagan, and I presented awards for student short films at a ritzy international school in Pudong. It made me rethink where I ought to be putting my time and energy.
This odd piece of tile work at the base of the stairs at Changshu Rd. Station always makes me think of Old Glory.
My living room & bedroom air filters — front and back — after 110 days.
I rarely feel pangs of homesickness. When I do it is for my dear loved ones. Or maybe In-N-Out Burger.
But I caught Nebraska on TV and I found myself missing America a little.
I have been to Nebraska twice. Grand Island, Nebraska. Once when I was four, with my mother, brother, and grandparents. We rented a van and took the seats out of the back, replacing them with a mattress. (It was the late 70s. Probably almost legal.) My brother was two and just had been diagnosed as being deaf after his spinal meningitis. My grandmother was already in terrible health and we plotted our route around dialysis centers. I remember houses without fences between them. And the sickly-sweet flavor of A&E Root Beer from a vending machine (after a hippie childhood without sugar.)
The second time was the summer after my freshman year of college, I think. (I could check. I watched David Letterman’s last show on NBC on that trip. Tom Hanks was the guest.) My mother, sister, and I drove to a Williamson family reunion. A storm had just swept through town. The cemetery was littered with branches. A tornado struck during the reunion. After a lifetime of earthquakes, watching a tornado from afar — moving almost in slow motion — was mesmerizing. I also remember fireflies out back behind my great aunt Katie’s house. Constellations of fireflies winking in and out of existence below the constellations of stars above.
One day, while I was in film school at USC, my dad casually asked who my favorite director was. I said, “Stanley Kubrick.” Christmas morning that year, I unwrapped present after present from my dad. Over a dozen. Every book ever published about Kubrick. On opening the last one, he muttered, “I think that’s the last one.” I will always remember that.
That was the year I spent editing Super-8 films for CNTV-190 all night in my room listening to the soundtracks to Schindler’s List and 2001 on infinite repeat. Aram Khachaturian’s Gayane ballet suite (later alluded to in James Horner’s score for Aliens) being the perfect, haunting music for bleak Russian steppes. Or lonely camera original editing. Or expatriation to China.
A friend at work had bought tickets to 2001: A Space Odyssey at the New Hengshan Cinema she couldn’t use, so I bought them off of her. (If memory serves, my parents saw it on their first date. And yet, I was still conceived five years later. Miraculous.) I forgot how well I know the film, frame by frame.
Even so, I couldn’t help but experience frisson at the starchild crescendo at the end.
My feelings about Jackie Chan are well known. About a decade ago, he dropped by the DreamWorks campus. I saw him from afar and it was one of the rare, rare occasions living in L.A. that I was actually starstruck. (The only other case I can think of was also at DWA. I rounded a corner and found myself walking straight toward Jerry Seinfeld. He looked at me and said, “How’s it going?” Funny guy.)
This week, Jackie Chan swung by the Oriental DreamWorks offices, so I got a chance to see him again. He took a photo with the entire staff. People were lining up for the photo, so tall 老外 like me and Eli stepped to the back, of course. Then people started standing on chairs, blocking us completely. I’d like to see the picture. We were there, just way in the back, behind the wall of people standing on chairs.
It did afford me the opportunity to say a Chinese phrase I’ve been dying to use since I got here:
我太矮了 (“I’m too short.”)
I was determined to put an end to my ongoing nightmare and get my Mac Mini up and running. After yet another run to the electronics mall, I tried to plug in the wall socket…
…with this voltage converter plug…
…and the voltage converter…
…to this adapter…
…and then this Chinese plug…
…to the exotic Mac Mini power brick plug…
…into the discontinued Mac Mini power brick…
…to the Mac Mini plug…
…and into the back of my Mac Mini…
I pressed the power button on the Mac Mini.
Nothing happened.
Fuck.
So I replaced the this adpater going into the voltage converter……with this one…
…pressed power and my Mac Mini powered on for the first time since 1 December 2014!
I then tried to connect the DVI-to-HDMI cable from my Mac Mini to the TV in my living room. That worked fine, but I couldn’t figure out how to plug in the miniplug-to-RCA cable to get audio.
Fuck.
One more trip to the electronics mall and I got this…
That worked.
Difficult, difficult, lemon difficult.
But now I can finally balance my checkbook on Quicken and stream video to my TV.
Best. Tomb Sweeping Day. EVER.
Today is two tomb-related religious holidays! It is both Easter and 清明节 (Qīngmíng Jié) which is known as “Ancestors’ Day” or “Tomb Sweeping Day.”
But it’s raining right now here in Shanghai, so it’s probably more accurately “Tomb Mopping Day.”
In 1992, I bought this button down short sleeve shirt:
I only remember wearing it once. Dave Cera said, “That shirt is good for you!” because it wasn’t my standard black tshirt.
I’ve had it in the back of my closet since high school. I never wear it. It is still my only button down short sleeve shirt.
It was hot this week. So I thought I’d wear it. Things that were said to me today:
My Mac Mini power supply finally arrived! US$100 to buy it on Amazon, US$80 to ship it DHL to China, 200RMP to get it through customs! But it was finally here! I couldn’t wait to open it! I was like a kid on Christmas morning! Aaaaand it was missing the power cord, rendering it utterly useless.
Yes, the details on the product indicated it came with a power cord. Yes, I’ve sent a strongly-worded email. Here’s a picture of the missing power cord I found on the internet:
Elusive as a fucking unicorn.
Today was my father’s 80th birthday. I called him up (and he actually answered the phone for once!) I pointed out that — for the first time ever — I am exactly half his age.
He gamely pointed out that probably wouldn’t happen again.
On Saturday, went to the Mr. X Mystery House with some friends from work. You’re locked in a room and have an hour to solve a series of puzzles to find a way out. (You may have seen something similar on a recent episode of The Big Bang Theory.)
We beat it in about 53 minutes. Despite me incessantly singing “Mr. X” to the tune of “Mr. F” from Charlize Theron’s arc on Arrested Development.
Great wall. Wine? Not so much.