Paris Hilton Britney Spears

Psyche! this post isn’t about them. It’s about goldfish, and the Monkey Man, and other matters. But I noticed that, the other day, when I mentioned Vince Vaughn, someone landed in my blog. I was writing about Mark and I bringing Popeye’s Chicken to the extras in his old Chicago neighborhood, whilst stalking around “The Break Up” set. You see, WordPress lets you know what Google search terms lead people to your blog, and there he was: “Vince Vaughn.” So maybe, in the middle of sentences, I’ll start to mention celebrity names. I think that will be Angelina Jolie quite effective, don’t you? And I’d like to add that I’m sure Jennifer Aniston did not have the Popeye’s, because isn’t she on The Zone diet for life?

I really hope that I’m not reincarnated as a monkey. Specifically, a baboon or a gibbon, that live in China, and belong to a man with yellow teeth and a big round leathery head and a loud voice and a whip and a soggy cig hanging out the corner of his mouth. He comes around McDonald’s on the weekends in downtown Qinhuangdao. So do we. Unsurprisingly, we call him “Monkey Man.” He has four monkeys: one is a small baboon, the rest gibbons that wear little jackets with stars on them. They all have chains around their little monkey necks. He yells, and I don’t know what he yells, and he cracks his whip, and his monkeys do tricks. Like, jump up in the air and catch a ball, or jump onto his shoulder. But really, they are just trying to avoid the whip. They don’t get treats afterwards. They usually just get yanked around a bit more by the neck. I mean, I know a brother’s gotta make a living, but, eh, I feel bad for the monkeys.

I had a “sick of China” moment while I paused to look at Monkey Man’s show. It had nothing to do with the monkeys and everything to do with the fat 11 year old who looked at me screamed “Laowaiiiii!” At the top of his lungs. Laowai is the common term for foreigner. We also get “Waiguo ren,” which means outside person and is a little more polite. We hear it all the time; it’s odd at first, but they really aren’t used to seeing white people here, so it’s not a big deal. But this kid. Ach. First he made me mad because he was a portly fellow. That sounds mean, but I had a feeling that his being pudgy and standing outside of McDonald’s were not two unrelated occurrences. So maybe I wasn’t mad at him, I was mad at McDonald’s. I can’t decide. Secondly, I was more than perturbed that he yelled “Laowai” at the top of his lungs. Was that necessary? Really? I gave him the stink eye and walked away before I popped him in his obnoxious mouth.

Mark and I had, earlier, gone to the pet store, which is a row of animal cages on the sidewalk, also outside of McDonald’s. Every time we pet the puppies, something bad happens to Mark a few days later. For instance, one time, Mark held a puppy, and then he became violently ill two days later. Another time, he pet a puppy, and he got a zit that turned into weird face boil. The face boil went away and a new crop of mutant pimples cropped up.

So, now we look at the puppies, from a distance, and take pictures of them. There are also turtles and lizards and goldfish. We bought some a few weeks ago. Those died, in, like, days. And we bought a few more. Those are thriving! We have six; two look pregnant. They are either gold or speckled black, white and gold. We stole a crumbled piece of the Great Wall, and it is in the bottom of their bowl. It looks just like any other rock. These are the first pets Mark and I have owned together. Every woman looks at the way her man handles pets, and her mind automatically rushes forward, to child rearing. I have done this with the goldfish, which is in every way ridiculous. But things are looking good. Mark tenderly moves the fish tank from our kitchen table to the window sill, but only when the sunlight is not direct. This is to give the fish a better view. He positions our plant over the fish tank, to make them feel more at home. He faithfully changes their water, letting it sit out all night. It is also his job to feed the fish, which he does dutifully. We both talk to the fish every day, usually with a resounding, “Hello fishes!” said for unknown reasons in a southern accent. Sometimes I sing them a tune, and they come to the surface and make fish faces. When we leave, we will release them into our campus’s pond.

I’m off to the coffee shop to enter my students’ grades on their letters to Yahoo’s Dan Wetzel.