Shanghai

Spent the other weekend in Shanghai, (work related, no fun) and man is it crazy. I wrote the following about 11 years ago when I was last there.

Peace Hotel. Roof. Flag poles atop alabaster stone buildings lining the west bank of the Bund shudder in a November breeze. Not a single piece of cloth snaps. Poles themselves are rusted, paint peeling off like sun burned skin, ropes struggle to free themselves from the charade. In the past each of these building belonged to a different flag. A hidden radio still picks up news of Kuomintang victories and the boxer rebellion.
10:44 am. An eager bell sounds the toll, keen to have the job over with. The clock-tower is underscored by a thin shallow arc of laundry roped between pole and air-vent. Yellow tea-towels. Grey jocks. A pair of stiff brown socks: the unratified flag of humanity.

Up the street, the Shanghai Club is now a Kentucky Fried Chicken. It's grand entrance, once filled with French perfumes, cigar-smoke rolled in Havana, Cognac and Champagne, is awash now in the heady aroma of the Colonel's eleven secret herbs and spices; the unmistakable fizz of Coca-Cola adding life.10:59 am. The clock issues a much more solemn note regarding the full hour. Sad almost in the racket that is Shanghai. A tug replies, mock mournfully, 'Is this what it's come to then?'

Other ferries chatter as they cross the dirty effluvia, towards the concrete apartment karsts rising from the re-educated swamps beyond the river. Much of Shanghai is floating, deaf beneath the torrent of air compressors and pneumatic drills: massive black pylon-drivers pounding foundation holes into the mud; taxi-drivers dead on their horns; grinders and drills and hammers slapping rusty iron rails; bone-dry brake-pads, screeching buses, trucks heavy with coal accelerating between clouds of bell wringing cyclists.

And, believe it or not, bird song, echoing up from the urban ravines.

Working Out

Health issues seem to dominate this cul-de-sac of the web. I spend a fair bit of time at the gym these days. It's not a gym really so much as a holding pen for aging Philippino wives. Basically my workout regime consists of me riding a reclining cycle for 20 minutes watching CSI Burlington or whatever other drivel is on and then switching to the Total Body Maximizer 200Oc or whatever the hell it is called for another 20.
I tried reading today. Poetry if you can believe it. Charles Olson's Maximus. Or an anthology peek if you like. It was somewhat incongruous to say the least. I'm not convinced the library will appreciate the little sweat craters that have formed on the pages. The strangeness wasn't eased at all by the women nattering away with their headphones on, flapping that bit of skin under their arms that my brother-on-law calls bingo wings. They like to shout above the volume of I dare not try to imagine what music being cathetered into their ears.
I thought briefly of entering into a discussion on poetics with the big hairy guy who is always there in the steam bath but it seemed like a bad idea somehow.

Massage

Stop reading this and go out and get yourself a massage. Really. They are the best thing since back-muscles. In Manila, masseuses are everywhere. They drive around in cars labeled mobile tension relief units or something like that, looking for sore shoulders. They live in basements, massaging old pipes for practice. Street corners. Trees. Everywhere. Masseurs are harder to find.

Now I am not talking about the "happy ending" sort of massage you hear about. (Truth is I have never even been offered one. A function of my hygiene?) I am talking a good old fashion rub down, about a woman, generally one quarter your size, trying to push her thumbs through the back of your skull. Last ight I swear my tongue moved. The massage is all about thumbs; you want someone who could punch a hole in a concrete wall with theirs.