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Bronze: This Anonymous Commenter Subject: still waiting... elyse, i thought we "knew" each other pretty well by now. we talk whenever we see each other and you tell me some pretty personal things. so i'm wondering why the fuck you haven't mentioned me in your journal yet. so disappointed... The quotation marks. The single profanity. The allusion to knowledge of all my late-night cockfight gambling debts and fraudulent passport birth year. And, of course, the disappointment. An astounding feat of vaguely threatening anonymous commentry. Silver: Me Seriously, what kind of demented perv takes pictures of unwitting girls then posts them on the internet? Think about it!   Two things about "Sweat-lana," as she's known among the Cantonesically inclined: 1.) To wake herself up in the mornings, she listens to Slayer, 2.) Me: "Those are awesome [skull-festooned] Vans you're wearing." Svetlana: "Yeah, I got them in New York, but they're made in China. I go work in Guangzhou, I see fucking 80-year-old ladies with cooler Vans than me." Me (flushed with the instant camaraderie I feel with anyone who drops the f-bomb in our first conversation; exception, Bronze Medalist, see above): "Want to elope?" Svetlana: "Nah." Me: "OK, I'll content myself with waiting until you're asleep, then snapping a picture of you to gaze at later." Svetlana: "You're a total asshole!" Behold.  Gold: This guy  The lobby of the Shangri-La Hotel is the model-client meeting point for 100% of modeling jobs in Shenzhen, China. In fact, it's the meeting point for 100% of people meeting anyone in Shenzhen, China, for any reason. The thronging lobby would be even more unsightly if the Shangri-La provided a bunch of furniture for all the waiting models and other sundry meeters; accordingly, the room is barren of all but two low-slung couches. Occupancy: exactly nine lucky waiting asses. The last time I went to Shenzhen for a job, the client was late, so I had been standing around in the Shangri-La for twenty minutes when a space on the couch opened up next to this guy and my ass became one of the Chosen Nine. I hunched over into the universal Do Not Chat posture, so when he tapped me on the shoulder and gestured for me to remove my headphones, I knew whatever he wanted to say to me must be important and worthwhile. This Guy: "Incomprehensible sinodrawling." Me: "What?" Him: "Incomprehensible sinodrawling." Me: "Sorry, what?" Him: "Mumble where you from?" Me: "Oh, um, America. United States. You?" Him: "Incomprehensible sinodrawling that's phonetically incompatible with every Asian country and major metropolis! Whatever the hell I just said, it definitely wasn't the answer to your question!" Me: "Oh god, here. Why don't you write it?" I thrust my open diary and my blue pen into his hands. He hunched over into the universal Don't Copy Off My Homework Fartknocker posture and busied himself writing, like, forever. Sonnet-writing forever. Feeling awkward but not quite yet willing to get testy and snatch back my diary, I took out my camera and took a picture of him as he paused to count his iambs. Good thing I did. Now you can congratulate him if you ever see him on the street. Because this is what he finally handed back to me.  Like a real awards ceremony, this entry is much too long, but I'd still like to take this opportunity to congratulate all the medalists for their contributions to the art and science of total assholism, and to the world at large. | ||||||
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