Dave Barry Is Not Making This Up

by Dave Barry

  All the while, John is talking about square kilometers and metric tons, but we tourists are not paying attention. We’re staring out the window, fascinated by the highway drama.

  After about an hour we arrive in Dongguang, where we’re going to stop for lunch.

  “People here like to eat poisonous snakes,” John informs us. This makes me nervous about what we’re having for lunch, especially after the scene with the dogs. Plus, I can’t help thinking about an alarming development in Chinese cuisine that I read about a few days earlier in a newspaper story, which I will quote from here:

  Beijing (AP)—Health officials closed down 92 restaurants in a single city (Luoyang) for putting opium poppy pods in food served to customers, an official newspaper has reported ... in an attempt to get customers addicted to their food ... health officials started getting suspicious when they saw that some noodle shops and food stalls were attracting long lines of customers while others nearby did little business.

  So I’m concerned that they’re going to offer us some delicacy whose name translates to “Poodle and Viper Stew with ‘Can’t Say No’ Noodles.” I’m relieved when John tells us we’re having Peking Duck. We pull up to a hotel and enter the dining room, where, lo and behold, we find that we’ll be dining with the very same sticker-wearing people that we encountered at the museum, the free market, and the kindergarten. This is indeed an amazing coincidence, when you consider how big China reportedly is.

  The Peking Duck is pretty good, but not plentiful, only a couple of small pieces per person. John informs us that in China, when you eat Peking Duck, you eat only the skin.

  “Sure,” mutters an Australian woman at our table. “And they’ll tell the next group that you eat only the meat.”

  After lunch we’re back on the bus, on the road to the major city of Guangzhou, which most Westerners know as Canton. John is pointing out that we are passing many shops, which is true, but the vast majority of them seem to be either (a) permanently under construction or (b) selling used tires.

  In a few minutes we encounter dramatic proof that China’s population is 1.1 billion: At least that many people are in a traffic jam with us. I have never seen a traffic jam like this—a huge, confused, gear-grinding, smoke-spewing, kaleidoscopic mass of vehicles, on the road and on the shoulders, stretching for miles and miles, every single driver simultaneously honking and attempting to change lanes. Our driver, Bill, puts on a wondrous show of skill, boldly bluffing other drivers, displaying lightning reflexes and great courage, aiming for spaces that I would not have attempted in a go-kart. Watching him, we passengers become swept up in the drama, our palms sweating each time he makes yet another daring, seemingly impossible move that will, if it succeeds, gain us maybe two whole feet.

  We pass an exciting hour and a half this way, finally arriving at the source of the problem, which is, needless to say, a Repair Crew. Providing security are a half-dozen men who look like police officers or soldiers, standing around smoking and talking, ignoring the crazed traffic roiling past them. The work crew itself consists of eight men, seven of whom are watching one man, who’s sitting in the middle of the highway holding a hammer and a chisel. As we inch past, this man is carefully positioning the chisel on a certain spot on the concrete. It takes him a minute or so to get it exactly where he wants it, then, with great care, he raises the hammer and strikes the chisel. I can just barely hear the ping over the sound of the honking. The man lifts the chisel up to evaluate the situation. I estimate that, barring unforeseen delays, this particular repair job should easily be completed in 12,000 years. These guys are definitely qualified to do highway repair in the U.S.

  We are running late when we get to Canton, where we have a happy reunion with our fellow sticker-wearing, museum-going duck-skin-eaters from the other buses at the Canton Zoo. I don’t want to sound like a broken record here, but this is a grim and seedy zoo, an Animal’s Republic of China, all cracked concrete and dirty cages. The other zoo-goers seem more interested in us tourists than in the animals, staring as we pass. We’re shepherded to the pandas and the monkeys, then into a special, foreigners-only area to buy souvenirs. I buy my son a little green hat styled like the one Chairman Mao used to wear, with a red star on the front. Radical chic.

  Back on the bus, we drive through Canton’s streets, which are teeming with people on bicycles, forming major bicycle traffic jams. Imagine all the bicycles in the world, then double this amount, and you have an idea of Canton at rush hour. We pass a large market, where, John assures us, you can buy any kind of snake you want. Fortunately, we don’t stop; we’re going to see the Temple of the Six Banyans, which no longer has any banyans, although it does have three large brass statues of Buddha, which John claims are the largest brass Buddha statues in Guangzhou Province, and I don’t doubt it for a minute. Next we head for the Dr. Stin Yat-Sen Memorial Hall, which is quite impressive and which boasts the largest brass statue of any kind in Guangzhou Province. Out front is a sign recounting the hall’s history in English, including this mysterious sentence: “In 1988, the Guangzhou municipality had allocated funds for get rid of the hidden electrical danger in the hall Comprehensively.”

  Next we’re scheduled to see the Statue of the Five Goats, but we’re running out of time, which is a shame because I’m sure it’s the largest statue of the five goats in Guangzhou Province. Instead we go to the Hotel of the Western-Style Toilets, the lobby of which is bustling with sticker-wearers rushing to get to the restrooms and back to the buses. There’s only one more train back to Hong Kong tonight, and nobody wants to miss it.

  We reach the train station in a heavy downpour. Led by our Hong Kong guide, Tommy, we press our way through the crowds to the security checkpoint, then board Train No. 97 for Hong Kong. It’s a fascinating train, a long way from the sterile, snack-bar ambience of Amtrak. Train No. 97 has funky old coaches with wide aisles, through which women push carts offering food, drinks, snacks, and duty-free cognac. The train also has a crowded, smoky dining car, a kitchen, people in uniform watching you, people who are not in uniform but are still watching you, and various little rooms and passages with people going in and out. It’s a mysterious little world unto itself, Train No. 97. Walking through the rocking cars as night falls over the rice paddies outside, I feel like a character in a melodrama. The Last Train to Hong Kong. Two of my fellow sticker-wearers walk past me, smiling, one of them wearing a souvenir Mao-style hat. This is cool, being on a train in Red China. As long as you can get out.

  In three hours we’re back in Hong Kong, which felt so foreign this morning but which now feels familiar and safe, like Des Moines. I rip my sticker off, a free man. I still don’t know anything about China. I’m just one more superficial sheep-like bus-riding tourist. But I know this: I don’t want to be in Hong Kong after June 30, 1997.

  Tick tick tick tick tick ...

  As we’re saying good-bye to Tommy, I ask him what he’s going to do. He answers instantly.

  “I’m going to marry a Westerner and get out of here,” he says. He’s laughing, but I’m not sure that he’s kidding.

  The next morning we read in the Hongkong Standard about two things that happened on the day we were in China:

  * The chief of public security for the area we visited was executed. He’d been found guilty of corruption the previous day (none of those pesky appeals in the People’s Republic). Among other things, he accepted bribes in exchange for letting people get out of China.

  * In Beijing, the People’s Dally ran a front-page editorial calling for a

  “great wall of iron” to protect China from “hostile forces,” particularly democracy. The editorial said that if China’s 1989 prodemocracy movement had succeeded, it would have been a catastrophe for the people and a step back for history.”

  Those wild and crazy Chinese leaders! Those happy-go-lucky, fun-loving, Most-Favored-Nation guys! They’re going to have a ball with Hong Kong. My advice is, see it while you can.

  Tick tick t
ick tick tick ...

  And if anybody out there is in the market for a tall, likable English-speaking Chinese husband, I know of a guy who might be available.

  Haute Holes

  You’ll be pleased to learn that I have thought up yet another way to revive our nation’s sagging economy by making myself rich.

  To understand my concept, you need to be aware of an important fashion trend sweeping the entire nation (defined as “parts of New York and San Francisco”). Under this trend, sophisticated urban persons, seeking leisure wear, are purchasing used, beat-up, worn, ripped, raggedy cowboy garments that were previously owned by actual cowboys. People are actually paying more for damaged cowboy jeans than for new ones.

  I found out about this trend through the alertness of reader Suzanne Hough, who sent me an article by Maria Recio of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. The article states that used cowboy jeans are selling briskly at $50 a pair in San Francisco and $65 a pair in New York. The ones with holes are considered most desirable. Here are two quotes about this trend from the article:

  FROM THE OWNER OF A NEW YORK CITY STORE THAT SELLS THE JEANS: “It gives a bit of romance.”

  FROM AN ACTUAL TEXAS COWBOY: “It sounds pretty stupid.”

  Of course it is exactly this shortsighted lack of fashion consciousness on the part of cowboys that keeps them stuck in dead-end jobs where they must become involved with actual cows. Meanwhile your fashion visionaries such as Mr. Ralph “Hombre” Lauren—people who truly understand the spirit of the West—have made so much money in recent years selling designer lines of Pretend Cowboy clothing that they can afford to build large tasteful pretend ranch estates with color-coordinated sagebrush.

  But now we have gone, as a nation, beyond Pretend Cowboy fashions, and into Formerly Real Cowboy fashions. I called several stores, and they told me the demand for used jeans is very strong.

  “People want holes in the knees, crotch, and buns,” stated Murray Selkow, a Philadelphia native who now owns the Wild Wild West store in San Francisco. “What’s very popular is two tears right at the bottom of the buns.”

  To locate the source of cowboy jeans I called Montana, a large cow-intensive state located near Canada. I spoke with Judy MacFarlane, who owns a company called Montana Broke, located outside a small town called (really) Manhattan. She buys used jeans from cowboys and sells them to stores such as Wild Wild West.

  “I will not accept any jeans unless they’re from a bona fide cattle rancher, rodeo rider, or sherriff’s posseman,” she told me. She said each pair of Montana Broke jeans comes with a label explaining the occupation of the cowboy who owned it, plus a “Tracking Guide,” which shows the purchaser how to figure out which specific cowboy activities caused the various holes, stains, and worn spots on the jeans. I’m sure this provides hours of enjoyment for urban professionals, who, after a hard day of wrangling sales reports, can mosey back to their condominiums, rustle up a mess o’ sushi, and spend an old-fashioned Western-style evening analyzing their jean damage. (“Oh, look, Jennifer! This brown mark on the knee occurred when the cowboy branded a calf! Or fell into a cow pie!” “Oh, Brad! That just makes me want to roll back the Oriental rug and initiate a hoedown!”)

  This trend is not limited to jeans. The store owners I talked to said there is also a strong demand for used cowboy jackets, shirts, boots, and hats. This leads me to my money-making idea, which is going to seem so obvious when I tell you that you’re going to smack yourself in the forehead for not thinking of it first. My idea is to sell used cowboy underwear by mail. Don’t laugh. This is the logical next step, and I’m going to be out front on it. My brand will be called: Buckaroo Briefs. Each brief will come with an authentic piece of old-looking paper with a diagram explaining how the briefs came to look the way they do (“This particular stain occurred when the cowboy got chased by a bull”).

  The only problem I see, looking ahead, is that with the increasing big-city demand for authentic Western garments of all kinds, and the relatively small number of actual rural Westerners, we’re going to reach a point fairly soon where the entire population of Montana is running around naked. Fortunately, I’ve thought of a way to solve this problem via ANOTHER money-making concept, namely: Sell urban professionals’ used business attire to cowboys. Why not? Cowboys in suits! Carrying their lassos in briefcases! It might catch on. You could probably even charge them more for the suits with really exciting histories (“This rip occurred when Thad, rushing to an important budget meeting, caught his sleeve on the fax machine”).

  Pretty sharp idea, huh? I don’t see how it can miss. The only possible flaw is that cowboys are not nearly stupid enough to pay extra for somebody else’s used and damaged clothing. I doubt that even the cows are.

  Courtroom Confessions

  Like most people, I can always use an extra $7 or $8 million, which is why today I have decided to write a blockbuster legal thriller.

  Americans buy legal thrillers by the ton. I was in many airports over the past few months, and I got the impression that aviation authorities were making this announcement over the public-address system: “FEDERAL REGULATIONS PROHIBIT YOU FROM BOARDING A PLANE UNLESS YOU ARE CARRYING THE CLIENT BY JOHN GRISHAM.” I mean, everybody had this book. (“This is the captain speaking. We’ll be landing in Seattle instead of Detroit because I want to finish The Client.”)

  The ironic thing is that best-selling legal thrillers generally are written by lawyers, who are not famous for written communication. I cite as Exhibit A my own attorney, Joseph DiGiacinto, who is constantly providing me with shrewd advice that I cannot understand because Joe has taken the legal precaution of translating it into Martian. Usually, when people send you a fax, they send a cover page on top of it, which conveys the following information: “Here’s a fax for (your name).” But Joe’s cover page features a statement approximately the length of the U.S. Constitution, worded so legally that I can’t look directly at it without squinting. It says something like: “WARNING: The following document and all appurtenances thereto and therein are the sole and exclusionary property of the aforementioned (hereinafter ‘The Mortgagee’) and may not be read, touched, spindled, fondled or rebroadcast without the expressively written consent of Major league Baseball, subject to severe legal penalties (hereinafter ‘The Blowtorch Noogie’) this means YOU.”

  And that’s just Joe’s cover page. Nobody has ever dared to read one of his actual faxes, for fear of being immediately thrown into prison.

  Nevertheless, some lawyers are hugely successful writers, and I intend to cash in on this. I am not, technically, a lawyer, but I did watch numerous episodes of “Perry Mason,” and on one occasion, when I got a traffic ticket, I represented myself in court, successfully pleading nolo contendere (Latin, meaning “Can I pay by check?”). So I felt well qualified to write the following blockbuster legal thriller and possible movie screenplay:

  Chapter One

  The woman walked into my office, and I instantly recognized her as Clarissa Fromage, charged with murdering her late husband, wealthy industrial polluter A. Cranston “Bud” Fromage, whose death was originally reported as a heart attack but later ruled a homicide when sophisticated laboratory tests showed that his head had been cut off.

  “So,” she said. “You’re a young Southern lawyer resembling a John Grisham protagonist as much as possible without violating the copyright.”

  “That’s right,” I replied. “Perhaps we can have sex.”

  “Not in the first chapter,” she said.

  Chapter Two

  “Ohhhhhhh,” she cried out. “OOOHMIGOD.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but that’s my standard hourly fee.”

  Chapter Three

  The courtroom tension was so palpable that you could feel it.

  “Detective Dungman,” said the district attorney, “please tell the jury what you found inside the defendant’s purse on the night of the murder.”

  “Tic-Tacs,” said Dungman.

 
“Was there anything else?”

  “No, I can’t think of ... Wait a minute. Now that you mention it, there was something.”

  “What was it?”

  “A chain saw.”

  A murmur ran through the courtroom and, before the bailiff could grab it, jumped up and bit Judge Webster M. Tuberhonker on the nose. “That’s going to hurt,” I told my client.

  Chapter Four

  With time running out on the case, we returned to my office for a scene involving full frontal nudity.

  Chapter Five

  A hush fell over the courtroom, injuring six, as I approached the witness.

  “Dr. Feldspar,” I said. “You are an expert, are you not?”

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “And you are familiar with the facts of this case, are you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you are aware that, as a trained attorney, I can turn statements into questions by ending them with ‘are you not,’ are you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And is it not possible that, by obtaining genetic material from fossils, scientists could clone NEW dinosaurs?”

  “OBJECTION!” thundered the district attorney. “He’s introducing the plot from the blockbuster science thriller and motion picture Jurassic Park!”

  The judge frowned at me over his spectacles. “In the movie,” he said, “whom do you see playing the defendant in Chapter Four?”