Herro, an Goobye

As you people know, many times throughout my years in Brooklyn I yakked about my times on the Fung Wah bus, so it was no surprise that pretty much the minute I moved down to VA they shut the fucker down.

So of course here's someone paying homage via "if Bob Dylan wrote a folk song about the Fung Wah."

To bring this back to me, I will now select my Top 10 Xmastime Lines about the Chinatown Bus, 2005-2012:

People used to make of me for going Greyhound to DC or Richmond instead of flying. Then I started taking the Chinatown bus, and they REALLY started making fun of me. 

I actually heard a Chinese girl behind me finish a sentence with “ding ding ding!” Ding ding ding? Are you kidding me? I turned around, I thought maybe I had won a prize. 

I am taking a break from my usual Fung Wah bus and luxuriating in a train ride to DC. On one hand I am slightly disorientated and intimidated by being closed in with so many white people eagerly reading the Wall Street Journal; on the other hand they just made an announcement asking that we please not put our tickets in our mouths, so I'm a little more relaxed now. 

I do know that the best seat on a Chinatown Bus is in the front. In my rookie days as a rider I instinctively went to the back of the bus to hide, before realizing this was the exact WRONG thing to do, since everyone gets on and then keeps on walking towards the back, hoping for that elusive, rarely-seen-in-nature open pair of seats so you ain't gotta share with anyone, which happens about as often as one of my nuts up and does an impression of the gheko from the GEICO commercials. Eventually they make it all the way to the back before realizing such a paradise does not exist, and of course they're not gonna walk all the way back to the front of the bus so they just say fuck it and plop down where they've stopped in the back. Ergo, I learned to sit closer to the front. 

There's nothing quite like trying to piss in a Chinatown bus bathroom to make one think "you know, maybe I really shoulda hit the books a little harder after all." 

Speaking of the Chinese, as usual I took the Chinatown bus down. I don’t know what it is they’re cooking up but I’m telling you, these people are up to something. I’m surrounded by them on their cell phones, screaming “ACH TUNG DOW!! TUNG DOW CHU CHU TUNG FOO DAH!!!!!!!” Jesus. A violent sounding language. MAYBE they’re saying “Plesse pick me up at the appropriate bus depot upon my arrival, say hello to Grandmama.” But they might also be saying “Damn right we’re blowing this shit up, starting with this fucking bus and Yellowstone. Free MY big swingin Tibet, Niggaaaaaazzz!!”

Fung Wah!

People used to make of me for going Greyhound to DC or Richmond instead of flying. Then I started taking the Chinatown bus, and they REALLY started making fun of me.

But I stand by the fucking bus - door to door it's almost as fast if not as fast as flying, at a fraction of the cost and a millionth of the hassle. Show up, board, rolling.

And this dude at the Post is blowing it up (for the most part):

The appeal is prodigious. The buses are cheap, convenient, well kitted-out and eco-approved. They are relatively hassle-free, especially because someone else is stuck navigating traffic. Baggage rules are more lax than on other forms of transportation, and there are no sneaky taxes or rules against carrying liquids, unless they have alcohol content.

Of course, my own appreciation for a bus ride is based solely on whether or not I hafta sit next to someone; the pleasure factor goes from about 90% to 20%. Let's see what I've said here throughout the years on the subject:

Speaking of the Chinese, as usual I took the Chinatown bus down. I don’t know what it is they’re cooking up but I’m telling you, these people are up to something. I’m surrounded by them on their cell phones, screaming “ACH TUNG DOW!! TUNG DOW CHU CHU TUNG FOO DAH!!!!!!!” Jesus. A violent sounding language. MAYBE they’re saying “Plesse pick me up at the appropriate bus depot upon my arrival, say hello to Grandmama.” But they might also be saying “Damn right we’re blowing this shit up, starting with this fucking bus and Yellowstone. Free MY big swingin Tibet, Niggaaaaaazzz!!”

I actually heard a Chinese girl behind me finish a sentence with “ding ding ding!” Ding ding ding? Are you kidding me? I turned around, I thought maybe I had won a prize. It’s tough to be intimidated by a people who actually say “ding ding ding.” Is there an English equivalent of using the same word three straight times in a sentence? MAYBE when me and Op go out looking to get up in some tongety-tong tongs, but that’s about it. And he’s married, which surely the Chinese already know. Hmm. Velly intresting.

It’s the same thing if you go Greyhound – whenever I ride from NYC to DC, as we get near the Baltimore Travel Plaza the driver will ask if we wanna push through, or take a break. You can guess what the vote is. So he’ll say “okay, be back on the bus in 30 minutes.” I’m fuming cause we’re only an hour away, but these jackasses wanna stop for half a fucking hour. And then you know me – I think I have to be an Olympic sprinter, or I’ll be watching the bus pulling away. But I’m maybe starving, so I get off the bus, and it goes like this: SPRINT to Sbarro oh god, 3 people in line will take forever no time SPRINT to KFC fucking hell no time no time SPRINT to the vending machine and in a total panic buy purchase some Combos, of which I’m better off chewing on the back of the bus seat in front of me, SPRINT back to the bus and quickly find my seat, throw myself down in drenched in sweat and check the time and we only have…28 minutes left. Jesus Christ. But of course 30 minutes isn’t enough for these people, and it’s apparently against the laws of mechanical engineering for this bus to start moving again unless we’ve spent an extra 15 minutes waiting for people to wander back onto the bus, in absolutely no hurry at all. I’m clutching my fucking bag of Combos, keeping them in my jacket pocket so it doesn’t take up any space on the bus, and these people come back on the bus with three course meals fucking spread out. Buckets of greasy chicken, baked ziti in tin pans, unbelievable. NO hurry to get where we’re going. Same thing with class, these people are in NO hurry to get the fuck home.

And how much must it have sucked to be Peter Criss and walk in the day the band decides on who’s gonna be what character, and it’s like oh, great…I’m a kitten. Thanks, guys. Demon Spawn, Rock Star, Rocker Space Child, and Nermal. What the fuck. This reminds me of a few weeks after 9/11 when that bus outside of Nashville was attacked by a terrorist and a few people got killed. How’d that guy feel on Terrorist Academy Graduation Day when their assignments were given?

“Wow!! I’m gonna fly a huge jet into the World Trade Center! YES!”
“Me too!! Fuckin awesome! (high five)”
“I got the Pentagon! This is awesome!! What about you, Assid?”
“What the…Greyhound Bus?...where the fuck is Nashville? A bus??!! Oh, MAN! This is total bullshit!!!!!!”

Mostly, there's my love-dance with a pretty girl, memorialized here (after Sistatime!'s Grasserole of course)

Viva la Bus Fung Wah!!!!!!

GRASSEROLE! -

Fung Wah Bullshit

Just got off the fucking Chink bus. I'll say this: when Bush was in charge, those fucking buses ran on time. Nowadays, with Obama bowing 24/7 to them, they seem a bit uppity and come/go as they please. Unacceptable.

Oh, The Fung Wah Bus, You!!!

Your fancy-schmancy airplane jets don't lay it out for you, do they? Hey, shit stinks! Don't be doing it on the gotdam bus!!!

Sorry if that's too classy for you guys, but it's how I roll. Literally, actually.

"But Xmastime", you say in the voice of Craig “Ironhead” Heyward from those soap commercials (RIP), “Why have you bothered to build up a small army of children?"

The last girl I was in love with just told me her boyfriend took her ring shopping.  Needless to say my minions have been placed on a Fung Wah bus heading to the Midwest ("scrambling the jets"), where they will await further instructions as per "fucking this dude up."

Do YOU wanna open the door and see these hardass mfs standing there? 

QUESTION: Are There Any Girls In Alaska Who AREN'T Raging Cum-Guzzling Whores?

ANSWER: Nope. 

A source says that Johnston claims the baby isn't his, but that, "Levi is one of three possible fathers who were with Lanesia during the probable week of conception."

Three in one week. Awesome.

Btw, does the Fung Wah go to Alaska? No reason. Just wondrin.' (packing up my Canoe cologne and fuckrubbers)

They're Back!

The Real Housewives of South Boston are back for the Super Bowl! Enjoy their first classic HERE.

Also, nice to see my RHOSB gf mention the Fung Wah  :)

Young People Will Never Know How Crazy Shit Used to Be

Via a random post from 2011:

I am taking a break from my usual Fung Wah bus and luxuriating in a train ride to DC. On one hand I am slightly disorientated and intimidated by being closed in with so many white people eagerly reading the Wall Street Journal; on the other hand they just made an announcement asking that we please not put our tickets in our mouths, so I'm a little more relaxed now.

Amtrak

I am taking a break from my usual Fung Wah bus and luxuriating in a train ride to DC. On one hand I am slightly disorientated and intimidated by being closed in with so many white people eagerly reading the Wall Street Journal; on the other hand they just made an announcement asking that we please not put our tickets in our mouths, so I'm a little more relaxed now.

Oh, Camon

Ezra Klein's joint HERE has a piece about why people are flocking to Chinatown Buses: the danger.

Their study in Urban Geography, “Everything but the Chicken: Cultural Authenticity Onboard the Chinatown Bus” finds that it’s not just the cheap fares that draw customers. “Participants routinely framed the Chinatown bus as an authentic urban experience,” they found, “a thrilling and danger-enhanced departure from daily life, and as an engagement with the multicultural city.”

This is one of the dumbest things I've ever heard in my life.  This is total fucking "sorority girl braving the bridge to go to a 'dive bar on Bedford Avenue, hipster trust fund kid moving to a block with only one Starbucks" bullshit. Nobody chooses a fucking bus based on the odds of it being dangerous - can I start a bus company wherein I immediately set the thing on fire and you can only hold on to your seat and hope you get to your destination before being blown to fucking bits?

Hey, a quick "Chinatown Bus" search on this blog will show you I've had many, MANY experiences on the Fung Wah, but all of them laughable - not once did I think "oooh yeah, the driver is nodding off! This is awesome!"  I take the Chinatown Bus for the exact same reason everybody else does: it's half the price of Greyhound and, by the time Greyhound makes it's precious fucking stop at Baltimore Plaza (adding another 25 minutes thanks to these motherfuckers), quicker.  I got on a Chinatown bus in DC at 10am this morning and set foot in Midtown Manhattan at 1:50, with no less service and no more danger than Greyhound provides on a regular basis.  Fucking hell.

Le Moon

The moon is a curious thing to have a hold on someone. The other morning sitting on a stoop waiting for the Fung Wah bus to arrive I found myself staring at the moon, loving how it hung as if some technicolor postcard from the 50's/60's. And I also very much dig hearing about someone like John Wilkes Booth scurrying throughout Northern Virginia "by the light of the moon."

The moon is also the closest being to the Earth that helps us attempt to put the universe in perspective and shape the way we think about the possibility of a God. Yesterday I read an excerpt from Ben Franklin's Articles of Belief and Acts of Religion in which Franklin, a born skeptic to whom it presumably would never occur that one day man would visit the moon, questions whether a God would even notice man on Earth:

Also, when I stretch my Imagination thro' and beyond our System of Planets, beyond the visible fix'd Stars themselves, into that Space that is every Way infinite, and conceive it fill'd with Suns like ours, each with a Chorus of Worlds for ever moving round him, then this little Ball on which we move, seems, even in my narrow Imagination, to be almost Nothing, and my self less than nothing, and of no sort of Consequence.

When I think thus, I imagine it great Vanity in me to suppose, that the Supremely Perfect, does in the least regard such an inconsiderable Nothing as Man. More especially, since it is impossible for me to have any positive clear Idea of that which is infinite and incomprehensible, I cannot conceive otherwise, than that He, the Infinite Father, expects or requires no Worship or Praise from us, but that he is even INFINITELY ABOVE IT.

And still, 200 years+ later, some of the very men that went to the moon came back feeling as if their trip to the moon in their own minds at least made them question the existence of a God, as seen in the awesome doc In the Shadow of the Moon.

The most famous of these respective quotes in the doc is prolly Jim Lovell:

"We learned a lot about the Moon, but what we really learned was about the Earth. The fact that just from the distance of the Moon, you can put your thumb up, and you can hide the Earth behind your thumb. Everything that you have ever known, your loved ones, your business, the problems of the Earth itself, all behind your thumb. And how insignificant we really all are."

It could be read that Lovell sees this as "we're small in a way that connotes something bigger, meaning God, since that something bigger surely must have some direct relationship to ourselves," whereas I see it more in line with Franklin in a we're such a tiny, tiny speck of nothingness in the universe it makes no sense that there's a God that even bothers with us, much less is in our image as controller of the universe etc idea. Either way, it's amazing the centuries of thinking the moon has provoked in how we see ourselves within the universe, be it from men in ancient times, in Ben Franklin's time or those that have actually walked on it.

The moon. A trippy fucking thing.

Meeting Gordon Ramsay (Chapter: Take Me Now, Jesus Verse: Swept Off My Feet)

4:30pm - show up for the book signing at Sur La Table...which is, of course, a high quality cooking equipment store. ...which I had thought was a restaurant. Matter of fact, I assumed it was a French restaurant, you know, with the "la" part in the name. Looking back I guess that wouldn't make sense, since 1) Gordon isn't French and 2) Gordon knocks the French every chance he gets and 3) it should've occurred to me that no fancy high-end restaurant decides "hey you know what, let's have an event in the middle of service on a Thursday night; we'll being in hundreds of people to disrupt dinner and make people paying $40 for bottled water as miserable as possible. And let's make it a book signing, celebrating a book that shows everybody how easy it is to make fancy food, therein never having to go to an expensive restaurant again. You're welcome, guys!" Much like my decision to go to college instead of settling nicely into a life of petty larceny and small explosives, maybe I didn't think that one out.

4:31pm - entering the store, I immediately see I am out of place. Everyone's looking at me, rolling their eyes "yeah, I'm sure you buy $55 avocado slicers, dickwad." There's a big table stacked with copies of Gordon's latest book, "Fast Food." It's a big, beautifully made book that has hundreds of recipes that I will never even see the ingredients to, much less make. And then I saw sheets of paper that list the protocol for the book signing. What? Now, I have never been to a book signing, I didn't know there was ever anything more to it than "will you sign this please?" I had no idea it was run by The Soup Nazi. Present book with Sur La Table receipt to clerk. Open book to inside of front cover. Tell clerk what name you want to have signed. Allow clerk to attach post-it with name onto said page. Close book. Step one foot over back into line. Blow brains out cause you just spent $40 to read how to make mushrooms-on-toast. Wait patiently for Chef Ramsay to enter.

4:33pm - I find out they're only allowing Gordon to sign that one book. I'm crushed; I had just bought a different book, his bio, earlier in the week, so my Weekly Gordon Ramsay Book Budget was already used up. And I sure as hell ain't dipping into my Cool Whip in a Can or The Fall Guy Denim Patch Weekly Budget, so there I was. So I slink out, feeling the disapproval of the people working the event burning through the back of my head. Hey, so I didn't buy the right fucking book. Fuck you! My eyes went black with despair and fury all at once; who loves Gordon more than me, I thought. Who deserves to meet him more than me? Fuck these motherfuckers who breeze in with their fucking....oh, what ho, what's this? Turning the corner out the door onto a side street, I see the Bat Signal of the papparazzi: a huge, black SUV with tinted windows. It's parked in front of a side entrance to the store, idling away. AHA!!!! Gordon's in there! And eventually he's gotta come out, right? He's gonna hafta go from the car to the door, right? And then she's GOTTA listen to the poem I wrote and take me back, hell, she's still got my letter jacket, right? Hold up - mixing up stalking moments. Right, big black SUV. So I brilliantly come upon a plan of nonchalantly leaning against the building, working on the Daily News crossword puzzle. Surely no one would question the intentions of someone doing a crossword puzzle in the middle of the street, right? Surely his handlers will think "Crossword puzzle? Okay, this guy's brilliant, let's get him in the car next to Gordon with a box of eclairs STAT!!" And of course while standing there waiting I do what I always do in those situations: try to look as ridiculously non-threatening as possible. I plaster a goofy look on my face, I kinda smile around at everything like I'm a fucking retard. I cancel all body language, and I look for an old lady or someone to pretend to lurch towards to help on the street. "You're okay? Okay? Good, I'm so nice and friendly I was worried; have a nice day!" Back to blank look. The Helpless Goof on the Corner. Of course, I don't know why I think I have to make a concerted effort to give off a helpless vibe. I seriously doubt anybody will see me standing there and think "oh shit, Navy SEAL-looking dude with an axe-wound scar along both cheeks...this dude does something and takes off there's no way we can catch him, this dude's big trouble, we better encircle him right now and take him off the scene...I'm scared, are you guys scared?" But hey, what can I say. It's what I do. I got Gordon cornered and he doesn't even know it because I'm putting on such a nice-guy snow job for his people. What will I say when I "accidentally" bump into him at the door? Should I act cool? Cool, but not too cool, I guess. Don't bring up his family. Don't mention his kids Morgan, Matthew, Modine and Megan (assist: Martin Short!) Say something about an actual dish you've seen him make. Maybe I can make a quick statement on the state of affairs in England as we're meeting? Somehow combine how he's affected my life with what I have to offer Europe as a whole, in general? All tied into cooking, of course. Knock him off his feet with an amazing combination of the personal and the political - I will flip his wig with a small step for man AND a leap for all of mankind. This is about to get G O O D, people.

4:50pm - SUV drives away. Shit.

4:52pm - acting as if I hadn't been standing there like an idiot for 20 minutes, I decide fuck it, I ain't going home without at least trying. I go back in the store, find where to line up...as it's over an hour before the signing kicks off, I am TA-DA!! fifth person in line. I feel good about my spot; I haven't liked my chances this much starting out at an event since I walked into a white sale at The Limited.

5:15pm - now they're coming around checking everyone's books/receipts et al. Ohoh. I decide to hang in there as tough as possible. And by "as tough as possible" I mean "lie and say I came up from Richmond, Va on the Chinatown Bus, squeezing out a lone, sad tear." "Fung Wah" I knowingly say to the book-checker, as if that'll get me over the top with her. Hmm. "Oh, I see, you couldn't even afford the regular Greyhound shit bus. Please, by all means, stand in the middle of our store for the next hour and then introduce yourself to Gordon Ramsay!" So I show her the book I have and her nose crinkles like I had just cut one. Which I may have, since I was terrified I was this close to meeting him and wouldn't. Well, and I had just had my afternoon tea of porkskins deep-fried in boiled peanuts. "I don't know," she's slowly saying, "his publicist says he's only signing the new one..." "Please," I beg her. "Gee, I dunno...maybe I can ask his people..." I remind her that I am a Holocaust survivor and was just found in the basement of my father, whch is insane because of course my parents couldn't have afforded a house with a full basement when I was growing up. She walks to the next person, saying well, she'll see what she can do. "Oh, vey" I shake my head.

5:19pm - girl working alongside Gee I Dunno Girl breeezily starts blathering that "oh, his publicist says that he much more enjoys just meeting people and shaking hands to signing autographs." To which Gee I Dunno Girl shoots her darts with her eyes; like Brenda Walsh the first time she saw Kelly in the pharmacy buying condoms alongside a 10-gallon bucket of men's hair-gel. Bitch!

5:25pm - number of "correct" books I have: 0. Number the woman in front of me has: 4. Fuck! "This one's for Dominic...and one for Angelo...now I've got one each for the entire '86 Giants roster..." Fuuuuuuuck!

5:35pm - there's a mother/son team behind me. They're speaking (what I think is) Russian. Loudly. Braying in my fucking ears. The mother has come up from Atlanta; I had no idea there was a Russian population in Atlanta. Maybe with all the dogs disappearing there's room for Russians? There's another mellifluous language, isn't it? Anyone find it a coincidence that the people that speak Chinese and the people that speak Russian are poised to take over the world? If your language is jarring and scary enough, I guess you can eventually take over the world. Every word these people say, it sounds like Chris Matthews announcing the Kentucky Derby while stepping on mousetraps. Ohoh - now the woman's on the phone barking in Russian to someone, I guess someone back home. She's pissed, and a violent stream of Russian is pouring out. Except, of course, for two sentences: "I know the toilet's backed up and broken, and he needs to check for a gas leak. He'll smell it, he'll know." What? All the Russian you were just barking, and you decide THIS is the moment you should switch to English? Wtf? Like Anna Nicole deciding to gain 200 lbs during the one season they film that show of hers: bad timing. Thanks, Natashski.

5:45pm - throughout this whole wait there's been some fucking kid ahead of me who goes from the line to the front door (our sightline blocked by shelves) and then comes running back. Hands on his mouth with glee to get us all excited and....no Gordon. He's faking. Oooooooh, got us!! Hey jackoff, it wasn't funny the first time; it's certainly not funny the 6th time. But enough about Congress cutting veteran's benefits, tonight's all about Gordon.

5:50pm - there's a dude in front of me with his girlfriend. He is a super hipster; i.e. he is wearing a ragged-out tracksuit and bowling shoes, and yet you somehow know his father owns The Bahamas. He is, I hate to say, ugly: tiny head, no chin. Beard to make up for no chin. Face somehow too small for already tiny head. And he's got shoulder length hair that, when I first saw him about an hour ago, was wet, therein suggesting he had just come from a shower. I am now officially creeped out because here we are this much further along in the evening and his hair is still wet. What the fuck is that about? He's SO ironic that the laws of thermal physics cease to exist with him - liquids do not dry? Maybe God gave him the gift of never-drying hair to make up for forgetting to give him a head that grows with the rest of his body? Like God giving me the gift of perfect lips once he realized I'd have no woman in my life? Maybe he's a superhero, Dry Hair Man? Dude. Cut that hair, you are scaring the children!!!!!!

5:56pm $29 for pot holders? Really? How much pot comes with?

5:58pm it is now two minutes before the signing is supposed to stop. Like anyone else with a brain, I thought to show up about an hour and a half early, knowing otherwise I'd get fucked by a huge line - this is NYC, and it's Gordon Ramsay. Fairly fucking famous dude, n'est-pas? Hell, Danny Bonaduce's pill boy could have a signing, and if I'm going I'd show up an hour early. Not, of course, the NYC hoi paloi. Nothing says "hey, I'm a rich white douchebag!" like breezing into a book signing for a guy who's on tv 39 hours a day a minute before the event begins and being shocked you're not #1 in line. Fuckwad. Motherfuckers breezing in INDIGNANT there's a long line. At least 10 people were seriously pissed "I thought I'd be at the front of the line!" Sorry dumbass, but "first come first served" isn't Chinese for "of course you'll be at the front of the line; didn't mommy always say your Spirographs were the best?" Fucking douchebags.

6:04pm Gordon walks in.

6:06pm I'm roused back to consciousness. This guy doesn't walk as much as pounce from spot to spot like a cat. Unreal. With a staunch record of heterosexuality on my curriculum vitae (Khaki in Woodstock, you know what I'm saying baby) I don't mind writing here how unbelievably charismatic this dude is. He is raw energy beaming; every piece of sinew and muscle is poised to spring at all times. Unreal.

6:07pm I am about 7 feet away from him, he has pounced into the cashier's space and is complimenting them on their store, how beautiful it is. They are as swept of their feet as I am, and then BOOM he's a the table, standing there ready to sign, Sharpie upholstered.

6:09pm it is time. I approach. I am awestruck. Sticks out his hand, big beefy firm handshake.

Gordon: Hi, how are you?
Xmastime: Hi...I'm sorry, they say I might have the wrong book...
Gordon: (grabbing book from me) aw, fuck that, no agendas here (signs book happily)
Xmastime: geez, if you knew how much I wrote about you on my blog you'd punch me in the face
Gordon: ha! that's great! hey, (extending hand again) thanks a lot for coming, buddy (big wink)
Xmastime: (shaking hand) thank you, thanks a lot

TOTAL eye contact the whole time. Called me "buddy"!!!!! My feet didn't touch the ground all the way to the 6 train. Left Op a breathless message before going downstairs.

Just looking at him in real life made me ashamed of how little I've done, how lifeless I am. He exudes energy and clarity; I walk around in a dumb fog accomplishing zero. Over and over. I'm not gonna boldly proclaim that meeting him has made me decide to turn my life around since I will surely fail as per usual, but it is the first time I've been confronted with such thoughts merely by someone's presence. Just like when I met Bruce, I'm fascinated that there are people with such levels of success - not Paris Hilton fake success, but success built from nothing. Be it the best chef in the world or the best at mumblety-peg, it's an amazing thing to be. And Gordon is it. Can I really be inspired to act by touching such greatness? We'll see.