CHINESE PSYCHO

Most of the Mandarin-speakers I know are dysfunctional. That is to say, those individuals with whom I am acquainted who are first-language speakers of Mandarin, who still think in Mandarin, are subclinically neurotic.
It's a limitation of their language.
It inculcates batshit.

Speakers of Cantonese, Hakka, and Hokkien are not thus. They're so capable of expressive flexibility that they're completely sane.
Rather like the Dutch in many ways.


Last weekend, the amphibian and I enjoyed a quiet glass of whiskey while a weepy Mandarin-speaker howlingly lamented her manless-fate, and threatened to commit suicide; zi sa herself by jumping off the jin men qiao. The owner of the bar added to the drama by simultaneously arguing that she should just go out and bang anybody, why heavens there were single men all over the place, and at the same time she tried to keep her bartender out of the wailing woman's gunsights.
He's married. His wife will kill you.
She's Cantonese.

At one point I interjected that my neighbor the amphibian was also single, whereupon he gave a startled 'ribbit' and tried to point out that there was more than one of us bachelors in the place, meaning me. Good thing he doesn't speak Mandarin. Never-the-less, having grown weary of the histrionics, we both left.

Angst-geschrei over the lack of a suitable man to boff can only add so much to whiskey. There's more to life than vaginal desperation.

And, truth be told, we were afraid.


All in all it was a glorious weekend. I restored several Dunhills and Charatans (over twenty pipes in all), and happily smoked way too much Virginia tobacco. I ended the weekend with several bowls of flake, and headed home in the freezing wind perfectly koosh.

Good food. Good drink. Entertainment, and fun things to do.

I've had my periodic exposure to Mandarin craziness, which ought to keep me for a while.
And I've seen the discomfiture of a Cantonese gentleman who realizes that he is in the cross hairs, escape will take some twisting and turning.
Oh shit, she's aiming at me! And she's nuts!

Damned Northerners, why can't they keep the craziness at home?

By the time we left, he was sweating bullets.

I would've encouraged the Mandarin speaker, because I thoroughly enjoy theatre. But doing so would require me to speak Mandarin.
Heaven forefend that she then start talking to me.
The last time that happened, I spent half an hour telling her to stop crying and pull herself together. No, I do not want to see "more".
She snottered into my shoulder, and I had to wash the jacket.
I am so glad that she doesn't remember me.
All of us white dudes look alike.

Unlike the bald Cantonese bartender over there.

He looks positively green.




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