06-27-2013, 07:04 AM
Before embarking on this banquet account, let me tidy up a few loose ends. First, the two top Beijing VIPs who handed us our awards onstage were Madam Chancellor and the Minister of Propaganda. Two other Beijing notables were Michael, the poor sod saddled with making this all come off without a hitch (and he did a great job), and Mr. Vise-Grip. I call him that because of the handshake we engaged in at the end of the awards ceremony. As for the large checks, they are not cashable, and we have yet (6/27/2013) to receive real checks, though they're rumored to be in the works. As for our scrolls, those were confiscated from us in the lobby after the ceremony, as they hadn't been signed yet (we got them back a week later on the morning of our departures).
To resume, we get in the bus and go somewhere for the banquet. As mentioned before, I don't recall the name of the establishment, and have only this vague night-shot outside.
We go upstairs and into a spacious room with a view. Before much of anything begins, we have late arrivals. Three people with flight delays who missed the awards ceremony now join us. The decision is made to give them their awards now. Here are photos (apologies for the blur) of Cody receiving the check from the Minister of Propaganda and the scroll from Madam Chancellor.
Once that is out of the way, we go about seating ourselves. There are three large round tables, and each place setting bears a nametag. A pattern soon emerges. Two tables are reserved for the short film winners and various competition facilitators. The third table holds the power. It has all the Beijing VIPs, including Madam Chancellor and the Minister of Propaganda, and the Harvard sponsors and judges. The five feature-length winners are to sit in alternating fashion among them at that table. I'm looking about for my nametag, beginning to sense the worst, and that's when Michael calls to me, "Cranefly, you're over there." Sure enough, I've been misspelled between those twin pillars of power, Madam Chancellor and the Minister of Propaganda. Is this just dumb luck? A Confucian bow to my age? Or is my proposal privately viewed as the hot ticket?
I sit down between Madam Chancellor and the Minister of Propaganda, nodding to each, and I'm up for it, really, I can do this, but Michael seems to be reconsidering. Finally he calls to me and asks if I would switch over to another spot, next to Joshua -- which I do. Michael seems to think I'm a loose cannon, which I'm not. I'm more like a poorly manufactured hand grenade.
There's a bit more speech-making and impromptu filming (Michael with camera), and then the 30-course banquet gets underway. But even then our eating is interrupted as the figureheads come about to do maotai toasts with each winner and a few facilitators. Joshua doesn't drink and seems embarrassed to have to decline -- and to do so repeatedly -- but to his credit he holds to his principles. Spence tries sipping a shot, but doesn't get very far. Me, I down mine in one gulp, because this is what I do, it's what I'm good at, and Mr. Vise-Grip across the table catches my eye, nodding approval that I did it right. Still, I know the danger and murmur, "One," to Joshua, explaining the importance of keeping count of these little bastards. Each toast is accompanied by a business card exchange, only I left mine in the hotel room, so it's a bit awkward taking theirs but not having one to give in return. Then again, mine are lame "technical writer" cards, so just as well. I do four toasts in this way, with Michael, Mr. Vise-Grip, the Minister of Propaganda and Madam Chancellor.
A further word needs to be said about Madam Chancellor, because she is a force to be reckoned with. She's one of those Chinese women who has black hair. She keeps it coiffed short, a dark cloud around her scheming head. In a way, she is the epitome of Beijing. There's something of the snake about her, which isn't meant to be negative, because I like snakes, especially black mambas. The resemblance is not so much in her appearance as in her behavior. When she knocks back a shot -- and she does so frequently and without apparent effect -- she follows it with a hiss, and then venom shoots out her nostrils. It's not a sight for the faint of heart. There's no telling what she's capable of, and I'm compelled to forever keep an eye on her, never letting her slip from my sight. At one point she comes over and whispers to me, and I'm convinced she's asking permission to test my iron crotch. Greg would know how to handle the situation, but I'm not Greg. I turn to the translator girl, intending to tell her to tell Madam Chancellor that I don't practice iron crotch, but at the last instant realize it's an entirely inappropriate subject to broach to someone who looks fifteen. Fortunately, I must be mistaken, because Madam Chancellor hisses, shoots venom, and moves on.
I end up doing 7 maotais, as well as a couple glasses of wine. One would think I'd feel it, but all I get is a bit of a buzz. Maybe it's all the food, plus the adrenalin. It's been a tense day for me, all in all -- a bit more eventful than those two-and-a-half years I spent living in the wilderness.
As the banquet gets long in the tooth, one senses that Madam Chancellor is getting stir-crazy. She's got this hungry look about her, not for sex, mind you, but for sadistic mayhem. She's old school, I feel it. She wants to liven this banquet up with a few choice beheadings. To avoid becoming one of them, I try ever harder to keep my distance from her. Finally we wrap things up, and we're in a conga line of handshakes, and I'm on autopilot by now, exhausted and looking forward to some time alone in my hotel room. Suddenly I feel the squeeze. It's Mr. Vise-Grip. So we meet again. And now, inexplicably, my hand-grenade self rises to the surface. I squeeze back, and not just a little. It's crazy. Suddenly I'm in this contest with him. I squeeze harder and harder, thinking all the while, What the fuck? What the fuck! Because this is totally inappropriate. Being a guest here, I shouldn't be challenging one of the hosts. Yet somehow I can't relent -- not until I hear a loud hiss. Madam Chancellor looms near, glaring at me. Venom shoots from her flared nostrils, just missing my clenched hand. And that's enough to put the pin back in my hand-grenade self and allow me to relent, and soon we are exiting the banquet just shy of a beheading.
To resume, we get in the bus and go somewhere for the banquet. As mentioned before, I don't recall the name of the establishment, and have only this vague night-shot outside.
We go upstairs and into a spacious room with a view. Before much of anything begins, we have late arrivals. Three people with flight delays who missed the awards ceremony now join us. The decision is made to give them their awards now. Here are photos (apologies for the blur) of Cody receiving the check from the Minister of Propaganda and the scroll from Madam Chancellor.
Once that is out of the way, we go about seating ourselves. There are three large round tables, and each place setting bears a nametag. A pattern soon emerges. Two tables are reserved for the short film winners and various competition facilitators. The third table holds the power. It has all the Beijing VIPs, including Madam Chancellor and the Minister of Propaganda, and the Harvard sponsors and judges. The five feature-length winners are to sit in alternating fashion among them at that table. I'm looking about for my nametag, beginning to sense the worst, and that's when Michael calls to me, "Cranefly, you're over there." Sure enough, I've been misspelled between those twin pillars of power, Madam Chancellor and the Minister of Propaganda. Is this just dumb luck? A Confucian bow to my age? Or is my proposal privately viewed as the hot ticket?
I sit down between Madam Chancellor and the Minister of Propaganda, nodding to each, and I'm up for it, really, I can do this, but Michael seems to be reconsidering. Finally he calls to me and asks if I would switch over to another spot, next to Joshua -- which I do. Michael seems to think I'm a loose cannon, which I'm not. I'm more like a poorly manufactured hand grenade.
There's a bit more speech-making and impromptu filming (Michael with camera), and then the 30-course banquet gets underway. But even then our eating is interrupted as the figureheads come about to do maotai toasts with each winner and a few facilitators. Joshua doesn't drink and seems embarrassed to have to decline -- and to do so repeatedly -- but to his credit he holds to his principles. Spence tries sipping a shot, but doesn't get very far. Me, I down mine in one gulp, because this is what I do, it's what I'm good at, and Mr. Vise-Grip across the table catches my eye, nodding approval that I did it right. Still, I know the danger and murmur, "One," to Joshua, explaining the importance of keeping count of these little bastards. Each toast is accompanied by a business card exchange, only I left mine in the hotel room, so it's a bit awkward taking theirs but not having one to give in return. Then again, mine are lame "technical writer" cards, so just as well. I do four toasts in this way, with Michael, Mr. Vise-Grip, the Minister of Propaganda and Madam Chancellor.
A further word needs to be said about Madam Chancellor, because she is a force to be reckoned with. She's one of those Chinese women who has black hair. She keeps it coiffed short, a dark cloud around her scheming head. In a way, she is the epitome of Beijing. There's something of the snake about her, which isn't meant to be negative, because I like snakes, especially black mambas. The resemblance is not so much in her appearance as in her behavior. When she knocks back a shot -- and she does so frequently and without apparent effect -- she follows it with a hiss, and then venom shoots out her nostrils. It's not a sight for the faint of heart. There's no telling what she's capable of, and I'm compelled to forever keep an eye on her, never letting her slip from my sight. At one point she comes over and whispers to me, and I'm convinced she's asking permission to test my iron crotch. Greg would know how to handle the situation, but I'm not Greg. I turn to the translator girl, intending to tell her to tell Madam Chancellor that I don't practice iron crotch, but at the last instant realize it's an entirely inappropriate subject to broach to someone who looks fifteen. Fortunately, I must be mistaken, because Madam Chancellor hisses, shoots venom, and moves on.
I end up doing 7 maotais, as well as a couple glasses of wine. One would think I'd feel it, but all I get is a bit of a buzz. Maybe it's all the food, plus the adrenalin. It's been a tense day for me, all in all -- a bit more eventful than those two-and-a-half years I spent living in the wilderness.
As the banquet gets long in the tooth, one senses that Madam Chancellor is getting stir-crazy. She's got this hungry look about her, not for sex, mind you, but for sadistic mayhem. She's old school, I feel it. She wants to liven this banquet up with a few choice beheadings. To avoid becoming one of them, I try ever harder to keep my distance from her. Finally we wrap things up, and we're in a conga line of handshakes, and I'm on autopilot by now, exhausted and looking forward to some time alone in my hotel room. Suddenly I feel the squeeze. It's Mr. Vise-Grip. So we meet again. And now, inexplicably, my hand-grenade self rises to the surface. I squeeze back, and not just a little. It's crazy. Suddenly I'm in this contest with him. I squeeze harder and harder, thinking all the while, What the fuck? What the fuck! Because this is totally inappropriate. Being a guest here, I shouldn't be challenging one of the hosts. Yet somehow I can't relent -- not until I hear a loud hiss. Madam Chancellor looms near, glaring at me. Venom shoots from her flared nostrils, just missing my clenched hand. And that's enough to put the pin back in my hand-grenade self and allow me to relent, and soon we are exiting the banquet just shy of a beheading.