One of the best things about living in Taipei, at least if you’re horny AND literate, is the presence of Eslite Books, which recently opened its second 24-hour branch. Like the first branch, the second is very near popular discos and clubs; both bookstores are packed until dawn with sexy party people. It’s always a pleasure to leave Luxy or Room 18 at 3 am with bleeding eardrums, and then wander over to Eslite to pick up, if not a phone number, then at least the Economist.

But at what price our pleasure? Eslite received some terrible publicity yesterday when their sales manager hung himself on Yangminshan, leaving behind a suicide note that cited too much pressure at work.

The smaller Hess Bookstore chain, however, scored twice in the same news article. First, Hess was mentioned favorably as the deceased’s previous, less-stressful employer. A few lines later, it was revealed that the deceased’s old boss at Hess had immediately visited the bereaved family to offer his condolences—but no one from Eslite had yet done so.

Let us hope that suicides do not become a regular Friday feature here at Badhummus.

Amen.

The American Heart Journal reports that prayer does nothing, and might even be bad for you, at least if you end up on the business end of it.

“Intercessory prayer itself had no effect on complication-free recovery from CABG [coronary artery bypass graft], but certainty of receiving intercessory prayer was associated with a higher incidence of complications.”

Bob Barth of Silent Unity kept his equanimity in the NY Times.

"A person of faith would say that this study is interesting," Mr. Barth said, "but we've been praying a long time and we've seen prayer work, we know it works, and the research on prayer and spirituality is just getting started."

Well, gosh, Bob. If we know it works, there’s not much point in more research, is there?

Far from giving aid and comfort to atheists, this study might actually swell the ranks of the religious. I, for one, have a special prayer—my first in years—ready for the next person who leaves a sex-hotline sticker on my scooter. If only I can figure out how to let him know…

Call Nini for a good time.

I was only in the convenience store long enough to buy a pack of M&Ms, but that’s all the time someone needed to put a sticker on the seat of my scooter and the others parked nearby and disappear into the darkness.

Years ago, I was puzzled by these stickers that would magically appear on whole neighborhoods worth of scooters. Usually they consisted of only a phone number. I should have known, but one night, my curiosity got the better of me, and I dialed the phone number. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Hi. Can I ask, what kind of service is this?
Sultry female voice: Whatever kind of service you want.

Now I’m driven to murderous annoyance by them, as I’m annoyed by all the stickers and flyers that are left on my scooter and stuffed in my mailbox. Park somewhere for a weekend, and my mighty machine turns into a community bulletin board advertising dirty talk, pachinko parlors, real estate opportunities, lunchbox stands, Japanese pornography, cram schools, pirated CDs, and yoga classes.

I have nothing against any of those enterprises (except for maybe the cram schools). I just resent the moral quandary that direct marketing imposes on me: if I take unwanted crap left on my bike, crumple it up, drop it on the ground, and get on with my day, am I guilty of littering? Probably, but with Taipei’s rather strict regulations, it’s not a simple matter of dropping it in the trash; I have to recycle it properly, which doesn’t seem like much until you take into account the sheer volume.

So that’s why I cussed up a blue streak upon discovering the sticker last night. “Everyone has to do a job,” said my friend. True enough, but when the essence of the job is to be unpleasant—as is the case with sportscasters, televangelists, or terrorists—how much patience and understanding are they really entitled to?

Or perhaps I’m wrong. I leave it to you, dear reader.

Rita the bartender plops a paper coaster in front of me and sets my martini on it. As I take a sip, I notice that a strip of paper has been taped to the coaster: “Please don’t drink alcohol if you’re not an adult.” Looking around the bar, I see that all the coasters have the same message taped to them.

“Did you put these on yourself?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“The government made us.”

“You can’t be serious.”

She gives me a cold, exasperated look. She’s serious.

Well, at least they didn't float a warning in every glass.

We know you have sand, Illinois!

Culturally insensitive mascot Chief Illiniwek made a surprise appearance on the streets of Taipei Saturday morning. The chief’s noble visage was emblazoned on the back of an orange-and-navy jacket worn by a betel nut aficionado, seen here preparing to spit. Oskee wow-wow!

“Doubts cast on suicide strategy,” the Taipei Times reports today. Is the government finally taking action against sloppy, inefficient, and bungled suicides? No, it turns out that legislators are criticizing the Department of Health for doing too little to reduce Taiwan’s suicide rate. Over 4000 people did themselves in last year—far more than in the happy Philippines or Thailand, the Land of Smiles, but still fewer than South Korea, Singapore, Hong Kong, or blue-balled China. And no one in Asia comes close to Japan, where Internet suicide pacts are the rage.

The Department of Health will devote themselves assiduously to the problem, but they are too late to save the Taitung man who hung himself yesterday after police accused him of murdering his Vietnamese wife by train derailment. Now I understand why my friend was reluctant to let me ride the train to Shulin last weekend—she was afraid of copycat killers.

I suppose I’m lucky to be alive, but it’s all just a roll of the dice, isn’t it? As my dear aunt would say, “What’s for you won’t go by you.”

After two margaritas, I felt sufficiently braced for disappointment, but V怪客 turned out to be a four margarita movie--best enjoyed semiconscious. Perhaps it was unwise to have reread the comic last week; as the movie unspooled, I checked off each departure from the source material. None was an improvement. The choice to replace the Elizabethan hat that V wore in the comic with a Zorro hat was an early misstep--it served as a constant reminder of how much I'd have rather watched The Mask of Zorro again.

The emotional center of both comic and film comes while Evey is in prison. She discovers a letter written by another prisoner, one who had been arrested, tortured, and killed for being homosexual. The movie here was extremely faithful to the comic--camera angles and editing followed the original closely. And yet, what was a devastating 16 pages became on screen only mildly affecting.

The movie, which was rated R in the US, has been released on the mainland already as V字特工队 (Secret Service Team V). This is a bit of a surprise. The movie may be toothless, but it’s still about a totalitarian regime that, among other offenses, persecutes homosexuals and controls the media. The movie’s tagline is “People should not be afraid of their governments. Governments should be afraid of their people.” The climax features some rather Tiananmen-esque imagery. I guess things are loosening up over there.

Or maybe not. Ang Lee may be "the pride of Chinese people all over the world, and he is the glory of Chinese cinematic talent," but Brokeback Mountain still isn’t suitable for public consumption: “The film is rated R for ‘restricted’ in the United States, which means that children under 17 are not admitted unless accompanied by parents or adult guardian. As the mainland has not adopted a movie rating system, the film could not possibly be approved by the film censors.” Oh.

But I'm not there; I'm here, on the permissive renegade province, where public decency is really going to hell. Outside the theater, I stopped to look at a poster for something called Date Movie. A condom has been worked into its Chinese title. Is this a first?

Why does Taipei have a comic book shop? Not a manga shop, of which there are gazillions, but an American-style hole-in-the-wall comic shop? Dunno, but there it is in an alley off Xinyi Road: Banana Comics, purveyor of imported American comics to…to who? Taipei is filled with shops that make you wonder how they stay in business, but Banana takes the prize. I’ve never seen another customer inside.

But it’s just the antidote for a mind-numbing, writer's-blocked day at the office. I rocketed over to Banana after work and dug through the box of new arrivals. Alas, All-Star Superman #2 was sold out, so I settled for All-Star Batman and Robin the Boy Wonder #3—which turned out to be one of the worst pieces of crap I’ve ever read. It was written by Frank Miller, who wrote and drew The Dark Knight Returns, one of the only things that made my high school years bearable. Frank’s heart doesn’t seem to be in it anymore.


Fortunately, sushi never lets you down. It nourishes the body and restores the soul: tea warms your stomach, wasabi dilates your sinuses, and the body is suffused in the contentment and sense of well-being that several plates of raw fish bring.

I like to practice a little autosuggestion after sushi. The method is simple: Sit upright on your stool at the sushi counter. Breathe deeply and regularly through the nose. Watch the plates pass before your eyes on the conveyor belt. You are detached; you have eaten; you are not hungry. Gradually relax your body, beginning with your eyes and working slowly down to your toes. Silently repeat your suggestion three times, once with each breath. (Mine was “In the morning I will be bursting with fun and interesting ideas.”) Then, beginning at 99, use the passing sushi plates to count backwards to zero.

In the morning, I was bursting with fun and interesting ideas. Unfortunately, none had anything to do with my new book, so the day was as mind-numbing as the day before.


But now the weekend is here. The stairwell of my apartment building is filled with cigarette smoke, from the neighbors who are already 12 hours into their weekly mah jong marathon. They won’t stop until Monday morning.

For my own relaxation, I hope to find time to see V怪客 (Stranger V), which opened last night. The comic it’s based on has always been a favorite; I re-read it last night for the first time in years and still enjoyed it. The movie is getting crummy reviews, so I’m braced for disappointment.

Happy White Day!

Is the way to a man’s heart through his stomach?

I picked her up and brought her across Taipei to my apartment. I put on some music as she unpacked the pots and pans she had brought over (I don’t have any, you see, although for some reason I do have a strainer). I set the table as she worked out how to turn on my stove. I had picked up a bottle of wine, which I opened as she waited for the water to boil.

And then I watched in polite, silent amazement as she somehow managed to light the pasta on fire even though it was deep in boiling water.

Life has been good lately.

I navigated with aplomb the unholy trifecta of Christmas-New Year’s-Valentine’s Day. There are months yet to go until Chinese Valentine’s Day—the seventh day of the seventh month of the lunar calendar (July 31 this year, in case you’re interested). For weeks now, my existence has been untroubled by holidays. Restaurant reservations are easy to obtain. My pockets are thick with extra discretionary cash.

So you can imagine my shock Sunday at dinner when Current Interest casually announced, “It’s Valentine’s Day on Tuesday.”

I nearly choked on a forkful of salad. “Shit!” I said. “There’s three Valentine’s Days?”

Where had the third come from? And, more urgently, what was I obligated to buy?

My mind began to chew on the problem: I had to work Monday from 9 to 9. After that the only non-convenience stores open were in the night market. Nothing good could come of a night market Valentine’s Day gift. Nor from 7-11 chocolate.

But she explained that March 14 is White Day, a Japanese Valentine’s Day, when women reciprocate the affection they received the previous month. She wondered if she might cook me dinner in my apartment on Tuesday night. In other words, I was out of danger.

In a moment of boredom this afternoon, I looked up White Day and discovered that she has the whole thing backwards. Valentine’s Day is the day, according to the first and only source I could be bothered to read, that Japanese women summon up the courage to declare themselves to the objects of their admiration. A month later, their men demonstrate passionate and undying ardor in the usual way: flowers and candy.

This information comes far too late. I’ve already tidied my apartment, and she apparently spent a few hours yesterday practicing how to boil spaghetti. The event will go on as planned.