Trotting around on a fine Monday morning jog. Santana’s “Persuasion” had me pushing harder
around the first loop so I turned it up.
My headphones started to sputter.
The double A battery, which I’d put in only two days prior, must but be
fading. Ripping the set off my head, assumption
confirmed, the little green light was flickering.
The last Bose headset I had, was similarly pricey but came
with a rechargeable battery, which you’d think was slick, as it was green and
renewable. But it wasn't. If you’re on the road without their
proprietary charger, you were screwed.
More galling, the fully charged battery ceased to effectively connect
with the strips it was supposed to adhere to and within five month’s of
purchase, it became useless. (Yeah, yeah,
I know I could fill out the card, find the receipt and the box and register on
line and drive across town and throw a fit in Chinese and probably get another
one.)
After swearing repeatedly that I’d never purchase another
Bose product, I went to the Apple Store and secured the Bose Quiet Comfort 15
with disposable batteries that seemed smart at the time. I’m swearing again. After my run, and the insertion of a new
Double A, I commenced with uninterrupted listening. Doing the dishes, air guitaring with Captain Sensible’s
lead on “Anti Pope” from ‘Machine Gun Etiquette’, I turned mid-windmill and
the chord was yanked out of the headset.
It had been looped on a drawer knob.
It’s detachable, which is better than it getting stuck and severing. Fiddle it back in, clean another plate, turn
for a platter and, again, chord’s out on another knob. Swearing literally now,
I vowed to get a Bluetooth headset next time.
But does my iPod have such connectivity?
And you can’t Bluetooth the damn battery charge in. Not yet, anyway.
Part of the problem is that these noise reduction headsets
are so effective, and the world is so thoroughly kept at bay, that disruptions
are significantly more annoying. I don’t
want any more things I have to charge.
I probably shouldn’t have been out there running in the
first place. Dust is in ascendency over
brine and things are somber around Beijing.
I woke to a message yesterday from the U.S. Embassy here in town, telling
me not to breathe. Apparently the Air
Quality Index (AQI) ratings spiked ominously. A mere 200 is considered “very dangerous.”
A 300 rating, meanwhile is “Hazardous”,
presumably for anything with a lung. We
were up at 400, which can only be bordering on lethal.
I like to humor myself that we are 20 kilometers from
downtown and so it’s necessarily better out here. But I’ve driven all the way to my wife’s home
in Shandong, three hours from here on the expressway and, drum roll please, the
Yellow River plain is enshrouded with yellow air all the way out. Northern China has terrible, dusty yellow
air, that’s part pollution and part Gobi Desert. I recall when my mother in law spent a year
with us in San Francisco. She might have
marveled at many things, but she was primarily gobsmacked by the fresh air.
The folks at the State Department had a list of things to
avoid like smoking, burning candles, strenuous activity, (jogging, idiot) and
presumably gut laughing. Unfortunately I’d
already opened the following link from my sister, which had me audibly gasping
for air.
Did you check it out?
Which one got you? The missing
pigeon? Stolen Bassoon? Come on.
There must be a good Chinese version of
“amazing street posters” that someone could translate and post for the
rest of the world. Please post the link
below if you know of one. I’ve seen
postings for all sorts of things, from accounting courses, to cures for
premature ejaculation. For those of you
who don’t live here, one of the most ubiquitous forms of graffiti in China is
for workmen to spray paint their mobile phone number suggesting a service
available. China has no dearth of
tricksters. Let’s get some photos of
salacious messages written above unsuspecting cell phones. “What? I don’t even know what “transgender”
means. I install air conditioners!”
Today is beautiful.
The readings are back down to the “Unhealthy for Sensitive Groups”
range. Cool. My daughters wanted to go out and play
basketball, which we did. I suck. What’s worse I’m rather tall, and suck. People who aren’t tall seem to find this
rather puzzling. How can you be tall,
and suck? Mercifully my daughters aren’t
aware of all this yet. I dusted off my
lay up, and my dribbling with both hands.
Sunk a few free throws. It
occurred to me that basically any American could probably communicate the
rudiments of basketball to the next generation.
Just as any Chinese parent, even one who sucks at ping pong, can
probably teach their kid the cool way to hold the paddle and serve that always
seems to baffle Americans.
My young one’s throws maxed out about four feet below the
net. I didn’t think she had the
necessary umph required. But she
persevered and by the time we were ready to go, she sunk one. She was so happy and it was lovely to
see. Her mom told her 孰能生巧[1], which
I hadn’t heard, but jotted down so I could share with you all. I’m beginning to feel a bit like that about
this daily writing regimen.
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