- Things that are in my living room that weren’t before: Chinese newspapers. Money magazine. Golf magazine. Chinese money golf magazine. A stack of tissues and paper towels and napkins, because my dad has allergies. A LOT of yogurt.
- When I turned on my flat-screen television it wasn’t Conan O’Brien or G4TV or The Food Network or Logo, but a variety show on CCTV, where they are showing off seven year old salsa dancers. Seven year old salsa dancers from the Peoples Republic of China – just imagine those Chinese ice skaters you see at the Winter Olympics, except with more hip action. I briefly envision little girls from the countryside being sent to “Salsa Camp,” a giant industrial warehouse where a mural of Chairman Mao watches over them trying to gyrate to the music.
- My father taped a photo of my prom date from 11th grade, Christine Kamphaus, on my bathroom mirror. Presumably he did this so I would wake up one morning, brush my teeth, glance at her photo holding a bunch of balloons and become heterosexual. I would take the time to tell him that she’s married and has three kids, but then he would just curse me under his breath and mutter why those tiny white children weren’t part of his genetic make-up.
As I typed this, one of the palm fronds on the potted plant that my dad never watered fell over. Kind of weirdly appropriate.- This place doesn’t feel like home anymore.