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Yellow is the color of

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  • Jad
    This past spring, I wrote about the colors of clothes and now, here s my latest guess on their meaning: blue = slow green = moderate red = fast
    Message 1 of 1 , Aug 1, 2005
      This past spring, I wrote about the colors of clothes and now,
      here's my latest guess on their meaning:

      blue = slow
      green = moderate
      red = fast
      pink = do i have to spell it out for you?
      hot pink = you get the picture

      Back in May, for about a week or two, the color blue disappeared.
      Everybody wore red as if spurring on the winds of time, faster,
      faster, faster. Red shoes. Red pants. Red shirts. White, beige, and
      other complements, of course, but Chinese guys were wearing these
      hard red, then later, soft pink shirts while girls wore everything
      over nothing, hot pink, soft pink, blue with pink, green with pink,
      purple, white, black, and many, many shades of brown laced with pink.

      Then, responding to the red clothes on the men and women of
      Shenyang, the winds spurred and perhaps from a fear similar to the
      first drop on a roller coaster, Chinese women began wearing blue

      Whoa, nellie. I was a little upset, thinking blue to be a man's
      color and red a woman's color, but a few days ago, on a crowded bus,
      a Chinese woman in a beautiful blue see-thru dress leaned into my
      body, made her case as the bus bumped us along the road, and I
      acceded that blue was a woman's color.

      But not everything is about colors.

      Tonight, I ate dinner at a meat-on-a-stick restaurant. You can get
      beef, pig, lamb, liver, eyes, feet, or whatever else your heart
      desires on-a-stick. I typically order 10 sticks of beef, 10 sticks
      of lamb, one eye of cow, and one random stick of something different
      to try something new, and a bottle of beer, total $1.75.

      The view in front of me, priceless.

      In front of me, outside, at the next table, sat two Chinese guys and
      a girl. I know there's no point in professing innocence, so I will
      not, but merely describe the dance in which I partook.

      I read my book, a compilation of short stories by Mark Twain, a
      difficult task as I was sitting in the dark, but by putting the book
      on my lap, I used the spotlights eliminating the visage of darkness
      for about ten tables full of Chinese friends and family.

      The triplet at the table in front of me appeared to be a couplet
      with a spare wheel, a tubby guy sitting at 3 o'clock, who may have
      gotten lucky tonight as he appeared braver than his friend, the
      boyfriend, who sat at 6 o'clock, back to me.

      Cindy, the name I made up for this Chinese girl, eyed me at the
      start of my meal. My heart did not skip a beat, but did foreshadow
      that a beat would HAVE to be skipped.

      I read Twain - which for those of you who haven't read his short
      stories, I highly recommend it, the man is quite the genius at
      getting your attention, for a short period of time - and laughed.
      Not as hard, mind you, as the evening before when I read "Political
      Story," in part because "A True Story" wasn't as funny, but also
      because, well, Cindy was sitting at the table in front of me, at 9

      When I wasn't reading, I was in the fortunate position of not
      looking at Cindy but seeing when she turned looked at me. She did
      this one too many times (three) and the boyfriend turned. Not all
      the way, mind you, but enough past Cindy to acknowledge, fuck, I'm

      He couldn't fight me because his back was to me and he didn't have
      any idea how many times I had looked at his girlfriend and had he
      had known, he'd have been shocked at how few times it had occurred
      (once) thereby destroying any moral authority he intended to
      requisition for a fight. And he couldn't fight his friend cuz, well,
      the friend hadn't done anything, yet. And he couldn't fight his
      girlfriend cuz, well, she did these weird dances.

      Wait. Slow down. In order to understand these weird dances, you
      gotta understand some context about the Chinese. I'm going to use a
      metaphor a friend told me that comes from Indian folklore, the city
      mouse and country mouse. We have the same imagery in America, the
      country bumpkin and city slicker, but I like mice, especially the
      imagery of Chinese city mice founding a civilization that, for the
      last 400 years, western country mice have ruled.

      The Chinese are, at times, quite proud of their civility looking
      down at lao wai mice, westerners, as savages who can be easily
      bested at their national sports, ping pong and badmitton. Chinese
      paintings, calligraphy, music and most aspects of Chinese culture
      (even their art of fighting) are all designed to highlight the
      equisiteness of beauty, of refinement, of lightness.

      But then the heavy hand of human passion flashes through the body of
      a female Chinese mouse and the surrounding male Chinese city mice
      are utterly flabbergasted at how to respond to what becomes
      acceptable and ignorable behavior. They freeze. Which is what I did,
      too, along with the boyfriend, the friend, and any other patron or
      staff who happened to catch Cindy's dance.

      It only lasted six seconds, if that, but it was quite primal, by
      which I mean that her behavior existed in the netherland between the
      boundaries of that which is acceptable and ignored and that which is
      aberrant and worthy of comment, a question, a look, perhaps, if
      necessary, or perhaps, if possible, because primal behavior throws
      you off guard and says, hey, by rolling my head, slowly, and
      throwing my arms in the air, casually, but quickly, I can signal to
      everybody watching that I'm going to do whatever the fuck I want.
      Because it's normal.

      Therefore, as I stated, everybody watching took note of Cindy's
      acceptable behavior and, as the only civilized response, cleverly
      ignored it.

      April, another Chinese girl, appeared out of the blue, wearing a
      white sunday dress tinged with blue, behind me, on my left. Her
      boyfriend, too, tried vainly, too, to do something, too, but the
      focus swelling up between the other two, April and Cindy, tore apart
      when Big Bob, a big, young Chinese teenager, not yet 2 and 20 years,
      came out of the restaurant, walking in to April's path.

      Pity, I thought, as April and her boyfriend fluttered away. I had
      rather looked forward to a fight. I glanced to the right at
      Samantha, another Chinese woman, her back to me, her boyfriend, his
      face to me.

      I'm compressing maybe 20 minutes of eating beef-on-a-stick, lamb-on-
      a-stick, eye-of-cow-on-a-stick, something random-on-a-stick,
      drinking beer, and reading Twain, when Samantha turned her body
      round and glanced at Cindy.

      Cindy danced her primal dance, again.

      This time, either all the patrons and staff were watching, or they
      could feel, Cindy shake her head, rile her hair with her hands,
      throw her hands up in the air, quickly, uncasually, savagely, and
      attracting as much attention as possible, bringing them down, and
      uncurling one hand to point her forefinger at Samantha, who,
      frightened, shook her head, violently, and in case that wasn't clear
      enough, shook her right hand, violently, palm up, as if to say, no,
      as clearly, decisively, and non-violently as possible.

      And in case THAT wasn't clear enough, Samantha and her boyfriend
      jumped up and left.

      I've never seen anything like it. When Cindy pointed her finger at
      Samantha, everyone (in my view, save for Cindy and Samantha), froze
      and it felt as if the center of attention, the center of the
      universe for every human mouse within 10 meters of these two Chinese
      women, slowly, methodically, definitively, and finitely, shifted, in
      one heartbeat, unskipped, from Cindy to Samantha.

      And since Samantha gave up the fight, it shifted, back, to Cindy.

      I waited a few heartbeats, not skipping, just savoring the
      impressiveness of Cindy's victory, before I finished off a half cup
      of beer, a salute to a fighter. Whereas black is the color of a
      fighter before battle, other colors must be used to celebrate, such
      as yellow, the bright shirt the boyfriend was wearing before
      surrendering it to Cindy, who heretofore had been entirely attired
      in black.

      Cindy put on the yellow shirt. I looked up and thought, ok, granted,
      it's a little chilly after the rain earlier today, but, um, it's the
      end of July and, frankly, who the hell could possibly be cold after
      fighting a battle like that?

      Cindy answered me by removing whatever black shirt or blouse she had
      been wearing, sitting straight up, pulling the yellow jersey down,
      tight against her body, and, in silouette, she offered me a glimpse
      of the breasts, and nipples, of a warrior goddess, and, if you asked
      me, yellow is the color of what, I can honestly say, my heart just
      skipped a beat.
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