Dan in La Crosse

English in the Dark

It's a beautiful spring day today, and I saw no reason to spend any second of it inside, so all my classes convened on the campus' abundant expanses of green green grass, in all its softness and warmness.

My daytime classes were quite ordinary. The students are giving their final speeches, six per 90-minute period. Each student chooses one question from a list of 44, about topics ranging from whether they like dogs or cats to one thing they'd like to change about the government, gives a 1-5 minute speech, then answers classmates' questions. It's actually quite a useful model. The speeches inevitably lead to conversations, and students talk freely with each other, with little intervention by me, without realizing they're yakking in English.

My students gave speeches about their hometown, their families, their pets and, in the day's highlight, Yao Ming. What followed the Yao Ming speech was a spirited debate about whether or not he's handsome. Half the girls think he's a stud; half think he's a dog. The most important criteria -- being very "high" -- Yao meets. The others, such as shape of nose, slant of eyes, fullness of eyebrows and whiteness of skin, the debate rages on.

For my night class, which is comprised of non-English majors, we went to the far reaches of campus for an activity I called "English in the Dark." It's modeled after an activity Chris Borgmeier started at St. John's called "Sex in the Dark." Borgie's idea was to put together first-year Johnnies and Bennies, have each person submit a relationship/sex question for the opposite sex, turn out the lights and ask anonymous people the questions. Then, the person could answer in darkness, seemingly reducing the embarrassment he or she might feel in the light. A perfect model, I figured, for my painfully English-shy students.

I gave each student a sheet with the 44 conversation-starter questions, and split them into four groups, each group camped out on a patch of lawn. As luck would have it, we happened upon a part of campus where the university was burning its garbage in a ten-foot high bonfire. It smelled like summer camp, with Chinese characteristics.

Each group also got a lighter, which I named the English torch. One student would use the lighter to read a question off the list, and then hand the lighter to the next student, who would answer the question, then ask a different question for their neighbor. And around and around the circles the English torch -- and conversation -- would go.

Surprisingly, the English torches flickered out early, as the students recognized the concept as contrived and silly, and instead used their mobile phones for night vision. The English conversations, however, raged.

For almost two hours, I paced from group to group, without a word, listening in on whatever conversation was occurring. There was hardly a lull, and only the rare Chinese word spoken, and students actually telling each other, "Say that in English, please!" It was heaven.

I heard bits of conversation about students' admiration of Forrest Gump, their hatred of Zhuzhou City, their listing of "Braveheart" as their favorite movie because it's about a peasant uprising, their longing for simple village life, their desire to make China the strongest nation in the world. Everyone was talking, they weren't interrupting each other, laughter was frequent and raucous.

Inevitably, of course, "English in the Dark" morphed into "Sex in the Dark." One girl told the story of being busted three times in the past month, by the university police, for holding hands with her boyfriend. A boy told the story of being friends with so many girls whom, he noted frustratingly, "all have the boyfriend! People think I have so many chances, but no. I have no chances!"

What grabbed my attention most, however, was a conversation between the same girl who's been busted three times for hand-holding and a boy who's obviously, transparently homosexual, but of course must remain locked in a closet that couldn't be opened with a crowbar. The boy is a biotechnology major, quite brilliant and excellent in English. In one way, his outspokenness is his worst enemy, because he speaks, constantly, in a very high voice and with a lilt that IDs him quite conclusively.

"Do you have a boyfriend, I mean a girlfriend," the handholder asked the boy. Long awkward pause. "I mean, you're such a handsome boy, but I never see you around many girls. Why not?" Nervous, timid laughter from the boy. Long awkward pause. Laughter from the rest of the group.

"You know, I'm such an independence boy," he said in faltering voice. "I don't want the girl to limit my independence." "Plus," he added meekly, "I must study hard, and girlfriend will distract my study." It was sad to hear him, ordinarily so cool and confident, visibly shaken.

Fortunately, someone changed the subject soon, and the issue died. In one way, it was a triumph because it was pretty honest dialogue, and it seemed as if the girl asked not out of any malice, but with genuine curiosity and with an open mind.

Still, though, the implication was clear, however honest her intentions. It was too frank, the kind of conversation that just can't happen yet in this society, the kind that can lose a person enough face to damage him irreparably. The boy student will be fine, as he's got skin a foot thick and a way of shaking things off, but the conversation reminded me the world of difference between my world and theirs, where holding hands is a crime and revealing who you really are just can't happen for some people, even under the cover of darkness.

Fan Mail

Q. So you're going to be a willing accomplice in the evil practice of
outsourcing, eh? Doesn't surprise me. John Kerry berates big
corporations while married to the owner of a huge one, decries the Republicans' alleged pillaging of the environment as he drives a "family" SUV, and professes to being a Catholic while being as outspoken an advocate of abortion rights as anyone this side of Gloria Steinem.

But to the matter at hand. Actually, a number of cooler heads
(including Tom Friedman) have analyzed the outsourcing situation and concluded that America probably profits overall more from outsourcing than it loses. Specific jobs are lost, but enough others are gained to make it a winning situation for the beloved evil empire of the US of A.

Signed,
Reginald Harrumph, Republic of Irate

A. Pipe down, Reggie. When I read the daily tally of who damaged whom more on the campaign trail, and I read invective of this sort from an ordinarily constructive mind, I become envious of people in China. At least they don't have to endure elections.

Impressive as they are, Kerry's credentials as a hypocrite earn him only a chance at the top prize. The competition's stiff, and may the lesser hypocrite win.

Regarding outsourcing, I didn't really think of my rubbish recording in a rathole studio as a "yes" vote on the "do you approve of more lost American jobs" referendum. I just thought it was another great adventure. And, if anything, I saved some American jobs with my imcompetence.

Now that you mentioned it, though, I've thought a lot about what's implied. And I'd do it again, this time for free.

What's happening in Zhuzhou City and, presumably, in similar outposts throughout the Third World, is positively American, even though it may threaten American jobs. Governments, at both the national and local levels, are recognizing their strengths in this global economy, and are diligently, aggressively seeking to turn those strengths into economic opportunities. Their goal is the goal of good governments everywhere: the construction of a brighter, more hopeful future for their citizens. Contrast this model with that of the Osamans -- destruction of civilized society, a shared hopeless future for all -- and outsourcing plummets down the list of "problems" we face.

Further, it's cheap to take my curiosity on this issue -- whatever its merits -- and paint me into an ideological corner because of it. I enter neither waving red, white and blue pom-poms nor swinging a hammer and sickle with Chinese characteristics. Instead, I'm a global citizen -- and so are you, and so is everyone -- and I'm ravenously hungry to learn all I can about an issue vital to everyone's future. There are at least two sides of this story, and I happen to have the outrageous good fortune to live on the side that's rarely told.

I get to learn about the economic development plans for the next 50 years while reporters at home sift through memoranda from Aug. 2001 and medical records from Nam. Perhaps I'll learn that we have a lot to learn from the government of Zhuzhou City, that innovation and cooperation win, that hopeful eyes focused on the future beat cynical eyes trained on the past.

Round Two

I answered my mobile phone on Tuesday morning. The voice said: "Daniel, this is Ivan. Do you remember me?"

"Of course I remember you," I responded. "How could I forget?"

It had been a month since our first and only meeting, but the vision of him quickly returned -- his black leather jacket and turtleneck, his boyish cheeks turned rosy from too much wine, his bloodshot eyes, his glass raised toward me, intent to get me as drunk as he was.

Ivan explained that he works for the Zhuzhou City government, and he was wondering if I'd be able to record a propaganda [this word means, basically, "advertising," in Chinglish] message that they would provide to potential foreign investors.

This can only be a disaster, I thought, which led me to reply: "Yes, no problem. When can we meet?"

Half an hour later, I was sitting in McDonald's with Ivan. He bought me a Coke and explained the gig: I'd record a one-hour message, in English, about the Zhuzhou Hi-Tech Development Zone. Another waigoren had already recorded it, but he has "no passion," Ivan explained. "You must get the words perfect and have passion in your voice," he said. "Can you do it with passion?"

A quick look at the script left me no doubt: how could I be anything but passionate about the Zhuzhou New Times Technical Industrial Metallurgical Torch Supply Factory?

This script was all too familiar. The government had hired Mrs. Pi, my colleague in the English Department here, to translate it from Chinese to English. The previous Sunday, Mrs. Pi and I had worked most of the day, and into the night, translating from her Chinglish to my English. This task was endless, and next to impossible. The language was so highly technical, all about heavy industry and machinery, that I didn't even know most of the words in English, let alone Chinese. How to arrange them into coherence?

"Yes, of course I can speak with passion," I told Ivan. We then worked out the details: I would record the message at Zhuzhou's local TV station on Wednesday night, before I left for a trip to Guangzhou later that night.

"We have another matter to discuss, too," Ivan said. He said he had heard that I was interested in interviewing American business leaders in Zhuzhou. "I have discussed this with the city leaders, and they are very excited about it," Ivan said. "We can arrange the time, and I will sit with you as you interview our foreign friends."

Unbelievable. I had mentioned to Mrs. Pi that I would like to meet some American business leaders who have set up shop in the Zhuzhou Hi-Tech Development Zone, just as Ivan said I had. In the subsequent two days, word had spread from Mrs. Pi, a junior faculty member here, to the highest levels of the local government. And the government had issued instant approval, unheard of in China, and dispatched my nemesis to deliver their decision to me.

It was obvious they saw me as their propaganda tool. The city has been granted special status as a high-tech development zone, one of 50 or so in China, and is aggressively courting foreign manufacturing and technology companies. The deal is quite sweet: massive tax breaks for the first five years, modern, reliable infrastructure already in place, a mammoth low-wage workforce, fast transport routes -- by boat, train and truck -- to Shanghai and Hong Kong.

I am fascinated by this situation. I want to meet some of the people behind the foreign businesses here. What's it like, logistically, to move your manufacturing base to a little backwater town in China? What inspires such a move? How does the deal really work -- does the government uphold its end of the bargain? Do you still pay American taxes?

With all the noise in the States about outsourcing, and about the hemorrhaging of American manufacturing jobs abroad, wow, here I am. I'm abroad, in a puny little Chinese city that's doing everything to lure foreign companies -- and thus siphon jobs from America and other Western countries. The story is rarely told from this side of civilization, as there aren't exactly clusters of reporters in most Chinese backwaters. Ah, another advantage of life in Zhuzhou.

Wednesday night came, and Ivan picked me up at my university. As usual, he was dressed in black leather jacket and black shirt, which seems to be the uniform of Chinese yuppies. He was cordial, thanking me for taking the time to help him out, telling me that the city would benefit greatly from my service. He's in his early 30s, has an engineering degree, but is now leading the government's efforts to lure foreign investment here.

We arrived at the studio. Ivan first fetched me a cup of tea and then showed me the government's Flash presentation on a computer. The presentation is very impressive -- pointed, well animated, highly positive without being hyperbolic, thoroughly professional. The announcer's voice, however, was not. By his accent, I guess he's French-Canadian, and, as Ivan said, he suffers from serious passion-deficit disorder. I didn't think it was possible to make the topic sound even duller than it already is, but the guy succeeded in doing just that, his droll voice droning on, without a break in rhythm or pitch.

Watching the presentation made me wonder why I was there. Everything about the project struck me as impressively professional -- the package of benefits offered by the government and the Flash presentation to sell the package. If they had gone upscale on everything else, why would they hire me, an amateur schmuck, to be its voice? I guess it's because I'm one of the few non-Canadian native English speakers in this town. The talent pool isn't exactly deep.

Ivan led me to the recording studio. What a cave. On one side of the room was the TV news desk, shiny and modern, but the rest of the room was chaos. Broken equipment lay everywhere, the green walls were cracked and peeling paint, dust coated the tabletops, lights were busted. I had to shimmy between two obstacles and hurdle a chair just to get to the mike, which was located on a table in the back corner of the room.

"Okay, begin," Ivan said, as the sound guy started the tape. "But there's no light," I said. "How can I read the script with no light?"

Ivan said something in Chinese, raising his voice, and pretty soon four other tech guys appeared in the room, frenetic banter was passed in Chinese between them all and, finally, five minutes later, we had light. "Okay, begin," Ivan said as the sound guy started the tape.

I read the script straight through, for about twenty minutes, with no lapses. I had taught all day in Changsha, and hadn't yet had dinner, and knew that my stomach was about to start roaring, which would cause us to stop the tape and re-record, over and over. Hunger inspired me.

When I finished, we listened to the entire sphiel, which was agony. First, my voice was shot, after an entire day of teaching and being dehydrated, and turned raspy about three minutes into it. Second, my "passion" sounded even more phony than it actually was. I realized that the original guy had it right -- just the facts. My voice would crescendo at the end of sentences, as I read stirring lines about "fiber optic sensing devices, locomotive engine parts supply, and [drumroll please] industrial torch maintenance capabilities."

Worse, I'd pause before Chinese names, showing my unease with them, and deliver them many decibels higher than the words that came before and after them: "Zhuzhou is served by three national highways, two high-volume national rail lines, and easy water supply routes through the [long pause] XIANG JIANG [long pause] river."

Worse still, between every Chinese syllable there would be a pause, and you could see the message flash across my brain: rising tone, now falling tone, now even tone. It sounded like I was sitting up and down atop a brush fire, my voice rising and getting frantic as I stood up to escape the fire, then falling, getting more sedate as I sat down again and then, bam -- back into a rising frenzy as my butt felt the flames, and sought quick escape. In other words, very natural.

Ivan showed me parts of the script that he'd like me to re-record. Most of the mistakes were minor -- I said "million" instead of "billion," for example -- but Ivan wanted perfection. And so the sound guy would back up the tape to the exact spot and I'd say the line over again. This went on for another hour, but finally, mercifully, our session ended at about 9 p.m. "I want to take you for supper," Ivan said.

He listed all the ritzy restaurants in town, and let me choose. "Actually, I want McDonald's," I said. My train to Guangzhou would leave within an hour, and I didn't have time, or patience, to sit through another elaborate Chinese feast. "But, Daniel, I cannot properly show you my appreciation by taking you to McDonald's," Ivan replied.

So we compromised. We would go to Guilinren, the restaurant between McDonald's and KFC that served both Western food and Chinese food. It's the place where I used to go every night to watch the Philippino cha-cha-cha dancers and chef-hatted guitarists. It's also where I met the friends of Ivan's who brought me to dinner with him and his wife, CiCi, a month ago.

The restaurant was deserted, and silent, leaving Ivan and me alone, face to face, with no distractions. I was a bit nervous. Ever since the incident, I've grown more embarrassed by my actions that first night. I've come to learn that my own ignorance of Chinese culture created most of the problems.

Mainly, I got so worked up when he asked me about my salary, which started the battle that lasted the rest of the night. I've since learned that it's a common, acceptable question in Chinese society. Everyone asks everyone their salary, upon first meeting, and it's no big deal.

My hesitation to answer came more from guilt than anything else. I make much more money than my colleagues, and probably a lot more than most of my students' parents, and I'm ashamed of it. It places me squarely in the role I most despise: rich foreigner.

I've learned, however, that revealing my salary brings only respect. In most cases, the Chinese want to make sure that I'm being suitably compensated for being here, and they seem relieved when I tell them my high salary. It produces not envy but pride in their own culture -- an affirmation that they're treating foreigners with the respect, and high pay, they deserve. Now I realize that my passive-aggressive response that night, about making 100,000 yuan a month, seems especially condescending.

Certainly, I haven't forgotten about Ivan's stupid challenges of my manhood, and the sour taste of the night hasn't completely left me, but I realize that it was a situation that brought out the worst in both of us. And now, a month later, we were alone, with a chance to sort things out.

Ivan asked me about my family in America, about past girlfriends, about my coming trip to Guangzhou, about places I've visited in China, about chopsticks, about la jiao, about being a journalist.

I asked him many of the same questions. I learned that he met CiCi, in 1997, on the Internet. They were both young and single, away from their family and friends, starting careers in Zhuzhou City. When they finally met in person, they discovered something quite amazing: they were from the same hometown, in northern Hunan. They had never met there, but here in Zhuzhou City they stumbled into each other, on the Web, and have been hotly in love ever since. "I think it's so romatic," Ivan said, smiling.

My image of him changed dramatically. We talked, eye to eye, for half an hour, as we dug our chopsticks into dried beef, spicy cucumbers, boiled Chinese cabbage and miniature octopi. We each sipped a beer. He looked at me with clear brown eyes. His soft, boyish cheeks were their natural coffee color. He flashed his crooked, nervous grin frequently. In every way, it couldn't have been more different than our first meeting. With one exception.

As I was scavenging the last bits of the dried beef, Ivan paused for a moment, then said, "Daniel, I know maybe it isn't so polite, but I am very interested to know what is your salary. Can you tell me please?"

"Of course I can," I told him, and revealed that I make about 4,000 RMB a month, or 500 dollars. "Oh, that is very good," Ivan said. "I think you deserve it." Then I told him about the poor exchange rate, and how my monthly salary here barely covers my student loan payments in America. "It may seem like a lot to you," I said, "but in American terms, it's actually quite low." Ivan said he understood. Then, I asked him about his salary. He makes 2,000 RMB a month as a government official. "This is an average salary in China," he said.

And that was it. I devoured the few remaining crumbs left on our table and took a final swig of my beer. Ivan paid the bill and paid me 300 RMB for my rubbish recording of the government's message. He thanked me, I thanked him, and we promised to get in touch about our next meeting, when I will interview the foreign business tycoons in Zhuzhou City.

I rode off on the night train to Guangzhou, remembering how worked up I was after my first meeting with Ivan, thinking how foolish that situation was for both of us, being thankful that we had our chance at redemption, looking forward to a long snooze as the train rumbled south.

Shag carpet

Between the front gate of the university and my apartment is a vast expanse of lawn. A narrow sidewalk cuts through it diagonally, from one corner to the other. This being a forestry university, and a friend of the environment, eco-friendly lawn signs are posted.

One of the signs says, in the bad English translation, "Cherish the wood grass, share the green;" another reads, "The green, the true love, in all softness and warmness;" the other reads, "Please keep your feet off the green, green grass."

I walk the sidewalk that cuts across the lawn every night, as it's the only route home. During the winter, this was a placid walk, all alone in the silent night, under a brilliant starlit sky, as bats swooped overhead and crickets chirped.

Since spring arrived a month ago, my walk is no longer solitary, and often not quite silent. Scattered throughout the lawn are spring lovers, with at best five feet between them, squirming in the grass as they get their evening exercise on what, at night, is nothing more than a gigantic shag carpet.

The sight of them puzzles me. There's no cover on the lawn of any kind -- no trees to shield them from view, no noises to drown out theirs', nowhere to run, or hide, should an unwanted visitor arrive.

But this is China, and when you have 15 roommates, as every first-year student does, and limited space, and you're accustomed to days-long train rides packed together in tiny, airless spaces with hundreds of strangers, and hormones rage as if you're a teenager, which you are, a five-foot swath of lawn beneath a brilliant starlit sky is luxurious, a bastion of privacy, never mind the neighbors.

What's more puzzling, though, is the sight of these sessions given the university's recent declaration of martial law against hand-holders. When I think about it, though, the lovers are abiding closely by the posted rules: they certainly are sharing the green, their very presence testifies both to the green's softness and to its warmness, and they dutifully are keeping their feet off the green, green grass.

On the Air

Sunny, the Chinese DJ with whom I will host a weekly show on Changsha Music Radio (http://www.whatsfm.com), met me at the university on Thursday morning. As we rode in a cab on our way to do our first show, Sunny had some advice.

"My station manager wants to make sure you're aware, Daniel," she said, "you cannot say the things about politics or religion. You can not say the swear words, either. And, because you are a foreigner, you are not allowed to be on the air live. We must record the show in advance."

No worries, I thought. The format of the show is Western music, and who wants to waste time talking politics or religion, or swearing, when we could be listening to Louis Armstrong?

Sunny told me to introduce each song, give background about the musician, fit the song into its cultural and historical context. For hosting the one-hour show each week, I will be paid 100 yuan, twelve-and-a-half dollars, a lavish salary in the Chinese DJ business. "We think you are the perfect fit for our audience," Sunny explained, "young, modern, very knowledgable about Western music and culture."

The problem occurred to me: but I don't freakin know squat about Western music or culture. And then, a solution: who freakin cares? I will impersonate someone who knows squat about Western music and culture.

Sunny talks a lot, even in English, and she giggles after everything she says, not in a ditzy way or a condescending way, just in a way that conveys her belief that life is a big laugh, not to be taken too seriously. She's 28, studied English at a Changsha college and has climbed the DJ ladder for the past eight years to get to where she is today: near the top, a celebrity voice in Changsha, a rich woman.

You'd never know any of this by meeting her. She has the bounce and light touch of Amelie. Plus, she wears a sailor's hat that, even to me, looks pretty freakin dorky. I loved her from the second I met her.

We got off at Sunny's apartment, a palace by Chinese standards: two bedrooms, a computer room, a living room, a bathroom and a kitchen. Everything is new and modern and funky. Sunny shares the place with her husband, a computer programmer whom Sunny dated for nine years before finally making it offical last summer. "He is such a lovely man," Sunny said, before breaking into giggles.

Sunny got us some coffee, went downstairs and bought us some bread and pastries, and we began listening to CDs in English, intent on planning the first show. My meager collection, all CDs I've bought in China, was all we had: Bruce Springsteen, Norah Jones, REM, Nirvana, Eminem, Louis Armstrong, Radiohead, U2.

As we were listening to The Boss, Sunny said, "Do you mind if I smoke?" "It's your house," I replied, "smoke away." This question startled me. A woman smoking is China is almost as rare as a man not smoking. And to ask another person if they mind your smoking? This is wholly unprecedented.

Sunny packed her smokes like a pro, pulled one out and lit up. Of course she offered me one -- it's custom -- but I declined. "Maybe I'll quit when I have the baby," Sunny said, before giggling. She plans her one child "a long, long time from now," she explained, before giggling. For now, she's going to smoke. And giggle.

Listening to music for radio playability proved challenging. I told myself: pretty much choose the songs that you'd least like to listen to. Simple rhythm? Cheesy lyrics? Shallow theme? Perfect for radio. Not necessarily adhering to these criteria for all the songs, I made this playlist:
"Dancing in the Dark" (Springsteen)
"Come Away with Me" (Norah Jones)
"On the Sunny Side of the Street" (Louis Armstrong)
"Stand" (REM)
"Everybody Hurts" (REM)
"Oh Me" (Nirvana)
"Sunrise" (Norah Jones)
"What Am I to You?" (Norah Jones)
"My Name is Slim Shady" (Eminem)

Despite the inherent flaws in this playlist -- I don't know what they are, for I don't know squat about Western music, just that there must be inherent flaws -- making it couldn't have more of a lark. I couldn't help cutting rug in Sunny's living room as REM played, or singing along to Norah Jones. It's a privilege I've never had -- choose whatever songs I like. It's my show. Delicious. "I think you can do the singing on this show, too," Sunny said, before giggling.

The playlist in place, it was time to go. I don't recall how it came up, but at one point I mentioned that I like taking motorcycle taxis. "Do you know how to drive a motorcycle?" Sunny asked. "Of course," I lied. "Okay, you can drive me to work on my motorcycle," Sunny said.

And, no lie, we went downstairs and Sunny pulled out of her garage in her "ladies motorcycle" -- basically a souped-up Honda Spree scooter. She was wearing a red motorcycle helmet and a bright yellow jacket. "Okay, you will drive," she said.

The thought occured to me: I haven't freakin driven a motorcycle in six years. And then the solution: who freakin cares? I will impersonate a motorcycle driver. And onto the scooter I leapt.

Before long, I was weaving through Changsha traffic, with Sunny sitting on the back of the scooter. I very nearly collided head-on with a police SUV, which scared the bejesus out of me. Sunny giggled. "Oh, Daniel, you are a perfect driver," she said, giggling. This is not a very convincing impersonation, I thought.

After 10 frightening minutes on the road, we arrived at the studio in downtown Changsha. When we got there, Sunny showed me into her station manager's office.

Her station manager is a middle-aged woman, very fit and trim and attractive, who wears the power business suit but comes off as a giddy 18-year-old on Spring Break. She welcomed me warmly, giggled, got me some tea, told me I'm handsome, made some jokes.

We went over the terms of the show: 100 yuan, paid monthly, we will record the show in advance, it will air Sundays from 8-9 p.m., blah blah blah. "Do you understand the format of the show?" she asked. "Yes," I replied. "Sunny said I should talk about religion and politics in China." There was a slight pause, then rapturous giggles, from both Sunny and the station manager. This is going to be fun, I thought.

Grace, a 24-year-old grad student in English who's a friend of the friend who set me up with this gig, arrived. The show will be the three of us: Sunny, Grace and me.

We entered the studio, a dilapidated room reminiscent of college radio, and began. No rehearsal. Sunny was at the big mike, while Grace and I shared the smaller mike. We started our banter, which came amazingly easy.

Sunny would ask me a question, Grace would butt in with a smart-aleck comment, I'd respond, we'd mock-quarrel/flirt, Sunny would break us up, we'd all giggle, then I'd introduce a song. When I'd speak for more than a few seconds, Sunny would break in. "Daniel, you're too loud! Please, keep quiet." "Sorry," I replied, "I get excited sometimes." We giggled.

I impersonated an expert on Western music far more convincingly than I did a motorcycle driver. I realized that I know the basic sketch biographies of all the artists we played, and I know somewhat about the genre of music they belong to, and anything I didn't know, I didn't bother to say. There wasn't a single moment to approximate the near-collision with the cop in the SUV, not one moment when I felt I was being exposed as the fraud I am.

Plus, the three of us had such perfect chemistry, from the start, that any gaffes could quickly be smoothed over. Of course, our audience knows English much less fluently than we do, and knows even less about Western music, so there's a monumental margin-of-error safety net.

However, there was one total dud: Sunny asked me to tell a joke. What came to mind immediately was the peanut joke -- two peanuts were walking down the street, one was assaulted. It was met by no giggles. No understanding. Silence. Worse, they asked me to explain it. I need to get some more accessible jokes for next show. And, of course, they couldn't resist the temptation to make the show into a personal ad for me, in Chinese.

Overall, though, it couldn't have been a better beginning. Our on-air banter was not a gimmick. It resembled exactly our conversations in real life. We were the same three giggly dorks that we are without a microphone in our face. Perhaps this natural sound came about because we didn't rehearse or attach any kind of pressure to "the show." We walked in, started talking, as friends do.

This week, on the way to take the bus to Changsha to record next week's show, Sunny called me on my cell-out phone. "Daniel, I hope you're not on the bus yet," she said. I wasn't. "Okay, Daniel, don't bother coming this week," Sunny said, giggling. "The station manager has decided we will record live, starting this Sunday. She moved the show to prime time, seven to eight o'clock. She will join us on the program from now on. See you Sunday night." Right on.