First dent in China

When Seabass and I flew blood-eye from Seoul the next morning, we knew we had to make a great entrance in China. It would be a way to guarantee ourselves of 'big experiences' to come and justify this chaotic plunge into a new life.

But everything in China is big already—it shares the biggest mountains in the world, is one of the biggest landmasses in the world and most importantly holds the biggest population in the world. Any grand entrance two Washington honkies could pull off would pale in comparison. So then how were we, two egotistical fools, to convince ourselves we were big enough for, yes, I'll say it, though it’s only by default because this country has the most people, the biggest spectacle on earth?

The challenge was, without trying to be redundant, big.

Our best hope was beer, for beer is the instigator for many of life's most interesting moments. As luck would have it, The Qingdao International Beer Festival was in its last throes when we arrived. We had the perfect storm: a festival celebrating beer that draws at least a million every year and two jackasses. If we were ever going to make a worthy first impression, or as I call it, dent, in China, this would be our shot.


Tickets in hand, Seabass and I bungled soberly past two 3o-foot-tall naked balloon boys (apparently the symbol for Haier, a huge appliance manufacturer) and thousands of mingling Chinese near the entrance. We shoved through the gate’s the military bouncers and caught our first glimpse at a Chinese festival.

If anyone knows the tacky circus that is the Munich Oktoberfest, well this party shared a similar atmosphere, but with Chinese characteristics. The beer festival area consisted of different beer tents or gardens, including such German classics as Paulaner as well as home classics like PBR. There must have been a dozen tents, each capable of holding at least a few thousand people. Each tent had a long row of grills that wafted a spicy fragrance of shrimp, chicken and beef. Meanwhile, Chinese men danced and belted out their nation’s Top 40 on the individual beer gardens’ stages.

Between the tents, street vendors sold bizarre, or at the very least, questionable food, while others tried to scam a Chinese buck or two by convincing you to bowl a basketball into a bunch of pins. It’s the same scam you see at any town fair in the states, except the carnies here had no stuffed donkey to reward a lucky strike. It seemed these folks simply entered the festival with a basketball and a few pins and expected you to play the prize-less game by forcing the ball into your hand.

Admittedly, Seabass and I ogled without accomplishing much. We meandered for awhile until we finally set our sights on the main player. Qingdao Beer was the host, so it had a building for its party.

The Qingdao building was shoulder to shoulder packed with people. Long wooden tables, again akin to the Oktoberfest arrangements, filled the floor. A balcony looked down on the main floor for those with money and voyeuristic tendencies. Chinese go-go girls wiggled their asses through stage smoke on a central platform.

Seabass and I spent a half hour trying to find a place to sit. When we lucked upon a spot, he and I wasted no time to buy large liter pitchers of beer. We quickly struck friends with our neighbors using what seemed an innocent enough cheer “Ganbey!” meaning “Dry your glass!”

It turns out that the Chinese take that literally. And thus went the pitchers along with our sobriety. The wise Chinese will hold a small glass and say “Ganbey!” to you. You, stupidly with a pitcher, then are expected to dry it. Within our area, Seabass and I turned into quite a hit. If anything because we were too slow, and by now too drunk, to realize that if we just drank out of smaller receptacles we wouldn’t be forced to drink so much.



One drink led to another and it wasn’t long until we were arm in arm singing and yelling with any Chinaman or woman within reach. The “Ganbeys” kept coming and the drunken love between east and west became an increasingly infectious and vicious cycle.

Next thing I knew, I was dragged by a giggly woman to the base of the go-go girl stage and ordered to climb up its thirteen steps to sing a song. Although things were hazy as hell, my mind possessed the minimal clarity to understand that what they were asking required at least two of us. So I found Seabass, arm in arm and glass to glass with a Chinese family, and demanded that he follow me. Bass will always nobly lead the charge toward something asinine right at the moment when I’m starting to hesitate.

Sure enough, the giggly woman who ran the show pushed us up on stage, Seabass leading. Through careful negotiation, interestingly while belligerently drunk and with a formidable language barrier, we managed to avoid singing and instead took the roll of go-go boys. A young Chinese girl, for the life of me I can’t remember her face, took up the mike while Seabass and I threw down in front of more than 10,000 Chinese to the best of our wasted ability. Then, an unknown, boozy Chinese man joined us. He danced arms straight out, beer in hand and hips swinging like he were wrapped in a hula-hoop. He was grabby, and I remember making an effort to avoid his wingspan but ultimately he managed to make Seabass and me his dance partners for most of the spectacle.

Overall, we graded ourselves with a decent, if not damn good, stage presence. In hindsight, this might only be true if you’re a very liberal, perhaps as far as communist, dance critic. To tell the truth, there were some in the crowd who whistled and booed us (they were most likely commies so there goes my theory). Others hucked food-like objects that missed our heads, bouncing harmlessly across the stage.

After we finished our dance routine, random Chinese pulled us to their table and demanded more “Ganbeys!” We told them we didn’t have any glasses, so they handed us pitchers. I drank and realized I was in trouble.

I ran for it, but it was too late. I started spewing beer through my fingers as I tried to contain my vomit. Amazingly, my frantic gestures and beer spray has proven the only successful way to clear an immediate path through thousands of Chinese people. It probably wasn’t due to the fact that I had just become famous. I found a corner on my way to the bathroom and puked a brewery.

Soon after, Seabass tried to do a handstand but instead fell on his face, giving himself a bloody lip and nose and an instant black eye. And that pretty much closed off the evening.

In my opinion, we accomplished our mission.

China is big like Everest is big. Yet, at the festival we set up a worthy base camp. As we rise up China, it will only get smaller until we are the highest points on top. Egotistical? Yes. Fools? Yes. But damn it, base camp is set. We have left a classic first dent, and now, as far as I’m concerned, we have our guarantee. The journey begins. Welcome Seabass and Brusie to China.