By LAO REN
Society Correspondent

Zhao is no racist but usually insists on being treated by an Asian doctor

BALTIMORE (China Daily Show) – Zhao Binglai, a veteran of the Long March and a former ousted official, confusedly shouted “This is China!” at care workers this afternoon at the Cedar Woods Homes Residential Community in Baltimore, Maryland.

Staff who helped Zhao, 78, back into bed were quick to offer him a ‘snack pack.’ After resting, Zhao told media that he realized that Baltimore was not, in fact,  part of China and suggested his orderlies drink plenty of hot water.

Local historian James Anderson, 62, says that Chinese people have been visiting Baltimore since 1859, when the first recorded Cantonese immigrant to the state was accidentally lynched.

Anderson says it is still quite normal for many elderly Chinese-Americans to refer to China’s sovereignty, simply in order to explain an absurd or illogical situation.

“This is China” is a commonly heard phrase in the People’s Republic, most often used when someone is badly losing an argument.

The phrase supposedly dates back to the early Qin Dynasty (221-206 BC), after the Emperor Qinsihuang was proudly surveying a map of the first unified, multi-ethnic and centralized China. When a courtier asked Qinsihuang why the map had to be drawn with slaves’ blood, the emperor retorted with the immortal remark.

The phrase went mainstream in 1951, when the 14^th Dalai Lama, after receiving a letter from the People’s Liberation Army, pointed at the grounds of the Potala Palace and said, “This is China?”

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By WEN LOCK
Olympics Correspondent

Jingjing, pictured shortly before being asked to move on by managers at the nearby Foot Reflexology and Beauty Centre (Image: LOLA)

BEIJING (China Daily Show) – It’s 11 o’clock on a weekday morning in Beijing’s Central Business District – but for Jingjing the Panda, it’s simply time for the first drink of the day.

The once-loveable Olympics mascot – or Fuwa – is now a sad shadow of her plush 2008 glory days. The dyed black wool around her eyes has been faded by tear-stains and her snow-white cheeks are now stained a grim nicotine-yellow.

“I find it hard to get work,” she says, cradling a bamboo juice – her fourth of the day.

This downtown bar opens just before midday and Jingjing is normally the first customer through the door.  “These days, the demand for a four-year-old Chinese cuddly Olympics mascot is surprisingly low,” she claims.

She blames her personal decline on a superstitious online slam campaign that linked Jingjing, a native of Sichuan, with the earthquake that devastated the region in 2008.

Nini, a prosaic green swallow who looks like a kite, was also tied to a deadly train crash in Shandong’s Weifang –known as ‘Kite City.’ Other Fuwa suffered similar accusations, but it was Jingjing who possibly took it the worst.

“I stopped going out – and started drinking,” recalls the bedraggled bear. “My libido, which was always pretty low, soon hit rock bottom. Then my teeth started falling out.”

Jingjing’s hit TV show, It’s Fuwa Time, was swiftly cancelled; her agent stopped answering calls soon after. “I couldn’t even get a job at the Beijing Zoo,” Jingjing admits with a bitter smile.

While tragic, Jingjing’s story is hardly an exceptional one.

All five Fuwa – the cuddly dolls based on China’s four most popular animals and the Olympic Flame, and whose names once spelt out  ‘BeiJing Huan Ying Ni’ (‘Beijing Welcomes You’) – have since fallen on hard times.

Beibei the Fish is perhaps the most successful, having landed a steady job at a Hebei water park. “It pays the bills,” Beibei explained in a brief, terse phone interview.

The Fuwas’ sad decline highlights systemic problems with the country’s state-run sports system, which demands its athletes dedicate their lives to ‘patriotic glory’ – but often abandons them once they can no longer perform in a stadium.

Last year, for example, champion gymnast Zhang Shangwu, 29, was discovered begging on a Beijing street. In 2008, tennis star Li Na left the national side to pursue her own career, going on to win the French Open in 2010.

It proved a less-successful move, however,  for Yingying, the Tibetan Antelope, who rapidly became a banned keyword after giving a controversial acceptance speech, expressing support for the Dalai Lama, at an elementary school prize-giving ceremony.

“I had a few too many fermented yak teas,” Yingying admitted later.

But the apology came too late for many – Yingying lost a lucrative consultancy gig at big-game consortium Safari Tibet Together and is currently believed to be either dead or living abroad in Dallas.

“I have it all: money, women and constant access to other people’s cigarettes,” former Olympic Flame fuwa Huanhuan boasted in 2009.

At the height of his fame, Huanhuan married Hello Kitty at a 50-million yuan ceremony in Sanya, Hainan. But the fairytale union quickly ran aground and the pair divorced acrimoniously just eight weeks later.

“I blew most of my cash on the wedding,” he admitted last year. “That little bitch Kitty took the rest.” Huanhuan committed suicide this February – leaving only a cryptic note referring to himself as a “candle in the Olympic wind.”

Now more than ever, times are difficult for the Fuwa.

A trademark rictus grin masking his pain, an unshaven Haibo touts for business in a wifebeater yesterday (Image: LOLA)

As the rest of the sporting world applauds the triumphs of Chinese gold medallists like Ye Shiwen and Chen Ruolin, the memory of the Games and its London closing ceremony brings nothing but bitterness for the surviving Fuwa.

And it’s not only ex-Olympians feeling the pain – other state-sponsored mascots have seen their stocks plummet too.

Near a neglected Dalian dock, infamous for its bawdy nature, we find Haibo, the former 2010 symbol of the Shanghai Expo.

Once known for his chirpy charisma and bright blue skin, Haibo today ekes out a grim existence, offering hand-relief to North Korean sailors in exchange for just a few yuan.

“I can still trade off my fame a little,” Haibo admits after a few glasses of baijiu. “But it’s getter rougher out there. And I can’t get real money offering full sex, either – because I don’t have any proper genitals to speak of.”

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By MINZU TUANJIE
Tibet Correspondent

Experts head to class in Lhasa

Lhasa (China Daily Show) – Tibet is to be closed for routine cleaning and repairs, the Chinese Foreign Ministry told reporters yesterday.

The quotidian, non-newsworthy maintenance period could take months, or even years, explained spokesman Liu Weimin, adding that the closure was to “ensure safety” for foreign visitors and make sure Tibet was presented “at its best.”

“This is perfectly normal and should not be misinterpreted for political reasons,” Liu warned casually.

“Western countries often shut down roads or public buildings for repair, so there’s absolutely nothing unusual about sealing off an entire autonomous region from the outside world.”

More than 30 self-immolation attempts by Tibetans – including two outside Lhasa’s heavily visited Johkang Temple in May – have wracked the province in the last six months.

But Liu said the quarantine was simply a matter of clearing-up “routine wear and tear.”

“As a major tourist attraction and national treasure, Tibet occasionally requires stability repairs,” said Liu. “These are normal but difficult – and potentially dangerous – to undertake while the region is open to foreign tourists and international media.”

The maintenance is part of a planned five-year series of national renovations, which is expected to see Xinjiang close for two years and re-open as an ethnic minority theme park.

The full list of works in Tibet has not been disclosed but China Daily Show has learnt that priorities will include widening and repaving major streets to cater for visitors traveling in urban assault vehicles, conducting fire safety re-education campaigns at all major attractions, and adding a handicap-accessible ramp on the second floor of the Potala Palace.

As a sign of the government’s commitment to employee safety, all re-education will be conducted by an elite branch of the Chinese military.

Online searches for ‘Tibet’ now return the message: “This region is currently undergoing scheduled maintenance. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

A sign outside Tibet warns foreign tourists not to bother (Image: Tylenol)

Reporters seeking further information at the border were last night confronted with a sign outside the crossing station at Batang, warning ‘Caution: wet floor.’

Leaning heavily on a mop, cigarette dangling from her lips, 51-year-old cleaning lady Wen Danlin said she didn’t know anything about the government’s plans to close Tibet.

She then pointed to a series of fresh footprints on her recently mopped floor and tutted loudly.

Due to the ongoing maintenance, no Tibetans are available for comment for the foreseeable future. But last night, the sound of hammering, drills and high-pitched screams could be heard across the Sichuan-Tibet border, suggesting work had already begun in earnest.

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By ZHAO HUO
Tibet Correspondent

Phuntsok at a Lhasa hospital photocall yesterday

LHASA (China Daily Show) – Self-immolating monk Thangka Phuntsok says he’s packing in the fireworks, after his last conflagration failed to attract a single AP journalist.

The 23-year-old auto-arsonist dramatically sacked veteran publicist Cliff Hyde from his hospital bed on Monday night.

Phuntsok says Hyde dramatically misled him when he advised that setting himself alight on a crowded Lhasa street last week would bring worldwide media attention to the plight of the Tibetan people.

“I asked to see the clippings afterwards,” said a heavily sedated Phuntsok, currently recuperating in the serious clerical-burns unit at the No 3 Hospital of the University of Lhasa Medical College.

“Cliff handed me a press release from a one-man Hong Kong human rights operation,” Phuntsok recalled. “I nearly choked on my hospital food – unfortunately, I was being fed via a drip.”

Terminating his five-year contract with the Lhasa-based PR agency Duq & Hyde, Phuntsok expressed his appreciation for the firm’s efforts, but warned that, when a flaming fireball protest in China couldn’t make global headlines, “something has gone horribly wrong.”

Phuntosk’s was the latest in a seemingly unending wave of recent Tibetan self-immolations, aimed at bringing an end to government interference in the Buddhist religion and returning the exiled Dalai Lama to his rightful place.

But the protests have gone largely unnoticed – due in part to a security crackdown that prevents journalists from covering them. Without graphic and iconic images, publicists like Hyde say they’re hamstrung.

“On one side, you’ve got a country whose diplomatic clout means that foreign countries no longer exert the same pressure they once did over Tibet,” explained Hyde from his office. “On the other, you’ve got all this Bo Xilai stuff. It’s hard to compete with a plotline from Game of Thrones.”

“The situation has changed,” agreed Beijing-based PR guru Bill Lee. “These days, simply turning yourself into a fireball isn’t enough. If you want to get the press corps out of Jianguomen, you can’t just be an activist – you need to be a blind activist, who’s able to leap walls and crash embassy parties.”

Phuntsok said he now planned to launch a microblog to publicize future flame-ups and monitor his own campaign for justice.

“When you consider how much gasoline prices have risen,” Phuntsok croaked from behind cracked and charred lips, “it might be cheaper just to do my own publicity.”

His next move will be an online survey, asking netizens to vote on self-cremation, entitled simply ‘Hot or Not?’

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By SUN WUKONG
Entertainment Correspondent

The divisive film is being hailed as both "boring" and an "explicit study of repression, religion and Chinese ass"

CANNES (China Daily Show) – It was supposed to be a typically inspiring festival story: a plucky independent spirit versus a humorless, repressive state. But it didn’t quite work out that way, after the producers of new movie Lust, Lhasa: A Monk’s Tail failed to elicit a single complaint from the Chinese government following its Cannes debut.

Lust tells the profoundly uninteresting story of underage Tibetan Phubar Asphukt, a homosexual monk (portrayed by newcomer Xinggan Pigu) who is forced to choose between his passionate infatuation for a corrupt government official (played by an almost-unrecognizable Chow Yun Fat, in heavy make-up and a fat suit) and loyalty to an avuncular, kindly abbot (Fan Bingbing).

Obscure Chinese indie director Wen Quan had hoped to sell-out in the international French Riviera festival, where such upsets are common fodder for media controversy. Making any film about Tibet is a publicity tactic, historically almost guaranteed to bestow failed directors with fame, fortune and Norwegian political asylum.

Even 2005’s state-sanctioned Peaceful Liberation by Government, directed by the rabidly on-message Lu Chang, still managed to upset government censors by depicting Chinese troops as carrying rifles, rather than flowers and gifts, upon their arrival in 1951.

By contrast, Lust, which producers had hoped to promote as “Brokeback Mountain meets the Dalai Lama” hasn’t aroused Chinese censors, despite strong language and scenes of a strong sexual nature.

“Frankly, it was  boring,” recalled Jiang Jun of the State Administration of Radio Film and Television, who attended the screening. “I’ve seen it all before. The storyline was one of those loose, unstructured,experiences that puts people to sleep, rather than incites them. I don’t think anybody’s going to understand it. I got it and I still didn’t like it.”

By contrast, a critic from Fores, a US golfing magazine with an anti-communist slant, labeled the film “bold and brave… an eye-opening experience.” But without being officially banned in China, distributors see little hope for the film.

In an ironic turn of events, however the filmmakers have been approached by the Chinese Ministry of Tourism, who hope to buy Lust and repackage it as a promotional film about Tibet. “All we would have to do is remove the sound and shorten it from 2 hours and 40 minutes to about 90 seconds,” Wen sighed. “I’m thinking about it.”

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By XIAO YUNYU
Religion Correspondent

The Dalai Lama, pictured here in a recent dream by former Tibetan governor Qiangba Puncog

Lhasa (China Daily Show) — Fearing “a looming horde of separatist jackals,” the Chinese Ministry of Atheism today announced new measures intended to penalize religious separatists ad apocalytum.

The auspicious initiative comes just a week after the exiled Tibetan government named Harvard scholar Lobsang Sangay as their new elected Prime Minister. Sangay, 43, has never set foot in Tibet but announced yesterday that he is “looking forward to a warm welcome from the Chinese” when he pays his debut visit.

The Anti-theist Regulation officially defines unsanctioned resurrection, transubstantiation, heavenly visitation, divine investiture of authority and all other “acts of super-sedition” as state crimes, punishable by “eternal damnation to the eighteenth generation.”

“Those contemplating a return to mortality with the intention of undermining China’s territorial integrity should first consider the welfare of the eternal souls of their ancestors,” warned the newly appointed Minister of Atheism, Pei Gundan.

Chinese citizens seeking reincarnation or resurrection for legitimate purposes, Pei added, “must first apply in person at their local PSB with their national ID card, two to three hundred passport photos, a certificate of health inspection, handwriting sample and lock of hair.”

The applicant must then embark on a “transnational quest to the four corners of the Motherland” for the requisite chops, culminating with the bestowal of a post-mortem hukou in the secretive Holy Hall of Holies in the Great Hall of the People, Tiananmen Square.

Final approval of the permit requires “scientific proof of reincarnation” — an act which may itself contravene article 14 of the new regulation, Pei emphasized.

Since seeking retirement, the Dalai Lama says his new life, which sees him spend much of his spare time relaxing in a Thai beach hut-cum-bar between naps and massages, has “helped bring some perspective to my futile shenanigans,” according to His former Holiness.

Anxious Chinese Catholics, concerned that the new policy may affect the Eucharist’s transubstantiational power in their personal lives are now re-thinking their attendance at weekly services.

Beijing worshipper Augustina Feng, 33, said that, after a long chat with local police, she had come to agree that public worship, evangelism and other acts of religiosity are tantamount to “selling one’s soul to the foreign Devil.”

But she hasn’t lost her sense of humor: “Previously, when I took the Eucharist, I enjoyed eating the flesh of Christ in preparation for the world to come,” said Feng. “Now, I prefer to ‘human-flesh-search’ Chinese dissenters in exchange for a monetary reward on Earth.”

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By XIAO YUNYU
Religious Correspondent

In their flattering robes, monks only have themselves to blame for sexual harassament, say sociologists

BEIJING (China Daily Show) — A Peking University (PKU) graduate who shocked his parents and Chinese society by dropping out of a prestigious university course to join a monastery yesterday admitted that the decision was born of a desire for both “inner peace” and “hot monks”.

Liu Zhiyu became a household name in China after rejecting a coveted full scholarship, offered by the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, in favour of following a spiritual calling to join the “accommodating and broad-minded” monks of the Longquan Temple in Beijing.

As peers fought tooth-and-nail for white-collar jobs to support future spouses and ageing parents, Liu became the subject of endless media scrutiny and speculation by bucking the materialistic trend in favour of “deep penetration of the physical and emotional plane”. He initially responded by secluding himself at the temple, refusing to answer questions or explain himself.

But yesterday, Liu told a China Daily Show Reporter at the Longquan Monastery’s sutra-hall-cum-sauna that, despite his strong filial piety, he found himself unable to resist the lure of monkhood – or monks. “I had a dream to enter a temple, and an oiled, robed monk, soon afterward,” he explained.

Describing his new brothers as “spiritual, knowledgeable… and lithe,” Liu complained that the “six-to-a-room” atmosphere at PKU made it impossible for him to find a peaceful moment “to share with one other man, forsaking all others, at least until one or both of us have perceived nirvana”.

“I definitely owe a lot to my six former roommates,” he acknowledged. “We mutually explored our boundaries, and I’ve been a platform for their frustrations on several occasions. But it was time to think about a deeper connection.”

Liu was the first PKU student to devise a formula proving “Tang’s Theorem”, which states that the roundness of a male’s buttocks is directly proportional to their ability to bend over a workbench. He was also mid-way through completing a thesis on experiments with uncontrolled explosions alongside a number of male science majors.

Despite these formidable accomplishments, Liu insisted that the temple would better serve his needs. “I have the chance to explore the mysteries of the universe alone, with another monk or  as a group,” he told China Daily Show. “We can utilize a number of methods to achieve enlightenment involving hatha yoga, qigong breathing techniques, and perhaps implements such as yak-butter candles.”

His choice has drawn scorn from many quarters. “[How can] young people become monks? They don’t even understand society, how can we expect them to enlighten people?” asked Lou Yulie, PKU professor of philosophy. “I can understand how depressed his parents are.”

“Fuck ass, you fuck,” raged blogger ‘Weidazhonghua’. “Why not join people liberation army, explode chrysanthemum like genuine man?!”

China has seen a surge in awkward, well-groomed youngsters joining Buddhist temples to pursue a life of quiet contemplation with other like-minded and vulnerable men. The appeal of a monastic life has been variously explained by the dearth of spirituality under Communist rule, the growing popularity of Buddhist sutras online, and well-built, shaven young men wearing off-the-shoulder saffron robes that are suitable for any occasion.

Liu himself said he was inspired by the parable of the founder of Buddhism, Siddartha Gautama, who extolled the virtues of “opening one’s arms to a complete stranger and helping them deepen their connection. Often with others watching.”

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By XIAO YUNYU
Religion Correspondent

The spiritual leader told reporters: 'There is an 'I' in Dalai Lama'

DEHLI (China Daily Show) – Former anointed leader of Tibet and spiritual guru of Tibetan Buddhism, the Dalai Lama yesterday shocked onlookers by announcing his imminent retirement from public life.

Speaking at a press conference in Delhi, India, the Dalai Lama answered a routine question about  Burma by telling world media that it was “probably time to throw in the towel.”

“As far as [Tibetan] independence goes, we’ve done all we can. God knows, we’ve tried: from armed uprisings to paintings to Richard Gere, we’ve done all we possibly can,” the exiled Tibetan religious leader told assembled press. “Maybe it’s time to focus on what’s really important in life.”

Sipping from a can of 7-Up and wearing a pair of shades, the Tibetan spiritual leader seemed calm and relaxed, refusing to be drawn any further on the subject.

But appearing an hour later, having changed from his usual saffron robes into a checked shirt, corduroy flat cap and stonewashed chinos, the Dalai Lama answered media questions in rapid-fire succession.

Chinese President Hu Jintao? “No hard feelings. As they say, don’t look for me in the morning, baby, as I’ll be gone, solid gone.” Asked about Nobel Prize-winning jailed Chinese dissident Liu Xiaobo, the Dalai Lama shrugged.

“Shit happens. He’ll be out in ten years. After that, who knows?”

Asked if he would miss his role as leader of the Tibetan Buddhist community, the charismatic spiritual leader said to laughter, “Certainly not those butter candles. They reek worse than a yak’s tuckus. And on the bright side, no more Richard Gere, obviously.”

The words came as a surprise, despite having told a CNN reporter in Florida  late October that  “I’m a human being. … Retirement is my right.” It also marks a major career change for the Dalai Lama, since he was declared the living incarnation of the highest power in Tibetan Buddhism and made de facto spiritual and political leader of the Tibetan people seventy years ago.

The grey-haired and much-admired face of Tibetan liberation has remained a thorn in the Chinese government’s side since his flight from the troubled region following a failed uprising against Communist rule in 1959.

The Dalai Lama insisted that the plight of the Tibetan people remains close to his heart, but that he also felt it was important to devote his time to other causes.

“It’s all been happening while I’ve been busy: Facebook, Hot Pockets, Simon Cowell, Team Edward… where to even begin? I’ve got a lot to catch up on. What am I going to be doing?” He smiled. “Having some serious me-time.”

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