Pelosied!

While listening to NPR today in the car, I heard a report in which President Bush criticized Speaker Pelosi and the delegation she led to Syria as undermining his authority and (what little may be left of) the credibility of US foreign policy in the Middle East. The thrust of his argument seems to be that it is the purview of the President of the United States—and his appointed Secretary of State—to conduct foreign policy, not the Speaker's. Mr. Bush's administration has sought to isolate Syria by refusing to negotiate with Damascus, due mainly to the perception of the Syrian government as a state sponsor of terror (a position bolstered by Syria's close ties to Hamas and Hezbollah, and it's role in the destabilization of the region, particularly in Iraq).

To which I say: of course Speaker Pelosi is trying to undermine the President's authority! The move is politically brilliant. That her meeting with the Syrians is a change from the current administration's policies must be viewed in light of public perception that Mr. Bush is out of touch with reality and recalcitrantly (and woefully) committed to ideological positions that in practice have led to a hopeless stalemate. The fact that she is challenging the status quo and taking action (rather than hoping estrangement will compel the Syrians to get in line) casts her in a proactive, refreshingly innovative light—even if engagement with Damascus is as counterproductive as the White House contends.

As recent polling numbers indicate (a recent Newsweek survey puts his favorability rating at 33%; Time 33%; USA Today/Gallup 34%; a CBS survey showed him polling as low as 30; and even a Fox news poll placed his favorability at 33%)*, the President is in so weak a position that Speaker Pelosi places herself in no danger by controverting his increasingly unpopular policies. In fact, criticism of the White House is so strong that she stands to gain merely by presenting herself as in opposition to Bush strategy. She doesn't need to stand for anything in particular per se, so long as she is viewed as anti-Bush. (This just three years after John Kerry lost his bid for the presidency by utilizing this very tactic!)

Syrian President Bashar al-Assad commented that it was very brave of Speaker Pelosi to have met with him against White House opposition. I disagree: again, President Bush's confidence rating is so low that Pelosi wasn't taking any political risk, but rather putting the political nail in his coffin. It's not hard to stand against policies that are this widely unpopular.

It needs to be said here that while the general disapprobation of the President's foreign policy—both at home and abroad—is incontrovertible, it is difficult for me to dismiss them as an abject failure. True, American casualties in Iraq are deplorable, as is the disastrophe created by the destabilization of Iraqi social and political life. At the same time, because it is impossible to know exactly what the situation would be had a different course of action been taken, it seems unfair to cast the current state as the worst of all possible eventualities. What if, faced with two undesirable options, the President really did choose the least of two evils? Still, Americans conjecture (with reasonable certainty) that things would likely have been better had we not invaded Iraq.

In any event, the Speaker's trip through the Middle East is a shrewd political move calculated to show that the new Democratic Congress is on its feet working to fix the problems left in Bush 43's wake. Just how much Americans will buy into this claim remains to be seen.

Well played, Ms. Pelosi, well played indeed.


^*Before having looked at the exact polling numbers, I estimated that they would fall somewhere in the mid 30s: I wasn't too far off. Who needs Gallup with estimation skills like mine?

Tali-banned

Dear Kip Hawley, TSA Administrator :

I am an American citizen who flies (with fair regularity) to and from East Asia. On my way home from my most recent journey, I was asked about my destination by a security worker at Guangzhou International Airport. When I told him "Los Angeles," he pointed me to a special inspection line, for carry-on screening. While waiting for my bags to be screened through the X-ray machine, I noticed an "Effective Immediately" sign posted on the wall; it was from the US State Department. The notice was regarding the new ban on liquids.

This was my first flight back into the country since the liquid bomb plot was uncovered on August 10 of last year. (Thankfully I had just arrived at LAX from Hong Kong one day earlier and just missed the calamity that ensued as airport workers scrambled to enforce the perfunctorily assembled restrictions.) First: congratulations! I had no idea that either the State Department or TSA had the authority to enforce its will on the airports of any great nation other than our own. Second: Shame on you for making not only foreign guests but American citizens as well abide by your ridiculous new regulations!

As noted earlier, my April 1, 2007 flight was the first international traveling I had done back to America since August of last year, so I was unaware that the new rules were applied to all flights, both domestic and international, into the United States. If you're going to enforce this sort of thing abroad, you should also be sure that workers at the check-in counter inform passengers that they should pack all liquids into their checked baggage. I mean, really, what good is that little notice on the wall going to do me when I've already been separated from my check-in bags and it's too late to move things into them from my carry-ons?

What's a good American to do when confronted with this sort of thing? Naturally, I crossed my fingers and hoped that my expensive Sheseido facial soap and lotions would not be discovered in my backpack. Actually, I would have sailed through inspections undetected, had my electric toothbrush not betrayed me in the X-ray machine. The screener asked if I had an electric toothbrush; I confessed, and she asked to see it. When I opened my toiletry bag in a crafty manner, trying not to reveal my cosmetic contraband, she said “嘿，给我看一下！" ["Hey, let's see what you've got there."] So I opened the bag, and her henchwoman came over to comb through its contents.

She confiscated both my Sheseido facial soap and emollient, along with my prescription Desonide for my eczema, my non-prescription Rogaine (which is in a bottle clearly identifying it as being two ounces, and therefore under the three ounce limit), my Origins acne "Spot Remover" (again, clearly labeled on the bottle as 0.3 ounces and so small that it clearly posed no threat to anyone other than whiteheads), along with a random assortment of other goodies. She questioned me about my nose hair trimmer (not scissor-like, but electric), whose purpose in my state of embarrassment I was unable to render into Chinese. I thought about using sign language to indicate its function, but I thought that might just complicate things (complicate things = give me further embarrassment), so I shrugged and she let me keep it. After she was through, the henchwoman looked at me with a big smile and said, "Okay, bye-bye!"

Mr. Hawley, I am not writing to tell you that on my twelve-and-a-half hour flight I developed no less than four pimples, brought on by the stress of watching my hard-earned American dollars dumped into a bin, or possibly just because the blemishes sensed that with my defenses down, this was their hour of triumph. Nor am I writing to complain that these increasingly severe restrictions are making us look more like a certain former Afghani government we deposed (in part) because of its oppressive austerity against things like cosmetics (see title of this posting if you are confused about to whom I am alluding, Mr. Hawley). I am not even writing to say that in China, a country which I grew up learning was significantly less free than our own, there are no domestic restrictions on in-flight fluids other than alcohol (and maybe highly flammable liquids). I am sure you daily receive hundreds of emails lodging these very complaints, so I will not waste your time by reiterating that of which you have already been apprised.

Perhaps this missive is approaching a length somewhat inappropriate for a "business" letter, so let me cut to the point(s):

1. If you liquids are banned from carry-on baggage and must be stowed in check-in luggage, passengers must be given notice of this prior to the time they are separated from their check-in bags. You should also consider alerting travellers (via your website) that these policies are in effect not only on domestic American flights, but on international flights into the country as well.
2. If you use foreign agents to implement American security policies, they should be American-trained to ensure proper enforcement of those policies. It does no good when a traveller's 0.3 oz acne medication is apprehended, but his 5 fl. oz container of anti-shine refreshing lotion (which could be anything inside it's opaque bottle) goes unnoticed. Since these new restrictions were put in place (ostensibly) for our safety, as a tax-paying citizen, I have the right to expect that you not only create new regulations, but enforce them, too.
3. (Really an extention of point #2) Exemptions from the policy also need to be properly enforced. This means that if a traveller has small containers of toiletry items under the 3 oz. weight limit, he should be allowed to carry them aboard an aircraft in accordance with the TSA's guidelines.

In short, shoddy enforcement of TSA rules abroad puts the lives of the travelling public in danger, while simultaneously creating gross economic inefficiency, in as far as airplane passangers must throw away perfectly permissible goods at the security gate. This is unacceptable. Period.

Your fellow American,

JT

The Best Things in Life

Here in southern China, there is about a 10 day window between winter and summer—i.e. 10 days when temperatures have warmed up out of the benumbingly cold range, but have not yet reached the sweltering, insanity-inducing level that turns most of the country into a malarial furnace. I attribute the brevity of this fair season to the humidity, which amplifies any temperature differential above or below what most carbon-based life considers optimal (or endurable). That is to say, in the winter the humidity just makes everything damp, which intensifies the frostiness; in the summer, it prevents perspiration from evaporating, and leaves an unceasing (and annoying) layer of sweat upon one's skin. [By way of comparison, when I was in Beijing, they had a month of good "spring" weather, and two months of good "autumn" weather.]

The past few days I've been relishing this "golden week" as I anticipate the coming heat-inflicted agony that will persist until sometime in October. What the springtime weather lacks in duration, it attempts to compensate for in intensity: the weather today was particularly spectacular.

After eating dinner with Sam, the two of us went out to the soccer field where his class was to compete against another for a rematch (Sam and his classmates had won the original game). Although sunset was still two hours away, a thin layer of clouds created the illusion of perpetual twilight: though still too light to resemble evening, it was too dark to be considered afternoon. Besides filtering out the already waning light of day, the clouds also kept the sun's heat at bay, providing a coolness perfect for a late afternoon soccer match. Though I don't typically enjoy spectator sports (especially low-scoring ones like soccer), the liminal moment between day and night, winter and summer, lightness and dark invited me to stay out just to survey the transient changes, and dared me not to enjoy them.

The translucent clouds, stretched across the sky like some great, wonderfully back-lit silk stalking, the late afternoon breeze, the new emerging greenery coming to greet the spring—the only thing that could have made it better were if...yes. Kit happens to be one of Sam's classmates, so of course he had come out to partake in some after-dinner sport.

Again, though I fear my readers will mistake my panegyric as exaggeration, I do not think the joy Kit derives from competitive sport can be overstated—nor can the joy he imparts to his spectators. Kit in flux is a delight to watch—swift, powerful, wholly sublime in the way that a waterfall is all of these at once. Both are wonderful to behold, convincing the spectator that there is no state more natural, no state so becoming nor so appropriate for them than that of ceaseless movement. He is full of artless grace. He is effortless, easy motion. He is like the wind.

Another reason Kit is fun to watch is the gentlemanly bow he makes after making a goal. After confounding the opposing team's goalie, Kit completes the obligatory run down the field triumphantly pumping his clenched fists above his head. After spotting a familiar face in the crowd (when I am there, it's always mine), he continues his dash toward the friend, and stops about 10 paces away. With his feet in some sort of corrupted third position, he positions his left arm behind his back with his right arm over his head. As he begins to bow, his right arm comes down while his hand rotates at the wrist (à la The King and I) until it is at his stomach level (see photo at left).

This behavior may sound a little arrogant, but in practice it's actually rather quaint, as it reminds one that spectator sports are a type of performance art. When an artist's performance is worthy of commendation, the audience applauds as a collective acknowledgement of his achievement and their approbation; he, in turn, bows in gratitude for their support (and patronage). This is the traditional, time-honored system of the stage and arena. In the hands of some, the gesture could come off as insincere or pompous, but Kit pulls it off with humility and charm.

This brings me to today's question: as one who regularly enjoys the visual and performing arts, why am I so turned off by all but the most artful of professional sports (i.e. gymnastics, diving, and figure skating)? After some reflection, I decided that the grossly inflated salaries of most professional athletes are at least partly to blame.

Watching the kids run around playing soccer today was fun for me, because I know it's fun for them. They're not out there for the multimillion dollar contracts, the endorsement money, or the celebrity that comes with those things. They're out there simply because they like playing soccer. I know that the lion's share of professional athletes are true champions: people who play for the love of sport, the thrill of competition, and the drive to excel at their chosen craft. Nonetheless, it's difficult to distinguish those from the players who are out on the court or field primarily for mercenary reasons, which I find odious. Even those competitors who take up a sport out of what I would deem "pure"motivations cannot escape the appearance of the taint of greed, since I have never heard of them declining those exorbitant salaries.

I know I promulgated the excellencies of capitalism and the infallible righteousness of the invisible hand, but some old fashioned part of me expects artists to live by an oath of chastity, poverty, and obedience. Those who truly love their art will sacrifice monetary gain (even eschew it!) to gain ascetic purity, which in turn they can impart to their craft to achieve higher, more sublime forms of art. The ostentatious living displayed on shows such as MTV's Cribs or VH1's The Fabulous Life of don't help to assuage my reservations about moneyed artists, either.

Those fatty paychecks may be keeping atheletes in Louis Vuitton couture, Beverly Hills mansions and $5 million sports cars, but ironically, for me, all that money cheapens the game.

Two Men & A Baby

As regular readers know, I've been in rural China the last two and a half months helping to look after Danny while Joanna (accompanied by Phil) has been back in the States pushing eight pound Jeremiah through her birth canal (ouch!) The arrangement is basically that I take care of Danny, and he takes care of their apartment and gets it ready for their arrival.

As a result of some technicalities, the arrangement got a little shuffled up this week. Part of taking care of Danny is translating for him on a need-to-know basis (when he needs to know, I need to translate). (Truth be told, his Chinese is actually pretty impressive, and the times when he wants me to interpret are relatively few and far between.) As part of helping P & J, Danny went to the supermarket to buy diapers and baby wipes in preparation for the arrival of the three Yateses; I accompanied him to help to iron out particulars. So in essence, I ended up indirectly helping to set up for the baby. (Why this important or how it's relevant to anything I'm not sure, but I'm typed those sentences, and I decided I do not wish to delete them.)

Anyway, diapers haven't really made a big here in the PRC yet (unlike the Carpenters, and "I'm a Big, Big Girl in a Big, Big World"—both of which are inexplicably huge among the Chinese). Instead, most parents opt for pants with a big slit right between the cheeks. Whenever their babies have to defecate and/or urinate, they simply squat right in the middle of the street and unleash the contents of their bowels and/or bladders upon the public. It's unsanitary, but not necessarily any more unsanitary than most aspects of daily life here. (This, I think, is a fairly sad, but accurate, commentary on the state of the public sanitation of the Middle Kingdom.) I even saw a toddler peeing right in the middle of the airport once—in line at the ticket counter, probably the highest trafficked area! Imagine how many unsuspecting, unobservant shoes marched through that yellow puddle of filth, how many wheels of luggage rolled right on through, leaving a trail of urine in their wake.

This relative unpopularity of diapers means that most grocery stores have a pretty limited supply of these baby essentials. When Danny and I went to the first store to stock up, we cleared out the entire inventory of size M diapers. We literally purchased every single package of mediums available (which I think amounted to approximately 150 diapers). Not only did we clear out the entire shelf, but Danny felt that we needed to ask the manager to restock more diapers and ask when the shipment would arrive.

Imagine for a moment what this would look like in a typical American supermarket. Two men walk in, pillage the store of its entire diaper inventory, then request that an additional shipment be sent in ASAP to satisfy the waste management needs of what would look to be an entire orphanage of babies plagued by a fairly severe case of dysentery. Danny, being the easily embarrassed type that he is, felt rather uncomfortable receiving the attention of unoccupied employees as we waited for a worker to check the supply room for extra diapers and inquire about placing a special order to restock. (I, in contrast, am not so easily discomposed, and didn't mind the attention.)

In retrospect, I can understand that in rural China, it's unusual for anyone to purchase western style diapers, let alone two men who are not actually in possession of an infant. What did those workers think? Were we two foreign, gay men who had adopted a baby? Were we two kinky gay men who have a medium-sized diaper fetish? It's difficult for me to conjure up explanations that don't involve our being gay, kinky, or both. I truly doubt any of them guessed we are two straight friends who are watching over the apartment of an American couple who returned to the States to bear their child, and that we were simply procuring as many diapers as possible in anticipation of their return. (Sigh. Oh well: Ockham's razor.)

As we waited, all the idle employees (which totalled around seven or eight) gathered around us and inspected the items in our cart. Some picked the diapers up, examined the packages, then returned them. Some of the fuwuyuan were quite chatty, and asked things like "how do you say this in English?" while picking up boxes of powdered milk. There seemed to be a general, tacit understanding we were abberant enough to draw attention, but tolerant enough to invite questions and chit-chat.

I considered explaining the situation to them, but after a cost-benefit analysis, I decided that all the translating wouldn't have been worth the strain it could place on my already teeming and over-worked brain.

Danny recounted his version of our story^* to his mom, and she emailed him back. I found her reply charming enough to be reprinted. [Bold and underlining mine.]


From: Elsie L.
Date: Mar 26, 2007 2:10 PM
Subject: Re: funny story
To: Danny L.

I just receive your e-mail that sent 14 minutes ago, what a funny story. Remember the movie 3 men and a baby. Jackie Chan had a similar movie, this one he and another man kept the baby for a while, they had to learn how to take care of this baby, I think he cop[ied] here and there. I remember friends had the same story. Joey and Chanler left the baby on the bus. Jackie Chan is a copycat. When you go to HK, try to get 2 months, if they don't grant it, then ask for 1 month. Really ha[ve] to go to sleep!
Mom


*Hi Mom, here is a funny story to tell you. Joanna had told me to start stocking up diapers and babywipes at the supermarket so she'll have a lot when she arrives. So, JT and I went to the market one day looking for a lot of diapers.

It was very interesting going shopping for baby items. As you can imagine, you don't see two guys buying a bunch of diapers and babywipes very often...especially in ~. Soon, there were a group of female workers that gathered around us and I heard some talking and saying, "Why are the two men buying diapers?" and "why are they buying so much?" We took all Medium size diapers and put them in our cart. The female workers kept on picking up the things in our cart to see what we were buying. Some were giggling and some were whispering to themselves. I wondered if they thought JT and I had a baby together =O. And then one worker kept on telling me that Medium is too big and insist that I buy small. I kept on telling her that my friend wants Medium...and finally they stopped telling me to buy small. Then, when we were walking home with a big bag full of diapers, the people on the street were looking at us funny and thinking why are we buying so many diapers.

I talked to Phil today on the phone briefly and I told him that I bought a camera and asked him to bring it for me to ~. I think I've decided to go to Hong Kong in April to get my cavity taken care of and get a regular visa. Then, I will change my visa to a business visa with them later.

Danny

Self-Medicating

(Do you ever use these new terms that you know are gaining social currency without being sure of exactly what they mean? I do. I'm too lazy even to Google them to ascertain their exact definition. That's what's going on right now with my use of the term 'self-medicating,' but I'm pretty sure it means exactly what it sounds like.)

The past few days, Danny and I have been teaching class together. One of us serves as the head teacher, and the other mostly sits in the back and watches (if the helper is Danny), or studies Chinese (if the helper is I). When the students are given time to practice their dialogues, the helper walks around to monitor their progress, but in general does very little in the classroom. Accordingly, Danny and I decided that both of us do not actually need to attend classes together. Today he had an appointment with some government officials, so I was flying solo during the morning periods.

The students of one class in particular were a little out of control. I should have suspected trouble when they failed to rise and reply to my "good morning, class," with the traditional "good morning, Teacher." Usually, once I begin class with a salutation, (or simply "let's begin), the students all automatically stand up and greet me; they remain standing until I give permission for them to be seated. When one has grown accustomed to this routine at the beginning of every period, it's almost unsettling to watch them reply "hello" while still seated. It occurred to me that I should have demanded them to rise from their seats, but that seemed a little too ego-driven, so I let it slide.

The trouble continued during our lesson on "similarities and differences." During lesson planning for this week, Danny suggested that we bring pairs of students up to the front, and ask the rest of the class to name ways in which their two classmates were alike and dissimilar. When I called up the second pair (a boy and a girl), the rest of the class spontaneously began yelling "kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" It seemed funny and innocent enough at first (and I like it when students seem to be enjoying class—plus they shouting in English, so I had to give them credit for practicing simple commands).

After a while, however, this enthusiasm seemed disruptive (and demanding others to kiss really didn't seem like a practical oral English skill), so I tried to restore order and silence them with the time-honored technique of raising my index finger to my puckered lips and pushing air through my teeth. The students all squinted their eyes, and shushed me back (staring right at me!) Danny suggested that they were just confused, and thought we were doing a '"repeat after me" exercise, but I'm pretty sure they understood what they were doing. Their meaning was "shut the ₣^&% up."

When Danny returned at lunch time to the apartment, he found me watching Friends. I told him this was my cheap version of therapy. Self-prescribed. Self-administered. Self-medicated.

Lesson learned: Students need to stand when addressing a teacher! Sitting to greet the instructor is the first step on a slippery slope towards stoning intellectuals, scholars, and artists, or rounding them up, and corralling them into labor camps and communes. From here, it's only a stone's throw to complete dissolution of the social fabric.

Next time, my students will stand to greet me.

Kit: Cat? Student Profile #7

It's been a while since my last "student profile," nearly a year, in fact. I guess after the trauma and drama of "P.E." nothing else seemed blog-worthy. But now, after nearly 11 months of recovery and thousands of dollars and countless hours of therapy later, I am ready to resume
entries about students. And you know what? This one is really positive!

Kit is undoubtedly one of my favorite students here. (Teachers aren't supposed to have favorites, but during our summer English program I didn't teach in an "official" capacity, so I'm going to exempt myself from that sacred law. Moreover, I am definitely no longer an English teacher here to the students, so I guess Kit is really more of a friend, or "former student.") Danny likes to call him "Kit Cat." I think Danny just likes the pun on "Kit Kat" (the Nestlé wafer coated in chocolate). Danny says it's because Kit really does resemble a domestic feline. Your opinion?


[Please have some compassion and at least feign amusement with my creation. I spent somewhere between 1-2 hours working on that photo in Microsoft Paint—by no means the easiest photo alteration program, but it came free with my Dell. I am seriously looking into the student version of Adobe Photoshop. Once I get my hands on it, I'm sure I will be churning out real works of art. Anyway, I found it unduly difficult to make the ears look symmetrical, especially because the shape of Kit's hair is not perfectly symmetrical, so it was hard to position the ears.]

Kit, as one can see from the photo—or not, depending on whether one finds feline features attractive—is actually a very comely young man. But, as is so often the case with individuals of excellent disposition, his looks are outpaced by his other qualities. The simplest way for me to describe Kit (for those who have read A Separate Peace) is to say he is much like Phineas, except Chinese, and not at all as antagonistic toward school officials, or toward authority more generally.

For the benefit of those who need to brush up on their Knowles, Kit is a natural athlete who moves with wonderful speed and an almost ineffable grace, both of which are displayed to their fullest when he engages in his sport of choice, soccer (or "football" as it is known here). But, unlike the skills of so many who excel in the realm of sport, his mastery on the field is neither eclipsed by an invidious arrogance nor tainted by a supercilious treatment of less talented teammates and opponents. Much like his fictitious counterpart, Kit enjoys sport simply for sport's sake: he values athletic excellence while disdaining competition. After having observed Kit in action—and seeing him take as much pleasure in a well executed goal from his opponents as from his own team—I've concluded that, to him, playing soccer is just that: playing. First and foremost, it should be fun, entertaining, recreational. Other players' goal of winning distracts from the simple pleasures of play, and therefore adulterates the pure essence of sport.^*

That good players should enjoy competition seems natural: they can dominate in an activity—be it soccer, chess, dominoes, or bake offs—winning not only titles and distinctions, but money, and the respect and adoration of fans and colleagues. What is less natural (and so, perhaps more valuable simply by virtue of its scarcity) is the good player who does not seek to be a good competitor. He does not seek to be better than his peers, but desires for every player to be excellent. His satisfaction is derived not from victory, but from participation. He, therefore, achieves his goal each time he plays, whereas those of the competing ideology find success only when they 'win.'

It may seem odd that one who has never really enjoyed team or competitive sport should profile another who relishes it. Yet I think the reason I never really enjoyed most sports is the element of winning and losing (losing in particular) always seemed unsavory to me. When I am playing against friends, even when my own team "wins," my satisfaction is diminished by the knowledge that my friends are "losers"—and my actions directly contributed to the conferring of that undesirable designation upon them. So then, my admiration of one who eschews winning and losing alike, one who plays just to play, flows naturally from my aversion to sports as they are traditionally conceived and played in America.

As is often the case, I think I have (learned and subsequently) conveyed more about myself in preparing this piece than I have about the ostensible subject of this profile. But who's going to fault me for that?

And just because it's fun to see what one's friends would look like as different zoo animals (and because I really do have that much time on my hands here in China):


*Since this piece is presented entirely from my own perspective and is focused on a friend so agile, I was led to wonder if I am the Gene to Kit's Phineas. Am I jealous of his natural, easy athleticism at the same time that I admire it, and him for possessing it? Gene's answer is quite salient, but my own much less so. I won't dive into that question right now, but I wanted to let the reader know that this aspect of my analogy had not escaped me.

The Chicken or the Egg?

Which really did come first? Actually, I'm not here to answer these difficult, metaphysical quandaries. Instead, I simply want to present a step-by-step photographic guide to cooking and eating a chicken here in the less traveled parts of the Middle Kingdom.

Step one: Select your bird(s).
Step 2: If you are unwilling and/or unable to kill and defeather the poultry yourself, the chicken merchant usually has a friend who can do it for you at a nominal cost (about 25 cents).

Step 3: Take your dead, defeathered chicken home.

Step 4: Disassemble your bird. Oh, the butchery! (Over the last several weeks I have become exceptionally adept at dismembering poultry. Removing the breasts from the ribcage proved difficult at first, but through trial and error I found an effective method that minimizes the amount of meat left on the carcass.)

Step 5: Cook, according to taste. (Pictured below is my version of kungpao chicken).

Step 6: Enjoy!

Step 7: Dispose of leftovers.