Return to Pegasus
It's 3:30 am here in the Paris of the East, and I've just returned from a romp at Pegasus, the nightclub famed for it's Thursday hip-hop nights. Of course (OF COURSE!) you'll remember that Pegasus was where I first ventured out into Shanghai when I arrived oh so many moons ago. Tonight marked my triumphant return, and since some of you have inquired about the various fun activities that are available out here, I'll go ahead and give you my layman's anthropological report:
Thursday nights at Pegasus is one of those few places in Shanghai where the ratio of expats to locals is about even. I arrived at around 11:30 by myself, and at the door immediately found myself immersed in a throng of young white males, otherwise known as Testoster-predators. After paying my 30 RMB cover ($4 US), I squeezed myself into the club and began searching in vain for my friends.
There's a Chinese adage that goes "ren shan ren hai," which literally translates to "people mountain people ocean," and it essentially connotes a place that is overflowing with human beings. This is Pegasus, or what I like to call "The Orgy of the Clothed." The dance floor is full of young people trying to dance, but looking more like fleshy-pink LEGO pieces, stretching each of their limbs into whatever open space is available.
The following are categories of people that compose the "ren shan ren hai" at the club:
1) Testoster-predators
2) Asian expats guys (usually from the States)
3) Local girls looking for (in order) Testoster-predators, Asian expats
4) Local girls who are too afraid to do anything but dance with their own friends
5) Local guys (these guys get shafted, because no one is looking for them)
6) Expat women (usually looking to just dance and nothing else)
7) Casual observors (like myself), also known as "Guys with no Game"
8) Hookers
I eventually found my friends, who managed to get one of the rare tables at the place. Draft beers are discounted tonight, so I gleefully order two for myself at 25 RMB a pop ($3). The fellas I'm with are all Asian expat guys, and as usual I find them surrounded by local girls, who are all donning the appropriate uniform for attracting men: Tank tops, cute hats, ugly boots, and shaved armpits (which unfortunately are still a rare occurence in Shanghai).
The dance floor is simply too overflowing to do any dancing, so a few of us sit at the table and try our best to look cool and disinterested. My method of doing this is to look up at the ceiling and furrow my brow, as if I'm scoping for locusts. I'm inept at engaging in small talk, so after doing the traditional male greeting (double hand-shake and a pound-on-the-back hug), I find myself observing representatives of the aforementioned demographic. The local girls who haven't been picked up by the predators and the Asian expats are standing off to the side, daintily smoking cigarettes, some bobbing their heads to the beat. The expat women who came to dance are indeed dancing, resigned to the fact that most men see them as either friends or simply impossible to sleep with, so they jive and jook in their own little worlds. The local men are trying desperately to look cool, but instead flail about like drowning fish, and many of them give up and huddle with each other, sort of like Ross Perot's Reform Party in American politics.
On this night, the predators and my friends are doing quite well. The guy who has it the best is Mike Lane, who's dad is white and mother is Chinese, and who can speak English. It doesn't hurt that he's well-built, charming, and good looking. He makes pains to introduce everyone to everyone else, especially his harem of hooched-out Shanghai-nese girls to all of us guys. They smile at me, but of course, I exude the most exquisite sense of undesirability, so they quickly move on and search for other men. This leaves me in the company of my beers, and a few of my friends' "girlfriends," who are willing to take time off from observing their boyfriends dancing with other girls to engage in polite small-talk with me. We talk about a variety of mundane things, from what kind of jobs they hold to how to get Ecstasy. I douse myself in beer.
Much like my first experience here, Pegasus does not hold much promise for me. Suddenly, the tone of the evening changes. An American master of ceremonies jumps on stage. He looks like a cross between 50 Cent and...well, from where I was sitting he looked like 50 Cent. I guess he was in the mood to add a little touch of down-home American chauvinism to China, as he began asking the crowd for volunteers to go up on stage and show off their G-strings. The familiar frat-house hooting fills up the dance hall, and one lucky (clueless) Chinese girl gets on stage and gets jiggy with the music, all the while slowly pulling her jeans down to reveal...
...of course, I don't know what she was revealing, because being the good Mormon boy that I am, I averted my eyes and began praying for her soul. But it must have been titillating, because everyone else around me was standing up to get a better view. Lord help them.
The evening got better because of one reason only: someone forgot to tell the DJ we were in China, and for a good hour or two he ran off a string of unbelievable hip hop that made me feel like I was back in the Velvet Lounge in San Francisco. Jason and Joe would have been proud. Like any jazz band that has to play standards like "My Funny Valentine" and "The Way You Look Tonight," any hip-hop club has to include the following: House of Pain "Jump," Nelly "Hot in Herrrrre," and N by N "Hip Hop Hooray." But after the standards, the DJ started getting fierce with Gangstarr (Full Clip, Mass Appeal - back to back!), Tribe (Wallet in El Segundo), KRS One (Step into a World)...and the grand-daddy of them all, the guy fucking played "Mr. Dobalina" by Del the Funkee Homosapien (who you guys know is my favorite MC of all time). I couldn't believe my ears, and I was on my feet the whole time, banging my left knee against the table and screaming at no one in particular.
Music is very soothing. As I got my coat to depart, leaving my friends to continue their mack, draped by local girls (or were some of them hookers? it's so hard to tell), I was happy that I felt like I was back home again. Now if only they served burritos at Pegasus.
Thursday nights at Pegasus is one of those few places in Shanghai where the ratio of expats to locals is about even. I arrived at around 11:30 by myself, and at the door immediately found myself immersed in a throng of young white males, otherwise known as Testoster-predators. After paying my 30 RMB cover ($4 US), I squeezed myself into the club and began searching in vain for my friends.
There's a Chinese adage that goes "ren shan ren hai," which literally translates to "people mountain people ocean," and it essentially connotes a place that is overflowing with human beings. This is Pegasus, or what I like to call "The Orgy of the Clothed." The dance floor is full of young people trying to dance, but looking more like fleshy-pink LEGO pieces, stretching each of their limbs into whatever open space is available.
The following are categories of people that compose the "ren shan ren hai" at the club:
1) Testoster-predators
2) Asian expats guys (usually from the States)
3) Local girls looking for (in order) Testoster-predators, Asian expats
4) Local girls who are too afraid to do anything but dance with their own friends
5) Local guys (these guys get shafted, because no one is looking for them)
6) Expat women (usually looking to just dance and nothing else)
7) Casual observors (like myself), also known as "Guys with no Game"
8) Hookers
I eventually found my friends, who managed to get one of the rare tables at the place. Draft beers are discounted tonight, so I gleefully order two for myself at 25 RMB a pop ($3). The fellas I'm with are all Asian expat guys, and as usual I find them surrounded by local girls, who are all donning the appropriate uniform for attracting men: Tank tops, cute hats, ugly boots, and shaved armpits (which unfortunately are still a rare occurence in Shanghai).
The dance floor is simply too overflowing to do any dancing, so a few of us sit at the table and try our best to look cool and disinterested. My method of doing this is to look up at the ceiling and furrow my brow, as if I'm scoping for locusts. I'm inept at engaging in small talk, so after doing the traditional male greeting (double hand-shake and a pound-on-the-back hug), I find myself observing representatives of the aforementioned demographic. The local girls who haven't been picked up by the predators and the Asian expats are standing off to the side, daintily smoking cigarettes, some bobbing their heads to the beat. The expat women who came to dance are indeed dancing, resigned to the fact that most men see them as either friends or simply impossible to sleep with, so they jive and jook in their own little worlds. The local men are trying desperately to look cool, but instead flail about like drowning fish, and many of them give up and huddle with each other, sort of like Ross Perot's Reform Party in American politics.
On this night, the predators and my friends are doing quite well. The guy who has it the best is Mike Lane, who's dad is white and mother is Chinese, and who can speak English. It doesn't hurt that he's well-built, charming, and good looking. He makes pains to introduce everyone to everyone else, especially his harem of hooched-out Shanghai-nese girls to all of us guys. They smile at me, but of course, I exude the most exquisite sense of undesirability, so they quickly move on and search for other men. This leaves me in the company of my beers, and a few of my friends' "girlfriends," who are willing to take time off from observing their boyfriends dancing with other girls to engage in polite small-talk with me. We talk about a variety of mundane things, from what kind of jobs they hold to how to get Ecstasy. I douse myself in beer.
Much like my first experience here, Pegasus does not hold much promise for me. Suddenly, the tone of the evening changes. An American master of ceremonies jumps on stage. He looks like a cross between 50 Cent and...well, from where I was sitting he looked like 50 Cent. I guess he was in the mood to add a little touch of down-home American chauvinism to China, as he began asking the crowd for volunteers to go up on stage and show off their G-strings. The familiar frat-house hooting fills up the dance hall, and one lucky (clueless) Chinese girl gets on stage and gets jiggy with the music, all the while slowly pulling her jeans down to reveal...
...of course, I don't know what she was revealing, because being the good Mormon boy that I am, I averted my eyes and began praying for her soul. But it must have been titillating, because everyone else around me was standing up to get a better view. Lord help them.
The evening got better because of one reason only: someone forgot to tell the DJ we were in China, and for a good hour or two he ran off a string of unbelievable hip hop that made me feel like I was back in the Velvet Lounge in San Francisco. Jason and Joe would have been proud. Like any jazz band that has to play standards like "My Funny Valentine" and "The Way You Look Tonight," any hip-hop club has to include the following: House of Pain "Jump," Nelly "Hot in Herrrrre," and N by N "Hip Hop Hooray." But after the standards, the DJ started getting fierce with Gangstarr (Full Clip, Mass Appeal - back to back!), Tribe (Wallet in El Segundo), KRS One (Step into a World)...and the grand-daddy of them all, the guy fucking played "Mr. Dobalina" by Del the Funkee Homosapien (who you guys know is my favorite MC of all time). I couldn't believe my ears, and I was on my feet the whole time, banging my left knee against the table and screaming at no one in particular.
Music is very soothing. As I got my coat to depart, leaving my friends to continue their mack, draped by local girls (or were some of them hookers? it's so hard to tell), I was happy that I felt like I was back home again. Now if only they served burritos at Pegasus.