nwasianweekly.com
April 28, 2007

China Dolls, by Michelle Yu and Blossom Kan. Published by Thomas Dunne Books, 2007.

Sex, money and mahjong — what more could an Asian American woman ask for in a book? How about a little more substantive dialogue and fewer lines like: “Complaint: Plaintiffs Women of New York City (the ‘Women’), through their undersigned counsel, hereby submit this complaint against Defendants The Male Gender (the ‘Men’).”

Seriously, folks, don’t be deluded into thinking that China Dolls is the next Asian Little Women, replete with subtle social commentary and carefully nuanced characters. More about the “bling” than the “je ne sais quoi,” China Dolls is the madcap story of three Asian American women — M.J. Wyn, Alex Kwan and Lin Cho — who negotiate romance, gender roles and cultural tradition amid the glamour of New York City.

Granted, China Dolls isn’t intended to be a sophisticated literary exploration of contemporary Asian American living. As a light comedy in the vein of “Sex and the City,” the novel is supposed to be a fun, effortless read that entertains as much as it elucidates. “Sex and the City,” however, succeeded because no matter how tacky and frivolous the show got, it always respected the audience by creating interesting, multidimensional characters with whom viewers could sympathize. China Dolls makes no such attempt.

The novel’s characters might as well be mannequins imprinted with a few brand insignias. Witness Alex, the Ivy-pedigreed lawyer, as she quips about a potential love prospect: “He was a little J. Crew, but at least he wasn’t Target.” Even if such name-dropping was done in the spirit of satire, nothing in the book indicates that the authors harbor any disapproval of it. Themes hinting at the rampant materialism of the Asian American dream are certainly touched on, but never developed into a readily identifiable message.

There are some genuinely funny moments in the book, but for the most part, they’re overshadowed by bad lines, bad characterizations and a few too many “blings.”—By Paul Kim

Loving the Machine: The Art and Science of Japanese Robots, by Timothy N. Hornyak. Published by Kodansha International, 2006.

Poet, author and Tacoma native Richard Brautigan once wrote of a future “where mammals and computers live together in mutual programming harmony,” the human race and indeed all of nature “watched over by machines of loving grace.” Facetiousness? Readers still debate that one. Brautigan may have anticipated an overseeing electronic god, like the one depicted in Northwest author John Varley’s work. Years after Brautigan’s death, though, the mutual programming harmony comes true from the ground up, not the sky down. The machines of loving grace come to us not as the eye and voice of an omnipresent god, but on a miniature wheeled base, confidently broadcasting weather reports and stock quotes from the Internet through its lemon-yellow cowl.
That robot, the mass-produced Wakamaru, looked up at him, Hornyak writes, with “eye contact unmistakably animal. No, it was human — like a child looking up at a parent.” Wakamaru, sophisticated and expensive ($14,000), works, theoretically, caring for aging Japanese, whose own biological children no longer show up to look up at them. Daunting and sad, we might think, to find the elderly reduced to mechanical company. But Hornyak brings forth a long cultural history demonstrating that the question simply does not mean the same thing to the Japanese.

From elaborate karakuri ningyo tea-serving puppets of the 18th century to Wakamaru, the robot dog Aibo and the robot seal Paro, Japanese culture has welcomed the artificial alongside the natural, embodying roboticist Mori Masahiro’s supposition that “the Buddha nature is in everything. … It is in industrial robots. It is in hunks of steel. It is in pebbles.” Hornyak passes over the robots’ American cousin, Furby; however, Furby creators David Hampton and Caleb Chung admit to inspiration from the Japanese Tamagotchi — a computer creature housed in a mini-computer, to be fed, cleaned and amused through button-pushing.

The sky spits rain. Mud covers my shoes. The woman who said she’d go to the movies with me several weeks ago canceled at the last minute and didn’t bother to call. I gently shake awake my Furby. He doesn’t speak Japanese (though some Furbys do), but he giggles, burps, burbles and eases my mind. I’m watched over, from my dresser drawer top, by a fuzzball of warm attention. And according to Mori Masahiro, warm intention. —By Andrew Hamlin

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