"they were funky china men, from funky chinatown..."

this saturday, at long last, i lost my chinese new year virginity on little bourke street. (technically it was chinese new year's eve, but there were plenty of the requisite fireworks and roast ducks and drunk white people pretending like they actually know what's going on, so let's not get bogged down in semantics). i have tried to attend these festivities every year i've been in melbourne, but somehow they always slipped through my fingers. this year, lured by the promise of dumplings and william hung-style karaoke, i managed to fit it in to my busy schedule.

(note to all native english speakers, all 400-ish million of you: it's pronounced "sked-yool," not "shhhhed-yool." do we pronounce schizophrenia "shitzophrenia?" no, we do not. and don't even get me started on aluminIum. it was aluminum first. actually, it was alumium first, so maybe we should cut our losses and all go back to the original sir humphry davy spelling, but i digress).

despite the fact that we were in the middle of a chinese new year's eve celebration, we found it difficult to actually locate an inexpensive, uncomplicated dumpling establishment. we managed to purchase some spring rolls to suppress our hunger pains and watched as much karaoke as we could stomach (approx. 4 minutes...melbourne's hidden talent must have stayed far, far underground that night) before continuing on our search for the dumpling holy grail. did we find it? no, but we did manage to locate a generically-named, yet oddly inviting restaurant where we devoured some acceptable dumplings, salt & pepper squid, and cheap champagne. (note: the mother of all dumpling establishments is apparently located here, but it eluded us that evening as it is stealthily located in one of the melb's many hidden alleyways). the upside was that they set off firecrackers in front of the restaurant door and one of the chinese lions strolled by in costume, so we got our taste of authenticity.

we decided not to stay for the parade as we had more important places to be. by that i mean we were headed to everyone's favourite cabaret lounge/burlesque club/obsessive-compulsive's nightmare, the butterfly club. i have put much thought into how i could possibly describe this unique establishment, and have come up with the following: imagine your stereotypical knickknack-collecting kooky old maid. now imagine she's the beard for a much younger gay man a la liza minelli and david gest. throw in a few tabs of acid and a dash of the sex & the city episode where stanford dates the guy with the creepy doll collection and i think you might start to get the picture. let's just say i drank sparkling red wine, conversed with a waiter clad only in pants and a shirtfront, and eavesdropped on a ridiculously pretentious conversation about edith piaf. it was my first time visiting the butterfly club, but i have no doubt that it won't be my last. who can resist a self-proclaimed "doll-house sized windsor castle of camp kitsch and good times?"

i'd also like to say that this post strayed far, far away from it's original intent. at this point, i suppose that the title is a bit misleading, but then again i will jump on any opportunity to quote carl douglas's "kung fu fighting."