conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a story titled Red China Blues about Red, China, Blues with the genre: Biographies & Memoirs, Historical.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Red China Blues: My Long March from Mao to Now (Anchor Books)[ RED CHINA BLUES: MY LONG MARCH FROM MAO TO NOW (ANCHOR BOOKS) ] By the author, Jan ( Author )May-19-1997 Paperback
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Red China Blues
  The Long Dong Silver episode of the Anita Hill — Clarence Thomas hearings was all over CNN at the time, but Dr. Long hadn't heard about the sexual-harassment controversy dogging the U.S. Supreme Court nominee. "The bigger the better, the longer the better," he boomed as other diners glanced our way. "Blacks have longer and bigger penises than whites."
  Some of his patients had been sent by their wives. Others got on his waiting list after their fiancées saw the goods and broke off the engagement. I remembered how my classmates had buried their burning faces in their laps during a population-control lecture at Big Joy Farm, and was glad that Chinese women had become more assertive. "Twenty years ago, if sexual relations were bad, women suffered their whole lives," he continued. "But today, if a young woman isn't happy, she just says, 'Bye-bye.' " He said the "bye-bye" part in English. The waitresses tittered behind their hands. Dr. Long invited us to visit his clinic the next morning.
  I wanted to tell him that Wuhan was a really swinging town. Instead I told him what Dr. Long had said about Chinese penis sizes and asked if he had ever paid attention back when he used public bathhouses.
  The next day, Dr. Long met us wearing a white surgical cap, a white coat and a broad smile. In his office we paged through before-and-after photos, lovingly displayed in blue brocade albums. After admiring his handiwork, we dipped into a shoebox full of fan mail. Then it was time to visit the ward.
  The next patient was a twenty-two-year-old metalworker from northwest China. He was awaiting surgery. "Drop your pants," Dr. Long ordered. I couldn't help myself. I stared in fascination. He had no pubic hair, and his penis was a mere half inch long.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me three more paragraphs.. End with the sentence '"'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: In 1973, the factory had virtually been in the farm fields. Now it was prime property, right across from Maxim's in the glittering World Trade Center, Beijing's tallest skyscraper. As we walked through the dank workshops where I had spent fifty days trying to reform my thinking, Zhao wanted to talk about real estate, not epistemology. "We're going to tear down all these buildings and put up skyscrapers," he said. "The subway will stop right underneath us."
  Several workers chuckled in disbelief when he introduced me as someone who had been there for "open-door schooling." Zhao mentioned that the workers now averaged 10,000 yuan ($1,200) a year in salary.
  I showed Zhao my ten-page "ideological summing-up," written just after I left Number One. It was the kind of soul-searching confession every Chinese wrote after a long stint of labor, except that I actually meant it. He stared at it as if it were a moon rock. "I hoped that through physical labor," I had written, "I could change my bourgeois world outlook to that of a proletarian world outlook."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Deng himself was conspicuous by his absence. He had been well enough to vote in a municipal election just a few days earlier, but no one really expected him to show up. Mao, after all, had purged him twice. And no doubt Deng held Mao responsible for the crippling of his eldest son.
  Party Chief Jiang reminded me of a grinning panda, with his rounded, black-rimmed glasses, his broad smile and his snugly tailored Mao suit. Under a gigantic portrait of Mao, he read his twenty-eight-page speech smoothly, his voice rising in a crescendo like a carnival barker's to indicate appropriate moments to applaud. The audience dutifully clapped nine times. Only once was Jiang disappointed – when he attacked corruption among high officials. Then there was silence.
  As he droned on, I scanned the choice first rows of the vast auditorium with my binoculars. I couldn't spot Jade Phoenix. I knew that to mark the centenary, she had gone to Beijing University a few weeks earlier to speak to an invitation-only audience about Mao. It was nothing titillating, just about how hard he had worked in his later years, but everyone had been curious to see what Mao's mistress was like.
  As I peered through my binoculars, I noted without surprise that Mao's descendants had not been allowed to sit on the stage. Seventeen years after the Great Helmsman's death, Deng still kept a tight rein on them. I spotted them in the first three rows. Mao's three surviving children were all there, his mentally ill son, Mao Anqing, in his wheelchair in the aisle, his two matronly daughters, Li Na and Li Min, in the first row. The four grandchildren, including the hotel clerk, sat in the second two rows. New World Mao was slumped over in the third row He looked like he was trying not to fall asleep.
  A military band closed the meeting with a rousing rendition of the "Internationale," still one of my favorite songs. "Arise, ye prisoners of starvation, Arise, ye wretched of the earth," I sang softly in Chinese, as some of the foreign correspondents around me gave me strange looks. I suddenly realized I was the only one actually singing in the Great Hall of the People. Even the four choirs were silent. I took off my Mao badge, and went home.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I took off my Mao badge, and went home. He had been well enough to vote in a municipal election just a few days earlier, but no one really expected him to show up. Mao, after all, had purged him twice. And no doubt Deng held Mao responsible for the crippling of his eldest son.
  Party Chief Jiang reminded me of a grinning panda, with his rounded, black-rimmed glasses, his broad smile and his snugly tailored Mao suit. Under a gigantic portrait of Mao, he read his twenty-eight-page speech smoothly, his voice rising in a crescendo like a carnival barker's to indicate appropriate moments to applaud. The audience dutifully clapped nine times. Only once was Jiang disappointed – when he attacked corruption among high officials. Then there was silence.
  As he droned on, I scanned the choice first rows of the vast auditorium with my binoculars. I couldn't spot Jade Phoenix. I knew that to mark the centenary, she had gone to Beijing University a few weeks earlier to speak to an invitation-only audience about Mao. It was nothing titillating, just about how hard he had worked in his later years, but everyone had been curious to see what Mao's mistress was like.
  As I peered through my binoculars, I noted without surprise that Mao's descendants had not been allowed to sit on the stage. Seventeen years after the Great Helmsman's death, Deng still kept a tight rein on them. I spotted them in the first three rows. Mao's three surviving children were all there, his mentally ill son, Mao Anqing, in his wheelchair in the aisle, his two matronly daughters, Li Na and Li Min, in the first row. The four grandchildren, including the hotel clerk, sat in the second two rows. New World Mao was slumped over in the third row He looked like he was trying not to fall asleep.
  A military band closed the meeting with a rousing rendition of the "Internationale," still one of my favorite songs. "Arise, ye prisoners of starvation, Arise, ye wretched of the earth," I sang softly in Chinese, as some of the foreign correspondents around me gave me strange looks. I suddenly realized I was the only one actually singing in the Great Hall of the People. Even the four choirs were silent.Deng himself was conspicuous by his absence.