Silly Taiwanese, Tricks Are for Kids!

-One of Taipei’s nicest hotels is called “One Star.” If I were spending millions of dollars to on an upscale hotel, I would not give it a name that implies “the epitome of shoddiness,” and “on par with a Kowloon hostel. Beware of rats and transients.”

-There’s a Cold Stone right outside Taipei Main Station! The odds of my father visiting just doubled.

-Inside Taipei’s Main Station, there’s a breast feeding room. It remains to be seen if this will effect the odds of my father visiting.

-People here can’t believe I don’t support either Manchester United or Chelsea. FOUR TIMES, I’ve had people ask me whether I supported Manchester United or Chelsea, and each time when I replied “neither,” they looked at me dumbfounded. They couldn’t comprehend how someone couldn’t support one of these two clubs. One of them was from Singapore, so I asked why he supported the team. He replied “because of the history.” Translation: they win a lot. This is why people hate Manchester United. 80% of their fanbase hails from the Far East and couldn’t point to Manchester on a map.

-Trucker hats apparently never went out in Taiwan. Apparently, for Taiwan’s female clubbing elite, these hats are considered requisite apparel. Also, it appears as if the more absurd the saying on one’s hat, the cooler one’s hat is. For example, thus far I’ve seen the following: 1) “Todo el futbol.” That doesn’t even make sense in Spanish. Todo es futbol maybe. But I also find it hard to believe this young lady of maybe 95 pounds knew anything about footie. Whore. 2) “I LOVE SUNDAY.” Nobody loves Sunday. Not even pastors. Sunday is bearable in the fall during the hours when (insert favorite NFL team) is playing/the Eucharist. When I think of Sunday, I think of headaches and homework. I do not heart Sunday. 3) “Around the Azteca.” Now, the only Azteca with which I’m familiar is Mexico’s national stadium. Is this hat referring to the shantytowns that make up most of the Districto Federale? Or are there delicious food stalls surrounding the stadium like at the Stade Gerland that are so tasty that a hat was made to commemorate the awesomeness? Or does this hat just have a few arbitrary words on it? 4) “MM Like Black.” I’m not sure who MM is. Perhaps these were the girls initials? Would this imply that she liked the color black in terms of clothing, or that she prefers to ski black diamonds? Or, well, lets just say daddy wouldn’t like my last hypothesis. And it’s probably the closest to the truth. 5) “Suicidal Tendencies” And I’m quite confident this 18 year old Jay Chou lover was not referring to the band. And for someone contemplating killing herself, she sure did smile a lot. 6) “CHE!” Finally, the ubiquitous Che T-shirt has become a trucker hat! I mean, he was already rolling around in his shallow grave in the Bolivian highlands when it became apparent that some evil corporation was making millions of capitalist pesos on his image. And, now, they’ve ventured into trucker hats: the ultimate anti-Communist piece of attire.

-So I’ve now been in China/Chinese-speaking entities for roughly three weeks. How many times now do you think I’ve consumed Chinese food? Guess?! Three! I’ve decided the best way to describe my Asian adventures through the lens of my gastronomic habits would be “a tour of all the American restaurants that I don’t actually go to in America.” In America, chain restaurants I visit frequently are Chipotle (duh), Chick-Fil-A (except on Sundays; once again, who loves Sundays?!), Quizno’s, Mellow Mushroom (duuuude), Brio, the OG, and Fromagecake factory in addition to my hole-in-the-wall Latino/Italian places. Here, on the other hand, I’m a regular at Subway, Chili’s (the new golfcourse) and Macaroni Grill. I can’t remember the last time I went to Macaroni Grill negli Stati Uniti (because I figure if I’m going to shell out that much cash, I might as well get authentic Italian cuisine. Though, I must say, their caprese is pretty divine). I even occasionally hit McDo and KFC here, something I would NEVER do in the States. I’ll be honest though, the latter two are just an excuse to get barbecue sauce to my mouth.

TALES OF SAN FRAN (Only Two Weeks Late)

Right after Las Vegas, I headed to San Francisco, ostensibly to catch a transpacific flight, but really it was to see the love of my life: Aleks Sedaazalarazsas (no, really, that’s how you spell his last name). Aleks and I are an interesting tandem because he, like, cares about people and stuff. He’s intelligent, but humble. He treats people of all races, political ideologies, and sexual orientations with respect. Clearly, we’re polar opposites, yet we remain friends for two reasons: a) Aleks is too kind to turn down a request for a rendezvous (for a period during our friendship I referred to him exclusively as “Kathy Bates” and now its Sandy which is short for Sandy Vag and he still hangs out with me!); b) we both love beer. Needless to say, our encounters are always amusing and memorable, and when our favorite androgynous Macanese punmaster Spiffy Tiffy is added to equation…well, actually its a lot less amusing than you’d expect. Whatever, I’ll let you be the judge!

Worst Idea of the Weekend (Even Worse than Anything We Conceived in Vegas. And There Were a Lot): Sandy is well aware of my affinity for Indian food, and he suggested what he considered to be an appropriate send-off meal (My flight left at 1 AM which allowed us to have a leisurely dinner before heading to SFO). He knew of a delicious, yet relatively inexpensive Indian buffet in the neighborhood which all but decided it. Three trips through the buffet line later, I knew I’d made an awful decision that was both inconsiderate to my healing nether-regions and to the passengers in my general vicinity. I popped a couple Gas-X (nice foresight, mom!) hoping that would stave off any leakage for the twelve hour flight to Hong Kong…erroneous! I provided enough gas myself to get that 747 to Hong Kong. After four hours writhing in pain, I decided to inconvenience my seatmate, ask her to let me out even though she was asleep, and finally relieve myself, for everyone’s sake. I figured it was the least I could do. And let me tell you, there’s nothing like the awkwardness after returning from a 20 minute bathroom break and the knowing glances that are exchanged. After that, I did the only sensible thing; I downed a couple Tylenol PM and prayed that I wouldn’t wake up until landing in Hong Kong, where I would promptly blame the gas on the rather unfortunately overweight girl sitting next to me. Word to the wise: if travelling with me, perhaps one should arrange separate transportation and rendezvous there.

Most Conspicuous Absence in the Bay Area: Sandy’s ardently feminist, occasionally violent, Hispanic (in the words of GOB Bluth, she’s one of our Mexican friends from Ecuador) girlfriend never made an appearance. I couldn’t really understand why. She must have been on her period, or something. (JOKE! GET IT, BECAUSE SHE’S A FEMINIST! She would’ve loved that one).

Coolest City Name: So all Chinese city names in North America suck. They’re all simple transliterations (hey, say these out loud in a funny Chinese accent, and then you’ll get the gist!). For example: Ao Lan Duo is Orlando; Ya Te Lan Da is Atlanta; La Si Wei Jia Si is Las Vegas. Most of the time they don’t even mean anything. But there is one exception (there are a few more, like they literally translate Phoenix, but they’re few and far between and nowhere cool as this one): San Francisco is Jiu Jin Shan. Wait, that doesn’t sound like San Francisco at all? Why? Because it means “the Old Gold Mountain!” Which is totally awesome! And in future brog posts, this city will only be referred to as “the Old Gold Mountain,” and will be said/read in a tone that conveys a sentiment of antiquity and mystique.

The Metamorphosis: On Sunday evening, Sandy and I had a pretty epic night at the bars, and we went back to my hotel room around 2 am for a nightcap, after which he headed home. Before I left my room again, Spiffy met me there the following morning. To the casual observer on the staff of the Intercontinental, it would seem as if I went to bed with a hulking Eastern European male and emerged with a petite Asian female who’s five foot on a good day only a few hours later. But, you know what, its San Francisco, I guarantee that’s not the first time that’s happened. That doesn’t even rank on the bizarre fetishes scale in SF.

Most Potentially Embarassing Moment: No, it wasn’t while we were on the BART when we all admitted that we watched both the Big Bang Theory (I heart physics jokes) and How I Met Your Mother (WWNPHD). It was while in San Francisco’s International Airport, where while watching the most recent episode of How I Met Your Mother, that I MISSED EVERY SINGLE BOARDING CALL. I had been waiting in the airport for two hours, yet still managed to be the last person to board the plane. And it was totally worth it to see Barney hook up with Robin. The Brog’s affinity towards BC-born Portugese girls is well-documented.

Another Brogpology: I’d like to apologize to the readers for endangering the Brog’s credibility by allowing Spiffy to write an entry. I was in the shower and she commandeered my computer and wrote what could have been the most Asian post ever. Evidently, Spiffy finds blogging incredibly difficult without pictures of food to aid her endeavors.

Worst Pun: Since all three of us are Sinophiles on varying levels (me being on the low end of the totem poll), China is a frequent topic of discussion. And when talking about China, it’s hard to avoid talking about Shenzhen: the city that transformed itself from an obscure fishing village to the richest city in the Mainland. Well, the influx of cash isn’t the only deluge that Shenzhen has experienced; prostitutes from all over the country have flooded Shenzhen trying to get a piece of the action. This prompted me to say: “So, they’ve traded their fishnets for, well, fishnets.” I don’t think Aleks has spoken to me since.

Least. Heterosexual. Parking. Ever: One joke? Maybe? Come on, its San Francisco! The parking in San Francisco is inherently less heterosexual than everywhere else, per capita wise! (well, other than Key West). FINE, I take it back. How about the parking sucked? Is that ok with everyone? Here’s where I was going with this: Jand and the Mexican wolf were actually in town for the weekend, and fortunately our paths crossed for two hours. However, an hour and a half of this was spent driving back from the airport (by the way, thanks again), dealing with SF’s totally straight traffic (meaning it sucked, see, we can make straight negative too!), and then looking for parking for no less than 45 minutes. Good times. This did allow us time to smoke cigarettes, but that was pretty much the only positive aspect of the experience. I cite bad karma (wow, I really shouldn’t use that word any more in light of the previous post) for our lack of luck, because these two should’ve come to Vegas in the first place.

Biggest Douche Maneuver: I’m pleased to announce that I will not be the recipient of this award (sorry to eliminate the suspense). So, it’s Sunday night, and Sandy and I are at bar number three, and they have one of those nouveau/touch-screen jukeboxes. You know, the kind that actually has music you want to hear. Well, it’s about 130 at this point, and we decided we were going to create a bitchin’ playlist to close out the night. We spent about ten bucks and the amalgam of our music tastes meant an eclectic, yet palatable mix (in other words, he prevented me from going off the deep-end with Korean Pop and Rai ‘n’ B selections) consisting of Lou Reed, Smashing Pumpkins, Pearl Jam, The Pogues, Johnny Cash, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and others. Just as we had finished creating what was truly an epic playlist, the bartender comes up and asks us, “hey, do you mind if we play my CD instead?” As I remember it, I groaned audibly; given my level of inebriation, this meant it probably appeared as if I’d throw a tantrum (and rightly so!). But Sandy is way too nice and he told the bartender that “sure, we’d love to hear your cd;” this is a decision we’d come to regret deeply. Our new friend the bartender’s band apparently only had one musical influence: Limp Bizkit. For the next half hour, we not only had to deal with C-rate rap metal (not to mention a decade too late), we had to listen to the guy belt out the lyrics, point out favorite parts, and break down the meaning of the songs. It was don’t care city, and I was the mayor; thanks for almost ruining the night, douche.

In San Fran, Even the Homeless Are Environmentally Conscious! Sandy decided that we were all going to take the bus to the Indian restaurant. Sandy clearly forgot that I do not do well with public transportation that does not run on rails. About ten minutes into the ride (I know, because I’d only complained about the smell once, and I was pretty proud of myself), pandemonium breaks loose outside of the bus. A homeless woman is screaming at an Asian man standing directly in front of me: “LITTERER, LITTERER! YOU THREW A PIECE OF GARBAGE OUT THE WINDOW, LITTERER!” The professional looking guy in front of me protests his innocence, and I believed him, because a) I would have seen it if he had and b) the LADY IS A CRACK HEAD. Well, monsieur asiatique’s response was not enough to assuage madame tete de craque, and she brought the Asian’s supposed indiscretion to the attention of her two male friends. She resumed screaming “LITTERER, LITTERER!” while I prayed for the bus to leave, so that I could finally laugh (for fear of my life, I had covered my mouth and pinched myself to avoid aggravating Team Mental Instability). Well, her male friend mistook “LITTERER” for another, more pejorative insult and began to berate the young man as well: “Yeah, COCKSUCKER!” The homeless man decided he had not gone far enough, and proceeded to call him, “you COCKSUCKER-ETTE!” What I interpreted from the situation was that, not only does the male crack head suspect that the young Asian man regularly performs oral sex on other men, but that the Asian is secretly a woman as well! This continued for honestly a minute as San Francisco gridlock prevented us from moving much to my horror/secret delight. Sandy later confided in me that he didn’t think I was going to make it. Neither did I. The moral of the story, kids: don’t do crack.

MVP: Spiffy didn’t stand a chance, this was Aleks’ from day one. Not only does Aleks hate prohibition, he totally would’ve had Chipotle with me, had he been there. That’s mega-minus puntos for Spiffy. AND, Aleks invited us to the bookstore where he works (ugh, how quintessentially liberal) and got us all books on the house, including Amy Chua’s latest, and a The Onion Anthology. Aleks: bought me beer. Spiffy: did not buy me beer. Aleks: procured books for me. Spiffy: did not procure books for me. Aleks: tells funny stories. Spiffy: makes me zone out her stories. Aleks: don’t have to strain my neck to talk to him. Spiffy: do have to strain my neck to talk to her. Easy choice. Winner: Aleks!

My Best Friend Lesley said, “Oh, He Just Bein’ SOS-sy!” (Read: Update)

-In what constitutes a drastic change of heart from the Brog, as indicated in the previous post, I have moved to Taiwan. The reasons for this unprecedented about-face are manifold, but one in particular was the driving force behind the demenagement: the Chinese government. I’m used to their quirks, but this most recent development was simply too much. As alluded to in other posts, the implementation of new visa limitations decreed that I’d be allowed to stay in the country for 30 days, then I’d have to return to the United States to have a new visa re-issued and that in and of itself wasn’t even guaranteed. In other words, I’d have to jump over a number of hurdles and spend copious amounts of moonneaay to…be unemployed. No, thank you.

-I went to Shanghai anyway, because, hell, I’d already paid for a roundtrip ticket and a visa; I figured I might as well use it. My time there solidified my decision, as the whole of the expat community seemed apprehensive. Furthermore, I was a VERY greedy panda and my actions last weekend could have lasting, drastic repercussions with your friend and mine Zhong Han. One of the major disadvantages of my Mainland exodus is that I left a number of good friends (people to karaoke with) for a place where I have no friends (no one to karaoke with). Oh well, a lack of foreign friends will be good for my Chinese. Or something.

-The decision to move to Taiwan was not an easy one, but in reality it was my only one. I couldn’t stay in Hong Kong unemployed because it’s just too expensive, they don’t speak Mandarin, and it’s WAY too close to Macao. This left Taiwan. It’s ironic that I moved back here because three years ago I vowed to NEVER return to the pseudo-nation (see, there I go again, I can’t stop!). I determined that my previous negative attitude Taiwan was due to situations that didn’t directly relate to the island, its people, or its culture. For example, though I made some very close friends (that’s the nicest thing I’ll ever say about you, Spiffy), in general I didn’t like the people around me. I lived in one small room with three Taiwanese students sans internet or television. My new line of thinking is that if I’m able to live in a single avec internet and television, the resulting “me-time” will save my sanity. As well, last time I lived way out in the burbs, which prevented me from having easy access to Indian, Italian, and Mexican food. Living in downtown will allow me to more effectively avoid Taiwanese food and the infamous “ass-sauce” in which everything is marinated. I’m sure that all of this is a completely erroneous line of thinking, but I’ve convinced myself its true which should keep me content for at least a month.

-Ok, I know that judging people based on stereotypes is wrong, but until I meet a Nigerian in China who isn’t a drug dealer, I’m going to have to perpetuate that one.

-I have been in China/Chinese entities for a week, but didn’t have Chinese food until yesterday and that’s just because I was at the airport and my food options were limited. I have had Indian five times (HK’s Indian buffets are second to none, and Shanghai’s Indian delivery is awesome, especially when I make Zhong Han pay for it while I nap).

-The pun-master, Spiffy, sent me this pun. And it is delicious: “Do you know those Hallmark bears that people use for Valentine’s Day and shit, that say things like, I love you BEARY much? There should be break up bears instead, that say things like, I find you unBEARable, or let’s put things on PAWS. Or more to the point, I WANT TO FUCK OTHER BEARS.”

-I dominated Macao (more on that later) walking away with about a grand (which made me feel a lot better about my 500 dollar Shanghai getaway), but the Macanese had the last laugh. It ate my phone, which made for an aggravating weekend of using “landlines.” How very 20th century. Macao note: apparently Macao has such a cash surplus thanks to staggering gambling revenues, that each citizen will receive roughly 700 USD just for existing. This isn’t a stimulus package either. Just a package. A “thanks for being Macanese” package. Ok, you got me, I just like saying Macanese. Macccaaaanese. Rolls off the tongue.

-I accidentally went the wrong way on the people mover at HKIA (hey, it was on the opposite side!) and fell flat on my face. Then rolled backwards. It was so bad people stopped and pointed. I then hid at a waiting area on the other side of the terminal until boarding.

-I got to see my brother Pete in Shanghai. So, now our three most recent rendezvous have been as follows: 1) Stuttgart strip club; 2) New Jersey country club; 3) Shanghai silk market. Next rendezvous: a FARC camp in southern Colombia? And nothing amused him and his wife more than the fact that I speak Chinese like a 21 year old girl (no, really, I do. And, yes, it is far more embarassing than, I don’t know, falling face first on a people mover in Hong Kong’s airport), which is why in Taiwan, I’m going to try and make guy friends so that I can learn male speech patterns. That way, when I’m talking about football, politics, guns, and bitches, my sentences won’t be littered with expressions like the Chinese equivalent of “Oh. My. God,” “Totally!” and “oh, you thilly goose!” Will improvements be made? No, which is why any job interview in Chinese MUST be taped.

-I’d also like to take this opportunity to announce I will be setting up an auxiliary blog, that will be, how do I say, not funny. And entirely self-indulgent. It’s going to be geared towards my parents and friends of my parents who want to see pretty pictures and stories that don’t involve me being an alcoholic sociopath. I’m not going to link to it (these two will remain entirely separate entities) and please don’t mention this blog in the other one, but if you’re interested, I’ll send you the link in a few days when it’s up, just let me know. You should know that the Brog will remain uncompromising in its disparagement of everything Chinese related, but I must warn you ahead of time, the other one might use words like “Chinese culture” and “fascinating” in the same sentence without any hint of irony.

Indian food time, ciao!

Where In The World Is Brogmen Sandiego? PART DEUX

-I’m no longer in Hong Kong, I’m seeking my calling elsewhere.

-This city has a Hooters. I have a T-shirt from here. I’ve been told I wear it too frequently.

-If you were to picture this country as a train station, this city would be right at the north end of the platform.

-I can hardly mention this area of the world without using the word “pseudo.” And, apparently it gets really annoying.

-If I told you I’d never hooked up with a Honduran girl in this city, I’d be lying.

-This city has quite possibly the worst designed metro in the history of modern cities. For example: this city has a downtown airport that’s not connected to the subway. Rame.

-Jay Chou calls this place home. Not rame.

-This is slightly emasculating, but I’ve cried in this city before. Though I’m a very emotional being in general, I rarely break down. But I did here. Why? Because of the condition of a member of my family , a friend, or a lover? No. Because Olympique Lyonnais lost in the Champions League that year: the one year they were arguably the best team in the tournament. And I bawled like an eight year old girl who realized that either her pony had a) died or b) is never coming, depending to which social class she belongs.

-I once vowed I’d never return to this place. Low and Behold, I’m here. Where am I?!

200th Post: Vegas/San Fran recap

Yes, I’m that unemployed that I’ve written 200 posts in the last few months. I’m sure my parents are beaming (whoops) with pride. Don’t be fooled by my sarcasm, I’ve saved an epic post for this momentous occasion. Stories, awards, and more from a little less than a week on the west coast.

After this inauspicious start, I’m surprised we left solvent. Or alive: Within five minutes of checking into our Vegas hotel, I had somehow lost my wallet. However, I remained ignorant of this fact until, while unpacking, I received a phone call on my room line informing me of this development. I incredulously checked my pockets, only to discover that the young lady on the other end of the line was indeed not pulling my chain (which would have been impossible in the first place because my No Fear wallet was at the front desk). I was simultaneously relieved and apprehensive because I’d just indulged in my first (of many) ATM trips and was fairly confident that I’d descend to the front desk to find my wallet depleted of all plastic and currency. As it would turn out, my fears were semi-justified; the $150 was nowhere to be found, but our thieves were apparently not foreign exchange experts as they left roughly a hundred dollars worth of Mao-bucks in my wallet. And, more importantly, though an act of mercy, my credit card remained. Now, here’s where I’m a bit skeptical; according to the valet, all of the following happened in FOUR minutes. Somewhere, I dropped my wallet/was pickpocketed, the American currency was removed from my wallet, which was then thrown “behind the bushes” (mind you, there’s an effing jungle surrounding this place), miraculously found by some stranger, and returned to the front desk, all before I had unpacked. In hindsight, perhaps I should have gone all CSI (hell, it is Vegas) on the valet and asked him to detail his whereabouts over the previous 5 minutes and provide a semen sample. HOLD ON, we’re not done yet. Within minutes of arriving at our hotel, J lost his car keys. I mean, these badboys vanished. After an hour of retracing steps and interrogating the suddenly unhelpful front desk, we were officially stymied. J then had to impose on his roommates in PHOENIX to drive up to Vegas for a night so as to not leave his car stranded. Men wiser than us would have packed it up right then and there.

Most Hilarious Cab Ride: On my way to the airport, I had the pleasure of the company of a young man named Laszlo. A friendly guy, he asked where I hailed from (peace up, O-town down!). I preemptively guessed his native land (half of Hungary is named Laszlo). Impressed, he felt that we’d forged some sort of bond, decided that I could be trusted, and proceeded to divulge his deepest secrets for the next ten minutes, including a debilitating coke addiction and rampant infidelity. If you assumed this was the most entertaining taxi journey at the hands of a cabby from an Eastern European country, you would be incorrect! From the airport, an elderly Romanian man (I believe his name was Ozone) took me to my hotel. Inquisitive, he asked me what my deal was, for he couldn’t understand why I had brought so much shit to Vegas. I reluctantly informed him that I was in the process of moving to China (I’m loathe to tell people because then, well, I have to talk to them). My new Romanian friend’s eyes lit up when I told him this, and he couldn’t wait to tell me about his very own Asian adventures (he obviously belongs to the ‘they all look alike’ camp). Turns out, my friend Ceausescu here was quite smitten with young Thai girls. He proceeded to tell me that his wife allows him to go to Thailand once a year (she’s ostensibly cognizant as to WHY her hubby is going) for purposes of two-holing. He then produced this gem: “Hey, my friend, do you know what is better than Viagra?”….”Eighteen-year olds!” Count it! He continued to recount his orient experience, claiming that he seduced this one girl who was just a “babysitter,” convinced this “virgin” to sleep with him for only 20 US a day, and incessantly claimed that she was not a hooker. I didn’t have the heart to tell the guy that not only was she DEFINITELY a prostitute (uhh, by definition!), but she also definitely wasn’t a virgin (tricksy Asians have ways to fake this). Upon arrival at my hotel, I attempted to remove myself from the car, but the driver asked me to “please, wait a minute.” At this point, I was officially weirded out. This guy has already demonstrated sexual deviousness, has he perhaps mistaken me for an 18 year old girl (long hair and a cups)? He opened his glove compartment, where he kept a whole stack of photos of his Thai conquests, replete with polls, miniskirts, a cups (!) and cooch shots. I left the cab chuckling, and with a sense of moral superiority, as Fong and I are the only two males I know who’ve been to Thailand haven’t screwed a babysitter.

Group Strategy: Wack, J, and I embraced an unorthodox strategy; a strategy I like to call the Three Musketeers strategy. As opposed to individualism, we embraced the Frenchie motto “all for one, and one for all” and opted to pool our money together in order to play truly as a team. It may sound corny, but it made for an incredible gambling experience. I’m no statistician, so I couldn’t tell you if it decreased/increased our odds, but my rudimentary analysis indicates there would be neither an advantage or a disadvantage odds-wise. However, it unequivocally provided us an advantage on the camaraderie level, because almost every hand provided at minimum a moral victory, and at best, a windfall of moonnneaaaay. This strategy also eliminated one of the most detrimental elements of buddy black jack: someone invariably loses more than his boys and has a crappier time. Because essentially this is a game of luck (barring extreme Asian-ness), the ‘loser’ player is determined arbitrarily by the cards and his exclusion wouldn’t necessarily translate into more victories for one’s partners. Obviously, this strategy can only be used with close friends where one can check his or her avarice at the door. But if you got friends that can handle sacrificing potentially larger gains for an enhanced game play, this option comes HIGHLY recommended.

If you are going to use this strategy, you need at least three people to embrace the following roles: the color guy, the coordinator, and the supervisor. Fortunately, each member of my Vegas crew embodied one of the three aforementioned personas. Wack was a perfect color guy; after most hands, he’d inform us what just happened on the previous hand. Now, if we were playing Go Fish, we’d lament such inane commentary and tell him to shut up, but while playing Vegas blackjack, this information was integral. Most of the time, each individual is concentrating so intently on his or her own hand as a result of copious amounts of booze/the plethora of other distracions that other player’s cards eventually seem inconsequential. When Wack would analyze all of our hands in relation to previous hands, it was easy for J to put things in perspective. J has the uncanny knack of “when to call it quits,” which is ironic considering he’s pretty much the worst at calling it quits at everything else (and by everything else, I mean Jack Daniels). He did an impeccable job of keeping avaricious motherfuckers like me and Wack from falling down the slippery slope that is “one more hand” or “let’s play till we all win.” J’s self-awareness allowed us to leave the table up more times than not. And, then, you need a coordinator; someone who knows the game, to make sure that people are doubling down on a soft 13 with a five up and splitting eights with a seven showing. The combined effect was a whirlwind of profits and, well, fun, and it prevents the infighting that can occur when one party wins obscene amounts of cash and another loses his shirt. In other words, if you’re in Vegas with folks you consider almost kin, I’d advise this strategy. You might not win as much individually, but your collective weekend will be beyond memorable.

Best Bailout Ever: Now, I’m not much of a clubber with a few exceptions (ok, pretty much only Belgrade and Taipei), but I had heard the women at Tao redefined fabulous, so when Wack told me we were on the list, I agreed to give it a shot and adorned my best shiny shirt, stripey tie, and from-disguising jacket. Little did I know that “on the list” meant a two hour wait and the number of boys in a party must equal the girls in said party (I really enjoyed when my middle-aged sister-in-law told me the secret of getting into this club two weeks later. Even at 39, she’s still way cooler than I am). I would hate to know what people who aren’t on “the list” have to go through. Even though we were not admitted into this Utopian haven for drunken sirens, the line outside provided us with plenty of satisfactory mental images. Put it this way, I’m an ornery, spoiled brat, and I remained entertained for a whole fifteen minutes in line before starting to whine. Almost every female managed to find that coveted equilibrium of club dress; you know, those outfits that leave little to the imagination, yet avoid the dreaded “slut” label. I was mesmerized by the bevy of attractive Asians, Blacks, White, Hispanics; it was almost as if the unfortunate looking girls didn’t get the memo, or they learned to apply make-up really well. I’ve been gushing about how unbelievably this collection of women were, but that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t wait in line for two hours for anything. Not Space Mountain; not food stamps; not nothing. So, we bailed and played blackjack and won lots of moooneaay. Whatever, the best case scenario in Tao was that I’d be slapped by some Korean girl that I accidentally hit on in Chinese. We don’t even want to probe into potential worst-case scenarios, but let’s leave it at most of them rhyme with “schmexual assault.”

Best Kanye West Impression: To J! After winning a collective grand or so, J wanted to be a Vegas badass. And, really, who can blame him? One isn’t supposed to be responsible with money one wins in Vegas. Do you ever hear people get up from the table and scream “this is going to my kid’s college fund!” Exactly. So, with the advent of heaps of disposable income, we find a table for six and order champagne for a measly 100 USD (it was ACTUALLY from Reims, so I didn’t feel that badly paying that much. If they’d given us Korbel, I might have spit it in the maitre’D’s face). We proceeded to order a number of costly concoctions (like Caipirinhas for this guy!). But who cares?! We were winning! (Side note: at 8 am, when we returned to roughly evening, I’ll tell you who cared: all of us).

Ok, so I can’t be eternally mad at the Hilton Grand Vacations Club staff: Team HGVC managed to turn a blind eye as the number of people sleeping in my room increased exponentially. The first night it was just me, and by the last one it was six (though, TECHNICALLY, I’m not sure if Wack or J slept), and neither the front desk nor the valets murmured a peep about it. Maybe because they STOLE 150 DOLLARS FROM ME! Speaking of the Hilton Grand Vacations Club…

The Roughriders Award for Separate Entities With the Same Names that Result in Mass Confusion: Ok, well that’s not quite an accurate award name; I’m pretty sure that “mass confusion” in the former sense would only apply to citizens of Ontario and Manitoba. Moving on: apparently, there are roughly (haha) four Hilton Grand Vacation Clubs in Las Vegas. Hey, Paris’ dad, we’re not all as on the ball as your daughter (meaning, we’re not mind readers), perhaps you could distinguish each HGVC with a variation of the name? Just a thought. Otherwise, you have situations like the one that J faced; he ended up frequenting all of the Vegas properties. Though, really, he should have known that the Brog’s birdwatching obsession would naturally make me gravitate towards the HGVC with the largest collection of waterfowl (the one behind the Flamingo).

The “Holy Grail” Award for Euphoria that was Never Attained: To Scores! Each night, we vowed to go to Scores (that would be Las Vegas’ most notorious strip club) and redefine awesomeness (ha!). However, we never managed to get anywhere near the infamous carriages (limousines) of doom. It’s not that there was a lack of desire from my counterparts (I always subtly suggested we continue to play blackjack, even though I may have secretly enjoyed my drunken friends make asses of themselves in front of fake titties while I mocked those unscrupulous whores…I mean, what?) J even forsook tipping our dealers to amass a gigantic stack of ones for our imminent trip to Scores. Oh, well, save ‘em for the next trip, and, once again, I’ll mask my conservative sensibilities and pretend like I want to go. (in a close second was the gallery at the Bellagio which I’ve vowed to go to twice now, and have managed to miss it thanks to debilitating hangovers; I also owe an apology to the aquarium at Mandalay Bay: it’s really pathetic that I never made it there even though I stayed at the hotel in December for FOUR DAYS).

You Thought I Was Annoying Last Trip…If you’ll recall, while in New York, Rodd and myself tended to say “monneaaay” like Stephen Abootmen of the WGA (World Canadian Bureau). Well, this was about six times worse in Las Vegas, a town that is based entirely on mooooneeaaay. At least once an hour, I’d utter something inane like “Hey, Wack, how are you doing on mooooneaaay?” Or, “hey, J, I’m low on mooooneeaaay.” I liked to think it never got old. I also have a warped perception of reality.

Worst. Vegas. Excuse. Ever: It’s not, “I was drunk,” “I thought that was legal here” or “she promised she was disease-free;” it’s “we can’t leave…but we have a drink coming.” Unless you’re counting cards, you can’t statistically predict your odds of winning upcoming hands. But every seasoned blackjack player knows tables run hot and cold. And every time I tell myself “but I don’t want to leave, I have a free drink coming!” I inevitably lose hundreds of dollars waiting for the 45 year old retired hooker to finish her smoke break and bring me my delicious cocktail.  Please, if you’re ever with me in Vegas, and we’re losing our shirts at BJ (teehehe), buy me a drink at the bar, and later on in the evening, your sage decision to retreat will be rewarded handsomely (what can I say, I’m a Francophile, I reward retreating).

That’s it for Vegas, there’ll be a San Fran recap tomorrow, so come back! Ciao.

Another Interactive Post: Who has the Worst Ailment Courtesy of China?

As you will recall, the culinary delicacies of Shandong Province tore my anus apart which I assumed would give me eternal street cred in the “China Bigtime Physically Screwed Me” Oneupsmanship Department. Little did I know a rival to my throne would manifest itself so close to home. It turns out, my partner in crime, Jand, during a routine check up discovered that he had a positive-TB skin test. Fortunately, he did not have full-blown consumption, but it does mean he has to take medicine that prevents him from drinking for up to 9 months (please note: he’s a non-Mormon in law school).  So, my question for you, the reader, who did China fuck worse? Me: 9 months of painful diarrhea/legitimate concerns of becoming anemic or Jand: having to deal with law school for nine months without the sauce? Your call.

Things I Me Gusta: Las Vegas

In honor of my visit later in the week to what I consider to be the embodiment of 21st century Americana, (LVNV), I shall recount for you a story from my previous visit in December that I promised a roooong time ago, in the dilatory fashion that you’ve come to expect from the Brog (translation: even more exaggeration than usual!)

This story begins at 2 am West Coast time. I had been getting slaughtered at the tables all night. Actually, I’d had a pretty terrible string of luck all weekend [come to think of it, I haven't had good luck at cards ever since I was cursed (no, I mean ACTUALLY cursed) by this Cambodian peasant after I promised that I'd buy whatever piece of crap she was selling, and then recanted...moving on]. I was down easily a couple grand, when my two friends returned from playing craps, informed me that they would be heading to Las Vegas’ most infamous strip club, Scores, and inquired if I’d like to join. The two had disappeared to that very palace of hedonism a few nights before (I declined); the stories it produced were epic, and since I really didn’t feel like going any further in the hole, this time I decided to tag along, in spite of my utter disdain for titty bars (no, really, I have quite the healthy aversion to them. Hell, I have enough vices as is, I really don’t need another). Las Vegas’ worst kept secret is that in the wee hours, strip clubs send limos to wait outside of the major casinos to transport customers to the grazing land gratis. I looked at my friends incredulously when they made me privy to this seemingly implausible tidbit, but much to my surprise, a few minutes later I’d find a wise guy was waiting just outside Mandalay Bay. He asked us where we’d be heading this evening, but I had a sneaking suspicion he already knew the answer.

We all piled into the back of the limo, and determined we were probably the only people all week who hadn’t done lines of coke in the backseat. I also made a mental note to wash my hands. We did take the opportunity to take a few photos replete with fob signs and inappropriate gestures, as well as ingest some aderol, because we definitely needed to enhance our focus to better concentrate on the diiiiirty titties.

Upon our arrival at Scores, we were immediately accosted by a number of very good looking, scantly-clad women. They ‘invited’ us to the bar (they were so friendly!), presumably to butter us up. Unfortunately for the one who had selected me (surprisingly, we, the customers, did not have a say), she was unaware that she had picked the biggest misanthrope in the city. She asked a number of prying questions that I deflected, and then asked if I wanted to go upstairs for what she called a “private dance.” Because I had some semblance of morals remaining, I was not at all aroused by the situation, and I’m a stingy motherfucker (and that would cost me at least three digits), I fed her vague excuses like “I’m waiting for my friend to return.” So she would not suspect that I was only toying with her, I began to ask her questions about her personal life. She informed me that she rides horses and she only strips in order to pay for the upkeep, though I suspect the only horse she’s riding is the white knight, if you know what I mean. The fact that she might not have been entirely honest first surfaced when she was unaware that the Beijing Olympics horse-related events would take place in Hong Kong (quarantine/threat to be stolen for glue-making reasons). An hour passed and the conversation repeated itself multiple times (this girl was huuwaaasted and her short term memory had obviously been affected), though I could see that she was growing impatient. I told her we should return to the main room to find my friends (she was apparently under the impression that we would be engaging in a three way). I found a seat next to my friend Rick, and struck up a conversation with my buddy, completely ignoring the exasperated hooker standing beside me. She, in her best little miss sassy pants voice, asked me: “so, are we going upstairs or not?” I paused for effect, then let out an exaggerated, nasal “naaaaaaaaah.” This did not make Slutty McPantiescomeoff happy. “You just wasted two hours of my time! You fucking elitist prick!” Well, I was to not be swayed, and I pretty much reaffirmed her accusation with my retort: “Whoah, someone broke 500 on her SAT verbal!” Whatever, it’s not like she was an actual human being.

Astonishingly enough, I wasn’t kicked out of the club, though I did stick near my two friends the rest of the evening in the main room. I allowed a few strippers the honor of giving me a lap dance, but as opposed to allowing them to create an environment of eroticism, I was entirely fascinated with the logistics of how these ladies make their stripper trips. I asked each ones about airfare, accommodations, the club’s take, etc. And of course “so, what’s your major?” Eventually, Rick spotted a stripper (there were like 200 in this room so it really was difficult to “spot” individual ones) that he HAD to make dance with me. Why? Because she’s Asian. I informed him that I’m in America now, and a brunette would be preferable. He pretended not to hear me, and eventually persuaded an Asian beauty to dance avec moi. I told her that I was proud that she had resisted the temptation of breast augmentation. She giggled. Maybe strippers do have souls.

Around five am, we ventured back to our hotel, ostensibly because my friend Birdie had a 7 am flight to catch, but really because I was one encounter with a courtesan away from being permanently banished (for condescension, not petting). Funny, the strip club didn’t offer the free limo service on the way back to our hotel: an oversight on our part that ran us 25 dollars. Rick and I said goodbye to our friends, but since we weren’t tired, opted to play some craps until fatigue set in. As you can imagine, at six in the morning on a Tuesday, we were the only folks at the craps table. Thank God because we redefined amateur hour. We were borderline incoherent, which meant every throw of the dice would wreak havoc on the various stacks of chips/the croupier’s glasses. We also epitomized obnoxiousness with our chants and high fives, which were even less amusing considering they would transpire after winning a paltry sum usually in the vicinity of ten dollars.

At about eight, Rick decided to retire, but I was still wired, so I ventured back to my bread and butter, BJ (tehehe), with a sizable amount of chips. And I decided that if I lost those, I’d just go to bed. Well, I didn’t. I finally went on a hot streak. A few hours later, people started to trickle into the casino, and upon seeing my mountain of chips, decided to sit down next to me. The dealers were ice cold, which meant everyone was winning and having a gay ole time. The urge to urinate overwhelmed me at one point, but afterwards, I couldn’t seem to find my blackjack table. This was problematic because I had upwards of 500 dollars on the table. Obviously, it would behoove me to claim this money. I end up having to call Rick, and less embarassed than I should have been, asked “do you remember where I was sitting?” As the song goes, “That’s what friends are for!’

Eventually, an adorable Korean girl sat down next to me with her Puerto Rican-Chinese (not making that up) friend and a Chinese dude who went to George Mason who told me his name no less than three times but that didn’t prevent me from continuing to call him “George Mason” for the rest of the afternoon. The Korean lass couldn’t speak much Engrish, but did she shuo the zhongwen? You bet! (this became the table’s lingua franca, much to the chagrin/bemusement of our dealers…fortunately, I know black jack terminology in Chinese thanks to WAY too many trips to Macao last year). I regaled her with the three phrases I know in Korean (”How are you?”, “I love you,” and “give me one beer please”). She didn’t have any chips, and I asked her why she wasn’t playing if she’s sitting at the table. She claimed to not have any money. Well, the bright guy that I am, I threw her a couple of 25 dollar chips (I thought I was up a couple hundred. Turns out I wasn’t. I definitely wasn’t). You see, I might not be a fan of actual prostitution, but I have no qualms with indirect prostitution (like paying for a movie, dinner, theme park entrance, or 20 or so hands of black jack). What I didn’t seem to realize is that I had to pack up my luggage, eat (hadn’t done that in about 16 waking hours), check out, get to the airport, and get on a plane in a little over three hours. Rick found me at six pm to tell me this, and only then did it dawn on me that I would be unable to pursue this delectable strumpet. Blast! She did give me bissous though, so I consider it a moral victory.

The next three hours were difficult. I apparently took a nap at the buffet (in the booth, I went horizontal on the bench and the maitre d’ even came to our table to make sure I was alive) and fell asleep standing up while trying to pack. No thanks to my antics, we made our redeye to Orlando. My dad picked us up at dawn, and he asked how the trip went. I nearly answered: “I almost hooked up with a girl and she wasn’t even a stripper!” (I was obviously still groggy and delirious). Instead, I just told him that I’d need a loan.

Here’s hoping this weekend can top even that.

So Apparently There Are Down Sides to Unemployment…

The most glaring example of the pitfalls of having no obligations and living at home is having to run errands for your mother like “take out the dog” or “drive to Alabama.” The former seems pretty reasonable, but the latter? I’ll explain: my parents got rid of the Brog’s mode of transportation of seven years, the Pathfinder and purchased my little sister an Explorer. Because everyone else in my family supposedly had “responsibilities,” it was deemed by someone higher up in the family hierarchy that I would make the solo trip from Orlando to Auburn, AL. And, honestly, it was lots of fun. I love solo road trips, because I can rock (sing way out of key) out to my bizarro music (most people would insist on a DJ change after this lineup: BoA, Digitalism, Chicago, Elva Hsiao, Rain, Passi, Stabbing Westward) and I’m allowed to be alone with my thoughts, sober, for an extended period fo time, which is always potentially pernicious to mankind, and makes for some good brogstorming. As well, the elitist in me finds the drive through rural Georgia and Alabama to be terrifyingly amusing (at any rest stop, I’m exposed as an outsider due to the fact that I actually ennunciate my words). Some highlights:

-There’s a town in southern Georgia called Ty-Ty. They either really like Beanie Babies or their founders were limited to a single monosyllabic utterance and it stuck.

-There’s also a town in Alabama, just across the river from Columbus, GA, called Phenix City. That’s not a typo. If I were going to name a town, I’d, I don’t know, consult a dictionary before putting up the signs.

-I definitely set the “most Korean pop listened to in one hour” record for the state of Alabama. The previous record was one song because I sent my brother the link to an Epik High song.

-The town of Tifton just north of Valdosta, GA (aka middle of effing nowhere) advertises itself as the “Reading Capital of the World.” Funny, I assumed that literacy would have been a prerequisite to being the Reading Capital of the World.

-About five hours into the drive, I started to get this really disturbing feeling. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but all of the sudden, something started to bug me. I was utterly perplexed; then I saw a sign that informed me Jimmy Carter’s birthplace was only a few miles away, and everything made sense.

-When I arrived at Auburn, the fraternity across the street from my bro’s apartment was having a party outside at which all one hundred sweet bros were dressed in the vain of Larry the Cable Guy with a plaid shirt sans sleeves, jeans, and a neon hunting hat. And this reaffirmed pretty much every stereotype I ever had about Alabama. Like Reese Witherspoon said in Sweet Home Alabama (fuck yeah I’ve seen that movie multiple times), “you should have to have a passport to come down here.”

-I jest, Auburn’s a pretty badass place. There is no adequate simile to describe the women of Auburn; the sororities of Auburn are the most effective cure for Asian fever I’ve ever found. And let’s not forget the BBQ. I just hope they let the Gators win this year.

Oh, God. Baseball Season. Again. Ugh. Couldn’t We Take a Summer Off? Like That Year They Went on Strike? That Was Awesome.

As has been indicated by previous posts, I’m clearly a sports enthusiast. However, my love for sports is not all-encompassing; I despise NASCAR (I contest that it’s not a sport; also, perhaps this a subconscious rejection of a prominent aspect of being a Southerner, a label from which I distance myself despite my birthplace), the biathlon, the WWE, and, most importantly, baseball. I hate baseball. Words cannot adequately describe the enmity that I possess for effing baseball.

The Brog prides itself in being patriotic, and recognizes that this entry is borderline blasphemous in that department. I appreciate baseball’s sizable contributions to our nation’s history and its place in Americana. Then again, I also admire what Dwight Eisenhower did for the US, but that doesn’t mean I make annual pilgrimages to his library. As a historical entity, I have no problems with baseball. My problems are with modern baseball; namely, that I am going to have to deal with the monotony that accompanies baseball season for the next six month. Awesome.

The way I feel about baseball is how the rest of the country feels about soccer; the sport is just so incredibly dull. I have tried to develop an appreciation for America’s past time on a number of occasions, but I can’t get over the fact that

a) The average game means absolutely nothing in a 162-game season. For the TB Rays, the last 81 games mean absolutely nothing. And you wonder why people don’t buy season tickets. The lack of importance of individual contest greatly reduces the passion that comes with sport (if you’ll notice, the number of games in a season and passion are inversely proportionate in American sports. College Basketball/Football/NFL- fewer games, people care. MLB, NBA, NHL- too many games, nobody cares).

b) The game requires so little athleticism. The fact that John Kruk was a perennial all-star in anything other than drunk tank appearances, sweating, or consumption of chew is laughable;

c) As far as the media is concerned, the only teams that exist are the Red Sox, the Yankees, the Braves and some team called the Cubs that apparently never wins. Ever;

d) The innumerable stoppages in play (especially any game with amulti-pitching changes in a single game) make it the epitome of booooring;

e) Baseball’s highlights aren’t even interesting. Top Plays on SportsCenter on a summer Wednesday go something like this: homerun to right field, diving catch, homerun to center, double play, omg the same guy hit another homer!, some guy caught a fly ball WHILE RUNNING, some guy hits a home run in San Fran into the bay and some douche on a kayak celebrates recovering the ball, fat dude in the stand with a funny sign about how no one shows up to Kansas City games, and, finally, A-Rod hits a home run, Scott van Pelt all but asks A-Rod for his hand in marriage, everyone goes to bed unhappy;

f) Jose Canseco;

g) If George W. Bush isn’t fit to run it, then I want nothing to do with it;

h) If Bud Selig is fit to run it, I want nothing to do with it;

i) It’s similar to cricket, and since cricket is officially the worst sport of all time, logic tells me baseball can’t be good.

j) Baseball brawls are pretty much the biggest letdown of all time, and when one worthy of praise occurs (Nolan Ryan anyone?), people act as if they’ve witnessed true anarchy. No, The Palace was anarchy (think the exact opposite of Hannah Montana). Bertuzzi was attempted murder (well, technically assault). Miami/FAU was mayhem (Swinging helmets, thats what I’m talking about!). Dyer/Bowyer was amusing (two teammates attacked each other and were both shown red. God Bless Newcastle football). Baseball skirmishes are pathetic (I’m looking at you, Robin Ventura).

k) Poor people can afford to attend baseball games. How woefully plebeian.

l) Talking heads can’t bring up baseball without droning on about steroids. I don’t care. Leave us alone. But noooo, they talked about it so much that they brought Congress in. The US Congress gets so little accomplished anyway. Did we really need them spending inordinate amounts of time determining who was a big bad liar when, I don’t know, millions don’t have health care, we have no idea how to fix social security (this is a lock box-free Brog), the economy is in shambles, we’re mired in a war we have no clue how to win. No, let’s concentrate on fucking baseball. Brilliant. If I run for office ever, this will be my platform: “Will not enact legislation pertaining to baseball.”

If anyone else would like to help me eliminate baseball from American culture, let me know!

“Diplomatic Immunity”

“A tale of deceit, betrayal, and funny French accents.”

Because I’ve been a tad depressed about Georgetown’s abysmal tourney performance, I’ve searched high and low for some semblance of solace; interestingly enough, I was able to find it in our arch rival, Syracuse University. Astonishingly enough, Syracuse was able to lose in even more ignominious fashion than Georgetown, losing to UMass, at home, blowing a 21 point lead. AND it was in the NIT, which makes it doubly embarrassing. I’d like to commemorate this epic crapping of the bed with a story that took place in Syracuse and constitutes what was simultaneously one of my finest and most idiotic moments.

I had ventured up to the ‘Cuse one fall weekend junior year for no other reason than the airfare was cheap and my friend BOS pleaded with me to visit in order to break up the monotony that is la vie en Upstate New York. I arrived on a Saturday morning, and we lazily spent the day watching college football and bitching about the weather (up to that point, I had failed miserably with my charge of livening up the Cuse campus). Nightfall arrived not a minute to soon, and the consumption of cheap booze (”stingy” is the name of the game in Orangeland) commenced so that we could be thoroughly pissed by the time we arrived at our final destination, a “condom” party (subtlety was not a strong suit amongst the Syracuse students). Though condoms were a-plenty, there was not a single girl there with which I would have liked to perform an act that would require a prophylactic. However, due to the plethora of ripe-for-parody Japs, we opted to stay and mock while praying that better looking girls would eventually arrive. A few beers later, the girls had somehow become even less attractive (I didn’t think that was possible, but let’s just say Syracuse girls are in a league of their own) and we finally gave up on the party that truly was the epitome of disappointing and called it a night. Rittre did we know that the night was only just beginning.

Just prior to when the decree to peace had been ratified by the dudes, I had opened a cold one. Not wanting to leave a wounded soldier (a fundamental Brog principle), I brought the beer along for the walk back to campus. I made a cursory examination of the street to ensure no cops were lurking, and deemed the situation to be kosher for alcohol intake. For not the first time in my life, my lazy eye failed me. Not twenty seconds after leaving condom central, I saw flashing lights out of the corner of my eye. Continuing with the night’s “conspicuous” theme, I not-so-subtly tossed my open canister into a nearby bush, then implored the heavens to strike the officers with temporary blindness. Apparently my request was a tad dilatory, because the two officers exited the car, pointed to me and another offender (BOS’s friend T-Cud with whom I now have a permanent bond as a result of this incident) and informed us that we needed to have a discussion. One officer approached me and asked if I had any identification. Without thinking (I mean, really, this was the opposite of well thought out), I instantly replied in the thickest of Parisian brogues, “but I do not have my passssseport!”

The concept of me being a French national was not the most absurd notion from the officer’s perspective for a number of reasons. I was dressed in a form-fitting black sweater (I was skinnier then), tight jeans, Kenneth Coles, and, most importantly, I was rocking an uber-greasy top knot. As well, though my French is far from perfect, my franglais is impeccable (A few tips for perfecting franglais: concentrate on intonation more than pronunciation, use a lot of french syntax like “there is” and “it is adjective that,” and use French cognates that are relatively obscure in English like “render,” “travail,” and “imperative.”). At that point, the officer had every right to be skeptical, because drunken douchebags probably try this once a week, but they were not prepared for an opponent as formidable as the Brog. I was drunk enough to make absurd declarations like the title of this entry, but sober enough to not blow my cover.

Unconvinced by one potentially contrived phrase, the officer pressed further: “You’re telling me that, in your wallet, there is no form of identification whatsoever.” Realizing that this aspect of the lie could easily be disproved, I conceded “Oui, I have my driving licence (that’s actually a false cognate, but the Syracuse police force doesn’t know that!), but I do not have my passeport for proving my, comment dit-on, diplomatique immunity?” Officer: “Get in the car.” At this point, any rational human being abandons the ruse and accepts the consequences of his or her actions. However, the Brog lives by a different motto: go big or go home. Because, in all actuality, I’m a huge wimp and, even though I frequently flaunt various regulations, I rarely get in trouble which meant at this point I was on the verge of tears in the back of the cop car. Fortunately, I was able to regain my composure before the next barrage of questions. The officer asked me to produce my driver’s license and my university card, so I obliged. At this point, my mind is racing. I have given them a Florida license and a Georgetown ID, both of which have a blatantly Irish name on it. The obvious question comes first: “Why the hell do you have a Florida driver’s license?” I expanded the web of deceit with this bomb of semi-truth: “Oh, my parents moved to Floreeda. You know, for zee weazer (that’s “weather” by the way).” With many questions still looming large, they continued; “How are you at Georgetown?” Thank God my floor sophomore year half consisted of English as a Second Language students, because I was quickly able to provide the following plausible answer: “I am zere (there) to learn Engleesh. At Georgetown, zere is a program called Engleesh for a Second Language.” The officers were still not satisfied, though I could feel they were growing more convinced of my portrayal of a confused Frenchman in a strange land: “Well, then how do you know these guys?” When in doubt, go with a half-truth: “Oh, I know heem (pointing to BOS) from Orlando. I did a study year of high school in zere.”

The questions abruptly stopped as the officer began to fill out my paperwork, followed by an eerie silence. However, this did not mean that my brain had stopped wandering; au contraire, my brain was developing a number of contingency lies for any potential questions they might ask. The one that plagued me was that these cops had yet to address the issue of my name, which just screams MICK! In a previous French class, I had learned that the region of Bretagne (Brittany) in France speaks a Gaelic-derived patois that is very similar to the Irish language. There is NO way they would know that the last names aren’t the same, and that excuse should be sufficient if they were to ask why I was French and had an Irish name. ‘What if they ask me for my French address and phone number? That’s easy, 96 Allée des Planes, Megève, 741** and 0450**9628 (I’m not letting you all prank call me)! But, shit, that’s not in Bretagne! Ok, ok, if they ask, my FAMILY is from Bretagne, but then we moved to the Haute-Savoie. Shit, what if they get me a translator? They’ll sniff out my un-Frenchness in minutes. What about if they ask what my father does for living that provides me with diplomatic immu….

At this moment, my train of thought was disrupted when the cop abrubtly turned around, and cryptically told me, “If you’re not really French, I’m going to kill you.” Now, mind you, I’m a horrendous poker player, so I’m quite confident that my eyes grew to the size of saucers and my mouth opened wide enough to fit a black, err, berry in it. Cognizant that a slip-up here could ruin the entire operation, I re-focused, adorned my face with a quizzical expression, and incredulously replied “What you mean, if I am French? I am from France, of course I am French.” When in doubt, and pretending to be a foreigner, give the most literal answer possible. The policemen returned to their paper work, and a few minutes later informed me that I had a court date for Tuesday. Up to this point, the goal had been as follows: “SOS, let’s get out of this so that somehow Mom doesn’t find out,” but with a court-date on the horizon, my parents were bound to be privy to my indiscretions (namely because I’d have to re-arrange my flights and incur sizable change penalties). In order to prevent divulging this incident to my parents, I went for one last power-play: the whiny foreigner plea, “Oh, but zat is impossible! I have to fly to Washington Monday to pass an examination. If I miss zee examination, my professeur will give me zee bad marks. I cannot stay here.”

Though God may have missed my earlier prayers, He came through with His patented divine intervention. How? The cops bought my apocryphal spiel and only issued me a $50 ticket! America, Fuck Yeah! They let me out of the car, reminded me that in America one cannot walk around with an open container of alcohol, and told me to remain out of trouble while I’m in town, because the next time they won’t be so lenient. I gave them a perfunctory “yessir,” barely able to contain my smug sense of self accomplishment while my mind was basking in the ignorance of Syracuse’s finest. The rest of the night was filled with jokes at their expense as we dined on some much-deserved Pita Pit on me. Considering the alternative was jail food, it was a small price to pay.

Epilogue: I haven’t returned to Syracuse since as a result of my rampant paranoia. And because Syracuse sucks. And can you get arrested for admitting to tricking the po-po in the blogosphere? I figure if rappers can admit to murder, I can claim (embedding the seed of doubt as to whether or not the previous events actually transpired, muahahha) to have engaged in a little police-related duplicity.