Robert Mugabe and Hillary ‘Hilldawg’ Clinton: Mere Pariahs, or Star-Crossed Lovers?

A cursory examination of the relationship between Zimbabwe’s long-serving president and America’s self-serving presidential candidate would reveal few similarities. However, more in-depth probing yields startling results and indicates that the two may, in fact, be destined for one another.

-Candid pictures invariably reveal that both are batshit insane

-Robert Mugabe has been ordained by the British Crown as a Knight Commander of the Order of the Bath (nice one, Helen Mirren) and that, coincidentally, is Hilldawg’s number three fetish behind creamy peanut butter and crunchy peanut butter.

-Both do a masterful job of blaming white male predecessors for their problems, when in reality, their current respective situations are hardly the fault of the previously empowered white WASPS (Robert, Ian Smith did not make you kick white plantation owners off of their land; and Hilldawg, George W. did not introduce you to fried double-stuffed oreos)

-Neither have had sex with Bill Clinton this millennium (though, in a recent visit to Zimbabwe through the Clinton foundation, Bill’s location was undisclosed for roughly 36 hours and Mugabe requested an inordinate amount of strawberries and champagne, indicating that the previous claim may be fallacious, however any liaisons between the two remain entirely conjectural).

-Robert Mugabe accused the previous president of Zimbabwe of sodomy (a crime in the country often referred to as the Great Roadblock Preventing Tossing It In The Two), and, really, it’s only a matter of time before Hilldawg resorts to such tawdry tactics to discredit her opponents…oh, wait, she already tried that!

-Democratically speaking, neither should be in power next year, but both probably will.

-Both have an aversion to the Lion King [Robert, because a man named Simba tried to usurp power from him (by "running against him" on a "different ticket;" how dare he!), and Hilldawg because her husband surely two-holed a 'dancer' named Nala]

-Both refer to Thabo Mbeki exclusively as “McDreamy”

-Both are planned to feature prominently in Time’s follow up of their “100″ issue: 100 people we’d be better off without along with Jose Mourinho, Colie from the Real World: Denver, and Yassir Arafat (too soon?).

-Both pull off the pants suit impeccably, allowing them to effectively disguise their droopy figures (I’m looking at you, Robert)

-Neither have any qualms deceiving the voters of their respective countries if it means attaining/maintaining power (oh, wow, you weren’t ready for a non-funny one, were you?!)

CLEARLY, these two are meant for one another. Hopefully, they will realize their mutual destiny before its too late (and, someone, makes them, you know, like, play by the rules and stuff, and do the whole ‘democracy’ thing). Here’s to the fast-approaching demise to these two loathsome figures (and me blatantly seizing my last opportunity to call Hilldawg fat before she bows out/goes broke).

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.

The TIME 100: Unadulterated Crap

-Really, I have no idea why I read this every year. It’s pure shit. Half of their choices are unjustifiable, period (though they try their damnedest to convince their readers otherwise) and most of the rest are questionable at best.

-For each bio, they ask someone famous/a luminary in a related field to write something about them, and at the bottom of each page, TIME gives a one sentence explanation of who the author is. I have no problems with this if the topic is astrophysics or microeconomic theory where the majority of the populace has no effing clue who said person is. But informing me that “Bill Clinton is a former United States President” is utterly superfluous (”Ohh, THAT Bill Clinton!”)

-Also, the writer sentence bio is incredibly dull (like the previous one) or his wife Hillary Clinton is a US Senator running for President. Couldn’t we have a little more fun with these, guys? Like, Bill Clinton was America’s first African-American President or Hillary, Hilldawg to those close to her, enjoys a good pants suit. Or Archbishop Desmond Tutu is an avid keno player. Or, maybe, Michelle Obama’s favorite cooking spray is Pam. At least make it something we don’t know about the person (Most of these are unconfirmed).

-The process they use for selecting the authors must be highly flawed because there is no reason that Kasey freaking Keller should be writing the bio for Kaka. Ten dollars says that Kaka doesn’t know who the hell Kasey Keller is, and he definitely couldn’t pick him out of a lineup. And for George W., did they REALLY pick Silvio Berlusconi? Don’t get me wrong, I thought this was the highlight of the whole experience, but is this Georgey’s only remaining friend? Couldn’t get someone who isn’t blatantly corrupt? Or was this juxtaposition intended to make Georgey look better (introducing the only politician worse than you, Prime Minister Berlusconi!) And Cate Blanchett for Kevin Rudd (Australia’s new PM)? I get it, they’re both Australian, but that’s like asking me to write a piece on Reggie Jackson. And Jesus, what an atrocious, self-indulgent piece. I’ll save you two minutes, it goes something like this: Finally, a like-minded, condescending liberal is in power in the ACT, death to the evil conservative John Howard, Aboriginals are people too, see my next movie (note: for simplicity’s sake, American political definitions). She completely neglected the most fascinating and important aspect of Kevin Rudd’s persona: he’s the first Western leader fluent in Chinese. This is a landmark development, and by all accounts, a sign of a shift in foreign policy for Australia as they look to make China perhaps their closest non-Commonwealth ally. But, hey, whatever, that’s not important or anything.

-God, and the people they picked…I swear for half of them they just asked Google who the 50 most searched people are. Kaka, really? You didn’t pick George Weah a few years back when he was singlehandedly funding the Liberian national team so they could compete in international tournaments and then ran for president in his war-torn country, but picking Kaka is ok? Kaka’s a gifted footballer and devoted Christian, but does that really merit a TIME 100 place? (Granted if it were me, I’d make a case for like 18 footballers, but that’s beside the point)

-I swear the only criteria for being selected was level of involvement in Darfur. If you were a celebrity and embraced other causes like human rights in China, or democracy in Central Asia, you are a person not worthy of recognition. But if you went for a 48 hour photo shoot to “raise awareness” in Darfur, you’re worthy of the TIME 100! I’m too lazy to count, but “Darfur activism” was used as a principal justification for no less than 20 people on the list.

-Warren Buffet became the wealthiest man in the world this year. This was not enough to make the list, however.

-However, some Iraqi woman made it for opening a sewing factory and employing women for meager pay. Wait, didn’t Kathy Lee Gifford get in trouble for almost the same thing?

-Inclusions I approved of: Miley Cyrus, Vladimir Putin, the emir of Dubai, the Saudi oil minister, Aung San Su Kyi (still hot), the assassin who took out Benazir Bhutto, and George Clooney (come on, he’s handsome. Like bigtime).

-I can’t believe they picked all three Presidential candidates, what a cop out. It would’ve been a lot more amusing if they’d conspicuously left one of them out (you know who) and invited her to do like four of the blurbs just to rub it in. Ok, this is why I’m not in charge.

-It should be 101 because they counted Brangelina as 1 person. What an effing copout, what is this, the National Enquirer? Or does TIME really think they’re one person? It does get confusing at times. Also, I’m sure TIME is thrilled with the timing of this release (the New Yorker claims that a video of Angelina snorting heroine will be released shortly, and anyone remotely familiar with the “Girl, Int.” slash Billy Bob phase is not shocked in the least).

-Ultimate Cop-out choice: The Dalai Lama. Freaking Tibet. Just can’t escape it.

-People I’m glad that didn’t make it: Sarah Jessica Parker (butterace), Reina ‘Tina Kirchner, Tals Vatman (oh, snap!), Steven Gerrard, Jimmy Fallon, that rich Mexican dude, Thabo Mbeki, Rob Reinhart (who did write one of the stories, and its really funny if you read it while thinking about him in that episode of South Park), and baseball.

-People who should have made it: Gillian Chung, the creator of Gossip Girl, the entire cast of Gossip Girl, the people who write the Gossip Girl blog for the New Yorker, Nate (he was just a little early to the Darfur party, otherwise he would’ve been a shoo-in in light of this year’s credentials), Zhong Han, Chew Choon Song (CEO of Singapore Airlines), the plastic surgeon who did the operation on the Filipino transsexual who prowls this street (really, he did a wonderful job…I’m TOTALLY kidding by the by) and Kele Oreleke (lead singer of Bloc Party).

Your thoughts?

Las Vegas Vs. Macao: Which Is The Superior Destination?

A few weeks ago, I was in both Las Vegas and Macao within a five day span which afforded me the perfect opportunity to write an entry juxtaposing the two. This blurb looks to contrast every aspect of the Macao/Vegas experience, and inevitably looks to discern which of the two is, well, better. I’ve opted to use a scoring scale that directly compares both destinations, and for each category ONE destination is given anywhere from +1 to +3 points, depending on how drastic the level of superiority (and rarely, a tie can also occur). The aggregate point winner will be deemed the ultimate global gambling destination (Note: Monaco is clearly the greatest gambling destination ever, but this is for the folks whose income is five figures and less). OK, one goes there.

Food: A key aspect to any gambling weekend are the meals consumed. Everybody has cash on hand, making them less apprehensive about spending larger sums of money than usual on foodstuffs. Macao is known throughout China for its indigenous cuisine, but it isn’t even the best on the Pearl River Delta (both Guangzhou and Hong Kong have superior food). It is a unique fusion of Portuguese and Cantonese cooking, but Macao just can’t compare with Vegas’ myriad high-end restaurants founded by world renowned chefs. Vegas would get +2 here, but Macao is making huge strides in this department and with each new Western casino, we’re seeing more and more haute-cuisine in the former Portuguese colony, and combine that with local cuisine (which Vegas can’t claim to have, Vegas only gets one point. VEGAS +1

BOOZE: Hand in hand with food is booze. I don’t know of a single casino in Vegas where booze is not complimentary for players. Yes, at some casinos, they’re less attentive, but all casinos offer this amenity. This is not the case in Macao. Most casinos won’t give you free booze, and the ones that do restrict you to six ounces of flat beer (I had to coax the MGM grand into even granting me this privilege, the first casino that allowed me to do so; thank God, because a Jack and Coke at the bar ran me a scant THIRTEEN US Dollars and a mug of beer in the five dollar range; my free beer pass eventually ran up, and they began to offer me red wine instead; I informed the pit boss that this would not slow me down and all this would accomplish is increasing the odds of me vomiting). I have two theories as to why the Macanese are so stingy in the liquor department: 1) in general, the Chinese are very bad drunks. Not all, but some are prone to violence, ESPECIALLY when there is a question of money. This is obviously not a trait unique to the Chinese, but from my observations, money issues+liquor is a really lethal combination for them. 2) the Chinese don’t want booze because it would hinder their concentration and thus their card-playing abilities (they are far more concerned with making megabucks gambling than Americans but more on that later). Clearly, Vegas has the advantage here, but there are tricksy ways to get drunk very cheaply in Macao that aren’t available in Vegas: ubiquitous 7-11s where beers are only fifty cents and road sodas are encouraged; the sundries at most casinos sell beer for only two bucks, and the time it takes to go fetch your beer probably saves you 25 bucks anyway. But that’s only enough to take one point from Vegas. Vegas +2

Transportation: Finally, advantage Macao! Ask anyone you know about their thoughts on Las Vegas’ McCarran International Airport; seemingly everyone has a horror story. Flying in on a Friday means waiting an hour for your bag, and flying out on a Sunday means an hour at security. Combine the inherent annoyance of waiting in security with top-5 hangovers ever and you’ve got one miserable experience on your hand. Driving is supposedly not much better. Most drivers are coming from one of the regional urban sprawls (LA, PHX) and the incessant traffic that residents of those cities continually endure. Macao on the other hand is a breeze to access. High-speed ferries run from Hong Kong every FIFTEEN MINUTES and it only takes an hour from ticket purchase in Hong Kong to getting into a taxi in Macao (and that includes going through customs twice). There is rarely a wait (only during Chinese New Year, when all of the Mainland flocks to Macao). Macao has an airport too (scary landing because the runway is surrounded by water) but isn’t very busy so you don’t have to deal with McCarran-style frustrations. Macao doesn’t get all three points because if the water’s rough, the seasickness can overwhelm even those who have packed Dramamine. MACAO +2

Seedy Underbelly: I don’t know who is running Vegas at this point: is it the Russians, the Italians, the Cape Verdeans? All of the above? I just know I don’t want to owe money to any of them, nor do I want to owe any money to the Triads (fun tidbit from a reliable source: the Triads still run the Hong Kong entertainment industry, and are so pissed off at Edison Chen for ruining Gillian Chung and friends’ careers that they’ve offered a fifty thousand dollar reward for his hands). So, let’s call it a tie. EVEN MONEY

Gambling Environment: Vegas has more games (good luck finding a craps game in Macao) and better black jack odds (dealer takes her card before you play your hand which allows her to check if she has a black jack. When a dealer takes her card after you play your hand, you risk putting more money on the table, only to lose it automatically to a black jack. Though it seems like an isolated situation, it has a drastic impact on the players odds). Macao doesn’t play annoying Muzak, has far fewer slot machines (meaning less annoying slot machine-related noises) but pretty much everyone only plays Baccarat. However, this means you have a lot of folks playing black jack for the first time and making painful decisions that directly violate basic strategy (I once had a girl hit a hard 17 with a six up. That was the closest I’ve ever come to striking a woman). Vegas is a more frenetic experience, whereas Macao is more relaxing, but I’ve got to give the nod to the locale with more game diversity and better odds. Vegas +1 (Bizarre side note: In spite of the worse odds, I’m way up in terms of aggregate winnings in Macao, and am way down in Vegas. Go figure).

Culture: (For the record, we’re going to make culture and entertainment mutually exclusive terms; bear with me) Macao has hundreds of years worth of history, manifested through Mediterranean style cathedrals, mesmerizing Portugese/Chinese fusion architecture, and the aforementioned unique culinary experience. Vegas does not. The art gallery at the Bellagio prevents Macao from a clean sweep. Macao +2

Non-Gambling Entertainment: Macao has a handful of bars and a “massage parlor” or two. Vegas’ night life is responsible for more celebrity sex tapes than Macao has bars. I don’t need to wax on about clubs like Luxe, bars like the Irish pub in New York, New York, roller coasters, etc. I’ve yet to even find a club in Macao. A lot of the casinos shut during the twilight hours (aka prime gambling time!). Good luck trying to translate “strip club;” that’ll be a fruitless 45 minutes. Because Jand would never forgive me if I even considered giving Macao any props in this department (the king of dealing with boredom woke me up at 7 am in Macao insisting that we leave because he was that miserable)….Vegas +3

Casinos: Now that Macao’s casinos are beginning to mirror those of Vegas, it’s hard to differentiate between the two. Macao’s versions tend to be more high end; Vegas has more of them; Macao has floating ones that look like pagodas; Both have tons of Asians in them. I really don’t see much of a difference. Even Money

Characters: One would assume that this would be an automatic tre punti for Vegas, but let’s take a second to examine this a little more carefully. In Vegas, I find that for every interesting character that I meet, I encounter at least five hollow shells of souls who were initially attracted to Vegas by the prospect of truly experiencing life, but who can now hardly be counted among the living. Conversing with people who are in Vegas on their second mortgage, who strip for a living, or have put all of their faith into some imaginary winning streak that will magically correct all of their problems. More times than not, a black jack table conversation is incredibly depressing in Vegas. In Macao, however, its always lively, positive, and, at times, almost uplifting. For example, last week in Macao, my table consisted of a Parisian (funny story, he turned out to be gay, but I honestly had no clue until he made out with his bf, mostly because all gay-dars no longer function around Parisians), a Korean, and myself. English became the de facto language (our Korean friend couldn’t speak French), which meant whenever he got pairs, he’d start screaming “SPRIT, SPRIT, I WANT TO SPRIT!” You just don’t get that in Vegas! Yes, Vegas will put you into contact with depraved Eastern European cab drivers, Hispanic transsexuals, Puerto Rican/Chinese dudes, prostitute/equestrians, and adorable, naive Korean girls, but we can’t gloss over the fact that Macao attracts their fair share of interesting human beings. Vegas +1

Epicness: This is probably the most important factor. Assuming you don’t lose so much money that it effects the rest of your life, the paramount aspect of any gambling trip is how said vaca will be remembered: who did what, who did who, thank God x didn’t do y, was z a man, the meal at q was all-time, i can’t believe we got into club a, etc. Nobody (except for the kids in 21) remember every hand. Hell, a year later, most can’t remember if they ended the trip in the black or the red. As sappy as this sounds, what really count are the memories (Excuse me, I just vomited. I apologize for exposing you to such trite writing) In Vegas, all of these statements are applicable. In Macao, they’re not. The kind of fun you have in Macao is “wow that was a cool Cathedral, hahahah there are lots of Chinese people here, yay we won two hundred dollars, let’s go to that Aussie steak place in Lan Kwai Fong tonight to celebrate” kind of fun. Vegas, on the other hand, usually consists of 24-48 hours of epic hedonism that usually ends with farewell sentiments like “that was the best weekend of my life. Next year, same time, same place? Oh, and, dude, you should really get tested.” Vegas +2

Grand total: VEGAS +6. Evidently, Macao’s got a long way to go before it can compete with Vegas on every level. But it’s catching up. And if you’re in the neighborhood, it’s definitely worth your time to drop by. But, for the love of God, don’t fly all the way from America just to go to Macao.

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!

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.

And People Wonder Why I Mock Yemen….

It would seem rather contrived right? Yeah, that SOS, he just picked a random, dirt poor Muslim country to pick on. Who does he think he is? Actually, that’s not quite the case. My parents rived in Saudi Arabia a rong time ago, and the Saudis allow a number of Yemenis to “play Mexican” and perform menial tasks that the Saudis believed were below them. Given the Saudis’ tendency to patronizing anyone they consider inferior, one would not be astonished with the number of derisive sayings they have concerning their neighbors to the south. These sentiments were so pervasive that even the expats (like mommy and daddy) got in on the act. That means my childhood was filled not only with songs like “Wheels on the Bus” and “Row Row Row Your Boat” but also the following: “Hi ho, Hi Hee, I am a Yemeni, I wear a skirt, I work in the dirt, hi ho, hi ho…”

Well, a lifetime’s worth of inexplicable disdain for a people with which I never even had an encounter was justified yesterday when I read this article. It appears as if a young woman at the tender age of eight is getting a divorce. How do you expect me to have any respect for a country that allows its children to divorce at such a young age? What kind of Muslim country allows its women such freedom in the first place? Until Yemen can lower its staggering divorce rate amongst eight year olds, consider me a hater.

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.