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.

THE SECOND NYC AWARDS

So, as I alluded to previously, I was in New York the weekend before last for a bro-mantic getaway with my former roommate Rodd. Why? Because New York in the spring is juuust maaagical. In all seriousness, it was a nice opportunity to see old friends, alter consciousness, and have adventures. In other words, the weekend had all the makings of an epic trip, and it didn’t disappoint.

The Michael Scott Award for Best New York Slice: To Pizza Pete’s on the Upper West Side. Not only was it a vintage New York slice, it was open at 10 am (we’d been up for 3 hours already, more on that later) and the only notable decoration was a single newspaper clipping. The title of the article read something to the effect of: “General indicted in Kosovo War Crimes Acquitted.” So, not only was it the tastiest pizza I had all weekend, it was made by the most terrifyingly intriguing pizzaman as well.

David Letterman Award for Worst Host Ever: We stayed at our friend Boof’s place again for a couple of nights. And Boof did a great job, but the other guy who lives in his house put on a performance of nightmarish quality. The previously mentioned Gothy McTrenchcoat made his first appearance on Friday evening holding a tumbler of whiskey, followed by his girlfriend who was clad in what could best be described as dominatrix-influenced lingerie. After welcoming us to his home, he regaled us with tales of the townhouse’s history: namely, that it was a heroine den in the 70’s that was raided by the police on multiple occasions. He continued by inviting us to sleep in his absent step-father’s bed, and because of the enmity that he possesses towards his non-biological father (ps you’re like forty, dude, isn’t it time to get over it, big guy?), encouraged us to ejaculate on the bed. I just threw up a little. It occurred to me that if he’s inviting us to do as such, one can only imagine what he himself has done in there. I dismissed the thought of sleeping in the bed and would have been perfectly content sleeping on the floor; however, by the time we returned to Boof’s pad later in the evening, my inebriated state prevented me from recollecting Gothy’s invitation, and I accidentally slept in the cesspool. Upon waking up the next morning was the only time I showered the hole trip. And honestly, it was a worse feeling than hooking up with a fat chick. Next time, I’m snuggling with Boof.

The We Must Be Getting Old Award: Rodd and I got up at SEVEN AM ON A SATURDAY to watch soccer. I can say with a degree of certainty that we NEVER got up that early in college, and DEFINITELY not on a Saturday (we had been awake at this time, but as a result of an all nighter in the library). The match was the second installment of Liverpool vs. Arsenal, and I was quite pleased with the turnout. More than 200 people thought that rising at the crack of dawn was worth it, AND most were real troopers and were drinking as well. Well played, NYC.

The “Oh, He Must Not Be A Practicing Muslim” Award for Least Number of Towels Used in a Four Day Span: To Rodd. Every place we stayed, our host would set out towels, hoping that at least one of us would take a shower. And Rodd shot down every hint, suggestion, or insinuation that he should bathe. And I’m apparently the only person who is not at all bothered by this (In all fairness, I came in a close second, as I only took up the offer once).

The Producer Who Green-lit The Hottie and the Nottie Honorary Award for Worst Decision Ever: Rodd and I were on a late night walk about on the east side of Midtown. After we meander for sometime, we come to see the East River and realize were at the United Nations. Now, to conservative folks who are above forty, people could mistake my Persian friend Rodd to resemble a terrorist. I instantly become overwhelmed with paranoia, but Rodd was in the mood to tempt fate. As the son of the scenario queen, I saw this ending VERY badly (at minimum public intoxication, at worst, treason). I let us get within one block of the place, and then I made an executive decision to head back inland, because I have the feeling getting arrested at the UN would kind of be a detriment to ever getting a job ever ever.

The I Can’t Believe They Let Us in Here Award: We ventured out to New Jersey to visit my older brother and his family. He thought it would be a good idea to take us to dinner at his country club. He was clearly unaware of our aversion to clean clothes and bathing. Wendy’s probably would have been the more appropriate choice. Needless to say, we had a few looks of uneasiness from the resident Wasps. Neither Rodd nor myself were fazed though and proceeded to gorge ourselves with antipasti and pasta while we listened to my nephew analyze the newest developments in anime.

Most Expensive Drunk Dial Award: To moi. I definitely got on the horn with ole Zhong Han in Shanghai after a few too many drinks/rejections, and needed a morale booster. I don’t want to see Big Pete’s face when he gets this phone bill.

The Hilldawg Clinton Honorary Award for the Most Distorted Perception of Reality: So, this pretty attractive bartender offered me a free shot if I’d do it with her (the shot, nothing else). I figured there was some sort of catch; turns out there was. I had to deal with her absurd conception of college admittance standards. This young lady attempted to convince me that UNC-Wilmington was harder to get into than Duke or UNC-Chapel Hill. Most people would just let this sort of delusional proclamation go, but after I uttered a few Kyle Broflovski-esque “Really? REALLY?!”-s, I had to get up and leave. It’s a shame, too, because she was definitely attractive in that “I’m so hard now because I live in a city,” (read: slut).

Most Aggravating Catch-Phrase: The previous Wednesday’s South Park was the episode about Canadians and their quest for more monnneeay. At the time, I thought the episode was only mediocre, but became exponentially funnier when Rodd or myself (or both) would interrupt anyone who referenced currency to inform them that we’d like “more monneay” and preferably that it would be some of that “internet monnneeaay.” Complete strangers looked at us as if we’d had lobotomies (a fair assessment). A close second was whenever someone would say either “guy,” “buddy,” or “friend,” we’d retort with “I’m not your buddy, fwiend!” So a) you had to be there, and b) we’re entirely unoriginal. Third place goes to calling Celadon a slut no less than a hundred times that weekend. As you can imagine, she loved it. Especially the eight times we brought up a certain evening that involved, ahem, encounters with two boys we know.

The Worst Plan Since Hillary-care Award: Rodd and I decided we’d have a “Museum Monday” so that we could avoid all of the crowds during the weekend. Unbeknown to us, just about every museum in New York is closed on Monday. What a pleasant surprise. Instead, we decided to explore various neighborhoods of New York that we assumed were myths like Tribeca, Chinatown, and New Jersey. We found it rather amusing that the first store on the border of Chinatown and Soho is a puppy store; obviously, there would not be a puppy store in Chinatown. I found New York’s Chinatown to be rather authentic: trinket shop after trinket shop all selling the same thing, just like the real China! Rodd also pointed out that there were more Nigerians in Chinatown than Chinese folks (they could rename it Rittre Ragos; it has a nice ring to it). We were unable to find the Meatpacking District, and I contest that it is indeed a chimera. Also, have you ever seen the Chrysler Building and the Empire State Building at the same time? My point exactly.

MVP- Anyone who has read this entry knows who this is going to: Rodd, for putting up with my neuroses, for making me giggle like a school girl, for his philosophical approach to life in New York city, for being my fwiend, and for never complaining about loaning me monnneaay.

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.

“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.

A Sad Day for China: Today We Mourn the Death of the Liquid Lunch

I rarely agree with Chinese government initiatives, and this new policy is no exception. For the sake of government efficacy, the creation of new task forces to curtail the abundant liquid lunches undertaken by Communist cadres is integral to the transformation of its current crony system into a modern, efficient government. But, by eliminating the quotidian excesses of Politburo members, we’re witnessing the demise of one of China’s great traditions: the banquet lunch. Every day, from megalopoli like Chongqing and Guangzhou to rural Hunan and Hebei, politicos of all ranks gather together for elaborate banquet lunches in their respective town, city, or village’s nicest (non-Western) restaurant… and get shitfaced. We’re talking knee-walking drunk. For two hours, the government personnel go shot for shot with baijiu which translates loosely to gasoline. After hours of devouring pricey (though usually disgusting) dishes and high-end, equally gross alcohol, the government employees just put it on the government tab. This happens virtually daily, so the cost to the government must be mind-boggling.

Technically, Chinese government offices are open from roughly 9-5, but after 12, nothing gets done. Bureaucrats return from lunch, soaked with booze, only to take naps at their desks or play cards with fellow obliterated party members. Some don’t even bother returning to work, opting to spend the afternoon at their leisure (read: “happy endings” at the local massage parlor). So why do I care? Because this will deprive future American English teachers in China of free, saucy banquet lunches. At least once a month, I’d receive a call from my friend Chengdu-born friend Chen Yamei (or as my friend Ale liked to call her “Cool Yama,” as opposed to my ex-girlfriend “Uncool Yama”), a professional karaoke singer/cultural liaison, informing me that, as the token Chinese-speaking Westerner in my suburb, I was invited to be a “guest of honor” at one of these events. Who was I to pass up free rubbing alcohol and all the cold jellyfish salad I can eat? Apparently, the goal of these lunches was to order the most bizarre dishes conceivable; kung pao chicken and orange beef were nowhere to be found. Instead, dishes in the vein of cold, pickled tofu, bonefish à la bunghole, cilantro infused beetle larvae and fried pigeon(when I found out I was eating pigeon, I instinctively gagged and was convinced I’d officially contracted avian influenza. After expressing my concerns, Chen Yamei attempted to assuage my concerns by ensuring me that these pigeons were raised a farm and not caught off the street. That went a long way in quelling my fears…not. She clearly missed the point; we had just eaten flying rat and I was NOT ok with this) were in abundance. Though the food invariably left a lot to be desired, the conversations did not, as they were incredibly entertaining and bizarrely informative of the insider’s perspective on the CCP. After the first few toasts of the pungent baijiu, party members would begin to discuss with me the merits of the Communist Party and why it was an ideal system for China. Though I vehemently disagreed in principle with the majority of their assertions, I politely abstained from engaging in political discourse and would only nod silently as if to convey accord on the subject because quarreling over party doctrine would put me on the fast track for deportation and, more importantly, the loss of my standing invitation to these banquet lunches. Because this baijiu is potent, no one ever truly develops a tolerance for it, meaning a few shots later, the room is filled with boisterous, cherry-red faced, middle-aged Chinese men and a few demure women (most of whom abstain from the impropriety of getting sloshed). The men would then begin to express their desire to sing karaoke with Chen Yamei and would imply that singing together may not be the only thing they wanted to do with the stunning Sichuanese temptress, even though many of their wives were at the table and markedly privy to the conversation. Half an hour and a few more ounces of Chinese white liquor later, the alcohol seems to have morphed into sodium pentothal, as my party-affiliated friends act as if they have consumed some sort of truth serum. They would go on at great length about how no one actually subscribes to Communist ideology anymore and that Mao’s Great Leap Forward actually set the country back twenty years. Why were they affiliated with the Party then? They’d reply that the quickest way to advance in China’s nascent capitalist society (at least in the rural parts) was, ironically, to join the Communist Party. If the government bans liquid lunches, where else will I and my fellow foreign experts be able to find such damning candor from Communist officials, indulge in gratis grain alcohol, and try new ‘palate-expanding’ dishes? The Chinese government once again has proven it is out to piss off the Brog.

It’s Not Saturday Night in Downtown Orlando Without A Little Schadenfreude

 

Last Saturday night, I decided to have one last hoorah before my surgery, because I would be unable to partake in any serious boozin’ for a few weeks after the procedure. This happened to coincide with my friend ROS’s dad’s law firm’s biannual celebration (that was a lot of apostrophes). Though I take issue with some of this law firm’s practices, that evening I put my differences aside in the name of free B-B-Q and beer trucks. After three hours of incessant consumption and a rather explicit conversation with ROS’s mother, ROS, myself, and my buddy Brouck ventured to downtown Orlando to perpetuate the hedonism.  At a vaguely Hawaiian themed bar, in what could be the gayest thing ROS and I have ever done (given that we attended all boys summer camp together for six years, this is a pretty long list) we ordered a “Phuket Bucket,” an extremely potent rum concoction for two named after the Thai resort that’s only discernable function in American culture is to serve as part of a poorly conceived double-entendre. Bad decision. The rest of the evening was blurry at the best of times, and for poor ROS, his recollection is virtually nonexistent. My state of mind is the reason why I found myself in my next predicament. Brouck and I opted to leave the Hawaiian place to troll other locales for girls without ink, while ROS’s attention was devoted entirely to our previous waitress and duly refused to abandon any chance with this mediocre looking strumpet. Brouck and I never made it to another bar. Why? En route to our next destination, I was accosted by a Vietnamese evangelist paraplegic named Ahn. If there weren’t photographic evidence to corroborate the story, I’d be inclined to believe she was simply an apparition. Fortunately for Brouck, he initially was able to escape her grasp, and embraced the role of cackling onlooker/documenter of the scenario, while making hilarious remarks like “Gee, SOS, you really are desperate for Asians!” After I scolded him for being inconsiderate (actually, I was just trying to score points with Ahn), he joined the dialogue. Big mistake. For literally the next half hour, she proselytized incessantly, but here’s the kicker: she had a lisp. Her inability to say the letter “S” combined with our levels of inebriation meant we were surely going to hell. We try, completely in vain, to convince her that we are true believers in Christ, and Brouck (whose father is a priest) starts quoting scripture. Brouck and I argued that faith and good works were sufficient to be saved. But Ahn is NOT buying it. She insists we must be reborn. Like, right now. Well, for the next half hour, the theological discourse continues, because she would not let me and Brouck go, despite the fact that we may be the only two practicing Christians in downtown Orlando at fucking two in the morning. I implored Ahn to go find souls who more desperately needed to be saved, but she was having none of that. I had the urge to abruptly leave, but refrained from doing so because I felt this was totally one of those situations where God was testing us, and if you shun the Vietnamese paraplegic, you will be doomed for all eternity. We are finally able to indicate with enough urgency that it is indeed time for us to peace and in my drunken stupor, I leaned in to give Ahn a hug (i mean she’s an effing paraplegic, you’d think she’d want a hug?!) Out of nowhere, her Bible pimp showed up and is all like “are these two bothering you Ahn?” And all I can think is, “Jesus Christ, I’m going to get arrested for attempting to molest a Vietnamese evangelist paraplegic with a lisp, when all I was doing was trying to be a good Christian.” Brouck and I seize the opportunity to jet, and en route to the rendezvous point where our ride was waiting, we decided that though we may be going to heaven, there’s a special level of heaven reserved for people like Ahn to which we’ll never have access.

Humorous Musings on My Recent Colorectal Surgery

-Earlier this week, I had an operation to repair a fissure…in my anus. How does one develop an anal fissure? In my case, I think it’s because I ate so much street food in China that gave me so much diarrhea that it tore my anus. Consider yourselves warned.

-Since my dad is a doctor, I had to tell him about it in order to get medical advice. However, since the only thing I associate with anal bleeding is butt sex sans lube, I felt the need to preface “Now, Dad, before I tell you this, I promise promise promise I’m not gay.” The fact that I chose to phrase the caveat “promise promise promise” should have been the first sign to my father that I could indeed be gay. Now, even if I was gay, I think my Dad would be ok with it, he’s a pretty understanding guy. He wouldn’t be exactly ecstatic though, because I’m sure he’s always pictured me marrying some hot Korean chick and having a bevy of half-Asian babies. Oh, wait, no, that’s how I picture myself in ten years. Nevermind.

-I had to have a series of appointments with a colorectal surgeon in order to properly diagnose what exactly was going on in my rectum. Before each of these appointments, I had the pleasure of giving myself an enema. I actually don’t know what was worse: physically sticking the tube up my ass in order to induce a bowel movement or the embarrassment suffered from physically having to go to Walgreens to buy the enema.

-While giving myself enemas, I liked to listen to my Ipod, b/c I liked to be distracted from the fact that I, myself, am squirting saline solution up my ass. One time, Bloc Party’s “I Still Remember” came on, a song about youthful gay love, and, well, let’s just say the irony was not lost on me.

-A few days before my surgery, I had a pre-op with a resident who walked me through how the procedure would go. This was roughly appointment number four, and NO one had made even one poo joke yet. Given that I’m someone who loves terrible puns at inappropriate times, I simply couldn’t understand this. Eventually, the resident broached the subject of incontinence, claiming that this word “scares the crap out of people,” and, without missing a beat, I interjected: “Count it!” Finally, this is someone I could get along with! And, he prescribed me Oxycodon.

-While under for my fissurectomy, the doc decided it was time for a little plastic surgery as well. Now we’ve all heard of rhinoplasty (cosmetic surgery on the nose) and the infamous caucasioplasty (like what Michael Jackson had), but this, my friends, was an anoplasty. Apparently, my condition had disfigured my anus so badly that it desperately needed a tune-up otherwise no one would ever want to eat it again. I sincerely look forward to the next time someone asks me if I’ve ever had plastic surgery, when I can say “Yes…in my ass!”

-My parents like to call a colonoscopy (a branch of endoscopy) and other anally invasive procedures an “in-your-end-o.” One point for Mom and Dad!

-After my surgery, I was on pretty heavy anesthesia for a few hours, so I really couldn’t feel anything. As the meds began to wear off, sharp pains abounded in my rectal region, but, also, there felt as if there was a foreign object that had violated the sovereignty of my anal canal. I was told it’s just my “dressing” and if it’s too painful, to take some pain medication. I didn’t have to be told twice, and I zonked out for the rest of the day. I woke up the next morning without any searing pain in my anus, but I could definitely feel something lodged in my ass. I painstakingly removed my bandages to find that I had, what was more or less, a butt plug in my bottom. And it wasn’t as if the butt plug fairy came in the middle of the night and put it there. I’d had a plug, in my anus, for a full day. Great, now I can’t go on my favorite reality television show “Moment of Truth” because if they were to ask “have you ever had a butt plug in your ass for more than 24 consecutive hours?” I would have to answer yes. Will my dude card be revoked because of this?

-Fortunately, I don’t have to administer a butt plug every morning, but I do have to put a small piece of cloth between my cheeks to prevent “leakage” for the next two weeks. I’m going to run out of these in the next few days, so the doctor’s office told me to buy maxipads as replacements. Hold on! I don’t have a vagina! I’d resigned myself to eventually having to purchase some sort of feminine product for a future serious girlfriend, and I’d come to terms with it. Would it be my finest moment? No. But, really, I had reasoned that the pros outweighed the cons, because if I were to go to the pharmacy, purchase whatever ointment or pad was required without a fuss, I’d get major brownie points. So what if the clerk looks at me funny? You’re a fucking clerk at Walgreen’s. I went to Georgetown, bitch, and I can buy tampons for my way hot girlfriend whenever I want. But the idea of buying them for myself changes the equation entirely. I can’t ask my mom if there are any in the house. That is a conversation I will never have. End of story. So I have to purchase them. I know the clerk will smell the fear on me. Even if I purchase an issue of Maxim and a six pack of the High Life, he’ll know something’s amiss. He’ll sense it: there is no girlfriend in the mix. What if I run into someone I know at the store? They know I don’t have a girlfriend and that my sister is away at university. And no mother is so cruel as to make her son buy those sorts of things. Rumors would fly! Reputations would be sullied! Pandemonium would ensue!

-Obviously, the number one highlight of my day, taking a dump, has been ruined by this procedure. Little did I know that I would also temporarily be deprived of my number two highlight: wiping my ass. For the next week, I cannot wipe my ass for fear of tearing my stitches. If we had a bedé, and considering my family’s overt Francophilia, I’m surprised we don’t, this wouldn’t be a problem. Because we are lacking in this department, I have to take a sitz bath in my tub after every bowel movement. Then I have to disinfect the tub, and shower, to get the traces of fecal matter off of me. My previous ten minutes of fun has now been elongated into an hour of pain. This is why I can’t leave the house and have all this time to brog (Berry). Imagine if the urge to defecate overwhelmed me at, say a fancy Italian restaurant. I would be forced to ask the maître d’ if they had a bedé. When he replies that, no, they don’t, I think he might be a tad bit suspicious when I promptly ask if I could borrow the kitchen’s largest pot and if he could fill it with 5 inches of hot, but not scalding water. So, it’s just me, oat bran, Oxycodon, and Netflix.

-On a final note, I have to say that the doctors involved did a spectacular job and I’m in far less pain than I have been in some time. If I ever have a rap album, I’m definitely going to give a shoot out to my homeboys and homegirls at the Colorectal Clinic of Orlando.

The 2008 Phoenix Awards

As I indicated earlier, I just got back from Phoenix, Arizona (or as the locals call it, Mexico del Norte) for a weekend replete with various debaucheries and silliness, copious amounts of cheap beer, few, if any, bitches (we’re all kind of androgynous at this point. At least that’s my excuse!) and of course Polish Horseshoes (If you recall from a previous post, this is our new favorite past time that involves throwing a Frisbee at ski poles planted in the ground with beer bottles balanced on top. I charge Justin with the responsibility of drafting an in-depth PH constitution that I’ll post here and for which I’ll take all the credit. Danke!) And, of course, it’s not a true reunion weekend without an awards presentation, so without further ado, the Phoenix edition of the SOSBrog awards:

Our first award is a double whammy: The Barack Obama Award for dressing up in the traditional garb of the country you’re visiting and getting endless shit about it AND the Carlos Mencia Award for reaffirming every stereotype about Mexicans that whites have: To Scott Greenwood! While dining at Phoenix’s version of Casa Bonita, Tradiciones (which has to be one of the top 5 Mexican restaurants in the Estados Unidos), we slyly informed our waitress, Ale’s female counterpart Alejandra, that it was our friend Scott’s birthday (it wasn’t). Ten minutes later, a Mariachi band surrounded Scotty, the wait staff placed a sombrero four feet in diameter atop his head, and together sung “Feliz Cumpleanos” to our half-Mexican friend (Scott Greenwood may not sound like a Mexican name, but don’t be fooled, that’s how they’re assimilating! They’re taking our names! Build that fence! Just joshing, me encantan los chicanos y, mas importante, su comida!)

Ryan Atwood Honorary “look at me, all I do is brood and pretend to be hardcore” Award: to Andy Greenwood. Really, do you do anything other than brood and pretend to be hardcore? Well, that and be unemployed? I didn’t think so.

Bill Gates Award for the person least likely to pump one’s own gas: To Scott again! Unlike Bill, who will never pump his own gas because he can pay people to do it, Scott won’t do it because he physically can’t. While at a gas station this weekend, Scott couldn’t get three different pumps to work. Why? He wasn’t lifting the lever. After incessant instructing, one of us finally got out of the car, and demonstrated the proper way to pump gas. Fortunately for Scott, he’s quite adroit at all things law, because the career path of gas station attendant is obviously not in the cards.

The Hilldawg “I didn’t know you were capable of feelings” Award: Goes to Biller! I always assumed that romantic sentiments weren’t his bag, but he informed me this weekend, he likes a girl! Nice! Good luck, William!

The second honorary Hilldawg Award for throwing a temper tantrum when people aren’t playing by the rules: to moi! One of the things I’m the best at is acting like a spoiled brat at all times, and this aspect of my character was displayed prominently this weekend. On multiple occasions in Beirut and Polish Horseshoes, I threw a fit because people were not playing by the rules and almost incited a brawl at one point. I would apologize but its your fault for actually hanging out with me.

The Pharaohs of Egypt Award for coolest team nickname: Me and Jand had two dynamite nicknames for our Polish Horseshoes teams. The first was the Indomitable Pirates of Marrakech (even though its not on the ocean, whatever, we’re land pirates anyway!) and the Anal Sex Tigers of Bangalore (every key play was followed with an effeminate ‘roar’). Unfortunately, neither nickname brought us luck, and we, once again, went winless over the weekend.

The Ronde Barber Award for defensive player of the weekend: to J for his consistent performances on the non-offensive end. Though others played admirably, and there was some talk that J’s place as defensive maestro may be usurped, in the end, his supremacy on the defensive end was quite evident. Also, he needs a confidence booster after two heart-breaking losses to Biller and Andy.

The Adolf Hitler Award for the person who attempted to destroy the essence of Polishness: to Nick. His inconsiderate play on the defensive end discouraged teammates, his brisk throws and incessant posturing infuriated opponents, and his overall lack of sportsmanship is anathema to the spirit of Polish Horseshoes.

The Dick Cheney award for surliest demeanor: to the man who is named grumpy stumpy. The man is an avid jon Edwards supporter, yet, I’ve never met anyone who more resembles a young Richard Cheney. I look forward to an abrupt about face on his political views once his taxable income hits seven figures. just kidding Peteypoo, I know your convictions are ironclad and you’ll be a dirty socialist forever and I can say whatever I want because in your Facebook profile you claim to not read the brog! Brasphemy!

The Inaugural Ryan Wackerman Award for people who make decisions based primarily on the opinions of the brog: to Ryan Wackerman! A few weeks ago, I was critical of Wack’s ‘ride,’ an ’87 Acura. Well, last week Ryan upgraded to a 2005 Mercedes. Coincidence? I think not.

The Being the Coolest Kids in Three of the World’s Top 25 Busiest Airports in One Day Award: Petey K and I, on Thursday, went to the ludicrously expensive Islands of Adventure for, well, an adventure. After riding the uber-trippy Dr. Seuss ride, we meander through the gift store only to see the coolest T-shirts ever. In Dr. Suess groundbreaking treatise, The Cat in the Hat, there are characters named Thing 1-4. Well, in the gift shop, they had T-shirts that said Thing 1, Thing 2, Thing 3, and Thing 4. In what was the easiest monetary decision of my life, we purchased three t-shirts (one for my friend Ale, because we knew this would make him the happiest Argentinean of all time. This is the kid who demanded freshman year that I bring him back Mickey ears after Christmas Break). Many people were sporting them throughout the park, but Pete and I had loftier plans. We were going to wear them the next day during our epic journey from Orlando to Phoenix via Houston. I now know what it feels like to be a hot chick. People stared at me constantly. Here’s the problem: in our delirium over the awesomeness of this apparel, we forgot that these shirts would surely provoke conversation with strangers, and we despise people. I mean, we are truly curmudgeons. Of course, we were inundated with inane comments the second we entered Orlando International Airport. Heaven forbid I was not by Pete’s side, otherwise some douchebag would waddle up to me and ask, (this happened at least every five minutes) “Where’s Thing 1 ? HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!” It took all of my will power to not retort “Where’s your wife? Oh, that’s right, getting plugged by Thing 1!” My favorite comment came from an African-American male roughly our age. He approached us in the boarding area, looked at our matching T-shirts, dumbfounded that post-pubescent males would wear those shirts in public and asked “What the fuck is that? Like, in Cat in the Hat?” We agreed, and once he left, there may have been some inappropriate comments concerning black literacy rates (or there may not have been). Once we got to Phoenix, there was only one word to describe our friends’ reactions: jearous.

Tiger Woods Award for outstanding comeback performance in a head-to-head golf tournament: to moi! Petey K and I squared off in a drunken putt putt match. Pete sprung out to an early lead, but the Orlando native came back to throttle the Masshole by three strokes.

The How to Catch a Predator Award for sketchiest moment of the weekend: John Hose. At around 9:30 am Monday morning, Pete and I are passed out in the living room as we don’t have to get up for another few hours to catch my flight. Suddenly, we hear the door open (all the people who live at the house are at work), and I see this huge dude standing in the room. I thought for sure I would die. It turns out it was their neighbor, who is a hulking 6’5” 250 pound dude with more teeth than not. After my initial shock wears off, I doze off again. Not ten seconds later, I hear him open a can of beer (at nine freaking thirty!), and he walks out of the house. Who does that?!

The “Oh My God, Lance Bass Is Gay!” Award for surprise that everyone should have seen coming: To me. I didn’t tell anyone I was visiting, but given my unemployed status, everyone should have known I’d be there.

A Scotsman, a Bangladeshi, and an American Walk Into a Bar…

France story number two actually takes place in Geneva, Switzerland. My flight back to the States departed from Genève early the next morning, so I opted to spend the night in Europe’s clandestine banking and horlogerie capital. After eating at Europe’s most overpriced Indian restaurant (Rodd and I once spent a combined 200 CHF there), I wandered down the street to a British-themed pub that was showing the Arsenal vs. Blackburn match. Many a lonely pint later, a South Asian guy about my age walks up to bar to order another round, then asks me where I’m from. I tell him, then he wants me to guess where he’s from. It took me three guesses, but I eventually got it: the predominantly Muslim nation of Bangladesh. Naturally, my first question was: “What do you think of those two bitches Zia and Hasina who fucked over your country?” (I went on to tell him that I often cite Bangladeshi politics as the reason why we shouldn’t elect Hilldawg) .Now, there are only two kind of people in Bangladesh: the kind who embrace kleptocracy and can afford to send their kids to school in Switzerland, and the kind who can’t afford a bowl of rice. This kid was obviously the former, and in hindsight, my query was poorly phrased, because the odds of him being related to either Zia or Hasina was good to quite good. Well, the dude was impressed I knew anything about Bangladeshi politics, so he bought me a round (A piece of advice courtesy of SOS: knowing random political trivia about obscure countries gets you free drinks). After we cheers-ed, we both took a swig of our respective Guinnesses, then I deadpanned: “So, you’re a practicing Muslim?” Our nameless friend (I think it was Salaam) was not thrilled, so I quickly reverted to my canned speech about being Catholic and masturbating that I bust out following any incendiary remark against another’s religion. Crisis averted. Quickly changing the subject, I asked him what his father did for a living, and he basically admitted that his father ran a sweatshop (you stay classy, Bangladesh!). At this very moment, a boisterous Scotsman entered the bar and occupied the stool next to my new bff Salaam (this sounds like the lead in to a bad jokes ‘So an American, a Bangladeshi, and a Scotsman are in a bar…’). Me and the Scotsman did not get off to a good start. He tells us he’s from Inverness (as in Loch Ness) and I informed him that as a child, my parents took me to Inverness to “chase the myth.” He looked at me as if I’d offended his dead mother. “It’s not a fucking myth!” I quickly change the subject to, well, names. He tells me his name is Michael, but that all his friends in England call him Nessie, as in the Loch Ness monster. Well, I think this is the dumbest fucking nickname ever, but I refrain from divulging this opinion. This would be like if I insisted that everyone in D.C. call me by the mascot of my hometown, Mickey. He asks me my name, a seemingly innocuous question, yet Nessie somehow twisted it into a nasty one. “Sean, but that’s Irish.” “Yes, my family is of Irish descent,” I replied. “So, you consider yourself Irish?” He inquired. “Yes, proudly. I’m an Irish-American” “Well, you’re not FUCKING IRISH! Your family hasn’t been there for tens of generations (incorrect). You should call yourself American-Irish, if that. Fucking Americans don’t know anything!” I tried to explain (in vain) that, in English semantics, Irish-American is the appropriate terminology, but the barely coherent, illogical Nessie wouldn’t have any of it, so I relented. Since we couldn’t seem to find common ground in conversation, Nessie whipped out his phone, onto which he had downloaded a few videos, including a particularly grotesque video of a pig being decapitated, and its headless body running around and of course, lesbian porn. How tasteful, Nessie! As I’m rather squeamish, after watching the odious pig video, I had to excuse myself and get a little air, otherwise I’d be all pukeyface for the duration of the evening. Upon my return, Salaam and I learn that Nessie is a drug addict. And not fun drugs either. Nessie, realizing I speak French from my conversations with the barkeep, implores me to venture to the less salubrious neighborhoods of Geneva to help him buy the stuff. I inform Nessie that I’m supposed to leave the country in a matter of hours and really don’t feel like getting arrested. And that’s when the little voice in my head told me to call it a night. Nessie gave me his email, but, funny, don’t think I’ll be maintaining any correspondence with that chap.

Language Deception!

-I shall continue to embrace the role of raconteur with a few tales of adventure from Frenchystan. And remember, I’m not one to dabble in apocryphal anecdotes, though I am prone to hyperbolic statements, so the stories I recount are at least 80% genuine, with a little embellishment along the way. Let me preface that I hate people. No, really, I do. Especially hungover. So, last Sunday morning (and obviously reeling from the previous evenings celebration), I took the train from Lyon back to Megève. I went to the very last car, and secured a booth all for myself, spread my limbs out to take up as much room as possible, placed my earbuds into the wax factory, and adorned my face with a scowl to dissuade fellow passengers from occupying my booth. Just as the train is about to pull out of the station, I think I’m in the clear, until I see a young Chinese couple (a skill I developed during my time in the Far East is I can now discern different Asian races from others by facial features alone with remarkable accuracy) moseying towards my sector of the train. Right then, I knew they’d be sitting in my booth. Shocker, I was correct. After they sat down, I slyly removed my headphones in order to eavesdrop on their conversation. In China, I used to play this game all the time, because whenever I would travel in rural areas, the Chinese would bluntly gossip about me assuming I didn’t speak Mandarin. Phrases I overheard ranged from “Why are all foreigners so fat” to “that foreign male has female hair!” (I had Jesus hair at the time). Once I even caught three teenagers debating whether I was handsome or not (one was correct, the other two were way off). My favorite part of this trickery is going up to the people once they’ve finished and conversing with them, listen to them half-heartedly apologize, and bask in the awkwardness. And the train scenario presented me a perfect situation to indulge in a little Chinese funtime. Unfortunately for me, these were the two most boring people on the planet. The girl said something about snow and scenery being pretty on at least ten separate occasions and when we went through a tunnel, she reacted as if Godzilla were invading Shanghai. These two were apparently newlyweds on their honeymoon, so I was hoping for a little dirty talk from the dude, something along the lines of “Tonight, I’m going to fuck you three ways from sideways” (I wouldn’t, she had the nastiest teeth. Instead of buying your wife a honeymoon in France, why not shell out a little dough for some orthodontic work?) or, at least overhear the blushing bride admit that “ hopefully our honeymoon in the auspicious year of the rat will bring good fortune and we shall conceive a baby boy to appease our most honored ancestors, Confucius, and our dutiful mothers and fathers. And so I don’t have to get another abortion.” But, noooooo, the most interesting topic they touched upon was how the weather in Wuhan (a muggy, smoggy river city in central China) differed from the Alps (no way!). I’d resigned myself to a story that never realized its potential, until right before I exited the train. At that point, the husband tapped my knee and said in English “excuse me sir, is this stop St. Gervais-les-Bains?” I seized the opportunity and Chinesed all over his face. “Xia.ge zhan (next station),” I replied, much to the young couple’s shock. The look on the girl’s face was priceless. She was initially astonished that this kid in rural France spoke decent Chinese, followed by a look of horror, as she tried to recall everything she said in the past hour that could have been really embarrassing. We shuo-ed some zhongwen for the next few minutes (I informed them that I studied in the great nation of Taiwan. Exacerbating political tensions? That’s your SOS!), and before I could dig myself into a deeper whole, the train reached my stop. I gave them a perfunctory zai jian and peaced before I could cause any more trouble.

-Being on the other side of this duplicity really sucks monkey balls, and it happened to me and my friend Fong once in Laos. Me and halfy (as we affectionately refer to our semi-Chinese companion) were pissed off pandas because this crappy hotel on the outskirts of Vientiane did not understand the concept of a voucher and charged us twice. Also, they refused to take my credit card because I hadn’t signed it, even though I had no less than four picture IDs with me (oh, herro 19^th century!), which only made us even more livid. Upon leaving the hotel, we took a shared taxi with a few other Laotians to downtown Vientiane. Fong and I vented our frustrations in a dialogue that went something like this: Me: “Those assholes knew EXACTLY what was going on, and they intentionally deceived us for a few more bucks. Fucking Laotians.” Fong (who in general is averse to profanity): “I hate fucking Laotians and I hate their fucking country.” We proceeded to seethe in silence for a few minutes, until one of the Laotians in front of us, turned around, and in flawless English asked: “So, you guys are American?” Ruh-roh! Turns out this Laotian was a Laotian-American and was none too pleased with our disparaging of his people. Fong and I, though clearly embarrassed, were rather surly at this point, so did we apologize? Hell, no! I just put on my headphones, closed my eyes, and went to a happy place: Chipotle.