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!

May I preface that I consider mocking handicapped folks to be the most tawdry, vile form of humor…

but I have no qualms mocking the companies who make wheelchairs! Please consult the brand name of this one:

WHAT?! If this were the FAIL blog, this would undoubtedly be a KARMA FAIL! WHO NAMES A COMPANY THAT MANUFACTURES EQUIPMENT FOR PARAPLEGICS “KARMA?!” I almost approached the young women to tell her that her chair more or less screams “I did something awful in a previous life, and I’m paying for it in this one!” but decided that I would not be able to communicate the idea effectively in Chinese, and would redefine offensive no matter how I broached the subject. Oh, and don’t worry about the photo, she has no idea she was in it! I went into clandestine mode (and by that, I mean overtly touristy mode) and took a number of inane shots that would fit perfectly into a facebook album entitled “OMG I’m on the Taipei metro and I’m going to take meaningless pictures because I’m so cool and am in Asia and I really want to drive the point home that I’m in Asia and that makes me culturally superior to you because I live in Asia,” (think FOB signs, the metro map, and able-bodied Taiwanese) because I obviously didn’t want to offend the poor girl, Lord knows she’s dealt with unspeakable hardship in her life (Asians aren’t exactly the most accepting of disabled folks). I feel like an awful human being now, but I look forward to manning my very own karma-mobile in my next life.

Champions League Recap

-Sometimes my predictions make me look very intelligent and, often, in hindsight, I wish I had wagered a sizable amount of money on my hunches. This was not one of those occasions. I pretty much got everything wrong. I claimed that Barcelona and Liverpool would advance. Neither did. I argued that Barcelona would win because of their potent offense. They did not score. I boldly proclaimed that Chelsea and Liverpool would play dull, listless football. They combined for seven goals. Go me.

-I was unable to watch the first leg of the Chelsea match (I was over the Pacific), but from all accounts, it was a rather cagey affair. As well, it has been said that the result served as an accurate reflection of what transpired on the pitch, even though it came in the cruelest of fashion for John Arne Riise, who scored an own goal in the fifth minute of injury time. The second leg saw Chelsea dominate the first half, produce a deserved goal through Didier Drogba, only to see their lead vanish after Fernando Torres equalised. The game went into overtime, where Chelsea pulled ahead by two goals, which effectively ended any chance Liverpool had, they the Reds did pull one back in the form of a Ryan Babel consolation. Chelsea deserved to advance, and it was refreshing to see Liverpool lose a two-legged encounter, something that hadn’t occurred in some time.

-Speaking of Chelsea, did you know they did not have a single player in the FA’s Team of the Year? This is the team who could feasibly win the Premiership! I have to say, it’s a travesty that neither Michael Essien nor Joe Cole received a spot in the team. For my money, Michael Essien (with the lone exception of Cristiano Ronaldo) is the BEST player in the Premiership. Not only does he dominate the middle of the pitch, Chelsea demonstrated midweek just how valuable he can be at any position. Even though it might not be his preferred position, or the place on the field where he’s most effective, the discrepancy in quality between the Ghanaian and the overrated Paolo Ferreira, the aging Juliano Beletti, or the insipid Wayne Bridge was painfully apparent after Essien’s transcendent performance which combined tenacious defense, calculated passing, and puissant shots. His exclusion is lamentable, especially since this oversight was due to the inclusion of Steven Gerrard, who had a sub-par season for his standards.

-The Manchester United/Barca match had been billed as an exciting encounter of offensive heavyweights. 1 goal combined in 180 minutes of play made every pundit look like an idiot (including yours truly). Not only were their no goals, there was simply a dearth of true chances (Ronaldo’s penalty miss aside) for both teams, in particular in the second leg. Paul Scholes’ shot was inch-perfect, but an outside-of-the-boot rocket from 25 yards barely can be considered a half-chance. Barcelona was truly unlucky to not put one in the “back of the auld onion bag” (even the Cantonese commentary is better than Tommy Smyth!), as they dominated the possession in the second leg (at some point in the second half 65-35), but they were simply unable to translate this control into meaningful chances. Henry didn’t start, and was finally introduced with a little over ten minutes remaining. His impact was instant, as he forced Van der Sar into a few saves (more than the rest of the Barca attackers could claim). Though as an unabashed France supporter I’m partial on the subject, I don’t understand how Rijkaard could leave Henry on the bench for both legs against a side with which he’s so intimately familiar and has terrorized on so many occasions. A scorer as prolific as Henry comes to life in the Champions League, and in a big game, I’d rather take my chances with an out-of-form Henry than the diminutive Andres Iniesta (yes, he’d been in better form in the Spanish league, but I’m arguing the Champions League is a whole different monster and Henry would have made a better selection).

-Manchester United’s play throughout the Champions League this season has been nothing short of sublime. They are unequivocally the most deserved team to lift the big-eared trophy. As stated in a previous post, I only bet against them because I figured it would be impossible for them to continue to play such immaculate football. They hadn’t lost a game in the CL yet, I figured it was about time! I am officially mental. To demonstrate just how good Manyoo is, check out this nugget: Manchester United has only given up one goal in the knockout phase of the CL this year, and it was to the second best team in Europe. One goal in six matches against teams (OL, AS Roma, Barcelona) renowned for their offense? Yeah, I’d call that impeccable defense.

-I’d like to congratulate both teams that have progressed to the finals, Manchester United and Chelsea. And congrats to all of the bandwagon fans in America. I’m really glad I’m not in America, so I don’t have to deal with the myriad justifications for why kids from Los Angeles decided to support Chelsea four years ago or why people who don’t even know where Manchester is claim to be diehard fans? Can we call this the bandwagon bowl?

-Ninety percent of outre-match storylines regurgitated by the media pertaining to games such as the Champions League final are inane and barely worth the energy it takes my eyes to read it. But this one has a legitimate one: and no, I could care less that it’s a fucking all-England final. The Champions League final is being held in Moskva this year: also known as, the town Roman Abramovich built. Remember, he’s one of the few oligarchs who remains on good terms with Putin. Where’s Berezovsky? Exile (and not welcome back). Where’s Khodorkovsky? Jail. Abramovich on the other hand can stroll into the Kremlin whenever he damn pleases. Remember a few years back, in the final weekend of the Premiership, Tottenham was clinging to fourth (and the crucial last Champions League spot which translates into tens of millions of dollars in television revenue) when half of their team mysteriously came down with a stomach virus and Arsenal overtook them? No, no, I’m not insinuating the he WILL do anything, I’m just saying stranger things have happened in soccer. But, it wouldn’t shock me if something did. He has ruthlessly clawed his way to the top of the oil world. He has rewritten the rules of modern club ownership with unfair bidding practices towards smaller clubs. Would it be all that astonishing if he were to make life a little more difficult for Manchester United on his turf? Oh, and Mr. Abramovich, if you’d like to silence me, my address is…

-I’d also like to announce there will be another RIVE BROG for the Champions League final. Obviously, if OL were playing, I wouldn’t be able to fully concentrate on providing salient commentary and obsessing over every touch. But the fact is I’m not partial to either of these sides, and am just in the mood for some good football. And I feel a little brogging might just go hand in hand with CL final awesomeness. On verra!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Indian food time, ciao!

Where In The World Is Brogmen Sandiego? PART DEUX

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Jay Chou calls this place home. Not rame.

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

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

200th Post: Vegas/San Fran recap

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Billionaire Football Owners Club Update

Because I’m a weirdo, I like to pretend that various world leaders are actually good friends behind the scenes. Some of my favorite pairings are as follows: Vlad Putin and Angela Merkel (austere), George W. and Christina Kirchner (both rove steak), Megawati and Helen Clark (androgynous), and of course, Thaksin Shinawatra and Silvio Birlusconi. I am entirely convinced these two are total bffs. Five years ago, each was an embattled head of state and the wealthiest individual in their respective countries; both were entangled in legal battles directly stemming from inquisitions concerning the acquisition of said wealth (and both actively attempted to manipulate the law to their advantage); and, now, both are owners of prominent European football clubs. You can’t tell me that these two have never shot the shit over a bottle of sambucca and/or a few bowls of pad thai.

Well, my suspicions were further augmented this week when Silvio Birlusconi proclaimed that the asking price for Ronaldinho was too expensive for Sivlio’s club, AC Milan. I find this difficult to imagine as a club the stature of AC Milan has expansive cash reserves to the point where virtually no individual is too pricey. I have a theory: there are purportedly only three clubs in the running for the former World Player of the Year’s services, one of them being Shinawatra’s Manchester City, a much smaller club than AC Milan and Internazionale (the third club). Even though Ronnie’s been benched over the past few months in Catalonia, Man City would have only a minimal chance of signing a player of Ronaldinho’s class unless the other competitors dropped out of the running. Not to mention AC Milan already has the creative talents of Kaka and Pato, which would make the signing of Ronaldinho more or less redundant; but could it be that Silvio’s just doing a favor for a friend? I’d like to think so.

In other (related) news, the oligarchs of European football are in the process of welcoming a new member into their exclusive club: currency speculator George Soros, who is in takeover talks with AS Roma. On the surface, one would think that Thaksin Shinawatra would have major qualms with Soros’ ascension into their illustrious club (and might theoretically persuade Silvio into annulling the deal; as PM of Italia, this is at his discretion); after all, Soros was the man singlehandedly responsible for bringing down the Thai economy in 1997 with his gigantic hedges against the Thai Baht and all but forcing the Thai government to float their currency. Incorrect! Allegedly, Thaksin Shinawatra bet heavily against the Baht only a few days before the flotation thanks to some insider information, AND the depleted economy paved the way for his (ironically) populist party, Thai Rak Thai, to win handsomely in the following election. So, in the event of a Man City/Roma CL matchup in the next few years, one would expect an amicable, goulash-filled affair between the two club owners; but don’t expect Roma to play any exhibition matches in Thailand, where Soros is frequently disparaged as an economic terrorist. Franklin Foer desperately needs to release an updated version of “How Soccer Explains the World,” because, along with their boy Roman Abramovich, this is some pretty compelling shit.

Now, There’s NO Way China Could Screw Me Again. No Way, Whatsoever. Impossible. The Opposite of Feasible.

So, we’ve covered the anal-iation, one of my best friend’s TB incident, in addition to me being dumped for an arranged marriage, acquiring an unrelenting online stalker, and being forced into forsaking certain herbal remedies, really what more could China do to screw me?

This is what.

The day I’m to have my visa issued, these rules are implemented. Meaning: the likelihood that I will be granted a 5-day non-renewable Chinese visa are good to quite good. Awesome. Good thing I didn’t spend literally thousands of dollars to come back only to be told I’m not wanted. Granted, with a little research my friends in Beijing would have just cause to deny me entry. But superficially [upstanding citizen with a good command of the Mandarin language who has spent significant time in the country without serious trouble (I did say some things on-record concerning Taiwan that might have not gone over so well)], I should be an ideal candidate.

Am I mad at China? No. Instead, I’m blaming the Tibetans. If they hadn’t effed with the status quo, I’d be in China right now. I’d have purchased my year long multiple entry visa for a scant 75 bucks and would already be recovering from an all-nighter doing Jay Chou karaoke (I haven’t had a chance to belt out the lyrics to his new album, a travesty selon the Brog). But noooooo, I’ve had to spend close to 600 dollars total to grease the wheels to get a measly thirty day single entry visa that isn’t even guaranteed to be issued.

Why? Team Tibet had to throw a tantrum, which has incited a mega-crackdown by the Chinese government and completely screwed China’s expat community, who pride themselves in effectively circumventing the grasp of the communist government. According to the above-linked article, many of the million expats in the country will have to go home just to renew their visa. This is a major, not to mention costly ordeal, that could have significant, long-term economic repercussions. How? Engrish teachers. Most English tutors in Shanghai/Beijing are like yours truly; we’re technically undocumented workers. But China needs foreign English teachers (and there’s a lot more money in the semi-illegal sector than the legitimate one) to refine the often unintelligible speech patterns of the CCP’s future elite. If they kick out all of the quasi-legal Westerners (and the inherent resentment of deportation preventing an en masse return of said educators) could lead to an entire generation of Chinese people speaking English like retards.

Why, Tibet? As I’ve said before, you’ve won the fucking geopolitical lottery. Count your blessings, you could be Nepal. Within this century, your province (thanks to generous subsidies from the Chinese government) will easily be the wealthiest enclave in all of the Himalayas. You wouldn’t be the first entity that sacrificed its culture for moooore moooneaaaay. Come on, budday, give it up.

Though, on a more serious note, the events of the past month do not augur well for this Olympics. This newest initiative will do nothing but alienate the few Westerners who are indeed China apologists. China is attempting to at least manage, at worst deport the Chinese sympathizers for who? Olympic participants? At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if TMQ’s depiction of Li Lin’s Olympic Torch Relay (”As the Olympic torch arrived in San Francisco, Lin, a 1992 medalist for China, San Francisco resident and the first torchbearer for California, was for security reasons moved to an undisclosed location, where she ran an undisclosed distance in undisclosed shoes with no public witnesses present, perhaps having undisclosed thoughts. How festive!”) will mirror certain events during the actual Olympics. Will they change venues at the last minute to prevent incidents? Will they bar non-participants from entering the confines? Will they prevent non-relative (of participants) foreigners to even enter the country? Will they refuse foreigners access and fill the stadiums with only Chinese nationals to maintain the facade of a successful Olympics? As ludicrous as these questions seem, at the rate the Chinese government is reacting, one of the aforementioned scenarios is entirely feasible.

What China doesn’t seem to grasp is that the Internet will dispel any trickery they have up their sleeves. The days of intricate secrecy throughout an entire society are over; transparency reigns via the bloggers (did I just attempt to justify my hobby as legitimate? Yeah, I think I did, I apologize. Exclude me from the aforementioned statement), and for the sake of China’s ever-important face, it would behoove them to come to this realization before they are confronted with further embarrassment.