Quality Time With Our Former Colonial Overlords (Or, Neil's Trip To The UK)

Bonus Episode: PHOTO EXTRAVAGANZA TIME!

It's been two months since I got back from my heavenly trip to the United Kingdom. I suppose I miss it so much that I'm going to force some more Anglo-love down your throat. But panic not: I won't bore you with my long-winded babble. It's just picture time. What better way to get to the real heart of Britain.

So you've all heard of Engrish. But what are you supposed to call funny English signs found in native English-speaking countries? Who can say. Either way, these were quality enough to elicit a few chuckles from yours truly. Enjoy. It's not only in Asia that you find comedy just walking down the street.

Oh, the good old Hoxton Whores. I'm sure their parents are proud of their choice of group name. I haven't the foggiest who these people are, but apparently they like clubbing. Whore it up, kind folk! (Edinburgh)

Talk about bold statements. On one hand, it's great to see freedom of speech in action; these types of shenanigans would result in death or "disappearance" in the good old PR of C. On the other hand, it's a little disconcerting to see that some Scots want to break from the English. More power to them. May they have more luck than the Quebecois. (Edinburgh)

For Little Nasty (Edinburgh)

Billy Corgan wuz here (Edinburgh)

Sandra's favorite "found porn" (Edinburgh)

This I know! (Edinburgh)

Hallo friend, "take a look"! (London Chinatown)

Totally! (Loch Ness)

Even their signs begging you to clean your dog's shit are polite! (Fort Augustus)

My Favorite Sign EVER! Long Live Chairman MEOW! (Edinburgh)

Wow, that's quite the damning accusation if I've ever seen one. (Edinburgh)

GW mongers war, they monger cheese (Bath)

I don't know... (Bath)

Brock Street Clinic's biggest fan (Bath)

It's probably for the same reason I have mine... (London)

Sticking it to the Mao (V&A Museum, London)

Seriously? No one thinks this is too easy a target for a pub? (London)

*Cue theme tune* (or Punjabi MC!)

"Beer", unless you're in China, in which case it's just "another person". (London)

It's all really how you use it... (London)

In the case of this blog? Tons (Kensington Tube Station, London)

And finally, in keeping with the recent theme, here's what some Londoners think of our poor Friendlies pals. Killjoys! (London)

Olympic Fatigue

(Or, I'm So Glad It's Over)

Last week at lunch during a CCTV rebroadcast of one of those little Chinese gymnast trolls stealing gold from yet another American, I turned towards a table of Chinese coworkers and projectile vomited my chicken curry all over the smug, celebratory bastards. As if aided by the fury of the gods, I bombarded them with such force that one guy's face caved in under the duress of my puke blast, the deserving recipient of all the accumulated grief and frustration that had been festering in the pit of my belly since the previous week.

Fine, maybe it didn't happen that way. It was in my head, along with plenty more disturbing imagery unsuitable for a sophomoric PG-rated (ha!) blog such as this. I may have just flared my evil eye in their general direction, straining to such an extent that I nearly popped a testicle from all the stress. My psychic powers clearly are not working. But trust me, I really wanted to demonstrate my current feelings towards the Chinese in some manner befitting of the fire within.

The Japanese have got the right idea. I love this lady! Sticking it to China.

Over the past two weeks, I've dealt with a number of issues. Aside from the pesky hemorrhoid flare-ups, I ran myself ragged trying to control the anger, bitterness, despair and recurring homicidal urges. I was so conflicted about these Games, vacillating between sportsman-like support of the few deserving Chinese success stories (women's weightlifting!) and a blinding rage that left me yearning for the complete destruction of all things mainland Chinese. Like a runner who just completed a marathon or an adult star after clinching the gang bang world record, I am exhausted. I'm clearly suffering from Olympic Fatigue.

Last week, this rage manifested itself in a series of pissed off rants that will sadly never see the light of day because, after sleeping on them for a few days, I deemed them too bitchy and frankly, insane, according to that little editorial voice in my head. However, I wasn't just being mean for mean's sake; I just needed to vent.

I knew that my ire wouldn't win the US any gold medals, yet it continued to multiply. It got to the point that I developed headaches trying to think of analogies and metaphors to express all the different facets of anger that were bubbling within my conflicted heart, some of which you'll be forced to endure below. It's a neverending cycle of pain, I tell you.

How does one logically cheer for a member of the same athletic regime that is engaged in a silly life-or-death medal race with your home country, the land of the free and home of the brave? Do you go with (half of) your genetic makeup or the nation that stamps your passport and rips you off come tax time? At the end of the day, I vote for the latter. How has it come to this?

In a moment of unexpected clarity, I had an epiphany. I realized that my collected spite was not targeted at the Chinese athletes, per se. As much as I'd like to see the Chinese "women" gymnastics cheats get sold off to a Bangkok sex worker ring, they out-performed the American team, underage or not. Their athletes have clearly trained their already pitifully small asses off and I'm not in the position to deny them glory.

He Kexin: Wishes She Had Boobs

Unlike the Americans, who have perpetual smiles plastered on their faces, the Chinese adopt an almost robotic glare, the soullessness heightened by their lifeless eyes. They are just unfortunate tools of the government, used to nab glory for the motherland. This isn't supposed to be fun, it's a job, a duty. Like our perpetually nagging Chinese parents and their love of A+ test scores, the Chinese government will accept nothing less than a Gold medal. Anything else is as good as an F.

So even though I have nothing personal against most of their athletes, my feelings towards them is inextricably tied to that of their supporters, whom I detest. Thus everytime I see a Chinese athlete ascending the stage to receive yet another medal, I repress the urge to puke and release that negative energy into the universe with the hopes of doing them irreversible harm, thereby destroying the dreams of the Chinese people - the most stupid and annoying fans on the planet.

Oh, Nastia, I know what it's like, girl.

And it's not just the everyday fans. My rage is aimed at the sportscasters, state-controlled media, misguided overseas Chinese without proper home-country pride (please, return your passport to the nearest embassy and pack your suitcase for the Chinese countryside)... Pretty much everyone except the Chinese athletes, who are, for the most part, innocent victims, sad little cogs in a huge athletic machine run by this evil empire. Just look at Yao Ming, the most famous Chinese athlete in the world who has as much chance at Olympic gold as I do: even he isn't immune from the idiocy and abuse of the CCP and its hunger for more shiny yellow medallions.

What about poor Liu Xiang - the biggest tragedy of these games - who, in a wicked dose of karmic retribution on the arrogant Chinese, put his pride, the face of a nation and 1.3 billion fans on the line by bowing out? He was the only thing I really cared about in these Games. Dude had so much pressure piled on his back that rather than risking placing 2nd in a race run on a bum leg, he chose to withdraw amid a hurricane of press and fan fury. How sad is that? People were actually crying in the stadium. One could argue that he could have made this decision earlier, rather than disappointing everyone at the very last minute. But do you really think the powers that be would have allowed that in a hundred million years? Hell no.

The moment he walked off the track, my entire emotional investment in the games went with him.

I'd be more than civil if someone could teach them how to be gracious in their victories. A little of whatever ancient Confucian modesty that wasn't wiped out during the Cultural Revolution or saved in the escape to Hong Kong and Taiwan. The in-your-face gloating that they've been smearing into everyone's faces is getting ridiculous. Like that fat kid on the dodgeball court that you just want to ruin with the big red ball. You could argue that Usain Bolt's showboating was more gratuitous than anything the Chinese managed to do (gymnast controversy aside), but I counter that by saying at least he's LIKEABLE. The Chinese athletes are about as fun to rally behind as a bar of soap or a potted plant.

When they aren't obnoxiously cheering a certain victory for the upteenth million time - complete with endless replays on CCTV, soundtracked by sappy balladry that makes Kenny G relatively risque in comparison - then they busy themselves with embarrassing justification of how they came from behind to triumphantly capture victory from the evil Western favorites. On the other hand, if they lost, get ready for the crybaby whining about how the evil foreigners used their tricks yet again. Always playing the poor, bullied martyr, completely set in their ways as the humiliated victim.

As always, China is quite adept at playing this role, a most convenient device for whipping up nationalistic frenzy when they achieve a win that is attributed more to the grand heroics of the "simple and humble" Chinese spirit instead of basic skill attained by grueling training sessions that last for 20 hours a day without a single moment's peace for the past 4 years. It's just more of the typical insecurity that is employed whenever an outside force stands in the way of Chinese pride and the "feelings" of its people. Inferiority complex is an understatement.

A recent piece from the New York Book Review summarized this phenomenon quite succinctly:

"After a century and a half of famine, war, weakness, foreign occupation, and revolutionary extremism, a growing number of Chinese overseas as well as inside China had come to look to the Olympic Games as the long-heralded symbolic moment when their country might at last escape old stereotypes of being the hapless 'poor man of Asia'; a preyed-upon 'defenseless giant'; victim of a misguided Cultural Revolution; the benighted land where in 1989 the People's Liberation Army fired on 'the people.' In one grand, symbolic stroke, the Olympic aura promised to help cleanse China's messy historical slate, overthrow its legacy of victimization and humiliation, and allow the country to spring forth on the world stage reborn 'rebranded' in contemporary parlance as the great nation it once had been, and has yearned for so long to once more become."

He goes on to say "...the games [have] come to be anticipated as the cathartic act in a long agonizing historical drama in which China would finally fulfill its almost mythic destiny: its quest for fuqiang, "wealth and power." ...many Chinese dared hope that China, resplendent with Olympic medals and with new respect, would come closer to attaining their long-denied dream of greatness."

While I understand feeling proud about your country and its dreams to regain respect in the eyes of the world, dredging up past injustices compiled over more than 150 years is pushing it. The humiliation and hardship felt by the average Chinese guy getting bombed to high hell by evil British cannonballs in the Opium War probably have no real affect on the outcome of the beach volleyball finals. The only real bombs the Chinese should have been worried about were from Walsh and May-Treanor's fists.

The Greatest Unintentional-Wet-T-Shirt-Competition EVER.

Don't get me wrong. I haven't gone and done anything drastic like join the Republican party or lynch any Arabs. There's no tattoo of the Stars and Stripes on my behind either. I'm not so much a diehard supporter of any particular US athlete, or even necessarily an avid follower of the US teams in general (Jamaica!). But living here, my American pride and identity are on the line. It's all about face and representing my home country.

You know things are bad when you take umbrage to a room full of Chinese laughing at a shot of Bush sitting in the audience enjoying the proceedings. Lord help my soul...

The US vs. China medal race had been blown up to ridiculous proportions, as if we were competing for the title of Supreme Champion of the Universe here. So every US loss was stuffed in my face, as if I played a pivitol role in America's performance, as well as the well-being of the entire state of American sport in general. It is as if losing to the Chinese in gymnastics equates to the US being a less admirable nation. Please, at the end of the day, no matter how many gold medals China won, it's not going to solve any of the more pressing problems plaguing the nation.

Great shot of Monkey-Phelps under a big 8

Thus, my support of the Americans is directly linked to my identity in China. Like it or not, I'm one of the faces of America and I need to properly represent our laudable traits to a country intent on undermining us. At times, it's a natural, gut reaction. Other times, I have no other choice in the reactionary response. I go on the offensive because I'm being forced to be so defensive. When Phelps won every single gold in the swimming, we cheered, some people cried, lots of us were happy. Did we immediately run to a nearby Chinese citizen and stuff it up their ass, saying "YEAH, WE BEAT YOU! WE'RE SUPERIOR! YOU SHITTY-ASS CHINESE LOSERS!" No, we didn't. Even when CCTV refused to air the award ceremony and the playing of the Star Spangled Banner 7 of 8 times (and had the balls to blatantly cut it halfway on win #8). On the other hand, how many times have I heard 哇，你们美国人真烂！都没有办法赢！真烂！(Translation: "Wow, all you Americans suck, you can't even win! So sucky!") Hundreds. I'm still hearing it TODAY, and the games are already over! It makes my blood boil.

Michael Phelps: Set To Do Battle With Fuwa-Tron At The Closing Ceremony, Despite Having The Worst Diet EVER

People back home, imagine this: you're a Red Sox fan with a bone to pick at Yankees Stadium. After a crushing and unexpected loss at the hands of those pinstriped knobheads, you're pelted with a few hot dog buns, some ice cubes, maybe an electric toaster or two. Maybe some snickers and jeers. Although there's nothing such as the brick through your windshield that you'd get at Fenway (rightly deserved, you Yankee scum), that's about it. Now multiply that indignation and rage you feel by something like, oh say, 1.3 billion. It's insulting enough to endure the smarmy asides, but to get it from people with no understanding of the games (baseball commentary = worse than Tiki Barber's bungled attempts), even less grasp on the concept of gracious winning (or losing) and smaller, more smackable faces that you just want to crush with that souvenir baseball bat that you got for your kid? That is how I feel being in China right now. And I'm itching to hear that satisfying crunch of bone against wood.

In the last days of the Games, I just wanted it end as soon as possible. The double whammy of Bolt's twin record breakers and the US women's beach volleyball smackdown were just mere gasps for fresh air in this crowded subway of Chinese medal stench. Since they had clearly won the gold medal count, I just hoped the laws of righteousness and justice would prevail in a US overall medal count victory - which we successfully achieved. One less thing the Chinese can brag about. Yet, I have a very bad feeling that it will be a long time before they let us forget that more golds means more than more overall.

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Fine, I'll give you the rant that I wrote last week...only because I used so much pent-up rage to construct it. Why waste all that energy?

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Commence Chest-Beating And Childish Taunting

(Or, Day 4 And I Already Want To Kill Myself)

Day 4 of this tedious exercise of mandatory Olympic blogging and I'm already nearing a breaking point. While I should cherish this relatively peaceful period when fan violence has yet to erupt, I'm really starting to get annoyed by the incessant commentary from the everyday Chinese layperson's peanut gallery. With ten days to go, this is going to be a test of wills and patience.

The first weekend's events culminated in the ultimate representation of what this Olympics have come to symbolize: US versus China. It was one of the grandest showdowns of this year's Games: the United States Dream Team against...Yao Ming and Yi Jianlian. As if scheduling such a lopsided match-up was a good idea for national pride. What were the Chinese organizers even thinking?

"Indeed, we will schedule the first match with the American team and, after gloriously defeating them for the Motherland, will continue to steamroll through other nations, having already defeated the greatest team in the world before an audience of billions! It's fool-proof! Long live Chairman Mao!"

This idea was as foolish as the one made on the night the red-and-yellow fashion abortions were greenlit. And anyway, by now the whole world knows what happened: a massacre. It can be summed up nicely as follows: Yao nails a three, US team proceeds to practice their dunking, Yao struggles for breath, US wins. The end.

Despite that rousing commentary - surprise, surprise - I did not watch the game. Come on, did anyone really think China had a chance? Please. Those editorials and blogs declaring China could pull it off were written by a bunch of idiots looking for exposure via ridiculous claims. I couldn't bear to watch something so unfairly matched, like Mordor's blistering attack on Minas Tirith before Aragorn conveniently arrived with the Army of the Dead. For all his cro-magnon mannerisms and frighteningly evil teeth, I felt bad for Yao. The poor bastard, whipped on by the Party like a troll pulling a war catapult (I'll stop with the LOTR references, promise), can't seem to escape the Motherland and the relentless expectation that he can carry an entire team to victory. Even after he sunk that gorgeous first 3-pointer, you knew there was no real hope for Team China.

Judging by the painful replay of the game that I watched last night, the announcers alone would have inspired me to drive a chopstick into my ear drum, the sweet bloody puncture saving me from further endurance of that inane 漂亮！好球！ bullshit. Sadly, this trend isn't isolated to basketball commentary. Every damn event involving the Chinese is accompanied by a pair of chirping chuckleheads spouting equal parts Party rhetoric and repetively insipid cheers and comments that tire after hearing them for the 20th or 30th time. I don't remember the American anchors being this annoying. However, stomaching two announcers who can be silenced with the mute button is a walk in the park compared to negotiating your sanity in a room full of rabid Chinese fans.

Now that the weekend is over and the work week has started, people have begun scrambling for immediate and up-to-the-minute stats on the events being held while we're busy crunching numbers and playing with microchips. Emotions have been on high as formerly diligent employees (ha!) spend time sneaking about like criminals, in search of someone with unblocked internet access to check the current standings. Productivity is going to nose dive faster than the Chinese basketball team's hopes of a gold medal.

During lunch in the cafeteria, newly installed flat screen televisions that inexplicably only receive CCTV 1 (most events are on CCTV 5...WTF?) result in a packed house every day from 11AM to well after the 1PM lunch cut-off. During these times, whenever there's a live broadcast or replay of China doing anything at all, even something as insignificant as picking their noses, the Chinese viewing majority will hoot and holler like they just won a medal. Continuous cries of 中国加油!! ring about from all corners and the snarky off-hand comments about Mei-guo (America) or waiguoren (foreigners) don't help matters. I'm so filled with Olympic rage that I just want to murder someone.

Clearly I'm experiencing mostly innocent, sportsman-like hostility towards our opponents, but there's some pure bitter cross-national strife bubbling beneath the surface. Since I lose face whenever we lose an event, my pride is directly linked to America's success in these games and I'll be damned if we have to bow to another nation. Especially China.

If you couldn't tell, the general mood around here is tense, mainly because we're foreigners on home territory and the Chinese are such ungraciously poor winners, like that little snot-nosed, nyah-nyah kid from the playground whose head you just wanted to crush underneath the fat kid's end of the see-saw.

You see, the medal count has become the main battleground for national gloating. And I'm getting really fucking sick of hearing the locals jabber on about their wins mattering more than ours. Currently, despite America's overall lead, China's gold medal majority is proving to be ample ammunition for them to get arrogant. Thus, it is imperative that we stomp out China in both overall and gold medal placement, lest our eventual victory (oh yes, we will win) get sullied by the subsequent Chinese bitch and moan session about how an overall American medal majority means nothing if they secure the gold medal majority. Fucking martyrs. [But you all know if the tables were turned, we'd totally do the same thing. But it's a different situation since Team USA is clearly superior, natch.]

It's just a big old international dick-waving pissing match. Today's American swimming sweep was matched by China's gymnastics victory (finally) and it'll continue like this down to the wire. I just hope we can claim victory soon, since I fear that all this atypical American pride is harmful to my health.

Let The Games Begin

(Or, The Bubbling Internal Strife Regarding Athletic Loyalties)

Time to let that national pride fly. I anticipate a healthy dose of tension and anxiety in the coming weeks, especially as an American living in China, forced to listen to the daily blithering of the locals. Since the Games have basically been reduced to a USA vs. PRC medal-snatching contest, loyalties will lie bare on the table, ripped from our proud hearts and set loose on each other in a primal death match.

Google's latest: Pig diving!

Admittedly, I was quite bitter in the days leading up to Day One, but I'm in full fever mode now. I know I said I didn't care much about the Games themselves, primarily concerned with their success rather than the over-politicized details. But that was last week when I was drowning on an exclusive diet of domestic propaganda bullshit with nary an American victory to snuff it out. No more. While still suffocating with all this Chinese chest beating, Team USA have begun to kick the other nations back into place. Now my competitive American spirit is yearning for complete destruction of the Chinese and their haughty hopes and dreams. Competitive sports can do that to a person.

Let's rewind to opening day, 8-8-08, the most auspicious day in the history of the universe for the Chinese people (that is, since August 8, 1908 and until August 8, 3008...). By now, everyone in the world who gives a damn has seen the Opening Ceremony from Friday. Hot damn with a buttered biscuit and side of grits, that show was fucking incredible. Astonishing, amazing, awesome. China deserves credit for creating the best opener ever, completely giving the uh-uh, no you didn't bitch slap to all the annoying rabble-rousers who want the Games to fail and utterly sodomizing poor London in a preemptive strike that they won't even have a chance to match in 2012. The drum intro alone caused a sea of goosebumps to prickle up in waves all over my body (and it wasn't the only thing popping up either, giggidy-giggidy). That light-drum countdown? Grab me a towel so I can clean up this mess.

Although the showcase that comprised the mid-portion of the spectacle dragged a little bit, it filled me with a sense of pride and meaning that I would have never expected from an Olympic Opening Ceremony. Showing the world - mostly ignorant to China's history and contributions to humankind - what the Chinese have accomplished through history felt like a little serving of just desserts. It's not often that the world unanimously agrees on anything. Scenic painting via interpretive dance, detailed puppetry, my beloved Chinese opera, tea and enough fireworks to take down every skyscraper in Shanghai. And that undulating print-block dance was just off the hook. Did you know there were people in there?!

Zhang Yimou did a beautiful job, all flowing garments, lush colors and clever wire-fu effects that utilized the space in the Bird's Nest perfectly. It was like his Guilin and Hangzhou Liusanjie shows on steroids, speed, growth hormones AND Red Bull.

Though the lingering effects of the soul-shaking drum riot were still booming in my bones (and Sarah Brightman's shrill chirping still ringing in my ears), the closing portion of the torch relay gave it ample competition for my favorite portion of the show. Li Ning, oh he of gymnastic and sports brand fame, has to be one of the ballsiest and luckiest dudes around. There's no way in holy hell I'd ever be caught running sideways along the top perimeter of a stadium, hanging about 70 meters above the ground on flimsy little wire. In between "oohs" and "aahs", I had to keep my fingers crossed that he wouldn't plunge to his death and ruin all of the glorious cred accumulated by China up until that point. Alas, there was no tragedy and, when he lit that mega torch at the end, I was speechless.

After giving the world the best illuminated, synchronized percussion orgy known to mankind and the glorious Erection of Fire, the participating countries were paraded out in borderline excruciating slowness - ingeniously in order of character strokes - prompting me to long for another set from the drum bashers or another fireworks carpet-bombing. Are there really only 200+ countries on the planet? It felt like 500. Were some of those places even real countries? Looking at all the random flags, it seems like Britain went a little overboard with their colonization efforts. Actually, I've never felt so ignorant or uneducated while watching a sporting event.

Now to fashion. To my surprise, the Americans were the best looking in their Ralph Lauren duds. Naysayers be damned to the 5th circle of Hell, but those little white hats were classic, so suave that they even made Kobe look like less of a cocksucker. Sure, the Italians may have looked amazing in their silver suits, but it is the order of nature for Italians to always look good. Other personal favorites include the Kiwis, who were badass in evil Mordor black; the Malaysians, who looked they were off to the market in their kebaya kurung and songkoks; and the Spaniards, who I would have preferred to just come out naked, because those devils are hot as fuck.

Wow, Dude Looks GOOD. (Courtesy of WSJ)

Disappointingly, after all the Brit-lust I've been experiencing lately, the Great Britain suits were sullied by the guys wearing them (faux-hawks = still not cool). Is it just me, or do they all look like hooligan thugs? Bunch of wankers. At least the Chinese looked joyful and dignified with the cards they were dealt - those infamous tomato-scrambled-egg suits - despite all efforts to embarrass them. [Side note: whoever designed those should be drawn-and-quartered by the equestrian team. Or crushed under Yao's foot.]

The infamous Chinese tomato-egg outfits. Could also be McDonald's uniforms too...

(Also courtesy of WSJ)

Now to the games themselves. It's only been 2 days, but the heated firestorm that's brewing is going to get messy at the end of this fortnight (refer to next post...). The incessant barrage of "Go China!", "China is the best!", "Glory for the motherland!" and other such nonsense is starting to drive me a *little* crazy. Also, while broadcasting only the major Team China events is not out of the ordinary (fair enough, the US does it all the time), forcing me to rewatch the Gold-winning events when I want to watch something else is going to get old really fast. Although watching that tiny little weightlifting beast Chen Xiexia win gold in the Women's 48KG (with a Turkish bitch on silver and a Taiwanese champ on bronze) was pretty awesome, I seriously could give two shits about a women's air pistol competition when there's a bunch of other stuff going on (eerily coincidental: Russia and Georgia got silver and bronze in the aforementioned event...talk about timing).

Chen Xiexia: She Will Beat Your Ass.

TAIWANese Bronze Champ, Chen Wei-ling

Seriously, she could totally ruin you. (from Sina.com)

I just want to see the Americans smash China in every event, hopefully as brutally as the basketball mismatch. Did anyone think poor China even had a pretty boy's chance in a prison shower with that one?

My vitriol isn't the result of some vindictive hatred towards the other half of my genetic makeup, I'm just sick of hearing all the horn-blowing fanfare from the TV announcers, my coworkers and everyone on the street sucking China's athletic cock (or teat). Way too much National Self-Love. Someone needs to keep them from getting too uppity and proud, lest they think they can take over the world after the Olympic victories, using their medals as ammo.

Fine, maybe it's not so serious. Utter annihilation of the motherland isn't in keeping with the spirit of the Olympics (nor is senseless murder or war, but who's counting?), so let's just settle for getting #1 in the medal count. With a healthy headway for good measure. China can have the #2 position, what with all those accumlated minor medals for lame shit like air-pistol shooting or synchronized spitting. As long as the French are kept from the top 5 most-medals-won list, everyone should be pleased.

Oui, Oui~ Who's Tough Now?

I don't know what's wrong with me, but I'm feeling mighty proud to be an American right now. It feels good. Walking past a cafeteria full of Chinese watching the US team beat the French in the men's 4 x 100m freestyle relay, a wide crooked smile spread across my face and sparked a satisfying warmth throughout my body.

The BBC's amazing Monkey Olympic Intro, created by Damon Albarn (Blur/Gorillaz) and Jamie Hewlett.

Go China! Go Olympics! Go To Hell!

(Or, The Apocalypse Is Finally Upon Us)

I Though Beijing Was Supposed To Welcome Us?

Finally. After waiting for what seems like a decade (actually, only 7 years, since 2001), the 29th Olympiad has begun in China, kicking off a month-long nationalist circle jerk of self-congratulatory propaganda and sport-related Cold War sentiment. I've endured years of annoying "Hey Neil, are you going to the Olympics!?!" and the subsequent "Why not?!? You're in Chiiiina!" which kind of confused me. We were all in America during the Atlanta games and I didn't see any of you going to those, now did I? Thought so.

In recent months, my excitement and opinion regarding the Olympic games can be handily charted with the following professional graph:
Lovely, innit? Check out that nose dive! A comrade of mine sarcastically commented on this "rosy" outlook, to which I could only shrug my shoulders. It's just the way it is. Outsiders might think I'm just being a little bitch about it, so I invite them to have four years of Olympic-this-Olympic-that shoved down their throats before giving me an expert opinion.

One of Google's Best Banners Ever: The Olympic Friendlies (Fu-wa)

Say Hello to Beibei (blue fish), Jingjing (panda), Huanhuan (red flame), Yingying (yellow Tibetan antelope), Nini (green sparrow). Get it? Beijing huanying ni, "Beijing welcomes you")

Why everyone hates them is beyond me. They're so damn cute. Especially when sporting about.

Not into cute mascots? Then check out this cold hard cash. Street value for these limited edition suckers are in the hundreds of yuan. The price to pay for removing Mao's fat head from your money.

The unpleasant taste in my mouth could be conveniently attributed to my deep resentment regarding Beijing denying me a position with the Olympic volunteer program that I had my heart so set on. Seriously, who says no to a handsome bilingual and bi-cultural slave willing to volunteer for weeks in a tourist cesspool?! Alas, I take the high road; rejection is not an excuse. Instead, I point the finger at the demons of socio-political mudslinging and the boom in extreme nationalism that mushroomed in the past few months.

Yingying coming to shove her horns up your ass.

The unbearable and ridiculous media ping-ponging between China and the West in the months leading up to today have been well-charted: T!bet, the involvement in Darfur, Uighur Muslim "terrorist" attacks, the ill-fated foreign portions of the torch relay, French snubs, haughty politicians threatening boycotts, entertainers pretending to have an ounce of understanding of China, domestic censorship, unholy pollution, artificial images of national bliss...the list goes on (look up details yourself, most of it's blocked here). It's like everyone wants a piece of the bitchy pie, 15 minutes to air their grievances and protest something, anything. I'm probably quite ignorant of past games, but have any been this negatively politically-charged since the Nazi-lympics in 1936?

These exchanges have created an insufferable amount of jingoism with the younger generations, like with those ridiculous "I Heart China" and "T!bet was, is, and always will be part of China" t-shirts, that eerily reminds me of post-9/11 America. Freedom fries would be the least of our worries here, considering the parents of that Chinese girl who tried to ease tensions between the pro-T!bet and Chinese students at a Duke University are still in hiding after receiving a flood of death threats from overzealous netizen pigs.

Taking a step back from the international firestorm kicked up by the aforementioned issues, things within these borders haven't been that inspiring either. It seems that the West isn't the only entity trying to sabotage Beijing's success; the homegrown fumbles are just as mind-boggling.

Propaganda posted in local Beijing neighborhoods telling residents to stay indoors and allow foreign "friends" to enjoy the scenery without being bothered, lest the sight of real Chinese people be too embarrassing or shameful. How would you feel if you knew your government thought this highly of you? It's insulting.

Also, countless Beijing neighborhoods have been uprooted and tossed away in the breakneck drive towards modernizing the city in time for the Games and its (absolutely frickin amazing) architecture. I'm all for advancements in society, but I also can't help feeling a little guilty over the human cost.

In Shanghai, shops and restaurants are being shut down without any other reason save for the stock response, "It's for the Olympics!", leaving store owners and managers without income for a month (or more, in the case of the permanent closures and license revocations). Too bad the Olympic spirit can't feed a family. I can't wait to see what's going to happen for the next mainland orgy showcase, the World Expo in 2012. I may just be around to witness it firsthand...

As if treating your own people like they were disposable eyesores isn't bad enough, visas for hopeful foreign visitors - including tour groups - are being denied wholesale, while at the same time, long-term foreign residents are getting kicked out of the country for dubiously inexplicable reasons. I don't know what the situation in Beijing is like, but in Shanghai, it's blissfully (to me) apparent like the percentage of foreigners has actually dropped. The most controversial icing on this cake? Some bars in Beijing have actually been told to deny entry to black people because, as everyone knows, those colored folk all deal drugs. WOW, they did go there. You'd think humiliating and embarrassing social gaffes would want to be avoided.

This Yahoo gaffe from last week was just too damn good to be true.
Check out that accidentally linked photo title. Priceless! Now we all know who ordered the crackdown: those damned Friendlies!

I'm not even going to delve into the natural problems plaguing the games, namely the pollution crisis. We live with the smog and haze everyday and it has nothing to do with a sporting event. It's just an environmental emergency. Tactless cycling assholes aside, it's a disaster that will take far more than the Olympics to fix. Just look at these shots from last week (!!!). [In a delicious twist of rival city karma, Shanghai has had blue skies and gorgeous weather all week. Suck it Beijing!]

Those are actual shots taken between 9 and 11am in the days leading up to the Games.
(From The Atlantic's James Fallows, one of my favorite in-China blogs)

DUMB ASS.

It's a shame, really. With everyone focused so intently on the sick hope of China bungling the games, hungry for even one small misstep to pounce upon, they're missing the point. The Games are supposed to be about athletics, the spirit of sport and the achievements of what the human body can do in top physical form. This isn't the first time I've been accused of being naive, but I counter than I'm just trying to be positive. At the heart of it all, of course I don't want it all to go well. Even if we were to breach the symbolic athletic boundaries of what the games represent, using the Olympiad as a way to increase the average Chinese person's faith in change and the future of the country is still not a bad thing.

As we're reminded almost every single day in the PRC, the Olympics will be the grand debutante ball for China to proudly enter the global sphere, with the future success of a billion souls riding on this one event. For those living outside of China, it may be hard to imagine the immense pressure and expectations piled on everything related to the Olympics. But for some firsthand commentary, just ask this guy:

The Personification of "Suffocating National Pressure"
Liu Xiang, Shanghai badass, after getting his world record for hurdling

Sexy superstar hurdler Liu Xiang is bar none the biggest celebrity in the country, with his acne-scarred likeness plastered on more surfaces than Jackie Chan, Yao Ming and Jay Chou combined. Having broke innumerable hurdling records, every squinty eye in the People's Republic will be zoned in squarely on his 2008 performance (Aug. 21st, 7:30 PM, Beijing Time!!!). I do not envy his crushing pressure. It's like trying to pee at a urinal with an idiot coworker standing right behind you with a hand on the small of your back (sucks, trust me). Can you imagine if the poor guy loses? I'd actually fear for his life. If Yao Ming fucks up, at least he has 4 other guys to blame. If Liu Xiang even places second, you can bet every advertisement with his pretty pock-marked face will be stripped from billboards and Coke cans immediately. And then there's the lynching...

RUN!
Hurdling his ass as fast as he can to outrun the angry mob.

Erm...kinda looks like he's giving Yao a handjob, no?
And what's up with Yao's farmer tan? This shot is too good for words.

I want the Beijing Olympics to be a complete success. That doesn't mean I want China to win all the medals or whatever (we'll get to that in the next post). I just want a positive outcome that'll be good for the world. The fever of healthy competition, the energy of all nations supporting their prime specimens, the emotions spiraling up and down through the drama of sport. And yes, the Chinese blood in my veins does give me a little tinge of pride for Chinese around the world, no matter our political affiliations. [If only it were that simple.]

The Chinese portion of the torch relay.

August 8, 2008, 11AM, our CEO Richard Chang participates in the torch relay.

Not bad. The hair dye increases speed!

If anything unpleasant does happen, you can bet it'll be a disaster. No two ways about it. Either the country will become rashly insular, late-Ming style, closing itself off from the outside world or it'll go on the offensive, hurling accusations all over the place, blaming Western "bullying" for their own shortcomings. For everyone's sake, this had better be a good couple weeks. If all else fails, Fuwa-Tron will come to save the day.

Fuwa-Tron orders you to enjoy the Olympics!

Quality Time With Our Former Colonial Overlords (Or, Neil's Trip To The UK)

Episode 10: All Good Things Come To London

Well friends, you've survived chapter after chapter of travel blabber and are mercifully close to the end. Although it's been over one month since happy time ended, I am still experiencing flashes of the crushing sadness and panicked anxiety that I felt in those final days, when I would have loved nothing better than to be able to stay in the UK forever.

Day 1: London Chinatown
At first, I was so shocked to see the sun out at 9:15 PM. So I got into the habit of taking pictures of my watch and wherever I happened to be around this time. Didn't always get the shot on-time (or at all), but it became a nice way to keep track of my trip.

Even as my time on holiday crept closer to its bittersweet finale, the tourism train remained on course and we didn't relent in our goal to cram as much stuff into the final days as possible, until the very last minute on British soil. Although we had already accomplished a great deal within a short amount of time, there is always something more to see and do in the UK. Even if your wallet runs dry from binging on musicals, you still have weeks worth of free museums to wander through. It is indeed a place of beauty.

Day 2: Along the Thames with Big Ben
G.W. Bush was in town at this very moment, mere blocks away, complete with a warm welcome from violent protesters. We were just annoyed that streets and Tube entrances were closed for "security." The helicopters overhead didn't help maintain serenity either...

My initial reaction to Britain remained consistent until the end. I loved it all with genuine heart (except the maddening extra charge for all eat-in items at coffee shops and takeaways). Gorgeous, humbling architecture so plentiful you run out of "WOW"s after a day of wandering. Enough entertainment, culture, and food options to put you in so much debt that your college loans would blush. Shopping at stores with real sales that don't require hard bargaining or any additional stress to the ticker. Double-decker buses. The Oyster Card. Cashpoints, not ATMs. Richly layered history dripping from everything you see and touch. The Union Jack. Nature in technicolor, as it was meant to be, from vibrant emerald grass to sky blue skies teeming with whipped cream clouds. Getting a good laugh from guys wearing skinny jeans so tight it looked like their balls were trying to shawshank their way out of the denim. Full-frontal nudity and cussing on the BBC after 10pm. Harry Potter. The sensational adrenaline rush you get as you run across the street, praying you don't get hit, but too confused to know which way to look before crossing. That strange, musty smell that was ubiquitous in all the loos. And the people. How could I forget the people?

Day 3: Piccadilly, post-Mamma Mia
This was the day we failed to see Coldplay, hence resorting to the warm comfort of ABBA.

The citizens of Britain, however authentic you believe them to truly be, were a delight. Of course I don't mean ALL of them. But a large enough segment to warrant my current Anglo hard-on. I may be a little indulgent in my doe-eyed raves, but come on, look what I have to work with on a daily basis in China. Cut a Yank some slack! I stand by my claim: the Brits were great. Embarrassingly reserved by day, frighteningly boisterous by night; polite and mannered on the surface, critical and judgmental within. The weird dichotomies that abound create a national epidemic of split-personality disorder. Since I share similar neuroses, I felt a familiar comfort that eludes me in the US and China.

Yet, at the end of the day, that feeling of admiration is likely not reciprocal. Polite and mannered as I may be, nothing in my arsenal could compare to that of a true Brit. They see through my American guise immediately and no amount of garble-accented "sorry" or "cheers" will ever change that fact. Not that I'd ever want it to. I could never repress the sunny American disposition that creates a need for physical contact, verbal affirmation and consistent smiling, no matter how much I love the Brits with their chilly demeanor and proper austerity.

Day 4: On the coach from London to Bath
The National Coach services really are convenient. Clean, kinda reliable, and without the heart-stopping fear you get with Chinese drivers. And no horn-honking. So lovely.

In spite of its relative brevity, my whirlwind trek through the UK had to end. Unfortunately for you, that also means these thrilling accounts have come to a close. From the stylish streets of London to the grand antiquity of Bath, through medieval Edinburgh to the wilderness of the Highlands, I sincerely hope you enjoyed the journey, even if it was just a fleeting, vicarious pleasure. Ideally, you'll be inspired to make a similar jaunt of your own.

Day 6: Edinburgh Airport
Where'd Day 5 go!?! Flushed down the toilet in a drunken stupor. So here we are on Day 6, having just arrived in Edinburgh, after a 1-hour flight from Bristol on the awesome Easyjet.

In the final days, the gravity of the impending return to Shanghai loomed over my head like one of Pooh's little black rain clouds. Perhaps more severe than the relapsing culture shock experienced after a trip back to America, the prospect of crawling back into the polluted womb of China was too much to fathom. Especially with all Olympic jingo-bullshit flooding into every open orifice in the country.

Day 7: On Princes Street in Edinburgh
After a full day of serious sightseeing at the Castle and in the Closes.

After spending two weeks in a relatively civil society built upon manners and decorum (however artificial) and tasting European history and culture firsthand, I entertained thoughts of faxing my resignation to my bosses in Shanghai and saying to hell with the overflow of possessions in my tiny apartment. But sense and reality always have a way of stifling those impulsive thoughts of mine and I reluctantly boarded the plane.

Day 8: Edinburgh Bus
Is that rain in the background? Why yes. After a day in the Highlands, all clear and temperate, we returned to a frigid 10 degree C rainstorm in the capital. Delicious Italian dinner wolfed down with the quickness, we wanted nothing more than to get back to the B&B.

Immediate yet premature reminiscing of my phenomenal time in England was instantly ruined by the pig sitting next to me. In all my years of light-hearted complaining about the mainlanders and the gaping abyss that is proper social protocol, I have never, NEVER, been this shocked by someone's behavior. Please trust that I'm being quite gravely serious here.

This girl, who couldn't have been older than 30, was the embodiment of every ill currently being plaguing the new generations of Chinese society that I hate so much. More than a Little Empress, she was the epitome of self-centered garbage without so much as a speck of regard for those around her. Sprawled out in her seat, arms hanging over the headrest and legs spread eagled, crotch unceremoniously jut forward like she was advertising at Tsukiji, she chewed her gum with a gaping maw, lips curled in an awful sneer. Before take-off, she kicked the seat in front of her no less than 20 times as she shifted positions in a manner more befitting a clumsy troll than a graceful elf. The poor chap sitting beside her - the pitiful boyfriend - was on the receiving end of a few pushes, slaps and kicks, the annoying jerky elbow jabs that spoiled brats like to throw when in the midst of a tantrum.

After getting hit with a few recoils, the polite reserve I had acquired from two weeks of English osmosis was beginning to run out. Biting my lip and closing my eyes, I had to find my happy place, as my neighbour's spasms and complaints continued at an infuriating pace. When the food arrived mid-flight, she spied a pile of spinach on her boyfriend's tray and, without an ounce of dia-dia cuteness, she declared "my spinach." (wo de bo cai), reached over and grabbed it. Boyfriend gave a pitiful half-frown and did not protest. A defeated man clearly resigned to this kind of behaviour. When he made a motion to take a bag of peanuts that she had left sitting on her tray table, unopened and ignored for hours, she slapped his hand, gave him the "why the fuck are you so stupid" face, and coldly stated "you can't eat it, you're a fat pig" (ni bu neng chi, ni pang zhu). Chewing the spinach with an open mouth, feet still propped up against the chair in front, I secretly yearned for her to choke on it and die a slow and painful death.

Day 10: Above Edinburgh
I must say, Scotland was one of the most amazing places I've ever been. I was genuinely sad to leave. Wait, what's that? Day 9? If you really must know, I was busy shitting myself in a mausoleum when it came time for the daily shot, so you'll forgive me for being distracted.

My breaking point came during the final lull in our journey, while everyone was peacefully sleeping or enjoying the in-flight entertainment. Lost in an episode of Family Guy, my arm was suddenly and forcefully pushed off the arm rest as she lifted it up in a huff. I couldn't believe she had dared to be so forthcoming in her impolite flirtations, so I firmly put the arm rest down and replanted myself in position. And she did it again, with a quick elbow jab to my bicep. At that point, I really didn't care anymore, so I slammed it back down, so so satisfyingly on her leg, shoving her back into her seat territory. She slowly and deliberately pulled off her eye-mask (provided by Virgin, such luxury!) and looked me dead in the eye, saying "I want this up" (wo jiu shi yao fang shang qu). As if she could threaten me with those lifeless mainland eyes. Dumbfounded, I drew my face close to her's and replied "I'm using it" (wo jiu shi yao yong), as I pressed the arm rest down against her with perversely pleasurable might.

I think she got the point. Perhaps it was the first time someone denied her. She made a pouty face, pulled the mask back over her ugly face, shifted positions and kicked her feet over her sleeping boyfriend's lap, scaring the crap out of him in the process. For the remainder of the journey, she attempted to push me a few more times, but I remained firm, unwavering, and she relented. The whole ridiculous situation was entirely new to me and, after the initial urge to slit her throat with my plastic knife subsided, I continued to passive-aggressively huff and puff, blocking her attacks when necessary, laughing whenever she tried (and failed) to move that arm rest, and tried my best to keep composed until we landed in Shanghai. With the animosity fully out in the open, the back and forth was pretty entertaining.

Day 11: Hot Pot dinner in Clevelands Building, Bath University
On my last night in Bath, I had a filling ma-la hot pot dinner with new friends who I had taken quite happily to in the few days that I visited.

That rude little tart on the plane was a painful reminder of the awful reacclimation ahead of me. Her horrid behavior was the most extreme experience of social retardation - Chinese or otherwise - that I've ever witnessed. You'd think that having reached this pinnacle before touchdown would make the return to Chinese soil easier. Wrong wrong wrong. In the two weeks I was absent, Chinese efficiency remained status quo (i.e. non-existent), airport bureaucracy was rendered even more bumbling, and new security measures enacted for the goddamned Olympics (I swear, I will be so happy when they are over and we never have to hear of Beijing 2008 ever again) exacerbated the headache threatening to blow my brain out of my temples. It took me 2 hours just to get out of the airport. I was beginning to regret getting on that plane.

Day 13: Les Miserables
Oh what a show. We approached the classic with some trepidation, afraid the hype of 25+ years wouldn't deliver. So so wrong. It's a close second to Phantom, which is quite something in my book. After the show, we emerged to a rain shower and a celebratory mob cheering the Spanish Euro Cup victors. They were so raucous that a distracted bus crashed into a lorry in the middle of Piccadilly Circus. Awesome. (Oh yeah, and on Day 12 at this time, I was busy getting assaulted at the Radiohead concert)

When I stepped out into the humidity and stank of the summer air, the initial shock ripped me straight back to reality. The trip was officially done. No more pleasantries with strangers, no more comfortably chilly climate, no more uncensored living. After the plane ride from hell and the work week mere hours away, I felt desperate. Why the fuck did I have to come back? Head hanging low, I plopped into a taxi and covered my eyes with a heavy hand to shade the glaring midday sun. Feeling bitter and disappointed, maybe a little teary-eyed, I just wanted to get home and delay the inevitable return to daily life in China.

Day 14: Wicked
The last day of the trip, spent with the witches of Oz.

Making admirable small talk, the jovial driver asked me about my trip and continued to chatter about the weeks of typhoon rain that had flooded Shanghai in my absence. I nodded politely in return, distracted by memories of the cool breezes and unpolluted skies in London. With a beaming smile, she paused, leaned over and said that I had brought the sun back with me. Pulling my hand from my eyes, I gazed out the window, taking in the vista for the first time. It was actually a beautiful day in Shanghai. As much as it hurt to be back, I couldn't justify further resentment. It is not Shanghai's fault that it's not as awesome as London. No place is as awesome as London. We don't penalize a hamburger because it's not as delicious as a filet mignon, so why should the same judgment be wrought on completely different cultures? Thus Shanghai remains home for now and I'll keep my whining to a minimum. I had just spent 2 weeks on holiday after all. And England, in all her majestic glory, claims top spot for the best trip I've ever been on.

For more pictures of the trip, please head over to Flickr: London, Bath, and Scotland. Thanks for reading.