Hell hath no fury like the loathsome individuals who work for the Olympics. There is no better representation of the old, "give them an inch and they take a mile" saying than this last week of Beijing. Some of the nimrods that wield their cowardly power sticks when the five rings unite makes me as sick as Rosie O' Donnell trying to run a marathon. Not to mention, all of the other "fake cops" in the city now have the wherewithal to bring down the hammer like Thor on any hapless soul (for some reason this hapless soul keeps haplessly being me). But before I get into the "harsh times" of Olympic tomfoolery that I have gotten myself into, let me backtrack a little bit and rewind this record back to last Sunday (a week ago).
So let's see, I went out for cocktails with my loco friend Victoria and her buddy Melody. Then we trounced off to a "Foodies Dinner" which was really cool, because I prefer these kinds of dinners and events to the blaring nightclub debauchery that Beijing oozes. Met lots of cool peeps and ate a boatload of Mediterranean food, which is one of my favorite cuisines. This social circle is a great one to be in, as the "Foodies" meet every month, and since I like food and am a supporter of starving orphans, it was a match made in heaven as I gave back to the community while stuffing my face full of falafel. Afterwards, a raffle for the organizer for next month was held, and my nickname (you have to use a nickname, mine was chosen by Victoria) "Mr. Hollywood" was not called. Guess "Save the Manatees Dinner" will have to wait a little bit longer, sorry my lovely sea cows you will have your day of reckoning soon enough. So all of the sudden, I have come to grips with the fact that I have managed to meet some really cool people in Beijing. A bunch of my club friends like Henry, Doug, and the boy genius Hansen were all at the dinner, and after breaking pita with the crew it became apparent that my colleagues and I had more in common that just a common disregard for Soulja Boy, fanny packs, and Chinese meterosexuals. After dinner we went out and danced at a club for our friend's b-day fiesta, and after some dancing and jokes it was a called night. Well, almost. Or not really I guess. The harsh times were just about to begin.
Some of my friends call me "Magellan", and it is not exactly for my navigational prowess, it would actually be for quite the opposite. I have this trusty little card with my address written in Chinese that gets me home every night, and somehow, someway this magical little piece of paper fluttered out of my pocket like that transcendent feather did in the opening scene of Forrest Gump. The next thing I knew my broken and gurgled Mandarin Chinese dialect landed me on a taxi cab destined straight to hell. Or I guess the Chinese equivalent, as hooligans with 40 oz. bottles (I had no idea they were sold here) and out-dated NBA jerseys littered the streets like a Master P concert in Palmdale. The taxi driver stopped, and he had unexpectedly made up his mind that this is where I was destined to go. This is when the sparks started to fly between the infamous Magellan and the cowardly taxi driver battle had now begun. The meter read 30 RMB, I offered ZERO. He then countered with 25, I bumped my offer to five. He then went up to twenty trying to make a deal for fear of getting completely stiffed. I had none of it and kept my bid/ask at five. At about this time a small Asian boy and a Nigerian wielding a roll-a-way suitcase strolled over as they were attracted by the commotion that was now starting to get pretty intense. The small boy said that I had to pay him something, and I asked ,"Why for taking me to Hell's Kitchen?" So eventually with the Kofi Annan of Beijing mediating we settled on a tab of ten cuai. I was hit with every curse word in the Chinese dictionary; hypothetically, I may have fired back. This would not be the last time I was to be cursed out by a taxi driver. In all total, this would be a drop in the bucket of cursings I would receive in celebration of the Olympic spirit.
At about this time, a bunch of heavy-set dudes with forties, jerseys, triumphant beer-guts, and menacing looks that may have been caused by smoking swisher sweets since they came out of the womb rumbled our way. The little Asian boy scurried off, and it was just the Nigerian and I left standing in the battle of "The OK Corral Part Two". The ringleader of the pack peppered us with some obnoxious jokes, and his posse of would-be hooligans laughed and taunted the Nigerian and I. I don't know what got in to me, maybe it was the liquid courage, or maybe it was the thought of the meterosexual Chinese contingent dominating the club scene, but I went on a verbal assault that would have made George Carlin say, "whoa, that's a little too far." The five-star diss was when I slammed the leader for wearing a Cleveland Cavalier jersey, as I called the city "the mistake by the lake," and told him to get on a treadmill. For some reason the Two-Star bunch of thugs strolled off, not sure what the heck had just hit them, and the Nigerian and I had managed to thwart the assasins with the power of the smackdown. The Nigerian looked at me with a puzzled look that wasn't quite admiration, but it was close. At about this time more beer bottles were slammed from out of nowhere, and I thought things were about to get really bad...again. Then out of nowhere the little Asian came back into the mix with a map, and soon a cab came, and soon later I was home, sweet home. I tried to tip him, but he wanted no part of my money. Bullet dodged....yes! Good Samaritan saves Mr. Hollywood! Should be in the "Chinese Daily News" sometime soon.
The next few days of work were just run of the mill stuff. Research all day, eat lunch at the medieval cafeteria, go home, work out, watch a movie, repeat. This regular routine came to an abrupt halt on Wednesday as I managed to change my habits just a bit, as I grabbed a cup of coffee before I read the USA Today on the way to work (I normally just grab a granola bar). Like all taxis in the city, mine was crazier than a drunken elf, and he zigged and zagged the whole way down the freeway with no care for life or his limbs. Well, it turns out he zagged one too many times, since I managed to extinguish an entire coffee all over his back seat. I probably should have said something, but I didn't know how to say it in Mandarin, so it wasn't until the exit that he noticed how badly his trusted taxi had been served. The livid driver cursed me out even worse than the taxi a few days previous, I mean there was some serious fire and brimstone in his voice. It was not until I grabbed my cell phone to call my manager and tell him I was gonna be late, that the dangerous driver dropped his diatribe. He immediately stopped his yelling and looked scared for his life. Lightbulbs began to flash immediately in my cranium, as I immediately realized what was going on. Drivers of taxis across the city will face certain punishment for any tiff with their passengers, because of the enforced regulations of the Olympics. Since this encounter, I have had to raise the phone a few times for taxis who have tried to deny me passage (taxis don't always want to go to my end of town, because they lose a lot of time looking for a fare). I know it is a wuss move, but as they say, "when in Rome". HAHAHA! In yo' face taxi drivers!
Harsh Times Volume II will be written soon enough. As a preview to the infamy, it involves me being forced to apologize to a wretched brick-house of a woman by her Brian Boitano look-alike boss at the Olympic ticket pickup counter. Also, I have managed to secure seats to: handball (Woman's final), weightlifting, soccer (Woman's final), boxing (Mens final), and Track & Field. I also gave away tickets for the China Woman's Basketball & China Woman's Softball to some employees at my lodging, who were unable to get tickets. Let this good deed please save me from death by taxi for at least one more week.
harsh times my friends,
Mr. Hollywood
So let's see, I went out for cocktails with my loco friend Victoria and her buddy Melody. Then we trounced off to a "Foodies Dinner" which was really cool, because I prefer these kinds of dinners and events to the blaring nightclub debauchery that Beijing oozes. Met lots of cool peeps and ate a boatload of Mediterranean food, which is one of my favorite cuisines. This social circle is a great one to be in, as the "Foodies" meet every month, and since I like food and am a supporter of starving orphans, it was a match made in heaven as I gave back to the community while stuffing my face full of falafel. Afterwards, a raffle for the organizer for next month was held, and my nickname (you have to use a nickname, mine was chosen by Victoria) "Mr. Hollywood" was not called. Guess "Save the Manatees Dinner" will have to wait a little bit longer, sorry my lovely sea cows you will have your day of reckoning soon enough. So all of the sudden, I have come to grips with the fact that I have managed to meet some really cool people in Beijing. A bunch of my club friends like Henry, Doug, and the boy genius Hansen were all at the dinner, and after breaking pita with the crew it became apparent that my colleagues and I had more in common that just a common disregard for Soulja Boy, fanny packs, and Chinese meterosexuals. After dinner we went out and danced at a club for our friend's b-day fiesta, and after some dancing and jokes it was a called night. Well, almost. Or not really I guess. The harsh times were just about to begin.
Some of my friends call me "Magellan", and it is not exactly for my navigational prowess, it would actually be for quite the opposite. I have this trusty little card with my address written in Chinese that gets me home every night, and somehow, someway this magical little piece of paper fluttered out of my pocket like that transcendent feather did in the opening scene of Forrest Gump. The next thing I knew my broken and gurgled Mandarin Chinese dialect landed me on a taxi cab destined straight to hell. Or I guess the Chinese equivalent, as hooligans with 40 oz. bottles (I had no idea they were sold here) and out-dated NBA jerseys littered the streets like a Master P concert in Palmdale. The taxi driver stopped, and he had unexpectedly made up his mind that this is where I was destined to go. This is when the sparks started to fly between the infamous Magellan and the cowardly taxi driver battle had now begun. The meter read 30 RMB, I offered ZERO. He then countered with 25, I bumped my offer to five. He then went up to twenty trying to make a deal for fear of getting completely stiffed. I had none of it and kept my bid/ask at five. At about this time a small Asian boy and a Nigerian wielding a roll-a-way suitcase strolled over as they were attracted by the commotion that was now starting to get pretty intense. The small boy said that I had to pay him something, and I asked ,"Why for taking me to Hell's Kitchen?" So eventually with the Kofi Annan of Beijing mediating we settled on a tab of ten cuai. I was hit with every curse word in the Chinese dictionary; hypothetically, I may have fired back. This would not be the last time I was to be cursed out by a taxi driver. In all total, this would be a drop in the bucket of cursings I would receive in celebration of the Olympic spirit.
At about this time, a bunch of heavy-set dudes with forties, jerseys, triumphant beer-guts, and menacing looks that may have been caused by smoking swisher sweets since they came out of the womb rumbled our way. The little Asian boy scurried off, and it was just the Nigerian and I left standing in the battle of "The OK Corral Part Two". The ringleader of the pack peppered us with some obnoxious jokes, and his posse of would-be hooligans laughed and taunted the Nigerian and I. I don't know what got in to me, maybe it was the liquid courage, or maybe it was the thought of the meterosexual Chinese contingent dominating the club scene, but I went on a verbal assault that would have made George Carlin say, "whoa, that's a little too far." The five-star diss was when I slammed the leader for wearing a Cleveland Cavalier jersey, as I called the city "the mistake by the lake," and told him to get on a treadmill. For some reason the Two-Star bunch of thugs strolled off, not sure what the heck had just hit them, and the Nigerian and I had managed to thwart the assasins with the power of the smackdown. The Nigerian looked at me with a puzzled look that wasn't quite admiration, but it was close. At about this time more beer bottles were slammed from out of nowhere, and I thought things were about to get really bad...again. Then out of nowhere the little Asian came back into the mix with a map, and soon a cab came, and soon later I was home, sweet home. I tried to tip him, but he wanted no part of my money. Bullet dodged....yes! Good Samaritan saves Mr. Hollywood! Should be in the "Chinese Daily News" sometime soon.
The next few days of work were just run of the mill stuff. Research all day, eat lunch at the medieval cafeteria, go home, work out, watch a movie, repeat. This regular routine came to an abrupt halt on Wednesday as I managed to change my habits just a bit, as I grabbed a cup of coffee before I read the USA Today on the way to work (I normally just grab a granola bar). Like all taxis in the city, mine was crazier than a drunken elf, and he zigged and zagged the whole way down the freeway with no care for life or his limbs. Well, it turns out he zagged one too many times, since I managed to extinguish an entire coffee all over his back seat. I probably should have said something, but I didn't know how to say it in Mandarin, so it wasn't until the exit that he noticed how badly his trusted taxi had been served. The livid driver cursed me out even worse than the taxi a few days previous, I mean there was some serious fire and brimstone in his voice. It was not until I grabbed my cell phone to call my manager and tell him I was gonna be late, that the dangerous driver dropped his diatribe. He immediately stopped his yelling and looked scared for his life. Lightbulbs began to flash immediately in my cranium, as I immediately realized what was going on. Drivers of taxis across the city will face certain punishment for any tiff with their passengers, because of the enforced regulations of the Olympics. Since this encounter, I have had to raise the phone a few times for taxis who have tried to deny me passage (taxis don't always want to go to my end of town, because they lose a lot of time looking for a fare). I know it is a wuss move, but as they say, "when in Rome". HAHAHA! In yo' face taxi drivers!
Harsh Times Volume II will be written soon enough. As a preview to the infamy, it involves me being forced to apologize to a wretched brick-house of a woman by her Brian Boitano look-alike boss at the Olympic ticket pickup counter. Also, I have managed to secure seats to: handball (Woman's final), weightlifting, soccer (Woman's final), boxing (Mens final), and Track & Field. I also gave away tickets for the China Woman's Basketball & China Woman's Softball to some employees at my lodging, who were unable to get tickets. Let this good deed please save me from death by taxi for at least one more week.
harsh times my friends,
Mr. Hollywood
No comments:
Post a Comment