Aww. The Olympics are over.

This streak of sentimentality is really going to do me in one of these days.

(I feel I did not contribute much spiritually to my Tibetan friend's boycott/protest of the whole affair.)

haterhead there ever a review of a radiohead concert that goes, "It kind of sucked. They played a bunch of songs I didn't know and they all sounded the same. I didn't understand why everyone was having such a great time. I think they are all in a cult or something. Afterwards I felt sort of sad."

I'm just saying. It's not like they ever, like, throw in a Prince cover or anything. And usually not free, either, those shows.


One of my fondest earliest memories is going to sleep in the back room of my grandparents' house in Fresno while in the living room the adults played mah jongg until deep into the night. The recurring sea of clatter from the shuffling tiles imprinted a preference for falling asleep not in silence, but near comforting noise.

Similarly, I remember falling asleep in my cubicle in Taipei Hostel during the 1996 Olympics, listening to people in the common room watching the live broadcasts of the sports that Asians really care about -- badminton, table tennis, soccer.

Right now there is nothing I'd rather fall asleep to than the ping-pong match between the U.S. Chinese woman and the Korean Korean woman. I hope there is a room in the afterlife where this is always on TV.

the beizhing mystique

As we move forward towards a new global paradigm of intercultural cross-pollination and information exchange between the modern superpowers, the Olympic coverage has this to offer:

OMG! Did you know that the Chinese people eat weird things? And they have pandas there! Also, all their music involves gongs. And you gotta be kidding me with this food. I mean, scorpions. Come on.