Bash on the current state of the American news media:
"They cover stories for approximately one day and then move on to the next political gossip story. The fact is that the only difference between E! and MSNBC is on MSNBC the men have bigger tits than the women."

Monsoon Brunch, chasing lobster with Moet. So top.

Did I abuse my dessert privileges?

Mornstar.

Dimitri. Notice I'm going to second with him.

Nick.

Jack.

Spot of rain.

Leggies.

The 4th annual Great Wall Beach Party. Where the Great Wall of China (world's largest urinal) meets the China Sea. Nice venue, really.

Imperial Willis. "The Heeem Dynasty."

CNN China: Iowa hits up Beijing like Ethiopia hit up Barcelona.

Oh, the Sichuan hot pot I ate for dinner. There are 2 pots of boiling broth in the center of your table. One is a "burn-your-testy-satchel-off chili sauce," which both looks and tastes like the fiery pits of hell. The other, more benign broth has 500 grams of soft shell crab boiling in it. This is a broth you'd expect to see a matzo ball floating in, compared to the spicy menstruation-looking ordeal, out of which you'd expect to ladle the devil's wife's tampon. The Jewy broth is your voice of reason. You know, for bathroom purposes mainly, that you should favor this one, as to avoid the inevitable Sichuan hot butt you'll endure if you keep up this daring urge. But the lava keeps calling your name, and for whatever reason, your chopsticks can't avoid it. So, like the indoor girl with AIDS, you keep shtooping it. Mongolian beef, dip. Bamboo root, dip. Golden fried shrimp, dip twice. You'll pay dearly. I know I did.

The Great Wall-E of China. What a glorious wall for peeing.

Same school of humor as the word titmouse, the lake Titicaca, and Gheorghe Muresan's acting career.

Saint Nick and myself whetting our whistles (hard "H" in both words)

The Sanlitun Ya Show Clothing Market is your home for everything fake. I'm not even sure I was actually there. It seemed like at any moment they could just wheel away the walls leaving only a baron parking lot and hundreds of Chinese people trying to sell you dust.

Here's how it works:
You've set a price for a particular item in your head before you walk up to the stand. You express interest in said attractive item. They type into a calculator a comically high price, one you wouldn't even pay for the real thing in America. You laugh, actually laugh in their face. You laugh for as long as possible, maybe a minute or five. Then you come back with half of the price you had mind. They get pissy. They enter another number, only marginally lower than the original and you laugh again, maybe even spit-take. This calculator volley goes on for a couple minutes until they finally shove it in front you and ask the highest price you would possibly pay. You type in half of the half of the original price. When they say no, you storm off and express interest in the same item at the very next stand. Here's where it gets sad. They begin decreasing the price aloud in 10 Kuai increments, often grabbing you, stomping the floor, or hitting the item with the back of their hand, until they finally arrive at, and agree to, your asking price. Wala! You're the proud owner of knockoff Tommy Bahama shirt for $3.00! No one at your family barbecue or country club function is the wiser, and your shirt looks as baggy and breathable as the one they sell in the pro shop.

I found myself bargaining for things I had no intent on ever buying just for haggling sake. Who's the wild man now, Rudy?

Cannot explain how difficult this place was to find and how worthwhile the juicy pork dumplings made that biblical slog.

Played basketball at 6:30 this morning, when I woke up. Played like garbage, so I bought some Gilbert Arenas socks hoping they'll improve my game.

Alright alright folks, the F Monger's back. I know there's been a lot of speculation as to where I've been, so allow me to clarify that yes, I have been dancing with the stars. Yes, this entire time. I'm pooped.

Last we spoke, I was in Europe gaining weight like Buddy Love when his potion expires. Now, I write to you from China where I have become a successful Indian restaurant / massage parlor / auto repair franchiser. Gift certificates for Massage Garage Mahal are available online.

"The Jing" has been kind to me thus far. Last night I attended an indi rock music festival behind a drive-in movie theater. Among expats and locals alike, I met Bash's friend Nick, an LA kid turned Beijing hipster who's working for NBC's Olympic research team. He's fluent in Mandarin and negotiates seamlessly with bartenders and locals which compensates for my floundering relationships with the same folk.

Afterwards went to one of the countless 24 hour restaurants here, where contrary to America, it's offering of around the clock service does not negate the quality of its food. When I fell asleep at the table and woke up with rice sticking to my face, I realized I had fully arrived in the Jing.