Roll over, America. It\'s finished. Fold up your tents. Retire from the field. Let us stick the collective fork in our collective self, because we\'re flat-out done. Kaput. Finito. It\'s Sacajawea-dollars-on-the-eyes time. China has beaten us. You might ask, “Why all the gloomy-Gusiness, Gus?” To which your author might respond, “My name is neither Gustav nor August nor Burton Guster, so please refrain from calling me Gus. As for the gloom; the despair at how far away we\'ve moved from the American Century in the space of 12 short years? The gloom, my friends, comes courtesy of BYD and the F3 Plus it is showing in Beijing. The car is radio-controlled.” Not Chevrolet, not Ford, not even dear, departed American Motors had the vision to offer such a feature. Even the mighty Henry J. Kaiser, the man who built the ships that kept our boys armed and nourished in faraway lands, didn\'t offer the option on the vehicles that bore his name. Meanwhile, in the flourishing Middle Kingdom, where a hundred flowers bloom, BYD suggests that its system could be a boon in tight parking spots where the driver has no room to exit the vehicle. Have you seen our collective waistline lately, America? This is technology we need, yet it is technology our withered titans will not offer us! Also, venerable San Francisco eatery Sam Wo is closing this weekend. This isn\'t a death of a thousand cuts, America. It\'s a slash of the jugular followed by a chainsaw to the aorta. The jumped shark is well in our rearview. Hell, at this point, he\'s probably already been made into soup.