Kanazawa 03: Postscript

Saturday, February 25. 2006
I dont usually like to talk about what I download. I mean pirate. I mean, its not the volume it used to be, what with having come across most of the music I feel I need and overseen the deaths of two hard drives, but it continues nonetheless. Mostly because FM radio in this country is a hell unlike any other I have encountered, partly because television broadcasts make it seem like its all two years ago. In fact, most interesting television doesnt make its way to screens here at all, even on blessed cable. So it was with zero reservations I set about acquiring high quality HDTV rips of something called Sleeper Cell, of which my friend had informed me. This will probably never see the light of day here and will remain obscure enough that encountering DVDs on sale will be an unforeseeable event. What do I care about some network dude and his advertising revenue? This is a type of art I would have not seen otherwise, that the artists deserve to have viewed by as many people as possible. The story follows an FBI agent undercover in a terrorist sleeper cell in LA as they go about masterminding an attack against a civilian population. The main character, the undercover agent, is Muslim like his other brothers, but he does not agree with their reading of the scriptures. He risks his own life to take them down. The two main points were that Islam has two faces, especially these days (the militant, terrorist driven one and the peaceful, life respecting one) and that the FBI has them all by the balls. The second point is the most important. More so that showing American viewers that not all Muslims want to blow them up, someone wanted us to see just how clueless the sleeper cell operation was to the depth of FBI surveillance. The we had you all along factor.

This art does not exist to sell advertising time, the purpose is not to sell me something I likely dont need. They had a point to make and by restricting it to ten episodes, a fully encapsulated series, they made their point. Art is not a salesman, the FBI has America covered and Islam is misrepresented by violent individuals. Two out of three aint bad.

When I was in high school, a guy in the class next door one gave me a cassette tape. Quaint, you will agree. Back then I still owned and used a tape walkman, fine slice of technology that it was. I also owned a CD walkman and I loved it dearly. So much I kept it squarely tucked away in my bag at all times. I remember returning to the school of my origin and seeing kids carrying their CD players around, oh so ostentatiously, and thinking, you paid twice what I did and its three times as big. Congratulations.

This tape was a live recording of LArc~en~Ciel at Tokyo Dome. There was no date or track listing, no information other than it was said band at said venue and it was a live recording. I listened to it for about a week and had to give it back. I had no way to copy it, so that glorious sound was lost. I had no way to find out where it came from, so I soon gave up trying. But I never forgot.

Two days ago I downloaded a live recording by said band. I listen to it now and goddamn, if it isnt the same recording.

The first time I went to Kanazawa I met the J. The next time I went, the Bancho appeared. I fear repeat visits because what would I do? I might be disappointed, god forbid. The remained of the week there with the Bancho was spent running around saying lewd things to girls, hearing the stories of yore from the Bancho and generally being stupid. The morning lectures passes without incident or much attention. Somehow I remained awake the entire time. The afternoon excursions were interesting and I was able to take many pretty pictures. The last day we had a Taiko drum exhibition put on for us and upon reaching a new high score for being Drunken Bastards, we danced like crazed monkeys and stole all the unopened bottles of beer. I here implore the Bancho to give details of his speech, and ask him to not exclude any detail of the scene. To do so would be a crime upon the gentle reader and rob this story of its climax.

The next time I saw the Bancho was Golden Week, and he tried to kill me. That is surely another story, for another time. The week or so in Kanazawa was filled with learning, self improvement and burgeoning selflessness. Well, two out of three aint bad.

Here's to the Bright Light

Thursday, February 23. 2006
Word is out and I am pinned down, fifty storms beat against my windows,
Like trying to figure out where the wind goes;
This little story, too little too long,
I can only ever see you when I wake up and that goes for a song.

Angels and halos run around these quiet flows,
But it isnt together that they get along;
Fifty storms tear me apart, those yellow lights alone see me,
I see heat, I see fire and I only really see an end.

Part Two Goes A Little Something Like This:

Wednesday, February 22. 2006
Really, how long was it? Five days? A week? Something like that. The dialogue between 3D and I probably wasnt as sharp and I get the feeling now that the Asian guys werent as amped about proceedings as we may have thought. It turns out they actually worked really hard at their schools and week where they didnt have to work at a shitty Chinese restaurant after classes every single day just to make rent was a rather handsome deal. Plus they didnt have to cook, which may have been the deal breaker for Kim, the crazy Korean. No, I hear you gasp, a Korean man named Kim? Could it really be possible?

He was one of my roommates. Kim and Chai were the only two I deemed worthy of my time (and future correspondence) because they did a passable impersonation of Asian Man Who Can Hold His Liquor. That is a redeeming quality to me, or at least, it was back then. I since have encountered the natives of Taiwan, but that is another story. To venture further, the entire experience was a big chunk of Not Enough Sleep parenthesised by bouts of being hungover and gently cushioned by the fluffy clouds of drunkenness. Lebmo, despite hailing from Lebanon, was a massive pisshead. The invisible mass of non-drinking Asian girls tended to blur into background noise by the parentheses and clouds, so the ones worthy of recollection were also significant drinkers. In fact, the only comrade who didnt measure up was the regular customer at the trough of sobriety, and he usually went to sleep early anyway.

The second day was punctuated by visits to cultural assets and the like, museums, art galleries, blah blah blah, I couldnt give a fuck because this rural fucking setting was not kind to my tortured sinuses. It was at lunch time I asked the Harried Woman who seemed to be calling the shots if visiting a retail outlet might be possible. She looked at me as if Id requested a blowjob. You know, the first time shed heard it in her life. Then she said we could go visit a hospital (!?) the next day (?!?) if we made time especially in the schedule (!?!?) and hurried off somewhere. I was dumbfounded. Good thing someone talked the bus driver into stopping at an Aeon Town on the way back to our prison that night. The lady at the chemist even gave me a bagful of moist, easy on the skin tissues to go with my Super Strength Allergy Buster 2000 (two thousand yen and a small part of your eternal soul) and sinus cleaner and decongestant (200 yen, byo straw). I like small town folk, the service in the Big Smoke is like a daily kick in the pants.

We returned to the domicile in time to see the sun set and things happen. I took my drugs, cleaned my nostrils out and lay down. The sleep I got the night before meant nothing and apart from falling asleep in the filtered air of the art gallery, I was running on empty. Or at least, more than usual. I started empty. We get quantum here, going into some hypothetical sleep dept slash fuel tank analogy.

I awoke and stumbled out to see Fuckhead Macho Yankee attempting to hold court in the lounge area. Dipshit, I muttered as he waved some Japanese book around and pretended to want to read it more than he was trying to get a look up their skirts.
Hey girl, I wanna make you my babys Momma.
Right.
I took a piss and went and sat nearby. It was a book written by a local boxer. He was reading it for some report he had to write. Look at me, I can read Japanese so well If only your fine looking ass wasnt distracting me Oh give me a break. I wandered some more. What is there to do here? Im sure theres a gym or something. A rec room, maybe. I go ask and again, Harried Woman looks at me like I made the oral sex request. They didnt think wed want to do anything but learn and sit in our rooms quietly, it seemed. Well, try again. I wandered further and the depth of out isolation sunk in. Mother fucker, wed been abandoned as if on a lonely moon base.

In the shower I took stock of which lads carefully hid their gear in the communal bathing area, which ones actually kept it covered with a towel and who had the balls to let it all out. Fuckhead might have been the only one to let em swing. Even more interesting are the guys who are so afraid of it all that they wait till everyone else has finished before doing a lightning raid to clean their filthy bodies. Count 3D and Trenchcoat in that group. I also noted the amount of ink on Fuckheads body. I always check out the other dudes in the shower, to allay my own self consciousness. That is a huge fucking dragon on his back. And the Black Flag logo on his arm. Maybe he aint a lightweight cowboy wannabe after all. Somethings written in their Cant quite read it. Ah well.

We exited at the same time. I mention the Black Flag art and ask what the deal is with the writing. Its his family name. Under it is the Chinese for Brotherly Love. And that brutal dragon

Anyway, it went something like this. Details? Fuzzy. Foggy, even.

Either way, that might be how Fuckhead Macho American became my Bancho. No-one has understood this since, so maybe the retelling will reflect this. Or whatever, I need sleep. There will be some poorly remembered drinking stories featuring the J next week.

Minus figures

Wednesday, February 22. 2006
Why oh why, cant I see
This three am atrophy
Man, I know its killing me
Time to sleep, not to be
Engrossed, as it were, so openly
In the content fair, truly
Of this download folder, woe is me.

Rediscovering the Lost Week part one

Monday, February 20. 2006
Awake. Goddamn, the rush of cold and slap across the face, the stinging just doesnt go away. Fuck, thats the doorbell Yeah yeah, Im coming. God damn, 3D mate, we dont have to go for another 40 minutes.
But I was already awake, and I knew you were up all night in Daddys room.
His girl sent him some new DVDs. I cant do anything about that.
I know. But still, I know you wont wake up so I came to get you.
Fine. Pack my bag while I take a shower.

I even made him get my towel from the outside clothes line. In the ten seconds that took I managed to fall asleep again. But all was to be, and we were on our way to the local stop to make the unholy rendezvous at Tokyo station. Eight thirty, or something. With Tokyo station almost an hour on the train, plus with busses to contend with, it ment an early start. I began with close to zero sleep and never looked close to making it up along the way.

3D was my better half. If you are a wicked, sinful man you get a cute and possibly insane Mongolian girl as your sidekick. Me, I was wading my way through the arse end of my adolescence, struggling to come to terms with the gifts God had given me (not to mention beating off almost uncontrollably) and a case like mine earns a partner in crime like 3D. He was the singular Straight-180 at our school that year. A man so committed to being boring that he would come out drinking with us and have nothing more than Oolong Tea and remind us that it was maybe the twelve beers that were causing the vomiting sensation. Right before we would use his knees as a pillow. Always the first one to go to bed, 3D was also unintentionally hilarious and very, very devoted to his friends. Need help with anything, he was your man.

And why 3D? Daddy named him this. Denis the Dirty Dutchman, three Ds, for everything he should have been.

The spring holidays were upon us. The delightful exchange students had all frozen in our lightly insulated dorm rooms all winter with nothing but the ever present glow of drinking games and American cinema to keep us warm. Diligent work had rewarded us with generous scholarships and far from going crazy and spending it all the day we were paid, most had saved up a tidy sum. Suddenly we had a whole month with nothing to do, least not academically, so the weak went back to their own countries, the scared refused to come out and the rest went travelling. I actually laughed when I heard that some of the Chinese students were taking bullet trains to Kyoto, thinking that the precious cultural heritage they were about to see would be a monumental disappointment and the bullet train a wholly unnecessary expense. But not as much as how hard I laughed when one of my teachers suggested I go off to Kanazawa for a week to study. Oh man, I think I said to a few people they would have to be dumb to actually go. And most agreed, because a few days before the departure date 3D come knocking on my door, interrupting my 2 pm slumber.
What, man, its too fucking early Go away.
Its two in the afternoon. The sun is going to set in a few hours.
OK, but I still wont be putting on any pants.
Nothing I havent seen.
You dirty Dutchman.

It was then he told me that of the thirty or so exchange students to be invited to join the study trip, he alone had replied in the affirmative. A pro-active, suck the marrow out of out precious opportunity bunch we certainly were. He almost had to beg me to go with him, he couldnt handle heading off to something we barely knew about on his own. Come on, Ill cook you some food tonight.

I had not yet become the owner of a frying pan at that point. The universitys holiday closure had extended as far as the dining halls, so I was living a precarious existence based on the nearby Seven-11 and noodles (and then only because Id borrowed my neighbours kettle) so I was immediately interested.
Go to karaoke with me tonight and its a deal.
Id go anyway. Ill call the teacher and tell him youre in.

And he was gone, my fate sealed. But I would eat that night! And be entertained by 3D and his Ayumi Hamasaki repertoire.

So it was with that I found myself being handed my towel on that frosty morning by a short Dutchman who then berated me about my choice of luggage.
You cant take your stuff in a garbage bag.
Why not. I dont have anything else. And if it gets wet, I have nothing to worry about.
You really have nothing else?
Just the backpack or my suitcase. No-one needs a suitcase for a week away. Especially not me. No-one else will be bringing their suitcase.
OK, fine. But I want nothing to do with your garbage bag.
Its not a garbage bag, man. I got it when I bought my shoes.
Fine, so it just belongs in the garbage.
Shut up and turn around.

3D was also fastidiously clean. He might have been the only person to actually but his own vacuum cleaner. The choice of luggage was a finely aimed shot right at his oh-so amusing sensibilities.

The trip to Tokyo station was blurry. I am not a morning person. That there is an eight oclock in the am is always a rude shock to me, when I have to deal with it. So 3D dragged me off the train at the appropriate stop and then asked, so you know where to go?
Of course. Follow me.

I then proceeded to take us out the correct exit and toward the entirely wrong direction. The map says over here But I see no busses, just buildings. What time is it?
We have about four minutes.
Fuck.
Just then, a harried looking Japanese lady came half running up to us. Were we going to Kanazawa?
Why, yes we were.
We are waiting for you! I hope you will be more punctual during the course.
Oh yeah, it was this shitty map, I begin, but shes got 3D by the ear and I can only follow.

Onto the bus. We were not the last to find our way, it turns out. There was mostly a crowd of Asian looking boring type, the type that I knew all too well being at a university. They speak Japanese only because they and cop a vast slab of vocabulary by butchering their native pronunciation and feel vastly superior to the white man who has learned the words for beer, toilet and blowjob, in that order, and generally little more. While 3D and I were not in that particular bracket of student (we were the more refined type) I saw the single most stereotypical example of that species. Long black coat, check. Sunglasses in winter, check. Hyper inflated ego because suddenly he was in a land where he was no looked at as a potential school shooter but instead a valued cultural asset and potential chick magnet, check. Wild stories about how much Jinro and Coke hed consumed the night before despite the obvious fabrication, check. It would be a long ride.

But it wasnt going to start yet, because we were one short. Hed be here soon, harried woman informed us, so we were going to wait a few more minutes. And yes, five minutes later a huge Lebanese man with a beard the size of Everest and wraparound sunglasses balloons onto the bus and after a few half hearted apologies to the teaching staff manoeuvrers his way to the seat across from me, sits down and without a word, falls asleep. Okay then. Can we go yet?

Highway bus stops are the worst. They all look the same, have the same evil lineup of vending machines and horrifically bad design. Like a block of concrete dropped by a lazy deity that was carved up by the Hideous Building Company Pty. Ltd. Then filled with the ugliest customers and most unfriendly workers. Add a cloud of smoke and exhaust to the overpowering stench of urine coming from the toilet block and you have it, paradise on the road that has absolutely shit all to do with the area except the committee selected name.

It was at one of these my nose started running. I get hay fever pretty bad, and despite the earliness of the season, the second I left the concrete confines of my beloved metropolis I was doomed. I swelled up inside and began leaking like a broken water main. This did not add to my already low assessment of Japans roadhouse facilities and the fact that no-one working there seemed to understand my dialect (or they were just being assholes) I could not purchase the meds I required at that juncture.

With a heavy heart I returned to the bus to nurse my swollen sinuses and promised them relief when we arrived. By this time the huge beard had awoken and rumbled like Vesuvius. It turned out he was severely hungover and this in turn eventuated to be one of his two states of being. Hungover or drunk, like black and white, yin and yang, man and woman. Randy was the only perpetual thing about him. We shall, in keeping with our holy scriptures continuity, call him Lebmo, as this is the very same man Bancho will surely tell you more about later. We had a good long chat about places be had publicly urinated in around Tokyo and found that as a common ground, it is indeed fertile. Black Trenchcoat tried to join in but unless he has some dimensionally distorting liquor, he was just making shit up. Lebmo passed in and out of consciousness as I panhandled tissues all over the bus. 3D had come prepared, bless the little boy scout.

The next stop was another traffic side road house. Lebmo and I enjoyed a watery curry and were almost late getting back to the bus. Much to the disdain of Harried Woman, who was not seeing my best side.

The arrival in Kanazawa happened while I was asleep. I recognised nothing from my previous visit but didnt expect to. Lebmo had studied at Kanazawa University years before so he knew the area. We kept going through hills. Indeed, there would be few antics to be had within proximity of the general public so any trouble would be in house. And we were alone out there.

The orientation bullshit passed without raising my attention. When we went around and did the introductions, some macho fuckhead American got up and made some piss poor attempt to be funny in Japanese. Great. More dumbass Yanks. I made a mental note to kill 3D for all this. After the red haired retard shut the hell up, we found our rooms and sheets and all that. These things are always the same. As soon as the teachers are gone all their finely laid plans go and fuck off as we decide on our own who sleeps where. As the only good looking genuine white boy, I had advantage over all the geeky Asian lads so I hand picked out the funny and the interesting ones and commandeered a room. The rude boy was not among the chosen few so I would not be crossing his path just yet.

Path with him crossed only later, when a base attempt at communication was made. He was trying hard with some girls who all smiled longer at me than they ever did at him, but he had persistence. He even tried to talk to me in Japanese. Who did he think he was? Screw this, wheres 3D gone

I slept not that night. The itching sensation in my head stopped that. Pain ensued and six am rolled around.

An Inauspicious Beginning, Parts I & II

Sunday, February 19. 2006
The week is at an end, and an update hasnt been written, KC is mounting an attack on the six consecutive posts rule, and its incumbent on me to stop the son of a bitch. Another post and we might as well just call it a LiveJournal and be done with it.

Both my CNY adventures and my trip back home got off the wrong foot.

Part I

Chinese New Year: The premise was to jump on our bikes with sleeping bags and tents and circumnavigate the island. We had people to visit on the way but beyond that, no plans were made.

Originally my plan for CNY was to leave on Sunday 29 January, to avoid traffic and to buy me some time to get ready for the damn thing. My rolling buddy, Charles, stated he wanted to get away on Saturday to make the most of the time off. I eventually agreed, but come Saturday, Charles was slow out of bed, and I was slow getting my shit together. By late afternoon, I had bought a sleeping bag, and finally loaded the bike, just as it started to piss down rain. Fuck. I covered everything in plastic bags, put on my rain gear and headed down to the coffee shop where Charles was waiting for me.

By the time I was there (I had to get an oil change on the way) it was not only raining heavily but also getting dark. We contemplated the options over a coffee, and, like the easyriders were are we decided to leave the next day and stay in Taipei to eat pizza and watch DVDs.

After ditching our gear at my place, we caught a cab over to the excellent if pricey Alleycats Pizza. We then headed back to the apartment to watch Be Cool. I gotta say that Be Cool appealed to me quite a lot. Im a sucker for lots of cameos and stupid in jokes. It kind of lost pace towards the end but the appearance of the Black Eyed Peas pretty much sealed the deal for me.

Day 1: We stayed at home and ate Western food.

Part II

In the end, I booked a ticket back home Friday night. It worked out pretty well, because I would still be able to work that day then head to the airport.

I fucked it up a little bit though. I called in sick on Thursday. Friday was an excursion, and its hard to turn up an opportunity to get paid to go play. As it turned out, I wish I had worked Thursday and taken Friday off instead.

Thursday was a disaster because of a miscommunication when I called in sick. Apparently admin was told that I was going to come in later, when I only said I would call later. Then, Friday came, and not only did I manage to injure myself on the excursion, but I had an argument with Dinna at lunch time, then barely had any time after work to get back home and grab my stuff.

Of course, the time I had to be at the airport fell in peak hour. Sitting in the cab on the way to the bus terminal I was cursing myself for not getting the MRT instead. I got to the bus terminal still with plenty of time. Normally, the ride from the bus terminal to the airport is 45 minutes, and the buses run every 15 to 20 minutes. Not today. After waiting for about half an hour I asked the desk when the next bus would be.

They run every 15 to 20 minutes.

Yes but its been more than that and there hasnt been one.

Well thats because its to the airport, and the road is busier.

Hmmm.

About five minutes after that, the bus came.

Peak hour on a Friday night, and the eight-lane highway between Taipei and Taoyuan is jammed. Both ways. Now, a 45-minute ride to the airport assumes that you are doing about 100 km/h. Instead, we are doing a crawl. You know Im nervy when I start compulsively looking at my watch, which I was doing. And Im getting nervier. I realised that there was a pretty good chance I would miss the flight. Thank god Dinna was there. I made her call the airline and find out what our options were. As I was transferring in Hong Kong, I hoped that maybe there would be a later flight I could catch. Only an hour and a half in Hong Kong, it was only a slim chance. No dice. I had booked the last flight for the evening. Worse yet, if I wasnt on it, I wouldnt be getting my money back. Nor could I change the flight.

They told us that they would ask the check-in staff to extend the check-in time for us, and to call back in 10 minutes.

10 minutes happened to be the time that check-in was due to close. They kept it open. The bus finally got there, we sprinted up to the counter and checked in. I even got my check-in baggage on (4kgs!) and we had time for a quick bite. Or so I thought. I finally went through customs and headed toward the gate. I was the only person at the gate, and the last one on the plane. Oops.

Cut to Hong Kong International Airport, and Ive wandered around looking for duty-free stuff (I wish I could give HKIA a better rap for that shit but frankly it sucks. Actually, most duty-free sucks.) and caved in, changed some New Taiwan Dollars for Hong Kong Pesos to buy a coffee and a cookie. (Why the hell did I bring the HK change from my desk and forget to bring the wad of notes pinned to my notice board?) By the time I finish the coffee and cookie, its time I was at the gate. Which is halfway down the enormous concourse and youre supposed to catch a train there. Snap.

Well, when I get there, theyre doing the last call thing again, Im the only one at the gate and the last one on the plane.

So I started my holiday by almost missing the damn plane.

Miracles on this Earth

Wednesday, February 15. 2006
James Angelo Yamato (Jimmy)
Born February 15th 2006

The sun came up.

Life comes from other life. A small start was made to the wondrous journey of life today and on behalf of all here in the House of the Dragon, may yours be long and prosperous.

Congratulations to the family. Teach him what he needs and give him the long stick to make it through the long grass of this world. Let him know that walking softly will keep the barbs off his ankles.

A small miracle in a hospital. The mother is doing well and the child is healthy. The time to celebrate is at hand, let no harsh words cross the small baby; stay strong little man, may you be a warrior like your fathers.

The sun set, but this is just a beginning.

Outta here

Tuesday, February 14. 2006
Things that caught my attention faded like nothing. The supreme disgrace of the Weekend looked like nothing worthy of memory. Trust me when I tell you, by not getting that here you miss out.

I just dont feel like writing about it just now, or likely, ever.

How is it that being told youre effectively useless and unwanted manages to cut at a particularly vital part of the soul? The ego, it might be called. That your worth is so little here, even though it remains your choice, we have a guy with all your shit in a box holding the door.

Dont let it hit your arse on the way out, or we take the cleaning bill out of your last pay check.

Yeah, you might be like me right now, all Fuck You bravado and ready to storm up and demand all the months and hours back because you bastards werent worthy. That I was thinking hard about leaving anyway doesnt change a great deal, but I wanted it to be on my terms, with some estimation of my worth on top of it to give me a high to ride out on. It turns out that being crushed makes you feel, well, pretty crushed.

What, exactly, was going on is hard to say. The transparency level is so bad that paranoia alone dictates what I should believe. These days, I feel pretty paranoid. But I can cop some of that Farewell and Die attitude, because I dont have to stop working for a month or so. Good and bad. I get some of those hours back, you see, they get what they were willing to pay for. Still, there is not much to feel good about.

Which is why I cant get past an inclination to just lie down and die tonight, or at very least have a drink or ten and listen to the first Belle and Sebastian album.

Mother trucker

Saturday, February 11. 2006
Does anyone else think its strange that for someone who writes exclusively on the internet to have almost zero respect for anything else that is published in this gulf of words and noise?

Good thing I harbour secret ambitions of being published in a legitimate form. Otherwise Id have to either pay places like Pitchfork a modicum of respect, or stop writing.

Who thinks there is even a chance Ill shut up? Yeah, me neither.


Warmer air, greyer sky
No-one else noticed?
Train rumbled through my head all night
All night, then I died

Not really died, cause Im still here
Still here, still typing
Like a soldier caught up in the flow
Following a man named Taiping

Dying like a rebellion

Wishing you well, I would have followed you
Just like I said, just like I said
How can I just say, no more?
Like this.

I just want to wish you well



A drink before leaving, maybe tomorrow Ill be able to form some of this slop into words and then on into sentences, maybe even spin out a paragraph or two. This slop probably wont get any more solid by adding alcohol but theres only one way to see. Mashed and lean, clean on the scene.

An update had just come in. The riots that have consumed the north west of the United States show no sign of abating. Those who managed to leave the torn area say that the trouble has been caused by two distinct groups. One appear to be mourning and flailing about on the streets, causing harm to anything that may wander in its path. The rest are red as if on fire, screaming and burning things without caution. When asked if the national guard would be sent in to save the ravaged reagion, President Bush replied, Seattle? The National Guard are here to protect US citizens, ma'am, not intervene in some scuffle all the way over there.

We await the other five signs of the apocalypse any day now.

Shipping in, shipping out

Friday, February 10. 2006
It's less than a week since I've been back and I'm already heading out again. I'm going back to Oz for a week. You can expect more updates while I'm there though.

Master of Disaster

Tuesday, February 7. 2006
Well I got back in one piece, on a somewhat crippled bike, early Sunday evening. We made it round the island, with our fair share of disaster, but it was a total blast. I made it to every Tai- town on the island. We hit the southern-most tip, rode the coast and the mountains, swam in winter, and spent more money on food in a week than I normally spend in three.

A week of not even wanting to check my email or read web comics. I'm back, I got a few photos. Don't worry, KC has hit his first and last six consecutive posts, for a least a while.

Blasting In From Somewhere, Boy Are My Rockets Tired

Monday, February 6. 2006
What if this is it?
That there is no escape, that over there
The light in the dark is just a spot in my eye
Damn, I dont think Im even angry anymore,
More of a resigned Pity the ones who
Open their eyes to see
Its all dark out there.



Holy cow, how do I top that? Lets take a look around the world, starting at the rapidly declining cesspool of everything shitty AKA the Middle East. Yes folks, youve been reading correctly, the US sponsored UK assisted Aussie supported invasion over in Mess-o-Potamia has lead to so much cleanly growing democracy and freedom that the entire region has been swept up in a fit of empathy and extremists are waking up to find theyve been legitimately elected. Not even the grand monkey Bush himself can rightly claim that one! I for one offer my congratulations to all living south of Turkey and north of Ethiopia. Lets include everyone in this orgy. Blow something up, I think it doesnt even matter what it is anymore!

Not even pausing to look at the frozen post-communist Eastern Europe (who would have thought relying on Russia for natural gas might come back to bite you?) and only sniggering slightly at the mental image of Russians with central heating. Satan had returned to Earth and hes the leader of the Tories, so London, England: consider yourselves warned! Hes a toff and you think he dresses sharp? Smile while he quietly prepares to make Blair look positively socialist by comparison. It might take a few decades, but hey, barely anyone remembers that Churchill hated unions and miners we all have hope after that.

And to sun-drenched California, the Governor accrues more comedy mod points after an extremely hilarious vehicular accident. While the heathens all went to Gods church, the rest of the US made their annual (one a year should be plenty!) prayer to the new god of consumerism and football as the Steelers made an absolute mockery of the Seattle Circus Troupe. The franchise name needs some work if they ever want any respect back..

The real winner, at the end of the day, was nobody. Stop it! Stop kidding yourselves! Run, for the time of judgement is close at hand and the demons are all sharpening their hooks


A small addition to this bulletin. A small fire has broken out in the northern suburbs of Tokyo but was quickly contained after the neighbours dog pissed on it. The cause is thought to be the overheated genitals of a resident foreign national. Authorities took the chance to remind the populace that all human needs are to be addressed, let you end up in a smoking, steaming pile drenched in dog urine. As the victim was taken for treatment, he was heard to mumble, twice my age, twice my age, oh fuck, so hot, oh so hot