Hitting the Road

Monday, May 9. 2005

The stream becomes a river, the river becomes a stream



[Written 28 April 2005]

Choose a spot on the horizon
Try and meet it
Find another point
Head toward on your feet

This is the only place I still hold my morals on.


Did you practice, in the mirror on your own, to get that look in your eyes? Removing yourself from ourself and viewing your own spoilt face with foreign eyes, getting it just right so that when the time comes you can split them down the middle without even trying. Turn it on, turn it off, practice until it seems as though you were worn with it, a weapon you practice with. Fix the colour around your eyes and mouth to show it off and strike where it hurts.

How about you? What does it cost, what percentage of your monthly pay does it take to keep you hair like that, like some flawless, overperfect wig? Do you even work to earn your way, to keep up your lavish decadence or are you some clean as whitewash soft skinned princess relying on the borrowed and cajoled feelings of the lonelier to line your overpriced handbag? I know you do, I know you, I can see you. You never worked a day in your life, you never plan to either. I can see, I know. You think you know hard work but you dont.

What you, you over there, what you spend on those rags and stitches could make many a man happy, but your values are as warped as your feet in those shoes and you happily chase the fashion as hopelessly and fruitlessly as the dog chasing his tail. Do you feel the same way about anything as you do about that skirt? And yet you will reject it as soon as the magazine goddesses tell you to. What would it take to help you find the things in this world that really matter, that really make it worth feeling?

I want to help you all. I want to assist, to shine a light, to lighten a load and broaden you horizon. Almost as much as I want to strip those clothes from your body, scrub that pain from your face and see who you really are, who lives behind the wall of fear and conformity and then, and then I would do you the favour of widening your loins and filling that empty void you created with the fire. It is you who put this fire in me and I want to give it back. This is how I will help you and save you.

I want to look into those eyes and feel what you would make me and then free you from the power you have imprisoned yourself in by doing what you make me want to, subconsciously or not. You bring this on yourself; she does too, that perfect hair tone all the way to the roots is not what you should strive for. I will help you find what you need to be looking for, I will keep you sweating until your hair grows black again and then I will make you sweat some more. You who value your clothing so very much, I will honour that as long as it takes to strip it from your body, I will take it piece by piece until we have nothing left but each other and then you will realise that mine is all you need to feel complete. I will complete you and you will never be the same.

Every single one of you. I will help you all, one at a time if I have to.

Remaining men, together

Tuesday, April 19. 2005
Warning: The following is an incredibly insensitive post and makes fun of stuff of which you shouldn't make fun. It also steals shamelessly from Fight Club, and I apologize for these things.

Insomnia. It's just before 3am here and I couldn't sleep. It'd been getting worse lately: I'd been to the doctor and asked him to prescribe me something, anything, to get me to sleep.

He refused.

"What you need is good, natural sleep," he told me.

"But Doc, can't you see I'm in pain?"

"You wanna see real pain, go and visit testicular cancer victim's support group, that's real pain."

Although I never went to the meetings, it slowly dawned on me what was happening. I could feel it. Every morning when I woke up, I could see it in the mirror too. Little by little, I was turning into Meatloaf.

But that's only half of it.

I, the j, had tit cancer. No fucking joke. The right of my two, huge, man tits was painful, and, as the tumour ate the flesh, getting smaller than the left.

I asked KC to come and see if he thought the right one was getting smaller than the left one.

It got worse. The pain never went away. During the day, just my shirt brushing over the skin (taped down so noone could see my tits) was almost more than I could manage. At night, I would roll onto my front and the pain was excrutiating. I had tit cancer.

This brings me to tonight, it's almost 3 am, and what any of this has do with the bearded maniac holding a gun in my mouth, I have no fucking idea.

Thursday, March 24. 2005

Daze, those were


Those were the days


It was a steamy night, by memory, but likely it was bollocking cold. The date was February 7th, 2003. This fact alone tells me it must have been cold.

Kawaguchi. Highest crime rate in the area, in the national top five. Not that its a bad place, its Nishi-Kawaguchi home of the biggest red light district in Saitama just down the train line that brings all that. That night it was host to a yakitori run, at the instigation of a boy named Taro. Theres a once in a lifetime figure, truly; the likes of that boy and the times that were had when he was around will never come this way again. That night was no exception.

Actually, the plain vanilla details arent thrilling. There was much skewered meat eaten and generous amounts of beer to follow. As a result, all there present were in stages of tipsy to roaring drunk, and back down again. Let the record show that both the J and I were present and between us shared honours for Biggest Glutton and Most Magnificent Drunk. Many photos were taken that fine evening, including last nights preview and the below, a charming work youll agree. Conjured up in the spirit of the occasion as a postcard, I believe the theme was, with the rudimentary photo editing skills that ought have me locked away. Or at least kept from such software. The likely lads have thankfully had their identities carefully obscured, ironically by the same technology. Aint it a bitch.



So, back to the details. Taro did the ring around and he had us all gather at a place he knew. It was yakitori, but since the grill was next to the front window the smoke was minimal and the clothing was safe. Both turned out to be lies, all lies but the place was worth remembering. Not that anyone did. When Taro calls, you know sensibilities are to be abandoned and its on Taro usually did things in private, but as it turns out the rules of engagement dont change for public outings. A lot of faces there that night stir up emotion in me, as I look over the photos. Even my own, I look younger and mystifyingly happier. The J looks as I remember him from that visit. I think he needs to revisit that haircut so that we might be brothers in hippie-dom when we next meet.

Service was slow on the meat but prompt on the ale. Aye, no complaints there. But the lineup, like that, dont matter whats been imbibed I had an in depth discussion of the term yummy mummy on the walk from the station. It can only go downhill from there. The international feel of the lineup only helps the occasion. Sadly, several couples from that night are no longer part of the scene. How the pieces shift.

They shifted that night, too. Both the J and I were blessed, although in different amounts, that night as we met a certain young lady. Shes a good friend of mine to this day and no fear how things turn, will still be part of both our lives in one way or another.

I had to get the last train home and ended up getting a ride on the back of a nice young mans bicycle as he took pity on my running drunken ass. Now that I think of that part, it was pretty goddamn cold.

What else? Oh yeah, the Amber Hour theory. I actually have a very proper study proposal, given my academic background, that just begs to receive proper treatment. And funding. Needs thorough research, that one. Was it born that night? Thats pretty fuzzy. It was born around that time. All the more testament to its powers!

This has been a House of the Dragon flashback.


Thursday, March 24. 2005

A slice of history


Slow cooked over hot coals!


Given that the outstanding graphical interior of the House was built almost exclusively by the J, I may indeed be about to shock some of the regulars. They know, deep down, that as surely as Monet himself honed his talents and surely wasted as much crimson paint as canvas, so did the J have his learning curve. The early versions of the House stand as testaments to his education and, for better or for worse, do not stand out for public appraisal.

In fact, until now, none of his early digital manipulations have been on prominent public display. He mentioned the birth of the Amber Hour theory (which, due to the power of stated theory, I am powerless to confirm or deny the accuracy of his claim all I can say is I think hes right) and despite my personal haze over the table talk, the concrete details dont escape me. Since I need to get to bed, Ill fill in the spaces later and leave you with this.

The inescapable power of the amber and the grip it maintained. This wasnt all of it, but that caption does not lie.

The Commercial

Wednesday, March 23. 2005
Hi. I'm a well-known record producer. When I say well-known, I mean I'm well-known in the industry. You might've heard of me. I work with some very high-profile artists. You've almost definitely got some of the records that I've produced in your home collection.

Anyway, because I don't have the recognition of a normal celebrity, I can't command very high sums for endorsements and promotional work. This, combined with my air of commitment to hard work makes me perfect for budget-minded advertisers who are looking for someone who is both serious and credible to promote their product.

As such, I've been picked up by this company who makes canned coffee.

That's right, I'm here to tell you that despite what you might think, the recording industry is not fueled by cocaine snorted from the bellies of naked groupies, or fifth-bottles of Jack Daniels. No, I make it through my insane 20-hour days of coaxing saleable product from self-important, irritable, irritating celebrity muscians by knocking back can after can of canned coffee.

Nothing focuses my concentration like the preservatives and trace amounts of caffeine in [insert product], and I guarantee it can help you too. Your days of working unpaid overtime for a go-nowhere company will breeze by.

Trust me. You already have some of the records that I've produced in your home collection.

Wednesday, March 9. 2005

Missing


Have you seen my header graphic?


Any information leading to the location of the J's header graphic will be rewarded. No, seriously. I'll let you take a beating from my wang, or something.

Come home, we miss you.


Friday, February 18. 2005

Giant women


Giant lingerie models, actually


This is the front the Arche building in Omiya. It's two, maybe three storeys high. He cleavage alone could swallow a grown man.

Tuesday, February 15. 2005


We'll be back after this announcement


The House is not a bl*g.
The House is not a LiveJournal.
The House isnt anything like what you learned at university.
The House is a monument to our egos.
The House might be a tray of kitty litter.
The House is possibly Sophist. Look it up.
The House is not unwilling to use double negatives.
The House is not ISO9001 compliant.
The House is not available in convenient 12-packs.
The House is not your fucking khakis.
The House is not signed to Sony Entertainment.
The House is not artificially sweetened.
The House is not tested on animals.
The House is authoritative.
The House always wins.
The House is not made in Indonesia. Yet.
The House may or not go better with Coke.
The House is not bringing you the greatest hits of the 70s, 80s and 90s.
The House is not Che:::AP V!:::aG::::R@.
The House is not available in your choice of colours.