buxom hippies take note

The one true path to harassing whaling ships and obnoxious treehouse protests should start here.

Now, we just have to find an environmentally friendly way to tackle your hairy armpits.

This year, I went as "Ambivalence"

News In Briefs:
WYWS Edition
* If you'll notice, there's now a survey on the left hand side of the page. It's actually of the utmost importance, so if you'd be so kind as to donate two finger clicks, I'd be much obliged. Through your faithful voting, bets will be won, dreams will be crushed, and large amounts of unmarked yen notes will be passed from gloved hand to gloved hand in silver Haliburton briefcases.
Cast your vote wisely.

* In other non-sushi related news, a gauntlet has been cast down across the internets. If you have a Facebook account, and aren't already part of the group, I invite you to join in on the celebration of manliness. Warm up those follicles--"whoo vhants ah mustache ride?"

* Oh. And happy Halloween. This afternoon, following their pumpkin carving disaster, I was dragged into the first grade classroom for an impromptu discussion on this silly holiday of yours.
So to spite the teacher who decided that entertaining her class was more important than my gchat session, I taught them how to scream "anarchy!" while wrapping her house in toilet paper. Don't forget to hit the rain gutters kids!


Rice harvest this week.
Seasons like reasons, five years in the making, I've seen them all, and I'm running out.

Gaijin Whorage

The alley smelled like greasy hamburgers. And fish.

It wasn't particularly her fault--"get off the Midosuji line at the #24 Namba street exit" made it easy enough. But coincidence landed our meeting spot outside the ostensibly named "Hotel Sala Del Rey." A narrow alley; lined with hawkish neon and gaudy plaster hotel fronts, vertical matchbox parking garages, and the small fish market on the corner. There I stood, nervously waiting, desperately mopping sweat from rivers on my forehead. The makeshift dam I'd built out of sports towels to keep the flash-floods from soaking my boxers had been breached. Sweaty ass crack in a suit.
Fucking great.

She had scurried off in search of the other hapless cast member who was either lost, or just late, and left me sweltering and alone to watch the market's late afternoon hustle and bustle. Elderly Japanese men in white rubber boots load dripping styrofoam crates of iced fish onto the back of a small panel truck. Another was hosing down the alley where I stood, sending up wisps of steam as the water met the hot asphalt, turning the humid air around the hotel into a suffocating bath of sweat, fish, and air conditioning exhaust. Fishy puddles started to gather around my shoes, lapping at my tailored suit. Where the shit did she go?

I didn't know many details--only that it was supposed to be some kind of bit part--a small speaking role in the typical mindless Japanese variety programming; however, a quick survey of the surrounding Osaka street suggested the role could be in some pixellated skin flick, if I didn't get shanked in the ass by one of the fishermen first. I put my thick sunglasses back on, hiding the avalanche of perspiration down furrowed brow.

At last, she appeared around the corner by the McDonald's, dragging a short, middle-aged American. Appropriately dressed for the professor role he had evidently been preparing for for: unmatching tie hung limply over an untucked, paint-stained polo shirt; frayed khakis and beat-up sneakers completed the look. I had a sneaking suspicion that his wardrobe was "fit" for the role, only because he was the role. In broken Japanese, we learned he was a part-time art teacher to "young, old people." Great. I take that back--his disheveled gray hair said he was just beyond middle age. Still American though.

The director burst from the hotel's partitioned entrance, grinning broadly. Strong handshake for a J-train. Right there in the alley in front of the hotel's shielded parking garage, we exhaustively went over the specifics of the script. We're going to be shooting at poolside. Art hippy was cast as professor Cussler--made apparently famous for his award-winning experiment--an experiment we were to be re-enacting for a Japanese science program. I was to be "Watson," his labcoat graduate assistant. I am still swimming, and mildly displeased.

Better late than never, my "clue" train suddenly screeched into the station. Wait, 'normal' Japanese hotels are too small to have pools... I thought. And why are there so many tiny hotels in such a small, low-traffic area?
We were at last escorted inside to the softly lit air-conditioned oasis, where we strode past the automated front desk and large colorful screens displaying room features, to the tiny elevator in the back. Soothing jazz and funk played throughout the lobby. Wait, what the shit...? Screens? Room photographs? No incriminating staff? Chandeliers...Prophylactic vending machine...

Oh.

Snap.



To be continued...

My other t-shirt says "juicy"

News In Briefs
WYWS Edition

* Snapped this picture of a group of complete strangers in a yaki-niku (teh burning meat!) joint last night. "Gaizu Naito Ahuto" we'll call it. It's not particularly awe-inspiring or anything. I just think it's a fun picture. J-trains after a long day at the office, drunken and red-faced; putting aside their worries, just to do it all over again tomorrow.

* I remember back in 2nd or 3rd grade, we did a "science" experiment, where we compared bananas left on the counter for two days, with bananas wrapped in bags and left on the counter for two days. The results? Astounding. Bagged bananas ripen, then become quickly overripe long before you can eat them. So why the shit would a grocery store (whose best interest to sell fruit not plagued by leprosy) sell bananas wrapped in bags? No clue. Yeah, it's all fun and happy town until I bring your failed bananas back to the 'sahbeesu' desk. Bastards.

* Moustached Japanese men look just as ridiculous, if not moreso, than their Western counterparts. I can't quite pin down what exactly it is that seems out of place, but honestly people, does it really matter? I mean, didn't the moustache go out with Magnum PI? The Japanese must not have gotten the memo. I mean, hell, they still think Tom Selleck is the bees knees. Too bad the bubble economy implosion didn't take the moustache with it...Or leg warmers. And Mr. Big.
Anyway, the way I see it, is that there are two kinds of mustaches: the kind that get savagely kicked in the janglies, and the kind that do the kicking. So imagine if you take the moustache away from lumberjacks and Chopper Reid, and give it to this bespectacled little suit and tie Asian pointdexter whose sole purpose in our office is to bitch about the A/C, and you'll start to get why I feel something is at the very least, slightly amiss.

* The Warhawk beta is finally free of system-crippling bugs. Firing ze missiles without a single crash in four hours says I can't freaking wait for this game to drop at the end of August.

* I'll go into more detail about it later, but I stopped my daily running regiment with Nike+ (started to get a little boring), and switched to a higher intensity interval training style. And my muscles are on fire. This would be awesome if I could walk straight.

* Kelly Clarkson's new record finally drops on the 26th.

...

What?

It's not like I pre-ordered it or anything.