cafe mclean

The present-day grocery store is a warzone. A veritable hellhole of conspicuously edible chemicals, and cleverly disguised, genetically modified organisms in otherwise innocuous foods we've deemed safe, or healthy. But are they really? Granted, we're not buying napalm in the morning, or depleted uranium shell casings in the bulk aisle, but at the rate the modern digestive system is collectively de-evolving, rendering itself incapable of the simplest of tasks, we might as well be. There are certainly cooler ways to die, and at the hands of some allergen the FDA has deemed fit for consumption, will not be hers.

Cup Noodle Diaries

The following post was recently rescued after having been buried in a mess of crappy saved drafts from three months ago.


Lunch. Shio "ramen." Thank god for the sesame cracked pepper sodium smokescreen. Waribashi gently patting the noodle cake deeper into the hot water, I'd hate to remember, even for a moment, that I was about to eat cardboard noodles and plastic krab soaked in synthetic greasy broth from a styrofoam cup.

The volleyball coach's cell phone chirps out that nauseating J-pop melody for the third time this hour. I am running out of valid reasons to not carry out unspeakable acts of violence against him and his idiotic phone.

Waiting. Approximately 2.5 minutes for the boiling water to bring the floating "men" cake and assorted "meats" and "vegetables" to a consistency appropriate for consumption. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. Same soup, different flavors of sodium. Sometimes the salty meat slides out of a vacuum pack, sometimes it puffs out or expands in the boiling water. Brown, gray, darkish beige, even red once. "Infant Blood" "Kimchi" the package said. I swore off UFO noodles last week after accidentally spilling a bit of the thick, viscous, flavor packet oil on the back of my hand. A true, as-seen-on-CNN environmental disaster, mere 12 inches from my face; I watched in horror as my skin's delicate natural habitat was ruined. Fragile hairs lay dead and wilted. Deep, dark oil stains spreading between knuckles. Greenpeace hippies in mourning, pulling blue tarps over fingernails less fortunate.

Ok, no hippies, but my right hand stank like a beast in high heat, for the better part of three days, despite repeated, violent washings. Besides probably lubricating them to "greased lightning" caliber, I got to wondering what the flavor oil was probably doing to my intestines. Six months of this shit, and no wicked sweet mutant powers yet. Probably time to lay off, and switch to something more potent.

Dudity Snooze-fest

Anybody lose a contact?
I won't go into much detail about the particulars of the Saidaiji naked festival last weekend because it was bar-none, the most underwhelming waste of potentially brilliant hilarity that I have ever seen. On the coldest night in February, the already mostly naked and freezing asses of five thousand Japanese men, hammered out of their skulls, are hosed with icy "purification" water, then shoe-horned into a shrine to compete for--well, it honestly doesn't matter, does it? How the shit could they possibly screw this up? In Japanese lore, the Saidaiji Hadaka Matsuri typically requires no introduction because this insanity is just supposed to bloody write itself. Only a gorilla in a yellow bikini squatted on the peak of the Saidaiji's pagoda, firing a belt-fed banana cream pie machine gun down on the sweaty crowds could propel this golden potential to even greater dizzying heights of awesome. This, is the legendary Okayama festival notorious for sometimes unflinchingly killing its hapless participants in their drunken, masculine revelry.
Seriously though, what a totally sweet way to buy the farm.

The festival atmosphere upon arrival was positively electric. I could already smell the sake hanging heavy in the dense clouds of sweat and testosterone, humidity eminating from the bodies of eager participants who jogged about the shrine's premise to keep warm. Fans, supporters, townspeople, curious onlookers, foreign tourists, and a small army of police crammed the narrow alleys, and the makeshift bleachers that surrounded the shrine itself, where, at the stroke of midnight, 5000 belligerent naked men would converge to do fearsome battle for a pair of wooden shingi. At stake? Battle scars, cash, glory, pride, and good luck for an entire year.

Preconceived expectations be damned, a metallic crash announced the arrival of 12:00am, and the start of the event. The compound spotlights went dark, eliciting a cheer from the twenty-something-thousand crowd. Eyes tense, and flashbulbs at the ready, we were prepared to witness brutality. Riots. Little naked men trampled asunder, spilling off makeshift stairs and crushed against poorly padded wooden support beams. Blood, sweat, tears, and loincloth wardrobe malfunctions. Thumb hovering over Handycam 'record' button in mind-numbing anticipation, I was practically begging for the proverbial snot to start flying. Alas, it never did. Instead, in the fifteen or so minutes of actual competition for the sacred wooden incense "shingi," seemingly little more than polite jostling occurred. I was expecting a "Keep Away" variation on Russian Roulette, but what unfolded looked much more like a teenage mosh pit at Bible camp. But with more skin. I think I even heard participants apologizing to each other above the rhythmic din. Shot some decent video, but I won't bother posting it because I wouldn't expect it to bore you any less than I was, holding the camera.

And then, just as it began, the festival's raging boner quickly fell soft and limp as police gently began the premature evacuation. Many of the participants clapped themselves to keep warm, appearing confused, but relieved; others, disappointed. Apparently the festival's actual "action" is always quite short. I exchanged pleasantries with one particular reveler near the gate who cordially tweaked his purple nipples for a photograph. Unfortunately Fortunately my camera was off at the moment.

Two respective orders of fresh takoyaki and re-fried fried chicken later, I was back on the Ako line already considering a train ticket to that one festival in Nagano where participants with a burning desire to be crushed, ride a giant (probably 'sacred') timber down a fucking mountain. Note that if this unbelievable potential somehow doesn't manage to pan out, then I am seriously considering packing my shit and leaving this country and its weaksauce festivals.



** Feel free to browse the infinitely more boring description of the festival at GoAsia.

Coldest of Calendars

Many a harsh Michigan winter ago, my brothers and I hammered framing nails, wheelbarrowed construction scraps around, and traded dirty jokes alongside a man named Eric. A shock of yellow hair topped leathery skin, his wiry frame hiding from the raw cold in stained, and torn Carharts. Blaring ZZ Top over our tinny boom box speakers, like a blonde orangutan with a tool belt, he swung lazily between the wooden trusses, measuring, throwing chalk lines, jigsawing, and brandishing his mammoth framing hammer, seemingly impervious to the elements.

Eric the Contractor.

My father had hired him to help us build our umpteenth garage to aid in storage of a contemptible virus--a rampantly spreading collection of unusable machinery, inoperable automobiles, and unwearable sports equipment. So momentous the occasion, and so grand was this umpteenth garage, that my father also hired all of us boys to help him. Understand that I use the term "hired" rather flippantly here though, as it simply meant we were allowed continued residence under the same roof, at the same dinner table, and in the same beds. My father was also kind enough to request for our services on December Saturdays, and again during Christmas vacation--thus guaranteeing our uninterrupted participation without school getting in the way.

On one particularly rotten cold afternoon, I remember holding one end of Eric's measuring tape, my miserable, and skinny ass wobbling on frostbitten toes, when I spitefully asked him if he'd rather freeze, or burn to death.

"Oh, freeze. Definitely." was his quick, and hardly hypothetical reply.
"Can you just imagine anything worse than the unbearable pain of burning to death?" he laughed in response.

Why yes. Yes, in fact I can imagine something worse than the pain of burning to death. How about the pain of freezing to death?

Who can blame him though, right? Ever since Empire Strikes Back, there has never been a cooler** way to (almost) die, than by slicing open one's own pack animal to keep warm. I just figured with Eric, he'd whip out that jigsaw, and carve open the nearest stomach--even if it were his own--just to keep warm for a few more moments. Man, what an awesome way to die.

Flash forward to last night, in my tiny Japanese apartment, whose heater has mysteriously failed. I've spent the painful shivering moments since, trying to find out just what the shit was so appetizing to mighty Eric the Contractor about freezing to death. I'm certain there could be nothing badass about waking from sleep just in time to be crushed under the frozen water vapor weight from your own breath. The tidy Japanese police would thaw out my corpse, and find had been desperately spooned open at the abdomen--a tragic attempt at keeping warm like our mighty contracting hero, Eric.

I think Daikin-san owes me an apology.

And a new soup spoon.





** pun intended

Ye olde butt sack

I can almost hear my lungs turn a healthy shade of gray.

If I were to tell you how often they emptied it, would you really want to know?

Oh yeah.
New survey of dire importance, page left. Here's a simple four-step guide that will walk you through the arduous process.

1. Read
2. Vote
3. ??
4. Profit!**

So easy, even a caveman without his own television show could do it.


** Thanks to reader Seth for providing the explanation.