I've never realised that your hands are so much more than just tools for shoveling food into your mouth. They are creative kitchen utensils that have the magical ability of combining ingredients into fully fledged meals (all involving cheese). I'm marveling at my hands as they place egg, upon bacon, upon cheese, upon butter, upon muffin. They are like architects.
On the brighter side I've single-handedly bought, made and ate the ingredients for a bacon and egg English muffin. You know... a 'Mcmuffin.'
I've had 2 thus far. Probably going to make a 3rd within the next 10 minutes. The relationship between a processed slice of cheddar cheese and a piece of bacon is truly the most beautiful thing to behold.
How many more hours to that oral exam/ cheese induced pulmonary artery attack? Not enough.
I decided to not go to class and instead get my dad to chauffeur me to the doctor for a check up. Felt fine at the doctor's and for the rest of the day felt and ate as per usual. I'm a healthy boy!
I decided to lay down outside while wearing a jacket, jeans, a beanie and a scarf, on towels I placed out onto the lawn, and soaked up the sunshine while every possible inch of skin was fully covered and protected from the sun.
Then I had a bubble bath, only refilling it once with hot water.
Then I had a shower to rinse those disgusting bubbles off me.
Then I wrote this blog.
The assignment that is due tomorrow is, at this stage, incomplete. The linguistics assignment I fully intend to do... incomplete. The Backstreet Boys had a 2005 hit called Incomplete. This is, in many ways a lot like that song.
Linguistics is good in that it's such a broad and varied field that makes so many people feel so many things. So many things.
It's a ballin' adventure about love and war, and the gelding of slaves. The middle novel- The Seventh Scroll is set in "modern times" and follows two sexy and single archaeologists who find the remnants of what was introduced in the first novel - River God. The 3rd and Final Chapter- Warlock goes back to Ancient Egypt and continues on a few years after River God finished.
There are several battles and a scene featuring attempted rape and premature ejaculation (the same scene).
The collection of River God, The Seventh Scroll and Warlock as a whole is awarded the black and white semi-military looking cap of goodness.
White Ghosts was on sale for $5. After reading the blurb I was expecting lush, detailed scenes of exotic Hong Kong as a murder cryptically unraveled. Instead what I got was a poorly written tale about a bunch of losers you neither empathise with or remember amid unexplained flashbacks to the homosexual antics at a British Catholic Boys School.
Author Will Rhode goes on to devote entire pointless chapters to a man jerking off to porn with an unnecessary amount of written detail. (We've all watched porn, we know how it goes.)
Then another scene where some guy gets anally violated at a Massage Parlour.
Clever literary terms such as shit stain, toilet water and willy also get thrown around.
I tolerated about 20 crappy chapters of nothing happening before skipping to the last page. I will never get those few hours of my life back.
The boring crap fest that is White Ghosts gets the zebra print cowboy hat because it's cheap and could have been created by a monkey with a sewing machine in a Vietnamese sweat shop.
James Clavell's fictional tale of Early colonialism in Japan is fun. I'm barely a quarter of the way in, but it's complex and rollicking. I hope it has the stamina to remain interesting and fulfil the potential it set in the first few chapters.
Gai-Jin gets the pirate bandana because I'm unsure of it, but I like it never the less.
I'm not wearing a hat with this book because I bought it in Japan and left it in Japan. If you're ever at the Gifu University International House it should be somewhere on the bookcase in the lobby.
The Historian was a real page turner that kept me up when I should have been snoozing. A curious story with varied and interesting settings, well-paced and well-written. It was an excellent read right up until the last few pages where its abrupt anti-climactic ending spits dog balls all over you. So disappointing. Like, imagine the minute Froddo gets to Mordor he pegs the ring and it flies into the volcano and that's it. All settled, all over.
Her name is Nikki and she turned 21 on Wednesday. Naturally we celebrated over pancakes. This is us in 2008.
Here the 2 of us re-enact Saving Private Ryan. It was a stellar performance and at just over 170 minutes, we busted out this jazz number. I'm super smiley and she's being all "I'm an artist" and not even looking at the camera.
Other than the basics ( She's a single[kinda] white[sorta] female[by default] ) she's also a student majoring in Indonesian language and that subject where you insult people at an audible level. Utilizing these skills she hopes to one day meet Terry Richardson and ask him to "suck my big black cock". And who are we to step on such dreams? It is after all only 3 days after her birthday.
I started piano lessons when I was in the 4th or 5th grade. My mother paid this 90 year old man to come to our house once a week to instruct me in the ways of the piano. He was literally 90. I remember because some time after a lady replaced him as my teacher. She was his protégé, his former student and I suspected, also his lover. She told us that he was so old he could no longer drive anywhere because he was so old he couldn't be trusted behind the wheel of a car.
Anyway, I digress. It all started with the 90 year old man.
I remember the very first lesson.
"What's two plus two?" he asked me as we sat side by side in front of the piano.
"Four" I replied a little unsure of whether it was a trick question.
"And what's four plus two?" he continued.
"Six" I stated, more confidently.
"Yes. Yes! Then you can play the piano!" he said mystically.
Yeah, he was a freak. And yes, he is definitely dead by now. But he had created this method of teaching people to read sheet music and play the piano by some mathematical code. It made no sense to me then, so I can't try to make sense of it now. But it was like, if there's a note on the bar, and the next note is two spaces higher on the bar, then a quaver is equal to two, and those two spaces make it four, so you play four notes higher, and hit four keys for every two quavers.
That was how it sounded to my young innocent ears. And those young innocent ears also died that day. From then on my ears were jaded, bitter and cynical. Because I could not process the information on the sheet music into fluid hand movement over the keys, I sat there solving complex mathematical equations in complete silence. And that was when I started to hate the piano. And I still hate the piano. To this day, I cannot fathom the sheer mass of available keys translated to tiny dots on a piece of paper and then delegated between two hands that must move simultaneously yet independently to form music.
I played the trumpet in primary school. That was simpler. But the piano had already poisoned music for me. And to this day, I swear that I will never play a musical instrument. And if I ever have kids and they dream of someday composing intricate concertos and playing toe-tapping melodies in the school band, I will punish them. I will tear their dreams from them and sew the stolen dreams onto a dead rat, then flush that rat down the toilet. I will protect my kids from music at all costs.
Me: Yes! That is real marble.
House guest: A real marble kitchen bench!? With an elevated glass serving table!? With a naked woman!? It's exquisite.
Me: It's Italian marble. The proper way to clean it is with the butt cheeks of a woman. It's decreed by the Pope that this is Italian heritage listed marble and we must clean it as per proper custom. I'm going through women's butt cheeks faster than I'm going through ordinary paper towel and Ajax Spray 'n' Wipe. But when you see the sheen on this marble, you'll agree it's worth it.
House guest: It's so hard to get good quality ergonomic chairs these days.
Me: Tell me about it! I got this one when it was just a baby. It was the runt of a litter of 10. LuckyI saved her because the mother would have probably eaten her.
House guest: So you don't just base your furniture purchases on ergonomics or aesthetics, you actually think about what kind of effect your purchase might have on the world.
It's that laughter you let out when your alone, but still conscious of how you're laughing. It's reduced to a hushed yet smooth barking like that of a leopard seal, as somewhere, there are people sleeping in this household.
Also, the angle of this photo makes it look as if it reads "Only Judy Can Judge Mel".
Well who the fuck is Mel?
Judge Judy would be spinning in her grave if she ever hears of this.
Results: Palestine smells like home. Roughly the smell of four walls fitted with some kind of roof type structure.
Finally, Jesus was also known for Miracles. In fact, after wearing robes, it's the other thing he's most famous for.
It's that moment during pre-dawn when you finally start to feel sleep taking effect on your haggard body. You meander off to bed, relieved that you will finally be able to rest, yet reviled to find your sheets feel like slouchy, scratchy boulevards of dust, smothering your feeble self in an equally feeble yet omnipresent cradle you can't derive any back support from.
It is not your sheets. There is no dust. You're delusional from lack of sleep.
Is it your pyjamas; the crinkled, discarded gum wrappers you are wearing?
You check. You're not wearing discarded chewing-gum wrappers.
Or is it your bed; the veritable ashtray of your life you extinguish yourself into every night? Rub yourself out into a dreary haze. The day has dragged on you and puffed you away, then smeared you face down into your own pillow. Later you'll find the sunlight will relight you. Albeit, already burnt and with all your rich tobacco-y goodness sucked from you during your post-adolescent years, you wonder what cruel god incessantly relights the butt you have become.
I doubt Ringo McCartney ever felt like that though. He's probably too rich to care about pretentious black and white photography anyway.