There is a place in downtown Seoul, where all the old laborers gather. Past the gold shops on the left, with the thick legged ladies and the Chinese immigrants doing what they do world round. Past the lines of street stalls selling blood sausage, silkworm pupa, kimchee pancakes with shiso, deep fried everything, fish meal cakes, tripe, pig intestine, pine needle drink in small cans. Past the coffee shops with European names filled with the girls with high-heeled shoes, past the endless neon shopfronts and blinking banners in the gracefully regular Korean script.

The laborers all meet there, in their 50s and 60s - the hunched and squat remains of an old Korea where meat was hard to find, where rice was a luxury. They sit around small street stalls at feed - holdovers from the time before - from the time when Korea was a poor and dusty place, a place where peace-corps Americans didn't drink the water, a place where Japanese industrialists held court in black cars and in the back of hotels. They seem content with their luxury goods from 20 years ago, as all of the aging do - except that 20 years ago in this country, the country was an entirely different place, and luxury items from that era are things like orange flip-flops. Their rubber shoes, their baggy cheap clothing, their odd plastic caps all speak of a low quality manufacturing - the kind of work that has now moved to rural China and ASEAN countries like Vietnam.

I sit in the shadows by a temple door with the occasional flickering of a broken neon sign offering buckwheat noodles in the Japanese style flashing across my face - watching the old ones trudge around and fill their faces with fried things. An old man falls off of his plastic chair, a green bottle of soju bounces down with him. Everyone laughs at his table. It seems he could have broken something because it takes him over 30 seconds to even start standing up, but happily he is stuffing long brown and red snakes of noodles into his face again in under 2 minutes with dull metal chopsticks.

They might as well be a different race altogether these ones, so different are they from the younger Koreans. Few of them stand much higher than 5 foot 2, while the young here are impressively tall for Asians - more in the 5 foot 10 range. Their wrinkled faces are so much wider and flatter. I'm told this "moon face" was a sign of beauty in the old days, and women girls were encouraged to sleep face down to encourage the wide shape.

These days, plastic surgery is simply everywhere, and chin-shaving is one of the most common surgical enhancements after creating western style eyes and high & sharp noses. Sitting in a Chinese tea shop trying to ignore the confusing English of the talkative owner I read his English language learner's magazine with a trite article about Korean plastic surgery that offered the interesting statistic: 20% of Korean girls get plastic surgery for their highschool graduation gifts.

A popular technique is to sever the nerves in the lower calve at the back of the knee to prevent the thick "melon calves" that girls today want to avoid, and that are so prevalent among the squat "ajumma" or "married ladies" that mill about the laborers park and feed the aged. Another is skin bleaching, and of course very popular is breast enhancement. As a man, I cannot with full honesty speak ill of the latter of course, but it is a bit interesting.

The result is stark - and evident - when university girls occasionally walk by the park - two races, two countries all together. One poor, one rich; one short, brownish, and wide - one tall, pale, and thin; one developing, one rich.

The aged, with their silver teeth and garlic breath - sitting and smoking in the Asian squat and oversided baseball caps, pour their soju - basically cheap and flavored single distillation ethanol - into small cups in this small downtown park, just like they have always done, just like they did through the tough years and the good years working in the factories.

Across town, in a brightly lit office in Gangnam, sit hundreds of files about Toyota's success with flex-fuel ethanol engines in Sao Paolo - including, no doubt, original plans from Toyota.

Soju, the old ones know, is an unbeatable fuel.

The old man falls out of his seat again, and the thick fingered ajumma helps him back up.

The park chatters on behind me as I walk back down into the brightly lit streets.

Air India Flight XXX, shooting up from Delhi and through the checkerboard clouds of smog and white fluff from the north. I am sitting in my economy class seat, back of the plane, smells like cheese and sounds more rattley than you would want your aircraft to sound. My seat is frayed blue cotton twill and the faded Arabic on the food tray reminding me to twist the knob to close and lock the tray into place is also reminding me that this plane is second or third hand equipment.

To my amazement, a mountain chain appears outside the window off in the distance. The Himilayas are pushing towards me, above the clouds, passing by in the same way I would drive by a graveyard on the way to school.

The stewardess is actually a steward, and he looks over at me with kind brown eyes.
"Water, Juice, Cola?"
He looks closer.
"Whiskey?"
Confused and wondering what exactly it was about my appearance that caused him to suggest this, I look closer at his cart. Box of Tomato Juice, Box of Mango juice with Arabic on it as well (the familiar Manjoo in Arabic), some bottles of water and cheap looking cola and, to my surprise, a massive bottle of Teacher's Highland Cream scotch. Nothing else. I look down the row and realize that nearly everyone is drinking scotch on the rocks.
"Um, no whiskey, tomato juice sir."
"Sir? I am not your sir, you are my sir, sir" he says to me smiling.
"What?"
"You are my sir, I am not your sir."
He hands me a glass with ice in it.
"Tell me when to stop, sir."
"I wanted -"
He twists in over the pudgy Indian sleeping next to me with the bottle of Teacher's, its contents sloshing around inside. I watch as the the scotch goes up 2, 3, four fingers.
"Stop."
"Yes sir."
“Cheaper than putting TVs in every seat.” I mutter as an Indian man in a garishly bedazzled shirt and a ridiculous beard two seats back says in thickly gujarati accented english yells "More drink!". The Gujaratis are supposed to be frail mercantile types, of slight frame and with modest bean-counting temperments – but I see nothing of the stereoype in this bursting-at-the-seams fat bastard in a party shirt. A look around the plane reveals the typically wide variety of stocks and races that make up the Indians, costumes and skins of pretty much every color imaginable. A pink turbaned Sikh (the stereotype for them reads: powerfully built tremendous drinkers, especially for people who are supposed to be vegetarian and free of every vice vice from tea to sodomy) to his right calls out "Here too please." The chatter in Bengali, Hindi, Kannada, Punjabi, and thickly accently British English creates a cicada-like effect, increasingl in volume as the stewards move down the aisle. The plane is drunk.


Two hours and 10 fingers of scotch later I arrive at Bangalore airport, domestic side.
--

Mumbai. Black taxi, yellow top. Fare from the Airport started with an offer of 1000 rupees. Final fare 400, local fare 200. Snaking through the city, slowly moving down along coastal view of Marine drive, the home of the subcontinent's extremely affluent, I note to my self that I am in a real city, not the dusty gray area of Delhi. Slums snake down from the small hills by the water, teeming streets lined with blue tarp and plywood houses form ephemeral intersections not on any map. Stoplight. A boy selling newspapers. I dont give beggars money, especially children. But if a kid is selling something, or providing a service, I might buy 10. I buy 2 newspapers, and tip the boy by about 300%. He smiles. Its a good thing, he is learning to work, and not to beg. He shouldnt have to work, but the world isn't an easy place to live in or understand. Just thinking about it makes me uncomfortable.

At a stoplight, I watch as a phalanx of 3 men piss against the wall of an old office building in unison, with the same slouch-with-left-hand-on buttock stance - it reminds me of the teach-yourself-kung-fu books I used to read when I was young, with the synchronized katas depicted in black and white pictures – 3 students jump-kicking 3 students high blocking, punch, low block, punch, front snap kick…. I watch the piss run down and over the pedestrian traffic sidewalk into a stew of juices on the curb - brick-reddish ichor from the betal nut, various dusts, tea, water from somewhere else. There are swirls in the puddle.

As we jerk to a stop in the long twist of unimaginably stupid traffic that characterizes India, a little beggar girl with huge amber eyes reaches in the window. Cute, pretty even, already the age of 8 or 9, she looks at me with slightly bloodshot eyes and starts playing with my arm hair.

"Please sir, chappati (bread) sir, chappati sir, please sir."
The traffic wont move.

A.
I look her up and down
"Don't you fucking touch me with your AIDS hands you filthy fucking cyst!"
I pop the old 60s cab door handle upwards in the cab and hit her with the door as hard as I can, knocking her teeth out and leaving a stream of saliva ang blood running down the outside of the door.
"PARASITE!" I scream jumping up and down on her head with my new boots from Tommy Hillfiger.
"Get a JOB, J-O-B JOBJOBJOB!!"
She stops moving and my white i-pod earphones swing around my shoulders.
"Gaaaauuuuggghhh!!!" I manage to screech.


B.
I give her 50 rupees, even though she isn't providing a service, and it will teach her a bad lesson. Mostly because she has huge Amber eyes, and I can ingnore the stream of mucous that she left on my shirt as she reached in the window. She smiles and asks for more money, leaving mroe mucous on my shirt.

Sometimes I wonder what is worse. India. Gaauugghh..

left step
right step, and the people move around me on the street in a crazy ambling dance - the man with the dirty brown pants and polio uses two sticks to move along in a broken fashion, the man on the ground with one leg and a festering ankle tugs on my jeans and says BREADBREADBREAD in a kind of english, left step - and i look up to the broken sky looking down on Old Delhi through the tangle of wires thick and thin and long with exposed copper and rotting rubber - a tangle that could be a nest for some robot bird from the future, a robot birds nest eaten by robot Chinese in the all-too-distant future where the Chinese are rich and proseperous even out into the countryside -
left step and i see the wiggle of some guys dick as he sighs and pisses all over a street-side wall to my right, his cheap plastic belt, surely made in China, dangles off to the side and i smirk. right step left step right step left step right step and i look behind at the crowd of teeming people making their way down the street in the same way as I, and make eye contact with a group of beggars sitting in a line outside of a muslim samosa house, their matted hair and filthy faces blank. in front of them pass a group of schoolgirls in saris - oranges, yellows, reds, crisp blues -- it seems that for all of the gray filth and grime here there is an equal amount of vivid color.

a white mannequin falls over on its face in a shop i pass by, the full bearded muslim owner just looks at it from his resting spot in the shop, his wares spread out next to him, a box for money with an ancient rusty lock on it by his side, his old toes curled in front of him - if he wasn't so muslim looking, from the look on his face, i'd just assume that just drunk and too lazy to move, intoxicated-


--


"WHAT WRONG WITH YOU?? ARE YOU CRAZY?"

I am staring at my hands, palms up, mumbling to myself best as I can in what I think might be a muslim prayer of some type, just making sure to make an audible "b'ism'allah" every few seconds. Better that I play the “I am Turkish” card. I have been detained at Casablanca Mohammed V Airport and am surrounded in a back room by a group of angry North African officials who all want to headbutt me in the chest. They are holding my American passport. Lebanon is on fire.

"YOU HAVE PROBLEM IN MOROCCO, YOU ARE ILLEGAL HERE - YOUR VISA EXPIRE BY TWO DAYS AND YOU MAKE A FIGHT WITH POLICE OFFICER IN AIRPORT?"

My flight to Manila leaves in 15 minutes. Why did I drink all of that shochu that Yuki brought me from Japan, at 10:00AM on an empty stomach? And even if the guy was rude, why the hell did I scream?

"YOU CALL TO HIM MOTHERFUCKER?!!? YOU SAY TO HIM HE IS FUCK HIS MOTHER!!? ARE YOU CRAZY?"

Well, I guess since my colleague decided he would eat a handful of Moroccan hashish before our flight and since I don't fuck with hashish, I thought it would be really friendlike and polite if I would get similarly fucked out of my mind on rare Japanese booze so we would both be out of our minds. "Yes I am crazy"

"ARE YOU DRUNK? TOO MUCH DRINKING? YOU SMELL LIKE ALCOHOL - IT IS MORNING!!?!

12 minutes. My colleague is sitting in the gate with his head in his hands, too stoned to figure out a correct response.

"WE CAN KEEP YOU HERE PUT YOU IN JAIL, EASY" They all burst into screaming at me.

"I am sorry, I am very sorry. I must go, I must be on that flight." I switch to broken, drunken Arabic "Brother, I am sorry, I am crazy, please let me go, I am drunk, I am blind, brother I need to go."

“ANDAK MUSHKILLAH KABIRAH!! KABIRAH BIZAFF!! FAHEMPT?!!” The main soldier screams in Moroccan Arabic.

You have a big problem. Very big. Do you understand?!!


--

on her wall is a calender that reads "woody party".

"Jimu, i .. must ..take bath"
"ok maki."

met her on new years eve in Inuyama, a night of drinking and fun with ex punk-rock superstar Big Bad Bill. a night where we walked up some hundreds of steps up to narita-san temple, where we drank bottles of shochu, where we slept on floors and took morning walks to convenience stores for beer. my American friends and I found ourselves in a tattoo bar in a Japanese country town, La Calavera, owned by a massive half Croat half Japanese. Screaming drunks all around. Locked in an arm-wrestling contest - Japanese versus American. one by one we were all called to the little table surrounded by hooting drunk Japanese biker types. the Japanese all won. I lost to a guy drinking Zima, to my great shame. I met her that night with a blue and red striped scarf on. she was 20, and cute, and gave me her phone email at the end of the night.. 'white-elephant@..'

"after bath.. we. ..can sleep jimu?"
"yeah..”

she shuffled off into the tiny seamless plastic cube of her tiny apartment’s bath. she lived in Rokuban-cho Nagoya, in a poor neighborhood, in a public housing project filled with ethnic koreans and burakumin – a small minority in japanese society descended from the the low caste of Edo Japan.

her father left when she was 10, running from mah-jong gambling debts. she was trying to go to school, and worked in a hostess bar pouring drinks and flirting with old men for money. she told me this one night in a dark neighborhood bar in Imaike, the old gambling quarter, with old drunk men staring at the gameshow on TV.

“I have.. secret job.. I.. ”
she starts searching in her electronic dictionary and suddenly looks up, lips pursed
“I am an escort. I am an entertainer. Do you .. have problem.. ?”

I recall the conversation as I look around her room in Rokuban-cho. It doesn't look like the room of an escort, as I had so imagined when I was a teenager. There is a wall of stuffed animals. Dozens of them Donald Duck, their eyes all staring down at me as I watch a Japanese TV program about murders in America. She is obsessed with Donald Duck, her car is brimming with stuffed dolls in the front and rear dashboards. We spent a few days walking around Japanese shopping centers looking for Donald Duck paraphenelia, stopping in restaurants to eat ice cream, only to go on an buy more Donald Duck gear.

“Jimu..”

She calls to me from the bath. I walk out past her refrigerator, on which there is a postcard from Guam that she sent her mother with a big white-skinned musclebound fellow in a G-String on. Half of the fridge is covered in a Tom Cruise poster.

“Jimu.. can you.. give toothbrush .. in.. my.. bag..” Her head is sticking out of the plastic bath cube.

“Yeah, no problem. One second..”

Her mother comes in from work suddenly through the front door of the tiny apartment, about a meter from where I stand and upon seeing me, blushes and bows.

“Tadaima!” I say to her in totally incorrect Japanese, at that point not understanding that this is the opposite thing to say to someone who is returning home.

The tired woman looks at me with some confusion and smiles. She opens a plastic bag and pulls out some sashimi – leftovers from the shop that she works in 12 hours a day 7 days a week. With a quick nod and rapid movements that speak ingrained muscle memory she unwraps the whole package of sashimi and produces dinner for 3. I recall that Maki hates sushi and sashimi because she eats it almost every night. There is little else in their fridge but sashimi and juice. Maki’s mother and I sit together while Maki sings Japanese pop songs in the bath, uncomfortable silence as I watch the Japanese TV show host explain a gruesome Chicago triple murder. I imagine Maki singing in a dark bar in the gambling quarter, balding men groping her as she lights cigarettes for them. Maki’s mother looks at the screen as a very Japanese body chart showing stabbing locations appears, each of the 20 or so wounds highlighted with a red X.

“Jimu!”
says Maki. I look up, her head is sticking back out of the shower.
“you eat my. I hate.”

..

years ago i played a game with my old dog, Cara.

i broke a stick in half, and threw half of it for the dog to run and catch. after i threw it, i ran after the stick at the same time as my dog, with the other half hidden behind my back. just as Cara got to the stick, I threw the other half from behind my back to a spot about a meter from the first half. the existence of two sticks at the same time burst the mind of the poor dog, who helplessly stared from one to the other trying to decide which one was the right stick. the dog just sat down between them, looking from one stick to the other, and then at me with the most amazed look on its face, unable to comprehend the meaning of the situation. one can only speculate so much on dog thoughts, but it is clear that it had no idea what to do, or how this had occured. how could, it seemed to wonder, two sticks exist at once? where did this other stick come from? what invisible force..??

Cara sat there wagging her tail, happy but confused, looking from one stick to the other.

i smiled.

Cara barked.

..



it's happened too many times for me not to notice. and here it is again in front of me, at the end of one of the longest days, smiling at me.

i woke up some 96 hours ago on the floor of a japanese childrens school in the countryside of a city whose name i never thought i'd know, in a country i never thought id live in, saying goodbye to people who i could never imagine id talk to, much less call my friends, much less my good friends. people who grew up so far from me, at such different times, reading such different textbooks, looking at such different trees.
i woke up and started a process that now seems like just another hashish dream: of saying goodbye, of lying in bed and not sleeping, of standing up and walking out of my japanese older brother's apartment and saying goodbye to him, then saying goodbye to a real love in a real airport, of 14 hours over siberia to amsterdam, then on to spain, of walking around madrid drunk and alone as the sun came up over 300 black cathedrels, of another plane over the desert and into africa into the desert and into, into..

".. let me take you into your new apartment Mr. Ozturk." says the arab girl with the many golden rings.
"OK." I say unslept, broken.
"This is room. Kitchen here. Bathroom here. Bedroom heeeere. And living room."
"Nice. Very nice. Great. Please, I need to sleep. I'm going to die. Can I do the paperwork tomorrow?"
"This no problem, tomorrow, fine." she says, waving her golden rings.
"Thank you."
"You like Chinese couch in living room?"
I look at the couch.
"Chinese?" says the half turk, staring at the couch. "So ka na.."**
"Eh?"

Happy, confused, I looking from one letter to the other.

"Sookana."
"Goodbye Mr. Ozturk" says the arab girl, shaking her head, her black curls swinging.


Something smiled.
And I could have barked. But instead, I just shut my eyes and cried, smiling too.

..
i miss you all, motherfuckers.
cem


**??? or "so ka na" is japanese for "I wonder if it is so"

soundscapes
wordless narratives


He stood hands in pockets, eyes to the ground, in front of the facade of a Tokyo Starbucks knockoff, Cafe Excelsior. The cafe's sign was written in the same thick green font as its more popular sister, it's flourescent lit interior held simple tables and massively produced plush seating, no doubt from some gray place in China. Hair disheveled, carrying the same heavy posture that spoke to a gland disorder or an unnatural involvement with heavy cream that his son carried, he waited for me, a never-before seen friend of his son's for a cup of coffee.

"Hello."
"Ah, Cem, Nas?ls?n?z.."
"Actually, "
I loaded, fired one of the most common conversations of my life.
"Actually, I dont speak Turkish."
He blinked.
"I am the only Cem Ozturk that you will meet in your life that doesn't speak a word of Turkish."
He smiled widely.
"I see. Tokyo is full of first things."

He had come to Tokyo following the sudden death of his wife, to get away from the things that reminded him of her, and to be with the boy that they had together. Their son, Yale educated yet fiercely intelligent, was cooped up in a $5000 US a month efficiency in the East Azabu business tenement that housed most of the core of the Ivy wreathed Tokyo business elite - a place of serviced apartments and special services. Unsurprisingly, it was the best place to get obscure and obscenely expensive French cheese in Tokyo too.

"Cem, let us get coffee now, how 'bout et."

As we approached the counter, I prepared suitable Japanese sentences in my head, only to be reminded of how unnecessary local language is when you are with a middle aged Mediterranean man.

"Young lady" he began in a thickly accented English to the counter girl "I vill have the second from top one, big one, and he vill have-"
He pointed at me with a thick, oddly shaped finger, which he then turned over into a questioning upturned hand.

"Medium coffee, black."
She looked at me as if I had just barked. So, I used basic Japanese.
"Ano, cohee ippai, M sizu, blacku de kudasai."
She looked at him, as if to ask him why I was barking.
"He vill have same." he said in his strongly accented English.
She smiled and got our drinks.

--

Certain Turkish men of previous aqqaintance had demonstrated that odd talent for communication to me, but none quite as clearly. I have been told that the skill is especially well developed among Black Sea traders, a job considered generally to require well honed wit and shrewdness what with all the various swarthy types inhabiting its shores... and the man across me was a veritable Black Sea shipping magnate, a ship owner with vessels running circles from the Ukraine to Istanbul, even to the filthy Suez. Another characteristic of the Turkish breed generally is the "sit and talk", or often the "sit and smoke and drink and talk", where adult Turks sit in loose circles, drink something that will loosen their tongues, or perhaps inflame their irritation with one thing or another to the point where it boils over into conversation - possibly coffee, possibly wine, probably Raku - - and then they talk. But not about things that Americans are more inclined to talk about - we seem to talk about sports and quotes from the Simpsons or the Chappelle show. With Turks its always love, or love-politics, politics, or life, or life-politics or life stories or just -

"Interesting story. Now I have story to tell you" he said petting his hanging jowls in a slightly effeminate way, as much as petting jowls can be.
He pointed the same oddly triangular fat finger at my neck as I tucked away the Persian amulet that had been the center of a previous conversation about Iran.
"These items, these things, these religions: it never fails to amazine me the power of these things and these simple ideas to connect people - and the real power that this has in the world, the real influence it can that these things have over everyday life. Religion... it is crazy, there are all of these Muslims in far away countries, like Indonesia and China and Malaysia, and America, and everywhere.. and they read the same words from the Quran every week and they wear the headcoverings like this the same, and bend down to pray the same and, and... and it is a good thing when you meet these people - they say to you 'Aha, you are muslim too, then we must be friends, we are the same people' but - but - what is this nonsense? We don't have anything in common with these people! Some man came to their little village or island 400 years ago with a Quran that only he could read, and since there wasn't anything else to do but throw coconuts and have babies, they decided to start believeing the man with the strange book that they couldnt understand. We read from the same Quran, but of course noone can understand the Quran because it is in Arabic, and even the Arabs can't understand the Quran because how many of the damned Arabs can read and write anyways... But everyone is reading this book, and many ymemorize the words and can read the script but they don't know what it is saying, it is just these sounds... "

I look up, recalling the many Indonesians, Thai, Burmans who I had met who could read Arabic script, even write their name in it, but had no idea what the words meant. They were trained in Arabic as a holy language. I step in- "And of course we cannot translate the Quran, because it is the fucking word of God, which is supposed to be perfect. And so everyone must memorize the Arabic words, and rely on others to translate the meaning for them -"

The man's eyebrows, massive and irregular silver square patches like loose strands of iron wool, bounced up and down to signal his agreement and empathy -

"Yes,YES -- you cannot imagine the power of these men either, the ones who translate - moreover the ones for whom Arabic - particularly classical Arabic is their native tongue. I have seen it in Turkey, I have seen it many places. The translators, the knowers of the language of God, these people can have such an effect when they enter a community. They are seen as part God, like the Pope. They are the ones in whose language God revealed the truth, they speak the language of the holy book that the men brought...



WORKING!! ill be done again soon

some recent things been going on:

thanks tons ms.editor for writing the first 3 paragraphs and then publishing without asking me:
http://www.atimes.com/atimes/Japan/GD02Dh01.html

beaches, you beetches:
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbninquiry.asp?userid=pi62AN3evP&pwb=1&ean=9781740595001

--

Klan, er, clan related modest boasting:

this my older sister and her incredibly addictive journal:
http://www.livejournal.com/users/grumpalita/

she beautiful, she down, and she knew what was up when your sister sure as fuck didnt.
reading it makes you realize how ugly your own life is in comparison. so good. GO NOW you ugly shitlump!

this my other sister, she more of a twin kind of a sister:
http://www.livejournal.com/users/scandalina/

she just started this up - the shit is so funny, especially when I compare it to YOUR sister's stuff, which i should point out looks PATHETIC when held up next to this (inbreeding? lead paint?).

Hahahahaaaa!! Your families SUCK, dirtbags!!

Also:

Angels love salad dressing, too.

"Remon, remon... remon."
"Lemon."
"Remon..."
"Lemon."
"Remon."
"Lemon!"
"R.. -emon."
"..."

-
blew his brains out.

I guess -

I guess he couldn't drink himself to death. I recall a passage from one of the many biographies, this one -"The Strange and Savage Life of Hunter S. Thompson" (a poorly written, smoke-up-the-ass masterpiece of fawning blandishment), the words which were said to be from his personal physician - that his liver seemed to "regenerate", no matter how many handles of Jack he poured in or how many lines of trucker speed or psychedelic baboon gallstones or whatever the fuck went up his nose. Drinking wasn't going to kill him so..

So, blew his fucking brains out - all over the wall I assume, or not, or maybe all over some drunkenly contrived assortment of American flags and seals of the CIA, DIA, DEA, OHS, FBI, FOX (news), NSA, OSP, Republican Party, Rotary Club, and pictures of Bush and Nixon and Reagan and Einsenhower or some other lich (think DnD lich) that he famously hated on; I remember, damn, that picture of Hunter's boy, smiling with a shotgun in front of a bullet hole ridden picture of Hoover himself, god damn, what a hardass thing to have pulled off in 1960, your baby boy shooting up a black and white of the head of the secret police - - but what a horribly trite seeming thing now, just like all of the things, the 60s things, the peace and drugs crap, that shit-myth looming over us still.. poured down our throats by the graying hippie English teachers, the once-i-did-mescaline college professors who don't know a damn thing about any of it, the people who decided to add the "60s" theme to Windows 95, 98, and XE.

God, you could write, but whats the damn point

"

July 18, 1970
Woody Creek, CO

Dear Ralph [Steadman];
I suspect that we have struck a very wierd and maybe-rich vein . . . but instead of laboring over details I'll just enc. a copy (see below) of a suggestion that I sent about two wks ago to Warren Hinkcle [then-editor of Scanlan's Monthly] . . . to wit:

'. . . I thought I'd pass on a suggestion that one of my enemies laid on me today: 'Why don't you just travel around the country and shit on EVERYTHING?' he shouted. 'Just go from New York to California and write your venemous bullshit about everything that people respect!" Which sounds like a nice idea - a series of KY. Derby style articles on things like the Super Bowl, Times Square on New Year's Eve, Mardi Gras. . .Christmas Day with the Chicago Police, Grand National Rodeo in Denver . . . rape them all, systematically, and then we could sell it as a book: 'Amerikan Dreams'.

. . .

I think this Rape-Series is a king-bitch dog-fucker of an idea. We could go almost anywhere and turn out a series of articles so wierd and frightful as to stagger every mind in journalism. . . can you grasp the lunatic possibilities of such an assignment? . . . We could travel with courtesans and bearers. . .

OK for now. And, again, it was good talking to you. Let's focus very hard and nicely on this thing - like Zen masters, or NY pawnbrokers. I can have my agent arrange the finances for both of us if that suites you. . . I really don't give a fuck. It looks like excellent fun, and with the things going as they are, I suspect that we'll be needing some of that.

Ciao
Hunter

"

I remember reading "Hells Angels" for the first time, expecting something totally different from what I got. What I expected was heavy, weirded-out tripe in the same vein as "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas". What I got was something new to me - a fantastic story, a real story, right down to the dirty fingernails, lumpy women, warm beer, fear, and ackward silences. It was fascinating, real, ugly. The book, a beautiful browned 2nd edition late 60s paperback that I had borrowed from the floor of a friend's sloppy room in college, changed the way I saw writing. It was fucking brilliant. It wasn't by someone who hated America, or hated anything for that matter - just someone who saw everything.


"
November 18, 1968
Woody Creek CO

Dear Ralph,

You' re right, somehow, about me and the perverse hibernation syndrome. Ever since I got back from Chicago I've been a ball of fangs, ready to tackle anything except this goddamn long range and never-ending book on the American Dream - which I am coming to NY in a few weeks to discuss, etc.

...

HST


Before the war in Iraq:

"
We have become a Nazi monster in the eyes of the
whole world--a nation of bullies and bastards who
would rather kill than live peacefully. We are not
just Whores for power and oil, but killer whores with
hate and fear in our hearts. We are human scum, and
that is how history will judge us...No redeeming
social value. Just whores. Get out of our way, or
we'll kill you.

Who does vote for these dishonest shitheads? Who
among us can be happy and proud of having this
innocent blood on our hands? Who are these swine?
These flag-sucking half-wits who get fleeced and
fooled by stupid rich kids like George Bush?

They are the same ones who wanted to have Muhammad Ali
locked up for refusing to kill gooks. They speak for
all that is cruel and stupid and vicious in the
American character. They are the racists and hate
mongers among us--they are the Ku Klux Klan. I piss
down the throats of these Nazis.

And I am too old to worry about whether they like it
or not. Fuck them.

-Hunter S. Thompson

"

Ah, Hunter. With you were here to skewer these bleating fucking ninnies, those preening rich-boy road-to-hellers from your generation, we couldnt do a damn thing. These fuckers are bigger, smarter, more cocksure more organized than the old men you waved your dick at.

They are the sons of the assholes that you railed against. And while you and the 60s squad were busy gargling Ayahuasca and -talking- about the man, still, while Lou Reed ordered his 3000th bottle of Bordeaux with his fat heroin paws somewhere in lower Manhattan, still, while the punks in the 80s and 90s bitched about their parents really - -they sat quietly in their antholes, gathering terrific force and doing what they have always done: praying to their god - handing down their power to their sons.


"Self-inflicted gunshot to the head."


God, god damn.

I have been waiting 2,000 years for you and finally the Internet, created by me to facilitate my search for you, has brought you to my cognizance.

"Dr, what are these?"

In place of the usual lemon tea and milk tea cartons, tonight there is a brown glass bottle of some kind of small brown pill.

"Please, have some. Good for your penis."
"What?"
"When you are becoming older, your sperm numbers lower-"
"No, try this - 'When you get older, your sperm count decreases.' Dr., stay in tense."
"Ah thankyou. Yes, so this is a yeast pill, it is high in Z."
"We say zinc."
"Which makes your penis stronger. I read in the young men's magazine, many young couples are now take this before to enjoy the facking. "
His grammar always seems to go wrong when he talks about sex, which is rather often.
"Dosage is very high, maybe 10 pills 3 times a day. Have some, healthy."
"No, doctor I'm-"
Dr. Nono's head is tilted back under the bright japanese flourescent light in such a way that the many ringed layers of bags under his eyes are suddenly visible down to the last pore - its as if they grow from his face like great warts; grotesque, and in strong a way, unhealthy. He is pouring a handful of the pills into his mouth, eating them in a way that reminds me of a child eating Cheerios from the box.

Several of the pellets escape his old mouth, roll onto the the printout of a recent Sotherbeys auction lot that he was bidding on. A pixilated image of a Murakami painting - next to it prices listed in British pounds, USD, yen - is lined with a thin glistening trail of saliva as one of the pellets from Dr. Nono's mouth rolls across the page.

"Excuse me."
"No problem."

I look at the trail of saliva, across to the prices of the lot. USD, $29,000, high bidder: Nonogaki.

Amazing letter from Kevin. Kevin is living in northernmost Honshu, in a frozen place called Akita, famous for dogs and sake, and festivals, apparently.


"
Boyz:

Last night, we attended the Takeuchi festival in Rokugo, up here in
Akita, and it was quite possibly the most insane event I have beared
witness to in Japan. At about 8pm, after many bottles of sake, the town
fellas divide tthemselves into North and South sections. A pitch had been
cleared earlier in the day for the festival, and by 8pm, it looked like
a massive dog-fighting arena. Just after 8:30pm, all of the guys taking
part were drunk enough to begin, and they strapped on helmets and
wielded 20 foot long bamboo poles.

The whistle sounded for round one, and the guys all went at each other,
slapping sticks into each other and pushing and shoving. Three minutes
later, round one was finished. A second round followed, and it was
crazy as well.

But when the third round warm ups began, the air about the place
changed. They lit a 10 foot pile of garbage on fire, and all of the
participants (about 100 from the North and 100 from the South), lit their bamboo
poles on fire. The folk story says that if the North wins, there will
be a good rice harvest in Rokugo this year, so they shoved all of the
foreigners onto the South`s team (can you believe it? of course you can).
When the whistle blew, all hell broke loose. Dudes were going back into
the fire with the poles and just all out wailing on each other, in
order to push back their opponents and win the battle. The townfolk were
screaming bloody murder at each other, and lil` Takeru watched as his dad
beat the pulp out of his best friend`s papa. About halfway through the
fight, it became clear that the poles weren`t very important. By this
time, there were dudes running in, no pole in hand, and just all out
wailing on other guys. My friend Geoff, a humongous rugby boy, got the
living hell beaten out of him. He crawled to the sidelines for help,
shouting `stop` in French, and the guys from the North followed him into the
crowd. He was about 5 rows deep into the audience, on all fours, before
a woman stopped the kicks that were coming his way.

Finally, after about 5 minutes, the whistle sounded and the fight was
over. The sides retreated to their corners and that was that. Kind of.
Once the referees left the pitch, everyone came out to congratulate
their buddies. That`s when the fistfights started. And they went on for
about 30 minutes.

I had no idea what to expect from this, and I didn`t have any headgear.
Next year, I will be prepared and I will fight to the death. Maybe I
can even get the construction helmet my friend Brian wore, which bore the
phrase "FUCK YOU" in masking tape on the front.

"

Dear Not Paying Me For This People:

I will post again in a day or 2, but now I am using my sparse free-time working on an article, for money, for chrissakes.

And teaching Dr. Nono English.

Back soon.

Cem

He shifted his weight onto the bar, palms down. His bar, this evening, was packed.

Half Croatian, half Japanese. Fled Yugoslavia during the war, to the home of his mother: Inuyama (Dog Mountain), Aichi, Japan. The combination of his mothers and father's blood made for one intimidating looking bastard - in his face you could see all of the focused intensity of an angry Japanese mixed with that ogreish bluntness that Balkanites carry. He's well nice enough though, a good guy for sure. I smile to him crookedly, and take a seat at his bar.

"Shochu? (shochu is japanese liqour, about 50 proof, unusual buzz, almost no hangover)"
"We have a good mugi (barley) sho-chu - you want one?"
"Yeah, rocks double please."
He nods at me and looks to Will, at my left.
"OK, and we made some vegetable burritos for you guys - 2 left. You said you had some friends who don't eat meat."
I glance back at Joel, Kevin, the vegetarians among us (vegetarians I had challenged just days before, claiming with confidance that their diet was rooted somewhere in their past when, unsatisfied with their 7 inch collection, they had decided to find other ways to impress American indie girls). Joel, standing over 9 feet tall in Japanese terms, looks down at us, and blinks.


--


Adam glances at the rearview, then looks at me smiling.
"The fuck is that all about?"
There is a car behind me swerving wildly, as if to try and pass me on the two lane road we are moving along. The car's headlights swing back and forth in the fingerprinted rearview. My tiny Japanese company car is struggling under the weight of 4 foreigners, and the people behind me seem desperate to pass me for going just under the speed limit. For reasons unclear to me, their swerving kind of pisses me off, and I slow down even more as we drove up to a red light.

Suddenly the lights disappear from the rearview and the car behind me - a black car, a crappy looking Lexus or Diamante with a tint, pulls up next to me at the stoplight. In the oncoming traffic lane.

"Hmm.."

I glance at Adam, and recall something my stoner Japanese friend Miki told me once
"Cem man, there are some assholes in your neighborhood, some yakuza guys, kinda like real assholes y'know? You can recognize them by like, they've got a cheap big black car and with a tint and they mostly have, y'know, bad hair, like permed maybe, or a whats it called, mullet."

"Hmmm.."

The guys in the cheap big black car definitely have bad hair. The guys in the cheap black car pull into the lane in front of us, perpendicular to our car, blocking our path completley.

I look back over at Adam. Whenever Adam gets serious, his darker features seem to take over, and he seems to transform into a Mexican. At the moment, Adam looks really fucking Mexican.

"The fuck is this?" he growls, with no Mexican accent.

The light turns green, and the cheap black car continues to block our path. I think for a second, that there will be trouble, trouble that I want no part of. I imagine Foot Clan (TMNT) ninjas somersaulting out of the trunk and ripping my face off. I cut a left.


--


Cairo, November '03


They are smiling crookedly as we lean around the postbox, smoking. Everyone but a fat guy with glasses, who sputters to me:

"I, I will fucking kill you, you know, you understand."

I don't understand actually. Tourism is the only thing that works in the Egyptian economy, and as far as I knew, tourists like me were untouchable. Egyptian police were well known for their skill at torture and dissappearing acts - and harming tourism, the lifeblood of a barely functioning country, was practically asking for the pliers. My passport said tourist.

The fat guy with glasses nervously thumbs his cigarette, adrenaline causing him to flick the ember to the ground.
"Don't make za trouble in our business - and don't talk to my uncle an za bad way like that, you understand."

He claps me on the back, a little too hard. I had yelled at his uncle, the so named Mr. Ramadan, 2 days before for lying to Canadian tourists in an effort to get them to stay at his $2.00 a night hotel rather than the $1.50 one that my friends ran. I had screamed at him with insane bulging eyes for this injustice to Canada, for no real reason other than the fact that I hadn't been able to take a shit for 4 days.

Mr. Ramadan is leaning on the side of the post box, with his massive belly jutting out unevenly to the right like a thriving tumor. He looks at me.

"OKOK, my brother son is only very angry, no seriously, no problem, he calm down. But you don't make trouble in my business now, OK?"

I look at the group of them. 6 dark eyed men, wearing dirty clothes and those ubiquitous symbols of poor Arab life - the filthy, dusty open toed plastic sandals, that you always see on the news, toes pushing out of them crusted in the filth of the old city. And I knew I didn't have anything to be afraid of, that they were just proud Arab guys. Arab guys whose old man had been dishonored by me (I had even used a word that one only uses to address dogs and beggars) - an American who was in their country learning their language, for all they knew, to work at the Pentagon and help destroy other Arabs. I was, I supposed, being an asshole.

"Yeah, no problem Mr. Ramadan. I was in a bad mood. My .. my family..."
"No problem Mr. Cem. We don't like problem, you dont like problem, we all like money, so no problem." He smiled in a greasy, but friendly way. "We are now eating - you can eat with us?"

Mr. Ramadan sent Mustafa, one of his employees who worked only for food as far as I could tell, off to one of the my favorite local places - the back alley teahouse of Hisham "The Theif". We ate together on a soofra of newspapers spread out on a small card table - eggplant, tomatoes with pepper and parsley and red onion, hummous, ta'miah, fo'ol, boiled eggs, and pita.

We ate, and ordered tea, brought over several blocks (as is the custom) on a tray by the skinny and exhausted Hisham himself, and smoked several packs of unsmokable Cleopatras. We waited for the sun to come, and more tourists from the airport to arrive, from early international flights; bleary eyed and suggestible, to be convinced that Mr.Ramadan's place was a far better place than the one next door.


--


Bone skinny like death, ribs pushing out, hard feet, no ass, mommy hairs that are just out of this world, economy sized can of lube, the green label push pump spattering like ketchup at the bottom, skin infection. I recall what I was thinking in DC before I left America: Fuck this, oh god fuck this, oh god I fucked this, oh god I'm leaving America, again.


--


"Have you like, talked to Will today?"

Dean, Will's roomate had called me.

Somehow I am still friends with Dean, even after he drunkenly trashed my house when I let him stay the night in my absence.

I returned to find the article outlines on my greaseboard replaced by scrawls of Leonardo, Raphael, Michelangelo, and Donetello of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, along with a couple of deformed Pokemons. Next to a large empty bottle of convenience store sho-chu which he apparently had done in himself, sat an empty container of jew chocolates (those little gold coins that do tons to reinforce certain stereotypes) that my jewish roomate had left there, surrounded by empty chocolate wrappers and several empty bags of peanuts that he had scavenged from the kitchen. My laptop, sitting open amid all of this, was covered in a kind of chocolately film along the touchpad and keyboard, the origin of which became apparent when I started my $2000 Powerbook to find window after window of shockingly boring internet porn. While ugly blondes with ridiculous implants chortled under muscular guys in backwards baseball caps, and a RealPlayer stream of a dumb-looking insurance office secretary with a bruised leg being taken from behind by a farmer tanned client poured in, I began to understand that Dean was a member of the proud and mighty "Spit-and-Shine" school of masturbation, and that the chocolate film was actually Deans drunken chocolately spit - smeared onto my not inexpensive computer during an apparently lengthy night of self love. His spit and, well, shine.

"Yeah, no Dean, I haven't heard from him, whats up?"
"Yeah, he ran into some trouble last night, got in a fight with some Brazilians. Outnumbered 'em, tore 'em up real bad. Had to go to the hospital."
"Brazilians."

The factories in the Nagoya area, the giant automotive manufacturing engine that powers the Japanese economy, are filled with foreign workers of all types. Brazilians are by far the most common, along with Peruvians, due in part to some kind of Japanese migration to South America which took place after the war.

Around the main stations in Nagoya, curiously bulbous and oddly hairy men with ruddy South American features had repeatedly asked me for money - something that I never saw a Japanese person do. A friend I had made at the immigration office, a tiny quadralingual lady named Yuko who translated for confused foreigners, had clued me in to who these people were - Brazilians with 1/16 or more of their blood of Japanese origin. As part-Japanese, they enjoyed special residency status and were free to settle and work low-level factory jobs as they pleased. It was an attractive deal for them - the money was much better relative to their home countries, and there was apparently a thriving cottage industry developing around the forgery of heritage documentation. It was also a good deal for the Japanese, who with a shrinking polpulation and an ageing workforce, need backs for lifting and arms for carrying.

You could always see them in the immigration office, standing in lines, sitting in groups, disheveled and at odds with the rigidly efficient Japanese environment. The boys dressed in the sloppy oversize style of teenage latino would-be gangster: hunched shoulders, hands in pockets, bubble graffiti hats, and clunky white sneakers. The women chewed gum endlessly, the girls sat quietly. They all had the aire of poverty, of hours spent watching TV crowded into small rooms, of sex on bare mattresses, of frozen food and card games. It was always a shock for me to see them, such a stark contrast to the fastidious and deferential Japanese; it was dangerouly easy to think of them as crude, and it made me wonder more how I must appear to the Japanese.

My opinion of these people, their flamboyant and outward tempermant so much at odds with the reserved Japanese, was already low. Now it was lower.

"Is Will alright?"
"I don't know man, he was in the hospital. They stole a bunch of his shit."

Will. From Athens GA, musician, music fan of the same species, insane and when drunk. The first night I met he we ended up wrestling after finishing more atskan sake than anyone ever should. Its really been consistantly the same since we met, except its usually sho-chu.

I remembered that I was supposed to be with with Will the night before, when he was attacked, that we were supposed to go to a Japanese noise show with Melt Banana as headliner.

"Wait, wait - last night?"
"Last night, yeah."


--


Bone skinny like death, ribs sticking out, she was tied up, to a board of some type, naked. A handsome, mostly dressed man with Western features and a black tee shirt who must have been about 5 or 6 years older - so 19 or 20 - was fucking her, jamming himself into her from several impossible angles. Explosions and geysers of juices shot from between them like some kind of fucking typhoon, a slick running down her leg, his black shirt shining from the rain of body fluids. Her body was thin and underdeveloped, her eyes were half shut and completely lost, her mouth half open as drool poured out. He suddenly finished, coming with all the terrific hydraulic force of 5 hand grenades exploding in a bukkake pond, her eyes rolled back and neck went slack. After panting for a while, emitting large PANT-PANT-PANT-PANTs in Roman script and Katakana, the man unties the girl and they hug like old friends, creating a large cute looking heart above them.

Wide eyed, I look up from the comic, dumbfounded. It is one of many just like it at the convenience store. To my right and left, stand 3 other men and one schoolgirl, all reading comics; and in stores across Japan stand tens of thousands of men and women just like us, waiting for the bus, reading comics. I look at the schoolgirl. She is reading the same one as me.


--


Joel looks back at me, and to Adam, to Kevin, to Will, to Devon, smiling. We had, every single one of us, just had our hairy white gai-jin asses beaten by Japanese bikers, rude-boys, and punks in a drunken arm-wrestling challenge. The Japs, of course, all cheated.

Yet, despite my humiliating defeat by a man drinking Zima and wearing a god damned bola-tie and a blue leather jacket, I am happy. I am lucky to be around such an amazing group of guys, if only for a week or two.

K, the half-Yugoslavian half-Japanese barman who owns the place is laughing insanely, whiskey in his eyes, tattooed arms around his beautiful wife. It will soon be midnite of this New Years Eve, or it may have passed an hour ago, we have no idea, and wouldn't care anyway.

Adam and Joel, old friends who behave more like brothers, are laughing with eachother.

In a few minutes we will all be ambling towards a giant Buddhist Temple amid throngs of Japanese. For the moment though, we are still inside the bar, bouncing around to Operation Ivy and Blue Hearts with people who we can't communicate with.

I step towards a girl named Maki trying to figure out something to say that she might understand.

"Damn Gina, where you going?! You walk when I say walk, you chew when I say chew, woman!"

I turn around to find Kevin smiling, crookedly.

"Ginnaaaaaaa!!" he screams.

Damn, Gina.

This is psychotic.

"We are going to WIN guys I can feel it, and I know it seems like there is no light at the end of the tunnel sometimes and that man, it gets so tiring talking to housewives and these snot nosed kids but I tell you what I remember when I first started doing this I never prepared for class and now one of thhe most important things I think that you can do is prepare for class, I mean you do the 'Whats New?" part of the conversation lesson, and then you talk until you can't stand it anymore and then BAM you whip out your lesson and its like smoooth sailing - but I guess maybe its more important to me because I mean, shit its my name on the sign in front of MY business out there so I'm like a little more accountable -"

He was a 26 year old ex-european basketball league player when he arrived in Ichinomiya Japan 14 years ago.

"- than you guys are but I mean it really helps to be prepared with the right stuff when you go in thhere, and oh right, look I know thhe schedules are all heavy right now and we all feel a bit maxxed out but we are going to WIN guys I can feel-"

6 foot 4 and conventionally handsome, bags under his eyes. He shakes his fist and doesnt make eye contact with any of us.

"-I can feel it, we are going to WIN!"

All of the teachers look at eachother with the same desperate and horrified "I can't believe I am working for such a total fucking idiot." look. Ryan, a mid-thirties ex sous-chef from Chicago stares numbly at the full page of red hash marks he has made during out mandatory weekly hour with the boss.

"And I know sometimes it feels like you might have had a bad day,"

Jacek, a massive Pole, 6 foot 3 and stocky who presumably knows my Boss from European basketballing settles in his chair. Even though he is Polish, he is teaching English at our school. We were all instructed to call him Jack, not Jacek. I mean, shit, its just two letters. Jack from Chicago. He is one of the best kids teachers I have ever seen, but there is still something weird about lying to children.

"But remember - you are going to WIN! And God is on your side and thats beautiful."

My boss should know. He is an ordained priest. Well, by mail. I think. He has one of those collars at least. The Japanese like to have white men perform "Western Weddings" in fake churches, and he is a local favorite.

"Oh and Cem, lets talk about your new class - its on Monday nights, a senior citizen at a retirement home, its really just to help keep her from going senile, like therapy. I don't think she really knows much English, but she likes foreigners, and since you are out in Konan City anyways..."

God is on my side, and thats beautiful, beautiful.

Told myself I'd stop drinking for good, for a while, and focus.

That japan was all green tea and rice, rice fields and deep breaths of cold air, raw fish and karate - discipline.
It would be different from New York, different.

" No no, I'll have something different - just no more shochu.."
"Right. I got you. Double Vodka Tonic 2 limes. Yeah?"
"Nono - Double Vodka rocks, 2 limes."
"Yes sir."

Yessir.

--


East Village, October 04.

Hipster Tommy. Tonight he's all Members Only, slouch, and Nike Air Maxes. A single yellow feather earring rests against his greasy hair. Girls love his skinney legs and record collection, his pins. He bobs his head to the beat, thin white heroin fingers wrapped around vodka tonic 2 limes - we have just gotten off work at 2:30AM.

Something incredible - a song - wild, rough, frenetic but irresistably dancable makes it into the DJ's rotation - something I've never heard before - lo-fi and glitchy, yet poppy, with a wild female vocalist chanting in what sounds like Portuguese. I glance at the DJ, and quickly judge his background from his full sleeves of tattoos, amphetamine eyes, filterless cigarette, glass of brown liqour.. Lifer, ex-hardcore kid/ex-raver, will die in 10 years time, or find god near the bottom.

A thin girl, figureless but not unattractive - with ribbons in her wild hair, a red streak painted over her eyes and an uncanny resemblence to a Blade Runner android - bounds into the dancefloor, clapping and jumping, spilling her drink and dancing in the puddle. I almost forget about the song.

Turning to the DJ
"What is this - I've never heard-"
"This?" The DJ looks at me smiling, points a heavily ringged finger towards the Android on the floor.
"This -" he says "-is that. Hongkong Counterfeit, its called."

Just then, the thin girl bounds over.

"Hi -llooooo.." she says to me and the DJ. And then "Good song eh!! I love it!" And she bounces back.

Hipster Tommy steps over to me -

"Cem man, you were just talking to Katia Katia!"
"Katia Katia?
"Dud, shes a 20 year old transvestite from Moscow - this is her track - Hongkong-"
"-counterfeit. I know. I know."



--

The walls are bending down on me, I'm a lurching -

Gayest party in all of Nagoya - how Will and I got here, I don't recall, I don't care frankly. 2 heavy Japanese lesbians make out in a dark corner while machismo Brazilian autofactory employees grind away against flabbergasted and helpless Japanese guys on the main floor.

The Grand Dame of Nagoya crossdressers, vanilla fags, and homosexuals all, a 6 foot 2 tranny named Maddox and I are locked into conversation as I sip my vodka rocks 2 limes. We curse at eachother in Egyptian Arabic - Ms Maddox spent some years in Cairo fucking boys in filthy back alleys apparently, and has some fun information to share.

"Yes, I loved LOVED Cairo, I miss it, but frankly Japanese are much cleaner and really more attractive. I mean have you ever seen so many STRAIGHT men with manicures? I mean really - you can't even imagine how Japanese FAGS treat their hands - they are like god damn works of art I tell you what.."

Will is stumbling around after a 21 year old dominatrix with a spider tatto on her a=hand - so drunk he can barely talk in English..

Smoke, smoke, blue lights and spilt beer -

And I'm out on the street, leaning against building near a homeless Japanese guy sleeping in a box. The homeless in Japan leave their shoes paired neatly outside their boxes, just as if they were entering a house. I slide down the wall, awaking 10 minutes later

shaking
listening to Will on my voice mail:

"Aghhhwhera'fuckare - fuckareyou man, thestwo dominatixesare' blownin' smokein my facean'olturkey tits here wherea fuck areyou?"

Look I
See
Look - I have no idea.

And so she taught me a new concept.

"Ta tae mi"
"Ta tae mi. .. means?"
"Means: publicly stated intention."

And another.

"Hon ne - that means then - actual intention"
"Yes, it like actual intention"

Tomoko looks across the table at me, smiles, looks at me through a glistening glass of grapefruit Chu-hi that she has held up to her eye. I look back.

"There is a large difference, between the two?"
"Yes, but both always exist, side by side."

I am quiet for a moment.

Tomo had spent the last night with my friend Will. But she has a boyfriend, and he a girlfriend.

"So do you love your boyfriend?"
"Yes of course."
"Hon ne?"
"Ta tae mi"
"So.. what is the hon ne?"
She smiles.


--


Shibuya, Tokyo Christmas eve. Drunk and stumbling from bottle of barley shochu and whiskey mixed haphazardly in the street. With some of the best people in the world to be with in Tokyo on Chistmas.

The streets are packed, like a stadium emptying over and over.

The cold air is clawing through my shirt, but the alcohol lets it register only as a soft tingle on my skin. I smile, or something approximate.

In the distance i can hear motercycles as my hair is blown in the opposite direction..

Then in front of me, 25 bikes at least, saddled by 25 people at least, all wearing Santa outfits.

For a minute, I am with all of the best people in the world to be with in Tokyo, on Christmas.

They pull away, the wind blows my hair the other way. But goddamnit,

I still cant feel the cold.

"Dr. Nono, do you know this one? - S.N.A.F.U."
"Ehh.. no I don't know this one."

I'm teaching again in a smokey office in Konan City. Legs crossed, I am eating rice cakes as Dr Nono sips a carton of Lipton muscat tea through a straw.

"S - situation; N - normal; A - all; F - fucked; U - up. It comes from World War 2, American soldiers used it to mean total and complete confusion or big problem, when there should be none."
"Ah, so-nanda, for example, when there is the major attack on the base."
"Yes."
Suddenly, I cant help but think of Pearl Harbor - actually - and I can't help but wonder if He is thinking of Pearl Harbor, not that I would even care. But for some reason..
"It is not in my erectronic dictionary. Does this word exist?"
"Yes, it is quite common."
"Mmm."

--

He looks at me, Dr. Nono, through designer glasses flecked with what I imagine is dried spittle or plaster from work at his dental office. Behind him hang several original Warhols, a photo of Liv Tyler, a photo of his 81 Ferrari, and a desk clock which I love.
"How much is that thing Dr., I love it."
"Ah, cheap. 30,000 or something like that. I got it in Tokyo."
"Damn, 30000 yen? (one yen roughly equals one cent US)"
"Nonono, dollars, dollars."
"30 - what?!"
There is a cup of coffee sitting on top of it.

--

"Cem-sensai. I need your herlp tonight."
"I'm sorry?"
"I need you to do a translate for me."
"Dr., I can barely order food."
"No probrem, really. Please."
Dr. Nono begins opening a box.
"I got this frlom internet and -"
He begins pulling something out of the box
"I don't understand him."
Moments later, I am staring at a 2 foot Bart Simpson doll.
"He says 'Eat my shorts.'"
"Oh holy shit."
"A whore shit?"
"This is hard to explain Dr."
Dr. Nono pulls the string coming out of Bart's back.
"Bzzzptt - -ont have a cow man!"

"What does this mean, don't have a cow?"
"Hahaaa.. Its .. its.."

I stayed an extra 45 minutes.


--


"Aha. So I would never be leave from my hotel if I was in Moscow."
"OK doctor, what do you mean"
"My friend say if you arrive in the room, from the first minute you come, you get phone calls from Russian women who call and ask you if you would like to enjoy facking, and they come to your room to enjoy facking. So, you enjoy all night, and then maybe you go downstairs for eating. Then you make .. eh contact with the eyes-"
"Eye contact Dr."
"Yes, and then you enjoy facking another woman once again."
"Holy shit. Dr. Have you ever beeen to Moscow?"
"No."
"Huh."
"My friend said that the Russian women enjoy facking, they love facking, but unfortunately they are very stinky."
He waves his hand in front of his nose.


--


"SNAFU? Snaff? Not the same?"
"Snaff?"
"Snaff. Uh, Nicholas Cage, 8 millimeters, did you see?"
"Yes."
"You know, like candle - snaff"
"Oh shit, yeah, snuff." I put my hands around my neck as if I am choking myself.
"I would like to see a real s-nuff movie."
"We can just look on the internet I'm sure."
"Ah, but those are not real, artifical."
"Hmm."
"Like the rape movies, not real."
"The rape movies?"
"Yes, fake. We cannot find real."
"Hmm."

Hmm. Dr. Nonogaki..

the buildings are rising up around us like weeds in some god damned nature channel time lapse
exploding outwards in shaking booms - rust and wires and concrete clanking whipping and crunching away the skyline with lines and crumbling blocks.

its an amazing site, the whole country. they certainly didnt build japan pretty. i have no idea how the construction started, when it started(though the US bombing the country flat may have been the begining), or why - but the land is almost completely covered with a jittery combo of depressing utilitarian urban blight and garish advertising content. the rivers are all contained in concrete , erosion stymied with chain-link embankments, feilds pockmarked with massive crackling pylons. now i am by no means an environmentalist, and i love a good nasty city like the filthy Cairo, or chaotic Yangon. but there is something depressing about this place - it is so well ordered and deliberate - so intentionally, boringly ugly.

walking down the steet at sunset, i can barely see the sun through the crisscrossed wires. steel everywhere, steel and rust.

--

he adjusts his turtleneck, looks at me.

"so you.. you dont speak japanese."
"correct. i said that in the email in which i suggested an interview time, and its says that i have an 'elementary command of japanese' on my resume, there."
i point to the 'languages' section of my resume.
"there."
"see, we need someone who can speak japanese. we are having -"

the birdlike australian woman cuts in
"we are having a lot of issues setting up the US pavilion as we dont have any but one bilingual staff. and poor kiyoko-san is overworked as it is."

i look at kiyoko-san, who is furiously making us all cups of oolong tea with the hysterical urgency typical of a japanese Office Lady.

"Cem-san - you like a sugar?"

"no, no thanks."

the australian looks at me, then back to her boss. her job, as far as i can gather, is to finish his sentences. her name dissolves as quickly as she tells it to me. Her boss's name, however, sticks.

"Bernard. Bernard Taresco. But you can call me Bernard." Black turtleneck, black blazer, graying hair, soft hands.
"I have been working at World Expos since, oh I dont know, Lisbon I think. Its been quite a ride. I worked at the last expo in Spain as well, Berlin, you know..I have worked the Super Bowl - god you cant imagine what it was like to work with Madonna on stage, what a ride.. oh and many major corporate events."
He looks like a half assed hollywood contractor. He may well be a half assed Hollywood contractor.
"This year we are building a huge 3 dimensional holographic Ben Franklin - he will be the host at this years US Pavilion. It will be quite a spectacular.. "

"What is the theme of the World Expo this year - environmentally sustainable development?"

"Yes."

"So your job is to tout the US's role in enviromentally sustainable development in some way."

"Well yes, but the powers-that-be decided that it would serve the interestes of the public better if we focused on an innovator, and a founding father of our country mind you - Benjamin Franklin."

"I see. The US isn't ahead in uh, environmentally sustainable development. Neither is Japan, for that matter. Actually, I don't think anyone is really, aside from possibly Canada. This should make for an interesting Expo huh?"

Bernard Taresco laughs.
"True. The Canadians really have a great pavilion this year. They -"
The Australian chimes in. "-they really have an amazing setup, flash graphics, a huge dome. Speaking of - wait - Bernard - did we get our steel for the front canopy? Did we? Oh lord"
She flips through a massive clipboard "Steel steel steel, oh lord."

Steel steel steel

oh lord.

pushing through the concrete, the neon, the bent metal at 300 kph.

there is a friend of a friend there, an investment banker, in tokyo. he is between jobs with a dead visa, angling for work selling confidance and numbers somewhere in the east. hong kong, tokyo, or shanghai - somewhere where the women are not too expensive and you can still find familiar beers.

"I have to run to Hong Kong - you can have my place for a week if you want - its better than any hotel you will find."

and he is right. in the shadow of tokyo tower - a giant, garish, imitation of the paris skyline's tiara - i find his room the Somerset Serviced Apartments. $4800.00 USD a month for a centrally heated efficiancy. maids fold my toilet paper in the morning, BBC pours in and for the love of god, there is a mattress to sleep on.

"Anything you want - help yourself." he says to me as we sip a strong regional specialty sake i brought along from the south. He slides a bag of dates towards me with a hairy paw -
"These are from Dubai.. happy uh.. happy Ramadan.." he laughs
"cheers then." i say.
we immediately continue our conversation about the hot water/cold water fellatio techniques Macau is known for.

ah, to be a turk in the east.
for one night, at least.

yuzu peel, like the peel of lemons from frontyards in los angeles and various crispers ive become familiar with
just like lemons from home but stronger,
they were given to me by a student, with a bottle of local sake made by her friend, wrapped in newspaper.

i cut it on the old wood board in our kitchen in small one inch - no centimeter its centimeter liter gram here- strips, dropped into the teapot with shaking hands -

fuck, i need to get some toyu (read: kerosene) for that damn heater yet, damn i need some kerosene damn i need some heat
damn i need some

damn i need some



need some what ?

did i come all the way over here for -

for that?



as usual - where the fuck am i? this isnt the middle east. this still isnt the middle east.

i look up. wood walls. abandoned house. greaseboard with various american and japanese idioms scrawled on it.

--


Here we are again - again, the numbers adding up every day in some kind of off order. The Thai girl in New York trying to get me to sell her plastic coasters from her bangkok factory to the Japanese equivalent of the Pottery Barn, since I am up and running there soon. Her name is Nantanee, she has a daughter and a failed marriage and an MBA and yet shes working as a waitress and her Visa is dying and shes sitting across from me in Bryant Park and she is saying to me -

"Cem, this is life, dont have to ask why you are going to Japan, just go."


--


Ride the trains. Ride the trains - watch the boys and girls - eyes locked onto their mobile phones - sway to the shape of the tracks. They are so quiet. See the boys dressed in the Prussian uniforms that their great grandfather thought would encourage discipline; the girls in their impossibly appealing sailor outfits; the salarymen flipping through comics with schoolgirls on the cover and school girls tied inside; watch the impossibly beautiful women, graceful and ashen and polished and so well put together - watch them stand in twos; listen:

"Oogaki. Oogaki des."

Ride the trains. This is life. Just go.

here it comes.

its beginning again, its beginning again.

back on the air sirs.

expect the worse.
expect the worse, please.

a letter to my old friend kristen, who stated interest in what im doing - which is teaching engrish in japan btw -

-

"
good god,

before you get a ticket or a plan or an idea in your head, please wait for me to ride this one out like the eager little lab rat that i am - and please let me advise you bruised and broke from the other end -

because -

it could be bad.

you see

i decided, somehow, that leaving the intimate security of my twin shared apartment in the Lower East Side for a 1950s japanese 2 level house with no insulation or central heat with winter coming located in a small sattelite city of a major japanese city would be fun - especially if the house was stocked with people i dont know well, but i do know that they read semiology and make art and make their own clothes and just graduated from the usually annoying charlottesville pudhouse school of bohemia and

and that working for a man named mark who was a european baskteball league pro who moved to japan and whose ex wife killed their son in a legendary local tragedy that unfolded publicly - working for him would be ok

wait -

wait and see

watch as i

watch as i dance though visa complications, break yearlong contracts, shudder through psychotic company meetings that start with a moment of silence and each employee stating what he/she is thankful for, eye rooms full of silent and shy japanese housewives expecting you to teach them conversational english, eccentric japanese dentists named names like "Dr. No-no" who want you to teach them to curse under their original Warhols

just wait a sec kristen

please just
just dont jump?into anything
quite yet.

love, and vending machines,
for chrissakes,
cem

"

theres a cough
and a wheeze
and the bell of a bike, the bell of a bi-cy-cle - 1140 in the evening, no wait, right, its 2340, oh god im - im here again, im back again, im back off course.

--

i remember, i remember - not a week ago i ate a meal of raw meat with a good friend after a few glasses of some polish vodka, and before a few glasses more. i remember him stirring the raw egg and the capers and the onions into the wet red mix before we spooned it onto torn peices of nearly stale baguettes - it looked so damned civilized. i remember the doll-like northeast asian girl - certainly of japanese or korean descent - who served us our wine - her dark eyes and elegant affectation - the kind of look local only to lower manhattan. which was where we happened to be sitting. there, i thought to myself as i looked at the gentle line of her shoulders and back and the whip of her hair -- there is where i am going.

--

2342, and the coughing is closer now. loud, shameless hacking and coughing, i gutteral and bellowing - so loud that i thought i could hear the yellow of the offending globs, the spit flying the -

a man, 60ish, in full business suit is swerving insanely on his bicycle, left and write and left and - a jagged etch-a-sketch line - a glistening red slick of vomit running down the front of his suit he rings his bell at me, his northeast asian features stretched by the alcohol .. and for a moment im back in new york.

TBC

sweating bourboun, 3rd night in a row and im to keep going, keep pouring it in making small jokes and small movements to the beat, 3rd night in a row -

today was spent in bed from 5AM to 10AM, alcohol sleep with the TV on low flickering over me. im up but not awake at 10 still kind of drunk. i can remember the bartender from Knitting Factory and the line cooks and myself staggering down the street to the next place, its called Patriot, and thus theres just country on the Juke and vomit on the walls of the bathroom and a 19 year old bartendress with an Abercrombie sweatshirt on and a definite role in some upcoming low budget porn where shell be held down and fucked by the 40 year old guy to my left from the Knitting Factory with the alcohol problem and porkchop side burns and cheaply dyed black hair, smudge tattoos

"it'll be brutal"

say to myself and wonder thereafter -
how'd i get so twisted..

but im up and not awake at 10AM and im off to the Brooklyn bound F train, through the dead air of the subway below and next to the freakish Hasids grinding through the dark to an inner brooklyn teeming with mexican dishwashers sleeping 5 to a room and hipsters worse than i sleeping 1 to an apartment and i press my head against the window and try to nod off.

--

stumbling towards work -

"energy" will be the flavor of vitamin water today - why the fuck not - with new york priorities, ive started believeing in the magical properties of vitamin water, the marketing becomes reality, and shit, ive even met its inventor, he tipped us with 4 bottles or "endurance" flavor at the restuarant, fucking genius, help me now i -

theres something about a bourbon hangover that allows you to feel every single hair of the stubble on your face, pushing through pale, swollen skin like weeds weeds though concrete, i -

i cant believe this is happening -
im slouched and dehydrated, surrounded by a swarm of children, ages 10-13, in the store that i am running -
McSweeny's Brooklyn Superhero Supply Co. - kids are testing capes, looking through jars labeled "robot shavings" "Dried Villian Bile" "Mutant Slug" "Insect Man, Pieces Of" jars of "matter" and "unrefined matter" and "flight enhancement powder" .. 4 hours to go screaming and chirping.

--

Back home for sleep - 5PM to 8PM.
they all come over at 10, just like last week, with tattoos and bandannas and private vocabulary, they call them early adapters in some book, and we drink vodka and rum and sake toll 130AM.
from then till 430, its a packed nearby club called Happy Ending, after a Vice Fashion Party - its models and bandit hipsters, pirate hipsters, dirty hipsters, handlebar mustaches hipsters, 80s hipsters, wrestling boot hipsters, and the rest of us all squeezed in, looking, talking small and making small movements to the beat.

ok so actually

i wrote that last one myself.

"tomorrow, i could be a different man"
i said to myself. then aloud:
"please bring me another drink"

summer on delancy street
and the puertarricannas insist on wearing that bright tight polyester
even past their third kid.
fat squeezing up out of the jeans
aces of diamonds on their nails
they thumb through the mushy yuca and oranges outside their dim delis
while the kids - in shirts down to their knees
and oversize hats have
far more style than ill ever have -
they buy generic cola and wonderbread
and slowly walk the pavement.

its summer on delancy