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Every day I visit...
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December 11 Christmas CrunchWHEN you are just seven years old, your parents like you to give them hand-made presents for Christmas, made by Own Fair Hand. This how you show you care, put effort in, Gift Money Cannot Buy. Also: get to keep pocket money for self, spend up big during holidays. Times are tough, man on TV says so, and just because you is seven does not mean you not badly hit, just like next man. Jar in dad's room, normally full of gold coins, now empty. Just five cent pieces in the bottom, hardly worth effort of helping self, need whole bucketful just to buy Snakes at corner store. Exhausted by time you get to store. Also: mum, normally soft touch, now "tightarse" - this word from sister Milly, who is 15 and who has Potty Mouth and Knows How to Use It. So today I make hand-made Christmas presents for all family, act fast while house to self, as family at school for Conference about Milly and Her Behaviour, result of Milly smuggling things at Year Ten Formal, it was Rum, which is strange as never knew Milly might be Pirate. I have ideas. Dad would like bowl for his room. He left LP record in sun one day, Ian Drury and Blockheads, and it went all curly. This lead to Brainwave. Use BBQ and melt other of his records into shape like bowl. Know he would love this. Especially if records were from Special Collection, in Velvet Box next to old-fashioned record player, like An Altar says mum, that way each bowl could have name of favourite Dad singer down at bottom. I turn BBQ on to get ready. Also Mum says she likes blue shoes worn by Lady down road, and says she has no blue shoes, and says to Dad that we have No Money for Blue Shoes So How is She Supposed to Ever Go Out. But Mum has shoes. She has lots of shoes. They are there in the wardrobe. And I have blue paint. It is there in the shed. Have heard people talk about Problem Solvers, and think this might mean me. Must also get present for sister. But what to buy Milly now she is Pirate? Ring up pet shop, but Price of Parrot is Out of This World, Who Do They Think they are Kidding?, Do they Think I Is Made of Money? Decide to make Pirate bandanna. Will cut up dress Milly used to go to formal as she not need this any more since Mum said Milly Not Go Out Anywhere Ever Until she Turn 18 Just Stay in Her Room Thinking About What She Has Done. I get scissors ready for Milly dress. Next pick best records out of Velvet Box. Choose Records Dad Like a Lot since these will make better Bowls. Check heat on BBQ. Excellent and hot. Put record called Sex Pistols on BBQ. Record catches fire. Flame very bright. First time I see flame full of colours purple and green. Soon almost nothing left of record, just Dust. Stand back and think about What I Have Done. Decide You Need to Break a Few Eggs to Make a Good Omlette. Turn down heat. Next will melt record called Clash. While BBQ cools down, tackle Mother Problem. Get all Mum Shoes from Cupboard. Paint all blue. Do excellent job, bottoms, inside shoe, everything. Remember hearing Ladies liking their handbags to match their shoes. Get all Mum handbags. Paint all of them blue. Have moment of doubt. Then think: Why not have All Her Christmases Come At Once? Clash record not on fire. Instead Clash record just melts into BBQ. Not much left. Have new idea. Put metal bowl upside down on BBQ, to make bowl shape. Find new record. Bob Dylan on Highway Something. Place record on top of metal bowl, close lid on BBQ. Wait. Wait more. While waiting cut up Milly dress and make Pirate scarf. Only a small dress. Hardly get one scarf out of it. Now know what mum means about Milly dress, Are You Going Out in That? Why Not Just Wear Handkerchief, If Want to Look Like Street Walker Going Right Way About It. Now scissors out and ready, might as well make Job of It. Cut up rest of Milly Dresses so choice of scarf for new career as Pirate. Lift lid on BBQ. Bob Dylan look good. Turn off BBQ. Let cool down (Not Stupid Just Because Age Seven.) Lift record up. Perfect bowl, with Bob Dylan label perfect in bottom of bowl. Christmas Day very Happy in this House. Thank lucky stars Money was Tight. Put Away All Signs of Activity. Wrap presents and Hide Away. Sit in front of TV as if nothing happened, ready for family to come home from Talking About Milly and What She Done. As I sit, day-dream about Christmas Day, and hand-made presents, thems opening their parcels, Oh Thank You, How Special, What a Clever Present, Aren't You a Great Son, Top Brother, You Really Shouldn't Have. And me, I shall wave them to be silent. It's nothing, shall say. Money bit short this year. Besides, it's thought that counts. October 14 Sorry I'm so slow at this. I must have dozed off, because next thing I knew, that fiendish flight attendant was gesticulating maniacally at his head. OK what the fuck dude. His eyes bore into my skull like a migraine. Oh… so he wants me to take off my headphones. I let him continue for a few more seconds. He was like a strung-out, faggy, George Castanza. And I regretted taking them off immediately. Some moron in front had started loudly narrating educational tidbits his Lonely Planet guide to Morocco, meerkatting out of his seat every time something struck his fancy – which was every two seconds. “Does anyone know why Marrakech is often referred to as the Pink City?” he cooed, eyes fluttering. Silence. His index finger rose dramatically into the air, like a baton. “It’s because of the rather unique– “Oi, this ain’t open mic night mate,” snapped Pip. She’s brilliant like that. So I’d barely glanced out the window until my body was rapidly distending against decelerating plane as it hit the tarmac, tires squealing along the pavement, and we ground to a gut-wrenching halt. My first impressions were that we’d landed in a giant ashtray and that everyone looked like a villain from Tintin. Once outside, the air hit us like a wall of professional hairdryers. We skeltered into passport control, got stamped into the country by a series of inattentive, droopy-eyed customs officials, and were ejected out the revolving glass doors into Morocco. Always the pragmatist, Kerry announced our arrival. “Right. From here on out ladies, no chewing your nails.” A three-hour train journey still lay ahead of us. Too cheap to book a direct flight into Casablanca, we’d decided to route through Marrakech and ride the railway the rest of the way. The train was also from Tintin – a big cartoonish slab of red on wheels. The inside décor completed the effect, with excellent James Bond sliding doors and private cabins. Our fellow travellers were slightly less glamorous. One young man slid sensually into our cabin after a few stops, introducing himself as “The Rocker.” He presented me with his business card. It was covered in an eye-catching flame motif, and simply stated “The Rocker” in a naff 90s grunge font. There was no other information on the card. The Rocker explained to us his inevitable future rise to worldwide Rock ‘n’ Roll fame. Then he fell asleep with one eye open, casually lifting up his shirt to expose his untoned, hairy belly. By now the sweat had started to trickle down our necks and pool around the backs of our knees. We fell into a short and delirious sleep. Arriving in Casablanca wasn’t even a disappointment if you mentally correlated our experiences thus far. Of course it looked nothing like the film. After checking into our hotel for the night, the next priority was food. Pip had been slowly turning blue and threatening to vomit every 10 minutes, so Kerry and I left her in the room and ventured down the crumbling, ramshackle streets. We were naturally self-conscious, since our only knowledge of Arab countries usually came flying out of the night-time news programs, during the Two Minutes Hate segments on the Middle East. And there were plenty of bored-looking men on the streets. A haggard man with three teeth dressed like John Travolta circa Saturday Night Fever whistled at us. “Ooh, Ah like-ah dat face! Ah like-ah dat ass! Suh-weeet like-ah honey!” Given the typical foreigner reaction to this kind of comment, I’m still not sure what he was hoping for. September 29 Deco-Den PingMag has a great article on "Deco-Den," the Japanese trend which involves decoating your mobile phone with crystals, stickers and even miniature cakes. I've definitely seen this around a lot more lately, and have seen loads of DIY kits popping up in stores.    Morocco, Part III: TAKING OFF! It wasn’t like Kerry couldn’t see the humour in our batty shenanigans, but she kept herself quiet and dignified for the next hour or so just to illustrate a point. We made our way solemnly to the departure gate, while Pip and I attempted to assume appropriately remorseful expressions without catching each other in the eye. In reality, once Kerry’d turned up, my adrenaline had powered down and all I could think about was cleaning myself. I fantasized about taking my clothes off and gleefully romping about in the nearby water feature. I wanted to scrub the grease out of my hair and slide my back along the tiles. “Oh shit I forgot the sunblock,” said Pip randomly. Kerry couldn’t restrain herself any longer. “For fuck’s sake. I spent hours decanting that into regulation air travel bottles. And it cost 10 us pounds. Or should I say twenty-five Aussie dollars.” “Yeah but we’re gonna be heaps rich in Morocco,” I chimed in, taking advantage of the red herring. “I think it’s 8 dirham to a dollar or something.” Kerry’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t appreciate the sly conversational manoeuvre. Thankfully it was time to start boarding the plane, so I busied myself in search of my passport. We passed through the security gates in silence and settled down in our seats. “… and now I’m thirsty,” Pip continued, as if this were a logical follow-up to her previous utterance. “I’m coming down hard.” She flagged down the flight attendant for some water. He was a typical old fruit, trussed-up like a teapot – one hand propped up on his waist with the other hip jutting out ridiculously, nostrils flaring at what was clearly his boiling point – hung-over, track-suited girl trash. He returned with a miniature plastic cup filled three-quarters with water. “What is this, a shot glass?” said Pip, completely seriously, swallowing the water in one swig. “Mate, I’m gonna need like five more of those.” But he simply lifted his flaring nose into the air and turned away, pretending to busy himself with an overhead compartment. Pip turned back to face us. “Well this is fucked.” There was something about the way she said it that made us all give in. We laughed hysterically. Unstoppably. We finally relaxed into the stiff seats, threw our heads back and giggled ourselves silly, just like we used to do on the back seat of those interminable bus rides to gymnastics camp. “Oh God, whose idea was this anyway?” laughed Kerry, finally grinning from ear to ear. “I should probably just be happy we’ve even made it this far!” Then Pip went and threw up in the toilet. Eventually the plane took off and we buckled down for the three-hour flight, almost as if nothing had really happened. Kerry flicked through a magazine, Pip dozed off, and I listened to the new Ratatat LP in my oversized Sony head-bangers. September 16 To Marrakech, Part 2. All I can say is thank god I even set an alarm in the first place. But aside from that, well, basically we'd fucked up utterly. My head was full of gravel. There was a groan from somewhere in the corner of the room. Pip emerged, looking more or less the same as she did a few hours previous. Out in the living room, half of Pip’s roommates were munted on Coke and frantic-eyed, swimming around the lounge on empty chip packets. They told us we were idiots. We scraped together some bags and wobbled down the stairs to the impatient cab. “If she’s got any sense she’ll show up here,” said Pip, her breath clouding up in the hostile morning air. “I told her I’d booked this thing for 5.” But the cabbie complained so we left. We drove silently for some time. Then it all seemed really funny. “GOD she’s going to fuckin' kill us when we get there!” starts Pip. “Yeah, she’ll probably went straight to the airport all organised and shit. Like usual. We’ve never really managed anything without her,” I admitted. “Totally, I mean, what else could she have expected from us?! I’m thinking this trip is either going to suck or rock.” “Wait… wait… what if she’s, like… dead?” “…….. Duuuuuuude.” Pip summed it all up right there. It was pretty much a 100% hardcore dude moment. And it wasn’t funny anymore, especially when Kerry wasn’t at the airport. We scanned the bleak sans-serif check-in area and noticed a lady in a dazzling yellow sweater, which proclaimed “HI! I CAN HELP!” She was like a nu-rave Indian nerd who kind of looked like she’d pissed herself. We explained our sordid adventures. She, too, told us were idiots. We didn’t manage anything much over the next hour. We went to Burger King for breakfast. We may as well have rubbed those chicken nuggets on our faces. Sat around a bit. Finally we found Kerry’s new number in an old email, hijacked some guy’s phone and Kerry picked up. “Hi. Yep. I’m coming. Bye.” She hung up. Then it was kind of funny again. September 07 Learning Japanese with Hirai Ken.
I don't know if I've posted this before, but this is the love of my life, Hirai Ken. August 31 A very bad beginning.The following entry contains some explicit language. If this is likely to offend you, please click here for more appropriate entertainment. Pip had only given me the name of the house and told me to get out at Acton station. And Acton Station was closed that day. A lisping station attendant propelled me onto another train to get away from his frothy lips. I wound up in Ealing and waited. Waited for an hour or something. When I finally hailed a cab, it contained a gentle-faced Indian man who knew exactly where to go. This was probably the first sign. ‘You’re friends are waiting,’ he said drily, pulling up outside a crumbling concrete block decorated with stolen beer advertisements. My ‘friends’ were out front – an ominous gang of Aussie bogans and Kiwi bumpkins sprawled over an assemblage of thrift store sofas, blind drunk and still going strong. Pip materialised. ‘MAAAAAAATE! You’re here!’ she announced, saluting me with an empty. ‘Welcome to Hell,’ she added, nodding solemnly. This was the second sign. Everyone was horrible. So I got drunk. It was the only course of action. I’d even funnelled a few beers to threatening chants of Newww-bie! Newww-bie! and had to chainsmoke three Lucky Strikes just to calm down. I was high as a kite and marinated in brown liquor. And lolling around, vaguely listening to some heavyset labourer with thick lips, I finally kicked back and started cloud gazing. But the sky was already savage. Pomegranate red. Wait, where is Pip? I was scuttling around. ‘Pip? PIP! God-fucking-hell-goddamn, this is IMPORTANT.’ ‘wh- what?’ Has she taken pills? ‘Listen. THE SUN… IS SETTING,’ I explain. ‘Duuuuude, you’re gone!’ She laughed idiotically. ‘No. Fuck. Kerry, man! Kerry! Where the fuck is she? It’s like… late.’ Finally a look of resignation. Kerry was supposed to be here hours ago. We were, the three of us, leaving for Morocco at 5am the next morning. ‘Can you at least call her or something?’ ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah!’ she replied, screwing up her nose. ‘I lost my phone, but.’ The third sign. We searched pathetically, stumbling around and giggling like maniacs. Under here? Over there? Searching, searching, doomed. ‘Fuck this, I’m going to the pub!’ she declared. Quick! I needed to do something. Our holiday plans, so eagerly anticipated, were now plunging apart with the simple elegance of a spiral. Kerry must be furious! But how could I contact her? No phone number, no phone, no internet… Or maybe I’ll just rest for a bit… so confusing… so… so soft… BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP– HEADACHE. Yeah. And then it was 4:30 am. August 30 This entry is not a cop out.It’s just that I keep forgetting my notebook every time I make this gruelling uphill trek to the local pub, sit down with my 99p cup of tea “PLUS FREE BISCUIT!” and squander their generous wi-fi bandwidth on pirated music and lolcats.
I really need that notebook. I have always suffered from low-capacity memory storage. At some point in my childhood my brain must have partitioned itself and devoted 80% of its energy towards daydreams, philosophy and the maintenance of genuine naivety. And I mean genuine. The remainder is dynamically assigned to anything from understanding tax returns to remembering to put my phone in my bag – but of course, never with any real success. There quite simply isn’t enough brainpower left for everyday activities. I’m cursed with the kind of brain that creates a constant stream of insidious questions that I cannot answer. Today, for instance: How do you measure a mountain? Do you use one of those wheelie walking sticks as you climb to the top, and then triangulate the result with some kind of trigonometry? Do you take a picture from far away and infer the height like a map drawn to scale? Do you employ a small army of highly trained squirrels with pedometers? I have no idea. I mean, genuinely have no idea. Next week: What to do when you have diarrhea, vomiting, and a sadistic tour-guide; Adventures in Morocco. July 14 "That Guy" Part 2Well.... ultimately I feel bad for making a joke out of Yoshikawa-Sensei. I knew something was up when he'd been away from school for a few days (this NEVER happens in Japan) and I'd overheard a few mutterings. Turns out he really is going insane.
During lunch last Friday he was yabbering away to himself, as usual, when suddenly he jumped up form his desk and pelted out the door. I didn't think too much of it until Sakai-Sensei – bless him and his lovely deep voice – stood up with a resigned look and walked over to the window to call him back. Yoshikawa-san! Yoshikawa-san! ..... Oi! YOSHIKAWA-SENSEI? I saw Yoshikawa dart past momentarily. He had been galloping around the carpark in his peg-leg style, with a green bandanna on his head and a broken cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were gleaming and manic, like a crim in a gun store, and he spun his stubby arms around yelling nonsense. The only part I was able to translate was: HEY HEY HEY HEYYYYYY! It's the MAN! YO---SHIKAWA! Fuuuuuuu! I should have known something was up when I was moved from my usual lunchtime spot next to Yoshikawa while we lay out the trays. "It's because Honda-Sensei's desk is sooo messy!" cooed Wakita-Sensei. Honda's desk had a single A4 paper and three sharpened pencils aligned with mathematical precision. Seemingly oblivious, Wakita-Sensei gaily scooped up the piles of unmarked schoolwork from Mori-Sensei's desk and quickly shovelled them into a nearby drawer. She poked my tray into the hole she had created. It hung three inches over the edge of the table. "There! MUCH better!" She smiled so sweetly I didn't bother to make a fuss. Japanese people do try so hard to keep things merry. At any rate, after the incident, I was finally taken aside and let in on the bubbling news. Apparently Yoshikawa hasn't always been like this and they're not sure what's driving it. I was also told they're organising counselling sessions, a move which surprised and impressed me, since statistically Japanese people tend to ignore mental illness. Today he wasn't much better. In the end I feel sorry for him, really. July 08 Lost in Translation.Everyone who moves to Japan has seen Lost in Translation at some point. And even tough everyone shrugs it off as the mildly-interesting film it really is, they still secretly want to check out all the cool locations anyway. One of these is definitely the New York Bar in the Tokyo Park Hyatt. Set up on the 52nd floor of one of the tallest buildings in Shinjuku, I have to say, the view really is jaw-dropping. Have a look. You do pay for the view though, since they charge $20 just to get in. The cocktails are similarly expensive, and not particularly well-made in my opinion. But the price is probably a good thing, because it keeps the place feeling cosy and exclusive. Which is what everyone comes for, after all. The best part for me was the live jazz. The picture above doesn't capture the feel of it, but the whole atmosphere was like how people imagined the future in the 1940s. There we were, impossibly high up above an limitless pulsing metropolis, yet in a familiar dark bar with martinis and sultry music. |
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