U2 has disappointed me? WTF?

OK, everyone knows I love U2. And many of you know U2 has recently collaborated with Green Day to create a benefit single raising money for Hurricane Katrina relief. This is a good thing, the kind of good thing U2 has done throughout their career. The song itself is OK (a little less Green Day and a little more U2 would make it better of course) and it's been the theme song of the New Orleans Saints astonishingly successful year in the NFL.

What do I think of Green Day? Not too much. Instrumentally, they bang the same three chords on their guitars as if they were percussion devices. The drumline is almost always the same, insipid beat. Billy Joe Armstrong sings from his heart, but his heart sounds as if it were located in his nasal cavity. I realize Green Day receives tolerance for all this because they are "punk" and in "punk" you're not supposed to care about what your music sounds like or something. So why is it that every legitimate "punk" I've met thinks Green Day is a group of pretentious sellout wannabes?

Furthermore, you have Green Day's politics, which they wear on their sleeve, which is fine. They obviously don't support the Iraq War or the Bush Administration, and this is OK--there are many good reasons against the war and many smart people who don't support it. But I don't think I've ever agreed with anyone as much as Brandon Flowers of The Killers who ballsily proclaimed that American Idiot (Green Day's supposed magnum opus) is predicated entirely on "calculated anti-Americanism" for their own financial benefit. (How "punk".) Flowers understands that, while there are many intelligient people in the anti-war crowd, there are just as many enthusiastic simpletons who will laugh at any anti-Bush joke, believe any cockamamey conspiracy theory, and buy any supposed protest album. Green Day is the musical equivalent of the hack guest on the Daily Show who understands that, as conversation with Stewart lags, easy applause and raucous cheering can be generated by the even the most unintelligent jab at the administration.

That said, when I heard that U2 was collaborating with Green Day on a song, I marvelled, once again, at the size of Bono's heart. His desire to help doesn't stop at the millions starving or suffering AIDS in Africa--he also seeks to help the musically untalented: Billy Joe and Green Day. So together the two bands wrote a semi-decent song about the sad and frustrating disaster that followed in the days and weeks following Hurricane Katrina's impact into New Orleans. And I was OK with that, because that's something worthy of frustration and definately worth remembering and learning from.

But then, the other day at Hard Rock Cafe in Osaka, I saw the video for this song. I was pissed. Anyway, I embed it here for your critical attention:



The first half of the video is OK, if slightly exploitative. The single, after all, is designed to raise money for Katrina relief, and people should be reminded of those images. But then, halfway into the video, asinine, grade school fantasy begins:

TROOPS REDEPLOYED FROM IRAQ TO NEW ORLEANS!

US military capital magically does wonderful things that cannot be done! Tanks go plowing through flooded streets! Two-Seat Apache Gunship helicopters are somehow rigged to collect the stranded from their rooftops! Harrier jumpjets somehow can precisely drop sandbags to patch up busted levies! And food drops are performed, inexplicably, by Stealth Bombers of all things! What a mystically retarded idea! At the very end, the video focuses on a sign: "NOT AS SEEN ON TV".

ZING! Take that, you warmongering Commander-in-Chief!

Did anyone who took part in making that video pay attention to the facts in the news, or were they too busy shitting their pants at the imagery on the TV sets to listen? For the record, state and local botched Katrina preparation, and state and federal botched response. The problem wasn't a lack of manpower (or fighter jets), as the video suggests, but rather a lack of coordination between various disaster relief groups and the national guard. While anarchy reigned at the superdome and while people starved on their rooftops, thousands of aid workers sat outside New Orleans, thumbs basically up asses, waiting to be told what to do by coordinators who didn't know what to do or which boss to respond to. It was a huge mess at the highest levels, and for that, Bush definately deserves a slice of blame--as do Governer Landrieu and Mayor Nagin and a slew of other executives. (Pop Quiz: Which among these people remains the only person big enough to publicly accept a share of blame and apologize?)

Just for the sake of argument, let's indulge the fantasies of the video's creators: First, Katrina hits New Orleans. Immediately, Bush violates hundreds of agreements with the Iraqi government, other allies in Iraq, the US Congress, and the United Nations, and orders the immediate withdrawal of all troops from the Persian Gulf to the Gulf of Mexico. The troops then join the already gigantic clusterfuck of relief personnel and National Guard troops to help create the largest clusterfuck in human history. The entire US military now sits in aircraft carriers, submarines, tanks, cockpits, and waits for coordinated orders to start magically rigging their vehicles to perform impossible feats. Of course the coordination at the top is only further overwhelmed by the addition of all the unneeeded resources.

And, while all this is happening, Shiites and Sunni begin the genocide competition in earnest, and, in the power vacuum created by America's moronic departure, Saudi Arabia, Syria, Turkey, and Iran sweep in to protect their favorite religious sects and seize oil fields along the way. Things get unimaginably worse in New Orleans, Iraq, and the entire world, and in a year Green Day and U2 collaborate on a video blaming the President for the reckless slaughter of millions of middle-easterners.

Right. And Bush is the idiot?

I still love U2, and I still think Bono is the greatest philanthropist alive. Because I owe U2 for all the wonderful music over the years, I'm gonna credit this "dookie" of a video to the morons in the Green Day camp. But please, U2 ... if you're reading this ... no more charity collaborations with stupid and horrible bands, OK?

SACRILEGE! (and on this very page, no less!)

I hate to end a 12-year-old friendship, but certain things cannot be tolerated. Such as releasing an ungrateful stream of piss on Saint Shanny.

Readers, trust me when I say that I was really looking forward to a time when my internet would be fixed enough to compose a thoughtful posting on how I've rediscovered my old fierce high school form, the nasty little kid who thought "rabid psychosis" was a character trait worth aspiring to. I've been waiting daily for my internet company to ratchet up my intermittent connection so blogging wouldn't be frought with risk of random post deletion. I thought I could wait it out, but then, out of sheer curiousity at work, I checked my page only to discover two steaming nuggets in the comment box.

Anyway, I'll respond line by line to the first posting, left by a certain Ryan Bossow who shall remain nameless:

Damn nice freakin debut cutler... way to be!!!

First, yes, I get your sarcasm and grant you this: Jay Cutler on his first day did not look like Peyton Manning during the best game of his career. He also didn't turn eliminate global poverty, cure AIDS, or convert Osama bin Laden to coolness through the power of rock. (Of course, why would he need to do those things when Bono's already got most of that stuff pretty much wrapped up?) So, because his debut didn't inspire any embarassing boners, then ... what? ... he sucks? ... we're supposed to be stunned? Angry?

Cutler's debut numbers: 10 of 21, 143 yards, 2 TDs, and 2 INTs. His second game's numbers: 17 of 30, 188 yards, 2 TDS, and 0 INTs. I'll be charitable here and ignore the fact that, unlike his predecessor, Cutler has thrown twice as many TDs as INTs--let's just leave those out of the picture. His completion percentage is about 53% and he averages about 166 yards a game.

Anemic? Yes.

Inspiring? Not really.

Remind you of another anemic and uninspiring quarterback? Well, shucks, now that you mention it, those numbers sound like typical Jake Plummer performances in 2006. My point is not that I'm ecstatic with Cutler thus far--my point is that, if your head weren't so far up your ass you'd notice that it's taken Cutler approximately two games to reach the same performance plateau it's taken Plummer 10 years to reach.

Here's an idea mikey, let plummer play out the year and see if you can get anything for him in to off season, rather than just cutting him, or letting him ride the pine.

Here's an even better idea, "Ryaney": realize that, with no running game, the Broncos will win zero playoff games (and certainly not a Super Bowl) without a semi-decent quarterback. Agreed: Plummer wasn't getting A+ help from his O-line, receivers, or backs, but the better QBs in the league can always elevate the weenies that surround him.

Ask yourself what's more important:

1) allowing Plummer six more games in which to suck, hoping it might somehow increase his value.

2) giving valuable regular-season experience to a quarterback many feel was the best picked in the draft because you realize the season is spiraling anyway.

And make no mistake, the awesome defense that helped us get us the record we began with got so tired and banged up, there was no way it would carry us through the playoffs. The 2006 Broncos were tanking and in desperate need of a miraculous offensive spark. Just because Cutler wasn't that miraculous spark doesn't mean he was a dumb choice, or that Shanny was stupid to try.

I hate to say it fellow bronco fans, but my grip on the mike shannahan bandwagon is starting to slip.

Then let go, turncoat! Go on--leave you ungrateful wretch! Seek solace suckling at the puckered teat of Wade Phillips or Dan Reeves. I hear they like it if you bite a little. But leave behind any fond memories of 97 & 98 because there's no fucking way either of those Super Bowls would've happened without the innovative Shanahan Regime, which was sent by the football gods to govern mankind.

And if you think I'm living in the past, examine this season. Remember how I said the defense "helped" us get to a great start? The other main factor was Shanahan's kindergarten gameplans, sadly neutered by design due to Plummer's inability to play big and bold without turning it over 20 times a game. When you actually have to gameplan in order to minimize the role of your quarterback, you know it's long passed time to make a switch.

Finally Ryan, before I formally end our storied friendship, I'll tell you what: I understand you've moved to Florida recently, and it's possible you've yet to unpack your brains, balls, and loyalty. Maybe they got lost on the moving truck. Perhaps they were stolen. Either way, they're gone, and, because you recommended Supernatural which is a pretty good show, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt that the tragic loss of your manhood wasn't your fault. If you truly wish to preserve the friendship, you must travel to faraway Japan. Once here, I will remove a glove, and then you must kiss the red signet ring on my hideously gnarled, blistered, and leprous hand (ala my favorite part in Kingdom of Heaven). Do that, endure a few vicious swats from my royal riding crop, and everything's back to normal. We'll get some KFC or yakitori or shabu-shabu or something.

Otherwise ...

IT'S OVER!

Now, on to Zach Thaxton, the other anonymous comment-box-stinker-upper. Zach's crime wasn't brazen sedition (although he did say Shanny's starting to "slip ... ever so slightly") but his efforts to be diplomatic led him to say some startlingly nonsensical and repugnant things. In the often-repulsive annals of historical revisionism, you hear vile, despicable lies like "Bush and his oil cronies were behind 9/11" or "the holocaust didn't kill that many Jews" and, possibly the most offensive, "Ol' bowlegs was downright dumb in about 40% of his games."

Now I get to be Jerry Seinfeld to Zach's Michael Richards:

I've known Zach for many years, and, frankly, this is so out of character for him I had a hard time believing that he'd written it. Me? Of course I'm disappointed in him. I'm saddened. I truly am. But more than that, I understand that these remarks were borne of extreme frustration and thoughtlessness.

The remarks aren't representative of the Zach I know--the Zach I know keeps a statue of John Elway in his condom box. The Zach I know has two John Elway jerseys, one he wears for home games, and one for away games. The Zach I know doesn't hate black people--he works with them, eats with them, loves them--hell, he's probably even made love to a few of them.

Please forgive his remarks. I'm sure that by "Ol' bowlegs", he was referring to another pidgeon-toed quarterback. If not, then while writing that Elway was "downright dumb", perhaps he made a typo and intended to write that Elway was "downright misunderstood in about 40% if his games." That would've made more sense and been more reflective of Zach's ordinarily thoughtful and non-hateful intellect.

It has been said that if an infinite number of monkeys were given an infinite number of typewriters and an infinite amount of time, they would eventually produce the collective works of Shakespeare. Suffice to say, Zach's comment was a four-monkey, seven minute job.



OKey dokey. I'm gonna go to bed now.

Offline ... again.

All:

I have no internet at home. Again. This time it's my fault. Sorta. My internet provider changed its name and started sending me bills with different labeling, which I automatically threw away thinking they were junk mail. Then one week my internet decreased in speed with each passing day until, five days later, it stopped entirely. So now I'm offline, again, but it's not so annoying this time as I have much paper-grading to do and I think I was watching too much TV anyway. But I'll pay my bill tomorrow, and should be surfing around soon after that. For now though, this post will be short. Just 10 or 11 paragraphs.

Thanksgiving was only a fraction as hellish as it normally is. Here in Japan, American Thanksgiving Day coincided with Japanese Labor Day (this coincidence doesn't always occur, I gather), so I didn't have to work. For the feast, I ate a superb avocado+bacon cheeseburger, which was much preferable to turkey, an inferior fowl when compared with the noble chicken.

A lot of Japanese people call their Labor Day "Thanksgiving", only they give their thanks to laborers who work hard to bring them the first-world lifestyle Japan's consumer culture has grown accustomed to. Call me a commie, but I like directing my thankfulness this direction far better than directing it toward an abstract concept of 'family', which doesn't apply to me very well.

I asked a student what the Japanese name for the holiday was, and, after thinking for about five or six seconds told me, "I don't remember."

AH, JAPAN! So many holidays, one can't even remember all their names!

Anyway, I must skedaddle. In my next post, I will write about how I'm rediscovering my inner-asshole. And no, this will have nothing to do with my colon or anal beads.

His jersey number is one shy of the legend's, but, with regard to pure photographic appearance, he emulates John Elway's blankly regal "brain-dead hick" aspect.

Here ... see what I mean?

Does anyone else have goosebumps?

More Computer Graphics ... Video this time.

Just a well-made but silly toon? Or a brilliant and moving depiction of the price of dreams and the tragic lengths some are willing to go? I can't decide, but, as art, it's pure beauty.

A few words from "Little" Jon.

Hey everybody! I'm gonna begin this post with some reader e-mail:

Alright Jon(notice serious tone), Ive been reading these blogs now for well, since the begining and I am yet to read about what we are all thinking about. What are the ladies like over there, has Jon been procreating? Come on Jon, give your loyal readers some hope that in your seclusion little Jon has not gone into hiding, or worse packed up his shit and took off. I know you Jon. I know how you work and I expect some results. Lets go buddy!

-- "Wondrin' 'Bout Your Wiener" in Fort Lee, New Jersey

Well, I thought about answering this myself, and then I figured Hey! Why not let Little Jon field this question? So here's what I'll do: give my brain and fingertips a rest, and allow Little Jon free reign of the keyboard. It's gotta be in all caps because of Little Jon's inability to press the shift key at the same moment he hits other specific keys with any sort of precision. Also, should you ever find yourself visiting me in my apartment, you might want to think twice before using my keyboard.

Anyhoo, without further ado, let's give a big round of applause to Little Jon:

THANK YOU, THANK YOU! THANK YOU EVERYONE! THANK YOU JON, FOR LETTING ME TYPE FOR ONCE! AND THANK YOU 'WONDRIN' FOR THE GREAT QUESTION! AND THANK YOU READERS FOR MAKING CREPUSCULAR RAY SUCH AN AUSPICIOUS AND INVITING VENUE! YOU'RE WONDERFUL AND I LOVE YOU ALL! I HOPE YOU'LL FIND YOUR TEMPORARY HOST ON THIS BLOG TO BE WARM AND CONVIVIAL FOR THE DURATION OF THIS POSTING.

NOW, IN RESPONSE TO THE INITIAL INQUIRY, PERHAPS I SHOULD BEGIN BY CITING ANECDOTALLY THE WEBSTER DEFINITION OF 'PROCREATE', A WORD WITH IDENTICAL MEANINGS REGARDLESS OF WHETHER IT IS BEING USED TRANSITIVELY OR INTRANSITIVELY: 'TO BEGET OR BRING FORTH OFFSPRING.'

THIS DEFINITION AUTOMATICALLY HEARKENS TO MEMORY THE IMAGE OF A YOUNG ERROL, WHO, WHILE IN HIS FRIEND JON BATES' TRUCK IN THE DAYS SHORTLY AFTER THE LATTER FELLOW INCAUTIOUSLY IMPREGNATED HIS GIRLFRIEND, ABSENTLY OPENED THE GLOVE COMPARTMENT ONLY TO WITNESS A VERITABLE TROVE OF TROJANS COME CASCADING OUT OF THE CAVITY. 'HOLY SHIT,' ERROL IS KNOWN TO HAVE REMARKED, 'A LOT OF FUCKING GOOD THESE DID YOU.'

THE REASON I DETAIL THIS RECOLLECTION IS BECAUSE, FOR ME, IT REPRESENTS 'PROCREATION' IN ITS VERY ESSENCE. THUS, IN ANSWER TO YOUR QUESTION, NO. I HAVE NOT PROCREATED. IN FACT, SEEING AS HOW JON IS THE VERY EMBODIMENT OF LIFESTYLE PRUDENCE, I SUSPECT THAT IF HE WORRIED I POSED EVEN A SLIGHT RISK OF PROCREATION, HE WOULD, WITH SCISSORS AND A PACK OF ICE, PERFORM A SELF-VASECTOMY THE VERY NEXT WEEK HE HAD OFF WORK.

BUT THAT DOES NOT MEAN THAT I HAVE NOT ENJOYED THE TRANSITION TO THE KANSAI REGION OF JAPAN. THIS COUNTRY IS A HETEROSEXUAL MALE'S PARADISE, A LAND WHERE THE WINTER FASHION REVOLVES AROUND A SHOCKINGLY-SHORT MINISKIRT, WITH THIGH-HIGH STOCKINGS AND KNEE-HIGH LEATHER BOOTS WORN PRIMARILY TO PROVIDE A MEASURE OF WARMTH, BUT ALSO TO CATCH THE ATTENTION OF LOWER EXTREMETIES SUCH AS I.

IN TERMS OF TEMPERAMENT, JAPANESE WOMEN SEEM FAR MORE UNASSERTIVE AND OPEN-MINDED THAN THEIR AMERICAN COUNTERPARTS. FURTHERMORE, A COLLECTIVE CURIOSITY OF AND PREFERENCE FOR FOREIGN MEN IS COMMONPLACE, PRESENTING OPTIONS THAT, FOR SOME, MIGHT BE UNAVAILABLE BACK HOME. INDEED, FOR MANY MALE FOREIGNORS IN JAPAN, THE WEEKEND IS LITTLE MORE THAN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS OF NON-STOP SKIRT-CHASING, BED-HOPPING SCHENANIGANS. UNFORTUNATELY FOR ME, JON FEELS THAT THE EASY CHASE RARELY NETS PREY STRONG IN QUALITIES SUCH AS FIDELITY AND CONSISTENCY. THUS, WHEN I SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY, I'M LIKELY STARING AT ONE OF JAPAN'S HIGH-TECH URINALS.

JON'S WORKPLACE IS SOMETHING OF A PARADISE OF FRUSTRATION. HE IS A HUNGRY GARDENER IN A GORGEOUS, SUN-DAPPLED ORCHARD OF FORBIDDEN FRUIT. WHEN I RANDOMLY TAKE NOTICE OF A STUDENT, THE MANTRA ECHOING DOWN FROM THE HEAD IS HEY! YOU BE GOOD! SHE IS LIKE A LITTLE SISTER ... LIKE A LITTLE SISTER ... LIKE A LITTLE SISTER. AND ON AND ON UNTIL I CAN ENVISION THE STUDENT STUPIDLY SITTING IN A HIGH CHAIR WITH STRAINED CARROTS SPLATTERED OVER A BIB AND SMEARED ACROSS HER INFANTILE FACE.

THE TREMENDOUS AFFECTIONATE EFFORTS EXTENDED BY SOME STUDENTS PRESENT A MILD STIMULI, BUT EVEN I CAN CLEARLY DISCERN THAT THE OVERTURES' AIM IS TOWARD THE HEART, A LATITUDE FAR NORTH OF MY SWELTERING HOME BELOW THE EQUATOR, AND THUS, LIKE THE GOODNATURED PENIS I AM, I USUALLY REMAIN UNAROUSED. BUT OCCASIONALLY THERE ARE TIMES WHEN CERTAIN STUDENTS, DRESSED AND POSTURED IN CERTAIN WAYS, ARE LOOKING AT JON'S EYES, AND SPEAKING TO HIS EARS, YET ARE UNMISTAKABLY ADDRESSING YOURS TRULY. IT IS AT THESE TIMES I THUNDER BACK AT THE HEAD: WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF LITTLE SISTER IS THIS?

IN CONCLUSION, I WOULD LIKE TO SAY THAT NOT ALL JAPANESE WOMEN ARE UNASSERTIVE, EASY, OVERSEXED, SEDUCTIVE OR EVEN OVERLY-AFFECTIONATE. NEITHER, OF COURSE, ARE ALL JAPANESE WOMEN INTENSELY INTERESTED IN FOREIGN MEN. FURTHERMORE, JON COULD SPEND DAYS WALKING THE CROWDED STREETS AND TERMINALS OF JAPAN, AND EACH DAY HIS GAZE WILL INSTANTLY LOCK ON THE NEAREST EXPANSE OF EXPOSED FLESH, PASSING OVER DOZENS OF REMARKABLY BEAUTIFUL AND INTRIGUING WOMEN WHO DRESS MODESTLY AND FEEL THEIR BEST PERSONALITY ATTRIBUTES DON'T REQUIRE STILLETO HEELS TO SHOWCASE. IT'S THE RANDOM, SURPRISING DISCOVERY OF WOMEN SUCH AS THESE THAT ARE THE TRULY INSPIRING OCCASIONS.

ULTIMATELY, WOMEN HERE, LIKE WOMEN EVERYWHERE, MAKE EACH DAY WONDERFUL AND INTERESTING, EVEN FOR A DICK LIKE ME.

A gathering of creepy dorks...

Peace be unto you, fellow earthling!

I just returned from Kokura, a lively burg situated on the northern tip of Japan's westernmost island, Kyushu. The ostensible reason for my trip was the JALT conference there--JALT stands for "Japanese Association of Language Teachers"--but my close friends understand exactly how much I care for the community of those in my profession and have likely surmised (correctly) that my true motivations laid elsewhere.

About the conference: one might think it would be a place where language teachers would go to share resources and techniques to aid in language instruction. To be fair, there were workshops where things like that went on. But, for the most part, it was teachers predictably circle-jerking over stupid shit that has very little to do with actually teaching language. Don't just take my word for it--here's a list of actual presentation titles, each of which struck me as hilarious:

• Using Media and Drama to Promote Global Awareness
• Raising Bicultural Kids in Multicultural Melbourne
• Infusing Multiculturalism in Teaching Research
• Okinawa Longevity and Wellness for Lifelong Learning
• Esperanto Forum (I actually attended this one, driven by the same fundamental curiosity that draws carnival-goers to a freakshow)
• Language Teaching, Global Human Issues, and Peace
• Promoting Sustainability in the EFL Classroom
• Human Rights, Disney, and You!
• Raising Student Awareness of Poverty
• The Bilingual Songwriter (seriously ... what the fuck?)
  
• U.N. Children's Documentary: What's Going On?
• Peace Studies for University EFL Students
• Emancipation Now!
• Yoga and Meditation for Better Language Learning
• Exploring Mirages with Group Reflection Activities
• The Language and Pragmatics of Sexual Harassment

In all fairness, there were plenty of presentations which presented interesting techniques that actually operated under the assumption that language teaching was the primary goal in running a language class, even over tremendously wankworthy urgencies such as global consciousness-raising and child-brainwashing techniques. But those seemed few and far between, and attendees were sparse. No, the flute-toting hippies and creepy dorks of indoctrination won the day, forcing me to wonder if I belong to a minority of language teachers in Japan who believe substantive topics, like grammar or pronunciation, are more relevant to learning a language than emptyheaded geopolitical sloganeering.

Oh well.

Now for the real reason I went: to see a couple of old grad school chums, Aaron and Elizabeth, who now live and teach at opposite ends of Tokyo. Aaron, I was delighted to see, has kept his paranoid charm and remains a brilliant little ball of hate with a heart of gold. He thrilled me by lending credence to 9/11 conspiracy theories, and then admirably kept his cool as I assailed his cockamamie beliefs with withering scrutiny. We may have our disagreements about that (as well as most other conspiracy theories) but we are united in our shared belief that Mother Theresa, the Dalai Lama, and Ghandi actually form a trio of douchebags. Plus, he's a fellow libertarian/anarchist, so I kind of think of him as a political kindred spirit.

I've done a much better job of keeping in touch with Elizabeth (a noted Crepuscular Ray comment contributor), so one might think my excitement at the prospect of reuniting with her would be slightly diminished. Not so! I was strangely nervous to hang out with her again, and I was worried her colleagues/friends/traveling companions would dislike me for some reason. But all fears dissipated while consuming a pre-Turkish-dinner donut in which I quickly realized that (1) Elizabeth's friends are cool people, and (2) Elizabeth's quick wit and contagious vivacity remain intact, as does her open and caring nature. She seems to be handling the transition to Japan with more aplomb and dignity than I did/do, but this is hardly surprising as she is a strong person.

I really missed her, and I was happy to spend a few nights drinking with both her and Aaron. I think I pestered both by pressing politics, but I figured, when's the next time I'll be having a face-to-face conversation with an intelligent English-speaker? Might as well make the most of it.

Anyway, the weekend's over, and I'm back to my solitary, monastic life ... but I'm actually feeling OK about that. I know I have friends all over this planet--good friends, the kind who would help me dispose of a body or two on short notice with no questions asked--and even though they aren't in this city, I will survive. It just means I have to keep the body count down.

Here's a cheery picture of a traveling insect musician:

And everything has been set right in the universe once more.

It is dense, it is, it is, the friend! The my computer is fixing, it is the splendid place where as for outer space you live for the second time! Hooray! That the problem which is reverses the graphic card. That it locks, price was not high even excessively.

I am regrettable terribly, but I form this post there are no many times. I tomorrow have travelled in Kyushu for the meeting of language teacher. My university has paid the fact that I go. The secret where I am large: I have gone just in order to visit the old friend of some persons.

I post next week directly for the second time. To that time, enjoy this image. That in the celibacy separation party just of the man of Ryan of the friend where I am good, is I as an illusion. As for me it was not possible to go in body shape, therefore I the camera of magic am delightful, my mental existence which is recorded. Thank you Ryan! I let escape!

From the right to the left: Ryan and Matt, Morgan, Errol, and illusion me.

Life Offline Sucks. Totally.

Hope everyone's in the mood for a pity party, cause you've unwittingly stumbled into one.

(haHA! My readers are suckers! All six of them!)

(actually, after the above parenthetical outburst, new figures estimate overall readership has dropped by about two people ... Hey, I'm sorry! Please, you're not a sucker! Please, come back! Please?)

As you know--or perhaps don't know; I don't know who knows what anymore since I no longer have internet access at home--I no longer have internet access at home. My computer is fried--either its motherboard or graphics card. I'm hoping it's the card (which is easily fixable), but it'll cost me about $100-200 to find out. What all this means is that, when I'm at home, no music, no American TV, no e-mail, no blog, and no surfing. Instead, I have to do all that--except the TV and music--at work. AT WORK! And some would claim Japan is a first-world country.

So my homelife can now be characterized by long peroiods of eery yet mostly silent page-flipping punctuated by occasional outbursts of obnoxious Japanese television. I rarely work more than 30 hours a week but leftover narcolepsy which came courtesy of the sickness I contracted in Bali still regularly leaves me passed out on the couch in front of the TV or in bed with a reading book tented over my drool-slickened face. (This newfound compulsion to snooze is so intense, that I've fallen asleep approximately 12 times while composing this post, and I'm at the office. Seriously, I can't ... stay ... awakets draghdd fhhkn)

What I really can't get over is the way it seems that, without internet, I'm even more disconnected from everything and everyone. It's really kind of disorienting--as if being a reclusive loner on the other side of the world weren't enough. Sometimes I'll make a phone call to a friend to break the monotony, and they call me on occasion too, but other than that ... it's just me out here. The Japanese have national psychological pandemic called hikikomori which features young Japanese people, mostly men, who completely withdraw from friendships and family to live exclusively in their bedrooms and listen to Radiohead all night long. Just themselves and no conversation with anyone. It's kind of like my life, only I can't play any Radiohead because my motherfucking computer won't fucking start the fuck up like it's fucking supposed to.

But at least I'm not a member of the Arizona Cardinals franchise. Their recent game, as well as the Bronco-Raider game as fortune would have it, was rebroadcast hours later on Japanese television. The Cardinals thoroughly dominated the best team in the league, only to have the Bears preternaturally storm back with mere minutes left, only to watch their own star rookie, Leinart, calmly lead their offense down the field back to a to field goal position, only to have their kicker miss the game winning field goal. The Bears somehow won, in spite of their quarterback who threw four interceptions and fumbled twice.

This has to be the biggest choke I've ever seen: the mighty Chicago Bears, tied spreadeagle to a massive stone altar, with a ceremonial dagger hovering point-down inches above their chest, ready to plunge forward at any moment. Only it doesn't happen because the dagger, acting on accord of some mystical power, reverses course and instead plunges backward into the abdomen of the stunned priest. Clearly the Arizona Cardinals have done something grievously offensive to the football gods. My only recommendation is for the entire team--from the Owner to the General Manager, the Coaching Staff and all players at all depths, the water boys, cheerleaders, and even the little kid who runs out to grab the tee after kickoffs--they all have to commit suicide. It doesn't matter how it's done--self-disembowelment or Jonestown-flavored Kool-Aid--but every last person on the Cardinal payroll must do so in order to remove this taint.

Sad but true. As is my paltry 8-5 prognostication record from last week (which brings me to 58-29 on the year). In my defense, I am without easy internet research access thereby handicapping my NFL 2006 knowledge. But I still pick, friends. I still go on. Here you go, for the sake of your weekly Crepuscular Ray inspiration:

• Cardinals over Raiders -- if mass suicide won't turn this team's fortunes around, take heart: the Oakland Raiders always lend opposing teams a helping hand.
• Chargers over Chiefs
• Jags over Texans
• Steelers over Falcons
• Seahawks over Vikings
• Eagles over Bucs
• Jets over Lions
• Patriots over Bills
• Colts over Skins
• Cowboys over Giants
• Panthers over Bengals (I'd take Panthro over any of the other Thundercats)
• Packers over Dolphins
• Broncos over Browns -- you want my theory on Shanahan's offense? Why expose its intricate beauty for league-wide scrutiny until the need truly arises? Just wait, friends. This butterfly emerges from its coccoon in January.

Wow... that last little "wise" analogy sounded a tad ... unmanly. Forgive me. Who knows what lengths I am being driven to in the name of maddening isolation? A little appreciation of purdy butterflies might be the least of our problems.

Here, enjoy this picture of a man-eating seahorse:

The end of the world as I know it.

It is with a heavy heart that I inform you all of the probable demise of my home computer, which stopped effectively powering on last Monday. Although the fans whir, the motherboard no longer works, as evidenced by (I think) the lack of BIOS information ordinarily displayed during the startup screen. Why it no longer works is a mystery beyond my ability to comprehend, let alone remedy, so, barring a miracle or visit from a miracle-worker, I think it's safe to assume my life is entering a sustained period which will be characterized by a lack of joy and meaning.

I now have to do my internet surfing from the office computer, with its glacial internet speeds and irritating Japanese keyboard (apostophe is shift-7, annoyingly enough). What can this possibly mean for the future of my e-mailing and blogging activities? Nothing positive, I'm afraid. Expect delays. Expect silence. And when you do hear from me, expect lamentations.

My life is already changing in unimaginable and horrific ways. For instance, I now:

• read off thin pieces of paper only, as opposed to an elegant and huge screen.
• get most my news from CNN-J, which means I have to tolerate Lou Dobbs, Anderson Cooper, and Wolf Blitzer, the last of whom reports from a location called "The Situation Room", but is really just another generic cable news studio.
• communicate with friends only in my dreams, which have been disturbing and tragic since the apparant collapse of my computer.
• question the existence of God.
• talk to myself even more. The two of us haven't been getting along very well, lately. I think all the time on our hands and pressure to be "buddy-buddy" is tearing us apart.
• can't watch any live, televised football. Why not just have me shot? Or castrated?
• live in a silent world utterly devoid of music, a world in which the only sounds are the ticking of clocks and the occasional powering on fridge and AC Unit, electric devices which presumably function solely to taunt me that they at least are capable of doing so.

So, things may be bleak for a while until I get this straightened out. In all the chaos, I haven't even had time to compute my last week's pick efforts, or think aobut week 6.

Of course, you know I'm lying about that. Last week's effort led to a highly respectable 13-3, in which I missed only the Rams, the Jags, and the Eagles. That brings me to a lofty season record of 50-24. I deserve my own TV sports program or newspaper column.

Running outta time, so here we are:

• Seattle over STL ('Hawks coming offa bye AND Rams = pretenders, albeit decent pretenders.)
• Philly over NO
• Cincy over TB
• Washington over Tenn
• Balt over Carolina
• Atl over NYG
• Dal over Hou
• Det over Buf
• Huard over Big Ben ... no wait. Reverse that. Yeah. Pit over KC
• SD over SF
• NYJ over MIA
• Chi over Ari
• DEN over OAK -- if we can stomp a little midget like we're supposed to, it'll really solidify in my mind the greatness of this Broncos team. If we let them stick around or even worse, then I'll hold off on Super Bowl reservations.

Thank you all and God Bless.

Clap-happy Japanese applaud even the moon!

Ah! I'm back at work and life is good again! Hoo-ray! (I'm being serious). School started up and, strange as it may sound, my life at work is better than my life without work. I really have a good job.

In other news, last night I went to a temple complex in Kyoto for an "otsuki-mi", or moon-viewing festival. Basically, the last full moon before the vernal equinox is a big deal here, and moon-viewings are rather culturally significant. So I figured I'd show up and see what's what. To make a long story short, Kyoto's a goodly distance away from Kobe, Buddhist temple complexes are particularly spooky at night, and Japanese people enjoy clapping. I've noticed the clapping preference before (like five years ago when I was announced to be a summer van-driver for Japanese exchange students in Colorado), but it still often takes me by surprise and makes me chortle. So when the full moon ascended above the cloud line for the first time last evening and was welcomed by a smattering of "oohs" and round applause, I decided I should mention it in my blog.

Upon first hearing the applause, my mental reaction was snotty. I wanted to shout in Japanese (which I still can't speak) that the moon cannot hear your applause, and, even if it could, your cheers are not what guide it along its eons-old celestial path. You're being silly! But then, after thinking about it, I decided that the Japanese people don't really applaud the moon, but rather themselves and the Shinto-vestiges of their profound culture which still, after millenia of modernization, marks annual milestones in nature with giddiness and excitement. I decided that was kind of cool, so a few seconds later, I joined in applauding the moon.

YAY MOON! WHOO! WAY TO RISE ABOVE THE CLOUDS AND SHINE AND STUFF AND MAKE US HAPPY!

* * *

Did I hear someone ask for my opinions on who will win and who will lose in week five of the NFL? Well, I'm glad you asked.

First, my standard boasting: after an average outing two weeks ago, I went conservative and wound up with a 9-5 record. I should've gone with my instincts on the Baltimore, Washington, and New England victories, however. (SERIOUSLY! I knew those three would win, I just wussed and and picked otherwise! I'M NOT LYING!) But 9-5 ain't too shabby, and it makes me 39-21 on the year, much better than any of CBS Sportsline's six "experts" and also better than NBC's five-man "expert" panel. As for ESPN's eight-man panel, I've tied with Ron Jaworski and am only one game behind Mark Schlereth, who's blue-and-orange history would qualify him as awesome even if he were an idiot--which he clearly isn't. I feel I'm just a couple weeks of strong-picking away from conquering ESPN's panel, but it's my nemeses at Yahoo!Sports who I really want to best--of their four-man panel, I'm better than only one, and still a whopping four games behind their Charles Robinson, who looks more like the driver of an ice-cream truck than a shrewd football mind:

I'll get you Robinson!

Here's Week 5's Picks:

• Colts over Titans (although I secretly want to pick the Titans simply because they're 20 point underdogs ... I'm going for them even though I pick against them.)
• Giants over Redskins
• Vikings over Lions
• Saints over Bucs
• Packers over Rams (an upset)
• Patriots over Dolphins
• the ravenous BEARS! (over the Bills, who have more heart than talent.)
• Panthers over Browns
• Jets over Jaguars (Marshall QBs face off--I'm thinking upset)
• Chiefs over Cards (recently-emptied bandwagons clash under the desert sun)
• 49ers over Raiders (Q: as a old Broncos fan, is it difficult to see the Oakland Raiders, once hated rivals, plummet to become the league's laughingstock? A: No. It's kind of fun to watch, actually.)
• Chargers over Steelers
  
• TO over McNabb (Is there an NFL fan alive who isn't at least somewhat intrigued with this matchup? I'm almost looking forward to this more than the Broncos.)
• Broncos over Ravens (But I hate the dirty, stinking birds! They seem to trip up Denver when we least expect it. However, this Baltimore team is overrated: great D, yes, but their offense will score more points for the Broncos than for the Ravens ... I'm predicting turnover upon turnover as ancient "Air" McNair takes on the league's most underrated defense.)

And that's about it. I'll close this post with a stylized and compelling portrait of Russian President Vladimir Putin, who (in all likelihood) recently offed one of his country's most prominent journalists and a major critic of his administration. And American leftists regularly claim--in complete safety and immunity and with the straightest of faces--that Bush is a tyrant. Sheesh.

The post in which I detail getting a haircut followed by predictions of football game outcomes.

So I got a haircut. Actually, and stop me if you've heard this one before, but I got many of them cut! Many of my hairs cut, you see. Get it? The word haircut, if each of its root words is given limited and literal interpretation, might suggest that only a single follicle was sheared. But in reality, many of my follicles were sheared. Therein, my friends, lies the humorous underpinning of this timeless grade school quip.

And that, you see, is why I maintain this site! To enlighten. To illuminate. To pierce through grey clouds of confusion--crepuscular ray-like--and help you, my readers, arrive at a point where you can consider yourselves to exist in a state of general understanding about some stuff.

Anyhoo, I went to the barbershop between the bakery and the post office on the way to the train station nearest my apartment. Inside, I was nervously greeted by a kindly old Japanese codger. He was much relieved when I presented him with the following note, explaining what I wanted my head to look like:

If possible, print out this picture and send it to me. That way I'll have the original instructions, the photographed instructions, AND a printout of the photographed instructions. I consider myself a collector and someday contributor to Ryan Bossow's oft-ballyhoed "JW Memorabilia Restaurant."

I'm not sure how good my instructions were, but the barber consulted the sheet numerous times while cutting my hair. 20 minutes and 3,000 yen later, here's the outcome:

This is me trying to smile. The facial muscles required to do so have atrophied in the past couple months, and as a result, when I'm happy I now look constipated. God, it's been a hell of a summer.

Anyway, I think it's a good hairscut.

Now, for the true reason why you were checking: NFL Week 4 Predictions. Of course the big story of week 3 around the league was how Crepuscular Ray managed a pedestrian 7-7 prognostication effort. The average showing was bolstered, to some extent, by my analysis of Plummer and prediction that he would have a solid game on the basis that no one was expecting it. Sure enough: 256 yards, no int's, two TDs. Not too shabby. Let's hope that, since the Broncos have a bye week, most of my prognostication juices are effectively spent on the other 31 teams.

Still, even after an average week, I'm 30-16 on the season, tying me with ESPN's Hoge and Schlereth (hey, I like Schlereth!). I'm still way better than anyone at CBS or NBC. The best group of experts seems to be those mostly no-namers at Yahoo!Sports. Of their four-piece panel, three have picking records slightly superior to mine: Cris Carter, Charles Robinson, and Jason Cole.

But I'm hoping to turn things around this week. Here we go:

• Colts over Jets
• Panthers over Saints (although I think the Saints would win each week if they kept U2 on as an opening good luck charm)
• Chargers over Ravens (this was a tough pick...)
• Dolphins over Texans (Texans will do for Culpepper this week what they did for Brunell last week--make him not look washed up for 3 hours)
• Falcons over Cardinals
• Vikings over Bills
• Suicidal Cowboys over Rookie Titans
• Chiefs over 49ers
• Rams over Lions
• Jags over Redskins
• Browns over Raiders
• Bengals over Patriots
• Bears over Seahawks (I'm still thinking the Bears have a long win-streak ahead)
• Eagles over Packers
  

As for Bronco-related babble during this bye week, did anyone else get deja vu watching a big #84 streak downfield and wrestle passes away for dramatic touchdowns? Or how about a speedy-yet-caucasian #87 make solid catches in heavy traffic? I suppose if the Broncos don't retire those numbers, the next best thing would be to have their current bearers bring them honor. I am pleased.

***

Racist Survivor Update!

Racist Survivor is no longer racist! In an infuriating move, producers have merged race-tribes! Now we'll never know who was the superior race! Next thing you know, they'll be allowin' black-on-white weddings and such! Clearly this tacit advertisement for a future of mud-colored children has been brought to you by the Zionist Occupation Government!

In all seriousness, I'm going to stop watching Survivor this season (the rest will be the same as it always is). Hopefully next season, they can find a way to exploit global religious strife or America's divided and incendiary political climate. Right now, though, in the wake of the race-merger, I'm feeling like I was teased and tempted into thinking there would be a mini-race war on reality TV, and now I'm feeling gyped. I guess the closest we'll ever come to that was the Jerry Springer "Christmas with the Klan" episode. Thanks for the big letdown, CBS!

Jerks.

Oh, speaking of being a jerk, here's another spooky picture for Zach to wet his bed with (assuming my haircut picture didn't do the trick):

Looming Y2K+6 Global Computer Crisis

I write this wholly uncertain as to when my next update will be. My aging and decrepit 20GB hard drive--the one that initially came with this system and the one which houses the OS, Windows XP--is acting mighty flaky. A few days ago, for example, there was a six-hour period in which the drive would rapidly lose disk space to phantom data. After frantically trying to figure out what was going on and deleting tons of stuff to keep it afloat, I gave up secular solutions and jogged over to the nearby Buddhist temple to fetch some holy water from the holy water trough outside. After ritualistically dousing my computer and repeatedly shouting "the power of Christ compels you, the power of Christ compels you," the drive calmed down and stopped dropping space. A later attempt to defragment the drive revealed that it is indeed corrupted (by Satan or old age--not a virus, I checked for that) and the defragmentation engine could not be activated. So, to put a long story short, these are the final days of my epic "C:\" (that's not a smiley, you DOS-illiterate simpleton, that's its name written in prompt form!).

So what next? I need to get a replacement drive. And since I'm not at all certain of my ability to essentially "xerox" the data from old drive to new drive for a clean and easy swap, I'll likely have to reinstall Windows XP. This will be a real pain the ass as it turns out that the copy of XP I've been running is, in fact, a pirated version with a fraudulent serial number that has recently been flagged by Microsoft as such! (Embarassing, I know... trust me: I'm as shocked as you are that there is pirated software on my machine.) So I'll have to get a genuine copy of XP as well, and that will be the difficult part as the vast majority of XPs in this country are entirely in Japanese.

So, Crepuscular Ray, your cozy home for football prognostication and TV Club updates, might go offline for an unknown period of time. In this event, expect updates to be done even more sporadically from my office computer.

What else to talk about ... hmm ... got paid yesterday. That was nice. Ventured outside for the first time in a while. Sunlight=wow! What else ... currently gathering boring materials together so I can forge them into mind-numbingly boring lesson plans for a fun-crushing semester. That kind of prep always puts a spring in my step.

Oh! Colleague and pal and occasional CrepRay comment contributor Elizabeth has recently moved to Tokyo and is preparing a regimen of TESOL instruction at an institution far more prestigious than mine. Sounds like a lot of pressure for her and her program to succeed, but given what I know of her character and work ethic and training, I think she's more than up to the task. I've been lucky to have had a few phone conversations with her since her arrival, and it's surprisingly enjoyable to catch up and to reexperience some of the ups and downs (but mostly ups) of transporting your life to Japan. It's also good to compare notes w/r/t living abroad in Japan--I've learned a lot about advantages and disadvantages of Japanese cell-phones and internet Skype phones. I also learned that next time I buy a spoon at a store, I should wash it before using it. I'm still a bit skeptical as to the importance of new-spoon-washing (What's next? Launder new sheets before putting them on the bed? Scrub fresh vegetables from a produce stand?), but she sounded quite certain so it's good to know. Anyhoo, we both begin our semesters next week, so good luck, Elizabeth!

But more importantly, good luck, me!

(HaHA!... whew... I hate to laugh at my own joke, but did you see how I wished myself good luck there? And explicitly placed more importance on wishing good luck to myself than to a close friend! It makes me seem more self-centered than I really am, ultimately amounting to some unexpected self-deprecating humorous irony, the kind you'll only find on Crepuscular Ray. Pretty clever, no? And some claim my sense of haha has declined due to a lack of witty companions present to help keep it sharp. Clearly not!)

What else should I mention ... important stuff ... stuff I should talk about now because I don't know when my next post will be ...

Oh yeah! Racist Survivor! No real updates on that, but seeing as how pondering the reality show accounts for 65% of my daily cognitive functions, it was inevitable that I mentally connect Racist Survivor to a column I wrote a few years back (said mental connection occurred at approximately 6:39 PM, earlier this evening). Instead of Racist Survivor, though, my column featured Activist Survivor. This column was originally written for a summer radio show I did with ole Kevin Brown, but I later turned it into a newspaper column (late August, 2001), and shortly after that it was snagged by CollegeClub.com via the U-Wire press syndicate--a definite compliment. If you're interested, here you go:

This past weekend, I was privileged enough to be invited as a contestant in Germany's new hit extreme reality television series, Der KleinWeltMachtPolitik!

The show is basically a Survivor knock-off in which contestants are stranded on a deserted island in the South Pacific where their actions and behaviors are dutifully recorded by a non-participatory film crew.

The twist is that instead of having middle class automatons fight over a million dollar piece of cheese, the German show features highly-motivated activists from all over the world. Since logic plays a pathetically small role in public debate these days, the show's premise is centered around the philosophy that the last contestant standing must—-by virtue of her or his sheer force of will-—bear the flag for the worthiest cause.

Among the contestants, there was a screeching NARAL pro-abortion activist, an anti-abortion picketer/sniper, a vegan eco-terrorist, a CEO of a worldwide oil and lumber conglomerate, a crusading transvestite, a homophobic television evangelist, an inbred spokesman from the Aryan Nations, a New Black Panther, a militant Lubavitch Hasidic Jewish Settler, a Hamas suicide-bomber-in-training, and two rifle-toting gentlemen randomly plucked from the republic formerly known as Yugoslavia who just so happened to hate each other.

So, you may ask, with all these involved activists, what was I doing there? Thanks to the inexplicable vagaries of the internet, the producers of the show had read a old column of mine and decided that I'd make a perfect addition to the diverse range of contestants. According to them, I'm the only person on Earth stupid enough to proclaim myself a "pro-apathy inactivist."

I somehow exist in the very middle of this vast spectrum of activists and cause-heads. I am the random person that everyone tries to convince or convert. I often react with hostility towards such attempts, and I publicly revel when a disgruntled and frustrated activist labels me "apathetic."

Unfortunately, my stay on the show was destined to be short lived. While everyone else sang protest songs, I was constructing a fully-enclosed bamboo outhouse. When people started shouting their rhymed clichés and waving signs, I was foraging for edible roots.

On the island, I discovered I had far more important things to worry about than abstract and trendy causes that, even if I cared, I am ultimately powerless to affect. The delicious irony is that I've always felt the same way back here in Ft. Collins.

Inevitably, the activists grew violent as their slogans and shouts failed to accomplish anything. My first night's sleep was constantly interrupted by sporadic gunfire and I could concentrate on nothing except my growling stomach. The anti-abortion fellow left his tall sign—a blown-up photograph of a bloody and dismembered fetus—at the side of the camp, and the flickering of the firelight over its surface only served to increase my hunger.

Rather than succumb to my confusing cannibalistic urges, I instead turned my efforts toward opening a coconut. I tried bashing it against everything hard, but nothing worked. Thankfully, Ahmed, the Hamas suicide-bomber, left his backpack open and I was able to swipe 10 kg of Semtex plastic explosive and a remote detonator.

That did the trick. Coconut chunks and drops of milk rained down over the entire island like manna for nearly three minutes.

Much to my surprise, this really pissed off the rest of the contestants. The conservative partisans were disgusted by my lack of respect for Ahmed's personal property. The liberals thought I stole from Ahmed because I was prejudiced against the color of his skin and his oft-maligned religion. The Vegan was irked that the explosion might have disrupted the migratory patterns of the South Pacific albatross.

As a result, I was unanimously voted off the island the next evening. The show's host extinguished my torch and told me that on this island, activism means life, and I needed to learn to find better ways to impose my worldview on others.

It was somewhat humiliating to be the first person voted off Der KleinWeltMachtPolitik!, but, overall, it was a fun and rewarding experience. How's your summer going?

***

And people act like Jayson Blair was the first putz to fabricate news stories. Hell, half my "journalism" was cockamamey bullshit plucked from my imagination. In retrospect, I think my favorite part was looking at fetus-chunks and feeling nothing but hunger. Good times.

Well, I think I'll leave you all with perhaps the greatest CG masterpiece I've laid eyes on. I've spent hours gazing on this. You owe it to yourself to spend a little time doing the same. Click to enlarge, and I'll talk to you all later! Hopefully!

The way out is through.

Salutatio:

The past few weeks have been quite interesting. And by 'interesting', I don't mean eventful, because these recent days have been the exact opposite. I mean 'interesting' in the sense that I've been pushed to psychological extremes I haven't explored since the last two years of high school. To give you an indication of what I'm talking about, I present for you September 17th, the last time I communicated face-to-face with other humans (the event was a Kobe Kaisei "Open House" function). And that was after about 12 days of isolation following my return from Bali. In the week that's elapsed since September 17th, I haven't left the apartment. Not once.

There are two reasons for this solitude: (1) a rare money shortage--spent too much in Bali, forwarded too much to my bank account in America--has had me living on rice and bread for weeks, extinguishing what little prospect for exploration I might've had, particularly of the social variety; (2) a mystery contagion, likely contracted in the tropics, has sapped me of both my vigor and ability to sleep regularly. Seriously, I can stay awake for approximately 4-5 hours max, and then I need to sleep a couple. (Wanna hear something really pathetic? These narcoleptic fits are so strong and sudden, they even claim me while I play Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas for PS2. No kidding--as I game!) Even worse, when I go to sleep at night "for real" I can manage only about four hours before a hacking cough and malfunctioning windpipe rouse me from my ragged slumber.

The good news is that both of those conditions are likely at a terminal point. W/R/T $, I get paid again on Monday (yay!), and, W/R/T health, I feel like I have an upper-hand on whatever nasty illness it is that's been trying to do me in. Of course, I've thought the upper-hand was mine way back in Bali when the symptoms first appeared ... this mysterious sickness has a truly indomitable spirit that rouses me to admiration even as I am sworn to its demise. But if drastically decreased phlegm production and increased appetite (I ate two servings of rice tonight!) are any indication, I'm all-but-victorious.

Coming to Japan, the spectre of these prolongued periods of isolation was my chief concern. The last time it was like this was high school, and I think the isolation made me go a little crazy (some of you guys might remember that) and the 100% grasp on sanity I used to enjoy never quite returned. But even back then, I came to a realization: I can do this. Just keep going. One foot in front of the other. I can do this forever.

The same realization dawns again. I've discovered, when talking to myself, I am a talented and amusing conversationalist gifted with the ability to construct new words, words whose morphological integrity and contextual placement are precise enough that I am not required to explain their meanings to myself. The only misfortune is that these words are soon forgotten--little grains of sand blown through the windtunnel that lays between my ears--and never to be shared with the world! But I did preserve one word: Thurnesday. I forget how this one was created ... perhaps I was attempting to design a 10-day "metric" week, but more likely I was trying to remember what day it was.

I digress. The solitude is almost at an end, and if Japanese Homeland Security Agents are indeed monitoring me, then I will no longer have to worry about "fitting the profile of a dangerous loner." It was tough at times, but thanks to football season, internet, downloadable television, streaming television, video games, and books, I was able to come through, and come through feeling strong enough to continue doing this months or years longer if necessary. But the number one institution to which I owe most gratitude is that of my friends. To any reader who's endured text messages, phone messages, e-mails, and phone conversations with yours truly at one end, I am very appreciative. Really, I am. It's means the world to me to be able to keep in touch with my homies. Here's a song, just for you... it may look type-written, but trust me: as I type I'm singing it with my gravelly-yet-musically-sound singing voice:

ahem... [clearing my throat, disposing of phlegm, sipping water, etc.]

YOU'RE THE BEST ... AROUND! NOTHIN'S GONNA EVER KEEP YA DOWN!
CUZ YOU'RE THE BEST ... AROUND! NOTHIN'S GONNA EVER KEEP YA

DOWWWW-OH-OWWWW-OH-OWWWWWWN!

[now I'm performing the song's solo for you on my splendid air guitar ... imagine my face contorting, as if all this musical inspiration pent up inside me is threatening to explode my head... OK, here comes the chorus again...]

YOU'RE THE BEST ... AROUND! NOTHIN'S GONNA EVER KEEP YA DOWN!
CUZ YOU'RE THE BEST ... AROUND! NOTHIN'S GONNA EVER KEEP YA

DOWWWW-OH-OWWWW-OH-OWWWWWWN!

[now I'm delivering a match-ending gut-punch while the camera switches focus from me to my pretty blonde girlfriend who is applauding wildly while my sensei, Mister Miyagi, gazes on the proceedings with stoic pride.]

FIGHT, TILL YOU DROP, NEVER STOP, NO YOU CAN'T GIVE UP UNTIL YOU WIIIIIN SOMEHOW!

[now a tournament lackey is placing the sign with my name on it even higher on the winners' bracket, much to the dismay of my Cobra-Kai rivals, one of whom runs his fingers through his mullet in frustration.]

***

Enough silliness. You know the man in this picture, don't you?

Who is this man?

Here's some hints: He is a terrifying master of dark powers. He can seduce ordinarily good men into joining the forces of evil. He's the dread coach of the New England Patriots. Still don't know? Here's another picture of none-other-than BILL BELICHICK!

Darth Belichick, pictured alongside assistant coaches Tarkin and Vader. Tarkin and Vader will, in all likelihood, join Romeo Crenel and Charlie Weiss as head coaches who are shitty even though they once trained under a bona fide Jedi Master.

I put these pictures up to prepare you, the loyal Crepuscular Ray reader, for my weekly NFL picks. Last week I went 12-4, missing Buffalo, Minnesota, New Orleans, and Jacksonville. This makes me 23-9 on the season. Perhaps you're asking yourself: is that good? Well, it's three games better than anyone in CBS' Stable of Retards (I'm sorry, I mean "CBS' Football Experts"). The only sports "experts" who are predicting as well as I am are ESPN's Hoge and Yahoo!Sports' Charles Robinson (we're all three tied at 23-9). To both Hoge and Robinson I say, "Hey, good guesses, kids! Keep it up." And then wink, like role models used to do to aspiring and wonderstruck children before the facial gesture tagged them as probable pedophiles.

Now that we've established my prognosticationous brilliance, here's this week's picks:

Bills over Jets
Steelers rebound by beating Bengals
Colts over Jaguars (I see a shocking injury in this game...could it be 'the Manning'?)
Dolphins over Titans
Texans over Redskins (upset!)
Bears over Vikings (Bears will have this season's longest initial unbeaten streak)
Bucs over Panthers (another upset! Simms got a pep talk from GWB. Is that helpful?)
Lions over Pack (sorry Favre)
Ravens over Browns (but I almost picked the Browns for some reason...)
Cards over Rams
Raiders will find a way to lose this week despite having bye
Seahawks over NYG
Eagles over 49ers
Falcons over Saints

As for the big one ... you know which one I'm talking about ... Patriots are 2-0, solid, pissed about last season's playoff loss, at home, and favored to win by a touchdown. Plus, it's common knowlege that funeral bells are already tolling for Plummer, and that this next game is going to be has last before Shanahan demotes him during the bye week in favor of Cutler. Everybody knows that's what's gonna happen. Right?

Wrong.

Broncos over Patriots

Why? Let's let Hannibal Lecter and Agent Starling explain this one for us, with Jake Plummer standing in for subject of Buffalo Bill:

Hannibal Lecter: First principles, Clarice. Read Marcus Aurelius. Of each particular thing ask: what is it in itself? What is its nature? What does he do, this man you seek?
Clarice Starling: He plays inconsitent football...
Hannibal Lecter: No! That is incidental. What is the first and principal thing he does, what need does he serve by playing inconsistent football?
Clarice Starling: Anger, social resentment, sexual frustration...
Hannibal Lecter: No, he confuses. That's his nature. And how do we begin to confuse, Clarice? Do we seek out people to confuse? Make an effort to answer.
Clarice Starling: No. We just...
Hannibal Lecter: No. Precisely. We begin by confusing what we see every day.

So don't you see? When everything's on the line, Plummer can be trusted to do only one thing: the enigmatic thing, the confusing thing, the last thing anyone would expect. Whether that's brainlessly flinging a ball left-handed into triple-coverage, heroically worming from the pocket to rifle a 30-yard perfect strike, single-handedly losing a game no one would predict would trouble him, or single-handedly winning a game after everyone had written him off as inept--when a situation is at its most pivotal, Plummer will do exactly what will baffle the largest number of people. Very few are expecting diddly-poo from him tomorrow, but, as for me, I'll have three heaping servings of scrumptious diddly-poo*.

***

Update on Racist Survivor: Team Black lost week one, but only after sentencing a White chicken thief to a night on "Exile Island." Team Latino lost week two, but this was intentional as they sought to rid themselves of a lazy, lackwitted teammate, who, by his own admission, would've been better placed on the "Metal Team." Metal, you see, is his musical preference, but his musing might've inspired yet another idea to keep this limping and tired show alive for one more season: Why not, instead of grouping contestants by race or gender, group them according to musical preference? I'd love to see Metal-heads antagonize Classics-buffs, Hip-Hop wage war with Country Western--or just watch Emo kids drown themselves in rivers of their own achingly contrived tears of self-pity and faux-incestuous longing.

Hey! Speaking of music, I'll end this post with Josie, the lounge singer from Bali, covering Errol's most requested song. Enjoy, you magnificent and slightly-alarmist bastard!



* Might've made a mistake. Is "diddly-poo" excrement of some sort? If so, I'll pass on the three servings of scat, but thank you anyway. Not that its odor or arrangement on the plate was in any way dissatisfactory.

Yes, actually. I am ready for some football. Go team.

I came back from Bali a week ago, but it kind of feels like yesterday. This is because every day feels exactly the same. And that's because everyday I do the exact same shit: wake up around 11 AM, text message Matt or Ryan for little while, watch whatever I downloaded the night before, play video games, walk around the neighborhood at dusk, eat a meal, read or write, then take melatonin and go to sleep. Next day, repeat. I'm kind of suffering a malaise of sorts, but I'm not sure if that's because of the prison-like monotony or the complete absence of face-to-face communication with another human. It's strange how just last year I was working two jobs (IEP & windshield delivery) and waging war against CSU's graduate school. This was right after wrapping up my thesis. I remember thinking, golly gee, wouldn't it be swell to have some time to just do nothing? If an angry deity is out there designing my own personal hell, I would guess that it wouldn't be a hectic and stressful place, but rather a boring and lonely one. Oh well. School starts in a few weeks, and I'm really excited about that. Something about working a job kinda gives one's life purpose.

Wow... re-read that last sentence.

I'mturningJapaneseIthinkI'mturningJapaneseIreallythinkso.

The bright side of boredom is that it has allowed me to plumb the depths of the internet for miracle technology heretofore unknown to the yearning masses. Ladies and Gentlemen, I proudly reveal to you my newest, sparkling find: TVU.

What is this assuredly wonderful innovation? Well, it's software that allows users to stream live television over the internet! This means that, with the appropriate hardware, I could connect my television to my computer, and anyone interested could discover the vast wasteland that is Japanese television! (Coincidentally, I doubt any non-Japanese person would seriously enjoy Japanese TV, which consistently airs, at any given hour, baseball games, variety shows, shopping/telethon networks, baseball games, music videos, samurai movies, and baseball games.)

But the truly inspired use of this technology is to deliver American television to the international ex-pat community (of which I am a member). Some kind and techno-savvy soul uses TVU to consistently broadcast San Francisco's ABC, NBC, CBS, and FOX channels, as well as Comedy Central, CNN, ESPN, ESPN2, and HBO over the internet. This allows me to watch primetime American television in the early hours of the morning!

Perhaps the longtime Crepuscular Ray reader is asking, wait a minute! Weren't you boasting, just a few months ago, that you have means of downloading American TV programs? Means that allow you to conveniently watch programs when you want, commericial-free and in high-definition on your windshield-sized monitor? What's the big deal about this TVU thingy?

Good question! Two advantages to watching live TVU over downloaded programs:

(1) You can see commercials on TVU. I'm serious: this is an advantage. Just when I was wondering if American culture had somehow progressed intellectually in the six months since I left, I witnessed a Taco Bell commercial featuring "Bruno", an East-European competitive eating champion who carelessly devoured a half-pound burrito before a match. Bruno's awesome hunger is sated and he is clearly satisfied, but his eating coach is livid because Bruno's act has rendered him unable to compete! This inevitably raises the question: Why did Bruno eat a huge burrito before a competitive eating match? Was it the visual and olfactorial appeal of the Taco Bell product? Was it overconfidence in his stomach capacity and eating prowess? Or was it (and this is my favorite theory) a subconscious act of rebellion against a pushy coach--the East-European competitive eater equivalent of James Van Der Beek's memorable "I don't want ... YOUR life!" stance from Varsity Blues. But then it occurs to me that it's none of these things--it's just another insultingly retarded American TV commercial, and witnessing it was like a familiar care-package from home.

(2) There are many programs that one cannot easily or quickly download. Namely, sporting events. Namely, NFL football. Namely ... BRONCOS FOOTBALL! That's right, sportsfans! As long as it's airing in San Francisco, I can catch the Denver Broncos live. How wonderful is that? I discovered and installed TVU approximately 24 hours before the Broncos' season opener, and then stayed up until 2 AM to watch the game. And how did the Football Gods reward me for my above-and-beyond ingenuity and dedication? By serving up a putrid and offensively-embarassing loss! Thanks, Football Gods! I'll never understand why Football Athiests don't believe in you or your painfully mysterious ways! Clearly you all are up there ... and laughing.

Anyway, that's TVU. Picture quality is decent, price is right (i.e. FREE!), and, for the moment, it's legal! So enjoy it while it lasts.

Now, I'm going to try my hand at NFL prognostication regarding matchups. This is something I did every week last season in e-mail exchanges with Chris, and I figured why the hell not just post it on my blog? So here you go. Last week I guessed well. 11 correct, and 5 incorrect--I underestimated the Vikings, Cardinals, Rams, Falcons, and Jaguars. If you don't belive me, check with Chris.

Here's my picks for Week 2:

Dolphins over Bills
Ravens over Raiders (who are already on the clock)
Colts over Texans
Bengals over Browns
Bears over Lions
Panthers over Vikings
Giants over Eagles (slight upset)
Falcons over Bucs
Packers over Saints (another slight upset)
49ers over Rams (yet another slight upset)
Seahawks over Cardinals
Patriots over Jets (I'm preducting this will be the most exciting game this week)
Chargers over Titans (but not a blowout as Vegas is predicting)
Cowboys over Redskins
Steelers over Jaguars

... and... last but not least:

Broncos over Larry Johnson (I'm hoping the start of 2006 mirrors the start of 2005)

Week 2 Theme: Humbled Offenses (Seahawks, Panthers, Packers, Broncos) Strike Back Huge. I'm thinking "statement games" from these four teams.

In other "sporting" news, who's excited for Survivor this season? I hear that contestants will be segregated according to popularly-held notions of race! Team Yellow, Team Reddish-Brown, Team Black, and Team White. Bringing back segregation ... who wouldn't think it's a wonderful idea? I've always wondered which race truly is the master race, and I guess we'll all soon find out as inferior races are banished one-by-one from the island. I'm predicting racists of every color will use minutiae from the reality show to fortify their ethnic stereotypes. What will be said, for example, if the Asians win a mental challenge, or if the Euros lose a dancing competition? And won't the Latinas be closely-scrutinized for any behavior resembling "fiery"? And what kind of reaction might occur if the White team scores a shady win over the Black team in a questionable challenge? I have a feeling lots of nasty history is gonna get drudged up. Another prediction? The phrase "40 acres and a mule" will angrily and sarcastically pop up at least eight times this season.

But a huge cultural double-standard will be revealed: it's fine to root for the Asian-Americans, Latin Americans, and African-Americans, but if you become a huge fan of the Anglo-American team, doesn't that automatically make you racist? Are so-called "white" people allowed to be proud of so-called "white" accomplishments? That's not socially-acceptable in reality, but maybe in reality-television. Or maybe pride garnered for Team Whitey will be tempered by historical guilt. Another prediction: the phrase "what we've done to their people" will guiltily pop up at least every other episode.

I'm actually a little eager to find out how all this will go down. I wonder if I can easily download this season of Survivor, and what it says about me as a person if I actually do.

And that's about enough babble for this post. I figure I'll end with some video footage of the last time I spent much time around people: in the lounge at the hotel I stayed at in Bali. The lounge singer, Josie, is covering Guns n Roses, and the Aussie tourists break out their best moves. I got served. Sometimes hanging out with people can be frightening.

And so I'm back...

Strange coming home to ... Japan. Nevertheless, here I am, the land of rain and humidity, downloaded television, and kind but shy people who don't speak much English.

As for Bali, I'm really glad I went. It's not always easy travelling alone, but I think I'd prefer that to hitting the road with any of you jerks. HA! Just kidding about that. Really.

Bali is a strange place ... lots of happy people live there, and lots of sad and desparate people do as well. The stark poverty line seems to be the main thing that separates Balinese/Indonesians from their (mostly Australian) guests. This economic disparity creates a strange kind of relationship dynamic whenever two people from opposite sides of the wealth distribution scale meet, but I wasn't there long enough to grow accustomed to it. Thankfully.

I did learn four things:

(1) Japan Airlines is easily the greatest carrier I've flown on. Seats are bigger, the cabin's cleaner, the attendants extremely kind (not surly). Plus, video games! I'm gonna try to fly JAL everytime I can. Their slogan should be Air Travel will always be awful. But with us, not near as awful as with anyone else. Actually, that's a pretty damn clunky slogan. There goes my career in advertising.

(2) Al-Qaeda, and even their apologists and sympathizers, suck. Universally. There's no conceivable excuse or justification for the lasting economic horror they inflicted on Bali. Part of me reminds myself, this isn't something new you learned, dummy. You already knew this--you've always hated terrorists, particularly those of the Islamic Fundamentalism stripe. But the truth is that, in the five years since 9/11, I've been growing soft. But going to Bali brought the fury back: these terrorist assholes are the worst monsters since the nazis, and forgetting that fact is foolish. The annihilation of Al-Qaeda and violent Islamic Fascism would be a tremendous boon to humanity.

All the locals told me the nightclub bombings have seriously changed Balinese culture, and not just for the better. Now they have excessive security for everything, and can look forward to regular shows of force put on by the military, such as this one:



(3) The Balinese are kind and wonderful people. Sure, most I met wanted to earn a few hundred thousand Rupiyah in nearly any conceivable fashion, but they behave this way because their culture accepts and expects it, and their economic situation (see #2) demands it. But make no mistake: shrewd and aggressive merchants, yes; lying and theiving cheats, no. It took some getting used to, but when I left I discovered I'd grown quite fond of the Balinese.

(4) Their island is quite beautiful, both in terms of scenery as well as culture. Here's a gazillion pictures I took. Click to enlarge.

My hotel: Melasti Beach Bungalows. Not too shabby.

Here's the Hindu cemetary separating my hotel from the ocean.

All the paths of glory lead but to the ... beach? Sounds good to me.

Aw! Wook at the cute widdle monkeys!

Nothing disrupts the Discovery Channel-watching experience like mysterious PSAs warning of "POTENSI TSUNAMI." Wonder what that might mean.

Ah, the sun sets over motor scooters, the vehicle of choice in Bali. Bali's kinda like Sturgis in the sense that the roads are clogged with these beasts. I once saw a family of four traveling on just one.

Bali kids playing soccer on the beach at sunset. I call this style "action photography" and proclaim myself mysteriously gifted at it.

Two more shots of the same sunset. I love sunsets, particularly on coasts facing west.
Here's some sunset footage:



Bali is 80-90% Hindu, so each morning you can find these offerings scattered all over everything: stairs, shops, roads, even taxi cabs. They're little baskets made of grass, and inside are flowers, burning incense, and quite often a Ritz cracker. From what little exposure to Hinduism I've had, I have to say I kind of like the religion. Ritz cracker offerings reflect prudent religious thought and good taste.

This is toward the middle of Bali, high up on the mountainside of an inactive volcano. That body of water is a lake.

Much of Bali is covered with beautiful, stepped rice fields.

Most of the silhouettes seen here are Balinese merchants who have likely spent all day trying to sell t-shirts, beers, fake tattoos, surf boards, or massages to Australian tourists. I think it's a nice picture.

Another sunset. I'm a sucker for sunsets, and Bali's rollicking Indian ocean makes for ideal wading leisurely digital photography.

Here's a funeral procession winding around my hotel to the cemetery that lies between hotel and ocean.

After the funeral, mourners gather and chant, meditate, and watch the sun set into the ocean. It's difficult for me to imagine a better way to say goodbye to a loved one.

After I tired of gawking at the funeral attendees, I wandered off to a deserted stretch of beach and watched my last sunset in Bali. I was on a plane a few hours later.