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.