Short post, long overdue, sincere apologies, blah blah.

In all seriousness, allow me to extend a belated birthday wish to my now-married pal, Ryan. Congratulations once again, buddy! The big 2-7. I'm sorry I couldn't be there to pop out of your gigantic hollow birthday cake ... hopefully next year!

In other news, I promise to give a substantive update in the next few days, but not now. When Zac visited, I put a lot of important work-related stuff on the back-burner. Now that he's gone, I've been trying to get it back on the front-burner, but it has to share room with all the new front-burner stuff which cannot be placed on the back-burner, and so everything's piling up into quite a combustable situation. In keeping with the stovetop/kitchen allegory, imagine my silly-looking chef's hat catching fire, causing me to rush panicked from the kitchen in order to dunk my head in a toliet.

Yep, it's been a rough couple weeks.

But there's only two more real weeks of class, then two weeks of exams, followed by two months of vacation. Yay!

But now I must depart. I need to prepare a speech for a Japanese class I'm taking. My Japanese teacher is a Buddhist monk (no foolin!), so I don't want to disappoint or I can expect a brutal and ritualistic punsihment involving bamboo canings and coconuts falling on my exposed chest from great heights--ala Kickboxer, if memory serves correct. Until next time (which I hope will be a short time) friends, please accept yet another tentacled/octupus themed picture which practically shrieks THRILLS, CHILLS, & ADVENTURE GALORE!

(repurposed without permission ... heh heh heh.)

Van Damme On the Dance floor

Speaking of "Kickboxer", this priceless footage--the cornerstone of Errol's dancefloor prowess--is now posted for the benefit of all six Crepuscular Ray readers. I found this on Bill Simmons' ordinarily sports-related column on the Youtube hall-of-fame. Enjoy!

Gone, but not (too) forgetful.

Short post, long overdue, sincere apologies, blah blah.

In all seriousness, allow me to extend a belated birthday wish to my now-married pal, Ryan. Congratulations once again, buddy! The big 2-7. I'm sorry I couldn't be there to pop out of your gigantic hollow birthday cake ... hopefully next year!

In other news, I promise to give a substantive update in the next few days, but not now. When Zac visited, I put a lot of important work-related stuff on the back-burner. Now that he's gone, I've been trying to get it back on the front-burner, but it has to share room with all the new front-burner stuff which cannot be placed on the back-burner, and so everything's piling up into quite a combustable situation. In keeping with the stovetop/kitchen allegory, imagine my silly-looking chef's hat catching fire, causing me to rush panicked from the kitchen in order to dunk my head in a toliet.

Yep, it's been a rough couple weeks.

But there's only two more real weeks of class, then two weeks of exams, followed by two months of vacation. Yay!

But now I must depart. I need to prepare a speech for a Japanese class I'm taking. My Japanese teacher is a Buddhist monk (no foolin!), so I don't want to disappoint or I can expect a brutal and ritualistic punsihment involving bamboo canings and coconuts falling on my exposed chest from great heights--ala Kickboxer, if memory serves correct. Until next time (which I hope will be a short time) friends, please accept yet another tentacled/octupus themed picture which practically shrieks THRILLS, CHILLS, & ADVENTURE GALORE!

(repurposed without permission ... heh heh heh.)

...lucha de gigantes...

Hello All:

Still not much new to report. My friend left a couple nights ago, so it's me flying solo once more. But that's OK. After spending months largely alone, my tolerance of others has declined sharply while my own arrogance has swelled, and, as a result, I feel an odd porcupinal comfort, like I'm safely nestled among erectile quills interspersed with coarse hair. Not that ole Zac was intolerable by any means--he was a wonderful and welcome guest--but it was obvious even to my clueless self that I have turned into one helluva cranky bastard. Really! I wonder if any of my closest friends would recognize me based on my current behavior. Who's this brash and abrasive dick? you would likely ask, And what did he do with the sweet Crepuscular Ray who used to tickle our souls through his innate gentleness and soft mannerisms?

The idea of me changing to a degree which I can no longer be trusted or even known by my old compadres is a gnawing fear. I feel myself changing daily in ways I can't really understand. Of course, this is normal. We all change to some degree regardless of our environment, but as long as we watch each other change and change ourselves in accordance to the same trajectory-altering events life hurls at our shared lives, others' individual personality changes are understood and accepted. But here, in Japan, I feel like I'm changing in ways I can't explain, and in ways people who aren't here can't understand. Likewise, I realize that my friends are also changing in ways I can't understand seeing as how I'm no longer around. Hell, half my friends got married in the last 30 days. Talk about change. When we meet again, will it be like we're friends? Or more like awkward strangers?

I got great buddies, so I'm betting on the former. Thankfully.

Anyhoo, here's a picture of a solitary samurai in deep and thoughtful meditation. It's meant to mirror the pensiveness of this post while giving a nod to my geographic and cultural location. Perhaps a professional art critic would comment on possible onanism symbology in the graphic and subsequently declare it scandalously suggestive of the way I'm spending my alone time, but I assure you this is not the case.


PS--My friend Zach's awesome blog now has moving pictures in addition to a song of the day, a killer feature he added a few months back. I lack the blogging prowess to embed music in my blog, so instead I think I'll just write the defining lyric of a well-known song, and let my readers' minds do the rest. Here's the first one:

YOU'RE THE BEST ... AROUND!!! NOTHING'S EVER GONNA KEEP YOU DOWN!!!

Bad Blog-writer, Baaaaad!

Hello Everyone! Please forgive the unforgivable lack of steady updates. It's not that I've been busy these past two weeks, but rather that I haven't done anything blogworthy. I'm not sure how many people want to read about my thoughts on television, but that's about all I've been tempted to write about (my TV comsumption has seriously spiked since coming to Japan).

I'm thinking about using one of my monday "research days" to do a blog-project I would call "24-in-24." Here's what I would do: (1) obtain an entire 24-episode season of the Fox TV show "24"; (2) watch all 24 episodes in one day, beginning the hour I wake up and continuing until I'm finished with the season; (3) regularly update my blog every hour to keep all my excited "fans" (i.e. the six or so friends who read this blog) updated on my thrillingly inert living-room adventures. These hourly updates will be possible as each episode of "24" is only 41 minutes long due to a lack of commercial breaks. Maybe I'll even set up a web-camera so people can indulge their sick voyeuristic tendencies by watching me stare at a screen in my sexy, slackjawed fashion. This would be a mighty one-man sit-day, reminiscient of the one's we used to have in Matt's basement.

Anyway, if you think you'd enjoy that, let me know.

This week, my friend Zac is in town and currently sleeping on my living room floor. This is not anchorman-Zach (with the unnecessary but nevertheless standard letter 'h' in his name), but rather fellow-van-driver-Zac who is an old coworker, good friend, and excellent travelling companion. I picked him up yesterday, and he'll be here all week, so I'm quite psyched as not only do I get to hang out with a friend, but also get to converse in standard English. Since picking him up, however, I've learned my English-speaking ability has drastically declined due to either continued disuse or exclusive use in slow, low-verbosity ESL-teacher talk. When next I see you, dear reader, perhaps you'll remark on how authentically retard-like I've become in my speech patterns. Anyway, yeah: Zac's here for a week, then it's off to Kathmandu for him, and then to Australia, and then back home. This winter, he'll be going to Argentina, and then Antarctica. With the travelling he's done earlier this year, that will make seven continents in one year. I think that's pretty cool, but frighteningly expensive.

Well, I must be going, but let me dig through my folder of delightful pictures. Ah yes, here we go: a stylized CG picture of the Satanic cowboy from Tombstone (wasn't his name "Curly Joe"?). I'm posting this because the third and sadly-final season of Deadwood starts soon in the United States (and shortly thereafter on a computer screen near me). Perhaps after indulging heavily in Deadwood's colorful dialogue, I'll start peppering this blog with spicy lexical items such as "dirt-worshipper", "square head", or the always enjoyable "cocksucker". To kick things off, here's a memorable quote from Deadwood's delightful and sweet Al Swearengen: "Pain or damage don't end the world. Or despair or fucking beatings. The world ends when you're dead. Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man... and give some back. "

Why I like guns.

I had the opportunity to slowly walk by a Japanese police officer yesterday and surreptitiously gaze at his sidearm. This was strangely a little disappointing. It's not that the pistol was too weak for my taste (although it was just a dinky .38), but rather that it was tethered to the officer's belt by a thin rubber-coated cable, not unlike the kind one might use to lock up a bicycle. When I saw this, I frowned, likely made a funny face, and walked away grumpily.

It wasn't until later that I started to wonder why I became annoyed. It was then that I realized, yet again, as I had realized for millionth time, that I'm strongly attracted to and fascinated by guns. There's no discernable reason for this outside of the fact that guns are metallic and menacing, dark yet shiny, and capable of making cool noises. Unless they're "silenced", and then they make really fucking cool noises!

(Note: I've never actually heard a silenced gun being discharged; I'm basing my judgement on the positive sonic properties of silenced handguns strictly on films, Carlito's Way being the most influential among them, not because it was a great movie but rather because the silenced pistols it featured sounded much cooler than in any other film I've seen.)

Although my family ran in apocalyptic social circles where guns were stockpiled in the event of one-world government takeover, the only weapon we had when I was growing up was an antique .22 rifle that my dad kept hidden in the attic. The bolt for the rifle as well as a box of ammunition was safely kept separate from the gun in a dusty shoebox in my dad's closet. That I knew this and still vividly remember the details are testament to the long-lasting nature of my fascination.

When I got into college, it occurred to me many times that I could purchase a firearm of my own should I strongly desire to do so. And I did desire to do so, many times, but held back because I rarely had enough money to get a decent pistol, and when I did have the money there were other, more important things that I felt more compelled to purchase--like video games.

As a result, I never really indulged my desire to play with guns. But when I would see a police officer standing close to me, my eyes would automatically stray to his sidearm. The holstered gun always seemed to silently snarl at me from its leather pocket, like a badass doberman chained to the fence of a junkyard. I always wondered if the cop ever truly "got used" to having an instrument of death strapped to his waist, or if the weight of the gun was a constant source of confidence ready to be tapped if the man was feeling scared, weak, or self-conscious. Regardless, I would always envy the officer, but my jealousy was tempered by the notion that, with some deft fingerwork and balls of steel, I could slide the gun from its holster and obtain the power for myself. That thought alone, that silly fantasy, always made me feel good, like I was tapping the confidence power of the weapon through my sheer proximity.

And perhaps that's why I didn't like how the Japanese police officer's gun was connected to his belt. Citizens are not allowed to bear arms in this country, and, as a result, most of the guns that are here would be difficult to disentangle from a cop. That might be a relief to some people, but not to me. But perhaps this is ultimately a good thing, as, if I had a gun, I would likely walk around everywhere with it tucked away, secretly smiling in the knowlege that I could easily scare, wound, or even kill if I felt so compelled.

Sigh. I miss America.

And I miss my friend, Errol. We rarely discussed guns, but occasionally, while we would be driving around Fort Collins, he would extend index and middle finger to simulate an uzi barrel, and then spray imaginary bullets out the car window. He'd do this by making sound effects with his mouth and holding the imaginary gun in a horizontal "gangsta" fashion. Whenever he'd do this, I'd know we were on the same page with regard to the second amendment. This picture's for Errol.

Shrimp Pizza: it's time, America.

Pizza in Japan is a reliable disappointment. About 99% of the time, there's all sorts of crazy, unwarranted crap on top--like eggs ... in the name of all that is sacred in this world and the next, I demand to know why anyone would desecrate a pizza by putting an egg on top. Furthermore, the "crust" is little more than a thin, partially cooked circle of flattened dough. When a slice is picked up, the limp pointed end dangles miserably from the fingertips, and all the goofy toppings slide right off. As for cheese, the pizza chefs here are quite stingy about it ... perhaps they fear its inherent deliciousness will take away from the nauseating taste effect they were going for.

Nevertheless, while foraging here in Kobe, I'll occasionally wander by a pizza restaurant and wonder if maybe this one will be the restaurant that will redeem Japan's pizza chefs and periodically provide a reliable pizza dinner for the duration of my stay. So I walk in, choke down some limp, weird pizza, and walk out, swearing never to try pizza in Japan again. I've made this vow about 9 times now.

Last time, however, I found a pizza that was head and shoulders above its Japanese competition. Don't get too excited: the crust was still limp, the cheese was sparse, and overall it was only a fraction as good as the worst pizza one could buy in America. Its saving grace was its topping: sauteed and peeled garlicky shrimp. I imagine that after throwing every possible edible and non-edible item on a pizza, the Japanese were bound to stumble on some kind of tasty topping, and garlicy shrimp is it.

Anyway, walking back to my apartment, I got to thinking: imagine how good that garlicky shrimp would taste on an American pizza, one with a sufficently-cooked crust of decent thickness and a generous amount of mozzarella. So, if you're reading this, and you know any influential personages in the pizza industry, please pass them this tip. Remember: it's little shrimp, lightly sauteed and slathered in garlic butter. It'd be really good, and a definate money-maker once it caught on.

God, I miss American food. Almost as much as I miss Mexican food. I've had plenty of decent Japanese food experiences, but those instances are the exception to the general rule. Overall, weird and menacing Japanese food is so ubiquitous, I almost feel like it's something I'm constantly trying to escape.

Wuv ... twoo wuv ...

Life in Japan is going swell, but lately I've been feeling a bit unhappy. The primary reason why is because multiple good friends are getting married and I am feeling quite shitty about not going to any of their weddings. So, in this space, I will honor them in my own way. After each wedding announcement, I'm going to give a number which corresponds to my feeling of guilt on a scale from one to ten. 1 is "Guilt? Please!" and 10 is "Wow... I'm lower than dogshit."

To begin, we have my old friend Chris, who we first met in our junior year of high school. This is the same Chris who prides himself on his striking resemblance to Yoda and astonishing ability to play Windows Minesweeper better than anyone else on the planet. This is the same Chris who nearly 86ed himself by taking a header off his grandma's roof while shingling a few years back. (After a coma lasting a week or so, he pulled out, and now lives with his spine and skull bolted together by plates and screws of God-only-knows-what kind of alloy.) And this is the same Chris now lives in Dallas where he works security on a sky-scraper. Chris and I were great friends once, drifted apart a bit in college, but still occasionally write each other, most often on the subject of the Denver Broncos. Anyway, last week I got this e-mail:

I really like the draft. We needed firepower on offense really bad, and maybe we got it. The Denver media thinks cutler is Elway's son. Shanny had him pegged higher than Leinhart, so we'll see. I like picking up Jevon Walker. Did you hear Lelie thinks he is a #1 receiver and is not going to report since he is third on the depth chart? I say 'you were useless anyway, so bye.'
Well I have had an eventful few months. Long story short, I'm getting married this Tuesday. Yes, you read that correctly. I met her last December, sparks flew, emotions ran high, and now there is going to be a Mrs. Wright. I'll writer more sometime; I'm at work right now, so I'm kind of borrowing some time, but I'll catch up with you later.

WTF? Chris ... married? And on a Tuesday? Will wonders never cease? Considering this e-mail arrived the Sunday prior, I didn't get much notice for this wedding (which, I guess, has already happened) and therefore don't feel too bad for missing it. Hell, I probably wouldn't have known about it or attended even if I were in Colorado. But still, I like Chris and I wish I could've been there to express my congratulations firsthand. Since I couldn't do that, I hereby officially congratulate him and wish him and his new bride the best of luck.

Chris' Wedding = 5.5

Next is Ryan, an even closer friend, who gets married next weekend. I'll always love Ryan. While driving one time with his fiance to pick up some dinner, Ryan defenestrated an entire bag of cheap Mexican food after learning Taco Bell screwed up his drive-thru order. When Gina asked Ryan why the hell he did that, and why he didn't simply go back to the restaurant to get it fixed, Ryan just glared ahead at the road and coldly told her, "That's not the way I do things." How fucking awesome is that? It's that unshakable adherence to a mysterious, inarticulable code that I admire about Ryan. He's hardcore, and always will be. Last year, when Ryan told me of the wedding, he asked me to stand in it. I've always felt real torn up about having to say no.

Ryan's Wedding = 11

And, of course, we have Matt's wedding--one week after Ryan's! I really don't know what to say about Matt... except for this: he once promised to see Starship Troopers with me, then saw it without me. I was crushed, and had to lock myself in my bedroom for weeks to hide my grief. It took me several long years to get over that, but the reliable goodness of Matt's character has made this forgiveness somewhat possible. As a result, I've placed him on a kind of "friendship probation" for the past few years, and that's where he'll stay until he reads A Game of Thrones. In all seriousness, Matt's the best kind of friend I could have, and his family's been wonderful to me. (They even gave me a laundry basket!) His dad, a kind-hearted mustachioed codger, recently got quite sick, and had major emergency surgery performed on his liver. Luckily, he's doing well now and will likely make the wedding. I wish I could be there to shake Matt's dad's hand, and Matt's hand too. Matt asked me to stand for him as well, and once again I feel awful I can't be there.

Matt's Wedding = 11

And that's it for my friends. Supposedly, my brother is also getting married next week. He's only two years older than I, and growing up he was both the stick I would never measure up to and the stick which regularly pummelled me and poked me in the eye. As a brother, he certainly has his faults (as do I), but he's a good and devoted son and will likely honor my parents with multiple grandchildren. I often think about his wedding and dream about what it will be like--probably expensive with giraffes and dinosaurs and special guest star David Blaine, and lots and lots of relatives coming from all over the country. Attending would be interesting, but probably awkward and uncomfortable (to say the least) so I don't feel too guilty about not going. However, for some messed up reason, my general lack of guilt makes me feel even guiltier, adding a couple points to the guilt-o-meter. He is, after all, my brother, counterpart progeny from the same set of parents, and I did grow up with him...

Brother's Wedding = 4

And there you have it. Weddings of 2006. Maybe it'll be me getting married someday (hardy-har: Chris and I used to laugh at the prospect of either of us ever getting married) and, if it does happen, I hope my friends will be better to me than I'm being to them and actually attend. It's strange that all these people I know so well are doing the kinds of things that we always wondered if we'd someday do. But a nice kind of strange: mostly warm-hearted and fuzzy feelings slightly tainted by scattered steaming piles of guilt and regret.

Please forgive me, friends. As a token of my remorse, please accept this nice CG picture of Wolverine.

Bub.