Vigga Wha’?!?!

4/6/07 Ilocos Sur, Las Pilipinas

HAPPY GOOD FRIDAY EVERYONE! … not sure if I’ve ever used this greeting, but it seems appropriate right here, right now. We’re two days into Holy Week and the exodus out of Manila is in full effect. The working masses of the nation’s capital take this 5-day National holiday to get out of the city and return to their respective provinces to celebrate the death and resurrection of THE Man. Oh, and did I mention that it’s a National Holiday? Division of Church and State - whas’ dat???

Today in the Province of Panpanga people are killing themselves slowly, all in the name of being a devout Catholic … at least that’s why I THINK they’re doing it. Check it: http://asiabill.pages.web.com/id11.html

Shocking as it may be, Catholicism is indeed an inextricable part of this country. Having seen what seems to be a ga-jillion buddahs in the past three years during my exploits in Asia, coming to The Philippines and witnessing this kind of in-your-face religiousity reminds me that, no, ToTo, this ain’t Bangkok no more. Thanks to the reminders like the tiles bearing the images of Jesus and Mary which bless the gateways to homes in Manila to the bumper stickers advising "If you’re moving in the wrong direction, JESUS allows U-turns", the Catholic Church finds YOU before you are given a chance to look for it here in The Philippines.

Putting death and resurrection aside for a moment, today also marks my second week in this country on my fourth visit. Arriving in Manila from Bangkok, and before then, Saigon, the differences of the three cultures are palpable. Differences? Perhaps I should say similarities - this country’s similarities with myself. From my initial landing in Ninoy Aquino International Airport, the familiarity of The Philippines made me feel like I was home away from home - kinda tough when you’re an aspiring gypsy. The sound-bytes of language, the faces, the machine guns - all of these things made it clear that I was travelling, but not; far and close at the same time. In a country where you can roll up to a town, give the cops a surname and get a police escort to a private residence, you get the feeling that nothing and no one is THAT foreign [true story: tried to get to my Lola's house (Grandma's sister) and my Manang (older sister) forgot to give me her Barangay (district number/name) - after chatting with the cops and disclosing some key names, I landed infront of Nana at her doorstep, greeted lovingly by curses in my parent's native Ilocano]

And then there’s the food. After relishing over exotic Chinese, Thai, Laotian, and Vietnamese food for the past 3 months, recognizable filipino dishes like Tuyo, Lumpia, and the best Adobo I’ve had in almost a decade made my tongue feel like it had re-united with old friends (don’t go there). I’m not ready to handle the Balut (un-hatched duck embryos) but the other stuff brings me back to coming here as a child and having the foods regularly for the first time.

All this said, this country still has alot to share with me, and I with it. Being in such a familiar place is, of course, appreciated and comfortable, but I can feel the itch already (and, no, I’m not talking about my legs which have been a feeding ground for mosquitoes - gwoss!). The itch that got me out of my parents’ home town to the city in which my sister was raised to the current coastal town that I’m at now… the travelling bug. So diverse is this country and it’s people, migrating from place to place is a constant lure, epecially for someone like me that has a mole on his heel {Filipino superstition cites this physical characteristic as a cause for one to wander and explore}. Got about a week before Manang Vida makes it to here, a week to run around and in search of some new island stories. Until those stories have un-earthed themselves, I’ll end this with DIOS TI KAMUYOG! or GODSPEED!

2/9/07 - Vang Vieng, Laos

SHIT

I’m so shitty.

It must have been the street food from "The Alley" as we dubbed it in Luang Prabang. It’s a shame too because I really liked that place. It is along the main drag of town; a narrow alley that stretches about 30 yards with tons of local specialties including, but now limited too, roasted chicken beasts, grilled fishies, and confections made from Laos’s most versatile crop, sticky rice. Alas, it must have been on the last night in LP when I thought, ~better have it now, since I’m going~, and decided on the lukewarm bamboo shoot soup. Since then, I’ve grown an extra penis in my bum and have been glued to the toilet. Just call me the fucking twisted crying game of SE Asia.

Yesterday, after taking a last shot in the toilet, I hobbled to the local Pharmacy to get something to remedy the nastiness that found it’s way into my system. Ofloxacin, 200 mg’s for 5 days. With all the other drugs that I am on (or could be taking in this stoner’s paradise [read: mushroom shakes, "Happy" Pizza's, and "Opium-Opium"]) I’ll probably bleed chemicals before blood. Whatever. Shit happens.

& PISS

So, am I wrong, or is there an official language called "Canadian"

Sample sentences:

"What are you talking abou?" (the classic example)

"Listen guy…" (used when speaking to males and females alike)

"Fir Shir" (OK, I pushing it. I’ve seen enough 80’s movies to know that this was popular amongst youth in America as well. But, mind you, it’s the New mil people. The NEW Mil.

Anyhoo (uh oh - is Canadian contagious?) I use this brief language lesson to segue into a story of a young Canadian chikette named, Sarah S. (I’ll keep her last name confidential b/c I’m about to blow up her spot [what's is Sly Stallone's first name? I seem, to have forgotten...])

I met Sarah S. after crossing the Thai/Laos border at Chiang Kong/Huay Xai. Hopping onto the bandwagon, or motorized longtail boat more like it, I signed up for a 2 day cruise down the Mekong River with Luang Prabang as it’s final destination. Accomodation at the border (for the first night) was included in the overall cost. Unknowingly, however, this free room was for doubles only. As a single traveler, I had to find a roomate to save the extra 2 bux. Since I fall into the "budget" category of travellers (rather "budget" than "dirty hippy" - biggup to the 139 Hater Hater crew), I decided to split a room with Ms. S. (Oh it’s dawned on me - isn’t his first name Sylvester?").

After a pretty manky dinner, me and my new friends set off down the road of this sleepy border town and wound up at a wake. The wake was Fabulous. I know that might sound like a funny thing to say about a ceremony commemorating  someone’s recent demise (maybe not), but we’re talking a full Laos band (a family with their instuments going at it), people gambling (I love it), and the most elaborate Sarcophagus with glowing lights, pictures, and food offerings for the deceased. I want to go out like that.. don’t forget the lights!

As with any wake, Alchohol was in the mix. Beer Laos (known simply as "Beer" here) was the alchohol of choice, so I thought. Then I got de-viginized.

Lao Lao is a whisky made from rice - It’s nasty and I wouln’t use it to wash my wounds, but the locals take to it quite nicely. After hanging out for while, our hosts extended their hospitality with the ole Lao Lao. This is where the story gets spicy.

"This can’t be good for my gout" (yes, I am 29 going on 92), I thought as I went along with the group and took shots of my new least faorite alchohol. After a couple of rounds, my new roomate and I said our "Sa-Bai-dii" s and left the left our humble hosts. Having grown a tad more responsible in my late 20’s, I decided to stop off and get some water. Sarah S. waited outside. Within and earshot I heard,

S.S.: "Where you from?" (speaking to some Australian travelers)

Aussie: "Melbourne"

S.S.: "I’m from Melbuun too.."

Aussie: "No you’re not."

S.S.: "No, I’m not… I’m Canadian..HAHAHAHAHAHH!!"

(This dialogue is lacking the comedic effect provided by her drunken speech impediment)

Unlocked the door. Turned on the lights. Asked a question. Got no reponse. S.S. had passed out, sunk in her bed in a drunken stupor. It was cool though. I KNOW I’ve been there.

Brushed my teeth. Put on my pajamas. Crawled into my bed anticipating the river we would float down the next morning. What I didn’t anticipate was the river I would encounter in about before then.

After about an hour of getting into bed, I heard some movement in the bed next to me. Looking up, I saw S.S. stumble out of bed, disorientated, with her eyes barely open. At that moment I wasn’t sure if she had finally decided to take care of her oral hygeine, change into her PJ’s or what. Then it became clear that the effects of the Lao Lao went beyond disavowing your homeland.

First she stuggled with her mini skirt. It was then that I thought ~Oh no~. Next she flicked off her panties (She was pretty adept at that). Squatted, and then the hiss (aside: no offense to my female readers, but having never been in such close proximity to a female while urinating, I found it very curious that in addition to the sound of the liquid hitting the floor, a faint sound of gas being emitted was audible as well…but why would I know, I own a penis, sometimes two).

S.S. then made her way to MY bed where I handed her a towel to toss on her processed Lao Lao that had made its way onto our floor NEAR my bags. Still enchated by the effects of the foreign devil spirit, she took the towel, wiped her legs and let out a very solemn, "Thanks", crawled into bed, and passed out.

After Sarah got pissed and subsequently pissed on the floor in downright bitch style, my bladder felt inspired. I suddenly HAD to go myself. Since I didn’t want to take a leap of fatih and try to jump over her stream, I exited the room to try to find a public urinal. Although after what had just happened, I suppose the distinction of "Public" vs. "Private" had become very gray.

Unlocked the door. Stepped outside. Turned to the left. Turned to the right. No bathroom, BUT the was a mop.

So there I was mopping up the urine of a girl who spoke a language vaguely familiar to English in a room at the entrance way to Laos. Spectacular. Pissy, but brilliant. Ugh.

The next morning S.S. claimed not to know what had happened in the "wee" hours of the morning. Mortified, she couldn’t not believe that she acted like a dog.

"The fucking Lao Lao..", she said.

Indeed, the fucking Lao Lao, I thought. That in a addition to to poor potty training by mountees who subsist off of maple syrup in Oh Canada. Know what I’m talking abou?

1/28/07 Chiang Mai, Thailand

Armed with a list of gay places in Chiang Mai printed off of Utopia.com, I hollered for a tuk-tuk and sped away into the night in search of queer CM. As Thailand’s second largest city, for sure something must be going on, I thought.

I began my night at MANDALAY - queerly ghettofied and into the new - MAN-DA-LA-HAAYY!! Mandalahaay was not too far from my guest house. A little stroll past one of the old town’s main gate (w/ hippies in front strumming away, dirty feet and all) and past oodles of prostitute hangouts ( i think that those girls were real), Mandalahaay turned out to be a rainbowbrite 2 floor complex tucked away in a tiny alleyway. Unfortunately, "Haay" (too long to type the whole name) was empty, but then again, it was only 11 PM. By Japanese standards, THE club would have been off to a start, but I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore. For a city in the mountains, CM was looking promising… I would have to return at 1 AM to see CM’s best.

Not knowing where to go, I referred the hot list and saw something called "Darling Wine Bar, a wonderful, upscale, open-air bar for friendly get-togethers…". "upscale" read: potential daddy; "open air" read: escape route available "friendly get-togethers" read: glory hole, maybe? With those thoughts in my oppotunistic, dah-ty mind me and my tuk tuk man drove by only to be dissapointed. "Upscale" and "friendly" turned out to mean grand-daddies and whisky.. maybe 5 years ago, but I ve graduated from that phase (yesss!). Peering in I let out a quick "I do NOT want to go there" and we were off to another bar down the road called SOHO (why does every city in the world seem to have a SOHO something-or-other??). SOHO was a no-go (empty like Haay). It was then that I realized that I lucked out with the right tuk-tuk driver…

"You wan go gay show?", let out Mr. Tuk-Tuk as he turned back to my passenger’s bench.

"No… I went to one of those in Bangkok, and everyone was… was white…", I grumbled.

[aside: Three years ago I stumbled into conquistador heaven populated by loads of Caucasian males peering with hungry eyes at the Thai flesh on stage... I felt like a genuine Benjamin Franklin]

"Iz good show"

"Um… is it expensive"

"Not expensewe - nice show in Chiang Mai"

"OK - Let’s go..", I said and with that we sped on to the next locale.

NEW MY WAY was down some alley with an unpronouncable name. Having been primed for SE Asian gay shows in both Manila and Bangkok, I sorta had an idea of what to expect. But, then again, this is SE Asia and, as you learn, you can never know what to expect.

I asked the door man if there were people inside, and he repled with a see-for-yourself, "Of Course!" and opened the door. Sure enough, there were loads of people in the audience, and unlike the Bangkok performance space that I had visited a couple of years back, the audience was primarily Thai (seemingly , there could have been some interlopers like me in the crowd). finding out that there was no cover, I felt good about Mr. Tuk-Tuk and entered to learn more of this new my ways joint.

Round one: As I entered the bar, a pair of young lads were already engaged with  their segments. With a strobelight rotating above them, the two boys simulated sex beneath a mosquito net, the net providing a veiled voyeuristic feel. Or perhaps they were just itchy.

Round two: Fabulous Ba-drag-a. "Kathoey" is the term in Thai for what is more commonly known as Lady-boy. This Kathoey was Fierce Ms. Ting.  Wearing a satin dress and a tiara, she lip-synched to some ballad, but as far a I was concerned, she could have been doing pilates - she was just a marvel to look at. Not only is the "Kathoey" phenomenon spectacular (when done right that is - some people are just not cut out, pun intended), but it’s place in Thai culture is equally intersting. 10’s across the board.

Round three: Spiderfag - a dude in a torn up Spidy costume that tried to sexcape his own web eventually winding up tearing off his clothes. Ti-ahed.

Round four: Bubble fags - two guys spraying liguid foamy soap on each other and then removing their manties and giving their big things a little tug… Next!

Round five: OMG - another hit Lady-boy - WERK WERK WERK!!!

Round Six: An american ballad lip-synched by a boy (maybe 20 y.o.) with an amazing upper torso; deinfined six pac and nice pecs, but still looking touchable. Woof! Classy in his delivery, he only stripped on top, gaining my respect and my eternal lust to have, like, 10,000 of his babies.

The show dragged on and there were a couple of more acts (don’t forget about the art-fag who sketched a male nude on a canvas and then removed the canvas to find the male nude beneath- wah wha..). On the whole, I was entertained and surprided (those Thai boys has some schlongs let me tell you). Boy #12, however, was abit annoying. #12 came from the side of the bar (all the workers in the bar had numbers attached to them, how else would you know which item to scan at checkout - duh!) and tried to chat me up. Having taught English, I feel that I could chat up a dumb mute (gomen nasai - nihon ga honto ni daisuki dayo), so maybe that’s why I thought his whole apporach needed some help. Later on I saw that #12 had found a more eager sponsor for the evening and felt better about giving him the cold shoulder. Call me old fashioned, but I like talking to guys who aren’t interested in my empty pockets. But that’s just me.

After the catwalk prancing segment when all the numbered boys displayed their goods on stage, a loudspeker announced that the show was over, but you "don’t have to go home. The boys are here to take care of your every need". I stuck around for a bit and watched the Hong Kong gay flick that was on the projector (Wong Kar Wai?) and chatted with the folks next to me. At that point, it was approaching 1 and it was time to make ti back to Haay…

The first floor was Thai. On the right we had the straight, fashionable Thai clans (this IS Mandalahaay); on the left we had the queer segment of the show. With daubles of caucasian in the crowd, the gay section seemed to be pretty Thai dominated with waify, wifey statures and oh-so manicured coiffes. Music: dance remixes of House of Pain, Gwen Stefani, and I think Shikira got some air time as well…ethnical queer? Western pop tweaked for the Spicy Thai boys? Whatever it was Ms. Lady DJ was NOT working it. While the appearance of the Thai Pussycat Dolls kept me into it for a hot sec (not a singing group - just a bunch of of chicks shaking it on stage), I had to peace when the Thai band came on with their hit ballads…

As I was leaving i heard the music form the upstairs blasting from a loundpeaker. It was the jungle remix of "Ready or Not" by the Fugees - I LOVE that mix. I had already known that upstairs was going to be where it’s at b/c of the signs posted around with the music line up (2 AM - funky house 3 AM electro house.. etc). I didn t want to pay the cover charge (about 5 bux), and so I put it off. But when I heard my song, I paid and went it.

Like a different world, the upstairs was pretty "farang" (foreigner) dominated,and the music relfected this. Feeling like a rave, with genuine-fake early 90’s ravers present (RAVE ON!), Haay upstairs was more fun for a Western fag like myself. After 3 hours and two rotations of Madonna’s "Sorry" (one LP original and the other the Confessions tour mix) I decided to get back to my guesthouse and call it a night. Oh, there was one raver boy that was keeping me interested upstairs, but when I started dancing with him, he kinda hopped away. Was my mistake of not wearing my Jincos? I don’t really know, but he was a cutie that had moves. There are bigger fish to fry here in Thialand, that’s what I keep telling myself.

HAPPY NEW YEAR 2007!

I m writing this blog entry from the airport in Kunming, Yunnan Province, China. Last year at this time, I resolved to get to this country. Although I had intended to get to the north (which I technically did as I flew into Beijing), I have come to he south upon the advice of friends as well as the warmer climate down here.

New year’s eve was spent in an "ancient" city called Dali (yes, like the painter). I put parenthesis around ancient b/c although some of the architecture remains true to it s traditional design, the town has transformed into a commercial venue for thise seeking to escape the urban jungle. All this said, I still had a great time there hanging out with fellow travellers, hiking in the mountains, and checking out the local hippie scene, which brings me to the title of this entry.

New year’s eve was spent in a 50 Bowls, a tiny jam-session bar. Surrounded by hemp lovers from all over, I listened to their hymns of social injustice. Most of it was genuinely good. I did have a moment of objectivity (aided in no doubt by the doobie that I had smoked earlier with some people at my guesthouse) when I listened to this probably-american guy sing his politically charged tune "It’s a kinda murder" As he sung about the social maladies in the this tiny niche of "idyllic" SW china, I couldn t help but bring to mind Phoebe’s (FRIENDS) "Smelly Cat, Ooh Smelly Cat.. it s not your fault" crusade for the betterment of impoverished feline friends. What can I say, I guess I’m a jaded urban tigress accustomed to the jungle. It was a good time though. After 50 Bowls, my new friends and I went down to a party at a guesthouse near Er-hai lake just outside of town. That was tragic (been there, done that about a decade ago, at frat parties in "downtown" Binghamton - " " - there goes the angry tigress again rearing her head). I retired at about 4 AM and took off to my guesthouse, The Bookworm.

Now it s time to move again. Today I’m taking off to Guilin, a bit east of Kunming. When pitted with the choice of a 30 hour train ride or a 1 hour plane ride, the airways seemed friendlier. Although the Plane ride is probably about 7 times the cost of the train ride, we re still talking about roughly 90 dollars. My daily debate here in China is whether to shell out the extra 4-5 bux and get alot more comfort. China is financially do-able, though I m sure that I’m getting ripped of b/c of my zero chinese ability. Maybe next time I’ll vogue and wind up getting a discount. I’ll try.

Seeing as I have a couple of more minutes on this computer… I ll sign off now… off to Guilin.

random quotes from elementary school kids in kobe

—————————————————————

3rd grader: Are you in you’re 20’s?

Me: That’s right.

3rd grader: You’re gonna be in your 30’s soon…

Kobo Daishi(774-835)
Founder of the Japanese Shingon School on Mt. Koya in Japan.
774, Born in in Sanuki Province on Shikoku
788, At age 14 he was sent to the capital at fourteen to study under his maternal uncle, the tutor to the crown prince.
791, At seventeen he succeeded in entering the university
804, Sent to China, he studied the Shingon teachings under Priest Hui-Kuo (746-845) at the Ch’ing-lung temple.
806, Kukai returned to Japan aboard a diplomatic ship
809, Woed the Emperor of Japan with his calligraphy and poetry.
812, Initiated Saicho and his students into Shingon teachings
816, Broke with Saicho over issues of the importance of “face to face” transmissions versus written ones.
822, Dengyo Died
822, A Shingon chapel, Nan-in, was established at Todaiji
823, Kukai was granted Toji near Kyoto,
and established Shingon as a separate Sect.
825, he received imperial permission to build a lecture hall there
827, he performed a ritual for rain
and was elevated to the rank of senior assistant high priest in the Bureau of Clergy.
834, Established a Shingon chapel within the imperial palace.
830, Completed his work on the classification of the teachings and the place of Shingon within them,
the Ten Stages of the Development of Mind in ten volumes.
835 Kukai died on Mount Koya on April 23

Mount Koya is a great excape from the hustle and bustle of Osaka. To get there, you must take a special line into the mountains of Wakayama prefecture. You know that you re heading into the outer provinces when the train shinks and several cars are detached from the chain.

The weather was awesome as me and Rocky ventured out of Namba (South Osaka) to Koya San. As with most touristy places in Japan, we spent the majority of the day visiting relics and ruins (though they didn t seem so ruined since they were reconstructed - Koya San is a major tourist spot). Since getting her book at Kiyomizu Dera, Rocky had also become obsessed with collecting “goshuin cho”, calligraphic writings offered by shines and temples throughout Japan. Everywhere we went, it became about getting the “sign” as we liked to call them. Unfortunately, we had to learn, what may seem to be an obvious matter of fact, that younger “signers” just aren t going to do it like their sempais, or more aged counterparts. shux.

Going on the advice I got from a guy whose name i have since forgotten at queer bar in Osaka, I made it a point to finish out day at Koya San by heading to the cemetary…. preferably at dusk. Acoording to my new friend, the cemetary had an incredible spiritual vibe about it. He told me a story of going there one winter and being surrounded by massive trees and gravestones, with only laterns along the footpath to guide your way towards the mausoleum of Kobo Daishi himself. Crampt and congested in the city, I was sold on the image of snow falling in a mysterious mountain, away from the crowds, okonomiyaki, department stores, salary men… city life in Japan. I immediately sought the comfort of dead people, hundreds of them.

As night started apporaching, we wandered toward the cemetary. The darker it bacame, the crisper the air seemed. At last, out of the city and in nature, I thought as we passed 88 buddas, each different, each representing a particular budda from Shikoku’s 88 temple pilgrimage. Whimsically meandering toward Kobo Daishi’s tomb, the heart of the cemetery, we came across wonderful rock gardens, a line of tori gates, some red, some not, that led to a smaller, abandoned shrine tucked in a nook, as well as what appeared to be a white wolf (although one of us would like to claim it as a dog). Exploring/discovering drew us deeper into the labryntine graveyard. As it got darker, we realized that Kobo Daishi’s tomb was one amongst soo many others; with no signs and less light, it became clearer that we were lost in a cemetary in a mountain in Japan… that was when we made a friend.

He was strolling in the graveyard, practically dark by this time. Seemingly oblivious to our presence, he kept on his way, in no apparent rush, to no apparent place. “Sumimasen, sumimasen..”, I said, getting his attention. I explained that were were looking for Okunoin, Kobo Daishi’s tomb, as well as the closest bus stop to catch the bus to the trainstation and back to salarymanville. A bit smelly, the man was nice and first gave us directions, and then directed us personally to each destination. Realizing that we had little time to visit Okunoin before the last bus came, he decided it was best to jog to the tomb.

me: what are you doing here

him: i m becoming budda

me: really, how are you doing that?

him: by walking, just walking.

The man told me a bit about himself during our little jog. Turned out he was from Okinawa, had been walking around Japan visiting shines along he road, as well as major centers of Buddhism like Koya San and Kyoto. I also learned that that day taht we had visited Koya San was the anniversary not of Kobo Daishi’s death, but the anniversary of the day he unites with Budda, this I gathered from our Japaneesy-English conversation. This piece of info made our meeting all the more spooky. I was happy to have met out new spiritual tour guide.

When we finally arrived at Okunoin, the man made sure that we made room in our group of three for one more, Kobo Daishi. He said that Kobo Daishi was with us, a member of our group. Rushed for time, we quickly ran to the rear of the massive shine/tomb to pay our respects. Following his example, we put our hands together and closed our eyes and repeated a chant. I still don’t know what we said… opened out eyes and again, we were jogging, this time to the bus station.

The man knew the cemetary like the back of his hand. Took us though the maze and dropped us off at the bus station with about 10 minutes to spare. We said out goodbyes and greeted him thanks for taking us to Okunoin. Our last image of him was that of his back as he sunk back into the thick darkness of the graveyard. We boarded out bus, then our train, then out bigger train, and then we were back in salaymanville. Back in Osaka, it was harder to picture the man in the stillness of the cemetary. Though we snapped pics all day, we failed to take a picture with Mr. Daishi himself. Hopefully I’ll get lost again sometime soon.

“Voilà! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a bygone vexation stands vivified, and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin vanguarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition. The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous. Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose, so let me simply add that it’s my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V.”

it s the year of the dog … depending on where you are, it might just be the year of the bitch. (depending on how 2005 went, the year of the bitch may have just ended - let s hope that that is thecase)

i m in kochi right now. after going to pay respects at the local shrine and then going shopping with my japanese mama, i slid out of my kimono and back into my pajamas to enjoy a lazy new year s day at home - or at least the closest thing to home this in japan…

i am determined to make 2006 the year of the dog and not the year of the bitch. 2005 was a bitchy year (to be fair, it wasn t so bad, but just a confusing year). hopefully this year wil be the year that victor gets her groove back…

2006 dreams / aspirations

China - I’d like to explore the north of this gigantic country. galavanting around hong kong is attractive as well… oh, and also, i want to go to Lhasa, the capital of tibet - a place that the national geographic traveller denotes as : an enticing mix of buddhism, magic and mystery.

www - i d like to get my own web page up… someplace where i can post design experiments, random thoughts, and spontaneously shot digi pics

after japan - though i m enjoying this country at the moment, i m trying hard to consider what i d like to do after leaving this place… maybe the year of the dog will give me some clarity.. i hope

$$$ - gotta save the duckets

heart heart - want to meet a special someone

love- money -travel - creativity -that might cover the wishes for 2006 - at least for myself…

more new year s sake for now..

so i m going to work one day - i forgot what time it was - and here comes this old salary man coming out of the shin osaka station ( a station that seems to be constantly crowded with business types coming from the nation’s capital to do business with the shrewd osakans that keep this town churning)… the man walks over to a bush and in broad daylight , infront of everyone to see, whips it out and decides that he s going to water the lawn…

whatever, as the son of my dad - or as some would say - as my dad is the father of this son - i m used to people peeing in public.. it seems to provide felix (papa) with some sort of joy - maybe it ushers him back to his upbringing in the jungles of the philippines.. midtown NYC is a bit different, but who am i to be the judge of that - felix’s schlong had gotten maximum UV exposure in manhattan… but, i ve seen to gone off on a tangent - ah hem…

so yeah- they business cock - i saw this man - and thought - oh - well… "when you have to go", but then it kinda got me thinking about the environment that i ve relocated to.. the land of the salaryman…

these guys come in all sizes and all shapes… they all seeem to wear almost a similar dark suit and always sleep on the train - sometimes i can see litttle images of kello kitty in the little dream bubbles above their heads.. sometimes i can see the images of hello pussy too… either way- they sleep - alot … poor guys.. it seems that they are always at work , and when they are not there they are communting and when they are not doing that , they are peeing in my backyard… they run around like clones, each toting a man purse and a cell phone. the business harajuku man - the shinsaibashi clone - the osaka agent smith.. they ‘re rampant.

where i used to live, i got as many tress as i do salarymen nowadays. i suppose life was better back then - i got fresh air from the trees. now i take a deep breath and get a diluted cigarette odor tinged with a whiff of stale office furniture.. ugh.. agent smith , dont sleep on me!

oh, it s not that bad, but it quite a change from the good ‘ole small town existence that i grew to love… later on that same day, i came home and got off the train. just as i was about to retrieve my bike, i came across another salary man in the bushes.. maybe he needed to tan that part of his body -maybe it was some kind of fertility ritual… whatever it was.. i saw it again.. agent smith watering the bushes

The caped crusader returns! Spared from being eaten by monstrous Japanese moths, my cape has been dug out of the closet and is getting maximum exposure this winter. all the wannabe harujuku gwals are jealous. the salary men are too.

BERLITZ

OK - so my new queeny co-worker (though apparently not a queen - he just plays one on TV) - just got BERLITZED by our troubled-with-anger-issues scottish supervisor. he had his review and "this was wrong" - "that was wrong" - fuck by the time Neall finished telling me the story, we decided that he had just been BERLITZED… i had my one week review as well. i excaped relatively unscathed, but i m waiting- sooner or later, i m going to get berlitzed as well…fo’ sho’

after working in the public school system here in japan on the JET program, being employed by a company like Berlitz is , well, it s a bit stressfull. it s like i took a two year break and slept. now my performance is being judged again. honestly, i feel as though i got paid loads of money to study japanese for the past two years. now you want me to WORK? whats that?.. oh well.. i guess that that is what has to be done to pay the many bills of an osakan existence - i like that - "an osakan existence"…

so the working schtick is going along. yesterday i taught a pair of young boys .. maybe in kindergarten - 1st grade? either way - they were the cutest things - they colored and the cute little one scribbled away when i gave them a time limit to finish.. he scribbled and went outside the lines to make it before i reached "1".. muttering under his breath… "kirai noni" translated - I FUCKING HATE YOU… he was cute - till he became posessed by by damion… then we played games and it was OK- though his frown never came off his face. after the boys i had a lesson with an adult student who was at level four. at this stage students should be able to do lots of exciting things like talk about business agreements / negotiations, make travel arrangements, talk about home life… that said, it was shocking when after i asked my level four what she did for a living / what she did with her day, i got the followning response,

I… あれ。。えと。。I… あれ。。。 (followed by an awkward silence that lasted for about 500 yen of my time) … i dont mean to pick on my students, but between damion and ms. misdiagnosed level four, i m going to be weary of my new line of work … i mean , now that i have to work again to preserve my osakan existence (3x).

HOMO THUGGIN IN DOYAMA

Doyama Cho is the gay distraict in Osaka. the whole block - maybe half a block - … on the night of the 12th - into the morning of the 13th (my 28th bday) , i decided to go to doyama to grab a drink before i met up with legenday neall and his girl kazuko to attend someone else’s bday pty (recap - lame music in foreigner bar - we had to ditch and grab ramen it was so bad… worked out fine though b/c of the company). walking along the strip in doyama i passed this one bar with this homo thuggy boyz outside - i was all HAAYYYY… not really , but in my mind it was very boyz in the hood .. replete with their baseball caps and oversized jeans, they took entered what is soon to become my new local haunt, JACK IN THE BOX - yes thats right… like the hamburger joint (from here on it shall be referred to JIB).. so, yeah, at JIB i had a bday toast to myself anbd scoped out the boyz in the Roca Wear.. cute cute… unfortunately, i had to go b/c my ride had come and i was off to the partay, but ill be back to find my karaoke signin, jay z listening, little light in the heals, samurai man -  i ll fill you in when i find him

taill the next episode