phik

I was out of town last year, so it was nice to take in the fireworks. I think they were better 2 years ago, but what with the state of the budget these days, cuts have to come somewhere.

Jacob was in Cleveland — in Chattaqua, in fact, we discovered — so I gladly took responsibility for making sure that Kallianne had a good time. After we found each other — no mean feat considering that I usually have no idea where I am — we had some sausages and made our way to Memorial Drive. We stood so close to the fireworks, and slightly downwind, that we got bits of ash, paper, and cardboard raining down on us. It was like a magical boyhood moment, except that we went out drinking afterwards.

I was treated to the rare pleasure of dinner with Joey’s parents tonight! We ate at Legal’s, the usual first stop for people who visit, and caught up on years of relationship neglect. They’re all heading to Ireland tomorrow, which was Joey’s christmas present to his folks.

They gave me a bunch of shit about not updating my activity log. I don’t deny it.

Let us talk about front-loading clothes washing machines.

Holy shit, they are quiet. They look cool, with all of the clothes spinning around and such. I hear they take better care of your clothes, although frankly, they would probably be doing me a favour if most of my clothes were to spontaneously combust. I am not generally fond of my wardrobe, but I am also not capable of purchasing clothes or dressing myself in any fashionable manner — you can tell because I have a Y chromosome.

The kids next door — and when I say kids, I really mean 18-year-olds who might shoot me — were lighting fireworks off of their second-storey balcony. Being distracted from working by the noise was bad enough, but when they almost hit the house across the street with a roman candle I decided enough was enough. I asked the friendly neighbourhood constable to pay a visit, thus confirming my complete and total transformation into a bitter old crank.

I didn’t sleep at all last night, but slept from the instant I hit that airplane seat.

I see these AT&T Wireless GSM America commercials, implying that there are any places in this entire country where you get more than one bar of service. Do not believe their lies. Sell your stock, cancel your phone — oh, and tell me who else offers a plan which makes Canada part of my local calling area. That’s the only thing that keeps me with them.

I fell asleep at the wheel in rush-hour bay-area highway traffic, and was halfway into the next lane before I woke up. It was the only car-length space on the entire highway which did not contain another speeding vehicle. I’m not sure what I did to deserve that kind of good fortune.

So I called Jacob and we talked until I got to my destination. Thanks for keeping me from crashing my car and dying, I owe you one.

During my last trip to Tokyo, we stumbled desperately into what turned out to be the pinnacle of Japanese cuisine, the best sushi I’ve ever had, at a price which might make me concerned about quality in any other location. The food was so delicious, and so inexpensive, that I started to wonder if there was some kind of confusion at the register. Did she mis-type? Perhaps she missed a big stack of our plates?

Tonight’s meal — although even more delicious, if that is possible — confirmed that it truly was a fluke. We ate probably a third of our former haul, with no sake, and paid more than twice as much. I’m not complaining, far from it. I just wanted to set the record straight, lest I be accused of misleading you about the ease with which you too can complete a budget trip to Tokyo.

Had some delicious Japanese meat on a stick for dinner, ordered in what I believe to be a fairly typical foreigner-in-Tokyo fashion. We turned up our noses at the entirely-kanji menu, and instead took the nice proprietress by the hand, led her outside of her restaurant, and pointed at the food-replicas in her window. The results were fantastic.

I also bought a couple of graphic novels for my sisters, whom I suspect will get a kick out of them. I did a cursory check to make sure they weren’t pornographic, which is not at all a given, from my casual browsing — and just to be clear, this was a totally straight-up comic store. It’s likely that the Japanese don’t even really consider those pornographic. The places around the corner sell a whole other world of pornography, things to which we are not accustomed in our relatively prudish American world.

I’m still getting my internet courtesy of a random wireless station in range of my hotel. Domo arigato, DB998AGROUP!

Do not, under any circumstances, buy $13 sake from a Tokyo convenience store. “I wouldn’t buy a 40 from a 7-11, but I bet it’s different here,” my thoughts went. “The Japanese are too proud a people to sell anything but the highest quality sake, in any venue.” Do not believe the lies. This was gasoline in a pretty bottle. I refuse to consume another drop.