Wait...I Don't Get It

This is Kid Rock. He's in Cannes for the film festival. That's his model-girlfriend. Those are what appear to be tights. And shorts fashioned out of gang-related headgear. And...and this weird Elton John Sunglasses/Panama hat thing going on.

I mean...does he really have that much money? The syphilis he caught from Pamela Anderson is one thing, but I wouldn't be caught dead with a man wearing those shoes.

This Person's Existance Bothers Me

I would like to introduce you to my new arch nemesis: Brian Hugh Warner. You may know him as Marilyn Manson.

"Why do you dislike him so much, Min?" you must be asking yourself. I'll tell you. His entire premise of creativity is based on being "shocking". Oh my, he wears black lipstick and contacts that make his eyes appear completely white. How. Fucking. Shocking.

His entire popularity (and I use the term loosely) stems from his ability to exploit high school outcasts like himself. Boo hoo, you were born ugly, so you write songs explaining how hateful pretty people are. The Beautiful People are obviously intellectually and artistically inferior to you because they don't walk around in androgynous Lycra bodysuits on MTV or design album covers that display gratuitous piles of blood and/or random body parts. You are so scandalous, Brian.

Moreover, I think his music is absolutely terrible. Structurally, poetically, and any other -ally.

Also, it's nearly 80 degrees in London and he's wearing that.

Tres Sheikh

This chick is totally nutters. She looks like she's off to a Muslim Roller Derby, not a date with the Stairmaster.

Tranny Simpson

This was taken at the recent MET Costume Gala, where everyone aparently arrives with ill fitting or just plain ugly clothing.

I've seen pre-op transsexuals more feminine than this lady (?).

Let's Talk Embarassment

On any trip involving an airplane ride's distance, I have inevitably met the gods of embarrassment (further proof that there is indeed such a thing as Karma, and I have a very small amount of the "good" kind).

• In Costa Rica, we boarded a puddle-jumper to get to our resort (eco-friendly, thanks). Puddle-jumpers don't have bathrooms I noticed, a little too late. So I held shut the flood gates for 45 minutes through choppy air, finally descending upon a dirt airstrip. Airstrips, it seems, also do not have bathrooms. I did what any person doing the pee-pee dance would: I high-tailed it into the rain forest and dropped trou. No big deal, you might think, but Cynic has always had difficulty with the squatting method: urine will always find a way to trickle down my leg. Not wanting to get any on my pretty new capris, I decided to just take them off completely. So, to recap, the story finds Cynic naked from the waste down in a rain forest, watching her bodily fluids puddle in the dirt at her feet. Besides pondering what do to if I came face to face with a large snake while I was relieving myself, I found myself eyeing the large leaves growing everywhere, wondering if Costa Rica had an exotic relative of poison sumac, and just how bad it would be to have it growing out of my crotch. Luckily, there was a swift westerly wind so I just took the air-drying option.


• We had checked into our hotel in Mexico, and since our room was not yet ready, we decided to grab a drink on the patio overlooking the beautiful aqua water. As most of you know, I am about a half-shade darker than an Albino; I forgot to apply sunscreen. For two days, my forehead was swollen from sunburn and locals took to calling me "cabeza gorda", or "fat head".


• Descending the rather steep steps at Skellig Michael in Ireland I failed to grasp the concept that rain/drizzle + moss on rock stairs = long way to bottom. Though, in retrospect, I got down a lot more quickly than the people behind me.

My point is, besides the many social faux pas I am sure to make while in Japan, I find myself wondering what the gods have in store for me this time. Perhaps something along the lines of finding a pair of pants that actually fit my American body and then ripping said pants while bending down for something. Or the one time I'm drunk enough on sake to actually do karaoke I'll fall flat on my face after trying to attempt an acrobatic kick while singing "Everyone Was Kung Fu Fighting".

In Three, Two, One...

Our departure date of June 3rd is fast approaching. This weekend is a "Sayonara Sale" to try to get rid of the stuff we can't bring to Nagoya - own your own little piece of Min! - next weekend is our going-away party, the following weekend finds us in Rhode Island for a wedding, and the next Sunday we're gone.

I vacillate between feeling prepared and thinking "Yes, it's terrific I know how to ask 'do you understand English' in Japanese".

I've also been doing virtually nothing at work and feel strangely justified in doing it. It works to counter-act the stress pimples that keep surfacing.

But I think a dream I had last night sums up how I really feel about the move: I'm walking down a street in Nagoya, arm-in-arm with my bodyguard, when I point up to my left and say 'look at that' and giggle. That's all I remember about the dream. It's rather simple, and nonchalant, and...natural.