This is the home of serious fucking journalism.

Herein, you can read plays, witness old photos, and browse several years' worth of archives. Readers may employ the slow-moving email contact to speak with the author, about whom more can be learned by clicking here.

The short version is this: I am 25 years old and I live very far away from you, where I teach English. I like girls, monkeys and Shakespeare. My hobby is talking shit. Finish.

These are my peeps who maintain web operations:

American Demigods,
Fancy That,
Man Cutting Globe,
Notext.org,
oswald.nu,
Pussy Ranch,
Same Day Different Rat,
Sen. Barack Obama,
Spaceinvader Orchestra,
WMUR.

These are web sources run by people I do not know well but to whom I feel I can safely recommend your gentle senses:

Boneyboy,
Cordelia's Kitchen,
Daily Kos,
Fametracker,
Funny Paper,
Neil Gaiman,
MarkCity,
MoveOn.org,
The Morning News,
Penn Avenue,
Paint a Vulgar Picture,
somedisco,
Spacekadet,
This American Life,
This Modern World,
WEFT 90.1 FM.

Finally, you may descend upon my Amazon wish list like the howling Bacchae.

Older entries of I woke up in a strange place are listed below. They discuss matters including Manute Bol, the Chinese space program, monkeys and very little else. You may read them at your leisure, in the order that follows or in that crazy freestyle of yours.

The present series, in which our protagonist up and moves halfway around the world to Japan:

February
January
December
November
October
September
August
July
June

In which our protagonist finds himself in the employ of a rabbi, working as a ghostwriter:

May
April
March
February
January

2002

December

In which our protagonist is really, really unemployed:

November
October
September
August
July
June
May
April
March
February
January

2001

December
November
October
September
August
July

010622 - 010619

In which our protagonist moves to the big city and finds himself employed at a global conglomerate, leading to a series of infantile but nonetheless satisfying acts of aggression:

010615 - 010611
010608 - 010604
010601 - 010529
010525 - 010521
010518 - 010514
010511 - 010507
010504 - 010430
010427 - 010423
010420 - 010416
010413 - 010409
010406 - 010402
010330 - 010326
010323 - 010319
010316 - 010312
010309 - 010307
019223 - 010219
010216 - 010212
010209 - 010205
010202 - 010109
010126 - 010122
010119 - 010115
010112 - 010108
010105 - 010102

2000

001229 - 001224
001222 - 001218
001215 - 001211
001208 - 001204
001201 - 001124
001124 - 001120
001117 - 001113
001110 - 001106
001103 - 001030
001027 - 001023
001020 - 001016
001013 - 001010
001006 - 000927

In which 'college' reaches its explosive conclusion:

1999

December
November
Fall

In which things go fairly well:

May
February
January

1998

December
November
October
June
May
April
March
February

In which our protagonist returns to college, reluctantly, other plans having been scuppered:

January

1997

December
November
October
September II
September I

And that's the end of it.

030916 I am back with another update, because one of my students said that I should renew my webpage more often. (She also said that, having read it, it's too hard for her to think of me as a teacher. Well, it was a good run.) Life is relaxed again. Autumn has definitely come, the Hanshin Tigers have clinched the Central League pennant (a feat equivalent to the Red Sox or Cubs doing the same in America) and nervously await the Pacific League champion in the Japan Series, and I am once again equipped with a camera for more of my freestyle documentation. A few weeks ago, I bravely broke the code of silence here by exposing the sordid underground of panda porn. Now, I bring you shocking photographic evidence that these pandas are being drugged before they are forced to participate in these pornographic activities.

This panda - whom we will call "Bao Ling", to protect his identity - is clearly in the throes of a drug-induced psychosis as he poses on the side of this truck. It would appear from his expression that he has been fed some manner of methamphetamine cocktail. Compare his quiet derangement to the coke-fueled rampage of "Xiao Ping" below:

I feel confident that the majority of my readers are good and decent people who are as full of outrage over this as I am. Should it be my mission, while I am in Asia, to smash these panda-porn rings? Perhaps we can have a vote on it.

On a completely unrelated note, did you know that there are 2.3 jingles for every man, woman and child in Japan? I am making that up, but I'm not lying to you.



030915 I think I am through the summer crazy without any serious trouble. The timing of the seasons are a little skewed here, because the Kansai summer is split into the rainy season (first half) and the bastard hot season (second half), which is finally drawing to a close. In the years since I finished college, I have become renowned for making terrible decisions in the summer. Something about hot weather and working full-time sets me off on some bad craziness, and I start doing things I would normally know better than to do. Two summers ago, for example, I quit my job without having another one ready, and that led to six months of unemployment and debt from which I have yet to recover. (I really thought I had that aquarium job locked up.) I am not going to talk about the summer of 2002 except to say that my decision-making in 2001 was basically the Bhagavad Gita in comparison. I don't think I did anything terribly rash this summer, unless you count moving halfway around the world to a place where I don't know anybody and I can't speak the language, but that wasn't really a summer decision, as it was late spring when I arrived. I keep the air conditioning in my room at 18 C at all times in order to create the illusion of winter, when I am much wiser.

IN MEMORY OF JOHN RITTER, WRONG DOORS TO RECEIVE WARNING LABELS

(AP) With the nation still in mourning over the sudden death of sitcom actor and everyman hero John Ritter, Congress is considering legislation that would require wrong doors, the great bane of Ritter's life, to be clearly labeled as such. House Rep. Dennis Kucinich (D-Ohio), the sponsor of the bill, grew visibly emotional as he spoke on the House floor. "Every year, thousands of innocent, well-intentioned Americans walk in the wrong door and all hell breaks loose. For too long, we have blamed the misunderstandings that result, and spent too much of our energy attempting to correct those misunderstandings, frequently making them worse in the process. We must look elsewhere, to the real problem: the wrong doors themselves." Complicating the initiative, however, is what Sen. Norm Coleman (R-Min) has referred to as the "shifty" nature of the wrong door. "Often, the wrong door is separated from being the right door by time, not space. Right doors become wrong doors in a matter of seconds, simply due to the arrival of an unexpected neighbor, girlfriend or landlord." Although Coleman had prepared a report on what he referred to as "the quantum implications of this spatial transferrence", his explanation was interrupted by the arrival of Sen. Russ Feingold (D-Wi), wearing a padded bra designed to look like twin watermelons. Feingold, startled by the presence of reporters, insisted that the situation was not, in fact, what it appeared to be.

People have been asking how I'm doing with the language. The answer is that I'm doing quite poorly. You'd think that, living in Japan, I'd have some cause to learn some Japanese, but the fact is that it just doesn't come up very often. I'm paid to make Japanese people stop speaking Japanese, and outside of work, I just use the same ten words over and over again, mostly thanking store clerks and telling drunks I can't understand them and to quit talking to me. It would be nice to be able to say more, but my motivation is lacking. It's a problem I've discussed with students (hello, Asuka): the huge gap between being able to say anything and being able to say anything worth saying. The language CDs are all about asking for directions, commenting on the weather and ordering drinks. I'm not interested in any of that. I need to be able to say things like:

1. Before you decide to charge me for that milkshake, perhaps you should consider my status as an international connoisseur of milkshakes, and while your initial assumption may be that I will not accept bribes in exchange for favorable reviews, I think you will be pleasantly surprised if you give it a try;
2. Your robot appears to be regarding me with suspicion, and I would like to assure you that his fears are unfounded and he should be calmed, particularly where the use of lasers are concerned;
3. Please direct me to the nearest residence of monkeys.

By the time I learn how to say any of that, it'll be time to leave. It's tough being divided by from your neighbors by languages. The rabbi and I used to argue about the Tower of Babel. He'd send me an email responding to something I said with a proverb in Hebrew, knowing full well I couldn't understand it, so I'd make up words and send them back to him, and he'd call me into his office and we'd yell at each other. He took the position that Tower of Babel was a good thing, because language comes before thought, and artistry of language supercedes artistry of ideas. I took the position that his position was really stupid. If Chomsky heard the rabbi, he'd just freak out and start randomly clawing at things. (I don't know why I always let myself get drawn into those arguments. You're not going to get anywhere arguing over the virtue of something you believe to be a metaphor with someone who believes it to be the literal truth, anyway.)

On a completely unrelated note, I have this to ask of fans of the NFL:

Are you ready for some football?!?!

The list of respects in which Hank Williams, Jr. has outlived his usefulness is long and well-documented, but the clear superiority of this little guy is yet another reason why our team can afford to trade Hank Williams, Jr. to another planet for draft picks. Rebuilding on the fly is the way to go, folks.