Thursday, August 07, 2008
Under your umbrella – e – e – e
I’m in ze NEX Westbound enroute home. Nothing was penned in the moleskin for this trip, and so this is the hour I have to write it all up. Brought back home by Airbus’ latest beast of offering – that famous double decker. Easily the biggest chairs I’ve seen in my life, more suited to a Chinese family of 15 than an pot bellied business class traveler. Now I’m feeling nauseous, uncomfortably sweaty, aromatically uncouth and discontented. Japan is not my home. I feel this way every time I land in Narita, and it’s largely because there is nobody in Tokyo I’m particularly interested in hanging out with. Sure, as always, I’m incredibly fortunate in knowing a dozen or so killer personalities from Type A through most of the encyclopedia…. And back to wanting the emptiness.
The trip began, as most do, very shortly after landing. Saturday evening, John met me at the hotel. Odd recollections of meeting in almost the same manner last year, bar the nudity. Destroyed most of the Jack, and headed out to Masami’s Mex meetup. Fortunately for nobody other than ourselves, we were nearly two hours late, and utterly obnoxious. This refusal to grow up within me is covered poorly with sobriety, so it is not surprising that inebriation sets it free. I can’t remember much more, besides Sunday, KM8, and realizing how life could be good when it wasn’t crowded. Singapore has the time and the space…
Monday after school - there was Reading with Kids. I’ll never say No to anything – better to regret what you have done, than what you have not done – and there I was reading to a bunch of attention deficient imps who made me question the entire reproductive process during the 90 minute torture session. I will not be doing this again.
Tuesday was the annoying late night calls, but thankfully I recall an interlude of a billion sticks of satay in Lau Pa Sat.
Wednesday had some unlimited booze event in Chijmes. Sadly all my photos of the courtyard have vanished in the memory card mixup. The Singaporeans know that Chijmes is worth preserving – the Japanese would tear it down in a second. Just being at a place which reeks of the colonial past, surrounded by English conversation makes me want to move to Singapore. It could be good here…but I have so much to finish in Japan. Even my boss is calling me the ninety percenter – thinks, plans, starts, but never finishes. It’s likely that you wont lose if you don’t finish – but it’s guaranteed that you wont win. God knows why I’m comfortable with that notion in so much of my life.
Being the source of laughter naturally brings you together with other such clowns. And so, somewhere on the Friday night, we wound up distinctly merry and puffing on cigars on Sultan. Quickly it became death by cigar as I recall little more than feeling very, very poor the next day as I sobered up midday on Saturday, at work.
Taxi’d it over to Casa Carey and saw the man amongst the rubble. We’ve come a long way together - but there were never hard times – just good. He’s going to put up a palace, and that rocks.
Fled over to some bbq at a bloke who knew a bloke who had two dogs and a cat. This is the Singapore I never saw, and now love. Did you ever watch that movie where they were living in that big house with the pool, the Balinese furniture and the gorgeous friends? Well, I was half way there. And being a pikey, I was awestruck. I despise apartment living. It’s just, well, not landed, and therefore not yours to love.
The rest of the week was a monochrome Xerox of the preceding week; just remember you can only get 99 copies before the even the machine questions your sanity. Just don’t look straight into the halide.
The trials of packing to leave on Saturday morning. Two extra pairs of shoes, the jeans I stole from John, and a couple of T-shirts. Yet somehow, the bag was no way near big enough. Dashed around the room and found a rather durable laundry bag. Squeeze four pairs of shoes into it, shamelessly handed my freshly stolen luggage to the concierge for safekeeping, and sauntered down to KM8 to sleep on the beach. Somewhere before I was standing checkin desk at 22h in thick shades was Beer, Jack, crab at Lau Pa Sat. I’m funny; occasionally droll by fortune too. But when drunk, I’m convinced of a talent capable of dropping pro-quips. “Has anyone ever checked into business with a stolen hotel laundry bag before?” She was not amused. Customs over in Narita saw my stubble, my shorts, the remnants of yesterday’s dining festering smack in the middle of my T-shirt, and then the bag. He flipped the signed declaration card, and without taking his eyes of me, double tapped the word : Narcotics. “Mate, I’ve just come from Singapore”. “Oh! Very dangerous. Dozo”.
