Hosting Matters

This is kind of an odd thing to post about, for me, but I’m all about the sharin’ and the carin’. If you want or need a new webhost, one with a good reputation, and want to pay $9.24 for an entire year, including a free domain registration, read on.
About a year back, I begged for a few bucks from you, friends and neighbours, so I could pony up for another year of hosting, and was overwhelmed with your kindness. The fee was about US$180 for the year, which my friend Allan (as a reseller) generously dropped down to $150. Once I’d sorted out the Paypal stupidity — if I had a credit card, I’d use it! — which made me inconvenience Allan enormously, forcing him to wait months for the cash, all went swimmingly, and the few bucks left over I saved to use for the next year.
But this year I’ve found a pretty amazing deal at Dreamhost. I’m going to cut over to them soonish, and I want to share my good fortune with you (with apologies to Allan, but I’m sure he’ll understand). On the ‘Crazy Insane Domain’ plan, you get

  • 2400 MBDisk Storage
  • 120 GB Monthly Bandwidth
  • Unlimited MySQL Databases
  • 600 E-Mail Accounts (POP / IMAP)
  • 75 Shell / FTP Accounts
  • 1 Free Domain Registration
  • 3 Domains hosted
  • 15 subdomains hosted
  • unlimited domain forwarding

and all the other usual good stuff that most good hosts offer these days, of course. These numbers blow away anything I’ve seen elsewhere, and they throw in a free domain registration for you (which stays free forever, if you continue hosting with them)! It was easier to set up the latest version of Movable Type than I’ve ever had it before. Flawless, first time, no tweaks necessary.
But this is where it gets good. The normal 1-year prepayment price for this is $9.95 a month, no set-up fee. That’s about $120 for the year, which ain’t bad.
If you enter this 7-year birthday code — 777 — in the Promo Code, then hit update, you’ll get the same huge hosting deal, which at $120 would be much cheaper than I paid last year (for a less kick-ass service), for $9.24.
Yep, $10 for a domain and some stonkin’ hosting, for a full year. Their support has been miles better than what I was accustomed to at my old host as well, and though they don’t use the popular CPanel as their admin interface, I actually like their toolset better.
If you go for it, I have one request. If you sign up (and I’ve just gotten my drinking buddy J signed up) please please use the ID stavrosthewonderchicken when it asks you for a referral, and I’ll get a bit o’cash that will help the ‘bottle (and my other upcoming projects) stay on the web for years to come, without having the ‘bottle get all weird and lucre-besmirched again.
(Because I signed up with the promo code as well, I might not actually get referrer money, which is fine if true, but it’s worth a try. Either way, you guys get a hell of a hosting deal, and, like I said, I’m all about the sharin’ and the carin’…)
[Update : apparently the ‘777’ deal ends on February 28 2005, so if you’re going to go for it, this week is the last chance.]

A Political Dream

I had a dream last night. A glorious technicolour dream. A political dream.
In my dream, Candidates Kerry and Edwards realized that Dim George and Snarling Dick were going to pull Osama Bin Laden out of their asses at some opportune moment before the election, and crucify him on the White House lawn. Plant the cross in a pool of scented oil to keep the saudi cooties from spreading, invite the bloodclan and Fox News and Dad, and rouse the tribes to a tumescent, frantic headline-crawl apogee of Republican vote-lust. But in a tasteful way, with very little mention of anyone having to go and f–k themselves.
My dream-representation of the light dawning in the Johns’ minds was a tableau of them making cute anime ‘O’s with their mouths while rolling their eyes upwards toward a shared thought balloon in which Dick Cheney was holding the severed head of Osama up by its hair, letting the blood drip onto a Diebold voting machine. It was way cool.
So Franken-John and Pretty-John decided to go proactive. Winning, Kerry declared in his endearingly halting, tone-deaf way, is as much about kicking… some… mother…f–king ass as it is about proactively leveraging mission-critical paradigms in a time-sensitive fashion. Edwards popped up in front of him to declare that the only way to make America strong, to unite America again, and to preempt an October Suprise that would make America unstrong and disunited, was if the two of them were to hunt down that bastard OBL themselves, and beat the chickenhawks at their own game.
Yeah! said the crowd. Woo!
And so, enlisting the aid of a bionic monkey named Limbaugh (because robots and monkeys are funny, and a robot monkey wins by default (until the bionic monkey pirate shows up, at least)), the two boarded a Black Hawk helicopter and departed from an undisclosed location into the free and democratic mountains of America’s Newest Ally, Afghanistan. This wasn’t just any helicopter, mind you. This was way better than the Campaign Bus they figured on using off the get-go. Yes, this was a stealth chopper, and its shiny new Kerry/Edwards vinyl appliqués were replaced with other shiny new ones, ones shouting stuff like ‘Death To America!’ and ‘Jihad or Bust!’ (but with barely-legible disclaimers underneath in tiny little print, just in case somebody got the wrong idea). These guys were clever, canny combatants, and they had good media advisors!
With Lurch resplendant in Ramboriffic headband and shiny plastic nippleless muscley-torso, and co-John working his best assets and looking simply stunning in his floor-length silk gown, they combed the arid hills of the Afghan-Pakistan border in their OsamaChopper, setting down each evening as Allah’s sun sank into the dusty haze to lay traps for the Bad Guys. Candidate Breck Girl strutted his silky stuff while bandolero-strapped Candidate Kerry lurked in the shadows with Limbaugh and waited, guns akimbo, frowning for the film-school interns with the digital video cameras. Waiting for their quarry to strike the bait.
Waiting, and drinking whiskey, because that’s what men do when they’re hunting outlaws with a bionic monkey at their side.
That’s when I woke up with a start, all sweaty and disoriented. I hope I never have to see that look on my wife’s face again.

Fahrenheit 452

So, I’m writing this post. It is called Fahrenheit 452.
It is mostly about itself, although it’s about this too. And it’s about Ray, who has given me some of the most peaceful, pellucid, connected moments I’ve ever had while holding a book in my hands.
I read my first Bradbury in perhaps 1973, and revisited some of my favorites just in this past year and found their lustre undiminished. As middle age approaches, the kind of nostalgia for a time that never was is stronger than ever, and there are greater pleasures to be found in some of those stories than the ones a younger me was able to fathom.
But he’s still being a tool. In the spirit of…well, of sh-t-disturbing, I guess, I offer this humble suggestion: that anyone who feels similarly post something silly — even better, something silly in the Style of Ray — and title it ‘Fahrenheit 452’ or ‘Fahrenheit 911’ or whatever. Now that’d be some big blog hijinks!
Like Cory said

Bradbury wrote Fahrenheit 451, so we know he loved the First Amendment. I just wish he loved the First Amendment enough to share it with the rest of us.



If you were one of the kind people who dropped some dollars into my (still locked, but I’m working on it) tipjar, and you’d like a Gmail account, drop a comment with a (properly obfuscated) email address and I’ll hook you up.
I have two to give away. First come, first served.
[Update : I have three more Gmail invites to give away. Priority is as before (folks who’ve helped me out with hosting to the front of the line), followed by people I ‘know’, virtually or otherwise. Random Internet Dudes need not apply. Thanks.]

sh1t Happens

I really was going to tell a story of Terror on The High Seas, as promised, but I fell down and a couple of litres of beer somehow splashed into my mouth, and well, it all went to hell, basically, and all I could recall of my past while listening to AC/DC’s High Voltage was the unseemly enthusiasm with which my first girlfriend performed fellatio on me those several decades ago, thereby ruining me (in at least one sense) for most of the other women with whom I had sexual relationships in later years.
But you don’t wanna hear about that stuff.
Or maybe you do, I guess, but that’s not the story I wanted to tell tonight, so here’s an amusing image that I’ve stolen from one of the talented goons at the SA Forums, to make you forgive me for the notable lack of blowjob and/or saltydog stories this evening, instead.

Horrible But Exceedingly Clever

When my old rock and roll alco-compadre DV was here for a whirlwind visit last June, one of the missions on his checklist was to try and track down Takashi Miike movies. He figured, quite reasonably, that it might be easier to find them in the black markets in Seoul than in Chicago.
That didn’t turn out to be the case, and we failed Mission Miike miserably, combing the Yongsan black market and Namdaemun in vain. Still, we had a reasonably enjoyable time trying, which is what life’s all about, after all.
Although DV’s tastes have always been more extreme than mine in most things, I was keen to check out these movies that he was so intent on finding. In the last few months, I’ve been bittorrenting my little heart out, and have managed to download and watch a handful of Miike’s movies, and they’ve, like, blown my mind, man. Phrases like ‘fanatical intensity’ and ‘horrible but exceedingly clever’ are used to talk about Miike’s transgressive oeuvre. That doesn’t even begin to describe it.
So far, I’ve watched

and I’ve never seen anything like them. I don’t know if I love or hate them, to be honest, but I’m glad I watched them. I must admit I don’t know bugger-all about Fine Cinema. I don’t have any trace of the fanboy otaku fetishization of things Japanese that seems to elevate some of the lamest Japanese culture-crud to cult status. I like David Lynch, and Kubrick, and I like Gilliam and Jim Jarmusch too, but I couldn’t possibly engage you in an intelligent discussion of why. I just do, OK?
Don’t know much about no art, but I knows what I likes.
Still, I do know when something I’ve seen or heard or read has reached into my skull and scrambled the curds around. I walk around in a daze for a couple of days, and then puke up some poetry, or get valve-clearing drunk and bang my head against the wall for a while in search of the reset button.
Those are good things, in case you were wondering.
But Miike’s stuff? That’s a whole other kind of thing.
Here’s a little quote from a book called ‘Agitator — The Cinema of Takashi Miike’ :

“When Kiyoshi accidentally strangles her in his rage, he takes her home and deposits her corpse in the garden greenhouse. He sends the visitor (who has been filming throughout with Kiyoshi’s consent) into the house to fetch some garbage bags, then continues to mark the parts of Asako’s body that he intends to cut off for easier disposal. He discovers that he becomes aroused by the sight of her naked body, then turns to the camera and says he finally discovered the feeling he couldn’t acknowledge before: a desire to have sex. If this is what he repressed, then he has been denying himself since his children were born. The moment when being a parent became more important than being a lover, he conformed to his duty and repressed his desires. The choice to make him rediscover a desire for sex (which he will then naturally act upon because realisation equals liberation) instead of a random other emotion is therefore anything but exploitative. It’s quite the opposite: being true to the character and to the film’s theme.”

Which sounds a little out there perhaps, but defensible in terms of story and character. If it offends you, though, you’d best not read further.
Because that paragraph doesn’t begin to describe what happens later in the scene — or what happened in the previous scene for that matter (in which Asako is raped and murdered by Kiyoshi) — events so simultaneously horrendous and hilariously bizarre that you find yourself dazed by the utter nastiness of it. Kiyoshi begins to have sex with the corpse — filmed in unswerving, all-revealing Miike style — and finds himself unable to, er, withdraw, apparently due to rigor mortis. After the corpse voids its bowels on him during his struggle to disengage, doglike, things proceed to get worse.
Yes, worse.
Miike’s been making movies for a little over a decade, and in that time he’s made more than 40 of them. The half-dozen or so I’ve seen so far have opened up and played a flashlight around in corners of my brain that see the light rarely, if at all. The sex scene, if that’s what you can call it, in the last ten minutes of Gozu, for example, as illuminating as it is of the allusively Lynchian psychological mysteries of the main character, had me, unshockable me, sitting there with jaw literally agape at the imagery. I won’t go into details, since spoilers suck, but it was the first movie I ever went back and watched again immediately after the climactic (and utterly bizarre) finish, looking for the threads that led to it.
If you want scrape your mind raw, and get down deep inside the churning sh-tpool that is our modern global culture, get right into some Miike. If you can laugh at rape and murder, giggle along with necrophilia and dismemberment, this stuff’s for you. Indelible memories of Miike were part of the engine behind my rhetorical flourishes in this piece I wrote up the other afternoon. The twining of sex and violence is a worrisome thing, of course. Every Miike movie I watch leaves me feeling a little guilty for laughing, and a little dirty for watching, I admit. But I also feel a little awestruck at the artfulness and audacity of it all. And once the distorting lens has been removed as the credits roll, the parodies of human viciousness that I’ve been watching have illuminated some things for me.
Miike brings it together pretty well himself, in an interview here :

C: In the torture scenes, the needles below the frame are like having needles stuck into your own eyes.
MT: Yes, I did want the audience to feel it. Particularly Japanese men, wanting to have a nice wife, a pretty wife, and to be happy – it’s something they all want to do. I knew by getting them to sympathise with the character, I could make them feel the pain that he’s going through.
C: Can you tell me about your use of sound to create atmospheres? Like the noise of the piano wires…
MT: When things are being severed, I’m using meat with a similar-type bone. When we were recording the sound, rather than turn up the recording volume, we put the microphone very close, almost in the hole – I wanted the audience to feel the vibrations, coming through.
C: Any other influences?
MT: (grins) I like Monty Python.

I’d recommend you watch a few Takashi Miike movies, but you might hate me afterwards.
[Update : In some kind weird blogospheric serendipity, I see Matt’s just posted something about The Happiness of The Katakuris, which was a Miike remake of a Korean film, The Quiet Family. Weird.]

Flickr Kicks Orkut Ass

I’m not real big on the ‘social software’ thing, but Stewart and the gang at Ludicorp have made such a cool, cool thing with Flickr. Join me, why don’t you? The water’s fine!

Type, Type Everywhere

Although I’m not really too exercised about it one way or the other, I tend to think more along the lines of Mark than Shelley on this whole TypeKey furor. I must admit TypeKey seems a little like using a hammer to turn a screw to me, but we shall see.
In the meantime, though, I have taken it upon myself offer some more superterrific BumpyCase product enhancements for Six Apart to continue building out their weblogging product line. It is with great pleasure that I submit these modest proposals to leverage the brand, exploit synergies, capture market share and monetarize conversation. TypePad and TypeKey are only the beginning! We have nothing to lose but our privacy!

  • TypeVote – More accurate than Diebold (MS Access backend optional), and totally free from hanging chads! If you’re a voter, get yourself a TypeVote weblog, and really make an Emergent Democracy©™ difference! One blog, one vote!
  • TypeShop – Route all your monetary transactions through your blog! Blog about that sandwich you had for lunch, and ask your grocery store to subscribe to your RSS (Really Simple Shopping) feed, and leave that shopping list at home. Get people to buy diapers for you! The possibilities are limitless!
  • TypeONegative Cluetrain Item #3172: Healthcare providers are conversations! Or goth metal bands, maybe.
  • Still fleshing this one out.

  • TypePod – You’re not an A-lister until you have an iPod, and what better way to build brand synergy and leverage the design-fetishizing metrosexual music pirate demographic?
  • TyppelGanger – Buy out the drunkmenworkhere autogenerated weblogging technology and let the code write you into existence. No need to do it yourself anymore! That’s so 2001!
  • TypeFire – Hit a button, generate a comments-thread flame. Why waste valuable mental CPU cycles trying to come up with another way to say ‘You’re a donkey-raping sh-tweasel’ in yet another post that includes political commentary with which you disagree? TypeFire will reduce your fifteen-minute-nemesis to charcoal at the click of a button, and get those valuable clickthroughs happening too!
  • TypeAzon – Plug your weblog and yourself straight into the bookflogging mainline! Webloggers read books, right? Well, Google is already useless for finding anything other than Amazon-affiliate clicksinks when you’re looking for information on books, and shifting units is what it’s all about, kids, so why not jump into the moneypool?
  • PadThaipe – Damn, that Thai food is yummy.
  • TypeUp – Want to hold a pomo-moblog-emergent-market-journospam-osphere conference and maybe soak the blogrubes for a few simoleons while you’re at it? A TypePad/MeetUp mashup is the ticket for inviting people who are guaranteed to breathlessly validate your wildest techo-utopian blather!
  • TypeZilla – Serving no other purpose than to piss off IP Lawyers Who Don’t Get It yet. Lessig-approved and somehow licensed under Creative Commons, so it’s got that street-cred every hip weblogger so craves.
  • TypePoint – Taking a page from Microsoft, throw together some leftover code and half-baked ideas and call it a Knowledge Management system. Or portal. Or workgroup document storage. Or something. Hell, we don’t quite know what it does, but it stresses the server something fierce, so it must be good, right?
  • TypeSpam – Hey kids! You know those other webloggers got them some dollars, right? The internet’s awash with disposable income! Use TypeSpam to generate targeted-demographic, GeoURL-enabled, realtime book-sales monitoring, results-oriented weblog comment-thread advertisements for your online drugstore! It’s viral, it’s centrally managed, it’s smartly styled, and it’ll get your Googlejuice flowing!

Kombinat is just the beginning, my friends. This is not your father’s blogosphere.
Now put me on the payroll, already.

Lost In Translation

I watched Lost In Translation last night, and it made me feel all funny in my special place. Well, not really, but I can’t figure out if it really was a Fine Filmic Experience or not.

DIRECTOR (in Japanese to the interpreter): The translation is very important, O.K.? The translation.
INTERPRETER: Yes, of course. I understand.
DIRECTOR: Mr. Bob-san. You are sitting quietly in your study. And then there is a bottle of Suntory whiskey on top of the table. You understand, right? With wholehearted feeling, slowly, look at the camera, tenderly, and as if you are meeting old friends, say the words. As if you are Bogie in “Casablanca,” saying, “Cheers to you guys,” Suntory time!
INTERPRETER: He wants you to turn, look in camera. O.K.?
BOB: That’s all he said?
INTERPRETER: Yes, turn to camera.
BOB: Does he want me to, to turn from the right or turn from the left?
INTERPRETER (in very formal Japanese to the director): He has prepared and is ready. And he wants to know, when the camera rolls, would you prefer that he turn to the left, or would you prefer that he turn to the right? And that is the kind of thing he would like to know, if you don’t mind.
DIRECTOR (very brusquely, and in much more colloquial Japanese): Either way is fine. That kind of thing doesn’t matter. We don’t have time, Bob-san, O.K.? You need to hurry. Raise the tension. Look at the camera. Slowly, with passion. It’s passion that we want. Do you understand?
INTERPRETER (In English, to Bob): Right side. And, uh, with intensity.
BOB: Is that everything? It seemed like he said quite a bit more than that.
DIRECTOR: What you are talking about is not just whiskey, you know. Do you understand? It’s like you are meeting old friends. Softly, tenderly. Gently. Let your feelings boil up. Tension is important!
Don’t forget.
INTERPRETER (in English, to Bob): Like an old friend, and into the camera.
DIRECTOR: You understand? You love whiskey. It’s Suntory time! O.K.?
DIRECTOR: O.K.? O.K., let’s roll. Start.
BOB: For relaxing times, make it Suntory time.
DIRECTOR: Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut! (Then in a very male form of Japanese, like a father speaking to a wayward child) Don’t try to fool me. Don’t pretend you don’t understand. Do you even understand what we are trying to do? Suntory is very exclusive. The sound of the words is important. It’s an expensive drink. This is No. 1. Now do it again, and you have to feel that this is exclusive. O.K.? This is not an everyday whiskey you know.
INTERPRETER: Could you do it slower and… ?
DIRECTOR: With more ecstatic emotion.
INTERPRETER: More intensity.
DIRECTOR (in English): Suntory time! Roll.
BOB: For relaxing times, make it Suntory time.
DIRECTOR: Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut! God, I’m begging you.

What do you reckon? I’d like to hear from you, dear reader, what you thought about the movie. I know precisely jack sh-t about film, and place myself firmly in the ‘I dunno much about art, but I knows what I likes’ camp. Bill Murray, as everyone hastens to say, was pretty damn good, I thought, but was the movie all that, really, or just Japanophile pandering?
Inquiring wonderchickens want to know. Great movie, or just goodish?

Fluffy Bunnies

Fluffy Bunnies. Playful kittens. Romantic sunsets. Warm spring breezes. Crisp cotton sheets on a cold winter night. Happy puppies. Burbling babies.
Oh, and Saddam Hussein. What a wonderful world!
I’ve turned over a new leaf, I swear. Nothing but Happy Fun Times from here on in, campers.

[Update : Nah, f–k that.]


I watched ‘Magnolia’ last night. Yeah, I know : get with the times you cheesy halfwit, that movie is soooo 20th century! We’re all about Keanu having a Mark Hamill moment over the pincushiony corpse of Trinity as the swarms of cgi-squid thingos penetrate (heh) the womb (woohee) of humanity (oh-ho!) like so many stainless-steel sperm these days, boyo. Get with the program!
Oh f–k off.
So, anyway, I watched all three hours of this fine film, and I am here to tell you, the last person in America that hasn’t seen it, that it is indeed a fine film.
Perhaps the best things about the movie for me were all the damp, crumpled-up faces, contorted and shivering under the hammerblows of nearly unbearable emotions, or close facsimiles thereof. The long long closeups of those emoting auteurs were a veritable emotional Dustbuster™, by crikey, sucking the carbon out of my psychosexual valves. Then squirting in a healthy spritz of WD-40, which your average Dustbuster can’t do without special attachments. Which was why this was so damn good!
(By picking this particular metaphor to describe the mood I was in as the credits rolled and I closed Winamp™ and toddled off for a healthy crap, I am in no way claiming that this movie sucked. On the contrary, it rocked me! Rocked me like a tropical depression at the very least.)
No, seriously, folks. I loved this movie with an unhealthy passion, and I’m merely cracking anticlockwise to try and hide the uncomfortable feelings it stirred in my heart. I cried a bit, even. Especially when Tom Cruise’s unfeasibly large package was flopping around. C’mon! That sh-t was scary, damn it!
Anway. When I die, if I don’t get a f–king rain of frogs, I’m complaining to the management.
(Thus ends my very first movie-review blog post, which is soooo summer 2003, unless you’re Mistah Kottke and can get away with that sort of thing, I know. I really am trying like hell to get with the program, I swear, but when you spend as much time as I do plucking the newly-lush profusion of hairs out of your ears, you get a little behind, all right?)

Not Responsible

Given that Koreans are inclined — except in those areas of Seoul where us freakish, hairy, buttery barbarians are commonplace — to stare unblinking, or point and giggle when spotting a non-Korean, and are also known on occasion (when they’re pretty sure we’re not in earshot) to make westerners-as-apes jokes, this made me giggle. I don’t mind the stares as much as I used to, unless I’m having a bad day. I’ll probably have to get used to it again, living out in the boonies as we do now.
Anyway, I am so getting this made into a T-shirt.

lessons learned.jpg

The writing is Japanese, not Korean, but that’s OK. I’ll get that added in later. [found at The Site Which Must Not Be Named]

Digital Revelation

My birthday present this year, back in early August, was meant to be a digital camera. I’d done my research and come to the conclusion that the best bang for the most minimal buck was the Canon Powershot A70.
Unfortunately, that was right around the time that I became unemployed again. This usually does not worry me in the least, but seeing as how I’m all adult and bewifed and all, we decided to defer the purchase of any non-necessary stuff until I got re-employed, which I recently have been.
Hooray for me, skyrockets in flight, doves are released into skies of deepest azure, the baby jesus laughs with glee, etcetera.
Point being, friends, that the camera was delivered yesterday, and it’s been well over a year since I’ve bought anything for myself other than food and beer, relentlessly frugal as I am and downright cheap as She Who Must Be Obeyed can be, and I’m like a kid with this thing.
Now I don’t know the first goddamn thing about Art and Photography and all that crap, I just want to use this amazing new technology to help me remember. As regular visitors to the ‘bottle may know, I’ve had me some Amazing Adventures, mostly lubricated with whatever chemical stimulant easily came to hand. The problem with that, unfortunately, is that in my dotage I have rapidly fading memories, and rapidly fading images in my brain of who I did, and how what and when I did what I did, never mind why. And very few pictures to help the stories emerge, when I’m in a story-telling mood.
From regret at this deplorable synaptic deficit, therefore, I’ve resolved and now have the technology to make images, on the fly and without expense, to document for myself my life. My Life. Starting now! Not unlike Matt’s new thang, or Shelley’s new photo projects and pursuits (and hopefully career), I guess, but more artless, naturally, and less public. I plan to share little things that I particularly like, but it can be assumed that they may not have anything like the significance for you out there, my friends, that they do for me. Me and my brainfarts.
I am interested in becoming more skilled at seeing, and at capturing images that approximate what I see, but that will come with time and practice, I hope. I have little of either thus far. In the meantime, though, what fun!
Here are a few for you out of the dozens I took today. I don’t know if they’re ‘good’ or not, and I don’t care. I like them and that’s all that matters at this point, and I’m thrilled with the effortless alacrity of it all. I hope you like them too, if only to help you get a better mental image of the place whose portrait I’ve been trying to paint with words alone.


I like to stop by Vladi Private Islands once in a while, to daydream a bit. During the Bubble in ’99, when me and my friends in Sydney actually took a business plan to a venture capital company (and thank christ we didn’t end up following through on it, is all I can say), we never used to talk about getting rich, per se, we used to talk about ‘buying an island’.
Maybe someday.


The reason I mention it is that American Island, on Stuart Lake, is for sale. I’ve been there dozens of times – my hometown is at the tip of Stuart Lake. Very cool – wish I had C$100,000 to spare.
sh-t, I wish I had C$100 to spare.

DMZ (and Bondaeggi)

Since I am inexplicably uninterested in writing anything at the moment, here’s some pics from the Deviant’s digital camera (covet covet covet) of our trip to the DMZ, and of DV himself, about to chow down on some bondaeggi (silkworm larvae). Mmmm, insectalicious!

DV about to eat a yummy bug. I made him do it. He was not terribly impressed.
Guards, guarding.
Assuming the position – half hidden behind the wall to minimize the size of the target presented. Seems a bit silly to me.
The guard post to which I managed to discreetly expose about two thirds of one butt-cheek while standing in the elevated concrete pagoda thing. Also the post from which the North Koreans apparently take pictures of tourists. Hope I didn’t precipitate an international incident.
UN side : lovely crushed granite. DPRK side : dirt, with weeds. Amusing, darkly.