Our cab was driven by a Pakistani man wearing a dark grey suit. He owns, apparently, a good deal of real estate and he is quite well-versed in international politics. I considered it a propicious sign that he was the one to begin our journey. Miami to Buenos Aires and in customs there´s a cordon missing between the line for citizens and aliens ( Read more... )

Write Club had a poetry reading in the art gallery in the memorial union building. The woman who runs the gallery threw us out, then called the cops on us. Because of our language.
Can I get out of this chair now, Dan?

Little has seemed worth writing about since I have come back. I go to classes and concern myself with women and drugs, television and writing. I feel like my world is getting smaller. My room mate and friend has a standing disagreement with a friend of the Write Club folks, last night they kicked my room mate out of a party. I left with him. ( Read more... )

Everyone stands to disembark, resting luggage on seat-backs. A stewardess' voice comes on over the loud-speaker and tells us to return to our seats for a passport check. Everyone sits in the first place they can, impatient; a big white man with a young face, white shirt, gold badge and black leather gloves comes down the aisle. His eyes follow ( Read more... )

Well fuck to my broken umbrella! I'll take that sodding piece of shit and slap it against a fucking little, ergonomic fire hydrant till it fucking begs to be turned into a fucking piece of wire brick-a-brac, like a little man skiing, or a bycicle or some shit like that! And fuck all to the fast-food noodle shop for finally serving me something ( Read more... )

It occures to me that I am wandering through what may or may not be known as "the rainy season" when my umbrella develops several serious leaks, relegetaing its use value to that of symbolic gesture and glorified lightning rod. I squelch across the tiles of an elevated walkway, past the museum of western art and a three floor hot-dog restaurant, ( Read more... )

I want to note that writing this post is putting me on edge. The space bar on this keyboard is the same size as the shift button, and positioned on either side of it - where my thumbs normally fall when pounding through the missing parts of sentences - are buttons which will cause me to start typing in Japanese...like so　イ棒オウェ　and I'm not positive ( Read more... )

Allow me to clarify something: Kuala Lumpur is not like Los Angeles. First off it's in South East Asia, it's humid and hot and smoggy and there's this fifteen story golden outline of a ridiculously happy prancing camel grinning idiotically down from the mirror-window wall of a bank building. The sidewalks are paved with little four-inch-square ( Read more... )

Hisaya and I stand next to each other at the desk marked "Taxi Service" trying to decide where to go. I didn't know his name at that point, he was just the middle aged Japanese guy with a bandaged foot, one crutch and a small back pack. We split the taxi fare and head for China Town in Kuala Lumpur, which is depressingly similar to Los Angeles. ( Read more... )

I sit in front of the computer, out the window on my right I can see the ocean and the horizon crossed by palm trees. I have wondered whether these palms are native or not. Leonard Cohen sings at me out the one working speaker, I am glad to finally listen to some music other than the pounding dance beats that have accompanied us in unchanging 4/4 ( Read more... )