See, titles like this will never let me get on the “100 bestest blogs of today as well as two days ago” list.  Not that I want to, but then if I do make it past the age of 68 and I’m still sitting here, I really should consider making this a full time thing.  Not really, I suppose.

Just because there is the coveted “f” word in the title, doesn’t mean all hell has broken loose and Sarkozy is looking for his soul in the depth of hell.  It’s just because I decided to put up memorial grande photos from the summer on this post.  I know, it’s a tear jerky hanky panky moment in your life, but I really could give two shits.

But then this blog without something funny is coffee without a good coffee.

Last night, I had this desperate and sexually healthy urge to talk to my friend BS in L.A.  As is with 74% of all our conversation across the pond, we had to synchrnize our watches.  The gap is 540 minutes forward my way.  Which meant that HE will call me at 23:00 hours his time and I will receive the call at 08:00 hours my time.  Simple as fixing a leak underneath your kitchen sink of your flat when your owner decides to send a man the next day.

But as not much of a surprise, our date has been missed.  I have known this man for perhaps longer than God has claimed for the return of his son somewhere in the Middle East, but the man is a Jedi.  Jedi don’t do time.  Although I have to say, there has been marked improvements since he got married… saying that, here’s the twist.

I have met BS’s wife long gone ago when we were at university in the depth of New Jersey.  They were not what we old folks call “an item” then.  There was a disproportionately random encounter in the New York subway system few years after that, but that’s for another day.  Unbeknownst to me, the love came from left field and through space and other time formats and bistro, they were married last year.  Which elaborately means that I have never met her before BS was her bitch and the first time I have come face to face with her as his woman (nothing portraying male shovenism here, move on) was at their wedding.  You know it’s true.

The plan was for him to call him and for me to spread my altruism by calling him back, thus saving me from more iPhone wrangles.

No phone calls from him at the synchrnized time, so I called him.   His wife answered the phone and we did our, “How’s it goin’?” without the Dolly Parton.  For some reason we just started talking and talking and talking and after 52 minutes and after putting the phone down, I realized this was the first time we have ever spoken.  My conclusion is that a) BS is a lucky man b) she doesn’t cook c) it was unexpectedly a good thing that I had a chance to talk to her.*

*There is a d), but since it was highly inappropriate for a family oriented blog such as mine, I took liberty in taking it away, giving it a nice cuddle, and burnt it with liquid nitrogen.

You sometimes never get to really know your friend’s partner, husband, girlfriend, or the illegitimate child who’s been locked up in the cellar far too long, but moments like this does really put a face to the name of the person who your friend is truly happy with.

Completely changing and whipping it around, Bon bon finally got to get on the Velib.  It is a rent-a-whore/bike initiative where you pay one euro and rent a bike and so on.  There is a post about this somewhere in my blog.  Moving swiftly more rapidly, we decided on a rarely sunny Saturday afternoon to do it.  Non, not that but to get on the damn bike.  The Velib Gods were about to tell her, “Non, ca suffit” but few moments later, we were on the bikes.  Two separate ones, just in case your brain did take that non-paid holiday it asked 2 weeks ago.

As I ride, I like to be true to my style which is, “I’m the law”.

I ride on the left side, but the Frenchies like to ride on the right.  Bon bon yells at me and painfully remind me who the brain in the family is.  49 metres later, I ran a red light.  Everybody and their lawyers know that red means, “Go if you are the law”.  Bon bon goes mental, as she beats me senseless with her love.  Love hurts from time to time.

Wondering if her biological GPS could ever be trusted, I ask her rather sheepishly if we are going the right way.  She crudely instructs me that she is in totalitarian control and goes straight into a one way street, dodging oncoming cars, pedestrians, and those highly annoying rat like dogs.

Voila.

Off to Frankfurt for few days and back and to Glasgow for few more and back and Glasgow and something sort of like that.

T’il next time.

Bonjour, my humble and salacious readers.

I’m at DN’s place in Glasgow, doing my thang and doing it well.  I’m beginning to think of food at this moment as DN is spelling out Spanish football players out loud like a man conjuring up an illegal Venezuelan immigrant.  Just so you know, my great uncle three times over is from Venezuela.  Please don’t take offence on everything I say.  It’s very annoying.

So the past couple of weeks were packed with first timers.  First time going down to Bon bon’s parents’ place in south of France, obviously first time meeting the mom, and teaching a gay guy how to swing a raquette like a man.  It’s actually possible.

For some reason, I always get nervous with fathers of my friends, it’s especially daunting and ball tightening to meet the father of your  woman whom you share a flat, feed the same cat, sit on the same sofa, and watch DVDs at night in night clothes.

As you may well not be aware, Papa Bon and I have already battle it out for Bon bon supremacy in the past.  A man in his late 40’s, he has a miraculously shiny dome, with tremendous knowledge of architecture and circus crammed into it.  I’m not joking, the man LOVES his buildings and clowns.  The one thing I absolutely adore about him is not his tete, rather his brilliantly accented French English.  Although I have met enough Frenchers to realize that they do and can and would like to sometimes impress you with their, “Oui, ma eeenglish is non so bon”, none of them had the enunciation and punctuation and the -tions that Papa Bon has.  His English is so French that somehow it makes me feel I’m in some John Cleese film.

Our first ever meeting was in Paris where Bon bon and I were to meet him near our (her) old flat for an introductory dinner.  We were destined to meet him near a big garden near our (her) flat, but waiting  for him was a fruitless affair.  We’ve circled the garden at least 4 thousands times and finally Bon bon let out a shriek that could have come out of a gutted kangaroo.  A man with Papa Bon’s stature and his signature head was walking towards us.  It was dusk and dusk makes everything rather dusky, yet shiny.  As the man approached and Bon bon with failing arms and muscular legs counter-approached him, she realized that it was another man from south of France with similar head who was not her father.  I on the other hand was over the hill and back into the woods nervous that I approached the man with a vibrato falsetto of “Bonjour”.  The man was obviously distraught and he scampered away like an injured Lassie.  Papa Bon eventually showed up and as these things go, he was looking for us as well.

Since then, I have met him one more time and if everything is according to me and what I opine, we are like two sushi in a stomach.

I hope.

Which leaves me with the only obstacle between Bon bon and my happiness was the mom.

Not that I was ever threatened physically by Mama Bon or that she appeared in my dreams with a Pinhead motif non-Halloween costume daring me to get cozy with her daughter.

On the contrary, our first meeting was under a very unusual circumtance.

I was coming back late from Salzburg one evening last week, whilst Bon bon was away at her parents’ place, and her parents were staying at ours in Paris.  Got it?  Good.  Coming back to a desolate house filled with objects unseen in my life, my head spinned and lurched in an unusual direction.  Mind you, Bon bon did meet my mother, my grandmother, my 3 great aunts without my tremendous self next to her, having to spend an evening entertaining them with her Frenchness, with most of them not speaking English nor French, but then hold on a second.  Her trials and baguettes had nothing on me.  I had to meet her parents on my own, without the aid of Neko.

I did calm my self down eventually, as Bon bon informed me that they were coming back around midnight.  Obviously they were at the circus.  Parents these days, I tell you.  I wondered back and forth and tried to climb the walls, failed, and decided that I should just give up and sleep on the sofa in the living room.  Due to the entrance of our flat being closer to the living room than the love shack, it was a wise decision.  The next morning was a 5AM wake up and a bike ride to Gare de Lyon, hopping on the French version of the Shinkansen so that Bon bon and I can party it up at the parents’ place.

Figuratively 2 seconds later I was in sleep mode, there was a commotion at the main door to our flat.  Thinking that either it was a) Neko or b) our wife beating neighbour, alert mode was on.  It turned out to be meet the parents, me in slightly tighties and t-shirt, them walking into our flat with their shoes on.  I also realized that Neko was down south, but that’s besides the point, really.  My instinct told me to tell them about the shoes off policy in our household, but there’s no point not scoring any minus points now.  The handshake with the Papa Bon was firm yet tingly, the bizou with Mama Bon slightly off target as I still have no idea which cheek to start with.

Just so you know, my woman is hot.  Not because she’s my woman, but in general she’s just hot.  So, suffice to say that Mama Bon sort of kind of looked like Bon bon, but older.  Also for some reason she was very nervous.  There were warnings from my woman about the perpetual nervousness of the Mama Bon, but it was contagious.  Jolting into attention,  I felt as I have done something very wrong.

Therefore it was a mega sale of a surprise when I came face to face with the mother who bore the child who is my woman at her house few days later.  She was 11 hundred thousands times more relax in her domain.  But no, my job was nothing close to being finitito.

When I was told that she was a nervous person, compounded that her nervousness went into hyper drive when she was told to relax, my job was set in cold Steve Austin:

I was going to make her laugh.

Not a sniffle, not a snigger, not one of them unavoidably irritating laughs that Japanese women between the ages of 18 and 55 are legally bound to do when they feel a bit weird.  I wanted her to throw her head backwards a la Linda Blair on her happy day.  I wanted to see them beautiful eyes (smaller than Bon bon’s) flood with H2O.  I wanted to see her in fits, proceeded with facial paralysis.

To utterly and unforgivably yet charmingly I admit to you, my minions, I have no recollection as to when and how I made her laugh.  This could probably be blamed on the glaringly noticeable two solid glasses of cognac with white wine which was FORCED down and further rupturing my already funkadelic internal organs by Papa Bon.  Yes, it’s not the truth, but I want someone to be bad besides me sometimes.

Seeing her smile made me feel as if I have for once did something nice and strangely productive.

But by all accounts, smashing her car door into a pole as we bid adieu to Papa Bon at the station before going back to Paris probably will not earn me any further bonus points.

T’il next time.

It’s itchy.  Not scratchy and it’s not a show.  It’s mosquito season in Salzburg.  I’m sitting in a 6 bed dorm room contemplating what had happenned in the past 28 hours or so.  Here’s the story, if you wish to read and since you’re already here, you probably should.  That’s the polite thing to do.

Yesterday, after a Harry Potter full of dreams, I was up.  6AM, all ready to go.  The night before was a mix of trials without tribulations.  Coming back from my first trip up north for the season and having spent an excruciatingly nice three days in Glasgow with DN and TS, taking par beyond par picture on the first Naka season, and having Pottered myself to senseless oblivion.

I have read all the Potter books.  Not a fan, but it did grip me enough to have actually read and not necessarily bought the whole series.  At the end, Potter dies, Ron incestually marries Ginny, Hermione decides that she likes older women, and the one who shall not be said or spelled decides that being bad is hip again, but then goes into a 600 page guilt trip and hangs himself from the chandelier at Hogwarts.  How the God loving people of America will allow such book to be read by their munchkins is beyond my concern.

Since the parents were arriving around today to Bon bon and my house, yesterday morning with sleepy eyes mixed with post 24 hour Harry, was a tough one.  I did as much as I can to save Bon bon’s faith as the daughter who keeps her house clean and I firmly believe I have succeeded in undestructing the flat as a simple man possibly can.  Having done all that, t’was time to goto the airport.

Smoothly it went until about page 130 of Stephen King’s Cell and the flight was delayed.  40, 50, I don’t know.  It was enough for me to not give a shit.  Trust me.  After 4 hours and 20 minutes of sleep the night before and knowing that all there was to be done that day was to reach the hostel by 3pm until they cut off my power of reservation, you really don’t give a day in a fuck.

Blurry vision took over and as I went in and out of consciousness, my body took me to Munich Airport, into the train to West Munich Station and everything was Cell.  Good book, gripping, cell phones (I’m doing this for my American readers) are as good as mobile phones.  For some reason unbeknownst to me and the funky sleepy brain, I had rested my mobile on the ledge of the train as well as my not so great Marlboro Lights.  Got off at West Munich station and 10 minutes later I was without a phone.  The irony and karma wasn’t needed, as reading a book called “Cell” was nothing but a piece of curse.

Panic attacked phone calls to Bon bon later to have my phone cancelled, I made my confused way to Salzburg.  Note to self: never let your woman handle your business whilst she is on holiday and whilst you are in another country.  Especially never when she’s not having the best of days.  At the hostel, I was force fed to wait an agonizing 43 minutes until the fuckers decided that they probably should lift off the “Will be back in 30 minutes” sanction and let the poor Korean girls and a poor but beautifully disheveled yours truly.  When the nimnuts opened reception at 3:55, it was 55 minutes passed my reservation cut off time.  Have they kept my reservation privilege or has it gone to the impoverished teenager who infuriatingly cut in front of me.

Without a hurrah or a boo, my place was secure.  Waltzed my dragging self to my room and found out that there was a woman.  In case you were not privileged as a child to utilize a privately owned bunk bed fiesta that is the youth hostel (CV, are you listening?  You know you my man, son), usually girls and boys don’t mingle in the same room.  It’s the holy code of hostel bed arrangement.  But there she was, fat and ugly as a tard with lard, an English woman.  Not that all English woman are agonizingly fat and smelly but for fact’s sake, she was and it was.  The room stunk of something out of the ordinary and t’was hot like yo’ mama on a bar stool in Acapulco.  No, my mom jokes always suck.  We exchanged pleasantries,  I unpacked, her American friend who was as interesting as a cardboard on a rainy day joined in, and I left.  Not because I didn’t like them, obviously not.  Salzburg was training before their Champions League qualifying match against some Lithuanian team and by God, I had to go.

I did have enough time to get there but I didn’t have enough time to figure out that bus went to the stadium every other time.  Ended up going right passed the stadium and 4 stops later, it was 5:55PM.  5 minutes until the training session started, 20 minutes until I was told to leave the stadium because they will be doing some secretive tactical shit which frankly wasn’t all that great.

My mind tumbled and rumbled some and it came into a crossroad: I go or I don’t.  Funny how yellowish brown marshmallow you can become after month and a third of not doing football work.  The toughest 31 year old on earth was wavering and being pitiful.  It’s too hard, I won’t make it, why bother?  But it wasn’t hard, I will make it, and I did bother.  Took the bus going back to the stadium and this time I got off near the stadium with my 15kg on my suddenly broad shoulder.  Welcome back to reality, I said.

Arrived 2 minutes before my time was up and this was reinforced by the security guard who kindly told me that I had 3 minutes.  Them Austrians.  All was done and called my colleague who was stuck in Salzburg.  Time for dinner.

This and that we talked about football, mainly how Japan sucked and how Japan can one day in a world of chaos and travesty reversed will one day play like Brazil on a shoestring.   The lives and hopes of millions in the land we don’t associate with “the Rising Sun” and “Emperor is our God” was at stake.  When all was said and done, talking to HH was a massive ventilation session and we bid adieu and I still owe him 10 Euros.

Once back in the hostel, a wee man of a wee stature was there.  Exchanged pleasantries and for some reason there was a click.  The beach whales were also there but t’was not of any importance.  The man, Mr. W was an Aussie traveling around the world for some sort of documentary on some sort of addiction thing.  His occupation was a life coach which means that he will make you stop smoking.  I did ask that but did not receive a straight up ho’s down answer.  But apparently it’s not as easy as un deux trois or aaa beh seh.

A beer was needed and it was flowing downstairs.  As we drank and sat with the other Aussie congregation, something hit me.  Basically, if you don’t speak English, you’re fucked in this world.  If you decide to stay in your own non-english doting country, you’re set fo’ life.  But if you want to see the rest of the planet and if you want to not feel lonely at a youth hostel, by chicken’s liver ladies and gentlewanks, you gotta shoulda betta speak some Queen’s language.  The conversation was flowing, as the South African guy who looked like he was 187cm and 150kg but then in reality was shorter than me but obviously more muscle bound had the snazziest voice in a long mile.  Mr. W was encouraging him to do radio or podcast or perhaps even South African Idol.  There was also the guy who looked like Chuck’s best friend in Goonies, but then he was sweet as cookie monster.  Though not that blue.

When I went out to get some cash and some fresh air and back into the hostel, the conversation for some relatively inexplicable reason changed to Australia.  Been there thrice and I do like the down under.  What was amiss was that my mojo for my craft since the end of the football reason and the boys from Bris-Vegas (don’t ask me why it’s not Brisbane or don’t ask me why if there is a casino in Brisbane) gave it back to me.  There apparently is a gold mining town in Australia that is so so so like hot during the summer that they have created a underground town.  No shit, no jokers, none.   Hastily yet meticulously drawn napkin map for me to keep, I’ve found my Eldorado.  My next project, coming summer 2008.  My fingers were already feverish on the mobile phone to Bon bon, but little does she know that we’re not going to Bondai beach.  But I’m a man who will keep my words.  We will definitely have some koala jerkies.  Oui, Bon bon, oui.  Yes, baby, we’re going to Sydney as well.  I promise.

My evening was finished and except for the hourly and unecessary humans rolling into the bunk bed calls, I slept well.

The morning was slow.  Up at 9am, breakfast and a chance encounter with another Aussie.  Ms. B was traveling on her own and now that I think about it, reminded me of Maria from my high school.  Oh this is good.  Ms. E, yet another Aussie was for some reason doing her Sound of Music thing.  If you haven’t noticed, I have never seen Sound of Music, yet I was in Salzburg.  So the three of us was sitting in the 10:30AM of the daily Sound of Music film extravaganza.  I have previously scoffed the idea of this film for being girly and all it’s unmasculine qualities.  After 3 hours of “I’ve heard almost all of the music in this film sometime in my wonderful life” moments, I have to say that it is the best and I mean like the number one musical film I have ever seen.  And I had the privilege of seeing it in Salzburg.  How grand.  Julie Andrews is a hottie, 43 years ago.

Feeling peckish, whilst humming “Do a deer a female dear…”, Ms. B and I went into town to grab a lunch.  We sat and we spoke and exchanged our fears and joys of traveling solo.  The conclusion was that traveling on your own is different to traveling with a companion, neither being better than the other.  Additionally, Ms. B agreed that Bon bon and my honey moon should be on Lizard Island off the coast of Kangoala.  I love it when I make decision for the both of us.  Bon bon, counter recommendations are welcome.

After lunch, she went onto some crazy Chinese exhibition and I, back to the hostel to finish my Cell.

I guess losing my mobile and reading Cell had nothing to do with the past 28 hours, but who gives a fuck, it was a good ride.

T’il next time.

It’s been how long? Long enough that I was consciously avoiding to even look at it. You see, my friends and man-whores, my default web browser is Safari. The “homepage” on Safari is hotmail. I don’t even use the fucking thing anymore, but for some unacceptably nostalgic reason, it still is. But, oh but. I also use Firefox from time to time, like when I want to actually use UEFA’s website and the “homepage” on this browser is my blog. It was an eye sore for a while, but then, as Bon bon put it so eloquently with an accusatory and guilt ridden tone, “you just have to do it sometimes”. Nothing sexual, pervert.

A lot of things have happened in the past 50 days. I’m absolutely certain that many tears have been shed for my life not involved in your life. Don’t cry for me as crying is reserved for men who watch Coach Carter or any sports movie involving a team or individual coming back from the brink of Hades and winning or losing it all whilst dousing yourself in sweaty testosterones.

There was Bon bon’s birthday (yes, she’s inching towards the holy grail of all fertile woman), my leaving do in London, the French wedding (technically my very first work in France, rock me), my first ever trip to the Perche (countryside is good when there is 12 escargos for 4 Euros), my first experience with the Velib (rental bike initiative by the always eco-conscience Nick and the crazy bunch), and last but not least Transformers (not “the movie” as that title was snagged in 1986 by the animated series). I’m sure I’ve left out some significant insignificant events (like me getting a first shooting gig at a well-known French company’s drunk fest, but more on that when it happens), but basically I’ve been living it up in the city of flowers. Precisely, I have been staying at home and feeling like staying home.

I’m going to cut to the chase and go Transformers.

I’ve been totally and completely and unashamedly looking forward to this gargantuan social climax of the summer. Some of you Americanistas and Filipinos may say, “You fuck, I saw it almost a month ago”, but here in 20th century Europe, things come slower than an uncooked escargo (Oh, how I love them).

The love affair started about 2 months ago when the 1st trailer came out. I was glued to the Quick Time screen and drooling over the fact that the Transformers are back. Two seconds later, my heart turned, went for a walk, got stone and had 13 shots of Everclear and decided to reverse inside me. Michael Bay? Who? What the fuck? Heat? Armageddon? I was now sweating profusely. As the initial excitement wore off, I forgot about it for couple of weeks when the 2nd trailer came out.

Holy mother of all things robotics. Bumblebee is transforming in front of my eyes. The gears and levers and strings and what not are moving which way and that way and Carlito’s. There goes Prime doing the same thing. Bonecrusher is doing the Citroen on the highway. Starscream does some sort of Comaneci onto a building. Megatron looking…weird. It’s all happening and it’s fast and not Diesel. Holy mother of shit. It’s Jurassic Park all over again (note: Jurassic Park “the movie” sucked, I’m just saying that the Dinobots… dinosaurs were super realistic at that time, now they look like the Star Wars Kid without the light sabre and few scary looking teeths).

So obviously I donate this excitement to Bon bon and she’s immediately uninterested. I download it for CD (I have decided to not make up nicknames for all the characters in my blog as I am forgetting them faster than I can create them) and he’s interested in a CD kinda way. I beg for Neko to get on my side and she purrs and tells me to give her a cuddle. BS tells me that he’s boycotting as his childish dream has been crushed into nanobots by Bay. July 25th the opening day in Francia, 3 weeks after it debuts in the Evil Empire. Time’s not going fast enough.

Side story comes into my mind. When I was in Japan, I had a friend. An acquaintance. I didn’t care much for him, but I did care when his parents’ money were buying us Transformers after school. Most people remember when you’re 10-13, after school you hang out with your boys (or girls if you had pubic hair and leg hair and 49 inch biceps with a tattoo of the college girls you have fucked atop the jungle gym) and buy some nibbles on the way home. For me, this kid, who’s parents were dumb enough to give him tons of money, would buy us Transformers after school. No candy bars for yours truely, but left arm of a Destructicon. Eventually me mom found out and I had to return my collection of donated Transformers. I was gutted.

Coming right back at you.

After the premier across the fucking pond, AL and JD were all up on the grill. “It’s rad!” and “I saw it 3 times!”. Fucking geeks. I told myself, “You know I’m going to see it like 7 times before the end of the day it premiers here, so take that you morons.” So, I’m all sorts of jealous and I’m trying to find as many people as I can so that I will have the camaraderie that I experienced when the Phantom Menace opened. But people around me are just not geek/manly enough.

Take my friend CV. His parents were so worried that his testosterone count may in the future be 4% higher than most Tour de France riders that he was banned from watching what we call the “classics”. These films will include such masterpieces like Rocky, Terminator, Die Hard, Rambo, Predator, The Last Boyscout, and none of the Jean Claude Van Damme films. In any other country, this will be classified as heresy or punishable by annointing him as a sissy. He is a bit of sissy, yes, but recently, he has seen all the Rambos. The cure is coming.

Solo performance for such a monumental film? I wasn’t going to wait until everyone’s stars were lined up to prove that men are from earth and women are from some planet that sparkles and shines and costing tons of dough. It was go time.

As July 24th crept up into my horizon, I had Bon bon help me reserve a ticket. I mean, my friends aren’t tough enough to go, but then France is a country of comic geeks. Which means on an opening night, there will be people. But my master plan was like no other master plan. Using my position as a out of season freelance, I decided to catch the first showing: 10:10AM on a Wednesday morning. My mother would be not so proud.

The day came. I woke up, made the coffee and prepared breakfast for Bon bon. After contemplating the fastest and the easiest route to get to the theatre, I was off. But before busting out of my threshold, I throughly checked and quintuply checked where I can drop of my bike. You see, my twats, Paris now has this rent-me-bike thing where you can get a bike for 1 Euro and drop it off at another drop off point. But nothing works in Paris as it should as Bon bon bought a ticket to rent a bike couple of days ago, only to find that the bikes were unavailable to Marseillaise. You should also note that the time limit for the 1 Euro price is 30 minutes. Which means that you have to return the bike into the drop off point before your time is up. Otherwise Nicky and his tarts will force you to donate another Euro towards their evil plans. Evil, evil, plans…

Fortunately, the bike was available and off I went. There is something so pure and dangerous about riding a bike on a one way street. Any Parisian road feels like a one way street as the oncoming traffic will use your lane to pass other vehicles on their fucking lane. It’s like Outrun, but doing it AJG style.

Unscathed but slightly mentally tormented by the normal antics of the Parisian motorists, I arrived at the theatre 36 minutes before the show. In other words, I was too early. Time was not of an essence as the ticket was reserved. I hung around and checked out the 9-5 people and I got bored. 10 minutes before showtime, there was this kid and two late 20’s men and me. I thought, perhaps I will tell this kid, whom I later found out that he was probably not skipping school, but rather using his summer holiday to witness history in live action, that before he was born, I have already seen Transformers. But the thought ran away and hid in the corner when the theatre got dark and the film made its announcement in my cranium.

So, how was it?

Good Kinks

Fucking hell, this is Transformers. Who gives a shit (BS’s brother who apparently cried when he saw the trailer) if Bumblebee isn’t a Beetle? Hey TS, give Dreamworks 100 million bones in the next film and I’m sure they will switch him back to a Beetle. Gone is the shitty transformation of the robots into vehicles and vice versa of the original. Like I’ve noted earlier, the transformation is sooooooo complicated that you have to believe it’s real. It’s real, right? And they sort of make that sound from the original. But then there is no “tah nah nah nah nah” sound when the Decepticon symbol changes to the Autobots, vice versa.

I guess you can trust Bay with action. You can feel the heft of the machines as they man handle, robot handle themselves as they beat the living shit out of each other. They are alive, don’t you get it? The editing is furious as you don’t even know who’s fighting whom. But its completely involving, nonetheless. It’s self healing replicating metal against the same type of material bashing and gnawing and blasting one another. Blood boils and you’re just sitting there in awe after awe and breathe… He didn’t get this one wrong and I was very pleased.

Bad Beef

Plot is okay at best. Autobots come to earth so that they can destroy this cube thing. As for the Decepticons, they want to use the cube thing to make more Decepticons and rule the universe. Spike (who is now Shia and I forgot his screen name) comes into contact with Bumblebee and he gets the hot chick.  The girl is HOOOOOTTTTTTT, ouch.  I’d pay money again just to see her tight bum and them legs.  Shia does dorky like BS does Starwars.  Not bad. Could have been much worse, as expected from any Bay films.

Dialogues and jokes are also okay at best. There has to be a strong bond between Bumblebee and Spike so that us the audience notice that the theatre is a bit dusty when the biped Camaro is in no-ped. But no, I didn’t feel it. They could have taken a lot more time to develop this particular relationship. Jokes are funny enough to make you chuckle from time to time, but not as good as the recent action master class that were Spiderman 1 and 2. 3? You’re joking right? If you’re not, I forbid you to never talk to me again in this lifetime.

The mouth. In the original, some of the robots had mouth. In this live action Bay film, everyone has a mouth… except for Bumblebee who doesn’t have one. But then he can’t speak and if you want to know, go pay some fucking money to see it. I sort of buy it but don’t. It’s a split.

Prime’s speech.  It’s “Every monkeys in this universe have the right to freedom”.  It’s smelling camembert.

What the fanboys wanted, I think, is the sense of nostalgia and that the robots being part of their daily lives. Something akin to receiving your freebie paper on the way to work, the robots should be transforming left right and centre and acting like a steel plated human beings with blasters drinking late with soya milk with a bit of pasteurized cum on top. That doesn’t happen in this film. In defense of the explosion riddled film slut Monsieur Bay, the robots are this alien being and the humans are not supposed to get all cuddly with them when they sit on your house and your house is literally gone.

Bay got it more right than wrong and the sequel and the se-sequel will bring in Destructicons and Dinbots and Soundwave, even if we don’t use tapes anymore. Maybe he’ll be called “Podwave” but then Buzzsaw and Rumble will have no place to live. They will end up whoring their robot anus to a robo-fetish drunk English man, who in turn will give them a boom box with a tape deck. I’m teary just thinking about this.

That’s it. I’m sure as the football season nears, I will have more stories as I will actually be outside of our appartement.

By the way, there is a reference to the title of this entry in the film, but to say the least, it’s fucking weak as hell.

T’il next time

PS No picture as I have been less than inspired these couple of weeks.

Oh, this is the level of consistency I would ask if I was ever reincarnated as myself when I die. 2 days, 2 blogs, one happy meal. It’s all good.

I am writing this post as Bon bon sleeps quite soundly, only to be annoyed with the sound of the shuttlecock (precursor? yes) thrown towards Neko. She has been a superb even on my standards these days as she defended the house for about 5 days only with Neko as her almost useless sidekick. But luck has not been on her side lately, as she attempted a mega surprise to pick me up at Gare du Lyon last night, only to have her seamlessly well executed plan slam thwarted by the stupidity emitted from the king of Rue St. Maur.

Please correct me if I’m wrong, but I apparently I told her that I was arriving at 6:30PM, but I have no recollection of this misinformation. My train gingerly arrived at 5:30PM and once I was home and Neko was crawling ever so sweetly yet connivingly annoying all over the laptop, the phone call from her was one that made me feel like a sober dope.

“Where are you?”, questions Bon bon, only for me to admit that I was already home, using our recently installed 21st century artifact that is the Wifi (pronounced “wee-fee” en francais, but don’t tell anyone). So, she was disappointed a) for not having the chance to surprise me and b) for having a man who at the tender age of 31 can’t read his arrival time. A big post-it to self: Never let this happen again.

Last night was a relaxing affair as Bon bon hurried off to Yoga with her lady friend, I was in charge of picking up the film of the evening. I have heard on a brilliant and I mean brilliant film review podcast called Filmspotting (nee CineCrack) long while back in my mother’s womb that this film called “Short Bus” was good.  Now that I think about it, it was mentioned on Filmspotting, but then I have no idea whether it was good or bad or why I even bothered.  As we ate dinner, we witnessed a) a Canadian Chinese woman getting fucked with all her bits hanging out and I mean all b) a gay three-some c) a dude sucking his own cock.

Before you get on the “ewwww” band wagon, I have to say that a dude trying to suck his own cock and cumming into his own mouth was disgusting, but highly entertaining.  I was cheering him on as he inched ever so close to his thingy.  “Come on dude, you can do it.”  Strange, but very true.  Bon bon, not expecting any of these adult content was sincerely traumatized and her virginal eyes were deflowered by this film and by Vishnu, she will never be the same.

I have to admit, until last night I have NEVER seen a full on gay male fuck.  More precisely, prior to last night, I have never seen a gay male fuck for longer than 33 seconds.  Read on.

I have asked my dear friend Mr. O, who is a nice gay man about the ins and outs (oh god, please make me stop all the funny stuff) of male to male relationship as well as the stuff that happens between and on and off the sheet.   After him confessing that gay males are ever so susceptible to unstable relationships, I asked him why.

“You like to fuck right?” says Mr. O.

“Yes, I do” replied yours magnificently.

“So, if all men like to fuck, imagine two men in a relationship.”  challenges Mr. O.

It was a chandelier in Hogwarts moment with a legal aged Hermione dancing the queen for me.  Problem solved, let’s all move on.

The film was a dud, but it reminded me of an episode at my alma mater, the one in Jersey.  I was living with 5 other boys and we, as we all know how boys are at this age and beyond, were red cell saturated boys.  One evening, one of my flatmates calls me into his room.  He tells me that I really should check this porn out.  When I entered the room there were others there with an obvious grin on their faces.  The porn was on and I could see this guy fucking a girl from behind.  I could see the dude’s ass, but couldn’t make out the girl.  The pounding doggy style ensued for about 33 odd seconds and gradually something was clicking in my head.  The “girl” was ever so slightly more muslcey than usual.  Suddenly it hit me or shall we say the angle on the screen changed.  I witnessed the “girl” was sporting a ding dong and I had my, “Holy schnikeys!” coming out of my oh so agape grill.  You should never think you’ve seen it all until you see two men fucking, that’s what I say.  It was a brief moment of the other side of the world and it was weird.  Even more strange is that my friend’s claim that he apparently picked this video off the street somewhere in Long Island.  Really?

Coming back to Short Bus, having three men instead of two men fucking was like watching Animal Planet, but with apes with less hair.  I just kept on anthropologically asking myself, “How could another man be sexually turbo-charged by another man that he wants to suck his cock and eat his ass?”.  The answer came (oh god, please don’t stop) at the end of the film, as I composed my thoughts and came up with a oh so profound conclusion: I will never understand, ass this is truly a man’s world.  In the next life, I’d like to become a comedian.  A funny one.

But, I can proudly and honestly say that I do have a man crush on some men.  Like Tyler Durden, I want to be a tough piece of shit, like John McClane, I want to smoke them cigarettes, and like Spider Man, I want to be a hero.  After s’il vous plaiting Bon bon to no end, it was my dream come true tonight as we watched my super hero of my dream in action for the 3rd time.  The film was okay, too many bafoons in one film, but I still have this sentimental crush on Spider Man.

Maybe because when I saw the first one, this whore dumped me like a whore and I was down in the dumps.  Maybe because like Peter, my uncle who was like a father to me died unexpectedly.  Maybe because I am a photographer, but a better one than Parker.  Maybe because I lived a bit in New York.  Maybe because he’s a nerd and I never was.  Maybe he can’t say I love you and I can’t sometimes.  Maybe because Peter Parker and Spider Man have the attributes that makes him the man I want to become.

Maybe sometimes in the future, I’ll be sporting blue and red full on spandex and slinging cobwebs and doing upside down kisses on Bon bon.

Actually we did try it and it’s a bit weird.  I guess I’m not Spider Man yet.

T’il next time.

Not again. It’s been however many weeks since my last entry and I realized that I genuinely suffer from a legit brain disfigurement. Since I am a firm believer of “My post has to be as big as my cock in my dream”, I feel outrageously lazy when it comes to writing one, which in turn makes me not want to write until the time is absolutely right. So with so many interesting things that happens all the time in my life, I decided to make bite size entries instead of a fucking long one.

Well, it was worth a try right? It’s already becoming long and it’s not good. I’m going to go straight into my story.

Currently, I’m in Toulon. It’s sunny yet unassumingly windy, which reminds me of Chicago and it was windy there. I also remember that I stayed at this woman’s place whom I met online and I really thought she was going to rape me and make me give birth to her children. Anyhow, (it’s going to be long, isn’t it?), I am at a 3 star hotel, which costs approximately 3 times as much as the hotel that I am staying at. My hotel, courtesy of Bon bon’s super hotel finding and anything travel related power, is a nice one with a bed and a desk and a door and a window and a shower and even a television. But obviously there is no WiFi so I feel like killing myself every time I look at my computer. Moi is addicted to the net, period pain.

I had everything and I mean all the things pretty much planned out before I came here, except for one glaring misunderstanding of the French language. Since I belong to this Hospitality Club thang (www.hospitalityclub.org) which allows me to negotiate free places to stay when I get my cheap ass out into the wilderness, I started to look for a place to stay. I even bought myself a plane ticket from Paris. Oh yes, also negotiated with clients whether they want the pictures from this football tournament.

Sidenote: This tournament is called “Toulon Youth Festival Football Tournament” or something like that. This is where KaKa was born and kiki wasn’t. Anyhow, it’s in its 35th year the slutty whore sister of ESPN, Eurosport has been televising it live for the past couple of years. From what I heard, the inclusion of the Communist National Team is so big and obviously came with lots of Wons that Japan was almost kicked out. I tell you, Japan will soon be bitch slapped and screw drived into the Sea of Japan by the Koreans and the Chinese, if they haven’t already.

Back to what it was. Bon bon was very helpful in sending out “Please let me stay at your home and yes, I will perform traditional naked Japanese pop dance for you in return” emails to the Hospitality Club members. Her effort bore fruit and soon there were people getting in cute single files dying to host me. Not really, but I was pretty much set.

And then I received an email. It went something like this:

Hello Mr. Dragon,
I would love to host you, but I live in Toulouse and not Toulon.
Best of luck and so forth.
[insert typical french maid's name]

What? Toulon is not Toulouse? No way Canseco. It’s not possible. Toulon is the short form of Toulouse and I’m right and that whore has a rotten titanium plate, oh my dear fuck.

This happened two days before the 31st of May, the day of the first match.

The fact that I am in a hotel in Toulon as I type this, it tells me two things: 1. That I made it here 2. The French are really dumb for naming two cities with almost exactly the same name.

That Adolf Sarkozy guy better fix this soon.

T’il next time.

She passed away this morning. My thoughts are with you and your family, Pyjama.

I’m not going to say sorry or apologize for not writing for almost 2 weeks. The move to the new flat has taken all my energy away from me, probably somewhere in the Pacific Ocean in the vicinity of Oafu island. Don’t correct me on it, as I’m actually in the mood.

Let me tell you something. If you never ever oh my dear lord by the love of Vishnu’s cousin ever have to move in your life, make sure you do it when you’re rich. Rich enough that your PA will handle all the administrative matters, the movers will pack and sort shit out, and you and your… if you’re a loner than it will be just you, can walk into the new place, with everything sorted out. Completely. That’s the sodomizing way to go. No fuss, no tuss, no puss.

Obviously, if you’re not earning Chinky money, you’re going to be moving with your own ass. Once the day has been set in cobalt, from that point on, it’s the Rush Hour 3 without Jackie doing the through-the-ladder-packing-kick and dishes stacking on top of each other a la some anime I saw when I was 140cm long.

Down the trenches and back again at least quadra billion times. Bon bon and I are getting to the point of mental ovari-testicular bypass that I’m only hoping at this time of the hour, I’ll be sitting in another mess, but in the new flat.

So much for that. Now, with your updates:

1. I’m off to Liverpool

I know it’s strange, but why? The kind and gentle people at Number (Sports Graphic Number to you my bitch) gave me a job to cover KingFlip and Nakanakadashi’s favourite team for three days during the final, which is held in somewhere I wanted to be. Fuck you UEFA for rejecting me. Anyhow, that’s 3 days of expenses… ah, why can’t all jobs be like this. I’ll be working with Kumakuma, for the 3rd time in the past 365 days. He has recently published a book and if you’re Japanese and can be humble enough to read my blog, check it out here. Just so you fools know, I will only endorse things that will a) bring me enough cash to buy a flatscreen tv with freeview or b) I generally feel positive about it. Kumakuma’s book is well worth the read and since I feel the same way about football as he does (more on that some other day), it’s all cool and the ghostbusters. One with Marshmallow Man.

2. Rootdown is or will be open for business soonish

My dear lovely wonderful yet smelly friend, Rootdown, has been working on a comprehensive traditional Chinese medicine website that will blow your mitts off at least to the next metro station, in the longterm, forever. He has a problem with concentrating on one thing and he has meandered with other beta projects whilst his beloved son was waiting for his attention. Now this son is about to come out of the womb and bust it out N.W.O style. The evil empire is upon us and I’m giddy about it. Newdad and I have been seeing this through since its inception forever ago and it’s been a long time in coming. Well, Newdad did a whole lot more than I did, but I’m taking credit because I always deserve to take credits where I shouldn’t. With a minor event such as getting married to his extremely understanding and dangerously committed wife last year, it’s time for him to realize his potential. If you are at all interested in anything traditionally Chinese and most probably medicine, with legal herbs, and points that will make you go “Ahhhhhh” and all that, this is the place to go. Check it out here.

3. Sayonara, London party

I guess it’s no mystery, but I’m going to be saying my grand farewell to London on the 16th of June. The venue isn’t set yet, but I’m sure you will make it. Right? Don’t give me that shit. Don’t you be telling me you’re halfway across the fucking world and you’re not going to come see me leave London fo’ real. Don’t give me that “My wife is going to give birth around that date” bull shit. It’s me, the most important human being who decided to make your stupendously boring life into something you can smirk about. So, book it up, boys and ladies, it’s time to boogie it for me and me and guess what? That will be me.

That’s about it. I’m sure there’s tons of crap that I haven’t discussed, but my mind is stapled shut and stuck in euphoria at this moment. Nothing to do with the meager fact that my Jazz has just entered into the unknown. We are going to the Western Conference Final. Take that Houston! Take that Golden State! Take that Robbie Williams!

It’s been a long time since I had anything to celebrate for the only team I actually care about. Yes, I do like Arsenal, Redwings, Mets, Inter Milan, Chunichi Dragons, and all the Japanese players who are devalued in any major sports outside of Japan. But my love and only love has been the Jazz. As a tweener somewhere in the depth of Hong Kong, I was shown the light that was basketball and from that point on, it was Karl Malone to John Stockton. Since Malone desperately tried to become a WWE wrestler and Stockton probably dishing out cocktail wieners somewhere in Spokane, my Jazz have been woeful. Wait a minute.

For those of you who has got the dumbest of idea what in villa hick I’m jabbering about, it’s the NBA.

Minute was short. Anyhow, we’ve been out of the playoffs for god knows how long (3 years, but don’t tell that to the rest of the Eastern Conference people), but now we’re like so like immaturely close to the NBA final.

But there is this problem of the Spurs and Suns. They are both better than us at this moment and we’re not going anywhere after this. Shocking? Not really because with all the boys on our team, we’re going to just get better. I really could go on with this until the sun goes up and down and being told by Bon bon that we’re moving now, so I’m going to partially go away.

Our next foe, that will be the Spurs or the Suns, are locked in a 2-2 battle, which from what I have read is a tremendous series. It’s Lakshmi fearingly awful that I’m stuck in one place you shouldn’t be when you are dying to watch an American sport, but what people are saying is that this is the actual NBA finals. Two days ago, a genuine tee up for a Hollywood straight to DVD had occurred, which prompted me to write this entry.

With the game pretty much really done and the Suns salivating for game 5 in Phoenix, Big Shot Rob (Spurs) hip checks the mercurial Canadian GI Joe (Suns) straight into the scorers table. A slight altercation ensues and Amare, the Suns’ leading scorer and Boris, the winner of the useless Frenchman 2006-2007 award steps out about 1 metre out of their bench. Horry of the Spurs is now suspended for 2 games, Amare and Boris for one. NBA rules stipulate that absolutely no one is allowed to come out of the bench whilst the game is being played and if you do, it’s an automatic suspension. This rule should be enforced for GWB (the dumber one), but hey, we all have got great ideas.

With the pivotal game 5 hanging tonight and without its top gun, how would the Suns fare? Is it all over but the commiserations for team that brought back the “Holy nutballs!” in the NBA? I think this is how this story will be played out.

16/5/07: Suns play the Spurs in Phoenix. With Amare doing his bestest to kungfu chop Stern and Jackson’s head straight in for a 3 pointer, he apologizes to his teammate for his stupidity. “Guys, I fucked up” writes ESPN with not really those words. With the human beefcake pogostick out, the “disgusted” Canadian wills the rest of the team. The mysteriously underachieving Marion and Barbosa masquerading as 2/4th of Amare, the Suns have the possession with two points down and time for a final shot. Nash takes the shot and it rims out. Game over, the doom ensues. City of Phoenix experiences a decimal increase of gun related crimes soon after the game.

17/5/07: The day after the disaster. With Suns now trailing the Spurs, 2-3 in the series and with Duncan bringing his fundamental to the height of fundamentalism never seen in North America, the ginger folks in San Antonio is celebrating with the people of Tacos. The highlight of the day is that Mr. Dragon successfully making the move to his new flat, but Bon bon isn’t too happy about the coffee table situation.

18/5/07: Amare is back. Suns rejuvenated by the return of the bully down low, shows the mettle of the next NBA champion. Amare completely takes over the game as he scores 45 and grabs 20. Marion blocks a crucial shot by Duncan at glory time and they brutally force what could be the best of the best in about 3 years. It’s now game 7 of the NBA finals. Yes, no one cares who comes out of the other conference. Innocent Tacos as well as Burritos are butchered and stomped as the San Antonioans attempt to recreate a festive version of the Alamo.

19/5/07: The calm before the tsunami. Nothing happens. Oh, Mr.Dragon leaves for Salzburg to take pictures of a retarded celebration.

20/5/07: Phoenix is booming. The game goes into overtime, as Parker drives through the sometimes forgetful Suns defense in the paltry minute of regulation. During overtime, the clock is mercilessly tickled as time loses its grip on its bladder. The game is inscrutably tied at 110. With 6 seconds to go, Nash brings up the ball with trepidation and feeds Amare down low. With Duncan looming ever so fundamentally over his shoulder, Amare shakes one to the left. Duncan feels it for a slimmest of the nano. Amare catapults into the air and Duncan is ever so signficantly slow to react. The weakside help has timed it bang. With such ferocity never seen in public television since the commencement of operation Iraqi Freedom, Amare drags Elson and Duncan for a NBA classic posterization. The crowd, even in an arena mindlessly called “U.S. Airways Center” realized that they are stupefied with what they have just witnessed and starts to celebrate in earnest. Game, match, and who cares about whatever that brings tomorrow. Suns defeat the Spurs. After a beer fight in the locker room (champagne are only for the supposed NBA champions), Nash, with a glee, told this to the reporters after the game: “Amare, when he came to the clubhouse on Wednesday, he stood in front of everyone and said, ‘Guys, I *beep*ed up. But I’m going to promise you that I am going to carry this team to the championship. Not next year, but this year.’”

14/6/07: Jazz homerun derbies Detroit. Jazz crowned NBA champion for the 1st time in its history.

T’il next time.

Oh the day has finally come and gone.

Bon bon and I are a proud and mega stressed owner of a new beautiful bitchin’ pad in the middle of Paris over-looking a vision defying court yard surrounded by boulangerie, cafes, and most important of all, two kebab shops.

Although my intention was to go crazy and write all sorts of nonsensical things and the joy and the mock bewilderment of reaching this stage in my life in our Paris, but there were things I had to sort out before we could begin to rejoice.

By the way, you are more than welcome to throw me a appartement burning party, if you are so feel utterly inclined.

In case you had to wonder, I had to:

A) Go shoot the not-so excited Japanese footballers winning their respective not-really difficult leagues.  Yes, don’t front me down bitch with your, “You know nothing about football, blah, yada wee”.  Since Celtic and Salzburg wrapped their gracefully horrific leagues by the beginning of the Bond year, all I wanted to do was to go shoot Champions League TM.

B) Go shoot some annual May Day riots in London.  Oui, c’est vrai.  As it was and is, it wasn’t a day of disfigurement.  How in the world of strange Asian food and legless harmonica toting homeless man in the metro are the protesters and bored sub teens supposed to get all riled up for the only day you’re allowed to get completely out of control when there’s twice as many coppers and SS men humming around like Neko on shrimps?  I understand that the Met’s (it’s short for the “Metropolitan Police”, you retard) job is to protect the old and beat on the young, but hey, give the complainers some air.  I believe it’s rather pointless to go double man-up on an event where the greatest crime on the day was a guy who’s hair was too long.  For the sake of my photos and the sake of the Londonistas, bring back the anarchy… but please protect me, oh my mighty police, from those worthless fuckers.

C) Now that I had a rapid think, there is no C.

Yes, the flat.

I was with my colleague going down M (insert quality prime number here) motor way from Glasgow to London, when the call I’ve been waiting for at least 2 months and some days came.  It was an inopportune time as we were in a petrol station filling up our stomach.

At that very moment, I was submerged in the world of microwave cuisine as I inserted my mozzarella and chicken pie into the insta-hot machine and counting down the nanos and the micros.

The mobile rang and it was the sweet Bon bon.  She sounded awfully giddy and I knew from prior experience that the only reason she jumping jacking across the channel is when she goes loopy during her female time during the month and when she’s got something cute and adorable to say.  I was so concentrated on my pie that the information did a Stegosaurus on my brain.

“What?”

“We got the flat, Dragon.”

I couldn’t and didn’t Intel this information until probably yesterday which was 4 days too late on anyone’s scale.  But it struck me like a moth from the Jurassic era, when we visited the flat with our keys yesterday afternoon and all the talk and the imagination and the arguments spewed out of our mouths.  We did kiss and make up and tried to, oh don’t make me say that.

Suffice to say, Bon bon and I are one magnanimously elate couple, but definitely two disturbed individuals when it comes to agreeing with the decor of the flat.

I wouldn’t want to put you through the soft core “discussions” we have had already, but we are learning to learn to put our point across and never look back.

For me, the problem is that I absolutely hate to listen.  It’s not just her that I don’t listen to, I never listen to anyone.  Not even my dear mother.  Well, who does listen to their mom?

This is the crux of the problem and we (ah, well, me actually) is working on it daily, just like my French.  During lunch today as we got Greeky with our food, we discussed about the ifs and buts and “you never listen to me” of the flat.  As we made our way to the kingdom of pseudo bourgeois that is Habitat, I said I wanted to decorate our flat in a 60’s 70’s jive hut.  Split peas later, she claimed that she wants the same and for that serious matter, we do have similar tastes.  This came as yet another electrocution for me as all the while we were wondering if we indeed needed two completely separate rooms to satiate our drive for individuality.

This evening, the laptop screen was smeared with Ikea, Ebay, Habitat, and random French furniture related sites and we dug in and talked and came to a one dreadful conclusion:

It’s time to share.

Born as a single rascal hoarding all the parental love for 31 years, t’was time.  I now had to share and garcon, it’s about time.

Before she went out cold and started to snore like a piglet next tome as I write this, we did manage to settle on lots of things and we are coming up with some bitch slappin’ ideas to make the flat our flat.  All I can say is that she’s making me listen and I’m learning to at least use my right ear occasionally.

You’ve heard it now.

I’m in Paris fo’ real.

T’il next time.

I’m currently lounging in Paris with Neko, who apparently is going through a “no hug” strike. This cat, as much as I love her to nano bits, does get annoying with her overwhelming desire to give me hugs. You might say that I have never been good with pets, ask one of my ex-flatmates, but I have been nothing but a model semi-pet owner with Neko. But try as I do or don’t, it’s next to impossible to give her “hugs” whenever she wants one. If you’re not a cat connoisseur like I am not, you might not understand the fickleness of this stinky shit specie. She’ll want one when you don’t want one and she will flat out fall in your face refuse to give you one and I’m left with nothing but a pair of lazy arms.

But t’is not the point that I wanted to further discuss this post. I’m simply quite outraged by the treatment I received at a football stadium on the British Isles. Although this post may incriminate yours gingerly, I know I’m decadently right on the main topic and therefore I am going to abuse my power to rant out what transpired that shifty evening.

That day, I was in London having lunch with J-Ro. She was enthusiastic as usual about my presence as I was beating myself into a unabashed submission for agreeing with my internal self that the lunch was on me. I have explained to her that as much as she wants to reap the benefits of her being included on my Pulitzer Prize winning speech, I wanted to monetarily pre-reward her for her success as a potential future position as the 2nd Iron Lady. She looks Asian, but she’s got pastiness running in her veins.

After a surprisingly un-curry like Ma-po Tofu, she settled down to change the course of history by Twilight Zoning an incident which shook the world for about 2 minutes. Correct me if I’m completely off, but a suited man in his 40’s or early 50’s was jamming it to the Kinks, rather jamming it into some poor young soul with his Chuck Norris. What we can deduce from the splendid jacket he was wearing, this young man who was getting the beating of his lifetime achievement award was working for the always lovely London Transport or London Tourism association. For unknown reason known to perhaps the suited man’s grandmother in law, this suit man started to pummel this Transport/Tourism man into a post-pummelled lump. As astonishing this incident was to J-Ro, she was more astonished about the fact that none of the other passenger helped this Transport/Tourism man out. Not a single one to say, “Hey old timer, can you take it easy on that young man from the Transport/Tourism association” or “Here, have some calcium”. Although she was in the scene and she’s no slouch as she has won multiple chain smoking awards in various ex-Soviet countries, J-Ro decided that it’s better to have that man have a free face transplant than her breaking one of her nails.

You laugh? Shit man, I’m a decent man with a 2 set of 5 nice fingernails and I’m not going to bust out my Krav Maga moves on a situation like this. You never know these days as this suited man in his 40’s – 50’s might have lost his job the previous day due to his paedophilic downloads on his work computer, came home and the wife was banging his grandfather’s urn, his two kids have left a note that they were getting married in the depth of Kilimanjaro where inter-breeding is recommended national past time, and to wrap it all up, he managed to catch the late show of Falling Down. This mother fucker could be strapped to the 9’s and we wouldn’t even know it. So, don’t you be laughing at her unless you’re the true deal with Bill Mcneal, aka Spiderman (completely random).

With that story in hand, I went to “a” stadium to shoot a Champions League match. Just so you know from the get-go, I have never had problems with the people who were working there. NEVER. After the match was over, I packed my stuff, and stuffed my stuff, and stuff was all around. At this moment, I was positioned with the raucous Scousers who came into the Bridge to get their beer belly’s churned like a deranged butter. So, tensions were high, to say the least. Abramovich’s army were dispersed 10 minutes ago and the Liverpoodians had to wait another 10 so that they won’t have to sit next to each other at a local pub.

Since it’s Champions League, there is this magical board with magical names of sponsors on them. Sony, Samsung, Sri Lankan air. You name it, it’s most likely there. I hopped over to the otherside of the boards, which landed me on the warning tracks. The exit/entrance was on the other end of the pitch and it was natural for me to head towards that general direction. Oh yes, I did take my bib off as I though it was evident that I was a photographer with a huge bag on me as well as not sporting anything red. And I looked like an Asian man who was lost in a maze that was the dumb low life piece of shit security guards who get jobs like this so that they have a legitimate reason to hassle you for the smallest of infractions.

Just so you understand absolutely mind numbingly clearly, I never had problems with any sort of security guards. Yes, they could be low life. Yes, they probably left school at the age of 4. Yes, their mother probably is a whore. Yes, their father is probably their brother. But I have been courteous to them and they have always been courteous to me back. The nicest ones were the people of colour and ones who were well past their retirement age. I’m trying not to use the colour and age thing here, but the truth is that most security guards who work in the British Isles that I have seen (strangely excluding Scotland) have been the cookie cutter kind of this sort.

With some chants inducing Liverpool pride based on their long history and winning the Champions League definitely not last season, I was confronted by a scary looking mother fucker. For some reason, I was glued to his multiple pierced ear as well as his bald head. I also believe he was missing some teeth. Type of person who probably supports the national front, has at least 8 children out of wedlock, and definitely doesn’t like to be confronted other than his leukemia suffering brother who probably is his father. He asked me in an unfriendly tone where my bib was. If he could use his beer and hate goggles, I’m sure he could see that I had it plain and obvious in my left hand. I told him that I wanted to leave the stadium. For some reason he became very agitated by my comment. He demanded I show my Chelsea accreditation card, which is required if you’re shooting a Champions League match. Since the match was OVER and since I didn’t think it was a big deal to take off my bib AFTER the match, I had my card in my bag. To say the least, this man was giving me mad grief and I was getting nervous. I rumbled into my bag, produced the card, and he unkindly snatched it out of my hand. As a reaction to his deft use of his pikey hands, I said again that all I wanted to do was to just get out of the stadium.

Then the impossible happen.

There is always a line of touching when it comes to confrontation. If you are not Sir Bruce Lee, you don’t commence or resolve a confrontation with your 10in punch. Rather, you try to use your mouth in a non-Tyson way.

The egg man suddenly took hold of my jacket and started to push me towards one of the exit. “If you want to leave the fucking stadium, I get you fuck out”. Something with a lot of “fuck” in it. And all I wanted to do was to leave the stadium. He starts manhandling me with his Aryan arms and I’m telling him that all I wanted to do is to leave this damn stadium. He gets more aggro as we near the nearest exit, which I didn’t know existed and as we walk down the corridor with no one present, I’m thinking to myself, “Please just don’t hit my face, my glasses cost more than your alimony fees to your ex boyfriends”. He pushes me out of the door and a breath of fresh air and slams shut the door behind me. Stunned and in disbelief, I have gotten what I wanted. Really, the only concern that I had was that whether that sad example of a human being was going to report my innocent ass, but then I thought if he does, I will make sure they get my story and not his. Although I can honestly say that one thing I did wrong was to not wear the bib when exiting the stadium, but I have been here more than 10 times and I have always taken my bib off after the match and walked to the exit without getting my expensive jacket touched by an egg head.

The most disturbing thing is, why didn’t the other guards or the other photographers help me? Is it because they were scared? Is it because they didn’t want to get involved? Is it because I’m too sexy to be true?

God knows, but it took me back to J-Ro’s story that afternoon.

We all wait for a Spiderman, but we also know that waiting for one is easier than being one.

T’il next time.