Taro’s aunt Tatan got all hipster and bought a bubblecar. Cute. But Strange.
In Taro’s genkan. I think this is the shipping box for a Meinl djembe or other African drum. Not really African since they’re made in Thailand, but in this great age of ameliorization, why be picky?
Taken, of course, at Taro’s house. I wouldn’t keep this dreck in my collection. I mean, I bought the Bee Gees and Air Supply separately, thank you!
Coincidence of coincedences, this movie was on the tube last night and I was determined to watch as much of is as possible… JT is soooo lucky he did Pulp Fiction because at least Gen Y kids won’t associate him with the GAYEST MOVIE EVER MADE.
This is Taro’s wife’s cat. Miki is the meanest fucking cat in the world, besides the three-legged one with rotting skin that I saw pounce on a rat in Osaka a few years ago. It is so fucking mean, I saw it hiss at its own shadow once. One time it wouldn’t get out of the bathroom when I slept over at their house, and I came this close to pissing on its head out of spite. This is seriously one of the most fun cats to kick because whether you like cats or not, it will hiss and claw and generally make you feel like kicking it more and more as time goes on. Every time I see it I want to buy a big Rottweiler. And I generally hate killkillkill dogs. I like the intellectual ones that will look around and make sure nobody is looking before licking balls.
The cheapest cure for hangovers in Spain. 500 yen bottle on sale at Yamada-ya in Nara.
This is one of the cheapest escort services I have ever seen in Japan. This poster was attached to an empty oil drum in the deserted parking lot of the semi-Autobacs “Hashiriya no Tengoku” on Hanna Doro in Nara (I was waiting for them to open to get a line on some used Orion amps – the aluminum cases had short marks so I passed). I wonder if some bored housewife, lacking any startup capital whatsoever, decided to launch a business from home and hand-wrote these posters… She needs to get real about the pricing, though. Nobody in their right minds would go for this. Especially since the phone number is toll-free… So, like, 1998, ya know? All serious escort services use prepaid cellphones, dear.
Just put Haloscan-powered comments on Taro’s blog. I hope he starts using it instead of that ghetto BBS for daily posts.
I’m typing this on my baby U3 Vaio while sipping on a tasty bev. They are calling me an otaku but the soft glow of liquid crystal helps me block out all that. Ether. Buddha like ether.
Post more, T!
All bow to the king of drive-thru car wash “Ultra-sheen Rain Repellant” settings! 800 yen every time I go!
The masterminds at Mickey D’s Japan bring you… Shrimp and Chicken Nuggets!
Three deep-fried shrimp paste nuggets
Three chicken McNuggets
And all-new packaging!
Only sold as a set with the “Chinese-styled braised pork in rice bun” burger!
If only I were joking…
Pardon my French, but Bon Fucking Appetit.
THE FALL OF MAX PAYNE.
This is totally the shit. The original Max Payne game was groundbreaking with the first bullet-time system, actual plot and storyline, and non-stop action. MP2 is much of the same, but darker. Better graphics. I don’t really care that it’s more of an expansion pack than an entirely new game, because the first one definitely fits in my top 5 PC games of all time. My biggest bitch about the gameplay in this release is the cyclic rate of the Colt Commando – the akimbo Berettas are faster for god’s sake!
Hello, ass-clown. Nice try. Starbucks doesn’t serve “anything tasty” (though if they did you’d probably drink it). Try again, this time input something that Starbucks actually serves.
Reserved, fools! It’s too late to come up with the brilliant copy “Gourmet Mush” on your mushroom packaging. Interestingly enough, “mush” is slang for “magic mushroom” in street Japanese (that’s a bit o’ underground wasei-eigo I doubt you will find on any other site). Whoever designed this package ate a few too many, I think.
Warnings printed on the protective bag of the printer we set up yesterday. Surreal.
Incidentally, Cosmic Buddha’s GF recently shared a scary story about a women’s restroom at the rear of a temple she visited in Thai a couple years ago. Apparently there was a dead rat floating in the barrel used for holding water used for “flushing”. She fled in abject horror but didn’t have the heart to tell the nice monk who was showing their group around the temple.
Disclaimer: This temple obviously did not fall under the authority of Cosmic Buddha. We have flushing toilets at all of our temples, for both sexes.
Sometimes working in a factory office with constipated old men really has its downs. I have been waiting to take a crap for a couple of hours now. Its not that there are no stalls free – in fact, I could have been done with my business two hours ago if that were the only concern. The big problem is the stench. The stench that even I, the veteran of a thousand outhouses ripened by the summer sun and open pits at outdoor concerts, the back of temples, etc., cannot bear for more than two seconds. I wish there were a menu especially geared for those over 45 years of age (a full third who work here at my company fall into this bracket) at the cafeteria here, taking the odiferousness of feces during work hours into consideration. Because every time I work up the nerve to head to the bathroom (3 times in the past 90 minutes), I get a whiff of semi-digested ebi-fry (deep-fried prawns) from waaaay down the hall and immediately turn back to the sanctuary of stale cigarette smoke and pasty salarysweat in my office.
To my fellow workers, some of who I know are surreptitiously viewing this blog under orders from corporate HQ: Laying atom bombs in the john are uncalled for in this day and age. I surrender unconditionally in advance; just let me do my business. Soon.
I get the strangest notions in my head about what would make an interesting subject at those godforsken hours.
Crazy cool image, but I have no idea how this effect was created. Special things happen in the wee hours of the night.
The lamp next to my bed is powered with Chinese electronics and a Russian lightbulb that burns long into the night, a veritable beacon of perestroika.