Eat Drink Man Otaku

The Day Dave Stood Still for Music

2010-02-23T13:13:00.004+11:00

There can exist no more subjective experience than that of music. The staccato baseline of the Chilli Peppers, the Soul grinding rhythm of Nirvana, the bestial tear of the ACDC riff, the roar of Black Sabbath, the acid laced lyrics of the Beatles, and the London Calling of the Clash. For a guy whose highest achievement in Music class was failing to belt out Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, I am surprised how much music has actually influenced not only my life philosophy, but how I identify with people around me.

How can I quantify my head bobs, how can I turn my foot tapping, finger pointing, neck distending beats into words?

Unfortunately, the music of today is no longer the passionate cry of those living on the fringe of society, but rather carbon copies of distilled popularity contests with the longevity of a carton of milk left in the sun. So what make my brain tick? What flicks that switch in my head that shuts off my public facade and turn me into a raging, screaming machine crying my throat coarse midst a wave of fleshy, sweating human bodies?

The problem with contemporary Pop music lies in its lack of depth - Pop is ambiance to cover up the hum of the refrigerator or the grunt of the engine.

I can't seem to put myself into Pop music. A large part of my music is respect, worship, passion - how can I put so much of myself into an industry that milks its own trends tit-dry? How can I worship the willful idolatry of perceived hipness and marketed self expression? I may as well go to the zoo and masturbate over a mountain of monkeys aping eachother over the newest and latest innovations introduced by the zookeeper.

So I listen to a wide range of music, I love music in general, but; the hipster music of the blacks, the fish faced gook music of Asia, the soulless mewling of lounge/cocktail/club have no purchase on my soul. They fail to move me even if they bob my head and flash perfect 36 DDs in my face.

Okay, maybe not the entire truth. The tit-ass combination of R&B or the lolita-complex music of Asia does keep me keenly interested - albeit for all the wrong reasons.

I am going to evaluate two concerts I attended recent. The first is the Jay Chou Concert, the second the AC/DC concert. One I went grudgingly, wishing to give it the benefit of the doubt. The other I went passionately, a dream come true. There will be bias, there will be harsh words, there will be prose, but at the end, you will come to see the difference between vile idolatry and faithful worship.

So - Jay Chou. Biggest, brightest star of the Chinese/Asian pop scene. He sings, he dances, he plays music in every style. His 'critics' call him a genius, a pioneer, a superman of music that has brought change and innovation to the stale snail race that is Asian Pop. Wow. This guy sounds pretty damn awesome. I got some free tickets from my friends to his sold out concert - he certainly seems to deserve benefit of the doubt.

The concert plays, the music plays. I was left hopelessly confused. So many themes, so many costumes, so much bullshit that I thought it was some kinds of Boy from Oz ripoff Asia edition. Who the fuck is this guy? Innovation? His catalog was like a shopping cart that crashed into the 'Whats Popular" warehouse. First some generic Chinese style music, than some generic imitation of Indie Rock, then some imitation of Latin music where he did not even dance to his own song, then some imitation of ancient Chinese classic music, then some imitation of kindergarten music involving holding hands and walking down a field of fucking flowers. I shit you not. THIS is innovation? THIS is class? THIS is the great yellow hope of Asian music? The emo haircut faggot fails to even touch the helm of barely known western artists like Anti-Flag or home brew bands like Eskimo Joe. He is like a super synthesis of pop, some kind of uber-mensch production that like a bloated black hole has consumed every revenue generating format and spat out a fetal discharge self titled an artist. The fucker even considers himself to the progenitor of a new Asian Fusion style. I quote. "They say I've been standing still ... but this is the music I want, and I don't see what I want by moving ahead."^[18] To demonstrate his point, he named his 2006 album Still Fantasy after his 2001 album Fantasy. His inability to sing pronunciation has been criticized as "mumbling"^[19] which he also insisted will not change. So this guy is proud because his inability to improve is a merit and he can tell his critics to go suck themselves because he is some monstrous cash generator. Nice. Viva la Music. He is also considered one of only three artists on the Asia TIME's list of most influential top 500. God help us all.

On the other hand, here's what I experienced at the AC/DC concert. The stage opened; a heavy, soul crushing riff of the baseline belted from the hands of Cliff Williams made me sit on the edge of my seat. There was on costumes for this concert, no gimmicks, just Angus in his classic school boy uniform and Brian in the classic slingback hat. Then Angus begins, the camera focused on his hands as it caresses the electric Gibson SG. He makes love to it, he trashes it, he crushes it, belts the strings, swinging notes through the air in sonnets. I am wowed, I am stirred, I shout at the top of my voice. ANGUS! ANGUS! The hits keep coming. Then the all familiar riff of Thunderstruck starts. My mind goes blank. I am taken to one of my earliest musical memories. I am sitting in front of my Pentium 1. I have downloaded a clip of Thunderstruck. It plays, and the sound of ANGUS! ANGUS! Fills my room. The camera pans, and the riff begins. Its epic. Its awesome. Its amazing. As a teenager I stare at the screen, sitting at the edge of my seat.

I only had two ten dollar speakers but I was sucked into the music body and soul. Now I sit in the stadium, the same riff playing but it's loud; its savage; it tears through me like a torrent. Angus performs his classic duck walk, the crowd around me goes wild, the cheering is so loud but the thrashing of the electric SG pierces the roar. Thunder! I shout. THUNDER! I scream. The baseline kicks in, the drums hit home. I have died and gone to a better place. No more timetables, no more worries about the future, no more nagging from the old man, no more marriage meetings. I am in heaven via the Highway to Hell. This is it.

For a guy stuck between gook Confucianism and western Individualism, my escape is music. Ever since my virgin ears heard Californication on the radio as a teenager I was hooked. I need music that inspires, and musicians that I respect. Currently, I love Muse. Go Check em out. This video was before they were even famous. Now - they are EPIC.

Chapter One and Two Combined, Edited

2009-11-11T11:31:00.001+11:00

The Major and I sat in a dinky shadowy cell below the prison complex under Bridge Street. Above us the streets hummed with the most metropolitan of machines carrying the most cosmopolitan of people. The droning of internal combustion motor cars jarred the foot falls of one-man rickshaws.

The Major was slowly working his way through a hipflask of Whiskey. A red faced Englishman of mixed kingdom descent, he is the new regional inspector and superintendent for the Bund. The most prominent feature anyone noticed of the Major was his piercing aquamarine eyes. They were a mismatched set, for his face was puffed and large, almost swollen and too voluptuous for a man. This is not to say that the Major was portly, for he could move with surprising speed and voracity for a man of his bearing. Indeed the Major was widely respected as an expert if un-gentlemanly fencer, and has quite the reputation among the ladies for his prowess with either sword or bobby stick. The Major was old English through and through, and arrogance bred between the hawkish nose and predatory brows of a cruel man. Yet the Major's eyes softened his expression, giving him the guise of a jolly fellow. The light of the electric lamp reflected in their azure depth spoke only of sympathy and forgiveness, but I knew the man to be above any and all sentiments. The Major by my knowledge was as viperous as the taipan, whose venom is considered foremost of the modern world.

"Well Charles? Made up your mind yet?" His voice died away in echoes.
The prisoner seemed unconscious. I knelt and placed a finger under the prisoner's chin, measuring the gulping pulse of his arteries. My fingers drew away with dark sticky blood. I expertly wiped the offending appendage on my surgical apron and pulled back the prison's eyes. The pupils contracted as the light above him flared with electric brilliance. A small piece of cool metal beneath his nostrils became opaque with condensation.

"He's still alive Major." I replied wearily, "It is my professional opinion that you cease interrogating this man at once lest you have nothing left to interrogate."
The Major spread his hands as through exasperated by the effort.
"Do I look like I want to be here Doctor?"

"Old Allenby of the Telephone Corp is holding a party at the American Club you know, I dare say his lovely daughters are attending."

"It is neither your place nor mine to judge Major."I replied sulkily, "As a civil servant of the British Empire, I can tell you right now..."

The Major's eyes gazed into mine with all the sincerity of a hyena at a wounded gazelle. I inspected the dusty, sooty floor of the prison. The saw dust was old, and it was smeared with bloody mud. My sleeve also had the same smear of dark red oxide. The cell stank.

"We are not condoned to perform torture, and testimonials extracted as such are not useful in the court of law."I stammered without looking up.

The prisoner mouthed something. I could not make out what he said. I never did learn the native tongue, having seen no need for it to ply my trade. The locals always supplied me with willing interpreters. The Major signed, as if I were the cause of the prisoner's lack of cooperation.

"Wei, ask him again what he knows." The Major commanded. From the recess of the underground bloc appeared a young native man. He was dressed in the crisp blue of the Treaties Police regiment. The stripes on his shoulders said Sergeant. "I am not a violent man Charles. I can't stomach this and we're late enough for Lord Allenby's tea as it is."

The prisoner gargled something in his native tongue as Wei approached, his body spoke of great terror. My chest twisted with sympathy. As Wei crouched to greet the man eye to eye, I noticed the dry, dark stains on Wei's otherwise white gloves. The same brown flecks spoke volumes on his uniform.

Wei said something to the man in the Shanghainese dialect. He is asking the man if he knew a Mr Du.

The prisoner seemed reluctant to answer but then Wei placed a soiled hand over his, and with great firmness took the man's hand in his. The prisoner shuddered. His entire frame like some great force had set the man to jittering. When Wei next spoke, it was in English.

"Did Mr Du supply you with this Opium?"He demanded of the prisoner with only a hint of accent. Wei produced a wooden snuff box no larger than my palm. He waved it in front of the prisoner like a talisman. The prisoner's eyes followed the box. I drew back. The Major had the same bored look on his face.

The prisoner opened one bleary eye and his mouth moved. I could not make out the words. Nevertheless it was evident by the look of defiance on his face. He would not yield. A moment of silence passed among the interrogators. To my surprise Wei patted the man on the shoulder, as though the prisoner had completed some arduous task.

Wei stood and turned to face the Major.
"He has confessed." Wei said solemnly. "Du has supplied him with the illicit Opium."

Behind him the prisoner evidently understood what Wei declared. He trashed against his bindings, attempting to kick Wei. His legs were out of reach however.
"You are certain Sergeant?" The Major asked.

His blue eyes were steely in the electric lamplight.
"Yes sir, very much sir. I will have the report for you shortly Sir."
"Well then let us attend the much anticipated tea."

"I would hate to keep Lord Allenby waiting too much longer."
The communication between Wei and the Major was obvious even to me. I felt a knot in my stomach and bile in my throat. The prisoner squirmed in a frenzied fury. It was my duty to do something. I coughed.

"Major, I do believe it is my responsibility as the attaché to the consul to... "The Major stopped me short. He hooked my arm in his and moved. I was dragged like ragdoll to his gravitational girth. The prisoner gave a long wail of utter and pure despair. His cry echoed between the buttresses of the prison like some deathly harpy croaking its last.

"We'll leave the monkeys to sort each other out."

"You look terrible Charles, let us refresh and change into something more suitable for the Club."
I looked back at the cell. Wei gave a deep reverent bow. He was sending me on my way. I wanted to help the prisoner; but already the dim light of the cell had consumed all in darkness.

The clang of the cell gates gave way to the monstrous stir of Shanghai city. A motor car was waiting for us outside and called for the Major by name. Still dazed and my mind full of the last desperate wails of the prisoner I entered in a daze, and the car set off against the malingering sun towards the French Concession.

Half a century ago this same place would be a quagmire, and we would be stomping through frogs and lobsters vying for supremacy among the tresses of swamp grass. Now it is one of the most populous cities in the world, sixth to London with its multitude of eight million souls, Shanghai pooled at three million or so.

I arrived in Shanghai in the spring of 1931, upon the deathbed of the once glorious Manchurian Empire. By then the city was a blooming hibiscus, although I had never considered it more than what it really was – the corpulent blossom of the titanic Rafflesia.

I had originally supposed this Eden to be my escape. It had drawn many like me who fatigued by the chaffing bosoms of our London had escaped unto the exotic Yellow Land, the oyster of the Orient. Yet the sins of our fathers seem to follow my people wherever we go, and yet again I find myself in another prison, another helpless witness to the slaughter of lambs.

Beside me, the Major gazed out longingly into the harbour. There among a multitude of vessels sailed the behemoths visages of our finest steam ocean liners. Beside them floating like a swarm of upturned cicadas were multitudes of Sampans – small Chinese vessels that traded fruit, fish and scavenged bounties of the China Sea.

"They live on the boats all their lives you know." I pointed to the small Sampans and Junks that drifted among the gigantic hulls of international liners. "They live and die on their boats even in this day and age."

The Major snickered and felt his pocket for his flask. Remembering that he had drained it previously, he grunted and stretched his plump neck uncomfortably.
"Barbarians - the lot of them."

"You should take a boat across the bund on Sunday night." My eyes were drawn to the dark red stains still lingering like a bookmark on my sleeves. "The sight of a thousand lanterns lighting up the entire harbour is quite the dazzling sight."

Our motor car powered and weaved through the six lane thoroughfare of Consul Street. The British Consulate loomed across the Public Gardens handsomely. It was a testament to the power of Britain that we constructed the most marvellous city in the world on a derelict swamp. Across Soochow Creek was the Nanking Boulevard of the Bund commercial district. The harbour entrance into Shanghai was one of the most dashing civic welcomes known to modern civilisation. Large park spaces dotted by ladies both native and foreign stood among shaded lanes and coy parkland that flanked either side of the main buildings. Here the Consulate and the Custom house, two of the most striking and important buildings in Shanghai proper stood like twin giants watching over the prospering city. The bank houses of corporations such as the Hong Kong Bank and the Shanghai Bank all have their stake on this prime estate. Atop the white perch of the Custom House sat a clock that is seconded only by our very own Big Ben – this one aptly named by the locals as the Big Ching - the latter word a local translation of the pictogram depicting the defunct Manchuria Empire.

A large statue of Sir Robert Hart can be seen as we passed the Customs Building. Sir Hart was once the guardian to the heir apparent of the last line of Manchurian emperors - he was also the Inspector General of Shanghai in its early days. Sir Heart was a man whose actions paved way for the building of this very city.

South among the stretch of Nanking Road is the Shanghai Club, the favourite haunt of old expats and well to do businessmen. It hosted the 'longest bar in the world' as yet contested by any, but enjoyed the most success during the years when our United State trading partners abolished alcohol in their own nation, and the sailors rushed into Shanghai like packs of wolves. The Consul tells me that those days were so chaotic what with sailors and loose law enforcement; to be 'Shanghai-ed" was to wake up after a wasted evening on a ship set sail without knowing how one got there. Indeed, a gut feeling told me that the Major would be far more interested in the Shanghai Club than another other culturally significant event I could prescribe him.

"Ah... The fabled Shanghai Club..."

The Major sighed lustily.
"Perhaps an inspection of the facilities Major?" I anticipated. I would much rather see the Major drunk off his rock than back at the prison.
"Such is the nature of my... our dedication to her majesty's subjects!"

The Major roared. My ears rang. He slapped my thigh with a meaty paw.

"You are a good man Charles."

I forced my tongue into silence, seeing the Major's red jolly face loom outside the window as we passed the club. "Of course Major, it would be a pleasure.

I pulled my sleeve over the white collar of my dress shirt. The prints of dried blood were so vivid I could make out the prisoner's fingerprints. "

"Charles."

"Yes Major?"I replied.
"You physicians are too soft hearted Charles."

"Why do you say that Major?" I asked, but his was a statement.

"Don't ever forget that we are invaders Charles. We are colonists. Just like every other piece of land we claimed as our own, we are not welcome here. We do not 'live' here Charles, we are just pirates here to nab what we can."

"A bleak view Major," I reply, confused by his sudden nostalgia.

"We are fighting a war Charles, and don't you forget that."

"The rebellion is over years ago Major. We also have a treaty with the Japanese who has consented to sparing the international settlement and the Concession."

"It has only begun my deluded Doctor, and London will neither bow to the natives here nor their yellow belly cousins."

"I am here to see to our best interests' doctor, and I'll be damned to see Du rise above the rest of our own people."

"I am not a violent man Charles, but don't you dare step on my toes again."

"Very good Major," I replied sulkily. "God help us all."

I had prepared to give the Major a well recounted tour of the city as we made our way to my residence in the French Concession; his dark sentiments however weighed oh my mind and the remaining minutes of our journey went silently despite the roaring commerce of Nanking Road.

***

Lord Allenby's estate was situated near the old race course, but presently we made our way along Foochow Road and towards the American Club. The project was a paradox of new and old, the buildings of a French Colonial make, with tall columns and intricately decorated sandstone bricks build in the late eighteen hundreds. The recent decades however had seen the area revitalised by the sickening amount of wealth stealing into Shanghai from every inch of the Orient, with every bank declaring their vaults taxed to the brim and needing new buildings simply to house their success. As such, the Shanghai Municipal Council had redeveloped the area, and now standing on Kiang-se Road and Honan Road intersections are the Metropolitan Hotel, The Hamilton House, as well as the Council Chambers and the Central Police station. Each massive construct loomed ever higher than its neighbours, and on certain hours of the day the entire avenue was dwarfed in the shadow of its own glory.

The entrances of the American Club were massive column of Romanesque statues that directed visitors into the foyer. Reflecting perhaps the more modern thinking of the Americans themselves, the membership of the club were open to both non nationals and select locals of particular wealth, even a few noted women. A host of Negro and Orient waiters in suit and dress-pants bowed deeply as we exited the motor car. The driver was directed by a valet, and well groomed pages speaking accented English followed on our heels as we entered. In the grand foyer stood a large statue of George Washington, both in commemoration of the American national event, as well as a reminder to visitors of the popular Annual Washington Ball held in July.

The Major, recently appointed and recently arrived in Shanghai was a popular figure at these parties. The bourgeois of Shanghai noble life differed vastly from those back in London. Here money was everything, and as such the oligarchy of the pearl of Asia measured each other by wealth rather than lineage. There was hardly a lord or lady to be found in their ranks, yet their wealth in Shanghai spoke with succinct distinction. As such the Major, whom I am lead to believe to be a close relative of the Marquis of Queensbury or relation to that pedigree cut a tight figure in the circles of false genteels whom likened themselves to, but seldom was; anyone of any lineage.

As far the nouveau riche go, the American club was filled with industrialists and artists, the best and loudest of Shanghai's crème de la crème, tip of the top, apple of the eye; peacocks among peasants.

Through the foyer we went and up the flights of stairs with their dazzling multitudes of chandlers. The Chinese were wonderful craftsmen, and not an inch of the Club was not without some decor of sculpt or polish that reflected the glowing orbs of hung crystal.

We entered the antechamber with our following of pages, and as we ascended glasses were raised towards the Major. From the multitudes of cocktail suits and folded silk dresses Lord Allenby erupted with an almighty "What ho! Major!"

I made a detour towards the balcony and pilfered a rogue sherry from a passing waiter. Behind me the sound of applause and the crisp foot fall of leather boots could be heard herding towards the ecstatic Major. Outside the day was dying, and a rosy glow hung over the Shanghai horizon. Unlike England Shanghai had the extremes of both winter and summer, and the spring air was but a prelude to the sticky hotness of monsoonal summer that lurked around the corner.

A few ladies had taken up residence in the balcony garden but there were still a few empty tables lingering among the sea of dresses, each more lavishing than its predecessor. One face lifted from the crowd with a look of recognition. I recognized her as Sybil, the wife of Mr Westwood whom came into his fortunes in timber and shipbuilding.

"Doctor Davis!"

"Do join us for a drink."

Mrs Westwood chirped. She was a delightful woman, but terribly obsessed with money.
"Mrs Westwood," I took a step in her direction and took up residence upon their table. There were other ladies present. Mrs Wentworth was of the General Electric Company. Mrs Dorbelein was of the Bullion Brokers. The women of our decadent court only spoke to those of similar wealthy distinction.

"I do hope Mr Du will be along shortly."

"I find him terribly frightening."

"Not to mention fascinating."

"I do hope he will demonstrate his Chiromancy again!"

"Do you think he will bring Miss Nina along?"

"I dare hope not! She's far too impertinent for a party like this! Lord Allenby has enough scandal as it is!"

"I heard that Mr Du is going to become an honorary member of the German Club."

"Oh the Germans are such spoil sports what with the war and all that; it's a shocking surprise they even have the gall to be still in the city!"

"I dare say Mrs Westwood, that you have a very fair necklace."

"Ah, it pleases me that you noticed Mrs Wentworth, Jerald ordered it from Mr Dufour."

I look up for a moment. The necklace was beautiful indeed. Precious stones had been set into a polished crescent arc. It hug snugly on Mrs Westwood and reflected her eyes beautifully.

"Mr Dufour of three-fourteen Bridge Street?"

"Indeed Mrs Wentworth."

"You husband must love you very much Mrs Westwood."

"I wouldn't care for a husband that paid too much attention Mrs Wentworth."

"It would be horribly boring if Mr Dorbelein guarded me jealously, why I would be bored out of my mind."

"It is terribly scandalous how jealous husbands can get now days Mrs Westwood."

"I wouldn't know Mrs Wentworth. I rarely ever seen mine, but I know he loves me for the little gifts that men so adorably lavish upon their loved ones."

Mrs Westwood's dress was sheer. It was the style for the upcoming summer with it sweltering heat. Mayhap Mrs Westwood wanted to show off her necklace, that she exposed her white shoulders. I found myself mesmerised by the shimmering of the metal against the voluptuous curve of her significant cleavage.

"Care for a Manzanilla Sherry Doctor? Lord Allenby had it imported from Sanlúcar de Barrameda."

A white gloved finger prodded my arm. I stir with a flustered look. My face flushed. The women laugh. I do not laugh with them but there is a strange calmness when I sit here. The nouveau rich women upheld the mask of respectability religiously. Yet they were so obviously shallow and callous, like perfect reflections of our degenerate existence upon the fat of Asia. I was among the most honest of company.

I engaged with the ladies for a moment more then took the excuse of refilling my drink to excuse myself. As I entered the double doors to the tea chamber opens and a Chinese man entered with an entourage of two tall heavy framed Russians. The White Russians had arrived in Shanghai some half decade prior, fleeing from their Bolshevik cousins in the north. Few arrived with money, and many if not all were forced to find employment within the international quarters. Those well versed in the European languages became clerks and foremen, while those less intellectually inclined became thugs and bodyguards for well to do entrepreneurs wanting a show of force. The most common employ for the immigrants however were the dancing parlours and burlesque shows, where the fair skinned Russian girls had set the bar. Impressive as the two brutes were, all eyes were on the thin framed Chinese man who stood in the middle. This was the infamous Mr Du.

Du Yue-Sheng stood as the most influential Chinese man in the entire city of Shanghai. He was not only one of the wealthiest men on the avenue, but also the unspoken Lord of the Shanghai underworld. The king of the Green Gang Mafia was the Opium Magnate, the Gangster Chief, and known to all as the Al Capone of Shanghai. He was a man with a finger in every pie and a hand in every pocket. During the capture of Shanghai by the Generalissimo Chiang, Du had amassed over five thousand men to defend the foreign settlement areas – for which he was awarded the Order of the Brilliant Jade by the British Consul; then Du was awarded the Commission of Opium Suppression Bureau awarded for his services to the French Concession. Subsequently when the Superintendent of Chinese Customs Loh Lien Kwe attempted to seize Du's opium shipment and drive him from power, he was gunned down in front of his own family. Woe unto any who would stand in Du's way. Both Consuls of England and France needed Du to control the Chinese gangs in their settlements, and the Customs house needed Du to continue the flow of endless Opium into and out of the Orient. The city is a deaf machine, and it needed Du to turn its cogs. The mass of Chinese now flooding into the wet works of the International and French Concessions made it impossible for the foreign invaders to maintain their lifestyle without them. The docks are flooded with Chinese workers, the factories fill with Chinese labour, every shop and extravagance is provided for by the Chinse people. Du was untouchable in Shanghai, and his presence is the one guarantee of any social event.

At once the attention lavished upon the Major turned to the gangster lord. The man greeted his foreign counterparts each to each, speaking in turn through French, English and German. I had heard that Du made his beginnings as the son of a fisherman; but seeing the smoothness upon which he impresses his contemporaries in their own native tongues; this was difficult to believe. The gangster lord had a face that seemed to be hewed out of stone, it was expressive but at the same time cold, as though the flesh barely understood the gestures it made. He had narrow eyes common to his people, but a strong square jaw and unusually large full lips. What defined Du however were his ears that protruded from the flanks of his face like two large fans. I had heard the natives refer to him as "Big Ears Du" albeit the implications of such a nickname I knew not.

At long last the Major made his way to the front of the line, and his benevolent blue eyes met the stone cold gaze of the Chinaman that seemed miniscule beside him. The Major extended a hand from his uniform, his palm pink from the liberal drinking of sherry and port. Du extended from the folds of his satin China dress pants a hand as white as bone and as skeletal as the Major's was meaty. The room held its breath as the hands clasped; the thin bone China of Du's meeting the pink hot flesh of the Major. They shook.

"Titans gather my friends; shall we assail Mt Olympus then?
Lord Allenby exploded as if on cue with a bout of high pitched laughter.
"Your jests are excellent as always Counsellor Du..."

Counsellor – Du was the chairman of the Opium board. Currently he is also the French Municipal Council President. Lord Allenby roared. Du was a wolf in sheep's clothing. The Major was a hyena disguised as a guard dog. The Major and the Gangster were natural enemies.

"I trust you have had an eventful morning."

The Major barked loudly, enough to silence the uncomfortably forced laughter of Lord Allenby. The Major is referring to the arrests he made at the docks. It is there that he retrieved the prisoner.
"Certain trouble at the docks, indeed."

Du's voice was reedy and flat.

"May I be of any service?"
"I would not dream of it Major, you are too important a busy man to deal with such trivial matters."
"It is my duty to the crown to keep the peace."
"Mere upstarts, Major, there is nothing for you to worry about."
"Upstarts are the precise worry that I am all about Mr Du."
"Yet this is a city of upstarts Major, we live but for our dreams."
"Dreams are not for fulfilling Mr Du, which is why they are dreams."
"Surely not Major... this is the city of dreams, the Oyster of the Orient."
"The Oyster farm is already spoken for, Mr Du."
"Yet the farmer must pay the landlord, Major."

Lord Allenby was sweating buckets. His face was the colour of pork liver.
"Gentlemen?" He pleaded.

A knock at the door interrupted the tension of the moment. A messenger in the uniform of a constable saluted. It was a messenger for the Major. The Major withdrew his azure gaze from Du. He took the missive from the hands of the nervous native policemen. He read it quickly and passed it to me. The missive read as follows.

Prisoner 249 confirmed deceased by self inflicted asphyxiation

Your Orders?

-Wei

The Major quivered. His face flushed. I did not enjoy the Major's company in anyway, but I could not let the Major make a scene. I placed a hand on his forearm. The Major looked into my eyes with his cold blue eyes. I looked away.

Behind us the musicians began to play another tune. Lord Allenby was trying his best to lighten the mood. The Major turned to dismiss his constable. Du raised a toast to the Major. My grip on the Major's forearm tightened. After a momentary pause the Major toasted likewise.
"Well played for a Monkey."

The Major spoke in my direction. I replied nothing.

In a way, the Orients had slowly been gaining what little of their land we took during the Opium Wars. At the present moment, there are five British, two Americans, two Japanese and Five Chinese members at the council of the International Settlement. Even the French with their abhorrent attitude of all things non Frankish had no less than four Chinamen advisors to the French Consul, lord and totalitarian sovereign of his domain. The matter was powder keg politics and could not be avoided. Like the decadent Greeks of old we had grown fat on the toil of the slaves. Now like the Romans we were terrified of the fact that more slaves lived in our own homes than our own people. As early as the 1880s mercantile firms like the East India Company and the Sassoon's Steam Trading Company had exploited the naivety of the natives into selling their exotic cargo, hiding the secrets of silk that they pilfered and stockpiling precious metals like mythical dragons. It is only natural perhaps that having displayed the wealth we stole in such a grand gesture as that of everything within Shanghai, the locals justly wanted a piece of the pie for themselves.

This manifested violently as four Chinamen rioters were shot dead by our own peace keeping forces. Latter the dissent again reared its ugly head as the Bloody May Riot of 1925 where the Boxer troubles saw Louza Police Station guttered by fire and several of our nationals murdered in cold blood. The strike that followed saw twenty four Chinese killed and thirty or so wounded. It was then and only then that both the French Concession and the International Treaty Zone consented to Chinese representation on their council, and their influence had grown ever since.

The truth of it all was that we can no longer live without Shanghai. The city had pampered us, cradled us like babies. Almost all of us whom lived our lavish top of the tier lives were nobodies in our native homes. Third and forth sons of inheritance families lived like kings here, minor nobilities were treated like kings and queens. Exotic dancing girls hung onto every willing shoulder, banks boiled over with trading bills. Drinks and decadence flowed like rich brandy bloodily down the alleyways of the Bund. We were as much prisoners of necessity as prisoners of our vices. We fled from our troubles at the home front. Here everyone had their oyster, everyone had their clean slate, and everyone enjoyed new lives built upon the bent backs of the yellow river and its Orient natives.

The sound of soft bell like laughter broke the recitation of my Roman paranoias. It had issued from the dining hall. Du was surrounded by the 'lords and ladies' of the court. He had Lord Allenby's hand in his palm, and was speaking in a private voice that reached no further than present company. Driven by curiosity, I made my way towards the throng surrounding Du.
"Doctor Davis!"
It was the voice of Mrs Westwood. She looked quite excited.

"Do come see this Doctor Davis, Mr Du is showing us the ancient art of Chiromancy!"
The word was a fashionable description of palm reading, a charlatan profession growing popular among superstitious foreigners too drunk with the wine of Asia to recall their own Gods. I joined the circle. Du spoke in his usual manner of flatness.

"I must remind you Lord Allenby that this is no means of foretelling the future, but merely a glimpse into the possibilities etched onto your hand by life and creed."

"Of course Mr Du, I wouldn't dream of it."

"If you would please bend your palm Lord Allenby..."

The crowed cooed as Du traced a finger of the lines of Allenby's moist palm.

"Concerned about the welfare of others. Having ambition as due your station. Great charity for those less fortunate. A little too much preference for the liqueur. Quick to anger, but also passionate."

"Very good Mr Du!"

"You are a fortunate man Lord Allenby."
"How so Mr Du?"

"To have survived two affairs that almost cost your life Lord Alleby."
"Go on Mr Du."

"Pray tell when I should stop Lord Allenby."

"I shall. Mr Du."

"To have survived two affairs that accosted your life."

"Having a sickly childhood, struck by... small pox when you were ten... no... twelve.

"Having little success until you had become a man, built your personal empire."

"Yet coming into immense fortune after your thirtieth year."

"You are man most devoted to your wife. You love the crown."

"Devoted to religion too I see... and you are soon to travel abroad... but you are unsure if it is the right action to take."

Du paused.
"Lord Allenby, how was I?"

Lord Allenby's face quivered with excitement.

"Spectacular!"
"You really must try my wife Mr Du, she's adamant to never trust in the Orient arts!"

Du leaned closer to Lord Allenby.

"Second Wife... Lord Allenby."

Allenby blinked and smiled but for a second.

"Extraordinary! Mr Du, I can see why your enemies fear you so!"

"On the same note Lord Allenby, I would hold off your shipment of Cotton until the German winter. Word on the grapevine speaks loudly of a growing deutschmark, and a lack of agricultural goods."

Allenby made an O with his mouth and took Du's hand appreciatively.
"Truly a saint Mr Du!"

"We are but mortals Lord Allenby!"

The crowd observed Du with a strange reverence.

There were two reactions from his observers. One group surrounded Du with squeals of delight; begging to have their palms read. Others sulked away hiding their hands, as if fearing that Du should catch a glimpse of their lives. Mrs Dorbelein announced that she would have her palm read over her dead body. Her contemporaries laughed mockingly. Lord Hillshire, the English Consul's Secretary refused to even remove his gloves. All in all It was an amusing state of affairs.

Du Yue-Sheng however is a very serious man. I am positive the gangster lord possessed no supernatural skills, and had merely done his homework. Maids and butlers are paid poorly in Shanghai. A few dollars for a few words was too good an offer to refuse.

At the last thought, a pair of sleek leather shoes with a fantastic polish tapped before my downcast eyes. The all too familiar shoes gleamed horribly, looming from the edge of the all too familiar satin dress suit. Du Yue-Sheng stood before me; his small frame seemed like an eclipse that blotted out the chandelier sun.

"Doctor Davis, our one altruistic missionary in a world of sin."

"I fear I am merely mortal Sir." I reply drily. Du stops a few inches from my face. The man exudes a coolness that is almost tangible. His eyes are a predator's.

"Do you know the art of Chiromancy Doctor Davis."
I replied that I did. "I am not much into this sort of superstitious sport I fear Mr Du."

"Please call me Sheng, Mr Davis. May I call you Charles?"

"As you wish Mr Du."

"Please, Charles."

"Of course, Sheng," My pronunciation is terrible, and the name slithers from my lips without the plosive emphasis that the locals annunciate so readily.

Du wants something form me. That much is clear. However, he does not ask. I stand, feeling like an ant standing on a slowing heating grill. My mind is blank. I do not know what to say to him. Will he be insulted? What could the opium kingpin want from me?

"A palm reading, Doctor Davis?"He asked. Or rather, demanded. Knowing I cannot refuse.

I extend a sweaty hand. Du takes it. Surprisingly, we seem to be alone. No one is interested in the fate of a mere employee.

"The pleasure is mine Mr Du." I say without thinking.

"Sheng Dr Davis."

I nod.

Du's fingers are rough. They are the hands of a working man. Skeletal they are, but very firm. My own hands are soft, the hallmark of a man who has never seen labour in his life.
"Let's see here... a very strong lifeline Doctor, and a robust line of fortunes."

"Your father was in the same profession. You became a doctor unwillingly. You are a conservative man. You believe strongly in justice."

He looks at me imploringly.

"Yes."I reply.

"A childhood of separations and less than pleasant memories. Family troubles follow where you go. You are now alone here, with no relations."

"Yes."I reply.

"You have a lover Doctor. Two I dare say. Yet you love no one."

"Yes."I reply.

"You love nothing Doctor."

His fingers dig into the palm of my right hand. One index runs past the upper crease of my palm. It is where the life line and the career line cross.
"Your fortunes are changing Doctor."

"Are they? ... Sheng?" I ask.

Du released my hand.

"Do you consider me a bad man doctor?"

His face is impassive.

"I do not believe there are bad men, Sheng."I reply. "Only desperate men doing desperate deeds."

"Do you consider my occupation... evil Doctor?"

His face again, is impassive. I look down at his gleaming shoes. I dare not meet his eyes. I fear that should I peek into the abyss, the darkness may look back.
"I do not know Sheng."I reply.

"Too conservative as always, my good Doctor."

He smiles, as if having caught a little piece of me.

"Doctor... you are close to the Major."

It was a statement. A foreboding moment came over me.

"I am not."I reply.

"You are too modest, Doctor."

Du smiles, the expression on his face cracking his otherwise porcelain stoicism. He taps one of my hands. One he previously examined.

"There is a dark, terrible secret in this hand Doctor."

My face remained passive. It was a bluff.

"To see the world in a grain of sand, and a heaven in a Wild Flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour."

Blake - A fitting verse. Coming from Du however, the effect was jarring.

"The city is a clock Doctor."

"We are the clogs that power it."

"Some cogs are more important than others Sheng." I reply.

"Perhaps, Doctor, yet each must play their parts."

The question on my lips begged to be asked.

"What is my part in this Mr Du?" I asked.

He smiles mysteriously.

"Enjoy the party Doctor."

Du turns away and returns to the life of the party. I felt no appetite for food or drink, and excused myself to retirement. The music fades as I made my way into the lobby. I declined the valet's offer of the Major's motor car and called for a one man taxi. The world was grey as I made my way down the hustle and bustle of Consul Road.

Prelude to Nano Writing

2009-10-27T13:16:00.001+11:00

Foreword

The most influential text on my life this year is the "Tradition in the Modern Age" and "The Human Condition" extracts by Hanna Arendt. The extract discussed that in the modern life, there are no boundaries that once classified us as individuals, but rather mere consumers of a giant, sentient machine. In essence, to draw upon a humorous extract by Terry Pratchett, we live in a crab pot.

The crab-pot is a large pot, iron by option, of crabs. These crabs, be they mud crabs, snow crabs, or even small beach crabs all pile on top of one and another, crawling, snipping, snapper and skittering. Within this crab-pot is the world we call life. You see, the crabs have a particular habit, in that should any crab seek to escalate the sides of the pot, and they are conditioned by their crabbiness in such a way as to crawl towards the elevated crab. The high achieving crab however, cannot possibly take the weight of his mates, and thus, a tangle of crabs fall back into the pot. This, and indeed I have seen tubs, basins, and foam boxes thereof, is the reason crab-pots have no lids.

Life then, as described by the masterful Pratchett and supplemented by the significantly more academic words of Arendt perfectly echoes the modern crab-pot world. The poor buggers at the bottom are crushed by the weight of the crab-swarm, those in the middle aim to climb atop the crab swarm, and those on top never quite get over the edge of it all, been pulled down by their mates back into the pot.

The analogy may need some work, but it's a working metaphor.

Arendt in her excellent piece stated that for the modern man to validate himself, he must apply himself thus to the public sphere. The private sphere does not constitute action but rather mere behaviour. An analogy she draws is as thus:

A painter of unfathomable skill paints alone, he is imprisoned by his own accord or otherwise, and his works are never exhibited. He gains from his creative current a great multitude of pleasures, from the joy of creation to the ecstasy of surveying his deeds. However, these works however powerful, however great, even if the painter were to auction them to private sellers who then appreciates them in their own abodes – are no actions but merely behaviour.

Thus, to be man of action in the modern world is to be a man of the public. The worth of life accumulated by one in our short existence should be measured by our contribution to the public, the critique that we receive, and the legacy that we leave.

Of course I am hardly seeking to explode from my bunker like an ICBM and light up the sky, but I am seeking in my own way to make my interests public ones. Running games for kids and the like at the local store, doing a little community service here and there, and writing for publication. As such for this year's National November Writing Competition, I am going to write about the most affluent Crab-pot in the history of the world.

Shanghai 1921 – 1938 – A Crab-pot not only in name, but built on a marsh by every colonial nation in the world on the backbones of the oldest nation in history.

The Life and Death of Chilli Spanner Crab

2009-10-09T11:22:00.001+11:00

So I decide that its time I did some cooking other than the usual salad and steak. Had a look online for some recipes, see how things differed from each nation and culture, and embarked on the journey to make Chili Crab. Mud Crabs been a stable diet of most Asians, I decide to make Asian dishes with Australian produce. One such produce is alien and strange looking spanner crab.

Species Info

Spanner Crab

Ranina ranina
Description, Location, Habitat and Harvesting Information
Available wild-caught, these marine dwellers are found from close inshore to at least 100m, usually buried in sand from where they attack small bottom-dwelling fish. Their long, almost goblet-shaped, bright orange shells (even when uncooked) and spanner-shaped front claws are quite distinctive. Found around most of the Australian coast from NSW north to southern WA, they are caught commercially, mainly using dillies, but also as a bycatch of Prawn trawling, off southern Queensland and northern NSW. The fishery has increased greatly since the early 1980s.

Season
Available from January to October, peaking from July to October with the fishery closed for most of December.

Size and Weight
Commonly about 8.5cm in carapace width and 400g, but can grow to 15cm and 900g.

And what I failed to read erg ><

To Cook
The shell is burgundy-orange even when uncooked, turning a brighter orange when cooked. Average yield is 25% (from claws and body). The flesh is translucent when raw and white when cooked, it has a distinctive, sweet flavour, low oiliness and is soft and moist. The most humane, and easiest, method of killing any crustacean is to chill it in the freezer for about 45 minutes until it becomes insensible (but not long enough to freeze it). Once chilled, it should be killed promptly by splitting in half or dropping into rapidly boiling water. See www.rspca.org.au for more details.

Anyway, Molly and McRoy were pretty darn lively, and as I read the preparation guides for Spanner Crabs on my iphone, I noted the following line. "Twist the limps off to avoid tissue damage". Jesus I thought to myself. Meanwhile Molly squirmed in the sink trying to escape. Its times like these that I can really relate to what the vegans are always saying about animal cruelty because basically, to put it in District 9 terms…

Twist off claws
1. A ghastly popping sound as Molly squirmed in my hand, it would be screaming in agony if it could make a sound. Bubbles foamed at his mouth while he writhed like a snake in my hand. When the claw came loose a gush of liquid usually kept internal within the crab ran all over my hand, a milk texture with the smell of sea salt. The low limbs of Molly clawed and struck the empty air as I made my move against his remaining claw. Its beady little prawn eyes looking for release from the pain but the worse is yet to come.
Take off Top shell
1. McRoy was probably in shock from the pain of having his limbs removed by blunt trauma. I felt a gut wrenching sense of guilt at this time, so I tore with quick motion the plates protecting his low abdomen and wedged a finger between the back cartiledge and the main body. Then with one long heave I ripped the shell from him in one big pull. The sound was akin to air been released from a vacuum seal as the shell came off and a hand full of entrails, lungs and other blue red bits poured down the crab. I immediately took my cleaver and took it apart head first. The process took a few seconds, but damn it felt like a lifetime.
Clean Entrail
1. Tearing off the lungs and cleaning the flesh and carcass significantly easier without the Molly thrashing in my hand. Damn.

Slightly batter in fine protein flour, stir fry in hot oil for 5 minutes, added chili, garlic, ginger and keep turning for one minute. Then add fish sauce, tomato paste, sweet chili sauce turn until mixed. Then add basil and coriander, turn until mixed. Closed lid for one minute and presto, delicious chili crab.

Good work Molly and McRoy, mum loved your succulent flesh!

Equality Lost in Equality Row

2009-10-05T21:32:00.002+11:00

My fellow citizens of the free Otaku world; we live in a dying dream. The democratic world of today is no longer the Eden from which individuals escaped the persecution of the motherland. It is no longer the land of the free and equal. It is no longer the land where all otaku, regardless of creed, ethos, race or religion stand as one against the bulwark of socialism. We now live in a world watched by big brother, the glorious industrial revolution of our capitalist creed a mere sell out by the pigs among our midst. Lobby groups, interest groups, political groups, every fleeting visit to Comikon threatened by the invisible hands of someone somewhere, where our nonconformity draws condemnation, harassment, if not outright persecution. Ladies and gentlemen, we are shoaled against a bastion of conservatism, crushed by waves of bureaucratic autocracy, and in plain English – between a rock and a hard place.

With such an ominous introduction you may wonder what the hell I am going on about, or if I were the leader of a group of combat fatigued jungle fighters raging against the totalitarianism of an oppressive government. Actually just unclench your sphincters because I am talking about the recent CENSORSHIP of ANIME and the backlash of negative media frenzy of Otakus as offenders. The fact of the matter is, even though my guerrilla efforts may seem trivial, the underlying principles of logic, rights, and free speech is not. These are universal, fundamental blueprints of a democratic society that no bureaucratic bullshitting can remove, however tarnished, however corrupted, however smeared with the blood of otaku too feeble to fight back.

The Rapelay Fiasco

It all began with the original sin, the discovery of a game by moral crusaders of a game called Rapelay.

Rapelay is a game developed by Illusion, a maker of Eroge. It was released in 1998 amidst the 90s anime bloom, and saw the expected amount of sales for such a niche game in a niche market. The game had simple interface that simulated a rape episode, with the main protagonist molesting three women, a mother and her two daughters. The youngest of the victim is clearly without dispute underage. When the whole fiasco broke out the game became a frenzy of torrents and downloads, and the irony probably lies in that it is more known and popular now than ever, its evil more sinuously spread wider and broader than ever before the censorship. Now I make no two shakes about this, because the content of the game is clearly morally apprehensive, offensive, and irreproachably stomach churning. Regardless, read on!

Surely a game like this should see censorship? Certainly it caused no dramas for the many years it was in circulation. In fact it was made for Japan, legal in the Japanese market, and is only available to the west via third parties. Then one day, the British Media suddenly discovered on Amazon.com that there was this game called Rapelay, and hell it was about rape. Jesus Tap dancing Christ! Goddamn! This is the best thing since we had that fiasco over the positive correlation of turbans and terrorism!

So the nature of totalitarian ultra conservative British media 'got pumped' and assails Amazon.com to get the game removed from its product list. Amazon.com meanwhile fearing for its own skin and market share drops the game like a hot potato.

It seems then that word got back to the SS HQ at Equality Now, and a vigorous letter writing campaign of blackmailing politicians into doing their bidding began. Sure enough some politicians were incited onto the Japan bashing bandwagon, and soon enough the game was pulled from its manufacturer's list and banned without a word or protest.

Drunk now with the smell of success, the feminists of Equality Now further hounded their victims, lapping at their yellow bellied heels. The Witch Hunt has begin, ala:

"Japanese companies are making massive profits from an industry based on violence towards women and girls, and 'lolicon' child pornography is becoming a huge market."

Never mind slandering an entire nation based on one game. Never mind that this other country may not be run by Bible belt true blues, never mind that other people may have their rights. By Gods a feminist group based in a country with one of the highest sex crime rate in the world must save the children of a nation with the one of the lowest number of sex offenders in the world!

As such, Equality Now has appealed to the Japanese DIET, the UN, among other conservative political groups in Japan hoping to ban anything they object to in anime and hentai.

The Return Volley

We're going to dispel the illusion of this righteous crusade of the so-called liberators of damsels in distress for the usurpation of fundamental rights and free speech that it is. To do this I am going to throw three stones at you, by its ends of which you will be bruised but having some sense knocked into. Statistics and opinions other than my own are meta-synthesized from government websites, statistics and peer-reviewed articles.

First we're going to examine the ill logic of censoring art/drawings.

Then have at look at how they've pitched their argument

Lastly we are going to crush the cause of the entire Equality Now crusade by showing actual peer reviewed fact about their so-called claims.

Defining the Limitations of Art

I have no doubt that many of you will agree with me that art is a highly subjective form. Alas, I am confident that none of you will deny me that some moral crusader asshole will find objection in any art anywhere if they look hard enough. No medium is more malleable to interpretation and discursive derision than the graphic form. This can be seen in the recent fracas involving moral crusaders such as the Bill Henson Row. One is the story of an accomplished photographer who performed unmolested for decades, his works shown around the world, viewed by hundreds of thousands, receiving praise, acclaim, and showered with awards. Then suddenly some duchebag cries witch and the same artist becomes a paedophile, the worst label possible in modern western culture. Here I think it is obvious that the beholder doesn't give a tit bout the artistic merit of these works but rather their own infatuation with an ambiguous concept they worship like sycophants to an altar.

Now let's get one thing clear here. Are there child pornography in Anime and Hentai? Do an online search and its pretty darn obviously YES, this is undeniable fact. Is this what anime is about? Do a meta-search and it's pretty obviously NO. I believe strongly that this is a niche market that has developed as a result of offshoot trends in anime. It serves a fraction of the anime enthusiast community. This is the literal incarnation of taller the apple tree, the further the apples can fall. To say that anime is the festering ground of child pornography is the same as saying that turbans are worn by terrorists, that Jews are accounts, that all Chinese are socialists, or to take a recent example, a black man in an upper middle class suburb must be a crook.

What these recent attacks on the anime industry does not seem to realise is that a small niche market does not represent the majority share. Hell, recent statistics show that the highest anime merchandising sales still rests with Pokemon! If you're gonna pigeon hole anime, at least use the majority! Unless thunder-bolting the shit out of Jiggly-Puff constitutes violence against women, I am failing to see the correlation here.

Let me clarify something before we go any further. In the western world the words Lolita (a ravishing novel by Vladimir Nabokov) and child porn seems to be synonymous. In the discourse of Japanese culture, Loli and Loli-con does not imply a criminal offence but rather an appreciation of an art style that specialists in portraying cute, youthful looking avatars. As such, the moe associated with works depicting loli characters should be associated a kind of ecstatic euphoria more akin 'cuteness' than 'arousal'. Of course I cannot deny that, as with anything these days there are elements of sexualization pervading the otherwise holistic genre. The problem of anime art then, lies in this distinct discourse of sexualization because of the free market capitalism ethos of supply and demand.

Now onto the ambiguity of graphical representations - I mentioned earlier that an asshole would always find shit where it sits. So who can say at what level does an image start to cross the line into the dreaded realm of child pornography? The answer is the precise reason why drafting laws and bans, as the Equality Now feminists demand is impossible. This is because drawing such a line is in itself impossible and while the ends of each spectrum are vivid in colour, the middle ground is a sterile grey.

The human mind itself is a gumbo of emotions, subjectivity and bias. You cannot ban what you cannot define. The moment you ban something akin to the loli art style, you automatically move the ban meter a tier up towards less sensitive topics. As such, the escalator of censorship is one that leads to purgatory, and it is an endless spiral worse than having a domestic. Art is merely how the mind perceives images, as such anything as simple as symbols and chaotic formations (ala Pollock) can mean a variety of things to a variety of people. Someone somewhere will find something somehow so long as they set their mind to it. In case you haven't made the connection yet, this is my point. It isn't the enthusiasts who are finding the porn in loli; it's the moralists. Maybe if they realised that, they would realise the whole crusade is a façade.

E.Q.U.A.L.I.T.Y – Catchphrase or Principle?

Modern Feminism as we know it is a mixed bag of lollies. On one hand it's the natural progression in a world that is at first glance increasingly free, democratic, and open. Certainly the fight against racism has started its push into Berlin, as the label of 'racist' is quite the derogatory these days. However the dark side of feminism makes easy bed with a platoon of unrelenting SS panzer-women. For these ladies, the fight is not about getting the power for those without, but rather taking power from the patriarchal bastards that seek to oppress them. So unable to assail anything worth a salt, it's only natural that they should hit up some minority group incapable of defending itself.

When Mary Wollstonecraft penned her ode to feminism, she probably did not imagine that it would become the monstrosity it is today.

Allow me to quote the words of Equality Now's Wisdom

"Extreme pornography in the form of cartoons known as hentai, produced in various media such as comic books, animation, computer games and online entertainment, is easily accessible in Japan and its use is widely accepted. Common themes of hentai include rape, gang rape, incest and the sexual abuse of schoolgirls. This latter form of hentai, known as Loli-Con, often portrays girls being sexually abused by adults in familiar positions of power such as teachers. A number of computer games involving rape, sexual harassment and stalking of women and girls are produced in Japan."

Now as far as I am to understand the word equality if not the concept of equality, it is summed up nicely by the constitutional voice of Lincoln when he said told the immortal words 'the freedom to pursue life, liberty and happiness." So my question for Equality Now lies in the rhetorical field of how they intend to pursue their ends without infringing upon the life, liberty and happiness of another? Surely poor souls other than a group of femme Nazis are deserving of such a thing! Surely those Otaku out there who enjoy their onanistic materials are deserving of freedom and happiness! Alas their new catch cry after initial victory became –

"We need a government-mandated uniform standard applicable to all hentai production companies that will make it illegal to produce games that promote violence against women and girls.""

Well Stalin did right by burning the crap out of them capitalist free market books. Maybe they can do the same. Why not do a witch pyre while we're at it. Oh but wait there is MORE!

"Many of these messages have referred to statistics of rape in Japan that are reportedly far lower than in the U.S. Equality Now does not believe it serves any purpose to excuse crimes in one country by pointing out that there are more in another."

Meaning 'we don't care about numbers, or the fact that we're throwing stones from our glass house.' When confronted by the people they accused of been rapists and pedophiles. Their response was this./

"Equality Now has also received an unprecedented amount of hate mail, including death and bomb threats. This is violence!"

Actually I believe that's text on a piece of paper. If Equality Now labeling an already ostracized minority group as rapists and pedophiles does not constitute violence, I highly doubt harsh language towards their cause should be considered as such. After all, further inflammation against Otaku in Japan will make their social reputation worse and increase incidents of robbery and assault which are already prevalent. This is something that is happening, as opposed to receiving strong language on E-paper. Thus their argument is…

"Banning extreme computer simulator games that promote sexual violence and harassment would be a step in this direction."

Okay, fine, so the world is not an equal place, we gotta do what we can to make it equal right? Well the bad men are out there, as numerous as grains of sand, and yet the good gals are as few as the American bald eagle. So don't you think that perhaps a bit of prioritisation is in order? I mean, there are fucking rape gangs prowling the Ivory Coast terrorising communities. There are girls as young as eight or nine been married off to old men as child brides in every continent of the world. When I walked through the streets of Cambodia I was sick to my goddamn core at the sight of child prostitution and the destitute lives the people there lived. So the question then becomes -

Why the fuck are Equality Now fighting for rights of imaginary women engage in imaginary acts with imaginary scenarios? Are you so deluded as to your own importance as to be fishing for imaginary WMDs in your imaginary Iraq? There is so much academic data that negatively correlates availability of porn and actual crime rate, so take a few minutes off trying to corrupt free speech and human rights and consult an academic, a male one.

Empty words are empty, so heres some butter to fortify your gut.

A Digest of the Correlation of Sexually Explicit Materials in Japan with Rate of Sex Crime

D. J. Wu (2009)

There exists in every community that pornography breeds sin, that the availability of sexually explicit content breeds sexual violence, abuse, and pedophilia. The truth in this is as authentic as the weapons of mass destructions found in Iraq.

The theory that SEM caused sex crimes and drove young men to rape or pedophilia was cemented by a series of studies commissioned in the US in the 80s. The control and methods of these experiences were highly criticized for duping their subjects into producing results sought after by the researchers. These studies have been seriously critiqued (Brannigan, 1987; Brannigan & Goldenberg, 1986, 1991; Christensen, 1990; Becker & Stein, 1991) for being methodologically flawed and politically motivated to seek ends justified by the state commission.

A series of research carried out by developed nations over thirty years revealed that there is no correlation that can be demonstrated the availability of pornography to sex crime. (Kutchinsky, 1991) In fact meta-analysis showed that as the amount of pornography increasingly became available, the rate of rapes in these countries either decreased or remained relatively level. (Kutchinsky, 1991)* Generically, the evidence against the positive link between availability of porn and sexual crime waves are either politically motivated or has no empirical scientific basis, or that no sufficient amount of research has been conducted to reach a conclusion. (McKay and Dolff 1984)

In Japan, a nation with a flourish history of abuse of women, patriarchal dominance, and subservience of women not to mention 13 years of legalised prostitution and rape such as the WWII comfort women fiasco. One would think there be a significant culture of sex crimes, but instead it has some of the lowest in the world. This article mainly synthesises various papers that show the correlation between the availability of pornographic material in Japan to the question of its relationship with sex crimes. SEM (sexually explicit material) will be our lexicon for the purpose of this segment in lieu of anime, hentai, fetish, and other pornographic product markets.

Since the 90s there has already been a crusade against Manga and Anime directed at children that contained explicit sexual content. (Mainichi-shinbun, 1990) Those living or has been to Japan will acknowledge the readily availability of explicit books, videos, DVDs, shows, and services that cater to any exotic form of erotic interests and fetishes. A small niche of these products are the topic of our discussion – that of anime and hentai. Despite this, Japanese culture remains one of the most conservative in the world, seemingly an ironic dichotomy of free expressionism and moralistic censorship. Juxtaposed in that no pornographic material in Japan can show genitalia, but depictions of the rape of a minor is perfectly legal. The 20^th and 21^st century has seen the relaxation of legality regarding SEM in Japan from scrutiny and suspicion to one best described as lax.

The world pornography industry hit an estimated $97 billion in 2006

In 2004, the anime market was estimated to be worth 20 billion yen according to the Nomura Research Institute – Within Japan

Of this, hentai accounts for a very small faction, a popular title will ship less than 100, 000 copies. In comparison a popular series episode disk will often sell 250,000 copies or more.

One of the greatest concerns of the industry lies in that with the advent of Internet, as well as niche market stores and homogenised local industries (commercial districts, as it were) where SEMs readily available to persons of any age despite limitations. (Diamond & Uchiyama 1999)

The times are changing in Japan. In the eighties all pornography, particularly foreign ones that showed public hair were classified as contraband and destroyed by customs. (Abramson & Hayashi, 1984) Now such materials are locally produced and readily available in Japanese shops. They often contain actors or actresses that are still legal minors or are depicted as minors. (Diamond & Uchiyama 1999)

Since 1990, all forms of sexual services became legal and prevalent in Japan so long as they were registered with local Police authorities. Sexual commerce such as phone services, call girls, sex shops, massage parlours, soap land, love hotels and prostitution contracts are staple. Today these industries are restricted to specialized districts in Japan but can be considered pandemic. However the general attitude of the public towards SEM can be summed up with the decline of arrests despite the rise of SEM availability with registered outlets increasing 1000% in the period of 1972 to 1995. (Roposensho, 1995)

The correlation of crime with this increase in SEM however can be seen in the decreasing trend of sex crime over the same period of 1972 to 1995. To quote the report by Diamond and Uchiyama 1999: "The incidence of rape has progressively declined from 4677 reported cases with 5464 offenders in 1972 to the 1995 incidence of 1500 cases with 1,160 offenders; a dramatic reduction in incidence of some two-thirds. The character of the rape also changed markedly. Early in our period of observation many of the rapes were gang (more than a single attacker) rapes thus accounting for the number of offenders exceeding the number of rapes reported. This has now become increasingly rare. The number of rapes committed by juveniles has also markedly decreased. Juveniles committed 33% of the rapes in 1972 but only 18% of the rapes committed in 1995."

Note also that in this period, the Japanese population increased by 25 million (20%), SEM services (recorded) increased by over 1000%. Furthermore the conviction for rape increased from 90% to 95% of all cases between 1991 and 1995. The statistical association is clear enough that availability of SEM not only does not incite sexual violence, it reduces the frequency. (Diamond & Uchiyama 1999)

For convictions the legal age of these assaults begins at age 5 and expands to 49 for women, with mean petering out around the 20 – 24 brackets. It would stand to reason that if SEM readily available and joyed by juveniles and young adults were positively correlated with sex crime, one would see a spike on the statistical occurrence of young offenders and victims. However statistics show that the number of juvenile offenders dramatically dropped every period reviewed from 1,803 perpetrators in 1972 to a low of 264 in 1995; a drop of some 85%. The number of victims also decreased particularly among the females younger than 13. In 1972, 8.3% of the victims were younger than 13. In 1995 the percentage of victims younger than 13 years of age dropped to 4.0%. (Diamond & Uchiyama 1999)

Discussion

It is clear as blue sky that over the years the debauchery and availability of SEM such as Hentai, Doujin and other anime fetishes has become almost commonplace. The finding that there is no correlation between SEM and Sex crime is reflected in similar studies carried out in the UK, Sweden, Netherlands, and Germany. In the US the trend showed that as more censorship became prominent, so did crime rates – not surprising as the same amount of porn is circulated but now it's an offence. In all countries examined non-violent sex crimes decreased as laws became more lax regarding SEM and attitudes changed toward pornographic material over three decades. (US Statistics Bureau 1977) In fact one researcher suggested that SEM that are instructional such as textbooks and the relax attitude regarding the myth of sex is a factor in the significantly higher rate of reporting of sex crimes in Japan. (Unknown Reference)

It is acceptable that there may be bi-literal influences at play such as increased literacy, public morals, better education of sex and sex crimes, as well as support by media services. However it is nevertheless cold hard truth that SEM, even explicit ones catering for niche markets does not correlate towards increase trends in sex crimes. Furthermore it is important to note that the SEM produced in Japan caters to every taste and fetish and is typically much more aggressive and violent. That sadomasochistic material, fetish material, and material depicting minors are staples that exceed those found in the US. (Winick 1985) Yet, as statistics show, this does not account for increase but instead decrease in crime correlated with these genres. (Christensen 1990)

Studies from 1960 to 1997 of sex offenders in the US has shown that a majority of offenders actually had less exposure to SEM in their background than others and the offenders generally were individuals usually deeply religious and socially and politically conservative. In fact offenders were typically deprived of any contact with SEM and saw sex as sinful and antagonistic. (Goldstein & Kant, 1973, Propper, 1972) Wilson (1978) goes as far as to suggest that "offenders develop patterns of sexual deviance have suffered relative deprivation of SEM experiences in adolescence and early adulthood."

It was found after further study that negative ideas of pornography, foreign to Japanese culture, were accepted and particularly applied to visual depictions since they were the ones most likely recognized and thereby criticized by Westerners. Little attention was given to written SEM since foreigners would be unlikely to read Japanese and thus would not notice and criticize these. (Abramson & Hayashi, 1984) As such it can be seen that western feminists ostracize manga and hentai precisely because they are a form of SEM alien to the West but at the same time readily idenfiable. It is a reflexive action of the Western sensibility in 'that' which does not conform to Euro-Christian standards must be anathema. Coupled with the colonialist mentality of right wing political hardliners and rising feminist movements against anything slightly offensive, the storm in a teacup is a perfect one indeed.

Thus it is proven the sheer absurdity of the Equality Now crusade against Anime. If you enjoyed this read and agree with its findings, go and make your voice heard!

Go tell the feminists to back off anime here!

You can join our crusade for free speech here by sending a readymade letter with your sig!

Viva la Otaku!

Lexicon

Manga – a Japanese genre of cartoons, comic books, and animated films, typically having a science fiction or fantasy theme and sometimes including violent or sexually explicit material.Anime – Japanese movie and television animation, often having a science fiction theme and sometimes including violent or explicitly sexual materialHentai – The sexually explicit of the aforementioned Eroge – Games involving the aforementioned Fetish – a form of sexual desire in which gratification is linked to an abnormal degree to a particular object, item of clothing, part of the body, etcLoli – A style of art focusing on youthful, prepubescent appearances of characters Moe- Exclamation of excitement or euphoria associated with appreciation of manga or anime character

*with exception of the US, where rape was correlated positively by a state in house enquiry set by Regan.

References

Abramson, P. R., & Hayashi, H. (1984). "Pornography in Japan: Cross cultural and theoretical considerations". In M. N. Malamuth & E. Donnerstein (Eds.), Pornography and Sexual Aggression (pp. 173-183). New York: Academic Press.

Christensen, F. M. (1990). Pornography: The Other Side. New York: Praeger.

Giglio, D. (1985). "Pornography: A public policy for the United States?" Comparative Social Research, 8, 281-300.

Kutchinsky, B. (1973a). "The effect of easy availability of pornography on the incidence of sex crimes.". Journal of Social Issues, 29, 163-181.

Kutchinsky, B. (1973b). "Eroticism without censorship". International Journal of Criminology and Penology, 1, 217-225.

Kutchinsky, B. (1992). "The Politics of Pornography Research". Law & Society Review, 26, 447-455

MacKinnon, C. A. (1993). Only Words. Cambridge, MA.: Harvard University Press.

Roposensho, (Japanese National Police Agency) (1989). Japanese Penal Code. Tokyo: Japanese National Police Agency

Uchida, T. (1979). "Dairy of Lawyer in Charge". Hogaku-Seminar, (December), 16-31.

Uchiyama, A. (1996). "A study on the attitude of girls toward the commercialization of sex". Reports of the National Research Institute of Police Science. Research on Prevention of Crime and Delinquency, 37(2 / December), 1-13

Winick, C. & Evans, J. T. (1986) "The relationship between enforcement of state pornography laws and rates of sex crime arrests". Archives of Sexual Behavior. 25: 439-453.

Diamond. M., Uchiyama. A., Pornography, Rape, and Sex Crimes in Japan University of Hawaii Press 1999 Tokyo, Japan

Burns. C., Sexual Statistics in Japan: Confronting the Japanese Justice System Routledge Press. 2002

Hopper. J., Child Abuse Statistical Research and Resource

www.jimhopper.com Visited 3/10/09

Sankaku Complex Original Post http://www.sankakucomplex.com/2009/10/01/equality-nows-lies-exposed/ Visited 01/10/2009

Pasta is a poor Asian's Ramen

2009-09-21T10:52:00.000+10:00

To be perfectly honest, the occasions when I have had a truly satisfying ramen are far and few in between. However, out here in the westward way the the suburbs with our derelict cars and mullet haired ethnics, there is one substitute for the lack of ramen that I am glad for.

This is of course, pasta.

The concept is the same. Topping, Sauce/Soup, Noodles. Rather than buckwheat noodles (Soba), milled flour noodles (Mein), udon noodles, egg noodles, fried noodles, soy noodles, vermicelli noodles (Phen`) and rice noodles (Pho`), you have spaghetti, fettuccine, macaroni, bucatini, etc.

So it is with the craving for ramen that I so frequently go to pasta shops for my dose of noodles and sauce, hungrily jamming wads of tomato and basil coated carbohydrates down my pie hole.

Getting together a few of my close mates, we went to a locally well known restaurant called Le Porchettas. The pasta there was quite nice, I would even say al’donte`. For the price that you are paying to eat there, the food is most definitely worthwhile. The servings are good, the sauce is robust, and the toppings are generous. I had the Carbonara Gnocchi, and the sauce to my surprise was not powdery but actually creamy and delightful. Earlier I had the Marinara Spaghetti and it too was delectable, with a health helping of seafood and impressive amounts of prawns and mussels.

As such for a mere $13 - $15 AUD, it’s quite a decent bang for buck. The shop settings are simple but effective, clearly catering for middle class faire and families. The waitress was quite attentive and friendly for a family restaurant, and even made some recommendations and stopped for a chat.

The Veal (right) was however judged by our mate to be 'dry' and 'un-inspirational'. Not surprising as deep frying a succulent steak in a family restaurant, not to mention then throwing it in the pizza oven would kill any tenderless the meat originally may or may not have possessed.

In other news (and also in code ^.^), seeing that our luncheon was a gathering of titans, it was inevitable that we would assail Mount Olympus. However, much like any Greco-Roman drama it was doomed for the inevitable tragic end. After much debate and construction about the clear and distinct lack of efficacy regarding the US Medicare system, and the poor padding made by the inadequate cover it provided, the verdict was Clintonesque, and this punter resigns to never again engage in open debate about socialised Medicare ever again.

Back to the matter at hand.
This would be my dollar for flavour pick of the week.

Food in da Vietnam and Cambodia

2009-09-20T09:26:00.001+10:00

I happened upon a lot of photos of the food and drinks I had while in Vietnam. Seeing as this is as much of a food blog as anything else, of course I will oblige with these rather special and delicious choices of yum-yums.

If there is one thing that truly rocked about the food and drinks of Cambodia and Vietnam, it’s the abundance of fruit crushes. Every thing we had was very fresh and extremely authentic in taste, consistency, and actual fruit (as opposed to bad fruit + condensed juice + ice ala every crush selling place in Australia) some selections are below. One strange oddity was that there was no milk in the country, and almost all drinks used long life milk or condensed milk - making for some very, very sweet coffee indeed.

To quote a colleague of mine, food in Cambodia is ‘oh my god, this tastes like crap, what meat is this?’ This was true, as the flavour was robust and the use of spices liberal, but the quality of the meat was so bad that I could not actually stomached a dish of Luk-Luk beef because the semi rare flesh looked less than fresh. Added to the fact that Australia produces some of the finest beef in the world, and that Cambodian’s idea of a butcher is a cart swarming with flies in forty degree heat in the middle of market square…

I think my other mate had the right idea when he stuck to curry, because our young ward was struck down with a stomach bug so very soon after our arrival. Luckily this punter’s guts are lined with manly Australian corrugated iron from all the mercury in our meat pies.

The food however was disappointing. No restaurant bar the pho` ones we visited could put out a consistent service or flavour. There were almost no foods that were so delicious as to be unavailable here in Australia.

When we arrived at Cat-ba Island, there was an absolute abundance of seafood, so much that my mouth watered and eyes squinted at the alien crustaceans I would soon devour en-mass. However to my horror and amazement, there were plenty of produce but one common theme – the utter lack of chefs.

It would seem that there is an almost derelict lack of high level chefs and even country fare cooks in the over populated tourism city of Cat-Ba. We were only staying for one night, and after surveying about ten or so restaurants, they seemed to share one common theme. All seafood were either boiled or cooked in a broth. There was no French Fusion Crab Curry. There were no Dry Chili and Spice Crabs. There was no Ginger and Shallot Crab with Friend Egg Noodle base. There only thing that did not involve a large boiled crab was variations of lemongrass, mint, coriander, basil, and fish sauce. While in Australia the Vietnamese fusion restaurants were doing so well that I was utterly shocked to find in Vietnam, tradition ruled.

Now for both countries, the street food is the highlight. The subsequent renal kidney failure is one of many disadvantages that may occur. Here are some highlights of the food we had. (Did not blog at the time, so pics not withstanding)

1. Pho` - I never realized pho was a breakfast food. Now I know. Almost daily we had the delicious and delectable pho from the local street stalls and restaurants. There is few things I have had in my long life of eating that could equate to the fresh taste of silky flowing Pho freshly made and swimming in a clear but rich soup of beef broth,. The meat was subpar as always, but the sheer delight of the noodles made my day each morning.

2. Pork Pho` from central Vietnam – worthy of mention because this was made from thick gelatinous noodles similar to Udon. It was also cooked using clear pork soup (an extremely difficult feat for those who tried making pork soup before), and served with slices of pork hock (front paw). The result is a chewy and delicious combination entirely different to traditional Pho`.

3. Vietnamese Spring Rolls – there is something about deep friend rice paper and the combination of mince, carrot, celery, rice noodles, and fish sauce that really kept us eating this artery buster daily for about a month. By the ends of which despite 5 – 6 hours of walking per day, I actually put on some weight. It is quite delicious though, the fact that oil used to cook this was probably never changed in the month and month made this a cancer inducing roll of tiny delicious death.

4. Vietnamese Pork Rolls – after our ward falls to stomach bugs, my other two companions refused to eat food off the streets. I was undeterred and gun it with all I got. The result was a discovery of the most delicious bread rolls. Freshly baked French style (hard bread, hi heat oven, crusty on the outside and soft within) with cured roasted pork (get it before 10 am to ensure fresh slices), pickles and vegetables. The ingredient that really made it (or gave my friend gastronomic acrobatics) was the preserved liver sauce, ala pâté` of pork that smeared the bread and gave it a robust, fortified and unforgettable taste of pure bliss. I love Viet bread rolls, I love it here, but the ones in Vietnam really rocked your taste buds.

There were probably more isolated cases of delicious food, but overall our experience culinary was a little disappointing seeing as we knew no locals, and the tourist packed places we visited all had little more than tourist faire. If and when I visit again, I am going to get a list from the parents of my students and do a systematic gastro workout of the area.

Disgruntled on a Sunday Night

2009-09-19T21:43:00.001+10:00

There is a static in the air, smoke from a bushfire yonder
Pervades the atmosphere, like a blanket of fear
Choking, guttural and animal; floating like lime
On a slow spluttering river of salt

A storm rises without warning, but I feel it
Growing with momentum, it comes upon us
An idealist’s disdain for the smallest speck
Of grime smeared like blood across his name

The heart pounds, disquieted and harassed
Growling like a flea infested dog
And where should I begin, to shout out to the wide
Blue yonder, on this empty landscape of mine

The words come easily, like alcohol to a drunk
But I am too sober, and my mind somber
Subtle but sharp, like the sliver of lightning
Echoing the thunder in the distance,

Presently, it will begin to rain
But I forgot my damn raincoat.

Swap Meats

2009-09-18T17:14:00.001+10:00

Another day, another luncheon. This time it was Crinitis Parramatta. The restaurant itself is a good one. It enjoys so much popularity that it is booked out on Friday, Saturdays and Sunday almost constantly. The waiters are attentive, and the service is decent. The setting itself is pleasant, with homage paid in large surreal paintings to Mafia and Italia themed décor throughout.

I ordered a Calzone Italiana, a fold over pizza stuffed with ricotta, mushrooms, spicy salami, capsicum, and olives. When it arrived, it looked fantastic. Very rarely do I go to a restaurant in Sydney and find a Calzone looking exactly as it should. A robust puffed pizza pastry with no burnt bits, a solid crispy golden to dark brown on top, and flour padded light brown on the side. When I had dug in however it was another story. Now Crinitis seems to have a bit of a hot and cold going for it. Last few times I was here, I had a fantastic, mouth watering, pleasure inducing Crinitis Crust (olive oil, chilli, spicy sausace, and grilled eggplant/capsicum). Then I had a horrid, bland, oil smeared tuna tomato salad that was like eating lukewarm tomatoes in fishy balsamic vinegar. This Calzone was neither here nor there. I took a section from the middle first, expecting a fresh aroma of cheese, olive and salami. Instead the whole thing deflated like a soggy balloon and a torrent of ricotta spilled out.The first bite was so filled with ricotta that I could taste nothing else; to make matters worse it was barely even heated. Then I started on the side, and it was scalding piping hot, and while it was juicy and delicious, it was also devoid of ricotta. As such it was like eating two meals. I could eat the sides and have myself a nice spicy salami pizza crust. Or I could eat 90% ricotta filling with the occasional warm olive. Certainly I won’t be trying this one again.

My companion ordered a 1kg rack of ribs. Now I am not one to order cairn in an Italian restaurant, but I had a few sticks nevertheless and it was surprisingly good. The meat was moist and succulent; the sauce was sticky and rich. The flavour however lacked basting ala Meat & Wine co, or the incredibly tasty strange grease ala Ribs and Rumps. It was just pure caramelized BBQ/Plum sauce. A mouthful of the underside was evident in the lack of marinating or basting as it was tasteless. The price was the same as the more professional grill restaurants (at $37 a pop) hence I would suggest having your meat cravings elsewhere. Also to note: the sauce was so stick that it was impossible to actually use utensils or even the tissue, as vigorous use of the tissue disintegrated it and left you with bits and pieces of tissue on your hand to continue your meal.

Crinitis is a good restaurant, I still want to trying their Misto de`mere and Seafood Platter. However, its rather hot and cold, so probably sticking to traditional pasta sauce dishes and wood fired pizza would be best.

It's an equally fucked up world we live in

2009-09-18T10:55:00.000+10:00

When I first picked up a book called From Victim to Offender: How Child Sexual Abuse Victims Become Offenders By Freda Briggs, I was shocked, offended, and a little nauseated by the shit supposedly happened, in Australia. Am I to believe some of the stuff in this book, especially those atrocious acts perpetuated by the Catholic Church?

These child abuse cases seem pretty wack, so filled with tabloid drama that I doubt anything I read covered the true extent of the psychological and emotional ties that victims and offenders often develop in twisted ways. As a reader of world wide news however, and often in different languages (well, two and a half) I did become enlightened to a shocking but obvious truth.

The citizens of the world are equally fucked up regardless of race and culture.

After hearing that Australia has finally joined the race for kicking the morality bucket and finally having a perv to call our own, allow me to present to you some of the great acts of depravity in the world today.

From Saudi Arabia

A 10-year-old bride was returned last Sunday to her 80-year-old husband by her father who discovered her at the home of her aunt with whom she has been hiding for around 10 days. A Saudi local newspaper said the husband, who denies he is 80 in spite of claims by the girl's family, accused the aunt of meddling in his affairs. "My marriage is not against Shariah. It included the elements of acceptance and response by the father of the bride," he said. He added that he had been engaged to his wifés elder sister and that this broke off as she wanted to continue with her education. "In light of this, her father offered his younger daughter. I was allowed to have a look at her according to Shariah and found her acceptable," he said.
http://www.ansamed.info/en/news/ME03.WAM30165.html

From Iran

MEMBERS of Iran's feared Basij militia forcibly marry female virgin prisoners the night before scheduled executions, raping their new "wives" and making it religiously acceptable to execute them, a self-professed member of the paramilitary group says.
http://www.news.com.au/story/0,27574,25815969-401,00.html

From Italy

Italian 'Fritzl': Police listened in as suspect raped his daughter
Shocked police listened in as an Italian man who is being compared with Josef Fritzl allegedly raped his own daughter after a 25 year reign of terror, it has emerged. I am not shitting you folks, the cops listened to him rape his daughter before arresting him. Go legal enforcement.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/joseffritzl/5066402/Italian-Fritzl-Police-listened-in-as-suspect-raped-his-daughter.html

From China

The tragic case of a father who decided to lock his mentally ill daughter in a pigsty for four years rather than care for her, not even bothering to clothe her, has shocked many in China. Rescuers would eventually find the woman, a living skeleton living naked in the filthy confines of the pigsty, behind a door which was chained shut and windows which were boarded over, a victim of utter neglect. Pics below, I can’t find the Chinese article.
http://chiquita.blog17.fc2.com/blog-entry-4507.html

Bought fifteen years ago, at the age of 21, from a slave trader for a mere $300 by a 50-year-old farmer, the procured wife’s existence was one on par with the animals with which she shared her outhouse accommodation, kept naked and shackled in filth all year round, freezing in winter and food for insects in summer. She was rescued when a journalist found out. The wife was also lent to the farmer’s neighbours for labour among other recreational activities.
http://bbs.news.163.com/bbs/photo/87602638.html

For America.

For 18 years, a registered sex offender managed to elude detection as he pulled off what authorities are calling an unfathomable crime, kidnapping and raping 11-year-old Jaycee Dugard, keeping her as his secret captive for nearly two decades and fathering two of her children.Phillip Garrido, now 58, together with his wife, snatched 11-year-old Jaycee Lee Dugard from a street near Lake Tahoe in California in 1991 whilst her stepfather looked on. A manhunt ensued, but failed to find any trace of the girl. He imprisoned her in a “compound” at his home in the Californian city of Antioch for 18 years, using her as a sex slave and keeping her discretely in a tent. He would father two daughters by her, now 11 and 15, who he kept together with her in captivity. None of them would be given medical attention or be allowed to attend school, and lived in near complete isolation.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090828/ap_on_re_us/us_kidnapped_girl_found

The Classic Austria Story which started the whole hysteria

Residents of a small Austrian town are said to be in shock after details came to light of a house-of-horrors where a 73-year-old man imprisoned and abused his daughter for 24 years in a windowless basement. Police arrested Josef Fritzl, believed to have fathered seven children with his 42-year-old daughter Elisabeth, who told police that he had abused her from the age of 11. Fritzl originally lured her into a basement in Amstetten, 130 km (80 miles) west of Vienna, in August 1984, where she was drugged and handcuffed. The story finally came to light after Elisabeth's 19-year-old daughter, Kerstin, was hospitalized with a serious illness together with a note from Elisabeth on April 19. Following an appeal, the elderly father released his captives, telling his wife that Elisabeth and the children had decided to return home. When police questioned Elisabeth, however, the full extent of her ordeal started to unfold. Kersten and two other of Elisabeth's children, aged five and 18, lived in the basement with their mother, while the other three were raised by the father and his wife, and another child died shortly after being born.
http://en.rian.ru/world/20080428/106071799.html

Japan

A mother and her female friend, both 19, have been arrested for torturing the mother’s 2-year-old daughter for amusement, immersing her in boiling hot water and laughing at the ensuing agony caused. Their motivation was that they found the infant’s crying and screaming “funny”, as it reminded them of a famous comedian on Japanese TV whose act involved being made to eat boiling hot noodles. They hatched their scheme watching the girl spit out hot meat dumplings, it reminding them of the comedian. They soon had a baby tub filled with boiling hot water, into which they forced the girl, holding her down in the water for a minute whilst pouring more scalding hot water onto her from a bowl, and apparently watching and laughing at the suffering caused as the girl rolled around on the floor afterward screaming “It’s hot.” The daughter was hospitalised with severe scalding to both legs, and it was there that a doctor doubted the mother’s explanation of “a spill of hot water from a pot.” After the case was refereed to specialists, an investigation soon uncovered what had transpired. The mother admitted her guilt after being exposed: “I did an inexcusable thing to my daughter.” She explained: “She irritated me by not doing as she was told. I remembered the comedian’s boiling noodles act, and decided to punish her.”The mother’s infant son also suffered suspicious injuries consistent with being swung by the neck, and police are now investigating this possibility too.The husband claimed not to have noticed any of this.
Translated by Sansaku Complex - http://blog.livedoor.jp/dqnplus/archives/1256684.html http://www.sankakucomplex.com/2009/04/29/mother-boils-baby-it-was-fun-to-hear-her-scream/

And despite the shit-load more morally apprehensive sordid tales I have read in my line of work among others, this last one is… hmm, well it happens.

Controversial Bullying in Malaysian Schools come to light.

Malaysian School Girls Bullies. - The funniest home videos are here
See for yourself.

Poor choice of Rice for Ashfield Noodle House

2009-09-17T17:16:00.000+10:00

So I went to lunch in Ashfield today. I intended to visit a Uighur Restaurant but despite the fact that it had a open sign... it was closed. Was it because I was Han Chinese? Lord knows.

I went then to the place next door. It was called "Lao Fuk Xing" aka New Style Noodle House. The decor of the restaurant was very nice, and it made me want to try out some of its food. The construct was a clean, clinical white with sharp black chairs contrasting with white tables. The waitress was one of those modern looking Asian girls who are probably the girlfriend of the owner or something.

I listened while waiting to their conversation, and I garnered that the Owner was Taiwanese, the Chef was Pekinese, and the Waitress was from the Shanghai region. I was one of three customers in the restaurant. Why the racial discrimination you ask? Well for my Chinese readers, they will understand the significance of a cultural flavour restaurant ran by this mishmash of racial disambiguation.

The two dishes I ordered were "Fu Suo Duck" (Crispy Skin Duck wrapped with Rice Pancake) and "Qing Jao Fan" (Shredded Pork Rice with Peppers). The first of which was their signature dish - a pricy $17 dollars for entre`. The second I told the waitress 'tell me what the most popular dish you have here is.”; to which she pointed out this rice.

The Duck 4/10
It looks okay. It tastes like crap. The item I received looked more or less the same as the menu which I will give credit for. However, DUCK is a meat whose entire credit lies in its juicy nature. It should be a golden brown, greasy, tender and permeating that specific aroma of duck meat. However this one was fried to oblivion. The first piece of the duck was dry and tasteless, of which I was unimpressed, by the time I had gotten to the third piece there was not an ounce of moisture in the entire thing, and it had in fact fallen apart when I poked it. The sides for the duck were surprisingly well done. The shallots were fresh and well cut; the cucumber chilled, juicy and tender. The pancake was fantastic, soft and warm. Combined with the horrible duck however it was like eating ash wrapped in watered down seafood sauce. (Hoisein Sauce, for our Asian punters)

The Rice Dish 2/10
Before I blow this boat out of the water. What - the - fuck? I go to a NOODLE HOUSE; and she recommends for me a RICE dish. This waitress is either retarded or new, or both. The rice dish was the most horrible thing I had tasted in some time. My father makes better food, and for you guys who have tasted his explosively bad cooking, you know that’s an understatement. The capsicanium flavour of the rice was so strong that I could taste nothing else in the dish. The pork was so thinly shredded that it was flavourless and served no purpose but as a grease trap. Now, for me the most important aspect of a rice dish is the rice itself. Any self respecting restaurant will use Sun-Long, or at least Thai Jasmine rice. This was buck basic short rice – the soft, sticky kind you use to make porridge because the rice it makes taste like mashed rice-potatoes. As a result any of the grease in the meat on top became congealed in patches of brown soy sludge on top of the rice itself, and the overall effect was disgusting.

Would I go back to this place? Maybe to give its noodles some justice. Would I recommend this place to anyone? No. Pieces of crap like these so called restaurants are dime a dozen, and also close down more often than not given five to six month and a five percent annual rent hike.

Canaan

2009-09-17T12:20:00.000+10:00

Wikia Says!
Canaan is an anime television series, conceptualized by Type-M oon co-founders Kinoko Nasu and Takashi Takeuchi, based on the scenario that they created for the Nintendo Wi i visual novel 428: Fūsasareta Shibuya de, which is noted for being one of the few games to be have been awarded a perfect score by games publication Famitsu.^[1]

Worthy of mention here for those punters unfamilar with TYPE-MOON - founded by artist Takashi Takeuchi and writer Kinoko Nasu responsible for creating mechandising monstrosities like Tsukihime, Fate/stay night, Melty Blood, among others. Those of you unfamilar with the titles will nevertheless have seen the character Sabre, the face that launched a thousand figure/doujin adaptions.

Whats it all about?
Two reports in Shanghai discover the existence of an affliction caused by a strange virus known as the Ua strain. Victim who survive the 99.99% mortality rate become endowed with strange powers. There they meet with a strange girl possessing supernatural combat prowess, and become embroiled into an international terrorist plot by an mysterious organization known as Snake.

Plot 7/10
A strong cast of female leads each with interconnected pasts become the players and victims of an international terrorist plot. The protagonist, Canaan is an orphan with... a shocking past! The impact characters Alphard and Maria are equally leads with... a shocking past! The male leads are essentially sound boards and do very little except except provide background and motivations for the female leads. The plot is well paced, with each episode revealing a health dose of the plot development whilst still leaving enough of a question to logically link onto the next. (As opposed to say, Code Geas, whose plot is the metaphorical equivalent of a run over slinky) However the whole government conspiracy terroorist plot involves innocent bystanders who then becomes involved in extraordinary circumstances is about as original as Macdonald's new Angus Beef Burger (The Heart Buster). It is certainly works, but it is nether thought provoking, exhilarting, or contemplative. Scene where emotions run high are rather based on warehouse manufactured scenarios of death, violence, and loss rather than anything emotionally fortifying. What keeps this anime together however is the protagonist Canaan, whose mix of innocence and spunk keeps the bland plot heated.

Art 8/10
If you've watched a lot of anime, you will find the art of this anime to be both pleasant and eye catching. One of the topical aspects of Type Moon productions however is to move away from the stereotypical female toons. Canaan herself may be a loli, but she has defined muscles and her curves are drawn naturally. The combat has a high frame rate, with an exceptional level of attention paid to proportions. One gripe I found with the narrative however is the unimaginative use of close-ups and the lack of editing there of. As the narrative progresses, there is an increased frequency of edited close-ups of emotional shots - so many infact that it cheapens the effect and becomes quite annoying. Anyway, back to the point at hand, this is one of the few animes that focus entirely on a female cast, but neglicts to have any female toon with overtly large breasts, annoying little sister stereotype, and or gobsmacking fanservice. Its focus is the narrative and the art is made to supplement this. The art is sharp, the directing is focused, and the background detailed and fantastic.

Quality Control 10/10
Wait, did I just watch 11 episodes without any significant drops in quality, either in art, background, voice acting, or consistancy of the plot? Oh on I didn't!
Well, I did, and what I love most about this series so far and why I would continue to watch it is because it has the most consistent quality control I have seen in any anime this year. (As opposed to uber oppai panty anime Bakemonotagari - covered later)

Thoughts 6/10
Canaan - Canaan is the father of Sidon, his firstborn; and of the Hittites, Jebusites, Amorites, Girgashites, Hivites, Arkites, Sinites, Arvadites, Zemarites, and Hamathites. Later the Canaanite clans scattered, and the borders of Canaan reached from Sidon toward Gerar as far as Gaza, and then toward Sodom, Gomorrah, Admah and Zeboiim, as far as Lasha.

When I first read the title, I thought this would be a provoking anime (seeing as Canaan is supposed to be Arabic descent, and an earlier episodes described her antagonist Alphard as an 'decendent of Arabic royalty) about extrapolated fantasy regarding cannical Biblical affairs.

Canaan is also described as 'hope' (Jap-Hebrew mistranslation?) indicating that the protagonist would be the 'last hope' of her people. This has not come to pass after 50% of the series has expired, nor hinted that it will. I would say that the narrative is an enjoyable but ultimately forgettable experience.

Strangers in a Strange Land

2009-09-16T22:03:00.001+10:00

Here are the exerts from my recent trip to Vietnam and Cambodia. It was quite a life changing experience for a punter in the sunburnt land to see such abject poverty first hand. It really is entirely something else when there are grubby faced children begging you for a coin; as opposed to say, reading it on a blog.

There is a surreal buzz in the morning air. The routine of working life is stifling; it creates monotony where only the next task is real, where all else fades in the trailing urgency of appointments and goals. Sitting in the airport lounge, sleep deprived and waiting for the flight at five am allows me a rare moment of reflective contemplation.

It has been two years since I have taken a break. Last year I shattered my ankle before my planned overseas trip, and since then I had been grinding through my weekly timetable. For this trip I was joined by my three compatriots, an accountant, an engineer, and a financial analyst.

Our first stop was Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia. The flight itself was mundane, with mundane food and nominal service. As always the hours passed like early Mondays.

Our first stop was Phnom Penh.

Phnom Penh was an eye opener, a resounding knock to our western sensibilities. The very moment we exited the terminal a group of men eagerly took our luggage without permission. Worriedly we followed them with alarming haste only to realise they were taking it to a taxi. The vehicle itself was serviceable, but it was without seatbelts, and for some obscure reason the owner’s five year old son sat with us for the trip. The child situated himself between the driver and me, in-between the gearstick. A quiet child, he regarded me with acute fascination throughout the journey. Our driver did not speak much English, but regardless provided the usual repertoire of questions and answers. Where are you from? What are you seeing? How long are you staying?

As we drove into the CBD, the sobering experience that is Phnom Penh began to unfold around me. What I recognized as the slums that often surrounded the cities of South East Asia was in fact the central district itself.

Phnom Penh was a city recovering from its holocaustic roots and as such a large rift between the rich and poor has developed. There lies not a single skyscraper to be seen and the streets are smothered with vendors and shanty stalls. Eventually our taxi pulls into the main drag of Tonle Sap riverside, said to be the most populous and prosperous area of Phnom Penh.

What lies before me instead is a scene from the derelict side walks of old Hong Kong. Endless stalls of two story buildings that conglomerate into one other stretch as far as the eye can see in rectangular blocks. The streets are filled with refuse and rubbish, and people clad in simple shirts and shorts litter the sidewalks. The hotel that had come so recommended was a street stall covered with tourism posters; it was little more than a converted apartment. The riverside so noted for its serene beauty is a mud choked slow flowing sludge of pollution and assailing aromas. Large wooden planks and piled refuse litter rows of street signs that segregate the Sisowath Quay from its bubonic estuary. For a moment I was lost in the hurtling hustle and bustle of the city, this was far beyond my wildest expectations.

The people make the city, and this is no different in Phnom Pehn. The nation has a large number of young people, but very little industry to support them. The economy is haemorrhaging due to the credit crunch, and tourism remains the city’ primary trade. Even so, the sheer boldness by which this pseudo capitalism manifests in a poor backwater nation is astounding to the uninitiated traveller such as my self.

Sex tourism is something that has long since been romanticised and criticized in western literature. A bastardisation of this phenomenon is child sex tourism, an industry predominantly existing in third world nations. The cause for this burgeoning bloom of decadence however; lies not so much in the lack of opportunity, education, or ethics in developing but rather with westerners consumers and their bulging pockets. It is tourists who find pleasure in the idle satisfaction in the inferiority of ‘native’ people.

There are seedy underbellies in every nation. Sociologically speaking it is not unusual to rationalise how low employment rates and rich poor divides lead to growing disparity of less scrupulous industries. Seeing it first hand however, is an exercise far more shocking than the novelistic pursuit of descriptive narratives.

It was expected that at some stage our cadre of innocents would run into some form of the seedier localities. What I did not anticipate however was finding it in broad daylight in the main thoroughfare, as laissez-faire as if they were selling hotdogs. We ventured past a local lounge where a group of men and women sat outside. There were three Caucasian gentlemen of advanced age slouching in mid-evening heat. Sitting beside them were two girls who looked to be in their teens. The men spoke with a Californian accent, and joke with each other jovially. One man had a hand on a girl’s thigh, while another casually stroked the shoulder of another. Averting my eyes, I felt a flush of mortification. The girls were clearly local, skinny, without brand name clothing, and had little makeup. They had stoic, bored expressions and did little apart from observing the street with a deadpan expression. As we passed the men carried on, the girls remained silent. I looked towards my companions to confirm my suspicions, and their expressions concurred with my conclusion.

We decided to go by the Loney Planet Guide, and it recommended a bar called Sharkies. It was a favourite hangout for expats and tourists. Having walked for an entire day and tiring of the endless stalls we decided to have a night out. The cab to Sharkies was strangely expedient; all the drivers knew where it was. The bar itself however was worse for wear. It was old, dirty, and had noisy air conditioning. It had dying palm trees in pots the swayed as bamboo stitched fans swam lazily in circles. Looking around the bar, the reason why it was so popular became more evident. This particular location seemed to be filled with young women. It was also filled with foreigners, and they clearly were not here for holistic conversation and drinking. Everywhere I looked were women dressed to kill; dressed in such a way as to make no two shakes about the ply of their trade. I ordered Vodka on the rocks; the barista was as lousy as the atmosphere was sleazy.

“There are bars in Phnom Penh where not a single guest is under fifty or under fifteen stones.” was a common observation made about the sex industry in Cambodia. Looking around the bar, I see that single, overweight, middle aged Caucasian men form the majority of the clientele here. The girls would approach them, they would play some pool, some form of exchange would take place, and then the men would leave with one or two of the women in tow. As young backpacker seeming lads without money, we were largely ignored much to my relief.

http://www.expatrockstar.com/bar-review-shanghai-bar-phnom-penh-%E2%80%93-hostess-bar-in-cambodia/
Would know more about it than I do ><

Having quickly finished our drink at Sharkies, we decided it was time to leave and seek finer establishments that did not turn our moral sensibilities. Our next stop was a place called Iris, seemingly a nice little upmarket bar. There were a few well groomed young men at the door, and I fancied that it would be a sports bar or a more upmarket local pub.

Walking inside however revealed the place to be another cultural phenomenon unique to the Asian bar scene. Girl bars, also known as hostess bars, are a kind of establishment where girls employed by the bar will ‘accompany’ you as you drink in a bid to make you purchasing copiously priced beverages.
We had jumped from the frying pan and into the fire. Behind its heavily tinted doors and windows Iris was such an establishment. Flustered, we decided to stay and face the music.

Two black clad Iris ladies joined our table. We awkwardly drank our drinks. Too embarrassed to simply walk out and what little courage we had boosted by our light intoxication. We ordered double the amount of drinks, presuming this was protocol. Regardless of what we ordered for them however, the girls simply had water, tonic, or juice; certainly it would not do for them to be inebriated. It became painfully evident after a few words of conversation that the girls spoke no more English than ‘where do you come from’ and ‘would you like to have another drink’. The girl who sat next to me spoke a little Chinese, and I manage to siphon from broken syllables that the club was quiet because most of the girls are back in their home villages visiting family. ‘Why are you working today?’ I asked, but it was rhetorical. ‘Need send money family.’ She shrugs. I nod sympathetically, sipping my Southern and Lime. We sit in silence for a moment more. The music was poorly orchestrated, and obnoxiously loud.

After a good half an hour of embarrassing whispers and long dramatic pauses, we decided it was time to leave politely. However, a third girl joined us, and my companions and I were utterly flabbergasted by her appearance. Now note that earlier I had motioned that Cambodia has a sever problem in so far as child labour and sex tourism is concerned. The Iris club uniform was a small, form fitting one piece black dress cut with little modesty above the thigh. All of the girls wore this, and as petite, small figures it was a combination. This new girl whom came to our table however was even smaller, and by my estimate could not have been more than her teens. Despite having had a few drinks, this was rather sobering, as I had been considering the issue since our encounter with the white men and their girl friends a night ago. She poured me a drink; her hands were tiny and miniscule, dwarfed by my massive bear like mitts gripping the glass with a nervous swelter. Before we called for the bill, I asked her how old she was. ‘Twenty’ she replied demurely, to which my companions and I all answered with dubious nervous chuckles. We sat a moment longer, malingering, as though our seats were a slowly heating grill. The bill was a modest sum, less than twenty USD. As we got up from our alcove and made for the exit, I noticed several other customers around the club. One was an elder gentleman of advanced middle age. Seated with him was an adolescent similar to the girl who joined us. The man was red faced, leaning into her small body. He was soloing what seems to be an entire bottle of Whiskey; jackpot. The girl had one hand on his thigh and another around his neck but she kept her face away from his. The outside air was stale, hot, and sticky.
If I recall correctly, the girl name was Donny.

As the night wore on, we came to know the lexicon of the local peddlers. Tuk Tuk meant if you wanted a taxi ride on a rickshaw. Shooting meant if you wanted to go to the local shooting range and fire some guns. Massa meant a massage at one of the hundreds of suspicious parlours in the area. Boom-boom meant if you wanted to venture to one of the local houses of negotiated affections. At each street corner we were beset by dozens of the men shouting a combination of each. At first we politely refused, but as the night wore on, we became deaf to these cat-calls, eventually not even turning a eye to look them in the face. They became invisible people, just a mere flavour of the locality, just as we to them are faceless tourists flowing with American money; here to exploit them, here to deride them, here to capitalize on their less fortunate existence.

The follow days we visited the sites of the some of the greatest massacres and horrors in recorded human history. The S-21 prison was a converted school where over twenty thousand men and women were tortured over a year and then put to death. The Killing Field was where these men and women were made to dig their own graves before been beaten to death with their own tools and dumped precariously into the pits. We visited these sad shrines of events past, of tragedies that we could not imagine. We met with the survivors; we walked on the very soil, and stood face to face with the skulls of those who had fallen in the Khmer Rouge’s murder of over two million Cambodians. It was surreal and unbelievable because this had happened in 1975. It was a time we associated with the Beatles, with music, with Rock n` Roll and modernity. To the people here however, it was a dark blotch in their history that no reparations can mend, that no success can wash away. The horrors of a time go by is etched into the very bones of those who live on, and haunt the lives of those that survive.

Days into our trip, the ecstatic fever of tourism was broken.

The next day we left for Siam Reap, where the ancient wonder of the world Angkor Wat was situated. It is a two thousand year old temple complex that marked the height of the Khmer cultural dominance.

When one sees a great majestic sight in real life, the physical presence to be there is much greater than the sum of its parts. The forgotten jungle temples of Angkor Wat are far beyond the mere post card images that iconically capture its more illustrious moments. From the temple approach, its immense size is illustrated by the gargantuan moat that covers its outer perimeter. A humming buzz of excitement and activity cover our entrance as the sight of its faceted towers comes into view. The outer gate is breath taking, towering over its visitors, as it would have in ages past. Worn and eroded fresco cover the outer walls, ironically displaced by endless stalls of vendors pedalling mundane tourist goods.

We enter the courtyard to arrive at a long lattice that extends from the moat to the inner sanctum of the Temple of the God King. On my right stands a pagoda where monks once washed themselves of worldly sins, on my left stands another pagoda where the King’s officials would purify themselves. Below both pagodas were two large ponds with reflective, perfect still surfaces where our guide tells us were the washing basins for commoners.

To read about history is one thing, to walk among the halls of history itself is altogether another experience. The chief fresco of Angkor Wat was the churning of the milk, a story of creationism as seen through the eyes of the old Thai God King that drew their inspiration form Hinduism. Through seemingly endless corridors these detailed frescos of obsidian carvings continued like a tapestry. The walls told stories long lost to modern Cambodia, of a time when its people ruled supreme among the tribes of subcontinent Asia. The temples were a remnant of a time of national pride and racial superiority. During the sixth and twelfth century the Khmer people were the most powerful and advanced nation in SE Asia. Their knowledge and kingdom were unmatched but for its powerful Chinese neighbour. They had conquered the Viet, subjugated the Thai, and flourished.

The story of the churning of the milk is one such epic. Long before time, and the existence of humans, the world was but a primordial soup. This was the milk of life, and existing above it were the Aspara (Gods), and the Asura (Demons). The God Vishnu saw to it that churning the milk would produce the elixir of life. However to churn the milk, the Gods needed the help of the demons. Vishnu then recruited the demons who eagerly agreed in order to have half the elixir. Thus, with the Mandara Mountain as the apex of the churning rod that encompassed both sides of the world, the Asura and the Aspara set about churning the milk. As the sea of life turned and boiled, it produced many more life forms and people that populated the world. When success was imminent however, the God Vishnu reincarnated himself as a beautiful and seductive Sharqi (dancer). Her dancing was so alluring that it was said the Asura was enthralled and mesmerised by her beauty. This was then the Aspara took the completed elixir of immortality, and broke their promise of giving them half. Enraged the Asura were, they were no match for the Aspara whom drank the elixir. This is why to this day, the Gods reign over the Demons and between them exists a hatred that spans the eons.

With this epic in mind do I walk the hallowed halls of Angkor Wat. The narrative plays before my eyes with incredible detail. Each character is differentiated by small details such as the face, the eye shadows, the clothing, the equipment, and their gestures and poses. The work extends forever, round and round the vast expanse of the inner temple. Hours later, we were still in the same temple and this was but one of a dozen such epics that await my sojourn into the ancient history of Angkor Wat. For the Khmer, a people whose entire existence until recent times were filled with tales of banishment, suffering, losses, civil war, and colonisation it was a glorious time to reflect upon. Walking here during Khmer New Year surrounded by the smiling faces of locals who wonder in amazement at the sights of the temple; I cannot help but feel an immense sense of pride for having witnessed the greatness of an ancient people.

The second leg of our journey took us from the city of Siam Reap where Angor Reap was situated to the neighbouring nation of Vietnam, famed for its fierce spirit of independence, national pride, and fast developing capital. Our first stop in Vietnam was Saigon, now called Ho Chi Min City in memory of the man that liberated Vietnam from a hundred years of oppressive French colonisation.

The city itself was an immediate breath of fresh air from the oppressive poverty of Cambodia. Wealth was immediately apparent in the infrastructure of the city itself. The streets were equally chaotic, but it was wide and clean. Retail shops that catered not to tourists but the locals proliferated from small strings of shopping stalls to large towering shopping centres. The people that meandered the streets look busy, walked with purpose, and few lingered with expressions of resignation. As I gazed from the glass panes of our bus, I saw school children by the throngs in their red scarves. Large and well furbished kindergartens abound every few blocks, and parkland populated with locals. Sport was prolific in every field I saw, and young and old enjoyed games of badminton and a local version of kick the sack.

Saigon was a place where great history took place. Occupied by the French for over one hundred years, the beautiful architecture of ages past was perfectly preserved through the town hall, the opera house, and the post office. Tall arching spires that soared through sublimely chiselled vaults, with cherubs that adored each facet and corner. The city also had a darker history however, and this we saw in the war museums and the Cu-Chi tunnels. Few can imagine what life was like for the US troops whom had to fight the natives. As a student of World War II and a romantic that was long obsessed with US propaganda as depicted through films and novels, it was enlightening to see the war from the Vietnamese side.

Drunk with the success of their military success in WWII the US did not anticipate that badly armed Vietcong troops would prove to be an able opponent. However, what they had not realised was the spirit of a people fighting in their own homeland, and that every bomb scouring the jungles was a direct attack against the very nation and nationality of the Vietnamese people. The war was quickly drawn into the one of the most protracted battles of all time, and the US lost more men and money than the entirety of their losses in World War II combined. The Vietnamese meanwhile fought on doggedly in trenches, in tunnels, in jungles and in mountains, denying every avenue to the foreign invaders. Finally, the US had lost too much, and the population back home baulked at the savagery and losses sustained for a nation that only wanted to be rid of its western patriarch. Even though the Vietnamese had lost ever major battle, the US was defeated. Saigon was liberated, its puppet government dissolved, and Vietnam was one.

This patriotic narrative stirred even the vigour of a visitor such as my self. The museum was superbly orchestrated, with hundreds of graphic photos each with a little narrative attached. Shells, ordinances, and weapons used in the war were on display. The experience was saddening but enlightening look into the life of a people’s struggle for independence.

Our next stop was to travel north into the heartland of Vietnam where the Communist Coalition had its primary base of operations. Hanoi is the capital of Vietnam, and though it pales in wealth to the busting metropolis of Saigon, it makes up for it with its beautiful landscaping and rich cultural roots.

The primary destination for our trek was Sapa village; a mountainous region famed for its preserved ancient agricultural practices.

The Sapa mountain of Hanoi, Vietnam is home to 39000 villagers belonging to 48 different tribes of people. Bordering the outskirts of Yun Nang province in China, it sits comfortably as a verdant valley of tiered rice fields.

Starting from our hotel, we were immediately greeted by the native women of the mountain town. They wore colourful clothing stitched with hemp; a primary navy blue presided over by flowery patterns of yellow, red, and green. Headscarves are common on the elder women, while the younger girls wore their long hair unbound. We were a group of seven, but we soon attracted a group of no less than a dozen of the local folk. Walking among them as we descended into the steep mist mantled top of the Sapa valley was an experience words could barely do justice.

Imagine this: Parting the rocky cliffs to find a valley as deep as your eyes can see span across from one horizon to another. A hundred plots of tiered and tiled rice fields cascade from the top of mountains in every shade and colour. The yearling rice sprouts bore the tender emerald mantles of spring. The verdant vitality of the fields was amazing, awe inspiring, and for but a moment all fatigue washes away, leaving you with a sense of idyllic pastoral vigour that played the heartstring. All through the three hour long trek this view pervaded your senses, the smell of fresh loam, the flowing water, and finally the cascading cacophony of the waterfall that skirted your home stay mountain hut.

The trek was relatively simple at first, with slippery rocky steps going up and down a large cut path. As they day wore on however and we veered off to the smaller trails used by the villagers, it became a cross country marathon that spanned rivers, waterfalls, mossed stones through rocky stream beds, and steep bamboo forests with jagged cuts of wind torn stilts.

I must admit that I was not physically available for a trek of this magnitude. It was only by virtue of the locals who aided me on numerous accessions, holding my hand through treachery crumbling outcrops and melting rice fields that I was able to finally make it to our home stay. When they finally approached to sell us goods that they had prepared, I handsomely paid half a million Dong without recourse. I would have given them as much for thanks regardless of the trinkets involved.

Rest came bidden and eagerly, and we woke to the sound of the waterfall crashing ever harder as misty mountain rain showered our corrugated roof. I have seen much in my life, but this was incredible by far.

The home-stay offered to us was from a local family belonging to the Red Dzao minority people. It was a simple two storey building constructed from bamboo and roofed with thatch and pieces of corrugated iron. It was the most secure building in the village, as the owners had intended it for foreign guests. The walls were woven bamboo, and as the night raid pelted the soft thatch roof droplets of moisture formed upon the inner walls. Despite this however our stay was exceptionally comfortable, the air was crisp, clean, and it was a pleasure to draw deep lung fulls of the mountain air. The scent of cascading water, fresh loam, and dew collected upon the rice fields pervaded the morning. I was utterly seduced by this idyllic setting, and mourned that the rain cut short our trek as it made the muddy mountain trails suicidal for inexperienced tourist trekkers. Nevertheless, Sapa was the last great location of our journey.

While many other locations were compressed into the short sojourn of us foursome travellers; few remained as vividly in my mind as those I made mention.

This journey was more educational and life changing than my dozen semesters at university. To read about poverty and to see poverty are entirely mutual experiences. To be surrounded by begging children, muddy faced, wild haired, grubby handed, to be in the presence of history, to see into the empty eyes of those that died to tyranny, to walk on the very bones of holocaust, to stumble knee deep in the slosh of ancient fields … this was our journey; the very definition of unforgettable.

Eat Drink Man Otaku MAY 2009

Sayonara Zetsubou Sensei

2009-09-16T21:12:00.000+10:00

Wikia Says!
Sayonara, Zetsubou-Sensei (さよなら絶望先生, Sayonara Zetsubō Sensei?, literally Goodbye, Mr. Despair) is a Japanese manga by Kōji Kumeta, serialized in Weekly Shōnen Magazine. It is a comedy about a teacher who takes all aspects of life, language and culture in the most negative light possible. It satirizes politics, media, and Japanese society. In 2007, the manga received the thirty-first Kodansha Manga Award in the shōnen category,[1] and was adapted into a twelve-episode anime series. Weekly Shōnen Magazine announced that a second season, titled (Zoku) Sayonara, Zetsubou-Sensei (【俗・】さよなら絶望先生?, literally (Vulgar) Goodbye, Mr. Despair) would be made;[2] it aired between January and March 2008. A set of three OVAs titled Goku: Sayonara, Zetsubou-Sensei (獄・さよなら絶望先生?, literally Prison: Goodbye, Mr. Despair) were produced between October 2008 and February 2009. The first and third volume were bundled with the limited edition of volume fifteen and sixteen of the manga and second volume released separately.[3] A third TV anime series, Zan: Sayonara, Zetsubou-Sensei (懺・さよなら絶望先生?, literally Repent: Goodbye, Mr. Despair), began airing in Japan in July 2009.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sayonara,_Zetsubou-Sensei

So what is it all about?
The third son of a age old family becomes a teacher. Suffering from bouts of chronic depression, he attempts to off himself. However, his troupe of sexy and able bodied school girls are there to save him. Each episode is based on one particular gag that is in turn based on a satirical Japanese topic. The anime itself is highly intertextual and I would not recommend it for people unfamiliar with Japan, Japanese Gags, Wordplay, and other Pop-Anime series. While the art itself is visually provocative, it's simply less enjoyable when the jokes lack a punchline. Anyway, the students, whom each has their own problems and idiosyncrasies interact with the teacher, and have to deal with his bouts of psychosis and mania regarding the problems faced by contemporary Japan.

Plot 6/10
Ironically, one of the biggest gripes with Zetsubou Sensei from western censors seems to be that it has no plot. Well, there is a plot, except that the plot does not revolve so much as around climaxes and arcs as it does the gags. The Gag Manga genre has long since been a running field in Manga, albeit made less popular by the fact that the jokes are only funny if the readers 'get' it, and often are highly contextual and secular.

Note: For actual gag genre, see Sexy Commando Gaiden: Sugoiyo!! Masaru-san, and Pyū to Fuku! Jaguar by Kyosuke Usuta

Art 9/10
The art of Sayonara Zetsubou Sensei is amazing. Rather than rendered animation, it rather uses a ultra simplistic style based on the original author's collage silhouettes. Characters are unique and easily identifiable, with segment dedicated to each of the idiosyncrasies. Most shots are dependent on angle and editing, with strong focus on line. Still animation is widely employed in place of fluid animation, with the result that the viewer feels like they are watching a presentation rather than an anime. The show itself has plenty of fan service, up to the explicit level of nipple pinching and a plethora of panty flashing. If you are used to watching One Piece, Gundam, or Macross Frontier, you may find this art style and animation lacking, but give it some time and it will grow on you. I consider this particular animation style to be at the pinnacle of the ethos "less is more and more is less".

Quality Control 10/10
I have not since the 90s seen a anime where the quality DOES NOT fluctuates widely between episodes. Given the simple style of Sayonara Zetsubou Sensei, it has become one of the rare gems that can for various reason convenient or otherwise escaped this calumny. The quality remains the same throughout the series, and the occasional artistic gem fills you with satisfaction at the artistic merit makers Shaft have put into the series.

Thoughts 8/10
I have to admit, as much as I read Japanese news and lots of blog related to Japan like Danny Choos' http://www.dannychoo.com/ and Sansaku Complex http://www.sankakucomplex.com/ among others http://www.japanprobe.com/ for example - I still have no idea what half the jokes in the show are about, particularly famous Japanese personalities and sports stars.

I do however, love the word play (on Kanji) as well as references to texts such as Franz Kafka and Murakami (Kafka on the Shore). This is definitely an intelligent anime for the punter. Go get a copy and have a watch if you want to see what the fuss is all about!

So currently the anime is in its third season. The manga is up to Vol 17 and still going strong even if some of the gags are getting a bit old. However, as you watch more of the anime the familarity you develop with the protagonists (the girls) will ensure that the jokes become more accessible and humurous.

Concept Post

2009-09-16T20:40:00.000+10:00

This blog will consist of four sections.

1. Food - with pictures and commentary on restaurants I have eaten at.
2. Anime - with reviews and comments on ongoing and completed series
3. Manga - with reviews and comments on ongoing and completed Manga
4. The Wide Blue Yonder - a section about the going on of the sun burnt land, land of the rising sun, and ol motherland. Generally these news have to do with one of the three above categories but may digress pending on the nature of the news.