This is the home of serious fucking journalism.

Herein, you can read plays, witness old photos, and browse several years' worth of archives. Readers may employ the slow-moving email contact to speak with the author, about whom more can be learned by clicking here.

The short version is this: I am 25 years old and I live very far away from you, where I teach English. I like girls, monkeys and Shakespeare. My hobby is talking shit. Finish.

These are my peeps who maintain web operations:

American Demigods,
Fancy That,
Man Cutting Globe,
Notext.org,
oswald.nu,
Pussy Ranch,
Same Day Different Rat,
Sen. Barack Obama,
Spaceinvader Orchestra,
WMUR.

These are web sources run by people I do not know well but to whom I feel I can safely recommend your gentle senses:

Boneyboy,
Cordelia's Kitchen,
Daily Kos,
Fametracker,
Funny Paper,
Neil Gaiman,
MarkCity,
MoveOn.org,
The Morning News,
Penn Avenue,
Paint a Vulgar Picture,
somedisco,
Spacekadet,
This American Life,
This Modern World,
WEFT 90.1 FM.

Finally, you may descend upon my Amazon wish list like the howling Bacchae.

Older entries of I woke up in a strange place are listed below. They discuss matters including Manute Bol, the Chinese space program, monkeys and very little else. You may read them at your leisure, in the order that follows or in that crazy freestyle of yours.

The present series, in which our protagonist up and moves halfway around the world to Japan:

July
June
May
April
February
January
December
November
October
September
August
July
June

In which our protagonist finds himself in the employ of a rabbi, working as a ghostwriter:

May
April
March
February
January

2002

December

In which our protagonist is really, really unemployed:

November
October
September
August
July
June
May
April
March
February
January

2001

December
November
October
September
August
July

010622 - 010619

In which our protagonist moves to the big city and finds himself employed at a global conglomerate, leading to a series of infantile but nonetheless satisfying acts of aggression:

010615 - 010611
010608 - 010604
010601 - 010529
010525 - 010521
010518 - 010514
010511 - 010507
010504 - 010430
010427 - 010423
010420 - 010416
010413 - 010409
010406 - 010402
010330 - 010326
010323 - 010319
010316 - 010312
010309 - 010307
019223 - 010219
010216 - 010212
010209 - 010205
010202 - 010109
010126 - 010122
010119 - 010115
010112 - 010108
010105 - 010102

2000

001229 - 001224
001222 - 001218
001215 - 001211
001208 - 001204
001201 - 001124
001124 - 001120
001117 - 001113
001110 - 001106
001103 - 001030
001027 - 001023
001020 - 001016
001013 - 001010
001006 - 000927

In which 'college' reaches its explosive conclusion:

1999

December
November
Fall

In which things go fairly well:

May
February
January

1998

December
November
October
June
May
April
March
February

In which our protagonist returns to college, reluctantly, other plans having been scuppered:

January

1997

December
November
October
September II
September I

And that's the end of it.

040728 Suddenly my house was full of Japanese people barely able to express their fervent wish for cargo shorts from Abercrombie & Fitch. The web-site was confounding to them; when they sent a party to solicit my help, the rest were gathered around the house computer downstairs, mucking about on the investor relations page. Why are these people in my house? I thought. I do not know most of them. Who are they? Which one of them intends to wear these shorts? A representative pressed a scrap of paper into my hands with a mailing address almost a hundred miles away. I set up an account for the leader, who identified herself as Goki, and then found the shorts they wanted: men's cargo shorts, on sale. Their credit card was no good, and they sent me away while they called the bank. Twenty minutes later, I was summoned to finish the transaction and promised watermelon. I thought, well, might as well see this one through, and also watermelon is good. I ordered the shorts and they spent the next five minutes thanking me and bowing to me. Now I am enjoying some watermelon, and it's just another summer day.

Last night I was at the public baths when a yakuza captain walked in, flanked by a few lieutenants. The unaffiliated Japanese people scrambled out of there, but I had only just arrived, and frankly they did not seem bothered by my presence. The captain took a while stripping down while the hastily-naked lieutenants ran around clearing the sit-down shower stalls and setting up a cascade of bowls with warm soapy water. One of them disappeared with my soap and soap-dish, which I had left in the shower stall I had used, as per local custom. "Watashi no desu," I muttered. The bright green dragon on his back sneered in my general direction as he disappeared with my soap.

I was writing that, and the Japanese returned with another emissary. Apparently, in their enthusiasm, they had attempted to repeat what I'd done and had ordered another pair of shorts, which they did not want. Also, Goki was spelling her name differently now. I went downstairs and fixed everything to the usual outsized amount of praise.

So, I was sitting there in the steam room, watching helplessly through the window as the lieutenant disappeared with my soap, and finally the captain walked in. A lieutenant turned on a shower for him, and he sat under the water long enough to get went. Then a lieutenant held open the door of the steam room while another walked in and set a white cushion on the bench next to me. The first lieutentant kept the door open - you're letting all the steam out, idiot - while the second grabbed a bowl and splashed water from the baths on the floor in a trail from where the captain sat to the door of the steam room. The captain stood up and followed the path. When he was inside, the first lieutenant closed the door and stood by his side while the second, joined by a third, continued scooping water out of the baths and splashing it all over the floor. The captain looked at me and I nodded. He nodded back. After less than a minute, he headed outside and sat back down at the shower stall. The three lieutenants went into formation around him. One began barking military-like signals and another began dumping the bowls over the captain's head, one-by-one, while the third refilled them. Several bowls later, they made an abrupt departure and I was alone.

I swear this is all happening in real-time: the Japanese just sent another emissary to ask what kinds of fruit I like, because they intend to buy me a great deal of fruit for what I've done. I still don't understand who these people are, but let me press on with some recent events.

On Father's Day, I was given the following cookie by the grocery store:

I kept it for a few days, and then I went ahead and ate it. Should those who are not fathers be given cookies intended for those who are? Well, the cookie was all right, and as has always been my policy, I apologize for nothing when it comes to cookies.

My friend Andrew did a special lesson - open to any student - on jazz and blues music. Tadashi showed up. He is a deranged little man, the least-successful son in a family of successful businessmen, perhaps because he forms half-cocked plans such as working as a bag-boy at a grocery store subsidiary of a corporation he admires, believing it sent a message to the executive board about his respect for them. I had him in a lesson I did once on language for buying gifts. While the other students decided to buy jewelry, setting up purchasing roleplays nicely, Tadashi gave his hypothetical mother the gift of some groceries. I yelled at him and he acknowledged his mistake. He announced one day that he was getting fat and began chain-smoking to help him lose weight - which he did, although now his clothes are too big. He spends his weekends doing volunteer palm readings at bookstores. One day, I did not feel like teaching a lesson, so I told him to read my palm instead. He gasped with astonishment and said that I had two emotion lines, whereas most people have only one; I had an extremely hot emotion line and an extremely cold one. That figures, I thought. Tadashi also said that I was moving in the right direction to meet my destiny, which should arrive around the time I am 35, and that my 22nd year had been very significant for me. I did nothing when I was 22; I did less that year than any year since perhaps my infancy. But that's what Tadashi said.

Anyway, Andrew had some madlib blues lyrics ready for the students, and here are Tadashi's:

Woke up this (time of day) NIGHT and I crawled right out of (uncomfortable place) JAIL.
Well, my (someone or something you care about) BOYGIRL FRIEND was gone and I was left here all (medical condition) NERVOUSNESS.
Yeah, I ain't had no (something good) SALARY since (date) WW II.
No, I been (something bad) SLAVING and (even worse) JAIL since (see date above) WW I.
Think I'll go and (method of suicide) SMOKE DRRUNK before the (see condition above) SLAVING gets too much.

It was true on the day those lyrics were written and it is true today that the line "Yeah, I ain't had no salary since World War 2" causes me to lose my shit.