Two doses of Dioxylamine drowned out three crying babies and their Balkan entourage for me to garner almost ten hours rest on the long haul from Melbourne. Wide eyed with foreknowledge of each of the inevitable steps that would mark this cinematic torment, I queued “The Book of Eli”. Denzel Washington was admirably stoic, in this Ragnorak style defeat of character, actor and audience- all merely playing out our parts, without hope of redemption or release, each blow leading the film closer to wherever it is that such films go to die, and me to dreamless, chemical sleep.

I awoke to a sunrise over a very different part of the world and a concert of crying that unfortunately had not found better harmony despite admirably long hours of practice. I found partial reinvigoration in fruits, a vivid awareness of my lack of progeny, and in the Keats romance, “Bright Star”. Before the conclusion of the narrative, we began descent to Abu Dhabi, so in my imagination Keats is eternally bound between the sufferings of insufferable romance and the creeping “condition” of a pre-Florean pathology. I have no desire to see the remainder, nor for any reconciliation toward unity or deathly division, nor to break the frozen amber dance of Pathos and Thanatos, which says more about Keats than any final falling of life or love.

I transited through the airport and my first taste of the Gulf was an acute awareness of the decided lack of expected decadence. Where is my gold dispensing machine? Where is the retro steam engine whisking me away for an indoor BASE jump, or the Emirati “skill-tester” featuring falconry and Rolexes hidden inside of lesser birds? Perhaps my expectations are based on fantasy and advertising, or perhaps there’s another airport- constructed on a manmade island shaped like JFK (the man not the airport) where the pharaonic desires of the rich in transit are born and met.

The bareness of the gate suggests both a fear that some obviously non-citizen types may take quiet refuge on a bench or other horizontal plane, and that the seat-loving elite are being led elsewhere. I take short solace with a well-travelled Italian coffee brand and some carrot cake that reminds me of playgrounds and being eight.  I open the Economist, which once again predicts the demise of Hugo Chavez, whilst openly mentioning that that the conservatives leading the fine British coalition received less of the popular vote than the demagogue in his land. I take both points as signs of exceptional quality. An electronic board, lacking even a baroque golden frame and semi-precious studding, flashes and I shuffle my goods to the next leg, a casual seven-hour ordeal this time, and then at last the Grande European Summer shall begin.

See Obama’s acceptance speech here.

Seinfeld: Back to Stand Up

Bill Hicks, December 16, 1961 – February 26, 1994.

The highlight occurred when entering the embassy and venturing through the security and registration area. My notes from the evening, hastily scribbled upon parchment, read-

And Jesus was stopped by a U.S. Marine who looked at the large cross and said unto Jesus, “You know this can be used to hurt people?” Jesus responded, with head downturned in knowing pain, “Only unto Me”.

That, my friends, is a parable for the modern age.

"I' m interested in you!Our position is in kind of cute cafe, but teaching English to their customers.Customers enjoy speaking with taking some sips with tea or sweets!Sometimes they have cute party.We needs Native Speakers teaching English, with serving some foods for their customers. Ms. Yamamoto,the owner of this Cafe is great people, and enthusiastic for English education.You can learn a lot from her."

Now, as you well know I’m not one to turn down cute party, especially one that involves the sipping of tea or sweets at cute cafe. However, there is a more profitable business chatting to customers in Japan- and their cute party involves whiskey and many, many thousands of Yen.