That’s NOT Wasabi!

Eesh, I'm a bad blogger. I promise "weekly" updates, and it's been almost a month since my last post. Apologies are, once again in order.

The most exciting thing to happen to me since then was the Tokyo trip, which I'm guessing most of you have already seen the pictures from. But a picture's only worth a thousand words, and I could spill millions on Tokyo. It was a long trip, and I've got lots to say, so here's how we're going to recount it.

Today, I'll tell about our first day there. Over the next couple of days, I'll tell you about days two through five, presumably in order. Since our fifth day was a short one, there will also be a wrap-up discussing why Tokyo is awesome, and why you should go there. There's a lot of ground to cover, and I'd rather write five longish posts instead of one massive all-encompassing one.

So, we begin : For those of you who don't already know, Devon and I recently had five days off for the Korean Thanksgiving holiday Chuseok. We elected to fly to Tokyo with two of our friends, Sam and Stephanie.

We arrived in Tokyo at the reasonable hour of one in the afternoon on October first, but had left Gwangju at the completely unreasonable hour of 12.30 the previous morning. Why so early? Since our flight didn't leave until 11am on the 1^st, it was a combination of impatience, and fear of the Korean Chuseok traffic that compelled us to shuffle onto a red-eye bus and sleep on a cold airport bench until our flight departed.

(It should be noted that I slept for only about half of the bus ride, and none of the six hours we were in the airport. Instead, I wandered around the Incheon airport, suspiciously alone and bewildered as I waited for Burger King to open. I read a day-old Herald Tribune, and I looked for softer places to sleep. By the time I found a perfect set of big, round cushioned benches, Devon, Sam, and Steph were fast asleep on the benches. Oops)

We arrived in Tokyo's Narita airport on time, sailed through customs, and somehow found our way onto the right train to take us into the city. An hour and a half and a subway transfer later, and we emerged from underground in the part of the city that we'd be calling home for the next few days: Asakusa.

The guidebook we had said that Asakusa was the closest thing Tokyo had to an "Old" section of town, that it still retained much of the charm of "old Edo" (I guess there wasn't much left after we firebombed the living daylights out of Tokyo in WWII). On first impression, the bright lights, wide boulevards, and abundant arcades didn't seem particularly "old," but a strange quiet sat in the air.

I've been in quiet cities before – usually at three or four in the morning, when the city stills itself before the onslaught of rush hour traffic that daylight brings. When the only thing moving is the occasional taxi bringing someone home from a late night out or a jogger out for an early-morning run.

It's quiet...too quiet

At three in the afternoon, Tokyo could hardly be considered "still," but an undeniable hush hung in the air. Cars and buses drove by, but without the roar of rubber on pavement I've come to associate with almost getting run over. It was as if the Japanese had figured out how to turn the volume down on everything or, more realistically, made some sort of magical sound-absorbing pavement.

We wandered through back alleys until we miraculously stumbled on our hotel. After checking in and dropping our bags off, we headed out to grab something to eat and see some of the local sights.

It ain't much to look at, but it's comfortable

It being our first night in Japan, we naturally went for sushi. It also being Asia, pretty much anything found in the ocean was served raw. I saw things go by on that conveyor belt (yes, it was that kind of sushi place) that I thought existed only in horror movies with names like It Came from the Deep, and Bloody Tides.

I saw a bowl with some sort of spiral-shelled creatures that I'm pretty sure were still moving as they slowly shuffled past. There were these little things that looked kinda like transparent gummy fish, except they had tiny black eyes. On one plate sat nothing but a big, black, knobby shell with peach-colored flesh inside. A bowl of octopus suckers the size of nickels watched me as they slithered past. I shivered as I thought of the size of the octopus that lost those, and how angry he would be if he discovered I had them. He'd probably want them back.

I did see plenty of familiar things too. There was your standard sushi fare – thick slices of tuna, yellowtail, and salmon. Orange and red fish roe glistened in little seaweed cups.

With the full oceanic hodge-podge circling the bar in the middle of the restaurant, I was learning about all the wonderful delights of the deep. But it's only fair if I share with you the single most important piece of information I learned that night: That strange green powder in the jar in front of you is not some sort of secret Japanese purified wasabi powder. It is in fact powdered green tea, and you mix it with hot water from that little faucet in front of you, not with the soy sauce. I bet they're still laughing about that now…

At the end of the meal, they pointed a magic box at the stack of plates, and told you how much you owed. I don't know what technology they were using, but I imagine it's the same technology used in the Sorting Hat.

After dinner we wandered around Asakusa until we reached Senso-ji, a huge 1300 year old temple at the end of a long street crowded with vendors hawking Japanese souvenirs to the throngs of tourists and residents. The temple itself was under renovation, so a big grey tarp covered the whole building, but the square it sat in was peaceful and calm – perfectly suited to a night of quiet reflection and photography.

Relaxation and photography at a temple

Along the way to the temple, we discovered the single greatest technological marvel of the 21^st century: the beer and sake vending machine. Get this: for a couple of bucks, you can buy a tall can of beer or a cup of sake, like it's a can of Coke! I know in the States you can buy an ipod or some headphones from a vending machine, but nothing can compete with the feeling of cracking open an ice cold cup of sake pulled from the mouth of a soulless machine.

A crowded arcade. This is where we found the glorious beer machine.

After a while of walking, talking, taking pictures, and drinking, the four of us decided to head back to the hotel and get some rest. We had to get up early on our second day for one of the most anticipated parts of our trip: the Mt. Fuji tour.

Down an alley near Senso-ji

Tomorrow: I know she's a shy mountain, but this is ridiculous!

Weekend Update: A Week Late and Thousand Won Short

I know what you're thinking. "What happened to a post every three days or so? Huh Jake? You promised!!"

For those of you breathlessly hitting refresh all week hoping, nay expecting to see something from me, I apologize. After last weekend's Weekend Update: Saturday, I meant to write another post, logically titled Weekend Update: Sunday. Last Sunday Devon and I did almost nothing of any lasting consequence except go out for dinner for what may be the best meal eaten from a bubbling communal pot: shabu-shabu.

It didn't get written last Sunday after dinner for reasons which I hope will be clear below (hint: food coma is involved). And it didn't get written at any other point during the week because as I'm beginning to learn, I have a serious problem with procrastination. In the US, where time flows more or less normally, it wasn't really a problem. In Korea, however things are a little different.

It's a well known fact that Korean school-children work harder than just about any other school-children on the planet. They wake up at 7 to go to school. After school, while the rest of us are at cross country practice or playing video games or whatever, Korean children go to their academies.

They go to math academy, they go to Korean academy, they go to Chinese academy, they go to art academy, they go to music academy, they go to English academy (I teach at one of those). Then they go home and study until they go to bed. I've often wondered how my students have the time to go to so many academies, finish all their homework, and still play enough Starcraft to support not one, but TWO channels dedicated to nothing but matches of Starcraft.

It really was obvious: the Koreans had developed some sort of "Korean time-making-machine" to distort the space-time continuum, and give Korean school children an extra hour or two every day to study. I like to think that time is like oil: precious, greasy, and limited. The Korean time-making-machine has to get its time supply from somewhere and now I know where: foreigners living in Korea.

But there's a problem: although this machine can steal time from foreigners, it can't directly give it to Korean students. So the Koreans have hit upon an ingenious delivery vehicle: kimchi, which so far as I know is cabbage just this side of rotten. Time is vital in making kimchi, let it sit too long and it's so revolting that even Koreans won't eat it. Take it out too soon and your third grader loses valuable study time. For this reason, every Korean household has their own Korean time-making-machine.

(Suspiciously, our Korean apartment is lacking one of these machines, which is just as well because I don't think any foreigner seriously can admit to actually liking kimchi enough to eat it three meals a day, seven days a week, 52 weeks a year.)

For this reason, days go by faster and before I know it Sunday has turned into Thursday and the week is almost over. And that my dear readers is why I let a week slip by before writing this legendary Shabu-Shabu post: I haven't been eating my kimchi.

But we ordered take-out last night, and I ate a bite or two of the spicy stuff, so I find myself with the time to write the post. Sit back, relax, and pretend that everything I'm telling you now happened last night, instead of last week.

It's one of our favorite meals thus far in Korea. So good in fact, that we typically have it once a week. In a good week, we have it twice. It is: Shabu-Shabu.

It works like this. You walk into the restaurant, and the women who work there direct you to sit on the floor in front of a short table with a gas burner in the middle. They ask you something in Korean, if you understand, you hold up two fingers. If you don't, you hold up two fingers. Either way, the woman disappears and you pour some water into a stainless steel cup.

In a couple minutes, the woman returns with a big black pot filled with broth, greens and sliced mushrooms, a basket with more greens and mushrooms, a bowl of thick noodles, and a giant plate of thinly sliced and rolled raw beef. She sets the basket, bowl and plate down on the table, and the pot goes on the burner, which is turned on to high. Smaller bowls of kimchi and cucumbers in spicy red sauce are added to the table.

The Ingredients

At this point, the table is typically quite crowded, but the women who work there always find room for one or two bottles of soda that you didn't order: "service" they explain, free stuff to entice you to come back (as if the food itself isn't a good enough reason).

When the broth is hot enough, remove the lid and prepare for the spicy, savory smell as it froths from the pot: it's time for the meat. Put as many rolls of the beef into the pot as you want.

Time for the meat!

When the meat is finished cooking (2 minutes), dip your chopsticks into the pot and bring any combination of meat, greens, and mushrooms you like to the bowl strategically placed in front of you. Pour some soy sauce that has a hint of vanilla into a smaller dish over some wasabi, and then squirt a tangy spicy-red sauce into another smaller dish. These are your dipping sauces, to be used in any combination you like. Personally, I like dipping the meat and greens into the soy sauce, then into some spicy sauce.

That's the soy sauce and the red sauce on the left

The meat is tender, the greens are soft and taste a bit piney, the mushrooms are thick and buttery. The broth is savory, garlicky, and a bit spicy. All in all, it's heavenly.

When you've finished everything that's in the pot, well you're in luck because there's another basket of greens and mushrooms, and more meat left on your plate. Refresh the pot, wait for it to cook, then repeat. Put the noodles in when you're ready for some starch, and continue eating.

At some point, the women will come over and pour the still-hot broth and whatever greens, noodles, or meat that you haven't eaten yet into the (now empty) noodle bowl. She will then disappear with your pot.

When she returns, the once-empty pot will be filled with some of the most delicious fried rice you've ever had. I don't know exactly what's in it – carrots, onions, and some sort of green thing all seem to be involved. Scoop some rice from the pot into your bowl—be sure to get some of the crispy burnt rice from the edge, that's the best—add a little of the still hot broth from the bowl if you like (I do), and enjoy the perfect finish to your meal. Whoever invented dessert would have thought twice if they'd tried the post shabu-shabu fried rice.

I can't show you a picture of the rice: it's a closely guarded secret

On your way out of the restaurant, be astounded at how good it was, how much you ate, and how little it all cost: under $10 a person.

Weekend Update: Saturday

After spending Friday night out at a new bar, I was much relieved when Prairie called me at 9.30 for our morning run, asking if I'd rather wait until the rain passed before we went. Saturday is when we typically go for our long runs in preparation for the marathon that we're running in November, and running two hours after a night of drinking isn't exactly fun.

So after a delay of a couple hours Prairie and I went for our long run. We ended up running to the Gwangju airport which for those of you unfamiliar with Gwangju's geography is all the way across the city. Out and back we ran, though the out was a lot faster than the back. We've still only run about half the distance we'll be running for the marathon, but it's encouraging to see how much we're progressing from week to week.

It was a beautiful day

After the run, Devon and I went downtown for some shopping. We started at Kumho World because I was looking for some speakers for my computer. It's hard to describe exactly what Kumho World is – sort of like a mall, but instead of individual shops, the vendors each have their own floor space where they set up tables and shelves and whatever else they want.

There are six floors, each with its own theme of sorts. The first two floors are dedicated to gadgets—digital cameras, GPS systems, mp3 players, cell phones, etc. Floors 3 and 4 are mostly computers and computer-related stuff (mouses, printers, chairs, etc). On the third floor you can buy laptops and computers. On the fourth floor you can buy anything you need to make your own computer—processors, video cards, monitors, cases, memory, hard drives, etc. It was incredible, I've never seen a place where you can just buy the internal bits of a computer like that. The 5^th floor had an incongruous combination of tacky home furnishings, kitchen stuff like dishes and silverware (chopsticks), and musical instruments. The top floor was all furniture: beds, couches, tables, things like that. It was awesome. I mean where else can you pick up a saxophone AND a cell phone in the same building? America needs places like that.

After Kumho world, we did some more shopping at Art Street – so named because the street is lined with galleries, tea houses, and art supply stores. We can't seem to figure out the best time to go however, because every time we go, some 70% of the stores are closed.

Art street at night

After a brief stint at Art Street, we wandered into a large bookstore in the hopes of finding some English books (because hey, you never know). We asked the woman working at the cash register if they had English books, and she pointed down to the basement. We went downstairs where we found English books – but for people learning English. Oops.

It's Prairie's birthday on Tuesday, so to celebrate we all went out to dinner downtown at what's known as "The Outdoor Galbi" restaurant. So named because we go and eat galbi…outside. They put a pot of charcoal in a hole in your table, you cook strips of pork marinated in sweet soy sauce on top. Then you put it on a leaf of lettuce, put on some condiments (garlic, soybean paste, salad), roll it up, and eat it. It's deeeeelicious.

After dinner and a few beers, we finished the night out at Mr. Song's German Bar. Mr. Song is a Korean man who lived in Germany for some 15 years apprenticing at a brewery. When he returned to Korea, he started brewing his own beer and opened a bar that's become popular for the foreigners in Gwangju. We spent the next few hours there drinking Song's dark beer (pretty delicious), playing card games, and singing karaoke. And yes, the reality of me singing karaoke is as horrible as it sounds.

Having a good time


Singing Karaoke

Guess whose Back?

I'm baaaaack! After a period of prolonged silence, I've decided to start blogging again.

I've no real excuse for the prolonged absence other than I've just been lazy. It's much easier to put off writing by saying "Oh well, nothing worth writing about happened today" than it is to sit down and actually write it out. From now on, I promise to try to write more frequently, whether something interesting happens or not. Some of the stories may be boring, but they will almost always involve kimchi, and almost never involve evil goats (somewhat of a rarity in a developed country as I'm finding).

(Incidentally, this blog was started with the intention of telling uninteresting and pointless stories. For those of you unfamiliar with the noble mission of Butter Stories, click back to read the original Butter Story here.)

If three or more days pass by and I haven't told you what I ate for lunch at school on any particular day, feel free—no, please—hassle me until your curiosity is sated. I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing more often, and need all the peer pressure I can handle.

And with that, let us return to our regularly scheduled programming…

Last weekend, Devon and I headed up to Seoul to see something we had never seen before: an international soccer match. South Korea was playing Australia, and as Ian, one of our co-teachers, was Australian, he was keen on going. We tagged along to watch the game, do some shopping in Insadong—Seoul's artsy district—and eat some American food in Itaewon—Seoul's foreigner district.

An outdoor mall in Insadong

We hopped on a bus early Saturday morning and within 3 hours, set foot in one of Asia's busiest mega-cities. After checking into our hotel and a couple of hours of preliminary shopping, we headed to the World Cup stadium via a real Irish bar in Itaewon (you have no idea how exciting this was for us).

It says "Korea vs. Australia" I promise

Our seats were excellent. We were in the lower section, a few rows back, behind one of the goals. It was a great view. We were far enough from the action that we could see everything going on, but we were close enough that we could still identify the players' numbers and catch some detail.

Our view of the action

The game itself wasn't that great—Korea scored twice early, and the Aussies never really got in the game. The final score ended up being 3-1, Korea.

I'd heard that soccer's not that popular here, and the large number of empty seats in the stadium seemed to confirm that. But the fans there were every bit as passionate as fans at every GW basketball game I've been to.

We sat next to the Korean team's fan club. During their national anthem, they unfurled a huge Korean flag and everyone in the section held it over their heads, waving it around. I imagine it looked pretty cool.

Early in the game, an Australian player broke free and threatened to score. As he was dribbling into the penalty box, the front row of Korean fans raised some large flags and began waving them back and forth furiously trying to distract him like the students behind the hoop at a basketball game during a free throw. Flustered, the Aussie player's shot sailed over the goal and into the crowd of cheering Koreans.

Hanguken Fans and their Flags

For those of us who follow soccer as casually as I do (that is—we turn it on during the World Cup, and ignore it at all other times), there's a certain mysticism attached to the chants and songs that a team's supporters bellow drunkenly during a game. It's as though the sound of thousands of drunken voices singing in unison have a mysterious power to unite a team and help them reach down and find some primeval strength for that one last breakaway and shot that it takes to win the game. It's a power that makes our rhythmic repetition of "Aww! G-Dub!" seem childish and pathetic. At least that's how I imagine it to be.

I was therefore pretty excited when the Korean fans started singing and chanting for their team. At last! I would get to witness the awesome power of the soccer chant up close. I could observe and take notes that I could use to write a powerful song that would help GW get over the hump against Xavier or St. Joes next season! I could harness that power, and propel the team into the third round of the NCAA Championships! They'd erect a statue of me in University Yard, right next to George Washington himself!

I paid careful attention to the first chant I heard. Immediately, I realized I had a problem: I still couldn't speak Korean. As the stanzas wafted over the breeze, I saw my bronze statue deflate like a giant balloon.

Aussie Aussie Aussie!

Just as I had lost all hope, my ears picked up another chant on the breeze! Before I got too excited, I listened carefully. But wait, this was strange…It seemed I understood what the crowd was chanting. Could it be?

Eeh…a ee-go!

Was it possible? I turned my head towards the breeze.

Heeya meego!

Was the Korean crowd chanting…in Spanish?

Heey Amigo!

Was that the secret to the mystical chants then? Just shout something in Spanish? I wasn't sure, but it seemed plausible—they take their soccer seriously enough in Latin America to go to war over it. Why not harness that power and passion any way you can? I saw my bronze statue re-inflate on the Yard to the rhythm of ¡Vamos Amarillo! ¡Vamos Azul!

I wondered aloud about the possibility of the Korean soccer fans being way more international than I initially credited when the knowledgeable Australian sitting next to me corrected me.

Guess which one is the real Australian?

"Minguk, minguk. They're saying 'Minguk,' not 'amigo," he laughed.

"I thought minguk was 'American,'" I said, suddenly confused. "Why would the cheer for Americans?"

"Meeguk is America," he said with emphasis. "Minguk is another word for Korea."

"Well, I liked my interpretation better," I retorted, lamely. For the second time in a half hour, I saw my bronze statue slip out of my grasp.

I drank my beer sullenly, sulking about my failure to capture the power of the soccer chant when it happened.

Like a choir singing from on high, the familiar notes echoed through the stadium. Everyone around us stood up and joined in, and immediately I sensed a change on the pitch. The Korean team seemed a step faster, their passes a hair sharper, their defense a degree stingier.

But what was this song? I knew this song, but from where? It hit me like a penalty kick to the gut: Fourth grade piano class. The Korean fans were singing…Beethoven?

There was no doubt. It was Ode to Joy, the first and only song I learned how to play on the piano. It seemed I had been trying desperately to think of a word that rhymed with "amarillo," when all I needed to do was get the GW student body to sing a Romantic symphony. With my limited Spanish, I knew which task would be easier.

Satisfied that I had finally discovered the secret of the soccer chant, I was able to enjoy the rest of the game (though the $3 beers and snacks certainly helped). After the game, we shuffled out of the stadium. Our adopted team had lost, but we weren't really Australian, and so we were happy all the same. We ran into some friendly Korean fans who offered to swap team colors. We declined a jersey swap, and were satisfied with a flag and photo trade.

It was an International Friendly, so naturally we made some international friends

As we walked out of the stadium, I hummed the first few stanzas of "Ode to Joy" to myself, amazed at what a beautiful night it was.

The Stadium

In Dog We Trust

As many of you no doubt have heard, evil is running amok. This is no ordinarily agile evil, hopping nimbly from cliff edge to cliff edge in its never ending quest for cardboard and tin cans to eat. Nor is this an eviler brand of evil, 21,000 strong waiting to swarm down from the skies and ravage the fish-eating populations of the world.
(Confused? Me too...it's got something to do with goats and pelicans. Check the archives).

Nay, this is something much, much evilerer: cats!

Now I know what some of you are thinking, 'But Jake, How can my cute cuddly Mr. Cuddles be evilerer? He's adorable! Just look at the way he plays with his paw'

Well Friends, I've got news for you. Or more accurately, the BBC has news for you:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/6917113.stm


Yes, that's right folks. This cat is killing our seniors! Now I know what some of you felineaphiles are thinking "oh he's not killing them! He's so smart he can detect their deaths! He's letting us know who among us is dying!"

But you can't fool me. Healthy old person goes into senior center. Cat lies down next to healthy old person. Old person dies. It's the only logical explanation.

While in Senegal, I reserved a special type of glee for those rare moments when I'd hear a pan or bowl outside my window go "crashbangclatterclatter" followed shortly by the sound of a cat meowing in surprise: "reeooowwaaaw" is the closest I can come to transcribing it. Perhaps I wouldn't have been so gleeful if I had known that those cats were trying to lie down next to me and kill me.

I have long considered myself at the forefront of the movement bringing the truth about the evil nature of cats to light. This is just the final piece of evidence needed. Consider:
- Witches turn into black cats when they don't want to be discovered. Your cuddly cat could be a wicked witch in disguise, waiting until you're asleep to cast a spell that will turn you into a newt. At which point you will be eaten.
- Cats have long been a symbol of bad luck to the more superstitious amongst us. Everyone knows its bad luck for a black cat to cross your path, should it really be any surprise that they're killing us when they lie down next to us?
- The feline is the perfect evolutionary creation. They're fast. Is it any wonder that the cheetah, the world's fastest land animal, is a cat? No. They're smart. Cats are probably some of the smartest animals on the planet, next to that know it all in my 7th grade science class. They're more agile than goats playing happily on a cliff (except cat's don't play - they hunt). Have you heard of the Tiger? According to some hastily researched numbers, tigers kill over 300 people a year - and that's only in this one part of Bangaladesh! This article tells me that they also chase down boats like 'dogs chasing cars." Except of course my dog doesn't flip the car over and devour its inhabitants with bone crushing jaws like a tiger does. Remember Sher Kahn in The Jungle Book? He wanted to do nothing more than eat Mowgli, just because he was a human. I heard somewhere that in the jungles of India, people have to wear their faces on backwards so that tigers won't come up from behind and eat them. Sneaky tigers, what happens if they just come from the front? How will they see them then? They won't, that's how. And then they're dead - eaten by some tiger just because he was hungry.

But, you say, those examples are from cat's bigger cousins, Jake. It's not fair to judge my cute Mr. Cuddles because of something his big bad cousin does, is it? You wouldn't judge me poorly if my cousin Lennie attacked an old woman and stole her purse, would you (note - cousin Lennie does NOT exist)?

No, I suppose not, but have you tried catching a normal housecat? I once went chasing after my friends cat, trying to play with him by raising my hands up above my head and going "boogie boogie boogie!" When I do this with my dog, she gets excited and we wrestle. Not cats, cats do not want to play. He ran out of there faster than a one-eyed man in a three-legged sack race (what is he talking about?). Later that night, I found the cat lying on my pillow. When I went to move him, on account of I'm allergic to cats, he swatted at my hand and hissed at me. Not only was this cat missing some crucial fun-gene, but he was vindictive and aggressive to boot. All I had done was try and play with him, and here he goes trying to cover my pillow in cat hair so I die in my sleep! Evil, I tell you, Evil!.

If you read that BBC article, you'll notice that a noted "cat expert" claims that cats "can sense when the weather will change, they're famous for being sensitive to premonitions of earthquakes."

This is merely propaganda from the "I want to watch the world burn in a fiery ball of feline-inflicted doom" crowd. Cats don't "sense" changes in weather. They cause changes in weather. Those of you in Kansas better watch out. Next time a tornado comes ripping through your flatter-than-a-pancake state (it's true - the US Geological Survey measured), don't blame the dynamics of warm and cold air currents. Blame your neighbor's cat, or your own cat.

Everyone knows that the Japanese have a strong preference for cats, but nobody's told them that this is the cause for all their earthquakes. Wonder why they don't have earthquakes on the island of Tarawa in Kiribati, the tiny island nation in the middle of the Pacific Ocean? I'll tell you why, it's because they consider cats bad omens and drown them as soon as they're born. Good for them.

What then, can we do when faced with such an evilerer and insiduous menace that threatens none other than our very existence on this planet? (Say what you will about the evil hoards of evil goats trying to implement their evil plot for world domination - they were merely going for power. Cats are actively trying to kill us all).
You could round up all the cats in the world and stick them on some remote island that nobody cares about like say, Australia. Everyone knows that cats hate water and so will never swim away, so it seems like the perfect solution.

But I see no reason to subject the good people of Australia to a fate worse than death - death by cat. Without their fun-loving carefree lifestyle, who would pop another steak on the barbee? The days of cheeky "gday mate" would be gone forever. (Though on the plus side, the myth that a boomerang actually flies back to you would be dispelled once and for all).

So no, we'll save Australia for now. Besides, can you imagine the logistics of such a thing? Not to mention the risk that cats would for sure overtake a ship or two and use it against us. And there's always the threat that cats learn how to build boats and then were right back where we started.

No, this requires a long-term focus. Something that will not only get protect us from cats now, but will protect our children in the future. Something that attacks all sides of the problem: a two-fanged approach if you will. We shall follow Bob Barker's advice (well half of it anyways): start a worldwide campaign to have all cats spayed and neutered. At the same time, we'll stop spaying and neutering all dogs, the natural enemies of cats everywhere.

Can you see what will happen? The dog population will explode, chasing an ever declining number of cats up trees where they will remain and hopefully mutate into something more benign, like a little monkey which we can then train to dance as a jolly fat man in a goofy suit plays a pipe organ. We'll call it the "Best Friend for Everybody on the Planet" campaign. With a name like that, only feline apologists will be against it, and they will be exposed for the world-hating crowd that they truly are. Who else would be against giving every man, woman, and child on this earth a playful best friend? Cat lovers (or more precisely, people haters), that's who.

It's sure to work. If not, I fear for all of us.
In Dog we Trust.

Love,
Jake

Note to Self: Stay Away from Border

It's weird, as much time as I spend in our nation's political center, and as much political reading as I do, that I haven't written about politics at all on this little blog of mine. After all, aren't blogs the new medium for political commentary (that's what they're telling me these days anyways)? Regardless, for whatever reason, I have consciously decided to stay as far away from political topics in this blog, preferring to tell other tales.

Unfortunately, current events have forced my hand. I simply must comment on the recent uproar over the President's new Immigration Plan. It seems that Senator Trent Lott has cast in his two cents on the issue:

http://www.sunherald.com/278/story/81785.html

Now, put all politics aside for a moment, shall we? Nevermind the technical difficulties of building a fence, nevermind that a fence doesn't even begin to address the poverty that drives Latin Americans to risk everything just to try and get into the US, nevermind all that. The central question that this speech raises is this:

What the Hell is Senator Lott doing with goats? This man is the most powerful member of the minority party in one of the most important institutions of our government, and he's spending his afternoons feeding, nay worse, raising his own evil hoard of evil goats that will one day revolt against him and implement their insidious schemes for global domination? Has he not been reading anything on goats this past year?

While abroad in Senegal, I braved stifling heat, rolling power outages, and yes, the occasional evil hoard of evil goats while shedding countless gallons (or liters if that's your preferred standard of measure) of blood, sweat, and, yes even the occasional tear to uncovering the evil plot of the evil hoards of evil goats in Dakar, so that you and your family may take the necessary precautions to ensure our survival on that fateful day of reckoning.

When I returned to the boring and chillingly air-conditioned world of America, I dedicated myself to updating you about heroes involved in small-scale efforts to head off this goat threat before it comes to a crisis point: Goat hunters in the Galapagos Islands involved in a goat eradication campaign. City officials in Tennessee ingeniously using goats to get rid of the kudzu that has been such a scourge to our southern states. It's a brilliant plan- it helps get rid of the kudzu while keeping the goats occupied on an impossible and never ending battle against kudzu, thereby preventing them from organizing and implementing their evil plot for global d0mination indefinitely. I highlighted the little known US Department of Evil, and it's evil goat-man's plans for the impending apocalypse, as reported in The Onion.

I did this not out of any selfish motive such as keeping a running theme throughout my blog to keep you readers interested, but rather out of a general goodwill towards humanity: no less than the fate of our species may hang in the balance.

And THEN I hear that one of our most powerful and influential politicians is harboring goats? Is this man clueless to their evil plotting? Is he ignorant of their deceitful nature?

Judging by this comment, the Senator at least understands the type of opponent that we're likely to be up against once the evil plot has been implemented, and that a multi-pronged defense strategy is the only way to go:

"There ain't no fence big enough, high enough, strong enough, that you can keep those goats in that fence," the Senator told reporters.

He seems to be suggesting that we take the offensive, but even here, he is aware of the limitations of the human form, and the superior physical and mental capacities of the goat:

"Now people are at least as smart as goats...Maybe not as agile."

Now that I think about it, maybe the honorable Senator from Mississippi isn't so ignorant about the impending evil plot. He goes on to suggest that a multi-pronged attack is the best way to keep goats at bay, that we can't just rely on a big wall:

"Now one of the ways I keep those goats in the fence is I electrified them. Once they got popped a couple of times they quit trying to jump it."

The vital part of this quote is the phrase "one of the ways," suggesting that the Senator is using a number of methods to control his goats. What other techniques is he using? We can only guess due to the secrecy of his office, and the fact that his staff refused to comment (the fact that I never asked might have something to do with it..shhhh), but I'd suspect it has something to do with keeping the goats on horribly flat land, thereby negating their natural climbing and jumping agility, while maintaining a strict all-organic diet devoid of any man-made materials such as tin-cans and cardboard.

It seems that rather than an innocent hobby, Senator Lott's goat-keeping is for more humanitarian, scientific purposes. I'd venture to suggest that he's keeping these goats in order to study their techniques and gain intelligence that will prove useful in the impending evil goat/human battle for world domination.

Hopefully, the Senator is also working on a device to translate goat-speak, so we can finally decipher the goat messages I've acquired through a brilliant act of espionage (I asked a sheep, because though they look like the evil goats, their morally ambiguity is easily exploited). Only then will we know the full extent of their evil and nefarious plot.

Whatever the case may be, now that the Senator is on our side, I feel much better knowing that I'm not the only one concerned about the evil hoards of evil goats. It's good to have friends in high places (just so long as they're not rock-hopping evil goats on the cliffs above you). Good luck Senator Lott.

Love,
Jake

PS: I'd like to thank Ms. Aaron for bringing this subject to my attention. Humanity needs to know just who it can trust in this upcoming battle for global domination. Ms. Aaron, you truly are a crusader for humanity, defender of the evil hoards of evil goats, and you should be commended for your efforts. Thank you.

At Last! Definitive Proof!!

Goats really are evil! At last, someone has independently confirmed it! Look at the head photo! I'm not making this stuff up!

read about it in the Onion!

I am in fact, ahead of my time

If you peruse any of my previous posts, you will notice that they are filled with apocalyptic visions of evil goats implemeting their evil plans to take over the world and establish a new world order that looks suspiciously like the United Nations.

It appears that a radical contingent of anti-goatists have taken my apocalyptic visions to heart and have launched a pre-emptive strike against the goat population of the Galapagos Islands under the guise that they're "destroying the environment." I've got news for all these anti-goatists out there: Goats are protecting you! Evil heards of evil Goats aren't the problem, its the eviler hoards of eviler pelicans that are the problem! who do you think is going to protect you when their eviler hoard descends 21,000 strong from those tiny rocks in that river in Senegal. Hitchcock was right: birds are freaky.

“We’re at war, and we’ve won one of our biggest battles,” said Mr. Cruz, the hunting overseer. “But we can’t rest until we kill them all.”
(i'm not joking, he really said that. you can check)

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/01/world/americas/01galapagos.html?_r=1&oref=slogin


And in other news from the animal kingdom today...apparently ducks have been taking a little too much of that enzyte stuff...they're becoming rather well endowed. i'm talking the length of their bodies well endowed. thats not even the craziest thing. the thing that got me was that somebody actually has to study this stuff! thats just weird.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/01/science/01duck.html?pagewanted=2&_r=1

a few choice quotes first:

“Obviously you can’t have something like that without some place to put it in. You need a garage to park the car.” - Dr. Patricia Brennan, duck scientist


"To test her hypothesis, Dr. Brennan plans to team up with a biomechanics expert to build a transparent model of a female duck. She wants to see exactly what a duck phallus does during mating."

Think about this one for a second. Malaria, AIDS, and cancer - three of the biggest killers of people on the planet have no actual cure, and we have people trying to figure out how ducks get it on?? Dude, people are weird...

The End of an Era :(

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but this past weekend marked the end of an era in my Senegalese life.

Many of you may (or may not - it's ok) remember my sandals. At the beginning of the semester, I had a pair of sandals which I wore every day in Senegal (cause lets face it, it was WAY too hott-yes with 2 t's- for anything else on your feet there). These were a black pair of sandals, with velcro tabs. One day, my little brother Bebecheikh stepped on the heel as we were playing football in the courtyard, and the strap broke. I resorted to duck-taping the straps to the soles so as to avoid doing something crazy (like say wearing socks). Let's just say I really loved washing my feet.
One day, as we were walking through the village of Toubab Dialaw (remember that???) your friend and mine, Scott Belden asked me why, exactly was I wearing duck tape on my feet. It was a question that I had been faced with many times before - mostly by my MamaRama as she was called, and the little devils that I called my nephews/brothers. My answer was, as is usual - I'll get around to it. Now this chance meeting with Scott happened to coencide with a secret mission of his to find sandals that fit, for alas, poor Scott, for all his kindness and friendliness, apparently had feet the shapes which were unseen in Senegal (that is to say - he had trouble finding sandals that fit).
So Scott leads a party which, including myself, intended to seek out and find a pair of sandals at the local boutique for him to wear. After trying on numerous pairs in all colors, black, gray, red, and blue, he finally, like dorothy, found a pair that was juuuuuuuuuust right. And thus Scott found his elusive well-fitting sandals.
Suddenly, Scott found himself in a dilemma. He had 2 pairs of sandals, and only use for one. What was a toubab to do? Luckily for us, Scott was fairly observant and noticed the structural additions that I had pieced my sandals together with, and so he struck upon an idea - give the toubab with the broken sandals the ill-fitting sandals, because anyone would rather have ill fitting sandals than broken sandals with structural adjustments. And LO! like the glass slipper the sandal didst fit perfectly! Scott had found his midnight princess (me)!
And so I came to acquire a fantastic pair of sandals that carried me through the rest of the semester, protecting me from the heat of the ground, and creating a wide swath of white pristine clean where the band wrapped around my foot. They gathered the dust of Dakar's streets, and when I returned to the cold, coldness of the States, I took my toothpick and saved that sweat, dust, and who knows what else-filled paste that had collected in the bottom of my sandal and sealed it in a plastic bag. You know, for posterity's sake and all. so i should show my kids one day.
I continued to wear my sandals, first at the pool (cause it was so freaking cold) and then as the trees started getting greener, and the weather started to get warmer, i ventured to wear them outside. It was glorious.
but no more.
At approximately 12:30 on sunday morning, I attended a cast party for my theater company's final show of the semester. i was looking spiffy in my toga complete with that blue indigo cloth that everyone liked so much and a kente cloth belt from ghana. there we engaged in endless debauchery, the kinds of which would make a sailor blush and lets just say thank GOD that no pictures have surfaced. needless to say, it was a lot of fun.
As the party was just getting started as the saying goes, i ran from the back patio through the kitchen and into the living room where the dancing was going on (yes, we danced too). all of the sudden, i felt something heavy fall on the back of my heel, something briefly holding me back and then it let my foot go. but my sandal did not come with it.
Yes, dear friends! in a cruel twist of irony, my sandal strap broke, a victim of the same sort of accident that killed my first pair! oh i was devestated! my sandals that had carried my feet through the dust, the dirt, the blinding heat and sweat of Dakar had finally perished! oh woe was they!!!
i ended up walking three of my ladyfriends home (as i learned to do in Senegal), barefoot. in a toga. with no goats to escort me home, its a miracle i made it.

and so thus, with my pair of sandals gone, i have laid to rest one part of senegal. :*( tear.

in other news, has anyone else found themselves as hostile to air conditioning as i seem to be? I'm finding the whole notion of it absolutely absurd.

hope all is well. ba bennen in'challah

love,
jake

huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuge

http://www.nytimes.com/uwire/uwire_JUUJ02092007481452.html?ex=1249016400&en=9cd3f1a4c73bf49f&ei=5034

look at the byline.
thats yours truly
im about as happy as a clam in chowder. but really good chowder. new england style. not that nasty manhattan style with the tomato (whose idea was it to put tomato with clams anyways?)
:)

love
Jake

Geeze its been a while...Chapter Three (Finally)

Sorry bout that...schools taking up a lot more time than i thought...hm go figure.
anyways, here it is...chapter three

* * * * * * *

In the days that followed, the streets and buildings of Dakar turned into some sort of evil beehive – with evil goats running helter-skelter, willy-nilly. They darted into and out of traffic with a purpose now causing huge traffic jams. Sentries were posted, fortifications were constructed, buildings were scaled. Defenses were erected facing the sea on the north and west sides of the city, since that would be the mostly likely point of attack – the pelicans were dependent on the ocean for their food and to attack from inland would risk overstretching their supply lines. They stole change to use as ammunition and materials in constructing fortifications, causing a huge shortage of small and medium sized coins in Dakar. The battle plan called for negating the eviler pelican’s aerial superiority by luring them to the ground with fish where they could be attacked with horn and hoof and coin. In the air, the eviler pelicans were a fearsome force, but on the ground they were nothing more than dead ducks. So many evil goats running about with such impunity truly was a horrific site to behold.

But alas, not all was well in the evil hoard of evil goats. While the evil seeds of evil goat unity had been sown thanks to the deft leadership of Charles and the wisdom of Boo the Elder, nefarious elements were seeking to undermine the evil structure that had been constructed. The evil curved-horned goats of the Libertés feared. They feared that the eviler pelican’s aerial superiority, combined with their superior protein source, would lead to the swift demise of the evil goat hoards of Dakar. To them, the evil goat defeat was a foregone conclusion, and when it came, there would be little mercy shown to the survivors of the battle. It was an outcome they’d rather not partake in.

Led by Todd from Liberté 3, the curved-horned goats decided that if they were going to partake in this battle, they were going to make sure they were on the winning side. Together, the 21 of them strapped themselves to the roof of a sept-places heading north for St. Louis where they asked for, and received from a somewhat confused warthog, directions to the boat launch that would take them to the roosting grounds of the eviler flock of eviler pelicans, where the evil hoard of evil curly-horned goats hopped into a boat, and began to make their way down the river using pure evil as a surprisingly efficient power source.

When the evil herd arrived at the nesting grounds, fear took over, rendering their evil power source useless. The evil herd just floated helplessly in their boats: the sheer eviler of it all – 21,000 birds just resting on three longish rocks sticking out of the river. Clearly they were up to something. If the evil hoard of evil goats drove the hellish demons from Hell from whence they came down to New Jersey, then the site of 21,000 eviler pelicans drove them further down, from New Jersey to Wisconsin.

The evil curly-horned goats quivered in their evil hooves. Wilbur from Liberté 4 panicked and jumped into the river, forgetting that curly-horned goats don’t know how to swim. He floated in the water, struggling pathetically while the evil herd of evil curly-horned goats in the boat just stood there watching him helplessly. A few eviler pelicans that happened to be flying by landed on nearby trees to watch the pathetic show going on in the river. Wordlessly, and without warning, the pelicans took off at the exact same moment, as if by some form of eviler ESP or mental communication. They dove into the water, using the great bag of their throats to scoop up water, and then flew high up into the air. The eviler pelicans soared around the struggling curly-haired goat, circling him menacingly in perfect military formation in the shape of a V – truly a horrifically terrifying sight to behold. The lead pelican suddenly dove, leading the Flying V, as the formation is called, on a beeline (pelican-line?) straight for Wilbur’s struggling form. At the last second, he pulled up and emptied his throat-load of water straight on Wilbur’s poor head.

One by one, poor Wilbur bobbed up and down in the water as eviler pelican after eviler pelican emptied throat-load after throat-load of water on his head. After the last pelican had emptied his throat-load, Wilbur was nowhere to be seen. He had simply disappeared under the eviler aerial assult. The evil curly-horned goats in the boat stood there, jaws flapping in the wind dumfounded into a terrified silence by the precision with which the eviler pelicans had dispatched of poor Wilbur from Liberté 4.

At last, Todd gathered his evil curly-horned goat chin from the bottom of the boat and spoke somberly. “If anyone of you needed reminding why we’re here today, let that display of pure eviler military superiority be a lesson to you. If we fight the eviler flock of eviler pelicans, make no mistake, we will lose.”

One by one the other evil curly-horned goats collected their jaws and chins and managed to summon up enough evil to take them in close (slowly!) to the eviler flock of eviler pelicans. A hideously eviler pelican landed on the bow of the boat and glared at the evil herd of goats. He was truly a hideous sight: his forehead was lumpy and had wart growing on it. His beak was cracked and rotting and his feathers were mottled with some pelican form of scurvy.

Eugene, from Liberté 2 made eye contact with him. What he saw in the eviler pelican’s eviler eyes was pure eviler – a blacker black than the blackest black; so black it was almost white, and he understood what it meant to be truly and utterly eviler. Immediately and without warning, Eugene was gone, evaporated into nothingness, right there in front of Todd’s own evil eyes. The pelican looked around at the other goats in the boat, but they all refused to look into his eyes, choosing instead to stare fearfully at the marks their jaws and chins had made in the bottom of the boat after Wilbur’s death. At last, Todd spoke. Although he tried to be brave in front of his evil curly-horned companions, the words came out broken and cracked like a mirror, betraying the utter terror that had gripped him like a cold glove. “um, can we leader speak yours?” After a beat, the eviler pelican wordlessly flew off into the eviler flock of eviler pelicans. The curly-horned goats breathed a collective sigh of evil relief after the eviler pelican took off.

As soon as the sigh escaped their collective goat lips, the manifestation of eviler landed on the bow of their boat and it was thrown back into their evil goat faces – not metaphorically or figuratively, but the eviler pelican leader actually caught the sigh in the air with his eviler throat bag and threw it back in their faces. A few curly-horned goats fainted, and Albert from Liberté 1 fell backwards into the water where he was promptly eaten by a morally ambiguous but very hungry crocodile who welcomed the introduction of something other than eviler pelicans into his watery domain.

Santa, the eviler pelican leader, truly was the physical manifestation of eviler. If you dared to even look at him, he was a gorgeous bird, large and magnificent; his feathers a brilliant white hot. On his forehead (if you risked looking into his eviler eyes) a blood red streak ran from in between his eyes back down his neck. The tips of his wings (I suppose you could call them fingers if you choose) were as black as a wet raincoat. But perhaps the best way to describe Santa is silent. Yes, the magnificent bird spoke not a word, and yes when he flew he would descend noiseless as the night sky upon his hapless victim, but Santa exuded silence like a black hole – sucking in everything around him and rendering it completely and utterly devastated – physically, emotionally, and morally. His mere presence (not to mention the very sight of him) was enough to drive the demon spirits further into hiding – from Hell from whence they came to Camden, New Jersey, on to Wisconsin, and now further down into – to Quebec.

Todd’s mind was immediately filled with dread, covered like a wet sponge, and he knew that Santa was inside his mind. Todd understood that Santa knew his cowardice and why he was there. Todd regretted giving up the secrets of the evil goat hoards defenses in Dakar, he regretted betraying his brethren. And then Todd understood that his curly-horned herd did not belong with Charles and Lou and Boo and all the other straight-horned goats. And then black, a blacker black than the blackest black, so black that it was almost white. And then everything and nothing and a little bit of something all at once.

* * *

Thats all for now...enjoy the next installment sometime soon!
Love,
Jake

Im scared...so scared.

http://www.flickr.com/search/?q=Goats+in+trees

story chapter 3 coming soon!

Chapter 2...sorry its late

“Wait.” A voice arose from the evil hoard of evil goats. It was weak, feeble, yet screeched as rocks across a chalkboard so that every evil hair on the evil goat’s evil backs stood up on end as if to hear better. “Let me say something.”

An elderly figure limped forward from out of the crowd. The emaciated figure struggled to crawl onto the pile of gravel where Charles had leapt so nimbly from just moments before. “I want to say something.”

Nobody really knew where Boo the Elder, as the elderly goat was called, hailed from. For that matter, nobody really knew how old he was. There were rumors that he came from the Great Forests to the west, back before the great earthquake had shaken the Land and created the beaches that the evil hoards of evil goats once called their homes, before the great Exodus to the cities and villages and towns of the interior. These, however, were merely rumors, never really believed by anyone, passed around like stories about Santa Clause, or the Easter Bunny, or like Economics. Most chose to believe the most likely explanation: that he was spawned out of the Primordial soup that reigned so many years ago and has been old ever since.

“I have a story. One that concerns all of you, and all of your fathers, and your father’s fathers.” The evil hoard edged closer to the gravel pile so as to hear what this old and respected goat had to say. Boo the Elder began his story:

“Once upon a time, many, many years ago, back before the great Exodus to the cities and towns and villages of the interior, we evil goats lived a carefree life along the beautiful beaches of paradise. Playing and laughing in the sand along the shores of the ocean by day and by night leaping, nay bounding from craggy crag to craggy crag along the cliffs of the Great Escarpment. There was general evil mischief and mayhem making. Ahh yes, those were happier days.

“Food was plentiful and never anything to worry about. The humans would just throw us the remains of what they caught from the sea, and we were free to play amongst their children as we pleased.”

“Yeah, we know all about that, get on with it!” Todd, the impatient Liberté goat from Liberté 3, shouted.

“Alright smarty-horns, do you all know the story of how we ended up in the cities and villages of the interior then?”

“The Great Exodus, duh. Everyone knows that!” Todd responded.

“Does anyone of you what the Great Exodus actually was?” Boo the Elder asked. “Think about it. Why would your father’s fathers have traded in a life of plenty and craggy crags for the dusty dangers of the cities and villages of the interior? Do you think that your father’s fathers wanted to raise their kids in an environment where they could get hit by the mis-named Cars Rapids at all, no matter how un-rapide they be?” He paused for a moment, to let the question sink in.

“Well, what do you think over there smarty horns? Do you know what the Great Exodus really was about?” Boo the Elder shouted at Todd.

Todd stood silent, dumfounded. It was a question he had never thought to ask himself. It was just one of those things that one understood happened: the sun rose, Boo the Elder had been an old goat since time immemorial, and their father’s fathers left the beaches for the cities and towns and villages of the interior during the Great Exodus. There was no why.

Boo the Elder continued. “One day, Charle’s father’s father, the legendary Alham the Nimble saw a great cloud in the sky a ways off to the north. In and of itself, that was nothing strange. Clouds passed to the north all the time. But something about this cloud was different. Most clouds at that time moved west to east, but this one was heading due south, straight for the evil hoard of evil goats living and playing along the beach.

“Alham knew that a southerly heading cloud was up to no good so that night he conveyed a meeting with all the evil goats of the area to raise his concerns. All of the other goats however, felt that there was nothing to be worried about. ‘I mean sure clouds moved west to east, but why should a cloud be locked into one pattern of movement?’ they said. ‘If it wanted to move north to south, or south-southwest to due east who were the evil goats to stop it from doing as it pleased?’ So the evil hoard of evil goats stayed put. But the cloud kept coming.

“When the cloud finally arrived, the evil hoard saw that it had made a terrible mistake. For this southerly-moving cloud was not just a normal cloud. No my Brothers, this horrible directionally challenged cloud was none other than an eviler flock of the eviler pelicans! The eviler pelicans landed on the beach with a terrible hunger, and very soon ate every fish in the sea for miles and miles around. With no more fish, the humans living in the village had to start growing corn, and a good many of them moved to better lands in the interior, thus forming the first cities and towns and villages of the interior. And the evil goats were forced to follow them, forced to leave the lands where they had grown up, forced to abandon the craggy crags of the Great Escarpment for the flatter than a pancake plains of the interior! All because of the eviler flock of eviler pelicans that descended like a plague from the north!”

Boo the Elder was shouting by this point, and his screeching voice was shattering windows, setting off car alarms, and making babies cry all across the city. The evil hoard of evil goats, for its part, was unmoved.

“Wait a minute,” said Todd, ever one to offer a helpful comment, “If all this is true, why haven’t we heard this story before?”

“Because you have the average intelligence of a seven year old human!” Boo the Elder responded. “Humans aren’t told this story until they’re at least nine.”

“Then how come you know it?” Todd asked.

“Because I’m as smart as a 12 year old human, that’s why.” Boo the Elder said.

“Oh, ok,” Todd said. It made sense, with age comes wisdom. “But I still don’t see what this has to do with the eviler flock of eviler pelicans plotting to attack Dakar.”

“Don’t you idiots see?” Boo the Elder’s voice was now waking babies in the next administrative district. “The eviler pelicans have already kicked us off our lands once, and that led to nothing but generations of prancing about the flatter than a pancake plains of the interior. Now that we finally have some place where our kids can jump and play like our father’s fathers, the eviler pelicans are coming to kick us off it again!” Boo the Elder was shouting himself hoarse by this point, no small feat for an evil goat whose entire natural state can be adequately described as “hoarse,” whatever that means. “We can’t just keep leaving every time the eviler pelicans show up or else we’ll be forced to spend our days in the flat and empty lands of Kansas!”

When he finished his speech, he stopped and looked at the evil hoard of evil goats standing before him. They were silent, but this time it was a different silent. Instead of the awkward silence and weight shifting that followed Charles’ plea for help, the evil hoard of evil goats was now standing on the edges of their hooves, straining their necks forwards to hear every hideous syllable that Boo the Elder rasped.

“Let’s do it! Let’s fight!” someone shouted in the back. Immediately there was pandemonium. Evil goats everywhere were shouting a din so evil that the demons that had previously been forced to flee back into Hell from whence they came were forced to flee deeper; they fled to Camden, New Jersey.

* * *

Enjoy it...
Love,
Jake

Merry Christmas! Story Chapter 1

So its Christmas time, and I figured I'd give everyone a little present: the greatest contribution to world literature by a Melville since Moby Dick. So without further ado...here it is enjoy. There's no title yet...so bear with me. I'll post it in installments every now and then...whenever I feel like it basically...

There are some who would argue that Dakar is hardly a city worth fighting over. All they see is the dust that blows down from the Mauritanian desert lining the streets. They see children begging on the streets, beaten if they don’t bring home more than a couple hundred francs, and their optimism withers in the face of such extreme poverty. Trying to cross the street, they are turned back by exhaust fumes, rushing taxis, horse-pulled carts, and clouds of dust kicked up by the cars. And they wonder why anyone would want to live here.

This story however, is about the others; those who see piles of trash strewn in the overgrown empty lots next to half-built houses and think “Ahh, this is a place to raise my kids.” This story is about those who see Dakar as a mere starting point, a platform from which to jump to bigger, better things. Today Dakar, tomorrow the world, as the saying goes. This story is about evil goats.

The evil goats of Dakar see this bustling African capital as one thing and one thing only: a place from which they can bide their time and plot their evil takeover of the world, establishing an Evil Goat World Dominion which looks suspiciously like the UN Security Council. In the meantime, they roam the streets of the city in evil packs, eating garbage, climbing on half-built walls like the cliffs of the Great African Escarpment of the time before the Great Exodus, and in a game known as “traffic dodging” in the evil goat community, causing crippling traffic jams throughout the city (“embouteillages” as they’re called – bottle necks – which may or may not come from the fact that one must have consumed an entire bottle of wine before braving these city-wide traffic jams).

Late on Friday nights (or early Saturday mornings depending on how you look like it), as the people of Dakar are just getting ready to go out to clubs, concerts, or other venues of mass entertainment, the evil goats are getting together in their respective neighborhood commissions, and preparing for their eventual world-domination. But the evil goat commissions are habitually divided. For one thing, goats aren’t allowed on the misnamed car rapides (they’re in fact, not very rapide at all) without the accompaniment of a human handler, which makes transportation around the city rather difficult, especially if one is planning world domination. Even if evil goats were allowed on the misnamed method of transport, they wouldn’t get very far as by some cruel trick of nature, goats have no pockets and can’t carry change to pay the fare. Because of the difficulties in travel, the goat commissions rarely get a chance to interact with each other, and as a result, the goat domination movement is fractured by neighborhoodal (I know I’m making up words again, but this is my story so cut me some slack) interests vying to take power for themselves.

This week, however, the excitement centers on a neighborhood commission in Sacre Coeur 3, where the evil goat who goes by the code name Charles (to protect his identity from the authorities) has begun implementing plans to unite the evil goat community under his rule. Evil goat leaders from all of Dakar’s neighborhood commissions are present. It is a momentous moment indeed, as for the first time in the evil goat history of Dakar, representatives from all across the city are meeting to discuss plans for the future. Evil goats from all over the city have spent days trudging through the crowded streets of Dakar, getting lost in back alleys along streets that seem to change direction every hour (or every half hour if you’re coming through Mermoz). Even evil goats from outside the city have come, braving potholed roads, sandstorms, and the odd bush taxi. The St. Louis evil representative (Code name: Lou) is sitting next to the evil representative from Tambacounda (Code name Tom) while Zinguinchor’s evil representative (Code name Ziggy) debates the proper technique for eating mangoes with the evil representative from Kolda (with the worst code name of them all: Shirly). They’re all here, and there’s business to be dealt with.

The impetus for this momentous moment concerns news that Lou brought to Charle’s attention weeks ago. They were born in the same litter (what’s an evil group of evil goat kids called again?), and still maintain touch despite the distance between them. Evidently, the eviler pelicans in Lou’s district have begun preparations for an invasion of Dakar: a bold move that if successful, would severely hamper the evil goat’s intentions of world domination. Lou was alerted by an informant in the eviler pelican community, a little diving bird named Hal.

“Order! Order! I demand order!” Charles called over the din of arguing goats. He was standing on a pile of gravel that had been left by the humans. “Brothers! We are all gathered here, for the first time in our evil goat history, for there is a dire situation before us. Brother Lou has brought us intelligence from up north that concerns us all. Brother Lou?”

Lou jumped up onto the gravel pile and spoke. “Thank you, Brother Charles. Brother Goats! As he said, a dire situation is upon us.” His voice was raspy from the many years he had spent up in the dry, dry heat breathing the dust that blew in from the Mauritanian desert. “It has been brought to my attention that the eviler pelicans are plotting a plot that is so eviler in nature, so horrific in its consequences, that it makes any evil plot that we plot seem downright magnanimous in comparison.”

A chorus of evil voices erupted in an evil din that made the demon spirits that inhabited the city late at night dive back into Hell from whence they had been borne into this world to cause mayhem and mischief. “Oh help us!” “The eviler pelicans!” “What are we going to do?” and “How are we going to take over the world now?”

“Please, please! Brothers, please calm down!” Charles yelled over the din. “Please, now I realize that this situation is dire, but we must not give in. I mean sure the pelicans are eviler than we, and sure they’re plans for world domination don’t include plans for craggy crags in every city, town, and village, for our kids to play on but we must fight them!”

“How, Brother Charles?” said Herman, as the representative from Liberté 6 was called. Herman’s evil goat head raised above the evil hoard of evil goats. His horns were curved, in the fashion of the evil goat horns from Libertés one through eight. “The pelicans can fly, and furthermore, they eat fish, a far superior protein source than cardboard.”

“True Brother Herman, the pelicans are militarily superior than we, and their superior protein source makes them more than a little bit stronger than us. I did not say it would be easy. But this is my home, I was born here, I played on these very streets as a kid with Brother Lou over there. And I for one won’t let the pelicans win! Who’s with me?”

There was an awkward silence as the evil hoard of evil goats assembled before Charles shuffled uneasily from front-left hoof to front-back hoof and back again, avoiding Charles’ searching eyes, glowing like evil coals in his head.

“Alright, if that is the way that you guys want it. If you want your kids growing up under the domination of the eviler pelican flock, then I suppose there’s nothing that I can say or do to convince you otherwise. When the pelicans arrive though, I will be fighting them, be it alone or with an evil hoard of evil goats behind me.” And with that final exhortation of a defeated leader, Charles nimbly hopped from the gravel pile to a thin stick perched precariously between two cement blocks and turned to walk away.

* * *

I hope you guys enjoyed that. That's all for now. Merry Christmas!
Love,
Jake