The Monkey King's Used Primate Emporium and Book Reviews

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Keigo Seki (Editor), �Folktales of Japan�

Started February 17 � Finished February 19, 2005; 235 pages. Posted 25 March 2005

So the Japanese have an answer for why every single animal looks the way that they do, and it all stems from them being assholes. For instance, the monkey doesn�t have a tail anymore, because he was greedy and it got pulled off. He also has a red butt because he laughed cruelly at the misfortune of others. Then he conducted massive voter fraud and became president of the United States in the year 2000.

I got this book five years ago for my Evil Twin in Buffalo, who was moving to Japan to teach English and sexual deviation. He conveniently forgot it. Bastard. I�m betting he�s still carting around the 60s bad hardcore erotica books that I also gave him, which three of us once read paragraphs aloud from different books to try and make a complete story. It went something like this:

�You like watching me undress? That�s nice. I like undressing...�

�She held my hand to her breasts, leaning forward to whisper in my ear...�

�Lick tits, Rex! Lick tits!�

Remembering that exchange and this book has made me realize how much I miss him. But it�s been a weird couple of days. Yesterday, for no reason at all, a sudden wave of depression washed over me. It�s still with me.

You may not believe it since I have so many mopey entries, but I�m actually a fairly happy and content person. I�m just melodramatic. But I don�t have mood swings. I�m too much of a goof to operate otherwise, and I�m usually fairly ticked by what goes on around me. Sure, there are times where I�m sad over something in particular, but it usually doesn�t last long.

This feels long. What�s frightening about it is how powerfully sad I feel. Worse is that I can�t tie it to anything. I�m a strong believer in reasons behind feelings, but I don�t know what this is about. That makes it worse, because I can�t rationalize my way through it. That's never happend to me before.

The day I talked about in my last entry, after I got home, my roommates told me they were going to my friend�s bar for happy hour. I wasn�t planning to go � daylight hours for me are meant for coffee, and the nights are made for Michelob, though I'd never stoop so low as to drink Michelob. But when the power shut off and the side of the house caught on fire from our 100 year-old wiring, I decided I didn�t want to sit in the dark and went to meet up with them. When I walked in, the bartender, whom I had seen a few days before when I got oysters, blinked in surprise when I walked up.

�I was just telling your roommate that I think you�ve gotten weirder,� she said. �Since I don�t want to talk shit behind your back, I�ll say it to you � You�ve become weirder.�

I asked her why she thought this, but she never did give me a response. I suppose she thought me �weirder� because when I ran into her at the oyster bar we talked for a couple of minutes, and then, when conversation petered out, I started reading, which was what I had planned to do all along. I guess she thought that was rude, or anti-social, or whatever.

That�s not my intention, but I know I must look like the recluse since I don�t join in with the masses that converge on my house to sit around and watch bad reality television. I�ll break a book out at the bar when I don�t know anyone, because staring at the television mounted on the wall or worse, staring off into space hoping to make conversation with someone eventually seems too depressing.

So last night, while playing records at the dive bar I left the books in the car. I kept myself busy when it wasn�t my turn to spin, getting the next record ready. I talked to strangers. One girl who also brought records played The Dead Milkmen�s �Punk Rock Girl� and the two of us jumped up on the tables and shouted anarchy. And the wave of depression receded for a bit.

Especially when I played Alice Donut�s version of Black Sabbath�s �War Pigs,� but that needs explaining. After the girl played Slayer, I put on the Alice Donut. The first guitar strains are very recognizable, so some people shouted their approval in a mini-version of Heavy Metal Parking Lot.

Only in the Alice Donut version, right at the spot where Ozzy is supposed to start singing, they put in a trombone, hitting all the same notes.

God, I wish I knew a way to stop time, because I wanted to look at the confused expression on everybody�s face. That was awesomely funny. Of course, the free Newcastle�s that I got all night probably helped.

The entire night was great fun, and I thought my little spell of melancholy was finished with. It all hit me again as soon as I got in the car.

They�re going to let me play records again next week. Next week seems a long way away.
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Playlist from last night

Worth keeping? Nope.


Rating: Library prices.

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