This is from the 11th:

Bought some kick-ass headphones today, so now I'm in acoustic heaven. Trance Planet playing (thanks Cory) and a little ehru-kan (air conditioning, the best word in the Japanese language) are making everything OK. All that beer that guy at the sushi-ya bought me isn't hurting either. Today I did laundry. A monumental task which I am proud to have accomplished. I would like to thank my mom and dad for giving me the necessary basic skillset, the Jet program for giving me the opportunity and of course, National, for making some truly surrealistic home appliances. Since Walter Gropius was unavailable for consultation, they went straight to the design team of Terry Gilliam and Salvidor Dali.

This wonderful machine stands a squat rectangular 4 x 2 x 2, and features numerous hoses and wires connecting to and erupting from it. It rests in a kind of wash basin, in which other disconnected hoses lie. Pressing one of its many indecipherable buttons causes it to shudder and beep, but produces no other results. Turning on some of the hoses connected to it causes water to shoot out all over your kitchen floor. I spent the better part of the morning hovering over this contraption like some medieval rabbi, my feeble book out, matching or trying to match the arcane symbols contained or not contained within to those on the great golem I must bring to life ("What is the true name of God?!"). Spells, curses, ritual movements. No result. I finally got it to work, but I can't tell you how. Suffice to say I now have three less pints of blood and three years less to live.

I followed that stunt up with a trip to an internet cafe I read about in a book, and then went shopping. And I mean Shopping. Bought these headphones. Nice. And a digital camera, the results from which you will shortly see.

Then for some dinner. i wandered around until I stumbled upon a nice sushi bar. Totally different than the one in Tokyo, this was a sushi-ya. A place for the working class guy who has to work late (they all do) and needs a quick bite and some sake or biru (beer), to see him through his late night.

Fish swam in tanks, placidly unaware of their dubious fate. The shrimp seemed to have a better picture. They scrambled for the exits while the unfeeling gods of the sushi bar grabbed their cousins and sliced them nice and thick, spread on rice. The fish was fresh and good, but not handsomely prepared. Around six a guy came in and sat next to me at the only seat remaining. His name is Mori, which means "woods", and he speaks a bit of english. A nice guy, he bought me several beers as we continued to fill each others glasses and stammer through a conversation; the upshot of which was that I should go to Kyoto on the 16th when they will set five mountains on fire.

OK. I'm there. Four mountains on fire? I could pass on that. But five?

It was only after he bought me breakfast that I started getting homophobic.

He gave me his card and said I should call if I got lonely. Was this just something lost in the translation? I don't know. This is one of those hyper-masculine cultures, where the word "gay" isn't even there, and straight people act feminine and gay people are married with kids. It was a weird exchange, but nobody at the bar seemed to have any looks to give me. No help from the audience. I thanked him for the beer and food, then left shortly after. Chalk it up to cultural exchange. or whatever.