Hello Sluggo:

A) Oops… Hey, Last.fm…  Seen the news lately?

B) I wonder what Michael Jackson’s play count looked like before he bought the farm (but not the ranch)? I’d be willing to bet it was nowhere near 29 million.

C) Does Last.fm knows something we don’t? Is the King of Pop planning something along the lines of his former Father-in-Law, The King?

I decided the world would be a much better place if we all had some nice Spam Musubi merchandise. So, a few weeks back, I flew to San Francisco and hired a crack photographer (okay, he was actually a photographer on crack whom I met stumbling along Fillmore late one night) and headed over to May’s Coffee Shop in Japan Center’s Kintetsu Mall for our shoot. After hours of searching for the right omusubi, we finally happened upon this one, and got a few shots of it before the temptation became too much and I ate it.

Now, you can own a piece of history with these spiffy new Spam Musubi shirts and other select items. And they don’t even say “Got Spam?” on the back—just unfettered Hormellian goodness on the front. Head on over to my Spam Musubi store and get yours today!

When I first went to Japan in March 2002, I was passed on a street in Shinjuku by what I thought was some lowered, blacked-out Yakuzamobile. I was pretty blown away by the box-like styling, seemingly putting a foot in the ass of the aerodynamic turds on the road at the time. A few days later I saw another Toyota bB (this one was not so bosozoku looking) parked along Kappabashi and snapped this photo.

What goes around comes around, and after returning to the states and telling everyone about this strange Japanese car, I read that it would soon be available in the US. And as we later found, in the rather dumbed-down form of the Scion xB. Alas,the honeymoon was over, as they say.

During my second visit to Japan in November 2004, I spotted another oddball Japanese creation that set my heart aflutter yet again: The Nissan Cube. Standing before Ginza’s Wako department store one day, a Cube drove by and made the corner, just the angle for me to catch sight of the asymmetric rear window, wrapping around one side of the car like a middle finger in the wind of conventional design.

Just like the first time around, I spotted another one a few days later in Asakusa. this time, Sharon snapped a photo of me with the car, in a pose I learned many years earlier from my friend, Rodrigo Peréz Nebel: Standing next to the car as if I were unlocking the door and preparing to drive away. A photo of two starry-eyed lovers, enjoying the sheer novelty of first touch.

Time-warp forward to 2009, and we see how history repeats itself. Nissan has released the Cube in the US, but radically redesigned. My former lover is not the same—She has given way to fake tits and Botox injection. I do not recognize her. Only the rear window remains untouched, but in concept alone. Her formerly angular lines have been rounded. Me no like.

A client brought in his new Cube this week, wishing to have his advertising graphics applied. I explained to him that I first saw the Cube in Japan in ’04, and in his best all-knowing manner (after all, he did just pay good green money for this car, so he oughtta know, right?), he looked me in the eye and said:

“No, this one is new. You’re thinking of the Scion.”

I politely explained to him that Nissan was producing the Cube in Japan as far back as 1998. He looked confused, as if the local Nissan dealer hadn’t divulged the whole history to him. Or maybe he was shocked that the design was not of good old ’merican bloodlines. At any rate, when we were back inside later, I dropped the photo of myself and my former love on him. His response (like seeing his new bride happily posing with an old boyfriend): “Oh.”

Kei: “Daddy, how did you put me in Mommy’s belly?”

Me: “Uh, I just rared back and put you in there.”

Kei: “What did you use?”

Sharon: “Ahhhhhhahahah…”

Kei: “What did you use, Daddy?”

Me: “Well, I um…”

Sharon: “Uh, he used his, uhhh, his magic!”

Me: “Yeah, I used my Daddy Magic!”

Kei: “Magic?”

(I have to mention here that “magic,” as it is called in our house, is whipped cream, specifically from a can, like Redi Whip. That was not the magic we were referring to.)

Sharon (laughing hysterically at this point): Hahahaha yeah, “Daddy Magic!” Hahahaha!

Kei: “Did you use your magic wand? Like my magic wand??”

Me: “Well, kind of, but, no, not really like yours…”

Kei: “Where is it? Where do you keep it?”

Me (Worried about painting myself into a corner): “I put it away, honey… I put it away…”

Sharon: “Hohohooooheeehaaaa…!!”

She’s three-and-a-half years old. I ain’t having that talk yet.

I haven’t figured out if God-Biscuit is swooping down to save the people of India or if he just likes a good curry. Anyone?

My dad left his Airport on and receives dialogs asking if he wants to join a couple of open wireless networks. One is called “mindy” and the other is called “nastyniggasnetwork.”

I can’t help but be reminded of a certain frequently-quoted-by-white-folks black comedian’s comment: “Niggas love to keep it real… Real dumb.”

To make a very long story short, I know a guy who has recently become homeless. He has a group of friends who have been doing all they can to help him, but because of many personal issues, it is now on his shoulders to pull himself up, and he has entered a program to facilitate this.

That being said, we exchange text messages from time to time which can range from hilarious to downright scary. Here are a few choice examples, presented without explanation as I have received them. Make of them what you will. References to his program and location have been changed to protect his identity.

I am now being inducted into *** on Drs orders

Good squalor Fartjeans

Apd crack killah wassup

I stank erected

I got a rash & u dont want any

Celeb lookalikes @ *** : tom hanks. Stalin. Avery Schreiber. Chas Bronson. Wm Finley. Sam Jackson. Steven Speilberg. J Leguizamo

Bruce willis. The meatball from aqua teen hunger kids with a body. Andre the giant. Aiden brophy. De niro as scarface. Vannessa williams?

Tom baker. Johnny legend. David carradine.

John turturro. Paul mooney. Jimmy dean. Lou gosset jr. Al sharpton. Art carney. Bobby orlando.

Gary sinese. Herbert lom. Jay from Clerks.

Conan obrien. Levar burton.

G-zuz!

Best ho-made tshirt of the morning: ‘i dont bite just!!! hungry’.

*** is wireless. If-when i get an indoor locker i need my laptop here.

Yeah there’s a bro here who blames me 4 ALL his problems. More on that later.

EMS is here - the guy 2 bunks down is dying. Full blown HIV

Good news- the guy that appeared to have died last night made it to the hospital on time & is doing better

I’m at the clinic - constant interruptions but @ least i’m being seen. Hour behind as usual. Man the shit i have seen lately…

I have been shuffled around so much i’m not certain which msgs made it 2 u

Saw a guy shit on ***** street in the bright sunny traffic. A big dark fat turd in 2 chunks.

I have made a couple friends- there really are some decent struggling ppl there.

I have met some incredibly cool black folks & some real definitive moronic shit-ass niggers. Being homeless illuminates pain like LSD

I’m in the *** prog & that is going 2 save my ass provided i work hard @ it, like 2day.

4.75 hours wait for 6 minutes of doctor. These poor bastids are clearly not in it for the money

Crazy, truely scary shit.

Aside from the requisite 24-7 hustle there are a few noteworthy to be avoided @ all costs. I shall elaborate in person.

Bingo. The money some of these fools waste on crack, weed & cigs could house & feed them independently

Possibly more later…

I received a text from my wife yesterday that signaled the passing of a great man.

“Have you read the news that Dolemite died?”

I hadn’t. Jumping over to Dolemite.com, I read the mounting news reports of his death and remembered the couple of times I met him. Onstage, he was Dolemite, Shine, Petey Wheatstraw the Devil’s Son-in-Law and more, all rolled up in one big nasty package, but offstage, he was kind, thoughful, even going-out-of-his-way courteous to a crowd of people he didn’t know as they lined up for autographs and souvenir photos.

The first time I saw him perform in 1993 at the See You Later Lounge over on Montopolis Drive, he seemed to just be starting his “revival” after languishing in obscurity during most of the previous decade. A small crowd of Emo’s regulars (all white, of course) had come to the show, and RRM took enormous pleasure including a bit of friendly harrassment in his act that night, at one point asking if anyone would “eat a chitlin cleaned by this white bitch over here” (my future sister-in-law, Mary Ann) and even getting me up before the crowd to exclaim, “This big motherfucker look just like Pee Wee Herman, just fatter.You jack off alot don’t you, man?” And what could I say but, “Yes, Mr. Dolemite, yes I do!” For my good sportsmanship, I was rewarded with a copy of a porn movie entitled “Willy Jackoff’s Chocolate and Cream Factory: Black Thunder.” The crowd loved it. As I left the stage with my prize, he sent me off with “Here, take this… It’s horrible.”

In order to pay his way back to LA, he was selling posters and other Dolemite merch, plus some dubious non-RRM junk such as framed prints of huge stacks of cash and cheap VHS porn tapes and other junk, most of which he had nothing to do with. Upon asking him to sign the movie I had proudly won, he replied, “Man, I ain’t in that movie, I can’t sign my name to it.” He did, however, finally signing the box, “To John, You Pee Wee Herman Motherfucker.”

The second time I saw him was in 1997 at Catfish Station on Sixth Street. By then he was enjoying a rebounding career that brought high praise from the movers and shakers of the comedy and hip hop worlds. His act, as well as his gracious personality, was basically the same though, but this time I noticed his advanced age was surely catching up with him. I picked up a “Dolemite for President” t-shirt and some other memorabilia, and as he was signing the merch and chatting with me, he seemed to be looking right through me—he was probably already suffering vision problems from the diabetes that had plagued him for so long. He remembered the Pee Wee Herman comparison from years earlier, and thanked me “for being such a good sport up there.”

The lasting impression left on me by RRM, besides the fact that he was a funny motherfucker, was that he was the antithesis of the “take the money and run” stereotype of his contemporaries. If anyone deserved attention and respect for all that he pioneered in the entertainment world, it was him.

I guess you’re all wondering where I’ve been lately and why I haven’t been posting. Yeah, all of you. All of my loyal readership. Uh huh.

Let’s just say I’ve been busy with important matters of US security—Such as a recent summit I participated in with Iran’s Iron Sheik. He damn near had me defecting to the other side with his promises of heavenly virgins and all that crap if I would help him take out Hulk Hogan. in the end I had to decline ‘cos I like women to be a bit more experienced.

Sorry, Sheik. But you’re still #1 All-American in my book.

Yeah, so I haven’t posted since February, big deal.

Recently, I’ve been making sporadic missions to Sixth Street after nearly ten years out of circulation. Last night I took my camera and captured what I believe to be a typical drunken night on Austin’s “Boulevard of Sin,” or whatever colorful description you might like.

Just before 2am when the bars kick everyone out, the streets look like this:

A few of the more faint-of-heart types (or those who are just plain smarter than the average drunk) try to head out before the circus comes to town…

Then there are the hungry drunks who stand around and gaze at the culinary delights that line Sixth Street… Fajitas, sausage wraps…

Pizza of several different varieties…

Dudes try their damndest to secure the evening’s lodgings…

Some apparently succeeding…

Others succeed at simply standing (with help)…

And then the hoards of drunken filth are pushed out of the saloons and told in no uncertain terms to GO THE FUCK HOME!

And Johnny Law swoops in on horseback to make their quota for the evening.

Meanwhile, the quest for drunk grub continues…

And soon, children, the streets of Austin, Texas are coated with a thick slurry of vomit and cigarette butts…

Not to fear, though… This guy show up about this time every night to hose the hole mess down the sewers. I caught him starting off his night’s work in the parking garage at 5th and Red River. Good job!

Anyone with a knowledge of Japanese language/pop culture might wonder if the name of this place could have been more thoroughly researched.

Then again, they could really exploit the unfortunate name and call it “Tom’s Unchi.” Just a thought.

Mommy: We’re going to get kolaches today, Kei!

Kei: gah-lah-shizz…?

Daddy: No, not galoshes, honey, ko-lah-cheez! You get to have a kolache for breakfast today!

Kei: i get to have a ko-lah… CHEESE today…? for breh-fass..?

Daddy: Yes, you get to have a kolache today! But daddy doesn’t get a kolache today, daddy has to go to the doctor.

Kei: daddy doesn’t get to have ko-lah-cheese today? daddy hafta go to… the doctor?

Daddy: Yeah, and it’s kinda scary…

Mommy: (scowling at Daddy) No, it’s not scary…

Kei: daddy scared at doctor…?

Daddy: No, not at all… (realizing my faux paux—we shouldn’t tell her that doctors are scary) Daddy’s not scared of the doctor! Doctors aren’t scary… It’s just that… I mean… Kei’s doctor is nice… Daddy’s doctor is an asshole…

Mommy: (glaring) John, don’t say that!

Kei: daddy doctor is a ehhz ho…?

Daddy: (laughing) Yeah, well… he is! Hahahahah!

Kei: he’s a azz ho…?

Mommy: (now laughing along) John, don’t laugh…

Daddy: But it’s funny, Mommy! Hahahaha!

Kei: he’s a azz hole… heheheh… dats funny… azz hole…