I have been on the internet for well over a decade.

Remember when, if you wanted to do something on the internet beyond posting on various BBSes, you'd have to make a fucking website? Well, I do. Thanks to google and the wayback machine, I have recovered some of the more idiotic things I did with my time between the ages of 12 and 15...


In 1997 I started a website called "Goku's Dragonball Cafe." It eventually merged with an IRC friend's page to become... The Dragonball Pitstop! And guess what? IT'S STILL ON THE INTERNET. WTF. Last updated, by me, 22nd August 1999: http://www.geocities.com/Tokyo/Ginza/8217/dbps/. From then on we moved the site to a free-account-without-banner-ads host called hypermart where it took on a much nicer layout. However, hypermart deleted all of its free accounts in 2004. The "reviews" section, however, still works on its own.. Which is hysterical, because it's me reviewing Dragonball movies. And one of them is a .txt file. Oh, I am still laughing.


I made this website in 1998, and continued it until 2000. It was for, yes, my backyard wrestling federation: http://sk8ter112.tripod.com/1aindex.html . Somehow, it is still up, wasting valuable internets.


Well, there's more. I had a Green Day fan site and I re-discovered several old posts I made on various different boards. However, I should really be getting in that hour-long nap before going to London.

Must be the moon

I went outside and tried to take pictures of the moon, because it was absolutely insane-looking. Clouds were passing under it really quickly, and creating some very cool effects with the light it was giving off. However, my camera sucks. A lot. So, I compiled a few shitty pictures – each of which caught a certain part of the awesome-looking-ness of the scene – and compiled them in to an animated gif. Now I have to go to sleep. Waking up in three hours to go to London.

Looking down this road that I'll soon say "I used to call home."

The last time I saw her she had vomited on her own chest while we were locked in a convenience store during a riot. She was sitting on the floor slumped against a row of refrigerators. Next to her was a tall table with tall chairs, around which some men sat and ate, looking out the shop's locked doors at the charging police, the loud and spontaneous fireworks, the chanting demonstrators. Her friends gathered and pulled her to the bathroom to clean her up.

The store clerk stood in front of the locked doors, facing a man holding a four-pack of beer who wanted to leave the shop. They exchanged words I couldn't understand and eventually, he left. And somehow I did as well. I stood on the shop's small porch looking out at the square which the street met at it's nearest end. There was a modest fire – the black bloc throwing into it whatever they could find. A slow moving tank came from another street which met the square, surrounded heavily armed officers in full riot gear. From the far side of the block I was standing on, a small group of muscular men in their mid-twenties charged down the pavement chanting football songs, looking for a fight. And they found it at the square, where police were waiting for them, batons in hand. I turned to the locked shop doors behind me. I knocked. The clerk shook his head "no."

I didn't want to leave the street – I wanted to see my sick friend. To my amazement, a man at one of the tall tables rose in my defense and spoke to the clerk in German. The clerk's disposition changed. I negotiated, smiling. I was let back in.

Shortly after, we walked out again. I had found my friend, the square had been mostly cleared and the fire put out. She walked away without saying goodbye, stumbling and nearly falling, being held up by another of her friends. Quickly they moved out of sight, leaving me to walk the streets with whoever was left.

But when I think of England in the winter I will always think of the long, single road leading to her village quay from my campus flat. It's the smell of trees and cold air; the sound of loud busses passing dangerously close to my right nearly knocking me off my bike; the layers of clothes making unseasonable sweat and stopping at the co-op; a miniscule ferry in a medium-sized river and the bottle of wine, half-drank pot of coffee and window pane i looked past to see it. When I think of England in the winter...

This has been...

The most unproductive day of my life. Except that...

TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY.
WOO.
I'M 24.

OK, see you tomorrow.