Divine Reparation

HITACHINO NEST BEER

Red Rice Ale

Complex sake like flavors with malt sweet notes. Hints of strawberries in the nose and palate. An intriguing mix of sake, malt , and bitter notes in the finish.

Available both in Japan and U.S.A.

Malts: Pilsner, Flaked Barley
Hops:Hallertauer
Adjuncts:
Original Gravity: 1070
Alcohol Vol: 7.0%
IBU: 11
Color: Hazy Pink
Package Format:
Japan - 330ml & 720ml bottles, Various size of Kegs
U.S.A. - 11.2oz bottles & 30L Kegs

sorry givings

One year ago at the present hour, I believe I was sitting in my bathroom on the lowered toilet seat because it had the only strong heater in the apartment. I was basically landlocked for 3-4 days, churning out a 6000w paper for Animality class.

Now in the early morning of this celebration of genocide as festivity, I realized I should have brought here my Chinese dictionary so as to check the etymologies for my 19th century "transamerican renaissance" paper. Yet all I can still dream of is to learn Greek and Latin for this "other" etymology. Just how funny does ethnicity get? As Rey Chow puts it, "the efficacy of the term [ethnicity] derives, precisely, from its contradictorines, its irrational nature" (The Protestant Ethnic and the Spirit of Capitalism 28). Indeed, "no critic has ever suspected, much less declared, that in drawing on classical Chinese poetry for his imagist poetics, Erza Pound lost his cultural identity as an American poet" (Michelle Yeh, qtd. in Chow 117).

I wonder how my mum is getting on with her reading of Monolingualism of the Other, in its Chinese translation that is, if you like, one of its impossible possibilities.

Yes. I'm also writing about the -- "my" -- mother in so many ways. Not just with this paper on Chinese Secret Societies in the United States but also with the Gender and New Media paper on the figure of the child through Lee Edleman's No Future, the Cosmia Von Bonin and Takashi Murakami exhibitions. Didn't Cixous say somewhere that the impossibile writing is writing for and of the mother?

As for the paper on Aesthetics, Sam and I are still trying to survive Adorno's relentless murder. Or suicide. Or still-birth. We don't quite know yet. DL's statement, "the philinstine is your colleague, not the ones obsessed with Britney Spears" still haunts me. And so a contestant from tonight's Project Runway spit on her garment for a spiritual inebriation with "aesthetics."

%^$#(*^@!_ or GNNCCB

Have I mentioned how bad Nov-Dec is going to be? Three final papers + 40 student essays to grade + no old friends visiting this year = Ronery with my hangover eyebags.

*&^$@!)*&^# multiplied.

No Head No Milk

Once in awhile, your car gets a deflated tyre and all you need to do is to drive to a gas station, turn on the machine, connect the loops and press "pump." The sound of air filling up your trusty ol' rubber is supposed to be quite relaxing.

Not if you don't know how to do any of those, of course.

So I drove around two gas stations hoping that an attendant would be around at 930pm on a weekday night so we can skip the steps, and go straight to the part where I go home with a fat tyre. Unfortunately there were no attendants anywhere and I decided I would seek help with bored drivers around the gas station. I picked an old, kind-looking cab driver and asked him if he could help me. He agreed, but requested that I stroke his bald head while he helped pump the gas. The correspondence of those two actions did not sound well together; as was his strange wide grin. But I was desperate, cold, hungry, and tired from reading Adorno for 3 hours. So I clasped my fingers and ran a very shaky hand over his bald head, as quickly as I could and with as little contact as I could manage.

"You don't like my bald head? I thought women love touching bald heads."

My tyre must have been very flat as it was still inhaling hard. I was also trying not to breathe, as I touched his head for a second time, all the time wanting to die yet relieved that I would soon get into my car, steam off, light up a cig, and go home to shower.

So because of the trauma, I did not quite pay full attention to how the whole procedure was done at all. Damn it, next time, I'll have to look for a good samaritan who is not bald. But damn it, that could mean something worse too. Ok, I'll just call AAA.

----
The next day, happily going home from school and stopping by the supermarket to get some prunes and tea, a car pulled up beside mine in the parking lot. A woman rolled down her windows and said, "Please help me, we are very poor. My husband beats me up and my children are very hungry." She rolled down the back-seat windows and three skinny faces looked back at me. "Please help us to buy some milk, just one carton of chocolate milk. They like chocolate milk." I was stunned. It was the first time that someone asked me to buy milk for them, and how can I refuse?

I went into Gelson's, quickly took the items off the shelves, paid and got out. Her car was not there where it was. I circled around the parking lot and still could not see it. For some reason I felt scared. Scared that she got into trouble with some security guards, etc... Scared that I'll drive home that day with my prunes, tea, and an carton of chocolate milk that I did not set out to buy. Somehow I felt like I was a milk thief that day.

But I guess I like chocolate milk too.

My Castro Bouquet

"That is certainly not treadmill/gym reading."
"What is not, chewee?"
"That which begins by 'A specter is haunting Europe.'"

---
And when I woke up he was there looking up the words bourgeois and proletariat online. I could wake up to that everyday.