First of all folks, I must say that writing this is taking me back to places in my head that I really don’t want to be taken back to….

 Guest post by DEARHAM-SAMURAI

Back in 2008, I found myself at a bit of a crossroads. I was studying Japanese at a language school and was in the precarious position of deciding whether to place my priorities on studying or finding full-time employment. I was still teaching English (who isn’t?), but my actual working hours were circumscribed by both the visa laws and my actual attendance at my language school, who believe me, took a very dim view of anyone who sunk below the sacred 70 per cent attendance rate.

Of course, I had no qualms when it came to taking ‘left handers’ around the watchful glances of those lovely people at the immigration and I was more than happy to work ‘under the table’. However, the hours I was able to work at my teaching job were far too sporadic to satisfy the company or more importantly, enable me to earn enough to live on. The boss wanted me to work full-time, which I just couldn’t. After all, as a student you’re expected not only to devote yourself entirely to the cause, but also to have sufficient funds to support yourself for the duration of your studies. You also have to prove this requirement, which although isn’t exactly the most perplexing of tasks – fudging a bank balance – in the not too distant aftermath I was effectively reaping what I had sown. I was flat broke.

Obviously, it goes without saying that rent still needed to be paid. Also the bills were escalating and my main meal every day, if I was lucky, was marmalade on toast. And all that before even a drop of ale! In fact the biggest issue of all here, was that my Saturday night drinking fund was non-existent. Oh yes, those were barren times alright. Back home I’d have simply gambled my way out of poverty, but as that particular avenue of pleasure had been cut off to me here in Japan, I had to find other ways to fit square pegs into round holes.

If you can’t speak Japanese well enough, there aren’t many options other than English teaching. There are of course the financial ‘headhunter’ jobs being advertised left right and centre, enticing you in with promises of untold wealth and benefits. It is then you discover that 100 per cent of these easy-to-get jobs have an entire salary based on the dreaded C word – commission. So short of that, the only other option that is frequently seen advertised is McDonald’s. Very feasible in terms of the required language skills but I don’t think any self-respecting Westerner would lower themselves, and I’m certainly no exception. Sure, it might not have the same stigma attached to it in Far East Asia as it does in the West but it’s Maccy D’s! McDuck’s! I’d jump on a plane back home before even contemplating joining Ronald’s mob.

Simply, No.

Simply, No.

It was then that I remembered the girlfriend’s family business – running a hotel. I want to state here that she has long since been an ex girlfriend, and I will refer to her as the ex from now on. (haven’t heard a dickie bird from her since 2009, and long may it stay that way!) For my own intents and purposes this helps to clarify and reiterate the fact that she is indeed an ex. Anyway, this hotel was something she always seemed a bit hesitant to talk about. When the inevitable question about family occupations reared its head, she used to clam up. “Why?”, I thought. “What’s wrong with a hotel?”, I wondered. Nowt, obviously, but when I probed into it a bit more, it transpired that the hotel in question was a ‘love hotel’, and as we all know, in Japan, to talk about such things is considered a faux-pas.

As the ex’s parents owned a hotel, albeit a love hotel, it suddenly dawned upon me that hell, I COULD WORK THERE!! I thought that this could be an easy way into a Japanese job without all the added on bullshit of interviews and robotic hypocritical bowing to people who you’ll inevitably grow to resent. Not to mention having to comply with the Japanese notion of appearance based discrimination – that photograph at the top of a resume for example. And let’s not forget how one usually has to acquire such a photo – sitting in a train station photo booth with their legs on display, for every Tom Dick and Hirosaki to gawp at as they push and shove their way through the heaving masses. Nope, I couldn’t be arsed with any of that. And let’s face it, witnessing the full extent of the intricacies and hanky panky of a love hotel would satisfy even the most reluctant curiosity, yet alone a testosterone fuelled foreigner more or less still fresh off the boat. And, as I had decided, it would all be under the pretext of trying to “further my Japanese language ability, by working in a Japanese only environment”.

The thought of me working in a love hotel amused the ex no end and she wouldn’t even entertain the idea of asking her mother at first. I was adamant though – like a dog with a bone with it. I would constantly harp on about how in order to become proficient in the language, it was essential to be completely exposed to it – warts and all. So she pestered her mother on my behalf. The old devil took some convincing, but after a constant barrage of pleas from her daughter, she finally succumbed to letting me become one of her employees! The good fortune didn’t end there either, as my pay was immediately escalated to \1500 an hour, a full \500 more than any of the current incumbents. A pay rise before even setting foot in the joint! It’s ‘who you know’ in this world. Always has been.

It was the first time I had met the ex girlfriend’s mother, and she hated me from the off – nothing to do with me being a foreigner I hasten to add – probably more down to the fact of her being the proverbial shoulder to cry on in the aftermath of most of the ex girlfriend’s previously failed relationships. To put it quite simply, she was a seemingly overprotective ogre who would sit there imperiously – her eyes peering at me with disdain, piercing right into my soul. I don’t think a “you’re not good enough for my daughter” type demeanour has ever been more evident. Not to me anyway. She might have been the owner but it was the ex’s brother though, who was my superior. Everyone’s superior in fact. As is the case with many young guys, put them in authority far too early, especially presiding over people who have a lot more sleeps to their name than they have, and a bit of an issue will no doubt ensue. He would try and patronise everybody, by sitting there barking out orders in a cold condescending manner. Yup, he was a prick. He was slightly older than me I should add, and even though he was the ex’s brother I pretty much quashed any hopes of ‘bromance’ after about 30 seconds of meeting the douchebag.

There were four other staff on the pay roll.

Watanabe san – a pleasant enough old guy whose shift coincided with mine more than any of the others. Always referred to himself in the third person as some indeed do, but with the added “san” honorific for extra measure!

Goto san – middle-aged chain-smoking redhead, the type of woman who challenges your brain to try and fathom out if she was a catch 30 years previously. To be quite frank, as far as work was concerned she was about as much use as an ashtray on a motorbike. Which of course would be quite apt.

Fujisaki san – a stalwart of the entire enterprise. In her seventies, and in her 40th year of cleaning for the hotel! Yep, the daft old bat had spent more than half her life here mopping up semen drenched tissues, when most of her fellow septuagenarian by now were no doubt travelling around clogging up various world heritage hot spots courtesy of their “bubble era” shaped nest eggs.

Semba san – a legend! An avuncular jolly old soul who took the act of ‘skiving’ to epic proportions! The only one who could speak English too. How often was my shift arranged to be on the same night as his? Nowhere near enough for my liking. Funny that.

The hotel itself was located in Koiwa, on the Sobu Line. Koiwa is a shithole, especially by Japanese standards. As for the hotel itself I wasn’t impressed at all. I’d been in a few love hotels as a customer and was used to the odd theme place of course but I was yet to come across (really, no pun intended) that Ferrari shaped bed that I once read about, or indeed anything resembling the inside of a planetarium where one can gaze, no doubt intoxicated, into far flung constellations while they’re hammering away. Maybe as an employee, having behind the scenes access to such an establishment, I might finally stumble upon one. Alas, any thoughts of embellishing one’s amusement were suddenly shot down in flames when I was given the tour. It was as basic as basic gets as far as the rooms were concerned. The only thing distinguishing this love hotel from a business hotel were all the various ornaments, junk and irregular tat that adorned the corridors. Stuffed owls that looked as though they’d been pilfered straight from the halls of Hogwarts, golden spray painted metal cats caked in dust and Samurai swords that would have looked less out of place in Tokyu Hands. Hell, there was even a menacing Siberian Tiger guarding the entrance! So to re-iterate, no, this wasn’t an extravagantly themed fantasy abode. It was more ‘Bed & Breakfast’ in Bognor Regis.

I quickly made a decision that as Koiwa wasn’t exactly known for its local gaikokujin, I absolutely under no circumstances could become known as “that gaijin who cleans in a love hotel”. I had to make sure that if I happened to see any ‘guest’ while meandering around the corridors, I had to be almost in complete disguise. I bought a cheap hat – one that I could quickly pull down over my eyes if the opportunity arose. And as the law of averages dictates, it would indeed arise, and short of donning full-on Ghostbusters get-up, this was as good as I could muster by way of a virtual cloak of anonymity.

Two of the floors had a store room, which were effectively the hubs from which all cleaning operations were dictated. Little lights on a metal panel indicated which rooms were occupied or needed cleaning. Fujisaki san was my trainer, as I was told she was the most efficient. She had better bloody be, after 40 years of it! She should be able to replenish condoms in her sleep! My biggest obstacle actually was understanding any small talk – anticipating whether anything said was an attempt at humour, making sure I showed the appropriate respect and so forth. The actual work didn’t need much explaining as let’s be honest, a chimpanzee could do it.

My main role in this establishment was pretty straightforward. I was to clean the bathroom, stock the amenities and help fold the sheets. As for the bathroom I presume I was given this particular honour due to a unanimous belief amongst the veterans that this would probably be the area least likely to be contaminated by bodily fluids and thus contravene any health and safety issues. Yep, I had to wash the bath, floor and walls with detergent before rinsing it away. Drying it could be a bit of a ball ache mind you, making sure to eradicate every last droplet. Then it was a case of tidying up, replacing the soaps, combs and hair nets and systematically aligning the bottles of shampoo, conditioner and shower gel. A ‘piece of piss’, as we say back in England. Quite therapeutic in fact. Mentally switch off! Think about the weekend’s forthcoming football! Japanese love their baths too. The Western notion of throwing your jeans on and legging it ‘out the door’ after bedding a ten ton munter seems to be lost on the Japanese. Indeed, no matter the caliber of the conquest, more often than not they’ll plump for a leisurely soak as opposed to bolting for the exit. So all in all, the bathroom always needed cleaning – a chore which I could drag out as long as was necessary.

The first task upon entering a recently vacated room was to get the windows open. The smell of sex whacked you full on in the face immediately. I’m embarrassed to admit it but my excitement was actually at its peak at this stage, especially if I’d already seen who the recently checked out occupants were on the CCTV or on reception. “What ‘goodies’ had the amorous couple left behind?”, I wondered, curiosity rocketing. As you can imagine, there’d often be soiled knickers, ripped fishnet stockings, dildos – you name it. I should point out though, not that it needed pointing out, that I was under strict orders never to touch any of this garb for ‘health and safety’ reasons. Cleaning up after the prostitutes was the worst, as not only was the mess at its most abhorrent, it would be accompanied by the pungent odour of that sickly vomit inducing sweet perfume that ladies of the night seem to insist on drowning themselves in. Also whilst standing in there, if you were really lucky, you could sometimes hear the various screams from neighbouring couples. However as the bedroom was for the more experienced employee and not my assigned responsibility, I shuffled towards the bathroom after my initial and one could say “perverted” inspection.

My favourite role was to sort out the amenities and drinks. The endless supply of beers, coffees, pocari sweat and rubber johnnies were available in each of the two main stock rooms. It should come as no surprise that a good proportion of these ended up in my rucksack. Perks of the job, some might say. Goodness knows how much I managed to save on teas and coffees that month. And as for the condoms, it’d be tantamount to a year’s supply! I could justify tea-leafing the johnnies, as I was using them with the ex girlfriend. “Robbing from Peter to pay Peter”, was the way I looked at it.


As mentioned somewhere above, if time permitted I was also required to help change the bed sheets. Remember when your mother used to ask you to help her with this ever so child-friendly household chore? Well, same chore, different end of the spectrum. And it was during one of these chores that provided the best moment of this entire month-long escapade:

One night, around 10pm I was on the late shift with Fujisaki san. As I had just finished helping her fold the sheets, I noticed a small minibus pull up at the traffic lights next to the hotel. We were both right next to the window – an open window. Being 10pm, the hotel was lit up like a Christmas tree, in full view of this minibus. Now obviously you all know the facts at this point, but imagine if you were in that minibus. Here was this young blonde foreigner, with a Japanese old lady, in a love hotel. A young foreigner would surely NOT be working in a love hotel would he??? I doubt it’s ever happened in history. So God only knows what sudden graphic images were manifesting themselves in the minds of these innocent gawpers, but I guarantee that they were putting two and two together, and getting the answer very, very wrong….

One of the most prestigious jobs while working here was sitting on reception. Obviously you don’t have to be Einstein to figure out why. For anyone who is as prone to extreme bouts of bone idleness as yours truly, this was a cushy number indeed. Sitting there, not having to lift a bloody finger! All I had to do was man the switchboard and take the money from the guests. In fact the only time the phone ever rang was when the ex’s mother called in. Oh yeah, and the Yakuza. Yup, quite often actually, there’d be an irate pimp on the other end of the blower demanding that his protegé was showered, covered in perfume and bra and knickers put back on ready for the next client, as it was “TIME UP!” I’d simply put them through…

I’ll be honest, it was pretty interesting at times, me being Johnny Foreigner and having to deal with guests who constantly had to do a ‘double take’ to see who it was who’d just given or taken room keys from them. I didn’t feel the need for any disguise whilst sat perched on reception however, as for all they knew I might well have owned the place! Haha! I am pretty sure the natural authoritarian aura that I (possibly deludedly) presumed I exuded whilst taking their money would cloud any other sudden preconceptions. A gaijin sitting there like he’s ‘King of the castle’ projects a very different image to one being caught on the landing with a mop and bucket. All of it a pretty surreal experience.

Nearly all Japanese love hotels (or at least those that don’t come blessed with automatic room selection systems) have a very small window for the receptionist. This is in order to keep all interactions with the public to a minimum. The windows are situated at around waist height for the guests, so there’s no face-to-face communication. This way, the environment is kept as conducive as possible to any extra-marital activity, a fact further enhanced by a radio channel available in the rooms by the name of “Alibi FM”!! Yeah I’m seriously not making this shit up, ALIBI FM!! This hardly innocuous channel would provide a perfect backdrop to any late night calls back to the wife wouldn’t it? The sound of a busy train station and all its cacophony being one of quite a few examples that might go some way towards adding a certain gloss to the fib!!

Of all the types that came through the doors folks, middle-aged salarymen, waiting for their “derihera” girls were always my favourite. The awkward feeling of shame that they’d exude as they explained that their ‘companion’ would be arriving a little while later always amused me. They certainly weren’t trying to practice their English on me on this occasion! Haha! Without even saying anything it was a chance for me to take the moral high ground – moral being the operative word considering my eye line was level with their belt buckle. Whenever a single bloke checked in, we had to make a note of it. There was a red and green ‘naughts & crosses’ type apparatus for this very purpose. Single customers were to be given a red peg, and under no circumstances were two men allowed to check into the same room. (Two women entering together, on the other hand, was considered perfectly acceptable) Then we’d replace the red peg with a green one, when the girl arrived. Then there were the prostitutes themselves. Always, they had a clearly miserable disposition about them. Who wouldn’t, if they knew what chipolata-endowed bespectacled white shirted specimen lie in wait for them upstairs? On one occasion, one of the working girls came in showing off her cleavage in a Union Jack dress. I didn’t know whether to be completely disgusted or break into a rendition of “God save the Queen”!

The novelty soon wore off and it wasn’t long before working here really started to grate. I was there pretty much every day for a whole month and even though it was piss easy work, I very quickly got fed up of the same rooms, the same smells and the same meaningless chatter. Not to mention all the unnecessary preamble rituals before and after with the ex’s idiotic brother. Skiving with Semba san was fun mind you. We would even watch the TV to stave off the boredom! A guy after my own heart he was. Incidentally, it was Semba san that showed me the enormous stash of porn videos located in the cellar – VHS videos that these days are neither use nor ornament, except for two bored workers that want to kill time. I would also be lying if I said that none of them made their way back to my house either…

Overall I am pleased I had the experience of working here. My English teaching school were eventually able to assign me with more hours and therefore put me back into the gaijin rat race. However working at the love hotel was certainly more interesting than the average job, and it certainly served the purpose of providing me with ample beer tokens along with an inside glimpse into the seedy world of illicit debauchery that goes on, bubbling away just out of the watchful gaze of Joe Public. And to think that there are people who are filling in application forms for the Golden Arches…

...this time...

…this time…

Have your own insane Love Hotel story? I’m betting you do.  Leave it in the comments and you could win and all expense paid trip (paid for by you) to some dump in Tokyo to have drinks with us!  Irresistible!

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A love hotel is a type of short-stay hotel found around the world operated primarily for the purpose of allowing couples privacy for sexual activities.

Love hotels are everywhere in Japan.  A lot of people continue to live with family well into their thirties and people need a place to get their freak on.  Love Hotels provide such a place and this is not a new story.  However, in my travels on foot around Ikebukuro I have made some interesting discoveries and there are mysteries I am trying to figure out in order to write about them.  Some include the Yakuza, some the Triads, some the Cops, legions of homo-erotic loving female teenagers, some bizarre “ghost” properties and the connections these have with the aforementioned groups.  One thing I have found without a doubt, Ikebukuro is a strange and unique place.  The tour is starting here:


This is about half way down “Heiwai dori” or “Peace Street” just north of the north exit at Ikebukuro station. It’s peaceful in that the street is laid in red brick and I have never seen any of the prostitutes, who lurk in every corner, beating each other up. Peaceful. This might have something to do with the police presence in the Koban at the southern and northern ends of the street.   Aside from a tolerable little bakery, a curry shop and a couple of bars there isn’t much more on this  street except for  “working hotels” and by that I mean hotels the pros take johns to.

Let me explain, being snarky, I had planned to title this “7 great spots to take hookers to in Ikebukuro”.  But due to my uh, journalistic integrity, I could not in all good conscience do this.  Why?  Most pros don’t meet clients in the Love Hotels I will show you on here. You can see them going into and leaving the very bland and often shabby establishments that don’t even offer a “Stay” rate.  It’s always a uniquely Japanese sight to see some hooker bowing to the gentleman she has just finished with and them both exchanging the same language Salary men and Office workers use when finishing a meeting or the work day.

I am not here writing a step by step on finding hookers in Ikebukuro.  You can find info on that here or here.  But I take this route a couple of times a week to and from the gym located on the East side and it’s never a boring walk.  It also ties in well with some other things I will post about in the near future.  Consider this a warm up.

So if you are coming south up Heiwa Dori from Ikebukuro’s north exit take a right onto a smaller black asphalt street where the map indicates.  Walk to the second right and turn again.  This is what you will see.


We can start by taking a look at “Hotel Room.”



Reasonable rates for the young couple.  I doubt much “resting” transpires, however. Nice VIP room.


Little tacky Las Vegas creeping in here but one will not miss “Hotel Casablanca”. Of this I am sure.  Rates? Amenities?


But of course.  Not sure what that blender like object is there for.

Next we have “Xavier’s School for gifted Youngsters…”


“…and people who just want to have sex a lot.”


There are many smaller hotels on the strip but these are the exclamation points visually.  At the end of the strip there is a run down no frills type joint used by the professionals and to the left, the tunnel under the road, which looks like a secondary location for a scene out of IRREVERSIBLE.


I have tipped my hat and bid a good evening to several ladies of the night waiting for someone on my way home from the gym passing along this little street of dreams.

Now, why would someone purposefully take this filthy walk several times a week?  Other than this being the fastest way from door to door, home to gym, once we pass through this alley and turn left going up the steps, the view regularly has me standing and staring again, even after ten years, inspired.


Check back for the tour will continue. And it just gets weirder.

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gaijinassbannerThis man is just so disgusting-

What a completely narcissistic, arrogant piece of shit!-

Just looking at his face makes me nauseous.-

He seriously believes he’s God’s gift to women.-


Is This the Most Hated Man in the World?-

Julien Blanc

If you have not heard about this guy and just want the index card notes here they are:

  • Julien Blanc was a relative nobody two months ago.
  • Now he has been on CNN, in TIME, on Buzzfeed, the Independent, the Mirror, the Guardian etc.
  • He got this attention by pushing polarizing content which offends some yet attracts just as many others (sad but true).
  • This was all by design.
  • His haters drove him into the limelight where he wanted to be.
  • Someplace, Julien Blanc is laughing his Swiss ass off.

Julien Blanc is a pick up coach for RSD.  These guys have for years worked on one thing and one thing alone: How to sleep with more women (Hint: talk to more women).

That’s it. All the talk about self-improvement and lifestyle development and “inner game” etc are all secondary and tertiary elements developed to help whoever sleep with more women.  The “gurus”  make videos and host conferences. They also travel extensively conducting “boot camps” at which the “instructors” basically take men out into “the field” and do their level best to force these clients to talk to more women than they normally would. They charge a lot for this “service”.

Hey, why not?  The game is a big issue for lots and lots of men and in our world, the developed western world anyway, the power lies heavily on the side of the females.  The conventional image of dating is largely humiliating for the man and incredibly self affirming for the woman. This coupled with the continued dismantling of masculinity throughout the west makes for an uncomfortable cocktail once the inevitable male hormones are tossed in.  In short:

We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won’t. And we’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re very, very pissed off.

So, I don’t think there is anything wrong with guys getting together in an attempt to help each other clear what for some is a massive obstacle and go get laid.  Do I agree with RSD and it’s model? No.  A lot of what is being pushed there has much more to do with creating addicted consumers and loyal followers as opposed to any kind of “self-improvement” hype .  But I think they should be allowed to do it.

Now, onto Julien.

Julien has made a lot of videos and has produced some pretty polarizing content.

Look, this stuff probably works.  It’s a tired old turn of phrase but still holds some water: Girls like Bad Boys.

Or more accurately girls are attracted to, on a subconscious level, aggressive, assertive, motivated and physically dominant men.  This is surely not what Hollywood has been pushing and these are not necessarily who women are short listing for making a happy home with but on a sexual attraction level it’s true.  Disgustingly enough.  Hey, perhaps you women need to do some soul-searching and get congruent?  But then again maybe this is all bullshit.

Right or Wrong though, what is not the point?

The point is, JULIEN BLANC HAS WON.  Yes, he has won and you all helped him on his meteoric rise to the top of the shit mountain.

Julien is not the first RSD instructor to be lambasted in the press. One of his mentors, Jeff Allen, has had his share of fun in the limelight as well and according to sources inside RSD Julien has consistently pushed the edgy-ness of his content specifically to facilitate bad press.  Because in the obtuse and laregly ignored world of the pick-up guru, any press is good press.


So what IS THE POINT?  Julien Blanc is now famous. Infamous but famous none the less.  Julien Blanc has not been fired from RSD.  RSD by extension, is getting more traffic than ever as other “gurus” release expensive new products.  In the end, all that has happened is a massive grass-roots advertising campaign which will ultimately benefit Julien Blanc and RSD as a whole.

Well done keyboard heroes; Julien Blanc says danke.

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What was this about?

How did this make it to the big screen ?

Worst Movie Ever!

Horrible, it does not get any better

Yes!! Hallelujah! That’s It! The Worst Film this Year!!

God awful

Oh, Nick…

I want my money back

Cage Left Behind by good movies

Soul Sucking

Can this be the worst movie of all time?

-Review titles on IMDB

Left behind is a movie starring Nicholas Cage and aside from the Ebola pandemic and possibly ISIS or Hillary Clinton, it’s the worst thing to happen to mankind in 2014.  But, you should turn back now. Stop reading this. I mean it.  I lost an hour and forty-five minutes of my life on this steaming pile of AIDS and I don’t want you to suffer the same fate.  Stop now. Go workout or read some Tony Robbins or paint a self-portrait; Just get as far away from Left Behind as you possibly can.

I know however, that some of you, the hard-wired closet case masochists out there will ignore my advice. Fine.  But you have been warned.leftbehind1

Plot summary:  The Holy Rapture occurs whilst Cage’s amazingly named character, Rayford Steele, pilots a commercial airliner from New York to London and he cleverly deduces, with cleverness and bible knowledge, that the passengers who have simply vanished into thin air have all gone to heaven and the rest of them left on the plane are essentially shit out of Jesus luck.




There are no words to describe how incredibly bad this “movie” is but I will give it a try.


For a long time, the worst movie I had encountered was G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra.  Noah gave it a run for its money but Channing Tatum’s absolutely horrific performance allowed G.I. Joe to hold onto the title.  Not anymore.  Everything about Left Behind is bad. In fact, it’s SO bad, in every single category, it’s as if this was the point. It is as if the entire cast got to together to consciously make the worst movie of all time.




I have to admit, I laughed a lot while watching this movie which is possibly, the worst incarnation of Christian propaganda to have ever been made.  In fact, I cannot conceive of a vehicle more unattractive and insulting with which to so blatantly force feed the central message so many Christian fundamentalists whack off to: I am going to heaven and you will burn in hell because I believe in fairy tales.  When I watch something like this, it occurs to me how much Islamic jihadis and hardcore for-the rapture-Christians really have in  common. As someone raised culturally Christian, it makes me feel physically sick.  But still, the lol’s were had in abundance.  The dialogue, the characters, I mean literally every single one of them are incredibly hilarious: a rich Southern guy, a smart Asian guy, a busty blonde with a coke problem, a distrusted Middle Eastern man, a yelling black woman, an angry little person, a confused old lady and a slutty flight attendant.  With editing that reminded me of home videos from the early 90’s and a soundtrack compiled from various Nintendo games, the entire experience is about as productive as the Obama-care website.  In other words it’s a complete and utter disaster. A disaster of laughs!

Look, this could go on and on, and it probably will in my nightmares.  But we are going to wrap this up with the following query:  What the fuck is Nicholas Cage thinking? 

I have to go.  I can’t invest anymore precious life energy on this abortion.  My final warning: Forget about this “movie”.  Do not watch it. And if you do, don’t blame me. I told you to head for the hills at the beginning of all this.

P:S: Nicholas Cage, you are the most frustrating actor to be a fan of.

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gaijinassbannerIt’s Fashion.

There are two old photos someplace.  One is of a tall black haired young military man in a leisure suit, a gold chain across a tanned and hairy chest, with each arm around two drunk young lookers wearing Mickey Mouse ears.  I know someone who doesn’t like this photo.

There’s another photo, the older kind with the rounded corners, of a pretty young woman with that late 70’s hair style smiling into the camera wearing a light blue plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and some short-shorts.  I never heard any complaints about this one.

These are pictures of my parents taken before they knew each other.  Personifications of their times.

Somewhere out there is a photo of a six-year-old boy in shorts and a polo shirt, holding a “Return of the Jedi” lunch box, just before going to his first day of school. The shorts and the polo shirt don’t match and they look uncomfortable.  The red lunch box with a picture of R2D2 and an Ewok look fine.

I didn’t smile in that picture. I think the sun was in my eyes and I had PTSD from kindergarten real bad and that time of my life is mostly unpleasant memories.   But the lunch box, circa the early 80’s, that was fashion.  I guess you could say I have fashion in my blood.

So, somewhere out there is a photo of this punk kid and he is fifteen years old.  He’s sneering in a school year book photo he was forced to take, the make-up for the make-up and the only thing vaguely pleasant about the whole mess is his blue and black striped Inter Milan jersey.  My younger brother got me the jersey on a trip to Italy and the only other person at the make-up for the make-up was out of school with mononucleosis for two months, not contracted from kissing I am certain (you should have seen her). She smiled though; her year book picture looked really nice.

It was 1993 and everyone I knew in Stuttgart lived and breathed soccer; it was what we did day in and day out.  I was occasionally even forced to put my AD&D books away in order to show up for a practice I didn’t give a shit about, I wasn’t very good, so that I might be able to actually speak to a female not related to me by blood.  It was a long shot but soccer practice helped.

It was in fashion in ’94 .  But so was hyper-color.

Anyway, I made out with Amy a bunch of times before we had to leave Stuttgart and that was worth every humiliating soccer moment I can imagine plus the horrific baseball memories thrown in.  It was really, really worth it; we shared a bottle of cranberry juice and made out for hours under some trees in the grass near the fence at the edge of the kaserne.

If someone ever finds a picture of a young Marine on a 96 hour weekend in southern California don’t be surprised by the styled hair or the matching J CREW get up and the brand new VANS.  After six months in Okinawa and a lot of working out I had lost about thirty pounds and with the help of my girlfriend at the time, a really sweet Filipina-American girl from San Diego, my look got sort of revamped.  Concepts like grooming and styling hair got introduced and the idea that wearing something nice might help me talk to new women.  This resulted in me avoiding the good girl and meeting a string of bimbos all over SoCal and generally feeling sexually ferocious and internally vapid.  I listened to a lot of Black Flag at the time.  A lot of Social distortion and a lot of Johnny Cash.  I watched Fight club a lot and generally thought I had shit figured out.

This was, at the time, a very in fashion kind of attitude.  You can ask anyone in the Fashion world and they’ll tell you “Times change; so does fashion.”

So did I.  So did California. Then so did the world.

I am looking at a picture right now of this hyper cocky, incredibly arrogant looking 27-year-old.  He’s living life flying blind on a lightening bolt and is posing for a picture a pretty Japanese girl is taking of him.  She’s a fashion photographer working in Milan, home for the holidays, and they are going to sleep together in an hour but before that she takes a picture of this guy, his hair spiked up, just  wearing a black wife-beater with his toned arms up around his neck showing off veins and biceps and a tattoo he got in Thailand and his features are sharp and healthy.  She takes a few pictures, teasing him like he is one of her models, and then he takes pictures with her expensive camera of her as she undresses. She has an incredible body and after round number two she draws a picture of him in one of his half used sketch books.

I still have that sketch.

Milan is a fashionable place, so is Tokyo.   I don’t know that girl anymore but I guess she is doing well. I threw out the wife-beater at some point and I have long hair now and I spend most of my time making out with my wife.  We also drink cranberry juice from time to time.

Today I wore a black cotton dress shirt I got from Shirts my way.

Living in Tokyo being 6’2″ with gorilla arms has made fashionable shopping choices tough and, as we can see, I am all about fashion.  So, ordering this shirt, simply clicking XL and having it arrive, ready to wear, and actually having it fit well and be really comfortable while looking damn sharp sort of made my day.

Will a shirt from Shirtsmyway change your life?  Maybe, maybe not, but it might help you make out with a pretty girl or just make your day a little less shit.

Hard to say no to either of those. It’s fashion, after all.

Check out some really decent dress shirts with free shipping to Japan at Shirtsmyway.

Just keep going:

Chong Dominatrix in Japan white hostess Groper Train Sato
Advancing Feminism via Porn Interview with a Japanese Dominatrix White woman Japanese sex Groper Train Search for the Black Pearl Interview with Adult Model: Erika Satou

452747814_0_standard_1280_0-2Just look at that kid…

If you like this try these:

donut heads Cute vs Sexy The best Star Wars behind the scenes yet Making friends in Japan yoji watanabe building
Japanese Donut Heads Cute vs Sexy The best Star Wars behind the scenes yet Making Friends in Japan The architectural greatness of Watanabe-San



Reading is really great, even for warriors.  Aside from really upping your chances of passing the ASVAB or puzzling over the ingredients in your MRE entree for the hundredth time while on fire-watch, it also gives the warrior (or wanna-be-warrior; it’s all good; Own it.) the ability to read the tales of other badasses.  This is good; this is basket leave good.  We gave you the required reading list before here, but now it’s time for an update. So dig up that gift card your ex-girlfriend gave you on that less than momentous birthday which you then callously threw into your junk draw and prepare to get your sweet revenge; you can finally stick it to the woman who made you a cuckold (probably with an operator, by the way) using the one tool she would least expect from you: LITERACY.  Prepare for Man books.



5.  The Oath: A Surgeon Under Fire

THEOATHKhassan Baiev is one tough fellow.

Although he’s a medical doctor and a good one at that, he easily could have been a Russian commando or a professional MMA star.  These seemingly mutually exclusive personality types are what most attract me to his character and have made THE OATH: A SURGEON UNDER FIRE something I had to pick up over and over in the last six years.

Both a sambo world champion and a black belt in Judo, Baiev was born in Chechnya in 1963.  Influenced by his father who was a Soviet Army veteran and a herbalist and his sisters, all nurses, Baiev turned his back on a promising sports career in Russia to follow his dream of becoming a doctor.  He eventually became a successful plastic surgeon. Although his motivation here was to help children with birth defects, defying his Muslim upbringing, he had a wildly successful  practice based around elective cosmetic surgery.

His resolve and his commitment to his oath, the Hippocratic oath, were then tested beyond all comparable measures.  Shit got real, real quick and Baiev found himself operating on anyone and anything put in front of him in some incredibly harsh circumstances.  The Soviets (I just like calling them that) destroyed the hospital he was working from in Grozny and then in his home town of Alkhan Kala he founded a clinic out of his own pocket and quickly found himself to be the only doctor for the 80,000 residents of five villages and over 10,000 refugees as the war raged on.  At one point, this man performed 67 amputations and 8 brain surgeries all within a 48 hour period.

Built Hard.  Western surgeons perfect their rhinoplasty; Khassan Baiev perfected performing limb amputations via arm bar.

Textbook Russian amputation method.

Textbook Russian amputation procedure.

The Oath is a deep look into the Chechen conflict from a different point of view, something fresh and untainted by the Russian propaganda spin portraying every Chechen as a Kalashnikov toting terrorist.  It’s a very serious story about a man who did all he could and kept the one thing that matter most to him; his word.  That and amputations.


4.  Inside Delta Force: The Story of America’s Elite Counterterrorist Unit 

InsidedeltaThese days the SEALs are the darlings of the Liberal media and I get it. SEALs and the whole image is sexy: forever on a beach, jumping out of a plane or just generally hanging around Hollywood.  Naval Special Warfare has bedazzled the American public with books, websites, movies and more.  We get it: SEALs are “Special”.

So, why then do I have such a painful boner for 1st Special Operations Detachment Delta (or is it CAG, I mean ACE no, no I think it’s “The Unit”?)  Why indeed.  Is it biased from my family lineage? Maybe.  Is it the lack of media coverage surrounding Delta? Could be. Is it that Chuck Norris is somehow involved in all this? Surely.  But there must be more.  Perhaps the “more” has to do with some basic cultural difference that exist between the Navy elite and Army elite.


What are the cultural differences?  Well, first off let’s be clear, I was a Marine so I am talking out of my ass.  I have never been in a Tier one unit although I have friends who have/are.  By chance and proximity, the people in the community I met during my time-in were all SEALs and I had a decent look at what they generally are about (Sleep Eat And Lift anyone?). Here’s a hint: they’re not fuckin’ around.  So, I have had very little exposure to, aside from some training with the Rangers, Army Special operations.  But that’s the point. Haney does a really good job of explaining his move from the 75th Ranger regiment to Delta and the entire selection process required.  As opposed to the SEAL’s “Hooyah!” team-building BUD/S gut-check style, selection for “The Unit” is modeled after Britain’s SAS.  Nobody tries to pump you up yet, equally nobody is trying to fail you.  You are just a number in the system;you’re a nobody until you’re a somebody; just some digits.  The training evolutions and challenges are designed to isolate the candidate and force him to tap deeply into his own reserves;  you haven’t slept for days, you’ve been ruck marching alone for 12 hours and you have no idea how far you have to go or how quickly; do you quit?

This kind of quite torture and the self-reflection it forces appeals to me big time and impresses me to no end.  Haney manages to get into your head while explaining what was going on in his.  It’s intense.

So, after telling everyone how much I prefer to swing on Delta balls next we have….


3.  SEAL TEAM SIX: Memoirs of an Elite Navy SEAL Sniper

NVSNIPER Say “Seal Team Six” in a crowded bar and ten people will probably tell you they know a guy who knows a guy who is “with six”.  They probably also know a guy who has been in 100 street fights and once got hit by a truck, and I sweartogod, flew 200 feet.  But that is the popularity that has come to surround the once clandestine unit within the unit, SEAL TEAM Six.  With more merch available than Fubu and more media coverage than the Oscars, “Six” has become America’s go to glory boys and we’re all gorging on the tanned and toned freedom buffet.

Howard E. Wasdin is a former member of “Six” and a sniper to boot.  I like this man already. Part of the old breed, he goes into detail in SEAL TEAM SIX talking about both his time in training, selection and in combat. Wasdin graduated from BUD/S class 143 and what’s more, he attended Marine Scout Sniper school. Kill?

Aside from all the moto flying all over this book, what really did it for me was the fact that Wasdin was not only involved in “Operation Gothic Serpent” or “Black Hawk Down”, but was a damned hero.  One of only four navy SEALs involved in the operation, Wasdin received a Silver star for valor and a purple heart after being wounded three times and nearly losing his leg.

If you’ve read BLACK HAWK DOWN or even just seen the film, this book really expands on that bit of military/world history with a very keen and well detailed perspective courtesy of Wasdin and his co-author Templin.

What is most boner inducing however, is the fact that these days he owns and runs Absolute Precision Chiropractic.  So, he can align your spine or he can turn your head into a canoe before you hear the round go off.

It’s the total package really.


2.  Chosen Soldier: The Making of a Special Forces Warrior


Sometimes the balls are so plentiful and the Testosterone so piquant it’s next too impossible not to become pregnant with war-hammer triplets.  This is what happens to me every time I hear the name David Goggins, but it also happened when I read Dick Couch’s book Chosen Soldier: The making of a Special Forces Warrior.

I here you asking yourself “How is it Dick Couch can so effortlessly have sex with my mom?”  Well, first of all, his name is Dick Couch; as in, “Yeah baby, sit on my….”; It’s a no brainer.  Second, he’s a former Navy SEAL himself.  In this outing, Couch (DICK COUCH, BITCH) ventures balls deep (I can’t help it!) and reports on, in detail, what it takes to be an Army Green Beret.  Low and behold; it takes a lot.  These guys go into places you and I can’t find on Google maps and they spend a long time there teaching other people how to war.


Chosen Soldier is full of lingo and names and places that will resonate with someone who has either had experience in the SF community or has simply spent enough time in its periphery.   I grew up in the same house with a Green Beret and although much changes in the way of lingo, much does not. In addition, Couch has a very particular style of writing which seems appropriate for the topic: MANLY.  However,  one review, here, choose to describe it as follows:

Macho prose full of praise for would-be warriors and the men who train them, seemingly designed to enthrall young men, boost recruitment and please the army.

His name isn’t “Adrian Sunset”; it’s Dick fucking Couch. This is a man who impregnates all your female relatives every-time he shows I.D. at the liquor store.  A man who skips “morning wood” and wakes up your wife at 0500 with Morning Steel.  How was he supposed to write a book about warriors who perform C-sections with survival knives in order to give birth to freedom and McDonalds in every shit hole the world has yet to produce?

This isn’t a baby shower; it’s the fucking Green Berets. Act accordingly.


1.  The Red Circle: My Life in the Navy SEAL Sniper Corps and How I Trained America’s Deadliest Marksmen

redcirlce“Here he goes again, nut hugging the SEALS.”

Yes and no. This time,  I’m mostly going to nut hug the author, Brandon Webb.

The Red Circle is a pretty good book. But it isn’t on the top of this list because of that. It’s here more because as an individual, I just like Brandon Webb.  The guys life story is not what I think most people would guess if all one knew is that he was a Naval Special operator.  In addition to that I’m a member on SOFREP (comped, didn’t pay. Ha.) and I listen to the SOFREP podcast every week and have commented on some of the content they have posted over the last few months.  I don’t agree with everything that goes up on there however, compared to other “veteran community” sites like Havok Jounal for example, I think SOFREP is a bit more balanced and takes various factors into their reporting and conclusions.  Less “Fucking kill them all now,” and more “We’ll kill them if necessary but perhaps there’s a better solution because we can’t just keep killing everyone?” Webb’s conclusion that America is in a much worse position now than before the Iraq invasion and the fact that America’s stock around the world has dramatically decreased is intelligent and shows incite a lot of military personnel seem to not employ, unfortunately.   I have been watching the free fall from outside of the USA for over ten years and Webb’s assertion is dead on target.

Webb is a keen business man as well.  He saw an opportunity to create a platform where civilian cake eaters, me included at this point, can come rub elbows with SF guys from all services and get that vicarious hit off that association and it seems to be wildly  successful.  Not unlike the success of things like SEALFIT, GORUCK and EXTREME SEAL EXPERIENCE, SOFREP and it’s satellites allow that glimpse into a subculture that most people would never otherwise be privy to.  The thing that seems to make SOFREP doubly successful though is the sites ability  to drum-up support for veteran related issues as well as being entertaining, even to the layman.

Who would have thought some fucking Canadian raised by hippies would have done all this, made it through BUD/S, gone to war and trained some of America’s most infamous marksmen?

Yes, he was born in the land of Pepporoni and Moose; Québécois and Trailer Park Boys.  And raised by hippies to boot!  Thing is, it’s hard for a misfit to not like a misfit and Brandon Webb seems to surely be that.  After moving to the USA he spent years living on the family boat until his father kicked him off some place in the south pacific. Yes: his old man just kicked him off the boat in the south pacific.


After making his way back to the USA he eventually got into the Navy and after a few long years in the fleet, some of you have been there, he finally got his shot at BUD/S.

This is where I really started to connect.  Webb shows up at BUD/S and is immediately singled out as “that guy”.  As he explains in the book, in the teams, being “that guy” means you are the fuck up. Pure and simple. You’re the guy who can’t hump the weight or the guy who can’t account for his rounds or the guy who didn’t dummy cord his NVGs or the guy who can’t get up the rope.  You’re the weak link, the fuck up, the one who the boys in charge are going to give hell to.  I’ve been this guy more than once and somehow I absolutely revel in it; nothing motivates me like people assuming I’m going to quit.  Webb seems to be the same way.  He got immediate and intensive negative attention from the training cadre at BUD/S that didn’t let up all through first phase.  Yet, he refused to DOR and ring the bell.  He pushed through and made it work. And that’s just the first quarter of the book.  Get it in print AND get the audio book as Webb did some cool stuff here and added commentary about himself, the book and some famous operators you likely will never hear any place else.

Fuck yeah.  Makes me hot like Eastern-block medical procedures or an autographed Polaroid of Dick Couch banging Hillary Clinton.

While Bill video tapes it.



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