MarkCity    |
|
|
A sprawling metropolis of the mind. Est: 1970. Population: 1. FAQs Suede at HMV Big Brother Eviction Gloomy Bear Harry Potter & Me Top 10 Books Top 10 Albums Top 10 Films Teaching in Japan New Year in Kyoto Being Veggie in Japan Photo Albums Asakusa Tokyo Tokyo 2 Bangkok Chiang Mai Phi Phi 1 Phi Phi 2 Kyoto Farewell Fusako Nova Kids New York 1 New York 2 Rats! Las Vegas San Francisco Los Angeles San Diego SD Zoo Winter Wonderland Routes outta MarkCity: Peak Performance Japan Today Sports Injury Bulletin Bookgirl The Guardian Hmmm Chariotaku Toast and Coffee Raymi the Minx I am a Donut Japanese Streets Sashimi Girl James Braxton Bamboo Life Strange Place Japan Box J-list Northern Monkey Auspicious Fish VegNews Mori Chack 
 Archives 
|
Sunday, November 30, 2003
Bzzzzz... prepare to be liquified, Mark... Cue gravelly trailer voice: In a world where sugar is more valuable than gold, one man and one woman stand alone against the winged hordes...Armed only with a can of Raid and a rolled-up newspaper, can they defeat the small-but-yucky messengers of Pestilence? You can run but you can't hide - from The Flies. Ewww. Gross. I came home on Friday night to find Butter standing on a chair, brandishing a magazine, small corpses littering the carpet. The MarkCity crib had been invaded by flies. We spent the entire evening killing them, which is a great way for a couple of vegetarians to unwind after a hard week at work. Saturday was worse. After trudging around Tunbridge Wells in the rain all afternoon trying to help our friend Lisa buy a party outfit, we came back to find that the second wave of beasties had arrived. Butter rushed out to buy a can of Raid. Pretty soon we were filling the dustpan with them and were both half blind with fly-spray poisoning. We think there's a dead bird in the chimney; you can hear the flies buzzing around inside. They keep coming. But we will not be defeated. Turning to less-horrid subjects, this week is Week One of the Big Fun Fortnight. Belle & Sebastian on Thursday, the Butter Xmas Party on Friday and The Strokes on Saturday. It's also the one year anniversary of MarkCity on 4th December! Unbelievable... have I really been writing this for a year? Well, yes. Gawd knows how many words I've poured into cyberspace, which I could have put towards my novel. The first post was about Beyblades and had a picture of the Golden Turd in Asakusa with it. Wallow in nostalgia here. Sunday, November 23, 2003
Affirmative, master - Dr Who and K9 Today is the 40th Anniversary of Doctor Who. Four decades of rotating through time and space, of battling rubbery monsters and saving the galaxy, of wielding sonic screwdrivers, scoffing jelly babies and clutching the sides of his head whenever those fab proto-electro sound effects went screeeeee yet always surviving. Okay, so he died seven times but always managed to come back, refreshed and as zanily-dressed as ever. I was weaned on Doctor Who - especially the godlike Tom Baker and Peter Davison - and am really looking forward to the new series. In celebration of the Doctor's birthday, and because it was pissing down outside and I'm skint, I spent much of the weekend indoors, watching The Daemons and The Pyramids of Mars on UK Gold. And no, I didn't spot a single wobbly set or monster made out of egg cartons. When I was a small child, my Dad spent weeks locked in the garden shed making me and my sister a K9. We pestered him about it until he finally wheeled it out on its castors into the garden. It was life-sized, sprayed with silver paint and looked almost exactly like the real thing. 'Thanks Dad!' we cried, mightily impressed. I think we played with K9 for about 2 days before forgetting about him. We left him in the garden with the snails and the weather. By the time we remembered his existence, the rain had rotted him and his wheels had rusted up. Kids are horrible, ungrateful creatures, aren't they? But, by God, I wish I still had that K9 - it would be sooo cool. Sunday, November 16, 2003
 Ooh, stick you! I was a very brave boy on Wednesday: I went to see an acupuncturist. This is despite having an aversion to needles developed while watching the psychotic Japanese horror movie Audition, in which a seemingly demure woman turns out to be a sadistic feminist-fatale with a penchant for sticking acupuncture needles in men's eyes. Ouch. My fear increased when I learned that my own acupuncturist practises the Japanese sort, not the Chinese. Still, I've been plagued with back pain recently - that pesky coccyx - so thought it would be worth giving it a go. And I'm pleased to report that it was actually very enjoyable and relaxing. The acupuncturist was English so didn't look anything like the killer in Audition, which was a relief. She made me strip to my undies - fortunately I was wearing some. (Don't get excited, female readers, but yesterday, due to a washing schedule mix-up, I had to go commando all day!) The needles didn't hurt at all, and neither did the clumps of mugwort that she burnt on my back. The needles wwere inserted into various points on my back, but not left in place like they are in Chinese acupuncture. And no, I didn't have any stuck in my head like the bloke above. I felt soothed and relaxed afterwards, although I still have back pain. I'm going back this week to see if a second session helps. I've also been going to the gym this week in an attempt to regain the flat stomach my gym-going gave me last year (see Phi Phi pictures for evidence). Must get fit before going to Cali. Must reverse damage done by excessive beer-quaffing, thus allowing more guilt-free beer-quaffing. Louis Theroux's on tonight. He's my TV hero. I just wanted to say that. Sunday, November 09, 2003
I mentioned below that we saw Lost in Translation in New York, but I loved it so much that I feel the need to go on about it in a bit more detail. It's about an actor, Bill Murray, who goes to Tokyo to make a Suntory commercial and meets a beautiful girl, Scarlett Johansson, whose husband is never around. Bill Murray is fantastic - very funny and sympathetic, and Scarlett Johansson is sexy and sultry... I think I have a new favourite actress - she was great in Ghost World too. They make a great pair - two lonely, lost souls in the big city. The film has a lovely melancholy air; Sophia Coppola perfectly captures that feeling of insomnia and sleep deprivation. There are some great, dreamy images of Tokyo; the film is slightly grainy so the it's like looking at a watercolour of the city, rather than the bright vivid images you normally see. Of course, it has extra resonance for anyone who's lived in Tokyo, with some cool shots of Shibuya, shinkansen and Fuji. And to top it all off, there's an awesome karaoke scene! And there's a bit on a crosstrainer that had Butter crying with laughter. It doesn't have a typical Hollywood ending - in fact, when the credits rolled, the moron sitting beside us shouted, 'What? What!?' Sleepless in Seattle it ain't. The soundtrack is excellent too - very slow and dreamy (that word again): Kevin Shields, Air and The Jesus and Mary Chain. We bought it as soon as we got back and have been listening to it non-stop. Oh, and if Bill Murray doesn't win the best actor Oscar for this, I'll eat one of Syd's droppings. Er, don't hold me to that. Friday, November 07, 2003
RIP Suede. What sad news. I guess the only consolation (for me at least) is that I've got tickets to their last two gigs ever. How emotional is that going to be? Sigh... roll on Brett's first solo album. My dream now is that he gets back together with Bernard Butler. Thursday, November 06, 2003
I ♥ New York Well, I quite like it, anyway. They say you should never meet your heroes because they’re bound to disappoint you, and I was a little worried that NYC, a city I’ve wanted to go to since I was knee-high to a Harlem Globetrotter (um, which I still am), would do the same. We had two great days and one which was not-so-awesome. Read on for the high- and lowlights of our trip. Actually, the lowlights are much funnier so I’ll probably concentrate on them more. Click here for pictures. And here for more pictures! Parklife Central Park is everything you imagine it to be. Well, unless you imagine it to be full of rapists and muggers, which it possibly is at night. During the day, however, it’s an idyllic place for a stroll, the trees ablaze with colour – or should that be color? – and buskers and birds competing to fill the air with sweet music. Manhattan’s heights rear up in the background, creating a stunning vista, while ice-skaters waltz on the outdoor rinks, joggers puff by and cool girls who probably work in publishing lounge on the grass reading the Times and smoking in about the only place you still can. Butter did some yoga on the lawn. For about three seconds – but it was the thought that counted. We walked from our hotel, on 101st Street, to the Empire State Building, on 33rd Street, meandering back and forth, probably covering about 120 blocks! Which was why Butter spent that evening and the next two days hobbling around like she had bumblefoot, a complaint commonly found in rats. We probably covered even more ground than the runners in the New York Marathon, which took place on Sunday. The crowds waved banners and watched out for Puff Daddy, or P Diddy, or Ken Doddy – whatever he’s called these days – who was taking part. No-one was interested in Ranulph Fiennes, whose feet, after running seven marathons, must be slightly sorer than Butter’s. Oh, and I should mention that the weather was glorious and freakishly warm.  Bright Sights, Big City Sugooooiiiiiii!!! That was the considered opinion of the Japanese girls who stepped onto the observatory deck of King Kong’s fave building at the same time as us. Sugoi means excellent, which has to be the understatement of the year. The night view from the top of the Empire State Building is mesmerising. As a connoisseur of views from the top of tall buildings, I can tell you it’s up there with the view from the Tokyo Metropolitan Towers, and slightly better than the view from the London Eye (which isn’t a building, but what the hell?) The only bad thing about the Empire State is that someone is trying to get money off you at every turn – audio tours narrated by a taxi called Tony, photos for which we refused to pose – and the security checks, more of which later. Also, I got asked about my Strokes T-shirt by one of the attendants: ’The Strokes, huh? You know, that could have several meanings. What does it mean to you?’ ’It’s the name of a band.’ ’Really?’ ’Never heard of them.’ ’But they’re from New York!’ People stared at my T-shirt all weekend, not because they like the band (who no-one in NYC has heard of) but probably because it translates as The Wanks. Nice. The Manhattan House of Horror The hotel wasn’t as bad as we expected (click here to see what some other people thought of it) but I wouldn’t recommend it to my worst enemy. Although on second thoughts… We arrived to find Beavis and Butthead on the front desk, discussing the merits of a Norwegian death metal band that was blasting from the TV (‘Dude, this band are from, like, Norway but they sound American.’ ‘Sweet, dude.’) and then took the elevator from Hell – yes, I think it actually had come up from the depths of Hades – to the fifth floor. The door of our room would have given Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen a heart attack. It nearly gave me one too, especially when we found that it wouldn’t shut properly. Neither would the window. The bed had mismatching pillows and yellow stains on the sheets that I don’t even want to think about, and the mattress must have been manufactured in the sixties – every time you moved, the springs and the bed mites screamed in protest. The fridge roared like an elephant and shook like Elvis all night. We were provided with two rough towels and two small bars of soap that had been stolen from the Holiday Inn. There were three bathrooms on our floor (en suite? Don’t make me laugh, dude). The shower only worked in one of them, the toilet in another and the sink in another, so you had to visit all three to shower, go to the toilet and clean your teeth. I give it seven out of ten.  Sweet Liberty Since 9/11, New York has gone security berserk. Everywhere you go, you get scanned and prodded. Getting on the plane was the worst – you had to remove your shoes, your watch, everything metal bar your fillings – but taking the ferry to the Statue of Liberty, which you’re not allowed up since 9/11, is nearly as bad. After being sold a ticket by the rudest woman in New York (a title with a lot of competition) we queued up for the ride, having to remove our coats, watches and belts. Fortunately, my trousers didn’t fall down. The terrorist attack has given the authorities carte blanche to do whatever they like in the name of ‘freedom’ – I could mention Iraq and Guantanamo Bay at this point – including treating every visitor to the city as a potential member of the axis of evil. Kind of ironic when you’re going to see the Statue of Liberty. The Statue itself is very impressive, and the view of Manhattan from the boat is jaw-droppingly iconic. Just like in the movies. Down in the Subway On our way to the Statue, Butter had a fight with a ticket attendant who wouldn’t let us through the barriers because we’d made a mistake and gone on to the wrong platform a few minutes earlier. ‘You gotta wait 18 minutes,’ she growled. ‘But why?’ ‘Because those are the rules!’ when we eventually got on the train, a man near us said to the woman beside us, ‘Hey, move your bag a minute,’ then stomped on a cockroach that had been scuttling near it. The conductor made a helpful announcement: ‘If you’re going to South Ferry, please make sure you’re in the first five carriages.’ Except the way she said it, it actually sounded like this: ‘If any one of you motherf**kers wants the motherf**king South Ferry, PLEASE make sure you travel in the first goddamn five carriages. I REPEAT…’ I think she was having a bad day. On the Subway to JFK on our final day, a gang of youths from the hood got on and started breakdancing, 50 Cent blasting from their boombox. One of them, who was rather overweight, nearly did himself a mischief. They halfheartedly asked for donations then rapped along with their favourite violent, misogynistic lyrics before skulking off. ‘They could have had guns,’ I whispered to Butter. They coulda popped a cap in our asses at any moment. But the worst thing about the Subway was almost getting arrested. Yes, that’s right - almost getting arrested! On our final day – my birthday – we lugged our suitcase to Grand Central Station so we could check it into left luggage for the day, because our flight wasn’t until 9pm. Guess what? Left luggage has been closed since 9/11. Literary joke alert: I almost sat down and wept. Thinking we were going to have to lug it around town all day, we headed back down to the Subway. In London, it’s quite easy to get your luggage through the barriers – you just slide it through those black gaps beside the barriers. In New York, you have to queue up by a gate and ask one of the miserable attendants to buzz you through. The queue was massive so I caught the gate as someone came through from the other side and strolled on into the Subway. Big frigging mistake. A plain clothes cop immediately appeared and flashed his badge at us (yeah, just like in the movies) and started interrogating us. Cop: Where you from? Us: England. Cop: Is that how you do things in England? Us: Well, the system’s slightly different over there… Cop: So you just stroll through the barriers, huh? Us: Pardon? Cop (belligerently): Do you speak English? You got any ID? We then had to show the nice man our passports and he made us walk back through the barriers and swipe our tickets. Cop: You ain’t gonna do that again, are ya? Us: No. (Me, in my head: F*** you, you goddamn De Niro wannabe) Cop: Coz next time, you’re going to jail. That’s what we’re doin’ here today. ...Pause... Have a nice day. We had to sit down after that. We made it to Macy’s where, to our huge relief, you can leave your bags all day, for free. Hurrah for Macy’s! To celebrate, we did some shopping, before Butter’s feet swelled up again and it was time to go to the Airport and home to Blighty. Phew! That must be the longest blog entry ever. And I haven’t even mentioned the great diners we went to, the two excellent films we saw (Kill Bill and the brilliant Lost in Translation, the Met or the flights (Kuwait Airways – cheap as potato chips – you get what you pay for). In all, we did have a great time in NY, apart from the Subway incidents; ooh, if I ever see that cop in England I'm going to... well, I won't do anything. But I hope he gets his suitcase stuck in the barriers. That'll learn him! Saturday, November 01, 2003
There won't be any new posts here for a few days because we're going to New Yawk this afternoon. The bags are packed. Almost. The rats are at their boarding house. Kuwait Airways await, as does the Cockroach Hotel. Alright, it's not really called that, but I made the mistake of looking up some reviews of it on the net yesterday. It sounds a bit like the place he stays at the beginning of The Beach. But I'm not going to write about it until I've seen it with my own eyes. Wish us luck. Big Apple, here we come... |