Gamble Responsibly

I have a confession to make. Last night I went to the Dicky Beach Surf Club by myself. I also gambled responsibly, losing $15 on the pokies, before winning it back with an each way bet on a horse called "Nights of Thunder", then got cocky and bombed out on a trifecta and a greyhound that came dead last. Overall I came through negative $13, which is good/bad luck depending how you look at it.

After losing on the pokies I penned this poem on a Keno ticket (text below).

How readily I fed $15 into that cold, uncaring poker machine.

Watched my sum total teeter totter in a choreographed display, 

designed to make me think that I had a hope (while oh so quietly tying the rope).

Now I take this Keno pencil and try to write - to find meaning in the spaces between the numbered boxes.

While in the lounge adjacent carnival music fanfare heralds the smallest of victories. 

Avian attractions turn heads at Tokyo owl cafe

Tokyo is a city with a reputation for the weird and wonderful: Harajuku girls, capsule hotels and the fabled school girl underwear vending machines to name a few. Allow me to add another to the list for the uninitiated - the fukurō (owl) cafe, the latest trend in the category of animal cafes.

To be clear, these aren't establishments where you actually eat the namesake animal, rather eat alongside them. It sounds unhygienic and it probably is, but it's arguably also a lot of fun, which is why Japanese and gaijin alike flock to the city's plethora of pet cafes, offering co-dining with a respectable ecosystem of animal buddies; neko (cat), inu (dog), yagi (goat) and even hachūrui (reptile) variants of the business model grace the capital city and environs.

In my own experience, my introduction to the pet cafe was a completely organic experience. While exploring the inner-city neighbourhood of Koenji where I was staying with my Japanese-literate girlfriend, we chanced upon Cafe Baron, which advertised itself as a fukurou cafe. "What's fukurō?" I asked my translator (it sounded quite similar to the word for bag, but without the long O sound, which I learned so I could tell convenience store clerks that I didn't need another plastic bag to hold my pack of gum - "fukuro idimasen…") and she replied - "Owl."

And then we noticed through the glass what may have been a taxidermied grey owl sitting on a perch. But then it blinked. So of course, like any good pair of tourists we immediately went in and secured one of only a couple of vacant tables in the small establishment.

The next few hours flew by (excuse the pun), as we enjoyed a reasonably priced meal alongside a large great grey owl named 'John' and a smaller, slightly more skittish, barn owl - the eponymous 'Baron'.

'Baron' and some admirers.

'Baron' stretching while big 'John' gives his trademark quizzical look.

The owner, a kind middle aged Japanese man with quite good English (he'd lived in California for a period, we learned) was evidently thrilled at all the attention he and his birds were getting, happily inviting us to take copious photos, get up close for portraits alongside 'John', and nuzzling his beloved pets dotingly, who'd nibble at his goatee with equal affection.

A couple of wise birds.

The only rule of this avian love-in was that customers couldn't touch the owls, something you could do at other owl cafes, but against the owner's personal philosophy on the grounds that it could cause the birds to start to dislike humans. Over the course of our meal the cafe filled to capacity, which is in total about five tables. The guy even had to turn away one would-be customer, but you don't really get the feeling that he's raking it in, rather that this is a labour of love; that he really does give a hoot about owls (sorry). By eavesdropping on an interview he was giving to a Japanese blogger/journalist, we gleaned he'd been raising fukurō friends since he was a boy.

His fondness for all things owl-like is evidenced by copious owl ornaments, art and other paraphernalia all about the cafe. There are even albums of 'baby photos' of his pets placed on the tables for customers to browse through. Adorable.

"They grow up so fast..." Captive Great Grey Owls have been recorded to live for nearly 30 years.

Oh, and I should mention the food is pretty good too and not at all overpriced. Owl be back the next time I visit The Land of the Rising Pun.

You can follow Cafe Baron's blog here plus find links to more info.

Ode to Salt and Vinegar

My world is filled with pleasure when I, at my leisure,

Crunch on you like late autumn leaves, stepped on, in gutters.

For you I forsake all others: Original, French Onion or BBQ; whether smooth or crinkled in persuasion, 

I'd make love to my hand to quell the bland air, that finds its way in between crammed 

consignments -- a dichotomy of sodium and zest --

of all the chips I love you the best. 

Let Cynicism be thy Shield in the Battle between Good & Evil

It's been some time since I've blogged. On occasion, I'm struck by inspiration to write something for what some might call "the digital space" (before mounting their Vespa scooter and scooting off to the latest hole in the wall for a single origin piccolo and a pow wow about social media strategy) but then the idea grows to unwieldy proportions, and I realise it's probably a lot easier to faff about in the Facebook feed and follow the unfolding of people whose lives are as uneventful as my own. Perhaps even more uneventful (I average 3.14 likes per post, which as you know is Pi to two decimal places).

That is terribly cynical I know. I saw this inspirational image on the internet (or as it's now known - 'Facebook') recently:

 

Thanks for your insights George S. Patton, and your efforts against the Kaiser. But correct me if Wikipedia has got it wrong, but in your youth you had "difficulty learning to read and write" and you also fenced, which means you weren't just a nerd, you were a stupid one at that.

The famous General experimented with blunt swords before he realised guns were much better instruments with which to KILL.

I display my cynicism as proudly as my hairdresser Adrian does his midriff at a well-known parade through Sydney's Oxford St. I once held a job for the grand total of one day in which said trait was key to my self-dismissal. They advertised themselves as a 'marketing firm' but essentially it was one of those charity mugger schemes.

After a solid two hours training we were sent out to some God-awful shopping mall on the arsehole of the earth where we sat behind a card table and tried to guilt people into signing up to a monthly direct debit payment that got them multiple entries in a raffle. The proceeds went to charity, and to making sure that the guy who owned said 'marketing firm' had enough money to support his appetite for performance vehicles and blackmarket infant livers. I didn't ask what he liked to do with them, that's between him and Satan.

Given my noob status I was put under the supervision of some bubbly young lady (Kristy, Kirsty?). Her main tactic was to whisper with fierce amiability at passersby, who would cock their ears confused and wander in. "Dont! It's a trap!" I would whisper at them as best I could, but alas, it was too late...

I think the worst part of the job was the morning 'pump up', in which the owner and his 2IC - a man more neck than head, with one of those stupid haircuts (short all over with one little tuft sticking up, he looked like a sucked mango pip) - would harp on about what a "yooooj" day it was going to be for the business. They even ceremoniously presented a little trophy to the most successful scammer from the previous day. Oh, and to make things just that much more cringeworthy, they scored this sinister scene with a stereo playing the "ince ince" backing track you get on the Kyle & Jackie O Hour of Power. Appropriately motivated, the boss, that modern day Fagan, sent out his legitimised pickpocket minions to rob the masses.


In closing a quote from Oscar Wilde: "I have never met any really wicked person before. I feel rather frightened. I am so afraid he will look just like every one else."

I'll tell you what he looks like Oscar. Your friendly local real estate agent. Or this guy on the left...