If you recall this post from last June, I’ve been living in a rented apartment while renting out the apartment I actually own to a friend for the last year and a half or so. A couple of nights ago I packed said friend, who was quite drunk, into a taxi headed for the airport at 3am so that she could return to California.

So I’m moving. Again.

The last couple of days has been a scramble to arrange things; I had painters over last night, and the noxious smell wafting from my door led to an introduction to my new neighbor, a French guy who didn’t particularly care for the odor. I can’t blame him; it was foul indeed, and lingers disturbingly enough to make me consider staying at a sauna for the next few nights. I mopped the floors this morning, and I’ve also been trying to arrange my things into a somewhat movable state. Steven the Mover is on his way over as I type this to help me accomplish this decidedly unpleasant task.

It will be strange transferring my flag back to the Water Curtain Cave (as Winter approaches, I don’t like the wet, damp image that name suggests so upon moving in this time I’m thinking of rechristening it). I’ve grown accustomed to the light, spacious airy feel of the rented place, though I could never bring myself to come up with an inventive name for it. The Muddy Basin Ramblers recorded the lion’s share of our upcoming album here. The sun shines in in the morning and afternoon, and a nice cross-breeze can be enjoyed with windows on both sides open. But there is the fact that I’m occasionally forced to listen to piano practice, as well as the proximity to Bitan firework activity, and I suppose it’s also living a bit beyond my means, and I didn’t want to have to deal with being a landlord any more. My own place is nice enough, especially if what the watchman downstairs told him about the loud elderly couple spending a lot more time living at their children’s house is true. If not, I’ll have to put some money into soundproofing. And some new blinds.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, Steven’s knocking on my door.

UPDATE: It’s dark out now. Everything’s moved over to the Cave, everything except for my computer, that is. I’m sitting in my computer room, surrounded by echoey white walls bathed in glaring white fluorescent light, as well as detritus left over from the move. For some reason I feel reluctant to leave. If I don’t turn my head, I can pretend that everything is normal.

But I guess it’s time to get to it, though, to unplug the computer and Internet, pack the speakers on the desk and roll it on over to the new/old place. The garbage truck’s playing its melody downstairs, and mosquitoes are flying in the slot left by the removal of the air conditioner. Time to go.

Between tai-chi practice and the resistance-is-futile nature of the weather on Saturday, I didn’t get much done. In fact, I thought I might even be late for my own photo exhibit at Bobwundaye, so I splurged for a cab over from Bitan.

Turns out I shouldn’t have worried. When I arrived, the place was deserted except for a bored-looking foreigner sitting at the bar. I ordered a CC-ginger ale and sat down for bit. Then I looked at the photos hung up on the wall. The lights didn’t quite manage to fully illuminate them, but they looked pretty good. The terrible framing job caused ripples, however. I won’t be going back to that frame shop again. Which isn’t too big of a problem as there are 34 just like it on the same street.

After a while a group of women, including Chris, arrived, and sat down at the table in the back. I sat down next to them, feeling awkward as I didn’t really know any of them except for Chris, who disappeared into the bathroom. Was I interrupting some kind of “hen party” or whatever it is called when women get together and talk about female issues? I had no idea. I’m not much of a talker anyway, so I pretty much sat there and nodded.

Other people began to arrive, some of whom I knew, such as Maurice, Wayne, Mark and Gaby, and many I didn’t. I had no idea if they were there for the photos or just there or drinks. The Ramblers were all there, including a surprisingly stylish Thumper. It was now officially a Party.

I got a few inquiries about purchasing photos, but I hadn’t really thought out a sales strategy and didn’t close any deals. I also got a few questions about things like “inspiration” and “meaning,” and I pretty much explained that I had simply seen things I found visually interesting and taken pictures of them. I find it odd that other people don’t see the same things, but I can’t really explain it. In all honesty, it’s hard to feel that great of a sense of accomplishment as photography isn’t difficult or hard work for me. It’s just something I do and get pleasure from. It’s gratifying that some people seem to enjoy the results, but it’s not like filmmaking or writing a story, where you actually have to put effort and forethought into your project. I suppose, in musical terms, filmmaking is like the trumpet, which I spent a lot of time learning, while photography is more like the washtub bass, which I just seem to…do. And I have fun with both.

Speaking of music, by and by we Ramblers picked up our instruments and played a few songs, which the crowd seemed to enjoy. We played and drank until well after midnight, and no police disturbed the show for once. I’d had just enough alcohol, not too much, so I wasn’t terribly interested in the whiskey shots Kat was handing out, but in deference to the work she and the other staff members put into the exhibit, I downed it and pitched past buzzing into Trunk Derritory.

But it was a talkative drunk, and I chattered to Sandman and Jojo all the way back to Bitan in the taxi, my spirits buoyed by all the people coming to see the photos, hear us play, drink and have a good time. The whole thing was a success, if I dare say so myself.

Ironically, I didn’t get any photos of the event.

In other photographic news, some of my pictures are now featured on an interesting new website called Guess This City. It’s just sets of anonymous pictures of a city you click through, and then it tells you which city you’ve just been looking at. Can you guess which city I did? (Hint: it’s not Antlers, OK)

Well, kind of. The stylish, slightly mad individuals who run Bobwundaye have graciously allowed me to hang some of my more popular photos for public exhibition at their establishment. I had 12 shots, from both my 20D and my IXUS p/s cameras, printed out and framed at various printers and framers in town at a good size, and Bobwundaye has, I think, six spaces on the walls for such things. In order to celebrate this small step in my photographic career, I’m having a little get-together there this Saturday night, starting from around 8pm or so. Feel free to swing by for a drink and a gander.

In other photographic news, I was contacted this morning by a large publishing house in the US about the possibility of using one of my shots as the cover art for one of their upcoming novels, which is pretty cool. Now if only I could get them to look at perhaps publishing my book in English…hmm.

Saturday was a full day. I was late again meeting Sandman down at the 7-Eleven, but we eventually caught a cab to the corner of Renai and Jianguo, where the annual Dream Community Parade was forming. Traffic was blocked up, and the street was lined with floats. We found David, Slim, Conor and Thumper gathered around a large pig-shaped float that was supposed to be ours, but it turned out to be a mix-up. The pig was for BoPoMoFo. Ours was actually more of a “court jester” themed float, and much smaller. Two banners with the indecipherable “Planet Alasida” written on them flanked the small truck, and a little painted guy wearing only a blue loincloth was fussing around on top the cab, which had a railing. He seemed pretty well-endowed, and we stood at a distance, wondering if he had added anything down there. It was at this point that we should have realized what he was planning.

We walked up and down the line of floats a bit. Kids on stilts wobbled up and down the road. Two guys dressed in upside-down clothing staggered around pretending like they were walking on their hands. David and I did an impromptu guitar-and-bass piece; I shredded the colorful pencil I’d been using as a pick, so I prowled the offices of the elementary school looking for something to replace it. Hopefully nobody will notice the absence of a blue pen from their table.

Back outside, Thumper was letting some kids play his washboard, but suddenly the parade was starting up and we all jumped up on the truck just as it started off. The painted guy stood on the cab dancing and waving a flag. We moved slowly along Renai Road, following a group of Jedi knights, while a large goldfish followed behind. Periodically bubbles and smoke would emit from the goldfish, which made us wonder if there were some kind of party going on inside.

The weather cleared up as we played. I was standing against the ladder on the cab, facing the back of the truck. At one point I looked up to see David, Slim and Sandman staring aghast at something behind me, and I turned around to see that the painted guy had taken off his loincloth and was dancing, buck naked except for his “extension”, to our music. We kept playing, however. There seemed nothing else to do at that point. The people standing by the side of the road watching us giggled into their hands in embarrasment, or pointed and stared, for once not at us. We drove by a group of policemen who seemed to wonder if they should do something, but didn’t. This being Taiwan, we didn’t encounter any Puritan-style Outrage or shocked hands over children’s faces.

We continued down Renai, past a plethora of brand new luxury high-rises. We played “Reefer Man” but substituting “Naked Man” for the title character. “Have you ever seen that funny naked man?” David would sing, and we would all answer “Naked man!” while pointing at the oblivious subject of our commentary waving his flag on the top of the truck.

Eventually another man, who was painted purple from head to toe and sported angel wings and a fig leaf like some giant heaven-sent grape, ran up and had a conversation with the naked guy, who then put his loincloth back on. I’m guessing the police had words with the grape guy and sent a message through him. Afterwards, people began to look more at us than the painted guy, and we were finally able to concentrate on making music without distractions. A couple of times we passed a woman on the side announcing what each float was. “And the next float is….Planet Alasida! They use….uh, what the….kitchen implements! Let’s give them a hand!”

The sun went down as we approached the presidential palace, where a large stage had been set up. We continued to play even after the truck had stopped, as there was an audience of people listening to us. I was tired after a couple of hours balancing on one foot on a moving truck, though, and was glad when we finally stopped. We gathered up our stuff and got down to look at the other groups. Thumper went backstage and got himself a picture of himself with Mayor Hau, while Sandman went to gawk at the Brazilian dance groups. He came back with a small flower for his hat.

We decided to go to California Grill for hamburgers before adjourning to Da-an Park to watch the gypsy show, but although Slim and I ended up there, the others gave us the slip and went to the Italian Job instead. Later, Thumper joined us at the park, but we didn’t go watch the gypsies; instead we laid on the grass and chatted while looking at the stars.

At around 10pm we caught a cab over to Bliss, where we were playing a farewell show for our friend Chris. We got two free drinks, and the rum cokes perked me up a bit after a long day. A very blonde woman named Karen was taking money at the stairwell, but there weren’t that many people, which wasn’t too bad as Bliss can become very uncomfortable with too many people. Occasionally the whole building would sway a bit, a feeling Thumper and I attributed to the nearby subway construction.

The show went well, though it was difficult at times to make ourselves heard over Karen’s fascinating stories concerning her textbooks. We played two sets and called it a day. Charles borrowed my euphonium for a bit, but Sandman wanted to go home. I was bushed as well, so we packed up and caught a cab back to Bitan.

Taiwan’s been suffering from a bit of typhoon fatigue, due to the high number of storms that have come through our fair island this season. So when people heard about the latest and greatest storm, Super Typhoon Krosa, I think most everyone just sighed and though, well, ok. Another one. Meh.

I thought the same thing, even as the storm hit, as the high-rise buildings next to us blocked most of the wind, and we got none of the window rattling or moaning and swaying accompanying previous weather. But when I looked out from my window on Saturday morning I could see that the wind and rain were doing quite a bit of damage in our area. The river was high, higher than I’d ever seen it before, and rushing below the bridge at a surprising speed, carrying tree trunks, trash and the occasional piece of furniture within its brown, frothy wake.

Naturally, I had to go take a look. As a trip to the 7-Eleven downstairs had soaked me down to my underwear in seconds, I prepared for my excursion by donning my old TVBS weather gear, jacket and pants, slipping my older Canon digital camera in one pocket.

The bridge wasn’t rocking too badly, as the wind had died down, but the rain was heavy. I walked to the other side of the river and up towards Wantan, where I saw that the little community of buildings on the far shore was flooded. Along the Xindian side, there was no sign of the playground equipment, and the water reached towards the top of the basketball hoops. All the shops were closed except one, from which Karaoke music sounded.

I walked back downstream, under the highway bridge, where a newly installed railing was being bent over by the rushing water, and down to the traffic bridge, where the sluice gates had been opened to admit a crashing maelstrom of brown fury. I continued down to the parking lot, past some guys busy fishing along the edge of the water, to a halfway submerged parking lot. Waves were crashing along the cars, which were floating and bumping into each other with every motion of the water. I waded towards a pavilion nearby, following a fellow in a yellow poncho, but at one point my foot plunged into a hole. That was close, I thought, and took another step into a much deeper hole, a hole that, as far as I could tell, had no bottom. I grabbed the side of the shack, scrapping my hand in the process, and hauled myself back up again. My pants had protected my wallet, but my camera got a soaking. It still worked, but the image was fuzzy and it wouldn’t turn off for more than a minute, turning itself back on again.

Cursing, I stalked back towards Bitan, where, crossing the bridge, I saw the swanboat guys out trying to rescue one of their wayward pontoons, which had been folded in half by the floodwaters. Amazingly, one guy jumped out onto the mostly-submerged roof of their shack, which was emitting metallic groans as it struggled to maintain its moorings amid the stream, and then onto the pontoon itself. He then used his legs to push the pontoon out into the stream and jumped back onto the shack, dodging the mooring lines as the pontoon swept downstream again. I filmed the spectacle with my little wet camera, and the guys on the bank asked me if I was a reporter from TVBS. “I used to be, but not any more,” I said. I think they were disappointed that they wouldn’t be on the news. Well, they’ll be on my video of my little walk that I put on Youtube at least.

When I got back I took the battery and flash card out of the camera, dried everything off, and the image is back to normal. It still turns itself on, though, so I have to store it without the battery. I’m glad I didn’t take my phone out with me.

This morning the river was still high, but not nearly as high as it was before, and the typhoon’s mostly left. I suppose we’re lucky we didn’t lose electricity and water, as it was a pretty strong storm. Hopefully that’s all this season has in store for us, but I wouldn’t bet on it. I’m getting pretty sick of these weekend typhoons.

Urgh. It’s Tuesday and the effects of Sunday’s antics are still lingering.

It started out well enough. After failing to find the old-fashioned round sunglasses I usually wear at gigs, I resorted to more modern ones. I also wore the tabi boots I bought in Okinawa, with my pant legs wrapped inside for that cool Ninja look. Then Sandman and I caught a cab over to the old military village next to Taipei 101. Clouds moved swiftly over the city from our Bitan vantage point, but we still hoped for good weather. When we got there, we found a nice, mostly empty courtyard headed by a small stage with a country music band playing. Hardly anyone was around, but cooks were bustling around a kitchen at the other end. We put out stuff in one of the empty buildings and went out to mingle.

More people showed up, some of whom I knew, many I didn’t and even more whom I suspected knew me but I wasn’t sure. Conor pointed out a fellow ginger draped with all manner of photographic equipment whom I later learned was Craig Ferguson, whose pictures I’ve seen on Flickr. David Reid was there as well. I wandered around the old houses, taking pictures of the area with my little Canon.

After a while, Charles showed up with my pocket trumpet, which he’d borrowed for a few months after he left his in a cab. Besides a few scratches, it wasn’t that much worse for wear. In gratitude, Charles gave me a huge plastic jug of distilled mojitos, a large mug, and a bag of ice. Being a fan of Charles’ famous mojitos, I was happy to see this. We took the jug over to a more isolated section of the park to warm up while drinking from the jug. There seemed to be more rum in there than I’d remembered. In fact, they were very strong, despite the ice. I had two huge mugs of the stuff.

We finished up our rehearsal, which had drawn quite a few passersby, and moved back to the stage, where Coach was just finishing up. Someone read a statement about Daniel Pearl while we set up. At this point I was feeling pretty good, and the mojitos just kept coming. It was like some kind of magic jug. We started up; the show went well, in as much as I didn’t particularly care about screwing up at that point. David broke a string almost immediately, and Conor stepped in to save the day with a harmonica solo while David restringed. Slim tapped an accompaniment in front of the stage and I kept a beat tapping the tub.

The rest of the set went smoothly, except for the part where I broke the stage. We were about to play Viola Lee, which is a song Sandman and I agree can never be played too fast, so I was jumping up and down on the stage to get what I thought should be the pace. After a few jumps, the floor beneath me gave in, partially collapsing. A crew member rushed over, nudging me aside while someone propped up the stage again from below. “Our trumpet player’s a little…excited,” David explained tactfully to the crowd.

After the show, we drank some more, here and there. I was pretty sloshed, so much so that I couldn’t manage to go up on stage when they had a mass gig towards the end of the show. I saw a guy in the audience, the same guy I’d wanted to spontaneously kiss after the last Bliss show, the same guy I’ve had a bit of a crush on ever since I saw him at the Drug Lord Complex show a while back. I went over and chatted with him for a bit, and let it slip that I thought he was sexy. What the hell, I thought. I might as well go all the way.

“I need to ask you something,” I shouted into his ear over the din of the music. He just nodded. “Are you gay?”

“No, I’m not,” he said. My face was by his ear so I couldn’t see his expression. Was he creeped out? Amused? Offended? I didn’t know. I mumbled “Ok” and took advantage of the awkward moment to stumble off. The meal I’d eaten was making things worse, and I had to go lie down. I climbed up the slanted, grass-covered structures next to the village and lay down, grasping the pocket trumpet next to me. There I stayed for hours, passing in and out of awareness. It rained a couple of times, pretty hard, but it felt good so I stayed out in it, letting the rain soak me. I noticed other party-goers pointing and staring, but I didn’t care.

Eventually Dave found me and brought me a bottle of water. I took a few sips and continued to lay there. The concert was over; people were leaving. Sandman and Jojo were taking our neighbor Liqi’s car back, so I forced myself up, gathered up as many of my things as I could remember, leaving my NT$600 bass line and the large mug at the scene, and made my zombie way to the car. “TC is trashed,” Sandman kept saying from the back seat. I wondered if I should take any pride in actually being drunker than Slim after a show. When we got back, I walked into my apartment, threw my clothes and everything else on the floor, and fell on the bed.

Normally I would take the next day off after such an extreme drunk, but I’d promised AIT that I would help them film an instructional video for their new fingerprinting machines the next morning. Early the next morning. I got up at 7:30am, impossible though it seems, took a shower, dressed, picked up my video camera, tripod, backpack and dolly, and caught the train to town. I felt enormously awful.

I was only half an hour late, and, if I do say so myself, I pulled off a pretty impressive performance, managing to project a veneer of competence and well-being to everyone I encountered. The shooting went smoothly, I managed to chat with numerous officials and get the job done. Surprisingly, the last video I made for them has apparently become internationally acclaimed as The Standard for fingerprinting machine videos. “It’s very slick, very professional,” they kept saying. All the embassies seem to want one, and they asked me if I might want to do an international version. We’ll see. Thanks to Prince Roy for hooking me up with the gig.

Afterwards I lugged everything past the America 51 loonies camped out in front of AIT and onto the subway back home, but not to finally get some rest; I had to work that afternoon. Badminton that night was out of the question, but David had brought a nearly complete master of our upcoming album for us to listen to in Sandman’s car, so he, Sandman, Thumper and I sat in the car for an hour in the parking lot behind the temple, just listening to the CD. It sounded pretty good I thought. Thumper told me that I had gone about getting drunk all wrong. “Your index finger is your friend,” he told me, adding that meals should be consumed before drinking, not after. Well, live and learn, I guess. There won’t be a next time, though, I’m thinking. This time was just too much, and I never want to go through that again.

So that brings us up to date, more or less. It’s Tuesday, and though I feel a bit better, I still feel like crap. I’m highly looking forward to feeling less like crap over the following few days.