(Due to some complaints about the readability of this site, I’ve made the text slightly darker. Let me know if it’s too dark or if you any better ideas.)

I went to see Ratatouille on Friday after work, having forgotten that Prince Roy was going to see The Simpsons Movie until the last minute. It was the best movie I’ve seen in a while, and refreshing after so many sequels (the evil food critic was particularly good, voiced by Peter O’Toole). They also managed the dicey job of telling the story from two different points of view. As for the sequels: Spider-man 3 made me embarrassed for Sam Raimi (we just watched Peter Parker deal successfully with Great Power, and now suddenly he can’t? Huh?), Shrek the Third, while funny, was not up to the standards of the first two movies, and Harry Potter 5 seemed thin on plot and character in comparison with its predecessors, and the Chinese translation of the title mistranslated “order” as the kind you give instead of a group. Die Hard 4.0, while pretty good especially considering how long it’s been since Bruce Willis began the series, sometimes felt like a long Nokia advertisement. I was also disappointed that they didn’t get a single Mac/PC joke in Justin Long’s dialog.

Last week I also saw I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry, the Chinese title of which is quite clever in that it copies a children’s song “When We’re Together” but includes the Chinese word for “fake” which, read in Minnan, is pronounced “gay”. Chinese title-related cleverness aside, it’s pretty much a typical Adam Sandler movie, with the usual stereotypes thrown in. The movie lost me when Ving Rhames adopts a lisp.

As an aside, is it just me, or is IMDB letting anyone post anything (in English at least) to their database now? It used to be that an IMDB listing denoted a certain level of professional filmmaking, but more and more I’m seeing cheap porn and student projects listed as well. It may be only a matter of time before they start listing Youtube videos. This is all sour grapes, of course, because they refuse to list Clay Soldiers because the documents proving it was aired multiple times nationwide are in Chinese. Heaven forfend a film is made in another country and includes, god help us, another language. Not entirely cricket, you know.

The weather’s been cool and rainy-ish ever since the duel tropical storms departed our fair island last week. We hammered out the last of the recordings for the long-awaited Muddy Basin Ramblers album over the weekend, practicing at the Sandcastle on Saturday and then getting the last three songs in the can at my place this afternoon and tonight. I managed to turn in a passable performance, all things considered. The final mixing will tell, of course. Sandman managed to refrain from trashing my place too badly, and we took some commemorative pictures afterwards. I’m going to miss these sessions; it’s always fun having a few good friends over to hang out and make some music. The session was followed by much rejoicing and a slightly drunken waltz, accompanied by singing, down to Rendezvous Pizza for a last meal before they tear the place down in the name of Progress. The owner appeared a bit sad about the whole affair, and told us she hoped that they would eventually be allowed back at that location instead of being condemned to the crowded street behind them. We hope so, too.

The rest of the weekend has been spent tidying up before practices, tidying up afterwards, film editing, tai-chi practice and taking pictures of El Mono Severo, who made a visit yesterday but had trouble moving my old, mildewed, concave mattress downstairs due to logistical issues involving elevatorial dimensions as well as a general lack of motivation. I’d given the “memory foam” mattress a fair shake, but after over a month I still wasn’t quite comfortable, so I sold it to a friend and bought a standard Ikea mattress to sleep on instead. Slim vowed to post El Mono Severo posters in odd locations all over the Taipei basin, but we’ll see if remembers his pledge in the morning, when tonight’s events are not quite as tangible. David thinks I should do an action comic series about El Mono Severo, with the Mattress Conundrum as Episode One. I have to say I am tempted. And that mattress isn’t going to move itself.

In order to make up for having an extra day off last week for Dragon Boat Festival, we only had a one-day weekend this week. After a rough night trying to break in a new mattress, I gave up on sleeping late and set out on a hike up the hill out back and back down to the community on the other side. On weekdays the sound of the cicadas is only broken by the sound of housework within the various apartments, but on Sunday more people were out and about, kids on bikes, repairmen, and one guy selling incense door-to-door. I took some pictures of leaves in ponds, squinting at the monitor in the sunlight, before heading back up the hill. As I descended, I wondered what it would be like if I somehow found myself back at the time of the amusement park’s heyday in the 70’s. My building wouldn’t be there, for one thing. My money would be no good, nor my current ID. The subway wouldn’t exist, but I might be able to take the train back to downtown Taipei. If Back to the Future were filmed today, Marty would go back to 1977. Imagine that.

Back home, a dip in our cool, little-used swimming pool awaited. After lunch I tried another nap on the new mattress, but it wasn’t having any of it. I’m hoping I’ll get used to it soon, as I miss my old mattress when I’m trying to get to sleep.

The Ramblers, minus Sandman who sadly had to work even on Sunday, were getting together for a practice session down by the waterfront in Bitan, starting in the late afternoon. On my way across the crowded bridge, washtub in hand and marveling at the number of swanboats in the river below, I ran into David Reid, who recently moved down here. He was just walking around taking pictures, and decided to come along to the practice.

David Chen was waiting on the steps by the river with his guitar. A few minutes later Slim and Thumper sidled up. The afternoon was as perfect as you could ask for, with a cool breeze and interesting, non-threatening clouds dotting the sky. My college roomie DJ showed up, fresh from the old movie exhibit in Xin Beitou, looking extremely tired. Maestro Chen began strumming his National, and we fell into music the way we usually do. Conor showed up in the middle of a song, and David inserted a verse about how Conor is always late. We were playing in a kind of circle, with David, Slim and Conor on the steps, and me and occasionally Thumper facing them. At one point I looked behind me to find that we’d attracted a small crowd of listeners. Our practice had turned into a concert.

We played a few crowd-pleasers, and then continued practicing, but the crowd remained. We even learned and played a couple of new songs that David taught us right then and there, and they still enjoyed it. Some even danced.

The evening deepened as the sun set behind the hills. Gradually we scaled down the music until the crowd was mostly gone. DJ and David Reid had to go, as did Thumper, so we sat on the riverbank chatting for a bit longer before going up to Rendezvous Pizza for dinner. On our way there, we passed a group of musicians playing at another restaurant, a guitar, some bongo drums and a wicked flute player who really got into the Nakashi-type songs they were ripping through.

We got a table looking out over the river and ordered pizza, pesto, risotto, beer and wine. The moon illuminated spider webs of clouds in the night sky, and the swanboat lights twinkled like stars in the river. We were in the middle of our food when the Nakashi band guys came over and set up at the table next to us. This time they had two flutists and really went to town on the music. David grabbed his guitar and asked if he could play along, and I got my pocket trumpet out and tried to follow along as well. It was difficult, especially considering that they were all about a quarter step south of us, tuning-wise, but I liked the challenge. All I had to do was pull out my tuning slide and figure out the key.

We played on. Conor had to leave, and then David followed. Slim, who was rather inebriated by the time, and I sat at the other band’s table and played or sang along as best as we could late into the night. We also chatted with them and the restaurant staff in a mixture of Taiwanese and Mandarin. I left Slim singing and rapping and chortling along with every English-language hit the guitar player could think of when I left at around midnight to pursue an ultimately fruitless quest for a good night’s sleep on my new bed.

My goal of taking a nice long ride on the Crazy Bike along the riverside over the Dragonboat holiday had been frustrated by rain on Saturday and Sunday, so on Monday I covered myself in sunscreen, pumped up the tires, and set off despite the ominous rumblings coming from the sky. Negotiating the mouthbreathers on the bridge was troublesome, but once I got on the path itself things went much more smoothly. It was great to be cruising along the river, looking at the views, the trees and sky, listening to the cicadas and feeling the wind. Since I last rode that path, new sections have been added, making previously twisty bits straighter and smoother. The massive highway bridge they’ve been building south of the Xiulang Bridge looks almost complete, and when it’s done another messy detour will vanish.

A huge stage was being set up along the river in Banqiao. The newly paved roads were smooth as silk. I made good time all the way up the Xindian River, along which they are building an elevated expressway that crosses the Danhan River where it and the Xindian converge to form the Danshui River. The construction site for the bridge alone is huge.

The sun came out as I rode westwards towards Tucheng, and the weather became very hot. I stopped to put on more sunscreen, and two other bikers remarked as they rode past, “Oh, right, we should have brought some of that!” Both the Crazy Bike and I got stares and remarks. It seemed most people noticed the bike before they noticed who was riding it. The path to Tucheng has been made into a scooter lane, so the bike path had been rerouted, but the riverbank is wide enough that it doesn’t really matter.

A huge black cloud loomed over Tucheng, thunder booming distantly from it every so often. I reached the end of the path and turned around, away from the black wall of weather, following a group of slow kids and pausing to take pictures of things along the way. The fact that I hadn’t ridden the bike in a long time impressed itself upon me shortly afterwards, and while it was still enjoyable, I was pretty much tired out. The return trip took almost an hour longer than the trip out, partly because of the massive crowds that filled the riverbank near the stage they’d been setting up earlier. Another reason was the multitude of people who apparently want to kill their retarded family members. I’ll be riding along and when I approach some group of people traveling the opposite direction, usually a family or group of friends, someone will always remain completely oblivious to my presence despite the fact that I am an apparent foreigner riding a bright red dragster bicycle directly towards them. I can only conclude that they are mentally impaired in some fashion. However, the other family members/friends will notice me, grab the oblivious person and invariably shove them or pull them right into my path. Thankfully I managed to avoid hitting anyone, but there were quite a few close calls.

The sun was setting over the river, reflecting off of Taipei 101 and turning it into a bright white flame above the city. It must have been raining in the Xinyi District as a rainbow appeared just above it. Bitan seemed to be shrouded in mist as I approached; it seemed particularly inviting after a long, hot ride. I rode on, through clouds of small bugs that flew into my eyes, nose and mouth, causing me to spit every few seconds.

The area was still full of holiday revelers, mandating another game of hit-the-tourist crossing back. I would have loved to taken a nice long, cool shower and gone for a swim, but I had to go to Darrell’s for looping, so I ditched the bike and went straight over. After that, I went to badminton practice, which tired me out utterly and completely. When I finally did get home, the pool was closed, so I drew a bathtub full of cool water, plunked down in it and zoned out with a tattered copy of the Dao De Jing comic.

My little brother Philip was in town on Sunday, so he came down to Bitan to have a look, as he’d never been here before. When I met him at the MRT station, he made the usual remarks about how fat I’d gotten, and we talked about his scuba dives in the Philippines as the source of his relatively svelte proportions. Bitan is a madhouse these days thanks to the Dragonboat Festival-related activities, so the bridge and surrounding streets were packed. Philip really liked the area and my place. I showed him Clay Soldiers, and he found it entertaining despite his feeling that there was a lack of chemistry between the actors.

We had dinner at the dumpling place downstairs and then took a walk along the hillside out back before going down to the river bank for the obligatory Bitan Photo Opportunity. It was nice to see him; he said he’d like to bring his wife and kids along next time.

“It’s raining,” I said on the phone to David, who was still entwined in the subway system on his way to Bitan. We’d promised Athula, the Sri Lankan rotti-provider and patron saint of the Muddy Basin Ramblers, that we’d perform on the street in front of his stand as part of the Taiwan Beer Festival on Saturday night. But all I could see from my balcony as dusk fell was sheets of rain. Still, I got my things together, just in case.

20 minutes later the rain had stopped, so I stuffed my pocket trumpet in my backpack and lugged the euphonium and the washtub bass components down the wet street and over the bridge, meeting my neighbor Brent and his wife on the way. The bridge was full of people, and I wondered if it might not be a good idea to have a sign saying “Do you know why you’re crossing this bridge?” on the Xindian side, as most people just cross the bridge and turn back. The strollers I can understand, but it’s the people who seem to be in a hurry to cross, glance at the other side, and then rush back that confuse me.

Xindian Street was full of people and pavilions selling various products under a curtain of Taiwan Beer ads, and Athula was doing his usual roaring business. We set up in the middle of the street. Just our appearance, with all of the unusual instruments, attracted a lot of people, but once we started the show we gathered up quite a crowd. They were in a festive mood, too, applauding and yelling in appreciation. It seemed that everyone had some kind of recording device running. Several people brought cups of herbal jelly tea for us all to drink through thick straws. Sandman’s dog Balu trotted around the area following up interesting smells.

The rain started in again, and we moved under one of the awnings nearby. The acoustics there were a little better, but there wasn’t enough room for much of a crowd. As soon as it stopped, we moved back out into the middle of the street. We played nearly every song that involved the euphonium, which tired me out and left my trumpet performance lacking, but I managed anyway. At one point Thumper invited a small boy in a striped shirt to play the bells on his washboard, and the kid really took a shine to it; the look on his face was priceless.

We played the Taiwan Song, which David said was meant for just such an occasion. After another song I had just put away my trumpet and returned to find a spectator playing the washtub bass with a rather confused yet determined look on his face. He used so much force that he broke the pencil I’d been using to pluck the string in half. I let him play and retrieved my trumpet to play along instead.

We were halfway through Work Song when the downpour started. Big, heavy drops began splattering down, and around us a host of umbrellas went up. Slim slipped his hat over Conor’s amp to keep it from electrocuting anyone. By the time we finished it was pouring rain. I slipped the washtub over my head and gathered up my trumpet and the euphonium, which had tumbled to the pavement when Jojo had mistakenly picked up the unfastened case, and ran back over to the awning for shelter.

It was 10pm, and the pavilions were beginning to pack up. We stood around chatting with local denizens, politely declining invitations to play again on other nights. I pinched the straw of my herbal jelly tea, trying to filter out the jelly part, but to no avail. In the meantime, some of the foreigners in the crowd were getting pretty drunk. One guy fell off his motorcycle, breaking a part off of it.

The rain stopped again. By the point, traffic was being allowed through again, and a cavalcade of little blue trucks approached to take away the pavilions. We weren’t quite finished, however. We set up again and played some quieter songs for a while before the police showed up, as we knew they would. More chatting and milling around ensued before Thumper and I whisked Slim away from his complicated social life, down to the dragonboat platform erected on the edge of the river, which was covered in beautiful fog. There, we chatted and drank until the wee hours. It was a nice evening.

“It’s raining,” I said on the phone to David, who was still entwined in the subway system on his way to Bitan. We’d promised Athula, the Sri Lankan rotti-provider and patron saint of the Muddy Basin Ramblers, that we’d perform on the street in front of his stand as part of the Taiwan Beer Festival on Saturday night. But all I could see from my balcony as dusk fell was sheets of rain. Still, I got my things together, just in case.

20 minutes later the rain had stopped, so I stuffed my pocket trumpet in my backpack and lugged the euphonium and the washtub bass components down the wet street and over the bridge, meeting my neighbor Brent and his wife on the way. The bridge was full of people, and I wondered if it might not be a good idea to have a sign saying “Do you know why you’re crossing this bridge?” on the Xindian side, as most people just cross the bridge and turn back. The strollers I can understand, but it’s the people who seem to be in a hurry to cross, glance at the other side, and then rush back that confuse me.

Xindian Street was full of people and pavilions selling various products under a curtain of Taiwan Beer ads, and Athula was doing his usual roaring business. We set up in the middle of the street. Just our appearance, with all of the unusual instruments, attracted a lot of people, but once we started the show we gathered up quite a crowd. They were in a festive mood, too, applauding and yelling in appreciation. It seemed that everyone had some kind of recording device running. Several people brought cups of herbal jelly tea for us all to drink through thick straws. Sandman’s dog Balu trotted around the area following up interesting smells.

The rain started in again, and we moved under one of the awnings nearby. The acoustics there were a little better, but there wasn’t enough room for much of a crowd. As soon as it stopped, we moved back out into the middle of the street. We played nearly every song that involved the euphonium, which tired me out and left my trumpet performance lacking, but I managed anyway. At one point Thumper invited a small boy in a striped shirt to play the bells on his washboard, and the kid really took a shine to it; the look on his face was priceless.

We played the Taiwan Song, which David said was meant for just such an occasion. After another song I had just put away my trumpet and returned to find a spectator playing the washtub bass with a rather confused yet determined look on his face. He used so much force that he broke the pencil I’d been using to pluck the string in half. I let him play and retrieved my trumpet to play along instead.

We were halfway through Work Song when the downpour started. Big, heavy drops began splattering down, and around us a host of umbrellas went up. Slim slipped his hat over Conor’s amp to keep it from electrocuting anyone. By the time we finished it was pouring rain. I slipped the washtub over my head and gathered up my trumpet and the euphonium, which had tumbled to the pavement when Jojo had mistakenly picked up the unfastened case, and ran back over to the awning for shelter.

It was 10pm, and the pavilions were beginning to pack up. We stood around chatting with local denizens, politely declining invitations to play again on other nights. I pinched the straw of my herbal jelly tea, trying to filter out the jelly part, but to no avail. In the meantime, some of the foreigners in the crowd were getting pretty drunk. One guy fell off his motorcycle, breaking a part off of it.

The rain stopped again. By the point, traffic was being allowed through again, and a cavalcade of little blue trucks approached to take away the pavilions. We weren’t quite finished, however. We set up again and played some quieter songs for a while before the police showed up, as we knew they would. More chatting and milling around ensued before Thumper and I whisked Slim away from his complicated social life, down to the dragonboat platform erected on the edge of the river, which was covered in beautiful fog. There, we chatted and drank until the wee hours. It was a nice evening.

I was late to a lunch date today. As I rode the subway into town, I thought about how this day would go if it were a couple of years down the road, and technology had kept up its current rate of development. My guess is my friends would look my position up on their GPS phones, see that I was still in Bitan, in my apartment, at noon. They’d see me leave, walk down the street, and then turn back to my apartment. My Twitter 2.0 service would flash “forgot my damn umbrella” and a real-time weather bureau layer would confirm that it was now pissing rain in my neighborhood. They’d watch me cross the bridge, just miss one train and wait for another, and then see me go one stop too far. T2.0 message: I’m tired of getting off at Taipei Main Station all the time. Then the little dot labeled “Poagao” on their screens, should they check it during their already-proceeding meal, would wander through some alleys in the vague direction of the restaurant, and (I’d like to think) they would make space for me at the table just before I walked in the door.

The rain in Bitan was incredible, I should add. I could see the heavy rain approaching and leaving, the white froth advancing in a line across the bridge at a good clip. My feet and legs were soaked, and it was a good test of my semi-waterproof shoes (verdict: kinda). To the north, the city was bathed in sunlight. The rain missed it completely.

But what I’m curious about is this: If everyone has access to our whereabouts, paths, even our hitherto-private musings typed into a wide-distribution services, will it make us more allowing for human nature? Before, we’d just come up with an excuse: “Traffic was bad” or “There was a sale on gold bullion” or “I was attacked by monkeys” or something that may or may not have happened. When it gets to the point where everyone can see what’s happening, and we all witness the chicanery that we all do and don’t tell anyone, will such shenanigans cease to be the social faux-pas that they currently are? Or will everyone just know, and not even bother mentioning them?

I guess we’re about to find out.

I was late to a lunch date today. As I rode the subway into town, I thought about how this day would go if it were a couple of years down the road, and technology had kept up its current rate of development. My guess is my friends would look my position up on their GPS phones, see that I was still in Bitan, in my apartment, at noon. They’d see me leave, walk down the street, and then turn back to my apartment. My Twitter 2.0 service would flash “forgot my damn umbrella” and a real-time weather bureau layer would confirm that it was now pissing rain in my neighborhood. They’d watch me cross the bridge, just miss one train and wait for another, and then see me go one stop too far. T2.0 message: I’m tired of getting off at Taipei Main Station all the time. Then the little dot labeled “Poagao” on their screens, should they check it during their already-proceeding meal, would wander through some alleys in the vague direction of the restaurant, and (I’d like to think) they would make space for me at the table just before I walked in the door.

The rain in Bitan was incredible, I should add. I could see the heavy rain approaching and leaving, the white froth advancing in a line across the bridge at a good clip. My feet and legs were soaked, and it was a good test of my semi-waterproof shoes (verdict: kinda). To the north, the city was bathed in sunlight. The rain missed it completely.

But what I’m curious about is this: If everyone has access to our whereabouts, paths, even our hitherto-private musings typed into a wide-distribution services, will it make us more allowing for human nature? Before, we’d just come up with an excuse: “Traffic was bad” or “There was a sale on gold bullion” or “I was attacked by monkeys” or something that may or may not have happened. When it gets to the point where everyone can see what’s happening, and we all witness the chicanery that we all do and don’t tell anyone, will such shenanigans cease to be the social faux-pas that they currently are? Or will everyone just know, and not even bother mentioning them?

I guess we’re about to find out.

As I sat in the office yesterday I came across a report of fireflies massing in the forests of Bitan. As my usual Tuesday-night activities have been canceled, after work I went directly home, picked up my camera, and headed to the river-crossing to Wantan, hoping that the ferry was still running. Most of the riverside restaurants were closed, giving the area a spooky, haunted feeling. Most people were inside, no doubt in part because the air was filled with dust from a storm sweeping the island. It left a gritty taste in my mouth.

I saw the ferry moored on the other side of the river, but as I approached the makeshift dock a woman’s voice called across the water, asking me whether or not I wanted to take the boat. I waved, and a tiny figure climbed into the boat and began paddling slowly over. A few fishermen braved the dust, sitting on the bank next to tied-up poles, watched by children and cats.

The Southeast Asian girl punting the ferry spoke with an accent, though she spoke both Mandarin and Minnan pretty well. She said she’d been here for five years and wondered why anyone would want to take pictures of fireflies.

As I walked into the wooded areas of Wantan, I was encouraged to see a few fireflies flickering about by the road, but as I progressed, they grew fewer and fewer. The spot Sandman had pointed out to me last year was devoid of the insects. I walked on, hoping to come across some small hillock or glen covered in their light, but I saw none.

The normally lonely, empty temple on the side of the hill was swathed in canvas and lit from within, as if it were full of revelers eating sumptuous meals. It reminded me of Miyazaki’s Spirited Away, where an abandoned country town comes to life at night with various ghosts and spirits.

My presence in the small village further down the road alerted the local Barking Unit, and people left their soap operas, coming to their windows to see what all the fuss was about. I was reassured that the dogs did not actually bite, but they followed me suspiciously anyway, until I was out of their territory on the other side. Occasionally I would come across a frog waiting on the road. I tried to move the first one off, but he wasn’t having of it, so I ignored the rest.

Still no sign of fireflies. I took some solace in the fact that, even if I did come across a field full of lightning bugs, I couldn’t really photograph them properly without a tripod.

As I walked, the dogs of each little house would wake up, bark, and follow me for a bit. This got pretty old pretty fast, and I imagined that all of the fireflies were probably at a meeting somewhere, or at a bar drinking Japanese energy drinks. The dust was making my throat sore, and the last ferry was at 9pm, so I turned back, passing all of the indignant dogs again, and back to the ferry. I took some pictures of Bitan from the riverbank, as well as around the area of the Dimu Temple, where a few latecomers were praying and meditating among the candles, before going to the makeshift restaurant to seek the ferry operators.

The Southeast Asian girl was summoned to take me back across the river, along with an elderly couple. I tried to take some pictures from the boat, but it was moving too much for a clear shot. The elderly couple chatted with the girl in Minnan, praising her language skills, which is basically code for “We picked up on your accent.”

On the other side, I walked down the deep, dark canyon of Xindian Street, noting the addition of a couple of elegant new apartment buildings along the way, as well as a new sushi bar I’ll have to try out sometime. At the end I bought rotis for dinner and made my way home across the bridge, which still held the scent of hot wood after a day in the dust-weakened sun.

Later that night it stormed. Summer’s here.

Prince Roy, exiled from Spicy Girl’s SOGO shopping odyssey, came down to Bitan on Sunday along with Mark to enjoy the summer-like weekend weather. We met up on the bridge, as usual, and walked along the relatively mouthbreather-free upper sidewalk to the ferry crossing. There we boarded the brand spanking-new ferryboat, larger, cleaner and made of fiberglass, replacing the creaky old wooden boat they had before. The sparkling new white-and-blue boat’s metal railings even sported four bright orange life jackets (capacity was eight people), which, oddly enough, were made in the People’s Republic of China, complete with instructions written in simplified characters.

Accompanying us on the new ferry were two of the punter’s friends. They stayed on the boat, relaxing and chatting with the ferryman. One of them was sucking on a plum lollipop.

We disembarked on the other side and bought some drinks at a local watering hole set up in what looked like a container car, and proceeded to walk across the plain through the bamboo fields. A yellow dog followed us up to the border of its territory, where it spotted another dog, whined a bit and retreated. The air was fragrant with the scent of spring blossoms. It always amazed me that I can find such a rural atmosphere minutes away from my front door, yet downtown Taipei is 20 minutes away on the MRT.*

We walked to the Haihui Temple, where we looked out over the river at Zhitan and its strange Americanesque street layout. Mark wondered at the inscriptions on the balcony wall, which had “donated by” and the name of the donor written in red letters on each section. We puzzled over one character, which turned out to be simplified. I suppose the author didn’t have a thin enough knife to carve the traditional character.

We walked on, PR and Mark talking about investments, and all three of us dissing various dissable bloggers, including ourselves. The road wound through cargo containers made up as homes, with little gardens and barking dogs, as well as an open-air karaoke session. I was surprised to see a brand-new house; I’d been told that construction was illegal there. No doubt someone has sufficient connections in the area.

The mosquitos were beginning to bite by the time we made it back to the ferry. The two friends were still in the boat, still sucking on lollipops and chatting merrily with the punter. He’d told me before that the two ferrymen usually divide the day into two shifts, but I’m not sure exactly when his shift began. This time more people crowded onto the boat, surpassing the stated carrying capacity, but nobody paid that any mind. We had life jackets, after all!

PR’s ultimate goal that day was to have a meal at Rendezvous, so that was our next destination. We got a high table with a nice view of the river and spent the rest of the evening eating, drinking and chatting. I had the risotto this time rather than stuff myself with pizza, and it was delicious.

As the evening was getting on, PR and Mark decided it was time to go, so I said farewell to them at the foot of the bridge. After they left to catch the train back to town, I stood looking out across the river at the lighted buildings on the other side and watching the people coming and going across the bridge, trying to remember what it felt like when I was still living in the city. Eventually I walked back home, on the way taking a picture of one of the local strays lying in front of the gangster KTV palace, surrounded by the detritus of the street in such a way that it looked as if the sleeping dog was being watched over by an array of scooters, plants and traffic cones.

*For all of you considering moving down here, this does not mean that Bitan is a great place to live! It is in fact a nasty, crowded, smelly place with awful traffic, blaring karaoke, packs of stray dogs, a high crime rate, mouthbreathing tourists, noisy construction, scooter gangs and racing ricers, gangsters, random fireworks and no sidewalks. It is also mostly pan-blue, and few people speak English. There’s no Wellcome, no Blockbuster or Asia1 or any DVD rental places at all, and it’s a NT$300 cab ride from the city if you miss the last train. Plus we’re chock full at the moment. No vacancies! Sorry!

Prince Roy, Spicy Girl and their friends Kate and Paul came down to Bitan on Saturday, as the latter two had never been down here before. We rented a fish-shaped swanboat and paddled around the lake playing bumper-boats with the tourists and looking at the birds. It was pleasant. Everyone else was making AIT-related conversation and taking pictures of the scenery, while I rocked the boat and took shots of the paddle pedals.

Once ashore again, Daniel showed up with his brand-new, ridiculously large Nokia smartphone. We had a pizza dinner at Rendezvous. I tried SG’s risotto and found it pretty good. I’ll have to have that next time instead of trying to stuff myself with a whole pizza.

I had to leave early, though, to make the Bliss gig. Daniel drove me and my stuff over to the Xinyi Road establishment, where David was getting out of a cab just as I arrived. The bar was empty. David and I moved couches around upstairs to make room for the inevitable dancing. Slim showed up, sans tux this time, and Sandman called to see if his entourage had arrived yet.
We cajoled the owner, Barry, into letting us have free drinks, and I started in with some rye whiskey. People started showing up, and soon the place was packed. Eddie Tsai, who helped us with fight choreography and swordwork, was there, along with a music professor who played bass. There were many other familiar faces, including that of Chris, whose 30th birthday we were marking that night.

We got a bit of a slow start. Viola Lee was too slow, and my attempts to spice it up with trumpet riffs met with mixed results this time around. We’ve done it better, but we were just getting started. As the night progressed, things got hot. Really hot. Streamers fell from the ceiling. Whiskey was passed around. Tempos quickened. Dancing ensued. The crowd smoked. With little regard for any and all mistakes, we charged forward through the night. At one point I found myself completely lost; it took me a couple of measures to realize where the song was and myself relative to it. But it didn’t phase me. Nothing phased any of us. Song followed song, but we kept on. David was a madman, and I played the tub until it split in two.

It was after 1am when we finally stopped. If we’d gone any longer we would have collapsed into a heap of dark chaotic matter. But it didn’t matter. We’d created this great big thing that couldn’t be undone; there were too many witnesses.

Afterwards, the band dissolved out into the crowd, everyone spinning on the vibe we’d been producing all night. For some reason, kissing-related troubles occurred on several fronts. I was sober enough to resist giving in to kissing a certain party, but only just. Instead, we ended up out on the curb, marveling at the show and sizing up cabs with a mind to the capacities of their trunks. Sandman wanted to hold out for a Wish, but we settled for a regular cab home instead.