Sometimes when I'm lonely, I dream of tandoori chicken.

Have you ever eaten something so good that you find yourself thinking about it at random times? A bit odd, isn't it, but I'm sure we all have. At least I hope it's not just me.

When I was in Penang, Malaysia, I had this tandoori chicken at a little whole in the wall Indian restaurant that was so good, I actually find myself dreaming of it when I am in a melancholy mood and need something to lift my spirits. It was hands down, some of the best food I have ever eaten. Mindboggling is the only way I see fit to describe it. I can still see it vividly before me. Its fiery red skin, perfect glaze, and of course the taste. OH..., the taste! Mindboggling. Simply mindboggling.

Dishes such as these merely become another memory that one longs to bring to fruition once again. Something that tortures you because it is now so far away, and you can't have it. It racks your soul and scrathes at your insides knowing that the tandoori will always evade you. But, as a wise man once said, it is better to have eaten great tandoori chicken once, and forever long for its essence again, then to never have eaten great tandoori chicken at all.

Where would I be in Japan without excessive arm hair?

This is a delicate question upon which to ponder. However, a bit of initial explanation with respect to the meaning of the title is in order.

The Japanese have an obsession with foreign arm hair. Particularly, mine. Yes, it is true. Mine seems to be of great fascination to them. This is the result of two distinct genetic blessings: the first being overall mass, the second being their felicitous blond color. Apparently I have hit the jackpot in the later category. Now, I must add, that with respect to other Western Caucasians as myself, my arm hair is by no means in the astronomically shocking Robin Williams type levels. But, instead, perhaps just slightly above average in quantity. Leaving me with nothing grotesquely permanent attached to my forearms. Therefore to get back to the discussion at hand, I have had several unknown, and quite tasty Japanese ladies approach me and begin softly caressing my fascinating fur, to the definite delight of yours truly. Thus, it has served itself surprising well in acting as an "ice breaker", if I may, towards advancing social opportunities. Now I am not saying that a typical night on the town goes something like: arm hair rub by foxy stranger followed by foot race to nearest love hotel with said foxy stranger. But, sometimes a random arm hair rub by a bright eyed ostensibly innocent young girl can be all it takes to lift the spirits of a melancholy soul such as myself.

The other surprise benefit of my fascinating frizzies has been its use as a bridge towards interaction with my commonly shy students. A gentle stroke of my golden bough by an otherwise bashful young learner has often served as the first moment of contact between us, thus beginning a friendship of international exchange beholden to arm hair. Who would have ever thought so much was possible merely through a few innocent strands protruding from my limbs.

Here's lookin' at you arm hair.

Thanks.

My home in Japan.

My home in Japan is very small. I live in a little town called "Nakatonbetsu" in Northern Hokkaido. I have lived here for nearly 2 years now. Nakatonbetsu is nestled in a green valley blanketed in wildflowers and surrounded by rolling green hills that are capped in pearly white snow from October to May. And in summer, the land is so green one would think that forest spirits themselves might leap and frolic amongst the trees and pastures, such as in Miyazaki's film, "Princes Mononoke." From this, one might think that Nakatonbetsu is the greatest town in the world. But after almost 2 years of living here, I am almost crazy. Nakatonbetsu is very small: only about 2,000 people on a sunny day. The people in Nakatonbetsu are also very small. The average Nakatonian stands only 2 feet tall. Actually, they are all midgets. But this is okay because I love midgets. They are very cute with their squeaky little voices, and you can toss them into the air very high. But, midgets are also very shy. Unfortunately, most of the people in Nakaton are too frightened to talk with me. Many are too frightened to even look at me. This can make Nakatonbetsu a very lonely place sometimes for a non-midget foreigner living amongst a clan of shy little people. Because of this, I spend a lot of my free time in my little apartment watching television and eating chocolate, the whole while wishing that the little people of Nakatonbetsu weren't so frightened of me. If they weren't so frightened of me, Nakatonbetsu might be a wonderful place to live. Magical even! Oh, only if I weren't so lonely and such an outcast amongst these little people. I might stay in Nakatonbetsu forever. I might even marry a little midget girl and we could live in a quite little cottage surrounded by orchids and wild bamboo, spending the evenings frolicing nude in the garden like forest nymphs. It would be magical!

My stinking hobbies that no self respecting websurfer should give a shit about.

Buying intelligent looking books that I will never read, but my guests don't know that. Buying expensive looking guitars that I can't play, but my guests don't know that either. Eating too much. Thus, farting too much. Writing sentence fragments. And finally, diligently perfecting the art of being shut down by low quaility women in local drinking establishments. (Not to come off like an ego-freak here, but I really am the best at what I do. Even if it is only with respect to the above activities.)

Greetings, fellow bored out of their heads blog readers.

My name is Forrest. I know. Not the most common name scribed upon the little sheet of paper that forever acknowledges and legitimizes our existence: the birth certificate. But, it's mine. And albeit an easy target for playground bullies to manipulate for their malevolent needs, what the fuck. It's mine. Besides, sleazy hippie chicks always dug it. And, anything to get in the front door, as my poor old deceased dirt bag Grandfather would say.