I love computers. Not just for games and the Internet, but the very idea of computers, how a machine can take your instructions and execute them precisely, and all you need to know is how to tell the computer what you want.

I used to program in BASIC as a kid, first on my cousin’s Sinclair (which wouldn’t save any programs so I had to start from scratch every single time) to simple text adventures on my first PC. Back in high school I belonged to a group that embarrassingly called itself ACT — the Association of Computer Terrorists. Mostly we would lock our Computer Class teachers out of the network , hack into the payroll for kicks, and insult each other’s crushes over the simple network messaging system. The school rector even called me in after our teacher failed miserably to stop the self-replicating batch file my friend wrote (located on the main server) from crashing the entire school network.

Somewhere along the way I stopped programming and settled for just using the programs other people wrote. Word processors, database software, games especially. By the time I was in college the extent of my coding knowledge was just enough HTML to make my hideous fanfic webpage and enough MUF to make simple objects on TinyMUCK. A career in IT, in my parents’ eyes, was on a lower level of respectability than law or medicine, so they felt the time I spent tinkering with my computer was a waste of time.

But I’ve always loved programming. Programming is even more dependent on language and reasoning skills than law is, because when the law doesn’t make sense we humans usually compensate for them, even to the extent of ignoring patently ludicrous laws.

But the computer is literal and will be as brilliant or idiotic as the instructions you give it. Garbage In, Garbage Out, as my high school computer teacher used to like repeating. (He couldn’t program his way out of a paper bag, but he knew Lotus 123 and dBase. Hooray.) Computer programming demands rigorous mental discipline and a capacity for tedium that I sorely need to develop.

So here I am, looking through basic C tutorials, hoping I’m not too old to learn yet another language.

So this ‘C’ thing… if ‘A’ is kissing and ‘B’ is heavy petting, then ‘C’ must be… ‘C’ must be…!

…This is so educational.

Dramatic Reenactment.

I had assembled an odd assortment of goods, some purchased from Saizen: ping-pong balls, a hobby knife, some adhesive tape, headphones, and my Firefox set to Simply Noise.

I was going to attempt a Ganzfeld experiment, a form of sensory deprivation that was supposed to induce vivid hallucinations.

What happened instead was the opposite of sensory deprivation.

The first thing I needed to do was cut the ping-pong balls in half, to wear each half over my eyes to provide a homogeneous field of vision.

I had to use pingpong balls because Saizen was out of these white goggles.

You can see where this is going.

Since I bought my ping-pong balls at Saizen, I discovered that the material was tougher than the ping-pong balls I remembered from high school, which I could cut without any problems.

I began to saw into the ping-pong ball when I discovered that I had purchased one with a rickety blade. When I first slipped and the cutter stuck itself on the desk, I should’ve taken it as an omen.

I pressed on with the knife, literally, until the two halves were connected by a small sliver.

I sliced across this last bit, expecting it to be just as tough as the rest of the cut was.

The material suddenly gave way, and a sharp pain shot through my hand. The blade point embedded itself in my left middle finger. Blood began to flow from underneath the newly-carved flap of skin that had originally been my fingertip.

Now I am terrible with the sight of blood, specifically my own blood, seeping out from under a now-corpse-colored chunk of my finger. So I did what came naturally — I freaked out.

I ran to the bathroom, opening the sliding door with my bloodied hand in my haste, and putting my finger under running water. The blood kept flowing.

Feeling a bit light-headed, I realized that the someone who had been screaming the whole time was me. The cut showed no sign of clotting. I sat down on the floor for a while, concentrating on breathing deeply.

Regaining my senses, I managed to find the alcohol and ointment, apply pressure on the flap to finally make it stop bleeding, and dress it with a large adhesive bandage. And I even plurked about the experience, typing with nine fingers.

When I finally got back to the ping-pong ball halves, the adrenaline was finally wearing off, so after I strapped them to my eyes and put on my headphones, instead of hallucinating, I fell asleep.

For five hours.

I woke up to find my wife checking up on me, wondering if I needed to go to the ER for stitches. I was not looking forward to have a needle through my already-bloodied finger so I passed, and passed out again.

The Ganzfeld experiment had better work when I finally try it. I wanna hallucinate unicorn-riding wizards fighting mecha in surround sound. I bled for this, dammit.

Sailor Fukus off the rack at Don Quixote? Yes please!

I stepped into the Don Quixote in Akihabara, out of the autumn cold. Unlike the seedy Shibuya outlet of Donkii, the Akiba branch, while still cramped, had escalators, a pachinko parlor at the ground floor (featuring the new hit Evangelion Pachinko), an arcade on the top floor, and a Maid cafe with an extremely long line waiting outside.

The floor 2nd to the top was devoted to two main themes: Sex toys (behind the ubiquitous black curtain), and cosplay goods.

Someday, they'll be selling Loligoth stuff at discount goods stores here too. Maybe.

The narrow aisles were stacked from top to bottom with sailor fukus, discount goth boots, and even the maid outfits worn by the maids in the cafe.

Wanted: A hot girl willing to try all of these out for me.

I stared at a snazzy pair of boots. I had the money to buy them. But they didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen back home. I would be laughed at, I thought. People would make fun of my shoes.

I slinked away, feel bad for not having enough Brave just to buy a pair of amazing J-rocker shoes for myself. I still feel bad.

I need to go back. Who’s with me?

Harajuku Takeshita Street, originally uploaded by demosthenesofathens.

Unlike Ginza, which was dominated by large monolithic malls like Mitsukoshi and Matsusakaya, Takeshita-Dori is dotted with little stalls and boutiques. While my fiancee and her family spent their time (and buckets of 100 yen coins) inside the Daiso, I wandered nearby, carrying shopping bags.

Almost everyone was dressed so stylishly, even this couple, whose style seemed to be thrown together and yet still managed to seem like the height of Cool. I wondered if it was something in the water.

I pass a Japanese McDonalds, a crepe shop with a dubious French name, two princess-kei in pink in front of a TV camera, and entered this Goth shop filled with clothes I would have loved to wear, but didn’t have enough BRAVE to wear back in the Philippines. Belts, boots, shirts and jackets that bore a preponderance of the word ‘Fuck’ that can only be pulled off by a culture with only a loose understanding of the English language.

The shopkeeper, a very sedate-looking middle aged man, asked me in Japanese if I wanted anything. I said no and left the shop.

And now, I regret it.

Boy in Kimono, originally uploaded by demosthenesofathens.

As we made our way down the Wakamiya Oji, we saw a lot of daytrippers heading toward the Hachimangu Shrine.

I felt very under-dressed in my jeans and jacket (acquired from Flash Report in Shibuya the day before) because there were people in suits and kimonos.

I took a picture of this little boy, proudly strutting in his kimono, accompanied by a tall young man in a very snappy dark suit. Was it his brother? His father? Whatever their connection, he seemed very proud of the little boy… and a little bit amused.

We're gonna miss the train, Harry!

We arrived at King’s Cross that morning, planning to start our day of sightseeing early. London being the kind of city it is, we had a lot of ground to cover: Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, Tower Bridge.

As I left Maoi at a bench and searched for a newsagent to buy curry-flavored crisps from, I stumbled upon this:

There's a train behind this brick wall, I just know it.

I saw children running smack into the wall and then leaving disappointed. As soon as they left, I tried it myself.

Smack.

It turns out I’m just another Muggle, too.

Wakamiya Oji Torii, originally uploaded by demosthenesofathens.

The cherry trees lining the avenue were bare, fall having taken away their last leaves two weeks before. On each side were two parallel streets, open to traffic, each bristling with shop fronts and restaurants. People passed under the great Torii to walk the long gravel path to the Hachimangu shrine, some in casual clothes, others in kimonos.

I snapped this photo, then walked under the Torii, into sacred space. It was a clear autumn day.

Oshino Village, originally uploaded by demosthenesofathens.

I stood on the wooden bridge, watching the waterwheel turn in the crystal-clear water. On the other side of the bridge, people took sips of the water from their cupped hands. Other people tried keeping their hands in the water for 60 seconds to see if they could withstand the cold.

I wondered about the history of the waterwheel, how old it was, who took care of it, what it was used for.

For all I knew, it was probably a hydroelectric plant. Go Japan.

Great Buddha, originally uploaded by demosthenesofathens.

The sun was beginning to set as we arrived at the Daibutsu at Kamakura. We were in a rush because my mother-in-law wanted to catch mass that afternoon. Harassed and irritable, I hurried through the crowds of people, hoping to catch a glimpse of one more temple on the checklist so that the trip wouldn’t be wasted.

The sun illuminated the top of the Buddha’s head as I crossed the great temple gate.

Zen zap.

Oshino Village, originally uploaded by demosthenesofathens.

The street was full of vendors and their wares, warming in the afternoon sun. Daytrippers browsed through beautifully painted ceramics and freshly-made mochi and plum wine.

I bought a beautiful crystal ball, hewn from a single clear crystal that grew in the mineral-rich waters that flow down from Mt. Fuji.

Then I ate some tea-flavored mochi.