Great news — Pathmark is offering delicious, refreshing Savarin coffee for just $2.19 a pound. Offer only good if you currently live in July of 1984.
Turning to the literary world, my book A Convenient Parallel Dimension: How Ghostbusters Slimed Us Forever received a 10 out of 10 from DIS/MEMBER. Reviewer Justin Partridge called it “a triumph” and “a towering examination of Ghostbusters from soup to nuts.” Hey, that’s some serious critical acclaim. Thanks, Justin.
A Convenient Parallel Dimension is out now where ever fine books are sold. There are also ebook and audiobook versions. And here’s an incomplete list of libraries where you can read it for free: Denver Public, Indianapolis Public, Allen Country (Indiana) Public, Cleveland Public, Los Angeles Public, New York Public, Queens Public, Newport (Oregon) Public, the Firestone Library at Princeton University, the Sterling Memorial Library at Yale University, and the Library of Congress.
The ghost heads are buzzing right now because the sequel to Ghostbusters: Afterlife began filming last week. There was also some casting news, which kicked off the usual round of “that guy’s not funny” and “that guy’s too woke” and “where the hell is Rick Moranis?” I don’t care who they put in Afterlife 2 (the working title is actually Firehouse). I’m just curious to see where they go with the story. I enjoy Afterlife but it has third act problems and I have trouble imagining how they can build from that. Well, I guess that’s why I’m in the nonfiction biz.
Another thing I’m curious about with this new Ghostbusters is how many people working on it will get COVID. The virus is still everywhere, continuing to debilitate and kill thousands of people every single day. Lately there’s been an uptick in famous actors complaining about COVID restrictions on film sets. Tilda Swinton made headlines a couple weeks ago when she announced she wouldn’t be wearing a mask on the set of her next movie (even though the filmmakers asked her to). Swinton’s already had COVID and she believes she has enough antibodies and faith for protection.
I hate to rain on your parade, Tilda, but it’s pretty common knowledge at this point that antibodies created during one infection aren’t proven to shield you from future infection. Also, why aren’t you worried about protecting the other people on this film set? Especially the crew members who aren’t worth $14 million? Crew members who can’t afford to miss any work and certainly don’t want to develop COVID-related disabilities? Now they’ll feel pressured not to mask up because a dumb rich actress made a big stink about preferring to see people’s faces.
By the way, Swinton’s 2021 bout with COVID left her bedridden for weeks and by her own account she’s still struggling with brain fog. Well, I guess a functioning memory isn’t that important when you have millions of dollars.
The team behind the new Ghostbusters has been posting behind-the-scenes shots since filming started; so far, I’ve only seen one mask, worn by director Gil Kenan. With so many younger actors involved in this production, I keep thinking about how the people who make “Wednesday” had their 20 year old star Jenna Ortega perform an intense dance routine while she was sick with COVID. She woke up with obvious COVID symptoms and they had her start filming while they were waiting on the test results. Stuff like that probably happens every day.
If I was king of the world, I’d force every actor who is worth more than $10 million to put a significant chunk of their money into a collective account for below the line film set employees. Then those employees could afford to take some time off and Hollywood could stop producing content until the virus is actually under control. In the absence of Doctor Strange 14: Spider-Man’s Cousin’s Uncle’s Revenge, we the home viewers could entertain ourselves by watching old movies. Think about all the old movies you’ve never seen. Think about all the foreign movies you’ve never seen. What better time to watch Berlin Alexanderplatz than right now?
Another cool thing you could do right now is read some of my recent writing. Here’s something I wrote about the movie where Bud Cort plays Hitler’s son (it’s a comedy!). Here’s a piece I wrote about UFOria, the movie where Cindy Williams is a UFO nut. Here’s some stuff I couldn’t fit into my Ghostbusters book. Here’s a story about how I tried to write a book about Dead Kennedys.
Did you know this blog has a paid tier? For just $2 a month (that’s less than a pound of Savarin!), you can join JG2LAND PREMIUM and unlock exclusive content like my examination of the infamous 1978 romantic drama Moment by Momentor my history of the Satanic Paul Shaffer sitcom “A Year at The Top” or my review of the cartoon Transformersmovie.
Who knows what amazing stuff I’ll put behind this paywall in the future? The two bucks also helps to support all the free to read content I post on here. To join, click one of those premium links; it’ll bring up the prompt. Wow, easy.
In sports news, I can’t believe the Academy Awards left Gaylord Perry out of the “in memoriam” this year.
What else can I tell ya? My stepdaughter’s really been getting into System of a Down lately. Toxicity is a great album. Their material stands the test of time, which is more than I can say for most of those goddamn Screeching Weasel records I was listening to around the turn of the century.
Americans like to joke about the Cola Wars but for a generation of Filipinos the term is quite literal. In February 1992, Pepsi launched a promotion in the Philippines called Number Fever, where random digits printed on bottle caps could lead to cash prizes. For a while, everything was perfect. Some people won a hundred Philippine pesos or a little more; about a dozen were lucky enough to win a million pesos (equivalent to $40,000). All the while, Pepsi experienced record popularity in the archipelago nation.
That all came crashing down on the evening of May 25th. That’s when news anchors announced the number 349 as the key to the next one million peso award. Depending on what you read, 349 was only supposed to be printed on one or two Pepsi bottle caps. Definitely no more than two. Alas, due to an incredible mistake Pepsi eventually blamed on “computer error,” the number had been stamped on nearly 800,000 caps.
Thrilled winners from all over the Philippines descended upon Pepsi bottling plants the next morning, eager to claim their prizes. Elation turned to fury as Pepsi locked them out and refused to pay. It didn’t take long for riots to erupt (bottles and stones were launched with venom; one protester hurled a slab of cement at a security guard). Panicked, Pepsi executives held an emergency meeting where they decided to offer 500 pesos ($20) to anyone with a 349 cap. At the time, company figureheads were under the false impression that only a few thousand people had these caps, not over half a million.
The consolation offer had its takers but overall the Number Fever scandal galvanized Filipinos in a way other national controversies hadn’t. So protests were continuous, fervent, and large. Nearly 700 lawsuits and 5,000 criminal complaints were filed. Armed anti-Pepsi coalitions formed. And the violence escalated, punctuated by Molotov cocktails and other amateur explosives. Pepsi delivery trucks were hot targets. Upwards of 30 were smashed or bombed in some way.
Yes, there were casualties. On February 13th, 1993, two innocent bystanders (a teacher and a five year old child) were killed when a grenade bounced off a Pepsi truck in a Manila suburb. A few months later, three Pepsi employees died after a grenade was tossed into a Davao-based warehouse. Strangely, in an interview with The Los Angeles Times that July, Pepsi spokesperson Kenneth Ross angrily denied that any attacks against Pepsi had ever taken place while also affirming that the company “will not be held hostage [by] extortion and terrorism.”
Police arrested several members of the anti-Pepsi “hit squad” Alliance 349 in December 1993 on charges of causing harm and possessing explosives. The case against them fell apart when the star witness who helped facilitate these arrests revealed that he was a Pepsi employee who’d been asked to infiltrate Alliance 349. Furthermore, the witness insisted that Pepsi themselves were behind the truck bombings so Alliance 349 could be smeared as illegitimate. There was also a rumor that rival beverage companies had perpetrated the deadly violence.
The bombings eventually ceased and in 1994 21 year old Jowell Roque became the first person to win a lawsuit pertaining to Pepsi’s Number Fever. A court in the Bucalan capital of Malolos ruled that the beverage maker owed Roque 1.1 million pesos plus damages. Pepsi appealed, which is what they did when even the tiniest pittance was demanded from them by a jury.
In 1996, the Department of Justice in the Philippines dismissed every fraud charge against Pepsi, reversing an earlier order calling for the arrest of the company president and a handful of other executives. Still, some Number Fever court cases lasted another ten years, until the Philippines Supreme Court declared that Pepsi had no further obligation to make payouts.
It’s my understanding that these days Pepsi has a foothold in the Philippine market but they’ve never been able to recapture what they had just before the Number Fever War. Honestly, I’m surprised they can show their logo at all. I understand Pepsi couldn’t have spent the $32 billion it would have taken to fulfill all these mistaken bottle cap promises. And yet!
To run this contest in one of the most economically disadvantaged countries in the world? And botch it? And only offer victims twenty bucks in place of the forty grand they thought they were getting? And spend decades fighting any proper justice in court? And you’re Pepsi, not Faygo or Dr. Brown’s?
Seems like someone should have gone to jail.
If you enjoyed this piece, please consider subscribing to the premium version of JG2LAND. Exclusive content (like my take on The Parallax View or my look back at Gus Van Sant’s Psycho) can be unlocked for just $2 a month.
Montana in February? You better believe I did it. Some friends of mine work at a ranch out there. I wanted to investigate this cowboy way and luxuriate in frozen solitude. Here now, pics from that jaunt plus requisite commentary.
About 90 minutes southeast of Missoula, near a place called Philipsburg. A town without pity? A town with dumpsters, at least.
The coziness and aural calm of Missoula International makes it more like a library with a runway. It was difficult to capture the true essence of the items they keep on display (not pictured: a turkey with impressive plumage).
Portion of a “wall of fame” that hangs in an enormous sporting goods store, the kind that offers socks thicker than any winter coat in New York and also those weird camouflage nets that make hunters look like moving shrubbery.
Here I am snowshoeing my way around the base of a mountain. Even with the aid of such equipment and time to adjust to Montana’s altitude I remained no terrain climbing superstar. Still, it was fun.
The sun makes a rare appearance. Temperatures bounced between 17 and 40 fahrenheit, the latter considered “pretty warm” by locals.
Philipsburg is quite small—they have no McDonald’s, they have no Holiday Inn—but they do offer a few modern comforts. Yes, they also have a pizzeria, one that doubles as a laundromat. I didn’t taste any soap on my pie.
Big broc country. The farm-to-table situation in Montana is so intense they’re practically just tossing it from the field onto your plate.
There’s plenty of cool junk to do in the Treasure State, like hike or ski or fish or sit in a cabin and write and hope Kathy Bates doesn’t break your legs, but it’s also neat to just drive around and take in that big sky.
Where ever you have to go next for this book, I’d like to pay. Hurry up and take the money before I die.”
So offered a very kind and arrestingly macabre family member a month ago, one who wished not to trifle with any crowdfunding business. What am I, too good for my goddamn family? I accepted and booked passage to Japan. An eye-opening and fruitful excursion followed, one that enriched not only my forthcoming book but also my friggin’ soul. Please enjoy some captioned snapshots from my journey below.
Thirteen million people live in Tokyo, so it’s a little congested (as you may gather from this morsel of skyline). Many of the city’s streets are unnamed as well, but if you’re good with landmarks you’ll have no problem getting around. And the subway isn’t that difficult to figure out. Even when it is, the staff down there are more than happy to assist the hopelessly confused. The first time I bought an incorrect ticket they knew before I did!
The four hundred fifty yen breakfast deal at Matsuya, one of Tokyo’s most beloved fast food establishments. Perfect for the language impaired tourist—punch your order in on the computer, take the ticket it prints out, sit down, give the server your ticket, BOOM, food. And tasty as all get out.
The Shibuya district at night. I don’t know if you can tell from this image but many of the crosswalks in Tokyo are at odd angles, curving and stretching diagonally as if to anticipate jaywalking patterns. Pretty clever.
Poorly translated bootleg apparel is a cottage industry in Japan and they’re laughing all the way to the bank. Not even the Bortles are safe.
Physical media isn’t dead in every corner of the globe. To wit: the eight story Tower Records in Shibuya, an unreal monument to music and consumerism. Yes, they have the new BabyMetal. They have an entire floor for J-Pop (and one for K-Pop, and one with a book store / restaurant).
A tribute to fallen Megadeth drummer Nick Menza on the Western Rock floor of the eight story Tower Records. I tried to have a moment of quiet reflection but there were approximately five stereos within two feet of this display and they were all playing different things. There’s some noise pollution in Tokyo.
A fresh burger from Freshness Burger. That’s egg and chili on that bad boy (at least that’s what I think it was). No fries, or “potato” as they like to call it. Gotta cut back somewhere. Freshness Burger is reasonably priced but many an item or service in Tokyo is not. New Yorkers will feel at home.
Here’s what happens when you attempt to photograph an exclusive event occurring in / around the Harajuku area’s Tamagotchi store—an employee of the store will give you the big “no” while a cop tries to decide whether or not to yell at you. They were firm but polite. Those folks crowded around the window, they showed up so early—don’t cheapen their experience!
This is the interior of a Disk Union, a record store chain that has twenty or so locations around Tokyo. Every one I visited was crammed with stock just like this. Found lotsa rare greatness here but the favorite record shop I visited is Recofan (which is just one outlet in a mall) only because it has the largest, most varied (and cheapest) used section.
Some concepts are universal, like fishing programs on Saturday morning television. This woman was very excited to have caught her little buddy here. Later that day I watched a dubbed version of The Rocketeer. That film may have been a bigger hit Stateside had they sold it as a Japanese property.
I cannot lie: I ate at KFC in Japan. The chicken is prepared for an Eastern palette. It’s lighter, thinner, less “down home” (in the parlance of U.S. comfort food). Still plenty of grease, though. Yes, this particular location has an actual bar. You need a craft beer with your biscuits and gravy?
I don’t know what this is all about. I guess you can live out all your Nintendo fantasies in Tokyo, even as Captain America and Cookie Monster.
All the excitement of Doritos without the excitement! This is good place to mention if you’re out in Tokyo and you need help or directions, the average Japanese citizen would love to assist you but conversational English skills are rare. Learn to say “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Japanese, do you understand English?” in Japanese and conclude interactions with a bow (luckily some words, like “coffee” and “Barack Obama,” transcend cultural barriers).
The kitchen / office of my sublet in the Shinjuku neighborhood. Figuring out the microwave wasn’t easy but I eventually sorted out how to properly heat a dumpling soup from 7-Eleven (surprisingly high quality). Did I mention the jet lag from the U.S. to Tokyo? It’s Herculean. If there’s a secret to conquering it I still don’t know. Spent many hours standing around this room in a daze.
Recently I visited the cozy urban confines of Oslo, Norway to chew through research for my coming book on punk rock’s development outside the U.K. & U.S. (thanks, crowd funding). I found the people friendly, the food exquisite, and the water pressure in most bathrooms adequate. Here are a few images from my journey with the requisite commentary.
The bucolic Norwegian countryside as seen from your plane as it soars into Oslo. Unless my geography is total excrement, that body of water is the Vorma (Warm) River.
The days are long during Scandinavian Summer. Some argue they never really end. This photo was taken at three in the morning in downtown Oslo. My internal clock was definitely thrown by the lack of dark. I ended up sleeping in shifts of three or four hours throughout my stay.
Oslo’s Grand Hotel, where they award the Nobel Peace Prize. You would be surprised how close this esteemed building is to a T.G.I.Friday’s. I looked at the menu; they have the same Jack Daniels-battered crap as the T.G.I.F.s here. It all probably tastes better in Norway though since they have such strict regulations against preservatives and chemicals.
A group of teenage-looking guards at Norway's Royal Palace. There’s a whole protocol to be sure but it seems less intense than guard situations in England or the U.S. Getting a decent picture of the palace and its impressive surrounding vegetation is a little difficult—at least it is if you're me, a real not professional photo-taking guy.
Concrete proof they have more than one car in Norway. Let me also take this opportunity to dispel the myth that Norwegian money is wooden. It is not. It is paper and coins just like everywhere else.
My go-to breakfast spot on this trip was Kaffe Brenneriet, where you can get many a delectable item (like this ham sammy). They have a few locations around Oslo and their staff is quite pleasant enough I must say!
Indeed, we all demand den beste pølsa (the best icing) for our hot dogs. Your guess is as good as mine regarding the contents of this grocery store item. Not pictured: the Heinz brand American Hamburger Sauce.
Vibrant trees in Grønlandspark Botsparken, a recreation area just behind Oslo Prison. It’s the country’s largest prison but they only house three hundred fifty inmates. Might as well be an elementary school. America’s largest prison, Louisiana State Penn, is home to five thousand.
Everybody speaks English in Norway, as evidenced by this hilarious graffiti.
The fountain that anchors Sørli plass, a nice little area for reflection that rests near the intersection of several traffic arteries. Only the adrenalin junkies on mopeds gave me any kind of pause.
There’s a great three story record shop in Oslo called Råkk og Rålls and it’s the only place I’ve ever seen this beautiful piece of crap on vinyl. Didn’t buy it because I needed a concrete reason to return.
Ain’t never seen a dog chewin’ on a palm frond until I went to Mexico. Actually, I heard it first; the sound of something slowly and methodically tearing through underbrush. I poked my head outside and there he was, some lazy hound gnawin’ on leaf. If my prolonged stare made the dog self conscious he / she didn’t let on. On the whole, the animals of rural southwest Mexico seem unfazed by the human presence. Dogs, cats, chickens, goats, iguanas—even bugs are relaxed, refusing to skitter about like lunatics as they do in the States. America, we’re giving our pets complexes.
What brought me to Troncones, a beachside village slipping out underneath acres of lush jungle, a village so tiny most buildings have no proper address? My friend John and his wife Karen currently work at an area resort, teaching yoga, giving massages, fishing, etc. They invited me, and how could I decline this ostensible paradise? I’m working on a book about punk rock around the globe anyway, thus the extra incentive of potentially uncovering Mexico’s answer to Topper Headon. Don’t snort; screen legend Hedy Lamarr spent her final years in an Orlando suburb five minutes from my current home.
I learned a lot about Mexican culture from these eight days, a handful of which were spent four hours inland amidst terrain and altitudes comparable to America’s southwest. The least important fact: flat screen televisions have come to the quesadilla huts that line the Mexican backroads. Washing down chorizo with a torpedo sized Coke, I caught half an hour of prime afternoon tube during one lunchbreak. There were ads for college, ads for antacid, even ads for Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Just as my mouth began watering for those eleven goddamn herbs and spices, John announced the nearest city, Zihuatanejo, is bereft of the Colonel. No tenemos Harland Sanders.
So that shit happens here too. Commercials for stores that don’t exist.
Before departing the United States I made two purchases at my local dollar store: sunglasses and sandals. The sunglasses continue to work perfectly but the sandals could only handle about forty-eight hours of my oceanside trampling. In their defense, I’ve never been much of a beach person and I’m sure I was walking in them incorrectly. Maybe I’m just making excuses for shitty footwear. It doesn’t matter, I survived.
Will it surprise you to learn I am also not much of a yoga person? The resort where John and Karen work, Present Moment, is very yoga-centric. My brain has never been able to hook into that stuff—even when I was dating a high priestess of yoga who was known to yoga for up to nine hours at a time (I am not joking). This week was no different. I was assured my poor yoga aptitude is because I simply have not done enough yoga yet. So it’s like hard liquor. You must acquire a taste?
Present Moment, by the way, is not any kind of fortress resort keeping guests ensconced away from “the real” Mexico. There is little separation between its expertly landscaped courtyard and the local community of Troncones. In fact, there seems to be a good amount of symbiosis between the two.
It wouldn’t be a trip to Mexico if I didn’t try cacao, the magical base elixir from whence we get chocolate. Taken raw it can be a gateway to mind expansion, to hyper awareness and ultimate clarity, or so they say. I imbibed, sprawled on the ground, and felt…nothing. I mean, nothing aside from the usual weird slurry in my brain. What’s up with Daniel Radcliffe? Am I asleep right now? Are these girls next to me sisters or are they just friends who look alike? Is my t-shirt too tight? Is it too loose?
Driving from Troncones to the mountain area of Zirahuén was very scenic and exciting, the latter in part because we were stopped and searched at one point by men in fatigues with enormous guns. It was unclear who these men were, exactly, but I didn’t ask questions. I just smiled and sipped my bottle of Squirt as non-menacingly as possible. Military checkpoints aside, the rules of the Mexican highway are a bit fast and loose. Anybody can pass anybody else at any given time, and from what I heard DUIs are not considered a major sin. Driving at night can be particular trouble, so we didn’t.
Believe it or not the above photo was not staged—I stumbled upon the bottle just like that in the wild. As I was trying to capture the perfect photographic representation, a nearby construction worker paused from his job to try and figure out what I was obsessing over. Karen told him it was just a Star Wars bottle. The man chuckled but did not emit a full on laugh of recognition until I pointed to myself and said, “Mas loco.”
The million dollar questions about this Mexico excursion are, of course, did I drink the water and if so did the water make me sick? Non-filtered aqua is unavoidable if you’re ordering coffee from a bodega or roadside taco stand, and not everyone is boiling to ensure purification. Sure, I had some; it upset my stomach a little, but I’ve consumed things in New York that have made me far sicker. I haven’t had eggplant since 2011 thanks to some searing Manhattan Super Bowl dip. Ay carumba.
Not much else to say other than it was a fun, relaxing, and educational jaunt. Folks were incredibly kind and accommodating. Thank you, peoples of Mexico. My only regret is not buying the guitar pictured below.
A: Once, in the parking lot of an Albany area Chipotle. I was driving by, on my way to an event or meeting of some apparent importance, because I convinced myself not to stop. I’ll check it out on the way back, I reasoned.
Well guess what? That Wienermobile ghosted me. ‘Twas nowhere in sight upon my return. Just one of many defeats I suffered in the hands of New York’s capital city. Albany, I got a war with you.
They don’t serve wieners at Chipotle, do they? Seems like a ballsy move for the Wienermobile. Just showing up in some unaffiliated restaurant’s parking lot. Maybe the driver was simply picking up his lunch. A little south o’ the border nosh. Hey, I’ll never know. I thought I had to be somewhere.
My feud with Chicago is over. I had a grand time during my mostly “hey, why the hell not?” visit this week, taking in various sights (like the staircase from The Untouchables, seen above) and local delicacies (Dinkel’s cranks out a must-taste Woolworth sandwich). My jimmies were hardly rustled at all.
Like MacArthur I shall return. Three trips out there and I still haven’t seen the house from “Family Matters!” Or that big weird mirror thing!
…In addition to fishing unused jelly packets out of the trash to rinse off and put back on the dining room tables (previously referenced in this post); what a feeling it is to watch an oblivious diner fiddle with a little plastic bin of grape jelly you rescued just fifteen minutes prior from a muggy grave of chewed hash browns and sausage upchuck.
– the dish washer who was obsessed with Dream Theater and tried to convert me every night
– the dish washer who was obsessed with Canibus and was constantly complaining about ringtone rappers
– the regular customer who always brought his own tiny briefcase of specialized condiments
– the other bus boy who exclusively addressed me as “James Bond Jr.”
– my employee evaluation; the only negative bit was “needs to smile more”
– the day I wore Converse to work instead of my regulation grease-proof boots to prove some kind of point (i.e. I won’t CONFORM to YOUR WORLD, oppressors); I slid around on the kitchen floor the entire night
– the Billy Drago-esque manager who raced Kawasaki motorcycles in his spare time and who could never walk out the back door without taking a deep breath, looking up at the clouds, and saying, “What a beautiful day to die!” (he was later fired for sexual harassment)
– being scheduled weekday mornings and having jack shit to bus
– being scheduled on Sundays and feeling like I was in trench warfare
– never being too mad about the servers not sharing their tips because they all had families to support and I was just some bozo in college
– the in-store satellite radio playing the craziest post-grunge (deep cuts from Green Day’s Nimrod, the 1999 Alice in Chains “reunion” song, etc)
– getting pied in the face on my last day of work by one of the servers (it was a hearty apple pie and I had pieces of fruit caught in my hair for hours)
– running into the lead manager at a nearby Waffle House several weeks after I quit; she told me I was a great employee and that I could come back any time (this was very nice to hear)
I’ve not set foot in that Perkins or any other since hanging up my bus tub.
For a lengthy, uncensored history of the Ghostbusters films, who ya gonna call? A Convenient Parallel Dimension: How Ghostbusters Slimed Us Forever. Available in regular, ebook, or audiobook form. Click here or here!
BRAVE PUNK WORLD
My second book is called Brave Punk World: The Internat’l Rock Underground From Alerta Roja to Z-Off and it is now available for purchase. It’s about the development of punk rock in other countries. All the info you want / need about it is right here (click here!).
The Misfits Book
The soft cover of This Music Leaves Stains is available here. Get that sucker and learn all about New Jersey's greatest punk band! Click here to look at the corresponding photo tumblr and click here for the official F.A.Q.
About 90 minutes southeast of Missoula, near a place called Philipsburg. A town without pity? A town with dumpsters, at least.
The coziness and aural calm of Missoula International makes it more like a library with a runway. It was difficult to capture the true essence of the items they keep on display (not pictured: a turkey with impressive plumage).
Portion of a “wall of fame” that hangs in an enormous sporting goods store, the kind that offers socks thicker than any winter coat in New York and also those weird camouflage nets that make hunters look like moving shrubbery.
Here I am snowshoeing my way around the base of a mountain. Even with the aid of such equipment and time to adjust to Montana’s altitude I remained no terrain climbing superstar. Still, it was fun.
The sun makes a rare appearance. Temperatures bounced between 17 and 40 fahrenheit, the latter considered “pretty warm” by locals.
Philipsburg is quite small—they have no McDonald’s, they have no Holiday Inn—but they do offer a few modern comforts. Yes, they also have a pizzeria, one that doubles as a laundromat. I didn’t taste any soap on my pie.
Big broc country. The farm-to-table situation in Montana is so intense they’re practically just tossing it from the field onto your plate.
There’s plenty of cool junk to do in the Treasure State, like hike or ski or fish or sit in a cabin and write and hope Kathy Bates doesn’t break your legs, but it’s also neat to just drive around and take in that big sky.
Thirteen million people live in Tokyo, so it’s a little congested (as you may gather from this morsel of skyline). Many of the city’s streets are unnamed as well, but if you’re good with landmarks you’ll have no problem getting around. And the subway isn’t that difficult to figure out. Even when it is, the staff down there are more than happy to assist the hopelessly confused. The first time I bought an incorrect ticket they knew before I did!
The four hundred fifty yen breakfast deal at Matsuya, one of Tokyo’s most beloved fast food establishments. Perfect for the language impaired tourist—punch your order in on the computer, take the ticket it prints out, sit down, give the server your ticket, BOOM, food. And tasty as all get out.
The Shibuya district at night. I don’t know if you can tell from this image but many of the crosswalks in Tokyo are at odd angles, curving and stretching diagonally as if to anticipate jaywalking patterns. Pretty clever.
Poorly translated bootleg apparel is a cottage industry in Japan and they’re laughing all the way to the bank. Not even the Bortles are safe. 
Physical media isn’t dead in every corner of the globe. To wit: the eight story Tower Records in Shibuya, an unreal monument to music and consumerism. Yes, they have the new BabyMetal. They have an entire floor for J-Pop (and one for K-Pop, and one with a book store / restaurant).
A tribute to fallen Megadeth drummer Nick Menza on the Western Rock floor of the eight story Tower Records. I tried to have a moment of quiet reflection but there were approximately five stereos within two feet of this display and they were all playing different things. There’s some noise pollution in Tokyo.
A fresh burger from Freshness Burger. That’s egg and chili on that bad boy (at least that’s what I think it was). No fries, or “potato” as they like to call it. Gotta cut back somewhere. Freshness Burger is reasonably priced but many an item or service in Tokyo is not. New Yorkers will feel at home.
Here’s what happens when you attempt to photograph an exclusive event occurring in / around the Harajuku area’s Tamagotchi store—an employee of the store will give you the big “no” while a cop tries to decide whether or not to yell at you. They were firm but polite. Those folks crowded around the window, they showed up so early—don’t cheapen their experience!
This is the interior of a Disk Union, a record store chain that has twenty or so locations around Tokyo. Every one I visited was crammed with stock just like this. Found lotsa rare greatness here but the favorite record shop I visited is Recofan (which is just one outlet in a mall) only because it has the largest, most varied (and cheapest) used section.
Some concepts are universal, like fishing programs on Saturday morning television. This woman was very excited to have caught her little buddy here. Later that day I watched a dubbed version of The Rocketeer. That film may have been a bigger hit Stateside had they sold it as a Japanese property.
I cannot lie: I ate at KFC in Japan. The chicken is prepared for an Eastern palette. It’s lighter, thinner, less “down home” (in the parlance of U.S. comfort food). Still plenty of grease, though. Yes, this particular location has an actual bar. You need a craft beer with your biscuits and gravy?
I don’t know what this is all about. I guess you can live out all your Nintendo fantasies in Tokyo, even as Captain America and Cookie Monster.
All the excitement of Doritos without the excitement! This is good place to mention if you’re out in Tokyo and you need help or directions, the average Japanese citizen would love to assist you but conversational English skills are rare. Learn to say “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Japanese, do you understand English?” in Japanese and conclude interactions with a bow (luckily some words, like “coffee” and “Barack Obama,” transcend cultural barriers).
The kitchen / office of my sublet in the Shinjuku neighborhood. Figuring out the microwave wasn’t easy but I eventually sorted out how to properly heat a dumpling soup from 7-Eleven (surprisingly high quality). Did I mention the jet lag from the U.S. to Tokyo? It’s Herculean. If there’s a secret to conquering it I still don’t know. Spent many hours standing around this room in a daze.
The bucolic Norwegian countryside as seen from your plane as it soars into Oslo. Unless my geography is total excrement, that body of water is the Vorma (Warm) River.
The days are long during Scandinavian Summer. Some argue they never really end. This photo was taken at three in the morning in downtown Oslo. My internal clock was definitely thrown by the lack of dark. I ended up sleeping in shifts of three or four hours throughout my stay.
Oslo’s Grand Hotel, where they award the Nobel Peace Prize. You would be surprised how close this esteemed building is to a T.G.I.Friday’s. I looked at the menu; they have the same Jack Daniels-battered crap as the T.G.I.F.s here. It all probably tastes better in Norway though since they have such strict regulations against preservatives and chemicals.
A group of teenage-looking guards at Norway's Royal Palace. There’s a whole protocol to be sure but it seems less intense than guard situations in England or the U.S. Getting a decent picture of the palace and its impressive surrounding vegetation is a little difficult—at least it is if you're me, a real not professional photo-taking guy.
Concrete proof they have more than one car in Norway. Let me also take this opportunity to dispel the myth that Norwegian money is wooden. It is not. It is paper and coins just like everywhere else.
My go-to breakfast spot on this trip was Kaffe Brenneriet, where you can get many a delectable item (like this ham sammy). They have a few locations around Oslo and their staff is quite pleasant enough I must say!
Indeed, we all demand den beste pølsa (the best icing) for our hot dogs. Your guess is as good as mine regarding the contents of this grocery store item. Not pictured: the Heinz brand American Hamburger Sauce.
Vibrant trees in Grønlandspark Botsparken, a recreation area just behind Oslo Prison. It’s the country’s largest prison but they only house three hundred fifty inmates. Might as well be an elementary school. America’s largest prison, Louisiana State Penn, is home to five thousand.
Everybody speaks English in Norway, as evidenced by this hilarious graffiti.
The fountain that anchors Sørli plass, a nice little area for reflection that rests near the intersection of several traffic arteries. Only the adrenalin junkies on mopeds gave me any kind of pause.
There’s a great three story record shop in Oslo called Råkk og Rålls and it’s the only place I’ve ever seen this beautiful piece of crap on vinyl. Didn’t buy it because I needed a concrete reason to return.
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The soft cover of This Music Leaves Stains is available here. Get that sucker and learn all about New Jersey's greatest punk band! Click here to look at the corresponding photo tumblr and click here for the official F.A.Q.
JG2LAND: THE OFFICIAL BLOG OF JAMES GREENE, JR. 