Adrian's Got the Moose

On the Subtle Art of Washing your Testicles Amongst other Sets of Testicles

I have stayed in capsules (also known as pods, or coffins if one is feeling disparaging, or claustrophobic) in Singapore, Bangkok, Jerusalem, and Phnom Penh. But this is the first time I have stayed in a purpose-built capsule hotel. Japan, of course, is where this method of accommodation originated, with the idea that drunk salarymen who missed the last train home needed a cheap place to sleep, sober up, and start again in the morning. It’s the same thought process that leads convenience stores in Japan to sell underwear and socks. For budget travellers in a country known for being tough on even a generous travel budget, they are an ideal alternative to hostels, providing a place to sleep, attend to personal hygiene, and to have a tiny piece of privacy, which is in short supply in Tokyo.

By Chris 73 / Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=19656 Same model capsule as in my hotel.

Two things bugged me about this capsule hotel. The first being the fact that even with my multiple-night booking, I still had to vacate the hotel by 1100 every day, and my belongings evicted to a tiny locker or the luggage storage room on the top floor. The second was the public baths, which were the only option for bathing for men staying at this hotel.

You strip naked at your locker, and enter the main bathroom, where you sit at a plastic stool set in front of a set of taps and a wall-long mirror. Shower gel and shampoo are provided, and here is where you lather up your entire body, scrub, and then rinse off. Once you are clean enough, you are free to have a soak in one of the spa baths or use the sauna.

Now you are clean and relaxed, you sit at what amounts to bathroom sinks, and brush your teeth, do your hair, shave, etc.. Still, during all this, you are supposed to be completely naked. Once again, I was supplied with a hair dryer with no hair to dry. Once you are satisfied with your appearance, or at least manage to delude yourself that you are in fact highly attractive, you discard your towel and dress in the super sexy robes provided by the hotel, and lounge around for the rest of the night.

With every selfie, the eye bags get a little bigger.

The Japanese, of course, take all this nudity in their stride. It’s part of their culture, and I suspect they think no more about it than I do when getting changed at gyms. They don’t exactly strut around, but act as if its the most normal thing to be naked, which of course it would be if we didn’t get screwed over by a snake.

Numerous times in my five-night stay, I used this shared space every night, and every night I noticed a new resident walk in, look confused, look for the shower stalls they were expecting, before trying to look nonchalant and getting on with it. Most notably was a six foot six African gentleman, who had more muscle mass in his neck than I can claim all over, looking around bashfully, trying to wrap the towel around himself modestly (they seem to be made so you cannot quite do this) before getting on with it like everyone else. This was in constrast to the fact that he had nothing to be bashful about, having a body that most of us are envious of.

At first I was also awkward, but after the second night, I got used to it and enjoyed the process. Then it got routine, then tedious. By the last night, I was wishing I could just have a quick shower without getting involved in a ritual. I was also thinking that at some point I was going to get up arse up, slipping on the slippery tiles-Who thought that was a good idea? I’ll tell you one thing about bathing in company, it does wonders for your willingness to take your time washing everywhere when you are surrounded by men doing the same.

A Coffee Tour of Tokyo

Having managed to escape the airport and get the Limo Bus to Shinjuku, I promptly got lost and ended up in the heart of Kabukicho, which at least let me take a photo of one of the prominent landmarks.

I was very glad I knew about this, and was entirely sober.

Once I got myself geographically sorted, I arrived at my capsule hotel. Predictably, they were in the process of kicking people out rather than letting people in, so I dumped my bag with the big pile of other luggage at reception. I had barely slept on the plane, and my central nervous system was making unreasonable demands for sleep, intimacy, and stimulants. Only one of those things was practical and readily available for purchase. It was time for coffee, and what better way to start getting my head around the place than a coffee tour?

Lawsons, Shinjuku.

My first caffeine hit needed to be convenient, immediate, and no-nonsense. I managed to find a Lawsons just around the corner from the hotel. It tasted like you would expect coffee in a can to taste, overly sweet, a little metallic, but had the intended effect. Mostly, I choose it because Suntory makes some excellent whiskey. While I was there, I also managed to withdraw some cash from their ATM. 6\10, iced coffee might be the only thing Australia does better than Japan.

Tomato Cafe, Shinjuku

A short walk from my hotel towards Kabukicho, this place reminded me of Dome back home, only with Italian pretensions. The place was showing a lot of wear and tear, but the cappuccino was quite decent, and by now I was feeling human enough to read my Kindle. 7\10, loses points for the chipped furniture.

Maid Dreamin, Shinjuku

I should stop being in selfies with people cuter than me.

Maid Cafes are common, with various franchisees and concepts, Maid Dreamin being a more generic form as far as I can tell. For a considerable sum, I enjoyed a fairly bland coffee, which featured a magical incantation, and from a distance (courtesy of a group of Americans) a dance performance. I felt ludicrous, but did enjoy the attention, specifically non-sexual, as it was supposed to be from my maid. While I am certainly not immune to kawaii, the whole experience was a little too close to some boundaries I have. 7\10, a fun but one-time-only thing.

Warhammer Cafe, Akihabara

I am a big Warhammer 40K nerd, I read a lot of the books but don’t play the game, as soon as I discovered they had this in Tokyo, I knew I had to have a look. The cafe was really just a counter, and I had to take a seat at a bench set up for painting miniatures, and it did take quite a long time to get my latte. While I waited, the manager sat next to me and had a chat, mostly about the hobby and maid cafes, which he informed me about a cyberpunk-themed maid cafe around the corner, which sounded interesting, but I never ended up visiting. I enjoyed some people watching, noting with interest that quite a few couples were walking in and having a look around- proving that indeed some 40K fans have known the touch of a woman. But after a quick look at the displays, there was nothing to keep me here, and I departed. 6/10, would not go out of my way to have coffee here again.

Glitch Coffee, Ginza

“Staff will wear black, customers white, no exceptions”

Down a side road just off from the main shopping area, my Google searches often resulted in mentioning this place as the best coffee in Tokyo. I had to line up for half an hour outside the shop. At first, I enjoyed the wait, listening to the Russian spoken by the couple in line in front of me, and trying to start a conversation with a Japanese man wearing a vintage Nick Cave shirt walking past with his friends. This turned to frustration when it became obvious that the Russian couple gave every indication that this was their first outing without supervision, having a lengthy and ultimately one-sided argument with the staff about their payment policy ( I thought everyone knew by now that having both card and cash is always a good idea when travelling?). Then I was allowed in and able to sniff some beans before ordering. I ordered a short machhiato and selected Catubba Bourbon beans from Colombia. Rather than be seated near the Russians, I sat at the bar and within a few minutes had my drink in front of me.

The average person has between two thousand and ten thousand tastebuds, I now know I have six thousand, six hundred and three. Each tastebud in my mouth started singing Accidentally Kelly Street by Frente! as soon as the crema hit them. When I finished my coffee, they started sulking, knowing that they would never be so happy again. I didn’t linger after my drink and headed back to the train station. When I checked my banking app I realised that while that drink was pricy, it was still cheaper than what I paid for Maid Dreamin, so I felt further justified in going out of my way for this experience.

One Night in Bangkok

By the time I managed to escape Suvarnabhumi Airport and reach my hotel, it was well past midnight. All I wanted was a cold shower and sleep, but that seemed disrespectful to turn my back on Thailand’s most infamous party street without at least having one drink. I changed into shorts and flip-flops and headed to Khao San Road. It was pumping, and I did a lap, politely declining offers of booze, weed, ladyboys, and less charming suggestions of ping-pong shows. I stopped at the quiet end, at one of those stalls that were nothing more than an esky and some cheap seating, and ordered a big bottle of Chang. The beer went down quickly and easily, and I decided it was past my bedtime, so it was best to leave the party to those half my age.

Taking my preferred shortcut through Suzie Lane, a stunningly attractive African American woman hugged me, and asked where I was from. If I were drunk, I would have told her she was beautiful, but weary and all too sober, like an idiot, I headed back to my room.

I stayed one night in a hotel on Tani Street called the Secret Service, featuring Cold War-era spy equipment and movie posters.

More important to me right now was the private bathroom and air-con. I took a cold shower and shaved, and slept for five hours. In the late morning, I packed and checked out, and after coffee, I started walking towards the Grand Palace. I took a kind of metro station bypass to avoid crossing the busy road, and made a note of the people sleeping in the air-conditioning before emerging near the entrance. While the Grand Palace is very impressive, dealing with the maddening crowd was a little more than I should be expected to deal with, and I did a lap then departed.

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Get out of the way, maybe?

Heading back to Khao San, I walked along a road next to a canal. Bangkok’s poor were selling meager second-hand goods, often curled up to sleep next to their goods on blankets or, often just cardboard. Whatever money was to be had could not have amounted to much, and this was only a five-minute walk from the bars and massage shops of Khao San. Having time to kill until I needed to get to the airport, after coffee, I spent a pleasant two hours at a massage place that didn’t need pretty girls to lure people in. Feeling very loose, I spoiled the whole effect by getting motion sick in the Grab car, to the extent that I began to be concerned about cleaning fees.

An Open Letter to the how to vote Hobgoblins and their candidates

Gerrit Ballast, Australian Christians: Do you really think someone with tattoos, four piercings, a three day growth of beard on a Saturday morning, and currently hands that look like they were washed in sulfuric acid is going to vote for you? Mentulam caco.

Mario Lionetti, Independent: Yeah, no party would touch this guy, his biggest claim to fame is his videos where he is yelling at his fellow candidates, and how they won’t acknowledge his existence and debate him. If all the other candidates died in a series of unfortunate, unlikely, and darkly amusing events, does anyone actually think he would be capable of transporting himself north of Mount Barker to get to Parliament?

Phillip Arnatt, Legalise Cannabis Party WA: Okay cool, I am in favour of that, but do you have any other policies or opinions?

Lyn Maclaren, The Greens WA: The Greens are routinely derided for being ineffective and at the same time blamed for destroying whole industries when they manage to push through mild changes. Their policies are broadly aligned with my beliefs so they get my vote. I also know it will be a cold day in hell before they are elected in my hick town, but I can still dream.

Rebecca Stephens- WA Labor: Ah, our nominal mainstream left-wing party, that right-wing voters seem to think is as far left as Karl Marx. Recently I have been accused of being a hippie Labor voter, when in reality I’m much further to the left. Current seat holder and still the favourite.

Scott Leary, The Nationals WA: The Nationals were created to represent farmers, but we are supposed to ignore that they are happy to hang those farmers out to dry when mining companies show up with bags of cash. Also, they seem to assume that non-farmers don’t vote.

Synjon Anstee-Brook- Shooters, Fishers, and Farmers Party WA: Well, I am not any of those things. They are trying really hard not to be known as libertarian, which they clearly are. They seem to think every Australian has a dire need to own dozens of guns. They also seem to think the bush is just a place to trash with their Hiluxes.

Quinton Bischoff- One Nation: You guys usually don’t try to hand me a how to vote card, which I always take as a compliment. One Nation is the party for the ignorant, the uneducated, and the bigoted. Actually, now that I think of it they are what the Australian Christians would be with criminal records and less teeth. The fact that Quinton is an immigrant himself (but a white South African, so a good one in their view) is interesting. So many One Nation candidates are ex-cons I am beginning to suspect it’s a preselection prerequisite.

Tom Brough- Liberal Party: Strange how the Libs and his own website neglect to mention his linking the LGBTQIA+ community with pedophilia or his anti-vax and anti-choice views. The Libs party leader considers him to be bizarre but is desperate to have anyone contesting the seat. Many of his election posters have been vandalised, which has been highly entertaining

Due to the tedious nature of this post, please accept this video of bunnies being arseholes.

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The Collected Poetic Works of Adrian

For my sins, and because I didn’t take any leave leading up to the festive season, I was sent to work with the only person in Street Trees still working, a casual, to help out with their watering of the most recently planted verge trees. Thus, I spent two days with my hand out the window, watering plants, talking shit and being a solid passenger princess.

At lunch, the conversion took an unexpected turn; poetry and masculinity. I mentioned the proud tradition of male poets in Iran, as well as our own traditional of bush poetry. Conner, in a display of ego so common in Street Trees workers, declared that he has recently challenged himself to write a poem for his wife every week. Not willing this to go unanswered, I mentioned that I had written a poem from the point of view of The Most Recent Ex, about her love for koalas and my obvious inadequacy compared to them. I also stated that it was a shame that no one else had ever seen it, as I had planned to read it out to the Peel Street Poetry Club in Hong Kong with her next time I visited Hong Kong. Conner said that I should publish the poem somewhere, just on principle. It was the only half way intelligent thing he said all day.

So here is the poem, most likely the only one I will ever write, assuming of course that it could even be considered a poem.

My Australian lover is not as cute as a koala,
But is blessedly free of chlamydia
He doesn’t eat leaves,
He does eat too much beef jerky
He doesn’t live in a tree,
But dreams of living in a tree-house
He is not much smarter than a koala,
But is just smart enough to date me
There is no Wikipedia heading for Adrian Poetry,
But he did buy me a fountain pen
There are no conservation efforts to save Adrian,
But he is involved in conservation efforts
My Australian lover is vastly inferior to a koala,
But he will have to do until I can get an import permit.

In absence of a photo of a koala, or an ex, please accept this Mount Melville.

The Passing of a Prince of a Spaniel

Buddy, my family’s cocker spaniel, is no longer in pain. I stayed, patting his head while the vet gave him the injection. When Buddy breathed his last, I kissed him on the nose and walked out, not bothering to hide my tears from the vet, my mum waiting in the reception, or the nurse.

Buddy came to our family as a young adult from Shenton Park Dog Refuge, he had been given the name Forrest, but no one knew his history. Buddy was an overweight bundle of anxiety. I had always thought that he came from a family who loved him, but due to sickness or circumstances, could not spend much time with him, and attempted to compensate by feeding him more. After the passing of Dasha, who we had from a puppy, I honestly thought I would never bond again with another dog with the same intensity. That idea dissolved as soon as I saw Buddy. he trotted over to me, whimpering softly, demanding love and attention. Buddy soon learned to associate me with walks, Buddy stayed anxious, but soon had everyone he met, including some neighbourhood children, wrapped around his paws. He often crawled up on my dad’s lap to fall asleep, only waking when he knew his dinner was around the corner.

A year ago, Buddy started needing coaxing to go for walks, and his anxiety seemed to be getting worse. A month before the fateful vet visit, I couldn’t get him to go for walks at all. I would lay down on the floor with him, patting him, just to make sure he knew I was there, and cared for him still. When he was not sleeping, he would be walking around the house, looking confused, often bumping into things. In the last week, he gave up eating.

On the last day, I received a call from my brother, and raced straight to the vet after work to meet Mum and Buddy at the vets. Buddy refused the treat the lovely nurse offered him. When we saw the vet, Buddy moved listlessly around the room, looking confused and unsteady. The prognosis was bad, while efforts could be made to extend his life, he was a very old dog, and the end result may just be extending his suffering. The decision was made, as horrible as it was.

I’ll always remember the happier days, my beautiful boy.

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Garrett The Goblin

In my home, there lives a goblin with an appetite for Bolle safety glasses.

Many of the more interesting cultures in the world, past and present, feature household spirits. Spirits, minor deities or fairies, if treated right, offer protection to the household, good fortune, or help with domestic duties. Typically, one placates such creatures by offerings of food and drink, sometimes incense, and sometimes a small, symbolic house for them to live in. Then your household spirit will help you keep a happy home. If you neglect the needs of your spirit, you might suffer from mischief, such as a disloyal spouse, soured milk, or your car keys going missing moments before you leave the house for work. To many, household spirits seem odd, but keeping them happy is considered serious business in Spain, Scotland, much of Asia, and one modest apartment in Albany, WA.

Domovoy, a household deity in Slavic countries, typically represented by statues like this,usually placed near the front door, or the heath. Domovoy. (2024, September 9). In *Wikipedia*. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Domovoy

Garrett the Goblin lives between the brick and plasterboard in the wall facing my driveway. He is squat, unbelievably ugly, has bad posture, and smells of Lynx Africa.

Garrett has no interest in the food and drink I leave out, and the smelly candles I burn make him sneeze. Garrett can only be placated by offerings of safety glasses. He is not impressed by my Oakleys or my prescription glasses. The safety glasses from Bunnings barely satisfy him for a few hours, and then he will be making my taps leak and unlocking doors. Only Bolles will do.

The safety glasses are supplied by my work, I wear them for a few days then leave them on my desk. When I next run to the kitchen for a drink I hear him scarper over to the desk, snatch the Bolles, then squeeze himself back into the wall cavity via the hole I have never gotten around to fixing behind the TV.

The gatekeepers of PPE at my work are three ladies. How do I explain to these modern, rational, and sophisticated women that I live with a goblin whose mischief can only be mitigated by safety glasses? Audrey thinks I am touched in the head. Carissa believes I am unhealthily fond of the smell of newly minted plastic. Talia suspects I am selling them on the black market in former Soviet Bloc countries to feed my iced coffee habit, but can prove nothing.

In the end, the disdain is an uncomfortable, but small price to pay. Usually, Garrett’s ugliness is hidden from view, nothing has needed repairing for ages, the cost of living crisis has not forced me to get a housemate, and goblins are excellent deterrents to porch-pirates.

A Watcher in the Dark, a strange example from the Warhammer 40k universe.

Dentists and Duende

There is a line from the movie Fight Club that I have always loved- With a gun barrel between your teeth, you speak only in vowels. Now, with a mouth full of shiny dentistry tools, and two people peering intently into my mouth, I think I should create a similar phrase. With a mouthful of dentist tools, you think only in absolutes? No, bad enough that I’m ripping off Fight Club, I shouldn’t plagiarize one of the more terrible Star Wars movies as well. With a mouth full of dentistry tools, the only valid philosophy is stoicism? Better, but I am not feeling at all stoic. With a mouthful of dentistry tools, you can only think deeply about your credit card debt? Not quite, clearly, I will not be the next Chuck Palahniuk. Fuck it.

Rewind. Sitting in the reception area, waiting for my appointment, reading my paperback (Abroad in Japan by Chris Broad), and trying not to keep glancing up at the flawless receptionist. I’m still recovering from a near-miss at work, where for a few seconds I thought my passengers and I were going to die. I spent an hour after work sitting at home, but relaxing between something like that and a dentist appointment is not feasible for me.

I’ll never take you to the one reserve in town where I know a small colony of Boronia megastigma grows. I would have led you to them blindfolded, asked you to inhale deeply the most amazing smell in nature, and then shown you the unassuming flowers that produce it.

Copyright Fagg, M., as featured on Australian National Herbarium.

Barely out of high school, I went to our local hospital to get two wisdom teeth extracted. I remember waking up post-surgery, a nurse confused as to why another nurse bandaged up both sides of my mouth when only the left side was operated on. Fast forward almost thirty years and the two remaining wisdom teeth need fillings. I should consider myself lucky that after five years of absence from the dentist chair, that’s all I need done. Blame COVID, blame my former dentist for canceling an appointment and then ghosting me. Blame the ongoing financial strain from owning my own home. When I found myself opposite one of my town’s newest dentist clinics, waiting for my coworker to conduct a Dial Before You Dig search, I knew what I had to do.

You will never see me entirely at ease, talking to volunteers at an event, or school kids at a planting day, as comfortable as you were working with children at your work.

Logically I am fine with dentists. Sub-consciously it is a mess. My tongue wants to go wherever the tools are poked (not sure what that says about my kissing ability) and my lips severely object to anything not food or drink-related trying to pass them. This started getting worse when I stopped getting lollypops from the school dentist.

I’ll never bring you an Americano, straight from my machine in my kitchen, in bed and an espresso for myself, so we can wake up together, cuddle, and plan what to do with the day.

The procedure begins with a lot of poking and prodding as if they didn’t decide two weeks ago what was needed. Then the numbing spray, then the needles into each gum. Then the fun begins. The drill comes out to clean out the decay, and what I feel is not so much pain as a deep unpleasant scraping and vibration that feels like it gets right to my skeleton. Next is polishing so the filling material has a nice clean surface to bond to. A plastic divider is shoved into my mouth, then the filling material is sprayed/injected/poured onto my remaining wisdom teeth. Something that looked suspiciously like a microchip is also added. An LED tool is used to quickly set the fillings, which makes my mouth uncomfortably hot for a few seconds, reminding me that not all my mouth has been numbed. Finally, they make me bite down on some paper to check my bite alignment and then fine-tune the fillings, and I’m sent on my way after a rinse, where I pretend not to notice that I can barely spit and mostly dribble water out of my mouth.

You will never ask me why I wave at people doing traffic management when I drive, and I’ll never explain to you the simple, undemanding camaraderie between people working in High-Vis in Australia, reinforced by attending the same training courses, driving similar vehicles, and similar working conditions.

My much-lauded private health insurance covers less than a third of the bill, and I attempt to look nonchalant as the goddess charges the gap to my credit card.

Home/Post Mortem

When the plane turned inland, and I saw amongst the green vegetation the bright orange of the Western Australian Christmas Trees, I sighed contentedly. I was home.

I spent the first week home getting my unit into some semblance of order. Oddly, three weeks in Hong Kong had left me paradoxically agoraphobic. Luckily I had plenty of things to do in my unit to deal with until this abated. Was I even the same person who called his girlfriend that he thought the skyscrapers were stalking him?

For the most part, things in Albany were the same. But I was different. Two tattoos, a long-distance girlfriend. A few personality traits adjusted, maybe for the better. Perhaps I was suffering from premature enlightenment, but I tried to hold on to some self-improvement regardless.

It’s a common traveller’s conceit that travel changes a person. I am certainly guilty of that as well. Keep your home tidy. Go to the gym every day. Make your lunch every day for work. Cut up your credit card and pay all your bills on time. It’s easy to promise these things to yourself while sipping a beer in Cambodia.

Written in the Field Notes notebook that went with me everywhere.

I gained strength to work on my goals due to the enticement at the end of that list- To see Arum again.

For better or worse, before I could work on that last item my relationship with Arum disintegrated. It was not just the relationship that ended, It was the last aspect of my life that had turned it from good to amazing. I found this to be devastating for the first few weeks, but help from friends, family, hindsight, and Prozac got me back to normal. Now Hong Kong is not an option for my next trip; chances are I will never return there. Too many ghosts. Maybe South America. Maybe China or India. Maybe i’ll wait until I have someone to share the road with, sunsets and potholes.

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Hong Kong and Hot Pot

Something I didn’t pay much attention to on my previous visits to Hong Kong, is the constant noise of the city. Trains moving underground, traffic backed up, the footfalls of a million pairs of feet in a desperate need to be somewhere else. Late at night, when the MTR stops, the traffic abates, and most people are safely in their homes, you can hear the city snoring, as if anything approaching silence is an anathema to the spirit of the city.

The flag of Hong Kong should be a middle-aged man, screaming into a mobile phone

I usually barely wake up when Arum gets up and ready for work. I have no job here, no obligations, nowhere to be. I sleep late, get up, shower, shave and dress, and leave the flat and not return until Arum has finished work. Without her, the flat is a cold, empty place.

The national symbol of Hong Kong should be a Rolex shop, one of three on the same city block, entirely absent of clients.

Word on the street is that due to the interchange of four MTR lines, Admiralty Station is insanely busy and chaotic. Out of sheer bloody-mindedness, I visited at 1645, and found it to be tame and uninteresting. For me, the TST/East TST is far busier and interesting, with the contrast of people moving to and from Chungking and Mirador mansions, and the upscale K11 Art Mall. I stood still for two minutes, the ultimate sin, listening to Apparet’s Goodbye , just letting the tide of humanity move around me.

Hong Kong is full of 7.4 million people who don’t know their left from their right, or know, and don’t care.

The bar is smoky, it’s dimly lit, and that’s doing more for me than the waitress, in the beer-girl dress I have seldom seen outside of Vietnam. Of course, I could not remember what brand of beer the dress was advertising, but I do remember the row of perfect roses tattooed on one perfect leg.

Hong Kong only dreams on a feather bed of late-stage capitalism.

With Arum, I attend two meetings of the Peel Street Poetry Club, high above a street side restaurant in Central. Usually poetry does not appeal to me much, but I find this gritty, raw variety more compelling. On the second meeting Arum reads a poem of her own, to much acclaim, both of the poem and her recital. Now she is one of them, while I am still an outsider, but some of that belonging does rub off on me, as a poet-consort, like Arum’s glitter on my shirt.

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