time-delay catch-up like sucking on whipped cream bulbs.

[excuse the postmodernist jumpcutz back and forth] : copied from the stories ideas paper notebook

18/1/2005 12:41am Incheon airport, s.korea

I’ve been a bit reluctant to journals in here because of wasting the space but i don’t want to write on the computer either. There’s a (closed) starbucks clone up here on the 2nd floor and I almost thought I had the wireless working on the clamshell for a moment — such is the dodginess of yellowdog linux that I don’t know f it’s that or that they just shut their wireless at night. It came up as active though.

If they are cops, that keep patrolling past, they’re the most unthreatening cops I’ve ever seen. saw a whole squad of army-fatigues dressed young guys sitting in a waiting area about to transit somewhere – they also looked thoroughly unexcited about whatever it was they were about to do. (two years military service is mandatory for each young bloke)

They have Xylitol gum here! Sadly it doesn’t harden up the way hubba-bubba does. Xylitol is a sugar substitute invented by the Finnish – which is actually good for you and your teeth compared to refined sugar which is a toxin.

The airport is so ordered, clean, new with a min. of advertising, quiet, and clearly signed. I can only imagine things’ll slide down a bit once I get out of here.

After all the media hoopla on tightening of personal international movement I was surprised with how easy its all been. I was expecting the arse-probe for sure. I thought they made you go into a little room, taqke your clothes off then they go through all your personal stuff in front of you and comment on it; “Large plastic nose and glasses eh? bit of a funny man are you?” “No.”
Apart from the deafness-induced long queues in Melbourne there hasn’t even been any second looks. I’m always going for the ‘nothing to declare’ line because what the heck does that mean anyway?
The customs people here, a man and a woman, wtopped my trolley and asked “what’s in there?” of my large sports bag. I didn’t quite catch what she said, looked a bit nervous and resigned to sphinctal tampering. “What’s in here? Clothes?”, she repeated. I said yes because it’s true and they let me on my way.
I declare this to be the international year of Me Being Whitey.

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