Flocculent: like or in tufts of wool, etc.; downy.

As in, "The space under the end tables is remarkably flocculent" or even "My, this is some wonderfully flocculent cheese."

Go ahead, ask me anything.

The simple two-position switch on the front of my rice cooker has been a little flaky since I moved back here. Something related to a fierce denting it enjoyed en route somewhere between Seattle and Tokyo. I press the switch down (the Cook That Rice setting) and it forgets to pop back up into the Keep Warm setting when the rice is all steamed and fluffy. The rice cooker, none the wiser, keeps right on cooking with the blissful, detached indifference of your typical kitchen appliance.

I flip open the lid and peer inside. No scorched smell of flambéd rice, that's a good sign. "Hm," I think, deciding that I might still salvage dinner. I glance over to the kitchen table, where a plate of hot gyoza sit steaming impatiently alongside some cherry tomatoes and a bowl of kimchee. A rice bowl waits there emptily, mocking me. I consider the rice. "What the hell?", I say to no one in particular, and grab a shamoji and a plate. The rice comes out nicely in a neat, frisbee-shaped chunk. Although the bottom has been fused into a golden-brown, igneous rice exoskeleton, the top seems to be okay. I grab my chopsticks, dunk a random gyoza into a bowl of soy sauce and vinegar, and lay it atop the rice. Where it begins to sizzle anew. Crap.

I practice making up new epithets on the way to the local 7-11, cursing Zojirushi and Black Cat Yamato and passing motorists with names like ass vomit spleen and whore daddy, wishing all the while that I'd worn a scarf. Damn, it's cold. In minutes I'm passing through the double doors into the glorious florescence of 7-11. Sato-san greets me with his standard robot-like "Irrasshaimase!," standing at attention behind one of the three registers. Sato-san (I know him only by his name tag) has hair that falls somewhere near his beltline, always kept in a careless ponytail. He speaks with a curious feminine lilt typically reserved for elevator girls in upscale hotels and department stores. Almost as if the simple act of keeping his throat open requires great effort, so that the last syllable or two always emerge as a kind of high-pressure hiss, barely escaping before his vocal cords slam shut again under some unseen strain.

It has to be affected. I'm sure of it. He's aspiring mightily to something, I just don't know what it is. The rigid, straight posture. The mechanical counting off of each item you bring to the counter. Seaweed Salty Chips, one! Grape juice, one! Toilet paper, one! Ready-to-eat lunch, one! (Shall I heat it for you? Hai!) I don't know what he's got going on there, but it brings me back every time, just to marvel at his consistency.

I give Sato-san my money, collect my change, and watch him perform his trademark Closing Salutation: hands clasped before him, palms in, shoulders forward, he performs a short bow followed by a girlish arigatou gozaimashita. I give him a wink (no response) and head for the door.

A hundred meters and I'm passing through the glass Star Trek doors of my building. Into the elevator, up the stairs, then straight to the kitchen to regroup after the rice fiasco. I eat my in front of the computer, thinking to catch up on email. That is to say, catch up on reading email. As anyone who knows me knows, I never actually write any email. It's either these rambling and sporadic missives posted to the web site or nothing at all. Craicky am I ever lame.

I throw together a quick MP3 playlist of Bill Evans, Radiohead, MC 900 Foot Jesus and Joao Gilberto, hoping the synergy will produce vivid hallucinations. In the neighbors, I mean. Anyway, I find new mail from The Dan. The Dan has been uncharacteristically prolific lately, ever since he relocated to Laos. Instead of the usual parade of anecdotal fodder and incoherent "sharing" I've come to expect and adore, now he's taken to regularly berating me as some malevolent capitalistic swine. (This, from a guy who owes me 500 bones!) The Dan has been swayed by religion, of all things, specifically the notorious Communist Buddhism particular to Laos, and is now a convert of sorts. Once upon a time (and not too long ago, mind you) I could look forward to lovingly crafted email prose like:

Anyway, the meat: I was close to broke again, my last 51 Baht, 2 weeks from payday, stalking college students at an English school, when I passed another ATM. I had still been giving them a halfhearted try every couple of days just in case. I decided to lay easy on the target and give this one a try just for the fuck of it.

And now all I get is non-sensical, left-wing, pontificating crap.

[Laos] is a scattering of villages, people live with their families, everyone is related to the cop and the judge and the party member in town. No heavy handedness that I saw. No porn allowed--that's a very good thing, I think.

I mean, what?? The Dan invented porn, for God's sake! And now what. You should hear him rave about the wholesome womenfolk and their long dresses. It's like sending Bukowski to the supermarket on a Sunday afternoon and having Erich Fromm show up with the groceries. You still like him okay, but you worry about what's in the bag, you know? Aw, what's the use. Guess I'd better write him back...