Some Silliness About Pocky

GayBoy and I were standing around in my kitchen, after a mad dash to the Dan-D-Mart before its 10pm closure. Home to all things good in bulk, the Dan-D-Mart has made my life 50% better in the last 18 months. In the middle of winter I just need to head up to the Dan-D-Mart and life can go on. All good. Great in a snowstorm! Like we have those. But if we did. Y'know.

But we weren't just standing around. We were standing around eating Pocky. Not just Pocky. But New Pocky. New. And I thought, "What's new?" And with my rather baffling ability to remember only the stupidest of trivia, I realized that the "new" was referring to the additional 42 calories that just jumped onto a single pack of 20 sticks and the 3 new grams of fat. (250 now, 208 zen. 10 grams fat now, 7 grams of fat zen.) how dare they up the bad shit by 25%?

And the result?

A crispier Pocky. I daresay it's enjoyable. GayBoy couldn't help himself. Not, that is, until he magnaminously waved off the final two sticks. "No, no. I couldn't."

Before that, though, we were having a good, good laugh. It was two years ago this past couple weeks that I'd have been recovering from my third and most intense concussion. Had a torn shoulder, a shitload of bad crap to deal with. Ultimately, best thing that ever happened to me, 'cos it's most of the result of who I be these days. But then, it fucking SUCKED.

It sucked when friends weren't around, but folks like GayBoy proved to be of great use during those days. And great companionship, too. I keep GayBoy in my life in spite of all his loveably annoying traits because he's what keeps me young. He has a very childlike fascination with life and has an endlessly curious spirit. It's great fun to be around, even if I tend to seem a little serious next to him.

And a perfect example of that is what he did about three or so days into my post-concussive haze -- literally about one of the only things I remember for about five or six weeks: He bought me Giant Pocky.

Ever seen it? (If you go here, you will see the laughably badly translated version of Glico's Pocky page. No, really. It's laughably bad. Guffaw-rated 8.)

Well, apparently no one on the web has had the decency to post the measurements, but the box was about 24" long, and each stick was about 3/4 inch round. It rocked. Every stick was individually foil-wrapped.

When people came over, I could reach down beside my chair and offer them a Giant Pocky. "Would you care for a Giant Pocky?" Emphasis were necessary. Then, with a fell swoop, I would brandish this long metallic, gleaming rod in front of their face. Laughter would ensue.

But it served two purposes. One, I could be polite and ask visiting guests if they wanted to indulge, but two, they would eventually get thirsty and become motivated to get their own drink, at which point I could ask them to bring me one, too. What? I was hurting! And the would-nearly-fall-over-when-trying-to-stand thing was cramping my style.

Yep. Adversity teaches you who your friends are. Sometimes it can be a damned fun lesson to learn. I want more Giant Pocky.

I'm giving my boss a box of Pocky for his 30th birthday tomorrow. Everybody loves Pocky. Except those silly allergic types. Allergies are dumb.

PS: I get the Art of Loving's [local sex-positive shop] newsletter and this entry has me just fucking spinning notions around in my mind. Poodle needed for an hour, max? My god. The implications! A poodle, no less. Not just any poodle. A passionate poodle. With hot mail. Good lord. Have a look yourself:

Sex-positive artist seeks a poodle for film
Velveeta Krisp, local sex-positive artist seeks a poodle for short film to be
usedin a Vancouver theature production. Filming for 1 hour max, in early October.
Contact thepassionatepoodle@hotmail.com