Hello, World

After surviving the vanishing-point, sandy-red roads of the fat, blue-sky, Australian outback, John Mee packed his gleamy white Simon Anderson 6'6" indo gun and boarded Garuda. He has looked back at the beckoning boneyards of the Sunset Beach reef in a twenty-foot swell, piloted a poo-brown two-litre fuel-injected 1979 kombi across the slate-grey concrete plains of American culture, and—in a marble mall beside the open sewers of Surabuya, Indonesia—defeated all-comers at the all-time-great arcade game: Street Fighter II.

John yearns to ride his little jap motorbike through the jungles of Laotians, over the ranges of Himalayans, amidst the bustling bazaars of Iranians, and into the crumbling ruins and teeming town squares of moustachioed Deutschlanders, self-important P.O.M.s, and precocious, petite French princesses.

But for twelve to fifteen hours—yesterday, today and tomorrow—John—did, is and will—vanish in point before the blue-grey glow of an Apple iMac.