If I ever make a band, or write a book of poetry, I'm likely to name it The Ubiquitous Mister Donuts. In every town, on corners of shopping arcades, or standing alone in the middle of a retail quad, Mister Donuts is, well, ubiquitous in Japan. Most Japanese people assume that it's an American chainstore operation, but I think the name was licensed from an American shop that is either gone, or at least entirely failed to flourish in the way the Japanese component has. As fresh, but not nearly as sweet as Krispy Kreme donuts, “MisDo’s” fried bread product is uniquely addictive and satisfying. I'll be kind, and not review their “American Coffee.” From their website, you can grab cute wallpaper, and check out the recent TV commercials. (links via waxy, which I obviously love, but it galls me when I am caught this unaware of web-presence on a topic that I thought myself expert. I am the MisDo King.)
“I came back for my own purposes,” said the Time Traveler, looking around my booklined study. “I chose you to talk to because it was . . . convenient. And I don’t want you to do a goddamned thing. There’s nothing you can do. But relax . . . we’re not going to be talking about personal things. Such as, say, the year, day, and hour of your death. I don’t even know that sort of trivial information, although I could look it up quickly enough. You can release that white-knuckled grip you have on the edge of your desk.” I tried to relax. “What do you want to talk about?” I said. “The Century War,” said the Time Traveler. I blinked and tried to remember some history. “You mean the Hundred Year War? Fifteenth Century? Fourteenth? Sometime around there. Between . . . France and England? Henry V? Kenneth Branagh? Or was it . . .” “I mean the Century War with Islam,” interrupted the Time Traveler. “Your future. Everyone’s.” He was no longer smiling. Without asking, or offering to pour me any, he ...
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