My favorite Japanese singer, Hikaru Utada, has just released her first international album, called Exodus. It appears that she is going to just go with the name “Utada” in western territories. With the number of copy-protected CDs I've seen on the shelves lately, I was extra-stunned to see that this was just a normal CD, and the record company had seen fit to outfit the jewel case with an additional, high-quality board, extra-glossy jacket, a booklet of all the English-only lyrics rendered into Japanese, in addition to the booklet in the jewelcase. While thinking that I had briefly been transported to a magical land where the record company recognizes that treating me like a customer is good, and treating me like a criminal is bad, I didn't even look at the price tag as I brought it up to the counter. Like any other Japanese release, it was expensive: ¥3000. It’s worth it.
“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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