We're in it for the money, honey. We're in it for the money... and flies. All I can see is soggy shit quivering with busy files. It looks like diaharrea made out of american dollar bills; washed up into one miles long, continuous booger, stringing like a slug trail down the sand. I can't remember. I can't remember what time of year it happens. The Oyashio. Or was it the Kuroshio? The North Pacific Gyre? Koshiama. He would know. Nobu Koshiama. I don't really know how my Dad knew him. Jesus Christ, that guy could fish.
Years ago the shit that came out of money's ass looked completely different. It came ashore in the form of glass floats and bits of fishing net. Japanese fisherman, currents, gyres, the Coriolis effect; matter interacting with itself, all observed, written about, given a name and cataloged. I'll bet you didn't know it was all for sale. It sure is. That's how all this japanese trash started showing up on Klipsan Beach when I was a kid. You could walk along the receding tide beach-coming for laundry detergent bottles with faded and salt bleached labels in Kanji. I'd walk along for miles in the washed up kelp grass and sea foam. I'd save the best bits in a beach fort to show to my little sister or Dad.
My Dad would bitch at me to put it back and stop being so stupid. "Don't play in garbage, Scottie! Stop acting like White Trash!"
