John Mee

From parallel wheel ruts shimmerimg and rolling over ochre sand dunes and vanishing into the boundless blue skies of an Australian outback, John Mee tucked a gleaming new Simon Anderson 6'5" Indo gun underarm to board Garuda flight GA16 one-way to a new adventure!

He stared into the thundering boneyards of a boiling Sunset Beach reef from atop twenty-foot swells. In a poo-brown two-litre fuel-injected 1979 kombi, he criss-crossed the slate-grey concrete ribbons of American heartland. In a marble-lined mall on the bank of an untreated sewer in Surabaya-Indonesia, he dominated all-challengers on the local global arcade phenomenum: Street Fighter II. He composed the first snowboard lines across white sheets of each glorious snowbound Monashee dawn. He met the people and broke bread with them.

But today? The silent bluegrey of an Apple Eyemack stares back indifferently into the vanishing points of his red delta far-away eyes whilst they stumble amid the aftermath of yet another 10–15 hour assault upon it's codebases. Yesterdays and tomorrows Blend. Blister, Blur. Adventure of a different kind. Patient and slumbering travel sleeps. Patient. Brooding. Dreaming.

Of the next big chance: a tyke Jap motorbike beckons—nay, haunts—a venture through the melodious sounds and scents of jungles toiling with Laotian tribesmen; the fierce whistling solaces of white-tipped sentinals speckled carelessly with Himalayan porters and their jangling Yak trains; the rioting color aswirl in the bazaars of staccato Arabian merchants; to languish awhile in the teeming town squares and moldy stone ruins of rolling pommy peasants and handlebar-mustachioed burgomeisters; precocious princesses of Paris tap on their cafe tables. Time ticking by...

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