John Mee

Fresh from red rolling dunes parted by twin wheel ruts vanishing into the boundless fat blue skies of the Australian outback, John Mee tucked a gleaming new Simon Anderson 6'5" Indo gun underarm to board Garuda flight GA16 one-way for adventure!

He stared into the thundering boneyards of a boiling Sunset Beach reef from atop twenty-foot swells. He criss-crossed—in a poo-brown two-litre fuel-injected 1979 kombi—the slate-grey concrete ribbons of the American heartland. In a marble-walled mall beside the open raw sewers of Surabaya-Indonesia, he defeated all-challengers to his domineerance over their local global arcade phenomenum: Street Fighter II. He slashed fresh first tracks across the white morning sheets of every glorious snowbound Monashee dawn. He met the millions, 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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