Remember that contest I started a while back?

You know: “Guess the songs and win a sample of refined Japanese spirit, straight from my own personal cellar“…

You thought I’d forget? I most definitely haven’t. Neither have a handful brave, who’ve been communicating to me all along their level of advancement through various means and methods.

So far, most contestants are staling at a puny two or three songs. And by most, I mean all. Save for two gentlemen who have made their strides to within close reach of the goal: the favorite, Mr. MacTuitui, seems well positioned to get that bottle, which might save me on postage stamps, seeing as we happen to be sharing residence on the same island in the Pacific.

Truth be told, Mr. Tuitui is neck to neck with another contestant. A contestant who has, in the past, proven he would do practically anything to appropriate a bottle of fine Japanese liquor, resorting to physical threats toward a group of upstanding Canadian citizen, including his very own significant other and her aging mother. That ruthless man who came close to end an innocent Christmas anonymous gift-exchange ceremony in a bloodbath out of pure unadulterated alcoholic lust, happens to be the lucky procreator of yours truly.

Now, before anyone gets all up in arms with claims of rampant cronyism, nepotism and whatnot, let me make one thing clear: if I was gonna cheat with that bottle of sake, I would directly ship it to my alter ego, Professor Deibitto from Minami-Ochiai, rather than have it sent away to be kept in some moldy Canadian cellar, between two stacks of smoked caribou meat and a dusty bottle of fermented beaver urine. In fact: I never invited the old geezer here. He just comes to these pages on occasions to check what drugs I’m into at the moment (I’ve nearly kicked my heroine habit, ‘pa, I swear) or if there are any new grandchildren on the way. Other than that, he just happened to catch that stupid game, and foolishly thought he could give it a try.

However: while it is certainly true that my esteemed quasi-senile man of a father may hold a certain advantage due to the thin but meaningful slice of musical history we have in common (well, whatever bits I’ve dug up through self-hypnosis regression therapy ever since), that same common background allows me to present you with the guarantee that his musical field of interest barely extends past the invention of the electric guitar. And even then, the Beatles (pre-psychedelic era) and one Pink Floyd album, are about as far as his incursions into the late 20th century have ever taken him.

Safe in this reassurance that his chances to ever guess a single track past his current tally are on par with those of Hildegard von Bingen to ever ride the Billboard charts in the R&B category, I now invite you to resume your search and see if you can do better than our current Maillot Jaune, before we declare this thing officially over.

And talking about deadlines, let’s just say that, sometime this week-end, in between two hangovers, will be the end of it all, as well as the moment you’re all waiting for: The Solution!

May the best amphibian win!