Japan Life


Intense Train Experience

 

We are all going to die.

Anything, it could be a bomb, a fire, an earthquake or just a kitten on the train tracks causing the conductor to apply the emergency brake and that’s it, people die.

I’m on the Yamanote line at, I can’t see my watch but it’s about 7:40 in the morning, and this car is so packed, far beyond “capacity”, that certain doom seems to be a physical thing.  It hangs out above all our heads in the only free space left in this cattle car of death.

Doom relaxes and looks down at us snickering.

Certain Doom has a cappuccino and has lit a cigarette.

The Yamanote line services 3.7 million people per day. That’s an incredible amount and it was never designed to do this.  In a country obsessed with safety, at least on the surface, it’s clear to me, at this moment, that in fact safety takes a back seat to getting asses injected into this already absurdly filled train car.

Station hands pushing passengers into the car so the doors can slide shut; I’ve seen this before.  Station hands having to physically rip the doors open when the train arrives because there’s too much pressure against the glass inside the car; a novelty.  Tokyo keeps coming up with ways to terrify and impress me.

Both my hands are raised up, holding onto one of the steel bars cris-crossing the ceiling of the car.  Every time the train accelerates away from the previous station, my arms shake as I fight to maintain my grip.  The 80% of commuters who are holding on to nothing sway with the mass of everyone and I feel as though I’m supporting the entire weight of the car.  It’s a physical and natural force. I’m reminded of the ocean.

I detest commuters that don’t hold on.

As the train reaches it’s cruising speed, the weight shifts off of me and I can breath again.  I can’t move, at all, but I can breath.  I look down and in front of me, pressed into me, is a girl. She must be fourteen years old and she’s wearing a dark blue sailor suit and has a black leather school bag draped over a shoulder.  The top of her head reaches up to my chest.

The train rocks and rolls and continues it’s journey.

The girl in front of me slowly lays her head on my chest.  She doesn’t look up at me but she only lays her head slowly on my chest and even if I wanted to, there would be no way for me to push her off.

Another station, Takadanobaba; Station staff tear the door open, people spew forth.  People get packed on.  Positions shift slightly.  I can see the young girl now, still in front of me, literally cheek to cheek due to the angles, with a sixty year old business man who is the same height as her and he’s deeply tanned with distinguished white hair and a dated but impeccably maintained dark blue suit that matches the girls school uniform.

What is it like to be this man?  How many times has he ridden this train? How many office meetings has he gone to? How many times has he yelled at his wife or caressed his child’s hair late at night, in the dark?  How many affairs has he had and when was the last time he was on this train and smiling, talking to a woman that smiled back at him?

And what’s it like growing up on these trains?  I see children everyday in the crowd.  Just little kids.  What’s it like being an year old girl crushed  between bodies that are connected to faces you can’t even see?  What does it do to her when she finally realizes that the man was pushing himself against her in a strange way?  Does she realize? 

Who was that man anyway and where did his life go?

At Shinjuku, finally, and the doors are pulled open by the sentinels and a mass exodus occurs.  People come streaming forward shuffling in baby steps onto a platform clogged with other people.  Nobody is really moving.  The speaker system is repeating commands to stay calm and move slowly and to clear the stairs but the stairs are solidly blocked with people just standing there, waiting to come onto the platform.

A woman two bodies in front of me gets pushed and loses her balance.  She falls, catching herself in a very awkward position, one hand on the ground, the other clutching her bag, her ass in the air.  She seems unable to get up and everyone is bumping her and shuffling and people are becoming mean.

People are losing their disguises.

I shove someone out of the way and reach the woman just at the top of the stairs and I simply, from behind, wrap my right arm around her waist and lift her up, carrying her down the stairs with me one little step at a time.  She’s very light, not much more than the weight of a child. Her body feels tiny and useless, like there is no core to speak of; nothing solid. I can’t imagine existing this way but something tells me that she doesn’t wake up at night in cold sweats after long conversations with dead people.

At the bottom I set her down on her own feet and she looks at me for only a moment and her eyes are red from tears that were filling and she’s in her late 20′s and an utter wallflower. She says “Argatou Gozaimasu. Sumimasen Deshita.” As if it was her fault she couldn’t survive in the mosh pit with the angry salary men and nihilistic 17 year old high school boys and the jaded construction workers and the drunk party girls going home and the foreigner.  So, I just walk away from her and pass by the long full line of people waiting to get onto the Yamanote line.

I notice then as I climb the Chuo line stairs toward the platform that it’s largely empty and nobody seems to be around.

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7 English Loan Words (that are Secretly Dirty in Japanese)

by Nanya

The English language is a pastiche of words amassed from various countries and cultures over whole eras of history. “Assassin”, “envelope”, “amok”… “pastiche”; without loan words for these concepts, what would we have called them? The rampant use of loan words is no different in Japan, where many foreign words (and people) come to lose their function, purpose and all original meaning.

Some English words in Japan, maintain their literal meaning, but none of their nuance, like in the way that “crazy” 「クレイジー」 only has the meaning of “insane” in Japanese. Some words or phrases take on a completely different meaning from their origins altogether, like “high tension” 「ハイテンション」 meaning “energetic”. But, there are a handful of Japanese-English loan words that, once innocently uttered in their correct English context, can cause misunderstandings of a more perverse nature. Here are 7 examples.

1.      “AV”

For the seasoned perv or general internet low-life (surely no one who reads GJA), the alternative meaning of AV may already be apparent. But, for the less depraved reader, long gone are the days when AV meant Mr. Stringbean Nerdlinger daintily rolling the movie projector into 3rd period Chem lab. AV is no longer synonymous with the business of setting up films, but rather the biznasty shown in them.

Say what?!? 

Though the Japanese acronym AV does relate to movies, it is not “audio-visual” as in English, but rather “adult video”. That gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “AV equipment”, amirite?

“You don’t wanna know where these things have been…”

Japan’s porn industry has had a long history spanning all the way back to things like graphic ukiyo-e woodblock prints, while today it is regarded as the largest producer of pornography in Asia. Soon after the advent of the video tape deck when porno flicks became more readily available to the average consumer, the phrase ‘adult video’ came into existence and made its way to Japan.

This short acronym was probably chosen as a euphemistic name for the product because plain English initials, being neutral and representative of no exact meaning inherently, easily masks the inherent filth associated with calling something “porn” or “adult video” outright. Using (made-up) English words or phrases to mask things that are uncomfortable to talk about outright is a common trend in Japan and is thought to be the only form of communication available to eikaiwa counselors.

“Mr.Kubota-san is CHO energish guy DESU DESU!!!!”

Take AV for a spin in the old search engine. If you were to search for 「AV機器」the Japanese equivalent of AV equipment, you would get speakers, amps and the like, but typing the search terms “Japan” and “AV” in the same search box will result in nothing but tentacle-molested, bukkake-sprayed, school girl cosplay bondage. But then again, I’m guessing you knew as much. In such a search, the only AV Club Nerdlingers you will come across will be the patrons of such sites, not to mention the site developers themselves. I guess not much has changed after all.

In short, think twice before telling your Japanese pen pal that you were in the AV Club in school. Then again, you probably shouldn’t divulge that sparkling gem of your bygone nerd past to anyone anyway. Dork.

2. “Boing-Boing”

Obviously, we’ve sprung in to onomatopoeia territory with this one. The “boing-boing” sound effect is a cartoon staple that the likes of Hanna-Barbera, Looney Tunes, Walt Disney and countless other animators and cartoonists used to build the soundscape of our childhood imaginations. You can thank Japan for molesting your inner child and leaving you feeling appropriately dirty and used.

Say what?!? 

To demonstrate the innocence lost due to the misunderstanding of “boing-boing”, I present a true tale from the annals of gaijindom.

A good friend and, at the time, fellow newcomer to Japan – we’ll call him “Randy” to keep with our theme – was out in a shopping area in Osaka when a mother and her toddler came near. With the giggling child taking a liking to him, Randy’s lack of Japanese fluency left him unable to communicate with the little guy besides in gestures and funny sounds. Nonetheless, the mother was no doubt pleased that her young child had the chance to interact with a foreign person. That is, until Randy saw a manicured bush – again, we have a theme going – in the shape of a sphere and said “boing-boing” to the child while pretending to bounce it like a ball. The mother scooped up her child immediately and stormed off. What happened?

If only Randy had known that of the plethora of onomatopoeia words in Japanese, 「ボインボイン」 (pronounced “boin boin”) can be construed as the sound of bouncing boobs, and is in fact how it is often used in all types of manga and anime, from mainstream to hentai. Poor Randy was unwittingly fondling breasty foliage at that hapless child. I bet people in the vicinity were able to physically hear that mom’s brain switch gears from “lovely international exchange” to ‘save the child and GTFO’ mode. Intentional or not, we here at Gaijinass applaud such gaijin asses and the annals from which they spew.

“Every single page is stuck together and the book is stuck to that carpet.”

3. “Hostess”

Delving into the true nightlife of Japan requires navigating the often crusty back alleys of entertainment districts, complete with their pestering touts, FUBAR salary men, gangsters accompanied by their lackeys and various other stock characters of sleaze. If you enter an establishment in this playground asking for a hostess to seat you, you may find one – just not the type you would’ve expected. Sure, the hostess will be a young, desirable female eager to seat you at a table, but this one will join your party too.

Say what? 

For those interested in the ins and outs of the world of hosts and hostesses (also referred to as “kyabajo”) in Japan, there are plenty of resources around. Check out (http://neojaponisme.com/2009/08/11/kyabajo-japan/) or even (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Great_Happiness_Space:_Tale_of_an_Osaka_Love_Thief) and surely you’ve read GJS’s own pieces on this topic

But, allow me to give just a short summary. Hostess clubs (and host clubs staffed by males) are like a classier “Coyote Ugly”, where instead of bar-top dance routines, the female staff join customers at their private tables to pour drinks and entertain them and pander to their bullshit. In other words, they are like modern-day geishas.

“The bleached hair is a development, but the caked on makeup hasn’t changed at all.”

Though very many types of hostess clubs (or “kyabakura” as they are sometimes called) exist with varying rules of conduct (no touching; formal dates with the girls allowed, etc), hostesses are by no means thought of as sex workers, despite a prevailing and inaccurate belief amongst gaijin that generally aren’t admitted to must hostess clubs. Even so, it would still be quite an insult if you told a Japanese friend that his wife had been a gracious hostess. To be sure, some of the regular usages of ‘host’ and ‘hostess’ are known in Japan, but these words have become so attached to those night-time establishments that uttering them will bring to mind those bleach-haired, perfume-doused party kids well before a Trebek or Sajak type. Though Vanna is not too far off the mark.

4. “Dutch Wife”

In a place like Japan, with its bevy of discreet perversions and alternative sexual preferences, it would be a shame to unknowingly share a name with something vile or dirty. For instance, the name “Gary” sounds very similar to 「下痢」 “geh-ri”, the Japanese word for “diarrhea”. Tough break, for that guy. Also, “panko” a type of bread crumbs exported and used by chefs worldwide, also means “slut” in Japanese slang. Though the alternate meaning of those two are pretty bad, what might be infinitely worse than sharing a name with something sketchy, would be sharing holy matrimony with an unavoidable sex joke. No offense to the great Dutch people, but there wives are the Japanese cum-catchers of yesteryear.

Say what?!? 

“Dutch wife” on these shores means blow up dolls, “real dolls” or any other makeshift female body that a samurai might use for sheathing his Hanzo. The origin here seems to be Dutch-controlled Indonesia where, having to leave their wives back in their homeland, Dutch traders opted to sleep with what is called a “bamboo wife” or 「竹婦人」 in the original Japanese. A “bamboo wife”, was a name for a human-sized length of woven bamboo made in Indonesia which the lonely, newly single Dutch traders would snuggle with in place of their wives. After being made fun of by the “men’s men” of the Tokugawan Era for being nutless simps, these Dutch suckers-for-love were immortalized in Japanese through this derogatory insult. Nearly 150 years later the Japanese are still using this phrase to stick it to the Dutch. Well, mostly just to their wives.

“Anyone willing to stick their gear into a giant Chinese Finger Trap deserves whatever they get.”

5. “H”  

Shorter than even the acronym “AV” above, the letter H may seem ominous here. Being a standard letter of the English alphabet, any of us have a one in twenty-six chance of saying this letter with total ignorance to its Japanese meaning. So, what in the H does H mean?

Say wHat?!? 

Now, despite being a slang word for heroin in English, “H” – pronounced “etchi” -  is the most common word for “sex” in Japanese besides, well, “sex” 「セックス」. But, why “H”?

Think about it, folks – What’s an infamous Japanese word which starts with “H” and relates to sex?

If you guessed “hentai”, give yourself a pat on the back. You might also want to go ahead and erase your browser history while you’re at it, Bubba.

“And for finger-fucking sake, go outside once in a while!”

I can’t imagine a scenario in which you might offend someone by saying “H” at an inopportune moment, but how about the opposite scenario? How about if you missed out on some hot H because you didn’t know what the letter stood for? Japanese or not, a woman is not just going to spell it out for you. Of all the possible misunderstandings on this list, one resulting in missing the chance for some unsolicited poon-sampling seems like the most embarrassing of all.

6. “Snack”

Snacks can cost a pretty penny in Japan. If you don’t watch your p’s and q’s, you can run up quite a tab or, even worse, get caught having an affair as well.

Say what?!? 

Don’t get it twisted: Snacks – the type of food – are also called snacks in Japanese, especially when referring to salty ones, like peanuts and pretzels. However, “snack” is also the term for a common type of watering hole in Japan’s major cities which function as a more low-key version of the hostess clubs mentioned previously. These establishments are run by a madam-like older woman, who makes sure the business runs smoothly and that everyone has a good time by pairing up female staff and lonely male customers. By sharing chats at the bar and singing karaoke altogether, there is a down-home type of atmosphere, complete with the eponymous bowls of snacks offered to customers.

Most of these places have menus with no prices listed, so the final tabs can be decided at will by the house. They also tag on a pretty hefty “seating charge”. This isn’t a code word for “extra services” either; the only wad being blown is when you pay exorbitantly for good ole wholesome companionship. To be fair, some patrons do eventually get to bed the staff, but this all happens outside the snack and according to the staff members prerogative. Being Sugardaddy Longpockets seems to help sway their minds, though.

“Can I interest you in some blue balls?”

Getting to the point, I would just like our readers to be aware that, when looking for a bite to eat in Japan, a “snack” bar is not the best place to grab a Snickers, and certainly not the place to get your hotdog relished. (boom-tish, ay!)

7. “Bitch”

Thanks to the limitless reach (read: stranglehold) that Hollywood has on the planet, our curse words are everywhere. You’d be hard-pressed to find a person in Europe who doesn’t know the words “fuck” , “shit” or even the phrase “Oh my god”. The case is no different in the land of the rising radioactive levels. But, as was the case with our other points on this list, some words that are already inappropriate can become even worse when picked up by the Japanese. Even a word as commonly accepted as “bitch”. Call a woman a bitch in the West and get your face clawed off. Call a woman one in Japan and lose the respect of everyone around you.

Say what?!? 

“Bitch” in Japanese does not actually carry any of the meanings that we English speakers know and love the word for: 1) a female dog 2) a rude, crab-assed woman 3) a verb, meaning to complain or nag (usually incessantly)

“4) Your broseph, when he is being a douchenozzle.”

Here, it has one meaning and one meaning alone, and that is “slutbag”, a word so near yet so far from the original it is severely off-putting. With this new meaning, an offhanded comment about your female boss being a bitch could be seen as borderline sexual harassment. Japanese people, who tend to avoid voicing their complaints aggressively and still show subservience to work superiors, would definitely see calling the boss a dirty tramp as pretty foul slander. Think now, could you even back up such a claim? Would you want to?

How did this fetal mutation of the word bitch become a thing? Most likely rap music – paternity test pending. Don’t forget that it was through the lyrics of rappers like Snoop Dogg and Too $hort that “bitch” became a term of endearment for referring to ladies in the first place. If we consider how hard it is for even most native speakers of English to understand rap lyrics, we can see how the word “bitch” could easily be misconstrued for Japanese hip-hoppers, who have almost no idea what the rappers are saying.

“You’re finna bizzle my wizzle?!”

When it’s all said and done, it aint no thang whether non-English-speaking people can understand the sophisticated intricacies of “Jenny From the Block” or the riveting tapestry of sound that is Silkk Da Shocker’s “Charge it 2 da Game.” However, more than any other word on this list, “bitch” is the one that I cannot bear to have stripped from my lexicon in order to be more P.C. What can I say; a little bitch lives inside of me. And, in my humblest of opinions, any supposed language that is without the full capacity of the usage of  this word, might as well be Elvish, whatever the hell Balky spoke or recordings of penguin orgies spliced and played in reverse.

Conclusion:

Well, what have we gleaned from these rantings? Well, for one, English speakers in Japan, and anywhere abroad really, should watch out for the completely unpredictable clusterfunks that their everyday English can cause. Also, we can see that people of non-English-speaking countries should be careful in the way that they manhandle English before stuffing it in to their language boxes. But, most importantly, I think we can all agree that language is quite the shifty strumpet: She will lay down with anyone, let people have their way with her and is completely unfaithful to whatever men call her their own. Adulterous, incestuous, promiscuous; here’s to “mother tongue” always leaving a bad taste in your mouth.

More of Nanya’s writing and original art can be found at his site ‘PointXPoint’: www.pointxpoint.blogspot.jp

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“If these guys make a move, we have to take them down…and then run.”

Yamato said this to me as I stared at his eyes, or the place his eyes would have been had he not been wearing those sunglasses and I tried to figure out if he was bullshitting me because as always, his ever-present smile was wide open and the festival was completely packed with people.  Women and men, old and young. Office workers and spouses, hookers and thugs.  Hanazono Shrine had done it again and the “Torinoichi” festival was alive.  People flowed through the lanes of stalls and vendors finally arriving at the massive red and gold shrine that sat at the top of the steps like a heart, pumping blood rhythmically through the body.

“Are you serious?” I asked him.  Again searching his mask of a face for some indication of what exactly I had walked into.

“Of course I’m fucking serious.  Look, just be cool, like before, and don’t jump unless I do,” he said as he turned away and walked into the brightly lit pavilion.  The smell of grilled meat, beer and cigarettes engulfed me and as I saw the table we were inevitably going towards, I considered just walking away from this.  I don’t do this anymore.  I don’t know you people anymore and it’s better like that.  I can just walk away and it won’t matter.

Then I nearly laughed out loud realizing the slick bastard still had my phone in his hand. Ten minutes earlier “Hey let me use your phone my battery is dying,” he had said.  He had spotted me in the crowd and I had been genuinly happy to see  him.  I had to admit Yamato looked well.  Very slick dark blue suit, pink collared shirt with the top open and mid length black hair slicked back.  He and I joked and caught up as the people streamed by us in the crowd and stared hard at us, dressed like hit-men out of their respective countries B-movies. So sure, happy to see my former boxing coach, friend and trouble maker so why not- I passed him my phone.

Well played Yamato.

In the tent approaching the table in the next instant I felt my chest expand and my muscles flush with juice as my adrenaline slowly started to build.  Out of the entire group at this table we approached, the three potential problems were clear enough.

The tent we had gone into was one of the many erected on the grounds within the shrine for the festival.  This one in particular was a tent selling beer, shochu, grilled beef and chicken and fried noodles.  About 14 long folding tables were set up inside the tent behind the grills and coolers for drinks and at the farthest table in the back right hand corner were 13 people.  This is the table I followed Yamato to.

We got the attention of  everyone seated immediately.  8 men and 5 women.  Five of the men were older, easily in their sixties with gray or black loose-fitting suits and oddly colorful cashmere scarves around their necks.  Each one of them had salt and pepper hair, tightly slicked back over their heads and to a man they all wore very dark hued Gucci or Prada sunglasses with gold frames.  These men turned to look at us, first Yamato, then me, then back to Yamato, but none of them stood.  They remained seated and slowly sipped their beers and sake while watching us make our way past the other tables and chairs and laughing bodies of people having a celebratory style Friday night.

The three men that did stand up as we neared the table were not older, but younger than both myself and Yamato.  Mid 20′s as far as I could tell.  All three of them slighter in build but with a taught smoothness that reminded me of big cats.  All three of them wore jet-black suits and white shirts with large collars, opened up wide so I could see shiny gold and silver medallions, the slim tightness of athletic collar bones and chest muscles and then, just where the shirts started, the colorful patterns of tattoos that I knew ran off their pecs, to their shoulders and down the arms and backs of these men who had already proven themselves in numerous fist fights, beat downs and likely prison time.  They had already earned the spot here, with the bosses and were trusted to do what needed to be done when the time came and the way they stood to meet us was not one conveying welcome, but was one filled with hostility.

These guys were the reason Yamato had tricked me into walking over here with him.  Kindness can in fact, be a weakness.  Particularly when you deal with men that spend their lives walking the tight rope.

Yamato bowed when we reached the table.  I stood two paces behind him and one pace off to the left so that I could see everyone.  This position also put me within equal distances of all three of the bodyguards.  The one closest to Yamato began to snarl at him before the older man sitting in front of him raised his hand for silence.  He then greeted Yamato, almost warmly,  mumbling in that very distinct way that these men communicate when they are older.  Yamato kept bowing, very deeply, showing his respect for the mans position and they conversed quietly for about a minute.

I stood there, both hands folded in front of me and looked at everyone without looking directly at anyone.  Noted where I was in relation to everyone else.  Asked myself some questions: “Can I jump over the table to hit that guy with this women sitting there? She’s sort of in the way,” and “Can I get this folding chair up in the air without it getting caught on something?” then “If we have to burn the hell out of here, do I go right to the nearest exit or left into the crowd?”

Nobody at the table, including the women all of whom were in their 30′s and pretty, said anything.  Then somehow and rather suddenly, between the two of them, things were settled and Yamato stood up straight to his full height, at least as tall as me so about 6’3 and nearly as broad across in the shoulders, and he looked directly at the younger man who had tried to start a problem with him and suddenly broke into a big smile and jokingly told him in a booming voice “You need to relax son! Here, let me get you a drink!”

The table laughed, except for the three bodyguards, still standing and Yamato raised a hand for a waiter.  At this the young soldier, clearly offended and in possession of some beef with Yamato, tried to push past a folding chair to stand directly in front of us.  I instinctively moved up a pace to be between Yamato’s back and the bodyguard on our left who then slowly reached one hand up to his shirt collar and pulled it open showing off a large tattoo of a bright red Cherry Blossom with a Dragon dancing around it emblazoned on his chest.  He did this and leaned his head back giving me his best menacing, wide-eyed “Fuck OFF I’m connected,” look.

I know this game though, have played it once or twice before and what you learn quick is that the only thing you can’t do, ever, is back down.  That’s what gets a folding chair crashed across your face.  Weakness incites a predators malice.  So I cocked my head to the side slightly then pulled up the sleeve of my black suit jacket enough for him to see the beginnings of the ink on my right forearm.  Then I blinked slowly a few times and shrugged my shoulders….”So What?” being the message.

I have no doubt now that these three young gangsters would have tried very hard to beat the living shit out of Yamato and I had their Boss, two of them actually, not told them to “Sit the fuck down it’s all finished now,” because men like them, living that lifestyle don’t care.  It’s what they do. I know this from before.  That having been said, between Yamato and myself we probably weighed as much as all three of them.  Also, between the two of us we have over a hundred fights in the ring, I have been in and out of that over the years, the ring and the cage, and Yamato was at one point a Light-Heavy weight boxing Champion who I know from experience has very fast hands and hits like a freight train. Aside from that, both of us had done these types of dances before.  It’s not something I want in my life now, but to some degree at least, once you’ve been there, you can’t forget what you know.

The math in my head said they couldn’t have been armed with anything beyond a small knife, a gun would be out of the question here with all the police and people, and there were loads of easily improvised weapons at the ready on all sides.  Shit, I can give a man a concussion with a magazine if that’s what I happen to have. It would be embarrassing to get your teeth knocked out with a rolled up edition of “Elle”.

Finally, Yamato and I weren’t playing king of the mountain I knew now; he had to squash a beef with this old guy and only needed things to be cool long enough for him to have his say.  He tricked my overly kind-to-friends-ass into backing him up hoping my presence would keep things copacetic by throwing everyone off-balance; massive white guy, dressed like he is going to a funeral with the black suit, white collared shirt and black tie, black wrist watch and a few silver rings. If it went south, we would cause enough damage to give ourselves a few seconds and then be gone into the waves of people.

What’s more is that he knows me, and knows about me and has seen some things.  He knew that I wouldn’t go with him if he asked plainly because I don’t do that anymore, but he knew if he got me there, I would know what to do, when to do it and when to go wheels up and flee if necessary.

By the time I meandered back to my friends across the shrine at another stall, maybe ten minutes had gone by but my hands were shaking heavily from the adrenaline dumping out of my system and I did the mental math realizing how bad that could have been.  A few beers down the hatch (courtesy of Yosomono who was lining them up) and the atmosphere of the festival and all was good.

Until he called me back. “What the hell? Get your friends and come drink with us! Yeah bring everyone and don’t forget the blond girl.”

I can tell you this much, when you drink with these people, no matter what you drink, eat, order or do; nobody expects you to pay.  They don’t even bother asking.

Later on, after many beers, loads of sake and a train of gangsters, hostesses, pimps, boxers and even a monk had come and gone Yamato pulled me aside and in his fashion, still wearing the sunglasses and smiling, slightly hunched over vaguely resembling a Japanese gangstered out John Wayne he said by way of thanks, his arm around my shoulders, “OK.  Tonight was lucky.  I got the drinks next time…but that was fun though right?”

Fun?  No.  Memorable? Oh yes.

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Sometimes I get Ridiculous…

It’s October uh…wait what’s the date today?  11th.  Okay. So it’s October 11th and I have no job.

I have a nice shiny new visa but I’m jobless as it gets.  What’s worse is that for some horrible reason, I’m effectively nonchalant about all of it.  No job? Things could be worse.

The resumes have been sent and contacts have been made.  What more can one man do?  Turn to a life of crime? Nope.  After all my years on this wacky planet I have learned a few lessons, one of which is that I am not suited to be a hardened criminal. Frankly speaking, it’s just too much work.

I am the proverbial gray man.  A fantastic jack of all trades and bard extraordinaire.  I have some things I do better than others, and although some might toss around phrases like “under achiever” I like to think of myself as a sort of modern day Rennaisance man.  Well read, well rounded, a man of various passions and someone that can either punch you in the face, cook a soufle or quote Churchill as the moment demands.

I’m still unemployed though.

This leads me to the point of todays little outburst here: Satanic rituals.

Not really.  That’s far too committed for my tastes.  Actually I am going to complain and wax quasi-intellectually about half measures and how irritating that shit is.

Wait, no that won’t work either. Half measures, although disgusting, are reality.  For 99.9% of the population anyway.

No I think all I can do right now is bitch and moan about how utterly ridiculous my life is.  Two weeks ago, I was locked in the Japanese detention center watching other detainees lose hundreds, even thousands of dollars in an afternoon playing 21 in the back room casino the Filipino boys had set up in “I” wing.  30 people packed into the room, everyone screaming like lunatics as cash flew all over.  People were losing all the money they had, becoming penniless, only to win back that and more when some other poor chump gambled away the cash for his plane ticket back to Ho Chi Minh. His plane ticket back to Ghuang Zhou.  His plane ticket back to Bogota. His plane ticket back to Dhaka.  Absolute mania.

Out in the hallway, more people lined up with noses pressed against the glass and bet amongst themselves regarding who they thought was going to win or lose any given hand.  All the while a young fillipino lad stood in the hallway shouting “Irrashaimase!” at the top of his bloody lungs, all the while providing updates to the whole wing on how much time they had left to come and get some of the action: “Only 20 minutes left this morning!

Then, only a month before that I was sitting on a tatami floor in Yamanashi watching three of my highschool students, Misa, Yuka and Kimiko, draw smiley faces and heart marks all over my feet and toes at the English Club summer camp I worked at for three days.

The next day, the next morning, I was under lock and key on the 10th floor in Shinagawa. Now, today, I’m sitting in my new room in Ikebukuro.  Half my gear is still in boxes.  I have no job and between sending resumes I’m going through all the handicap information I can find because Sunday I’m off  to the horse races and hey- got to pay the rent somehow.

This all isn’t to say I’m not feeling good.  That’s the point; I feel great.  Just add some extra stupid-gravy on top of the steamy pile of nonsensical ridiculousness that is my life.  I feel positively wonderful today.  I just don’t get it.  I  can recognize the good things in my life, but those should only more starkly contrast with the problems I’m facing.  But somehow, I’m not worried.

I read before that professional gamblers eventually become immune to bad luck.   Well, I’m not much of a card player but I am one hell of a gambler when it comes to life.  And I’ve been doing it so long, now I just feel immune to it all.  Oh yeah I have no job? So what. Something good will come around.  Oh my girlfriend (both of them; they both found out about each other) now hates me? (…and have become best friends with each other) Hey that’s OK! I’ll meet someone else or maybe it’s a signal that I need some “Me” time.  The Government locks me up and tries to kick me out of the country? No big deal. I’m a refugee now. The woman that is the mother of my child and I have so little in common it’s like we’re filming a reality TV version of “The gods must be crazy”? So what; our kid is incredibly good looking, funny and an athlete.  I’m so destitute I literally have to go gamble to pay for my rent?  It’ll be a fun day out with the boys, and the park there at the racetrack is really quite pleasant.

It all feels totally normal, but when I re-frame it and look at it from any sort of logical view point, it’s absurd, and all this is just the tip of a big fantastically improbable iceberg which I call “My life”.

If you like this try these:

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Japanese Donut Heads Cute vs Sexy GTO Making Friends in Japan The architectural greatness of Watanabe-San

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