My esteemed colleague already talked about how the Oscars this year are a joke. I always go on how it’s not about art; the Oscars are a business, and businesses exist to make money. The more people who watch the Oscars the more money Oscars Inc makes. The way to maximize profits is to include the most popular, highest grossing, films in the nomination process. But there was one bright light in the whole pony show and that was The Cove winning best documentary. Maybe now it can get played in Nipon since the city where it takes place effectively banned the film from playing in Japan.

Reading about the Cove got me thinking about last year at the Oscars when Departures won best foreign film over the Israeli, Waltz With Bashir. I thought Bashir should have won, however Departure dealt with some big Japanese social issues, the Japanese underclass or Japanese version of the untouchables, who deal with the dead and are ostracized from society.

Then as I was reading more about the director of Departures, Yōjirō Takita, I discovered to my great amusement he used to be a big porn director making such hits as GROPER TRAIN: Search For The Black Pearl which judging from the DVD cover looks like a great “serious” flick about getting groped on the train. Then looking around it seems that a lot of Japanese directors got their start doing porn or as the Japanese call it, Pink Films (Oh how kawai). Masayuki Suo, who did the 1996 hit, Shall We Dance? first movie he was involved in was get ready … the Kanda River Pervert War . The Pervert War was also one of Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s first movies. Kurosawa went on to become a horror legend in Japan. Ahhh Japan how I love thee.

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Chijo gropes me on the train

This is Pretty straight forward, and is in fact, exactly what it sound’s like.

This whole event took place about two weeks ago but I couldn’t summon the intestinal fortitude to commit it to cyberspace until just this morning and then, only after a serious cup of coffee. Hot, strong and black (sorry, I will NOT add “How I like my Women”, but… maybe?).

December 13th, I went to Korakuen Hall to watch some knock down, drag out, “get some!” style kick boxing.  The event was hosted by the the New Japan Kickboxing Organization and a few of my friend’s and acquaintances had fights, so there I was, drinking beer after beer after happy beer and screaming like a mad man.  I went to this event with my associate
Rionne (thats pronounced like “Ryan” but with an “O”, not like “Lion” or “Riion” or…whatever.)

After the action we made our way back to Suidobashi station, boarded the sobu line and headed back toward Shinjuku, finally parting ways at Yoyogi.  I was feeling pretty good despite having watched two buddies of mine literally get the shit kicked out of them for what really amounts to pennies, but thanks to the beer, and my general appreciation for gore and violence I was, like I said, feeling pretty good by the time I meandered onto the Shinjuku Yamanote line platform to go back toward Ikebukuro.

I wandered around till I found a line that looked decent: No old people, no kids, a couple hotties and no Nigerians.  I got in line. Great.

Then what happened next is all sort of a blur, and not because I was shit faced, that would happen later.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw this figure moving in a bee line for me across the platform.  I turned my head (all slow motion now in my memory, like some bad horror movie) and this little woman, about 155 centimeters tall, with jet black hair pulled back into pigtails on her head, was looking up at me and she was positively… beaming.  The biggest smile I had seen since my friend told me over drinks some time ago “Dude…my wife actually LIKES anal!!!” Hand shakes and High fives were shared that evening, I assure you.

I sort of flinched when I realized she was staring at me and I looked away, quickly forcing my brain to scroll through my memory banks and try to get my facial recognition software to do something useful.  Questions that ran through my mind:

Do I know this girl?

Was she a private student of mine in the past?

Did Keith post another classified personals ad under my name, this time with a photo? And, oh god, my schedule?

In the split second it took to ask those questions, the woman had moved to stand, literally, should to shoulder with me and I had a moment to gaze, in horror, at her outfit which was some type of nondescript lime green sweat shirt, beige-ish sweat pants with generic sneakers that were gleaming white and, in both hands she carried paper shopping bags packed to the brim with magazines and various periodicals and to top it all off, she wore this tacky, awful blue jean back pack that you might expect a 7 year old girl in Kansas to wear, on her way to stay the night with her pedophile uncle “JD” while her parents have their usual Thursday  “Applebee’s and Motel 6!” night out.

I was in a state of mild shock as the train pulled up and the door’s opened. Some how, as if I was floating or being carried I was transported into the train car and then to my sick amazement, the woman moved right next to me.  The car was not crowded, there was plenty of room, yet there she was, shoulder to shoulder with me again and having set her bags down, she immediately began rubbing my left thigh with the back of her right hand.

As the train moved, the back of her right hand became the palm of her right hand and her light rubbing became an insistent squeezing. And then just as quickly the insistent thigh squeezing became, for a split second, before I recoiled in disgust and shame, an energetic rubbing of my package.  More thoughts ran through my head:

Am I being filmed now? Is this a Joke? Am I on TV?

Do I KNOW this woman?

Dear god…have I….slept with…this…woman?

Inshallah NO…

Paralyzed by her groping idiot powers, I could do nothing more than move slightly out of her reach (as the four women seated on the bench in front of me pretending not to watch, continued to pretend.) and I pulled out my mobile and sent a text message to Rionne.

ME: dude, some woman is groping me on the train.

His reply came swiftly.

Rionne: Ok. Is she hot?

Clearly I was alone to deal with this.  Nobody was coming to save me.  I had to take matters into my own hands.  Ok, what would George W. Bush do in a situation like this?

The train stopped and doors opened, people got off and people got on and I took this opportunity to move myself to another area of our train car then, I watched as SHE followed me, all her bags, full of god knows what, in tow.  This time when she arrived at my side, like some faithful depraved hunting dog from the abyss of my worst nightmares, she bent over in order to set her bags down and by doing so, with her small stature and the rocking of the train, naturally put her round, disturbingly clean-looking face into the office woman’s lap sitting on the bench in front of her. I looked on with no small amount of sick fascination  and watched her, her face LITERALLY touching the woman’s thighs and groin, and this coupled with the trains rhythm giving the odd effect of well, some sort of “girl on girl” action being accomplished right there on the Yamanote line, car 7. I know, admittedly, this was not so bad, at all. Admittedly, I have thought of this since.

The office woman however, clearly revolted and disturbed, performed quite the contortionists act as she slipped out of the seat, adjusted her skirt and said politely “oh, please sit down.” Then quickly vanished.

I then spent the next 5 minutes watching the little, evil, crazy Nymphomaniac stare at my crotch, literally hard staring, mouth agape, heavy breathing, the works.  I also noticed all the people on the train who noticed as well.  This was not the kind of attention I had been looking for really. No this is not the celebrity status I seek.

At Ikebukuro station, I waited for the last possible moment then bolted for the doors, dashing out.  But she was too fast.  Oh god, was she fast.  Bags and all, my new friend came dashing after me.  I then proceeded to engage in some text-book counter-surveillance techniques and spent 15 minutes wandering around the Ikebukuro J.R. terminal, all the time, the cherub faced little psycho was not far behind me.  I did switch backs.  I checked my background in reflective surfaces.  I nonchalantly perused a menu outside a cafe, I considered buying a ball cap.  Finally I exited at the Metropolitan gate.  As I walked away I had to, was forced to, could not refuse looking back to make sure, and as I did, sure enough, like some Sentinel at the gates of hell there she stood just inside the ticket wicket, peering at me, smiling, mouth wide open, tongue partially hanging out.

I found my way home (after stopping for a stabilizing “drink” at the Hub, which spiraled into 4 gin tonics and some waffle fries, and a talk with this Turkish guy and the two Japanese girls he was with about the goods and bads of the Obama administration, and, Subway sandwiches) and although I refused to allow the memory of that little stalker to haunt me, I could not bring myself to beat my genitals into my nightly self-imposed orgasm.  Not that night.

She had won that battle.

I drifted off into a dreamless, dark and uneasy sleep….

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