Crunch

I’m pleased to report the reunion (in all its denim) was a success. In the words of Yelena, 2002 class reunion chair, “I just love those jeans on you.” Thanks, Yelena.

The other compliment came from my friend Heather’s psycho freshman year roommate. In the barbecue buffet line, I had my hand on a hot dog bun when hers grabbed my shoulder. I took me a moment to remember who Pam was, but she didn’t miss a beat.

“Oh my gosh, Jeff, you look great! The goatee looks so good on you!”

She wouldn’t have said the same for some of my fraternity brothers who I bumped into at the diner down on Main Street Sunday morning. With bloodshot eyes and stained t-shirts, the three zombies smelled like they had slept in a landfill.

“Hey guys…what’s up?” I asked with hesitation.

Yogi went first. “Odie pissed his car.”

Odie went second. “Yogi broke the lock off the [frat] house with a rock to use the bathroom but hosed himself right there standing up.”

It was Jester’s turn. “I woke up in Butterfield [dormitory]. I have no idea how I got there.”

I surveyed the group with arced eyebrows. Then Odie spoke up, admitting that, yes, after a night of binging on beer pong he passed out inside his Ford Explorer behind the house and lost control of bodily functions.
Jester (left) and Odie exchange paddle slaps after winning a point in pong. They'd both be on the losing end come sunup.

“Yeah, and he also booted all over the driver’s seat!” Yogi volunteered.

"Shut the hell up, Yogi, no I didn't."

There was no denying, however, that Odie had also drained his truck's battery. Yet Yogi and Jester weren’t home free. The SUV (Smelly Urinated Vehicle) was their only ride back to Boston.

* * *

After reliving liquid college memories followed by a week of hosting a Japanese friend (blog entry forthcoming), I found myself sitting aboard American Airlines flight 167 bound for Narita.

During the delay at the gate, I polished off leftover apple pie and a container of chunked melon and strawberries for breakfast. Now past noon, I was ready to snack again. I inflated my air pillow and settled into my coach seat. With legs on this 6’2” frame, I can vouch that American does have more legroom.

I was nibbling my third handful of Snak Club Yogurt ‘N’ Nut Mix when an unusual announcement came over the PA.

“Ladies and gentleman, the mother of a little girl in seat 42B has alerted us that her daughter has an extreme allergy to peanuts. Anyone seated nearby is asked not to eat peanuts.”

I stopped mid-munch. Snak Club had no cholesterol, no preservatives, but plenty of peanuts. Was I the subject of censure?

I glanced up at my seat assignment. 36B. Six rows. How near was near, and was I far enough away from near? How much of a whiff of peanuts was gonna choke the little girl’s throat? What if I left the offending nuts in the bag, could I keep indulging in almonds, raisins, dates and irresistible white chocolate chips – mouthwatering bits of perfection my taste buds suddenly craved at any price? I mean, there were plenty of other little girls on the plane. Healthy ones, too.

My jaw locked shut for fear of contaminating the air with peanut particles, the fallout of which would surely suffocate girl 42B six rows back. I decided to sacrifice for the greater good, and carefully rolled up the plastic bag.

“Excuse me!” barked a voice from behind.

Shit, too late! Wrongful death was my first thought.

Like the airline’s Boeing 777 fleet, Marilyn the flight attendant was an aging hen rolling through the aisle in preparation for take off. Unlike slinky stewardesses on Asian carriers, Marylin and American's girls were probably now grandmothers who had pedaled beverage carts long enough to land the coveted international routes. Grace had worn off years ago. Riveted elbows and sliver hair matched the exterior of the fuselage.

“EXCUSE ME?” she clucked again. “Can you get that? I can’t reach.”

And just like that she resigned herself from closing the overhead bin above me. For the base fare, taxes, security fee and fuel surcharge I paid to sit on my air pillow, I didn’t take kindly to a do-it-yourself attitude from an employee of an airline behind schedule.

She moved along tapping shoulders down the aisle, delegating duties to Chinese and Japanese passengers who couldn’t catch her rushed instructions in English. I did her job and fluffed my cushion. Buckling my belt, I reached for the seat pocket and unleashed the bag of nuts.

Drinking in the New Year

For an all work and no play culture, the Japanese make exceptions to let loose in December and January. That’s when bonenkai (忘年会) and shinnenkai (新年会) parties give co-workers and friends reason to forget the old and celebrate the new.

January 14th’s shinnenkai was with Kensuke (last seen on the blog saving my life) and some of his buddies (last seen barbecuing in the park – click on the “Kensuke” label link at right for a refresher). I anticipated an evening of struggling to speak in Japanese and relying heavily on hand gestures oiled by sake, shouchu, and draft beer.

Kensuke and friends seemed subdued, maybe because everyone was off to a shaky start. Kensuke was set to lose February’s income because Master was closing the izakaya and taking a month’s rest – in Hawaii. Working Mondays at a pachinko parlor wouldn’t make ends meet.

Tak, fighting a cold, looked depressed underneath his wool hat. He didn’t even have part-time prospects after his long hair got him bounced from an interview at another pachinko parlor.

After talking about jobs, or the lack thereof, conversation switched to girlfriends, or the lack thereof. Kensuke and Tomo recounted their foray into Kabukicho, Tokyo’s red light district. After 10 minutes of perusing photos, about $125 got them 15 minutes with the Japanese girl of their choice. Except that when the door opened, in walked a Korean, they said with a trace of buyer’s remorse.

The affable grill master from the summer BBQ was noticeably absent, but checked in a few times via cell phone from home where he was studying for a college exam. Such obligations, however, didn’t stop Tomo from extending Sunday’s shinnenkai until 2:30 a.m. Monday. The slim tae kwon do fighter (below) tied a ponytail on top of his head and cursed off a Chinese test looming later that day.

“Not pass,” he said, gritting his teeth. I didn’t disagree, as his Chinese vocabulary was about the same size as mine – four words.

Around the table, lighters sat perched on cigarette packs like poker chips. Kazu blew rings from his mouth. Ailing Tak dragged on a cigarette and blew mucus into a wet wipe. The table began to clutter with empty glasses, discarded edamame pods, and bare plates as fried chicken, raw octopus, and other shareable snacks were attacked upon arrival. I dipped slender shishamo (ししゃも, smelt fish) into mayo and savored its scaly texture. The Japanese have caught on: mayo makes everything taste better.

Quiet Kazu was wearing a long sleeve shirt imprinted with a map of New York City’s subway. I pointed to the dot on his chest where I was born. A barrage of “New York life” questions followed, which were mostly contorted fantasies picked up from watching too many B-movies.

The guys were most interested in black people and junkies; needle in forearm gestures accompanied their questions about the latter. How many black friends did I have? How did I greet them on the street? Were cops not strict about marijuana? Did I use in high school? Did all junkies use wheelchairs? Did the one junkie per block ratio hold true in the City? So as not to completely disappoint them, I pointed to Kazu’s shoulders and said that in those outlying areas you could find what you were looking for.

I might have misinterpreted, but Kensuke then shared a factoid that for every 100 meters between a NYC police station and his hotel, there was a 150% chance that a Japanese person would get mugged twice.

We later moved into a private booth equipped with a karaoke machine. Earlier, sniffling Tak had been eager to know if I could rap. Something about wanting me to do so at his band’s show. In denial that I couldn’t, he queued “Lose Yourself.” I reluctantly picked up the mic, and by the time I put it back down I had new respect for Eminem’s speed. Hopefully I convinced Tak to keep searching for a performer.

We took turns thumbing through a song book the size of a state telephone directory. I knew just where to flip. With sporadic practice over the months, I’ve assembled a repertoire:

Bon Jovi – Livin’ on a Prayer
Zager and Evans – In the Year 2525
America – Horse With No Name
Javine – Surrender
Linkin Park – Numb
Celine Dion – My Heart Will Go On

It’s a nice mix of oldies, rock, and pop that won’t push my limited vocal range. Celine is a shattering exception, but by that point nobody will remember anything anyway.

Despite my spirited first-time rendition of Mr. Mister’s “Kyrie,” quiet Kazu turned out to be the most talented. While the others stuck with Japanese hits, he handled the Red Hot Chili Peppers on key and in clear English.

Aside from memorized lyrics, however, their collective English ability was quite limited. The five of us nevertheless connected. Cell phone dictionaries bridged gaps, such as for gesture-defying words like entrance examination, conscription, and sperm bank.

Although they kept complimenting my Japanese, it hadn’t improved since the BBQ six months ago. I still only know about 10 verbs, half of which I can use correctly. Instead, I spit out a steady diet of nouns and hope people get the picture. Kensuke made an interesting point. Despite not studying, my living in Japan for less than two years has made me more proficient than their six years of compulsory English education.

Kensuke (center) and Tomo

By 10:30 p.m. Kazu and Tak called it a night, but Kensuke, Tomo, and I moved on to a yakitori place that could become my next neighborhood hang out. Staff welcomed me like a regular, and I pulled up a padded beer barrel stool among the lively locals growing louder after every glass. Kensuke kept the sake flowing and ordered skewers of torikawa (とりかわ, grilled chicken skin), tiny bird eggs, liver, and pork slices.

Around 1:30 a.m. a female friend from their junior high days joined us for a final round of sake and skewered entrails. We then parted ways into the chilly January night, 2007 having been initiated Japanese style.

Picnic in the Park

Just two entries after first blogging about her on Halloween, it was time to say sayonara to Delphine. Japan was losing this Frenchwoman to Australia. Disgruntled with my current teaching job, she offered me hers. Seeing as I do enough baby-sitting of 7th graders, the thought of changing diapers and wiping runny noses of crusty-eyed preschoolers was out of the question.

Thanks to Tokyo’s already mild winters, and with a little help from global warming, November 12 was still seasonal for a farewell picnic in the beautifully landscaped Shinjukugyoen, once the estate of a feudal lord from the Edo period. ¥200 ($1.75) was well worth admission to touch real grass, the most manicured I’ve seen growing in a city otherwise paved over in concrete. Luckily, the Central Park of Tokyo is not far from my new apartment, and was the setting of a few lazy August days when I was on summer vacation.

An international group spread out on the lawn, and dug into perhaps the most international of foodstuffs – Pringles potato chips, seemingly available in every country with UN membership. I, however, packed a supermarket bento lunch box of grilled salmon, and brought tea and cookies for the others to munch on.

Low autumn sunshine cast tall afternoon shadows in the park. Gingko trees with brilliant yellow leaves rustled. Creeping shadows and steady breezes made lounging on the grass feel chilly, so we began tossing around a frisbee with predictably chaotic results. The wind steered the disc according to its whim, on occasion colliding with someone’s back or back of the head.

By 4 o’clock, shadows had overtaken sunlight, and we retreated to a nearby café to warm up over tea and coffee. Thanks to Yukari for being the official picnic photographer, and for inspiring me to upgrade my point and shoot to a digital DSLR retailing for more than a month’s rent.

Christmas came early to Tokyo, but the good-byes continued a month later with Lawrence , my best friend here, and then the freewheeling Jackson who was last seen on the blog atop the Yamanote line’s luggage rack on Halloween. Lawrence is back in Paris while Jackson is off to pursue his career as a talent across four cities worldwide. And I’m still in this conflictingly irritating but fascinating city, but feel like I, too, am on my way out.

Top (from left): Tanya (Ukraine), Lawrence (France)
Bottom (from left): Yours Truly (USA), three girls I don’t know (Australia, Taiwan, Japan), Delphine (France)
Not pictured: Michelle (Canada), Yukari (photographer, Japan).

Freaky Foreigners

Halloween. You get the feeling that the Japanese think they should be celebrating it because it’s Western and in the movies, but aren’t sure how to go about it. Pumpkin-themed things are available, and if you look hard enough you may find a genuine miniature pumpkin, which in central Tokyo looks lonely and lost from the patch.

“Happy Halloween” signs are just window dressing. There’s no substance behind the decorations. And without Thanksgiving as a buffer holiday, some stores launch into Christmas mode in mid-October. That's another Western holiday the Japanese don’t quite grasp, but have added their own twists.

Thank goodness for foreigners to set them straight. In addition to conversational English, we can prove our worth by teaching the joys of dressing up like freaks and gorging on candy until our stomachs explode (nowadays from liquor).

Every four years I’m due to celebrate in full gear:

1998. New Hampshire. Freshman year of college, hallmate Susannah persuaded me to cross-dress so that she could do my makeup. Thankfully those were pre-digital days.

2002. New York. My resort uniform (purple swimming trunks, white tank top, shell necklace) from a former job in Guam was widely mistaken for a marathon runner, an event held later that week.

2006. Tokyo. Having already purchased red wristbands, finger guards, headband, and bandanna to dress up for school sports day (think color war), I realized I could save money and be creative at the same time. The subway line closest to my apartment is coded red. Inspiration met originality – I would be the Marunouchi Line, Tokyo’s second oldest and my second most disliked after the Ginza Line. Sometimes it’s so crowded that I miss my stop because I can’t fight my way out fast enough. Carriages that smell like the men’s bathroom don’t add appeal.

After working a thankless 13 consecutive days at school, I was ready for a holiday, any holiday. The Halloween dance card was full: four parties in one night. The first required no invitation.

In the same vein as a flash mob, an expat Halloween tradition calls for a costumed convergence on platform 13 at JR Shinjuku station, the busiest in the world. Here we would catch (commandeer) a Yamanote line train. With 3.55 million riders daily, this line is the bread and butter of Tokyo mass transit. Famous for its light green color and cattle cars where the seats fold up during rush hour, Yamanote trains endlessly circle the core of Tokyo connecting the city’s major transit hubs.

Dressing in red wouldn’t be clear enough, so I spent two hours fashioning the Japanese for “Marunouchi Line” onto the back of my red track jacket. It’s the first and last time I’ll ever write kanji, but the result was striking. Two letter “M”s taped on the butt and thigh of matching sweatpants completed the look.

From the front, I looked like a bad 80s rapper. From the back, I was more puzzling. Who would embody a subway line? Again, Halloween is not a well-known concept here, so I simply looked freakish from every angle. Stepping outdoors, I quickly retreated back in – to a convenience store to pick up two canned cocktails (7%) to calm my nerves on the way to platform 13. I got the rare-bird-escaped-from-the-zoo look. Tropical plumage from head-to-toe was a magnet for attention. I became sensitive to sounds. Even busses rumbled by with laughter.

Powerless police officers puttered about platform 13, whispering distress into their radios. Open containers, however, were legal. And so were we, just waiting for the train.

The 21:07 to be exact. That was the pre-decided time to ride. I stepped on the yellow line, and aimed my camera at headlights growing in the dark. The conductor, aware of who awaited, put some serious juice on the horn as the train blew into the station. The crowd cheered. It was party time.

Without enough crazy foreigners to take over ten cars, only the last was targeted. Passengers were given the courtesy of exiting before the spirits of the night stormed the carriage to rile up the unlucky remaining ones. One Japanese woman, coincidentally in an orange sweater, looked like she had seen a ghost, so to speak. The doors closed, the gears wheezed, and we cracked open beverages and yelled “kanpai!” to toast our departure.

Shin-Okubo…Takadanobaba…Mejiro. Locals left and those in costume consolidated control of the car. At each station, boarding passengers received a rowdy welcome, whereupon they scrambled up the platform to find a tamer car. As usual, many commuters waited at Ikebukuro station (change here for the Marunouchi Line). They froze on the platform. The next train was only five minutes behind.

The mood inside was festive, but there’s really only so much fun you can have drinking aboard mass transit. The Yamanote loop takes about an hour, but my next party started in half that time, so I jumped train at Komagome station to retrace my tracks back towards Shinjuku.

According to someone who saw the evening news, foreigners were blamed for causing delays on the line because at each stop revelers would dance on the platform right through the closing door melody and jump back on in the nick of time (see footage below).



For more, check out these Youtube highlights. I guess I exited too early cause it looks like they had a lot more fun than I had.





My friend Delphine, uncostumed but accompanied by a Columbian suitor, also reversed course. Pabo seemed a little spooky himself, a hunch that she confirmed at lunch the next day. Apparently he had a thing for the French damsel, which he subtly conveyed by trying to force her hand down his pants to prove just how small it was. Over instant messenger he once sent her an unsolicited picture of his toothpick.

“He goes on three or four dates a week,” Delphine said. “And he takes girls to love hotels and films it. He’s showed me. ‘It’s small, isn’t it?’ he asks me.” Delphine said that while he’s kooky, he’s no liar.

After Maria’s birthday and Halloween party in Shibuya, I cabbed it to DJ’s place. Rain began to peel away my letters, so I skipped the fourth party to crawl home to bed.

Meeting up with Delphine for lunch the next day, she took one look at my clothing and said with a smirk, “I like you in red better.”

* * *

A week later was Jackson’s birthday, which he rolled into a post-Halloween bash on a boat cruising around Tokyo Bay. Ever the crazy Canadian, I like Jackson because he’s that guy. Check him out here lounging on the Yamanote line’s luggage racks.

Once again I dressed up in the color of embarrassment. Halloween was so last week, I thought. No sooner had I locked my door than I heard English voices echoing down the corridor. Crap! It’s my neighbor Mike whose name I’ve seen on the mailbox but hadn’t met in person. He and three friends turned the corner before I could unlock the deadbolt and hide inside.

“Uhh, hi?” I said, clutching my keys.

“Hi, I’m your neighbor” Mike said, doing his best to act casual.

“I don’t usually dress like this, I swear.”

“You’ve got a party to go to, I see,” a friend said.

“Yeah, it’s a post-Halloween thing. I know it’s over, but….”

“Hey, it’s been happening all week,” the friend said, bailing me out.

To get to the pier, I caught a ride on what else but the Marunouchi Line. On the platform, a Japanese man came up to shake my hand and call me a “cool guy.” I felt like a traitor transferring to the Ginza Line, where a drunken salaryman also stopped to shake my hand with a giggle, but fortunately not a grope.

Party pictures can be viewed here.

Hey Mr. DJ

Not one to turn down a party invitation, I met Yuji at the Roppongi station turnstiles. This area of town pulsates at night under neon signs advertising sweaty bars and decadent companion clubs. A haunt of tourists, expats, military and the Japanese who wanna party with them, I avoid Roppongi’s $9 beers and cheesy music at all costs.Yet Yuji’s friend was DJing, and I figured it would be a good chance to hang out outside of his father’s tiny restaurant where we had met. I’m glad I made the exception. Yuji’s limited English could not prepare me for what type of party to expect. To play it safe, I wore a button down shirt stuffed into slacks. I should have remembered that Japan doesn’t have a dress code.

Yuji (right) – in baggy pants, a grey hooded sweatshirt and wool cap – led me in the opposite direction from the bright lights. We made a Family Mart run to grab drinks to finish off en route. The stairwell descending into the basement bar was dizzying. Graffiti lined the walls down to the bottom where a lanky DJ (center) welcomed me like an old friend, and handed out a CD with his R&B remixes.

The bonenkai wasn’t starting for another half hour. This marvelous Japanese concept is known as “year-forgetting parties.” (This being back in December). Momo was already forgetting. He wobbled around the room in a large reindeer headgear. Yuji meanwhile posted flyers with the DJ lineup around the bar.

I was the only foreigner in attendance, which is how I like it. It feels more cultural in that lost in translation way. I get C-list celebrity attention, and don’t get annoyed with other foreigners who think they are god’s gift to Japan for being proficient in the language.

I did, however, feel conspicuously overdressed among the music video wannabes in oversized off-brand tracksuits, dangling chains and sunglasses – sometimes a sign of gang membership here. Then again, it’s hard to consider someone wearing size 28 pants as tough, especially with a Louis Vuitton wallet poking out of the back pocket.

Sometimes they’d catch me staring with arced eyebrows at their outfits, but as a foreigner I can get away with it by falling outside of the Japanese social rubric. A smile and head nod turns embarrassment or confrontation into an icebreaker.

Such was the case with Kobe. I forget his real name, but he was wearing the basketball star’s jersey with matching Lakers cap and a fake gold chain that read “chain gang.” This Yokohama boy was no Bay Star. He looked the least likely of anyone in the room to play a sport or be in a gang. Yet he was eager to make my acquaintance, and summoned his friend Nao to join us.

Long hair poked out of Nao’s trucker’s hat that read “No problem. I love working my butt off for no money.” His sweatshirt was two sizes too big, and he had a goofy grin like he had been sniffing too much glue. He was an older but just as immature version of my students. He even lived in the same neighborhood. Astonishingly, he too, had wandering hands. I’m beginning to think this is a latent cultural phenomenon.

Like most people I met that night, Nao had a curiosity for English. First about translations for private parts, and then about his hat. “Butt” was easy enough, but the expression wasn’t. What did working hard have to do with a butt? he wanted to know. Giving up in frustration, I asked to borrow the hat to wear to the next monthly teachers’ meeting.

I also had trouble translating “Shat,” the artist’s name on the flyer advertising the evening’s party. This being a country where M-Shit is a popular punk rocker (M stands for Mohawk. Shit, for talent).

Easier to explain was a baby blue Columbia varsity jacket, purchased second-hand and turning baby brown from a patchwork of stains. Kousuke was startled to learn that Columbia was a university in New York. I was startled to see it personalized with “Christie.”

Unable to translate songs titles like “Return of the Mack” and “Bug A Boo” or lyrics like “Can I have it like that?…You got it like that,” Nao suggested that we not pay bar prices and instead drink on the sidewalk outside Family Mart. While not illegal, it felt amateur…and freezing, this being winter.

Back inside, Momo (right) was slumped over, naked without his headgear and neglecting the hot plate simmering with pre-cooked hot dogs on sticks for sale. More people had arrived, and Yuji facilitated introductions.

The underground setting bred intimacy. The vibe was friendship, not meat market, which is the selling point of foreigner hangouts in nearby Roppongi. Everyone seemed to know one another like we were in a party in a friend’s basement party.

The dance floor got crowded. Passionate DJs moved their friends with homespun music. In typical Japanese style, no one was going overboard. No bumping ‘n’ grinding, just bopping in place. Fly swatter-like arm extensions towards the DJ signaled approval. Some added their own beat with two drums on hand for audience participation.

In between DJ sets, live acts took the stage. Japanese rappers wearing puffy jackets and unbent MLB lids sang a good first number. Of course, I didn’t understand a word, but the same goes for American rappers.

It was refreshing to be with an unpretentious crowd enjoying one another’s company to amid good soundtrack. No drama, just a girl in a Santa costume passing out free shots of fizzy tequila. It was also DJ’s birthday, and at the end of his set he was presented with a cake, which everyone devoured using a communal spoon.

Santa and reindeer girls made a festively adorable duo, Nao was a one-man comedy show, but DJ was my favorite. He didn’t know much (any?) English, but his smile was contagious. The turntables electrified his blood. I could only feel excited watching him bounce around the DJ booth waving records in the air. He hooked me on “The Drive” by Headnodic & The Procussions and a Chemical Brothers remix of “Galvanzie.” Rock on, DJ.

This being a monthly party, I’ve gone several times since December’s debut, hence pictures in different clothes. The flowers were from Maki for my birthday. Viewers will be pleased to know that I’ve since done away with the long hairdo. I don’t know what I was thinking other than that it was winter and my head was cold.

Ending on a High Note

Only ubiquitous convenience stores outnumber karaoke parlors in Tokyo’s cityscape. I visit the former regularly to pick up essentials such as soft serve ice cream, clean underwear and Japanese comic book porn. Actually, not the last two.

Despite being in Japan for 10 months, tonight was my first foray into karaoke – at least the proper way, among friends – instead of with hostesses paid to sing along and pour you watery whisky.

Unlike the glittery street level parlors I pass, Utahiroba’s upstairs reception area had the neglected and dated décor of a rural bowling alley. My invited guests (plus Gregory) were led to a windowless room with clashing wallpaper and padded turquoise benches around a table. The cost covered all-you-can drink, and we quickly sent the waitress running to go fetch.

Natives Maki and Takafin kept each other company closest to the door and the telephone -- to call for more drinks not long after the first round had arrived. Team France (Delphine, Lawrence and Koya) sat together while I split up the Napoli girls because of Napoli#1’s long-standing promise to do duets with me.

Napoli#2 apparently invited Gregory, and they began to comandeer the controls to queue up songs. Two volumes the size of telephone books indexed the music library, and selection numbers were keyed into the remote. Along with the lyrics, the television screen flashed images from what I think was Chicago circa 1987.

A white chick with too much makeup and outdated hair strut through the streets in denim. Sometimes she walked around parked Oldsmobiles. Sometimes she danced in front of a graffiti mural. The worst was closeups in the park of her frizzy hair blowing in the breeze. All this to the beat of Destiny’s Child.

Perhaps stimulated by the 80s imagery, Gregory grabbed the mic and put on a show to remember, but one we're still trying to forget. Hands collectively covered ears. Mild-mannered Maki shrank against the wall. “Holding Out for a Hero” never sounded this bad.

“Onchi!” I cried across to room, eager to exercise a random but suddenly appropriate word (tone deaf) before curling up in Napoli#1’s shoulder. One eye watched Koya look for the fast-forward button.

Gregory already had our attention, but he stood up and slammed his foot on the table, knocking over an empty glass. Ice cubes skated onto the floor. He pumped his fists to the chorus, and kept rasping. The noise overwhelmed such a small compartment (but one still larger than my apartment).

Then came the gratuitous crotch grabbing. Maki blanched. How long was this song? Yelling with his foot on the table and hand on his crotch wasn’t enough. Seeking further exposure, he raised his shirt. For a split second I didn’t know what I was looking at. Something four months pregnant and carpeted in hair. He caressed his belly while momentarily abandoning the lyrics to proclaim “I’m beautiful, I’m beautiful!” It was a show-stopper. To a chorus of moans he replied, “Oh, come on, it was a coked-up Bonnie Tyler.”

After a few songs, "Livin’ on a Prayer" began. Gregory, who hadn’t let go of the mic, began singing my song. I complained to Napoli#1. First my party, and now my song were being soiled by this pregnant pig. Delphine passed me the other microphone. I cut into the chorus, but was no match to overpower his husky voice.

Still, he noticed. I glared back. My song. It’s one of the few that my limited octave range can match. I stood up and continued to sing for what was rightfully mine. Gregory backed down, and rested the mic on the wet table to grab more of some cloudy drink.

“What was that?” he groaned when my voice trailed to a whisper. “That was like some Frank Sinatra version of Bon Jovi. It’s the worst I’ve ever heard.” He insisted on a more guttural approach, like perhaps Bonnie Tyler on drugs.

Midnight was fast approaching, and with it, last trains. There wasn’t even enough time to finish the current song, which happened to be Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On.” Along with Bon Jovi, it rounds out my karaoke repertoire. I jumped up, grabbed the mic and attracted audience participation. Take that, Gregory.

About three-quarters of the way through, the waitress tapped on the door. She had a collection plate. Either pay up, or time’s up. Celine and I weren’t quite finished, so good thing Maki translated that the song must go on.

It’s My Party, and I Can Order Chicken If I Want To

Running a fashionable 20 minutes late to my own party only added to the confusion since some of the dozen people waiting under Shinjuku’s huge Studio Alta screen didn’t know one another.

I picked through the crowd of 100 others waiting in the same spot to round up the group, and led the charge to Kaikyo, a cheap izakaya (Japanese-style pub restaurant) I had scouted out. I saw the outing less as a birthday party and more of an excuse to jilt my usual Saturday night date with the washing machine.

I worried about the dinner reservation because we only had the table for two hours, and were now running half an hour late.

“We can’t go yet!” Lawrence called out. “Delphine’s not here.” Pretty name, but who’s Delphine? I wondered. The eclectic group included Lawrence of France, his Fumi, his friends Delphine and Koya, the Napoli girls (of Naples, Italy), a teacher who quit my company, his Japanese friend Ken, my friend Maki, and Takafin, the T.G.I. Friday’s waiter I befriended last month.

I chose Kaikyo because it was an alternative to traditional izakaya fare with Western influences that I craved. Like rock music, big portions and popcorn otoshi (obligatory table snacks, usually pickled things in neon colors). Oh, and fried chicken. Actually, the biggest portion of fried chicken this side of the Mississippi. The Colonel’s got nothing on Kaikyo. Maki’s eyes rolled out of her head and onto the floor. She got full just looking at the platter.

“We’ll need two more orders of this,” I asked Fumi to tell the waitress. “And a forklift.” The Napoli girls, forever lamenting the sorry state of pizza in Japan, exclaimed, “This place is just like America – fried chicken all over the place!”

I sided with Takafin’s take: “let’s fuckin’ eat!” Takafin enjoyed eating and drinking as much as he enjoyed lacing profanity into his English with grammatical predictability. His construction of choice was: let’s + fuckin’ + verb (limited to eat or drink).

And eat we did. Communal bowls of Kim chi tofu, spinach salad sprinkled with baby sardines, radish the consistency of steak (or, “radish steak”) and baked curry bread smothered with melted cheese — not for the calorie phobic. If this doesn’t sound like your ideal birthday menu, then you clearly haven’t spent enough time in Japan. The concoctions grow on you. Of course, my priority was the fried chicken, which, depending on the batch, could have used a dunk in soy sauce or spicy Japanese mustard.

A few pitchers of beer helped wash down the juicy pork and egg dish, but nobody got silly. We saved that for karaoke. But first, a few thoughtful gifts – a bouquet from Maki, potted plants in proportion to my apartment from Fumi, and a personalized
daruma signed by the group. I looked up to smile. It was a Fuji Film moment. But then I stopped.

Gregory? Was that really he, the freaky Greek? Who the hell invited him?

Two friends of friends of friends joined the karaoke train rolling out of the restaurant and through the alleys of Kabukicho, once the seat of traditional kabuki theater and now the underbelly of Tokyo’s red light district of sleaze and sex and the gangsters who profit from it. Sort of like Times Square in the 80s, but without the garbage, graffiti and drugs.

“I know just the place,” I assured the group. Of course, all karaoke parlors are the same, but I felt loyal to one after researching it for my 24-Hour Tokyo article.

Gregory the photographer asked me how I had been, and if I had gotten any jobs. I was surprised he remembered. “There’s this Greek guy who has the same clean cut look as you,” he said. “He’s doing really well. Gets lots of jobs for suit shootings.”

We had met when I was considering getting a book of portraits photographed to show off at auditions to launch my now fizzling modeling career (okay, flat-line). Gregory was known to have the best price in town. But $200 was still too much of an investment at the time.

He offered a discount when we met at his studio one hot July afternoon. I had nearly blocked the encounter out of my mind. When I got home, I banged on my keyboard for an hour, saved the document, and haven’t opened it since. That is, not until tomorrow….

Humbled and Hobbled

…continued from last post.

“Daijoubu desuka?” an opponent asked from above.

No, I wasn’t. I was on the floor, where – adding insult to injury – I had watched the ball roll off the rim. I don’t remember if someone tipped it in. The game was over, and I was finished – for a few weeks. Not wanting to draw attention, I quickly dragged myself to the sidelines to change clothes.

The pain was so fresh that I could walk through it before the nerves came to their senses. I unlaced my And1 basketball high tops, and peeled off sweaty socks. A fleshy bulb had replaced my left ankle. It looked like elephantiasis. A recent visit to the world’s only parasite museum (left) was still on my mind.

“See you next week!” Takahiro, 23, called on his way out. Yeah, right.

Everyone was heading home. I panicked. What about me? Cabs aren’t an option if unable to articulate a route (addresses alone are useless in Japan). How to obtain food if unable to walk? I can’t point at a Domino’s picture menu from over the phone. Who could help? Certainly not a doctor. I don’t have insurance here.

Biting my scarf, I faked a thumbs up to the junior high crowd murmuring in the corner about the walking wounded. Downstairs (god bless elevators), the sports center receptionist rose halfway out of her chair.

She knows it’s Friday night whenever I walk in to buy a ticket. We always exchange evening pleasantries. Her mouth parted for the usual thank you-good night, but then her eyes bulged. Lips painted red searched for words. She inhaled through her teeth. I lied again with my hands. Such a pretty face. I’ll miss seeing it for a while.

I scratched together an idea for a home remedy: tape two Coolish ice cream bags around my ankle and pray. I mean, just where was I going to get ice? Sapporo? (Look at who came in fifth!).

Forget Sapporo, even the supermarket was too far away. Instead, I shuffled into 7-11, and hobbled over to the cooler. No Coolish, but there on the bottom shelf were bags of “rock-ice for people who know the difference.” I knew. The difference was having an ice pack instead of ice cream bags to reduce swelling. Oh, thank heaven.

With morning came judgment day. The bulb had shrunk. No sign of bruising either (that wasn’t till the third day). Yet, on my way to tutor elementary school girls, a 15-minute stroll to the station became a 30-minute physical challenge.

In a perverse way, I enjoyed the humbling sensation of not taking walking for granted. Overnight I had aged 50 years. I had the gait of the local hunchbacks pushing carts of groceries whom I ordinarily zoom by when dashing to the station. Not being able to walk puts the rest of your problems in perspective.

However, I also felt like even more of an outcast. I get enough unwanted looks on the street on normal days. Now I kept a lowered head to avoid eye contact altogether. A mix of pity, curiosity and fear stared back when I looked up at intersections.

I’m not used to slowing down for the flashing green man when about to cross. I navigated the elevated walkway over the highway with right hand on the railing and left foot in the air, hopping stairs with my right foot like a Double Dare physical challenge (minus the super sloppy slime).

So young, but so crippled must have been running through the minds of passersby. Mothers steered children away from my path as I teetered along the edge of the sidewalk like a wounded animal on its last legs, clutching walls, poles and railings for support.

As usual, weekend plans included only a date with the washing machine. The ice pack accompanied me throughout the evening. I tucked myself into bed, and it into the freezer. Thank you, rock-ice. You’ll always be on hand when my foot needs you, which hopefully is never again.

The Hoop and the Harm

From playing basketball with handicapped kids to becoming one myself, my ankle took an unfortunate twist last Friday. All week I look forward to shooting hoops with locals ages 13 and up.

The Japanese are sharp shooters, but lousy defenders. When scrimmaging they seek to shoot as much as possible from as far away as possible. Yamazaki, 21, has a 3-point shot matched in meanness only by his skin disease. His preferred firing range is from between the 3-point line and half court. Swish.

The only times I touch the ball on offense are by accident or offensive rebound. I quickly pass for fear of blowing another lay up. Like the rest of Japan, rims at the ward sports center take exception to foreigners. As the lone alien on the court, I’m easy to spot.

I contribute solely on the defensive end. I patrol the oversized international key while four teammates wait to fast break back down court. There’s no set offense – just fast breaking and 3-pointer launching. Sometimes they just stay on offense. Taking cigarette breaks in between games hasn’t increased their stamina to hustle back on defense.

By 8:30 p.m. I’m ready for a break, too. I sub out 15 minutes early to take advantage of nebiki, discount food shopping, at Chiyoda Sushi. Prices are slashed up to 50% to clear the day’s inventory.

Besides, you know what they say about taking that one last run on the ski slopes. I don’t want to tempt fate in that final game for fear of injuring, well, someone else. I’m known to foul hard, going for ball or head – whichever is closer – in hopes of recording a thunderous block. Swatting the ball out of bounds with authority has caused badminton players on the opposite side of the gym to take notice.

Last Friday, however, I skipped nebiki. Goseki, 21, and always sporting New Jersey Nets gear, was telling me about his upcoming trip to NY with Yamazaki to see the Nets face the Knicks at Madison Square Garden. I frowned. He smiled and said, “Do you feel homesick?”

With about one minute left, somehow I got the ball on the perimeter. Feeling frisky, I surprised everyone by hoisting a shot. My outside touch has improved, but this attempt smacked the side of the rim with a thud. Frustration mounted at not adding to 4 points the whole night (on six shots).

Similar to Japanese shops, “closing time” music filled the gym. Fourteen all. Last play. Offense. Goseki missed a 3. I rebounded. I was too far under the basket to put it back up. I didn’t pass. Not this time. I dribbled outside, then back into the key. Three defenders converged. Pivot, fake, spin. I saw an opening, and sliced between two defenders. Jump! Airborne, I flicked the ball. Light touch. Looks good! Bouncing around on the rim. Front. Back. Bouncing…oooww –

Pain shot through my leg. I’m down. And couldn’t get up.
Did the shot fall like the shooter? Find out tomorrow.

Taking Swings in Kiba Park

There aren’t too many places at 35°41' North latitude where you can play outdoor tennis in January. Tokyo is one of them. Ironically, in order to avoid the sun’s tanning rays, Japanese women wear more clothing to play tennis in July than in January. In summer’s 137% humidity, I perspire walking to the subway in a t-shirt, but that doesn’t stop women from wearing full sweat suits with long sleeves, mittens and visors inspired by Darth Vader.

In cooler conditions and under cloudy skies, I joined the Yamakuma family at well-maintained grass courts in Kiba Park, a half hour walk from my apartment. Kiba means “tree place,” and alludes to the lumber stockyards of the Edo period.

Nowadays, an unsightly concrete bridge accents the park, which attracts a crowd of retired shutterbugs who assemble tripods to document the local wildlife – pampered pooches and plump pigeons. Winter doesn’t enhance this drab park’s appeal, but when in Tokyo one learns to relish open spaces of any kind, even “parks” nestled under overpasses.

I tutor Jiro, the Yamakuma’s 7th grade daughter, for an hour on Saturday mornings. She showed up with a racquet, as did adult 6 family friends. We rented two courts, one for the husbands and the other for the wives. I was assigned to the wives’ court.

For two hours we played matches of four games each, rotating partners. While I hadn’t held a racket since an embarrassing defeat at the hands of an American 7th grader while vacationing in Oman a year ago, at least I was able to follow Japanese tennis jargon as we volleyed balls and apologies for hitting them. A typical point consisted of the following dialogue, gasped in staccato female whimpers:

Oh, I’m sorry! Are you ready?
Ahh, excuse me. I’m sorry.
It’s short, excuse me.
It’s okay. Sorry.
Oh, nice serve!
It’s short, so short. I’m sorry.
Almost!
Okay, next. Your turn, please.
Excuse me, please have a ball. Thank you.
Oh, thank you so much. I’m sorry.
Okay, it’s no trouble. Thank you.

My underhand serve needs work before next week’s qualifying match for Tokyo’s Toray Pan Pacific Open, but I’m set to practice with Nubata’s tennis club after school (also outdoors).

Walking through Kiba Park triggered memories of an earlier visit. I’ve had many bizarre encounters in Tokyo, but this perhaps outranks them all. Back in July, a salaryman at Daruma restaurant took me drinking around the neighborhood. Our last stop was a street cart named yatai. These are portable food vendors, but with fixed sidewalk locations.

I pulled up a stool, and the salaryman ordered me a can of Asahi and a bowl of oden, a hodepodge stew of strange root vegetables. Four other locals yammering in Japanese ringed the wooden cart, but became intrigued with the foreign diner.

A woman had a son my age, but after 45 minutes the salaryman left me on my own for translations. A man of about 50 with a shaved head and athletic build bought me another can and then a round of sake, which unfortunately were not elixirs to clarify his speech. Even the salaryman had trouble comprehending his thick Japanese with a heavy accent of intoxication.

The yatai chef was calling it a night, and my new friend – missing a bottom front tooth – smiled at me to follow him to the corner. Before the light changed to cross, he hailed us a cab. Climbing in sent shockwaves of uncertainty in this order: (1) cabs are an unaffordable luxury, (2) how was I going to get home from where we were going, (3) where were we going and (4) who the hell was this guy?

I began noting landmarks to help me retrace the route for the long walk home. Two right turns and a trapezoidal bridge later, the cab stopped. There was a convenience store and park. We went into the conbini first.

“Hanabi!” I pointed at the fireworks hanging from a rack by the door. I thought I had seen it all, the young clerk was thinking to himself as he eyed the drunken odd couple buying fireworks at half past midnight on a weekday.

The man, who paid for the cab and fireworks, hadn’t stopped talking through either. I was absolutely clueless as to what he was saying as we walked to a grassy field illuminated by street lamps.

I gazed up at the night sky. The next thing I knew, I was seeing stars. I had been knocked off my feet with some martial arts maneuver. And now I was angry. I charged back to return the favor, but bounced off; he was built like an ox.

I can’t remember how long this midnight melee lasted, but it ended as abruptly as it began. He started walking home. I ran after him to hand him the fireworks we’d abandoned. A banzai scream broke the silence as he punted the package into a stand of trees.

I woke up at noon wondering if it was all but a dream. Grass stains on my track pants told otherwise.

Gongs At Midnight

Fifty minutes to midnight, I was in my apartment with a sixer of Sapporo munching on day-old sushi and gizzard skewers. The television was on. I was exactly where I wanted to be.

The New Year’s Eve tradition of kohaku uta gassen was in full swing. J-pop stars were pitted in a battle of the sexes while kimono-clad enka singers waxed about unlucky love to sway the older demographic. Gorie, the transvestite comedian, sided with the girls’ team. While the parade of talent featured a few too many feathered boas for my taste, not so for the average Japanese household, 50% of whom tune into the program (down from 80% in the 60s-70s).

Unlike in the West, New Year’s in Japan is steeped in tradition more meaningful than champagne, Dick Clark and Times Square. The holiday is similar to Thanksgiving in that it’s the one time families get together. Bamboo and pine ornaments adorn entrances, soba noodles symbolizing longevity are slurped whole and bizarre seasonal foods crowd supermarket aisles.

Also unlike in the West, I was having trouble getting myself invited to a year-end celebration. Time was running out, and so were the contacts in my phone book.

Hidemi was with her family in Mie prefecture. Basketball buddy Takahiro was down the street, but also with his parents. Sweet Kaori was texting me to arrange a follow up to her trial lesson in June. Nao (male) was going to Yokohama for an event staff party. Nao (female) wasn’t returning messages. And I wasn’t returning Fumiko’s.

Yoichi was having a party in his apato, but then suddenly changed plans for Chiba. Michelle and Nobu were in New York. Lawrence was in France. Hicca, of restaurant and radio fame, was in the hospital with a brain tumor. I almost thought about texting Satoshi. Almost.

So, like most other days here, I spent omisoka alone, but not lonely. Another tradition is to visit a shrine at midnight, or sometime during the three-day holiday. About 70% of Japanese make a pilgrimage for ceremonial rather than religious reasons. More than three million descend upon Tokyo’s Meiji Shrine, which is about the number of salarymen swarming into my Otemachi-bound subway car on non-holidays.

Luckily, my neighborhood is home to Tomioka Hachimangu Shrine, perhaps one of the five most important in Tokyo. At 30 minutes to midnight, I set out to rendezvous with the god of war. Just Hachiman and I would ring in the New Year together. Little did I expect such a crowd to vie for his attention.

The shrine was packed with people waiting to make a wish. Food stalls cooked up tempting treats in a haze of scented smoke. Never mind champagne, it was tako-yaki time (fried octopus-filled golf balls, right).

I exchanged greetings with two basketball acquaintances who spotted me while awaiting their fortune slips. Not wishing to wait in line for a custom I didn’t understand, I played roving photographer. I nudged my way up to the front of the shrine just before midnight, and videotaped the clapping crowd as gongs boomed. Some drunken guys hoisted one of their own, and bounced him as if he had just scored the winning goal.

The best part about the New Year, however, isn’t the anti-climatic countdown. It’s wishing random people well. This was made more satisfying in Japan where I was a foreigner unexpectedly equipped with the right phrase, and – after five Sapporos – emboldened to startle strangers.

Among those I bestowed New Year’s wishes upon were the supermarket checkout clerk (to purchase said Sapporo), the muffin girl in the silly hat working the bakery aisle, grandma Yoko the Chiyoda Sushi lady where I order out three times a week, a gang of high school troublemakers sitting on a park fence and a couple walking a dog down a quiet side street.

I spotted another young couple. “Sumimasen, shin nen no hofu wa nan desuka?” (What’s your New Year’s resolution?). Waiting for the walk signal, they were trapped. In typical Japanese style, the woman repeated my question. She then shot her boyfriend/husband the look. Traffic stopped. He laughed to end the conversation. The response needed no verbalization: more sex in ’06.

I continued to indulge in Japanese tradition on New Year’s Day, as I made a McTeriyaki burger my first meal of 2006, and watched the 85th Emperor’s Cup soccer match in bed (the red team won).

While I received no fortune at the shrine, I got an e-mail from Atami, a Douyoto 9th grader. His message was one we can all embrace: “2006’s ambition is ‘Don't forget progress spirit always.’” Amen, little guy. It’s going to be a good year here in Tokyo. Akemashite omedetou gozimasu to you, too.

Dancing Silhouettes

…Continued from previous entry.

“Where are we going?” I wondered aloud. I use this alley to access the side entrance of the supermarket. Nothing special ever stood out among these now darkened restaurants. “Third floor. I’ll show you,” Jerry said with a wink. The sign read: Silhouette. My mind translated: hostess bar.

Fingertips tingled as elevator doors opened. Jerry guided me into uncharted territory. A Filipino woman in a kimono spun around. I gawked back at her. What non-Japanese woman dresses in a kimono? Apparently one who makes a lot more money than I do wearing a suit and tie in a classroom.

¥4000/hour ($38) buys a table with a hostess pouring unlimited watered-down Suntory whisky. Karaoke and flattering conversation are also included. That Jerry was still in a generous mood made this an even merrier occasion. On a teacher’s salary I could afford about 15 minutes of this “debauchery.”

Heads turned towards the odd couple. Two white men – one middle-aged, paunchy, and with a shaved head and his young sidekick – needed pairing up. Sensing a covetous look in their stares, my self-consciousness waned at feeling out of place. Bored with the routine of chatting up drunken Japanese salarymen, these women viewed us as objects of fresh conversation, and perhaps ones who could relate to being outsiders in Japan.

Although whisky ranks just above embalming fluid on my preferred drink list, it was the only beverage included in the set price. Fortunately, it was watered down enough to suppress my gag reflex. Monica (her stage name – she has a day job reputation to maintain) plunked ice cubes with grace. “Do you want something to drink, too?” I offered. That wasn’t included either, but Monica didn’t seem disappointed. On her next rotation in 20 minutes a new client would buy her a drink she didn’t want.

These Filipinos spoke better English than every Japanese person I’ve met, and were far more complimentary. “Your high nose is perfect!” Monica lied. They are paid to dispense alcohol and advice, and listen to you ramble about your wealth, power, lackluster sex life, problems at work, or headaches at home, where your family soundly sleeps while you flirt late into the night.

These professional are also paid to sing karaoke. In practice, however, Sindy, 19, stood silently beside me. Unbelievably, for three months in Japan, I had yet to try karaoke. In fact, I had never sung aloud before, except privately in the shower or in gridlock on the Merritt Parkway. In my first live performance, I belted out all the wrong songs, which were either beyond my octave range (Stacie Orrico’s “There’s Gotta Be More To Life") or didn’t really have lyrics (Daft Punk’s “One More Time”).

I learned my lesson. On a follow-up visit two weeks later with a treating Japanese businessman I met at Daruma restaurant, I entertained with a tone-deaf performance of Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ On A Prayer.” A wave of patriotism swelled up inside as let everyone know that, like Bruce Springsteen, I, too, was “Born In The USA.” A little more practice, and I’m sending a demo tape to American Idol.

Salarymen sat in dark corners in darker suits numbing their minds with whisky. An American half their age sang on stage in track pants, t-shirt, and Tevas. The owner, with hands in his hair, calculated what effect I would have on future business. Was I an amusing novelty or irritation to his clientele? Or would nobody remember a damn thing the next morning anyway?

I was beginning to forget myself. Monica slipped me a ¥1000 bill and whispered something in my ear, which promptly went out the other. How was I getting tips in a hostess bar? The next thing I knew I was dancing with other men’s paid companions. And then with the men themselves. A girl half my size kept coming over for scandalous hip shaking. She was Japanese, which made her someone’s girlfriend, not a hostess. Was I going to get jumped in the alley on the way home?

Freestyle dance ended and Céline Dion began. “That’s our song!” I grabbed Sindy and rushed to the television screen’s scrolling lyrics. I ripped the microphone cord from its taped position and riled up the audience who had stuck around for the 3 a.m. closing. I poured my heart into the song until I couldn’t go on anymore. During the last verse, I dropped to my knees, flailed my arms, and dragged out the final refrain. Céline herself would have been proud.

Like Daruma earlier that night, Jerry and I closed down Silhouette. Outside in the alley, I happened upon my midget dancing partner. She was sitting with her not-so-miniature yakuza boyfriend. Would dance floor antics come back to haunt me? I casually joined them on the curb in the shadows of the supermarket.

They didn’t speak English, but after enough Japanese whisky I was fluent in their tongue. I think they said they were going to drink more at another bar, but at 3 a.m. on Tuesday they must have been headed home. “Ja mata,” I chirped as we parted in opposite directions along deserted Kiyosumi-dori.

I woke up with a bruised tailbone. My mouth tasted like Suntory. “My Heart Will Go On” looped around in my head. Since when did I drink whisky and like Céline Dion? Never again I told myself, crawling into my sandals to make an emergency run to McDonald’s. With comfort food reviving distressed organs, I e-mailed Jerry thanking him for a good time.

Glad you enjoyed yourself. It is fun to be a guy in this country and in Asia in general.

Stay well,
Jerry