Tokyo Damage Report

America damage report

AKA my spring vacation

A blistering yarn of adventures in the land of obese selfish round-eyes and nonstop nightmares!!! and this guy:

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That’s right, clods, I am straight blogging now.

also, new entries will be added to the bottom of the page.

 


 

man, even the THOUGHT of going back to cali has me full of bad dreams. I must hate the place worse than i thought. . .

16 wed (still in tokyo) —

Besides the one where my dad died, (nights ago) and the one where I fought this girl at art school (1 night ago), I had a new one where I was just frustrated to the point of exploding.

FRUSTRATION DREAM

Me and Pantsalot are in front of the safeway at like 1 at night. He says, “why don’t we go to the studio and play rock music?” “But Pantsalot, that studio is so far away!” “That’s ok, safeway sells bikes now.” And sure enough, out front of the main Safeway building, surrounded by a transparent plastic awning, is a sort of vestibule bike-shop. We are walking around. It is the middle of the night so there is no clerks. He says, “hell, I am just going to steal this one.” I say, “but stealing is wrong.” He replies, “C’mon, no one is ever going to buy THIS. . . just look at it.” And sure enough, the bike is totally rediculous. It looks like one of those tiny, squat motorized tricycles that obese people ride nowadays, but you have to pedal it, and the wheels are maybe 5 inches tall. I say, “OK, steal it if you must but wait for me to stand over there in case you get caught. I will buy one and catch up to you, ok?” “OK”

I find a cheap bike for 38 bucks. Rock on! I get the manager to help me ring it up. He is a big guy and right away starts giving me shit. He is like, “Sit down here, sir. We have to fill out some forms for you to get your bike licence.” What?? Well ok. Then he asks my name. I tell him. He doesn’t believe me. “That is your family name? Normal people, that is their FIRST name. Are you telling me the truth, sir? Because when I see someone who is trying to buy a bike at 1 AM, I think that person must be trying to escape from something bad they did. I will need to see some ID.” Then 3 middleaged Taiwanese tourists come wandering through and he totally blows me off to go help them. He is totally nice and servile to them. I am like, what the FUCK??? I get all up in his face, but just then this totally cool, blonde, cute nice girl Safway clerk steps in to help me finish filling out the super-important government-regulated bike-licence. After what seems like an hour of paperwork, we are done.

I’m like, so can I get the bike? “Well actually no. number one, that is just a display model. The real bikes are self-assembly” and she points to a ziplog plastic bag full of parts, none over 6 inches long. Just as I am reacting to this bullshit, she adds, “Plus I am not authorized to issue the Official Bike Licence. You will have to talk to the Manager again.” I am almost ready to flip out by this point, but as it happens the manager just finished with the taiwanese people. So he can ring me up fast. “One hundred 29 dollars” he says. “WHAT?? THE PRICE TAG SAYS 38!!” “yes sir, that is the Safeway price. But when you add the government fees for the Bike Licence, the Licence Tax, the Processing Fee, the Homeland Security National Bike User Database premium, and the Self-Assembly Authorization Code surcharge, it comes to 129 altogether.” This after spending like 2 hours trying to buy the fucking thing — !! I just say, “dude, fuck YOU.” And start walking.

Then, somehow, I am in a big lecture class in Stanford University. In the center of class there is a panel discussion on international economics. The panelists, as well as the students, are all members of ethnic groups that normally get left out of discussions on race: no blacks or whites, but plenty of indians, pakistanians, arabs, natve americans, Peruvians, and so on. The discussion is very fast-pace and intillectual. Then the teacher, a sort of Jenny Jones / Operah type, opens the floor up for dicussion. Unexpectedly she sticks the microphone in my face and says, “so, the ads in the back of this WIRED magazine are for a bunch of weird PDAs and they all say the PDAs are easy to use. Don’t you think they are actually hard to use?” I am totally WTF?? First of all, I am white so I don’t even belong in this discussion, AND I don’t even go to stanford in the first place, plus the question is totally off-topic AND slightly patronizing, as if I could not possibly talk about economics!

Nonetheless I start to answer. I notice that the audotorium is really big so I ask, “Am I talking loud enough? Can everyone hear me?” then, from the back, the only other white student in the room, this horrible nasty sorority girl, says, “Actually no I can’t hear you! But, my take on the issue is blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblahv blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah blahblahblahblah”

And so on without letup. To make matters worse, SHE is not talking loud enough either, and we can’t even hear her moronic opinion, just the grating whah-whah-whah Charlie Brown’s teacher sound of her nasal valley girl voice. I am so angry!! My friends are sitting next to me and whispering agitatedly that it is my turn, but nobody does anything including the teacher.

Suddenly I realize, “Holy crap, Pantsalot is still waiting for me! I had better get a move on!!” and bolt out of class, running for the exit of campus. . . which is super far away on the other side. I run past an exciting array of buildings, ramps, and sidewalks, all various shades of beige and tilting slightly at various odd angles, but I have no time to stop and admire the architecture. I make quick progress at first because I left class early, but soon, as classes end, the sidewalk becomes more and more crowded with students. I weave around and past them but it just keeps getting more crowded, and then I notice that at the same time the architecture has become more and more gnarled, until it is twisted in on itself like that famous MC Escher painting of the endless stairway.

Regardless, I manage to make it to an old, American style payphone on the side of the cafeteria. But the phone only takes Japanese 500 Yen coins. Fine. Next to the phone is a dry-erase board, and sure enough, Pantsalot has written a message on the dry-erase board, to the effect of, “dear Steve, I am waiting at Burnt Ramen studios. But I will only wait for you until 6:30, because after that my girlfriend is coming over.” Holy crap, it must be almost 6:30 now!!

I dial the number so fast that I mess up. There is now 2 students behind me in line for the phone. Then I have to put in another 500 yen, and I screw up again. It seems like my fingers are made of lead. Then the phone starts demanding shreds of cardboard be forced into the coin slot in lieu of coins, which I have to do, in a frenzy. Also right about now, there is a crowd of like 20 people pressing in on me on all sides, waiting to use the phone and visibly pissed that I cannot dial a simple number. By now I am a nervous wreck, sweating and trembling and about to lose it. I spot a nice blonde girl ? sort of like the one that helped me in Safeway ? and ask her to please dial for me, and she smiles and says yes. But right then some asshole who looks like Wil Wheaton from star trek, wearing a green polo shirt, grabs me by the ear ? the ear! Like some evil teacher, and says in this improbable Edward G. Robinson voice, “Say buddy, there is a lot of us folks wants to use the phone, too. Maybe If you can’t do it you should make way, see?” I am about to just go buckwild on the gangster/nerd guy when I realize that the mob of students has become so huge and dense that they rubbed the fucking phone number off the dry erase board, so neither I nor the nice blonde lady can call Pantsalot at all ever.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!

And that’s when I wake up.

Told this story to MC Norhyme, when we went out to dinner, then came back home and he wanted some of my porn. I was like, dude, don’t you have a girlfriend? He was like, well did YOU stop watching porn when YOU had a girlfriend? I was like, no, we would watch it together. She was into hardcore gay action in skiboots, all throwing snowballs. Zing!

tomorrow: more nightmares!! plus, food!!!

 

Sunday 20

Woke up at 2 with more nightmares!! In this one, mom objects to me drinking something and tries to put me in some submission hold, where she is crushing my ribs and also squeezing the glass between us so I could not drop it even if I wanted to. I got so hurt and also pissed! Plus, the 3 of us are in some kind of magical mountain wonderland, looking at condors, when one of them divebombs and kills our cat, and dad puts HIM the bird in a headlock.

2 am. Jesus, will I never sleep right??

damn, i miss American food— is it possible to get a a butter hangover? I resolve to find out.

Monday More 21

Yet MORE nightmares . . .something about one human-looking god approaching another god who is standing atop a hydroelectric dam, looking over the clifflike side of the dam. God A is trying to convince god B to take part in some Machiavellian scheme ,but B is more concerned with feeding meter after meter of his foot-wide cock through a hole in the retaining wall atop the dam, the cock is unspooling so fast it is almost a blur but one can still see that every 3 or 4 feet it changes color and veininess, like a franken-cock which has been stitched together from a million porn-star penises. The cocks are from various ages and races but marbled with veins and textured like beef jerky –greasy and wrinkley. Later I am in the dream, bowing down before a pair of gods, male and female, on thrones. The female is a classic femme fatale, with fishnets and garters and the whole nine. I am in her power and must kiss her up her legs, approaching a cooter which has something terribly awful and wrong about it but I can neither stop moving towards it nor can I look directly at it to see what the matter is. Still later, a human warrior / hero is fighting the Golem which defends the Gods. I am with them, watching the hwole thing on closed caption tv. The golem cuts his head off and prepares to smoosh it flat like a bug, but it is too gory and I turn away.

Yeah, so that was tonight’s nightmare. Jesus, how can just going to a different country mess up my psychology so bad? Has this ever happened to you?? You’d think that with this much turmoil in my subconscious I would HAVE to be acting a LITTLE bit weird or skittish when I am awake, but in fact I am happy and mellow. Huh???

Then I go to Berkeley. Spring break, so I don’t have to worry about coeds making me feel old and unwanted! Yaaay!!!

 

America damage report

 

Americans are fucking selfish fat assholes.

While driving on the freeway, I had no less than 2 fools cut me off WITHIN 5 MINUTES OF EACH OTHER!! And not just “oh, that was in bad taste” kind of cut off, but like “slam on the brakes or we will both die” kind of cut off. First one was, some guy in the far left lane, suddenly realized he had to take the offramp on the far right side. He ? get this ? checks his rear mirror, SEES THAT I AM RIGHT BEHIND HIM IN THE NEXT LANE, and GOES ANYWAY. I was more flabbergasted than angry ? the sheer balls of that move was amazing. But the next time was some guy stopped on the side of the freeway. Not slow. Stopped. He wants to get on. So he just pulls right in front of me, who is going like 60. ok, NOW I am angry. What the hell?? I tailgate him and lean on my horn for what seems to be a full minute. And guess what ? both these cockmongers had the same kind of car. Can you guess what kind of car that was? no really, guess. I never gave much creedence to the rumors about those people before, but now definitely fuck them.

Then I go to the pizza joint, where the yelling teens at the next table are acting like it is their private living room and just wrecking it for everyone. After that I go to the record store, and I stop to ask the clerk a question. He’s talking to his pal about something totally utterly non-work-related. I wait. If he only said, “I’ll be right with you, man,” or even “Hello!” it would be cool, but the assclown acts like he doesn’t even SEE me. What is extra amazing is that he is not an immature 18 year old with acne. Homeboy is like 55 years old, and still acting like this. I absolutely do not play that, so I say real loud, “HEY, are you working today or what?” he’s like, “yeah” and keeps talking to her.

The fuck?!!? It’s like, “Oh, I’m sorry, I guess you are a Somebody. I should know who you are, right? Sorry, I thought you were a clerk working for 8 bucks an hour. My bad!” man, fuck you Americans!

After that I meet QOQOL ? my old buddy and musical collaborator (the other half of Big Lebowski ? themed prog band THE PUNY HUMANS). and we get ethiopian food. I tell him about all my recent nightmares, and He tells me about this elaborate car-crash dream where some dipshit Is going to have a head-on collision with another guy, and the nice guy swerves out of the way, but later busts a u-bone and catches up with the dick, and makes him pull over and apologize.

We go to his house and work on the Criminally Insane Project which is hard because we keep laughing.

The C.I .P. is our sort of piss-take on DJs that “remix” albums. Instead of adding “slammin’ techno beats” or some “mash-up” bullshit, we are taking lots of sappy, sort, top 40 hits with the word crazy in the title, and in EVERY INSTANCE where they sing “crazy,” we are substituting a sample of the Slayer guy screaming “CRIMINALLY INSAAANE!!” with results like “CRIMINALLY INSAAANE little thing called love”, or billy joel’s “you may be right! I may be CRIMINALLY INSAAANE!!!”. . . or Pink Floyd’s, “Shine On You CRIMINALLY INSAAANE diamond.”

He also brings up the concept of the Black Metal Focus Group ? something I had totally forgotten about. Seems the musicians come out in full drag with lots of equipment and get the crowd all warmed up by yelling “do you like metal???? Do you like black metall???” and then the questions get more specific like . . . “Do you like black metal targeted to young men 18-22??” and “On a scale of 1 to 5, with 1 being strongly agree, and 5 being strongly agree . . . . .” etc. eventually they tell the audience to reach under their seats and pull out the questionnaire and #2 pencil. And the questions just keep getting longer and more analytical . . . All this done in a black metal voice. They never actually play any songs at all. Jesus, I totally forgot about this.

Then, since QOQOL is now playing guitar in the legendary Bay Area Gortet known as IMPALED, I go to impaled band-practice, where they play grindcore and I study kanji. I even make a study-card out of my favorite song of theirs. Also, QOQOL’s guitar is insane. Criminally.

 

 

 

 

Tuesday 22

More dreams . .not actually a nightmare. No cocks or death. But I was in a sort of landslide — a flash flood of a river in a very narrow canyon which was so fast that it sucked great amounts of land, and lumber into it. I was on a small floating island, totally dry, but just watching in amazement, looking behind me at the sheer force of the river. It was just so insanely powerful and almost comic-booky in intensity, sucking in great amounts of debris from the woody mountain- sides of the canyon. Even more so, the whole notion of scale and size and near-far was totally distorted. Stuff which should have been 4 km away was almost like you could reach out and touch it. And huge mountain sized stuff which was coming at you way too fast, just turned really small as it neared and floated past you. The sticks in the water next to me and the crumbling mountains in the horizon seemed somehow equal in size or intensity in some way I can not explain. Oh, and the usual stuff where time has no meaning and you are hurtling into an uncontrollable chaotic void, and so on.

Shit weather. On the way back to QOQOL’s in my car, AGAIN I almost get run over. This time it is a lady. She is backing out of a driveway and does not even see me or slow down!! If I had not totally whipped the car left we both would have gotten totaled. I reach the end of the block. Then, Recalling QOQOL’s dream, go back and yell at her. “What the fuck, hoe?? Don’t you realize YOU could have been hurt, acting like that??” She raises her arms, palms-out in some kind of gesture. What the hell does that mean? I give her a much more appropriate gesture (see guitar above) and drive off. Jesus, she should THANK me.

Then, a few blocks later, I hear a siren. I have no idea why a cop is coming, but just out of habit I pull over and wait for the beat-down. Good news is, he is actually pulling over the lady behind me. Bad news is, I took the only parking space on the whole block! So now she is like “well, what the hell am I supposed to do now???” and the cop must be like, “Man, this guy MUST have done SOMEthing illegal today!” I get out of there before he can call for backup.

After that, drive across the legendary shitty Bay Bridge traffic to SF. It is bad, but I feel no stress. Why? Because I have stumbled on the cure for road rage ? PRE-DRIVING MASTURBATION. Holy shit that is effective. Why is this not being implemented on a massive public scale?? Speeches by the mayor! Burmashave-style billboards! (“traffic is bad / you’re going to be late / don’t freak out / just masturbate “)

On the bridge, they played some new billy idol song. Not only is he still around, which is troubling, but the new song is just the most hideous piece of drek. And after it is over, the DJ goes, “wow man, that has got to be one of the best things he has written!!” which , well, may be true. Sad but true. So I switch to NPR and there is a guy saying, “. . . and I share this concern.” Fuck, billy! NPR is all busting on you!

Then I go to Taqueria Farolito to give it another chance. See I was there in december and got like a Bum Burrito. And lo –! It was a Bum Burrito again!! Just 50 percent sour cream, with a little shitty fried rice and like 3 beans and no guac or salsa. What the hell?? This joint used to be the best place in the city. Now it is fallen off something awful. This is destroying my faith in humanity. It is like someone told me there is no santa claus.

 

Wednesday march 23

Go back to QOQOL’s house and watch him practice the banodeon. The banodeon is this Instrument like an accordion, but instead of a piano-like interface, it is controlled by buttons which are placed in a totally random pattern, thus making it impossible to play. A sharp next to G flat, which is at the total opposite end of the keyboard from regular G, and so on. It is most famous in Tango music from Argentina but was originally developed in Germany 150 years ago. I joke with QOQOL that Bavarians 150 years ago had somehow evolved 7 fingers on each hand, just for long enough to make this fucked up instrument, and then never before or since.

Also, this gets us started on the idea of the “Most Difficult-To-Play Instrument” contest. I think the winner was a clarinet which looked and sounded totally normal, except that in order to play A-flat, you had to punch yourself hard in the eye.

Then I go to the hippy grocery store to wait for my pal Nano who works there.

Of course on my way there I had to encounter yet ANOTHER SELFISH FAT AMERICAN. I I was pulling in to the curb. As I am parallel parking, this horrible manatee begins to pull in right behind me. And then sits there, halfway parked, right at my back bumper, so I don’t have room to finish parking!! I have to sort of move back and forth in tiny 2 foot incriments so I don’t hit her. And this dumb hippy has the nerve to make a frowny face at me as if to say “what is taking you so long??” After I finally wedge myself into position, she all gestures at me like, “move your car forward so I have more room! Stop being so selfish!” what the fuck?? Later after she leaves, I see she has pulled in so close to my rear bumper it will be virtually impossible for me to get out.

I go in the store to find Nano, and lo ? the Granola Manatee is her co-worker. I really want to cuss her out but I don’t want my friend to get in trouble. Damn it! Plus, when we get back to the car, I locked my keys inside. Awesome! So we wait for triple-A to come break into my car, while these old homeless guys circle us and shout helpful semi-intelligible advice at us like, “you shoulda called me! I could totally break in there!” yeah. Reassuring, homeless. The triple-a guy is totally unable to open the lock, while the homeless guys have closed in and are now talking about Jesus and demanding money, and we are late for dinner. Welcome to San Francisco! Eventually they call a backup mechanic to open my shit and we bounce out of there and get indian food.

Let me tell you, it is the filthiest Indian dinner ever. She tells me about this sex dream she had about me last night. . . .which she obviously thinks it is a totally neutral topic and expects me to see it like that too. We talk about condoms and weirdest-sex-ever stories and stunts bedroom faux pas-es and stuff. I have no idea how loud we are being. Pretty loud I hope.

Anyway, we go to her house and get to the drinking right away. She’s never seen my “drunk face” before, so I give her the full guided tour, explaining/demonstrating all the different personalities that I go through at different blood alcohol levels. For instance, Phase 2 drunk means I turn into Expository Won’t Shut Up Schultz, so I make her video me freestyling about soy milk.

So anyway we just wind up Drinking too much. Or rather, I drink my usual amount and she drinks way too much and winds up sobbing to me about her ex boyfriend while I try to comfort her. Sub-awesome!! I eventually just put her to bed and tuck her in. she thinks I must hate her cus she is so undignified now. Actually I hate myself for going along with this emotional caretaker role YET AGAIN. Ok cool, once again I will cheer you up and make you a good lover for someone else!

 

thurs march 24

there is a sign on my detachable car stereo which reads. . .

fuck! Why am I just learning this now??? Where was that advice back in kindergarten when I needed to hear it???

Anyway.

 

Lunch is Taqueria Cancun (which has thankfully NOT fallen off) and dinner at taqueria ZONA ROSA . Did I really eat two entire burritos today?? Damn!! A new record. Jesus I am mad, mad I tell you!

 

 

fri march 25

Meet my oldest friend Crow and his wife, and my parents join us for Indian dinner. The restaurant has this crazy speed freak waitress with giant purple eyeshadow who told us about the dishes for litteraly 5 minutes without stopping, during which time we were not allowed to order anything. What’s more, the entire meth monolog was either 1) disclaimers about how the food was not exactly as good/big/healthy as it looked on the menu, and 2) not-so-subtle exhortations to buy more/more expensive items. Jesus. How does that work?? But the food, when it came, was pretty awesome, although nothing resembling Indian food! Actually, it did not resemble anything I had ever tasted before! But good. Good stuff. Imagine pickled apples making applesauce over minced pork and mangos. And random Mexindian salsa/chutney. What the hell people? But it was still good. Don’t get me wrong.

Also at dinner, Crow was talking about his old idea to do an album of 12 songs in 12 different keys, with 12 different guitars which he owns. That made me come up with an idea for an art installation : a 12 guitar daisy-chain!! Imagine 12 guitars being hung from the roof in a circle at about chest-height. The guitar’s necks are overlapping and every other guitar is upside down, so each guitar’s strings are rubbing against the strings of the adjoining guitars. Each guitar has all the strings tuned to a different note, and is plugged into a small amp which is directly under it. If you stand in the middle of the circle you can touch a guitar which will vibrate the strings of the adjoining guitars and BLOW YOUR FUCKING MIND, MAN.

 

 

Saturday march 26

Bought so much crap here, I need to head to Target to get a suitcase to put all my new crap in!

Target is SO AMAZING. Being in ritzy Liberal Elite San Fran, I had totally forgotten about the american working class. Like the cashier at the next counter is 300 pounds, and the customer of that cashier is easily 400 pounds, AND right next to the register is not one but two of those little motorized wheelchair-things for the REALLY fat people to use. My eyes tear up and, putting my hand over my chest, I begin to hum the Star Spangled Banner. USA!!! USA!!! USA!!

Then, I drive to the city one last time. As usual I encounter a complete ass-munch on the freeway. As UN-usual, he is NOT a SUV. He is in some red compact car, on the freeway at 60 MPH, about 5 feet from my rear bumper. Even more asanine, it is the slow lane. There is TOTALLY room to go fast in the next lane over. What the fuck?? I figure I must have done something to piss him off. Because I am a shit driver too. So I switch lanes and escape. But then I check my rear-view and see the same asshole, tailgating ANOTHER guy in the exact same way. What the SHIT???? If I was Bill Gates, I would buy this clown a Humvee just so he would fit the stereotype better.

the Saturday night parking scene in the Mission district is beyond comical. I cruise around for 12 minutes before I find a tiny-ass microscopic spot. I am so pissed by this point that I pull some MC Escher bullshit and manage to WEDGE MY CAR IN A SPOT WHICH IS SMALLER THAN THE CAR . Took a picture to commemorate it.

these cars were that close BEFORE i parked my car.

 

 

 

27th

I am studying at the cafe in SF when Nano comes tearing in like an hour early and kidnaps me to go dancing with 3 other women.

As if this did not ALREADY put me over my Cootie Limit Of The Day, the women were all members of a SF cult known as Swing Dancers.

It is only my second time to meet swing dance people. This is an all-girl group and they are doing that thing where “Oh we are so terrible, aren’t we? Aren’t we such Bad Girls? Oh my god, did I just say that? Slap me! I am so crazy right now!! I can’t wait to tell my room mates what a wild time we are having!”. . . kind of talking some shit and then looking at their friends as if to confirm that it was wild and crazy, and sort of smirking like, wow, normally I am SO not like this, but tonight is just wacky crazy bad girl night can you believe it?!?!? LOL!!

Here is what I learned about swing dancing people ?

For the first 2 hours the girls just mocked swing-guys with approximately zero letup. They had NOTHING good to say about any guys’ dancing. or odors, faces, clothes, morals, etc. It took them like 2 hours to say something nice, and even then it was not about the guy being a competent dancer but a sex object.. They were also busting on the female dance teacher. All, “she doesn’t follow like she is supposed to. She thinks the follower should lead. She is just hard to make her do what you want her to do!” I was like, “dude, imagine for a second if a man had said that.” Anyway it was kind of silly but pretty fun too because I normally do not get to see this kind of stuff. One lady had elegant fashion and huge eyelashes ? Living in Japan, I am so unused to seeing real eyelashes I had to stop myself from saying “Oh my god those are so awesome where did you get them?”

Then we left her house and went to the dance joint. The first song was good slow blues but then it sped up to some idiotic bb king kind of happy blues. Plus, there were no asians there at all, but THE MOMENT WE WALKED IN, some stereotypical WM/AF couple walked in with us. Like they had been fucking waiting in the alley just in case I showed up so the girl with the pony tail could be all stroking her boyfriend’s upper thigh in my peripheral vision all night. Eat the sac, kids.

I have never seen swing-dancers in action before, but form the way they talk about it it sounds very formal ? all these classes and clinics and skill levels and experience points and stuff.

Here is what I learned about blues dancing, excuse me I mean capital-B Blues Dancing. It is basically grinding your crotch into the person next to you, while hanging off of them like you just drank the whole bar. I was like, so you guys went to classes for that? You had some famous teacher show you how to dry-hump like a 50 year old alcoholic? That is super. I mean, it was not offensively sexy like some of this “regular” nightclub dancing. It was just offensively pretentious. “No, I’m not a slut. I took CLASSES for this. This is SO a real dance! You’re just not trained enough in The Dance to appreciate the subtleties of it.” Yeah, what subtlties? Your homey’s chubby? What??

After dancing, 4 of us (two men, two women) went back to Nano’s house. She told me, ‘You can sleep in the other room.’ And I, naiive as a newborn lamb, went to bed. I had no idea what the real deal was until I was awakened 2 hours later by weird noises next door. For those of you who have not had the opportunity to hear women’s muffled grunts, and wonder if it is a total stranger or your best friend making those noises, I would not recommend it. You are not missing out on anything. Also, eeww.

I don’t mind being left out of the swing-dance orgy, for the same reason I don’t mind being excluded from the wild, wild afterparties at Rennisance Faire. But it would have been nice to get some warning, or a free pair of earplugs, or something. It is just a bad feeling when you realize that all night, the other people have been secretly planning something, and deciding what your role (if any) is, and then they do not tell you.

This confirms my long-standing fear that all the important decisions in life are made through nonverbal cues in a language I can never hope to understand.

But the grand finale was yet to come. A half hour later, I am in the kitchen studying, when my pal Nano comes in, wearing nothing but a bathrobe. I say we are out of toilet paper, kid. She says, “well here is three dollars. Since you are the only one who is wearing clothes, can you go to the corner store?”

I mean, where do you even start with a statement like that? “Hey, schultz, you are the one guy who did not have sex so therefore it is your duty to fetch toilet paper for the people who did.” I don’t know which is more retarded ? that she said something that fucked up, or that she did not even realize that it was a deeply fucked thing to say. Or that I actually GOT the toilet paper. Probably the latter.

Afterwards I was like, um, next time you send me to fetch your TP, can you leave out the part about everyone else being naked? That is something I do not need to know. And she was like, “What? Why? God, you are so rude sometimes.”

Talk about being Gaslighted.

 

 

tomorrow :: plane flight back to the Land Of The Rising Lung Cancer Statistics

 

 

28 / 29 ? airplane back to Japan.

So I am at 20,000 feet, going 1400 miles an hour, while drunk on vodka and listening to the guy from Slayer repeat the phrase “CRIMINALLY INSANE!!!!” over and over for 70 minutes. And that is the high point of my plane flight.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

take the plane back. Only got 4 hours sleep last night, plus only 6 the night before, and I am facing an all ? day flight (not a nighttime one) so I won’t be able to sleep on the plane either. Oh, plus all the whatchamacallit ? the drama. So not in the best of moods. What doesn’t help is that they put me in the back with all the spazztic babies and my seat-mate totally ignores me and keeps her headphones on the whole time. At first I think, ok she is just shy, but then she spends like most of the flight standing in the aisle talking to some random guy. Oh, ok, so it IS personal.

It may have to do with the fact that I was dancing last night and now smell like a herd of wildebeests. Matter of fact, the same thing happened on the flight OVER. Smelled like ass, sat next to cute Japanese lady. Conversely, I have tried to take showers before previous trips 、and wound up sitting next to snorey grandpas. So, guys, there you go. If you want to sit next to a pretty single lady, make sure you smell. Oh, plus the lady directly in front of me has a long ass pony-tail which she flops OVER THE BACK OF HER SEAT CUSHION so it dangles directly in front of me at eye-level, and the stewardesses are probably the most bitchy, curt bunch I have ever dealt with.

Like, specifically instructing us to not go in the business class section for any reason. That was awesome. Normally our inferiority is just, like, implied. And telling me I have to stow my shoes behind this metal bar “in case of an emergency landing.” Yeah, lady, here is some news. If we have a quote-unquote emergency landing, my fucking shoes will be the LEAST of our problems. I think we might be more concerned with, say, the whole Planet Of Earth slamming into us at 800 MPH?

So, in sum: pony tail in my face, seatmate that shuns me, and did I mention the crying-ass babies? Not to be a racist, but out of the 5 Asian kids and 2 white kids in our little neighborhood, guess who was the one wailing nonstop for 6 hours? That’s right, the honkey. Not only are white babies way uglier than Asians but they are louder too and then they grow up and nuke Hiroshima. Man, fuck white people! The best was the loud kid’s dad. He was sitting in the next aisle, and whenever his kid (sitting by the mommy in the window seat) would get all loud, he would do this : STARE at it. Like totally give it the skunk-eye, like it is going to fucking notice. Like he is thinking, “Fuck, why do I always have to sit by a noisy baby? Oh, right, I am the father.” For HOURS, homeboy is giving his own kid the stink-eye. And not once actually picking it up or rocking it in his arms or nothing. Just, fucking amazing.

So, this all being the case, I decide now is the time for me to listen to the new Remix CD me and QOQOL made. This is our idea of a remix ? to take the line “crminally inSANE!” from a Slayer album, and loop it over and over with no letup.

It sounds a little like this;

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

CRIMINALLY IN SANE!!!

So, that was pretty much the high point of the flight. Me, pounding a cup of vodka and listening to that phrase for 70 minutes.

After that, though, the babies were still crying, and the vodka is wearing off, and I just can NOT deal. So I walk up and down the aisle for exercise. I expected that the whole plane would be full of screaming brats because it is Easter Family Get-together Weekend, but no ? for some reason MINE is the only sector full of ‘em. Jesus! I somehow find the ONE nice stewardess, a sort of plump black lady in her 50’s, and

Ask her if there is a vacant seat. She says she’ll check. I say, “lady, if you can find me another seat, I will MARRY you.” Ok, maybe the vodka has not totally worn off.

But ? amazingly ? she DID find me another seat, so I kick it there and do kanji for a copule of hours and then we hit the airport. The stewardess on the intercom tells us, “thanks so much for travelling with you, and have a nice stay in Tokyo.”

Huh?

 

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