nude highway driving

My good friend Shane (aka Feargal Morrissey Calvin Smith Stipe) sent me an e-mail today reminding me why I keep meaning to re-register for daily e-mail headlines from our hometown paper. JoMo, as us extremely cool people call it, is a very special place. It’s the new Prague. With inbreeding.

And really gullible kids. Or perhaps extremely smart ones. A 16-year-old female Sonic manager and the 19-year-old male cook got caught naked in a bathroom together, doing fun things to each other. They say they fell for the old “phone call from a cop” trick, where the caller, allegedly a cop, says your employee stole an old lady’s purse and you have to strip-search the person. Apparently performing oral sex on the suspect helps a theft investigation.

This doesn’t quite top the story I found a few years ago, when Missouri was considering making bestiality illegal because a guy who lived in Carl Junction was “married” to his pony, but it comes entertainingly close.

TEIJIAI.FURAIDEZU.JI TOKYO JP

I was checking my bank account tonight and I saw this next to a charge that I just couldn’t figure out. I don’t use my check card too much in Tokyo, as acceptance of Visa is not as widespread as in the U.S. and most of the time when I go out I’m with other people — we split the bill with cash. I stared and stared and thought and thought but could not remember going to any business by this name. I was afraid maybe I had been a victim of some bizarre scam.

Just before I began to worry, however, Japanese logic set in. The name did not look familiar at all, but when I said the words in my head it rang some bell. Go on, sound out the first two words right now.

This is how many places here deal with gaijin words … they pronounce them the Japanese way, and often will write them how the Japanese pronunciation would look. When you go to T.G.I. Friday’s the sign looks like any sign of theirs you’d see in the U.S. (with some kanji on it), but the company name for billing shows up as seen above. I’ve gotten by in a few non-English-speaking restaurants by speaking English with a Japanese accent. It sounds silly, but it works. You can order a “hamburger” and you’ll get a blank stare. Order a “hahmbuhhhg,” however, and you’re eating within minutes. I’m still a stupid American who speaks only one language, but I’m multi-accentual.

This brings up a couple other thoughts:

1. I would never fucking touch T.G.I. Friday’s in the States. Sorry, but they fall into that “not unless I’m desperate and starving” category. First, the place is obnoxious. Second, the food is as far from natural as you can get — it’s the McDonald’s of sit-down. But Friday’s has become an integral part of the socialization of the group of ex-pats I know here, American and not. First, the place is easy to find in Shibuya, which seems kinda easy for everyone to get to. Second, happy hour is half-price drinks (if you sit at the bar), which means you can drink for about what you pay normally in the U.S. I loves me some Lights of Havana!

2. The place is usually packed with a line … mostly Japanese people. I wonder if they go to Friday’s and think they are getting the true American experience. Wouldn’t that be scary? I mean, most Americans think they are experiencing Japan when they eat at a Benihana. Maybe nachos, fried potato skins and flair are our legacy. I guess it’s a better legacy than invading other countries, torturing the locals and lying about it, but it’s still embarrassing.

Are you wearing your flair today?

I started Saturday night with a co-worker and one of our Aussie friends, trying out some vegetarian restaurant one of them had learned about (they’re both vegetarians). It’s just off Omote-sando, the mostly glitzy shopping area that leads into Harajuku, where all the goth kids dress up like anime characters or dead nurses and pose for anyone with a camera.

I think the place was called the Brown Rice Cafe — they had a pretty small menu. I got perhaps the healthiest dinner anyone ever has eaten: A bamboo bowl full of a shit-ton of vegetables, a bowl of miso soup and a bowl of brown rice. My appetizer was part of a grilled onion, one giant bean, some stalk of something and a slice of orange on a little piece of bread. I think the name of the dish translates into the “Good For Your Ass” meal. The bowl even had konnyaku in it, which every single Japanese person tell me “is good for you.” They always tell me the same thing about natto. However, konnyaku does not smell like unwashed ass surrounded by gym socks, so I am a bit more open-minded to its bizarro consistency and purple color.

After dinner we grabbed a cab to Roppongi, where the Japanese government operates some powerful magnet that draws all gaijin to its center. Started the night at Train Bar, then headed to a place called Hobgoblin to watch the Manchester United-Millwall football (ain’t I worldly?) match. It’s wild to me to see a bar full of people get so wrapped up in soccer. I think it’s great — a nice change of pace from bars packed with people watching American football, the sports world’s inferior stepchild.

We lost the Aussie before the end of the game and I lost my co-worker at the next bar. I somehow got a a second wind, which hasn’t happened since I got here, so I returned to Train Bar.

And whom should I run into but Angus Young #3 himself! I told him (through his translating friend) that I loved his air-guitar work and the three of us, along with a rocker chick who I always see there, had a very special AC/DC night. There was no on-the-bar guitar action, but drinks were enjoyed and devil signs were thrown and patrons were frightened.

Well, they were more bemused than frightened. They weren’t frightened until the drunk-ass one-armed man and his even-drunker friend came in and started touching people. He wanted to shake everybody’s hand — many times — and then decided he wanted to come rock out, too. But he swayed when he moved, so he brushed up against people in that “Dude, are you that drunk or are you just trying to rub your nob against my ass?” manner. It was one of those moments where you try to avoid eye contact because he’ll only want to come bond with you (and grab your hand so you can raise your fist in the air with his).

He and his friend finally went to the other side of the bar, then did something to freak out a girl down there, because she pushed them outside. After a minor commotion they returned and headed straight into the bathroom. Together. For a questioningly long time. When they emerged, drunk two-armed man proceeded to fall on the floor. It’s not that strange for drunk-ass people to fall on the floor, but Train Bar is very narrow. That’s why we call it what we do — it looks like you’re inside a small train car. It’s so narrow between the bar stools and the wall that it’s really hard to fall down on the floor. Unless you’re a drunk-ass freak who’s had one too many with your one-armed friend.

The rockout eventually broke up and we all pulled a Journey (went our separate ways). As I gathered my things and prepared to leave I saw the middle-aged, partially balding Japanese businessman who had been at the bar for some time walk down to where the CD collection was and pick out something for the bartender to play.

It was AC/DC’s “High Voltage.”