Tokyo Cowgirl

Guns and Roses

About a month ago Green Eyed Geisha, Stralia, and yours truly, went to our first host bar for shits and giggles and, naturally, because we were curious. I didn't blog about it because it's part of GEG's host series and, let's be honest with ourselves here, it probably would have just turned into a long and pointless rant about something completely tangential and unrelated anyway. That is, after all, what I do best.

That being said, several of us are going back this Friday and I'm very excited. Last time we were there I barely had a buzz, this time I fully intend on going completely zonked out of my mind. And while I'm not planning on stealing anything, I do want to be bold enough to ask all of the questions I was too afraid (too sober) to ask last time.

These questions are as follows:

(1) What are Japanese girls like in bed (Tacky, I know, but I'm not above tackiness sometimes)

(2) How did you become a host, and how is a host different than a hostess (When V was an English teacher in Kyushu he used to date a Japanese snack girl - vomit vomit vomit)

(3) How are Japanese girls different than American girls (We asked this question last time but they gave us a lame answer)

The majority of the hosts have only the most rudimentary grasp of the English language, which is by no means something they should be faulted for, but it does create a few difficulties when a person (i.e. me) is trying to discuss anything, let alone any of the questions above.

During my last visit my conversations with the two English speaking hosts revolved around Obama, America, and guns. While I have never owned a gun the hosts assumed that I had/did because I was from America and, apparently, every single American owns a gun because that's what they saw on TV and therefor it must be true.

"Sure I do." I lied, "That's why I carry around this huge purse, so I can hide it."

Don't worry, I let them in on my little joke, even though the sheer stupidity of the question entitled me to at least another 15 minutes of fun at their expense. 

I'm not sure if we are going back to our original host bar, if we do it will almost assuredly be to see the notorious Roses, Green Eyed Geisha's host and an integral character in her host series. If you want to know more about hosts and how they lure you in, I must refer you to her website where you can read all about it, every nitty gritty detail.

As for me, I will let you know how my questions go over, assuming of course I'm drunk enough to ask them. I mean really, who doesn't want to know what Japanese girls are like in bed?

JU_ITER

Last Friday my friends and I stumbled upon the one and only bar in all of Tokyo that is non-smoking. I had no idea that such an establishment existed in this city and I was not very happy to discover this after drinking a liter of sangria and a bottle of wine. As I have said before, while I am not a smoker, I am certainly not a non-smoker, and if there is ever anything even remotely alcoholic in one hand, I don't care if it's a glass of white wine or turpentine, then I will have a cigarette in the other. 

There clearly was no way I was going to allow a little nicotine prohibition to ruin my evening and definitely not with a fresh pack of cigarettes in my purse. I had smoked at dinner, god damn it, who were they to tell me to stop now? One vodka-something later I left my 3 non-smoking companions to join the other smokers outside- except there were no other smokers outside.

In less than two minutes I had defaced the chalk board outside of our bar and stolen the P from the Jupiter sign outside of the neighboring bar. Apparently this is what happens when I'm not allowed to drink and smoke simultaneously: vandalization. 

About the time that Persia walked outside to join me was about the time that I got caught red-handed, or, more accurately, P-handed. The angry Japanese barman took the stolen P away from me and erased the chalkboard that I had, well, erased a few unfortunate words and letters from.

He also, I guess, told on me, because our bartender walked up to our table shortly thereafter with a tense expression of discernible disgust smeared all over his pretty little Japanese face. With V serving as my translator I was politely asked to return the P sign, which I already had done, and to apologize to the Jupiter bartender (as if he would have understood English anyway) which I also already had done.

When our bartender was standing over our table I could see he was struggling between yelling at me and strangling me to death. Instead, probably because he's Japanese, he settled on politely asking me to do two things that we both knew had already been taken care of. To give the man credit though, he didn't bow as he left the table. In fact, I don't think he bowed once. 

I'm really not a bitch, I'm just playful, and the more I drink the more playful I become. My intention was never to horrify every Japanese person within a five mile radius of me, nor did I intend on getting caught. Nevertheless, I did. I also singlehandedly managed to succeed in bringing public shame to a Shibuya bar, my boyfriend, and my two friends, all in the amount of time it took me to smoke a cigarette.   

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I need to stop smoking. 

Creatures of Japan Series: THE TURNINGPIN EDITION - Key Money

Age: 63 and still going strong

Sex: AC/DC

Likes: Forced sodomy, your wallet

Dislikes: You

Natural Habitat: The thoughts and wicked pockets of Japan's realtors

Renting an apartment in Japan is always an interesting experience. And by "interesting," I mean about as much fun as watching M. Night Shyamalan's The Happening while being forcefully penetrated from behind. 

As much as sodomy may be an overused analogy, in this case it's an apt one -- Japan's realtors are quite literally the perverted hell spawn of every hentai anime ever made, and key money is the big purple tentacle they will use to violate your anal orifice.  

But what, you may be asking, is key money? 

Back in the U.S. of A, renting an apartment meant forking over a security deposit, maybe an application deposit that you will get back (note the emphasis there), and a couple month's rent.  

Not so in Japan. 

If there's one thing the people of Japan love more than standing in line -- and apparently they love the hell out it -- it's cutting in line to get in front of you. But even more than that, astonishingly, they love fees. When getting a new apartment, among the fees you will be smilingly reamed for are the realtor's fee, the guarantor fee (if you're lucky enough to be foreign) and a little something called "key money," so named because you will be nowhere close to getting a motherfucking key until you pay it, usually the equivalent of two to three month's rent. 

Again, what is it? 

Some people will tell you it's a kind of security deposit... except that there's a separate security deposit, about a month's worth of rent, that you will also have to pay. Other people will tell you it's a bit of palm grease to secure your apartment... except that lots of times there's an additional fee called reikin, the stunningly misnamed "gratitude money" that is a flat-out bribe you better believe you won't be seeing again. 

When cornered and pressed for an answer, your realtor may describe key money, or shikikin in Japanese, as a kind of "guarantee" that you'll be moving in. If it's a guarantee, you should at some point get it back, right? 

Yeah, not so much. 

Ostensibly, key money gets pried from the realtors' greedy fingers and returned to you upon move-out, but it's not unusual for it to come up mysteriously short a month's worth of rent. And sometimes, even more mysteriously, short the whole damn amount. Just because, you know, they felt like keeping it. Got a problem with that? There's always the option of buying a book about, or consulting one of the increasing number of firms that specialize in, getting your own damn money back.

Fucking terrific. 

Here's to you, key money. If you were a person, you would've been dragged out into the parking lot and beaten senseless by now. By an angry mob that probably would've included me.

hungover = worthless

Guess who is hungover right now? Me. I had four glasses of wine last night, four. Not five, not six, not an entire winery. Instead, I woke up this morning from my not-so-late night writhing in pain, declaring my imminent death and willing off all of my possessions to V. 

V, always the obnoxiously overpriced white shoe corporate lawyer, told me that my oral will was meaningless unless we had a few more witnesses present. 

The only reason I'm able to type this right now is because I took two Midol. I fucking love Midol. I never use it for what it's intended to be used for, instead I carry around a bottle with me at all times for this explicit purpose. I don't know why I have such horrific hangovers, I only know that I do. Yes, you may have hangovers too, but mine are worse. Even if I only drink, say, four glasses of wine (like last night), I will wake up with a splitting headache and vomiting (like this morning).  

Before V, my last serious serious boyfriend was a doctor. When I say serious serious I mean it wasn't just some guy I went on dates with or made out with in bars (i.e. That Guy). This guy was my fucking life for WAAAAY too long. I call him Dr.Jackass. I would tell you more about him but in the last email he sent me about a month and a half ago he told me that his brother reads my blog, meaning his brother could be reading this blog (hi Jeff!) meaning I'm just going to cut to why it was important that he was a doctor.

Being as he was a doctor, he had an IV at his house. I'm not sure if all doctors have IVs at their house but Dr. Jackass did, which came in handy when I woke up with a killer hangover six out of the seven days of the week. He would hook me up to his IV, tell me it was the equivalent of about 8 Gatorades, and sit there and watch me recuperate as he munched on Twizzlers that he kept hidden under his bed. 

Today I look like death warmed over. Even worse- I FEEL like death warmed over. Even my eye balls hurt. Instead of an IV, V made me ramen, and instead of giving me doctor-ish advice V yelled at me from the bedroom not to overdose on Midol. 

Such are the perks of dating a lawyer. As are a whole bunch of fancy dinners followed by fancier bars, much like yesterday's evening. An evening that it's fair to assume bears responsibility for this morning. I think my next serious serious boyfriend is going to be a bartender. I bet he'll know how to take care of my hangovers.

Coming Soon

Sometimes when I'm sitting at home doing what it is that we unemployed people do during the day, I can guarantee you it doesn't involve ladies and it doesn't involve lunch, I put whatever historically relevant and/or breathtakingly fascinating book I'm reading down on the table and start perusing blogs, mostly the 16 million coming out of Japan right now.

Seeing as I have been unemployed for well over four months I think it's fair to estimate that I have read almost every single one, give or take a million.

With most of these blogs, actually, almost all of these blogs, I find myself running for the X in the top right corner of the computer screen. That's because most blogs suck. However, there's nothing wrong with that statement because it is true, and it does, after all, make me feel better about myself. Occasionally though, and surprisingly frequently lately, I happen upon a blog that causes me to sit back and ask myself how I have any readers at all and, even better, why someone hasn't taken my keyboard away from me and whacked me across the face with it. 

Then I will leave a tacky comment, or at least bookmark the page, and pick my historically relevant and/or breathtakingly fascinating book back up and continue reading every single page until the bitter end, which is usually two hours later. 

Today I finished Prep, a novel by the same author who wrote that whole scandalous American Wife book about Laura Bush. Prep is 467 pages and I read all 467 pages in two days, and while I enjoyed it, the entirety of those 467 pages can be summed up with two words and a hyphen: high-school sucks. 

Is high-school one word or two?

Regardless, now I'm depressed. This often happens to me when I have completed reading something that is both spectacularly well-written and spectacularly long. I start to wonder why do I even bother writing, or, why did I read it so fast, and, because I often wonder this no matter what I have just finished reading, is there is any white wine left in the fridge, because if there is then I'm definitely going to have some right now. 

In case you were wondering, there's not. 

Next I'm going to read a book that is poorly written and really boring and ridiculously long. That way I won't encounter anything resembling today's post Prep-depression for at least another week. 

I'm also going to buy some wine, red, not white, because it's too cold to drink white wine now anyway.  

FYI, because he's a fan-freaking-tastic writer and almost as sarcastic as I am, I have invited John Turningpin to help me with the Characters/Creatures of Japan Series, future installments of which shall be posted by tomorrow afternoon. 

John Turningpin, the world awaits you.

Characters of Japan Series : The Tissue-Hander-Outers

Age: anyone who needs a job, any job

Sex: m/f 

Likes: someone with a cold!

Dislikes: rain, snow, hail

Natural Habitat: near train stations, outside of cell phone stores, their parents' house

The Tissue-Hander-Outer is Happy!

I have no idea why, but they are. When my volunteer job suggested I hand out tissues next to the Hiroo station I was like, "Um. No." And then I asked them to find themselves a new volunteer.

The Tissue-Hander-Outer has got to be really cold right about now, too. I mean, I haven't actually stepped foot outside of the apartment but I have a window and I can see outside of that window and it looks cold outside of the window. If I can write my name on glass or see my breath when I breath, and not because I just sucked the nicotine out of five cigarettes, then it's cold. 

Especially for a certain person who still doesn't have a coat.

Whatever.

Back to The-Tissue-Hander-Outer, arguably my favorite Character of Japan. 

Who knew I would move to Tokyo and literally never have to buy tissues again? V and I have a box of store bought Scottie tissues in the kitchen, but the neon green flowered box is more decorative than utilitarian, plus I think it's the same box we got for moving in (you know, the thanks-for-paying-the-two-million-yen-key-money-thing tissue box every foreigner gets after bending over for the royal ass-fucking that is "key money"). Instead of actually using our nice Scottie tissues, when either of us feels that itchy sneezy tingly nose sensation all we have to do is rummage through my purse or his pant pockets and voila! Soft Bank tissues!

This tissue-handing-out thing is, unfortunately, completely anti-green initiative, but so is Japan. Everything in this country comes two ways, either individually wrapped or encased in half of the ozone layer. Nevertheless, I don't care. I just wish they would upgrade and start handing out wet wipes instead, or even toilet paper, that would be GREAT.

the dance

I have a very extensive and rigid set of guidelines in regards to men I date; he must be a he, he must be a human he, he must be a he that is taller than me. You get the point. 

I become increasingly flexible on those expectations when the winter approaches and I find myself an unlikely victim to the robotic “must couple up now” syndrome indicative of the holidays and cold weather.  I'm lucky to be dating V right now, I really am, especially when I think back on some of the more curious creatures I handed out my number to, and more, three and four years ago. 

The last guy in Dallas that I went on a date with was That Guy. He was That Guy that everyone with a 214 area code wanted to be dating for the simple reason that he was one of the 100 wealthiest people living in Dallas, a little detail he somehow managed to weasel into two conversations with me. Even if I hadn't been aware of his status, which I admittedly was, I'm not the type of girl that raises her eyebrows when someone slaps down their funny-colored American Express card. My parents have American Express cards and they have less money than I do (which is, just in case you were wondering, about $16 dollars). 

That Guy was (a) shorter than I would prefer, and (b) told me on our second date that he would really like to be in an orgy so that he could look around and be like “wow, I’m in an orgy”.  

Obviously, That Guy was a Winner.     

He also asked once, over a shared plate of $20 macaroni and a bottle of champagne, if I had ever had sex with another girl. Even if I had, which I haven't, I prefer to keep those sorts of topics reserved for occasions where macaroni is not present.  

To be fair, this was the same dinner that I told him, quite casully, "I have issues with food."

What is remarkable about that statement is not that I said it, stupid things come out of my mouth rather frequently, but rather that we shared several dates afterwards. They just happened to be dates that didn't involve food.

I met That Guy quite a while before I actually started dating him as he was the best friend of my friend Misty's boyfriend. Not too surprisingly, That Guy was almost entirely the reason for Misty and Asshole's break-up, information he was somewhat proud to relay to me for whatever reason after about five too many vodka-somethings. 

A few solid months after Misty's breakup we were drunk, as usual, and at Suite, as usual, although this time we were partying in V.I.P. with That Guy instead of doing our usual thing, draping ourselves over the bar and complaining about how unapproachable we are and why-oh-why-won't-anyone-come-talk-to-us.

Drunk off our asses, we followed That Guy and about 20 other people to his house in Highland Park for a long night of more alcohol and, of course, cocaine. Because really, what would a night out on the town be without inhaling a gram or five off of a marble counter with a whole bunch of whored-out people you will never see again?

But I did see That Guy again, the following week. 

Along with his height, I had TEN reasons to lose interest.  TEN, which is three reasons past seven which is two reasons after I should have already forgotten his name.          

Five dates later (yes, that’s three dates past the delightful orgy remark), I could easily analyze That Guy for you. I could break down every minute detail of his life from his dyslexic childhood to his wealthy dysfunctional family to his painfully troubled relationship with his hyper-competitive father into an equation that directly resulted in his mountain of insecurities and his many, many defense mechanisms. That Guy masked his vulnerability with arrogance and, even more typical, adopted a blatant aversion to anything conventional in an effort to shield himself from the shame he felt when his father divorced his mother and married a Polynesian prostitute.   

We stopped seeing each other around Christmas. I saw him again briefly, at Suite of course, and he called me that New Years from some ski slope in Europe. Sometimes I reflect upon those moments and I think to myself how easily things could have been different, how easily things could have worked out with him if I had been more willing to put in more effort, any effort. 

But I didn't. Instead I find myself at a similar time, albeit several years later, living in Tokyo with my friend-from-high-school-turned-boyfriend, wondering what other things could have been different and will, undoubtedly, be different later.

these boots are going to walk all over you

Guess what happy Texan FINALLY has boots?!

No, I'm not talking about Jessica Simpson.

Creatures of Japan Series : The High Pitched Laugh

Age: ever since the Edo era

Sex: Female with a capital F

Likes: a funny joke, an unfunny joke, any joke

Dislikes: maintaining one shred of dignity 

Natural Habitat: near a wealthy-looking man or any man, kind of like their choice in sexual partners

This may come as a surprise to some of you, but I'm kind of sarcastic. I know, I know. Shocking. Even more surprising, I kind of don't like not-too-bright females. When I say "kind of", what I really mean to say is that I can't fucking stand them. I think they make the rest of us semi-bright females look bad, something I do well enough on my own. Fortunately for my little anger management problem the list of females I can't fucking stand isn't too extensive, it only includes V's younger sister, my old roommate Heidi, Sarah Palin, half of Oklahoma including Carrie Underwood, and just about everyone in Japan. 

Actually, nix that, not just about everyone in Japan. That's absurd. Just everyone in Japan.

As far as I'm concerned, the only thing worse for the good of humanity than a not-too-bright female is a not-too-bright female that opens her mouth and emanates something that vaguely resembles an opinion. And the only thing worse than a not-too-bright female that opens her mouth and emanates something that vaguely resembles an opinion is a not-too-bright female that opens her mouth and emanates The High Pitched Laugh.

(shudders)

We're one of the few creatures on this planet blessed with a sense of humor, and hell, there are quite a lot of funny things in Japan to laugh about. There are the constant suicides and the vending machines that sell used panties (that I still have yet to see) and Engrish and the new prime minister every other day and the whole Humpback Whale thing and the sound trucks and Charisma Man and, how could I forget, this blog.

The High Pitched Laugh, however, is not a laughing matter.

For those of you that haven't had the pleasure of visiting Japan and hearing The High Pitched Laugh, all you must do is think of Miss Piggy. Do you remember Miss Piggy? Remember her laugh? Now take it up about ten octaves. That, people who have not visited Japan and therefor have never experienced an ear-bleed, is The High Pitched Laugh.

What IS it about the women in this country? It seems like every single one of them is genetically predisposed towards offending the feminist movement. I moved to the second most expensive city in the world only to trip and fall backwards a few centuries. 

The High Pitched Laugh sacrifices intelligence and individuality in favor of cuteness and sounding like a complete and total moron. 

And, I might add, a hyena.

Creatures of Japan Series : Hello Kitty

Age: 34

Sex: no oral!

Likes: being the first third grader to ever be appointed as Japan's Tourism Ambassador

Dislikes: not having a mouth

Natural Habitat: In Japan, anything with surface area

In Thailand, police officers are forced to wear a hot pink Hello Kitty armband if they have committed a minor infraction, such as arriving to work late or parking in a no-parking zone. Two things are wrong with this: For one, I wasn't aware that there was any such thing as an infraction in Thailand- the last time I was there I saw enough prostitutes to fill up all four of the oceans. Secondly, even if there is such a thing as an actual honest to goodness law, subjecting anyone to a full 24 hours of hot pink Hello Kitty hell is a bit harsh. Instead, I would like to suggest punishing these innocuous transgressions with a less inhumane alternative, like water-boarding. 

In Japan, the hot pink Hello Kitty armband is not such a bad thing. And, evidently, neither is the Hello Kitty scrunchie, the Hello Kitty t-shirt, the Hello Kitty backpack, the Hello Kitty purse, the Hello Kitty advertisement, the Hello Kitty amusement park, the Hello Kitty keychain, the Hello Kitty laptop, the Hello Kitty condom, the Hello Kitty piggy bank, the Hello Kitty vibrator, the Hello Kitty cellphone cover, the Hello Kitty credit card, or the Hello Kitty wedding ring.

Fuck me running.

You know what would be a great idea? The Hello Kitty Bar. I'm surprised Sanrio hasn't tried that avenue out yet. There isn't a doubt in my mind that it would be successful, how could it not be? Every Japanese female that subscribes to the Cult Of Kawaii, which is every Japanese female, would be there right after work, drinking a cocktail called a KittyTail and munching on Hello Kitty sushi. What, you say? Hello Kitty sushi is too much of a stretch?

Oh no, it's not.  

Omerica!!!

I had been tossing over a few ideas in my head if Obama did not win the 2008 presidential election. They are as follows:

1. Throw myself in front of the Chuo line 

2. Revoke my U.S. citizenship and henceforth refer to myself as Canadian 

3. Marry a Japanese person and then, because this is what Japanese people do after they marry a Japanese person, throw myself in front of the Chuo line

~~~~~~

Three years ago one of my half-relative/pseudo-siblings that is twice my age and half my height forwarded me an email about a man with a funny name. This man with a funny name was Muslim and this god-forsaken Muslim was trying to ruin America, because obviously that's what Muslims do in their spare time. 

"Hmph," I thought to myself, and promptly deleted it.

Two and a half years ago I was sitting at my computer in Dallas, TX reading the New York Times online. This scene in and of itself was not different than any other day, except again I found myself reading about the man with a funny name. Intrigued by him, I flagged his name in Google News. 

Two years later there was not a person within a five foot radius of me that I had not educated about Obama. Quite sincerely, I think people got a little sick of it. Three quarters of America didn't even know who this man was, let alone three quarters of the world, and here I was working him into every conceivable conversation possible. I emailed tirelessly, I joined groups, I volunteered, I donated more money than I probably should have, I went to rallies, and I pissed a lot of people off. And this was in 2006.

By 2007 my friends and coworkers and family were all ready to shoot me.  

And now, after every mass email, every blank stare, every rabid Clinton fan, every stupid Texas Baptist telling me he was too liberal and oh-my-god-do-you-know-what-he-stands-for, I'm happy to say that Obama will be the next President of the United States. 

Obama's candidacy was not about being black or white, red or blue, it was about change. It was about moving forward together and unifying a country that has finally woken up after 8 years to find itself stagnant, isolated, and disenchanted. 

An idealist at heart, I have always been proud to be an American. But today, for the first time in a very, very long time, I am proud of my fellow Americans as well.

GOD BLESS AMERICA!!!

Creatures of Japan Series : Issei Sagawa

Age: 59

Sex: after murder, before dinner

Likes: tall Western women

Dislikes: short Western women

Natural Habitat: Tokyo

Japan is a fucked up country. I don't care if you agree with me or not, the evidence is on my side. 

First we have the prevalent child pornography which either has recently been banned or is about to be banned, I haven't figured it out. And honestly, does it matter?  All I want to know is how they have gotten away with it this long. There is a reason why every other industrialized country besides Russia doesn't allow children to be sexualized and subsequently raped, now why don't you perverts that disagree with me go take your kiddie porn and sit in a corner and think about it for a while.

Next, there is the astronomical suicide rate. Really, after you scrape away the ridiculous work hours and the complete absence of mental health care it all boils down to one thing: In Japan, more so than any other country, suicide is an option. Not only is it an option, but it's a respected option. That, more than any other contributing factor, is why you will see an "accident" holding up the JR subway line three days out of the week.

And then there are the murders. To give Japan credit, they don't happen too frequently. As in, barely ever. However, when they do happen, and they do happen, they are usually so unforgivable and so heinous an act of brutality that it seems like our measly "gunshot through the head" headlines every day back home would be preferable.

Which brings me to Issei Sagawa, the self-proclaimed Godfather of Cannibalism. 

"The public has made me the Godfather of Cannibalism and I am happy about that. I will always look at the world through the eyes of a cannibal." ~Issei Sagawa

What is remarkable about Sagawa is not that he murdered a fellow college student, it's not even that he then ate her, piece by piece, over the course of several days, starting with her ass. No, what is truly remarkable, what makes him worthy of being deemed suitable for the Creatures of Japan Series, is that 15 months after his return to Japan from a French jail cell he was set free.

Thanks to a little thing called judicial incompetence and another little thing called Japan's incompetence, Issei Sagawa is now a regular celebrity in Japan. The man even writes restaurant reviews. Not only is this wrong on SO many levels but I have a hard time believing that someone who is capable of slicing, cooking, and baking various parts of a woman's carcass (while using her panties as a napkin) has all of the necessary screws in place to know what constitutes a positive dining experience.

Alas, Issei Sagawa is only a symptom of a much larger problem. Japan has long been mesmerized with intangibles and this obsession directly translates into an unyielding cultural quest for perfection in everything from aesthetics to manners. There are benefits to this preoccupation, benefits that are photographed in a million coffee table books all over the globe, but there are psychological ramifications as well.

For some people a momentary glimpse of perfection becomes unfulfilling. This perfection must be grasped, it must be owned, and in Sagawa's case, it must be eaten.

I realize that the ability to disassociate oneself from reality is a distinctively Japanese ability, but since when do we need to be romanticizing cannibalism? Having sex with a dead corpse and then proceeding to eat that dead corpse is decidedly not romantic. And yet Sagawa appears to have woman admirers who would gladly give up their body for him.

Excuse me, idiot women of Japan, let me fill you in on a little secret. This isn't Romeo and Juliet, this is Silence of the Lambs. In all earnestness, I would strongly encourage you to follow your heart's desire and donate your body to whatever vile desires Sagawa sees fit. I just hope you don't expect to be feeling too hot afterward. 

the duel

I know, I know. You're wondering where I have been the past three days. You're thinking I must have found a job (no), or maybe I was out buying clothes seeing as all of mine are still in Dallas (no), or you might have thought I had given up blogging and taken up something more productive, like learning Japanese (hell no).

I, my fan-freaking-tastic readers, just returned from an all around refreshing weekend in Nikko. V, always the romantic, booked us the same room in the same ryokan for the second year in a row. Last year at this time the fall colors were more dramatic, more resplendent, but I still preferred our visit this year. I did wake up with a nasty hangover Sunday morning that ended up bleeding in to half of the day, but in comparison with the rest of our enjoyable weekend it's barely worth mentioning. 

Nikko is unfailingly gorgeous, especially in November. While Tokyo is a lot greener than one would initially expect it's still not Nikko. It's hard to imagine that even now there can be a popular Japanese tourist destination that remains as pristine as it undoubtedly was 2000 years ago. The best example of this is Nikko's river-stream-thing. It's so unimaginably clear that I frequently found myself uttering the not-too-bright remark: "It's so clear! Look how clear it is! I just can't believe I can see the bottom!" Followed by another, "It's so clear!" 

And there are trees, lots of them. And they haven't been turned into chopsticks yet. Even after last year, which was my first encounter with nature that didn't involve a petting zoo, I admittedly was half expecting to return this fall to find half of the forested hills chopped down all in the name of dinner utensils.

I'm happy to say all of the trees are still there, and they may even still be there when V and I go back again next November. But this blog is not about Nikko or our fabulous ryokan or room 501. Although, if anyone is interested, I did write up one hell of a review on the train ride back home. 

No, I didn't think so either.

About three months ago V asked me to go to a Kendo championship tournament with him today. (Right now it's 7am and he's up, meaning I'm up, because he's shouting at a pirated Cowboy's game on his computer screen.) 

"Sure," I shrugged, "what else do I have to do."

Three months later I have something else to do. It's called shopping for a coat. After spending a very chilly weekend without a coat I have decided to stop complaining about not having a coat and start doing something about not having a coat. Even if everything in this country comes in two sizes, x-small and xx-small, I am bound and determined to find a god-damned coat in one of two other sizes: small or medium.

Instead I'm going to be watching Kendo, whatever that is, and drinking, not enough, with The Partner, The Partner's Wife, and Another Obnoxiously Overpriced White-Shoe Corporate Lawyer, and Another Obnoxiously Overpriced White-Shoe Corporate Lawyer's Wife.  

Clearly, the only thing I am looking forward to is the drinking. Lawyers aren't exactly an exciting bunch and lawyers' wives are even less exciting. Granted, the two wives that I will be sharing the next god knows how many hours with are my two favorite wives from the Tokyo office, but that is just because they speak English. And, unfortunately for me, The Partner's Wife, a really lovely lady, speaks English so well that we routinely find ourselves dueling over things that neither of us know anything about. Like poor people in India. Why do I need to stand up for the poor people in India? I don't know any of them! 

The worst fight to date took place over a nice French dinner that The Partner and The Partner's Wife were paying for. V tried to rescue me from my own impassioned ranting, who knows what the fuck I was ranting about, but do you know what I did? I shushed him. Honestly, I don't even know why he lets me loose in public sometimes. 

So yes, this should be an interesting day. V has already politely asked me not to drink too much, which is essentially the same thing as asking me not to make an ass out of myself, and by extension him, in front of his two bosses.

I'm not making any promises. Whatever else Kendo entails, there will be dueling.

briefly

Two things.

~RIght now V is dancing around the apartment in his briefs. I have no idea why this is happening.

~As of today I am retracting all negative things I have written about Metropolis. Yesterday I met The Head Nacho and besides being helpful, he was unfailingly courteous. Granted our exchange was less than five minutes, but still, any five minutes I can have in this country with a Western male that isn't a pompous ass is a great thing.

That is all.

Creatures of Japan Series : The Crow

(Halloween edition!)

Age: prehistoric

Sex: besides being an altogether scary thought, crow sex usually culminates in 3-5 eggs, most often around March, April, and May

Likes: being able to eat just about everything, dead or alive, plant or animal

Dislikes: the Crow Patrol (oh yes, it exists)

Natural Habitat: among a flock of fellow crows, known as a murder

"Japanese react to crows because we fear them," said Michio Matsuda, a board member of the Wild Bird Society of Japan and author of books on crows. "We are not sure sometimes who is smarter, us or the crows." ~IHT

My bet is on the crows.

If you live in America, you're familiar with the American Crow, its real name, and not the Asshole Crow, not its real name. The Asshole crow is indigenous to most of Asia and, as far as I can tell, all of hell. It would correctly be referred to as a Jungle Crow but for the purposes of this text (and out of respect for my prior Characters of Japan) I shall refer to him as The Crow.

Let me start off by saying that I have never been a fan of The Crow -I blame Brandon Lee - but after researching this winged jumbo rat for three hours I am even less of a fan than I was before.

The Crow is part dinosaur, part demon. With a wingspan sometimes reaching a meter in length and an even more menacing beak span, The Crow is far removed from the urban equivalent of your run-of-the-mill seagull trying to steal your peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Not only can it eat everything, it does eat everything, occasionally bloodying your child's face in the process. With a terrifying fearlessness not generally recognized in creatures that aren't, say, 5000 times larger, The Crow has been known to capture and eat everything from ducklings to kittens to fully grown chickens to small defenseless lambs.

Although we don't have a surplus of small defenseless lambs running amok in Tokyo, we do have a lot of trash. 

"Behind the rise (in the crows' population), say experts and officials, has been the growing abundance of garbage, a product of Japan's embrace of more wasteful Western lifestyles." ~Same IHT article as above

(I would just like to know if there is anything that is not the West's fault. If we jump off of that proverbial cliff and Japan jumps too, are we responsible? Apparently, yes, yes we are.)

The excessive trash becomes beneficial for the flying scavengers when it is left out on the street in flimsy transparent plastic bags. Obviously, placing the contents of last night's leftovers in half a millimeter of see-through plastic is essentially no different than placing The Crow on a governmental assistance program, free food and all. 

Now, I realize that Of COURSE the West is to blame for the mountains of garbage in Tokyo and OF COURSE we are responsible for the exponential growth in The Crow's population, but how about utilizing some common sense here? 

Like a trash can.

Granted The Crow, one of the most intelligent birds alive, will have little to no difficulty propping open an unsecured lid with its massive beak. This is why, angry crow-haters of Tokyo, I would suggest securing the lid.

In the neighborhood near my apartment there is a park, and in this park there is a sign, and this sign says don't feed the pigeons. I have yet to see a pigeon in that park. What I do see, quite frequently, are crows hopping around harassing people and leaving gigantic white droppings all over the place. 

Perhaps the sign-makers should stop worrying about the pigeons, as I have yet to hear of any pigeon attacks, and start worrying about the crows. 

Just an idea.

color me tokyo

In my unbridled quest for a larger readership I have realized two things:

1. I don't have enough crazy misadventures of me stories to blog about 

 

(meaning)

2. I'm not drinking enough

This is unacceptable! I need to be going out more! The problem is that I need new places to go, preferably off the beaten track sort of places where I can get into as much trouble as possible with as many people as possible. Places with attractive wait staff and even more attractive clientele. Places with plush toilet paper and even plusher sofas. Basically, places that I don't know about.

This is where the interactive part comes in!

If you have any suggestions for me I would love to hear about them, please EMAIL me with your ideas. If you comment I won't be able to post it because I don't want the faceless internet creeps out there knowing where I'm going to be this week.  Also, please send me your ideas sooner rather than later as I fully intend on hitting up one place each night for the next week, with the exception being Friday and Saturday when I'm in Nikko.

I only ask two things. First, that the bar be in Tokyo, and second, that the bar not be in Roppongi. I have already made enough of an ass out of myself in Roppongi on more than one occasion, as has everyone else. I'm looking for originality, people!

One last thing, if your email doesn't scare me and your name doesn't sound ominous (like Jeffery Dahmer, for example) then I'm up for meeting you for a drink in said location of your choice. Hell, I will even buy you a drink!

:-)

Characters of Japan Series : Tokyo Cowgirl

Age: 27

Sex: wink wink

Likes: pissing off everyone with a PC and internet connection, including my boyfriend

Dislikes: talking about myself in the third person, left handed people, right handed people, Christ, the name Heidi, the color purple, the color pink, Chuck Norris, Santa Claus, Japanese people, the metric system, reliable information, Charles Krauthammer, all four of the oceans, hot water heaters, butterflies, the letter T, lawyers, alphabet soup, curtains, monks, Donald Duck, Donald Trump, anyone who actually believes this list, this list 

Natural Habitat: in front of a computer

After my fourth consecutive month of unemployment, I'm not sure which is worse- working or not working. I never wake up before noon, something that people who wake up before 10 don't understand. I don't understand why I need to wake up before noon. Does Christ hand out donuts? I don't like Christ, so I don't care.

Nor do I care about donuts.

Every third day I get an email or a comment from someone who is pissed off. This makes me happy. Every fourth day I find out someone has removed me from their blogroll. This pisses me off.

Every fifth day, I wake up before noon.

I use no less than three bottles of Tabasco sauce each week. This hot sauce addiction of mine comes to about $40 US dollars per month, which isn't such an expensive addiction after all.

I emphatically believe that our happiness in life is directly proportionate to our intelligence. This is a great mentality to adopt since it allows me to blame my jaded and cynical perception of the world on my brilliance instead of what Dr.Lame-O nonchalantly suggested was a chemical imbalance. 

I'm not seeing Dr.Lame-O anymore. 

I'm not sure if this is a bad thing or it this is a good thing, but I am sure of one thing: I have a blog and people read it. That, more than anything, makes me happy.

Now if you guys would just leave more comments.

 

the virgin

For the majority of my life I was peculiarly innocent and disgustingly sheltered. There were many, many things I was unaware of; sex would be a great example, Halloween would be another. Ever since the tender age of five my mother had deemed me too old for the traditional pumpkin-related festivities, forcing me instead to stay home with her and my father, watching them hand out candy to children three times my age.

And then, one April morning eleven years later, my mother kicked me out.

I was by no means a bad teenager. Not only was I a virgin, I never wore makeup, I never watched anything more obscene than the Disney channel, and, in the best example of my lame-ness yet, I played the violin and read Latin. The unfortunate truth is that my mother is certifiably insane and she always has been. If she wasn't accusing me of having sex with my father than she was telling me that there was no way I had ever clasped my hands together in prayer because, and I quote, "sluts don't pray." Finally, after grounding me for two consecutive years for nothing worse than a B average, I was inevitably forced to do really reprehensible things- like sneak out of the house to go watch Titanic. 

My father, in his first worthy attempt to keep me from being homeless, sent me to live in Elk City, Oklahoma. Wikipedia says Elk city has a city a population of around 11,000, but I can tell you with confidence that Wikipedia is wrong. If there are, in fact, 11,000 heads there, they belong to cattle, not people. Even as innocent and as sheltered as I was back then, I knew that moving from Dallas, TX to Oklahoma was a huge, huge step in the wrong direction. 

I'm assuming that my dad, for whatever misguided reason, thought a small town with its small town morals and small town ways would set me right. He was wrong. Within 1 month I had sex for the first time, within 2 months I had smoked weed, and within 4 months I found myself hitchhiking- back to Dallas.

Because living with my parents at that point was out of the question, I instead chose to live with 3 total strangers for my senior year. That was fun. Later I found out that my dad had been paying them several hundred dollars a month to keep me there, which, for whatever warped reason, has led me to resent that family's generosity ever since.

Next came college. After a year of making Ds in everything from math of money to aquaculture I never would have made it into any four-year institution if it hadn't been for my surprisingly stellar SAT scores. This was when, at 18, I discovered the true meaning of Halloween. 

My roommate and fellow coke-head, April, and I were in our apartment discussing the tattoo I had just gotten and, because it was the last eight or nine days in October, that weekend's Black and Orange Ball. Everything began, routinely enough, with the age-old obligatory question.

"What are you dressing up as?" April was rummaging through her closet, picking the shiniest, tiniest, and shortest articles of clothing out and throwing them on her bed.

Pausing briefly from eyeing the permanent ink right above my bikini line, I reflected for a moment. "I think I want to dress up like Charlie Brown."

"Charlie Brown?" She laughed, "Why?"

"C'mon, it would be cute! All I need to find is that zig zag shirt..."

"Charlie Brown?" She cut me off, this time taking me seriously enough to turn her full body towards me. Apparently she needed all five feet of her petite frame to size up my ridiculousness.

"Um. Is there something wrong with Charlie Brown?" I frowned.

"Charlie Brown?" 

"Charlie Brown."

"Yeah. There is." And this is when she turned away, thoroughly disgusted that she was having to teach me yet another fact of life. "Their is nothing sexy about Charlie Brown."

"Sexy?"

Then, after 18 years of seeing movies with girls dressed up every October 31st as sexually charged this thats and the other, it finally dawned on me. Halloween isn't a time for girls to dress up like their favorite cartoon character, Greek god, or president- Halloween is a time when girls everywhere can liberate their inner-slut and dress up as provocatively as possible! 

If you do opt to dress up like your favorite cartoon character, you had better have a napkin on that doubles as a skirt and if not that, at least fishnet stockings. Greek god? No way. Greek goddess, yes, but only if your boobs are fully accessible, if not on full display. And your favorite president? Not acceptable. Monica Lewinsky, maybe, but only if you have on a short blue dress with the tell-tale youknowwhat on it. And, just to make sure everything is as pornographic as possible, it's best if you carry around a cigar, too.

I'm not sure what I dressed up as for Halloween that year, I have snorted way too much coke and popped way too much Ecstasy since then to remember. I can promise you one thing though, my costume consisted of little more than a bunny ears headband and a strategically placed cotton-ball. 

Hell, maybe even two strategically placed cotton-balls, I have no idea.

beef, it's what's for dinner.

I want to be a foodie but I don't think I have the stomach for it. 

To begin with, I don't like to be able to recognize what part of the animal I'm eating or what animal I'm eating. Peking duck, frog legs, oysters- no, no, and no. I'm also viscerally opposed to horse meat, dolphin meat, dog meat, turtle meat, whale meat, and pig meat. My rationale is simple; I try to avoid eating any animals that are as smart or smarter than me. 

I don't know who came up with the brilliant idea to eat dogs and horses, probably the same people who think it's fan-freaking-tastic to hunt anything that is on the endangered species list, like Humpback Whales. This should go without saying but I'm not entirely opposed to these people's premature deaths. And eating dolphin, are you serious? Have these people not read The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy? Probably not, they probably have never read a book in their entire lives. They probably torture small animals in their spare time, too. 

As for turtles, well, they may not seem to be that brainy but if uninterrupted they can live to be 100, so who am I to challenge their intelligence? I have barely made it to twenty fucking seven. And besides, V and I have a pet turtle. Any creature that can put up with us without turning upside down deserves a little respect.

It's easy to avoid horse and dog and dolphin and whale and turtle, even in Asia where they thrive on finding your best friend and putting him on the menu, but pig meat is a big problem. Mainly because I love prosciutto, bacon, and pepperoni. I haven't figured out how to justify this yet but since pigs are dying every day regardless of whether or not I'm eating prosciutto or those bacon bread epi things I think it's going to be okay.

Saturday night V and I ate at a two-star Michelin restaurant and there was, sadly, no prosciutto. It was a Japanese restaurant you see, and the Japanese aren't exactly known for their prosciutto. The sashimi, however, was unadulterated perfection, by far the best I have ever had. Nonetheless, after the uni and the fois gras and the caviar and the three kinds of crab and the seasonal fish and the monkfish and the other kind of fish and the pigeon-thing and the miso soup and the 10 different kinds of tea and the two desserts I had to stop eating and start wondering how fancy-shmancy people can eat all of that food. Even better, how are there any fish left in the sea? I think I had three-quarters of the Pacific Ocean on my plate yesterday, and that was before we got to the 4th course.

The restaurant was so expensive that V told me beforehand not to order any alcoholic beverages. 

Fat chance! 

I believe wine is imperative at fancy-shmancy restaurants if only so the inebriation can numb the pain when the inevitable bill arrives. At any rate, I must give V credit for ordering a lovely bottle of red wine despite the fact that it was nowhere near "free or close to free", his usual guidelines for purchasing anything non-foodie related.

I started out strong, I even made it though the first three courses eating (almost) everything. But then came the fourth, and the fifth, and the sixth, and the seventh. By the time the desserts came I wasn't even able to take a sip of my water for fear I might explode. And yet, inexplicably, the people around me were able to eat and drink, and then eat some more.  

Is there something I'm missing? Like six additional stomachs? 

Not only am I not aware how these fancy-shmancy restaurant foodie people can eat so much, I am not aware how they can eat so many weird things, one right after the other. Me personally, I have to psych myself up. There is not a fish eye that I have swallowed without first giving myself a pep talk. Still, two hours into yesterday's dinner and I was running out of enthusiasm and my inner-cheerleader had bolted to the bathroom to stick her finger down her mouth. 

Let's discuss the fois gras, for example. It was part of one of the many courses but after eating all of the other raw things straight out of the sea I just couldn't do it. Not only was I out of pep talk, I was out of stomach. Besides, do I really want to be eating the liver of an animal that has been fattened to such an extreme so as to be banned from dinner plates in several countries?

No, no I don't. I'm not fancy-shmancy after all, and you foodies out there can keep your intestines and vital organs and eyeballs. 

Besides, I prefer steak. 

Characters of Japan Series : Metropolis (or) My Last Word

Age: 14

Sex: easily found in the classifieds, especially under the 13.4 Escorts headline 

Likes: full-page commercial advertising and, naturally, my blog

Dislikes: anyone else having a huge foreigner-friendly all-you-can-drink bash on October 30th, deadlines, and, hopefully, Ulrica Marshall's writing in an otherwise great idea, "Join the Club" 

(Seriously, Ulrica! Your sentence that ended with, "I've never seen more beautiful women in such awe-inspiring kimonos before or since" was just dreadful. If that were true, which is unlikely, you should have approached that statement with more flair, less cheese. Next time try something along these lines: "The women adorning the City Club of Tokyo are exquisite ornaments, as are the silk kimonos draping their enviable figures." You could even give it a twist by adding, "It appears as though their sole purpose in this world is to accompany wealthy men to exclusive establishments such as these, and, it seems, make the rest of us look fat.")

Natural habitat: 36,000 desks, mailboxes, and doctors' offices all over Japan

I was first introduced to the glossy pages of Metropolis a year ago this month. Every Friday a polite Japanese girl with surprisingly good English would hand-deliver the newest edition to V's Oakwood suite in Aoyama. While V was off doing whatever it is lawyers do during the day, I'm guessing it involves baby-eating, I was plopped on top of an unmade bed enjoying 66 pages of Japan related English goodness. 

One year later many things have changed. Instead of visiting my boyfriend in Tokyo, I now live with my boyfriend in Tokyo. Instead of bitching about the people who stare at me on the subway, I now blog about the people that stare at me on the subway. And, instead of reading Metropolis in a messy corporate apartment on a messy unmade bed, I now read it in a messy apartment in Minato-ku on a messy unmade bed. There is one key difference though, and it is a much more poignant, much better reflection of my experiences in Tokyo thus far, and I'm not referring to V's three-legged bed being held up on one side by a thick stack of law books.

When I originally began reading Metropolis I did not feel any attachment to its pages, not even the on-point movie reviews which are nothing less than perfect. Now I feel almost too familiar with Metropolis. Not only have I exposed several of the leeches in its classifieds for the pathetic adulterers that they are, but I have recognized my own face, staring back at me, in those same classifieds, right next to the same kind of ad that I would have eviscerated with Operation Diddily Squat had it been a different face and two weeks earlier. 

Fueling this attachment, I can also recognize names now. Ulrica Marshall is one, Beau Miller is another. I don't know Beau personally but I might have if I had interviewed to be a contributing writer for the Tokyo Explorer Residents' Guide like I had arranged to last October, but never did. I do know, albeit only in the form of countless email exchanges,The Head Nacho, whose name I won't divulge for several reasons but mainly, and most importantly, because I respect him. 

I also know a different name, the name of the Editor in Chief, whose professionalism, as well as a few other things, will be discussed more in a later paragraph. 

More than the classifieds and the recognizable names, I feel a special fondness for page 66, specifically the three weeks it features The Last Word. Sometimes The Last Word is well written, but more often than not it's not. Despite this, even if it fails to to be informative or entertaining or even a good coffee coaster, The Last Word always succeeds in representing the author, making it close in form and function to a blog, something I appreciate for obvious reasons.

Which is why, understandably, I was excited about being published under the name Tokyo Cowgirl in this week's The Last Word. Following a jarring week of surreal hell, an agreement was made between my boyfriend the lawyer and The Head Nacho from Crisscross KK, the owners of Metropolis and Japan Inc. No, there were no legal documents swimming in fine print or monetary damages awarded, there was just a simple handshake in the form of a conciliatory email with the promise that I would have the last word, literally, on October 24th.

I wrote out an earnest 800 word essay about the benefits of provocative, controversial blogs in Japan and submitted it to The Head Nacho by the agreed-upon deadline, October 3rd. He wrote me back a very kind email stating that my article was, in a word, excellent, and that the Editor in Chief would be contacting me, to which I responded with a kind email of my own albeit with a few unfortunate spelling mistakes. Not only was I satisfied that an otherwise inflammatory situation had ended amicably and without a lawsuit, I was ecstatic at the prospect of being published in shiny print for the first time, too. 

Last Monday I emailed The Head Nacho, gently asking when the Editor in Chief would contact me as my Last Word publication date was less than five days away. He responded courteously, assuring me that the Editor would contact me very soon, and again, falsely satisfied, I let the subject drop.

Yesterday, the day before I was supposedly going to be published for the first time, the EiC finally contacted me. 

"Greetings. My name is (I have removed the name but it's available for your viewing pleasure on The Metropolis website, right beside the label Editor in Chief), and I’m the editor of Metropolis magazine. I want to apologize for taking so long to get back to you about your Last Word article. I have some suggested edits, but I’ve been too busy recently to find the time to gather them together and send them along; I will try to do that in the next week or so. Thank you for your patience, and I look forward to working with you on the article."

Regardless of whether the Editor in Chief needs a better day-planner, or if he is just incompetent, this egregious misstep is very disappointing. A little over a month has passed since I first discovered the fraudulent Tokyo Cowgirl personal ad and yet here I am finding myself in a similar situation. Again I have to consult with "my lawyer" before posting a blog, again I find myself inundated with incessant apologies from The Head Nacho, and again I am being offered more olive branches, more promises, the most important of which is a future November 14th TLW publication date. 

Believe it or not, I'm not mad. I am however, thoroughly disgusted. Metropolis has failed me, again, and betrayed my trust, again. Why on earth would I want my article inside of a publication that so clearly doesn't take me or itself seriously? 

I don't. 

Not only am I not going to allow Metropolis to further compromise our original agreement, I'm not going to allow them to publish anything, not one word, of My Last Word. It's true that I desperately want to be published, but no, I will not sacrifice my pride just so I can half-heartedly accomplish that goal by way of a cheapened victory. This is not about vindication and this is not about retribution. This is about me, the 27 year-old makeup artist turned nonprofit worker from Texas that blogs almost every single day, practicing for that one day when my name, my real name, might be printed above a polished, well-written article devoid of any angry four-letter words.   

So, readers of my blog, friends and scrunchie wearers and English teachers and Charisma Men alike, this is my October 24th publication date, this is what I offer you instead of my previously written 800 words about blogging.

This is My Last Word.