Story Time, Children. Gather 'Round
During the year I lived in Tokyo, I saw myself as something of an adventurous soul. On any given weekend, I would just start randomly boarding trains just to see where I would end up. I viewed it as a test of my problem solving acumen to find my way back through the city to my little apartment on the fifth floor. I got lost plenty of times, but so long as I had a large wad of yen in my pocket, not to be confused with having a yen for a large wad, I could pretty much afford a taxi cab home from anywhere, so long as I didn't accidently stray to China, which was highly unlikely given the body of water and China's strict immigration laws.
The fun thing about train rides in Japan is that no two rides are the same. One train could be crammed to the doors with people, and the next train could be so sparsely populated, you have an entire car to yourself, free to sit down and enjoy the smooth rocking journey in complete solitude. Still, crowded trains are by far better, mainly because it's fun to watch an entire trainload of people gently swaying to every turn in the track, as if everyone is dancing to a silent song. And the people watching is the best, because riding the train is so much a part of a daily Japanese life, you get a window into people's routines. Some catch up on their reading, paging through worthless little comic book stories that frequently get left on trains or can be seen piled high in trash cans immediately outside the trains. And the Japanese can sleep standing up, which is just hysterical to witness, particularly to a young man from the American midwest who was only familiar with cow tipping. Occasionally, the concept of Jap tipping (can I be any more un-PC?) almost had me in conniptions. I could also go into the rampant groping that transpires late at night, but that's a story for a different day.
One train ride in particular stands out in my mind. It was a bright winter afternoon, and I was lost as hell. As far as I could tell, I was either two stops from home or a hundred stops away. I had stopped at several different stations and ambled around the area, taking in the occasional local delicacy and dabbling in a little Pachinko or slot machine gambling. One thing about Tokyo, you're never far away from something to do.
I eventually boarded an express train, which more or less meant it only stopped at major stations, skipping the smaller ones as if to say "you're not worthy little one." As I stood in the middle of the train, gripping a pole for support, I became aware that a young Japanese woman was staring intently at me. Normally, I would take it as flirtation, but there was something flashing in her eyes that made me feel uncomfortable. So, I relinquished my grasp on the pole and sauntered further down the car and took up hand residence on another stabilizing pole.
I turned around, and was startled to see the little woman standing two feet from me, with pure hatred written on every feature of her face. Suddenly, she held up a picture of an infant, an infant with decidedly western characteristics mixed with Japanese. Uh oh. Just as the train hit a curve, sending me lurching toward the mad young woman, she exploded into a diatribe of venomous Japanese that had every head in the train focused in our direction.
Now, my grasp of the Japanese language at that point was barely enough to get me through stores and restaurants, and somehow saying "Icura desu ka?" (how much is this?) just didn't seem appropriate to the situation. Still, the little fireball in front of me continued with her verbal assault, and an occasional bead of spit would strike me in the face. When I finally raised my hand to wipe the dew from my cheek, the woman punched me in the stomach. Hard. Somehow, the fact that I managed to stay standing despite her abdominal attack seemed to piss her off even more, so she elevated the volume of her tirade, and all I could do was look around helplessly at a sea of wide eyes obviously enjoying the drama tremendously.
Finally, a middle-aged Japanese man stood up and grabbed the woman from behind. She twirled around, and the two began a verbal sparring match that reminded me of watching a movie in fast-forward. The only break in the conversation came when the woman turned around and punched me in the stomach again, an act that prompted the man to grab her arms and restrain her from very likely breaking one of my ribs. Once she was satisfactorily within his control, he explained the situation to me in very broken English.
"She think you father of child," he yelled, trying to outhowl the restrained woman in his arms. "But, she not okay here (releasing grip long enough to point at her head). She ride this train lots. Says everyone is father of child. You get off train at next stop. I hold her until doors shut."
I nodded enthusiastically. At that moment, I would rather have been in front of the train than on board. The woman proved to be quite a dynamo, much more than the nice Japanese man had bargained for. She managed to elbow him in the stomach, free herself, and come charging at me with her fingernails aimed at my face, intent on raking the corneas free from my eyes.
"But wait," I thought. "I need my eyes." I was able to cover my face in the nick of time, so she focused her rage, instead, on my exposed ears, and I think she very nearly succeeded in pulling them free from the side of my head, but she was stopped just prior to that when three men, including the nice Japanese man who explained the situation, wrestled her off me and dragged her to a seat where they. . . wait for it. . . sat on her. Yep, three grown Japanese men were sitting in a line atop a squirming and enraged young Japanese woman, and they remained sitting on her for about five minutes before the train finally came to a stop.
I couldn't disembark from that horror ride fast enough. I practically sprinted from the train, and I remember whispering to the doors "close, damn you, close!" They did, and the train began to pull away. The last thing I saw was the three men stand up, freeing the woman, who promptly ran up and slammed her face against the window, yelling at me and spraying saliva against the glass.
I took a cab home after that. fuck the train.
Time for a Little Bass Bashing
As proof that there is a pinch of justice still left in this crazy world, N' Sync singer Lance Bass is officially grounded. Cue the chorus. *hallelujia* <--Or however the heck that's spelled.
For those of you who have been living 500 feet below ground with your fingers in your ears, you may not know that there was a lot of hoopla about Lance Bass training in Star City Russia because he was scheduled to travel to the international space station during a flight this fall. The bitter pill of realization that a no-talent hack pretty boy with a name like Lance Bass (a name more suited to the fishing industry, or possibly the porn industry) was about to take my rightful place aboard the space station just couldn't be swallowed.
Therefore, it was with great pleasure that I read a MSNBC.com article explaining that Bass was pulled from the crew roster after his backers couldn't pony up the dough to continue his training. According to the story, RadioShack was the only such sponsor to be named publicly. Procter & Gamble and a soft-drink company were said to be additional sponsors. For the record, this blogger is officially boycotting RadioShack, Proctor & Gamble and a soft-drink company of my choosing (at this moment, I'm thinking Mr. Pibb or Tab, if they still make Tab).
Don't get me wrong. I'm all for making space travel attainable by the lowly average citizen with a bankroll the size of the GNP of Sudan, but the thought of Bass, a 23-year old punk who went on record as saying that going into space would be "cool," just made my head scream. Cool? Argh!
Perhaps the best paragraph of the entire article was, It was far too late for another space passenger to fill Bass' seat. Russian space agency spokesman Sergei Gorbunov said Bass' weight allotment would be taken up by a cargo container filled with equipment for the space station. There, strapped in a seat once reserved for the pretty boy crooner, would be a package of dried fruit, a stack of porno magazines, and a few odd pieces of technology to keep the station in orbit. Now that's justice.
Also in the news, the winning lottery numbers for the New York lottery yesterday? 9-1-1. Interesting.
"Anatomy of a Really Long Drive" c. Ryan Rhodes, May 17, 2001
12:30 p.m. - I get behind the wheel of my car. I'm well rested and eager to embark on the long journey ahead of me. I toggle the radio until a rip-roaring tune comes in. I'm in driving mode.
12:45 p.m. - I stop at a gas station to buy a pop. My gas gauge reads full after filling it with $30 worth of fuel. I settle into my car seat and note how nice and comfortable it feels. This is going to be a grand journey.
12:50 p.m. - I crack open my pop and take a nice big swig. Another great song comes on the radio. Nothing beats the open road.
1:05 p.m. - I'm on the Interstate. I set my cruise control to six miles above the speed limit. I settle back in my comfy seat, tilt the rearview mirror, and steal glances at the people driving alongside me. Life is good.
1:07 p.m. - I pass my first distance marker; Destination 179 miles. No sweat. I take another long swig of pop and cruise past a rest area. I don't need to rest. Rest is for sissies. A few bugs commit horrible acts of windshield suicide. This amuses me.
1:28 p.m. - My pop is almost gone. There's a slight tingle in my bladder. I pass a sign that says "Next Rest Area 56 miles." No problem. I can make that standing on my head (if I weren't driving).
1:35 p.m. - The radio station is getting a little fuzzy. It takes awhile, but I finally find a station that comes in clearly. It's 80's music, which isn't my favorite, but it will do for now. My bladder feels uncomfortable. Where's that rest area?
1:45 p.m. - I encounter road construction. A lot of road construction. Miles upon miles of road construction. For as much road construction that appears to be going on, there aren't many people working. I really have to go to the bathroom. If only I wasn't traveling at 30 mph. That empty pop bottle would make a suitable temporary bathroom. Get that idea out of your head right now!!
2 p.m. - I finally reach the end of the construction. I'm cruising again! A bathroom or rest area is now of the utmost importance. A large June bug splats against my windshield.
2:10 p.m. - I pull into a rest area and make my way gingerly to the bathroom. In the bathroom, I notice that the toilet paper is unbelievably thin. Why do rest areas have such thin toilet paper? And where can I get some?
2:15 p.m. - I get back in my car and take the time to locate a suitable radio station. I decide to purchase another pop before disembarking. And I'm off again.
2:23 p.m. - I lost my radio station and all I can find are country stations. How many songs about trucks can people come up with? It looks like it may rain. Good. A heavy rain will wash away the yellow bug carcasses from my windshield.
2:30 p.m. - It starts to rain, and I eagerly snap on my wipers. My windshield immediately becomes smeared with an impervious coat of yellow insect lacquer. That's just great.
2:32 p.m. - The rain stops. Now what am I supposed to do? I can barely see. And why are they still singing about trucks? That's it! I'm switching to tapes.
2:40 p.m. - I stop at a gas station to try to clean the bug goop off my windshield, with minimal results. I kind of have to go to the bathroom again, but not really. I'll wait until the next rest stop.
2:46 p.m. - I see a sign that reads "Next Rest Area 52 Miles." Is this some sort of cruel joke? I take a swig of pop in protest to the evil disbursement of rest areas. I regret the act almost immediately. This seat is so uncomfortable. It feels like stone.
3:10 p.m. - Waterfalls, rivers, streams, ponds, rain. Man oh man, do I need another bathroom! Wherefore art thou rest area? My music has become boring, but no stations are coming in. How hard is it to broadcast music? I decide to bite the bullet and listen to some guy sing about his Ford pickup truck.
3:11 p.m. - I turn off my radio completely.
3:20 p.m. - I arrive at another rest area and make small conversation at the urinal with some guy who drives a motorcycle. I'll bet he doesn't listen to music about trucks. He says it's been a long ride. I muster up my most manly "Yup." I then zip up and head back out to my car. I throw the two empty pop bottles in the trash and vow not to drink another drop until I reach my destination.
3:35 p.m. - The guy on the motorcycle passes me and gives me a thumbs up sign. I honk my horn. We bonded as only two urinal men can bond. His motorcycle is really loud.
3:48 p.m. - I'm so sick of this drive I could scream. My back hurts, my behind hurts, my head hurts, and this seat feels like spikes along my body. How many bugs can possibly seek out my windshield in a day? It's unfathomable. I've gone through about $25 in gas, to say nothing of the mental anguish of all the country music I simply can't escape.
3:57 p.m. - I reach my destination, and I'm greeted at the door by a very pleasant young woman with an award-winning smile.
"How was the drive?" she asks.
"Not too bad," I respond. "It was a little long, but overall it wasn't too bad."
And From the Lame Excuse Department Comes. . .
After a strenuous two hours of hapkido, complete with mega-bruised forearms, I opted for a quick stop at Subway, because I like to Eat Fresh, and Jared is apparently some sort of weight loss god because he discovered a low fat diet and walking means less pounds. Pure genius.
Well, anyway, I was waiting in line, knowing full well that I wanted a turkey breast foot long sub on wheat bread (lettuce, tomatoes, onions and green peppers), but the sandwich artist on duty received a phone call from his girlfriend, so I had to wait. I love waiting in line, especially when I get the chance to hear a sandwich artist make kissy-face noises into a phone. Midway through his six minute chat, I heard the following:
SANDWICH ARTIST: No, I don't want to cook tomorrow. I do enough cooking here at work.
Cooking? I think not. Cutting a phallic-shaped piece of bread lengthwise, piling on pre-cut food items, and slathering mayonaisse and oil on it does not constitute cooking. I don't care if there is ocassionally the need to use a microwave to heat up squiggles of bacon, it still does not make you a cook in even the loosest sense of the word.
Oh, and for the record, I would protest having to wear those Sandwich Artist subway shirts, because there is no art school in the nation that specializes in the art of the sandwich. Few modern art critics sit around and mull whether the sandwich falls in with the greater cubism works of Picasso or whether it is more in the surreal realm of Salvadore Dali. I have never seen an art gallery featuring a Subway sandwich, although I would call it something witty, like "You Want a Drink or Chips With That?"
I am in no way disparaging those that work in the Subway chain. Having worked in a grocery store for three years myself, I understand the irritation inherent in putting up with impatient souls. I guess I'm just mad that my sandwich was put on hold so he could chat with his girlfriend.
What an asshole.
Late for Work, but Oh, Those Dreams
Well, I was about a half hour late for work today. No big deal. I could have even made it on time, but I just kind of loped back and forth from my room to the bathroom, refreshing MusicMatch because it insisted on playing nothing buy Lenny Kravitz (Runny CrapShits). Okay, his music isn't bad, but come on: he doesn't warrant so much constant replay. I officially know exactly what will happen "Once I Dig In." Answer: "I'll Be Having Such a Good Time."
I awoke at 8:15, and there was something picking at the back of my mind that told me I was missing something. That something was the 8:30 magazine art/edit post mortem for the September issue. Oops. That's what I get for not checking my calendar before I leave each evening. When a meeting consists of about six people, and you're absent, chances are someone will notice. In my case, everyone noticed. But, I have a perfect excuse: I was having stellar dreams.
You know those dreams, the ones where you're fluttering between the conscious and subconscious world because your alarm clock is going off every nine minutes after you swat blindly at the snooze button. They're dreams that make no sense, but are flashing images of pleasant things, ideas and, above all, the warm fluffy feeling of mid-morning sleep.
The reality of the waking world, the world of missed meetings and Runny CrapShits, just can't compare to that.
We're All Looking for Something
Sometimes, our search for someone, or something, special leads us to the Internet, where we perform a Google search on "I+love"+rectum+"my+boyfriend."
Wait a minute. No, that doesn't, or shouldn't, happen. Come to think of it, what does that search even mean? And why does my site show up after doing a search like that? No matter how you rearrange the words, it still comes out seeming, well, wrong.
"Boyfriend, I love my rectum" No!
"I love my boyfriend, my rectum." No!
"My love, I rectum my boyfriend." No!
So, to the soul who stumbled across my site after performing a search on "I+love"+rectum+"my+boyfriend," may I just waggle my finger in your face and say "For shame!"
On a similar note, the parade of people who find my site after searching for "exposed+thongs" continues unabated.
Can't Hide From Remembering
I've been mentally preparing myself for this week, this week destined to be clogged with Sept. 11 anniversary documentaries, survivor interviews, commentary and everything else that comes with observing the tragedy. I had resolved to stay away from the television, shielding myself from what I believed to mostly be a ratings grab by the major networks determined to outdo one another with their "exclusive" interviews and insights. But, my resolve faltered.
I blame the lazy Sunday, the first Sunday of the professional football season. It's so hard to stay away from TV when you know somewhere the Vikings are ochestrating yet another heartbreaking loss to a bad team. Of course, they lost to Chicago with seconds left, and I eventually found myself channel surfing to CNN, where I started watching a 9/11 documentary that totally absorbed me.
I remembered. I remembered the disbelief as I drove to work that morning, hearing the impossible news that an unknown number of airplanes had been hijacked and were being flown into buildings. "That can't be right," I thought. "No one is sick enough to conjure up something that horrible."
I remembered. I remembered feeling sick, walking numbly to my office, with work being the last thing on my mind. I simply wanted to separate fact and fiction, to find out what was truly, factually unfolding in New York. The Internet was snail slow, with everyone with a modem intent on learning just what I wanted to know. Web pages appeared at a painfully slow rate, but the images they displayed couldn't have been imagined by even they most psychotic mind. Builidings ablaze. People hanging from windows. People plummeting to their deaths rather than face the inferno certain to sear the flesh from their bodies. People guilty of no crime save trying to live their lives, destined to never again see their loved ones, and experience horrors no one should ever have to endure, all because some meglomaniacal zealot believed it was within his own warped Islamic belief structure to plan and order the indiscriminate killing of civilians.
I remembered. I remembered a solitary tear, the only tear I recall shedding that entire week, dropping from my cheek and landing on the "Home" key of my keyboard, and that was, quite frankly, the only place I wanted to be at that moment: home. I wanted to be home with my family, but that was simply not possible. With my parents in Tokyo and my brother and his wife in Colorado, all I could do was sit. And worry. And keep watching the horror flashing on my computer screen.
I remembered. I remembered a voice squawking over the IBM public address system, telling IBM employees to continue their workday as usual, and to limit Internet usage to work-related projects only. I heard a a spattering of "fuck yous" and "go fuck yourselves" emanating from offices down the hall. It was like asking Anne Frank to ignore the bootsteps coming up the stairs. Finally, IBM clued into the fact that productivity for that day was pretty much nil, and they started broadcasting news reports on the monitors in the halls.
I remembered. I remembered the bubbling cauldron of mixed emotions running through my mind, emotions so strong they at times felt as though they could actually seep, thick and black, from the pores in my skin. Hate. Anger. Sadness. Despair. Rage. Emotions I rarely feel, and I hope I never feel them all at the same time ever again. They left me exhausted, yet unable to sleep. And I'm in Minnesota, forever away from where the real drama was unfolding. I could only imagine what New Yorkers were going through. They were so distant, yet they were all right there, flickering human drama broadcast right there in my bedroom.
I remembered. And I will never forget.
