"Dr. Huxtable" to blame

I sideswiped an orange and white city taxi at a fairly irresponsible rate of speed on my way to work this morning. Surprisingly, I don't really have any ill will towards the offending driver, because despite it being entirely my fault (I don't recall seeing his "right" turn signal as I wisely decided to pass him on the right), he immediately lept from his cab to smash my idiot face in see if me and my sweet ride were all right, of course, profusely apologizing as though he had just accidentally run over my firstborn with a lawnmower. He seemed genuinely concerned too--unheard of for someone whose profession professionally despises cyclists, advocating collateral damage at the expense of a timely customer drop-off. Seeing as the shock of impact knocked the Japanese alphabet clean out of my head, it took a few moments of breathless epileptic charades before I could clearly tell him my bike and I were fine. Even funnier though, was how he continued bowing and apologizing while attempting to re-affix the driver's side mirror that my left knee had totally owned the shit out of. Coming from the United States of "May God Have Mercy on Your Soul If It's Your Fault," where typical fender-bender culture recommends you arm yourself with a practical negotiation tool, it's an unbelievable relief to swap paint on these J-train streets, and not have to worry about a tire iron to the face.

Hopefully I'll have the good luck to crash into him again. Hook him up with a matching set of killer aerodynamic dents and scratches for the passenger's side.
Maybe then he'll buy me a beer.

Resolution

Rejection is always hard to take. But I honestly think it's easier to swallow when it pushes you to the ground and kicks dirt in your face, or bitch-slaps you in the hallway before posting compromising pictures of you on the internet.
The worst rejection is courteous and apologetic: "Let's just be friends," or "We regret to inform you," or anything that precedes "gozaimasen." Always formal and polite; as empathetic eyes fall to the floor, rejection begins with an apology, and ends with a half-baked smile, or a forty degree ojigi.

My own fault though. I should have made plans sooner, shouldn't have banked so heavily on the H.I.S. penguin drones, and should have had a backup. It's probably for the better though. Guitar Hero III drops in November--just in time for Christmas with the family.

On one hand, Hidden in Plain View's premature breakup makes their sophomore release a bittersweet one, seeing as the record was released long after they parted ways. Recorded during the band's final hours, Drive-Thru records has given the band a proper send-off with Resolution. And iTunes has given it to me for free. I guess the reminder of their breakup could be a harder pill to swallow--that is, if this cd was rubbish. But it's not. It's awesome.
It's true though--in life, even when it's over, it should end with a bang, and never a whimper. Even at our very worst, I think everyone deserves their own swan song.

It's h-o-t here. All the petite Japanese women hide under sunbrellas and silk arm sleeves, while the suit & tie samurai desperately mop their foreheads in silent protest. But no one says anything. It's life, and life is uncomfortable in the summer. I take solace in knowing other places around the world haven't been so lucky--especially southern Europe, where sweltering citizens attest they are living in a "free sauna from God."

Fuck, that's pretty hot.

Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition

I hope I never get sick while I'm here.
Just last night, I had the displeasure of searching for a Sudafed lookalike for a friend beset by the uncomfortable fruits of hay fever allergies. Rather than explain how difficult it is to find equivalent medicine in Japan for generic, everyday symptoms, much less define said symptoms in Japanese, I'll just outline my linguistic pharmaceutical train wreck in the following conversation:

Dagbert: "Hello, I'm looking for an anti-histamine type medicine...do you have anything like that?"

Cute Love Drug Clerk: "For sneezing?"

Db: "...No, more like for things like headache and congestion..."

CLDC: "I'm terribly sorry, but we don't carry crutches."

Db: "Actually, my friend says her head and her nose hurt. (emphatically points to own head and nose) Do you have anything for that?"

CLDC: (after several moments of thoughtful browsing) "This can loosen up your stools in three to six hours. When was the last time she pooped?"

Db: "No, goddammit! Allergy? Head? Pain? Hail Mary? Spanish Inquisition? Does? Not? Compute?" (I engage "survival language" and begin frantically flapping my arms, and beating my chest, all the while grunting and pointing)

CLDC: "Ohh! This is what you're looking for!"
(she hands me a box on which a pink octopus wearing a rhinestone cowboy hat is vigorously humping a centaur)

Db: "Cripes no! She's just sick! Not...well, you know...sick. You know what? Nevermind--screw this. She'll just 'ganbare' ok?"

But as I'm on my way out, she runs up behind me excitedly shrieking apologies, her waving hands clutching the box in the photograph at left. "Meh, close enough," I thought as I opened my wallet. How the shit was I supposed to know? But even "close enough" implies a certain degree of certainty, where in this case, I don't even have a flipping clue. Still, an oft-uttered sentiment in Japan where there's a little white box for everything but the common cold.

Sorry, your princess is still in another castle

About a month ago, as I was comparing apples to oranges at the Marunaka grocery store, I bumped into a moderately cute girl who suspiciously acted as though she knew me. Even though her face was only vaguely familiar, I still exchanged pleasantries in Japanese for several minutes before she went off to buy whatever Japanese people buy when they're not bowing or riding trains. The rest of the day week month I wondered just who the hell she was--I've met a lot of people since I've gotten here, but can usually at least paste a face with a place. And trace the straight-faced sack race to first base. Meh.

Anyway, only a few days ago, did it suddenly just click. Bowing and apologizing. Three-quarter pants. Asshole gaijin mode. The Queen of Apologies!

Oops.

"Working on a Saturday:

...about as much fun as a dutch oven from your sister."

Japanese people apologize. A lot. The other night, feeling lazy, I switched on my "ignorant asshole gaijin" mode, and wandered into a big box sports store by the train station to buy some cycling pants that were so expensive, they would have been better off lined with bald eagle feathers. Or stolen. Anyway, the cute little girl who worked in cycling pants world spoke Japanese, and I spoke "only" English. How liberating it felt to place her at the mercy of my idiotic foreign blathering. Over and over, she apologized for everything: I spoke "only" English, she apologized. I wore my shoes into the changing room, she apologized. They didn't have the pants I wanted in gray, she apologized. Another pair that had potential didn't have draw-close legs, she apologized. The pants didn't have "Huge in Japan" stitched in leopard print over the crotch, she apologized. The women's pants were made of better materials, she apologized. And then came the grand-daddy: all the pants were too short, she apologized. Actually, she didn't directly apologize for the pants being short; more specifically, without knowing I knew what she was saying, she actually apologized for all Japanese men, whose legs are too short. Beautiful. Casually sauntering back out after the cash-register beast raping, I realized that I could have walked into that store, ordered an ice cream wedding cake, broken a beer bottle over my head and threatened the floor manager with it, and then taken a shit in their North Face backpack display, and she would have apologized for them not having cakes, for the poor quality of the bottle and the manager being a pussy, and then once more for the men's bathroom being on a different floor. Anyway, it's not an immature character flaw, or a nationwide lapse in confidence, it's just a little cultural thing that's been going on here for centuries. A little cultural thing that drives me positively batshit insane.

News In Briefs...
* I refuse to add $30 to a "good luck/yakitori slush fund" for this guy, just because the principal said so. Oh yeah--and just for that, the principal isn't my 'pal' anymore. Todai grad, my ass.

* What the hell kind of a name is Horatio? Actually, I already know. It's Spanish. But David Caruso is a shitty actor, and he's not Spanish.

* My new bike costed a "a great big pile of goofy coins with holes in them."
But it's smooth. And fast. Daddy like.

* If "an apple a day keeps the doctor away," what does a box of instant yakisoba noodles keep away? It keeps your stools away, that's what.