I don’t mean to be a Bitter Bill about all this, but the God-like admiration for President Elect Barack Obama that seems to be sweeping the nation the world right now is giving me an upset stomach. I agree the guy is charismatic, and he knows when, where, and what buttons to push. But if you put someone, anyone, up on a pedestal that high, they are bound to fall. And when they do, it’s the people that erected the pedestal in the first place that are the most disappointed. I have read comments from many Obama supporters who hope for another Kennedy. But once Kennedy fell, America faced some of the worst upheavals in the country’s history.

I am not cynical, though. I would love to see Mr. Obama change the world like he promises to do. I welcome his ideas and attitude towards the public office with open arms. But I cannot, like so many people in America, accept that the war is over. Mr. Obama won an election for the chance to bring change so badly needed, but that is all he has done. The woes brought on us by the Bush administration didn’t go away on the evening of November 4th, 2008.

I am excited for the future of my country for the first time in a long time, but we need to see through the illusions politicians and the media weave, and not jump blindly up and down crying and screaming that our savior has come before he’s done anything to prove it. I’d love to hear why you think Mr. Obama is right for the presidency, or how you may be disappointed in the choice America made. And if you are not from the States, I’d love to hear your view on everything.

Rant over. Nothing to see here. Carry on.

One of the few Nintendo games I ever beat, back in the day, was Mike Tyson’s Punch Out. It’s still on my list of favorite games and I would probably play the hell out of it now, if I could get my hands on it. In the game, there are many colorful characters, but one stands out above the rest. His name is Don Flamenco. Don wore a wispy scarf and tiptoed around the ring with a rose in his mouth. Was this a gay Nintendo character? I have no idea, and as a kid, I never even noticed. Don was just another crazy character in a lineup of crazy characters. Ah, to be young and naive again. Could Nintendo get away with having such a strong homosexual stereotype portrayed now? Probably not. But I do know, or at least I believe, that it wasn’t a frivolous or baseless stereotype. Because, you see, I met the real Don Flamenco, in a seedy little bar in the middle of Japan.

Before I get to it, I would like to preface this story with a little background. If you had read “The Easiest Money”, you might just know a little about the bar I used to frequent quite often. For the first six months of my first year here in Japan, I never went out except to go to work. I would just go home to my cockroach-infested apartment and read. Sometimes I would try to watch some Japanese baseball on the telly, but there’s only so much bunting to advance the runner a guy can take. One day, my friend Paul called me up and asked me if I wanted to go to the bar.

How did you make friends if you never went out?, you might ask. I have no obligation to answer your petty questions, but I will anyway. It was Paul’s job I took when I came over from America. Not only was his contract not renewed, but Paul was also forced by the company to show me the ropes. He could have been swearing at me the whole time, but luckily Paul was from Manchester, England, so I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. I think he liked me though, so he called me.

We went to a foreigner’s bar called “Hunter”, and had a blast. After that first night, a breaking of the seal, if you will, took place. I went to the bar almost every night for the next year. Within two months of my introduction to Hunter Bar, I was playing guitar every Thursday night, making some good coin, and meeting some good friends. And that leads me into the story.

Hunter bar was like any other dive in any other city. Islands of yellow light shines on the green felt of the two lop-sided pool tables, surrounded by dark booths and cast-iron benches. And in the far corner, next to the karaoke machine, was a little alcove where I sat and played my heart out. Usually my friends would come out and give a listen, although, because the were from various countries like New Zealand and Australia, they would inevitably call out Crowded House or Midnight Oil for me to play.

So, on this particular evening, I could tell when I first entered the building that it would be a slow kind of night, the kind where I could play just about anything and get piffling applause at best. It didn’t matter to me though. I had already downed my four shots of tequila. (After four shots, I sing like a god, after five, they need a forklift to get me off of the floor.) And I was getting paid, if they paid attention or not. I played my first set, mixing in some Smashing Pumpkins, Radiohead, Bob Marley. Every once in awhile, someone one would sing out with me, but overall it was turning out to be a nice and quiet gig. How deceived I was.

My second set started up with some old-school Creedance. Up tempo, with a beat you could really bug out to. And that’s when Don stepped in front of me. There was no rose in his mouth, but everything else was the same. The scarf, the tiptoes. But the most amazing thing was he was actually dancing the Flamenco to CCR. It would have been laughable if he wasn’t so damn good. Twirls and hand claps, stomping off beat. It really was an amazing thing to watch, and the whole bar, which had filled up since my first set finished, turned to watch this man dance in front of me. He was alone. No one else dared join him and look like a fool.

I looked around at all of the faces in the bar. Mostly drunk and happy souls. Alright, I thought, this is a bit weird, but people seem to be enjoying it. That’s when I felt a little tug at my ankle. I didn’t want to, but I looked down, and there was Don Flamenco looking back up at me with “come hither” eyes as he placed three, thousand-yen bills into my left sock. He stood up and walked towards the bar, turning around once to give me a wink. And that was the last time I saw Don Flamenco alive.

But the story doesn’t end there, as much as many of you would like it to. It was such a surreal scene that I felt I needed another shot of tequila.

But Schmeichel, you may ask, wouldn’t that push you over your limit? Yes, yes it would, and it did.

How were you able to finish your set? Stupid pride. You see, after I set my guitar down, I walked over to Jason and one of my other friends, Darren. Darren was on the floor, under the bench, laughing so hard tears were rolling down his cheeks. Jason just held his face in his hands, eyes wide and unblinking through his fingers.

“Not a fucking word,” I said, pointing at both of them. This seemed to be the proverbial pin in the balloon, as Jason burst out laughing, spit flying through his fingers, some of it hitting Darren on the cheek. I had to get back on stage and finish it, just to shut those two up.

I don’t remember much after that, but I do recall my two friends, Jason and Darren, periodically dropping ten yen coins into my socks.

Bastards.

The next day I was all too lucky to wake up with a clear head, and only an 62% memory recovery of the night before. As I rode my bicycle into town, I saw my private dancer, Don Flamenco’s face plastered across telephone polls and community bulletin boards across the city. I smiled then, and thought about the evening before. So what’s the moral of the story?

I don’t really know. But I guess it would be something like this: Although it was awkward at the time, how many of us can say we had the chance to play for a professional flamenco dancer? At least it wasn’t Mike Tyson.

I had the distinct pleasure of walking through Marunaka, a popular supermarket in my neck of the woods, with my daughters the other day. We were there buying the usual suspects: milk, diet coke, bread with nasty bean paste in it etc. you know, all the things a hybrid Japanese-American family needs. I wasn’t on the look-out for anything weird or out of the ordinary. The supermarkets rarely have the wonders the convenience stores offer. But these things seem to search me out. I was walking through the snack aisle, trying not to look at the tempting bags of potato chips, when a box on the shelf caught my eye. I had picked it up and put it into my basket without truly understanding what it was. I just knew that I had to get this product to you, my faithful readers, as soon as possible.

Ebittcho.

Ebi is Japanese for “shrimp”and the “cho” is a good example of how the Japanese love to abbreviate words into cute alternatives. The “cho” is short for chocolate. That’s right. Chocolate covered, shrimp flavored rice puffs. It’s not the idea of two distinct flavors combining to form one super taste. I enjoy chocolate-covered pretzels and celery with peanut butter. As a matter of fact, the same company that makes Ebittcho also makes Potatottcho, chocolate-covered potato chips. Those are even slightly appealing. Seafood and chocolate though, makes me queasy. Naturally I had to try a few in the interest of curiosity, and to inform my readers, so that they don’t have to experience this “delicacy” first-hand.

I put the first Ebittcho in my mouth and got the chocolaty taste first. Good, cheap chocolate. But what soon followed is hard to describe. It was as if the shrimp taste was a waft of flavor, not quite a bouquet, but definitely a presence. It didn’t center on my taste buds, but slowly made the rounds through my tonsils, up my nose, into the part of the brain that instantly recognizes when someone farts nearby, or when someone hasn’t showered. The chocolate was still there, hanging out, probably having a good time. But then some homeless guy sat down next to him and he realized there was nowhere to hide. I tried a few, because sometimes these sort of things need a little getting used to, but the third and the fourth went down just as yellow and sick as the first.

Ebittcho is a good example of the sort of product you might find on the shelves of a store at any given time, but soon disappear from existence, or so I thought. When I asked some of my Japanese friends if they had heard about Ebittcho, not only had they not heard of it, but they couldn’t believe that there was even a product out there like that in Japan. So I got to taste something Japanese-made that even the Japanese themselves wouldn’t touch. I feel very privileged in that fantastic sort of way where I pretend I am the President of the Universe and everyone is hanging off my every word. But this time, when the men from the funny farm come to take me away, I will have photographic evidence to prove I didn’t make Ebittcho up. Unfortunately, they might just put me away for trying this shit in the first place. Until the day I decide to write again…

Well, I’m back from a little hiatus. You might say to yourself, or to your virtual friends on Second Life, “What gives him the nerve to take a break when he has only written a few posts?” I have nothing to say to that.

I have been working on a little piece that I hope to make a continuing thing, but my research isn’t done yet. You may be interested, you may not give a hoot. I’ve decided to rank all of the sports movies that I have seen. Why? It’s more for me than for anyone else. It’s a look into my psyche, a look into my ability to critique, and a chance to sit in front of the t.v. for “research” purposes. My wife doesn’t have a foot to stand on. I’m going to go Bill Simmons style on ya’ll, though, and if that offends some readers, so be it. Bill is one of my favorite sports bloggers, and he started this thing where he ranked sports movies, but in no particular order. One movie could be ranked third, the next, one hundred forty-two. He may have had a list somewhere, but he hasn’t seemed to follow up on it.

So I have compiled my list, and have started writing witty words. But there are so many movies I have to re-tread, and a few that I just missed out on. I mean, what if I start ranking films now, and then, all of the sudden, out of the blue, Air Bud blows me away and I have to reconfigure everything? As Bill Simmons would say, “Not good times”. I’m working on it. I also have a few new, snazzy Japanese frequencies to give you, and a few more interesting stories about my life in Japan. There really is a little bit of everything here. Until next time…

I just looked this word up in the dictionary because I’m stupid and don’t know a whole lot. (There. That should shut up the haters) I will give you an example. There is an enmity between me and the Boston Celtics. Not that I would actively try to disrupt the organization by, say, kidnapping one of their players or stealing all of their uniforms or anything. I’m a Pistons fan and was at a very impressionable age when the rivalry between the two teams was astronomical. Some of the greatest characters in the history of the NBA were on those two teams during the 80’s. Laimbeer, Isiah, Bird, McHale, The Chief, DJ, Walton, Salley, Rodman, and my favorite Piston of all time, The Microwave, Vinnie Johnson. (I started that list with only a few names in mind, but these faces kept popping into my mind. I couldn’t leave any of them out.) Elbows smashing into domes,  fights every single game,  verbal wars where, after awhile, even the newspapers looked bruised and battered.

For the first time in my life, I hated something truly and deeply and with a pure emotion that doesn’t find you very often. At times it could be terrible and a little frightening, but it also made me feel alive in a time when nothing else did. Maybe a little sad that being a spectator to a sport was the one thing that kept me real, but I’m sure there are a lot of you out there that could say the same thing.

This post isn’t about my hate for the Celtics specifically. It’s about how my idea of enmity has changed. Is it a mellowing, like a fine wine? Now, I don’t hate any team. I dislike some players and I root against some teams in certain situations, but I am much more interested in the sport itself; in the high-flying dunks or the 30-yard strikes, or the 80-yard romp down the sidelines. Who does it and for what team doesn’t matter any more. I know what you are thinking. Maybe I should try to get into the United Nations or run for President of the local school board. With my open-mindedness I could save the cheerleader, save the world. I think that is a grand idea and I applaud all of you for telepathically sending it to me.

There is a problem with all of this though. Where before I felt alive in the magic that the Celtics and the Pistons produced for me, the magic is gone now. I hated the Celtics, but I absolutely loved the rivalry. I don’t have the desire to watch college football from 1 in the afternoon until 9 at night with no break any more. My question is this: Did the magic leave me, or the sports themselves? How do we get an objective perspective on this? What are some of the forces at play here? Media saturation? A PC society? The dichotomy of good and evil? Without the evil, the good don’t look so hot.

I would love to here your ideas.

Today I’d like to get back to my fascination with strange Japanese products. I found this next one a few months ago, again at the local 7-11. (Which doesn’t have Slurpees. They do have a wooden box at the front of the store filled with whole eggs, wieners, nasty jellied potato triangles called konyaku, all sitting in congealing soup, so at least there’s that) So with that unappealing vision dancing through your heads, I present:

The jokes seem to write themselves for this one.

Would you like a piece of my Asse?

Your Asse is so rich and chocolaty.

How much of your Asse can you fit into that box, anyway?

Unfortunately, the taste experience was not nearly as delightful as the visual. Asse tasted like any other ¥100 chocolate. So what I would say to this chocolate if I met her in some bar on a dark night in February is this, “I’m sorry. I thought you had a nice Asse, but on second glance, I see that it is plain and flat. Sorry.” I might at this point mention something about junk and trunks or bubbles or something. But in reality, it’s been so long since I dated, this chocolate bar might walk up to me, take one look at the sad state of affairs, and move on to look for a nice jar of peanut butter or glass of milk. How can I compare to a jar of peanut butter, anyway?

Again, I felt the soft words stick and move behind my eyes but I could never quite see or recognize. A silent moon glared at me through it’s close-shaved halo. The stone bridge was slippery and she had to hold onto my elbow as we crossed.

“What does cool have to do with it?”

“I don’t know. It just does.” I said, “and if you’d only open your eyes, you would see.”

“My eyes are open.” she replied, staring saucer-eyed like a zombie; a beautiful black-haired, blue-eyed zombie. “Intimidation is not cool. I wish you would have told me this earlier.” We stopped on the other side. She let go of my elbow with a little squeeze.

“How do I tell you, the strongest woman I have ever met, that you intimidate me?” She just shrugged her shoulders. The moon shimmered in small circles on the surface of the water. I stared at it for awhile, until it’s brightness blotted out all other details. I knew that if I got the courage to look up into her face, her eyes would be gleaming just like the water-moon.

“Are you cold? You didn’t bring a jacket.” I still couldn’t look up at her.

“If I were, I’d tell you. And I don’t own a jacket.” She shivered a little. “You know, you really scared me back there.” She said, peeking over her left shoulder.

“What? That whole thing about arms floating down the river? I don’t think anything scary is going to float down that river.” She was holding my arm again. “The only thing you have to be scared about,” I looked to my left, then around her to my right, “are the Hill people. and they only come out when there’s a ring around the… Oh.” I looked up slowly and cautiously.

“Stop it.” She said, with a smile.

“Alright. I’m cold now. Can I have your jacket?” She ducked down, using my body as a wall against the strengthening wind.

“Of course. Keep it. You need it more than I do.” We started walking again. The wind was strong and bitter and we still had a long walk ahead of us, but I’d never felt warmer.

“Hey,” she said, “I’m hungry. Want to go to Taco Bell?” I turned to see her looking all sly.

“How do you do that?”

“What?”

“How can you read my mind so quickly? We’ve only really known each other for a few hours.” I really wanted to know. It was a question that had been poking at me like a broken rib all evening.

“I’ve known you since the beginning of time. Didn’t you know that? Haven’t you realized? ” She said, as if I were the dumb and blind one she had to lead.

“Yeah. I guess I have.”

She placed her golden lips on my blushing cheek and said, “Good. Now let’s go get us some burrito supremes.”

- Halloween was never a very important date for me. Sure, I loved stealing candy from my brother and sister for months afterward, but it was just a sweeter version of any other ordinary day. Now it is one of my favorites. Although this true story actually took place at the beginning of May, 1993, it’s a cold October night here in Japan. Happy birthday, Sara. I hope that someday you get to read this. For everyone else, Happy Halloween.

It all started in a seedy foreigner bar in a small city in Japan. I had been drinking shots of Cuervo with my friends, enjoying the Karaoke sty-lings of Billy Joel, when a group of young Japanese ruffians entered the establishment. They hardly afforded a second glance, and when it was overheard that they had all ordered frilly pink drinks with umbrellas, no more thought was put into the matter. As my friends and I contemplated the yen to dollar ratio and the the resulting squeeze we found ourselves in after the economic bubble had burst, I realized that I would have to break the seal and go to the loo.

I had noticed the group of Japanese had taken a seat near the bathroom, and they were eyeing me with interest as I walked past them. After I finished my business and was washing up, one of their group came into the bathroom and prepositioned me. Before you start thinking all T.V. drama on me, let me finish. The man, probably in college or at least college age, looked very nervous as he asked me in Japanese if I spoke Japanese. I had learned the Japanese virtue of modesty soon after arriving in Japan, so I said, “A little.” Then, in perfect English, he asked, ” Would you like to have an arm-wrestling tournament with me and my friends?” This was a proposition I could handle. I said yes and we walked back to their table.

There were five of them, and only one looked anywhere near strong enough to beat me. They bought all of my drinks from then on in, a kindness I took advantage of with great zeal. The first three opponents were down within seconds, and after twenty minutes or so, I had already finagled three shots of tequila and a pint of Asahi Super Dry. I had also drank so much that even the fourth rendition of “Just the Way You Are” sounded like sweet aural candy. The group was fun, and they all had questions about life in America. Everyone tried out their English, but only that first guy had any real chops. I told him as much in front of his friends and he was positively beaming.

The fourth to step up to the plate was the skinniest and assholeiest. (It’s a word) He hadn’t spoken to me all night and seemed to only want to sip his pink frilliness with a scowl. I guess I had gotten a little too cocky, or the adverse affect of alcohol on reaction time and strength was kicking in. But from the first, I knew I was in for a struggle. We went back and forth, once he almost had me pinned. But I conjured up the image of Sylvester Stallone in “Over The Top”. I remembered that sweet move where he slides his wrist around the opponent’s, giving him the upper hand. I also remembered what a pansy his son was in that movie, which didn’t help my concentration. Finally, after a hard, grueling two minutes or so, I triumphed. Frilly-pants, (that was his new nickname) turned out to be a good guy and shook my hand. We had a good laugh when I tried unsuccessfully to translate “Frilly-pants” into Japanese. But then, from behind us, hid away in the dark corner of a booth, a loud grunt ripped through the bar. The CD on the karaoke machine skipped, and my friend Jason peed a little in his banana hammocks. (His underwear is another story for another time) Arising from the abyss of the booth was the largest non-sumo Japanese man I had ever seen. His arms were Mammoth rock piles, his gut Buddha-esque. He didn’t say a word as he sat down opposite me. Frilly-Pants grinned like some sort of cat that has the ability to disappear.

I wanted to call him “Kinniku Man”, which means muscle man, but what I actually said was, “Ninniku Man”, which translates as Garlic Man. This got everyone laughing, but it was like the laugh of the dead. I knew something was up.

The English speaking guy asked me if I would like to wager. Now I understood. They were sharking me. How could I have been so stupid. “5000 yen”, he said. This was all too much. They were going to beat me up right there in the bar if they didn’t get all the money they spent on me back. I also was entirely unconfident that my friends would have my back. It was time to get the hell out of there. But somewhere between the message from my brain to the muscles in my legs, my mouth intercepted the signal.

“OK.”

What?!!! What the Hell did you just do? You could have ran! You could have thrown their pink, frilly drinks into their faces. It looked like anti-freeze, maybe there was some kind of corrosive material inside. Maybe I should point out at this time that I only had about 2000 yen in my pocket. And my stupid mouth says, “OK.”

It was too late now. I was in it and thick. We locked hands. We locked eyes. “Just the Way You Are” sounded louder and more out of tune than any time before. It could have been because my friend, Kyle, was singing, and he never could get the whoas down. Maybe if he just found another song to sing he would be… No. What the hell are you thinking? Concentrate dammit! The count was on: Three, Two, One… And then it was over. Ninniku Man folded like a paper shit house. The whole group surrounding me were smiling. English Boy handed me a crisp 5000 yen bill and thanked me for speaking English with them. Everyone shook my hand, and looked at me quizzically because I couldn’t seem to be able to close my mouth. Overall, they probably spent 3000 yen on booze plus the 5000 they gave me after, for a glorified English lesson and, admittedly, good company. I came out about 8000 yen to the good.

As I waved my last goodbyes to Ninniku Man, Frilly-Pants, and the others, I realized that goodness and kindness can attack you from all angles, that tequila is liquid evil, and that “Just the Way You Are” is one of the best Goddamn songs ever created.

until we meet again…

I am moving into dangerous territory so early in my writing career, but I wanted to be true to myself and to you, my fellow readers. Today I would like to embark on a journey, if you will. A journey that truly tests my masculinity, but I have faith that I will come out on the other side stronger and more appealing to the ladies. I have decided to write about movie scenes that have made me cry. Why now? It’s a good question and one that I have no answer to. So take that home in a doggy bag.

Disclaimer – If there are any spoilers, I apologize, but only half-heartedly.

My list is in no particular order, so don’t hassle me about it. I’m very fragile.

1. Awakenings – I start with the one scene that gets me every time. Leonard Lowe realizes that his condition is getting worse. He is shaking all over and his motor skills are deteriorating at an alarming rate. He meets the girl that he loves, Paula, in the cafeteria of his hospital to tell her that their relationship can’t go any further. He tries to leave, but Paula grabs his arm. They do a little slow dance in the middle of the crowded room and by the time you realize that his shaking has completely stopped, it’s almost impossible to see the screen through the tears. And then, to top it all off, the next scene is DeNiro watching her leave from his window. It’s the subtleties of the scene that are so effective. Cheesy, yes. Heartbreaking? Absolutely.

2. When a Man Loves a Woman – When Andy Garcia tells his step-daughter that he has to move to Denver. The little girl is so cute and so hurt that the waterworks are all but impossible to shut down. Even with the redemptive ending of the movie, the pain of that scene overshadows it. When I first saw this movie I didn’t have any children. Now that I have two, I never want to see it again.

3. The Prince of Tides – This was a hard one for me to swallow. Nolte looks like the bottoms of my old work boots and Streisand looks like the tops, but it hardly matters who the players are. The scene that brings it on is where Nick tells Barbara that he needs to go back to his wife in South Carolina. It’s not the storyline or the dialogue that really gets me. It’s the atmosphere of the scene. You have two drenched, hurting people, in the rain, on a New York City street, trying to hold on to each other for as long as they can.

4. Rent – From about halfway in to the end of the movie I was a wreck. This was one of the few movies that actually made me change my way of thinking about my life and the choices I needed to make. Angel’s death and his/her funeral were horrible and beautiful at the same time, but what I cried weren’t tears of sorrow or pain. We live for today and we love for today or we don’t live at all. Now that, my friends, was a revelation.

I think that is enough for today. I would love to hear what opinions you have about these films and any other that I may have missed. If you want to rip on me, go ahead. You have that right. But just remember, there has got to be something better to do with your lives than talk about things you don’t like. (I might get a little hypocritical later when I write about how much I hate the Boston Celtics. Too bad.)

Until next time…

In an effort to broaden the minds of my many listeners, I have decided to start a semi-regular post on the beautiful and wonderous world of Japanese merchandise. I will only be posting items that I have personally bought and tried. The low quality of the pictures I will take full responsibility for. But the sheer genius of the products… well that’s all Japan, baby.

Today, I thought I would post one of my very favorite finds, something that made me laugh out loud and get furious stares from the 7-11 workers:

Yes indeed. It is the fabulous Pepsi Ice Cucumber. Now I’m not sure if it is Pepsi Ice: Cucumber or Pepsi: Ice Cucumber. I’ve never seen or tasted an ice cucumber before so I’m going with the former. I know you are all saying to yourself, “Goddamn that is one refreshing looking beverage.” You would think there is no possible way you could go wrong. You got Pepsi. You got Cucumber. And I guess you got some Ice in there. Surprisingly, this was not very refreshing, nor did it taste anything like cucumber. It was more a mix of cinnamon and melon flavors. Not revolting, but I understand why I could only find it on shelves for about a week.

I would love to hear about any sweet Japanese stash, (stash, I said, stash) my fellow readers have found. Also, I’ve been living on Planet Nippon for awhile now, so I don’t really know if any of these products have seen the light of an American day. Give me a heads up if you’ve got some information. Until next time…