Enmity

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.

Hello Kitty! Can Kiss My…Pt.2

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?

A Cold October Night

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.

The Easiest Money

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…