And you and I

It was hiding under the couch the whole time. I actually only stumbled across it, literally, because one of its freakishly long arms was poking out from underneath (glad you are doing well, buddy). When I found it, it was a little frightened (no doubt in part because of the molding PB&J that had slipped between the cushions) and I had to intice it out with a snickers bar. Success! I grabbed it by the hair and dragged it kicking and screaming out for a night of festivities.

The evening started with dinner at Hard Rock Cafe in Ueno. The food was, as it always is, wonderful, and the hostess was smokin'. She also had a monster wedgy (which she tried several times, very conspicuously, to pry from its anal bastille, though with little success) that made for very interesting eye-candy and table conversation. We laughed and drank and I offered the hostess some assistance. I think we had overstayed our welcome.

Next, it was off to Roppongi, the clubbing district of Tokyo, to decide where we should take in the New Year. We settled on Wolfgang Puck's, an upscale restaurant with a fantastic location in Roppongi Hills, right outside the Mori building and just a stone's throw away from the Tokyo Tower.


From left to right: Jon, Cheryl, Tokyo Tower, and me.
This was where my groove and I became well aquainted with one another. For New Year's, Wolfgang Puck's had been transformed from high-brow restaurant and bar to high-brow restaurant, bar, and night club. Tonight was my night: the music was bumpin', the DJ was on fire, and the club was rockin', so my groove and I hit the dance floor. One of the nice things about clubbing in Japan is that the Japanese are horrific dancers. Now, I don't mean for this to sound like an over-generalization, because it isn't. With very few exceptions that I've seen, Japanese girls in dance clubs seem just like John Maynard Keynes's name in a book on good economics: out of place. That's right, I went there.


Just call me Michael Flatley.


She has no idea what she's doing.

Unfortunately, the same thing that makes Japan a great place to go clubbing also makes it a misserable one. When you've got skillz like mine, you truly understand what all the great geniuses of the ages refer to when they speak to the lonliness at the top. I would have to leave this club in search of an equal...

We made our way to Muse, another club here in Roppongi that does one thing, and does it well (none of the restaurant\club business)...this place was all dance, all the time. And oh joy! Equals and foreigners abound here! With only a brief pause to count down the New Year's (go, yon, san, ni, ichi, Akemashite Omedeto!!) we danced the evening, night, and early morning away, getting back home after 6. Everyone had a wonderful time, my groove included, so much so that I think it might accompany me on future clubbing excursions, even sans snickers.


Akemashite Omedeto! (why can't Cheryl ever take a good picture?)

I hope everyone has a safe and happy New Year.


Tokyo Tower, post 2004.

As one might expect, a Japanese Christmas differs greatly from your garden-variety American Christmas. For one thing, there is no mistletoe. For another thing, there is no Christmas. Many a forlorn Westerner has found himself on the streets of Tokyo during the holidays searching, in vain as it were, for some semblance, some lonely bulwark of the Christmas spirit. So it was this year that I followed in the footsteps of my forebearers and found something I didn't expect: a baby (seen in figure 1-1) alone and crying for reason #2, as listed above (definitely a double entendre—she eats a lot of cheese). When I found her, she was lying forsaken on the street, naked, cold, and a little put out by her lack of presents. In her pained and watery brown eyes, I saw my chance, the opportunity for which I had been waiting, to experience and communicate the true meaning of Christmas through providing for her and her well-being.

Figure 1-1

“Mommy, why are the Japanese a bunch of heathens?”

“Hush little baby, we’ll find you some presents, don’t worry,” I urged as I rocked her in my arms, but she just wouldn’t shut up; she kept decrying the injustice and hypocrisy of the Japanese—I’m fairly certain she didn’t know what either word meant, but knew enough to know that they weren’t nice things to accuse people of.

I told her to stop stereotyping a whole race of people—an industrious and hard-working race at that, that has made miraculous post war economic strides and taken real steps toward fostering harmonious relationships with its global neighbors (1)—but there was simply no reasoning with this kid, so I abandoned reason and called her a poo-poo-head—I actually don’t know what this word means, but know enough to know that it’s not a nice thing to accuse a baby of. She understood my meaning, but paid no mind.

She was absolutely relentless in her bigotry. And most of it wasn’t even that clever, like the one where she puts on the poncho and the fake mustache pretending to be Julio the migrant worker; though, I must admit, her impression of Jordan's late King Hussein (see figure 1-1) was dead on and pretty freakin’ hilarious (it’s tastelessness notwithstanding). However, in spite of funny, racially-charged imitations, I decided this was probably not the healthiest of practices for a little baby. Call me a wonderful person, call me a saint, call me the most beneficent human being ever to walk the earth, but I decided it was my duty to help this child break her filthy habit and teach her the true meaning of Christmas.

But what was the true meaning of Christmas? I wasn’t even sure where to begin. How was I to bring an explanation of a topic of this complexity down to her level? I needed help on this one, that was for sure, someone who had a special yet legal way with children—so Vinnie the Pedophile was out. Fortunately, I had other connections.

Japan had been introduced to the idea of Christmas 45 years ago, when the US government contracted out for the newest model of Santa’s Sleigh; Mitsubishi Motors won that contract. When the Japanese government got wind of the idea of Santa and Christmas, they became enthralled with the notion of providing toys for all the boys and girls of the Orient. To this end, they hired their own Santa, Happy Present Man (see figure 1-2) to carry out this function.

Figure 1-2

Coordinating the new “Winter Wonder Festival” and the distribution of presents was to be the work of the newly established Social Welfare Department. Unfortunately, as with most government programs, the costs were completely ignored prior to its conception, and the country quickly sank into debt. To counter the debt, the government taxed the people heavily, leading the great Kyoto riots of 1964. As a result, the project was scrapped after only 6 fruitless years.

Once the glittering poster child of the Social Welfare Department, Happy Present Man was now unemployed and an alcoholic. He made ends meat pawning off those toys lost in the miasma of bureaucratic paperwork that sat dust-covered, untouched, and rotting, in the case of perishable food-items, in government warehouses. It was in this state that I met the poor soul, quietly sipping his Gin and Tonic at the bar and yearning for days long past. It was, as it always is, single-malt Scotch, neat, for me.

“What’s the matter?” I inquired. He recounted for me the above story.

“Well isn’t that just a kick in the nuts?” I responded. “If I had a nickel for every time I was the loser in a poorly planned government scheme, I’d have 8 nickels, and that’s a lot of money with this exchange rate.” The dollar was very strong at this point. We griped and moaned much of the evening about the government’s poor economic policies and taxation until we became too dull-witted by the alcohol to continue, and broke into raucous renditions of David Bowie favorites.

“Screw the governement, Major Tom!” He screamed. “They’re holding me back in my Golden Years!”

“I heartily agree, Little China Girl; let’s blow this popsicle stand. It’s high time we be getting back to Suffragette City anyway.” Ok, the Bowie lyrics jokes weren’t terribly funny or clever, but we were completely hammered, so cut us some slack.

Anywho, Happy Present Man was so overjoyed and grateful for the wonderful evening I showed him that he promised to help me out in anyway and at anytime I needed him.

I now came to claim that debt.

I brought baby Liza (that’s what I called her; she did a great Liza Minnelli impression) to him, and sat her down on his knee. He set his bag of pawnable toys down and looked at her.

“The true meaning of Christmas is kindness through giving. This is the time of year we should be thankful for what we have, and help those who haven’t. Perhaps most importantly, Christmas means keeping our minds on what it means to have a savior born among us.” She didn’t like this answer too much and made fun of his accent.

“Oh! Well I never!” She also didn’t like his comeback too much and bit his arm. Then she stole his bag of presents.

“I’m really sorry, man; I tried,” I explained.

“Aw, don’t sweat it,” he replied. “I ran out of presents weeks ago; that bag was filled with recyclables I was going to use for beer money.” We both had a good laugh at this and decided to round out the Holiday Season back at the bar with some more Bowie classics.

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(1) Paid for courtesy of the Japanese government.

It existed.
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Uh, Niji-kai (that means second party)...more detail later.

Some light reading: My good buddy Scott and I, atheist and theist, respectively and respectfully (his words, not mine; I think he's been quite an ass myself), are having a bit of a go on his blog; my sister and brother-in-law have added their $.o2 worth as well.

This is the pentagon out front the Shibuya JR station I was talking about before. Walking across this at rush hour (or, really, at any time) is something everybody should experience--again, this picture doesn't do it justice. Oh, and the commercial I described below was indeed a Navigator commerical. Here's a link to it (for some odd reason, the link doesn't seem to work properly...I'm not sure why, but you have to wait for the error page to come up, click on the URL up top, so as to highlight it, and click "go" or hit enter...once there, click on "Tokyo Car Show"). The pentagon thingy at the end with the zillions of people crossing...yeah, that's this pentagon (edited to note that actually, upon a second viewing, it turns out it is really just a square, just your boring old run-of-the-mill square).

The same square (actually more of a pentagon) in Shibuya, different building.

Another picture of the same building; an advertisment on its face is a little more visable in this one.

Often called the Time Square of Tokyo, Shibuya is one of the hot spots of shopping and entertainment. The building seen here is a fairly famous one (the picture doesn't do it justice); you may have seen it on various commericals (was it a Lincoln Navigator commerical?) and on the oft cited (by me) movie Lost in Translation. On the glass face above will appear various motion pictures and advertisments from time to time (in the movie you may remember a giant Brontosaurus working its way across the facade). Exciting area, great shopping, and the Starbucks on the 2nd and 3rd floor of this building (it's difficult to see in the picture) totally kicks ass.

Well, it’s decided: I don't think I'm going to find the right girl at a club. And, for that matter, I pretty sure nobody is. There, it needed to be said. I don't think this was ever the intended purpose of the club, though I have yet to figure out what it's purpose truly is, intended or otherwise. Enjoyment? I'm not so sure; On the whole, I've found my experiences therein fairly unfulfilling. This morning I return from my second night of clubbing, and I must say that it ended much the same way as the first: depressingly, solitary, chastely the same.

I've found that clubbing usually follows a general pattern, your mood upon entering depending, but let us assume, as is normally the case, that I'm feeling somewhat apathetic and mildly impotent:

1. Not feeling overwhelming excited about the prospect of a night's worth of awkward and jerky movements you call dancing (but determined to have a good time all the same), you order a drink.
2. Drink and wait for effects.
3. Effects too slow; order another drink.
4. Repeat.
5. Finally starting to enjoy yourself, you begin to open up and reveal secrets to your companions you've never shared with anyone before.
6. Companions get scared, ask you never to mention marmots again, and try to get you off the topic by suggesting everyone head to the dance floor.
7. Promise to meet them out there but swing first by the men's restroom for a quick pit stop.
8. Fall asleep on the toilet.
9. Wake up an hour and a half later and find a line for your stall that extends half way to Korea.
10. Work your way to dance floor, see that companions have been rather successful in your absence and you must play catch-up.
11. Start to get your groove on.
12. Realize your groove is maladroit and creepy, and work your way back to the bar.
13. At the bar, Japanese man asks you why you aren't with a Japanese girl. He buys you a drink and tells you that you can have any girl in the club that you want.
14. Filled with renewed confidence and liquid courage, you head back to the dance floor.
15. Discarding your groove, you decide to make conversation.
16. Girls seem eager to talk, but loud obnoxious techno music and language barrier getting in the way.
17. Finally around 3:30 am, exhausted from sleep depravity and trying to communicate with the incommunicable, everything but your actual body checks out, and you either call for a cab, or fall asleep in the corner or at bar and wait for first train at 5:15.
18. Barkeep or bouncer says you can't sleep here and you're forced to use scotch tape to keep your eyes open.
19. Scotch tape stops sticking and you switch to glue.
20. Barkeep or bouncer says you can't use glue here as it is an illicit substance.
21. Jawing with barkeep\bouncer takes a lot of time and 5 am quickly rolls around.
22. Companions all have girls and you take first train home alone.
23. At home by 6am.
24. Type pathetic blog post.
25. Sleep.

Now, as alluded to above, if your mood entering the club is one of excited anticipation, this process works in reverse, with you hitting the dance floor first, losing confidence, winding up at the bar, and eventually falling asleep on the toilet. In this scenario, however, the bouncers, being unable to rouse you, are forced to break down the stall door at closing time (5am) in order to kick you out. They charge you for the damage. Either way you end up alone in the wee hours of the morning typing these mildly lugubrious blog posts and swearing off clubbing all together.

But you'll be back; they always come back.

So what is the lure of the club? Perhaps it is for those adept at dancing, those who don't feel ridiculously stupid going into convulsions at the onset of an electronically produced beat. If the "right girl" means that person whose bodily convulsions most closely fit with you own—convulsions that don't cause bodily harm to your partner yet, at the same time, allow for close quarter convulsing—then I suppose this makes sense. But, I would wager that most people would define the term "right girl" otherwise, perhaps something involving conversation and getting to know the other person.

I don't think I'm going to find the right girl at a club. But, doubtlessly, I'm sure I'll be back.

Well, after receiving mounds and mounds of hate mail, I have been forced to remove the original post 31. Alas that I should live to see such days when my work must be censored to quiet the masses and set their narrow minds at ease. This is art, and when I’m forced to water-down my art we all lose something, can’t you understand that? Oh, I don't know why I even bother. I’m sure you don’t understand a word of what I'm saying now, just as you didn’t understand my original post 31; all you’re interested in is fluff, pink frilly fluff. Well sorry, bucko, I won’t give it to you. I may be forced to dumb down my original message—inserting childishly superfluous metaphors like rainbows and references to members of various Near Eastern heretical religious pantheons—but you’re still getting a deep and meaningful work of art, whether you like it or not. So enjoy, if your feeble minds are capable of such emotion.

Rainbows are Pretty

Seriously, what’s not to like? They have lots of pretty colors, they’re bright and shiny, they are very nice and calming after a scary rainstorm, and they are absolutely in no way controversial or vulgar. I cannot see one detracting factor, nor can I understand why anyone would be against them. In fact, in all my years of life and study, I have come to three incontrovertible truths:

1. The peak of the automobile came and went with the ’69 Corvette Stingray

2. Celebrity boxing was a really good idea

3. Real Men do not love money, power, sex, or women. Real men love rainbows and unicorns (I did not stumble upon this last truism until a deep philosophical conversation with Mer last week).

If we accept the above as true (which any intelligent, well-read human being must, though, with reference to #1, I may be willing to entertain arguments in favor of the ‘67 Shelby GT), we must also accept that any man who does not believe in\falls short of these three ideals is, then, per se not a real man. And indeed this is what I found.

I was sitting outside with this passive-aggressive mute (a reference to the original post 31, for those of you who follow my work) with whom I have the unfortunate distinction of being roommates. We were sitting outside watching the sunset and the shimmering rainbow that graced the sky after the dismally rainy day we’d had.

“My goodness that’s one ugly piece of dung,” he snarled, pointing at the rainbow (he actually didn’t say “dung”, but this is the dumbed-down version you asked for, so stop whining). “The only thing that would make it uglier is if there was a unicorn flying across it, leaving behind a trail of glitter.” I threw a rock at his head, and ran inside screaming and flailing my arms about.

I had never heard such blasphemy; I shake even as I write this post. I decided to do a bit of investigating to see if I cold find out exactly what was going on. Come to find that my live-in was not in fact Scooter McGee from Tumble Weed Arizona (the names have been changed to protect the innocent--that's me--from the potential wrathe of his parents, should they decide to websearch him, or so I am legally advised) but, in fact, a Miss Jenna Topkins of West Blanchard, Idaho. It turns out that Jenna “Teeny Top” Topkins made quite a name for herself back in the late 70’s as the lead singer of progressive metal trio Demiurge, and later as a high ranking priestess in the Church of Universal Light cult. Said one neighbor regarding Topkins lifestyle choices, “I just don’t know where that little girl went wrong. She comes from a good, church going family who were all very involved in the community. You just don’t expect someone like her to come out of a family like that.” After checking out of rehab a few years later, she married mob boss Jimmy Tutilloni but was forced into obscurity after turning state’s evidence against him in ’93. Since then, Jenna, who presumably became a progeny of the Witness Protection Program, vanished from the public spotlight.

So there you have it. My roommate is not, in fact, a real man; he’s a product of the state, a one-time woman and mildly talented musician. But the state not only took from her her gender, it also transformed her into the monstrosity I presented above: the unfeeling fork-tailed creature of a crimson hue incapable of finding any beauty in decidedly beautiful things like rainbows and unicorns. Curse the government! Curse them for their poor economic policies, for corporate regulation, for exessive taxation, but, most of all, curse them for Jenna Topkins.

You shall not be forgotten, Teeny Top.

Very near the Starbucks; same discolored river. The natives come here to fish for old shoes and spare car-parts.

Also the locale of the office (I love saying that...makes me sound professional). I often come here in the mornings to do my homework.

Well, I forgot my razor. I forgot my razor and I had a 3 day retreat out in the middle of nowhere. I suppose it's no problem, I thought, after all, my "beard growth" is approximately as slow as stellar evolution. And besides, who am I looking to impress? I'm a Westerner: I could walk around wearing a thong over my head pretending to be Leatherface from Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Japanese women would still be lining up to give me their numbers (it's true, it's happened many times before, but I never call because I can't read their names). Because my accommodations didn't provide me the opportunity to steal a glance at my own reflection (we were, how do you say, roughing it?), you can imagine my astonishment when I returned home to see the spittin' image of George Michael, circa 1987 staring back at me in the mirror, retro sunglasses and all!

Well, of course, my hair growth was a little splotchy and not quite as filled in as that of old candy-pants--and I hadn't ended up buying the USA leather jacket (the platinum cross earrings really broke the bank)--but it was mine, and, damnit, it looked good.

Well, ok, I suppose it didn't really look that good, probably more like a kid who broke into his old man's liquor cabinet, stumbled into the garage, stole the lawnmower, tripped over the gardening hose on his way out causing a severe concussion (his mom never cleans up after herself), suddenly experienced the latter stages of syphilis, and then went to town on my face. As most people who know me can attest, I cannot grow facial hair, but I certainly wasn't going to let that minor detail stop me; I thought I had finally achieved manhood, fulfilling the sacred rite of passage that most boys complete by age 15, but for which I exhibited somewhat retarded development, and I'd be damned if I was going to let anyone tell me otherwise.

Two weeks worth of unchecked facial hair growth and I was starting to incur the stares of my fellow train passengers, some of them motioning for me to wipe the curry residue from my chin, some merely wincing as I passed their line of sight, while others were forced to avert their eyes as the sunlight reflected off my overdeveloped peach fuzz. I realized the game was up. I'd have to stave off manhood for the second time (the first time, at age 13, I failed my vision-quest because I ran out of snack-packs and had to return to camp). But I wasn't going to give up without a fight. I'd keep a small memento, a battle scar of my struggle against God's will and my incomplete genome: I kept my sideburns. Let me be frank for a moment; all joking aside, they really didn't look so bad. In fact, in the right light, they looked almost passable. I found that if I turned my head a certain way, the hairs in the front would cast a shadow over the bald portions in the back, thereby creating the illusion of a fully developed pair of sideburns, and damn fine ones at that. Take that, DNA!

I will admit, though, that it was a little obnoxious having to approach people with my head constantly maintaining this unnatural angle with their line of sight, but if it was my masculinity at stake, I would happily make this sacrifice.

And so it was one night that I went to bed calm and brimming with confidence, my sideburns having garnered me 3 new phone numbers that day, when I had the strangest dream. I’m not exactly sure what caused it: was it the uncomfortable nature of the futon? Providence? Or was it simply the painful angle I had my head cocked all the time? Whatever the case, it proved a turning point for the life of my facial hair:

It was just me and a strand of my DNA sitting in a classroom together, the teacher droning on about the sociological effects of Hillary Duff's new single on inner city residents of Detroit (I'm not sure why my id chose sociology; it truely is a hideously trite subject). DNA kept smiling at me and flashing bits of skin. I smiled back and feigned interest in the subject at hand, but I simply couldn't take my eyes the mini-skirt--I wanted nothing more than to leap over the desk and pull apart her helixes, but something about fooling around with one’s own vital construct seemed a little creepy. Wouldn’t it be like making out with myself? And wouldn’t that make me gay, or something? I don’t know, stop asking me these ridiculous questions, it was a dream for God's sake! I'm not gay! Seriously, stop looking at me like that.

Well, as it happened, I couldn’t resist my carnal urges and DNA and I ended up on the teacher’s desk, the teacher having, by this time, conveniently turned herself into a copy of Sting’s Ten Summoner's Tales which was playing amorously over the intercom. DNA was softly nibbling my ears as I worked at the buttons on her shirt. I finished the task, my nimble fingers working quickly, and I slowly began to work my way back up, my lips tracing along her suprasternal notch, across her phosphodiester bonds, and over the curvature of her chin, when suddenly, as I made to kiss her full on the lips, a large clump of hair passed from her mouth to mine. I began to choke.

“*cough* what the *gag* I can’t *wheeze*…” I stopped short as my hand glanced across my face, finding the answer to my unformed question. She had completely nibbled away my sideburns.

"Mmm. I was never able to have any of these," she said as she chomped merrily away.

I woke up in a cold sweat, not knowing where I was, what was real and what wasn’t, and a little worried about my sexual orientation. As I slowly came out of my post-sleep stupor, I grasped at my face only to find that I was completely shorn, clean shaven, not a trace of hair! Now I’m not saying that the dream actually happened, and I’m not saying it didn't. What I am saying is that I’d like my copy of Ten Summoner's Tales back.

After numerous requests from readers clamoring for more pictures of me, I finally gave in. Enjoy.

A picture of Cheryl and I at the Shinjuku Park Hyatt for drinks. You may remember it better as the bar frequented by a jet-lagged and pedophilic Bill Murray in Lost in Translation (ah, but who could resist the beautiful Scarlet Johanssan?). A truly wonderful movie for those of you who haven't seen it: it's a fairly acurate portrayal of life in Tokyo for foreigners, particularly the early bits after the initial arrival (see my second blog entry).

This was taken moments after the jazz quartet left and only moments before the quartet of ninjas came crashing through the window....I know, it sounds exciting, but they're actually not that cool; they're only like a foot tall. And their ninja stars never fly strait either because they can't see past their pointy leprechaun hats.
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No wait, nevermind, those are leprechauns.

It begins with a sweeping camera shot over the Imperial Palace. "Tokyo. The largest city on Earth with a population in excess of 20 million. Its immense size is only paralleled by the sheer breadth of its of energy." Shots of shoppers bustling in and out of shops, money changing hands in the consumer districts, and salaried men filing into places of business with a sense of impetuosity. "If the motor of this city is its industry and commerce, then its history and tradition, the minimalist beauty of its gardens and its Zennest havens from the hustle and bustle of city life might be said to be its élan vital." Shots of the Imperial gardens, and various shinto shrines lazily float by. "Hi, my name is Nick Mason...."

This is how the NHK's (Japanese equivalent of PBS) television production of "Tokyo Living" began. I remember, after returning from England last summer, my sisters recognized, though they couldn't substantiate, a certain quality in pictures of me taken in foreign countries: invariably, it looks as if I were an employee of said country's tourism board. I don't know what idiosyncrasy it is I excude in these pictures, but I see it too. So too, apparently, did NHK. And, after my stunning appearance in the "Guide to Tokyo" pamphlet, they couldn't help but hire me on the spot.

What the title said.

Nick doesn't know why he chose to write the title in 3rd person--probably because it sort of sounded cool. And neither does Nick know why he chose to write the opening line in 3rd person, but, after that sentence, and this brief one explaining it, he'll stop.

Anyway, on to business.

Japanese food is bizarre. I mean Adaptation-frogs-falling-from-the-sky-Federico-Fellini weird. These people will cook and eat almost anything, effectively, I can only assume, killing off most of their taste buds (explaining why their response to questions of food’s sapor is invariably either “it’s healthy” or “it’s not so healthy”). I have here compiled a list of cases where I came out the worse in my struggle to overcome my western pallate.

Case 1: I accompanied my roommate to a small Yatai around the corner (the Japanese equivalent of the proverbial “hole-in-the-wall”) where I ingested some sort of mucus soup. It took a whole bottle of Kirin to stomach this saucer of phlegm (bottles here being about 1\2 a liter). Afterwards, I tried repeatedly to find out what it was, describing to various Japanese acquaintances the disgusting texture, but they kept probing for more information, like, what color the mucus was, or what the temperature was, or the garnish—this kind of scared me as it seemed my description needed to be qualified in some way other than "it was like eating snot." Apparently, the Japanese enjoy many different kinds of snot--they are connoisseurs of mucus, if you will--and needed clarification as to the exactly which of their snot delicacies I ate. This reminds me of a famous Japanese fairy-tale, The Tale of the Wood-Cutter and the Water Spirit:

Once ago lived wood-cutter in the mountains. He lived a peaceful man with his wife , and no care on the land. One day he was chopped wood, and evil Water spirit with warm envy crept on him behind some bark, for she was not pointed. She was loosening her lips. He was chopped wood.

“Why are you doing? You should be closing the tight barn? The year is slides ,but you face isn’t. The axe is giving just now!”

He glistened, “Water Spirit, this mine stump, but for not the only. All of one aren’t aligned!”

All there, an bright Rabbit dripped abroad. She gleamed on the clumpy ground.

“Avid Water Sprit am snickering glutton. Brandish your hair what for! Not severely there if ignoring just he is kept. He is wanting kept. And you lay terrible anger. But if heaven in the tree, don’t blink.”

“Silence I like demanding is!” showered Water Spirit. “You stab the shoulder and calling kind tears for all the same. The Moon showing up both you!”

If night is with the moon on the mountain. Wood choking of the dirt with blaring axe. Shattering the rock enters with his Water Spirit window opening. No good.

“Never to taking creature standing in the wood, always not the lesson. Although.”

Rabbit stalled if it wasn’t.

“Showing up,” flowing with her arms and a branch.

Therefore in the Rabbit’s nose nor with the axe. He drowned.

I suppose it loses something in the translation. But, you've got to admit that that pun in the last line is pretty funny (the use of "tsu-itan" meaning alone or single, which bears similarity to "tsu-tan," literally phlegm connoisseur...well, I don't need to hit you over the head with a tack hammer here).

Case #2 and 3: You saw the picture of me with the fish in Kumamoto? That fish was actually still alive when they brought it to me, still shaking, grasping for that abrading seam that connected his body and soul to this reality. I got tired of waiting and was really hungry, so I put him (I actually don't know the sex because I have no idea what fish penis looks like. Scott?) out of his misery. But, naturally, not before first having some fun poking the fish and making it dance for my little cotterie. Case #3 occurred that same night when I tried Basashi, or raw horse meat. As with most Japanese food, it actually really didn't taste like much of anything; flavor in Japanese cooking requires the assistance of some external garnish or sauce, usually wasabi or soy.

Case #4: I thought I had a tapeworm, but it was just a really big noodle.