Category: Exploits

• Visited some cousins from the states I haven’t seen in years
• Went out drinking with friends for the first time in months
• Had some damn good yakitori, too (mmm, namagimo)
• In the wee hours of the morning, rode three people on a motor scooter blasted out of our minds
• Also, shit our pants when another scooter passed us with a cop car chasing him yelling, “STOP! We saw your face! You might as well stop!” over the bullhorn (Note to aspiring donut-nemeses: This tactic doesn’t seem to work so well as you might expect; you must put forth the effort to lie convincingly to escaping criminals)
• Met up with the younger brother of a good friend from France who I hadn’t seen for a few years and fulfilled a promise I made to him long ago
• Stayed out til dawn, and, upon exiting the bar, cursed God for inventing the sun, and specifically, direct sunlight in my eyes
• Watched someone wake up not knowing where he was (this was hilarious because it happens to us all at some point in life, doesn’t it? Or if you can’t relate to that, maybe it just happens to good people.)
• Extracted belongings on behalf of someone important to me from his ex-girlfriend
• Managed to refrain from spitting in contempt at said party, although it was a close thing
• Arranged a plan for safe return of abovementioned belongings – at minimum additional cost
• Attended live house/instumental jam at new club in Osaka where a couple friends performed
• Reaffirmed my sincere hatred for second-rate house DJs
• Discovered they are selling Sasebo Burgers at select Family Mart convenience stores (quite pricey at 380 yen; tasty but not worth it)
• Discovered the existence of a huge online Japanese society of sex doll-photographing perverts/shut-ins/true otakuzoku
• Returned to my alma mater to convey an interest in student exchange on behalf of my wife’s university in Thailand
• My attempt was belittled by someone I respect, but I have learned to bear these things with humility, y’all (and more importantly, the attempt itself will be remembered, which was my ultimate goal – I sacrificed the chicken to win the donkey, bitch!)
• And yes, the above use of “bitch” is an honorific and purely figurative
• A friend and and I visited the grave of our beloved demon dog, Sonic
• True story – one time in the past when we visited Sonic’s grave, there was a whole, bloody pigeon’s wing right on top of it
• There was not one today
• But I got several mosquito bites behind the library, where I once had to take a crap during my sophomore year because I couldn’t make it to a toilet on time
• True story – a friend who saw it named that crap Red Indian, for reasons I prefer not to disclose as it lacks class, which is what my tens of readers expect when they come here
• The crap wasn’t there anymore
• Saw a cute girl in short yellow shorts walking a huge dog with ENORMOUS balls that swayed in unison to the girl’s hips as they walked down the street together
• The enormous balls were more disturbing than the girl was cute, so I implore all cuties of the world to choose their pets wisely, or at least neuter them
• After that, I had several hours to kill, so I hooked up with a good pal in Nara, and we shared a pizza and saw half of a B-movie at his crib
• Remember the cousins I spoke of in the first bulleted point of this entry? I met all their kids today – 7 in total, plus more cousins and and an aunt from L.A. to boot
• It would make me feel bad to say why, but the whole three day affair ended on a sour note, and on the way home, I broke a land speed record fueled on pure rage

I backed down from a fight in the parking lot this morning.
The funny thing is, I would have been completely morally justified in beating the shit out of this guy. He almost caused two school kids to get run over, and took displeasure in me calling him on it – and so he waited for me at the entrance of the parking lot, where he knew I had to walk to get to work.
He was talking tough and really trying to provoke a response. When that didn’t work and I walked right by him, he grabbed my jacket sleeve and tugged me back. And on top of it all, he was making a big show of half-pulling some kind of weapon from his jacket pocket – the classic mark of someone who is definitely not serious about using it. So yes, I was justified. I came pretty goddamn close to throwing an elbow at his throat; he was right up in my face with both hands occupied – one holding my lapel and the other in his pocket.
And yet, I let it slide. I backed down. We exchanged some harsh words, but the fact is, I consciously backed down. This is the second time I’ve been in a situation like this in two years, and the second time I’ve backed down.
It is not easy for me to back down. It really rubs me the wrong way; if this time is anything like last time, I won’t be able to sleep tonight because there was no release. Those feelings are like a poison inside me. They gnaw at my guts and make me tremble. And I knew it would end up like this, and I still chose to back down.
The thing is, Never Backing Down was a way of life for me for the longest time. It was an ideal way of life when I felt I had nothing to lose – so simple, so samurai. The thing is, though, even samurai realized they were fucked if they ever tried to live the warrior life only part of the time. In the book of Hidden Leaves, it states that a warrior must accept death on a daily basis. He must be ready to die at any time, and only then can he overcone his enemies. It basically said, you can be either a warrior, or be something else, but not both at the same time. Because deluding yourself into thinking you can do both is what will get you killed for sure.
And so I guess what I’m trying to say is, I have too much to lose now to indulge in unnecessary fighting. Which for someone, who for some reason runs into as many confrontations as I do, basically means that I will have to back down from fights if at all possible, even if it is hard to swallow afterwards.
Having too much to lose is a good thing, and I know I did the right thing, but it sure doesn’t help with this incredible frustration I feel right now…
Hurry, someone call me a pussy so I can kick your ass.

So my wife came back from Thailand last night. This morning, rather. Goddamn Thai Air flight was late 90 minutes, so she missed the last hydrofoil to the island at 9:50 PM. Took a conventional ferry that arrived in the next town over at 2 in the morning. It’s a $50 cab fare (for a fifteen minute ride w/o tolls, don’t get me started on Japanese taxis today), so I went to pick her up. I have to wake up at 6:30 these days, so I went early, parked in the ferry parking lot, and went to sleep with the engine on. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Woke up with a maglite beam in my face.
“I’m a policeman – open the window!”
“Oh, hell no.”
“Open the window – now!”
“Stop shining that fucking light in my face and show me a badge!”
The shit was on.
Asshole rolled me out of my car, smelled me for alcohol, inspected my driver’s license and gaijin card, and threatened to search my car. After I told him I didn’t give a shit, he lost interest in that. Instead, he told me to get lost and go sleep somewhere else. I told him I was waiting for my wife to get back from the airport. He asked me what nationality my wife was – I told him I was going back to sleep.
Of course, it didn’t end there. He harassed me some more and I told him to go look for Peruvians or something. He got all indignant and told me he knew the difference between SE Asians and South Americans. Like I give a fuck, right? I really wanted to say, hey, ain’t neither here, so get the fuck out my face…
You know, when I left California and the whole getting-pulled-over-and-photographed-for-having-slanty-eyes scene behind, little did I know that I would have to put up with the same shit in reverse on the other side of the globe…. Power trippin’ assholes with guns and badges. Some things are universal, I guess.

Adam and T came to Sumoto tonight. We are immediately leaving on a ski trip, so we might not be reachable for a couple days… Breaking from tradition, we are headed for a closer ski resort in Hyogo instead of going all the way to Nagano this year. Happy new years, all!

May this serve as a warning to never fall asleep in the same room that Adam and Michelle are drinking in. Amazingly enough, I had nothing to do with this. I just documented it for posterity.

The funny thing is, T doesn’t seem to mind. Yet. I might try taking him to a sento to see if how people react.

Last Friday was a company holiday, so on Thursday night we had an enkai (drink-up) for the new guy at work. We went to a smoky yakiniku joint which was quite excellent, but all I could do was stare at the plastic toothpick holder on the table because I was trying not to think about work and whaddaya know, I was fucking surrounded by people from work, so I was actually quite lucky the toothpick holder was just so damn interesting…

In the world of the Japanese corporate drinkup, the meal is followed by drinking at a bar or “snack” (variations on this theme include karaoke, etc., but everybody knows not to fuck with my “never, ever” policy regarding karaoke) with scantily clothed hostesses (“hos” for short). Being newly married and having to patronize such a place posed a slight moral dilemma, but I am nothing if not a problem solver… I chose the place with the ugliest girls, I mean these girls were like modern day haguro (ladies of old with black-stained teeth) transplanted from Bumfuck, Kyushu, or something, so I wouldn’t be tempted to look even the slightest bit at who was serving me, and instead concentrate on getting through the compulsory bottle of shitty whiskey as soon as humanly possible. And that is how I learned that the marketing team for Ballantine’s must be passing around a big, fat dutchie (errr, on the right hand side) during their strategy sessions:

GO PLAY!… I would only have been more impressed with a “DRIVE HOME!”, or, “OPERATE HEAVY MACHINERY!”, or maybe a nice recipe for a ROHYPNOL/WHISKEY FIZZ on the back label.
It’s so cliche to talk shit about the new guy, but this one has basically started off on the wrong foot with me. First of all, he’s a typical young cunt bragging about bitches and wine and women and beer, but I’ll be damned if he wasn’t nursing a CASSIS AND FUCKING ORANGE in a tall cocktail glass all night. And by “a” cassis and orange, I mean “one.” He’s one of those fuckers who insist they’re on their fifth drink when it’s quite obvious by the top layer of melted ice in their cocktail glass that they haven’t drunk shit. And then who like fucking with people who really have been drinking when they get sloppy. Hey motherfucker! We EARNED the fucking right to be sloppy, bitch!
A while after that, we went to a sushi place I had never been to. I fell in love with the food there and despite my advanced level of inebriation, recognized this place as the Real Thing. Good Food, Good People, and fresh fish from local waters. The master and I hit it off instantly. I told him to keep the whole counter open for me on Saturday night, I’d bring in some friends. I also reserved the biggest maruhagi (type of triggerfish; sometimes called a “leatherjacket”) in the fish tank. I stared him down as he looked at me through pursed lips, fins aflutter. “You are miiiine,” I said. Eat up, fishy, put on more weight. Your day is a-coming.
That was how the weekend started.
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Friday, Gatson called me up to ask for a ride to the high speed boat terminal near my house. He was taking a ten day trip back home to Oregon with his wife, baby, and in-laws in tow. So I took a shower and brushed my teeth three times, then went over to pick them up. Gatson’s wife, Chie, was in that paranoid did-I-lock-all-the-doors-and-shut-off-everything mode, which I was admittedly only making worse by asking “did you remember to lock the upstairs windows?” and “what about the gas line?” every five minutes, all the way to the boat terminal. She was kind of stressing out about taking her elderly parents overseas for the first time; they had called asking if “six bottles of water are enough for the plane ride” the night before, so I guess she was justified. Little Sona-chan was an angel who slept the whole way after her initial “bursting into tears when seeing four-eyed Justin” routine, so that was good.
Anyway, we got to the Sumoto High Speed Boat Terminal and I found this absolute gem taped to the stall above the floor toilet:

Even though this is only funny to English speakers, it is not as funny when explained in English, but I will try. The intended meaning in Japanese is, “Return lever to upward position after flushing.” However, since the Japanese isn’t written very well as well as the fact that they use the originally foreign word “cock” in place of “lever,” the sentence could also read “Slide your cock back up when you’re done using it.”
Shit, some things just don’t carry over from one language to another. Toilet humor, though, is usually universal. I guess the exception may be written toilet humor.
///
Saturday night, some friends came out from the mainland. My brother Adam and my homeboy T. Stephanie from Mimizan (Air France stewardess). Michelle from Scarsborough, Canada (living a floor below Adam in Juso). We went to aforementioned sushi place and ate like starving cats from a goldfish tank. It was soooooooooooooooooooo good. The signature dish there is only made for special customers. I am special. We had several signature dishes, the nature of which I will not reveal at this time as words can only sully what I like to think of as “perfect heaven on a plate.” I mean, seriously. I have been to $700 sushi dinners with gold-flake toppings and endangered Indochinese goby eggs, but this new creation is THE BEST SUSHI I HAVE EVER EATEN, BAR NONE. And that is coming from a fish snob.
I will only be here on the island until some time next year, so here is an open invitation: Come to Sumoto. I will take you to eat the signature dishes. You will not regret it.

That’s the master holding down the fish I reserved earlier in the week, plus an identical friend.
There are two main types of triggerfish eaten in Japan, the maruhagi and the kawahagi. The maruhagi, as the name implies (many Japanese boats, including ones that are gutted when an American Navy submarine surfaces underneath them, are dubbed the “something maru“, but “maru” in this context just means circle), are rounder than kawahagi. In Kansai, they are both simply called hage, even though they are distincly different species (Kansai people could care less about etymology, they only care if something tastes good or not). When the maruhagi are in season, the kawahagi are not, and vice-versa.
Preparing a hage (pronounced “ha-gay”) to eat is a bit of a bitch – there’s a special cutting technique involved, plus it needs to be skinned. The master was a stud, though. He got more sashimi off of those fish than I would have imagined possible. The texture of this fish is a bit rubbery, but in a good way. The flesh resembles that of a fugu, but is more tasty in my opinion. It is also delicious when steamed, but it would have been a waste to eat such fresh fish that way. The surprising thing about this fish is not its flesh, though. The liver of this fish is dipped in ponzu and eaten raw. It is the creamiest, most naturally sweet flavor you can possibly imagine. You would never think that it is part of a fish you are eating, nor would you think it is liver. More like ambrosia.
But the fish pr0n doesn’t stop there.

The best mackerel I have ever eaten – a whole filet arranged as a giant futomaki. I should have taken my real camera for some close-ups, then you could have seen the perfect striping of the filet. I associate mackerel with a stinky, nasty, fishy stench and flavor, but there was not a trace of that in this fish.
In addition to the above, we had fresh aji, shima aji, tai, ika, maguro, and an awesome akadashi (red miso soup w/fish). The shop’s master procures all ingredients including garnishes, soy sauce, and rice from this island, and swears by the quality of everything produced locally. How very trendily regional that may seem to those who care about such things, but like I said, what matters in Kansai is that it tastes good. And it does.
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Sunday, we went fishing down at the port. I had seen some big fish under one of the boats moored in the harbor when I dropped off Gatson and his family on Thursday, so we returned to that spot. We took many photos with a real camera, so I will continue this story later, but it bears saying that the girls totally outfished the guys. Except for a pitifully small rockfish that T snagged and maybe something Adam caught but that I have no memory of, we (and especially I) were skunked – and yet it was a lot of fun.
More later.

Yesterday Nam and I set out in the morning for a day in Osaka. My little brother has been studying capoeira with a group that practices in Shinsaibashi, and they were holding a west Japan tournament in Minatomachi. (My photos will hopefully be posted tonight.)
So we got to Osaka by utilizing the cheapest method available to individuals or small groups of people living on Awaji island for day trips to the mainland – the recently established one-day return ticket on the hydrofoil to KIX (2500 yen, including free parking).
We had lunch at Bombay Kitchen in Shinsaibashi (after all, God forgives sinners on the Sabbath as long as they eat at least two kinds of curry), and went to the capoeira tourney. I will leave my description of it to the photos I plan to post later, but overall it was pretty cool. There was a guy who was pulling flips and twists I would not have thought possible without using a wire. Anyways, that stuff comes later.
What I really want to get to is a conversation I had with my pal T, recently returned from Uzbekistan via Bangkok via Hong Kong. T has recently become bored with his incense importation/wholesaling and is curious to see how other people live. So he signed up with a temp agency and does temporary shit jobs just for kicks, even though he doesn’t need the minimum wage paychecks. Very inverse-punk. Or something.
So the job he’s doing today is at a kimchi factory near Tennoji. When I heard that, I told him it was his sacred duty to steal a vanful of rejected product from their dumpsters, but he declined. I guess middle age does that to you. So I settled for an employee discount that he mailed me about and will soon be the literal consumer of 1.2 kilos of kimchi for 1,000 yen (ten bucks). Awesome.
The best thing, though is the e-mail he just sent me to my cellphone. We had been ribbing him all yesterday about how much he was going to smell, how the garlicky tang of fresh kimchi is like Brut to Korean chicks, and how he should go to try hooking up in Tsuruhashi after work, etc. As it turns out, his biggest challenge is lunch in the factory cafeteria:
“I AM IN THE KIMCHI WORLD NOW、 A FUCKINGGOOD OBACHAN PUT A HUGE AMOUNT OF KIMCHI ON MY RICE. I CAN’T EAT ALL THIS SHIT BUT I SAID THANK YOU ANYWAY”.
Fucking priceless, I tell you.

It is three in the morning, and the port of Osaka is alive with the sound of street races.
The crowd is sparse for a Saturday night, perhaps because of the rumor of a police raid. As with all the other recent crackdowns, they will round up any spectators as well as racers, and accuse everyone of racing. This may seem ironic since most of the spectators show up in normal cars and minivans, a stark contrast with the ultra-customized rice rockets tearing up the race strip, but Japanese cops have the art of coercion down well – most innocent people will sooner confess to a misdemeanor and pay a fine rather than spend a night in a holding cell, no matter how cozy they may be (holding cells in Japan are reportedly clean and sometimes even carpeted).
For now though, there is no police presence and chaos reigns on the strip. The strip is a kilometer long, starting at the end of the shipping docks, leading through the security gate (which somebody has slid open and disabled) down to a four way intersection that has been turned into an ad-hoc drift pad. The racers start at the intersection, race to the end of the docks, tug on their parking brakes for a quick 180, race back to the intersection and pull long drifting turns right. Tonight is more of a practice night for local racing gangs, so there is no defined finish line. There are also no spotters or safety precautions in place like there would be for a competition, which is why we almost died coming here…
We had been driving around the area in T’s jeep looking for something to do when a white Toyota Crown came out of nowhere and almost fishboned us, then took off toward the (then) new ATC building. We followed, intending to pull the fools from the car and lay down the hurt, when we came upon the races. Intrigued, we parked a ways away and walked toward the sound of revving engines and squealing tires.
When we got there, the Crown we had followed was just lining up for a start. It took off down the docks, did an impressive 180 for a big sedan, and came back our way. As it turned right at the intersection, the front tire failed and it slammed into the guardrail at high speed, sending showers of sparks in the air and ripping off a door panel. Impressive performance, even though the Crown was the only normal car being raced that night. It stood out from the crowd of flashy RX-7s, riced-out GTOs, and elite hakogata Skylines, much as we college students did from the hardcore drivers observing from the sidelines.
We stood behind the guardrails, sipping on warm cans of cheap imported beer (Belgen Brau, around 160 yen at Lawson compared to cans of Kirin/Asahi at 250; these were the days before the happoshu boom) to wash the scent of burnt rubber and brakes down, and the cops never came.
It was one of the coolest nights I had ever spent in Japan, and we were eager to return at some point in the future, when we could afford the gas money and tolls from Nara again. Alas, it was not to be. T took some girl on a date to the ATC building a couple months later, and they happened upon a horrific sight – a man who had just hung himself and was dangling on the outside of the building. T swore never to return to that area, and the police cracked down on the races in that area hard, so they ceased to exist.
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Related link: Osaka Stories (part 1 of ???)
I should note that Part 1 has become quite a popular link in the blogosphere, for all the wrong reasons. Some shithead comment spammer included a link for that page in his spams, presumably in an attempt to pollute blacklists with innocent domains. Take a look at the comments for that thread – it just ain’t right.

Well, the Danjiri lived up to its reputation and was, in a word, exhilarating. In my free time, I’m looking through the hundreds of photos I took and will post the best ones here. I might have gotten five really killer pics, only half of what I set out for, but more than I expected. The main difference between my new D50 and the digital cameras I have used in the past is simply that I like a lot more of my own photos than I used to – and that’s a remarkable thing, really.
While I’m getting my best ten or so photos ready to publish on this blog, you can get a sneak peek of about 200 or so I posted in my Flickr photostream:
Kishiwada Danjiri Matsuri 2005