May I have your attention, please? Due to the typhoon, all transportation services have been canceled.
 
In the eleven hours that followed we would hear this recording, given in four languages, repeat over and over again about every twenty seconds. Macau, while only an hour boat ride from Hong Kong, was temporarily cut off, at least by sea or air.
 
It was Monday. Earlier in the day Sawako and I boarded a boat from a Hong Kong ferry station and set off for what we thought would only be an afternoon in Macau, a former Portuguese territory with a bit of Old World charm and a lot of casinos. Our interest was not in the casinos, but just some sightseeing and eating, one of my favorite pastimes as the bit of pudge on my late-thirties belly would indicate.
 
The boat was mostly full of tourists from China and Hong Kong, and then me and Sawako, American and Japanese. I don’t think I saw any other foreigners (well, I guess we all were foreigners – perhaps I mean Westerners, really really foreign foreigners) on the vessel. I was seated in the middle of a three-seat row. Sawako was in the aisle, and a strange man was at the window. At first I thought he was waiting for someone, as he kept turning back to look in the direction of the entrance before we departed. Then I thought maybe he was a bit nervous, as he kept fidgeting and executing strange little tics. He would quickly touch his left middle finger to his forehead just beside his temple, or hold his index finger pointed upwards and make a circle clockwise and counter-clockwise, then nod as if understanding some directions he had just given himself. Sometimes he would reach into his handbag to read his wristwatch. Why it wasn’t on his wrist I don’t know, but every time he went for it I was prepared for him to procure a letter opener or other sharp object to stab me to death. I’ve read news articles about such events, and I’d be damned if I was gonna sit there and die on a diesel-powered boat before I even had lunch.
 
Strange Chinese man, I thought. Then I said that thought to Sawako, in Japanese: “The man beside me is a little strange,” I said. She verbally agreed. We passed the time chatting and playing games like Rock, Paper, Scissors (or Rock, Scissors, Paper as it is in Japan) or a funny little numbers game with thumbs that my students play called “Isse No.”
 
I was peckish so I dug out of my bag a granola bar (dark chocolate flavored) and offered one to Sawako. I asked her, in broken Japanese so as to be discreet, if I should offer one to the strange man next to us. She said of course. I offered it to him. He said, “Thank you very much.” In perfect Japanese. Turns out he’s a Japanese guy. I looked at Sawako. She looked at me. We didn’t say anything, but our expressions said it all. Shit, I thought. This guy could understand everything we’ve been talking about. Sawako went to the restroom, as far as I know. She could have gone to look out the window or take a call from her bookie, but it’s an irrelevant detail to this story. The strange man and I started chatting. He was really friendly. He spoke English really well. He had traveled a lot. Sawako returned and they began chatting in normal Japanese that was too fast for me to fully comprehend. Later she said she thought he was a really smart man – an engineer or something too – and that would make sense in a way, with his mannerisms. The plague of a genius, as I call it. My grandfather was sort of that way: social interaction seemed infrequent and trying for him, but hell if he wasn’t leaps and bounds smarter than your honor student and golden retriever and clever bumper sticker.
 
He recommended that if we were planning to return to Macau that day that we shouldn’t stay too long, as there was a typhoon headed towards the region. We heard his words. We talked about them later. We even got caught in a few quick downpours that afternoon. But as we were sitting on a bench in Senado Square, a light rain being a bit of respite from the oppressive summer heat, we agreed to wander around a bit more to explore the town.
 
So when we finally made our way back to the Macau ferry terminal to take the ferry back to Hong Kong and have a nice dinner at the restaurant near our hotel that we had discovered the night before, we were greeted with the aforementioned message. It was about six o’clock. The last ferry before service was cut off had left only an hour ago.
 
The ferry terminal has three floors. The first floor has some tourism service counters and vending machines, the second floor has ferry ticket counters and the boarding gates for the ferries, and the third floor has a mediocre food court and souvenir shops. We approached the information counter on the second floor.
 
“What are our options for leaving today?” I asked.
“There are none,” the man said.
 
And that would begin our marathon hanging out at the ever-so-boring ferry terminal in Macau until the next morning when service would begin again. Since it was so unbelievably hot we hadn’t bothered to bring anything warm, which by all accounts is a sound decision, except when you’re trapped inside a building for twelve hours and the air conditioning is cranked up so high you could leave out the fresh salmon and not worry that it would spoil.
 
The first matter of business was to secure seats on the first ferry out of this place. Our flight was at 1:30pm the following day so it was imperative that we get back to Hong Kong asap. Unfortunately my dreams of a slow, relaxing morning and freshly baked egg tart from a street vendor before leaving Hong Kong was now out of the question. We would have to rush to the subway, hustle to our hotel, book it to the airport, and race to the gate if we were going to get to work the next day. I hadn’t told any of my coworkers where I was going as I have given up on the Japanese tradition (obligation, rather) of buying a ton of omiyage – souvenirs, or gifts – for all of them. And I don’t want them to make me feel guilty. Try, that is, because these days I refuse to feel guilty. Most of them don’t talk to me day in and day out, and they sure as hell don’t consider me any part of their group, so why should I play pretend, I ask. So I kept my trip a secret. Unless someone is so compelled to read this. Then my secret’s out. But I don’t care. I’d be flattered if someone found reading this a worthy use of her time.
 
The hours passed slowly. Sometimes to warm up we’d go outside. We ordered fried rice from one of the mini restaurants on the third floor. It was dry and tasteless but cheap. We found some open seats in the waiting area and sat down to rest for a while. It didn’t really work as it’s difficult to sleep in a metal chair, and the lady beside us kept bouncing her legs and tapping with conviction on the armrest, which made the whole thing move and kept disrupting my attempt at slumber. We relocated to an open space in front of the now closed ticket counter and tried sleeping on the floor. That didn’t quite work well either because of the recorded announcement informing us of the weather situation. “May I have your attention, please?” Oh, you’ve had it. You’ve had it for hours. Nobody else is coming here, so it would be A-Okay if you shut the hell up. There were probably two hundred or so other travelers also parked around the terminal, some sleeping, some entertaining themselves with one another, most engrossed in the glow of their smartphones.
 
We relocated to the third floor. It was quieter and just a tad warmer. One of the souvenir shops had placed a few empty boxes outside the entrance and I thought, those would make an excellent bed. It would provide enough padding and insulation from the cold hard floor. I hadn’t planned to buy anything in the shop, but I contemplated how I could casually – discreetly – nab those boxes to craft a castle for the evening. We got a bite to eat while I thought about it. My hesitation was my loss. When I returned, the boxes had been taken. I looked around. Now they had become beds for Chinese people. “Look,” I said, “That man isn’t even using it all! He’s just made his own territory on which he has occupied but a third of it!” What a waste, I thought.
 
In the early morning, something shifted in the air. What was that? What just happened? The announcement had finally been turned off. There was a silence that was now being replaced by the pitter patter and scuffling of travelers rushing to the second floor to wait in line for the ferry. Funny that, it’s only 5am. Hell if I’m standing in a line for two hours just to get on a ferry for which we already had a reservation. We’d sit here comfortably until then. And sit we did.
 
A woman, who had both the facial features and expression of a confused stray dog, rose from some of the cardboard territory I had earlier laid claim to but was strategically conquered by invaders. She folded up the cardboard and walked on seemingly aimlessly, weaving left and right, dragging her confused dog feet while sniffing the air and looking around confusingly. She was nearing our seats, and suddenly made a turn. She wedged the cardboard in my seatback to abandon it. I looked at her. She looked back with that clueless, lifeless expression as she jammed it into place. “Really?” I said. “Are you fucking serious?” She casually turned and walked away. I called after her. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Nothing. Off she moped, scratching across the floor with the few brain cells that seemed to remain in her stray dog skull. Sawako laughed at my reaction, but we both agreed how bizarre and rude that zombie woman was. I said I almost hope she’s next to me on the ferry. I’ll pile all my trash on her lap. That’s the kind of lessons I like to teach. Situational awareness. Peripheral consideration. Personal responsibility. Common fucking sense. I had no further opportunity to school her; she disappeared, maybe wandered out to sea in search of a bone.
 
The boat was rocky. The water was “choppy” as they say. And me, I get motion sickness and spells of vertigo all too frequently from the simplest things such as shaky home video footage. This was going to be quite a ride. Drink service was suspended and everyone was told to remain in his or her seat for their own safety. All right, then.
 
In Japan, one can find a truly convenient convenience store on nearly every street corner. Sometimes there are so many they are within throwing distance, or at least in view of each other. But in Hong Kong that’s not the case. So when we surfaced from the metro station to walk back to the hotel we were greeted to a proper downpour of level eight typhoon status. Take my shirt, cover your head. We’ll run to that sidewalk and we’ll find a shop where we can buy an umbrella. Or not.
 
Back at the hotel and soaked to the bone, I decided to take a shower. The shower door swings inward, and extends nearly the entire width of the shower stall itself. In order to get in the shower and close the door I had to press myself against the corner wall and let the door graze my belly (I put on a few pounds) and my dick. The door doesn’t make a complete seal and when I stepped out of the shower there was a large puddle, I forgot about it until I put on socks and went back in to brush my teeth.
 
That feeling of showering after getting wet from rain or a pool or other body of water is amazing. I don’t quite understand it. I wasn’t cold, just wet. So I got wet again by getting in the shower. But somehow that healed me. In any case, we were ready to go, and off we went to the airport to say goodbye to this adventure and be back in the (often superficially) friendly Land of the Rising Sun.
 
Oh, you wanna know about Hong Kong? Well, there are plenty of resources at your local library or on the World Wide Web via your favorite Internet browser, but I’ll give you my impressions:
 
Hong Kong is: hot and humid. (It is in the subtropics after all.)
 
Hong Kong is: dirty, trash-covered, yet colorful and vibrant streets.
 
Hong Kong is: a cloud of cigarette smoke. (While smoking indoors is finally illegal – something Japan needs to adopt if it truly wants to be a leading nation – people still smoke everywhere else, constantly, getting their selfish fix at the expense of passersby: children, elderly, and even a pregnant woman with two kids as I would witness. Ashtrays are situated all around the city to accommodate people who choose to harm themselves and others. There are no accommodations for those of us who desire clean, healthy air.)
 
Hong Kong is: rude taxi drivers who act like your business is the biggest inconvenience to them, huffing and sighing as you provide your destination and money. (Don’t waste your time with them; let that industry fold under its own shitty service and don’t support it.)
 
Hong Kong is: basically China with more expensive cars even though few people will actually say they are Chinese. (By ethnicity, they are.)
 
Hong Kong is: so many cockroaches you must watch your every step when walking the streets, day or night. But especially night.
 
Hong Kong is: department stores and street markets praised in travel guidebooks but in reality just the same lot of overpriced brands (department stores) and poorly-made counterfeit goods (street markets) any traveler can find nearly anywhere.
 
Hong Kong is: shitty customer service where “hello” and “thank you” (in any language) is an inconvenience to them and not worth saying to their customers.
 
Hong Kong is: a beautiful skyline, especially at night.
 
Hong Kong is: high rent. (A Japanese friend of mine lives there and told me the average rent for a single tiny room where she lives is about $3000. She took us on a bit of a walking tour that ended with a nice vegetarian dim sum restaurant.)
 
Hong Kong is: no personal space.
 
Hong Kong is: a pretty decent, and very clean, metro system.
 
Hong Kong is: comprised of over 200 islands. At extreme ends of the comparative scale, Japan is made up of over 6000 islands, while Hawaii has only a handful.
 
Hong Kong is: not on my Top Ten list.
 
And there you have it.
 
The following are a few pictures taken with my phone. On this trip I had opted to rely on only a film camera and my smartphone, but I haven’t had a chance to develop the pictures from the former. Perhaps I’ll add them later.
 
Thanks for reading and sticking it out with me.

As far as I am aware, there is no major doping scandal. There are no fixed games, rigged wins or bogus losses. Of course by 2020 there will be time for all that stuff to occur, or to come to light if it is already happening. No, I am not concerned about these things. To be honest, I don’t really care about the Olympic Games either. I am not much of a competitive person and truthfully, while I can be mildly entertained by the shear skill of the human mind and body (ever watch Chinese acrobats? My God!) or an interesting and close match of move-a-ball-around-a-defined-space Game, the outcome of winners and losers in competitive sports is of little interest to me. It’s why I think I made a decent and unbiased referee for women’s roller derby; I could care less if you’re heartbroken over your performance. I’m just here to enforce the rules to which we both agreed.


My call for a boycott of the 2020 Olympics in Tokyo, Japan, has far greater consequences than the celebration of the successes of advantaged youth. My concern is in the interest of public health, safety, and comfort.


Japan has failed miserably. To date, Japan’s smoking laws and regulations have done little in the way of public health. For a nation so often touting and pushing an agenda of personal health and fitness, it is quite ironic that it cannot - or more likely, doesn’t want to - get a hold of its inadequate and archaic smoking culture. Much of this writing will be anecdotal, but I assure you it is not without merit.


The World Health Organization had given the Land of the Rising Sun a big red “F” on its smoking laws when compared to every other developed nation. Yet, Japan refuses to accept the fact that smoking is at best a public nuisance, and more accurately a public health hazard. Part of this has to do with the fact that Japanese people just don’t like change. And the process of change is not as simple as many other modern cultures, especially in the West. It requires endless deliberation and discussion among countless people, over and over again. (this applies to nearly everything; last year I had to change my address by a single digit, my apartment number, and it took three visits and just as many days for the process to go through all the proper [ahem, redundant] channels)


But more likely, this lack of change of its smoking laws stems from the fact that the government has monstrous monetary ties to the tobacco industry. Indeed it gets a remarkable windfall from taxation, and as well the tobacco industry, like many industries in the U.S., is sleeping all cozy with to the politicians, legs and arms tangled up like spaghetti. “But it’s Japanese culture.” That argument doesn’t work for me at all. Cultures are not static and they certainly all have room for improvement. Consider American culture 200, 100, or even 50 years ago. Should it have stayed as is? I think not. No, Japan should be embarrassed. Culture my ass.


Recently a proposal by the Ministry of Health to ban smoking in all indoor public spaces was vehemently opposed and shot down by Japan’s Liberal Democratic Party, citing that the law unfairly infringes on the rights of smokers. Huh, what? Really? First of all, exposing the public to dangerous toxins through secondhand smoke is not a RIGHT of anyone. One could twist and stretch the definition and suggest it’s a privilege instead. Even so, it’s a pretty damn unfair privilege. What about my RIGHT to live a healthy lifestyle? My RIGHT to breathe clean air while eating my dinner or walking down the street without the worry of some selfish, weak, indulgant asshole exposing me to his bad habit? Whether or not the position of the party is about smokers’ rights or their own yen-filled pockets, it’s a bogus opposition and I call bullshit. An article published in Japan Times quotes a high-ranking politician from the Liberal Democratic Party: “As a cigarette lover, I feel like this is not a good idea — how would I live if smoking is banned everywhere?” Um, really dude? How would you live? Maybe you should just get on with NOT living then? Favor to all those sensible.


There is not a single day - not one - that passes where I am not exposed to someone’s tobacco smoke. On my ride to work every morning, and on my ride home every evening, I have to deal with the mountain winds carrying foul, harmful fumes directly across my path from someone on the sidewalk. Seconds after leaving the house I have to pass the stone workers and road crews puffing away while on the job. (it’s okay, apparently) Moreover, nearly every business accommodates smokers with ashtrays just outside the door (and many inside, as well) where grungy laborers and cocky, overworked cookie-cutter salarymen puff away on their crap sticks as fiercely as they waste away their days and nights in an office. All the while, the bicycles of local junior and high school students - 12, 14, 16 years old - are parked right next to said ashtrays. There is no barrier, no proper separation to protect the community’s youth; just more appeasing of smokers puffing away on their stupid sticks. I’ve witnessed a man walking out of a smoking room at the mall (yes, that exists: most restaurants allow smoking anywhere, or at best have a designated smoking area that is either not separated from the rest of the room or uses a stupid technology called an “air curtain” which is supposed to suck the bad air out before it goes anywhere else. They don’t work, I promise you) with his young daughter who was likely not old enough to be one of my elementary students. I’ve watched a man at an indoor skateboard park smoking a cigarette with his two-year-old child on his lap, engulfed in a cloud of filth. I pass countless vehicles on the roadways with drivers puffing away while little heads of young children bop about in the passenger seat. For the life of me, I refuse to believe that these people are that stupid and ignorant to not be aware of the health hazards of secondhand smoke. I cannot believe that. These are smart people. They build robots and reliable compact cars. So if they’re aware it’s bad – which they undoubtedly are – then that means they're simply just assholes. And that’s far worse. Talking about rights again, what about the rights of those little kids that have to tolerate this shit with their little undeveloped lungs? Again, I call bullshit.


It doesn’t matter also that now there are, while few and far between, designated non-smoking areas and sidewalks, (mostly in Tokyo and a few other major cities) as these laws are not enforced and in fact just completely ignored. Or again, the smoking areas are just sitting right next to the rest of the public space where hundreds of pedestrians pass every minute, with no real barrier between clean and dirty air. The city of Yokohama, about 20 minutes south of Tokyo, was the first in Japan to pass “sweeping” nonsmoking laws in its public spaces. In the few years since the law went into effect, there had been over 2000 infractions of the law. Yet not one offender had been prosecuted, not one fine issued, not one infraction enforced in any way. NOT ONE. By this logic, why would anybody bother to change his or her behavior? It's laughable, in a sad sort of way.


Lately, I’ve had my fill. I’m done with it. Years ago in the States, I used to get out of my car at traffic lights when someone dropped a cigarette butt out of the window and onto the street, and I’d pick it up and flick it into the cabin of the car, stating with totally fake kindness, “you dropped this.” Nowadays that behavior might get me shot in the U.S. of A(rmed maniacs). But here in Japan, I have taken to confronting the offenders of these laws. Just today, I yelled at the neighbor across from me for the second time, who sits on his step every day and smokes while it blows directly into my apartment through the windows. Today he pretended to ignore me until I got exceptionally nasty. My space, my right to be comfortable and healthy, period. I have put aside all Japanese-style politeness - no “oh, gee golly, uh, excuse me...” - and I now approach smokers with a direct, blunt, in-your-face demand (the angry Gaijin) to put it out or move the fuck away. On many occasions, I am looked at with an expression of, “I’m breaking the law, what’s the big deal?” or, “Huh? What? What am I doing wrong?” I can only explain this with the likelihood that, as is the Japanese way, nobody speaks up about anything. Nobody is willing to say, “Hey, you can’t really do that here.” And as a result, nobody thinks it’s any big deal. Or, maybe they do know they’re breaking the rules, but they know better that nobody will say or do anything, so they continue with their selfish and rude defiance. But not me. The BUTT stops here. I’m dousing the fire. Extinguishing the flame. As soon as I see them, or get a whiff of polluted molecules in my airspace, I’m on my feet and in their face. So as long as Japan refuses to acknowledge that it’s living in 1975 or refuses to curb its behavior to catch up with the developed world, I will continue this guerrilla approach to make aware that I’m not having it, and neither should the rest of the world. Lots of people will be planning to attend the 2020 Games in Japan. A hell of a lot of them will be - should be - flabbergasted that one of the world’s leading economies can’t get a grip on one of the simplest tasks for the health of its people and the tourists this country desperately needs to maintain to keep its shrinking nation from going to ghost town. So there it is. I want the world to hold off on its plans to attend the 2020 Young, Beautiful and Sponsored contest. I want Japan to realize it's beyond time for a major policy and attitude change. And unless Japan can muster some russet potato-sized balls, I suggest you invest your tourism dollars elsewhere.

I knew as I was trying on those jeans that I wasn't going to buy them. But I had time to kill. I had already spent the day at the hospital for EKGs, x-rays and hours of sitting around in between. My bus wouldn't leave for another few hours anyway.

The night bus from Tokyo to Hiroshima would take about 13 hours, stopping several times on the way. Since it was expected that most if not all the passengers would be sleeping, curtains were drawn all the way around the windows and the front of the bus; we could neither see what was happening next to us or in front of us. In a way it felt as though we were stowaways or part of some kind of human trafficking crime, aside from the plush seats and footrests. The girl sitting next to me was from Morocco, and I commented how I don't think I had ever met someone from Morocco, and how Morocco doesn't usually generate much news. To be sure, I did a quick online search which indeed yielded zero current results. I guess that's not a bad thing.

We arrived in Hiroshima as scheduled, and from the bus stop I found my way to the Mazda Museum and Factory Tour. I had time to kill so I ordered a chai latte (iced) and a cookie at the cafe located in the showroom. Having a fragmented night of rest (I'd guess I had slept at most two hours at a time before being bounced awake) I figure I'd need something to keep me going. We loaded onto a bus and were ferried a few kilometers away to Mazda's Hiroshima plant. We learned about the history of Mazda and its founder and got to gaze at beautifully restored specimens from the company's product line. But the highlight was actually touring a section of the plant where we could witness the final assembly of automobiles. A track slowly carted the cars along while automated robots and carts full of nuts, bolts and other bits strolled back and forth at each worker's assigned section. It was truly a well-oiled machine, although perhaps not as impressive as some of Japan's tricks. 

Spending the rest of the afternoon alone, I wandered about Hiroshima, visiting famous sites such as the Atomic Bomb Dome and the statue of Sadako, a young girl who was a victim of the war and the atomic bomb tragedy. I thought about her, and the other victims, and thought that in some ways she is like Japan's Anne Frank: both were young victims of a war that neither asked for, and both serve as a reminder to the horrors and tragedy of war.

At my hostel I befriended a fellow from Hong Kong and a girl from Hiroshima - both were serving an internship at the hostel - and both shared the names of my neighbors, Joe and Saki. Curious. Later Joe and I went down the street for Mexican food (I had a craving) and had some decent, although not entirely authentic, burritos. Joe had never had Mexican food before so he asked me what I thought he should try.

The next morning I woke up early to head to Miyajima, a very popular island near Hiroshima. The sky was grey and rain poured down, making the streets appear coated with black grease. I was given an umbrella by the front desk attendant, a tall, gentle, and barely audible New Zealander. Grateful was I.

Miyajima can be accessed by a badass speedboat, or a clunky, smelly ferry. Naturally, the cheaper option prevailed and after riding a streetcar to the last station, I filed onto the swaying hunk of metal along with all the other poor souls. The mist and rain attacked us as we climbed the stairs to the seats, our shoes a squeak-squeak-squeaking on every step. Soon we were on our way and docked on the island. Reverse order, rinse and repeat.

The rain did not deter the crowds, but only made navigating the narrow touristy streets of the island more difficult as I now had to avoid both puddles and getting my eye poked by a hundred umbrellas. As hunger set in I searched for nourishment and found a cozy restaurant slightly off the beaten path. When I arrived there were but a few patrons, but as the minutes passed the place became flooded with hungry tourists.

I decided to cut short my trip and make my way back to Hiroshima to wait for my bus that would later depart for Osaka, my next destination. Good thing too, as I had some trouble finding the bus stop as my GPS decided to be as unreliable as 2016 election predictions (or promises, for that matter). Alas, it all worked out.

Osaka is Japan's second largest metropolis next to Tokyo, and it proved itself to be just as viscous and more deliberate in every way. Tokyo trains are reputable for their punctuality and efficiency, yet just as notorious for their lack of breathing room or personal space. In Osaka the crowds are just as bad, only there they push themselves into the cars with such assertiveness I about lost my nerve and punched someone in the back of the head. They will brace their arms in the door and literally slam their bodies against whatever is behind them. That's not my style, and after a grueling day of travel, minimal sleep and wet shoes, you bet I was on my last nerve.

Christine was putting on her shoes just as I appeared in the lobby the next morning after my pancake breakfast. She booked this hostel at the last minute per my recommendation ("they still have rooms available") since she had nothing planned. Christine is Chinese by blood and Australian by birth. As she sat at the hostel counter eating her microwaveable meal, occasionally glancing up to smile at me and Joe, I wondered if she spoke Japanese or what. Turns out it's English. We decided to meet up in Osaka after I arrived, and by chance this was the time. Together we went to Osaka Castle and wandered around the city, settling on a pretty legit sushi restaurant for lunch. It's the kind of place where you just shout out what you want to the chef behind the counter, and somehow he remembers everything and places it on your plate in front of you. A bit pricier than the usual kaiten-zushi (sushi-go-round), but well worth the extra yen.

Ami and Yoriko would be waiting for me when I arrived at the station near Yoriko's apartment. While we kept in touch via digital communication, I hadn't seen them since we met in Cambodia last year. When I walked through the gate, they stood there smiling their adorable Japanese smiles and we marched off to collect ingredients for our evening takoyaki party. It was my first time making it and I proved to be quite skilled at shaping the sizzling balls as they sat in the electric skillet. I kept offering to help around the apartment but my offers were continually denied. I could clean up, or wash the dishes, or take out the trash, but nothing. They decided that Ami's alarm would go off at 10am, but we turned the lights out before 11pm. While my futon wasn't the most comfortable place to sleep (none really are) I cashed in on all those dreamy hours.

The following day I met Sarah, a friend of a friend who lives in Osaka (and has lived over eight years in Japan) and we bicycled around the city. With no destination in mind, the warm sun encouraged us to take our time, and we found ourselves on grassy hills by the riverside, eating burritos in a hip diner, and weaving through businessmen and indecisive pedestrians. We had several of those moments when you realize the world is really tiny, and through our conversation we discovered we know some of the same people beyond our mutual friend. Well, isn't that something.

I caught a train to Kyoto and checked into my next hostel, a cozy little space in a quiet neighborhood run by a kind and helpful Japanese woman named Reiko. While she knew some English, we spoke mostly in Japanese, which was great practice for me. At one point, a little girl challenged Reiko to a game of "Go Fish" and I became the mediator and explained the rules. In this moment I thought to myself, "Self, if you can communicate, in Japanese, however primitively and simply, the rules of the ultimate game known as 'Go Fish,' you can do anything imaginable. Except become president. That's reserved for rich people, and bigots."

Reiko told me about an onsen that I could visit which would not discriminate against me for having tattoos, so I ended my evening with - finally - a relaxing, steamy hot bath among a bunch of naked Japanese guys. Well, it's about damn time.

In the morning I packed my things to leave the hostel, as I had another reservation elsewhere for that evening (I changed my plans a few times and the previous night was a last-minute decision. I decided to put my bag in a locker at Kyoto Station and head out to sightsee. Reiko sent me a text message, asking where I was staying that night. She had my name down for a second night, and indeed when I checked my confirmation emails, I had previously booked the same hostel. Oh how paying attention can go a long way.

Japanese people love the four seasons. They celebrate them, along with any and every other little event. And, they'll wait in line for all of them. Spring is perhaps the most celebrated season, and since it's hanami (flower watching) season, the Japanese (along with loads of Chinese, Koreans, and Westerners) were out in full force. Every place I visited required me to adjust my stride to avoid tripping or stepping onto someone - I made little steps as if I were wearing a kimono - and nearly every potential photo opportunity was squelched by scores of other people fighting for pole position. The final straw was at the Golden Pavilion, where we were herded along a walking path with nary a moment to relax and enjoy the view. Moo, moo. Move it, moron.

After collecting my bag from the station I returned to my hostel and chatted more with Reiko. A woman from Scotland, who I had seen leaving earlier, arrived just then and we decided to go to the sushi-go-round restaurant up the street. I didn't care for its touch screen or selection as much as other places I'm familiar with, but for about a dollar a plate, how can you complain?

All things good and bad come to an end, and so my holiday was over and I rode a bus for nine hours back to Tokyo to meet a friend of mine who was letting me sleep on his couch so I could be up early in the morning for a doctor visit. He gave me his apartment key as he had a late night group meeting with some classmates. I made my way to his place, had a warm shower, and lay down on his tiny sofa, the sirens, screeches, and thuds of a familiar Tokyo nudging me to sleep.

Last weekend I visited Sapporo in Hokkaido, Japan's northernmost main island. Sapporo hosts an annual snow festival, and I'd been wanting to see it for some time. Sometime last year I started searching for hotels during the week I wanted to visit and found that, according to the websites I frequently use, nearly 90 percent of the rooms had already been booked. There were several still available though, if I was interested in staying 40 miles outside of the city, or was willing to pay upwards of $2000. No, even though I do not edit or proofread my posts, I did not accidentally type an extra zero.

I did manage to find a reasonable hotel but ultimately decided to expand my search via couchsurfing, another site I use now and then. A Japanese family of three - husband, wife and four-year-old son, offered to host me. Awesome.

The airline I booked with unfortunately does not fly out of Tokyo's Haneda airport, which is significantly closer to me. Instead I had to fly out of Narita, a healthy two and a half hours from my city by bus. Again, I must have waited too long, as the $10 airport bus from Tokyo was completely booked, so I had to settle for a $40 one direct from my local bus station. No matter, it's more convenient anyway.

With time to kill at Sapporo New Chitose airport I sat down for a bite at Mos Burger, a Japanese fast food joint (which is pretty good quality, definitely above the standard King's McFare you'd get elsewhere, although it's been decades since I'd eaten in one of them). As I feasted on my flavorful food, a tall handsome man came around the corner and greeted me. He asked to join me. We went back to his place...no, no, I jest. But he asked to use my phone to contact his friend who was supposed to meet him at the airport. Conflicted - I want to help people when I can but I am cautious at the same time, I chatted with him for a few moments and agreed to let him use it. His phone looked like it had been delivered by UPS, sporting a screen cracked all to hell and possibly marks from a feral cat. But he couldn't connect to the airport's wifi. I let him chat with his friend, although I do wonder if I could have been (or had been) scammed in some manner. We chatted for about an hour, this Australian being quite an interesting and insightful, if not quirky and offbeat, character. He told me how an airport staff person tried to help him but the language barrier was too great. In fact she came into the restaurant and checked on him, and he asked me to translate for him to get her number so he could stay in touch (she was quite a beautiful woman with typical Japanese friendliness, so I don't blame him). I did my best and they exchanged information, although he later said he just wanted business contacts. I wonder. He offered to buy me dinner even though I had already eaten, so we just continued our chat: travel, politics, philosophy, his job as some sort of escort; you can cover a lot of ground in a conversation at a fast food joint. I had to make my way to the train to meet my hosts, so we walked toward the exit together. Three flight attendants passed us and all six of their eyes were fixated on him, this tall blonde Aussie. He did the same and told them that they were all beautiful (they were). As they walked past they continued to look back at him, Nary an eye glancing in my direction, only two inches below. So that's how it's done, eh.

After about two hours of transit and waiting, my hosts picked me up at the train station and took me to a "soup curry" restaurant which was absolutely amazing. Soup curry was on my list of things to experience in Sapporo, which is the birthplace of this savory treat. Afterwards we went back to their place (for real this time) and I dropped off my bag and gave them some sweets I brought as a gift. I played with Gohta for a bit before heading out to the main site of the snow festival using a hand-drawn map provided by Tomo.

As is usually my Japanese experience, the crowds were nearly unbearable, even for this chilly Thursday evening. I managed to get some pictures and enjoy the snow and ice sculptures before coming to the end of my patience fuse and heading back to the house. The walk from the train station to my hosts' place was a healthy hike. Add to that over a foot of packed ice and snow on the sidewalks and most streets (I guess the municipality plows what they can and leaves the rest; the snow on either side of the road was higher than the cars fearlessly zipping along them) and I was properly exhausted upon my return.

The next morning we had a wonderful traditional Japanese-style breakfast which Tomo prepared while I played with Gohta. My stay would include lots of hanging out with kids, which was fine by me. Gohta took to me fairly quickly and enjoyed erasing the Magnadoodle art I created as soon as I finished something. After breakfast we went to another festival site, this one more for kids and families. There were rides, slides and sculptures, as well as plenty of food stands under a giant dome which I think normally houses sports or fight-to-the-death matches.

Okay, let me just address the highlights and get to some pictures. I waited for half an hour in line to go down a giant slide that lasted a few seconds, had a homemade dinner with the family and a friend of theirs along with her daughter (also four years old), played with some toy trains, read a book to the kids until they fought over who could turn the pages, had some lovely conversations and time to relax inside a warm house, carried a kid on my shoulders just long enough to mess up my back for the day, and visited the old Sapporo City Hall and had a foot spa on my way out of town to catch my flight back to Narita. Got in around 8pm, got a bus back to town, rode my bicycle for 28 minutes (normally only 17) against tropical storm-like winds, settled into my apartment and cranked up the heat.

​Along with ramen and shopping outlets, Soshu-ji, the Buddhist temple near my apartment, is one of the attractions in this otherwise humdrum town. Commonly called Sano Yakuyoke Daishi, this temple is well-known for getting rid of evil spirits. And at the New Year, droves of people flock here (and many other temples or shrines all across Japan) for good fortune, good luck, and waiting in absurdly long queues.
 
The street in front of Yakuyoke Daishi is rarely busy. Sure, throughout the year there are regular visitors to the temple and the adjacent tourist center, but it’s generally quiet, save for the first month of the year, when the street is filled with vendors and worshipers from all over.
 
The other day my friend and I went for a stroll to people watch, and we discovered a line snaking up and back the distance of two traffic lights. I’ve decided that one of Japan’s national pastimes is waiting. Waiting two hours in line for 40 seconds of prayer. Waiting an hour before a doctor’s office opens to get your name on the list. (Most offices don’t make appointments, and somehow Japanese people have hours to kill sitting in a parking lot just to be seen for ten minutes. If time were money…) Waiting three hours in the cold and rainy weather to eat at a popular restaurant. In fact, I asked a friend why Japanese people wait for ridiculous amounts of time for any particular eatery, and she responded, “Yes, we wait in line.” I clarified, “Yes, buy why?” She said, “The food will be good if we wait a long time.” See, that’s what I call hype. And I just don’t get it.

Validated by a Japanese friend who owns a ramen restaurant near the aforementioned temple, he lamented about taking his family to a restaurant with a reputation as being “one of the best” of whatever it serves, and he said it wasn’t worth the hours they waited; people just want to believe that it is. Finally, logic and reason.

​Anyway, enough about that. I went somewhere cool the other day.
 
Hakone is a decent day trip from Tokyo. It’s got old school trains, hills and mountains, nature, views of Mount Fuji, hot springs, (which this tattooed hoodlum is prohibited from entering) and plenty of charm to be romanticized in self-congratulatory travel blogs.
 
A friend and his girlfriend were planning a trip there and invited me and another pal. We booked tickets that would get us to and around the area, including the “Romance Car” – a faster regional rail with minimal stops (although not terribly romantic, per se) – a pirate ship, and cable cars that would carry us awfully high above the earth.
 
There were six of us in total. Our morning started early, meeting at the station gate at a quarter to seven – way earlier than I even like to open my eyes. No bother, this was an adventure! We made our way to our assigned seats on the train and made it to Hakone in a scheduled 85 minutes. We then had to make our way onto a cute little local rail that would clunk and clatter and vibrate its way up a mountain, trees to the right and a hell of a drop to the left. Because we had a moment of convening on the train platform to discuss our next move, we missed our chance to secure seats on the half-hour ride up mountain. We are after all in Japan, and popular places get booked pretty darn fast.
 
The trip consisted of two switchbacks, where the train would stop on a level section of track and reverse, switching to a track going the other way. (a zig-zag, basically) We made it to our first destination, an open-air museum. The ticket price was a bit shocking – about $15, which we all agreed seemed a little steep. I can’t think of any museum I’ve visited that has cost that much without a special exhibit, but whatever.
 
The next two hours we spent perusing the grounds and admiring the installations created by artists from around the world. One of the coolest works was a…a bubble…honeycomb…thing. If you were no older than twelve, you could climb inside and have a hell of a time. If you were three foreign dudes excited about climbing around, you would be discouraged by the three sensible and rule-abiding Japanese women in your company. Ah well.

​Midway through the park there’s a museum dedicated to Picasso and featuring a sizable collection of his work. I wouldn’t say it’s his best work; some of it, as my friend opined, could easily be mistaken for a junior high school student’s refrigerator-worthy efforts. But overall it’s a decent collection, and an informative gallery.
 
A short walk from the museum is a foot spa, which we six enjoyed for twenty minutes or so. The water was so warm, and the stones below great for massaging our weary feet. We then climbed up a tower surrounded by stained glass windows and looked out over the hills before descending and continuing on to our next stop.

​We hopped back on the little train and transferred to a lift that would then transfer us to a cable car. This time we managed to get seats. These days I’m sure not to make eye contact with anybody standing up lest I be guilted into offering my seat to them.
 
The cable cars were pretty cool, but also kinda scary. I mean, it’s just a big box dangling from a single wire hundreds of feet off the ground. Well, I’m writing this now, so clearly there’s no surprise ending.
 
We arrived at Owakudani, a volcanic valley known for sulphuric gasses spewing from the mountainside and for kuro-tamago: black eggs. The eggs are boiled in the waters that are high in sulpher and iron, so they turn black. But beyond that, they’re just hardboiled eggs. When the black shell is peeled away, there are no surprises. It’s kind of like an Easter egg, really. But it’s said that eating the eggs will add seven years of life. I had two while I was there, but mostly because I was hungry.

From there we descended down the mountain in another cable car and arrived lakeside to wait for a boat that would take us half an hour or so across the water to a quaint village with, as we would soon discover, a very popular (busy) temple.

We all fell asleep on the boat, and when it arrived we walked along the water towards the temple. Once we arrived, we ate from a few of the street vendors, and then climbed the stairs to the temple to get in line for some Japanese-style pastime. After a half hour we got in, did our little bit, and headed back to the town center where we could catch a bus to the train station. Along with hundreds of other people.

By now it was dark. Once we could finally board, we were packed onto the bus like name-your-metaphor. None of us had seats, so we were left to stand the duration of the trip in bumper-to-bumper traffic down the mountain. The windows fogged up so every so often I’d wipe away some condensation so we could entertain ourselves by looking into the darkness. We eventually arrived and made our way onto a local train that got us back to Tokyo in about two hours.

​Chiho had to go home. The rest of us had sushi at a tiny corner shop across from the station. I then parted ways as well, catching a late train back to Sano. I had two seats to myself and took advantage of the ride to doze off and drool on my sleeve.
 
Happy New Year.

Oh, and as a little bonus, here's a picture sent to me by an old friend of mine from Brazil.
This was from my senior year of high school, 1997. Thanks, Cássio.

The plastic crunching sound of the tiny, boxy bubble’s bumper fused with the howl of my bicycle’s dry rotted brake pads as the two venerable machines kissed. You could say the car hit me. Or you could say I hit the car. I fruitlessly scolded the black van pulling out of the parking lot and cutting me off. I swerved and rode behind it, continuing on the sidewalk just as a white van, also not watching for me, hastily pulling in, met me face-to-face. It was a slow, low-impact collision from which I rode away, yet it was enough to nearly get me arrested had I not been in a hurry. And I wouldn’t have had to be in such a hurry if people could have just gotten their shit together.

It’s the problem with the herd mentality in Japan. While there are many reasons to appreciate and even praise some of the results of these practices, as a Westerner with little tolerance for bullshit and even less patience for idiocy, it wears thin. Everybody does the same damn thing on the same damn day at the same damn time. People have, by contract, days and weeks of vacation to use at work. They rarely do. Instead, they all give the same answer: "We have many holidays in Japan, so we can enjoy our time then." Yeah, with everyone else. Meanwhile they'll work like dogs into the dead of night.  (before I get derailed, just search "Japan suicide" or "Japan salaryman" to see a sampling of the zero-sum game of Japanese working culture) How enjoyable is going to the mountain getaway and waiting hours in a queue for a mediocre dinner while your understandably antsy kids are bouncing off the walls?

You may recall the inexcusable hours of traffic I experienced back in September going to and from Mount Fuji. (How can you not remember my colorful rants?) Now, on the eve of Christmas Eve and Christmas Eve day itself, I once again fell victim to Japanese people’s inability to do something different than everybody else. Thus, taking the bus into Tokyo was a mistake. The train would have arrived on time, even if it was packed and I had no place to sit through three transfers. An even bigger mistake was taking the bus back home.

The exit off the highway and to the bus station is about one kilometer, maybe a scrotum’s hair longer. That bit of distance – doable on foot in about ten minutes – took the bus nearly an hour. Ask to get off alongside the road? Well, heavens no. That would be impossible. It might be against the arbitrary rules, and worse yet, it’s thinking outside the proverbial box. So as the bus and half the population of the Kanto region headed in the direction of the shopping outlets (which, by definition and practice in the U.S. offer goods at a reasonable if not significant markdown, is not a thing in Japan. Everything is full price, and bright, bold signs advertising the occasional sale offer a meager five to ten percent off. Hardly worth the gas people spend getting there from cities hours away) I could feel my blood boiling. Who knew it was a shopping day?

My estimated two-and-a-half hour window to ride home from the bus station, get a much-needed shower, take in my laundry, go pick up a Christmas cake, (yes, cake and chicken is the meal du jour) stop at the bank to pay rent, and meet someone at the train station had now been hacked to thirty minutes. Maybe, had I managed to catch the earlier bus as I had intended, I would have maintained a healthy cushion. But before morning became afternoon that plan too was foiled.

Fighting my way through Shinjuku Station, one of the busiest in Japan, I managed to get in line at the bus ticket counter with two minutes to spare. I could see the bus at A2. Good. But the people in front of me then decided to ask more questions than Alex Trebek, then deliberate at the counter while the attendant patiently waited rather than telling them to stand aside to jerk each other off so he could help people that already knew what the hell they needed. Another minute. Now it was the exact minute of departure. “Sano, please,” I said. The attendant told me the price and time of the next bus. I said no, I wanted the bus that was to depart now. He said sorry, it’s too late. It had already left. I pointed and led his eyes to the bus in question and said it was still there. But he wouldn’t let me purchase a ticket.

So when my bicycle met the toaster oven on wheels driven by a frightened-looking mouse, my mouth went into autopilot as I was picking up that stately two-wheeled wonder. My voice drew attention by others in the parking lot. The mouse’s hands gripped firmly to the wheel and her eyes didn’t break gaze with mine. Having a gaijin yelling profanities at her – or even just engaging in any little hint of a confrontation (‘cuz you know, you don’t wanna upset anyone for pointing out what’s wrong, because, Japan…) – likely scared the sushi out of her. I didn’t care. I had somewhere to be, and everybody was holding me up. And I’m sure Santa would see it my way. Merry Christmas.

Sorry for the delay. I’ve been busy. (lazy)
 
It’s getting cold here. In the mornings I prepare for my bike ride to work, layering clothes that I will shed once I arrive at my desk, the base layers which I will sweat through by then. The hallways are cold and breezy; there is no heat and windows are opened to keep air circulating, apparently to prevent the spread of the flu.
 
I pass old men and women sweeping the sidewalks in front of their small shops, keeping up impressions that no doubt carry to the inside of those shops as well. A small, elderly man, armed with only a white trash bag, meticulously picks up each fallen twig and gingko leaf that had fallen the night before. I prepare to give a nod and smile as I pass, but he doesn’t notice me and I ride on.
 
Lots of things have been occupying my waking hours, which I’ll briefly detail below.
 
First, the band I’m in has had several shows this fall, most recently two this past weekend. Playing music with people who get along is always rewarding, and the guys in this band are no exception. Alex, the lead vocalist and guitarist – the front man, if you will – is a fellow Pennsylvanian who’s been living in Japan for six years or so. The bassist, Matt, is from the UK and is the baby of the group; 28 or 29 I reckon. Yosuke, the lead guitarist, is a reserved and polite Japanese guy from Tokyo and can rip on guitar but is as modest as they come, dismissing our praise as absurd. I’m the eldest, but of course people still assume I’m way younger than I am. Bless my full head of hair, or curse my baby-like features, either will do.
 
Last Thursday was a holiday here in Japan, and we were scheduled to play third or fourth on an early bill at a live house called Moon Step. It’s a decent venue with proper punk rock spirit and style. Matt, the bassist, expressed how it didn’t feel right playing so early, but as for me I love it. The idea of being home and in bed browsing Amazon for things I don’t need is incredibly appealing. As it were, I was staying at Alex’s place in Tokyo, as I sometimes do to save me the hassle of returning to Sano and riding my bicycle home at 1am. The gig itself was good, although it wasn’t the tightest we’re capable of playing. The crowd was lively and the room, to my dismay, was a smoky box. This fact has been consistent with every venue we’ve played, and likely most of the ones that will book us. As a result, I refuse to go inside until our set time, which leaves me hanging out by myself either on the street or a nearby café. In fact, Japan is behind the sensible times in this regard, allowing smoking in restaurants, bars, hotels, and just about anywhere else where people like me have to deal with someone else’s offensive habits and personal deficiencies. But I wrote about that separately so I won’t get into it here.
 
Saturday we played even earlier, at a prompt 3pm. Again I was hanging outside of the venue, unsociable as a consequence of my sensitive sinuses. The weather was quite lovely though, so it wasn’t too bad. I walked to the train station to meet a friend of mine who wanted to attend the show. We played, it was good but way too loud, and I split, going with my friend to Shinjuku so he could shop for cologne and I could catch a bus home.
 
The other thing that’s keeping me busy is a Japanese course I’m taking at a university in Tokyo. I had been feeling like I was hitting a plateau with my self-studying and I really wanted to be in a classroom again, mostly to motivate and direct me as I learn this complex language. Every Friday after work I race to the bus station to catch a bus, and then hop off when it arrives in Tokyo, then take a train about 15 minutes to the university, and finally hustle out of the station and to the classroom, often to be the last one to arrive with a minute or two to spare to catch my breath.
 
The class is small, which makes for an intimate and engaging environment. The first day of class started with about 12 students, which shrank considerably to date. When I was in college I sat top dead center of every class, provided nobody else had already snagged my seat. I do this for a few reasons: I like to show the instructor that I’m serious by not hiding in the back, I want to avoid distraction by phone-obsessed millennials and slackers, and I can’t hear for shit unless I’m up close in the action. It was always a toss-up who I would get to sit next to me. Half the time they were other diligent students, the other half they were kids who showed up too late on day one and had to take the only available seats, the ones which wouldn’t hide the inevitable texting and social media masturbation. My system went to hell within the first moments of class when the professor requested we create a semicircle to better interact with one another. Fair enough.
 
Naturally, I assessed (made a judgment) on each student in the class. Three middle aged women, I assumed from Spain, (they spoke English well but spoke Spanish with one another yet looked European to me, I don’t know) left the class within the first few minutes after realizing they were expected to already know some fundamentals of Japanese; none of them had yet studied any of the language, so they decided to instead register for the beginner class. A quiet guy from the U.S. sat opposite me and later would be the person I would sit beside. To my left was an Englishman with bright glassy eyes and enough sense of style, meticulous grooming, and posture to be cast as the token gay guy in name-your-sitcom. I don’t know whether or not he is, and I don’t really care; it’s just my observation. He’s friendly and jovial and I like him. To my right sat a Frenchman (I think) who could very well have been French solely assessed by his arrogant and cavalier demeanor and patent leather shoes. But I don’t rightly know, and I wasn’t listening when he said where he was from. He has however been in Japan for twenty plus years, and spoke fluent Japanese. I’m not sure what his goal was for the class. Down the line sat two American girls – friends – one of whom I quickly found annoying, if not downright obnoxious. Annoying Girl earns this title for a number of ways. She knows a fair bit of Japanese. That’s great; more power to you. But what’s not great is when every time the professor asks a question (or a student, for that matter) Annoying Girl has to make it known that she knows the answer, if not by shouting it out before another student has the chance to answer or the professor has a chance to explain, then by miming the action of the answer for all of us to witness. If I decide to take the next course in this program, I pray she is not registered for it. Further along is a mild-mannered, handsome man from Peru who I decided is my top choice if I was to get stranded on an island with anyone in the class. (Save for the professor; she’s super fun, friendly, and cute to boot)
 
About ten minutes into class the front door of the classroom swung open. A pale, skinnier-than-what-I’d-think-is-healthy girl in an elaborate getup inspired by Tokyo fashion and anime stood in the doorway, her hand propped against the doorframe and her expression practiced like that of a high school theatre student. The professor happily said, welcome, please join us, etc. Anime Girl then announces herself with, “I asked SIX people how to find this place!” and continued to ramble about her misadventures in transit or some other shit I didn’t care about. Now, there are dozens of ways you can enter a room. That’s not one of them. Let’s try that again, shall we, Anime Barbie? The disruption continued throughout the rest of the class as the think-before-you-speak gene either didn't exist in her or didn’t sync up with her stream of consciousness, and I was glad she was on the other side of the room with no chance of being my partner for any activities.
 
By the second and third classes, our numbers had dropped to six, then rose to seven, at which it stands. The newest class member seems friendly and modest and isn’t obnoxious in the least, so another win, eh. The Frenchman left, and the Anime Girl never returned; perhaps she felt the sharp piercing of my distaste for idiocy.
 
Most of my weekends are spent in Tokyo, as I often have band practice or some other arrangements a day or two after my Japanese class. It’s easier and cheaper (although not by much – I’m still spending more on transportation than the cost of my class) to just stick around town rather than going back to Sano.
 
What I thought was big news, only for my big news to be trumped by the results of the 2016 presidential election, (see what I did there?) is that I am now in the smart phone ranks. I gave in. I did it. I dug deep into my wallet (and scoured the internet for a sweet bargain so I didn’t have to dig THAT deep) and bought a new mobile device, something I often imagined had the probability of never happening. Well, a twelve-year run with flip phones and candy bars isn’t too bad, and I scored a heck of a deal on a data plan that my former provider couldn’t even come close to matching. Can I still refer to myself as a Luddite? Ah, it doesn’t so much matter.
 
On the other hand, y’all got an orange bigot to contend with now. Let's give it time to sink in, like chemical waste seeping into our soil and drinking water...

For a change of pace, I decided to write a book review of a novel I recently finished. I devoured this debut novel coauthored by Ray Fisher and David Koco, two Americans living in Tokyo, in just two sittings. For me, that's saying something. It usually takes me a while to finish a book.
 
Operation Freakshow – part thriller, part adventure, part socio-political commentary of modern American life – is a story about unassuming heroes, vigilante justice, the dirt and grime of American culture, our inner demons, and the unpleasant subject of pedophilia. The opening scene is violent and unsettling, creating the tone for the rest of the story. (Although there are plenty of moments to make the reader wince and stir in discomfort, they don’t get quite as horrific as the first chapter.) Structurally, the story reads really well. The novel’s chapters are brief, often only a page or two in length, and offers almost a series of vignettes and snippets of the whole tale that manages to flow almost seamlessly. It reads almost like a screenplay, and indeed it’s not difficult to imagine this story as a motion picture.
 
This tale abounds with characters that the reader will want to love, hate, and either not associate with or keep in their corner just in case they’re needed. But they’re also characters to cheer on and at times relate with. There is a familiarity to them, whether we know people like them in our own lives or have seen similar formulas used in other works of literature or cinema. Either way, the authors do a fantastic job of sculpting the characters for the reader to better understand. We are often introduced to these characters in the midst of their lives – they are in thought, in action, in distress, at any prescribed moment. It’s like walking into a room in the middle of the conversation but being able to join right in.
 
Operation Freakshow guides us through the interwoven lives of seemingly average people from all walks of life – detectives, alcoholics, gubernatorial hopefuls, rowdy teenagers – with the caveat that everyone has a history and everyone has something to tell, whether they decide to or not. They are unapologetically human and there is a rawness about their emotions and personalities. We are forced to tap into our own vocabulary of emotions and challenge them. We feel sadness, disgust, discomfort, curiosity, and anxiety.
 
Fisher and Koco do a fine job at creating suspense and surprise, though a major pivot in the story comes off a bit rushed and fantastic and begins to lean towards a comic-book, pulp/campy vibe (which, given the themes and quirkiness of some characters, I'd bet it was intentional; I get the impression the authors know very well what they're doing). But the momentum isn’t lost and the colorful wordplay and subtle nods to the haphazardness and sensationalism born of American culture allow the story to recover from any mild turbulence without missing a beat.
 
Here’s a bit of some of the goings on: A group of hit men in an unnamed American city, (but reminiscent of the suburbs of megalopolis - Pennsylvania and New Jersey come to mind) the leader of which is a lumbering, tattooed giant both soft spoken and fearful, changes its course of action after the gruesome murder of an acquaintance. Internally they are often at odds but manage to work together. A detective with his own agonizing problems is put on the case which he feels indifferent about. Shady underworld characters do their shady underworld business. Strippers try to make a living. People get hurt. People get killed. True there is a handful of expected tried-and-true elements to create the story, but it works without becoming formulaic.
 
The world that coauthors Fisher and Koco create is colorful, grimy, uncomfortable, and eerily familiar, like streets we’ve all driven down nervously or furniture from our childhood that makes us itch and is immortalized in aging family photos. Scenes are described with meticulous observation, from the stains on the carpet to the objects on a table to the sweat beading up on someone’s neck. But it is not laborious or taxing, and Fisher and Koco know when enough is enough and move on; many chapters open with a description of the scene but they’re wrapped up in a matter of several lines. They do not spoon-feed the reader but rather paint these gloriously dank and sticky scenes for us to finish inking in. They are places we’ve seen before. Lifeless and weathered parking lots, outdated offices with faux wood paneling, harshly-lit convenience stores. At times the descriptions are a bit adjective-heavy, but this doesn’t detract from the story or the scenes, and the authors’ word craft is still praiseworthy, especially for a debut novel.
 
If you are a fan of dystopian graphic novels and comics, a follower of current events, a viewer of films such as Reservoir Dogs, or partial to the writing style of Augusten Burroughs or Christopher Moore, you may very well enjoy reading this. I recommend this book if you appreciate irony, action, dark themes, and heavy subject matter with a layer of lightheartedness and smarts that keep the pages turning and story moving. If vulgarity and colorful imagery are not your thing, I'd like to direct you to the Kids' section instead.

The book is now available on Amazon (along with this review) in paperback and Kindle forms. And ain't nobody paid me to tell you that, ya hear? Just so we're straight.

Three thousand seven hundred seventy-six meters. That’s the height of Mt. Fuji, Japan’s highest peak. Its silhouette is iconic and instantly recognizable. It has been represented in Japanese art and literature for generations. Last weekend I met Fujisan for the first time and we had an intimate and memorable weekend together, though I doubt we’ll be texting each other to flirt and reminisce about the experience any time soon.
 
My friend Saiko and I signed up with a tour group to climb Mt. Fuji and while I was hanging out in the States visiting my friends and family, she was training for what would be a challenging, breathtaking experience. Breathtaking, as in the air gets so thin your head feels like it’s going to separate from your body in dandelion fashion while the rest of you shrivels up like a sundried tomato.
 
I woke up at the hour of old people and took a bus to Shinjuku. I had time to kill so I popped into Starbucks for a cookie and iced chai latte. The barista praised my Japanese and I gave her a classic Japanese “I’m not so sure about that” expression. Suddenly and desperately needing to use the restroom, I waited at the door while a girl in front of me went in. I waited. And I waited. I heard some clinking and clicking and clacking. She must be done. More noise. After an agonizing twelve minutes she finally opened the door. She had been doing her makeup. Goddamn fucking doing her makeup in the single toilet room in Starbucks while there are plenty of other places at the station with walls of mirrors and numerous toilets and sinks to do whatever the hell one wants to do with them. Oh Marshall, why didn’t you just go find one of those bathrooms? I could have, but the urgency of my body’s needs demanded that I find the nearest facility available and secure my position at it. I didn’t know Japanese Barbie would be playing dress-up for nearly a quarter of an hour in the one single room designated for shitting. Besides, I wasn’t finished with my chai and I wanted to recycle my cup before leaving.
 
It was time to get going. Saiko said she’d be waiting at the East exit. I walked there. Oops, she meant the West exit. I walked there. Together we walked to the bus that would take us to Fujisan where we would then submit ourselves to steep slopes and loose stones and wind and darkness.
 
Traffic was downright obnoxious leaving Tokyo. Our bus sat in stop-and-go traffic for nearly two hours before pulling off at a rest stop. I was feeling dizzy from all the rocking of the bus because of this, and was in disbelief that an expressway could have such awful traffic for so long with absolutely no immediate cause or reason. The rest stop was a useless experience in itself. Mobs and mobs of people – like you-can-barely-move-around-because-The-Smiths-have-reunited-and-are-playing-a-free concert mobs of people – swarmed every meter of the place. I waited in line to get a sandwich, but as I slowly neared the counter my time ran out and I had to get back to the bus. We were told we’d stop again for a proper lunch. We didn’t.
 
We arrived at Fuji’s fifth station and had some time to get ready for our ascent. We were told that on this particular day roughly 7,000 people were climbing. That’s a lot of people with a similarly dumb idea. Our group, along with several other groups, cheerfully marched forth to the trail to begin our journey. At this altitude the weather was mild. A slight mist teased us and cloud cover kept us from sweating our socks off. As we climbed higher and higher, our spritely march lessened to a steady and deliberate pace.
 
Soon we were in the clouds, our view shortened to just a few meters ahead. Soon after that we were above the clouds. The wind picked up and whipped this way and that in unpredictable bursts. The packed soil of the trail turned to gravel, then to loose gravel, then to big loose gravel, then to rocks surrounded by gravel. The gradual incline transformed as well into a steeper and steeper slope. As we rose in elevation, the temperature dropped by degrees. Climbing groups stayed together for the most part. When they would get split up by too long of a distance the front would pause for the tail to catch up. Eventually that system would break down, and the big groups would transform into two or three smaller groups.
 
Everyone had a buddy. We were to look out for one another, help and encourage each other, and to keep an eye out for sickness or any ailments. My head was pounding. My peripheral vision set off feelings of swirling and possible puking if I caught glimpse of the mountain or the sky. My eyes needed to stay focused on the trail ahead of me lest I wanted to feel nauseous. Was it altitude sickness? Or was it a combination of a spell of vertigo I hadn’t shaken since earlier in the week coupled with the sickness I felt from the bus or the exertion of my body that had not shifted into such a high gear in a really long time? A few times I needed to pause for a rest. A few times Saiko needed to pause. A few times I suggested she pause to rest and hydrate so that I too could pause to rest and hydrate.
 
The sun eventually retired for the day and headlamps took over visibility duties. I didn’t wear mine because there was enough ambient light from others’ lamps, and with frequency the motion of those lights against the darkness made my head spin and throb even more. We had passed the sixth and seventh stations. Our goal for the evening was the eighth station. There we would sleep until about 1am before continuing our ascent to the summit. While not pitch black, our environment was much darker than a typical light polluted town. Stars filled the sky, and in the moments when I mustered the will to point my head upward I would admire them. The trail, a back-and-forth zig-zag that looked like the Donkey Kong game screen from afar, was no longer speckled with colorful dots of people in overpriced hiking jackets made by their Southeast Asian neighbors. Now it was a zipper of tiny dim lights against darkness that continued upward as far as my eyes could see. A few brighter lights – beacons of hope – pulsed in the darkness. They were the stations, the rest houses and huts where weary climbers would take a rest to warm up and nourish and sleep. Saiko and I were walking along with a group different than our own by now. We knew there were a handful of members behind us still, but a large bunch of them were ahead and well out of sight. Well, everyone was out of sight really. We met up with two other couples from our group. They confirmed that it appeared the others were further ahead and had not waited for the rest of us.
 
Nai, one of our guides who had assigned herself to the tail (a certified guide led and another guide floated about in the middle of the group throughout the hike) eventually appeared at the next resting point. She said we had just two more stations to go before our stop for the night. We pushed on. My balance was that of a toddler’s who got a hold of a bottle of cough syrup. A few times I stumbled from dizziness, the ground around me waving back and forth like a sheet on a clothesline against a soft breeze. It pushed toward my face and pulled back away, the sound of it like the low frequencies a submarine would emit in an intense scene of a hellishly long war movie. The eighth station was in view. We were almost there. Suddenly, almost instantly as if the tape had been fast-forwarded to the next track, we were there. It was closer than it felt just moments before, and now we had arrived. Mobs of people sat outside of the guesthouse on long benches while others filled the warm and bright entranceway of the hut. People moved all around us in every direction. A cue for the bathroom snaked around the side of the building. Staff ushered people inside and directed them to their quarters. Food was being ordered and served and eaten at low tables just inside the entrance.
 
We were led to the shoe rack and then upstairs to a loft with rows of sleeping bags and mats some forty or so deep. Saiko and I each claimed a mat and dropped our gear. The ceiling was so low that I had to crouch down as if I were avoiding getting picked off in a game of paintball or a visit to Camden, New Jersey.
 
Downstairs I negotiated with the staff to create a meal I could eat. I had been joking throughout the day that I wanted ochazuke when we arrived. And wouldn’t you know, they actually had it! I had asked for rice and tea and soy sauce and said I’d make my own, and the lady behind the counter exclaimed, “Ochazuke! We have ochazuke!” They didn’t have it on their menu, which is just as well because it’s so delicious and I’d be sad if they were sold out.
 
As we sat there having dinner the rain came down in a fury. Another tour group was just arriving and they flooded the lobby of the guesthouse. Workers hastily but orderly pulled bags and boots from the climbers and placed them in plastic bags to get them out of the rain. Their efficiency indicated they had clearly done this before. I went to the bathroom, which was located outside behind the building. A small man stood there ringing out his shirt, his glasses fogged over with condensation from the warmth of the washroom. He stood there shivering and I wondered why he was bothering to ring out his clothes instead of just changing into dry ones. I asked if he had another shirt. He did not. So I told him to wait while I gathered my spare shirt along with a hooded windbreaker I had. I gave them to him. Then I took a shit.
 
By nine we were in bed and wrestling with sleep which didn’t come easy due to the hard floors and large man whose snoring vibrated through my pillow. The Japanese girl next to me was using her air canister pretty often. She and her friend chatted with Saiko and me. We discovered we share the same birthday, and I also learned that so does Bernie Sanders. She asked me if this was my first time climbing Mt. Fuji. I responded only slightly jokingly, “Yep, first and last time.”
 
My head was still spinning and throbbing but I was reluctant to take any medication due to the altitude and effects it might have on me. In just a few hours we would be woken up to continue on to the summit. Could I handle it? Did I really care? I felt like I could throw up at any moment. I was breathing fine but my head and inner ear were not cooperating with me. Any time I sat up or moved position my head would spin worse. I listened to the sound of rain pounding down on the roof that was just above my head; I could touch it just by reaching out my arm. “Listen,” I said, “It’s the sound of me not going outside any time soon.”
 
One of the guides came up to the loft and started waking people up. Saiko got up and nudged me to do the same. I didn’t budge. I was going to stay there as long as I could. My head felt like a balloon full of lead. It wouldn’t take me long to get ready, and I wasn’t interested in getting up just yet. As I lay there I listened to the sounds of our group packing up and getting dressed. Zip, zip, swoosh, shuffle, zip. Moments later the guide returned. “Wait, wait. Hold on. Listen, everybody listen. I have some bad news. We have to cancel.” I sat right up. Cancel?
 
At the summit there was pretty nasty weather. So much so that all the huts further up the trail were reporting it. Other groups had already canceled. It was a blanket cancellation. We were told we could continue to sleep for a few more hours. And I had no qualms with that. While I didn’t hear anyone griping, I felt pretty sure I was one of the only ones that didn’t really care that we wouldn’t be going outside at one in the morning to spend another three hours tromping up the mountain.
 
And so it was. At just before 5am we were again awoken, this time to see the sunrise. At this altitude we were already well above the clouds. I made my way outside with several hundred other climbers. Beams of orange light cracked through the clouds and began to gently brush the tops of them with solar magnificence. The mountain slowly came to life as it welcomed the sun’s arrival. This is why I came. I didn’t need bragging rights to say I made it to the top. I didn’t have a bucket list I was checking off. The reward was this, only 3020 meters above sea level.
 
Soon daylight took over the mountainside. It was unmistakably morning. Groups packed up and prepared to move on. Our group was packed and waiting at one end outside of the building. (the toilet side, as it were) One of our guides got our attention. “If I said I was going to the top, how many of you would be interested in joining me?” A few more than half of the group raised hands. I was not in that group. My heart was now set on my body’s recovery and a (hopeful) return to a normal-feeling head. It was explained that since we would be departing several hours after schedule, this final leg of the trip would have to be at a quicker pace than usual, and the descent would require a lot of running down the trail. Anyone who had trouble the night before would be excluded from joining. Knowing how I was in my current state, and knowing that the guide knew I was in that state, (she had checked me for altitude sickness at one point) I was not going to kid myself into thinking I was in any condition to push twice as hard after about three hours of sleep. And I wasn’t about to be dejected if I did raise my hand to join in.
 
The ascent group lined up to climb. The descent group lined up to return to oxygen. The certified guide would lead the descent. Her buddy would be the girl who packed eight liters of water (two to three liters is what’s recommended) and whose bag was half the size of her body. “We still have to move quickly,” the guide said. The descent would take nearly three hours alone. We began marching. The space between the guide and the girl (and everyone else who was behind her) widened by every step. I could barely walk at a normal gait without running into her. As this went on, the guide said we could split up but we were to remain with our partners. She said she would take the tail. The girl with the bag was holding up the line now with her bag next to her, asking for T-Rex, the third guide in our group. (That’s really his name, wouldya believe it?) She requested to swap bags with him. He agreed, if not because he was understanding then because he wanted to move things along. Saiko and I marched on, as did every other pair at its own pace. At times it was difficult to refrain from getting speed as the slope was steep enough and the ground loose enough to cause constant instability underfoot. We slid along, each step relocating our feet nearly half a meter from where we put them down before the earth settled beneath them. T-Rex joined Saiko and me and we walked together for most of the decent. This had been his fourth climb, and he said he was glad the season was over and he wouldn’t have to do this again until next year.
 
At the fifth station the three of us decided to get something to eat. It was only 9am but the restaurants and shops were open for business. I had a delicious pilaf and miso soup, along with a $4.00 cola in a Dixie cup full of ice. The bus had arrived so Saiko, T-Rex and I boarded to get some rest. Eventually the rest of the troops, both descending and climbing, returned to the station and boarded as well. Some were late so we departed late. I was jarred awake by the guy behind me, telling me to put my seat up. That’s not a way to make friends with me, so he was immediately at the top of my “I’m Not Having It” list.
 
After about an hour we stopped at a little resort: an onsen and restaurant and a farmers market and museum. I had inquired months ago about the onsen, as they are a part of many of the tours the company leads (it’s like a little bonus I suppose) since I have tattoos and they are almost exclusively prohibited. I was told in my email reply that many foreigners with tattoos attend these tours and they never have trouble. I was looking forward to the part where we’d go to an onsen. Do you see where this is going? Upon walking into the resort I read a big sign that was written in at least five languages. The English version went something like this: “Absolutely nobody with tattoos is permitted in the onsen.” I was told by a guide to just not say anything and go in. So I did. The locker room was full of naked Japanese men. My locker (number 111) was located right below a naked Japanese man’s locker, and I tried to get past him while he stood there staring at me while toweling off with his dick flapping around. Lots of them were staring at me. They weren’t having it. Knowing that the next step would be them whining to the front desk about my body ink, I gathered my towel and key and walked out and returned it to the desk. Just to be sure I asked the man there if it would be okay. Nope. Not okay.
 
A bunch of members of our group were waiting to check in to the onsen. Knowing several had tattoos, I informed them that they were wasting their time. A discussion began with the foreigners and our guide and some of the staff. Those offenders decided to get lunch instead. One girl, a vegan, had been struggling to get a decent meal the entire trip. I read over the restaurant menu for her and her boyfriend as best I could. There was not a single dish on the menu she could have. In fact there was not a single item I could have either. Downright annoyed, I marched out to see what other ways I could kill an hour and a half that I otherwise would have spent relaxing in steamy healing water, had I been told the truth about the place we were going. I did manage to find something to eat and then finished off my third ice cream cone of the day.
 
It started to rain just as the bus was leaving. Everyone boarded and we headed back to Tokyo. 60 kilometers from our destination we again sat in stop-and-go traffic. Stuck going out, stuck going in. Now I had identified one major problem with a monoculture hooked on uniformity. Everybody is doing the same fucking thing at the same fucking time. Forget traveling anywhere on a holiday; prices are through the roof because it’s the one time EVERYONE IN JAPAN IS GOING SOMEWHERE. The concept of taking any random day off seems to be beyond them, and here, on this plain weekend, everyone who was leaving at the exact same time we were were now returning at the exact same time as we were. Our scheduled arrival time was 4pm. At 3:52 I looked at my surroundings. Nothing looked remotely like Tokyo. In fact nothing looked like any town, just mountains and trees. By ten after five we finally arrived. I had band practice at six, had to pick up a bag of my bandmates’ belongings I had stowed in a locker at Shinjuku station the day before, needed to get some food, and had to walk a healthy distance to get to our practice space. Well, I made it. And four hours after that I got a bus back to my town, and showered and crawled into bed, realizing only then just how much my legs hurt.

As I went through Narita airport to take a flight back to the U.S., I was politely greeted by the Japanese staff throughout the process. When I was standing in the wrong line at check-in, a woman with a warm smile and gentle mannerisms directed me to a different cue since I had already completed check-in online. My bags, possibly breeching the permitted weight limit, were not individually weighed and scrutinized. At security, I asked for a hand check of some film and a disposable camera I wanted to finish up. The attendant at screening happily accepted my request and, once I was through the x-ray machine, he politely handed my items back to me, bowing and thanking me as he presented them. The x-ray attendant did the same, sliding my carry-on items over to me and thanking me. “For what?” I wondered. I was just doing what I had to do to get through this place and get on a giant metal tube to put my life in the hands of some people for over twelve hours, and possibly less if fate wasn’t looking to be on our side that day. (since you’re reading this, it was)
 
Then I got to New York’s JFK International airport. I was herded along with other weary travelers to immigration, puffy-chested security officers coldly glaring at us as if we were criminals or soldiers captured in a war. An immigration officer signaled for me to approach the desk and held out her palm to indicate she wanted my documents. I presented my passport and she scanned it with her cold eyes for a moment before asking me how long I’ve been gone and what I was doing there. I was given an “okay, go,” as she slapped my passport onto the counter for me to gather, and I walked on to baggage claim then to customs. I approached the customs desk and stopped at the giant red line where giant red letters on the floor told me to stop. A man ahead of me approached the customs officer. The officer looked past the passenger and locked eyes with me, then held out his chubby palm, indicating for me to wait. Funny, because I thought I was perfectly stationary and obeying the instructions by standing on a big red line along with my luggage, because the big red line with big red letters instructed me to do so. When the other passenger was dismissed, the rotund attendant, perhaps in his twenties and with a tattooed sleeve and cool guy beard hiding the absence of his neck and personality, gave a single firm wave, urgently snapping his hand at the wrist to call me forward. I approached him, my passport in hand, and as I held it up to him (open to the photo page to save him the hassle) he aggressively snatched it out of my hand and glared at it, not saying a word and never making eye contact with me. He then snapped my documents back towards me, and whipped his hand to the left, with an index finger pointed at the exit. “Welcome to fucking America. Jesus Christ,” I said to him.
 
I’m spoiled. And I shouldn’t be. There’s something wrong with that. And it makes me sick to think that the measure by which I have realized this is the result of a culture of aggression and I-don’t-give-a-fuck-about-anything-or-anyone-but-me American attitude as compared with the behavior of millions of warm, friendly, pleasant people on a strip of Islands in the Pacific. The fact that there exists such universal misery and anger – I don’t know what else to call it because I think that’s what it is – just makes me sad. How did I offend by going through JFK airport? Am I not a patron, a customer using a service for which I have paid handsomely, therefore helping to fund the continuation of these facilities and the jobs of meathead security guards and notoriously incompetent TSA staff? So why then all the attitude? Was everyone having a bad day that afternoon? Well boo fucking hoo. It’s no excuse to treat me or anyone else like shit. The world is not out to get you. I’m blown away how poorly we’re treated in the States when for the most part people have it pretty damn good. And on this topic, I’m happy to be back in Japan, a place where kindness and respect reign supreme. On that note, lemme tell you what I’ve been up to:
 
As my friends and family know, I spent a few weeks back home to pay a visit to as many people as I could see. My dearest friend Joe graciously picked me up at Hell the airport and we spent together my first few days back on American soil. Dinner at a Mexican restaurant was in order. I have not yet seen a Mexican restaurant in Japan (although I hear they do exist) so I was eager to get my hands and mouth on a cheesy, rice-and-bean-filled, sauce-soaked pillow of flour tortilla goodness. And it happened, and continued to happen throughout my visit. In fact lots of food adventures happened. Pizza happened. Vietnamese food happened. Thai happened. Neptune Diner happened. (Now there’s a place where the prices are still on par with the average worker’s salary, where they don’t pretend that putting a sprig of parsley on a plate and neatly arranging eggs and toast warrants charging twelve bucks; thanks for that, Neptune) American Bar and Grill happened and happened and happened again. It may seem trivial. Oh wow Marshall, you ate food, probably because you got hungry at some moment and wanted to eat. Well yeah I did. But when you’ve been away for a long time from some things you like, love, crave, desire, you appreciate them even more when you finally have them.
 
I made a point to see my family as soon as I was back in town. My brother kindly let me borrow his ever-reliable turd of a car. I parked in the driveway and as I walked up to my parents’ door my dad came out onto the porch to greet me. I hadn’t seen or spoken to him the entire year. Hand resting on his belly, he motioned across the property to his new toy. “You see that backhoe there? I tell you, I don’t know how I got a damn thing done around here without that for the past thirty years.” I acknowledged it and said I noticed some of the work he must have been doing. “I see you’re building a wall over there. What’s that all about?” His response: “Well, I have that backhoe now, I can do it!” My father, recently retired and now busier than ever, can now move massive amounts of dirt around his property with less effort than ever before. And that is every reason to play in mud, I guess. It’s good to see you, pops.
 
Skateboarding happened. A lot more than before, too. I’ll thank my good friend Jeremy for that. We went on at least four road trips to hit up some skate parks around the region, from Pittsburgh and York in Pennsylvania to Rehoboth in Delaware to Salisbury and Laurel in Maryland and beyond. I hadn’t skated in over a year, and it came back to me pretty easily. Jeremy was sure to get in plenty of riding time with me while I was visiting. Inspired, I brought a bunch of boards back to Japan with me to share the love. I used every kilogram of luggage allowed by ANA, and the day after I returned to Japan I assembled a new cruiser and rode to my favorite sushi place down the street from me.
 
Music happened. My former bandmates carried on in my absence, filling the drum void by recruiting a drummer the boys used to play with. And I like it. They sound good. Adam asked if I wanted to put some songs together to play at a show they had at the end of the month. We crafted a five-song set to play on the Friday before I would leave for Japan again. It felt great to be behind the kit with an old friend and amazing songwriter. On the night of the show I saw so many faces I hadn’t seen in so long. Old friends from roller derby, my mama and a close friend of hers, my cousin, friends from local bands and the scene, the regular ABAG crew, and so many others. Being back at ABAG felt good (I had also been there several other times over the month) and it’s always felt like home. It’s come as you are. It’s Cheers with good music and art. It’s good food served by the coolest peeps in Lancaster, hands down.
 
My old bandmates had double duty that night; two of them are in a new band called Tigerhawks which is really good. Adam of course was playing with me and also with Sherwin. Headlining (although I don’t think he planned to play that spot) was Joe Jack Talcum, my dear friend and longtime musical inspiration. I missed seeing him perform, and he didn’t disappoint. I also managed to attend a few shows while I was home. A friend of mine offered me and some friends backstage passes to see Ween at Festival Pier in Philly, and I also got to see my friends’ excellent band Ton-Taun in Lancaster before I left.
 
My former roommate and her wife offered to let me stay with them for the duration of my visit. They are great people and great friends, and staying with them felt like home to me, especially on those days when a town so familiar to me didn’t. It’s odd how that works. On one hand, I know that place. I’m familiar with it and I have roots there. But on the other hand, I see how it’s been changing in my absence. New shops are cropping up. More well-lit, cozy spaces for affluent white suburbanites are finding a place here and there. Rents are going up. Demand is going up. The inability for the disadvantaged and marginalized to find and keep a safe and affordable home is going up. And that bothers me a lot. Again I hear people talking about community this and community that. What community are they talking about? All I see are entitled, tattooed, overpriced-coffee-and-craft-brew-drinking millennials strutting about from one renovated, comfortably climate-controlled space to the next. You want to build community in this town? Go South. Go East. See those neighborhoods. Bridge that gap. Help those people rather than build another boutique clothing shop or gourmet donut joint. (Since the gourmet cupcake market is saturated, I guess the natural progression is to capitalize on another utilitarian pastry and disguise it as something worth charging several bucks for, but then again anyone can make a batch of delicious cupcakes for pennies whereas I don’t know shit about frying a donut) Don’t get me wrong; I know commerce is especially important to cities, as is tourism, celebrity sightings, and getting ranked in travel magazines. But I also don’t see the opportunities available for the average Joe to find gainful, meaningful employment to keep up with the fancy layer of poop that’s being spread all over the place.
 
I tune into the feeling of being in my hometown and assess what that means to me. In many ways it feels always like home, but in many ways it doesn’t. I’m okay with that; it’s just a strange feeling when it happens. I’m doing what I should be doing, and that is creating my own experiences, writing my own story, just like always.