Gah, gah! Why does *that club* always fuck me up??
No regrets mind you and I like his new apartment but golly-gee I should probably get into fingerpainting or religion or something. Desho?
A rather interesting night last night, an innocent two hours of karaoke in Hatagaya transformed into a gin-fueled all-night display of tomfoolery, poor dancing, and fascinating strangers at a club called Atom. The karaoke was with a bunch of Jude the Obscure's housemates, a wild and unhinged collection from all corners of Europe and North America, plus several Japanese. Let the gong show begin ..... Different bottles of liquor sparkling illegally from hand to hand in a second-floor karaoke box that had a dangerous, somewhat Arabian decor and hopeless, decadent red throw cushions -- too good for us -- in the lounge outside I smoke a cigarette and a drunk salaryman wrestles with a UFO Catcher, wins a stuffed rabbit holding a red plush heart, and gives it to me, shouting in English: "Present for you!" -- back in the room, a tangle of dancing, shouting, wailing arms and legs, we are finally escorted out by a manager -- a couple of confusing train rides, wind up in Shibuya, now just seven of us plus the Korean who joined our group outside a fast food outlet -- Atom three floors of mayhem, first floor trance, second floor rave, third floor hip-hop -- Jude the Obscure, Amsterdam, and I all had previously agreed-upon dares and carried them out with *flare* (despite what anybody says) -- kissing a man, hitting on a Harajuku-girl, and forming a conga line with strangers, respectively -- flashes of psychadelic insanity, neon around wrist, splash of gin splash of beer -- the toilets a weird technicolour fairytale of virgins dressing for the ball, of young Old Testament Jewesses adorning themselves for a Hebrew king, or maybe sex parlour perfume menthol nightmare-mosaic -- now it's nearly 5 and Jude in rough shape; we flee, jump into a cab with a driver who was too nice a man to have to drive drunks around in bleak, grey Shibuya dawn -- has to stop the car to retrieve plastic bags from the trunk -- back at Jude's place I am out of alcohol, out of cigarettes, and shatter to sleep.
The morning had a weird tinge -- all I wanted was water but I couldn't find any cups in the kitchen, was about to use a bowl when an Italian came in to fix a pot of tea, took in my disheveled and confused state, and gave me one of his mugs. He is from Naples! And spoke no English so we chattered some in Japanese. Jude called in sick for work, I gave him some water, then headed out for the station where I wandered past nightmare-graffiti and old women on bikes and Spanish girls shouting at kids. In the station toilets a woman collapsed and had to be taken away in a wheelchair.
(an almost incomprehensible scrawl in my tiny notebook, inspired possibly by the line "The good Lord will take you away" that a Dutch man sung at karaoke)
a cry to God -- maybe the good Lord will take u away -- automaton Tokyoites weeping for some kind of transporter beam bliss ... please they say -- take us away cuz all we know how to do is sing and even that leaves us bruised and weakened becuz we rage against only one outlet -- rage and rage against beer / expensive loafer / expensive personality -- why is it that the world fractures @ midnight and then reinvents itself by 2? Why these clubs, these steins? Why strife and fantasy and memory and horrible negative jagged thought? Good Lord take us away -- Good Lord take us someplace we can think -- if that's all there is in a Friday night then Good Lord fuckin save us all, ya gotta!!
(and then, graffiti glimpsed the next morning walking back to the station from Jude the Obscure's house)
Listening to: Sigur Ros
Drinkin': peach juice
It snowed on Wednesday! Magnificent bountiful flakes!
Yesterday I was meant to arrive home from work at 6pm and instead got in at 8pm, due to a suicide on the train tracks.
Just an hour ago a very thin man in a luxurious fur coat emerged from the convenience store and into the bracing winds, licking an ice cream cone.
So, it turns out this Chris Crocker fellow is not merely a fame-whore Britney fan, as I had initially assumed -- indeed, the Britney video came out long after he'd built a cult-hit YouTube reputation as a performance artist. He's got over fifty videos to his credit, and is one of the most-viewed contributors in YouTube history (even before the Britney video, which catapulted him to fame within a mainstream audience). The videos vary in quality and creativity, but those that hit the mark do so in a stunning way.
His debut video is This & That, a kind of primal shriek at the homophobia in his American south hometown:
Another worth viewing is Watch It -- bizarrely erotic, and with an almost Bergmanesque use of shadow. Think a pop culture-obsessed Lolita as 20-something gay man in his grandmother's sitting room:
Another good dance one, purely for the energy, is Defeat Depression:
Crocker has received reams of criticism, some of it predictable homophobic half-literate gibberish, and some of it fair conjecture regarding the authenticity of his performances. What I find interesting, though is that Fox News actually got involved, complaining, among other things, that the background in Crocker's Britney video was similar to the backgrounds in OSAMA BIN LADEN'S (!!!) home videos. Hmm .....
Crocker has been the target of negative commentary from an extraordinary range of sources, and I'm trying to suss out what makes him so threatening not only to the masses but to mega-media empires also. Could it be that his very being represents too many examples of Other (homosexual, poor, likely mentally ill, intelligent, direct) to safely be ignored? Or is it just a sense of outrage that a poor kid from the South with a shitty camera and his grandma's sitting room could seemingly effortlessly achieve cult-star status in a matter of months? ("We could do that," think the masses. And then don't.)
Crocker has been snapped up for a reality TV show due out sometime in 2008, and unfortunately that will probably be the end of him. While he is perfect for reality TV -- with his obsession with pop music, image, make-up, and melodrama -- I think he would fare better as a serious actor -- an Elliot Smith of film, maybe. There is something dangerous and powerful behind the crazy blue eyes, and I think he could transform modern film, particularly if he wrote and directed as well as acted. Hollywood cries out for an auteur!
Oh well. Maybe he will transform reality TV.
Thoughts?
Listening to: m-flo
Drinkin: a fuzzy navel
Went out for dinner with N. on Sunday, to a very cool tofu izakaya in Shinjuku. The tables all had individual rooms with sunken chairs, and a series of paths connected the tables, bordered with bamboo and stones and lanterns. Very traditional Japanese! And yet, in the booth we ordered food and drinks using a touch-screen computer that also offered games and fortune telling! Which I suppose is very New Japanese. Wicked-cool mix.
When we left I noticed a small dish of salt at the exit, and although I knew what it was for I asked again, as Japanese usually have several different variations on tradition, and I want to know them all. He said, "Ah, that's salt, it's to keep bad luck out of the restaurant. To keep the devil out."
I asked, "Why salt?"
He thought about it for a minute or two, and then said softly, "The devil doesn't like salt." Yes!
Jude the Obscure is rapidly morphing into a Drinking Buddy of epic proportions, poised to join that list of shame that includes only Trever Harris ("Let's go liberate a couch from the cop shop. On rollerblades!"), Richard Phillips ("Somebody give the prof a foot-long!") and Ms. Jessica Post ("Do you think if we used a ROCK on it we could get the cork off?").
Shinjuku happened, and the clearest moment I recall involves climbing to the third storey of his guesthouse at 4 a.m. and beating on someone's doorway because, "I think you'd really like the Swedish guy." Other shards: making bitter enemies-for-life with 2 snobby Korean lesbians. Bodily harm in a supermarket at 3 a.m., though thankfully the shopping basket of wine, beer, and chu-hi was unscathed. Conversation just after retrieving my scarf from the first izakaya -- taken from the fingers of a beautiful bartender I had just fallen wholly, powerfully in love with: "Get his number!" "No way. His English isn't good enough." "That's never stopped you before ...." A confusing cab ride. The usual arguments, me saying evenly, "I'm getting quite angry right now. As in, much angrier than I look, actually;" Jude resonding, in a conversational tone, "Well, yes, I can see that." An altercation with a futon about 4:30, sleep very tempting, but no: back down the dark streets, through the turnstile, and on the first train to Noborito. A weeknight, this.
All of my friends, without exception, are eminently interesting people who deserve grand texts written of them, but something about Jude's personality makes me think he has the potential to become a sort of Dean Moriarty figure. I'm going to make him famous!
Nice to be back in the Japan swing of things!
I had an uneventful flight home -- aside from some exciting turbulence -- then lounged around the airport for a bit, eating a tuna sandwich and notating a Haruki Murakami short story collection for the Urban Sage's birthday present, before heading back to sweet home Noborito. Went to bed early.
The following evening Jude the Obscure and I hit Shimokitazawa, where I nearly lost control in an izakaya when the people at the next table ordered a salad with a live fish. We unwisely went to karaoke after and the various calamities ensued. The next morning we headed out to the combini for champagne and orange juice, because Jude had never had a mimosa before.
JUDE: So why is it okay to drink this in the morning again?
ME: Because there's orange juice in it.
JUDE: But, there's orange juice in a screwdriver, too.
ME: Are you saying you want a screwdriver?
We looked for tarot cards in Shinjuku but there were none to be found.
That evening I had an emotional reunion with Prince Harry and the Urban Sage. Sage had presents! A notebook from Thailand, and a beer coolie inscribed with "I'm a Professional Victorian Piss Tank." (She has a matching one as she's from Victoria, too -- in Oz.) Prince Harry and I went out for Italian and innocently ordered a bottle of wine, only to be presented with a fucking 1.5 litres! Gong show!
Friday was tres cool, a bunch of girls drinking in Machida and getting the waiters to take Polaroid photos. The bartenders did an awesome live show a la Tom Cruise in Cocktail .... I have a video; I'll figure out how to post it soon. Karaoke after.
The next evening was the Urban Sage's birthday, so no less than 28 of us trundled off to Shimokitazawa and the goodness that is Dot. All-u-can-drink. An awkward Hello with the notorious M, who I for some reason made out with in the back seat of a car for 20 minutes in October. Nothing beats awkward Hellos for ADRENALIN RUSH! Or not. Back on the train by midnight, and I had wisely intended to eschew the karaoke and go home, but Jude the Obscure guilt tripped me into singing for a bit, which was fabulous in its own way, and then I *did* go home, raved drunkenly to a fellow tenant in the washroom, and crashed to sleep.
Nice to be back!
Drinkin': a screwdriver
Listening to: the Stone Roses
So, I had an awesome week in Victoria! Followed by a crazy night in Vancouver. I'll try to keep it brief:
(Monday) When the bus pulled onto Douglas St. in Victoria I actually started weeping openly -- had not realized that Vic is basically a person, worthy of being missed just as Ben, Michael, Steph, Colin, Caro, and all the rest are. The Spaniard seated next to me discreetly looked away. I hooked up with Jay Dunphy and we went out for coffee and cigarettes -- excellent Jay time! -- complete with ambling down to Steamer's so he could double-check some details of his gig later that night, and contemplation at the Junky Park, where I mixed rum into my coffee and we talked about aging. "Of course you can crash at my place, Joy. And tell ya what -- ya don't even have to put out!" Later, had a few beers with Steph, then stopped at Welburn's for snacks, which prompted a fresh round of sobbing (damnable beers!) because I remembered going shopping there with Matt for awesome food that we would cook while jazz played and Sambuca purred, which used to be one of my favourite things to do .... Shogenai. Brought my snacks to Michael's new pad, where I was presented with a gin and tonic mixed with Ben's generous hand. Michael cooked a mean salmon! We got too trashed to walk and somehow made it to a Fernwood New Year's Eve Party, where (1) I convinced a girl that not only was I Japanese, I was ethnic Japanese; (2) Michael deliberately sprayed pink champagne onto someone's shirt because he'd shoved a camera in Michael's face and demanded to know "what he did with pussy" when he saw it (Michael said "Give her panties;" Ben said, "Take her shopping!'); (3) Steph ground the spike heel of her chic pumps into my foot and I swore and raged and she said contemptuously, "Who's the Trophy Wife NOW"; (4) we left when the Hobo Fight seemed imminent. Flirted with the cabbie on the way home. Met a playwright outside of M's apartment. Happy 2008!
(Tuesday) Michael cooked the world's best breakfast hash, plenty of eggs and potatoes and cheese and vegis. I had a gushing wound on my hand due to a scrap with the cheese grater, so Ben and I ventured off in search of band-aids and wound up writing genius prose on the Moka House patio. Milled about Victoria after. Went to dinner that evening at the Japanese Village, the three of us plus Dan, followed by a sedate evening of Scrabble.
(Wednesday) More writing with Ben at La Dolce Vita. Tracking down a 1940 edition of Ben Hur. West Coast breakfast @ Avalon: lox eggs bennie. Everyone there was a hippie! Love! More milling. I went to a tarot reader and had my cards done -- the only time another party has read them for me, aside from one time when Jude the Obscure drunkenly gave it a go -- and she was accurate and professional. Told me some interesting stuff. And I was pleased because although she was more confident than me, more polished, and certainly better at shuffling, our interpretation skills were about on par .... Cool. More sushi for dinner, then the Futurama movie (THE FUTURAMA MOVIE!!!) with Ben, Michael, Steph, and Ian.
(Thursday) A day of shopping and writing, and hanging out by myself at Michael's place, where I poured myself a glass of sangria, turned on the CBC, and pretended I lived there. It is the most gorgeous place .... Hardwood floors, etc. Transferred my luggage over to Colin's place and then joined a good group -- Ben, Steph, Ian, Devon, Mike, this guy named Spooky -- for beers at Big Bad John's. Everyone left before midnight and I wandered the downtown streets alone, looking for a bar that was still open. Wound up at the James Joyce. Cabbed it back to Colin's place and shattered onto the couch.
(Friday) Chilled with Colin a bit in the morning, then gathered breakfast food, coffee, and a newspaper from Welburn's before returning to his place and pretending I lived there. Met up with Caro in the afternoon -- beautiful Caro -- we got coffee and took artsy photos down by the harbor. Met up with her awesome boyfriend G for Vietnamese food, then drank beers at their apartment and discussed literature, culture, Tokyo, Calgary. Tokyo may beat Vic in terms of, well, entertainments of the evening, but nobody can beat the Victoria kids for kickass, genius discussion. G read from Poe for a while even. I left -- regretfully -- at 10, met up with Steph at Ian's apartment, had a few very strong drinks, and smoked on the patio whilst looking piercingly at the Victoria skyline before passing out on the world's most comfortable couch, where I had vivid sex dreams co-starring Kiefer Sutherland.
(Saturday) Steph and I went for brunch at Floyd's, and they actually remembered my order from the last time I was there, which was a year and a half ago!! Bummed around for a bit, then got on the ferry en route for Vancouver. Darren picked me up on the other side, and we met up with Reilly and Miranda at the Black Frog for dinner and drinks and awesome storytelling. Then to a girl named T's house (so cool to finally meet her!) for martinis, Rock Band, and assorted debauchery. The last thing I remember clearly is Darren peering at me from behind his drink at 3 a.m. and slurring, "Say! We've got to get you to the airport in a few hours!" Crashed to sleep back at his place.
(Sunday) Darren awesomely drove me to the airport, and I transferred the strange butter knife Youngest Brother had given me from my carry-on luggage to my stowed luggage. Got in line for Japan Air, and met a couple of J guys, one of whom was heading back to Yokohama and keen to check out Tokyo. I got his number and promised to call the following weekend. Ha ha. Welcome back!
Christmas Day was nice, mostly about the kids -- Youngest Niece was rabidly impatient to open presents: "Let's just get on with it already," she kept insisting, in an accent I couldn't place. Traditional dinner with relatives after.
By evening Eldest Brother, Youngest Brother, and I were feeling the effects of a full day with precious little alcohol -- only a couple of furtive nips from a bottle of vodka Youngest Brother had hidden in the outside freezer -- so 10:30 pm found us cruising through Vernon on the look-out for a bar open on the holiday. There was no such place! Youngest Brother thoughtfully steered us to a strip club on the wrong side of the tracks where he "knew a couple of the girls," but this too was closed. And by now it was 11 so the liquor stores were also closed, and here is where I threw a bit of a hissy fit. Youngest Brother kindly gave me the last of the vodka to calm me down, and the three of us went to his apartment and smoked various local delicacies.
1 am: Eldest Brother and I head back to our parents' house, but en route I have a powerful urge to eat as many chips as possible. Or more, if I can. We stop at 7-11 and I proceed to compare -- negatively -- Canadian 7-11's to Japanese ones, complete with examples and demonstrations, and finish with a recitation, in Japanese, of the proper way to greet customers when they enter your establishment. Eldest Brother, pained, explains to me that the clerks on duty can both speak and understand English -- fluently, no doubt -- and also that they are avidly and perhaps angrily paying a lot of attention to me. Particularly the Japanese bit at the end.
"They think you are crazy and rude," he says. 'Pay for the goddamn chips."
The next day I hooked up with Darren the Tiger for coffee at an amazing independent coffeehouse. Then went solo to another coffeehouse and made friends with an Egyptian and wrote for a bit. Chinese food for dinner, and then Middle Brother and I had a few rum-and-cokes at my parents' house which I thought would be okay -- we are 26 and 31 years old -- but the parents arrived home unexpectedly and the mother raged and tried to pour our drinks down the sink -- I clutched mine protectively -- she said she didn't want Sin in the house -- Middle Brother countered with some hurtful personal attacks -- the mother fled -- the father got involved (it was his birthday) -- Middle Brother said some more unkind things, and finished with, "Happy Birthday Pop, I'm sure you'll remember this one," before disappearing into the snowy Canadian night to drink-and-drive his way home. I tried to damage control with my father. He went to bed. I had a couple more drinks, trying to soften the clink of the ice cubes as they dropped into the glass, and went to bed also.
The next couple of days involved snowy mountaintops, a wonderful aimless drive with Colin in which we ended up one or two towns away, a few sad Vernon bars with the Brothers and Colin, and my mother trying to take away my tarot cards, which she found by snooping.
On my last night in town my mother, Youngest Brother, and I went out for Chinese food, and I suggested going out for *one* drink, which my mother wouldn't hear of, so we returned home and Youngest Brother helped me put photos on Facebook whilst he drank whiskey straight from the bottle. We drove him back to his place as he muttered dark, drunken, statements from the backseat: "Why has the scar re-opened?" he asked, followed by, "Wife swap." We dropped him off, and left as he wandered down the street and opened a random car door. Half-way to the Kelowna bus station -- my escape -- Mum noticed he'd left his bottle of whiskey behind and slammed on the breaks on the snowy highway to dump it out onto the ice.
Goodbye, Vernon!