Everything is Dust in the Wind

The wind was rough with me today. It shoved me from behind, like an impatient Trekkie who had been waiting in line all night for tickets to the latest convention. Moments later, it pushed me back like a brutish frat boy who had done too many kegs stands and had the liquid courage of an inebriated Goliath. And then it side swiped me, like the first time I stepped out on the rugby field and was knocked out by a girl the size of a refrigerator. 

I continued to barrel through the capricious wind on what started as a gentle jog through the park. But, with oppressive storm clouds overhead, it wouldn't take a meteorologist to predict what would happen next. Even so, the Earth held it's bladder a little longer.

Twenty minutes later, I reached a point where I felt like I was no longer choosing the direction in which I was running. This robust breeze had hustled me toward the ocean. Looking out over the wind-whipped watery mass, I felt as if I had reached the edge of the earth. I took a short step up on the railing like a kid at the zoo and looked directly down. The waves were cowardly, as if a fat baby had jumped into a bathtub and created a ripple effect. 

I looked back around at the skyline and then my immediate surroundings. A lone fisherman stood at the edge of the pier. Rubber rain gear in check and fishing rod amidst an unending bowl of saltwater broth. 

At the time, I took a step off the rail and trailed the diffident waves with my eyes. I thought about how I can never remember my dreams. But, for some reason, I got this choked up feeling like deja vu, as if I had seen this moment before in a subconscious state. Perhaps the wind had more of a plan for me that day than I thought. 

Big Girls do Cry

The girls enjoy the open air. They like that fresh breeze that catches between the blouse and bra when there's a few buttons turned loose or an airy v-neck gaping. Summer is certainly upon us and I know the girls would like nothing more than to bask in those few gusts of blustery wind that should happen to get trapped beneath a breathable tee. 

Unfortunately, my two darling sweethearts are enduring an oppressively moist summer buried beneath layers upon layers of professional garb(age). 

My company holds dress code to the utmost degree of business standard. For me, this meant buying suits before leaving for Japan, as it stipulated in my contract that if I carried with me a 36D or above (sounds like some kind of weapon), I would be unable to find suitable clothing in Japan for my oh-so-busty chest.

Even in the states, finding a button-down blouse or dress shirt is difficult. I swim through the arms and have almost no shape to my torso, but still, that third or fourth button keeps a-poppin'. This means undershirts required. So, bra, undershirt, blouse. Count it, three layers in what was once a promising summer of endless tank tops and loose fitting shirts. 

Not only do the girls blister in a soggy, dank chamber of multi-layered domination, they are constantly "checked out"--and not in the most pleasant of ways.

My Shibucho, or regional director, pops over and visits every now and again. She has yet to make an appearance without commenting on my "inappropriate" professional wear.

Last week, she asked how I was doing. And then, in a tricky sort of way--kind of how you would imagine a child getting duped into abduction-- proceeded to tell me how I need to straighten my blouse to cover more of my neck. There aren't any more damn buttons, lady, and its sweltering, even with this dilapidated fan blowing chunks of dust and dead bugs into my face. 

There was nothing I could say in response to Shibucho's candid and extremely helpful fashion advice. It really broke me down for some reason. The girls were sweltering under such humid conditions and like anyone, constant heat makes you cranky. 

I cried, er should I say blubbered, for exactly 20 seconds in the bathroom stall. It was a loud burst of upset, but only for a brief moment. For some reason...maybe the heat, maybe the constant scrutiny of my chest, I just needed a quick cry. 

I guess sometimes constant attention of the girls makes them weary of even the subtle stares and glares, especially when they are concealed under a seemingly impenetrable shield of cotton. I could only convince myself to believe that big breasted employees were a novelty in Japan. And I was a force to be reckoned with. 

6am

I met a Nigerian man, in Japan, at an Irish pub. 

Turned my nose up at raw horse meat with a belly full of raw fish.

Wandered Kobe city streets at 4am caught under a caustic drizzle that made me smell the pollution of the night prior. My hair reeked of second-hand smoke. 

Drank Leffe in a European bar with my Jewish friend who swore off a British chemist who's virginity she took. 

Was summoned at a night club by a Spaniard with a comely chiseled face adorned with two long-haired girls from Sri Lanka on both arms.

Listened to Calgary Tom fingerpick his banjo in Osaka at the loneliest of open mic nights.

Waved a western hello to the Japanese dog walker I see on my morning run. After all, we are neighbors.

Sweat through a baby doll dress I attempted to pull over my ample chest on my first effort to go shopping in this mega mall of a country. I had to explain in gesture to the store clerk why I couldn't purchase anything from her pristinely neat clothing store. 

Pretended to peruse fishing rods at a flea market only to lean down far enough to pet a dog while his owner wasn't watching. 

Slept an hour in an all-night karaoke booth before catching the first train home...6am.

I admire Kerouac, Ginsberg and the Beatnik like for their profundity in all of the untrodden open roads and minds of America. I wonder what they would think of my adventures--if they would be considered off-the-Beatnik-path enough to be a genre all their own. 

Independence Day Blues

I could've easily forgotten it was the 4th of July this year...I had to work.

I hope everyone back in the states will enjoy some freedom fries for me along with a lukewarm PBR while watching fireworks surrounded by rednecks with farmer tans. 

I guess the upside is fireworks are legal in Japan.

I miss Neil Young America. 

                 "I've been down the road and I've come back

                  lonesome whistle on the railroad track

                  ain't got nothing on those feelings that I had."  Mellow my Mind

Dig Deep #6: Summer Love

Akashi at sunset. I am quite romantic about my city at the moment. We are, after all, still in our honeymoon phase. And it's our summer of love...

I've missed the heat. The way your face gets that greasy grime when you can't stop sweating and how rewarding it is to wash off the day in ice cold water. The immovable fatigue after a long sun-kissed session at the beach, covered in only the bare essentials. How rewarding and fresh ice cream tastes, even when it melts down your hand and gets the in-between of your fingers all sticky. The way the ocean seem to sweat if there is too much tidal stillness. Panting dogs with unquenchable tongues, dripping onto concrete so hot it looks like acid sizzling. 

I know living with the proper change of seasons, I will soon feel the power of each and welcome fall with enthusiasm. After all, this summer thing is just a tryst. 

 

Daft Signage

I laugh sometimes when I see really inane street signs. For example, the image above: It looks like a man holding a little girl's hand and they are hovering over a bike. I guess one would interpret it as "look for bikes before crossing the road"?? 

The one below is excellent. I interpret this as, "Young girls, please wait for the train attendant to help you if your hat should fall onto the tracks. They will bring a very strange clasp contraption to fish it out for you." Otherwise, I have yet to see any cautionary signs at the stations informing people of any other looming dangers other than the potential loss of a sun hat. 

There is a lot of  "Engurish"--placards and advertising that makes no sense; just a string of English words strewn together in grammatical discord. 

Then again, those are the only signs I do remotely understand since I am otherwise illiterate. 

Fat and Furry overtaken!

Since arriving in Japan, there has been a fat and furry sensory overload. Whether it's a bottle of water, chocolate, the signs around the train station and city, this country is inundated with cuteness. There may not be much of a purpose (or one that I understand), but I wholly embrace a culture that upholds charming little trinkets, icons, and mascots as an ageless standard of nation-wide adornment.
Ouch! This is a sign inside the elevator doors at the mall. It tugs at the heartstrings seeing that sad, symmetrical face with his stubbed fingers. Message accomplished. 

Illuminated cuteness in a storefront window. I was completely distracted by this portly swine to even notice what was actually being advertised. 

My apple juice is that much sweeter because of this fanciful dancing cute thing. He makes apples look exciting and I was exceptionally excited to drink it. 

A clever way to brighten an average sidewalk rest stop. It's like any other cold, uncomfortable granite bench, but with these two companions, it's inviting and friendly. Come sit next to me, friend! I'm here just for you. 

 
This little camera crew duo was excellent. I'm glad they've chosen the octopus to carry the boom mic. His meandrous arms can extend in and out of any frame. 
Surprise? Scared? Confusion? Who cares. It's freakin adorable and completely asinine as an image. What's going on? Why is that crocodile in some sort of old-fashioned tweed suit? What is this mysterious furry figure in the foreground? There are school children involved too. Ah, cute complexity. 
It's certainly not gauche to play with your food...as long as you can turn it into a tempura-flake fuzzy delight. This was in the window of a restaurant and maybe this cute novelty has yet to wear off for me, but I'd purchase food in precious little animal shapes any day. I just hope it wasn't a way to get me in the door and then dupe me into eating a plain old tempura patty with no tomato ears.