Well, I just returned from Japan, and I just knew it was time for another rousing edition of Barrett’s Cultural Awareness. In the original Cultural Awareness Guide, I touched on the mystique of nude beaches, and the Hollywood effect on world opinion toward our military. Today, I’d like to talk a little about the mysteries and the mytheries (intentional misspelling to create a witty new word…..I really amuse myself) of Japan…..
Today’s Truths
“Special massages” are not intended for everyone: Just ask the Yakuza dudes in black suits outside the clubs and parlors. Now, let me preface this with a disclaimer, whether you buy it or not. I did not solicit, ask for, or otherwise in any manner seek out a “special massage” while I was in Japan. But, like a perverse game of telephone, what me and my buddies said came full circle in a manner not intended.
We stood there with our new buddy “El Toro,” as he gave us the lowdown on Japanese culture, where to go, where not to go, the usual insider info you only get from someone who has “been there, done that.” El Toro is a big, loud, interesting guy with an infectious laugh and a great sense of humor. A military spouse, he is married to one of the awesome NCOs who worked 100 hour weeks during Operation Tomodachi, the relief support mission in response to March’s Tsunami and Earthquakes. In one of the rare moments of off-time during Tomodachi, we met up with El Toro on our Sushi excursion (see below) one of our first nights out. As we stood there on the street corner with El Toro, one of my buddies stretched his arms over his head and swayed his hips back and forth:
“Man, my back is TIGHT. I really need a massage.”
We laugh. Everyone giggles.
You really can’t get a bunch of Soldiers together in Japan and say “massage” without half the numskulls (of which I am one) giggling like 7th graders with a faded copy of playboy.
“No, seriously man, my back is killing me.”
Sure…sure it is.
But John (The names have been changed to protect the innocent) stuck to his guns, kept the same story line.
That didn’t stop El Toro from making us all feel horribly awkward however….
“Well, if you want a special massage, you don’t want to go over there.” El Toro points to a seedy looking massage parlor above the local noodle stand.
“No man,” my buddy responds, “I DON’T want the special massage, just a regular one.”
“Okay, okay.” El Toro thoughtfully pauses, eyes up as he ponders what handy tidbit of information to pass along next.
“Okay, hang a left at the train station, and go down about four blocks. At the top of the blue building, they give Gai-Jin the special massages that…”
“No, Dude! I don’t want a special massage!”
“Okay man, I’m just thinking out loud.” El Toro sounds a bit offended.
The voice of reason in our little group, we’ll call him…John 2, chimed in,
“Fine El Toro. Go through your process then. Tell John where ALL the special massage places are so we all know. Then, tell him where the regular massages are. That way, if he wants a special massage, he can get one, and if he just wants a regular massage, he can do that.”
At this point, a small crowd had gathered, mostly civilians and DoD contractors from the post. One particular seedy-looking individual just smiled and grinned as he walked by, nodding his head in that way folks do when they know the unknown. What commenced was a firehose of information that detailed every questionable massage parlor, gentlemen’s club, strip joint, and sex-toy store in the immediate vicinity. Surprisingly copious amounts at that. As the story proceeded, our level of comfort fell, the awkward meter took a tremendous turn for the ceiling, and our little crowd of gawkers grew to embarrassing heights. Lots of nervous smiles and head bobbing on our part as the disgusted-by-these-Soldiers crowd shuffled by, disapproving looks and sneers seemingly etched into their faces like stone. Man, I hate feeling like the dorky tourist. When El Toro was finished, we all stood there for a few more moments, El Toro smiling like he always did and us three yahoos soaking in all of his information.
“Well, El Toro, appreciate all the help, you guys have a good night….”
“Hey, HEY! You guys the ones looking for the special massages, right?” Around the corner comes the seedy-looking guy from before, waving us down from across the street.
Oh dude, seriously?
“No man,” I respond, “We were actually asking where to get just a regular massage.”
Seedy laughs hysterically, I’m sure he’s thinking yeah buddy, heard that one before.
“Yeah? Well, let me fill you in.” Seedy then proceeds to fill us in, almost verbatim to El Toro, on all the less than reputable places to go. Once again a crowd materializes, though this time the percentage of Japanese is much higher, maybe because Seedy keeps throwing “that’s why they hate the Gai-Jin” phrases into everything he says.
Hours later, and still reeling from our public humiliation, we begin the long walk back to base. It’s late, around 0100, and we’re all dead tired. John stops short of the city limits,
“Hey, you guys heading back in?”
“Uh, yeah dude, it’s like one in the morning, we got to get up tomorrow.”
“I’m gonna stick around for a little longer.”
“Why,” John 2 and I both ask.
“You know, my back is really killing me. I’m going to go get that massage.”
“At 1 a.m. on a Wednesday?”
“Yeah man, my back is really killing me.”
I looked at my other buddy, raising my eyebrow, and looked back at John, laughing.
“Okay bro, whatever.”
We never saw John again.
Just kidding, but the next morning, he told us that massages in Japan were overrated and this his massage sucked (figuratively). Guess the black suits weren’t letting him in the right joints.
The Mythery of Sushi
Okay, I’m going MOPP level 4 for this one, because I know that there are rabid Sushi fans out there who are going to be lashing out with seaweed-tainted-breath-turned-vernacular-blister-agent on this one but I….Don’t….Get….Sushi. I’ve never been a huge Sushi guy, though I have thrown down a half dozen of the brown rice California rolls from time to time. So, with visions of sugar plums…er…rice paddies, dancing in my head, I strolled out into the neon infested night around Zama City and Machida. Thinking I must be really missing out on something, knowing deep in my soul that I was on the cusp of becoming a Sushi convert, my buddies and I dropped into a Sushi bar. Here it was! I was about to partake in that heavenly delight that so many rave about, that so many proclaim to be life’s superfood, life’s ultimate delicacy. Holy Mackerel Batman! They’re actually using a blow torch to semi-cook the yellow fish! Here it comes, come to daddy……hmm. Chew, chew, and swallow…..hmm. Where’s it at? Where is the palatal explosion of happiness? Why aren’t Japanese angels singing the Hallelujah chorus while fireworks explode in an array of fishy splendor. I’ll tell you why. Cause Sushi sucks. It’s a mythery of human nature. A mythological place where we, for some odd reason – given the odd assortment of ingredients, want to be. I just don’t get it. Gluey rice, overpowering seaweed, and half cooked fish slathered in mayonnaise (side note: I can’t even write the word “mayonnaise” without the mental assault of a blubbering Richard Gere sobbing “cause I ain’t got nowhere else to go!”). Sounds more like the menu in King Rat. Keep your Sushi, I’ll have mine à la Jimmy Buffet, Cheeseburger in Paradise style.
Where’s the Pride?
Deep rooted feelings of anger and angst still runs deep if you bring up the Pride vs. UFC debate. Though four years in the past, which is a very long time in MMA, there are still Pride purists who bemoan the fall of their favorite provider of pugilistic pastimes. I was sure, sure as I stand and breathe, that I would get quite a few interesting words on the matter from our Japanese allies, brothers-in-arms who would surely open my eyes to some of the “insider” views that we don’t get in the States. As lady luck would have it, my neighbor during our Command Update Briefs was a Japanese Major with the last name of Inoue. I introduced myself with the requisite head bow and smiled as he introduced himself. Here is how the rest of our brief conversation took place.
“Hello, nice to meet you also, my name is MAJ Inoue.”
“Inoue? Wow, like the fighter, yes?”
“Hmmm?”
“The fighter from Pride. Actually both fighters…brothers. You know. Egan and Enson?”
“What is Pride?”
Oh, this guy. He’s goofin’ me!
“You know… Pride. The Pride…Fighting…Championships?”
“No, I have never heard of this Pride.”
“Really? Kazushi Sakuraba? Fedor Emelianenko? Takanori Gomi?”
Eyebrows raised, head shaking as he awkwardly mutters, No.
“This is freaking embarrassing! Seriously!?!?!”
Awkward silence.
I meekishly offer another hint.
“Um, It’s like the UFC…”
“Oh yes! The UFC!”
“Seriously?”
Taking the fun out of Panty Raids
I’m gonna’ just dive in on this one and throw it out there. YOU CAN BUY USED PANTIES OUT OF VENDING MACHINES….. aahhhhhh… finally….I’ve been holding that in, and it ain’t been easy. Certified to be worn by a Japanese school-girl.
You – Have – Got – To – Be – Freaking – Kidding – Me! Wish I was hombre, but I ain’t!
“Let’s see, what am I in the mood for? Snickers Ice Cream Bar? Nah. Bottle of Mountain Dew? Nah. Vending Machine Sushi? Double, emphatic NAH. Oh, I know, some used-panties-that-are-certified-to-be-worn-by-a-young-Japanese-school-girl. Yeah! That’s the ticket! Ah, Damn! I’m out of change….”
So, there you have it. Some of the mysteries and mytheries of Nippon. If you ever have the chance to go, I say screw the Sushi, go to a Japanese steakhouse, and watch out for the men in black guarding the massage parlors….
