A Tokyo Reflection

The story of Hiroshima reflects the horrific potential and stupidity of our species carried out in part by our races` best and brightest, while only a few hundred miles to the north sits the enormous infinite city of Tokyo proudly displaying what the same higher intellects can produce. This city can best be desribed as an ocean of Time Squares interspersed with 6 story department stores, skyscraper office buildings, Subway systems, noodle bars, Sushi spots, undergound malls, arcades, Pachinkos, and people everywhere. It is around the clock mayhem. Yet in servicing the millions of people that reside and, or, commute through this wild circus I saw no trash or trash cans, heard very few sirens, sat on some of the cleanest public toilet seats, and never waited for a subway. Not only that, but whoever is in charge of running this place has thought of everything. I went to the bathroom holding an umbrella and wearing a glove on each hand and heard my inner monologue bitch about what I would do with my gloves and umbrella. Once I arrived at the unrinal to unzip, sure enough there was a little metal rack jetting out of each urinal with a picture of a little umbrella on it signifying to my slow self about where I could rest the burdensome, yet convenient, 400 yen purchase, and a shelf for my gloves. On a different bathroom trip, a #2 one, I was freezing cold and dredded having to sit on the cold toilet seat and found that the seat was heated.

Assimiliating into this city takes time as the Japanese people navigate through it with a professional expertise, nudging one another gently to fit into the subway cars, voluntarily wearing masks to prevent the spreading of germs, bowing to one another constantly with humble gratitude while uttering Arigato Gozaimus (Thank you very much) at least thrice at every encounter, and outfitting their children in school uniforms consisting of short shorts or skirts revealing their chop-stick like legs with matching blazers, loafers, high socks, and burberry scarves to boot, and somehow these kids are never cold. Meanwhile I walk around with New Balance sneakers with a pad insert to correct my short leg, five layers including a long underwear bottom, gloves, hat, extra socks, scarf, and a hospital mask and complain consistantly of my aching feet and freezing body. Let`s see what Bangkok has in store.

The February Issue

At Camp Yavneh, a Jewish overnight camp in rural New Hampshire, the boys’ shower house was simply a spacious open room with nozzles—you couldn’t hide from who you were. One of my fellow campers with wanderlust eyes was very captivated by this shower house. So captivated was he that every summer he came out with two exclusive editions, the July and August issues, in which he went into great detail about his observations: the biggest, the smallest, the hairiest, the fattest, most improved, most lizard like, the darkest, the lightest, the best circumcision, and so on. These issues were not written, but rather discreetly spoken, much like the Torah she-be-`al peh, the Oral Torah. Unfortunately, the camp director came to understand that the architectural layout of this shower house discouraged the overweight and the lesser-endowed campers to bathe. To our dismay, the July and August issues were halted abruptly when one summer, upon our return to camp, we found that each nozzle had its very own curtain.
Being a nostalgic person, and presented with the opportunity to hit the Japanese public baths, or onsens, during my stay here in Tokyo, I decided this was the perfect time to resurrect this dead tradition and come out with a winter overseas version. I could go under cover as a westerner just trying to get his bathe on, start sneaking peeks at the Japanese family jewels, and publish my findings. This would be pure journalism. I would expose the mysterious Japanese male and rank up there with the likes of Bob Woodward.
Using my guidebook I sought out a small bathhouse in Asakusa, Tokyo called the Kannon Onsen. I approached the modest wooden structure, slipped off my shoes, and pondered which of the two doors to enter. Just then, an old woman pushed past me and entered through the door on the left; the process of elimination never fails. I entered the gender correct side and paid the attendant who directed me to the lockers. I had penetrated successfully and was now on the inside, totally home free. This would be a cinch. All I had to do was pretend to wash myself, blend in, and go sightseeing. Undercover journalism is not that difficult after all; or so I thought.

As soon as I entered the bathing area I was baffled. There were three different baths, each one on a separate side of the room and with its own unique tint of color. There were ten little washing stations, each with four nozzles. There were buckets for this, stools for that, soap for this, towels for that; and the steam, my god, the steam. At times I could scarcely see. The stress of the situation was mounting, thwarting my concentration from my ordained assignment. If I was going to have unfettered access to the Japanese genitalia, I had to be casual and remain composed. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, a trick my shrink had taught me for moments of great tension, and uncertainty. I could handle this; ‘Just do what you did in grade school, hang in there and copy the guy next to you,’ I told myself.
As soon as I opted to heed the guidance of my inner monologue, the guy I was watching, who was seated on a low stool calmly soaping himself, removed his butt from it, twisted himself into the lotus position landing on the ground, and continued soaping areas of the body I never thought reachable. It was a move I swear I saw Brian Boitano attempt and fail at the 1998 Nagano Olympic Games. This was hopeless. I can't even soap my own back. I spent my remaining time in the onsen in a paralyzing nervous panic being glared at and silently judged by a room full of old naked Japanese men. It was not my proudest moment. As for my findings for the February issue, I learned only that the Japanese penis is elusive.

My hypnotist has taught me that persistence is the key to success. Therefore, tomorrow I am headed to the southern province, Kyushu, to visit the numerous Onsens in the town of Beppu for another go at it.

The Masquerade

After getting off the airplane in the monster city of Tokyo one of the first things I noticed was the large number of people wearing surgical hospital masks. Surgical masks are very familiar to me because my friends and family had to wear them when visiting me in the hospital after my Bone Marrow Transplant in 2000. It was clear to me that the reason the residents of Tokyo did this was the same one that lead me to wear them when my immune system was compromised - for protection against the pollution caused by, in their case, a ridiculously gigantic metropolis, and any harmful germs.

I had already developed a mild cough leading up to my departure from the states that seemed to metastasize greatly after my first day in Tokyo. By the time I hit the sack, which consisted of a pad on a bamboo mat that lined the floor; I had already developed a decent wheeze. It was a good thing I packed my inhaler. My health as of late had taken a huge turn for the better or else I never would have left home with the comfort of the close-by New England Medical Center. Wheezing was a symptom of the past for me. Clearly this was not my body’s fault. I have come a long way since my transplant in and have morphed into a strong male human specimen. This was "the damn overpopulated city that had made its environment unhealthy with its material obsessions" I complained to my girlfriend. I was not about to step another foot outside of our ryokan into that dirty air without the protection afforded by a hospital mask. Luckily Shinjuku has numerous Lawson convenient stores. First thing the next morning I braved the pollution covering my mouth with my new red scarf, and purchased a three pack of masks for 150 yen. This would surely protect me from the toxins these callous people had put out into the defenseless air.

Over the course of the next few days I didn’t go anywhere without a mask. The diligence paid off. My wheeze and cough quickly dissipated and by the time we had completed our stay in Tokyo my complaints had returned to my lumbar pain. I had no qualms about leaving a city where if you walked out the door without covering your mouth you were putting yourself at great risk for all kinds of Lung infections. En route to the JR bullet train that would take us south towards the small sparsely populated mountain town of Takayama, I threw the masks in the trash can and said farewell.

As we rode the 180 mile per hour train out into the suburbs I still saw the occasional mask-wearing folk wandering the streets. I thought this to be a bit bizarre seeing as we were far away from the city by that point, but I figured the Japanese people were just being cautious because they know how horribly poor the air quality in Tokyo is and with one gust of wind the pollutants could be knocking on their doors. My Ipod serenaded me and I fell asleep for the remainder of the train ride. When we arrived in Takayama I picked up my pack, pulled on the appropriate straps to lesson the burdensome load on my back, and walked off the train, out of the station, and into the great out doors.

"Aww fresh mountain air," I said to my girlfriend as I inhaled and exhaled deeply, "Go ahead, take a deep breath and get a taste of it. You can`t beat this." She looked at me skeptically. As we were looking at the map in the Lonely Planet trying to figure out where to go a few more Japanese mask wearers wandered into our line of vision. We decided to brave the cold snowy weather and walk around the town to orient ourselves. I was puzzled to see that people were still wearing masks, in-fact there were more of them, maybe twice as many mask wearers as Tokyo. Confused and bewildered I finally found an Australian staying at our youth hostile who had been in Japan for a month.

"The masks? Oh yeah, they wear those because when they get sick they like to prevent spreading their germs, you know, just to be considerate to one another."

Hour 1 in Japan

Inspired by my hunched over back and the Ehrlich posture, my 5th grade teacher, David Wolf, made fun of me daily for the way I walked. On the last day of classes awards were handed out to the outstanding achievers of our grade. And then there were others given to keep us less studious kids from getting discouraged, losing our sense of self worth, and walking into school the next year with a gun.

Mr. Wolf called me up in front of the entire class and presented me with the award for `best impersonation of an old man` and then proceeded to explain to the student body that I was an old fart trapped inside a kid’s body. I wouldn`t have been so humiliated if it was just a light hearted joke, which is possibly how he meant it, but the fact that he was dead-on made it impossible for me to crack a smile.

Now, 13 or so years later, I am a really really old man. I got off the 15-hour flight from New York to Tokyo with severe back pain, shriveled up and dried eyes, aching legs, and reduced hearing ability. I had no interest in going to claim 30 to 40 pound baggage that was going to sit on my slumping back for the next three months, but I had no choice, it was filled to the brim with all the pills I take. So I placed the pharmacy on my back and humped it over to the train station. The 15 minutes it took Shula and I to locate the correct platform put my back into a new stage of agony, one that could not be soothed by Bengay, Tylenol, Advil, or even Percocet.

As soon as we were in the right place I removed my baggage and heeded the words of my Physical Therapist about the importance of stretching. I lay down on the ground looking up at the ceiling and went into an all out stretch while Shula headed for the bathroom. As soon as I began I noticed the station became a little livelier. I could not understand a word of what was being said, so I thought nothing of it, and continued lying on the station floor, on my back, struggling to bring my knees to my chest. I was too weary to raise my head to see what the commotion was all about. A few minutes later Shula returned from the restroom to find her boyfriend on the ground in some silly wanna-be yoga pose, wearing her father’s old worn out stained sweater, totally oblivious to the subway station full of Japanese commuters pointing and laughing. This was only the beginning, the first hour in Asia with thousands more to come.

Living Analog in a Digital World

Researchers, Developers, and Scientists are good for the earth,

New technology and discovery, do they give birth.

To improve life on this planet for all to use,

And in turn we lap it up with enthusiastic muse. 

 

Cures for disease

And locating what’s under the high seas,

Are important contributions.

But some inventions are less noble and will have retributions.

 

New Cars, MP3 players, Computers, and New Phones,

All to be developed and enter our homes.

Oh yeah, that will fill the void in our missing lives

And bring us to new highs.

 

While thousands of ourselves daily starve to death

we receive new inventions from Listerine that correct our natural breath.

What the hell is going on in this crazy world of ours?

Instead of asking that question we head out to the bars

 

But the economy must boom so “Invent away”

They dare say.

Without thought to what will be made,

And who in the end will have paid

 

And we lap it up whether good or bad,

We lap it up because it is the thing to have.

It becomes one of our new desires

Filled to the brim with high tech wires.

 

Today I am bitter

And I quiver.

Because inventions thought to be wise

Are leading to my demise.

 

I thought I had it bad

Years ago before it was the fad.

When my Dad came knocking on our door

And called to us four

 

“Get together” he’d say

To which we’d reply “no way.”

At the sunset at the hotel

At the beach, the pool, and the motel.

 

Us brothers hated to stop and be still

He wasn’t aware that it would kill,

The moment we were in

Just so one more card could be in the collection.

 

Has he heard the word memory before?

Or become too old that his mind had closed that door?

But we were nice and stood still,

After all it didn’t make us ill.

 

For eventually he’d run out

There was only so much film he could bring about,

The day wore on

And no longer could he stop us for a pose, that ability was gone.

 

But now you wretched fools

You’ve come along with your god damn tools,

You think you better our world with what you make?

Give me a fucking break.

 

Now look at what you’ve done

You’ve ruined all my fun,

No longer is there time to be had

What you have created is plain sad.

 

A world where pictures have no end

Where taking them constantly has become a trend.

Now every outing has interruption

Because as dictators know, no limits leads to corruption

 

Experience is no longer about memory

It’s about imagery

It’s about the pictures you can take

The beauty in them is all fake

 

For you are looking at faces of people who are depressed

Because the expectations of their pictures has them stressed

Gotta smile, gotta look like we’re having fun

Raise that Corona just in front of the setting sun.

 

Oh that came out fuzzy

And Jake wasn’t looking was he?

Hold on a sec stay right there

Smile, say cheese, fix your hair.