So much of Tokyo is hidden down narrow walkways and up creaky stairs, secreted away for only the most intrepid of travelers to enjoy.

Finding such treasures is truly a rewarding experience.

For instance, Tuesday evening, Asako and I journeyed to a lost locale similar to the aforementioned; it was a quaint restaurant situation on the second floor of a brown building that lay at the end of a dark alley. The interior, mirroring the external darkness, was sparsely decorated--the walls were wooden and black, save for the hand painted portions that were strangely styled to look like something from an American pizza joint: bread, noodles, tomato sauce cans--the tables were large, every word on the menu was handwritten in Japanese, and the place was completely deserted.

Well, almost.

I expected an old woman to approach us to receive our order--or perhaps an old man--maybe a couple that lived in a small back room during the day, tending theirtraditionally styled, decades old family business at night. But no old woman came; instead we were greeted by a wide eyed, tall young man who was quite enthused at our arrival, and who asked me manyquestions in a mix of Japanese and English.

Asako was laughing the entire time--that`s what she usually does around me--but after a few minutes of converstaion, the waiter/owner determined one of my favorite foods to be tofu.

"Ahh," he said, "I will make a test. Is it ok?"

Oh, yes. Absolutely fine. He was going to create something unique, something special, something not on the completly indecipherable menu.

He trotted off, eyes shining.

Shortly after, Asako and I were served our first course in what turned out to be the most impossible food to eat with chopsticks, hands down. Tofu is slippery. It's full of water. It's also tasty. However, if one does not exercise extreme care when reaching for a bite, he will totally mutilate the small morsel in his haste--yet, even if one takes his time he still risks complete disintegration of his dinner.

I served myself a small block of tofu from the beautiful china that it was situated on, and placed it in my bowl. It remained beautiful and whole; I had successfully completed the transfer of my food to my plate, but now I had to transfer the food to my face.

Let's just say that my first try was not the most successful enterprise I have ever undertaken in Japan. In just under 2 minutes, my lovely block of tofu was completely unrecognizable. But it still smelled tasty.

Asako couldn't stop laughing, her eyes squinting and a huge grin spread across her face.

I quickly resolved that I wouldn't make the same mistake again, and over the rest of the meal I managed to improve my tofu eating skills to what I would imagine to be the average ability of a 5 or 6 year old--that is to say, I was able to get the food to my mouth, in pieces, at least.

We were served three courses of varying beauty and deliciousness. The second dish was the most interesting: a waterfall of seasoned tofu dropped upon a bed of leaves. I hated myself for what I was about to do... destroy this work of art in order to stave off starvation.

Oh well.

The best thing about the dinner with Asako would appear to be the food, but really it was the conversation. You see, Japanese meals are arduous, they take only a bit short of eternity to wrap up, as the meal participants take their time, savoring every bite of what would already be considered incredibly meager portions by American standards. But the monotonous duration is good because it provides ample time to engage in conversation, perhaps the most important part of the learning process. Asako and I spent more than three hours talking at the restaurant, "Aburi," which literally means, "Hometown Roast," though Asako had much trouble deciphering the somewhat archaic kanji.

Beyond all this, it is interesting to note that in nearly every restaurant, portions of varying size cost the same price. Small, medium and large bowls of ramen will run you the same amount of yen. As an American, you're probably thinking: 'what kind of idiot would order the small bowl when a large one is available for the same price?'

This is food for thought, my friends.

It's just an ordinary subway station, leading out onto an ordinary road in Tokyo... yet, something is different about this place, today.

That's because it's Sunday, and you know because from the corner of your eye you can just barely make out two young women in heavy makeup slouching near the entrance to a bathroom, small luggage cases at their feet. You crane your neck and peek over. Perhaps young women is the wrong word, these are girls, and they are preparing their first costume of the day in the quiet, secluded bowels of Meijijingu Station.

They change clothes in a bathroom three floor below the street, but after their detailed, mechanical, 30 minute preparations are complete, they ascend, via escalator, to the shrine entrance above.

They won't enter the shrine, though. They only hang out at the entrance, waiting and watching. Staying in character ...

Their clothing, as with all the clothing to be found in Harajuku, is different from anything that exists outside of Tokyo, and maybe that's why their faces, frozen against a rainy backdrop, symbolize so much about this place: a techno-mecca full of futuristic buildings and labyrinth alleyways teeming with the bizarre and the brazen, so many similar faces, yet all so different... they are part of a society that is accelerating into the future at light speed... and yet...

It's late, words fail me. Harajuku on Sundays just seems to consume my entire soul.

There is a certain style of t-shirt that is fairly common among en vogue Japanese youth. There's nothing fancy about it; in fact, its quite plain, but many Japanese, especially women, find it to be the perfect compliment to their wardrobe because it can keep casual Sunday attire looking hip.

We call it the Engrish t-shirt, a simple creation comprised of a single base background color with large block letters printed on the front that spell out what the owner thinks is some kind of hip English expression.

The expressions on the shirts, however, are not hip, nor are they really English. Today in Harajuku, I took note of just a few Engrish t-shirts I encountered:

"I HEART B.J." (A pink shirt worn by a girl with large breasts)

"Such Being Foolisk"

"Dip & Toast Single or Double"

"TMT Yours"

"To Our Heart's Content"

"Nobody's Fault But My Own"

"Prepare For Grim Death"

"Delegation Forbidding Destruction of Nature"

"Bada Bound"

"Burn Furiouisly"

"What's That? Let's Run

This is only a small sample of a widespread fashion trend among Tokyo's beautiful young women. All the shirts listed above were being worn by women who could easily pass for models.

There's no plateaus in Japan... it's all hills--in the literal sense, but also in the figurative, emotional sense

The cascade of feelings begins in the morning during the one hour and forty-five minute commute from Mukogaokauen to Kita-Matsudo, during which I drifted between reality and dreams about as frequently as the Chiyoda train stopped to gather passengers. (That's 35 stops to be exact, and that's an express line, too.) But, at least the subway is dark, and Japanese people are quiet.

On the train ride, the emotion was loneliness, because all of my classmates had gone to Kamakura, while I was forced to visit Matsudo High School to do a bit of work for my internship; and though traveling to Matsudo for their bunkasai (culture festival) certainly was an exciting proposition, I'm not sure it was a fair trade-off for Kamakura, one of the most beautiful places in Japan that would have permitted me the opportunity to walk upon the beach with my naked feet and gaze off into the ocean.

But it was OK, it was only temporary loneliness on a very, very empty train.

At Kita-Matsudo, I was only expecting to meet Matsumoto-sensei, the internship coordinator, however as I approached the turnstile I noted that not only was the short, 29-year-old Matsumoto-sensei standing there, but he was flanked by two irritating looking gaijin who I had never seen before and didn't want to talk with.

Who the hell were they?

Well, THEY were two absolutely abysmally annoying, smelly, lame people, and on top of it all, very confident in their generally lackluster Japanese that they spoke at a deafening volume, for no other reason than that they couldn't properly control their tongues.

They talked about manga, videogames, Japanese women and other ridiculous things I didn't want to talk about, such as the "hotness" factor of different peppers. That spicy conversation went on for about 30 minutes, for all of which I remained completely silent.

They also, of course, made stupid jokes.

One kept trying to show me pictures from his digital camera, ignorant of my blatant lack of care. "Look at this! This is when we were in Edo!"

I don't care, dude.

The worst of this came when we were all smashed into a tiny room to watch a play put on by the Japanese students in the 3rd level English class. It was a fantastic play, but I wish that I could have enjoyed it from a better seat, instead of standing sandwiched between a wall, and one of the annoyances, Jake, who had his back toward me, his trenchcoat brushing against my shirt and his 4 foot ponytail inches from my face.

He smelled like you would expect him to.

He wasn't even invited to Matsudo. He had nothing to do with it. He came with a kid had only slightly more right to be there because he helped out in Lincoln during the Bright Lights program that some Matsudo students participated in last summer.

So I stood there, boiling mad. I can't even express how annoyed I was at that exact moment, it was perhaps one of the greatest tests I have ever had in restraining an overwhelming desire to beat the shit out of someone. I just wanted to enjoy Matsudo with myself and the other well tempered interns, not two Japan-culture-fetish douchebags oozing over every little thing they saw.

All of that was really not so great, but maybe I was just jealous of their ability to speak Japanese.

But forget all that. Bunkasai was perhaps the greatest event I've ever experienced. The entire school (a combined Junior High and High School) had been turned into some kind of foreign place, each student participating in a different way: creating giant murals, selling food, putting on a play or musical performance, hosting a sports demonstration... etc...

So many uniformed boys and girls walking around giggling and screaming, yet all so polite. It was amazing. I was enraptured. After meeting a few of them, I couldn't even speak. For the first hour of my visit I had no words because I was so overwhelmed by the cuteness of these children.

After being introduced to a group of giddy 8th grade girls as "next year's intern," I was swarmed all about the legs and lower body as they hugged me and clapped for me and told me in their best effort at English: "You are fun! Come back! Please be a teacher!"

I think many of you, my friends, Anna especially, would have broken down into tears at the sight of these children because they really were that type of beyond-belief-cute that you only think exists on television and with newborn babies. However, I can assure you that Matsudo is teeming with hundreds of children who are just unbearably adorable.

Honestly. I was so taken aback by this that I was hardly able to take any pictures--but I have 6 months there in the Spring, so I will be sure to take plenty.

To interject in the story quickly: this is an awful entry. I'm having a lot of trouble writing lately because I've had so little time; demands are being placed on me by so many of my Japanese friends who want to hang out nonstop and talk, which is good, but I do want to provide accurate, entertaining reading... something which I'm not doing now... alas...

The train ride back to Mukougaokauen station went by a bit faster than the ride out, mostly because it was spent e-mailing one of my newest friends, Asako, who I met at her train stop, Ikuta, for dinner and chat.

She needed to practice English, and I needed to practice Japanese.

These are the times when I'm truly flying on some kind of transcendental emotional high that just blows away everything. The moments when I get to speak Japanese with someone who wants to help me are just beyond describable. But... I've said that about everything.

Asako and I spent about 3 hours talking, after which I returned to my dormitory to meet Kyohei to chat. We spent probably 4 or 5 hours conversing, until maybe three in the morning. Though I love all the practice, I wish I could see results immediately.

I kind of abridged this entry. I'm too tired to write more, especially when I'm aware of how awful it is... so I'll leave you with one final thought about Japan...

...Or maybe its just a wish, but this language is so, so incredibly hard, and there are so many people around who are so gifted at it, I just want to be like them, somehow. I see them every day, and I desire to have their capacity to communicate. I'm going to work at it. Wish me luck.

Why is it that straight people can't say faggot, white people can't say nigger, and Japanese people can't say their R's?

I attempted to solve the latter part of the puzzle last night, but it remains a quandary to which I can offer no answer, even after 2 hours of practicing "Lice" and "Rice", "Wrong" and "Long" and "Lung" and "Rung" with Hiro. Long, Wrong, Long, Wrong, Long, Wrong. I haven't a clue what you are saying, Hiro.

"Put your tongue up against your teeth, your upper teeth. Now say, luh, luh, long!"

"Ruh, ruh wrong."

"No, luh, luh long!"

"Ruh, ruh, wrong."

We practice every variation of tongue arrangement imaginable, but were unable to produce any consistent results that could help Hiro with the R and the L, the most challenging facet of the English language. Hiro pulled his face and stretched his cheeks, he clicked his tongue and rolled his R's deep in his throat, but after putting a short sentence together the sound came out, well, wrong. Impossible.

Hiro gave up for the evening, but decided to challenge me with some similar linguistic difficulties contained in the Japanese language.

"Hashi" is both chopsticks and bridge. "Ame" is candy and rain. "Su" is vinegar, but also a bird's nest. Only slight variations exist in the pronunciation of the words, but, as with any language, poor enunciation can be compensated through proper context.

The most interesting pseudo-homonym in Japanese, though, is the strange pairing of prisoner and husband, both pronounced so similarly that it can't be a coincidence; nothing in Japan is a coincidence.

Every kanji has a meaning, and every word is made of multiple kanji, revealing the ancient origins or the word--for example: keitai, or cellphone, is a combination of the character for "to carry with" and "sword slung on the hip." It's practical. It makes sense.

So what can we learn from the similarity of prisoner and husband? Hiro couldn't explain it to me, but I'm certain the correlation isn't simply superficial.

Japan is the land of clear drinks.

Though there are about 50 different brands one can buy to quench their thirst--Dakara, Amino Supli, Aquarius, Gatorade, Powerade, Pocari Sweat, etc--none of them are colored, they are all completely translucent.

What gives?

Each has a distinct flavor, from somewhat orangey to grape to lemon lime, but all remain innocently see-through.

The only colors that can be found are orange for orange juice and brown for coffee drinks or tea.Tthen again, I haven't checked out Coke or Pepsi, which I assume retain their trademark blackish-brown muddy Cola hue--but I don't care, I want to see some purple Powerade Jagged Ice.

I think Ben Walter knows what I'm talking about.

It's just not the same drinking clear Powerade.

When you are a non-drinker in Japan, it's tough to get people excited for your birthday.

But who cares, I had a wonderful 22nd tanjyobi that was completely alcohol-free, despite the best efforts from my Irish, Spanish, Mexican and French friends--and believe me, they tried hard to convince me that alcohol was a necessity. Since today was the Autumnal Equinox, classes were cancelled, which meant last night would have been perfect for a little nomihodai trip, and, they reasoned, for my first drunk experience.

C'mon Brett! You're in JAPAN!

What happens in Japan STAYS in Japan!

It's only one time! It's your birthday!

... I said no, and no... and no again. I maybe would have said yes if the entire group had decided to travel to Roppongi for dancing AND drinking, but they only wanted to go to a cheap nomihodai near Mukogakouen station and sit around for two hours pounding shitty tasting Asahi; I had to decline. But today really ended up just fine.

Nadia, the 29-year-old Spaniard recognized my distaste for alcohol but wanted to celebrate my birthday somehow, so she promised to cook breakfast for me. Little did I know a "Spanish" breakfast was a simple concoction comprised of orange juice, a banana, and a single piece of white toast topped with Nutella.

Fine with me. Hazelnuts and chocolate, mmm. Thank you, Nadia.

I spent my afternoon in Shinjuku shopping around with Franc, and we ended up at a lovely hole-in-the-wall Sushi joint that cost 140 yen per plate (about $1.20). The food simply moved around the square bar on a conveyer belt as the four incredibly animated chefs created it. Patrons were expected to simply pull of what they liked and chow down, stacking their plates so that they could be counted later for pricing purposes.

Each seat at this Sushi bar had a small spigot for steaming hot water, with packets of tea stationed nearby.

It was truly a wonderful place, and for about $8 I was able to completely gorge myself in one of the greatest atmospheres on the planet: a tiny, square room at the bottom of some kind of giant skyscraper, packed with hungry Japanese businessmen, screaming chefs, and of course Franc and myself.

"Irashiyaimase!!" could be heard over and over again, the Chef's shouting it each time a customer entered the room. (I think the best English translation of the word is "Welcome most honored customer!")

To order a specific Sushi creation, we simply had to get the attention of one of the chefs with a loud, "Sumimasen!" and then make our request, at which time he would repeat our order in a riotous voice that echoed all around. Moments later our food would be riding down the conveyer belt into our hands, and eventually our stomachs.

Seven plates of Sushi later, it was over, and as I exited I let out a loud thank you: "Gochisosamadeshita!" which sent the cooks into a frenzy. (It translates as a simple way of honoring the person who cooked the meal, but when a gaijin says such a thing it often produces a very enthusiastic response that, for me, makes the meal that much more worthwhile.)

Absolutely fantastic. I'll be going back soon.

...sorry, I forgot to include my cellphone number in the last post, it is: 80-5173-9270. If you try and call I think you will need to leave off a city code, though I`m not entirely sure how calling cards work. My mom knows, you can always ask her.

Also, you can e-mail me, directly at my phone anytime. It will brighten my day, and I may respond: brettinjapan@ezweb.ne.jp

So the invasion of the Keitai Gaijin has begun.

Last night another step was taken to ensure our group's assimilation into Japanese culture: we bought cellphones. Beyond learning to enjoy the often bizarre cuisine, the nuances of Kabuki and the complex language itself--all which make you more of a Nihonjin--the superficial devices like clothing and cellphones seem to work more effectively at truly increasing cultural immersion.

95 percent of all Japanese youth own Keitai. The flashy, colorful, abysmally complex machines are the most visible sign that one is "Japanese." People do everything with them: they make phone calls, send e-mail, take photos, play games, record movies, listen to MP3s, send text messages, etc, etc, etc. They do everything with them; it's impossible to find something that cannot be done with a keitai.

A quick survey of any train car on any line--Odakyu to Choda--will reveal a plethora of keitais, their owners quietly glued to the small high-resolution screens for the duration of their commute. The keitais come in an unbelievable variety, a vast array of flavors as individual as the owners themselves. Antennas raised, they sit silently as the train hums down the track; holding a piece of artwork in their hand.

My keitai is pink.

Brent's is purple.

Brandon's is black.

We all have them, now.

Last night we took the plunge and headed to Shinjuku in a quest to ascend to the rank of Keitai Gaijin (literally "cellphone foreigner"), no easy task, considering that we were attempting to purchase a mobile phone plan and get a good deal; no easy task in English let alone Japanese. Somehow though, through the adversity, we prevailed and left Sakuraya an hour after we entered, carrying brand new Japanese cellphones (AU by KDDI brand, to be exact).

We were the second group to purchase the luminous little toys, which brought the number of Keitai Gaijin to nearly 20.

The life of a Keitai Gaijin is a bit different than that of an average everyday Gaijin. For one, the keitai owner has a higher status, and when one unveils a shiny phone while riding the train, LCD screen blazing, he fills the place with awe as natives peek over, trying to hide their interested curious eyes. How did that gaijin get a keitai?

Don't you need ID to purchase a keitai?

Cellphone shops don't care about passports; they aren't good enough. Neither are drivers licenses, letters of acceptance, student ID cards or alien registration cards. Producing these forms of ID only causes salesmen to clam up and tersely state: "Sorry, we can't sell you a phone."

When we dealt with them, they wouldn't let down this stone wall...

...Until we showed them the most important ID of all: Visa.

That's how we became keitai gaijin, and thus became closer to Japanese society in a more tangible way.

Until you actually set foot in a train, you cannot quite grasp the importance of these small handheld wonders. They are such an integral part of youth culture that to NOT have a cellphone is to NOT be a Japanese youth. Having a cellphone isn't just an act of consumerism, it's a declaration of youth, vitality and independence.

Just another step closer to being a Nihonjin, I suppose.

I wouldn't call Japan a country of racists... no, not hardly... but holy shit are the black vans frightening.

The black vans drive around at a ridiculously sluggish pace through the most crowded areas of Tokyo. The black vans never travel alone. The black vans are dark, loud, imposing and unbelievable.

I had heard about the black vans.

They spout incredibly loud rhetoric through roof mounted megaphones, blasting their propaganda at everyone within hearing radius--usually about a mile. Their goal is the same goal common of every nationalist party the world over: remove the Gaijins! That is, kick out the foreigners.

Since the vans are easily heard, I became well aware that they were in the area long before I was able to spot them; but when their caravan finally rounded the corner in Harajuku, I nearly fell over from the deafening force of their speakers. I was terrified. They wanted all foreigners dead.

But I still maneuvered close enough to snap about a dozen photos.

I don't really have anything profound to say, other than that the almost completely homogenous Japanese society puts up with their constant harassment with little resistance.

I wonder how the United States would react to something like that in downtown New York?

"May I take your picture?"

Heaven on earth has a name, and that name is Yoyogi-Koen in Harajuku--but is this place really an actual location on earth? Does it exist outside of my mind? I think so.

Every Sunday morning, the entrance to Yoyogi Park, a wide, paved bridge spanning the rail tracks, becomes a circus of sorts; filled nearly entirely with costumed youth, the entire causeway explodes with such a plethora of colors, sounds and energy that it is impossible to remain uninfected by the ambiance resonating from all around.

“Yes, go ahead.”

A red jumpsuit envelopes it’s owner, a young college girl, who made it herself—she insists she is normal, and that she only comes out some Sundays to enjoy the atmosphere. She also painted her face green, all by herself.

She bounced around, from one end of the bridge to the other, conversing quickly, tersely, happily with her friends, also clad in dreamlike attire representing anything from their favorite band’s bass player to an obscure manga character. She and her friends exist for our pleasure, it seems.

“Do you want me to look at you?”

A dream come true. So much beauty, so much oddity, “a daze” hardly begins to capture the feeling that had overcome me. I was in rapture. My hands shook and I tried to control myself enough to catalog at least some of the moment to my memory, but also to my camera.

A girl dressed as a lolita-goth wandered around the bridge aimlessly, bowlegged; completely comfortable with her ultra revealing “French-maid”-esque dress. She would return to classes on Tuesday, she said.

“I’ll move into better light.”

Another girl sat complacently, waiting for someone to approach her—a single neon-orange eye was only visible after I was within a few feet of her, and was also the only feature left after she went to the bathroom and changed that indicated her wardrobe a few moments prior. It defined her as part of the Harajuku crowd.

I was there for nearly four hours, conversing, breathing, living—and I’ll be going back every Sunday.

It was just an innocent wave. I looked once--no, not for me. I turned around.

But then there was giggling. I looked back. It was for me, after all.

I raised my hand and waved back toward the open train door and the three sports-uniform-clad junior high girls. They let out a shriek of laughter the echoed around the station. I decided I would amplify things a bit, so I walked over and joined them on their train.

As soon as I began moving toward them their excitement began to go up exponentially, and as I stepped on to the train, 10 of their friends swarmed around me, waiting to see what I would do. As I began speaking to them in their language, a few nearly fainted, and the ones who could still speak asked every possible question of me: where I was from, what I was doing in Japan, did I have a girlfriend, why was my hair strange, do all Americans look like me... etc. They were bubbling over.

This really illustrated two things: the first being that Japan is a completely homogenous place. Gaijin, foreigners, like myself, are rare. I can go out to the most populous Japanese area and so no other white people, only Japanese for hours and hours at a time. For instance, I went to Akihabara, Tokyo's "Electric City"--a place lined with storefronts selling laptop computers by the curbside, at discounted prices--and I only spotted 5 foreigners, only five. Those foreigners who saw me as well gave me a sort of silent acknowledgment, with the understanding that we belonged to a very unique club; but that's it. Gaijin never talk to each other, though it would be easy enough to approach and say, "Wow, so, we're in Tokyo, no one can understand us. Your the first white person I've seen today."

But being a rarity is good.

I like to talk, and if I'm a novelty in Tokyo, it's easy to strike up a conversation. This is the second thing I must share: that when I have no one to talk to, I challenge myself to start conversations on trains, which can be daunting as well as supremely rewarding.

How do I know I will not get a racist response or the silent treatment? It can easily happen.

I could care less. I choose who I want to talk to, and begin a conversation, or I sit down, leaving a space next to me for any interested conversation partner. It's really quite easy.

Perhaps the most bizarre conversation involved a 21-year-old woman named Miki, who I approached after I was told my a Japanese friend that she spoke English. She was taken aback, at first, but then warmed up to me as the train hummed down the tracks. By the end of the conversation, I realized that for the last 10 minutes I had been sort of hitting on a girl in another language. Was this even possible?

Though I thought I was quite smooth toward her, she declined my invitation to accompany us to karaoke.

But at least I got some conversation practice.

Yes, it was a Spanish song--the first song that we sang together.

It's a simple translation, really: "Looking for a little bit of love." A Shakira classic, and a song I can thank for permitting me to properly meet Andrea (that's Ahn-Dray-Ah, pronounced with a thick Spanish accent, to be sure, though when I say it it comes out in a bizarre mix of Japanese and English phonetics that just sounds clumsy).

But Andrea, she is amazing, and beautiful, too.

Our shared Saturday morning began with a sunrise over Shinjuku, Tokyo's neon city, viewed from the steps of a tiny ramen shop buried deep within a labyrinth of side streets. As the darkness waned and the sky began to fill with blue; as the trains were starting their engines and workers were preparing for another day; as the nomihodais and all night karaoke bars spilled their patrons into the street like so much vomit... the neon went out finally allowing the sun to emerge unscathed and light the concrete city--we were sitting there, wrapped in Tokyo and wrapped in each other.

We were a part of this place, now.

"Gomenasai!"

But the ramen shop was now opening, and an old woman shooed us away from her steps. Our night was over.

About 6 hours prior we had began: a dozen or more of us ventured to Shinjuku with our trusted Nihonjin for an evening that was promised to be filled with singing, dancing, drinking, shouting, laughing, blah, blah, blah, and everything else that a proper night should consist of. We decided to forgo Roppongi, and instead pay 20$ for unlimited alcohol and all night karaoke.

We sang "Toxic"--twice.

The Russian, Sergei, sang "Back in the U.S.S.R."

The Irish sang U2.

And as for our Japanese friends, they sang "People = Shit," (Apparently SlipKnot has fans, in Japan at least) often substituting their newly acquired American slang into the song. For instance: "People = Turd," "People = Number 2." etc.

But my favorite song of the night was certainly, "Buscando Un Poco De Amor," sang at about 3 a.m.--after which Andrea and I left 'Club 747' for the streets of Shinjuku, in search of nothing.... in search of everything... in search of sunrise.

I think I need to learn Spanish, now.

Japanese people have trouble understanding a lot of concepts, but one of their most frustrating shortcomings is their lack of a corresponding word for "annoying" and "irritating."

They just don't have one.

And believe me, it makes explaining a potentially obnoxious situation nearly impossible. When I told my Japanese friends that we must leave quickly because an "annoying" person want to come along, they asked me, "Why?"

Wide eyed, mouths gaping: "Doushite?"

"Well, he's annoying," I told them in Japanese.

They understood, but then they gave me a quick followup query: "Why is he annoying?"

This was a dilemma, for me, because my Japanese vocabulary simply didn't contain a wide enough array of adjectives to try and explain how a person can become annoying. I attempted an explanation anyway: "He is annoying because he says stupid things." They nodded in agreement. They understood what I said, and they understood that I didn't want him to come along, though I think that is the only reason that they left him behind; because he irritated me, not because they actually understood what it was to be an irritating person.

Bizarre indeed.

Japan, for everything that it contains, is still missing a few sentimental elements that make America the place that it is: squirrels, police sirens, birds.

Don't get me wrong, Japan has police and squirrels... just not in the city.

As for birds, they do have them, but they are about five times the size of the crows in Nebraska, their beaks are seagull size, their eyes are as large as half-dollars, and they float around in the air with a slow flap that is really, really loud. They are fucking scary.

More odd Japanese things: foreigners--Russians, Mexicans, Spaniards and French people--sound quite odd when they speak Japanese. This trip is the first time I've ever heard Japanese spoken with a Spanish accent.

I've forgotten how to write anything worth reading. Oh well.

Tonight we are going to a club in Roppongi, the dance district of Tokyo where there are never-ending corridors of clubs. I invited the Irish girls along with us tonight, and the only question they asked me was, "Is it a proper club?"

And yes, it is.

I'll let you know.

The "Party Party" game has gone international.

At least, that's what Masashi told me after we played our first game.

Think of it as hot potato without a potato, and with an entire glass of beer for the loser (Or, if you're me, a glass of "Jiyusu," or juice). The Japanese are all about drinking, and the games that go along with it. This place is an entire culture of drinking; from businessmen to teenagers alike, going out and swallowing glass after glass of beer isn't reserved for St. Patrick's Day or the like, but rather any day is fine to drink, as long as you are with your friends or co-workers.

For $20, one can enter a Nomihodai--the "alcohol buffet" I described before--with a dozen of his best buddies, and enjoy a private room, dinner, and all the beer that can be drank among the group. No one cares how loud you are, and the restaurant staff are only there to serve the patrons, the "most honorable customers."

Last night, we went to a Nomihodai near Mukogakouen...

...and I've seen a lot of beer drank.

...I've seen beer chugged.

...I've seen Ben Spadt chug.

Yet I've never seen anyone drink full glasses of beer as fast as Masashi, Takayuki, Kyohei and Akebono did. Never in my life. Drinking game after drinking game they didn't seem to tire, and only 5 minutes before their train was to arrive did three of the four run out of the Nomihodai and stumble drunkenly to the station.

That meant the only Japanese person left with our group was Masashi, who was completely and totally inebriated, in ever sense of the word, but was still standing, and still wearing his wave cap and flat brimmed hat. Things were fine... until the bill came.

It's not that we can't count... it's just that communicating cross culturally when someone forgot to pay is quite a tricky thing to do.

Masashi was shorted money. Someone forgot to pay, in fact, two people forgot to pay. He arrived at the Nomihodai with 11,000 yen, and was leaving with 6,000, which meant he had come in with about $110 bucks, and left with $60, when he only paid for a twenty's worth of beer. He wanted to ask us for the money, yet he wanted to remain polite.

We, the Americans (and one Irish along with us) only wanted him to get his money, but he refused everything we would put toward him, knowing it wasn't our spot to pay. When I offered to pickup the difference, he would refuse. When Franc offered, he would refuse.

At this time, Masashi could hardly speak English due to his drunken state, and his Japanese wasn't so great either, for that matter.

We must have wrestled with this for over 30 minutes, each time Masashi finally saying "It's ok, It's ok," and us responding: "No, no no no no no," wanting him to get his money.

It was getting old, fast.

Finally, it was pointed out that perhaps he had some of the money stuck in his back pocket. So, in his best keigo, Brent politely suggested that it has somehow slipped Masashi's mind, and that the money he had been seeking may in fact have still been on his body.

He paused, and checked, and after fishing in the back pocket of his clearly American denim shorts, he came up positive.

After this discovery, there was such a flurry of Japanese apologies that none of us knew what to say other than to bow furiously, thank him for a good time and beg him to see us tomorrow. He accepted, and tonight we will be going to Roppongi.

Man. My English is gone. I can't write. I'm sorry. I'm only describing facts right now. I'm trying to get this all out in 10 minutes before I need to go to class, yet there is just so much to say. I seem to have forgotten it.

I'll consider it during class, and share more with you after Roppongi--which, if you don't know what it is, you have no idea what is in store... 6 hours of overnight dancing at the loudest most bizarre clubs in Tokyo. We'll get there at 11 p.m., and return home after the trains start running again at 6 a.m. I mean, it is Friday.

Also, in about 2 hours at the Nomihodai, we learned five different drinking games: Pin, Pon, Pan! Nakayuki, Party! Party!, The counting game and the "Welcome Back" game.

Masashi made me promise to teach you all when I get home.

Oh, and by the way: I showed Masashi all the T-Town pictures when we were at the library the other day, and he was impressed...

... with the girls!

Lookout ladies!

Photos from last night are in the gallery.

Wow, this was a shitty entry, and I think it's because I typed it in the morning.

All of these entries are in reverse chronological order, so if you are just getting here, you may want to scroll down and begin from the "Onboard a 747" entry, which was my first entry "from Japan."

Let’s see if my mind has cooled off a bit from last night; perhaps I can share some things with you properly.

Remember the streets I told you about—the tangled, twisted, haphazard mess? Well, the trains, notorious for being the most organized in the world, appear to be the same mess that the streets are… but don’t be fooled.

“Sumimasen!” “Sumimasen!” is all you hear on trains, that are so crowded that one cannot sit down, let alone have a single inch of personal space. “Sumimasen” means excuse me, and without it you could end up stuck, sandwiched between businessmen peering out the windows as you watch your stop fly by at 50 m.p.h., a mistake after which the only hope is a taxi back home—and they’re not cheap.

The stations themselves are pieces of artwork, a starburst of color, exploding at the seams just like Tokyo itself.

Colors that have been kicked out of the rainbow find their home here in Tokyo, and in the stations; the rebel colors, so exotic that the border on illegal due to their euphoric effect. If Shinjuku could be called a visual mindfuck, then the train stations rank just below that description in their radiance. So many strange hues mixed with strange words, compounded of course by the thousands of commuters stuck in the bowels of the train tunnels; tunnels that are blindingly bright from all the overhead fluorescence—though the sun sets at 5 p.m., there is no night here, no darkness.

The sky is simply a great black ocean that happens to rest above us instead of below, yet unless one craned his head perfectly vertical, he wouldn’t know it existed.

If only I could capture this properly in words.

The feeling that this place exerts upon you is one that shuts your senses off completely; you want to pinch yourself and wake up, but you can’t. It really is that unbelievable.

Shinjuku is full of people, bursting with humanity so diverse yet so much the same… Everyone here is Japanese, perfectly homogenous. People like me are rare, foreigners are hard to spot. Last night in Shinjuku I perhaps counted one other foreigner, but it could have easily been a Japanese person confusing me with his wardrobe. Their society is a society of one race, starkly contrasting with that of the United States where in a grocery store, even in Lincoln, one can enter for five minutes and encounter five different languages.

Here, it’s all Japanese. Language and people.

“She is hot,” Takayuki said to me on the crowded train, inches from the girl he was referring too.

I wanted to “Shhh” him, but there was no need. It has yet to sink in that precious few Japanese people can understand English well enough to comprehend it spoken quickly and colloquially.

“She is hot,” I said later, at the Conmini, to Takayuki.

I was referring to the cashier who was counting out change for the snacks I had purchased. Takayuki concurred with me, and the cashier had no idea what was said. Clueless.

This is something I will never get used to, yet it’s like being in on some amazing secret that belongs to me, my student companions, and my Japanese friends.

Japan is a pretty amazing secret, too.

Discover it as soon as you can.

I’ll preface this entry by simply saying that I think I’m forgetting English, and the English that I can still speak properly is ten times as fast as it used to be (due, of course to the rate that Japanese is spken at). So, please pardon my lack of articulation.

I spent all day speaking Japanese. All day.

This place, this “bashyo,” is perhaps the most amazing, interesting, incredible, indescribable place—beyond my wildest dreams—something so hard to fantasize about even at my most lucid, that the word “real” has lost its meaning. This place isn’t real, is it? Can it possibly be real?

This morning’s test was grueling, true, but at its conclusion I had ample time to explore the center of Kawasaki City—an area called Mukougaoka-yuen, in reference to the train station nearby—while foraging for lunch.

(God dammit, I hate simply describing facts. I want to give you a colorful portrait of Japan, but my terse, chronological entries will have to do for now. This is some of the worst writing I’ve ever done.)

My lunch was some strange Japanese soup dish, though it barely deserves such a title. It was a gigantic bowl (imagine something about the size of a colander) and it was filled to the brim with soup broth, rice, carrots, onions, mushrooms and more. The bowl didn’t stop steaming, even after I was finished eating. They cook it hot here, I guess. Franc, Andrew and myself (all Nebraskans) were served at a bar, basically, though I don’t think alcohol was available.

Pause for a moment.

I need to explain something. In Japan, the streets are close. The buildings are tall. There are bikes everywhere. There is concrete abound. People are everywhere. If you blink, you’ll miss something, including a restaurant.

Ask me to find where I ate yesterday. I can’t tell you.

Even though it is within one mile of my dormitory, it’s lost to my mind.

But allow me to paint something for you. The area near Mukougaoka-yuen Station is a cul de sac, surrounded by 10 story buildings, pavement everywhere, indecipherable signs everywhere, people everywhere. Okay, I can’t paint, really. You just have to see it with your own eyes.

We ate our respective meals, stopped by “Life,” one of the nearby supermarkets, and headed back to the dorm to change for our welcome party.

I was, of course, sporting black pants, a freshly pressed pink shirt, and a beautiful striped tie (picked out by Anna). It was gorgeous, a truly beautiful sight. I was a foreigner, with dreadlocks, and I decided to make myself stick out even more. It’s exhilarating, really.

(I just realized how much there is to say, how much I’m leaving out! I’m “Toteme baka ni naru!!” [which means becoming very stupid.] I guess it’s ok)

The welcome party was in the beautiful, brand new cafeteria of building number 9, and we were treated to Japanese food, Japanese people (eager to meet us all) and Japanese music.

This is where things really begin to get fun.

I was at the back of the crowd, listening to the music in silence, as was the 100 or so people around me. The only thing on my mind was, “Where the hell is Masashi and Takayuki?” Granted, the Japanese people who had ventured to the welcome party in order to talk to us were nice, they were lovely, but they weren’t my friends. There was something about those that I talked to that just didn’t seem to click.

I didn’t have a bad attitude; things were just amiss, though I thought they would be great.

I spotted a young Japanese with dreadlocks, baby dreadlocks. He spotted me soon after and made his way over to begin a conversation… though it started off okay, I had trouble comprehending him as we raced through the standard foreigner topics: major, hobbies, favorite sports, music, etc, etc, etc. There was nothing wrong with it, though it just didn’t seem to fit. The long, awkward pauses were something I hated.

So at the back of the crowd, during some of the most creative and beautiful music I had ever heard (the guitarist was playing some bizarre instrument with a pic that was the size of a fan) all I really wanted was to see my good friends, Masashi and Takayuki again. But before I saw them, I heard them.

“Jack off jack off jack off jack off” came a heavily accented whisper in my ear.

Please picture this scene.

Please understand how hard it was to stifle my laugh (don’t worry, I stifled it. I didn’t spit my drink out or anything).

Reunited.

We went out to the 7th story balcony to enjoy drinks while looking out over Kawasaki City. Our conversation flowed, it was easy, it was free, topics wandered…

…I can’t even describe my elation properly, how picture perfect, how “kanpiki” it is to be able to share an inside joke with someone so different, so strange, so foreign yet so much like me.

Masahi and Takyuki brought along Kyohei, the other tour guide from the previous evening.

Franc and I spent 3 or 4 hours talking to them, we watched the sun set and let conversation roam, though they loved to dwell on American “zokugo” (slang). I didn’t really mind. They were cute and funny.

One of their favorite topics, as I mentioned was non-Japanese girls, and we talked much about the Irish group—full of beautiful women. The only problem, for Takayuki, Masashi and Kyohei was that the Irish girls had no prior Japanese.

They decided I would be their translator, and so Franc, myself and the Nihonjin (Japanese people) devised a plan to wrangle the Irish into hanging out with us. It was simple, really. Invite them to Shinjuku (an amazing downtown Tokyo district.) Wait, did I say amazing? Wrong word. Wait, again. Is there even a word to describe Shinjuku? Nope. Nevermind.

So Franc and I talked to the Irish girls, but they had started class today (we hadn’t) and they insisted that they had too much homework.

What I don’t think they understood was that the most valuable thing to proficient conversational Japanese is not found in any book; it’s found in experience. Which I had plenty of, tonight.

Franc, myself and Jerry, an African-American UNO students, and the Nihonjin decided to head to Shinjuku.

You don’t understand. You can’t. I’m not a good enough writer to allow you to understand.

A 10 minute walk to the Mukogako-uen, a 20 minute train ride, and we had arrived in some kind of fluorescent, glowing, unstoppable, living and breathing district of Tokyo.

My head hurts. There’s so much I want to say but can’t because I’m not smart enough, I can’t concentrate enough, I can’t focus.

Let’s pause again.

Before I continue, you must understand the Japanese culture and their views of sex: specifically pornography. The fundamental thing to know is that it’s not taboo. Porno magazines, videos, toys, whatever—they are everywhere. There is nothing weird about an old man reading one next to a young girl on a train, there is nothing shameful about perusing the nearby “Con-Mini” (convenience store) for its porn selection.

I admit, the first time Masashi took me into a conmini to show me porn, my face was red. I didn’t want to stand there, I didn’t really care, first of all, but it just seemed strange to me. Then I realized: no one cares at all.

I’ve told you this, because Shinjuku is, considered the sex center of Japan. Of course, there is more there than sex shops, but if its pornography you want, Shinjuku is the place to go.

Kyohei understood how us Americans saw porn, and he found it hilarious.

He dragged us into ever curbside porn shop their was and had us look at videos, constantly asking us if we liked them.

Decadence, decadence, decadence.

Don’t worry, I didn’t buy anything.

But, between us we came up with some pretty funny inside jokes—the most humorous of which centers on the Japanese male anatomy. The three were quick to tell us that they have “tiny Johnson” and eager to ask us if ours were big. Anytime we went to the bathroom, one would follow in an attempt to get a look.

So where were we. Shinjuku.

We then went to what is known as a “Nomihodai,” essentially an alcohol buffet. Yes, yes. Decadence, decadence, decadence. No, I didn’t drink, but it’s going to be hard not to when it is such an integral part of the culture. Masashi, Takayuki and Kyohei respect me for my willpower, and have been more than accommodating in helping me find not only vegetarian cuisine, but tasty juice as an alternative to alcohol.

The nomihodai was on the fifth floor of some gigantic, colossal, towering, electric building in Shinjuku. Shoes off at the door, and for 1,800 yen you get all the beer you can drink for two hours (about 15 bucks).

This particular nomihodai was done in a traditional Japanese style, with sliding doors separating different rooms containing tables that sit just inches off the floor. We didn’t have to squat though, because the table is above a hole in the ground that accommodates one’s legs and feet. This place was amazing. I’m not doing it justice.

My brain hurts. I can’t think. I must type. I can’t forget.

So we spent the next two hours laughing and talking, chatting about everything from parents to jobs to my camera to hobbies to women to friends. Everything.

Perhaps the greatest moment was when I told the three that they were my “good friends,” and they bowed and bowed and thanked me in the most formal Japanese I had ever heard. They were honored, and they said the same to me. I have to say it felt good. Hearing their response was so, so amazing, such a sensational feeling, it made everything in my body light up like the lights outside. Making a connection like that across cultural lines is another thing that words simply cannot describe.

These three will probably be friends of mine for the rest of my life, if we can possibly stay in touch.

I want to tell you everything. I can’t. There isn’t enough time. I’m stupid. I can’t write.

I’m trying, for you.

Shinjuku is full of people. So many people, all Japanese yet so differently attired that it appears as some sort of futuristic circus where clothes are manufactured by the performers themselves. Thousands and thousands of people on foot, everywhere. It is so overwhelming that my mind just shut off completely and I sort of strolled along the asphalt jungle, glassy eyed and gazing at everything and nothing at all. It took too much energy to look up and examine the skyline.

This place looked like the sun was still up. It was that bright. I can’t do it justice.

After the night was over, and we headed back to the train, (which was situated at the end of an amazingly complex system of tunneled walkways) Masashi, Takayuki and Kyohei wanted to ensure we made it home safely.

Japanese trains are no easy beast to tame.

They ushered us on to the proper train (which was packed with people beyond what you can possibly imagine) and they stood inches from the door, talking to us, telling us: “It’s the 5th stop! Five! Five!” over and over again. They asking people on the train if they were getting off at the same station so they could help us.

No matter how many times I told them “Daijyoubu” (it’s ok, it’s ok) they still stood their. I repeated “Thank you” 15 or more times. They didn’t budge. They stood their, waving us goodbye as the doors closed, still chanting “5th stop.”

Let me try and express how phenomenal it is to have someone want to speak you language, to want to learn from you. These three wanted to spend all their time with us, they begged us to see them tomorrow, which I was grateful for. I wanted to beg them, but they beat me to it. They want to speak English, I want to speak Japanese. It is a perfect fit.

One last thing before I go, though I’m leaving off lots…

…the trains here roar by at what must be at least 45 m.p.h., and there are hundreds if not thousands of road crossings frequented by pedestrians. Earlier today I saw a group of students crossing one of these, and the crossing arms came down while many of the students were still on the tracks.

They had no teacher, of course.

Slowly the plodded across, doddling on the tracks, carefree. Their parents probably didn’t care. This was typical, it was fine. They played with the crossing arm and ducked out of the way 15 seconds before the train zipped by.

I didn’t describe that well.

I didn’t describe any of this well.

I didn’t even insert my thoughts.

I really, really need to take more time to write.

This was another hopeless exercise in futility.

Tomorrow I want to elaborate on trains. I’ll try. Remind me.

Japan is a place of extreme emotional ups and downs.

From the confusion and exhaustion to the surrealism and the exhilaration, this place compresses every feeling, just as it has compressed its inhabitants; I seem to feel everything at a force with a magnitude 10 times of that in America. This is good, and bad.

I get lonely. But not now. Only when the guys from Oregon are touting their masterful use of the language. Only when the idiots from my University are standing around practically having an orgasm because their Japanese culture fetish has finally been realized. Only when I realize that I’m being stared at my 95 percent of the people who pass me.

That’s a lot of only’s.

However, as I said, this is a place of extreme ups and downs, and at this moment I’m riding a wave of hubris that I certainly don’t deserve to be cruising upon. Who cares.

Tonight I went out to dinner with Franc, from Nebraska; a laid back 27-year-old ex-military Fabio look-a-like who, despite the qualities I just mentioned, is one of the most amiable people in the dorm, though he is the quintessential womanizer a drinker even in solitude. Franc and I were joined at dinner by our tour guides from earlier, Takayuki and Masashi.

It was amazing.

They were the Japanese equivalent of Franc and I. Not that we look similar, or that they we had common interests, no, the parallel feature was their level of English and our level of Japanese—and that fact that we all had a desire to learn the others’ language.

Needless to say, dinner was insane. It was like some giant starburst of knowledge exploded in my head and a million little contrails spilled down from my mind. It just tickled me all over. The conversation was splotchy, across the board, but my confidence has been boosted in ways that I can’t even begin to describe.

“TITS!” he yelled into the crowded 4th floor restaurant.

“BLOWJOB!”

Masashi wanted to learn all the bad words that the English language possessed, and though there were a lot in store for him, it was somewhat hard to share them all. This is because, when there is no common ground from which to derive slang, how does one know what the other is searching for?

Through hand motions, of course.

Yes, it was a lewd dinner.

Perhaps the most humorous part was when I nearly spit my “Blueberry Supli” non-alcoholic cocktail across the table into Masashi’s lap—and he wouldn’t have been able to blame me, either—Franc had just said “Onani” in a voice much louder than a verb of it’s scope demanded.

“Onani” means masturbate, of course, and it isn’t the most formal language, either.

But then again, Franc had about three Japanese beers in him.

Of all the words they learned, “Tits” was their favorite. The two were absolutely obsessed with “Big Tits.” They confessed: it’s because all Japanese women have small tits. They were convinced that every woman in America was a Pamela Anderson. Franc and I decided not to inform them of the truth.

The entire conversation took place over one of the longest meals I’ve ever eaten. We started with drinks, beers for them, grapefruit juice for me. Then the “Potato” arrived. Potato refers to Japanese French fries, which reminded me of the modest portions one might receive at an shitty American joint like Village Inn. But the Japanese were even more stingy.

There were no ketchup bottles for the “Potato,” only a tiny dish about the size of a silver dollar. Masashi and Takayuki couldn’t explain it.

As we munched on our fries, the conversation wandered… from strip clubs in Shinjuku and their Nebraskan counterparts, to prostitution prices from Hawaii to Shibuya to Las Vegas. They asked us for pickup lines. They asked us when clubs in Lincoln opened and closed. They asked us where we are going to masturbate in the dormitory.

Keep in mind, please, that this entire conversation was conducted in a brash mix of Japanese and English with riotous laughter throughout.

Yet, we weren’t simply schoolboys using playground potty-mouth for all three hours, to be sure. By the time our entrees had arrived we moved on to different topics. (But I won’t lie, we eventually strayed back to the dark, and more interesting side.)

I ate vegetarian Yakisoba, and I’m not going to try and guess what the others ate. Yakisoba is a noodle dish comprised of carrots, cabbage, onions and some kind of sauce. I’m not really sure what’s in it all, but who cares.

The most interesting thing I ate, though, was pickled eggplant, served with a sauce (I forgot the name and forgot to write it down) that would put Wasabi to shame. When I first grabbed a bit of it with my chopsticks, it didn’t even cross my mind to test the sauce before slathering my slice in the thick, yellow stuff. Masashi and Takayuki held their breath and watched eyes wide as I swallowed it down, waiting the whole time for my reaction to allow them to release the boisterous laughter they had been holding in..

I reacted as expected: watery eyes, burning mouth, and a quick slug of some strange orange non-alcoholic cocktail to wash the taste away. It was funny, really.

As for the pickled eggplant, it was a bit thick tasting for me, but not bad.

After all of this, Masashi ordered more food. I think two more plates of odd tasting things for us to share, and some Yakitori for himself. I’ll spare you descriptions… I’ve got you salivating enough already.

So yes, it was a wonderful night.

While the pretentious Oregon fucks went out to Shibuya with one of the R.A.’s and her lovely Japanese friends, Franc and I just headed to downtown Kawasaki city and ventured to the fourth floor of some strange building for a dinner I won’t soon forget. Masashi and Takayuki promised to come back soon.

I made the Kangol, Wavecap wearing Masahi promise to take me to Shibuya for the hip-hop clubs, but I think he wanted me to have a stronger desire for Shinjuku and that strip clubs that he swears he’s never been in. Either way, this is hopefully the beginning of a great friendship.

The thing that’s so hard about it is the language barrier. It makes it great for learning the language, but at first things are all surface related. We can only talk about the superficial. Which is fine, though there’s so much more that I wanted to say to Takayuki and Masashi. I wanted to compliment their clothing and their eccentric bags (eccentric to me of course), I wanted to tell them how badly I’d love to show them my hometown and, more to the point, how cool I thought they were. This stuff is hard to say without really having a good handle on the language.

Walking through Kawasaki City with Masashi and Takayuki, and gauging their reactions to other Japanese people made me wonder: are they nerds? Are they actually as cool as I think? What do these other Japanese people, who seem to be a bit different, maybe, think of these two natives leading around some tall, white foreigners.

This is essentially, the hard part of being a foreigner, and I think, something that will force me to master a language.

You cannot get a proper feeling of the character of someone unless you can truly communicate with them. Granted, I can feel the intentions of Masashi and Takayuki very clearly, but I can’t get a grip on their relative position in Japanese society as succinctly. It hit me when we were sitting at the restaurant and I had just taken a large bite of Yakisoba. Moments later our table erupted into laughter.

My mind paused for a second as I looked around. I wanted to determine what others were talking about, if we were acting appropriately, if we were being too loud. I wanted anything. The body language of the others in the restaurant told me nothing, and all that was left to reach some kind of understanding was their speech, which I was hopeless to understand in its entirety.

Then the waitress came.

When she was there, I so badly wanted to know what Masashi was saying to her, and how she was responding. Was there a twinge of annoyance in her voice? Was she simply hurrying through his order like any customer? Was she paying extra special attention to him? Did she like him? Did her voice sound as if she was talking down to him?

I couldn’t tell, which makes the relative place of my two new companions in society impossible to decipher.

But I like it that way.

It makes me carefree.

Also, I saw the biggest dragonfly of my life today. It was blue, had a tail like a scorpion, and didn’t seem to care when I walked within inches of its golden, reflective wings.

There’s really a lot of organization here, I think, but a simple glance around Kawasaki City seems to indicate utter chaos. For instance, the roads—while unbearably charming with their twists, turns, blind corners and mismatched pavement—are the lexicon of entropy.

There is a complete absence of intelligible road markings (and I’m not saying this because I can’t read Japanese well), and when there are traffic directions of some sort they are hardly uniform. If you think you’ve seen crazy driving, you haven’t.

Rarely is there a center-line, never is there a curb, and guess what: pedestrians share the avenues with cars on any road that could possibly be considered a side-street. Cars zoom up and down the massive hills (did I mention the hills yet?) along with every kind of bicycle, motorcycle and moped you could imagine. It’s lovely!

The roads are packed, too.

People, cars, bikes—but no squirrels. I don’t think Japan has any.

Regardless, it could be described as insanity. The roads literally snarl along the hills and valleys of Kawasaki City in what truly appears to be a random order. Some vary in width from just enough for a single vehicle to more than enough for three cars. There is no pattern to it whatsoever.

To really hammer this home, let me remind you that I think of myself as a terribly good driver, but I wouldn’t even want to attempt moving more than a few feet in one of these vehicles.

People pass within inches of one another at speed in excess of 25 m.p.h., the motorcycles drive wherever they please, and the pedestrians simply add to the mixture. I saw two near-crashes today, yet I did not see one angry driver or any of the so-called road rage that seems to typify urban America.

Though I still have to get used to the “bzzzzzz” noise of mopeds screaming by just feet from where I’m walking. That might be tough.

Today was actually more for me than just observing traffic, though, it was a day of tours, and it really lifted my spirits. Let me digress momentarily; some of the students here are phenomenal. Everyone is nice, but the level that some of the other international students are speaking Japanese at is beyond my comprehension (in more than one way!). Which means that they receive near-all of the attention from our three R.A.’s, and they are undoubtedly the toast of any group gathering—and they are funny, too.

Don’t get me wrong, I like them, they are nice guys. One is my roommate, in fact. But they sure as fuck make it intimidating around here, or maybe I’ve just got mad at meeting people?

Either way, we had a campus tour today, and luckily I wasn’t with any of the aforementioned smarties (who all come from the University of Oregon). We split into groups, and ours was led by three young Japanese students who spoke no English.

And it was a blast.

I realized that I actually can speak Japanese, who knew?

As for the campus itself, the place is somewhat hard to gauge because it’s so disorganized. The topography makes it impossible to visually determine where things are, but even so, things become more complicated by the various shops, houses and buildings that have sandwiched themselves in to every nook and cranny that isn’t used by Senshu University. Where does campus end and begin? Who knows?

Building Number 9, despite the campus ambiguity I mentioned, is impossible to miss. It is a huge 8 story (or is it 9?) monster that was built only recently. It really is state of the art, unlike our rundown dormitory. Inside it contains a beautiful two story library, and a hardwood floored cafeteria that leads out to lovely balcony dining. (If you can stand the “unbearable” humidity.)

I just reread some of what I’ve written, and I’ve complete devolved into factual recitation. Ugh. I need to learn to write.

“I like Niggaz With Attitude,” said one of my tour guides. (But pretend he said it in Japanese.)

Then he produced the album for me from his large North Face backpack that he had on over his grey Sean Jean XXL t-shirt. This guy was hilarious. He was also dressed in large Roca Wear jeans and some immiation Lugz boots. Did I mention he was hilarious?

We talked hip hop and rap music for a while, and he told me all about Roppongi and Shibuya, the two districts where the rap clubs he frequents are located. He was quite passionate about it, and after he asked my hobbies and I replied with “running” and “writing,” he seemed a bit surprised.

His name was Misashi and besides his other blatant hip-hop fashions, he also incorporated a red wave cap and tan fuzzy Kangol into his wardrobe. Quite the diva, he was.

But he wasn’t the only guide worth describing.

The other two were great, too. They were skinny, young Japanese (19 years old) and they made me laugh and laugh and laugh. Perhaps it was their mock-Japanese lesson in the back of the International Affairs office where we learned the meaning of the word “Baka” (We already knew the meaning: stupid), or maybe it was when they were leading our group to the DVD section of the library and emphatically pointed to the Kubrick’s “Eyes Wide Shut” while saying (in thickly accented English) “Pornography.”

Their charisma was unmatched.

The two each carried bags not so dissimilar from the cloth grocery bags you might spot at a pretentious spot like Ideal grocery, except that these bags were a bit different: one had a Rolling Stones logo on it and the words “50% Rock, 50% Roll”, and the other one was emblazoned with “Nirvana,” “Nevermind” and the classic X-ed out smiley face.

They really put me in a good mood.

They reminded me that I can speak Japanese and that I can make mistakes, and that I don’t have to be so good at it. They made me laugh for the first time since I’ve been here.

I think that’s what I miss most about Lincoln, all of my friends to make me laugh. Everyone here at the dormitory is so unremarkable.

We have yet to really begin classes, so I’m just kind of drifting here. I think, once classes begin, I’ll try and pour myself into my studies, and forget everything else. I think the only thing that could distract me from that goal would be a great friend here at the Kenshukan (dormitory), and I really don’t see that happening, but maybe I just tend to write the story of my life loaded with abysmally negative foreshadowing.

But forget the English speakers. I plan to make a lot of Japanese friends, and have already signed up for a conversation partner, but most of the English-speakers here seem to be pretty boring, though I guess I could simply be an elitist.

For instance, at this moment a group of them is sitting around playing poker with two of our Japanese tour guides. I’m sitting right next to them, typing this, but I’d much rather be walking around Kawasaki City, perhaps sitting down in the center of the town just watching people. Really, I would. Just sitting on a bench with someone I don’t know all that well, talking to them and watching the Japanese walk by (or roll by, circumstances depending).

The people. They really are something. I know that before I came here I said that I didn’t like Japanese girls, and that’s still generally true—I don’t like foreign girls compared to Americans—but the women here really are beautiful. They are unbelievably different from anyone I’ve ever seen in America, but then, I’m also obsessed with the superficial…

It doesn’t matter anyway. The only thing I have going for me is my charm, and it’s all completely lost in translation. But I didn’t come to Japan to meet girls.
Sumo is on the television.

Tonight I might go to Shinjuku.

I’m pretty lonely right now.

I love you all.

Colossal really doesn’t work to describe Tokyo.

It seems like a good word, especially considering the scope of this place, but really it’s simply incomplete—just like any other adjectives that I’ve come up with: sprawling, endless, glowing. These don’t capture anything about what Tokyo actually is.

But, I mean, I won’t limit my word choice here: it really is an enormous, dark mass of twisted concrete, bent asphalt and dense greenery.

The first thing I noticed as we settled into our chartered “airbus” for a ride to the dorm was the trees. They were packed thicker than I had ever seen trees packed. The canopy was like some tightly woven blanket, and they rose up and down with the hills that they concealed beneath. They were broccoli, large and overgrown, seemingly left to expand as far as they could… yet somehow it all looked controlled.

I’m going to try and describe everything properly from here on out, but I’m not sure I can. My head kind of hurts, I’m kind of sleepy, and, well, this is so incredible that words can’t quite do justice to my initial gut interpretation.

Dark was the first word I thought of when I saw Tokyo. It looked dark. I thought Tokyo was supposed to be bright, alive, glowing—a huge neon circus that never slept. As I peered out over the buildings off in the distance, they looked tired. I was supposed to be the sleepy one, not the city.

Yet it was dark. The architecture was unfamiliar, which, when combined with it’s black drapery seemed futuristic.

But really, Tokyo isn’t dark. This was just what I saw from afar.

We were speeding along on a highway for nearly two hours, but our ride wasn’t long enough to allow the skyscrapers to drop off. They just continued, unstoppable. They seemed impervious to the practical fact that they COULDN’T possibly continue along the highway forever.

Then, though, we turned into the city.

Our bus flew up a giant ramp, and we were soaring almost 15 stories high, alongside the skyscrapers, peering down at pedestrians and trains beneath, but also peering up at the roads that screamed on above us. Perhaps “Insane” is the adjective for this situation.

This is when the darkness lifted.

Non-stop neon. Signs that changed color and shape. Flashing billboards and blinding illumination was all that could be seen. We must have traveled through the city for another hour and a half before reaching our destination.

My god.

There’s so much different here that I want to—need to—describe to you, I need to get down in words before it leaves me. I know its only my first evening here, but I can’t get over what I’ve seen so far. I want to paint not only a portrait of this place, but also of the people who inhabit it, all of whom so far have been incredibly kind to me.

I’ll also need to tell you about my roommates.

This is tough for me, because I actually want to produce some writing, not simply recitation of facts.

But for now terse, simple descriptions must suffice. My roommates are Brent from Oregon, and Pedro from Spain. Pedro speaks very little English, and Brent seems to be a pro at Japanese, as are most of the Oregon students.

To be honest I’m feeling pretty uneducated right now.

I need a shower and some sleep.

For those keeping score, I’ve been awake since Saturday at noon (Lincoln time), and it’s currently 11:10 p.m. (Tokyo time). So let’s subtract 14 hours… and that makes Monday at 9 a.m. (Lincoln time).

So I’m only 3 hours shy of 48. Bravo Brett, bravo.

Flying without having slept the night before isn’t such a great idea.

Not sleeping in general is a pretty poor idea; it messes up your insides.

Somewhere over Alaska I began feeling a bit sick to my stomach—if I were a woman I would say that the pain struck in my uterine region—that spot sort of near the small intestine and sort of near the bladder that doesn’t like to identify itself with the digestive system or, in my case (being male), the reproductive system either.

But I can only assume what I felt was something akin to PMS. Every step around the 747 indicated to me that I had managed to lodge some broken glass deep in my bowels. So girls, I can sympathize with you now; though the ordeal didn’t seem to make me bitchy, just vomit-y.

It’s not that I hate to puke, I would just prefer to avoid it on a plane—which I did. I made it to the bathroom and was just fine. But I think I’ll try and sleep a bit next time around.

During the flight to Chicago, things seemed to go much better. I sat next to a beautiful African-American mother-daughter duo, they were also destined for a layover in Chicago. The daughter was on her way back to her job at the Pentagon.

She was proud of her job.

“I took September 11th off, I just didn’t want to be there,” Lily told me.

She was so professional.

She produced a Pentagon badge and security card, and described all the procedures for entering the place. She told me about getting hired. She told me about her 8 year tenure. Did you know the Pentagon has 35,000 employees? She really liked to talk, which was good, I suppose.

“It’s such a funny thing,” she responded to one of my questions, “I was there, but I was late. I got a phone call from someone and he made me late, and when I was getting off the Interstate I saw the plane fly right over my car and crash into it.”

“I lost seven co-workers.”

(I’m making this sound much more dramatic than it really was. Lily didn’t dwell on this, or really sound upset at all, and she described it to me with the same enthusiasm that she told me about her love for art and computer animation—an enthusiasm represented by a wide-eyed, focused gaze and huge smile. She was just brimming. She had nice hair. She had perfect teeth. She was a fun girl.)

Oh, and her mother was there, too. Gladys. She was quite old, and very terse but she embodied a beauty that I think only old black women who lived through the civil rights movement seem to posses. She had a visible firmness to her, yet her eyes revealed a much kinder, gentler person beneath. I just wanted to stare and stare at her, she really seemed like some kind of painting to me, some kind of rare masterpiece soon to be extinct and relegated to the domain museums and books.

But that was back on the first flight.

I’m still on this 747 now, and I have much, much father to go. Six hours, maybe? I’m sandwiched between two Japanese youth, who I’ve avoided speaking to thus far due to my lack of confidence, and one of my flight buddies, Franc, is a row back getting drunk of some yellow Vodka drink. (He currently has two lined up ready to go after he finishes the one in his hand.)

I should be in Tokyo by 3:30 p.m., Tokyo time. (Lincoln time is 14 hours difference, I believe).

I’m going to be pretty fucked up. (Remember, I haven’t slept much in the past 4 days.)

This is for you.

It seems that when a great author looks back on his life and tries to discern the turning points and describe the major changes that affected him, he can easily recall some anecdote that succinctly represents his feelings while simultaneously inducing laughter throughout audience. That's what makes these men brilliant: they can talk about themselves all day long yet somehow keep people enthralled throughout their entire ego-trip.

So before I really begin this long-winded exercise in expression, I'll give you this caveat: I'm not like the men described above. I'm not a great writer, and you may become bored--so bored that you cry.

Regardless, I must write about how you have changed my life.

Finding a starting point is tricky, considering that the last three or four years have been quite an odyssey for me, and I'm not sure if the trip to Japan marks the end of that journey, or simply the true beginning.

I suppose it all started with a bowl of macaroni. (Of course, I'm skipping a proper introduction, which could span volumes, but we need to get moving here. So just plunge with me headfirst into this steaming red bowl...)

*Splash*

This certain steaming red bowl of macaroni is significant because it is one of those not-so-remarkable symbols that bring memories flooding back in torrential fashion. I remember when I was about to dig into its artificial cheesy goodness. Zach Garfield was there--but, I mean, how couldn't he be? This is Zach we're talking about, the kid who was a part of me, the guy who shared his entire life with me, and was the only person I ever truly trusted. We had shared monumental victory, and also defeat. We ran through dark moonlight streets, breathing heavy, racing police. We had shared fear together. We shared hopes and dreams. The spiritual and philosophical paths we had traveled together were innumerable. When I knew Zach, life had an air of mystery to it that was so utterly intoxicating that I wanted nothing more than to just inhale it deeply every night, exploring beyond the sunset, careless, powerful--remaining children throughout.

But let's pause for a moment.

When I say mystery I'm not talking about any Hound of the Baskervilles puzzle that can be solved by deduction. No, my dear Watson, I'm getting at something deeper. "Mystery" simply refers to the haze that clouded everything in life, fogging up the windows, making the exterior enticing and extravagantly unexplored. That is mystery, and I loved it.

There was, however, no mystery to the macaroni, of course, it just happened to be what I was eating at the time of my arrest, which is why it is significant. And after the whole legal ordeal was over, the once golden contents or my red steaming bowl grew cold and hard. Oh, predictable macaroni.

Those fossilized noodles are but one tiny ribbon in a giant tapestry of fluid memory. I suppose that night marks the beginning... or was it the end? Change had to start somewhere...

And it did. And you were all there for me.

When I was down, you listened--every night. Liz Green listened. Liz, that infinitely yielding and amiable new neighbor and old friend, so adept at making me feel good despite my best attempts to wallow in my self pity and writhe around in my misery. She wouldn't let me.

So many warm summer nights I sat with a window open, thisting for a taste of that old mystery Zach and I found, and the whole time Liz listened to me as I babbled on and on. I was depressed, and my wanderlust was locked away, but Liz cultivated it, kept me sane, and put up with me while keeping a remarkably good temperament.

That was when I was emotionally down.

But there was also a time when I was literally down--drugged into a near comatose state, salivating, sucking, dripping, dribbling and drooling. I was fermenting in my own juices. (I couldn't swallow!) Eight hours of jaw surgery will do it to you--and by 'do it to you' I mean: turn you suicidal as you search for any position in which sleep ceases to become a hell where punishment is gagging on buckets of your own oral secretions.

I'll let you in on a secret: after surgery like that, no such position exists, for at least 5-weeks. So I was stuck in saliva Hades.

I felt like I was dying, but there was John Thorson and Walker Cline, visiting me in all of my fat-faced glory. How could such brilliant people care about my puffy jowls and me? Perhaps the two most talented people I had ever met were visiting ME at MY house when I couldn't even talk to them.

Ironically, their visit really caused me a lot of pain, because they induced me to laugh incessantly, which was quite excruciating because my mouth couldn't open more than a meager centimeter or two.

What was going on here?

I'm still not really sure why they aren't famous yet, considering that their every pore exudes some kind of contagious ambition. (That sounds like I'm saying they're sweaty, and if you want to interpret it that way, I'll assent--I find their aroma inspiring.)

I dream of traveling one day with Walker, though he may prefer solo journeys, whether it be a walk across town or a road trip to Chicago, I can't help but admire his vagabonding disposition. I have visions of us soaring across the country via boxcar, dirty and happy. He seems completely at peace in his mind, not introverted, but simply subscribing to a very clear philosophy shared by Bob Marley: "My home is my mind." Oh, how I aspire...

But inspiration doesn't end there, so many others left their footprints on my mind.

Kim Karels and her indelible confidence in my truly lackluster running ability (support I never deserved) illustrates her exuberant nature and clearly defines her as a lofty optimist--for her, there is no finish line. She never seems to stop glowing. Anna Degraff and her rock solid dedication to her dreams carried out in such a challenging context that her ambition can't help but spread like a viral infection. The same with Stef Tomkis, who constantly reminds me what we are actually put on this earth for: to help others.

But since I'm talking about passion, I have to tell you about my favorite framed photograph. Well, it's two frames actually, but one photograph. Simple, yet effectively, the scene of two lesbians engaged in '69' under fluorescent lighting had been cut and framed in such a way that when hung on a wall they provoked such deep thought within me I concluded only an esoteric madman could discern meaning from it.

And actually, that little piece of work was done up by one of my favorite madmen.

I'm talking about Matt Gee the absolute lexicon of passion, brilliance and abstract thought. He will read this and denounce the preceding adjectives, probably denying them on the grounds that they cannot apply to someone with his resume, but I disagree. Beyond his lackadaisical camouflage exists one of the greatest talents I've ever met. Trust me. That lesbian 69 portrait still has my mind in a pretzel that I don't feel like untangling just yet.

These are the people I love. Without this kind inspiration? How could I have become who I am?

So we've strayed a bit from our motif. Don't you recall? I have somewhat of an obsession for the so-called mystery that exists in our world. I thought it was lost forever, after that macaroni hardened and began to grow mold, but now I know it's still out there.

I know because of Sumreen Tarar. Gorgeous mind, beautiful disposition, pleasantly refreshing. Sumreen reminded me that life still has surprises that are as ambient as the air, and that there is still space to explore. Her unwavering support and steadfast hold on generally ambivalent ideals perplexed me, but also taught me to think on an entirely different plane. Perhaps it took a bit of time and reflection to actually understand this, but I see now what she has done to me, and no words can possibly thank her properly. Through her love, patience and compassion I have learned lessons in thinking and understanding that I will treasure for the rest of my life. How can I repay someone for teaching me that looking at the world upside down through a kaleidoscope is OK, and utterly necessary?

My greatest regret of the past 3 years is that I treated possibly the most profound person I've met in my life as if she was worth nothing.

Sumreen wasn't the only one to make me think different, though. There was Megan Milligan. I hear she eats meat now, but her influence has made me a vegetarian for life. Though she exerted her pull on me years before that bowl of macaroni began our story, the effects still linger on. When people ask me what has impacted my life with the greatest magnitude, I can't help but name Megan, and then grasp helplessly for words to describe the abstract way in which she somehow molded me into who I am.

Bored to tears yet? Was that stupid to ask? Don't feel like answering? Well then read these next few questions:

Did you know it's ok to laugh at fat people and people in wheelchairs? Did you know its ok to laugh at yourself? How can I not be grateful to Amy Schmeeckle for reminding me that it's not bad to be impudent and brash, and that sometimes the real dichotomies in our everyday life are so essential that denying them will only erode who we are as people. Laugh at everything, including the face in the mirror.

What I'm getting at, I mean, really, is that it's fine to dance like a bumbling fool, and it's even better if you have fun doing it. Life is about dancing aimlessly, flailing and twirling like Dan Petersen who seems to be an incessant model for the way I want to live life: whimsical, carefree and for my friends and myself. If I have a smile on my face, who cares if everyone else in the bar is giggling at me? I hold his attitude in my highest esteem, and Dan is one of few people who truly fit the definition. Discouragement from others is unheeded. Distractions fall into an abysmal pit of forgotten static.

Maybe you agree, the way I think has changed slightly.

But what about the future?

It's always on my mind, really, like some great gray train slowly chugging along on the horizon. Maybe Walker and I are inside one of those boxcars... I'm not really sure. Who knows where it's going or what's in it, all we need is a vague notion of the destination. Ben Walter will inevitably be part of this future that lies beyond the curve of the Earth, that future I can't quite see yet. Whether it's working with him in a Mexican restaurant in Paris, France, or building some kind of partnership here in Lincoln, I know that his iron integrity will last for the rest of his life and that we will share in some kind of success. He seems to stand still like some huge block of concrete, unimpaired by the trivialities that may intrude into his life. When Ben says something, he means it. This is why I will look to him as a model for my conduct in the future, as I mature.

But let's be honest, I'm not ready to grow up just yet, though I have in some ways.

The flyers, the leaves, the toilet paper and the website. Oh, the smashed pumpkins, too... the newspapers swirling above in the ceiling fan like so many forgotten memories. All part of my relationship with Billy DeFrain, and all things that I somewhat regret with a cockeyed half-smile. The tolerance and endurance he has had with me and all my fantastical friendship-wrecking escapades speaks volumes about his character and his ability to forgive. For every wrong done to me, I think of Billy and how he has handled all of the ridicule thrown at him from my direction. I aspire to be of his demeanor, and I want to stand shoulder to shoulder with him in the future on any project (He's much funnier than I could ever hope to be, not to mention a more talented writer).

There is something I've been neglecting, up to this point and I'm not sure why--maybe because it's such a Pandora’s box, yet it's only one single solitary word: Spadt.

That syllable that I affectionately refer to him by certainly does send forth a tumult of baggage with it, though. Ben Spadt. Who is that guy? What's he doing now? Where is that kid? Popular questions from those who know the mystique, not the man.

Since 8th grade he's stood by me, and I think that's almost enough said about a guy who I proudly look to as a father figure. He is the original mystery. He brought it to me, he showed me a river and pointed to the other side. "What's over there?" He showed me the kind of mystery that oozes from the streetlights on a humid summer night and drips down onto the still hot asphalt.

Take a deep breath. We've almost made it, though I really have been terse--I've left off so many of you.

...So I don't really want to name names, but I suppose I'll have to. To Nidhi Mehta, Nargis Sadat, Irma Sulemanovic, Amnia Elbasheer, Nate Young, Ananda Walden, Anne Swanda, Heather Sigle, Quentin Lueninghoener, Melanie Feyerherm, Jeremy Buckley, Robby DeFrain, Ian Terry, Dana Meier, Ben Marker, Chia Li, Adam Nordloh, Lauren Wirt, Terry Khan, J.J. Idt, Nic Skiles, Travis Bossard and Lis Reinkordt, thank you for sharing your lives with me, there's so much I want to say about all of you...

To those I forgot, I'm sorry, but you are probably on my mind, too.

I wish I had the erudition to beautifully phrase how much I respect and love you all, but for now I shall remain an undergrad just "waxing philosophical" ... another hopeless rant that, with luck, will convey how much I care about you all--I suppose if you made it this far you probably understand what I mean, but I want you to know that you will all be with me in Tokyo for the this new mystery, because you are all a part of who I am.

For those of you who may not know, I'll be leaving Sunday morning from Omaha, and heading to Chicago, where I will board a 13 hour flight to Tokyo, Japan.

The time has come, though I'm truly pretty ambivalent about the entire thing.

Right now I'm pretty much only thinking about my iliotibal band.

Because it fucking hurts.

If you haven't already, go ahead and send me your mailing address, and I will send you a postcard or something else. Also, you can get to the photo gallery at Things Observed which is linked to the right, under "Other Skeet."

Enjoy.