Certain spots in Japan possess a characteristic that, though often charming, is typically incredibly frustrating. That attribute is a bit hard to define, but I think tersely terming it "backwardness" is appropriate. So many places here are backward, but not backward in the way that Kris Kross wore their pants a decade ago--that kind of switch can be readily understood--no, this kind of backwardness is no simple reversal but rather a complete and totally unique refitting of some familiar thing as to make it unrecognizable, except for the fact it stays in an otherwise normal context.

For example: the club in Shibuya that I visited Saturday night.

The context was completely normal, and totally predictable: a bar with dim lights, a dancefloor, a DJ, and overpriced drinks. That context I can comprehend easily, though the activities taking place within the concrete walls of that third level basement bodega were absolutely foreign to me.

"Take me down to the underground," I thought as I passed through the security, descended a few flights of stairs...

...and there I was, three floors down, in a post typhoon, post sickness haze, gazing cockeyed at the still empty 10:30 p.m. dance floor. This place was narrow (like everything in Japan), and although there was a steady mix of mid 90's East Coast hip-hop on the decks, this place didn't feel like home at all. Something was different. I knew something strange was in store.

Supposedly, there was a famous Dj on the bill who would be spinning that night: Dj Celory. Never heard of him, but OK, famous, fine; I didn't have to pay full cover price anyway, thanks to the VIP treatment provided by Masashi and Hiroki--so even if things took a turn for the worst, at least it was cheap.

Before I knew it, the place had filled up, and by midnight the floor was packed... but I realized something: no one had come to dance with one another, but instead, to dance facing toward the DJ only, with an introverted, narcissistic focus on their own dance style and technique. This was the backward part. Abso-fucking-lutely backward.

The guys and girls who come to the clubs have something in common: they also attend dance schools, where they practice and practice and practice... then when Saturday night finally arrives, it's time for the big show, though the only audience member is the face in the mirror. Funny thing is, for all their phenomenal clothing, calculated posturing and expensive dance lessons, they were still pretty goofy looking.

As the night progressed, and hour after hour melted away, I realized that the club patrons would continue to dance as they had been for the past three hours; that is, with themselves only, eyes glued to the DJ.

They weren't robots, no, of course not, but as the Irish girls Aoife and Frieda might have said, this was definitely not a "proper club." It was missing the key element that seems to be the focal point of every bar in America--from the plus pads in Manhattan to the tiny taverns in Hastings, Nebraska--hooking up. You enter. You drink. You dance. You hook up.

The Japanese have a word for it, some Japanese call it their hobby: Nanpa suru. There's a whole culture surrounding it...

But even so, there wasn't even an inkling of that feeling in this club, not even a hint of the smallest iota of the scent of "nanpa suru" was to be detected. I should have known immediately: there were no foreigners there. Foreigners don't go to places at night if they have nothing to do with women... Gaijin smell horny women like a shark smells blood in the water.

Ah. And the light goes on... I see.

No matter though, I wasn't there to hunt cute girls (maybe to dance with them, but...) I was there for the experience! Right! (And besides I can get to a "proper club" in Roppongi next week...)

And that experience was? Well, interesting, to be sure. I learned that Hiroki (one of my Japanese chaperones), despite his wave cap, cocked hat, chains and hardcore thug lug, was a "cherry" (derogatory word for a male virgin)... except, he wasn't completely a cherry... he actually had "sex" with a blow up doll. No shit.

I think Masashi may have soiled his pants after witnessing my reaction to receiving that information. My god... sex with a blow up doll--oh, cherry.

Aside from these potentially disgusting sexual details, I also learned a bit about drink prices, so you, my American friends can sit, jaws agape, awestruck at the blindingly ridiculous cost for what many feel is a basic need. For example, a pint of Guinness: 8$. Vodka Tonic: 6$. A shot of vodka: 5$. Simply atrocious, I think, but most astounding of all was the price of what barely amounted to a single cup of sports drink: 5$. A full bottle of water? 8$.

Cho takai.

So next time you are sipping on your Guinness in what you think is an expensive bar, just remember my comrades and I, who are stuck paying double to have our mugs topped off with a pint of the dark stuff.

But as for me, I still don't drink, and as for me, a trip now and then into the depths of backwards Japan is just fine.

I slept during the entire 5:30 a.m. train ride home. Zzzzzzz.