Apologies for the shitty blog entries.

I just reread a bunch of stuff from September, and I realized that I can't write for shit.

I don't have any excuses for my horrid writing.

I'm going clubbing tonight, Club Pure is having a Halloween party.

I'm thinking of you.

We don't see things the way they are, we see them as we are.

It's like the steam rising off of that giant electric generator just North of the University Recreation Center in downtown Lincoln, Nebraska--my impressions and memories float away into the sky tumbling heels over head in a hasty ascent to the past, leaving nothing behind but a vague memory of their shape. You can of course remember the path and direction--start and destination too--but the contrails are gone, the details are hazy, there is no body.

That's the nightmare--the time when everything will disappear is coming.

Often I stare into the sky, perhaps some late night in Shinjuku after pausing momentarily in a throng of pedestrians. They wade around me like so much molasses. I'm searching for the stars, which are all but completely obscured by the bright lights, neon and exhaust.

Often I stare into the sky, and I look for those stars that were once so visible back in Nebraska, and I wonder what star I am part of now. I'm that kid who left for Japan, I'm that guy who you talk about over coffee on a breezy Tuesday night, I'm the one who left. I'm gone.

But where am I?

Amid the grotesquely large, heaving, gasping body that is Tokyo, I am part of something that I don't understand yet, perhaps cannot understand--something in me is changing rapidly, like a thunderstorm rolling across the plains, crashing and clanging harder and harder and faster and faster until it's upon you and you're completely soaked, wet, trembling.

And then it's over.

I've been shivering for about 8 weeks now, and I don't know what's going to happen next.

I have a splitting stomach ache. I move hungrily, like a pig. I have the appetite of ten-thousand monks. I have the impudent disposition to devour Tokyo.

Vacantly searching for something... searching for nothing, just existing, perfectly happy, perfectly tired, a ball of yarn I am--rapidly being used up, knit into something entirely new and considerably different, the same yet unlike anything I have ever touched. I'm an ephemeral thing, now, warmly floating from day to day, waking from a dream, dreaming from a wake. Awakening from what in Nebraska, I would have called yesterday.

People only see what they are prepared to see.

I'll be home soon.

The Japan Times newspaper is having a photography contest specifically for foreigners, and I'm going to enter! I get to select ten photos to submit, but I'm not really sure what the best are. The idea behind the contest is to encourage tourism in the Tokyo area, so, you can imagine what type of photos the want.

So help me out by posting some comments about the best photos, and which ones I should submit.

Also, I may not be writing for a while, I've been incredibly busy (and happy!).

It could have been the other night when I was eating dinner with Yumi and Numa--Vegetarian spaghetti at a lost "Italian" restaurant in Noboritto.

It could have been today when I was riding a lazy 1 'o' clock train discussing life's annoyances with Shinagawa-san--Nanba line, bound for Kawasaki.

It could have been tonight during an okanomiyaki dinner with Reiko--the view from our booth in some Shinjuku loft was spectacular.

It could have been any of those wonderful, unreal times when I had completely forsaken English for hours at a time that I noticed it; but gradually, I have come to the realization that if I truly wanted to, I could abandon the English language entirely, and step into a world that my tongue wasn't built for. Fluent? Not even close--but like one of those slow, churning, pressure building guitar solos, I know that some day soon, fireworks are going to come exploding out of my vocal chords and I will bang my head like some kind of rock star as the crescendo completes; awakening.

When not in the study room with Hisayo, and not on the streets of Shinjuku or Harajuku, pounding the pavement in my Pumas, I'm sleeping. My only desire is to elevate to that little place in the clouds where I can say "I understand you," and mean it.

When I'm not with a Japanese person, I'm alone in my head.

Life here is about one degree from perfect, and it feels so good.

My prior entry sounded really quite angry, and in fact was titled anger, though I'd like to preface it by saying that although I do write a lot, much of what I write is simply that, writing. Nothing personal.

Something that was, up until yesterday, but a small cyst of irritation riding in the back of an already crowded mind, has finally manifested itself into what should now be called anger.

"You're really independent, aren't you?" Tomo asked me today; and though I understood the meaning perfectly, and answered, "Yes," he and I both knew that the proper question required a knowledge of English that he didn't quite possess yet.

The correct question would have been worded slightly differently, something along the lines of: "You really don't like to be around other people, do you?" Of course, this language construction only uses the most basic vocabulary, but the way the sentence is built, not the lexicography, is what gives it the proper meaning. It's a negation that not only posits a question, but suggests an answer.

Through what we consider normal use of language, a properly worded question helps to capture the essence of his suspicion that I really hate hanging around exchange students. He had noticed. He wanted an explanation.

It's language like this that can't be taught--so basic, yet so useful--terse bits of bumpy words spat out to the tune of fluent conversation. Of course, it's easy for me to analyze nuggets of English chit-chat for four paragraphs, but Japanese is a completely different story.

I want so badly to have the same ability with Japanese that I have with English: the ability to quickly and concisely express thoughts through nuanced speech. Improving takes time, something that I feel this place has stolen from me, never a free moment.

Hours and hours pass, my eyelids sagging hard against my unshaven face. The effort required to reset those protective sheaths to their standard "open" position is simply too much, as is the effort require to interpret conversation any longer.

How many hours has it been? Listening, speaking, now lying face up on a pink futon in Miki's narrow apartment, my head pointer skyward toward her face, though it remained invisible just a few feet beyond my eyelids--cemented shut 15 minutes prior.

Beauty was not completely hidden, however, because despite my inability to conjure up the strength to continue eye contact, I was still able to listen to the most beautiful music I could imagine, even if I had given up trying to understand it. Three Japanese girls simply talking, communicating in some tiny apartment in a forgotten borough of Tokyo at 4 a.m.

Heaven.

Far away from exchange students, isolated in the most flawless environment I could imagine. My consciousness dangled by a small thread that I played with like some kind of kitten lazily batting it around, fading out of one dream and into another, although I made every effort to remain just alert enough to permit their immaculate voices passage into my ears.

"So you like to go out alone then?"

Not exactly, Tomo, but yes. Each day is an effort to escape the absolutely sluggish English of unmotivated, single-track minded exchange students and their listless, common conversation for more perfect situation, such as four hours at Miki's, where disappearing into the folds of conversation is as easy as letting your mind relax only momentarily.

...and though being understood--and understanding--is an ecstatic feeling, so too is drifting off and just letting syllables, spoken through the most delicate of mouths, tiptoe around one's mind. Please, neverend, I think, please nevernd.

Believe me, I try to extend my days and nights to the place called Neverend, but after five nights with--honestly--little to no sleep, I know that Neverend is hardly a realistic desire. Crashing down into bed from such extreme highs is disappointing. Now I can sleep, but how can I let myself be passed by?

While others sleep, I cook tempure.

While others sleep, I am engaged in a dream.

While others wake and discuss the trivialities of their lives, I search for some kind of escape to Japan, because the dormitory isn't Japan.

"Bu-chan.. Bu-chan, wake up."

"Bu-chan," a simple contraction of the first syllable of my name, "Bu" and the incredibly informal, affectionate suffix, "chan" has become my new moniker, constantly repeated by so many of the girls that I hang around.

It's 8 a.m. and time to shove off for one of those ridiculous, day long group activities where privacy is reduced to an impossibility and the exchange students' shoot incessant annoyances in all directions--especially in mine.

"Bu-chan, wake up."

I'm up, I'm up, well, somewhat. My eyes are nearly frozen shut from last nights inadequate rest which did nothing to replenish my energy--entirely depleted from endless days and nights in sleepless Tokyo. The brash, aggressive morning sunlight barely even tickles my eyes.

Waking was not from dream to dream, but rather to a nightmare full of tiresome Americans, worried little about studies or Japanese conversation. We would go to Hakone to stand in the shadow of Mt. Fuji, but I only wanted to find a sanctuary away from their obnoxious personalities, so that I could truly enjoy the tranquility in peace.

"Yes Tomo, I really have some problems with other exchange students. Is it weird?"

This is when Tomo told a story, about Yuta, the other near-fluent dormitory assistant.

When Yuta first went to Oregon to study English, he knew how to say, "Hello," "Goodbye," and "Fuck you." That was all. He too was part of an exchange program but detested his fellow Japanese travelers with a passion beyond mine. He avoided them. He stuck to himself and Americans only. Now, a year later, I consider his English to be almost flawless.

So after waking into this nightmare, I simply went back to bed. I just slept.

The entire bus ride to Hakone, I slept.

During the small, exchange student party in Hakone, I slept.

...and tonight, while everyone is sleeping, I will be tiptoeing through bits of Japanese grammar, possibly in some tangled urban local, far, far from the karaoke bars and nomihoudais that the exchange students will almost definitely set off for.

I will be with Japanese people, speaking Japanese but listening too, to the honestly indescribably beauty of the female voice, so truly intoxicating and paralyzing that it makes me ache to hear it spoken. So beautiful, they are, so gorgeous.

Back into my dream.

Raindrops fall on my umbrella and skid down onto my hood.

If it's raining heavy, the drops make their way to my forehead and tickle my eyebrows.

I'm standing in a puddle, typhoon on the horizon, waiting for a train and dreaming about the near future as music shoots through my headphones and into my skull: November in Kyoto with Hisayo, Numa and Reiko. Dreaming, dreaming.

Days like today give me a place to hide, to drop below the surface and swim in my own mind, alone on a crowded train, hood down, head down, dreaming. No exchange students speaking at escalated volume, proud tongues protruding sharply. No annoyances. No nothing, just rain and dreams.

Anticipation.

In November the rain will disappear and I will board a shinkansen with three friends.

Three Japanese friends.

Get me out of this dorm and into the future: speeding to the East, to Osaka and the unknown, with three girls who won't let me speak English. A dream, a dream, a dream. Five days of freedom from the west, five days with a clear head.

Exit from this place and its incessant static is more than a spatial transition, it is removal to a quite, clear place where one can see for miles. Get me away from the exchange students, the know-it-alls and the loud-mouths. Isolate me. Bury me.

Remove their vocal chords.

Remove my ears.

Get me to the future.

To descend from these vague, grainy rain clouds for a moment: in November, Osaka and Kyoto will be my temporal home, a Japanese inn the spot where I will lay my head, next to Reiko, Numa and Hisayo, though the room will be our last stop each evening, the end of overflowing days.

Back to the sky, raindrops falling up.

Only talk when you can't hear me.

Can't wake up until I'm sleeping.

In just a few weeks I've watched my little, translucent food cubby in the kitchen grow from an itty-bitty see-thru skeleton into a bulbous pantry where various noodles, spices and sauces push outward against the frosted edges, threatening to burst its plastic seams.

What this essentially means is that I'm learning to cook Japanese food, a dream of mine that is now gradually being realized.

The smell of sushi vinegar lingers on my hands for usually an hour or more after I've finished a batch of kappa-maki rolls, which is fine because the scent is a mouthwatering reminder of the day's culinary success--a satisfying feeling. Lately, though, the aroma has stuck around much longer than an hour; it remains constantly stuck to my skin, not because I refuse to wash my hands, because I'm constantly creating sushi.

I just can't stop myself.

After Hisayo and Numa first planted that tiny seed of sushi knowledge up in my brain, I've been practicing the technique with the dedication of a monk, over and over again, nonstop, morning, day, night, living in the kitchen; all in an effort to improve my skill at something I never thought I could do at even in a menial capacity--though so many of my Japanese friends, after sampling the bite size rolls, seem to think that I have already mastered something that men dedicate their lives to.

I beg to differ.

Though it is quite pleasing to produce a full plate of fairly mediocre sushi to a group of Japanese and then listen to their repeated cries of "Umai!" "Umai!" which would translate to something like "Sweet" or "You are very talented." Constantly... euphoric...

But I'm not sure about all that. Talented? Probably not... addicted? Definitely.

So much about Japanese food preparation is, as with Japanese society, not simply about the finished product, but about strict adherence to rules throughout the process, and then attention to detail during presentation. There's something calming about creating sushi--waiting for the rice to cook, carefully arranging the necessary tools, washing vegetables... stirring in the vinegar, spreading the sticky rice, adding wasabi, and finally creating the roll itself.

Over and over again I produce far more sushi than one man can concern even in three sittings, which is actually just fine because there's typically plenty of Japanese to share with, though every time Hisayo sees me head for the kitchen I hear cries of "Mata?!" or, "Again?"

Yes, again. Just like the language, if I want to create good sushi, I will have to practice.

"Mata??"

Yes, mata, and I know you'll be coming through that kitchen door shortly to help.

I love sushi. Yes. But even more recently sushi has become secondary to preparation of my favorite Japanese dish: soba--perhaps one of the most difficult things (next to tofu) for a westerner to eat due to all the slurping and chopstick hoisting required to properly get the long, cold noodles into one's belly. It can be quite a circus.

Typically after a full plate of soba has made its way down my esophagus, the plate, table and my clothing look similar to the aftermath of a typhoon that was spraying men-sauce rather than water--oh, and speaking of typhoons, tomorrow, typhoon number 23 should be arriving. Fun, fun.

"Can I take a picture right now, Kyohei?"

"No! You'll be arrested!"

Arrested? It's only a picture... But maybe, just maybe the reason you aren't supposed to take pictures on the final evening trains has something to do with the fact that they probably resemble something akin to holocaust style boxcar:: crammed so tight that one's ribs are constricted to the point of suffocation and motion is restricted entirely.

But, unlike 1940's German boxcars, these train cars are at least air conditioned, though perhaps they ride is only a bit less harrowing.

The train lines actually employ people in the evenings specifically for the purpose of shoving passengers onto the train. When it seems as though the little plastic and metal box has been filled to capacity, there is some white-glove clad people-mover waiting to push a few more pounds of flesh into the car. It's fine with me, really.

The ride, for many, is one of their worst experiences in Japan. I think, however, that floating along, sliding and leaning through each turn with 160 of your best friends (in one car--I counted) is actually quite a good time.

It's better than a half-packed car, where one still has to maintain balance so as not to bump into those next to him, and it's better than an empty car because all of the action keeps you awake.

Despite all that, I couldn't take a picture... though I'm not sure I would have been able to move my arms to operate the camera.

In Japan, there are plenty of strange things to see, but I never thought I would be adding a drunken verbal battle over cooking styles at 3:00 a.m. to the list of oddities my eyes have been privy to.

Lately the dormitory has been empty, because everyone is participating in their various homestays which have spread them far and wide over the 23 wards. Absolutely fine with me. The Kenshukan's annoyances are gone, and only the most interesting people are left: the Japanese and the Koreans.

The solitude has also lead to some heavy drinking by some of the residents here.

Choi, one of the incredibly talented Koreans, stumbled into the kitchen while Hisayo, Numa and myself were rolling sushi, and he went on a red-eyed, drunken rampage--entirely in Japanese--about which style of sushi rolling was the correct one. Of course, Choi preferred the Korean style, and insisted on showing us; adding his own secret spices to our rice, and rolling a lumpy

The normally quiet, reserved Korean was completely out of character, shouting, yelling, throwing sticky rice in what seemed to be a feigned attempt at anger. He truly seems to be a reserved, calm, human being, but I suppose something about Kappa-Maki (cucumber sushi) just threw him into a tailspin.

It was my first real experience with a Japanese argument, and it was phenomenal.

Though, after I taste test, I still prefer the Japanese style.

...and a quick note: as I was finishing this entry, I was interrupted again by Choi, though it was incredibly pleasant as he complimented my typing speed.

Tonight has been absolutely wonderful and I'm having a very difficult time writing about it properly. Sorry. I know how awful this is.

It would be easy to consider many exchange students' stays in Japan as extended games of "nanpa."

They come here, not because they love the culture, or the language; the cars or the technology; the business opportunities or even the simple allure and mystique that flow through every bit of cement, asphalt and soil in each of the 23 wards. No, no... those are traditional reasons to visit this place, and many of the sweaty, stinky, acne covered gaijin studying at Waseda, Keio or even Senshu for that matter are not here for anything so pithy as a few kanji lessons.

They are here for the women.

Because, well, although they may posses every aforementioned attribute, and consistently repel even the most desperate of females in their native land, they are still able to pick up women here, because baby, this ain't America anymore.

I didn't come here to pick up women...

...But it sure is fun.

And though I don't consider myself a walking sack of garbage with yellow fever--and though I told myself I would never stoop so low as to go out specifically for picking up Japanese women--I couldn't help but play a bit of the nanpa game tonight. Nanpa, of course, is slang for picking up chicks.

Shall we go pick up chicks tonight?

Certainly, Kyohei, certainly.

Off to Shibuya, and to Sentagai avenue, a place which Kyohei characterized best, in broken English no less: "Sentagi is famous Japanese nanpa street," which of course means that, on a Friday night, it is packed with some of the most beautiful women that Shibuya-ku has to offer. But as I said, nanpa is a game--and the game we played was Americans vs. Japanese.

Most phone numbers wins.

Though Don may tell you a different story, I found our little nanpa adventure to be quite fun, rewarding, and to be excellent practice, even if it was ultimately unsuccessful. Instead of leaving feeling slightly humiliated and rejected, I left feeling wonderful, as if I had really bitten off and swallowed a piece of Japanese culture--though I may have choked on it a bit as it was going down.

Sentagai was full of people standing in circles, talking, drinking, laughing, playing the nanpa game. So we formed our circle, with the Japanese boys taking their turn first, though they wouldn't be flying solo as I was to be included in their gaijin nanpa plan.

The scenario would begin with them approaching a confused looking pair of women, making small talk, then awaiting my arrival from some nearby voyeuristic enclave, after which I would help to "translate," and hopefully our conversation would end in success, with an exchange of phone numbers.

The Japanese plan worked flawlessly, to say the least, and now Kyohei, Takayuki, and myself have added two new numbers to the already long and ever growing list of keitai bango: Catherine from Edmonton and Kelly from Australia. Kyohei was a nanpa pro, for sure.

"I have... uhh, much practice with ehh, nanpa." (Imitating his voice through text is nearly impossible, but just know that he spouts his words in a charming stutter littered with pauses.)

So now the gaijin would have their first try...

Our "target," as Kyohei said, was a group of four young Japanese girls, completely decked out in their finest American imitations of hip hop fashion. Kyohei picked them as our target. "Maybe they look like they like gaijin."

Fine.

Don and I had plenty of luck discussing everything with them from their favorite music to their age and year in school, and though they seemed eager to talk with us, I cut the conversation short before actually getting a phone number. They liked my dreads. I won't count it as a success or a failure, but rather just part of the game.

Next.

"She's impossible."

"Impossible is nothing," Kyohei said, stealing a memorized line from an Adidas ad campaign.

I looked over at the girl, sitting alone on a curb, playing with her cellphone. Why did they have to pick her? Though it was 11:30 p.m., this young woman was still dressed in her school uniform, complete with accessories: large, white bunched up socks. Full, bright makeup. Earrings. Bracelets. A loosened tie. She certainly was striking... and impossible.

So with the same confidence and determination that I had watched an experienced Kyohei approach a white girl and speak English, I approached a cosplay schoolgirl and began speaking Japanese.

The great part about getting shot down in another language, is that you really don't feel so bad afterwards, because you can't understand half of what is said, and because Japanese are too polite to dismiss you with anything other than a terse "byebye" and a flip of the hair. On this occasion, I got the byebye about two minutes into our conversation, and after I explained the situation to Kyohei he reassured me: "No worry. Many time, many time, for me. Many time. Shibuya is very difficult."

His attitude impressed me, but even more so did his lack of hesitation.

"OK Kyohei, her next."

He practically ran to the gaijin I had selected. Confident.

Our game continued until the final train, and I didn't for a moment feel as if I was hitting on women, but rather, engaging in some kind of ridiculous, childish exchange of words that both parties knew would never develop into anything more than a few moments of chit-chat beneath a neon sign in a ward known for it's head shops and love hotels.

I could never, ever approach American women like that, but then again, in America, I'm not a cute foreigner.

Maybe we will play again... Sentagai never sleeps, and the gaijin need to win.

The kokujin here in Japan are really only visible in one place. You can't find them on trains, you won't catch them sightseeing, and you never spot them shopping with some Japanese girl on their arm. No, the kokujin, the black people, are to be found just outside their stores, lackadaisically calling at those Japanese boys passing by--you know the type, the ones like Masashi, obsessed with American hip-hop style, so much so that they exaggerate the exported fashion in stupendous proportions that astonish even someone seasoned in the art of bizarre warddrobe watching.

These teens are the target of the kokujin, who, at first I thought were rich and successful, fluent and happy, though now I know the truth.

Despite their flamboyant, expensive clothing, flashy cellphones and jewelry, these highly visible store owners aren't really owners at all--but actually are africans, pulled from their native land by the allure of an exotic Japan, where they now live and work, for invisible Japanese bosses who employ them to hustle Japanese boys who want to look just like them. They are employed for their skin color only.

Want to sell African-American clothing to Japanese people? Any kokujin will do, American or not, just get them in the right clothes, and get them in front of a store to holler at passerby. To the casual observer, these stores appear independently operated, though truly they are just part of larger conglomerates.

This is something I didn't realize on my first dozen trips to Harajuku. I assumed these kokujin were Americans living good, breaking into the Japanese market through extremely aggressive entrepreneurship, elbow grease, and clever advertising strategy. I wanted to know their secrets. I started asking questions.

But one question led to another, and soon I hit on the important one: why aren't there any white store owners? After this question, all the smoke disappeared and the house of cards fell down. I realized that 99.99% of the black people in Japan weren't there on their own prerogative pursuing their chosen life goal, but were actually glorified indentured servants, living in pseudo luxury so they can sell an overpriced jacket to a wannabe-American.

And, they are locked in.

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.

I awoke today from a dark dream to an even darker day--though calm because most of my forty dormmates had left for their respective home stays, and soothing because the raindrops sounded beautiful hitting the windows and roof; it would be a mistake to call today relaxing.

There was a typhoon raging outside, the culmination of what had up until now been an endless rainfall, grounding all domestic flights, lashing beach areas with 100 m.p.h. winds, halting the trains and subways, and drenching Tokyo with about 12 inches of water in less than 10 hours.

But it sounds so much worse than it really is.

I know, from firsthand experience.

At about 2 p.m. I was still sleeping off the worst of my cold, but a nagging ache in my stomach reminded me that no recovery is complete without food. So I put on my shorts, cinched my belt and donned my "Nebraska" hoody. Represent.

It was time to head to the station.

I paused at the front door to the deserted dormitory and gazed out into the road, searching the sky for the sun which was completely obscured. Ha! Typhoon! That's what you call this Japan?

It was hardly raining. I've seen worse during a Nebraska thunderstorm--Granted those midwestern supercells only seem to last about 1 hour at most, and this has been going on for the better part of a week, with constantly increasing intensity... but still--what was there to fear?

I dried the seat off of bicycle number two, hopped on and raised my pink umbrella to the sky in a humble attempt at defense.

The ride down was really no problem whatsoever. There had been a slight break in the rain, prompting my journey, but as I was loading old bicycle number 2 up with my groceries, I watched the wind whip the raindrops outside into a furious cyclone, shooting little rain-darts all around the station area, drops that managed to land upon those of us who had even sought protection beneath covered storefronts.

Pah. I've seen worse in Nebraska.

So back onto number 2, back down the road, and then down that next road, and that next road, and then finally to the front door of the dorm. It was actually a lot easier than I thought. If you don't mind being wet, you probably won't mind a typhoon.

Today truly was relaxing... I suppose. No sunlight, the sweet symphony of raindrops and a nearly deserted dormitory (only Japanese and Korean students leftover... and myself of course. To quickly digress, I am not doing homestay because there were no vegetarian families available, I am one of 6 foreign exchange students out of 40 who are not doing the homestay. OK?)

It's truly wonderful.

And now that the typhoon is over, I must prepare for clubbing in Shibuya with Frank, Jerry and Masashi...

Just a quick FYI: radio and TV stations here in Tokyo have been going apeshit over a typhoon that should be here by Saturday night... nothing to be worried about, just a LOT of rain and a LOT of wind.

...too bad it has to arrive on Saturday, because I'm going to a club in Shibuya with Masashi... it's called: Nuts.

In Japan, there is no birth control pill.

"The Pill," as it is so affectionately known in America, has been outlawed in the land of the rising sun, as has seemingly every other form of medication. There's no Tylenol, no Motrin, and no Asprin--well, as far as I know there's none, or at least, very little to be had for a reasonable fee--perhaps in Shinjuku at some corner bodega there is a bit of medicine to be purchased... though the trek is a bit far for me, today.

But I could really, really use some medicine right now. Oh, misery...

Last night as I was wading waist deep through some sort of fantastic dream voyage, interrupted now and again by the roar of a motorcycle or vespa sputtering up the mile long hill just beyond my curtains, I heard a knock on the door--and though I would normally have stayed in my bed, I pulled myself out of the beautiful stupor that had consumed me and trudged to the door, bathed in moonlight.

It was Hisayo, holding a plate of Kappa-maki for me.

Her hand rolled cucumber sushi was such a pleasant surprise, that when I returned to bed I refused to believe that it was reality... I was certainly still dreaming. Certainly, it was some kind of strange herb induced hallucination...

...which isn't too unbelievable, considering all the strange homemade concoctions I had been enjoying for the past day, each supposed to cure me immediately. Tea from Japan (thanks to Hisayo), a scalding hot brew from Ireland (thanks to Aoife) and multiple remedies from Spain--not to mention the good thoughts radiating toward me from every soul in the entire dorm.

It's a good place to be, and it's not a dream.

My 18 hours of recovery sleep came to an end late last night as I was literally shaken out of my dreams by the motion of the earth. Something beneath Tokyo wasn't kosher, and as I sat up in bed, knocked out of my slumber by some fissure deep beneath the soil, I immediately knew what was happening.

An earthquake, of course.

I suppose this makes me an actual resident of Japan, rather than just a traveler... though I need to get over this sickness before I can continue my studies. Things have been miserable for about two days--though I know that in order to cure myself I should sleep...

But that, my friends, is impossible.

There are too many wonderful human beings here that I must cherish every moment with... how can one sleep in a place like this?

Above the clouds, we sit high and we gaze...

...about 15 different bottles of cologne are arranged immaculately upon the top of a small head board. Nearby a rack of multicolored umbrellas sit, a different color for each outfit. One entire wall of the narrow room is a closet.

I'm not sure what floor of this apartment building we are on, but out the north window, the three points of the Shinjuku Century Hyatt Hotel are visible, each glass pyramid shaped top concealing giant swimming pools beneath.

"It's like you are swimming on top of the city," Hiro tells me. "For 1 million dollars you can live there forever. Movies stars and musicians stay there."

Hiro, a short skateboarder who spends his weekends in the dazzling clubs of Roppongi gazed around his modest apartment, maybe a grand total of 225 square feet, and voice a small desire: "I wish I could live there."

"And I wish I could live here," I said, gesturing.

Despite the narrow, crammed environment, Hiro had something rare, an apartment alone, in the ultramodern heart of the world's most interesting city.

"I know, I know," he said, turning toward the Century Hyatt.

Raindrops slid off the window and trickled down to the street below, tickling various umbrellas and trees on their descent. Somewhere, rich people were swimming 50 floors about street level. Somewhere blood was coursing through the veins of this city.

Shinjuku my playground.

Tokyo has been getting pissed on for about four days straight now.

Day and night, we are bombarded by incessant, tiny droplets of water, sometimes falling heavily, but usually floating in light blankets of moisture that are tolerable only during short walks, of which we have none. Thus, we students, like the buildings, streets and land, remain completely soaked through, despite our best efforts to remain dry with expert use of the most important tool in Japan: the umbrella.

You simply can't leave home without one.

Over the past two weeks, I have become an expert at using the umbrella in all manner of circumstances: from maneuvering safely through a jam packed Omotesando on Sunday, to properly shielding a camera at a drenched Toshogu Shrine, I have learned the ins-and-outs of carrying an umbrella with you constantly, as if it were an extension of the arm. Now, if I could only learn how to use it as well as an arm, and perhaps keep myself somewhat dry.

It's not that the umbrella doesn't work, it's just that over a long enough walk, any device designed to keep water out becomes useless, and the owner becomes part of the environment: that is, wet. Typically, I walk around with both my ankles and backpack drenches because they fall just outside the very small protective radius of the umbrella.

But, for all of their shortcomings, umbrellas are an essential part of life in Japan, and one can purchase a nice little canopy at literally every store in every ward of Tokyo. Forgot your umbrella at home, or perhaps left it on the Subway? No problem, because before you "kasa" is to the next stop on the Chiyoda line, you can pick up a new on just about anywhere: the Starbucks at the station, the porn store nearby, even the homeless man sleeping just outside--umbrellas abound...

It will only cost you about 1$, which is probably the best investment you can make in Tokyo, because, like it said, it never stops fucking raining.

Oh, and there's a typhoon coming, which should be here just in time for the weekend.

Four days of rain later... I'm tired, I'm ready for sun again. The human body was not built to carry an umbrella everywhere... and yet... I endure.

"When I first saw you, I thought, 'he is reggae boy.'"

"I thought, he come here to meet girl, maybe, to party."

"But he's not here to practice."

"Now I see I was wrong."

All comments about yours truly, from the perspective of an incredibly talented Korean student named Ho, who's Japanese ability far surpasses anyone living in the dorm. Perhaps the best thing he said, though, was: "That's exactly what I was like my first year."

Always studying, always studying, always studying...

A lot of people around the dorm have put some pages online including text, photos, etc, and it might be worth your trouble to check them out.

Andrew Watt

Jeff Santilli

Sheena

Heather Smith

Micah

There are definitely some good ones in there, and they have included a lot of things about Japan that I've omitted, so I would recommend looking through them.

And on a side note, today I went to Ueno with Aoife (Irish girl, pronounced ee-fah) to see the special Henri Matisse exhibition at the Tokyo Museum of Western Art. It was spectacular, despite the overwhelming, incessant rain. Aoife was the perfect gallery companion, and we promised each other that we would return to Ueno soon, a place that has an incredible density of galleries; something like two dozen.

Now we only need to find out if a day pass exists.

"Did you brush your teeth today?"

What the fuck? Yes, I did, but before you asked I was busy admiring your socks. Nice seifuku. Do you really have school today, or is it just some weird dressup thing you like to do, maybe put on your uniform and go out for a stroll, talking to strange gaijin... this is Harajuku, you know, and it is Sunday--Oh, but you have Bunkasai, eh. Well then. Yet...

Why don't I believe you? You're talking, but it's all lies.

I'm 22.

"We're 22 also," you reply, batting you're eyes, trying to draw my attention to the immaculately detailed lashes and mascara resting just above your skin. I admit, it's beautiful, but what are you trying to do? Why are you lying, you aren't 22, I know, because you have school--you said so yourself.

You bat your eyes again and hide beneath your umbrella, looking away from me, then back--directly into my eyes. Silence, just raindrops.

What is behind those two glowing little gems. I've never seen such eyes before, and I know they are hiding something, that I can't place--lying eyes. Lying to me... What do you want? Something... the same thing I want?

You are like the girl on the final train last night, the girl in pink and black--my two favorites--holding a guitar and a cellphone, just peering up once and a while batting those pink and black lined eyes. I see you, I see you.

You are hiding something in those eyes I've never seen. I just want to stare at them... tell me their secrets, please...

***

They laughed again and twirled their pink umbrellas around and around in the rain, spraying everyone on the crowded sidewalk. "We're 12, really, we're 12."

That's a lot of makeup for a twelve year old.

A bit more walking and a bit more talking and then comes the revelation: "18-years-old", they say." We are 18." Okay, maybe. Maybe you two are 18, but your names certainly aren't "Christine."

Speaking Japanese downwards toward two short girls in pouring rain while strolling upon a crowded Omotesando in Harajuku isn't easy. In fact it's very nearly impossible, but I did my best, and despite my overwhelming desire to accompany them farther, I split off down an alley about 30 minutes worth of walking later.

I probably should have asked for their cellphone numbers.

I probably should have asked for their real names.

I probably should have found the truth behind their eyes...

Although they were attractive, I'm still very unsure about the whole schoolgirl look; I mean, what's it all about?

They said they were going to school... they also said they were 22, then 12, then 18. They also said they were both "Christine." There's something just very, very devious about the girls who dress up in skirts, blouses and giant, scrunchy white socks on the weekends for their strolls through Harajuku, those giant socks making their bodies appear off balance, with far too much weight concentrated in the ankles.

There's also something very mischievous about two young, seductively dressed girls in thick, gorgeous eye makeup approaching a foreigner about his morning hygiene habits. I suppose you could call that an icebreaker.

In Japan, all students (aside from college students) must wear uniforms in school, and I suppose its grown to become somewhat of a fetish here among Japanese men.

I wish it hadn't been raining, maybe then talking would have been easier. I had seen these type of girls many times before I just never expected to actually get to talk to some of them.

But when you go walking alone, you just never know...

***

Frozen in the rain, 76° fahrenheit, a stone grey Harajuku... am I shy or is it you? It must be a game, it must be.

Just wait.

When I finally figure out a bit more of this language, I will be dropping into your subcultures, and these lonely walks, though so full of potential now, will become even more worthwhile, because I'll be approaching you.

"Did you brush your teeth this morning?"

It never stops raining here... falling and falling...

For the first time since arriving in Japan, I've experienced something that I had, prior to experiencing it, thought to be completely and inherently foreign; something that could not, under any circumstances, exist inside of any of the 23 wards of Tokyo: isolation and silence.

But, as I was walking down a dimly lit street in Fuchusha with Kyohei, on our way to his family's apartment, the two of us were suddenly enveloped in a pristine calm, and then I realized we were actually alone.

There were no other people on the street anywhere, no noises to be heard whatsoever. No car exhaust pipes pumping fumes, no motorbikes revving their engines--not even a bicycle passing by. Nothing.

"Eerie," said Kyohei, in English.

"How do you know eerie?" I asked. It seemed like a tough word; I certainly had no clue of the Japanese equivalent.

Before Kyohei could answer, though, the silence was broken just as quickly as suddenly as it had started: a man turned a corner on to our street, a child and his father came running down the opposite sidewalk, and a group of bicyclers spun their tires lackadaisically down the middle of the street. We were back in Japan--and a very nice little area of Japan, too.

Kyohei's apartment was situated in a large, incredibly clean complex that probably held more than one hundred narrow, 3 bedroom apartments just like his own. This was where Japanese people lived. All of them--not in large houses, and not in dormitories. There are no front yards. There are only immaculately cleaned albeit tiny rooms, sandwiched together, and they are what Japanese people call home.

After my shoes were off and I had placed my bare feet on the wooden floor, I was greeted by Kyohei's mother, who, of course, spoke no English whatsoever.

This was going to be an interesting little sleep over.

Moments later, though, all my anxiety flew out the window as I realized she was just as excited to meet me as I was nervous to be staying in her house; unsure of how to do all the things that seem so natural, like use their bathroom (should I put on bathroom slippers?), eat soup (spoon or chopsticks?), and how to politely turn down food (I think they never would have stopped feeding me had I consented to eat everything they had prepared).

But yes, the food. The food...

Perhaps the best meal I've ever eaten in Japan was created by Kyohei's mother: a mountain of sushi and edamame, tofu, soup, vegetables and many other strange things that I have no idea how to name. But just know, it truly was a masterpiece that I gorged myself upon.

I, of course, presented a gift to Kyohei's family, which delighted his mother who spent the next hour pouring over the photos in "Designs on the Landscape," an aerial photography book of America.

"No, I've never been to California," I said, over and over. She had incessant questions, which was ok... but it was just difficult to answer them!

Kyohei's father was more interested in teaching my archaic kanji, which was quite interesting. He showed me the kanji for "Soccer," which is no longer used, and was only instituted during World War 2 because the Japanese didn't want to use the imported American word, "Sa-ka-."

It was the first time I've ever seen a Japanese man forget Kanji. He struggled for a few minutes before writing it down the paper, completely illegibly (to me), and then instructing me in the stroke order. After learning "Soccer" he wanted to teach me even more ancient characters, but he couldn't jog his memory enough to eke out more than a few strokes.

By the end of it all, I was exhausted. We had a long Saturday planned, beginning at 7 a.m. in Shinjuku, and then heading to Asakusa.

Zzzz.

Asleep on a futon in Kyohei's narrow room, using a pillow that seemed to be filled with rocks. How peculiar.

Naoko Sajima truly does try hard--and I don't doubt for a moment that she is an exceptionally gifted woman--but her business class is completely incomprehensible.

A former defense employee for the Japanese government (she likes to call herself a bureaucrat), Naoko comes to lecture twice a week, usually clad in the finest fashions that Ginza has to offer. Today is a grey/black business suit, doused in glitter, a twinkling watch on her right hand and a sparkling bracelet on her left. Two large pendants dangle from her ears. She is confident and knowledgeable...

But, as I said before, in addition to all of her physical attributes and immaculate resume, she possessed that inherently Japanese ability to butcher complex English sentences until they become unrecognizable fragments of thought that hang in the air, open to even the most abstract interpretations. But she knows what she said.

After listening to her lecture for an hour and a half, my English sounds like that of a drunk. But I don't mean to make fun of Naoko--she does have a beautiful name and her English is much better than my Japanese.

I guess I just find the situation funny: 14 glassy eyed foreigners listening quietly for nearly two hours to a lecture that no one could grasp the topic of afterwards. I really feel sorry for the Koreans and Spaniards in our class, because English isn't even their first language, it must have been really difficult for them.

Oh, to be on an American campus, again.

There is a lot one can miss about school in Nebraska, but I find one of the more interesting differences between Senshu's campus and Lincoln's to be a very superficial one: t-shirts. (Yes, again...)

Perhaps the strangest thing is the total lack of greek shirts, which are overwhelming in the U.S. There are, of course, no fraternities and sororities here, and so of course there would be no greek letters moving across campus plastered on the ass of some girl's black stretch pants, or on the puffed up chest of some guy's t-shirt. Most students don't own cars, so there are no greek bumper stickers, either.

I didn't notice any of this until yesterday, when I saw Lina, a University of Illinois student walking to class in her Wednesday's best (The student readers know what I'm talking about). I, like most students, was unshaven, tired and dirty--but she was dressed to kill, and slung over her shoulder was a bag with three greek letters emblazoned in pink upon the side.

Ahh, a taste of home, although slightly bitter.

I prefer the Japanese student's shirts with their strange pseudo-English slogans that are most likely completely random creations. I've recorded a few more for you, spotted at Senshu University, Ikuta campus:

Virginia is for lovers

Give your love to me softly

Keep on trying, hyphen

The future red cross pedigree

Those all gave me a chuckle, but as for the most interesting shirt that I saw today, well, you'll just have to look at it yourself. Words can't describe it.