Tokyo Cowgirl

I haz a cellphone!

And all I had to do was dye my hair black.

Can I tell you guys that this phone is far better than all of my $500 phones in America?

Now if someone could just teach me how to use it.

Characters/Creatures of Japan: The English Vampire

(Before I start the post in earnest, I probably should warn people that this is not Tokyo Cowgirl posting. I know how much you people love and want to be her and I share the same feelings, but for reasons that are still not completely clear to me, I am not. I happen to be Mr. Salaryman from "The Adventures of a Foreign Salaryman in Tokyo" doing a brief guest appearance here. After some very hard negotiations and a lot of back and forth between me, TC and her lawyer (Mr. V) she finally agreed to let me participate here and steal a little space. I am forever in her debt. Now, if you don't mind, the post will begin.)

I think most people who have visited Japan for some longer period of time has come into contact with this specific creature of Japan, namely the English Vampire. You might think that vampires is just the stuff of legends, but no, they do exist, right here in Japan. This specific type of Vampire does however not drink your blood, but is after something much more precious; your English words.
 
Coming into contact with these creatures can at the beginning be seen as something pleasant and nice. Especially if you speak no or very little Japanese and actually are approached by someone who actively wants to speak English with you. One warning sign is the phrase "I want to become friends" (so far so good) quickly followed up with a "I want to practice my English". Please note how the vampire in question does *not* want to be friends with you because you're such a great/sexy/intelligent person, no. It wants to become friends with you because it wants to practice its English... If you're a cannibal (e.g. Issei Sagawa), violent sex offender or a saint is not relevant, you speak English and therefore they want to be friends.
 
If you don't speak Japanese and have no intention of learning it, then these vampires won't cause you that much grief, however, if you are actively learning Japanese you are in for a power struggle. These people did not become friends with you so you can practice your Japanese, no, they became friends with you so they can practice their English. You will be in for a power struggle here and can expect classic techniques such as the even-though-you-speak-perfectly-understandable-Japanese-I-can't-understand-so-let's-switch-to-English trick or even the more straightforward I-want-to-practice-my-English-so-let's-switch-to-English-instead technique. But make no mistake, these vampires will try to suck out any English they can of you and will keep trying to invent cunning ways to force you into accidently spilling a few English words they can eagerly lick up. But, the moment they realize that you have no intention of speaking English with them they will move on to other targets that can provide them with the English they need to sustain their half-dead existence.
 
Maybe by now you are getting afraid? As you might have understood, crosses and garlic does not work on this species, there are only two sure fire ways to dispel these creatures:
1. Achieve fluency in Japanese and therefore putting their poor English level at shame - they will seek out more vunerable victims
2. If (1) is too difficult or far off, there is another way, but this require you to be from a non-English speaking country and retort in horrible English to the initial attack with a "I don't speak English goodly but maybe we speak Japanese?". This will also scare off an English vampire.
 
Since I personally now has achieved something that can be likened to fluency in Japanese I can usually make short work of any initial approach. I do still, occasionally have to fend off the reply-in-English-even-though-it-knows-that-I-understand-Japanese-almost-perfectly-and-I-spoke-to-them-in-Japanese from a few colleagues, but since their English is vastly inferior to my Japanese they are usually very quickly cowered into submission. The replying-back-in-English-but-very-fast-and-with-slang technique usually forces them to say "I didn't understand" to which it's easy to switch back to Japanese and actually focusing on getting the shit you wanted communicated across.
 
(Disclaimer: Now, some Japanese people are actively trying to learn English and that's generally a good thing, what separates them from the "vampires" is that their main reason for wanting to get to know you or become friends is not primarily to practice English. Be nice to them, but be vigilant of any signs of vampirism!)

About the Author (picture of Mr. Salaryman with a fake smile, right hand fist under his chin, looking very friendly): Mr. Salaryman is by now a veteran of the blogging scene, "managing" a rarely visited blog that is known for its lack of focus on any specific topic, touching on topics such as life as a Salaryman in Japan, computer games, serial killers, general nazis and linking to people who actually give good advice on how to write a resume in Japanese. Mr. Salaryman is the author of the unpublished books "5 easy steps to become a Salaryman in Japan" and "100 Answers to the question "why Wasteland for the C64 is the best computer RPG ever" books. He was also one of the people encouraging Tokyo Cowgirl in the "Operation DiddlySquat" efforts, because of which she ended up with plenty of trouble, for which he never really properly took responsibility for. He is also know for having to mildly offended Tokyo Cowgirl by calling her "less intense than I expected" after their in person meeting. He is now most likely seen sighing in his office or playing "Resistance 2" in his sofa unless his "girlfriend" Ms. Sunshine is around and improving his quality of life. [

not my cup of tea

I don't mean to make light of a certain situation, but I have a question.

If someone could please explain to me why these god damned terrorists need to blow everything up and kill everyone in sight while they're doing it. Do they think they are the only ones who have had a bad day? A bad life? Lots of people have had bad lives and they don't need to ruin everyone else's life, why do these moronic lucifers feel so entitled?

Because they are assholes? Because they hate America and Britain and Israel and, increasingly the last two years, India? Because someone, somewhere, told them that killing innocent strangers is a perfectly acceptable way to pass the time while you're waiting for your meds to kick in, or, I can only guess, Jihad?

You know, sometimes I wake up and I'm... a little bitter. Hostile, even. And sometimes, not that often, but maybe more than I would like to admit, I get really mad and I break things. I refer to these childish episodes as "temper tantrums", because really, that's what they are.

And you know what else? I don't like Republicans. I don't break things because of them but I do get a *little* bit more worked up than most intelligent, balanced people would once they realize they are dealing with a group of people (half of America) missing crucial components of their right and left brains.

But, shockingly enough, what I do not do is grab the nearest AK-47 and start off'ing people, one by one.

Wicked

For those of you who have never met me, which is most of you, I would like to tell you that I have dark brown hair. Actually, to be more specific I have Loreal Feria Espresso Deeply Brown 40 Natural hair. Or at least I did have Loreal Espresso Deeply Brown 40 Natural hair, until yesterday afternoon.

Two years ago I had a fairly traumatizing quarter-life crisis. I wasn't happy with my life, I hated the people I worked with, and we all already know about my family issues. Given the situation I did what everyone does when their own life offends them and they can't afford a shiny new red sports car - I went to my Las Colinas hairdresser and told her that I needed to dye my non-blonde hair as blonde as possible.

"I want to make Marilyn Monroe look like a brunette!" Said I, enthusiastically jabbing my finger at a picture of the white haired icon. Fortunately for me and my hair, my stylist preferred a more conservative 3-week approach. Week 1, blonde, week 2, platinum blonde, week 3, shave it all off Britney Spears-style and start all over again.

When I left the salon that evening, my hair, the same hair that used to cascade down my back in waves of golden brown, was so short that it could barely be put up in a pony tail. And oh yes, I was blonde. So blonde in fact that I had to pick Vixen's jaw up off of the floor when I drove by her house that night. "What do you think?" I asked, knowing full well her response was not something I needed to be soliciting.

"You look... womanish."

Womanish? What is that? A noun-jective? 

Flash forward to now and I'm still trying to recuperate. My hair is longer, thank god, but it is either brassy or brassier- two things I'm not entirely thrilled about. More than that, the ends, the part that used to be blonde, are annoyingly difficult to keep the same chocolate brown color as the rest of my hair. This is despite my attempts to dye it as frequently as possible, as dark as possible, and as cheaply as possible.

Which brings me, once again, to yesterday. 

 

About 20 minutes into my 25 minute hair dying session I walked into the bathroom to turn the hot water on, and, because of course this would happen then, the hot water failed to turn on. The cold water, however, had no problems whatsoever spewing forth onto my bare, naked feet. 

Now, many of you would probably endure the agony of freezing winter water and continue on with the rinsing, but I, dear readers, would prefer not to torture myself. Not only do I not like sliding down a slide of razorblades into a pool of lemon juice, I don't like taking a shower in an arctic cold apartment with arctic cold water. 

 

So I walked away, wrote about five emails, typed out "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST" a few times, and then went back into to the shower area.

 

With a little random button pushing, and no doubt a little help from Jesus Fucking Christ, I figured out how to turn the water heater back on. To be sure, I don't know how this actually happened, many, many minutes later, but I wouldn't be too shocked if the whole apartment blows up the second I open up the microwave. And while figuring out how to navigate 16 different kinds of buttons, all of which are in Japanese, is indeed a fair accomplishment for someone like me, it sadly came at the expense of my hair.

My hair is no longer a shimmery Espresso Deeply Brown, it is now full-on Wicked Witch Of The East Black. And also, somehow, a little red at the crown. I don't know how this happened but I am guessing it has something to do with the hair follicle screaming out in agony and then burning alive, apparently confusing the 15 extra minutes of dying time with the Salem witch trials.

Dying my hair black wasn't really ever on the agenda yesterday, or ever, for that matter. And, since Halloween was last month pretending to be a raven-haired monster is out of the question as well. Instead, I'm just going to laugh this one off and put it under the "reason number 546 my boyfriend needs to get me a cell phone" category (and soon to be email!), because if I had a cell phone in my possession yesterday, like everyone else in this country I'm so lucky enough to call home, I might have been able to call him and, you know, figure out how to turn the water heater back on. 

 

Most importantly, though, I might not look like the Wicked Witch of the East, or better, a really tall Japanese person. 

happy turkey day

Aha!

Just that I am able to post this is a fucking miracle, a miracle I tell you! Do you know why? Because this computer is a god damned piece of fucking shit, that's why. And no, I'm not complaining, I'm stating a fact. Somehow, yesterday, in between sleeping ten hours and not doing a single productive thing, I must have tripped and fallen on a virus or ten. This is amazing in and of itself since I don't exactly recall downloading anything. I mean, I do recall wanting to download something, that Paris Hilton sex tape to be specific because I'm obsessed with her in a do-i-hate-her-or-do-i-love-her-someone-hit-me-over-the-head kind of way and OBVIOUSLY the only way to figure out the answer to that timeless question would be to watch her have sex.

But I didn't download it. V and I went out to dinner instead.

And on a completely unrelated note:

Happy Thanksgiving to all of my friends back home in America! I miss you guys SO MUCH. Fedora and Corbin in Chicago, have fun with Ben and your vegan turkey. I was going to type something tacky about Ben looking up girls' dresses but I decided against it. Dani, I hope you get that recipe figured out, and if in doubt, make your mom do it. Vixen, you don't read my blog anyway, WHAT THE FUCK. Greg and Ash, I love you both, you need to name your first born child after me (hell, the name works both ways, right?). Destiny, I MISS YOU SO MUCH! I hope you have a good T-day with your fam and I can't wait to see you, hopefully sometime after Christmas if I'm back in Texas. Lukas, you too. I know what you're thinking, too. You're thinking I never email. Nope, not true. I'm just playing hard to get. Aislin, why don't you live in Texas, WHY? Diva, dear dear Diva, I don't know if you're going to be in NYC or in Texas or fucking Paris, but whichever it is, I know you're going to be fabulous with your gorgeous French husband and two bites of turkey dinner. And last but not least, Z. My BFF since junior high, my curly haired fellow orch-dork, I know that you will have a drink for me this holiday season! I was thinking yesterday that you need to start a blog and name it Zeedonism. It's perfect, especially if you take the plunge and decide to convert to Christianity.

And yes, I realize that the majority of you won't read this until after Thanksgiving, but whatevs, at least it will come as a nice surprise when you're all back at work and hungover Monday morning.

If I have forgotten about you it's because you haven't emailed me lately, but happy turkey day to you, too :-)

Stuff Japanese People Like - Louis Vuitton

by Tokyo Cowgirl (with editorial inserts by V)

Now that V has written his Stuff Japanese People Like and received to/too much acclaim, he all of a sudden feels entitled to editorial overrides on my Stuff Japanese People Like posts [If "editorial override" means "make suggestion, receive dirty look, slink away," this is correct.]. Apparently my lawyer boyfriend [This whole "lawyer boyfriend" thing is like those people slyly dropping Barack HUSSEIN Obama in their speech] thinks he's funnier than I am now. Wow. I guess he forgot that I'm not exactly new to this blogging fad and that sometimes, surprising as it is, I actually do know how to string a few sentences together successfully and without his help [Notice how "spell correctly without his help" was artfully omitted here.]. Shocking. 

The Japanese are a materialistic bunch. For you see, in Japan, an article of clothing is not merely an article of clothing, it is territory to subtly advertise how much you spent on your coat/shoes/purse/dog carrier/keychain, and by extension, either how much you make (if you're a man) or how much your man makes (if you're a girl). It is for perhaps this reason that the esteemed French fashion house Louis Vuitton is the most coveted brand in Japan, even more so than Burberry, Chanel, Coach, and Hello Kitty. 

To be frank, the whole French thing would be a gigantic mark against Louis Vuitton's popularity in this not-so-foreigner-friendly island nation, except that being French guarantees two things: first, that it is imported, and second, that it is expensive - two things Japanese people love. This love of imported, expensive goods also piques their desire for really weird things that the rest of us shake our heads at, like their nationwide child-like infatuation with Disney characters and, more perplexing, their fascination with Tommy Lee Jones (is he really The Boss? I mean seriously? Ten years ago, maybe).   

There is another very important reason Louis Vuitton is well loved in Japan: conformity. The Japanese Way and Conformity are synonymous, meaning that in Japan your valued citizenship can be broken down into a simple equation:

Louis Vuitton = Japanese

No Louis Vuitton = not Japanese

That's right, Louis Vuitton may be French, but in Japan it's a way, nay, the way, to display your patriotism. There is no better way to proclaim your Japanese-iness than to go out and buy anything with enough square inchage to have the taupe LV insignia plastered all over it. Do not waste your time buying anything Louis Vuitton that does not clearly say Louis Vuitton - to do so would be a waste of money and worse, un-Japanese. 

One last thing, at all costs do not tell a Japanese person that logo bags went out of style right along with Jessica Simpson about three years ago. Instead, politely comment on how lovely the brown and the tan are, as well as how well the L compliments the V. Also, casually remark about the durability and versatility of Louis Vuitton luggage. Even if they have never purchased Louis Vuitton luggage the Japanese person will immediately assume that you are one of three things, wealthy or French or both. These characteristics, as has been noted before, will always work in your favor while you are in Japan.

Go V!

Let me just start off by congratulating V on a posting well done. I can't believe how great his Stuff Japanese People Like turned out - it was chirpy and well-written and not lawyer-ish at all. Even though I provided him with the topic he was able to type the whole thing out in the amount of time it took me to go out, get gloriously drunk, miss the last train, lose my brand freaking new red coat and cigarettes, get lost ten feet outside of the same bar my friends were waiting for me in, and hijack a gay non-English speaking host for directions. So yeah, not long at all.

To be perfectly honest (and possibly a little snide) I have to admit I didn't expect his Stuff Japanese People Like to be all that fantastic. Yes, I knew it would be written well, he is an ivy league grad after all, but I expected the sentences to be too long and peppered with too many polysyllabic words that not even Webster himself understands. Now I'm a little worried that maybe I should just have V do all of the Stuff Japanese People Like because I'm a tad bit insecure about my future installments for my own god damn series.

And believe it or not, I have been working on "the next one" - in fact, I have been working on the next one and a next one and even maybe the next one after that for the last four days, soon to be five. It's turning out to be a little bit harder than I expected, as in I'm about two key strokes away from slitting my wrists. All I can say is that I have lowered my standards for my Stuff Japanese People Like to this : doesn't suck. 

Stuff Japanese People Like: Lines

By V

My lovely (note: that was inserted by TC herself) girlfriend asked me to start off the Stuff Japanese People Like Series. Normally I try to take a passive role in her blog (actually, a completely nonexistent role, except for the random "anonymous" comment to boost TC's hit count (and ego, if we're being completely aboveboard here)), but what Tokyo Cowgirl wants, Tokyo Cowgirl gets (note: this slogan was created by TC, accompanied by an approving nod, no less). Besides, I thought it in my best interest to comply. God knows we don't need any more stuff broken around here.

It is one of the ironies of Japan, a sprawling cacophony offering the would-be pleasure-seeker a limitless supply of restaurants, department stores, bars, and the like, that one is nevertheless confronted by lines. These tend not to be your garden-variety "queues," but lines in the truest sense - winding and snaking their way around street corners, intervening construction, or other such obstructions. Some have even been known to traverse entire city wards, forming human bridges between Aoyama and Shibuya. Of course, this all takes place in a most orderly fashion - there is no pushing and shoving, the banter mainly consists of the occassional "sumimasen," and in the odd case -- as in the recent opening of H&M in Ginza -- a pockmarked, inscrutable uniformed security guard blandly monitors the proceedings.

The uninitiated will surely wonder what all the hullaballoo is about. In perfect seriousness, they may ask "is there a movie shooting here today?" or "are they waiting for tickets to something?," and they may even suggest that you should join in. 

Do not laugh at their naivete. Instead, you should patiently inform them that, while such possibilities would be perfectly logical in their home country, in Japan, the pot of gold is more likely (a) the chance to crowd your way into an already over-stuffed place for the opportunity to stand in another line should you actually want to buy anything, (b) depending on the number of Louis Vuitton bags or nervous, pimply-faced young men, macaroons or ramen, or (c) the latest innovation in red-bean jam gastronomy. 

On the other hand, you may desire to "fit in," as it were, or you may be accompanied by a Japanese friend who you'd like to impress. If so, quietly take your place at the end of the line. Complaining about the long wait or the utter idiocy of its ultimate "reward" is discouraged; however, Japanese love complaining about the weather, so remarks about how hot or cold it is are recommended. It doesn't matter if the day is perfectly clear and everyone else is seems to be perfectly at ease--a well timed "atsui desu ne" (it's hot, isn't it?) will most certainly draw an enthusiastic response and a sage nod of agreement. Without regard to your earlier comment, feel free to later bemoan, "samui desu ne," which will elicit a similar positive response. You should also liberally pepper the conversation with that most malleable of Japanese expressions, "sugoi" (whoa). The less you specify what this exclamation is in relation to, the better. Sugoi thus functions as a handy utterance that keeps all parties happy without anyone exactly defining what it is they're happy about, another thing Japanese prize greatly (J-friend: Isn't it wonderful to spend the four free hours I have this week waiting in this line? It IS hot outside, it's true, but the magazine said these takoyaki were really the end-all! You: Jesus f*ing Christ this line is long, and all for some f*ing octopus balls?!).

When you get to the front of the line, do not celebrate or betray undue emotion. Act as if you just happened to be in the neighborhood and wanted to do some shopping, satisfy your sweet tooth, grab a bite to eat, whatever, and now, here you are! Japanese are not big fans of individual public celebration, or even the audible sigh of relief (a favorite of TC's), so do your best to proceed like you hadn't been stuck in an interminable line for the last (insert ridiculous time here) hours.

With these tips in hand, you're sure to be an expert in no time. Otherwise, feel free to stay the f**k away from these manmade monstrosities -- trust me, with the incredible variety of places, superlative food, and great views that exist in this country, you're as likely to find your own amazing experience elsewhere. Just don't tell anyone else about it if you want to make a repeat visit. 

Never mine, nevermind.

If you are looking forward to Thanksgiving or Christmas, it is probably in your best interest not to read this. If you do not want to get angry with me for being a self-absorbed little brat, then you should probably look away now. If you do not like me and want another excuse to not like me, continue reading to your heart's content. 

I fucking hate Christmas.

And while I'm at it, I hate Thanksgiving too.

Usually I wouldn't burden everyone's day with a posting like this but I'm feeling especially bitter today knowing that Thanksgiving, although not exactly celebrated in Japan, is next week. I might not hate this season so much if I actually had a fucking family that gave a damn about me, but I don't. 

And yes, I know that I'm partially responsible this time, this year, but I have tried to contact my mother, I tried to apologize. She responded by telling me that I was no longer allowed anywhere near her house (funny since my father paid for it) that I was partially responsible for my grandmother's death (funny since I wasn't even talking to my grandmother then) and that I was the reason her and her mother weren't talking to each other when my grandmother died (funny since she lied to my grandmother, told her she had divorced my father, and was therefor and only for that reason deemed worthy enough to be present when my grandmother did pass away).

Complete and total bullshit. 

My mother also went on to tell me that I'm bipolar, which I'm not, and seeing as she is little more than a high school computer science teacher I don't exactly see how she's qualified to make that sort of diagnosis anyway. This is nothing unusual coming from her, my favorite letter to date is the one where she claimed I was either immoral or amoral, she wasn't sure which. Love you too, mom.

Ever since I have been 16 the holidays were a huge source of grief for me. For Thanksgiving, instead of sitting around a table exchanging gravy and witty banter with the two people who are responsible for my existence, I had to sit around strangers' tables, sitting politely like the guest that I was, watching their interactions like the outsider that I was. 

Christmas is even worse. I always received the obligatory gifts, the gifts whatever family I'm with that year felt like they had to give me because I was there, because my own parents had shunned me, and because they didn't want me to feel different than everyone else, everyone else who had a genetic excuse or marital reason to be there.

There are always the curious looks when they meet me for the first time, the hushed voices when I do finally speak, the over-enthusiasm as they watch me open presents from "Santa", the but she looks like such a nice young lady glances as they hand me the asparagus, and the lingering hugs when we say goodbye.

Never, ever, has anyone been bold enough to ask me where my relatives were.

This Christmas I won't be with V in Dallas. Even if I wasn't insanely jealous of his perfect childhood and his perfect family, and I very certainly am, I can't do it one more year. I can't sit around one more tree and go through the theatrics one more year. 

Instead I will be in Chicago with Fedora, drinking, because that's what we do best. And while there may be a tree there will not be a family or a roasted duck or a whole bunch of gifts to and from people I have never met. There will just be me and her, a bottle of wine, and a gigantic city for us to get lost in.

I miss my father, I'm worried that at his age and with his neurological condition I might never see him again. I miss my mother, I wish she wasn't ill, I wish she didn't hate me for everything that has gone wrong in her life. I miss having a family, except that illusion was so rarely if ever mine. So nevermind, because I don't want to kid myself, the only thing I miss is the idea of a family, the idea of Christmas, the idea of a turkey dinner followed by football with my close relatives, the idea of exchanging presents with people I actually grew up with, the idea of having a place to call home. 

GUESS WHO HAS A COAT? ME!

Which is freaking great because it's freaking cold outside.

Can I tell you guys that I just put my brand new red Banana Republic coat on and danced around the house like a crazy person spazzed out on acid? 

Oh yes, yes I did!

Thanks to my lovely friend Diva and her mother, I now posses a new pair of shoes, three new dresses, a pair of SPANX tights, Caudalie skincare, the aforementioned coat, AND a Christmas card! I love Diva very much and have for several years now, if her or her mother ever need an organ or two I hope they know I have extras. 

This also means that you all will no longer be subjected to my bitching about not having a coat, which is, I'm sure, cause for celebration. 

Stuff Japanese People Like

As much as I know how awesome you all are, which is super awesome, I also know that not all of you stick around Tokyo Cowgirl just so you can read about my almost daily hangovers and bipolar-like meltdowns. 

So, for those of you who care more about my Japan-related wittiness and less about me, I would like to introduce you to Stuff Japanese People Like, an exciting new series and a completely and totally blatant rip-off of another very popular idea, Stuff White People Like.

This new installment is going to be fan-freaking-tastic, even more so than the Character/Creature of Japan series, although I am keeping those in circulation and will be adding to them periodically.

Here's a little sneak-peek at what you can look forward to reading very soon:

Stuff Japanese People Like : Lines 

Stuff Japanese People Like : Schoolgirls

Anyone have any great ideas for this new series or want to guest write along with J.T.? Email me or leave a comment, I would love to hear from you!

the talk

Last night I came home from a fun-filled dinner full of obnoxiousness and wine to a quiet apartment, my pet turtle, a sober V, and "the talk".

Most of you didn't know this, but V and I were planning on moving to New York City in January of 2010. That is, of course, if V and I haven't broken up by then, which is, of course, a big gigantic IF. Just two days ago he started nagging me about not eating healthy enough (too much store bought ramen) and it took all of the self-control I could scoop up off of the floor and into a cup to stop myself from throwing my roasted garlic and rosemary potatoes at him. 

Regardless, New York City was the plan and I couldn't wait to begin the NYC countdown starting January 1st, 2009. 

I had my heart set on a brownstone in Brooklyn, preferably an older one. It was going to be a two bedroom and it was going to be furnished with antique and vintage everything because nothing makes me happier than antique and vintage everything. I have been talking about it almost every single day with anyone that can speak English, which admittedly isn't a whole lot of people in this country, but don't let that distract you from the point - my energy and enthusiasm and all of that hoopla. 

After next week's Thanksgiving I was sure it would only be a matter of time before I start packing everything up and referring to each event in accordance with The Countdown, as in, "we are going to Hiroshima on the 343rd day before we move to NYC" or, "on the 34th week before we move to NYC it snowed outside, which was highly surprising since we didn't expect it to snow until the 12th or 11th week before we move to NYC."

I planned on keeping my Tokyo Cowgirl website but the catch phrase would change from ...Texas To Tokyo And Everything In Between to From Texas To Tokyo To New York City. Instead of blogging (complaining) about how no one speaks English in Japan, I was looking forward to blogging (complaining) about how no one speaks English in New York City, although my rants would hinge on a completely different and totally hypocritical set of reasons. I was also looking forward to steady employment again because, believe it or not, making my own money is something I actually quite enjoy.

But nooooooooooooooooooo. Because last night V and I had "the talk". Not just "the talk" but "the dreaded talk"- the dreaded awful god damned piece of shit talk that involved him telling me that the economy is crap right now and therefor we are very likely going to be living in Tokyo a lot, lot longer.

Of course I knew that the economy was crap, who doesn't know that the economy is crap? Even my pet turtle knows that the economy is crap. Every day he is plopped on his rock, head hung in dismay, looking like death warmed over. Hell, just yesterday I read a New York Times article declaring that Japan had become the next unlikely victim, the evidence being a stiff contraction in economic growth for two quarters in a row, and also the sudden and discouraging prevalence of polyester ties when before everyone apparently only wore silk. 

V also told me that The Partner will be retiring early next year, meaning that The Partner and The Partner's Wife will be leaving and going back to America soon after. This news is very sad but not quite as sad as the Brooklyn brownstone being deferred god knows how many more years. 

Thank you, worthless assholes with your sub-prime mortgage loans and your mattresses stuffed with money, I'm probably going to have to learn how to speak Japanese now.

Guns and Roses

About a month ago Green Eyed Geisha, Stralia, and yours truly, went to our first host bar for shits and giggles and, naturally, because we were curious. I didn't blog about it because it's part of GEG's host series and, let's be honest with ourselves here, it probably would have just turned into a long and pointless rant about something completely tangential and unrelated anyway. That is, after all, what I do best.

That being said, several of us are going back this Friday and I'm very excited. Last time we were there I barely had a buzz, this time I fully intend on going completely zonked out of my mind. And while I'm not planning on stealing anything, I do want to be bold enough to ask all of the questions I was too afraid (too sober) to ask last time.

These questions are as follows:

(1) What are Japanese girls like in bed (Tacky, I know, but I'm not above tackiness sometimes)

(2) How did you become a host, and how is a host different than a hostess (When V was an English teacher in Kyushu he used to date a Japanese snack girl - vomit vomit vomit)

(3) How are Japanese girls different than American girls (We asked this question last time but they gave us a lame answer)

The majority of the hosts have only the most rudimentary grasp of the English language, which is by no means something they should be faulted for, but it does create a few difficulties when a person (i.e. me) is trying to discuss anything, let alone any of the questions above.

During my last visit my conversations with the two English speaking hosts revolved around Obama, America, and guns. While I have never owned a gun the hosts assumed that I had/did because I was from America and, apparently, every single American owns a gun because that's what they saw on TV and therefor it must be true.

"Sure I do." I lied, "That's why I carry around this huge purse, so I can hide it."

Don't worry, I let them in on my little joke, even though the sheer stupidity of the question entitled me to at least another 15 minutes of fun at their expense. 

I'm not sure if we are going back to our original host bar, if we do it will almost assuredly be to see the notorious Roses, Green Eyed Geisha's host and an integral character in her host series. If you want to know more about hosts and how they lure you in, I must refer you to her website where you can read all about it, every nitty gritty detail.

As for me, I will let you know how my questions go over, assuming of course I'm drunk enough to ask them. I mean really, who doesn't want to know what Japanese girls are like in bed?

JU_ITER

Last Friday my friends and I stumbled upon the one and only bar in all of Tokyo that is non-smoking. I had no idea that such an establishment existed in this city and I was not very happy to discover this after drinking a liter of sangria and a bottle of wine. As I have said before, while I am not a smoker, I am certainly not a non-smoker, and if there is ever anything even remotely alcoholic in one hand, I don't care if it's a glass of white wine or turpentine, then I will have a cigarette in the other. 

There clearly was no way I was going to allow a little nicotine prohibition to ruin my evening and definitely not with a fresh pack of cigarettes in my purse. I had smoked at dinner, god damn it, who were they to tell me to stop now? One vodka-something later I left my 3 non-smoking companions to join the other smokers outside- except there were no other smokers outside.

In less than two minutes I had defaced the chalk board outside of our bar and stolen the P from the Jupiter sign outside of the neighboring bar. Apparently this is what happens when I'm not allowed to drink and smoke simultaneously: vandalization. 

About the time that Persia walked outside to join me was about the time that I got caught red-handed, or, more accurately, P-handed. The angry Japanese barman took the stolen P away from me and erased the chalkboard that I had, well, erased a few unfortunate words and letters from.

He also, I guess, told on me, because our bartender walked up to our table shortly thereafter with a tense expression of discernible disgust smeared all over his pretty little Japanese face. With V serving as my translator I was politely asked to return the P sign, which I already had done, and to apologize to the Jupiter bartender (as if he would have understood English anyway) which I also already had done.

When our bartender was standing over our table I could see he was struggling between yelling at me and strangling me to death. Instead, probably because he's Japanese, he settled on politely asking me to do two things that we both knew had already been taken care of. To give the man credit though, he didn't bow as he left the table. In fact, I don't think he bowed once. 

I'm really not a bitch, I'm just playful, and the more I drink the more playful I become. My intention was never to horrify every Japanese person within a five mile radius of me, nor did I intend on getting caught. Nevertheless, I did. I also singlehandedly managed to succeed in bringing public shame to a Shibuya bar, my boyfriend, and my two friends, all in the amount of time it took me to smoke a cigarette.   

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I need to stop smoking. 

Creatures of Japan Series: THE TURNINGPIN EDITION - Key Money

Age: 63 and still going strong

Sex: AC/DC

Likes: Forced sodomy, your wallet

Dislikes: You

Natural Habitat: The thoughts and wicked pockets of Japan's realtors

Renting an apartment in Japan is always an interesting experience. And by "interesting," I mean about as much fun as watching M. Night Shyamalan's The Happening while being forcefully penetrated from behind. 

As much as sodomy may be an overused analogy, in this case it's an apt one -- Japan's realtors are quite literally the perverted hell spawn of every hentai anime ever made, and key money is the big purple tentacle they will use to violate your anal orifice.  

But what, you may be asking, is key money? 

Back in the U.S. of A, renting an apartment meant forking over a security deposit, maybe an application deposit that you will get back (note the emphasis there), and a couple month's rent.  

Not so in Japan. 

If there's one thing the people of Japan love more than standing in line -- and apparently they love the hell out it -- it's cutting in line to get in front of you. But even more than that, astonishingly, they love fees. When getting a new apartment, among the fees you will be smilingly reamed for are the realtor's fee, the guarantor fee (if you're lucky enough to be foreign) and a little something called "key money," so named because you will be nowhere close to getting a motherfucking key until you pay it, usually the equivalent of two to three month's rent. 

Again, what is it? 

Some people will tell you it's a kind of security deposit... except that there's a separate security deposit, about a month's worth of rent, that you will also have to pay. Other people will tell you it's a bit of palm grease to secure your apartment... except that lots of times there's an additional fee called reikin, the stunningly misnamed "gratitude money" that is a flat-out bribe you better believe you won't be seeing again. 

When cornered and pressed for an answer, your realtor may describe key money, or shikikin in Japanese, as a kind of "guarantee" that you'll be moving in. If it's a guarantee, you should at some point get it back, right? 

Yeah, not so much. 

Ostensibly, key money gets pried from the realtors' greedy fingers and returned to you upon move-out, but it's not unusual for it to come up mysteriously short a month's worth of rent. And sometimes, even more mysteriously, short the whole damn amount. Just because, you know, they felt like keeping it. Got a problem with that? There's always the option of buying a book about, or consulting one of the increasing number of firms that specialize in, getting your own damn money back.

Fucking terrific. 

Here's to you, key money. If you were a person, you would've been dragged out into the parking lot and beaten senseless by now. By an angry mob that probably would've included me.

hungover = worthless

Guess who is hungover right now? Me. I had four glasses of wine last night, four. Not five, not six, not an entire winery. Instead, I woke up this morning from my not-so-late night writhing in pain, declaring my imminent death and willing off all of my possessions to V. 

V, always the obnoxiously overpriced white shoe corporate lawyer, told me that my oral will was meaningless unless we had a few more witnesses present. 

The only reason I'm able to type this right now is because I took two Midol. I fucking love Midol. I never use it for what it's intended to be used for, instead I carry around a bottle with me at all times for this explicit purpose. I don't know why I have such horrific hangovers, I only know that I do. Yes, you may have hangovers too, but mine are worse. Even if I only drink, say, four glasses of wine (like last night), I will wake up with a splitting headache and vomiting (like this morning).  

Before V, my last serious serious boyfriend was a doctor. When I say serious serious I mean it wasn't just some guy I went on dates with or made out with in bars (i.e. That Guy). This guy was my fucking life for WAAAAY too long. I call him Dr.Jackass. I would tell you more about him but in the last email he sent me about a month and a half ago he told me that his brother reads my blog, meaning his brother could be reading this blog (hi Jeff!) meaning I'm just going to cut to why it was important that he was a doctor.

Being as he was a doctor, he had an IV at his house. I'm not sure if all doctors have IVs at their house but Dr. Jackass did, which came in handy when I woke up with a killer hangover six out of the seven days of the week. He would hook me up to his IV, tell me it was the equivalent of about 8 Gatorades, and sit there and watch me recuperate as he munched on Twizzlers that he kept hidden under his bed. 

Today I look like death warmed over. Even worse- I FEEL like death warmed over. Even my eye balls hurt. Instead of an IV, V made me ramen, and instead of giving me doctor-ish advice V yelled at me from the bedroom not to overdose on Midol. 

Such are the perks of dating a lawyer. As are a whole bunch of fancy dinners followed by fancier bars, much like yesterday's evening. An evening that it's fair to assume bears responsibility for this morning. I think my next serious serious boyfriend is going to be a bartender. I bet he'll know how to take care of my hangovers.

Coming Soon

Sometimes when I'm sitting at home doing what it is that we unemployed people do during the day, I can guarantee you it doesn't involve ladies and it doesn't involve lunch, I put whatever historically relevant and/or breathtakingly fascinating book I'm reading down on the table and start perusing blogs, mostly the 16 million coming out of Japan right now.

Seeing as I have been unemployed for well over four months I think it's fair to estimate that I have read almost every single one, give or take a million.

With most of these blogs, actually, almost all of these blogs, I find myself running for the X in the top right corner of the computer screen. That's because most blogs suck. However, there's nothing wrong with that statement because it is true, and it does, after all, make me feel better about myself. Occasionally though, and surprisingly frequently lately, I happen upon a blog that causes me to sit back and ask myself how I have any readers at all and, even better, why someone hasn't taken my keyboard away from me and whacked me across the face with it. 

Then I will leave a tacky comment, or at least bookmark the page, and pick my historically relevant and/or breathtakingly fascinating book back up and continue reading every single page until the bitter end, which is usually two hours later. 

Today I finished Prep, a novel by the same author who wrote that whole scandalous American Wife book about Laura Bush. Prep is 467 pages and I read all 467 pages in two days, and while I enjoyed it, the entirety of those 467 pages can be summed up with two words and a hyphen: high-school sucks. 

Is high-school one word or two?

Regardless, now I'm depressed. This often happens to me when I have completed reading something that is both spectacularly well-written and spectacularly long. I start to wonder why do I even bother writing, or, why did I read it so fast, and, because I often wonder this no matter what I have just finished reading, is there is any white wine left in the fridge, because if there is then I'm definitely going to have some right now. 

In case you were wondering, there's not. 

Next I'm going to read a book that is poorly written and really boring and ridiculously long. That way I won't encounter anything resembling today's post Prep-depression for at least another week. 

I'm also going to buy some wine, red, not white, because it's too cold to drink white wine now anyway.  

FYI, because he's a fan-freaking-tastic writer and almost as sarcastic as I am, I have invited John Turningpin to help me with the Characters/Creatures of Japan Series, future installments of which shall be posted by tomorrow afternoon. 

John Turningpin, the world awaits you.

Characters of Japan Series : The Tissue-Hander-Outers

Age: anyone who needs a job, any job

Sex: m/f 

Likes: someone with a cold!

Dislikes: rain, snow, hail

Natural Habitat: near train stations, outside of cell phone stores, their parents' house

The Tissue-Hander-Outer is Happy!

I have no idea why, but they are. When my volunteer job suggested I hand out tissues next to the Hiroo station I was like, "Um. No." And then I asked them to find themselves a new volunteer.

The Tissue-Hander-Outer has got to be really cold right about now, too. I mean, I haven't actually stepped foot outside of the apartment but I have a window and I can see outside of that window and it looks cold outside of the window. If I can write my name on glass or see my breath when I breath, and not because I just sucked the nicotine out of five cigarettes, then it's cold. 

Especially for a certain person who still doesn't have a coat.

Whatever.

Back to The-Tissue-Hander-Outer, arguably my favorite Character of Japan. 

Who knew I would move to Tokyo and literally never have to buy tissues again? V and I have a box of store bought Scottie tissues in the kitchen, but the neon green flowered box is more decorative than utilitarian, plus I think it's the same box we got for moving in (you know, the thanks-for-paying-the-two-million-yen-key-money-thing tissue box every foreigner gets after bending over for the royal ass-fucking that is "key money"). Instead of actually using our nice Scottie tissues, when either of us feels that itchy sneezy tingly nose sensation all we have to do is rummage through my purse or his pant pockets and voila! Soft Bank tissues!

This tissue-handing-out thing is, unfortunately, completely anti-green initiative, but so is Japan. Everything in this country comes two ways, either individually wrapped or encased in half of the ozone layer. Nevertheless, I don't care. I just wish they would upgrade and start handing out wet wipes instead, or even toilet paper, that would be GREAT.

the dance

I have a very extensive and rigid set of guidelines in regards to men I date; he must be a he, he must be a human he, he must be a he that is taller than me. You get the point. 

I become increasingly flexible on those expectations when the winter approaches and I find myself an unlikely victim to the robotic “must couple up now” syndrome indicative of the holidays and cold weather.  I'm lucky to be dating V right now, I really am, especially when I think back on some of the more curious creatures I handed out my number to, and more, three and four years ago. 

The last guy in Dallas that I went on a date with was That Guy. He was That Guy that everyone with a 214 area code wanted to be dating for the simple reason that he was one of the 100 wealthiest people living in Dallas, a little detail he somehow managed to weasel into two conversations with me. Even if I hadn't been aware of his status, which I admittedly was, I'm not the type of girl that raises her eyebrows when someone slaps down their funny-colored American Express card. My parents have American Express cards and they have less money than I do (which is, just in case you were wondering, about $16 dollars). 

That Guy was (a) shorter than I would prefer, and (b) told me on our second date that he would really like to be in an orgy so that he could look around and be like “wow, I’m in an orgy”.  

Obviously, That Guy was a Winner.     

He also asked once, over a shared plate of $20 macaroni and a bottle of champagne, if I had ever had sex with another girl. Even if I had, which I haven't, I prefer to keep those sorts of topics reserved for occasions where macaroni is not present.  

To be fair, this was the same dinner that I told him, quite casully, "I have issues with food."

What is remarkable about that statement is not that I said it, stupid things come out of my mouth rather frequently, but rather that we shared several dates afterwards. They just happened to be dates that didn't involve food.

I met That Guy quite a while before I actually started dating him as he was the best friend of my friend Misty's boyfriend. Not too surprisingly, That Guy was almost entirely the reason for Misty and Asshole's break-up, information he was somewhat proud to relay to me for whatever reason after about five too many vodka-somethings. 

A few solid months after Misty's breakup we were drunk, as usual, and at Suite, as usual, although this time we were partying in V.I.P. with That Guy instead of doing our usual thing, draping ourselves over the bar and complaining about how unapproachable we are and why-oh-why-won't-anyone-come-talk-to-us.

Drunk off our asses, we followed That Guy and about 20 other people to his house in Highland Park for a long night of more alcohol and, of course, cocaine. Because really, what would a night out on the town be without inhaling a gram or five off of a marble counter with a whole bunch of whored-out people you will never see again?

But I did see That Guy again, the following week. 

Along with his height, I had TEN reasons to lose interest.  TEN, which is three reasons past seven which is two reasons after I should have already forgotten his name.          

Five dates later (yes, that’s three dates past the delightful orgy remark), I could easily analyze That Guy for you. I could break down every minute detail of his life from his dyslexic childhood to his wealthy dysfunctional family to his painfully troubled relationship with his hyper-competitive father into an equation that directly resulted in his mountain of insecurities and his many, many defense mechanisms. That Guy masked his vulnerability with arrogance and, even more typical, adopted a blatant aversion to anything conventional in an effort to shield himself from the shame he felt when his father divorced his mother and married a Polynesian prostitute.   

We stopped seeing each other around Christmas. I saw him again briefly, at Suite of course, and he called me that New Years from some ski slope in Europe. Sometimes I reflect upon those moments and I think to myself how easily things could have been different, how easily things could have worked out with him if I had been more willing to put in more effort, any effort. 

But I didn't. Instead I find myself at a similar time, albeit several years later, living in Tokyo with my friend-from-high-school-turned-boyfriend, wondering what other things could have been different and will, undoubtedly, be different later.

these boots are going to walk all over you

Guess what happy Texan FINALLY has boots?!

No, I'm not talking about Jessica Simpson.