Noob Omelets and Rice

Which has nothing whatsoever to do with my post, but I thought the name was nifty.

Having been given the illustrious title of “guest writer,” I would like to announce that I’ll be a guest writer on the lovely blog of Japan since, according to a certain someone, one can only “Japan so hard” by themselves.

Which, to me, sounds like something more than vaguely sexual, but that is not the point.

The point is, is that since apparently I’m the first person thought of when the question “who do I know that likes writing” is asked, I’ll be joining up to share my own little spastic escapades in the Kansai area in a typically psychotic fashion, not unlike that of the great Yahtzee.

Although, when I write things like this I kind of tend to go everywhere- much like the American military- however since most of my wanderings tend to lead me to school, the grocery store, and Kawaramachi-dori, you’re probably not too likely to see me too often, or too long, since I’m coming back to America at the end of July.

Which, now that I think about it is probably a good thing.

But the point of that was to warn whoever reads this (because I honestly have no clue who most of you are) that I’m likely to write about anything- from punk fashion, to annoying cultural and social graces, to the staggeringly obscene number of cell phone accessories available for gaijin purchase, most of which are Hello Kitty related.

Also, if you couldn’t tell from my particularly geeky reference to an online god game reviewer, I am something of a geek, with a particular penchant for console gaming and anime, not unlike every other college-aged white kid in this country.

I may also include a running tally of how many injuries I received on a given excursion, considering I’ve been here four weeks and have injured myself four different times. Although, one of them I can’t recall ever doing, so it doesn’t really count. Whatever I did left a nice burn mark, though…

RIGHT. So then, on to something Japan-related.

It seems that when one has no internet connection- and thus no connection to the outside world- that they spend a lot of time wandering in the vain hope that some form of communication will fall from the sky much like the rocks onto the heads of the players of a frustrated dungeon master. However, these wanderings usually lead to the findings of large, pretty, humorous, or plain perverted things.

Especially in a country where English is a second, third, or fourth language, and populated by a generation of teenagers who think English is cool.

I imagine it’s much the same feeling that a native Japanese would get coming to America and walking down the halls of a public high school, all of which now seem to be populated by drooling, fanboy, otaku Narutards who couldn’t get laid if a hooker propositioned them wearing nothing but a blue headband with a piece of metal with a meaningless drawing on it.

…there was, at some point, a meaning to this. Allow me to meander my way back to it.

I discovered recently that one should probably never wander around dressed as close as they could get to punk fashion without the black jeans (because they were still drying) and the punk boots (because I left them in America), because strange people still manage to harass you for no reason.

And I’m not counting the strange looks from people who seem to have never seen someone dressed like that or the nervous security detail following you around everywhere like they’re afraid that you’ll pull a knife from hammerspace and maim some nearby innocent children- those I actually take a certain amount of pride in, since it means I accomplished something.

What exactly it is that I accomplished is still something I’m working on figuring out. Possibly reinforcing the “fact” that all Americans are gun-toting, insensitive baby-eaters.

THE POINT BEING. I was harassed on a crosswalk- a crosswalk- by an old guy asking to take my picture. The conversation went something along the lines of what follows. For the sake of simplicity, I’ll be “Me” and the creepy guy will be “Hentai:”

Hentai: Do you mind if I take your picture?

Me: Oh, no go ahead! (If you can’t tell, I don’t get that offer very often.)

Hentai: So why are you so good looking?

Me: Uhm…. Why are you thinking that? I think as obnoxiously loud as I can.

Hentai: So are you a sightseer?

Me: I’m actually a foreign exchange student.

Hentai: Are you teaching anything?

Me: I’m actually studying Japanese. I’m a foreign exchange student, dumbass, I want to scream desperately, but lack the nerve to do so.

Hentai: So are you married?

Me: No. …the hell? Where did that come from? I think he was trying to hit on me. I’m not too certain. He was kinda… loopy…

Hentai: So you live here in Kyoto by yourself?

Me: Yeah… You reeeeeeally weird me out, you know that? I think to myself, wondering if there is some way to reflect the creepy feeling I’m getting from him back and see how he likes it.

Hentai: What’s your name, if I may ask?

Me: Beth. Aren’t you married? I thought I had seen him with a woman, but maybe it was just another 19-year-old girl he was hitting up for pictures and sex conversation.

Hentai: *as the signal changes to let people across the road* Well, I’d like to see you again, even though I probably won’t.

Me: Yeah, that’s because I didn’t give you my contact info, pedo, I scream mentally at him, planning to introduce him to the lovely keisatsu next time I see him? No, it’s not a cop car; they take you to a fun happy place with all the 19-year-old girls you could ever want!

Hentai: Bye!!

And that was the last I saw of him, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Things like this make me wonder if I really am interested in the whole “punk fashion” scene, but then, on reflection, they’re pretty good for a giggle.

And if nothing else, I’ve got an interesting story to take home.

Although, it might be noted that stuff like this doesn’t happen to me in America, I suppose it is my own fault for daring to wear something that wasn’t what everyone else was wearing.

And for having the bright pink

And the chains.

And the hat.

…I think by now you get it.

THE POINT BEING. I’m probably going to ride in the “women only” train car for a while. At least until I’m not so sore I’m not on the lookout for perverts anymore.

INJURY COUNT FOR THIS TRIP:

Burned my tongue on some hot tempura-udon, but that doesn’t count since it was back in Saiin where I belong.

Some minor damage to my pride when I wasn’t aware that the restaurant I had chosen did their orders in a funny way that’s different from EVERY OTHER RESTAURANT I’VE BEEN IN SINCE I GOT HERE. MAKE UP YOUR MIND HOW TO ORDER, SILLY JAPANESE PEOPLE.*

Stupidity pain for wearing heels to go walking around in.

*English speakers please not the comma. I’m not ordering silly Japanese people. The comment “make up your mind how to order” is directed at the silly Japanese people.