Friday, January 19, 2007

Roppongi -- Japan's Answer to Bourbon St.

Thought I would start postiing some of my travel adventures. I have been to South America, Central America, Asia, the Middle East, and parts of Africa. I was one of those backpacking crazies right after I graduated from college. This is one I wrote in 1997 after I got back from Asia.

Love it, hate it, loathe it, leave it: Roppongi is undenialibly a people magnet. Perhaps it doesn't attract the most savory of characters, but it cannot be denied that all walks of life rub elbows and more in Roppongi unlike anywhere else in Japan. To me, this is the Asian version of New Orleans' Bourbon Street. Wild, Crazy, Sexy, and Sultry.

What is Roppongi. Roppongi is Tokyo's little den of sin for ready-to-go gaijins and adventurous Japanese. Its humble origins date back to 400 years ago when it was a quiet little temple town with nary a vice to its name. Tragedy seems to be in Roppongi's blood as it has faced ravaging fires, WWII bombs, and drunken foreigners puking all over it during its long questionable past. Its party reputation began a hundred years or so ago, when Japanese soldiers were quartered there and, as it usually happens around young men with money and testosterone to spare, a sordid night-life sprung slowly into life. The US military continued this fine tradition in Roppongi after WWII.

These days, a night in Roppongi can be spent fending off the lusty advances of horny Nigerians, frustrated sailors, and pent up marines, and those are the guys. The girls there are crazy. Some are prostitutes, trolling for their next trick. Other women go there to find a tourist and have a little fling. For the young male out on the prowl, he has to run the alluring but annoying gamut of the massage girls. Shouting: "Massagee! Massagee!", they love to rush out to grab any passing single male and not let go until their victims have either given in or brutally fought them off. There are nightclubs that have nothing but "working women" in them. Then there are the legit clubs where the young and horny crowd go to hook up for free. There are gay clubs, transvestite clubs, clubs for old people. You name it, you can find it.

The night is a friend to Roppongi and its inhabitants of party-goers and pleasure-seekers. The streets are seemingly filled with beautiful people stumbling about in a wonderful haze as they hop from club to club. In rich rolling Nigerian accents, club hawkers call out to the passing crowds inviting them to clubs that promise to be packed with fun and people. Perhaps its the blinding flashing lights, the blaring music, or the alcohol but the insides of the popular clubs do seem to boast a population of the most incredibly good looking charismatic people who simply personify the word "cool".

Some nights, however, just aren't a good time to visit - though some sour critics would say that there is never a good night to visit Roppongi. I went there for the first time on New Years Eve 1996. Nearly the entire crew contingent of the USS Kittyhawk aircraft carrier was there to meet, compete, and throw-up on me. It was wall-to-wall testosterone. Roppongi on that New Year's would have been a lovely place to go if you were female or gay. Unfortunately, I was a single male. Bad Luck!!

I went club hopping with some friends I had met up with. A couple of them were from Japan, the others were Europeans. I got incredibly drunk and had repeated run ins with the Navy Guys. They were being assholes to everyone. I understand they are cooped up on a ship for months at a time, but they need to chill out when they come to shore. They were only looking for poontang or to get in a fight. I did stay out of any fights that night, although I probably saw at least 7 or 8 different fights throughout the night. Around 3 AM, I met some girl at a club and we started dancing. We decided to hook up, but she lived about an hour away and my hotel would not allow foreigners to bring women in (Stupid rule!!!)

Anyway, the Roppongi district has this covered. They have a number of seedy little hotels that rent rooms by the hour for horny party-goers. Being New Years, there was actually a line at most of these. We waited about 25 minutes for a room, and went in and had our fun. We stayed there till about 6:30 AM.

The danger of Roppongi, and there are many, is staying too long. If you do not hook up early and get out of there or you miss your last train, you will be in danger of seeing the horror that is Roppongi in the morning. Although I found my girl, the sun was already peaking over the rooftops when we left the hotel. She went her way and I stumbled to find my way to the subway station.

MY GOD!!! My first thoughts were that I had stepped into a disaster area. The morning is not a friend to Roppongi. In fact, its downright cruel. Daylight hits Roppongi with all the gentleness of a sledgehammer wrapped in barbed wire. Morning shatters all the glamour, egos, and illusions that was given by the night.

In the morning, the beautiful cool people you were just grooving with are suddenly replaced by a bunch of haggard hung-over hags and trolls. Rushing out into the streets doesn't save you either as the streets are choked with packs of shambling, stumbling walking dead. In the shadows, pale party-goers avoid sunlight like quaking vampires by seeking the darker recesses of the subways lest they explode in a noxious cloud of bone and dust. The sidewalk is covered with piss and vomit. The area smells like a sewer.

I stumble to the subway station, all the while holding my sleeve over my nose to block out the noxious fumes. In the bowels of the subway station, the survivors of the night are huddled like war-weary third world refugees as they await the train that will carry them away from this hell. Very few are capable of standing. Most are passed out in theirs or somebody else's filth. Those few who are conscious stare into the void with bleary, blood-shot eyes like shell-shock war veterans who have been too long up at the Front.

I told myself: "Never Again!" as I lurched for the train along with the rest of the wretched masses yearning for escape. Of course, I caved the next night and went straight back to this crazy purgatory of pleasure.

Saturday, January 13, 2007

Invisible to Teenagers

As I was filling my gas tank this morning at Casey’s and I glanced up and noticed a credit card sitting on top of the machine. It was a platinum card for Bank of America. Ah, mamacita, a debit card. As per the little photo in the upper left corner, a brunette with a cute smile and just old enough (She looked 19 or 20) so I wouldn’t get my ass thrown in jail if she wanted to give me a personal reward for finding it, left her card behind for all to share in the wealth. Bless her generous, stupid heart.

What teenager has a platinum card? I don’t have a platinum card. And if I did I’d damn sure not leave it sitting ON TOP OF THE FUCKING PAY AT THE PUMP! Especially if it was Daddy’s checking account. But then, that’s just me and I’m fucked up like that.

I topped off my tank, to hell with those cutesy little stickers that warn not to or else goblins will eat my soul, and tossed the abandoned credit card onto my front seat. Now maybe the right thing to do was to bring it inside, but who’s to say the owner went inside or would know to come back for it at this location? And who’s to say the remarkably sharp clerk behind the counter inside with a mouthful of broken teeth in a lovely shade of moss would make an effort to return the card to its owner, let alone keep it safe? Honestly, I felt like a thief, but hoped nobody would find out until I’d had time to locate the owner and prove my intent. Worst case, if she was nowhere to be found I’d cut it up and trash it and she’ll never have to experience fraudulent charges whether she realizes it or not.

Fortunately for both of us, her name was Meghan Thingamabobber. Not really, Duh!!. But unique in a similar way. I got to work and hopped online. It took me about 2 minutes to find someone by the last name of Thingamabobber in my zip code. Jackpot!!! I only found 1 with that name. Ironically, his name was Eric. Eric Thingamabobber. Now was Eric Daddy or Husband??

I wrote the number down on a dirty Starbucks napkin I almost used to pick my nose with earlier in the morning. Went with the sleeve of my jacket instead. Good job. I dialed the number and got this:

Her: Hello?
Me: I’m calling for Meghan Thingamabobber
Her: Yeah…?
Me: …is this Meghan?
Her: Yeah.
(Rude little shit). Me: I have your Bank of America card.
Her: Huh?
Me: You left it at the Casey’s. I found it this morning.
Her: I need that.

You’re welcome, you ungrateful little brat.

Anyway, she gave me her address and I immediately understood how she could leave her credit card at the gas station. What woman in her right mind would give a complete stranger her address. For all she knew, I could have been a deranged ax-murderer or a serial rapist.

When I drove to her house some time later, I immediately figured out Eric was her daddy. No way she was even 18. She answered the door wearing a tight, red tank top that made me want to do naughty things with her not-quite-legal appendages which strained against the cotton. Maybe in a few more months when the stiff jail time falls from her plate of goodies to savor I’ll come back and swipe my own debit card between the boobies and see what it buys me. Try as I might, I was unable to maintain full eye contact when I handed her the debit card.

“Thank you, sir.”

Sir? Ah, hell. There went that fantasy.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Why I Lived Alone for So Long

For one semester back in college I was sure I’d be the first man killed by a psychotic sleep walker. I had two roommates, James and Gabe. James was never around. He paid his rent, but his girlfriend had a place of her own paid for by Daddy Big Bucks. Gabe was always fucking there. The Dude had no other place to be. He had a blonde afro the size of Epcot Center, and it was on purpose. He had it permed every couple of months. Even had a mustache like Magnum P.I. But he paid his share of the rent and managed to make the preppy/redneck style look good and that was all I cared about.

I was up flipping channels on the TV at 2:00 one morning when I heard his shower come on. I thought it was odd that he’d get up in the middle of the night to shower, but maybe he’d been spanking the monkey and forgotten to use a sock or tissues to avoid the mess. It happens. He got up at 6:00 and showered again. I asked him why his ass had to use up all the hot water when he’d just showered a few hours before. He said I was full of shit. Why would he get up in the middle of the night to take a shower?

Whatever, bro.

A few weeks later I was up again watching TV when I heard shouting. Gabe’s door flung open so hard it hit the wall and he ran into the living room screaming. “He’s in my bed! He’s in my bed!”

Bullshit. Who in the hell would get into Gabe’s bed? He stood in the corner, whining and shaking his left arm with his right hand. Crazy bastard. I reached around the wall and flipped the light switch without going in, just in case he wasn’t out of his goddamned mind after all, but when I looked in there was nothing but a pile of crumpled sheets.

“Dude, there’s nobody in here.”

“I felt him, I felt him! I touched his arm.”

To this day, I believe that he had fallen asleep on his arm, it went numb, and he touched his own hand thinking it belonged to another man in his bed. By morning, Gabe had no recollection of the entire thing.

The day Gabe brought a 9mm back to the apartment I nearly shit my pants. “What in the – Fuck no! Uh uh, no, bitch. Take that shit out of here.” Gabe was going through his gangsta phase. Listening to NWA, drinking 40’s, and trying to be a gangbanger.

He said he needed it for his protection. He was starting to run with a rough crowd.

“Protection from what? You're the weirdest fucker in the whole complex" I said.

He insisted he needed the gun for his safety. He put it in his nightstand in his bedroom and told me where I could find it if I ever needed it. Yeah, when hell freezes over.

A few days later it was just after midnight when Gabe’s door creaked open. I looked up and saw four fingers, an eye and part of a ‘fro showing through the narrow gap in the doorway. The eyeball started roaming all around the room, not looking at anything in particular, then it and the ‘fro slowly disappeared behind the door, the fingers slipped back inside, and the door closed gently.

I went to my bedroom, locked the door, and didn’t come out until the sun was up. The next morning, Gabe and I had a long talk. I told him it was either him or I. One of us had to go. I knew damn well he couldn’t afford to split the rent two ways. He got on the phone, made a few calls. I went to class and when I got home, he was gone. He had cleared out his clothes, but left all of his other personal shit. CD’s, books, notebooks, his walkman, etc were all still there. I waited weeks for him to come back for the stuff, but I never saw him again. He was gone. Mr. Gabe had a new place to live. I learned that he dropped out of school later that week and no one knew where he went. His parents called to talk to him about 2 weeks after he left. They had no clue that he had moved out. To this day, I am not sure what happened. He could be dead for all I know. Maybe somebody was after him. All I know is that he was a crazy motherfucker!!

After him, I lived alone for about 12 years. Sure, I would have girls spend the night sometimes, maybe even a week or two, but I never really moved in with anyone long-term for a good while. One weird psycho roommate is enough.

Sunday, January 7, 2007

The Broken Hand

Well we were partying it up at the bar, and needless to say I was pretty blasted and apparentely I punched a chair and then tried to karate chop a pool table....later on in the evening I somehow went home. I have no idea how. I wake up in the morning with my hand just throbbing and feeling rather like it is shattered!! I look at my hand only to find a sock over my hand with a clenched fist and duct tape wrapped up to my elbow as a make shift cast!! Don't remember doing this, but it gets better! So I get up to go to the can and find my clothes all over the floor on the way to the washroom and in the hallway there is a bag of pitas! Where the hell do you get a bag of pita bread at 3 in the morning!! So I decide to go to the hospital and have my hand looked at. I get dressed and head out to my car. It isnt out there. I lived in an apartment complex so I start walking all over the parking lot to find the car, but no luck. I say screw it and I take the bus to the hospital. People are staring at me since I have a sock with duct tape on me and I look like death!!! I finally make it to the hospital and my hand is broken in two places. I call my friends to pick me up and we go back to the place of the party and find my car. A fun night that I don't remember!

Wednesday, January 3, 2007

Good ol' Drunk College Sex

This story happened my soph. year at UT. Sept. 1990

There's nothing special about this story except that...IT WAS ONE OF THE LUCKIEST DAYS OF MY LIFE. I do consider myself something of a ladies man. I am not ashamed to admit it. A week ago I was drunk and there were about six drunk girls at my friend Robert's pad. There was this fine blond girl with a nice rack and a blue mini-skirt who I later found out was named Marina and was one of the pom-pom girls for the UT basketball team. JACKPOT!!

Rob told me to go for it and I started trying to make my plan of attack. A girl this hot has been hit on everyway possible. I had to come up with something new. I went to the kitchen to take a couple shots a fucking miracle happened. I walked in and the girl was crying her ass off. Okay, I know, not what you call a Christmas miracle or anything, but I knew this was my chance to play up the nice friendly gentleman card.

I asked her what was wrong and she told me that her boyfriend was fucking some other girl so they broke up a week ago. Being kinda drunk I guess she just broke down so I invited her to take a couple shots with me. We took a shot of JD and vodka and I told her she could hang out in my room until she felt better. She took my advice and I told her I would check on her in like 10 minutes.

When I went in to check on her she was on my computer watching some porn of a blond chick giving a bj that I was jerking it to earlier. What a fucking moron. I left that shit on my queue in Winamp. I ran over, apologized, and reached over to shut it off, but this fine ass drunk girl just turned to me and said "I can do that way better than that."

I bet that she couldn't and after a bit of coaxing she was sucking my cock while I had a bottle of Jim Beam in my hand. Rob knocked on the door in the middle of it to see that we were okay and I yelled that we were sleeping. Then this girl started going wild and asked me to fuck her "as hard as I could." I happily obliged and had some of the best sex I have ever had in my entire young life. The next morning I woke up at around noon and she was gone. I haven't talked to her since, but drunk ass college sex is exactly why I came to school. God damn I need to get laid more.