This morning I wish I were deaf-blind.

I always used to think that the worst sound in the world was Ellen Degeneres making her trademark “Caww” in the opening monologue of her show.

But last night I heard another sound – one so much more horrible than anything that could ever be concocted by Ellen.

I now know that the worst sound imaginable is a karaoke version of "YMCA" being sung at two in the morning by a drunken Japanese man, the accompaniment to which is a gaggle of cackling, clapping women who are screaming “sugoi!” (a word that means, “We enjoy your singing, so more of it, please, whatever the emotional cost to those who are sleeping nearby!”).

You might think that I’m just jealous of him because I have not yet found love in my life, and you’re probably right. Man, I wish I had a girlfriend. Thank goodness I have hate to keep me company!

Do you think that I’m exaggerating about how much I dislike this sound? Well, I’m not. I would rather wake up in a semi-drugged state in the depths of some Russian forest and hear a group of men arguing about which one of my organs to harvest.

The song “YMCA” is a perfect choice for the non-native English speaker. Think about it. All you have to do is say “Y-M-C-A” over and over and over and over again. If your English is so terrible that you can’t even read the rest of the lyrics on the karaoke screen, you can easily compensate by screaming – literally screaming – the letters “Y-M-C-A”.

Bloodcurdlingly.

The man’s "singing" went on and on, and when I found myself still listening to the Village People at 3 a.m., writhing about in a blind rage, biting my sheets, thinking about everything in Japan that I didn’t like, and saying, “Oooh, look at me, I can say four letters of the alphabet” in a whiney, whingy voice, I knew I had to do something.

I finally gathered up my sheets and committed the ultimate act of Japanese sacrilege: I slept in the small, closed-off area of my apartment where you’re supposed to put your shoes. If any Japanese people had seen me, they would have been appalled. You are never supposed to wear your shoes inside your house, and you are certainly not supposed to put your sheets on top of your shoes and sleep among them and wake up holding one close to your head, gently stroking the patent leather, whispering about how glad you are to have found a sole-mate.

You want your rules, people of Japan? All right! Ok! Very well! You can have your friggin’ rules about shoes, but we Westerners also have OUR rules. One of these rules is, unless you are a black man in a construction hat, or a fireman, or an American Indian, you do NOT have my permission to attempt anything by the Village People! And furthermore, do not sing the Carpenters!

Have I said too much?

Who let the dogs out? Was it you? Was it!?

On Friday afternoon, my private student brought in the lyrics of Eminem’s song “Go to Sleep.”

Have you ever heard this song? It is a folksy little ballad in which Eminem eloquently urges his listener to, “Go to sleep bitch! Die, motherfucker, die! Ugh, time's up, bitch, close ya eyes!”

I remember my mother softly whispering these exact words to me when, in the warm summer evenings of my youth, I was so full of piss and vinegar from a day of outdoor play that I just wouldn't get to bed.
My student, Yuki, had questions about the lyrics:

“Can we say a man is a "bitch"? I thought this word was for a woman only.”

“Often it is used for a woman," I said. "But in this case, I think it’s intended for a man.”

“You are a bitch. You are a motherfucker. Same meaning?”

“Basically.”

“Which is better?”

I leaned back in my chair, interlocking my fingers behind my head, and I looked reflectively up at the ceiling. I was lost in thought - not about Eminem's lyrics, but about a place far, far away. A place without people named Yuki.

“Well," I said after some time had passed, "if I had a choice, I guess I’d rather be a bitch.”

“Has someone ever called you this?”

“Called me what?”

“Bitch.”

“Yes.”

“Motherfucker?”

“Oh heavens, yes. Over the lunch hour, actually.”

“Ho-ho!” said Yuki. He put his hands together in the prayer position and squeezed them between his thighs. He then started rubbing his hands against his inner thighs - all the while staring at me with radiant glee. I didn't think his hands were grazing his genitals, but they were coming precariously close - close enough to make me want to stop making him think happy thoughts.

We sat there for a few minutes, poring over lyrics. As Yuki racked his brains for more questions, I remembered how, back in high school, my secret dream was to be a star lecturer at a prestigious university, opening the minds of the young to the wonders of literature and making them think independently. Now I was explaining a five-minute musical death threat to a giggly boy called Yuki (a name that means "snow" in Japanese). To make matters worse, I had a terrible feeling that, pretty soon, I was going to have to tell him what a “nigga” was.

Yuki’s finger traced down along the lyrics until he arrived at the final stanza:

Niggas tried to holla, but couldn't holla back
Now they gots to swallow, everything in the sac
Blood Line, and, we can go track for track
Damn dog, why'd you have to do them niggas like that?

I’m not even sure what most of that means. At least, I hope I don’t know what it means. I think I’d have an easier time explaining Finnegan’s Wake to my 3-year-old niece through the medium of an abacus. Actually, that’s kind of what it felt like I was doing.

“I don't get it," said Yuki, looking frustrated. "Why did the niggas try to holla?”

“I don’t know, Yuki. It’s kind of out of context. Maybe Eminem was doing something terrible to them.”

Yuki didn’t look satisfied.

“Or,” I said, “maybe the ‘niggas’ were down in the cellar getting something, and Eminem accidentally locked the door, so they had to holler up at him – Hey, open the door! We’re still down here!

Yuki nodded his head in understanding.

We recited the lyrics together, with Yuki as Eminem, and me tackling the role of D-12. We switched parts and read it again.

Do you realize how awkward it is reading gangster rap when you are wearing a necktie and a little metal tag with your first name on it and you are sitting underneath a sign that depicts a smiling cartoon character saying, “English only in the classroom please!”? Try it sometime. You will see what I mean.

Devil's Haircut

I met Elsie for Chinese food on Saturday night, and she showed up with the worst haircut I have ever seen on a human head. The only way to get a haircut like that is to say to the barber, “Give me something that makes it look as if I’ve given up on life altogether.”

God, it was awful. It was god-awful. I hesitate even to write this post, because it’s making me think about the haircut again and again. I would rather think of less unpleasant things – like Al Qaeda, or the sexual abuse scandal in the Catholic Church. It was the haircut of an emotionally unstable thirteen-year-old boy. What was Elsie trying to prove, anyway? What cryptic message was hidden in that hair? Was it a kind of lovers’ Morse code – decipherable only to those with special knowledge?

Was she trying to suggest that, if I really loved her, I would embrace her, hair and all? Did she think it looked good? Oh, don’t let it be that! Anything but that! I remember once, in junior high school, I had the barber shave lightening rods (a la Vanilla ice) in the sides of my hair. Terrible choice, but at least I understood the magnitude of my mistake! Even at that young age, I had enough sense to curtail my extensive social activities (chess club, camera club) until the zig-zags had faded away.

There is also the terrible thought that Elsie had gotten the haircut not only before the date, but also for the date! For me! Basically, it was a mushroom. There was a massive, billowing, gelled clump of hair on top, and the sides were shaved. It did not look good on her. It did not, it did not.

“Hi you!” she said when she saw me.

“Hair!” I said.

“What?”

“Hi hair! Er – Hi there! Hair? There! Heeeeey there! Nice hair.”

“Okaaay, you’re being a freak. But thanks for noticing my new hair. I’m glad you like it.”

Over dinner, I could not look at Elsie. Every time I tried, my eyes would start to drift up of their own accord to her hair, and I would forget whatever topic we were discussing. The expression on my face would go from horror to revulsion to bewilderment, and then back to horror again. The hair was making it difficult to eat – not to mention use my chopsticks.

Elsie noticed, and she thought that I was checking out the other girls: “Can you try looking at me,” she said, “and not every single Japanese girl who happens to walk through the door? That would be really nice. I’d like that.”

My wandering eyes could not be controlled, and they were darting around the room like the eyes of a crack junkie in need of a fix. Elsie became very annoyed, and she decided to pull out the heavy artillery: “Well, I can tell you one thing – you won’t be getting any sex from me tonight.”

I took a moment to reflect that, if I ever write down my life story, this would make a very suitable title.

I chose not to respond. This was not the response Elsie wanted.

She silently fumed, but what could I do? Yes, it was true that I was looking at every girl who walked into the restaurant – but, for what it’s worth, I was looking at the men too. I wasn’t looking at them because I wanted to look at them. I was looking at them because I wanted not to look at Elsie’s hair.

Elsie’s wrath finally reached a fever-pitch: “And by the way – you’re not a good-looking guy. I know I said you were good-looking in my email, but you’re not. You’re not good-looking.”

“Is it that I’m not very good-looking,” I said, “or is it that I am so good-looking that it’s forcing you to completely redefine the very essence of what it means to be good-looking?”

“Ooh, look at me, I always use $500 words like “the very essence” to show everyone what a big boy I am. Here’s your Pulitzer prize, Professor Plump.”

She reached her hand into her glass of water, retrieved an ice cube, and threw it at me. It struck my chin and tumbled down the gentle arc described by my belly. In the end, the cube found a warm and inviting home in my lap. I spread my legs, and it fell to the ground. I look at it for a while, watching it melt into the carpet.

“Stop looking at your damn dick,” Elsie said. “Try thinking about something else for a change. Like other people.”

She tossed another ice cube, and this one bounced off the top of my head. It could have hit my eye. I started getting a little pissed off myself.

“Your haircut is a boy’s haircut,” I said.

[cue sound of gathering storms]

“You fucking cocksucking son of a bitch.”

If the other Japanese customers hadn’t been looking at us before, they certainly were now. I think one boy was actually recording the events on his cell phone. In fact, if you do a thorough search of the internet, you just might be able to find the accompanying video to this post. If you do find it, let me know. It would make a nice keepsake.

At this point, I knew that any action I took would only further incense Elsie, so I sat stock-still, wondering if I should make eye-contact (and risk triggering a murderous rage) or look away (and risk triggering a murderous rage).

So I looked at her, but just above and to the left of her eye – at the cap of the mushroom, if you will.

She sat there – every muscle taut to the breaking point - with one hand clenching her cutlery and the other gripping the edge of the table. Her cold blue eyes were boring into me – waiting for me to give her an excuse to plunge the silver blade into my still-beating heart. Fortunately, I can remain stock-still for a very long time. I wondered if the police would laugh when telling my parents that I had been stabbed repeatedly in a dim-sum restaurant by a woman with a mushroom haircut. More to the point, would my parents laugh?

I thought of how undignified a death that would be – but I also knew, in my heart of hearts, that it would be a very appropriate ending to such a life as I have led.

Eventually Elsie started eating, and I started eating. I have to say, it was pretty impressive how quickly we regained the appearance of normalcy. I asked her to pass the salt, and she did. She said, “Weird how there’s no pepper,” and I agreed that it was weird, but then theorized that it was maybe a Chinese thing. She said, “We should probably be getting the bill,” and I said, “Yeah, I guess so.” Oh yes, and she also muttered, “fucking fucker” under her breath, and I coughed loudly so as to cover up the words. That way, at least they will be unrecognizable when we appear in You Tube’s “Featured Videos” section.

Is it all over between Elsie and me? I hope not, but I have been on quite a few failed dates over the past two years, and on most of these dates, the words “fucking cocksucking son of a bitch” were never uttered. Not even in jest. I would like to see Elsie again. I liked her. I guess this is just one of those rare situations where one person really likes another person, but that other person has a haircut in the shape of a mushroom. It happens sometimes.

Strange Bedfellows

When you think of Japan, you probably think of such cultural contributions as haiku, origami, and tentacle porn.

Let me assure you – not all of Japan is quite so innocent. There is a dark, seamy, and sometimes violent underside. The name of that underside is Horiguchi Daisuke: private detective, Japanese mafia.

I met Mr. Horiguchi at a local bar. He was drinking whisky on the rocks and I had my beer. When I told him that I was from Canada, he thought I’d said “Kentucky.” I guess that explains why he started asking me if I liked fried chicken. This led us into a fascinating discussion about how my enjoyment of KFC does not necessarily mean that I was born and raised in the state of Kentucky. The more I tried to explain things, the more he believed I was from Kentucky. Eventually I gave up, and we left off with him thinking that I was a lovechild of Colonel Sanders.

As the night wore on, I learned more and more about this swarthy, mysterious barfly. From what I could piece together, he runs a detective agency in the city – one that is loosely affiliated with the Japanese mob. He has killed a man before (“one only”), and he has been to prison (“very fun!”).

It’s probably no coincidence that the first three letters of his name also form the first three letters of such words as “Horrible,” “Horsewhip,” and “Horripilate.” I don’t even know what the third one means, but it sounds terrible.

I asked him what kinds of problems his agency solves.

“Anything,” he said.

Anything? Could he fix my bacne?

“Derek,” he said, “you think your girlfriend does sex another guy? You call me. I fix problem.”

I tried to explain to him that, as a man whose sex life is about as colorful as that of Anne of Avonlea, I didn’t expect to be requiring his services in the near future.

He laughed at this, and I laughed too. Ha ha ha. Then, out of the blue, he threatened to come to my English school and demand money. I laughed again, but this time he didn’t laugh, so I think this is something that I might have to prepare myself for in the near future.

Later in the evening another man entered the bar. This man had the face of one whose life has been a long series of very unwholesome acts. He exuded a weird malevolence – as though every object – both animate and otherwise – posed a direct threat to his wellbeing. He walked over to us, shook hands with Mr. Horiguchi, and ignored me altogether.

When this mystery man left for the washroom, I asked Horiguchi if he was abunai. Dangerous.

“No, no! I work for him. He is Watanabe-san. He friendly mafia.”

The only “friendly” act I could imagine Watanabe-san doing would be killing me softly with his song. Or killing me quickly. Or killing me with kindness. Or telling me that he liked my haircut – and then killing me. Anything with the word “killing” in it, really.

When Mr. Watanabe came back, he said in a deep, booming voice,

“YOU TALK ABOUT ME WHEN I AM IN TOILET!!!!”

How do you respond to an accusation like this? From a man like that? Especially when he is approaching you as a hungry lion would approach a piece of red meat?

Here’s a helpful hint: take a mixed nut from the bowl in front of you, throw it in the air, and then catch it in your mouth. This will impress your adversary. It will prove to him that you have great skill and cunning.

Watanabe smiled, plunged his beefy hand into my bowl of nuts, and threw one at the bartender, barking something at him in Japanese. To my surprise, the bartender immediately started leaping about, desperately trying to catch the airborne nut – with fear in his eyes and sweat on his brow. Watanabe threw a second nut, and then a third. Watching the bartender – an otherwise dignified-looking man of about 35 – hopping around like a trained sea lion was one of the most distressing things I have ever seen. What’s worse, Watanabe eventually went from throwing the nuts to the bartender to throwing the nuts (and then the bowl) at the bartender. Who was this man, and why did wield such power to intimidate?

When the nuts were gone, Watanabe – still chuckling under his breath – took a seat at the bar. He rested his chin on his hands and stared at me with a gimlet eye.

“Were from?” he bellowed.

“Canada,” I peeped, still speechless after the nuts sideshow.

“Jim Carrey.”

“Yes. Jim Carrey is Canadian.”

“Michael and J and FOX!”

“Yes, yes. Michael J. Fox. He’s Canadian too.”

Suddenly Watanabe’s eyes lit up. He clapped his hands together.

“CELINE DION!”

He yelled this with the fiery intensity that an Islamic fundamentalist might shout “Jihad” before carrying out a terrorist strike, but he also said it with the love and respect that an ancient Greek philosopher might say “Truth!” Weird how that is, because if I had to pick two words that would never – under any circumstances – leave Watanabe’s mouth, the first would be “Celine” and the second would be “Dion.” In case you're wondering, the third would be “Manilow.”

It was then that I was treated to the second most degrading spectacle I’ve ever laid eyes on: watching someone who looked like the BTK killer sing the theme song from Titanic – of course in broken English, and of course off-key. Also drunk. Also a little shy.

Near…far…wherever you are…I will be…in your heart…la la la.

I couldn’t watch, but I couldn’t look away. The only thing that I can compare it to – to convey the sense of tragedy that I felt – is the scene in Old Yeller when the boy has to kill the dog that he loves so much because it has rabies. This Japanese man was killing something within me. Something that I loved. And he was doing it softly. With his song.

When I thought it would never end, it did. Watanabe finished because, just after he had sung to me of how “love can touch us one time and last for a lifetime,” he flung out his arms and knocked his whisky clean off the counter, smashing it against the wall.

The bartender ran over to clean it up. He got down on his knees in the ice and the booze and the broken shards of glass, and he began apologizing profusely for the wall getting in the way of Watanabe’s drink.

“You like my song?” Watanabe said to me, ignoring the obsequious, mumbling bartender.

“THANK YOU for completely ruining my evening!” I said, smiling and clapping enthusiastically. “My life will be much unhappier from this point on! Every fiber in my being was totally repulsed by your musical interpretation! And look at me – that’s a lot of fiber!”

This seemed to satisfy him.

The rest of the evening went something like this:

Watanabe and Horiguchi asked me to arm wrestle.

I told them absolutely not.

We arm wrestled. I lost twice.

They suggested that we all punch each other as hard as we can.

I told them absolutely not.

We took turns punching each other, and I got punched so hard in the left breast that now, when I walk, I look like I’m trying to imitate Quasimodo as a joke. But it is not a joke. Not a joke at all.

Is this what my company meant when they told me that coming to Japan would be a “cultural exchange”?

Am I handsome?

Here is a really neat way to meet a girl:

At your local bar, find a girl who is sitting by herself (never with a friend – never! All the better to pick out your faults, my dear!).

Initiate the conversation by saying, “Let’s play a game.”

Tell her that the name of the game is called Am I Handsome?.

Begin the game by pointing to yourself and posing a simple question: “Am I handsome?”

If she says “no,” say “You lose,” and then start at the beginning of the game again. Replay until she reaches such a state of intoxication that she says “yes.”

When she says “yes,” buy her some mixed nuts and wait thirty seconds before beginning the second game of the evening: “Do you like sex?”

Hey man - sweet pants!

I am in absolutely no position to pass judgment on other people’s fashion choices. I think I forfeited that right three years ago when I bought a t-shirt with little pictures of famous Irish authors on it.

But today, in Japan, I saw a man wearing bright, bright, bright pink jogging pants.

The moment I saw him I knew that, although I may represent the lowermost rung on the great fashion ladder, he was the rubber padding on the bottom of the ladder to keep it from slipping. These jogging pants were so bright that they reproduced what things must have looked like nanoseconds after the Big Bang. And the results were equally inhospitable to human life.

To add to my amazement, the man was also walking down the avenue – his drawstrings fluttering wantonly in the spring breeze – with confidence. This man had the confidence of an emporium of emperors! WHAT!? He was actually galavanting about town in those bright pink pants. I have never used the word “galavant” before, because I’d never seen anyone truly do it. But make no mistake – this man was galavanting. What was IN those pants?

The weird part is – he actually looked pretty good. It couldn’t have been the pink pants that were doing it. Those pants were basically a way for him to say, “Fuck you world. With one leg of these joggers I will slap in the face all you hold dear. With the other, I shall steal your soul. And with the drawstring – why, with the drawstring, I will tie these pants snugly so that they don’t slip down. Naturally! It can get so annoying if you’re always having to pull them up!”

I stood at the intersection, staring at the man in wonder. As if to further degrade me, he was now talking and laughing on one of the green public telephones. I’ve never been able to figure out how to use those green public phones. And they always eat my 10-yen coins! Yet there he was, in his pink pants, looking like he was talking for the first time in years to a beloved relative - a relative who, although long presumed dead in a fiery plane crash, had actually managed to swim to a remote tropical island and survive on a meagre diet of fish, coconut milk, and memories.

What made this man the way he was? Was it the pants, or was it his narry-a-care-nor-a-trouble outlook on life? And if clothing did have the power to transmit charisma, why had my Irish authors failed?

What began as wonder changed to confusion, and then to envy, and then things started getting back to normal (dark sexual jealousy). I looked down at the smiling, silk-screened faces of William Butler Yeats and James Joyce and bitterly cursed them. Oscar Wilde looked up at me sheepishly, but I went easy on him. After all, his being thrown in jail for sodomy and then dying penniless and alone in a Paris ghetto probably trumps my having a crappy shirt.

But really, I shouldn’t have blamed any of them – especially when they have done so much for me and for humanity already. They clothed me when I was naked, and I count this among the greatest of their services to mankind. I’m proud to say that, in the end, I forgave them.

In the end, they forgave me too. It’s always a good feeling to be forgiven by the dead – except when that forgiveness is accompanied by the unhappy realization that, for the past five minutes, you have been standing on a street corner in a small Japanese town, in the hot, hot sun, scowling at faces on your t-shirt, with your head cocked to one side, mouth open, and maybe yogurt drink dribblin’ out of it.

Whatever. The Japanese have to learn to be more understanding of different cultures (and, in the case of my yogurt, bacteria culture).

Today's Meals, Part IV (UPDATED)

Would I be crossing any boundaries if I were to tell you that I ate way too much tofu today?

Dipped it in soy sauce too, is what I did.

Do I have any regrets? Some. But I'll think of them tomorrow.

BECAUSE I AM TOO BUSY LIVING FOR TODAY!

(This post would have been so much more inspiring had the subject been something other than tofu.)