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dalewis
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Country: United States
State: California
Gender: Male
Interests: Changing schools.
Expertise: Changing majors.
Occupation: Student
Message: message me
Member Since:
6/8/2002
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| I could write about a lot of things for my first Japan entry. Like how Japanese people seem to be genetically inclined to form perfect lines. Or how there are millions of salarymen who I swear are Sony robot clones of each other. Or how people continue to speak full-speed Japanese even after giving no hint of understanding. But in the name of schadenfreude, I'd rather write about how I almost died. Feel free to laugh - I ain't dead yet.
A few days after I arrived, I decided I was having trouble adjusting to Japanese food. I had these constant hunger pangs. I figured, "They're small people, they don't eat as much, I'm just having trouble adjusting to smaller portions and healthier food." So Saturday morning I again tried to cure the hunger pangs with some sushi at the Tsukiji Fish Market, the central fish market in Tokyo. On the train home around noon, I get a splitting headache. I'm talking a subway car full of rush-hour Japanese people crammed into my head trying to find Shibuya station. I sleep for the better part of 24 hours, and then set out to find headache medicine. At one point I resort to charades to get a mall security guard to point me to a pharmacy, because maps are pretty freaking hard to read in Japanese, not to mention the fact that street numbers correspond to absolutely nothing geographical (I think it has something to do with the zodiac and the number of gaijin who have died on each block searching for Western drugs). I find a pharmacy but nothing useful, so head back to my apartment and crash again. This time the sleep is punctuated by cold sweats and a rather convincing hallucination of a government conspiracy operating out of my room. I wake up sometime Sunday or Monday with pretty bad stomach pains and more, and don't venture out of my room. And then I start shivering. That's right, fucking shivering. It's 80 degrees in Tokyo, 95% humidity, and my teeth were chattering. That was the moment I thought I was going to die, so I curled under the heavy winter blanket until I could warm up enough to formulate a plan.
And my plan was: Pocari Sweat. I figured I was extremely dehydrated and needed water and electrolytes, and a sports drink vending machine is just 8 floors away in my building, so I set out for salvation by Pocari Sweat. Unfortunately, I wasn't prepared for the fact that Pocari Sweat actually tastes like sweat, except with sugar. Luckily, I had gotten some Lemon-Lemon vitamin drink as a backup, which tasted better (kinda like lemony sprite with dissolved vitamins), and I stopped shivering.
So now it's five days later, and I'm still not better, but I feel much more confident about surviving till next week. I went to the British Clinic this afternoon, and after spending a couple hundred bucks on a 10 minute consultation, I asked the doctor if there was anything I should be on the lookout for. His response: unidentified flying objects. Jolly good. I think he's waiting till I die to even the score from the War of 1812.
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| I am now an honorary black North Carolinian. On July 4th, I went with my family to the State Fairgrounds in Raleigh, since that's about all there is to do in the Triangle (or as the locals like to affectionately call it, "The Triangle"). We had a couple hours to kill, and there was free karaoke, so I decided to hone my skillz in preparation for my upcoming Japan trip. After perusing the song list, I figured "What better way to honor Independence Day than rapping some Will Smith?" After an hour or so of suffering through repeated bouts of "Redneck Woman" and other country hits, I get called up with a very skeptical "And here's Darren ... doing some Will Smith?" The black people in the crowd instantly start discrediting me to each other, kinda like my breakdance battle a while back. Then the song starts, and it takes about two measures before the crowd turns in my favor. One girl turns to her friends and says "He can rap!" The rest start shouting "Go white boy, go white boy!" I finished and got a rousing ovation. I like pushing stereotypes, so the whole thing was kinda fun. Although my mom wouldn't video it because she said she'd be wasting film. Digital film. If that's not insulting, I don't know what is.
So yes, I'm posting because I'm procrastinating from packing for my trip to Japan which leaves in 10 hours. I'm going for four months for work. Longest I've been away from the US by far, and longest away from California in almost 7 years. I'm excited - it's time for a change. I may change my blog to one that supports photos (i.e., blogspot), since no one reads this one anyway. Ping me if you're interested.
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| No sublettors yet, but I think an Indian porn star is on the way. Just my luck.
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| It's difficult to compare curry and sex. Yes, you read that correctly. Note that it's not difficult to choose between the two, but comparing them proves quite challenging. This recently became a hot-button issue in the world of me as I try to find a sublettor while I'm out of the country. Choosing the perfect sublettor is not easy. My number one priority is to minimize the amount of sex in my bed (and elsewhere I suppose). Now, the curry factor comes into play because 70% of the respondents to my posts have been Indians. It's a well-known fact that Indian cooking involves copious amounts of curry, and also that Indians tend to favor Indian cooking. Connecting the dots, having an Indian sublettor will likely allow inhumane amounts of curry-soaked air to permeate every square inch of fabric in my apartment. But here's the kicker - I estimate the amount of sex in my bed versus the amount of curry in my apartment to be approximately inversely proportional. Minimizing one maximizes the other! Maybe I should take my friend's advice and sacrifice the bed for the sake of my furniture and clothes. It's a difficult choice, but no one ever said the Bay Area housing market was easy.
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| I'm confused about the restaurant "Madison and Fifth" in Palo Alto. "[A] and [B]" almost always indicates an intersection of streets, but as New Yorkers may know, Madison and Fifth are parallel avenues. "Parallel" as in "they don't intersect". See for yourself: Google Maps.
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