Dance, too much booty in the pants

I was looking very forward to this post, as I had the “real” internet installed last Tuesday. For whatever reason, it has decided not to work today, so the multimedia extravaganza will have to wait. I am back to grabbing bandwidth from the mysterious “Ninjazz” router. I do have tech support’s telephone number, but I do not have Japan’s official language stored in my brain.

Now, on to the facts:

If there’s been any confusion on this blarg about my daily struggles to accomplish the most simplest of tasks, here’s what happened during Tuesday’s internet installation. A very nice man showed up at my door. He, I assumed, was the internet man. In fact, he was the telephone man, checking the line to make sure I could get the proper bandwidth. (Judging by today’s fiasco, it is possible he failed.) Now, imagine the dismay on my face when the “internet man” asked me where my modem was. Hmm, wouldn’t you have it? He smiled and then made several gestures indicating how to connect the phone cord to the modem once I actually possessed the modem in question. Thanks. I know how to plug things in. Even in Japan. I hesitantly signed his papers as he left my apartment. I was internetless and alone.

About an hour later, another man arrived with my modem. I plugged it in (thankfully, I was recently shown how) and played. I am not ashamed to say that the first thing I downloaded was an episode of Entourage. I missed seeing white people in moving pictures.

On Saturday night, I visited Motosu Lake for the annual bonfire/grilling/dj/dance party. (Had the real internet been working, this is where I would have href-equal sign-img’d the fancy flyer.) I caught the Minobu line with Nicole, and we met Jonny + Mr. Burns in Ichikaiwadaimon for a ride. This event had been billed as one of the best parties of the year, so when we showed up around eight o’clock to just a handful of people, I had a Michael Bluth moment. “I’ve made a big mistake.” It was only a passing phase.

I’m going to use numbers at this point because this is my website.

1. Nick spilled a whole bottle of the *cough* “best meat sauce in Japan” on his clothes. He now has a new nickname.

2. The DJ was spinning this sick mix of hip-hop and remixed funk classics.

3. As a result of #2, Seth danced as if he had no bones. He was fluid. Elastic, even. He should have a new nickname.

4. I slept in a bungalow, and I kept hearing “Hey, Bungalow Bill” whenever I thought of the word bungalow in my head. And bungalow is just another word for shack in the woods. Bungalow. Bungalow bungalow.

5. Andy, the guy who organized the party, poured gasoline on our grill to get it started. Gasoline is certainly a fire starter, kids. My warmed hand would know.

6. When people drink, they speak English or Japanese, whichever one they don’t know. I was speaking Japanese, I think. I do know I discussed the merits of David Lynch and Q. Tarantino with a Japanese man. Japanese. Japanese Japanese.

Rando:
The Japanese word for glasses is megane, pronounced “mega-nay.” If this were true in America, would less kids get beat up in school?

Stay tuned for tales of karaoke ‘til dawn and driving on the left side of the street blindfolded! Ok, not blindfolded.