In Praise of Carmen Sternwood

I recently re-watched Howard Hawks’ “The Big Sleep” (based on the Raymond Chandler novel of the same name first published in 1939) for about the 53rd time and afterwards I was shook by a vague uneasy empathy I quite suddenly felt, struck by my very fresh sorrow for a lost little girl.

First the quick background for the uninitiated. The labyrinth plot is initially set into motion by a blackmail scam- a sickly, crippled, near-dead, filthy rich but surprisingly human and strangely honorable tycoon hires the detective Philip Marlowe to get to the bottom of the most current threat to his fortune. It appears that he has two young daughters (sibling heiresses both) who Marlowe (and Chandler) sum up well,
“Both pretty and………” pause while Old Man Sternwood replies, “Go on, sir.”
“…both pretty wild.”

As the story unfolds we find that the eldest, Vivian, has a fairly serious gambling habit, likes to drink and has very bad taste in men but this is really nothing when compared to her younger sibling Carmen and her…..how shall I say……….appetites.

Written by Chandler and performed by the brilliant Martha Vickers, Carmen is a morally bankrupt, moronically juvenile, childishly selfish, dangerously spoiled little rich girl wrapped in a wickedly tasty package- which we instantly learn she invites almost anyone to unwrap- that continuously drips with a “come fuck me ‘cuz I’ll like it” poison. In the short reckless course of her young life she becomes willingly, deliriously involved in serious drugs and illicit pornography and it is the latter that becomes the source for the scam. The not-so-cheap thrill seeker carelessly makes herself eager prey to a sleazy photographer which in turn leads to blackmail and a string of murders –some near senseless, some not so- before the story winds back around to the most senseless killing of all the previous which, in the end, we learn has been the real catalyst for all the blood spilled and lives taken, given and thrown away.

Filled with wise-cracking tough guys, low-life degenerates, stupid thugs, dangerous sociopaths, hot girls on the make, too many guns, callous murder and a simmering sense of true moral corruption just beneath its shiny surface, the movie is well worth anyone’s 114 minutes but that’s not why I’m writing today.

It’s Carmen and, more importantly, the fact that this vapid, adolescent whore- as Marlowe himself might say- “got a raw deal” because, like many of us, I finally realized that my gal Carmen just had the uncommon misfortune to be born in the wrong era. (Spoiler Alert Ahead)

Please understand that sweet little Miss Sternwood has all the cruel animal hunger of a feline in heat mixed with a similar amount of concern for her fellow humans (which is to say precious little unless you’re feeding her or giving her what she needs) coupled with a 5 yr. old brats’ concern for consequences. As she stumbles through her empty headed existence, drug addled, drunk and carelessly reeling from one night to the next Marlowe- and we- eventually and unhappily discover that the ethically challenged heiress is not the foolish dupe, if essentially harmless child that he, at first, assumed she was and nothing more. No.
Carmen bites!

Our wicked little heiress shows her teeth on more than one occasion and in the end Marlowe deduces what her less emotionally and intellectually damaged sister has known all along but been trying desperately to cover up. Carmen not only nonchalantly destroys those around her with her corrosive toxicity, she is also more than capable but less than aware of her own taste for far more direct violence while maintaining her eerily vacant regard for the results of same.
But- call me crazy- If she had only been born now!
Rich!
Spoiled!
Drugs!
Porno!
Good God it’s like a recipe for celebrity success! It’s damn near a career path. Far from being the family outcast, repulsive personality, social pariah and psychotic murderer of days gone by, Carmen would today be receiving promotional offers and movie scripts, she’d be turning down appearance fees and modeling opportunities almost as quick as they cropped up from under the rocks. Victim of blackmail? Ha! Our sweet little gal would be hiring agents to market her cinema verite effort and lining her pockets with additional millions on the DVD sales alone.
“Carmen loves that Stern Wood!” Won’t Dad be proud!
$19.99 and you too can be all alone with her hotness giving you all she has to give. She’d be imitated, emulated, admired and, dare I say it……embraced with empathy and compassion by the empty hearted masses of our zombie population. I can now picture my Carmen as the tres chic role model for self centered little bitches everywhere and, in addition, as the object of countless masturbatory fantasies for young boys with an internet connection around the globe. Then again………………I don’t know………..I get ahead of myself sometimes.

You see I learn things from watching Marlowe who, admittedly, has some problems of his own. He too likes to drink and smoke a bit too much and, far from being immune from Carmen’s’ puerile charms, in their first meeting surveys Miss Sternwood with little more than open if wary hunger. His subsequent raging hard-on for the much more palatable Vivian conveniently saves him from any inappropriate entanglements so his vision and focus, both professional and sexual, luckily remain clear throughout. But it’s not as easy as all that.
Marlowe is a Pro and a loner, contemptuous of the Law and barely containing his distaste for convention, he lacks both greed and ambition but maintains an iron grip on his humanity and sense of duty. He’s determined to make his end right and- dammit- he’s got a soft spot for the formerly wild Old Man Sternwood to go along with his scent for the saucy, seductive Vivian. Sure he’s swimming in a world of corruption, avarice and anarchy but he seems fit for the exercise and familiar with the waters. I understand him a little.

Then some things happen along the way.
A throwaway nobody who’s made the fatal error of actually caring for Carmen commits the biggest mistake of his worthless career and pays for it with his silly life.
A tough little punk (who indeed tries to put the bite on Marlow for his own dirty money) comes to a mean little end and that doesn’t sit well on the detectives’ moral scale which, unfortunately, seems hardwired to his soul.
Marlowe gets lied to at almost every turn, beat at almost every game and roughed up more than once before he gets angry and starts to think a tiny bit faster than the vicious goons surrounding him in his wealthy, nasty new neighborhood. You may already have guessed that he beats them all in the end and wins the girls heart but to me that’s not what really matters. Marlowe knows who he is and does what he feels needs to be done, the Law, society and everyone be damned.

As for Carmen…………. well…………she escapes the noose and perhaps any real consequences but only because Chandler’s fictional world is a little too much like our real one, a place and time where the rich and privileged can and sometimes do get away with murder, literally. I mourn for Carmen.

My sad, stupid, sexy little girl. All alone in a world where she can get everything she wants and almost nothing that she needs, using those who love her and being used by everyone who doesn’t until she’s out of gas, burning through her whiplash excuse for a life like a first stage rocket whose limited function is only as a simple boost for the big boys before being thrown away so that the real business can continue.
And she takes such a pretty picture too.

Not Dead Yet

Faithful readers (OK, my wife and I……ok, ok-ME) may remember my athletic disgrace at Kurodani Temple and my subsequent pathetic defeat at the hands of Father Time. (see “Old Man take a look at my Life”) Today’s’ message of hope is strictly for those brave souls who are NOT Generation MySpace (and to clarify this difference let’s just say that if you’ve ever actually used a manual typewriter, not just seen one in the movies, kids, then this post is for you; if not then you may want to skip this but I probably didn’t even need to write that since Generation MySpace and those following are already somewhere else mutterings things like, “Dude…that’s like…sooo many words.” or “Tha fuck, Yo! This shit like… don’t even rhyme and shit!” or “GAWD… old people like….don’t even know anything….there’s like not even any music.”) and my message today is a simple one-Our youth is gone, our bodies in decline and facing the harsh reality of the law of diminishing returns but, say it loud and proud- WE AIN’T DEAD YET!
Yes I went back to slay the dragon at Kurodani, enormously painful as that act was, and can report that I’ve since ran my circuit, jumped my rope (for some period of skillful minutes) then returned home sweaty and sore but smiling, strong and, wonder of wonders, ready for more. In my 3rd week of self imposed physical discipline I discovered that most elusive of all aerobic windfalls, the second wind. Ah, the minor glory of pushing yourself to the limit and then suddenly finding at the exact moment of collapse that there is a wee bit more fresh gas left in your rusty old tank. Age be damned, I can honestly state that thus far the old bones and worn out muscles have held up remarkably well and, in fact, have improved ever so slightly on every occasion. I now look forward to my thrice weekly workout like a 16 yr. old boy looks forward to his 1st piece of sweet pussy, with my ancient and distinct advantage being that I actually know what I’m doing when I get there and can calculate exactly when I'm going to get back.

And so I can report that my bitter, ankle twisted, elderly, first day shuffle home is a distant if informative memory.
We can learn from our follies and we can be stronger than we think given the will to do so and perhaps a tiny incentive. My personal tiny incentives are the appreciative evaluations I infrequently receive from attractive females and, contrastingly, the absolute indifference radiating from smoking sexbombs that I am treated to on a much more regular basis as of late. Yea, yea, yea. I’m most definitely juvenile in that way but that particular truth doesn’t hurt me anywhere near as much as complete disdain from the fairer sex does and so I fight the tide as we must all do or try to do.
Now the News.
Although I’ve run through Kurodani on many occasions now and have walked, sat, drank, smoked and generally loitered throughout its environs on many more, for some inexplicable reason I have completely failed to notice this.

This is the 3rd stair set (the final frontier?) and somehow, perhaps unconsciously, I’ve passed by without noticing it until today when that intimidating height practically leered its bold challenge into my face. “Feeling cocky, boy?” it sneered, “then come get me.” After already jumped on these (below) this particular monster is no mean 44 yr. old feat for this kid. On this day I declined (discretion being the better part of valor) because, how can I simply state it, well.............. I’m not that 16 yr. old blueballed kid with a raging hard-on who has to jam it into the first wet hole he can find; I’m old, bold and I’m gonna take my time and nail that fucker to the wall; shoot up those steps like a bat out of hell and play “Rocky” at the top when I get there or die trying.
Yes you may have noticed, as I did, that those steps lead straight through a cemetery (one of the oldest in Kyoto as a matter of fact, the Temple was founded in 1174) and I’ll leave the symbolism for you to make of it what you will but, suffice to say, my “die trying” remark may be more realistic than I would currently like to admit. Because I can’t quite see the top from this vantage point I don’t yet know if, possibly, there may be a 4th set of leg crunchers when I get there or, who can say, maybe there’s a Fountain of Youth or Stairway to Heaven but victory goes to the brave and I have only positive strength in my heart to go along with the creaky knees.
I’m 44 with my foot to the floor baby! Oops…..sorry…….. I just got a little carried away due to the post run adrenalin dump but, fear much or not, I will share the results of my quest.
To be continued….........................................................................................

Shit List

As a new addition to Anagblog we decided to bring attention to certain cultural activities, personalities, political movements or just plain anything that we feel we must all take an active role in stamping out whenever and wherever possible.
Featured in today’s list are Non-sports that suck up otherwise valuable TV time. These include-

Soccer- We Americans are wrong about many things, it’s true. But listen, Soccer ain’t one of them! Do you know why we bite at soccer? Because this “sport” is clearly the refuge of the athletically challenged so, boys and girls, if you can’t throw, catch or run and don’t possess size, speed or actual athletic skill, WELCOME TO THE TEAM! Just trot back and forth around the field doing nothing purposeful for a couple of hours and you’ll fit right in and don’t worry about having any “impact” on the game because the outcome will most likely be decided by something close to an accident. And why the hell does the clock count up instead of down? It’s like timekeeping in Bizarro world or something. Perhaps not so curiously, the absolute futility of this exercise can only be fully appreciated by actually watching it. Guys. Pick up the fucking ball and run with it! It’s small wonder you rejects can prance around the field with a goal LITERALLY as big as a barn door and yet still manage a scoreless tie after hours of meandering patty cake nonsense. Those things at the ends of your arms are called hands, they’re really quite useful. And if anyone tries to tell me how bouncing a ball off your head is a “skill” then they’ve never watched “The Three Stooges”. No wonder you people lost WWII.

Men’s Figure Skating- Really…do we even need to go into this? Let’s everybody quit while we’re behind, hey?

Marathon/Triathlon Races- OK. I agree that these feats of determination and endurance are honorable, admirable athletic and human achievements. But guess what? Endurance is boring to watch for everyone except the person directly involved or their immediate family. The pathetic sight of a bedraggled, pancake chested, sweaty, almost dead female slogging to a faraway finish line is DULL, and stick legged, skull faced Africans pounding down the road is even more, how can I express it, agonizingly DULL. And then it gets duller than dull. Human beings’ struggling to finish something is only interesting in documentaries or Hollywood movies because they edit out the "suck" and add the “drama” rendering something with at least the possibility of a compelling narrative and visual curiosity. It can and will NEVER work in real time so please hand out the checks or awards or medals or whatever these fitness maniacs get for punishing themselves but keep this masochistic crap off the tube.

Women’s Professional Basketball- Ladies. Quit struggling because you’re denting all the perfectly good rims. This one is just plain ugly folks and ugly should never be associated with the word “Woman”. Here is the play-by-play for any 5 minutes of any WPB game ever televised- missed shot…………..turnover…..turnover…..missed lay-up……..ball thrown out of bounds……….turnover…………missed shot…………………..2 points! Girls, I can visit any local H.S. and witness a superior level of play and I DON’T HAVE TO PAY TO SEE IT. Let’s everybody just shake hands and stop trying to sell this snoozer to a rightfully uninterested public. No hard feelings girls but some things just ain’t meant to be.

Synchronized Swimming- Yes I know that this one is too easy but this “sport” must never cease from being criticized until it is driven far underground and completely out of sight. Fucking honestly, what brand of brain-dead moron would even consider engaging in this relentlessly pointless enterprise? I’ve seen Hardcore Gangbang Porn stars that appear more engagingly human and alive than these Stepford sisters. Jesus girl, get a boyfriend or something or are you trying to appear mentally handicapped? And who finds the visual of make-upped, death’s-head grinning, Barbie doll clones wearing nose plugs while robotically flopping around a pool the slightest bit attractive? Somehow they’ve managed to make wet teenaged hard bodies in bathing suits absolutely unwatchable and I, for one, just didn’t think that was even possible. Congratulations on ruining a decent hard-on.

The Yakuza invade my HQ

So once again I’m kicking it at my local hot bath, soaping up my hangdown while I’m squatting on a plastic bucket in front of a thigh high mirror like some third world peasant on a first world vacation and I’m loving every minute of it. Butt naked, oven warm, squeaky clean and my body feels like melted butter, all for three and one-half hundred yen($3.50). In Kyoto it’s about the best deal I can find and the Master never busts my balls about my tattoos so I come to his place at least once a week to enjoy my usual R&R.
　　My J-friends assure me that most Gai-jin don’t patronize the Sento and, in fact, Sentos are genuinely unpopular with foreigners. If my neighborhood one is any clear indication then the observation is most certainly true because although I’ve visited on many many occasions I’ve never ever encountered any round eyes except for in the mirror. Whether it’s the hygiene factor or the Old-Guys-Staring-at-Your-Crotch factor I’m not sure but to me it’s just as well. I’m comfortable with my solitude and lack of companionship in my warm little Sento cave, hell, on most days I feel like a King in his own private spa or at least like a half-assed celebrity on a paid vacation. It’s true that I am somewhat a target of unwanted attention but ultimately no one imposes on my peace and I have yet to have anything resembling a conversation so I can very easily settle for that in lieu of charging viewing fees for gawking at my package. There are certain sacrifices we as Gai-jin are required to make.
So imagine my surprise when the Yakuza decided to bust in on my home turf. Allow me to paint the picture.
Here I am all warm and cozy, naked as a new born babe, fresh, clean, relaxed, smooth and cool as Steve McQueen in Bullitt when in marches an arrogant trio of some of the nastiest looking characters I’ve seen on this side of the ocean. Did I say march? I meant Strut! These three cockwalk into the lockers like they own the place but are considering its sale (and given what I know of the mysterious financial connections of their gangster brethren back home this may be an actually accurate appraisal) then proceed to strip in the middle of the room like Movie stars getting ready for their close-ups. It is immediately and wordlessly clear that the eldest (around 50 I would guess) is the undisputed leader and vicious looking boss of the bunch as he only has to grunt or gesture to send his other two lackeys (30ish) scurrying to fetch him something or otherwise STAY THE FUCK OUT OF HIS WAY! The Boss has the full and most impressive collar to ankle tattoos and flashes them as if he earned every inch of the pain, the other two have arm sleeves and full backs but theirs don’t compare in any way to the boss’ macho display of full body ink. Although older and physically smaller (the other two are quite large by J-standards, both being healthy sized 6-footers) the Boss packs the cruel cold eyes of a snake, the tight muscular build of a tough middleweight, skin like leather, seems twice as hard as marble and more than a match for either flunky. He appears very comfortable giving orders and they appear very grateful to follow them. I for my part understand the nature of the relationship, being from Chicago and familiar with all manner of gangster, gangbanger or just plain criminal type. His very presence sets off the old homeboy alarm bells of my psyche- DANGER, DANGER, BAD MAN IN CLOSE PROXIMITY! EYES OPEN, CHIN DOWN! MAKE NO SUDDEN MOVES! PROCEED WITH EXTREME CAUTION!
Then they bust into the bath like they’re robbing a bank. Now I have to remind the reader that I am, at that moment, in the most vulnerable position a man can find himself- naked, on my ass with my back to the door. The Trio swarm into the room and commandeer a spot for the Boss almost directly behind me while the other two stand sentry; alert and scanning for trouble I can only imagine but suffice to say that my heart did pick up the pace a couple of beats. The Boss continues his grim Scarface routine, pointing, ordering and generally lording it over all of us gentle patrons (I am one of the 3 other non-yakuza in the room and of course the only gai-jin) who are quite suddenly frozen on our buckets like Sento sculpture. I keep my eyes firmly in the mirror and look sharp without looking obvious, I hope, but it’s a very cozy room and all this new proximity has my confidence draining faster than the water at my toes.
Here’s what I ascertain through my not so steady observation- These guys are in a FUCKING HURRY! The Boss darts around like a hungry barracuda and his gofers follow like pilot fish waiting for scraps; The Man almost dives into the hot tub, sits for almost a minute then jumps out only to stalk into the sauna which his flunky has already cleared for him, and him alone, and which said flunky then stands guard at while Capone gets his steam on; considering the usual glacial pace that is standardly practiced on this turf the jarring incongruity of their storm trooping is somewhat disconcerting to say the most. After all of a minute or two he exits and retrieves his spot while the other two fetch his toiletries and in case you were wondering, NO, nobody else has so much as moved an inch during their frenetic tour. The flunkies must be on the clock and this trip can’t be much fun for them because all they do is hawk the room, scout the entrance and scramble for His goods. I tell you this sort of situation can make a naked weaponless man downright nervous. Is there some gang war going on that I am unaware of? Will a squad of Yakuza hit men burst in at any moment, Godfather style, and unleash a hail of automatic weapons fire? Shit! They won’t use swords, will they? And lastly- Can I make it over that wall in time? Unfortunately I do not respond well to nerves because quite suddenly I get the overwhelming urge to slide into the currently vacant cold tub which is inches away from where the Boys are stationed.
But Dammit I need some cold tub!
I figure as long as I keep my head down and don’t upset any apple carts I’ll probably be OK. Probably. I stand up ever so slowly and deliberately so that they can see that I, of course sir, am absolutely no threat to your criminal organization and am quite clearly no round eye assassin sent to make a hit. NOW THOSE OTHER GUYS, HEY I’M NOT SO SURE ABOUT THEM, sir. As I turn to the tub one of the hawks taps the boss, who is squatting in front of his own mirror, on his shoulder and the Man hits me with the hard eye although I am using nothing but the most peripheral of visions at this time. For about a step and a half I am the center of attention until the Boss nonchalantly goes back to his hygiene and the entire room seems to immediately defuse.

I’m almost insulted.

It appears that I have not raised any alarms on their threat assessment meters, I have been coldly judged harmless and unworthy of attention. I skulk into the cold tub and fume but not too sincerely.
I switch tubs and my near (you know, like pretty near, like the moon is near the sun) heroic actions definitely have an effect on my fellow patrons, the entire room seems to relax and take a breath. The Boss finishes up and the terrible Trio all make a clean getaway while I’m still tubbing merrily along. I peer through the glass as the Man raises his arms in the locker room with his legs spread into a human X and the gofers rush to towel him off as he proudly stands there, a King waiting for his wardrobe. Surprisingly he takes care of dressing himself while the other two scurry to finish their own dressing in time with him, then they all prison break out the door. From the moment they walked in to when they walked out couldn’t have been 20 minutes total, some kind of record I figure or perhaps Yakuza SOP. Maybe next time I’ll ask but I doubt it.
After they’re gone one of the old guys in the bath cracks wise about something and the other two laugh out loud, a good happy laugh. I smile along with the gag.
I almost wish those two Yakuza slugs could’ve joined in the chuckle because they sure looked like they could’ve used one. I bet the Boss Man laughs all he wants and when I left that night I was pretty pleased myself.

My Ex-Pat Manifesto

at the risk of sounding serious.............................

To be at odds with the society into which you were volunteered is to grasp an essential reality, namely- This world of my birth is not mine and not of my making, indeed I’ve had absolutely no opportunity to influence or arrange any of its myriad laws, rules, restrictions, beliefs, behaviors, codes or etiquette's. The society itself would have us believe that at the appropriate time of maturity we must, for it is our duty, take the reins and guide the course of our collective destiny, alongside our individual goals, into the direction that we (aren’t all societies collective and we) believe is fit: if you happen to have no opportunity to hold those reins then just don’t rock the buggy.
This is the seductive fallacy that not so gently forces us to get in line and exactly the point at which the Ex-pat mind rebels and stands mostly alone in its rebellion.
The truth, as most truths are, is infinitely more complex. The facts are certainly debatable but the objective evidence is clear; In our modern times the rules, laws etc. are almost always set up by the elite and almost always for the benefit of same with little real opportunity for the economically disadvantaged to effect any significant change except, perhaps, through force. Absent the use of force/violence the disadvantaged are left with few real choices- Get in line, hold out your hand, do as you’re told, follow our rules, believe what we order you to believe and maybe, just maybe you’ll get your chance to scratch out a living while we get fat and fine tune the system to our greater advantage. Very swell for a few, not so for many. Those who can pull off this chameleonic feat of assimilation may well get their shot at the brass ring, those that cannot (or will not) would do best to prepare for a long frustrating life of toil and setbacks, official and not so official. Subverting this system, or even attempting to, often has a heavy, heavy price that precious few courageous originals can afford to pay and even fewer consider worthwhile to pursue.
Then there is the ex-pat. Usually after an extended period of fight, he capitulates and opts for flight. Weary from the grind and aching from smashing his head into walls he flees the lopsided battle and chooses a different form of freedom wrapped in anonymity as he discards the weight of his past as carelessly as he would the favors of a treacherous love. Courageous? Doubtful. Strategic? Perhaps. Farsighted? Dubious. A man with no country is a man with no home and nowhere to which he can retreat and so with no going back he must move forward with little respite and less choice. He is a stranger who may or may not be welcome, an alien who may or may not be useful, an opportunist who may be appreciated or may be suspect given the circumstances of his new environment. He is a novelty, a mystery and will never completely fit. Never.
And therein lies the rub.
Because he has willingly thrown off one ill fitting uniform for this new cloak of camouflage, this wistful dream of the freshest of restarts and redemption, he is a curiosity wherever he may land and a smoky memory from wherever he departed. But this is precisely what he desires because there is no incongruity to being a misfit at home or a misfit away and, in fact, a misfit at home is constantly subjected to the punitive measures of the committed, co-opted and conformed and he must always wear his diminished status like a scarlet letter while as a foreigner, on the contrary, he is simply another oddity in an increasingly odd world. In short, he is water poured into a fresh container and this container will determine his form just as his essential properties remain exactly the same as they ever were and, for maybe the first time, as he sees fit. His spirit is thus voluntarily uprooted, unmoored and free to float through his new world as a ghost might, transient yet evocative. Congratulations and condolences.
What, therefore, is his role in this wide world? He must be a beacon.
He must even more fiercely love the land that he has abandoned and which has long forgotten him. He must be the shining example of his Long ago Nation in every face he meets and never shirk or tire of this manifest duty however long he may live.
He must embrace the Nation in which he lands and make no judgments upon it. His place calls only for openness of thought, heart and soul and should never descend into facile superiority or simplistic moralizing. His role calls for balance and appreciation with an always available helping hand. His opinions, on the other hand, about his fresh and forever temporary new home should, generally speaking, be kept to his own counsel.
He must abide by his hosts’ new laws and customs even though, ironically, this is exactly the kind of control he made great effort to escape. His very good news is this- In this new Nation he is a guest and like all guests anywhere his responsibilities are few, especially when compared to the responsibilities of his hosts, and his opportunities many. He will likely find that his only incumbent burden is to be, at least somewhat, a good, lively and generous addition to the party.
He may or may not love his new Land but respect is much more central to his status or any lack thereof. Respect must always be freely given with no thoughts of any return; it is non-conditional, unemotional and universally understood.

to be continued......................

Old Man take a Look at my Life

Currently feeling the ravages of age (44 and fuck you too) yet only recently getting panicky about it, I came up with a singularly brilliant if not so original idea- I’ll work my way back into shape! Today! Now to be fair to myself and honest with everyone else I’m actually in very good physical condition considering my age, drinking and smoking habits but raging maniacs like me are rarely satisfied with “very good” so I decided to shoot for Olympian heights. Results follow.
This is Kurodani Temple, an absolutely beautiful oasis of serenity at the end of my street sitting on the top of the hill. Because I decided I needed some cardio but vehemently despise jogging I figured I’d cleverly split the difference by trotting up to the top, skipping my rope and running the stairs at Kurodani, saving myself the mind and body numbing boredom of a sweaty marathon slog. Strictly as an aside how the hell do those jogging lunatics keep pounding the pavement day after day anyway? Good God, don’t they know that exercise doesn't have to be boring? And please don’t mention “runners high” because if you need to alter your state that desperately then stick to Mary Jane kids, it’s easier on the knees and back. Back to my point- A leg blasting trot through Man and Natures beauty was my idea anyway and seemed a not half-bad one to me.

The good news is that it was a brisk beautiful end-of-winter day, I was not struck by any motor vehicles nor attacked by any animals (domestic or otherwise) and I returned home in more or less one piece. The bad news is just about everything else. Where to start? I’m now fairly certain that my jump rope is broken because for the life of me I couldn't seem to get it going for more than 20 seconds or so despite repeated attempts. My body felt as light and springy as a load of bricks as I struggled up and down the stairs with almost all the grace of a piano mover then, at the last, I rolled my ankle running on perfectly level pavement (and when I write "running" I mean moving at a pace that is ever so slightly faster than walking) then basically had to limp my way home where I now sit with my feet elevated, feeling worse than I could've imagined about the state of my deteriorating body. In less than an hour I have certainly aged more than 10 years and who says time travel isn’t possible? Ain’t life grand?
There were, however, (as there so often are) interesting flashes from my 22 minute journey through time. An old couple walked past as I was futilely flailing my rope around and complimented me on my skill, “Jozo, ne” (“pretty good, eh”) and I thanked them before I ran off at the limits of my Japanese. A film crew was shooting a period piece inside the Temple and I collected a random chuckle at the whiplash visual of actors dressed in Edo Period Kimono finery sitting inside their 2006 minivan smoking 2007 cigarettes and drinking canned coffee from the vending machine squatting next to a Temple that was built more than 800 years ago. And a lovely young school girl walking by with a trio of friends dazzled me with her innocent, curious perhaps 9 year old smile as I pounded past them in sweaty ankle twisted agony. I managed a wink back at her as I limped by and her smile got brighter and lovelier still, chastely beaming her purest love. Where are all the 19 year old girls smiling at me? It’s like an alarm goes off if I’m closer than 10 feet to them. 29 year old girls? They’re hunting husband material and I don’t fit the criteria. 39? I stink like poverty. Well by the time my little schoolgirl crusher comes of age I’ll most likely be in my grave and she’ll be breaking hearts everywhere. Oh mysterious life, you are my master.
But you know what? I’m gonna rage against that dying of the light.

Swinging Sento Monkey

If anyone had told me 2 years ago that squatting butt naked on a plastic bucket in front of a waist high shower spigot and a thigh high mirror in a not so large room chock full of other similarly attired gentleman, soaping up then rinsing down in an ever so leisurely fashion could be called a pleasant experience, hell, I’d of thought that fool goofy at best, plain stupid otherwise. But hear I sit tapping away and already planning my next weekly visit to the above emporium, eagerly planning.
First, some details for the uninitiated- I could (don’t worry I won’t) write a fair sized volume on the differences between Japanese and American Culture or what passes for culture in the good ole U. S. of A. but for the purposes of actually having the attention deficit web addicts out there (you know who you are) take more than ten seconds to read this, I’ll keep it as brief as my analog generation can manage.

IN JAPAN

J-folks drive on the left with the steering wheel on the right

Extremely rare to see fat people of any age (apologies to Oprah and her minions but J-girls just don’t get fat, ever, for any reason. I mean to say that I’ve seen about five million women shaking it down the street these past years and the next time I spot a fat chick I’ll finally have to use my other hand to keep count. There must be a law, thank God)

The portions are small but the meals are huge and endless

The food is fantastic, young and old in great physical condition although almost everyone smokes and drinks like it’s their last day on Earth

The toilets are heated but the houses aren’t

Yea, you read that last one correctly. And I don’t mean that just the poor people’s houses aren’t heated, I mean NOBODYS’ house is heated. The modern miracle of central heating has somehow escaped the second largest economy in the entire world and as far as I can tell, the Nihon-jin (J-folk) ain’t feeling the loss. I am compelled to report in all fairness, however, that your ass does stay roasty toasty while you’re backing one out.
The climate, to be sure, includes winter on all the 4 main islands or should I say WINTER! Nov. through March in Kyoto. I mean real snow, icy wind and bitter mornings when you can see your breath as clearly as your frozen hands. And that’s inside the house. The solutions to this dilemma range from the ridiculous (heated carpets, more space heaters than outlets, hot water bottles and just plain indoor bundling up) to the sublime (kotatsu, a large coffee table with a heating element pinned underneath and an even larger comforter in between allowing the whole family or just you and that special someone to luxuriate inside the wonderful communal warmth, bliss!) and other novel and/or goofy contraptions too numerous to mention here.
And of course, in Kyoto, there is always your reliable neighborhood Sento.
The quick description- Hot Baths. That’s it. Period. But bear with me please while I break it down because to visit your own neighborhood Sento while in the cruel grip of the wicked winter wind is to have a get-the-hell-out-of-jail free card, a three and one half dollar vacation from the bone chilling headlock of refrigerated misery, a steamy hot luxurious respite from that relentless bitch named Winter and it’s always, ALWAYS, a sure-fire smile.
Anyway it works like this- My Sento is a modest affair (most are), a smallish brick building with a unobtrusive but sexycool neon sign outside that looks something like this- ゆ. There is one curtained entrance leading to two separate doors; boys and girls of course. I walk in bundled with every inch of tattoo discreetly covered (Japanese opinions of tattoos are an altogether different subject and I will not digress now but suffice to say that the general opinion is not high), plunk down my three and a half, thank the master profusely yet humbly and hit the lockers. The changing room set-up isn’t all that different from high school except that the lockers are wooden and about the size of a refrigerator shelf, the floor is tatami (nothing better for bare feet) and the main clientele is somewhere between my age (40’s, fuck you too) and ancient. The Sento is bisected with the old shriveled up geezers swinging free on one side and the lovely Ladies on the other. The ceiling is about 25 ft. high and a 10 foot wall keeps us all discreetly divided and focused on the task at hand. This gender separation always strikes me as surprisingly correct and quite manageable. The atmosphere is all about comfort and letting it hang out with zero sex to distract the mind or body.
Why the master never says anything about my tats after I strip is something of a mystery but I am refusing to look any gift horses in the teeth, I just keep my head down and make no noise other than the occasional ‘AAAAAAHHHHHH!” that escapes involuntarily while stretching out in the hot tub. Perhaps he finds my overbearing politeness and caveman face intimidating but I prefer to think that he just doesn’t give a good goddamn. Either way he’s a good old boy and we never say more to each other than “thank you” as I enter and “good night” as I bow deeply and he stares stonily ahead while I exit stage right. Some might find this arrangement somewhat cold and impersonal but I’ve always found impervious professional courtesy most comforting and satisfactory.
So I say my Arigatos, strip and stash my rags in the locker (somehow number 13 is always open for me) while my fellow bathers cut nervous or curious glances in my direction.
Yes it’s an unpleasant reality to have 3 or 4 grown men sneaking peeks at your package while you’re trying to achieve maximum comfort, warmth, solitude and peace but being Gai-jin does occasionally come with its own slight detraction's. Instantly becoming the uninvited center of attention in every single f_ _ _ _ _ g room you walk into is one of them but anyone who has as many tattoos as I do would be disingenuous to say the least if they did not expect to encounter a certain amount of unwanted attention every now and again. I guess I can figure what J-guys are so damn curious about (is the Gai-jin myth true?) and I almost feel sorry to disappoint them but I’ve always considered my own SIZE to be absolutely average (Christ it hurts to even write that) and having no further references in that dept. (other than high school gym class and porno films) I believe my assessment to be painfully accurate and so I almost feel bad for those gawkers, who, after all, only want their public/private stereotypes reassured as I let it swing.
Damn if that doesn’t stop them from scoping though!
Occasionally, around the third time I catch some sorry sad sack peeking, I think of saying,
“Pal- Either take a picture or give me five dollars but the show is over.” Probably would too if I could hash it out in their lingo but, Ugly American that I am, my language skills are not what they should be or could be but hey, I have a dream.
The locker room is maybe 20’ by 15’ and then you enter the glassed enclosed hot bath itself which is approximately the same size but infused with warm steamy bliss enveloping my chilled birthday suit gear, the only sounds are running water and the blessed silence of mute males manfully ignoring each other. You can faintly hear the old hens cackling on the other side of the wall but even that is pleasant in a birds-singing-outside-the-window sort of way. The room itself consists of three different kinds of hot tub (all about 4’ by 4’ with varying degrees of jet pressure and temperatures ranging from warm-your-bones to roast-your-ass), a cold tub, a small sauna(fits maybe 3 Nihon-jin comfortably or 2 fatsos not so), and about 20 shower stalls where all the previously mentioned squatting and soaping take place. The basic idea is to get thoroughly clean and warm at the stalls before using the other facilities to pile on the pleasure. The stalls have a shower spigot (always hot) and hot and cold faucets for filling your plastic bowl and immersing yourself in glowing cleanliness, sublime warmth and total naked ass jailbreak escape from the hawk poised outside the doors. And that’s all before you even get to the hot tub and sauna etc.
For me about an hour will usually do it before I pop my head out and back into the lockers like a newborn babe fresh and oven baked straight from Mamas womb. After a molasses paced process of primping and redressing in my bundled rags and then carefully putting everything back in its proper place, I hit the door for my bowing and goodbyes, damn near dizzy with peace, warmth and something like post orgasmic physical ease. At three and a half beans that is no bad deal to me. Anyway I’m heading back soon for more.
Pleasure, thy name is Sento.

The Bride of Frankenstein
There is an evil wind blowing across our land, a vile force surging through our cities, a cruel unnatural wave rolling over our lush beautiful landscape. No , I'm not speaking of the republicans (evil vile cruel and unnatural as they may be) nor am I directing my complaints towards any of the monumentally greedy piggish corporations in particular (you may pick your own if you wish for there are far too many to choose from) and it is not my intention today to tear down the corrupt rotting facades that are organized religion and American politics (although bagging these two for the price of one is one mighty appealing bargain) no, no friends. Instead I hope to call attention to a cancer that is spreading even as I write these words in my most sincere desire to arrest this disease in it's tracks or, failing that, to at least shine the torch of candor on this dark unspeakable corner of our collective humanity. This vicious infection that screams for immediate attention is growing at a rate so alarming that I can no longer ignore its wicked proliferation, its insidious influence on all our lives and loves and so I am compelled to scream its unholy name, reveal its hideous face and pray that together we can stop this monster in its gluttonous tracks. That's right, Breast implants, I'm calling you out!
Can you recall, please, that glorious moment when you first placed your hand on a womens luscious breasts, will you ever forget the life altering pleasure of groping those sweet gifts from heaven for the very first time? Good. Let us begin there. What did that moment convey to us? I would suggest that it was no less then certified entrance into the mind blowing pleasures of the adult world itself. Beside the purchase and successful operation of your first motor vehicle, clearly the magic of copping some tits was the definition and supreme wonder of our initiation into manhood and long after cars become just another of life's headaches, titties just keep getting better all the time. Has there ever been a single moment in all your life when you weren't completely and utterly captivated by the glorious instant when she bends down and you steal a glimpse of her luscious cleavage and maybe a peek of illicit bra? And aren’t you still gratefully hypnotized by the precious gift of the pagan braless girl bouncing down the street, nipples beaming, or that holy grail of all arbitrary encounters with female strangers, the unexpected and glorious brushing of her glowing succulent bosom against almost any part of your body, shivering the timber. Doesn't that always and forever tickle your greedy little stick?
Sometimes when I'm feeling low just the sight of a strange woman's proud display of sensual femininity is enough to make me glad I got up in the morning, and then when I consider that quite often lovely ladies are more than willing to share their bounty with me for little or no reason at all- Well hell, I may not be the holiest man in the world but that has got to be one version of heaven on earth right there. Speaking just for myself I must reveal that there hasn't been a single woman or girl in my existence whose tits I didn't love and cherish and I've sampled them big , small and everything in between.
I love her breasts when she clothed, naked, brazziered, braless- I love when she lets me touch 'em, squeeze 'em, kiss'em, lick 'em, suck 'em,- I love 'em when she's shy, bold, horny, crabby, laughing, crying, walking, running, standing up, lying down or on the rag- I love'em when she loves me and I love 'em when she hates me. Her breasts are one of the very few wonders of this world that make me want to drop to my knees and thank whatever God I can for being so damn good to me. I have to confess that I don't really know if I ever, actually, want to fight for my country but man, I'll fight you over her tits any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Ladies I've got to tell you that honestly I do not think I am alone in this position. Trust me please. And it's not only breasts (and it pains me to use a phrase like "only breasts" as if that's the way I've ever felt) that we love about you (for the things we love about you are close to countless) but for the purposes of my diatribe I feel that I have to focus on just this single (double?) issue today, so please bear with me just a little further.
Where did it all begin to go wrong? How did this repulsive movement towards plastic boobs begin? Who is responsible for this abomination? I fear that we both, men as well as women, have to accept our equal shares of the blame in this malignant affair and once having done so, perhaps we can move to a solution that is mutually satisfying and healthy for all, or at the very least we can dream of the day when women are all woman and men are glad of it.
Often I am asked by an interested female, "So what's your type?". I never answer this question because I simply cannot. Oh I know the response that's expected, something specifically descriptive along the lines of - short, tall, thin, fat, rich, poor, black, white, brown, yellow, and then, sadly, she must inevitably extract that bit of information which seems so unduly important- Do you like big breasts or smaller breasts? Because, you see, the girls with big breasts absolutely must have them acknowledged as if it were some special talent that they diligently cultivated through long years of training and study, and girls with small breasts will not quit until they have their sexual femininity positively validated as though there were some doubt about their particular brand of allure, and girls who are in between just want to know if they should make 'em bigger.
But the real question I know that she must have an answer to, is literally burning to know, although she will not ask is- Are my tits big enough? And this is the absolute crux of the issue because ladies, I beg you to listen, the answer to that unspoken question, for me at least, is and always will be YES YES YES YES YES!!! And while we're at it please allow me to prove it to you, to demonstrate, to sample.
There isn't anything I like more on a hot summer day than digging my face into a big juicy watermelon and the sloppier it gets, the better I like it. Unless it's the sweet slippery pleasure of a perfectly ripe mango peeled and sucked straight into my mouth with my tongue licking away at every last bit I can find. And sometimes there's nothing more satisfying than a deliciously red ripe tangy strawberry pressed against my lips until I bite, lick, suck and inhale that sublime ambrosia and if I got a little whip cream to dip 'em in, watch out 'cuz I might be there awhile. Now if you asked me which fruit I like best I'm terribly afraid that I just couldn't tell you that with any degree of accuracy. It depends on how I feel that day, what I'm craving at that moment, what I have a taste for, and no, I don't want watermelon every damn day although it's alright if some guys do.
But what I can tell you is that a watermelon ain't no better than a mango or a strawberry or a kiwi or a grape or any other damn fruit. It ain't the size it's the sweetness. The other thing I know is that a strawberry is a strawberry and some lunatic agricultural scientist can probably pump it full of chemicals and hormones and make it as big as a watermelon but that ain't gonna make it any sweeter and I like strawberries fine just the way they are, and I like watermelons just the way they are too. When I go to a fruit market I'm awed at the vast range of sizes and colors and tastes and delighted by the varieties of textures and scents and freshness', that's exactly the thing that makes it great and I'm grateful for it. If I just wanted something that only looked good I could buy a bowl of some picture perfect plastic fruit that might last forever, gathering dust, inedible and untouched because I damn sure don't want that phony shit in my mouth.
I want something to put my mouth on, not stare at, so what the hell good is it? It’s just as simple as that.
I'm not one of those elitists that claim there isn't anything worthwhile on television, or that movies just aren't as good as they used to be, I think there's a lot of compelling programming on the tube if you look around and there will always be great films to watch but I will tell you one thing I'm completely sick and tired of looking at on screens both small and big- Grown women with comically massive torpedo chests that make them seem like some alien barbie doll dropped on earth with orders to confuse and unnerve me. I mean those knockers that are so bulbous, fake and unforgiving it looks as if you could bounce a brick off 'em with no ill effect to the owner.
What exactly is the fictitious contract that I'm supposed to enter into with those cyborg women? Am I supposed to pretend that I don't know those stiff plastic balloons on your chest are counterfeit or are you the only one who is obligated to entertain this charade? Or perhaps you don't feel any such obligation and are expecting me to ignore this entirely false and totally obvious deception in which case I have to state clearly, unfortunately- Sorry sweetheart, but I cannot make that trade. Because in order to do that I would necessarily have to deny the beauty, bounty, and sensuous wonder of all natural breasts and all the infinite pleasures they provide along with the women who provide them. Now that way lies madness.
The truly insidious aspect in the viewing of these sci-fi purchases on television however, is that like everything else on tv, when women see it they want to buy it. For all those girls who have never felt adequate, suddenly they have hope- I too can have a huge rack just like her they begin to think, and why not, because it appears as if every third female on the screen is sporting those rigid accessories and if they're not, just wait a little while for she soon will be. What else does tv do for the idle masses but tell them what to buy, what to wear, how to live, how to look. And recently I've noticed an even more invasive, deeply disturbing trend. The straightforward, no nonsense, direct marketing of these synthetic guns in the form of friendly commercials and helpful print ads assuring girls that they too can look like the women in the movies and on tv for just a low low price with easy financing readily available- Hey! Maybe we can get your insurance to cover it.
The horror.
The worst is yet to come, I'm afraid, and that's why I feel compelled to act now because the sad fact is that the repulsive promotion of these inhuman appendages appears to be flourishing. Now it seems difficult to me to last an entire day at the beach or on the street or in front of the tube without being subjected to some brazen display of the scientific undead. I don't dare to let men escape culpability for their part in this imbroglio because, shameful as it is to admit and more disgusted with my already childish gender I've never been, many men (and I use that term very loosely) applaud the purchase and flagrant flaunting of this wholly unnatural equipment and indeed I fear, although I personally don't know any of these cretins, that some males encourage and even finance their wives and girlfriends in this twisted endeavor. Kind of similar to those fat old bald guys who buy sports cars and drive around with lecherous leers on their craggy faces hoping to snag an unsuspecting hottie somewhere around their daughters age. Maybe not quite that mature but almost.
If old boy got money like that to throw around, ladies, please make him buy you the car or at least a fat shiny diamond and keep your tits right where they are until I get there for appraisal. Because what is it that these men want? It seems clear to me. They want to buy some phony object that will temporarily quell a deep seated inadequacy within themselves so that they might maybe feel a tiny bit superior to their less prosperous brethren by displaying their rightful ownership and mastery of this object of supposed opulence. I'm here to inform you that most men may indeed want the sports car, but just as many of us (the ones that really love you) do not want hard plastic knockers poking us in the eye. What we do want is the sheer joy of your soft bosom in all it's natural, wondrous glory and a fair chance to demonstrate how much we want exactly that with no substitutes.
Finally you may be asking yourself if I'm speaking hypothetically or if I have any actual practical knowledge about this dreaded situation and so I must confess that, unfortunately, I do.
Her face was so lovely, luscious lips and smoky eyes, a perfect elegant nose, lustrous flowing raven hair, long lean sexy legs and a booming caboose bringing up the rear, yes she had curves like a mountain road but that one mound up top looked to me to be just a little unnaturally, how can I say it, huge and pointy.
Well now let's not judge until we've sampled the merchandise I thought to myself at the time, let's not be rash, perhaps this goddess has just been bountifully blessed and I'm in for a real treat, let's give her a chance. So I did.
We came to that time of the evening and we kissed each other close and slow, she wasn't the slightest bit shy and urged me wordlessly to continue, I didn't need much encouragement. I slid my hands eagerly up her hips to her chest and she just as eagerly helped the proceedings along by slipping off the straps at her shoulders and sliding her tight top down to her waist with a smile on her face that was full of invitation. I slid one hand over one of her tits and stopped dead in my tracks. Frozen. I didn't know what the hell that was in my hand but it felt as hard as a beat up softball only not quite as fun. I immediately grabbed the other one only to confirm my findings. Those things felt nasty, and I don't mean in a good way either! Just the thought of placing my mouth on those flesh covered beanbags made me a little queasy. My heart dropped through my shoes and my cock dropped right behind it. I was instantly forced to understand that for some unknown reason this beautiful girl had decided to turn herself into the scary movie monster of my childhood nightmares- The blank faced bride with her grisly collection of inhuman body parts and the scars to match. The walking talking undead, escaped from the laboratory, hungry for my flesh connection, eerily desperate for human congress. All she was missing was the four foot beehive with the racing stripe. What a waste.
I wanted to ask her why she did it but I was afraid her answer would be as fictitious as her tits and I realized disgustingly that I didn't really care anyway. I found the door in a hurry. But I must thank her because that night I learned a valuable lesson.
I learned that I love women in all their natural splendor and only their natural splendor. Women ain't cars and I don't want to fix 'em, don't want to tear 'em down or soup 'em up or make them be something they're not even if they might want to be, especially if they want to be. I’m no mad scientist- I'm just so damn happy that they're here. I love how they smell and feel and look and taste, how they laugh and talk and move and kiss. I love what it means to have them love you even when you look like me, or especially when you look like me. Because they know how to love and give and be sweet and cool and sexy and smart and that's the way I want 'em. I don't want or need anyone else's dumbass idea of perfection or sexiness, I want them the way they are, or at least the way they should be. Just give me all you got, not what you bought and I can promise to do the same. So what do you say boys and girls? Let's stop the madness and give each other a chance.
We might both be worth it.