Az Fails at Dating
I went through a bad breakup a few months ago. Breaking up is hard to do, my ex is a moron, I deserve better, yada yada yada. The Maroon 5 “Songs About Jane” CD and all the usual breakup tripe later, it was time to get back on the horse and start dating again.
Now, a lot of my emails include something like, “Dude! You’re a large black man in Japan who speaks Japanese? Holy cow! You must have to fight the ladies off with a stick!” You’d certainly think so. Gaijin Power or whatever. Yet, that is not the case. I will now proceed to prove how extensively God hates me specifically. That’s the only explanation I can come up with.
I was at a cherry blossom viewing party with some JET friends. There were these two Japanese girls there, and one of them kept staring at me. I didn’t think much of it at first, but later I talked to her a bit, which was pleasant. I got her email address, and when we started writing she told me that she didn’t know how to burn CD’s on her computer. Could I possibly come over to help her? Score! Ah, the old damsel in distress trick. Sure, I’ll go and help her “burn some CD’s.” Heh heh heh.
At this point, I was expecting good things. Ah, if only I knew.
I went out to meet the girl for dinner. This went well for the most part, except for her being crazy. It’s like she was on a permanent bad acid trip or something. Oh well, I’m from San Francisco, I have experience dealing with hippies.
After dinner, we talked about what to do next. Initially, the other girl from the cherry blossom party (I call her ‘Satchmo’. Her actual name is close to that, so it reminds me of Louis Armstrong) was supposed to come too, but she couldn’t join us because she had a stomach ache. However, she wanted us to come to her house. I was like, fuck that, if she can’t come then I’m not gonna go see her. My coke-addicted date was adamant, though, so off we went to see Satchmo.
Satchmo lives in this miniscule space above a coffee shop. I can’t stress how small this place was, and it wasn’t just her living there. No! It was her whole family, too. Spin around in your computer chair right now. Imagine dividing your room into three bedrooms, a kitchen, and a tiny bathroom, and you have an idea of the space.
Coke Addict and I entered Satchmo’s tiny little room, and out came her dog, who was clearly high on crack and bouncing off the walls. Oh, and the pooch had a mohawk. I swear to God. Coke Addict sat down and almost immediately the dog pissed on her. “Aw, not again! Man, everytime!” she exclaimed. She got a rag from Satchmo, but aside from rubbing it no other cleaning attempts were made. I started to wonder what the dog knew that I didn’t.
Satchmo asked us if we wanted coffee. I didn’t, but she went to get it anyway. Then Satchmo’s mom, who looked like a Japanese Gypsy Crack Whore, walked by. “You guys want bananas?” she asked. I had no idea how to respond to that; the whole Japanese Gypsy Crack Whore thing was weirding me out. She disappeared and reappeared a second later with a bushel of bananas she dropped on the table. Satchmo came back with the coffee, and ice cream. Gypsy Crack Whore brought a plate of strawberries.
So now Coke Addict and Satchmo were chatting, and I was kind of sitting there wondering how I get myself in these situations. I was also kind of freaked that Gypsy Crack Whore wasn’t freaked. I mean her daughter’s friend just brought a large, unknown black man into their tiny little living quarters, and apparently this is perfectly acceptable. It was almost like this kind of thing happened on a daily basis.
Meanwhile, Satchmo’s Rastafarian Brother came back from wherever, and was also not freaked about the large black man. He went to his room, which was like 20 inches away, and occasionally jumped into the conversation (although we couldn’t see him). At one point he randomly called out to me, “Hey, can you teach me to dance sometime?”
Meanwhile still, Crack Puppy was still tearing up all over the place. He was terribly curious about me- running right up to me and staring me in the eyes, but the second I moved to pet him he’d run away. One of the times he ran up, I just sat still to see what would happen. Crack Puppy stood on my lap, put his paws on my chest, and stared me right in the eyes. And then Crack Puppy kissed me. I was fucking shocked and had no idea what to do about that. I moved, and Crack Puppy scampered away again.
Gypsy Crack Whore came back and chatted me up with the usual, “Oh, your Japanese is so good!” Whatever, please don’t sell me to the Yakuza circus. She and the other two started making plans to see a baseball game, and hey! why don’t I come along too? I suddenly realized this tiny little closet-house had no windows, no way to escape.
Coke Addict and Satchmo were occasionally talking and watching TV. They stopped on some documentary about children being killed in the war in Iraq. Great, that’ll certainly pick the evening right up! At one point, a father was holding his badly wounded daughter in his arms, screaming for help. Everyone stood around, powerless to do anything… and the daughter died right there in daddy’s arms, on camera. Coke Addict and Satchmo watched this, went, “Awwwwww…” then turned around and stared right at me.
WTF? I DIDN’T DO IT! I don’t have GW on speed-dial! “Hey Dubya, why don’t you start a war with Iraq for no apparent reason? And hey, try to kill as many babies as you possibly can, OK? kthxbye!”
Then they went off on how pointless the war is and just how much George Bush sucks (ah, to be an American overseas right now). Granted, I’m no Bush-lover or Iraq war supporter, but I kind of wanted to say “Hey, America’s not all bad!” Still I figured Dead Toddler was the ultimate comeback, and I’d best just shut it.
Fortunately, FINALLY, the time came when I’d have to leave to catch the last train. Coke Addict had to drive me to the station, so she left, too. In the car, Coke Addict continued to rant about Bush. After about 5 minutes, I had my fill, and changed the subject, but it didn’t last for long, as Coke Addict said, “I’m sorry, I want to go back to President Bush…” and continued to rant on. I kind of shut off my brain until I got to the station and was on my way to the sanctity of home.
So there you have it. I found myself stuck in the lair of Satchmo, dealing with Coke Addict, Gypsy Crack Whore, and America-bashing, and the only action I got out of it was a kiss from Crack Doggy. I sent Coke Addict the obligatory email afterwards, and got a basic reply, but I haven’t heard from her since. And that’s the way, uh-huh uh-huh, I like it.
Not only do I think God hates me specifically, but also he must get pretty shitty TV reception up there, and has decided to use me for entertainment.