3 Day Weekend-Day 1: Triples

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As you can tell from my last entry, work sucks. But it makes partying that much better. Because it puts you in perpetual “fuck it” mode on weekends.

Fuck It Mode is a state of completely not caring how hard you party. Usually, it happens when something extreme happens: the love of your life just married someone else, go to the bar, go into “Fuck It Mode” and then try to drink until the skank at the end of the bar looks like Heidi fucking Klum so you can take her home and cry mid-coitus.

Fast forward five years and now you’re fucking getting married and it’s your bachelor party: got to Vegas, drink your face off, hire some strippers and enjoy celebratory “Fuck It Mode”.

Now you have a nice little family with a wife who’s disinterested in you (and is probably cheating with your douchy neighbor Mike), kids who’ve just hit puberty and think you’re uncool (and sadly, they’re right) and just when you realized how much trouble your father went through, you find out he died. Time to roll out the whiskey for depressing “Fuck It Mode”.

And since no one in your family loves you, you’re in a dead end job and to top things off, Mike the douchy neighbor just became your manager so you enter perpetual “Fuck It Mode” but you’re in your late 50’s so you’re too tired to do that shit so you end up just sitting on your porch on a rocking chair listening to baseball on the radio.

But I’m 21.

And I’m only 2 years removed from the craziest summer known to mankind.

And it was a 3 day weekend.

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In the Japanese workplace, one technically finishes work at 5:30 but if any idiot leaves before 7, they’re instantly fired for not showing enough effort. It’s convoluted, it makes no sense but its one of those unwritten rules you’re just supposed to know from the “Atmosphere”. Welcome to Japan.

But I’m in Fuck It Mode as soon as it hits 5:30 on Friday night.

I counted down the seconds until the market closed, turned my PC off, shouldered my bag and sauntered out as pile of work glared at me from my “IN” tray. As I walked down the rows to the exit, I got the “tear shit up” slow nod of goodbye from my coworkers.

Like at every company I work at, I’m a motherfucking all-star.

I work in IT. All the people I work with are around 40, can’t talk to girls and have glaring physical deficiencies added to their social woes: too fat, too short, too skinny, too hairy, too awkward. And they look back to their 20’s and realize they should’ve spent more time actually talking and partying and meeting people instead of claiming “headshots” in some Internet café.

Then they see me. I’m a mirror image of a young them: Computer Science major. Asian. Skinny. Short. Good at math. But instead of spending my free time hitting rapid button combinations to steal a police car, I actually do it. And I fucking brag about it on Monday to a circle of enraptured old men.

It has now become my duty to party at uncontrollable levels. My office lives vicariously through me (to say nothing of the readers of my blog), so I gotta deliver.

I got out of my baller building, walked around then ended up at some bar.

“Triple Jack and a beer.”

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My office building is in the richest part of Tokyo, Roppongi Hills. It’s filled with the well-heeled elite of Japanese society, rich foreign investors and extremely hot old women. And this bar reflected this society perfectly.

It oozed old world decadence. From the polished oak bar, to the brass stools, to the suited patrons, to the tuxedo dressed jazz band playing on the stage.

And then there was me.

I had come straight from work, so I looked somewhat presentable. Somewhat presentable being extremely relative to the clothes I normally wear since my outfit that day consisted of rumpled Banana Republic khakis, a $30 bright purple Uniqlo Y-shirt and no name black shoes.

The glaring colors of my clothes, the ridiculous double fisting I was partaking in, my “Fuck It Attitude” all made me stick out like a black man’s boner in a leotard. I was already far from the plateau of sobriety and I tried recalling why I was in such a classy place…

After 5 minutes of staring at the ceiling, I remembered. One of my coworkers was supposed to meet me here. He was one of the few guys below 30 who was single. Where was he?

I ordered another whiskey/beer combo to kill time.

I needed to talk to someone.

There were two others at the bar: a rich wife type who looked around 50, some old chain-smoking salaryman type and the rest of the patrons of this place were sitting at private tables.

I glided in between the locomotive salaryman and rich cougar with the grace of a Titanic in iceberg waters.

“Yo, my name is Gen. I’ve been drinking whiskey. What do you guys drink in Japan?”

Realize that no one in Japan talks to randoms. Realize still that if you do, you must speak in the politest form possible. Realize I’m also at least 20 years younger than both of them

Cougar and Locomotive looked shocked but Locomotive was the type who probably sits around in bars hoping to talk to foreigners so we struck up a conversation. However, there is not much a conservative 50 year old Japanese salaryman and 21 year old inebriated American can talk about. He’s too smart to just blindly laugh at my stupid stories and he’s been there, done that so he’s not impressed by my cocky, gung-ho attitude. I, on the other hand, cannot appreciate his stately advice.

But I guess whatever shit we were talking about was mildly interesting because he ordered me another triple of whiskey and beer.

At some point, I included Cougar into the convo and the three of us had a meandering conversation about the difference in cultures. I pretended to play dumb about Japanese culture so they had the satisfaction of teaching me shit and then my co-worker finally showed up. He apologized profusely and bought me my next double fist. Another triple of Jack and a beer.

For those keeping track at home: 9 shots of whiskey, 3 pints of beer.

One tiny, tired Asian body.

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I cracked open an eye.

I was in a room that wasn’t mine. Sun was streaming in.

I shut my eye. My head was exploding.

I was cold. I groped blindly and hit something warm. I curled around it.

It was so warm, and soft. A human body.

I hugged it tightly and perfume dissipated out.

Nice, I had gotten Cougar. Or at least ended up in the same bed as her. My first hit in Japan Part Tre! Get out the Travelblog cheering section!

I was tired and as I drifted back to sleep with her in my arms…I felt for second to confirm I wasn’t dreaming…

…it wasn’t there.

I groped around a bit more…there was nothing there…I was feeling through her clothes and I was way too exhausted to go under the shirt. Ok, many bitches in Tokyo have Little League second bases to make up for the all-around attractiveness of the field. But let’s just make sure…

I patted third from outside of the clothes...nothing there...but then again the hitters here use Little League bats...

After some fumbling I touched third under the elastic waistband..

Good. It was third, and not a spare bat. Phew. Phew.

My hammering heart slowly relaxing. I started grinning. I always manage to bag pitchers when I black out. And unlike most people, my scouting and my hitting increase exponentially and I usually wake up next to a smoking hot girl instead of a nightmare

I wonder how hot this girl was…it obviously wasn’t Cougar cuz she had quite a rack from what I remember. This girl has no breasts…but neither does 75%!o(MISSING)f Asian females, so I wasn't too concerned. And she feels skinny, which is how I like them.

Well, why not just crack open an eye to confirm your victory.

I sleepily propped myself up on an elbow and peered at her through slitted eyes.

Which quickly became wide open eyes in terror and I tried screaming but I couldn’t find my voice…

I shook my head wildly around, my hands balled into fists in my hair.

I recognized this room.

I recognized this bed.

I recognized this woman.

I managed to find a whisper.

"Oh my fucking god."

I just fingered my grandmother.

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[yakyu otaku]

爆笑。