Summer Meltdowns, Part 2
I'm in Tokyo Dome. I had been standing outside it minutes before, but a Japanese couple SO eager to practice their horrible English on me gave me two VIP tickets to a Saturday-night exhibition game between two professional American football teams. I was unimpressed. "Go ahead...go ahead. I...am....beejee (busy) ...today. Cannot go. Take...take." The man's wife/girlfriend was impatiently staring up at me--searching my face for a reaction to his verbal flatulence. I forced a teethy grin and brought it within three inches of the guy's face. When he reacted to it by flinching and whipping his head back slightly, I turned and did the same to his bitch, but went in for an open-lipped snog and walked away without acknowledging them.
I'm in the elevator with both of my VIP tickets, doors split open, and the game is already in progress. While the security woman at the entrance is feeling me up, I notice an electronic board displaying random ticket numbers and lottery prizes and see that neither of my tickets have won anything. "Fuckers," I protest. But, I think it's my body odor, not the swearing, that has earned the look of shock I'm receiving from the woman as she tears my tickets and lets me through. Wasting no time, I head straight for the buffet with four drink tickets, two attached to each ticket. I order four beers all at once, fill a plate with bratwurst, and make it to my seat without spilling ANY beer and dropping only two or three brats. I set everything down on one seat, sit in another and just start pounding: brat, beer, brat, beer, ketchup, beer, mustard, etc. The gluttony continues well into the second quarter and leaves me with an ache and satisfaction reminiscent of the feelings I have after an aggressive session of hostile intercourse. I immediately fall into a deep sleep with my back turned to the empty beer cups and hotdog sleeves, but am repeatedly awaken by restless Japanese fans and annoying music which trigger memories of Fatboy Slim's on-stage antics. A defenseman recovers a fumble in the endzone and the turns of my stomach grow.
Just before I get sick, something on the field snaps me out of my haze and I peer toward the sideline closest to my seats: a dancing Japanese cheerleader on an American squad--likely the only foreigner. I start to sit back up to study her and the way she smiles and gyrates, and this makes the heat from my body rush to the flesh of my cheeks. In one motion, I jump to my feet and approach the rail in front of me to get a better look: she isn't stunning, but she's an age that suits many Japanese women--early 30's. Despite the fact she looks short cheering next to the Americans, her legs invite. "Papa like," I grumble to myself trying to suppress an oncoming dizzy spell. "Got up too fast," I think to myself and spew about 15 ccs of beer-soaked filth all over the concrete floor in front of the rail, and this makes me squeal with pleasure. I unload more, purposely aiming at the concrete steps and wall, and simultaneously laugh which draws several confused glances from the surrounding Japanese fans. Finally, I have my moment of empowerment, and throw up all the way to the toilet. Everyone looks at me like I'm drunk, but I know I'm not.
The game finally finishes, and I start making plans--I want to see this cheerleader. I want to meet this woman. I want to know everything about her: where she's from in Japan, what food her hometown is famous for, her bloodtype, whether she drinks Japanese distilled liquor with the pickled apricot or oolong tea, or both, or whether or not she drinks it at all. I want to know what it was, exactly, that got her into cheerleading. And, I want to hear all of the stories about how stubborn she was during secondary school cheer practices and how she would never settle for anything less than achieving that ultimate dream of becoming a cheerleader for the National Football League, and then I want to fuck her...hard...from behind...on her Tokyo Dome Hotel room bed. I walk out of the dome exit facing the hotel and a chick with an American Pork T-shirt calls out to me, "sir, don't forget your V.I.P. merchandise," holding up a plastic bag. I ignore her for a second, but give in and turn around to offer my signature nod of condescension, and I realize that this girl is beautiful--race-queen beautiful. (Race queens are similar to the models you find in auto magazines, but they are generally seen with more clothing in advertisements and at racing events.) Something very close to a genuine smile slinks across my lips, and the wheels start turning. "Did you put that autographed helmet in there for me?" I wink at her as I make a full turn in her direction and approach. "No, sir," she replies smiling and slowly succumbing to my charm, "it only includes an official NFL DVD, towel, and T-shirts from each team." "Yes, right, the T-shirts--I'm sure the Atlanta Weathercocks will keep me cool this summer," I walk closer--close enough to get her to look over her shoulder to make sure that no bosses or co-workers are witnessing this, "I think you mean the Atlanta Falcons," she corrects in a distracted tone. "Whichever," I focus my gaze and voice on her, "what if I told you that I left some important things at my seat?" She repeats me, "what if?...," still holding the bag and looking brilliant in that bizarre pork T-shirt. "Yes, right, and what if I told you my seat was in one of those private V.I.P. booths?" I temporarily lose eye contact, which irritates me a little, and she immediately starts shaking her head, "Sir, I can't...," which causes me to take one final step toward her and regain her attention. "Oh,...can't you," I interrupt trying to hold back a look that might scare her off. She hesitates, but tells me, "okay, can you just stand right next to the counter for me, though? I will be right back." She scurries off to talk to a co-worker who, assumably, holds the keys and tells me to follow her. She opens the corridor to the V.I.P. booths without saying a word, and I walk through, halfway concealing my chest because I do not have one of the special passes for entry hanging off my neck. None of the doors have locks on them, and I open one to the first empty booth I see and let her in--she walks up to the windows to watch the remaining grounds crewmen and press members. She jumps when I slam the door shut behind me--must have caught her daydreaming.
Things got louder in that booth in the hour or so that we fucked, and I kept imagining I was with the cheerleader. I walked out of the booth telling her to "keep the bag of goodies" and left her on the bar with nothing on but her shoes and socks. Right as I walked out into the corridor and shut the door, I ran into trouble: a man in a dark suit with a radio earpiece like you see on members of the Secret Service. Our eyes met, and before he could open his mouth to ask to see my identification, I shot "'Scuse me, have you seen Marvin Harrison in or around here??" at him. I could see the slightly hostile expression on his face melt into confusion, and I think of an exit line: "ya know what? That's all right." "Good work," I add as I slip out of the corridor on to the hotel.
.
Ah, Joseph Cotten, the things you could be teaching this world...
Summer Meltdowns
I'm back from an all-expenses-paid-by-my-bitch's-daddy's-credit-cards summer trip to Barbados, and my bag still reeks of sea salt and the room of the ridiculous hotel we stayed at. Good food, though--especially since I'd spent the previous two or three weeks sneaking into Naeba Ski Resort and Tokyo Dome, ingesting nothing but stolen 100-percent beef hotdogs, various American Pork products, and beer. (Naeba is in the city of Niigata, located on the Northwest Coast. It only took me three midnight trains to get from there to Tokyo and then back into West Japan.) The snow was, of course, melted away, but by the time I'd arrived thousands of people were there, camped out for a weekend rock festival--the face of one mountain was completely covered with colorful tents, all tilted to fit the contours of each slope. I started thinking "efficiency" and concluded that, instead of having to scale my way up to unguarded entrances or having to kill a staff member every time, I could just clap one camper for his wristband and dispose of the body to give myself unlimited access to the campground.
It wasn't difficult either. Walking out to the soggy lawn (it had been raining) and peering through herds of spectators for prey--Fatboy Slim's music drained from the main stage speakers at an unspeakably annoying volume while he danced elevated, both he and his table, halfway between the lights and the actual stage.
I spot a Westerner further up the lawn passed out on his tarp. I cut through a crawl of fans who are inching their way to a separate stage to try and catch the end of a performance by Brahman, a shitty Japanese metal band who think they are Kula Shaker. Meanwhile, the crowd ahead of me is really getting into the mainstage performance and in order to fit in, I contribute a rebel yell, the sarcasm of which NO one detects. Managing not to slip on the mud, I continue dancing and humming my way toward my victim who, judging from his tan and build, is probably Australian. There is a little space behind him, so snatching a plastic bag off the top of a nearby cooler and shaking the rain off of it, I let out another "YEAH, YEAH, YEAH!!" with the crowd and squat down right behind his head, which allows the fans behind him to see our elevated performer, yet blocks their view of my victim. The lights from the stage and people in front of him cast the perfect shadow over us, and I slip the bag over his head and brace myself for the struggle. It doesn't come, however, until it's too late for him, and I easily counteract it by lifting his head up and pinning his shoulders with my knees. The slow reaction and motion of his legs indicates he wasn't merely in a deep sleep, but had drunk too much. Close-ups of Norman Cook dancing to his own complilations with nothing but a megaphone invade the jumbo screens on each side of the main stage, and the crowd's enthusiasm incites an incredible rage within me that causes me to start shouting obscenities at the Australian's face which is now between my knees and gazing up at me, dead. I gasp, "YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED!! YOU SICK FUCK!" Spit starts flying from my mouth and lands all over the corpse, "WHO the FUCK COMES OUT HERE to SEE a D.J.?!! ANSWER ME, you SICK FUCK!! You PATHETIC FUCKING PIECE OF TRASH!!"
Phase two begins which, believe it or not, is more difficult than phase one. This is where I have to convince everyone around us that he's my "friend who just had a little too much to drink, ha-ha". He produces one postmortem emetic episode which, ironically, gives me more credibility as I'm walking him, one of his arms hoisted over my neck and my hand under the other. I smile at those taking notice with a look of "what can ya do? Ha-ha." We both end up falling down at least five or six times before reaching the woods behind the perfectly aligned porta-potties. I had some trouble removing his wristband in one piece, but I put it on and piss on the body to throw the dogs off the scent.
I follow the same pocket of Brahman fans I saw earlier, but peel off from them and trot through the woods to another stage called Field of Heaven where songwriter, Ryan Adams and his band are playing a Grateful Dead cover. The rain is coming down harder and harder and I just close in on the stagefront, and listen. During the next number, I notice Ryan Adams gesturing frantically to the roof of the stage, and trying to get someone's attention in the wings. By the end of the song, it becomes clear that he's complaining about the lights--they're too bright. I'm not as annoyed by this as I am the English guys surrounding me who start trying to heckle him--I mean, REALLY trying to get under his skin, as if he'd never been heckled before. "Pretentious, self-absorbed cunt," one of them behind me mumbles just before Ryan Adams starts lacing into the light guy...and then himself, "YEAH, shine the lights right on the guy complainin'!!...Look, I hate myself enough already--I mean, I'm thirty-...and, and haggard as fuck!" This petty Woody Allen-esque rant is followed up by a "fuck you, RYAN", to which Adams actually delivers a response. This continues and makes me feel quite good about having fed my bloodlust an hour earlier. I just stand there in a pit of mud and disappointed Japanese and English fans, observing--with a surprising calm.
Ryan Adams only ends up playing one more song, the end of which features a very low and repetitive, angst-ridden roar from his guitar which attracts a mixture of several confused gawks and random notes from his own band members. Someone or someTHING must have gotten to him because he just breaks tempo and starts to melt DOWN--stiffly standing, staring down at the glare of the lights on the stage with his egg-washed hair in his face and guitar hanging from his shoulder.
The noise is cut off and replaced with Ryan Adams' voice--still high like Dana Carvey's Church Lady, "I had a blast, thanks a lot, see ya!" And he walks off, abandoning his bandmates and audience. A crowd probably stood there expecting an encore for another 20-25 minutes, but I wouldn't know. I was already on my way to the campground with Ryan Adams' words in my head. "I had a blast. Thanks a lot. See ya."