TV Star Mourned in Japan, Ridiculed Elsewhere
I was absolutely gutted to hear of the passing of famed Japanese TV personality, Ai Iijima, more so because of how long it took the news to reach me (providing my own personal Robinson Crusoe moment), compounded by the fact she had been gone nearly 10 DAYS before anyone thought to check on her.
I know very little about her--not much other than that she was one of the wittier female personalities in Japanese show business at a time when I'm sure ratings research revealed that the "clever female" is a highly unpopular role to assume, and that she was a former adult film actress.
The latter has motivated many of those outside Japan whom are "familiar with her work" to carry out character assassinations and implicitly claim her unexplained death from pnemonia was a fitting end to a life of "sin". The Japanese (celebrities and viewers), on the other hand, are still buzzing with unanswered questions while managing to stay mum about her career prior to making television appearances. This silence is, however, not a product of respect for the dead as much as a refusal, which predates her death, to broach the much-tabooed subject.
What haunts me the most is how she died: locked in, facing down on her living-room floor, undiscovered for over a week's time. And what's more, this refusal to acknowledge her past probably means we will never know her actual age.
Encounter
A couple of days ago at Kyoto station, I run into my ex-fiancée who makes me promise to meet her today for lunch. The whole time she's talking to me, I'm looking at her wondering why she insists on shopping at garage sales--that and why she couldn't have spotted me five minutes earlier when I was seeing someone off. She definitely would not have stopped me to talk if she had seen the girl I was with--shoes and an ass with a superiority. She follows my "look, I'm late for an interview," with "it's the LEAST you could do". I accept the rude invitation with a sigh, and tell her to choose the restaurant.
So, I meet with her for sandwiches and iced coffee today, a national holiday, and keep reminding myself I have a nice piece waiting for me if I can just get through lunch, but the sandwiches and conversation are putting me off. "So, how are things?" I ask in monotone. Unable to contain herself, she blurts out, "Well, Ken and I are getting married in the fall." I'm so bored with this response--and the fact that she actually believes that I never suspected this was the purpose of our little meeting makes it even less amusing. And before I can even say "let's see the rock," she starts taking the ring off of her finger--nothing special. It's a golden turtle encircled by small diamond cuts. "Well, that's joyous news," I spit at her. She senses I don't want to touch it and puts it back on. We continue talking and exchanging bitter smiles, and are approaching a new record for dullness. "How's work?" she asks actually looking to get a response. "I'm not really doing that whole 'work' thing right now." "I know," she says, again not able to wait her turn to speak, "I heard you quit your job." "It was a 'forced resignation'," I correct her.
This all continues, and I randomly respond with nods and uh-huh's when suddenly something starts to bother me which throws me into a panic, sweat. I stop eating and put my glass of coffee down. All I can do is stare. Just watching her eat her sandwich reminds me of something innocent, yet disgusting--like the horrifying beauty of a doe prancing across railroad tracks to feed her young, only to have the whole scenario interrupted by a speeding freight train. What a thrill--the irrelevance of the doe's actions and the intentions she might have had when her rib cage pops open and shoots out of her chest. She looks so innocent sitting across from me, eating and smiling, but I'm still sweating. "Look, I gotta go," I say standing up trying to hide my flushed cheeks. "But we've just sat down to eat!"--the innocence in her voice echoing those of the starving fawn waiting for their mother. I turn and make a move for the door without pushing my chair in, but she pulls on my shirt sleeve to turn me around, and still looking up at me from her seat with a pathetic mist in her eyes, says "if it's something that I did to drive you away from me, you would tell me, right? Is it something about me?" The questions are too fucking pathetic to answer. Without making a scene, I reclaim my arm and composure, and slowly back away saying, "I have a job interview." I turn and briskly walk out, leaving her to pay the check. I'm practically running down the corridor lined with restaurants and cafes with queues of hungry shoppers, wiping the sweat from my forehead, and am very annoyed to hear her say "a job interview...on a national holiday??" from inside the cafe. "YES!!" I turn around and shout toward the entrance, which everyone reacts to. I'm slightly embarrassed, but not enough to apologize. I spin back around toward the exit.
Letting Go
I'm really starting to reek, and I've practically given up on bathing. My last was in some natural hot spring out in the countryside I snuck into a couple of months ago. Only in Japan could a foreign man break into the ladies' without ever being reported. Women of all ages and shapes just relaxing naked in the outdoor spring, and thinking "well, he's from overseas, and therefore, MUST be confused". Little do they know what being in a place like that does to a man who has, just like them, bathed separately since puberty--one woman and her friend, both very young and supple, took breaks from looking up at the night sky to stare at my crotch. From where I stood, It seemed to be providing great material for conversation, but I refrained from joining the discussion. The fantasies that ran through my mind though, mostly of satisfying the two women's curiosities in front of all of the other bathers, forced me to remain sitting in the bath until everyone had gone back inside. When the last person scurried through the door to the indoor springs, I attempted to lift my body out of the bath, but realized everywhere ELSE had turned to jello. I was too exhausted to dry off, so I carried my clothes out with me to the nearest station, dressed, and jumped the next train to the city. One station hand on the way spotted me in between cars from the platform and, shaking his head, hit the emergency stop button, but I just jumped off, and hid from the cops. I was back in the city before sunrise.
And now, the humidity from a late rainy season has me smelling rather offensive. It's not B.O., but a mixture of ass and unwashed hair. I remember back when I at least washed my hair on days I thought there was a possiblity I would be with a woman, but I've almost completely let go. Now, the only thing that turns me on is seeing women struggle to pretend that the smell doesn't offend or make them want to vomit when they are satisfying me--turns me on more than their attempts at "gratification".