Fat Men Should Not Climb Mountains
And so my story continues...
The next day I went to Miyajima Island to see my second of the three most beautiful sights in Japan. It was indeed beautiful, and took approximately 5 minutes to see. Not knowing what else to do on the island, I took the suggestion of the guidebook and decided to go up the local mountain. The guidebook said it was an easy climb. I hate that guidebook with all my soul.
As you know, I am fat. While I am smaller than I once was, I am still fat, and I need to make something abundantly clear: FAT MEN SHOULD NOT CLIMB MOUNTAINS! God himself should have decreed this in the form of an 11th Commandment or something. I don't know. But it should not happen. Yet still, I tried, I struggled, and I kept hauling my sweaty ass up that damn mountain. During the ascent, probably about 3/4ths of the way up, I was just too damn tired to carry on. I needed a rest, so I sat down on a stone step on the walkway.
At that moment, a group of four old women, once again probably 60+, rounded the bend with walking sticks in hand. They were quite alarmed at seeing me sitting there. Trying to reassure them, I smiled and said in Japanese I'm just taking a short rest because I'm out of shape and the climb is difficult for a fat man. They laughed at my joke, and told me I should get up and keep moving and try my best, or as the Japanese say, ganbarre. I told them I would in a moment, I just needed to rest a bit. That's when they turned serious.
The one in front gave me a bit of a lecture, and I didn't understand all of it, but from what I could make out, she was saying a young man like me should be able to beat some old women like them to the top of the mountain. I laughed, a little embarrassed, and said I will in one minute. Then she poked me with her walking stick. I was surprised, and so did nothing. She began to walk past me, and as she did, she kept poking me. The second walked past, face serious, and kept with the poking. Same with the third. The fourth, though, undoubtedly the oldest of the group, was not content with that.
She stood there, rapping me on my thigh. So, irritated by this, I stood up, ready to walk up the mountain. That's when she held her stick like a baseball bat, and with all of her might, cracked me in the ass with it, shouting the only English word I heard any of them say: "RUN!"
With no better ideas, and wanting her to stop hitting me, I started walking. Crack. She hit me again. "RUN!" Crack. While the blows were not painful (she was quite old), the combination of a small amount of shame and a whole lot of fear of this crazy old woman led me to start moving as fast as I could up the mountain, past the first three, who resumed the poking, and all the way to the top. The view was beautiful, but I was too bewildered by what just happened to appreciate it.
I did some other tourist stuff that day, nothing too exciting, ate some good food, and as night came I once again found myself bored. It is, I suppose, the main problem with traveling alone. So, I naturally decided to hit up the nightlife. In Hiroshima, there's an area not far from my hotel that is well renowned for its drinking establishments. That's where I had gone the previous night, but on this night, I took a different route, not wanting to accidentally run into the people I had met the night before (different story). This decision will doom me for the rest of my life.
As I was walking, I passed a building that caused me to pause and look closer. Upon inspection, I realized that this was exactly the same kind of strip club as the one I had visited on my last trip. I stopped for a little bit and thought it over. The last Japanese strip club I went to was quite bizarre, but it provided me with stories and Polaroid's that will last me the rest of my life. Realizing I really had nothing better to do, and as this could possibly be my only chance to enter this establishment, I decided to dare the gods and enter. After all, after the weird blindfold tree branch girl, how could this possibly be more bizarre? Dear god, I was wrong...
What I was presented with upon entering that club, I will not put into writing. I CANNOT put it into writing, because that will somehow make it more true. If you're reading this, you probably know me, and thus will probably speak to me at some point. Ask me about it. I will then tell you how horrible and cruel this world truly can be. I will only say this: that place has ruined me for all eternity.
After 15 minutes of a hell that was impossible for me to escape, other girls did rather tasteful and interesting numbers, but I was too damaged from the initial...... disturbance to enjoy or remember it clearly. I do recall one girl in a samurai like uniform giving sake to the handful of us watching, and then cutting melons in half with her sword. I also remember a drunk old man throwing a giant hollow basket onto the stage for reasons only known to him.
Afterwards, I found myself in the lobby, talking to the dancers after all the other customers have gone home. It was really interesting. Apparently, at these kinds of clubs, there are no regular workers. They tour the country, changing cities every 10 days. I learned a lot about their work, about how much time they put into their routines, and about how the buildings are getting few and the audiences getting smaller. There was a lot about what they did that reminded me somewhat of burlesque in the old days.
A professor in grad school, who I can't remember, once said that when doing resarch, you need to find a story that needs to be told, and then to tell that story. I think this form of theater, and I would say about 65% of it is performance art, the other 35% erotica, is a story that desperately needs to have it's history recorded and told, before it's lost. Unfortunately, I'm neither smart enough nor skilled enough at Japanese to do so. But goddamn I think it would make a fascinating book. I'm actually kind of sad that this story will probably never be told...
But then again, considering the fact that the first 15 minutes has rendered me unable to look at a woman again, maybe that's not such a bad thing.
The next day I went to Miyajima Island to see my second of the three most beautiful sights in Japan. It was indeed beautiful, and took approximately 5 minutes to see. Not knowing what else to do on the island, I took the suggestion of the guidebook and decided to go up the local mountain. The guidebook said it was an easy climb. I hate that guidebook with all my soul.
As you know, I am fat. While I am smaller than I once was, I am still fat, and I need to make something abundantly clear: FAT MEN SHOULD NOT CLIMB MOUNTAINS! God himself should have decreed this in the form of an 11th Commandment or something. I don't know. But it should not happen. Yet still, I tried, I struggled, and I kept hauling my sweaty ass up that damn mountain. During the ascent, probably about 3/4ths of the way up, I was just too damn tired to carry on. I needed a rest, so I sat down on a stone step on the walkway.
At that moment, a group of four old women, once again probably 60+, rounded the bend with walking sticks in hand. They were quite alarmed at seeing me sitting there. Trying to reassure them, I smiled and said in Japanese I'm just taking a short rest because I'm out of shape and the climb is difficult for a fat man. They laughed at my joke, and told me I should get up and keep moving and try my best, or as the Japanese say, ganbarre. I told them I would in a moment, I just needed to rest a bit. That's when they turned serious.
The one in front gave me a bit of a lecture, and I didn't understand all of it, but from what I could make out, she was saying a young man like me should be able to beat some old women like them to the top of the mountain. I laughed, a little embarrassed, and said I will in one minute. Then she poked me with her walking stick. I was surprised, and so did nothing. She began to walk past me, and as she did, she kept poking me. The second walked past, face serious, and kept with the poking. Same with the third. The fourth, though, undoubtedly the oldest of the group, was not content with that.
She stood there, rapping me on my thigh. So, irritated by this, I stood up, ready to walk up the mountain. That's when she held her stick like a baseball bat, and with all of her might, cracked me in the ass with it, shouting the only English word I heard any of them say: "RUN!"
With no better ideas, and wanting her to stop hitting me, I started walking. Crack. She hit me again. "RUN!" Crack. While the blows were not painful (she was quite old), the combination of a small amount of shame and a whole lot of fear of this crazy old woman led me to start moving as fast as I could up the mountain, past the first three, who resumed the poking, and all the way to the top. The view was beautiful, but I was too bewildered by what just happened to appreciate it.
I did some other tourist stuff that day, nothing too exciting, ate some good food, and as night came I once again found myself bored. It is, I suppose, the main problem with traveling alone. So, I naturally decided to hit up the nightlife. In Hiroshima, there's an area not far from my hotel that is well renowned for its drinking establishments. That's where I had gone the previous night, but on this night, I took a different route, not wanting to accidentally run into the people I had met the night before (different story). This decision will doom me for the rest of my life.
As I was walking, I passed a building that caused me to pause and look closer. Upon inspection, I realized that this was exactly the same kind of strip club as the one I had visited on my last trip. I stopped for a little bit and thought it over. The last Japanese strip club I went to was quite bizarre, but it provided me with stories and Polaroid's that will last me the rest of my life. Realizing I really had nothing better to do, and as this could possibly be my only chance to enter this establishment, I decided to dare the gods and enter. After all, after the weird blindfold tree branch girl, how could this possibly be more bizarre? Dear god, I was wrong...
What I was presented with upon entering that club, I will not put into writing. I CANNOT put it into writing, because that will somehow make it more true. If you're reading this, you probably know me, and thus will probably speak to me at some point. Ask me about it. I will then tell you how horrible and cruel this world truly can be. I will only say this: that place has ruined me for all eternity.
After 15 minutes of a hell that was impossible for me to escape, other girls did rather tasteful and interesting numbers, but I was too damaged from the initial...... disturbance to enjoy or remember it clearly. I do recall one girl in a samurai like uniform giving sake to the handful of us watching, and then cutting melons in half with her sword. I also remember a drunk old man throwing a giant hollow basket onto the stage for reasons only known to him.
Afterwards, I found myself in the lobby, talking to the dancers after all the other customers have gone home. It was really interesting. Apparently, at these kinds of clubs, there are no regular workers. They tour the country, changing cities every 10 days. I learned a lot about their work, about how much time they put into their routines, and about how the buildings are getting few and the audiences getting smaller. There was a lot about what they did that reminded me somewhat of burlesque in the old days.
A professor in grad school, who I can't remember, once said that when doing resarch, you need to find a story that needs to be told, and then to tell that story. I think this form of theater, and I would say about 65% of it is performance art, the other 35% erotica, is a story that desperately needs to have it's history recorded and told, before it's lost. Unfortunately, I'm neither smart enough nor skilled enough at Japanese to do so. But goddamn I think it would make a fascinating book. I'm actually kind of sad that this story will probably never be told...
But then again, considering the fact that the first 15 minutes has rendered me unable to look at a woman again, maybe that's not such a bad thing.
posted by S A B at 1:02 AM
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