An American in Japan

When he began the procedure, I was surprised at what little pain I felt. None whatsoever. Back in high school, I had both an ear and my tongue pierced. If my memory serves me, neither of those hurt initially. But the aftermath was almost unbearable. Swollen, throbbing pain. At least my tongue piercing was. I could tell that whatever this guy was doing to my back, wouldn't hurt in the slightest, now or later. While he continued to work, I could only imagine how it might look. My back looking like sonic the hedgehog. But interestingly, when he finished he told me to put back on my shirt.

“Huh, aren't there needles sticking out?”

“No, no they're going in.”

Needles sticking up vertically would have stopped me from putting back on my shirt. But this doctor poked me horizontally. Furthermore, he stuck a piece of tape over each needle, so that it was quite safe to put my shirt back on. What shocked me the most was when he showed me the size of the needles he was using. They were microscopic! Each needle was so small they could have easily been concealed behind an eyelash. No wonder they didn't hurt—they were hardly even there!

Yes, each piece of tape covers a tiny needle.

Next he did my wrist. I hadn't complained about it and can only assume that my wife had mentioned that I use the computer too much. And while he was certainly skilled at what he did, I again had the feeling that this man was hardly related to what I know as medical professionals. He used two small pieces of medical tape to secure each needle in place. But he cut the small pieces of tape beforehand, sticking them to the back of his hand. And while the back of your hand or your forearm is certainly a convenient place to use, I wouldn't call it a professional place to store tape thats going to cover a puncture.

After he had finished with me, did started poking my wife. Wow, that doesn't sound right. But he poked her in the back, while I just sat there and watched. After he'd finished, he gave me the final shocker.

“That'll be ten thousand yen, please.” Which works out to fifty bucks each. It wasn't the price that surprised me. It was the fact that he had finished. I kinda thought he would remove the needles. Why else would he have a sterilization machine on hand? When I asked about it, he told us to leave them in. “The longer the better,” he said. “At least four days. Try to leave them in for a week though.” Wow.

As I'm typing this, I still have needles in my back. That medical tape is strong. But the needles in my wrist, I removed quickly. And when I did I noticed something. The needles weren't actually in me. I'm not sure how they were removed. The needles were still there, physically stuck to the tape. But they weren't impaling me. I removed all six or seven pieces of tape to be sure. Had they simply slipped out? It seemed unlikely, since the tape held in place so well. Had the doctor pinned us, removed the pin and then tape it down? Possibly, though that made little sense. I can't explain it definitively, but I've heard that your body rejects such foreign objects. Since the needles were so small, I guess they were easily and quickly rejected by my skin.

A week later, I could say that my shoulder is better. But it always had better and worse days. And I wouldn't say its very noticeably better. I'm kinda leaning towards no change but just so happens to feel better this week. And I'm still allergic to house dust.

Most times, when you go to see a doctor in Japan, you go to the hospital. But for the acupuncture treatment I would receive, I went to a doctors office. It was a first for me, here in Japan. The waiting room was nothing exceptional, until I noticed a small object in one of the corners. It was a common enough object. Something I'd seen before, just never in a doctors office. Square, rectangular. Standing a foot or two tall. Chrome mesh on the top. It was a standing ashtray. Judging by the shine on the chrome and by the smell in the room, it hadn't been used anytime recently. But it was there, looking foreign to me for more reasons than I could mention.

The patient before me, a high school boy, exited from the next room. A few minutes later, we were called in.

The first thing I noticed in the actual room this doctor practiced in, was the faint odor of smoke. This room didn't have an ashtray in sight, but I knew from years of being the only non smoker in a smoking family, that at some point in the not too distant past, this room had been smoked in.

My second observation was the same I'd made in every other hospital, every other doctors visit I've ever made here in Japan. The equipment was old. Like, generations old. Forget all of documentaries you've seen. Whatever you've heard. I can't speak for people living in the heart of Tokyo, but the rest of Japan gets their equipment second hand. It's bizarre. In this case there really wasn't much equipment in the office, save for a sterilization machine. But even the fax and phone this guy had, I would have dated them mid 80's.

Now, I'm open to these ancient forms of medicine. Even if they are outside of our 'Western Science' I try to keep an open mind. My shoulder has had a pain in it for some time. Taking pills helps, but why not try something new? Red flags started appearing in my mind when this guy started talking about helping my allergies. Strengthening my 'guts,' which I'm pretty sure were just fine to begin with. Maybe I'm a skeptic, but sticking needles in my back to cure a muscle problem seems plausible. Doing the same thing to help my allergy to house dust seems ridiculous.

Either way, after chatting up my wife in Japan. Asking the usual questions, like what country I'm from, he asked me to take off my shirt. He brought a small electronic device to the table. Again, by the jacks and interface of this machine, I'd easily have it twenty to thirty years old. He asked me to hold a small metal bar. Then with another piece of metal, he touched my back in various places. He later explained that he was looking for spots on my back which didn't conduct electricity well. Those were the spots he would poke me.

My journeys in Tokyo took me to a club called “Pink Big Pig.” Now technically Pink Big Pig should be classified as Engrish. I couldn't tell you the grammatical rule, but I'm sure in proper English it should be called Big Pink Pig. And yet, the name works. It stands out distinguished because of the unconventional order.

Pink Big Pig isn't a particularly large club, although they seem to be able to pull in world famous talent. You'll notice Mr. Ramen-Skaymen-Boku-Ikemen up there on the left. Just to the right of him, I didn't know that this group of entertainers were called “Den Geki Network” but they made a stop at the Pig. Known for having outrageous and dangerous shows, I'd seem them before, on some British TV show about Japan. Among their specialties is having one of the members seal himself inside of an inflatable bed, then sucking the air out of it. I've also seen them light some major farts on stage.

The bathroom at Pink Big Pig also had a feature worth mentioning. And I'm always surprised at how innovative Japanese bathrooms can be. But in this case, it was a low tech solution. Next to the toilet, on a small shelf of its own, was a notebook. They also provided a pen. A kind of 'Penny for your thoughts' book while you take a dump. Sadly, I couldn't read a word of the Japanese withing, but I did contribute.

There was no graffiti on the walls of the stalls. I want to say, because of the presence of this book. But in all likelihood, there wouldn't have been any graffiti anyway.

Most special to me about the Pink Big Pig was their pinball machine. Now that this form of entertainment is dead, it has somehow become more treasured. More sacred to me. Pig Big Pig has a Terminator pinball machine. In all honestly I never liked the Terminator game. The board is way too open, and all to often the ball will fall directly into the gutter. But I was happy to see a pinball machine. Unfortunately, I couldn't play the game, the coin slots were taped up.

It's worth mentioning that before Pinball as we know it, there was pinball, without flippers. The game became much more popular with the addition of flippers, which greatly increased the element of skill involved. In American, the name remained Pinball, but in Japan, the be-flippered machines were given a new name—Smart Ball.

ラーメン　つけ麺　ぼく、イケメン

"Ramen, skaymen, boku ikemen!"

You know ramen. But did u know what skaymen is? "Skay" rhymes with "hey," and its a kind of ramen where the noodles are separate from the broth. So a literal translation would be "Noodles in broth, noodles out of broth, I'm a handsome guy." But I'd much rather interpret it "Tex food, Mex food, I'm a fine dude!"

The comedians name is 狩野英孝, or Kanouko. Click the title link or have a look here.

It's no surprise that the worst part about living in Japan for many gaijins, is being functionally illiterate. There's always such a feeling of joy when I wander into the English aisle of a bookstore and suddenly realize that I can read again.

That kinda of euphoria was just what I felt when I saw the above scan in my Starbucks. The front page of a small newspaper. I unfolded it. Finally something to read while waiting for my frappucino like some kind of elitist. What a rare gem this was. Starbucks, giving away reading material in English. It must've been because I was in Ikebukuro.

Damn you, Starbucks!

The next morning, I awoke to the sounds of my zen alarm clock. Chimes just like the monk made
the night before. This is where things get weird. The cremation. After another ceremony, in which the vertical chopsticks in rice made a cameo appearance, grandmas remains were cremated. While this was going on, there was yet another monk on hand, praying or chanting, again for background music. And next to the food/shrine with the chopsticks were several glasses of water. Family members took turns dumping out the water into a nearby sink, then refilling the glasses and returning them to the shrine. Rinse and repeat. “So that grandma wouldn't be thirsty, in heaven,” I was told.

Then we ate bento boxes for lunch. I must say writing about it afterwards, it sounds strange. Eating udon and shrimp tempura while grandma is cremated just a stones throw away. But at the time it didn't seem at all out of the ordinary. Oddest to me was the fact that beer was served, even though the meal was served at brunch time.

I still had a bone to pick with grandma. Literally. She wasn't cremated into a sandy powder, as I might have expected. Her flesh was burned, but her bones left intact. Next the family made two single file lines. We were each given a special pair of chopsticks. I was instructed to pick up a bone and place it into the urn, with my partner. This is the only circumstance in which two pairs of chopsticks are in the same 'plate.' Later, Id learn that technically this wasn't an urn but rather an ossuary. (How's that for an obscure spelling word? The spell checker doesn't even recognize it) At this point I was quite excited. I've never been so close to human bones before and I moved to get back into line. But my wife stopped me. Each person would help with only his half a bone. No more, no less.

When everybody had helped, a funeral attendant used his hands to move the rest of the bones into the ossuary in a much more efficient manner. Somehow this upset me. That I couldn't move another bone. That some stranger could just handle grandmas bones with his hands while we had to use chopsticks. As he pushed and adjusted the bones to fit, they made a most curious, dry sound. The closest thing to it that I'd ever heard would be someone rummaging through a breakfast cereal, perhaps looking for the toy at the bottom of the box.

When he was done, he added the final cherry on top. For some ineffable reason, grandmas glasses were put on top of her bones. Together for the rest of eternity. Nobody said, “So that grandma can see, in heaven.”

Nobody said “Dust to dust.”