The Bullshit Bandit

A thunderclap silently screams out in the back of my mind and I brace myself for the inevitable first pangs of the head-storm. I’ve been here several times in the past few years and expertly know the fastest way home, it’s not the problem. The issue is that if my mind is left to its own devices, eventually it’ll wander back to this place. Like the bastard offspring of a homing beacon and a honey bee, its sense of direction is uncanny. Exactly in the way of a hangover the headache moves roughly into the second stage; fatigue. My blood sugar’s low. Most people naturally fork over the one or two calorie an hour cost to employ a caretaker, a monitor who makes sure this desert is avoided if possible. However, my frugality apparently extends into the realm of biochemical payment. In English we call this guardian figure ‘Hunger’ and for the past three or so years that I’ve been stomping around, I’ve lacked this crucial warning light. I could speculate all day about the reasons; maybe somewhere along the line I bumped my head and inadvertently killed the messenger charged with alerting me of a low fuel tank. Or perhaps the highway that connects my stomach and brain has read one too many pages from my extensive tome of laziness.

None of it changes the fact that if I’m focused on something around mealtime my body does nothing to pull me away from the task at hand, but so what, the remedy is as simple as an onigiri (seaweed-wrapped rice ball sold at any convenience store) right? I shoo the thought out of my mind and try to keep the dialog going. This is my job. Since the first of June I’ve been a conversation facilitator, a gab guru, a bullshit bandit. I’m that guy on the movie “Thank You for Smoking” only if he lost his good looks and decided to teach English to Asians. I get paid to keep people talking, so in times of mental tension where I hit a conversational lull, like this one, I tend to fall back on my passions. I find that it’s easy for me to talk about things that I’m genuinely interested in, like food. “So what’s your favorite restaurant here in Tokyo?” And just like that, with a transition about as smooth as a cat’s tongue, I’m a step closer to the banishing this head shrinker.

The finest remedy I’ve found for expediting recovery is by far Matsuya’s gyudon. For about two dollars and 80 cents one receives a delectable bowl of edible bliss. Thin strips of beef, that must in some way share a common ancestor with bacon, are simmered in a soy/dashi sauce with caramelized onions. This culinary symphony is placed on a bed of rice which you then get to pour more soy sauce on. Jackpot! Kyle Olsen, I take back every expensive gastronomical comment I made to you pre-departure.

An Obligation for Drink

When I was about 8 years old my mother said to me, “you only have to lie once to be a liar.” Being relatively new to the concept of logic I thought this clever and tried to make my own statements based on the same formula. “You only have to drink once to be a drinker” not bad. “You only have to breath once to be a breeder” better, I liked it. “You only have to poop once at a party to be a party pooper” it felt good, this was the one. It was funny, if nothing else the language would make the other kids laugh. I finally had something that would skyrocket me into the limelight of popularity. No longer would I be that shy, socially awkward kid lingering on the margins of every event. Now everyone would see that I was quiet because I was contemplative. “He’s probably working on a new poem” the girls would say brandishing eyes half-glazed with admiration. “He wears sweatpants everyday because it’s artistic” they’d think. Perfect.

The day finally arrived when I decided it was time to introduce my witty gem to the world. I took a deep breath and dropped it as casually as possible. Everyone blinked for a few excruciating seconds and right when it was about to sink in the silence was shattered, not by the expected laughter but instead by an out of breath classmate; “Clancy’s about to eat a worm over by Mrs. Craig’s room!” he shouted, effectively knifing my hopes into stillness. I didn’t even get a pity laugh for saying ‘poop’. If I hadn’t been so eager to see if worms were poisonous, I probably would have held a funeral service and hummed a dirge to what could have been. That day I learned an important lesson; timing is every bit as crucial as content, maybe more. Being in the right place at the wrong time is really just being in the wrong place.

Japanese salary men certainly know the importance of the right place adage; it’s an integral part of their jobs. Up until now every time the profession has graced the text of this blog it’s been in reference to being trollied out of their gourds, smashed off their faces, or haggard off their heads; this entry will be no different in that respect. It will, however reexamine why these middle-aged men drink with the ferocity of a college freshman at a football game.

I was previously under the impression that these people’s jobs were so monstrous, so horrid, so stressful, that when quitting time rolled around their tired legs couldn’t carry them to the alcohol dispensaries nearly fast enough. It does fit with all I’ve seen and heard about the Japanese work ethic. Staffers in my company routinely work 12 or 14 hour shifts, double the amount of job time I barely find tolerable. So it seems logical that the higher ups in the financial sector have an equally challenging daily grind, one that promptly ends at 8 p.m. (whereupon the workers pull their noses off of the grindstone and hastily start filing away at their livers.)

You’re he who rations rationality,

And lives a life of liver pain.

Nose to stone for nationality,

But after 8, all’s disarray.

However, the above is a non-truth (yes I know, you only have to lie once to be a liar, appy-polly-logies readers.) It turns out that, unlike the US system based on qualifications, the corporate ladder in Japan brandishes rungs made for the metaphorical feet of seniority and favoritism. Promotions are usually suggested by board members or a manager, so when someone in the aforementioned position of power says, “let’s go out and get hamsliced” on a Tuesday night, the underlings have little or no choice but to comply. Enter ‘Obligation Drinking’ stage left. Now it doesn’t seem like too much of a problem so far because it’s pretty infrequent, right? But therein lies the trouble, oftentimes these managers use it as an excuse to get away from their wives, so a salary man can be out ridding his alcohol system of pesky blood as many as 4 nights a week. And I thought I was a professional!