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.