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23 FEB 99
The Seventh Samurai of the Big Udon
Y2K Makes the day Happy and OK.
I've just made the connection between the good and the bad. Not surprisingly, there's even a little bit of ugly.
Every evening there is a ritualistic offering that I sacrifice the following morning. I'm talking about the apple and tangerine stereoscopic still-life that reappears in my room every afternoon. The fruits await me side by side. As I enter and face the window, the apple is always on the right, the tangerine always on the left. I suppose it would be disconcerting if they both were on the left or the right. Be that as it may, they face me, beckon me, and entice me from the shelter of an octagonal tray on the reading/coffee table by the window. The northern light benignly backlights their form, their being, their aqueous essence. The lacquered tray they are reposing on is black on the bottom and outside, and Chinese red on the inside. It has a handle that forms a rectangular arch; an abstract gazebo for the wedding of these two fruits.
Today, it seems, they have been blessed. Two strawberries are the offspring glistening at their feet (?). They sport little mops of green atop their heads. Cute. Oh, so cute.
And there we have it: Y is for the yellow skin of the apple, 2 is for the berries at their feet, And K is for the kitchen knife that I use in the morning while their juices stream down my fingers and their pulp is pounded between my teeth.
I love poetry, don't you?
I clean myself up afterwards - but leave the corings, the rind and the pips as a warning for whomever or whatever may wander into here while I am away battling demons and slaying dragons. I prepare my coat of arms and umbrella, stride out to my JR Line stables, and mount my steel-wheeled steed. Shortly I arrive at the edge of the unknown and unbuilt Universe, draw my trusty blade ExCADibur, and engage in bloody battle. I slay many a monstrous, ever-multiplying, and malicious e-mail - dispatching them hither and yon - Sending them, Saving them, or relegating them to the Trash pile. They "beep" and "bing" in protest and in pleasure.
Oh, happy day!
A mouse! A mouse! I rule my kingdom with a mouse! Klickety-click! Klickety-click! If only I had a joystick!
I love poetry, don’t you?
It's the poetic justice part that I could do without. And, speaking of which, 10:00 AM is approaching, and it’s off to see the wonderful wizards of the kingdom of Kajima. Our squire directs his coach to the guarded gates where a sently (I know, I know - you and would say "sentry", but when in wherever...) lets us pass, but only after we don the arm-bands and headdress of our hosts.
Today's negotiations deal with Backdraft 90% CD [Construction Documents] Review Comment Log Checkbacks and initial Sekozu [Japanese Construction Documents] Comments. Ritually, we go over each comment, over the questions on comments, the comments on comments, and the question of what is the true meaning of commenting. Just before running out of questionable comments, our warlord host saves face by suggesting that we break for lunch. Fergus and I save face by declaring that we knew that already, and that the only reason we haven't suggest it first is because we want to be polite. He, in turn, shows his politeness by apologizing that there are no cars available to take us back to the trailer - even though it may appear that their parking lot is full, and that his lieges are either lounging around or vacuuming up the contents of their bento boxes. We save our faces by declining to respond and leaving before they can karate-chop our cuspidors and bicuspids down our throats.
They're terrific people to work with.
And I just sense that they love poetry too.
Speaking of poetry, the prime luncheon entry looks like a beef-less hamburger on a bed of rice, but with both ends of a sardine jutting from the bun. It has my attention so riveted, that I fail to note the other offerings. Perhaps they were not as picturesque or intriguing - but they were equally unappealing to my fragile vegetarian self. So I stuck with my rut of miso soup, avocado, croissant, salad, and ginger ale. A truly well balanced meal - when you arrange them on the tray, the soup and the avocado on the left weigh as much as the rest of the stuff on the right.
I love the integration and commingling in the canteen. All USJ people sit at one table. All Japanese interpreters sit at another. Almost all USI personnel sit at one of two tables. The remainder is USI Area 2 - we sit at our own table. Either we are feared for our prowess in battle, or for the intimidation projected by the size of Ross and myself, or for the contagiousness of our viral cynicism, or more likely, they had mistakenly heard that we were suffering all morning with a back-draft. Ah well, when you're a hero, who needs friends?
Besides, they probably don't love poetry.
After attending to some miscellany in our office, we return to Kajima and continue with Backdraft. At three, we move on to Sekozu issues, with Fergus and Greg in attendance. It has been an interesting day. Kajima's main conference room has a sheet of vinyl that is accordioned open most of the time. But today it is closed, and there is a 50mm gap at the bottom. Ross has been meeting with facade vendors next door.
All day.
I'm not exactly Mr. Soft-Spoken either. We compete to be heard. Towards the end, the accordion is flung open repeatedly. The barriers of civility only appear to threaten to come down. Instead we engage in poetry. We explore the ambiguous line between having fun and making fun. The double-entendre and the pun are the most distilled form of poetry - in that they have a literal meaning, but at the same time they are metaphors that stand for something else entirely. All great art is metaphorical on many levels. A good joke may not be great art, but for a moment, both elate the spirit; both make us think.
The sun descends; the battleground of the conference room is strewn with massacred schedules and decimated budgets. An occasional spear projects from the carcass of a paper coffee cup. The shrapnel from sugar sticks lies amidst the shreds of abandoned agendas. It's time to saddle up and ride off into the sunset. As I engage in this iconic American tradition, I reflect that it is the mirror image from the Land of the Rising Sun. Which probably explains why they are reluctant to go home until the sun is closer to rising than setting.
The sun I follow sets over in the northern Shinsaibashi area. It sets at the door of Namaste, an Indian restaurant recommended by Erik. If you're on the Shinsaigashi-suji covered shopping street, heading north from the Crystal shopping plaza under Nagahori-dori street, you will see a sign for a Pango House on a southeast corner. Turn east, go a half block, up a half flight of stairs, and there you are.
I order a vegetarian thali, even though it is not on the menu, and a beer. The waitress confers with the owner, who verifies my order and I'm on my way to a good time. The meal starts with the papdum. On the table are salt, pepper, red pepper, and a small crock of lime pickle - spicy and delicious, but not for those on a restricted salt diet. I have a Maharajah Indian beer. The thali arrives. I place the slab of naan bread on the side and soak in the savory scents on the platter before me. There are the small bowls of curries with yellow peas, lotus root, potato and cauliflower, yogurt raitha, and cabbage and carrot salad. In the center is a small pile of rice and a fried pakora. Mint and tomato dipping sauces are on the side. It is interesting that the tomato sauce is almost straight ketchup - which actually derives from the original Indian formulation of kadjup, which the Brits first modified along its evolutionary route. Everything tastes very good and feels poetic. Thanks Erik.
The owner is, as it appears with many Indians here, fluent in English. He asks how I found his place, I blame Erik. He waxes enthusiastic. He reveals that he would like to open an Indian restaurant at USJ. I explain to him that there are no plans at this time for an Indian restaurant. I do offer him some encouragement, and suggest that all is not hopeless. He could fulfill his dream if he were to start by buying Seagram's. He becomes so excited that he mistakenly buys my next beer. Whadda country! I luvva dis man!
On the way back to the train, I pass by an elegant looking restaurant/bar amidst all the private clubs. It's in what is called the Gallery Building. The backlit picture board shows several elegant establishments in the same building on other floors. It is all very sparse, very modern, very chic, veddy-veddy. I go in to get a card for future reference. Forty to fifty nouveau-riche heads pop up from their tailored black jackets and fitted black dresses at the alien intruder wearing my clothes and my face. Senni-ma-sen.
Ichiriki, (06) 243-2085, is reached by going two blocks east along the street between the Sogo and Daimaru streets on Midu-soji Avenue, then a half block north. Just south of it, I spotted a hangout for boxing enthusiasts appropriately called the Blow Bar. Whadda country! There's poetry around every corner.
I love poetry, don't you? |