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25 FEB 99
Heartbreak Ridge at the Big Udon
Off to work again. Tomorrow’s on my mind. Tomorrow I return to LA. Home. I can almost smell the dog droppings in the yard. Who said LA has no there, there. They haven’t been out our way.
Acchh – they might be smelly, but at least they’re our droppings.
And so, it’s out the room, out the lobby, across the street, main train, shuttle train, shuttle bus. A couple of construction workers recognize me and greet me with an “Oohss-s” (Rhymes with goose) – I gather that it’s a blue-collar abbreviation for ‘Ohayo-gozaimasu.’ [Good morning. Literally ‘It’s early.’]
It brings my thoughts back to some two weeks ago when I got on the shuttle bus. The driver greeted me with a full “ohayo-gazaimasu” as I sat down near the front. Six or seven USJCo [the international conglomerate which owns Universal Studios Japan] personnel followed me on board. As each got in, the driver greeted them with an abbreviated “m-Ahss-s”, each would respond with a “m-Ahss-s”. Then each would exchange “m-Ahss-s”-es with everyone else on board as they moved to the seats towards the rear. I felt like there was a den of snakes behind me seething and hissing. I didn’t dare turn around, for fear they would sense my heat and strike.
* * * * *
My favorite (and only) morning paper, the Mainachi News, carries this to further prove that some among the Japanese do strike out:
Japan denies envoy’s ‘wife-bashing’ excuse
WASHINGTON (Kyodo) – The Japanese ambassador to the United States on Tuesday denied newspaper reports that the Japanese consul general in Canada, who allegedly assaulted his wife in the country, later downplayed the incident as a matter of Japanese culture. At a regular news conference, Ambassador Kunihiko Saito was referring to the alleged misconduct by Shuji Simokoji, 51, consul general in Vancouver. Shimokoji was recently served an arrest warrant on suspicion of assaulting his wife in the Canadian city, and turned himself in. The reports said he told investigators that the incident should be judged from a cultural point of view and that it has no significance in Japan.
It just warms my heart that there are so many Americans that subscribe to cultural relativism—that claim that no culture is better than another, and that therefore we should not judge others. Just think of where Hitler and Stalin would be now if most believed then what is believed today. Well—at least either way, they still would have died.
* * * * *
So, off to happier things. I’m in the office. A stack of drawings is spontaneously propagating on Fergus’s chair, a bunch of Sekozus [Japanese construction drawings] on mine. A collection of Raouf’s abandoned medicines pose in a melancholy stilllife behind me. There’s sunshine outside, and I’m not.
I call home to Suezenne to confirm arrangements for meeting at LAX. As she talks, silent icicles stab into my being from a universe emptied of light. Her best friend’s daughter is about to undergo the excising of an advanced malignancy in a procedure so horrific that I’m not sure I could face the same.
I have met her more through Suezenne’s stories than in person. She has struck me as a true innocent—someone with such a positive sense of life that she cannot acknowledge the existence of malevolence. She is also gifted with an appearance most would wish for. When riding C’boy, she truly is a free spirit in a radiant universe of joy. Why then is so much cruelty visited upon such a freshness of life? What system of belief can welcome such a travesty of justice?
The totality of what surrounds is a field of flowers that comes alive in the spring of existence. Blossoms emerge, then shower the ground with the petals of their former beauty. It is usually this wave of color that imagination is launched upon—rather than the individual blossom. But this blossom—this particular blossom—Kelley, has brushed against our lives—and it matters.
Deeply.
I can only pray that this poinsettia blooms through the winter of her existence and flourishes into the spring.
* * * * *
I stumble numbly through work until lunchtime asserts itself. I go to the canteen. No flowers here. I scoop out the reconstituted seaweed hairball from the udon and thicken it with chili sauce in hopes that I won’t be able to taste the seafood in the broth. I venture into the unknown as I top my salad with soy dressing. Ginger ale is my aperitif. Kampai.
I attend a meeting at USJCo, my first with them during these past three weeks. In the USI trailers, anybody can wander in anytime—and they do. Unfortunately, this is not always conducive to doing work. So the smart folk at USJCo solve this by sticking to custom at their trailer. Mind you, this is a construction site, and most people wear laced-up work boots. Sticking to tradition means taking off your footwear upon entry, and donning slippers, then replacing your boots when you leave. The net result is that most people are lazy enough to think twice before going to USJCo.
Afterwards, we go to the Area 2 GC offices for a T2 Facility Coordination of Actor’s Access meeting. Here I come to realize that there is a disconnect between what I assume they have gotten, what I know they have gotten, and what they say they have gotten. All I know is, I don’t get it; they’re gonna get theirs; and I’ve been had.
* * * * *
After dinner, a half-dozen of us go to Pietro (Tel.06.6343.7103), in the Herbis Plaza basement, which is just east of the Ritz-Carlton. They have an English menu (only one—so large groups take time). Most everything is pretty good and pretty reasonable—although the bottle of red wine vinegar seems out of place in our wineglasses. There is a more extensive wine list, but it is in Japanese.
Earlier in the day, Andrea had announced her departure for that place that appreciates long naked tails. So we talk of quitters and bottom feeders. Although we look at her, we’re actually referring to Kerry, Alan and that ilk. Nevertheless, it’s strange to watch those two black disks emerge from the top of what’s left of her head.
The whiskers don’t turn out too bad, but boy-oh-boy!—those clunky yellow shoes!
Ahh-h-h! And tomorrow is home.
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