WED 07 JUL 99

 

Royal Flush at the Big Udon

 

It’s 5:30 AM. I just woke up in strangely familiar surroundings. I’m at the Udon Hilton once again. So, I’m scratching and stretching while standing in front of the window on the 26th floor. I’m scanning the panoramic view to see what’s new and what’s not. The “pan-“ part is still there, but two new buildings across the street from the Ritz-Carlton have abbreviated the “-o-rama” portion. Since I was last here, their construction has risen above my horizon. Is it that everything around me is ascending, or is it that I am on this slow but inexorable descent?

 

I’m distracted from my morning musings by a slight “sussh-ing” sound coming from the hall. I turn and see that my old friend, the Mainichi News, has been slipped under the door. I look and realize that all is right with the world—the Mainichi has not failed to deliver.

 

Right there, page 1, top story above the fold:

 

Aging toilet seats flush with risks

BY KAZUHIKO TOYAMA

            Mainichi Shimbun

 

Owners of aging heated toilets who wish to avoid being put on the hot seat would do well to inspect the units carefully, warns the Tokyo Fire Department. Failing to do so could literally be a pain in the butt.

Over the past six years, fire department officials have traced the cause of three house fires in the Tokyo area to the heating units of multifunction toilet seats.

 

We also learn that:

The most recent fire involving a heated toilet seat broke out at a grocery store that doubled as the residence of a 61-year-old shopkeeper, who wished to remain anonymous…

And that:

In October of last year, a fire broke out at the home of a 67-year-old self-employed man in Toshima-ku. A similar blaze struck a house in Tanashi in July 1993. Like the man in the recent Higashimurayama incident, those in the affected households requested anonymity.

And finally:

According to the Economic Planning Agency, the number of multifunction toilet seats in use has more than doubled over the past seven years, from 14 percent in 1992 to 36.5 percent as of March this year. The rate first topped the 30-percent mark in 1997.

 

See, now I think that the anonymity thing is the real story. What are these people trying to hide? Is there something in the diets of Japanese 60+ year-olds that spontaneously combusts? Is Popiel Products developing a line of other posterior pampering devices, such as Oven Buns ®, Poop Poachers ®, or chilled seat pads called Wind Brakers ®?

 

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But work I must, and to work I go.

 

I arrive on time—though there are some narrow-minded people that would call this late—and join the Area 2 Weekly Team Meeting. This is very modern, very upwardly mobile. This is mano-a-mano bi-coastal triangulation. This is win-win consensus building.

 

The purpose of the meeting is communication. The most frequently discussed item, though not on the agenda, is communication. Everyone is talking about the phone system, the poor quality of reception, the feedback in the line, the static due to sunspots, and the frequent cutoffs while on line, etc. But this talk is to each other in the room, and not to the group at the other end—which is doing the exact same thing. Despite the fact that Patrice is in the room, it’s kind of a guy thang.

 

What so few recognize, is that this system provides a fudge factor. It creates deniability. It presents possibilities rather than prescriptions. For example, when asked: “Do you understand that?” the appropriate answer is: “I hear you.” and not “Yes.” Or, when asked: “What are your thoughts on this matter?” the answer should be: “We’re looking into that, Tony.” and not: “It’s hard enough to understand you foreigners, but when you’re mumbling away while I’m trying to carry on this conversation on the side, don’t expect me to understand a word you’re saying.”

 

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Eventually, the meeting ends and off we run to meet with the Area 2 GCs. We live in luxury. We no longer depend on the shuttle bus driver to chauffeur us around. We now have our own Jeep. And not just any Jeep, but one with air conditioning and power windows. I think the tires have optional booties in case the construction site gets wet and muddy.

 

Fergus is at the wheel. Fergus is the Project Engineer that has Grand Prix promotional material as his desktop wallpaper. Fergus is the Project Engineer that has Grand Prix racer bios as his screen saver. Fergus is the diehard patriot, that when given a choice between racing in the Grand Prix and letting Eire sink below the sea, he would always don a crash helmet.

 

But he isn’t wearing a crash helmet here.

 

I know we’re moving faster than the speed of sound. I swear I can see Greg, Shim and Mark screaming, but I can’t hear them. Going to the contractor’s offices is like flying from Osaka to LA—we get there before we’ve left. But, hey! It’s just us guys doin’ our guy thang.

 

At the GC’s offices, everything seems the same, but out of place. In fact the offices are no longer in the same place. The twin two-story trailers have been relocated some one to two hundred feet away from their original location. They are sitting up on blocks and beams. The steps no longer reach the ground. Unbeknownst to me, the move has not been completed.

 

The meeting up in the second floor is progressing. Suddenly, the room is slamming and shaking as in a 5.0 earthquake. Not to worry, we are assured. They’re only jacking the building down. We be cool. Cuz’ we be guys.

 

The meeting progresses until the lunch break. We pile back into the Jeep. Now we fly by way of freeway to the World Trade Center. No, I decide, a safety belt will do nothing for me. Wings and a parachute might, given how elevated the freeways are.

 

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We arrive near the WTC and park several blocks away. The planners of this wasteland didn’t want cars, but wanted open windswept space with nothing to do and nowhere to go. Nowhere for us is the USJ display model on the 36th floor. We pose a cardboard cutout of an ape on one of the buildings and try to imagine that it is huge. The model, especially the lagoon part is not made for eye-level viewing. At least, not without appropriate miniature video equipment. We wrap up with some compromising group photographs. Nothing bad, mind you, jes’ us guys doin’ our thang.

 

We have lunch on the 46th floor at Marouche (06) 615-7120. There is a very reasonable buffet lunch for ¥980 with about 25 items to select from, and ice cream tossed in to boot. Beer, sake and other adult beverages are available for an extra charge. The incredible view is for free. In the afternoons and on into the evening, this turns into a seafood-oriented café. Definitely a place for a cheap date.

 

Regrettably, the combination of the environs, the comity, and the comestibles do little to influence the depravity that the discussion dips down to. The subject of eating monkey brains comes up. Then its raw baby octopus dipped in soy sauce. And then about the drunk who swallowed one the wrong way, and almost was choked to death by the octopus trying to climb its way out the throat. I argue, what’s the point; you can’t taste anything except the soy sauce if you swallow it whole. Unless that is, it goes to the bathroom on the way down, giving that extra little fishy taste. On and on it descends. But, hey! We be guys.

 

It’s time to go back. We go down a block and across the street to an Ando building. The four storied barrel-roofed entrance structure has an Italian restaurant on the left and storage for a collection of rare sports cars on the right. The restaurant looks sophisticated, the prices look very reasonable, and the place looks abandoned. The wasteland environment outside does not bring people in the door. Setting the cold and austere entry substantially back from the street doesn’t help any either. Forcing people to enter from the corner, which is the point furthest from any parking, adds even more folly to the venture.

 

After making a wrong turn, we all wind up jumping over a barbed wire fence in order to get back to the car. There’s something threatening about going over that wire. It’s kind of a guy thang on one side of the fence that could end up a non-guy thing on the other.

 

We survive the ordeal and its time to reassert our guy-ness. So vrooom! VROOOM! Fergus takes us on another flying lesson back to the site. I never did learn whether he did Immelmans or loop-the-loops, but I did learn how to use a barf bag in zero-G.

 

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After another half-day of meetings with the GC, it’s back to the hotel for a quick change and back out to meet Shim and Mark. We head out to explore the labyrinths under the Hankyu Station. Among the stops is Kiddy Land, with a large selection of toys for all ages on the lower level. I buy a pack of Sumo Wrestler trading cards. I won’t describe what’s on them. I’ll just mention monkey brains and that one can apparently exist without the other. If you don’t get it, don’t worry, it’s just a guy thang.

 

We go to the 4th floor lobby in the Hankyu International while Mark makes use of the facilities. Shim and I notice that the space is filled with respectably dressed young ladies, who all get up at one point and go to one of the meeting rooms on the floor. Shim inquires and finds that they are all members or former members of the women’s equivalent of Kabuki dancers. In Kabuki, men play all roles. In the other, women play them all. Tonight they are doing a parody for their own enjoyment. Do we question these ladies’ preferences? Nah! We just do the guy thing and move on.

 

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We wind up at Kissho (06 6373-3456). This is under the Hankyu Station on the second basement near the southwest side of the Epicure Museum. We start with a round of beer in nice big half-liter mugs and a bowl of edamame to keep me from chewing on the tablecloth. Then a plate of sushi arrives for Shim and Mark with perch, tuna and octopus. Shim declares the perch to be very good. Somehow, the subject of monkey brains comes up (no pun intended) again.

 

I then get a bowl of vegetable tempura with the usual dipping sauce. The batter is eggy-er than some, but freshly done nevertheless. There is one piece each of over half a dozen veggies and a cherry-sized blob of minced daikon to stir into the sauce.

 

Another vegetarian dish arrives of a bowl of ice water. Okay, well, a little more than that. It also has a chunk of silky tofu paddling about. It has two slices of a small cucumber on top to keep it company, and a maraschino cherry to keep it colorful. On the side is another dipping sauce, some lime green wasabi and little clump of chopped chives.

 

Mark and Shim also get tempura, but with seafood mixed in. Another round of amber beers melds out the flavors, mellows out the evening, and keeps the evil spirits of the monkey brains away. One thing about those that eat monkey brains: they have remained anonymous. No one I know has been witness to this. But many know someone who has, or know someone who knows someone who has. But they stay anonymous.

 

Here’s the answer: The toilet seats were used to clamp the monkeys’ skulls into place. An over-tightening of the clamps created pressure, which resulted in an increase in temperature. Added to this was the temperature increase from the seat’s heating element. The overheating then resulted in explosions and spontaneous combustion. Investigations have been hampered by the fact that all evidence was then flushed away. Or eaten.

 

So remember—beware of anonymous strangers that refer to your toilet as a hibachi.

 

Oh, and by the way—that monkey? That exploding monkey was a guy, and he was jus’ doin’ his thing.

Udon Saga