When we left those sylvan environs we had lots of lost meals (and burrito supremes) to make up for so we both became ravenous foodheads. This particular misadventure takes place years later in Samezu, (literal translation: Shark Country) a working class Tokyo suburb that sits on the inland waterways off Tokyo Bay.

So flash cut a few years after Tennessee but a few years before Shark Country to a small apartment in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Clark was in grad school on his way to being a world famous biologist and I was on a fast train to nowhere. So one fateful evening we decided to home cook a Thai meal. We procured the necessary ingredients and set about making our curries. So if you’ve ever cooked Thai curry you know to add a small spoonful of curry paste from one of those distinctive small Maesri cans.

Well, we started drinking and cooking (a practice i highly recommend you not engage in) and bragging about how manly we were and one thing led to another and we ended up adding the entire can!

Youch. Neither of us would admit it as we forced down the oh too spicy and not really fit for human consumption curry. At that moment our macho ‘hotter than thou’ rivalry was born!

Ok, so a little about Clark. His real name is not Clark. I’m using that pseudonym to protect his identity as he as currently teaches biology at UC Berkeley and I figure there’s a high probability that one of his students might be reading this blog.

Why Clark you ask? Like the eponymous Clark Kent, he too wears glasses and has a folksy down to earth mild manner. But underneath that slide-rule-pocket-protector-aw-shucks exterior lies is a man of steel. A fierce competitor. A worthy opponent!

So now to our story. He came to visit Tokyo for some worldwide biological save the kelp meeting and we decided to get together since I was then living (in Shark Country) and working (in a salt mine of sorts) in Tokyo. I suggested a little Thai restaurant some 15 minutes from my apartment next to a Sony factory (where many Thais worked).

It was a little late when we walked up and I was afraid they were closed. As we stepped in we saw a bulky Japanese man with a big smile and a white bandana wrapped around his head standing next to a petite woman with an evil glare. There was no one in the restaurant. He said in Japanese they had had a long day and that they were planning to close but since we were there, what the heck, he’d whip us up some dinner.

We sat and death-beam-lasers-for-eyes dropped our menus on the table. I said something to her in Japanese but it only seemed to incense her. The man walked over to take our order. Clark had already started trash talking:

“I’ll bet their curry’s not even hot. If you were a spice girl your name would be ‘wimpy spice.’” I drowned him out to concentrate on what the man was saying.

Apparently there had been a TV crew in not but a few minutes before we arrived filming one of those inane shows you so often see on Japanese TV. In this case they had been taking five contestants around Tokyo to various restaurants to eat ‘the hottest foods’. His restaurant had been chosen and his Thai wife had made a Tom Yum Kung (soup) that, in his own words, would make a Thai blush.

I immediately said we’d like some. He glanced nervously back at his wife. “Well, we do have some left, but I would not recommend it. Really.” I explained in Japanese that my partner was afflicted by a rare disease and his suffering could only be lessened by spicy foods. The spicier the better. That’s why we had come to his restaurant in the first place.

Kicking Clark underneath the table and I hissed at him to frown glumly. Which he did. The proprietor finally acquiesced and the game was afoot.

When he finally brought the small earthenware pot on a small flame to our table it looked rather innocuous. We each poured some and the carnage began. The moment, nay, the nanosecond the soup touched my lips I knew I was in big trouble. It was soooooo hot. Spicy hot. Temperature hot. Ungodly hot. The pain impulses raced down my backbone such that even my toes hurt. I tried to control the pain but it was all consuming. Tears welled up in my eyes.

Thank god Clark was crying too. The big baby. Yet neither of us would give in. Another spoonful of agony. The woman came over and with a look of raw compassion placed a box of tissues on the table. But neither of us would reach for one. My eyesight blurred. Then Clark blurted out, “Dude, your lips are as big as grapefruits!”

Indeed they had swollen to five times their normal size. I felt like a freakoid. A huge lipped monstrosity. I could eat no more soup. Or dinner for that matter. Even the air began to hurt them. I had to concede defeat. Et tu labia. Betrayed by my own flesh and blood. Damn lips.

So have you ever been engaged in an epic rivalry? Did you win or did you lose? Was it a graceful win (or loss) or was it ugly?

After grabbing my sandwich and picking up a loose paper I sat down and came to an article on the editorial page written by the Dalai Lama.

It was originally written in the Washington Post but reprinted in this local newspaper. There were two paragraphs that blew me away so I thought to share them with you here today:

“Many people today agree that we need to reduce violence in our society. If we are truly serious about this, we must deal with the roots of violence, particularly those that exist within each of us. We need to embrace “inner disarmament,” reducing our own emotions of suspicion, hatred and hostility towards our brothers and sisters.

And …

Large human movements spring from individual human initiatives. If you feel that you cannot have much of an effect, the next person may also become discouraged, and a great opportunity will have been lost. On the other hand, each of us can inspire others simply by working to develop our own altruistic motivations – and engaging the world with a compassion-tempered heart and mind.”

His message, while simple, was profound. Change begins at home. Peace starts at a very personal level. I wondered, though, if the folks in war ravaged lands like Iraq or Sudan could possibly adopt his credo. And then I thought those folks probably represent less than one percent of the human population on earth. The point is, I guess – for those of us in the other ninety-nine percent – to develop our good-hearted motivations while engaging the world at large.

So on the spot I vowed to change the toilet paper roll without cursing the heathen who left it empty and in first place. Also, I figure writing this blog post should build me some karma points since there is a small chance at least ONE of you reading this will take it to heart, get off your butt and really do something!

Then my entrepreneurial instincts kicked in and I thought wouldn’t it be cool to open deli with a ‘world peace’ motif. The house specialty vegan sandwich would, of course, be named the ‘Dali Lama’. We’d have a hot pastrami on rye called ‘Global Warming.’ My favorite would be the ‘Mahatma Gandhi,’ a curried treat only to be eaten sitting down. And of course there would be the ‘Martin Luther King Jr.’ for those dreamy types who love miracle whip.

On second thought maybe I’ll just propose my own sandwich to the owners of the Whistle Stop: ‘The Peace Train.’

What ingredients should go into ‘The Peace Train’ sandwich?
What small do-able thing can you commit to doing to make this world more peaceful?
If you could add a sandwich to the menu what would it be (name and key ingredients)?

I might be considered a late bloomer as I did not find alcohol all that appealing until my early twenties. In my teens I think maybe I held myself in too high moral regard. While she cavorted with my friends, I smugly watched them fall under her spell. Or maybe it was sheer indifference. Either way she eventually caught up with me and extracted a painful retribution for my youthful insolence.

Not in my twenties though. Those were the halcyon days when our relationship thrived. I developed a penchant for sultry foreign beers that tickled my tongue and went down smooth. I was a promiscuous little jack-o-nanny. I experimented with luscious reds and soft liqueurs. The kinkiest I ever got was mixing Kahlua and vodka in a fit of frenzy. But I always came back to the warm embrace of beer. In those days we enjoyed each others company in relative moderation.

Then came my thirties and China. Things got a bit out of hand. I suffered abuse and bear wounds that still plague me to this day. I got caught up in the vortex of China’s rush to modernize its wireless infrastructure. Growth in the business was akin to shooting Koi in a barrel (I know that’s Japanese, just testing your oriental knowledge).

The key moment in any business negotiation came down to ‘The Dinner’. After long, tedious negotiations it always distilled into two or three sticking points that ‘the bosses’ had to resolve over a meal. Thus I would sit at these grand banquet tables and engage in a sadist ritual: see who could get the other drunk thus impairing his or her judgment and winning better terms.

The weapon of choice … Laojiu or a clear liquid that makes rot gut whiskey seem like bottled water. I think the old lady doubled as rocket fuel in the budding Chinese Space industry. She smelled of trouble. Older, experienced, with a harsh acidic burn as she went down. You didn’t drink her as much as inhale her. Small glasses. Large thimbles. They seemed harmless at first. But with each ‘ganbei’ or bottoms up, the thimble got heavier, the room swirled faster, and I lost my steadying grip on reality.

Eventually my morning sickness signaled something had gestated in me. I visited the doctor to find my stomach lining had just about been eaten away by her lavish attention. An ulcer just months away from birth. I took medicine to control it. But my job required the dance. So I improvised (but that’s a story for another day). In the end she had her way with me. My stomach has never fully recovered.

I’m now to the point where I can drink a beer or wine or two. If I let myself go to that third, however, I begin to sense that gnawing feeling again. So I live under a kind of a forced peace. A balance restored in the relationship by fiat at last.

How about you? What is your relationship with alcohol?

What goes around comes around, funny how life has a way of balancing everything out.

Several years ago when we were visiting my brother in California his young panicky cat slipped under his car and refused to come out. After a watching the entire family try to coax the timid kitten out, I sauntered up and with no uncertain amount of bravado blustered, “Let me get him out, I speak Cat.” So I squatted down and let loose an authoritative “Meow.” “Darn if I don’t sound like a cat,” I thought to myself. And then, wouldn’t you know it, Boots came tumbling right out. My young kids looked at me in awe. Being totally within character, I took full credit for this feline rescue.

So from that point on M and S actually believed that I spoke Cat. I’m not kidding. At the zoo they exhorted me to translate for the Tigers. To laugh at the Lions. I told them, “Lions are proud creatures that wouldn’t admit to speaking lowly House Cat,” while suppressing a big chuckle. They implored me to yell at the Jaguars to come over and bare their fangs. This myth not only perpetuated for years, but in fact, grew in stature. One day not long after the original “Boots incident” while at the park M, knowing that I already spoke Cat, on a lark asked me if I also barked Dog. “Well, heck, once you purr a little Cat, what’s a little Dog,” I thought to myself. So I said “Yes,” barked at a dog to come over and wouldn’t you know it – he did! This marvelous myth persisted for years. I teased them mercilessly and laughed and laughed (on the inside). I became so full of myself.

But then life has a way of slipping away as air slowly hisses out of a holey bike tire. I don’t know exactly when or how, but sort of like the invisible deflating of the Santa Claus or Tooth fairy myths, one day I woke up to find that my kids didn’t believe I spoke Cat or Dog anymore. In fact, in a rude turnabout, they had taken to piteouslessly teasing me about it when I continued to “meow” and “bark” away at rogue pets. Which stung mightily because, truth be told, after so many years of them believing, I had come to the inexorable conclusion that I actually could speak to animals.

To this day, I still believe with all my heart that my perfect pitched purr will get through to those cats without the odd hearing impairment or personality disorder.

“Meow.” “Meow.” “Prrrrrrrr.”

So our kitchen table is on her last leg, literally. If she were a horse we’d have taken her out back and shot her. My father, who was visiting a while back and is handy with things like ailing tables, put a second stud screw through the leg to fasten it tight. Thus bolstered, I thought she had a few more years in her but no… she has pulled up lame yet again.

So on this dreary, rainy day we headed to IKEA. Note I typically mispronounce it ‘Ick eee ya’ (as in icky) as opposed to the supposed correct ‘Ay key ya’. I think IKEA is Swedish for ‘you’ve got a meatball stuck in your throat’ or maybe that’s just the sound you make when you do. Anyway, I’m not so fluent in Swedish. Our mission was merely reconnaissance for a new kitchen table. Or so I thought.

First problem hit us before we even reached the parking lot. A huge sign on the side of the road read ‘autos turn to park in 800m’ and ‘over height vehicles 1200m’. So tell me this, when the hell did we start using the metric system in the good ole US of A.

I’m actually quite used to metrics having lived several dog’s lifetimes overseas. But like some foreign language you are required to THINK in metric. You can’t be translating back and forth. I mean who besides Einstein has time to do all of those funky calculations in their head. Especially while driving in the pelting Californian rain.

And I’m in an SUV. Is an SUV classified as an auto or an over height vehicle? Would I have to stop and measure it? Would I need to measure in meters or feet? While thus spazzing-out thank goodness I noticed the mini-van in front of me turning into the auto turnoff so I followed figuring that if his or her top sheared off I’d just come to an abrupt stop and back out.

Once in the store, I immediately got sucked into the IKEA cheap eats café laden with subsidized goodies to get the unsuspecting clod jacked up on meatballs, cheap wine and European coffee for their ensuing consumer frenzy.

Thus slightly inebriated, highly sugared and over caffeinated I sauntered into … the maze. If I’d been smart enough to carry my cinnabun with me, I could have left small crumbs along the path and maybe, possibly have found my way out. As it was, the place twisted and turned in a confusing blur of blind furniture alleys. I’m telling you not even mice chasing overripe cheese would have gotten out of there. Even with the funny arrows on the floor supposedly taking you to some promised land or the cash register, you’re always getting lost. The maps make little sense. I guess they figure if they confuse you enough you’ll buy something, anything just taste sweet freedom.

Needless to say, wandering in this furniture desert, we eventually came across the “perfect kitchen table” like manna from heaven. I was not so gently persuaded to buy it by my spouse. So much for reconnaissance. At least we finally had our ticket to freedom. That, my friends, is the secret. Once you’ve decide to spend your hard earned cash, the road to salvation and the cash register lights up with alacrity. Life is but a maze to be navigated.

Have you ever felt lost in the maze of life? How did you ever find your way out?

I know at least half of your brain is thinking … hell, what an invention. Roof darts, I wish I had thought of that. JD you’ll be rich beyond your wildest dreams! While the other half is thinking … that JD, what an idiot, that’s got to be the stupidest idea since the bass-0-matic.

Anyway, after a few gripping minutes into this endeavor, I fired a volley of three darts simultaneously while withholding another three for individual throws. My elder younger brother thinking that I had sent them all, suddenly came darting out to collect them. At that very moment I loosened a single red dart at the bull’s eye. And I still contend to this day that never as true a twang as ever been tossed in the history of the sport, and I clearly would have hit the bulls eye square, if not for his bone-headed move.

Anyway, the dart entered smack in the back of his head.

The terror I felt in that moment still haunts me to this day. I thought I had killed him … a direct dart to the brain! Without thinking, I jumped down from the roof thus spraining my ankle in the process. Ouch! Such agony as I hobbled over to him. He just stood there looking at me with a blank stare like I was some sort of lunatic.
“Are you alright?” I yelled.
“What?” he returned quizzically

Hell, he didn’t even realize that he had a red dart sticking out of the back of his head like some bloodied single feather on an Indian scout.

I told him to be still as I reached around and plucked the dart out of his head. Like an idiot, I explained to him what had happened. When full realization he had been red-darted hit him, he began balling.

“Wah, wah, wah!”

In the ensuing mayhem, as usual, I got blamed for everything bad in the world. I was subsequently punished. He, no worse for wear, got the sympathy of friends, relatives and complete strangers. Life’s so unfair sometimes!

So what’s the worse you’ve ever done to your brother or sister? What the worst thing they’ve ever done to you?

© 2008 Bluntwit.com

The week prior to that fateful train trip we were nestled around a circular table of a ritzy hotel restaurant high above the Shanghai skyline. Around the dais sat my friend Dave, his girlfriend, his Japanese godmother, my mom and me.

An outbreak of Hepatitis A raged in the streets below, apparently ignited by a rogue shellfish some days earlier. I could be wrong but I could have sworn I saw crustacean wanted posters dotting the city. For the uninitiated, Hep A spreads like wildfire, mostly through improper food handling. The Chinese government had practically locked down the entire city. Food stands and most low-end restaurants were shuttered. And it seemed as if banks were being robbed right and left as everyone wore suspicious white face masks.

Being the self appointed expert, I took the liberty of ordering a pot of Jiaozi, or boiled dumplings, for everyone. I then haughtily went about explaining the proper technique for eating these scrumptious delights properly.
“First step is to grab your bowl just like so.”
I poured a smidge of soy sauce into my square bowl.
“Not too much, not too little.”
“Dip in just like so … and eat.”

Everyone fired silent darts at my condescending and typically long-winded explanation as they were hungry after a long day of sightseeing. When the dumplings arrived, they soy sauced up their respective bowls and dove into them with gusto. Just then the waiter came up and with a look of sheer horror blurted out,
“You are all eating out of the ashtrays!”

Everybody simultaneously barfed up their partially digested dumplings. My face beeted red. The waiter immediately changed out our ashtrays for proper dipping bowls. I tried to make light of the situation,
“Look on the bright side. At least by using ashtrays we were significantly cutting down our risk of contracting Hep A!”

So tell me, what’s your most embarrassing moment?

© 2008 Bluntwit.com

The wellspring of my guilt occurred in the yingwo, or hard sleeper section, of a 35 hour train trip from Beijing to Hong Kong some years ago. I was traveling with my mother who had decided to visit China for the very first time and take advantage of the fact that her eldest son had been studying there for a year. He neglected to tell her he still couldn’t use chopsticks or even fly a kite properly.

Ah, and for the uninitiated, the accommodations on the train to Hell are more comfortable than your average yingwo.

Anyway, when we arrived at our assigned cubby hole there were folks huddled around the single fold down table puffing furiously on unfiltered cigarettes.

Ok my memory might be playing tricks on me. Let’s try again.

Anyway these two smokers barely noticed us through the haze as we piled into the upper bunks on either side. The shorter of the two wore black and sort of glared at the world through the shifty eyes of a possible serial killer. The other one had that dull stare of an unwitting accomplice. Together they scared me.

Once the train had pulled away the two men redoubled their smoking. My Mom, clearly in agony, looked across at me and said, “Tell them to stop smoking. I can’t breathe. And if you don’t, I WILL.” (Not that she could, as she only spoke the sliverest of Chinese and they didn’t speak even a wink of English).

Now I had a quandary. I had lived in China for a while and had various run-ins with these lawless types, impervious to any of the decorum that keeps a normal, polite society from falling to pieces. They would sooner kill you as spit on you. And there was the whole ‘face’ issue. You must never, ever cause such ruffians to lose face. So I wavered. And my mother suffered and seethed. She again threatened to take matters into her own hand when suddenly it came to me!

“Cough,” I said to her, “Loudly and often.”
She looked perplexed so I repeated my entreaty with maniac zeal.
“Cough. Cough. Cough.” She hacked.

I approached them nervously. I noticed the smaller man’s yellow, nicotine-stained fingers as he took a long, lazy drag.
“I apologize in advance,” I said in Chinese, “but the woman here is my mother and she has been afflicted with a bad case of Tuberculosis and your cigarette smoke is inflaming her raw, gnarled lungs.”

At that both men’s eyes grew wide with fright as they extinguished their cigarettes and rushed off to find a safer locale. Thus, we enjoyed the entire trip in relative smoke-free seclusion. My mother asked me what I said to them and I told her that I had simply asked politely that they not smoke as it bothered her.

To this day I have not confessed the fact I afflicted her with such a malevolent, spur-of-the-moment imaginary disease. I thought putting the story out there and confessing in the relative anonymity of the blogosphere would start the healing process. Sorry Mom.

Do you have any deep, dark secrets you to want to own up to and assuage your conflicted conscious?