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or, how tiffany beckoned the atomic age
somewhat steadfastly carrying the banner of sushi club into yet another new week, jack found himself sitting solo in a dark corner of the karaoke bar on yet another thursday night. (probably pondering the fine line between being stuck in a rut, and pedantically adhering to tradition, but that is a digression somewhat circumspect of the intent of this post).
in the unremarkable absence of the usual accomplices, this seating position tends to afford three welcome distractions:
- an inconspicuous corner for people watching: this is a karaoke bar, after all.
- ready access to witty banter of tremendously clever, bijin bar-keeps. (we adore them both).
- a tele, which usually is playing some obscure anime title, or adult swim. tonite, it's adult swim.
there are three other geezers at the far side of the bar, (henceforth to be referred to as the triad). 'the triad' is easily recognized as a group of regulars, an observation that—in my own socially abrasive way—tends to imply that they've done something annoying enough, or simply frequently enough, to finally be commited to memory. (for what it's worth, i can't recall which).
like me, they are predominantly white, twenty-something males with sad faces and an expensive sushi habit. like me, they are trying hard to look like they are not trying hard to engage the aformentioned clever bar-keeps in conversation. (greatly suspect bar-keeps are clever enough to identify this timeless ruse, yet surreptitiously professional enough to play along. sneaky she-types, that lot.)
all in all, it was shaping up to be a relatively routine sushi-club experience. routine right up to the point of sub-atomic fission.
somehow temporarily distracted, (retrospective liberty affords the opportunity to blame it on the tiffany imposter struggling through 'time after time,' but who knows), i missed the triad's presumptuous request to change source channels on the CC tele.
a few off key notes and forced hair twirls: the socially neutral adult swim feed was terminated, and a kodachrome mushroom cloud bloomed at top-shelf, refracted through a nearby bottle of johnny walker black. ikinari hidoi.
the triad had requested tuning to OPB (like PBS, but specific to oregon) in order to capture "japan's war in color."
disclaimer: i will readily concede this to be an interesting program, perhaps even recommendable. thus confessed: any historical (and perversely aesthetic) stimulation conceived of this experience played a muted second fiddle to the overbearing sense of uncomfort in this experience. then again, perhaps that's what made it so engrossing.
i have never been so acutely aware of my race, my nationality, my very insignificance than sitting in that japense bar, drinking my japanese beer, and watching these satiny billowing clouds of shifted color. how impolitic.
60 minutes of unwaivering silence. 60 minutes of directionless adrenaline, fueled by wasabi, which seeps like sweat and smells of guilt.
i pay my bill, tip 40%, and slip quietly into the night. it's cold outside.