#Space Middle Aged Salaryman

[shinygoku]

wait so the whole point of pikmin is that you PICK men???? 🤨

Well y'see, he's like a Blorbo to many! Myself included~

[phantomrose96]

I've now started Pikmin 3 and Olimar's side mission vlogs are so funny to me.

Like the Koppaite trio are already on the search for this man, and any savvy Pikmin player already knows this means something horrific has happened to Olimar because of how the universe treats Olimar as a person.

And then you unlock Olimar's video logs. All of which he starts with a Middle-Aged Dad Too Close To The Camera angle on him which he never fixes. His very first words are "Hocotate Freight is back in massive debt due to reasons that aren't the President's fault... I say only because this is a company video."

He spends every video making as many under-handed jabs at the President as he can get away with. He starts every video with "I'm Olimar and I never tire of hunting for treasure on this planet" with the ("I say only because this is a company video") implied under his breath. He roasts Louie's incompetence. He complains about the budget space suits they've switched to, which I think counts as inflicting genuine trauma on a man whose entire month of castaway survival on this planet had hinged on the non-failure of his space suit's life support system. He's cold. He's broke even after committing all the atrocities for his boss. His coworker sucks and his boss is a dick. He took a vacation once in the last 5 years and that vacation ended with him learning how to kill remorselessly. No one saves him but himself. No one helps him but himself. He's the world's most underappreciated salaryman. He spends all his logs talking about how much he misses his family and how much he wants to get the fuck out of here, in the civilest and politest and "because this is a company video"est way he can. He's interrupted in every single video by Louie getting Pikmin slaughtered on camera and Olimar just watches the gore and violence as if witnessing a mild inconvenience because he's dead inside.

And he finally makes it to the final vlog where he says "There's a big treasure haul in here, and once I get it I'm giving my boss three games' worth of pent-up middle fingers and then going on a year-long vacation with my family" only to then be cut off as he's torn from the ground by a nightmare creature whose only goal in life is to be a living Saw trap.

Why the fuck does Nintendo keep doing this man like this.

[sanktpolypenbourg]

I never stop talking about how I believe if there was an elemental system of sophont species in the universe, humans would be "poison" type, at the very least because we cultivate micro-organisms in our mouth-hole that make our spit and snot and bites deadly to any other species and sometimes even other humans

And, like. Can you picture it.

It is one thing if a "poison" type is like a colourful striped snake thing or a neon green space bug.

But picture like a middle aged white salaryman with the label "poison" type. "This thing is gonna bite you and that will kill you". Absolutely glorious and wretched.

[quiettime3]

The Exit 8

The Exit 8 is a walking sim/observational horror title that made some pretty big waves as an indie title on PC before dropping a surprise Xbox release for just £3.39. As a transport nerd, I love the Japanese metro setting, and the concept of a looping spot the difference space is really appealing. It’s even a pretty simple 1000g, which is always a bonus for me. There’s just one problem - I’m not a horror gamer.

I can deal with some mild scares, and even in film and TV, I can handle my scary stuff pretty well, but in interactive formats like video games, I really struggle to keep going. Still, having seen The Exit 8 on plenty of streams when it released, I was determined to give it a go, since the observation-based anomaly spotting gameplay is perhaps one of my favourite genres to watch. I roped a housemate into playing with me, and the support helped even a wuss like me push through into a terrifically tight and tense experience.

There’s no menu to speak of in this one - you’re dropped straight into the experience and given a few warm-up loops to get used to the corridor you find yourself trapped in. There are doors, vents, some posters, a yellow line of tiles on the ground and a middle-aged salaryman walking past, paying you no mind. Starting at level 0, you’ll have to be on the lookout for changes to or deviations from any of these key features, reversing course if something is wrong and charging ahead if all is well. With 8 correct loops in a row, you find the exit you seek and make your way back to the surface. Sounds simple, right?

Well, how many doors were there? Did you make sure the text on that sign was right? Was the businessman always looking right at you? What feel like minor details become suddenly pivotal in the moment, and you’ll be on edge for any little sign of change after just a few minutes. Whilst some differences are minor, a few can be pretty frightening, especially if you’re dialled into searching for minor discrepancies and are suddenly confronted by a loud knocking behind one of the doors. It’s a fantastic balancing act that keeps you on guard at all times.

In some ways, the scariest moments come in corridors which seem to be totally unchanged. It’s really nerve wracking to turn the final corner and commit to passing on the inspection, as a single mistake takes you right back down to level 0. Even if you mess up a few times, The Exit 8 remains a reasonably short game, with 100% completion being pretty doable within 2 hours. Multiple runs are encouraged - once you beat the game once, a small sign from the developer thanking you for playing and informing you of how many new anomalies remain for you to spot will appear in the hallway.

Whilst it definitely got my adrenaline pumping more than my average fare, I actually enjoyed my time with The Exit 8. I’m glad I played with a friend at my side, even if it just provided some extra reassurance with another set of eyes, but being so on edge was pretty fun when it was clearly the point of the game. Discovering anomalies felt both horrifying and vindicating, and if you can handle your scares better than me, I’d absolutely recommend giving this gem a couple hours of your time. Just remember to check the posters aren’t looking back at you!

Pros:

• A simple concept that is perfectly executed

• Tightly packed with lots of fun scares and tense moments

• Cheap and cheerful price point

Cons:

• Loses replayability once you learn all the anomaly locations

• Not the most relaxing way to spend spare time - I felt like I needed to play a totally different game to calm down afterwards!

[michellesonata]

Tokyo Interlude III: Hoka no Minna

他のみんな。

Some people are best kept in the memories -- that person definitely belongs there.

Now let's talk about everyone else.

Let's start with the small underground whiskey bar in Ikebukuro.

The bespectacled bartender. The middle age lady, cigarettes in her right hand. The artist. The university students. The salaryman in his 40s. And me.

What kind of conversation did we have? We talked about Murakami Haruki. Someone gave me some recommendations on Tokyo Whiskey Library and this izakaya called Shirubeii, which I never ended up going. We talked about guitar, Eric Clapton, and Layla. I talked briefly about Brave New World. The salaryman told me that he has been coming to the bar every Friday for the past 10 years.

We were all brought together to this time and space by pure coincidence, and then eternally separated after one evening. All those brief connections, forever ingrained in our memories, and will probably indefinitely remains there.

Sometimes I wonder if any of them would go back to the bar and glance at the door, waiting for me, the anomaly of this city, to revisit.

I guess in a way that person is just like everyone else. We are all part of the crowd of society, and we will never find each other again. Some people only belong in the memories and it is best to be left that way.

FY is the other person I have to write about, because he doesn't belong in the memories. He is tangible through time and space, and for that reason he will always remain at the brighter place of my mind.

The idea of him did not exist, but there he was -- in flesh and bones.

The brief few minutes in the rooftop garden, the white hospital gown -- these are memories I will always cherish, without heartache.

One more person I wanted to write about -- the bartender who made good Bloody Mary. But that is for another time.

[haikyooot]

Ch 16: This is Osaka

Life’s a Hoot Ch 16:  What's so special about Osaka? It's your first day at the Osaka office and there's plenty of work to pick up. After much anticipation, you finally get to visit Osamu's flagship onigiri shop. How does your day go?

Bokuto x Reader fic

Masterlist

How do you differentiate one city from another? If you take a picture of the concrete sidewalk, would you be able to tell? What about a brick on the wall, or a photo of the shared sky?

Osaka is very much it’s own. It’s not “the other Tokyo”, nor is the city trying to compete with any other metropolis. From its design, there isn’t much beyond an expansive concrete jungle. Streets are crowded, subways are packed, and humans are scurrying around in much too close of a proximity. It might leave the average tourist or unsuspecting person confused as to which big city they are in. Sure, there is the Osaka Castle as a landmark, but make no mistake, the air, water, and people are Osaka.

You were trained to match the strides of the Tokyo office-workers, but the Osaka salaryman’s gait easily puts their counterpart to shame. People here walk much quicker, and not due to the stress-factor that time is always slipping away. No, these people are ahead, simply because they are faster than time. Their steps bounce upwards rather than clunking down. Loud clamor fills the space around middle-aged men telling their lame jokes to a crowd willing to laugh in response. The sizzle of food-stalls offers appetizing bites and delight. It’s a small glimpse into the real food mecca that is entrenched between all the streets and alleyways. The schoolgirls howl with their friends, kicking their feet. Their skirts go past their knees, unlike their Tokyo sisters. If Tokyo is best described as earth-tones, where things are muted and harmonious, then Osaka must be the primary colors. Red, yellow, and blue. Bold and bright, with the potential to conjure any color imaginable.

The Tokyo office is on the 21st floor of a high-rise building. The Osaka office is all of the first 4 floors of a six-story office building. There are 2 more floors above, belonging to another company. The office space is not nearly as sleek or polished as Tokyo’s. No stainless steel pillars, full pane glass windows, no shiny lobby. You are greeted by the HR representative and he leads you for an office tour. The interior is like any other office space: long tables stacked with papers, computer monitors, and tabletop dividers to mark each employee’s battle station. Desk phones ring occasionally throughout the building. Office workers hold the phones between their cheeks and shoulders, hands still busy on the keyboard. Others scurry down the hall with printouts.

Your supervisor is one of the senior managers, Suzuki. He’s a stout man with a belly and a receding hairline. Assistant Director Matsuda spoke highly of him and entrusted you to his care. You’ve spoken to Suzuki once over the phone before and found him very easy to talk to. Now seeing his workspace in person, you can see why Matsuda would give high regard to him. His desk is packed with drafts and books, but carefully stacked and lovingly color-coded. There’s a careful and systematic order to his chaos.

“Welcome! Hope moving in wasn’t too bad,” Suzuki greets happily. “We’re really busy, so you’re going to be thrown right in. I think you’ll be okay though! I’ll call Hana and Jun over, let’s get to know each other.”

“Pleasure is all mine. This is some special wagashi from a shop near the Tokyo office, please share it with the rest of the group.” You offer a box of traditional snacks to your new superior, which he accepts graciously.

Manager Suzuki calls over your co-workers, Hana and Jun. The four of you have an introductory meeting in one of the many conference rooms while having a bite of the snacks you brought. Hana is a petite and curvy woman with a beauty mark on her chin. Her nails are colorfully and intricately manicured, decorated with small gems and bows. Jun is a bit older, closer to thirty from your judgment, and sports a very striking, androgynous haircut. Their outfit only accentuates the long straight line of their figure. Suzuki introduces the current workload and schedules, then Hana and Jun each share more about the specific works. One of the group’s primary projects is a fantasy, young adult novel series. The seventh volume of the saga is set to release next month and the eighth, unannounced, is already in the making. A couple of other slice-of-life and romance novels are planned for release around spring, which is when those genres get the most sales. It all sounds good to you. No matter the work, these people will be your comrade-in-arms for the days to come. And at the very least, you like them very much. This team dynamic is unlike the one in Tokyo and you really begin to wonder why you hadn’t considered Osaka in the first place when job-searching. Maybe Bokuto also felt this culture-shock after coming here. And knowing him, he probably meshed right in. After the meeting, you are settled into your new work station and begin to look over some of the works that the team is working on. There’s so much to familiarize yourself with and you don’t notice that it’s already lunchtime.

“Come have lunch with us,” Jun suggests. “We’re old customers at Onigiri Miya. It’s a must for any Tokyoites coming here.”

Hana nods, “I know they opened up a location in Tokyo, but it’s not the flagship and it doesn’t have Osamu. So this place is a thousand times better.”

You take their invitation with great pleasure, happy to have a chance to get to know the two outside of work. While walking out of the building, Hana begins to catch you up on the history of the onigiri shop.

“Did you know that the owner’s twin is the setter for the MSBY Black Jackals? Ahh, it’s just so sweet and cute. Especially when Osamu also wears Atsumu’s jersey!”

“You must be a huge fan Hana!”

“She’s not,” Jun corrects. “She just thinks they’re hot, but she has zero knowledge of volleyball actually.”

“Jun! I feel attacked! I appreciate them alright, and I look respectfully...from a distance.”

You chuckle and continue to listen to Hana and Jun chat about what they’re going to get for lunch. It doesn’t take very long to get to Onigiri Miya. It’s the first time you’re stepping foot at the humble flagship, although not the first time you have enjoyed the shop’s spectacular creations.

“Osamu! We’re back~” Hana greets cheerfully.

“Hey! Hana and Jun, welcome back!” Osamu is busy behind the counter rushing out lunchtime orders. “Oh and another, Y/N right?”

“Yup! Great memory.” The three of you take a seat at the bar area.

Osamu props a menu up in front of you and points to a section, “have a look, that’s our house special today.”

You open the menu and begin to browse through the numerous options. There are traditional fillings and toppings like pickled plum, salted cod roe, bonito flakes…and some other adventurous combinations. A moment later, you point to one, “I’ll have this one. Atsumu brought it the other day and it was so delicious. If I didn’t get first pick, I’m sure I wouldn’t have been able to get my hands on it.”

Osamu chuckles and thanks you for the compliment. You notice Hana’s piercing gaze on you. She squints slightly and scoots closer. “Wait. So….you know Atsumu?”

“Not personally, I’m friends with his teammate, Bokuto. Are the athletes super popular around here?”

“Wow. Why didn’t you say so! That’s pretty cool! No, they aren’t like idols or anything, but people in general at least know of the team. Most wouldn’t know their names though unless they were a fan-fan.”

“But they make us Osakans hella proud, you know, ” Jun adds on.

You smile, “I’m sure. they are quite competitive in the league too.”

“Like how Jun ratted me out, I know nothing about volleyball, don’t really care, don’t watch the games. But man, those shoulders, arms...have you seen their thighs? Whoo, that one fried chicken commercial the team did was divine! That’s how I got into them, by the way. Sakusa’s piercing gaze, swoon! And Atsumu too, his face is just precious. I’m tired of looking at my idols and models, and this is fresh.”

“Stop being a pervert, Hana.” Jun smacks the menu against her head. “Your thirst is showing. And Osamu is here listening too. This is embarrassing.”

Osamu laughs from behind the counter while prepping your order. “I don’t mind, haha! I’m Atsumu’s twin right? Feels like I’m getting complimented too.”

“Ouch! Jun! See? Osamu doesn’t mind either. Anyways, and Bokuto, his whole body is just solid.”

Jun turns to you with a sorry expression. “Please excuse her. She’s a pervert.”

You laugh and shake your head. “No, it’s alright. Um. I think many fans would think that they um have a very athletic body. They did train a lot.”

“Yea, but it isn’t just athletic. Athletic means different things for different sports. No, Bokuto is buff. Those pecs and thighs don’t lie.”

You’ve seen that chest receive and yes, that was quite impressive. And amusing. ‘Buff’ yes, you thought that for a moment too when you saw him again. But that’s not the first thing you would notice about Bokuto. There’s his eccentric hair, and those ‘hey hey hey’...

“Okay Hana, time to eat.” Jun takes Hana’s order from Osamu and puts it in front of her.

“He’s thick I tell you. Oh, YAY! Food!” Hana’s attention is quickly diverted to her food.

While Hana is preoccupied with her food, Jun turns towards you. “Don’t mind her, haha. Did you want to say something initially?”

“Ah, basically some of the athletes helped me with move-in the other day. They said they don’t need thanks, but I still want to do a little something. I don’t know them personally though, so it’s quite difficult.”

Osamu places your order in front of you. “Why don’t you do housewarming? Food’s answer to everything.”

You nod slowly, thinking about the idea, “Oh that’s an option! But what can I make, I’m not the best cook around.”

“Well, grilled, baked, fried is always easiest. There’s a lot of options. Don’t have to be fancy, ya know. Just have fun.”

Osamu’s suggestions light up your eyes, “oh, my new place actually has an oven, could do a batch of baked wings or something. That’s doable. Thanks, I’m not trying to cook up a storm.”

“No problem, and if you run into problems, just let me know and you can all eat more rice balls. Your patronage is always welcomed.”

You laugh at Osamu’s statement while wiping your hands on a napkin. “You can rest assured I’m visiting a lot more. Food’s delicious today, as always.”

The afternoon goes by even faster than the morning. You are catching up on knowledge regarding the fantasy series. There are many drafts and correspondences with the author that you need to review. Hana and Jun are especially helpful in outlining the best order to consume the material. For the whole afternoon, you don’t even glance at your phone and even your cup of coffee is barely touched. It doesn’t take long for the sun to already make its traverse across the sky. The city’s neon lights are in full blaze outside the office window. Hana invites you out for dinner with her friends. She frequently goes to various mixers to meet new people and suggests to bring you along. You’re already dead tired on the first day. So, you decline and offer to accompany her on a different occasion. Nightlife in Osaka is famous for many reasons. The bars, clubs, restaurants are a hot business. Food is the center of it all.  Of course, there’s a definite underground business of entertainment buried underneath the flashy lights, but for the typical citizen, the beautiful lights are all one would experience. The exploration of a new city would have to wait, however, all you want right now is a peaceful dinner and some sleep.

Eating alone isn’t anything new. Some people find it a lonely and sad endeavor. Truthfully, sometimes it is. Other times, it just so happens that you are eating by yourself. There are no additional sentiments to it. It’s just a meal. You’re watching some videos on the phone while eating a simple dinner. Time passes quickly and you don’t notice that you’re ‘alone’ either. You are just about to reach a finger out to skip an ad when the phone rings. You tap the green ‘accept’ button.

“Hello? Bokuto?” You greet.

“Hey!” Bokuto answers.

“Everything okay? You need something?”

“Um, just wondering if your first day went well.”

You switch the phone to your dominant hand. “Yea, everyone’s quite nice. Office is a tad smaller but it’s cozy. We went to Osamu’s for lunch.”

“That’s good! Yea Osamu’s is fairly close to your building...” You wait for Bokuto to continue, but he doesn’t follow-up.

“So I was wondering.” You begin slowly. “ Would your team be interested in coming for a housewarming? I want to thank you all for helping me move in, but I know everyone’s busy too.”

“Housewarming? Oh, I don’t know, I can ask? That sounds like an awful lot of work for you too.”

“No! Not at all. Really, you all helped me so much. Maybe I’ll contact Meian to see if there’s a slot in the team’s schedule?”

“I’ll go ask everyone!” Bokuto says quickly.

“Okay then. Let me know.” You wait for Bokuto to say something, but he doesn’t follow.

“Did practice go well today?” You ask, prompting a different topic.

“Practice? Oh. Yea, it’s the usual really. I need to work on my spikes more, even Coach said they’re looking a bit soft today.” The second part is added a bit more softly. You can practically hear the disappointment in his voice.

“Maybe it’s just an off-day,” You comfort. “Don’t worry too much. Take it easy before the next match.”

“Yea,” he breathes out. “Did you eat dinner?”

“Mhm, just finishing up.” You look at your near-empty bowl. “Did you eat too Bokuto?”

“Um...not yet.” After a moment he adds on. “I’m making some food now though.”

“That’s good, should I leave you to it then?”

“It’s okay!” Bokuto replies quickly. You hear some pots clanging together in the background, like something fell. Then a moment of silence.

“Bokuto?” You ask. “You alright?”

“Yea! Um, I won’t bother you. It was nice talking to you...ow. Sorry.”

“SEE?! You ARE a hazard in the kitchen.”

Bokuto laughs a little on the other side of the line. “Okay, fine, talk to you later.”

“Kay, take care.” You say, ready to hang up.

“Wait!” Bokuto abruptly interjects.

“Yes?”

“Um. I’m glad you’re here.” He mumbles quietly.

You smile into the phone. “Yup, me too. Eat well.”

“Thanks, bye.”

After the phone call, you finish the last bites of your dinner and clean up the dishes. It’s not good to shower immediately after dinner, so you journal for a bit too about your day. It’s not an everyday thing, but there are too many memorable moments for you not to note them down. There’s your first morning commute in Osaka, the meeting with your coworkers, and the lovely conversation at Onigiri Miya. You suppose the post-dinner call with Bokuto is a highlight of the day too. You continue scribbling your thoughts away. After you close your journal, you lightly massage the two sides of your cheeks. They’re kind of sore. Have you been grinning for a long time? It’s as if the muscles pulling up the corners of your lips are overworked, frozen, and stuck.

End Note: 

•The major stereotype is that Tokyoites are more rigid and uptight, whereas Osakans are more generous and boisterous. Here is some more info about Osaka.  And also a “comparison” of Tokyo and Osaka. •This link has a photo of a 'standard' office layout and some information on role-hiearchy. •School uniforms vary across schools and regions. Won’t get into other research-y links, this one is fun though. Shows a stastics of girls’ skirt lengths.

Masterlist

**Send an Ask if you’d like to be on this story’s tag list. Thanks all for your support**

@anxious-botanist @strokettas @marshmallow-witch​

[lustfulcat]

I got this anon on my other blog and I hope it’s okay with them if I answer it here, since this is SaezuruLand?

Years is based on something @anonimjeden and I talked about waaaaaay back in 2014 when we didn’t know a lot about Yashiro between the ages of 20-35. So, I was writing a drabble for each year. Here’s Yashiro ages 33 & 34

33 

He had been on a fucking spree. 

Two nights ago it was a waiter from the restaurant he’d dined at. The boy seemed eager but didn’t want to work too hard so Yashiro left in the middle, grouchy and unsatisfied.   

Last night was an out-of-town salaryman he met at a hotel bar. This man was more his speed and when Yashiro limped out into the crisp dawn air his whole body throbbed with beautiful bruises. 

Tonight he didn’t know who it would be but hoped the bartender was in the running. A tall drink of leather with a dangerous aura and generous tattoos on both arms, he exuded kink. Raising a finger, Yashiro indicated he needed another drink, and another drink slid to him, along with a key that was obviously to a room at the love hotel next door. 

He stayed until close. Shrugging on his coat, Yashiro watched his new companion bring something to the back when he felt a hand on his arm. 

“Hey,” the manager looked Yashiro up and down in an odd way, “that guy is into the rough stuff. Watch yourself.” 

Yashiro almost giggled at him. “Do you think he’d kill me, manager-san?” The larger man pulled back as Yashiro got in his personal space. 

Smiling like a cat, Yashiro thought about asking the much-larger man if he wanted to watch, or join, or whatever but instead he lit a cigarette. 

 “Maybe he will.”

34 

Yashiro tried to stay awake at the meeting, forcing his eyelids open and breathing in sharply. 

The dreams were starting to affect him. 

They were always erotic and, because of what he was, violence was common as well. Like everything else in his life they didn’t faze him. 

Until now. 

The last few mornings he woke hard and aching, still feeling the phantom touch of an astral lover whose face he never saw. It was blurry, shadowed, but to Yashiro it felt almost familiar. 

Something was imminent, he could feel it. He almost laughed at himself. 

It’s not love, you idiot. It’s probably my death.

Office Work is a thing I started and just...never figured out where I was going with it? But I like what I have so far

When they fuck in the office Yashiro doesn’t need to be tied down, Doumeki’s eyes bind him instead. They pin Yashiro to the desk, peeling away everything until he’s bare and vulnerable. The intensity is painful but it’s a beautiful kind of pain; it makes Yashiro tremble, sears him to his core, and although there are no bruises left behind when they’re done he can’t help but feel marked

[marsjapanjohannahairas]

Japanese Nightlife

Japanese arcades (ゲームセンター)are everywhere in Japan. You have probably seen quite a few while walking about in busy areas. Usually referred to as game centers here in Japan, these tall buildings exist for the sole purpose of bringing you entertainment and are as popular as ever!

For a few coins, you can play a few games and get a taste for the game or see if it’s not for you. It’s easy to get hooked though! The more you play, the more you understand how the game works and therefore, the more you win. You may find quite a few people walking away with prizes due to knowing the way things work inside out.

Another factor contributing to the popularity of Japanese arcades is the fact that the companies that produce those game machines are well-known brands such as Konami or Namco. If you are familiar with games like Tekken or Mortal Kombat, you probably already know that they were first designed for arcades, and were at first exclusive to Japan before making their way to the West on consoles. These companies also keep making new games as older ones lose their popularity, so there’s always something new to try!

The first Japanese arcades appeared in the late 70’s, featuring games like Space Invaders, and their popularity quickly spread across the world. In the beginning, these arcades mostly offered “amusement machines” or game machines, which then appeared overseas in the 80’s in bars and cafes. With time, they evolved and offered a greater variety of arcade games and so much more! Today, Japanese arcades include crane games, accuracy-based games, rhythm games, fighting games, racing games where you feel like you’re actually driving a vehicle and many other kinds of entertainment which you will find below.

In order to play, you’ll need to use coins. It’s essentially the only way to play, and if you’re out of change, you can always go to one of the conveniently-placed machines which will exchange your bills for coins. Everything has been designed to make it as easy for you to spend money as possible. A typical game will cost you about 100 yen, but some machines, especially crane games, will allow you to buy a package for 500 yen, which can give you a much needed extra try or two. Some skill-based games, or larger machines requiring props, will be a bit more expensive (around 400 yen per game), so if you want to make the most out of Japanese game centers, make sure to bring a lot of change!

When you first enter a game center, you will usually first find crane games, since they tend to be displayed on the first floor. There are various kinds of games: the typical one where you try to grab a plushie with a claw, games where you try to knock something over to make it fall in the prize bin, games where the prize is hanging and you have to cut a string to make it fall, and so many more! Prizes include plushies of all sizes, figures, cushions, kitchenware, candy, alarm clocks, and everything in between.

Rhythm games are prolific in Japan. Whether your preferred instrument is the drums, guitar, taiko, your own voice, or if you just enjoy pressing buttons — all of them work basically the same; just follow the rhythm you see on screen. Some games might require you to use your hands, your feet, and your voice in order to get as many points as possible and get a high score. There is something amazing about watching a middle-aged salaryman completely nail an AKB48 choreography. There are also people meet up and play Dance Dance Revolution as a workout, with water bottles, towels and everything!

Fighting and racing games can be played individually, but the greatest fun to be had is definitely playing them with friends. Machines usually give you the option to find matches online or to set you up against another player near you. Shooting games typically involve large booths where you and a friend can use a gun replica as a controller and you make your way through a game scenario that gets progressively harder. You can sometimes make decisions on where to go during the game, so that you can have a different experience the next time you play! If you can find it, I would recommend you to try Luigi’s Mansion, where you and a friend use vacuum cleaners to defeat ghosts and make your way through the mansion.

A staple feature of all game centers worth their salt, purikura (プリクラ) allow you to customize photos in fun, beautiful, and sometimes ridiculous ways. They are quite different from your usual photo booth: within, you will find a green screen background, and near the camera, a monitor will show you various poses to strike. Once the shoot is over, you’ll head over to the side of the booth, where on a big screen you will have the opportunity to customize your photos with filters, stickers, lettering, and all kinds of good stuff. At the end, you will get two sets of the edited photos, which are printed on stickers, so you can place them wherever you want!

Booths usually cost 400 yen for one shoot and give you two sheets of photos. Purikura booths usually have a theme, like fashion model, beauty makeup, idol, and so on.

[drink-n-watch]

  Genre : Science Fiction, music, wish fulfillment, parody

Episodes: 13

Studio: AIC, A.P.P.P.

  Oji, I mean Gabriel, is not having fun! One minute he was a lean mean rock god at the night if his glory and then he blinked and it was all gone. Now he’s just another middle-aged salary man shlub working way too many hours at a boring desk job just to keep his modest lifestyle. His wife doesn’t get it. She’s throwing out his guitars to make room for appliances. His son doesn’t get it, all he cares about is his silly power rangers like show. His friends don’t get it, they’re all old suddenly. But deep down there’s a passion still burning in Gabriel’s soul and it might just save the galaxy.

When I saw this older series (1999 – whoa) pop up on Crunchyroll, I was intrigued how that title matched up to the unassuming man in a tie, obviously not enjoying whatever he was typing on a computer that as pictured on the thumbnail. I read up on the synopsis. A washed-up metal guitarist turned salaryman has to fight an interstellar battle through his rock! Sounded delightfully oddball. I had to give it a watch.

you don’t need to take notes…well, if you insist

I am a staunch defender of the quality of contemporary anime and the importance of visuals to the medium. So it might surprise you to hear that I really enjoyed the classic look of this show. Don’t get me wrong, it looks old, retro even. You get a super strong 80s vibe from everything (despite being released almost 2 decades later) that was so popular 2 years ago. (I like to pretend I actually know what the 80s looked like. I don’t. I’m assuming…)

I suppose the visuals didn’t bother me because they must have been fairly impressive at the time. The designs are old fashioned but good and realistic enough to not look stupid. An odd thing for what is essentially a parody. There are occasional stylish touches added to backgrounds or scenes edited to look like old school hair rock heavy metal videos, both of which added a lot of visual interest in my opinion. And the unpretentious voice acting only made the production more charming.

Don’t get me wrong. It shows its age. There is very little movement. Still shots and reused scenes are both very frequent and of course, the aspect ratio is the old 4:6 letterbox which made me have to play with me screenshot settings every time. None of this matters much until you get to the space battles. There, the repetitive imagery and lack of dynamic animation really brought down the action. But otherwise, the production fits the narrative well.

what more can you ask for

The tag line of The Legend of Black Heaven is “Hard rock save the space” isn’t that awesome! It’s not quite up to the glory of “all your bases are belong to us” but it’s in the same vein. And it fills me with joy. Weirdly enough there are a few scenes that take place in the US with English speaking characters and it’s maybe the best English I’ve ever heard in an anime. They could have just let that voice actor proofread the tag line. Or maybe it’s that way on purpose to which I would have to tip my hat!

That’s a bit of a running theme through the series. Either because I’m not familiar enough with classic space fighting anime or 80s metal bands but I was never really sure of what’s funny on purpose and what was funny just to me. In the end, it doesn’t matter all that much but I still felt like some things were getting lost in translation. Speaking of which, the Crunchyroll subtitles did explain the silly Japanese wordplay which I thought was a nice touch.

Generally speaking, the story is pretty much what you think it is. The official synopsis really sums it up well. And the characters are quite realistic if a bit one-note. Note…get it… Cause music. One thing I should say, it often looks like a middle-aged dude’s fantasy in anime form. Oji is bored and disillusioned with his run of the mill life, annoyed by the responsibilities of having a family and a full-time job. And he’s not particularly devoted to either. Then all a sudden he can save the world through his sweet guitar riffs. He is very selfish in this new endeavour, ignoring his wife, blowing off work and even putting his son’s life in danger in the process. And the consequences are, having beautiful women throwing themselves at him. Having his poor wife (he puts her through a lot) appreciate him more because he’s in a better mood, earning the admiration of his son and all those around him. It’s pretty funny in a way but also a little sad at times. Gabe/Oji is fun enough to watch but I couldn’t help but think that it must be awful to have to put up with a guy like him in real life.

I’m sorry

I should say that this show didn’t really speak much to my sensibilities. It purposefully chose themes and topics I just have no connection to. Moreover, there isn’t all that much to the story. The space fights and music scenes are all the same so it did get a bit boring and the middle drags at times. As such, the fact that I still had fun with it speaks to its quality and I’m glad to have watched it.

If you are into the retro vibe, old school heavy metal or old school space battles (although that’s a rather underused element) you might want to give the Legend of Black Heaven a try. If nothing else, you can live your midlife crisis vicariously through anime and get it out of the way. Efficient!

to be honest, I’m not sure which is which

Favourite character: Eriko

What this anime taught me: Your partner will probably forgive just about anything as long as you look cool doing it

A drunkard is like a whisky bottle, all neck and belly and no head

Suggested drink: Black Heaven (ooohhh yeeeaaahhh)

Every time we hear the word “dream” – take a sip

Every time Oji’s family ruins everything – roll your eyes

Every time ladies be gossipy – sigh

Every time the three stooges show up – raise your glass

Every time Oji has bedhead – take a sip

Every time there’s a concert flashback – light your lighter (don’t have one? take a sip then!)

Every time we see or hear about the “Flying V” – take a sip

Every time Oji’s wife gets mad – agree

Every time we see the guitar store – take a sip

Every time Yuki wears green lipstick – take a sip

Every time we see the food cart – get a snack!

Every time we see the city lights at night – take a sip

Every time Oji gets drunk – join him

I love Bones’ visuals. They really speak to me. So once again I uploaded a whole bunch of screencaps to Pinterest and Imgur.

      The Legend of Black Heaven and The Power of Midlife Crisis Genre : Science Fiction, music, wish fulfillment, parody Episodes: 13 Studio: AIC, A.P.P.P. Oji, I mean Gabriel, is not having fun!

[hermanwatts]

Shingouzlooz Inc. and Middle-Aged Businessman

2010’s The Time Opener saw Valerian and Laureline’s forty-plus year search across space and time for the missing Earth come to an end. Soon after, Pierre Christin and artist Jean-Claude Mézières opened up their universe to a select few writers and artists, to write adventures from the time-travelling couple’s past–or perhaps even their future. Shingouzlooz Inc., by Wilfrid Lupano and Mathieu Lauffray, is the first to appear before English-speaking audiences, reuniting Valerian and Laureline with the series’ stool-pigeon troublemakers, the Shingouz.

Once again, the Shingouz run towards Laureline to make everything better, interrupting Valerian’s important negotiations with galactic bankers in the process. This time, the Shingouz somehow managed to gain ownership over the Earth, only to lose it in a poker game to the notorious Sha-oo, the Desiccator of Worlds. Sha-oo has designs on the Earth’s oceans, as well as special plans for Laureline. While Valerian struggles with quantum commodities and finance, it is up to Laureline to save Earth–if she doesn’t strangle the Shingouz first.

Shingouzlooz Inc. contains all of the whimsy and humor of the core Valerian and Laureline series, and none of its subtlety. While some of this comes from extending the normal couple pages of Shingouz cameo into a book length story, much of the humor relies on puns, including the elusive quantuna fish and glaringly obvious foretelling in the Shingouz’s unsuccessful holding company–Shingouzlooz, Inc.. But the same lack of subtlety affects the story as well. Valerian and Laureline has never shied away from social issues, but Christin and Mézières show the effects of masculinity, femininity, greed, and corruption throughout the graphic novels and without resorting to lecture. Lupano instead uses a snide reference to ocean pollution to save the Earth’s seas and lets Laureline rant about colonialism like an ingenue on her way to university.

Perhaps the biggest loss, however, is Laureline’s most potent weapon–her charm. Her role has been to show that persuasion is preferable to action. In Shingouzlooz Inc., Laureline is angry enough to use Valerian’s direct methods exclusively. Granted, the loss of Earth to Sha-oo through such dubious circumstances as a poker game has everyone violently upset, but Sha-oo’s plans to recover his losses in acquiring Earth include selling thousands of limited edition Laureline waifu clones throughout the galaxy. So Laureline’s sudden bouts of violence are understandable. Meanwhile, and just as uncharacteristically, Valerian uses persuasion to bargain his way into securing the funds needed on his assignment.

If Lauffray’s Long John Silver (reviewed here) was a book of vivid reds and inky shadows, he imbues each page and panel of Shingouzlooz Inc. with brilliant blues–as befitting such an ocean-centric book. The character designs combine the classic look established by Mézières with the costuming and actors from the Valerian movie (reviewed here) into a more realistic look without resorting to the heavy linework found in Long John Silver. The result is an evocative homage to the classic series while still remaining distinct. I look forward to more works by Mathieu Lauffray.

At its heart, Shingouzlooz Inc. is a fanservice book. Not just in the alluring poses of the Laureline clones, each taken from panels of Christin and Mézières’ years of work, but in the art and story itself. Among the treats for fans of the comic book are the return of beloved characters, artistic homages to favorite scenes of the past, and the Laurelines’ outfits. Meanwhile, the character designs and Laureline’s sudden action girl turn are designed to appeal to fans of the Valerian movie. While the intertwining paths of Valerian and Laureline through Shingouzlooz Inc. are accessible to newcomers, fans will get more out of the resonances and references.

Light novels are admittedly wish-fulfillment literature, often shaped around the race for power, respect, and popularity. Middle-Aged Businessman, Arise in Another World!, by Sai Sumimori, upends the usual light novel formula by appealing to a different set of wishes. The main character, Onigawara Shouzou, starts as a successful head of his household with a happy and adoring wife and three loving, well-behaved daughters. Instead of being a burned-out salaryman, Shouzou owns his own home, enjoying the benefits of being a measured risk-taker, a mentor to his employees, an trusted adviser to his bosses. And that’s all before the cosmic accident that sends Shouzou and his family to another world.

Upfront, Middle-Aged Businessman is a gimmick series, with average writing. Like most gimmick light novels, the main character goes a little too readily from success to success and stock situation to stock situation, so it is not a particularly deep work. The appeal is in the novelty. And a happy middle-aged man fulfilled through his work and his adoring family is quite the novel concept for a light novel. Not that this is aimed at middle-aged men, but at the teen and young adult crowd. Actual young adults who could use an example of what life as a middle-aged man should be, not the salaryman burnouts and disaffected, alienated teens who are flooding the genre.

Volume one established the isekai portal fantasy premise, with Shouzou choosing what is best for his family instead of adventuring. He establishes a guild, adds value to it to be competitive in a cutthroat market, and, through his experience in the real world, earns respect and success from his coworkers and the new world’s society.

Volume two features more on mentoring. And this time, Shouzou has more of a challenge. Here, he must mentor a lazy, fat failure of a prince into being a man. His advice–mostly given through example, action, and carefully arranged encounters–sounds familiar to certain corners of the internet. Work hard, lift heavy weights, talk to a pretty girl, stop living for approval of other people. Care about yourself and try to improve every day. And it works. Which is the most novel idea of this series. There have been plenty of anime/manga/light novel attempts to motivate boys like the prince into more productive members of society. This is the first time I’ve seen them get actual useful and practical advice. Most previous attempts have the same effect as throwing a whiskey bottle at a recovering alcoholic.

Unfortunately, novelty only lasts so long. This is an otherwise unremarkable story caught up in as many standard light novel conventions as the otherworld fantasy setting allows a man and his family. And by the end of the second book, the welcome is growing a bit thin. But portrayals of happy families are rare enough in the medium that the first book is worth a read by light novel fans.

Shingouzlooz Inc. and Middle-Aged Businessman published first on https://sixchexus.weebly.com/

[attractionjapan]

The Birth of Japan Game: Episode 3: The Nanpa Intro

The Birth of Japan Game is a chronicle in ten parts, recounting the early years of Dorian Gray’s journey along the path. The narrative begins some time in 2006 and concludes in early 2012. Names have been changed to protect the guilty and innocent alike. Previous episode here.

After her year of exchange study finished, Maya went back to Japan, and we continued on in a long-distance relationship. I tried to stay faithful to her, even though I was tempted daily by other girls, some of them new Japanese exchange students. There were a few unsanctioned encounters, but for the most part I managed to stay focused on my studies, as I was now set on becoming an exchange student myself and heading over to Japan.

Over the past two years I’d steadily risen to the top of my class. There’d been some stiff competition – particularly from the Chinese students, who had a natural advantage in already knowing the kanji – but somehow I came out on top. As I lived on campus, I also took an active interest in events put on by the Japanese Studies department, and I stayed in contact by email with friends like Hayato, who introduced me to the outgoing exchange students from their universities. Soon my high grades and extracurricular efforts came to the attention of the department head, who asked me to become president of the university’s Japanese Society. Bemused at first, I eventually accepted.

It was the first time I’d ever been in charge of anything. I had always been something of a loner, but now I was…well…a leader. To be fair, the responsibilities weren’t great – putting on dinners, meeting the new exchange students and showing them around the city, organizing the occasional movie night – but it still seemed like a prominent position. Suddenly I was confronted with political decisions, albeit those of an exceedingly trivial nature: who should be treasurer, Lisa or Sarah? Which student should I recommend to become next year’s president, Jason or Minh? It was a great foretaste of future office politics and other universal human bullshit. I didn’t take any of it too seriously.

The time came to apply for my year abroad. Now my grades and time spent running the Japanese Society paid off, as my application was accepted and I easily passed the interview. Most of the exchange positions were in places like Kyoto and Hyogo, but I managed to secure the sole spot in Tokyo. I would be living in Shinjuku, which seemed sublimely urban in contrast with the small Australian cities I was used to. Maya, who now lived with her divorced mother in central Tokyo, was ecstatic.

The day came and my parents drove me to the airport. I’d decided to arrive in Tokyo well ahead of the new semester’s start, to give myself time to get my bearings and settle in. Or at least that’s what I told everyone. In reality I wanted a week or two to myself to experience the city’s night life. The university I would be attending offered to send someone to meet me at the airport but I declined; true to my solitary nature, I preferred to figure things out for myself.

Stepping out of the terminal at Narita Airport, I felt a breathless sense of expectancy. I had arrived in Japan at last and the future with its infinite possibilities stretched before me. Compared with native speakers my Japanese was still rudimentary, conversational at best and riddled with errors, but I wasn’t lacking in confidence. I hailed a taxi and lugged my bags to the student dorm where I would be staying. Mrs. Murata, the kanrinrin or dorm manager, came out to meet me. She was a short, stooped middle-aged woman with a subservient demeanor and what I would soon discover to be an almost infinite patience with the raucous ways and irregular hours of her student charges. Since I had arrived two weeks ahead of anyone else, we were the only people in the dorm apart from Park, a Korean graduate student in his thirties. Park took me under his wing and helped me get my resident card, health insurance registration and mobile phone contract.

“I’m still rubbish at Japanese,” I told him. We were sitting in the dorm’s lounge watching television and drinking cans of Kirin beer.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve been here for ten years. Just watch TV every day and you’ll be able to understand everything after a year.”

At night I went into the city by myself and spent time in bars and clubs with names like Atom and Womb. Sitting alone in a darkened dive with a glass of beer and a cigarette in hand, I felt that I’d arrived. And when I wasn’t exploring new areas, I was making up for lost time with Maya, staying overnight at her house or meeting in the city for love hotel visits.

Eventually the other exchange students showed up, and I found myself with a veritable United Nations of new friends: British, American, Thai, French, Swedish, German. There were a few Anime Club-style shut-ins and misfits, but for the most part they were a personable bunch.

I also had Japanese friends in the city who I’d met through Hayato and other connections back home. One of them, Ryu, was a young salaryman with a broad outlook and devilish personality. Short of stature even for a Japanese, his looks and mindset had earned him the nickname “Lil’ Satan.” Not yet thirty, he’d spent time in America and Australia, ostensibly to improve his English but really to sample the bars and clubs and hopefully hook up with a Western girl. This he did with great success, even if he at first misunderstood foreign strip club etiquette, taking “ten minute private lap dance” to mean “ten minute round of aggressive sex.” Getting kicked to the curb by the bouncers didn’t dampen his enthusiasm, and before long he was on his way to victory. Now, back in his hometown of Tokyo, he was eager to show me around, and we often did the rounds together, hitting up bars and his favorite, the hostess clubs, where he’d haggle with the promoters outside for reduced prices.

Surreal encounters abounded. One night we wound up at a Middle Eastern-themed shisha bar in Koenji, sucking fruit-flavored smoke from a water pipe on the second floor. Before long a pair of girls wandered in. One was a standard university type with prim clothing and wavy brown hair, but her friend was a full-blown visual-kei goth with facial piercings and blonde extensions, wearing clunky black platform boots and a fake leather corset. Her expression conveyed a detached boredom with life.

Ryu and I engaged them in conversation. We’d been to a tobacconist earlier in the day and picked up some cigars, which we now handed out to the girls. Ryu seemed interested in the more conventional one, Saori, while I took a liking to Miyuki, the goth. The conversation was slow going at first, but between my gaping foreign enthusiasm and Ryu’s practiced Japanese cool, we soon had them talking. Things looked set for a quick bounce to karaoke or even directly to a hotel, when Saori suddenly stood up.

“I’ve gotta get up early for my part-time job,” she announced. “But you guys have fun.”

Nothing we said could convince her to stay, and Miyuki barely seemed to care. Sitting in the darkened lounge, she sucked on her cigar and stared vacantly into space. After a few moments of silence she excused herself to go to the bathroom.

“I want to fuck her so bad,” I told Ryu. “I don’t know what I can do, but she’s totally my type.”

Ryu nodded sagely, and when Miyuki returned, his impish – or perhaps merely practical – side took over.

“DG wants to fuck you,” he told her, employing the crudest, most direct Japanese locution.

I could have strangled him, but I remained calm. Getting pissed and losing my cool wouldn’t get me anywhere.

“Too bad,” Miyuki said. “I have a boyfriend.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Ryu countered. “He isn’t here now, is he? It doesn’t matter.”

Miyuki exhaled a puff of smoke. “I guess not,” she said. “It doesn’t matter, does it?”

Utterly lost, I stared at them both. Was Ryu actually helping me rather than fucking me over? It was impossible to tell, but I was already on my fifth or sixth beer and, suddenly emboldened by the strange atmosphere, I leaned over and kissed Miyuki on the neck.

“Don’t try that again,” she said. “Or you’ll be sorry.”

Now Ryu made his own move, even more brazen than mine. Sliding over to Miyuki, he threw his arm around her and kissed her on the lips. In response Miyuki opened his mouth with her own, waited until his tongue slipped past hers and then seized it with her teeth.

Then she bit down with all her strength.

Ryu started to struggle. Shorter than Miyuki, he was probably stronger than her, but now he flailed about helplessly and tried to shake her off. Miyuki held on, gazing directly into his eyes as his face reddened, engorged with blood.

Finally she drew back and let him go. Ryu clutched his mouth like an injured child, blood dripping from his lips.

“That’s what I do to people who try to kiss me,” Miyuki said.

In my drunken state, I took this as a challenge.

Pulling her into me, I kissed her neck again and moved up to her mouth, pushing my tongue into hers. As expected, I felt small, sharp teeth closing around it, followed by a blossom of pain. My tongue felt like it would burst, and I could taste something coppery in my mouth, but rather than pull back I gripped her tightly and stared into her eyes as my blood mixed with her saliva. Then I moved my hand down to the space between her legs.

I seemed to have passed some kind of test, because now Miyuki was kissing me back forcefully – sans teeth – and moaning as I massaged her firm thighs through her black tights. I could tell she had an incredible body beneath all the protective covering. I went for her breasts and then she got up and straddled me.

“Let’s go to karaoke,” Ryu said, desperate to reassert his claim. But Miyuki was having none of it.

“Not you,” she told him. “Only him.”

To his credit, Ryu took this with admirable dignity and excused himself immediately, a barely perceptible frown the only sign of his displeasure. Soon after, Miyuki and I made our way back to my dorm, where we evaded Mrs. Murata and high tailed it up to my room. Her body exceeded my expectations, and I realized that her initial violent defense was only a means of screening out those incapable of matching her passion. We stayed up all night drinking, talking and fucking.

As you can imagine, I wasn’t the only one in the dorm interested in girls, and the other exchange students and I often went out looking for them. But I was more interested in making Japanese friends of the same persuasion, hoping that I could learn from them. Expat writers of all kinds are quick to malign Japanese men, characterizing them as superficial, uncommunicative and emotionally distant. To me, these stereotypes always said more about the men making them. If you didn’t like Japanese men, I decided, then you didn’t like Japan: they were, after all, half the population. Even as a student I saw all too many foreigners falling into the trap of associating only with Japanese girls and picking up feminine speech and mannerisms as a result. Japanese speech patterns are more distinctly gendered than English ones, but too many of the exchange students and even long-term residents I knew seemed oblivious. I realized that a man who associated only with women would always be half a man, not understanding the other side of the dynamic. Japanese women didn’t want men who spoke and acted like them, they wanted men who spoke and acted like men, or at least their culture’s conception of the term.

More importantly, Japanese men were with the women I most desired. I almost never saw foreigners with girls I wanted; my envy was reserved for the locals and their stunning paramours. Countless times I saw small, ugly, poorly-dressed men with fashionable stunners, or browsed magazines to find lanky, effeminate boys with phenomenal teenage beauty queens. In contrast, foreigners always seemed to be with the same kind of girl: short, plain, and recently returned from homestay in Idaho or some other middle-of-nowhere American state. These were the international party girls, those who thronged terrible Roppongi clubs like Gas Panic and Muse. Appearances aren’t everything, and I’m sure many of these men genuinely loved the women they were with, but time after time I heard the same complaints in bars:

“Akiko (or Yuka, Maki or Kaori; the names were always the same) is great, but…I always wanted to try one of those other girls. You know, the flashy kind. Shibuya girls, the type who shop at that 109 store, or the girls in the clothing ads.”

Worse, Akiko was often not a casual fling or girlfriend, but a wife.

Call it shallow if you want, but I’ve always felt it’s better to live your desires rather than sublimate them into tedious complaints. So it made sense that I would have to imitate Japanese men if I wanted to get with my ideal girls. As a result, I quickly dismissed not only my foreign friends but also Western “pickup artists” and others of their kind. What did they know about Japan when they couldn’t speak the language, when they’d never even been here? To this day, when I’ve met several of these vaunted “instructors,” I can’t say I’ve seen them achieve anything other than a beginner’s success in Japan. In fact there are only a handful of foreigners who I’ve seen with truly exceptional Japanese girls.

Then as now, my approach was to treat Japanese men as equals and afford them the same respect I would any of my friends. I did not allow myself to be offended by any flippant comments or “insensitive” remarks they made; in this age of ever-narrowing political correctness, getting pissed and leaving in a huff seemed like the weakest possible option, particularly when the offense was almost always unintentional.

But I still get queries from friends and acquaintances who see Japanese men as the enemy and want to know how to “deal with them.” I always tell them that chest thumping and open hostility will quickly get you ostracized. If you really want to destabilize a Japanese man, praise him in front of his friends. The more humble you seem and the more knowledge of his culture you demonstrate, the more your standing in the group will rise. Use perfect Japanese to talk about his handsome face and effortless style; he’ll soon loathe you. With the louder, more aggressive types, it’s often necessary to get your girl and get out, not giving them a chance to engage with her at all.

But this sort of thing is almost always childish and pointless; non-engagement is the better strategy. I’ve defused fights and turned enemies into friends simply by caring less than the other party and approaching situations with an open mind. The principles behind Japanese martial arts are similar. Karate, after all, means “empty hand,” and aikido depends on turning an opponent’s strength against them.

One night I set out from the dorm alone and headed for a nearby bar. I’d sat through a full day of classes and now, bored and restless, I felt like getting away from the dorm atmosphere, which had quickly become suffocating. Apart from the other exchange students, there were a number of residential assistants – Japanese students who lived with us. They were studious types, more interested in formal language exchange than actually learning the mindset of people from a different culture. Worse, they acted like spies, reporting our activities to the head of the exchange program. They’d already formally complained about me for letting girls spend the night in my room. I didn’t care to be around them any more than I had to, and my close friends were at a party somewhere, so I was on my own.

On this night the bar was crowded, so much so that it spilled onto the street, with customers sitting outside on stools in the warm summer air. I took a seat next to two young Japanese men and struck up a conversation, and they introduced themselves as Hiroyuki and Rintaro. Though we were in an area with several universities, they weren’t students; instead, they worked a series of part-time jobs in noodle houses and convenience stores.

Hiroyuki had a face like a brick. Just nineteen, he looked at least thirty. He was heavily built and would have been handy in a fight; I wasn’t eager to see him angry. Rintaro was more of a pretty boy, except he wasn’t actually pretty. Like his friend, his face looked older than his stated twenty years, but displayed more surface cunning than Hiroyuki’s flat, amiable features. Hiroyuki seemed happy-go-lucky, but Rintaro was the brains of the operation: a canny, practical intellect.

Before long the conversation turned to girls, and they regaled me with tales of “delivery health” hookers and fast pulls with teenagers in Shibuya and Shinjuku. I told them about the kind of girls I wanted, the fashionable kind seen in magazines.

“Oh, you mean gyaru? Yeah, we get with them all the time,” Rintaro said. “We can introduce you to some of them, but…can you hook us up with some Western girls?”

I could tell right away these were dodgy characters I couldn’t fully trust. They were outwardly friendly, even comically so, but I sensed they would use me any way they could and probably not make good on whatever promises they made. Still, I was excited to be hanging out with them; I felt they could grant me access to a side of Japan I’d glimpsed in books and films, an underworld of illicit beauty.

“I’m up to my neck in Western girls,” I said.

This wasn’t untrue. There were more female exchange students in my dorm than male ones, and some of them were on the adventurous side. Their Japanese was still basic, and they didn’t seem to have many Japanese friends. I could tell they were lonely. One of them, Aleksandra, a Ukrainian girl, had propositioned me fairly directly, but I turned her down, not wanting to generate more gossip for the residential assistants. Another, Lindsay, was a young Australian with a somewhat spacey disposition. Blonde, thick-limbed and reasonably outgoing, she’d until now been frustrated by the hesitant approaches of Japanese men, so different from the blunt propositions back home. I decided that an encounter with Hiroyuki and Rintaro was exactly what she needed. In a reversal of the typical Madame Butterfly scenario, the pair proved no match for her Occidental wiles when she ended up dating both of them at the same time and playing them against each other in a way that almost destroyed their friendship. She eventually grew tired of them and moved onto a Chinese exchange student, leaving my new friends frustrated and heartbroken…for at least a few days. To find new girls, it was only necessary to walk outside. Before long they were back to their usual unflappable optimism.

Now that I’d proven myself by getting them laid, Hiroyuki and Rintaro were as eager to hang out with me as I was with them. They called me multiple times a day and asked if I was putting on parties or meeting any new girls. As I’d expected, they didn’t come through with the gyaru I wanted, but they still took me along drinking with them often enough that I didn’t mind. Hanging out with them was an exhilarating but constantly disorienting experience, as their crude, street-level Japanese was miles away from my rapidly developing but still bookish speaking style. And while I’d expected them to support my approaches to girls in the manner of a Western wingman, they were just as likely to steal my targets or blow the whole thing up with an explosion of vulgar mockery. Some of their tactics, if that’s what they were, left me shaking my head, but there was no denying how successful the pair were. I often saw them carelessly discarding girls who would have been the highlights of most men’s lives. In particular, one of Rintaro’s girlfriends, Rimi, was a stunning young woman who could have worked as an adult video star, an eighteen year old nymphet with the face of an angel and the body of a toned and rangy stripper. I fell in hopeless lust with her the moment I saw her, but he constantly cheated on her and eventually broke up with her by simply deleting her contact info from his phone; apparently she didn’t even merit a goodbye. Hiroyuki and Rintaro’s emotions were broad strokes on a canvas of plain primaries, and the whole business of relationships a Rabelaisian joke. I decided that I needed to be more like them: flexible and free, living in the moment, full of violent cheer and meaningless laughter. If nothing else, they were teaching me how young, working class Japanese men really talked.

One day as we were walking the streets of Shibuya, Hiroyuki did something that changed my life. I’d noticed an outstandingly attractive girl walking ahead of us, a petite blonde with an ultra-short miniskirt and a handbag covered with rhinestones. She might as well have been the archetype of young, fashionable Shibuya ostentation. Until now, encountering girls like this had always obscurely wounded me – what could I do about their existence? Was there any way I could enter their world or (even more impossible) draw them into mine? My longing always faded into hopelessness.

“That’s it, that’s the type,” I said in Japanese. “I’d kill to get with someone like that.”

“Huh? Her?” Hiroyuki replied. He looked at her as if inspecting an oddly-shaped rock.

Then, without warning, he darted forward and caught up with her.

Smiling and gesturing while proceeding with absolute calm, he spoke to her in a way that resembled a talk show host crossed with a criminal prosecutor, combining rapid fire statements about her clothing and appearance with a torrent of questions – who was she? Where was she from? What was she doing? Did she have a boyfriend? – that continued even as the girl ignored him. Finally, bafflingly, she stopped walking and gave him her undivided attention.

“Now! What are you doing now?” he repeated.

“Nothing, just….nothing.”

“Let’s go get something to drink. We can go to karaoke, over there.”

Now the girl appeared to be considering the offer as if it were a matter of life and death. Finally she gently shook her head and said, “I’m sorry…I have a boyfriend.”

Hiroyuki turned and left her without another word. Soon he was by my side again. Stunned, I asked what he had just done.

“When you get one to stop, you take her to karaoke or a hotel,” he explained. “From there it’s easy.”

I’d met Momoka in a similar way two weeks earlier, so I was familiar with the concept, but I’d done it unconsciously while drunk. Hiroyuki had done it in broad daylight with total nonchalance, as if greeting an old friend. The girl’s initial reception and ultimate rejection of his offer had had no apparent effect on him. I could readily believe that he tried this multiple times each day – perhaps hundreds. It was my first real experience with nanpa.

It’s best to give a brief history of nanpa (don’t worry, I’ll dispense with the italics). Dating from the Meiji Period, the term originally denoted “the soft bunch” of layabouts interested in spending all their time with women, as opposed to those presumably chaste young men espousing the martial and manly virtues. In the modern sense, nanpa refers to picking up girls in public, often directly from the street or crowded public areas.

Nothing like this exists in the modern West. Sexually propositioning women in public has no even semi-respectable context, and is seen as inappropriate behavior at best and borderline criminal insanity at worst. Western “pickup” has barely legitimized it under the “day game” heading, but it’s still largely seen as a form of harassment. Just imagining it probably makes you think of leering construction workers shouting obscenities at passing women, or try-hard divorcees walking their dogs in the park in the hope of a “chance meeting.” Certainly few men outside of the self-styled “pickup community” would directly and confidently approach women on the street if they wanted to retain their social standing and avoid being maced.

But in Japan, this context exists. Japanese women, I discovered, were used to shrugging off nanpa, and most considered it a distraction that barely registered on their mental radar. Although genuine harassment exists as it does in every country and should not be trivialized, the majority of women I’ve spoken to have admitted to meeting at least one past boyfriend through nanpa. And in practice, I’ve had sex with hundreds of women met in this way and enjoyed long, fantastic relationships with many of them. The Japanese girlfriends and other sex partners I’ve met this way vastly outnumber those I’ve met through “traditional” means such as bars, parties and friends’ introductions, and even more modern methods like online dating. By “vastly” I mean at least two times more than all the other methods put together. Simply put, I’ve spent a lot of time doing nanpa, and can vouch for its effectiveness.

But I’ve met all too many foreigners who view nanpa as a dirty word. They prefer the “chance meeting” model, where everything is supposed to look natural. They’ll shyly start a conversation in Starbucks by asking how to read a particular kanji, or else ask for directions in public and then desperately try to segue into a personal conversation. These methods always struck me as unbearably phony, and in my experience they strike girls that way too. Those who use them are still bound to the Western paradigm that street approaches are something crass or abnormal. But the young Japanese men with the stunning, fashionable girlfriends don’t do “chance meetings.” They do nanpa.

If all this sounds a bit weighty, it’s important to emphasize that successful nanpa should be fun, light and witty. If the girl doesn’t feel engaged and won over by a cool, confident guy, you’re doing it wrong. And you’ll really know you’ve succeeded when she thanks you for approaching her. It might seem difficult to imagine, but the thought of being approached at random by their dream man is exactly what many girls want. I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard “aite yokatta” – “I’m glad we met” – when our “meeting” was me walking up to her on the street as a complete stranger and talking to her as if I’d known her for years.

Some girls actually go out with the intention – subconscious or not – of being picked up: wandering around in public, or sitting on a bench at night alone looking bored. Often this isn’t planned: they were out with their friends, and then their friends went home, leaving them with nothing to do. Having grown up receiving constant attention, they know on some level that all they have to do is look receptive.

Look for girls who are walking slowly, Hiroyuki told me. They’re probably not doing much, and are receptive to approaches.

This isn’t to say that girls won’t ignore you, run away from you or have other unpredictable reactions. But there’s no law against talking to strangers, and as long as you’re not a complete psychopath or groping menace (hint: don’t touch them, it isn’t necessary), it’s rare to have heavily unfavorable reactions. In fact, much of what someone new to nanpa would interpret as “unfavorable” is often an expression of shyness or bewilderment rather than a real lack of interest. If a girl doesn’t know why you’re talking to her – particularly a girl who’s had little experience with foreigners – she’ll be less likely to respond. Complicating the issue are the scouts and hosts who approach girls hoping to recruit them for their clubs or turn them into customers. But if you make her laugh or, more powerfully, put her at ease by demonstrating that you understand and can relate to her, she’ll quickly open up.

Okay – sounds good, right? But like many things, nanpa is easier in theory than in practice. It would take me hundreds of encounters and a few more years to really internalize the process. At this point it was still beyond me, and I could only react with awe to what Hiroyuki had done.

Of course, I had other things on my mind too. Over the course of the year my relationship with Maya had grown strained. She was an amazing girl, but my sexual ambitions had grown, even if they still seemed so much idle fantasy. I wanted more girls: sexier, flashier, and more accommodating, girls who would fulfill my every fevered dream. I wanted tall, statuesque models and writhing porn stars. I wanted girls glittering with jewels and dressed in stylish clothes, girls with sparkling nails and shining eyes, from rough ghetto hostesses to high-end university students and jet-setting society ladies. I wanted inexperienced teenagers and mature women, feminine waifs and boyish athletes, stick-thin sylphs and filled-out, curvy goddesses. My tastes seemed to change on a whim. One moment I was obsessed with classical beauties like the actress Ryoko Shinohara, the next I wanted voluptuous goofs like the adult video star Aoi Sora. A single picture in a magazine or album cover was enough to send me into a frenzy. And above all, I wanted to be the kind of man these girls would be proud to have their arm around.

But the reality was different. My clothes were dull and unfashionable. In social situations I came across as diffident, even withdrawn. If I’d directly stated my desires, the women around me would have written me off as a daydreamer at best and a creep at worst. And looking back, I wouldn’t blame them. Incongruity is always unattractive.

Imagine a strong, conventionally handsome man with a great job who treats his girl like a prized possession, but is so jealous and insecure that he monitors her every move and seizes on every conversation she has with another man as a sign of her infidelity.

Now imagine a beautiful woman on the arm of a fat little man, old and grey-haired. He’s shorter than her, and seems otherwise unimpressive. But suddenly that fat old man tells an amazing story, demonstrates himself to be a man of the world, a gentleman of refinement. Other people cross the room to hear what he has to say. He makes a joke at his own expense and casually disarms his audience. Suddenly we, and the women around us, are enthralled.

So, which is really more attractive? The outwardly desirable man who lacks any inner strength, or the man you’d pass over without glancing at twice who’s comfortable with himself and in complete control of his life? I wanted to be more certain of myself, even if I had no idea how.

My encounter with Momoka proved to be the catalyst for breaking up with Maya. Now that I’d been with a girl who could have stepped from one of my dreams, it was time for me to do the right thing and break up with my girlfriend. Even though I’d spent only one night with Momoka – in contrast with the nearly two years I’d been with Maya – I was convinced that we shared a deep connection. There was a hint of sadness to her, an existential depth that Maya utterly lacked. And with her tall stature and stunning body, she was clearly more desirable. As soon as I broke off with Maya I would make Momoka my new girlfriend.

But the grand relationship I’d planned for us proved to be an illusion. Momoka met up with me a few times more but, perhaps frightened by my ardor, eventually decided she wanted nothing to do with me. In the caprice stakes, men and women are just as bad as each other, and looking back I can say that I fully deserved what I got. But at the time it struck me as a cosmic injustice, and I was ruined for weeks, pining over my lost dream girl. You can imagine the pathetic sight I made, sprawled on my bed listening to the same bands I’d shared with her, now feeling even worse than they had made me feel as a teenager. I still can’t listen to Bjork.

And even before all that, the breakup with Maya was painful and protracted. I’d given too much of myself away, and in my youthful exuberance I’d become excessive: writing her poems, declaring my love, projecting future happiness. Maya, a country girl from Hokkaido who’d moved to Kyoto for university, had never experienced anything like this. She took my early, infatuated hints at marriage seriously, and I’d met her mother.

In fact, I’d slept with her mother.

This requires some explanation. I first became aware of Maya’s mother, Mrs. Tanaka, when she wrote a letter to her daughter in Australia. Evidently Maya had mentioned me, as the letter contained a paragraph addressed directly to me, inviting me to Japan for “karaoke and bowling” and asking various personal questions. I considered this somewhat odd, but chalked it up to cultural differences. From Maya I learned that her mother was in her early forties (Maya had been a teenage pregnancy) and divorced, and was looking to relocate to Tokyo. Later, once I’d moved there myself, I was able to meet her in person.

Mrs. Tanaka – Eriko – resembled her daughter enough to be an older sister. But while Maya dressed somewhat conservatively, Eriko wore high heels, skin-tight jeans and revealing tops along with flashy golden belts and shiny jewelry. Like her daughter she was tall and had an impressive figure, slender and gently curved. Maya loved her but complained about her “noisiness” – literal translation – and transparent attempts to ingratiate herself with a younger crowd. I got the impression of a stifled party girl who’d married too young and still craved affection. Once she realized I was in Tokyo for at least a year, she took every opportunity to invite me around, going so far as get my phone contact information and make me promise not to tell Maya. I considered this eccentric but harmless; after all, what could happen? I had no intention of doing anything with her; in fact the prospect frightened me. But I couldn’t deny that I found Eriko’s slutty flightiness exciting, and the idea of bedding both mother and daughter intrigued me. Still, it seemed too ridiculous to take seriously.

For the first few months Maya was always present whenever I encountered her mother, and for the most part Eriko and I kept an appropriate distance. But over time I found her sending me more and more text messages, most of them open-ended and innocuous, but still clearly requests for attention. Eventually she invited me to go shopping with her, and I followed her through Shinjuku’s Takashimaya department store while Maya was at work. There was no real sense of an illicit encounter, but I couldn’t deny a strange undercurrent to our interactions as Eriko asked for my opinion on various new clothes and eventually treated me to lunch at an Indian restaurant. Our conversation was resolutely trivial, but I could tell from her body language and facial expressions that she was enjoying my presence in more than a friendly way. I finally said goodbye to her outside the station, uncertain how I should feel.

The situation progressed over the next few weeks, with Eriko eventually inviting herself over to my university dorm. While our shopping date had seemed light and unreal, occupying a weightless dimension of its own, as soon as my girlfriend’s mother stepped over the threshold of my building, reality sunk in…and was immediately compounded when Mai, one of the residential assistants, came out of the laundry room and stared in surprise at the older woman standing next to me. True to her background as a gregarious country type from northern Japan, Eriko struck up a conversation without missing a beat, and I had to hurry her along to my room, certain the Orwellian-minded RA would be taking notes.

Once inside, Eriko busied herself picking my scattered clothes from the floor, folding them neatly and arranging them into piles. It seemed more reflexive than considerate, an unconscious desire – partly cultural, partly personal – to impose order on disorder, form on formlessness. Or perhaps it was only a way of making herself feel at home in my charmless student’s room. When she had finished, she sat down on my bed with an air of mock exhaustion. I joined her, and before I knew what was happening I found myself massaging her shoulders and kneading the hard but soft-skinned muscles of her neck. Eriko relaxed and leaned back into me, and I spent several minutes exploring her body with my hands before finally resting my chin on her shoulder and then bringing my mouth to her neck. She broke the tension with a burst of meaningless laughter. We seemed about to have a conversation, but finally there was nothing to say, and soon we were locked in a tight embrace. I found myself overwhelmingly but almost impersonally excited, and Eriko pressed herself against me with undeniable force.

When it was over we resumed our earlier manner. There was no question of letting it mean anything, as the event had been essentially meaningless, two displaced individuals falling into each other’s orbits and colliding under the force of an inexplicable attraction before drifting away to a safer, reasonable distance. As if to emphasize the point, after expressing how happy she was that Maya and I were going out, Eriko made a show of talking about the future relationships she desired – was there anyone I could introduce her to? I told her I’d keep my eye out.

Needless to say, this experience put me into an unusual head space for a while, but it was only one of the factors leading to my eventual breakup with Maya. I procrastinated for weeks, paralyzed by cowardice, until one night I met her at a restaurant close to my station and managed to tell her that I didn’t think we had any future. I was still too young, and wanted to explore life more.

Maya didn’t take it well. In fact, the relationship died in stages similar to Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s model of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Except instead of acceptance, it was more like anger and depression II: angrier and more depressed.

“So you’re just going to throw me away,” she said, and seemed almost on the verge of punching the glass window close to our table.

“I’m not throwing you away.”

“You are!”

I’d naively hoped to wrap things up in an “adult” manner and see her off at the station, but she followed me back to my dorm and insisted on staying the night. As she gradually came to terms with the reality of my leaving her, she struggled to project a future in which we were still somehow connected.

“I still think I can trust you,” she said. “Ten years from now when we’re married to other people, I can see our children playing together in a garden somewhere…”

I felt myself close to tears. Even then I doubted I’d ever have children, but the dreamlike image affected me deeply, and I felt utterly destroyed.

Then it was time for one final attack. It was the small hours of the morning, and we were both highly-strung. She demanded to know the real reason I was leaving her, why I wasn’t satisfied.

“Okay,” I said. “I really just want more experience. I want to fuck other girls.”

Depending on your temperament, your sympathy for me at this point – still fairly early in the book – has either been cemented or evaporated completely. In the case of the latter, I’ll say that, in my defense, I met Maya years later in a coffee shop and found her a mature, confident woman, successful at her job and happily married to a prosperous, upwardly-mobile Japanese businessman. Despite the callous way I’d treated her, she bore me no ill will and said she looked back on our relationship with fondness. I wanted desperately to believe her. With the passage of time, she now felt free to joke about the past, and she brought up an incident that had stuck in her mind.

“There was that one time I went to your dorm and saw all the clothes neatly folded on the dresser. I remember thinking there was no way you would ever have folded them that neatly or stacked them up like that. You said you’d done it yourself but I knew you were lying. It was another girl, wasn’t it? You had someone else in your room.”

I conceded that she was right; it had been another girl.

But I couldn’t bring myself to say, “It was your mother!”

The post The Birth of Japan Game: Episode 3: The Nanpa Intro appeared first on Attraction Japan.

from Attraction Japan http://attractionjapan.com/birth-japan-game-episode-3-nanpa-intro/