I’m the lushy Latino version.

This morning, I got up and folded the clothes I had drying in the shower room before I packed my gym bag and walked my partner to the subway station. Aren’t I sweet? Then I took the train to the church where I make rice balls for the homeless. Again, aren’t I sweet? The ladies and I went to Starbuck’s where I got into an interesting discussion with the Phoenix, Arizona lady about water conservation and urban planning.  These ladies have no idea how much I enjoy having real conversations on a regular basis with someone other than my partner. 

After coffee, I went to the gym. After the gym I had a paninni at Segafredo’s in Hiroo (I’m such a cliche) and a glass of red wine (I’m such a lush). I returned some DVDs at Tsutaya in Ebisu Garden Place and picked up “The 40 Year Old Virgin” for tonight. How sweet AND thoughtful?

Remembering that we were low on vodka, I popped into our corner liquor store where I ran into my neighbor, this old lady with freaky-colored eyes and bad breath. I said, “Konichiwa!” upon entering the store and she looked at me as though I were wielding an axe. Once she realized who I was she laughed and said something to the cashier lady, also old. There was an old man sitting down and they were all looking at me and smiling and talking like I knew Japanese. I told them in my limited Japanese that I didn’t speak the language very well. That didn’t seem to matter as they kept talking at me like my name was Sato Tanakasan. I decided this was a perfect opportunity to practice my Japanese, so I told them that my apartment was nearby, that I was a vegetarian and that I liked natto. I must have sounded like a freaking moron but I left with a big smile on my face, and a bottle of vodka.

I headed to the grocery store where I picked up some tofu for this evening. Tonight, I’m making my vegetarian version of the popular Mexican dish arroz con pollo. My version: arroz con tofu!

I got home, put some clothes in the washer, picked up a pair of my partner’s discarded socks and put away the dishes. How sweet AND pathetic! Oh, I hear the washer signal. That means that the clothes are ready to be hung out to dry. The fun never ends! I think I’ll treat myself to a glass or red wine. Why not?

I help make triangular rice balls (onigiri) for the homeless at a church in Harajuku with several soccer moms on Tuesday mornings. Honest. I’m the lone brownie in a sea of white ladies from every imaginable English speaking country. And from day one, the ladies have been nothing but kind. And a bit curious.

I give them a lot of credit because I showed up on the first morning with a three-day shadow, ratty jeans and sneakers. I looked like I was there for a damn rice ball. The dynamic Canadian in charge didn’t miss a beat though, and after the rice balls were packed and ready, she invited me to have coffee with the ladies.

I quickly learned that volunteering was just a means to an end. That end being Starbucks. That’s where the husband-bashing, playful banter, political discussions and reflections on life as an expat occurred.

Today, the Aussie and I ran into each other two blocks away from the church. The woman walks like a rabid dog is chasing her. So we ran to the church as if the homeless were a mob of blood-thirsty zombies ready to devour us if their rice balls weren’t prepared on time. We were the first ones there.

Later at Starbucks, one of the employees walked up to our table, put an index finger up to her lips and said, “onegaishimasu.” We were shushed in Japan! I would have been mortified except that I was talking to the bike-riding Mormon (don’t they all?) at the time. I brought her down and so was happy. I mean, these people don’t drink caffeine or alcohol. You might as well be embalmed.

In the end, it was just me, the fast-walking Aussie, the dynamic Canadian and the sassy South African who likes to badger that perpetually flustered Bible school lady with religious questions (a story for another time). We sipped our coffees, watched our voices and let the morning pass.

The Aussie got teary-eyed after realizing that she’d have to live here one more year before she could return to Sydney. And after fifteen years away from home, she wondered if she could even resume her career once back in Australia. We’re all the same, estrogen or testosterone.

Growing up in the U.S. and Japan, being a Japanese citizen with permanent residence, and being brought up by Japanese parents who wanted to see me integrated with the U.S. culture, I naturally had identity issues just like anyone else with a similar background. Even now, I often feel like I’m more Japanese than American in the U.S. and more American than Japanese in Japan. 

But there are certain times when I realize how American I really am, and the last couple of days is one of them. If you live in the U.S., you’ll know that I’m talking about the elections. The first thing I did when I got home from the show (see “Sesame Street for adults”), was flip on the television to see, who was winning. The first thing I did in the morning was flip on the television again to see who won. Then I sent my sister to go buy breakfast and the paper, so we could read more about it. I’ve never voted because I don’t have the right to vote, but even so, I was surprised by how excited I was to see the Democrats take back at least the House and possibly the Senate.  Then I compare it to my utter disinterest in Japanese politics.

I’m in New York right now on a business trip. Yesterday, I spent the evening with my sister and we went to see a show called Avenue Q. The way my sister described it — “It’s about a bunch of people who just moved to New York” — doesn’t quite do it justice. It was the most fun I’ve had in a long time. The cast is small — about 8 actors. And the theater is almost just as small, barely fitting in a couple hundred people, which is awesome. The actors hold puppet characters that look like the Muppets. There’s a big puppet called Trekkie Monster that talks like Cookie Monster and a gay puppet that looks a little bit like Bart (but was it Ernie or Bart or both who is supposed to be gay? I forget.) To top it all off, the super for the building is supposed to be Gary Coleman (”Whatcha talking about Willis?”), who is afraid that he’s already exhausted his purpose in life as a kid. My sister and I couldn’t stop laughing from beginning to end. We especially loved the songs like “It sucks to be me”, “Schadenfreude” (Taking pleasure in people’s pain), “The Internet is for Porn”, “If you were gay” and “Everyone’s a little bit racist”.

Of course, there’s also nothing quite like seeing a puppet couple having sex and going down on each other. Really. Words do not do it enough justice.  

Not really. I’ve been glued to those television travel programs they’ve been showing lately on Nat Geo or Discovery. I forget which. It’s always “Somewhere Revealed!” Last week, Isabella Rossalini was hamming it up for her native land in “Italy Revealed!” Don’t you wish you could talk like her on cue? Especially while ordering at an Italian restaurant. “Orzo, Daaling.”

So Friday was Culture Day, a national holiday here. We didn’t visit the controversial Yasukuni Museum on Friday because I’d rather share an elevator with Ann Coulter than go to a Japanese museum on Culture Day where you know it’s going to be wall to wall locals. You see, here in the Land of Order, one cannot simply wander thru an exhibit, focusing on this, skipping that, walking from here to there. That would be too easy.

Here there is an imaginary line that everyone follows. You baby step it past the entire exhibit, rarely stopping, never walking, shoulder to shoulder. Couple that with the Japanese version of air con and everyone in sweaters because it is the fall after all, and here you dress for the season, not the weather, and you have one sweaty, steamy, seething Mexican.

We visited Yasukuni on Saturday to avoid all that. As a shrine, it’s nothing to write mom home about. But no one really goes to see the shrine, not the foreigners anyway. You go to see history rewritten inside the museum. The museum building itself is rather imposing for being squat. We entered, bought our tickets and headed up the escalator to the beginning of the exhibit. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting to see but I ended up with a history lesson that was both hilarious and sobering. If history is written by the winners, then you can’t fault the loosers for keeping a stiff upper lip under overwhelming humiliation.

It’s not the Rape of Nanking, it’s the Nanking Incident (just a little oopsie). It’s not colonialism, it’s liberating Asia from those European rat bastards (besides wouldn’t you rather have occupiers that look like you?). It’s not flying fighter planes into battleships, it’s…okay, it’s flying fighter planes into battleships. There are even paintings of fighter planes on fire diving into battleships. Just plain wrong. But is it art?

I left feeling slightly depressed and as always, in need of a drink. I also really wanted to play Battleship! B12. Miss. F2. Hit! You sunk my Battleship!

Liza and I share a love of too much pills and liquor. Okay, not the pills. But that’s what happens when you find yourself in Tokyo. The truth is, I never needed an excuse to drink, never have. But when you go from having a job you like and living the city you love to having no job at all and living in a city that you like/hate depending on the day, hour, moment, well, a grass (glass) of (maybe three) red wine at lunch doesn’t seem so bad.

I left New York two years ago this week. In fact, this weekend marks my two year anniversary in the land of sushi and ramen, and I’m a vegetarian. I’m what’s known as a “trailing spouse” now. I hate that phrase. When I think of a trailing spouse I think of Kuala Lumpur and all those ladies I saw, dressed in burkas, sweating their asses off, walking a few paces behind their husbands who wore tank-tops and flip-flops. Trailing spouse my ass.

So, as a trailing spouse, I get to do trailing spouse activities: volunteering, lunching, yoga. I should be so lucky you say? Allow me to electronically slap you. I’m sorry. I am Latin after all and so have a temper. Incidentally, this stereotype is true and any brownie worth his frijoles would admit to it. But I’m not a lazy Mexican–an untrue stereotype. I tried teaching Engrish (English) here. I used to teach English for real back in the states. Here, it’s teaching English for fake. And when I started fantasizing about slapping students or shoving colleagues in front of oncoming trains, I knew I had to quit.

Let’s review. I’m a gay, vegetarian Mexican-American living in a country whose culture values shutting up and not making any waves. Pleased to meet you. My name is Jake.

So, not that we’re a competitive couple, but if Patrick has guest bloggers on his blog then I want guest bloggers too. While I find my own husband’s entries interesting (honest!), I have to say Ted and Jennifer’s writing definately spices things up a bit. I figure my blog has gotten staid as well, so I decided to do the same.

Sooo, I’m happy to introduce my good friend and fellow Tokyo sufferer Jake. He and his partner (a former colleague) have become very good friends of ours here, and since we spend a lot of time joking about the crazy stuff here, I thought, “Why don’t we just take it to the Web so other people can enjoy it?”.

Jake also does the best rendition ever of “Cabaret” when we go to karaoke (which we do a lot), but I’ll let him introduce himself.