A friend and fellow resident of this great city invited me to be an online “friend” of his on this one website. Out of loyalty and curiousity I complied. How middle school, cut-throat cafeteria would it have been for me to not to? I quickly learned that two of my best friends from the states already had profiles on this website and that this website is the seventh most visited website on the internet. And no, it’s not myspace.com. What am I, 15?

When it comes to the internet I am Kermit the Frog green. But when it comes to matters of the heart, or of the liver, or of another organ, well I’m cherry red or rotting depending on the organ.

I wasn’t an angel in my past life (pre-partner). In fact, I was quite the devil. My 20s were spent in back alleys, opium dens and steak houses. Okay, just one back alley that I recall, no opium dens and more than my fair share of steak houses. I did afterall live in Chicago for over three years and was, at the time, a practicing carnivore.

So what if the past comes back to haunt me? What if those I left hanging, those I left wanting and those I left seething found me online? I’ve spent more time than I care to admit on disappearing: on papers, on records, on any legal documents. Now, suddenly, as an internet “friend” I am quickly connected to old friends and perhaps old enemies.

But really, it’s not like I killed someone and secretly hid their mutilated body in the upstairs broom closet of that dilapidated crack house in Jersey City south of where I used volunteer. Now that would really come back to bite me on the ass.

Last week, I returned something in Japan for the first time. This is something that is extremely discouraged here and simply rarely done. I’m happy to report to you that the experience was just as bad as I expected. I had bought a USB cable for my iPod nano that was made by a third party Chinese manufacturer at Bic Camera, a large electronics retailer. I was told that it was the same exact thing as Apple’s cable, but when I went home to try it out, iTunes for some reason wouldn’t register my iPod’s presence. When I looked on Apple’s Web site, it told me that this would happen with some third party cables, so obviously I took it back. First, the sales person stared me down for awhile, then persisted in asking what was wrong with it. When I told her about the problem I had, she stared at me some more and said my problem was impossible. Only when I stared right back at her, did she reluctantly exchange my cable for one made by Apple. All of it was unpleasant and quite unnecessary in my opinion because I ended up spending more money. (Of course, she sort of had a point because the Apple cable still didn’t register my iPod’s presence. It was only after I rebooted my laptop, did things work. Makes me wonder if that was all it took with the other cable.)

A friend of mine, who works in retail, said that they are encouraged to discourage consumers from returning things, but if you make a big deal about it, and don’t back down, they will always give in. The bottom line is they need to make sure that the customer leaves happy. That’s good to know, but it doesn’t change the fact that returning items is a pain. It’s occasions like this when I miss the good ole U.S. of A.

We usually don’t get much relevant mail, but yesterday I got two — my tax form (ugh!) and a big envelope that contained a four page survey form from the realtor that we used to find our current apartment. I was a bit surprised that they would even try to send me this — if you ask me, anyone who has time to fill out a random survey has too much time on their hands. But they were way ahead of me because as I was getting ready to toss the thing into the waste basket, a small card slipped out. It was a 1,000 yen gift certificate to buy books.  A thank you in advance if you will. It’s probably the most clever thing I’ve come across in a long time. Like any self-respecting person with a conscience (something that the Japanese are particularly sensitive to), I, of course, filled it out and will be posting it tomorrow.

My answers were pretty neutral. The realtor, Ken Corp., is one of the biggest and most exclusive realtors in Tokyo. As such, they have a huge database of some of the most prime property around. If you’re looking in certain tony areas of town, there’s really no way to avoid them. In our case, the realtor that we wanted to give our business to couldn’t get the contract so we went to the listing realtor, which was Ken. Here’s my real two cents on Ken Corp — They’re a decent realtor with a great selection, but if you speak any Japanese, I would use the Japanese Web site and call up the Japanese contact person. I made the mistake of going through the English Web site, which got me a contact in the foreign division. Our guy got the job done, but he was too young, wasn’t aggressive enough and a little bit rote in his manners. My theory is that the foreign division gets all the guys, whose primary qualification is they speak English. The really good guys, who know the business, are in the regular division.

No, not New York. New York is too American and not American enough. I’m talking about the montrous, smoggy, flat and muggy city of Houston, Texas, the cesspool my sister currently calls home. Houston is undoubtedly, the ugliest big city in the US. Just walk down one of its city “sidewalks.”

If you had to live in Houston though, you’d want to live in my sister’s neighborhood or area or location or whatever the hell those upwardly mobile, urban bumpkins like to call it. Not surprisingly, it’s where gays, shopping and money meet, off Montrose, near the Galleria, a stones throw from River Oaks. It’s also (surprise) overwhelmingly white.

On one relatively brisk Houston day this past December, I decided to walk to the Galleria while my sister was at work. Her apartment is literally a few blocks away from a plethora of shops and restaurants. And I’m not talking about a plethora given Houston standards. I’m talking about a plethora given any big city’s standards. But you’d be hard pressed to find anyone in the neighborhood walking to these shops and restaurants. Knowing this, I decided that as a big city boy (New York and Chicago via Mexico City) it was my duty to show these fat-assed hillbillies what walking actually looked like.

I walked down broken, uneven sidewalks, brushed some overgrown brush out of my way, darted across railroad tracks and crossed myself before crossing a busy feeder to a main highway. And on this relatively brisk winter day, I actually broke a sweat. As soon as I entered the Galleria, I made a b-line for the nearest Mexican restaurant and had myself a margarita.

I did, however, pass a few other people on my walk. A fellow brownie sporting a fast food uniform, a couple of middle-aged, black ladies waiting for the bus and one of those guys who you aren’t sure is homeless but you are sure you should avoid. Luxury cars zipped by us on their way to Neimen Marcus and Saks. Yes, I was headed there too but I was walking there, dammit.

This past Christmas holiday, in addition to my week in Houston with my sister, I was able to spend a week back in New York and a pleasant 24 hours in Chicago. And on my flight back to Tokyo, I was happy to be returning to another real big city where people actually walk on sidewalks.