SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME – the book

—CHAPTER SIX—

In the fall of 2024, I returned to Kyoto. Since 1983, I have been in Tokyo a couple of times for business, but it was my first time back in Kyoto.

Earlier in 2024, I exhibited, not for the first time in my life, noticeable behaviors associated with multiple traumatic brain injuries. Well, multiple traumatic brain injuries can have that effect on you. Suppose you hear about former National Football League players going off the rails. This may be the consequence of repeated concussions, which could indicate a condition known as Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE).

There’s no known cure for this sort of thing.

It’s not an official diagnosis. The only known way to determine if you have CTE is to perform an autopsy. Well, that’s a problem because if someone is cutting your brain open, then you are, by any reasonable measure, dead.

There’s not much of a cure for that, either.

The symptoms of CTE include confusion, disorientation, depression, aggressive behavior, zero impulse control, psychosis, memory loss, shaky hands, poor balance, nasty headaches, and the concentration span of an eight-month-old. You can’t multi-task. You can barely single-task. You’re doing, saying, and thinking things that, in normal circumstances, you’d never do, say, or think, none of which you can remember.

I was, to varying degrees, showing all of those symptoms.

There’s no cure, but plenty of ways to deal with it. None of those ways are a house party. They include combinations of drugs that can have unlovely side effects, medical procedures that are, and trust me when I say this, uncomfortable, and cognitive therapy where you enjoy another round of reliving every terrible experience in your life.

Then, you can delight in apologizing to everyone who put up with you during your meltdown.

I put everything on hold (this book included) and took on the full-time job of dealing with the shit. It’s not an experience I’d recommend, but it did steady the ship to the extent that I got medical clearance to travel. In an emotional sense, I was still raw and shaky. But I felt (and feel) like a much-improved version of myself.

So, I headed to Japan to visit Naomi.

More about her later.

We Americans know extraordinarily little about Japan. Hell, most of us don’t know where Japan is. We believe that all Japanese individuals look, act, and think alike. Well, no. They don’t.

Japan is divided into regions, each with its own behavioral and cultural differences.

Tokyo is in the Kanto Region, and Kyoto is in the Kansai Region. In 1983, the only distinction I noticed was that the citizens stood on different sides of the escalators.

As it turns out, there’s more to it than escalators.

The regional dialects are different. As is the cuisine, the attitude, and the attachment to the country’s culture and history.

Those from the Kanto region, particularly Tokyo, are not bursting with geniality. It’s not that they dislike you. They don’t have time to dislike you because they believe you don’t exist. Period. They spend every waking minute staring at their feet and moving about in isolation. If you say hello to a passerby, then you will not get a response. Not a thing.

While acting more friendly, folks in the Kansai region are touchy about keeping the culture intact. “Friendly” is a comparative word, as those in Tokyo set the bar exceptionally low. In my experience, if you acknowledge a Kyoto resident, then, to a minimal degree, you’ll receive a vague response. This isn’t America; no one will say to some guy, “Hey, Stud, how’s it hanging?” You won’t hear a construction crew member yell at random women, “Baby, I love you! Gimme some uh dat!”

Still, Kansai folks notice that you exist. At least, they seem willing to concede the point.

Folks from the Kanto region and those from the Kansai region can get pretty pissy with each other. Kyoto had been the seat of power in Japan until Tokyo became the city where the military set up shop. Well, the military is a big deal in Japan. I don’t know how this worked, but shortly thereafter, Tokyo took over, and Kyoto was no longer The Man in Japan. This transition occurred over six hundred years ago, but folks in Kyoto didn’t see the humor in it, and they still don’t.

In 1983, my impression of Kyoto was that the locals laid on the respectful, considerate, and gracious act way too thick. As the natives slopped on more displays of humility, their dismissive attitude toward me shined brighter through the cracks in the window dressing. Chances are I was busy projecting my insecurities onto the good folks of Japan, and their disposition was closer to a benign acceptance of another clueless tourist.

Most of the world holds tourists at arm’s length.

I live in Washington, DC. In the summer months, we have tourists—a lot of them. Tourists stick out a mile. Touring families are hard not to spot.

Dad is standing at a stop light, looking at his phone, scouring a map, and scanning the buildings to confirm he has no clue where he is. Mom’s enjoying family time by barking at the children while glaring at her hubby with a look of pure hatred. Her facial off says, “I want to tie you to a chair, smash you in the face forty times with a nine-iron, cut your penis off, and shove it in your mouth so we can see how much you like it. Then I want a divorce.”

The teenage children are staring, dull-eyed and catatonic, into the distance. They’re oblivious to Mom’s haranguing as they have air pods shoved in their ears.

The youngest boy is glued to his video game. He hasn’t looked up from his phone in two years. Mom has him on a leash for his benefit, so he must tag along with the family. Otherwise, he’d still be standing on 16th and K Street three days later playing a video game called “House of Hell Fire Death Chainsaw Torture Pain and Extreme Boobs 2024.” This game causes his social skills, which are already an abomination, to deteriorate further since he’s added remarkable unawareness to his repulsive demeanor.

The pre-teen girl is endearing herself to anyone within earshot by her continuous, screechy whining to her mother that she is hungry, thirsty, bored, misses her friends, and wants to go home. Oh, there’s more. There was the crime Harris Teeter committed by allowing her favorite box of truffles to be sold out. Her mother tries to address these concerns, but it’s too late as the girl has moved on to the torment she’s experiencing on accounta her parents won’t buy her the antique-pink crepe dress from Christian Dior. Didn’t the mother know the Upper East Side motif is in fashion this year? It’s the only thing she has ever wanted, plus all the other girls’ parents bought them this dress, so she’s an outcast in the community, what with her parents being too poor to spend $1,500 on the dress, and her life is now ruined. There’s more. She gripes about crying to sleep every night, what with her shoes being so six weeks ago. Plus, she needs therapy due to the deep depression caused by her parents not allowing her to get a tattoo of Taylor Swift on her ass on accounta Taylor is the only one who understands what she’s been going through these past ten years and the least her parents could do allow her to get the tattoo because Britney, a lifelong friend she met last week, already has two Taylor Swift tattoos on her ass. Besides, she’s old enough to make these life decisions without having to ask her horrible parents, and it’s just not fair, it’s just not fair, it’s just not fair.

Those are the tourists in my hometown. We generally find them comical and accept them with bemused glances.

In 2024, I didn’t sense any difference from how we feel about DC tourists. So, I no longer felt like a Pig-Dog in Kyoto—just another tourist.

Most drivers I did business with didn’t seem to mind my presence in their cars. I leaned on a couple of Japanese phrases:

I’m an American. Please accept my apologies for my lapse of judgment in this regard. I’ll try not to let it happen again.

Thank you very much. I’m not worthy and shall remain humble to the point of stupidity (followed by a bow).

Please fondle my buttocks. (Monty Python’s Flying Circus is quite popular in Japan. Actually, it isn’t. Don’t say the third one. Either the person will take you up on that request, and you’ll have to work out of a very awkward interaction, or the person will get one of those long Japanese swords and chop your head off.)

From a health perspective, Japan navigated the COVID years more effectively than many other countries. Of the 125 million citizens in Japan, fewer than 75,000 lost their lives to the disease. Higher mathematics: .06% of Japan’s population died from COVID. In America, that number is close to .42%. In the US, your risk of dying from COVID was seven times higher than in Japan.

That’s a hell of a discrepancy.

It’s even more alarming as people in Japan’s urban areas are stacked on each other, and social distancing was not in the cards. The size of the country is only 125,000 square miles. Good luck trying to stay six feet away from anyone. If you think it’s crowded in Manhattan, spend a few days in Tokyo.

In the U.S., the area is about 3.8 million square miles. We had plenty of room to stay six feet apart from one another.

We Americans had the same information and advice on ways to curb or beat the pandemic. Considering that the US has a third of the world’s wealth, enjoys every available benefit, and is supported by all the latest medical technology, you would think those percentages would be reversed.

So, what happened?

One thing that didn’t happen was that the White House shared helpful information. Despite the compelling evidence provided by the medical community, the US President claimed that COVID was a hoax concocted by Chinese doctors to undermine our revered Constitution (which, I’m sure, he has never read). When matters began to escalate, he assured us that COVID was being spread by gay men having sex in public spaces.

When that didn’t pan out, he announced the whole thing was caused by the transgender community who, when not attempting to destroy our way of life, were putting COVID-cooties in children’s books about a little boy with two mommies which, based on his understanding of the Bible (which ain’t much), is a grievous sin as God hates it when two mommies have sex. Still, God’s cool with him downloading videos of lesbian pornography on accounta he’s president, and God gives him a pass.

Once people started dropping like flies, the President said he had it on good authority that mainlining bleach might help. (You think I’m kidding. I am not kidding.)

There were other barriers affecting survival rates in the US—personal hygiene, for starters. I don’t have the statistics to verify this, but it’s safe to say that the Japanese are considerably cleaner than Americans. Stand in a packed residential elevator in Osaka, then one in Chicago. Take a deep breath through your nose.

You won’t need statistics after that.

Plus, we Americans aren’t in the most remarkable shape these days. According to the CDC, approximately 40% of us are obese. The number of obese people in the States outnumbers Japan’s entire population. All those fat burgers will catch up to you eventually.

In Japan, the obesity rate is closer to 4%, which is hardly surprising given that Japanese people eat a lot of seafood, vegetables, tofu, and seaweed.

So, Japan wins on the health front.

Also, their obedience to authority came in handy. The government told them to get the vaccinations, wear masks, go into quarantine when necessary, be patient, and exercise supreme caution. So, that’s what they did.

Of course, the most significant obstruction to our health was us—the American people. Fewer than 50% of us were fully vaccinated. If everyone in the country got the shot, then the death toll may have been reduced by one million.

Unfortunately, 50% is less than 100%.

Well, that was a problem as 50% of us refused to get any vaccination because we heard from a two-year-old on social media that all vaccines were loaded with GPS chips for government tracking purposes, and we learned through extensive research (scrolling through porn on You Tube) that those vaccines were deadly as another two-year-old online claimed his great-grandfather, who recently won the local gin-guzzling contest, died from “alcohol poisoning” but he, the two-year-old, insisted it was “vaccine poisoning,” so we went along with this since we have read the Constitution (actually, we haven’t), which clearly states that Americans can do whatever they want  including waddling through Walmart without wearing masks, shouting at the store managers that they were violating our civil rights by keeping us from spreading our disease, blowing our noses in the produce section, relieving ourselves on the baked goods, sneezing on infants, and wiping our snot on someone’s grandmother because being an American is all about freedom of expression, which is guaranteed in the Constitution (nope, we still haven’t read it).

In this case, we expressed ourselves in the most patriotic way possible:

By getting everyone else sick.

All kidding aside, there’s a deep religious thread among many Americans. God is our guide and provides us with the final word. As committed Christians, we pray for guidance from Jehovah God.

Well, it turned out that God, after we tossed back twelve shots of Tequila, told us rather a lot, including that it’s okay to drink thirty more shots in one sitting, crush our livers, vomit on the bar, run over pedestrians, and beat the weakest child in the house. But, He said “no how, no way” on the shot of medicine that saved lives.

I think God tells me stuff that’s nowhere close to what He tells most people. In my case, God is similar to Bill Lumbergh in Office Space: “If you could just…try a little harder next time, then that would be great. And I’ll make sure you get another copy of that New Testament.”

That doesn’t appear to be what God says to most people. God tells a lot of us Americans from the good old USA of America, “You need to beat up a couple of Pakistanis. I know there’s no specific Biblical precedent for this, but get it done anyway. Don’t get the shot. While I think of it, shoot that annoying new admin at Planned Parenthood before she gets fired for showing up twenty minutes late every day. Definitely, don’t get the shot. Oh, remember this Friday is Hawaiian Shirt Day, so you can wear a Hawaiian shirt while you stand in the middle of the road holding your ‘If you’re gay, then God hates you and is coming over to your house’ sign. One of the side effects of the shot is you’ll go to Hell. Hell is bad. Not good. And, whadda you say you get a Bible and read it, huh? I created the universe and let my son die a slow, horrible death to help you out. Would it be too much trouble for you to scrape together a couple of bucks and, at least, get the app, dipshit?”

That may not be verbatim, but you get the gist.

The bottom of the line is a lot of people in the States got sick and died as a result of not taking reasonable precautions.

Western influence has made a spiritual dent in Kyoto in the last forty years with 7-11 stores. The country is littered with them. I set foot in one and discovered it had little in common with 7-11s in the States. The place didn’t smell like undiluted urine, and the bathroom didn’t have a single used condom on the floor. The store was spotless. No hot dogs were marinating in motor oil, nor were there any slices of pizza that had been sitting under a heat lamp since the first Roosevelt Administration (the one with Teddy in it). Vending machines served complete dinners. The microwaves worked. None of the food options in the refrigerated aisle appeared to be decomposing. There were plenty of healthful sandwich choices, but no greyish hamburgers covered with green mold.

Finally, the most significant difference was in the store’s employees. They were clean, wore well-pressed uniforms, and reeked of professionalism. In the good ol’ USA of America, the 7-11 employees reek, too, as they haven’t bathed since putting the pizza under the heat lamp. If you enter enough of them in the States, you will wonder if every staff member has a unique fungus named after them.

They do.

The Japanese, to their great fortune, have discernment on their side. They haven’t embraced all of Western culture. In the case of 7-11, they took what worked in their world and dumped the rest.

During my first full day snooping around Kyoto, I saw a Burger King proudly advertising its Kyoto Whopper. The restaurant pitched it as “a special, innovative rice patty and 100% flame-grilled beef patty topped with Japanese-style ginger sauce.”

I kid thee not. That’s what the sign said.

Okay, a couple of points here. When directly translated from Marketing-Psychobabble to English, “style” means “pretend.” While you’re selling it in Japan, telling us your sauce is Japanese-style means it’s not Japanese. It’s in a Burger King in Japan but only pretending to be Japanese. It was probably manufactured in Bayonne, New Jersey, and contains saliva, pubic hair, lice, and whatever else fell off the employees when they made the sauce.

Next, “rice patty.” Can we assume the children in marketing stared at a rice cake in the middle of the conference room table for a week with no clue what it was? They could only identify it as “a clump of rice that’s, like, all stuck together.” After a week of looking at it, someone accidentally sat on the aforementioned clump, jumped up, looked at the result, and said, “Let’s call it a, uh, you know, a rice patty, er something, I dunno.”

Well, I had to try one, and it was delicious, but it took some time to recover from the shock of the Kyoto Burger King employees being attentive and courteous.

“Japan is adept at adopting and adapting.” That was wisdom received from a high school teacher. My horrendously superficial understanding of its history confirms this. Outside influences have consistently permeated Japan. But those influences are subject to scrutiny. The country is not a melting pot. The citizens do a good job picking and choosing those things that can be incorporated into their mode of operation. They don’t sell out to the highest bidder. That’s America’s job. For a bit of security and expedience, America is fully prepared to lower its standards on your command. Japan isn’t. Never has been.

A few Starbucks were around, but I don’t think they’ve captivated the citizenry. No one was lining up to do business. I saw one dressed as a historical Japanese coffee house with traditional flooring, rooms where you take your shoes off and sit on couch cushions, a private room, a garden, and scrolls with painted flowers. It was a desperate throw by the store to generate commerce from the locals.

Based on the lack of customers (other than the tourists), the new look wasn’t working.

Starbucks doesn’t stand a chance in Kyoto, where traditional coffee houses are abundant. The coffee is delicious, and the staff is not there because McDonald’s fired them. I did business with many of them during my recent trip to Kyoto.

Which brings me to Naomi. She is a friend’s daughter attending college in Kyoto and was the driving force behind my visit. Naomi knew all the good coffee houses in town.

In the Japanese world, “Naomi” means something close to  “honest and pretty.” That’s a guess. In her case, it’s apropos. Of course, you could ask Naomi what “Naomi” means since she’s named Naomi, and when it comes to the name Naomi, Naomi knows what Naomi means.

She and I have maintained a relatively close relationship for the past decade. Well, I like her. Feel free to ask her how she feels about the whole situation.

We met one morning at one of her chosen coffee houses and began catching up.

It’s a slippery slope when those of us in our advanced years converse with someone in college. It’s the generational jargon. Words I’ve used for the past five hundred years may not mean anything close to what they mean to someone born in the twenty-first century.

“Hoohah,” for instance. In my old person’s world, it refers to people overreacting in an exaggerated and hostile manner. When co-workers got their collective undies in a knot over some benign issue, I was known to ask, “What’s all the hoohah about?”

“Hoohah” does not mean that to twenty-year-olds. This is a very recent discovery on my part. Oh, it has a specific definition. It’s just not what I thought. In this case, you might hear it in a sentence like, “I don’t need to see your hoohah, okay?”

I have repeatedly uttered “hoohah” in conversation with Naomi without understanding its denotations. She’s been nice about it and hasn’t mentioned anything. Still, I feel like the guy in Princess Bride who yells, at all the wrong times, “Inconceivable!”

There’s more. One doesn’t discuss “moistening” anything in front of someone born after 1995. That goes over quite poorly.

Twenty years ago, data storage devices inserted into personal computers were called “dongles.” These days, “dongle” doesn’t mean that, although it’s still something one inserts if that helps.

Don’t say dongle.

“Creep” is one I learned about the other day. To me, Lurch and Wednesday from the Addams Family are creepy. As a child, I had a loveable habit of belching loud enough for the neighbors to hear. This was followed by my mother telling me to stop being a creep. That’s not what it means these days. In 2024, elevated creep status requires you to expose yourself on the subway or stare in the bathroom window of someone’s house and take pictures.

Don’t be a creep.

If you are talking about your wonderful time in the Grand Canyon, ensure that those in their twenties understand you mean the Grand Canyon National Park.

And nothing else.

“Bop.” That’s another one. “Bop” refers to one’s recent history of extreme personal availability. A blood test would be a good idea before an intimate evening with a bop. Chances are the bop in question has already done the neighborhood.

If a Gen-Z type offers you a glimpse at a “blue waffle,” turn around and leave. Don’t ask. Just go.

Do not use the words “Alaskan” and “Pipeline” sequentially. Why? You don’t want to know. Trust me. You don’t.

Remember, these are the same young people who introduced toilet licking as a public art form. They’re the ones who inserted vodka-soaked tampons into various parts of their bodies (hoohahs, for example) to get drunk while still being able to pass a breathalyzer test. Plus, they enjoyed showing the health benefits of eating cereal from someone else’s mouth. So, there may be a few loose ends with some of those in the Gen-Z world.

My visit took place after the US presidential election.

Naomi was unimpressed with the election results. If you are curious, Donald Trump won.

Naomi is cursed with a conscience. The poor girl dreams of a fair and equitable country. She took Trump’s election to mean justice and decency in the USA were gone for good.

To her credit, Naomi doesn’t impose her ethics on others. She’s not one of those self-righteous maggots stomping around, demanding the rest of us change to make their lives easier. Her morality is inwardly focused, not something she puts on public display when it suits her. I’ve always admired that.

Still, she was lit up about Trump.

She had queries and was hopeful that I could shed some light. Naomi’s first question was, ‘What the fuck is wrong with you people?”

“Now, Naomi, let’s keep it civil. I believe you meant to ask, ‘What aspects of Donald Trump’s policies and vision for our great country did our discerning citizens find appealing when compared to those of Kamala Harris?’”

After five seconds of silence, Naomi replied, “No, what I meant to ask was, what the fuck is wrong with you people?”

“Well, let’s define things, shall we? Who is ‘You People’? Is he or she any relation to ‘You Americans’? I remember some good folks in Western Europe who were convinced my name was You Americans. I showed them my passport, but they still called me You Americans.”

She stared at me. “You know what I mean.”

“The Western Europeans said I watched too many movies starring John Wayne or Ronald Reagan.”

“How could this happen?”

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a movie with either one in it.”

Naomi wasn’t aggravated but was heading in that direction. “Well? How?”

“I take that back. One night, I fell asleep watching TV, woke up at 3 am, and saw a movie where Reagan had an animated conversation with a chimpanzee. That was troubling. I don’t remember the dialog. I’m fairly sure it wasn’t a political science debate.”

Naomi gave me a look similar to the way parents stare at their children when they, the children, try to tap dance their way out of accepting responsibility for the missing chocolate cake. “What is wrong with all the vindictive, deluded, gullible white men with little dicks who were herded like the sheep they are and voted for Herr Trump?”

“Whoa, hang on one minute. I have always tried to be the best person I can be and will not stand for being accused of having a small penis.”

This conversation occurred in a Japanese coffee house, so we kept our voices low. Naomi took to the Japanese demeanor effortlessly. She has always been subtle. However, she didn’t adopt any indirect or disingenuous language I associated with the culture. That wasn’t a surprise, either. Pulling punches was never her strength.

I continued. “It might have helped if Kamala Harris had given us any sign of what she’d do as president. The only message we received from her campaign was that Donald Trump is a deranged psychopath and completely insane. Well, we knew that already.”

This, of course, elevated the temperature of Naomi’s blood. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. Harris spouted the standard party platitude: ‘I’m Santa Claus. I’m nice. Republicans are mean.’  Beyond that? Nothing.

“Now, Trump made it abundantly clear what he would do if he won – get revenge. He ran through a detailed list of individuals, ethnicities, genders, cultures, organizations, dissenters, communities, philosophies, agencies, religions, and countries he intended to torch. Then, he shared with us the names and addresses of people he wanted to kill and the Constitutional amendments he intended to dump. You know, the things he said came straight from his heart. That kind of raw, vengeful hatred is something we Americans can connect with. It struck a chord with the voters; I get emotional just thinking about it.”

At that moment, Naomi’s face was an incandescent shade of red.

I relented. “Yes, I understand that we gave a bunch of emboldened, entitled sixteen-year-old boys the keys to the Cadillac and the liquor cabinet. I know, I know. What could go wrong?”

Naomi responded, “Genocide. Maybe that’s not wrong in the new world order.”

“Genocide? Well, that’s a grey area for us these days. Depends on the vibe.”

“What is the Führer’s foreign policy now?”

I grimaced. “It’s a moving target. This week, I believe there is a multi-faceted approach under consideration. For reasons beyond my wildest imagination, step one is to take over Greenland. I doubt anyone in power knows where Greenland is. We’re taking it anyway. Phase two is to invade Canada and put Rudi Giuliani in charge just as soon as he’s released from the kennel. Next, we’ll drive the Panamanians out of Panama so we can take back the canal because that treaty is so eight minutes ago. In the spirit of cooperation, we’ll ship the Panamanians to Greenland once we figure out where it is and tell them to build another canal. Then we will capture Mexico and develop beachfront property on both coastlines, deport anyone guilty of looking remotely Hispanic to a large prison in El Salvador, take over the Gaza Strip and rename it Trumpatropolis, ship the few remaining Palestinians to Greenland to help with the canal and relocate all the US federal prosecutors to Guantanamo Bay where they will participate in a structured re-education program via waterboarding. That’s for starters. Did you know Trump released his version of the Bible?”

“What?!” Naomi startled everyone in the house.

I stared into Naomi’s disgusted eyes and continued. “The King Donald Version. On the cover, it says, ‘Let’s make the Bible great again.’” Pause. “Naomi, I don’t know what the hell he’ll do. No one knows, including Trump. New, bold, ridiculous, and contradictory proposals pop up every day. They’re all monuments to the theory of negative unintended consequences. None are achievable or make sense; undoing the damage will take a generation. Maybe two. We’re thinking of moving to Fiji.”

I asked if she wanted to hear the new Pledge of Allegiance uttered in US public schools.

She rolled her eyes. “No.” Pause. “Okay, what is it?”

“I pledge allegiance to the Trump of the United Trump of Trump, who is way ahead in the polls. Plus, this whole thing is nothing but a witch hunt. You know it. I know it. And to the Trump, who’s actually really, really tremendous, for which Trump stands. One Trump, under Trump, who won the 2020 election in a landslide, believe me, everyone knows it. Have you seen Jill Biden recently? What a pig. Totally, totally disgusting and way behind in the polls. With Liberty and Trump for all except for that bastard Jack Smith, who’s a complete loser. Very, very horrible person. Way behind in the polls. Give us this day our daily tweet. And deliver us from Liz Cheney, who should be locked up. For yours is the kingdom, and the Trump, and the power, and the Trump, and the glory, and the Trump, who’s better than Jesus when you think about it, forever and ever. And no term limits. AMEN! I mean, TRUMP!”.”

“Please drink your coffee.”

“You should hear the new national anthem.”

“I’m glad you haven’t lost your irreverence towards all the sacred institutions.”

I laughed. “Me? No. One time, a piece of HR jet trash gave me a below-average annual review even though I exceeded every goal I had because, during all my success, I was too irreverent about it.”

“What did you say to her?”

“‘Lick my irreverent dongle, Bitch.’  We didn’t speak much after that.”

She held my hand for a few days while I stumbled through Kyoto’s buses, trains, shops, coffee houses, shrines, temples, and restaurants, demonstrating all the American charm and nuance of a communal bedpan. She was comfortable with the customs and showed abundant patience when I stepped on my what-not, which was a pretty common occurrence. Owing to those multiple head injuries, I’m not all that quick on the uptake. It takes me forever to figure things out, and I have no doubt I embarrassed the hell out of her in front of the entire country.

We visited a few shrines, including one that, according to legend, encouraged visitors to make a wish and jump off the roof. Almost everyone who did so died. In the unlikely event that you lived, your wish would come true.

Naomi confidently guided me through the twists and turns of some essential rituals. They were just as I remembered.

In a spiritual sense, 2024 Kyoto closely resembled the 1983 version. Character-wise, I didn’t notice much difference. The social norms and daily life stresses looked the same. People observed the culture and standards with the same diligence as they did forty years ago.

There is always at least one “however” for every experience in my life.

To my exquisitely untrained eye, life and the environment in Kyoto haven’t been altered. Not in any significant way. However, it felt unlike anything I experienced in 1983.

So, what changed? Me, of course.

As we toured the aforementioned shrine of death, it finally dawned on me that I was the different one. (Again, the head injuries. It takes a while for the neurons to catch up.)

In my 1983 world, appearances were everything; mine had to be flawless. The suit of armor had to look shiny and new to conceal the many distasteful layers of inhumanity cowering beneath it. Indifference and humor formed a comfortable shield against others—and me. Shoveling sage wisdom to innocent bystanders was my idea of Heaven. Showing genuine emotion, honesty, or a shred of humanity wasn’t.

At the time, the origins of my mental unhealth were beyond my understanding. What I did know was that I sucked, had a long list of reasons why, and I stood for nothing. Well, I take that back. I was unyielding in my pursuit of subservient acquiescence.

An emperor who knew he had no clothes on. That was me.

In all settings, I dedicated my waking hours apologizing for being there in the first place.

Mostly, I was torn, frayed, and damn tired. Hiding it had taken a toll. The armor felt rusty and brittle. I thought I’d die before finding happiness and my little piece of paradise. I told myself that overcoming my self-imposed obstacles was beyond my reach for contentment and other unattainable abstractions.

It was laziness on my part. Taking on a genuine challenge took more effort than I was willing to spend. Easier, I thought, to give up ahead of time.

There’s a unique diagnosis for what I was going through. For insurance submission purposes, the official diagnosis is TFL (Total Fucking Loser).

With my recent mental health upgrade, Kyoto in 2024 wasn’t nearly as dark. The people were easier to speak with. They smiled and usually bowed when I tried to speak the language. The food tasted better. The surroundings were more colorful.

My failures, regrets, insecurities, and dark thoughts weren’t chasing me. A judge wasn’t glaring at me and pronouncing sentence before the trial started.

I wasn’t waddling around and gnashing my teeth over a family I never had, a childhood that never existed, friendships I never took part in, and love I never found.

And, I didn’t obsessively wonder who I was to anyone else. After desperate years of trying to be of great importance to one and all, I discovered I was no longer losing any sleep over it.

Who was I to the folks I met in Kyoto in 2024? I don’t know. I didn’t ask. It didn’t matter. I mean, I wasn’t hostile about it. I was my usual polite self. They may have hated every second of my visit and had a party the moment I shoved off. I could ask Naomi, I guess.

The time with Naomi was easy and light-hearted. The subject of political correctness popped up. Naomi’s view is two standard deviations to the left of center. Mine is in the extreme middle. That, of course, is in my opinion.

It’s also my opinion that I am damn fortunate to live in a country whose constitution, until further notice, supports freedom of expression. It’s up to me to handle the consequences of that freedom. If I go out of my way to insult someone, then I may face some consequences, up to and including a foot up my ass. Fair enough. What isn’t fair is for anyone, especially a corporation or government, to tell what I’m not allowed to say.

I’d rather deal with the foot issue.

Naomi, again, suffers from the “fair and just society” affliction. In her world, if it meant censuring certain grievous words, phrases, or ideas, so be it. These are prices one must pay to live in Utopia. In her defense, she’s a full-time college student living on campus and surrounded by people who have zero tolerance for intolerance.

Naomi avoided verbiage that might offend others but was concerned about books being removed from her college library.

I can’t say I was surprised. “Any titles I should be aware of?”

“Stuff written by Michael Savage, Glen Beck, George Will, and Sean Hannity. People like that. Hate speech…”

“Whoa. Wait. George Will? No one is gonna miss hysterical talk show hosts pretending to be authors. But George Wiil? He may be the best political writer of the past fifty years. That’s not hate speech they’re throwing away. That’s rational thought with plenty of research behind it. Contrary opinions need not be heard in our institutions of higher learning. That the idea? I can’t wait for the ‘Friday Night Frat Mixer and Book Burning’ parties.”

“I didn’t say I agreed. I think it’s going too far.”

It was my turn to be irate. I turned on my advertising voice. “This Friday, Friday, Friday at the University of South Rectitude, come watch us ban ‘The Federalist Papers!’ Yay! Bring your grain alcohol and your Molotov Cocktails! That’ll show those independent-thinking bastards wallowing in all their freedom and intolerance!”

Naomi attempted to get a word in edgewise. She failed.

“I guess I can’t blame y’all. You grew up with clowns banning books in schools and public libraries. Why buck tradition when it’s working so well? Did you know public schools banned ‘Brave New World’ on the grounds that it, and this is verbatim, made sex look like fun? ‘Catcher in the Rye?’ Banned on accounta it’s anti-white. Anne Frank’s diary? Nope. Banned. Why? Because a fourteen-year-old girl’s description of her anatomy was considered pornographic. Pornographic! Hush, I’m on a roll. Then there’s ‘1984.’ Removed from schools and libraries all over the country because it glorified Socialism. Isn’t that great? I’m serious. That’s what people think. You don’t even have to read the book before banning it.”

It was Naomi’s turn to make my blood boil. “They want to edit books. Good books. Some places have words you can’t use in book titles. One school? You can get suspended if you put words like war, white, black, man, dwarf, and old in the title of your compositions.”

I rolled my eyes. “Instead of ‘War and Peace,’ it’s gonna be ‘Peace and Peace?’ What will they change ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs’ to? ‘Snow Non-Hispanic/None of the Above and the Seven Persons of Excellent Size Considering All They’ve Been Through?’”

Naomi contributed. “Three Visually Impaired Mice.”

I laughed. “That’s good! There’s ‘Dennis, the Misunderstood Young Person Recently Diagnosed with ADHD and of Undetermined Gender.’ ‘Flight Of The Enola Alternative Lifestyle Not That There’s Anything Wrong With That.’ What a crock of shit.”

Naomi hesitated. “You must be feeling better. You’re not trying to be perfect. You’re relaxed. You’re even saying what’s on your mind. That’s good. I’m glad.”

“Good point. I’m still getting my legs under me. It’s a challenge.”

“As usual, you accept zee shall-onge.”

“It’s a big pain in the ass. I’m stumbling through. Just trying not to be anyone in particular. Just me. Some days are easier than others.”

As we finished our last night together, she asked for any last-minute words of wisdom.

I replied, “Oh, yeah, if all the attendees at this year’s prom were laid end-to-end, no one would be surprised.”

“Great. Great. That’s great.”

“Don’t have a heart attack while playing charades.”

Naomi rolled her eyes. “May I call you a cab?”

“You may call me ‘Sir.’ Did I ever tell you about a college girlfriend I had? It didn’t last. Doncha wanna know why?”

“No.”

“She gave great headache.”

Naomi pretended to look at a watch. “Look at the hour. I’m sure you’re terribly busy…”

“Never forget that everyone is silently fighting a personal battle. Except me. I bitch about it all day long.”

“That’s good to know. What else is on your mind?”

“What doesn’t kill you postpones the inevitable.”

“May I leave now?”

“I think you better.”

“I love you.”

“I love you more.”

She went to her apartment. Not looking to impress anyone, I went off to meander the streets of Kyoto.

Just being me.

Finally.

—THE END—

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