Tim Anderson - Tune in Tokio

“You know,” I prod, “to try and fit in with everyone else.”

“I might be willing to sell my underwear,” he says after a minute of reflection, “but let’s wait till Thursday and see how my money’s holding out. I’d like to get a few more days’ wear out of it.”

“Gross.”

As we pass under the three giant television screens the sole purpose of which appears to be to give the nation epilepsy, Jimmy breathlessly gasps, “It’s like Blade Runner .”

“Isn’t it? Or at least I, Robot .”

In Shibuya we do what the both of us were put on this earth to do: record shop. Tokyo has the best record shopping any indie pop-grime-jazz-krautrock-acid fusion-dream-pop-dub-trip-hopafrobeat-grunge-eurotrash-neujazz-freakbeat-hip-hop-electroglitchpop-freak folk-old school-electro-minimalist-reggae-dance-hall-girl group-lounge-punk-goth-new wave-house-new world-old world new world-shoegazer-noise pop-new wave revivalist-folk-electro-folk-rhythm and blues-Jpop-gospel-French pop-Bulgarian noise opera fanboy could hope for. That band from Perth from the eighties that only released one single but it’s the best song you ever heard? It’s here somewhere. And you know your friend who is in that god-awful band that somehow found the time in its busy schedule of totally sucking to put a CD together? Tokyo’s got that CD. That song you’ve been kicking around in your head for a few years but have never committed to tape? Also here. And it’s expensive.

We go to my favorite store, Disk Union, where the narrow aisles present a tough but rewarding challenge for any customer with a waist over thirty inches. We wade in and look around, twisting and angling our heads so as to read the titles and allow people by, but Jimmy ultimately succumbs to a crippling claustrophobia before even getting to the Momus and David Sylvian sections, and he takes his leave after just forty-five minutes of browsing. I reluctantly put back on the shelf a Madonna twelve-inch on skin-colored vinyl and follow him out.

“Well,” I say, trying to assuage Jimmy’s guilt over forcing us to leave the record store so prematurely, “there’s a CD shop for big fatties just around the corner.”

“Great, let’s go there.”

We browse in a few more spacious record stores, and Jimmy excitedly finds something. He gasps, holds it up, and walks determinedly toward me. I look at it and realize that this find is something that could mark a turning point in his trip: a Japan-only release of a best-of by Japanese electro pioneers Yellow Magic Orchestra.

“We wants it,” he hisses in his best Gollum. “We neeeeeeeds it!” He nudges my shoulder over and over with his head.

“OK, but if I buy this for you, you have to use chopsticks at our next meal. And greet the waitress in Japanese.”

“Whatever.”

“And you have to eat whatever I put in front of you.”

He considers this last point with a pensive and dreamy glare.

“OK,” he finally agrees. “But don’t get pissed if I puke in your lap.”

We meet my friend Shunsuke and his friend Chieko for lunch at an izakaya in Shibuya. It doesn’t take long for the two of them to start chatting like old friends, even though Jimmy keeps calling Shunsuke Shinjuku, as in:

“So, Shinjuku, how long have you lived in Tokyo?”

or

“Shinjuku, have you ever been to the U.S.?”

or

“So, Shinjuku, you like Celine Dion. Why is that?”

“Jimmy, his name is Shunsuke!” I finally correct him. “Shun-suke! Shunsuke.”

“It OK,” Shunsuke says, laughing. “I just make new name for Jimmy. I call him Miami. Is OK?”

“Sure,” Jimmy says. “Better than Kernersville.”

Our waitress arrives, breathless, stressed, and with no time for small talk. A perfect candidate for Jimmy to bludgeon with his newly acquired Japanese.

“Jimmy,” I say, holding up the expensive CD I just bought him and nodding in the direction of the waitress.

“Cone nishy wa,” he says with a big smile.

Shunsuke translates for her.

“

,” he says. “He’s trying to say hello.”

She smiles, bows slightly, and says “sank yuu” to Jimmy. He looks at Shunsuke.

“Thanks, Shinjuku.”

“You’re welcome, Miami.”

We order a number of small dishes to share, the way real Japanese folk do. I make sure that one of these dishes is the one on the menu that looks like a plate full of fried popcorn shrimp from Red Lobster. Jimmy loves popcorn shrimp, as do I. I’ve had this dish before, two weeks into my Japan odyssey, and it really altered my perception of what I can voluntarily put in my mouth, chew, and swallow. It was fried chicken gristle, and it felt like eating deep-fried knuckle. As an American Southerner, I stand firmly behind any food that is deep-fried. It’s part of who I am. So even though I had a profound distrust of this new dish, I continued popping those little suckers into my mouth and negotiating them into my stomach. Ick. I couldn’t stand it. But I ate more. So gross. Then I ate more. Revolting and unequivocally foul. I couldn’t stop eating. Wanted more. What a horrid culinary delight! Disgustingly delicious! I finished the plate myself. No food had ever filled me with such a fervid ambivalence. I haven’t tasted that crunchy gristle since, but I am dying to witness the awakening of Jimmy to its existence. He’s a Southern boy too, born with a fried drumstick in his hand. I’m going to test his limits.

When the plate arrives, I place it in front of Jimmy and hand him a pair of chopsticks.

“Go for it, little man.”

He takes the chopsticks, separates them, and positions them in his right hand just like any red-blooded American would who is recovering from a horrible accident during which he was stabbed repeatedly in the right hand.

Using both hands, he manages to get a piece of fried kernel between the two sticks and lifts it to his mouth.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Grating of teeth.

Crunch.

Grimace, furrow of brow.

Grinding and then grating of teeth.

Crunch.

Wonderment.

Crunch.

Swallow.

Picking of teeth.

“You like it?” Shunsuke asks, doubtful.

“I like the fried part,” Jimmy responds. “What’s inside it?”

I can’t hold it in any longer.

“It’s chicken gristle!” I hiss excitedly. “Chicken gristle! Gross, right?!”

“Hmmm,” he says.

“Don’t you love and hate it?! Doesn’t it make you want to throw up and eat some more?! Isn’t it just immorally appetizing?!”

He picks up another piece, this time with his hand, and tosses it into his mouth. His crunching is less reticent now, his grimaces and brow furrowing more often giving way to thoughtful expressions of acceptance and, after a few more nuggets, unconflicted, decisive satisfaction.

“Actually, it’s not bad. But it needs better dippin’ sauce.”

Jimmy and I circle Tokyo, and she does her best to show him what she’s got. And what does she got that Jimmy might like? She’s got the Rainbow Bridge that takes you to the Odaiba district on Tokyo Bay, voted the best place for a date in the city, with its miles of shopping, street performers, amusement parks, game centers, and even a fake Statue of Liberty. She’s got the crazy kids dressed in their finest gothic threads and having a pose-a-thon next to Harajuku Station. She’s got the dancing Elvises in Yoyogi Park. She’s got the serenity and heart-stopping beauty of a hidden Japanese garden just off of the bustle of Omotesando Dori. She’s got the tallest building in the country in Ikebukuro and the glass capsule elevators running along the outside of the Mitsui Tower building in Nihonbashi. She’s got the labyrinthine underground malls and subway paths, which are a really fun place to hide behind a pole and watch Jimmy get confused and then a little worried. Best of all she’s got lots of food and, to Jimmy’s delight, an abundance of forks.