Drunkity Drunk Drunk

This Saturday evening past saw me coaxed from my hole after weeks of mind bending flu-like symptoms, and equally otherworldish school festivals. My odd friend Akko, and her friends were attending the opening of a new reggae club. Oh, Japanese reggae you hotbed of invention. You petri dish of cleverness. Oh Japanese reggae, who never saw a microphone not fit to be shouted unintelligibly into. My cup of tea, you ask. Iced. 11:30 at night and Akko's friends, Kaori, whom I have met and a boy and girl whom I have not are dead set on eating dinner first. I had manufactured curry-rice, minus rice with rancid potatoes from the dollar store. My stomach is swimming for safety. It is long before the first beer that I realize that Akko's friend whom I don't know-the girl-is decidedly my typish. Confounded. To the izakaya. As I have stated, Akko is an odd one. Our relationship consists of what would appear from the outside as 'dates' but merely involve her getting very drunk, delivering a vague, mysterious monologue about her year in Australia, slowly passing out and then snapping to declaring that she has to be somewhere else immediately. She often says things that I can't quite here and when I ask, "What did you just say?" She responds, "Nothing, why?" And then looks at me like I forgot to zip up my fly. She is also taken with the notion that I am fat and struggling with my weight. I am not. Two beers down and her guy friend has decided that I am a good guy. The story about my busted up keitai is a hit all around, but we must run to the reggae club as their pal "Autolock" has taken to the microphone.
I am the only foreigner in the crowded club and do not stand out at all. Autolock is MCing about the days of the week. I would be less than honest if I didn't say that he wasn't, in fact, somewhat better than bad. I think Japan manufactures vacuous attractive women, stores them, and then fires them out of cannons, like grape shot, at me. So that I don't pause and tell you throughout my story, I drank many Coronas this evening. Many. People bought them for me. I bought them for people. At the end of the night I threw somebody onto a floor. In between some other stuff happened.
One MC, wearing a camouflage jacket and sunglasses took to the stage yelling, "It is normal for a guy to like girls...you know what I'm sayin!" I was hoping I had misunderstood until he launched into a spiel in which the only discernible words were "Batty boy." I told Akko that I was going to shove a Corona up his ass. In typical Japan fashioned she explained, "People don't know what he is saying. These guys are amateurs, not pros." As we all know, rampant violent homophobia and its encouragement are acceptable as long as you aren't playing in the bigs, like chewing tobacco in reverse. I was going to confront him later but I gradually forgot what everyone looked like. Except for this one girl Kana who was wearing a white, long-sleeved sweater and pink hot pants. As a licensed representative of Miyazaki hospitality, I took it upon myself to speak with her. I came to understand that she was only interested in speaking to foreigners if they were black. Who ever accused the Japanese people of shallowness. Forsooth. I ask you dear reader, who is blacker than me? Really.
The drunker I got the more I felt it was my duty to spread my friendliness to the masses. Unfortunately the gift of language, so unique to us humans, had forsaken me. I ended up being driven home, possibly by a drunk person-although I certainly hope not, after wandering arm and arm with various people through the Kiyamachi sunrise protesting that I didn't need any ride home. I tossed myself into the shower and plunged into my newly bought futon sometime around 6. I see that there is a mail on my phone from 6:30. I am scared to look. What did I do? Did I drunk mail? Oh, I think you know that I most certainly labadid.
I awoke to a severe migraine inspired in part by the beer, but largely from my lingering sinus infection which had hardened into a tobacco provoked ball of hardened mucus somewhere amongst my brains. I took Excedrin, thanked God for its invention and went back to bed. What great sleep, I thought, and then remembered that it was the first time in a month that I hadn't slept on a piece of wood with a blanket. I also used shampoo and soap. The only thing missing from my familiar Sunday morning was the obligatory phone call from Ed asking, "Do you remember what you were doing last night?" "No. If I don't remember, then don't tell me." "Hahahaha." "Don't tell me."