the invasion of Japan
Episode 3
scream, the gods can't hear you
...after ten feet down the alley, I realize that this isn't going to work out for me. There are no lights in the alley and I am not willing to ask anyone I run into down here for directions. I decide that I have seen enough of the "nightlife" for one trip and I head back to the base. I have to rest for my tug of war match tomorrow. It's a shorter walk than I thought, due to the fact that there is nobody to get in my way as I walk down the street.
I am back on base and in the shower before 2 and I am laughing to myself about my luggage situation. I realize that I am still wearing the same pants (washed three times at this point) and if I play tug of war tomorrow, they will probably be stained for life by the mud that is certain to accompany the event and, I wonder if I will ever see my luggage on this whole trip.
I am up at 6 like clock work and I am out the gate by 6:45. When I arrive at that tattoo parlor I see that the tat artists are all pretty hung over and they are already dressed in what looks like bedsheets and matching headbands. They are jumping up and down and singing something and when I arrive they grab me and have me jump around with them. I can tell that I am not going to get any coffee before we go. They give me a bedsheet and headband to wear and I hoping that the symbol on the headband doesn't say something like, "the karate kid" or "ninja lover".
I am trying to follow the chant and jump around with them when the "master" shows up and says something very sternly. I should point out that he isn't really a master but he's older than two of me and that seems to hold some weight. The rest of the punk rock Japanese tat artists wearing bedsheets that I am jumping around with are startled to a stop when he comes in and they turn and bow to their master. They line up from shortest to tallest and put me in where I should be which could easily be described as the back of the bus. As soon as we are in line, the master says something again and the boys bow. SO, I bow. And before I am up the line starts running out the door, screaming and chanting again.
IT's a two mile run to the "pit". I am covered head to toe in sweat, but at least I am wearing new clothes. During the run we encountered other "teams" in the street and we have all joined into one long running row. The pit is really a huge field that is about a quarter mile long and there a thousands of teams chanting, jumping, screaming and pointing fingers at each other as they pass one another. In the center of the field is the longest rope you have ever seen and it must be a five inches thick. It's made from some material that I have never seen before and it has ribbons tied all over it. There are easily two hundred plus people on either side of the rope, pulling in opposite directions. IN the middle is a huge pit of mud,water and cholera, and, as it is loosely explained to me, we don't want to fall in there.
When we arrived there was already a game in action and it takes me a long time to figure out that there is no start or stop to this game. IT's a constant state of pulling and you just run down and join in whenever you are ready or "see a need for yourself on the rope". I am chanting, sweating, jumping and pointing my finger at other teams just like the rest of my team of tattooed punk rockers, I have no idea what I am screaming or why I need to point at others, but it inspires others to point at me and scream at me and I feel my spirit building and I am ready to bash in someone's face. I am ready to rumble and I am "doin' it for Johnny!". My blood is boiling and my face is contorted into a look of evil, when all of a sudden my team charges to the rope and it's "GO" time. It's a hard rope to hold on to and the people pulling on it are screaming, crying and very serious looking. This has ceased to be fun and moved into life or death. When I was watching the game, I noticed that people kept falling into the pit of despair and every one of them came out crying. An odd reaction to a game of tug of war, but I can see now that there is more this than just defeating another team. This is about doing more than your best and it's meant to be humbling both in victory and defeat. I think that it is designed to let out all the negative feelings you hold inside of you and as I am pulling I can see that my strength and best efforts stem from my rage and when that doesn't work out, I turn to other, less childish feelings to get my point across. My personal rage works for about two minutes before I realize that I am not helping matters and I need to slow down and get in sync with the other pullers. The only way to win at this is controlled, precision tugs. Your rage only gets you to the rope, the rest of your ambition comes from teamwork.
I pull on that rope for thirty minutes and I am so tired but I don't want to let my team down. I can see other Americans are on the other side pulling against me and I can tell that we are the only participants that are trying to enjoy this as the childhood game that we remember it as. The rest of the pullers are screaming, pulling, crying and avoiding a watery death. Our strength runs out and even with the addition of new pullers, the punk rock tatoo artists and I, fall in. That's all I am going to say about it.
My team, all smokers, crawl silently out of the pit and are no longer the chanting, jumping, screamers that I showed up with, but have reemerged from the water as their former selves - tattoo artists. It's a long walk back to the tattoo parlor and I am try out some Japanese with the guys on the walk back. I am told that I can keep the sheets and I end up walking back on to the base covered in dry mud, carrying my clothes. I would like to think that the guard there thought I was funny, but front gate security doesn't think anything is funny. I get a shower in and I pretend to pack my pants and shirt just so I feel like I am doing something productive. It's not till I am five minutes from the airport that I realize that I have no idea what the names of my teammates were. How rude! They were incredibly generous and I didn't even ask them their names. Damn! What an ass!
No luggage to check in. Nothing to declare. Today's flight - Okinawa to Nagasaki (yes, where America dropped a bomb). flight time - one hour. Time it will take to wait for the flight - five hours. What will I do to pass the time - sign autographs.
Not sure who I look like, but from the moment I walk into the airport, I am being stared at. Not in the same way as the people in the streets, these people have a different look. It's still a surprised look, but I enjoy this one a lot better. I don't think anything of it because being different will always get you stared at. That's the way it goes.
I am sitting in a restaurant inside the airport when it all starts. I am eating and talking with the other comic when a woman comes up next to me and, giggling, asks me in broken English if I am "Scot-o-st-pu". I have no idea what she is saying, but I say, "Daniel" and she then holds out a piece of paper and I sign it. I am smiling as I have done this before in the states and I think it's funny to sign autographs when people get your identity wrong. But this leads to another one from another young lady and then a bunch of guys and now I am signing a lot of autographs. I am on autograph fifty before someone says in broken English that I can understand, "Scott Stapp". (He would be the lead singer of Creed) and I am crushed. Of all the people I have been told I look like, this is the lowest of the low. I am Scott Stapp, sitting in Okinawa airport, in five day old clothes.
The last three hours before my flight I spend with my hat and sunglasses on, wearing my coat in the airport, hiding. The other comic thinks it's hilarious and keeps saying, "Hey, is that Scott Stapp?" and pointing at me.
I am flying over Nagasaki....
scream, the gods can't hear you
...after ten feet down the alley, I realize that this isn't going to work out for me. There are no lights in the alley and I am not willing to ask anyone I run into down here for directions. I decide that I have seen enough of the "nightlife" for one trip and I head back to the base. I have to rest for my tug of war match tomorrow. It's a shorter walk than I thought, due to the fact that there is nobody to get in my way as I walk down the street.
I am back on base and in the shower before 2 and I am laughing to myself about my luggage situation. I realize that I am still wearing the same pants (washed three times at this point) and if I play tug of war tomorrow, they will probably be stained for life by the mud that is certain to accompany the event and, I wonder if I will ever see my luggage on this whole trip.
I am up at 6 like clock work and I am out the gate by 6:45. When I arrive at that tattoo parlor I see that the tat artists are all pretty hung over and they are already dressed in what looks like bedsheets and matching headbands. They are jumping up and down and singing something and when I arrive they grab me and have me jump around with them. I can tell that I am not going to get any coffee before we go. They give me a bedsheet and headband to wear and I hoping that the symbol on the headband doesn't say something like, "the karate kid" or "ninja lover".
I am trying to follow the chant and jump around with them when the "master" shows up and says something very sternly. I should point out that he isn't really a master but he's older than two of me and that seems to hold some weight. The rest of the punk rock Japanese tat artists wearing bedsheets that I am jumping around with are startled to a stop when he comes in and they turn and bow to their master. They line up from shortest to tallest and put me in where I should be which could easily be described as the back of the bus. As soon as we are in line, the master says something again and the boys bow. SO, I bow. And before I am up the line starts running out the door, screaming and chanting again.
IT's a two mile run to the "pit". I am covered head to toe in sweat, but at least I am wearing new clothes. During the run we encountered other "teams" in the street and we have all joined into one long running row. The pit is really a huge field that is about a quarter mile long and there a thousands of teams chanting, jumping, screaming and pointing fingers at each other as they pass one another. In the center of the field is the longest rope you have ever seen and it must be a five inches thick. It's made from some material that I have never seen before and it has ribbons tied all over it. There are easily two hundred plus people on either side of the rope, pulling in opposite directions. IN the middle is a huge pit of mud,water and cholera, and, as it is loosely explained to me, we don't want to fall in there.
When we arrived there was already a game in action and it takes me a long time to figure out that there is no start or stop to this game. IT's a constant state of pulling and you just run down and join in whenever you are ready or "see a need for yourself on the rope". I am chanting, sweating, jumping and pointing my finger at other teams just like the rest of my team of tattooed punk rockers, I have no idea what I am screaming or why I need to point at others, but it inspires others to point at me and scream at me and I feel my spirit building and I am ready to bash in someone's face. I am ready to rumble and I am "doin' it for Johnny!". My blood is boiling and my face is contorted into a look of evil, when all of a sudden my team charges to the rope and it's "GO" time. It's a hard rope to hold on to and the people pulling on it are screaming, crying and very serious looking. This has ceased to be fun and moved into life or death. When I was watching the game, I noticed that people kept falling into the pit of despair and every one of them came out crying. An odd reaction to a game of tug of war, but I can see now that there is more this than just defeating another team. This is about doing more than your best and it's meant to be humbling both in victory and defeat. I think that it is designed to let out all the negative feelings you hold inside of you and as I am pulling I can see that my strength and best efforts stem from my rage and when that doesn't work out, I turn to other, less childish feelings to get my point across. My personal rage works for about two minutes before I realize that I am not helping matters and I need to slow down and get in sync with the other pullers. The only way to win at this is controlled, precision tugs. Your rage only gets you to the rope, the rest of your ambition comes from teamwork.
I pull on that rope for thirty minutes and I am so tired but I don't want to let my team down. I can see other Americans are on the other side pulling against me and I can tell that we are the only participants that are trying to enjoy this as the childhood game that we remember it as. The rest of the pullers are screaming, pulling, crying and avoiding a watery death. Our strength runs out and even with the addition of new pullers, the punk rock tatoo artists and I, fall in. That's all I am going to say about it.
My team, all smokers, crawl silently out of the pit and are no longer the chanting, jumping, screamers that I showed up with, but have reemerged from the water as their former selves - tattoo artists. It's a long walk back to the tattoo parlor and I am try out some Japanese with the guys on the walk back. I am told that I can keep the sheets and I end up walking back on to the base covered in dry mud, carrying my clothes. I would like to think that the guard there thought I was funny, but front gate security doesn't think anything is funny. I get a shower in and I pretend to pack my pants and shirt just so I feel like I am doing something productive. It's not till I am five minutes from the airport that I realize that I have no idea what the names of my teammates were. How rude! They were incredibly generous and I didn't even ask them their names. Damn! What an ass!
No luggage to check in. Nothing to declare. Today's flight - Okinawa to Nagasaki (yes, where America dropped a bomb). flight time - one hour. Time it will take to wait for the flight - five hours. What will I do to pass the time - sign autographs.
Not sure who I look like, but from the moment I walk into the airport, I am being stared at. Not in the same way as the people in the streets, these people have a different look. It's still a surprised look, but I enjoy this one a lot better. I don't think anything of it because being different will always get you stared at. That's the way it goes.
I am sitting in a restaurant inside the airport when it all starts. I am eating and talking with the other comic when a woman comes up next to me and, giggling, asks me in broken English if I am "Scot-o-st-pu". I have no idea what she is saying, but I say, "Daniel" and she then holds out a piece of paper and I sign it. I am smiling as I have done this before in the states and I think it's funny to sign autographs when people get your identity wrong. But this leads to another one from another young lady and then a bunch of guys and now I am signing a lot of autographs. I am on autograph fifty before someone says in broken English that I can understand, "Scott Stapp". (He would be the lead singer of Creed) and I am crushed. Of all the people I have been told I look like, this is the lowest of the low. I am Scott Stapp, sitting in Okinawa airport, in five day old clothes.
The last three hours before my flight I spend with my hat and sunglasses on, wearing my coat in the airport, hiding. The other comic thinks it's hilarious and keeps saying, "Hey, is that Scott Stapp?" and pointing at me.
I am flying over Nagasaki....
posted by Daniel Loomis | 2:09 PM
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