It took about five minutes at the Japanese car dealer for my dreams of buying a Japanese car to go screeching off the road and crash flaming into a tree.
But let’s back up a second, because in America, Ken Seeroi was a born legend when it came to fast cars and slow women. With a longneck beer in one hand and a blonde in the other, I crossed the mountain passes and desert plains of that wide nation countless times, driving everything from motorhomes and massive diesel trucks to hotrod Chevy Vega’s and riceburner Nissan 350Z’s. Gotta steer with your knees, is the key. Continue reading “Buying a Japanese Car”
It’s a funny feeling, being surrounded by a gang of cops, what with the yelling and pointing of guns and all. My first thought was, being shot to death on vacation’s gonna suck.
It’d started off well enough. Hidemi and I had breezed in from Haneda two days before. She’d wanted to go to California, but I was insistent we spend our vacation in Thailand, lounging on the white sand with a frosty Singha in one hand and a papaya salad in the other. Which would explain why we were lost in the suburbs of Los Angeles with a car full of McDonald’s wrappers, driving in circles.
“I told you to take the next exit,” she said. Continue reading “How Americans get Shot by the Police”
Japan’s a reasonably good place to head out for a little exercise, assuming you’re into that sort of thing. I personally enjoy indulging in “the fitness” myself, as I’ve found that it burns off potato chips while simultaneously making beer taste all that much better afterwards. So that’s a win-win. At the same time, I feel it’s my civic duty, as President of Japan, to point out some real dangers associated with running here. Continue reading “Four New Rules for Running in Japan”
Why is everything in Japan is so freaking small? I really don’t get it. Like, they say Japanese people are short, but they’re really not. Sure, there’s some grannies who could pass as Seven Dwarf number eight, but there’s also plenty of folks around my height, and I’m six foot. Although I do wear a lot of vertical stripes, so maybe that makes me look taller, I don’t know.
At any rate, I finally got a gentsuki, which is what we call a moped here in Japan. Continue reading “One Very Small Japanese Motorcycle”
So I finally got a Japanese driver’s license, which anyone who lives here for more than six months should really get. Well, okay, so I got a scooter license. Contrary to popular belief, this does not automatically make me gay. Astride my Japanese moped, I’m easily as macho as that construction worker from The Village People, plus I have more chest hair. Man, I love that guy. Continue reading “Getting a Japanese Scooter License”