durama

OMG. This is such high drama (that's durama in Japanese) that I can barely type.

I just got back home from an evening out and I'm still in shock.

Jim and I dropped by Halo, a new bar in town. He had a delightful out-of-town guest, Shannon, who is obviously holding the torch of edu-glamour high back home in CA. She made the Jblend 5-star guest list for the week!

Back to the high durama: It was the opening night, so we had to make a quick appearance for the media. After a cursory perusal of the place, we judged it acceptable and were making our way to the door when it happened.

Jim was flying down the exit stairs. I was on his heels when someone stopped me. A petite Asian girl asked me about my shirt. It was my kichiku beihei shirt.

"Why are you wearing that camoufla-shirt?" she slurred, motioning for me to hold one of the three drinks she was holding. Taking her empty beer can, I explained that it was just an esoteric Japanese catchphrase from World War II. It means "dirty American devils", I explained. Kinda like when we called them "damned Nips" or "Crazy Japs." It's just a quirky little shirt that reminds us about the dangers of racism, I went on. I was friendly and matter-of-fact about it.



Then she put down her drinks, grabbed hold of me and just stood there, a drunken wreck, not letting go of my shirt. The crazy drunk held on tight and said, "Yeah, well, I don't appreciate that because my grandparents went to a Japanese internment camp during the war. So why are you wearing it?"

"I'm a pacifist and I think it's good to remember the dangers of war propaganda," I indignantly replied, getting a little riled up.

"So you should take it off," she slur-commanded. "Now."



"Look, crazy-bitch-dot-com, I'm certainly not going to take off my shirt in the middle of a crowded bar. And for your information, thousands of my people were killed in the Nazi camps. So don't complain to me that your folks got forced to go to an extended summer camp. How dare you complain about World War II to me in a farking gay bar!"

"They went to those camps. So wrong! So take it off. Now."

"Yeah, well. You have a great evening out, ya hear? Nice talkin' to ya. Now I've got to go... so would you please let go of me?" She refused to let go, answering in a defiant tone, "Take it off. I mean it." I considered dragged her down the stairs. But I feared for the safety of my shirt.

At the top of my voice, a mere inch away from her face, I screamed, "Look, bitch: I'm going to stop being a gentleman and start being a man. I've asked you repeatedly to let go of me. I have witnesses all around who have seen that I politely asked you to stop." (At this point, everyone around quickly turned their attention to their drinks, as if on cue.) I continued, "Don't make me hurt you."
That's when her three friends finally interceded, grabbing her hand and prying her off of me.

"Goodnight," I shouted over my shoulder, bound to the niceties of polite company. I shuffled down the steps as fast as my little feet could take me! Relieved, I just put one foot in front of the other until I got halfway down.

I looked back on the landing after hearing a loud bang, as if she'd fallen down the stairs (would've served her right). Her male acquaintance, presumably the idiot who'd brought her in there, was holding her back and yelling at her to calm down.



I should have worn this design, which means, Enjoy alcohol and tobacco after you turn 20, you whacked out Jezebel!

In retrospect, I see that it was silly of me to talk to a drunk. Especially La Femme Skankita! And I have to learn to never translate anything that could be used against me. That idiotic illiterate had no clue what my shirt said -- she had no right to be angry. Maybe if she could've read it on her own she would've had a point. But instead, she didn't even have a clue. I was stupid to supply her with it.

Like an episode of Southpark, I learned something really important today, guys... I need to be more careful to remain with my group and beware of strangers. (Note to all future J-Posse members: please do not leave me alone. I may look like a >steel magnolia, but I can't handle cancer or screaming women like they can in the movie.)

Post script: Jim sent me a thoughtful note to check up on me.

...still can't believe that you were violently accosted by a drunken chick in a gay bar. it takes a special man with some special clothes to accomplish that. and craziness seems to follow you wherever you go.

As the Timex Social Club so succinctly says, "Word up", Jim. "Word up."