And our love become a funeral pyre.

I have learned something about myself since I’ve come to Japan. When it comes to dealing with heights that border on astronomical, “heights” and the danger that the “heights” hold, will awakes make me their bitch.

This decline in the ability to engage gravity in a round of fisticuffs actually started at my sister’s house. One day, my family and I were departing her company and I had noticed that she had some weeds growing out of the seams of her chimney. After we had made comments about it being the only house on her block with such an adornment, I eyeballed the roof, got her ladder out, and began my ascent.

Once I got on the roof, away from the ladder, I fully saw that the pitch of the roof was actually deeper than it appeared from the ground and that to ascend further would be like watching a cat ‘free-climb’ a wall using only their claws.

I was fucked.

My sister, and my wife and children, were on the ground looking up at my ample backside as all of the macho bravado was pinched out of me, like air being pinched out of the throat of a balloon.

I wasn’t really fucked.

Not wanting to back out of the “commitment” I had made to my sister, and not wanting to look like a total fool in front of my family, I began my snail-like crawl to the smokestack and decimated the offending weeds.

With respect to Japan, being on the edge of vertiginous heights seems to be a way of life. And with good reason: Japanese men and women aren’t stupid. They know where the edge is and they know what awaits them on the other side should they step in the wrong direction. That’s why they tend to live longer than us: because they don’t engage in Macho derring-do.

I’ve been to Skytree twice since I’ve landed in Japan. The first time that I went was for a field trip that had me chaperone two of my kids.

The second time was with my wife. We went all of the way to the Tembo Deck.

The Tembo Deck is the topmost part of the tower that is open to visitors. Parts of the Tembo Deck are constructed in a parabolic fashion. Meaning, you step up to the railing and you see that the safety glass is curved, giving the walkway an almost tub-life feel to it. The affect is that you get not only an unparalleled view of most of downtown Tokyo, but also a bird’s eye view of God’s asshole.

When my wife and I exited the elevator, we walked up to the rail that wasn’t choked with tourists. As she took in the view, I let out a long sigh. “That’s enough of that shit,” I said, and proceeded to hug wall until I saw that it was safe.

And thus, I concluded: If we were meant to be that far from the ground, we’d come pre-loaded with wings.

The only way that I would have been able to get the whole tower in was if I was lying on my back. I tried (my wife wasn’t having it).

A Word on Japanese Claw Machines.

Don’t be fooled: This picture isn’t showing you a simple story of mechanical claw prowess.

The Cat’s in the Cradle.

The night before the photo, I had told my wife that I had wanted to go record shopping in a relatively close Tokyo neighborhood. At the time, we were a year and a half in to our three year stay in Japan. As a result of this stay, I had rediscovered my love of music shopping via records.

That morning, I just wasn’t feeling it.

I woke up tired and semi-infected with some manner of cold virus thanks to our children being incubators for all manner of disease. Catching a train (even though the rail system in Japan is superior to that of the States) that becomes a big petri-dish because of the amount of people that try to pile in, wasn’t something that I had wanted to partake in on that particular day.

As a compromise, and to ensure that I got out of the house (because she had threatened to make me miserable if I didn’t), my wife suggested that I take the boy. I quickly reasoned that that option was the way to go. He used to be a train fanatic (and still is to some degree), he’s almost always good company, and he’s been having a hard time socializing with other kids his age.

His reluctance to socialize started before we left the states. On top of that, getting a straight answer out of him when it comes to expressing feelings is a Herculean feat. Unfortunately, he takes after his father in that respect. If I had to guess, I’d say that the impermanence of friendships when you live a gypsy lifestyle really sank in when he learned we’d be living in a foreign country for a couple of years.

So I took the boy on a train ride. A short train ride. Because I was being a sick wimp. We got off at Tachikawa, had lunch at McDonald’s, and I alternated between me, tripping on the generally laid-back-ed-ness of the city and trying to get him to participate in our semi exploration.

Then we found an arcade. 

Arcades are plentiful here. These are old school arcades, the kind that used to be popular in your neighborhood shopping mall way back in the 1980’s. Fun fact? Most of the arcades that you tend to see in Japan are owned by SEGA. Funner fact? I have seen on occasion video game consoles in local Japanese malls. How the arcades compete with the now commonplace-ness of home gaming is a bit beyond me. Personally, I think that arcades have survived in Japan because a large part of the currency is coinage.

Everything less that 10 USD is coin, you could probably apply my numb-but logic to the popularity of gambling here as well.

The Boy perked up as soon as he realized that he was actually in front of an arcade, not watching about them via YouTube. After a quick once around in order to see what this arcade had to offer, I surmised that the video games he wasn’t interested in so much. Claw machines? That’s his shit. Claw machines are even more of his shit when one of those machines has a clock in the shape of a cardboard boy.

Are claw machines rigged? The short answer is yes. A lot of the rigging has to do with the strength of the claw and how much the owner of the claw machine wants to nefariously twirl their mustache like the villain that they are. The real question is, are claw machines rigged in other parts of the world?

25 dollars and a half an hour later, we had attracted the attention of the Arcade attendant. Being amused by my dedication and my son’s fanaticism, he offered some pointers before going back to tending the other machines.

10 minutes laters the attendant came back to see us still at it.

Graciously, he opened the case, rigged the box to where a light breeze would have blown it over and said to me in perfect english, “Hit it right there”, while pointing at a crucial area of the box.

I did what I was told and everybody won something that day. My son got a good memory and a temporary object of desire, the attendant got to witness a father’s dedication to his son, and me? I made everyone involved in this story, including myself, a little bit happier.

Continue reading “A Word on Japanese Claw Machines.”