Josh Muggins's Blah Blah Blah


March 6, 2011

Japanese Chicks in Paradise

In case anybody has overlooked this aspect of my bio, let me make it perfectly clear that I very much like Japanese chicks. I like their ready laughter, their optimism, their generosity, their spontaneity. I like their silky, fragrant hair and…well, all the stuff that comes below it.

So it was with considerable bemusement late last year that I, just sitting there in a faculty meeting minding my own business, was offered the assignment of accompanying six of our university’s students—four of them female—on a five-day international exchange trip to Hawaii slated for late February 2011.

I write this a week after our return from said trip. While I learned nothing new about Japanese chicks during those fateful five days, it was a welcome chance to have several of my Core Beliefs about them delightfully reinforced. To wit:

Japanese Chicks Keep a Man Fit
At our first orientation meeting in Yokohama a month prior to departure, the students met each other for the first time and quickly resolved to spend at least one full day of the trip at the beach. The impact of this news on me was reminiscent of the scene in American Beauty where Kevin Spacey overhears his teenage daughter’s hot friend admit that she would “totally fuck him” if he built up his chest and arms, then beelines to the weight room. I instantly launched an alcohol-free diet and a ramped-up workout regimen.

I should interject here that I had no delusions that any of the chicks in our group would totally, or even incrementally copulate with me. My goal was to render myself just fit enough so as not to nauseate the chicks during my fact-finding day at the beach with them. In this I succeeded. My beach body was dubbed kawaii (cute), a freshman girl inquired (non-sarcastically, I believe) as to my secret for keeping my legs so slender, and I snagged the coveted digital pic of the best three chicks in bikinis, which has already proven quite useful more than once in its brief existence. (No, I’m not sharing it. What kind of man do you think I am?)

Japanese Chicks Go the Extra Mile
At the beach—Hanauma Bay, to be specific—I did on one occasion court controversy.* Lying on my stomach, I summoned a chick to apply sunscreen to my back.

In a breakdown of the incident over drinks several days after our return, it was explained to me that the issue was not my wanting sunscreen applied to my back. That was all well and good. Had I casually remarked, “Say, I wonder if anyone, regardless of race, creed, or hotness, could put sunscreen on my back,” I would have stayed on safe ground.

My faux pas, evidently, was in specifying precisely which chick I wanted to put sunscreen on my back—i.e., in singling out the one with the most body stuffed into the least swimsuit.

In my defense, I would like to point out two things. ① Since I was lying on my stomach during this procedure, I was literally in no position to enjoy the copious display of sophomore-girl cleavage hovering over me. That was sort of my gift to the two boys along for the ride. ② I did clarify that the sunscreen need only be sprayed on, not rubbed into my skin. But God bless her, that sophomore chick rubbed the sunscreen into my skin anyway, even taking the time to brush sand from my adorably skinny legs.

Japanese Chicks Love English
I gave the two younger chicks, the Freshman and the Sophomore, a crash course in expressions useful for fending off predators: “Don’t touch me,” “Leave me (or us) alone,” and “Get out of here.” There was an odd tendency to pronounce the latter as “Get out of HEAH,” so we put in extra work on that one until it flowed out as the sort of silky-smooth “GedDOWdaheah” that might spew from the lips of a Jersey Shore cast member.

I thereafter never heard either of them utter these phrases at anyone but me. Indeed, the Freshman rarely said anything but these expressions to me for the rest of the trip.

Size Matters to Japanese Chicks
Like any Japanese on their first visit to the Satan, my students were mesmerized by the unexpected size of objects. I could sort of relate after seeing the sophomore girl’s bosoms, which, as noted above, I made a point of photographing. In contrast, the massive things that the chicks deemed worthy of photographic record included:

* Cheeseburgers
* Nachos
* My hotel bed (I had a single room)
* The hotel Jacuzzi
* Stretch limousines
* The stomachs of American visitors
* Lemonade
* The pecs of a smooth-talking community college dude
* A supermarket shopping cart that the Freshman felt compelled to climb into

And I dearly hope that that is the complete list but…well, more about the smooth-talking community college dude later.

Japanese Chicks Keep a Man Fit (Part 2)
On the third day, the students and I visited a community college, where they gave their PowerPoint presentations on Japanese history and culture—the "exchange" event that justified this whole junket. To celebrate the successful conclusion of the day-long colloquy, the junior chick insisted that I buy beer when we got back to the hotel.

The Junior was, objectively speaking, the prettiest of the lot. The previous day she and I had shared a bonding moment, rolling around on my famously gigantic bed while negotiating the terms of a room swap.** Such a trade would have made me the roommate of the Freshman—a move which, while not altogether devoid of potential, would most likely have led to nonstop commands for me to gedDOWda-there.

Of course I easily succumbed to Junior Chick’s plea for beer, with the tacit assumption that she and I would share the beer in my room while rolling around on my bed, which is about the maximum level of Japanese-chick-induced excitement that I can withstand at this age. Instead, Junior Girl simply grabbed the entire sixpack out of my mini-fridge and took it to her room, where she reportedly consumed the whole thing by herself.

She thus prevented me from falling off the wagon a week before the end of my month of sobriety, from ruining my barely acceptable beach body, and from getting fired--God bless her.

Japanese Chicks are Sympathetic (Sometimes)
The kindness of the Junior notwithstanding, it was the Freshman and Sophomore whom I treated to dinner at California Pizza on our last night in Waikiki. When you’re a middle-aged man and two chicks show up at your hotel room door and demand to be taken out to dinner, and one of them has recently rubbed sunscreen into your back and the other is constantly taking her shirt off in front of you, then by God you buy them dinner. It’s just what is done.

In the past few days, the Freshman had taken to wearing her bikini everywhere she went, along with a t-shirt that she put on only for the pleasure of taking off. Indeed, her propensity for random shirt-losing was downright Shatner-esque. Now, if I could have nominated someone in the group to be the designated shirtless member, I would have gone with the Sophomore, followed by the Junior. Still, I wasn’t complaining. In the daily grind of classes at our university, random shirt-removing by female students is tragically rare, so I, for one, will take what I can get.

I was having trouble hearing. I always have trouble hearing, but my naturally poor hearing is exacerbated by plane travel. The Freshman, when not telling me to gedDOWda wherever we happened to be, had taken it upon herself to act as my interpreter. That is to say, when the others spoke to me in normal-volume Japanese, she would repeat it in loud and slow Japanese. It was the way you would talk to a puppy that has just shat all over the carpet.

At California Pizza, I fished for sympathy re my hearing. “I’ll probably have to buy a hearing aid after we get back to Japan,” I whined. “It’ll cost me hundreds of thousands of yen!”

At this, they laughed.

They then told me about the community college students that they had befriended while hiking up Diamond Head together after the presentations. Two boys in particular had made an impression: cool dudes of Asian heritage with long black hair and triangular upper bodies. The chicks named one of them “Mr. Muscles”—he of the giant pecs—and the other “Asswipe”***.

“We don’t like him,” said Sophomore Chick, referring to Asswipe in that crinkly nosed, disdainful tone that I have often heard Japanese chicks use in regard to boys whom they are, in fact, powerfully attracted to.

“WE MIGHT MEET THEM LATER TONIGHT,” shouted the Freshman.

“Then, guard your chastity,” I bleated.

“LEAVE US ALONE!” retorted Freshman Chick, loud enough to cause the nice family at the next table to stare at me.

Japanese Chicks are Hospitable (To a Fault)
We were to rendezvous in the hotel lobby at 5:30 the next morning for pick-up to the airport. I made that clear to everyone before saying goodnight. But at 5:40, the only denizens of the lobby are the driver and I.

Then, finally, the sounds of voices and rolling suitcases, and my seven students appear. Wait, seven? One of these things just doesn’t belong here… My god, it’s Asswipe! Or maybe Mr. Muscles—I can’t really tell them apart. It suddenly seems important to me to determine just who this guy is who has, evidently, spent the entire night with my chicks, but there is simply no polite way to ask a fellow “Are you or are you not Asswipe?”

But the whole question becomes moot when an eighth presence emerges—the other of the pair.

On the way to the airport, I learn that everyone had gathered in one of the rooms for a long night of chitchat. Eventually, our two male students retired to their own room, leaving the four chicks with the two intruders. “You couldn’t even defend your own womenfolk?” I asked the boys, incredulous.

In Japanese, the program that had brought us all to Hawaii is called kokusai koryu, which is generally translated as “international exchange” but can more literally be rendered as “international intercourse.” At a faculty meeting a few days after our return, I would report, straight-facedly, that our students enjoyed very vigorous international intercourse.

No Japanese Chicks, No Life
I’m fifty-five years old. Japanese chicks have been an almost daily presence in my life since I was twenty-three—with the exception of nine months of self-imposed exile back in the Satan in the early Eighties, during the dreadful Reagan recession.

I spent most of that period in Seattle, but it could hardly have been a colder or drearier or lonelier time had I spent it on the dark side of a Jovian moon. I was unemployed the whole time and the only friends I had were gay, meaning that much of my savings were dissipated at a gay bar, where I took great pains one afternoon to fend off the advances of a burly, flannel-clad behemoth with nostrils enflamed from excessive cocaine use. And that was, like, only the tenth most depressing day of that stint.

In the long run, though, the exile was a crucible worth enduring. I discovered that I really, really didn’t like being unemployed, for one thing, which made me much more humble and employable when I finally got back to Japan. But above all, I discovered that I really, really need Japanese chicks around me.

Japanese chicks are the elixir of life—no, no, scratch that. They are life. Their charms are my nutrients and their attention my oxygen. When that day inevitably comes when I retire and no longer can bask in their mocking yet affectionate gaze, I will surely crumble into dust, rather like Aaliyah at the end of Queen of the Damned, though hopefully a bit faster.

In the meantime, a parting message to my recent traveling companions:

If this is dooming my immortal soul, well, doom away, ladies. Doom away.

* Which I pronounce con-TRAH-ver-sy in the British fashion, just to be an asshole.

** I'm talking seventh-grade slumber party rolling around, not Burt Lancaster in From Here to Eternity rolling around. We each stayed in our own quadrant of the bed, and any physical contact was fleeting and inadvertent. Again, what kind of man do you think I am?

*** Iya na yatsu in Japanese. I’m translating loosely.