Ya, my mouth writes checks my body can't cash. No pictures went up last weekend, due for the most part to a blinding night of imbibing during an international DJ gig followed by what I've now classified as Bird Flu. Hmmmm...international DJing...Bird Flu...not many can make that combo possible. The long and the short of it is I'm in Japan doing "real job" stuff, which is great if you like salmon on your breakfast buffet, poor air conditioning, and scaring small children and the elderly with your very presence. Either way, my hiatuses between posts have been justified, but I apologize anyway. So, if you don't mind taking a break from ruining some poor girl's life (I'm talking to you Johnny Cleveland), perhaps I can catch everyone up on the goings on of at least one UMTailgater experiencing a true life version of Lost in Translation.
First and foremost, tailgater Lisa celebrated a monumental birthday last month, and friends made the trek from all over the country to eat, drink, celebrate, and most certainly see Lisa cry at the prospects of turning 30. She did not disappoint, though the tears came late in the evening, and we have her brother Meatball to thank for that. Birthday party success depends on having a story to remember come from the event, and I certainly got one. In short, it involves holding back hair, wiping puke off of shoes, and conning a cab driver by assuring him that Lisa's state was just from "being tired." It was a great weekend, and the pictures do not do it justice...but they are available here nonetheless.
On the Japan front, let me sum it up quickly for you. It's hot, it's humid, and it's raining. The latter is not so much a problem as it is a nuisance, but the heat and humidity combined with a governmental regulation on air conditioning makes it feel like a retread of UCLA 2000.
Though thoroughly exhausted when the weekend comes, I did manage to make a trip from my home base of Toyota City (near Nagoya, Japan) to Tokyo. More specifically, I spent a night in Roppongi, a ex-pat's paradise touted as "Las Vegas without the casinos." And it was. I would classify it as more of a clean version of New Orleans, following the pattern of bar, bar, bar, restaurant, strip club...repeat 100 times. At 4am, it looked like a bustling metropolis during rush hour. We made our camp at Gas Panic, and 3 tiered club/bar named after the 1995 terrorist attack that centered at a nearby train station. Yes, I said named after a terrorist attack. Anyway, arriving early and commandeering a table, we met people from all walks of life, and from all over the world. In an odd bit of coincidence, I managed to bump into Air Force cornerback Nate Smith, who immediately became my best friend when he declared his hatred for Ohio State and Notre Dame. He went as far as to say he can't wait to lay a hit on Brady Quinn's successor and the latest QB with Ron Powlus-esque hype, Jimmy Clausen. Nice. We hope to break a couple of his ribs early in the season for you Nate.