Dear PD,
I have found you. At long last I have glimpsed, nay- known you beyond your usual flirtatious ways. You, Perfect Drunk you, you playful bitch, you got sauced last night and I had my way with you. And you liked it. Ha HA (Me standing with manly flowing cape and leather accoutrements on cliffs overlooking the sea beneath a daunting sky laughing haughtily)!
No really, I liked it too. Actually, Perfect Drunk, I just wanted to say thanks. Thanks for last night. Thanks for finally showing up. Thanks for finally giving me what has eluded me all these years. And when I least expected it. Who knew Masa would call me up out of the clear blue sky telling me he needed a fourth to pair up evenly with some ladies he had arranged an impromptu dinner with not four hours hence? How could one know that my vocal cords, in conjunction with my lungs, mouth and voice would completely lock my brain out of this one? In a revolt the impact of which will remain largely debatable for years, the Coup d’Etat of my Major Organ by an unlikely triumverate could shake the very bodily foundations we’ve come to live by. That and answering in startingly good Japanese- Japanese that’s just a little too good, a little beyond our range, you know- but Masa didn’t blink (as we were on the phone I’m not sure about that). He did quickly applaud the choice of my rebelling organs- basically telling Mr. Brain to F-off- and had me to meet him in typical Tokyo fashion: at the statue of the dog. Weird. Intriguing. If there’s a chance of meeting you there, of course I’m in PD.
An aside: My grandfather always preached the gospel of you, Perfect Drunk. “It’s like a good Bloody Mary,” he’d always go on about after one or two of his own Vodka Tonics, “a little spicy, tart, there’s the crunch of the celery and you know the Vodka’s there, but no one ever got really tight on one, just comfortable…and…” he would add shaking his finger, “still in control, mostly anyway.”
PD, let me tell you: This is how I try to drink. With you in mind, but always trying to be a good grandson. I try to heed words of wisdom, but all too often the all-powerful desire to just “have another” (which I attribute- along with my stomach’s amazing ability to digest anything- to being a rare mix of Scottish/Cherokee) takes over after the glass before you mysteriously empties itself. Over and over again. It’s tough to measure whether or not you are exceeding your target consumption rate of one drink per hour when you mix shochu with water over ice and you wear no timepiece. You trickster you.
Especially this being Japan. In search of you, the Japanese consume the most spirits in the world. Hands down # 1. Sorry Russians (keep slogging down the antifreeze). Although the Koreans and their small green bottles of Soju are catching up, the Japanese by far outdrink all of their Asian neighbors, as well as the rest of the world (yes, even the Germans), despite their genetically unfavorable disposition toward alcohol in general, due to a lack of acetaldehyde dehydrogenase type I (ALDH-I) which causes extreme facial and cardiovascular reactions, headaches, nausea, and the infamous tie-on-the-head-at-karaoke, etc.
The simple facts remain that alcohol consumption has quadrupled in Japan since the 1960s. There has never been a prohibition. There is nothing amoral about drinking. It is the social lubricant par excellence and is basically how the generally über-shy Japanese men still manage (though barely) to populate the country. Truth is alcohol is not even considered a drug here. Hence the lack of regulations on drinking, such as the ability to purchase alcohol 24 hours a day, no laws prohibiting public consumption (even as a passenger in a car), the rare D.U.I. checkpoint featuring police asking you to breath into their cupped hand which they then smell and base their decision to allow you to continue or apprehend you, and of course the famous beer/sake vending machines (though sadly these are fading away). Though the majority of the natives don’t fastidiously take advantage of the aforementioned “loopholes”, many of the expatriots residing here do. The Japanese are pretty staid about their drinking until it comes time to drink: (unless you’re the Finance Minister) after work.
Or as a part of work. Without the after-six salaryman crowd out sousing up prospective clients, the well-maintained independent drinking/eating establishments that still thrive here (franchises have not made very much headway at all) would for the most part be bankrupt. It is a part of national duty to drink one for the team. In order to keep the economy running (from the DTs) and business breathing (hard and heavy from Cirrhosis), everyone drinks excessively to let off stress, which in turns more than likely multiplies stress. Add the popular possibility of nomihodai (all-you-can-drink) and if you are an up-and-coming young salaryman, you are out at the bars every night of the week. As demonstrated by Masa last night, “I’m so bad drunk, Manny-san, but one more! YES!” All in pursuit of you PD!
But I digress. Only becasue I can handle it. Because the combination of beer, shochu, water, sashimi, tofu (when I ordered edamame they called me “quaint…like a country person”, when I ordered shishamo (pregnant River Smelt) they pretended not to hear), spinach salad, deep fried Sea Bream (the head was amazing!) all slowly consumed in small proportions over three hours added up to you Perfect Drunk. You know how you are: not too wobbly, not too weary, though quite upbeat and charming. And of course you lead to great ability at speaking that dapper, witty brand of Japanese the four JAL stewardesses (ranging from cute and sweet to dropdead, “Ring for another bag of honey-roasted peanuts, Manny! Hurry!” gorgeous) just love. Did I thank you yet, Perfect Drunk?
In the end, we parted ways after collectively having finished a bottle of Satsuma-Imo (Sweet Potato) Shochu, I had been challenged to and won three arm wrestling duels (ambidextrously no less) and the young lady seated facing me, who had been playing a drunken footsie with me for two hours, asked me for my phone number. I don’t know when the last time someone played footsie with me and asked for my phone number. Here’s me waiting- excitedly like a small girl in a dress and pigtails to hear the ice cream man- for her call.
PD, even missing the train and walking the 30 minutes home (amidst a silvery drizzle of rain) sort of considering stalking all the ladies’ legs beckoning to me in the gentle midnight cool to drift almost instantaneously into R.E.M. where I dream of a desert oasis housing a carnival on the banks of a beautiful and ancient river. I find myself amidst an oddly large amount of British people where we play with shotguns and use paint in strange and ritualistic ways. I wake up laughing several times. At one point a robed Jesus walks through holding a plate and comments, “The hummus is good today.” I wake up when the saran wrap I’m trying to rescue a family of Alaskan Huskies from washing away down the river with snaps and I dive in after them. No alarm, no nothing.
You snazzy minx you, Perfect Drunk, you segue into the Perfect Hangover. You’re not a Yanni hangover: nauseous, headachy and semi-retarded, but more akin to a Gershwin hangover: jaunty and fun, a bit slow in places, but able to pull off the whole day admirably (even without coffee).
Here’s to you PD, you fickle bitch goddess. See you at the vending machine…
Love,
Manny
I am a documentary and portrait photographer, specializing in a raw approach to shooting everything under the sun. Though I travel abroad often, I am currently based in the Pacific Northwest of the United States, and am available for assignments throughout North America and beyond.
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All content © 2012 by Manny Santiago Photography