Anti Semie

After a dreamy time in California I returned to Tokyo and predictable conditions. The 747 hit the Narita runway flawlessly, thankful to the other predictable condition of excellent Thai airline pilots, in a full rain storm. The dreary conditions did not let up during the following days through the weekend. The only let up was predictably during Sunday morning, the only real opportunity to get a serious bike ride in, when I balked and lost my chance to get out in fear of rain soaked cycling. The short reprieve of rain brought a new dynamic. A sound like a hundred radio controlled cars slowly winding down like on a spring. The sound was coming across the street in the temple property. Yoshiko explained calmly they are a sort of insect called Semie. I did not solicit more information, but I simply took from Yoshiko’s calmness that it was diejoboo, okay. What a strange curiosity and reminder of my foreign experience.
Frustrated with jet lag, sitting around and boredom, I vowed to get out for the rest of the week on my bike. This required rising at the crack of dawn and taking to some local oversize roads around famous sights in the city. The first two mornings brought characteristic drizzle, which made its appearance simultaneously to leaving the apartment. Later in the day the rain would subside, bringing the return of the Semie sound. On a walk to the subway I saw one… oh, they are big, looks kind of like a very big moth.
Then Wednesday came, finally some relief for my training. I rode with all my heart to make up for Sunday. I stormed all of my local haunts in the largest gear and fastest speed I could muster. Turning the corner on Ome Kaido street to my home, I saw a golf ball size blur fly towards my left arm, then there is something on my leg. Without looking down I attempt to brush it off with my hand… is it a leaf? Oh god, it’s a Semie, it’s one of those Semies! Looking back on it, I am relieved I didn’t look down while I frantically swiped my leg, my hand brushing over something that felt like a stiff plastic box stuck to my leg. Ouch, it bit me as it fell off. When I got home, I treated a faint red bite mark while Yoshiko assured me that there was no poison or infection.
Two days of dryness later, I woke up pre dawn. My bike fully assembled to go out once again, I prepared to set forth. Oh, I forgot my pump, it’s out on the balcony. Upon opening the sliding glass door in flew a huge plump Semie. A churning fear and hopelessness seized me as I got my true first up close look of the humming bird sized form of insecthood. It immediately slammed into our ceiling light. I charged out of the room crying. I had a Scrub Jay in my apartment before in San Mateo, but after the initial shock I was humored and amazed by the winged intruder. However the Semie brought waves of fear and nausea. Was it because of the extreme alien nature of a being that can show no expression, no fear, no sign as to any intentions. Or perhaps I feel cowed as I sense deep inside that the insect world is the dominant life form of our earth, despite the vast achievements of my species.
If you can remember Woody Allen in Anne Hall when he attempted to expel the spider from her bathroom, you basically got me pegged as to how I behaved. The babblings of fear naturally awakened Yoshiko and I quickly explained my situation. The sporadically buzzing Semie had now taken a shining to the fire detector and we peeked at it behind our sliding door separating our living room. Yes, I wasn’t hallucinating; it really is as big as a humming bird; transparent wings and a black bulbous hairy frame with six claws. Yoshiko bemoaned our lack of bug spay as if it could take out this mammoth. The dawn was coming and we could hear the Semies across the street. Maybe it would attract our friend into leaving. Nothing doing, instead it decided it was nap time and we heard it drop to some mystery spot on our living room floor. It was time to take action. Armed with a long handled broom and dust pan as sword and shield as well as a can of deodorant supplied by Yoshiko as make shift bug spray, I edged around the sliding door into the living room. Yes, of course it had to be me, I am the man, the protector, I must expel the threat to our territory. Where is it? How the hell could something so big go missing? I started poking around, behind a shopping bag there came a buzz, oh god. Oh god, I have to keep poking until it starts to fly; it moved on to Yoshiko’s backpack. The glass window to the balcony was open and I was ready. I swatted the behemoth and it took to the sky. “Shut off, shut off the light!” I squeaked to Yoshiko, realizing that the Semie may return to its initial interest. The light goes off, and the bug cruises out of the apartment.
We sat on the bed afterward and retold the story to each other before Yoshiko returned to sleep and I got on with my ride; powering along and feeling strangely more masculine.
I thought this story was over, but there was yet another Semi incident the following week. While cycling in the early morning once again a giant humming semi on a reckless course tempted a path trough my front wheel. Needless to say, a Cuisinart couldn’t have fared much better in dismembering as parts of the poor beast scattered across the road and the front of my bicycle as well as my shoes and legs. Thoroughly disgusted with my Semie experience, I was glad when the dryer cooler fall weather came and the sound of wind-up cars went away for another year.

Japan's true National Treasure

You see them everywhere. These men in retirement years that find wonderful things to do with their time; gamble, wander the streets, checking the race reports, smoking, going to the track, going to the powerboat races, going to the bike races, gambling, smoking, drinking and urinating on the street. Yes, they are family men. They sacrificed their best years to make Japan a world economic powerhouse. And now they spend their time wearing their wife’s clothes.
What? Yes it is true. I first learned of this trend when in conversation with my riding friend Derrek, who lives near a popular sports center for horse racing and power boat racing. We were musing on the behaviors of our late middle aged friends; the look of disorientation, the aimless wanderings in their pajamas and such. Then Derrek mentioned one aspect I was unaware of; ladies clothes. Not the whole transvestite shebang, mind you, just a guy wearing women’s clothes.
My first sighting came on the subway. A sensible pants suit with a fringy blouse overlay; moderate heels and a broad summer hat: perfect for that long afternoon at the track. The kind subway passengers paid him no heed. He caught my curious eye with a look that said, “I see you are looking at me, I am looking at you as well”. You may be surprised to find out that it was me who felt like the outsider for showing interest and not our crossgender challenged friend.
The special treasure came yet again on one of my early morning cycle adventures (no longer referred to as training rides due to the flawlessly improbable nature of these sunrise forays into Tokyo’s bad streets). I am riding by Yoyogi park when I spot a jogger in a classic Olivia Newton John “let’s get physical” era work- out suit. It was a fine uniform of a purple thong leotard over lavender stockings, topped off with a sash purple headband. I looked at him as if to say, “I am disinterested, however I am looking”.