| | We left, not knowing exactly what to do…only that something must be done. J-town seemed as good a start as any so we picked up some cervezas gigantes at Ralphs and headed out, knowing damn well that our destination might (and probably would) be closed and saying that we’d damn well drive out there just to know that.
Ten minutes down the 60 west and all we did know was that it was closed and that we had no idea what we were going to do. We sat and downed the beers, watching what I presumed to be the same ambulance and cop car drive back and forth down 2nd Street every ten minutes or so. I wondered how illegal it was to drink a beer in a stationary automobile.
Evening Fun Fact:
“What band would you say speaks for you the best? You know…like whose lyrics in general.”
Brady: Red Hot Chili Peppers
Greg: Nada Surf
Kris: Cake
We wandered to Weller Court and hit up its poorly guarded rooftop. The LA skyline loomed to our right, in an eerie 2D façade. After that we headed into the New Otani Hotel and put on our own front to walk by the concierge. Don’t slouch, get your hands out of your pockets, smile, but not like you’re up to something, and there, walk into the elevator and you’re done. Of course, he was probably so bored that none of this mattered, but it’s nice to think that watching a little James Bond can get you into a place without a condescending “Can I help you, sir?” Greg found out the service elevators were unlocked, so we rode to the roof and contemplated whether “DOOR IS ALARMED” really meant that the door had an alarm or if a sign was good enough. We found the wires but figured that the time outweighed the benefits of disarming it and headed back to the streets.
We figured we were finished and started driving home when Brady spotted the old bar on 1st Street. It was one of those places that always blended into the background of my mind because I could remember the sign reading “Over 21 Only” since I was 8 years old. I turned a U and we headed in. First impression: this is the saddest bar ever. There were only two people at the bar and a few milling around the karaoke in back—not that I knew what to expect at 1 in the morning. I wasn’t even sure that I wanted a drink, but we all had a seat anyway. The first thing I noticed was that the three people around the bar were drinking American—Bud and Coors Light. We met Yoshiko-san, the bartender, Yayoi-san, the karaoke girl, and patrons Wada-san and Tsuji-san. They asked us what our names were, what generation we were, and what we did. All of them said “OOhhhhhh! Hattori Ninja!I” when I told them my name. I didn’t know how to say military pilot, so I think I told them Greg was an “Airplane War Guy.” We found out Wada-san was a sushi chef down the street—he let us know where to find the best tuna in the area.
Eventually another guy sat down at the bar. He looked around 50 or 60, scraggly long black and white hair and a jean jacket. Yoshiko came close to us and said, “That’s Mr. Ramen.” Now, I dunno if you’ve ever heard of the place, but if you’ve ever been to J-town, you probably know exactly why I was in shock. Brady looked back in disbelief. “Ramen-san!!! Kampai!!” we shouted. He looked embarrassed and nodded and asked our names. After I told him mine he smiled. “I am ninja too, Shinobu—like shinobi. Kanji is same,” he said, drawing his name in the air. It was heading towards 2 am closing time when the ridiculous happened. Yoshiko came over to our end of the bar and said, “Shinobu-san says you are good guys—you go to his restaurant.”
And so, at 2 in the morning, the 7 of us walked across the street to Mr. Ramen. Shinobu introduced us to the waitress who I guess stayed behind to clean up everything—Shoko-san (who didn’t like being called “san” at 24). He told us to pick some beers from the fridge, turned on some Beatles, and started cooking some gyoza (dumplings) and karage (fried chicken). I asked him how he got into the business and he explained that he came from Tokyo 15 years ago after a relative told him that America was cool with immigrants and that there were places like Little Tokyo where he could start a business. He stressed how he felt about the place—that J-town was where he worked and where he lived and that the youth—he pointed to us—had to take care of it.
He told us how one of the first things he remembers as a kid was listening to the Beatles at his local ice-skating rink in Japan. The US GI’s were still in Japan at the time and helped popularize American music. I asked him why he liked the Beatles over traditional Japanese stuff. He looked at me like I was crazy and said “Fahn! You know? It sounds like fahn time!” He proved it by singing the Beatles’ “Girl” with Shoko and I chiming in all the overdone sighs of the original. I asked Shinobu-san about the Takeshi Kitano movie Brother and how they had a scene right in front of his restaurant. Not only did they not ask for any permission, he didn’t even get to meet Kitano. I asked him how Japanese felt about the Japanese-American internment in WWII and why Japanese have New Years on January 1st, instead of on the lunar new year. He said that the first was a very tough decision and that the Japanese still think about it, but the overall decision’s still split. The second he explained was because Japan was a new island society, that it could make the rules the way it wanted and 1/1 seemed like the right day to start the new year. I never realized how many questions I had saved up in the back of my mind in case I met real Japanese people and that I actually learned enough in class to half-ass convey the questions to them.
I can’t explain how crazy it was to be with a group of first generation Japanese-Americans. It was like taking a small look into the kind of people my great-grandparents might have been like when they first moved here. And at the same time, it was like getting back a little memory of what it was like in Japan.
So yeah, go do something random…cause even with the odds stacked, it only might suck.
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| | Posted 1/2/2008 3:50 PM - 37 Views - 2 eProps - 1 Comment
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