ER Tokyo Style

You know how on all of those medical television series, there is that scene where the patient looks up to find herself surrounded by a group of surgeons wearing those frilly paper knickers over their mouths and on their heads? Well, I had one of those moments on Saturday night - Tokyo style.

I found myself lying face up on a massage table in the neon-lit back room of an acupuncture school on the Westside. A group of Japanese acupuncturists peered over me, twittering away, as they stuck needles into any part of my body they deemed necessary. I am proud to say that they gasped louder than I did on account of the fact that I didn’t make any gasping sounds at all, despite the fact that those needles went into places I can’t even mention in print. “She trust me,” I heard the guru say before one of them pricked that point that makes you faint and I passed out.

When I woke up, a young acupuncturist was waving white flower oil under my nose, to bring me back to my senses. “You perfect model,” she said to me, which was on account of the fact that I had lost 35 pounds in three weeks through the guru’s new needle technique - because of which he was dully parading me around town as a fine specimen of his work. When I came to my senses, the resident English teacher thought it was the perfect moment to approach me with a print out of a love scene from The Reader. He proceeded to tell me how the Japanese cannot differentiate their “l”s from their “r”s and asked if I wouldn’t mind reading out a passage about an erection.

I read it out to the group and tried to demonstrate what I meant, and began to wonder if the Japanese were not so polite after all, like they always made out to be. A young girl wearing fluffy boots and three-quarter length green trousers and a flower on her head, translated for an elderly gentleman who was almost bent over double. He didn’t seem to flinch an inch. Then another acupuncturist approached me to tell me how much the Japanese country-folk loved Caucasians. So I hinted to the guru that he might like to take me on a trip to Japan. Instead he took me to the local hiking trail at the top of Temescal Canyon the next morning at noon and made me practice some sort of karate moves and tiger breathing to celebrate the Chinese New Year of The Tiger, which we had already celebrated belly dancing. As we practiced, standing right in the middle of the path, a rapper wearing a tight black T-shirt and a long, gold chain and his girlfriend wandered by in a daze and said hi. And then two LaLaLand dog walkers with Ugg boots joined in. They were wearing wooly hats in the ninety degree heat and continued their loud conversation undeterred as they breathed for the Tigers who had already gone to heaven. Even the dog tried to give it a go. Thus I was reminded of why it was that I loved to live in LaLaLand. “In olden days a glimpse of stocking was thought of as something shocking, now heaven knows, anything goes,” I sang at the top of my voice as I wandered back down the hill with the guru trailing behind in his black Stetson hat. Cole Porter rapped the rapper from up above.

Ladylike

It was on account of the fact that Cynthia and Harriet had snored all night, that I became a lady. At 7 a.m., without having had a wink of sleep, I walked out from my bedroom, stepped into my bikini, with the stars and stripes pattern done in orange and green, and sauntered next door to go for a swim at the hotel pool. The gardeners were making a terrible racket for that time of the morning, re-planting the fake palm trees that had been placed around the pool after that Titanic-like storm the other week had blown the originals out to sea.

I minced around in my little outfit so that they could check me out big time and then I did my laps, all graceful. In the locker room, I found Daffodil the belly-dance teacher who was decked out in some lacy tights and stockings and a bra with red satin around it. Maybe that is what I need to impress the guru, I thought. And so at 8.30 in the morning, I waited patiently for George’s Secret to open, gazing at all of the mannequins in wonder. When the store opened, a pretty lady lured me to the changing rooms, and, after measuring me, declared that I was a 34 A. As soon as she turned her back I threw the little card she had written that on in the trash can and marched out to the 36 B section. 34 A? She must be blind. I gathered some leopard print stockings and matching bras, bikinis and knee-high socks and asked if they had any giraffe prints for Cynthia, my pet giraffe. They didn’t. So I got her some goldfish-patterned boxers instead. Then I headed for lunch, just like all ladies do, with my girlfriend Barbara, and I showed off my new finds in the middle of the Chinese restaurant which went down a treat. Then it was time to go to Daffodil’s belly-dance class to learn how to be a goddess, which she taught every week. First we put these shiny things around our waist and then we began to shimmy. She named me Shimmy Charlotte, which was my new belly-dance name. We cavorted around the room for an hour singing I'm a goddess and then I went to show the guru my new clothing. He liked the gold-fish boxer shorts the best and I wondered if Cynthia would fit into the leopard print thongs instead. Giraffe’s surely have narrow bottoms? The next day, I decided I wouldn’t just be a lady but a lady of leisure. And so at 9.30 a.m., I headed to water aerobics, which was reserved for the over 80s at the club. I found Incie, Mincie and Pinkie in riot mode, singing at the top of their voices to drown out the same soundtrack that had been playing at the pool since last summer. We got through all of the Beatles songs and then they told me that the Olympic ceremony had started the night before when I had taken Jim belly-dancing to celebrate my new grown-up self. Once again, I was proven right that there was no need to read a newspaper. And then in the Jacuzzi a girl told me she was writing a book about Whacko Jackson and I told her it was a great idea as I thought maybe that way I could work as an editor now I was no longer a reporter. That night I went to watch Up In The Air, which was about George Clooney playing a man that, like me, had been grounded. It wasn’t ‘cos he was a journalist and there were budget cuts but because he fell in love. And then it was the weekend so I headed to my wake-up dance class with the over 70s. (For that one, I put on my grey wig from the fancy dress store and drew brown lines down my face to look like wrinkles.) We ended each class by dancing in a circle, looking into each other’s eyes and singing All You Need Is Love. I had Cynthia and Harriet to love so I couldn’t agree more.

A Giraffe Landing

When Cynthia, the runaway giraffe, and I got back to LaLaLand - she had been allowed to fly coach with me and took up all of three seats usually used by the air hostesses - I took her home and put her out to graze in the garden. She spent her first night in America sleeping in my sleeping bag with Harriet, a soft-toy version of that Babe Pig in the City character who I usually slept with. They got along swimmingly. The next morning, I gave her breakfast and put her back on the lawn and headed over to the Jacuzzi to catch up on the latest news.

I had been thinking lots about newspapers recently and figured they were only for people without a local hot tub. After all, that was where I now got all of my information. When I got there, Ethel was still sitting in the corner reading The New Yorker through some brown-shaded specs which looked like something a workman would wear to drill a hole. Maybe they were diving goggles from back when, I thought. I daren’t ask her what she was reading about in case she read me all twelve pages of a New Yorker article. Some mothers do have them, I thought. Who on earth reads the New Yorker in LaLaLand? She must be one of those Big Apples that refuse to like Los Angeles, just like half the dancers at dance class who sit there musing about their days on Broadway. Thankfully Jimmy the handy man arrived and filled me in on the coolest performer from San Francisco. (I don’t go there any more ‘cos I don’t like cloud-dwelling intellectuals.). It was a singer by the name of James Green. And then came Sandra who told me about all the best places to buy Italian cashmere. Why on earth would I read a paper, I thought, as I was still in a huff with newspapers. When I got back home, there were two men in orange outfits standing in front of my door. Aside from eating my neighbor’s surfboard, as it had a green stripe down the middle of it, Cynthia had been nibbling on the palm trees which lined the beach in front of my garden. The palm tree cutters wanted to know if they could borrow her for an afternoon? So off she went, a full-time employee within 24 hours of landing. That’s my girl, I thought. Then I called Jim to ask how his surf watch was going and to see if he could look after my giraffe on the weekends. He said he could gladly take her and tie her to the pier so she could swim a little.

Everything was working out all rosie. That night, I decided Cynthia should probably sleep in the garden so she had her own space. I was glad that I had found a good use for my tent. Her neck and head fitted perfectly inside and I laid her legs on some cushions and covered them in a blanket, and went in to sleep. I had a big day ahead of me tomorrow. I had to learn to chant like the guru had told me, and I was still determined to seduce him. I was also expecting my letter to arrive any day from Mrs. Clinton, and wanted to be ready and waiting to go to Africa to liberate the women of the third world. Before I went to sleep, I went online to order the closest thing to broccoli that I could find on Alexi’s websites, as he had insisted in a text message that I await his return before going to the Farmer’s Market again. I found green and black stripped shoes and ordered them instead. Then I looked up a few sites of my own. I was going to be an online shopper too, and so was Cynthia. I would show her the ropes tomorrow.

Point Cynthia

Upon arriving in Timbuktu, I was determined to be more badly behaved than ever. And so when I saw a nice little bicycle standing unlocked at the airport, I decided to swipe it. That would teach Alexi to call me a gofer, I thought. I attached my suitcase to the back with a white scarf, got out my giraffe-o-meter which I had learnt to make at boy scouts - I didn’t like girl scouts one bit - and started peddling in the direction of my giraffe. (For those who haven’t been keeping up lately someone had actually sent me on assignment to find a runaway giraffe.)

I thought it might be an idea to get out my press badge and stick it to my fluffy bonnet so that I could go through the red lights without anyone stopping me.

It worked quite nicely for a while, until a policeman wearing a pink outfit said he needed to see my bicycle license. Bicycle license, I asked? Yes, he said. It had just been introduced to increase fines to beat the recession. Golly, I thought. I have come all this way and life is really no different than it is in LaLaLand with those traffic wardens in those little speedy cars hiding on every corner.

Knowing every trick in the book, I offered to buy the warden a drink to discuss the matter and two hours later we had put the bike on top of his red and white striped patrol car and were speeding merrily in the direction of the giraffe. Cynthia, as she was known, had escaped two weeks ago from the home of an eccentric Mexican artist, and no one had been able to catch her since. Cats had been swiped from trees, dogs gone missing and there was almost no grass left in the southern part of the island.

At Point Cynthia, where her hide-out had come be known, we found some so-called experts making strange squeaking noises in an attempt to lure out Cynthia from a giant forest. But I knew better. I walked into the forest saying, “Come Kitty, Kitty, Kitty. Come Kitty, Kitty Kitty,” and two hours later I had my giraffe. I knew that every giraffe really dreamed of being a small kitty that could curl up on its master’s lap. I led Cynthia out of the forest and tied her to the back of my bike, alongside my suitcase, and started peddling towards the artist’s home. After two bottles of tequila, it turned out the giraffe had not run away but been sent away for not being a kitty. Who would have thought? So Cynthia was bequeathed to me by her master along with a couple of paintings, and I headed to the airport determined to fly Cynthia back and give her a loving home.

Born to be Badly Behaved

Alexi may have declared that we were both supposed to be gofers (see last blog). But I knew better. I was born to be naughty. This I had realized on a recent retreat the guru had sent me on when I was supposed to do mindfulness walks at 6 a.m. through the desert. I was also meant to sleep in a tent in the women’s camp but had refused outright and marched up the hill wrapped in my sleeping bag, and spent the week sleeping in the meditation hall with a monk in a long frock. Each morning at 5 a.m., he would ding a bell over my head, asking if everything was okay? He gave up after day three and I slept until noon. Still, that week, I had two of those epiphany thingies. The first was that I was not born to sleep in a tent. (I was in fact a diva!) And the second was that I had been born to be badly behaved.

And so it was upon boarding the plane to Timbuktu (see The Guru and The Runaway Giraffe) that I first waited for the stewardess to turn her back and then scuttled quickly along the floor to the first-class toilet. I stuck an “Out of Order” sign on the door and strapped myself onto the seat with some tissue paper for take-off. I was a frequent flyer, and had read the safety instructions many times! I had a plan. One of the girls at dance class had shown me how to practice those twirls using a bathroom mirror, after I had told her that I had done them turning all along the shoreline, starting at the Venice Boardwalk. I had decided to practice all the way to Timbuktu. But about half way, I began to feel a little dizzy. So I crawled into one of those large chairs in the first class part and had a little nap. After dinner, I wrote a letter to Alexi and then one to Hillary Clinton. I addressed the first to, “Alexi The Ukrainian Surfer, Australia, and handed it to the stewardess. I was sure that he would get it just fine, “I am no gofer!” I said. Signed, Lilly. And then I wrote one to Hillary, which was all thanks to the yoga teacher who had filled us in on the week’s news between teaching belly dance moves, as she was bored of downward dog. I had resolutely refused to read the newspaper since the New York Rhymes had cancelled that section I had written for three months ago, so I was rather glad to hear about something other than the temperature of the pool. Hillary was going to liberate the women of the Third World and have them all skip into the future, she informed us. To make the point, she had us skip around the room one by one. So I wrote Hillary a letter asking if she might need some help. I was a little worried in case I couldn’t find the giraffe. And what if the guru found out about me sharing a hall with a monk? I addressed the letter to President Obama, The White House, and asked him to kindly pass it on.