I flick on the telly, refrigerator of the brain. I'm watching Karakuri Terebi, a regular Sunday evening cabaret-comedy crossover which is presented by the goofy, instantly recognizable Sanma. He has a laugh like a hyena and the whitest teeth in the world. He's funny and everybody loves him. His show is funny and everyone loves that, too. I can see why.
A balding no-hoper from Tokyo takes center stage. This is the bit I'm always waiting for -- where Sanma laughs hysterically (but enthusiastically) as tone-deaf citizens show off their questionable karaoke prowess. I remember this guy we're seeing now. He's been on before. Last year, in fact, when he introduced himself as an unemployed yet devoted fan of 1970s J-pop and enka (tearful laments which you can hear businessmen at karaoke wail in the small hours, before they leave to stagger home with their neckties wrapped around their heads).
Sanma
Sanma's henchman interrogates the nervous, socially maladjusted baldy: "Last year, I recall, you were unemployed. Now...?"
A flick of the comb-over and an admission: "I'm still unemployed, but I've been thinking about moving into the computer world."
Henchy: "Oh, you have some knowledge of IT?"
Baldy, in all seriousness: "Yes, I had a Family Computer."
Sanma is laughing uncontrollably -- at times like this he literally falls to the floor and rolls about in a fit of glee -- and the smug henchman is starting to smirk. Of course the joke is not lost on me, because I know that the Family Computer (aka Famicom) was Nintendo's 8-bit beauty, and it wasn't lost on you because you're a gamer, and neither was it lost on Sanma's viewing millions. Because Japan and the Famicom go together like America and Westerns. Cultural, it is. Nintendo is Japanese culture.
The evening floats away somewhere between a quietly whirring Saturn (NiGHTS somehow has a tangible freshness that can cool the burning heat of summer here) and slowly supped chuhai (Japanese alco-fruit drinks) and Takashi Hirayasu's soothing Okinawan songcraft.
The main problem with this heat is its constancy. It's midnight, but the temperature outside has dropped only a few degrees. I know because I've decided to take a walk to the conbini. I buy some fruit ice balls (for want of a better description) from the bleary-eyed staffer.
Heat does strange things to the mind. I walk home, imagining myself as a real-life Ryo Hazuki. The streets here are perfect for Shenmue scene replication. I just hope that a QTE doesn't come my way. I wouldn't have the strength to get through it.
Eventually, I arrive back at my pad, open a packet of ice balls and switch the TV back on. It's 1:30 am, I can't sleep, and I'm watching... 70s Music Box. This is an NHK production of archived footage of 1970s Japan, backed by a dusty soundtrack of lost 1970s J-music. I'm soaking in a pool of nostalgia for a culture which isn't my own, and I finally know what it means to adopt a whole country. I love this place. Even if it is unbearably hot.
