So my ultra-expensive (a perfect indicator of quality) Apple MacBook Pro’s 17” screen broke a week before Halloween, leaving me with no alternative than to either have it fixed by Apple for a perfectly reasonable price of $1250 or attempt to fix it myself for approximately $300. Naturally, I selected option 2 and headed to the Akihabara neighborhood of Tokyo, the side of town generally considered the Mecca of Electronics. Much to my chagrin, of the approximately 500 computer & electronic stores located there, not one had a replacement screen or even a repair shop that could service Macs. That’s the problem with Apple ownership: once you’ve bought one, you’ve given Steve Jobs a monopoly on its servicing.
Akihabara is also famous for its “maid cafes” in which pretty, petite Japanese women serve sodas, perhaps food also, I don’t know, to hapless schleps and play childish games with their clients while referring to them as “master” and other completely ridiculous aggrandizing statements. While patrolling the area for my non-existent replacement screen, I sidestepped numerous solicitations from these women to attend their cafes.
(This is what Akihabara maids are supposed to look like)
Since I was going with friends to a Halloween party, oh say, that evening and hadn’t purchased a costume or even conceived of a character that I wanted to be, I thought: “Golly, wouldn’t it be right funny if I dressed up like an Akihabara maid? My friends would get such a laugh out of it!” Yes, I actually thought that. And yes, I actually thought, “golly.”
Long story short: I bought a costume, it actually fit, I spent literally 5 minutes getting prepared, and that night I went to meet up with friends at school, which consisted of a short walk to the station, a 7 minute train ride, and a 15 minute walk to the campus from the train station. It felt like about 2 hours. Keep in mind that Halloween is a Western tradition that is only marginally observed in Japan; nobody in Tokyo dressed up for Halloween. I endured it all: complements, giggling, staring, cat calls, looks of general confusion by the local straights, and lastly a solicitation to perform in a rock band.
We made our way to the Ageha Club, which is evidently the largest night club in Tokyo with a capacity of approximately 3,000 people. That number was tested on Halloween night as the club was packed and there was a line to get in even at 4AM. We arrived at about 11:30PM to be roughly 1,000th in line. Shortly thereafter, while waiting in line, a security guard approached me to ask me if I wanted to be in the costume contest. After much cheering and cajoling from the evening’s cohort, I was taken out of line and directed to an auxiliary warehouse next to the club. Upon entering, I discovered that I was required to wait there until the contest began at 2AM (which became 3AM), beer would not be served in the warehouse, and that in my haste to get out of the line I left my IDs, keys, credit cards, and cash in one of the girls’ purse. I grabbed a seat, pissed that my Halloween was shot, and checked out my competition. Evidently, the Ageha Halloween costume contest is a big deal. These dummies were actually rehearsing performance routines, in some cases for the full 2 hours. I opted for vacant staring and napping. After about 30 minutes of abject boredom, I was directed to, I suspect, the contest ringleader:
“Hello, what is your concept?” He asked.
“Uhh… You have to ask? Big white guy dressed like an Akihabara maid.” I rejoined.
“What’s your name?”
“Matt.”
“No, your stage name?”
“Uhh… Matt, no… Yoko.” It’s the only Japanese female name that I could think of. I clearly was not prepared for this contest.
After the short exchange, I was directed to my seat, where I attempted another nap only to be interrupted by a Japanese student from Kyoto who introduced himself to me and began discussing his recent testicular cancer while wearing a set of fake women’s breasts. The boobs were part of his costume. I still don’t know what he was supposed to be. If there had been a gun within arm’s reach, I would have shot myself. No, better yet, I would have shot him.
Just as we, the ten finalists, were to be escorted to the stage, I discovered that I was paired with another contestant. She was the Snow Queen, an arbitrary character, accompanied by her boyfriend and colleague at art school. He spoke English, she didn’t. As they had clearly put some serious time into her costume, they wanted to do a routine and rehearse it. I didn’t. A big Akihabara Maid and a Snow Queen; what were we going to do?! “Look, I’ll walk out on stage do a few muscular poses. When I do this one (I mimic a double bicep pose), she comes out, walks around me, and I am enamored by her beauty. I will then pick her up and carry her off stage.” After quibbling over details until the very second I walk on stage, that was the plan that we executed.
So the contestants parade out on stage separately; I go tenth of 10. When I walk out there is a mild roar at my completely ridiculous outfit (or sexy legs, I’m not sure); I walk to the middle of the stage, curtsy, and then scratch my jock as I proceed down the catwalk. The jock-scratching is part of the act; I am in good health. I hit a few poses, the Snow Queen comes out, I carry her off: it went perfectly. Afterwards, there was an interview with 2 quasi-famous Japanese television celebrities who held the microphones for us and the 3 judges, all female models: one American, two Japanese. Don’t send me any e-mails afterwards asking me about this: yes, they were stunning.
So the first B-list TV celebrity dude asks me: “sdflkjf;lkasjdf;kjsiajv werfwpjpokvsmflskgvlnvn;owjfownjsnlksdnfkjshl desu ka?” (‘desu ka’ = ‘is?’)
To which I incisively rejoined: “huh?”
“You’re looking sexy tonight in that outfit tonight, baby!,” the American model notes in English, realizing that, despite the meticulously-assembled costume, I am not actually Japanese.
“Thank you, baby,” I returned, or some nonsense like that.
Kindly note that the Snow Queen is a native Japanese speaker and they did not ask her anything.
Just before the judging phase, all contestants were paraded onto the stage again. While all these knuckleheads were dancing around, I walked around the stage, looking into the crowd for my friends. Who knew that trying to find about a dozen Taiwanese students in a crowd of 3,000 Japanese people would be that difficult? I looked down, noticed someone waving their hand for me to shake, so I obliged. Then another, and another. I ended up walking around the entire stage twice shaking hands, while a few different people shouted, “you’re the best!” and “you’re number one!” I am not making this up. After a while, I discovered one girl in the crowd who was really into it, so I tried to pull her up on stage only to get blocked by a security guard. He was mad. The security team was not enjoying their evening. Maybe they should have dressed like women, too.
So we went to the judging, and I won (the Snow Queen tagged along, too). I began screaming in jubilation, jumped off the podium that I shared with all contestants, and rushed to the center stage where we were presented a placard that read in Japanese: “10,000 Yen ($1000) and a Trip to NY.”
“Did we just win this?” I asked the Snow Queen in Japanese. She shook her head yes. That was the first time that I was aware of any prize.
I kept shouting and acting like an idiot and included (pardon the terse language) a “fuck yeah!” in my repertoire.
Not to be outdone, the Snow Queen (again, no English) confusedly punctuates the celebration with “fuuiiiikkyeeuuuh!” Good enough.
Long story short: we retreat back to the warehouse to bicker over dividing the prize, I reenter the club to find my friends in two minutes, and it takes an hour and a half to leave because I am accosted by Japanese women who want to take pictures with me (I am still not making this up). It was ridiculous; I lost my friends twice in the 2000 ft. walk to the door.
We eventually leave the club grounds around 5:30AM to face an hour commute back home, precisely at the time most Japanese salarymen are boarding to go to work. No worries; at this point I have the drill down: cover yourself with the dress when you sit down or walk up or down the stairs. I arrive at Harajuku Station around 6:30AM and the first thing I encounter is a cab driver gawking at me while making thumbs up gestures at me while driving. The dumbass almost wrecked his car.
Finally, I get home and go to bed at around 7AM. As a side note, I was completely sober during this whole affair.
I wake up the next morning (3 hours later) naturally at around 10AM. With nothing to do, I shower and head to Starbucks for my morning coffee. As I am sitting in Starbucks trying to get my act together, one of the female Starbucks employees encounters me and begins hitting on me in Japanese. Wait, was I still wearing my costume? I double checked and confirmed that I was wearing pants. At this point I almost called timeout, but I obliged. She divulged all of her information and we’ve been on a few dates since. But that will be in other posts.
I am still amassing the photos for Halloween, including the photos backstage taken by the Snow Queen’s boyfriend. The best pictures unfortunately are in the cameras of about 40-50 random Japanese women somewhere on the island.
