Free Tune In Tokyo:The Gaijin Diaries by Tim Anderson

passionately, damning hip-hop to hell. I try not to open my eyes too wide for fear that the birds fluttering their wings inside my head might get antsy and flap harder.
    Magazines, yesterday’s newspaper, and photos are strewn about on the kitchen table. I pick up the pictures to have a look. There’s Ruth in front of a beautiful Japanese garden. There’s Ruth ladling water over her hands, presumably at a shrine of some sort. There’s a blurry Ruth in close-up squinting to cover up her nasty case of red-eye and holding a hand out toward the camera. There’s Ruth standing and smiling in front of a giant Buddha statue. Upon seeing this last one, my heart skips a beat: I do so love humongous statues.
    “Wow, what is this ?”
    “It’s the Big Buddha in Kamakura,” Julia strains to say as she sits down and lowers her head onto the table. “Close to here,” she mumbles.
    “Really?! Where?” I demand.
    “That way.” She points out the window.
    Wow. The Big Buddha. A giant, glorious statue offering the promise of enlightenment and inner peace, sitting among the beauty and languor of a lush and reassuringly symmetrical Japanese temple ground. The perfect antidote to last night’s asymmetrical booze opera.
     
     
    Mankind has had a long and storied obsession with creating giant structures of humans, gods, and mythical beasts to pass the time. You have your Sphinx, you’ve got your Statue of Liberty, your Christ the Redeemer, and your Michelangelo’s David, all of which are testament to man’s endless desire to painstakingly construct and then sit back and gaze upon giant representations of the mythic, the massive, the messianic, and the supple and drop-dead gorgeous.
    It’s this obsession I share with generations of humans before me that makes me feel most connected to my ancient antecedents. Or something. In any case, plunk down a giant statue, building, stone pillar, lighthouse, or fire-breathing monster, and I will buy a ticket, stand in front of it, gawk, and maybe even tear up; if it’s big and famous, I want to see it.
    I used to have dreams in which I was standing on the crown of the Statue of Liberty looking out over the city. In the dreams, Lady Liberty did not have her own island. No, she lived in Mid-town. Her spiky crown afforded me a convenient little bridge to the roof of any number of the other city skyscrapers. The wind would rip through my tousled blond hair and push me ever closer to the edge of that tiara as Juice Newton’s “The Sweetest Thing (I’ve Ever Known)” filled my eardrums. I would lift my head towards the sky and spread my arms out like a member of the Von Trapp family. Then usually the vertigo would get to me and I’d lose my balance, plummeting headlong towards the pavement.
    As a child, I would visit my aunt and grandmother in Jamestown, New York, every summer, and one of the highlights of the trip was always the frequent drives into the tiny downtown area. To get there, we would have to drive over a bridge connecting the neighborhoods to the city center, and off to the right, on top of a factory building, was a massive, twenty-five-foot statue of a shirtless Indian brave. He stood at attention, one arm by his side, the other lifted high above his head, palm facing the sky. In his palm, also standing at attention, was a big bottle of Stroh’s beer.
    I was devoted body and soul to that Indian brave, and I looked forward to seeing him every year. My sister Laurie never cared for him, preferring the much more approachable and friendly looking Mr. Donut figure situated downtown. This meant I didn’t have to share him with anyone. I should note that I didn’t love him only for his massive muscles, his stern and manly expression, and his alluring headdress. It wasn’t his rippled stomach, his tight-fitting calfskin trousers, his bulging pectorals, or his erect, brick-red nipples.
    It was that he was damn huge. I was afraid of him and drawn to him at the same time. He sent