Nuggets of Gold!

DEAR TOM CRUISE

OK, so we all know how very uninterested I am in celebrities. But despite my strong detachment, I have something I need to say to Tom Cruise.

MEMO TO TOM CRUISE

To: Tom Cruise
From: Nuggets of Gold!
Re: Faking medical expertise

Tom, you lovable kook. Stop with the fake medical expertise, OK? Saying things such as the following do not make you (or your Scientology) look legit:

• On Friday's "Today" Show (from an Associated Press article):

       When (Matt) Lauer mentioned Cruise’s earlier criticism of Brooke Shields for taking anti-depressants (for post-partum depression), Cruise told the “Today” show co-host he didn’t know what he was talking about.
       “You don’t know the history of psychiatry. I do,” Cruise said.
       The interview became more heated when Lauer, who said he knew people who had been helped by the attention-deficit disorder drug Ritalin, asked Cruise about the effects of the drug.
       “Matt, Matt, you don’t even — you’re glib,” Cruise responded.
       “You don’t even know what Ritalin is. If you start talking about chemical imbalance, you have to evaluate and read the research papers on how they came up with these theories, Matt, OK. That’s what I’ve done.”

Sure you have, sweetie. And I'm sure those "research papers" are completely scientific and reviewed, too, since you never seem to mention the sources.

• In an interview with Germany's "Spiegel" newspaper:

Cruise: I'm a helper. For instance, I myself have helped hundreds of people get off drugs. In Scientology, we have the only successful drug rehabilitation program in the world. It's called Narconon.

SPIEGEL: That's not correct. Yours is never mentioned among the recognized detox programs. Independent experts warn against it because it is rooted in pseudo science.

Cruise: You don't understand what I am saying. It's a statistically proven fact that there is only one successful drug rehabilitation program in the world. Period.

SPIEGEL: With all due respect, we doubt that.

Oh, OK. Well. If it's "statistically proven," then OK. Nope, no further questions. Why would I worry my pretty little head about who gathered the statistics, from whom, and how? Definitely not important when you're making bold claims like this.

Look short stuff, I'm OK with you being a Scientologist, I really am. Your religious/spiritual/whatever beliefs are of no importance to me, and they do not threaten my own such beliefs. So go on and be a Scientologist. Just stop trying to be a "doctor" on the side. When I want to see a feel-good summer blockbuster, I'll look to you. When I need to be reminded of who loves Katie Holmes, I'll call you up. But when I want to fix something that's wrong with my innards or well-being, well, I think I'll call an actual medical professional. But thanks for your concern!

Your friend,
Stacy

STEPPING UP

Check out our new thing!

It is a step tansu -- apparently a must-have for Asian decor. Whatever. We "must-have" it because we needed someplace to cram all our junky stuff that was previously being stored in clutter piles everywhere. Also, we needed something behind the big purple couch so certain people we know (who don't read this blog) stop sitting on the back of The Precious (that's the purple couch), thus making it bend scarily, when he or she comes over. The Precious!

We don't have it set up quite right because of space limitations. It's actually supposed to look like this, like an actual stairstep, when it's set up in the traditional style. It's three pieces, see, so you can set it up several different ways. Which is pretty awesome. The purple couch you can only set up one way, but that's OK, because it is The Precious and it can do whatever it wants so long as it continues to let us nestle our butts there for long, comfortable periouds and sometimes take the awesomest naps ever.

Speaking of needing naps, today I am cranky -- evidence of the success of the conspiracy launched this morning to prevent me from sleeping. First, I took Geoffrey to the train station at 7 a.m. -- but that was planned, so does not factor into the crankiness. The idea was I would come back home and sleep some more, which would have worked well had some friggin' lady not called (wrong number) at 8 a.m. Grrr. I recovered from that and was just getting nice and truly asleep when outside my window I hear the loudest weed-whacker of all time start up. At 8:30 a.m. Making that all the more suspect was the fact that it was pouring rain outside. Who weed-whacks in the rain, huh? Only people hellbent to keep me awake for dumb reasons and thus doom me to a day of grouchiness, that's who.

SHAKEN, NOT STIRRED

I love how when California has five earthquakes in one week, everyone freaks out and the talk of the state falling into the ocean, blah blah blah, kicks up again. But when Japan has five earthquakes in one DAY ... meh. No one even gets off their bicycle.

BOW TO YOUR SENSEI!

Oh no! Could this be the end to Rex Kwon Do pants?*

* For those of you who perhaps have not seen "Napoleon Dynamite," I had intended to link to a picture of Rex Kwon Do pants so you would understand the reference. However, it appears -- and this is shocking, people! -- that there are NO photos of Rex Kwon Do on the entire. freaking. Internet. I am having a hard time coping with this.

NEVER A DULL MOMENT

The wonderful thing about Japan is, as you plan an outing for the day, you know you're going to get more than you bargained for.

To wit: After sleeping in way too late this morning and then taking way longer than grown-up people are supposed to take to make a simple decision about "what to do today," we headed out to Odaiba. We've been there before (you may remember the story of my amazing bravery on what was once, in recent history, the world's tallest ferris wheel), but it's a huge area with lots to do, so we decided to go back.

We were barely off base, on our way to the train station, when the first wackiness was encountered. As we were walking, we saw up ahead a tiny little car all decked out in Italian flags. That wasn't really as amusing as the fact that emanating from this tiny car was a GREAT BIG NOISE. The guy, who it turned out was selling pizzas, had the loudest speakers of all time strapped atop his car. We could still hear him even at the train station, which must be a good half-mile or more away and isn't exactly a quiet area itself. And what was it we heard? It was a song, partly, that went a little something like this:

PIZZA PIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. PIZZA PIEEEEEEEEE.

Followed by something that I'm guessing was a lengthy discourse on why we should buy said pizza pie. He was parked on a street outside some apartments -- I can't believe no one pulled him out of his car and beat him. Because hearing "PIZZA PIEEEEEEEEEEE" at 1000 decibels on a nice Sunday afternoon would drive anyone to violence, I would think.

Next up is a wonderful example of the level of class possessed by my beloved. We're on the train, he's standing, I'm sitting, when he puts his head in his armpit and makes a face. Apparently, our hero forgot to apply deodorant this morning. Luckily, there are 15 convenience stores per square block in Tokyo, so we resolved to stop in one. First we tried a location inside a train station. Nothing that seemed to be deodorant (YOU try figuring out what's deodorant when you can't read the label!) in that little stand, but Geoffrey being Geoffrey, he decided to get a snack while he was there. So he purchased a little triangle of rice -- staple of convenience store food here -- and dug right in. These little triangles of rice, understand, contain a filling of various meats and things, and, if you're illiterate like we are, you figure out what's inside by trial and error, and once that's been gotten through, by remember what color the label was of the kind you liked best during trials. So Geoffrey grabs a pink one, thinking pink equals tuna. Which maybe it does, but for whatever reason, this was not tuna. It -- whatever it was -- promptly got spat out into his hands and was destined for a trash can. Unfortunately, trash cans are unlike convenience stores in that there are not 15 in any given square block. In fact, sometimes they can be annoyingly scarce. So we wandered around Shinjuku station in a fruitless search for a trash can, Geoffrey cupping spat-out rice-and-whatever in his hands. Finally, after a trash can wasn't even found in the friggin' bathroom, he ducked into a coffee shop and disposed of his treasure there. A couple stations later, we exited and found a real-live convenience store, where deodorant was procured. And I think Geoffrey has a new signature scent:

Heh heh.

So anyway, we made it to Odaiba and did some wandering, taking in the beach (yes beach, though it's in Tokyo Bay and, as I just read, has water that contains extremely high levels of coliform bacteria and, well, poo matter, so it's not exactly somewhere you want to swim. Or wade. Or sunbathe. Or look directly at.) and strolling the boardwalk, admiring all the small dogs in elaborate dog clothing. We round a corner and see, well, this:

Why yes, it IS the Statue of Liberty, against a backdrop of the Rainbow Bridge and Tokyo skyline.

As if that's not excellent enough, we climb some stairs and hear the melodious strains of rockabilly music. At the top of the stairs, I see the biggest pomp of all time, whose owner was dancing to the rockabilly music, apparently part of a rogue offshoot of the Tokyo Rockabilly Club that hangs in Yoyogi Park. How big was that pomp, you ask? This big:

Yes.

After all this overwhelming wackiness, things calmed down a bit. We did some shopping, had a yummy dinner and found a two-story indoor re-creation of a Hong Kong market -- apparently, Tokyo's "Little Hong Kong." As if we weren't feeling international enough! We found an arcade (which, OK, isn't that hard to do in Tokyo) and played our obligatory rounds of the taiko-drum game and air hockey. We also upheld our new tradition of taking photos in a photo booth to commemorate our outings. We have no scanner, or else I'd post our tiny pictures, but suffice it to say they are very pink and very kawaii.

The final adventure was on the walk home from the train station, not far away from the site of the pizza pie car, which had moved on, alas, perhaps singing its siren song elsewhere. We saw a vending machine we'd never noticed before, maybe 50 feet down an alley coming off the main road. Being gawky tourists that we are, we decided to investigate. We had a hunch we were in trouble as soon as we approached and saw that the machines were in a kind of little hut, with a curtain covering the opening. But of course we went in anyway. And, oh yes, it was porn. One machine for mags, one for DVDs. For your convenience!

Now we are safely back at home and headed to bed, with sore feet and visions of Japanese pompadours dancing in our heads.

ROLLING STONE

Remember how I theorized two posts ago that my kidney stone had made a sneaky exit and I was out of the woods? Remember that? Yeah. Y'all shoulda known better than to trust a medical theory from an English major. I mean, really.

Just a few hours after I wrote that post, I got a now-familiar pain in my lower back letting me know that this here stone wasn't quite done with me yet. In fact, as I learned after a doctor visit and much poking and prodding and testing on Thursday, the damn thing hadn't really even moved since it first gave me trouble last week. It was just sitting there, laughing at my theories and my attempts to pee it out. So on Friday, yesterday, I took a trip down to Yokosuka Naval Base, about 45 miles away (which equals three-hour drive because this is Tokyo), to the big Navy hospital there to have it, er, removed. I don't want to gross anyone out with gory details, but suffice it to say it wasn't so much surgery as, um, a scope. So no cuts, but I still had to be put all the way under -- thankfully. I got a little pukey when the doctor was describing what he was going to do, so being awake during the actual procedure probably would have resulted in, um, a really big mess.

But when I woke up, there was very good news. The goal of the procedure had been to break the thing up, meaning I'd still have some peeing of rocks to get through later, and a follow-up procedure involving sensitive areas on Monday. But as it turns out, the doc was able to just yank the stone out whole, so no pesky pieces, no follow-up needed. So I went home from the hospital just a couple hours after I woke up, and today I feel almost 100 percent fine. Actual 100 percent will be achieved at such time as I can pee without burying my face into a towel until it's over. Getting close, though ...

I know, I'm sorry. This is all too much information. I'm sorry.

But I'm OK now, and very hopefully this won't happen again. Because it's not fun, I really don't recommend it. Thanks so much, you guys, for all the kind words and well wishes and such. I was thinking of my peeps during the long wait for the trip to the operating room, and it made me less scared. I might have even told the nurses about you! I think part of my brain woke up from anesthesia before other parts, because when I for-real came to, I was mid-sentence, and apparently I'd been blabbing about who-knows-what for several minutes before I ... noticed. So if you get any weird phone calls from sailors, um, sorry 'bout that.

CAT'S OUT OF THE BAG

It's a red-letter day for journalists: Deep Throat's identity has been revealed. When I heard the news, my initial reaction was "Oooo! Juicy!" but then I felt it quickly tempered by ... something else. Something that felt a little like disappointment. Kinda like finding out that Santa (spoiler alert!) is your dad. This essay, accompanying all the news articles (and self-congratulating, deserved though it may be) in today's Washington Post, sums up that secondary reaction way better than I could ever put it.

If you're too lazy to go read it (sigh), at least ponder this nugget of gold from the essay, by Hank Stuever, one of my very favorite Post writers:

It was the idea that reporters (and their background sources) could save the world, and that trust was still trust, and truth was still true. People now go to parking garages to get their cars.

And why you don't hear much about other "Deep Throats" anymore:

People ... still want Deep Throat, or something very much like him, and they demand that reporters still go looking for him. It's like sending signals in the sky to a Batman who never answers. ... Gone is a sort of tidy, narrow definition of evil, of corruption. The gotcha is now a tawdry exercise in minutiae, not a blow against the Establishment, against the Man.

A bittersweet look at how journalism is changing. And one that incorporates the excellent word "porny"! Oh, so now you want to read it!