Naughty and Nature



The following is a super old post -- edited, shortened, and all but completely rewritten -- and submitted to an anthology of short stories about Japan


Although occasional cold snaps still hit so quick you’d get whiplash, and that cantankerous curmudgeon, Ol’ Man Winter, continues to stubbornly hack up artic spats, time is ticking forward. The alarm clock’s set for Spring’s Awakening, and by the looks of it, there’s no hitting the snooze button. She’ll be getting up bright and early this year.

For months now, the tree-lined streets have stood bare. Spindly branches creak and croon, pathetically knobbed with sleeping buds. But soon enough, the sakura cherry trees will explode to life. Blossoms burst, setting everything ablaze with fluffy plumes of pink and white. And oh, how we’ve waited with bated breath for this brief, brilliant harbinger of Spring. But seemingly overnight, the trees will weep their delicate blooms and blanket every surface with still-pristine petals. One can see why the flower was once a symbol of the fierce samurai warriors of centuries past. No, they weren’t pink-loving wussies. Rather, the blossom, like their lives, gloriously shines and then falls honorably in the moment of its greatest beauty.

Thankfully, perhaps, these little flowers no longer incite no-holds-barred self-destruction and seppuku. Yet they still excite the Japanese like kids in a candy store. A scene of sakura trunks topped with plump clumps like popcorn and colored sugar-cotton, whet their appetite for warm days ahead. Nevertheless, since snack time is short, the Japanese horde en masse to gorge it down, get their fill.

To an uniformed observer, the flower-viewing hanami party, along with sushi, sake, silk screen paintings, and Bob Sapp, might represent one of the quintessential images of Japan. Traditional, yes, but just as visible, alive and well, in these modern times as straight-laced businessmen quietly enjoy a smoke break in the park. Nuclear 3-person families lounge on plastic gingham. And centenarians stroll with keitais in hand, clicking pictures as if they’d die tomorrow. It’s like Buddhist serenity, Confucian practicality, and home-grown aesthetic sensibility all loafing under one canopy. But, look closely. Like the wicker picnic baskets filled to the brim with beer, something lurks beneath the surface – something just waiting to gush out.

For every 10 sleepy-time tea ceremonies, for every 20 polite-speech-spouting office ladies, and for every 30 emasculating bows of deference, there is a devilish desire for debauchery seething in the subconscious of even the most decent, rice-fed folk. For example, let us take the “Honen Matsuri”. Considering the innocent name, this festival’s a rather serious soiree steeped in ancient Shinto beliefs. The theme: penis, sex, penis, and did I mention penis? Apparently, male organs (in particular, those of the throbbing, veined variety) are not just for making whoopee and wee-wee, but are potent charms for assuring fertility and a year of prosperity. On the appointed day in mid-March, people of all ages and backgrounds descend upon a tiny town outside Nagoya, and a shrine dedicated solely to the man’s member. Artisans and food vendors, too, join in for the Johnson. Every imaginable ware is for sale, but of course all fitting with the afternoon’s macho motif. Toy todgers. Pecker-shaped pottery. Little pizzle pops and pricks on sticks. Even Buddha’s been remade to resemble a boy’s bits – quite surprising since usually the three major Western religions are the ones rightly accused of phallo-centrism. (Though one doubts even the good prophets of The Book were going this far when describing Moses’ “mighty STAFF,” the “PILLARS of Muhammad,” or how Jesus was “HUNG on the cross” and would “RISE again”.)

The highlight of the festival, however, is watching holy men dressed as gods and devils stroll down packed avenues. Priests, too, bless the crowd, though not with the usual laurels and wands, but rather with 14-inch unmentionables. After several hours of frenzied activity, the entire romp climaxes – not too soon, of course – with the unveiling of something in epic proportions: a thousand pound private part carved from an entire tree log. Strangely, with its slightly pink hot dog hue, this laborious lingam looks more like a shockingly misplaced paper-Mache wiener one sees atop Oscar-Meyer promo trucks.

In addition, onlookers are encouraged to flock to the cock and get hand-on. This leads to shockingly more jerk-jobs than in any Las Vegas house of vice. Farmers fondle for a fruitful harvest. Girls grope for good luck. Young bucks vigorously rub the blessed rod and then rub their own rods for blessing. Why? For what reason? Well, to ensure he won’t be shooting blanks next time the old ball-and-chain wants to bake another bun in the oven. Prosperity can be measured in more than one kind of dough, you know.

So, in conclusion, as March marches on, the blooming sakura promises new beginnings, just as the matsuri gives hope for a better future. And whether we groggily awaken to the sweet scent of flowers or a morning wood, the long night of winter is over... Cause enough for a celebration.