Gal Gay

December somethings and love.

I am surrounded by a million screaming women.

An immense sea of adoration. Eyes forward, arms – fat and thin - waving heart shaped pin lights, cycling through Christmas tree colors timed to the beat of the human heart. Pink Floyd: The Wall if it was about human happiness…and boys with hair like this:

All praise then to Tsubasa, the Johnny’s jimsho pop star du jour. A solo concert tonight, titled “Tsubasa Imai 1st tour 23 to24.”

The International Forum in Yurakucho, about as international as old Edo tonight. No round-eyes save me, but a host of gaijin here: Chinese, Korean, Taiwanese, all of them rendered in double XX chromosome. Womens. Only a handful of men strewn about, by accident: dragged in by girlfriends, playing dad, or doing usher duty. I have to climb a fortress of solitude up in here to find a urinal. I see Richard Chamberlain in the pit below me, surrounded by dying sailors.

Word on the street. Tsubasa is on the way down, while other Johnny’s groups like SMAP and NEWS still burn bright. Wouldn’t know from the sell-out show tonight.

A lot of ladies, at least, still seem to love Tsubasa the Mighty, but I don’t see the appeal. Some sub Timberlake-Michael Jackson moves, and the usual G.O.D. approved keytar anthems but…he’s not enough of a freak to maintain the stage by himself. Thirty plus dancers on stage doing backup, the Johnny’s Junior of legend, who often get as many shouts of “kakoii!” from the hens as he does.

Still, Jay is a fan, which means I have to tag along or risk being battered and fried. She buys two Tsubasa seats in an idol shop in Harajuku. Tickets are scalped and have someone else’s name printed on them. Fuck it, I figure, wishing we could have gone to see Morning Musume or Melon Kinbei instead…

(We went to Tokyo Disney Sea. Slasher, Betty, Date Rape, Me. We saw Kago and Tsuji from Hello! Project / Morning Musume walking around, filming some crap TV show, trailing behind famous hakujin-gaijin in a Goofy cap, leading legions of personal assistants. I freak out, dancing, hooting. Everyone then mortified thinking I wanted to molest them or holler “Moe!” But just happy to see two trash celebs in person, minor deities made of shit, public face of your media masters).

The main hall covered in a hovering shampoo-meets-perfume vapor. The women are in bunches, mostly. Ages from grubby little girls to upped middle-aged women. “That’s how far Johnny’s goes back. They’ve been fans since they were teenagers.”

Two dudes, dressed like Kabuki-cho hosts (tight black suits, amazing Dragonball Z hair), enter the hall pre-concert, at the center of an entourage, surrounded by bodyguards. The crowd freaks out, like a chicken farm someone’s blown a trombone at.

What would they do if they could chase them down, Beatlemania-style, in the Ginza tonight? Tear their clothes off and fuck them right in front of the giant duty-free designer brands there...

“You don’t understand anything about women if you think Johnny’s is about sex,” she says.

Interrogation. Feels like someone is staring at me, wondering why I’m even wondering about something as primal as a woman’s fantasy of what the society of men really is. Sure enough, a necklace of eyes on me.

Ushers in green, standing like stormtroopers at the exits up front, staring back into the audience as intensely as the girls look forward. Searching for signs of video cameras and cell phones, I figure. And none of them can even see me, let alone care. Maybe. I’m just a small thing floating around inside someone else's weird fantasy for a change.

Comments

[Carl Horn]

There is a fucking immense poster of THE SAILOR WHO FELL FROM GRACE WITH THE SEA in the north stairwell of Pearsons Hall at Pomona College: the history department, my department, with its rooms a thousand years wide. An uncouth soul—for once, it wasn't me—scrawled a liner note at the bottom, asserting Sarah Miles likes to masturbate. It's true that the man beneath her is Kris Kristofferson and not Richard Chamberlain, but what the hell; they both went to Pomona.

"What would they do if they could chase them down, Beatlemania-style, in the Ginza tonight? Tear their clothes off and fuck them right in front of the giant duty-free designer brands there..."

That happened at the show I went to - it was HOT!

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