Tokyo Blond Is Not Porn

Tokyo Blond is not a porn blog, about hair or even, as one pithy friend remarked, a micro beer or late 1980s glam metal band ("Dude, I just saw Skid Row and Tokyo Blond opened and played a killer set").


The purpose of this blog is to chronicle my experiences in Tokyo - poignantly, visually, irreverently - for fun.


Anybody can tag along...that is if I like you. This blog will endeavor to be entertaining and honest and frequent enough to keep those following interested including me.


Tuesday, April 19, 2011

R & R & W

Last weekend Russell and I flew to Monterey, California for a little R & R & W; Rest, Relation, and of course, Wine.  We stayed at one of our favorite places, the Bernardus Lodge, in Carmel Valley.  We love that place. It's perfect.  Each suite has a fireplace,  complementary cheese, wine and crackers in your room, a giant bed and a huge soaking tub.  I really miss my bathtub.  Of all the things I miss about our house in California - it's not the wine cellar or the outdoor fireplace or even my six burner Viking stove - it's the jetted bath tub.   We have two bathtubs in Tokyo but they're built for Asian people; not fat Americans.   Sigh.  So needless to say I was really looking forward to having a luxurious soak resplendent with candlelight and cabernet.

The other thing I like about Bernardus is it's basically on a country road so there are horses across the street and deer come out at dawn and dusk and there's a fabulous park, called Garland Park, about a mile down the road.  It only takes about an hour to fly to Monterey from Los Angeles.  The airport is a breeze and you can be out of there and in your rental car in less than twenty minutes.

We arrived at Bernardus around 11am.  The wine was already out.  Their idea of check-in is not signing documents but sampling their wine in front of the fireplace that burns real wood.  My kind of place.  Since it was lunch we decided to eat at their bistro which is called Wickets.  They have a croquet lawn, hence the restaurant name.  We shared the charcuterie plate which was a divine selection of cheeses and savory meats.  Then we shared the pan roasted chicken with carmelized cipollini onions and mashed potatoes.  I was in need of something sweet so we ordered the cookie plate and were rewarded with freshly baked peanut butter with chocolate chips cookies.   It was amazing; almost as good as the bath.  After lunch we walked around the grounds, taking in the chef's gardens and the lama, yes lama, on the adjacent property.

Then we hung out in our room and took a nap.  For dinner we drove into Carmel by the Sea and had dinner at La Bicyclette an affordable French bistro with excellent food.  I started by catching the menu on fire.  We had secured reservations at the last possible moment, the hour beforehand, and were therefore seated at the smallest possible table for two, tucked inside a niche that was supposed to be cozy.  I literally caught the menu on fire just by holding it in front of me, over the tea light.  The waitress told me it happens all the time.  Happily, the couple who had reserved the really nice table for two next to us showed up with a baby and had to be seated elsewhere so we were relocated to their table.

Dinner was perfect!  Russell started with the mushroom soup and I with the mixed green salad with beets and goat cheese.  He had the lamb and I had the special fish.  It was outstanding.  For dessert we shared their specialty, a crock of housemade chocolate mousse.  So light, so rich, so creamy.  So incredibly good.  Sleep came easy after that meal.

I always feel the best part of a vacation, no matter how long, is the first day you wake up in your destination.  The rest of the vacation is stretched out before you with a promise of perfection and you haven't started counting how many days are left.   I let Russell sleep in while I went for a long run through the adjacent neighborhood and ended up at Garland park.  It was a gorgeous day. I walked back slowly, lollygagging by each horse ranch along the way.  They all seemed to be for sale.

Russell had fresh coffee waiting for me.  (This has taken me years of training because he doesn't like coffee - a minor character flaw I have chosen to overlook).   But I had other things in mind.  No! Not that!  I put on my bathing suit and took a dip in the heated pool.  It was sublime.  Well, except for the twenty-something studio executive who was sitting on his balcony over the pool taking phone call after phone call.  Every other word he uttered was "like".  "So, like, no I didn't listen to the audio, but like,  I will and like what time is lunch?" OMG!   Does this guy realize how completely moronic he sounds?

I had a "like" problem a couple of years ago.  I was not in my twenties.  I just have a habit of picking up vernaculars really easy.  You should have heard me when I lived in Dallas.  I could "y'all" like a native.
So I was like saying like all the time until one day I waited in line at Starbucks behind a teenager who was on her cell phone.  Like the pool guy every other word she said was like and she sounded like a stupid bimbo.  I thought.  OMG! Is that what I sound like?!  It became my New Year's resolution to stop saying "like".  With the help of a twelve step program, twelve steps being twelve friends assigned the task of pointing it out every time I said the egregious word, I was able to stop.

After my swim Russell and I went into the village.  On our way down the charming Carmel Valley Road we saw a sign that said, "Gourmet Sale Today".  Gourmet Sale!?  That sounds awesome.  We found a place to park along the already packed road, excited at the prospect of what a "Gourmet Sale" would be.  Maybe some home grown designer herbs, perhaps some locally produced olive oil or artisan bread or maybe even some heirloom tomatoes????  Apparently "Gourmet Sale" is code for "Yard Sale." Seriously? Yard sale?  Yes, yard sale.  That's all it was.  It wasn't even gourmet crap, just run of the mill yard sale stuff.  The kind you can get in Tustin.

Back in the car we marveled at how easily we had been suckered in by the Gourmet Sale sign.  We concluded it was brilliant marketing and we ought to try it next time we're having an "Estate Sale."
Course our neighborhood doesn't allow garage sales, estate or otherwise.

As we approached the village there were several signs posted that said "Peddler Sale".  "Peddler Sale" now we're getting somewhere.  Carmel was once an artist colony so immediately we began imagining stalls with the wares of local craftsman and artists.  Perhaps some paintings of 17 mile drive, a charcoal of Big Sur?  Suckers!!! "Peddler Sale" is code for "Flea Market" and not even a good flea market.  Although I did manage to find a couple of pieces of costume jewelry, allegedly from the 1960s.

We couldn't believe we got sucked into the marketing ploy twice.  This whole area must be populated with retired marketing people.   We decided it was time to drink wine so we went across the street to the Bernardus tasting room.  The tasting is free when you stay at the Lodge.  We arrived just in time to get looped in (and I mean looped) with another group that knew the wine peddler (nice huh - I'm already employing the local vernacular).  Since we were standing next to them we received the benefits, meaning we got extra large pours and were privileged to taste bottles not normally shared.  By the time we were done, we were pretty well lubricated and carrying a case of the stuff.

We decided to walk down the street and get something to eat.  We ended up at the Corkscrew.  It was outstanding and not because we were drunk.  We had the special - which was a squash and gruyere cheese fire roasted pizza.  It was heavenly especially with the half bottle of wine we ordered.  For dessert we had the special tart with the amazing linzer type crust.  Any emotional damage caused by the false advertising was eliminated by the post meal sopor.  Clearly it was nap time.

For dinner we ate at the Lodge's marquee restaurant "Marinus."  We've dined there a few times and it's been amazing every time, well worth the lofty price tag.  Maybe it has something to do with the dazzling fireplace, ablaze with real wood.  Lighting is everything and the room is beautiful.  Unfortunately all the elegant lighting in the world could not save us from the supreme lack of service.  We were astonished.  Usually the service is one of the cornerstones of the Marinus experience.  This time not only was the service lacking but the worst part is, they didn't even realize it, even when we politely pointed it out, several times!!!!!

When you eat at Chili's you don't get too irritated when they bring your over-chilled chardonnay after your salad.  But when you're paying over $100 per head, you kind of expect them to bring your wine before they've served your first course, especially since the half bottle you ordered was chosen specifically to go with the first course.  Even though we reminded them to bring the chardonnay halfway through our first course it didn't arrive, not even with an apology, until after the plates had been cleared.  Russell was so angry he told them to take it back since we were pretty much just waiting for the second course, with which he had ordered what would have been a second bottle of wine - this time red to go with the meat.  The red showed up in time but we were already gone, in mind that is.  Bummer cause I always liked that place.

The next day we made it up to ourselves by packing a picnic and going on a hike in Garland park.  The day was exquisite, cloudless but breezy with a hint of Summer warmth.  I actually got Russell to hike more than an hour and we made it up to Inspiration Point.  Unbelievably we had it all to ourselves.  The custom made sandwiches we bought in the village were punctuated by the half bottle of wine we had brought from our room.  It was perfect, except we should have brought a whole bottle.

Then, like we usually do when we go on vacation, we flirt with real estate.  You know the drill.
You love the place, you think you can live there.   We drove around and found some open houses to meander through, imagining what our lives would be like if we lived there.   Russell pretends like he's really interested, so much so that I think he's serious, and I begin planning how I'm going to decorate.
He does this all the time - it irks me.

On our way back to the lodge we meandered through various neighborhoods and discovered to my utter joy, pun intended, a pen full of piglets!!!  Yes, baby pigs.  They were adorable!!!  There was a sign on the fence that said, "Yes, feed us."  So of course we did.  Who knew pigs love grapes.

For dinner we drove back into Carmel and ate at Aubergine in L'Auberge hotel.   The room is quaint, the food is splendid and the service peerless.  It turns out the staff from Marinus left to go to Aubergine. No joke.  I discovered this when I lamented to the waiter how disappointed I was in our meal at Marinus the previous evening.  We had the four-course prefixe menu and it was amazing.  The amuse bouche was a single oyster served on chilled sweet soy sauce.  I could have had eleven more, ok more like twenty,  of those and a bottle of champagne and been sublimely happy.  The rest of the meal was just as exalted and I had the pleasure of meeting the chef.

The next day we headed back to Los Angeles and reality.  Unfortunately there are no piglets there.  Pigs but no piglets.  Bye bye bathtub....



Deer right behind our suite.

Wisteria announcing Spring

Who says California doesn't have cherry trees?

At La Bicyclette



Piglets!!!!

They're soooooo cute!!!! I want one.

View from Inspiration Point in Garland Park.
This and the wine inspired me.

Tree tunnel on our hike.


Carmel by the Sea

The house I want Russell to buy me.

Oh dear! The deer are in the wine.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

Have You Had Crabs? I Have.

It  must have been wig night at Joe's Crab Shack last night.  I saw three, one on an elderly lady with a walker, one on a lady in church clothes and one I could hardly believe,  a shockingly obvious toupee on a middle-aged man.   You know the kind, the synthetic shine, the obtuse hairline, the kind you feel like apologizing for when you notice it.  I'm sorry I didn't mean to.   Thankfully they weren't all sitting at the same table.

I hadn't meant to go to Joe's Crab shack.  While it was true I've been craving crustacean for the past couple of days, I had decided to walk to the Whole Foods store instead for a rotisserie chicken and a bottle of red wine (the apartment was dangerously dry).   I know you're supposed to drink white wine with chicken but I needed a lusty red to go with the chocolate cake I bought a couple of days ago.

I don't know what happened, one day I was in love with tiramisu, the next I was having uncontrollable urges for chocolate cake.  Not just any chocolate cake - the perfect chocolate cake: lush, rich, moist, chocolaty but not sugary.  Not flourless; that's a whole other category.  I've been on a mission to find it ever since.  So far the Palm (of all places) has the best chocolate cake.   Believe me I don't joke about cake.  I can tell you the best I've ever had of anything.  I can't remember dates to save my life but I can tell you the best glass of milk I've ever had.  In case you're wondering it was in Solvang, California, at this place called the Mustard Seed.  The glass was frosted, the milk frothy, icy-cold richness.  I had to have two just to be sure.

So I walk into Whole Foods intent.  I am immediately accosted by a barrage of Tom's footed zealots trying to get me to contribute to their charity or cause.  I literally had to fight to get to a shopping basket.  It was just like that scene in the movie Airplane when the main character takes out,  kung fu style, all the religious groups at the airport.  I considered throwing them over my shoulder too but I didn't want to upset the grapefruits.

One fanatic peels away from the mass and stuffs a pamphlet in my basket, droning into my ear that 5% of every purchase today is given to the blah blah blah and adds that perhaps in addition to my purchases I might consider buying some of the things on the list in the pamphlet.  I absolutely hate being guilted into giving.  It doesn't make me feel generous; it makes me feel extorted.

I go to the hot meal cart.  There are no chickens.  I can smell them but they're not there.  Just the essence of them.  You have Got to be Kidding.  I'm crestfallen.  I walk through the store aimlessly hoping by some miracle to find them some place else.  Nope.  I return the basket and the pamphlet and walk out chickenless.  Sigh.

Clearly this is a sign and I must now walk across the street to eat what I was really craving - snow crab.
Two women are waiting in front of the vacated reception desk.  A few minutes later they are joined by two men who are surprised they still haven't been seated.  It seems they've been waiting for a while. A few minutes later a random employee walks by and questions whether anyone has been helped.  We haven't been.  After a total of seven minutes a ingenuous girl comes over, acting surprised she has guests and tries to cover up her lack of attention with a "how are we all doing tonight".

She takes the party of four, turns and says she'll be with me in a minute.  I doubt it.  Five minutes later she walks by with the bartender,  stops in the hallway to continue her conversation, while I stand there, in plain view, by myself, glaring at her.  She giggles an apology and then tries to seat me at the worst table in the restaurant.  I make her move me.

It takes 12 minutes, and only because I started casting dirty looks at anyone in a uniform, before my waitress realizes I'm alone and in serious need of a drink.  She apologizes profusely.  I order a glass of wine and the crab.  The wine comes.   The bib and bucket of condiments comes.  The hot butter comes.  She apologies again.  I look up from my bib and order another glass of wine.  It's around this time I start noticing all the wigs.  There are three birthday humiliation ceremonies while I wait.  I make a mental note to never come here on my birthday because I don't want to have to wear a silly hat and carry a wand around the restaurant while total strangers sing happy birthday.

This isn't the Joe's Crab shack I remember.  It's feeling more like a slightlier upscale Red Lobster.  Which let's face it; that's why I was craving crustacean to begin with, all those damn Red Lobsterfest commercials.  Have you ever actually been to a Red Lobster?  The commercials are very convincing; the food is not.  Advertising works.

Sitting next to me is a couple on a date.  She has clearly had a very bad run in with some peroxide and a make-up case.  She reminds me of the Riddler.  He is doing everything he can not to look at her.  It's so bad at one point I wanted to tell him to stop looking over.  I thought maybe a TV was over my head.  It wasn't.

All the female employees stand in the aisles and do a line dance.  Perfect.  I think I may have stumbled into the twilight zone.

By the time the crab actually appears the butter has congealed.  There are four crab legs, two boiled baby red potatoes and one small ear of corn.  I eat it all.  It's mediocre.  But I'm starving and my brain has been numbed by the public humiliations and wigery.  The carnage is removed and my bill appears immediately.  She didn't charge me for one of the wines.

I lay down a credit card but I never get a receipt to sign.  I query the waitress.  She brings me a receipt but I haven't left a tip.  Suddenly I feel sorry for her.  I slip a twenty dollar bill into the sleeve - a 40% tip.  She needs the charity.

Speaking of charity, I stop by Whole Foods on my way back to the apartment for the red wine.  The zealots have all gone home.  I guess solicitors only work till 5p.

The hot meal cart is filled with aromatic chickens.  They mock me.  I am forced to buy a really good bottle of wine.  It's called the Prisoner.  I get it home.  It's delicious with the chocolate cake.  It might not be the Palm's but it's pretty darn good.  I got it at Bristol Farms.  It's called an Old Fashioned.  I bought the three incher.  Basically it's like a ding dong but made with real ingredients, not things you can't pronounce.

The ding dong and the prisoner make it all better.

Friday, April 1, 2011

Guest Post from Ranger The Wonder Dog

I may see things in black and white but I smell in color.  The past three years (six months in human time) have been a rainbow of experiences.  A prism of life as it were.  I have gained new perspective and I'm not just talking from the foot and a half level.  

I admit at first I was very nervous.  Boxes started showing up at my house and began walking out.  Pretty soon the place was empty.  Empty?  I had to go to the vet several times.  Not my favorite place.  They injected a foreign object in my shoulder.  That hurt, a lot, and people wonder why I'm irascible.   Then there was that long ride in the strange car, (what happened to the Venza?) to the noisy place with all the yellow cars and roller bags.   And what up with the plastic box, seriously?  Putting my fleece and t-r-e-a-t-s (which, BTW spells "treats".  I CAN spell.  What do you think I am - a cat?) in the crate didn't fool me you know.  I knew you people were up to something.

It was a long dark ride in the big cold cylinder.  I was in the can for days and days.  Then I was unloaded on that moving walkway.  No place to pee.  Dad getting me out of the box and then cramming me back in.  Oh, the dogmanity!  What I wouldn't give for a nice patch of grass and maybe a bully stick.  Another long ride in the plastic box.  At least this time I could smell my people nearby.

And then we arrive at this strange new place.  I canvas the joint.  There are some familiar smells: mom, dad, chow, toy.  The important things are all here.  But I stick close to mom for a few days - for her protection.   Someone's got to do it.  I abstain from eating until I'm sure it's all right.  I try it hesitatingly, just to be sure.  I take another bite, maybe one more.  One can't be too cautious.   Tastes all right but a treat would be better.

The first time we go outside it's tail blowing.  I'd never seen (smelled) such exotic and alluring things.  There were so many new smells.  So many things to explore.  It was crazy!  I had to make it my mission to canvas the neighborhood, identifying and then, obviously, staking my claim on every bush, step and pole, pretty much anything at the foot and a half level.

At first we were walking all over the city, a different route everyday.  I couldn't keep up with the posting demands.  Don't these people know it's my mission in life to place my mark on everything?  I only have so much, um, ink.  But now we've staked out a territory and I leave my calling card daily.

A few things I recognize, ah yes, dachshund (there's lots of these), 13 years old (dog years), female, brunette, Virgo, prefers long walks at sunset, doesn't like to be wet (who does?), cheese versus bacon.  Definitely not my type.  At least not like the hot aussie bitch I've got back at home.  Her name is Jewel. She's a red head with blue eyes and quick on her paws.  Gets me every time.  There are a lot of things I don't understand.  Weird scenes waft in and out of the transom of my mind.  Like what the heck do these people eat? Why is there so little grass?  Where the hell is my ball?

And can somebody please explain why all the dogs here are wearing hoodies?   Geez!  They all have some form of clothing on.  No joke.  And most are being carried around in handbags.  Handbags!  I like to think of them as "snackbags".  Yes, I'll have another snack bag if you don't mind.

I admit it took me a little while to get comfortable here.   I had to pacify myself to cope.  I confess I may have a diminutive dependency issue.  You see I was taken from my mother far to young.  The breeder was trying to pass me off as a six week old so she could say I was born on Valentine's Day.  As if I needed some cheesy marketing ploy to sweeten the deal. Have you seen my puppy pictures?  I was adorable.  Still am.

So yeah, occasionally I nurse on my fleece throw, cub style, paws gently clenching the fleece along with the suckling.  But let's be clear.  I make that fleece my bitch first.  A good twenty-minute humping (that's two minutes in human time) and I've got it right where I want it.  And don't act like you don't have some compulsive co-dependency issue.  I've seen how you people drink.

Everything was settling nicely. I had my minions trained to open the door to the backyard whenever I wanted them too. Sometimes I'd make them do it just to see if I could.  (I enjoy power struggles.)  I even had my second favorite human, aka Dad, succumb to me being on the bed, my rightful place, clearly.  He's a sucker for my belly.  Loves to rub the belly.  Who doesn't?  Everyone succumbs to the belly sooner or later.   I had the schedule set:  announce I'm awake and ready to be fed at 7a, escort me outside, nap, parade me through the hood so I can leave my calling card, treat, nap, kisses, ,escort me outside, lavish me with attention, nap, eat dinner, catch my favorite show (American Idol), outside, nap.  Did I miss anything?  Oh yeah, nap.

Then all this shaking crap happened.  It was like the whole place had an itch and couldn't stop scratching. I smelled something I've never smelled before...fear.  It was everywhere.  The place was saturated with it.  I didn't like that one bit.  I decided it was time to go back.  It took a little convincing but ultimately I got my way.

I have to say I kind of miss it there; nobody hassles you. Here total strangers try to approach me. They try to stick their hand in my face.  Who knows where those hands have been. In Japan they're respectful, even a little in awe of me.  They admire me from a far.  Plus there are so many outstanding smells there.  I can do without the shaking thing.  I'm hoping we go back soon.

Can a brother get a treat?