BACON BITS

Japan changes you. I see it in the Gollum-like faces of foreigners whose visas statuses have gone from “working” to “permanent resident.” After having been here for more than a year, I am beginning to experience a similar ‘thinning of the soul.” I sense I am becoming more socially awkward, dull and ashamed. But what to do short of leaving? How to break free of my sophomore slump and jump-start my creativity?

During the formative years of his career, Steve Martin had a trick that gave him a comedic leg-up during his stand-up routines. Every night before he went on stage, Martin stuffed his shoes with slices of balogna. If at any point during his act he began to feel stale or mundane, he would just remind himself that “hey Steve, you have balogna in your shoes” and that would bring him back to a goofy state of mind.

As soon as I heard this, I had to try it out. Meat-in-footwear could be the elixir I needed to bring back my artistic flair or at least get the juices flowing. But when is the best time to put cold cuts in your shoes? If I wore balogna slippers everyday they would become routine and lose their intended effect. I decided to try the experiment on Saturday. It was the night of a friend’s birthday bash and was the first opportunity in a month for me to socialize with people my own age. So en route to the party, I asked my friends if we could make a quick pit stop so I could do some last minute shopping.

The convenience store was fresh out of balogna, so I substituted with bacon. The aspiring-vegetarian in me was disgusted but my edible endeavor was for the greater good. I would emulate Steve Martin and get my goofy groove back. So, I shoved the packages of pig flesh into the soles of my shoes like a stubborn pair of Orthotics and with a beer in hand and rashers in my stride, I made my way to the party.

The experiment was a failure. While on the dance floor, I completely forgot that I was wearing pork-padded sneakers. I blame it on Zima. I awkwardly danced the night away and told boring stories, and never once thought to myself “Taylor you goofball, you have uncooked meat in your shoes!” I wish I had. If I had remembered, I would have removed the meat from my shoes before the packages ruptured, making me smell like a slaughterhouse and causing bacon juice to swish between my socks and toes.

When I woke up the next afternoon I discovered that my nice Tiger Onisutsuke’s were embedded with strips of raw meat. I tried to detoxify them but it was too late. Instead of gaining a creative edge I had a lost a nice pair of shoes. Steve Martin had probably put meat above his feet instead of below his soles.

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