The day I left for Canada to see Butachan Sister Heather, I bumped into an old friend from college whom I had been searching for since we graduated several years ago. We were in the Veterans’ fraternity together, Epsilon Tau Sigma, and although we undoubtedly saw much more of each other drunk than sober, I recognized him immediately.

Hot College Buddy and I finally got together last night for a little Veterans’ reunion. It was all very innocent. There was a bottle of wine, then sake, and there was sushi, and then some more sake, and by the time we left Wasabi’s we were smashed.

I was walking down the street with him thinking, in my drunken state, "I will sleep in the spare room. I will not become a victim to his charms. I will resist, just like I have done with Hot Neighbor. I am leaving for Japan very, very soon."

And then a strange thing happened. We ran into a flock of hippie troubadours on the street. The details are fuzzy, of course, but there was a guitar, which I remember playing while singing with one of them, and then there was Emma, the cutest little hippie girl I’ve seen yet who was traveling across the States and to whom I ended up giving all the cash in my pocket. She in turn gave me something small and off-white that smelled a lot like that bathroom in Canada. And as we shared that small off-white treasure in the middle of the street, looking around for cops, I told her about my Canadian friend Heather and how she reminded me a lot of her. Then she told me about her plan to reach the West Coast by hitchhiking. Then I gave her my website address and told her to please let me know how she is.

Also in the crowd was Yuval, the singing Israeli journalist who let me play his guitar and sing with him. As Hot College Buddy was talking with another one of these mysterious troubadours, Yuval leaned over to me and said, "You say he is just your friend? Not for long," with a wink. Naturally I protested.

It is funny how life works. The people you meet on the street. The friends you bump into after years apart.

Yuval and Emma, if you ever check this, please let me know how you are. And by the way, Yuval, you were right. We were "just friends" for about another thirty minutes.

Those of you who enjoy hearing about my recurring humiliation will love this.

So I have this itchy shit all over my skin. My hands and feet especially, but now it has spread all over. I’ve had it for months, but never this bad. My doc said before that it was eczema but it won’t go away, no matter how much I scratch. I finally could take no more, and went to the dermatologist (fortunately a woman) on Monday. Here’s how it went:

DOC: It looks like a reaction to your medicine, but I can’t be sure without some expensive tests, which I know you don’t want. It could be something else as well.

ME: What else could it be? Eczema?

DOC: It could be scabies, although I didn’t find any evidence of that when I scraped your hand.

ME: You mean I might have crabs?!

DOC: Not crabs, scabies. It’s a mite that lives under your skin. Generally it isn’t sexually transmitted.

ME: Does this mean I have to change my sheets?

DOC: For the love of God, yes.

ME: (thinking) Does this mean I have to change ANY sheets I may have slept on lately?

DOC: Just how many beds have you been in?

ME: (panicking) Does this mean I have to call up the guy I just hooked up with last weekend and tell him he has to change his sheets or he might get crabs?

DOC: Not crabs, scabies. And it depends. Do you plan to blow him off or see him again?

ME: See again.

DOC: For the love of God, yes.

ME: SHIT!!!!!!!

I don’t know how many of you have ever had the experience of calling up a guy whose bed you just slept in and telling him he has to wash his sheets, but I think I would rather eat my own eyeballs than do it again.

The good thing is, I don’t have this itchy shit on my face or my buttcrack. There’s always something to be thankful for.

(Oh, and dad, if you’re reading this, he slept on the couch. Really.)

The last installment of… Tales From the Doctor’s Office!

My voice is really messed up again. It was coming in strong for a while, only the occasional glitch, but now it seems there is an S.O.S. pad stuck in my throat, further inhibiting my ability to swallow my horse pills that taste like a horse’s butt. If Bea Arthur had a Mini-Me, I would be it. My brother says I sound like Froggy from The Little Rascals and had been imitating me all day in his stupid demon/burpy voice. (I am quite used to his chiding by now. He never misses an opportunity. When I came home with my new haircut recently, he said, "Flock of Seagulls called. They want their hair back.")

So I went back to Dr. Foster, the man who cut Francis out of my throat and life forever. He stuck that damn spaghetti-like scope up my nose and down my throat and once again asked me to count in Japanese and then sing some Kiss songs. I’ve determined there is no medical reason for this, and that perhaps he just likes to hear me squeak out "Ahh… wanna rock and roll all night" for the nurses’ pleasure. Sicko.

Anyway, I have some little knots on my vocal chords, which he promised were no big deal, and sent me away free of charge with a very numb nose and a pamphlet on medicinal reactions and how to avoid scabies (even though it WASN’T). Upon checkout, the nurses wished me luck in Japan and handed me several tissues to wipe my nose, which apparently had produced a long milky, wormy string of snot heading towards my mouth. "Sorry, my nose is numb," I said, taking the tissues. "Uh huh," they replied, looking away.

So Francis evidently had to get in one last punch before I headed back to Japan. Kinda like that scene in The Nutty Professor at the end, when his skinny alter ego tries one last time to knock off his fat self for good, but Eddie Murphy punches himself in the head and says, "You can’t beat me!!!" And then he turns fat again.

Well, I have no intentions of becoming fat again. And I don’t plan to punch myself in the face. But I agree with that last part. You can’t beat me!

Last day in the States.

My convalescence has come to an end. It is time to return.

I am feeling very conflicted. This is what I’ve wanted for the last seven months. Every single day I’ve been home I have thought about Japan and all my friends and experiences there. I’ve missed it. I’ve craved it.

But now it is time to say goodbye to the life I accidentally created since I’ve been home. Goodbye to my racquetball buddies and everyone at the gym. Goodbye to Hot Neighbor. Goodbye to all my doctors and nurses who know my name without looking at my chart. Goodbye to my cats and dog. Goodbye to my room, whose every square inch I memorized while I was in the bed all that time recovering. Goodbye to my school and all the students and teachers I’ve reconnected with. Goodbye to all those friends who brought me liquor and casseroles and kept me company during this battle. Goodbye to Hot College Buddy.

Goodbye America. Now that Francis is gone, it’s time to return to living in yen.

See you in the land of the rising sun, folks.