With Apologies to David Sedaris

I studied Japanese at university for three years, studying under the great Hara-sensei for two of those years (and thus, I meet the minimum time threshold to have the responsibility of avenging him if he is murdered by ninjas). As you may know, studying a foreign language for a few hours a week in a public school isn't really the quickest or best way to learn another language; I aced 6 semesters of Japanese, but that doesn't really seem to impress waiters or police officers when I mention it.

Compounding matters is the fact that Osakans are determined in their efforts to pronounce everything differently from how I've learned in class and in recent independent study of Japanese. Osaka-ben is a dialect that other native Japanese speakers claim to find incomprehensible and hilarious. Osaka-ben is stereotypically associated with gangsters and comedians; imagine, if you will, studious learners of ESL signing up for a full-immersion language camp and finding themselves being shipped to New Jersey.

Being at a loss for words is something very new for me, being both a professional English major and an amateur blowhard. No matter how thorough my Japanese education may have been, I haven't taken a class for three years, and my speed record for forgetting entire school subjects is still set at one afternoon of moderate drinking. Even if I'd just finished my classes yesterday, unexpected words crop up in daily use, words that would never be covered in a university class such as "semi-express train," "duvet," "hangover," and "recyclables." How is one to keep up with such immediate, fast-paced transactions as ordering a pizza by phone or asking a store clerk where the measuring cups are?

Fortunately, there is one thing aiding my communicative efforts here: the unifying human principle of corporate service-industry scripting. Typically, even if I have no idea what is being said to me, I can make an accurate guess at an appropriate response by judging the context of the conversation. If a waiter approaches me at a restaurant and asks "Mwnx soefisojnop snsfjion wqospz?", I can take a look at my surroundings and smile dumbly while my mind calculates at lightning speed: I've already ordered, I'm eating my food, I'm not ready to pay yet...so let's give him a hearty "I am OK." If he goes away, then I've done my part; if he stares blankly, I try more two- or three-word phrases until he leaves. Let's check out an extended example:

Waiter: "Hiuonw wonzvpon wenioanoines, awnq owpvcx?"
Me: "One peoples, thanks to you."
Waiter: "Nsqoids sdvpzsd fxs."
(I follow him to a table and smile at the other waitstaff as they spout more incomprehensibles.)
Waiter: "Wqf spfsonv wvx sywnp, qpfi alsdqegh?"
Me: (Look thoughtfully at the menu, point at one of the pictures or something written in katakana like supageetei or ramen.) "This one for eating, give me."
Waiter: "Tywnpvosklno."
(He leaves, I try vainly to read any of the ads on the wall or printed on the table. He comes back with whatever I happened to order.)
Me: "Thanks to you!"
(I eat, spilling most of it down my shirt -- I'm just good enough with chopsticks to feel offended when I'm asked if I can use them, but not so good that I have any unstained shirts left.)
Waiter: "Pwnqof vyivxons oweiq?"
Me: "Uh...OK."

And so on. I assume that any mistakes I make are considered hilarious faux pas or peccadilloes comparable to our American comedy archetype, the hilarious foreigner (or Wild and Crazy Guy).

A visual approximation of Harry's facility with Japanese.