Tuesday, July 21, 2009

People and Bright Colors

After a brief panel during which I attempted to bolster my knowledge of the Japanese-to-American media localization industry by determinedly conferring a rather immense scrawl of notes to my mental folio, I proceeded to an exhibition hall of what was shaping up as a relatively psychedelic event that fans of my Bufo brethren would greatly appreciate. I still insist that my pupils were dilating as I progressed deeper into the mass of hybridized humanity. I even managed to begin to weasel my way into the photographic opportunities of others, at least one of whom had decided to pose with a friendly robot:

Shortly after this photograph was taken, the automaton’s chromed head began to rotate and the young woman was thrown to the floor.

Into the exhibition hall strode yours truly and, if I was not already overwhelmed by the distracting sights before me, such a statement could no longer definitively be made at this point. That is not to say that sight was the only saturated sense I possessed at that point; nay, I was almost immediately accosted by some friendly men with a rainbow flag who seemed simultaneously repulsed and aroused by my presence:

Sensing something awry, I left without actually managing to ever figure out exactly what “yaoi” meant. I needed to find some women. In absurd costumes. With diverse facial expressions.

As I have heard uttered multiple times during animation from their culture, bingo!

The only unfortunate thing about this sort of setting is that the average duration of an encounter is about 30 seconds… or 45 if you forget to take off the lens cap. I personally regret not having informed my handler to bring his telephoto lens so as to zoom unsuspectingly upon the bosoms of several of those in attendance. Then again, given my appearance, it is unlikely I could even get as close to such a lot as I did to these scantily-attired dolls:

Note the inverse relationship of price to the amount of clothing on the dolls. These chaps surely know their market well. Then again, there clientele is likely the sort who marries the type of wife who forces them to artificially inseminate them like a studded racehorse for fear of what sort of fantasies might be imposed upon them.

Curiously enough, the exhibitionist aspect of the exhibition hall continued to prove to be rather true, albeit with one exception—the only ones afraid of having their wares photographed were the purveyors of fine works of sword craft. Clearly this was nothing if not an example of the subconscious male phallic compensation, but I cannot wax too editorial about either of these two strange examples, for I shortly found myself lying upon the cozy lap of a noted figure in the gaming industry:

Pot? Kettle, touché. My inhibitions shed and cheeks still more brown than red, I decided to edge closer to my silly hat quota for the trip:

Immediately, I was informed that, too, I would be exhibited at this fine event. Little did I realize that a price was soon to be placed upon my flesh:

At this point, I’d pretty much reached my limits. I am not merely some piece of art or worse, meat, to be sold at well below market cost. My ire about to brim over, I was saved at the most opportune of times by a jolly fellow in a rather spirited costume:

You people seem to know my weak points all to well.

Lord, this dancing thing can be tiring.

Posted by Pooptoad on 07/21 at 09:08 PM
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