On Mardis Gras I stood in Cyberdeliss being introduced to someone’s wife. She was Japanese, she was told that I was part, great things were expected of me. My brain exploded and I had a very brief exchange in broken Japanese, French and English with my extraordinarily limited Spanish vocabulary running interference the entire time. She was gracious about my retardation and we carried on with our separate lives, me scarred by profound embarrassment and her wondering why I would fabricate some imagined linage.

Recently I’ve started reading a great site called Tokyo Mango, written by bi-national Lisa, who makes regular contributions to Wired, io9, and other hip internet periodicals, and her freshly unwrapped tri-lingual Singaporian, Singaporese… intern via Singapore Emily. As neither have been reared entirely in the cocoon that is Japan they tend to have keen eyes for various head-scratchers they encounter.

The following clip is of Japanese singer/resident whack-o Toast Girl who, I have been led to believe, began her career by wearing toasters on her head. I love the strange collision of various pop-cultures she has mangled into a sticky-sweet pool of spent candy drool: Brigitte Bardot reincarnated as Baguette Bardot with bread hands; film-noir gangsters and French title cards; baby-girl back-up singers dancing with no pants; extreme Japanese bizarreness. Whatever the reality might be it all screams innocence and naivete, not hipster trash and big bucks promotion.

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