Tonight I went to another sushi carousel restaurant, where the items go by you one by one on a conveyor belt and you pick the one you want. It is fun, and I wish all restaurants were like this. It is fast, efficient, reasonably priced, and tasty. I don't have to wait more than a few seconds for my food to arrive. This seems more American than Japanese, the idea of instant gratification, but leave it to the Japanese to make it more interesting than the old Dine-O-Mats of the mid-20th century. The few times I went to such a place as a small kid, I was always afraid that when I reached in to get something out of the compartments that a hand would grab me. I can't remember if this was pre- or post-Beatles "Help!" movie. If you've seen it, you know what I am saying. If you haven't go rent it or something, my god.

So the waiter comes by, a semi-waiter really because all he really does is bring the soup and drinks. Our chipper young guy squats down and informs us that tonight is Michael Jackson Night. I look at him and go OH and probably have some look like OH on my face, the OH of the sarcastic OH, GREAT. Michael Jackson Night consists solely of 80s-era Michael Jackson music being played at a fairly high volume. I look away from the chipper young guy, as it is not his fault, and I frown existentially towards a yellow wall with cartoon drawings of scowling sushi chefs on it. As he rises, chipperly, to get our waters and such, my daughter speaks to me, staring at the same wall, in the same way, as she pulls a tiny tail off a piece of shrimp:

MissSix: So...that's a guy singing.
Me: Yep.
MissSix: (long pause) I suppose he could be from Europe.

I smile and drop my salmon back on my plate, still smiling as I manage to put the rice and the fish back together to dip it in the soy sauce tray.



The guy lost his voice and his soul as time wrested him away from his child body, and was reduced to awful, constantly-repeated vocal tics, thin thin thin, weak weak weak, and if not for the work of Quincy Jones, his records would have flopped horribly. Well, maybe not -- there was the whole moonwalk and glove crap too. Emperor's New Clothes.


The sushi is of excellent quality and I focus on it rather than my annoyance at Michael Jackson Night. I see my daughter dance a little in her seat. She looks up at me.

MissSix: I heard this song before.
Me: I bet you did.
MissSix: It's OK. It's not great. It's OK.
Me: Yep.

Please to enjoy the Indian Michael Jackson: