Years ago, a friend of mine announced that there was an International Conspiracy of Raisins. I loathe raisins as much as she does, so I knew what she was talking about immediately. None of our other friends had a clue, so in between guffaws we had to explain. See, you’ll be at a diner or somewhere, and you’ll order the apple pie. What will come to your table will be a slice of pie in which there are raisins all among the apples, and when you say, “Oh, if I’d known there were raisins in it, I would have gone for the coconut custard,” the waitress will start noticeably and say, “Oh, yeah, there are raisins in the apple pie. Never noticed before.” The raisins have clearly found a way to hide in plain sight from people. With such advanced capabilities, they’ll take over the world within our lifetimes.

The reason I mention this is that I just realized for the first time that every gay man in Tokyo has a goatee. I mean, everyone. People have been commenting on my beard–no one’s ever seen me anything but cleanshaven or just slightly scruffy–and I keep starting to say, “Well, you know, I actually don’t like goatees much at all…” then looking up into a drily expectant face and having to keep going with “on myself, I mean–but just because I can’t carry one off as well as you do, big guy!” This is seriously weird. If you’d asked me before this week, I would have told you that a good 80% of my acquaintances were cleanshaven. I don’t think I’m all that unobservant, but I really didn’t notice how many guys with little beards there were around me before. Now I’m wondering what else I’ve never noticed.

I feel much better after my weekend with Atsushi. I always do, of course, but it was especially good to have him here while watching, say, Céline Dion melt down on Larry King over how New Orleans rescue efforts are going and scold people for getting cross at looters.

I tell you, I already felt pretty prepared for the next disaster that could hit Tokyo, but after watching this week’s events, I decided the Atsushi-Sean household needed reinforcements in a major way. That now-infamous woman who showed up at the Superdome with a Diet Coke and outstretched hand was…wow. And you don’t even have to bank on people’s being complacent–despite the newness of our building, it’s not inconceivable that part of it could fail and take out a neighbor’s stash of earthquake stuff. I doubt the weird foreigner in Apt. 3## would be the first place people would go for help, but there’s no reason not to overdo the readiness bit.

So I bought a sterilizing jug that holds 4-ish gallons of in addition to the several bottles of Suntory Natural mineral water I’d been keeping. My old radio had more or less conked out, so I picked up a crank-chargeable one that can also be used to charge a cell phone. I’d never bothered stabilizing the freestanding cabinet in the kitchen; I got a brace for it. An extra candle-in-a-can and an all-in-one kit for Atsushi to take back to Ultima Thule with him, and we were good to go.

Oh, except that what John’s been saying about carrying around a space blanket and purification tablets piqued me, so I snagged those, too. Actually getting into the sleeping bag would make me feel as if I were dressing as Madge’s Sex book for a costume party, but better to look silly than to be hypothermic.