Otaku Ja Nai!
If you're into the media at all--TV shows, movies, modelmaking, etc.--you've probably heard the term, "otaku." Derived from the kanji meaning "household," it's a nickname for someone who is so involved with his or her obsession, he or she rarely leaves the house. Non-Japanese fans of anime --Japanese animation--have adopted this term for themselves as sort of a badge of honor, but just the thought of being labeled an otaku makes me squirm.Unfortunately, I've spent a lot of time in an otaku-rich atmosphere. In Japan, I worked for a video game company for five years, most people's idea of otaku heaven. Then I moved to Silicon Valley, the heart of Geekville. I have a lot of sedentary hobbies: cartooning, writing, building web pages. And I'm very fond of a certain Japanese cartoon, so another of my hobbies includes collecting books, toys and info on that show. I had friends in a rather high-profile doujinshi (self-produced comic/fanzine) circle, and even helped them sell zines at various comic markets. Still, I am not, repeat, not an otaku. Why? Simple: they scare me.
In 1989, I lived in Tokyo's Koto Ward, the same area where the serial murderer Miyazaki kidnapped and killed little children. He was caught that year, and investigators found his apartment crammed with porno anime videos and fetish items. He was the most infamous otaku of all, and the Japanese media reviled the term. A few years later, the furor died down, but to me, the term otaku still remained heavily associated with the pimple-faced trolls that lurked at anime specialty shops and comic markets, snatching up Sailor Moon merchandise and naughty doujinshi. Unable to deal with reality, these sad souls spend their days engrossed in big-eyed, childlike female fantasies or big explosions. Which is fine--they're not hurting anybody unless they decide to take their obsessions a step too far, like Miyazaki did. And like geeks, they're capable of producing something beautiful and vastly profitable if they come upon the right ideas. Yet nobody wants to be called a geek or an otaku.
There are several breeds of otaku:
I remember one summer back in '93 when I spent half a year assembling a complete laser disk set on the first Gatchaman series (that cartoon I mentioned earlier: five kids in bird suits battle metal monsters--lots of fun). Normally I picked up the volumes as they were released at a local electronics store, but this time the store didn't stock the volume. I was in Yokohama, so I thought I'd stop by a branch of a high-profile anime store, Animate, to see if it was there instead. The shop was tucked away on the second story of an old, mostly deserted building only five minutes from the train station. When I reached the top of the escalator, I found the place jammed. Bored parents waited outside the shop amidst a riotous clutter of video advertisments while their children spent their allowances inside. As I shoved my way through the crowd toward the video counter, a young Troll accosted me. "Hey!" he shouted, waving a napkin at me on which someone had drawn some big-eyed anime character in blue ballpoint pen. "Have you seen her in here?"
- The Troll: This otaku--male or female--is usually overweight, has a bad case of acne, wears thick glasses, and doesn't wash regularly. Behavior outside the cave is either shy and furtive, lurking around its favorite haunts: anime mania shops and video stores. Or it's loud, awkward and frightening. Usually spotted with a number of stuffed "mascot" toys affixed to its person or its accessories.
- The War Fan: Dresses in fatigues or the costume of whatever period amuses it most. Usually heavily armed with replicas of its favorite combat weapons, bandoliers, knives, etc. Not the type you'd want mad at you in case he took his fantasies a little too seriously.... I remember seeing two guys marched out of a Comic Market by police for trying to sell doujinshi based on the Aum Shinrikyo sarin gas bombings--perhaps their articles were a bit too realistic.
- The Pinky House Fan: Devout followers of designer Pinky House, these female otaku have never outgrown their childhoods. You'll see women in their thirties dressed like European baby dolls, in cascades of flower prints, ruffles and stuffed toys. They usually speak in the high, squeaky voices that commercial Japan has deemed, "cute." Generally harmless, though you'll need insulin shots if you have to deal with them for long periods of time.
- The Obsessive: Why else would a guy go to a comic convention dressed as Sailor Moon (sailor suit with short pleated skirt, blonde wig, jewels and tiara), yet forget to shave his legs?
"Um, no," I said.
"I'm looking for her--she's my woman!" He waved the napkin at me again. I discreetly backed away.
By this time, I was attracting far too much attention--best to get this over with. I continued to the video counter and flipped through the laser disks there, not finding what I wanted. Surely someone must have this volume on order, so I went next to the counter, dodging the napkin waver, leaned close to the girl behind the register and asked her quietly. Quietly now, because I'm feeling just a little bit stupid trying to buy 1970's cartoons in a shop full of children and napkin wavers.
"WHAT?" she replied in a voice that carried all the way to the back of the store. "YOU'RE LOOKING FOR GATCHAMAN VOLUME 18? THAT'S FUNNY, I DIDN'T THINK WE HAD GATCHAMAN IN STOCK."
Now everybody at the store was staring and I wanted to crawl under the counter. She went to a telephone receiver on the back wall, picked it up and yelled, "HEY, TAKASHI-SAN, DO WE HAVE GATCHAMAN VOLUME 18 IN STOCK? THAT'S RIGHT--GATCHAMAN. I HAVE A FOREIGNER HERE WHO'S ASKING!"
Oh. Great.
After a moment, she returned to me. "Sorry, it's not in stock. I don't think that volume has been released yet."
As I slunk toward the door, Napkin-waver stepped in front of me. "I didn't know you were a fan. Are you SURE you haven't seen her?"
One of us... You're one of us....
I bolted.
At the foot of the escalator, beside what looked like a deserted flower shop, I stopped to catch my breath. But I wasn't safe yet. Another otaku lurked at the door, peeking at me through Coke bottle lenses and thick black frames. "Excuse me," he said, "What time is it?"
"Two ten."
"Wanna go for coffee?"
"No."
I never went back.
All Japan stories (c) Wendy Dinsmore 2004.