This way for naked men

Somehow, I had gone six months without stripping down and getting into a hot tub with a bunch of Japanese men.

Fortunately, this major oversight was rectified last night, after my friend Mayumi responded to a "what are you up to tonight" with an invitation to a sentou, or public bath.

A sentou is like the more widely known onsen, or hot spring, but is indoors. Onsen feature sulfur-smelling natural pools; sentou offer a variety of different baths and saunas. I have not been to a proper onsen.

Both feature naked men. Also, naked women, but a key feature of these places is that the men and women are separated to keep things civil. Some advice: If you ever trek to one of these naked parties on your own, I would learn the Japanese kanji for man (男）and woman（女）.

There comes a time when you have to choose one of two directions, and it is probably a good idea to avoid an incursion into lady-land.

Once I was safely inside the naked man area, I was, not surprisingly, surrounded by naked men, casually walking around, relaxing, or filing their tax returns. They were everywhere, and of all ages. Things started out in a traditional locker room, which I would describe as like a health club locker room back home, but with more naked men.

And the naked men here are not concerned about limiting their naked exposure time. This is a public bath, not a public pool. Being naked is not an unfortunate side effect of the experience, but rather the point.

So I quickly found a locker, dropped in a 100 yen coin, threw in my backpack, and ran for the exit.

OK so I didn't really run away. I had already made the decision to not be a wuss. The only reason I could think of to turn down the offer was fear or embarrassment. I decided these reasons were not good enough. And this is Japan, after all, and being naked with a bunch of men is a key cultural experience that I had somehow escaped on three previous visits and half a year of living here.

So I stripped down and headed for the bath area. Now here is where I realized I had made a mistake. I had brought a full-sized towel for drying off after the affair, but when you walk around the bath area you are supposed to carry a small towel you get at the public bath. I failed to get this towel. This was a result of confusion out front, when Mayumi said I didn't need to buy the towel from the machine. Turns out, one requirement for having such a towel would have been buying said towel from the machine out front. The little towel is used for washing up before you get into the bath, and, for some, as a private-parts-covering-device.

But covering up is not really a major need. Some people seem concerned with covering up while others let it all hang out. I decided to forget the little towel as I went to wash up before getting into the bath.

This is a key rule of bathing in Japan, weather you're at home or at the naked party. You wash up first, then rinse, and only then do you enter the bath water. At home, bath water is shared. Of course, the water is shared at the public bath too. So it makes sense to clean up before you get in.

After I scrubbed up a bit, I got in the largest of the baths, which I would describe as being about as big as a Starbucks. By this time, I had gotten over the naked factor, and I was actually enjoying my time in the hot water. But I couldn't help but wonder if I was doing something "wrong." Am I allowed to sit here? Can I go over by those bubbles? Is that guy looking at me funny?

By the time I decided to relax, it was already time to go. But fortunately I've gotten over my fear of Japan's public bath culture. I now have a deeper appreciation for culture. And I now can avoid it for another seven months.

New Life for a Dead Theatre?

Replace the group of 25 or so Pendletonians with a starry-eyed lot of college drama students, and today's tour of the darkened and gutted Rivoli Theatre on Main Street would have been a great opening scene to a scary movie.

Men with flashlights strapped to their heads climbed un-tested ladders that easily could have been constructed in the 20s or 30s. Fear was abandoned as the brave walked across the "bridge of death" from the seating area to the stage. Small groups winded down stairwells leading under the stage, discovering a trap door, a green room and passages to nowhere.

Others ventured upstairs, finding old movie posters, a mysterious paper-towel wad and even more ladders leading up. A few of the adventurous climbed to these peaks, reporting to the others what they'd found: the projection room.

The Rivoli Theatre began in 1921 as a place for live action shows, says my mother, who invited me to join her for the tour. It later showed movies, but for decades now it has lay a dormant, disorderly disaster, changing owners more than once.

But the community college's theater board here in Pendleton is exploring the idea of bringing the place back to life.

Which would be quite a project. Ripped-out rows of seats are layered like trash facing the stage. Traces of a torn-down section of the balcony line the walls to the left and right. From the lobby to back stage, trash is a signature.

Under the stage, face to face with the heaps of trash, somebody noted that in a quick movie montage, the group could renovate the place in just a few minutes.

But reality is the biggest enemy of the group of Pendleton culture visionaries. Can they find the money, the man-power or the long-term vision required to inject new life into a dead theatre?

I'll be sure to keep up on the project. If it does happen, it would be a great story to tell in a magazine article or a documentary film.

I'd be happy to direct if somebody wants to throw me some cash.