Catching Flies with Chopsticks:
Galvin's Japan Journal
No, I haven't written for a while. Yes, I noticed too. Believe it or not I've been pretty busy lately. Things are getting a little hectic around here, although if you asked me with what, I couldn't for the life of me answer. Anyway, I'll write again soon, I promise. In the meanwhile, here's your dose of mind-bendingly creepy absurdity to get you in the mood. Nothing to do with Japan, but in the same spirit.
Also, is it me or is this month's color scheme somehow the worst yet? I shall infuse a small measure of reader interaction into this month's journal by asking you if it sucks. The way it works is, if it sucks, you tell me. If enough people tell me it sucks, I change it. See, isn't audience interaction wonderful? 'fact, if any kind person out there with a knack for color just wants to compile my next seven or so color schemes for me, I'd be much appreciative. Any takers? No? Well, thought I'd try anyway.
On a last note -- I hate to say it, but I'm feeling a bit burned out lately. Not with actually writing so much as well, running this site. Running the powerful multimedia powerhouse that is kindofcrap.com, read by literally, uh, twos of people every, uh, week, is no easy task you know. Some days I spend easily more than several seconds a day handling the necessary day-to-day upkeep like approving guestbook entries or making new link buttons in Photoshop because I am bored. Aye, in the wee early, innocent uh, months, it used to just be about the writing. The entertaining. Making a connection with lonely, bored souls out there via a constant stream of jokes about child abuse. But somewhere along the line, it became about the power. The hits. The sheer, addictive thrill of expanding my readership pool beyond my mother and a handful of college friends to include people who laugh at funny attempts at English and people who type things like "GUNDAM SEX EROTIC BUDDHIST" into search engines. Somewhere along the line, somehow, making the site popular became more important than just writing what I want to. And that's not right. "You've changed, man. It used to be about the music." Indeed, random Simpsons quote. Indeed.
Anyway, with that said, it's only fair to notify you that you may seem some changes around here in the near future. Namely, I may step down as the undisputed head of kindofcrap.com, believe it or not. In fact, I'm currently in talks with a new potential owner to fill the comfy virgin leather kindofcrap Leadership Recliner. If it all goes through, it'll be a bit different around these parts. Don't worry though, even if it happens I'm not really going anywhere. I'll still be around, though no longer as the head honcho. Maybe it's time for someone else to take the spotlight, anyway. Like I said though, I guess we'll see. Even if the new owner does end up stepping in though, well, don't worry. He's not a total stranger, and I think you'll like him.
...or perhaps I'm just feeding you the company line in advance. Ha! In the meantime, you're still stuck with me. Guess we'll find out together. Cheers, all.
Well, like the header says, it's May 7th, 2003, and I'm just a wee bit o' drunk here so let's see if we can't get the creative juices flowing. And no, I CAN'T imagine something more pathetic than updating one's online journal after a Wednesday night of drinking, but I have never been one to try to make myself out as an even remotely impressive individual.
Good find tonight as far as bars go, actually. You've probably guessed I'm not much of a drinker by now, but tonight's location was a rarity in that it was an actual BAR. Now, I live in Nakagomi, AKA seedy central, and while there's plenty of places to drink, they're almost entirely strip clubs, glorified whorehouses, or "snack bars." What differentiates a snack bar and a regular bar? Well, in a snack bar as soon as you sit down they put down a little bowl of somesuch in front of you, that being the "snack" implied in the name, and charge you oh, 15 bucks or so for it. Now, this wouldn't be so bad were the snack say, a filet mignon, or goose eggs sauteed over the marbled remains of the world's most succulent baby pig. Unfortunately, no, it's usually something to the tune of grass in a dirty ceramic bowl or assorted animal parts that would be deemed unedible under any normal circumstances. So yeah, it's kind of a gyp simply in the act of sitting down; therefore you shall understand why I am enraptured in finding a bar in the classic sense of the word, complete with, wonder of wonders, a POOL TABLE. Of course, just to remind me that I'm in Japan and we can't have anything becoming too dangerously unhip, the bartender decided to throw in Coyote Ugly on the TV to set the mood. I sincerely hope everyone in that movie dies.
Yeah, I know, blah blah blah I'm drunk; yes, I know. All right, so let's move on to my usual topic: why my job sucks. Consider this -- since getting here I've been continually sick. I've never caught so many colds in my entire life. Normally I'm perpetually stricken with a sore throat, headaches, and a cough. Yet, over the past couple months I've actually pretty healthy. I'd nearly forgotten what it's like to swallow a drink or even talk without it being painful. However, recently my usual illnesses have come back. And, perhaps not coincidentally, I've started teaching elementary school frequently again. Hmmmm...a connection you think? Hey, YOU try spending your working day shouting over 30 screaming children and see how YOUR throat ends up. Don't help that the little disease balls make a hobby of touching me, climbing all over me, and coughing on me. Or who knows, maybe I'm simply allergic to the little bastards. Hey, I break out in hives; they break out in belt-shaped welts all over their fragile little bodies. It's only fair.
I've actually reached an interesting little point in my time in Japan so far. The honeymoon period is most certainly over, and I am now settling into well, normal life that just happens to be halfway across the world from my customary surroundings. Sure, I still delight in the odd absurdity now and then, but otherwise it's gotten to the point where I barely even think of this place as a foreign country anymore. I don't think of national borders anymore. I've gotten so used to it I rarely think that big. Rather, I now merely think of myself as living in a town that just happens to be literally halfway across the world from my birthplace. To me it's no longer any different from anyone else that, quite as a matter of course, moves away from home to start his own life. It just so happens that I ended up ever so slightly farther than most people go.
I think that's why I've been having difficulty writing lately, actually. It's not quite so new anymore, and I'm finding myself thinking "OMG THAT'S SO WEIRD I HAVE TO WRITE ABOUT IT ON MY WEBSITE GUH HAWHAWHAW" on a much less frequent basis these days. Which is of course not necessarily a BAD thing, but it does make writing a tad bit more work than I'm accustomed. Lately I feel as though my writing has become much less natural, and slowly started creeping into "Look! Isn't my life WACKY??!" territory. And I simply will not have that.
Speaking of which, I should address the 'new owner' issue. Don't worry, even if that kid ends up taking over, I'm still not going anywhere. So rest easy; my six or seven loyal readers. I've just; quite frankly, feel like I've stagnated, both in my writing and other senses, so I thought it might be a good idea to turn the reins over to someone else for a while. These journals will more than likely continue, on a less frequent basis, yes, but honestly I've been looking to scale back anyway. This way, you'll have someone else to read while I'm busy being lazy and unmotivated. I'm sure I'll retake my exalted position of power someday, but for now I'm kind of looking forward to taking more of a backseat role while I figure things out. Actually, if I may be completely truthful for a second, I'd just like to try my hand at some more creative writing lately, so I hope you'll like how it turns out. Besides, the new owner isn't someone you're completely unfamiliar with, so don't worry. It'll work out, I swear.
Which reminds me -- the new potential Head Crapman has offered me the additional position of "advice columnist" -- so help me out by sending me in questions! Real or totally fabricated, I don't care -- just send me solitations for advice and help a brother out! And don't forget to sign it with one of those "Dear Abby" style anonymous names, like "Herpes in Houston" or somesuch. C'mon, you can be clever; I know it.
Finally, let's have us a good ol' link here, one that is perhaps even more tasteless than usual. You got some guy named "Botchiegulp" to thank for that one. I don't want nothin' to do with it. But oh yeah, I almost forgot -- something I DO have something to do with is a brand-new photo essay for you to waste even MORE time at work with. The photos are even more boring than the last one, but it is perhaps the only photo album in history where the words:pictures ratio is something like 6000:1. If that rather flattering distinction don't convince you to read it, then by gum, NOTHING will.
Right then. Time f'r sleep. And you -- Clancinator, this means YOU -- GET BACK TO WORK, SLACKER!!
Ever since Yuka, the higher school girl I tutor, passed her English proficiency test, I've started to develop strange feelings of paternal pride. I mean, I've never really HAD an undeniably positive influence on the development of a fellow human being before; or at least not one so easily quantified via a state-approved testing program. But after that I've found myself experiencing the sort of vicarious joy that I figure must characterize much of parenthood. However, unfortunately for borderline delusional fuckbots like myself, it turns out that pseudo-parenthood is fraught with many of the same pitfalls that plague ACTUAL parenthood.
It all started last week, when Yuka walked into the classroom looking somewhat different than usual. At first, I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Was it a new haircut? A new coat? No, it wasn't any of those things, but soon I figured it out. See, what I had assumed to be merely giant black caterpillars burrowing aggressively into her eyeballs turned out to instead be several metric tons of eyeliner that had apparently been applied with a trowel. I, naturally, didn't approve; although really I found it more amusing than anything else. Professional that I am, however, I continued the lesson like normal, except it now happened to be based around a concept I deemed "cosmetic restraint". Also to my credit I tried very hard to convince myself that no, that wasn't a tar monster attacking every few seconds; it was just her blinking.
At the end of the lesson she declared her plans to go into Tokyo on the weekend WITHOUT PARENTAL SUPERVISION I MIGHT ADDcoughsorry to go shopping in the trendy/hip Harajuku district. Grinding my teeth together to cut off the escape of any telltale groans of parental disapproval, I suggest that perhaps it might be fun if she brought in some of her Harajuku purchases the following week so we could talk about them. She seemed to like the idea, as did I. Given that I am not psychic nor very smart, it never occured to me that this would only bring further trouble.
So when Yuka came in for her lesson yesterday, the mortar-like makeup was gone, thankfully. However, what she had brought in its place turned out to be far more horrifying. She seemed very eager to show me the loot from the Tokyo shopping trip, sitting right down and skipping over all our usual opening pleasantries. The first item she pulled out of her brand-new Starbucks (grrrr) bag was a relatively harmless T-shirt: "No sleeves!" she declared enthusiastically, as I then turned over the shirt in my hands to verify this purported lack of sleeves. Okay, so I admit my heart skipped a beat when I pictured this nice young girl BRAZENLY walking around with her arms SCANDALOUSLY uncovered and NOT IN MY HOUSE YOUNG -- anyway yes, at that point I realized I needed to calm down. I managed to convince myself that I was indeed being quite an unreasonable prude -- and I was -- and calmly cycled through the usual "This is nice! Where did you buy this? How much did this cost?" line of questioning that characterizes any second-language-learning conversation class.
Truth be told, I was feeling rather silly about it. I mean, first of all, I'm just her teacher, not a parental figure at all. But secondly, I mean, it was just a sleeveless T-shirt. Not even a tank-top. T-shirt that happened to have no sleeves? So what? If that was the worst it got, I would have no worries about this girl. I mean, I can't expect her to stay totally innocent, forever, right? Reaffirmed, I continued on with the lesson and asked her to show me the next item.
And it was then, of course, that she reached into the bag and produced just about the most distressing thing I would have never thought to imagine. I swear she could've pulled a severed head out of that thing and taken a big sudden bite out of it, and I would've been less disturbed. In fact, yeah, given the choice, I'd prefer she would have went with the head. For what she pulled out of the bag next was in my mind, far worse. Okay, so it wasn't lingerie, or a dildo or something. But what she DID then pull out of that bag turned out to be a brand new, bright-white pair of the ==SHORTIEST== short-shorts I have ever seen in my LIFE. I mean, these weren't just your average, normal, everyday hot pants. These were a full-on Pubic Display Center. Minus a button and some zippers, these were underwear.
For the next few minutes Yuka and I engaged in a dangerous game of chess that to be fair only one of us had any concept we were playing (I'll let you figure out who). For her part, Yuka kept on quite the poker face; nonchalantly tossing the horrifyingly short hot pants on the table and chattering happily away about them. I, meanwhile, launched my strategic offensive mostly by turning pale and wondering whether I could drive my index finger through my skull if I aimed for my temple at just the right angle and velocity. I also kept busy trying to delete the phrase "No daughter of mine...!" from my mental vocabulary. I accomplished this by distracting myself by cycling through any number of things I would have PREFERRED she'd tossed on the table instead of those hot pants: several syringes of heroine...dead cat...six-foot tarantula...mongol horde...jar of bloody urine...my own right foot...ebola-stricken vampire monkey...yup. Still woulda preferred any those things. Okay, okay, I know this girl is just growing up. But I mean...this is Yuka! The shy nerd girl who wants to go to Kyoto University to study astronomy, of all things! She wants to work for NASA, for crissake! And god dammit -- astronomers don't wear freakin' HOT PANTS! They just tell fortunes.
As a side note, I should mention that yesterday was one of the few times Kohei, the guy who runs the school, actually left us alone in the classroom together. Usually, he sits in the back doing work, which is of course understandable since the school only has one room. However, I'm pretty sure the unspoken rationale behind his presence is to ensure edgy parents that no ah, funny business goes on between the 22 year-old foreign teacher and their high-school daughters. But, since I've been teaching there for nearly 9 months now, he's finally feeling comfortable enough to go off to teach his own class and leave me alone to teach mine now and then. Yesterday was one of those rare times -- however, he was due back any minute. And all I'm saying is I am EXTREMELY thankful he did not walk in while the two of us were huddled over what appeared to be a denim thong was strewn out on the table: "Kohei...! What are YOU doing here? No, these aren't MY hot pants..."
Yes, indeed, it seems that the age-old question "Who wears short-shorts?" is not merely rhetorical after all. Unfortunately for my pseudo-parental pride however, it turns out that the answer is YUKA. Goddamn it. Little kids grow up so fast these days. The only way this could all be more poignant is if she were any actual relation of mine whatsoever.
I hate when it's only Monday and you can already tell it's gonna be one o' those weeks.
So one of my elementary school teachers called me up yesterday -- a Sunday, no less -- and informed me that when I come to his school on Thursday I will be teaching 88 students plus THEIR PARENTS in the gym. I love how he tried to pass this off as no different from my normal schedule. "20 students, 88, doesn't matter, right?" he said. Hello -- is this guy NOT a teacher himself? That's like telling a little kid he's ready to drive a tractor trailer since he's got that Big Wheel thing down. Never mind that they shouldn't even be forcing a novice teacher who comes to their school ONCE A MONTH to teach on the day all the parents will be coming in to niggle at everything. They call me up THREE DAYS beforehand and just nonchalantly ask, "So, what do you want to teach?" Yeah, because EVERY day I teach over 100 students and parents via a microphone in a gym. God. I'm sorry, but that is absolutely infuriating.
I really dislike how some teachers here seem to treat JETs as if we're just some cows to be trotted out and milked whenever it pleases them; rather than, y'know, HUMAN BEINGS. I'm sorry, but there is no way they would drop a responsibility like this on any of their normal teachers only three days before the fact. I KNOW that many regular teachers shit themselves about parents' day; yet they have no-training ME handle the entire afternoon presentation? And, somehow, if I refuse, I bet I would be the one who's made out to be the bad guy. Just another lazy foreigner shirking responsibility and not playing his proper part as a cog in the machine. They called me again today to inform me that in addition to leading the presentation in the afternoon, I'd also be teaching four classes as normal in the morning. The proper response here, I believe, is WHAT THE FUCK????!!!. Thank God I was at least assertive enough to bargain them down to only three morning classes. Hooray, now I'm only mostly fucked!
I tell ya. One of these days, I'll learn how to be all confrontational and shit. Until then, however, if you need me, I'll be right here acquainting my hands with my ankles.
Today actually turned out to be a pretty decent day. I had a field trip with the third graders of one of my elementary schools. It turned out to be a glorified death march to some park like 7 miles away, and I'm tired and sunburned now, but hey, beats teaching! Anyhoo, I'm too tired to write, so let's try something different: my digital camera can take small movies, so I want to see if a) you guys can see them, and b) whether my bandwidth can handle video. These videos aren't very exciting, but hey! Change o' pace, right? Think you might need Quicktime to play these, but how should I know? Anyway, let's give 'er a whirl:
Yes, this is one of my better students.
Kid's response to "speak some English". See what I gotta deal with every day?
American Gladiators in training/sadly, my wishes never come true.
Anyway. Like I said, they're not that entertaining, but oh, the novelty. And hey, this is much easier than writing something! Now let's just see if my site is still alive after this.
I was bored this morning, so I compiled this list of things I don't like about you:
1. Your face.
Actually, that's as far as I got. But come on, that's probably ENOUGH.
Don't mind me. I'm just cranky. First of all, I woke up at around 8 AM on this fine Saturday morn and couldn't get back to sleep. My apartment is seemingly situated so that the only time it ever gets sunlight shining into it is the EXACT moment the sun rises. The rest of the day, it's this concealed, dank little hovel, like the dark side of the moon. However, at the start of the day, I am gently awoken by the bright rays of the sun stabbing me directly in the eyes. I need some curtains.
I apologize. I have gone *gasp* THREE WHOLE DAYS without updating this journal, which I figure is some kind of cardinal sin 'round this joint. I blame my lack of office days lately. I also blame the fact that this week sucked so hard I can't even be bothered to come up with a strained metaphor to describe it. No wait, I've got one -- if each week were a child of mine, then I would definitely drown this last one in the bathtub. Oh God. That's HORRIBLE.
See why I haven't been updating very much lately? Such pessimism. Anyway, if you read Monday's entry, you've probably guessed mostly why this week sucked so hard. The parent-teaching day wasn't really too crappy. Actually, in a lot of ways it was a success -- the kids seemed to have fun, and the other teachers seemed pleased with my performance. But something happened during it, or rather, throughout it, that really irked the hell out of me. For once, I was totally fine with the kids. Yeah, they were a little unresponsive and stiff, but I mean come on, their parents were all there. I woulda been the same way were I in their shoes. The parents, however, were a bunch of unresponsive assholes, and they don't have the excuse of lack of years to hide behind. See, I thought it would be fun to get the parents actively involved in the class, as well. I merely asked a few of them to quickly introduce themselves in English ("My name is" and that's it), thinking that the kids would loosen up after seeing their parents do it. The unanticipated problem was, however, that I grossly overestimated the maturity level of the parents.
A little while ago I was talking to an older Japanese co-worker of mine. He was a little drunk, and went on this tangent about how the current generation of young "adults" in Japan never actually grew up. You can tell, he said, because young Japanese adults these days share many traits with their own children, or younger people in general. They listen to the same type of music. They watch the same TV shows. They play video games. He said that these types of similarities, seemingly small as they are, would never have happened 20 or 30 years ago. Adults these days stay perpetually obsessed with proving they're still young and cool despite reaching "adulthood," that they never understand they're supposed to mature past a lot of that stuff. Okay, so it's a highly flawed argument. I didn't put too much stock into what he was specifically saying at the time, but I did generally agree with what he was saying, mostly because I think my own, American generation is much the same way. But after trying to teach some of these young adults, I started to get a better idea of what he was saying.
Anyway, I was walking around the gym on the mic, asking for parental volunteers to show their kids how it's done. Okay, to be fair, perhaps it was my mistake to put them on the spot like that. Japanese people are generally very shy about trying to speak English, and I'm sure the microphone and my sudden manner didn't help matters any. A little shyness, then, would be excusable. Acting EERILY fucking similar to their sixth-grade children, on the other hand, was not. These parents didn't just fail to raise their hands or speak up. They shrunk back to the wall, looking down at the floor, fearful that any sort of eye contact would equate to volunteering. Everyone who's ever been a student themselves knows this look. It's the "For fuck's sake, teacher, don't call on me or I'll piss my pants" look. I know that face, you know that face. And their it was, right on these 30-40 year-olds with children of their own. Some of the "parents," infuriatingly pathetically, even tried to push or nudge their friends in front of them to make it look like THEY had volunteered, all the while giggling to mask their embarassment. See now, this is usually the kind of behavior I deal with from the class clowns in my schools. However, it's at least understandable when they do it, because they are TEN YEARS OLD. Watching these supposedly grown-up housewives do it, was actually what first really tipped me off to what kind of people I was dealing with here.
I used to wonder where some of my more obnoxious kids got their manners. I used to wonder who lets them get away with so much disrespectful behavior. Well, now I know. I cannot tell you how, pardon the melodrama, purely shocked I was to see these parents acting EXACTLY THE SAME as their sixth-grade children. Just like many of the kids I deal with every day in school, these people were clearly more concerned with appearing cool than anything else. These parents were so horribly concerned that perhaps they might be momentarily embarassed for five seconds that they couldn't be at all bothered to help me -- fuck that, help their own fucking KIDS -- have a nice, fun class. I'm sorry to jump to conclusions, but these are the people that have kids just because they think they're SUPPOSED to, and not because they believe they can handle the responsibility. I can't believe this is coming from me, but, these were not ADULTS. These were little fucking CHILDREN.
Actually, I suppose I can sympathize with these parents ever so slightly, which only further distresses me. I mean, since becoming a teacher, I've definitely had some struggles with needing to appear like a semi-responsible semi-authority figure, yet at the same time not feel completely like the old codger I've spent nearly all of my student life acting cooly indifferent to. The thing that most kills me about this job is the irony. I mean, it's been a full year now since I graduated from college, but I'm used to being the immovably apathetic student squandering his reportedly considerable potential. That's what I was for 16 years of my life. In a lot of ways, that's all I know. But now, finding myself wondering why these gosh-darn kids aren't excited about learning on a nearly daily basis...I feel like I'm only a few steps away from complaining that my pants aren't plaid enough, milk costs more than it used to, and that the waiter toasted the toast too hard for my dentures to bite through. Now, having written a tirade on how young people these days need to take some responsibility and grow up...ugh, the irony is just sickening. I'm still young! I'm still hip, I swear! I just now happen to view the act of human reproduction as little more than as a vicious cycle of fuckbot perpetuation. Okay, well more so, now. The question is, does this perception make me less mature, or more? I'm not sure. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go out and buy a motorcycle or something.
And finally, in other news, my computer just finished 12 hours of downloading a purported bootleg of X-Men 2 off Kazaa just now, only for me to open it and see the words "Starring David Bowie" followed by scenes of a teenage Jennifer Connelly prancing around dressed as a princess. That's right, it's not 700MB worth of X-Men 2, it's LABYRINTH!. I want superheroes, I get David Bowie strolling around in medieval garb. Man, this is just the punctuation on my morning.
Come on, you knew the new frontpage pic was happening sometime.
Something I've come to enjoy recently, strangely enough, is teaching afternoon classes at junior high. Now, at elementary schools, post-lunch classes are truly something to dread. Generally the only thing I really ever want to do after lunch is take a nap, and from the eyes-half-closed expression on my students' faces I can tell they all fell the same. Actually, the situation is exactly like this in junior high as well, but there are a few key differences. For one, in elementary school I have to try to act really enthusiastic about whatever stupid game I happened to have cooked up on the 5-minute ride to work seven months ago and have played countless times with a countless number of faceless classes of children ever since. And what kids lack in acquired wisdom or even common sense, they make up for with pure perception; as in correctly perceiving that Happy Mr. Gaijin Man at the front of the room trying to get everyone all excited about each being assigned a specific fruit would, all things considered, clearly rather be doing just about anything else at the moment up to and including swallowing half a pint of broken glass and then riding the Tilt-o-Whirl for eight hours. Little kids, while about as sharp as the rocks I'd like to use to bash their little kneecaps in, are, unfortunately, not stupid. They know when they're being gamed, even if not consciously, and will half-ass it just as much in kind. Can't say I blame them. But then, nor will any jury in the world blame me once they see what I plan to do with this giant kid-shaped blender I've been constructing.
The situation at junior high in the afternoon isn't much different, really. In fact I can't even quite put my finger on it but whatever difference is there is enough to make it really, uh, different (Gosh, me sure am righting English good 2day!). Maybe it's because I'm just an assistant in JHS rather than the star attraction, thus freeing me to let down my (increasingly awful) hair down a bit. Maybe it's because we're mostly limited to a textbook in JHS, which no amount of enthusiasm could make exciting anyway. But more than likely, it's probably mostly because the students are old enough to have moved beyond the mostly subconscious perception that their teacher is ass-tired, to the fully conscious knowledge that yes, their teacher is ass-tired and would gladly sell any one of them into slavery for a cheap bottle of bourbon. The elementary students perceive the teacher's lack of interest as a sign that they are bad children. The junior high kids on the other hand, actually feel a sense of camaraderie in seeing that their teacher is just as bored, tired, and hot as them, I believe. I, the real teacher, and the students all know that we've got a class we have to get through, but if we should all somehow forget to stick strictly to the textbook and instead get giddy and giggly as our sleep-deprived brains want us to while chatting idly about anything from current events to the derogatory nicknames the students have for each other, well, no one has to know.
I swear, the atmosphere during these afternoon JHS classes is almost magical. There's so much lethargic electricity in the air we could practically feel it running along our skin if we weren't too busy laughing at one student's impression of some of the school's stricter teachers. And perhaps I'm just rationalizing my own post-lunch laziness, but I think it's sometimes good just to say fuck 'learning' and just be goddamn friends with the kids for a period. And I'm not really sure why, but I just feel like I make so much more of a connection with my kids during these tired afternoon classes. Part of it for me, I guess, is that I actually prefer playing with an acknowledged handicap, thus eliminating most of the potential shame in failing. Nothing scares the crap out of me more than a fair, easy shot, because all I can think about is how dumb I'll look if I miss it. However, when I'm working with an understood handicap -- such as having me and my students both tired as fuck -- then all the pressure is gone because now no one will blame me if my best happens to not be enough.
And on a more specific level, for some reason I feel like I'm at my best when I'm half-asleep. Granted, my perception is probably somewhat skewed at the time, but I really feel like I'm most on my game when perhaps all the oxygen that should be reaching my brain isn't quite making it there. It's been nine months that I've been teaching now. Yet, I still just don't feel quite comfortable playing the enthusiastic motivator. It feels like I'm wearing someone else's skin. Being the sleepy-eyed smartass, on the other hand -- now that's somewhat more familiar territory. That, baby, is not something I really need to force.
At my junior high there is a hyperactive group of boys I lovingly refer to as the Penis Hunters. I talked about them in early February once -- they're the group of kids that were impressed by the one really good class I've ever taught and subsequently developed a fervent yet misguided interest in learning English; or, in lieu of that, butchering it horribly. Whatever, I give them credit just for trying to use English so much when most of my students are reluctant to bust out anything more than a sheepish "good morning". So what if they run around calling each other "Penis Hunter" even after I explained that, as a native English speaker, even I wasn't quite sure what it meant? It's still English, sort of, and I'm not going to fault them for using it just because they happen to do so in a somewhat inappropriate way. Boys are gonna be boys, and if they feel comfortable enough to act as such around me, while honestly trying (thought often failing hilariously) to use English to boot, then well, as an educator, I'm all for it. Also, as an immature little idiot myself, it is of course often amusing to hear the vaguely dirty English terminology they seem to invent on a seemingly daily basis.
An especially humorous/horrifying episode came up not too long ago during cleaning time. I've taken to actually cleaning during cleaning time just so I can spend some time with them and see in how many ways they can brutalize the English language in just one 15-minute span. However, this time I got somewhat more than I bargained for. Perhaps I did not stress enough that these are 12 year-old kids, very excited about certain...changes that their bodies have been going through. Puberty, I guess, is quite a thrilling time for them and they have shown no qualms about telling me about certain recent developments in their broken English. However, the day in question was the first day one of them decided to SHOW me. I walked in there, wondering what verbal hilarity would ensue that day, only for the lead Penis Hunter to shout, "Mr. Garubin! Look! UNDER HAIR!!" and then yank down his pants to prove to me that yes, sometime during the last few weeks he had indeed begun sprouting some "under hair". At least, I assume he had since thankfully I had turned away in time to avoid a eye-searing and potentially legally dubious situation. Thankfully, the kid soon pulled up his pants and the discourse turned to a purely verbal discussion on whether or not people who dye their hair ALSO bleach their Under Hair. And thank mercy for that. Like I said, I'm glad my kids wish to share exciting developments in their lives with me. Sharing the contents of their pants, however, is perhaps taking the student-teacher relationship a bit too far.
I really just haven't felt much like writing lately. Perhaps you have noticed. Ironic that just a couple months ago I was complaining about "writer's blue balls". I think the problem is that things are just too normal to me now. Japan has almost ceased to be this endlessly wacky place in my perception. I've mentioned it before, but he only real difference I now see between me and people who just got a job in the states after graduation is pure geography, and little else. Yeah, people do things a bit differently here than back in good ol' Reading, Pennsylvania, sure. But now I just kind of think of it as being in a town with really odd customs.
Similarly, my job now seems to be just a job, no different from any other. It's no longer an idealized avenue of maturation. It no longer symbolizes my unyielding faith in the young and pure. Hell, I'm practically used to small children fondling/penetrating my nether regions on a regular basis. Today even one of my junior high kids gave me the double-cheek squeeze saying "What a nice butt!" and I didn't even flinch. I guess it's kinda like being in prison: after a while, you just accept that someone has to be the bitch.
Anyway, perhaps it's just as well I'm not updating as insanely frequently as I was last month. My readership has dropped by a full third since mid-April, and I'm not entirely sure why. I suspect part of it is that most colleges are out of session by now, so I no longer have the procrastinating-before-a-term-paper audience. Also, application season for JETs is over so there's that loss of interest as well. Of course, I have also not entirely ruled out the option that perhaps now I just plain suck. Anyway -- back in November I asked you people for e-mails telling why you even bother reading this dribble. I got a pretty good amount of responses, and seeing as I still get some NOW, I thought I'd try again. Only this time I ask -- if you've been coming to this site for a while, are you finding yourself losing as much interest in reading this journal lately as I am writing it? If so, why? Can you pick out any significant changes in my writing style? I only ask because I'm really an awful judge of myself. Depending on the time of day I can look at any given piece of writing and either hate it or want to attempt procreation with it. Anyhoo, if any of you bossy types have any constructive criticism to offer, send 'em along, I'd be most grateful. Thanks!
And in other, less whiny news, the new supermarket next door has hit, and boy oh boy, color my life changed! (Ugh -- people writing in, there's one difference -- mangled idioms instead of mangled metaphors) I swear I practically cried when I walked into the department store complex next door and heard HUMAN VOICES coming from inside it. I was so damn happy I practically wanted to hug the cashiers, the other customers, the on-sale bottles of Coke for only 168 yen, and the half-dozen people dressed as giant cartoon animals promoting the store opening (okay, so Japan's still kinda weird). There was just so much cordial charm oozing from it I wanted to cry. Never before have I felt so moved by a display of summer fruit or a sign that reads 30% off Frozen Vegetables. Some of the cashiers were so nervous they were fumbling the enunciation of the set phrases common to all register jobs in Japan. It was so damn cute, I almost stopped being condescending and delusional for just a little bit. I'm sure you think I'm a lunatic. But you see, for the past few months that building which USED to contain a supermarket has had a very depressing failed-urban-mall atmosphere to it. Now, however, I stroll through there so much the cashiers are probably already wondering who the fucking weirdo with the mullet and the giant shit-eating grin is. I'm sure many of you think I'm making far too big a deal of it -- and I certainly am -- but regardless of my being increasingly adjusted to it I've gotten attached to this sleazy little town of mine and gosh darn it, it gives me a tingly little non-sexual (well, mostly) thrill to see it actually bustling and alive again.
Of course, in a typical display of the paranoia and wishy-washiness that any sort of positive event generally provokes in me, I have ALREADY become frightened of the possibility that this supermaket, too, shall close down. Keep in mind that the new supermaket has only been open four days, yet already I walk through there and I'm all like, "Hmm, should I get these white eggs because they're cheaper, or these brown eggs because they're purportedly more nutri -- OH MY GOD THERE'S ONLY ONE PERSON IN LINE AT EACH REGISTER THE STORE'S CLOSING DOWN AAAAAAUUUUUUAA". It's patently ridiculous, I know -- even the biggest bomb of a store would probably stay open at least a year -- but hey, happened once, all right? On the flip side, I am now ALSO feeling honest pity for the tiny grocery store I frequented in the absence of a larger supermarket in the area. Yesterday, while paying for my meat, vegetables, and soft drinks at the low, low prices that faceless corporations can afford to set their goods at -- I suddenly got a very vivid mental image of an elderly clerk standing behind the register at the OTHER store, a single tear rolling off her cheek and splashing in a glittery haze onto her worn, yet still proud, apron; which itself realizes somewhere deep in its inanimate wisdom that the cruel and unbending laws of economics have dictated that its days of witnessing frequent sales already number far too many. Of course, there IS no elderly clerk at that store -- just some high school bitch -- which means that, while it was bad enough when I was anthropomorphizing a grocery store, doing the same to a fucking APRON hanging off some old lady who DOESN'T REALLY EXIST is far, far worse.
What was that I was saying about being normalized again? Well, in my defense, I meant the country is feeling all too normal to me lately. I didn't say anything about ME.
A Dane reader wrote in summing up exactly what is wrong (or in a way, ceasing to be wrong) with me lately: I'm finally running out of culture shock. I'm sure this is news to exactly no one, but I'm glad to finally have a term for my current condition: "Lack of Culture Shock Shock". And, now that I have a name for it, only one question remains: I have readers in uh, Dane...land?
Actually, it's really just like me to revel in culture shock yet launch into self doubt mode when running low on it. The first time I was in Japan a few years ago, I was almost stupidly happy nearly all the time simply because every little thing I did was captivating simply because I was doing it in a foreign country. Even the really mundane things, like going to the laundromat or buying groceries, were characterized by enough novel little differences from how they would be done in my home country to be borderline enthralling no matter how many times I did them. It was only when I went home after 10 months, however, that I felt anything that could really even be remotely labeled as "culture shock". When I got home, I was actually depressed for a while just because everything was so PREDICTABLE. Everything was exactly as I left it, and now that I, too, had returned to status quo, it just felt like I had never left. Being back home, in the same old surroundings, part of the same ol' culture I've known since birth, it felt like my time in Japan may as well have never happened. It was, pardon the cliche, nothing more than a dream; or, if you wish to get science fictiony, vague recollections of an alternate universe where my life actually took place somewhere INTERESTING. This is my own flaw, really: I am, when you get right down to it, an almost exceedingly boring person. Hence, I very much depend on my surroundings to be interesting. It's not exactly a healthy way to do things. I mean, I think if I had to spend even one more semester in college I woulda ended up swinging from the rafters by midterm season. I mean, that's why I'm in a foreign country: EVERYTHING is different from what I know. And my life, in turn, became interesting by default.
I don't fool myself. I know most of the reason people read this at all is merely because I'm in Japan. Sure, you could argue that it's because I'm a good writer -- and I would respond that I have potential to be decent sometimes -- but mostly it's because Japan is so instantly intriguing to many people. For whatever reason, a lot of people just find themselves drawn to Japan, whether by the refined mystique of its traditional culture, or due to the fact that its current one is so uniquely ass-bananas. That's how it was for me too, of course. Hell, I honestly can't quite recall how I ever ended up here in the first place, or even how in God's name I ever decided to even start studying Japanese let alone major in East freakin' Asian freakin' studies. I honestly don't know. Just kinda felt like it, I guess.
And now, merely existing in a foreign country, despite perhaps being even less productive than I've ever been in my life, lends me all sorts of credibility. Being in a foreign environment automatically transforms the mundane into the exotic, in both one's own eyes and the eyes of others. For instance, if I decided I've had enough with JET, quit, and started working at 7-11 instead (ignoring the fact that I couldn't sustain my work visa on that), it would be downright romantic. Young kid, living alone in a foreign country, working in a convenience store to make ends meet -- heck, that's practically high drama. Yet, if I was back in the States and making minimum wage at the local Quik Stop, suddenly it appears that I'm wasting my life. It's not so much what you're doing, it's where you're doing it: that's the lesson I picked up at some point. It's the same reason that the only real goal I have in life is to someday live at the beach. Because where else can you just lay in the sun all day and have it count as living life to its fullest?
Actually, not too long ago I was toying with the idea of moving to a different country every two or three years. I'd become somewhat of a nomadic culture-shock-junkie, roaming the different modernized countries of the world, settling down to soak in the novelties, then moving on when things got dull. Along the way, I'd of course write my own series of travel books for the half-assed ("What Kind of Guide to France Is This? It's Kind of Crap!"). Which, as long as we're indulging in fantasy, would of course sell millions of copies, which would of course earn me millions of dollars, which I would then of course use to purchase millions of my own ponies, because in this fantasy I also really like ponies for some reason. But of course, my massive success in the travel guide industry would really just serve to provide legitimacy to my status as a sort of Cultural Undead, a culture zombie if you will, shambling slowly and vaguely menacingly through the world driven only by an insatiable, inhuman hunger for the customs and novelties of the living.
Anyway, I suppose at some point, hopefully soon, I'll somehow have to learn how to cope with dealing with a life that fails to be effortlessly amusing at every turn. Poor baby, yes, I know. But don't worry! Until I manage to do so, I at least have my inhumanly awful metaphors to keep me company; at least if the previous paragraph is any indication. Because after all, as they say, you can lead a horse to water, but if he doesn't drink you can always shoot him and buy a new one with the profits made from half-assed travel books you wrote in Europe. Or words to that effect. Ass-bananas.