Catching Flies with Chopsticks:
Galvin's Japan Journal
For the past three days I've been in Tokyo for the JET recontracting seminar. Which, of course, would be a useless little gathering held for the sake of the the hundreds of masochistic bastards who through disorders either psychological, sociological or havingagunheldtoyourfuckingheadogical somehow ended up making the decision to keep at this nightmarish job known as teaching English in Japan for one more year. Now me, I have an excuse: I'm extraordinarily stupid. Every other JET who recontracted I consider to be either equally stupid or completely assbananas crazy.
I'm exaggerating, of course. Sometimes, you may have inferred, I feel like being negative simply for the sake of being negative. The meeting itself wasn't actually so horrible, and those of you that are familiar with my writing style may be shocked by the lack of any snidely humorous qualification of that statement contained in the rest of this sentence. I actually did glean some useful things from the meeting. For instance, other JETs in Nagano that I didn't know read this website, read this website. I don't know why, but I find that mildly creepy. Yes, I know; that makes no sense. Somehow, complete strangers reading about my life on the internet, I don't give a second thought to. People I've actually met and at least talked to a few times glancing at this page a few times, THAT makes me feel vaguely dirty. So hey, you! Marc, Lachlyn, Rana, and anyone else I missed! At least email me or something and cease your internet stalking ways!
In other news, I am DEFINITELY experiencing the uglier parts of culture shock now. Whereas before, everything was all novel and interesting and full of mispelled or gramatically incorrect hilarity, NOW I find myself getting irritated with Japanese people for perpetrating such horrible crimes as say, speaking Japanese in public and refusing to talk English right. My study abroad dean back in college always TOLD me this would happen, and despite being a complete fucking ignorant bitch it seems that she may have been right. It's really quite an fascinating process. For instance, not but a few months ago if I say, spotted an amusing little bit of Engrish on a poster while on the train, it would only be a matter of moments before I'd whip out my digital camera, already mentally composing funny captions to go along with it. Placed in the same situation these days, I'd more likely instead start picturing what everyone else on the train would look like headless. Yessir, this "low" part of culture shock sure is an innerestin' thing! Ha ha! Pay no attention to the muffled noises coming from my basement!
Just for fun, I've started mapping my progress on the supposed culture shock "W" curve: Wait a minute, if I'm only just NOW reaching the "irritability and hostility" phase, the second step, how frickin' long are the remaining phases supposed to take? THIS SECOND PHASE IS ALREADY TAKING FOREVER IT FEELS LIKE
And now to completely contradict myself, I wanted to mention that I'm finding myself actually kinda, sorta...liking this job lately. I'm almost ashamed to admit it. Hell, it's still pretty hard to verbalize it. In fact, I feel that merely by TYPING that sentence clouds of locusts should suddenly begin cascading from the sky. Don't get me wrong. When I'm not physically at work I still bitch about having to go there as much as I ever have. But when I AM there, well, lately I guess I've been appreciating it, for lack of a better word. These days, the ONLY place I find myself consistently experiencing a sense of wonder is, ironically enough, at my JOB. I'll be standing there at the front of the classroom rattling off phonetically enriched sample sentences from a textbook to a room full of Japanese teenagers, and suddenly it'll strike me that I'm, me, I'm standing there at the front of a classroom rattling off phonetically enriched sample sentences from a textbook to a room full of Japanese teenagers. Suddenly, where I am and what I'm doing will just hit me, and not in that bad negative crappy way I'm used to that makes me wonder if it would hurt very much to eat my own jugular. No, rather, I'll be thinking to myself, "How did I end up here?" in that OTHER way...whatchamacallit...the NON bad negative crappy way. Ah, yes, positive. I remember that word. I swear, it's like my professional and personal lives are never both allowed to be in order at the same time.
Lastly, if any of you have noticed something...different about the rhythm of my writing (assuming I HAVE one) lately, you should know that the computer on which I am currently typing this (mine, unfortunately) currently has its tilde, number six, F11, and hyphen keys out of commission. Now, I don't understand computers, so generally when something goes wrong my usual approach is to either bang madly on it while shrieking obscenities or merely doing my best to ignore the problem and hope it just goes away on its own (come to think of it, that's how I deal with ALL my problems). And believe it or not, one of those two approaches almost ALWAYS works. However, it's been a week now, and still no hyphen key, and let me tell you it's true what they say that you never realize how much you took something for granted until it's gone. Do you people realize how often I hyphenate things -- either for the sake of sentence structure, or, failing that, fall-back-many-words-strung-together-is-funny-humor? And yes, I know, but I had to CUT AND PASTE those suckers. Anyway, it's very frustrating, so if any of you technical types out there might be able to help, I'd much appreciate it. And before you smartasses even START, sending me an email containing nothing but tildes, sixes, and hyphens labeled "cut and paste" does NOT count as "help", you vindictive little bastards.
Man, that blue on gray color scheme was driving even ME crazy. I think you'll agree this new one is a vast improvement. If by "vast improvement" you mean "colored more like shit", that is.
By the way, thanks to all the people who sent me emails on how to fix my keyboard. The responses ran the entire spectrum of the Helpfulness Rainbow; ranging all the way from "Buy a new keyboard" to "Your keyboard is dirty; buy a new one". Of course, I have a laptop, but never let it never be said that good intentions don't win any points with me. My appreciation for all your help is matched only by my desperate hope that I never employ any of you as a car mechanic.
Hmmm...I just realized I have nothing else to write about, so here's a picture from Tokyo last weekend that "Filipino Hooker" Marc (on the right) sent me:
Those of you that make a habit of blowing up every picture I post of myself and plastering them on your bedroom/prison cell walls will likely notice that I betrayed the dream and finally got a friggin' haircut. Well, the mullet had a good run, but I was kidding myself if I thought a whiner like me would make it through summer like that. Plus, I was getting pretty sick of various coworkers dropping subtle and not so subtle hints that PERHAPS YOU SHOULD GET A HAIRCUT IF YOU STILL WISH TO BE EMPLOYED, CHOW SENSEI. Well, it wasn't quite that bad, but I definitely did have a supervisor or two saying things like, "You know what's great? Short hair" whenever in my general presence. One lady, who kinda babies me in general, went so far as to recommend a specific hairdresser and even drew me a map on how to get there. And here I've always thought the Japanese are supposed to be a subtle people.
On a side note, those of you that come equipped with Gaydar have probably been beeping wildly in response to that freaking Smiling Happy Bee on my shirt in the above picture. Believe it or not, that's my town mascot. I hope this won't make me come off the wrong way, but I'm sorry, that bee is perhaps the most flamboyantly homosexual mascot they could have come up with short of a cartoon version of Nathan Lane seductively brandishing a pink dildo. Still, I love that flamboyant little bee, goddammit, and I don't care WHO knows it.
Sitting through The Matrix Reloaded as I did this weekend was like reliving senior year of high school in cinematic form, only longer and with more Hugo Weaving. Pointless fights, pathetic overemphasis on the importance of romance, and endless, rambling discussions on pedestrian philosophical points -- there's even the common point of people dressed all in black thinking they're fighting the system when in fact they may only be perpetuating it. Okay, so perhaps the high school experience was a bit different for the few non-nerds (ha! as if) reading this, but it's your loss if you were busy having too much sex back then to be able to relate to my strained metaphor now. The movie actually wasn't so bad. Admittedly, most of the action scenes, such as the whole freeway sequence, were pretty badass. However, even some of those came off as pretty unnecessary; like when the Oracle's bodyguard attacked Neo seemingly only because the producers had cast an Asian guy and figured they may as well get their money's worth out of him. And then of course whenever the characters were actually talking instead of beating the piss out of each other, it felt like my mind was developing bulimia and alcoholism at the same time. Which, by the way, again leads back to the high school thing.
Further straining the metaphor: all the main actors from the original returned for the sequel looking much worse for wear, like the bright-faced freshman to bitter senior transition. Nothing of course really needs to be said about Keanu Reeves, who every day finds a newly low minimal requirement for being classified as a human being merely by existing. Carrie-Anne Moss also comes off relatively well other than looking even more like a visual interpretation of a classical music piece entitled Ugly in F Major. That annoying Latino boner who drove the ship was just plain replaced with a black guy figuring that one minority is as good as another. It's Laurence Fishburne, surprisingly, who somehow ends up looking the worst in this movie, having apparently contracted whatever disease Hugo Weaving has that causes him to overenunciate and overdramatize every single line. It's like the two of them were having an offscreen bet over who could overact more, which ended in BOTH of them owing each other $50. I swear, if Laurence Fishburne began even ONE MORE SENTENCE with the words "What if" or "I believe", I would have projectile-vomited blood out of my pores and died. Ten years from now we'll find him sitting in our local Arby's messily devouring a sandwich while mumbling about choice and free will, occasionally screaming stuff like "I believe this Beef 'n' Cheddar sandwich holds the very meaning of our lives" in between crazed, gnashing bites.
Moving right along, I also saw 8 Mile recently. I have no strained metaphors to offer for that one, but I did notice that the makeup of the audience at the theater I saw it at was a tad different from the anticipated demographic. Sure, there were your Japanese wiggers there, but there was also an odd scattering of middle aged to elderly ladies as well. I couldn't imagine what had brought them to see the movie, other than perhaps accidentally wandering into the wrong theater. When the movie opened up with a "rap battle" featuring guys verbally trashing each other in rhyme, I couldn't help but wonder if old ladies were sitting there wondering exactly when Julia Roberts got so black and so scary. Hell, I wasn't doing much better. During those rap battle scenes, I found myself being able to understand more of the Japanese subtitles than the actual spoken lyrics. I'm not sure what that says about me, if anything, but one thing I do know is that I certainly do not envy whoever had to translate this movie. I just picture this guy manically paging through an English-Japanese dictionary screaming, "How the fuck am I supposed to translate 'heezy fo' sheezy'??!"
In response to a recent guestbook entry -- were I a chick I'd be VERY hot, thank you very much. Believe me, I've spent far too much time wondering what I'd look like as a girl and how foxy I'd be and...you know what, let's just move on to the next paragraph, shall we?
I'm currently enjoying the presence of a student teacher at my junior high right now. Not only is this fresh 21 year-old a nice young lady whose gentle manner and kind words make me feel at ease -- the fact that she's younger AND actually has LESS teaching experience than I do means that, for the first time, there's someone BELOW me on the totem pole at school! Man, I can't tell you how great it is having a fellow teacher address me as "sensei" out of something other than pure cultural protocol. When the student teacher calls me "Chow-sensei", she actually MEANS it; whenever she addresses me in that way it's as if she is really saying, "Oh, you who really are an actual teacher on par with the rest of the regular staff and who is NOT some educational equivalent of a circus-bear-on-wheels-sideshow, please, please impart some of your great wisdom and awesomosity unto me!" And as much as I like this, it's very, very weird for me to think that I actually know more about teaching kids than one of the other teachers, even if she hasn't even graduated college yet and only taught her very first class just today. I've been at this job nearly a year and yet I still can't shake the unconscious belief that teachers are born, not made; thus it's weird to see one in the fetal stages of development. One that is not ME, anyway. I don't count; within the realm of this metaphor I'm some kind of monstrous zombie abortion.
But of course, with this temporary status boost I guess SOMETHING had to happen to keep my ego in check: namely, my 9th graders suddenly are taking as much interest in my privates as ANY of my elementary kids (or, for that matter, anyone I've dated). I'm not sure if I ever mentioned it, but Japanese students LOOOOVE to ask foreign teachers how big their penises are. (Usually in broken English, to boot! Why is it my kids are only willing to speak English with me if it's really inappropriate?) My junior high kids normally never get like this but today this big kid kept asking me how big my "bat and balls" are, while on separate occasions students several heads taller than me just kinda casually strolled up and cupped my balls in their hands. One of them had his hand there for what seemed like years, thoughtfully, SERIOUSLY pondering aloud, "Why are Americans so BIG, anyway? Is it genetics? Their diet? Hmmm..." Usually this kinda stuff never happens at junior high; must be something in the spring air. Today I even experienced a new violation as a 7th grader snuck up on me and began rubbing my nipples through my shirt in slow, concentric circles while wagging his tongue wildly. New one on me; but I was surprisingly not that disturbed by this, which is, of course, in itself disturbing.
And that is of course the scariest part -- I really am getting indifferent to this and even starting to sort of...well, not ENJOY it, you sicko, but kind of appreciate it in that odd frat-boy-camaraderie sorta way. Okay, if a kid jams his digits up my crack so far/hard that it actually hurts, I'm still liable to go off on the little fucker. Otherwise -- especially with the ball-fondlings, I kinda view it as equivalent to congratulatory ass-slapping between football players. Only without, well, footballs, a team, or anything that even remotely calls for congratulations. It's all so casual now. Like I'll be sitting there in the hall, a big kid will nonchalantly go for my balls, and my own hand will almost purely on reflex intercept his and I'll be in a downright jovial mood as I begin to merrily crush and bend his fingers in ways God never intended just to let him know that next time YOU WILL FUCKING LOSE THEM MOTHER FUCKER. Odd friendship dance or no, you just do NOT FUCK with Chow-sensei that way.
Either I'm finally coming off my rather nasty bit of (bad) culture shock, or today was just an innerestin' little day. It's probably a bit of both. The day started off non-promisingly enough, as my second class of the day culminated in my sprinting to the back of the room to prevent a second grader from hucking a chair at a female classmate. This one kid, Tsubasa the chair-wielder, either has mild mental problems or eventually major psychological ones. It's tough to tell. Normally he's very good and in fact can always be counted on to answer questions, even when I haven't asked any. The Gods of Fucking Galvin Over must have snuck something into his cereal this morning then because he chose today of all days -- Parents' Day, did I forgot to mention that? -- to act up. I had put together a humble little game where I hid alphabet cards all over the room for the kids to find, which I thought would be a cute little activity the parents would enjoy watching as well. However, I hadn't counted on Tsubasa, frustrated at his lack of success in the game, ripping a card from a girl's hand claiming he had "meant to find that one" and then throwing a temper tantrum and latching onto my shirt when I stepped in to regulate:
"Tsubasa," I said, figuring I could put on an impressive 'kind yet tough discipline' show for the parents, "I saw you take that card. Please give it back. If you don't follow the rules, we can't play the game, all right?"
"Bloorrgghf" responded Tsubasa, figuring the best way to win the argument was to try to eat one of his hands while trying very hard to tear my shirt with the other. I tried to play this all off for the parents as some kind of Master Plan that would eventually pay off in Tsubasa realizing the error of his brattish ways, but looking at my forced smile all the parents sitting in the back must have been thinking the exact same thing: With disciplinarians like this, it's no wonder there's so much crime in America.
Eventually the REAL teacher stepped in and put this down, but only temporarily. Similar incidents happened a couple more times throughout the class but they weren't too bad. The teacher just made him sit in the hall for a while and everything was fine. However, at the end, after everyone noticed he was just kind of casually bopping the girl sitting next to him (the one he took the card from) on the head, his classmates asked, not without justification, that he apologize. That was when he reared back with the chair, apparently trying to re-enact some obscure ancient tribal custom where embedding wooden furniture in someone's face is a sincere show of great remorse. So there I was, trying desperately to wrestle a cheap, splintery chair away from a second grader in front of the entire class and a dozen or so parents. So yeah, somehow, this ended up being even worse than my last Parents' Day (see May for that one), a perception that is perhaps more than slightly colored by the fact that I ALSO have one tomorrow, which, if you didn't know, is Saturday. Yeah, I'm spending my Saturday teaching 5 more classes' worth of Parents' Day. Why? Because apparently, I am just that awesome. Either that or they need someone expendable to get in the way of any wayward airborne furniture.
Didn't I say I had a GOOD day? Well actually, after that there was indeed some pretty cool stuff. In lieu of fifth period we had a general assembly with a guest speaker. I knew nothing about it when sitting down in the gym, only something about there being disabled people there. It was then I saw a SEVERELY disabled person being helped onto the stage. I'm not exactly sure what she had but whatever it was it was pretty serious. She was gyrating and spasming all over; her arms were completely useless to her, the fingers twitching, twisted into pretzels that looked like the result of a terrible accident. Cerebral palsy is the term on my mind but that's just a guess. I figured she would be used as some sort of example by the speaker, who was probably someone who worked with disabled people or something. Already I felt my heartstrings tugging in advance (I've come to have a REALLY soft spot for handicapped folk since working at the special school), when I noticed someone attaching a mic to her, and I realized: that girl WAS the speaker.
I admit I became a little concerned at this point because her disability reduced her speech to little more than a barely-comprehensible series of screeches, and I thought the kids, who after all mock MY Japanese all the time, would never go for it. And truthfully, it was kinda like that for the first few minutes. To be fair the kids were really doing the best they could; they were honestly listening and even politely laughing at the speaker's jokes. But you could tell everyone there was feeling kind of uncomfortable, because try as you might, it really was just really difficult to make out what she was saying. For a while it looked like it was going to be a heartbreaking hour- long display of good intentions coming up short. Everyone seemed to be feeling the exact sort of pity for the girl that she never wanted; I myself was feeling bad for having noted the bitter irony of a speech about overcoming disability being completely sabotaged by the speaker's own disability. I really thought it things were only getting worse when music was cued up and the speaker swiveled her chair to the left to do apparently nothing more than gyrate semi-rhythmically to it. I thought the moral was going to be some crappy hippie "Keep dancing even if your body can't!" message that the kids, let alone I, would never go for. But only then did I stop to think where the music was coming from. It certainly didn't sound like a tape -- it was well played but had occasional tempo hiccups. I stood up a bit in my chair to get a closer look at the stage, and only then finally saw what was REALLY going on up there.
This girl was playing these songs on a keyboard with her FEET.
Needless to say, several encores later this girl was now the coolest person the kids had ever SEEN. It was really something out of a (probably awful but well-meaning) movie, but well, happening right there in front of us. I'm sure by this point you're thinking you could jam a tap in me and use me to flavor your pancakes and I'm sorry, but it was just one of the most uplifting things I've ever seen. Not so much because of the amazing things this handicapped girl was doing up there -- such as using chopsticks perfectly with her feet -- but because the kids were so honestly respectful of it. I admit I've gotten really used to just thinking of my elementary kids as spoiled, monstrous little brats who are already showing signs that given a couple more years they might even be a match for ME in terms of cynicism and apathy. And a lot of the time they really DO act that way -- it STILL drives me crazy when an 10 year-old kid won't answer a question in class not because he doesn't know, but because he doesn't want to appear uncool in front of his friends. But just seeing all of them so unabashedly interested, enthralled in something that would NEVER be the subject of a popular video game or garishly animated series, well, I guess it restored at least a little of the faith I had in the purity of youth back before I took this job. At the very least, I no longer feel quite so much like I'm wasting my time here.
...I still want to strangle every single one of them, mind you, but at least now I'd feel somewhat bad about doing it.
Well, the dreaded rainy season has begun. Okay, so it technically began 17 days ago but today was really only the second time it rained this month, so I haven't seen any reason to mention it till now. I'm sure you're thinking I'm gonna just start bitching about it now, but I'd like you to know that there are indeed times where I feel I can appreciate seasons such as this. For instance, in the mornings when I gaze out the window at the shimmering sheets of rain cascading upon the quaint, rural surroundings of my adopted hometown, it looks almost poetic; ephemeral beauty warding off the harmful advances of the otherwise dry, crackling heat. Then I remember I actually have to leave my apartment at some point to go to WORK, probably on my BIKE no less; which essentially means that even if I ride with an umbrella I'm STILL gonna get wet bike-seat-stain on the crotch of my pants which I'm sure NONE of my elementary kids will point out as resembling URINE. Then I realize that what Nature REALLY is is some cruel beatnik madman that refuses to get a real job and instead insists all us poor working schlubs live as part of its world of grand performance art where people get rained on whether they like it or NOT. Damn you, Nature, you lunatic arts major, you!
Really, though, it's not so much the occasional sudden downpour that bothers me, it's the general humidity that's unbearable. Every time I pull a shirt out of my closet, I swear I almost have to wring it out before I can put it on. I really may as well take to storing all my clothing in buckets of tap water, or start using my shirts and underwear to pad the bathtub. Not that it really matters anyway -- as soon as I step out of the shower the individual water molecules in the air start latching onto my skin faster than Jay Leno onto a joke that would have been relevant eight years ago. The worst part, actually, is how this warm, muggy, humid weather kills my already comatose energy level. I'm not exactly Mr. Motivated even in optimal weather conditions, but when it's hot and humid, I can barely bring myself to remember to EAT. Or, for that matter, sit here for too long thinking of clever, original jokes I can make about humidity in my online journal.
On a completely unrelated note, I hear that in Soviet Russia, MAN is humid and RAINY SEASON complains about HIM!! Okay, yeah, this seems like a good place to stop. Later all, I'm sure I'll update again soon provided this weather doesn't short out my keyboard, or my brain, even further. P.S. It's humid
Woo! 6th period off at elementary school! You know what that means -- special in-school entry!
I tell ya, if this heat keeps up, which it will, I really need to stop playing games in school that have so much potential for frustration. Of course I don't mean frustration for the students. I mean for ME. Lately I've gotten to playing Pictionary with my students, and though I rather consider myself a shining example of patience as a Pictionary partner when playing with people my own age, sometimes my fuse gets a bit short with what elementary kids can and cannot draw. The kids will get teary-eyed and panicky should I give them anything more complex than a flower to draw and since I have them play in teams of course their partners will then slander me with unfounded accusations of favoritism. I can't tell you how many times I'll have to lead a traumatized student back to her seat spewing frantic words of comfort and reassurance when really I am thinking you stupid bastard, a fucking tiger does not have wheels.
By game's end the losing teams will often loudly complain that they would have won had Chow-Sensei not given them such difficult things to draw. Meanwhile, my argument is that had they perhaps not taken so many falls from the Stupid Tree, perhaps we wouldn't be having these little communication problems.
There's some kind of anti-sleep conspiracy going on against me lately. Not only does the sun rise at like 4:30 AM here now -- stupid not having Daylights Savings Time here -- but BOTH mornings this weekend I was awoken by 8 AM phone calls about matters that clearly could have waited to be dealt with at a much saner time. It's not a good feeling to go to bed at 3 AM Friday night only to be rudely awoken at 8 to be asked if I wanted to go to a drinking party NEXT Friday with my board of education. Additionally, I got a little too overambitious with dinner again (mmm, fusilli with pine nuts and cream cheese sauce!), and the resultant explosive emptying of my bowels isn't helping matters any. Anyhoo, I'm feeling too lazy and nauseous to make an update right now, so we'll just let a returning General Lockamy, resident linkmaster, phone this one in for me. Take it away, Francis:
"Chow, I went bottom feeding along the WWW recently and found a couple of sites among the digital muck you might enjoy. Ugh. These made even my jaded soul twinge a bit... The real sad part comes though when you know you' re not nearly disturbed enough...
1. http://www.wingmusic.co.nz/index.html
"This really has to be seen and (unfortunately) heard to be believed. I still can' t bring myself to believe that its real... She' s taken down a lot of her tracks, but she still has two small clips online. Click 'em and weep."
2.http://www.interq.or.jp/jupiter/tsuna/
"This IS cosplay and this IS nuts... Horrifyingly well done works of anime costumes... Creepy stuff."
3.http://www.gaijin-are-trash.cjb.net/
"Hmmmmmm.... Apparently you' re hunted man over there in some circles... Needless to say, Beckham fans they AIN' T."
4.http://www.ilsuperficiale.it/asianprince213/index.html
"No comment."
General Lockamy
Wow, I think this takes the cake for my most half-assed entry EVER. That first link with the Wing Sings lady is frickin' priceless, though. Besides being lazy and lactose intolerant though, I have ANOTHER excuse in that I am busy writing a separate article inspired by an...event I attended this weekend. I won't say exactly what it was, but let's just say it involved steel chairs, drunken crowds, and oiled-up men wearing speedos beating each other up. Oh, heck, here's a video clip that will serve as a small preview. Once again, I think you need Quicktime to see this:
Can you say "comic gold mine"? I knew you could.
I walked into the Board of Education today only to find the following sitting in the lobby:
In case you can't figure it out, the object pictured above (sorry, forgot my camera, the picture from the pamphlet will have to do) is a crash test chair. It was there today as part of some seatbelt safety campaign. All afternoon, employees that happened to walk by would be asked if they'd like to sit in the chair. Those that complied would then find themselves strapped in as the man behind the chair yelled "4 KILOMETERS!!(per hour)" and then shoved the seat forward like an abusive father playing with his child on the swings. Then he'd bring the seat back, yell "7 KILOMETERS!" and well, you can guess what happened. The best part came next, when he made you take off the belt, shouted "NO BERUTO!!" and then sent the chair flying forward with nothing to secure the passenger but his/her own presence of mind. A lot of people very nearly flew out of the chair, yours truly included (of COURSE I tried it out). Then, all you had to do was fill out a short survey, which contained the following question that I wish I was making up:
Why do you fasten your seatbelt when you ride in a car?
A)For safety B)Because it's there C)Don't know
Me, I think the guys running this show just wanted to make people fly out of a chair, with the whole seatbelt safety thing as a thin cover story. That's okay, though. That's the nice thing about job, though: every time I start getting bored with it, I find something like THIS waiting for me in the lobby, laying in wait for me like some kind of Wackiness Tiger.
Well now, been almost a week since I last wrote. Lord knows we can't let this silence continue much longer. Thus, I shall fight whatever annoying head cold I picked up this weekend and pick one suitably amusing anecdote from the past week among a pool of DOZENS. Then I can then feel okay about going ANOTHER week without updating. Shut up, Terry. Okay, interesting anecdote, hmmm...all right, got it.
*Ahem* Tuesday was the special school, which is always a treat. They come up with the most wonderful ways to entertain and sedate the students there. I taught the elementary section that day, and when I walked into the classroom I couldn't help but notice the big, sturdy hooks installed into the ceiling with chains hanging off them. Not one for rocking the boat, even if torture of the mentally invalid is potentially involved, I didn't say anything, but remained concerned until I found out just what those hooks were for. We were having a normal class when one of the kids started getting unruly. He was shrieking, bouncing up and down in his seat -- and looked pleased as punch to be doing so, mind you, but clearly some calming down was in order. That was when the hooks came into play. One of the teachers reached into the closet, pulled out this big, heavy, canvas sheet, attached the chains hanging from the hooks to both ends, and voila, instant hammock. The disruptive kid then climbed into it and lulled himself to sleep, his excitable yaps eventually fading into light snoring. What a great school.
Of course, I wouldn't be me if I did not at least once try to take the hammock for myself. Unstoppable work ethic and all that. After lunch the hammock kid returned to find a certain English teacher contentedly resting in his designated spot. Rather than protest, the kid saw fit to merely climb up and lie on my stomach as if I were a part of the hammock myself. I took a moment to reflect on what a sweet sight it must have seemed, caretaker and his charge taking a nice little afternoon siesta together. It must have been even more sweet, then, when the kid suddenly let loose a prodigiously odoriferous fart more or less right in my face, causing me to scramble right the hell out of there. 10 seconds later, the kid, now having the hammock entirely to himself, drifted right off to sleep, a little smile on his face. I swear he did that on purpose.
But oh, that's not the end of the hammock story, not yet. Turns out there's more than one use for a heavy piece of canvas. There was a single hook in the middle of the ceiling from which BOTH ends of the hammock could be hung, creating, well, a loose sack of canvas hanging from the middle of the ceiling. Doesn't look like much at first, but wait till you stick a kid in there and then proceed to swing and twirl the sack all the hell over the room. I stood there in amazement and disbelief as the teacher wildly swung the kid inside the sack causing it to move like a pendulum out of control. The sack's rotational pattern and velocity eventually moved up to somewhere in the ballpark of helicopter rotor and I was getting a bit alarmed. The erratic careenings of the Human Sling were barely missing shielves, curtain rods, other students, and, most importantly, ME. The kid inside the sack, for his part, was having a frickin' BALL. He was laughing and hollering as if in direct contempt of my concerns that every bone in his tiny body would be shattered should the big, heavy hook not be as secure as it, admittedly, looked. I decided that this would be one of those instances were I just blindly trust that the real teacher, unlike me, actually knows what he's doing, and I should just shut up. Besides, the kids really did love it, and the teacher reassured me that it was very secure. Of course, if I didn't believe him, there was one way to test it out for sure...
You know what's coming next; don't you?
The next five minutes or so were one of those almost out-of-body experiences I seem to have a lot ever since coming to Japan where I simply cannot believe that the life I have is my own. Yes, of course I climbed into the swinging sack myself. The teacher had reassured me that it was perfectly safe, and besides, it wouldn't be me if I did not allow myself to be hurled around the room in a big canvas sack at least once. I was, quite understandably I believe, a mite wary at first. Each revolution came with its own free in-flight movie: a horrid vision of the chain snapping and my spine subsequently breaking into hundreds of tiny bits on the edge of one of the tables below. Eventually, however, comfort found me in the form of three thoughts:
1. If I end up a cripple from this, hey, free vacation.
2. In the event of #1, also, free lawsuit.
3. I am a 22 year-old adult making a portion of my $30,000 yearly salary while suspended from the ceiling in a big beige canvas sack that is moving at speeds normally not recommended for sack-based travel. Good work if you can get it, by any measure.
And that is how I came to accept my situation: by thinking of vacation and money, which more or less sums up my overall motivations for staying with this job in the first place. Still, as I swung wildly about looking like some bizarre man-child hanging limply from the grotesque canvas-and-metal beak of some abomination of a stork, one last comforting thought found me: I COULD be earning my wages by sitting in a cubicle all day. So yeah, all things considered -- I'll take the sack.