August 3rd, 2002

So, this is my first day in my new-town-for-the-next-year-or-so, Saku. Which, by the way, is rather ominously pronounced similarly to the word "Suck." Not that I am reading into anything.

So far, it’s kind of…quiet, here, as you can by the fact that I am writing on my laptop. That’s okay, I’m kind of enjoying the silence for the moment. I haven’t really used my Japanese in a full year, and today I was forced to use it for roughly 4 hours straight. It turns out that my predecessor, Naomi, wasn’t lying when she said no one speaks English here – I thought it was standard Japanese humbleness, but no – I met my supervisors, Hashizume and Soyano, said “Konnichiwa,” and they immediately took that as a sign that I am fluent in Japanese and thus proceeded to bash me over the head with the language for the entire 2-hour car ride here, plus the subsequent 2 hours shopping. I mean, I know part of the reason I’m here is to improve my Japanese, but really, that’s kind of a harsh way to start. Still, they both seem really nice, at least.

My apartment seems pretty nice, if a bit cramped. But hey, I’m only one, small young lad, so how much space do I need? I’ve got a TV, a VCR, a fair-sized fridge, and, wonder of wonders, a MICROWAVE. Lord, I’m livin’ like a king here. Still, it’s hot as balls here and I think it might take me a while to make this place feel like home. Oh well, at least I have tatami (score), and a bed, even if it’s this creaky monstrosity constructed of black piping that, and I hope there’s something wrong my vision and not the bed, appears to almost cartoonishly slanted to one side. Oh well, I basically slept on a dishrag last time I was in Japan, so I can certainly make do with this.

Dear God, please let this year go well.

August 6th, 2002

Okay, so I finally had some time to explore around town. What am I saying? I have nothing but time and this town ain’t exactly a bustling metropolis. Or maybe it is, relatively. It’s tough to say. Like, I’m right down the street from the train station, there’s a 7-11 about 20 feet away, and my next-door neighbor is a department store. But, the trains here arrive once an hour, there’s probably a 7-11 stationed on Mt. Fuji by now, and the department store is only 2 stories tall and sells basically only groceries and bedroom furnishings. And videogames. Let’s not forget that.

Exploring further, I found the impressive-sounding “Green Mall 7" a few streets down from me, which is a nice little shopping strip composed of mostly mom-and-pop shops. This is apparently the “busy" part of town and still seemed like a ghost town; I got the distinct impression that most of the proprietors initially opened their shops just so their friends would have somewhere to hang out. Still, I must admit, it’s a rather nice atmosphere, really nice and friendly. Somewhat countrified, but friendly nonetheless.

Actually, even after exploring the whole town in what couldn’t have been more than an hour, I’m having a tough time classifying this place. Is it a city, or a quaint little country village? I mean, it’s certainly dense enough, and self-sufficient enough, what with the multitude of shops. But as evidenced by the department store, nothing extends more than 2 stories high, and one mustn’t forget the smattering of rice paddies here and there. I guess this place, Saku, or rather, the Nakagomi district of it, seems like a city cut off at the knees. It looks like a bunch of old people decided to get together one day to build a city, got tired of doing so about halfway through and figured what they had was already good enough.

Oh, and that’s not even the best part. When I wandered just about one street past the “Mom ‘n' Pop"district, I came face-to-cartoon-breast with a sizeable billboard advertising an establishment named the “High Touch Club." The way the sign presents it, the rate of 6,000 yen (about 60 bucks) for 40 minutes of “TOUCH! TOUCH!" is quite the steal, or whatever the yen equivalent of a steal would be. And just in case passersby aren’t quite certain of what sort of establishment the High Touch Club is, the sign also has a rather poorly-rendered pair of cartoon breasts on it being fondled by a pair of equally poorly-rendered cartoon hands. I then took a closer look at my surroundings, one street down from the Mom ‘n' Pop district mind you, and could see the names of the following establishments: Club Venus, Club Doki-Doki (the sound of a fast-beating heart): “Real Memory Club", Club Husky, “Za Men’s Club" and last but not least, Club Playgirl. As for the latter, I am curious as FUCK as to whether its name is a simple mistranslation, or the local sleaze district really does cater to both genders. Oh, and there’s also various “health clubs" and “massage parlors" that advertise the uniformly Korean or Thai composition of its staff. This, needless to say, was quite the find. And, I can’t emphasize enough, right next to the M’n’P district, no less.

There’s an odd dichotomy at work here. Every time I think I’ve got this place figured out, I come face to face with a giant pair of cartoon breasts that speaks otherwise.

August 12th, 2002

So for the past few days, I've been toted around town by Mr. Hashizume, who's a rather friendly Uncle-type dude whose only notable flaw is his habit of snorting snot from his nose back to the inner recesses of his throat every few minutes. Nearly every day, I put on a shirt and tie in the unbearable heat and get taken to various schools in the area, introducing myself, and listening to the sound of the unseizing of schoolfuls of hearts when it becomes apparent that I speak at least a little Japanese. It's all very surreal and thus far I can't really bring myself to care. I mean, I've got 7 schools total, each one looks the exact same, and with the exception of my one Junior High and one "special" school," I'm to teach the exact same things. Yet, for some reason, each meeting lasts no less than an hour, and happens in the EXACT same was as the previous meeting. It's not bad by any means, and most of the people seem really friendly and happy to have me, but it's getting just a wee bit tedious, especially in the, how shall we say, BALL-SWELTERING HEAT. I shall take a moment to note the irony of my sweating my gender-defining organs off in a city best known for its hosting the Winter Olympics. Thank you, Terry McMahon.

August 17th, 2002

Okay, so several Officially Amazing things have happened in the past few days. Allow me to speak of them.

First of all, I attended the Saku City "Kon-Kon Matsuri" (fox festival) with some of my co-workers from the Board of Education, and it was a blast. Festivals in Japan are really nothing more than a flimsy excuse to get dead stinking drunk, but in STYLE, as pictured by the following:

Now, I'm mistaken for a native often enough, but in the pictured garb, even moreso. Sadly, I only got to keep the T-shirt. Which is a shame, because I look damn HOT in those tiny white half-shorts, and I know it. That's my boss I'm fanning by the way, and tho she be old, she knows it too. Word. Anyhoo, the actual festival consisted of walking up and down the street, doing an odd "fox dance," which naturally got progressively less coordinated as the night went on. Of course, I should mention that the festival lasted FOUR HOURS, and by about hour 3 of marching up and down that damn street twirling my arms around in a reportedly fox-like fashion, it began to feel like I was walking the Trail of Tears, except while really really drunk.

That's not even the best part. After the festival, one of my co-workers, Soyano-san, who lives like, five minutes from me, insisted that I come to his house for a drink. I did so, and they asked me if I was hungry. I said not really, and went to the bathroom. When I came back out, there was a literal SMORGASBOARD of food laid out on the table. I don't even know where it all came from. Then, for whatever reason they insisted that I must really want to take a shower, so I did, and when I came back out of there, I couldn't help but notice the invitingly soft-looking futon laid out in the guest room. Hm. So, despite my living FIVE MINUTES away, this incredibly nice family (whose children, a 14 year-old boy named Takeshi, and a 5 year-old girl named Haruka, became steadily less afraid of me and more embarassed of their drunken father as the night wore on) insisted I stay the night. And altho I admit that my ever-paranoid self then began to wonder suspiciously if this seemingly nice family was actually planning to drug, dismember, and eat me while I slept, I soon was won over by the combination of air conditioning and two of the softest blankets in the history of the human race. Man. People really can be nice here sometimes.

And that's not even the MOST amazing thing yet. The next day, I was to meet this kindly old fella with an endearing-yet-unnerving hobble I met in a ramen shop my first day here at said ramen shop, but instead he met me with his car in front of it and asked if I wanted to go to a barbecue with his friend in the mountains. Now, for the kids out there, accepting the invitation of a car ride to an ambiguous destination in the mountains from someone with a hobble that for all you know was damage inflicted in self-defense by one of the 4000 children he's raped, that you only met once in a ramen shop, is generally NOT a very smart idea. But a) I've decided this place is Super Kind and Gentle Country Utopia, and b) I was really bored, so I hopped in. And this ended up in Amazing Experience #3 in just about as many days.

Okay, so I was a bit nervous as we made our way further and further up the winding mountain road. It didn't help that he'd talk into his cell phone every few minutes, talking too fast in Japanese for me to understand. I mean, for all I knew he was talking to the Japanese Jeffrey Dahmer (JYA-FU-REE DA-RU-MAAA!!!-san) and saying something like "I've got the Meat, you bring the hatchet." But my fears were quelled when we pulled up to this beautiful park, and soon found myself a guest at a family barbecue spanning three generations, from Amazingly Geriatric Granddad to cute Japanese toddlers getting hit in the face with frisbees. The experience, to say the least, was surreal, with the only negative being the constant calling over of similarly-aged members of the family, being forced to practice their English for 5 seconds before managing to uncomfortably slink off. Otherwise, these were just simply amazingly nice people, the kind one would normally meet only in American MOVIES.

The Grandfather immediately established a franchise on me. He introduced himself to me in broken English, looking like he'd been practicing in front of a mirror for decades just in case the opportunity every presented itself. He kept going on about how Japanese people are boring and only work for work's sake, while Americans are cool, awesome, exciting, and do the things they do for the sake of their own personal dreams and not just because they think they're supposed to. Which I suppose to some degree is correct, but I politely disagreed anyway. The dad, meanwhile, was the stereotypical gruffly-paternal-with-a-heart-of-gold stereotype one may see on just about every cliche family series ever, except Japanese. I had an interesting philosophical discussion with him on how people are people regardless of ethnicity, inasmuch as some of the Finnish, Russian, and Swedish boarders he's taken in over the years were really, really good looking. And on top of all of that, during the whole affair I was stuffed with more meat than (insert Porn Star name here), ensuring that I would not have to eat again for several days; which would of course be convenient since I would likely be on the toilet for about as long. Still, I don't care. It was worth it.

August 18th, 2002

So the JET Nagano Orientation is tomorrow, and I am peeing my panties. Why? Because I have to give a SPEECH. In JAPANESE. In front of EVERYONE. Why? Because the French-Canadian Ricky Martin that passes as my prefectural supervisor approached me waaaay back at the Tokyo Orientation and asked if I studied Japanese. When I said yes, the subsequent smile that crept across his face would immediately scare off a man twice his size met in a dark alley. It was thus that I came to be the Official 2002 Representative for the Nagano JETs.

Now, I didn't have to write the speech from scratch, but Mr. Hashizume, my supervisor, did insist that I make the pre-written one more "Galvin-rashii". This turned out to mean making the damn thing twice as long, essentially by addining in a story about a gentle shopkeep inviting me in for cucumbers, sweet bean-bread, and green tea -- a story that I told in passing that I would now have to embarassingly tell to the governor of Nagano himself. Well, the vice-governor, actually, since the governor just got ousted or something. Still. Same difference. AUUUUUUUUUGH

August 21st, 2002

I’m in one of those moods where I don’t feel like living anymore. It’s times like these when I wish I was still quite detached from emotions, sometimes it feels like it’d just be a lot easier to feel nothing at all. Sure, everyone always says the highs are worth the lows, but how many people say that when they’re actually in the lows? At any rate, despite my chipper mood all day, despite the fact that the speech went SWIMMINGLY (I ceased to be nervous after I realized that I really was practically the only JET to speak Japanese) and despite the fact that it was, as days go, a pretty good one, I’m feeling a distinct disinterest in living at the moment. The reason, of course, is obvious: I start teaching tomorrow. As a greater man than me once said, "Egads."

Okay, so I'm being a wimp. Ever since I got to Japan, I’ve basically been coasting along (there are those that would argue that that’s all I’ve done my entire life), and now that it’s time to shift into drive and show my cards, I’ve become so nervous that I’m horribly mixing my metaphors. Having been paid $2300-some for the past month of doing absolutely NOTHING has made it easy to forget that I actually have a JOB, here in Japan, that I have duties beyond eating noodles and complaining about the heat (which, by the way, has finally and suddenly subsided). In other words: MAN, THOSE KIDS ARE GONNA EAT ME ALIVE.

What was I thinking? I don’t know anything about teaching! Why did someone who likes to draw as little attention as possible (most of the time) go and get a job that dictates attention as a matter of course? I’m not fit for teaching! I’m not fit for a position of assumed authority! This isn’t how things are supposed to be, I’m supposed to be half-asleep somewhere on the other end of the ladder, sleepily content to know that I’ll never have to appear as knowledgeable as the poor sap babbling unheard at the front of the room!

Pop-culture-reference-interruption: you know that episode of the Simpsons where Grandpa Simpson gets a job at a fast food restaurant in order to feel alive, only to decide at the end of the episode that it’s not worth it and he really belongs on the other side, with the rest of the complaining customers? WELL THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT THIS IS.

Well anyway. Earlier today I was looking forward to tomorrow, but now, well, not so much. I guess it’s the last-second jitters. I just picture myself in front of a class full of apathetic faces, being crushed under the weight of the cruelly obvious irony. It’s always seemed that, whenever I become too critical of a person, soon enough something happens to make me experience some part of what that person is going through, like some kind of cosmically-decreed Exercise in Humility. And this, of course, would be the grand bull-moose mamma-jammy of them all. The Apathetic Student, forced to teach himself! How did I not see this coming?

There was a time when, no matter what, I wanted to see what would happen next in the story of my life, pardon the cheesiness. I’d literally wake up excited each morning, so amazingly eager to see what the day would bring. Even at my lowest points I’d want to see what might happen next, I wanted to see the story through to its end. Of course, that was during freshman year of college, a period known for its optimistic naivete; I mean hell, I used to wear giant thick bright blue suspenders and a backwards baseball cap then, too, why aren’t I waxing nostalgic about THAT?

Anyhoo, at the moment, I’d rather just put the movie on indefinite pause, and go read a book, play a game or something (speaking of which, the new Mario game is just about the funnest thing EVER), ANYTHING that’s distracting, as long as it has no relevance to anything outside of itself! I don’t want to see where the story goes right now! My life is like a rented horror movie so scary that you don’t even want to see the end, even if it means your $4.95 has gone to waste! I want to be a math problem so hard that no one can ever solve me; respect and renown are quite acceptable as long as I never have to produce anything on the other side of the equals sign! Further strained metaphors follow as warranted!

Eh, who’m I kidding? I ain’t done shit since I graduated, and I just plain loathe the thought of having to finally do things again now. And it’s not the apathetic kids that scare me, it’s the ones that are yet still pure and bright and shiny and new. I’m frightened to death of tarnishing them -- yeah, that’s right, I’ve at last found myself at a point where my wheezing corpse of a conscience actually has somewhat of an effect on me: fact is, I believe in the purity of children; it’s one of the few strong beliefs I actually have. Trouble is, beliefs entail effort, not one of my specialties. So it’s either lose one of the few things I really, strongly believe in, or actually put forth some smidgen of proactive effort. Lord, I’m embarrassed that it’s such a close struggle. I’ve never had any trouble screwing myself; I don’t mind, and no one else gets hurt. It’s when other people, particularly young, optimistic people, fall into my sphere of influence, that I have to start exercising some caution, start rethinking things.

And man, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but sometimes thinking is just so god damn hard.

August 31th, 2002

Okay, so I've been teaching for about a week and a half now, and...I've been anally violated about three times and my balls fondled perhaps one more than that. And no, I am not teaching at the Saku City Correctional Facility. This happened at ELEMENTARY SCHOOLS. The sad thing is, I had warning, and I didn't really pay any attention to it.

So I went out with a few of the guys that have been in Japan for a few years already, a little bit ago. And they mentioned something, in a scarily casual manner, just in passing: Japanese schoolchildren think it's really funny to form their fingers into the shape of a gun and jam it up the ass of an unsuspecting teacher. Particularly FOREIGN teachers. I didn't really take him seriously at the time, until my first day...I was in the hall when second-period break began, and kids, after realizing I was a foreigner, immediately swarmed me. The presence of a gaijin in any sort of elementary school is usually a terribly enthralling thing, even if he happens to look like a native, apparently.

Anyway, I was pretty euphoric about this. Here I was, my first day, and the kids are absolu-fucking-lutely ecstatic to have me around! I was having the time of my life, wrestling these kids to the ground, giving them piggyback rides five at time, in general just goofing around. The kids kept piling on as I playfully fell to the ground, and I couldn't have been happier. But it was then I felt it: a tiny pair of fingers reaching around in my ass like there was candy hidden in there. Not coincidentally, it was also then I realized that I actually couldn't move under the combined weight of the children, which by then numbered more than a dozen. So there I was, trapped under the weight of a classful of children, with the tiny digits of a mischievous 8 year-old making like a frightened ostrich, with my asshole playing the part of the sand. Lovely.

I should note here that when Japanese children do this, they don't really realize they're being so disturbingly disgusting, as unbelievable as that may sound. Apparently the social mores concerning such "pranks" just happen to differ CONSIDERABLY from American standards. This ass-excavation hilarity is called "Kancho," by the way, or "Enema," and is apparently performed by TV comedians all the time, thus making it okay. Someday I will hunt them down and replace their testicles with their eyeballs so they get a bird's-eye-view as I hammer nails into their scrotums. Speaking of which, there's the same lack-of-morals for nonchalantly handling male genitalia -- one of my first days, this fat kid just reached out and grabbed my nuts like they were stress-relief balls, chanting "Galvin-sensei no chin-chin" (Mr.Galvin's pee-pee), over and over, in a very disturbing manner. I wanted to point out that, as the class fat kid, he really should be too busy being mocked about his unbearable cravings for Pooh Biscuits and other such confections to have the time to gleefully fondle his teacher's Wrinkly Wonder. Sadly, I didn't have the Japanese capability to do so.

Anyhoo, I didn't mean to get quite as caught up on that as I did, but really, the job so far has gone almost extraordinarily well, inasmuch as I do not suck horribly at it. It is, to be sure, a very manic-depressive job: when the kids are good, and paying attention and really enthusiastic, I'm on top of the world, and each class honestly feels like it takes 5 minutes tops. On the other hand, when they're rowdy and not paying attention, or much worse, looking bored and ignoring me, I hate myself, the world, and everyone and everything in it. Thankfully, the ratio's been something like 8:2 good thus far, but either way: teaching kids all day is TIRING. Don't get me wrong -- this is a pretty cushy job, and it can be a lot of fun, but I'm already beginning to doubt my capacity to do it for more than a year. It's just very odd for me to have my occupation, i.e., responsibilities, be such a huge part of my life. As a rule, I'm used to ignoring such things, plodding grudgingly through them so as to get back to my true calling in life, goofing off. Now, my job, being the very reason I am where I am right now, and not being as easily blown off as say, Calculus class freshman year, is such an unbelievably giant part of my actual identity. I'd be more poetic if I could, but really, the best I can do is: it's really, really weird.

Memo to my friends reading this: you should be aware that, more than likely, each and every one of my classes has been shown a picture of you blown up to ridiculously large proportions. You see, I brought in the pictures from home I was going to use in my self-introduction to the office, and upon seeing them, they of course insisted that I use the color copier to blow them up to over 400% size. So, be aware that I am waving around pictures of you blown up big enough to see your INDIVIDUAL PORES in front of dozens of Japanese schoolchildren every day. Oh, and for my female friends -- I'm routinely asked which one of you is my Woman, and my answer? Why, all of them, of course. And the best part? They BELIEVE me.

Ha. Little gullible ass-spelunking bastards.

Domo Arrigato, Mr. Philosophical Roboto.