Catching Flies with Chopsticks:
Galvin's Japan Journal
New month, new offensively ugly color scheme. How the shit is it already October?
I should count my blessings. September flew by like a mutant six-winged hummingbird on speed but I can already tell that October is gonna draaaaaag. When it's only Tuesday and you're already waiting for the weekend, and it's only the 1st and the month already seems long, you can tell you have a tough chunk o' time waiting for ya.
I actually had one of my worst days at school ever yesterday, but strangely enough, I didn't and don't really care. It was at what I have now dubbed my Official Worst School of the seven I visit, home to a teaching staff that is a veritable trauma ward full of broken spirits and just about the rowdiest, most undisciplined kids I have ever met in my life. I hate when I walk into a classroom and the teacher looks like the only thing that keeps him going is planning just which students to take with him in his eventual murder/suicide. I can't tell if the students broke him or he broke the students. Either way, teachers like this will invariably sit in the back of the room staring into space as the swarm of tiny children tear away chunks of my professionalism with vicious crow-like beaks. These are the classes I hate the most, because they transfom me into the cranky teacher at every school who communicates vague threats via cliche. It literally horrifies me as I realize such sentences as "Is there something you find funny, Mr._____?" and "Maybe the two girls writing each other notes would like to demonstrate on the board since they like writing so much" are coming out of MY mouth. It's frustrating because so many of the kids will not participate simply because they're absolutely terrified of looking uncool in front of their friends, and not necessarily out of ignorance or indifference. If nothing else the sheer irony is sickening, as I feel like I'm being paid back for every single damn "I-didn't-do-the-homework-but-I'm-too-cool-to-care" smug, smart-ass answer I've ever given to a teacher's question.
Was elementary school always like this? I don't even remember having a concept of what was cool and what was not before at least 7th grade. Maybe kids really are becoming as superficial and prematurely vapid as people say. Now that I think of it, it really annoys me how kids dress these days; the mere existence of stores like fucking BABY GAP makes me so mad that I want to go huck molotov cocktails at nuns. When I was back in the states I'd walk around King of Prussia Mall (cheap pop) and just marvel at the fact that parents are now dressing their kids not like kids, but like miniature versions of adults. I mean, what the fuck happened to children's clothes? What happened to dirty overalls, frayed t-shirts and frumpy hand-me-downs? I realize I'm far too young yet to be talking like this, but god dammit, kids used to look like kids! These days they so resemble shrunken adults that it looks like they'll immediately sprout to full-grown size if mixed with water. I mean, I hate to say it but little girls these days especially go around dressed like little whores. Who the hell are their parents? Are they all career sex offenders who have children just to dress them up in tiny $400 outfits that scream "I'm easy, childishly naive, AND unable to resist the lure of candy!" so they can salivate and rub their hands together watching their own little home-grown sex toys slowly ripen like so much fruit in the sun? I blame Britney Spears. YOU JUST WATCH IN 15 YEARS CHILD PORNOGRAPHY WILL BE LEGAL
...but I digress, to say the least. Ahem. Anyway, so bad classes, yeah. Usually I'll have one maybe every two weeks or so, but at this school three out of four classes are like this. Still, I'm not finding myself caring a whole bunch since I only visit that school once a month. That's the nice thing about teaching at so many different schools: if I have a bad day one place I at least know I probably won't have to go back there again for a while. So I don't really get upset with it, but that doesn't mean I put up with it, either -- one of my classes I grew so frustrated with I just ended up finishing 10 minutes early, and left without saying even a word to the useless teacher. And I wasn't really too upset with this decision, it just happened to seem like the most logical, natural thing to do, like divorcing one's wife as soon as she stops being hot. Not to speak in cliches again, but it's my job to teach English, not discipline, thank you very much.
See, this is exactly what makes me uncomfortable with my being a teacher: the fact that I'm starting to become indifferent to all this. It's getting to the point where I don't even care if the little fuckers learn anything, I don't care what kind of influence I'm having on their lives, if any. All that matters is getting through 45 minutes without any major disasters, and then I can go sit in the teacher's room and just drink coffee for a bit. And maybe it's just me -- and thankfully I don't think it is -- but teaching is just one of those jobs where, if you're not really passionate about the work, then you just plain shouldn't being doing it. Which is why it presents such a problem for me, for I feel that I will eventually become indifferent to ANY job I find myself doing. Therefore, I feel it's my duty as a still semi-decent human being to find a nice, monotonous, socially meaningless office job that I can comfortably bitch and moan about without kicking my conscience in the nuts. I mean, it's perfectly acceptable to bitch about a boring, droning job for a faceless corporation or something, but I'm involved in a field with some measure of assumed social worth, which I think raises the stakes in terms of bitching. How would you feel if you saw a bunch of policemen, doctors, or firemen going around whining about how much their hate their job? What about your parrish? I'm not presuming that my gig as Token Foreigner out in B.F.E. Japan is on the level of importance of those occupations (well, that last one is arguable), but indifferent people really shouldn't be doing work that positions them as a direct influence on any number of people. I've said it before and I'll no doubt say it again: I don't really mind sinking my own ship, it's dragging other people down that bothers me.
Not much going on lately (what else is new?), so here's a picture of my time in the mountains last weekend. That's Anya on the left and Beth in the center, of course the nattily-attired stud stealing Beth's eggs on the right is yours truly. Also, though they may not look it, Anya and Beth are EXACTLY the same person, having even managed to "inadvertantly" dress the same that weekend. In fact, I think there's a bit of "Single White Female" action going on here, but that's neither here nor there. Anyway, that's all I'll say about them, because quite simply, it's NEVER, EVER interesting for third parties to hear about other people's new friends, even if said friends were to consist of the entire cast of Friends. I suppose this has become somewhat of my hot issue and my slogan since recently making the change from one sphere of life (college) to another (this lovely country of Ninjania): No One Cares About Third-Party Friends.
Of course, perhaps the rules are different for these web journal things. I mean, I've recently received an influx of new traffic courtesy of Engrish.com's gracious agreement to link to me, which means that strangers who glance at these writings after browsing all the Engrish are reading about people they don't know anyway, but still, as a general rule, if you're corresponding with friends from a "former life", I think it's best to focus on yourself rather than the people you're meeting, as self-absorbed as that sounds. I mean, have you EVER been very interested when say, a friend from high school would excitedly blather on about all the new people he was meeting during your mutual freshman year in college? The answer, of course, is no, because Nobody Cares About Third Party Friends.
Now, for the non-believers out there, try this: go up to someone you consider a good friend in your current life's environment, strike up a conversation, and immediately make the topic centered on how cool this one friend you have from home is. Then, if you watch carefully, you can actually see this new friend's eyes glaze over due to all this talk of a third-party friend whom they've never met; for added fun, count how many seconds it take for their composure to exhaust and abruptly change the subject. I bet it won't take very long. Why? Because, say it with me, Nobody Cares About Third Party Friends.
Of course, this little fact of social interaction doesn't mean that your new friends are callous, self-centered assholes, and it certainly doesn't mean that your old friends are woefully uninteresting (although I'm not saying it's not a possibility!). It's just really the way things are: your friends are interested in hearing about YOU, not about all the new people you're meeting who they never have. To them, it's cool that you're making new friends, but your telling them anything beyond the fact that you're meeting new friends is in fact unnecessary detail, and will likely be met with an attitude of Considerate Patronizing. For instance, I could say, "so, since coming to Japan I've been hanging out with these two really cool people, Prime Minister Koizumi, who's got like, this really awesome job for the government!! The other guy, whose name is Godzilla -- isn't that an AWESOME name? -- he's a 50-story tall giant lizard." Your likely response would be, "Wow, it sounds like you're really meeting some interesting new people! (Then, feeling the need to feign interest by commenting on one particular trait I seem excited about) Is that Dogzilla guy REALLY 50 stories tall? Cool!" and then you would probably change the subject. And no, this doesn't mean you're a bad friend. You can't help it. It's just how things are, because, all together now, NOBODY CARES ABOUT THIRD-PARTY FRIENDS.
Anyway. I forgot why I initially brought this up -- probably to let you all know in a very roundabout way that I do have friends, despite my belief that I shouldn't talk about them -- but I do feel that this third-party friend phenemonon is a dangerous faux pas that often goes under most people's radar. I guess most people aren't as comfortable being incredibly self-absorbed as I am, so they'll feel the need to constantly speak of other people instead of themselves in correspondence. And while that's all well and good, do try to keep it to a minimum, because chances are, your friends would rather hear about YOU. So kiddies, something to keep in mind: because, as we all now know, Nobody...aw, screw it, look, just keep a good head about this and don't make me say the damn phrase again.
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Okay, this is a later edition, but I just read this article on cnn.com. For those of you that are too lazy to click on the link/have not heard, the Iraqi vice president just suggested that Bush and Saddam participate in a "duel" to settle their differences in lieu of a full-out war. That's right, a good old, man-to-man (well, with a few men backing each leader) duel. ...excuse me, but have I accidentally been reading the Onion instead? This is far weirder than anything I could ever find in Japan, and trust me I've found some PRETTY FRIGGIN' WEIRD STUFF HERE. I'm at a loss for words, I just don't know how to react.
On one level, it's just absolutely hilarious that such a suggestion was posed with a straight face. What, did the Iraqi vice prez lose a dare or something? Why didn't he just suggest Bush and Saddam be tied together by opposite sleeves of a jacket and each be given a knife? Or perhaps I'm missing a level of political intrique here and Iraq is merely mocking Bush's (pretty justified) reputation as a cowboy. Either way, to paraphrase a greater man than I, "Who are the foreign diplomacy wizards who came up with that one?"
On another level, the whole idea IS admittedly kinda bad-ass. If it weren't for the whole, y'know, reversion-back-to-the dark-ages-implication it would have on future methods of problem solving, I'd be all for it. I mean, if the world had a magic "reset" button that could only be used once, I think I just might be willing to use it up on this. You have to admit it'd be pretty fucking cool. We could have the match in like, Switzerland or something, and charge admission at like $1000 a pop. I mean, who wouldn't want to see it? I know I'd pay my life savings. It could be an event that would revive the world economy. Bush would come down the entrance ramp to "Eye of the Tiger", and just for added heat, be accompanied by none other than "Hollywood" Hulk Hogan as his manager. Then of course, Saddam would make his entrance to generic Middle-Eastern-sounding music, accompanied of course by the Iron Shiek. Bush would cut a KILLER pre-match promo to the tune of President Bill Pullman's stirring speech in the blockbuster film Independence Day, Saddam would wipe his ass with the American flag in response, and the fight would be on. The ending would of course come after a 40-minute, back-and-forth struggle, when a returning Mr. Fuji would run in, clock Bush with his loaded cane, thus turning Japan heel and giving Saddam the screwjob victory. This would of course set up the next pay-per-view, where Iraq would get its long-awaited Grudge Match with Kuwait in a cage, and in the main event Bush would then take on its former tag-team partner, Junichiro Koizumi. Then, of course, we'd find out it was all a work and Vince McMahon would hobble it, cackling, and say, "Laugh at the XFL, will you?"
Yep. Politics, they could be a lot cooler. Maybe the ol' Iraqi vice prez is on to something here...
Well, it's another slow day in the Saku City Educational Office, so that means another journal update.
Actually, you know what I did for my first three hours here? Sleep. Yup, I got paid to sleep, which places me at a whole new level of something, I'm just not yet sure what. You see, my supervisor, Hashizume-san, is always concerned that something bad will happen to me, thus triggering an international incident. I think he's constantly picturing headlines like "American Citizen Working for Japanese Government Catches Cold: Bush Declares Japan Newest Member of 'Axis of Evil'" in his head. Anyway, forgetting this, I took off my glasses and put my head on my desk early this morning, which apparently Hashizume-san interpreted as early symptoms of the deadly Motabo virus, because he then rushed me off to the tatami-floored "resting room" and insisted I take a nap lest I y'know, die or something. In actuality, I had put my head on my desk due to this morning's crossword being particularly frustrating, but who was I to complain? I mean, come on, a paid nap! Does work get any better than that?
When I first laid down on the tatami, I didn't think I'd actually get much sleep, but before I knew it I dropped right off and didn't wake up again for 3 hours. Let me tell you, waking up in a dress shirt and tie in a tatami-laden room which you then realize is your place of occupation is a VERY confusing thing for the just-awakened mind. I think the only thing that would have confused me further would be waking up and discovering that I now looked *exactly* like a black version of Tom Selleck. I'm pretty scatterbrained as it is, but quite frankly I'd forgotten how tired I was, and waking up after a three hour-long nap at work did no favors for my powers of perception.
Now then, why was I so tired? Well, because the previous day, I had attended a gigantic ritual festival for the Shinnyo sect of Buddhism, to which my friend Yoko at the City Information Center belongs. And no, it's not that the ceremony was so spiritually and emotionally moving that I was thrust immediately into physical exhaustion, it's the fact that I had to wake up at THREE FUCKING AM to attend it. Now, the ceremony itself was a nice sight to see. Truthfully, I found it a bit too modernized overall -- what with the full orchestra, choir, and (seriously) Titan-tron-esque video monitor -- but it was still a cool thing to witness, what with there being probably half a baseball stadium's worth of people from all over the world chanting prayer. But I'm not going to speak much of it since a) pictures weren't allowed, and b) not to be one of those "EUUUUUUUUUH, *EVERYTHING* cultural I have the PRRIIIvilege of seeing is EXQUISITE, but you MUST see for yourSELF, EUUUUUH" dicks, but, well, it is one of those things that doesn't make much sense to translate into anecdotal form. I mean, I could also tell you about the time I had an out-of-body experience at a temple at Kyoto in which I saw my face a dozen statues of Buddha, or for that matter I could tell you of the time when I was 8 years old when I was certain there was a UFO outside my window, or the first time I correctly took a dump in the potty. But with those things, there's really not much point in hearing about them, much less seeing pictures. Particularly that last one.
Anyhoo, due to this trip I did make an exciting new discovery in the field of Getting a Buzz: Sleep deprivation. See, since getting to Japan, I've been getting a bit bored with alcohol as my only road to getting really fucked up for a few hours. I mean, alcohol is good and well sometimes, but due to the Asian curse often all it gets me is a headache and a sensation of being overly warm. So I've kind of been on the lookout for new ways to become un-sober (just kidding, parents at home! Ha ha!), especially since Japan finally realized that certain mushrooms are psychedelic and thus finally illegalized them. Hell, at certain points I've considered going to the doctor and attempting to feign clinical depression just to get my hands on a steady stream of antidepressants which I could then experiment with by mixing them with various things, i.e., beer, glue, wasabi, etc. (I've get a friend who once ate half a bottle of antidepressants and washed it down with gallons of beer: he woke up the next morning laying next to his friend's refrigerator, naked and covered and cheese; it also took him two weeks to remember exactly where he'd left his bike. This of course would be my inspiration) But I'd just about given up on my search in finding new, different ways to get fucked up in the post-college era, only to discover that boarding a bus full of very religious Japanese people, with two friends I've really only recently met, and one of their mothers, all at a ridiculous hour on a stupidly low amount of sleep, on top of residual exhaustion still carrying over from the past week, is quite an effective way to kill off unnecessary, particularly unhip brain cells.
I can safely say that yesterday was the most out of it I have ever been in my life, at least while completely sober. Everything seemed so hazy and unreal, I was giggling at everything and spouting non-sequiturs left and right, but trying very hard to control my behavior due to the presence of very religious people and my friend's mother, which of course only served to make me MORE giggly. Just nothing seemed to make any sense, and I was being extraordinarily stupid without even realizing it. At a rest stop, I stumbled off the bus, managing to bang my head on the seat in front of me while doing so, spilled half a cup of coffee in the simple act of taking the lid off, and ordered a nice hot bowl of fried-tempura udon figuring that a) it would make a sensible 5 AM breakfast and b) the remaining 2 minutes of the 5-minute rest stop would be sufficient time to eat it. All of which for some reason was extraordinarily hilarious at the time but now seems rather stupid as I type it. But the point was, things just kept getting funnier even when nothing particularly amusing was happening. Despite this though, I realized how stupid I must have been looking and attempted to surpress my idiocy, which of course had the opposite effect and succeeded only in making things funnier. At one point, I was staring into space, remembering that one time Chas, Matt and I were playing Smash Brothers, and Matt threw a bob-omb at Chas which richocheted off his shield, off of mine, then off a patch of ground, right back at Matt which then blew him off the screen into oblivion. (again, I guess you had to be there, also you must be a huge nerd) Upon remembering this, I remembered how Chas was laughing so hard that he was in tears, and Matt's frustrated aggravation was so vivid in my mind that I actually began thinking I was there and thus spontaneously began laughing out loud. My friend, naturally, asked me what was so funny, I think I answered something about my hands being so big and being able to touch everything but themselves, and tried to get some more sleep.
Now then, given my mental state as described above, try to picture me at a very, very serious religious ceremony. Riiiiight.
Anyway, I've decided that if this whole attempting-to-teach-little-brats-English thing falls through, I'm going to attempt to market sleep deprivation as the hot new drug. I'll set up shop in a yet-unclaimed dark corner of New York, and peddle off "dime bags" (which will be a large man named Guido), and "nickel bags" (which will be a tatooed Japanese man named Yohei). In either case, Guido or Yohei will wait until you have fallen asleep at night for about an hour, then suddenly barge into your house, throw you in a sack, and deposit you on a bus full of Buddhists. Guido or Yohei will ride with you, making faces, telling bad jokes, and spilling coffee on you, but if you laugh they will alternate between tickling you and poking you with sharp sticks. Now, a dime bag will of course net you 10 hours of this treatment whereas purchasing Yohei gets you five, but don't worry, I promise you man, you'll feel the best you ever have in your life, man.
Plus, as an added bonus, the first time is free.
My homey Paolo sent me the following picture, taken at the local Jusco super-department store:
"Play with us, Danny..."
Now, I find this picture so thoroughly disturbing that I don't even know where to begin. I hate people who insist on reading too much into everything, but one can't help but wonder at the reasoning for using WHITE mannequins to model specifically Japanese clothing in a Japanese store in Japan. The fact that they're children is even more disturbing. I could see, y'know, Japanese businessmen or trendy housewives wanting to drape themselves in the newest Western fashions, but kids? Come on. What are these mannequins supposed to say? "Hey parents! Buy these clothes and your kids will magically transform into the aesthetically superior cracker children you've always secretly desired!" or "Hey kids! You know you're gonna start looking for ways to honkify when you're a teenager anyway, so may as well start now!" And this is completely apart from the fact that these particular mannequins are goddamn SCARY-looking; they look like Howdy Doody came to life and impregnated Haley Joel Osment through some horrible satanic ritual. I suspect these mannequins come to life at night and wreak unspeakable havoc with their insatiable hunger for human flesh and their ability to set things on fire simply by staring at them.
Damn Uncle Tom Japanese, they're ruining my adopted country.
On another note, due to the newly self-conscious tone of communication from my friends, I feel I should clarify about the whole Third Party Friends thing: I don't mind hearing about interesting things that happened to new friends -- an interesting anecdote is an interesting anecdote regardless of who specifically it happened to -- I just don't like when people feel the need to fill me in on every personal detail about people I'll likely never interact with for any significant chunk of time. So, "I went drinking with this guy Joe the other night and ______ happened it was really funny" is okay, but "OMG you have to have to HAVE to meet my friend Joe he's so awesome he's a Libra and his blood type is O-negative SAME AS ME and yeah I've never met anyone who wants to be a FIRE FIGHTER before that's so noble also he makes the best tacos ever you really should try one sometime because I know you'll be best friends because you both once broke a finger playing the piano HAHAH that was awesome anyway Joe's here in his 1969 Cadillac which is candy-apple red but it has this one scuff mark on above the right rear tire exactly 1.24 inches above the rim oh by the way I recently became a nun but I'll tell you about that later so how are you bye!" is not. To review, in regards to Third Party Friends: fun stuff that happened = interesting; personal details = NOT! Okay? Also, bear in mind that when I went on this whole tirade I was only thinking about people I knew a while ago, not anyone with whom I am currently on speaking terms. Frankie says relax!
I'm sick. My head hurts, my throat is sore, everything tastes like phlegm, I feel like I haven't showered in a week, and I'm super-tired despite having slept for like half the afternoon. Of course, I suppose this should come as no surprise, since after a post-typhoon warm spell, the weather has dropped about 10 degrees Celcius in the past four days, which, if I've got my conversions right, is a loss equivalent to somewhere around 7 gajillion megaquarks Farenheight. Seriously, the mercury in the thermometer hanging on my wall has actually dropped through the bottom and has since resorted to crude pantomimes of Han Solo jamming Luke into a disemboweled tauntaun to illustrate just how cold it's gotten. Okay, well maybe that didn't really happen, I suppose it could just be the cold medicine I'm taking.
Actually, I am lying: I have no cold medicine. This is because the prospect of shopping for medicines in a language in which I am not yet fluent is a rather frightening prospect. I'm terrified of even going in to buy some cough drops for the fear that the Japanese words for "cough drop" and "urinal cake" prove unfortunately similar. And that's just simple vocabulary, never mind the various warnings of side-effects and cautions that will be inscribed in small print on the back of the box. What if I succeed in buying a bottle of cough medicine only to miss the "WARNING: INGESTION AFTER MIDNIGHT MAY RESULT IN GREMLINS BURSTING OUT OF YOUR COLON" caution label? Boy would there be egg on my face! Also I would be dead.
At any rate, I've since decided that the best remedy for this cold would be to sit at home and continually fret about just how damn much a nice thick comforter, never mind a heater, would cost me. You see, Japan is a lovely country, but it can be surprisingly archaic in certain regards: two months ago I would be complaining of the prohibitively expensive cost of air conditioners, but now I am speaking of the nation's complete unfamiliarity with the concept of central heating. Most people in Nagano depend on kerosene heaters to get through the winter, which I think is grounds for ressurecting Laura Ingalls Wilder just to write about them. Now, in such a technologically advanced country as Japan, this strikes me as somewhat of an anachronism, never mind complete and utter insanity. I half expect a horde of mongols to invade from the next village over and burn piles of torsos of the defeated to keep warm; are we NOT in the modern age here? People I work with love to ask me how cold the winters are back in Pennsylvania, I always respond, "I don't KNOW, in the winter we all stay inside with our CENTRAL HEATING, because it's FUCKING COLD." Okay, maybe not, but that's sure what I feel like saying.
Of course, this is again my own fault, as I am too cheap to go buy things to stay warm. I'm just happy my winter clothes finally arrived -- they were sent to me about 2 months ago, but that was via sea-mail, which I suspect is actually a Flintstones-esque operation wherein they just strap a bunch of boxes on top of a really big turtle. My current blanket is essentially just an oversized Kleenex so I'm grateful to have warm clothes to sleep in, but this does not change the fact that I really hate sleeping with lots of clothes on. Hell, most of the time I like to sleep naked, pardon the mental image. I like to consider myself open-minded but there are certain issues on which I can be uncharacteristically stubborn, and this is one of them. Last time I was in Japan, in Tokyo, (which is a good 10-20 degrees warmer than Nagano, I hear), I think it was a good week of waking up being able to see my breath before I reluctantly admitted that it might be a good idea to sleep with something more than boxer shorts on. I'm a bit smarter than that now, fortunately -- unfortunately, however, I am now a tightwad and an illogically logical one at that: you see, money spent on boring things like blankets and heaters and toilet paper means less money I can spend on train rides to Tokyo and $10 beers and Game Boy Advances. I mean, do you have any idea how much comforters COST? How am I supposed to buy deliciously irony-laden Japanese paraphenelia in good conscience after blowing a huge chunk of my monthly stipend on something as boring as a comforter? So what if winters are long here? So what if each additional day spent unprotected in these frigid temperatures poses more and more of a threat that my genitalia will freeze solid and snap off in the middle of the night, shattering into a dozen crystalline pieces on the frozen tatami floor? Who cares if - ...hmm.
...all right, fine, so I'll go buy a comforter tomorrow. *Sigh* Now I'll NEVER be able to afford that giant statue of Ultraman. Sometimes, being a sensible adult sucks.
In an update to yesterday's enthralling entry, tonight I am sleeping on a bed made of the finest Ukranian geese. Okay, so my BED isn't but my brand new $150 comforter is, and are Ukranian geese actually any better than say, Uzbekistanian geese? Hell if I know. I think a much better material to stuff blankets with would be deceased opera singers. Think about it, all that soft, marbled, mostly-fine-Italian fat would be quite warm and insulating, plus if you subscribe to one of those pagan religions there's an off-chance you would acquire impressive voice talents with only a few additional rituals. Did I mention I'm still sick?
Uh-oh. I saw fit to make a new journal entry simply because I bought a new blanket today. I made a menial domestic purchase and somehow felt COMPELLED TO TELL YOU ALL ABOUT IT. Oh God, I'm becoming like all those annoying 14 year-old girls with web diaries who say LOL too much and feel the need to inform the internet every time they so much as have a snack. Christ, what am I turning in to? Pretty soon I'm going to miraculously manage to have a period just so I can tell you all about it. Uh, yeah, I think it's best if I leave this page alone for a few days before I sicken myself further...in the meantime, read this. "...never seen a fire truck that needed to be shaved," woo, that's priceless.
Go to bed.
Okay, I've already gotten some questions about the new picture on the front page, so allow me to address them: no, I have not finally lost it and embarked on a Sanrio-land-themed child murder spree; rather, what you are seeing in that picture is my Halloween costume. And yes, I know it's only the 17th. But for whatever reason, Miss Koyama, one of the teachers at the junior high I teach at, requested I dress up for class today in spite of the fact that I will also be teaching at that school on the 31st, which, as we all know, is considerably closer to actual Halloween. Well, whatever the reason, I taught a class wearing that get-up today, and let me tell you, for once I had no trouble keeping everyone's attention. Okay, so the "attention" in question was like that Simpsons episode where Homer and Bart glue a rainbow-colored wig on George Bush (Sr.) right before he makes a speech: "Does anyone have any questions?" (all of my students raise their hands) "Keeping in mind that I already explained about my outfit." (everyone puts down their hands) But hey, rapt attention is rapt attention, and I'll take what I can get.
Oh, and for anyone that's curious, I made my Hello Kitty "mask" by buying a $8 Hello Kitty pillow and gleefully slashing it open, practically salivating in carthartic joy while ripping out the stuffing in cottony handfuls (I hear Hannibal Lecter started the same way). Take THAT, fucking Hello Fucking Kitty.
Also, I would be remiss in failing to mention that my day teaching elementary school yesterday was so exciting that I actually FELL ASLEEP before my last class. The principal actually had to come search for me and then wake me up, accomplishing this task approximately 20 minutes after the bell rang. I think this newest little failure of mine places me squarely in the realm of being Cartoonishly Bad at my job: barring an extra dimension and a bosomy blonde wife, there is now that much less differentiating me and Dagwood Bumstead of "Blondie" fame.
As a final note: to the "H.B" that recently requested a mention in this space -- nothin' doing, brother, you gotta EARN your spot! Send me something interesting to talk about and we'll see. You don't see Yohei asking for a free ride, do ya?
A popular pasttime among the workers in my office is finding out just where my tolerance for eating "exotic" (i.e., disgusting) native cuisine ends. This started off pretty innocently, with mayo-and-ginger-flavored rice crackers, which was really no worse than the standard Japanese we-can-make-an-artificial-flavor-out-of-everything/mayo is good on EVERYTHING philosophy ("Nuts 'n Gum: Together at Last!"). However, things quickly escalated when I was presented with a tin full of tiny, whole fish slathered in sugar and soy sauce. My coworkers were spearing the things with toothpicks and and gobbling them down in one bite, extolling the nutritional benefits of the seasonal treat, whereas I just kinda stood there, thinking about how just days earlier, I had seen the exact same kind of fish flopping around in plastic bags in the grocery store, STILL ALIVE. Never mind the fact that, like many other Americans, I do NOT eat animals whole and if so I CERTAINLY do not eat their eyeballs; not to mention that these fish were so small that they were clearly meant to be PETS and not EDIBLE SEASONAL TREATS, I mean Christ, why don't Gran'ma just whip up a plate of Roast Canary next Thanksgiving??!!
Nevertheless, despite these silent protests running through my mind, I eventually bit the fish-shaped bullet and ate one of the damn things. I'm rather sensitive about the whole close-minded foreigner/Ugly American perception present in this and many other foreign countries, because, for the most part, it's true, but damn if I was going to let a tiny little fish prove that to my co-workers. And even though I then gulped down three consecutive cups of green tea to wash the taste out of my mouth, on the whole the little fish were not bad, inasmuch as they did not make me vomit blood.
Truth be told, I was actually feeling pretty proud of myself for the whole tiny-fish experience. I mean, it's easy for people like me to claim we're "taking an active part in the culture" or what have you when really we only mean the parts that are immediately palatable to American sensibilities. When I was in Tokyo two years ago, most of the foreign students would enthusiastically proclaim their love for Japan, when really they meant Japanese bars; then, of course, there's the people who claim to be "interested in Japan," when really they just mean they watch Dragonball Z a lot. So when I bit into that fish and felt its squishy eyeballs explode between my molars, I felt I was proving to myself that I'm at least a little better of those people. Sure, it may have been repulsive, but at least I was willing to confirm that it was repulsive for myself.
Therefore, when I came into the office last week and one of my coworkers excitedly informed me that someone had so graciously brought in "inago" for us to eat, it didn't seem like any big deal. I didn't really know what "inago" were, but when my coworker pointed to a clear tin full of the familiar, brown, sugar-and-soy-sauce mixture, I just kind of assumed he was talking about the tiny fish from last time. I had already conquered these "inago", I thought, so I had no fear. So when break time rolled around and we all took our seats around the snack table, I was nearly bursting with patriotic pride, ready to prove to them that I, for one, was an American willing to try new things, particularly new things I had already tried once before! But when they opened the lid and peeled back the plastic wrap, I did indeed see tiny animals doused in familiar brown sauce...but they sure weren't fish. There were bulbous eyes staring out back at me, but they sure weren't those of a fish. And, to be sure, my co-workers were spearing them with toothpicks and eating them whole, extolling the nutrional benefits of the treat, but again, it SURE WASN'T FISH. No, no no. For "inago," you see, turns out to be the Japanese word for...
Locust.
You know that scene in Indiana Jones where the natives are eating giant beetles whole, while that blonde chick looks on in horror, wanting to faint? Well, it was kind of like that. I believe what I thought at the time was, and this is a direct quote, YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Now let me explain something about me, for those who don't know: bugs, in general, freak me out. I see a spider or centipede or something, you may as well put me in pigtails and call me Cosette, 'cause I'll be screaming like a French schoolgirl. If I so much as spotted one back in my room back home in America, I would basically give it sovereign rule over my belongings for at least the remainder of the day and go sleep in another room that night (or, if available, I would coax my dog into eating it). But there are certain bugs that I'm really fairly indifferent to (usually I'm only scared of a bug if it has more than seven legs). This includes ants, crickets, and yes, grasshoppers/locusts...however, it should be noted that, indifferent or not, this still DOES NOT MEAN THAT I WANT TO EAT THEM.
So anyway, there I was, a tin of tickets before me and a toothpick in my shaky hand. On one hand, I wanted to again prove that I was willing to keep an open mind about all aspects of Japanese culture; on the other hand, I was certain I would throw up if one of those THINGS got anywhere near my mouth. I had actually succeeded in spearing a locust and bringing it up to within an inch of my mouth, but, and I couldn't even tell you why, my arm would just not move any further. I made several attempts to move it past the one-inch threshhold, feeling the rise and fall of the cheering crowd, but failed each time. I just couldn't do it. "Here, you can pull off the legs if you want," offered my boss, helpfully. Maybe if pulling off the legs magically transformed it into a roast beef sandwich, then we'd be talking, but unless that happened the legs were not so much the problem as was the fact that I was about to eat a fucking INSECT.
Somewhere around attempt #553 I started to become somewhat bitter towards my coworkers. I kept trying to think of a similarly bizarre American food with which I could threaten them, but really, there isn't much of an equivalent in American cuisine. Generally the scariest thing about American food is its cholesterohl content, not the fact that it was very obviously alive not too long ago. "Eat this...double cheeseburger!" probably wouldn't have the same effect as a plate of locusts, although the Japanese version of Fear Factor would probably be pretty damn amusing if it did.
Eventually, of course, I did eat the damn thing, although I assured myself that locusts sauteed in sugar and soy sauce was where I would draw the line as far as cultural interests are concerned. I just, well, didn't like the idea of everyone thinking less of me for my refusal to eat what was to them a fairly normal food (lesson for the kids at home: peer pressure is adequate rationale to do ANYTHING). But you know how I finally got through it? Once I got it in my mouth and started chewing on it, I just started pretending that I was eating...the tiny whole fish, of all things. When I did that, it didn't seem quite so bad -- nor was it difficult, since both had been cooked in the same sauce. I guess compared to chewing on insect insides, a little fish eyeball seems like a comforting thought.
There's a lesson to be learned here, but after remembering all this stuff and writing it down...I'm feeling too nauseous to figure out what that might be.
Well, October is finally winding down. Looking back at how freakin' much I wrote this month, I can't quite figure out whether I was just really bored or getting that much better at managing my free time. Probably a bit of both -- I'm sitting here waiting for my train to get to Nagano, where I shall be attending a Halloween party of sorts. I'm not really sure who's going, I'm not really sure what kind of place it's at, but rest assured: Hello Kitty will be making her first public appearance outside of schools. Also, for some reason I have this feeling that the locale tonight shall be fairly sketchy. Call it a premonition. Anyway, tomorrow I'm off to the mountains with another JET named Candace, Kohei, the guy who runs the English conversation class for which we both part-time, and 2 dozen-some little kids. Given that last part you would wonder why I would choose to put myself in such a situation, even expending an otherwise free weekend to do so. And I could only answer that while I am extremely cynical on a day-to-day basis, when looking at the big picture I am stupidly, bafflingly optimistic. I'm not really sure why this is, either -- well, maybe it's because it's easy and fun to complain about things that are already happening and therefore cannot be changed; but if I had a negative view of things in the future that Might Not Suck if I actually put in some effort to change them, well, that sounds like a lot of work. That's one explanation, although I like to think that I just wholeheartedly believe in the overall, inherent goodness of people (a concept that for me is personified by children), despite their tendency to suck from day to day. Well, anyway, if spending some time with these mountain-children doesn't fill me with the constant urge to Tombstone Piledrive them into a Japanese squat-toilet, maybe I'll have a better idea of what sucks about Me and what sucks about Me the Teacher.
Whoops, train's almost here. Before I go -- HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Thanks for the link, Mooney!
I tell you. This goddamn journal thing is an addiction. I thought I was done with October but here I am, compelled to fill all of you in with the daily minutae of my life on an increasingly almost-daily basis...well, that might have something to do with the fact that I've got another eight hours in the office today with nothing else to do. All right, it's the end of the month, so settle in, this'll be a long one.
Oh wait, before I do that, be sure to read the new Reader Review Review by my old college chum Harrison Breuer. I've been looking to take reader contributions for a while, and Harrison's acidic sense of humor seemed a perfect fit for the format. Anyway, his review of Pink's reviews clearly blows mine of Avril Lavigne's out of the water, so give it a read. By the way, if anyone out there wants to write something for this site, let me know. It kinda feels good to plug someone other than myself for a change! Anyway...
I'd forgotten how much fun children are when they're not your exclusive responsibility. Or when you're not contractually obligated to force them to learn, for that matter. This weekend I got to play with some great kids -- and by "play", I of course mean "putting them in pro wrestling moves such as the Torture Rack, STF, Hangman's Piledriver, and the Canadian Shoulder Breaker" -- and whenever they'd get cranky or bratty I'd just leave someone else to take care of it. I would make such a great Dad!
As an interesting sidenote, Japan, compared to America, is about a THOUSAND times better in terms of personal responsibility, if not a million. Frivolous lawsuits are absolutely unheard of here, and as a corollary, there's no stupid soccer moms looking to skirt homicide charges every time their stupid kid so much as scrapes a knee. If a Japanese kid say, tripped and fell and hit his head on a Sony PlayStation, which caused the "reset" button to fly out and put out the kid's eye, his mom wouldn't sue Sony, she'd smack her kid in the back of the head for being such an idiot. This means then, that if say, hypothetically, a kid went up to his mother crying about how a 22 year-old Taiwanese-American working in Japan as an English teacher hypothetically threw a ball right into his hypothetical face hitting him in the hypothetical eye on October 26th 2002, hypothetically, the mother would NOT go on the warpath calling for said hypothetical teacher's head on a platter, but instead would chide her kid, rightly assuming that he had been doing something stupid to provoke such a hypothetical act, such as say, throwing the ball in question at said teacher REPEATEDLY while he was in the midst of of innocently German Suplexing other small children. In other words -- man, this country can be great. Hypothetically.
The other highlight of the weekend would be the trip to the tsuribori, or "fishing hole." And by "fishing hole" I do not mean a picturesque little pond surrounded by dandelions and cat's-tails a little past a dewy forest glade somewhere in Anytown, USA -- I mean a HOLE, a cement one at that, with FISH in it. Picture a swimming pool the approximate dimensions of your average sports-utility vehicle, filled with fish caught by actual fisherman so they could be re-caught be little kids, old people, and...me. Yes, while these pools did not contain more fish than water -- in actuality the ratio was about even -- the fact was that one would be hard-pressed to cast his line and NOT hit a fish, short of over-casting and hilariously lodging the hook in someone else's thigh. Case in point, over the course of an hour I caught no less than six fish, beating out even the best of my pre-pubic companions who caught a mere three. Then we proceeded right to the restaurant next door, where for a nominal fee, they gutted and fried our freshly-caught fish for us so we could...feel vaguely ill at the thought of eating something that was alive not half an hour ago. And by "we" I of course mean me. I realize this must be the sort of argument that drives vegetarians nuts, but while I'm fine eating animals that someone else hacked into pieces and thoughtfully packaged in styrofoam and plastic-wrap, the idea of eating something that I just caught that had been squirming in my hands not THIRTY MINUTES beforehand struck me as just a tad grim. I had caught these fish myself, however easily, I had bonded with them, I felt pride in my having known them. And now, here they were again, gutted, fried, and on a plate before me, but with their heads intact, their faces forever frozen in that gaping-mouthed "I never thought it would end like this" expression fish always have. I didn't want to be rude so I did eat them, but only after convincing myself through justifications ranging from the ridiculously anthropomorphic ("These fish probably WANTED to die; they hated their lives!") to the quasi-spiritual ("These fish were MEANT to be caught and eaten by you"). Even still, I couldn't help but feel a bit nauseous.
But anyway, that was the weekend, this is the week, and as dumb as it sounds , I believe this Saturday's little mountain excursion has temporarily rejuvenated me; inasmuch as I had a super good day at my normally AWFUL school yesterday (see October 1st entry). I had the little fuckers play "Memory," or "Shinkei Suijyaku" in Japanese (I have no idea what that means, but if I had to guess, probably something like "Kill All White People"), but to make it more interesting, threw in a "Baba" card -- "Baba" is the Japanese equivalent of Old Maid -- so if you drew the Baba your team had to put back two cards. Well in what I suppose should have been an anticipated event, at one point a little fourth-grade girl drew it and promptly burst into tears. Not long ago I would have felt really bad about this, but three months of teaching have taught me that some kids cry at the drop of a hat, and won't even remember crying 10 minutes after they've stopped anyway -- so instead I found this really funny. See, didn't I tell you I was rejuvenated?
Another fun little episode this week was at one of my tutoring jobs. Besides Yohei and Dr. Suzuki, I also tutor a 10th grader named Yuka, who's this shy cute girl who has pretty good English-comprehension skills but has never seen a foreigner so most of the time is mortified at the thought of even looking at me. She's getting better though, since I've actually been doing a pretty good job of coming up with new stuff to talk about for our hour-long conversation lessons. For this week, however, I suggested we both come in and bring in a book to talk about -- an assignment I had plum forgotten about until 10 minutes before class yesterday. You see, since getting the internet I haven't been doing so much reading, and the books I have read would be quite difficult to explain in simple English. So while running out the door I grabbed Fever Pitch, a Nick Hornsby book I bought for some light reading a few weeks ago, and hoped for the best. Yuka selected a book about 9/11 called Love Letter, explained it to me, and then, knowing it was my turn, actually looked at me. So there I was, now a TEACHER, ready to launch into the finest-and-yet-worst impromptu book report that would make a panicky disinterested fourth-grader proud. "Uh, this book is called Fever Pitch," I helpfully stated, "It's by someone called Nick Hornsby." I scanned the cover for more scintillating information. "It's about football," I finished. Or so I thought.
"What else is it about?" asked an abnormally inquisitive Yuka. I panicked. The cover would provide no more help, so I was forced to wing it: "Uh, it's about a player. A FOOTBALL player. (Yuka nods to acknowledge my apparent condescension) Who uh, used to be good, but now is...bad." Sounded reasonable for a book about football, I thought; after all, there's a character like that in every sports movie ever made. Yuka, apparently, had never seen any of these movies, and surprisingly asked "Why isn't he good now?" With these two questions the girl had shown more initiative than in all our other lessons combined. "Uh, because," I so originally started, "he's nervous. Because people expect him to be good. But he's afraid he might not be. So he's bad because he's nervous and scared. And worried." This vividly-painted psychological portrait was apparently enough for Yuka, because she then smiled, nodded, and reverted to her normally quiet self. I breathed a sigh of relief, but while silently cursing myself. Not only because that I was now a TEACHER faking his way through assignments instead of a STUDENT doing so, but because, every time I lie, I end up telling a little too much about myself.
Anyway, that seems like a good way to end October. My parents are actually on a plane over here right now; I should be seeing them on Friday. It's always weird seeing people you know primarily from one setting in a new one, but of course I'm very much looking forward to seeing them, my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Mac 'n Cheese, Pop-Tarts, Grandma Utz potato chips, and CD burner Chow. In fact, I can't wait.
Any rate. Happy Halloween, you tools. For this year's costume I suggest you dress up as someone that isn't such a tool. You tool.
