Hello again! Posting to you from the local internet cafe - since there's no way I can type stuff at home, I have to do it now before all this weekend's fun fades from my memory forever.
Friday was fun - went out to Gifu with Jacob with a mission. Met at Bier Hall, a local expat bar, which was kind of dead, lot of older people. Some 47 year old came over to me and started talking about how music has no longevity nowadays - even the best contemporary bands, like Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, won't be around long. Needless to say, I decided this wasn't a conversation worth pursuing (seriously, are CYHSY even still around now?)
Next convo was with a guy named Scotty. Where are you from? I asked.
Chicago, he replied.
Oh Chicago! I went to school there?
Where at?
University of Chicago.
Oh, good school! I love their econ department!
Eh...
Once again, convo went downhill fast. I looked for an exit strategy as he discussed how much he liked Ayn Rand, and how he really appreciated her Virtue of Selfishness, because he thought guys needed to be more selfish and stop going out of their way for women.
...What? I replied. Then I told him I won second place in a nationwide Ayn Rand essay contest (true story), but that I had since seen the error of my ways.
Can you recommend me some reading? he asks in response. I like to hear opinions from both sides...for example, I was watching Michael Moore, but I just couldn't get into it at all...Then he said something about Ann Coulter and I walked away.
Soon after, we left that bar (Scotty too, though nobody knows whose friend he was) and went to a place called Bottoms Up, which had karaoke. I belted some Teenage Fanclub (which is known as "geek pop" over here--same as the Smiths and anything from Europe in the late 80s/early 90s, most of which we in America would probably refer to as "twee"), some Byrds and a Shirelles song that Jacob had actually picked out (a pleasant surprise!). After that, it was off to a ramen shop, where I ordered some ramen curry, but Scotty had taken my dish by mistake so I had to wait for another one. Then Scotty bolted while we were still eating, and displayed his Virtue of Selfishness by not chipping in to cover the bill.
We left round maybe 3:30, 4am? Somebody had left a camera behind, that got pushed onto Jacob, who gladly took it, and we headed for the Treehouse where we crashed on some couches for the night. It was cold and uncomfortable, and Scotty showed up at some point and woke us up, looking for a couch of his own to sleep on--SOL, he left though. Hopefully that'd be the last we see of him...
Left Gifu around nine in the morning--went home and slept til 4. Spent the night hanging with Jen and playing music at my apt, then met up with Jacob and his friend Masaru when they got back from Gifu round midnight. Masaru was cool--had been all over America and Canada, but had what sounded to me like an Australian accent, apparently that's common with well-travelled Japanese though. We drank some beers and listened to music, and Kyle came to hang out too. Then Masaru told us about the dead guy on the escalator.
What?? we asked. He and Jacob were in hysterics; they pulled out the camera Jacob found yesterday and revealed a picture they'd taken with it earlier tonight, at the Ogaki train station. There was a man lying face down at the top of an escalator. Now, Japanese escalators are motion sensor, so for it to not be moving like that, he would have had to have been there a long time. How did he get like that? His face was literally planted in the top step, his body lying out, as if he'd tried going down the up escalator and fell down and just stopped moving.
"Dude, he was fucking dead!" Masaru explained between gasps for air. Of course he wasn't really dead, but that's why it was so funny! And seriously, how the hell did he get like that??? You'd have to see it to believe it.
Eventually Jen and Masa fell asleep on Jacob's floor, and Kyle left; me and Jacob stayed up til 4am though (we had both slept the afternoon away) listening to music and having fun. Next morning Masa left, and Jen Jacob and I had band practice. But first: lunch at Chorky's.
Chorky's is a '50s-American-style diner here in Ogaki. I'd heard they had excellent hamburgers, and I will tell you, it's definitely true. I had a chili cheeseburger with fries (and a daikon salad that comes with it, for a slightly less-authentic touch), as well as a banana milkshake. The walls were all covered in old school advertisements for Coors and other lesser-known American goods, some Saturday Evening Post-like drawings, CA and WA license plates (and also for some reason, lots of empty bags of taco-flavored Doritos). Very diner-y, and very good.
As we were leaving, Jacob let me in on a little secret: that camera he had been given? It was Scotty's! He took it out and showed me a bunch of pictures of his stupid grin in all sorts of stupid situations. But that wasn't all. Oh wait, what's this? It's a video of him at a love hotel! That's right, we watched him pick up chains and other fun devices and laughing and saying how cool it is, then he followed some girl with a tramp stamp and a thong into the bathroom and the movie ended. Hilarious!
Then we had band practice all day, had some pasta and brie for dinner, made myself my first martini in Japan and watched Vertigo with Jacob, which prompted a discussion on the eternal recurrence and synchronicity which was rather interesting, but the details of which I will spare my blog readers for fear of losing their interest. We can discuss it later on if you want - in the meantime, it's 4pm and I must go. Until the next time, over and out!
PS: I almost forgot - had my first racial profiling experience today! Now I can say I'm a true gaijin! Or something like that!
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head
I have been suffering from a spate of bad luck recently, as you would know if my laptop had survived long enough for me to transfer the last two weeks' worth of blog posts from it onto here. But alas, the shit has finally hit the fan--literally. It no longer makes that really loud whirring noise when I start it up; now it just beeps and says "Fan Error." The good news - I transferred all my music to my external hard drive beforehand! The bad news - I lost two stories I was working on and all those blog posts, including all the ones detailing my recent bad luck (possibly incurred from all my whistling at night--Japanese superstition). I'm hesitant to call it bad luck at all though - that's right, Mr. Pessimism is looking on the bright side of things! Maybe it's the painkillers, but all things considered, I do feel pretty well. But let me recap just for recap's sake.
Bad luck started last Saturday, when I got called into work because all the American teachers are getting swine flu (except me!) That's both good and bad though, as I did have to go to work. But it was pretty ok.
Sunday I bought curtains that were too big for the door and a microphone for my now-dead laptop that didn't work. But I pinned up the curtains with some safety pins and hey, maybe the mic will work with whatever laptop I get now! I also got a whole bunch of stuff from Joanna, who left Japan on Tuesday. Such items include, but are not limited to: pots and pans, spices, shelves, a bookshelf, a plant, a trash can, miscellaneous kitchen utensils, candles, her dual-region DVD player, and other goods (my place is pretty swank, if I do say so myself). I also went bowling and watched the new Michael Jackson movie with a bunch of people that night. It wasn't nearly as good as you might hope it would be.
Tuesday I got into a bike accident in the nearby shopping complex and, long story short, went to the hospital to get four stitches in my chin. Many humorous adventures occurred beforehand, including going to the wrong hospital, missing the parking lot entrance, and almost driving through a red light. The Japanese coteacher who brought me--and speaks very broken English--also told me beforehand that she heard the doctors at this hospital were very young and not very good, and nobody goes there. And I was not at all comforted by the pale yellow brick, its crescent-shaped facade greeting me like a big cigarette-stained smile as I walked in.
Inside was even worse--it really was totally empty, and walking down empty halls into empty waiting rooms and being treated right away by doctors your age speaking a language you don't understand is not at all fun. Definitely more amusing when I was watching it take place in Lost in Translation (speaking of, where the hell's my version of Scarlett Johansson?) Though we did have a great Dr. Nick moment when he told me my jaw had a fracture. "What?!" I replied, panicked, only to have him ask a moment later: "Or maybe not? We have to X-ray to see." Broken English gets me every time! Like when I thought he kept saying my jaw had "information" when he was really saying "inflammation." (That one actually is funny in retrospect)
Anyway, I'm sure I've glossed over a ton of stuff trying to quickly recap my hospital adventure--the original version was two single-spaced pages, cut down to a bare two paragraphs--but I've saved the gems and cut the chaff, so I hope you enjoy this brief version. I should get internet in about a week and a half, if I can get a new laptop before then. If not...well, hopefully I'll be updating regularly sometime before I leave Japan...
Bad luck started last Saturday, when I got called into work because all the American teachers are getting swine flu (except me!) That's both good and bad though, as I did have to go to work. But it was pretty ok.
Sunday I bought curtains that were too big for the door and a microphone for my now-dead laptop that didn't work. But I pinned up the curtains with some safety pins and hey, maybe the mic will work with whatever laptop I get now! I also got a whole bunch of stuff from Joanna, who left Japan on Tuesday. Such items include, but are not limited to: pots and pans, spices, shelves, a bookshelf, a plant, a trash can, miscellaneous kitchen utensils, candles, her dual-region DVD player, and other goods (my place is pretty swank, if I do say so myself). I also went bowling and watched the new Michael Jackson movie with a bunch of people that night. It wasn't nearly as good as you might hope it would be.
Tuesday I got into a bike accident in the nearby shopping complex and, long story short, went to the hospital to get four stitches in my chin. Many humorous adventures occurred beforehand, including going to the wrong hospital, missing the parking lot entrance, and almost driving through a red light. The Japanese coteacher who brought me--and speaks very broken English--also told me beforehand that she heard the doctors at this hospital were very young and not very good, and nobody goes there. And I was not at all comforted by the pale yellow brick, its crescent-shaped facade greeting me like a big cigarette-stained smile as I walked in.
Inside was even worse--it really was totally empty, and walking down empty halls into empty waiting rooms and being treated right away by doctors your age speaking a language you don't understand is not at all fun. Definitely more amusing when I was watching it take place in Lost in Translation (speaking of, where the hell's my version of Scarlett Johansson?) Though we did have a great Dr. Nick moment when he told me my jaw had a fracture. "What?!" I replied, panicked, only to have him ask a moment later: "Or maybe not? We have to X-ray to see." Broken English gets me every time! Like when I thought he kept saying my jaw had "information" when he was really saying "inflammation." (That one actually is funny in retrospect)
Anyway, I'm sure I've glossed over a ton of stuff trying to quickly recap my hospital adventure--the original version was two single-spaced pages, cut down to a bare two paragraphs--but I've saved the gems and cut the chaff, so I hope you enjoy this brief version. I should get internet in about a week and a half, if I can get a new laptop before then. If not...well, hopefully I'll be updating regularly sometime before I leave Japan...
Sunday, November 1, 2009
November 1, 2009
Went out to the mountains yesterday. Drove through the sticks with Rafa and these two others, the guitarist in his band and his girlfriend (Rafa plays bass in a couple metal bands, awesome Brazilian guy Jacob introduced me to). Their band was playing this Cosmos music show at a live house (Japanese term for rock venue) up there.
So Jacob and I take the train up towards Nagoya to meet the three of them, so we can start the day’s journey. We get in around 11:20, then head down the block to a little café, where we get some coffee and pastries (they don’t sell real breakfast-type foods, just cakes and other delicious treats). I got a little circular bread thing and a crème puff, and Jacob’s got a slice of chocolate cake. He’s also got a bursting backpack full of God knows what, and—as its Halloween—an old triangular farmer’s hat and a couple masks of the Japanese god Kamesama, one with a white face and rosy cheeks and the other a devil with a big nose. As we sit there drinking coffee with these crazy masks beside us, I realize it’s going to be one of those days that could be chapters in a novel.
So we meet up with Rafa and his crew, and start the beautiful hour or so drive. We pull in around 1:00, meet the staff, who are there, and help set some stuff up—Darge plays first. Then Rafa has me take some pictures of the band, both in and out of Jacob’s ridiculous masks. Then we decide to take the trail up through the mountain. Big plaques of a famous Japanese samurai (his name begins with an M—what the hell, I’m blanking on it now) are placed throughout, so the place must have been somewhat associated with his life. The trail is all beautiful stone walkways and narrow staircases, rivers pierced by occasional bright red bridges. Each waterfall is more amazing than the last (Amazing, or the Japanese equivalent, “sugoi,” will end up being my most-used phrase of the day). My camera is sadly filled with pictures, and my laptop’s USB ports are busted, so I can’t upload and delete them—thus, I had to make do with my phone camera, which got full use on this trip.
The trail up to the top is not very long, but the rest of the crew decides they’d rather do other things than finish the trail to the top, so I break off and make my way up alone. As I near the top, I can hardly breathe, excited like a kid on Christmas morning, a little drunk from the couple beers I’ve already had and riding a natural high of being in such an exciting, beautiful place. Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever been on a mountain before. The top of the trail comes up somewhat unexpectedly, and despite the nice views, is a little underwhelming—but I can see a way to climb up further, so I hoist myself up to a higher ledge (in my traction-less boots, no less) and sit down on a jag of rock, absorbing the scene unencumbered by foliage. It’s amazing, being equal with the heights of red and burnt orange and green, great mounds rising up all around me. I start to get a little nervous—I’m not afraid of heights, but I’m not dressed for the occasion and my head’s fuzzy and all helium-like. I lower myself back down and continue down the other side of the mountain, a little faster than I went up it but still stopping to take plenty of pictures.
Back at the live house, they’ve got a bonfire cooking in back (it’s cold out there!) and some DJs spinning; some Japanese dudes are already pretty hammered, and the weed smell is blatant and pervasive. One guy keeps kicking the fire angrily, like it burned up his grandmother or something. He gets to be Baka Nihonjin for the night (Crazy Japanese person, as opposed to Baka Gaijin—Crazy Jacob).
We get some food inside; I lay down ten bucks for an onigiri (rice ball wrapped in seaweed) and a bottle of hemp seed beer. “No THC,” the guy informs me. Obviously. Tastes good though. About an hour or later, we decide to get some real dinner; me and Shinosuke, Darge’s drummer, get chili rice, which is pretty good (though could be spicier) and comes with soup. The guitarist gets some spinach curry with rice, which looks so good, I end up getting some later. I don’t remember what Rafa got, but he got a pizza after it that he split with me. And Jacob got a fish on a stick with the last of his yen. He’d end up spending “the last of his yen” about six times that night, and milk it for plenty of drinks from others later on.
Darge doesn’t go on for forever; I curl up in a chair near the fire, freezing and sleepy. I go inside, where Jacob is learning how to play the didgeridoo from one of the employees. After a little of that and a little bit of Jacob dancing madcap to the Al Green stereoing throughout the cabin (he keeps insisting on how great it is, and I have to agree, the musical selection was top notch), Darge finally takes the stage.
I’m somehow chosen to be Rafa’s personal cameraman, and I take photos and video with his cameras during the show (much to Jacob’s dismay—he’s the “photographer”). I get lots of good pics and a great video, complete with more Baka Gaijin dancing, and afterwards Rafa gives me the setlist. Another DJ takes the table afterwards, and we hang out for the next two bands to play.
The next band, Order, is good, tight with a killer guitarist, playing some good old-fashioned ‘77 punk, though the lead singer looks like a vampire with ashen black eye makeup and his hair cut way out around one of his ears, giving him an asymmetrical helmet-like look. We can’t tell if it’s for Halloween or not, but it looks pretty stupid. Still, the music was good.
Can’t say the same for the next band though. Whatever their name is, they end up being one of the worst band’s I’ve ever seen. The first song they play isn’t bad, has a nice classic ‘70s guitar pop feel to it and is, you know, actually a song. Can’t say the same for anything else that followed. Every song is just a repetitive build of the same riff, over and over, in a Fuckin’ Cops kinda style, only much much worse. The only starts or endings of these “songs” are when they start fucking around, playing sparsely and discordantly and not at all cohesively. Worse, the guitarist is, in Rafa’s words, a fucking asshole—ironic he’d say that, since apparently in Japan you’re not supposed to shit-talk bands, during or after the show. But this guy keeps playing out in the audience, staring back at the stage and inadvertently kicking his guitar wire out, then stopping and searching in the dark for five-ten minutes to fix his setup. At first I felt bad for him—the Butts were no strangers to technical difficulties—but really, the band sucked and the guy was a dumbass, so fuck that.
That’s what our band would sound like if we played a set at this point” I whisper to Jacob after the show. I think I notice a flash of realization across his eyes, but it’s hard to tell—he keeps saying we should play a show ASAP, and it’s hard to convince him that nobody would want to hear us go up there and fuck around. Besides, they’d hear plenty of that throughout the night already, as Jacob and Shinosuke spent a good hour sitting outside playing djembe drums by the entrance, joined occasionally by my own tribal caterwauls—we got bored between sets. After the last band, Jacob and I are kind of itching to get out of here, so we head up to the parking lot with Rafa and everyone, where he and the guitarist and his girlfriend get in the van and take off. We’re riding back with Shinosuke, who lives near Ogaki and can drop us off at the station. We thought we’d leave at the same time they were, but apparently not. Shinosuke’s still got the drum he took from the cabin, and apparently just wants to bang on the stupid thing all day. And Jacob gets quickly distracted by an attractive, older Japanese woman in a furry black shawl and a formal floral dress. I thought she was an employee, but apparently she’s a DJ, and we run into her in the parking lot. Jacob wastes no time going over to her, insisting she try on his Kamesama—or as I like to refer to it, country gentleman—mask. She does, but to do so for some reason she must remove her shawl, exposing a bare shoulder, which lights up Jacob’s substance-abused body like a pinball machine—he quickly goes over and puts his hand on her, “helping to put it back on.” She backs away, awkwardly laughing while Shinosuke and I tell him in plain English to stop putting his hands on her. Jacob’s a persistent and not particularly observant fellow, though, and so this spectacle carries on for some time, until Shinosuke disappears with his drum and the girl disappears into her own van. Jacob and I stand around, confused, wondering where Shinosuke went and why we weren’t leaving. Meanwhile, the girl re-emerges from her van with the remains of a small bottle of sake, which she offers to Jacob. Maybe he asked for a drink? I wouldn’t be surprised—he’s been asking people to buy him drinks all night. He accepts her kind offer, but I politely decline and head back towards the cabin to find our ride.
Shino’s still sitting outside with his drum. Does he maybe want to go? I ask. No, he’s looking for some whiskey. That’s reassuring, it’s not like you need to be sober to drive back along these narrow mountain roads I think to myself. I could buy another drink, but I’m post-intoxicated and adding any more fuel to that fire would only make me sleepy. Instead, I get the curry and take a seat next to Jacob, who’s talking Baka to Baka with the crazy Nihonjin.
Big mistake. First question to me: “Do you like marijuana? I love marijuana” he confesses in very rough English. He goes on about that for awhile, then starts talking about LSD and microtablets and Mount Fuji. “Microtablets, where!” Jacob keeps pressing him. I try to eat my food and let them talk, but the guy’s English is so bad, Jacob gives up and trots off. I can’t ignore the man across the table from me—he keeps asking me questions, but I can’t understand anything that he’s saying. Something about Mount Fuji, and meters. Finally, he lets out a scream for a good twenty seconds, as I cower and everyone else in the room stares. Jacob comes calling for me from across the room—“Dude, we gotta go.” I scarf down the rest of my meal and run off.
I call shotgun for the second time this evening on the way to the car. Jacob doesn’t hear me though, and calls it two seconds later. “You’re kidding right? I just called it” I inform him. No I didn’t, he says. He fights me for the door, but I easily hold the crazy drunk off. He keeps shouting at me and telling me that he called it twice this evening—that earlier time he’d actually called it, he said, not me. He has the amazing ability to manipulate his memory and truly believe things that never happened, happened. They’re usually the diametric opposites of the truth, too. I’m tired of having to explain reality to this psycho, and Shino keeps telling me not to bother, Jacob’s just a crazy man and he doesn’t want any shouting in his car. He’s a nice guy, doesn’t deserve this kind of shit. Eventually the issue dies down, and I give Jacob Rafa’s setlist later as a peace offering. The ride home is filled with the new Sonic Youth, Afrirampo (who Shino asks if I’ve heard before, and I reply “Yes, I have”—thanks Dugan!) and this band Asa something who sound like, in the words of Jacob, mechanical shouting over the game of Plinko. It’s true, they do. Somehow we don’t fall asleep or get in an accident or anything the ride home, though it is filled with plenty of “Thank you very much—fuck you very much!”es, which is for some reason very funny to us all. As the car pulls up to Ogaki station, our great adventure comes to an end.
Oh yeah, and happy birthday Dad!
So Jacob and I take the train up towards Nagoya to meet the three of them, so we can start the day’s journey. We get in around 11:20, then head down the block to a little café, where we get some coffee and pastries (they don’t sell real breakfast-type foods, just cakes and other delicious treats). I got a little circular bread thing and a crème puff, and Jacob’s got a slice of chocolate cake. He’s also got a bursting backpack full of God knows what, and—as its Halloween—an old triangular farmer’s hat and a couple masks of the Japanese god Kamesama, one with a white face and rosy cheeks and the other a devil with a big nose. As we sit there drinking coffee with these crazy masks beside us, I realize it’s going to be one of those days that could be chapters in a novel.
So we meet up with Rafa and his crew, and start the beautiful hour or so drive. We pull in around 1:00, meet the staff, who are there, and help set some stuff up—Darge plays first. Then Rafa has me take some pictures of the band, both in and out of Jacob’s ridiculous masks. Then we decide to take the trail up through the mountain. Big plaques of a famous Japanese samurai (his name begins with an M—what the hell, I’m blanking on it now) are placed throughout, so the place must have been somewhat associated with his life. The trail is all beautiful stone walkways and narrow staircases, rivers pierced by occasional bright red bridges. Each waterfall is more amazing than the last (Amazing, or the Japanese equivalent, “sugoi,” will end up being my most-used phrase of the day). My camera is sadly filled with pictures, and my laptop’s USB ports are busted, so I can’t upload and delete them—thus, I had to make do with my phone camera, which got full use on this trip.
The trail up to the top is not very long, but the rest of the crew decides they’d rather do other things than finish the trail to the top, so I break off and make my way up alone. As I near the top, I can hardly breathe, excited like a kid on Christmas morning, a little drunk from the couple beers I’ve already had and riding a natural high of being in such an exciting, beautiful place. Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever been on a mountain before. The top of the trail comes up somewhat unexpectedly, and despite the nice views, is a little underwhelming—but I can see a way to climb up further, so I hoist myself up to a higher ledge (in my traction-less boots, no less) and sit down on a jag of rock, absorbing the scene unencumbered by foliage. It’s amazing, being equal with the heights of red and burnt orange and green, great mounds rising up all around me. I start to get a little nervous—I’m not afraid of heights, but I’m not dressed for the occasion and my head’s fuzzy and all helium-like. I lower myself back down and continue down the other side of the mountain, a little faster than I went up it but still stopping to take plenty of pictures.
Back at the live house, they’ve got a bonfire cooking in back (it’s cold out there!) and some DJs spinning; some Japanese dudes are already pretty hammered, and the weed smell is blatant and pervasive. One guy keeps kicking the fire angrily, like it burned up his grandmother or something. He gets to be Baka Nihonjin for the night (Crazy Japanese person, as opposed to Baka Gaijin—Crazy Jacob).
We get some food inside; I lay down ten bucks for an onigiri (rice ball wrapped in seaweed) and a bottle of hemp seed beer. “No THC,” the guy informs me. Obviously. Tastes good though. About an hour or later, we decide to get some real dinner; me and Shinosuke, Darge’s drummer, get chili rice, which is pretty good (though could be spicier) and comes with soup. The guitarist gets some spinach curry with rice, which looks so good, I end up getting some later. I don’t remember what Rafa got, but he got a pizza after it that he split with me. And Jacob got a fish on a stick with the last of his yen. He’d end up spending “the last of his yen” about six times that night, and milk it for plenty of drinks from others later on.
Darge doesn’t go on for forever; I curl up in a chair near the fire, freezing and sleepy. I go inside, where Jacob is learning how to play the didgeridoo from one of the employees. After a little of that and a little bit of Jacob dancing madcap to the Al Green stereoing throughout the cabin (he keeps insisting on how great it is, and I have to agree, the musical selection was top notch), Darge finally takes the stage.
I’m somehow chosen to be Rafa’s personal cameraman, and I take photos and video with his cameras during the show (much to Jacob’s dismay—he’s the “photographer”). I get lots of good pics and a great video, complete with more Baka Gaijin dancing, and afterwards Rafa gives me the setlist. Another DJ takes the table afterwards, and we hang out for the next two bands to play.
The next band, Order, is good, tight with a killer guitarist, playing some good old-fashioned ‘77 punk, though the lead singer looks like a vampire with ashen black eye makeup and his hair cut way out around one of his ears, giving him an asymmetrical helmet-like look. We can’t tell if it’s for Halloween or not, but it looks pretty stupid. Still, the music was good.
Can’t say the same for the next band though. Whatever their name is, they end up being one of the worst band’s I’ve ever seen. The first song they play isn’t bad, has a nice classic ‘70s guitar pop feel to it and is, you know, actually a song. Can’t say the same for anything else that followed. Every song is just a repetitive build of the same riff, over and over, in a Fuckin’ Cops kinda style, only much much worse. The only starts or endings of these “songs” are when they start fucking around, playing sparsely and discordantly and not at all cohesively. Worse, the guitarist is, in Rafa’s words, a fucking asshole—ironic he’d say that, since apparently in Japan you’re not supposed to shit-talk bands, during or after the show. But this guy keeps playing out in the audience, staring back at the stage and inadvertently kicking his guitar wire out, then stopping and searching in the dark for five-ten minutes to fix his setup. At first I felt bad for him—the Butts were no strangers to technical difficulties—but really, the band sucked and the guy was a dumbass, so fuck that.
That’s what our band would sound like if we played a set at this point” I whisper to Jacob after the show. I think I notice a flash of realization across his eyes, but it’s hard to tell—he keeps saying we should play a show ASAP, and it’s hard to convince him that nobody would want to hear us go up there and fuck around. Besides, they’d hear plenty of that throughout the night already, as Jacob and Shinosuke spent a good hour sitting outside playing djembe drums by the entrance, joined occasionally by my own tribal caterwauls—we got bored between sets. After the last band, Jacob and I are kind of itching to get out of here, so we head up to the parking lot with Rafa and everyone, where he and the guitarist and his girlfriend get in the van and take off. We’re riding back with Shinosuke, who lives near Ogaki and can drop us off at the station. We thought we’d leave at the same time they were, but apparently not. Shinosuke’s still got the drum he took from the cabin, and apparently just wants to bang on the stupid thing all day. And Jacob gets quickly distracted by an attractive, older Japanese woman in a furry black shawl and a formal floral dress. I thought she was an employee, but apparently she’s a DJ, and we run into her in the parking lot. Jacob wastes no time going over to her, insisting she try on his Kamesama—or as I like to refer to it, country gentleman—mask. She does, but to do so for some reason she must remove her shawl, exposing a bare shoulder, which lights up Jacob’s substance-abused body like a pinball machine—he quickly goes over and puts his hand on her, “helping to put it back on.” She backs away, awkwardly laughing while Shinosuke and I tell him in plain English to stop putting his hands on her. Jacob’s a persistent and not particularly observant fellow, though, and so this spectacle carries on for some time, until Shinosuke disappears with his drum and the girl disappears into her own van. Jacob and I stand around, confused, wondering where Shinosuke went and why we weren’t leaving. Meanwhile, the girl re-emerges from her van with the remains of a small bottle of sake, which she offers to Jacob. Maybe he asked for a drink? I wouldn’t be surprised—he’s been asking people to buy him drinks all night. He accepts her kind offer, but I politely decline and head back towards the cabin to find our ride.
Shino’s still sitting outside with his drum. Does he maybe want to go? I ask. No, he’s looking for some whiskey. That’s reassuring, it’s not like you need to be sober to drive back along these narrow mountain roads I think to myself. I could buy another drink, but I’m post-intoxicated and adding any more fuel to that fire would only make me sleepy. Instead, I get the curry and take a seat next to Jacob, who’s talking Baka to Baka with the crazy Nihonjin.
Big mistake. First question to me: “Do you like marijuana? I love marijuana” he confesses in very rough English. He goes on about that for awhile, then starts talking about LSD and microtablets and Mount Fuji. “Microtablets, where!” Jacob keeps pressing him. I try to eat my food and let them talk, but the guy’s English is so bad, Jacob gives up and trots off. I can’t ignore the man across the table from me—he keeps asking me questions, but I can’t understand anything that he’s saying. Something about Mount Fuji, and meters. Finally, he lets out a scream for a good twenty seconds, as I cower and everyone else in the room stares. Jacob comes calling for me from across the room—“Dude, we gotta go.” I scarf down the rest of my meal and run off.
I call shotgun for the second time this evening on the way to the car. Jacob doesn’t hear me though, and calls it two seconds later. “You’re kidding right? I just called it” I inform him. No I didn’t, he says. He fights me for the door, but I easily hold the crazy drunk off. He keeps shouting at me and telling me that he called it twice this evening—that earlier time he’d actually called it, he said, not me. He has the amazing ability to manipulate his memory and truly believe things that never happened, happened. They’re usually the diametric opposites of the truth, too. I’m tired of having to explain reality to this psycho, and Shino keeps telling me not to bother, Jacob’s just a crazy man and he doesn’t want any shouting in his car. He’s a nice guy, doesn’t deserve this kind of shit. Eventually the issue dies down, and I give Jacob Rafa’s setlist later as a peace offering. The ride home is filled with the new Sonic Youth, Afrirampo (who Shino asks if I’ve heard before, and I reply “Yes, I have”—thanks Dugan!) and this band Asa something who sound like, in the words of Jacob, mechanical shouting over the game of Plinko. It’s true, they do. Somehow we don’t fall asleep or get in an accident or anything the ride home, though it is filled with plenty of “Thank you very much—fuck you very much!”es, which is for some reason very funny to us all. As the car pulls up to Ogaki station, our great adventure comes to an end.
Oh yeah, and happy birthday Dad!
October 29, 2009
It’s amazing how culture shock works. A month plus in, I finally feel pretty normal living my everyday life—amazing how normal something totally different can become so quickly! And yet, everyday I am still fascinated with the differences, in the way that’s inspired so many poets; fascination with a simple landscape, with the way people dress and operate; the seeming “normalness” of society that’s often taken so granted is still so unfamiliar, I experience the comfort of routine simultaneously with the everyday spontaneous comparison with my conception of “normal” that just keeps taking place, substituting itself over and over as if the last exploration left no impression at all—a continual fascination with the new even as it slowly ceases to feel novel.
Take the fashionability of so many Japanese, for example. If the average American dresses like a cross between Sports Authority (located a convenient five minutes from my apartment!) and Wal-Mart, the average under 25-something Japanese dresses like a member of the Strokes: perfect recreations of punk and ‘60s rock n roll, put together from the trendiest high-end shops. It’s neat, in that it’s way cooler to be surrounded by pseudo-hipsters than by pseudo-jocks, and the fact that everyone wears pretty awesome boots is interesting, but then you stop and think about it for a second, and there are so many follow-up concepts: the perpetual behind-ness of Japanese culture, the shallow absorption of American “coolness” without any of the ideology or history, the Japanese existence as a pseudo-colony of American capitalism. Even though I see it every single day, it just opens up so many different trains of thought; and it’s like that with almost everything around here: the prevalence of (bad) English, the beauty of the Japanese landscape, the excessive politeness of social rules. It’s really so overwhelming, it’s almost a good thing I can’t understand the language, because my mind is so preoccupied as it is…or perhaps I’m over-Orientalizing as a result of my inability to properly integrate, being unable to fully comprehend my surroundings and what not. Still, everyday arouses such fascination—it’s gone from being scary to being really awesome. I really wish my closest friends would just transplant over here. You can just live, completely free of politics and ignorant rednecks and all the other bullshit that comes with American life. Sure, you’ll step on some toes, break some customs, but the Japanese are so innately submissive and polite, they’ll never tell you and will never make an issue out of it. You really can just kind of do whatever you want, completely detached from the bullshit, free to admire and question and think and just do whatever you want—I write so often now, my mind’s been set free from all the distractions of American life, and the fascination results in constant defamiliarization, and consequently, constant inspiration. It really is pretty amazing. On the other hand, I do sometimes feel like I’m taking the easy way out—like I should be at home, looking for jobs that mean something to me, looking to improve American society rather than living the bubble of a lifestyle I live now, detached from the world around me. It’s constant stimulation, to the point where I start to write about it and I risk getting a headache…
In other news, front page news of the Japan Times (English newspaper round these parts!) was that some famous actress was caught possessing nearly microscopic traces of illegal stimulants, and thousands of people lined up to catch a glimpse of her at her trial and see what would happen. She’s so sorry, she says: I have caused so much trouble against society and so many people around me because of my thoughtless actions, actress Noriko Sakai told the Tokyo District Court. Can you believe that! The idea that actions you do yourself, that affect only yourself, can cause so much “trouble” against society…yet another way Japanese society differs so profoundly from American…and, as usual, I come out with the conception that American society is further along in its intellectual progress. Of course, the garbage and recycling system here, among other aspects of Japanese society, is so much more government-mandated micromanagement of everyday life, it blows America away in its left-leaningness—and I often find it annoying! But there are obvious benefits—I mean, as much as I miss some people in America (and I do), and I miss being able to understand my surroundings, I rarely think “Oh man, America’s the better country to live in.” People say you go to Japan and you never want to come back, and there’s a reason: it’s prettier here; the people are more polite; there’s no crime; there’s nothing short of turkey sandwiches that American society has on Japanese. I’ve even found Italian bread and brie, and Spanish olives with pimentos! Pizza’s way more expensive here, but hey, I’m making real good money, so who cares! Beer’s expensive here too, which is a drag, but I guess now that I have a job, I’d be buying above-barrelbottom beer anyway, so it probably comes out the same.
Anyway, as you can probably tell, one strain of thought just leads to another and pretty soon I’m writing a novel, and I’d rather be writing a new song, so I guess I should just cut it short. But yeah, Japan is really great once you get past the insanity of the entire thing. I really wish maybe ten people from America would just move here with me—you can live perfectly well on this salary, the hours are incredible, and it’s (mostly) rewarding. I do miss the American garage punk scene, but shit, that’s what the internet’s for! And being able to talk to people, but hey—that’s what you guys would be for!
Seriously, what are you waiting for?
Take the fashionability of so many Japanese, for example. If the average American dresses like a cross between Sports Authority (located a convenient five minutes from my apartment!) and Wal-Mart, the average under 25-something Japanese dresses like a member of the Strokes: perfect recreations of punk and ‘60s rock n roll, put together from the trendiest high-end shops. It’s neat, in that it’s way cooler to be surrounded by pseudo-hipsters than by pseudo-jocks, and the fact that everyone wears pretty awesome boots is interesting, but then you stop and think about it for a second, and there are so many follow-up concepts: the perpetual behind-ness of Japanese culture, the shallow absorption of American “coolness” without any of the ideology or history, the Japanese existence as a pseudo-colony of American capitalism. Even though I see it every single day, it just opens up so many different trains of thought; and it’s like that with almost everything around here: the prevalence of (bad) English, the beauty of the Japanese landscape, the excessive politeness of social rules. It’s really so overwhelming, it’s almost a good thing I can’t understand the language, because my mind is so preoccupied as it is…or perhaps I’m over-Orientalizing as a result of my inability to properly integrate, being unable to fully comprehend my surroundings and what not. Still, everyday arouses such fascination—it’s gone from being scary to being really awesome. I really wish my closest friends would just transplant over here. You can just live, completely free of politics and ignorant rednecks and all the other bullshit that comes with American life. Sure, you’ll step on some toes, break some customs, but the Japanese are so innately submissive and polite, they’ll never tell you and will never make an issue out of it. You really can just kind of do whatever you want, completely detached from the bullshit, free to admire and question and think and just do whatever you want—I write so often now, my mind’s been set free from all the distractions of American life, and the fascination results in constant defamiliarization, and consequently, constant inspiration. It really is pretty amazing. On the other hand, I do sometimes feel like I’m taking the easy way out—like I should be at home, looking for jobs that mean something to me, looking to improve American society rather than living the bubble of a lifestyle I live now, detached from the world around me. It’s constant stimulation, to the point where I start to write about it and I risk getting a headache…
In other news, front page news of the Japan Times (English newspaper round these parts!) was that some famous actress was caught possessing nearly microscopic traces of illegal stimulants, and thousands of people lined up to catch a glimpse of her at her trial and see what would happen. She’s so sorry, she says: I have caused so much trouble against society and so many people around me because of my thoughtless actions, actress Noriko Sakai told the Tokyo District Court. Can you believe that! The idea that actions you do yourself, that affect only yourself, can cause so much “trouble” against society…yet another way Japanese society differs so profoundly from American…and, as usual, I come out with the conception that American society is further along in its intellectual progress. Of course, the garbage and recycling system here, among other aspects of Japanese society, is so much more government-mandated micromanagement of everyday life, it blows America away in its left-leaningness—and I often find it annoying! But there are obvious benefits—I mean, as much as I miss some people in America (and I do), and I miss being able to understand my surroundings, I rarely think “Oh man, America’s the better country to live in.” People say you go to Japan and you never want to come back, and there’s a reason: it’s prettier here; the people are more polite; there’s no crime; there’s nothing short of turkey sandwiches that American society has on Japanese. I’ve even found Italian bread and brie, and Spanish olives with pimentos! Pizza’s way more expensive here, but hey, I’m making real good money, so who cares! Beer’s expensive here too, which is a drag, but I guess now that I have a job, I’d be buying above-barrelbottom beer anyway, so it probably comes out the same.
Anyway, as you can probably tell, one strain of thought just leads to another and pretty soon I’m writing a novel, and I’d rather be writing a new song, so I guess I should just cut it short. But yeah, Japan is really great once you get past the insanity of the entire thing. I really wish maybe ten people from America would just move here with me—you can live perfectly well on this salary, the hours are incredible, and it’s (mostly) rewarding. I do miss the American garage punk scene, but shit, that’s what the internet’s for! And being able to talk to people, but hey—that’s what you guys would be for!
Seriously, what are you waiting for?
October 27, 2009
So normally I have two classes each on Monday and Tuesday, at different schools, rotating each week for a total of eight different schools a month (then repeat). But today, one of those classes was cancelled due to swine flu—it’s a big deal over here, people wear masks all the time (and oh yeah, we have to too while we’re at work, which is not only hot and annoying but completely asinine, considering we’re paid explicitly to help kids pronounce English correctly, which is impossible to do through a mask—but I digress). Anyway, classes keep getting cancelled at their public schools, which translates into absent students and entire cancelled classes for us (we’re an after school juku, or “cram school,” for those who don’t know).
So one of my classes was cancelled, which is pretty nice. And I got some new speakers, which is also a plus, and a tambourine too. On the negative side, however, my computer no longer seems to read my USB ports at all, and has trouble even performing basic operations. Which means I may lose this entire log if my computer can’t hold out another month, when my internet kicks in, or the USB ports don’t come back online. Cross your fingers!
On an unrelated note, Japan is now celebrating Christmas. This means mangled light displays and Christmas music at various malls. And I thought America started early! I guess without Halloween or Thanksgiving in the way, might as well start now…
So one of my classes was cancelled, which is pretty nice. And I got some new speakers, which is also a plus, and a tambourine too. On the negative side, however, my computer no longer seems to read my USB ports at all, and has trouble even performing basic operations. Which means I may lose this entire log if my computer can’t hold out another month, when my internet kicks in, or the USB ports don’t come back online. Cross your fingers!
On an unrelated note, Japan is now celebrating Christmas. This means mangled light displays and Christmas music at various malls. And I thought America started early! I guess without Halloween or Thanksgiving in the way, might as well start now…
October 26, 2009
Crazy weekend. Halloween party setup sorta killed Saturday night, and by the end of the party I was exhausted—seriously, more tiring than class, running around with kids from 10:30 to 4:30 and dealing with Blood Type A coworkers (what a great Japanese phrase that is—a nicer way of saying obnoxiously anal retentive). I borrowed a pair of $1 aviators and wore this black biker-looking jacket I picked up for $7 the other day with some black jeans and a T-shirt and went as James Dean/generic biker bad ass, but the Japanese recognized me as the Terminator and Michael Jackson, so I guess those work too. Should’ve brought some big guns, that would’ve really put a tear in some kindergartners’ eyes.
After that, we went out to eat for Joanna’s goodbye dinner/my welcome dinner. It was me and the American teachers and our Japanese coteachers, as well as a couple of our bosses. One guy, Dai, he’s so funny, the most awkward guy alive but he’s so easy to hang with. Apparently he shaved his recently because it was falling out (you can see the spots in the grow back), and likes to get drunk but, like the rest of the Japanese teachers, I’ve yet to see it (but boy would I like to). Well, the American teachers drank for them. We had like a 6-course traditional Japanese meal served by old women in kimonos, with lots of ebi (shrimp) with their heads still on, and when you snap them off the dark red ooze runs out of their cranial cavities. Mmm.
Dinner was fun, and it was soon off to Garuda, big boss Hide’s favorite bar (he’s the only Japanese Shimon employee who drinks). I took cell phone pictures all the way on my bike, soaring in pretty high spirits, but I was the last one there and ended up sitting on the edge of the table with Jacob, who was particularly noxious that night and quickly ruined my night with some choice incendiary attacks. Combined with a rebuke from Matt after trying to talk exercise with him—everyone thinks they fucking know it all and get so mad when you try to discuss otherwise, like fatass fucking Matt with a stick in his prick trying to tell me he knows more about sit ups than I do—I sat biting my tongue the rest of night, stewing over how much I disliked my companions and how much I’d kill to be back in Chicago. Seriously, I know that part of my life is over and it’s not like I could ever go back to it anyway, but I miss everyone out there, I’d trade the company any day of the week to get my bests out here with me. If nothing else, just to talk to people with some goddamn open minds.
After that Matt, Joanna, Kyle and I ended up going to karaoke, despite an intense desire to not go on my part. I decided to just get as shitfaced as I could instead, and use the opportunity for musical catharsis. Fortunately, this worked out pretty well: Stone Temple Pilots’ “Lush”, The Kinks’ “Sunny Afternoon”, Lou Reed’s “Take A Walk on the Wild Side”—by the end I was even singing some sentimental favorites like “One More Time” and the Doobies’ “Black Water”. Not as great as some certain Cape Cod singalongs, but a spirit lifter nonetheless.
Woke up this morning in a still-drunk haze; talked with Caroline for a half hour while reheating coffee from the night before on the stove, then I had to rush off to meet Jacob and some Japanese Shimon people at 11 to discuss some English Festival stuff, which is coming up in December (it’s always something round these parts). Turns out they wanted us to dance to the Locomotion, mimicking some boy band on a cell phone commercial. Sounds awful, but it’s way better than I expected. It’s no “Thriller” (my suggestion, MJRIP) but it’ll still be a lot of fun. Learning it for two point five hours in a sweater in a stuffy room half-hungover, however, was not so enjoyable.
Went home, ate some kimchi for lunch and went to work. Came home and ate a whole loaf of Italian bread and the rest of my brie for dinner. Set to exercise and watch a copy of Butch Cassidy I borrowed from Jacob. Another day, another…yen?
After that, we went out to eat for Joanna’s goodbye dinner/my welcome dinner. It was me and the American teachers and our Japanese coteachers, as well as a couple of our bosses. One guy, Dai, he’s so funny, the most awkward guy alive but he’s so easy to hang with. Apparently he shaved his recently because it was falling out (you can see the spots in the grow back), and likes to get drunk but, like the rest of the Japanese teachers, I’ve yet to see it (but boy would I like to). Well, the American teachers drank for them. We had like a 6-course traditional Japanese meal served by old women in kimonos, with lots of ebi (shrimp) with their heads still on, and when you snap them off the dark red ooze runs out of their cranial cavities. Mmm.
Dinner was fun, and it was soon off to Garuda, big boss Hide’s favorite bar (he’s the only Japanese Shimon employee who drinks). I took cell phone pictures all the way on my bike, soaring in pretty high spirits, but I was the last one there and ended up sitting on the edge of the table with Jacob, who was particularly noxious that night and quickly ruined my night with some choice incendiary attacks. Combined with a rebuke from Matt after trying to talk exercise with him—everyone thinks they fucking know it all and get so mad when you try to discuss otherwise, like fatass fucking Matt with a stick in his prick trying to tell me he knows more about sit ups than I do—I sat biting my tongue the rest of night, stewing over how much I disliked my companions and how much I’d kill to be back in Chicago. Seriously, I know that part of my life is over and it’s not like I could ever go back to it anyway, but I miss everyone out there, I’d trade the company any day of the week to get my bests out here with me. If nothing else, just to talk to people with some goddamn open minds.
After that Matt, Joanna, Kyle and I ended up going to karaoke, despite an intense desire to not go on my part. I decided to just get as shitfaced as I could instead, and use the opportunity for musical catharsis. Fortunately, this worked out pretty well: Stone Temple Pilots’ “Lush”, The Kinks’ “Sunny Afternoon”, Lou Reed’s “Take A Walk on the Wild Side”—by the end I was even singing some sentimental favorites like “One More Time” and the Doobies’ “Black Water”. Not as great as some certain Cape Cod singalongs, but a spirit lifter nonetheless.
Woke up this morning in a still-drunk haze; talked with Caroline for a half hour while reheating coffee from the night before on the stove, then I had to rush off to meet Jacob and some Japanese Shimon people at 11 to discuss some English Festival stuff, which is coming up in December (it’s always something round these parts). Turns out they wanted us to dance to the Locomotion, mimicking some boy band on a cell phone commercial. Sounds awful, but it’s way better than I expected. It’s no “Thriller” (my suggestion, MJRIP) but it’ll still be a lot of fun. Learning it for two point five hours in a sweater in a stuffy room half-hungover, however, was not so enjoyable.
Went home, ate some kimchi for lunch and went to work. Came home and ate a whole loaf of Italian bread and the rest of my brie for dinner. Set to exercise and watch a copy of Butch Cassidy I borrowed from Jacob. Another day, another…yen?
October 23, 2009
Eating bread and brie and reading Dos Passos alone on a Friday night (and of course, you know, drinking). It is vastly inferior to brie I had stateside, and as lovely as reading Dos Passos is, I’d much rather spend the time playing cribbage with a certain someone back in the States.
Loneliness has crept on me the past few days—I can still keep it at bay with books and music (I’ve been writing about a song a day this past week), but you never can tell where it will go. I enjoy my lifestyle, and the solitary nature of it, for the most part; for the first time in my life, I feel productive. At the same time, especially after a long week of work, it’s kind of a drag to come home to…the same few things in my little apartment by myself every day.
Also, I was supposed to get paid today, but didn’t, so that’s kind of a bummer. Transferred some more money from America, which is a joke because you get burned by the exchange rate and burned again by the fees. Work is much more difficult when you realize you’re essentially doing it pro bono.
Practice tomorrow afternoon though should be good. And I hope I get to talk to people from home again. I always squander my chances being drunk or not knowing what to say at the right time. If I could just talk to someone right now, on my own computer…instead, I guess I’ll go buy some more beer and read some more Dos Passos (seriously, the USA trilogy is the greatest) and leisurely enjoy the rest of my Friday night. Lord knows tomorrow night I have to go back to work to set up for the Halloween party.
Sweet life.
Loneliness has crept on me the past few days—I can still keep it at bay with books and music (I’ve been writing about a song a day this past week), but you never can tell where it will go. I enjoy my lifestyle, and the solitary nature of it, for the most part; for the first time in my life, I feel productive. At the same time, especially after a long week of work, it’s kind of a drag to come home to…the same few things in my little apartment by myself every day.
Also, I was supposed to get paid today, but didn’t, so that’s kind of a bummer. Transferred some more money from America, which is a joke because you get burned by the exchange rate and burned again by the fees. Work is much more difficult when you realize you’re essentially doing it pro bono.
Practice tomorrow afternoon though should be good. And I hope I get to talk to people from home again. I always squander my chances being drunk or not knowing what to say at the right time. If I could just talk to someone right now, on my own computer…instead, I guess I’ll go buy some more beer and read some more Dos Passos (seriously, the USA trilogy is the greatest) and leisurely enjoy the rest of my Friday night. Lord knows tomorrow night I have to go back to work to set up for the Halloween party.
Sweet life.
October 19, 2009
Another solid weekend. Friday I took it easy, went over with Jacob to Kyle’s place and played old school video games on his Wii. Punch Out, Sonic 2, Mega Man 3, Street Fighter 2. Kyle kicked our asses, natch. But it was fun.
Saturday all us American teachers, one of the Japanese teachers, Izumi, and Joanna’s sister and her husband went out to Nagoya. Actually, Jacob and I went with Dak to Nagoya first, where I ate some pepper steak on a stick (delicious) and we walked blocks and blocks inside a giant-ass mall; I mean, I literally forgot I was indoors by the end of it. Bunch of restaurants and shops and even a Buddhist temple inside. They just built the damn mall around the temple! Needless to say, not my favorite place in Japan.
After that, Jacob and I went over to Sakae, the main entertainment district in Nagoya. We grabbed a drink at an English pub (fish and chips style, big gaijin hangout) but it was so crowded, we didn’t stay very long. Just long enough to cram ourselves between a guy sitting at a table doodling circles up and down in his journal while bobbing his head to some soundless mental rhythm, and a sketchy white dude with dreadlocks crammed up inside his baseball cap, shifty-eyed and all dressed in black talking to some Japanese guys in suits—probably their dealer or something. Oh, and we watched the Dragons take on some other team in Japanese baseball, where the infield and the outfield are completely undifferentiated—just neon green Astroturf checkered with white bases. Then we left.
We moseyed our way over to a beautiful fountain, water running over three big ovular discs and shooting up in the center in spouts surrounding some pseudo-Greek statue. I tried to catch eyes with a girl posing on the ledge for a bunch of photographers, but to no avail. From there we headed to the Nagoya Needle in Central Park, this big Eiffel-looking radio tower in the middle of a beautiful, very European-looking park with trees and a stream and what not. But perhaps I only say it’s European looking because apparently the Champs Elysees Association (or whatever their official name is) worked with Nagoya to create it back in 1990. Weird.
After, Jacob and I headed to a coffee shop to further discuss whether or not free will/choice exists or not, much to the chagrin of any English speakers around us—thankfully, hardly anyone. We also talked loudly about a woman smoking a cigarette at the table next to us (you can smoke indoors in Japan), because Jacob hates smoking and you start to think nobody can understand what you’re saying and it doesn’t matter (whether or not that’s true is anybody’s guess—the Japanese would never say anything to you regardless). Joanna and her posse rolled up shortly thereafter, and we hauled our asses out of that joint before offending too many people (I hope).
Next stop: Yakiniku. For those who don’t know, it’s apparently a Korean-originated meal where you get a bunch of plates of raw meat and cook them yourself. So we all got some beers and plates of chicken and beef, in body parts ranging from tongue to intestine, and a bowl of rice and some seaweed soup, all of which was delicious, except the intestine which was really chewy and kind of disgusting. But I sucked it up (aha, get it!)
…
After that we went back to the English pub that Jacob and I had hit up earlier and we all had a drink before Michael, Matt and Izumi bounced to catch the last train back to Ogaki (or in Izumi’s case, Gifu). Jacob had left yakiniku early to head back to Gifu, so soon it was just me, Joanna and her crew—they said I could crash on their floor after her sister left for the airport around 4am, which sounded solid to me. So around 11:30 we hit up a cheap karaoke bar, the four of us, and spend an hour doing that. Then Gabe and Dave head back to their hotel to catch some Zs. Me and Joanna hung around for another hour though, singing some ‘70s greats and the one and only Garth Brooks.
It was around 2 or so when we headed out of there, a bit liquored up thanks to the unlimited chu-hi we’d been provided. But hey, we had until 4 (Joanna was a real sweetheart for staying out with me), so we checked out the pub once again, which was still rockin’, though slightly less so, so we were able to get a table up in front. I had a couple Guinness and she kicked back a Guinness and a house original cocktail (some fruity blue drink with lots of ice and an orange), and we discussed life in Japan and life post-Japan and work life and school life and life in general. Then it was 4am and we decided to get some food and then head back to the hotel.
The Subway and Denny’s were closed, so we had to settle for Japanese food, big bowls of ramen at a nearby ramen shop (apparently Japanese restaurants stay open real late, even around here in Ogaki—sometimes they don’t even open until midnight or so). We devoured that, and with stomachs full after our early bird breakfast, made our way to the hotel. We knocked on the door. No response. We knocked again. No response.
Had her sister already left for the airport? She had to get up at 4, and had planned to leave around 5—it was around 5 now. But Dave would still be in there. So we kept knocking, and eventually Gabe came to the door and let us in. Gabe, who was supposed to be catching her plane in an hour. She had set her alarm to wake her up at 4am—American time. Oops! She darted into the bathroom and fixed herself up real quick, was out in the door in 15. Then I curled my coat around me and passed out on the floor.
Morning was uneventful, save for the “No Smoking in Bed” sign posted on the wall of the tiny hotel room. I’d have a picture to show, except my phone was too low on battery to take pictures. Wa waaaa.
We checked out at 10 and said goodbye to Dave, put him on a subway and decided to stroll for a bit on this beautiful sunny day. We observed some public sculpture, the fountain and the park. Meanwhile, big black trucks with Japanese flags on them rolled around us blaring nationalist music. Joanna tried to snap a picture while I contemplated whether we had magically transported back to 1945, but her camera died, so we said to hell with photos and continued our journey.
It ended up at Central Park (Nagoya, not NY) where some Special Olympics-type event was taking place. Many vendors were set up around the park hawking goods for charity, and at the insistence of older Japanese women I sipped green tea and sampled a piece of carrot covered in spices. Then we got some coffee and just sat down and took in the sights for awhile. A man handed us a flyer which we think may have indicated some benefit walk to take place in an hour or so, and while it would have been neat to see the city and show our support, we ultimately decided to head home instead.
I took a 90 minute nap later that day—purely accidentally timed, but further proof that sleep occurs in 90 minute cycles and should be kept to such intervals—followed by band practice with Jacob and our friend Jen. My $40 ‘80s Casio combined forces with their two violins for a few hours of surprisingly melodic music making, complete with tape recording. A quality finish to a quality weekend.
Saturday all us American teachers, one of the Japanese teachers, Izumi, and Joanna’s sister and her husband went out to Nagoya. Actually, Jacob and I went with Dak to Nagoya first, where I ate some pepper steak on a stick (delicious) and we walked blocks and blocks inside a giant-ass mall; I mean, I literally forgot I was indoors by the end of it. Bunch of restaurants and shops and even a Buddhist temple inside. They just built the damn mall around the temple! Needless to say, not my favorite place in Japan.
After that, Jacob and I went over to Sakae, the main entertainment district in Nagoya. We grabbed a drink at an English pub (fish and chips style, big gaijin hangout) but it was so crowded, we didn’t stay very long. Just long enough to cram ourselves between a guy sitting at a table doodling circles up and down in his journal while bobbing his head to some soundless mental rhythm, and a sketchy white dude with dreadlocks crammed up inside his baseball cap, shifty-eyed and all dressed in black talking to some Japanese guys in suits—probably their dealer or something. Oh, and we watched the Dragons take on some other team in Japanese baseball, where the infield and the outfield are completely undifferentiated—just neon green Astroturf checkered with white bases. Then we left.
We moseyed our way over to a beautiful fountain, water running over three big ovular discs and shooting up in the center in spouts surrounding some pseudo-Greek statue. I tried to catch eyes with a girl posing on the ledge for a bunch of photographers, but to no avail. From there we headed to the Nagoya Needle in Central Park, this big Eiffel-looking radio tower in the middle of a beautiful, very European-looking park with trees and a stream and what not. But perhaps I only say it’s European looking because apparently the Champs Elysees Association (or whatever their official name is) worked with Nagoya to create it back in 1990. Weird.
After, Jacob and I headed to a coffee shop to further discuss whether or not free will/choice exists or not, much to the chagrin of any English speakers around us—thankfully, hardly anyone. We also talked loudly about a woman smoking a cigarette at the table next to us (you can smoke indoors in Japan), because Jacob hates smoking and you start to think nobody can understand what you’re saying and it doesn’t matter (whether or not that’s true is anybody’s guess—the Japanese would never say anything to you regardless). Joanna and her posse rolled up shortly thereafter, and we hauled our asses out of that joint before offending too many people (I hope).
Next stop: Yakiniku. For those who don’t know, it’s apparently a Korean-originated meal where you get a bunch of plates of raw meat and cook them yourself. So we all got some beers and plates of chicken and beef, in body parts ranging from tongue to intestine, and a bowl of rice and some seaweed soup, all of which was delicious, except the intestine which was really chewy and kind of disgusting. But I sucked it up (aha, get it!)
…
After that we went back to the English pub that Jacob and I had hit up earlier and we all had a drink before Michael, Matt and Izumi bounced to catch the last train back to Ogaki (or in Izumi’s case, Gifu). Jacob had left yakiniku early to head back to Gifu, so soon it was just me, Joanna and her crew—they said I could crash on their floor after her sister left for the airport around 4am, which sounded solid to me. So around 11:30 we hit up a cheap karaoke bar, the four of us, and spend an hour doing that. Then Gabe and Dave head back to their hotel to catch some Zs. Me and Joanna hung around for another hour though, singing some ‘70s greats and the one and only Garth Brooks.
It was around 2 or so when we headed out of there, a bit liquored up thanks to the unlimited chu-hi we’d been provided. But hey, we had until 4 (Joanna was a real sweetheart for staying out with me), so we checked out the pub once again, which was still rockin’, though slightly less so, so we were able to get a table up in front. I had a couple Guinness and she kicked back a Guinness and a house original cocktail (some fruity blue drink with lots of ice and an orange), and we discussed life in Japan and life post-Japan and work life and school life and life in general. Then it was 4am and we decided to get some food and then head back to the hotel.
The Subway and Denny’s were closed, so we had to settle for Japanese food, big bowls of ramen at a nearby ramen shop (apparently Japanese restaurants stay open real late, even around here in Ogaki—sometimes they don’t even open until midnight or so). We devoured that, and with stomachs full after our early bird breakfast, made our way to the hotel. We knocked on the door. No response. We knocked again. No response.
Had her sister already left for the airport? She had to get up at 4, and had planned to leave around 5—it was around 5 now. But Dave would still be in there. So we kept knocking, and eventually Gabe came to the door and let us in. Gabe, who was supposed to be catching her plane in an hour. She had set her alarm to wake her up at 4am—American time. Oops! She darted into the bathroom and fixed herself up real quick, was out in the door in 15. Then I curled my coat around me and passed out on the floor.
Morning was uneventful, save for the “No Smoking in Bed” sign posted on the wall of the tiny hotel room. I’d have a picture to show, except my phone was too low on battery to take pictures. Wa waaaa.
We checked out at 10 and said goodbye to Dave, put him on a subway and decided to stroll for a bit on this beautiful sunny day. We observed some public sculpture, the fountain and the park. Meanwhile, big black trucks with Japanese flags on them rolled around us blaring nationalist music. Joanna tried to snap a picture while I contemplated whether we had magically transported back to 1945, but her camera died, so we said to hell with photos and continued our journey.
It ended up at Central Park (Nagoya, not NY) where some Special Olympics-type event was taking place. Many vendors were set up around the park hawking goods for charity, and at the insistence of older Japanese women I sipped green tea and sampled a piece of carrot covered in spices. Then we got some coffee and just sat down and took in the sights for awhile. A man handed us a flyer which we think may have indicated some benefit walk to take place in an hour or so, and while it would have been neat to see the city and show our support, we ultimately decided to head home instead.
I took a 90 minute nap later that day—purely accidentally timed, but further proof that sleep occurs in 90 minute cycles and should be kept to such intervals—followed by band practice with Jacob and our friend Jen. My $40 ‘80s Casio combined forces with their two violins for a few hours of surprisingly melodic music making, complete with tape recording. A quality finish to a quality weekend.
October 15, 2009
Last night I dreamt I was in Ireland. I’ve never been to Ireland, and it probably doesn’t look like this did, so I don’t know why it was Ireland in particular in the dream but it was. There was a beautiful lake in front of a mountain, and I really wanted to go swimming in it. But I realized I had left my rings sitting someplace, because for some reason in my dream I wore a whole bunch of skull rings and a Class of 2009 ring. Someone had stolen the latter. So I went around trying to find out whodunnit. My brother told me it was Andrew. Andrew Low, from my elementary school, I think it was. Anyway, I eventually gave up the search and decided to go swimming before it got too dark, because the sun was going down. There was still a little bit of light when I got there—but the water was draining out of the lake. I ran across the wet rock to the very bottom, where there was still some water, and let it rush over my ankles. Then I woke up.
P.S. There was also a radio station across from my room that specialized in reggae. What does it all mean? I don’t know.
P.S. There was also a radio station across from my room that specialized in reggae. What does it all mean? I don’t know.
October 12, 2009
Been a long time since posting. Essentially, training the last two weeks took up all of my time and energy, culminating in my first two days of solo teaching. Day one went better than expected; day two not so much. Day three is today…cross your fingers! Giving a test to some older students, too – ay carumba.
Saturday I picked up a keyboard for about $40, an old Casio 210 sound Tone Bank with great ‘80s aquamarine and blue stylings. A steal! And Jacob got a real nice looking record player for $50. Both came from this used goods store called Hard Off (hee hee), where Japanese people unload their old stuff simply because it’s old, and thrifty Americans can pick them up for super cheap. Apparently the same mentality doesn’t work for clothes though, since we checked out a different thrift store and they were pretty expensive. Still, I picked up a blue and red plaid shirt for seven bucks, and a black pseudo-biker jacket for nine. Being a little bit bigger than most Japanese is a blessing—finally, I can reap the rewards of passed-over clothing!
That night we went back over to Kyle’s and ordered pizza with Joanna and Michael and Kyle (of course) and his wife. Pizza’s expensive here! Like 30 bucks a large. Beer too, though I found an 8% beer that goes for about 6 bucks a 6-pack, so—though it tastes pretty rank—at least it’s a good bang for your buck. And we all got drunk playing Circle of Death, which was probably silly considering we all had to get up early Sunday to partake in the legendary Ogaki Festival.
Sunday Morning. Jacob, Michael and I meet up here at the apartments at 10:30, to get to Ogaki Castle by 11. But Jacob needs gloves—he swears Kyle said we should bring gloves. Michael and I heard nothing of the sort, so while we debate the validity of this statement Jacob runs off to the grocery store. We follow him a little ways, then, short on time, we ditch him and head to the castle ourselves.
Jacob quickly caught up, so we all biked over, arriving just about 11 on the nose. We’re introduced to Dave, Joanna’s brother-in-law, who’s been in Japan for two days but has been sucked into participating. Kyle shows us all where to get our traditional garb.
Our uniform consists of a faded navy tunic with white circles on the back; a white bandanna with the circle design in blue; a sash with a maroon rectangular pattern on it; white Puma short-shorts (I’m pretty sure they didn’t wear Puma in ancient times!); and shin-high white traditional Japanese boot/shoes, with the split between the big toe and the other toes.
We all got fitted—30cm. shoes here—and, in our new stylish duds, began throwing back mini cans of Kirin Ichiban, which tastes much better here, where it’s not bottled by Anheuser Busch. We’re also treated to o-nigiri (little rice balls wrapped in seaweed, with sour plum or tuna and mayonnaise (yech) or other meats inside) and what looks and tastes curiously like deep fried hash browns.
We can see other groups mulling around, in different uniforms. We apparently represent the group that maintains the shrine that we’ll be foisting on our shoulders and parading around the town with. Most other groups represent local companies; you can tell them apart because they wear sneakers and T-shirts underneath their tunics. We objectively look the best.
After what feels like forever (and two trips to the porta-john, which houses a Japanese-style squatter in one half, and a urinal in an open side on the left, so everyone can watch you pee), we are finally summoned before the priests, which begin holding the opening ceremony, which we in the back can neither see nor hear. But we try to keep up with occasional clapping, and respect the moments of silence. Then we get in line for a bowl of sake and a piece of squid jerky, and it’s time to start the parade!
It’s not so bad at first. We swap places, so the tallest guys are arranged in the front and the shortest in the back, so we all feel the weight on our shoulders. Jacob is still too short, but it’s not his fault: the gaijin float (or foreigners’ float, as we’re commonly known as, filled with Americans and Canadians with the exception of Hiro, a Japanese friend of ours) has some of the biggest men around: Peter, who looks like a surfing teacher (and Russell Crowe, as Dave kept pointing out); Jerry, a big kindergarten teacher with a huge red beard; Deryk, another big kindergarten teacher, sans beard; and a few others. Dave’s bigger than most of the Shimon people, too, with the exception of Matt. Michael, Kyle and I are tall, but scrawny. But what we lack in strength, we make up for in spirit and alcohol consumption.
Parading in the streets is fun. We shout “Washoi!” over and over the entire time, a phrase that apparently means nothing. I pump my fist in rhythm, and occasionally get the Japanese to join in on the terrorist fist jabbing. They all come out on the main streets to watch, taking pictures and video. TV guys are there. We raise our shrine up and shake it, shouting and cheering—we get so into it that the mystical golden birds atop it begin falling off. By the end, our shrine would be in pretty lousy condition; bells missing, the hanging golden plates coming off their hooks, mystical birds coming loose. It seems to be expected of us though, and nobody seems upset.
The first couple stops held no beer, which riled us a little bit and led to fears that the alcoholic component of the festival had been shelved. Usually, we stop outside little shops who provide us with treats and drinks, later to be reimbursed by the city. The same took place this year, though the route was changed, so we didn’t hit them up until later in the journey.
Among the better foods provided was squid jerky, which was much better than the stuff we ate at the beginning of the ceremony. We were also given ice cream, and weird hollow tubes of fish that looked like rubbery old bones with the marrow sucked out.
We finished the parade a little before 5—five hours. After dropping the shrines off at their starting places, we gathered around what looked like jousting platforms arranged by Ogaki Castle (alas, there was no jousting, much to my dismay). Instead, men atop began throwing motchi balls, creating a frenzy among the peoples below. Apparently, getting one is lucky. They seemed to throw a ton, but I only caught one—and by “caught” I mean scraped off the ground. Thankfully, they were wrapped in plastic, protected from the sandstorm that the people kicked up. It was a strange sight to see, like peasants scrambling for handouts from their wealthy overlords. Maybe in days of future passed…
The banquet was to start at 6—or so we thought. To pass the time, we bought some more beer (which we could drink outside, thanks to Japan’s nonexistent open container laws) and waited. Dave had gone home to shower, and never returned—Joanna informed us that he’d passed out. The rest of us made our way to the banquet hall at 6, only to find everyone already inside! It had started at 5.
No big though—lots of food still to be had. Tonkatsu (fried pork cutlets), tomatoes, rice balls, assorted fish stuffs. Lots of beer. Older, dignified-looking Japanese men would try to speak to me, but we couldn’t really understand each other. Maybe they got my name, though apparently “Shon” in Japanese means taking a piss, so who knows. They understood the kanpeis though (The word “kanpei” is said during toasts). And when they showed me a piece of paper saying “Thank you for your help, I hope you will join again next year” in English, I vigorously nodded my head and smiled. Hai!
Apparently when the Japanese drink, they drink. I hadn’t really witnessed this yet, and even at the banquet, they seemed a little looser than usual, but there weren’t much crazy drunken antics, with the exception of Kyle’s wife’s boss, who stood up and showed off his junk for some reason. And in the presence of women! A strange society, indeed.
By 8ish, we were all pretty drunk and tired. We rolled out and biked home, and I immediately passed out and slept for the next 12 hours.
Saturday I picked up a keyboard for about $40, an old Casio 210 sound Tone Bank with great ‘80s aquamarine and blue stylings. A steal! And Jacob got a real nice looking record player for $50. Both came from this used goods store called Hard Off (hee hee), where Japanese people unload their old stuff simply because it’s old, and thrifty Americans can pick them up for super cheap. Apparently the same mentality doesn’t work for clothes though, since we checked out a different thrift store and they were pretty expensive. Still, I picked up a blue and red plaid shirt for seven bucks, and a black pseudo-biker jacket for nine. Being a little bit bigger than most Japanese is a blessing—finally, I can reap the rewards of passed-over clothing!
That night we went back over to Kyle’s and ordered pizza with Joanna and Michael and Kyle (of course) and his wife. Pizza’s expensive here! Like 30 bucks a large. Beer too, though I found an 8% beer that goes for about 6 bucks a 6-pack, so—though it tastes pretty rank—at least it’s a good bang for your buck. And we all got drunk playing Circle of Death, which was probably silly considering we all had to get up early Sunday to partake in the legendary Ogaki Festival.
Sunday Morning. Jacob, Michael and I meet up here at the apartments at 10:30, to get to Ogaki Castle by 11. But Jacob needs gloves—he swears Kyle said we should bring gloves. Michael and I heard nothing of the sort, so while we debate the validity of this statement Jacob runs off to the grocery store. We follow him a little ways, then, short on time, we ditch him and head to the castle ourselves.
Jacob quickly caught up, so we all biked over, arriving just about 11 on the nose. We’re introduced to Dave, Joanna’s brother-in-law, who’s been in Japan for two days but has been sucked into participating. Kyle shows us all where to get our traditional garb.
Our uniform consists of a faded navy tunic with white circles on the back; a white bandanna with the circle design in blue; a sash with a maroon rectangular pattern on it; white Puma short-shorts (I’m pretty sure they didn’t wear Puma in ancient times!); and shin-high white traditional Japanese boot/shoes, with the split between the big toe and the other toes.
We all got fitted—30cm. shoes here—and, in our new stylish duds, began throwing back mini cans of Kirin Ichiban, which tastes much better here, where it’s not bottled by Anheuser Busch. We’re also treated to o-nigiri (little rice balls wrapped in seaweed, with sour plum or tuna and mayonnaise (yech) or other meats inside) and what looks and tastes curiously like deep fried hash browns.
We can see other groups mulling around, in different uniforms. We apparently represent the group that maintains the shrine that we’ll be foisting on our shoulders and parading around the town with. Most other groups represent local companies; you can tell them apart because they wear sneakers and T-shirts underneath their tunics. We objectively look the best.
After what feels like forever (and two trips to the porta-john, which houses a Japanese-style squatter in one half, and a urinal in an open side on the left, so everyone can watch you pee), we are finally summoned before the priests, which begin holding the opening ceremony, which we in the back can neither see nor hear. But we try to keep up with occasional clapping, and respect the moments of silence. Then we get in line for a bowl of sake and a piece of squid jerky, and it’s time to start the parade!
It’s not so bad at first. We swap places, so the tallest guys are arranged in the front and the shortest in the back, so we all feel the weight on our shoulders. Jacob is still too short, but it’s not his fault: the gaijin float (or foreigners’ float, as we’re commonly known as, filled with Americans and Canadians with the exception of Hiro, a Japanese friend of ours) has some of the biggest men around: Peter, who looks like a surfing teacher (and Russell Crowe, as Dave kept pointing out); Jerry, a big kindergarten teacher with a huge red beard; Deryk, another big kindergarten teacher, sans beard; and a few others. Dave’s bigger than most of the Shimon people, too, with the exception of Matt. Michael, Kyle and I are tall, but scrawny. But what we lack in strength, we make up for in spirit and alcohol consumption.
Parading in the streets is fun. We shout “Washoi!” over and over the entire time, a phrase that apparently means nothing. I pump my fist in rhythm, and occasionally get the Japanese to join in on the terrorist fist jabbing. They all come out on the main streets to watch, taking pictures and video. TV guys are there. We raise our shrine up and shake it, shouting and cheering—we get so into it that the mystical golden birds atop it begin falling off. By the end, our shrine would be in pretty lousy condition; bells missing, the hanging golden plates coming off their hooks, mystical birds coming loose. It seems to be expected of us though, and nobody seems upset.
The first couple stops held no beer, which riled us a little bit and led to fears that the alcoholic component of the festival had been shelved. Usually, we stop outside little shops who provide us with treats and drinks, later to be reimbursed by the city. The same took place this year, though the route was changed, so we didn’t hit them up until later in the journey.
Among the better foods provided was squid jerky, which was much better than the stuff we ate at the beginning of the ceremony. We were also given ice cream, and weird hollow tubes of fish that looked like rubbery old bones with the marrow sucked out.
We finished the parade a little before 5—five hours. After dropping the shrines off at their starting places, we gathered around what looked like jousting platforms arranged by Ogaki Castle (alas, there was no jousting, much to my dismay). Instead, men atop began throwing motchi balls, creating a frenzy among the peoples below. Apparently, getting one is lucky. They seemed to throw a ton, but I only caught one—and by “caught” I mean scraped off the ground. Thankfully, they were wrapped in plastic, protected from the sandstorm that the people kicked up. It was a strange sight to see, like peasants scrambling for handouts from their wealthy overlords. Maybe in days of future passed…
The banquet was to start at 6—or so we thought. To pass the time, we bought some more beer (which we could drink outside, thanks to Japan’s nonexistent open container laws) and waited. Dave had gone home to shower, and never returned—Joanna informed us that he’d passed out. The rest of us made our way to the banquet hall at 6, only to find everyone already inside! It had started at 5.
No big though—lots of food still to be had. Tonkatsu (fried pork cutlets), tomatoes, rice balls, assorted fish stuffs. Lots of beer. Older, dignified-looking Japanese men would try to speak to me, but we couldn’t really understand each other. Maybe they got my name, though apparently “Shon” in Japanese means taking a piss, so who knows. They understood the kanpeis though (The word “kanpei” is said during toasts). And when they showed me a piece of paper saying “Thank you for your help, I hope you will join again next year” in English, I vigorously nodded my head and smiled. Hai!
Apparently when the Japanese drink, they drink. I hadn’t really witnessed this yet, and even at the banquet, they seemed a little looser than usual, but there weren’t much crazy drunken antics, with the exception of Kyle’s wife’s boss, who stood up and showed off his junk for some reason. And in the presence of women! A strange society, indeed.
By 8ish, we were all pretty drunk and tired. We rolled out and biked home, and I immediately passed out and slept for the next 12 hours.
September 29, 2009
The weekend was fun, what with Gifu and the punk show and karaoke at Korona World with the other teachers, including Kyle, who just left/got married. I went to visit his new apartment with Jacob on Sunday, and it was so big and nice! The kitchen especially. We drank beer and watched a movie with Jenna Jameson about zombie strippers. In fact, it was called Zombie Strippers. High quality entertainment. We also went to the Hard Off and looked at used keyboards and record players and all sorts of other fun stuff. And I got gyoza and a fried pork sandwich for like three bucks total.
Yesterday was a little less exciting. Went to a curry place for lunch with John. Watched Jacob in his classes, where I learned that giving people set clocks on a piece of paper with times like noon, one, two, etc. is not very helpful when you’re asking them what time they got up, and they look to find it on the page. Time seems like a difficult subject to cover. And one girl was so rude, she wouldn’t give back her book to have the homework corrected and Jacob essentially had to rip it out of her hands. Not looking forward to dealing with that at all.
His S2 class went well though, with lots of fun games (though stickyball stunk—the kids can’t get the ball to stick to the flashcard). Acting like a bear and playing freeze tag was successful, and the kids were smart, got their bookwork pretty easily. S6 was a disaster, though having the kids work in teams to write stuff about the guy on the flashcard went alright. They cheat, but at least they do it. S4 was a crapshoot—always seeming to get out of control, and his game where the kids have to hide in certain “locations” (on the mountain, near the river, etc.) was kind of a bust, if only because they just run around and he’s the only one who says/learns anything.
I also went shopping last night for essentially the first time with Jacob (the guy’s a real life saver!) Picked up some cheap gyoza, some glass noodles and bean sprouts, and a little package of premade pancakes which—though they don’t cook particularly awesomely in the frying pan—are delicious. Now I’ve got to prepare my three games for today’s training, and then it’s off to Furokita and Hashima. Long day ahead! At least I got to study some and even exercise last night. Overall, I’d call it possibly my most successful 24 hours yet.
Yesterday was a little less exciting. Went to a curry place for lunch with John. Watched Jacob in his classes, where I learned that giving people set clocks on a piece of paper with times like noon, one, two, etc. is not very helpful when you’re asking them what time they got up, and they look to find it on the page. Time seems like a difficult subject to cover. And one girl was so rude, she wouldn’t give back her book to have the homework corrected and Jacob essentially had to rip it out of her hands. Not looking forward to dealing with that at all.
His S2 class went well though, with lots of fun games (though stickyball stunk—the kids can’t get the ball to stick to the flashcard). Acting like a bear and playing freeze tag was successful, and the kids were smart, got their bookwork pretty easily. S6 was a disaster, though having the kids work in teams to write stuff about the guy on the flashcard went alright. They cheat, but at least they do it. S4 was a crapshoot—always seeming to get out of control, and his game where the kids have to hide in certain “locations” (on the mountain, near the river, etc.) was kind of a bust, if only because they just run around and he’s the only one who says/learns anything.
I also went shopping last night for essentially the first time with Jacob (the guy’s a real life saver!) Picked up some cheap gyoza, some glass noodles and bean sprouts, and a little package of premade pancakes which—though they don’t cook particularly awesomely in the frying pan—are delicious. Now I’ve got to prepare my three games for today’s training, and then it’s off to Furokita and Hashima. Long day ahead! At least I got to study some and even exercise last night. Overall, I’d call it possibly my most successful 24 hours yet.
September 28, 2009
Gifu is awesome, but maybe not as awesome as Ogaki. There’s lots of stuff to do—expat bars and punk shows like the one at this place called Huck Finn we went to on Friday night. Lots of Japanese hardcore—hardcore’s big over here in Japan. Even bands that don’t really sound like it all cite Black Flag and lots of ‘80s punk as their influences. And they cop the sound to varying degrees of success; some are straight-up hardcore (not quite my cup of tea) while others, like this band called And Believe, incorporate bluesy ‘70s riffs into the mix, which IMO makes for more enjoyable listening. The best band of the night was a group called Sika Sika, they’re three girls and a guy with a keyboard. Maybe they just kind of remind me of a thrashier Japanese version of the Butts, but I thought they were sweet, they had male-female shout-alongs and razor-sharp melodies that start and stop on a dime. Very cool.
So yeah, Gifu is cool, it’s bigger and there’s a lot of culture over there I might not be able to find in Ogaki—although according to Dak, an American on the scene, bars in Ogaki are really cool if you can speak Japanese—still I feel Ogaki is a prettier city and an overall nicer city than what I’ve seen of Gifu thus far. There are beautiful little riverfront roads with trees and pink flowers dotting the banks, and all the rice paddies and old bricked sidewalks and Ogaki Castle (though there’s a Gifu castle too, which I haven’t seen), and you just bike through it and think Wow, this place is really, really pretty. Gifu is kind of like a Japanese version of Chicago’s downtown, a grid-like complex of big box stores and business buildings. Kind of boring, to be honest.
So yeah, Gifu is cool, it’s bigger and there’s a lot of culture over there I might not be able to find in Ogaki—although according to Dak, an American on the scene, bars in Ogaki are really cool if you can speak Japanese—still I feel Ogaki is a prettier city and an overall nicer city than what I’ve seen of Gifu thus far. There are beautiful little riverfront roads with trees and pink flowers dotting the banks, and all the rice paddies and old bricked sidewalks and Ogaki Castle (though there’s a Gifu castle too, which I haven’t seen), and you just bike through it and think Wow, this place is really, really pretty. Gifu is kind of like a Japanese version of Chicago’s downtown, a grid-like complex of big box stores and business buildings. Kind of boring, to be honest.
September 26, 2009
Last night I was supposed to have dinner with “shacho,” the company president. A fellow teacher and one of our bosses were to be there also. So we arrived at his office, per instructions, at 8:30. The three of us were there, but shacho was not. Dai, our boss, called him, and he said he’d be right over. No problem, right?
I got to meet shacho—present-less, as nobody instructed me that it was practically mandatory to bring some gift, usually edible, from America to give to him—and we talked in a rather limited way, and then we all got into shacho’s car. But not to go to dinner—no, we went to shacho’s home, where his wife made us green tea and we marveled over what Jacob referred to as Japanese expressionist paintings on his walls. Then shacho made us guess how old his wife was. Hilarious! The usual “Not a day older than 20!” business didn’t fly, either. “No really, how old.” I just kept saying “I don’t know” until he dropped the subject.
After about 15 minutes, he kicked us out of his home and drove us back to the office—no dinner tonight. Maybe we got punished because I didn’t bring a gift? I’ll never know. But Dai still wanted to eat, so he insisted Jacob and I go with him to eat sushi somewhere. So we tried one place nearby—reserved for a private party. Then, we decided to drive 30 minutes to a bigger city nearby, where Dai ordered eight million things and we had a ton of beer and sake and generally had a good time.
Then Jacob wanted to show us this bar he goes to nearby, so we stopped in there, to quickly meet a bunch of similar expats, most of whom apparently were really into a New Zealand rugby team called the All Blacks. The place was wood-paneled, so I was in heaven, and it also had a pool table, where Jacob and I hoped to play a game, but Jacob ended up getting in an argument with some Japanese guy about who was up next and we realized we had to catch the last train out anyway.
So we came back home, no problem, and bought some beer at the 24-hour grocer and hung out in Jacob’s room—no Dai at this point, he went home—and listened to records til 4am. And then I got up at 10 so I could talk to Caroline and what I hoped would be my parents online at the internet café, since it would only be early nighttime over there. Talking with Caroline was great, though I was so sick that I had to keep running to the bathroom to wet my face, and one time stealthily threw up when the bathroom was empty. The internet café was so hot, and I saw all these pitchers of water nearby, but needless to say I didn’t know how to ask for a glass of water and so I just continued to get sicker and sicker. Finally, she had to go and I raced home, violently dry heaved, and curled up under the covers until sometime mid-afternoon when a man continued to ring my doorbell, at least four times, until I came out. How he knew I was home, I’ll never know. I saw him through the peephole, with his helmet and official-looking uniform and thought it would be better to pretend not to be there, but his patience was greater than mine. I gave up and opened the door, where I had to sign to accept a letter from the bank with my bank card in it. Guess it was a good thing I opened the door after all!
Now I am debating whether or not to escape this apartment or not. The cities are intriguing, but not knowing Japanese, I’m afraid to wander into most stores. There is a punk show tonight, however, that I wanted to rendezvous with Jacob at—it’d be sweet to check out the Japanese scene. I figure I should go—I mean, what have I got to lose, besides myself?
I got to meet shacho—present-less, as nobody instructed me that it was practically mandatory to bring some gift, usually edible, from America to give to him—and we talked in a rather limited way, and then we all got into shacho’s car. But not to go to dinner—no, we went to shacho’s home, where his wife made us green tea and we marveled over what Jacob referred to as Japanese expressionist paintings on his walls. Then shacho made us guess how old his wife was. Hilarious! The usual “Not a day older than 20!” business didn’t fly, either. “No really, how old.” I just kept saying “I don’t know” until he dropped the subject.
After about 15 minutes, he kicked us out of his home and drove us back to the office—no dinner tonight. Maybe we got punished because I didn’t bring a gift? I’ll never know. But Dai still wanted to eat, so he insisted Jacob and I go with him to eat sushi somewhere. So we tried one place nearby—reserved for a private party. Then, we decided to drive 30 minutes to a bigger city nearby, where Dai ordered eight million things and we had a ton of beer and sake and generally had a good time.
Then Jacob wanted to show us this bar he goes to nearby, so we stopped in there, to quickly meet a bunch of similar expats, most of whom apparently were really into a New Zealand rugby team called the All Blacks. The place was wood-paneled, so I was in heaven, and it also had a pool table, where Jacob and I hoped to play a game, but Jacob ended up getting in an argument with some Japanese guy about who was up next and we realized we had to catch the last train out anyway.
So we came back home, no problem, and bought some beer at the 24-hour grocer and hung out in Jacob’s room—no Dai at this point, he went home—and listened to records til 4am. And then I got up at 10 so I could talk to Caroline and what I hoped would be my parents online at the internet café, since it would only be early nighttime over there. Talking with Caroline was great, though I was so sick that I had to keep running to the bathroom to wet my face, and one time stealthily threw up when the bathroom was empty. The internet café was so hot, and I saw all these pitchers of water nearby, but needless to say I didn’t know how to ask for a glass of water and so I just continued to get sicker and sicker. Finally, she had to go and I raced home, violently dry heaved, and curled up under the covers until sometime mid-afternoon when a man continued to ring my doorbell, at least four times, until I came out. How he knew I was home, I’ll never know. I saw him through the peephole, with his helmet and official-looking uniform and thought it would be better to pretend not to be there, but his patience was greater than mine. I gave up and opened the door, where I had to sign to accept a letter from the bank with my bank card in it. Guess it was a good thing I opened the door after all!
Now I am debating whether or not to escape this apartment or not. The cities are intriguing, but not knowing Japanese, I’m afraid to wander into most stores. There is a punk show tonight, however, that I wanted to rendezvous with Jacob at—it’d be sweet to check out the Japanese scene. I figure I should go—I mean, what have I got to lose, besides myself?
September 25, 2009
Japanese milk = not good. I’m talking 8% shit over here; it’s not even remotely edible unless you water the hell out of it. Eeeeeeegh.
September 24, 2009
Went to city hall and the bank today. Had to register to become a legal alien. It’ll take until October 6, and only then can I get a cell phone, internet, etc. In the meantime, at least I have a bank account set up. Of course, I would have been able to do none of these things by myself—my coworker Rika helped me out.
Had a pizza hot dog for lunch today, cost only a buck fifty. Who would have thought a hot dog wrapped in dough and covered in sauce and cheese and parsley would be good? It was.
Also went to the internet café, where I accidentally held down shift for 5 seconds, causing everything to turn into caps and rendering me unable to use the enter key. And, not knowing Japanese, I couldn’t get into the options menu to turn it back. NOT FUN.
In better news, I’m also eating white peach jello with actual peaches inside, and it is delicious. And I have coffee! Just need to heat up water in the cheapo pan they gave me—covered by a plate to make it boil since it has no lid—and then use my French press and voila! coffee. My sole American luxury…
Spent many hours at the office today, watching four classes. Much of the same, though there were some 4th and 5th graders who were much more advanced than anyone else I’d seen thus far, which was nice. It’s very interesting to see how the children progress; how coloring at one year differs so markedly from coloring a year older. And how they go from crazy and restless to just bored and chatty while ignoring the teachers in just a couple years.
Also crazy: we have to wipe down the chalkboards, left to right, over and over, like eight million times. And each classroom has its own desks, and if we have to move them for one class or another, we have to move the desks back at the end of the day. Those EXACT desks, even though they’re all the same. Somehow they can tell the difference. What a nutty world this place is.
I also feel bad for Japanese kids, who apparently spend all day at school, then sports club, then a quick dinner with family, then they come back for more English lessons – some until 10pm at night! I always knew many came back for extra classes, but I had no idea some lasted as long as three hours; all so they can do well on college entrance exams. What a strange world, where kids are robbed of childhood and the national collective consciousness seems to be “Work as much and often as you can, so you can be the best” and…make a lot of money? Bring pride to your family? It’s a far cry from the “enjoy life while you can” philosophy, which I happen to subscribe to…makes me think how impossible it might be to meet anyone here, to have anything in common with anyone or to even remotely see life through the same lens. American brainwashing, I tell you—might as well be called Japan Corp.
After work, my fellow teachers Matt and Michael and I went to a Chinese restaurant, which was great, got some spicy kimchi with pork which was the best kimchi I’ve ever had (though that’s not particularly saying much). And best of all—you’re not allowed to tip in Japan! It’s rude! Probably the best crazy social rule I’ve encountered yet. Much better than the “no blowing your nose in public” rule I violated earlier in the day.
Also good: peanut cream. It was used to stock my fridge upon arrival, and I thought it’d just be some delicious peanut ice cream, but it’s just a gelatinous caramel-like substance that tastes kind of like a better version of peanut butter. And now I can relax and watch a Japanese dubbed version of the OC that’s currently on TV. Post-Mischa Barton, unfortunately, but I guess it’s always something.
Oh, but apparently the girl Ryan was into ditched him for some other guy who Ryan later stumbled upon sleeping with someone else at a party—someone else who just happened to be a guy! Don’t even need the English to understand. Awesome.
Had a pizza hot dog for lunch today, cost only a buck fifty. Who would have thought a hot dog wrapped in dough and covered in sauce and cheese and parsley would be good? It was.
Also went to the internet café, where I accidentally held down shift for 5 seconds, causing everything to turn into caps and rendering me unable to use the enter key. And, not knowing Japanese, I couldn’t get into the options menu to turn it back. NOT FUN.
In better news, I’m also eating white peach jello with actual peaches inside, and it is delicious. And I have coffee! Just need to heat up water in the cheapo pan they gave me—covered by a plate to make it boil since it has no lid—and then use my French press and voila! coffee. My sole American luxury…
Spent many hours at the office today, watching four classes. Much of the same, though there were some 4th and 5th graders who were much more advanced than anyone else I’d seen thus far, which was nice. It’s very interesting to see how the children progress; how coloring at one year differs so markedly from coloring a year older. And how they go from crazy and restless to just bored and chatty while ignoring the teachers in just a couple years.
Also crazy: we have to wipe down the chalkboards, left to right, over and over, like eight million times. And each classroom has its own desks, and if we have to move them for one class or another, we have to move the desks back at the end of the day. Those EXACT desks, even though they’re all the same. Somehow they can tell the difference. What a nutty world this place is.
I also feel bad for Japanese kids, who apparently spend all day at school, then sports club, then a quick dinner with family, then they come back for more English lessons – some until 10pm at night! I always knew many came back for extra classes, but I had no idea some lasted as long as three hours; all so they can do well on college entrance exams. What a strange world, where kids are robbed of childhood and the national collective consciousness seems to be “Work as much and often as you can, so you can be the best” and…make a lot of money? Bring pride to your family? It’s a far cry from the “enjoy life while you can” philosophy, which I happen to subscribe to…makes me think how impossible it might be to meet anyone here, to have anything in common with anyone or to even remotely see life through the same lens. American brainwashing, I tell you—might as well be called Japan Corp.
After work, my fellow teachers Matt and Michael and I went to a Chinese restaurant, which was great, got some spicy kimchi with pork which was the best kimchi I’ve ever had (though that’s not particularly saying much). And best of all—you’re not allowed to tip in Japan! It’s rude! Probably the best crazy social rule I’ve encountered yet. Much better than the “no blowing your nose in public” rule I violated earlier in the day.
Also good: peanut cream. It was used to stock my fridge upon arrival, and I thought it’d just be some delicious peanut ice cream, but it’s just a gelatinous caramel-like substance that tastes kind of like a better version of peanut butter. And now I can relax and watch a Japanese dubbed version of the OC that’s currently on TV. Post-Mischa Barton, unfortunately, but I guess it’s always something.
Oh, but apparently the girl Ryan was into ditched him for some other guy who Ryan later stumbled upon sleeping with someone else at a party—someone else who just happened to be a guy! Don’t even need the English to understand. Awesome.
September 23, 2009
Two days ago, I arrived in Japan. It has been a strange experience. The first night was perhaps the strangest. Riding on the opposite side of the road in an angular, oppositely-constructed van along highways barely wide enough to fit one car, high swamp grass creeping over the shoulder—uninhibited as a result of nonexistent guard rails—I felt I had been transported into the past. The feeling extended through the evening, as my fellow teachers and I ate various chicken skewers in a rather old, hut-looking restaurant.
The second day, I realized that Japan was not just like visiting the past, but visiting the future as well. This is the obvious thing most people think of back in the States; it is striking how far from reality, however, the conception is. Downtown Ogaki, with its small, winding rivers and picturesque plant life sandwiched between ancient buildings with their very Asian-style roofs, it seems mostly very untouched by American “modernization.” But obviously it has been transformed as such, and it is striking how incongruent and transparent the changes are.
Loc City, for instance, is a giant shopping complex a few short blocks from my apartment. It houses the 24-hour MaxValu Supermarket, a number of clothing stores (most of which are similar to their American counterparts, aside from the one that only sells kimonos), a book store, a coffee shop, a food court, a Sports Authority, Eiden—the Japanese equivalent of Best Buy, a bedding/home goods store, Daiso—the awesomely superior Japanese version of the Dollar Store, and an internet café/arcade/pachinko parlor known as Korona World.
In case you didn’t realize it, there are a lot of English words thrown in there. And that is similar to everything, everywhere I’ve seen thus far. Katakana—Japanese characters used to spell “loan words” taken from English, such as “su pa ma ke to” (supermarket), etc—are everywhere, even though most of the time the English words they’re translating are incomprehensible. Still, it’s a stunning reminder that a lot of the stores here, a lot of the restaurants and signs and what not, have either taken their names from English, or incorporate English right into their names, despite what little sense it makes.
And it rarely does. Take, for instance, the description from a “Dessert Spoon” that was provided for me here at the apartment: Desiring a flower blooming in the kitchen the nature gives you relaxation and composure. Stay in the wine. Or the nonsensical description emblazoned upon my Bow-wow brand folder: I like a walk. Therefore, it is lonely for a rainy day not to go outside. If it goes to a park, there are many friends. Playing with a ball with everybody is pleasant. Everyone—literally people of all ages—wears T-shirts with completely random English words and phrases on them. The other teachers seem to find it amusing. I find it disturbing.
English—in any sort of real, comprehensible sense as a language—is decidedly not widespread in Japan, though all students are required to take English classes from fifth grade on, and many take classes at private schools (such as the one I’m working at, Shimon) as early as three years old. Still, trying to set up my internet café membership with the teenage employee took twenty minutes, and it simply required seeing my passport and informing me it cost 100 yen.
As such, I’ve spent the last day or so in a state of unease at the prevalence of English words throughout Japanese society. And then it hit me: Japan is, essentially, like an idealized American colony. It has accepted, almost unquestioningly, the American way of life. English words, no matter what they say, are cool. We may have put a lot of them there following World War II, but Japan’s fascination with the West stems back decades earlier in the 20th century, to the ‘20s and before. The katakana “loan words” were probably adopted wholesale in emulation, while much of the actual English may have resulted from postwar occupation and cultural influence/dictation.
Thus, there is a very superficial quality to Japan’s “modern-ness,” even when it exceeds its American counterparts. Electronic speed limit signs and other technological novelties just seem like symptoms of Japan’s American-ness. It is the ultimate consumer culture, and outpaces even America in its desire for nice clothes and weird gadgets. There is a vacancy behind this attitude, however, that seems to indicate the most profound sense of future shock. Older Japanese in their dilapidated buildings, much older than anything Americans in similar cities would be living in, seem oblivious to their country’s changes. Younger Japanese don’t question the unnerving capitalism-run-amok that has made their country what it is. Even as outsiders view Japan as a land of the future, living in Japan, one never gets the feeling that other countries would ever want to emulate this one. It is simultaneously ahead of America, yet perennially playing catch-up.
So you have Japanese riding their “mamachitas,” cheap silver Schwinn-like bicycles with baskets, wearing their stylish clothes and watching their American-imported movies, all trying uniformly to be like the ever-awe-inspiring Americans, yet living in a land where such an achievement could never be possible. Japan is too gorgeous, too squashed together, too ancient and simply too different to ever resemble America, but it has been so crippled and emaciated that it does not realize how it beats America out in so many different ways. Instead, there are only two modes of thought: the self-consciously “Japanese” style, evidenced in anime, still-popular samurai TV shows and other stereotypical “Japanese” cultural forms, and the empty capitalism of Japanese artists like Pizzicato Five and Takashi Murakami, who operate as much as brands as they do artists, an inevitable consequence of having no other culture than wholesale appropriation and American-influenced capitalist globalism to draw from.
(Of course, many Japanese artists have found vitality outside of this model, but it is amazing how rare such free-thinking seems to be on the whole. In America, there are a million different niches for people of different lifestyles and artistic preferences and musical tastes and what not. In Japan, however, it seems there is but J-Pop and direct American emulation, such as the “Rock n Roll” band my fellow teacher plays bass in. The only exceptions to this that I can think of offhand are the vibrant Japanese noise and psych scenes. Why American acts can be direct revivals and seem original, or at least consciously contemporaneous, as opposed to their Japanese counterparts, is something I cannot satisfactorily explain at the moment, however.)
Perhaps all this is simply a warped perspective provided by someone who can barely understand any of the culture that is around him; disconnected from the news, television shows, and simple conversation with the vast majority of people here, I have the distinct impression of living atemporally, in a world that is so far detached from life as I knew it that it seems like living in a human ant farm. Someone has popped all these English signs and music and movies in, and nobody knows what they mean, but they sure seem cool. Meanwhile, every other facet of life exists completely detached from the world outside the glass. It’s neat, but risks being intellectually stifling, a feeling only compounded by the extreme politeness that prevents the Japanese, even those with strong commands of English, from speaking directly to Americans (or, it seem, much at all). I’m sure I could live here easily enough, but as someone who used to follow politics religiously and spend most of his time trying to conceive of utopian societies, it’s weird to live in what seems like a world of total inconsequence. It’s strange; very, very strange.
Oh, and the mosquitoes are terrible.
The second day, I realized that Japan was not just like visiting the past, but visiting the future as well. This is the obvious thing most people think of back in the States; it is striking how far from reality, however, the conception is. Downtown Ogaki, with its small, winding rivers and picturesque plant life sandwiched between ancient buildings with their very Asian-style roofs, it seems mostly very untouched by American “modernization.” But obviously it has been transformed as such, and it is striking how incongruent and transparent the changes are.
Loc City, for instance, is a giant shopping complex a few short blocks from my apartment. It houses the 24-hour MaxValu Supermarket, a number of clothing stores (most of which are similar to their American counterparts, aside from the one that only sells kimonos), a book store, a coffee shop, a food court, a Sports Authority, Eiden—the Japanese equivalent of Best Buy, a bedding/home goods store, Daiso—the awesomely superior Japanese version of the Dollar Store, and an internet café/arcade/pachinko parlor known as Korona World.
In case you didn’t realize it, there are a lot of English words thrown in there. And that is similar to everything, everywhere I’ve seen thus far. Katakana—Japanese characters used to spell “loan words” taken from English, such as “su pa ma ke to” (supermarket), etc—are everywhere, even though most of the time the English words they’re translating are incomprehensible. Still, it’s a stunning reminder that a lot of the stores here, a lot of the restaurants and signs and what not, have either taken their names from English, or incorporate English right into their names, despite what little sense it makes.
And it rarely does. Take, for instance, the description from a “Dessert Spoon” that was provided for me here at the apartment: Desiring a flower blooming in the kitchen the nature gives you relaxation and composure. Stay in the wine. Or the nonsensical description emblazoned upon my Bow-wow brand folder: I like a walk. Therefore, it is lonely for a rainy day not to go outside. If it goes to a park, there are many friends. Playing with a ball with everybody is pleasant. Everyone—literally people of all ages—wears T-shirts with completely random English words and phrases on them. The other teachers seem to find it amusing. I find it disturbing.
English—in any sort of real, comprehensible sense as a language—is decidedly not widespread in Japan, though all students are required to take English classes from fifth grade on, and many take classes at private schools (such as the one I’m working at, Shimon) as early as three years old. Still, trying to set up my internet café membership with the teenage employee took twenty minutes, and it simply required seeing my passport and informing me it cost 100 yen.
As such, I’ve spent the last day or so in a state of unease at the prevalence of English words throughout Japanese society. And then it hit me: Japan is, essentially, like an idealized American colony. It has accepted, almost unquestioningly, the American way of life. English words, no matter what they say, are cool. We may have put a lot of them there following World War II, but Japan’s fascination with the West stems back decades earlier in the 20th century, to the ‘20s and before. The katakana “loan words” were probably adopted wholesale in emulation, while much of the actual English may have resulted from postwar occupation and cultural influence/dictation.
Thus, there is a very superficial quality to Japan’s “modern-ness,” even when it exceeds its American counterparts. Electronic speed limit signs and other technological novelties just seem like symptoms of Japan’s American-ness. It is the ultimate consumer culture, and outpaces even America in its desire for nice clothes and weird gadgets. There is a vacancy behind this attitude, however, that seems to indicate the most profound sense of future shock. Older Japanese in their dilapidated buildings, much older than anything Americans in similar cities would be living in, seem oblivious to their country’s changes. Younger Japanese don’t question the unnerving capitalism-run-amok that has made their country what it is. Even as outsiders view Japan as a land of the future, living in Japan, one never gets the feeling that other countries would ever want to emulate this one. It is simultaneously ahead of America, yet perennially playing catch-up.
So you have Japanese riding their “mamachitas,” cheap silver Schwinn-like bicycles with baskets, wearing their stylish clothes and watching their American-imported movies, all trying uniformly to be like the ever-awe-inspiring Americans, yet living in a land where such an achievement could never be possible. Japan is too gorgeous, too squashed together, too ancient and simply too different to ever resemble America, but it has been so crippled and emaciated that it does not realize how it beats America out in so many different ways. Instead, there are only two modes of thought: the self-consciously “Japanese” style, evidenced in anime, still-popular samurai TV shows and other stereotypical “Japanese” cultural forms, and the empty capitalism of Japanese artists like Pizzicato Five and Takashi Murakami, who operate as much as brands as they do artists, an inevitable consequence of having no other culture than wholesale appropriation and American-influenced capitalist globalism to draw from.
(Of course, many Japanese artists have found vitality outside of this model, but it is amazing how rare such free-thinking seems to be on the whole. In America, there are a million different niches for people of different lifestyles and artistic preferences and musical tastes and what not. In Japan, however, it seems there is but J-Pop and direct American emulation, such as the “Rock n Roll” band my fellow teacher plays bass in. The only exceptions to this that I can think of offhand are the vibrant Japanese noise and psych scenes. Why American acts can be direct revivals and seem original, or at least consciously contemporaneous, as opposed to their Japanese counterparts, is something I cannot satisfactorily explain at the moment, however.)
Perhaps all this is simply a warped perspective provided by someone who can barely understand any of the culture that is around him; disconnected from the news, television shows, and simple conversation with the vast majority of people here, I have the distinct impression of living atemporally, in a world that is so far detached from life as I knew it that it seems like living in a human ant farm. Someone has popped all these English signs and music and movies in, and nobody knows what they mean, but they sure seem cool. Meanwhile, every other facet of life exists completely detached from the world outside the glass. It’s neat, but risks being intellectually stifling, a feeling only compounded by the extreme politeness that prevents the Japanese, even those with strong commands of English, from speaking directly to Americans (or, it seem, much at all). I’m sure I could live here easily enough, but as someone who used to follow politics religiously and spend most of his time trying to conceive of utopian societies, it’s weird to live in what seems like a world of total inconsequence. It’s strange; very, very strange.
Oh, and the mosquitoes are terrible.
Welcome
So, I've been writing blog posts pretty regularly in the past five weeks I've been living in Japan, but, lacking regular internet access, I was unable to post them to the world. But I was able to make my laptop's USB ports work just long enough to get them onto a flash drive, which I've taken to the local internet cafe so that I could finally start getting them out to the world. As I won't have home internet for another month still (seriously, wtf Japan) there won't be many/any new posts until then, but in the meantime, there are plenty right here for everyone to enjoy. You can space them out or something to fill the time, or read them all at once or whatever you like. Once I get regular internet, this will function more normally, but until then, I just wanted to get this stuff out there.
Sean
Sean
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