when Hope is worth a foreign language credit

I don't blame him for not knowing how to use a computer--I mean, he's roughly a half century closer to the grave than I. But today, the school principal was acting strangely competent with his computer. Buried under headphones, unmoving behind his monitor, he refused to be interrupted all morning. Watching video. Very uncharacteristic of him indeed. Then replaying said video. Scribbling notes. Through lunch too. Over, and over again.

He finally broke concentration and visited my desk early this afternoon with several well-worn sheets of paper in hand. Quizzical expression painted over his many wrinkles, on one of the sheets he pointed out a sentence wherein the word "straight" had been underlined. Clearly confused, he said he'd never heard it used like this, and asked what it meant. I quickly scanned over the rest of the document to pick up the context, and realized I'd heard these same words only a few hours before. I smiled and told him its intention, and what it meant in such use. As the word's pivotal role in the transcript's collective meaning took hold, he stepped back from my desk, eyes locked to the paper in hand. At last he too smiled. I could see his shoulders broaden with the corners of his mouth. He knew.

I knew he knew.

I'd felt the same goosebumps, the same relief and welling of pride, only 24 hours before, when those words first took root in my ears, and the untold millions crowded around their televisions.

And that's when the true brevity of the moment hit me. Not the moment at my desk, but rather this moment in history. This moment when words have not only the power to inspire, and instill a long-awaited sense of reassurance and hope, but also the power to transcend even the cultures and linguistic boundaries that would otherwise restrain them.

As Mr. Suzuki walked away from my desk, he kept repeating it. Savoring it between his tongue.

Carefully ruminating in the only broken, Japanenglish tongue he knew.

"...Yes. We. Can..."

Great goddamn. Take your party lines and date lines, and shove 'em.
Someday, I'll tell my kids about this.

um CNN, you missed one

translation for nothing, headaches for free

Something about using my free time to slog through a co-worker's private Chinese-to-Japanese-to-English translation of an awesomely boring and cryptic academic document on the history of China's dingleberry kanji brigade (god knows what, honestly), didn't exactly inspire my creative juices. And neither did the prospect of doing it for free. Obviously, I had been systematically dodging Ms. Oh-No's translation requests by saying it was "far beyond my capabilities" for several months, but my good luck has finally taken a turn for the abysmal. Exercising an unusual level of assertiveness for a Japanese woman, she has taken it upon herself to place it "well within my alleged capabilities" by straining the turd through a free online translator and copy/pasting any juices that managed to squeeze their way through. Who would have thought that Yahoo knew shit about China and their dingleberries? Well, much to her delight, and my continued dismay, apparently it does. Or just enough to convert unintelligible kanji into only barely less unintelligible English:

"Xixia is a country where Song, Liao, Jin etc. and the medium grade exist until it is founded a nation in the China Song age and it is destroyed by a Mongolian empire chief leader Li Yuanhao Tangut family the Tanguts cribe called oneself for Song's penis sandwich emperor and declared independence of Snog in 1038 in the Christian. The Tangut family that was the dominant ethnic group of the Xixia divided and resided from the taking the place present's reflecting on Tsinghai Province district of Tang Dynasty in tribes such as and a Ping Xia parts and Dong Shan parts to the Inner Mongolia autonomy district Oldos provinces and Shanxi Province northern part etc."

Oh yeah, that's much better.
So I guess this means I'm still expected to do it, still expected to meet yesterday's deadline, and still expected to do it for free.

Retch, barf.

Jack Daniels meets Juicy Juice

News In Briefs
WYWS Edition

* In the manner parents might treat a toddler who didn't know better, drunks in Japan are treated much the same. Just like toddlers, they're easily forgiven, and regardless of where their infractions may occur (in the street, on the train, outside my 711, outside my apartment, etc), they're allowed a pretty generous "get-out-of-koban-free" card, instead being simply tolerated, or playfully chided for their unintentional ineptitude.

So I guess the logic for putting sake in a juice-box carton is pretty much airtight.

Wonder who's got the lower standards now?

* Most recently, the first graders have caught wind that the American teacher has a tattoo "on his left arm that he covers with a wristband." When confronted with this startling revelation, and asked provide proof of the delicious rumor, I simply told them that I had forgotten to wear my tattoo today, and that I'd try harder to remember wearing it on Wednesday.
They ran off shouting "he said he's bringing it tomorrow!" before I could even bust out the punchline.
Oh well. Mustn't forget to add "bring tattoo" to Wednesday's all important 'to-do' list.

* Now that school is back in full swing, I guess I'm glad to be back in my regular schedule again, or rather, as glad as one could be without having fundamental human rights in the workplace (eg: the right to have one's tentative "day off" not falling in the middle of the week). Updates on the DI have slowed recently, I know. Drafts saved in backup have grown more ironicly in tune with the site's moniker, if that makes any sense. Too much of either to bother posting, anyway. The other excuse is that my time in front of the keyboard has been recently monopolized by a stubborn wall of text that I expected to have stopped its cancerous growth 6 months ago. But it hasn't. It's become this burgeoning, itchy tumor on my flash drive that goes with me everywhere; to work, to Mr. Donuts, to Starbucks--anywhere that has coffee and a flat place to set the compy. Still don't have enough confidence in it for an announcement, but I'll keep you posted if that ever changes.

Most likely won't.

unsportsmanlike conduct for beating dead horse

If you care to look at the overall medal count, from a country-by-country standpoint, it would appear that Japan got their ass royally kicked by a meaty boot wrapped in flags of countries like The United States, China, Russia, Britain, Australia, Germany, France, South Korea, Italy, and Ukraine. In no particular order, of course. Eleventh place, but who's counting, right?

But from all the obnoxious television coverage here--nightly specials, daily talk shows, and product endorsements at every hour between, all celebrating Japan's new national heroes, the casual passerby might be easily tricked into believing that the tiny island nation of Japan pulled a surprise upset in every single one of their events, collectively overthrew the 2008 summer games, and ended the war in Iraq.

Obviously, they did not. Granted, in a perfect athletic world, the international community would give a shit about gold medals in women's freestyle wrestling, and men's heavyweight judo, but the unfortunate reality is, they do not. Nobody does. The events Japan gold-medaled in, were fairly minor for the most part. Save for one--and it's the one medal that Japan cannot, and will not ever shut the hell up about.

Women's softball.
Japan upsets the U.S. undefeated powerhouse for the gold medal.

Tone of reporting on American shores has been brief, disappointed, and tinged with subtle bits of shock. 

Tone of reporting on Japanese soil? Slightly less so.

I'll admit, like any sports aficionado, I'm a sucker for a good underdog story. So I'm not even ashamed to admit that I was rooting for the Japanese team going into the game. Who wouldn't? I mean, the Americans hadn't lost in eight years--they had it coming. They floated around in their impervious softball-shaped Death Star, made piecemeal of their helpless Alderaan opponents, and ruined ballpark scoreboards with hilarious, lopsided margins in the span of seven inning cakewalks. Even their last Olympic outing in Athens was a joke; the gold medal game capping a 51-1 country-fried can of whoop ass on the tournament's entire field. Like everyone else, Japan was just supposed to smile, bend over, and take the silver.

So I spilled my beer in elation when Yamada eked one over the fence in the fourth, then glared angrily at Bustos the softball she-beast whose bat returned fire in the bottom of the same inning. I bit my nails when the Americans threatened Japan's minuscule lead by loading the bases in the sixth, but I cheered when Mishina's long throw from third made it to first for the game's final out. In all the hoopla and pandemonium on the field, I swear I saw Harrison Ford standing at the edge of the Japan dugout, whooping "Great shot kid! That was one in a million!" as the United States' chokehold on women's softball came to a spectacular, interstellar explosion.

But my celebration ended there. I did the dishes, then went for an evening ride. Japan's celebration, unfortunately has not.
Unlike their European rivals who incite riots and set police cars on fire as acceptable means of celebration, Japan takes its post-victory blitzkrieg to the airwaves. Since the game, I have seen upwards of 17 million replays of that final out (each complete with the male sportscaster screaming into his clipping mic, and his female partner bawling on live TV) across variety television--each with their own slant on the game. From interviews with bat boys (girls? whatever) in the U.S. dugout, to secrets on how the clever Japanese 'decoded' Cat Osterman's pitches; no trivial aspect of the game is being overlooked. I don't expect the idiocy to end until samples of the infield dirt on which victorious pitcher Yukiko Ueno tread, are brought in for chemical analysis on some vapid cooking show. I've had enough. The entire transfixed nation of Japan (with exception to the actual softball team) have annoyed me enough to deeply regret having taken sides with the underdog.

In short, congrats to the very deserving Japanese softball team for an awesome game. But to the rest of the country, pipe down already. The Empire always strikes back.



PS: Who cares if they medaled. Stop putting your female wrestlers on TV while I eat. It's gross. They look like baboons with pigtails.  

no child left, to leave behind

The pre-summer vacation buzz is marred by the open school season in Japan. "Open school," meaning employing copious amounts of redundant adjectives to shamelessly peddle pretentious academic tedium in blazing 95 degree heat. Our school has never had the cards playing in our favor though. For one, we are on the top of a mountain that no potential student with a functioning mind wants to climb every day (which would probably explain why our classroom averages hover between a tepid C-, and a gaping hole in the floor), and we are a fairly young private institution without any famous graduates to accentuate a proper history.

But the biggest problem our school faces is neither geographical nor historical--it's societal. Enrollment competition for students between schools in Japan is an interesting nationwide conundrum--characterized mostly by its animalistic ferocity. It seems to be only growing worse, as the national birthrate continues to enjoy its catastrophically amusing downward spiral. Sorry 2007 Census Bureau, but last time I checked, "1.34 children" is just a fancy way of saying "one child." I may not be good with numbers, but the last math course I miraculously passed taught me that "0.34 children" contribute jack shit to society, because they can't be rounded up to "1 child." What a surprise. You'd think that an island nation of 127 million people, would get around to annually having more than 1.34 babies worth of sex, but that's a whole separate issue for me to misquote, and blow entirely out of context, so for now, I'll digress.

In short, open school is not used as a means to trick the students into enrolling, but rather to simply find them--as Japan obviously has children in increasingly short supply. Using the classic "blood from a stone" metaphor to illustrate the growing difficulty of finding little J-butts to put in an equally growing number of empty seats, would hardly begin to suffice. Perhaps "drawing blood from a stone using only a box of generic q-tips and a secondhand penis pump," would be closer to explaining the thinning hair and furrowed brow on Vice Principal Suzuki. This year, he employed live television cameras, and bribed potential applicants with the promise of free tote bags and ice cream, to attract students to our most recent "open school" circus. Unfortunately, the exposure of late night cable television ads and the allure of Haagen Dazs were obviously incapable of expediting the penis/vagina manufacturing process in time to give our school the boost in enrollment figures needed to stay afloat.

In the event that a Japanese public school cannot enroll enough students, they will usually merge their resources and pupils with other nearby public schools, and soldier on. However, private schools like ours will simply be forced to close, and accept the reality that Japan is merrily commanding the population helm of its own sinking ship.

So where does this leave Japan's future generations? Its future workforce? Its economy? Will there be anyone of age to lead them? All I know is that it's good news for me. Maybe when the birth rate finally sinks to a paltry 0.27 children, I won't have to come to school on a vacation day to sweat my balls off in front of a damn camera anymore.

 I don't recall seeing this part anywhere in my contract

forgive them Lord, for they are idiots

In the bizarrely underachieving world of the private Japanese school sector, our illustrious institution is considered an "attached" junior high school. I could think of better things to be "attached" to--like a Dave & Busters, a Taco Bell, a private beach, or a giant water slide. But no, our concrete Siamese sibling is an obnoxious high school packed end to end, and top to bottom with infantile ruffians and lazy imbeciles. Our junior high is supposed to recognize their unfortunate existence (as our school is in their shadow) in our daily workings, but the truth is, like the kids who sit in the front of special ed class--quietly ignoring the retards in the back, nobody here wants anything to do with students of such ilk.

Case in point: the following is an admittedly mild exchange I had when I was cornered by three high school boys this morning as I hurried to music class:

Sensei, 'itai' tte, eigo de nan te iu? [How do you say "itai" in English?]

"Hurts."

My penis hurts.

Yeah, excessive wanking in shop class will do that to you.

Or so I'm told.

Going to be a cowboy in the end

Last week, I requested two extra vacation days to extend my hilarious joke of a Spring "break" to five days. What started as only a single piece of paper, turned into a weeklong ordeal involving permission across multiple departments, multiple signature stamps, and multiple head bashing sessions into my desk. When they couldn't possibly find any more glaring omissions or punctuation errors on my request form, the principal decided that my reason for the request ("vacation time") was too specific, and should be changed as so not to invoke jealousy in the other teachers who voluntarily work 60 hour weeks with no overtime, and minimal vacation.

Jealousy!?
Ah, all my bullshit pet-peeves make so much more sense now:

* Employees are encouraged to stay as late as possible, because leaving the office before 6:00 might make others jealous of your wildly exciting personal life.

* It's considered extremely rude to walk and eat at the same time. I can only assume this is because exhibiting the graceful coordination required to eat and walk at the same time is a vulgar display of power, that would make anyone jealous.
Strangely enough, walking and drinking alcohol at the same time is not considered to rude, because no one will ever be jealous of the guy puking his brains out into a station garbage bin.

* Males must never take their shirts off in public, regardless of physical activity or heat index. This is obviously to keep Japanese women from becoming too jealous of the opposite sex's breast size.

* Despite being culturally accepted in other Asian countries, belching in Japan is considered a gross and foul offence. Because god forbid you enjoyed supper more than the person sitting next to you.

* Rather than to minimize embarrassment (contrary to popular belief), pharmaceutical or hygienic items must always be wrapped, then carefully bagged at the checkout. An educated assumption says that this must be to keep onlookers from being jealous for how often you must shower/do laundry/shave armpits/treat hemorrhoids/have sex/clip toenails/wipe ass.


Whelp, it's been a long year. This 'Japan' thing makes me tired and unjustly irritated. Makes all of us tired in ways we couldn't imagine--and rightfully so. Glad to be getting off this island for a few days.

Oh yeah, go buy the new Counting Crows album.

One step forward, light years back

I may be narrow-minded to a fault, but I guarantee that know a totally sweet opportunity when I see one.

Having thus gone through "all the trouble of obtaining a native speaker," I was commissioned this afternoon by our school PR suits to write up some catchy English jangles to emblazen on a fresh batch of colorful tote bags that we'd be handing out for promotional purposes at school events later this year. It was today, that I learned the true evil workings behind the all-consuming Engrish idiocy machine.

After my cutsie inspirational one-liners were systematically AA-gunned out of the sky ("If you can dream it, you can Richu it!" I know, award-winning PR material--eat my ass), I was dutifully instructed to return to my drawing board and just hammer out some grammatically correct phrases that didn't "...necessarily have to have anything to do with the school" and "not to worry if they [students] couldn't understand." It was also suggested that the phrases be "several lines long," and contain "upper-case lettering" because it "looked cooler." As I headed back to my desk, I was asked to include "a number--perhaps the current year..."
For placing it in the immediate relevancy of present-tense, I'm certain.

So here I am, back at my desk, sipping a lukewarm can of bitter coffee after hours, smelly innards of the blissfully ignorant Engrish jabberwocky spilled out over my keyboard. It is here, dear reader, that I offer you the opportunity of a lifetime:
give me your original Engrish masterpieces--something that Engrish.com would be proud of.
If the suits take the bait, and this gets turned into an honest-to-god tote, you'll get full credit when I submit the photographs for the Pulitzer. Just make sure it fits the above criteria. And in case you have issues with following along, or reading from left to right, the "above criteria" conveniently includes "just about fucking anything as long as it's grammatically correct."

Shoot me an email, or just have at it in the comments.

Make me proud.






** As of about 5:30 Thursday afternoon, the following are my brilliant, grammatically impeccable suggestions:

NEW GALAXY:
2008 is the year that children with pervasive developmental disabilities get strapped to a experimental rocket pack and launched into the farthest reaches of space! Reach for the sky in '08!

HEY GET BENT YOU OLD FART
Lap dances are fine but touching is not!
In '08, we bring the g-string thunder: Nation-wide prefectural legislative reform!

'Frank and beans' is a recipe where hot dogs are cut up and cooked in the same sauce as the baked beans. BEANS ARE AWESOME!! Also referred to as 'Beanee Weenee,' the brand name under which it is sold by Van Camp's. Sometimes versed as an addendum in the closing credits to "Beans: The Musical. Fruit." the Broadway production, currently in production.

BUKKAKE IN 2008: NOT JUST FOR UDON ANYMORE
Dear Jesus, I wish this wasn't true.

IF YOU HAVE A MUSTACHE, everyone will love you. In fact, who wants a mustache ride? Like in that hilarious movie "Super Troopers" where the Mexican-but-not-Mexican guy throws out the offer, and the ditzy German chick was like "Ooh, I do! I do!" and he was all like "Whatever." 2008.

** UPDATE: Reader Submissions **
Bob suggests classic American cinema:

MONGO LIKE CANDY!
Blazing saddles is the exegetic film you need to gain deep understanding of the American psyche. The eructative flatulent cowboys of 1974 are a touchstone that has yet to be surpassed.
HOW ABOUT MORE BEANS, MR. TAGGART?

Zach B. likes balls. And walls:

BALLS TO THE WALL: In a place of chaos; where you can hear pigs being slaughtered, women weeping, children crying and men gnashing their teeth. Join us in a year of trepidation. There is no weaksauce for you in 2008.

Anonymous eschews bodily function and stays classy with T.S. Eliot:

"I have played," so he says, "every possible part,
And I used to know seventy speeches by heart.
I'd extemporize back-chat, I knew how to gag,
And I knew how to let the cat out of the bag.

Adam sets up a neighborhood watch for flying pies:

BURRITO SUPREME
A tasty treat for any auspicious occasion! 1992 was the year of justice, so change your clock to go back in time. Terrorists. WATCH THE SKIES FOR FLYING PIES! Bite hard, but close your eyes for extra taste! The world may never know. Utilize for a better tomorrow.

And if I didn't?

Figured he had it coming for kicking the unholy piss out of my seat to get comfortable, then obnoxiously snoring all the way from Shin Kobe.

You stay classy, Japan.

This Hard Land

I'm sitting in my room on a Thursday night, in front my computer listening to Bruce Springsteen and eating Pooka creamy vanilla chocolate fish. Actually, they're "Pucca" fish. But "Pooka" looks funnier.
Anyway, I'm here to deliver you this week's News in Briefs.
And I may or may not be a bit drunk.


News In Briefs
WYWS Edition

* To anyone who may have asked me about "varying cultural marketing strategies across the globe," last time I saw you, here is further proof.
You owe me $20.

* It's been snowing intermitedly all week.
Like the return of an old friend, there's something reassuring about seeing snow again. Even if it fell in small, Japanese doses. Sunday night, we received the biggest treatment, as the evening streetlights awoke to find their empty byways and alleyways covered in several inches of wet, sticky snow. Made my usual charinko sidewalk dickery several shades more difficult, as the tires slipped and slid all over the place.
But the most interesting thing about Japanese people and snow?

They still walk around with their umbrellas.

Sure, it makes sense, and all. Keep the snow out of your hairspray, and off your Louis Vuitton bag.

"Excuse me strange foreign person, are you walking around without your umbrella!? In the snow!!? Good god man! Have you lost your damn mind!!? Moisture will be the death of you!"

* There's this cheesy Japanese drama called "SP" on the telly, about this team of elite bodyguards who dive headlong into crowds, slide over slippery shit, and then throw themselves into oncoming bullets to protect their VIPs. Maybe "SP" is the moniker for the dude who gets his squibs ruined no fewer than four different occasions--and that's just the show's opening montage. How the hell do you pitch an action/drama pilot to studio execs when your main characters are getting blown away every episode? "Every episode is a dream." Just roll with it.

* I learned tonight over fried nankotsu and beers that "okosu" means "to sit up" and "okasu" means "to rape" or "to violate."

I wish they'd fuckin' told me that before I finally tried asking little Oka chan to sit up in class this afternoon.
No wonder everybody was laughing.

I suck at Japan.

Putting the 'homo' in "homonynm"

...actually has nothing to do with the post.

Thought it sounded funny. Get bent.

A timeless dilemma. Guy loves girl. Girl does not love guy back, yet still leaves blinds open. Guy falls out of tree with pants at half mast.

Ok, so there isn't a tree (that I know of), but I know a dude--a kind of romantically clumsy and lovesick young chap who seems to be torn between powerlessly watching the girl of his dreams from afar as she ignores him, or using a high-powered lens to watch her from much closer through her window as she dresses.
Most hilarious, is how he brings these pent-up frustrations with him to the office. An anal-retentive stickler for grammar (as most skilled Asian ESL speakers can often be), when he's not asking me if I've seen her, what she's been up to lately, or for advice on how to approach her, he often finds the most maddening English questions to ask me during his spare time. Most of them are usually in preparation for gleefully handing his students their asses during a grammar quiz (or perhaps something less innocent), thus he wants to make sure every phrase is connected by the proper clauses, and in the most archaic and diabolical manner possible.

So, the DI's advice?:
Leave "Open the window, won't you?" and "Open the window, will you?" off the goddamn test. Nobody cares about your stupid windows, your epic failure with this chick, or whether or not these cumbersome and unusable sentences are correct. Ain't nobody ever use propah engrish ennyway. Shyaddup.

Ah yes, and you may kindly stop asking me for the grammatical difference between "as she is doing X" and "while she is doing X."
I know, what you're trying to ask, but I have no interest in assuming that you're touching yourself "as she is undressing from the third floor window."
Might want to lay off the unhealthy preoccupation--you're starting to come to work with dark circles around your eyes. Sleep much?
Binocular eyestrain?

Arm and a leg to keep the doctor away

Hey Japan! What the hell gives? Three bucks for a goddamn apple? No, it's not $3 for a bag of apples, or for a Swarovsky crystal-encrusted apple. It doesn't shoot lasers from its core or bring you root beer when you're thirsty. It's just a regular old apple. Plain Jane, meet Dull Jack. The very same kind that threw Newton into a raging pissy fit. Hell, I'd rather spend my Marunaka grocery money on things that matter. Like $3 on gourmet potato chips, or towards a book that shows me how to contort my own spine, so as to lick my own butt.

Now there's three dollars well spent.


Oh yeah, and as found in the news the other day, who the shit pays these people? You call that "research"? Cripes, even I could have told you that. And you know what else I could have told you? That men like exhaust fumes and red meat, pancakes, and root beer, and having their shoulders rubbed while they play video games.

I should probably stop researching, otherwise somebody could be out a pretty penny for my front-page 'findings.'

Tai-Bo: The "Re-Embiggening"

I hate Billy Blanks.

Why an internationally acclaimed karate master whose sole purpose in life was to chop throats, dragon-punch taints, and pimp slap old men in hospital beds, settled for making obnoxious and demeaning "tai-bo" training videos, is apparently beyond my comprehension. Also beyond my comprehension (and in no particular order) are: Spaghetti-O's, Docomo's keitai mail rates, hot women that work at post offices, donut holes, "Oh-no" Sensei's vampire white skin, and lastly, how in god's name Billy Blanks has recently gotten so riotously popular here in Japan. His videos are sold-out everywhere. His television appearances are record-breaking. His parodies and imitators are revolting. His pectoral muscles are up for voting on UNESCO World Heritage panels.
This is pure, unadulterated horseshit.

He is omnipresent.

When his videos aren't being hocked on the streets, and advertised in DVD store windows, his asshat grin is all over the television screen. Even when it's not Billy himself, other Japanese people are talking about him, imitating him, and basically worshipping the ground he pretends to "box" on.
I am often asked about "Billy." Usually, to what inane degree my devotion entails--as if we (myself, and the entire country of Japan) all share the same fevered obsession with sweaty black men. But today, I was asked if I could find the "Billy's Boot Camp" theme song to use for our sports day next week. Evidently to get the kids pumped up, and kicking and punching in ridiculous calorie burning synchronization. Instead, I gave her Black Eyed Peas, and told her it was the same message, just different brand of Ebonics.
That part was probably lost in translation. So I bowed and apologized in solemn recompense.

Speak of the devil. Gym teacher is watching the hated "boot camp" video behind me on his laptop at this very moment. Almost as though the malevolent forces of irony are throwing a wild rave--right here, in this sweaty Okayama teacher's room.

Prose Before Hos

"How tall are you?"

"Is your hair natural?"

"...American size?"


All questions I'm used to hearing, but the one that really boils my blood happens when some rotted snaggletooth at the bar ashes his fifth cigarette of the hour and leans in close. I'm not sure what's worse; the expectant question burning on his one-track mind, or the greasy fried fish and cheap shochu on his breath, staining the smug grin spread across chapped, smoker lips.
Aww shit. He asks anyway.

"Dsu yuu raiku zha Jyapaneezu gyaru?"

I've come to accept that this creepy old fart, and others like him aren't putting in an inquiry to my personal opinion, as their tone does not belie their intentions; rather, they are making an affirmation-seeking question that Japanese girls are somehow different and therefore better than the women from anywhere else in the world. Sure, I know they're often just curious about what I think, or that they may have a "cute friend" who is "interested in studying English" blah blah blah. But come on Japan, kind of a stupid question isn't it? I mean, what do you think of American girls--with their long legs and pointy noses? Well then, what do you think of Mexican girls or Russian girls? Or what about mermaids or female blood elves? I mean, cripes people, what do you expect me to say? And since when did my opinion on something so trivial ever matter? Would you be so disappointed to hear that I think they're just regular girls? Contrary to the stereotypes you've led yourselves to believe, Japanese girls are not all that different from the girls anywhere else on this planet. Some of them are infinitely sweet, and some of them make Ann Coulter look like Mother Theresa. Some of them are fashion divas, and some of them think that Versace is a hidden character in Kingdom Hearts. Some of them are a bit chubby, and some of them wouldn't know a curry doughnut if it bit them in the ass. Some of them are 40 year-old virgins, and some of them already have a steady boyfriend. And point cards for his dad's friends. Some of them are under 5 feet tall...and uh...some of them are uh...hmm...Well, never mind.
Anyway, you get the idea. Your women are not anomalies of the spectrum, they are just a part of it, like everybody else. Ad nausem.

So, with the exception of the outdated uniform practices (which is more likely than not, directly related to a certain 'societal' epidemic), I shouldn't be expected to have more of an opinion on Japanese girls than I do for canned cafe mocha, bamboo staves, sticky notes, or arroz con pollo for crissakes.

But for every drunken salaryman, every sneering college kid, and every well-meaning buddy back home, rather than give them the satisfaction of the answer they so desire, I have compiled a short list of ambiguous and generic responses based on a small sampling of firsthand cultural experience, which I plan to employ the next time one of you reprobates deem it necessary to hijack my worthless opinions. Interpret at will.


So Japan, you wanna know what I think? Fine.
Well, for starters, I think...

* I think "cute" is great fun to admire from afar. But also, the hollow shell on the seed of vapid attraction, and thus is not an acceptable epicenter of fashion, or beauty.

* I think the best way to meet a girl in Japan is to either teach her English, buy her a drink in some pathetic gaijin bar, or to run her over at a crosswalk with your bicycle. I think these are not acceptable options.

* I think brown hair is a neon billboard for insecurity.

* I think powder blue pumps are a stupid choice for a girl to wear with red overalls. Actually, I think anything is a stupid choice to wear with overalls, unless you're a plumber, or planning to attend a benefit dinner for the blind.

* I think the train is not an appropriate place to put on one's face--regardless of how much makeup is used.

* I think each Cecil McBee mini-skirt purchase should include complimentary designer pepper spray, because if your trendy women aren't going to take responsibility for dressing to a 'role', they need to at least be aware that Japan is not as safe as everybody wants to think it is.

* I think a smile is a terrible thing to waste behind a handkerchief. I know it's a modesty issue, but 1707 was like a million years ago.

* I think oral communication via shrieking, chirping, whimpering, squealing, or any other form of auditory diarrhea not found in a proper dictionary, is for dolphins.

* I think there is more to life than Disneyland.

* I think there is more to life than babies. Especially those from a foreigner.

* I think one should learn how to properly speak one's own native language before setting foot in a foreign language.

* I think I could die a happy man if I never had to hear pigeon-toeing high heels echo down a hollow subway stairwell again.

* And lastly, I think it's sad when a disproportionately large proportion of a certain demographic opt to value superficial status in handbags, kawaii, boyfriends, English, English-speaking boyfriends, kawaii English-speaking boyfriends, kawaii English-speaking boyfriends that buy them handbags, etc., over sexier alternatives like one's own 'personality', 'opinion', and 'creativity'.



Yes Japan, that's right. And no, you can put that away--I don't think "oh snap" is going to be in your electronic dictionary.

But as a whole Japan, while I agree that you and all the residents on your tiny island are very uniquely Japanese, I think all these stereotypes ('moe' and 'OL' expectations, anyone?) you expect me to buy into are very uniquely bullshit representations of a greater global populace; your girls are still just girls, Tokyo is still just a city, and your island is still just an island.
So, as I hop down from my soapbox, how about we get your girls off their ridiculous pedestals and go back to ordering me another gin & tonic eh?
Yes, with lime.

C-c-c-combo breaker!

My other t-shirt says "juicy"

News In Briefs
WYWS Edition

* Snapped this picture of a group of complete strangers in a yaki-niku (teh burning meat!) joint last night. "Gaizu Naito Ahuto" we'll call it. It's not particularly awe-inspiring or anything. I just think it's a fun picture. J-trains after a long day at the office, drunken and red-faced; putting aside their worries, just to do it all over again tomorrow.

* I remember back in 2nd or 3rd grade, we did a "science" experiment, where we compared bananas left on the counter for two days, with bananas wrapped in bags and left on the counter for two days. The results? Astounding. Bagged bananas ripen, then become quickly overripe long before you can eat them. So why the shit would a grocery store (whose best interest to sell fruit not plagued by leprosy) sell bananas wrapped in bags? No clue. Yeah, it's all fun and happy town until I bring your failed bananas back to the 'sahbeesu' desk. Bastards.

* Moustached Japanese men look just as ridiculous, if not moreso, than their Western counterparts. I can't quite pin down what exactly it is that seems out of place, but honestly people, does it really matter? I mean, didn't the moustache go out with Magnum PI? The Japanese must not have gotten the memo. I mean, hell, they still think Tom Selleck is the bees knees. Too bad the bubble economy implosion didn't take the moustache with it...Or leg warmers. And Mr. Big.
Anyway, the way I see it, is that there are two kinds of mustaches: the kind that get savagely kicked in the janglies, and the kind that do the kicking. So imagine if you take the moustache away from lumberjacks and Chopper Reid, and give it to this bespectacled little suit and tie Asian pointdexter whose sole purpose in our office is to bitch about the A/C, and you'll start to get why I feel something is at the very least, slightly amiss.

* The Warhawk beta is finally free of system-crippling bugs. Firing ze missiles without a single crash in four hours says I can't freaking wait for this game to drop at the end of August.

* I'll go into more detail about it later, but I stopped my daily running regiment with Nike+ (started to get a little boring), and switched to a higher intensity interval training style. And my muscles are on fire. This would be awesome if I could walk straight.

* Kelly Clarkson's new record finally drops on the 26th.

...

What?

It's not like I pre-ordered it or anything.

Too 'le tired' for any meaty complaints

Okayama addresses are totally whack. Tell a taxi driver that you need to get to 1-16-3 Yamato Cho, and he'll give you an empty stare. Say 'pronto' and he'll kick your dumb gaijin ass to the curb. But tell him that you need to go to "the ugly beige brick building underneath the bullet train tracks at the end of that one street that with those peach trees and that little noodle shop that's always closed on Mondays" and he'll have the pedal to the floor like a drug-running wheelman from the J-Fuzz. I only mention this because some J-noob unwittingly asked for my address the other day, with intention of actually finding my apartment. Actual addresses are cryptic puzzles left to be cracked by the friendly Post Office workers and that bastard NHK man when you owe him money. For the rest of the nooby foreigners and Asian mortals, points of reference are wisely used instead. Thinking about dropping by my swinging pad for a drink or a game of CaC? Grab a pen and paper--this one's a doozy:

Apt. #205
Okayama City, Japan
Down the street from 711 by Undou Kouen, used Honda scooter dealership
Behind fenced-off parking lot where that old lady throws her dishwater
Small transformer station under bullet train tracks
Right at the river whose fish you would never want to eat
New building between transformer and coffee can shrine, second floor.

Good luck poop-heads. You'll probably need it.



* The forthcoming video update faced an untimely and crippling setback last night when I lost an entire evening's worth of editing. If you were out collecting the morning paper around 8 or 9 am yesterday, you may have heard the resounding echoes of me cursing. But sit tight. It's still coming.

The birthrate problem: Case Closed

Let's play a fun little game that I invented. It's called:
"Is He a Chick? Or is She a Dude?"
It keeps me thoroughly entertained whenever I go to Osaka, because the city is chock full of these blonde, asexual weirdos. This photo has 'rant' written all over it, but I'm tired and I need me some Pepto. I'll just leave you to your own theories for now.

Training continues, although yesterday and today's runs were cancelled on account of a high fever and a tummy ache. Might have been the mochi.

Let's have coffee when that guy over there is eatin' a burger

"And now, for something completely irritating..."
Hey Japan, what the hell?

Why is it that whenever I wanna know the time for getting on a train or making a social schedule, I have to solve a complex mathematical algorithm? Sorry Japan, I think I left my Cracker Jack "Planet Zeon Time Conversion FlowChart" with my gyroscope and decoder ring along with the rest of my second grade survival crap in the garage back home. And 0:00!? What the shit is zero o'clock? Look what you're teaching your schoolkids! And you wonder why nobody knows how the hell to properly tell the time! This isn't some asshat twilight zone! It's reality! And haven't you blockheads ever heard of AM and PM? Let me answer that for you--of course you have! I mean, cripes! You have a freaking convenience store called AM/PM! Quit the hemmin' and hawin' and let's get with the damn program!

I mean, c'mon! What the hell gives, Japan?