fixed on OKY

This project started organically, and as small as could possibly be imagined. With my Canon G10 riding shotgun, I'd snap random photographs of my friends riding their bikes, and scrawling shorthand notes about their character and style, in moleskine margins. And as I sat at Starbucks in the Omote-cho, hiding from the withering summer heat outside, those notes took shape on my laptop, growing into the final photographic piece of my Japanese story. 

And now, several thousand lattés and old fashioned doughnuts  later, that story is finally ready to be both shown, and told.

shadows and r******

What is it about the 'r' word, that we as humans can't seem to bring ourselves to admit to having?
It's as if a mistaken utterance might suggest a portion of our life was lived in error. In vain, and we're left to mop up the repercussions. Who's to blame for insecurity uttering that classic two word cliche (well that, and "everybody wang chung tonight") at the end of the bar? Defiantly, on the edge of a cliff? Or maybe it's just a parachute, deployed at the moment pride has finally had its fill, puking rebellious brains out in a stranger's bathroom. Our lives are already so clogged full of stupid shit--some productively stupid, other amounting to far less so. Why are we so hasty to suggest that these stones left unturned, or swatches of paint left undried, the ultimate cause of one's undoing?
Maybe it's laziness leading us to believe this is a by-product of poor choice, or even a choice unmade. On the contrary, I'd rather think it's a manmade emotion--a manufactured fail-safe whose sole purpose is to defer that inner conflict--protecting the ego from being held responsible for any genuine fuckups along life's way.

I spent 32 months in Okayama. Acquired nearly seven full days of music, filled three Moleskines, lost 18 pounds, and took nearly 10 million photographs--5,769 of which I kept. And now it's 4:15 in the morning. I drank too much coffee after dinner, and I'm staring the results in the face. Actually, what I'm staring at is a window--outside it's raining, but all I see is black. Occasionally, a flicker of lightning in the distance. Reflected in the glass is my face, headphones covering ears, their outline illuminated only by the glow of my computer screen. I have proof. It's not hard to find.

I barely remember why I left. Barely remember why I went there in the first place. Ironically, I've been watching a lot of Lost since I got back. And for as much of a painted-into-a-corner clusterfuck the third season turned into, it still offhandedly serves to remind that life will always boil down to ebb and flow. The simplicity of X's and O's on a blank sheet of college rule. Success and failure.
And how some things, for lack of an immediately plausible greater reason, are simply meant to be. When life takes us to these islands, be they hopelessly off course, or just off a peninsula, there exists a great equalizer to all this: reason.

Or at least there goddamn better be, otherwise, not even thirteen more episodes of Evangeline Lilly would be reason enough to get me through season 4.

the DI tries his hand at a PSA: great success!

[click to enlarge]

all fun and games until...

Stumbled across this brilliant homemade nugget of expat wisdom (100% imparted firsthand) as I was cleaning out some files this afternoon. And honestly, I don't think it's grown any less relevant in the year or so it has sat entirely forgotten, accumulating digital dust on my work flash drive.

I realize that community college classes may have just begun, but before you change that major and pack those bags, pull up my invaluable flowchart and try to imagine yourself in five years. Then ten. Take a deep breath and try fifteen.

That's what I thought. Liberal Art majors never had it so good.

metaphorical supernova

two lucky survivors of the evening's events

Though the star of last night's year-end party at Fura was to be Mr. Katsuragi who has decided to hang up the storied science teacher hat, his teary-eyed farewell speech was quickly upstaged by the time we reached dinner's third course. Certainly, the first two were delightful, but it was that third--a dish so tragically vile, it utterly defied description--nay, howled and spat in my bewildered face as I sputtered in vain to dare describe it. Spent the better part of the evening's remainder chugging beers, and nursing plum wine and other such fruity libations carefully mixed to chase the stench from my mouth. But the damage was done. Hours later, breath still reeking and head spinning, I realized there could be no metaphor worthy of the nightmare I'd just eaten, for it was already, the ultimate hyperbole--a metaphor so ridiculous, it would be the metaphor all other culinary nightmares would be measured against:

Your mom's eggplant scallopini was as bad as "  see below "

I'd rather eat "  see below " for a week than let you cook for me

Oh, you like Japan? Japanese food too? You should try "  see below " then we'll talk

the Japanese cornucopia from hell

Does a gathering of super villains in the Marvel canon have a specific title beyond "evil dudes invade VFW hall?" Just the same, while I don't know if the dish above has an official title or explanation, I don't think it requires one either. A photographic awareness of the content should be explanation enough.
And as if this trifecta of barf (natto, yamaimo, okura) weren't bad enough already, they had to go and crack a raw egg on top of it...

once mixed, this culinary delight should look like a St. Bernard 
with IBS threw up in a box of captain crunch

...before mashing the slimy orgy together to spoon onto a salted square of nori--a thinly veiled feint whose crunch served only to temporarily disguise the imminent gustatorial blitzkrieg betwixt. "Umami," my ass. If I were to grasp at second-rate straws, I suppose it could be like snacking on the shell of a large dung beetle amidst his own lunch, but even that feeble attempt fails to give our shiny new metaphor enough credit.

It goes without saying that the horror I unleashed upon my apartment's crapper later that night, totally looked like " see above ."

red scarf red flag

I'm sure that anyone who has ever had a commute can attest to at least once, recognizing, then becoming distantly familiar with the people they commute with--a familiarity which eventually changes our perceptions about those people to a point where we begin to acknowledge their existence as actual characters, and more than just set-pieces to our own lives.

Myself included, I've gleaned stories from silently observing almost everyone I've ever shared a commute with in my time here. Like the sweaty, suit & tie samurai whose crazed ten-speed tore headlong down the wrong side of the street, ridden by a demon fifteen minutes late for a rendezvous with Japanese Lucifer. His polar opposite; a plump, stern-faced woman who wobbled her lazy mamachari up the sidewalk. Rain or shine, summer or winter, always clad in the same green spotted apron and faded pink blouse. Without a doubt, a local middle school cafeteria lady if I ever knew one. Both characters visually ripe with enough backstory for me to conjure up on my 20 minute ride to Handa Mountain.

But then there came "red scarf." I was never able to give Her a story.

She was always on the last train home. 11:55 from Kurashiki, on the Sanyo. Without fail, every Friday night, for nearly six months. Always boarded from the same place at the end of the platform, standing quietly nearest the doors, burgundy lips pursed as she stared blankly ahead out the window at the scattered glow of the passing countryside. Raven hair always pulled taut and pinned back, slim black overcoat stopped just shy of brown leather knee-high boots. And wrapped around her neck, always a red scarf. Burberry if I had to guess. 

The colors of her character's existence in my commute created something of an anomaly--a subtle hiccup in this gray concrete matrix of Japanese life. It wasn't the ambiguity of her dress or the way she maintained a total disconnect to the floor she stood on. And it wasn't a typical world weariness for her young age either--something I've grown accustomed to witnessing in this country where 80 hour workweeks are the norm. Her baggage was different. Not Coach, not Marc Jacobs, but rather the palatable air of sadness she carried with her.

When my position at school shifted early last year, I was forced to cut back on my non-contractual obligations. Since the Kurashiki private lessons were the first to go, so went the weekly Kurashiki commute, and any other chances of finally understanding what this strangely emotionless character could see in the lights beyond the window.  

And then out of pure coincidence last night, I saw her again, but on an entirely different 'last train.' This one, hundreds of kilometers, and dozens of stations away from where she always got off. This time, neither expressionless nor alone. In the same coat, boots, and scarf, she was at the arm of an elderly, well-dressed gentleman who led her carefully by the hand down the shinkansen aisle. He finally chose an empty row of seats in the back of the car. They both seemed happy. Him, perhaps more than she.
Suddenly, a small fragment of her elusive story made sense.  

It was the first time I ever saw her smile.


"Small world," they'd all just say.

still not partying, since 660 BC

"On tomorrow's schedule, the kanji says something about canceling school for 'kinnenbi.' What is that?"

"Anniversary."

"An anniversary? Cool! Whose?"

"Japan's."

"Oooooh."


Three years in, and I've only figured this out now? Guess I should be a bit of an arse for not knowing, had there been trombones in the streets and salarymen swinging from lampposts, but there ain't. And nary a commemorative Kit Kat to be seen either.

These byzantine Japanese anniversaries suck.

break the code

I get a lot of curious onlookers and potential visitors asking about Japan--what it's like, how I've made my way, and if I've enjoyed my time here. They're all loaded questions really, and so more often than not, my respective answers are guilty of being appropriately laden with bullshit. Not the "lies" sort of bullshit one might come to expect, but bullshit of the more oversimplified nature. Mostly because in general, I think the only thing that matters less than the collective weight of my own personal experience, are the assumptions gleaned from my pithy summaries. Truth is, when we're free to stake our own course--our own naked reality (outcome notwithstanding), why would you want to just get your feet wet if you've got the whole deep end of the pool to flounder around in? In response to this metaphorical fist of ham, the DI has loaded two shells of bullshit into this old analogous rifle. 

Commencing turkey shoot:

the DI looks up "analogy" in the dictionary...

Call it a "roll." Less like a wheelie, and more like a welded ballerina in rubber tires doing pirouettes on concrete. Yuji has been trying to hit this trick for the better part of two months now. String together all the photographs I have of him mid-attempt, and pull out the ones of his crashes, flats, and busted rims, we'd probably have a full length stop-motion film of him rolling like steel on stage with the Nutcracker. The particular attempt above is no exception to the reality. He ghosted it less than a half a second after the shutter snapped. But that's the beauty of a photograph--a medium wherein the subject's outcome is nowhere near as important as the execution captured in progress; ultimately what would (hopefully) make any photograph worth looking at.

...fails to locate

And just the same--granted the shutter speed here is slower, but the effect is the same. We've got an uncharacteristically serene Okayama ekimae, and two young girls under umbrella refuge, all soaked in the surrounding neon glow. Ingredients familiar enough for anyone who's been to Japan. A snapshot. A summary, of sorts. Just as before with Yuji, at only a glimpse of the photo, the viewer is left to interpret as they see fit, the skill of the rider, or the exotic allure of the locale. We're still not privy to the full understanding--the picture behind the picture.  

Reality.

But even if you could know, would you still want to? Is a 1/60th second summary enough for you to decide? Wouldn't it be better to buy a plane ticket, or get on a bike and just start cranking wheelies to find out for yourself?

My own snapshot... Finally growing monochrome.

Fixed and the City: "el fin"

Four months in the making, "Fixed and the City" is a lot of things. It's the digital marriage of Panaracer rubber, asphalt, and sound. A moving picture mixtape. A single-speed mission statement. A dedication. A memoir. The difference between simple ownership, and unabashed love. It's less about the "scene," and more about a day in the life; fixed gears on this little concrete canvas of ours.

Oh, and it's about thirty minutes long.
Crack open a cold one, and turn the volume up.

Sorry to keep you waiting.





* Since this is just a weak sample, to hit the full version and/or download the torrent, follow this linkage to Vuze.com. And if those two clicks somehow end up giving you fits, blast me an email so I can set you up with my best Indonesian call center impersonation.

if dr. zhivago played the oboe

Dear Diary,


Today, I had an epiphany. Someday, in the not-so-distant future after I become great and evil, when my miserable peons displease me, I will reward them by locking them in arctic gymnasiums with nothing but a projector and the rags on their backs. There, warmed by only the frozen hope in their hearts, they will be forced to endure foreign remakes of Hoosiers. For paraplegics.


It'll be wonderful--like hell! But colder.
Oh Diary, I can't wait to grow up...

making "batshit insane" look like a Sunday drive

For the past four weeks, she'd been like a machine. A hellish contraption on some diabolical singing mission. Ms. Catch-22, our head music teacher. Her modus operandi is simple: "teach" music as though the students' unwary, simpleton lives depended on it. The pressure-cooker classroom environment this method inevitably creates should be volatile, but in reality, is actually quite predictable. If she comes to class in a good mood, the student hellions take advantage of the fact, and effectively convert the classroom into a junior high circus complete with bearded ladies, trapeze artists, clowns, and one-legged boxing hobos. She administers vicious scoldings and platters of asses in turn, and class continues under a rain cloud. Invariably, they leave angry, and she leaves angry.

However, in the slightly more frequent event whence she arrives with anger preinstalled, the kids pick up on it, also get angry in return, then sullen, then grumpy and finally outright unruly before the period bell grants temporary reprieve. In keeping par for music class, she'll again leave angry.

It had been going on with amusing regularity over the four painful weeks in preparation for each grade's class song to be performed in the annual school spectacle that finally went down on Saturday. I'd heard those damn songs prehearsed, hearsed, and rehearsed so many times, I swear I'd even begun hearing them in my sleep. And yes, I realize I just added two new words to my English dictionary. Anyway, in those fitful sleeping hours, I think I dreamed terrible things, wherein I had assumed her role, and yelled at the children. Terrible things. I think sometimes I slapped them. I told them that properly singing their hearts out during their class chorus would be the one and only chance that they, as Japanese, would ever have to carve out their own identity. I yelled at them some more, and told them to sing louder, sing from their little hearts, and not to forget to f***ing smile.

I mean, music class is already a hard enough academic sell, why compound the difficulty by forcing the kids to care? Japan's got it all backwards. There's no greater good for this--no national pride that we're singing for. It's not like we're competing with Iceland for the gold in the Goddamn Junior Goodwill Games. Quite the contrary, it's a two-and-a-half-minute piano diddy about the power of dreams, for a stupid fucking chorus line.

But with all the song and dance over, classes, and thankfully, life as well, have slowly begun the return trickle towards normal. At least, until the next school-wide production.

sing, goddamnit!

More pics here if you simply must know.

bury me with my money

News in Brief
More News, More Briefs
Week of October 20
* The mighty Japanese yen just fell below the flaccid US dollar for the first time since the last samurai (the actual last samurai, not that shit Tom Cruise movie). Nikkei hilarity panic ensued.
So if you were ever thinking about canceling your overambitious plans to visit Japan, now might be the best time to do so.

* Yesterday, a Japanese woman vomited upon eating Cup Noodle. And then her tongue went numb. For today's experimental lunch, I did not vomit upon eating my Cup Noodle. And my tongue? Still not numb. Apparently, Nissin forgot to put bug spray in mine. Goddammit.

* In news that made even CNN headlines, a Japanese woman is jailed for 'killing' her soon-to-be-divorced husband's Maple Story avatar. Warcraft addicts everywhere rofl'd, then quickly changed their passwords.

* Despite having never felt the need to run farther than 10 miles in a single sitting in my entire life, I still managed 13 point something miles in one hour and forty minutes in Sunday's Hiruzen Marathon. For my efforts, I received two giant radishes and a hand towel.
Kindly put that in your pipe and smoke it.

* Tokyo's Japan Today finally gets their newsworthy shit together. About damn time too. What's it been guys? Like, five years?

* "All Aboard," the punk tribute to Johnny Cash is released. The collective legend of husky vocals, black duds, lines of cocaine, shooting random dudes in Reno, and jailhouse rock promptly rolled in his grave, stretched his legs, and stood up to mosh.

* Senator Obama wipes errant sneeze on reporter, wins hearts of countless swing voters, steals November election.

* At the continued behest of Westerners everywhere, Japanese people continue to pretend they enjoy eating whale.
Ok, just file this under 'non-news,' and move on...
...That is, unless the new protest strategy is to "eat moar whale!" Excuse me, what?

* PS3 heavy-hitter LittleBigPlanet did not meet its promised Tuesday release date thanks to Sony hitting the red 'panic' button on several Koran quotes tucked within the soundtrack. For a game that will inevitably play host to countless penis-shaped user creations, I would have thought that a whimsical little Islamic diddy should be the least of Sony's concerns. Clearly, the internet and I are mistaken.

* "Babel" progress:

They gave me shoes to shine and a shirt to press. White leather belt over dress blues. Buttons. Brass ones. Copper ones too. Red-trimmed epaulettes on my shoulders and colored swatches on my chest. Even gave me a medal. Glory, somewhere--something to someone.

But drifting stares through the cross-examination at their faces, thin veil of shame hiding mother’s puffy eyes and father’s angry brow, it all meant nothing. Nothing to me, and nothing to them. I was a clown. A glittering Christmas tree of alleged guilt. My uniform, now a public liability, and my badges, criminal indictments.

So I decided not to wait around to find out. Without a word, I’ve gone.
First by taxi, then by train. Fourteen hours, I rode the Tokkaido.
East. Towards Tokyo.

den-den to nowhere

I've been in and around Japan for almost 5 years now, and if that cavernous black hole of time has taught me anything, it's that Japan is a consistently difficult place to photograph. While it may be set against some of the richest scenery and architecture the world has to offer, when you spend all your time navigating tricky viewfinder angles to crop out bothersome pedestrians, telltale concrete, obnoxious signage, or the ever-present crisscrossing electric lines, you start to wonder if the Japanese are even aware of what they've clearly spent the last 100 years systematically ruining:

At the same time however, I've decided that the "crop and avoid" photographic strategy effectively denies its subjects the honesty they so deserve. For example, without these power lines, you just have some lazy clouding, scattered across a Monday afternoon's fading daylight. All assumptions considered, this could just as easily be sunset over any European or North American city.
But with the power lines, you have the one thing that makes this photo more distinctly "Japanese" than any seaside, shrine, or mountain that could have appeared in its place.

The reality of it is sad; as any inevitable reality should be. But even reality, when taken at face value, can potentially produce a photograph that manages a subtle measure of zen--a distinct elegance at the end of a meandering, Japanese clusterfuck.

atomic gaijin smash

It occurred to me this afternoon while flipping through the usual J-train news channels that the Disappointed Idealist has been in dire need of a little saggy arse: 

riot-gear proof

Yeah, I think that ought to about do it.
You're welcome.

* Full news story here, priceless YouTube coverage here.

sparta, this ain't

Before you get too preoccupied with the plump salaryman passed out on this afternoon Utsunomiya line train, let's stop and take a closer look to admire his attire--perhaps the real unsung hero of this photograph. Praise the resilient blue dress shirt whose 100% cotton finger tucked in the proverbial dike bravely holds back a raging torrent of belly fat, and marvel the stalwart buttons, who readily hold the line, unfailingly carrying out their duties without fuss or protest. Like the 300 Spartans of yore, "To the last button" they scream, standing their ground, and refusing to succumb to the push and groan of indomitable odds shaped suspiciously like hideous man-titties.

Swear to god, it's all there. You shouldn't even have to squint.

"japan," the metaphor

The following is a hastily assembled list of ten classic stereotypes concerning Japan that I am often asked about [*], or just assumed everyone already assumed. I won't be linking to any factual proof because I'm tired of being at the office, and my experience alone should suffice.

May the glorious DI debunk-athon begin.


10. The Japanese language can be mastered within a few seasons of Naruto
No, it can't.
I'd write more here, but I'd risk wearing out the m, o, r, and n keys on my keyboard.

9. Japanese people never divorce
One in every four couples in 2007 would kindly like to ask if your source was a microfilm from the city library basement.

8. Japanese people never sue
While civil disagreements may have been closed privately in the past, Japanese people love money just like any other country's citizens. It's just gotten easier as of late. The skin of my teeth is most recent proof of this. So of course they'll sue, you naive bimbo.

7. Japanese politicians are notoriously efficient
Careful not to confuse your stereotype with Japan's last two prime ministers, who are both still collecting unemployment checks after prematurely throwing in the towel. Something about a scandal. Or three.

6. All Japanese people are thin and healthy
Also not true. Ever been to Hawaii? The Japanese people there are hu---ge.

5. Japan is very clean
At a street level, yes, it is. But where do those 50 billion annual tons of trash go? Definitely not forming a conga line to the incinerators, or waltzing on the ships to China, that's for sure.

4. Japanese people struggle with "l" and "r" when speaking English
Actually, not a stereotype because they still do. All the time, and it's totally hirarious.

3. Japan is still the "future"
Faltering domestic technology? Disposable prime ministers? Concrete asphyxiation? Economic bankruptcy? "Urban heat island" effect? Baby, the future ain't what it used to be.

2. All Japanese girls are hot
Um, no. Not since Crocs or burlap made it into the fashion 'zines.

1. All Japanese people are, or at some point, were ninjas
I stand corrected again. This one is 100% true.


Ninja folklore notwithstanding, to me, the most amusing thing about this list, is that these are all images of Japan that Japan itself actively advertises and projects onto the rest of the world, who wouldn't know better. Oh, and when I say that these are stereotypes that I've been "[*] asked about," let me clarify--almost all of these are stereotypes that I've been reminded of by Japanese people. They are so unabashedly proud of having sustained the charade for so long, but even it has been slowly crumbling under the weight of its own impossibly grand metaphor, that not even the mysticism of the roaring 80's can perpetuate any longer.

So there you have it. And knowing is half the battle. Unless that battle were against a ninja, in which case 'knowing' would only amount to you knowing you were already dead.

because "turgid caterpillar" was already taken

In case you were ever part of a prophylactic marketing group charged with brainstorming ways to raise the infection rate of AIDS in Japan, pushing evocative names like this would probably be a pretty good way to start:

No wonder Japanese men aren't too keen on wrapping it.

she was only in it for the rain

The annoying Japanese 'tsuyu' has officially begun.
What this essentially means, is that:

* it rains a lot

* Joe Strummer fits perfectly

* my favorite watering hole is close to its grand re-opening

* I'm a week away from leaving for Australia with 30 mostly incompetent adolescents

* "my picture/her locker," and other such metaphors

* by the time my khakis have had enough time to dry thanks to the morning commute, they are ready to be soaked again on the evening commute

* Juliet Simms will politely turn down my marriage proposal

* I have seven untouched pages of translations for a dry martial arts demonstration due very soon

* local weatherman changed the morning ticker to "shitheaps of rain" and gleefully took a monthlong vacation

* long overdue for retirement, old and mostly faithful iLappy is soon to be replaced by peppy Mr. MacLappy Pro

* a number of my female readers just googled 'Juliet Simms'

* perhaps several male readers as well

* ok, you can stand under my umbrella


And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go for a run.

In the pouring rain.

good intention be damned

Stop in for a comforting latte, a stiff nightcap, or just to have your soul fucked.


** Shinsaibashi

you can't save me: epilogue

Thick, tightly neighboring eyebrows, dark blue pinstriped suit, weathered hands and sunken shoulders, salt and pepper hair. A little heavier on the salt.

Mr. Okamoto.

As I waited nervously outside his office for our counseling appointment, I was reassured that I was "in good hands," because the kanji for his first name meant "timely raper of beasts" or something to that extent. Roughly translated, I'm sure.

Apparently he headed up a special division in the Okayama police department back in his professional heyday. Their target? Yakuza crime. He now has the same quiet demeanor of every beleaguered Japanese man I've ever met, but with a little more spark. Pushing 70, while he's settled into the arguably less romantic position of "legal adviser" for our institution, he still packs the expected authoritative swagger from one with years of service busting j-train perps behind the badge. So when my phone recently started ringing with Kobashi san's impatient doctors and insurance agents on the line, his brilliant "legal advice" for all the hot water I ran my front tire into? He told me to Gaijin Smash.**

Gaijin smash the shit out of her.

Ignore the police follow-up, ignore her lawyers, ignore her insurance company, and ignore her busted hip. Pretend you don't understand Japanese, take extra long to call them back, and so on. In short, I was told to act the typical clueless, overbearing foreigner, and make it such a pain in the ass, that the case wouldn't be worth their collective time pursuing.

Well, I guess it's not a foul if you can't understand the ref, right?

In hindsight, I would have reached for the Smash in the first place had I known it was Kryptonite for more than just JR station staff, and the oft-smashed NHK man. But lawyers, insurance agents, and local law enforcement? Almost too powerful to be true. The theory is that me being a foreigner already breaks the clean-cut procedure by which the legal process is supposed to flow. Mr. Okamoto's theory is that me being a foreigner already breaks the clean-cut procedure by which the legal process is supposed to flow. The Japanese legal system (and much of society as a whole) would ultimately find the simple language complication more than enough trouble for them to handle, and they would back off. In my defense, they were making a mountain out of a mogura hill. Not like I completely broke her back or anything. Anyway, they all stopped calling, so I guess we'll never know.
Mr. Okamoto would be glad to hear it worked.
Ashamed to admit, but like a goddamn charm actually.

How could he have known that smashing was the best course of action in this situation? Must have known what it feels like to be on the receiving end. Not unlike getting kicked in the balls by a toddler, I'd imagine.





**A piece paying homage to the venerable "Gaijin Smash" would be replete
without paying proper respect to the original site, and the man that made
it a household name in the Japanenglish lexicon.

on my own time

News In Briefs
WYWS Edition

* So we've arrived at a new layout for the blog. Finally stopped tweaking it, so I guess this is where we get off the train.
Anyway, hopefully, future posts will take us toward some semblance of structured thought provocation regarding life in Japan, and the mess that aspiration and direction have become as of late. Until whenever that may be, I'm content making poop jokes and writing vapid posts like this one.

* I'm currently not working very hard on putting together another schizophrenic installment in the Go-En series. I haven't recently had a lot of time to dick around in Okayama with my camera as much as I used to, but a lot of people have been asking for more of me pretending to enjoy life here, so I'm willing to compromise. Besides, I have some sweet unused footage of a Japanese dude wearing a green Borat banana hammock.

* Finally caved and sold back my Guitar Hero III out of pure disgust. Entirely out of protest, I chose not to finish it. And yes, I was only two songs from the end. It became a battle of me versus the shitty craftsmanship on a guitar that worked only 50% of the time. The other 50%, it sabotaged my progress by cutting out on long notes, and not registering on others. It made full combos impossible, and ensured failure against the Lou boss battle (thanks to the idiotic new powerup system).
I suppose I could have taken advantage of the in-box warranty, and gone through another round of Japanese customer service hell for a new one, but I'm done with GHIII and all its hastily tacked-on elements. Thanks to a humiliating note assist system, the contrived boss battles, and the unnecessary in-game sponsorship from Axe deodorant spray, it's the chili cheese skid mark on the otherwise squeaky clean pair of rockstar underpants that is the GH series.
So, I'm already warily looking forward to GHIV and its touted "create a song" features, by which Activision will hopefully rise from the ashes of their shitty craftsmanship and redeem themselves. I'm skeptical though--the magic of the first two games disappeared when Activision realized that from the rock they had just smote, flowed not water, but a raging torrent of cash.

* I'm not sure how hard it's getting pushed in the states, but the anticipation in Japan for Metal Gear Solid 4 is reaching a near-solid state of palpability. Trailers like these are doing little to quell the increasingly cramped quarters in my pants.

* One of the younger, more attractive teachers on our floor has really short hair. It should also be noted that I have a strange attraction to short hair. I pay close attention to these things. So you could imagine my surprise when she showed up one morning early last week, short black hair suddenly having sprouted rogue ponytails. Two of 'em. Smallish buggers--almost as though she had borrowed the "party in the back" section of an adolescent mullet while he slept, then fashioned it into two little extensions. Some days, she wears it. Other days, she ties it into a single tail, and lovingly drapes it over her right shoulder. Still on other days, it's completely gone. Not quite as obvious as a balding man who drops his toupee into a bowl of tomato soup, but still obvious enough for me to keep score on which days she wears them, and which days she does not.
My theory is that it makes her feel young and nubile again, after having just hammered out a 50 pound doodoo machine.

* No, "doodoo" is not hyphenated.
Yes, I checked.