where wordplay goes to die

Did you know "hippo" in Japanese is "kaba?" While pouring our drinks, the barkeep went to great lengths to explain the clever hilarity in spelling kaba backwards to make out "baka," or "idiot" (terminology already too familiar to amongst certain pockets of baka gaijin across Japan). I'm not sure if this was his revelation, or the one of someone more brilliant before him, but I still didn't follow.
So naturally, in the interest of facilitating potential comedy, I referred back to my own English experience--a practice I've come to rely on in such moments of cultural eyebrow-raising.
In the time between lifting the tumbler of crystal gin & tonic from its rubber coaster, and raising it to my lips, the following thought process occured:

So... That'd be like saying if "oppih" really meant "idiot" in English, then that would mean... No... Still not particularily funny. Well, what if "norom" was actually how you say "hippo," then that spelled backwards would still be... Hmm...
Not at all very funny.

Cool liquid, bitter, and wooden to the tongue, but with just the right amount of citrus. Refreshing. Traded the lime for a lemon. To his pun, I smiled instead. To the Japanese, I'm sure, our biting English sarcasm, and silly memes appear just as cryptic and unfunny.
Perhaps that was the approximation I should have made in the first place.

First month of the new year has come and gone. And cripes, it was a long one.

gol' dang bodagget

Japanese is a very unique language because actual swearing--or equivalents to what George Carlin would have typically referred to as the Seven Deadly Words, for all intents and purposes do not exist. So the translation of cuss words into Japanese can be a tricky multi-step process first requiring a "dumbing down" of the base language, careful contextual approximation, then an educated guess, or re-application depending on the desired severity of the target language. By the time the process is complete, outside the speaker's tone and inflection, there is usually precious little remaining of the statement's original intent.

Granted, while even the average Japanese layperson is already familiar with a certain four letter word rhyming with 'duck' (somewhat taboo in Japan, based mostly on hearsay), the English language is home to a whole library of other salty vernacular delights that can deftly escape even the most thorough of J/E translators. Which, as you could imagine, allow me unabashedly free passage with a great deal of coarse language that shouldn't otherwise go tolerated anywhere outside Japan.

To illustrate,

I say: "What!? The copier dicked up my framing again!! Is there anything this heap of shit can't do completely wrong!?"

The other English teachers hear: "Indeed, the copier is sometimes a very disagreeable piece of office equipment!"

I say: "How does this little assclown think handing in a horse-shit burrito will ever pass for homework?"

They hear: "Students with Asberger Syndrome can often be very troublesome to work with."

I say: "I would rather receive a root beer enema from Dr. Pepper than have to come in and teach your goddamn kids on my one, non-refundable day off!"

They hear: "I'm terribly sorry, but I can't come in today. I'm afraid I have other obligations."

I say: "Where the f*** did I put my f***ing electronic dictionary? Not again! F***!"

They hear: "Where the f*** did I put my f***ing electronic dictionary? Not again! F***!"

Whoops.
Ok, so almost free passage. 

125 words of poorly translated hobo drama

"Honda"

Hmm... So that's all? You just hit him?

Yes.

Leave a hole in his chest?

Er, no.

But you ran?

Yes.

Because he...

No.

Muscular guy?

No. Not at all.

Any roundhouse kicks, falcon dives?

No.

And you think there’s a story in this?

Yes.

Not a goddamn chance. Tell you what I'll do though.

I get a reality show?

No. Not quite.

My knuckle hurts. Does that help?

You battled a seven-foot hobo with one leg. After jumping off a fire escape to punch him in the face, you pile-drove him into a tower of steel garbage cans, before galloping five miles to the nearest police station on a rabid hyena.

Isn't that a video game?

Close enough. Willy Mackey would have maimed you.

100 words of poorly translated watercooler advice

"Shibata"

"Coach, I think you'd better consider--"

"Spending more time in the girl's locker room?"

"Um, no. What I meant to say was that I think you should--"

"Order smaller uniforms for the volleyball team?"

"No! I think you should get another dentist!"

"Fire my what?"

"Your dentist. He's been filling your cavities with anchovy paste." 

"Ancho-what?"

"Paste. And capping your teeth with thumbtacks." 

"Tacks?"

"From the staff bathroom corkboard."

"How do you know this?"

"Your toothpaste."

"Oh, my Happy Sparkle Mint Enjoy Together?"

"You mean Vajesta Chip Chutney Extreme? It's axel grease and camembert."

"Wow. Harsh." 

"Yeah...
...Sorry."

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.

111 words of a poorly translated parent/teacher conference

"Yuya"

"Mrs. Tatukawa, it's your son. He has a problem."

"Oh dear!"

"Afraid so. Advanced far beyond current-gen treatments." 

"Proof?"

"Scores of it. Test scores and comprehensive behavioral studies all agree." 

"Agree on?"  

"They clearly indicate your son is a moron."

"Dear Lord... Medication?"

"Beyond a rolled-up newspaper or a plastic spray bottle? I'm afraid not."

"High school options? The entrance exams..."

"Options? Ma'am, did you not hear me? He won't be going."

"No... higher... education...?" 

"Ma'am, I'm sorry. Past cases have been prescribed limited social contact and a Nintendo Wii. Or euthanasia."

"And the legalities?" 

"Leave them to us. I'll just need the inkan. Yours, and your husband's." 

"Here and here." 

56 words of poorly translated eavesdropping

"Victor"

"I wouldn't trust him with mine, or anyone's children."

"Oh? And why not?"

"He's loose. Loose morals. Like a moral leper."

"What makes him any more of a leper than you?"

"Stay focused. He's just loose."

"'Dime-store hooker' loose?"

"Not quite."

"'Dime store where his mother works' loose?"

"Yep. Sister too."

"Dang."

"You said it. Dang."

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.

dookie ex machina

[insert craption here]
I don't usually photograph or post any of the Engrish I find, but this was just too damn good to pass up. Signs posted on a row of temporary johns at a Hyogo highway rest stop under construction had all the right informative intentions, but unfortunately raise more questions than answers.

Does this 'machine' make feces? Does it accept feces as monetary compensation for its assistance, or is it simply powered by feces? Does it take feces and mold them into whimsical shapes like monkeys and bears? Does safe operation of this machine require extensive study of enigmatic fecal tutorials?


I fear we may never know.

Today's Japanese lesson:"Do not learn Japanese"

"Is that everything? Are you sure?
It seemed like he said quite a bit more than that..."
If you watch closely, you'll find a number of things at work in the fifth chapter of the "Go-En Chronicles."
The first, and most obvious, is me trying to get my $600 doorstop either repaired, or outright replaced.
You may already know that such attempts were expectantly unsuccessful.

Anyone who has ever studied it at length, can probably tell you a whole hell of a lot about the "say one thing, mean ten" mentality of the Japanese language. On one hand, it's fascinating. On the other hand--the hand smacked repeatedly against one's own steaming forehead, is how irritating and exhausting reading through all the fluffy subtext can be. As with any other context-heavy languages, in Japanese, a compliment, a suggestion, an assertion, an insult, or an outright verbal pimp-slap could very well be cunningly tucked between the politely apathetic folds of the same statement. Translation boils down to a lot of contextual approximations, which may vary from time to time depending on your relational distance to the speaker, or on the audience.
Or sometimes simply how annoyed you are with the lack of progress being made.

The following video is a short compilation of lowlights and frustrations from a 45 minute phone call, by the end of which, if it were physically possible to stab someone in the mouth through the phone line, I'm sure SCEJ's "Toyota" and I both would have thrown down in spectacular no-holds-barred fashion. In their defense though--I didn't expect Sony Japan to attempt service on an American machine (I assumed the attempt would fall apart as soon as they requested the serial number, but it was unfortunate that my operator kindly waited until the end of the call to obtain this information). Lucky for them, I still picked up the phone, being bored, hopeful, and totally stoked about giving Docomo another hefty chunk of my tiny paycheck last month.

Japanese speakers may pick up on other thinly veiled attempts at satire within, but for most everyone else, this is simply me being juvenile about my situation, and how calling Sony Computer Entertainment's J-train tech support just made it worse.

You're welcome.

Holy crap Matrimony

This, is the Japanese prime minister.

Or rather, was the Japanese prime minister, thanks to a series of embarrassing cockups within his party a few months back, but no matter. He is still the prime minister in the hearts and minds of Japanese people, because the "new" prime minister is an uninspiring dweeb.

Ok, so let's try this again:

This, is the Japanese prime minister.


So is this.
Lower left corner. Close enough for me to high-five--or backhand I suppose, not that I had any real reason to. I mean, I didn't vote for him. Why was he there? The groom's father's college buddy, apparently. Why was I there? Because I checked the groom's business papers, and drank his whiskey during senior finals week at The University of Findlay.

Yet another classic case of misinformed expectation in Japan.

From "Sake" Gakuen...

I arrived at the hotel, and was surprised to find the lavishly decorated banquet hall filled with television cameras, tuxedo-clad security, and elderly women in richly colored kimonos gingerly milling about. Already, I could sense I was in over my head. Something was grossly amiss. Granted, we were both rather drunk at the time, but according to the initial offer, it was just supposed to be a "friend's wedding reception." All the Findlay crew was to be invited, plus, the couple had long since since been married, and had even already hammered out a baby, so how fancy could it be? As per my usual "expectations be damned," really goddamn fancy (see also: really goddamn important and really goddamn expensive) was the last thing on my mind. Good thing I opted for a suit instead of a black Ramones t-shirt and drainpipe jeans, because I was about to make a spectacle.

Somewhere between reminiscing with the gang about shenanigans back at UF, and my third glass of champagne, someone let slip that as a group, we were soon to give speeches accompanying a photo slideshow to the bride and groom, during the dedication segment of the impeccably organized ceremony.
A speech. In Japanese.
Within high-fiving/slapping distance from the prime minister. Ok fine, former prime minister. You shut the hell up. It's my story.

Really convenient that this trivial detail had been left out of my invitation. My third glass quickly became my fourth as I grabbed a pen and started frantically scribbling on the tablecloth. Yuko handed me a piece of paper. This would probably work better.
Groups were already going up to give their slickly rehearsed songs and memorable anecdotes about the bride and groom. Someone refilled my drained champagne glass with beer. If anything, instead of being "the dope that froze up in front of everyone," perhaps I could just be the comic relief. That shameless drunk guy whose pants fell down right before the toast's witty punch line.
It was my only prayer.
It was also our turn. I looked at my fancy hybrid champagne/beer glass: emptied again. Good.
I looked at the paper:
Two poorly written hiragana sentences, and a soup stain.

Crap.

We move to the front of the hall, and arrange ourselves in a line. I am placed sixth of eight. Yuko carefully starts her little speech, introducing the slideshow. I'm not really paying attention. I'm looking at the prime minister, 15 feet away. Unlike his wife, and most of the other guests, he doesn't appear to be drunk. This is very unfortunate.
My friend Sou stammers through his speech, sweating like a boner at communion. His nervous and incessant apologizing echoes through the quiet hall. I discretely step back in case he decides to puke on my just-pressed suit. The emcee gently takes the mic from him mid-sentence... sweet mercy kill...
...And hands it to me.

Shit.

I start slowly, imperceptibly slurring my polite keigo forms. Something about being surprised upon hearing the groom's unnatural English ability in Findlay. The joke was supposed to be that he learned authoritative speech, casual English idioms, and one-liners from watching rented DVDs of Sex and the City. But the hall was laughing already. I wasn't even at the punch line. I look at the bride and groom. Confused laughter. I look to the prime minister. Also laughing. Towards his wife. Still drunk, and laughing. I look at my pants.
Safely secured around my waist.
What the hell? I bail. I don't know where the linguistic/cultural misstep was, nor do I care anymore. I am drunk. I am "zahtto gai." I ditch the polite forms and start babbling about Sex and the City, how Carrie is a whore, and how her superior writing skills gave the groom his questionable English ability. Ok, not the part about Carrie because I don't know how to say "whore" in Japanese. But anyway. The mic is finally pulled from my sweaty fingers. Sweet mercy kill. The audience happily applauds. Either they are glad to be spared, or I am their new hero. Inebriated daydreams are certain it was the latter.

But it mattered little, for I was drunk. And they were all sexy.
Even the former prime minister.

If you want better answers, ask better questions

They caught me off guard again.

Just like that time when I was asked to assist with a silly dance number for a "casual" little "track and field day" which unsurprisingly turned out to be a sweltering ten hour goose-stepping bastardization of "fun" in a Japanese middle school. Or rather, as much "fun" as one could conceivably have during 'hell week' in training to be a Navy SEAL.

I can't blame them for unintentionally leaving out a few minute details here and there, but when the outcome is so blatantly beyond the expectations laid out in our weekly meeting, it's hard to not feel like that well-meaning but naive father who allows his teenage daughter to "have a few friends over," and "watch some movies." In the spirit of good sportsmanship, he even volunteers pizza and root beer floats. But he comes home betrayed. His beautiful home has been invaded--systematically trashed--shattered by loud music, and reeking of cheap alcohol; high school kids he's never met are doing keg-stands on his mahogany coffee table, necking on the leather couch without 'slipcovers,' and urinating off his second story balcony. There are baby goats swinging by their rhinestone collars from the kitchen ceiling fan, and midgets being tossed like horseshoes over the neighbor's hedge into his backyard pool.
In disbelief, he stands on the porch, mouth agape. Immobile.

The plain cheese pizza slips from his frozen hands, falling to the trampled, beer-soaked 'welcome' mat. Physically ejected from the doorway, the remnants of a failed "flaming sack o' poo" prank, pitifully burn out on the grass behind him.


Minus the poo and the booze, for those who profoundly suck at reading between the proverbial Japanese lines (re: 'me'), consequences like these are all too familiar at my school.

They royally burned me again last weekend, for what I naively assumed to be another minor school advertising/showoff day where we put our happy faces on and piddle around in some makeshift pristine classroom setting in front of more unresponsive prospects. Nothing more than another routine oiling of the "plopaganda" machine, right? What can I say? We sing our little English songs, do our little English dance, play "pin the hamburger on the foreigner's face," and then I get to go home before 2:00, none the wiser.

But it wasn't another PR stunt on Saturday. I should have known this a full month ago when afternoon class time was mysteriously replaced with preparations and programming for "gakushu happyoukai (lit: 'learning recital')." I took it as a blessing--divine relief from repeated ball-busting sessions at the diminutive hands of the 2nd grade homeroom. Several weeks too late, the bliss came to a crashing halt the night before the main event, when I found myself still at the office at 8pm translating, transcribing, cursing, printing, and then folding some 400 copies of a drama speech script, scheduled to follow the schoolgirl dance troupe, but precede the bare-knuckle karate street fight "demonstration."
Naturally, I cringed when they asked me for help in hanging "a few things" from the auditorium rafters later that same night. Hang what? My fractured mind ran circles around the horror of the possibilities apparent in a month's worth of clandestine preparations. Fuel hoses for the pyrotechnics? A live chimpanzee obstacle course? Human-sized birdcages wherein gyrating strippers would throw candied umeboshi and dried squid to a delighted audience?

You can imagine my relief when it was just a few boards of poster paper spelling out the event's name.

Fool me once, burn up in my face, shame on me. Fool me twice, shame on me again for not learning to properly read between the Japanese lines. Next time, swear to god I'll be ready.

You say "English Club open house" and I'm bringing my M-16 and a case full of ammunition.

And dollar bills for the strippers.

Have daikon, will travel

There was something strange about the way runners were warming up Sunday morning. They were sprinting in droves to the sign-up tent. Then excitedly waiting in line. Starting position? Raffle? T-shirt sizing?

Wrong, wrong, and for sooth.

Radishes.

We were each given giant radishes for participating in the race.
3000 participants, at two radishes a head, and that's a pretty huge goddamn run on the local radish harvest. All these people, scurrying around chattering, psyched about running and stupid radishes, and I'm the only one still confused.

"Congratulations on your hard fought finish--here are your sweet and delicious Hiruzen radishes, better luck next year."
"Wait, wait, don't I get a t-shirt? Something I can at least wear!?"
"Yes, but t-shirts cannot be enjoyed in stews, salads, or with boiled meats. Next in line please!"
"Wait, what the f--??"

...

"[in Japanese] Hey bro, so like, are you gonna hang on to those radishes, or what? Cause..."

Functional clothing would have been nice. Instead, the race organizers assumed a white chocolate bar, a Hiruzen tourism pamphlet, and these damned radishes would be nicer. And to think, I was just starting to forget I was still stuck in Japan.
Figure I'll give one to a friend who actually knows how to cook, and then keep the other under my bed to bludgeon any would-be apartment burglars looking to relieve me of my now broken PS3**.

Oh yeah, the actual race? Sadly, for all the pomp and circumstance, it was still a sloppy bag of arse. I plodded through the hilly and windswept 10k course in 41:21--an embarrassing time. One I certainly won't soon forget. Still good enough for 35th place though--soundly crushing all the old women, handicapped children, and that gangly Australian dude, yet slow enough to handily lose to the runners who were actually there for more than giant, penis-shaped vegetables.

Probably should have just slept in.
Would have been more productive.




**Tragic, unrelated incident

Full recovery!

"Laugh and the world laughs with you." Yeah. Not here. "Laugh, and the J-world thinks you're just another hippy burnout tripping on acid."
So, it kinda sucks at first, but then you learn to just laugh louder and harder. Into the faces and ears of fellow teachers sitting nearby. And often, until hoarse, or physically unable.
Like just now.
I think I broke something. Like my spleen.

God I miss SNL.





* UPDATE 10/23 *
The video apparently keeps getting removed by YouTube for various copyright reasons. So here's another link to the glorious 2 minutes and 37 seconds of "people getting punched before eating," but I can't guarantee how long it'll last before the suits take it down again.
Hold on to your butts.

Gaijin Whorage

The alley smelled like greasy hamburgers. And fish.

It wasn't particularly her fault--"get off the Midosuji line at the #24 Namba street exit" made it easy enough. But coincidence landed our meeting spot outside the ostensibly named "Hotel Sala Del Rey." A narrow alley; lined with hawkish neon and gaudy plaster hotel fronts, vertical matchbox parking garages, and the small fish market on the corner. There I stood, nervously waiting, desperately mopping sweat from rivers on my forehead. The makeshift dam I'd built out of sports towels to keep the flash-floods from soaking my boxers had been breached. Sweaty ass crack in a suit.
Fucking great.

She had scurried off in search of the other hapless cast member who was either lost, or just late, and left me sweltering and alone to watch the market's late afternoon hustle and bustle. Elderly Japanese men in white rubber boots load dripping styrofoam crates of iced fish onto the back of a small panel truck. Another was hosing down the alley where I stood, sending up wisps of steam as the water met the hot asphalt, turning the humid air around the hotel into a suffocating bath of sweat, fish, and air conditioning exhaust. Fishy puddles started to gather around my shoes, lapping at my tailored suit. Where the shit did she go?

I didn't know many details--only that it was supposed to be some kind of bit part--a small speaking role in the typical mindless Japanese variety programming; however, a quick survey of the surrounding Osaka street suggested the role could be in some pixellated skin flick, if I didn't get shanked in the ass by one of the fishermen first. I put my thick sunglasses back on, hiding the avalanche of perspiration down furrowed brow.

At last, she appeared around the corner by the McDonald's, dragging a short, middle-aged American. Appropriately dressed for the professor role he had evidently been preparing for for: unmatching tie hung limply over an untucked, paint-stained polo shirt; frayed khakis and beat-up sneakers completed the look. I had a sneaking suspicion that his wardrobe was "fit" for the role, only because he was the role. In broken Japanese, we learned he was a part-time art teacher to "young, old people." Great. I take that back--his disheveled gray hair said he was just beyond middle age. Still American though.

The director burst from the hotel's partitioned entrance, grinning broadly. Strong handshake for a J-train. Right there in the alley in front of the hotel's shielded parking garage, we exhaustively went over the specifics of the script. We're going to be shooting at poolside. Art hippy was cast as professor Cussler--made apparently famous for his award-winning experiment--an experiment we were to be re-enacting for a Japanese science program. I was to be "Watson," his labcoat graduate assistant. I am still swimming, and mildly displeased.

Better late than never, my "clue" train suddenly screeched into the station. Wait, 'normal' Japanese hotels are too small to have pools... I thought. And why are there so many tiny hotels in such a small, low-traffic area?
We were at last escorted inside to the softly lit air-conditioned oasis, where we strode past the automated front desk and large colorful screens displaying room features, to the tiny elevator in the back. Soothing jazz and funk played throughout the lobby. Wait, what the shit...? Screens? Room photographs? No incriminating staff? Chandeliers...Prophylactic vending machine...

Oh.

Snap.



To be continued...

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!

Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition

I hope I never get sick while I'm here.
Just last night, I had the displeasure of searching for a Sudafed lookalike for a friend beset by the uncomfortable fruits of hay fever allergies. Rather than explain how difficult it is to find equivalent medicine in Japan for generic, everyday symptoms, much less define said symptoms in Japanese, I'll just outline my linguistic pharmaceutical train wreck in the following conversation:

Dagbert: "Hello, I'm looking for an anti-histamine type medicine...do you have anything like that?"

Cute Love Drug Clerk: "For sneezing?"

Db: "...No, more like for things like headache and congestion..."

CLDC: "I'm terribly sorry, but we don't carry crutches."

Db: "Actually, my friend says her head and her nose hurt. (emphatically points to own head and nose) Do you have anything for that?"

CLDC: (after several moments of thoughtful browsing) "This can loosen up your stools in three to six hours. When was the last time she pooped?"

Db: "No, goddammit! Allergy? Head? Pain? Hail Mary? Spanish Inquisition? Does? Not? Compute?" (I engage "survival language" and begin frantically flapping my arms, and beating my chest, all the while grunting and pointing)

CLDC: "Ohh! This is what you're looking for!"
(she hands me a box on which a pink octopus wearing a rhinestone cowboy hat is vigorously humping a centaur)

Db: "Cripes no! She's just sick! Not...well, you know...sick. You know what? Nevermind--screw this. She'll just 'ganbare' ok?"

But as I'm on my way out, she runs up behind me excitedly shrieking apologies, her waving hands clutching the box in the photograph at left. "Meh, close enough," I thought as I opened my wallet. How the shit was I supposed to know? But even "close enough" implies a certain degree of certainty, where in this case, I don't even have a flipping clue. Still, an oft-uttered sentiment in Japan where there's a little white box for everything but the common cold.

Home at last

Another batch of delectable news morsels from the Asia-Pacific future.
In my underwear.
News In Briefs:
WYWS Edition
* Kinda like the Daredevil who couldn't see, but had superhuman senses, when one aspect of person's communicative ability is cut off, I'd like to think it heightens their abilities in other mediums of communication. Like, whilst in Japan, my spoken English usage has been dramatically limited, but like, I can like, totally write gooder. And shit.

* Playstation Home. A beta existance so secret, that even mentioning its secrecy or that I may (or may not) have gotten into, is probably a severe NDS violation. I will tell you though, to take heed the Sony storm that's a-brewin'.

* Anyone want to brief me on the Japanese vocabulary basics for social welfare cirriculum and pedegogy? If you happened to know anything about international business, that'd help a lot too. I'll take just about anything at this point; vocab, kanji, whatever tidbits you've got floating between your ears. Freelance translators are expected to know everything about everything. But as a fish-out-of-water freelancer myself, thank god I don't know shit about anything. Or more specifically, anything in this damn series of documents. When requesting services, I don't think my employers realize that not providing clear context or audience is a sure-fire way to get their crappy little pamphlet featured on Engrish.com. Ok, so I'm not that bad, but sometimes, it's very tempting to be.

* In case you were wondering, the two tragic fashion numbskulls in 5/16's post, were in fact, both gentlemen. Moreso, because shortly after I snapped the photo, they wandered into a soapland "gentleman's" club for a mid-morning romp. I'm sure they were completely "gentlemanly" about it though.

* I'm working on another video update. Keep refreshing that browser!

* After today's workout, a banner greeted me upon entering Nike+ that said I have crossed the 200 mile threshold. They gave me a prize--not something useful like spending points for their online store, or an iTunes gift card, but instead, a virtual silvery colored medal stamped with the silver numbers "200" that now appears in my virtual "trophy" case. I'm so stoked about this, I think I just virtually shit my virtual pants. While it's the dream of every virtual world inhabitant to be rewarded with real-world prizes for virtual accomplishments, we are very much aware that garnering such respect and recognition of those in the "real" world, is asking for a bit too much. But this, we can understand. However, for the real world to be awarding virtual prizes for our real-world accomplishments isn't just a lazy compromise, it's downright tacky. Wow, they now have me totally revved about the prize for reaching 500 miles. How about a virtual "good game" pat-on-the-butt from Nike+ voiceover girl Paula Radcliffe?