Golden brown (200th post)

Stereotype: Japanese people stay so thin because everything they put in their mouths is healthy. And fishy. And sometimes raw.

Truth: Compared to the percentage of their fellow countrymen who are not, a greater percentage of Japanese people manage to stay thin because their lifestyles simply call for it. More commuting via bike, more walking than driving and parking, more pimp-slapping giant crustaceans from outer space, etc. Unfortunately though, even this is slowly being offset by 'heavy' influences from the west--most noticeable in Japanese food, which isn't nearly as healthy and wholesome as everybody wants to believe it is.

How about a new stereotype then? All Japanese food is actually fried. Crisp and flaky on the outside, moist and delicious on the inside; fish or fowl, entrails, appendages of every sort, or just good old breast meat, Japan knows how to fry with golden brown impunity. Forget about the raw fish/chicken/horse Asian cuisine that has everybody talking, if it's fried, it's in Japan. And probably delicious.

Anecdotal proof? After spending a week with my brother in Hawaii (a group of islands that may very well be deep-fried themselves), and basking in the respective glories of half-pound hamburgers, wet burritos, deep-dish pizza, onion rings, ranch dressing, bottled root beer, and other such "kamehameha" sucker punches that surprised my unsuspecting colon, I thought it would be nice to meet with some friends and load up on greens upon arriving back in Okayama. So, we hit up a quiet cafe/izakaiya type place above street level and set about ordering.
What was the first item to arrive at our table?

Fried chicken cartilage.

I rest my flimsy case.

Proven fact

High school dropouts have no class.

Damn shame, too.
Just when things were starting to make sense.

Gaijin Whorage II

So this is where the J-magic happens.

I was adjusting the sleeves on my lab coat in front of the bedroom's wall mirror--a large, opulent device performing its reflective duties in full view of the grand poster bed, and teal pool glow. While the director and crew went over shot placement and set up studio lights and camera booms, I casually fiddled with the soft pink dimmers, and browsed the sex toy catalog on the marble coffee table. It was all just too funny. As I was playing with the dimmers on the room light, pretending I was on the holodeck of some starship brothel, a portly audio tech wobbled in with a wireless mic in his hands, and a puzzled expression on his face.

So, we were shooting the experiment's re-enactment at a pool after all. It just so happened to be that the most feasible place in Osaka to shoot a pool scene, was in a typical Japanese love hotel.
Where people pay for a themed room in which to have sex.
It's a simple concept really. Take your lover / hooker / best friend's wife to the hotel, press the button of the room you want, slide your money under the opaque teller's window, and then head upstairs to pound the morning / afternoon / night away. Or just the hour--depending on how much money you think sex with...
[ please choose from the following: ] is worth.*

[A] ...somebody you just met
[B] ...somebody wearing a schoolgirl's uniform
[C] ...-out waking the entire neighborhood
[D] ...someone on a Hello Kitty-shaped bed

We were in the master suite on the roof. The most decadent of all rooms in this silly den of iniquity. The Flava-Flav royal honeymoon suite, towering above an entire hotel of lesser honeymoon suites. While this particular one had an "island resort" theme to it, I've since heard of other themes involving certain cartoon characters, hospitals, classrooms, medieval castles, pirate ships, the Taj Mahal, and other such exotic getaways.

The shallow pool lay under a massive, retractable moon roof, and ran the entire length of the suite, with full two-way windows into the bedroom, shower room, and adjacent sauna. How the camera crew planned to keep television audiences from seeing the palm trees and sandy beach slide show projected along the walls, I had no idea. But I wanted to believe they could. Just as I wanted to believe that the pool had been thoroughly flushed and refilled since its last "use." The professor Cussler stand-in seemed terribly concerned that props would be putting gel or syrup into the pool he'd soon be swimming in, to most faithfully recreate the experiment. So we're standing waist-deep in a pool attached to a suite in an Osaka hotel tailored towards having as much fantasy animal sex in as short a time as possible, and he's concerned about touching a little jello?? His wife must be a Japanese nun.
Silly me. Here, I was contracting an advanced strain of scabies just from the uncomfortable thought of what people had been doing a few hours before, in the very spot I had been instructed to leave my socks. I know how to say "I only touched the doorknob" in Japanese, but I've yet to learn "Does this look infected?" or "Will it fall off?" Sure, I had my lab coat, and all three of my lines memorized, but I still felt woefully unprepared.

Later that evening, while scrubbing my hands and face with toilet cleaner and burning my socks, I wondered how places like this managed to exist within a country globally reputed for being sexless and reserved. But maybe love hotels function for a different purpose--rather, not for killing a quick hour, or getting back at an old ex, but instead, a higher calling:

Little Shinichiro: "Mommy, where do babies come from?"
Mommy: "Well honey, when two people love each other very much, and are dressed up as pirates..."

So this is why the birth rate is so low? My grand J-train epiphany that night in front of the sink:
The trouble it takes to produce optimal circumstances required for copulation in Japan far outweighs the benefit. That, being a child.
Or something.

Aah shit, that wasn't very intelligent.




* Kindly feel free to insert** your own "bang for your buck" pun in the comments.

** Heh heh heh. "Insert."

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.

More intense than a frypan to the face

Dinner last night was sublime. Men's yakisoba.
That's right. Yakisoba. But for men.

If you're a chick, or a dude with a significant case of gender confusion, kindly get your prissy bitch-ass out of my kitchen.
Or dojo.
Whichever is cooler.

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!

Kawaguchi rhymes with "sissy"

Part One

A lot of people have asked Brian and I if we were sore or tired this week after climbing 12,000 feet into the sky.
And the answer, after four days, is a resounding:

"I'm sorry, I thought you said 'sore'--could you repeat the question?"

No, I'm not freaking sore. And no, we didn't brave dizzying heights, driving rains or blistering winds with the aid of O2 infused water, gore tex hats, carbon fiber climbing poles, or any other fancy schmancy sissy climbing gear. We did the Subashiri trail entirely on calorie mates and pure, raw testicular fortitude. Ok, so I had a banana and Lucky Charms for breakfast that morning--but after that, it was all balls.
To the walls.

I should probably mention that we trained. Yes...we trained our asses off for an entire afternoon, in what I'm quite sure turned out to be the deciding difference between a hot cocoa toast upon reaching summit, and plunging over the wind-swept sides of cold-hearted Fuji.

Oh man, this video gets me so pumped up. I'm gonna go break something, then run 10 miles.


P.S. Click the damn links, people.

'Integrity' starts with 'I'

Resistance: Fall of Man makes me mad.

Today, it's different though. Today, it's over an article posted on CNN.com written by the gaming geniuses over at the associated press, regarding the Church of England, electronics giant Sony, granny panties, and some very large knots. The best part about the CNN version? How it differs, ever-so-slightly from the BBC version.

"...a virtual shootout between rival gunmen..."
"...hundreds of people killed inside the cathedral..."

Nice. Award-winning coverage, assholes. I can almost see the hand grenades sailing into the pews.* At least the BBC version was just the usual slant ("This is a PSA from the BBC: Your kids are firing guns in church!"). This CNN version however, is just another classic piece of blatant idiocy on game coverage in mainstream media. It doesn't matter which numbskull ("I've never played the game before, but I heard some priests are real pissed about it. Shit, this article is gonna write itself!") 'wrote' it this time--it assumes the same blind slant as usual, but impressively adds an additional spin.
Now, I know it's a real hoot to be an SME on everything under the sun, and that there's no need to check your facts because "gamers don't read CNN," but what happens when they do, and your little story is found to be ass-backwards?
If you had done your homework and followed through on a basic journalistic obligation before shitting all over your keyboard, you would have found that:

* The Manchester 'cathedral' scenario in question, is a 10 minute segment of a ten hour game, and not a ten hour segment of your latest media scapegoat.

* I assume that by "rival gunmen," you meant "otherworldly rival mutants bent on the destruction of humankind," rather than the implied back alley gang-bangers with handguns.

* The "hundreds of people" in question are actually an alien race, comprised of little four-legged creatures, who, moments later, are joined by some vaguely people-shaped two-legged creatures, before the player exits the church entirely.

Even in the journalism classes that I barely passed, I always knew that it was critical to "know your audience." Inserting tripe like "rival gunmen" and "hundreds of people" shows that in sensationalist news, you 'know' your audience will eat this shit up. Congratulations. You got an associates degree in "Journalism 101." Maybe a sad sign of the times. Or maybe a sign that the author is a lazy sellout--I'm not sure which.

This isn't about defending the game, or the medium that I so enjoy; rather it's about calling out the "professionals" on their deliberate bias and an ignorance that they know the general public is going to believe. I mean, shit--it's on CNN, how couldn't it be true?

My only question now is, who annoys me more? The Church of England? Or CNN?
And they say gamers are the ones who can't discern fantasy from reality.






* Reminds me of a Pentecostal church we used to go to.

This one's for fighting, and this one's for fun

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Bring me your firstborn sons and daughters, so that I may flog them with English

Whether you choose to believe it or not, education is a lucrative business. And in Japan, a cutthroat one, at that. This week, while the students dutifully took their midterm exams, the other senior faculty members paraded me around to the city's elementary schools like a cheap whore, to pimp our flash-in-the-pan "immersion program (of which, I am at fault when it fails)," to potential winter applicants. After each round of predictable formalities, I sit quietly on the edge of each principal's couch gingerly sipping a scalding hot cup of green tea, as they carefully poke and prod my professional self worth.

"Our school has many interesting programs--art, science, music...but fuck those, English is the only one your students need! And so this is Zach-sensei!" they beam, as the pitch begins.
"He has started our English immersion program. And he is not from Canada," they add hopefully. Yes, I am not from Canada, but they are still lying about everything else. I stand up and curtsy anyway.
"And look! Such nice teeth and long hair!" I bat my eyelashes, and try my best to look demure.
"So...we'll see you next year?"

And then we'd be off again to the next sweltering den of educational iniquity. Never thought being a whore could be so tiring.



Training continues as the temperatures begin their annual summertime climb. This does not make me happy.

"Hey! Hey! You! You!" ...still suck

Avril doesn't want you to know it, but she sings in Japanese. And if by 'sing', I mean, "read a poorly translated script in time with a drum machine and some wanky electric guitar," then yes, she sings her little bilingual heart out. Yes, that's right--as if the plain Jane English version of "Girlfriend" weren't bad enough, the shores of Japan are being subjected to a new breed of terrorism. Auditory terrorism. And even as much as they positively adore "Abureeru chan" here, a tepid three star average rating on iTunes is enough to prove that not even all the groupie love in the world is enough to fool anyone into thinking this poorly localized version is anything but a raunchy pile of ass. Auditory terrorism ass.

American pop stars take careful note; not even Western-crazy Japanese audiences are this stupid. So when you're popular with your international fans, and want to reach out to them, either freaking do it right, or just send them complimentary fruit baskets.

"She's like, 'so, whatever,' you could do so much better..."

Yes you could Avril. Yes you could.
Cripes, that was horrible.

Flipping 'big brother' the bird

This* showed up in my inbox a few days ago. I loved it because it takes everything wrong with the modern media shitstorm, and subtly turns it into something positive, without alluding to the broken adage that "bad publicity is still good publicity."
There's something to be learned from this. From all of this.

Thanks Nike.


* As always, click to enlarge

Measuring academic pride in your man-boob cup size

So one of the teachers across the room just walked over to my desk and handed me this giant sheet* of strange translucent paper depicting the names of the current ranked sumo wrestlers. Apparently, one of the higher ranking wrestlers (16th place, is STILL like the fifteenth place loser) was an old graduate of ours. The Japanese really cling to this kind of glory--creating sensation from non-news(wrinkled gym bag + flattened nikuman + crying teenager = scandal?). In the grand scheme of the glory scavenger-hunt though, if your academia's brightest beacon of perserverence through the mental and physical teenage trial-by-fire, is a perfectly mediocre overweight wrestler, who graduated high school in 1998, you best fire the head of your student recruiting department. Anyway, don't get me wrong, I like fat, mostly-naked men (this is not to say, that I like men who are fat or naked, or even 'men', as a gender preference for that matter)** pushing and throwing each other around as much as the next guy, but only because it's hilarious when 400 pound whales repeatedly pimp slap each other in the face and neck. I wonder why he thought it was of any interest to me. Anyway, it looks kinda cool though. Maybe I'll write notes on it and hang it on my wall. Meh.

While forcing my protesting eyes open to watch enough shitty television for my next retarded video piece, I stumbled across a show that showcased the sumo and their daily routine as a wide load in a country of narrow alleys. One guy complained about his wardrobe (consisting of a bathrobe, and a bathrobe for wearing outside), and that he couldn't buy fashionable clothes. He alleviated this problem by buying designer wallets. An ass-load of designer wallets. Another guy ate through on average, around 110 fried yakitory (chicken on a damn stick) in one sitting at his favorite restuarant as his smoking hot wife sitting across from him, idly picked at a tiny bowl of rice that couldn't have held more than eight grains. I go to places like that too, but usually eat only four or five sticks, and then puke my gluttonous brains out from overindulging. Another guy had to get a special reservation from buffet owners before he was allowed to come. Undoubtedly to give the kitchen staff enough time to fill a cement mixer with vegetable oil, kill the fatted herd, and hide their firstborn.

I was thinking about shoving something down my throat and posting some Wikipedia regurgitation about sumo, to draw some conclusions about them, but you have fingers. Do it yourself.




* I have since learned it is called the "Banzuke," and it is not paper. It is printed on the recycled stomach skin of fallen sumo warriors.

** I am not gay. Get bent.