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.

deja somethingrather

The events of today's sunburn workshop dusty bloodsport sports festival were so close to a perfect mimicry of last year's, I would copy and paste the uninspired blog entry for that date, but I'm too lazy to look for it. Instead, I'm providing you with the sloppy bag of arse compiled to illustrate last year's t&f festival. Like a low-quality unionized training video, don't expect this timeless shite to go out of style anytime soon. I mean, with the exception of a few fast kids who got faster, and a few fat kids who got slower, this year's event unfolded almost exactly as last year's did--right down to the overeager pedophile participating in opening warmups, and the same shit-eating third graders eating shit during the heated kibasen rounds. Oh, 'kibasen?' Better known as "The first, and last reason to ever want to attend a Japanese grade school." Three bigger kids triangulate to form a running "chariot," and one little kid wearing a colored hat perches atop a makeshift "saddle" high above the ground between his teammates' linked arms. They then furiously chase the opposing teams around the enclosed area trying to steal...

Know what? Forget it. You don't need a detailed explanation or a picture to illustrate this. Kibasen is awesome as fuck, and that's all you'll ever need to know. It's the one time every year when the teachers are secretly allowed to get their licks in by setting all the bad kids up in hilariously precarious situations ripe with physically scarring lawsuit potential, and then watch with unrestrained delight as the teams make like William Wallace, filling the festive Autumn air with bloodcurdling howls of sprained wrists and broken spines.

Yeah, just like last year--almost to the letter.
Wait, what was just like last year?



* Note to self: "Do not type while dehydrated, sunburned, irate, or inebriated." After this.

Dudity Snooze-fest

Anybody lose a contact?
I won't go into much detail about the particulars of the Saidaiji naked festival last weekend because it was bar-none, the most underwhelming waste of potentially brilliant hilarity that I have ever seen. On the coldest night in February, the already mostly naked and freezing asses of five thousand Japanese men, hammered out of their skulls, are hosed with icy "purification" water, then shoe-horned into a shrine to compete for--well, it honestly doesn't matter, does it? How the shit could they possibly screw this up? In Japanese lore, the Saidaiji Hadaka Matsuri typically requires no introduction because this insanity is just supposed to bloody write itself. Only a gorilla in a yellow bikini squatted on the peak of the Saidaiji's pagoda, firing a belt-fed banana cream pie machine gun down on the sweaty crowds could propel this golden potential to even greater dizzying heights of awesome. This, is the legendary Okayama festival notorious for sometimes unflinchingly killing its hapless participants in their drunken, masculine revelry.
Seriously though, what a totally sweet way to buy the farm.

The festival atmosphere upon arrival was positively electric. I could already smell the sake hanging heavy in the dense clouds of sweat and testosterone, humidity eminating from the bodies of eager participants who jogged about the shrine's premise to keep warm. Fans, supporters, townspeople, curious onlookers, foreign tourists, and a small army of police crammed the narrow alleys, and the makeshift bleachers that surrounded the shrine itself, where, at the stroke of midnight, 5000 belligerent naked men would converge to do fearsome battle for a pair of wooden shingi. At stake? Battle scars, cash, glory, pride, and good luck for an entire year.

Preconceived expectations be damned, a metallic crash announced the arrival of 12:00am, and the start of the event. The compound spotlights went dark, eliciting a cheer from the twenty-something-thousand crowd. Eyes tense, and flashbulbs at the ready, we were prepared to witness brutality. Riots. Little naked men trampled asunder, spilling off makeshift stairs and crushed against poorly padded wooden support beams. Blood, sweat, tears, and loincloth wardrobe malfunctions. Thumb hovering over Handycam 'record' button in mind-numbing anticipation, I was practically begging for the proverbial snot to start flying. Alas, it never did. Instead, in the fifteen or so minutes of actual competition for the sacred wooden incense "shingi," seemingly little more than polite jostling occurred. I was expecting a "Keep Away" variation on Russian Roulette, but what unfolded looked much more like a teenage mosh pit at Bible camp. But with more skin. I think I even heard participants apologizing to each other above the rhythmic din. Shot some decent video, but I won't bother posting it because I wouldn't expect it to bore you any less than I was, holding the camera.

And then, just as it began, the festival's raging boner quickly fell soft and limp as police gently began the premature evacuation. Many of the participants clapped themselves to keep warm, appearing confused, but relieved; others, disappointed. Apparently the festival's actual "action" is always quite short. I exchanged pleasantries with one particular reveler near the gate who cordially tweaked his purple nipples for a photograph. Unfortunately Fortunately my camera was off at the moment.

Two respective orders of fresh takoyaki and re-fried fried chicken later, I was back on the Ako line already considering a train ticket to that one festival in Nagano where participants with a burning desire to be crushed, ride a giant (probably 'sacred') timber down a fucking mountain. Note that if this unbelievable potential somehow doesn't manage to pan out, then I am seriously considering packing my shit and leaving this country and its weaksauce festivals.



** Feel free to browse the infinitely more boring description of the festival at GoAsia.

This Hard Land

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


News In Briefs
WYWS Edition

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

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

They still walk around with their umbrellas.

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

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

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

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

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

I suck at Japan.

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

Feels rushed, because it was

No, I haven't forgotten.

I actually held off on posting Go-En IV which has been mostly finished for a long time now, because the actual Undoukai event was so long ago, and because the video is mostly rubbish. I guess holding off on it is what made the event so long ago in the first place...

Eh, shyaddup.

Oh, and it's really boring. But I hate eating up my hard drive with unused crap, so I'll post it anyway. The event's actual blog was posted about a month ago, can be found here, and the rant about asshat Billy Blanks, here.

The video is a big sloppy bag of arse, but you're welcome anyway.