a million things

Still one of my all-time favorite lists; "toast crumbs on butter, skin on pudding, mushy bananas, dried catsup on the bottle rim," and on and on. Then Hobbs chimes in; "how about excessively negative people?" "Yeah!" Calvin agrees. Now, as inspirational as that Sunday morning newspaper exchange between two childhood heroes may have been, while I don't consider myself an "excessively negative" individual in the least, there are certainly quick-and-dirty things which get under my skin, and they don't all pertain to Calvin's aforementioned "peeves of necessity" list. My own containing such frivolities as cream cheese (bagels not having it), toilet paper (running out of it), or laundry (needing quarters to do it). However, the following is not such - it is instead a massive peeve of social proportions, indirectly addressed to a number of certain folk from a number of elevator rides, with whom I've had actual conversations:

when "new" is not a metaphor

I honestly don't have a lot of good to say about Gamestop. Neither do a lot of other outspoken and equally disgruntled nerds. While it's easy enough to hate the corporation for good, and multiple reason, some of those reasons and shady sales practices can be either ignored or circumvented (as can the red-shirted, mouth-breathing cretins that the chain insists on staffing their stores with), quite simply by insisting on buying your games new so the developers get their full share.

Several months ago, I almost bought Borderlands. Several guys at SCC play it, and I wanted in on the post apocalyptic hilarity. However, Gamestop only had two copies of the game in the only store within cycling range. One of the copies was quite used, and was being sold without a case, and the other was "new," by Gamestop's asinine standards - meaning it had been opened, and clearly handled, despite being sold at full price. Since the "new" copy being sold hadn't technically been "pre-owned," and the "used" copy had clearly been used, the clerks didn't see anything wrong with either of these scenarios. Being the apparent raging videogame diva that I am, I left the store in a huff.

room with a view

Moments after the above photograph was taken, I was called upon by a surly state trooper patrolling the capitol building grounds, after hours.

Stabbing a meaty, gloved finger at the small, foot-high fence my tripod stood behind, "excu--se me son, but what do you think that fence is here for?" he bellowed out.
A stupid question, asked overtly harshly, given the nature of my apparent "encroachment."

Glancing at the pathetic barrier I'd stepped over to get a clearer angle at the sky, "...um, probably to keep photographers out," I answered matter-of-factly, and without a hint of presumptuousness.
He was not amused. I will get my ass "written up" next time.

Some people have no appreciation for nature.

the DI tries his hand at a PSA, fails miserably

In case you ever found yourself wondering how many blades could be attached to a basic facial grooming razor before things started getting a little redundant:

the bottom of the barrel 

Yes. Five. Five would be that magic number.

The first thought that comes to mind when picking up this monstrosity, is that I am not holding a razor--I am holding the evil chimeran fruits of a goddamned arms race.
I can just see the Gillette marketing team now, smugly patting themselves on the back for accomplishing what no other company has yet dared try. But there are two distinct reasons they made it to that plateau first. The same perfectly logical reasons that wisely stopped Shick at four blades on their brilliant flagship "Quattro" razor. One, and most obviously, because 'Cinco' had already been trademarked by 'de Mayo,' and secondly, because putting five blades on a razor is totally batshit retarded. 

Despite the fact that I can't grow a beard to save my life (can count on two hands the number of follicles that comprise my prepubescent "sideburns"), I won't even get into how unbelievably idiotic the niche marketing concept behind making a "fusion" razor for "gamers." Fortunately, that's already been covered. Because from a usability standpoint, the Fusion Gamer is a bloated device so incapably overdeveloped beyond its own good, it has somehow managed to devolve into nothing more than a primitive screen door of blades to scrape across my pathetic unshorn 'gamer' 5 o'clock shadow (said shadow, 72 hours in the making).

This razor does nothing to enhance my shaving experience. It's not useful. It's not well-meaning. It's just stupid. 

I'm only wasting time to write about using the Gamer, because so far, every time I've wanted to get through shaving so I could get back to Killzone 2, I've managed to slice my face up. And when the "Fusion Gamer" nicks or cuts, it doesn't do so like a 'mortal' razor. No, not once, not twice, or even in triplicate. No, it cuts in fives. Quintuplicate. Or "Cincos" for the smirking, south-of-the-border Quattro-toting crowd. If I wanted to aerate my skin in such a manner, I'd gladly volunteer to repeatedly throw my face through a wall of steel venetian blinds. At least then, I'd have a badass story for sharing at parties. 
And to top it off? The razor looks stupid. Like a Bowie knife after spending an afternoon collaborating with Mattel.

I know a sushi chef or two who would kill for an hour with this razor. For everyone else? The Fusion Gamer works every bit as agreeably as it looks--that is, like a nightmare, obviously.

hyperbole pissing contest

Two and a half years in Japan should be enough for any man to assume some level of confidence with regard to the Japanese society as a whole--the rules, politics, expectations, and mandatory absurdity that underhandedly govern it at every corner.

I've been here long enough. Which is to say, I get it. And it gets me. Or rather, to me.

But before I begin my story, I should clarify one small bit for those of you not familiar with the Disappointed Idealist. I do not work from atop a skyscraper with the New York Times, or inside the Pentagon with the US Department of Defense.
I work in a middle school so far out of the big leagues, our bloated, schizophrenic curriculum exists only to create an equally ridiculous, academic league of our own--one we can rule with impunity.

I made the mistake of once requesting time off from work--something no true Japanese person would attempt under even the most crushing periods of psychological duress. To say that requesting vacation time required the cutting through of some proverbial red tape would be fairly close--should one be 'drilling' rather than 'cutting,' and 'through a wall of brick,' rather than 'through tape.' Perhaps our metaphorical bricks could be painted red, just to keep things grounded.

The procedure for getting time off is deceptively simple: collect a number of signatures from various authoritative figures around the institution, then submit the paperwork to be "rewarded" with what I am already legally entitled to. It's like getting your car grounded by your parents, then having to perform menial backyard chores to get the keys back. But whatever, I'm not bitter. I'll show them. I'll get their goddamn signatures.

The traditional Japanese signature is pressed from a hanko, which is actually just an overpriced rubber stamp (like those found in a box of Cracker Jack or Frosted Mini-Wheats) bearing the holder's name. The Head Principal. His Vice Principal. The Academic Office Manager. The Director of Student Affairs. The titles begin to get longer, more redundant. The Assistant Minister of Groundskeeping and Shrubbery Upkeep. Stern reproach, but an approving paw print from his dog, and I am on my merry way. Traipsing about Handa Mountain in search of these elusive holders, and their permissory red ink harkens back to tales of my previous generation's Boy Scout merit badge-questing days. Only their trivial grinding, and fetch-quests resulted in a power-leveling of sorts; a succession of ranks on the national Boy Scouts of America ladder (whose unfortunate tumble from significance can be traced to scandal and the Xbox Live leaderboards). However, once my task is completed, I gain only what I should have been entitled to for free in the first place. No self-satisfaction; only a pounding headache from waiting outside the stupid Administrator of Strategic Cranial Rectal Inversion's office for three hours, and a severe rash from being sent to the Vice Director of Theoretical Academic Upward Mobility's office, only to find he's been dead for 10 years--his skeletal remains still chained to his desk in a dilapidated mess of concrete overrun by poison ivy and utter irrelevancy.
His miserable hanko, the last on my contemptuous list.

And now, in the culmination of my quest to reclaim my R&R off this island; all that remains is to convene with the school's unforgiving goldfish high council for final approval. This should go about as well as a boot in the ass.

"what's that? vacation time? whoa, not so fuckin' fast mister"

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.

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.

Pop destroyed the scene

News In Briefs
WYWS Edition
* Contrary to our last edition of the News in Briefs,** rest assured I come to the keyboard this morning sober as a bird in AA.

* Exploiting classic "boiling frog" tactics, I'm slowly but surely re-writing the unspoken Japanese office dress code into something a little more "lax." Now strictly reserved for special occasions, the daily necktie was the first to go. Onitsuka Tigers for dress shoes, then the suit jacket. Button shirts were replaced by thermals and track jackets. Jeans replaced khakis and slacks. I don't really comb my hair anymore either. At the moment, it's standing in a sort of lazy, faux-hawkish pile on the top of my head. Personally crediting myself for introducing casual Fridays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, I think it's safe to assume I'm the proverbial butter on a goddamn roll here.
Pretty stoked for wife-beater weather.

* "Japan" is a title synonymous with with comparison, crazy weirdness, and positively zany contradiction. Or so I had thought, before coming here. I had a small epiphany/rant at my keyboard the other night after a particularly frustrating day at work. I decided that Japan is really only as different and 'unique' as people are willing to make themselves believe. I mean, hey--if 'believing' that being a part of something stereotypically 'perceived' to be unique and exotic, inherently 'makes' one unique, don't you think that it would be in one's best interest to perpetuate the common interest? How many people would rather bite the business end of a .45 than face the reality that their own individuality is a contrived psychological defence mechanism? Hopefully more on this iceberg soon. Unfortunately, I have serious attention span issues when it comes to coherent streams of thought on actual "issues," per se.


"Subway: Eat Flesh"
* A moment of silence for "Doob dog," "Weed-wurst," and "Joint-furter," who sadly never made it off the Subway marketing whiteboard.





**DI Fact: News in Briefs are called so because the first few times I posted under that header, it was morning, and I was still in my undersleepwear.

And if I didn't?

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

You stay classy, Japan.

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 I wanted to cuddle, I'd buy a goddamn teddy bear

Wanting to "give it all to everyone" is an insipid cliche.
So is the overused analogy of life as "a winding road" and/or "a long way home."
I'm also not particularly fond (re: I despise) of being told to not wait for "someone to tell you it's not too late." And I swear to god, the very next time I hear that "these are the best days" and "there's always something tomorrow," I'm going to drop kick my neighbor's obnoxious baby into the nearest rice paddy.
"Here come the rest of our lives" it says. Whoop whoop, here comes more bile to the back of my throat. Not even your weepy acoustic guitar will save this auditory embarrassment.

"Let's make the best of it..." Ok, ok, stop.
Shut. Up.
You're not even trying anymore.
Come on, who the hell buys into this tripe? It's like they just threw some bland acoustic guitar and orchestra synth tracks over a bored reading of "Chicken Soup for the Soccer Mom's Soul" and then sent it to some prissy studio in Nashville who mastered the living piss out of it.


It finally just occurred to me tonight, why I positively abhor singer/songwriters.

Most of them look like this, shit out records that look like this, open for overrated bands that look like this, and "write" rehashed "hit" singles that read like this.

I was lying there on my bed a few minutes ago trying to sleep away the evening, when Mr. Colton's single floated through my iTunes shuffle. "How delightfully generic and pretentiously inspirational" I thought. "How ever did this end up on my computer?" Perhaps I had been tricked into downloading this faceless crap months ago in one of the iTunes store's free "single of the week" ruses.

For years, I've been fending off music recommendations without much of an excuse. At last, this song has given me one:

Singer/songwriters make me want to barf.**
Mr. Colton, you owe me back the 3 minutes and 34 seconds it took to listen to your wretched single "Best Days," and then the 20 minutes I wasted in a burning rage at my keyboard looking up links and bitching on this worthless epiphany.
I could have used that precious time to play Castlevania.

Start passing around that holiday cheer. To your left.



** Notable exceptions being Rocky Votolato and Joe Purdy.



"She broke my heart, so I broke his jaw"

Tech "support"

I made two separate phone calls this evening. One was local to SCEJ, and the other was international to SCEA.

Tech Support in Japan:

"Oh hello, you must be the emperor. Please listen carefully to my obscenely polite keigo while I kiss your ass and make sure absolutely everything is ok with my superiors before I make any real decisions of my own. Oh, and please hold the line while we ring up your cell phone bill before I tell you to take you and your American PS3 and go screw yourself."

Tech Support in America:

"Aw hey bro, hell yeah, we'll fix it for real. Oh, you're in Japan? Aw, that's cool. Just send it to your mom, and we'll send the system coffin to her. Oh yeah, wait a second. You mind bending over a bit? We have to penalize you $150. Warranty violation. You're not allowed to take your system out of the states.
So...I'll need your mom's address, and your credit card number."

The best part? How both calls required more than 30 minutes of wanking about the bush to arrive at the same conclusion: I was being gleefully screwed.

So my system is still broken, and the warranty is now officially expired.

Beautiful.

My karma ran over my dogma

There is a God, and he is laughing at me.

Just hours from one of the biggest releases of the year for me, a critical component in my Playstation 3 has unceremoniously failed, leaving me stranded with an irreparable, nonexchangeable machine, and little choice other than to place it in early retirement...


...as an exceptionally proficient, six hundred dollar doorstop.
The "critical component" at fault being, whatever selective and diabolical elven black magic that reads disc media upon insertion. Adding the delicious sting of unleaded soy sauce to the wound, is how the elven's timely send-off for my faithful roommate's permanent holiday occurred just moments before a glorious vessel bearing such saviors as Guitar Hero 3, the aforementioned R&C, Uncharted, Rock Band, and pretty much every other piece of software, long-awaited version update, and legitimate reason to own a goddamn $600 doorstop (which should handle multi-tasking as a functional gaming platform), was scheduled to make triumphant and historical landfall on my pitiful deserted island of irony starting today.

Early adopters always get screwed. Apple is living proof of this. But early adopters are not supposed to get screwed by a cactus butt-plug lubricated with Icy Hot, and dipped in wasabi. Granted,I'm fully aware of certain risks that come with embracing new technology, but they should never be associated with slipshod or rushed craftsmanship, of which there is no. Goddamn. Excuse.
This would be easier to stomach if such incidents were more isolated, but certain frustrated PSN threads are starting to suggest otherwise.

No, that acrid stench in your nostrils isn't the rectal destruction.
That would be the smell of more rotten Sony PR.

For a year, I've tenderly loved the hell out of the system's only flagship games: Resistance and Warhawk, along with a small handful of other downloadable titles, and patiently waited for November '07 when we were promised our ship. The time has finally come, and...yes.
This.

This deplorable, reprehensible, shit.

The very kind that's only funny when it's on somebody else's porch.
In a sack. And on fire.

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.

J-Train Repellent

* The following archived post was actually written on June 21st, and promptly buried in my blogspot 'drafts' pile. So shoot me.
Just be grateful I even let you read it.


I've finally been bested by the stupid NHK man.

Y1300. A small television usage fee, but in the grand scheme of things, one that I had flat-out refused to pay, for several reasons:

#1: I abhor Japanese television, and thus have not equipped my tv to view it.
#2: It is generally understood that only gullible suck-ups, and old people pay him.
#3: Actually, #1 is the only real reason, but apparently the principle of the matter wasn't good enough for him.

Little rat bastard finally got me on his third try.


The first time (three months ago), when he appeared at my doorway on a sunny Sunday afternoon, I knew exactly who he was, and what he wanted; NHK pin on his lapel, electronic clipboard in hand, he said that I owed an NHK usage fee, to the tune of Y1300, and to be paid immediately. I had not yet been in my new apartment for 24 hours, and still didn't have a bed, a desk, or coat hangers, much less a television. I was crabby from having spent consecutive nights on the floor, so I threw up the asshole gaijin hail mary, and pretended I couldn't speak Japanese. He totally fell for it.

Shortly thereafter, he returned to try again. Being a complete imbecile, I had totally forgotten my brilliant routine to guard against obnoxious salesmen. I greeted him in Japanese, after which he ran his collections speech, to which I courteously responded. In Japanese.

Shit.

I frantically backpedaled, as the little yen signs started spinning in his eyes. First telling him that the television I now owned was for gaming only, then proving it by showing him the coaxial cable that I wasn't using--come on, nobody could possibly be that stupid. I mean, bullet-proof logic, meet airtight proof--how the shit could they legally make me pay for something I clearly wasn't using? Well, apparently, I am totally missing something here, because they can. He politely pushed again for the Y1300. I sighed in resignation, and told him to wait. I took my wallet into the kitchen out of his line of sight, and quietly emptied it on the counter. Bringing it back, I showed him how payday was still a week away, and that I only had a "few coins" at the moment. He totally fell for it.

And then, just last week, he was back. Worse still, he caught me on my way out, wallet and keys in hand, which prevented me from identifying him through the peephole and deploying the boiling oil. He ran his polite little rubber-spined collections speech again, as I groaned and moaned and sighed all the while in utter displeasure, in hopes of expressing my burning desire to drop-kick his scrawny ass off the balcony. I threw another hail mary and told him I was an exchange student who would be returning to the states next month. He stopped for a moment, nervously cowering behind his printer clipboard as he decided my fate. This time, he would not totally fall for it.
I still had to pay.
I groaned and loudly let fly a disgusted "awwww maaaaan!!" Maturity, the likes of which can't recall employing since being sent to the principal's office for throwing snowballs in 4th grade. I gave him his damn money, and he printed me a damn receipt. And then, instead of handing it to me, the little rat bastard reached down and put the receipt in my mail slot--just inches away from my outstretched fist hand! As I stood there, seething in the doorway, my mind was rapidly calculating the levels of justification required for punching a vertically challenged human being, unprovoked, square in the face. Finally, with an apology and a bow, he stepped out of my tiny genkan--but not before smugly affixing his hard-fought gaijin victory to the corner of my door; a permanent daily reminder of my failure.

I honestly wish he had been more impolite--it would have made being a total douchebag about the whole thing, much easier for me. But all the bowing and apologizing--he was too nice. So now, not only am I out thirteen bucks, I'm also out a considerable amount of pride.


The truth may set you free, but not if you have to pay for it.

Sigh.

Tsuyu Hell

News In Briefs:
WYWS Edition
* Japan is currently wet and rainy, and will be for at least another week or so. This, among a sizable number of other trivial things, annoys me to no end.

* My eyes are out of shape. After spending the last two weeks with the exchange kids, I didn't have time for PS3. Finally logged on last night, checked my messages, downloaded some videos, and then bought the epileptic seizure-inducing Super Stardust HD before playing it for two hours straight.
I can barely see this morning.

* In light of certain scandalous events, I'm cracking open one final box of instant yakisoba for lunch today. Sure, it's not Japan, but if something this big breaks in China, an industry audit of the rest of Asia is sure to follow. We always joked about my noodles being made of cardboard, but I never had much reason to actually believe anyone. Just keep the snooping J-FDA blokes away from my melon pans--the one Japanese thing I outright refuse to give up.

* I just read something on CNN's digital toilet rag about the launch of another expedition into Amelia Earhart's disappearance. There's nothing particularly striking or inspiring about the article, save for the mention of giant man-eating crabs, which hints at the cause for Ms. Earhart's untimely demise. Check back for future CNN headlines:
"Aviation Pioneer Earhart Devoured by Crabs. Case Closed After 70 Years."
Am I the only one who finds this totally awesome?

* Frampton, Brian, and I will climb Mt. Fuji tomorrow night. The most current plan, is as follows:
We'll meet in Shizuoka on Saturday morning, and hit the Eastern Subashiri trail by late afternoon. We expect to make a steady climb, then sleep a few hours in the evening around the 7th or 8th station, before closing out the last leg of the trek to the summit at 3776 meters. Barring heavy rains, frostbitten appendages, or general incompetence, our goal is to be on the summit to catch Sunday morning's rising sun spilling out over the sea of clouds below us.
We are, however, still nervously expecting some entirely unforeseen element to thoroughly shit all over our "carefully" laid plans for the climb.

** UPDATE **
While I'm already planning on sending one to my family, anyone else who would like a postcard (snarky message or nonsensical Monty Python quote optional) mailed to them from the top of the world, can send me an email with their home mailing address (reach me here), by 8pm, July 13, Eastern Standard Time.

** UPDATE II **
Son. Of. A. Bitch. Just as planned, the "entirely unforeseen element" that has "thoroughly shit" on tomorrow's trek, is typhoon "Man Yi" currently sucking and blowing its way across Japan. It is expected to conveniently peter out shortly after we were hoping to make our ascent. Brian is desperate. Not even an act of god will affect his resolve, for he is foolishly prepared to crawl to the summit. I kindly tell him to lower his voice, and to 'put the lamp down.'
More updates after I find something to break.

** UPDATE III (7/15) **
We've got a break in the weather (re: a hole in the storm), and we're going to go for it. A crapshot though--at best, but aren't most hail marys? Come hell, or high water marauding godzilla, Fuji either goes down now, or never.
Wish us luck.

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.

My other t-shirt says "juicy"

News In Briefs
WYWS Edition

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

What?

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

The DI stops to reflect on patience...gets annoyed

Moving totally sucks. Moving your entire life in boxes is downright painful. But moving just your person, and a life's worth in two suitcases to the other side of the world is goddamn masochistic. With the exception of a stack of t-shirts, my PS3, and a few pairs of shoes, I came to Japan literally, with nothing. 'Nothing', save for the the clothes on my back, the aforementioned shirts, and the prerequisite "heart full of confident dreams."

Well, four months later, the dreams have unhappily shaken hands with my pal Reality, and the suitcase--now less of a suitcase, and more of a makeshift dresser on the floor of my barren apartment. And now that I think of it, starting with nothing in a foreign country is a lot like playing the old SNES classic Super Metroid. Just as you can't get the hyper beam without first having gotten the morph ball, you can't get the Ferarri without first having purchased coat hangers.

See, Super Metroid is a game of patient exploration. Previously inaccessible areas open up with the acquisition of new items, so backtracking is a common gameplay element. Most interesting about the game's structure, is that while the final boss room is only a few map clicks from your initial starting point, the player is not allowed access without having first completed certain key tasks (eg. destruction of a group of space pirate bosses)--tasks that can only be completed with the acquisition of certain items (eg. the varia suit)--items that can only be acquired by first acquiring other items (eg. the ice beam)--other items that can only be acquired through the purchasing and powering on of Super Metroid for the Super Nintendo; and so on, and so forth, ad nauseam.

Which brings me back to my current irritating apartment situation. I am not a patient bounty hunter man. I have a salary, and an empty apartment, and I want to fill it with fifty shades of awesome. I want the varia suit, and I want it today. I want the the grappling hook, the screw attack, and the plasma beam, but all I've got right now is this lame morph ball. Or rather, a schoolteacher's paltry salary with a closet full of coat hangers and a shitty soap dispenser from the 100 yen store. Square freakin' one. Brinstar Landing, 1st save.

Just as I wouldn't want to skip through all of Metroid to get to Mother Brain, I don't wish to skip the entire alphabet in going from 'A' (coat hangers) to 'Z' (personal helicopter pad on the roof of my apartment). Rather, I'm just looking for a way to circumvent the priorities of some of the more mundane physical need purchases (curtains, rugs, lamps, etc.), to get to the more rewarding crap, like cycling gear, PSPs, stereo wattage in triple digits, HDD Handycams, Bravia LCD televisions, and Gundam bunk that transforms into a couch.

Moving abroad and starting over has not so much taught me how to be a more patient person, as it has taught me that old-fashioned virtues like patience still exist, if only to annoy me. This problem is exacerbated by the fact that I only get paid once per month, as opposed to a more optimal situation where my bank account would swell for each melon pan I ate. Which, as of late, would be several times per day. Yes, patience has not been learned in Okayama; I have only learned priority. Priorities justified by need. For example, sleeping on the floor is irritating, but less irritating than an empty stomach, thus; a rice maker is only slightly less important than a refrigerator, but more important than a proper desk or bed, wherein a clean floor will temporarily suffice. I've since worked past the most basic of the aforementioned furniture essentials, and have moved into the boorish realm of maintenance and care of my living space. A broom for the crumbs on the floor, toilet cleaner for back-to-back nights at the izakaiya, and so on. In establishing priorities, once the essential needs have been exhausted by the passing of time, we are granted access to the next level of exploration, or rather, the next tier of priorities--namely, priorities in 1080p.
In conclusion, Samus may have defeated Mother Brain with the almighty hyper beam, but she could not have without first rolling around on the ground with the lowly morph ball. So I will learn to be happy in delaying financing for the construction on my helipad, and settle instead for buying curtains and curtain rods. Furnished apartments be damned, I realized that "Happy Town" is only called so because of the 'apparently' visible ass picnic I host every morning at about 7:50.

So I am still annoyed, and I am still impatient. "You can't have it all at once" has become a mantra for the ages. But at least I understand that just because we can't have our hyper beams now, doesn't mean we won't be able to acquire them later. Patience, glasshopper.

The birthrate problem: Case Closed

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

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