that's how the whispers start

So I guess a blessing from Nobu makes it official. Which means I've got four and a half days to get these last few edits right before I toss it to the masses. 

The "Fixed and the City" Moving Picture Mixtape project finally premieres at Trees this Friday.

To say I'm nervous to have my little commemoration publicly shown would be a huge understatement. But what really gets me about this is having to get up in front of everybody and speak in Japanese--a masochistic sport I don't exactly have the most inspiring track record in.

Come on boss, that shit's just torture.

Anyway, start the countdown, son:

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.

Hazardous to your mental health

Cripes, and I thought I was a bit down in the dumps on Okayama. Apparently, I have it pretty easy, according to this morning's headlines.

I had friends and coworkers who were on their way home through the station when it happened too.
Thank God for the obvious.

All of the obvious.

Coldest of Calendars II

Daikin-san finally blessed my apartment with his constructive customer service after work yesterday. Stood up on his tippy toes and poked at the heater, scribbled in his notepad, jiggled my windows, sniffed around my porch, ran outside, then ran back inside and excitedly warned me not to turn it on "until he gets back." He dashed out the door leaving me in my genkan deeply puzzled, and still holding his pen.

Flash forward to this morning. Woke up in frigid dismay: the Speed Stick applied after last night's shower had frozen in my armpits. UnderArmor, hung up to dry, had fallen down and shattered on the floor, while the small troupe of roaches who play Mahjong under the fridge, were huddled around a tiny firing barrel in the middle of the kitchen, warming their stickly paws. Undoubtedly using the broken pieces as fuel.

Ironic that the two warmest places in my tiny apartment are the exhaust vents on my PS3, and my heated toilet seat.
Hopefully tonight is the last night I'm forced to play Warhawk from the bathroom. Getting kinda cramped in there for my nightly controller chucking tantraums.

** UPDATE: 6:00pm **
I was surprised to find Daikin-san patiently waiting for me when I arrived home this evening. Apparently his love for air-conditioning/heating units knows no bounds; the pup tent outside my door indicated he had long since been anticipating finishing what he started.
As my key snapped the door bolt open, like a Pavlovian dog, he sprang to action, swept past me in the doorway, and leapt to the heater above my bed. Not before removing his shoes first though. As he pried open the unit cover, I swore I could hear the yelping of tortured animals inside. A thin stream of blood began to trickle down past the remote sensor and on to my pillow below.


"Aah... Yappari sou da" he mumbles thoughtfully, snapping his left hand into a single yellow rubber glove.

Suddenly, he plunges his fist deep inside the machine, arm twisting this way and that, before pulling out a clump of fur--a dead rat. Then another dead rat.
Then a tangled mess of human hair--black, possibly a wig.
The industrial plastic bucket next to the bed clatters to life, slowly filling as the helpless heater surrenders its foul quarry.
More hair. Another rat--still live. A pentagram. A glob of candle wax. A single-handed dagger, its blade twisted and warped. A fourth rat, but only the tail this time.
And suddenly, the wall-mounted beast goes silent.

"Dekita!" he exclaims, triumph spreading across his bespectacled face.

Like a realtor handing the keys to a new homeowner, he places in my bewildered palm the unit's remote control.

"Mou, daijyoubu yo.
Shinpai shinai de."


I turned towards the kitchen to rinse the blood from the remote, but when I returned, he was gone.



Glorious warmth.

Coldest of Calendars

Many a harsh Michigan winter ago, my brothers and I hammered framing nails, wheelbarrowed construction scraps around, and traded dirty jokes alongside a man named Eric. A shock of yellow hair topped leathery skin, his wiry frame hiding from the raw cold in stained, and torn Carharts. Blaring ZZ Top over our tinny boom box speakers, like a blonde orangutan with a tool belt, he swung lazily between the wooden trusses, measuring, throwing chalk lines, jigsawing, and brandishing his mammoth framing hammer, seemingly impervious to the elements.

Eric the Contractor.

My father had hired him to help us build our umpteenth garage to aid in storage of a contemptible virus--a rampantly spreading collection of unusable machinery, inoperable automobiles, and unwearable sports equipment. So momentous the occasion, and so grand was this umpteenth garage, that my father also hired all of us boys to help him. Understand that I use the term "hired" rather flippantly here though, as it simply meant we were allowed continued residence under the same roof, at the same dinner table, and in the same beds. My father was also kind enough to request for our services on December Saturdays, and again during Christmas vacation--thus guaranteeing our uninterrupted participation without school getting in the way.

On one particularly rotten cold afternoon, I remember holding one end of Eric's measuring tape, my miserable, and skinny ass wobbling on frostbitten toes, when I spitefully asked him if he'd rather freeze, or burn to death.

"Oh, freeze. Definitely." was his quick, and hardly hypothetical reply.
"Can you just imagine anything worse than the unbearable pain of burning to death?" he laughed in response.

Why yes. Yes, in fact I can imagine something worse than the pain of burning to death. How about the pain of freezing to death?

Who can blame him though, right? Ever since Empire Strikes Back, there has never been a cooler** way to (almost) die, than by slicing open one's own pack animal to keep warm. I just figured with Eric, he'd whip out that jigsaw, and carve open the nearest stomach--even if it were his own--just to keep warm for a few more moments. Man, what an awesome way to die.

Flash forward to last night, in my tiny Japanese apartment, whose heater has mysteriously failed. I've spent the painful shivering moments since, trying to find out just what the shit was so appetizing to mighty Eric the Contractor about freezing to death. I'm certain there could be nothing badass about waking from sleep just in time to be crushed under the frozen water vapor weight from your own breath. The tidy Japanese police would thaw out my corpse, and find had been desperately spooned open at the abdomen--a tragic attempt at keeping warm like our mighty contracting hero, Eric.

I think Daikin-san owes me an apology.

And a new soup spoon.





** pun intended

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.

50 steps to the outhouse

Holy crap.

"...doa gochui kudasai. Hai, soredewa tugi wa Tsukaguchi eki desu. Tsukagu--... Tsuka...ehtto...ehtto... Tugi wa...ehh--uuuaaaaugh! yabai yabai yabai yabai yabai!!"
*soft splatter*

"Violent bout" for the win. How come my train delays are always boring run-of-the-mill stuff? Mild flooding, an occasional jumper, schoolkid train track shenanigans...But goddamn! "Lingering aroma of human fecal destruction" would definitely be a first.

And to think I used to hate coming into work on a Saturday.


Trans: "...caution, doors are closing. All right, the next station is Tsukaguchi. Tsukagu--...Tsuka...uh...uhm...the next is uhh...uuuaaaaugh! oh...oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god!!"