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.

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.

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