gol' dang bodagget

Japanese is a very unique language because actual swearing--or equivalents to what George Carlin would have typically referred to as the Seven Deadly Words, for all intents and purposes do not exist. So the translation of cuss words into Japanese can be a tricky multi-step process first requiring a "dumbing down" of the base language, careful contextual approximation, then an educated guess, or re-application depending on the desired severity of the target language. By the time the process is complete, outside the speaker's tone and inflection, there is usually precious little remaining of the statement's original intent.

Granted, while even the average Japanese layperson is already familiar with a certain four letter word rhyming with 'duck' (somewhat taboo in Japan, based mostly on hearsay), the English language is home to a whole library of other salty vernacular delights that can deftly escape even the most thorough of J/E translators. Which, as you could imagine, allow me unabashedly free passage with a great deal of coarse language that shouldn't otherwise go tolerated anywhere outside Japan.

To illustrate,

I say: "What!? The copier dicked up my framing again!! Is there anything this heap of shit can't do completely wrong!?"

The other English teachers hear: "Indeed, the copier is sometimes a very disagreeable piece of office equipment!"

I say: "How does this little assclown think handing in a horse-shit burrito will ever pass for homework?"

They hear: "Students with Asberger Syndrome can often be very troublesome to work with."

I say: "I would rather receive a root beer enema from Dr. Pepper than have to come in and teach your goddamn kids on my one, non-refundable day off!"

They hear: "I'm terribly sorry, but I can't come in today. I'm afraid I have other obligations."

I say: "Where the f*** did I put my f***ing electronic dictionary? Not again! F***!"

They hear: "Where the f*** did I put my f***ing electronic dictionary? Not again! F***!"

Whoops.
Ok, so almost free passage. 

"Dr. Huxtable" to blame

I sideswiped an orange and white city taxi at a fairly irresponsible rate of speed on my way to work this morning. Surprisingly, I don't really have any ill will towards the offending driver, because despite it being entirely my fault (I don't recall seeing his "right" turn signal as I wisely decided to pass him on the right), he immediately lept from his cab to smash my idiot face in see if me and my sweet ride were all right, of course, profusely apologizing as though he had just accidentally run over my firstborn with a lawnmower. He seemed genuinely concerned too--unheard of for someone whose profession professionally despises cyclists, advocating collateral damage at the expense of a timely customer drop-off. Seeing as the shock of impact knocked the Japanese alphabet clean out of my head, it took a few moments of breathless epileptic charades before I could clearly tell him my bike and I were fine. Even funnier though, was how he continued bowing and apologizing while attempting to re-affix the driver's side mirror that my left knee had totally owned the shit out of. Coming from the United States of "May God Have Mercy on Your Soul If It's Your Fault," where typical fender-bender culture recommends you arm yourself with a practical negotiation tool, it's an unbelievable relief to swap paint on these J-train streets, and not have to worry about a tire iron to the face.

Hopefully I'll have the good luck to crash into him again. Hook him up with a matching set of killer aerodynamic dents and scratches for the passenger's side.
Maybe then he'll buy me a beer.

Mukade: 100 legs of pure fear

Let me get one thing straight.

In non-video gaming contexts, I have fearlessly battled all manners of pesky vermin--snakes, spiders, mice, bees... even the elusive mice riding on snakes shooting bees out of their mouths... --all undisputed conquests over an equally exhaustive bestiary. But there is still one creature so vile, so repugnant, with whom I refuse to even contemplate stepping into the arena.

Centipedes.

Hit me with a thesaurus, but "hate" and any one of its many semantic variants, is hardly strong enough to begin description.
Like the wizard whose name could not be spoken in that movie whose existence I refuse to acknowledge, just the very thought of these creatures outside the confines of a two-dimensional shooter is nauseating at best.
Encounters in the wild are considered extremely unlucky. Even unluckier if I am without a semiautomatic. So you can imagine that I found it only slightly luckier, that someone had already fought it, and luckier still that they had managed to emerge victorious:

Rest in piece(s) **
Little Michigan woodland centipedes these are not. Brilliant of me to move to Asia--home to the biggest, blackest, ugliest, and shit-your-pants nastiest (NSFW if your barf bucket is more than 10 feet from your desk) centipedes on the face of this planet. Wait, on second thought, don't click the link. Too late. You already did, didn't you?
Dear god, if only it weren't true.

Granted, while certain Australian, Amazonian, and King Kong's Skull Island species may grow even larger, these actu--, wait a second. I'm rationalizing. No. There is simply no rational justification for a centipede that cannot fit comfortably under the heel of my Doc Martins. Had this been the steps to my own porch, I would have screamed like a bitch and hog-dashed to the nearest Koban to borrow a tactical shotgun and a riot shield. However, had this been the steps to my neighbor's porch, I would have run downstairs and taken his sweet bike, because lord knows the poor bastard wouldn't be needing it anymore.
Thankfully, these were in fact the steps of my school, and the photo was captured with my telephoto lens three stories up, and 50 yards away.
Ok, not true.

I made one of the second-grade girls snap the close-up with my cell phone.

Anything to help her grade.



** Measuring in at only 4 or 5 inches long, he was just a wee bugger...in a better life.

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.

Bring the rain

Only highways paved with danger are worth driving, as you'll soon see in my latest crappy video short.

So, two thumbs up for Warhawk whenever my controller isn't buried in the wall. And really, my abnormally high levels of rage are not that of a control or playability issue buried within the game (even though the autoaim was allegedly fine-tuned by an orangutan with dyslexia), it's a "playing a game with other shit-eating humans who are better than me" issue. Sometimes, as many as 31 others.
It just occurred to me, that for all the shouting I do, I should just open an English conversation class for all the other guys in this paper-walled apartment complex. Word(s) of the day, as probably heard resounding down the hallway past apartments 204 through 201, would be "you turret whoring cock-holsters".

Yeah, go ahead and jot that down.
It'll be on the quiz.

Enjoy.

We've got your hell and high water

"I've got my things, and I'm good to go..."

I get a different re-impression of the United States every time I get back here, from some extended stay in Japan. Three years ago, America was "deep-dish pizza and liberally applied Speed Stick." Last summer, it was "surly grunt (thanks, a-hole immigration people)." Then, just yesterday; America is..."sunburned, and really ugly denim." Not saying it's true. Just saying it's the first thing that popped into my head on the shuttle bus to customs. Maybe he was from Canada. Guess we'll never know. Too bad that you never have a second chance to make a first re-impression.

"Sometimes perfection can be perfect hell...

I think the only other time I can remember wearing the same clothes for 48 hours straight was two days ago when I left for Kansai International. And...holycrap I'm still wearing them. Cripes! I can see personal history getting made! I'd love to commemorate the day, and maybe even the time, but I don't know either. Oh, it's 35:72 o'clock? Sure, why not?
48 hours spent cramped on planes, moping around terminals, cursing at rotten cheating AI in Puzzle Quest, destroying eardrums under HIPV and Social D, and searching the vernacular for a softer way to ask a certain clueless H.I.S. travel agent to kindly go get fucked. Ok, fine. Too harsh. Even if I said "with all due respect," I still doubt he would. Sure, I'd love to say it was my fault for landing a borderline idiotic itinerary requiring no less than three hours of downtime in four different airports, but there have been open seats on every plane I've been on so far. Except on the flight from Honolulu...I think those seats were cleared out after that one baby started puking. Made me want to barf, myself. Not because I was overly nauseated from the tantalizing aromas of week-old cheese omelette and soupy vomit in a confined space at 3 in the morning, but rather just to spite the kid for being such a softy.
Memorable flight. Unappetizing at best though.

"One more flight, and I'm done..."

I'm bruised--the first of many more. Still, I couldn't be happier about it.

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.

Too 'le tired' for any meaty complaints

Okayama addresses are totally whack. Tell a taxi driver that you need to get to 1-16-3 Yamato Cho, and he'll give you an empty stare. Say 'pronto' and he'll kick your dumb gaijin ass to the curb. But tell him that you need to go to "the ugly beige brick building underneath the bullet train tracks at the end of that one street that with those peach trees and that little noodle shop that's always closed on Mondays" and he'll have the pedal to the floor like a drug-running wheelman from the J-Fuzz. I only mention this because some J-noob unwittingly asked for my address the other day, with intention of actually finding my apartment. Actual addresses are cryptic puzzles left to be cracked by the friendly Post Office workers and that bastard NHK man when you owe him money. For the rest of the nooby foreigners and Asian mortals, points of reference are wisely used instead. Thinking about dropping by my swinging pad for a drink or a game of CaC? Grab a pen and paper--this one's a doozy:

Apt. #205
Okayama City, Japan
Down the street from 711 by Undou Kouen, used Honda scooter dealership
Behind fenced-off parking lot where that old lady throws her dishwater
Small transformer station under bullet train tracks
Right at the river whose fish you would never want to eat
New building between transformer and coffee can shrine, second floor.

Good luck poop-heads. You'll probably need it.



* The forthcoming video update faced an untimely and crippling setback last night when I lost an entire evening's worth of editing. If you were out collecting the morning paper around 8 or 9 am yesterday, you may have heard the resounding echoes of me cursing. But sit tight. It's still coming.