And you and I

Ah!

This is a picture of me trying to clean up the yard after typhoon season.

Well, we've had an unusually typhoony season this year. Yes, that's a word; I looked it up. It originated in the Yeats poem of some renown, The Old Age of Queen Maeve:

Because Earth, crazy for its broken power,
Casts up a typhoony bitch, and the winds answer it
With holy shadows.

I think we've all been there. Well, point being, there have been a lot of typhoons. In fact, more than any in recorded history (reliable recorded history for these sorts of things stretching back a whoppin' 300 years...whooptie crap). Anyway, my roommate mentioned to me that this was obviously the result of massive global warming. When I countered with the fact that the temperature increase these past 100 some-odd years (when global temperatures began to be recorded) has been substantially centered around cities, and that we actually experienced a period of global cooling in the 1970's (a decade of considerably high greenhouse gas output), and that temperatures, on average, have only risen around 2 degrees Fahrenheit over the past 100 years, and that in any other field of "science" (I consider environmentalism about as scientific as palm reading) this would be much too small a sample for any reliable conclusion--much like trying to predict the stock market after 3 seconds worth of monitoring--he riposted, "Well I guess we'll see in 50 years.” Poor guy with his rampant ADD. He still thought we were talking about the 4th installment in the Indiana Jones series.

In any event, shortly thereafter, I was perusing the internet when, what should I stumble upon but news of the largest snow fall in Moscow’s history occurring on top of various, unprecedented snowfalls in California’s deserts. It was only a few days later that I began to hear rumors, malicious whispers from the left, claiming that this was the insidious work of anthropomorphic global warming. And suddenly it occurred to me: if global warming can cause colder climates, what else can it do? If this magical phenomenon is responsible, simultaneously, for both hot and cold temperatures, what else might it be responsible for? Might it be responsible for my being late to class? I tried it, and, sure enough, it worked! Nunokawa sensei glared at me as I stumbled into class, unprepared and 30 minutes late.

“Global Warming,” I explained.

“Ah,” she smiled, the look on her face conveying the sense of acknowledgment that we were both in this together, us versus them, those damned greedy industrialists.

(Note: This is in no way meant as a slam on Nunokawa sensei; she is an absolute stud—or the female equivalent thereof—but, even the cleverest of us can be hoodwinked by these preachers of doom-and-gloom.)

I have so far won 3 law suits and escaped imprisonment 6 times on this excuse; it’s like a get of out jail free card, a magician’s black hat for all our problems. If you don’t believe me, do some research. The Clinton administration cited The Florida fires of 1998, the northeastern blizzard of 1996, the various hurricanes of 1995, the South Dakota floods of 1997, and the heat waves in the South and West in 1998 as being results of global warming. And that’s just a taste of the blame that can be heaped upon this dubious occurrence, this nefarious incantation of leftist gramarye. Just imagine what other problems we could magically whisk away if only we put our heads together...

(If you’d like to know more about this subject, give a read through the Second Assessment Report of the International Panel on Climate Change—the UN body charged with the task of organizing an international force to curb the causes and effects of global warming. Here’s a sneak peak: "Warmer temperatures will lead to prospects for more severe droughts and/or floods in some places and less severe droughts and/or floods in others." How this differs from a world void of human-induced global warming remains a mystery.)

It really wasn't that exciting. My first thought was that the vibrations and rumbling noises were coming from the ancient air-conditioner that hangs above my bed, but that wasn't it. Then I thought it could be me having lots of sex, but quickly realized (much to my chagrin) that I wasn't having any sex, and that it must be an earthquake.

sigh...

The following day I visited Luteru Gakuin, a junior high\high school, and one of my possible future employers. The school itself looked like a cold-war relic, a bombed-out remnant of Soviet Russia, just waiting for a competent and able mind to set things right. That mind, along with the rest of my body, interviewed with a delightful administrative board that afternoon, during which I answered all of their questions with conviction and added some insightful comments of my own. All in all it went rather well, as in they worshipped me. I will be able to assert this with more confidence when I am officially offered the job (more to come on this).

The students were of a similarly amicable nature, but perhaps a little too friendly as one of them had the audacity to grab my breasts. The following is a picture of me laying the hurt on this kid for touching my naughty-place:

(In all seriousness, I was assaulted that afternoon: after I had finished administering a quiz in one of the classes, several kids did squeeze my pecs as they filed out. It was kind of hot.)
Anywho, after this occurence, not too much else happened here in Kyushu, so I guess I'll skip back to Tokyo.

Sweet Mother, I look good. See those veins popping out of my arm (ok, the resolution's not so good when posted...click on the image, you'll see)? Yeah, I work out a lot.

(edited to note that with this post, my blog now officially has an archive--that is, it's big enough that it can't be viewed all on one page. I think I've finally made it.)

This is another shot of Kumamoto-Jo (uh, you didn't forget what "Jo" meant already, did you?).

This is Kumamoto-Jo ("Jo" means "Castle", retard).

Dokai!

Well, as I said below, I have no pictures to back this up, so you're just going to have to take me at my word on this one...

Bobbi and I had spent the early parts of the evening enjoying traditional Japanese food, sake, and discussing topics of vital philosophical and historical significance. She held that the peak of Western music came with the release of Air Supply's first album, Lost in Love, while I correctly asserted that it had been all downhill since Dawn and Tony Orlando parted ways. We went back and forth for hours until I finally had to give up--there's simply no arguing with idiots. As we plunged on into the night, our merriment was interrupted by the drunken, stertorous laughter of a gentleman sitting at the table behind us dressed in high-class Arab garb. I could hardly believe my eyes: it was none other than former Palestinian Authority some title or another, Yasser Arafat! Noticing my stares, he motioned me over to his table.

"I couldn't help but notice that you were sitting over there all by yourself."

I looked behind me at the rather sizable group that had tagged along that evening (I'm a fairly popular guy). When I made to ask what it was he was snorting, and if I could, in fact, get my hands on some of it, he preempted me, saying,

"I need your help getting me out of here."

"Oh, do the Israelis know you're here?" I asked.

"No, I just seem to have lost the ability to walk."

I gripped underneath one of his arms and motioned for Bobbi to do the same with the other. But he refused her help inasmuch as he was convinced that she was a 12-foot tall Bactrian camel.

"Look, man," Arafat explained, "I didn't want to say anything in front of her. I mean, I'm as big of a fan of desert pack animals as anybody, particularly those blessed with a healthy dose of giantism. But you and I both know that, despite all their merits, camels are simply not powerful swimmers."

I couldn't argue with him there.

So, after explaining to Bobbi the situation--that Arafat was off his rocker insofar as he believed that she was one of the better-endowed cousins of the Arabian dromedary--we slowly made our way to the door, drunkenness and his club foot slowing us down.

While en route to our undisclosed destination, Arafat turned to me and said,

"I want you to know that I'm cool with it, man."

"Cool with what?"

"With your being Jewish."

"I'm not Jewish."

"But you've got a big nose."

"Still not Jewish."

"Hey man, it's ok. Nobody's judging here. Why, just last week I married a Jew.....
.....
....no wait, not married....shot."

"Ah." The next few minutes were spent in awkward silence.

"Did I ever tell you about my idea for New World Order?" Arafat said after a few minutes, breaking the painful silence.

"Considering we met like 10 minutes ago, Yasser, no."

"Please, call me Sidney. Well, you know, we're all a community, right? We're all one community, one big starving community. And the only thing that can fill our starving bellies is love, man, pure sweet unadulterated love. It’s all about the love, man. And when love enters into that community, it will turn the system on-end. Love will become our new currency, and we'll conquer the world in a sea of peace-signs, weed, and tie-die shirts! All we all gotta do is give peace and love a chance, man. And when that time comes, no one will...uh," he stuttered, scratching his temple, "what I mean is...uh, what was I talking about again? Oh, wait, this is the place."

We had arrived at a small pool whose waters were sparkling beneath the bloated and lambent moon above. Arafat immediately began to strip. First to go was his turban, and, as he removed it, two beautifully braided Willie Nelson-style pig-tails fell from the headdress, which went a long way to explain both his nonsensical ramblings and the odd smell emanating from his hookah. After removing the rest of his Mideast garments, he canon-balled his way to the depths of the pond.

“Don’t be embarrassed of what God gave you, man” he yelled after reemerging, seeing my hesitancy to remove my clothes. “Ah, what the hey,” I thought, and obliged. I one-upped the eminent octogenarian with a back flip over his head. I could see now why a not-so-able swimmer like a Bactrian camel would really put a damper on the evening.

“That was some kind-of awesome,” he remarked.

We frolicked at length in the pond taking in the beautiful scenery and soaking up each other’s laughter and knowledge.

“Never lose sight of where this great starship Earth is taking us, man,” he had warned.

The time flew, and finally Arafat rose out of the pool and began to dress himself.

“Where are you going? Back to Paris?”

“No way, do you think I’d trust my life to their lousy socialized healthcare system?”

He had a point.

“No, no, no…I’m going home, man. Home, to that great island at the end of the sea,” Arafat replied.

“What?”

“Yeah, man, that’s my home. I live there with my friends Elvis, Princess Diana, and Tupac.” He finished dressing and replaced the turban on his head, covering his Willie-Nelson locks.

“Will I ever see you again?” I asked.

“Whenever the world is once again in need of a politician of mediocre to poor quality, look for my return,” he replied and turned to leave.

“Wait, I have one more question. Does Andy Kaufman live there too?”

"He did, but we voted him off last week," he replied and disappeared into the night.

My good friend Bobbi and I, post sake shot #1 (1 of many to follow). The evening got progressively fuzzier from here on out (hence the lack of pictures).

My good friend Bobbi and I, pre sake shots.

And, of course, what cultural festival would be complete without your standard half-naked Japanese kid wearing Bono-glasses?

Whoa, you might want to turn your heads. I got nauseous just posting this one.

It's not his fault, officer. He's drunk.

Ok, word of warning: none of the pictures I took of this festival are in focus and may cause slight eye discomfort or even nausea. Consult physician before viewing.

And why are they all out of focus? Well, obviously the Japanese government was trying to prevent me from taking pictures of this festival (national secrecy issue...I don't know, ask them), and they must have gotten ahold of my camera and recalibrated the focus on all my pictures.

Today, in anachronistic blog-world, I boarded a plane for the island of Kyushu, where the school in which I may be teaching is located. But, as I found out sitting on the tarmack for over an hour and a half, the pilot had called in sick that day, so it was up to me to fly her safely into Fukuoka (whose airport code, incidentally, is FUK). The flight was smooth but for a low pressure zone around Osaka, which threw off our ETA (estimated time of arrival).

We lucked out and just happened to arrive in Kumamoto on the right day (thanks in no small part to my abilities and quick reflexes in the cockpit) to witness one of the true gems of Japanese culture: the Fujisakigu festival. It's held yearly in honor of the great Japanese warrior, Musashi, the Daimyo of Kumamoto. As the story goes, Musashi and his pal Steve were playing kickball in the palace courtyard when Steve bet Musashi that he could kick the ball farther than his friend.

"No way, I'm the Daimyo. It's, like, a law that no one can kick the ball farther than me."

"Don't you try to weasel your way out of this one, buddy. I bet you all of Korea that I can kick the ball farther than you!" Steve said.

It sure was tempting.

"Alright, you're on, but this better not be like that time you bet me Pearl Harbor," said Musashi, and he came down with such a force as to cleave the earth in two. WHAM! The ball flew all the way into the next prefecture.

"That was pretty good," remarked Steve, "but you ain't seen nothing yet," he promised. As he wound up for the kick, however, he failed to notice that Musashi had replaced the kickball with a ravenous tiger--he was never known as a particularly fair sport. The ball only rolled a pitiful 4 feet, propelled primarily by the glancing blow of one of Steve's severed arms.

However, Musashi had had the wool pulled over his eyes again, for as he arived in Korea to claim his prize, he found that his "I won it from Steve" argument held little sway with the locals (it was exactly like that time he bet him Pearl Harbor!), and he was forced to attack. No one knows if he succeeded or not, but he left his legacy in the form of this festival.

What basically happens is that people in traditional Japanese garb fill the streets and parade horses through the city (the horses are supposed to represent the Koreans). They get the horses drunk, beat them, and finally eat them, all to racaous chants of "Dokai!" (loosely translated as ''How do you like that?''). Now I've heard it from people in "the know" that this is an extremely racist festival that is not be enjoyed but condemned.

I found it terribly funny.

I wonder what this is an ad for?

Hmmm...some sort of clock tower I think. At any rate, this is still Shinjuku.