And you and I

A chrysalis of perfection

2006-03-13T19:44:00.000-12:00

In case anyone still reads this, I am, for the time being, going to sign off officially. I have a girlfriend. I know you all know this, but I like rubbing it in your faces as much as possible. This fairly recent fact is to blame for my past\future lack of blogging activity. The purpose of a blog is to update interested parties on every mundane detail of my hum-drum life. Well, there is only one detail now, and, as I said before, it's not exactly something that I care to discuss in a public forum. Plus, I'm sure you would quickly tire of hearing about her. So, I am signing off officially, though I will still allow access to viewing\commentary (which I will never check). So, enjoy this, my little chrysalis of perfection.

Sayonara, as they say.

A Year (and a half) in review

2006-01-29T16:34:00.000-12:00

Dear Blog faithful,

As I have more or less passed unscathed through the first half of my contract (assuming I don't end up finding a reason to extend), I decided now was a pretty good time to give you a brief rundown. Also, most of this stuff was already written anyway in that church letter and annual report I told you about.

First, for anyone who has made the unfortunate mistake of stumbling upon this site, a brief bio: My name is Nicholas Mason. I have brown eyes, brown hair, am 6 feet tall with a firm chin, and winning smile. I’ve grown up all across the South East, but my family has settled for the time being in Orange Park, Florida. I attended Wake Forest University in Winston-Salem, NC, where I received a B.A. in Music and enjoyed jaw-dropping levels of popularity. I knew I would have to attend graduate school, a music degree being not too terribly marketable, but I thought it might be time for a break from schooling and decided to go into banking. A few rejections later, I was onboard Northwest flight 7635 (I just made that up; I have no idea what my flight number was) bound for Tokyo.

Now, for anyone who wasn't able to hear my sob-stories from Tokyo: I remember it like it was over a year and a half ago, which is to say that I don’t remember it well at all. My first memories of Japan are clouded in exhaustion—due in equal parts to jetlag and my encountering of a foreign culture—but I believe overwhelmed is the best way to describe my initial experiences. The opening of Lost in Translation (the part right after the bit of Scarlet Johansson nudity) pretty well sums up my first night here: I was spent, and the bright lights, the number of people, and my complete linguistic inadequacy brought me to the brink of collapse.

My first week or so conducted itself much the same as my first night, and thus my memories thereof are a muddled collage of cute little Japanese Rail (JR) jingles, sometimes impressive, sometimes tawdry electronic displays, and the general befuddlement that comes with being not quite au fait.

Note, the above paragraph can be found, more or less unchanged, in my first or second blog post, I forget which. Look it up, I'm not going to link it for you.

All together, I spent six months in Tokyo studying Japanese, and, if I can be frank, it was pretty awful. My time there was marked with hours of downtime, hours of floundering, hours of commuting, and a few minutes of study. I had only 3 hours of class a day, which, as you can imagine, gave rise to many of those soul-searching “why am I here” sorts of questions. However, Tokyo did provide me with ample time for reading and pouring over a thesaurus for words like “au fait”.

Kumamoto: A few months before language school “graduation” I found out that I would be placed in—thank the Lord—Kumamoto, on the island of Kyushu. I say, “thank the Lord” because my only other option would have been placement in Tokyo, and frankly, I’d had enough of Tokyo. And lot's of things changed: I cut my girly hair, took care of that nasty facial growth, threw away the flower-print shirt, donated my collection of designer man-purses to the local orphanage (orphans got a right to pizazz too), and I also lost a little weight.

The nice thing about working is that it creates a bit of a snowball effect: after that catalyst (employment) is reached, one feels more inclined toward self-improvement, shouldering new responsibilities, and tackling new assignments. Once I adjusted to the rigors of the new work environment, I decided that I needed an activity, a goal to shoot for and to occupy my free time. So I chose two—a full marathon and the 3rd level Japanese proficiency exam (the Sankyu) — and did both in a sort-of slipshod fashion.

I’m attending 大江教会 (pronounced “Oe Kyokai”) out here, which means “Big River Church”. I don’t know why they call it “Big River Church” because, so far as I can tell, there are no big rivers close by. The atmosphere is warm even if the temperature is not, and the people are friendly and caring, if a little demanding. I generally show up a few minutes late, but they don’t say anything because I move all their heavy equipment and furniture for them. They can’t seem to decide where they want their piano, which floats between the sanctuary and fellowship hall, depending on the phase of the moon and the planets currently in retrograde. It’s a good thing I have another J-3 (our unofficial title out here, so called because we are part of a 3 year program in Japan) there to help me because the average member’s age is about 104.

And that rigorous work environment I wrote about above is found at my school, Luther Gakuin, “The Happiest Place on Earth”. True story: Martha Akard (our school’s founder) once lost in a high-stakes game of Texas Hold ‘Em to Walt Disney and had to give up the epithet. True story.

The reason I still use it is because of a few key members of the staff. One, who for privacy’s sake we’ll call Yoshiko, is always kind enough to correct our culture faux pas and slam shut the international office’s door so as not to let any of our air-conditioning or heating into the hallway. Another, whom I affectionately call “The Bane of my Existence”, is not terribly fond of his job as music director, so he graciously passes it on to me. But in all seriousness, it’s the students who make my time here worth it. Why just the other day I had one teach me a few obscene phrases in Japanese, telling me they were commonly used and a great way to keep rowdy students in line. For practice, I had the students start talking really loudly, and then I yelled some of these choice expletive phrases. The windows were open, and I’m pretty sure I’m not going to be asked to extend my contract.

But, by and large, I am enjoying my time here; the amount of times I’ve had my chest grabbed (very disturbing the first time it happens to you) and the number of marriage proposals is always flattering. And, I find the Japanese people to be generally polite and inviting. Ah, but, the heart of the matter: Why am I here? Good question. How will this help me prepare for my future? I've no idea. I've struggled with both of these questions and more over the past year and a half, and the general conclusion I come to is that my future and my circumstances are direct results of my decision-making, for good or for ill. The future is entirely unknown to us, and all we can be expected to do is make the best choices possible given the information available. And information is expensive. I could have chosen to do any number of things out of college, but I don't think I would trade this experience for the world.

Somewhat sincerely,

Nicholas Mason

Happy Anniversary!!

2006-01-20T13:08:00.000-12:00

It's been 1 month since my last post!

Look, I know it's been awhile. I was away on vacation. And frankly, I've just had a lot on my mind recently--wonderful things mind you, but things I don't feel entirely comfortable discussing in an open forum, as I believe she frequents this blog (God knows why). I'll give you an update sometime pretty soon if there ends up being an 'us'. Ha, that looked like 'anus'.

Moreover, I've had to write a letter to both a church back home--which gives money to an organization that pays my insurance costs and the costs of a largely useless orientation program I attended summer before last--and the head church here in Japan, blowing sunshine up both their asses, sunshine which details how God's work is being done over here or something. I don't know, I don't speak Christianese.

I don't mean to convey the feeling that I'm unhappy and have difficulty speaking highly of my time here, I'm just pretty sure that the letters will either fall short their expectations or sound extremely phoney. It's this agenda that keeps me from blogging regularly, although the formermost much more so than the last two.

Look, I'm not going to make any promises here or anything. In the past I've always said something along the lines of "I will rededicate myself to my former blogging excellence" or something, but I don't feel comfortable making such guarantees. Perhaps it's a start, a launching pad. Perhaps. That much I will say.

Oh, and I manipulated the date. It's not actually my anniversary.

4th Chapel Speech

2005-12-20T10:02:00.000-12:00

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. (John 3:16)

Love, though seen and experienced differently in different parts of the world, is a concept that pervades all of mankind. When we look across the scape of human culture and history, we find a myriad of translations that weave themselves into a colorful tapestry held together by our common experience of this phenomenon and made beautiful by our variety of views on the subject.

In what different ways do you use the word love? Love of family? Love of wife, husband, boyfriend, or girlfriend? Love of friends? Love of God or even country? The Ancient Greeks had several definitions, definitions we find mirrored in many other cultures and religions. Friendship, or the love of friends, was (and in Modern Greek still is) called Philia, a dispassionate and virtuous love that includes loyalty to friends, family, and community. Storge described the affection felt between parents and children, what in Japanese you might call Amae. Xenia was a form of love that might be defined as hospitality, an extremely important practice in Ancient Greece. It was an almost ritualized exchange in which the host would feed and shelter the guest, and though the guest might very well have been a complete stranger, he or she is only expected to repay with gratitude. In this sense, Xenia holds much in common with the Roman concept of Caritas, or the Buddhist and Hindu principle of Karuna, both of which may be translated as charity.

Eros is passionate love, sensuous and longing; it is love of the body, what in Buddhism and Hinduism is known as Kama. Although important and an integral part of any healthy relationship, it was considered one of the baser forms of love, and when experienced alone is invariably short-lived. Thus, Eros was often considered the doorway to a deeper form of love, much like physical attraction to another is our initiation into a relationship. This other form was known as Agape, which is in fact the Modern Greek word for love, though in Ancient Greek it might best be translated as “love of the soul”. It is a pure and ideal form of love that all desire but few experience. It was this Agape love that Paul glorified as the most important virtue in 1 Corinthians, chapter 13: “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices in the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, and always perseveres. Love never fails.”

This is the love that God feels for mankind, this agape love. He feels it so strongly that he sacrificed his only son so that we might be reunited with him in the end. And this is what the Christmas season is all about: it’s an expression of God’s love for man through the birth of his son Jesus Christ. Never forget this fact; dwell on it, speak it, celebrate it. This winter, let love cascade over your whole body, let it fill your heart and pulse in your very veins; draw in the whole world in an embrace, for God is the source of all love, and he is reflected in every loving thought we have, in every loving word we speak, and in every loving act we do. Amen.

The Wrap-up

2005-12-18T09:47:00.000-12:00

I know I've been out of touch recently, and to all my friends and family, I apologize. To all others, you have no business being here anyway. It's been an extremely busy couple of weeks, in case you hadn't heard. Three weekends ago I took the 3rd-level Japanese proficiency exam, for which I can't really comment on too much now as I don't receive my score back until February. I set my expectations as low as possible here (as in I had none) so as not to disappoint myself, and as such did a very sparse amount of studying and preparation. Perhaps more to the point, this exam really doesn't matter too much, I had little motivation to prepare well; a passing score on the 3rd level means next to nothing on an application or resume. It's the 2nd level that impresses, and it's the second level I'll be shooting for next year.

Then last weekend was the marathon. 3 months of hard preparation, of running in the freezing cold at night, of not being able to go out on the weekends because of training requirements (not that I had that many offers anyway), and I had a pretty lousy time to show for it. Having no history of long distance running, I didn't know how to pace myself, and consequently went out way too slowly. As I was reaching the halfway point (it was an out-and-back, not a loop), one of my students, a 3rd year high school girl, passed me going the other way, shouted my name out, and waved at me. Please God let her be running the half-marathon, I thought. Just to be safe, I sped up. I rounded the corner and turned it up a couple of notches. But the wind was against me, as were kilometers 35-39 (miles 22-24.5, because kilometers mean nothing to me either), and I couldn't make up lost time. I could hardly move for those 4 kilometers, every minute seemed like a lifetime, and I cursed Andrew's name--my friend and training partner who convinced me to do this. Then I finally reached kilometer marker 39 and felt a burst of energy, knowing that I had only 3 kilo left and seeing the stadium (finish line) looming on the horizon. I started flying. And when I entered the stadium, the stands were full, there were spectators cheering for me, and I rounded the final turn of the track in a full-on sprint.

My time was 4:06, her time was a 3:58 (she was running the full), and I was training for a sub 3:30 marathon, but I was still overwhelmed. When I finished my first 20-miler, I did a little Rocky dance and held my hands up high in celebration. When I finished my first marathon, I wept. I was so damned proud.

And now my work is finished. I wrapped up the final bit of it on Friday evening (I was the last one to leave the office!) doing a translation of a letter for a teacher, and I decided I was going to party like I've never partied before. I was in bed by 10:30.

The days are getting shorter and shorter (Winter Solstice is just around the bend), and the weather colder and colder. How is it that the wind can blow simultaneously in all directions? I'm chilled to the bone, and given its disproportinatel size, you can imagine how cold that must make me. I suppose part of it is because every building here is old and has no insulation, and maybe part of it is because I'm too skinny (?). I think I know now what Africans must feel like, except that they get to live in Africa.

And the Cowboys-'Skins game is on now, and there's nobody worth a damn left on Survivor. I guess what I'm saying is that I'm ready to come home.

I'm officially the ugliest person in my family.

2005-12-07T10:20:00.000-12:00

And my eldest sister, arguably the most photogenic, isn't even among them (though this comes with the hidden bonus that my diminutive and oddly-proportioned brother-not-in-law is absent as well).

Emily Post

2005-12-01T21:13:00.000-12:00

Sometimes I wonder why we continue to follow the rules of decency and etiquette even when we are solitary. Like, why do I feel the need to wrap a towel around myself after bathing? Why do I bother matching my clothes? Why did I used to refuse to urinate in the shower? Why, when it would be so much easier to pick up and eat with my hands, am I sitting here trying to eat this piece of fish with a pair of chopsticks?

East is East, and West is West

2005-11-27T20:57:00.000-12:00

I'll tell you, the Internet is truly a remarkable medium. Never has information been so accessible to so many people as it is now. I shutter to think of the times I had to go to the library to learn stuff. I wonder if 500 years in the future we'll look back on the invention of the Internet as something akin to the development of the printing press. Al Gore, of course, will be Gutenberg’s 20th century's equivalent. Come on, you know you were thinking it too.

This week looks to be rather slow, comparatively, which means I had lots of time to study today. So, naturally, I spent it all on the Internet, “researching”.
…

…

…
Kipling once wrote that "East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet", and while globalism and modernization have made dim this border, I would tend to agree with Kipling and doubt I shall ever truly understand this culture. I suppose the cultural differences I mentioned in my last chapel speech sparked some small taper of interest within me, but I've become rather curious of late about the philosophical lines between East and West. Somewhere in the peaks of the Himalayas, the snows of Siberia, and the waters of the Pacific, there is an inscrutable frontier that divides our Western, largely Greek-based thought from that of the East, teachings that seem to have originated, in some form, from the Arian peoples of India, but of which only a part trickled over those ridges.

I had been considering, as a topic for my next chapel speech, the study of aesthetics, and was planning on following the basic pattern of 1) contemplating the nature of beauty 2) defining it as imitation of, aspiration to, or expression of perfection, and then 3) make the obvious connection between perfection and God. Trouble was, as I began researching, I came to realize that this idea of beauty was fundamentally a Western (and more precisely, Greek) notion that wasn't necessarily echoed by Eastern counterparts. Admittedly, Western thought and philosophy enjoys increasing worldwide popularity (particularly its political philosophies), even amongst non-Western cultures, and the argument might be (and probably has been) raised that it stands poised to supplant corresponding thought in the East. Nevertheless, I had to give pause to the Japanese aesthetic principles of iki and wabi sabi. Throughout these philosophies runs the undercurrent of Zen and the idea of beauty in impermanence, imperfection, and asymmetry, principles we find reflected in various Japanese art forms, such as ikebana (flower arrangement), tea ceremony, and Zen gardens. These certainly aren't difficult concepts to comprehend--we all find beauty in the changing of the seasons, the fading of sunlight, and those bitterest of moments in life often have trace amounts of sweetness--and yet they conflict with much traditional Western philosophical teachings, namely the Platonic ideal of forms, and a Pythagorean universe built on perfect numerical ratios and symmetry, among others.

I'm not sure if I find this disturbing or not. Why should I? This certainly isn't the first time I've been forced to confront philosophies that run counter to my own. I suppose it's a bit troubling to find that your entire set of values and views on reality is built upon the basic ideas of a single ancient society. Even values like religious beliefs that supposedly transcend cultural boundaries are not immune to these influences (the notions of omnipotence and perfection traditionally associated with God also apparently stemming from Greek thought and may or may not have been shared by the Jewish people). What's the problem with an entire paradigm deriving from a culturally specific source? They had to come from somewhere, didn't they?

I knew that different peoples have vastly different ideas on existence and reality, but it's one thing to learn your lessons in the classroom and quite another to learn them in the real world. Furthermore, most of the peoples I had studied in an anthropological setting were of dying cultures and lived almost exclusively in the 3rd world; it's a little easier to justify your own views as correct ones when not only have you never lived amongst those who hold vastly different ones, but also all the others you've studied seem to have brought their people nothing but grass huts and a high infant-morality rate. But the Far East is thriving; whether their philosophies are remains up for debate, but as of now they're inescapable realities of the Orient, weaving themselves into a special Eastern-brand of prosperity.

I'm not a relativist: truth is truth, just as love is love, and beauty is beauty, and these three things alone make life worth living. I don't know how I rationalize away contradicting philosophies. Are they wrong? Are their adherents being duped? Perhaps even more of a concern is attraction to such teachings. Do you ever feel drawn to a philosophy, even though it conflicts with your current set of values? For me it's Objectivism; it's just so simple and balanced (drawing on our notions of equality and symmetry): 1) Man's morals come from the self and are determined by reason; 2) The individual should exist for his own sake, neither sacrificing self to others nor others to self; 3) No one has the right to seek values from others by physical force, or impose ideas on others by physical force. Obviously the first two tenets rule out the possibility of the existence of God in any form we recognize (and in fact altogether if you delve further) and altruism as a moral good. And although this three-pronged approach to reality seems attractive, it obviously conflicts with my beliefs in both God and altruism as the equivalent of nobility. And yet I’ve lost no sleep, not recently anyways; should this be bothering me more?

No existential crisis here, just thinking a bit out loud, wondering if anyone else thinks about these things or experiences these same "problems".

Liberalism: An Ideology of Contrariety

2005-11-21T20:13:00.000-12:00

I'm a bit starved for American television over here, so anything I can get my hands on soon becomes a bit of an obsession. Recently, I've found myself absorbed in the teenage years Superman in Smallville, which is truly an underappreciated show, in my humble opinion. I also watch an inordinate amount of reality television. And, I'm currently borrowing the first season of The West Wing. If you've never seen it, The West Wing is an Aaron Sorkin television series of the same vein as Sports Night, with fairly smart writing that requires a certain amount of viewer involvement and participation to keep up. His politics appear sometimes masked, sometimes painfully salient, but I do my best to overlook them and enjoy the quick wit of an Aaron Sorkin drama.

Until this most recent episode.

In it, Rob Lowe's character is trying to ask the daughter of the chief of staff out on a date, but she is a firm supporter of government education and he an ardent backer of school vouchers. As expected, they begin to quarrel, and a charming little scene ensues in which the woman asks her father's permission to date "a Fascist", much like a little girl asking to spend the night at a friend's might. It's like a lame and inconsequential version of Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. Her father stays out of their dispute--which is getting more and more heated by the minute--and eventually Rob Lowe is forced to come clean and tell her that really he is a sensible guy who supports government education; he was just preparing for a policy debate and wanted to familiarize himself with the opposing side's arguments

Oh, Aaron, you did have us going.

In an atwitter endorsement of government largesse, he reveals his true views on education: education, he claims, should be a right due every American, just like defense, "free" of charge. Schools should be palaces (a direct quote), and they should be free, he just wasn't sure how to do that yet.

The unintended yet candid glimpse at government's views on education and other spending aside, I had a very difficult time getting a handle on this episode. To be honest, I really haven't studied the school vouchers proposal all that much, and I'm sure there are perhaps arguments to be made against it. But the one thing I do know about it (and regardless of your views, I would think you'd have to agree) is that it does gives citizens a choice. As it stands now, citizens are able to choose between a myriad of private schools and the local government institution. And yet, they are forced to pay for a government education, regardless of whether or not they use it. Vouchers allow those who choose a private institution to pay only for that which they use (i.e. not pay taxes toward the public education system). Does support of such a system warrant being labeled a Fascist? Perhaps a quick perusal of the tenets of Fascism is in order:

Fascism is definitely and absolutely opposed to the doctrines of liberalism, both in the political and economic sphere. ... The Fascist State lays claim to rule in the economic field no less than in others; it makes its action felt throughout the length and breadth of the country by means of its corporate, social, and educational institutions, and all the political, economic, and spiritual forces of the nation, organized in their respective associations, circulate within the State. - Benito Mussolini, 1935, "The Doctrine of Fascism," Firenze: Vallecchi Editore.

How was it that, by calling for an alternative to State-controlled education, this man was given a label that calls for all spheres and institutions to be under the rule of the State? If we take the founder of Fascism at his word--that Fascism is the polar opposite of liberalism, an ideology whose very name means freedom--how was it that by supporting the addition of freedom--freedom of choice--this man became an advocate of an anti-freedom ideology?

To come at this from a different angle, by opposing the freedom of choice in the education sphere, how was this woman either actually or at least closer to being liberal (supporting freedom) than the man who wanted more freedom? Ok, not trying to beat a dead horse here, just trying to wrap my head around this: by supporting less freedom, you are somehow more freedom-loving than those who support more freedom. Did I get that right?

The logic of the Left is truly remarkable. Only under the tenets of Liberalism (with a capital L) could one reconcile completely contrary beliefs and principles (hell, its very name is in contrast to its creed). This is the same ideology under which the phenomenon of Global Warming can magically create global cooling, the same ideology where one can be both a frenetic advocate of human rights and a firm supporter of prenatal murder.

But I think I might have figured it out.

Liberalism, also known as Welfare-Liberalism, claims to create freedom by taking it away--that is, by removing some of our freedoms (here more aptly called reliances, I suppose), the government can actually make us freer (for example, taking away certain economic freedoms might free us from our socio-economic backgrounds etc.). It is the freedom to--such as the freedom to pursue our dreams and goals unencumbered by such frivolities as our level of education, inherent abilities, or the amount of money in our bank accounts--something that's called positive freedom, or as I like to call it, positively bull-shit freedom. This, of course, is opposed to negative freedom, which is freedom from, such as freedom from illegal search and seizure, freedom from theft by government agents, freedom from dandified socialist policies etc. Thus, the ideology of Liberalism is one that believes in creating freedom by removing it, an ideology I think our two characters above might identify with rather strongly.

I'm addicted to running

2005-11-12T16:29:00.000-12:00

It's true; I display all the symptoms: a craving for more of the drug, or of the initial behavior, increased physiological tolerance to exposure, and withdrawal symptoms in the absence of the stimulus. And this last part is a real bitch.

For the second time in my training, this past Saturday I ran 22 miles, the longest run of my program. I could run a marathon right now, and though I don't imagine it would be a very good one, still, it's an invigorating thought to think that in five months time, I've come from not being able to run in excess of 3 miles to being able to summit this peak of athletic accomplishment.

The first 22-miler:

I had sprained my ankle that past Thursday--despite all assurances from my mom that I possess ankles of pure adamant--but bought myself a brace on Saturday evening knowing the necessity of following my training schedule to the "T" (or nearly so), tender ankle or no. I left my apartment, my mind was elsewhere, and just 4 miles in, I rolled my ankle once again. Lying on the ground, cursing, I had resigned to the fact that that day just wasn't meant to be and resolved to pack it in and head by to my apartment. After taking a few awkward strides back in the direction I came, I suddenly realized that neither my energy nor my indomitable will would allow this defeat. And I turned to finish what I started, running through two sprains. I was like that guy in those war movies who has his eyes fixed on some target, some goal, and despite being riddles with enemy bullets, or arrows, depending on the time period, he remains steadfast in his aim. You know, he's usually the right hand man of the hero, a true and loyal friend with the build of a bear, but a heart as pure as gold. He risks his life in protection of our hero or sacrifices it for the cause, whatever that may be, knowing that the fate of the battle rests on him, his mission, and the fulfillment of his duty. It was the same here with me, except that I was the hero, of course. I mean, this is the "Nick Show", damnit, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let some upstart steal my thunder.

The second:

This past Saturday was also quite pleasant. It was cool out, and there was a strong breeze blowing over the city. Taking full advantage, we (Andrew and I) adjusted our heading, unfurled our spinnaker, and let the wind carry us home.

Getting back to the topic of this post, running has a way of making you feel incredibly cheerful when you finish (something about endorphins). I was in a superb mood on Saturday evening and this carried over all the way through Monday, at which point I wanted to prolong the high and could hardly wait to get back out on the road. But, as luck--or my Nazi school--would have it, I had a 3 hour meeting to attend on Monday afternoon and didn't get back until after 7, at which time I had absolutely no desire to extend my day another 2 hours with a 15 mile run. So I decided to postpone it until Tuesday.

Tuesday I ate a cheeseburger at Gusto, and if you've never had a Gusto burger, let me tell you......they're actually not that good. But, compared to Kumamoto's hamburger selection, they're haute cuisine. So I had a double one. Note to any of you amateur or aspiring runners out there: never do that. I have never come so close to--but not actually--crapping my pants in my life. I was on the verge of tears and mumbling not-so silent prayers to God to get me to a bathroom or a heavily wooded area.

People were staring.

I crossed that verge and started crying.

People were now laughing.

Somehow, by the grace of God, I managed to make it back to the lovely KKR Hotel, and compose myself so I gave off that paying customer-vibe.

Needless to say, I didn't get a decent run in until this Thursday, and I've felt like crap all week because of it. Well, that and the cheeseburger. I was lethargic, lazy, and generally depressed. These are the withdrawal symptoms. And magically, after 15 miles that Thursday, I was back on top: brain's clicking, blood's pumping, and the sunshine exposes the slightest upturn in the corners of my mouth. Yes, I'm smiling.

--------------------------------------------

This is why I don't cook.

Untitled

2005-11-05T19:14:00.000-12:00

Unposted

Capsule Hotel

2005-10-29T19:42:00.000-12:00

This is several weeks late, but, as I've run out of material, I've decided to enlighten you all on the wonders of the capsule hotel. There are many pictures that follow; I warn you, though, the room and hotel may at some times look so indescribably comfortable and inviting that you are likely to fall fast asleep at your computer. Please make sure that you have saved all important documents and are not holding any scalding hot beverages before you begin perusing.

Alright.

Renound for largesse of hospitality and its Old World Spanish charm, the lovely and luxurious Siesta Hotel sits accessibly in a back alleyway just off the Yamanote line in Tokyo's exciting Ebisu district, complete with a lovely view of the back of Ebisu station.

Never one to skimp on comfort and convenience, the Siesta Hotel staff insists on providing only the highest quality service and accommodations. Here's you can see my spacious closet already stocked with fresh linens,

and here my evening wear,

my dancing shoes,

and the hallway, which leads to...

room number 423, the deluxe suite.

It's a perfect fit!

And it even has a T.V........in glorious technicolor!!

I awake refreshed after a marvelous night's sleep.

Boy, flipping through these pictures sure brings rest to a weary soul; it's like a gentle eye-massage.

Assuming you are still awake (a big assumption), let me just encourage you all to run to your nearest capsule hotel like right now (probably Tokyo, so maybe swim). It's worth it. Seriously, you have never experienced sleep like capsule hotel sleep--it's like spending the night in a really comfortable coffin. Sometimes when I am restless and can't seem to fall asleep, I simply stack my pillows tightly around me and relive that wonderful experience, and I find that I awake a new man. This can be kind of frightening at times, especially if that man is a Jew.

I kid! I kid!

Seriously, you guys need to quit being so sensitive.

Quietude

2005-10-23T22:20:00.001-12:00

This evening I watched my buddy list from a distance as the State-side early morning risers began to sign on or return from away. A gentle flood of familiar names washed over me, and I took pause in the beauty of the moment. It was like watching the sun rise over the Pacific, and though I longed to, I dared not disturb them lest they sink back beneath the rippling waves.

Taxes and Apologies

2005-10-22T12:07:00.000-12:00

I know, I haven't posted all week. I'm actually quite surprised that my overly-demanding sister hasn't yet replied with her standard "Dude, freakin' post" comment. I love those. Incidentally, Mer, loved the picture, but in cropping it the way you have, you've mislead your viewers. If you allowed them an unaltered view, they would see, sticking out of my coat, the hand of Razmig, the little Armenian dwarf child I was trying to smuggle in the country. They also can't see--though no fault of your crop-job--that I had 34 walnuts stuffed in my cheeks. Armenians can survive on a steady diet of walnuts and Funions.

Few people actually know that Armenia boasts the largest dwarf population in the world. If fact, recent studies have shown that dwarfism may in fact find its genetic origin in Armenia. There are various theories as to why such a disproportionate percentage of the population suffers from this malformation, but the most common is that it's an evolutionary trait. As the primary staples of their diet are bite-size food items found at ankle-level--fallen nuts, the diminutive spotted Armenian toadstool, and the low-lying Funion bush--short, squatty statures and long arms (insert Scott joke here) have proven to be quite beneficial. The protruding forehead is just because it looks funny.

But I digress.

I do apologize for my hiatus, but I've spent the past several days in hiding as it appears that my taxes were due over a week ago, and I understand the IRS now has the Great Eye in their employ. It's not that I'm protesting or anything--though I have every right and reason to--it's just that I haven't the slightest clue how to do them. This has got to be the single most baffling series of documents in the whole of human history. And I'm pissed that I have to do them at all, not so much because of abstract ideological conflicts, but for the fact that I simply don't make enough to pay taxes.

I need help. I've tried nothing, and I'm all out of ideas. My fake identity will only last so long as the IRS is sure to figure out that I'm neither Hispanic nor a 350 pound flower salesman. I seem to recall that my ex-girlfriend's--Ali's--father hasn't paid taxes since like 1982, so I'm thinking of looking into that. Granted he's a lawyer, but I work out a lot, and these big guns flex for freedom.

(That sounds like the title of a country song.)

My lovely sister

2005-10-14T11:53:00.000-12:00

This is the best picture of Meredith I've ever seen. She looks really thin because I told her to suck in for the camera. "This picture is going to be seen by millions of people over the blogosphere," I told her, "so look your best." And she didn't disappoint.

We were out to dinner, and here she had just finished half a horse's rump. She has that glazed look over her because she is eyeing the other half. She got really mad at me for finishing it off, and her chin assaulted me. Her chin is the real reason I came to Japan.

She's got a bit of a nasty habit of correcting people's spelling and grammar. Sometimes it really frustrates me, but then I look at this picture and remember how gosh darn cute she is, and I forget why I was ever frustrated. How could anyone be angry at those gawking, glassy eyes and that protuberance between face and neck? I sure couldn't.

3rd chapel speech

2005-10-06T17:22:00.000-12:00

And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free. (John 8:32)

What is truth? Is it a means or an end? Is truth the vehicle that brings us to our destination, or is it the destination itself? And is there only one vehicle that can so deliver us, or are there many means of transit? And what of our destination--can we expect the same terminus, or might we each have seperate ends?

In today's world of blending peoples and pluralist societies, we have come to tolerate others' beliefs, others' ways of life. We have come to tolerate and perhaps even appreciate other truths. Is it possible then that we live in a world of complete relativism--a world of multiple destinations--where there is no one, real truth, and neither our actions nor the consequences have any meaning?

This seems as unlikely as it is terrifying; we all assume basic truths in our lives, truths that stretch across cultural and national boudaries--a basic sense of morality, the belief that our senses provide an relatively accurate reflection of our surroundings, perhaps even a notion of the Divine. Moreover, the definition of truth certainly requires some level of singularity. I think of truth as something more akin to a great tree, a tree that has been in existence since the beginning of all things. This tree has been carefully cultivated over the ages and has grown healthy and strong. Its roots run deep and wide, touching the four coners of this world. And at the cusp of these roots, we find a great host of nations, and a great diversity of peoples. This past weekend, this school celebrated its annual culture festival, Gakuinsai. But why do we celebrate culture? It seems irrational to commemorate the past acheivments of our ancestors; one way of life is like another. What gives its extolment such priority?

Culture is who we are; it's our identity as individuals and as a people. It is our root, our path to the One Truth. God painted this world with many colors and constructed it from many loams; our world is one of great variety, and God approves of it, just as he approves of the diversity of peoples, or he would not have planted the seeds of truth. We spend our lives in pursuit of God, in pursuit of truth, tracing our way back to this great tree, and we must each find our own path. Last weekend I caught a glimpse of you in your element. I heard the gentle pluck of the koto, saw the graceful strokes of the shogo brush, and watched the refined elegance of the tea ceremony. This is the Japanese way; it's ancient and it's beautiful--it's your path to truth. Take pride in your heritage, for God has blessed the Japanese people and culture; he has ordained your way of life. Do not forsake your identity, for you dishonor Him and all He has prescribed.

There is little in this world as frightening as not knowing who you are--it means separation from God, for we must know where we are before we can begin a journey. Our destination lies with the truth in our Lord God, and our starting point is our identity. Remember, to seek the Truth, you must first seek yourself, and may God be praised as you do. Amen.

A sonnet

2005-10-04T01:50:00.000-12:00

Truancy amidst the fall-colored lea
The yawning Erebus of brumal throes, though a dream...
Oh gentle blossom, pique of spring
Wherefore do we swill the pleasant hours of estival noontime tea?

Though forsaking the piquant tears of an unadulterated past;
Wandering amidst the opacity of a thousand tombs,
And the cliché-ridden caroms with stifling axioms.
By what Elysian streams do we wrestle free the impiety of the iconoclast?

But lo, the laminal veneer peels lazily away
Revealing the austere sheen of our ruddy pith (hear it beat!),
But for our rubato lament of pattering feet
The images all deliquesce into paludal gray.

And a rubescent hue gathers about my wind-whipped face
Oh, I am once more honored, I am once more pure, I am once more chaste.

I have a cat!

2005-09-29T22:14:00.000-12:00

Though she's not actually mine; I'm sitting for a friend for the next two weeks.

Her name is Neko. She was not, in fact, named after the opportunely circumstanced merchant from The Secret of Mana, but after the Japanese word for "cat". She's cute, but she has an attitude problem. She likes to play everynight from about 10pm to midnight. I hate her for that. She also urinated on my duvet. It's soaking in the tub below.

The Touch

2005-09-28T00:20:00.000-12:00

I spent a short while in Tokyo this past week, mostly alone, as was generally the case when I called it home. Riding the railways, listening to Peter Gabriel as I stared out across the cluttered landscape, I was reminded of the things that I loved, and hated, about my life in Tokyo. And it's every bit as difficult to describe now as it was back then; the city certainly has its attractions, particularly to a recent college graduate, but I can't help but feel sad whenever I return. I still get the same autumnal feeling I did when I lived there, the same on which I reflected that last night in Tokyo. It's a city so caught up in itself, so glutted with people, no one can seem to find one another.

And this song seemed once again to find its way to my headphones, its lyrics every bit as apropos now as they were last March. They typify my ambivalent relationship with arguably the busiest city in the world.

The time I like is the rush hour, 'cause I like the rush.
The pushing of the people--I like it all so much.
Such a mass of motion--do not know where it goes.
I move with the movement, and...
...I have the touch.

We are all searching for that touch, for contact, some so desperately that they crash headlong into others' lives like crazy love-sick fools, because, of course, that is what they are. Love is, at its deepest level, communication at its deepest level. And communication is a powerful draw; what else could have brought together all manner of poets and madmen throughout the ages? It's this deep communication, the mingling of spirits, the bearing of souls, that defines our ultimate desires. It's a beautiful but dangerous desire, for the soul is delicate, and in so bearing we allow others to penetrate our defenses.

Of course, defenses are a necessity; the true self, our vital essence, is fragile, easily crushed by deceit, fraud, and malice, all ubiquitous qualities of the outside world. (And possibly even constructs of our defenses, anathemas designed to ward off the same, giving way to some benumbing emotive arms race. For the most part, I think, the buildup is instinctive: the moment of our births--the bright lights, officious hands, the blast of cold air--we come to know the harshness of reality.)

These are facts of our existence, part of our society's lattice structure. "Suck it up," we're told, "the world's a harsh place." And through careful construction of barriers and defenses, we can prevail under such harsh conditions. But the soul is pure, modeled after the very beauty of God. And beauty is easily marred--like an ink spot on a white cloth, any blemish becomes painfully salient. Purity rarely lasts, innocence is easily lost, and unless we live the most cloistered of lifestyles, our chastity will spoil, and we will hurt.

And yet we do house this purity, this innocence, and we can either live such a lifestyle and be forever weighed down by the mask, or we can risk everything for a glimpse of such wondrous beauty.

Pull my chin, stroke my hair, scratch my nose, hug my knees
Try drink, food, cigarette, tension will not ease
I tap my fingers, fold my arms, breathe in deep, cross my legs
Shrug my shoulders, stretch my back - but nothing seems
to please

I need contact...

I tried so many things to fill that void, that unbearable loneliness I felt in Tokyo, I even tried closing it off, refusing ever to take down my defenses, and, as a result I became a reflection of that mask that I didn't and couldn't remove. I was a distorted mimicry of myself. In the end what I needed was contact.

I feel so fortunate to be in Kumamoto. I'm motivated, I'm enjoying my job (most of the time), I'm active, and I have a (relatively) large friend base. I seldom find myself waking in the morning mired in depression (God, I sound like such an emotional head case). I wake smiling and cheerful, with the sun shining upon my face. The suns seems to shine a lot here.

Don't misunderstand me: when my time here is up, I'll be on the first plane back home. But, I refuse to squander my time here any longer or to spend my days sad and lonely. Really, I can say "I refuse" all I want, but in the end, it's other people that have turned things around for me. It's that contact. I'm not in love, but I feel love and loved.

I have the touch.

FYI

2005-09-25T00:46:00.000-12:00

The juice was so delectable, I didn't want to miss a drop; I took to sucking and and biting my pair simultaneously this evening. I accidentally inhailed a bit of it and coughed it up my nasal passage. I can't seem to remove the piece from my tear duct and now my eye is all red.

Happenings and general silliness

2005-09-23T02:42:00.000-12:00

Doubtless you've all been wondering what the hey's been going on with me recently. I told you that I was busy this past week showing these new guys the ropes, but Nick's a heartless libertarian, you probably thought, why would he give two cents about the welfare of others?

You're absolutely right, I couldn't care less about how they're doing or feeling. In fact, my cold and calculating mind actually wishes them ill-will, which is the reason I volunteered my services to head up a seminar this past week whose sole function was to deceive, mislead, and generally screw with the newbies.

The following takes place between 9am and 10am.

Me: First thing you need to know about Japan: everything you've heard is true. And most things you haven't heard are true too. So basically there's a lot of truth in Japan.

Newbie 1: But, I thought truth was a constant, the very notion of permanence. Transient truth is an oxymoron and would necessitate the complete cession of all knowledge to date. Oh my, just think of the possibilities! Is there a God? Is the Earth round? Does knowledge acquired through the senses really exist? Was Hill Street Blues the best cop drama of the 80's?

Me: Did I say you could speak?! And put your pants back on!

Newbie 1: puts pants back on

Me: Now, starting with the premise that there's an abnormally large amount of truth in this country, we must assume—as truth is the primum mobile—that there are a wealth of possibilities available to us in the Orient that we couldn't tap back home. Japan is our matrix.

Newbie 2: So, can you survive falls from skyscrapers like Keanu Reeves?

Me: Can you shut your mouth for 2 minutes and let me teach?

Newbie 1: But what else does it have to compete with? Miami Vice?! There's no substance; it's just fluff, just a bunch of unshaven pretty boys running around doing fluffy things.

Me: Next person who talks out of turn will have his eye removed with this here piece of chalk *I show them my eye-removing chalk.* As I was saying, what we have come to know as our physical and mental limits is no longer a useful yard stick for measuring our capabilities. How long can you hold your breath underwater? 1 minute? 2? Try 6 weeks; it's difficult to get the time off, but a worthwhile experience if you get the chance. And what of flying? I know, big whoop, but try doing it without a cape! How do you think these karate guys can punch through steel girders and that hot chick from Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon can do all that cool shit?

Newbie 3: Wasn't that China, though?

Me: *His eye pulls free with a 'pop'* So I encourage you all to explore all these possibilities available to you, don't be afraid to try things that every bone in your body is telling you will hurt really badly or possibly bring your life to an abrupt end. Take a look at this graph up here, and I think you'll see what I mean. *I flash up disturbing images I googled of their conceptions, most vomit.*

One-eyed Newbie: Excuse me sir, but with my recently impaired vision, I can't make heads or tails out of the graph.

Me: Probably for the best, unless your dad was a pool boy.

The rest of the hour was spent dressing up our one-eyed newbie up as a very convincing, if extraordinarily whiny, pirate. I also wrapped a towel around my head and we played maharaja and palace servant. Newbie 1 makes a killer Manhattan.

More to come

2005-09-19T00:23:00.000-12:00

Just returned from Tokyo\Fuji area tonight; my week is pretty packed escourting new people around Kumamoto, but I'll try to find time to post in the next few days. An addendum: this new format's accidental and only temporary. What you see now was a heuristic used to try and right the problems I was having with the color scheme, but it somehow replaced the existing html.

New Blog Direction?

2005-09-13T00:43:00.000-12:00

I'm sure you've been noticing a few changes around here recently: the set-up's new, that goofus with the gawdy purple shirt is gone, Meredith's last comment was deleated. I've decided not only to change the outward appearance of this weblog, but also it's content, nay, it's very soul. I will rededicate this forum to weighty issues, ponderous events, and all-around super important stuff. It will be a new, conerned blog, a blog for concerned citizens of a concerning world.

Naw, I'm just playing, I'll still talk about my penis.

Hold yer horses

2005-09-11T01:33:00.000-12:00

Sorry things have gotten kind of slow around here. I intended to write either yesterday or today, but as I went for a rather lengthy run on Saturday, I have absolutely no energy right now. I am a large, rather chisled, static mass whose only means of recharging is through watching movies. The Chronicles of Riddick is not a good one. Said energy, once transfered, is being redirected toward this blog, not for the purpose of writing, but chanelled into its remodeling. Yes, this blog is being revamped. Priority one is getting rid of that tool with the crooked glasses. I hope to have this ship in better condition by tomorrow. Also, this is a funny, if extremely disturbing, picture.

Self-Definition

2005-09-07T00:58:00.000-12:00

I watched Reality Bites this evening, supposedly one of those generation defining movies like Breakfast Club or Easy Rider, a movie which rattles off sound bites on such pressing issues of the 90's like "The Energy Crisis", the ever-present "Starving children in Africa" and "Man's existential dilemma" (is there any more overused, less understood word in the modern lexicon than "existential"? It seems to me the cachet of the faux academic, rouge for self-proclaimed intelligence.)

We the viewers are supposed to scoff at Michael, the TV executive, who has sold out--what exactly is never made clear--to become a wealthy and successful yuppie. He is actually admirable in every way except for his corporate status, which, it is made perfectly clear from the get-go, is just not cool. Our first glimpse of him is an early caveat of the movie's direction: he is driving a brand new Saab convertible and doing business on a cell phone while our two heroines drive by--they have no real jobs, so they can afford to cruise about on a weekday afternoon--in a jalopy listening to Tempted by Squeeze, which is a pretty good song, but they're still lazy bums. He's made to look terribly adroit as he tries to juggle apparently more than man was ever intended to juggle: a job, money, a nice car, direction, purpose. His life, we are supposed to assume, is a shambles; our protagonists have got it right.

Contrast our antagonist Michael, with our co-protagonist, Troy, the greasy moocher who views employment and accomplishment as a moral compromise and feels that true happiness is found only in the ordure of misery behind his bong and guitar while he plays Buddha-on-the-mountain-top (not my line--it came from the movie) with all who ask him to stop whining and pay the rent. People who take themselves too seriously really piss me off.

During the course of the movie, one of the main characters, Leila, exclaims that she had expected to be something by age 23, to which her loafer friend responds, "all you have to be is yourself," or some such clichéd nonsense. But, she replies "I don't even know who I am anymore."

Ah, the crisis of self-definition, the questioning and realization so common in post-collegiate young adults. I suppose that's the reason most of us are over here, us strangers in a strange land.
...
...
...
I remember reading an article once about Sir Isaac Newton and his discovery of gravity. The article's author had struggled as an adolescent to understand why Newton could see what was so evident, at least from a modern perspective, but for which so few had taken notice: how had he surmised from so common an event that earthly and celestial gravity were one and the same? The author concluded that it was perspective, perspective provided by stepping back from the scene to see the big picture. If one distanced himself from the action, he would see the apple always falls towards earth's center, no matter where the tree was rooted or its observer standing (or sitting, as the story would have it). It was perspective, or at least visioned so, that allowed him to uncover this truth.

And perhaps that's just what an experience such as this accomplishes--we remove ourselves from all we know and with which we are comfortable: from our family, friends, and culture. In a sense, we remove ourselves from ourselves, and in so doing, are better able to understand who we are.

Whether my comrades here are in the throes of such self-discovery, or if I am seeing who they truly are, I don't know, but I feel in many ways isolated over here. I don't mean to suggest that I'm lonely or depressed, I'm actually feeling quite happy and at peace just now, but just to point out what an anomaly I am or at least perceive myself to be. I was asked the other day when was the last AIDS test I received, and they were shocked to find out that I've never received one.

And who am I? As I said, being removed from my comfort zone has given me time and perspective to evaluate and clarity to define. From what I've seen here abroad, my generation more and more seems to resemble floundering Troy and Leila from above, those depressive souls who are drawn inextricably to misery, believing they have a monopoly on caring and good intentions and are therefore entitled to that which they have not earned. We are all drawn to drama and misery; it's easier than happiness--misery loves company, and company loves the miserable. Try gaining a crowd's attention for 10 minutes using stand-up. Then try doing it telling them you have cancer. Human belief in entitlement and attraction to sorrow certainly aren't new phenomena--Zeitgeists come and go--it's just that this one has reared its ugly head again.

So who am I? I'm a traitor to my generation and damned proud of it.

Return to School and Star Wars

2005-09-01T00:00:00.000-12:00

Actually mainly just Star Wars. Today was my much anticipated return to the classroom, and let me tell you something: it was pretty much the same as I left it. Couple that with my exhaustion following a 10 mile run, and I've really little to talk about. And that's why I'm going to let someone else entertain you. Andy sent me this link, and it had me rolling on the floor. Enjoy.

The Backstroke of the West

Any minute now...

2005-08-30T13:25:00.000-12:00

...until Hurricane Katarina hits the Big Easy. Will it be the doomsday senario everyone's predicting? An entire metropolis obliterated in a matter of hours? Will future generations view New Orleans as another subaqueous myth like Atlantis?

That's what I wrote last night before the landfall, but then I couldn't think of anything else to write, so I decided to put the post on hold. It was truly quite frightening, reading the reports and predictions. It wasn't fear for my own life, obviously, but the kind of removed fear one feels when watching catastrophic events unfold, the feeling I'm sure most felt that September morning watching the collapse of the twin towers, monuments to the triumphs of American capitalism, or hearing the mounting deathtoll from South Eastern Asia after last year's tsunamis. I was prepared for another mind-numbingly cataclysmic event.

But it seems that New Orleans missed the worst of it and billions in damage and thousands of lives were perhaps spared.

I had actually written quite a bit more, making light of a tragic situation, but I decided it was a bit callous and accordingly deleted it. It was funny, true enough, but then I saw the headlines that Katarina is responsible for 50+ deaths in Mississippi. I wasn't sure if any of my 7 or 8 readers had family or friends in the area, so I decided to play it safe. And now you're left with a less-than exciting post of a solemn nature. Sorry.

Perhaps a retraction is in order. I wrote this before the levees broke, flooding the city. It appears it was every bit as bad as was predicted (or nearly so). God give peace to those afflicted by these terrible waters, and give rest to those who now lie at their bottom.

Luther Sports

2005-08-29T15:34:00.000-12:00

Our junior high soccer team won the national championship.

Our baseball team just won a Kyushu-wide tournament.

I don't really care that much, so I don't expect you to either, just thought I should write something not overly bitter about my job and school.

Running and Blog Surfing

2005-08-26T22:19:00.000-12:00

I've been in a remarkably good mood recently. I'm not entirely sure why, but I imagine it has something to do with the weather, no longer unbearably hot and sudorific, the result of our recent downpours. This cooler weather has brought with it the wonderfully piquant aroma of burning wood and alpine timber.

It smells like fall.

I have taken to running quite avidly lately, what with the high costs of gym membership making swimming no longer a viable option. It's amazing what new avenues of pleasure will open for you when you're on a tight budget.

And it turns out I'm quite good at it. Not Kenyan good at it, but still probably better than you. It occured to me: now with 2 of the 3 components of the triathalon covered, why not begin training? I mean, how hard could biking be? I already mountain bike (I forgot to mention, that's something else I do), so how much worse could road biking be? I decided to go ahead with the plans and had myself a great triathalon all picked out before I looked at the prices of decent road bikes.

And now I've begun training for a marathon that's to take place this next Janauary. I'll admit that I wasn't so kean on it to begin with--I have this morbid fear that I'll come out looking like some emaciated African--but after discovering the affordable prices of bleaching cream and becoming hoplessly lost the other night and accidentally tackling a 17 mile run, a marathon is looking very doable and quite attractive. And so am I, on both counts.

____________________

I just now discoved the "next blog" feature at the top of the page. I have absolutely no idea what function such a feature has, except to make for new post fodder. Here's a few of the more interesting ones I've found:

prullenbak: A Belgian artist goes buck wild with various Matel figurines and poses in some suspect shots with other men.

quoileternite: The best damned Croatian poet in the bloggersphere, not to mention quite the looker.

punography: A blog dedicated to all things pun.

bringouttroopsback: I think our author got discouraged after President Bush never responded.

Reza's Blog: Reza tells the best one-liners this side of the Euphrates.

___________________

And finally, I'm heading to the beach tomorrow for a 10k run followed by a party with with many of the JETS from the surrounding area, so if you need to reach me, you can't. Sorry.

2005-08-25T02:05:00.000-12:00

This may be the single greatest picture I've ever taken.

The doldrums of vacation

2005-08-19T21:05:00.000-12:00

Being off work certainly has it drawbacks, and one of them is boredom. Another is increased electricity bills, and yet another is the spending habits that arise from boredom. All of course leading to one inextricable end: less money for whorring. I've had to stop paying entirely for it, and let me tell you something, the old addage is true: you get what you pay for. One can only imagine how poor the sex is when you're getting it for free, like living off the ketchup packets at McDonald's. I now fit in quite well with the filthy homeless guys who beg for it behind my apartment building. It's like my old gradpappy used to tell me, "Take off that damned feather boa and put your fatigues back on, soldier!"

But before the dementia, he would say, "when you ain't paying much for it, you ain't gettin' much for it."

He was a wise old man, if only slightly without the boudaries of acceptible social conduct.

The upshot of it all is that not a-one of them is the kind of girl you could take home to Mom, the kind of girl I could brag about "making $200 a lay."

"Wow, that's more than I charge!" she'd say. "I think you've found yourself a real keeper."

"Only until 8 o'clock tonight," I'd remind her with a grin, and we'd both have a quiet chuckle and turn back to our Rockford Files reruns.

-----------------------

As you can see, it's kind of a sore subject with me, and one which I don't feel terribly comfortable discussing; as such, we'll look at some newly purchased CD's.

1) Ravel's complete orchestral works, and it's about time too: he has long been my favorite composer, but I'd untill now had little in my catalogue to suggest as much. From the period beginning with my introduction to his Five Greek Songs and continuing to my first listening to his Daphne and Chloe suite, he has firmly established himself as one of my great five pillars of classical music, along side Benjamin Britten, Heinrich Schutz, Arvo Part, and Guillame de Machaut. Honarble mentions: Ralph Vaughn Williams, Debussy, Bach.

2) Philip Glass's Glassworks, the perfect alpha to any burgeoning fan of minimalism. I like minimalism because it provides a simplistic and accesible option for anyone feigning knowledge and passion for classical music such as myself.

3) transjoik's acclaimed epic mahkalahke. It's 3 parts fringe world music, 2 parts cutting edge contemporary classical, and a dash of hippy new agey stuff, making the perfect recipe for a rockin', Sami indigenous people's good time (or "Güten tÿmn den Søren pïplës søðen Rûkstär," as they say in Swedish). And for all you joiker fans (I know you're out there), you're in for a real treat here because they have 8 of them.

Also

2005-08-18T18:27:00.000-12:00

Sex.

Trying to up my viewership.

Random Post

2005-08-18T18:17:00.000-12:00

Just to up my average. Sorry I've updated so little (and so superficially) lately, I've just been floundering of late with so little to do. I've got that creative spark, just no tinder. So, I've gone out to find some.

No longer sick

2005-08-18T18:14:00.000-12:00

...just bored out of my mind. Kumamoto is decidedly the most boring place this side of the Pacific. I'm heading downtown now, and hopefully something interesting will happen. If it does, you know where to find a detailed and accurate account. Cheers.

I'm sick

2005-08-14T00:38:00.000-12:00

And during summer vacation too.

Doesn't that just bite it?

The medicine has made me loopy.

You will never know heat until you've experienced Kumamoto in August.

I think that's what's making me sick.

And making me lose my sense of humor.

And sense of creativity.

And, I'm really enjoying Nicholas Sparks.

I've cried on more than one occasion reading his books.

This post may not exist tomorrow morning when I wake up and see what I've done.

So, enjoy it while you can.

Some of my first year junior-high students

2005-08-04T09:55:00.000-12:00

I nearly cried when I saw this picture because I remembered that I have to teach them.

Abe Vigoda Watch

2005-08-01T10:05:00.000-12:00

Very little to talk about. I recently returned from co-directing an English camp with about 30 fit and shaply 16-18 year old giggly Japanese school girls.....You disgust me, I never said I acted on it.

I did receive several marriage proposals during the course of the week, though, and even had one try the stealth approach, camping out on an overhanging tree branch and sucker-punching me (metaphorically) with a single piece of string which she skillfully and surreptitiously tied around my wrist. Apparently this is some sort of ancient Japanese mating ritual or something. I'll have to check the books--I don't know how legally binding such an act is--but according to my assailient, this means we're married.

Such an act may sound boorish and its legal ramifications draconian, but one must keep in mind his own cultural paradigm when examining the situation; the ancient art of ninjitsu is a timeless and beautiful practice worthy of respect and understanding, not derision.

The original meaning of ninja was, in fact "Gold-digger". Before ninjas were what we know them as today, they were simply teenage girls trying to escape the oppressive life of serfdom. Those bound to the lesser castes would devote their lives to this clandestine art, learning furtive means of circumventing the system and cozening rich, older men into marriage.

Incidentally, in case you were wondering, Abe Vigoda is still alive!!!! He has not yet, in fact, died of incalculably old age, and this site proves it, using as evidence photos and various eye witness accounts. This comes as a great relief to those of us who enjoyed his charming, septuagenarian character "Fish" on the hit 1970's cop drama Barney Miller, and the comedic grandfather in Look Who's Talking. And it comes possibly as a great shock to those who read 1982 People Magazine's mistaken report of Vigoda's passing. Either way, I think we can all whisper a collective prayer of thanks at this most welcome news.

The site also comes complete with an Abe Vigoda staring contest. Enjoy.

Notes from the bar

2005-07-25T09:56:00.000-12:00

I was talking to a Brit and an Aussie, telling them that, though I love my country and its citizens (paticularly the female ones), I have to admit that there is nothing sexy at all about the American accent.

"Not true," said my Aussie friend, "I sat next to this beautiful girl on a flight from Melbourne to Idaho who had the sexiest Southern accent."

"Where was she from?" I inquired.

"From Alabama."

I had to retract my initial statment.

Must buy myself a kei-tai (that's cell-phone for all you non-japanese speakers out there) as phone numbers I manage to aquire are all written on bar napkins or other scraps of paper which are then placed in my pocket and promptly washed, making them unreadible mounds of lint. In my defense, if they were numbers I were really serious about remembering and their owners girls I really wanted to become aquainted with I'd probably have taken more care.

My friend Kara convinced me to come out dancing afterward, and, more to the point, convinced me to throw back a couple of local-speciality long island ice-teas. Not a good idea if you're a-fixin' to leave it all behind on the floor. I won't bore you with the details, but, long story short: the bends, reconstructive surgery, and a t-shirt bearing the title "World's Best Clay Aiken Impersonation" emblazoned across the front.

Also, remember that Aussie girl? Well, it turns out she was (and still is) married.

I feel like such an adult now!

In her defense, she was in the midst of a divorce. Also in her defense, I probably wouldn't feel too comfortable prefacing my flirtations with "by the way, I'm married." And again in her defense, I probably would not have gone out with her if she had told me. I have no defense here, which is odd given that she was the one who didn't tell me she was freakin' married.

Who the hell is this?

2005-07-23T11:54:00.000-12:00

Picture turned up on my computer...Anyone know?

The Rise of the Aspirational Class.

2005-07-18T17:20:00.000-12:00

I saw this article recently on TCS. It's a great read about the differences between the red and blue states, a difference mirrored in the ivory tower liberal elitist and the no nonsense, hard-working conservative archetypes. The author examines the commonly held belief (among liberals) that the conservative populace is comprised entirely of wealthy robber baron-types and correctly points out that the blue states are actually considerably more wealthy than their red counterparts. The rich states went for Kerry. As he says, "It's the aspiring states that went for Bush." And this is exactly what we find: the red states are aspiring to and acheiving wealth at a much faster rate than their blue counterparts; the wealth gap between the states is closing rapidly, due both in part to the labors of the red states, and the languor of the blue ones.

It just goes to reinforce my belief that the people who vote liberally--the very poor and the very rich--are those who have the smallest stake in society and in the harms that liberalism can inflict upon it.

Grammar question:

2005-07-14T16:20:00.000-12:00

How in the hell do apostrophes work? I know the simpler rules such as "it's" is not a possessive, moron, it's a contraction. Simpler possessive forms, like one object owning or belonging to another single object, I also understand. But what about the following:

Nicks'.....is that multiple Nicks possessing one thing, one Nick possessing multiple things, or is it a bunch of little Nicks running around and possessing things?

Or Nicks's.....I'm pretty sure I've seen that one too. I think it's also one of the three options above.

And what of made-up names? Like "L'asia" or something. Is it pronounced "Luh-asia", "Lasia", or is the "L" silent?

Socialist states that work

2005-07-13T17:54:00.000-12:00

I got involved in a conversation with Kazu at lunch--he was complaining about the Japanese government, claiming that the JET program (a program run by the government which brings over English speakers and pays them very good money to talk to kids about the values of learning English in a global setting. They also sometimes teach) was a waste of taxpayers' money.

"Ah, you've got quite the makings of a libertarian in you, Kaz."
"Yeah, but we're quite well taken care of over here. You won't get rich in Japan, but you won't get poor either. The government takes good care of you."

I was honestly a little stumped. People are taxed out the wazoo here, that's true enough, but poverty is all but non-existent; no slums, little crime. I told him I thought Japan was perhaps the exception to this rule (this rule being that socialist states don't work) but had to stop myself when considering northern Europe and Canada. Certainly these countries--or at least the Scandinavian ones and America Jr.--aren't any sort of economic powers, but still, their citizens live quite comfortably.

Even if we could prove that socialism is a good political system to the extent that it improves the economy and standard of living amongst its citizens, I'd still disagree with it on the grounds that I detest control. Even if one could promise me better personal and gross financial gains under a centrally controlled economy (or even just really high taxes), I'd spurn the notion because I love freedom more than money. Nevertheless, it's certainly far more difficult in debate to convince your opponents with moral arguments than with data.

I'm certain there's some cavil, some non sequitur in the line of thinking that says that someone other than you knows what's best for you and your money. Throughout history, wealth redistribution has invariably done more harm than good toward closing the wealth gap. And yet, unless I can point to specific reasons for these countries' successes or flaws in their systems not readily apparent to the armchair economist or political enthusiast, I look utterly retarded making the above arguments.

I did retort that I thought an established system of property rights might have something to do with this anomaly, but Kaz is neither fluent in the language of economics nor English, so I don't think he understood my point.

Still, this was nothing more than an educated guess. I really need to do some reading\research on this subject; this is not the first time this question has come up in debates with the bleeding hearts over here.

I really need to do more reading, period. All I read are Japanese Kanji and grammar books, and I feel as if my knowledge of the English language is going down the crapper, along with my knowledge of other areas of interest, like politics, law, and economics.

In any event, any help explaining the above would be much appreciated.

Second Chapel Speech

2005-07-13T14:15:00.000-12:00

Not too much going on here. Too little, in fact. I feel like I've hit a rut in my (non) writing and can think of nothing to post. I did wake up the other morning with a zit on my nipple. I popped it and milk squirted everywhere. Other than that, though, a whole lot of nothing. I've only one class today, so perhaps I can come with something interesting to write, but until then my second chapel speech will have to do. No nudity, no art, just strait-up Jesus. Enjoy.

Women should be silent in the churches. For they are not permitted to speak, but should be subordinate, as the law also says. If there is anything they desire to know, let them ask their husbands at home. For it is shameful for a woman to speak in church.

(1Corinthians 14:34-36)

Such words certainly sound abrasive to our modern ears. And yet here they are in writing, penned by perhaps the most famous evangelist in Christian, if not all of history, Saint Paul. Certainly the text is old and its meaning perhaps outdated, but it very openly takes on the form of a commandment, apparently the construction of a moral principle. If this is in fact, as it appears to be, a moral principle, a principle that is no longer accepted by society, then we have raised an important question: are our most deeply held beliefs, our moral principles, as constant as we would all like to believe, or are they indeed mutable? And if our moral principles come from God, and God is constant, does this mean that his teachings are not?

Not only is this an important question but also an extremely difficult one, and one to which I don’t have the answer. It is certainly possible that an entity as complex as God could be both all-knowing and constant while ordaining a transient set of morals, essentially sanctioning practices that both He and we now find detestable. And certainly, the logic of finite beings invariably runs into problems when used to explain the nature of an infinite being, potentially rendering useless any attempt we make at such an explanation. Nevertheless--and I realize that I depart here from logical argument construction--I simply cannot imagine that God would ever condone such subjugation of women, regardless of whether or not society found such practices acceptable. I think the better explanation here is that Paul was wrong. Paul, coauthor of the Bible and universally considered among Christians to be one of the holiest and most devout men in history, made a mistake. Paul, like all of us, fell short of perfection; he fell short of the glory of God.

The philosopher and mathematician Descartes once wrote that human beings’ concept of perfection was proof of God’s existence. He pondered a wholly imperfect being’s notion of perfection and surmised that such an idea made little sense without the existence of a perfect creator. And while this proof was later shown to be faulty, it is perhaps evidence rather than proof of His existence. Maybe more importantly it illuminates an ideal for which we should all strive. We all certainly fall short of God’s glory, but we continually pick ourselves back up and once again make this impossible journey towards perfection. This is an important lesson in life that we all must learn: we all must learn how to fail. Failure is a part of life; it’s inescapable, it’s who we are. God understands and expects as much from us, which is why he sent His son Jesus to offset our mistakes; Jesus is our permission to fail. After all, if the canonized Paul is permitted to err, aren’t we all the more entitled to do so? You should always strive for perfection, aspire to God’s glory, but understand that failure is not only acceptable, it’s unavoidable. Reach for the heavens, be prepared to start anew when you come up short, and may God be praised as you do. Amen.

Buddah gave me the clap

2005-07-08T01:58:00.000-12:00

Almost there

2005-07-07T10:18:00.000-12:00

Ok, grades are due by noon today, so I'm a little swamped, but after today things cool down quite a bit. I promise I'll post something of substance along with some skimpy pics of me in a wet T.

Dido's hot. That's why I posted this picture.

Busy little bee

2005-06-29T13:35:00.000-12:00

You guys are just going to have to wait awhile for a real post; I'm simply way too busy to be entertaining you.

And the New Orleans Hornets, with the number 4 pick in the NBA draft take...

2005-06-29T13:25:00.000-12:00

Chris Paul from the University of Wake Forest. I'm so proud I could cry happy little tears of joy, except that he's going to the blackhole of NBA franchises, so we may never hear from him again.

Megs and the Big A get hitched...

2005-06-20T19:19:00.000-12:00

One year ago from today. I mean yesterday. One year ago from yesterday.

I remember the first time I met Andy, a greenhorn newsy from the South side of Chicago, a kid down on his luck, someone with few friends and a chip on his shoulder for the hand life had dealt him. He wore a pink shirt and a smudge of dirt upon his face, the mark of a rough-and-tumble life on the streets. It must have been pretty intimidating, what with me being the towering giant of aplomb, the Adonis of cool that I was (and am, if this blog didn't make that clear), but his stout little heart never faultered as he approached me and chanced an introduction. I told him to take off the giant sombrero and we'd talk.

Heeding my advice, our first meeting was marked with deep discussion. We spoke of life, love, and ping-pong before hazarding a stab at politics.

We bonded instantly.

He soon became one of my best friends--even through my quirky Dead Poet's Society phase, where I'd wear long, woollen overcoats and scarves deep into the summer months as we took long walks in the evenings across campus with some of Louis Hall's less-than savory characters--my roommate of 3 years, and a constant companion through college and beyond.

Then the bastard snubbed me for bestman.

Megs and I share the odd distinction of having emerged from the same uterus, so that's how I know her.

Megan and Andy: Congratulations on one year with no divorces. Love could not have found two more deserving people, unless of course one of those people was me. And probably the other person would have to be someone else too, because otherwise that would be gross. And while you have succeeded in finding each other, you've failed dismally at finding someone for me. Until such time, this present will have to do: happy anniversary.

First Chapel Speech

2005-06-18T13:16:00.000-12:00

Being a Christian school, we are required to give short, sometimes inspiring speeches about once a month. I gave my first a few weeks ago (I'm late, I know, but I had other more pressing matters to muse). Usually they're preceded by the reading of a Bible verse that says something like God loves you and then you precede to create some simplistic analogy about this time when you were really scared of the dark and your mom turned on the lights, and that's just like God turning on the lights in your heart or something inane like that. I didn't want to do that. I decided I'd play it a little differently, literally as you'll see. I chose a verse from Ecclesiastes:

I know that there is nothing better for men than to be happy and do good while they live. That everyone may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all his toil—this is the gift of God. (Ecclesiastes 3.13)

I like Soloman's writings; they're poetic, but more than the beauty, there's just something very human about them, he gets scared, depressed, loves, hates; he even questions God--says we can never be certain of anything in life or death. I like it because I think we all feel like that, and often many of the other writers of the Bible seem sort of out of reach, and too sacrosanct to be human (I'm reminded of a quote from one of my favorite movies, Amadeus: Come on now, be honest. Which one of you wouldn't rather listen to his hairdresser than Hercules? Or Horatius, or Orpheus...people so lofty they sound as if they shit marble!).

I chose a slightly out of character topic (out of character for these speeches) in "the meaning of life", and decided I would play it a little differently. And by that I mean I would actually play it. On a cello. With my penis. Wrapped in bubble-wrap. (Not my penis, of couse; I coated it in resin to give it that wonderful vibrant quality that cellists are always able to produce.) I decided I would turn this into a performance-art piece, stretch the known limits of speech giving, and redefine art.

*I climb the stage; assistant follows with my cello. I add additional resin and test the tuning. Good.*

What is the meaning of life? *Low, sforzando G*

Indeed man has been searching for the answer to this question since the very dawn of his age.

*rising series of 4ths and 5ths representing man's accendance from ape to modern day human*

What do all our efforts amount to? At the end of our days, will our lives and accomplishments hold any more meaning than that of a mere blade of grass, or than the life of a water droplet from river to sea?

*arpegiated 7th chords that represent the river; a flute trill backstage represents the wind against the grass*

There is truly nothing new under the sun: what is has been and will be again. This is a most disturbing thought: there is nothing permanent in our lives and actions; we hold almost no significance in the whole of the cosmos.

*I take a dump onstage. I don't know what this represents*

Where then do we find meaning?

*Some trippy, multicolored fractals are flashed on the screen above me. A Richard Grieco bobble-head appears on-screen offering sound financial advice.*

Perhaps it is not ours to worry about greater meaning, *knock twice on cello* after all, what could we possibly know about such a mammoth *"mammoth" is sung in falcetto with a playful, operatic voice* undertaking as the creation of the world? Life is too great a concept for us to comprehend its meaning.

*signal the sound of a car crashing and I outline a c-scale while letting my tongue flap against my upper lip, making a jocular, trilling sound.*

And yet here we are in life, *the "here we are in life" is sung to the theme of Close Encounters of the Third Kind* trekking through all its ups and downs, *slide penis up and then back down strings* its hills and valleys *pop two bubbles for "hills" and "valleys"* with no real insight into the purpose behind its creation; what more can a man do but enjoy the passage of time?

*I roll around on the floor, letting bubbles pop while I sing the theme to Schuberts Trout Quintet*

If life is short, then we must make the most of it and enjoy each fleeting moment because it is fleeting.

*pop one bubble for brevity*

This is especially important to remember during those valleys of life, those lowest and most hectic of times. *sacrifice small goat* It is during these times in life, *"these times" is sung in a barber shop style, building a major-minor 7th chord* the times we’re feeling overwhelmed with work and stress, that we not forget to live.

*slap penis repetedly against side of cello while chanting "don't forget to live"*

So, as you prepare for testing this next week and as the work and stress become greater and greater, *again flash the multi-colored fractals on screen above, but this time they're spinning, and have a trance-like quality; Richard Grieco is off somewhere being a has-been* during these times don't forget to live, and to live fully, and may God be praised as you do.

*"and may God be praised as you do" is spoken in a robotic fashion as I arch my back and make sweeping motions with my arms and legs in an interpretive dance. I sit back down and play another sforzando G to bring us full circle.*

*lights are cut and fade to black as I whisper:* Amen.

Music Department

2005-06-17T13:28:00.000-12:00

They asked me to co-teach a music class and shortly thereafer co-advise the chorus club here. This was all well and good until I asked the head of the music department when their practices were held. He informed me that they meet three times a day--one hour before school, during lunch hour, and an hour after school. He asked me to attend all. I told him to go f*&k himself (censored for family; I really did tell him to go f&^k himself) and said I could come to one practice a week. I've tried to keep my end here, going one hour a week to plunk our parts on the piano and helping to direct. I think the guy was encouraged and asked if I'd be advisor to the hand-bell club as well. I said no.

A few weeks ago I was told that the director had other obligations at graduation, and would I mind conducting the choir next graduation. I said I would love to, as I've nearly a year's notice. This past week the guy asked if I would permantly take over conducting the chorus. I said I knew how to conduct, but had no real experience. I also said I didn't have time. He tried again with the hand-bells. Again, no. We'd have a meeting, he said, soon with the other co-advisor to discuss who would conduct hand-bell and chorus permantly. I told him I thought that was his job.

The guy's all but handed me the reins of the music department--something I would have relished 6 months ago--but I simply haven't the time to do this, not while I'm teaching English as well. The guy's really weird too--he stutters and speaks super fast like he's on speed or something--and the kids respect me much more than he. Could be because of his speed habit.

Anyway, sorry I haven't blogged recently. I've been absolutely swamped trying to find excuses to become less involved in the music program and reasons why I can't take over the director's job.

Also, sorry this post was boring.

A funny thing happened at the ATM

2005-06-11T12:03:00.000-12:00

I accidentally punched in an extra zero, taking out 300,000 yen (around 3,000 dollars) intead of 30,000 (300 dollars). Now my wallet won't close.

Be still my beating heart...

2005-06-07T19:23:00.000-12:00

Well, the date with the Australian beauty was a bit of a bust, much like the "beauty" moniker I attached to her nationality. And it was that that ended up being the deciding factor. I told everyone that I knew very little about her--her beliefs, politics, feelings on minorities, etc. What I discovered was that we differed on just about everything--she wasn't at all religious, was a lib, and was generally friendly toward minorities. But I'd certainly be amiss if I said that would have stopped me from making whoopy if I found her attractive. But I didn't.

But life goes on, and at least I'm back in the game.

And...

I've found myself a new target. I don't remember her name. Maybe Mai? Not sure, but she's Japanese, and a damn cute one at that. She's a student-teacher here, a senior at the neighboring college, which creates a few problems I'll touch on in a bit. As a full-time employee of this school, I am required from time to time to watch and critique student-teachers' classes, sort-of observe them in their natural habitat. The following is a transcript of my notes from one such observation.

Be still my beating heart...

I have no idea what to write, but this girl is gorgeous. I wish she'd quit tossling her hair, or keep doing it, I can't decide.

I know I'm supposed to write criticisms or something, but I'm not a teacher, or not a real one at least. I have no training and generally have no idea what I'm doing in front of my students. Not that I could recognize teaching talent if it took a dump on my head and then slowly gnawed my arm off, transmitting fecal bacteria into the wound and causing the slow, painful process of gangrenization (is that a word?) BUT, she's got twice the experience that I do and twice the training, so I'm assuming she's probably twice the teacher, thus raising the question of how do I criticize a superior? Plus, she's got a nice rack.

Whoa, just blanked out there for a bit; images of a tryst in the utility closet.

I can't tell, but I think she keeps staring at me. I hear she has a boyfriend--some loser with erectile dysfunction, no doubt. I think I'll have to play my gaijin card on this one. Punk, consider yourself

TRUMPED!!!

Yeah, she's definitely staring at me. Could be because I just ripped ass rather loudly. Toilet humor is so funny.

Supposedly we're not allowed to date. Something about our two institutions being related or something--she's a senior at the college next door--but I don't teach college. That's the only reason I agreed to this position: only on the condition that I don't have to teach college students because I want to date them.

Ok, I've got to come up with something here. Um, she's too hot and students can't pay attention to her teaching. Yeah, that's solid.

Girl just fell asleep in class and she smacker her with a ruler. God, this woman is hot. Oh, and a smile to boot: soft lips that pout and the slightest indentation upon the cheek.

And there's the bell. A productive hour I'd say.

She came by later to thank me for observing her class. I gushed, she smiled that way she always does, I gushed some more. The only words I could muster were "you're welcome" in Japanese. All this studying and what's it for if not to pick up chicks? All this studying and for naught.

Whoops again

2005-06-02T13:38:00.000-12:00

I also forgot to wish my sister Megan a happy birthday. Why am I a month and-a-half late with this wellwish? I already told you: I forgot. Does that make me a terrible brother? Possibly. I also have no idea when Father's Day is. Does anyone here know? We've already established that I'm a terrible brother, I prefer not to be a terrible son too.

Meg, I hope all your wildest dreams come true. Except that one with the greased-up Filipino and the pancake batter.

Whoops

2005-06-02T13:34:00.000-12:00

I forgot to mention that Mer's here, arrived 2 nights ago. Very happy she's here, and I hope she has fun, realizes how cool her bro is, and recognizes the boredom of work in the real world--enjoy school while you can, Mer. Also, there's apparently an ellusive bleach compartment in my washer b/c I've just ruined my second pair of pants.

I have maybe one ball.

2005-05-28T19:44:00.000-12:00

I have absolutely no experience with picking up chicks in bars. Couple that with the fact that my personality goes as flat as my ex-girlfriend's chest when talking with cute girls, I should have known it would be an interesting and trying evening.

I arrived at Jeff's (the bar's name) around 9:20 with two friends, my wingmen. Naturally at this time there was almost no one there. We situated ourselves along the wall, facing the window, thinking that we could perhaps catch a glimpse of this girl as she was walking into the bar, and possibly make a quick getaway with a string of knotted bed sheets if we spotted an effeminate Australian man making his way up the stairs to us. We sat and chatted for quite some time, making sure to keep a close eye on the street below, had a few beers, and about an hour later, I turned to find the place packed. I have no idea where these people came from. There must be a back entrance.

I looked around to see if she was there, and finally spotted her at the bar flanked by two very talkative guys. I decided I hadn't laid much claim on her, so I'd let these guys have their way with her, and if they cleared off and a seat opened up, great, if not, well it wasn't meant to be.

You see, what had happened was that I found this pic of Andrea Dworkin online when doing research for a debate on feminism over here, and my balls retreated somewhere in the upper-reaches of my chest cavity. They were nowhere to be found at this point in the evening, or rather, there was no means to appropriately relocate them; I brought my scalpel, but forgot resources for sanitation, and what good are balls if gangrene doesn't allow you to enjoy them?

So finally around 11:30, with my wingmen a little worn-out from all the bed sheet tying, I figured I would take the doughty way out and leave quietly. However, after consulting with my comrades, I figured it would be ungentlemanly of me to leave without saying something to her. The best course of action, we decided would be for me to tap her on the shoulder as we were leaving and tell her something like "sorry I didn't get a chance to talk with you this evening, but I've got to head to another party now." So I said something like that.

It was actually kind of cute, she seemed really disappointed, and said she was so sorry, but she didn't recognize me with my haircut (I forgot to mention that I buzzed my head earlier this week). She seemed, well, frantic's not really the word, but maybe really anxious not to let me leave. I said, I saw her over here, but she seemed pretty engrossed in conversation, and I didn't want to disturb her. She protested that this was only her friend who tagged along because she didn't want to go to a bar alone. Yes, I agreed, that would be pathetic. I shuffled my feet. I told her, well, this make-believe party of mine is in Japanese, so I probably wouldn't understand much of it anyway; perhaps a conversation in my native tongue would be a more productive use of my time. Plus you're a girl, I explained, and girls are invariably better company than male coworkers. I waved off my companions. The three of us--she, I, and her friend--talked for a bit, and then he said, obviously having fulfilled his mission as caretaker, he had to call it an early evening. That left an empty seat.

We talked for about 2 hours, and I completely forgot to drink, which was probably for the best. She was definitely cuter than I remembered which is to say that she was cuter than a fuzzy flesh-colored oblong sphere resting atop an amorphous blob. We didn't delve into anything too deep, mainly covering the typical "why did you come to Japan" type questions. I don't know any of the important stuff, like if she's religious (Mom), her political beliefs (Meredith, among others), or whether or not she hates minorities (Scott), so don't ask.

Around 1:30 she said she needed to head out in preparation for a semi-early morning tomorrow. She decided to walk because it was a nice evening, and I said I would accompany her, for protection. She sized me up and laughed, and I said, no seriously, I'm really Captain America in disguise; all I need is 5 minutes in a phone booth with you to prove it. It was a good joke.

When it came time to part ways, she asked if I had a cell-phone, to which I replied that, no, I didn't because I was afraid if I got one no one would call me. Don't let these good looks fool you, I told her, it has not been the most productive month-and-a-half in terms of social climbing; I am probably not one of the top-10 most popular people in Kumamoto. Well, do you have another number, she asked, and I gave her my apartment number, along with my email address, for which she also asked. Finally having completely spent the awkward clichéd parting phrases, I leaned forward and hugged her, thanking her for a wonderful evening, topping it off with a little kiss on the cheek. It was then that I felt my left testicle descend. Why not both, I asked? My one ball didn't respond. She asked who I was talking to, but I pretended not to hear her. I told that, though my sister was coming, I'd still give her a call this next week, and maybe we could do something. Then I turned and fled. Now if that's not a manly course of action, then I don't know what is. I don't what more my right testicle expects from me.

Carpe Diem

2005-05-24T23:43:00.000-12:00

Well, as promised I called the potential Australian beauty back this evening--sieze the day and all that jazz--though I was unsure of her name. The whole evening (as in last Saturday evening) I was under the impression that her name was Sara, but she corrected me as I left. What her correction was I don't rightly remember, but I believe or at least believed she said "Saraette". I know, that's an incredibly crappy name, but she's Australian, what did I know? So, accordingly, during the phonecall this evening, I called her Saraette.

Her name is Sara Anne. Thank the Lord Jesus that my language-butchering American accent masqued any mispronounciations or just completely incorrect names. She thought I said her name correctly, and repeated it when I asked if I had the right number, making me aware of my mistake. I asked her if she was planning on heading back to the same bar this weekend, you know, something non-commital. She said she was this Saturday, and I said good, I just wanted to make sure that this Radiohead CD I was burning wasn't completely in vain (I had promised her a copy of Kid A on Saturday night, one of the few details I recall). She laughed and said she was looking forward to it. God I'm a smooth talker.

Well, that's the easy part. The hard part will be coming up with some disguise in case she turns out to be a man or something. I was thinking I could wear my bar stool costume as that's pretty inconspicuous. I'm taking suggestions so fire away.

The years go on, and we're still fighting it.

2005-05-24T00:13:00.000-12:00

I received an email last night from someone I haven't spoken to in quite awhile, someone with whom I used to be very close. She's getting married. I was and still am unsure what to think. It's not that I still have feelings for her, but perhaps, what with her being my first love, my first serious relationship, I still feel some small sense of ownership. Feminists crack away at that last sentence.

Perhaps part of it is sorrow at the passage of time--sure it has to happen, but why does it have to happen to me? Why not to some poor Bosnian kid, his life sucks anyway. It's like my boy Ben Folds said, "Everybody knows it hurts to grow up."

It's not even so much the passage of time itself that bothers me, but it's not being caught in it. I grow uneasy at watching those around me move on with their lives, succeeding in graduate school, getting married, working their way up in the world. I sort of feel like life's on pause at the moment, like I won't really be able to begin adulthood until I return home among my friends and family and make some definite career decisions, at which time I'll be significantly behind, not only in terms of my career, but, more importantly, in terms of finding that special someone. Sure that's probably bullshit, but I'm an irrational human being--I've written this entire post using only the karmic pictures in my dried tea leaves.

Needless to say, her email threw me for a bit of a loop. It was blunt but sweet, and to the point. I responded with schmaltz:

Ali,

Whoa, who's this? I didn't even know you were dating anyone. God, I'm speachless. I guess congratulations are in order. So...Congrats! See, and before your scary age too! Listen, I want you to know that I am so happy for you; love could certainly not happen to a more deserving person (unless of course it was me). I also want you to know that I do indeed embrace the memories of the love we shared--you've become the standard by which all other girls are judged, which makes it quite difficult for other girls. If fact, I'm going to go ahead and pin the blame for my recent stale love-life on you--thanks a bunch.

You've certainly been through some trying times recently, and what a blessing to stumble upon love at this most unexpected time--at least unexpected from where I am. I'm certainly not suggesting that the reason behind your engagement and future marriage is merely a seeking out a source of comfort, but it certainly is a beautiful end to perhaps one of the less easy times in your life. But what is it they say about finding love where you least expect it? I guess one could say this is almost idiomatic.

I didn't think I'd ever be happy for an ex-love's engagement, but, well hell, I feel like I'm going to cry. God bless you Ali, you are a truly beautiful person--graceful and dignified--and have left an ever-burgeoning blossom upon my heart: you taught me to love. I'll never forget you.

Nick

Ah, I truly am happy for you, Ali. I will miss you; you defined who I was for a good portion of my youth. Perhaps that's unhealthy, but it's the truth. Letting go of you was difficult and, though I know longer harbor the same feelings for you I once did, letting go of you again won't be much easier. To borrow a line from Scott (ok steal as I've no intention of returning it): smile forever, Ali. Yes it reeks of cheese, but I like it; it's sweetly laconic and pithy. Plus it's original, which is more than I can say for my own writing. In fact, you'll find that most of my blogging is stolen from other sources. That recent inebriated plea for advice? James Joyce. The classic Yasser Arafat story? Gabriel García Márquez, from his short story collection One Hundred Years of Opium.

Well, I suppose we all know what this means. I have to call back the faceless Australian girl. Sure she might have like 3 arms or something, but she might also have 3 breasts, and that would be kind of hot. Let's face it: time's running out here, the 'ole biological clock's a-tickin'; I can't afford not to pursue every lead, to leave any stone unturned. It's crunchy time, I need somewhere to sow my wild oats, someone to tame this wild stallion. That's me, I'm the wild stallion.

Edited to note that it was supposed to read "It's crunch time", but, after a publishing and reading, I thought it was pretty fun as is, so I left it.

Advice!!

2005-05-21T05:55:00.000-12:00

Just returned from a bar with a phone number and email address in hand, but I'm not sure what to do. The problem is I don't even know what the girl looked like. Perhaps I should start over. I'm drunk. Like, really drunk. Not so drunk that I'm having bladder control problems, but enough to where I'm receiving strangers' phone numbers and email addreses'.

I had a wonderful conversation with this girl tonight, had a few drinks, and she gave me her phone number and email address. When it came time to leave we parted ways; I said it was lovely to have met her, she told me to call or email this next week.

She was Austrailian. Does anyone know anything about Austrailians? Are they cute? What are my chances, if I play this blind, of snagging a hottie?

I guess what I'm asking is, hypothetically, if you, drunk at a bar, receive a phone number and\or email address and don't really remember the owner, should you contact?

Eagerly awaiting your replies, I remain drunkfully and tiredly yours,

Nick

Recovered

2005-05-15T01:29:00.000-12:00

I really don't have anything to say, I just wanted an excuse to write another pithy one-word post title.

Woke up this morning feeling quite convalesced, reasonably healthy, and decided to pry myself out of bed and attend Catholic mass, just for the hell of it (incidentally, also this particular church's slogan: St. Xaviers "Just for the hell of it"). It would seem that I've become quite the rebel lately, what with my excused hooky yesterday (a contradiction in terms, I know, but still a little bit recalcitrant), and now my rubbing elbows with the enemy.

Spent a good portion of the day playing Final Fantasy Tactics, which reminds me, I need to catch up on my fan fiction. I guess that makes me a bit of a loser--or a nearly complete one--but certainly not as complete as the one who writes them.

Just finished watching The Professional with Andrew; a delightful flick which holds both the director and co-star (Gary Oldman) in common with one of my all-time favorite movies The Fifth Element. I don't know why it's one of my favorites; it just is. I would imagine none of my so-called "favorites" would even sniff a top 100 films in the universe list or whatever, but who gives a crap? What makes the greats great? There's no way I could make it through Citizen Kane without having injested a large amount of methamphetamines, let alone 5 times in one week, something I am known to do with the Luc Besson classics. I actually chewed my thumb off after watching 2001: A Space Odyssey. I find it's rather typical to lose an appendage after viewing a Kubrick film, which is why most people have to call it quits at just three--try handling the remote with less than 7 fingers. And the only reason I was in the same room as a showing of Gone with the Wind was because there was a girl in there whose pants I was trying to get into. As to whether or not I did, a gentleman doesn't answer such questions. And yes I did.

What are my top-5 favorite movies? Well, since any previous conceptions of my coolness flew out the window 3 paragraphs ago, I'll go ahead and list them.

1. Conan the Barbarian--does it get any more manly than this? No talking, just sex and violence. And then some more violence. Plus a little more sex and a funny little Japanese wizard.

2. Quest for Fire--Best movie you've never heard of. All about cavemen. No dialogue. Lost of sex and violence, but the sex isn't hot b\c it gross cavemen. Works well as white noise when you're trying to sleep because you can't make out what's going on.

3. The Fifth Element--Enough said.

4. Gerry--remember that movie "Good Will Hunting"? Well ole' Van Zandt made another one, a doozy of a picture. Very little dialogue. Dialogue is just filler, cover-up for a bad movie.

5. The Big Lebowski--unlike my other favorites, this one's all dialogue. Somehow it worked.

Well there you have it. Dont' you judge me.

What was I talking about again? *scrolling upward* God, that was a boring post. I'm not really even sure what it was about. It's like a stream of consciousness, just a stringing together of random unrelated thoughts. The title doesn't help much either. But it is kind of cool sounding, pithy some would say.

Sick

2005-05-13T22:29:00.000-12:00

I feel terrible. I woke up with violent shivers in the middle of the night, and importated Exedrin™ (it makes the post look more official) from the States is the only thing that gives me a moment's rest. It's been nice playing hooky for the day; this is the first substantial rest I've had in awhile.

I'm a little loopy and am sweating profusely, so I hope this makes sense when I read it tomorrow. Until then, I'm going to catch up on some much needed rest.

There's nothing quite like a miserable day in bed to suck the spirits, the joie de vivre out of you. Had a wonderful conversation with Scott this afternoon--wonderful to me, but I was heavily medicated, so what do I know--it reminded me of how much I miss home, friends, and family. I haven't had time to think about it recently, so here's hoping that I get over this ailment quickly.

I truly hope this sickness isn't the result of all the studying I've been doing because I don't want to stop; I feel like I'm accomplishing something.

Good night.

Exhausted

2005-05-11T12:57:00.000-12:00

One day blurs into the next.

I don't remember ever having worked this hard in my life. I feel exhausted, but I feel fulfilled. I finish my days not questioning myself, my actions, and my decision to come here, but entirely too exhausted to question. And perhaps that is better. Since reporting in a previous post that I would dedicate myself to the study of the Japanese language--in preperation for the proficency exam--I have put in ungodly hours toward this end. Honestly, I don't think I studied half this hard in college; it's wonderful. The changes manifest themselves in more ways than just improved communication ability--my mind feels sharper and more accute, my thoughts trenchantly clear. But at a price: I can hardly keep my eyes open, and I think I've eaten a hole in my stomach. Don't ask, I lost a bet and hadn't eaten since breakfast.

I am finding it difficult to stay awake for more than 2 hours at a time and average around 3 to 4 10-15 min naps a day. Lesson planning and energy in the classroom so far hasn't taken a hit, but I fear my writing and English language ability might. After graduation and before giving myself over to the Japanese language, I was determined to keep up my reading and writing ability in preperation for law or buisness, which ever I should choose. But now, like in college, pleasure reading and writing always feel like I'm wasting time. In college it was time I could have spent studying as it is now. But here, unlike in college, I don't have assignments keeping me in check and forcing my intellectual upkeep.

This is my sole outlet, and I must take advantage.

Whew...

2005-05-07T02:40:00.000-12:00

Drunk, yes I am. Am I drunk? I think I already answered that. I am drunk. I had a lot to drink. I walked arm in arm home with a girl that I don't find even remotely attractive. Why the hell was she with me? I don't know, I was drunk. And I still am. God, the room is spinning. I think I'm going to write a poem for tonight. It's called:

Saturday Night

The night of Saturn, the grey night
The night of repeated soliloques of a hundred foreign rooms
The evening of scotch and beer ensues
But mainly scotch, as it contains more alcohol.

I'm too drunk to finish this poem, but you get the genereal idea. Eh, what else should I write? I just bought some new CD's, so I'm kind ofdajf

Ok, I'm tired. I'm going to sleep.

A note to my dear friend Scott:

2005-04-30T03:13:00.000-12:00

Scott, since you can't call Japan drunk, I promise very soon I'll find a way to call you drunk. And not coherently drunk, as you were; I'm talkin seriously drunk, like I probably won't even be in Japan anymore. I will have hopped a ferry to Thailand where I'll get busted for drugs and end up in a terrifyingly unsanitary prison surrounded by the dregs of society and Claire Danes. Abe Vigoda will be probably be there too. I of course won't remember how I got there, but I'll wake up and wipe the drool from my chin and I'll tell one of the guards that I have to call my supplier to score me some more horse. Then I'll tell him I'm just kidding, I really need to call my lawyer. Then I'll call you; I'll talk all kinds of nonsense, probably say your my best friends in the world (there are two of you now...no wait, three) and then probably something about ex-girlfriends and missed chances there, I'll tell you I'm in love with someone neither of us have ever heard of, and a word or two about libertarianism, then I puke, then the guard takes the phone away from me and asks who I was talking to and I tell him I was just joking with him, it really was my supplier. That's the last thing I remember for awhile, until I wake up in some soggy rice field, having been sold to a plantation owner in Laos and forced to pick rice until the end of my days. Don't you worry how I get out of this one, buddy, you just sit tight and take solace in the fact that I'm a good enough friend to place a call to you this drunk.

Yeah, don't mention it.

On tap for this evening

2005-04-29T22:31:00.000-12:00

This evening was a lazy evening, a ruminant evening, a brooding evening. I searched through my CD collection for music to match my mood and stumbled across an album of contemporary works for Harp, flute, and viola. These three instruments--but in particular the former two--sound so homogenous, so quadrated with one another, so apropos in harmony that it's as if they were made for one each other's company, made to be uttered in the same breath.

*God, what I thought was cucumber in my sushi is in fact natto.*

I went out on my balcony to smoke my pipe this evening, glissandos washing over me, con brio, when up came the opening measures--marked by a forte major 7th-composed glissando (I believe, though I'm out of practice and my ear's not what it used to be)--of Dream Steps, a work by none other than former theory and comp. professor, Dan Locklair (incidentally, his first name is not, in fact, Daniel; to err in this regard would invate a barrage of snippy comments, santimonious berating, and rather deflated marks). And oh, the memories came flooding back, memories of warm spring afternoons spent with Scott learning to smoke beneath the Scales annex, constantly reassuring ourselves between intermittent coughing spasms that, yes ideed, we were cool. The sweet miasma of smoke would curl about our faces as we spoke with such earnest abandon of the wonders of love and life, the curiosities of women, and sea of possibilities that awaited our imminent, live changing, post-graduation decisions. The oyster was primed and waiting and we were the shuckers.

*Oh sweet mother this stuff is terrible.*

I had such dreams then. Part of my decision to come to Japan was based upon my uncertainty, my innability to state with any certainty what it was I wished to do with my life, what in fact my life's calling was. I thought I had some mild talent for writing music, but that desire has since flown strait out the window and splattered itself about the whitewashed community center across the street, where it lies suppurating in the sun, sustenance for the homeless and other deluded dreamers. Occationally the kids in the park poke at it with a stick; I tell them to stop, but they don't speak English. I guess the major problem is that I have so many interests and so many talents--if I may be alowed to toot my own horn here--but am not overly perspicacious in any one field.

*Why am I doing this to myself?*

When I was at home a few weeks back, I was talking with my bro-in-law, Andy (I don't know why I link this site, except perhaps in the wild hope that it might coax him into updating), and he told me that our minds reach their primacy in our mid 20's. Supposedly geniuses accomplished all their great deads in their mid 20's--Einstein's best work being produced during his 20's as a patent clerk, the bulk of Newton's work being done as a university student at Cambridge, nearly all of Mozart's and Mendelsohn's works being written before age 30 (by default), etc. Granted geniuses tend to mature mentally more quickly than most (and socially sometimes not at all), but it got me thinking. This may very well be my prime intellectual time, and I should be taking advantage.

That has a nice ring to it: "Prime Intellectual Time"; sounds like the title of some sort of brain brawl, maybe for WB's Thursday night line up....And all the way from his mother's basement, weighing in at 110 pounds and a towering 6'2' frame', Chester Milksop!! Chester enjoys spending his time watching reruns of Babylon 5, creating 3-dimensional computer models of the Star Trek's Deep Space Nine station, and translating his Magic the Gathering cards into Elvish...
...
...
...
Anywho.....well, regardless of whether or not this is my intellectual peak, I still need an intellectual pursuit. For a time it was economics, then it was law. Not that my interests in either subject have changed, it's just that I could pursue both studies in the States; I want to take advantage of my time here, take away something with some permanence. After dwelling on this matter for sometime, it only made sense, being in Japan, that I study Japanese.

Now I can speak a bit, enough to get me around the town and communicate on a very base level, but I'm talking real proficiency, a deep understanding of the language. I signed up for classes this past week and am considering asking for more. I've borrowed several books on Kanji (the Chinese characters) and have begun study--I told my teacher that I want to take the third level proficiency exam in December, with the audacious goal of knocking out the second the following winter. The second level (otherwise known as the ni-q...no relation to my ghettoized name) is required by most businesses and law firms for international work, and if I can learn all about law or business at law or business school, then I should save those studies for their appropriate places of study and pursue the appropriate study of Japan--Japanese--thereby making the most of my time here and making myself all the more marketable.

Ah, the breeze is warm and the evening is lovely.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I've just crammed down about six spoonfulls of stringy slime that smells approximately like my foot, and I need to use the restroom.

Internet!!

2005-04-23T22:26:00.000-12:00

I received the internet at my apartment. I think I'll roast a boar's head to celebrate.
...
...
...
I checked. No boar's head. I'll be roasting instant raman noodles to celebrate.

I give in

2005-04-19T19:33:00.000-12:00

I know I said I would only be taking a 2 week break from blogging--two weeks spent relaxing at home with family and friends--but I lied. Sometimes people lie, like when Jim Jones promised his children a tasty beverage guaranteed to deliver salvation, or when Stalin promised gulag sentencees a camp made of ginger bread and candy canes. Get over it.

So what brought me back you ask? Well I had no idea I'd so many fans and readers. I received a flood of emails, impassioned pleas to resume my crazy half-truths about life in the Orient, like this one from my sister:

Nick, we all miss you very much. Please start updating your blog as we've no idea what's going on in your life. Mary Katherine's so loney she's started taking heroin. Love Mer.

Or this one from ousted British Tory leader Ian Duncan Smith:

Oy! Write more blog posts or I'll put my arse in your face. Yours truly, the Dunkster

And, in an act that flew in the face of 500 years of scientific discovery, Modernist poet Ezra Pound rose from the grave to type up this little e-diddy:

Your mind and your words lie upon a digital sea,
But the Orient has swept about you, and the song it sings
Is shining ships of thought that leave you this or that in fee:
Ideas, tales, and oddments of all things,
And if you don't start writing again, I'll bite your ear off.

--E

How could I refuse such inspired, such perfervid petitions for my creative genius? I couldn't, so I'm back, reinervated and galvanized by the visit home, and full of new little tidbits of wisdom which I will dispense in due time. But if there's one thing I've learned in all my years on the stage, it's always leave your audience hanging, wanting and waiting for more. And so I

It's 3 A.M...

2005-03-18T02:11:00.000-12:00

Go ahead, finish that thought. Sing that mid-90's pop hit.

Well, I'm taking a break from packing at the moment to reflect on my time and experiences in Tokyo. Ok, really I'm just tired of packing. This week has passed in an insalubrious haze; I feel very strange, my environment, the area I have called home for the past 6 months, feels foreign once again. I've been burning the candle at both ends, falling asleep long past midnight, and waking up long prior to the break of dawn. Perhaps my body is anticipating the onset of jetlag and trying to get it out of its system. Let us hope so, anyway.

I don't really feel stressed, but, in addition to losing sleep, I contracted a rather nasty case of mouth herpies, which quickly spread all over the left side of my face. It looked like I had a tumor, and a menacing one at that. I began to receive discount coupons for chemotheropy at the train stations (guranteed to rid you of that nagging tumor, or your next cancer treatment is on the house!). It was only later, when the canker had so advanced, nearly overtaking my left ear, that I began to entertain the thought it might not be herpies, and in fact discovered the tumor was really a bad allergic reaction to the cold sore medication I was taking.

Tumor gone, I now look healthier and a lot more attractive.

It's odd, I have little desire to remain behind here in Tokyo, but I can't help but feel a bit saddened by my departure. Ends always seem sad, even if it's a conclusion to a not wholly pleasant experience. It's the feeling of a recurring fall, a constant sunset: there's beauty, oh God there's beauty, but it's fading, fleeting like water to the sea. The feeling's iterative, the same emotional state I felt when graduating from college, when moving to new cities--it's the end of an era, and perhaps in part a fear of what's to come.

Ah well. I cannot wait to come home; I've been counting the days ever since I arrived.

Goodbyes, like other ends, are always difficult, and I've said many today. And now I must say one more, a goodbye to my blog readers. But do not fret; I'll be on hiatus for a mere 2 weeks, and I promise better material when I return, a revisting of the wacky, nonsensical crap from my earlier posts. No one seems to pay attention to the normal updates on my life, which is inconsequentially boring, so it may be time to scrap those. In any event, I suppose I'll be seeing some of you stateside soon enough, others when I begin work in Kumamoto, while still others I don't imagine I'll be seeing for quite some time. I'm melancholy at the thought but look back fondly on the past 6 months.

Thank you for your friendship, Cheryl.

Whoa, just stumbled across these: Pictures from Nagano

2005-03-14T01:58:00.001-12:00

In the woods.

Again, in the woods.

Recently emerged from the woods.

Whoops, back in again.

Fall colors.

Me, sporting the Han Solo man-purse, back when the hair was short.

A humble request

2005-03-08T11:49:00.000-12:00

And when we're done with that, let's go urinate on the living room rug.

A realization...

2005-03-07T02:22:00.000-12:00

After watching Raiders of the Lost Ark for the umpteenth time this evening, I made a startling discovery: it's "head piece to the staff of Ra". Before tonight, I was certain it was "staff of Rod" and always wondered who Rod was and what he did to derserve having a staff named after him.

Friday from Monday's perspective

2005-03-07T01:02:00.000-12:00

Went to Tower Records after class and was delighted to find two CD's for which I'd been searching for nearly two years. The first is a new-age, avant-garde classical work of sorts entitled Chrysalis Requiem, by Toby Twinning. I own his only other album that I know of, the strange but intoxicating foray into the a capella, Shaman, comprised of a series of unaccompanied, world music selections which thrust the human voice into new spheres of musical expressionism. I haven't listened to it yet as I've been enthralled with my other purchase: Guillame De Machaut's Messe de Notre Dame, the preeminent medieval work, which marked the first excursion into 4-part polyphonic text-setting. It is performed by perhaps the best early music ensemble, Ensemble Organum, a group which specializes in all manner of chants, particularly non-Gregorian (Old Roman, Ambrose, Milanese, Sarum etc.) and which strives to discard the Solesmes interpretation of Gregorian chant (the one to which most are probably accustomed) and reach back through history to rediscover Gregorian chant's Byzantine roots. It has an earthy quality, almost Arabesque, as--and I know I'm preaching to the choir on this one--what we think of as Arabic music comes originally from Greece, shanghaied during the 1453 sack of Constantinople along with math, science, and body odor.

Later went to see Finding Neverland, and was enchanted by the beauty of the storyline, the superb acting ability of Johnny Depp and those cute little British kids (did I mention I'm going to have me some of those?) and the majestic movie score. I cried, but only a little.

Went to The Dubliners Irish Pub in Shinjuku for dinner and was in my element listening to British and Irish accents all evening. They even played a little Peter Gabriel and Sting, which, if I can't have my Irish jig music that meshes so well with pub ambience, is the next best thing.

Later ran into my first Japanese albino. She was not as kind as I had hoped--one conjures up images of the Rousseauian noble savage when imagining "differently abled" people--but this may have been due to the dousing I gave her of Holy Water.

Had my first dream in Japanese that night. I'm not sure what this means, but perhaps I'm adjusting to life over here. I only wish I could understand Japanese as well in real life as I can in my dreams.

All in all a good night, except for the albino part, that was scary.

Junk Science

2005-03-03T11:02:00.000-12:00

So, inquiring minds want to know, how do I spend my day; what is it I do with my time? Well, I'll tell you, it's not terribly exciting. I made note before that 4 hours of my day is taken up attending class and gym; chalk up 2 more hours for travel time, and that's a mere 10 hours of free time, assuming I get the full 8 hours of sleep. And sometimes it's hard to find time for sleep when you live a life as full and riveting as mine.

The bulk of my freetime, about 40%, is spent on the ACCboards (chiefly the Wake boards), a forum for all things ACC, and, frankly, my primary source for all news and current events, which would explain why my only knowledge of the goings on in the world is recent sports scores, trades and acquisitions among sports teams, and Wake recruiting. 30% of it is spent blogging (shocking, I know, given I only update my own blog about twice a week, but much of this time is spent reading and posting on other's), and the rest of my time is spent divided in equal parts between Nintendo, reading, and watching movies. Sometimes I go to the bathroom, but now that I've purchased myself a colostomy bag, this should no longer be a problem.

Though the Accboards is not necesarily a forum for political and social topics, fans often end up sparing over various pressing issues. Just the other day several of us got into a heated exchange over the Joel Collesium--Wake's basketball arena--going to a non-smoking venue. Now, I want to clarify that I do not smoke cigarettes and do not particularly care for overly smokey establishments, but our aim in debate should be truth and not the satisfaction of our own preferences. As such, I sought to debunk myths of--or at least cast doubt upon--the hazards of 2nd hand smoke by presenting various critiques of the statistical methods used to compile this "medical data" and that, to this end, have gone into policy making, what has been termed "junk science".

Incidentally, this term has also been made into a great website, and one that I tried to link to my title above, but it seems my HTML skills still need a little acumination. So, I'll link it here--peruse it for the latest garbage studies on corporate subliminal messaging, the hazards of breast implants (looks like they're safe!), and global warming. With reference to this last point, there are two counters at the top of the page that indicate the costs and benefits of the Kyoto protocol. God it's cold outside.

Anywho, here's the debate:

The Joel Collesium purportedly goes non-smoking

By about the 3rd page you begin to see a rising star, an intellectual giant among a bunch of freakishly deformed midgets: Conanthedeacon. That's me, my avatar--the Scottish flag--flying bravely amidst a sea of digital nescience, an immovable, unshakable buttress to truth. As you'll notice, I am one of few who cares anything for proper scientific method. However, there were a few with some modicum of intelligence--including some from the other side of the debate, who simply attack my sources rather than my argument--and shortly after the deliberation, I received this message from a fellow truth-seeker:

Conan,

I wonder if we know each other. Are you an attorney with a large firm in town? I was until last summer.

everytime

Well, it was cool to be confused with a lawyer in any event. I actually have been giving quite a bit more thought to law school recently; I had been leaning heavily toward getting my MBA, but I enjoy argument and debate so much, and have found myself involved in many recently, that this seems like it might be the proper route for me. I don't know, I've still some time. But it sure would be cool to tag "esq." on to the end of my signature.

Haru ichiban

2005-03-01T01:19:00.000-12:00

toothpaste is frozen

Last week we celebrated the coming of the Haru ichiban, which I believe is Japanese for "tease". This day marks the yearly phenomenon in Japan in which a warm breeze blows in from the south, causing the temperature to spike suddenly, and tricking everyone into believing that spring is upon us. Wednesday saw a pleasant 65 degree day with a warm breeze cascading over the city like a layer of silk, embosoming its inhabitants with a soft berceuse. I could have been back home in Florida lying out on the beach, soothed by the gentle roll of the waves.

run it under hot water

But just as quickly as this euphoria rooted itself, it was ripped away, deracinated by the the snow and a temperature high of 40 the very next day. My showers have lengthed to an eonian 40 minutes in the mornings, much to the chagrin of my housemates, and I've resorted to dipping my hands in hot water-filled sinks for entertainment. I'm sick of this weather and the trickery of the lousy Japanese climate. I think I'm going to start wearing my shorts in defiance and see if the weather follows suit.

warm tube, solid paste

A certain je ne sais quoi

2005-02-24T00:39:00.000-12:00

I don't know what it is, no other foreigners seem to run into the kind of trouble I do with drunk Japanese. I singled out the last instance as being bonenkai related, but it could just as easily not have been--it doesn't matter the season, Japanese are drunk all the time. This culture drinks more than, well, than something that drinks a lot, but not only something that drinks a lot, something that drinks a lot and is related to politics, economics, obscure members of the social elite, or other esoteric subject matters that make me sound, ex mea sententia, really smart. Uppity latin phrases will do the same trick. God, I love writing garbage like this; there's something so delightfully mischievous in using the most complex or foreign terms in one's arsenal to stump his audience and send it running to their dictionaries. I should be a lawyer.

I was out with friends the other night for an evening of karaoke, whose proper pronunciation, incidentally, is "kah-rah-oh-keh", but I still refuse to pronounce it correctly, for the same reason that I refuse to pronounce "karate" correctly: I would be forced to kick my own ass. Outside we ran into this delightful little Japanese woman, who I can only assume had had a few too many as she donned a checkered apron, a man-cut, a doleful scowl, and nothing else. Now you know how you can spot someone in a crowd, see that look in their eye and know "this person's a chatter"? Well, I knew it from the moment I saw her--there was a purpose in her step and resolve in her demeanor as she made a beeline for me. A light breeze ruffled her apron, partially exposing her lack of undergarments. Ok, not really; the censors blurred that part out. They also made me change my original wording to "lack of undergarments."

Because the ensuing conversation was in Japanese, I won't bother typing it; suffice to say that some sharp words were exchanged, and we both said things we didn't mean. The conversation begin, as she had spotted my Wake Forest sweatshirt, with basketball. She asked me who my favorite player was, and I, being the faithful alumnus that I am, replied with Tim Duncan. She smirked, and with a motherly tone, a tone that believes it holds the wisdom of years, informed me that Kobe Bryant was the best player. I told her that, yeah, he was pretty good, but his name was weird. I can't really take seriously any player whose parents named him after a restaurant, no matter how good (or Japanese) it was. I mean, if my parents had named me after their favorite restaurant when I was born, I'd probably have been the only Dunkin' Donuts Mason in my class, which isn't really that bad a name except that it's kind of cumbersome, and I'd probably have go by "Dunky" or something, and, well let's face it, nobody likes a Dunky.

At any rate, our antagonist found this particularly offensive and stormed off in a foofaraw, complete with the Martin Lawrence "She-ne-ne" impression and S-shaped snapping patern, only to return with a copy of the Ameri-British classic tale of gentility, Little Lord Fauntleroy (see above). She thrust the book into my hands and turned to leave, the apron flowing behind her like a loose-fitting cloak, and the wind ruffling it occasionally enough to catch a glimpse of her horripilated, scarlet hue. Don't worry, I had to look that last word up too.

Hey, that rhymed.

And there you have it, that's the way it happened, except exactly the opposite. Well, not that part about the karaoke pronounciation, that's still true: I really would kick my own ass.

Other's Blogs

2005-02-20T13:27:00.000-12:00

I spent the majority of this weekend lurking on other's blogs as there's very little of interest going on over here in the land of the rising sun. Of note was my debate on Christianity with Scott, which, unfortunately, quickly decended into and mucked about in semantics, but it was educational and a fun exercise in logic nonetheless. Plus I got the last word in, so I guess I won.

I also got caught up on Megan's life and experiences in purgatory, and commented on my experiences there too. Ok, just a joke; it's really not that bad here. I've actually been rather enjoying myself of late; perhaps because my time here is winding down, or because I've been listening to CD's that have been sheathed for the past 4 months (and hence whose last listenings were during my first month in Tokyo), I've suddenly come to remember how wonderful and exciting I found this city when I first arrived.

And, I finally got around to reading and reviewing some of Adam's stories. I feel badly that it took me so long to do this; no real excuse except that I got lazy. I posted comments to his first two stories here and here. I will try to get to the 5 in the next two weeks. He really has a wonderful writing style, never becoming too wordy or too simplistic, but always finding that perfect balance between complexity and banality. The sparseness in word choice and overall structure, as I commented on his blog, give it an eloquent, almost verse-like quality. Needless to say, I think you're a very talented writer, Adam, and I hope you continue to hone your skills in this regard.

Meredith, having posting nothing interesting in the past few days, and hence living up to her blog title, received no comments.

Satis says:

2005-02-17T12:11:00.000-12:00

Have you ever seen something so all-encompasing, so full of significance and meaning that it made you cry?

Nonlinear

2005-02-15T12:19:00.000-12:00

This morning I popped in a copy of David Gray's White Ladder as I was leaving the house. I think one of the things I love so much about music is that it provides a soundtrack to my day: It not only affects my mood, but can also reflect and vivify it, and I find myself identifying apropos points in the music's text or melodic\harmonic ideas and linking them with various experiences throughout my day. If I discover a particularly poignant passage in my reading, what do you know? Up come the final triumphant measures of Respighi's The Pines of Rome. Or, as a brilliant beam of light coruscates from the parting clouds above, illuminating the garden's lone sakura (cherry blossom), the herald of spring, in come the flute trills marking the opening to Alan Parson's Project's Time. Did I just use both Respighi and Alan Parson's Project in the same musical context? I think I did.

White Ladder was my soundtrack the first month or so of my stay in Japan. This morning, Gray's music brought with it a flood of nostalgia (natsukashii, as we say in Japanese), but more than that. It's odd, these memories seem like more than just ages ago; they seem almost like part of an alternate reality. Life has been strangely nonlinear since arriving in the Orient; memories no longer smoothly elide into one another, providing a cohesive and traceable line of self-definition, but rather jump about like those surrounding a night of too much drinking or too little sleep. I frequently find myself waking up in the morning not knowing where I am, or sitting on the train wondering why there are so many Asians onboard. Then suddenly I'll come to, having to drag the memory from the deep recesses of my mind, and I'll dimly recall what I've been doing for the past 5 months. I wonder if this is the mind's way of coping with stark changes in lifestyle and surroundings: either consciously or unconsciously, we continually shift our paradigms, trying, I can only assume, to find one with which we feel comfortable in a foreign environment. And we are left disoriented with a jumbled, incomprehensible mess of memories and feelings.

And speaking of nonlinear thought patterns, it occurred to me today that there is a fairly sizable portion of the population that I'm neglecting in my posts. I noted in a previous post that I needed to learn to speak street better, but I have since set this resolution aside and continue to weigh heavily on that wedge, driving it even further between me and the people with recondite and abstruse vocabulary. It's words like those that make my writing so inaccessible to the masses. Well, I've set out here to make right. I've been in contact with the East Los Angeles school board and in consultation with my father, an expert on street, on how best to relate to the masses, and I think I've come up with a suitable street-translation of my blog:

Niq's Blizzog

Don't let nobody say that Nick Mason's not a man of the people.

Back in the saddle again.

2005-02-12T22:47:00.000-12:00

Well, this is it, the homestretch, only 1 month of language school left. Well, more like 4 and a half weeks left, but after 1 month I'll be thinking, "only 1 half-week of language school left," and that last half-week will be a breeze because I will be so excited that school's ending in a half-week. So perhaps it would be more apt to say, "only 1 month left until I can get excited about language school ending." But my first statement was also partially correct because that last half-week I'll probably be so burned out that I won't actually study (not that I ever do anyways) and possibly won't even attend class, so it will be a de facto ending of sorts. So, let me rephrase: 1 month until I stop caring about language school.

My, how the time has flown, though, in my opinion, not quickly enough. If you haven't realized, or are incapable of inference, language school sucks. This past weekend I was in Osaka for a missionary conference, which conducted itself much like other missionary gatherings in that it was painfully boring. So boring that I debated attending the meetings drunk but figured, given the crowd, this would be met with considerable derision. We were required to give a speech summing up our activities since the last meeting, so, given that I was a senior in college during the last meeting, my speech was to sum up my entire Japanese experience. Believing the truth generally preferable to lies (the notable exception being blogging), I decided not to gloss over my time here.

I am reminded of the movie Seven Years in Tibet, a movie which recounts the tale of man who undergoes a self-transformation during a seven-year odyssey in the Himalayas. In the opening, we are presented with a paltry, self-absorbed man who, along with several others climbers, has been hired to summit Nanga Parbat, the national obsession of Nazi Germany. He and his party are waylaid at high-camp by a storm and are forced to endure the weather in the confines of their tents. For the duration of the storm, Brad Pitt's character, Heinrich Harrer, spends his time journaling in solitude, and questioning his character and past actions. He comments in his writing that "so much time to question one's self is not good." This statement seems particularly applicable to my time here.

I have 3 hours of class per day and an hour at the gym--4 hours total--and the rest the time, I am left with only my thoughts. My free time has become effusive; I swim in it, but I fear it shall drown me. Men the world over slave in the office, in the factory, in the laboratory, working toward the convenience of our lives, trying to squeeze a few minutes from that sinew for our benefit. So many people need more time, and I am so quick to discard it.

Unfortunately, I am not self-motivated enough to keep myself occupied, to utilize this gift of free time, leastways not enough to provide any substantial sense of purpose; I need external motivation. I think this has been the most troubling part of my stay here and the primary source of my mood swings. This is why I am so looking forward to the conclusion of language school and the beginning of something more than a mere sinecure. A week spent in Kumamoto, having myself "oriented" with the school, has me estrous with anticipation of work. That sounded gross. Well, in any event, I have hope for the future this evening.

So, to the future; let us look forward and move ever onward *insert image of me raising my glass of Chianti*.

And ever onward.

You Decide.

2005-02-07T16:33:00.000-12:00

Gay, or just Asian?

TTFN. Ta-ta for now.

2005-02-07T02:06:00.000-12:00

Well, I'm getting ready to leave for a week--heading down south for an orientation of sorts with the school in Kumamoto--so I thought I'd lighten the mood a bit and leave you, my faithful readers, with a few classic Korean jokes, courtesy of my Japanese brethen. Incidentally, I posted a few others on Scott's blog 2 months or so ago, but these, I think, are a little less lacking in taste.

1) "What do you get when you put monkey, a monkey, and a really stupid monkey together? A hairy Korean." Totally classless. They get better.

2) "Why did the Korean cross the road? Because the road was actually a buffet table, and the Korean was actually a fat man, and on the other side of the table was a drumstick, and because he was hungry." I never really understood that one.

3) "2 Koreans were walking down the street." No comment.

4) "Where has the Korea , but with all but one? Nothing greater." The translation is bad.

5) "How many Koreans does it take to screw in a lightbulb? 26, because they're so stupid that they have to pool 26 of they're minds together to figure it out." Ok, maybe not that much better.

Note: these jokes in no way reflect any dislike on my part toward Koreans. After all, I am currently modeling myself after one of them. Am I suceeding? Check the above pictures. Keep in mind that the facial-reconstruction surgery is not until next week.

The emotional gamut

2005-02-01T20:02:00.000-12:00

I know it's been some time since my last post; let's just say I've been in somewhat of a funk recently. I apologize to my readers, what few I have (although, according to the site meter, this number is steadily growing; certainly not as quickly as my DC counterpart, but then again I'm not courting the better part of the Libertarian bloggersphere population), and I promise to post more frequently in the future.

Friday night was spent clubbing, so my week's end began on a high note (disregard my previous impressions thereof). I've developed quite the affinity for dance and seem to have come into my own on its floor. Perhaps part of it is due to the fact that I've been listening to quite a few "urban" hits of late, this new-fangled music the kids are listening to, designed to heighten experiences in the club, in the bedroom, and in the welfare office. Ba Zing!

If you'll permit me to get even further off topic, it seems I've always been 5-10 years behind the popular music culture of my generation. I started off on the wrong foot in my primary school days, listening to Renaissance and Baroque music, and then took a further step back in my junior high school years listening to polyphonic chant. (On a side note, my first owned CD was Roxette's "Joyride", a Christmas present in '91, the same year the album was released, but I consider this instance an aberration to the general trend here.) I caught up considerably early high school, borrowing my parents' James Taylor and Carol King albums, and slowly shifted my tastes toward 80's music (a long-lasting trend, whose genesis was the purchase of Michael Jackson's "Thriller" junior year, and which culminated with backstage passes to 2001's Glam Slam Metal Jam--what Megan did to get these, I don't want to know). Mid senior year, I bought Seal's second self-titled album, a mere 6 years after its release. I was so close. But, the following year, I entered the academic bubble of Wake Forest University, wholly insulated from any external musical trends, and completely lost touch with the pop-music culture. By senior year, this insulation was complete with the declaration of a Music Performance major. Upon graduation, however, I was once again thrust into the world, swept up in the mélange of 3rd grade reading-level lyrics and flashy pop-divas. Does anyone else cringe when they hear the term "pop-diva"?

I was like a stranger in a strange land and quickly grew tired of being on the outside of an inside joke. To this end, I recently bought Franz Ferdinand's self-titled album, Maroon 5's "Songs about Jane", and "that" Usher album. Anyway, where was I going with this?
Oh, hip-hop. I've been listening to quite a bit of it recently. Part of a self-makeover, if you will: I'm listening to cooler music, dressing in cooler clothes, carrying cooler man-purses, and yes, getting my freak on, whenever and whereever the situation presents itself. With the invention of the portable music player and headphones, this translates to pretty much anywhere, like the middle of the street or sidewalk; that's right, me in the street, bumpin' to Usher, doing the occasional pirouette and hip-thrust when the beat permits, often incurring the incredulous stares of passers-by--they don't seem to understand that I'm in my element when Usher's confessin'. Note to self: learn to speak street better.

Anywho, dancing was a success, a full success: I stayed out all night, danced till the cows came home (which makes a real mess of traffic come 6:00am rush hour), drank and ate a stranger's birthday beer and cake, respectively, and was in bed, safe and sound by 6:30. So the weekend started off on a good note. Saturday afternoon was spent shopping, and given that I am the proud owner of an honorary man-vagina, this was a natural high for me. It was Saturday night that my mood began to take a dive.

Now I'm used to being somewhat obtuse in this culture, particularly when it comes to making and fitting into others' plans--the deficiency that comes with being not quite au fait--but this shortcoming occurs generally when dealing with a foreign language and culture. So, as you might imagine, it was quite irritating having to deal with this phenomenon in my own culture. My roommate informed Cheryl and I of a dinner on Saturday night, a dinner, as I understood it, that a member of his church had organized; it was supposed to be just the four of us out for a quiet meal and conversation. Come to find that there were 8 of us invited, and we were paying for the one who supposedly "organized" this get-together in the first place. Go figure.

-Slight emotional dip-

But what's the one best way to drag my mood through the mud, bloody up its nose, throw salt on its wounds, and rub shit in its hair? That's right, talk about ex-girlfriends. Cheryl and I went out for a beer after dinner (we needed some way to cool off after that lousy outing) and our conversation, as it usually does, turned to past relationships.

*sigh*

As far as relationships go, I guess you can say that I miss them. I miss the touch, the nearness, the ache. I miss love. But I've had a revelation, I've received my epiphany: I'm going to marry a British girl. It happened while watching some episodes of Friends, the ones where Ross is engaged to that British chick Emily. And it occurred to me: that accent is really sexy. Maybe it was Providence, maybe it was the alcohol, I'll let you decide.

In addition to hip-hop, I've been listening to that Maroon 5 album quite a bit recently, particularly the 8th selection, Sunday Morning, whose infectiously jazzy 7th chord motive has me hooked. The lyrics are rather poignant, particularly if you're a romantic sap like me who enjoys effacing himself in the memories of past loves. Does anyone else find it pretty pathetic that a Maroon 5 song can have this kind of an effect on me? I certainly do, but, you know, kernels of beauty and truth are all around us, and found even in the most unlikely of places. Some day soon I'm going to be that guy lying in bed with a girl on a lazy Sunday morning, warm and reposeful, our sole care being who gets the greater share of the covers. Any pasty-face British girls out there, consider yourselves warned. If it will help to seal the deal, I'll even stop calling you pasty.

I got tail at Disney Sea.

2005-01-27T01:57:00.001-12:00

My Blog get's a makeover!!

2005-01-25T02:51:00.000-12:00

I know she was already beautiful to begin with and it's degrading to her kind and all, but let's be honest, she was starting to get bags under her eyes, and her breasts were beginning to sag like two early works of Salvador Dali. Let's just say that I didn't want to risk the persistence of that memory. And there are so many other attractive blogs out there, many of them younger and more adventurous; I wanted to remain faithful but wasn't sure how long I could keep my idle fingers at bay. So I talked her into the procedure, using only mild forms of flattery and a spoonful of diazepam in her coffee, and, devoted weblog that she is, she obliged willingly.

And look at the result. Just look at it. Isn't she pretty? The picture came courtesy of my trip to Wales summer before last, and all the HTML handiwork was my doing. Sometimes I really amaze myself.

On a side note, this makeover came complete with a webcounter, so be warned, I'm watching you.

Disney Sea pic #3 (sort of; my counter is excluding those displayed in the previous post)

2005-01-24T11:30:00.000-12:00

Bobbi and I; I put this picture up so that readers could see that not all my friends have hideous eyesores for scarfs. Mine, of course, still takes the cake.

Disney Sea and other ponderings

2005-01-22T01:10:00.000-12:00

I know this is a little late in coming, but I had other subjects to limn—mood swings, pokémon, vanity, etc. I will begin by stating, for the record, that Disney Sea is the best theme park I’ve ever visited; yes that’s right, even better than The Holy Land Experience, if you can believe that. (Note: The Holy Land Experience is technically a museum, as visiting a park or having any kind of fun for that matter is a sin to the fundamentalist, and a deadly sin at that. In fact, one time when I was there, I smiled at a passing girl, and the authorities, without asking any questions or saying a word, grabbed me and threw me into the “Lake of Fire”, which is actually just one of those plastic ball-pits, but the balls are all painted red and there’s pictures of fire on the walls and it’s really scary.)

You can't tell, but I'm flexing in this picture.

What makes this park so wonderful is not so much thrilling rides—rides with high speeds, sudden drops, and other qualities that one normally looks for in amusement park attractions—but the ambiance as a whole. The park has that natural Disney-feel to it, and depending on your opinions of that, this may or may not be the place for you. But it goes much beyond what one typically expects from a Disney theme park—you are asked to leave your conceptions of reality at the gate and enter a surreal world, a world that beckons you to battle your way through caverns of crystal, lambent mushrooms guiding you through this chthonic maze toward the deepest of deeps, where you confront chimerical creatures forged from the very rock and stone. Ambient in this journey are the soft magical tones of choir and orchestra, tones forming demulcent clusters of sevenths and add-nine chords, their resulting musical structure trabeated by a series of chromatic and diatonic thirds, giving the music a distinctly fantastical tinge.

Cheryl and I in line for Indian Jones; we're trying to look serious.

I found myself getting lost in boyhood wonders throughout most of the day, and it’s no wonder when one of the primary attractions is a fully-sized, fully-equipped castle where ticket-holders are given the freedom to explore, play, and fend off the encroaching pirate’s galleon (on which you are also allowed to play). And this is not some Magic Kingdom Cinderella’s two stores\overpriced restaurant castle, I’m talking historic fully-accessible 14^th century European castle, lock, stock, and barrel.

Me inside the castle keeping tabs on those pesky pirates.

The castle comes complete with large-scale Ptolemaic planetarium room (planetarium here meaning representative solar system: see below), the dulcid strains of polyphonic chant truly lending the room a sense of authenticity, and proto-planetarium (here meaning the optical projection of the heavens onto a surface; a seperate room not pictured).

I rollicked and romped about all afternoon; this park instills a carefree spirit, no doubt because it gives substance to every boy’s dreams of fantasy and adventure. Every kid who ever dreamed of being caught up in a story so vast and immense that it threatened to engulf him, never allowing him passage back to reality, here is his haven. Every boy who went to bed a student of algebra and woke up a slayer of dragons, this is his adytum.

Cheryl ate my pudding, so I'm sacrificing her.

Reading one of Scott's recent posts has me thinking: is the personality really transient? Plato said the mind was like a ball of wax waiting to be imprinted, and while he wasn't speaking directly to the human personality (but rather the substance and acquisition of knowledge), I believe the analogy applies here nonetheless. This metaphore provides that the mind can be shaped and reshaped, esentially making it transient, but I'm of the opinion that no matter how much molding our minds and personalities undergo, there will always be residual imprints left behind. As such, I consistantly find myself returning to older frames of mind, paradigms of my childhood, like those seen above. Notice, though, where Scott speaks to the substantiality and urgency of these adventures presented in our minds and on the television and, in particular, the similarity between our uses of language (crystal caverns etc.); this is no mere coincidence or plagiary, it is a common thread that binds all men together, this love of adventure. Which leads me to believe that this is not so much a residual imprint of my mind from an earlier time, but from the earliest time, from our origin and conception.

There is somthing constant in the soul of man.

Every man needs an adventure: he needs a journey to trek, a battle to wage, and a damsel to save; anything less would be truncating his very vital essence. Now I'll be the first to admit that I know very little about the female quiddity, but something about their fascination with the "Prince Charming" archetype suggests to me that they are a beautiful compliment to the male psyche insomuch as they fit perfectly into the architectonic whole of this adventure. So don't give up on those dreams, Scott or whoever else might be reading (just Scott); they are what make us who we are. We are men, and at our core, wild and free.

If churches want to know what's causing declining numbers in male membership, if school's want to know what is causing an increase in disaffected boys, they needn't look beyond the simple fact that they have essentially neutered the male spirit. When you tell young boys to sit still and behave like the girls do, they will rebel. When you draw out all the mystery and adventure from religion and paint God as a "nice guy"—and set nicety as the ultimate goal for God's children to attain—men will flee. After all, no boy dreams of growing up to be nice, and how many girls really spend their childhood dreaming of that wonderfully quiet and unassuming nice guy? No, girls want someone exciting and risky, the same as boys desire to be dangerous. This is who we were meant to be. There's a reason girls are constantly being drawn to the "bad boys", for good or for ill: they've grown disenchanted with these sedated men, these half men, these, for lack of a better term, effeminate men (I know, I'm probably the last one who should accuse anyone of being effeminate). Now, certainly nicety is a wonderful goal to pursue and possess (something for which I believe both sexes should and do strive), but it isn't everything. Morality fuels this pursuit, and while morality is very important, it also isn't everything.

The same can be said when examining the character of this country, or that country—the US, at any rate. The ability to do and achieve—the adventure—is slowly being siphoned off, from inside and out. Man is consistently being ushered away from the production line and into forms of government assistance, assistance that quickly becomes an addiction. And this is not only applicable to the poor. The wealthy too have chosen the route to comfort and security over self-worth and achievement, sometimes due to government prodding, sometimes due to the complacency and (usually unfounded) guilt that often accompany the creation of wealth. We have been told that achievement is wrong, that production is exploitation, and that living life freely and fully is shameful. The taming of a man’s spirit is necessary to squelch these desires and produce palliative and cooperative subjects; it becomes our soma. However, when you take away man's means of accomplishing, when you emasculate his soul, there will be no accomplishments to be had. The world will slowly grind to a halt like a watermill through a frozen stream.

This is certainly not to say that man must have no boundaries, that he must be completely intractable, after all, as noted above, nicety and morality (a term I’m using rather loosely here to mean “rule-following”) are wonderful goals and attributes, but they must be kept in balance with man’s wilder tendencies. Being nice is certainly commendable, but so is being dangerous, and while morality is very important, so is strength.

Disney Sea pic #2

2005-01-20T01:25:00.000-12:00

Cheryl and I next to a very well-endowed Ariel; Whew! I wanted me some of that. More to come on this as well.

Disney Sea pic #1

2005-01-20T01:20:00.000-12:00

Bobbi, Cheryl, and I at Disney Sea; a wonderful park and a truly enchanting day. More to come on this.

I was too tired, uncreative, and vain to enter a real post tonight.

2005-01-17T04:07:00.000-12:00

Baby boy, you stay on my mind, fulfill my fantasies, I think about you all the time. I see you in my dreams.

The Bonenkai

2005-01-13T01:43:00.000-12:00

The Bonenkai, meaning literally forget (Bo) year (nen) party (kai), is a wonderfully magical holiday here out east, or west, or wherever you’re coming from, in which families and friends gather together, become stupid, forget each other’s names, and end up trying to sleep with one another. It’s a celebration of life, filled with as much merit and virtue as a steaming pile of crap. Actually it might be more apt to compare it to a coagulating pool of vomit, as this is the primary byproduct of the bonenkai, and, well let’s face it, crap is gross.

As you might guess, this party involves some external agent, a catalyst to set in motion the purging of the memory bank, a catalyst that goes by several names—booze, hooch, sauce—but will always be known to the Japanese by one term: osake.

I was on my way home from somewhere downtown, I don’t remember where. I went out with Cheryl for drinks, and stayed much too long, realizing shortly after 12 am that I would be catching the last train home. Well, to almost home—I have to take a local line the last leg of my return journey. Taking the last JR train means missing that local train; I would have to walk the last leg, something I’ve done many times before (the local train only runs until 12:10, which means I’d have to leave the heart of Tokyo around 11pm, and what kind of loser would call it a night at 11 o’clock on a Friday evening?)

The tone for the evening was set by the slurred words of a business man who had collapsed in an inebriated mass upon the steps of Musashi-Sakai station: “Good luck.” I gave him a thumbs-up; he turned over and emptied his stomach.

The walk from Musashi-Sakai to Shin-Koganei (my home) is actually quite a lovely little stroll, largely because this windy, tangled mass of side streets connects the two most decidedly boring places on earth. In other words, it’s very dark and quiet, so much so that if this weren’t the safest country in the world, I would be very frightened indeed to make the trip alone and after hours.

I came to a t-crossing of alleyways; I glanced left and made note of a man, obviously suffering the effects of a bonenkai, leaning against a lone light post about 100 yards away, and I made my way to the right. Slowly, the soft echo of trailing feet began to reach my ears; I was being followed.

“*something in Japanese*” I heard a voice behind me say. “He’s probably just talking on his cell-phone,” I thought. I hoped.

“*something else in Japanese*” I’ll continue to ignore it.

“*again with the Japanese, this time more forceful*” Could still be the cell-phone. He might not be talking to me.

“Stop.” Yeah, he’s talking to me. A minute passed, I continued pretending he wasn’t there.

“Stop please.” I’d have to lose this guy; I quickened my pace and made to take a different route home.

“Why don’t you stop?!” His words sounded agitated and threatening. My body began to gelatinize; I reached in my pocket and felt around—only 3 pokéballs left; I had better make these count. The trailing footsteps began to hit the pavement in increasingly rapid succession. I suddenly realized the stranger was in a full-on sprint, the distance between he and I growing smaller and smaller as I stood there thinking of new ways to describe this situation for an upcoming blog post...

I had not been in a fight since the 7^th grade, and even then it was only two dorky choir boys going at it. And no, I don’t mean that kind of going at it; we were choir boys, not altar boys. But, in spite of my inexperience in this area, almost immediately, my body inspissated, the adrenalin remolding my fear into chiseled representation of vigor and prepotency. My mind was clear with a sense of what needed to be done. I turned to face my foe. Crap, he was right on top of me.

“Pikachu, I choose you!” My opponent recognized this universal sign of a challenge and stopped 50 feet short of me; the pokéball rolled to a stop at his feet. My challenger’s pokéball opened in a brilliant flash of light, revealing a confident and stout little Squirtle. This would be a piece of cake—everyone knows that Pikachu destroys water pokémon. And I thought Japanese knew how to fight.

As you would expect, my Pikachu tore threw his Squirtle like a geek through a Yu-gi-oh card catalogue; it was truly pitiful. Next up was his Polywrath, a water-fighting pokémon; this was a joke. After what could only be described as a pokémassacre, the score stood at:

Me-2
Weird drunk guy-0

According to the international bylaws of pokémon battling—which clearly state that each player is allowed only three pokéballs with which to battle—my opponent had this one last chance to secure victory, a chance he would likely squander with another water or ice-type pokémon...amateur. But he had an ace up his sleeve, or a Digiball, to be exact. I could not believe this: he was using Digimon in a Pokémon battle! It was like pitting Luke Skywalker against Captain Kirk, like trying to transfer files from a PC to a Mac, or like comparing two other incredibly dorky things. But, since we were, apparently, dispensing with any semblance of sportsmanship, I had Pikachu return to his plastic repository and shot my stalker with a tactical nuclear missile. Poor bastard had it coming.

Mmmm...pickle....

2005-01-10T01:10:00.000-12:00

And somebody likes her dic....pickle, her dipickle. It's a kind of Japanese tuber. Very tasty, goes great in salads. Sometimes a little bland, though, so it might behoove you to spice it up with some wasabi or something. Anyway, she likes it, that jam-girl, I mean.

Mmmm...jam....

2005-01-10T01:07:00.000-12:00

Somebody likes her jam.

A Mood Ameliorated

2005-01-05T23:09:00.000-12:00

So, it turns out that the cure to depression requires neither a correct ordering of the mind, nor increased contact with the outside world, though, doubtlessly, both of these help. More than anything, it requires personal resolve, a conative will to be happy; it requires setting aside the T.S. Elliot, turning off the Radiohead and choking down some freakin' joy and sunshine. In the words of Ozzy Osbourne, you just have to get "sick and tired of being sick and tired." Who would have thought that the psyche would function on much the same level as other areas of human existence: no amount of whining, sorrow, or commiseration will change our status in life, be it emotional, physical or economic status. Only hard work and determination can remove our plights and improve our conditions--and the same goes for the mind and emotional state. Granted there are those of us who can't fulfill this obligation--the obligation of providing for one's own wellbeing--and require some form of assistance, be it psychological, medical, or financial. But, by and large, a heavy dose of personal responsibility is the key to a happy, healthy, and productive life. Someone famous said that once...I think it was Joni Mitchell.

And this is precisely what I have done. I have decided to stop being sad; I have decided that this constant sense of regret and yearning for the past is irrational, that I know why I came here and everyone else can just kiss my ass, and that I will close my mind to and turn away from the yawning depths of depression. And all it took was a personal decision. We'll see how long it can withstand the pressures of solitude and overseas living.

But, at the very least, I took a step in the right direction this evening, going out with friends to a local restaurant for dinner, drinks, and karaoke, opera-style. The owner was a delightful little man with a flair for Chinese cuisine and a penchant for Puccini. When someone tipped him off of my experience (albeit minimal) in opera, the guy was on me like soy on gyoza, popping in a copy of karaoke La Boheme and thrusting a book of tenor arias in front of me. I clumsily picked my way through the music, having only seen Boheme a total of 2 or 3 times, all over 5 years ago, and using the proprietor as a guide and crutch for our duet.

Blah Blah Blah, something in Italian.

As the piece came to a close, I gave a slight bow, and apologized for my under-pitched high-Bb, blaming the 2 beers that were wreaking havoc on my vocal chords. I tried to find something of which I at least had a working knowledge and what should I run across but Mozart's Il Mio Tesoro from his Don Giovanni, the aria I had sung in my senior recital! What timing too, for there was a rising crescendo from the audience of "Encore! Encore!! Encore!!!" How could I deny their request? All things considered (those things being a full stomach, sore throat, and 2 beers) I suppose it sounded half-way decent, though certainly not on par with any of my previous performances (if you'll permit me to toot my own horn here). Still, all in all it was a lovely evening; one that would certainly reinforce the emotive decision I had already made. I suppose those 2 beers didn't hurt either.

Thank you all for your kind comments and concerns.

My Mood of Late

2005-01-02T04:32:00.000-12:00

I've spent the past few days deeply homesick and depressed. I can't really explain it myself. What's worse, I've been agitating this festering sore with depressive aids like Motley Crue's Home Sweet Home and the Ozzie favorite Mama, I'm Coming Home. Music has a power over me unlike any other medium to instantaneously alter and reverse my mood, for good or for ill. I'm not sure why this has struck me so suddenly. I went through something similar my first month here, but my mood has been greatly improved since. Cheryl assures me that this is typical of the 3-4 month milestone in overseas living. Apparently everyone experiences it, or so I'm told. Bobbi reiterates this point.

Coupled with the homesickness have been pestering questions of what in the hell I'm doing here. What in the hell am I doing here? I certainly didn't come over with any aspirations of mission work; as I told my interviewers when I applied (and any who have asked thereafter), my desire to work in Japan was and is primarily a selfish one: Japan and an overseas experience sounded significantly more exciting than going directly into banking (my other likely avenue of employment), and, given that I am, as of yet, undecided on a career path, I thought and still think that this will provide me with ample opportunity to solidify future plans. Sort of like buying myself 2 years of time, if you will. Moreover, this overseas experience will, I believe, be a bright spot on a resume, particularly if I manage to become even minimally fluent in Japanese. So there you have it: personal enjoyment, buying myself time, and resume padding--those are the reasons I came here. I suppose that, once I actually begin working, I'll be providing a service for others, and, in that sense, there is some amount of altruism at work here (albeit, compensated altruism, a somewhat incongruous term), though this certainly wasn't a primary motivation of mine.

It seems that, with few notable exceptions, I am the only one here who didn't come to change the world. Hell, it doesn't even really bother me that much that 90% of this country isn't Christian, though this is a point about which my employers seem morbidly perturbed. From the standpoint of a Christian, I suppose it would be nice if this percentage were not as it is, but I'm not going to lose any sleep over it, in part because of my views on theology and life after death. Are we really here to work with numbers, to move them from one side to another like some game of spiritual Risk? The only alternative goal I've heard is that our mission is to spread God's love. While this is an admirable goal to be sure, what the hell does it mean? Perhaps I'm just repulsed by anything that smacks of hippiness, but I simply don't feel that I work well in an environment with vaguely defined goals like "loving one another." I need a concrete end, some sort of corporal ne plus ultra on which to set my sights (though the number game is hardly a viable substitute in my eyes). I hope to find this when I begin teaching. As of now, I feel out of place.

And still my thoughts keep returning to friends and family back home. I miss you all so much. I'm disgusted that I can feel this way about my own situation, and yet feel little for my coworker Kelly who lies now in the hospital not knowing whether or not she will lose her unborn baby. How can I be depressed about solitude and career anxiety and feel naught but passing sorrow for Scott who only recently lost his grandfather? Let me rephrase: it's not that I feel nothing for other's problems, it's just that those are their problems, and these are mine; there's a certain acuteness and immediacy when it comes to one's own concerns.

I want to cry, but am afraid doing so will crystallize an underlying weakness. I hate self-pity, and yet seem inextricably drawn to it. There's something attractive about the Kerouacian depressed artist archetype; I suppose this is where the pipe and incessant whining about missed chances and lost loves come from.

I've got to shake off this fettle; the pipe stays, but the rest of the Romantic pessimism is out. But how best to be rid of it? I've always had a fascination with the mind and its ability to override the seemingly apparent, if only mentally apparent. Can I reason my way out of this one? Can mood and depression be countered with a correct ordering of the mind? It seems to me that man is a social being, and happiness is not easily found closing one's self off to others. Perhaps it's more to do with personal contact and friendships than psychological algorithms. Or perhaps I just think too much.

Oh well; tomorrow will bring the sun, and this too shall pass. To put it another way:

The sun machine is coming down, and we're gonna have a party.

I found my groove!

2004-12-31T17:36:00.000-12:00

It was hiding under the couch the whole time. I actually only stumbled across it, literally, because one of its freakishly long arms was poking out from underneath (glad you are doing well, buddy). When I found it, it was a little frightened (no doubt in part because of the molding PB&J that had slipped between the cushions) and I had to intice it out with a snickers bar. Success! I grabbed it by the hair and dragged it kicking and screaming out for a night of festivities.

The evening started with dinner at Hard Rock Cafe in Ueno. The food was, as it always is, wonderful, and the hostess was smokin'. She also had a monster wedgy (which she tried several times, very conspicuously, to pry from its anal bastille, though with little success) that made for very interesting eye-candy and table conversation. We laughed and drank and I offered the hostess some assistance. I think we had overstayed our welcome.

Next, it was off to Roppongi, the clubbing district of Tokyo, to decide where we should take in the New Year. We settled on Wolfgang Puck's, an upscale restaurant with a fantastic location in Roppongi Hills, right outside the Mori building and just a stone's throw away from the Tokyo Tower.

From left to right: Jon, Cheryl, Tokyo Tower, and me.
This was where my groove and I became well aquainted with one another. For New Year's, Wolfgang Puck's had been transformed from high-brow restaurant and bar to high-brow restaurant, bar, and night club. Tonight was my night: the music was bumpin', the DJ was on fire, and the club was rockin', so my groove and I hit the dance floor. One of the nice things about clubbing in Japan is that the Japanese are horrific dancers. Now, I don't mean for this to sound like an over-generalization, because it isn't. With very few exceptions that I've seen, Japanese girls in dance clubs seem just like John Maynard Keynes's name in a book on good economics: out of place. That's right, I went there.

Just call me Michael Flatley.

She has no idea what she's doing.

Unfortunately, the same thing that makes Japan a great place to go clubbing also makes it a misserable one. When you've got skillz like mine, you truly understand what all the great geniuses of the ages refer to when they speak to the lonliness at the top. I would have to leave this club in search of an equal...

We made our way to Muse, another club here in Roppongi that does one thing, and does it well (none of the restaurant\club business)...this place was all dance, all the time. And oh joy! Equals and foreigners abound here! With only a brief pause to count down the New Year's (go, yon, san, ni, ichi, Akemashite Omedeto!!) we danced the evening, night, and early morning away, getting back home after 6. Everyone had a wonderful time, my groove included, so much so that I think it might accompany me on future clubbing excursions, even sans snickers.

Akemashite Omedeto! (why can't Cheryl ever take a good picture?)

I hope everyone has a safe and happy New Year.

Tokyo Tower, post 2004.

The True Meaning of Christmas

2004-12-28T17:35:00.000-12:00

As one might expect, a Japanese Christmas differs greatly from your garden-variety American Christmas. For one thing, there is no mistletoe. For another thing, there is no Christmas. Many a forlorn Westerner has found himself on the streets of Tokyo during the holidays searching, in vain as it were, for some semblance, some lonely bulwark of the Christmas spirit. So it was this year that I followed in the footsteps of my forebearers and found something I didn't expect: a baby (seen in figure 1-1) alone and crying for reason #2, as listed above (definitely a double entendre—she eats a lot of cheese). When I found her, she was lying forsaken on the street, naked, cold, and a little put out by her lack of presents. In her pained and watery brown eyes, I saw my chance, the opportunity for which I had been waiting, to experience and communicate the true meaning of Christmas through providing for her and her well-being.

Figure 1-1

“Mommy, why are the Japanese a bunch of heathens?”

“Hush little baby, we’ll find you some presents, don’t worry,” I urged as I rocked her in my arms, but she just wouldn’t shut up; she kept decrying the injustice and hypocrisy of the Japanese—I’m fairly certain she didn’t know what either word meant, but knew enough to know that they weren’t nice things to accuse people of.

I told her to stop stereotyping a whole race of people—an industrious and hard-working race at that, that has made miraculous post war economic strides and taken real steps toward fostering harmonious relationships with its global neighbors (1)—but there was simply no reasoning with this kid, so I abandoned reason and called her a poo-poo-head—I actually don’t know what this word means, but know enough to know that it’s not a nice thing to accuse a baby of. She understood my meaning, but paid no mind.

She was absolutely relentless in her bigotry. And most of it wasn’t even that clever, like the one where she puts on the poncho and the fake mustache pretending to be Julio the migrant worker; though, I must admit, her impression of Jordan's late King Hussein (see figure 1-1) was dead on and pretty freakin’ hilarious (it’s tastelessness notwithstanding). However, in spite of funny, racially-charged imitations, I decided this was probably not the healthiest of practices for a little baby. Call me a wonderful person, call me a saint, call me the most beneficent human being ever to walk the earth, but I decided it was my duty to help this child break her filthy habit and teach her the true meaning of Christmas.

But what was the true meaning of Christmas? I wasn’t even sure where to begin. How was I to bring an explanation of a topic of this complexity down to her level? I needed help on this one, that was for sure, someone who had a special yet legal way with children—so Vinnie the Pedophile was out. Fortunately, I had other connections.

Japan had been introduced to the idea of Christmas 45 years ago, when the US government contracted out for the newest model of Santa’s Sleigh; Mitsubishi Motors won that contract. When the Japanese government got wind of the idea of Santa and Christmas, they became enthralled with the notion of providing toys for all the boys and girls of the Orient. To this end, they hired their own Santa, Happy Present Man (see figure 1-2) to carry out this function.

Figure 1-2

Coordinating the new “Winter Wonder Festival” and the distribution of presents was to be the work of the newly established Social Welfare Department. Unfortunately, as with most government programs, the costs were completely ignored prior to its conception, and the country quickly sank into debt. To counter the debt, the government taxed the people heavily, leading the great Kyoto riots of 1964. As a result, the project was scrapped after only 6 fruitless years.

Once the glittering poster child of the Social Welfare Department, Happy Present Man was now unemployed and an alcoholic. He made ends meat pawning off those toys lost in the miasma of bureaucratic paperwork that sat dust-covered, untouched, and rotting, in the case of perishable food-items, in government warehouses. It was in this state that I met the poor soul, quietly sipping his Gin and Tonic at the bar and yearning for days long past. It was, as it always is, single-malt Scotch, neat, for me.

“What’s the matter?” I inquired. He recounted for me the above story.

“Well isn’t that just a kick in the nuts?” I responded. “If I had a nickel for every time I was the loser in a poorly planned government scheme, I’d have 8 nickels, and that’s a lot of money with this exchange rate.” The dollar was very strong at this point. We griped and moaned much of the evening about the government’s poor economic policies and taxation until we became too dull-witted by the alcohol to continue, and broke into raucous renditions of David Bowie favorites.

“Screw the governement, Major Tom!” He screamed. “They’re holding me back in my Golden Years!”

“I heartily agree, Little China Girl; let’s blow this popsicle stand. It’s high time we be getting back to Suffragette City anyway.” Ok, the Bowie lyrics jokes weren’t terribly funny or clever, but we were completely hammered, so cut us some slack.

Anywho, Happy Present Man was so overjoyed and grateful for the wonderful evening I showed him that he promised to help me out in anyway and at anytime I needed him.

I now came to claim that debt.

I brought baby Liza (that’s what I called her; she did a great Liza Minnelli impression) to him, and sat her down on his knee. He set his bag of pawnable toys down and looked at her.

“The true meaning of Christmas is kindness through giving. This is the time of year we should be thankful for what we have, and help those who haven’t. Perhaps most importantly, Christmas means keeping our minds on what it means to have a savior born among us.” She didn’t like this answer too much and made fun of his accent.

“Oh! Well I never!” She also didn’t like his comeback too much and bit his arm. Then she stole his bag of presents.

“I’m really sorry, man; I tried,” I explained.

“Aw, don’t sweat it,” he replied. “I ran out of presents weeks ago; that bag was filled with recyclables I was going to use for beer money.” We both had a good laugh at this and decided to round out the Holiday Season back at the bar with some more Bowie classics.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(1) Paid for courtesy of the Japanese government.

Christmas...

2004-12-25T02:58:00.000-12:00

It existed.
...
...
...
...
...
Uh, Niji-kai (that means second party)...more detail later.

Some light reading: My good buddy Scott and I, atheist and theist, respectively and respectfully (his words, not mine; I think he's been quite an ass myself), are having a bit of a go on his blog; my sister and brother-in-law have added their $.o2 worth as well.

Shibuya, rotated 180 degrees.

2004-12-23T18:50:00.000-12:00

This is the pentagon out front the Shibuya JR station I was talking about before. Walking across this at rush hour (or, really, at any time) is something everybody should experience--again, this picture doesn't do it justice. Oh, and the commercial I described below was indeed a Navigator commerical. Here's a link to it (for some odd reason, the link doesn't seem to work properly...I'm not sure why, but you have to wait for the error page to come up, click on the URL up top, so as to highlight it, and click "go" or hit enter...once there, click on "Tokyo Car Show"). The pentagon thingy at the end with the zillions of people crossing...yeah, that's this pentagon (edited to note that actually, upon a second viewing, it turns out it is really just a square, just your boring old run-of-the-mill square).

Shibuya, rotated 90 degrees to the left.

2004-12-23T18:34:00.000-12:00

The same square (actually more of a pentagon) in Shibuya, different building.

Shibuya, rotated 30 degrees to the left.

2004-12-23T18:31:00.000-12:00

Another picture of the same building; an advertisment on its face is a little more visable in this one.

Shibuya.

2004-12-23T18:25:00.000-12:00

Often called the Time Square of Tokyo, Shibuya is one of the hot spots of shopping and entertainment. The building seen here is a fairly famous one (the picture doesn't do it justice); you may have seen it on various commericals (was it a Lincoln Navigator commerical?) and on the oft cited (by me) movie Lost in Translation. On the glass face above will appear various motion pictures and advertisments from time to time (in the movie you may remember a giant Brontosaurus working its way across the facade). Exciting area, great shopping, and the Starbucks on the 2nd and 3rd floor of this building (it's difficult to see in the picture) totally kicks ass.