Of opossums and testicles

They're not the cutest animals.
In fact, I'd go so far as to say that they're pretty ugly.
But, they are, nonetheless, amazing mammals that have partied here for over 75 million years.
Yes, they are opossums.
And, yes, they sport thumbs on their back feet.
And, yes, I've had personal interaction with them.
And, yes, they were family members living in the garage when I was a kid.
And, yes, I love them.

But they don't really compare to tanukis.
A tanuki is a Japanese, raccoon-dog creature who is just as aesthetically questionable as the opossum.
I often see them waddling across my path in the evenings and, more frequently, lying lifeless on the side of the road.

But they are most ubiquitously found in statue shape in front of ramen shops and izakayas.

And from them, always dangle two enormous testicles.
Legend has it that these big balls possess the tanuki's shape-shifting power and a number of other magical propensities.

I am inexplicably intrigued and head-over-heels in lush with traditional tales of the mythical tanuki in Japan. But, I have to wonder whether women played any role in carving out these legends…

“Say, Martha, where, in the body, do you think the central chi, or strength and power origin resides?”

“Why the testicles of course!”

...Somehow, I just can't see it...

I wonder why we in the west don't have legends of mythical opossums with enormous breasts….Big Opossum tits that spout Immortality milk and can take out the enemy with a single tit swipe…

Merverous Times

Though he might kill me, I have to post the email that an adult student and good friend just sent me. It's too sweet:

(sorry, the Japanese characters have morphed into random shapes)

***
“corinne goood morning!!
how is last night farewell party
so many times are party¡∫¡∫¡∫¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡it`s so tough!!
many people want to say ¡Ö°Ëµ°Ëè°ËÊ°Ëé¡Å~¡¡to you
your so big °ËÍ¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡
today i will have a camp and tomorrow we will be
volunteer for kaike triathlon. it`s sounds nice.
i`m looking forwad to exiciting about it.
and i`am making a plan for inviting you come to my family
and spending nice merverous wonderful and bra bra bra
they so my family will be also happy¡¥
anyway today starts again. i wish you are going to have a
wonderful time today. and i hope that i also same to you¡¥”
***

I love this guy! I hope I can spend a merverous and bra bra bra time with his family! I wonder, though, if I am expected to bring extra bras….

Rock-a-By Baby

Some days, I think my Japanese is pretty decent. On these days, I glow with the radiance that only an all-knowing, omnipotent master of language can. I am an acclaimed acrobat, skating my way across a tightrope, juggling vocabulary, nuance and witticism like they were sexual yearnings and wowing my listening audience with my adroit local dialect and impeccable intonation.

Unfortunately, these days are few and far between and tend to coincide with days heavily lubricated with alcohol.

Most of the time, I am a pauper in the slums of Japanese language; tripping over every third word littering the rancid streets, eating vowels out of opened bean cans and slipping in every puddle of sentence continuity.
These days, I nurse my Japanese Language Ability like it were my very own little nipple-sucking baby. I read Dr. Seuss to it, play it Leo Kottke acoustic guitar songs, and wipe its butt with love-scented baby wipes.
Only it's not a baby.
It's more like a stem cell.
Well, kind of… except for the fact that no amount of researching and studying my Language Inability Stem Cell can ever save another Language Inability Baby in the future…Unless of course,
AW, screw it! I seem to have imagination-ed myself into a hole here…

So I guess I'll stop procrastinating and get back to writing farewell speeches in Japanese. Ggrrrrrr!!!

Cleanliness next to Wobbliness

Before I came to Japan, I never could have fathomed that the hardest part about packing for a move could be sorting the garbage.

Where I live, there are 11 categories of trash into which we must separate everything we dispose of. And I swear to my creator and savior (the boisterous, tuxedo-wearing, mutant pear-eating platypus in the sky) that this is no exaggeration.

The main and most oft-utilized category is the “Burnable Trash”. (It's where you throw your daily waste, like tissues, left-over salad, uneaten fish heads, junk mail, onion skins, and ex-boyfriends' underwear.)
After that, there are 10 more categories like: non-burnable trash, plastics, Styrofoam, cans, glass, milk cartons, Japanese porn comic books, paper, toxic waste, etc.

The difficulty I've found is that NOTHING in my apartment fits into ANY of the categories. For example, I want to toss:

A box of bulletin board pushpins - but… the head of the pins belongs in the “hard plastics” trash bag, the impaling point in the “non-burnable metals”, the enclosing box in the “soft plastics” category and the label in the “burnable trash”

An old canvas wallet - but… the fabric goes in with the “burnables”, the zipper in the “metals”, the ID-covering plastic in “soft plastics” and the Velcro… well, I don't know where Velcro goes (except that I'm pretty sure it goes to heaven).

But, anyway… you get the point.

Basically, I need a full chemist's lab and a team to work my apartment's de-assembly line in order to take out the trash.

If only I had moved in to a paper apartment, had only paper appliances, and eaten only paper for the last three years…

Hermit asses and hiding kids

When I was about twelve, I wanted to be a hermit. I wanted to live in a hollowed-out evergreen, with a little Tolkien-esque wooden door that had to be knocked in a coded rhythm in order to open. I wanted to let my hair fly wild, my calloused feet to grow resilient, and to wear reeds and vines as attire and carry around a little bag of healing herbs. I wanted the stellars jays to be my alarm clock and the beetles to be my contracted house renovators. I wanted to hunt with a handmade obsidian spear, and plant crops by the stars.

If I were a man, I would have been that big, super-size-bearded psycho who exposes his sun-varnished butt to you as he runs mad-man marathon style into the woods, grunting and hooting.

But, I have since abandoned such innocent aspirations.

(This surrendering of my dream happened about the same time that I realized I knew myself too well and could no longer entertain myself with my own arguments. I suddenly realized that I would either have to relinquish my internal hermit, or become schizophrenic and acquire a fourth and fifth personality on top of my first three.)
I went for letting go of the independent, crazy woman within.

This childhood career goal rang the doorbells at the genkans of some of my memory synapses, because I have been thinking a lot recently about a specifically Japanese phenomenon known as
Hikikomori .
It is a strange social mental state under which Japanese kids hole up in their rooms, don't come out, don't go to school and don't socialize with their peers. Every junior high and highschool in Japan has a few of these cases, and it's very hush-hush. It was a few years at my school of employment before I learned that there were actually real live kids that belonged to all those empty desks. They were like these deleted lyrics in each class's aria.

There are lots of theories as to what causes this phenomenon in Japan; none of which I will discuss here.
(Quite frankly, because I prefer to paint the world with little, yellow daisies, pink glittery hearts, teddy bears, and powdered-sugar-covered pigtails rather than depress myself with the reality of it.)

But, maybe there is some silver lining to this sad and analysis-promoting phenomenon. I mean, just think what kind of chaos would ensue if all of these children decided to realize MY childhood dream...

There would be hundreds of butt-naked Japanese kids running maniacally through the shopping arcades of Tokyo, chasing stray cats with fishing spears, cooking subway rats over open fires and sacrificing sashimi to the Harvest deities!

Posts coming soon: Suicide in Japan, random murder of family members, sick and twisted baby-beatings, first-hand accounts of the Hiroshima bombing, and victim stats resulting from Japan's AIDS-talk Taboo.

(*update/edit: for those who don't know me, these last previews are, of course, sarcasm. That, or the prophesies of one of my other personalities who has yet to introduce herself to me...)

Happy B-day! Here's an Elephant!

Why is it that the most sincere and heart-felt goodbye presents have to come in the heaviest packages?

Friend: “So, -c, you're leaving Japan and have to pack up 3 years worth of stuff in two duffel bags and one carry-on, huh?”
Me: “Yup.”
Friend: “Well, since our friendship and time together have meant so much to me, I'd like to offer you a gift.”
Me: “Thanks, but just You being You has been indescribably more than enough! I'll take you back in everything I do.”
Friend: “Yes, but, please take this 40lb statue of Buddha, this ornate traditional vase, this year supply of Daisen soba noodles, 2 kilos of Tottori sand dune sand, this pottery set made by the finest artist in town, this vat of locally-made plum alcohol, this beautiful shogi set, this smiling ceramic Hello Kitty, and 70 packages of cherry-blossom tea.”
Me: “You are too kind. Thank you!”

I'm now waiting for someone to give me a fleet of flying donkeys (wearing super hero costumes, flippers and circus-style snorkels) to courier everything home.

Honestly, though, people are wonderful. And giving. All I, personally need, though, is a piece of the heart.

(yeah, it grills up nicely with garlic and soy sauce)

Suck it to me

OK, I admit it. I can be slightly obnoxious sometimes. For example, when engaged in ordinary, every day conversation with someone, I occasionally like to throw in a few obscure and completely unrelated words or a perplexing non sequitur that follows the preceeding comment like a chicken's neck does an ax. For example:

Friendly person: It's a beautiful day, isn't it?
Me: Yes! And a coffee filter filled with tortoise tongues and absinth should never ride a bicycle, don't you agree?

I could probably get diagnosed with Tourette Syndrome (I certainly exhibit signs of abnormal brain function), but, the truth is I have complete control over this out-of-context uttering of random words and phrases. It's a deliberate tact I employ to get people creatively thinking and sculpting their responses. (Well, either that or to get them to drop out of the conversation abruptly and give me weird looks for the remainder of our time together.)

But, after last night's karaoke session with friends, I have to wonder about the health of some Japanese songwriters' serotonins and dopamines. I mean, really, what else besides Tourettes could explain someone writing a Japanese love song and arbitrarily tossing in meaning-confused English phrases? One of the songs sung last night was a poetic and melodic love song in Japanese that actually wasn't too bad on the ears. That is, until it bridged between verses with “Afro Rage!”, “Suck it to me” and “Woo ga shaka disco fever!”

But I am but a guest here in this land of the Rising Sun. What kind of a culturally insensitive prick am I to laugh at the Japanese tradition of spiking their songs with astoundingly ridiculous English phrases?

So, to redeem myself, I decided to do my part for Japan today by beginning to instill this cultural tradition of obscure English in the young and impressionable children. And I found the perfect opportunity for this act of altruism! I was teaching vegetable vocab today to a herd of energetic 11 year-olds by having them repeat after me and then rhythmically clap twice.

Broccoli! (clap clap)
Broccoli! (clap clap)
Eggplant! (clap clap)
Eggplant! (clap clap)
Woo ga shaka disco fever! (clap clap)
Woo ga shaka disco fever (clap clap)
Potato! (clap clap)
Potato! (clap clap)

So, don't come telling me I don't embrace and promote Japanese culture!

Rain Dance

How many head pounds per second does it take to orchestrate a proper post Dionysian beach party symphony?
Well, I'd count…, but I'm afraid the neural activity required would hurt too much.

The rain danced with us this weekend in the miniature-wave coveted cove.
Now, I don't know if you've ever seen a performance of the Rain dancing before, but I can tell you it's spectacular!
It (the Rain) moved with such fluidity and rhythmic grace that even the mosquitos in the audience started biting ankles to the beat. And a lost crab was so moved and jolted by the Rain's exquisite rendition of Salt n Pepa's “Shake your thang”, that he lost all equilibrium and soon found himself upside down, pinchers flailing above the sand. Horny hound dogs with horrendous pick-up lines froze in humility and became sleazy salt statues when the Rain danced its final words of the spell.

The Rain's tap dance was an ego essence-consuming piece that devoured me like a redwood does when you realize you're a part of the forest.

And, for the grand finale, the Rain came and did hip-hop improv break dancing inside my tent.

This soaking number, needless to say, was not followed by any “encore” shouts from the crowd.

Homeward bound with Koalas

To my delight (and that of all the local farmers) it rained cats and koalas today.
The fields felt alive, and the pavement smelt of hot cloud sweat…

I woke up without a bike or car, decided a pterodactyl wasn't the way to go home, and decided to ask a man in a construction truck at a nearby convenience store for a ride.

“Which way are you headed?” I asked in chopped, sliced and sautéed Japanese.

“That way,” he pointed in perfect Japanese.

“Oh, me too!” I said, chopping bits of sliced language and stirring them around with a half-eaten fork.
“Do you think I could get a r---?”

“Muri desu.” (It's not possible/not allowed) he said.

“Alright then, I get it,” I said with only two diced onions.

And off I went, showered in the pouring morning rain; my memory snapping slow aperture shots of yellow blossoms sneaking between rice fields and concrete.

And then, just as I was dripping wet, brinking on epiphany beside a dead strawberry garden,
The same construction truck I had seen before stopped beside me.

“Get in!” the driver said in impeccable farm Japanese. And the kid I'd met before lowered his head and smiled with eyebrows farther away than Neptune.

We chopped a few veggies together on the way home and parted.

“Damn, it's raining cats and koalas today, isn't it?”

And I sat there, and sit here still.... wondering where those koalas are.
And, still chopping brocolli and cucumbers for a superb Japanese salad...

Waterbed Fantasy

Everyone has fantasies.
It's true.
Even your mousy librarian in junior high (who used to wear odd apparel that clashed like elephant tusks with humus and couscous, who used to purr in ecstasy when she hammered a book card with her little stamp) had a fantasy of desire that plagued her every shelving day. And I'd be a prude if I didn't mention that it probably involved talking dirty poetry, a parking cone and a few vats of hibiscus juice and office supplies. But I trigress…

I, too, have an unrelenting fantasy. It's one that began chiseling itself into perfection when I was a ripe young teenager and first saw a waterbed in the house of the 16-year old anarchist boy I had a crush on.

But, you can stop reading now, because this particular waterbed fantasy, though involving a degree of moistness, is far from sexual and certainly involves the harming of no gerbils, curious snakes or even vacuums with low self esteems.
It goes something like this:
I approach the waterbed. I pull out a nail, or an ice pick or a vampire tooth or Goliath's sewing needle or a piece of a shattered German beer mug and go on a serial mattress-stabbing binge. Once I've poked a sufficient amount of holes, I toss something really heavy on the bed (a led-filled conch shell attached to a small-framed sumo wrestler), and sit back and bask in the beauty of my self-created fountain from which water flies in all directions, and transparent, liquid rainbows lick and slobber on all of the bedroom furniture. Ah, yes… a truly beautiful vision…

(Explanation: I was reminded of this silly childhood fantasy today, only because it's exactly what I'd like to do this evening. Only, I'd like to replace the waterbed with the clouds over this city in Japan.)
Let it rain!

Something wigged this way comes

Tripping a few dark nights ago over boxes packed only in my imagination; like floundering with a penguin on the edge of a close-to-collision iceberg, I was overcome by an intense need (not unlike a clingy friend) to sit swathed in blackness and humidity and listen to downloaded Ray Bradbury stories from my youth.

I'm not sure if it was the nostalgic scent of science fiction, or the malignant heat, but I've been feeling rather pensive ever since my evening spent with Ray.
And, honestly, I'm a little scared of this sudden melancholy. This, because, I usually am the kind of person who would do anything (including teach a raccoon in a clown wig to ice skate) just to maintain an empty cranium devoid of meaningful thoughts and, by all means, vacant of any musings of true universal significance.
But here I sit now, with a bit of newborn thunder threatening to make its way through the birth canal of the fat, soggy air, pondering the memory of a gift I got last year.

It wasn't the unripe Japanese radish my neighbor gave me, a smooth touristic recreation of the Obelisk or even a studded porcupine on speed. It was, in fact, the haphazard salad of words that a friend mused through the receiver. And the dressing-coated words floated through as modulated current flows politely greeting a distant origin - granules compressed and re-guided, amplified and alienated; their frequency transformed into something I once found on the seat of a train in New York. The words themselves were too simple for recollection, the meaning too deeply reminiscent of volcanic expansion. In fact, I can't even remember the words. But I remember the feeling engendered by what I heard…
And what I heard, what spilled out, through duplex coil on the night of a typhoon was nothing but static. Static so clear, I could taste salty remnants of the big bang and feel my skin cracking with a coating of brine shrimp and sun.

That's it. No more Bradbury for a while. Bring in the raccoon and four tiny ice skates! And, why not a tiny nocturnal mammal-sized hockey stick too?! I don't have time for this thinking thingy. It stings.

Leg Spa

Just as I was traversing the final slope into sleep last night, the phone rang. Slightly delirious in that Jorge Luis Borjes-bred middle ground between waking and sleeping, it seemed quite a strange and surreal phone call.
It was a friend of mine, slightly inebriated, just calling to say hi.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I responded, as one does.

(This particular friend speaks excellent English, so I can speak with uninhibited fluency without having to slow my words down to snail-speak.)
We chatted about mundane things for a minute and then got to talking about our weekends. As one does.
And, this was when it turned all magical-realismy.

“So what did you do yesterday?” I asked.
“Oh, I went to a leg spa!”
“Mm. I see.”
“Yeah, they had many boiling legs, and I ate some.”

And the magical realism kicked in like the first wave of a good trip. Gabriel Garcia Marquez couldn't have painted a more vivid image in my head.

Suddenly I saw a luxurious spa/resort in the secluded Japanese countryside. It was beautiful, with heated, marble-bedded floors and high ceilings.
It was apparently quite a popular joint too,
because there were hundreds of vacationing families of legs there! Mama leg and baby leg soaked in the hot pools while grandpa leg sipped sake in the leg spa bar. And, for the first time, I felt what it must be like to be a leg on holiday!

Then,
The vision vanished like inhibitions on a Saturday night
And was replaced by the realization that my friend was just talking about a hot spring where you go to soak your feet and boil eggs.

What a rip-off!
Leg Spa my ass!

On Head Shrinking

Some hobbies are really easy. Like, watching T.V., bungee jumping, arbitrary rock collecting and staring at the wall.

Others require a bit more skill, like scuba diving, finger painting, jump roping and patchwork quilt making.

Then, you have the hobbies that require quite a lot of adroitness indeed. Like under-water origami, haiku writing in a headstand position, part-time Quantum Physics in the bath tub of Newton's 'Love Hotel', and doing your taxes
in the dark
with a zebra balanced on your head.

Yeah, those are pass-times that would certainly give you a deep respect for Sisyphus and his stubborn stone.

But, I have to say that the MOST difficult (as well as utterly heinous and time-consuming) hobby would have to be
Head shrinking.

I mean, let's think about this…
(Warning: this is not for the faint of dark humour)

First, you have to acquire a head. Preferably from one of your arch-foes.

Then, you have to slit open the head and carefully peel the dermal husk from it to be saved.

Then, you have to coordinate a meeting with the Spirit of the Anaconda in the river to arrange a sacrifice of skull and sticky brains. (this task can be particularly hard, as the spirit of the anaconda has quite a busy schedule)

Next, you have to get yourself some chinchipi plant juice (maybe it's just me, but I can't find it in any of the local supermarkets).

Then boil with water for a few hours.

After that, simply throw the head in and watch it shrink. (Parental Supervision Advised)

And finally, it's a mere matter of shaking the head filled with heated stones for about a week, sewing three bamboo pegs in its mouth and charcoal painting its face so the spirit can't come back and drop in, uninvited to dinner parties.

And, voila! You've shrunk a head!

Now, display it on a sharp fence pole.

And, there you have it. My Top Pick for Difficult-Hobbies-you-hope-your-child-will-never-try.

(Sidenote: When I have a child, I think I'll give him a stack of origami paper, some paints, a scuba get-up and ask him to contemplate balancing a zebra on his head in the Space-Time contiunum. Yeah, I know. Some people just shouldn't have kids.)

Astonished in the Loo

I know this isn’t the first time I’ve written here about Toilet Paper.

And I know that my corroding Dignity would be obliviously arrogant if it didn’t expect a Bulk package of bitch-slaps for such a homicidal, brutal over-beating of such a banal topic...

But I just can’t help myself.

Afterall, toilet paper is such a universally-relatable theme.
Everyone uses it.
(...or, at least, knows of its use by someone else)

What I’m really spiral-doodling myself towards, though, is the astounding and marvelously progressive phenomenon of “Self-rejuvenating toilet paper rolls in Japanese public bathrooms”.

In L.A., I would rather carve off my toe nails with a butter knife and pour salt, Tequila and lime in their place than step into a public park bathroom without proper protection (something along the lines of a gas mask and a full de-contamination lab outside).
And, 9.9 times out of ten, there is no toilet paper aside from that soggy tissue under the syringe.

But, here in Japan, I have been repeatedly astonished by the cleanliness of outdoor, public bathrooms and, most importantly- unsuspectingly ambushed by the presence of teams of up-to-bat toilet paper rolls in the most unlikely of defecation/ urination forums.
I mean, where else in the world is there a government-offered, free line-up of toilet paper rolls that manages to maintain its position over weeks in a downtown public park?

Just yesterday I walked to the top of an overgrown hill whose trail was inhabited by ubiquitous Spring growth, plastic Pokemon toys, sake bottles, candy-wrappers, refrigerators, old tires, new bamboo shoots, dragon flies and empty bento boxes.
Guess what I found in the vine and bush-devoured pisser up there?
Yup: Three curious spiders, seven eager branches, a rain-wrecked comic book and

three pristine, untouched rolls of toilet paper.

...Nothing short of miraculous, I tell you...

Metaphorical Glamour

I’m rolling out the long, metaphorical Red Carpet today. I’m putting on my finest, metaphorical black, sequined dinner party gown and getting a metaphorical manicure. I’m slipping on the metaphorical crystal high-heels and draping myself with metaphorical glamour.
Why such metaphorical extravagance?
I’m welcoming a very good friend to the Blogosphere today. If you’ve ever wondered what Cookie Monster, Che Guevara, and Camaron have in common, you can check his blog out here .
With that done, I can now metaphorically remove my glamour.
It was a little too big on me anyway.

(*Update: I realize that, strictly speaking, none of these are really metaphors. But, unfortunately with loss of braincells comes depleted vocabulary and reduced motor skills (for example, I sometimes catch myself accidentally poking myself in the eye and exclaiming "Couch!!".)

Naked Dinner

Don't worry. This isn't an “I-had-a-dream-last-night-that-I-showed-up-to-dinner-with-my teeth-falling-out-and-then-started-falling-and-falling-only-to-realize-I-had-no-clothes-on” post.
Nor is it an inspired Ode to Burroughs,
or heroin for that matter.

It's about four empty, wooden, grieving bookcases.
These solitary shelves in mourning were home to an eclectic family of children, all geniuses at an early age, who harnessed Words like Cinderella's carriage did mice. That is to say, with a lot of magic and agility.
But just hours ago, ALL of their children went up for adoption, or were sold as sex slaves to under-privileged Vietnamese youth. (read: I'm cleaning out my apartment in preparation for a move)

Just imagine the Emptiness and Nakedness these lonely, wooden vaults of creativity must be feeling right now!
I mean, it's one thing when your kids take off to get laid and dabble in drugs at college, because you know you will see them again… (or at least, someone who looks like them.) But, when they dive into a bookcase at the bottom of the Dead Sea or decide to become hermits in the back of a silverware drawer, sustaining themselves on occasional splattered spaghetti sauce for the rest of eternity, the loss is indescribably organ-scarring.

So, I think I'm gonna take my vacant bookcases with me to dinner tonight. That way, we can wake up to find ourselves displaying our bodies white-assed a la Adam-n-Eve together over wine and pasta.

(The 30 other guests present at tonight's meal might find it bit odd when I enter with two bookcases under my arms and two more balanced on my head…
Oh well.
"My therapist told me to do it!")

Kidnappers and Blinking Lights

First they blindfolded me with a gortex, pink bandana.
Then they gagged me with a genetically-engineered hamburger bun the size of a pro-women's basketball.
Then, they fettered and chained me with string cheese and lots of old shoelaces tied together.
Then they threw me in the back of a car speeding up a mountain road.
Then they took me out of the car, removed my blindfold and we stood in silence on a bridge, watching dying stars in the river.

Ok… so I made some of this up.
They weren't really astronomy-high kidnappers. They were my adult students. And they didn't really gag me with a hamburger bun, or even really blindfold me.
But, they did throw me in a car navigating a mountain road at high speeds. And then we did stand in silent darkness watching fireflies along the river.
There was one truly breath-taking moment for me when my friend was looking, bowed in reverence, at the tiny, pulsating life force in the palm of his hand, and everything seemed to simultaneously come together and fall apart.
And then
They released the string cheese bindings around my chest, and my breath came back to me.

Ghandi had no Catnip

“We all want to be in touch with the Divine. We all want to dissolve the Ego. That's why orgasms are so popular.”
-Tom Robbins

A New Recipe for achieving Enlightenment:

1) Put your Ego in a zip-lock bag with lots of holes in it. Then throw it on your neighbor's roof.
2) Close your eyes and contemplate an enormous, empty denim jacket sleeve.
3) Balance three plates in your right hand, a baby shower, box of catnip and some dried octopus in your left, and a hybrid pick-up truck filled with children and desert sand on your head.
4) Go pick up the zip-lock bag from your neighbor's roof.
5) Relax and order yourself a high-quality orgasm on the rocks.

Hot Potato Grandma

Today, I gave my 13-year-old students dictionaries and told them to write a journal entry of some kind. The results gave me confidence that they will soon be ready to dominate the House of Blog. Here are some of my favorite excerpts:

“My grandmother had a cancer last week. I was shocked. She was passed on to the other side.”
(I have to wonder who was involved in passing grammy to the other side. Also, I just had a great Sports Festival activity idea: Why not try a “Grandma-passing relay”? Wholesome fun for the whole family!)

“I rode a jet coaster and eated many popcorns with brother. It was exciting. The weather was cold and dad. But I had a good time there.”
(How about this for a Menu item:
Popcorns with Brother - Lightly-buttered brother on crunchy bed of popcorns
And how about this for a weather forecast:
60% chance of rain today. Don't forget your umbrella, just in case you find that the weather is dad. (I once knew a guy who learned that the weather was his cousin Billy twice removed. He was definitely glad he'd brought his umbrella that day!)

“I played yakuza yesterday ate school. I was very fun.”
(I DID sense there were some heavy mob vibes yesterday over school lunch when the puny, geeky kid was forced to give his apricot pudding to the cool, big kid…)

Abduction or Fantasy?

I felt like I was a puppet in one of those Japanese anime movies where the main character steps onto a bus, or into an abandoned building or through a gate and is spirited away into a world of ghosts, imaginary creatures and magic.
In my case, it was a building, though hardly abandoned. The living dead circled: some staring at this alien, human intruder and others lying on their backs, floating across the floor on squeaky wheels. The air felt centuries old and, I swear, I saw some of the mops scrubbing the floors without a handler.

Yes, it was my annual check-up at the small-town hospital.
First, they filled a syringe the size of a large, straightened plantain with my blood. (“Hey!You thieving, living-Dead cunts,” I wanted to scream. “stop! There's a really good reason that red stuff is in my arm and not in your alchemist's plantain!”)
Then they attached diodes and wires to my legs and arms and little octopus tentacles to the flesh covering my major organs. (“Wait a minute… this isn't a check-up offered free to Junior High School employees… It's the result of Neptune's new legislation to up the 2005 status quo for abductions!”)
Then an old woman (who I'm fairly certain had a bulging, third eyeball on her left breast) took my hand and placed it on a joystick. I played an exceptionally boring video game for two minutes, and the woman then cooed at me like an eerie dove at midnight (“Per-r-r-r-rfect eye site”, the Third Eye added in ghetto dove dialect).

“Now, pee in a cup, and we'll lock you in a small torture box to check your hearing.”

And that was that.

(For the record, I'm healthy as vegetable juice with good hearing, perfect eye site, regular heart beat, and diabetes-free. Just an abnormally high blood-alcohol level and an engorged, psychological understanding of the Living Dead.)

Winner of a Blowfish!

Why is it that when something is offered to us for free, whether we want it or not, we usually take it?
I was in a convenience store last week, making a meager purchase of pineapple tea and salt-doused soy beans, when I was forced to stick my hand into the mouth of a box and pull out a card.
“Wow!” exclaimed the acne-freckled boy behind the counter upon examining my card, “You are so lucky!”
I had won a free Instant Cup-O-Noodle! Whoopie! It was some new, experimental potato-cream flavored ramen (mixed with some other flavor represented in the form of an indecipherable, obviously Plutonian kanji). I took it.
It could have been a peppered Que-tip with dipping slug slime, or a glow-in-the-dark bristle-less toothbrush with soccer balls and blowfish dangling from it,
and I probably would have taken it.
Just to be polite.

And then I go and point fingers at blowfish-esque corporations for excessive production of non-biodegradable waste, when what I really should be doing is signing up with the local Hypocrites Anonymous Therapy Group.

Of Beavers and Things Tiny

This afternoon, I was sitting in the tiny park across the street from my tiny apartment, oscillating on the tiny swing, a tiny canned coffee beside me with tiny sand barnacles clinging to it. I was only a tiny way in to my book, and the tiny pigeon steps were initiating a tiny percussion performance beside the only-moderately tiny sandbox.

I was just reading the sentence: “He would've reached out and stroked her beaver, I'm fucking sure of it, except that only Barry would have noticed,” when a tiny old Japanese grandma, whose tiny vertebrae aligned themselves at a 90% angle to her tiny legs, started talking to my not-so-tiny, white shoulder.

Even if I could have understood her Japanese (which imitated, in a tiny way, the language spoken by a rice field at dusk), I just couldn't concentrate. I was completely overcome by the polar opposite of tiny embarrassment.

I mean, who did I think I was?! Sitting there, reading about beavers being caressed (and subconsciously fantasizing about my own beaver gnawing on a tree trunk) in the presence of such a kind, wise elder (albeit slightly impaired in the realms of articulation and height)?

But I couldn't let grandma read the last sentence from my book through my eyes, so I bowed my head and told her I would love to visit her family for dinner.

(Oh, man! I think I misplaced my sarcasm today!! If you come across it, please return it to me immediately. You can spot it by its tiny, glittery beads on its tiny, pink toe nails.)

Criminal Clock on the loose!

Suspect: average male, short, square, with blue-tinted plastic body

Profile: demented serial dream-killing Alarm Clock

Transport: he rides a polka-dotted pendulum that swings back and forth between 'The Land of Perpetual Beeping' and 'The Land of Anal Second Hand Movement'

Description: schizophrenic alarm clock. A cheap, non-descript criminal who distinguishes himself only by the glow-in-the-dark stickers tattooed on his hour and second hands. Armed with serious agression.

Please, if you see this clock or hear his piercing, soprano beeping scream, serially dream-killing through your neighborhood, don't panic. Just notify your local authorities immediately!

Enforcement teams are assembled around the globe, ready to detain this monster!

Cheek muscle work-out

I went sailing on Sunday and damn, if I didn't catch myself smiling like a maniac! The maniacal sailing smile is just one kind of smile, though.
Smiles come in all shapes and sizes with varying degrees of sincerity.
Here are some of my favorites:

1) The “Say Cheese Smile”
(It's the smile we've all honed over years of snapshots and fingering through photo albums. It's the smile we can count on to always look moderately decent, whether we're in front of the Eiffel Tower, or sleeping on a worm-carrying Tequila bottle in downtown Mexico City, or offering cigarettes to the monkeys at the San Diego Zoo, making vulgar poses beside Ms. Mona Lisa, or acting out 'Frankly, my dear, I just don't give a damn' in a bar in Casablanca. It's the reliable pointed-lens-inspired smile.)

2) The “Nervous Smile”
(It's the I'm-a little-uncomfortable-and-don't-really-know-what-to-say-so-here's-a-nice little-lip-crescent-to-fill-the-awkwardness Smile. This one is especially popular in Japan.)

3) The “I'm a self-recognized idiot Smile”
(This is one of my favorites and by far my most frequently used smile. It's the one we use when we realize we just said something really stupid, absurd, gullible, inappropriate or completely out-of-context. For example: “Oh! You went to the dairy museum yesterday? How nice. I sang karaoke with a cannibal.”)

4) The I-Know-what-you're-talking-about-but-really-have-no-clue Smile
(It's the smile we use when we didn't understand a word of what was just said but we really wish we did, because it sounded exceptionally intriguing. And it included a wet, sexy surfer!)

5) The sincere humour-inspired Smile
(It's the sincere face muscle response to hearing something that we find genuinly funny. In my demented case, it might be inspired by an exclamation like: “The sky is vomiting felines and pregnant precipitation again!” or “I just realized I'd forgotten to realize. Again.”)

6) The True Smile
(This one is entirely individualistic. It might be salty, ocean wind-inspired, or rice-field chorus frog-song conjured. It could be anything really. Like the image of electrons in Adidas sweat suits irradically jumping from lotus to lotus as they cycle through their iPod playlists. Or, it could come when an old friend is sewing a patch on their bathrobe and looking for their passport. Or when you can finally see those stars that had been drinking Heinekins behind a murky sky for so long..)

Well, there are at least 2842 more Smiles to address, but (as you may have noticed from my recent lull in posts), I'm really busy right now.

But, I'll find time to test-drive a few more smiles today!

Constipated Larvae craps Fireflies

I was never much of a pyromaniac as kid. I never set fire to a toothbrush, a beetle, a shed or even my grandma's pants.

But, I have to say that I became a bona fide fire-groupie tonight as I swam down the local mountain among a school of bamboo-torch-toting locals.

It was the annual mountain festival, celebrating Mt. Daisen's rebirth in a new season.

Looking up at the hundreds of flame-carrying bodies descending in the dark mist, I was mauled by paralyzing beauty (and, apparently, cheap clichés as well!).

I wish I could describe the brilliance of this trail of fire through the trees that made me want to stick a hand (preferably someone else's) down my pants and stenographize.

This is as close as I can get, though:

Just imagine a caterpillar.
Now imagine the caterpillar's smoothly winding path along a recently rain-pecked forest floor.
Now, imagine the forest blind-folded in drizzle.
Now imagine the caterpillar again.
The caterpillar is steadily shitting out 200 families of fireflies per meter as he travels.

Yup. That just about explains it.
Now, where's my lighter? My toothbrush is begging for a barbeque.

Snowboa---side-tracked

What I actually wanted to post today was something entitled “Snowboarders in Summer”. I was going to report on a few conversations I had last night about 'Snow that isn't here now but IF it were…'
It would have been the story of some Japanese mountain bums - turned Quantum Physicists. A classic and emotional Coming-of-Snowboarder-Age Spring Season Must-Read.
But, unfortunately, I got lost on the way to the Best-Seller list…..
So, we'll see no royalties from this brilliant idea of young, yuki-darumas entering the rainy season.

And why? Who caused such a potentially, career-bashing side-track?,
Well, the fame-blocking Culprit was:
The Dullest Blog in the World ; a site that elucidates the various deeds of every day life with great understanding and has kept me giggling through every attempt my neurons have made at writing (or seriousness, for that matter).

It's hard to accomplish anything when you're giggling.
But, I have a witness who can support my claim that I can still do SOME things, anyway:

"Yes, my neighbor, -c. She is very kind woman. American from. But she laugh is very loud in the shower every day."

(Sidenote: Thanks, Ted , for having this link on your blog. I'll never be productive again.)

God's Crush on an Atheist

(God blogs sometimes when others are being sarcastic and he's feeling down...:)

I got the blues. I got 'em real bad.
I'm in love with a girl. A girl who doesn't even believe I exist.

Her crooked, crescent grin is more delicious in its fecundity than Adam's first rib, and her parted, slender legs make me wish my publishers had edited out that Red Sea bit from my closet of skeletal shrapnel. And when I see the jealous wind off the ocean comb her long hair back like a narrow canyon does, I feel an insatiable guilt over my condemning verdict in the Solomon case. Yes, she is truly the most magnificent and beautiful creature in my creative portfolio!

But, damn, does she piss me off sometimes. For example, on our first date, when darkness was upon the face of the deep, and there was still some formless void, she said, “I got it,” and hit the light switch. I mean, what?, does she think God doesn't have feelings and pride too?!

But, still, love is irrational. I would carve myself into a giant, salt Pokemon sculpture for just one glimpse, over my shoulder, of her radiance!

But, then she goes and does something like eat shell fish! Or she claims that my resume/c.v. was plagiarized off some Quack named Evolutionary Science. Or she covets her neighbor's mountain bike while babbling on about how unethical slavery is. I mean…, it just makes me crazy!

But, then… it takes only a few moments of passion beneath the firmament for me to forgive. Even her insistence that we call the firmament the “sky” doesn't bother me anymore.

I'm in love with a girl.
I just wish I could get her to believe I exist.

(cue final blues bass line and harmonica)

Illegitimate arachnid Brothers

I've got a theory. Tell me what you think.
Spiderman had a sex-crazed brother with a few quirky habits and an eye for interior home-decorating. He was cast out by his family in order to protect Spiderman's heroic image from the cruel and overly-imaginative press. But, since it was difficult to determine the sex of a fly by the color of its curtain colors, this arachnid brother decided to go for humans instead. So, this mysterious, ex-spider brother swung from building-top to building, devouring female-looking apartment adornments (which, sometimes, included the females themselves.)

Ok, so the theory is a little shaky and more than absurd.
But, there IS a man who has been indicted on charges of raping 70 women in Hokkaido by entering their high-rise apartments, based on the flowery-ness of their curtains. (see this article )
Now, though I know better than to trust admissions of guilt made here within the Japanese justice system, I'll definitely believe Spiderman should he decide to step forward and make a statement against his crazy, building-scaling and wall-repelling bro!

(Sidenote: I wonder what color curtains Bionic-Woman had...)

What else is in that micro-chip?

I think when a child is born in California, it automatically comes with a rechargeable battery pack (or sometimes, solar panels),?a bottle of Crystal Guyser water (or Evian, depending on the neighborhood) and a “Chill, Kick-back Cali” micro-chip implanted behind its ear.
So, it’s no surprise that I haven’t lost my laid-backness, even though I’ve spent less than 10 months in the state in the past 9 years.
(then, again, ... I HAVE heard of the odd Californian who removes the "laid-back micro-chip" and replaces it with a flagpole up their rear orifice - So, nothing is certain in this world of impermanence.)

But, I still have the Cool Cali Vibe.
In fact, I probably have it worse than many.
Unfortunately, what I now seem to lack is a real FEELING for the predominant sentiment currently spiking the attitudes of my fellow statesmen. (states-folk? State-people? My state-sharing cool-cats.)
I can look at the polls and see that the majority of my Cali-Dawgs are Anti-this-war, but.. where are they? Where are all the demonstrations and rallies one would expect from so many polled, “Anti-war” peeps? And where is the outraged and disgusted youth? Why is it mostly the same people who were chanting down the Vietnam war who are now hitting the streets in my state? What’s going on in the collective head of my generation?

Basically, what I’m very inarticulately trying to say is that I understand my psychotic, Japanese washing machine (that alternates between doing the opposite of what I tell it and doing exactly what I tell it- only in a parallel dimension) much better than I understand the minds of my fellow Californians (especially, the young cats). I hope that going back there will change that.
But, thank (insert deity of choice) for technology and micro-chips. At least we know that, no matter what, you can never take the “Cool” outta this “Cali-Cat”.

A hump and a fag, please!

Sitting around the Camel cigarette pack with friends, baked, looking for hidden phallic symbols was a common pass-time for me in high school.
Yeah, I'd say those tobacco companies sure had some clever marketing geniuses puffing away in the think tank!
Or, were they just coughing?
This site Fair Enough is really funny and offers old-school, comedic sitcom-style episodes of clever, marketing Tobacco company geniuses brainstorming. And, they are all based on real Tobacco company meeting notes and implemented campaigns! Really good stuff.
In fact, I think I'll go dress up like a smoking camel now.
Does anyone know where I can get a hump?

(*Update/edit: So as not to be misunderstood and make enemies, I should mention that a "fag" refers to a cigarette in Britain.
*Udate2: And in Canada - thanks Canadian Dude !)

Tom-Boy can't Fight

So, I admit it. I played with cars when I was a child.
I built forts in the bushes.
I laid siege to the jungle-gym.
I threw punches in order to wield the pine tree branch.
I was a regular Tom-Boy.
But…
I still find more meaning in my contraband bag of microwave popcorn than I do in a senseless fist-fight.
Ok, so I despise the direction and actions of Dubya and his outrageous (..er…courageous?) cohorts, picking a kid in class and calling him a “dumb-cum-stupid-head” and throwing dog poop at him. But, at least I understand Why. There is a clear, selfish and very-wrong reason that pokes through the biased media on the head of a chopstick.
But, what I DON'T understand is:

What reason my friends had last night when they decided to throw a Fight-Club-style punch at themselves that led to a minor explosion of an ex-pat war in town..?
I just
Dunno.
This Tom-Boy can't think of anything.
Maybe one of our friends in town had clandestinely filled his water tank with valuable oil. Or, maybe they had obtained a secret Biological Weapon to combat Superior English Teaching? Or, maybe they had been posting lies about depleted Uranium on their Conversation School List bots.
Or, maybe they didn't play with cars as a kid.
Or, throw dog poop.
Or toss bottle rockets.
Or eat dog biscuits.
(Oh man... I swear I only tried it once and didn't swallow!)
I dunno.

But, I gotta go because I think someone's about to snatch up my pine tree branch!

Yellow Press

A friend of mine and local, long-time resident Guru coined a witty nickname for our small, Japanese city with his great, recently-birthed blog: Notes from the 'Nog .

And, back in the day, when the cool kid with a skateboard in the neighborhood started using the words “dudical” and “jizm”, I wanted to start using them too, so….here's my attempt:

Today's Breaking News from the 'NOG

PORT-MOUNTAIN-PARK- Three first-year high school students allegedly spotted their old English teacher talking to herself, rocking back-and-forth on her bench and staring blankly into the monkey cage.
The students had just finished participating in their club activity and were on their way home.
“I thought maybe she had lost it,” one bright-eyed student reported as she finished writing a text mail on her cell phone, “but then I remembered that that was the kind of odd, foreign behavior she had always exhibited.” Click here for full story

LAWSONS - Foreign woman approached local police box with allegations of Unsolicited comments about her height and nose-shape.
She has not decided yet whether to file claims of Discrimination and Silly, Verbal-Observations Abuse. Click here for full story

ASAHI TOWN - Local resident accused of trying to hide a Styrofoam natto container and a plastic toothpaste bottle inside his 'burnable' trash on garbage collection day.

Don't cancel your subscription! More, breaking News coming soon!

(*Update: But, to be completely honest, when the local cool hoodlum on the block started saying “dudical”, I really tried to get everyone to say “tripical”. Looking back on it now, it's no wonder it didn't catch on …)

Meet the tomato

We were practicing the Past tense today, and the students made their own short dialogues and performed them.

The little tree-huggers wrote:

A: What did you do yesterday?
B: I gived the money to UNICEF. How about you?
A: Oh, really? I saved the Earth too!

The little economists with a sense of humour wrote:

A: What did you do last year?
B: I lost fifty yen. How about you?
A: Oh! I got fifty yen.

The little Bible Zealots wrote:

A: What did you do on Sunday?
B: I walked to Onigashima. How about you?
A: I walked to Ryugujo.
(this was accompanied by a drawing of a smiling girl in a school uniform, walking on water towards an island with horns).

And the little, we've-either-tested-hallucinogens-at-a-very-early-age-or-we've-been-unfairly-subjected-to-too-much-of-our-English-teacher's-over-the-top-randomness wrote this:

A: What did you do after school very well?
B: I washed my dog at home. How about you?
A: I met a bear and a tomato in SATY.
B: Oh!

(I think I'll ask this last group to post weekly on this blog!)

Advice from Blister-gal

One more reason not to stick your hand into a burning fire:

The hand you use to pick up burning wood, is the same hand you use to wipe your...well,... to sweep up after you read the paper in the 'loo.

(Damn, I hope Lucifer is already backed up with paperwork and new ideas..!)
...

Deep Fears and Playing in Traffic

There's nothing that frightens me more than U.S foreign policy, Burger King advertisements, really long tunnels, suicidal sparrows, over-consumption, “faith-based” accusations and, excessive talk of banal, T.V. programs I have never seen.
So, it's always a motivating, heart-rocking High that hits me when someone offers a positive kick from the States (lacking any of afore-mentioned fear factors!).
I was lucky that my mother (a beautiful and passionate woman, who works at a community college library, fights weekly battles against censorship, administrative bullshit and state budget cuts) just filled this roll and sent me the link to her new buddies playing music in Los Angeles: Playing in Traffic
They inspire quite a bit of Deja-Vu (musically and sentimentally) But, they also offer a much-needed slap of motivation for those of us who are still scared of going back to play and do summersaults in the land of United Snakes… er, I mean,… States.

I suspect there will still be a few over-dressed Burgers dancing on the tube, a few, long sitcom-conversations, and some tongue-extending tunnels, but, I'm pretty sure, now, that there will be some good peeps, with intelligent opinions. And, maybe someone's got the linguistic and psychological skills to talk my pigeons down off the nest-Plank!

Young inquiries and Blisters

Remember as a kid when you used to run your hand through the flame of a candle and impress all your friends with your bravery and super-hero, burn-threat immunity? C'mon… we all did it! (How else would our ancestors ever have come up with the idea for those classic, block-buster hits: “Physics” and “When Larry met Allie to discuss Gravity and Flame-Temperature”?)
And remember how you used to throw a crying tantrum, complete with circular-breathing, and whimper harmonics just to get some attention…? And how sneaky you felt when you first flipped through a porn mag. and saw taboo, human-potential?
And remember how your first geography teacher knew everything about Everything, and lemonade was the Greatest thing Summer ever invented..?
And, remember how you used to pick up burning logs hotter than the west coast of the Sun's atmosphere, and hold them in your hands until you had blisters the size of Calcutta adorning your fingers…?

Well..., I guess that last one's just me. And it was way back in the halcyon days when I was just twenty-six years old and camping on the beach the day before yesterday…
I think I'll get a tattoo on the wrist of my beer drinking hand: BEWARE! Fermented yeast can severely hinder self-preservation instincts while fire-tending! Take necessary precautions! (like wearing astronaut cooking mittens or hand-cuffs!)

And, remember when you used to, incessantly ask “why?”… Why is grass that color? Why are those people so funny-looking? Why does my mom wear WMD-repellent, oven mittens 'round the campfire…?
Ahh, yes the honesty of youth…
But, REALLY, if I could be five again and ask Gaud a question, it would be: Why do monstrous finger blisters have to make it impossible to eat fish with chopsticks..?

Shrimp Boats

A friend offered to let me use her cat's skin to make an instrument if I wrote about shrimp boats. I always wanted an instrument that could drown the entire band with its purr-nicious voice, so… here we go!

Well, they're not actually shrimp-seeking, but rather squid-searching. And they're not actually boats. They're more like small fortunes (about US$190,000 for a new beauty).
But, they certainly ARE magnificent when seen, dotting the horizon of the sea in between rocky, cliff breaks!
…Which brings me to the first of my two theories about squid boats off the coast of Tottori:
1)These are not ordinary fishermen you often see in rural, costal villages, untangling ropes at 5 a.m. They are, in fact, entrepreneurial tools, subsidized by the Cliffs, Coves & Ocean Beautification Corp (CCOBC). They sold their reeling-in hand callouses long ago and are just there, lighting the horizon so that viewers can ooh and aahh at their radiance, and bring more tourism to the area. Those gold-digging squid-figgers!
and,
2)Those squid fishermen stole that bright, sequined horizon-line idea from my grandma who used to use that same pattern on her crocheted pot-holders. Those, gramma-copy-right-infringers!

(Well, guilt has wrapped me up in one, really big rubberband, so I want to clear my name of muddy lies. I admit it.: I wasn't really offered a cat skin for writing about shrimp boats. In fact, my friend would probably sew up a nice halter-top made of MY skin for her cat if she knew of my kniving allegations… Oh, the shame suffered in the name of absolution!)

"And a Virgin Mary for the puppy.."

Wait...
Was there REALLY a rodent-Dog in a green t-shirt, running a slalom course around the glasses on the bar of our local watering hole last night??
...?
yup, yup...

There really was!

The strangest thing about it was that no one found it even slightly aberrational. We were passing the puppy (though I secretly suspect he was really an under-cover ferret in dog's clothing) around, singing lullabies and speaking baby-talk to him. I think, with a little suggestive nudging, I could land another, lucrative, part time, conversational-education job. Afterall, no Japanese sausage-dog is too young to start learning English!

Fornication Salad

As the world's population increases (despite my convincing suggestions to roll everyone -ages 0 to 200- up in seaweed, rice, cucumber and imitation crab and play rugby with them!), we seem to find more and more categories, files and boxes to shove everything into. (i.e. HE's a hippy-clothes store-owner, SHE's a softball player, THEY are terrorists and SHE is a dog-freak of incomparable proportions, and SEX is …well…, let's talk about strawberries, because they are in season.)
Now, I'm sorry to disappoint, but this isn't a rant about the Japanese Club-Group mentality.
In fact, it's more based on my knowledge of U.S. sitcoms, attitudes and media.
It's about categorization when it comes to fornication…
(and, I'll admit I have a “Wanna-hug-you” relationship with Categorization, as well as a “Wanna-snug-you” relationship with fornication…but that's another thread!)

I DO think, though, that we've definitely sculpted a few too many artistic box-titles for SEX. Talk to any zealous, single girl and you'll learn that we've got: casual sex, sex for love, sex for passion, sex for marriage, sympathy phux, sex for sex, baby-making sex, make-up sex, break-up sex, wake-up sex, and - my favorite - straight-up sex…
(the list goes on…but you can try it out on your own time!)
What this is all leading to, though, is a question my 14-yr-old student asked me today.
As I forced him to put on his hospital mask and apron to pick up the cafeteria food, he asked me, with sincere curiosity and no 'giggle-I'm-joking'-ness,
“What does 'gay' mean in Japanese?”
I told him: “homosexual”, and then began to explain what he already knew.
He then asked if the same word is used for men-who-dig-men as well as gals-who-dig-gals (Again, he's not a jokester, so this was all sincere).
I had just begun to answer, “Yes, but there is another word for…”--- when my drunken-karaoke-bro-co-working sensei stepped up and offered the Japanese, authoritarian
“No way! That's not suitable for junior high school students!”
OK, then… I stepped back.
But, I couldn't help but be confused. Just last week, I had stood by the same teacher as he taught sex ed. to that same student. Talk of H.I.V. and pregnancy had gone on, as well as a hand-out, complete with pictures of condom-application…
How was I to know that the kid was old enough to talk about eating tacos but too young to discuss bananas..?!

I'm thinking of offering a clandestine course (during coffee breaks) to the teachers of my junior high school:
“Banana-splits and Taco-Salads- Both are Delicious! Which one do you like?”
Advanced course: “Straight-Nutty, fruit, vinegar salad with Taco-banana dressing- Enough servings for the whole family!”

To get to the mountain,

Gotta cross a few creeks... (and, sometimes, be the seven-horned, disfigured, blue-belly lizard in Japan, holding a forged note from lucifer's ex-calculus professor)...
Religion aside, though,...

I just talked for two hours with a friend who lives in Ms. No-Mura-up-north, “where-was-that-again?-Land”, in what-did-you-call-me?!-Prefecture…
And, after tales of mountains, steep cliff-sided valleys and Ecstasy-muscled canoeing, I naturally, felt the need to go outside, climb a hill, see trees, smell blinded stars and over-turn a rock or two to discover what insect's life I could disturb…

What I found:
1)The choral 'moo!' of seven, suited, drinking-directioned men.
2)The absolute silence of non-silent, wet soil.
3) A psychedelically-colored, baby beetle.
4)That half-assed, doki-doki heart-flick felt when the wind picks up and you don't know how far it will go
5)The sound of unspeakable desire landing on a yet-to-be, bloom-caressed branch.
and, finally...
SIX) A Bunch of Pricks.

I mean, REALLY,
who wanders the streets on a late Wednesday night and actually expects to pick up chicks with a line like: “Hey Foreigner! You got long legs and a small face! Don't you?!”
then (looking around), “The wind feels good, right?!”

I almost replied, "Ooh, that's hot! Call me a fat, ugly, seven-headed cyclops from Uranus who will never have tea or eat a preztel with an Earthling, and you have a date!"

But, what I ACTUALLY said (in very mangled Japanese) was: "Give me back my typhoon fear, moist soil scent and shiny insects. And, you, go home to your wife!"

I, obviously, have yet to begin my Social Couthness Course...

(*Update: Here's a more accurate translation of what I probably, really said:
"You know typhoons, right? They're scary. I want that scariness of typhoons! You know wet dirt, right? I want that, too! And cute, colorful insects? I want them too! And, YOU, go home to your wife!"
Somehow, it doesn't sound so tough anymore. If you hear anyone talking like this, please alert your local, not-for-profit Home for Reality-forsaken Incoherents immediately! )

Military Kitty-Kitch

I remember the first time I set foot in my apartment here in Japan, I nearly lost my breakfast to the surface of my yet-unzipped luggage. My stomach's seismic, sporting adventure was a result of being greeted by a mobilized army of Hello-Kitties. One cute kitty was in the form of an alarm clock, another disguised as a pillow and yet another went in cognito as a Bulletin Board Security Guard.

Now, some people are frightened of clowns, and others have pelvic clenches upon hearing carousel music.
Not me.
But, put a few kitchy, pink Kitty-chans on my shelf to scrutinize me with their beady, little plastic eyeballs, and I don't care what the time-difference is, I wanna call my mommy!
So, I was rightfully horrified when I was sitting at my desk today at work, and realized that these sneaky, servants of “kawaii-culture” had invaded all realms of my life without my even noticing! There I was, after almost three years, preparing lesson materials with sparkly, pink scissors, and a pastel orange pen from which dangled a cute Kitty dressed in a Giants baseball uniform..! I began frantically going through my drawers only to be confronted by more pink miscarriages of humanity. A shiny, strawberry-shaped magnet had attached itself to my fuchsia stapler. A series of glittery heart stickers and smiley faces had spread over my pen-caps like kawaii cancer. And, I was making borders on my worksheets with a Mickey Mouse ruler!
How did this happen?
Screw the out-dated Trojan horse. If I ever want to abandon siege and slip inside a castle, I'm assigning Hello Kitty as Commanding General!

Wascly Wabbit Munch

While you may think of them as just underground tubers that good soccer moms bring along in their esky, crunchy snacks that promote phrases like: “What's up. Doc?”, and orange, phallic abominations, there's a lot you don't know about these ubiquitous roots.
For example, in the early 19th century, carrots were loved so much that they were being grown two feet long with a one-foot girth… Now, I'd LOVE to see Bugs try and fit that one in his little, buck-tooth mouth! …Come to think about it, our Bunny Boy might just like it!...
17th Century herbalists also claimed that these marvelous treats could promote the flow of women's urine. And during the reign of James I, not only were carrot leaves used to decorate women who wouldn't ordinarily get a second glance until the 7th beer, but carrots were also being prescribed by doctors for snakebites and sexual maladies!
And in 900 ad, Afghani sun-worshippers were munching away in order to stuff their souls with righteousness.
All of these utterly useless but entirely intriguing facts come from this brilliant site about the history of the Glorious Carrot. Check it out for everything you never wanted to learn about the little root you sometimes chop up and dip in ranch sauce.
And now I'm gonna go swimming in a bath tub of venomous snakes so I can test out my new remedy...

(*Update: I'm not alleging that Bugs Bunny is a homosexual.

But it's OK if he is.)

riel revolution

Now, I wouldn't personally ever have any drive to start a bar brawl with the Canadian government or tatoo divinity on my shoulder, but I have to admit there's something cool about the idea of gallivanting around butt-naked and calling myself "The prophet of the New World"!
Unfortunately, this guy Louis Riel already stole my idea!
He probably looked much sexier in the outfit, too!
Could the Louis Riel judges give me a call..? I'd like to propose a viciously, hot, spagetti-slap to the wrist as verdict-guilty punishment. If that doesn't work, let's go with cheap, Caseo-stereo elevator music, or a cheese-grater to the lip. ...(What?! Senseless hanging, you say??. )

Vacationing Translator-a-bob

One of my favorite things in life is the humour-riddled human exchange that occurs between geographically or culturally-separated beings. Especially, when they share a language in common. It's amazing what half-sauteed indiscernibility can come from the very language that you thought was your mother tongue! For ex.:

Friend: “So, what's Japan like?”
Me: “It's great! Full of contradictions.”
Friend: “Yeah, I just got an electricity bill, reached level 11 on the new Minotaur vs. the Realestate Agnt. PS2 game, watched 'Cn?ureislvnvkfls?x' on DVD, ordered out from Bob-b/eats-the Hog Pizza Emporium and chilled with that bloke from the Moroccan Mountain tagine stand.”
Me: “Huh? Cool! I just janken-ed for a sticker with teenagers who were checking out manga and blurred sex while debating between sake onigiri and nasty katsuo. Then, my friends and I stumbled upon a great performance by Aquabomb, got a call on my keitai from Papa Dharma and…”
Friend: “Huh?”
Me: “Yeah, it's great! How are you?”
Friend: “Wicked. You really gotta see 'Cn?ureislvnvkfls?x'! You'll love it!”
Me: “Yeah! Sounds good. See you soon!
Friend: “Yes, certainly before this minotaur is slayed!”
Me: "Mino-whuu...? Hell yeah! Can't wait to see a sleigh slaying!
Friend: "?? Love ya! See you soon!"

Well, shit- until I find that culture-translator-a-bob I lost in my soy-sauce bottle, I'll be listening to Khagool :
the most awesome, psychedelic Welsh rockers to ever have opposable thumbs!
Can't wait to hear them come play in Japan!
And, maybe one of them can do some translation...
Someone's gotta speak Minotaurian...
Or, at least, know where to find Culture-Translator-a-Bob...

Jerkey and Comics

It's not often that the woman at my local mom&pops convenience store gives a go at humour. She's usually busy mis-counting change and talking about the umbrella surplus. But, just moments ago, she proved her comedic dark side. While ringing up my purchase she began to muse,
“Hmm… Instant noodles…hmm… a beef Jerkey stick…hmm… nice weather… hmm… you like Japanese men, don't you?...hmm...”
Now, whether noodles, Jerkey, weather and men all belong in the same customer-service pleasantry, I can't really say, but… I know I've made stranger conversation without being slapped with a heavy iguana or dumped in a vat of wet tissue and tuna before...
What I actually wanted to share, though, were these hilarious comics
I have been entertaining myself with. Some seriously dark and fun diversions.
But, it's time now to divert myself in the direction of Out-and-about, so I'll leave you with the best poem I think I have ever written:

I like noodles,
I like stick,
I like Jerkey
And I like

Sparrow Suicide

There it was, this morning, lying limp and embriotic on the concrete of my balcony… right there in front of my face, calling me with its primordial incipience, involuntarily enflaming my curiosity.
I kneeled down, yielding both to a pulverizing Japanese-beer hang-over and a nagging sense of inquiry. Yup, there it was….
A dead baby sparrow SPLAT on the floor. A dead, featherless bird inches from my bed!
There were no leads to be found at the crime scene. No feather-printed weapons to suggest murder, and the autopsy showed no signs of struggle.
Perhaps this was simply a suicidal act of a woe-fully depressed, Japanese sparrow, deprived of its right to Riddilin. Or maybe, just maybe (as an adroit Freudean pedant might suggest), this was a far more scandalous and Oedipusian affair than we thought…
Let's try this for a scenario:
The poor, young fledgling had a fight with his brother. Maybe he saw that his co-habitating sibling was feasting on worms a pin-head longer than his own and was receiving more mama-sparrow attention than himself. Maybe jealousy engulfed him and he thrust his little, under-matured beak at his brother's naked wing, but unfortunately over-shot his destination. Maybe our talon-less 3-day old hero then fell from his nest and landed, rather unfortunately, on the floorboards of a residing foreigner's balcony.
A possible explanation, I'd say…
Well, all I know is that the sparrows are back. And this is my third year as a Sparrow-suicide Witness. I'm now in the process of contracting a sparrow-speak translator to put up a few signs around the nest reading: “Don't jump! Life is good!” and “Uncle Sam says 'Wait for your Wings before flying!'”

Rainbow Discipline

Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, violet, black, white, gray, indigo, water-logged cypress, forest blue, sky green, red umbrella shadow, pink grease fire….
Name a different color, QUICK!!
And if you can't, well, I have a paper-cutter to show you Blood Red!
Here's today's article from the Double Daily News: Art Teacher threatens pupil at knifepoint for not knowing colors .
I'm expecting that next week's top stories will be: “Charcoal-black-scolding humiliation attacks 12 yr-old during 2nd period” and “Amber-tinted Orange Rage assaults Junior high school Tennis club member”
Ahh, yes. It's all quite black and white, really…

Peoples-be-good-yo! Membership

So, I just got my “Faith in Humanity” membership card back. It had been chilling in abeyance for a while somewhere along the fence between the VIP-Platinum-User status and the This-customer-is-a-habitual-check-bouncer-so-show-her-no-couthness-if-she-needs-assistance status.
My new membership card is shiny and new, and sports a hip, non-forgeable hologram of two peeled cucumbers embraced by a four-headed earwig strapped to a snowboard (this is, of course, the visual representation of 'Faith in the goodness of all people').
Anyway, I got the card reactivated because of my recent, awesome experience at the Nijinomisaki music festival in Kyushu. For now, you can have a look at someone's comments about last year's festival. I'll try to get some pictures up soon from this year's celebration, along with my personal reflections and description of its awesomeness.
Until then, I'll just say that good peoples, good campings and good musics make for good times and good, sparkly, new membership cards.

To pack the beetle or not?

Packing for trips has never been my strong suite. I figure as long as I have my ticket, passport, some string, a few crumpled currencies hidden in my earlobes, safety pins, colored pencils, a lighter and a change of clothes, I'm ready to go. And this has, thus far, worked brilliantly for year-long trips, three or four-month trips and two-week excursions.
Only, this time, I'm off for only five days to a music festival in Aso, Kyushu, Japan. I've attended this fest (Nijinomisaki) for the past two years.
The first year, I brought a change of clothes, some rattles, a flute, a tent and a sleeping bag.
The 2nd year, I brought a change of clothes, some rattles, a flute, a tent, sleeping bag, a tarp, a hacky sack and toilet paper.
Now, here's where it gets complicated. THIS year, I'm bringing a change of clothes, some rattles, 2 flutes, 4 tents, 3 sleeping bags, 2 tarps, 2 toilet paper rolls, 2 collapsable chairs, 1 second-hand guitar, 2 sets of guitar strings, 34 books, 3 gigabytes of coffee, enough clay to build a complex in SW USA, enough paint to deface 2 Tokyo apartment walls, a frozen orangutang, a crate of ramen and 30% of Korea's kimuchi.
Though, I'm still waiting for the proposed grant processing to go through, I think I may have a new scientific break-through on my hands here. Namely that:
1)The increase in hippy luggage over time corresponds directly (or maybe kind-of slantedly) to the misinterpreted trend of global warming. And,
2) What we pack is inevitably determined by what we have lying around our house.

If you don't believe me, go and have a look at the residence of someone who is packing. If they own 24,000 unique Indonesian beetles, just call me an ass if they don't throw a few beetles into their luggage! And if they own 8 guitars and 3 frozen orangutangs but don't toss even one old six-string and one chilly long-armed ape into their pack, then I willingly abdicate governorship of this hypothesis, and I might even buy you a pint!

Until then, I just remembered I have to go pack Tobasco sauce and chopsticks...

Selfless Ascetic Gets Laid

Before I came to Japan a few years ago, I harbored the stereotypical image of a densely-populated island where Mr. Selfless Ascetic held hands with Ms. Dignified Kimono Goddess who served tea to Mr. Honorable Samurai whose brother was Mr. SalaryMan who owned Mr. high-tech Robot who answered calls from Ms. Hot Highschool Sailor Girl who flirted with Mr. Unintentionally-hilarious Game show Host who…
Well, hmm…
I DO know a Selfless Ascetic (he runs a rice field and a liquor shop and sings Beatles songs). I know a Dignified Kimono Goddess (she's a secretary, flower -arrangement artist and she hides her car from public-view when she takes a day off work). The Honorable Samurai I know likes comic books, painting and has a sword collection. The SalaryMan is a closet-Musician, and the Hot Highschool Sailor dreams of hiking in New Zealand.
As for Mr. High-tech Robot… I haven't met him yet. (assuming, of course, that elaborate sex toys don't count). That's why I'm looking forward to the Prototype Robot Exhibition coming June 9th-19th.
I'm especially excited to see the “Partner robot with artificial tongue”, the “Robot that decorates ceramic tableware and drinkware” and the “Dance Partner Robot”!
In an ideal world, I could also see Mr. Selfless Ascetic getting tongue from the Partner Robot, Ms. Dignified Kimono Goddess learning to decorate tableware, and Mr. SalaryMan doing the tango with Dance Partner Robot!
Hey… can't blame one for dreaming!

Toilet Paper Felons

On Friday, we had to call a serious assembly meeting at school. Apparently, some of the students have been tearing toilet paper incorrectly.
Toilet paper usage is a delicate matter, you see. If hasty hands grab only one out of two plies,… well, the roll is shot. (Just imagine the inhumane trials of the next user who has to work out which ply goes with which when needing only a quick clean-up!) Or, imagine the resulting nation-wide confusion when someone tears three layers of the toilet paper off in one go! It's absolutely and hideously unthinkable.

The ridiculous thing is that I'm not joking! My junior high school really and honestly held a whole-school assembly in the gymnasium to address the toilet paper issue!
Evidence presented: two rolls of abominably mis-torn toilet paper and one bag of excess toilet paper scraps collected at the scene of the crime.
Opening statements: “Bad! Bad! Bad! Don't do this!”
Closing statements: “Bad! Bad! Bad! Please try harder tomorrow! (And, wear your helmets while riding your bike home because there are convicted, poor-toilet-paper-users out there!)”
God, how I love my school of employment! And how I love that no creativity is required to find humour in its operation!
Check this out for toilet paper algorithms and further thoughts and experiences on the subject of toilet paper.

Of burning, cocks and omelelettes

So, my eyes are burning. Though I wish I could explain this burning with a few good clichés (like: “they're burning with desire” or “they're burning with unfaltering idealism” or “they're burning 'cause grandpa just asked me to re-light his pipe seven hundred and twenty-two times”), I just can't.
They are actually burning because I spent the entire day, correcting junior high kids' tests.
But, fear not. Such a burning does not necessarily require flaming, horned, outcasts from above or South-Parkian gay Husseins. In fact, there were a few wicked results of this burning that made it quite a pleasant burning, indeed.
One student, for example, wrote:

“I am good at frying. I can fry everyday in the sky. Noguchi is my friend. He likes frying too.”

And another:

“I am a good student. I like study. I am also a good cock. I like cocking very much. I often make omuraisu (omelette with rice). My families likes it very much.”

And:

“Are you study yesterday did he doing?”

What did I tell ya?! You just can't beat this eye-burn with a stick! …Or, a flying pan!

Where's the shrimp salad?

Oops! I had absolutely no intention of changing the background color of my blog! But, now that it's done, I'd like to passionately and vehemently claim that it was done in a deliberate and pre-meditated effort to illustrate the transient nature of the universe (and it had not a lick of chili-salt to do with the fact that I'm lazy and refuse to touch anyone's code late at night).
Besides, if my local grocery store can suddenly stop offering my favorite, pre-made shrimp salad (the faithless heretics!), then I can certainly be allowed a harmless change of template color! After-all, the Institute of Believable Research recently proved that forcing a single salad-consumer to purchase all the necessary ingredients for one salad, led 90% of buyers to spend more money than necessary and, in turn, unwittingly change the background color of their blogs. I lie not!
Now, I wish I had the chemistry background to knot lye…
Or... catcha shrimp, lying down nautically...

But, unfortunately, all I have is delirium before bed...

MS: Development of New Religion

So, I'm pretty sure now that I'm ready to start my own religion. I've finally taken and passed most of the pre-requisite classes. The easiest course, by far was “Analysis and Implementation of the Seven Techniques of Bar-patron Persuasion”. (In fact, my professor even claimed last night that he was finally pursuaded to see, in a simple cylinder of hops and yeast, SEVEN micro-cosmic visions of the universe -all represented in the form of seven identical glasses- ). Now, if that's not mastery of religious persuasion, then just call me the illegitimate son of Sancho Panza!
I also kicked ass in: “Theories of Modern Illogical Rationale”, and “Brainwashing the Non-critical mind”.
But, the most difficult, intense and pride-worthy seminar I conquered with flying colors was: “Affective Avenues of convincing your boss that the Happiness of all his Employees hinges on Your getting more Vacation Time”... That "A" is definitely going at the top of my c.v./resume!
The reason I bring this up (aside from my plan to start my own subservient, religious cult following) is because I had a beautiful and philosophical discussion yesterday with my boss. (… well as beautiful and philosophical as any discussion can be when the two contributing conversationalists cannot speak each other's language and are constantly interrupted by their own gorilla-like, dramatic gesturing and verbose circumnavigation of words). The conversation went something like this:

Boss: “So. We in Japan are like ants.”
Me: “OK..”
Boss: “We work very hard all seasons but sometimes get cold.”
Me: “Ok...”
Boss: “But you… You are like the….”
(a lot of gesturing, picture-drawing, and hopping up and down…)
Me: "A slinky?"
Boss: "No. -well, maybe on Saturday nights-" (more charades..)
Me: “A grasshopper??”
Boss (consulting a dictionary): “Yes! The grasshopper is very happy but works only one out of four seasons. For most of the year, the grasshopper just hops around, enjoying the beauty of the world. And, he rarely gets cold. But, still, all ants envy the grasshopper's happiness.”
Me: “Oh. And the ant?”
Boss: “He constantly works very long and hard hours and thinks his work everyday makes him very happy.”
Me: “Happy?”
Boss: “Yes….. But, I don't know if it's really happiness….”
Me: “Oh.”
Boss: “I worked like an ant for many years so that I could live like a grasshopper now. And now I am very happy.”
Me: “I see…”
Boss: “But you… you started as a grasshopper… “
Me: “Uh huh…”
Boss: “But, we just don't do it like that in Japan.”
Me: “Oh. I'm sorry.”
Boss: “No, I'm sorry.” (translation: please enjoy your free vacation days allotted to you under new bureaucratic words, and you DAMN WELL better have something interesting to share with everyone when you get back!)

Yippeee!! I passed my course! When can I start my own religion, mommy?

Oil-coholism

Now, I don't often like to wax honest (because Sarcasm is my closest bro - and he's got a brutally strong, right upper-cut-), but, intervention has to come some time so, I'll just say it:
My Country has a serious Oil-cohol problem. So, There.
I've said it. It's out in the open.
No more need for oil-binge denial or embarrassment about clear-cutting and re-piping your neighbor's garden! I say, it's OK. I like a good fix of unnecessary death, chased by extinction in the morning too! Doesn't everyone?
And, REALLY, just what is Japan (this oil-less country) thinking when it pursues progression and development of Hydrogen energy for use by fuel cell vehicles?
Have a look at this Fuel Cell Bus , for example. I mean, there's gotta be some threat of international terrorism there, don't you think?!
Well, that's enough joking and oil-soil for tonight. Don't forget to visit the
First Oil-coholics Anonymous meeting to be held Friday at 7pm, D.C. National Standard Time. (Hybrid transport available: first ride: a few bucks: second ride: “you're clean!”)

Salty blossoms

Though I could blame my week of absence on the visit of my family to Japan, I think I'll allocate responsibility to a more humble criminal: THE CHERRY BLOSSOMS. These sneaky delinquents maneuver through the crowds, smile like morons, and capture the heart of every keitai camera. They can easily take away blogging impetus, drive you to open a new book, and threaten you if you don't go out to enjoy the Sunday afternoon. If you can't check out these beautiful corruptors in person, you can detain them as a screensaver or write me and I can send you some salty, cherry culprit tea for the drinking.
Now... I'm simply eagerly awaiting release from their beauty. I hear that outside of these flowery chains, they still play things like soccer and talk about odd subjects like politics and twisted ligaments.

Language and coffee stains

The following floated into my inbox the other day, and it reminded me of the many times I've hopelessly tried to understand and look up an incorrectly or hastily-written kanji character with a mis-placed stroke or a coffee cup stain blurring the ink:

“Try reading the paragraph below. When I read it the first time...
...I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was
rdgnieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid. Aoccdrnig to a
rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer inwaht
oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the
frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl
mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the
huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a
wlohe.”

Though this may be true, I'm still waiting for the day when I can properly read a coffee stain.

After a healthy week of luddite living, I'm right back here again, window shopping...

Happy St. Urho's Day

If you're not already engaged in debaucherous celebration, I suggest you raise a glass! Today, we are honoring St. Urho: a phenomenal man who ridded Finland of grasshoppers. And this, just ONE day before Mr. Patrick cleared Ireland of snakes! An amazing tale, really. The man spoke in tongues, if I'm not mistaken, and had a history of cutting insect E pills with Nosema locustae. Cheers, St. Urho!

(*edit/disclaimer: This is, of course, sarcasm. the man probably never had anything to do with any bioinsecticides or x pills. And, probably never SPOKE in/ or GOT any tongue...)

page 123

Usually, I don't entertain these kind of things. In fact, I'd rather wash my Q-tips than masturbate with chain-mail games. But I just saw this one and it was too easy to ignore.

Instructions:
1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 3 sentences.
5. Don't you dare dig for that "cool" or "intellectual" book in your closet!

Without getting up or moving more than a few wrist muscles, there are three books near me:

1)Tales of the Tartan Army (Ian Black):

"'Masticating?' said John. 'Are you sure you're pronouncing that right?' Ramon was at the hotel bar and he noticed when, unprompted, The Heart came up and gave us back our money."

2)Please Kill Me - the uncensored oral history of punk- (Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain):

"'What is it, Patti?' 'It's Bobby's birthday.' 'Bobby who?' 'Bobby Dylan.'

3)Mini Political Atlas of the World (AND cartographic publishers):

"Ribeirao Preto. Niteroi. Sao Paulo."

Well, that was fun. But, I'll bet you my new driver's license and back-up ramen supply that all the other sentences on all the other pages, put together, are far more interesting.

graduation

Today was the day. We all drank two extra cups of the plastic-stale coffee. We took four steps for every necessary one. We set up the chairs, floor sheets, flowers and mikes and bowed-in the guests. We ganbarimasu-ed and posed strong. We stood and sat in unison. We showed humility to the speeches of our elders and sang the school song with vigour.
And, I cried like a baby. I couldn't look at the faces of my students. Everytime I did, I would begin to giggle at jokes, recall stories, hear hearts, and re-witness freeze-frame human growth and the primordial sculpting of pure character.
Ok, basta. This has to stop now, as I despise sentimentality and cheese surfers. Suffice it to say that I was well touched grieving (as I have only been one other time in Japan).
On the fun side, I get to go party now with my fellow cheese-surfers and then head to Osaka to see some fat, Japanese men, wearing tissues around their waists, stare at each other, rock back and forth and then role over a line! My first sumo experience coming soon..!

Revitalizing Rope Swings

Just got back from eating an unmentional number of various animals and fish, grilled to excellence. It was delicious. And, the master of the izakaya, (aside from offering me his first born son as a husband), informed me that the water he serves is a 'youth revitalizer'. I drank lots of it and am hoping to wake up tomorrow asking: "I GET it, but why exactly IS the sky blue, mommy?'
I have also started to think about finances. I think I've deduced that if I start saving now, I may just be able to buy this beautiful island in the Bahamas in under 5000 years. I may even be able to get a fishing pole and put up a rope swing! Who's with me?

Lunar Livin'

Well, since I couldn't decide if I wanted to live in San Fran or San Juan, I decided to go with the next best option. Yes- it's San-Artemis - and, yes, my children will need therapy. And- yes, I'm kidding. And-yes- that's O.K.

The Unmentionable Platypus

So, to make a nice, curvy human with breasts and muff, we need two X chromosomes. To get a sculpted human with a sexy, albeit odd, protrusion, we need an X and a Y….
So, tell me. Why do we need a set of 10, yes, TEN, chromosomes to determine the sex of a platypus? To be a platypus with muff and give milk, you have to grab XYXYXYXYXY chromosomes. And to be a bill-punchin', man platypus, you gotta bag X times 10. Why is this?
Because a platypus is a Super-hero, that's why!
That's why you can spend US$250 today for a platypus paperweight or bid on the Platypus Zone Sign that I would be dying to have, if only I had a reason to have it.
Moral of the story: I, being a mere XX, have much to fear from the XYXYXYXYXYs! As do the XYs of the XXXXXXXXXX!
The platypuses are coming!

Dubya Hunter

As Hunter S. Thompson is on everyone's mind, I thought I'd thinly veil a blatant Bush Jab beneath a HST quote. Here's what Dude Thompson allegedly said when asked about Dubya's conduct at a 1974 Superbowl party:

"I can't be expected to remember what every drug-addled yuppie hanger-oner who wanted to get close to me during a football game twenty-five years ago digested. There were so many dope fiends milling about, I don't remember what some Yalie named Bush, whose father was a factotum in the Nixon Administration, was doing. But he strikes me as the sort of person I would have thrown out of the room. A rich, beer-drunk yahoo with a big allowance who passes out in your bathtub. ... I don't want to become the Deep Drug Throat. ... I won't do it."

For the full kendo strike bash on Bush, check out the following site (but heed this disclaimer that this blog's author neither supports nor opposes anything found after the mouse click)

G. Dubya Bush

Gonzo

I had a chat with my Japanese washing machine and microwave tonight. Though we all agreed that this was not unexpected (in some form), we couldn't help but feel the burn from the slap of Emotional Shock's combative play.
It was just last week that I was re-reading "Better than Sex" and just two weeks ago that I forced a friend to read "The Rum Diaries" for their first time...
Hunter S. Thompson,...thanks! ..For heart, imagination, satire, beauty, insight, absurdity, talent, balance and unfaltering commitment to being human and living!
For more on the man who has asked me to drink a 6-pack of Asahi beers for him tonight:
The Great Thompson Hunt
G'night!

Happy STD!

Wishing you all a Happy V.D.!
I've gotten a kick out of observing and receiving a lot of Japanese Valentine's Day cards, wishing me a happy v.d.! Honestly, I don't much care whether we're honoring sexually-transmitted diseases, ancient Roman pagan celebrations, blatant commercialism or one of the three Church-recognized “St. Valentines” being caressed by a toothbrush in the catacombs. I DO, however think that one can still be dedicated to Islam with a red rose in their window ( Saudi Morality Police See Red Over Valentine Roses ), that a mighty fine gift for Valentine's Day is “Womanizer Beer” ( 'Womanizer' beer for Valentine's ), and that everyone should show their love every day, including February 14th.
Actually, on second thought, citizens of the planet should only share love on afternoons when it's raining termites (provided that the humidity is just right) and on years divisible by hydrogen's atomic number when multiplied by the number of tax-paying, single chopsticks in Texas.

Tomorrow's Lesson Plan?

And into the veins of a drinking district so complexly overwhelming in its simplicity, I began my search. First, to the ex-pat bars, riddled with cultural controversy and meat-market monopoly; where varrying degrees of travelers and local residents share kompais over beer and Shochu.
But, I didn't find the answer there. No one ever does. That's precisely what gives us all the drive to go to these places: this knowledge that we will never have to confront, never have to bump heads with an answer, a meaning. Only questions, hypotheses and rantings.
Pepper House is a stellar example. A narrow bar with posters of Peter Tosh, Bob Marley, and red, yellow and green adornments painted behind meaningless, plastic marijuana plants. In the bathroom there is a mirror directly infront of the squat toilet. If you are a man, you see your dick. If you are a woman, you see your face framed by your knees. The atmosphere varies night to night, and year to year. Sometimes, it's a cacaphonous, all-gaijin-governed karaoke session. Sometimes, it's just snack-bar, Phillipina girl gossip before work. Sometimes, it's local business owners creating new advertisements and discussing the industry. Sometimes, a place for salary dudes to meet roll-overs from other realms and display their own rented beauties. Often, it's just a healthy, multi-national meat-market competition - everyone looking for some action (sooner rather than later) -
But, in the end, the best lesson plan I found there, was between my knees, in the mirror.
Should have known that my first, instinctual lesson idea was the best....

Witnesses and Media

Two Jehovah's Witnesses just knocked on my door. One was Japanese, the other, American. I thought of inviting them in for tea. They gave me a pamphlet in English about the trials of being a teenager in love, conflicted about religious beliefs. I thanked them, tried out some o f my new Japanese grammar and said goodbye. When they asked me what I was doing, I should have been honest.
"I'm reading an opinionated article about US media pay-offs"
to which they would have replied: "Oh! You miss America! "
"Please join us for our next American Culture meeting!"

...... Shit, another missed opportunity to learn about American culture.....

Anyway, here's what I was doing, for the Jehovah's Witnesses who care:
Money, Media and the Mess in America

Environmental Ed and Toasters?

So, I'm looking into a new program that really excites me:
Audubon Expedition Institute
It's a masters degree program run by the Audubon Society and Lesley University. It's all about environmental education with an emphasis on experiential learning and conflict resolution skills. In this case, that means you get to cruise around on a bus, explore beautiful places, cook your own food and spend your study semesters camping!
It sounds so great that my heart beat actually accelerates to 190 kph every time I think about it, and the north-eastern "blue" state in my brain does a little disco dance!
The program does, however, require that I become a non-religious nun of sorts for two years. Students are required to abstain from tobacco, alcohol, illegal substances and sexual relationships during their time studying. Now, abstinence from personal pollutants I can understand, but.... SEX? That's like asking your toaster to not toast bread anymore. ("Just warm the bread, will you?! Hey--stop! The bread's getting a little black around the edges! Stop trying to do what you were designed to do, you stupid toaster!")
None the less, it sounds amazing and caters to everything I love! This toaster's special. Plug it into a mountain and it builds a fire!

Amnesia and a bed, please

So you wake up one morning. Can't remember the night before, the night before that, or ANY night EVER, in fact. Your brain shoots off messages to any listening muscles. “Please fling the tingling, sleeping arm towards the alarm clock!” But, there is no alarm clock. You look around and see nothing but mountain… And you still can't remember ANY night EVER. So, you decide what you need is a drink and bed.
This is apparently what happened to some guy in Hokkaido who allegedly woke up with amnesia on Mount Horohoro last October.
He is now sentenced with 18 months in prison for stealing sake, wine and a mattress. Article from the Mainichi Daily : Mainichi Daily News

Elephant dung

Though you may not have been wondering about it, I know you will be amused to learn that Japan's current best-selling, English-translated picture book is entitled "Everyone Poops (Minna Unchi)" (Written and illustrated by Taro Gomi).
The book begins with a bang: the over-sized and ambitious result of an elephant enjoying his bowel movement.
"Okii zo wa okii unchi.
Chiisai nezumi wa chiisai unchi.
(A big elephant makes a big poop.
A tiny mouse makes a tiny poop.)"
The book then takes you on a pleasant visual and narrated journey of the aromas, textures and colors of various animals' shite.
Check out this article for more on this fabulous book as well as on Japan's other Must-read picture book: "The Gas we Pass-the Story of Farts" (Written and illustrated by Shinta Cho):
Breaching Poop Taboo a Surprising Success