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....