Wednesday, March 30, 2005

it's a miracle my wigwam is still in working order...

I hurt in places I shouldn't hurt. During lunch little kids rampaged me like I was new British territory ready to be cultivated and "modernized". All my native people have small pox, and somebody tipped a trape full of tea in the nap of my neck. Oh kids, they're just adorable aren't they?

Every now and then I attend an English speaking group known as "the Mouse Club"; a most intimidating name that encoumpasses the handfull of old and middle aged woman that attend it's 'adult' sessions and the fifteen breadbaskets of five year olds that take control of it's 'children's' class. The aim of Mouse club; to bring English to the people from the people. It's rather a nice little set up where I get to go and feel ridiculously important because I weild a propper usage of the words 'a' and 'the'. Today was 'adult' but the fresh wee-ones decided to tag along too. Whilst feasting in some rich ladies second home it was my "duty" (though not so much because I rather egged the kids on to tip things over, jump on my back, and transmorgify they faces into some most impolite creations) to entertain the kids. This I did in a furnitureless back room where the chits launched themselves at me full speed from the oppisite corner of the room in an attempt to either topple me, or make it to the top of me before their competitor.

This, for myself, was nothing new for I had spent most of my highschool working days and my previous college days being scalled by little ones at my friend's mother's nursery. I was a nursery worker...in a church...in my stories Jesus always had rollerblades. So because of my work history I assumed no problems in handling a mere three four year olds. However there is a very large difference between American children and Japanese children, especially for a male sitter; the Japanese children love to go for the crotch. They have no restraints when it comes to poking, slapping, or kicking that oh so tender region; in fact it rather seems to be the aim of most of their games. The violence doesn't stop there; the kids are also a big fan of craming, poking or jabbing things up the ass; a very very very very painful sport I can assure you. This is where it all dances on that fine line between play-time fun and back street rape. With the constant penial abuse from adolescents and the crazy things me and the girlfriend do in bed; it's a miracle my wigwam is still in working order...

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

you're just gonna have to be fine with your Uncle Ben rice and Archie comics...

Maybe I'll have something a little more constructive to say tomorrow…but today it's all coming out as just 'blah'. It's not like it wasn't an exciting weekend, it really was; with the spinning cars and the karaoke brawls and the b-spot; it all is really rather interesting. But I can't help but wonder what is interesting…I mean; in the big whole aspect of the idea aren't we all interesting in our own way? With our interesting jobs and taxes and umbrellas and little musical interludes where everybody's just so damned happy to use their Visas. Isn't that interesting! For christs sake, I didn't even use a Visa once this weekend!

I tried to pull off one of those magnificent days where you just cram shit into each hour like it's going out of style…and once it's out of style you're shot. Well baby I wasn't gonna get shot and I spent every minute rushing from one event to the next. And yet it all is just…blah. Maybe tomorrow I'll conjure up gorgeous images of nonsensical happenings and broad conjectures on Japanese culture; but until then you're gonna just have to be fine with your Uncle Ben rice and Archie comics…

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

except playing the bongos...

I was doing an English play. And by "I" I mean some big international corporation was using me as a necktie pawn in their table tennis game of English intstructions to Japanese psychocobabble. I sat on the stage sidelines and ravaged my poor jewish brain triing to translate enthusiastic charecter-metaphores into "please smile". I was the spiff. But there were those beautiful upsides...like getting old people in trouble, beating on highschool and middle-school students, and throwing it all to the wind by simply explaining to those poor oreintal souls that their American directors are mentally tipped and I, personal, haven't the smallest inkling as to what they intend to communicate and therefore am left to ambiguous pantomiming and nonsense buzz words. However in Japanese it was much much shorter.

It was the Frog Prince. We unfurled are bilingual frankenstein to a crowd of eager parents and family members last Saturday. During which I perused the backstage as the official silence nazi while drawing large liquore carrying racoons in the margins of occupied children's play scripts. Looking back on it all it really was mostly a blank. We practiced Friday night until nine and redezvoused the next morning at eight forty-five. The children were bright and stary-eyed, trying to conveye expressions that have never wrinkled they mechanical faces. I must admit, if even I was exhausted, those poor raggamuffins must have been bearing a lot themselves.

As for me it was a patience marathon. With being snapped at because of my age, mocked for my refusal to eat non-kosher food, and Japanese' general social constipation; I was ready to wip out a fire extinguisher and bash my way to the nearest exit. But I didn't. I'm a good boy.

Sunday morning I had a horrible hangover. Saturday me and the other MCT lady decided it would be a good idea to have a drinking contest. Well it wasn't so much decided as challenged...by me. She was convinced that, due to my small stature and her dominating one, she could drink me under the table in minutes flat. I, frankly, had had enough cracks about my age and size and was ready and willing to play the cards dealt to me in order to prove myself..."worthy". So the contest began. Whenever one would finish a drink so would the other; with me, thank you very much, leading the whole way. We held this up till...well I've frankly forgotten when, and worst yet the truly stronger liquore holder was never decided upon. The MCT lady had to conceide defeat due to an early morning Sunday, trip to Sapporo, and a first meeting with her new boss. I couldn't blame her...at least I don't think I did. I don't remember much after the "defeat", except playing the bongos...

Monday, March 14, 2005

it's amazing what you can find in the yellow pages...

Well I just found out that one of my favorite Japanese bands...is gay. I was kinda surprised, but this totally explains the song about making out with his boyfriend. I asked my friend about it, to erase all lost-in-translation erros, but her answer was just too shaky and perhaps a desperate cling to her calm but upturned Japanese opinion on homosexuals. Apparently, sometimes, in Japan, guys like to sing songs about making out with their boyfriends or wanting boyfriends or other various topics. It's culture, she said. Yes, i said, gay culture.

This led me to a vast reflection on my knowledge of the gay culture of northern Japan. I am...'priveledged' to have as many gay friends in Japan as I do (perhaps, to my knowledge, more then I had in the home country). This has allowed me to weazel my way into their tightly woven web of homosexual espionage (and it is a web) of which, in a sort of "Magic Revealed" setting, I will devuldge to my three's-a-crowd audience of one hippie and a gay guy from Tennessee (whom is, by the way, my only source of gay Ameri culture)...

In Japan there are three types of gay guys; there is administer or "enterer" whom is known as Tachi (touch). Tachi only go into other people's "apartments", but their backyard sheds are padlocked shut for good. The opposite of Tachi is Neko (cat) or "enteree". Neko follow along the same strickness as the Tachi; they stay in the cottage and welcome guests, never to venture out into foreign worlds. And then there is Ribu (reversable) whom are like the reneissance men of the gay world in that they can cover the tasks of both Tachi and Neko.

Japan has a fairly negative opinion of homosexuals which has led them to hide their "identities" (as if straight people don't hide their "identities" in Japan either) from the scorning pink cartoon world. This leads to a large "problem". As my friend explains it to me 'We don't know who is gay!' (How this problem is solved in Ameri, aside from simply asking, I don't know) So from this issue emerged the vast cell-phone linked catacombs for which thousands upon thousands of gay people find boyfriends, companions, and frisk-partners. This tool is not only usefull for finding a spicy piece of man meat; but also for traveling questions as well. When I went to Okinawa with my gay friend we used his sexual speakeasy to devuldge local information; where are the good bars, beachs and generally entertaining stuff to do. Very useful, though all his responses did end with a come-on of some sort.

But the craftiest of all is the sex house. This is, as my friend explians to me, the white house in Sapporo where you go to "stay the night". And in this house there are a lot of other people whom paid to "stay the night". It's face business is a hotel (a hotel without a sign) but it's pretty much understood by all that you go there to have sex...with guys. There are no rooms...or pants. You travel the vast corridoors of mattresses clad in only a towel and the dim light. If you see someone you like you touch them (like on the shoulder); if they confere with the decision you find the nearest open space on the floor and go at it like lubbed up monekys in a noodle fight. When done you strap yourself back into your work suit and wingtips and schleff off to another day at corporation suchandsuch. I must say I think we can all learn something from this buisness establishment; it's amazing what you can find in the yellow pages...

Thursday, March 10, 2005

I hope I'm not boring any of you people out there...

Last Tuesday, while repelling Elton John strength stages of dellirium, I found a quaint little hat frozen to the sidewalk outside the local video rent-rium. It was most certainly a child's hat, yellow, with those little ear strings the end in a *fwah* ball. It was left there, maybe forgotten, by some three foot brat with a mouth full of baby teeth and a toastey car to go galloping around in. That child will probably grow up to be president of the United States; or start forest fires and nobody will ever give a fuck about the hat. No reporters gonna say "hey ho, whatever happened to that quaint little yellow hat with the ear strings that went fwah on the end?" No, people aren't that dense; unless their watching plastic surgery sit-coms or getting hit by buses. No their not gonna care about the hat; fuck the hat. There's world hunger and child rapage and billions of dollars being locked away on giant flaming safes strapped to rollercoasters blasting three hundred miles an hour through the Nevada rainforests...

It was a nice hat; I picked it up and brought it home. Hand washed it while in the shower yesterday morning and dried it by the heater; a bit small but I think it's a cute fit. I hope I'm not boring any of you people out there...

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

some old lady falling down the stairs...

I went to a concert (brass band) with the Gf last weekend in which we (or more precisely I) slept through most of it due to ineffecient amounts of sleep as obtained the night before in which Cheltsu (the other English teacher) and I conversed with a Japanese friend of a friend 'till about five o'clock in the morning. The nights competition between the two of us was to figure out whether or not Cheltsu's nightly resident (as he was to house himself in her apartment that night) was gay or straight. If he was gay, I win (what we don't know); and if he was straight then Cheltsu wins; if he's bi, we both receive hardy handshakes and a thanks for our efforts in the feild of duty blah blah blah... As the night drew on we lost more and more conciouseness but still kept our eyes on the goal; so that, at around three thirty, when our friend mentioned that the man had come to Date by ferrie Cheltsu shook her head into conciousness and stuttered "What? What? He's a what?"

The brass band concert (as mentioned early) finally picked up about halfway through after the homeless man sleeping next to us left for the last time (forgetting his gloves too, what a shame) and I was able to maintain conciousness through the end the to the enchore. The enchore was a very uniquely structure peice of work and had the kind of preperation that one wouldn't expect of an enchore...I mean all them sequined costumes would have gone to waste if the crowd hadn't initiated it's uniform clapping signalling the undeliable urge to be further entertained. The first enchore was well worth the stay as it was a 'brassy' rendition of the recently popular 'Macharena' (you all remember that) like enkah song known as "The Matsuken Samba". During said preformance the original singer; or elvis impersonator, charges onto the stage in a gold and silver mens kimono wearing a traditional Japanese wig that lookes like someone took the ponytail of a balding hippie, threw it back over his scalp, and super-glued it juuuuust to the left of center...not a huge turn on but who am I to complain.

Well the performance just got rave reveiws, and was then, oddly enough, followed by an uncalled for second enchore as conducted by the second conductor (or 'clarinet third chair' as he was known throughout the last part of the concert). During the first peice, due to the excitment of it all, the crowd had broke into rhythmic clapping as they enjoyed the smooth vocals of the skinny saxaphone player in the wig and razzle dazzle; something totally natural in the heat of the moment. The second enchore, however, was a rather dull copy of a peice previousal preformed that night and brought no such clapping spirit into its impatient audience's quivering fingertips. The conductor, however, was not having this, and when the audience refused to join in on the fun; he turned around and gave, with an expresion like he had the soul ability to clap you out of existence, a gesture that simultaneously commanded you to clap in beat with the tune as well as sit up straight and attentive. The motion was very affective and even I, while stunned at the idea of having to clap along with a crappy song, found myself diligently following the command of this dictator maestro. That look...like he could have snapped my neck with a flick of his baton; the things these kids learn in band camp.

After words we went drinking with some of the Gf's friends; of which was an Oregon\American whom proclaimed that he thought he had seen me before walking around naked in the swimming pool locker room. It's nice the memories we leave in some peoples minds. While in the izakaiya drinking...a lot, we all received a great rumble from the ground and I was hastely informed that I had just experienced an earthquake! Can you beleive it, my first earthquake! I was so excited, been here nine months and I finally get me first earthquake! And I just thought it was some old lady falling down the stairs...

Friday, March 04, 2005

when your payday night dinner comes retreating back over your tongue

Japan has interesting toilets...I think it goes hand in hand with technological genius; having interesting toilets that is. Last night I went to an izakaiya (Japanese bar) and when I went to take a piss I was encountered, rather than your usual wall porcelain that we so often take for granted, by a choice of three large buckets. These buckets, apparently put into to match the decore of the restaurant (though what the hell that means I'll never know), had a tiny relaxing waterfall trickling down the inner-back area with the front sectioned out 'till half-way down...this being, apparently, the place in which one was to commence evacuation......Just a bucket.

Of course I've encountered worse; and yet Japan is probably one of the leading countries in toilettry technology. These extremes in restroom furniture are one of the unique "joys" of Japan. First their is the "bionic-woman" toilets; in which brings back fond memories of the previously mentioned t.v. program. Not just because of its "we can rebuild you stronger and faster" appereance, aided by the two side panels loaded with all sorts of fun poo-time gadgets; but also because of the range of bizzare sound effects one can activate in order to mask the sound of ones "defication". During rush hour the stalls can begin to sound like a piss-box version of Star Wars.

But then there is the more common facility I've lovingly nicknamed "the trench". The convenience of this name is that it does in fact describe the toilet entirely; it is nothing but a porcelian trench above which one does squat and take care of business. Most disturbing, and unsanitary, is this place that I refuse to use it. The trench is also most inconvenient in regards to vomiting. There is no nice raised bowl and deep bowel for one to realy on when the beer comes up for a breath of fresh air; no...only a trench. With the trench one is required to get down on all hands and knees and press the face as close as possibly to the, needless to say, "dirty" bottom of the pit. And this still does not garrauntee a prevention of splashback or that the whole load will make it into the trench. Vomiting in the trench is a most horrendous experience and I highly recomend the bionic-woman toilet when your payday night dinnner comes retreating back over your tongue...

Thursday, March 03, 2005

it's nice to have the option...

Well kids today marks exactly two weeks since Liz and I started dating! This, my gentle children, is a very important note becuase if we make it all the way to next Saturday night's date (a wooping two days from now) it will make this relationship the longest relationship I've ever had! I'm about to enter the mysterious, unknown and, dare I say, life-threatening waters of the three-week relationship. That is, of course, assuming I make it through today without braking into convulsions over my loss of independence and begin grouping the next thing in a necklace that passes my way (and there are a lot of necklaces here in city hall; them old ladies love the necklaces). Not that I did that very often when I was single...or ever...but still you know, it's nice to have the option...