A Day in the Life

The sound that results from soft human facial tissue scraping against asphalt reminds me of an apple on a rusty metal cheese-grater. It’s not a particularly unpleasant sound, but when it’s coupled with the visual it becomes gut-wrenching. Not having much experience with this specific frequency of resonance, I can’t really say if Japanese face sounds any different than its Western counterpart, but I’m sure it’d be hard to secure funding (much less volunteers) for such a study. I hate to say it but the man whose face introduced me to this sound probably got what was coming to him.

The day started out innocently enough. It was a lazy afternoon in early November. The trees were sighing restively in their vacation between the summer heat and the winter chill, and the whole world seemed to be smiling. I was strolling to work at my usual leisurely pace when a man in a black leather motorcycle jacket sprinted past me. My first thought was that he needed to catch the train that was leaving in the next minute, you see this from time to time, but then I realized he was running away from the station. A few seconds later two men dressed in the characteristic orange apron of the Tokyu supermarket flew past in hot pursuit. I made the connection, “but petty crime doesn’t exist in Japan!” I told myself. The chase was out of sight now and I didn’t want to be late for work, so I continued on my previously plotted course. Just a side note on punctuality in Japan, the etiquette seems to be, “if you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late. And if you’re late, you’re an asshole.” Probably the single most important message hammered home in training was the very real possibility of losing your job over being late, even just a single minute. Even the trains are considered to be delayed if they’re running 2 minutes behind schedule. It’s about the direct opposite of Bolivian punctuality.

Anyway, when I reached the school I was unable to ascend the stairs because of a dramatic struggle. Literally in the entryway of the building I was to work in that day, the shop keeps had caught up to the leather clad man. One had his torso tied up in a scissor leg-lock, and the other had the culprit’s hands pinned behind his back. His face was getting cozy with the street, but still holding delusions of escape, he was thrashing about like a rabid wolverine in a box trap. Scrape, scrape, scrape, apple on a rusty metal cheese grater. Surely whatever he had taken was not worth the physical damage generously applying itself to his face.

After a few minutes of watching the struggle I noticed an elderly Japanese woman hobbling up. I initially thought having her interest piqued she was merely joining the ever-increasing crowd. But she pushed on through and began collecting items that were strewn about; a compact makeup kit, a cell phone, a packet of tissues. It culminated in her wrenching free her purse from the ball of writhing limbs on the ground. I’m still unsure if this is a common occurrence, but given both the shock of my students at the news and the fact that it happened at 3 in the afternoon in a well populated area, makes me think it was an isolated event.

Tofu Trickery

“Where am I going?” This has been the defining question of my early years in adulthood. Uncertainty came vacationing in the spring of my 14^th year and for more than a decade, has never bothered leaving. It’s grown less conspicuous in its maturity, but to say its intensity has floundered would be a downright lie. If anything, it’s procreated, begetting little doubts that explode on my resolve like bees on the windshield of a fast-moving vehicle. The only difference is that my life hasn’t come equipped with wipers. So forward I stumble hoping not to misstep, all my chips banking on the fact that I am still moving. There’s an old English adage stating “a rolling stone gathers no moss” and I fully intend to milk the spark of my youth into kinetic motion for as long as it’ll burn.

Recently, I’ve been putting in motion plans that may lead to my next potential stumbling-ground. I’ve decided to apply to an ostensibly great Masters program at King’s College in London. It’d be more International Relations, but with this I’d actually have the opportunity to go into the workforce at respectable level rather than entering as a coffee jockey. If accepted to the program, abject poverty of Orwellian proportion will be my new bed-mate. I have but only a year (saving) to brace my bank account for the stifling expense of London. I’ve implemented a budget that would make homeless people blush.

My top lunchtime meal at the moment consists of the three cheapest things I buy each week; bread (88yen for 8 slices), tofu (92yen for 400 grams), and onions (39 yen a piece). Out of my overzealous frugality has emerged a surprisingly tasty little dish. Apparently, extra firm tofu has the same consistency as fresh mozzarella, so with a bit of pesto smeared on it my taste buds are none the wiser to the Italian impostor. In a country where if you ask the supermarket staff for cheezu you’re more likely to be pointed in the direction of the map section, fresh mozzarella pesto sandwiches reign supreme. This self deception reminds me a story I was once told by a German friend of mine. He recounted how his parents, living under Soviet poverty in East Germany, never had enough money to buy meat for everyone. So what they would do is buy a tiny morsel of either fish or meat, cook it and hang it from a string over the dinner table. Then everyone would close their eyes, fill their nostrils with the smell of cooked protein, and immediately take a bite from their loaf of bread that served as their dinner. In this way they might get the satisfaction of an actual meal later that night in their dreams. Of course I haven’t sunk to this level (yet) but I do have a slight worry that the added estrogen in my system will facilitate mood swings and man-tits. It’s going to be a long year…

However this is not the youthful optimism I shall approach with. Thus far my life has yielded many ups and downs, each with its own particular style of uncertainty, but through it all I’ve never hit anything insurmountable. Plus, financially, I’ve got the cliché of my generation on my side; “Charge it!” Wish me luck in my struggle.

Life is beginning to happen again!

The summer holidays descended like a pack of hungry hobos on a cheese sandwich; fierce and agile not out of sporting nature but out of necessity, bellies three quarters primed with the anticipation of dairy fat. Afterwards, even those who failed to sooth their lonely stomachs breathed a sigh of relief. The hottest Tokyo summer on record has finally broken. The cicadas, with new life, seem to have taken up the symphony of a wedding march instead of a funeral dirge. The birds are laughing again and the produce venders have an extra day to sell their fruits and veggies. People everywhere are emerging from their air-conditioned caves to greet the autumn. Once hibernating kids, on fresh spring legs, have sprung up to repopulate the playgrounds. I’ve taken to walking beside the tree-lined canal in the evenings, going over the day’s Japanese words and ever searching for a tasty morsel of the abovementioned cheese.

There are two edible substances in this world that are impossible to hate; bacon and cheese. Now some might protest that because of religion or health reasons, we should avoid these things at all costs. But who can honestly say when they walk past a pan full of frying bacon that they don’t have the slightest inclination, even for a fleeting instant, to put some in their mouth? Cooking bacon is an olfactory Siren irresistibly calling out that it wants to be in your stomach. It’s spotlight sunshine on a grey day. Its message tiptoes through the air to plant joy -scratch that- the potential for joy on your brain with the grace of a ballerina and the nervous urgency of a mousetrap. There are certainly many people out there who can resist the pull better than I, but Oscar Wilde put it best when he said, “The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.” Much in the same way, cheese seems to be so guiltily pleasurable it’s blinded the tongues of 130 million Eastern Asian island dwellers. Seriously, I can’t figure it out, cheese just doesn’t factor into this culture, which is strange because Italian food is hugely popular. Chain “Italia Tomato Jr. Cafés” can be found in nearly every part of Tokyo, but they specialize in the cheese-less meals like Spaghetti Bolognese, and Japanese-inspired shrimp/mayonnaise pasta. Being such a virile supporter of Lasagna, I always feel as though I’m about 7 beers and 700 Japanese words shy of starting a revolution. Rest assured I’m doing my part to support these flagging industries, eating all things cheesy. Hakuba, in addition to inspiring pristine peaks and swimable lakes, brought the dankest Mexican food I’ve yet eaten in Japan. The blame for such a gastronomic indulgence rests squarely on the shoulders of my vibrant (and drink-inducing coworkers) but I digress…

The reason so little heed has been recently paid to this virtual receptacle for my mental diarrhea is that I’ve been on a paid vacation for nearly a month, logging the fifth country with my ever-sunny, firecracker of a girlfriend. She was out here for only two weeks but we managed an incredible amount, hiking through forests next to waterfalls hundreds of feet high, sampling the sexiest sushi in Tokyo (yes it was indecently good), and museum/shrining until our eyes rolled into the backs of our heads. The time together always seems to slip by unabated by the friction of everyday life. Now I find myself wondering how the next meeting could possibly follow suit and be better than the last.

Pervs in Training!

In 5^th grade we were given a choice. I say choice but in reality it was like choosing between being the kid with six fingers, and having to deal with three days of a minorly abrasive rash. Everyone chose the rash, the alternative was madness. At that age, to not attend an event with the majority of your classmates was to set yourself up for (what seemed like) a lifetime of future exclusion. You could never tell when something unifyingly significant would happen, and those not around would have to stretch their stomachs full of envy as the story was told over and over again. Replay value for 10 year olds is inexhaustible, so everyone went along with it. We were told that we were going to be marooned somewhere in the ichy woods for a long weekend under the auspices of the didactic duo Melarvie/Poulin, but after we discovered it was to be held at the El Shadia bible camp, we expected a fate much worse than having to poop outside. This would be an endurance test for our patience, a torture-rack of tediousness, millennia of preachy monotony crammed into a barrel of fun -less monkeys, the one’s who didn’t make the cut. I remember having pre-departure visions of leech-filled beds and prison-style imitation gruel based meals. The only upshot was that it would be shared misery, sure we’d suffer, but we’d suffer together.

Last weekend, I hosted the exact same thing with an Asian twist. A group of 50 6-9 year old Japanese children signed up for the summer English camp, so drawing on the past experiences from my ongoing youth, I packed accordingly; a bandana, two changes of underwear, some goofy shades, and a quart of whiskey (the latter being only for medicinal purposes and my did I need it). At the very beginning with the kids, there seemed to be very little difference between my El Shadia trip and this one; the children were all nervous, not wanting to leave their mothers, and shy around the strangely tall, western-looking counselors. However these reservations took all of about an hour to sublimate into the pollution-less air of the northern Chiba hills. The kids were climbing all over me like ants on a honeyed rice cracker when a striking difference hit me (poked me actually, but I’ll get to that). These youngsters’ counterparts in The States, effectively me at camp in my younger days had an ingrained subtle ubiquitous homophobia common to most American pre-teen groups. The Japanese youth on the other hand, seemed not to be bothered in the least about it. Let me elaborate; Stateside, unless you grew up on a commune or in San Francisco, touching a member of the same sex’s privates or backside immediately earned you, at the very least, a fierce ripping. If the offence was great enough, or you caught someone in a bad mood, you were more likely to draw punches than harsh words. In Japan however, it’s perfectly normal, it’s even become a game.

Kancho, the first time I heard it I found myself wondering if it was the name of an adorable Japanese mascot, maybe Barney’s counterpart; Kancho the morose Japanese monkey. However, if you’re an English teacher living in Japan, it becomes a psychologically traumatizing fact of life. The aim is simple, start with your hands clasped in prayer, next extend the index fingers of both hands out to form a point, finally take the contraption and try to stick it up teacher’s ass.

Before you come to Japan, they send you a list of important details to keep in mind when making the transition. These are things like bringing extra clothes because large sizes are impossible to find. Or not blowing your nose in public because the Japanese find it offensive. But nowhere on that list, and I mean nowhere, did anyone ever mention that a kid might try to stick his (or her) fingers up your butt. Now if you’ve ever been around kids, you’d assume the boys would be the perpetrators the majority of the time, but the females are the ones you really have to watch out for. Worse yet is that I find that I naturally let my guard down around the really little girls. They’re adorable; they could hurt a fly, then BAM! Like a true kancho assassin they strike with accurate ferocity. Yet another thing I'll never get used to…

The Bullshit Bandit

A thunderclap silently screams out in the back of my mind and I brace myself for the inevitable first pangs of the head-storm. I’ve been here several times in the past few years and expertly know the fastest way home, it’s not the problem. The issue is that if my mind is left to its own devices, eventually it’ll wander back to this place. Like the bastard offspring of a homing beacon and a honey bee, its sense of direction is uncanny. Exactly in the way of a hangover the headache moves roughly into the second stage; fatigue. My blood sugar’s low. Most people naturally fork over the one or two calorie an hour cost to employ a caretaker, a monitor who makes sure this desert is avoided if possible. However, my frugality apparently extends into the realm of biochemical payment. In English we call this guardian figure ‘Hunger’ and for the past three or so years that I’ve been stomping around, I’ve lacked this crucial warning light. I could speculate all day about the reasons; maybe somewhere along the line I bumped my head and inadvertently killed the messenger charged with alerting me of a low fuel tank. Or perhaps the highway that connects my stomach and brain has read one too many pages from my extensive tome of laziness.

None of it changes the fact that if I’m focused on something around mealtime my body does nothing to pull me away from the task at hand, but so what, the remedy is as simple as an onigiri (seaweed-wrapped rice ball sold at any convenience store) right? I shoo the thought out of my mind and try to keep the dialog going. This is my job. Since the first of June I’ve been a conversation facilitator, a gab guru, a bullshit bandit. I’m that guy on the movie “Thank You for Smoking” only if he lost his good looks and decided to teach English to Asians. I get paid to keep people talking, so in times of mental tension where I hit a conversational lull, like this one, I tend to fall back on my passions. I find that it’s easy for me to talk about things that I’m genuinely interested in, like food. “So what’s your favorite restaurant here in Tokyo?” And just like that, with a transition about as smooth as a cat’s tongue, I’m a step closer to the banishing this head shrinker.

The finest remedy I’ve found for expediting recovery is by far Matsuya’s gyudon. For about two dollars and 80 cents one receives a delectable bowl of edible bliss. Thin strips of beef, that must in some way share a common ancestor with bacon, are simmered in a soy/dashi sauce with caramelized onions. This culinary symphony is placed on a bed of rice which you then get to pour more soy sauce on. Jackpot! Kyle Olsen, I take back every expensive gastronomical comment I made to you pre-departure.

An Obligation for Drink

When I was about 8 years old my mother said to me, “you only have to lie once to be a liar.” Being relatively new to the concept of logic I thought this clever and tried to make my own statements based on the same formula. “You only have to drink once to be a drinker” not bad. “You only have to breath once to be a breeder” better, I liked it. “You only have to poop once at a party to be a party pooper” it felt good, this was the one. It was funny, if nothing else the language would make the other kids laugh. I finally had something that would skyrocket me into the limelight of popularity. No longer would I be that shy, socially awkward kid lingering on the margins of every event. Now everyone would see that I was quiet because I was contemplative. “He’s probably working on a new poem” the girls would say brandishing eyes half-glazed with admiration. “He wears sweatpants everyday because it’s artistic” they’d think. Perfect.

The day finally arrived when I decided it was time to introduce my witty gem to the world. I took a deep breath and dropped it as casually as possible. Everyone blinked for a few excruciating seconds and right when it was about to sink in the silence was shattered, not by the expected laughter but instead by an out of breath classmate; “Clancy’s about to eat a worm over by Mrs. Craig’s room!” he shouted, effectively knifing my hopes into stillness. I didn’t even get a pity laugh for saying ‘poop’. If I hadn’t been so eager to see if worms were poisonous, I probably would have held a funeral service and hummed a dirge to what could have been. That day I learned an important lesson; timing is every bit as crucial as content, maybe more. Being in the right place at the wrong time is really just being in the wrong place.

Japanese salary men certainly know the importance of the right place adage; it’s an integral part of their jobs. Up until now every time the profession has graced the text of this blog it’s been in reference to being trollied out of their gourds, smashed off their faces, or haggard off their heads; this entry will be no different in that respect. It will, however reexamine why these middle-aged men drink with the ferocity of a college freshman at a football game.

I was previously under the impression that these people’s jobs were so monstrous, so horrid, so stressful, that when quitting time rolled around their tired legs couldn’t carry them to the alcohol dispensaries nearly fast enough. It does fit with all I’ve seen and heard about the Japanese work ethic. Staffers in my company routinely work 12 or 14 hour shifts, double the amount of job time I barely find tolerable. So it seems logical that the higher ups in the financial sector have an equally challenging daily grind, one that promptly ends at 8 p.m. (whereupon the workers pull their noses off of the grindstone and hastily start filing away at their livers.)

You’re he who rations rationality,

And lives a life of liver pain.

Nose to stone for nationality,

But after 8, all’s disarray.

However, the above is a non-truth (yes I know, you only have to lie once to be a liar, appy-polly-logies readers.) It turns out that, unlike the US system based on qualifications, the corporate ladder in Japan brandishes rungs made for the metaphorical feet of seniority and favoritism. Promotions are usually suggested by board members or a manager, so when someone in the aforementioned position of power says, “let’s go out and get hamsliced” on a Tuesday night, the underlings have little or no choice but to comply. Enter ‘Obligation Drinking’ stage left. Now it doesn’t seem like too much of a problem so far because it’s pretty infrequent, right? But therein lies the trouble, oftentimes these managers use it as an excuse to get away from their wives, so a salary man can be out ridding his alcohol system of pesky blood as many as 4 nights a week. And I thought I was a professional!

A Soggy-Bottom Fate.

The damp lines hug the contours of my backside, rising and falling in perfect synchronicity with the topography of my body. It’s as if I’ve hired a moisture tailor to hand-craft a form-fitting brassier for my asseous A-cups. I wonder what the kids that I pass on the street think of it. Right at their eye level, two wet handprints clutching my bum for dear life, the fingers curled with a suggestion such innocent minds can’t quite grasp. Or what the mothers sitting outside of the kid’s classes I teach think. Irresponsible. For me, this has become an ordinary part of my everyday life. The bathrooms in Japan, or at least the ones in the establishments I tend to frequent, have no hand towels and as a result I simply do what I’ve been doing since I was old enough to wear pants; shake, wipe, repeat if necessary. Naturally this prompts the question, do Japanese people suffer the same soggy-bottom fate as well? Of course they don’t. They take advantage of the system that’s in place. Unfortunately for me, it’s a system I’ll never get used to.

They’re most often found at the exits to train stations and department stores, islands in the steady stream of people, though never fully static. Three steps north, a side-step, two back south, and wait. Calculating, profiling, judging body language and speed of their targets. Perpetually asking themselves, “will this person accept the package I thrust upon him?” They are the solicitors, handing out, right from the corporate mouth, advertisement stuffed tissue packets. They’ll distribute material ranging anywhere from borderline-pornographic manga and feminine products to gym memberships and language schools. However, having dealt with so many dishonestly prickish solicitors in South America, (“oh yes very good price, hotel nice, cheap”) my natural reaction when being approached is to brush them off and put my head down looking like I have someplace important to be. So until I wise up and start accepting these dehydrating godsends, I’ll just have to learn to deal with a sodden seat. Here are some pics of the latest culinary undertakings; sashimi and salmon cakes with wasabi yogurt sauce.

Shio No Kami, the God of Salt.

Squiggle, squiggle, fish hook, toe, one armed prostitute; the associations I’ve made for Japanese scripts are often times too distracting for me to focus long enough to sound out the actual words. I’m about 86 sounds deep and the only constant I’ve found in my sickly slow study of katakana and hiragana, is that the funnier my association, the easier it is to remember. I possess a veritable mental wasteland of snake charmers, hookers, and angry parents shaking their children. I’ve even got the “don’t taze me bro” worked in.

I sometimes find myself having to suppress a laugh at how unconventionally wrong these connections are for the situation I’m in. The drunken salary men on the trains probably don’t give two shits about the crude and sometimes pornographic plays that are unfolding in my head as I search for my stop, but the mother of two sitting in front of him might be concerned (if she wasn’t focused on making sure her first-born’s head stays well clear of said drunkard’s swinging elbows.) Speaking of…

Yes, you guessed it, they’re letting me instruct children. God only knows what the last batch of teachers must have been like for this to happen. I had my first kid’s class on Tuesday, they didn’t learn a thing, but they sure got their entertainment’s worth. It was about fifty seven and a half minutes of huge gaijin sweatily hopping around like a circus clown in a sauna. They say you leave your dignity at the door on those ones, I understand why.

However, I digress from my shooyu. I’m currently posted up (yes I do actually feel like an NBA player crowding out old ladies, though minus the sweat this time) at one of my favorite hangouts; the sauce aisle in the supermarket. Check that, the salty sauce section. Alliteration aside, the selection is massive! I haven’t the words in Japanese to describe how much a visit to this place brightens up my day. Maybe genki raised to the 7^th. In English I’d liken it to a college student who’s smashed his brains against many a bag of Franzia, taking a trip to the south of France and discovering that he has a violent passion for good wine. So, much in the same way that the aforementioned student pokes his liver with those iridescent green bottles, I’ve made it a personal mission (against my blood pressure) to sample all available options. Momma always told you not to put all your eggs in one basket. Today’s choice: Okonomiyaki sauce. Here are some saucy results; a tofu mushroom curry and that delicious Japanese pancake, okonomiyaki.

Am I better or worse off than I was before?

3/13/10:

I wake up. My underwear have staged a walk-out. The freedom feels unfamiliar like my sense of decency is asking "how did we get here?" That road map would be printed with brown sugar and life. 6:37, which means it's really 5:37. I wonder how many ounces of sunlight it takes to pull me out of a dream, probably more for a pleasant dream. I roll over carefully, trying not to chafe my bits. No use, that threshold's been breached, no chance for more sleep.

The floor is cold. My slippers haven't yet reported for duty. Someday I'll have the amazing power of foresight, but for now my lonely feet will have to make do. I admire people who can implement a routine without losing interest. Repetition looks an awful lot like the mother of boredom from where I'm sitting. But I suppose it's only boring people that get bored.

Water. They say that everyone is naturally dehydrated in the morning and that the first act of a healthy person should be to saturate that parched throat. I pour more than a pint down the hatch. Refreshing. Heavy drinkers come to know this act as an inevitable fact of life. For me the worst part about waking up without a hangover is that this is the best I'm going to feel all day. There's no hump to crawl over, no easily attained sense of accomplishment. No satisfying crunch when improvement smashes headache. Monday mornings in unemployment are a hangover in themselves. They're nowhere. They're needy, like an attention-starved child. I've taken to locking them in the closet of a decent bit of literature until they promise to start behaving themselves.

Today:

That was the journal entry from exactly 3 months ago (to the day). It never fails to amaze me how dynamic life can be. In only the short span of a dozen weeks I find myself leading a decidedly different life. Even the day to day changes are noticeable; the mannerisms I’ve subconsciously taken on as a result of my brain trying to blend my 6’4 frame into a shallow sea of Asians, the willingness to commute more than an hour for good food and drink, the breakfast routine…

If I had absorbed even just a fifth of my stepfather’s uncanny ability to turn any situation into one of worry, I’d say these rapid changes weigh heavily on my mind. Will I wake up one day and be someone else? Will these modifications in personality be visible to the people who’ve known me for years, or are they subsurface? Am I better or worse off than I was before? However, the truth is a bit more selfish. To be completely honest, I’ll be satisfied if the trip is nothing more than just interesting. I want to have memories I can fondly look back on when I’m too old to do this sort of thing. I want stories that’ll captivate the imaginations of my grandchildren. I want to eat food that’ll make people’s attention pique when they hear about it. So, I’ve given up trying to actively control these alterations, it’s too exhausting a task. Instead I’ll grab one of the comfy chairs, make sure my seatbelt is fastened, and passively reflect on the adventure that’s unfolding.

Here are some pics detailing my first attempt at making sushi rolls! Enjoy.

Lady alcohol’s infamous reputation

My day breaks. My mind aches. I find that all the beautifully distilled nothings whispered into my bloodstream the night before were just cheap and hollow threats. Lady alcohol’s infamous reputation stays harshly true to form. She coos you onward throughout the night, gives you strength and courage, confidence and charisma, she lulls the banal and carves up boredom like it’s a holiday roast. But when the first light of morning washes the sleep from your eyes you won’t find a trace of her smile, only the lingering scent of something that once seemed so pure and has now gone to rot. That smell must be how roses feel the day after Valentines, or a Christmas tree on December 26^th.

It’s always the same. I don’t know why I fall for it every time; I’m like a Loon repeating the process over and over but each time hoping for savagely different results. “Maybe this will be the time I’ll wake up feeling ready to conquer the world.” It takes my woozy coconut a few extra nanoseconds to see there’s no validity in this statement and the words “perhaps next time” have just left my mental mouth when I notice that there IS in fact a glaring difference to this morning. It’s a Japanese woman, literally glaring. She looks to be about 75 years old, which means her actual age could be anywhere from 40 to 100. My thoughts linger for a second on the implications of why she’s invading my vision so early on a Tuesday. I wonder what I look like to her and if she’s already drawn preposterous generalizations on the same magnitude as guessing her age give or take sixty years. Does she harbor any sense of shame about how her country has devolved to the point where rough-looking gaijin like me can fall asleep in strange places? Or perhaps she’s stifling that sense of longing that’s reminding her of what it was like to be young. How not knowing where you are was perfectly fine because the only obligations for the day were to find some food and explore a bit. Heh, I guess the exploring part got impatient and showed up early, before I’d even sent out a formal invitation. Well, the day has to start somewhere, I guess this is as good a spot as any. First things first, I need to get off this train…

You're going to pay me for this?

I can feel a lone bead of sweat slowly tracing out a path behind my left ear. It’s taking its carefully measured time much in the same way that a predator would stalk its prey. The difference, however, is that the slowness is more akin to a death march than a hunt, where all parties involved know exactly what lies at the end of the road. The destination is announced, just like my bead of sweat, non-verbally and well in advance. Anyone who’s ever lent thought to the matter knows that it’s usually the sweat of fear that bares this sickly sluggishness, as if the brain has been terrified into instructing the body’s pores to pump sap instead of salty water.

My mind drifts back to the issue at hand, the source of the fear. In 15 minutes I’m expected to lead 7 Japanese teenagers through an English lesson. No biggie right? The anxiety arises when I think back to what it was like during those years. Too cool for school and not caring were in, destruction and disruption their accomplices. I couldn’t be taught; I learned everything I needed to know about life from the older kids and pornographic magazines. Day-to-day life usually consisted of seeing how many swear words you could fit into a sentence and it still be correct grammatically. “Fuck” became a noun, though none of us really quite knew what it meant. If ever questioned about it, or the definition of any word, the clever ones would find a means to pass the heat onto someone else, and in this way the social structure was ever-changing. I remember spending hours on the internet searching for insults vile enough to be dropped in my circle should the need ever arise. Some were luckier than others in having older siblings to spoon-feed them offensive gold. Additionally, these kids already had a knack for keeping on their toes. If you weren’t always ready you might miss out on the last bowl of Lucky Charms, and trust me, 13 year old envy rarely runs deeper than that last bowl. If these kids are even half as terrible as I was, Karma must have been napping…

The quest for internet continues…

Two weeks was the quote I got today. It’ll probably be the longest two weeks of my life. You’d be amazed at the amount of bureaucracy that goes into registering someone for internet service. You need an alien registration card, a telephone number, a sponsor, and proof of employment. I can get a firearm in the States for less paperwork… The upside however, is that when it arrives it’ll be 10 times faster than what I’m used to in U.S. of A. meaning I’ll be able to concurrently surf 10 different porn sites! Oh the wonders of modern technology…

As predicted, I fell off the wagon pretty early, the first day in fact. There are no laws prohibiting the sale or consumption of alcohol anywhere at anytime, so it’s fairly common to see salary-men sloppy at 8 pm. Additionally, all the bars in Japan offer nome hodai which is an 80 minute period of all you can drink any type of booze for about 12 dollars. The button-down crowd absolutely loves it, they get done with their jobs and go for an intense sprint of drinking before wobbling home on the trains for a late dinner. For those that have been imbibed past the point of basic navigation and motor control, there are the infamous “coffin” hotels. 5,000 yen (55 bucks) rents a space that would give a corpse claustrophobia.

I’ve begun to settle into the lifestyle of this place, though with a few hitches. I’m certainly expressing style but it’s what the Japanese refer to as “gaijin smash.” When a foreigner knows (s)he’s taking a nosedive in cultural etiquette and decides simply to power through it (it’s the ‘Merican way!) E.g. Sunday night saw me board a train in Yokohama (an hour and three changes from my house) with a computer chair, desk, and shelving in tow. Now Japanese trains are notoriously crowded, so much so that there’s a person whose job it is to push/pack people into the cars enough for the doors to close. Needless to say bags occupying the space normally allotted for people are (non)violently frowned upon, but if you’re a gaijin.... smash.

I realize that something should be said about being culturally insensitive, but from where I’m standing (towering over the natives) I draw the same looks regardless of whether I’m gaijin smashing or not. In fact, I’d even go so far as to say that if I spoke perfect Japanese, knew all the etiquette, and dressed just like them, I’d still be gawked at. So I used the handicap ticket gate and tried to position myself in a corner on the trains. There’s definitely something daunting in being stared at from all sides. Thankfully I made it home without too much trouble, in fact, I so enjoyed myself that I’ll be attempting is again on Sunday. Nothing like the draw of a free sofa-bed to kinder my frugal spirit…. Wish me luck!

Rantings from a man without internet.

First five thoughts on my recent travels (in no particular order): (1) How do they make these salty noodles taste so good? (MSG?!?) I've never had something so simple take me so close to gastronomical bliss. It’s like my taste buds have rewired themselves directly into my brain’s dopamine dispensers. They must have like 30 different kinds of 'salty'. Akin to the Eskimo's many words for snow. (2) Coffee, a jet-lager's wet dream! Dispensed from 24 hour vending machines that are never more than 100 meters away regardless of where you are in the country. Score! Now if I can just stop these damn tremors... (3) Describe the locals in two words: Androgynous, (yesterday, while sitting in a park people watching I spied an unheard of couple, a Japanese man with western woman. As you know, from the standpoint of a gaijin Asian men are not the most fetching of the races. Perplexed I stood to get a better look and discovered it was merely two Asian men walking side by side. I assumed the one was a western woman because it had longer blond hair and wasn't as short as the local females...) and the other word, polite-to-the-point-of-embarrassing-hilarity. I was sitting on the train this morning when I felt something bony collide with my shoulder. When I turned to see I found that it was a middle-aged woman's ass (there's that androgyny again, women with flatter bums than me, if you can believe it) the spectacle that followed was something I'd have been entertained to be watching on National Geographic. She started in with the sumimasens (excuse me/I'm sorry) but about half way through she implemented a repetitive bow supplement. It was drawn out for so long that I wasn't sure if she was still bowing or having a seizure. (4) Is getting half of all my protein from cheap tofu going to feminize me........more? My current budget calls for $4 or less per meal and tofu is insanely cheap. Cheaper (yes!) than horse meat, but will it sustain me? (5) What the fuck have I gotten myself into? Flight complications, language barrier, business attire, a bare, bleak apartment I can almost touch both opposing walls in, expenses I can't afford, commutes through millions (literally) of people. This will take some getting used to. I will, however, say that the gawks kindof flattering. Never in my life have I had so many people pay such close attention to me…

Bartering Mountains for Sushi

And so it begins. Tomorrow a plan that's been over a year in the making invades my world with the fierce unfamiliarity of seriousness. This strange territory of responsibility and obligation bare the title of "my first real job" and I can only hope that its ominous nature doesn't mean the death of the 24 year childhood I've so passionately adored. My first instinct is to approach it with the same attitude I approach everything else in my life; not to take it too seriously. How could I with it having such a comical birth site?

To elaborate, just over 13 months ago I was sitting in a mangy hostel in Mendoza, Argentina. The cheap plastic picnic tables were sighing not only because of an ant infestation but also because this particular night, they'd drawn the unlucky lot of a beer bottle infestation. I remember my face was warm, probably a combination of a beard that matched the hostel decor and having personally hugged half of the bottles cluttering the tables. My drinking companion was a man that I had initially pegged as an impractical traveler. He'd shown up at the hostel lugging a large suitcase, fighting it all the way up the stairs, where as all the rest of the guests simply slid into the straps of their camping backpacks and negotiated the passage to the second floor with ease. As the beers went down this fact began to itch at me so when a stoppage in the flow of conversation occurred, I quizzed him on it. He was quiet for a bit and I wasn't sure he'd heard me until a wry smile crossed his face. I now know he was pausing for dramatic effect, he'd told the story a fair number of times. The lead in hook statement: "well, that's just how it's been for the past 2 years."

Traveling for two years?!?! My holier than thou tone melted into admiration, it was as though we had just whipped it out to see whose was bigger and my epic six month journey was recast as a weekend at the seaside. "How do you finance something like that?" I queried.

"That's' the best part" he replied. "I was on the road when I was working for it."

He went on to tell me how he'd taught English in Japan for two straight years subsisting on little more than rice and traveling all over the Asian isle. He had a bottomless trove of stories and could swear proficiently in 7 different languages. By the end of the night I was piggy-backing the residual wave of elation. That's something I could do...