denbushi.net

In This Issue:

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Administrivia

 

Hello again, and welcome to another action-packed edition of the BMJ!

First I’d like to say congratulations to those friends our there who are
graduating this quarter, or are at least looking forward to a long Summer
vacation. Omedetou!! And for those of you coming to Japan, you are
welcome to stay (only temporarily, of course) in my 6-mat hovel in Ogikubo.
What could be finer?

What’s new this month? Well, I’ve been working on sprucing up the WWW
version of this thing, and have added a couple of interesting features.
The first is graphics, mostly photos of places or people that come up in
the Journal. In most cases I’ve opted for a “thumbnail” image in the main
page that’s linked to a larger image that you can view by clicking on it.

Additionally, the Netscape version of WebSpace now has frames and a hip,
tres elegant interface. Finally, I added a Japanese-English dictionary
function (written in JAVAScript) that will allow you to look up Japanese
words that appear in the BMJ (as well as allow me to dispense with those
tiresome parenthetical entries.) You need at least Netscape 2.0 to use
these functions. Also, for the frames version you’ll need to start from
the main page, so if you’re bookmarked somewhere within you may want to
back out a couple of steps and start from the /~denbushi/netscape/webspace.html
file instead. I should add that you might want to use your browsers Reload
feature to clear the old version of the page out of your cache and load
the new one.

Lose anybody yet?

Right, so anyway, I’m looking for a logo for the BMJ, and I wonder
if some kind soul out there with a nice graphics package and an artistic
eye would be willing to throw something attractive (like maybe the outline
of a blue mountain) together and let me put it to use? I’d be ever so grateful,
and you would even get full credit right there on the pages themselves,
read by, oh, tens of people every month! What an opportunity! Seriously,
though, if you’re interested (Lucien?) please do let
me know.

 
 

A Weekend in Takahagi

Shortly after arriving at Aoyama we exchange students were asked to, if
interested, sign up for a weekend homestay program in Takahagi, Ibaraki
prefecture. I didn’t intend to participate at first, but as the cutoff date
approached the number of students planning to go was still rather slim,
so the staff at the International Exchange office tendered the offer once
again. As it was free and classes were out that weekend for Golden Week,
I added my name to the list. As it happens, I’m really glad I did.

Takahagi is a small town on the coast three or so hours (by bus) North
of Tokyo. For our trip, however, it took more like five. The “highway” was
crammed to capacity with carloads of Japanese on their way to points unknown
(but presumably also North of Tokyo) during the abbreviated vacation known
as Golden Week. There were about ten students from Aoyama on the bus, and
forty or so from other schools in the Tokyo area, including ICU and Asia
Daigaku. It was a pretty international group all in all, with people from
Britain, New Zealand, Korea, the Philippines, the US, and China. Everyone
spoke some Japanese, but the spectrum of facility with the language was
nonetheless pretty broad. We passed the time talking, reading, and making
new friends. Free Willy was onscreen for an indeterminate length
of time, but aside from the requisite “I’d like to free my Willy!
Haw haw!”-isms that always seem to resound whenever the name of the movie
is mentioned, I don’t think anyone paid attention.

The bus came to rest just outside the grounds of some historically important
building near Takahagi, and we all stretched and groaned and shuffled from
the bus. We rounded a corner, and found ourselves in the midst of a sizable
crowd of Takahagians that immediately began waving little banners and singing
something indistinguishable in Japanese. There was an awkward moment of
uncertainty when we all thought “Er, huh?”, but then someone ventured forward,
and we followed.

The throng parted to allow us to pass through the main gate and into the
outdoor reception area, and we blushed and bowed and tried to do whatever
was expected of us under the circumstances. (I secretly wondered if the
others, like I, were in the process of making a quick mental inventory of
all of their Japanese lessons in hopes of recalling some obscure chapter
called “Sumisu-san Gets Greeted By A Mob Of Singing Townsfolk“) We
came presently to the interior of the small complex and milled about bovine-like,
gazing around and waiting for something interesting to happen.

The area was dominated by a rather large, traditional Japanese home. The
doors on the side facing us slid open then, and the lilting notes of ten
kotos emerged from within. The music was live, and each of the musicians
was dressed in the traditional kimono. To the right of the building
was a small koi pond and Japanese garden. It was quite majestic to
behold (contemplative sigh here), and we all stood there for a handful of
minutes taking in the sights and the sound of the music (they were playing
Haru no Umi).

We were formally greeted then by a representative of Takahagi who was
equipped with both a bullhorn and an excellent command of English. He explained
that we would be treated to a koto performance, Tea Ceremony, some
mochi pounding, and lunch. I sampled all of the above in turn and
had a smashing time. Especially noteworthy was the tea, and although it
seems I heard somewhere that the tea prepared during sadou is less
than tasty, I found it delicious.

We dallied there for awhile, glad to be off of the bus and in the care
of such kind people, then filed back into the vehicle for the short trip
to the Daishien where we would spend the night.

The Daishien is a large, hotel-like affair that is presumably designed
to provide lodging for sports teams and so forth that are in the area temporarily.
This was to be the location for the formal opening ceremony where families
would be introduced to their respective exchange students.

The students were divided along gender lines and by school, and I ended
up in a room with three other Aoyama guys: Adam, Jae, and Rob. The rooms
at the Daishien were setup for four people each, and were quite comfortable
with tatami flooring, dark wood pillars and sliding glass doors that
looked out over the ocean from the building’s fifth floor. The narrow balcony
was large enough to accommodate standing, but frisbee, for example, was
out of the question.

We killed time arrayed about the TV, watching Date-san ganbaru
on the tennis court before being called to join the Opening Festivities.
The ceremony itself was predictable, lots of super-polite Japanese speech
being thrown around as the Town Fathers all took a turn at the mic, and
applause at all the required intervals.
When the time came to introduce the students and families, students’ names
were called out one by one, and the families and student would converge
at the front of the room for The Group Photo, awkward in the intense scrutiny
and nervous smiles quavering, before returning together to seats near the
rear of the room. When my turn came at last I was immediately surrounded
by a family of five, and we must have looked odd, with my head and
shoulders above the tallest of them.

We hit it off right away. The family’s name was Nakata, and there were
three boys (14, 11, and 7) in addition to their parents. The father, Cedric
(not his real name), works as a Chemical Engineer in Takahagi, and loves
his work and his life there on the coast. This year was the first time for
them to participate in the homestay program, although it’s been an annual
event in the town for twenty-five years.

After The Big Ceremony we were herded into a spacious room that had been
stocked with scads of food and drink and beer and assorted other tasty things
for some good old-fashioned gorging. There were games with messy food, group
renditions of at least one John Lennon tune, a taiko performance
and more. It was, to be sure, a wholesome and heartwarming slice of old-fashioned
family fun.

And then it was Disco Time.

That’s right, Disco Time. (I swear that’s what the schedule read)
The lights seemed to dim on their own, the music started, and we cut loose
under the mirrored orb rotating slowly above us, hypnotized by the flashing
lights and the heavy bass beat pounding out of a boom box in the corner
of the room. Before we knew it we were down to our undergarments or less,
a single seething mass of human flesh, swaying and jostling in the din like
the animals we had become, savage in our desire and wanton with dance fever.
It was Disco Time, baby, and we danced.

Actually, it was a bit more tame than that. By this point most of the
families and departed for the evening, and all that were left were the students
and some younger members of the Takahagi population. And the bass didn’t
actually pound, either. I mean, it was a boom box fer chrissakes.
But we had fun, and after awhile the lights came back on and everyone squinted
alot and dispersed through one of the numerous exits.

We ryuugakusei, of course, did the only logical thing, which was
to seize every unopened bottle of beer and whiskey in sight and relocate
them and ourselves to one of the suites for some serious drinking.
Everyone had stopped in to the ofuro to wash the sweat and whatever
else from their bodies, and arrived comfortably attired in the stylish yukata
that were provided. Most of the revelers preoccupied themselves with the
serious business of getting shitfaced, while I and a couple of others talked
and watched them tread the meandering Road to Oblivion. The hardiest of
them lasted until 2 a.m. or so, and then collapsed atop the heap of unconscious
bodies with an audible grunt. The formalities presumably dispensed with,
we took our cue to leave and called it a night.

I met the Nakata family the next morning bright and early, and we struck
off together in search of fun and adventure. We spent most of the day traveling
around the Takahagi area, stopping at the beach and exploring the woods
in the nearby hills, checking out temples and pretty much taking things
easy. Gaku, the youngest of the boys, and I got along especially well (I
could understand everything he said!) and it was a really good time. That
evening we had a feast of a dinner in their home and stayed up late into
the night talking, drinking and listening to Nakata-san’s impressive collection
of classical music.

The next day bought with it a light drizzle that lasted throughout the
morning and into the early afternoon. We had planned a trip to the beach,
but opted instead for a tour of some of the prettier areas in the vicinity
from the dry comfort of their minivan. The country surrounding Takahagi
itself is strikingly beautiful, and especially lovely were the mountain
cherry trees, whose blossoms bloom a little later than their counterparts
in low-lying areas. Dotting the steep face of the nearby mountains in small
stands, they offered a splash of pale pinks and reds against the soft green
hues of the other foliage. According to Nakata-san, their awai colors
represented a beauty that the Japanese have prized for centuries, and can
be found in many forms of Japanese art. The light rain contributed to the
appeal of the scene by blurring all of the edges and lines, and for long
moments we simply sat and enjoyed it.

Arriving back at the Nakata household around noon, we set about preparing
lunch. We were having okonomiyaki, and I volunteered to grill and
top the pancake-like fritters. All of the kids shortly joined in as well,
and the following hour or so was spent leisurely, cooking and eating, eating
and cooking, and only putting the twin spatulas down to grab my chopsticks
or a drink of beer. Mrs. Nakata seemed surprised and pleased by the offer
of assistance, and when Mr. Nakata moved as if to lend a hand she feigned
shock and announced to all that this was his first foray into the kitchen.
He just blushed, smiled, and quietly set about chopping cabbage.

We left for the final reception after lunch, and all of the families and
we students gathered one last time in a large room in a nearby community
center. The occasion was marked by a great deal of fanfare, some speeches,
and an unexpected Flower Gauntlet thing that required all of us to walk,
single-file, through the center of two long rows of Takahagians, shaking
hands and saying thanks. When each of us reached his or her particular host
family we were presented with flowers, and I wouldn’t be exaggerating if
I said that the whole thing left me a little misty-eyed.

The bus pulled up to the building, and it was suddenly time to go. The
time had been short, indeed, but the parting was still a little sad. I reminded
the boys to study hard, thanked Okaasan for her wonderful hospitality,
and then tried to think of a way to tell Nakata-san in a few short sentences
all of the things that I wanted to say: that I had had a wonderful time,
that he had let me into his home and for two days I had felt like a part
of the family, and that I was grateful, and that I didn’t really want to
go yet, not just yet. However the time had come for words, and they hadn’t
arrived, so all I could do was thank him. But he just looked at me, saying
nothing, and I could see then that he knew, and he knew that I knew, and
it was enough.

I climbed on the bus, the doors snapped shut, and I walked to my seat
at the back. We waved our farewells at one another through the glass of
the rear window as the bus pulled away, Tokyo bound.

---

I’d like to lick the coil someday
like Icarus, who had to pay

with melting wax and feathers brown
he tasted it on his way down…

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The Enigma of Bad English, Solved!

Many Japanese seem to lament that, even after years of study, they are
still unable to communicate (verbally, anyway) as well as they would like
to in English. Indeed, for many Japanese, conversational English is perhaps
less… smooth than one might expect after six or more years of study.
Speculation for this phenomena abounds (I use the word “phenomena” only
because it is so utterly pervasive), and the reasons offered for it many.
However, after long weeks of intense research and laborious study, I feel
compelled to share with the world my own hypothesis, one which I feel will
dispel once and for all the enigma of Bad English in Japan and herald in
a Golden Age of Eikaiwa. Ready? Okay, here it is:

Japanese people have a hard time
using English correctly and proficiently because they are bombarded
with Bad English from birth.

It is my considered opinion that television, radio, advertisers, college
newspapers, musicians and who knows who else are involved in a grand conspiracy
to propagate Bad English throughout Japan. “But why??” you ask? Well, I’m
not sure, but I think the answer should be given the attention afforded
The Third Gunman, White Water, and OJ combined.

Bad English is rampant in this country, and you wanna know what the really
funny thing is? Nobody even cares. You see, English isn’t a medium
for communication at all, it’s simply window dressing. It’s an advertising
tool. It “looks neat.” Manufacturers and producers slap all manner of random
names and slogans on their products simply in order to enhance market appeal,
such as: Relax Coffee, or Strawberry juice, just like your mother
used to make, and my personal favorite, Let’s Wedding! Was there
not one single native speaker around that they could ask (or better
yet, pay) to look things over for general accuracy or weirdness factor?
The answer: Yes, there were plenty. Were they consulted? No.

The answer to the next obvious question (i.e.- But why not?) is that it
doesn’t really matter if the English is weird, grammatically incorrect,
or downright hysterical to read, because the target market doesn’t know
the difference anyway. “Mr.” brand coffee (that’s right, just “Mr.”)
sells not because it’s superior to “Georgia” brand coffee. but because the
hip black and brown can has two massive Roman characters on the front. (Sidenote:
their commercials with an attractive black man saying “ii DEshou?”
probably don’t hurt, either.) Anyway, not to belabor the point, it really
doesn’t matter, and so the trend to butcher English goes on and on, and
therefore the average Japanese will have to overcome years of subtle conditioning
in Bad English in order to acheive any measurable proficiency in the language,
should he or she want to, that is.

It’s for the reasons that I’m calling for the formation of a new government
body to deal with this problem directly. The agency I envision would be
called the Ministry of Grammatically Correct Gairaigo, and would
be staffed with capable and very highly-paid foreign experts (like me, for
example) that would be responsible for proofing all English before it is
released to the public. That way current slogans like Acheive the Top
of High Mountain for a currently popular 4WD would never make it to
press.

The major benefits I see here are, first, that the Japanese population
could be comfortable in the knowledge that their years of arduous study
will not be corrupted by the reckless use of Bad English by the media, and,
more importantly, that I would be well-paid.

Please write your representative as soon as possible with your endorsement,
and be sure to specify that a certain W. Michael Rollins be given
the top post.

---

Dare mo sawarenai
futari dake no kuni
kimi no te wo hanasanu you ni.
Ookina chikara de
sora ni ukabetara
furara uchuu no kaze ni noru…

---

Tokoya Tengoku

I just paid forty bucks for a haircut.

Am I angry? Am I accosting the locals at random, demanding in broken Japanese
some explanation for the sky-high cost of, well, everything in this
country. No. In fact, I haven’t felt this good in months. I can’t wait
for my hair to grow out enough for me to justify coming back.

The Japanese haircut is unlike anything you’re likely to find in the states,
provided you, like me, live on a peasant’s budget and are relegated to frequenting
the local Supercuts or Hair Masters. As far as I can tell, the Japanese
have transformed the relatively mundane business of cutting hair into an
art form. In a few broad strokes, it works something like this:

The Preliminaries
Once seated in one of the eight or so Thrones of Pleasure, the customer
is greeted by a crack team of uniformed, smiling young women that turn the
usual “Howdy’awannit?” into what seems like the Command and Control center
aboard the USS Nimitz. They stand at attention, listening intently to your
detailed instructions and periodically trumpeting “Hai!” in unison.

Once the specifics of how the next couple of hours will be spent are defined,
they disperse in different directions, reappearing moments later with all
manner of tools, blankets and assorted gadgets. All but two then depart
for the special Deployment Center located somewhere in the back of building
until called into service. The remaining pair begin at once, one busily
snipping away at the excess strands of hair, the other standing at the ready,
passing tools over from a nearby wheeled cart and saying “Hai!” alot. Should
one’s plastic Hair Barrier slip even an inch from its moorings on either
side of the chair the assistant will rush in, emit a barrage of shiturei
itashimasu’s (Roughly translated: Geez, how RUDE of me! Gawd! Just shoot
me if I screw this up! Gosh I’m sorry!) and return things to their proper
place. As quickly as she came she’ll return to attention at her station
with an audible shhhhwack!. This lasts for maybe an hour, or until
all offending hairs have been lovingly snipped and carted off to the Illustrious
Customers’ Hair Graveyard some miles distant.

The Really Good Stuff
At this point the team members call in the Shampoo Expert, who appears at
your side as if teleported there and then begins deftly manipulating the
drawers and panels of the mahoghany bureau before you to reveal (gasp!)
a wash basin. She and the assistant (Hai!) set about protecting your shirt
and collar region with an elaborate system of towels, clips, and rivets.

Once prepared to brave the water, you are invited to lean forward in your
chair and endure the many and varied pleasures of The Wash. In my case,
I suffered perhaps seven separate scrub cycles: Shampoo, Shampoo II, Conditioner,
Really Good-Smelling Stuff, Scalp Prep, Super Tingly Scalp Treatment, Rinse,
Rinse The Rinse Out Rinse, etc. etc. At some point I think I passed out,
but was revived by a pair of firm hands massaging my back and shoulders,
and another toweling off my soaked noggin. Hauled vertical once again, I
was greeted by my dazed and giddy reflection in the mirror. And then the
chair dropped backwards…

The Shave
Next, hot towels were brought on a cart and draped carefully across the
upper half of my face. Some unseen steam-generating device was then employed
to blow hot, moist air on my cheeks and neck. That done, more towels were
added until only my nose remained, poking comically I’m sure from the middle
of them like some remote, fleshy mountain. I dozed.

The towels were gingerly removed, and my face was introduced to hot lather
(instant friends, those two) and I fell under the skilled manipulation of
a gleaming, gold straight razor. Each area of my face was shaved at least
twice, including that bothersome area between the brows, and each instance
(yes! more!) was preceded by the gentle application of steaming lather.
My facial hair probably won’t emerge again for a week or two. The finale
was a somewhat unexpected clippity-clip that emerged from my nostril region,
and it was good to know that I wouldn’t have to worry about that
for the next few days. Anyway, many and varied other delights followed,
but in the interest of keeping this a family-oriented journal I’ll dispense
with the details.

The Capper
Following the grooming ops the team assembled once more around me, waiting
with bated breath for the appraisal. My delirious, croaked reply “G, uh-hungh”
seemed to get across to them, and they smiled, bowed in unison and dispersed.

I rose to leave, and as I approached the register a young woman profferred
an open mahogany box filled with assorted cigarettes. I took one, she lit
it, I paid my measly forty dollars and walked out into the night, a chorus
of arigatou gozaimashita’s reverberating in the air of the doorway
behind me. As I walked I took note of the sappari feeling that filled
my entire body. The air was cool on the exposed skin around my ears. My
scalp was abuzz. My skin was clean and tight. My nostrils were unobstructed.

I rubbed my scalp and thought “Grow, baby, grow.”

 
 

Random Observations

• The average height of the little spikes that protrude from the edges
  of opened umbrellas in Japan is 6′0″ (the exact height of my eyeballs).
  As such, walking into a crowd on Tokyo’s packed sidewalks on a rainy day
  is akin to having a friend hold a chain saw horizontally at head level
  and then run toward you.

• The general consensus here seems to be that Whitey Can’t Speak Japanese.
  And if he can, he damn sure can’t read it. I’ve had people ask,
  even after speaking to them for an hour or more in Japanese and having
  said that I’ve studied Japanese for three years, “Can you read hiragana?”
  (Hiragana is one of the phonetic scripts used in Japanese. It’s
  usually the first part of the written language taught, and I learned it
  in two weeks. Compared to some, that’s a _long_ time) Even in the advanced
  Japanese class I’m enrolled in at school now I can tell that the teacher
  handles me with kid gloves, even though there are those with ability at
  or below my level. I am, however, the only non-Asian in there. I’m not
  going to turn this into a rant on the subject (if you want one, click
  here), but it’s something I had heard
  about yet never experienced first hand. Until now, that is.

• I’ve been experiencing some rather odd physiological changes since
  arriving here. For example, the rate of growth of my hair and fingernails
  has increased dramatically. And as if that wasn’t vexing enough, I’ve
  lost about eight-five pounds thanks to this new Bimbo Seikatsu
  diet I’m on (”The Rice and Ramen Way to a Thinner, Emaciated You!“).
  Pretty soon I’m going to look like that aborigine fellow from the Guinness
  Book of World Records, all hair and nails coiled up on themselves, and
  fifty pounds dripping wet. SEND FOOD!!

 
Owari

In This Issue:

 

Administrivia

 

That time again, and here I am, bouncing around the room…

Greetings, and welcome to the latest edition of the Blue Mountain Journal.
An oversight in the first issue, allow me to begin with some clarification
about the title. “Blue Mountain” comes directly from the characters used
to spell Aoyama, “ao” being blue and “yama” mountain. Aoyama, of course,
is the name of the university I’m attending here in Tokyo. Make sense? Right,
so, with that out of the way…

As you’re no doubt aware, I’ve been having some internet connectivity
problems since arriving here. Dial-up accounts are cho-expensive, so I’ve
waited to shell out the big dollars for an account with a provider here
until I have a better idea of the big picture. I am, however, glad to say
that as of yesterday I got the dial-up connection via Aoyama up and running
for e-mail, WWW and USEnet. The downside is that I still can’t see the rest
of the world unless I Telnet to another campus machine and go from there.
Unfortunately that doesn’t allow me to use any of the nifty internet tools
that I’ve installed under Win95. So, in short, I’m still working on it.

(Somewhere a voice is saying “Er, Windows 95??)

Yes, it may come as a shock to those of you who know me as a Team OS/2
member and ardent Windoze basher, but I’ve come to the inevitable conclusion
that OS/2, though robust and powerful and uncommon enough that you can say
“I run OS/2″ and come off sounding like a tech-savvy, with-it computer guy,
is doomed to extinction. Software companies globally must agree, since there
is virtually zero software available for it. I’m not even going to get into
drivers and hardware support. Add to that the problem of appearance, most
notably the fact that the interface was designed by a team of vision-impaired
engineers rather than graphic design artists or others with more than a
passing familiarity with the concept of esthetic appeal. Maybe Microsoft
and NeXT got to them all first, who knows.

So anyway, back to Windows95…

A friend talked me into installing it on Zeke, my ThinkPad (only after
much cajoling and arm-twisting and a succession of Martinis) to see what
I thought about it, and I have to admit that I love it. Win95 and the ThinkPad
get along smashingly well, and all of the things that always proved so frustrating
in the past with OS/2 (getting drivers, finding software, etc. ad nauseum)
have been amazingly simple. I’m hooked! (All thanks to a certain stubble-headed
one we all know and love).

On a related point, I’m using MS Exchange (a great program, especially
since I installed “Idioms”) to compose and distribute this, so if any of
you out there would like a copy that incorporates some of the numerous groovy
functions that Exchange has to offer let me know.

Enough about computers, though. I have a phone number for the time being,
should anyone have something really pressing. It is: 0422-33-0851 (precede
this with your international dial code and the country code for Japan, 81).
The number should be good until sometime in May. If you would like the address
here, mail me.

Thanks to everyone who wrote back and for the positive feedback! And for
you thoughtless others out there, scorn and derision! (Just joking. Well,
sort of joking, anyway)

 

Waiter, there’s a hanabira in my sake!

The end of that handful of weeks that marks the onset of Spring and finds
the cherry trees in full, splendid bloom was drawing nigh, and it found
me fretting that the period would pass before I would have a chance to enjoy
a trademark Japanese pastime, Hanami. When the blossoms have burst forth
in pink radiance around this time every year people flock in droves to parks
in the city and elsewhere to get engage in a tradition centuries old. Handed
down from generation to generation and rich in cultural heritage, it essentially
involves getting plastered under the pretense of enjoying nature.

In groups of all sizes family, friends and co-workers flee the indoors
armed with blankets, baskets, and truckloads of sake and beer to spend the
day in wistful (catatonic?) contemplation of the fragile blossoms, and of
the way they reflect our own insignificance and mortality. (Sigh)

But, alas!, it seemed that I would miss out on the fun this year, and
I was saddened by the prospect…

Then, out of the blue, an invitation! Another student at Aogaku, one that
I had met only an hour or so before, tendered the offer, and I was more
than happy to accept. We set the date for the following Sunday and agreed
to meet at a station in a popular part of town. Saturday night, however,
found me dancing in Roppongi till around five o’clock Sunday morning, and
there was no way I was going to make the 10:00 appointment. My exhausted
body scolded me for the trade-off I had made, but its admonitions grew muffled
as my head sank into the pillow. I awoke sometime later, and the short shadow
of the wind-chime on the tatami beside me indicated that the noon hour had
come and gone. I arose, muscles complaining, and in the semi-conscious fugue
state of the shower I worked on an alternative plan for the day.

Shortly thereafter, dry and backup yotei in mind, I got on the phone and
invited a Japanese friend I had met in the states to go and see if we could
find the Hanami group. We met later at Harajuku and set off in search of
the others, fingers crossed and thinking that we might even be able to find
them in the expansive, rather crowded environs of Yoyogi Park.

Tsumari, we never did. But we did walk around for a couple of hours and
catch up, and that was really nice. Eventually, tired from all of the walking,
we sat down on the grass on the edge of a park and chatted about computers
and Seattle and how Tokyo needs a real kissaten and watched the clouds drift
past.

As many of you probably guessed, it was about then that a bullhorn-wielding
man in a pink rabbit suit approached, bellowing incomprehensible English
and beckoning wildly with a long, pink appendage. I hollered back, surprised
and amused, “Nihongo de ii yo,” (Japanese is fine) which provoked an eruption
of laughter from a group of Hanami-ers stationed a couple dozen yards away,
and took the rabbit quite by surprise. He brightened then, and promptly
invited the two of us to join he and the group for some food, drink and
merriment. My friend and I exchanged “shall we?” glances, shrugged, and
stolled on over.

Everyone there seemed pretty well lit by that point and welcomed us with
cheers and toasts and at least five different Japanese dishes. The sole
foreigner present, I was inundated with questions of all sorts for about
the first thirty minutes or so, and people marveled politely at my meager
Japanese ability. I’m at that stage now where I can carry on conversations
and such about general matters but not much else, which places me in the
huge middle category of people that speak Japanese anywhere from barely
to pretty darn well, and so end up lavished with compliments on language
ability far in excess of what is warranted. (Or what _I_ would say is warranted,
anyway) Foreigners who can produce the occasional “arigatou” or “sumimasen”
are afforded the same treatment, and it ultimately amounts to courtesy more
than any real evaluation of one’s ability. I’ll know I’ve really made progress
when the compliments *stop*. (Jack Seward has excellent guidelines for rating
Japanese language ability, and they can be found in his book “Japanese in
Action.”)

So we sat there, eating and drinking and chatting, and the day passed
in a wonderfully blissful fashion. I had been provided with a glass of beer
and a wooden, square cup for drinking cold sake. Neither was allowed the
opportunity to dry, and I was feeling pretty light-headed pretty quickly.
I realized at some point that every time the woman across from me refilled
my sake cup she would drop a sakura petal (hanabira) into it, but I was
beyond caring enough to ask why. Anybody out there know?

Kin-chan, the rabbit who had initially approached us, had not let up one
inch in his efforts at recruiting revelers, and soon began intercepting
anyone who passed too closely with earnest invitations via bullhorn. (It’s
easy to sound earnest with a bullhorn) And should a foreigner (any nationality)
come into view, he would immediately bellow in my direction, “Maiku-san!
Maiku-san! Tsuuyaku shite!” (Mike! Come ‘ere and translate!) In about half
of the cases I would actually speak the same language as the hapless passer-by,
and would let them know that their presence was not only requested, but
demanded by the ebullient pink fellow nearby. This pattern was repeated
indefinitely until we had a real “international” thing going on, with Japanese,
German, Russian and Brazilian people scattered beneath the sakura blossoms
and partying it up. It pleased Kin-chan to no end to call the affair an
“International Hanami Party,” and he would do so about every four minutes,
laughing and waving the bullhorn around. Call it what you will, it was a
blast.

Presently my friend indicated a need to return, but assured me that I
was more than welcome to hang out if I wanted to. I accepted, and we all
saw her off with a toast and even a traditional homecoming ballad or two.
(Okay, I made that last bit up. For all I know the Japanese don’t even *have*
traditional homecoming ballads, but it would have been cool if we had.)

Not long after that the decision was made to go. I’m not sure exactly
how it was decided, but suddenly everyone was moving about, gathering glasses
and plates and things and generally mobilizing into some kind of Hanami
Cleanup Task Force, so I just jumped right in and followed suit. (Shyeah
right. Picture fifteen or so Japanese, all responsibly engaged in the execution
of some specific duty like it had been decided at birth, and then there’s
me with, like, a tupperware bowl filled with some mysterious black murk
sloshing about, looking lost and muttering to nobody in particular, “Um…kore
wa…ano…dou shiyou..?”) Maybe they were using telepathy or something,
I dunno, but they had also decided on the next destination, and in moments
we were off, giggling and delirious, to Kin-chan’s noodle shop.

I’m not sure why we stopped in there, but we only stayed for a moment
or so before striking off en masse to another restaurant for sushi. The
food was wonderful, and tray after tray of assorted dishes were brought
and consumed in short order. (Think “gyuuinbashoku”) Regretfully, though,
there was this one particularly inebriated individual next to me who kept
covertly stealing the topping off the sushi, leaving the shivering, exposed
rice ball forlornly behind. Odious woman. Eventually I reprimanded her,
and she scowled at me but discontinued her surreptitious campaign.

The check came, and after some quick calculation by Kin-chan we all produced
some cash (about twenty bucks each). Sated, we struck off once again, this
time to sing karaoke and resume serious drinking.

The bar itself was a “karaoke box” on a grand scale, with massive rooms
that could accommodate twenty or more. Our group fell into that category,
and soon people were taking their turns at the microphone. I was called
on first to do an impromptu jikoshokai (self-intro), and then to sing something.
I was ready for them, though (ha-HA!), and I casually announced the number
for my standard opening tune, Anzen Chitai’s “Koi no Yokan” (Expectation
of Love). It went over well, and I was replaced on stage by a succession
of drunken revelers who crooned (or brayed, as was the case) their favorite
tunes. Kin-chan, now well-oiled, was down to his boxers, and they seemed
to be on their way out as well. His bare ass periodically cavorted in front
of the raucous crowd, and the reactions of the spectators ranged from shouts
of encouragement to averted, blushing faces. After a while he put the strip
tease act to rest and let the other performers sing in relative peace.

How long this went on I can’t really say, but eventually we left in search
of more food. It was approaching the wee hours at this point, and we had
been partying for maybe twelve hours straight. At the small noodle restaurant
that admitted us (fools!) we all slurped down monstrous bowls of ramen or
udon, and shared plates of gyoza. It finally looked as though everyone had
had just about enough, and we made for home. The trains had stopped running
some time earlier, and Kin-chan happily agreed to put me up for the night
in his chic-but-small Shibuya apartment. I was out as soon as my head hit
the mat…

 

School Daze

I’ve just completed the first week of classes, and my schedule is approaching
some semblance of solidity. Here at Aogaku the first week is kind of a trial
period where students sit it on classes that they think they might like
to take and get an idea of what the course will be like. As you’re required
to select the classes for the next year in advance, it’s probably a good
system.

The classes I’ve decided on thus far are:

• Japanese III (Intermediate)
• Advanced Japanese
• Japanology (who came up with this, anyway?)
• History of Japanese Culture
• Calligraphy
• Translation
• Computer Applications

All but one of the classes (Japanology) is conducted in Japanese, so I’ve
got my work cut out for me. The computer class should be pretty easy for
the obvious reasons, but history and advanced Japanese classes will prove
to be quite demanding, I’m sure. I’m really looking forward to the calligraphy
class, and the professor for the Japanology class seems interesting and
very intelligent.

The classes on the whole seem to be far simpler than university-level
courses in the US. It’s my understanding that this is common knowledge among
most Japanese, and that after 12 years of “education hell” in Japan’s demanding
school system, anyone who has made into a university deserves the break.
It’s not uncommon at all for students to sleep or read magazines during
the lecture, and the quantity of homework and assignments in general seems
minimal at best. These are only my initial impressions, of course, so their
accuracy should be classified as dubious at best. I thought I’d share them
anyway, and we’ll see how they evolve.

What else? The campus is small but attractive, and located in the center
of a commercial urban district known for its high-fashion and as a proving
ground for new styles and test products. There are approximately 135 female
students to every male student, and the women are required to conform to
strict standards of dress, height-weight distribution, and speech (25 uso!’s
per hour minimum, 20 heee!’s, etc.) They are all between 18 and 20 years
of age. (I haven’t checked the actual figures yet, but I’m sure I’m prety
close) The students dress for the office, or it seems that way to me, and
I occasionally feel out of place in my t-shirt, levis and doc marten’s.
Maybe the heat and humidity of Summer will spur the student body to more
casual dress. (Insert Sean-esque “uh-heh…heh” here)

I usually take lunch in the shokudou, or cafeteria, only because it’s
so cheap. The quality of the food fluctuates between not bad and tolerable,
depending on what you order, but it fits with my rather limited budget.
One can usually get enough to eat for around four dollars, which is about
half what you might expect to pay at an inexpensive lunch spot nearby. The
smoke in the shokudou can get unbearable at times, what with upwards of
two hundred students taking turns smoking in the confines of the main room,
and I usually try to find an open spot in the smaller non-smoking area.
HAHAHA.

The meal selection process bears mentioning, as the system was certainly
a new one for me. On one wall in the main room there is a large, glass display
case that entices unsuspecting patrons with twenty or so shellacked examples
of whatever is on the menu for that day. These prefab teishoku, or “set
lunches,” exhibit characteristics not unlike what one might expect from
the menu board in a typical fast food restaurant. Specifically, they never
seem to accurately represent what ends up on your plate. Noodle dishes buried
in vegetables, shrimp and other goodies look pretty tasty under the lamps
of the display case, but the dish placed with an unceremonious thunk in
front of you is pretty much noodles and some kind of liquid, with a smattering
of bean sprouts or some other dollar-a-hectare produce tossed in as an afterthought.
With practice and experience, though, I expect to be able to restrict my
selections to those that are both filling and, well, not too odd-tasting.

 

One Key Guy

Remember that scene in Sex, Lies, and Videotape where James Spader relates
his aversion to keys and the trappings they connote? If I recall correctly
it went something like this:

Y’know how it is. You get a job and the next thing you know you gotta
have a key to the office. And a key to your house or whatever. Then there’s
a key for your car or, even worse, cars. Before you know it you’ve got
a big ugly wad of keys jangling around in your pocket. Well, not me. No
thanks, mister. I’m a One Key Guy.

Well, as a One Key Guy myself, I can see where he’s coming from. I have
but one key, a house key, and you know what? It’s not even *mine*. I guess
that would make me a No Key Guy. (I don’t want to hear any business about
suitcase or padlock keys from you sticklers out there. I got no keys that
count, see?) I must say I feel all that much lighter for it, too. I enjoy
occasionally confusing my key with, say, a 500 yen coin. I like not having
to fish around in my pocket for something that has settled below the level
of the key ring. I like never being thrust unwittingly into some annoying
Solve The Magic Keyring Puzzle! situation that requires you untangle a hopelessly
convoluted key mass in order to free the one key you actually need. I especially
like not having to endure the repeated thwack-bounce-thwack of the keys
striking my upper thigh when I wear slacks. Maybe someday *everyone* will
just have one key. You’ll buy a car or a house or something and at some
point the salesperson will ask you for your Key so that they can properly
configure the locks. No offense to the Locksmith lobby or hardware store
clerks out there, but frankly the world would be a better, happier place
with fewer keys around. I’m doing my part.

 

Gaijin Bloopers

This section is a must-have, especially for someone so apparently prone
to “pulling a gaijin” as I am. As you read, though, I would ask you to remember
that I’m *new* here, and not necessarily a complete imbecile. So there.

Japanese: no longer the language of convenience

At the Nyuugaku-shiki (Opening Day Ceremony) at Aoyama Gakuin, a friend
and I were watching the students mill about and pass in large groups (there
is no such thing as a “small” group in Japan). I turned to him, elbow jabbing
and grinning lecherously, and said, “Boy, this place is a real bijin tengoku!
(babe heaven),” only to have a Japanese woman to my left, obviously the
parent of one of the bijin in question, whip her head around and fix me
with a menacing glare. We moved away quickly, hiding our faces and trying
hard not to laugh out loud.

Your bath is ready, Sir.

My roommate for the time being had been out of town on business for the
better part of a week, and on the day of his return I resolved to do something
nice for him. I decided to fill the o-furo, or bath, and have it nice and
hot by the time he arrived home late that night. I wasn’t completely familiar
with the complexities of the gas-operated machine at that point, and I set
thing to “heat bath water” and adjusted the temperature down to a low setting
that would be just right for steeping a medium-sized body. Tetsu arrived
home as expected, and we sat and enjoyed a beer and some conversation, at
which point I let him know (smiling smugly inward) that the bath was ready,
should he want one. He said it sounded great and went off to change while
I made for my own room, the satisfaction of having done a good deed sitting
warmly in my belly.

His arrival at the bathroom a few moments was marked by a stunned “oh
no…” and then “Maiku!!!” I practically fell out my skin scrambling to
get over there, and, looking into the bathroom, I saw the water of the bath
at a full, roiling boil. It seems the temp selector has no effect when the
system is set to heat the water in the tub, and the bath had just gotten
hotter and hotter and hotter. Needless to say, poor Tetsu was going to go
without a bath tonight…

I’ve got to add here, though, that I was truly distressed by the turn
of events, and Tetsu knew it. He went to great pains to make light of the
situation, including waving the steam that billowed out of the bathroom
into his mouth with his hands and saying by way of reassurance, “It’s good!
Healthy, see?” I had royally screwed up, yes, but that to him was secondary
to my peace of mind, and I appreciated his handling of this situation more
than he probably knew. (Minakawa-rashii, ne Noboru-san?)

 

Hayari-kotoba

Heard near Harajuku Station as I watched a group of punk-types sulk and
pose for the cameras of passing tourists: makusu (max), as in “kanojo
wa makusu-sugei jan!”

Heard on the train: Cho-beribaddo (Cho very bad), which must equate
to being, well, pretty darn bad.

 

Random Observations

• No film is developed in this country. Instead, film is sent via space
  shuttle to a secret film laboratory on Mars, and then returned for pickup.
  I swear I’m not making this up. How else would one explain a charge of $20
  for a single roll of 24 exposure film?
• Advertisers are legally bound to include the word “shinhatsubai!” (NEW!)
  in any televised advertisement, no matter how old the product may be. I’ve
  commercials for rice, for crying out loud, which has been around for, of,
  maybe a kazillion years now, where some perky, vacuous teen idol proclaims
  “shinhatsubai!” at the end. Um, hello? It’s RICE! Jeez…
• Ex-pats in Japan seem to have an odd kind of aversion to or competitiveness
  thing going on with one another. I’m still trying to figure out why this
  might be, but there definitely seems to be very little in the way of kinship
  among the other hakujin I see here. (I only say “hakujin” because they are
  the easiest to find, unless you go to Roppongi, where the majority instantly
  becomes kokujin military-types. They’re friendlier, but this probably owes
  to their being employed as kyaku-hiki.) It may just be Anti-American sentiment
  I’m experiencing, though, of which there appears to be no shortage, at least
  among the Europeans. I’ve had a couple of encounters with people where it
  was clear that they took a certain sneering affront at being categorized
  as from the US. The really funny part is that most of these arrogant snots
  can’t even speak Japanese. I’ll be researching this further.
• Smoking isn’t slowing down at all.

Owari

Yoshida Kaneyoshi

was born sometime around the year 1283 into a family of hereditary

Shinto diviners. His considerable facility with poetry led to

an early position in the Kamakura court, where he served as a

steward to Horikawa Tomomori. Later, around 1313 and for reasons

unknown, he opted for the life of a Buddhist monk and changed

his name to the more religious-sounding Kenkou. An active poet,

he belonged to the traditional and conservative Nijou school

of poetry, and was later praised as one of the “four

deva kings” of the Nijou

school. It is not, however, his poetry for which he is best well

known, but rather a collection of essays known as the Tsurezuregusa,

or Essays in Idleness.

Tsurezuregusa

is a collection of zuihitsu, or “random

jottings,” and is considered

along with Sei Shonagon’s

Pillow Book to be one of the earliest examples of this

uniquely Japanese literary genre. The essays themselves, numbering

243 in all, vary considerably in length from a single sentence

in some cases to a handful of pages in others. They cover a broad

range of topics, and include anecdotes, observations, and reflections

on nature, humankind, and the path to enlightenment. His comments

on etiquette and style have especially endured, and he is credited

today with defining or elucidating much of what is considered

“Japanese.”

Most importantly, the work not only provides the reader with

a glimpse of life in medieval Japan, but also into the mind of

the author himself.

The work reveals a sensitive and

refined man who, though bound on the one hand by his status as

a Buddhist monk to lead the solitary life of a recluse, finds

it difficult to truly separate himself from the court and his

contemporaries, for which his interest is keen. Instead of leaving

the capital and all of its worldly trappings behind to live high

in some mountain retreat, he chose instead to reside on the fringes

of Heian-kyou, where much of society and his previous existence

was readily accessible to him. Kenkou delights in relating amusing

stories about court figures and their antics. In many cases,

though, perhaps to imply that there was in fact some distance

between himself and the actual participants or events he details,

he qualifies the anecdotes with a trailing “I

am told” or “…it

is said”. It is clear,

however, that he was in fact very active in some court circles,

especially those related to poetry, and that much of the information

he imparts could have been obtained first hand.

Similarly, he demonstrates an interest

in the endurance of court protocol and custom, and numerous essays

are offered almost as reminders of how something or other had

been traditionally done, and therefore should be done.

These pieces are sometimes accompanied by laments that the people

of his day no longer remembered the proper method or precedent

when dealing with particular situations. He wrote:

Nobody is left who knows the proper

manner of hanging a quiver before the house of a man in disgrace

with His Majesty. Formerly, it was the custom to hang a quiver

at the Tenjin Shrine on Gojou when the emperor was ill or when

a general epidemic was rampant.