...the more they stay the same

I went back home for the holidays. So naturally, what do you do when you go back home?

No, after you have an argument with your sister about your smacking her spoiled kid in the back of the head.

That's right, you look up your high school buddies and see how everyone is doing. And after checking to see who got married (three people I knew), who had new kids (five people), and who really changed their appearance (Christine), we got into the reminiscing. And it got a little ugly. Tempers flared, words were exchanged and huffs were stormed off in.

So how did this happen? We were supposed to be the halfway bright ones, why can't any of us stop re-hashing the same conversations we've been having for the last decade? Is it just because we've all splintered enough so that the only thing we know we'll have in common is the same old stories? Or is it like peeling off a scab that you thought had become a fully sealed scar? Sure, it's grotesquely satisfying at first, but it just doesn't feel so good afterwards.

Anyway, it's good to be home, and it's good to see my old friends again. But I can't shake the feeling that this is going to turn into some kind of deranged Neil Simon play where after each year (or scene change) we're all balder and fatter. And no matter how we try to change the subject, each time we wind up talking about the same stories and the same memories. Until act III when a couple of us have finally died and the others finally talk about getting on with our lives, but ultimately decide not to change in order to help sustain the sanity of our more decrepit, alzheimer's ridden members.

...

Of course, if it really felt that bad to go over the past, we probably wouldn't do it so much.

Happy Hannukah, Happy Boxing Day, Happy Winter Solstice, Happy Kwanzaa. Hell, Happy Christmas.

Test. Testy. Testes. Tsetse. Tutu. Tattoo.

Yeah, so I finally took that damn-stupid language test. And thanks to a combination of my busy schedule and habit of engaging in willfully self-defeating behavior, I didn't prepare nearly as much as I should have. Of course, there's always the possibility that I guessed right often enough to get the 60% I'd need to pass and earn my level 3 certification. But right after finishing the test something occurred to me.

Well, honestly it occurred to me right after sitting in a bar and drinking gin for six hours with three other test takers, but that's not the point.

I was getting really worked up about that damn test when it's not going to prove anything to anyone except me, and I clearly didn't care enough to make adequate preparations for it. None of the people I try to speak Japanese to are going to give a damn about whether I did well on the test or not. And none of the companies I work for are going to do anything as rash as raise my pay or treat me any better because of it. It's not even going to qualify me for anything.

Other than maybe the possibility of having a sense of accomplishment, I guess.

This was supposed to be some kind of goal that I could work towards that would help me progress towards a higher quality of life here. You know, by being more able to speak the language or something. Funny. That really didn't seem to work out as planned.

Maybe it's time to find some new goals.

"Hey there, Blinky, howsabout this one: quit bitching about how much your life sucks and going out to actually do something about it instead of pissing and moaning about it all damn day?"

First off, I don't bitch about my life all day. Only when I post to my blog. Or talk to my friends from Fukui. Or engage in an internal monologue for the benefit of new viewers. Second, don't call me "Blinky." I'm the one who calls people Blinky, especially when I'm getting ready to condescend to them.

"Riiiiight. And exactly who do you think is trying to condescend to whom, here?"

...

"That's about what I figured."

I suppose persistence is a virtue...

Next Sunday I'm going to try to take the Japanese Language Proficiency Test.

Again.

Last time I didn't have so much success.

It's worth noting that in my entire career of tyring to learn Japanese, I haven't had so much success. Even though I took five Japanese classes in university, two of those were classes I had to repeat because I didn't pass the first time. The first time I tried to make up a sentence of my own, I was told by my teacher that I was not understandable and "please not trying to speech freely again in class." My attempts to make jokes, give directions, order food and pick up girls have all generally met with polite silence, circuitous cab rides, mistaken orders and giggling but firm refusals.

In that order.

But for some reason I feel the need to keep trying to use this language that I really don't seem to have an aptitude for.

I dunno. I mean, if I couldn't communicate with people in my native language, it would have to be something about me, right?

Unless I'd just been trying to talk with dimwits.

("Didn't you used to live in Los Angeles?" "Why yes, I did...")