Taxing, Crabby Confessions III

In the last week I met, face to face, two different people after finding out they'd been reading this. One lives in America, one in Japan. One I'd never met before, one I'd known for a while. Suddenly that whole honnae/tatemae is starting to make more sense from a first hand perspective.

Usually, I try to write this like I was either transcribing an internal monologue or telling a story over a drink in my favorite bar. You know, that one bar where I feel really comfortable because I don't have to worry about acting cool to pick up girls because everyone is just there to relax. But generally here the only major concession I'm making to public appearance here is tone down my raving anti-Presbyterian sentiments to avoid charges of religious discrimination. Lousy Council of Presbie Elders... they'll only be able to keep controlling international grain export markets as long as decent citizens like you and me willingly blind ourselves to their sinister plans. It's always been about the bread, dammit...

...Anyway, the point I really wanted to make was that perhaps my carefully orchestrated, teflon-coated internet persona has been breached again. Maybe there's a whole bunch of people running around who've read this and having a good chuckle thinking that they know what I think, and they think I don't know that they know. You know?

So, in the spirit of the new year and new beginnings, I'm going to embrace a new policy of openness and honesty. I'm just going to lay all my cards on the table and tell you all my deepest thoughts and feelings.

The following people can cram it with walnuts:
My manager, Joe
Tokyo Mitsubishi Bank
The Owner of that Damn Rooster next door
The Inventor of the McRib
The Editors of Japanese for Busy People
Dick Cheney
The re-writers of Robocop 3
John Ashcroft
The re-writers of the Daredevil movie
Celine Dion
Whoever made Japanese girls think cute-ness is more important than anything else
Tony Blair (for having no stones)
The re-writers of the Hulk movie
The people who keep reality-TV shows on with their vacuous, sheep-like support
Henry Kissinger
The re-writers of Batman and Robin and Batman Forever

Wow. I sure feel better. It's like a big weight has been lifted off of my chest knowing I don't have to keep all that secret anymore. 'Cause really, that's everything that I've been holding back. Really.

A Terrible Metaphor

After two years (well, one year, eleven months and 16 days) I had flattered myself into thinking I felt at home in Japan. Admittedly I don't feel that sense of self-loathing when I go to work, that sense of dread when I see the police, or that bile-tinged rage whenever I watch the news. But it took me all of 45 minutes to re-adjust to most of what constitutes the American culture. With the glaring exception of how bloated and overfed and pasty most folks look, anyway.

It was like getting back into a battered, worn old pair of cotton boxer shorts. Sure, it wasn't glamorous, and there was a part on the waistband where the elastic was coming out and pinching me everytime I stood up, and the seams are starting to fray on the sides and leave little strings all over the other clothes in the wash. But putting them on was effortless.

Japan, on the other hand, is more like, uh, going commando (that'd be, er, going out in the field with no support). Sure, you can tell yourself its more natural, but it takes longer to get used to an, uh, unfurnished basement. And you have to be a lot more careful in the bathroom, especially with zippers.

All of which is to say that, uh, being in Japan isn't like wearing no underwear, but it's not far off, sometimes.

If wishes were fishes, uh, we'd all have more fish. I guess.

Last year around this time, if you haven't been with me that long, I was in kind of an odd spot. See, I was spending New Year's with my cousin's wife's family outside of Osaka. I was going to lose my job and my apartment in about two weeks time, and was having a little bit of trouble getting into the holiday spirit.

By the way, as near as I can tell, the holiday spirit in Japan seems to have two parts. First, obnoxious Xmas songs are played in every public place for six weeks to get everyone ready for the day in which happy young couples plan for a romantic evening together in which they eat Christmas Cake and exchange tokens of affection/consumerist status. And if you have no sweetheart for the big day? Boy, there must be something wrong with you. Christmas is like Valentine's Day, but with worse music.

Oh yeah. New Year's, the second part, is considerably more important. There are a bunch of ceremonies and rituals that are intended to welcome the new year in auspicious fashion. And I guess one of the big deals is the first trip of the year to a shrine.

Generally I like to keep my distance from organized religion. Maybe I haven't done enough research, but I've never heard of any group of agnostics calling for a holy war, crusade, jihad, stoning or witch-burning. In fact, I've certainly spent more time on Sundays watching The Simpsons than I've ever spent in church. But I digress. The point is, last year I figured a trip to the shrine to make a new year's wish certainly couldn't hurt.

Since my primary problem was a financial one, I figured I ought to make a simple wish. But I thought I was talking to one of those gods who only "helps those who help themselves." So I figured I'd make one of those wanky puritan style wishes.

"Lemme get work this year. Please."

Look, I was desperate. Impending homelessness and the end of my steady paycheck had me more than a little desperate. And it really did seem like a good idea at the time.

If it had been a movie, that moment in January 2003 would have been an awful case of ironic foreshadowing. Seriously. Did you every know anyone to truly want to work? But I got my wish... In spades or bushels or metric fuck-loads.
Did I work just a little too much in 2003? C'mon, does the pope shit in the woods?

This year, however, I'm gonna set my sights a little bit higher. This year I want success and satisfaction and respect. For a change.

Or a weekend on the beach with a naughty British girl, a bottle of salad oil and a big old bowl of phad thai.

Sweeeeeet. Happy 2004.