"Look kids, Big Ben, Parliment!"

I went to London last week. Because, you know, when you're not really getting paid for a month, the best thing to do is go on a vacation out of the country to a place where a flat, room-temperature beer will set you back $7.50. But it's been a hell of a lot of fun being here.

In all honesty, there's something very relaxing about being a foreigner in London as opposed to Japan. It seems unfortunate that it makes sense to me in this way, but it's got a lot to do with race. In Tokyo, the percentage of the population that is "not of Japanese ancestry1" is something like .5%, and that number is primarily made up of people from China, Korea, and other nearby Asian countries. Which means a person like me, who doesn't really have any of the outward expressions of the stereotypical Asian phenotype, tends to stand out. And be stared at. And avoided on trains with an expression of mild fear. Now, I know that's to be expected. Most folks fear what they don't understand, and you can't really understand something if you've only got a 1 in 200 chance of meeting it.

But it gets a little tiresome being something that people go out of their way not to look at, unless they think you can't see them or they're really drunk or something.

But in London there's enough brown people2 of all shades and shapes for one more not to be a novelty. Here it's possible to be foreign without being a freak. And that almost makes the cramped subways, dangerous buses, stinking sewers, bad television and warm, flat beer seem charming.

But not the mushy peas. There's only so much a reasonable man3 can overlook.

1 Which is a backwards way of saying "foreigners what wasn't born there, and who also thems that was was born there, but whose parents or granparents wasn't Japanese but were Korean or something else that ain't Japanese and therefore aren't like natives." 'Cause your family might have been in Japan since the 1800s, but if you aren't listed in a Japanese family registry as Japanese, you simply aren't counted.

2 When I say "brown people," I just mean people who have different combinations of melanin in their skins from the Caucasian standard. So it's everyone except the honkies, haystacks, Mr. Charlies, white devils, gwei-lo, haoles, pinko-greys and WASPs. Funny. Saying all that didn't make me feel any better.

3 "Reasonable" being a guy who would footnote his otherwise casual and off-the-cuff comments. Riiiiight.

That's it? 100 posts? Really?

Kinda sad, huh? Two and a half years, and I'm just getting to 100. Given my recent rate, I must've been pretty serious about this when I started. Of course, some of the things I really wanted to remember and tell you about, you know, waaaay back in 2002, may be starting to lose their luster.

Perhaps it's time to try something new. What'd John Cleese say in that Monty Python sketch when he was trying to rob a bank but'd gone into a lingerie store instead? "Adopt, adapt, improve." So, er, gimme some bras and a couple of thongs.

No, not really. But it is time to do something besides bitch about, well, damn near everything. Maybe a new job? Or a new hobby? Hell, maybe I should update the layout and re-name this page. Any suggestions?
Last time "Tokyo Vigilante #1" was the only suggestion I got. By the way, thanks Warren.

Has it been two months already?

I've heard that black-hole type gravity and near-light speeds can bend time. Having neither Stephen Hawking's imagination, Albert Einstein's insight, nor a betamax on which to play my copy of The Black Hole, I can only speculate. However, I can say that Tokyo's heat, humidity, and mind-crushing mob mentality can also make time move slower in some places.

Imagine getting on a train car with about fifty more people than the recommended maximum capacity, then stopping in the sun between stations while something that is never fully identified holds up traffic. Suicide? Earthquake? Ninjas fighting demons? You don't need to know. You can just wait there while the air conditioning, which runs the whole time the train is running, doesn't run. Finally get to the station, your suit is now re-pressed with a much more interesting series of batik-inspired patterns, and you can try to get through the 90 degree, 80% humidity to your office. Where your dickweed manager is bitching out someone else for changing clothes at work.

Sorry. It's summer vacation for elementary schools here, which means that I have almost 6 weeks off. Imagine, six whole weeks off... no lesson preparation, no stupid meetings to verify my lesson preparation for the next week, no questions about how tall I am, and no pay at all. So I gotta get back to doing the conversation school again. Which wouldn't be so bad except they neglected to input my schedule today. Which means I'm out my transportation fee, the day's projected earnings and I'll have to get this shirt laundered after wearing it on the train. Hoo-hah. If it wasn't for my brother's recent visit or getting to see my girlfriend again recently, I'd be one deeply unhappy young man.

Not that I'm fixing to go all Columbine-post-office-John-Hickley out here.

Besides, these kids are just as messed up as kids anywhere else.

No. I think that this situation absolutely requires a really futile and stupid gesture be done on somebody's part.

The question is what? By who?




And to whom?