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.

...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...")

November

I know it's been a while, and I'm sure that all (seven) of my avid readers are just quivering with anticipation for some gripping stories and penetrating insights into Japanese life, but that's just not gonna happen today. For the last two months or so I've just been working too much. And really, I didn't get as much out of it as I would have hoped.

I mean, I did get slightly more money. But after taking into account my increased travel, cleaning, and food costs, the extra pay for the first month worked out to be about enough for a trip to the movies. Point of fact, I didn't get anything that had I expected out of the last couple months. For example, I never expected to learn how many times you can wear the same shirt before it really starts to get offensive because you don't have any time to do laundry or go to the cleaners.

And I did learn a few things about teaching. For example, teenagers tend to be self-concious to the point becoming ridiculous no matter what country they're in. And encouraging them to quit being "pitiful, crying little worms" is kinda like telling all those jerks on the Saikyo train to stop pressing up against my butt during rush hour: the one person you catch stammers and acts contrite while everyone else who you aren't making direct eye contact with keeps doing the same damn thing.

Did I mention that to work at the Junior high schools in the morning and the conversation schools at night I have to take the Saikyo trains? The Saikyo trains run from central Saitama (where there tend to be more houses with families) to western Tokyo (where there tend to be more businesses, offices, shops and restaurants). They are somewhat infamous for being really really crowded during rush hour, and for having a fairly high incidence of "Chikan" activity. (That'd be guys taking the opportunity to grope unwilling people in public). I know there's a difference in acceptable personal space needs from country to country, but I never imagined that less than 2mm was acceptable between strangers anywhere. At least, anywhere that didn't involve tucking money into someone else's underwear.

But I digress. The point is, my only real expectation was not met at all. For some daft reason, I expected to feel satisfied in some way after working hard. Like, maybe I'd be financially satisfied (nope), or more content with my work progress (nuh-uh) or social situation (0 for 3 there, hotshot) or something. In fact, the only halfway satifying thing I learned last month almost cost me my night job.

Maybe it has to do with the place I work. I mean, maybe it's because I'm working for companies owned by foreigners who came here seven years too late wanting to get rich off the bubble economy, and they're still under the impression that if they can wring every last drop of productivity from each of their assets then they'll be able to afford all those 1988 Japanese luxuries like $5000 per diem expense accounts, sushi dinners served by naked women and of course, Universal Studios and 35% of the real estate in metropolitan Los Angeles.

Or maybe it's because I'm still not clear on some of those subtle societal differences. Like why an assistant teacher at a junior high shouldn't get mad just because he's treated (socially and contractually) in the same way as an overhead projector leased to the school. Or why an office lady feels no qualms at all about telling you that the before her trip to Canada she was really worried about being so constipated that "for four days, [she] can't poop," but was relieved to recieve an enema from her doctor and the news that "Canada's medical system is good enough" that if she had another problem while on vacation she'd be able to get an enema in Vancouver too. Or maybe its...

Ah, the hell with it. Here's a few links to some weird-ass Japanese stuff. Imagine the society that produces it and try to understand that I feel wonder, confusion, frustration and affection for 'em.

October Revolution

This has been an odd month. As you may (or may not) know, I've started working at a junior high school. So five days a week I try to help 13-15 year olds work on their English. And, because Japanese companies don't pay you until the first monthly payday AFTER you've completed a month of work, I've continued to work at the shitty conversation school I was at before.
But there can be no important change without discomfort, yeah? And this has been a fairly important time for changing. I've changed my primary place of employment, my sleeping habits, my spending habits, my eating habits, the amount of time I spend on the train... It's been a pretty odd month.

And the most important change has been the least drastic one. Perhaps because of my relative isolation, the change in my feeling about that isolation has be been the strongest. Honestly, some days I can feel psychosis radiating off of me in waves. Unstoppable cascades of thought that would be impolite at best and immoral, indecent, blasphemous, treasonous and in plain bad taste at worst. It honestly surprises me that the one-on-one adult students can't sense this current of filth and madness that's running just beneath the banter about current movies and their plans for their next vacation.

Of course, in all fairness, they probably have other things on their minds than the mental state of the English conversation source they've rented for the hour. I mean, they have lives too, right?

But they're not the one's writing this blog, I am. So let's get the focus back where it belongs: on me.

I had a birthday recently. And maybe it's a sign of maturity (or impending adulthood...) that this year was remarkable for not being anything other than a pain in the ass. It wasn't my first year to buy smokes, porn, booze, guns, to rent cars or to be living in another country. It wasn't like I was expecting a great present, a big party, or some great feeling of maturity and wisdom.

Really, what this change felt like was an entirely arbitrary marking of time, with no deeper meaning. I'm older, but no wiser, richer,. stronger or healthier. Nothing's changed except one number I have to remember. Last year I might have said I'm one year closer to being dead, but I get the feeling that it's not gonna be old age that does me in, and it won't be something I can count towards.

But the point of this was supposed to be revolution, yes? Change. Removal of the old standards. The wholesale slaughter of the innnocents claimed as representatives of the old order in the name of progress. Let the streets of my mind flow with the blood of the counter-revolutionaries! This will change our mind for the better! Viva!

It took me ten years, but I finally think I got it...

This last month has been a bit of a pain in the butt. Not just because I lost my wallet. Which was inconvenient, but not nearly as bad as trying to get a new ATM card. And not just because the girl I thought was interested in me was just trying to score some free English lessons for her friend.

Maybe the worst part was dealing with the company that leases my services to the Saitama prefecture board of education. As it turns out, despite the efforts, attitudes and responses of everyone at the school I've been at, it turns out that I'm not actually a part of the school community.

Since I was encouraged take part in student life, I'd been staying after to help some of the students get read for their English recitation at the school festival that was held this Saturday. For those of you who didn't attend a Japanese Jr. High, every semester or so they'll have a "bunkasai," which roughly translates as a "cultural festival." The students (and a few of the more... confident teachers) will perform or present some kind of fine-art-type effort. There's a lot of organized choral-type singing, speeches and recitations, a few dance routines and pop song-quartets, and some obligatory mugging from whatever team has the most popular students.

Oh yeah, and no air conditioning in a packed gymnasium from 8 am to 4 pm.

Needless to say, this whole affair is a lot of work. The students and teachers really bust their butts for this thing. And since it runs all day on Saturday, the school takes a day off the following Monday.

Now I was looking forward to getting that Monday off, since I needed to go to the bank, the post office and the police station. All fine institutions that only offer the services I needed most between 9:00 AM and 3:00 PM. But when I finally was able to get in touch with the helpful young Australian at my company to ask about whether or not I should send my pay sheet in on Monday or Tuesday, she informed me that I was due to meet the principal at a new school on Monday, and couldn't figure out why I hadn't answered any of the messages she'd left on my cell phone.

Explaining both my desire to be at the cultural festival to see these kids show off the stuff they (and I) had been working on for the last month, and my predicament and subsequent need for some time off on a weekday, she very carefully considered the facts, and said she'd talk to her boss, and then call me back after 5:00. Which would be after the school switchboard was shut down, and before I had retrieved that all-important cell phone.

It took some doing to get her to see the failure of that plan to be successful, especially given the language barrier.

"Wait, you said she's from Australia, right? Aren't you both native English speakers?"

That's an excellent observation. But I've never been any good at communicating with a dumbass.

After some effort, she finally got an official party line from her boss (the half-Japanese Irishman) which stated that

although ALTs are encouraged to participate in school life, they are, by contractual definition, not members of the community of an individual school. Therefore, any attendance or participation in any extra-curricular school activity is at their own initiative, and will not be eligible for compensation, in terms of cash or time off.

I knew those cheapjack skinflints weren't gonna cover my transportation, but after being told reminded that I was essentially equivalent to any other piece of equipment that had been leased to the school, I was in a less than genki mood.

Come on. Am I really supposed to believe that they expect all the ALTs to try and do their jobs well without going to the damn festivals?

And then I finally realized what I've been struggling to understand for all these years: I've had so many jobs that I hated, and I never understood why I've had this inability to be a happy worker bee. What was the reason? What was the common thread?

It's not that I hate work.

I hate working for other people.



This may be the beginning of wisdom.

[expletive] TOKYO-MITSUBISHI BANK IN THE [expletive] WITH A BIG RUBBER [expletive]!

I hadda cancel my bank card on account of losing my wallet a couple weeks ago. The fuckers at the bank very kindly cancelled my card immediately, then told me I couldn't get a new card without a new Gaijin card, which took 2 weeks, and that I hadda go to a bank during regular banking hours: 8:40AM to 2:00PM, not including any holidays.

Of course, the helpful dumbass I talked to on the phone assured me that I could get money as long as I got to the bank by 5:00

Did I mention I work from 8:00AM to 4:00PM? And that the nearest branch is 41 minutes away?

Or that everything except the card-only ATMs was sealed shut at 2:00?

I reiterate:

[expletive] TOKYO-MITSUBISHI BANK IN THE [expletive] WITH A BIG RUBBER [expletive], THEN BREAK IT OFF AND BEAT THEM WITH WHAT'S LEFT.