I Got You this Blog Post!

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my dependent visa gave to me...

Twelve dressed-up gravestones...


Eleven weird-ass ice creams...


Ten sticks of incense...


Nine unearthly portals...


Eight empty dishes (+2 stomachaches)...


Seven blurry revelers...


Six degrees Fahrenheit...


Fiiiiive raaavenous deeeeeer...


Four tiny oranges...


Three festive gaijin...


Two kimono'd ladies...


And a candy shaped like a fish!


Happy belated Christmas, early New Year, or entirely on-time Kwanzaa, everyone!

Satisfaction Guaranteed

Japan has some unique demographic and geographical problems: its population, nearly half that of the United States, is crammed onto a smattering of islands with roughly the same square area as California. On top of that, about 70% of that space is uninhabitable forests, mountains, or Specially Designated Dolphin-Killing Zones.

One problem that the Japanese seem to have under control, however, is employment -- the voices in my head that call themselves "Wikipedia" tell me that its unemployment rate is only about 4%. In contrast, the U.S. has tremendous unemployment right now, but as our Fearless Leaders have pointed out, the problem is not a lack of opportunities: we've got thousands of acres of empty land in the Midwest that could be converted into something more useful, like parking lots or roadside zoos (I recommend Missouri first).

What's the Japanese secret? When there are more people, they just make more jobs! Does your bank have ATMs? Hire someone to stand by and help people use the fully-automated systems! Is your restaurant or business on a street somewhere? Hire someone to stand on another street with fliers! Already employing as many janitors as you need? Consider making another position for a deserving minority individual (Robo-Japano relations are cordial if strained)!

Or hire someone to hand out free products on street corners! Just think: what's something that everybody needs but you can't already get for free elsewhere? That's right: toilet paper! We got these from people apparently advertising the middle school near our house:

Please think of our school when you wipe your ass!

We've already documented how advanced the toilets are over here, and really, they're amazing feats of technology that bring about the conveniences of the future today (future pooping, in particular). The only real exceptions to this inspiring triumph of human ingenuity are 1. about 2/3 of the toilets here are actually just porcelain holes, and 2. many public bathrooms don't bother with providing toilet paper. Compounding this last problem is that soap is never provided in public restrooms. Futuristic!

With this said, it becomes a lot clearer why Japanese people are always wearing surgical masks. It also makes me eternally grateful to the good people at Katsuragi Jr. High School for providing the world with something immeasurably valuable: education for our children, who are, I believe, the "future." Immeasurably valuable thing #2: TP.

Additional: from all of us here at "Amazing Tales of the Gaijin Patrol," happy annual winter consumer holiday! May your days be jolly, your celebrations lively, and your trees pointy.

There Can Only Be One

Expatriation always leads to new discoveries about oneself, no matter where you live. For the first time in my life, I am a minority. And not even the same way as when I was usually the most Jewish person in the room while living in Kirksville (which I could really only pull off with technicalities, anyway) -- here in Japan, Jenn and I are visible minorities. And even more, we're visible minorities in a land of majority rule; you won't catch me saying anything about Japanese people all looking the same, but if it's not too racist of me, they all do look...well, Japanese. We can't really pull off that look.

One of these people is not like the others. Can you spot who it is? Hum that one Sesame Street song quietly if it helps.

Being a minority is an educational experience...for one thing, it helps justify all of my crazy-ass commie left-wing liberally-educated socialist vegetarian beliefs. Really, being the only Westerner on any given train isn't all that bad. I'd say it's one of the real draws of Japan, something that Jenn and I have recently concluded is responsible for so many gaijin dudes coming here to marry Japanese ladies: not only do you get to be different, you get to be the local authority on two entire hemispheres. If I say that everyone in America rides unicycles and wears their pants inside-out, who the hell are you to contradict me (currently trying to spread this around school -- will post the results)?

However, despite what some may think, Jenn and I are not the only gaijin in all of Osaka. Every now and then, we run into another gaijin in a train station or on the street. When this happens, there is an unspoken but highly sophisticated etiquette for our interaction. The general rule of thumb is to do absolutely everything you can to ignore one another. Right:

Optional: LA LA LA LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU LA LA LA LA LA LA.

Wrong:

Wrong on many levels, really.

There are many variations of the /ignore maneuver that depend on the circumstances of the gaijin in question: two expatriates living in Japan might choose to alter their routes to avoid getting any closer to one another, while an expatriate seeing an obvious tourist is allowed to stare openly and loudly comment about how stupid tourists are (in Japanese, if possible).

Really, I'm not too sure why the communication silence is so very necessary. Best I can figure, we don't want the Japanese assuming that all Westerners know one another. Plus, greeting strangers isn't really done here. We're just trying to respect the native culture, right? By the way, Japan FAQs guy (if that is your real name)? It's me, the guy walking up Kunoki-dai on weekday afternoons around 4:30. With the messy hair and stupid ties? If you're out there, I think I may have unwittingly committed a faux pas by smiling a little too often as we pass each other in the afternoons. My apologies, won't happen again.

An Open Letter

Dear Various Unnamed Students of Sakishima High School,

Hi, how are you? Go ahead and take your time with that question, it's a tough one. OK, first off, I apologize for not calling you by your names. I'm awfully bad with names, Japanese names in particular, and odds are I'd mispronounce them anyway. Also, you insist on calling me "potta" or at best, "harripotta," so let's just call it even on that count, deal?

Now, I want to tell you that I understand where you're coming from. English is a very difficult language, I'll admit that right off; it's got countless irregular verbs, silent letters, and dropped vowels. Learning a second language is always difficult, and you're required to do so in a school system that places absolutely no focus on grades, which itself is part of a larger social system that leaves you only two standardized tests with which to plot your whole future. When you're working for no rewards and no real consequences, it's easy to get discouraged. I'll give you that. Plus you have to do it wearing dumb-ass uniforms (pictured). That's rough.

I'll also grant you frustration stemming from the greater political implications of my presence in the classroom. Japan and America have had a stormy past together, after all. You guys were doing your own thing, enjoying a traditional system of government that had abandoned guns, Christianity, international warfare...I mean, hey, you were living the whole "Imagine" vibe, that's pretty awesome. Then in 1853, we showed up at your door with cannons and gave you to the count of ten to cut that shit out. And just when that had receded into the distant past, there was some further unpleasantness. Now's not the best time to point fingers, but it at least bears mentioning that one nation has dropped a nuke on another nation only twice in history, and both times it was us and you. Also, our president threw up on your prime minister. These days, we've colonized your cities with Christmas trees, McDonald's, and baseball diamonds; I'll bet 10,000 yen that as you read this, you're wearing something that says either Nike or Puma on it. It's mandated that you sit in a classroom for years and learn what your grandparents were taught to call "the Language of the Oppressor." All of this history has built up to some curly-haired schmuck from Truman State University getting all up in your face about the proper use of the word your. I understand why you might get a little frustrated at times.

The Face of the Oppressor.

But stay with me here. Our increasingly globalized society has its fair share of drawbacks, sure: corporate hegemony, stifling conformity, the sacrifice of the individual for the greater good, Spanish versions of Scary Movie. That said, though, consider the opportunities we have at hand. I'm here to help you learn, at no cost to you, another way to communicate -- dare I say, even, another way to think. With diligence and patience, you will be able to speak the modern language of commerce and trade, and in learning something about another culture, you may even learn something about yourself. In English you may find a lifelong passion, or even just a skill that might come in handy once or twice. Hell, even if you never leave Japan, knowing some English can help you encounter new ideas or make new friends. I know that slogging through conjugations and cretinous vocabulary games can be discouraging, especially when progress is slow and rewards intangible. But we have chances that our parents' generation could never have dreamed of: we have the opportunity to forge a communal future together, to put together the best of our respective cultures and try to help each other with the worst.

So when I tell you for the dozenth time to put your cell phone away, to write your name on a worksheet, or to sit in your chair and stop yelling, just f***ing do it already.

Wuv,
Harry-sensei

P.S.: Yes We Can!

Case of the Haunted Mountain

You know what they say: if you don't take time to enjoy the finer things in life, you'll never have a chance to hemorrhage your savings at the rate of one week's pay per minibar purchase. In that spirit, Jenn and I embarked on a voyage to distant Yoshino, a mountain destination recommended by some friends. Yoshino is home to the Second Largest Wooden Building in Japan (really), which is more impressive when you realize that the Largest Wooden Building in the World is in Japan. It's also known as a nice site to plan day trips to Nara, which is funny, as we discovered the next day that Nara is considerably closer to Osaka than to Yoshino -- indeed, Nara may be closer to some foreign planets than it is to Yoshino. But that's another story entirely.

We made arrangements to stay at a ryokan, a traditional Japanese inn. That was about the extent of our knowledge of ryokans, really...that and the 30,000 yen/night price tag.

After a ride on the Oldest, Scariest Cable Car in the World (the first of many, many superlatives on this trip), we found ourselves overlooking a gorgeous scene. Sadly, our lodging was not visible from this particular vista. So in between shifts of looking at the map and shouting, we took pictures to commemorate our trip on Facebook.

Yoshinoyama is actually the Most Inconsistently Windy Place in Japan

We spent most of the day arguing about whether the place marked "やこさ" was actually our hotel, which (according to the website) is named "さこや". Japan's full of hilarious little brainteasers like that. After standing in the abandoned street for a sufficiently awkward amount of time, we uncovered another sign on the same building proving that this was our place. We were offered a "welcome drink" which we happily accepted only to find that the name was a bit misleading: it was actually more of a "welcome pudding." The Tastiest Misnomer in Japan!

Gravity costs extra at Sakoya Ryokan.

Our room was pretty fantastic. Really, the cost was reasonable considering how expensive rent is in Japan; being 15 times nicer than our apartment and 30 times bigger, we're lucky that we didn't have to pay a security deposit. On the table there is sakura tea, our Second Most Immediate Welcome Drink in Yoshino.

Having no bed to jump on yet (they set up the futon while we were at dinner), we decided to take a walk around Scenic Yoshino. There were some pretty awesome leaves...


but oddly enough, absolutely no people. I'd been warned that autumn is Yoshino's second peak season after spring, when the mountain explodes in a glorious, colorful explosion of vacationing sarariimen and their families there to see the cherry blossoms. No foot traffic, no vehicle traffic, and all the shops were closed at 4:30. Happenin'!

That night, we were treated to the dinner that was included in the cost of the room. We were led through hallways and up and down several staircases, ending up alone in a room with a huge spread of exotic, scary-ass food: unidentifiable gelatins, raw beef, and enough weirdly-colored, oddly-shaped things to recall the monkey brain scene in Temple of Doom.

I would have started with what appeared to be the desert plate set right in front of us but for the fact that that plate also featured a raw, head-on shrimp. We managed to finish what we were given, and it was all delicious, though I'm not ruling out the possibility of something bursting out of my chest for another week or two.

One of the other big draws of Sakoya is the on-site onsen, hot baths popular across Japan for purposes other than getting clean. It's just like the traditional Turkish bath, except 1. there's sake service (read: an unguarded barrel of sake right by the bath), 2. mandatory nudity, and 3. I'm always the hairiest guy in the place. No pictures of this. You're welcome.

The next morning, right before our Farewell Drink (yep), we woke up early enough to take in services at Kinbusenji Temple, the aforementioned Biggest and Oldest, Bestest Wooden Building Around.

Located right next to the Smallest, Least Impressive Wooden Building in Japan.

For more photos of the trip (and other randomness), check out this link: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2107710&id=36103018&l=c8a8bc6de6

Overall, an intimidating, awkward, expensive voyage to a mysterious locale where we understood maybe a tenth of what went on around us. That's Japan!

Internet 101: A Series of Tubes

The following is a public service message for the chronologically advanced and/or technologically deficient. It is not intended for critical purposes, but rather for entertainment and education. As the Baby Boomers say: Be thee warned, freeman varlet.

Here at "Amazing Tales of the Gaijin Patrol" (now the #4 Google result for gaijin+tales), we like three things better than anything else: cross-cultural understanding, garlic bread, and comments on our blog. Despite the inherent dishonesty of such activities, we frequently solicit comments through sternly-worded pleas or idle threats at the ends of our posts -- after all, here we are throwing our backs out getting the word to the international community, and all we look for in return is the occasional word of reaction (and, oh, maybe a book deal). We love to hear from you, in short! There are obstacles, however...computational obstacles.

We often get feedback from some of our readers who encounter difficulty with the "Comments" section of the blog. Most of these readers are...well...OK, if you have bought the Beatles' "White Album" more than three times (for instance, CD, cassette tape, vinyl, and wax cylinder) then you may have the occasional problem interfacing with the inter-webs. I don't want to turn this into a generational war, so I'll keep the focus on our peers; after all, we may not have invented it, but Generation Y does self-absorption at least as well as the Boomers (damn, and I was going to keep this civil!). Jenn and I, I believe, are of the last generation that will be able to remember the first website they ever went to (the Animorphs fansite, in my case, back in 1995) and the first generation to be turned to by prior generations for tech support help.

Again, parents, grandparents, and relatives and friends who happened to be born before "MacGyver" first aired: I hope you take no offense at any of this. We love you very much, and if my rhetoric comes off as arrogant and patronizing, just remember that it's all pathetic compensation for my generation not accomplishing anything more impressive than accumulating large collections of Beanie Babies and Pokemon.

We don't have any magical instant understanding of technology. I am perpetually baffled by the inner workings of my computer, and I am still in caveman-level awe of Google Earth. This sums up the generational situation rather well, I think. For reference: here is how to comment on any of the posts on this blog:

1. Click on the link at the bottom of the post that says "0 comments"...or, if you don't see that, any other link that contains the word "comment."

2. Type your comment in the box provided.

3. Type the letters in the word verification form, if applicable (if there's a picture with some fuzzy, slanted letters and numbers with an empty white form under it, just type what you see in the box).

4. Choose how to identify yourself: if you have a Google or Gmail account, put that in the boxes provided. If not, best to go with "Name/URL," where you can leave your name. Don't worry about the "URL" box unless you have a website that you want to plug. When you're all done, click the orange "Publish Your Comment" button. See picture.


That's about it. If you have any questions or anything you want to tell us, go ahead and give the "Comments" thing a spin! And to the next generation: if you happen to scroll up this blog post from the archives of the Global Digital Techno-Consciousness, I hope you have a good laugh on your way to help remind Grandpa Harry how to check his cyber-mail again.

Good Gaijin, You Get a Biscuit!

I've always considered language to be a friend of mine -- the kind of friend I can depend upon to help with any problem I might have so long as it doesn't involve any physical labor or effort (so, y'know, like the rest of my friends). In my day, I've received a fair amount of praise for my ability to use language, be it for a joke about video games, my master's thesis, video game-related puns, or witty bon mots built on clever, insightful cultural references that I stole from Mystery Science Theatre 3000. All of which has left me totally unprepared for the non-stop praise-fest that has taken up the last few months.

Whenever I manage to spit out a four-word-sentence or two in a restaurant or shop -- even if all I manage to say is "ramen, please" and "arigato gozaimasu" -- 50% of the time I am met with a huge smile and an enthusiastic "Aaa~, nihongo ga zyoozu desu nee!" (translated: "Oh, you are good at Japanese!").

I really had no illusions when it came to my Japanese abilities; I really didn't remember much from my university classes, just enough to apologize seven different ways (all covered in Unit 1, Chapter 1, Book 1...seriously). And I really didn't expect mangled repetitions of stock phrases to be worthy of applause. I've enjoyed the attention, definitely, but it's starting to wear thinner the longer I'm here. At my bitterest moments (7:15-8:30 a.m. daily), it comes off as a little too patronizing.

"Oh my gosh, you actually can say something in Japanese! What are the odds?"
"Oh wow, look at you! You dressed yourself this morning, with a tie and everything!"
"You finished your lunch, yes you did! Who's a good boy? Whosabujabububu?"

I have nothing to compare these experiences to except my time in Europe, where the reactions to my well-meaning, incompetent attempts at speaking the native language met vastly different results:

Sweden: "I have no idea what you just said. I'll just respond in my perfect, accentless English so we can get this over with already."
France: "Your cretinous bungling of my beautiful language makes me weep. And spit."
Belgium: "So what, you're just assuming I'm French? Pah!"
The Netherlands: "Actually, it's 'Can you direct my girlfriend and me to the train station?' Are you sure English is your native language?"

I'm sure other gaijin can relate: no matter how long you've been here, no matter how many amazing cultural experiences you've had, no matter how well you've mastered the local language and etiquette, people will always assume that you're a drooling, cowboy-hat-wearing simpleton who can't use chopsticks.

At the end of the day, I guess I'm glad that I can help people revise their opinions of foreigners. I felt the same way when I was studying in Sweden every time I went through a full day without invading and occupying another country. Barack Obama, you may not be impressing many conservatives with this little number...

...but I'll bet it impressed the hell out of every Japanese person present. I mean, he knows something about Japan! He bent slightly without falling over (or throwing up on anyone...we haven't given them very high expectations, honestly)!

OK, That's One English Lesson to Go. Would You Like Grammar With That?

9th Floor: Menswear, stationary, and the English language.

As I have recounted in other ramblings, one of Japan's most esteemed institutions of learning is the eikaiwa, a "conversation school" where businessmen learn how to make awkward small talk on airplanes and high schoolers supplement their after-school cram school studies. I've expressed some reticence when it comes to teaching at one of these private-sector after-hours schools; I have made it clear that capitalism is my most hated nemesis after Arby's and devil bears. How can it benefit ESL learners for their teachers to look at them with yen signs in their eyes, to encourage them to take as many classes as possible so they can make more cash? Surely the students would be better served by government-employed teachers who have an objective interest in the betterment of their pupils? You know, teachers who are fully trained and qualified (i.e., not me)? Rather than a base monetary incentive, teachers should be motivated to help their students by a more philosophically pure desire, such as the desire to have the whole summer off!

Well, two things have changed my mind about eikaiwas since getting a job teaching at Nichibei English Service (a wholly owned subsidiary of Nichibei Pickled Eel Co., Inc., Ltd.) on Wednesday evenings: first, I think it's probably wise to speak well of my new employer in the grand Japanese tradition (first-and-a-half: my mandatory Nichibei brain-microchipping); and second, it turns out that teaching at an eikaiwa actually isn't so bad. You've seen my commute to the dismal public school gig; here's the gleeful facade of the building where Nichibei Tennoji is housed:

Merry Christmas! Don't forget the batteries, and also an ESL education!

One of the best parts of teaching in the evenings is that my students are in the room of their own volition (or at least their parents' volition, which works just as well). Compared to a low-level classroom of 20 sleeping 15-year-olds, a group of 3-6 students from 18 to 50-something is a cinch. I can explain things in English, I can conduct classes how I like, and I can plan my own lessons!

...Provided, of course, that I follow the textbooks provided. That's really my only complaint about this gig: the textbooks are ridiculously advanced for the students' level. My introductory, never-had-English-before textbook includes dialogues with phrases like "Haven't we met before?" and "I have to cook three meals a day, seven days a week, four weeks a month for my whole family." The advanced class covers such vital conversational topics as dropped sounds and weak vowels (which, admittedly, did give me an opportunity to use "schwa" in a sentence). I'd far rather overestimate my students than underestimate them, but I fear some topics may be too advanced for even a native English speaker to handle. We'll see how my students deal with next week's lesson featuring the conditional subjunctive appositive occluded tense.

With Apologies to David Sedaris

I studied Japanese at university for three years, studying under the great Hara-sensei for two of those years (and thus, I meet the minimum time threshold to have the responsibility of avenging him if he is murdered by ninjas). As you may know, studying a foreign language for a few hours a week in a public school isn't really the quickest or best way to learn another language; I aced 6 semesters of Japanese, but that doesn't really seem to impress waiters or police officers when I mention it.

Compounding matters is the fact that Osakans are determined in their efforts to pronounce everything differently from how I've learned in class and in recent independent study of Japanese. Osaka-ben is a dialect that other native Japanese speakers claim to find incomprehensible and hilarious. Osaka-ben is stereotypically associated with gangsters and comedians; imagine, if you will, studious learners of ESL signing up for a full-immersion language camp and finding themselves being shipped to New Jersey.

Being at a loss for words is something very new for me, being both a professional English major and an amateur blowhard. No matter how thorough my Japanese education may have been, I haven't taken a class for three years, and my speed record for forgetting entire school subjects is still set at one afternoon of moderate drinking. Even if I'd just finished my classes yesterday, unexpected words crop up in daily use, words that would never be covered in a university class such as "semi-express train," "duvet," "hangover," and "recyclables." How is one to keep up with such immediate, fast-paced transactions as ordering a pizza by phone or asking a store clerk where the measuring cups are?

Fortunately, there is one thing aiding my communicative efforts here: the unifying human principle of corporate service-industry scripting. Typically, even if I have no idea what is being said to me, I can make an accurate guess at an appropriate response by judging the context of the conversation. If a waiter approaches me at a restaurant and asks "Mwnx soefisojnop snsfjion wqospz?", I can take a look at my surroundings and smile dumbly while my mind calculates at lightning speed: I've already ordered, I'm eating my food, I'm not ready to pay yet...so let's give him a hearty "I am OK." If he goes away, then I've done my part; if he stares blankly, I try more two- or three-word phrases until he leaves. Let's check out an extended example:

Waiter: "Hiuonw wonzvpon wenioanoines, awnq owpvcx?"
Me: "One peoples, thanks to you."
Waiter: "Nsqoids sdvpzsd fxs."
(I follow him to a table and smile at the other waitstaff as they spout more incomprehensibles.)
Waiter: "Wqf spfsonv wvx sywnp, qpfi alsdqegh?"
Me: (Look thoughtfully at the menu, point at one of the pictures or something written in katakana like supageetei or ramen.) "This one for eating, give me."
Waiter: "Tywnpvosklno."
(He leaves, I try vainly to read any of the ads on the wall or printed on the table. He comes back with whatever I happened to order.)
Me: "Thanks to you!"
(I eat, spilling most of it down my shirt -- I'm just good enough with chopsticks to feel offended when I'm asked if I can use them, but not so good that I have any unstained shirts left.)
Waiter: "Pwnqof vyivxons oweiq?"
Me: "Uh...OK."

And so on. I assume that any mistakes I make are considered hilarious faux pas or peccadilloes comparable to our American comedy archetype, the hilarious foreigner (or Wild and Crazy Guy).

A visual approximation of Harry's facility with Japanese.

The air space doesn't get much more special than this.

Hands down, Japan's greatest contribution to modern culture has to be karaoke. Using the latest in audio-visual technology, karaoke (literally, "empty orchestra") advances human revelry to the next level: for centuries of Friday nights, humanity has simply drunkenly belted their favorite songs at friends without concern for rhythm or key. With karaoke, however, one can do exactly the same thing but into a microphone (and thus, do it much louder). Progress in its most basic form.

Instant fame, 21st-century style. Radio star death optional.

It's no secret to anyone who knows us that Jenn and I are big fans of karaoke -- our final year at Truman State, we whiled away many happy Tuesday nights at the Dukum Inn, waiting for our turn to entertain the rest of the bar. Karaoke taps into some very primal instincts in human nature; in our case, the love of attention, and in my case, the love of showing off sophisticated musical preferences (the latter is the same instinct acted upon by males of all species -- instead of inflating neck wattles or sounding a mating call, the average 21st century douchey while male makes playlists). In its American incarnation, karaoke is fun, usually free entertainment, its enjoyment factor only slightly diminished by the high ratio of time spent singing to time spent watching drunk twentysomethings slur "IT'S PAIGE'S BIRTHDAY! HAY, PAIGE'S BIRTHDAY IS TODAY!" into the mike.

Imagine our delight, then, to find that, like haiku, Godzilla, and sushi, something was lost in karaoke's translation in America. Now here is the proper way to do karaoke: operating on the same commercial principles as the Love Hotel, you get to rent a small, windowless private room for a set amount of time. Drinks are delivered to the room, and are occasionally included in the price; karaoke usually goes better with adult beverages (again, like haiku, Godzilla, and sushi). The central advantage of this form of karaoke is that the "IT'S HER BIRTHDAY" ladies are left at the door, meaning that you only have to embarrass yourself in front of your dearest friends. And the selection of English songs is usually quite decent!


The choice of songs is a little quirky at times, but as long as you want to sing Queen, Frank Sinatra, or Madonna, you're pretty much covered. Of course, they lack some pretty important artists like the Magnetic Fields, Leonard Cohen, [deleted due to extreme pomposity - ed.] but I manage somehow, I guess.

We tried to make some videos of karaoke outings, but something about the volume of the speakers, the quality of the recording device used, and an insufficiency of pixie dust made them come out too horrible for human sensory organs to process; it's similar to a leprechaun losing its magic outside of Ireland or a kebab being inedible except at a kebab shop after 10 p.m. Here is a rough approximation of what we do on the weekends, though.

Fauna of Japan, Part 2: Winged Harbingers of Death and Other Adorable Critters

According to Shinto tradition, there is a usually-unseen spirit world lurking just out of the corners of our perception, a realm where divinities of elements and ancient sites lived with the earth and ensorcelled passing humans (mind you, this was centuries before both Harry Potter and the World of Darkness). Personally, I can understand how a culture could believe in kami when there are this many scary-ass creatures all over the place. A few non-bug cases in point:


Japan is home to the biggest, most ominous crows I've ever seen. As explained in section #4 of this scholastic journal, they are also smarter than the average crow and have designs to take over the world. So far, the ones around our house have just kept busy making running errands moments for profound senses of doom. The biggest vulnerability of your average English major? Sensitivity to foreshadowing.

Next up: Japanese Triffids.


(Not quite fauna, but bear with me.) I'm told that these are lotus flowers that just happen to be in a phase of development where they look like they can shoot swarms of angry bees. I notice that they were kept behind a tall fence and guard rail, however, so I'm free to draw my own conclusions.

Last: actual kami.

These statues are everywhere in Japan. They're called tanuki, and they're raccoon trickster-gods that are fond of sake and occasionally cannibalism. Also, forgive the vulgarity, but the statues all include the tanuki's defining physical characteristic (other than being anthropomorphic raccoons): grapefruit-sized testicles. These guys are to the Japanese pantheon what Buddy Christ is to Christianity. Also, I know from extensive research in the field of Super Mario Bros. 3 that tanuki possess the ability to turn into statues -- if I catch one of these guys in the form of an Italian plumber, I'll be sure to get pictures.

Fauna of Japan, Part 1: Spidera vs. Mecha-Cicada!

Something that's still taking getting used to about living abroad is adjusting to seeing new plants and animals in daily life -- it shouldn't be that strange, really, but every now and then I realize that I haven't seen a dandelion in months. At least I have trees with odd, somewhat sinister-looking leaves to keep me company!

For some reason this makes me think of Cheetoes. The mind's a mysterious thing, huh?

I've never been much of a plant guy, though; I like my wildlife to run, fly, and shoot electricity from its eyes (regional). Fortunately, I happen to live on the Japanese island of Honshu -- so named because "Giant Spider Island" was already taken -- where the insect life is plentiful and f'in terrifying.

We had cockroaches living in our house for awhile, but we managed to come to an agreement wherein they would stay out of sight and die horrible, horrible deaths. Also living under our roof are tiny, inoffensive-looking spiders that have an unfortunate tendency to jump with the proportionate speed and agility of Spider-Man. Plus, small greenish beetles (I call them "Japanese Beetles" because, well, hell, why not?) that emit clouds of musty stank when they're threatened, squashed, insecure, hungry, playful, or apathetic. They can also fly.

But the bugs that live with us rent-free are not nearly so scary or interesting as the bugs that live outside (hence the lack of pictures). I'm told that Japanese spiders contain poison that is non-deadly to humans, but the poison seems a little unnecessary anyway considering they can just crush small children to death with five legs tied behind their back.


Look on this photo, America (etc.), and know fear. Spiderwebs, as well you know, are invisible -- these things are, exaggeration aside (for once), about the size of a cigarette lighter from end to end, and they hang in the air on invisible sticky death-traps.


I realize that the perspective in this photo doesn't make the spider look all that big -- appallingly neon-green, sure, but not huge -- until you realize that it has an entire car wrapped in its web. The picture is blurry because of my tears of abject horror.

But it's not all spiders over here; there are also colossal centipedes:

Not pictured: the centipede's dining car and caboose.

In Japan, they like to talk about how Japan has four seasons. Like, constantly. I was puzzled by this oddly boastful claim for some time before I realized that it's Japan's way of keeping a stiff upper lip in the face of horrible seasonal plagues. "Yes, four distinct seasons!" they shout over the sound of construction-grade cicadas to steaming, sweating gaijin.

Again, we have a bit of a perspective problem here, so here are the same two dead cicadas next to Jenn's hand:

I would have used my own hand, but as you may know, my hands are so small that the cicadas would have appeared dishonestly big. Trick photography, y'know.

We've managed to keep all of these bugs out the door for now, but really, it's only a matter of time before they learn to work the knob. They are kept in check only by Japan's naturally-occurring ecosystem of horrible man-made poisons.

Big in Japan

Japan is known for its amazing forays into the world of the tiny: miniaturization is big (so to speak) over here, with Japan continually cranking out tiny cars, microcircuits, and porn comics so minute that they cannot be seen with the naked eye. On a side note, Japanese people are known for being somewhat miniature as well, as seen in such popular media as this website's sidebar, taken from some movie or another; I had been looking forward to being taller than average, actually, and had high hopes that I might be in the position of kicking sand into innocent faces and inquiring about lower-altitude weather. Sadly, this has not been the case...I am, indeed, too big to be comfortable in most of the furniture here while still being close enough to average height to feel inadequate on trains and in police lineups. But I digress.

I wanted to tell the world about the latest and greatest tiny thing coming from Japan that isn't a Pokemon:

See that? That's a tiny apple. And it's not the only one!

They come in packs, roving the country in search of fresh...sunlight. And water. I had to buy about 20 of them, most of which are still in the Gaijin Fridge. Turns out about all they're good for is spectacular feats of forced perspective.

This is my publicity photo for the next logical step in the angsty-tween-vampire craze: Twilight Babies. (Note to any Mormon Vampire Authoresses reading this: please don't sue me!)

And the best thing about these new Nano-Apples? I'm told they're High Definition.

P.S.: I have all of next week off in observance of Midterms Week (a festival during which Americans are ritually sent home without pay), and it is my official promise to you, the readers who make this possible, that I will try to post something on the blog every day next week. And that's an Internet Promise, which is as good as gold and can be redeemed for 10 cents off shipping at baconnaise.com.

Where the Magic Happens

And now for part 3 in a continuing series of blog posts about work that will, presumably, continue until I retire or die. The last blog post covered the journey: now for what lies at the end of the rainbow!

Sakishima High School is in Port Town Nishi, part of the larger Nanko Port Town area of Osaka. It's actually a really pretty place, from what I've seen; lots of huge project-type apartment buildings, lots of trees, parks, the occasional shopping center, even a few nude statues in front of the school (I know, shocking! They probably don't even have the 10 Commandments posted anywhere in the building, if you can believe it!). I've been told that this is one of the more economically depressed areas, home to factory workers and gangsters. I remarked about how pretty all the trees were, and I got a scoff and something about how that's "unusual for this area." Your guess is as good as mine.


This is the English office. All of the other teachers are cooped up in the much bigger room next door. Our cubicle technology is years ahead of theirs, as you can see.


And here's my desk. Most of the things on it were left by the guy who had my job before me. Incidentally, he quit halfway through his contract to go surfing in Bali. Also, his name was James Cameron. Not to sure what to make of these ominous portents.


No robots in my school (economically depressed, remember?), but they do have a TV-ray-gun. Or maybe this has something to do with that whole analog-digital changeover.


The view from the English office. I wish I had anything to say about the huge, sinister-looking black tower in the distance there. Anything beyond a halfhearted Mega Man/Lord of the Rings reference, anyway. The real view in the office, though, is this picture, which sits right behind my desk (possibly NSFW?):

Words fail me. The technical term for this would be yaoi, but knowing that doesn't help explain what it's doing in the English office. My only assumption is that 1. a teacher made this and is proud enough of it to leave it at school, or 2. a student made this for a teacher. Neither of these helps explain anything either. As if I had enough difficulty focusing on looking busy, I've got these guys looking over my shoulder.

Those are most of the sights, really. A couple more brief accounts of the Japanese educational system in action:

1. My students still struggle with difficult questions such as "How are you?" -- we covered potential replies to this for about 10 minutes in class -- but during a Halloween activity, my students are correctly able to say "chainsaw" when they see a picture of Jason Voorhees and identify Frankenstein's Monster as a "homunculus."
2. Bumping into one of my students outside the English office, I was greeted with a "hellohowahyou," which I happily replied to. The student, hair perfectly spiked and dyed, then said "cyamerondiazu" and looked at me expectantly. I just smiled dumbly; what the hell is the proper response to (what I assumed was meant to be) "Cameron Diaz"? He and his friends laughed, and I retreated back into the English office. Next time, though, I'll be ready to enthusiastically describe my long-running friendship with Ms. Diaz.