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.