instruction or enlightenment, especially when it is moderately fun and predominantly useless
Did you know that it actually costs 1.4 cents to make a penny? Or that about 1,000 pennies are made per second? Visit Time for some more fun tidbits about that ubiquitous little coin.
(Aside: Japan’s version of the penny is a silver plastic thing that not only is worthless but feels that way too. At least the penny has some heft to it!).
For the second time in four months, the U.S. Embassy has warned its citizens not to party in Roppongi (the area of Tokyo where we live) after a wave of reports about drink-spiking. Luckily, Coley and I emerged unscathed. That’s the way we remember it, at least!
I forgot to mention a phenomenal quote that Coley heard while standing in line for a Kirin at the ND Japan Bowl tailgate. He struck up a conversation with another gaijin who took note of the hot and humid weather with the following observation:
It’s so hot I feel like I’m in Sturgis, South Dakota and about to get my ass kicked!
That, my friends, is a great quote. For those who (like me) weren’t familiar with the reference, Sturgis is the site of one of the biggest annual motorcycle rallies in the U.S.
In a break from the standard routine, we made peace with quite a few club songs over our crazy Tokyo weekend. Below is a smattering of my top picks. Admittedly, these songs stray far from the beaten path for us. But you’ve got to admit that they encourage dancing even among those of us cursed with two left feet (save for the last song, which is a bit slower but needed to be included because it was on Rudd’s SNL show). Thanks to NBC’s lame copyright rules, the only song missing is Andy Sandberg’s wonderful piece from his “Everyone’s a Critic” sketch with Rudd. I highly encourage all of you to check that skit out on Hulu (which I can’t access from abroad). Just beautiful.
After a six-week whirlwind travel schedule, I’m finally (and happily) back “home” in Tokyo. The Mrs. won’t join me here until mid-August (she’s following the standard expat schedule that involves the wives and kids spending the bulk of the summer back home in the states), so Hurley and I are alone for the next month or so. Crazy things are expected to happen…but they won’t.
The day after I returned from abroad, I had the pleasure of experiencing a rare but exciting event – a buddy from the states came to visit me. Using the Notre Dame Japan Bowl as a hook, I convinced one of my best friends, Coley, to come out for a couple days. A fellow subway alum himself (though he’s got a greater claim to Irish fandom since his dad played on the 1966 national championship team), I figured he’d be intrigued by the chance to see a collection of ND alumni play against Japan’s national football team. If anything, it was sure to make for some fun unintentional comedy. Sure enough, he bit. And so began a four-day orgy of incredible food, Lacavulin 16, back-handed high-fives, and Tokyo night clubs (namely Feria), sprinkled with a healthy dosage of Paul Rudd (his recent turn on SNL was magical, especially the digital short with Andy Sandberg), Sacha Fierce, mediocre football, Breakerz, drunk dials to the wives back home, and bouts of philosophical existentialism.
Regarding the main event itself, the football game turned out to be a bit of a drag. Though the tailgating was just what the doctor ordered (the free-flowing beer and brats helped heal our wounds from the previous night), the game was quite possibly the most horrific display of football I’ve ever seen. That might be a stretch, but it was really, really bad. Believe it or not, the Japanese field a decent national football team, just recently placing third in the World Championships. However, they didn’t have much to show on Saturday, save for an early field goal that put them ahead 3-0. The rest of the game was defined by Irish brute strength. The offensive line paved the way for the the power running of Jay Vickers who, among other things, threw a stiff-arm for the ages that saw a poor Japanese DB get thrown five yards like a rag doll. The defensive line managed just enough pressure on the crafty Japanese QB to render their aerial assault largely useless. And Mike Goolsby – a freakish athlete when seen up close – did the rest to help the Irish to a 19-3 victory.
What was annoying about the display was the incredibly lame gameplan put together by legendary Irish coach Lou Holtz. Ever the competitor, he was determined to win, aesthetics be damned. The result was a game of smashmouth that saw the Irish literally attempt just one downfield pass the entire game. The rest of the offensive gameplan involved about 70% Jay Vickers, 10% Ray Zellars and 20% QB sneaks featuring not Tony Rice but Ambrose Wooden, who didn’t play a down of QB in college (and is better remembered as #22 in this video).
We salvaged an otherwise bland affair with a turn on the Thunder Dolphin, a roller coaster in the Tokyo Dome City amusement park that is as fun as its name is cheesy. After the obligatory drunken fast food stop, we crashed pretty hard once we made it home. Having not left Feria the night before until 5 AM (it was literally daylight when we emerged from the club’s dark confines, providing a bit of a shock to the senses), we were at that point running on fumes. Our sluggishness resulted in us arriving to the Irish afterparty at the Ritz around 10:30 PM, just in time to see the last remnants of the event stream outside, leaving half-eaten mounds of party fare in their wake. The only saving grace for us was a quick pat on the back to Lou and the securing of four gameday hats. Otherwise, the affair was a wasted one for a couple of blokes that coughed up some serious coin for the honor of attending.
Nonetheless, the long weekend scored an unmitigated success on all fronts. Below are a few photos to serve as evidence that we were actually there (we both managed to operate sans camera all weekend, leaving us to rely solely on my Blackberry which, as you can see, is one terrible camera).
Here’s a shot of the game from roughly midfield:
This may or may not be Coley and me:
These are unidentifiable fish balls that we purchased from a stadium vendor. We each took a bite and are still trying to eliminate the aftertaste. That little white/gray speck snuggled at the top is an octopus remnant spit out by yours truly.
In the next post, I’m going to put together a little playlist from our weekend. At the very least, Coley is sure to get a kick out of the compilation.
Cheers! And Go Irish!
Some good stuff today from Slate magazine, including:
Japan has turned into something of an international laughingstock given its over-the-top response to the Swine Flu, where actions range from hazmat teams boarding planes from overseas and scanning everyone onboard to hand-washing disinfectants posted throughout building lobbies to office visitors being required to wear face masks to businesses completely forbidding their employees from traveling abroad. In the midst of the hysteria was this gem of a headline last week: “Paranoid Hospitals Turning Away Those With Fever, or With A Foreign Friend”. (via the Mainichi Daily News and Metropolis).
Hoping to discourage noisy young people from hanging out at a park in Tokyo, a local ward will begin broadcasting annoying “mosquito-like” buzzing sounds from 11 PM to 5 AM everyday using a device developed by a British scientist. The high-frequency sounds of about 18 kilohertz are inaudible to older people.
While on the bike at the gym today, I watched part of a Japanese professional soccer game. In addition to the incredibly amateur quality of the gameplay, I was taken with a sign that I saw being held by someone in the crowd. It read, “Beat Your Rival” and the owner of that there sign was waving it about in very proud fashion. Now stop and think about how generic and unmoving that is. Beat your rival? My high school did better than that. At least we had things like “Chop Down The Lumberjacks” and “Patriots Waterboard” (ok, ok, I made that second one up). But how lame is “beat your rival”? Can you imagine attending a Red Sox-Yankees game and seeing someone in the stands at Fenway holding up that sign?
While out running errands today, I passed an average-looking, middle-aged Japanese woman sporting a t-shirt that definitely deserves a special “Random Japan” shout-out. The shirt was a rusty brown with a big star in the middle. The star was outlined in hot pink and located within it was a blurred photo of what looked like a cowboy clutching a microphone. Emblazoned across the front of the shirt were the words, “The Fuckin Baby”. Mind you, this woman was average in every respect and nothing about her screamed “edgy”.
Curious to know if I was missing out on some obscure band or comedy troupe, I Googled “The Fuckin Baby” and came across no such thing. Instead, I stumbled upon a MySpace page whose author qualifies as douchebag of the highest order. Click here for some wonderful unintential comedy. To give you a taste, this little tool from Jersey lists his occupation as “full-time hustla”, quotes income of “$250,000 and higher” (who in the world posts their income on these sites?!?!) and lists his high school major as “fincial advisor”. Beautiful stuff.
Today is a holiday in Japan. It’s part of the Golden Week string of holidays, which affords the working public four days off over the course of one calendar week. Like most gaijin, I usually just celebrate the virtues of having a day off without taking note of the actual holiday itself. But today, feeling an urge to identify with my adopted compatriots, I looked it up. Today is Constitution Memorial Day, when the Japanese celebrate the pacifist constitution that the Americans thrust upon them after World War II. Interestingly, today’s local paper carried the headline that 64% of Japanese do not favor revising Article 9 of the Japanese constitution, which basically strips the country’s ability to wage war. I would characterize as a good thing the fact that most Japanese oppose war. I guess having the unfortunate distinction of being the only country in history to be on the receiving end of not one but two atomic bombs helps bring the idea of war into finer focus. If only more nations agreed, we could focus our international stratagem on maximizing things like sporting prowess rather than on devising ways to destroy one another. But that’s a topic for another day.
One of the more meaningful benefits associated with holidays is the ability to sleep in. As a generally sleep-deprived species, these days are special indeed, the physical equivalent of manna from heaven. However, my ability to enjoy such luxury is severely impeded by a 10-kilogram furball whose hunger for attention makes Paris Hilton look like an agoraphobe. You see, our precious dog, Hurley Sue, constantly needs to feel the presence of either Lizzi or me. This means she either needs to establish a direct physical connection or be located somewhere within a three-foot radius at all times. Whenever we leave a room, Hurley is guaranteed to be following close behind. When we are lying on the couch watching an old Woody Allen film – like yesterday, when we revisited the wonderful Annie Hall – Hurley needs to position herself somewhere on the couch that allows her to always be touching one of us. During such times, she can often be found either perched on top of the couch right above Lizzi’s head (she has this thing about lounging in elevated positions, making us convinced she’s part cat) or sitting on my lap gnawing a chew toy. When we sleep at night, she can be found nuzzled squarely in between Lizzi and me, forming the perfect Hurley Sandwich. My guess is this is Hurley’s version of perfection – an ability to enjoy an hours-long physical connection to both of us.
When I’m up late at night on conference calls – or polishing off an Eddyfication post – Hurley can usually be found curled up right next to our desk in one of her three beds spread throughout the house (in fact, she’s snoozing in that very spot as I write this). Once I finish and head off to bed, she dutifully follows close behind, her clickety-clacks trailing me along our hardwood floor like bread crumbs left to form a trail.
She also insists on waking up with me each morning, when she again assumes the position next to our desk while I check email and sip coffee before heading out for my morning sweat. When I leave for the gym, she clickety-clacks her way back to bed where she plops herself onto my pillow and snuggles up next to Lizzi. Upon my return, I usually make a little extra noise in opening the door to ensure that she hears me. Without fail, I eventually hear the clickety-clack coming down the hall, whereupon I find Hurley in a state of subdued nirvana. As she shakes off the cobwebs of sleep, it’s clear she doesn’t know whether to be more excited at my presence or by the prospect that my arrival typically means we’re about to head out for our morning walk.
This is all fun and good. It is truly rewarding to see how much enjoyment she gets in being with us, and there’s a charming familiarity in the routine of it all. But the bloom comes off the rose when I try to sleep in. On these days, Lizzi often needs to get up earlier than me so she can attend (or teach) a yoga class. Hurley is usually preoccupied with being around Lizzi as she preps for class, leaving me to enjoy a prolonged and peaceful slumber in a bed made bigger by their absence.
But when Lizzi leaves, the gloves come off. Immediately upon the shutting of that front door, Hurley makes a beeline for the bed. As if on subconscious command, I’m awakened by a forceful and rapid succession of clickety-clacks that grows ever louder as she makes her way to the bedroom. Once she arrives at the edge of the bed, she turns into the “Hurlster” with a move perfected during our many wrestling bouts. With the gracefulness of an Olympic gymnast hitting a trampette, she leaps onto the edge of the bed with enough momentum that she hurls herself clear to the other side in one fell swoop. The hang time she achieves is admittedly quite impressive, and she meets her target with striking precision. As her paws come crashing down on my head, she then proceeds to deliver a barrage of licks that immediately renders her prey defenseless. If I attempt to pull the covers over my head, she manages to find the one spot of exposed skin to go to work on. If I manage to envelop myself in a hermetically-sealed blanket cocoon, she hops off the bed, comes over to my side, and proceeds to whine at me until I finally give in.
Begrudgingly, I concede defeat and roll out of bed, a development welcomed by Hurley with the utmost exuberance. You can tell when she’s really happy because she shakes her bum with such force that it appears the tail is wagging the body rather than the other way around. And, of course, once I take up my usual position in front of the computer, Hurley can be found snoring away in her little bed next to the desk, making me wonder what the point of it all was in waking me up. Alas, I’m sure she has her reasons. Even if she doesn’t, that’s OK. As we’ve come to know, this is Hurley’s world and we’re just visiting.
According to a survey by the Kirin Institute of Food and Lifestyle, 71% of newly-hired employees say they would give priority to drinking with coworkers rather than “friends and partners”.
Here’s a nice little view into Japan’s socialist tendencies. According to today’s Asahi Shimbun, a real estate company in Fukuoka has been ordered to pay a former college senior ¥750,000 (~$7,500) for retracting a job offer last year. According to the judge presiding over the case, “canceling a job offer on grounds of an unprecedented recession is not a justifiable cause.” Apparently immaterial in the eyes of the judge is the economic shitstorm underway just outside his window and the impact it’s having on the ability of businesses to not only pay their employees but to remain going concerns. Indeed, the Japanese real estate industry has seen multiple bankruptcies over the past several months. Stupid stubborn stupid.
I read this morning that Alan Greenspan considers men’s underwear sales to be a prescient economic indicator. Apparently, demand for the product is generally rather consistent, and declines in purchases can be interpreted as men choosing to sacrifice clean undies for more critical needs (like food, or the latest Damien Hirst animal dipped in formaldehyde). A bit unconventional to be sure, but I can see how monitoring such statistics could be effective. It reminds me of a less official approach that I’ve heard some Japanese economists promote: the shorter the skirts that Japanese women are wearing, the better off the economy is. I’m not kidding.
Along those lines, I’d like to promote my own socially-informed economic indicator: the brighter the tie colors of Japanese salarymen, the better the economy. Being famous for wearing dark suits and dark ties, which aligns nicely with the generally morose view of the economy most Japanese have embraced since the early 1990s, I’m going to guess that flush pockets and optimistic outlooks might lead businessmen to be more expressive with their neckwear.
Spring has officially arrived in Tokyo, an event marked by the blooming of cherry blossoms across the city.
One thing I’ve come to notice as I walk the streets of Tokyo is that cars leaving garages are given priority over those cars already on the street. The man pictured adjusting his hat above – decked out in full uniform that includes a tie and white gloves – is responsible for guiding cars into and out of the parking garage at the base of our apartment building. He doesn’t guide cars to specific parking spots or anything like that (in fact, there are no “spots” since cars slide onto a platform that robotically tucks the car away somewhere). Rather, he just helps with the entry and exit. His job consists of waiting for a car to approach the mouth of the garage, at which point he runs into the opposite side of the street so that he can wave the turning car into the parking complex. For cars leaving the garage, he jumps into the street to block any oncoming traffic so the car can make a smooth exit without having to wait for traffic to ease up before leaving. That’s what he does all day long, rain or shine. The funny part is that the street in front of him isn’t even remotely busy. These “turning into/out of parking lot attendants” can be found all over Tokyo.
A man at Tokyo’s main train station pushed a 60-year old woman onto the tracks as a train approached the other day. Luckily, the woman managed to avoid the oncoming train and only suffered minor head injuries. When questioned by the police, the man indicated that he pushed the woman, whom he did not know, because he “wanted to die and hoped to be executed”. I’ll let you connect the break in logic there.
Caught the exciting finish to the World Baseball Classic today, which saw Japan defeat its archrival South Korea 5-3 in extra innings (no love lost between these two countries given their history). I watched along with some of my Japanese colleagues, each of whom expressed more emotion in the course of an hour than I’ve seen over the past 2.5 years combined. Every solid play by the Japanese was greeted with a dramatic “yoshhhhhhhhhhhh!”, which sounded like a mix of Homer Simpson’s trademark “doh!”, someone being surprised with a playful jab to the stomach, and moviegoers asking their talkative neighbors to “shush”. Turns out “yosh” is the fun-times equivalent of “good”.
In any event, I’m happy for my adopted homeland. Let’s be honest, the Japanese could use every bit of good news they can muster these days. So while the economy sinks into oblivion and the ruling political class continues to explore new depths of ineptitude, at least Japan can take solace in the notion that its baseball is the best the world has to offer.
The employment situation in Japan makes for fascinating study. Basically, Japan is a socialist country in everything but name. As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, China is substantially more capitalist than Japan (note we are referring here to economic systems rather than political ones), which would seem to run counter to conventional wisdom. But I assure you that is indeed the case. One of the ways that socialism manifests itself in Japan is on full display when one takes time to observe the workforce. Looking around, it’s pretty easy to see that this is a country that is built on the ideal of full employment, which may not be evident in the official statistics but the situation on the ground seems to suggest otherwise (though the official unemployment rate in Japan has always been relatively low, particularly when compared to its industrialized counterparts). Remember, this is the land of lifetime employment, where it is virtually unheard of for employees to be laid off or fired for cause. Instead, underperformers are shuffled to other departments, and attempts to avoid layoffs lead to requests for older workers to take early retirement so companies can keep their younger (and cheaper) employees.
Now that we’ve laid the groundwork, let me move on to the point of this post. Over the course of my two years here, it’s become abundantly clear that there are ridiculous amounts of jobs in Japan that serve very little purpose other than to fill another uniform and provide another paycheck. I come across examples of this phenomenon virtually everyday, whether it’s seeing four floor workers at a clothing boutique the size of a bathtub or watching a team of three construction workers stand watch over the one colleague who is actually working. Each time I witness something like this, I always think to myself about how much fun it would be to write about each occurrence as part of a new series of posts on random Japanese jobs. So consider this the first post in what will no doubt evolve to become a wonderful series on all things wasteful and unproductive in Japan.
The above photo shows a construction worker “standing guard” outside of a worksite. This is part of the Roppongi Hills complex where we live. It’s got lots of shops and restaurants, mostly of the hoity toity variety (right above where this was shot is one of our favorite Italian restaurants, Il Mulino). Obviously, the workers are renovating a shop that is hidden behind the elaborate board you see there in blue. In addition to being completely blocked off to pedestrian traffic by the big blue cover, there are cones connected by rope to provide another (and totally unnecessary) level of security. In case you are an absolute moron and can’t figure out that you are probably not supposed to wander into the worksite, there is a big sign right by the door warning outsiders against entry. And just to make sure, they’ve got this little guy standing guard outside, hard hat and all. You may be able to make out the little wand that he’s holding with his white gloves. He uses that to usher along those who walk by him. So if I were to just be walking by, with absolutely no intention of entering his workspace, he will go out of his way to point his wand in the direction that I’m walking while using his other arm to usher me along (without making contact). Thanks, bud. I would’ve been lost without you. This is obviously a total and complete waste of time and money, yet you see people like this at every construction site in Tokyo. Unbelievable.
There was a fantastic piece by Masaru Tamamoto of the World Policy Institute in today’s IHT. It perfectly captured that strange mix of forboding, risk aversion, and complacency that has come to define Japan for me.
But what most people don’t recognize is that our crisis is not political, but psychological. After our aggression – and subsequent defeat – in World War II, safety and predictability became society’s goals. Bureaucrats rose to control the details of everyday life. We became a nation with lifetime employment, a corporate system based on stable cross-holdings of shares, and a large middle-class population in which people are equal and alike…
…Japan desperately needs change, and this will require risk. Risk-taking is not common among the bureaucratically controlled. You won’t find many signs on Japanese beaches saying, “Swim at your own risk. No lifeguard on duty.” If that sign were to appear, many Japanese would likely ask the authorities to tell them if it is safe to swim.
From Lizzi
Last summer, I started taking advantage of our gym’s swimming pool. Tokyo summers are brutally hot and the indoor pool was a perfect way to cool down and get a workout in. One particular afternoon, I was in the middle of my swim when I noticed an older Japanese man enter the pool area. I did a double take when he exposed the leopard print speedo he was sporting under his robe. This was not a fit man with washboard abs and tight pecs (which would have warranted a MUCH different double take). Instead, he had a big Asahi beer belly and man boobs…not a body that should be allowed to wear a speedo.
Anyway, I carried on with my swim and tried my best to ignore the gross view underwater. The man was walking laps, which is a big thing here. The Japanese LOVE walking laps in the pool, which they make sound like real exercise by punctuating their laps with sporadic grunts and lots of twisting at the hips. There’s even a lane specifically dedicated to walking, which swimmers are required to vacate to make way for their lazier peers (granted, some people need to rehab sports injuries or are simply too old to do much else, and these folks are not the subject of my disdain). So, I was on one side swimming while Mr. Leopard Print walked his laps. Suddenly, I heard a sound that made my skin crawl. It’s that noise that guys make when they’re getting a phlegm ball up from the back of their throats. I can’t stand that noise – like nails on a chalkboard. The man gave a few good hocks and spit the loogie…INTO THE POOL! I couldn’t believe it. Number one – are you f*&king kidding me!?!? Number two – why would anyone want to swim/walk in their own mucus? How could this possibly be considered acceptable behavior, particularly in society so obsessed with cleanliness?
Needless to say, my swim was over and I took a triple dosage of Vitamin C as soon as I got home. The sad part to all of this is that this was not an isolated occurrence. Indeed, Matt and I have borne witness to multiple such violations of the pool code.
As promised, we’ve got our first guest blogger. After watching me spend hours typing away on Eddyfication updates, Lizzi has decided to try her hand at blogging. The below is a story that she shared with a few close friends and family shortly after arriving in Tokyo. Enjoy!
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My first (and favorite) encounter with the bizarre residents of this strange city was a young woman who frequented the yoga studio at which I trained (and now teach).
She usually enters class 15 – 20 minutes late, which is poor form in the yoga world. This is the girl who has crap spilling everywhere and is a disheveled mess – there’s nothing discrete or orderly about her. We all know people like this.
There aren’t many studios in the states that will allow someone to enter a class that late. Here, however, this is accepted. I started noticing her because she’d come to class wearing odd clothes. Her tank tops were cable knit sweaters and she’d often get so hot during class that she’d end up wearing a sports bra with a cargo vest over it. It was strange, and some days I found myself checking the clock in anticipation of her arrival, the spectacle to be seen.
One day in particular she came into class (late, of course) and threw her mat down directly in front of me. She was wearing a turtleneck sweater that was sleeveless and went down to her thighs with black tights underneath. If I saw her walking down the street in such an outfit I probably would have thought it was an odd top. But in a yoga class this qualified as really out there! I tried my hardest to stay in the yoga zone. I told myself over and over again, “Don’t worry about her – just focus on the breath. Inhale….exhale…Ahhhhhh.” But then…
There it was. Her “vajayjay” (as Oprah would say) in my face. Yes, she had tights on under the sweater dress. Thin wear-to-the-office type tights – Donna Karen opaques. Not thick running pants that look like tights, or cycling pants that look like tights, or – here’s a thought – YOGA PANTS!!!
No people…tights that you can completely see through when you put your hands and feet on the ground and throw your ass in the air – otherwise known as Downward Facing Dog. I must add here that she was not wearing undies. I’ve never understood the thong-free move with tights but that’s another issue. Right now we have to stay focused on the problem at hand…the yoga porn star.
There in my secure environment, on my yoga mat, in my personal sanctuary that was a yoga studio, I was violated. I was basically positioned to give this chick her yearly pap smear. For the rest of the class the only thing I thought about was NOT looking up. I’ve never hated a posture as much as I hated downward facing dog that day. In fact, that pose has never been the same for me. I have a mental scar from seeing her bits and pieces up close and WAY too personal.
Aside from coming to class late, this little gem leaves early too – interrupting the energy everyone had worked up. I had no chance to tell her that I had some extra yoga pants she could have if she needed them. No chance to tell her that she ought to think about a Brazilian wax if she insists on displaying her merchandise like that (I know – disgusting. Imagine how I felt). Even if I did want to say something nice to make her aware of her clothing (or lack thereof!) “mishap”, she never gave me the opportunity.
She still shows up to classes all the time – always comes late and leaves early. But I NEVER leave myself in a position to be directly behind her! No ma’am, flash me once, shame on you! Flash me twice…no way in hell!
Japan’s Finance Minister, Shoichi Nakagawa, made a complete fool of himself at last weekend’s G7 summit in Rome when he held a press conference that showed him slurring his speech and speaking incoherently.
And dozing off:
Of course, Nakagawa-san blamed it all on a nasty mix of cough medicine, jetlag and “a couple sips” of wine. Could’ve happened to any of us, really. Of course, just like any discerning YouTuber, his fellow countrymen know better – the minister has been caught in similarly-disheveled states before while in professional settings. So as shocking as this little snafu was, it didn’t necessarily come out of left field.
Nonetheless, I find it hard to blame the guy. After all, Japan’s economy shrank by 3.3% during the fourth quarter of 2008 (an annualized pace of almost 13%!) and some prognosticators are calling for a depression to take hold very soon. (There’s a reason brewers are considered recession-resistant, you know). And I’m told there’s lots of wine in Italy, so when in Rome…
…Never require the aid of an ambulance in Tokyo. I read today that the average ambulance response time in our lovely city is a whopping 47.2 minutes!! By comparison, the national average in the U.S. is roughly 10 minutes. The best Japan can do is 25.4 minutes in Toyama Prefecture, which is about three hours northwest of Tokyo by shinkansen. Doh!
I committed a major public offense today while walking our dog, Hurley. While I normally make good on my promise to be a solid, upstanding citizen by carrying a plastic bag to help remove any trace of Hurley’s “pit stops”, today marked an uncomfortable exception. As she usually does, Hurley came to a stop in her normal spot and proceeded to do the “dookie dance”, which is what we call her tendency to trace a small circle as she scampers about in search of the perfect spot to release her imprisoned turds. This spot happens to be right outside the gates of a local high school, which is normally sparsely populated since my walks are typically early morning or early evening. Today, however, the walk was around noon, so we had plenty of company. As Hurley proceeded to do her business, I was overcome by a sense of panic. Shuffling through the pockets of my pants and jacket, I quickly realized that I was traveling sans plastic bag. Given the pristine cleanliness of all things Japan, this was a highly undesirable development. The horror!
Embarrassed, I took a quick survey of my surroundings. Some high school kids were making their way towards us but I knew they wouldn’t much mind the gift Hurley left behind. They were too busy making fun of one another and/or fiddling with their cell phones. And the worst they could do was point and laugh in a geeky, Jap-o-neesy kind of way. No harm there. But then I turned around and noticed a little old lady shuffling up the hill in our direction, maybe 20 yards back. This spelled trouble. It’s usually the old-timers that begrudge all things gaijin. Worried things would soon take a turn for the worst, I coaxed Hurley along so that we could quickly get on with our walk and out of shouting distance. Soon, the old woman would find our steaming lump of foreign disrespect, so I wanted to make sure she didn’t see enough of us to make a positive ID in future police lineups.
I’m now having fun imagining the potential fallout of this little indiscretion. Enraged, the woman no doubt phoned the local police to report her horrific finding. Sharing her dissatisfaction with that most evil act, the police responded en masse. An All Points Bulletin – or the Japanese equivalent – was issued soon after, calling on all local units to track down and find these perpetrators who, once found, would be prosecuted with the utmost prejudice. Considered enemies of the state, full use of force was given the green light.
For those of you interested in what universal healthcare looks like in a nanny state, click here. It’s a little note Lizzi and I received in our mailbox the other day. Kinda funny on a couple levels.
More fun happenings from the land of the 5 PM jingle (those who have visited understand the jingle reference).
One of the most amusing things about Japan is the naming convention for all things “Engrish”. A lot of the names are either funny plays on the pronunciation or simply so random that they invite furrowed brows of confusion. As an example, see the below cereal box that solicits a chuckle each time I see it.
Reading through this week’s edition of Metrolopis (Japan’s number one English magazine) and came across a few tidbits that I found worth sharing:
Round two in my series of tidbits from the book Hakagure: The Way of the Samurai.
To calm one’s mind, one swallows his saliva. This is a secret matter. When one becomes angry, it is the same. Putting spittle on one’s forehead is also good. In the Yoshida school of archery, swallowing one’s spittle is the secret principle of the art.
One of the primary benefits I usually cite of living in Japan is the consistently high quality of the food. Whether munching on a late night burger at McDonald’s, sitting down for a nice Italian meal, or grabbing a bento box at the local convenience store, I can always rest assured that the food has been prepared with the freshest ingredients in the cleanest of environments.
Well, the flipside of such gastrological luxury is a painstaking and often silly dedication to preparatory rules. In order to assure the highest quality food, it would appear that the Japanese love for rules (and coloring inside the lines) extends to not only how they prepare the food but also to how they serve it. An example – I once ordered a club sandwich at one of the Western-style restaurants in the Grand Hyatt Tokyo. The sandwich came with bacon; however, I – being in the mood to conserve on the pork intake that day – asked that my sandwich be served sans-bacon. Simple request, no? Not so much. Below is a rough treatment of my exchange with the restaurant’s waitress:
Me: Can I have the club sandwich please? But with no bacon.
Waitress: But it comes with bacon.
Me: Yeah, I know, but I’d rather not have the bacon so can you please just prepare it without?
Waitress: Eto ne (Japanese equivalent of a grimaced “uhhh, I don’t know”). I’m sorry. It comes with bacon.
Me: Seriously? OK then. I’ll just remove it myself.
I revisit this glorious moment because I was reminded of such stringent adherence to the rules as I ordered takeout form the Hard Rock Cafe last night. As it turns out, the restaurant has a special takeout menu that reduces an otherwise diversified choice of options to a heavily streamlined version barely filling one page. Nonetheless, I was able to find what Lizzi and I wanted, so I ventured forth undettered. But I wasn’t out of the woods yet, as complications were right around the corner. The drama ensued when I requested that Lizzi’s veggie burger be served with a small side salad rather than fries. The guy I was ordering from was totally confused by the request (this was not a language breakdown, I assure you). After a frustrating few minutes of repeating the request and him responding with objections mixed with confused facial distortions, he decided that our logjam was cause for intervention from higher powers. So, along comes the manager, who kindly informs me of exactly what the first guy did – the veggie burger comes with fries. Again, I explain my small exception request. After a few more back-and-forths, the manager reluctantly confessed that they were not comfortable providing the salad because it would be “damaged” during takeout. Damaged?!?! Thinking about how ridiculous that statement was, I persisted. Finally, the manager acquiesced but not before telling me that they could not guarantee the quality of the salad. I responded by saying that I would happily bear the risk of the salad being handled roughly on the way home, thank you. After a special consultation with the cooks, my modified order was on its way to being filled. After all the handwringing, I was half-expecting the salad to be a monstruous concoction with some sort of special vegetable that immediately begins to disintegrate once introduced to open air. Alas, the salad was a ridiculously simple one – some lettuce, a tomato slice or two, and some red onions. Maybe a cruton too. All packed in a small aluminum box with a clear plastic top. Rocket science it was not, though I am convinced the manager lost a wink or two of sleep last night on the basis of the decision that was made.
And while waiting for my food, I got to take in some interactions between a married couple eating dinner. The man looked Western (probably American) and had tattoos sleaved on both arms, a shaved head and a goatee. He didn’t look threatening at all. Rather, he looked small, with a very slight build and the early signs of an emerging beer belly protruding from underneath his sweater. He actually looked like a dork trying to dress the part of cool. Meanwhile, the woman was Japanese in a very classic way – pretty, well-dressed, soft-spoken, demure. What amazed me more than the odd couple they made optically was their behavior. One of the things Western men often claim to love most about Japanese women is their subservience. After all, Japan remains massively machismo when compared to its Western counterparts. Well, sure enough, I watched in awe as the woman took the steak dish that the two were sharing and dutifully cut the meat and veggies for her husband, only to wait to take her portion until after he had multiple helpings first. Gotta love it!
The other night, a very dear friend of ours here in Japan gave me a book called Hagakure: The Book of the Samurai. Knowing my love for observing Japan through a sometimes cynical (yet always respectful!) lens, she figured it would make a perfect gift, and she was so very right. The book is basically a collection of philosophical tenets that have been handed down over the past three hundred years or so in Japan. As I make my way through the text, I plan to share the more interesting insights with my loyal readers. These postings will predominantly be designed to either illuminate or humor, and my guess is the line between the two will often be blurred.
Without any further ado, the first Hagakure posting:
A person who is said to be proficient at the arts is like a fool. Because of his foolishness in concerning himself with just one thing, he thinks of nothing else and thus becomes proficient. He is a worthless person.
Today was the most crowded I have seen things in Japan. Being the emperor’s birthday, everyone had the day off and apparently decided to swamp the streets and malls en masse. There must’ve been three people per square foot in Roppongi (my area of town), causing even the most patient among us to tempt their inner Dick Cheney (hey, little lady standing on my foot and screaming into your mobile, go f*&k yourself!). Things were so bad that people were actually waiting in line to read the directory at my local mall – I kid you not.
Speaking of losing one’s patience, I’ve finally decided to give up the practice of making way for people who cross my path. You know how most civilized people do their best to avoid bumping into others as they walk along their way? Well, that doesn’t really exist in Japan, which tends to be populated by people who are completely oblivious to the idea of giving way when they walk to and fro. Talk about tunnel vision, the Japanese are notorious for zeroing in on their destination and paying absolutely no attention to who or what may be in their path. In the U.S., people are deathly afraid of bumping into others, a fear likely borne from the perfectly legitimate concern that the person you bump could very well respnd by punching (or shooting!) you in the face. In Japan, there is no such danger, which has clearly gone to the heads of pedestrians who take such safety as license to bump with extreme frequency. After doing the expat dance along the streets for the better part of the past two years, I’ve finally decided to lower my shoulder and plow through. I take particular joy in bowling over those who wander out of stores without looking left or right before making their leap (a massive pet peeve of mine!). The beauty of this all is the Japanese are so polite, no matter how hard I nail them, they always respond with an “oh, sumimasen, gomenasai!”, which basically means “ouch, that scared the hell out of me you oger of a gaijin but it must be my fault – after all, I pay no attention to my surroundings when I walk – so instead of losing face by owning up the fact that I have no concept of respecting the space of others I will simply apologize profusely and all will be fine!”.
So here I sit, this Sunday night in Tokyo, in an empty house made quiet enough to allow some eavesdropping on the sounds emanating from below my balcony. People cheering each other with beers, groups of women laughing and yelling “how-you-say” into their artfully-decorated mobile phones, and dogs barking playfully in what I presume is the canine version of Japanese. It seems everyone is in a cheerful mood, this despite the fact that the world economy remains in a tailspin, a phenomenon that by no means has left Japan unscathed. Do they not understand the forces at work here? Rather, do they understand and simply not care? If so, I envy their optimism. Whatever the case, I will take this moment of reflection to enjoy my $3.50 Miller Lite bottle along with the realization that earlier today I, for the first time, used chopsticks – voluntarily – to vanquish a cup of kimchi. Ah, the good life, made better by a breezy 65 degrees outside. To quote an old friend, “it’s a wonderful night for an evening.” With that, I leave you with a fun little ditty from Garrison Keillor, who recently explained how an airplane toilet can ruin your life. Cheers.
Saw a great sweatshirt yesterday on a boy who looked maybe six or seven years old. The sweatshirt was yellow and had writing in big block letters that covered up the entire front. On top in green letters was written “Bravery Player”. Below that in red letters was written “You are good at making sliding catch”. Awesome.
