Everybody around here is snowboard crazy, and with good reason, since it is the only thing that keeps you from going AWOL in the winter. Last weekend about 20 of us chartered a bus and went up to Nagano prefecture to ski and board where the winter olympics were in '98. It was a beautiful weekend, and even by Colorado standards, the two resorts we visited were pretty stellar. The Japanese carry their manic work eithic into their leisure activities as well, and as a result I saw some of the most amazing stuff in the board parks that I've ever seen on snow. Japanese dudes are tiny, too, and have the blood of ninjas in their veins, so flipping and spinning comes as easily to them as walking, or so I like to think. I saw front flips, flips and grabs, 720 grabs, you name it, the Japs did it. With style.

I, on the other hand, tried to grind a big rail and fell on my neck. I heard a popping, but it was just my upper spinal area, so it's all cool. Seriously though, I was very afraid for a few seconds, until I realized that I still had full mobility. What can I say? If you try to go big, you just might fall big. Or in my case, you just might fall big when you are trying to do absolutely nothing but go straight across a piece of metal.

That night we went to this club called "q-tip," which was fun, but I was pretty beat-up, both physically and monetarily, and didn't offer much in the way of partying. After an hour or so in the club, this American hippy comes in with a bongo drum strapped to his back. Immediately I think "Oh God, Here We Go."

Sure enough, the hippy moves himself off into a corner and, weaving slightly, takes out the drum. Keep in mind that the song the DJ is playing is a fast, dancy version of a Destiny's Child hit, but ohhhhh nooooo, Dead Head Donny over here, no doubt all high off whippits and totally baked, starts bongoing right along, in his own world. He is also missing every single beat by about a half second. Trust me, "nature" was just about the only thing this guy was "in harmony" with.

And the Japanese absolutely loved it. They ate it up. Three of them danced around him and weaved like he did. And when he lost interest and moved off to hug some tree somewhere, they took up his bongo drum and jammed along right where he left off.

So we come to my first question of the entry: What is the deal with hippies and their drums? Does the music just not work for them unless they take some part in it? What is the deal?

So we've got Hippy McGee in one corner, and in the other corner, all of the sudden, some Japanese dude comes into the dance club with his damn doberman. His dog. A doberman. People around me ask "is that dog sniffing for drugs?" and "Maybe it's for security," but unless the security guards in Japan wear FUBU clothes as uniforms, sport gigantic silver chains, and all wear sunglasses at night, then no, this guy was no cop. I sincerely hope he was the owner, but he probably wasn't, he was, however, another example of a person with an unhealthy attachment to their dog.

So I come to the second quesiton of the entry, gentle reader: What is the deal with people and their dogs?

When a guy can parade around his doberman pinscher in a crowded nightclub just for the hell of it, the whole world has gone crazy.

But that isn't even the worst part. The worst part, my friends, is that when I was going up the lift with a few other JETs, one of them, Emily, happened to look out over the ski-run below:

"Hey, what is that?" she asked.
"What is what?" another replied.
"That. What is that? Is that a dog? Is that guy skiing with a dog?"
"Where?...... Oh my God, he's skiing with his dog."

Now this man wasn't just holding his dog and skiing down the mountain. No no. That, while insane, would be a little less insane than what he was actually doing, which was running the dog alongside him on a leash. DOWN THE SKI RUN.

The funniest (and most tragic) part of the whole scene was the fact that it was a fat wiener dog. It could barely keep up, it's little fat wiener legs were scurrying all about, skiiers were flying this way and that, the man was making turns down the mountain, the little dog was sliding around after him, it was mayhem. So I ask you again:

What is the deal with people and their dogs? Can you not just leave your dog at home for even one fucking second? Does Fido have to come in the shower with you too? Do you force Fido to sit in on you when you poo? Do you think Fido enjoys it? Or, as another friend of mine by the name of Max suggested, was that poor weiner dog thinking, "Oh Christ, it must be Saturday, he's breaking out the skiis again. I hate my life."

Clearly, part of the reason for the above scene was the fact that the man was Japanese and the Japanese are all slightly crazy, one of my co-workers also reported seeing a Japanese man skiing with his newborn baby in his arms, for instance, which is flat out criminal, but I think the dog issue is a worldwide phenomenon. As much as I hate cats, I never see anyone bringing their cat into the mall with them. And yet can't tell you how many times I've seen some little dog stuffed in a bag, bouncing along off their master's hip. This is a more serious problem in Japan, where the populace is much more prone to small and ornate trinkets, not unlike a teacup poodle.

The weekend in the mountains was a blast, however, dogs, hippies, and all. At the end of the weekend I bought some beers from these three Japanese girls that were selling booze out of a van they had ornately (and hilariously) dubbed "the dinning car." They were going for "dining car" I think, and they aaaalmost got there, too, but alas, one letter to many. They were also, all three of them, completely wasted. After a few drinks and a few laughs together they stuck me on the megaphone to broadcast their wares to all the english speaking community:

"Hey, all you english speaking people," my voice screamed loud, across the little basin area, "this little van over here sells a wonderful variety of beers, and they even have three little lawnchairs set up for you to sit in. So come on over, have a brew, and take a load off. You won't regret it."

I certainly didn't. I even got an excited clap from a little girl for no other reason than the fact that I was speaking loudly and in English.

It was a fitting close to a funky weekend.


As an aside, after several drinks, Rich saw this picture of a snow fox and vehemently insisted that I looked exactly like it. He asked if I would pose next to it. Here is the result:See any resemblance? Sure you do.

Just a short addition to the post below:

Today I decided to go for a quick McDonald's dinner, and in an hilariously ironic turn of events, who should be working behind the counter putting together my meal? None other than the same student I yelled at for five straight minutes as I tried to kick him out of class.

I still ate it, but let's just say I hope that whole deal didn't come back to bite me in the ass, perhaps in the form of a strategically placed Japanese pube...

This week was rough for me. The kids were either catatonic or talkative assholes. I even tried to kick two kids out of class, to no effect:

I was explaining the lesson of the day when, as usual, these two punks start talking over me. Twice I tell them to be quiet, i even use the "shush" motion so any idiot with half a brain could understand. Not these two, though. They start talking again. For the third time I go and tell them to be quiet, and this time they actually talk over my warning like I'm not even there. I snap. I grab the books of one of the kids, shut his notebook, and point at the door.

"Get out." I say.

He looks angrily at the wall.

"Get out of my class. Leave."

His friend is amused at this turn of events. I turn to him.

"You too," I say, "get out. Now"

He also looks angrily at the wall.

By now my co-teacher has come over and is, quite frankly, very pleased with this approach (she likes these jackasses no more than I do). She starts to translate because she knows that neither of them understand even one word of the rudimentary English I am speaking, despite the six months of lessons I have taught them. Something is still not computing with these two; my co-teacher moves to grab one to physically remove him from the class, he swats her away.

"no no no no no no," I say, I open my arms wide. If you're gonna swat somebody, swat at me.

He doesn't swat at me.

He cracks his knuckles. Honest to God, he cracks his knuckles. What are you gonna do, Tanaka? Are you gonna fight me? His answer is to stare harder and more angrily at the wall. After five minutes of yelling to no effect (and since i'm not sure how legal it is for us to physically throw a kid out of class) I ask him if now he's finally going to be fucking quiet. Yes, I dropped the F-bomb. I shouldn't have, but I got pissed about how pissed off a 16 year old boy could make me. It's a good thing none of them can understand English. Needless to say, he spent the rest of the lesson staring at that wall, and I spent the rest of the lesson thinking about how anyone can ever teach for a living.

Anyway, the point is, it was a rough week. The weekend, however, changed everything around.

Of all the phrases and pithy comments I have made in my life, there are two in particular that I had never hoped to use: The first is "The Griffith's Don't Negotiate With Terrorists," which, thank God, I have not yet had to employ. The second: "I'm Sorry, I Can't Make It Out Tonight, I Have To Go Audition For A Role In A Cinderella Musical," I have now, believe it or not, actually used in real life.

Yes. I just did a readthrough for a part in the JET charity show adapatation of Cinderella, and yes, it is a musical, and yes, I am very excited to have been cast in the roles of GUARD #1, and TREE #1. They are the parts that I read for. No lead for me. I don't want to steal any thunder.

I went into the audition actually hoping to be one of the little mice that gets turned into the sweet stallions by the fairy godmother. Alas, no such mice exist in the 2006 JET adaptation. The next best thing? The tree and the guard. I know you may not think that the tree and guard have funny lines, but you haven't read the script. Perhaps you can catch it when it hits the big screen.

During the audition they asked me to sing for fifteen seconds. I sang an unbelievably spot on rendition of "California Dreamin'" by the Mamas and the Papas. I even had my own echo effect. It went something like this:

"ALL THE LEAVES ARE BRO-(all the leaves are brown) I had to cut in on myself there.
AND THE SKY IS GRAYYYYY-(and the sky is grayyyy)

I WENT FOR A WAL-(I went for a walk) cut in on myself again.
ON A WINTER'S DAY-(on a winter's day)

I'D BE SAFE AND WAR-(I'd be safe and warm) and again.
IF I WAS IN L.A.-(if I was in L.A.)

CALIFORNIA DREAMIN'-(California dreaminnnnn') I dropped low for effect here
ON SUCH A WINTER'S DAAAAAAAAAAAAAY.......



aaaaaaand then they cut me off.


Needless to say, I nailed the audition.



Afterwards, when i was at home, I texted one of the producers, a very sweet girl by the name of Sarah, with this question. Verbatim:

hey its brad. yo if its possible id like a role that allows me to smoke a cigar on stage. peace!


She replied shortly with the following:


do u realize u have to work in 10 hrs?





I guess that means no cigar.

I just taught my worst class of the week, and man was it bad.

If you want a textbook example of a lost cause, take a stroll down the first hall of the main building in Koho, and step on in to classroom 2B. The class can be broken down like so: kids that are either mute, or simply will not talk, no matter what--(30%), kids that are retarded in some form--(25%), kids that are pure, unadulterated, troublemaking jackasses--(20%), kids that are actually decent folk, and teachable, but will never learn as a result of the other 75%--(25%).

A word about the Jackass 20%:

Collectively, my co-teacher and I yelled at these five kids a total of 8 times in the span of 40 minutes. What is the issue here? Is there a brain synapse missing with you little shits? I really want to give these kids the benefit of the doubt, i really do, but I think they should all just cut their losses and go straight to the tanning factories and chum-bucket companies of industrial Japan right now, it would save everyone a whole lot of trouble.

Today's lesson was very simple: I showed them a set of English street and store signs, together we translated and explained them, then I asked them to create their own sign (absolutely anything would do) and explain it using the keywords what and why. Simple, right? But noooooooooooo, I felt like I was Alex Trebeck on a Saturday Night Live sketch of Celebrity Jeopardy: Literally any answer would be correct, but no one even gives a single answer.

The five worthless kids don't even bother to write, so I walk up to one of them and ask

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

He looks at me like a labotamized goat. I motion for my co-teacher to come over.

"Could you ask him if he understands the lesson?" I ask.
"Do you understand the lesson?" She asks him in Japanese.
He shakes his head smugly, "I don't understand foreigners," he says, in Japanese.

You don't say! Well Holy Hell! Tanaka doesn't understand foreigners! My God! Someone call this kids parents! How could this be???

Apparently, little Tanaka still hasn't realized that "Understanding Foreigners" is the whole point of the Goddam class! Does he think I stand up there spouting off nonsense about question words and verbs and nouns and prepositions for my health?

No, of course not. He doesn't know. He doesn't even care and he never will. He'll just sit and talk to his two friends (one of whom is convinced he's going to be a comic artist, and instead of listening just draws comics all day, so while he may be able to perfectly shade an anime girl's ass, he still can't even introduce himself in English). I've repeatedly asked that they be seperated, but was told, and I quote:

"There are so many troubled students in that class. I don't think it is good to move them."

I tried to think about how that statement could make even one iota of sense, and gave up only when my head threatened to explode.

Incidentally, many of the kids that did the lesson did it quite well, and often with hilarious results. Two of my favorite signs read as follows:

CAUTION: MONKEY.

and

DANGER: FAT MAN.

I know the shtick has been done before, but it`s worth repeating: travelling sucks. Especially around here.

I am talking, of course, about the process itself, not the end result. This Hokuriku region is cursed by God. It is like a snowy bog, a cesspoool of wetness that sucks everything in and lets none escape. When I was trying to get out and back to America this winter vacation, I honestly felt like some force was prohibiting me. I had all my tickets in a row, my route was planned, I took a taxi from my home at an early hour, I sat, waiting for my train, in a jolly little cafe near the station. "Hey," I thought to myself, "why don't I check to see when my train is coming, just incase there has been a schedule change."

Little did I know my life was about to crumble.

"Hi sir," I said, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, like a baby doe about to take its first frolick in the beautiful snowy woods of Christmas, "I just wanted to make sure my train is still coming at 9:15."

He looks at his schedule.

"No, it's not." He says.
"Uh, oh," I said, "It's a good thing I asked you then! How late will it be, praytell?"
"It's not coming."
"...what?"
And then that terrible word that every Japanese person seems to know:

"Cancelled."

My beautiful Christmas forest had become a prison, a prison where that bastard that shot bambi's mother was silently stalking my doe-eyed, bushy tailed ass. I had to run.

"Find me another train. I must get out." I said.
"No other train today. Only tomorrow. Sorry."

Sorry?!? I have a plane to catch! I wanted to grab him by his prim lapelled jacket and beat his sailor-hatted head about that little ticket room.

"Refund me then, I'm going to the airport."

I jumped in a cab and went to the airport, where I was promptly told that every flight was grounded.

"For sure?" I asked.
"You can wait and see, if you want." The ticket lady said.

No, i did not want to wait and see. But I had no other choice. I sat on standby for two hours, and by the grace of God I caught a flight at 5pm to Haneda. Now this would have been all well and good if Haneda airport was where I needed to be, but it wasn't, I needed to be in Narita airport. After I landed I furiously dashed to the bus station for a Narita express, I caught one that was literally about to pull out of the station when I ran on. I could still perhaps save the day.

It was 7:55 by the time I arrived at Narita airport, my flight was at 7:15, but perhaps there were delays, maybe I could still make it! I ran to the United desk.........And it was totally dark. Everything was closed. I sat staring at its darkness, grinding my jaw and flexing my fist for about 15 seconds. I walked to the information desk.

"Hi there. Why is there nobody at the United desks?"
"Oh, its closed. They close at 8pm."
"8pm."
"yes, 8pm."

Now I ask you, gentle reader, what kind of ridiculous, backwoods, asshatted, scum-sucking-salamader of an airline company closes its desks at an International Airport at 8pm?

The worst part? My flight was an hour delayed. While I was talking to that chick at the info desk, it was sitting on the tarmac.

Her lovely advice? "Get a hotel room." Gee, thanks.

I walked, despondent, to the hotel desk downstairs. I had been caught, and shot, in what was once my winter wonderland.

"It's been really busy here," the guy behind the desk said.
"You don't say."
He hands me a reservation, "sorry it's so expensive," he says, "It's all we have left."
"Fine. Merry Christmas."

I paid my fee and took the shuttle to my airport hotel, gave my bags to the bellhop and moved immediately to the bar.

Thankfully, my family at home managed to call United and switch my flight to the next day, for a price. Had they not been able to do this, since I had no way of contacting the Tokyo offices (they were closed too, conveniently), at the stroke of midnight I would have lost my ticket alltogether. As it happened, I got onto a flight the next day at five pm.

All in all, I travelled for 36 hours, saw six other JETs that I knew at various intervals (and all of whom eventually left before me), and I really got to know the layout of Narita airport, but I did finally get home.

My vacation was wonderful. I saw my family, my lovely girlfriend came into town for a week, and I ate and drank my face off. I even managed to go up snowboarding once to take advantage of "the best snow in a decade," that seems to come every three years or so. It was precisely what I needed, especially considering that I stepped on a scale at my house (for the first time in six months) and saw, to my horror, that I had lost ten full pounds over here, eating nothing but noodles and pickled things. I did my best to remedy that while at home.

Before I leave you, a word about transpacific flights: they invariably suck. I have done this pacific crossing seven times now, and the only one that has been pleasurable for me was when I was bumped into the upper cabin business class, and I was only a 5` 11" runt. Now, at 6 foot 3 inches, even three "import strength" taqueray and tonics don't help. On my flight back here someone kept farting, every twenty minutes or so, for 10 and a half hours. I put the air blaster right on my face, but it was no help. Who farts for ten straight hours? I was embarrassed that the tiny asian woman next to me might think it was me, until I started to think that maybe it was her. Ten straight hours of fart smell will do that to a man, it turns everyone into a suspect, makes you go a bit crazy.

Long story short, I think we would all be much happier in a huge boat. I don't care how long the trip is as long as it's not in an airplane. On a boat I could walk all about, visit the poolside bar, and perhaps play a little bit of shuffleboard on the deck. It would be a pleasant experience.

Anyway, it's all over now and I have returned. It occurs to me that I have absolutely nothing left to teach the whelps, not that they cared in the first place. I could probably go over the entire first six months of lessons, word for word, and it would be entirely new material for the 40% of kids who either slept through every class, or didn't bother to show up at all.

It's nice to be back, but I'm gonna have to work really damn hard to make the next seven months worth the farty plane ride over.