I've seen a lot of Japanese rocking out lately, and I don't mean in general (although they sometimes rock out in general), I mean with actual instruments on actual stages.

It has been my experience that if you go out for drinks on a Sunday you will almost always have a better time than if you did it on a Saturday. This Sunday was no exception. Bryan Holzer managed to get ahold of several free tickets to a "Female Rock Battle" in downtown Toyama, and seeing as how I like females, rock (and rocks, come to think of it), and battles, I knew that there was practically no way I was going to be dissapointed. True to form, it rocked. Hard.

I believe the rule for the concert was that the lead singer had to be female, but other than that, no holds barred. There were six or so different bands and each put on a thirty minute set. It had everything from pop to punk, and beer. Lots and lots of beer.

The first act was this pop girl that had a great voice and turned out to be fifteen. Pretty rockin', but not that rockin.

Following her was a hardcore punk girl that dressed in a leopard print maid's outfit. Believe it or not, she did not actually rock that hard.

After her, however, people seriously started to rock. The third band was actually made up of the owners and workers of a bar we like to go to called "Burning Rocks." How could they not rock!?! The woman lead singer had to have been about 45. Her daughter is graduating from Bryan's high school. She gussied herself up in a golden miniskirt and fishnet stockings and belted her heart out. Her husband, the bassist, had hair down to his lower back and wore ball hugging jeans and boots with six inch stilleto heels.

Here is a picture of the dude rocking his face off.





Now you take one look at that picture and then look me in the eye and say you don't want to go out drinking with that fella. That's right, you can't. He just rocks that hard. His band is called "Axbombers" for crying out loud.




After Axbombers, this lady strode out on stage surrounded by five men dressed up like dictators.



She herself wore leather riding boots, a harley hat, and spiked bracelets. They called themselves "Yuki's Academy." Pretty rocking so far right?






But get this. She is Adam's JTE co-worker! So when she isn't wearing leather and tearing it up to a bitchin' rendition of Sweet Child of Mine in which their ridiculously rocking guitarist (also a teacher, the timid dude in the back) absolutely nails Slash's riff, she is dressed all prim and proper, teaching 15 year olds how to conjugate verbs. I don't think I need to impress upon any of you how sweet that is.





After Yuki's Academy there was this band called "The Electrics" which actually had a female lead singer, a female bassist, and a female drummer. Here they are:






These cats were Dick Dale surfer music rockers. The guitarist would play really fast, classic surfer music, and every 20 seconds or so the lead singer would scream. Not sing, per say, just scream. This is actually a hallmark of the music itself, perhaps it is meant to give the impression of what it might be like to be caught in a huge wave whilst rocking. I might scream too. Needless to say, they were impressive, they even played that one Dick Dale song that Quentin Tarantino made famous in that one film he made where everyone kills each other whilst talking about things that are totally random and unrelated. (cough)

There were other bands, but I was pretty rocked out by then.

And then today I saw another Japanese guy rocking in a totally different way.

Apparently today the Iwasehama train line switches from diesel to electric, or from electric wiring to grounded current power, or some such nonesense. No big deal, right?

Wrong. To the Japanese, it is a very big deal.

It is such a big deal that, even on Sunday morning (and probably earlier), when I was coming home on the 6am train back from a night out, I saw six or seven Japanese people taking pictures of the train on their way to work. At the time I had no idea what they were doing, and just thought them all insane.

It is such a big deal that the kindergarteners of some Iwasehama school made a big collage picture of the old train model out of hundreds of origami paper cranes. It is displayed in the station.

It is such a big deal that today, the last day of the old train model, there was a stage set up for musicians to play live shows, to say goodbye and thank-you. To the train.

Here is one such musician, on platform eight outbound to Iwasehama. Rocking in honor of the train.



















There were several people actually filming the train leave the platform. It wasn't even the last departure, it was just a departure. All told, there were perhaps fifty Japanese on the platform at the time filming and taking pictures of everything from the train's headlights to its interior, and even its schedule.

Now I myself have a certain tendency to get nostalgic, but this was a tad ridiculous. Or perhaps it was a tad rocking?

Like so many things in life, it probably was a bit of both.

In my continuing bid to become the next great Danielle Steele, I have applied to ten different M.F.A. programs across the United States for enrollment in the fall 2006 semester. The problem is, these programs are notoriously difficult to get into, and wouldn't you know it, today I got my first rejection letter. It was in email form, from the University of Mississippi. It read as follows:


To Bradley Griffith:

Thank you for your application to our M.F.A. program in creative writing. We realize what a great deal of work went into these applications, and we’re sorry that we’re not able to offer you a spot at this time. As we mention in our program description, we’re a small group, and we just can’t admit that many people. In other words, this notice may be more a reflection of our needs than your writing. In any event, we wish you the best of luck with your work.

Sincerely,
David Galef
M.F.A. Program Administrator
The University of Mississippi




Now, in the parlance of our times, it's just too damn easy for everyone to reply to everyone. Also, I am bored at work. Thusly, I sent him back the following message:


Dear David,

Well that's just great. Do you have any idea how much it's going to cost me to get "OLE MISS" lasered off my knuckles?

Sincerely,

Brad



Hopefully David can take a joke. You know how these writer types can be...


Update:

It would appear he can. I got this reply in my inbox this morning:


And acid leaves such ugly marks.... Seriously: sorry to be saying "no," but we're small and simply can't accept that many people.

--DG


That's funny. Maybe he'll remember this little exchange when I'm filthy rich and getting press for gifting the "Brad Griffith M.F.A. Tower" to whatever school I do end up going to...

The recontracting date has come and gone, so everyone who's in for another year is really in, and everyone else is really out. No more fence-sitting, Sally, the tea-party's over, it's time to stick it or kick it. This was a source of consternation for many JETs, who wallowed about in a personal hell being forced, as they were, to think about the future for any extended period of time. We were all given the forms two months ago and told to think very hard about them. Naturally I signed my job away that morning, two months ago. I think I was the first JET in the ken to do so.

Now I don't want to give the impression that I'm dying to get out, it's not like that at all, I love my job here, and my supervisor is flat-out awesome, it's just that I knew I was a one-year guy since the beginning.

I've received some flak from other JETs, the most frequent and slightly snooty of which being the whole "you need one year just to get the hang of things" comment. I can't tell you how many times I have heard this doozy over the past month, and you know what? I don't buy it. That's what.

Here, let me give you a breakdown of what I did today at work, which is a very typical slice of life, and then you tell me if it sounds like the kind of thing that I will only "start to get the hang of after one year":

7:30am: Woke up with a headache, popped two asprin, got dressed, grabbed my umbrella and walked to Lawsons for my breakfast.

8:00am: Purchased a donut, a thing of yogurt, a carton of OJ, and a hot coffee. Said hello to the staff. (They know me there. One of them has even taken to putting my usual morning fare on hold for me.)

8:15-8:30: Walked to school. Burned my face with the hot coffee. Again.

8:30-8:45: Sat through the morning assembly. Stared at a wall.

8:45-9:55: Read through the english paper that gets delivered to my desk every morning. (Today had a very interesting article about the birdflu. Apparently, we're all going to die. Also, "Ask Jeeves" is retiring Jeeves and will henceforth be known only as "ask.com." That sort of sucks too, but not as much as birdflu.)

9:55-10:35: Taught one class with Obata in which we returned the tests that over half of them totally failed.

10:35-12:00: Read Namarama by Phillip Jennings.

12:05: Got a drink of water.

12:10-12:40: Watched "Quantum Leap" on my computer. (Why haven't I leaped yet Al? I dunno Sam, I think Ziggy messed up the coordinates...)

12:50-1:15: Drove Obata's car back to the Lawsons to get lunch. Said hi to the staff. Again. Looked really long and hard at all the beer. Did not buy any beer.

1:15-2:00: Ate my lunch while listening to music on my computer.

2:00-3:00: Wrote my book while listening to music on my computer.

3:00-4:00: Taught a series of probing lectures on Hyperbole, Modal verbs, Iambic Pentameter, and Narrative Voice. Just kidding. I actually just watched more "Quantum Leap." In this episode Sam Beckett was trapped in an alternate reality where he was a boxer. Oh Sam, what will happen to you next? I'll probably find out tommorrow.

4:00-4:30: Got a drink and stood by the heater in the staff-room.

4:30: Walked home.


And there you have it. An average workday for Brad Griffith. Sure, every now and then a kooky thing happens, like the other day when I went to take out money for some food at Lawsons and mistakenly withdrew 2000 dollars instead of 200, but that's pretty much it. The weekends are another story, but even those generally revolve around drinking and bowling with the occasional snowboarding day thrown in there every now and again. The point is, there's not much to get. It's all pretty straight-forward, and quite frankly, I love it.

I can tell you with almost complete certainty, however, that if I had the jobs some of my fellow JETs have, I would hate it. I'd be sneaking in precisely crafted solutions of water-diluted vodka so I could maintain a consistent level of drunkeness all day. If I had to mark 15,000 essays like some of them do, especially with my kids, around essay 400 I'd start writing snotty comments like "learn how to write, clown." or "Maybe you should transfer to the kindergarden down the street, horseface." or "Is this an essay, or dog poop? I'm not wearing my glasses today."

As it is, though, I think I have the best job in this ken, precisely because very little of my time is spent doing what they actually hired me for, thank God.

Twice a year the school publishes a "Koho Newsletter" that details various comings and goings of the Koho community. Naturally, they make Obata, my supervisor, write and compile the whole thing. It takes him hours and hours, and he gets no help. In order to ease his workload, I suggested taking a column out to write what I call the "ALT Corner," which will provide the Koho ALT (provided they have any balls) with a forum to write whatever they want for years to come. I sat down, and was about to write a column entitled "making your life easier" with tips on how not to piss off teachers (no cellphones, no makeup, no picturebooks, etc.) when I was told that this was the "graduation issue" for third years. I quickly changed tack and wrote up an advice column to all the third years. Here is what I wrote (translated, of course):

Goodbye Third Years! You are about to set out on a great journey. You will find out about yourselves and your goals in life. Here are a few tips from your friendly ALT to help you along the path of life:

First, relax and celebrate! You have graduated from High School, which is a great accomplishment. Some of you have been relaxing for quite a while though, so don’t take too long, it’s time to think about your future!

Some of you will be going on to college, some of you will go on to technical schools, and some of you will go straight into a job. All three are noble pursuits. Whatever you choose to do, don’t be afraid to try new things, and don’t be afraid to change your path. The first things you try after High School are hardly ever the things you eventually end up doing. If you don’t like what you study in college or in technical school, change it. If you don’t like your job, change it. You have plenty of time to figure out a career. Try many things before you settle down.

Don’t tie yourself down with commitments. You shouldn’t be getting married right out of High School, nor should you be committing to any long term jobs. Make sure you are free. I suggest going abroad to another country. My experience here in Japan has been wonderful and very informational, it has helped me grow. Everyone should experience a new culture.

You are all young adults, so you should act like young adults. Be respectful of everyone, regardless of their age or rank, and they will respect you.

Finally, thank all of your teachers at Koho. They have all worked hard to help you succeed, and they are all great people.

Congratulations on your accomplishment!

-Brad


I gave it to Obata and he read it. He came over to my desk a few moments later:

"Hey! What do you think?" I asked.
"It's not very Japanese," he said.
"Well, I suppose not," I said.
"Don't settle down? Try new things? Not Japanese."
"No, that's not very Japanese," I had to agree.

"And I love it." He said.

"Really?" I asked, taken aback.
"It's a letter to me as well as the third years," he said, "I translated whole sentences at a time. It's perfect."

I tell you, this man was born in the wrong country.


In this same spirit, and due to the success of my first letter, I would like to, right here and now on this blog, write another open letter to those certain...'problematic' students that I have had this school year. Not coincidentally, all of them are second years. It took a lot of soulsearching, and some tears, but here it is:


Dear Second Years,


What the hell is wrong with you?

I'm sitting here, at my desk, trying to figure out where along the line your train jumped track and slammed into the fucking mountain. Was it I that failed you, or was it you that failed me? Because somewhere, somehow, somebody clearly failed.

On the one hand, It could have been me that failed you. I admit, I'm not the greatest of teachers. I've reprimanded you countless times, nay, even snapped at you on a few occasions. Perhaps my lessons are not the most interesting things in the world, and it's true, I don't know all of your names. It would have made it easier to call on you if I had known a few of your names.

On the other hand, it could have been you that failed me. I walked into class today and one of you called me Robert. The guy from last year. You get two huge white men, one blonde and one red-headed, in the span of two years, and you cannot keep our names straight? How, then, can I be faulted for not knowing 100 of you when you all look exactly the same?

And why is it that after I seperated one of you from another of your ilk, in order to keep you quiet, you started drawing on the walls in class? Do you know who draws on walls? I'll tell you: Cavemen and Monkeys of Above-Average Intelligence draw on walls. Are you a caveman? Are you a monkey? I stopped my lesson to keep you from drawing on the walls, and you acted surprised that I had seen you. You were in the front row, drawing big pictures on the walls, and you were surprised that I had seen you... Please. I try so hard to give you the benefit of the doubt here, but you aren't even meeting me halfway with bullshit like that. Perhaps you are a monkey.

And after two months of classes, before the final exam, when I told anyone who was missing any handouts to please raise their hands, why is it that I knew one of you would raise your hand? And why is it that when I asked you which handout you were missing, you calmly said 'all of them?" How can you expect me not to think you are retarded when you pull shit like that?

Maybe it is my fault, or maybe it is your fault, or maybe it is some complex mix of both that I don't want to think about right now, but there is one thing that I can be sure of:

I don't hold out much hope for any of you.

Sincerely,

-Brad

We JETs are a diverse people. Some of us hail from such mysterious, faraway, and probably made-up lands as "Wales," "Russia," "South Africa" (South Africa?), and "California," but there is one thing all of us have in common: We love hooch. It's the great uniter.

Now, some people, who will go unnamed, have said I am "The Drinker" of Toyama City. This is a lie. Erroneous. I am not "The Drinker." I am "A Drinker." I'm not the biggest drinker in the city, nor could I definitively tell you who is, but I can make a case for two individuals, who will go named: Max "amillian" and Geoff "the cabbie" Davies.

As evidence to their prowess, I would like to tell you about my weekend.

At a bar in town called Sepian, the waitstaff was unfortunate enough to vigorously recruit about six of us for a nomihodai, or all-you-can-drink-in-two-hours special on Friday when we were all out celebrating Emily's birthday.

Naturally, the barstaff's elation at our patronage slowly but surely went south when they realized how loud we were. Three hours into our two hours, they decided to get rid of us. I sidled on up to the bar:

"hey," I asked one of the bartenders, "how are ya?"
"No more drinks." He said.
"No? Not even one?"

He looks at me and smiles what, in retrospect, must have been a rather wicked smile.

"ok." he says, "one more."

He takes out a glass and holds it up to the gin bottle, he looks at me questioningly. I nod. I had almost had my fill of Gin and Tonics, but if that was what he wanted to give me, fine, I was pushing my luck as it was. He presses the dispenser, a shot of gin comes out.

Then he moves the glass one bottle to the left, and holds it under the rum dispenser.

"wait a second, I-"

He pours one shot of rum in. He moves the glass another bottle to the left, and holds it under the tequila dispenser.

"really that is fine," I say, "I was just plan-"

He pours a shot of tequila in. He moves the glass another bottle to the left, and holds it under the vodka dispenser.

"Look here, I don't think I can-"

He pours a shot of vodka in. He moves the glass over to the beer tap.

"Now really, that's just obscen-"

He tops off the drink with beer. He sets it down in front of me.

"Here is your drink," he says, "chug it."

I look at it in silence. He looks at me.

"What, you don't want it?" He asks.
"Well, I mean, it's very nice of you to offer, but-"

Max comes up behind me.
"What's that?" he asks.
"I believe its half of the bar."
"Make it two," he says.

I look at him. "Are you serious?" He nods.
The bartender shrugs and makes another blackout cocktail. He slides it over to Max and starts chanting what I can only assume was "chug" in Japanese.

Max slams the whole glass in four swallows, sets it down, and moves back to his table in the rear. I am left staring at my glass. The bartender starts chanting for me. I breathe deep, take a sip....aaaaaand retch a little in my own mouth.

The bartender stops clapping and chanting. No glory for ol' Brad. Not tonight.

In the end it took me about another hour to finish that concoction from Hell, so really, the bartender's plan backfired in just about every conceivable way. Conveniently, after I finished the drink the bartender started pushing a 100 dollar bottle of champaigne on me, which I very nearly bought. Not coincidentally, Max blacked out the rest of the night and ended up sleeping under a couch. I contend that the precise point of his blackouttage probably occurred somewhere in between chug three and chug four.

Four hours into our two paid hours, they pretty much just up and threw all of us out. And that is Max's story.

Now on to Geoff "the cabbie" Davies.

Geoff is getting married, and although he may be the most family oriented of us all, he is still a very serious contender in the booze realm. Otherwise, why would I have found myself sitting next to him while he threw up out of the window of a moving cab? For the second time in as many months?

Saturday was another late night for us. You get into some of these karoke joints and you lose track of time and next thing you know you're in the red light district at a bar full of a.) rowdy Russians, b.) rowdy Brazilians, or c.) gropey Japanese, you look up and its 5am. Time to take a cab.

We were on our merry way home, chatting very civily, when Geoff stops, mid-sentence, puts up one finger as if to say (in his very proper Welsh accent) Oh dear me, good boy, I believe I'm going to vom out of the window of the carriage. Give us a second, would you? And rolls down the window.

"Geoff," I ask, "are you gonna puke?"

But he was already doing it.

You see, Geoff has a magical gift. He is one of a rare breed of people that I call "phantom spewers" because of their innate ability to puke in complete silence. Whereas I sound like a fat man choking on a polish sausage next to a jet turbine, Geoff could heave out a steak dinner in a migraine clinic and no one would be the wiser.

"You are puking!" I say. Incredibly, mid-act, head out the window, he gives me the hand motion to continue talking, so as not to alert the driver that he is flecking the rear of his cab with regurgitated Jim Beam.

I keep talking.

"Didn't we do this exact same thing in Kyoto?" I ask him. He nods out the window. Then he pukes again.
"That's amazing," I say, "you could hear a pin drop in this cab." He nods. Then he pukes again.

I talk about anything and everything I can think of. After a few short pukes, Geoff wipes off his mouth, sits back in the cab, and picks up the conversation exactly where we left off. It was perfectly executed.

I guess we'll never know whether or not the driver caught on. He didn't charge us any fee, regardless.

Geoff may have puked himself out on the cab ride home, but he was still drunk as a sailor. He apparently sat on his girlfriend's face as he tried to get into bed.

And that is Geoff's story.

I could go on and on about the kids in this town: Emily "lock and ralph" Laurie, Bryan "just one more" Holzer, Emily "weight in wine" Gumbrell, the list goes on and on.

Are we proud? Not really.
We're just trying to get by out here. And sometimes it takes a few glasses.

There have been a few complaints that I never put pictures into my blogs. Well, to those critics, I say that your imagination is the best camera of all...

...but here are a few pictures anyway. I call this collection "The Wide and Wonderful Range of Emotions that Brad Griffith Feels in Japan."


This beauty is entitled "Happy."
This masterpiece is dubbed "Sad."
And finally, the Coup De Grace, "Sexy."

There you have it.