American Expat

2008-11-13T12:21:00.000-08:00

In the wake of Barack Obama’s historic election, I scanned European periodicals to try and catch the beat of the international response. A quick glance at some of the headline articles left me perplexed: From The Times out of London: “Barack Obama’s victory will change America.” From Le Monde, considered the French newspaper of record: “The US has surmounted the demons of its past.” The Local, Germany’s English newspaper, reports one Berliner saying, “Tomorrow will be a new day… a day one.”

Holy smokes everybody! Europe loves us again! How inspiring it is to see our erstwhile staunchest international allies rejoicing in the fact that we’re not nearly as hopelessly conservative and racist as they’ve maintained for decades! Let’s renew those passports and book those flights, right? We’re a global family again!

Hold on just a minute, shall we?

If Barack Obama is driving the United States into a new era for the better, as we all hope he will, then Europe seems to me a lot like the popular high school crowd who suddenly wants to befriend you for your new car.

As disconcerting to me as is many in the European community’s unabashed acceptance of our impending new administration is their pious dismissal of the past decade of our country’s history. The gist of the international opinion is that the United States has “turned a corner” but this euphemism has always bothered me. Timelines cannot “turn”. History has no corners. History has one direction: Backwards. As much as many in the international community (and many here at home) may wish to simply strike the past decade from record, it’s simply not possible. We cannot “turn a corner” and start a new march. Our march is our march.

Before I step back up to the tea table and give my European friends a great big “all is forgotten” bear hug, I’m going to make sure I’m doing it on my terms and not like some pariah that the international community has deigned to allow back into their good graces. The rhetoric of this past Presidential election would have you believe that we are only the sum of our hopes and dreams, looking forward. The reality is that we are as much identified by the sum of what it has taken to get us here in the first place.

I hope our international allies don’t forget this.

2007-02-28T19:33:00.000-08:00

Recently I’ve been hearing some whining about the fact that I haven’t posted an entry in almost a third of a year.

Believe me, this is not my fault. How many times have I started to write and then stopped? How many times have I looked back upon the genius of my fifty-something previous posts and thought there is no way I can beat that? Many, my friends. Many, many times. And every time I shut my laptop in disgust.

Listen, blogs are fickle beasts. In order to write a blog, a lot of things have to come together. First, something interesting needs to happen to you. Now, while I clearly don’t live the rip roaring life I used to in Japan now that I’ve taken up semi-permanent residence on the second floor of Casa Griffith, I would be lying if I said I didn’t do interesting things every now and then. The problem I have is my lack of righteous indignation.

The righteous indignation is gone. Plain gone. I have nothing to be angry about. Instead of angry, I’m mostly sedentary and often tired. I’m kind of like a cow. Have you ever seen a pissed-off cow? Of course you haven’t. Hell, you can squeeze a cow’s boobs until junk comes out of them and they still won’t get pissed.

But recently I’ve done something I must write about, because in a roundabout way it involves Japan.

For reasons unknown to me, when you work for the Japanese and then cut and run on them, they give you back almost every tax dollar you paid them. Don’t ask me why. All I know is that I got a grand and change in the mail about four months ago. I then halved it, and put one half in savings. The remaining half I divided up again and put a portion of this in a long-term mutual fund, and another in a growth index fund. With what was left, I took my Grandmother out for a nice dinner.

Just kidding. I immediately purchased a ticket to Argentina to go get drunk. I left ten days ago, and now I’m back.

The thing about Argentina is this: It is awesome.

No offense to all you JETs, nor to my supervisor, because you were awesome people, but If I hadn’t signed up to go to “charming” Toyama back in the day and instead had found some sort of similar employment in Buenos Aires, man oh man, would I be sitting pretty right now. There is no way I would have left after a year. You couldn’t have paid me to go home. In fact, when I reached the three year time limit, you would have had to shoot me with some sort of sedative and locked me in a cage to get me out of that country.

Here’s the bottom line about Argentina: The food and wine are world class, for a third of the price. The weather is beautiful. The city of Buenos Aires is modern and hip and stays up all night. The clubs and bars are numerous, and also world class. And the overwhelming majority of people, both women and men, are beautiful.

Here was my average dinner for the last ten days: 1 fine top-shelf cocktail, one salad, one delicious appetizer, one generous portion of top-quality Argentinean beef tenderloin, one delicious dessert, one cup of coffee, one half-bottle of fabulous Argentinean Malbec wine.

The price? About 25 bucks.

I’m not kidding. I felt like I was robbing them. When I paid my bill I kept looking over my shoulder waiting for the other shoe to drop or for Candid Camera to jump out of the bushes. But they never did. The good times kept on coming. Four rounds, four rounds of shots at a hip nightclub? Twenty bucks. Cab ride across town? Four bucks. Cup of coffee and some ice-cream? Four bucks.

I can’t tell you how refreshing it was to wake up after a night of drinking and find that I’d spent an Argentinean King’s Ransom of 200 pesos, but that it had only really cost me about sixty bucks. I laughed all the way to the toilet.

Now, much has been made about the beauty of Argentinean women, and it’s mostly true; They are unfairly attractive as a peoples. But what’s strange about them is that they look just like us, basically. If an American tourist went down to Argentina, took off the stupid fucking Abercrombie baseball hat and the goofy white running shoes, traded in his cargo shorts for some slacks, and kept his damn mouth shut, there is a good chance he or she might pass for an Argentine baller moviestar because of all the money they’d spend.

The only real difference is that Argentine people have wavy or curly, dark brown hair, a predisposition to being thin, and are a golden tan all of the time. I know people that look like that in the US, but here they’re mobbed because the majority of us are chubby and pasty white. There, it’s standard.

Anyway, since I’m not expecting another thousand in the mail for no reason at all, I think my travels are at an end for a while. I’d like to tell you I’ll be writing again soon, but I probably won’t. Or I might. Who the hell knows? I’m a cow.

Meanwhile, I’ll be working on my Spanish. Next time I’m down there I want to be able to say, “I’d like four of your most expensive bottles of wine, please. One for me, and three to throw against that wall just because I can. Thank you.”

2006-11-08T16:36:00.000-08:00

I’ve now resorted to working for free for anyone who will take me.

I suppose it’s the natural progression of things. Or regression. Four months into this whole job search operation and I have actually regressed. Or perhaps I have simply come to realize how little sway I have amongst people who don’t give a good goddamn about me one way or the other. The idea behind this whole “work for free” thing is to get in the door, work cleaning out the trashcans and collating the tax returns for Company X for a while, and then walk into the boss’s office a few months later, doff my cap, hold it in both hands in front of my chest, and with a sheepish look in my eye, I ask:

“Please Mister Boss! Can I have some money now?”

at which point I am totally and completely at their mercy, banking on the all too unlikely hope that he or she has a shred of decency within them and will go, “Ok you rascal, you’ve been a good trashcan cleaner-outer, why don’t we give you a few bucks an hour to keep up the good shit-cleanin’ work?”

To which I will go, “Thank you sir, I won’t let you down, really I won’t!” And then I go skipping down the office like a slaphappy idiot.

See, this, however, is the type of thinking that got me here in the first place, and it is wrong. The type of person who thinks that this will happen is the same type of poor soul who actually thinks that you can get considered for a job if you send in a resume, cover letter, and a few recommendation letters. This is the type of person who thinks that, while the working world may not owe them a lot, it does at least owe them the decency of giving their resume a fair shake.

This type of person, dear reader, is a jackass.

Because not only does the working world not owe you anything, if it can, the working world will in fact try to take things from you while you aren’t looking. Things like your self-respect and your faith in modern humanity. And you don’t even work for them yet! What you don’t realize is that the corporate world hates you without even knowing you yet.

You actually think you deserve to have potential employers give you a fair shake? HA! The working world scoffs at you and your naiveté. “Fuck that!” says The World. “I don’t even know you! Who are you? Can you make me millions of dollars like these other stiffs can? How are you going to get me more flashy cars and mounds of cocaine? You’re just a punk ass bitch! That’s what you are! You disgust me!”

The working world also wears designer clothes, silk suspenders, and thousand-dollar loafers without socks. Come to think of it, the working world looks a lot like Gordon Gekko.

Now that you know who you’re dealing with, let’s re-examine how the whole “working for free” scenario will really pan out.

So here you are, trashcan cleaner for free extraordinaire (also known as an internship), and after a few months you go into your boss’s office to pop the question:

“Please Mister Boss! Can I have some money now?”

The boss turns around in his leather lounger and puts his sockless feet up on his mahogany desk.

“Who are you again?” he asks.

“Well sir, my name is Brad, I’ve been an intern here for a while now, I was hoping…”

“…What, that I’d pay you?”

“Well, something like that sir.”

“Don’t make me laugh Biff.”

“It’s Brad, sir.”

“Listen Biff, what would you do if I don’t pay you?”

“Well, I might just leave!” I say.

“Fine.”

“What?”

“Leave!” he says, “No loss for me. It’s not like I’m paying you.”

“B, b, b, but I was hoping to move up to a paid position here!”

“Alright Biff, fine. What if I told you that if you keep working here for free, I might consider paying you in a few more months? Would that make you happy?”

“I suppose so sir, I’ll just have to work harder!”

“You sure will. For free. Now clean my trashcan.”

“Yes sir!”

And there you have it. That’s what would happen. The funniest part is, to date I have offered to work for free for two different businesses. Their responses?

"No thank you."

Unbelievable.

2006-10-12T12:08:00.000-07:00

People that still have John Kerry stickers on the back of their cars really bother me. Now bear with me here, this isn’t some political rant, it’s just common sense. Let me outline for you why it is that if you have a Kerry sticker on the back of your car, every single sane-thinking person on the road will immediately dislike you.

1: The people who voted for Bush and still support Bush straight up hate you. Granted, that’s not a whole lot of people anymore, but they still straight up hate you.

2. The people who voted for Bush but are now freaked out and no longer support Bush will hate you because they see you as a pious prick who glories over them.

3. The undecided voter will think you are an angry person who holds a grudge too long. Nobody wants to join a party that they see as full of bitter old biddies.

4. The hard line Democrat doesn’t like you because they’ll wonder why you haven’t gotten your head out of your ass long enough to scrape off that Kerry/Edwards sticker, start thinking about the future, and slap on an Obama ’08.

5. People who don’t care one way or the other about politics will just think you’re straight up lazy, or that you somehow didn’t get the memo.

6. Every other person with a Kerry bumper sticker will be pissed because you're stealing their righteous thunder.

So you see? How can you possibly win with a Kerry Sticker on the back of your car? What is going through your mind when you walk out to your Subaru and see that Kerry sticker? Are you proud? Are you proud that you still have that sticker on your car? Do you feel some sense of accomplishment because you haven’t done anything about it for going on three years now? Does that make you happy? Do you see it as a centerpiece, surrounded by Dog Is My Co-pilot, My Yorkshire Terrier Is Smarter Than Your Honor Student, and PRINCESS! bumper stickers? Do you like the way your little Darwin fish faces it?

People like you are a disservice to every political persuasion. Stop it. Right now. Go out into your garage, get a razor, and fix it. If you absolutely have to come across as a snob, you can put one of those If You Aren’t Outraged, You Aren’t Paying Attention! bumper stickers on your car. Everyone will still hate you for telling them what they should be thinking, you jackass, but at least you’re living in the now, man.

The other day I even saw a Gore/Lieberman sticker. Now that’s just insane. Just let it go. I know for an absolute fact that I do not want to meet the person driving that car. Neither should you.

2006-09-13T11:56:00.000-07:00

I don’t do a whole lot here. Everybody I know is gone or actively employed. My parents even cut back on my drinking, which they can do because it’s their hooch I’m ganking. They got terrified at how piqued and sissy I had become in Japan and sent me to a personal trainer that kicked my ass to next week. I have no job, no apartment, and no car. Today, my parents both went off to their fancy-pants jobs in their fancy-pants cars and left me home alone without any food. I ate bread all day. Yes, this truly is a magical time in my life.

Last week the Taste of Colorado was held in downtown Denver. It’s a festival of Colorado food and drink, or so I thought. Since the one friend I have here was off deep-sea fishing in Mexico, I went alone. Shut up.

As advertised, the Taste of Colorado is supposed to offer tastes of Colorado. I was expecting Colorado specialties and small Colorado start up restaurants and businesses, etc. etc.

Well let me tell you, apparently the best Colorado has to offer is an assortment of greasy turkey legs, some corn on the cob, and Panda Express. Oh, and a lot of fat kids eating funnel cake, large women in tube tops, and large men in mesh shirts (or no shirts at all). Also, a lot of tattoos. I had no idea so many people in Denver had tattoos. Trust me on this, the last thing some of these people should have done was to tattoo up certain flappy parts of their bodies with thorns and roses. It only made things worse.

Now I did taste a lot of one particular Colorado product: Coors. A lot of Coors. I was on about my 45^th ounce when I realized that the Taste of Colorado is really just a glorified carnival. Apparently, Colorado has quite a few “local businesses” that specialize in the selling of knock off Coach bags and fake Rolexes. I expected that shit in Thailand, but I didn’t think these people could just set up shop in a festival sponsored by the State.

Also, did you know that after Dale Earnhardt died and the transport truck was taking his car back home through North Carolina on the Interstate, not one car would pass his caravan? Every car taxied behind the transport truck for miles, out of respect. It’s ok, I didn’t know this either, that is, until I saw the whole story written out in one of hundreds of Dale Earnhardt memorial plaques. They were right next to the many life-like charcoal drawings of Tupac Shakur and Princess Diana. Real high quality stuff here.

And let me tell you what a strange juxtaposition it is to see a lobster-baked fat man with one of those absolutely asinine Bluetooth headsets in his ear. Who the hell could he possibly be talking to so often that it requires that damn thing to be in his ear at all times? Who? Only one man on earth should be allowed to have that stupid Bluetooth thing, and that's the President of the United States. Not even Jonny Hotshot Account Executive is talking to people all day long. I think those fucking Bluetooth headsets are a prime example of how American society is going to hell, but that’s a whole other story.

Four or so large beers later I decided it was time I left.

Needless to say, I had a damn fine time. And if the Coors Booth is back next year, well then I will be too.

2006-09-01T10:37:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone! No, I am not dead! Although my soul feels like it is dead, because I am searching for a job right now. Searching for a job is right up there on par with a double procedure root canal/colonoscopy in terms of level of comfort. Its a whole lot less cleansing too.

The thing to remember when looking for a job is this: Nobody cares about you. And why should they? They’ve got their own problems. They have a job. As a matter of fact, talking to me is keeping them from doing their job. Having to take time out of their day to talk to some punk who just got back from dicking around overseas for a year and garnering absolutely no marketable skills while doing so, well that annoys them. It might even piss them right off. I hear it in their voices when I ask to meet them over the phone. I see it in their eyes whenever I do manage to get a meeting.

It’s a certain look that they all have when they meet me. It’s a look that says: Who the hell are you, Japan Boy, to take up my time? I’m only doing this as a favor to my boss, whom you managed to weasel yourself into favor with somehow. Look how good looking you are in your fancy-pants suit. You might even take my job away from me you’re so good looking. That’s it, now I hate you. At first you just annoyed me, but now I hate you.

And then there’s the whole Internet Job Search scene, the monster.com stuff, and the craigslist.com stuff, what a waste of time that is, am I right? If I went outside, blindfolded, on a random night in suburban Denver and started swinging a bat, I would have a better chance of hitting a porn-filled piñata than I would of catching a lead with these internet sites. They don’t even look at your resume; they just feed it through some keyword search program. Sometimes this technology generation shit really sucks.

Did you know you aren’t supposed to cross your legs during an interview? I bet you didn’t, but I did. Do you know why? Because I’ve read Knock ‘em Dead Interviewing. And boy would that little tidbit come in handy IF I EVER GOT A FUCKING INTERVIEW. Oh, I know all the tricky questions and the best ways to answer them; I got it all down pat except for the whole “getting an interview” thing. That, I need to work on.

But I tell you what: one year of no marketable skills looks a hell of a lot better than three years of no marketable skills. That’s right, Toyama. I’m talking to you. You remember what home looks like? Do you remember your families? Probably not. Soon you’re going to forget your last names, and then your nationalities. And stop drinking so goddamn much. Hippies.

I miss you all.

2006-07-30T11:29:00.000-07:00

And now, Part 2

Having said what I’ve said in the last blog (my Mr. Hyde blog) and in the fifty other blogs before it, you might be tempted to conclude that the experience I had here was not a good one. That would be wrong. My year in Japan with the JET program was undeniably worth it, and was one of the very best years of my life for one reason and one reason alone: The people. It’s true that in my year in Japan I have stumbled across moments of almost unbearable beauty, quick flashes of poignancy and ancient culture that have astounded me in their power, and, unfortunately, in their briefness. But in the end, the JET program, like so many other things in life, is made or broken by the people involved in it. For me, the people made it all worth it.

I’ll be honest, when I signed up for this gig almost two years ago, I was convinced that if I actually got in, I would be surrounded by wierdos. The bad kind of wierdos. The kind that dwell in the opposite extremes of personality types: They either make every conversation painfully awkward because they live completely under the radar, never making decisions and always lingering about like a barfly, contributing absolutely nothing to the social makeup of the group, or the other extreme, where they compensate for their insecurities by going way overboard, yelling all the time and jumping about like jackasses saying “look at me! Look at me! I’m sooooo drunk!” or some such nonsense that makes you just want to hit them so very, very hard.

To my complete delight, I found myself surrounded by the good kind of wierdos. The kind that know their limits, and that know the proper times in which to break them. The kind of people that are very aware of themselves and where they stand in life. The kind with super dry senses of humor, that know about timing, not just in comedy, but in life. Not even in college, where I was surrounded by literati, did I meet such a unique group of forward thinking, gutsy individuals. Every one of them had a serious pair of brass balls on ‘em (or brass fallopian tubes, whatever the case may be). I feel privileged to have lived and worked amongst such a diverse crowd of kickass people. That type of environment doesn’t come around a whole hell of a lot, and I tried to take advantage of it as I could. Time will tell if I got anything out of it, but I’m pretty sure I did.

I’d also like to say that I felt very blessed to have worked with the Koho High School Staff. Don’t get me started about the Japanese school system, but the staff I worked with and hung out with I was very happy with. I had heard nightmare stories about the Japanese workplace, and I am happy to say that Koho never lived up to any one of them. I didn’t think such a laid-back job existed in Japan, and aside from that one at Koho, I’m still not sure they do. The staff treated me with a type of deference and respect that was never aloof, and always welcoming and friendly, and for that, I thank them all (while praying that none of them ever get a hold of this blog to read that thanks)

Obata, my supervisor, saved my life in that country. I owe him every shred of sanity I managed to maintain, and can source him for my general state of wellbeing throughout the program. Good, honest, thoughtful, hilarious, selfless people like him are a rarity in life. I hope he gets out of that school before they kill him. He deserves much more general contentment than his current job can give him.

And that’s that, Dear Reader, we’ve come to the end of this chapter. It’s time to move on to the next. Whatever that may be, rest assured that should you feel the need, you can read up on my lack of progress right here.

Thanks for hangin’ with me.

-BBG

2006-07-30T11:18:00.000-07:00

Well, we’ve come to it at last. The Final Japan Blog. Or I should say Final Couple of Blogs. I was conflicted as to how I should approach this whole thing, and after much deliberation and drinking that didn’t necessarily have anything to do with said deliberation, I have decided to split my entry into two totally different voices in which I concentrate the bad and the good. Since I am of two minds about my Japanese experience, it is only natural that I give voice to both of those minds.

To that end, I give you the final entry of this chapter of my life. Since overall I viewed the experience as positive, I will give air to that mind last. It is only fitting. Enjoy.

Part 1:

Well, sure is easy to say I had a wonderful time in Japan whilst sitting here at home, watching television, drinking a freezing Fat Tire I got from my huge refrigerator, and eating no fewer than three medium Dominos Pizzas I got delivered right to my face for less than twenty dollars. Sure is easy now, isn’t it? Sure is easy to look at all the Oriental hooey I brought back and fondly reminisce, that’s for damn sure. Reeeeeaaal easy to flip through smiling pictures of me and my friends, drunk, laughing, and think “well hell, that was just one big peach of a time. A regular fucking cakewalk.” And when I pass all my smiling pictures about and people say “you got paid 30,000 dollars to do this?!?” It sure is easy to go “I know! What a lucky break! To get paid so well to live in another country and do practically nothing!”

But that’s just the problem, isn’t it? I did practically nothing for an entire year. No, that’s not totally true, I did drink a lot.

Bryan and I decided to do a whirlwind tour of red-light districts before we left town, we went from Toyama’s own not-at-all famous Sakura Gicho district to Tokyo’s very famous Roppongi district, and then over to Seoul’s equally famous Itaewon district, and after our 42nd straight hour of traveling/drinking Bryan turned to me and said “for the two years I’ve been here, my body has aged ten.”

I figure that’s about right. I read those sappy JET essay contest winners where some or other kid writes something like “I may have lived here for three years, but I have had experiences enough for a thousand.” Not this guy. I lived in Japan for one year and had experiences enough for one year. My body has had experience enough for five. That’s the bottom line.

The other day someone (maybe it was my Aunt) asked me “what did you learn in Japan?” I thought about this for a moment, scruffy, a tad dizzy from JET lag, and answered,

“I learned that I hate teaching.”

And if you are thinking, “Well Brad, if you didn’t go out and do anything else that’s your own fault, isn’t it? There was Judo, or Kendo, or Flower Arranging, or Archery, or you could have gotten involved in your school’s English club, or taken Japanese lessons, there were a million opportunities.”

I say this: No there weren’t. Not if you’re a normal dude there weren’t. I took Japanese for five years before I realized it was a lost cause, so that was never an option. And my kids would never, ever, ever, have an English club. God Bless ‘em, but they were just too stupid. And also, fuck you buddy, you’re not the kind of guy I want to talk to anyway.

Now that I am home here, and I look about myself at all the fat people and the huge cars and the fifty lane highways and the Taco Bells and the Mega Malls and the no-trash separating, I think one thing: The US is better than Japan.

Why anyone would want to move away from here and stay over there for the rest of their lives is just beyond my ability to comprehend. And there are a few of you out there. I can see you right now, with your complete Gundam Anime collection and your stacks of Manga, and your walls plastered with pictures of famous woodblock prints. You probably have that ridiculous little staff you got climbing Mt. Fuji propped up in the corner too, don’t you? That one that has all of those brands on it that cost you ten bucks a pop? Maybe you have your name written out in Kanji hanging above your bed, or even worse, somewhere on your own skin, and I’m sure you have a thousand other Kanji flash cards strewn about your bedroom so that should someone come in you can go, “oh, that? That means spirit,” and then smile knowingly. Every book you read is Murakami, and you’ve probably seen Lost in Translation a thousand times and make snooty little comments when watching it like “Oh, I’ve been there” or “I can read that sign,” and I’m sure you think you can “totally identify” with Bill Murray. You’re a Lifer in the Making. What the hell are you thinking? You have to realize that the Japanese will never let you in. You know what that means? That means that no matter what you do, no matter how fluent you are in the language, or how many banzai trees you clip up real pretty, or how much of a badass Judo Blackbelt master you are, they still will never trust you.

In the year 2000, the Japanese government granted citizenship to 15,000 people. That’s it. That’s a pretty good indicator right there of how little they want you there. You know how many people the US granted citizenship to? Almost 900,000. Now you might be saying, “The US is a much bigger country!” and you would be right, but France isn’t, and even France took in 150,000 people. France! Or how about this: Throughout the 90’s, the US took in 47% of all people seeking asylum. Japan? 9%. Real nice there guys. Nicely done. The consummate hosts.

How many non-native citizens have we here in the US? Well shit. I lost count. They almost outnumber the natives! Hell, I arrived here in LA and was directed to my baggage by a nice fellow whom I could barely understand. And you know what? That’s great. Fine with me! At least he spoke something, and provided he wasn’t here illegally, more power to him! More power to them all! Especially the Mexicans! They have great food and beer. Do you see what I am saying? Do you see how ridiculous it is in Japan?

And for a country that is so paranoid about foreigners, they certainly love foreign cultures. When I think about what I enjoyed doing in Japan, here is what I think of:

Sipping a Martini (western drink) at the Jazz Bar (western music) and smoking a cigar (from the Dominican Republic)

Drinking (Italian) wine at the (Italian) Fiorentina Restraunt.

Eating (Indian) food at Santoshi

Bowling (Western)

Ramen (Chinese)

Yakiniku (Korean)

I think you get the point. And now that I look at this list I made, I wonder how the hell I could have spent twenty thousand dollars on that.

I honestly think it’s the physical act of moving oneself that keeps many of the people in Toyama. I bet if it weren’t for the fact that it is a huge bitch to get up and go, a whole lot more people would have got up and went. The turnover rate of that ken would be like a McDonald’s.

So thank you Japan, really, thank you very much for something. I just haven’t figured out what yet.

2006-07-15T17:13:00.000-07:00

Many of you back home still don't believe that some Japanese students can sleep right in your face and not care. It is with you doubters in mind that I present this montage, aptly entitled "Teaching at Koho"

Are you sleeping...

Are you sleeping...
Brother John?
Brother John?
Morning Bells Are Ringing...
Morning Bells Are Ringing...
Ding Dang Dong...

Ding Dang Dong...

2006-07-07T17:08:00.000-07:00

I’m really reaching for lessons here in the home stretch. For the past four days I’ve been teaching my kids how to play poker, that’s how bad it is. It’s really hard to make a lesson out of Poker that these kids would follow. At first I thought about adding and subtracting the numbers on the cards for some sort of Numbers Lesson, but that would never hold their attention. Then I thought about making it a lesson on Royal Vocabulary, and even tried it out in one class, but the dialogue went something like this:

Me: “See this K? What’s that stand for?”
Class: “King!”
Me: Great! And see this Q? What’s that stand for?”
Class: “Queen!”
Me: “Great! See? Royal Vocabulary! It’s like a court! And next we have a J! What’s a J?”
Class: …
Me: It’s a Jack!
JTE Co-Teacher: “What’s a Jack?”
Me: Well…It’s, uhm…It’s like a man. A royal man!”
JTE: “A king?”
Me: “No, not quite. Just….(cough)….And look at this! It’s a Joker!”

I decided to forego stressing the Royal Vocabulary part of the lesson after that, and start calling it what it is. This is the worksheet I made up to that effect:

It went as well as could be expected. I only had one of my decks stolen right out from under my nose, so yeah, I’m not quite sure whether to be pissed or happy about that. And for fifteen year old Japanese kids who can’t spell their names without help, I saw a surprising number of Flushes, Straights, and Full Houses, so that was interesting as well. I now have at least two classes of kids yammering to play poker, though. One kid was even yelling for it non-stop until I told him to shut up. Even so, I hope that Burness, my successor, somehow works card strategy into the final exam. Hell, it might actually serve some of these kids better than English will.

In other news, today was my turn to make a speech to the general assembly of students and teachers. The burden rotates amongst all of the teachers throughout the year, and today was me.

This is the speech I made up, roughly translated:

Not so long ago, I was in High School myself. My school was large, around 3000 kids. there were “cool” groups, and “nerdy” groups, and there were groups of “smart kids” that hung out together, and groups of troublemakers that hung out together. In some ways, every High School is the same.

In every school there are popular kids, and there are quiet kids. There are kids that are active in clubs, and kids that prefer not to take part in clubs. Each student is unique. But in many ways, you are all the same. Each one of you is just trying to get by and grow up. I hope you realize that all of you are going through these teenage years at the same time, with many of the same triumphs, and many of the same defeats.

The key to having a good time in High School is to be what I call a “Social Chameleon.” A chameleon is a lizard that can blend in well with anything. Be like a Chameleon, adapt well to different groups. To do this, you have to be accepting of all of them. If you can do this, then one day, at the end of High School, you will look around yourself and see that you are surrounded by friends, and that all of them respect you. Then you are a success.

High School should be a time to focus and learn, but don’t take it too seriously. Stop to enjoy everything, because it will be over before you know it.

I wanted to say:

Can’t you all just take it easy, man? I mean for Chrissakes, just take it easy!

But that was well under my suggested four minute timeframe.

My speech was inspired by the disturbing and subversive trend of exclusivity I’ve seen at times in this country. You pick a group and stick with it for life out here. You are defined by it. A salaryman is a salaryman for life. A Badboy Pimp is a Badboy Pimp until he’s either dead or has to be committed because his gonorrhea has driven him crazy and he can no longer make cognisant pimping decisions. Your group defines you, you are part of it and no other. Exclusion from that group is akin to a type of death. I just read this article about this poor Japanese fella that got kidnapped in Iraq and, thankfully, was recently returned unharmed. Now, don’t get me wrong, the guy was an idiot to be traipsing around Iraq, but can you imagine the homecoming he would have gotten in the US after returning home alive?!? There would be tears of joy and the PBR would flow like water, which it basically is.

Not in Japan. In Japan the guy was ostracized. Kicked out of his community for getting kidnapped in the first place. It was viewed as a shameful thing. One of my JTE’s pointed at the article and shook her head.

“That’s terrifying,” she said, “that we do that here.”

At the same time, the Japanese now officially are the world’s oldest population. 21% of the country are now over 65 years old. 21%!!! The exclusivity of this country and its declining birthrate are connected. If the Japanese were more accepting of other people in general, there’d be a lot more fuzzy-bumpin’ going on, and a lot more chitlins poppin’ out. If you know what I mean.

Here’s a recent headline that says it all:

Wait a minute. How’d that pen get in there?

I'd like to leave you with a little slice of life experience I just had with my 1E class, the brightest class that I teach.

Every day I ask three questions: The Day, The Date, and the Weather. Today was no different.

"What day is it?"
"FRIDAY!" one of them yells out.

"And what is the date?"
"JULY 7th!" another says.

"And how about the weather today?" I ask, pointing out to the skies.
A particularly smart rogue by the name of Yutaro looks up at me:

"IT'S RAINING TAEPODONG MISSLES!" he yells, and then bursts out laughing.

An interesting generation of kids, no?

2006-06-30T11:40:00.000-07:00

I’m dyin’ here. The heat is so overpowering it has unmanned me. I don’t know where the hell it came from, either. One day I was sitting comfortably at my desk, eating my yoghurt and enjoying a nice cross breeze, and the next day I was stuck to that same desk. Quite literally. I had to peel my hands off of my cheap plastic seat and wipe pooled sweat out from under my eyeballs. It all happened in one day. Suddenly I was dreaming about how nice it was when I froze my balls off all winter. Then I realized that the winter weather was just as terrible. And then I got really angry and wanted to hit something, and I would have too, if I wasn’t so sure that the second I stood up I would pass out.

Oh, and they’ve finally decided it was Ok to turn on the air-conditioner at work. That’s nice of them. How thoughtful. Never mind that I’ve lost four pounds of water-weight over the past two weeks. I was wondering when everyone would realize that having the windows open doesn’t do a damn thing on days when there’s no wind! All that happens in that case is that a huge fat fly inevitably comes in and hits Brad on the back of the head and scares the bejesus out of him while he’s watching Entourage at his desk. There is a set date at Koho for when we are allowed to turn on the AC. In this country, temperature has very little bearing on decisions of personal comfort; the calendar dictates everything. Hot-as-a-whore-in-Church in the staff room? Sorry Guy, wait until June 30th, that’s the date to turn on the AC. Cold as a witches tit? Not so fast there Ace, it’s not time to turn on the heat yet.

It’s the same with school uniforms. The decision to change over from “Winter Uniform” to “Summer Uniform” and vice versa has nothing to do with whether or not the kids are comfortable in said uniform style, it’s all about the changeover date. No matter how hot it is in October, you still wear the Jacket. Sorry Sally! Power through it! If you pass out during morning assembly, somebody will probably carry you out, so don’t worry.

As far as classes go, I’m just going through the motions. Somebody had the brilliant idea of requiring kids to go to class after the exam for two weeks. As if I didn’t already have a class full of kids without any motivation to begin with, now I have to come up with two weeks of completely worthless filler, and try to keep them from meowing at me at the same time (Recently, my 1A kids have taken to meowing at me during class. They think it is absolutely hilarious). You can only play so many games of hangman before the kids start throwing things at each other. I am about at that point right now.

In other news, every single kid in every single class I teach has passed. You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t break out the champagne. I have five kids who didn’t even bother to show up for the exam, but who will be given a second shot to take it anyway. At their leisure, I’m sure.

“So they can just take it again? Just like that?” I asked my JTE.
“Yes, a makeup exam,” she said.
“And what if they don’t show up then? Do we give it a third time?”
“No no,” she said, laughing. And for a second I thought I might have stumbled upon the absolute end game, the point when a kid has to fail. But no.

“Then we give them supplementary lessons,” she said.

I see. So if the kids don’t give a fuck, it’s the teachers who end up paying for it.

No wonder everyone gets passed through.

2006-06-21T20:19:00.000-07:00

I’d like to let you all in on a little conversation I just had with one of my JTE’s today:

JTE: Uh oh, Toyota-San got a 35% on his test.

Me: That’s right. He failed.

JTE: That’s not good. That means he fail the class.

Me: Makes sense to me.

JTE: Let’s look at his attendance.

Me: (Sigh) Fine. Says here he showed up 30% of the time.

JTE: Oh no. Not good.

Me: That’s what, three of our ten classes?

JTE: That’s right. Let’s look at his notebook.

Me: Fine. Here’s his notebook score...Well will you look at that! He doesn’t have one! He never turned it in!

JTE: He might have for the last class, let’s check the class box.

(runs to check class box)

JTE: Here it is! He turned it in!

(flips through it)

JTE: He filled out everything for the three days! That’s a 30%!

Me: So? That's a fail in my book.

JTE: Let’s make 30% a pass!

Me: What? 30%?

JTE: Yes!

Me: You’re telling me that all anybody has to do to pass is show up 30% of the time and do 30% of the work.

JTE: Yes! And look 35% on test, 30% on notebook, 30% on attendance...Toyota passes!

Me: Unbelievable, what a surprise that is.

JTE: What?

Me: Fine. Whatever. He passes.

JTE: And what about Honda? Honda got a 34%...

Me: ...

JTE: ...

Me: (sigh) What do you think?

JTE: I think he should pass!

Me: Wonderful. He passes. They all pass. Happy Midterms to everyone.

And trust me when I say that if Toyota had a 20% on everything, 20% would have been the benchmark.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s right, it’s Midterm Test time. The time in a JET’s career when it is no longer possible to ignore the fact that every single child would be shuffled through the school anyway, regardless of if you’re being here or not.

This kid Toyota, he never did anything. That’s right! Nothing! Nothing at all! He never turned in a notebook, he never participated, and he got a 35% on his test by being able to tackle difficult questions like the one that asked him to correctly identify a picture of a cat, a pizza, a pencil, a cake, a lion, and a piece of cheese when I said them in English.

Incidentally, for those of you who don’t know, in Japanese, “Lion” is pronounced Lion, “Pizza” is pronounced Pizza, “Cake” is pronounced Cake, and “Cheese” is pronounced Cheese.

No matter. Move him on up.

On a totally unrelated and awesome note, the Toyama Charity Show was this past weekend, and it went splendidly.

Together, Geoff and I were Trees:

And Ninjas:

True to character, the two of us started celebrating early with champagne at the final dress rehearsal before the play, and a heavy Cabernet during the scene breaks of the actual play. It kept us loose. Trust me when I say that the antics we did, we would be unable to do correctly when stone cold sober. Also, all of my stoner hippy friends in college used to always say to each other whilst watching cartoons and eating bagel-bites: “Well, you know dude, they say that if you were stoned for all of your studying time, you should get stoned for the test, ‘cause it’s like….it’s like, your brain…right, you’re brain is used to bein’ exposed, man, to the weed and the material at the same…or something. So look, it’s no worries, man, you’re supposed to get totally stoned for the test, ok?”

Well, we took the same lesson to heart with booze! And it worked! Everything went perfectly! And here I thought all of my friends were just washout, tie-dyed-in-the-wool communists. That’ll teach me.

Our jackass antics on stage garnered nonstop laughs, as well as 2000 dollars for each of the charities to which we donated, including that one with the adorable guide dog that looked absolutely terrified on stage and kept slipping all over the varnished wood while it tried to escape the monster foreigners.

Well done, everyone. Applause and after-show cigars all around.

2006-06-14T23:44:00.000-07:00

This past week we had the infamous “Sports Day” at Koho High. Sports Day is kind of like the Field Day we all loved (or hated) in middle school, except that whereas in the US it’s a pastime reserved mostly for kids under ten, in Japan every student from the age of five to the age of eighteen takes part in some form of Sports Day every single year.

Now, being the type of child that mostly liked to read the Chronicles of Narnia and play with my GI Joe’s in the sandbox, I thought even the modest Field Day I was forced to take part in at Governor’s Ranch Elementary School unnecessarily competitive. "Why," I thought, "are they making me run so far, and with so many people?” I’d much rather hang out with JoJo, our overweight class rabbit (RIP).

Suffice to say, I would not have been very happy growing up in Japan.

One of the second year JETs prepared me for Sports Day thusly:

“It’s like you close your eyes, and when you open them again you are magically transported back to 1938 Japan, where the Emperor is still God, and where everyone is recruiting for the war effort. It will blow you away.”

The pageantry associated with this day is intense. The students were split up into three teams: Blue Dragon, Red Phoenix, and White Tiger. Each team had a massive flag and a two story tall mural emblazoned with a glowering picture of their corresponding animal (or fantastical creature, whichever the case may be). Every student was given a headband to represent their color. At the correct musical cue, every student marched (yes, that’s right, marched) up to present their colors to the principle, who in turn blessed them, and gave a speech. There was much chanting of slogans and bowing. It was truly a sight to behold.

The Japanese Sports Day has everything an American Field Day has: the relays, the sack races, that infuriating relay in which you carry water bit by bit into a receptacle of some sort, shot put, etc. etc. And then some.

For instance, for the life of me I cannot ever remember having played anything like “Tire Fight” during Field Day at home. This is a delightful Sports Day game in which all of the girls (and only the girls) line up facing each other in two rows, in the center of which is a bunch of tires. A whistle blows. The girls run to get the tires and carry them back to their lines, and the side with the most tires wins. Simple, right? Except that for forty girls there are about ten tires. There is pulling, yanking, dragging, and screaming. A Tire Fight is the type of sport that would be at a redneck barbeque.

Nor did we have “Pyramid Wrestling” at Governor’s Ranch, thank Christ. But boy do they ever have it here. Pyramid Wrestling is a ludicrously violent competition in which the Japanese boys wrestle in groups of four until somebody falls, or until somebody gets stripped of their headband. Remember playing “chicken fight” in the pool back when you were a kid? That was fun, right? A few laughs, a few pushes, and everyone falls gaily into the cool water. Well, think of that, except the fighter is on top of three kids, and instead of falling into cool water, the loser falls onto dirt. Broken and bleeding.

Here is a perfect picture:

Somewhere along the line, probably back in 1938, some masochistic bastard apparently thought starting from a standing position was just too safe. They all get running starts now.

Here was a particularly nasty fight.

This….

Turned into this:

All of the sudden, and to the surprise of absolutely nobody, one of the poor kids fell directly on his neck. He was also bleeding from the forehead. They took him to the hospital. Don’t worry though! He was back in time for the closing ceremonies! If only there was a medal for awarded for head wounds!

After the event I interviewed two students. One of them is a “tough guy” and the other is a pretty Average Joe, just a nice guy.

First, Mr. Nice Guy. He always says hi to me and waves goodbye to me at the end of the day. When I taught him, he never slept or made disruptions. An all ‘round good kid.

Me: What do you think about this?

Nice Guy: It hurts.

Me: What hurts?

Nice Guy: My arm. I fell on it.

Me: Well, at least it’s over, right?

Nice Guy: Until next year. Then it comes back. I don’t want to do it again.

Me: I see.

Now, Mr. Toughie. He likes Slipknot and Marilyn Manson. He is also, strangely, a pretty good student.

Me: What do you think about this?

Tough Guy: I love fighting.

Me: I see.

Like many things in Japan, Sports Day is both ludicrous and endearing, and if you get into it, it can be a hell of a lot of fun. Hell, even the Teacher’s Relay was a lot of fun, and I almost threw up after that! (In my defense, I had to run a whole 300 meters). I also took part in the High Jump competition; you see, I was a pretty hotshit highjumper back in my day, (I believe I took third place in Elementary School), so when the top guy at Koho won and they asked me if I thought I could beat his height, I took off my hat and sunglasses, handed my camera to someone, and walked out onto the field, preparing to bask in the glory and adoration of my students once I shattered his mark.

I made a big show of stretching, began my slow approach, took bigger and bigger strides, lifted into a beautiful backwards jump……..aaaaaaaand slammed right into the pole. I landed spread eagle on-top of the pole on the cushion. I almost took the whole apparatus down on top of me. Everyone politely chuckled. The boy who won smiled and bowed when I shook his hand.

Back in the day though, I’d have been all over it.

2006-06-07T10:25:00.000-07:00

A few months ago I was privy to a Japanese Pimp fight. It was my first Pimp fight ever, (except for me, there aren’t a whole lot of pimps in the Denver Suburbs...BADABING!), so naturally I was intrigued.

I’m not sure how the whole incident got started, but by the time we had arrive on the scene (to sing karaoke at a joint nearby), there was already one dude knocked out and bleeding from the head on the sidewalk, and the street was swamped with pimps and ragtag individuals of every sort.

First, a word about Japanese Pimps. They don’t look like much. Unlike pimps in the US, they don’t wear flashy colors or badass velvet fedoras, nor do they carry gold tipped, ivory handled canes or wear Chinchilla coats dyed a rainbow of fabulous colors. In fact, the only thing pimps in the US share with pimps in Japan are the shoes, (mostly gator-skinned, silver-tipped cowboy boots, or 1970’s style pointy-tipped bright leather loafers with absurd heels for a man), that and the Hos of course. Otherwise they dress in sleek looking suits, either white or black. They choose to express their pimpdom through their hair, which they mullet out and bouffant, or purchase extensions for until it’s down to their lower back, then they dye it rusty red or gold. Now that I think about it, they look pretty ridiculous. Really quite stupid.

Their job is to pick up potential girls for hostess positions, and to direct you to the nearest hostess bar that they represent. Virtually every single one of them is connected at some level to the Yakuza, and there are hundreds of them, one at every street corner on a Saturday night. Some of them have little FBI earpieces, and should you require their services, they will call up a car and whisk you away to wherever you want to go. They are also all about 5 foot 3, and, despite the whole Gay Elvis thing, most of them look about as menacing as Jon Arbuckle.

At least that’s what I though, until one of them dropped the poor fellow that ended up bleeding from the head on the sidewalk that night. You see, I failed to recognize that practically none of these pimps compete against each other, and are, in fact, all most likely part of the same underworld gang, sort of like different branches of the same franchise, so the second somebody fucked with one of them, that person got on their little earpiece and brought the pain with the entire crew. While I could most likely deal with one of these pimps, I wouldn’t want to have to contend with 35 of them.

The whole spectacle was notable for one other reason as well: The Japanese Police. Now, I respect the police system here for the most part. They have a very visible presence in every major area of traffic, and they were very capable when an old man ran down Geoff as he was biking across the street, before promptly driving off. They tracked the guy down, made him apologize, fined him, etc. etc. But the way that they pandered to these worthless pimps, and tried lamely to diffuse the situation that night, well, it was just embarrassing.

You see, once the dude got hit, his posse showed up, and then the pimp posse showed up, and everyone was in each other’s face, and people were shoving and fighting, and then the police showed up. It’s all over, right? Wrong. Nobody is arrested, nobody is even taken away. The police pretty much played the part of the High School teacher who pulls kids apart and holds them back while they do their macho posturing. But still, it’s the cops, right? So we figure that the situation is under control. So we go in to sing our karaoke, and an hour later we come back out...and the pimps are still yelling and trying to fight! Unbelievable! Nothing has changed except the fact that there are now fifteen policemen being worthless. It’s mayhem! There are Hos running about in their high heels, and dudes yelling and pushing, and a big crowd has come to see what the hell could possibly be have been going on for an hour and a half, and the police are doing their part by saying “Sir, calm down sir. Please sir. Just calm down sir.”

We even saw, repeatedly, the pimps pushing and kicking at the police, which, as you know, would have lasted all of one second in the US, and most likely would have ended with the perpetrator dead.

The US cops aren’t perfect by any means, Lord knows our police have their own problems, but as I watched these pimps yell and shove and kick at the police I couldn’t help but think that what the whole situation needed was a nice dose of NYPD whoopass.

I can imagine how it would have gone down:

Pimp: (moves to shove police officer)
NYPD Cop 1: Sir, if you touch me I’m gonna have to shoot you.
Pimp: What?!?
NYPD Cop 1: Sir, is that a gun?
Pimp: This? This is a cigarette!
NYPD Cop 1: Fred, I think he’s got a gun.
NYPD Cop 2: TAKE HIM DOWN!!

(blamblamblamblamblamblamblam...........blamblam!)

All of the activity on the street stops. The pimps and hooligans put their hands up.

NYPD Cop 1: Requesting backup! Requesting backup! Officer down! Officer down!
NYPD Cop 2: Yeah! Officer down! TAZER ‘EM ALL!

And that would be that.

2006-05-30T21:41:00.000-07:00

This week we got the “performance reports” back from the students, which was rather humorous. When I was in High School and I filled out those class evaluations, I always wondered if they did anything. Now that I’m on the other side, I can safely say no they do not.

The numbers for the classes in which I co-teach were rather high. This should come as no surprise to anybody because I’m awesome. They ran the gambit from 68.3 percent approval rating to an unheard-of-for-a-class-that-isn’t-P.E. approval rating of 89.8 percent (that one, not surprisingly, came from my smartest class. I affectionately refer to them as my “Little Einsteins”).

I was disconcerted to see that the lowest approval rating in my grouping came from the class I co-teach with Obata, which I really enjoy. I wondered how that could possibly be, until I took a look at the number of students that reported in. Then I realized that the whole thing was ridiculous.

My 89.8 percent approval rating had the highest number of returned surveys, and it was 50%.

In the class I teach with Obata 14% of the students replied. That works out to three kids.

The class I least enjoy teaching because of the mouthy bastards that sit off to side of the room and cock-off all period had a fairly high approval rating, which also disturbed me, until I saw that 5% of the students returned the survey. Or should I say student. 5% works out to one dude. Whoever he or she was, their opinion will now go down as that of the entire class. 75% aint bad, so I appreciate that, fella. It got copied into the books and was distributed to the entire teaching staff.

Of my other two classes, in one of them 5 kids reported in, and in the other 4 kids reported in.

Ridiculous.

While we’re on the subject of ridiculous, I have a few other things to report of late, sort of like my rendition of Bill O’Reilly’s “Most Ridiculous Item of the Day.”

The first is this. I came across this when I was checking notebooks a few days ago. Just so you know, the Phrase of the Day was “It’s a long shot.” So close. So very close.

Ridiculous? Hilariously so.

Two weekends back we had a potluck party in Takaoka city, Toyama city’s baby sister. The party, held on the roof of an apartment building, was a lot of fun, and quite relaxing. A great idea on behalf of the two paying JET tenants that live there. They got the idea back in the summer when they saw that random construction workers would use the apartment's easy roof access for a few beers and a smoke after working.

No dice for us whiteys, though. We got kicked off.

“But we saw construction workers doing this all summer! And they don’t even live here!” One of the JETs told the landlady.

“They’re Japanese. This is their country. This is not your country,” she said in retort.

Nice. Real classy.

Ridiculous? Clearly. Uncommon? Not Exactly.

And last but not least, we have this:

Mountain Dew in bottles. Unbelievable? Surely. Ridiculous? Only if you don’t Do the Dew.

And I Do the Dew.

2006-05-23T23:15:00.000-07:00

When I was drunk at a work party a month ago, one of the teachers sprang the following question on me:

“Brad-Sensei, do you like children?”

Sensing another rant about the students, of the type that frequently come up when the work-staff is under the influence, I heartily jumped in. I smiled at her and filled her glass up with beer, which she then was forced to drink, along with me.

“Not really, Sensei,” I began, “If I ever have any, I plan on boarding them at a school far away until they are 18! Then they can come back,” I laughed loudly, I took another swig, “…for one month. They can come back for one month. Right before they go to college. I’ll introduce myself and I’ll have a whistle. Have you ever seen The Sound of Music?”

She looked at me, confused.

“Well, I was wondering if you might be willing to teach my children English. Once a week. I would pay you," she said.

I stopped laughing. I swallowed.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“They are very young kids, six and eight years old. They love English. Could you help them?”

I looked around at the other people sitting at the table. The English teachers were listening intently. What was I supposed to say? That I find little children only marginally less annoying and gross than many of the High School kids I’ve come to know? That when they whine and scream for attention I sometimes just want to haul off and beat their asses? That I look forward to the day when my kid throws a fit in a supermarket so I can just leave them there, get into the car, and drive halfway out of the parking-lot before little Brad Jr. comes crying out of the supermarket Daddy Daddy don’t leave me I love you I’m so sorry!!! And I say You broke daddy’s heart in there, it’ll be a while before he can love you again and all the while I'm holding back laughter? No. No I cannot say any of this.

“Uhm. Yeah. Sure! Sure I can!” I said, looking about the table. “Little kids, they are… Well…they are just great. Aren’t they?”

“Yes. We’ll talk more about it on Monday, ok?”

“Ok!” I said, and then proceeded to drink a lot of beer. I promptly made myself forget about the entire conversation until the next morning, at which point I immediately questioned how smart a move it was to agree to this special class. I know a lot of JETs that have these “secret” English conversation classes on the side, and only a few that actually enjoy teaching them, despite getting paid fairly well by the hour. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. I say “secret” because for some reason JETs aren’t technically allowed to do these things. I have no idea why not. It is still doing what the government hired us to do, after all. Regardless, everyone does it anyway.

So the next morning I see the teacher again:

“Brad-Sensei! About the conversation class…”

“Yeah, about that…you see—

“I was thinking about paying you 3000 yen for 45 minutes,” she said.

“…what? Are you serious?”

“Not enough? How about 4000?”

“4000 yen!?! You don’t have to pay that—”

“Also, I’ll be there the whole time. I’ll make all the lessons. I’ll bring all the materials. I’ll also drive you.”

“Really? That’s…that’s awesome!”

“All you have to do is talk and play games. It’s a conversation class. We call it an eikaiwa in Japanese,” she said.

“forty bucks for 45 minutes of playing games? We call that highway robbery in English.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Sign me up!”

“Are you sure it’s enough money?” She asked.

“Whatever you think!”

“I think it’s very fair.”

“Then so do I, Sensei. So do I.”

So we’ve had four lessons thus far, and let me tell you, they are awesome. The youngest one joins in sometimes, other times she runs around the house eating things. Fine by me. The elder one, at eight years old, is already twice as smart as 95% of the Koho students I've taught. She loves to read things, and she tells me how her day was and what she did. She is a wicked Old Maid player too. Very talented. When I first met her I said "how are you?” to which she gave the standard and generic "I am fine, how are you?" answer that they teach every Japanese student from the womb. Nobody actually cares to hear how you are, it’s just how they have been taught to answer. Nobody except this girl, that is. After asking her how she was, I went about setting up the game and turned to see her still looking at me, waiting to hear how my day was. At first I didn’t know what to do. Then I answered her.

“Well, my day was good. I read a lot.”

To which she nodded.

I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to teach a student that wants to learn of her own accord. Even if she is just eight years old. By God I can almost, almost see how someone might actually get into this teaching gig for keeps. Almost.

And as far as the whole “all little kids are annoying and gross” thing? Well, here is a picture of us playing a concentration game with various animal picures:

Yes, that is her sitting primly and politely smiling. And yes, that is me: I haven’t showered in almost 24 hours, I’m sprawled out on the floor, and I’m acting like an assclown.

So we can pretty much throw that theory out of the window right there.

2006-05-17T17:50:00.000-07:00

When the weather is nice, the absolute last thing you want to do is teach kids. And yet, the kids continue to show up.

I've completely checked out. Nothing seems to get to me anymore. I can't even drum up a healthy dose of indignation towards the Japanese school system in which I am entrenched. My righteous anger has deserted me. The fuel for the fire is gone.

And I don't believe I'm alone in my apathy. For instance, just yesterday there was this festival uptown in which each neighborhood of a certain city built a huge wooden float, and then they rammed them into each other all night to booming bass drum accompaniment. Sounds wild right? Like a pretty wild time? It sure does. It probably was, too, but not for me. I went home at 9pm. Why? I don't really know, exactly. Seemed like the thing to do at the time. There were cataclysmic crashes of holy, paper lantern covered, fifteen foot tall floats happening one after the other right in front of me, and this is the conversation I remember having with Geoff:

"What are they hitting each other with, those floats?"
"I think they have battering rams attached to them. They hit each others battering rams."
"Oh. Cool."
"Yep."
...
"Can you imagine if one of your nuts was taped to that battering ram?"
"Ooh, yikes. That would probably hurt."
"No kidding, right?"
"Yeah. Geez."
"That's funny. It's a-...what a funny thought that is."
"No kidding. Sure is."
...
"So how have you been?"
"Good. Pretty good. I think I elbowed a guy in the eye coming over here. Little guy. Japanese guy."
"Oh no. When did that happen?"
"Coming over here."
"Right. What did he do?"
"Nothing. Just kept on walking."
"Huh.”
...
"I think I'm going to go get a coke. Do you want a coke? I'm gonna go get a coke”
"I'm ok. Thanks though."

Crazy festival madness, booths selling everything from squid to airgun ak47s, and this is the level of discourse. I swear, it’s like everyone’s been doped.

This phenomenon intrigued me, so I decided to ask around and see how everyone was doing, you know, put my finger on the pulse of JET life. Because if you really want to know how people feel, you have to get out there and in the thick of it. They spoke to me on condition of anonymity. I obliged.

So without further ado...let's take it to the streets:

What are we doing? What are any of us doing? Does any of it matter? And if it matters - does it matter that it matters?"
- "Geoff"

"They cancelled all of my classes until I cut my hair." - “Max”

“I have no internet at school today, so I might as well just end it all now.” – “Emily”

"I'm doing great. I don't know what the hell you're all talking about" - "Dave"

"I really thought the students were gonna get it this year. I really thought that this might be their year. ’05 to ’06, you know?" – “Bryan”

"Here's what I think: Japan is a place where the food tastes like the ocean vomited in your mouth." - "Robin"

"I am paid...comfortably salaried even...to dick around on internet message boards for hours a day and call it "research" for the English classes I am unqualified to teach. That's how I'm doing." - "Bunny"

And there you have it. Paints a pretty picture, doesn't it?
What is that picture? Don't ask me. All I ever want to do anymore is bowl.

2006-05-11T00:43:00.000-07:00

Today’s Oral Communication class started out just like every other; I was teaching numbers to the kids and they were taking it well enough, of course there are always a few of them that look about as enthusiastic as old dogs in the euthanasia ward of the pound, and of course there is always that infuriating couple that continues to play grabass in the back corner no matter how many times I tell them that they are failing, but most of the kids are pretty in to it. Numbers is an easy lesson. The kids can dig it.

We began by doing the “listen and repeat” section of the worksheet I’d given out, which pretty much entails me saying the numbers from 1-30 and then jumping around like an assclown while they repeat them. Number one rule of JET teaching: When all else fails to grab their attention, just act like an idiot.

Aside from the fact that nobody seemed to be able to get the number 12 right, ever, the exercise was going well, so we moved to the next section, in which the kids have about 20 questions, each of which has three numbers. I call out one of the three numbers and the kids are supposed to circle the number I call out.

So I start calling out numbers and immediately have to split up Romeo and Juliet in the corner:

“Hey, hey! HEY YOU! Did you get that?” I ask.

“I don’t understand,” the boy says.

“How about you listen?”

“Say it again,” he asks/demands

“27.”

“Again.”

“27.”

“I don’t understand.”

I shake my head. The girl, thankfully, has at least circled the correct number.

“See? She’s got it,” I say.

“Caesar Salad?” She asks.

“Nono, She’s Got It. I said She’s got it.”

“What Caesar Salad?”

I sigh and go back to calling out numbers. I note that my JTE has been watching the same girl in the other corner for five minutes now. No big deal though, right? She's probably just helping her one-on-one. The girl doesn’t have that great of a command of the language, so I think nothing of it.

I almost get to the end of the number sheet and see that my JTE is still crouched down next to this girl. I walk over to her.

“What’s up, does she understand?”

“She got them all.”

“What do you mean? I’m not even done calling them.”

“Don’t look at her sheet and finish up the numbers.”

A bit weird, right? But I shrug and go back to the front of the class and call out every number but the last one. My JTE is still next to this girl. I walk back.

“She’s gotten every one before you said it,” my JTE says.

“What?”

“Every one.”

“No way.”

“Yes.”

“She has this last one? Already?” I ask.

“Yes. And she has already marked her choice as correct.”

“She can’t know what I’m thinking.”

“She does. Say it.”

So I look at my options, think hard about what I would normally choose, and then change it at the last second. I call out the number. I look at my JTE. She nods.

“She got it.”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, that’s not possible.”

This girl had gotten the worksheet, filled out all of her choices, and then marked them all as correct with her red pen before I had even said them, and she was right. Every single time.

“What the hell is going on here?” I asked.

“Could she have gotten ahold of your answer key beforehand?” My JTE asks.

“No, I make these things up on the fly. I have no answer key. It changes every time.”

My JTE converses with her for a moment. She is a painfully shy girl in class, always very quiet, and she doesn’t even say much in Japanese.

“She says that she can see the numbers before you say them.”

“See the numbers?”

“She says she’s not so good at English, but she is good at guessing numbers. So she guessed the numbers. It’s easier for her.”

“That is unbelievable. There is no way that just happened here, in my classroom.”

The girl herself is looking quietly down at her desk. This is no big deal for her. Meanwhile, the rest of the class has taken absolutely no notice. Not even a full blown psychic phenomenon can capture the attention of Mr. and Mrs. Gropesalot.

After class, when we are back at our desks in the staff room, my JTE turns to me:

“What do you call that in English? That power?” She asks.

“Psychic,” I say.

“Do you believe in it? She started marking her answers as correct before you finished asking the questions. She was sure.”

“I don’t know. I mean, she could have just been lucky, right? Really lucky?”

My JTE looks at me for a moment, contemplating.

“Nobody is that lucky,” she says.

I wonder if the higher-ups would allow a "class trip" to the nearest casino.

You know, to, uhm, to study numbers.

2006-05-04T23:17:00.000-07:00

It’s getting warmer and it’s getting lighter earlier. About goddamn time. I feel like I’ve done a stint in an Alaskan winter where everyone goes crazy because it’s night for four straight months. I don’t understand how more people aren’t dead here after that. It was a war; a daily battle for your sanity. I half expected May to come and there to be parades and GIs kissing their sweethearts on the streets. What we just went through should be referenced in textbooks where they should speak of it with a muted sadness and refer to it as a terrible chapter in the annals of world history. It was something memorials need to be built for with the words “The Great Winter of ‘Aught Six” laser etched into the marble base of brass statues depicting the gaunt, sallow, pale faced Toyama citizens. There needs to be a JET thrown in there for good measure too. I’m thinking something like the Korean War Memorial, except where that one depicts a unit of twelve life-sized soldiers trudging through the wilderness, ours can picture a group of Japanese wearily walking to work in suits and rain boots, chain smoking cigarettes with one hand and holding umbrellas with the other. My statue can be somewhere in the back; I’ll be shielding my head with a newspaper, drinking my fifth cup of coffee, and shaking my head continuously via animatronics. Over all of us should be a cascading, torrential, fountain-fueled downpour.

But it’s all over now.

It’s a shame when the first hint you have of the days getting brighter is when you hit up that 6am train and it’s no longer dark. I was coming back from some 24 hour Yoshinoya’s and I actually stopped in the street. It was so bright out that I thought I somehow slept through my first train in the restaurant and it was 9:00 in the morning. Fortunately, or unfortunately, it was only 5:30.

Other signs of the great thaw followed: They took away the space heaters at school, the Japanese have untied all of their trees and let them hang freely, the JR train workers have switched to their stylish summer uniforms, everything smells like decomposing crap…

And Koho is in the process of choosing a new ALT to take over for me.

Yesterday Obata plunked a list of 15 names down on my desk.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“One of them is going to be the next ALT.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, the problem is all we get is a name, their hometown, an age, and a relationship status.”

I looked at the paltry list in front of me.

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And what do you want me to do with this?”

“Narrow it down to three, then we send it back to the government, and they choose the one. We’re Private. Private schools get to choose.”

“Not much to go off of here,” I said.

“I know. Sorry.”

I looked at the names again, trying to visualize what kind of person might accompany each.

“Is this how you chose me?”

“Yep.”

I shake my head.

“Unbelievable,” I said.

“What’s unbelievable?”

“It was a 10 month application process. I drove all the way to Chicago for the weekend just for the interview. And in the end all it came down to was my name. You just liked my name.”

“It’s not our fault. They don’t give us anything.”

“I know. It’s just, it’s funny. Kind of. It’s ironic.”

So I set about the task of choosing the next Koho ALT. As I did this, I remembered these two poor girls I met at the Chicago Consulate, near tears after “bombing the interview.” I thought of the couples torn apart by JET when one gets in and another doesn’t. I thought of the message boards full of people trying to get in to the program and failing for their third straight year. I thought of the weeping masses who received the rejection letters. And then I thought how it can be that somehow, in this weird, twisted, wacky world, after all of the application nonsense, after all of the recommendation letters and physicals, all of the personal statements and copies of personal statements, all of the return receipt mailings and interview techniques and memorized potential questions and months and months and months of agonizing waiting, how it can possibly be that for fifteen lucky individuals, it all came down to Bradley Griffith.

I couldn’t help but laugh.

The first rule was no girls. Almost 75% of our students are male, and I think it was pretty hard for the female ALT’s in the past here. I was told, therefore, it was best if the ALT be a guy. So I cut every girl on the list. Just like that. Hopes dashed. By Brad.

Next, being an American, I cut every non-American. Tough. Had I known more about the non-Americans on the list, or really anything at all, I might not have cut them, but I didn’t, and I show loyalty. There was only one non-American anyway, and I’ll be damned if he was going to get a spot based solely on his citizenship. You all would have done the same, so stop your whining. What are you, a communist?

After that I cut everyone who was married or put “couple” as their relationship status. You remember when they told you that it didn’t really matter what your status was? Yeah, they lied. That was also an explicit order. Couples are hard to work with. They ask for too much and expect special treatment. No dice. More hopes dashed.

After that I tried to cut every blue-stater. The last thing this program needs is more liberals. Don’t get me wrong, I love liberals, but we’re about full up over here thank you very much. I did leave a guy from Washington, which is blue, because I felt that he would already be accustomed to the weather here. I also advanced a guy from Pennsylvania. I’m not sure why. Perhaps his birthday was near mine. All the rest of them? Gone.

Then I took a good long look at their names. I tested them out, repeatedly. If I thought their name had a good ring, that person was cleared. It had to have pizzazz, staying power, and an easy Katakana spelling. Sure enough, when all was said and done, only three remained. Those three I highlighted, passed back to Obata, and he shipped them off to the Prefectural Government Offices so they could choose the final one.

So to all you poor souls struggling through the absolutely ridiculous application process to get in to this program: should you fail, buck up. Like so many job applications in life, in the end it all comes down to idiots with highlighters anyway.

2006-04-28T10:12:00.000-07:00

You may remember a while ago that I wrote about trying out for (and acquiring) a part in the Toyama Charity Show. After that I didn't write anything about it. For four months. Some perceptive readers have asked me how this whole venture is going. I recently wrote an open letter to the two directors of the Charity Show that I feel adequately sums up my experiences thus far. Enjoy.

Dear friends,

Hello, my name is Brad Griffith, I play the part of Tree Number 1 and Guard Number 1 alongside the indomitable Geoff Davies. We are usually drunk during practice. You may also remember me because it was I that suggested we take upwards of 500 dollars from the profit made on the Charity Show and use it to fund a booze-cruise cast party. I stand by my assertions that the two charities that we are donating to will not miss it: The UN Sack Lunch Program is already doubtless receiving millions in kickback from the Oil For Food scandal, and the World Guide Dog Foundation could at least take a 250 dollar hit since I remember reading some report somewhere that said all blind people are totally loaded. The choice, however, is up to you.

I am writing on behalf of myself as well as my co-star Geoff Davies to ask of you, nay, plead with you, nay again, beg of you to please not assign us with any more responsibility. It has been made abundantly clear that the two of us are single-handedly running this entire charitable operation into the ground already. We clearly cannot be trusted at all. It took us five months to memorize a collective ten lines. When we attend practice we are running solely on coffee, peanuts, beer, and adrenaline. I’d like to call your attentions to a few cases of our ineptitude:

Exhibit A: We are always leaving on “bathroom breaks” to the nearest convenience store. I am not going to kid myself into thinking that we’ve fooled either of you. You are smart people. We are not. What could have tipped you off? Could it have been our girlish giggling? Perhaps it was that one time I loudly whispered to Geoff, “Hey, let’s get more beer,” before demurely asking for a fifteen minute toilet break.

Exhibit B: The fact that not once in five months have we ever been on time to practice. Not one time.

Exhibit C: The fact that, despite having practiced at the Kureha location four times now, we still cannot find the goddamn room.

Exhibit D: The fact that, up until last week, everyone in the entire production knew Geoff Davies’ lines except Geoff Davies.

I could go on and on, but no doubt you are aware of the complete spectacle we make of ourselves every Wednesday and Sunday. You have both shown yourselves to be paragons of patience. The real “charity” shown in this charity show is demonstrated weekly in the simple fact that you haven’t kicked both of us out on our asses.

In fact, far from being relegated to the waterboy and sweat-mopper positions, we seem to actually be acquiring more responsibility. Just last practice we learned that we would be memorizing an entire song, for instance. Now, we will do our very best here and we will succeed, no doubt, because doe-eyed orphans are counting on us and because that's the kind of men we are, but what we think you should rethink is assigning us to the roles of Pixie #1 and Pixie #2 as well. Although there are no lines for the prancing pixies, there are a myriad of dance steps that are very hard for two goliaths like ourselves to memorize and perform.

Now, I don’t know many things for certain in this life, and my experience as a JET has taught me that I know even less than I once thought, but I do know this: If you make us try to memorize the pixie dance, it will be the death of the charity show. It might just also be the death of everyone involved as well. Even the orphans, somehow.

As time progresses and we get closer and closer to curtain call, you might be tempted to think we will change our foolish, fast-living ways; this would be a mistake. We are what we are: And what we are is one massive liability for this organization.

Thus far, damage has been minimized. Should you see it fit in your directorial ways to make us try this Pixie thing, or, heaven forbid, give us any more responsibility, well then, God help us all.

Respectfully yours,

Brad “Rosencrantz” Griffith
Geoff “Guildenstern” Davies

Needless to day, they made the right choice about the Pixie thing.

2006-04-26T15:48:00.000-07:00

I’ve taken to tearing my face up while I sleep. I go to bed just fine, but when I wake up I have several red tears on either side face from my eyes to my chin. I’ve worked out that these are most likely from the uneven edges of my nails. A few days ago one of these red lines was even partly scabbed over. My face then stings all day. This is disconcerting for several reasons, not the least of which is because I have an abnormal fear of sleep-(anything): sleep-walking, sleep-talking, sleep-laughing, sleep-burping, sleep-farting, sleep-vomiting, anything at all that a person can do not of their own power. It’s just weird.

Dreams are strange too. I’m not talking about MLK Jr. style dreams, those are just fine, I’m talking about the “I’m driving around under the ocean in a car naked, but it turns out it’s not a car, it’s a delicious McDonald’s Filet-o’-Fish Sandwich etc.etc.etc” stuff. What the hell is the point of all that stuff? It’s totally unnecessary.

Think of all the bad dreams you’ve had, or barring that, think of the last bad dream you had. I bet you can. I can remember mine, it was about snakes. Gross.

Now, think of all the good dreams you’ve had, or barring that, think of even the last good dream you had, a dream where you can remember being really happy. I’m willing to bet you can’t remember it. I’ll tell you flat out that I haven’t had a great dream in a long while. The last really great dream I had was when I was 14 years old and I thought I was in Disneyworld, but then I looked around myself and I WAS IN DISNEYWORLD AND IT WASN’T A DREAM! Man, that was awesome.

But anyway, the purpose of that little exercise was to illustrate how worthless dreams are. If they aren’t bad, they are stupid. Sorry children. Everything you’re parents tell you when they tuck you in to bed is a lie. Especially that peeing the bed at age 15 is normal. It only becomes normal again in college.

Back to topic: so I bite my nails, and then my subconscious thinks it’s just hilarious to make me rake their jagged edges down my face while I’m asleep like I’m some sort of wailing woman. That’s just great.

I must be a psycho when I sleep. I already have to wear a bite plate because I’ve managed to grind my K-9’s to nothing over the course of two or three years; rather than point down like they are supposed to, they’re actually slightly concave. Makes for a nice even smile, but technically speaking, I am now officially more suited to chewing cud than tearing meat. That was my first tip off that perhaps I take out the aggressions of the day subconsciously; when my dentist looked into my mouth and went, “Good God! What happened to your teeth?”

So I was looking at the welts on my face in the mirror this morning and I got to thinking: what the hell do I have to be worried about? What on God’s Green Earth do I, Brad, have to worry about? Huh? Huh subconscious? You in there you rat-bastard? You hear me? What am I worried about? You’re the one going all horror-show on me, so why don’t you just come out with it you cocksucker!?!

Silence. It’s Infuriating.

Seriously, let’s take stock here:
Easy job: check
Financially sound: check
Fabulously good looking (sans welts): check
Having fun in Japan: check
Low stress work environment: check
Rockin’ family: check
Dreamy eyes: check
Nice facial hair growing abilities: check
Have a student that requested I henceforth refer to him in class as “April Fool”: check
Have another student that requested I call him “Train”: check
Have another student that requested I call him “Ferrari”: check
Have still another student that requested I call him “Number 13” (honest to God): check

All check out as awesome, and yet the red lines running down my face tell me things aren’t adding up somewhere.

I don’t get it myself.

2006-04-23T23:52:00.000-07:00

For some reason the Japanese prefer bathing together more than they do alone. Why this is the case has eluded me in all of my nine months here. I liked to bathe with other people too....when I was three years old and my mom took rather embarassing pictures of me and my cousins in the bathtub. I believe I might have peed at the time. Regardless, the point is, that was the last time I bathed with others...until I came to Japan, that is.

I gave it another shot in Nagano, after a long day of Snowboarding. "Hell," I thought, "why not? It can't be that bad, can it? I mean, everyone here does it, right?"

It was, uhm, well, it was...it was ok...

It was called an Onsen, meaning that it was a naturally heated sulfer water bath. You can always tell an onsen because it smells like poopy farts. For some wierd reason, however, God saw it fit to make this sulfuric water somehow cleaner than normal water. Go figure. Funny guy, that God.

So, you get totally buck-ass naked in the changing room and then you go into this outer chamber and wash your bits and pieces. In this onsen we squatted on buckets in rows, sort of like a prison. Pretty wierd, but we're still ok here, it's no big deal. It's just other dudes shlongs. Grow up, right?

Once you're all clean you go into the bath chamber. So I walk out into the bath area....and see about fifty dudes piled inside a 10x20 foot little pool. Hmm. Well, can't back out now, right? Just take the plunge into the pool full-o'-dong. So i did.

I later learned that I made my first mistake when I walked over to the bath. You see, you're supposed to cover yourself up with the tiny towel that they give you, but I just flopped on over in front of God and everybody. I believe I might have even pumped my elbows. Oh well.

So you're in the bath, right, and now comes the slightly awkward time where you jockey for personal space, which, in this particular case, was almost non-existent.

"Hey man, stop touching me. Are you touching me?"
"Move over a bit for Chrissakes. Is that your elbow?"
"It certainly is not!"
"Did you just touch my ass?"
"I hope not. That was me that hit your thigh there, though."
"Well then who just touched my ass?"
"Dude, cover yourself for heavens sake."
"It's not my fault! I'm very bouyant!"

And so on.

I later learned that my second mistake was not having a second towel. I got my little toilet-paper-square of a towel soaking wet in the tub, so then what do I do? I gotta dry off with something after the post-wash-washing, right? Well, I was SOL:

"Hey man, can I borrow your towel?"
"Just hold on a minute, I have to dry myself."
"You've been drying yourself for twenty minutes, C'mon man, I'm just, like, hanging out here."
"Well maybe you should have brought another towel."
"I realize that. But it's a little late now, isn't it?"
"It's not a big deal, grow up."
"I am grown up, i'm just cold, that's all, it's not normally that size."
"That's not what I meant. Here, you can have it now."
"I just saw you dry your ass on that."
"Do you want it or not?"
"Yeah. You're a pretty clean guy, i suppose."

So it was a comedy of errors. And although it was relaxing for a bit, I guess, I told myself that if I was ever going to go to another Onsen, it's going to have to be at an off-peak hour, to say the least. I hear that in Hokkaido they have an Onsen that a bunch of Monkeys go in and use as a toilet. It's very popular. Perhaps I'll have to check that one out. (cough).

But yesterday I decided to chance the whole deal again.

I went with Obata, (whom I will I will no longer refer to as my supervisor, and will henceforth just refer to as my friend) to a totally shit-kicking public bath in Toyama.

This place was unbelievable. They had themed baths for crying out loud. There were two baths specially gussied up for the cherry blossom season: in one they had smashed up a bunch of cherry blossoms in order to color it pink, and in the other they had smashed up some sort of fragrant seaweed to color it green.

In addition to those baths, they had one that was like an easy chair surrounded by hot water, another in which you sat in a giant cereal bowl of hot water, and yet another where you chilled on a hot marble rock slab with three inches of steaming water flowing around you. Aside from those, you could also go into this one pool that was as hot as balls, seriously, it was out-of-control hot. Then, of course, they had the "electric bath" in which they ran a low voltage current of electricity through the water. Now, I'm not sure who thought of that idea, but it is clearly not safe. It's awesome, but it is not safe. Who the hell was the first Japanese person to try that one out? Who in the world said "Oh, here we go, I got an idea. You know how we always sit and chill in water? Well how about this, let's electrocute ourselves!! Eh?! How about it? People have done it before, right? It'll be like dropping a toaster in the bath, except we won't die!"

My kidneys went numb and all the hair on my body stood stick-straight up. Yes, all of the hair. Needless to say, I loved it.

There was practically nobody there. We had whole baths to ourselves. I didn't want to leave.

In one night Obata managed to show me that the Japanese public bathing experience can be worth fighting and dying for. And given my failure of a first experience, I have five words for him:

Well done, sir. Well done.

2006-04-18T21:48:00.000-07:00

I’ve received many thoughtful and pithy compliments about my blog entries over the months, and I cherish every one of them, but it would seem that while I may have a grassroots fan base that supports my writing, the institutions of “higher learning” do not; Every single one of the MFA programs I applied to rejected me, and all but one of the M.A. programs did as well. CU, my hometown school, saw it fit to put me on their waitlist indefinitely. Thanks guys. Suffice to say, going to school for writing is not what I will be doing next year. On a totally unrelated note, I now find the idea of “learning how to write” patently ridiculous. Except for at Florida University. Florida had the foresight to accept my ex-roommate Dan. Good luck with that, Dan. You bastard.

Now, as a means of coping with ten straight rejections trickling in every week over a two month period, I did what every red-blooded writer does: I destroyed my body. It’s a good thing that I got denied when I did, because rather than do what I would usually do when facing rejection, which is sit inside my cell of an apartment swilling Jack Daniels on the toilet, I was instead able to go out and celebrate my failure with a whole ton of Japanese people at the annual Hanami Festival for cherry-blossoms.

That’s right, ‘tis the season for the elusive and deadly cherry-blossom.

The Japanese go apeshit for these trees. If you ask them why, they’ll probably say it’s because the pink blossoms are so beautiful, or because their blooming signals the oncoming of spring, or because the short and beautiful lives of the blossoms are like the short and beautiful lives of the warrior-poet samurai of old and blahblahblah. These are all lies.

They Japanese love these blossoms because when they bloom, it means that everyone can go out and sit under them and get wasted during the middle of the day, every day, for two straight weeks. It’s the most ruckus season of the year. Anything goes. Often times fights break out between wasted groups of Japanese kids, and the alcohol loosens all the Japanese up so they can suck each others faces willy-nilly. It’s like a nationwide kegger, or it would be, if the Japanese had kegs and could drink more than two beers without falling on their faces. Mind you, I’m not much better. The days usually started something like this:

Look at how dapper we are! All smiles and cheer. Never mind that I am dying inside...On the outside I look fantastic! Soon enough however…

I’m slurring out a coffee order and listing heavily to the left and I've got wine dumped all down the front of my jacket and a blow up-bear doll around my neck. That poor, poor girl. You see? Don't you see? Just like that. That’s how this festival works. It’s like lightening.

One moment you are laughing and being jolly with a Japanese guy dressed up in an elmo suit…

And the next moment that very same Japanese man is passed out and rolled up in a tarp like some sort of Tickle-Me Sushi.

Once again, for those of you that might still not quite understand; Here we have Brad prancing around a piccolo player:

And moments later, here is Brad with a samurai top-knot hairpiece sitting down because he feels a little bit dizzy from prancing around a picollo player:

Remarkable. Truly.

For two weeks it was like this, every day the Japanese took the party to the streets and the parks, and every time they saw us foreigners they cheered and shoved hooch down our throats. We only joined in on the weekends, but that was plenty for me. Unfortunately, (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it) the best days for drinking were Sundays, so all of us JET’s were just wrecks for work on Mondays. This Monday as I was walking to school assembly, Obata stopped me.

“Hey Brad, for class todaWHOAH! Did you go out drinking this weekend?”

“Why yes! How could you tell?

“Have some gum,” he said.

He gave me some of that Japanese super-gum he uses to cover up his habitual smoking habits and quietly chuckled at my pain.

“Hanami,” I said.

“Hanami,” he said, nodding.

Thank God those damn trees flower for only two weeks.

2006-04-11T10:50:00.000-07:00

A shakedown is coming for the Toyama-Ken JET community; as those of us who are not re-contracting leave, the government silently absorbs a few of our jobs here and there. It has now been decreed that every public school JET be teaching regularly at a minimum of two separate schools every week. Overall, the number of JET’s here will shrink next year. Those in the public High School system, who are generally pretty busy to begin with, will now have even more work. This makes them a little pissed. Here’s the thing though. Guess how much this will effect whoever takes over my job?

None. Not at all.

I’m private. I do nothing to begin with, and as of next year my replacement will continue to do very little work, all the while he (and it will be a guy) will be living five minutes from the one and only school he is required to teach at. I went from having to teach 11 hours in one week to having to teach twelve this semester. Whoopdie-do. Meanwhile we got guys like Dave Edwards teaching half of my weekly scheduled hours in one day, and they are making whoever his replacement is pile on a few more for good measure next year.

Please don’t mistake my tone here. You might think I am genuinely shocked at how superfluous I am, or perhaps that I am even disappointed at how little of an impact I will be making on the children I try to teach. No no no. I’m laughing all the way to the bank. And I really do. Once a month. I laugh the entire trip. On my scooter.

Hahaha! Turn left out of the apartment!

Hahaha! Turn right at the first stop light!

Hahaha! Go straight!

Hahaha! Turn right into the bank!

Hahaha! Deposit! Deposit! DEPOSIT!!!

Koho does not need me. My job here is just barely justified, and that is a fact. The only worthwhile thing I think I do here is show the kids that Americans are living breathing people, and not all of us pack heat all the time. However, for the sake of my successor and whoever follows him, I hope they don’t figure it out for a long time. Koho is a delightful little school full of zany teachers and madcap children. It’s like Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory for Slightly Slow Children. They also give me a lot of freedom. Others should be so lucky.

But anyway, on to today’s topic: It’s finally happened. School has started once again. While it’s true that I teach only 12 hours a week, I had become accustomed to the lifestyle of teaching virtually nothing for four months. Since I came back from the US in December, I would venture to say that I’ve taught perhaps three collective weeks of normal classes. It’s time to change that, however. The new kids are here. The new teachers are here. We’ve had the “first contact” ceremony between the old students and the new students, where they all line up facing each other in the gym and yell out a few things and bow. It’s reminiscent of High Noon. Or, I suppose since they never actually touch each other at all and it’s very choreographed, it’s a bit more like West Side Story. Anyway, the point is: It’s Game Time.

It is such Game Time that they have asked us all to update our personal slogans that go on our nametags. I’m going to take you through the slogans that we in the English Department have chosen for our nametags:

First we have Sakai-Sensei. She is very smart, and has a very good, working knowledge of the English language. It is reflected in her nametag:

Look at that! The comma is in the right place! The apostrophes are correctly positioned as well! On top of that, it’s a good slogan. Well done Sakai, well done.

Next we have Morioka-Sensei:

What this boils down to is “Do Your Best Everyday.” You can see the “best.” It’s sort of a hybrid thing, cheating a little, but whatever. The kids can’t read English anyway.

Now, Mochizuki-Sensei:

Not quite sure what she’s going for here, but I appreciate the effort and the one-hundred percent English. I think what she wanted to say was something to the effect of “Let’s all do our best!” but, of course, what came out was a command for all the students to do her best. Come to think of it, that sort of makes sense in a strange way, I suppose.

Next we have Nakada-Sensei:

Simple. Effective. A little bit David Brent-ish, perhaps, but good nonetheless. What are we if not sincere?

Here was my slogan last year:

Lame. Boring and lame. Generic, off-the-shelf, contrived trash. I swore I would do better next time. Look at the care-bear style stickers. I was ashamed.

Here is my slogan this year:

That’s the ticket! Look at the bold blue lettering! No exclamation mark for me. No sir. Even the sparkly stickers now take on a new meaning, it’s like “Hi new kids! My name is Brad, I’m a friendly, approachable white boy! Look at my hair! It’s spun from gold! Come on into class and take a seat! Have a sticker! FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION.

Hilarious on several levels, not the least of which is because “failure” is a VERY PROBABLE OPTION here. Absolutely no-one else gets the joke though. Story of my life.

2006-04-03T09:07:00.000-07:00

And now, we continue with our series on B&B's R&R in Thailand with Part 2: The Hua Hin Experience.

We cruised south in a rented Mercedes driven by a dictator looking fellow that had the courtesy to leave us alone in our hungover misery. It's a good thing we were travelling at speeds in excess of 100 miles an hour and made the 3 and a half hour trip in just over two hours, or I probably would have lost it all in the car.

Now, if it weren't for the intermittent paper trail, you could easily convince Bryan and I that we were never actually in Hua Hin, it was getting that bad (is he joking? Who knows?), but we do actually have several memories and a few pictures to sustain us.

Like this:

Which eventually turned into this:

I'm not quite sure when these were taken, but I believe it was around noon. The setting is the Peony Hotel, our home for our four nights in Hua Hin. The hotel bar was called the "Lucky U" and the girl who was the head waitress was, believe it or not, called Lucky. We told her that "Lucky" didn't sound very Thai (sounds more stripper to me), and asked her why she chose that name, to which she replied:

"Because Lucky You (pointing at me) and Lucky You (pointing at Bryan)."

"Ahhhhhh," we both said, nodding at her sage explination, which I only now realize makes very little sense. I should have asked her if it was me that was lucky or her, but instead I ordered another beer.

We had several rendezvous with the bar staff at the hotel and by the end of the trip they no doubt thought we were total asses. At one point we found ourselves in the Lucky U again and I called Lucky over.

"Excuse me, Lucky?"

At which point she probably rolled her eyes.

"Yes?" She said, "Another beer?"
"No no. Well, yes, but that's not why I called you. Could you tell me what day it is?"

She looked at me in silence for a moment and then over at Bryan. Bryan looked right back at her.

"Actually, I was wondering myself," he said.

"It's Tuesday," she said.
"Ahhh, Tuesday," I said, "Bryan, it's Tuesday."
"Tuesday. Of course it is."
"That's great. In that case we'll have another round please. Thanks Lucky, you're a gem."

Hua Hin is a great little spot, it has character, the people are very friendly, and the beer is cheap. As far as I can see it has only one strike against it: Fat Europeans Wearing Swimsuits (or not wearing them, as the case may be.)

I'm just going to throw this one out there on the table, take it as you will:

Europeans are gross.

Sure, the young ones are ok, i suppose. If you're under 30 and you want to go topless on a beach, that's fine by me, the problem is it's never the young ones that do it. And if you're a dude, odds are you're wearing a speedo no matter what your age; and unless you're Ian "The Thorpedo" Thorp, or a competition swimmer of similar status, get your fat ass out of that speedo and into a decent pair of trunks.

All of them sit out in the sun until they are a hairy, glistening, sweaty lobster red, and not a one of the women (old or young) shaves their armpits, the mere thought of which just made me throw up in my own mouth a little bit, even while I sit here writing this, far far away from all of them.

Gross. Just gross. Unnaceptable.

Every day around 1pm we would go to this beach bar that I can't remember the name of and sit and drink and chat with the locals for hours. To call it an actual "bar" is being a bit generous. It was more of a "drinking shack," but that's cool, because drinking shacks are cooler than bars anyhow. At that shack we met this guy, one of the bartenders:

This guy, along with another fellow, dared us to fill our entire table with empty Singha beer bottles. We came damn close (with a little help from Charlie, another rocking Toyama-ite that came to visit us). Either way were falling all over ourselves when we had to go visit our tailor for the final fitting of our suits.

I think you can chalk up our tailor as another in the group of people that weren't too sad to see the back of us. Of our four fittings, we were only really functional in one of them.

Bryan decided to go with two suits, both of them pimping. Here is a picture of him holding his head in one of them. I'm not sure what he said to me, but I think it was something to the effect of "get me a trashcan."
Here's me. I opted to go for the cream colored linen suit with a pink striped shirt, Don Johnson style.

There are a couple of things I want you to notice about this photo: The first is how tight the pants are. Serious nut-huggers. At one point the tailor dude said, "yeah yeah, we know you're big." The second is the poor tailor girl in the back. I wonder why she looks that way? Could she have seen my nuts?

After our final fitting we wandered over to a rock bar and tipped the unbelievably talented lead guitarist a ridiculous amount of money to play a spot-on cover of Europe's The Final Countdown. It was perfect. Then we found ourselves in a dance club. It wasn't that sweet. I remember seeing one lady-boy's shirt falling totally off his/her fake boobs without him/her noticing it. Gross. I guess they lose feeling in their chests when they hack it to pieces and shove silicone bubbles inside of themselves. Go figure. Small price to pay to look like a wierdo though, right? Am I right?

At one point Bryan went to take a piss and then came back and tapped me on the shoulder:

"You have to go into the bathroom."
"What? Why?"
"Just go."

So I went.

It looked pretty damn normal, so I sidled on up the urinal, whipped it out, and started whizzing when all of the sudden someone grabbed my neck.

Two things went through my head at this moment. The first was "I am going to die here in this club." And the second was "How clean are these dudes hands?"

Then he cracked my neck, loudly. First one way, and then the other, while I was peeing. Sure, it felt awesome, but still, mess with a dude when he's peeing in the US and you stand a good chance of getting shot.

After cracking my neck he set a warm washcloth on the back of my neck. As soon as I finished up, he took it off and told me to put my hands above my head. For the breifest of moments I thought I was going to be robbed after all, but then he picked me up from behind and cracked my back. This tiny thai dude actually picked me up and cracked my back. Unbelievable. That alone warranted the tip.

All in all I think I preferred Hua Hin to Bangkok, mostly because it was a beach town, and we were the young American superstars wherever we went. Bryan was even called out a few times because he has what I have since come to learn is called the "Michael Owen Factor," meaning that asian people think that he looks exactly like Michael Owen (also known as "Saint Michael" or "The Boy Wonder"), a pro-soccer forward that plays for Newcastle United and England's national team. He tells me he gets this all the time in Japan, too. Whenever I look at him I just see him for the scurvy dog that he is, but hey, I'm not a thai chick. I do know this: he's a hell of a guy to drink across the world with.

It was everything we were looking for in a vacation: a lot of sitting, a lot of drinking, and a lot of being real, real sweet.

2006-03-28T01:33:00.000-08:00

Hello everyone. Tonight I present to you the first in a two part series exploring the wonder that is Thailand. Last week the intrepid Bryan Holzer and I ventured west for a bit of R&R from our incredibly hectic normal lives of drinking and doing nothing behind a desk. This is our story.

I said I would only go to Thailand if we agreed to do nothing at all cultural in any way, shape, or form. This meant that under absolutely no circumstances were we to go to any Temple, see any traditional art or dance, view any museum of any sort, any governmental building, or go on any trip (educational or otherwise) that involved the rich cultural history of the Thai people in any way. Bryan consented.

In return he demanded that we only go to areas in which drinking went hand in hand with water, not drinking water, heavens no, that would cut into the beer, just being around water. For instance, a bar inside a pool would be ideal, or a bar on the beach, but a bar near the pool would be acceptable as well. However, a bar near the beach was out of the question because this would involve too many technicalities. I consented. We shook hands, and were soon on our way.

Although we decided to spend two days in Bangkok, four days down south at a beach town called Hua Hin, and then another two at Bangkok, I will, for ease of reporting, split these entries up into Bangkok and Hua Hin. First, Bangkok.

Bangkok smells like poo. It is dirty as sin, hot as balls, and should you have to go pee outside, you will most likely pee on a cockroach. I saw rats scuttle out from under my feet with all of the haste of Katy the World's Fattest Cat (50 pounds). There was sewage everywhere, insane motorcycle riders, and people that would take mopeds out on expressways not only without a helmet, but also with young children sitting sidesaddle behind them, often three or four deep. Lanes don't matter to the cab drivers, who often blazed into oncoming traffic, nor do speed limits. Upon finding an open stretch of road, more than once our drivers clocked in at speeds in excess of 140 km an hour, or about 100 miles, often tearing by these little children on mopeds. As is more often the case, however, you hit traffic that can last for hours on end and that is usually the result of a 20 year old car dying. In the time it takes the authorities to clear it out, 20 more 20 year old cars have just died, and you wait. We waited for two hours once.

Be that as it may, Bangkok is also an extremely fun city, once you realize that absolutely everyone is running their own game, and that they all see you as a fat, lamed goose that shits golden eggs every time it's squeezed. This might not sound too appealing, but you should also realize that the Thai people are very laid back about their scheming. A hustler in Detroit, for instance, might really press you until you feel uncomfortable. They might also be huge and hairy and carry a gun. The hustlers in Thailand are often lazy, always small, and would have hawked a gun if they ever got a hold of one because they are so poor. You just walk by them, or say no, and they give up on you.

You want lady thai to boomboom? Just waaaaaalk on by.
You want lady thai to suck your banana? Just waaaaaaalk on by.
You want see lady thai smoke cigar with pussy? (We did actually get this one) Just waaaaalk on by.
You want lady thai that is man? Just ruuuuuuuun on by.

The first night we arrived we got in at 1am and promptly went out on the town. We told our cab driver to take us to one of the main bar streets called PatPong. He instead took us to a sex club that must pay him to drag customers to them. This was kind of dick of him, because by the time we told the women we didn't want anything to do with them, the driver was gone and we had to walk another five blocks to the bars. He was clearly running his own game.

In that five block walk we were talked to and hooted at constantly. Never in my life have I been so continually harrassed as a male. It was like we were supermodels walking through a construction site. I think Thailand is the only country in the world where women can walk about with a less chance of getting accosted than men. We had at least five people tell us that PatPong was closed, and that if we wanted to drink anything we would have to come to their shady as hell operation up some back alley. They were all clearly running their own game.

Naturally, PatPong was open and kicking. We returned to it several times, and there was always hundreds of people out dancing and drinking in the streets. We sometimes found a nice spot to sit back and take in the scene while sipping on a few beers, but just as often we ended up drinking amongst the multitudes. It was all such a radical change in scene from Japan that despite its shadyness it was very refreshing. Twice, latenight, we ended up at a small, open air bar on a sidestreet that seemed very Thai in that we were the only westerners to be seen. We immediately took this as a fantastic sign, and we were right. For the most part we were able to chill and reflected in peace while drinking lukewarm beer, afraid as we were to put ice in it, which is the custom in Thailand, where the weather melts your face even at night. Once a group of girls sitting behind us turned to me and held out her cellphone.

"What's the problem?" I asked.
"Look."
"At what?"
"Look this. I like this."
"The phone?"
"No, this..."

She clicked a button and her phone started to play several short clips of porn. Bryan leaned over to see what was going on as I got up to go take a leak

"What is it?" He asked.
"Just take a look," I said.

By the time I was half way across the bar I heard him laughing loudly. When I came back she was taking him through all of the moves she could do, via her phone.

"I think she's a stripper," I said.
"I think she might be a bit more than that," said Holzer.
"Is there anyone in this town that is not a stripper?"
"That's a very good question."

These girls were persistent, and one actually tried to pull me away from the cab I was getting in that we caught a short while later outside of the bar. As it turns out, they were trying to run their own game. Even on their off hours.

You might ask if we partook of any of the fine, authentic, Thai food in Bangkok. The answer is no. I tried once and got a bird claw in my noodles. After that I stopped. We did, however, eat at
1: Hard Rock
2: Auntie Anne's Pretzels
3: A&W Rootbeer
4: Burger King

Also, one time we took a short walk from the hotel to see if there were any cool restaraunts or bars nearby and, contrary to our mission statement, ended up near a temple of some sort. We quickly ran away to a Mr. Donut across the street.

On one of our voyages to and from the bars to the hotels we got an especially insane driver. Holzer and I are convinced that this fellow was either drunk or on some sort of upper. He continually asked us if we wanted to stop for hookers, and we continually told him no. This didn't keep him from slowing down by every single one of them he saw along the way, just enough to get their hopes up, then, as they moved over to the cab, he would speed off and laugh hysterically, all the while talking about how you could "Fit whole arm inside thai girl." After six or so of these slow down/speed up escapades he very suddenly became serious.

"You know George Bush?" He asked.
Here we go, I thought.
"Not personally," Holzer said, "why?"
"You know Tony Blair?" He asked.
"Why?"
"BECAUSE I SEE TONY BLAIR BOOMBOOM GEORGE BUSH IN PATPONG GEORGE BUSH ON TOP! HAAAAAAAA!"

And then he hysterically laughed and played his little "mess with the hooker" game once more before slowing down and getting very serious again.

"You know Condi?" He asked.
"Condoleeza Rice?"
"Yes yes, Condi. You know?"
"Dare I ask why?"
"She a virgin. I know," he said.
"I think she was married," Bryan said.
"No no. She no boomboom. I can tell by the way she walk. BELIEVE ME I KNOW THESE THINGS!"

And he sped off.

That, for me, pretty much sums up Bangkok: Generally fast paced, with only the occasional slow down, and always really, really crazy.

On a totally awesome aside, for those of you who watch 24, you will think this is just about the most amazing thing in the world. For those of you who don't, you probably couldn't care less, but regardless, here it is:

I saw Edgar in the Tokyo airport.

Well, at least, I saw the actor who plays Edgar on the show. His real name is Lou Lombardi. Bryan, despite having never seen an episode of 24 in his life, and despite my having seen every single one, told me immediately that "it couldn't possibly be him." So I accosted the man after he got through immigration.

"Excuse me, but are you Edgar from 24?"
"Yeah," he said, in that lispy Edgar voice and with that droopy Edgar smile.
"HOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLYYYYY SHIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTT!" I then said.

I went on to tell him how I loved his work, and that I was a diehard fan. And then I told him ****SPOILER ALERT****** that I was very sad to see his character die off and that I did infact tear up a bit. He said he was sad to have it happen too, and told me to write in to Fox to try and get the Edgar Show going strong. He then laughed an Edgar laugh and told me that they loved Edgar in Japan too. We shook hands, and I even got to snap a photo with him for ye of little faith.

Un-Freaking-Believable.

2006-03-16T23:01:00.000-08:00

I've now been to two graduation ceremonies in Japan. The first was for the school that I work at, and it was what you would call a standard Japanese High School graduation, meaning that there was a lot of exaggerated bowing and prolonged speeches. It was extraordinarily formal, and for some strange reason it was very compartmentalized; everyone had a "starting position" in which everyone was situated a certain way, and then the M.C. would call certain people up to the stage to do their bit, and then everyone would return to "starting position" again. This was especially ridiculous for the principal, who had a part in every individual bit:

M.C.: "Mr. Principal, would you please come up to present the diplomas?"

The principal gets up, bows, moves to the stage, presents the diplomas to a few token students

M.C.: "Thank you Mr. Principal, thank you students, everyone please be seated."

The principal bows, goes back to his seat off the stage, and sits down for about three seconds.

M.C.: "Mr. Principal, would you please come up and present the attendance awards?"

The principal gets up, bows, moves to the stage, presents the awards to a few token students.
M.C.: "Thank you Mr. Principal, thank you students, everyone please be seated."

The principal bows, goes back to his seat off the stage, and sits down for about three seconds.....

Etc. Etc. Etc. for two hours. I think the principal got up and sat down ten or fifteen times. And when I say three seconds, I mean three seconds. It was like Hokay, gonna sit down here, onetwothree, aannnd up we go...

He speaks decent English, and we're pretty tight, he and I, so after the cerimony he came up to me:

Mr. Principal: "Brad Sensei! What did you think about cerimony?"
Me: "Very interesting. You moved a lot."
Mr. Principal: (Laughing)
Me: "Up Down Up Down, you know?"
Mr. Principal: (Laughing) (Laughing)

Like I said, we're pretty tight.

So tight, in fact, that just a few days ago he must have seen me:

a) walking in circles around the space heater
b) sleeping
c) giving Ace of Base another try on my playlist
d) making a little fort with my cell-phone for my paperclip village

....and realized that I was very bored. His solution? Invite me to another graduation! This time at a Junior High School! I admit, at first I was wondering if another two hours of watching people bow was what I really needed, but it turned out to be pretty cool. For starters, I was in the VIP section, so I got tea, and every single junior high student that got a diploma had to pass by our place up front and bow specifically to us. We gave them the briefest of uppity nods in return. I also got a little gift of bean paste wrapped in chewy goo, and they even served me coffee.

The cerimony itself was a sight to behold, mainly because everybody was crying.

At my Koho's graduation, not one student cried. I don't know why. I think it might be because some of them have no souls, but then again I could be wrong. I think tears are created in your soul, just under your left armpit, but I don't know for sure. I am not a doctor. Anyway, the only people crying at Koho were a few teachers, who do have souls. Souls that grew even bigger that day. Perhaps three sizes.

The graduation for Iwase Junior High was a cacophany of sneezes, mewling, sniffling, and speeches that ended in high pitched squeaks. Even the principal teared up on stage. The band director was flapping her hands about keeping the beat while her face was contorted up in an effort to keep from exploding in sobs. She looked like she was in pain. I did see a lot more of the girls crying that the guys, but I think that's because the guys will get the shit beaten out of them at baseball practice if the wrong dude catches them crying like a sissy. Not the girls, though. The girls could have at it, and it was contagious with them, it moved about them and would lie dormant until something set it off, kind of like herpes, and then whole rows of them would break out in tears.

I don't even remember my 8th grade graduation, aside from the fact that I ardently expected the perfect attendance award, and was genuinely shocked when I didn't get it. I think i spent the rest of the graduation thinking just how the hell I had blown it. Angela Lonigro ended up getting it, my ex girlfriend, who had dumped me around Christmas. Thanks a lot Angela. Catholic girls...I tell ya...

I do remember the graduation party afterward, it rocked. My mom threw a bitchin' party for my whole class and we all even danced with each other in that funny, stick up the ass way that 8th graders do. I would only become familiar with the dirty, crotch-grinding style a year later in high school. I was a late bloomer in the dancing department.

Where was I? Japan. Right. Well, these 8th grade kids probably weren't going to get a party, it's hard to fit one in when you're at school until 8pm every night of your life. And even if they did, I'm not so sure that they dance with each other here. They probably could have done a pretty wicked line dance, or maybe a carefully choreographed Dance Dance Revolution style thing, but crotch-griding? Dry Humping? No, the only 8th graders playing grab-ass are the ones in England, when they aren't in the bathroom blowing lines and taking ex to throbbing club beats, that is.

Just where the hell can a kid be a kid anymore?

I'll tell you where:

Toys R Us my friends. We will always have Toys R Us. Here's to you, Geoffrey Giraffe.

2006-03-12T21:05:00.000-08:00

Why is it that, without fail, whenever you go home on a train at any time of the day with any sort of booze on you or in you, you always run into your students? Is this some sort of law that I am unaware of? What is going on here? It was Sunday night for God's sake, and I saw five of them on the train home.

Me (to myself): oh no oh no, is that Fujimitsuwhatshisface? It is. Aw damn, I'm wasted too. Maybe he won't see me.

(I, the six foot three red-headed godzilla, commence trying to be inconspicuous. Often by looking stupidly out of the window at nothing.)

Student: HEEEEEEYYYYYYY BRAD SENSEI!!!!!!!!!

Me: dammit.

Student: BRAD SENSEI! DRINKU? SAKE?!!

Me: haha. No, no. Go home children, ok?

Student: BRAD SENSEI SAKE?!!! OOOOOKKKKK!!! SAKE!!!!!

Me: No no, no sake, see you on Monday. Be safe. heh.

Without fail. I do not understand it. The problem clearly is that the kids are always coming or going to school in this country. If young people are ever going anywhere in Japan, it is either to or from school. Of course they are going to see me coming home on a Sunday with my head in my hands, reeking of smoke and Axe body spray. It really shouldn't surprise me anymore, but it does.

This weekend we went to a bar called Deniro, devoted (believe it or not) to Robert De Niro. The barstaff all wore various De Niro movie print shirts and there was an Andy Warhol-esque De Niro montage displayed prominently on one of the walls. A lot of Japanese bars have wierd-ass themes and are devoted to very strange cultural niches that I don't understand...This was not one of them. De Niro deserves his own bar. I was reminded of a bar we used to go to in Brighton called Ocean Rooms that also prominently featured Robert De Niro. There is something about the guy that inspires a party attitude; a party attitude with an attitude. If there is still a question in anybody's mind as to why this might be, I suggest that they watch Heat. That should just about clear everything up.

I have received a lot of mixed reviews about my recent blogs; some people, apparently, think I bitch too much. I wish I could talk to these people, but the horse that they are on is just too high. (SLAM!) There are also some people who rave wildly about my entries, almost like they were speaking in tongues. Those that don't like the bitching confuse me, because what else are blogs for? Does anybody really want to hear about how great someone's life is? Not this kid, I want complaining, it's funnier that way. In fact, I have recently noticed several things that, if they don't flat out annoy me, are at least very silly, and that I run into on a regular basis out here. Here they are, in no particular order:

1. Men That Wear Shoes That Curl Up At The Toe Like Elf Slippers.

What are we trying to do here Cinderella? Are you off to the ball? Shall I call the the Coach? Perhaps you are going to debate with the other Landed Gentry of the House of Lords and it's 1850. Or perhaps you are a showboating chump; I dunno-I am not a doctor. Only two dudes can pull of that look: Brad Pitt and Dan Siniwat. Otherwise: no go.

2. People Who Use "ne" At The End Of Sentences In English.

For the very vast majority of you who neither know nor care one wit about the Japanese language, the word "ne" is pretty much the same as saying "right?" at the end of a sentence. Like "That wasn't you that pissed in my trashcan, right?" or "We probably shouldn't stick our fingers in that, right?" Anywho, a lot of kids like to show that they know Japanese by sticking it in at the end of sentences in English, like "It was a fun night, ne?" or "You should wipe that dried spit off your face, ne?" This is not cool. I can't explain why. It's just not. Everyone I know has been guilty of this at one point, even me. Well, no, not me. I have never done this. But everyone else has, and they should stop it. Except chicks. Chicks can do anything they want.

3. Anime.

What is with that shit? Anybody? Bueller?

4. Over-posed photos.

Case in point:

Who the fuck do I think I am? James Dean? What a pansy. Seriously...

2006-03-06T07:35:00.000-08:00

Welcome to March everybody. The infamous month in a JET participants life when nothing ever happens.

Seriously, I feel like my life is like a television set stuck on a repeat of "Leave it to Beaver." Everything I do I've done before, and all of it is a little bit lukewarm.

Every weekday:

Wake up in a freezing room? Check.
Do absolutely nothing at work? Check.
Drink entirely too much coffee? Check.
Walk home in the rain? Check.
Eat an inordinate amount of carbohydrates for dinner? Check.
Take a 45 minute shower? Check.
Pass out reading with my neck at an awkward angle? Check.
Can't ever read the goddamn mail? Check.

Every weekend:

Come home from work on Friday planning not to go out and thereby not spend hundreds of dollars? Check.
End up going out and spending hundreds of dollars? Check.
Kill my liver and kidneys? Check.
Wake up on Saturday morning on someones floor, cold and a tiny bit angry? Check.
Promise yourself not to go out on Saturday night? Check.
Go out on Saturday night until 8am, totally unnecissarily? Check.
Wake up Sunday in your own bed a tad more angry and twice as broke? Check.
Go to a five hour play practice for which you have five whole lines (One for every hour)? Check.
Decide to pass the time in between your five whole lines drinking one beer with Geoff that then turns into six or seven? Check.
Wake up on monday morning for work with a lingering hangover? Check.

March is so tame that everybody leaves. Literally, the entire JET population will be leaving for a full fourth of it, not only because it's easy to pull for days off in March, but also because I think a lot of people are totally burned out. I, for one, could use a change of scenery.

Staying out until 7am is a lot less cool than you may think. The last train is at 10:50, the first is at 6am, and somewhere in between senior year of college and now I started hating sleeping on people's floors. It's pretty much a matter of simple mechanics. It's not like I'm doing something mind-blowingly awesome that makes me forget the time completely and I look up and go "Holy Hell! It's 7am!

7am is all to rarely something that "sneaks up on you." Its usually more something that you have to fight dearly for. My quality of life would improve drastically if the JR rail system offered even one all-stops-included train between the hours of 11pm and 6am. I suggest at 3am. 3am is around the time I look at myself in a bathroom mirror and go, "what the hell am I doing?" I would prefer to have this onset of soul searching whilst passed out in my bed, so I don't have to think about it and can instead go back to trying to fly.

I have had a few fun times staying out that late, true, but I can tell you right now that nothing happened after 3am that hadn't already happened before it. If by 3am you have not at least started to do whatever you wanted to do, it ain't happening. It's like that one saying I just made up right now: You rarely need that last hour of the night.

And yet anything worth doing always happens after 11pm. Thus we have a real problem on our hands, a problem I spend a lot of time thinking about. In March. Because I am so very, very bored.

Incidentally, my statcounter has tracked a large number of hits on this site back to the Toyama Prefectural General Education Center, which, if I'm not mistaken, is where the Toyama JET top brass reside, so a hearty hello to Corporate! I hope you enjoy my lighthearted jokes about not working, beating my students, and binge-drinking! What a joker I am, right? heh heh.

A lot of people ask me if I'm afraid of what might happen if teachers or administration were ever to read my blog. I tell them that what I say needs to be said. The Japanese education system is severely lacking, my JTE's are the first to say so. There is a reason that performance levels of the Japanese are dropping well behind those of kids at similar educational levels in China and South Korea, and why Japan is losing some of its quality professors to the Universities in those countries; it's because the Japanese education system is dangerously flawed. You simply cannot pass everybody through indiscriminately. There are going to be consequences. It is not enough just to get in. In fact, experts say that in 20 years the whole country of Japan is going to explode! People need to know these things!

I've said it before, I'll say it again: I love the people I work with, and I love the students that put any effort into anything whatsoever. I'm not the greatest teacher, but if the JET program wanted good teachers they would have asked for more hours of teaching experience logged. Let me open my handbook here to find the current number required...

ah, here it is: None.

The portion of kids that harmlessly sleep, while worthless, are not a real problem for me.

The portion that I write about on this thing are the ones that actively work against my attempts to teach them and that beat on retarded kids. And them? Well, we all know what I think about them.

2006-02-28T22:46:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-02-22T15:22:00.000-08:00

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...

2006-02-20T18:36:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-02-10T14:55:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-06T21:13:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-02-01T09:04:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-01-30T18:59:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-01-24T18:55:00.000-08:00

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...

2006-01-23T23:12:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-01-12T16:48:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-01-10T11:49:00.000-08:00

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.

2005-12-20T22:24:00.000-08:00

This weather is godawful. It was raining for 24 straight days, and it has been snowing for the last four. I believe we have an accumulated foot and a half of snow lying about everywhere, and the liquid equivalent of a foot and a half of snow (plus whatever those ridiculous street sprinklers pump out) swamping every street. The rain-snow is sucking my will to live.

Rob, my predecessor, has been a great asset to me in everything Toyama. He sold me a very well outfitted apartment at a very reasonable price, he threw in a car, he has given me solid tips on everything from bars to heating, but there is one aspect of Toyama life that he failed to impress upon me: this goddamn weather. "Bring a raincoat," he said, "it tends to rain here." Tends to rain? To hell with the raincoat! Bring waders! Bring a wetsuit! Bring diving gear! Now in all fairness, and from what I've heard, last year's was a much tamer winter, and the rainy season was just that, a season...not a half year. Nonetheless, what am I going to tell my successor? How can I look that poor kid in the eye and not tell him that whoever colonized this place was completely batshit insane? I just hope whoever my succesor is (and it probably will be a guy, the ALT's at Koho have been male for at least the past five years) finds the blog first, and spares me the sobering task of having to inform him:

New Guy: "Hey! I heard you have a beach near you! That's awesome!"
Me: "Beach?"
New Guy: "Yeah, what's it like?"
Me: "Oh, a beach, right. Well, hell I don't even know if it's there anymore, really. In fact, you should probably forget all about that. Also, bring waders."
New Guy: "What?"

Aside from making everybody wet all the time, the weather has the annoying effect of holing everybody up. It's not exactly a party-starter. However, this past weekend a nice family of Japanese people that knew Rob invited me and Bryan to eat and drink at their place. It was a lot of fun, and an interesting look in to the world of domestic Japan. The family has two kids, each of them two years old. They apologized for the leather couch we were sitting on because one day last week, apparently, the mother left the room and when she returned the kids had taken both a black and a blue pen to the whole thing. It was a complete and total job. Every square inch of the couch had some color of pen running through it. I said not to worry, it looked professional. Bryan said he thought it was the pattern of the decor, and never would have noticed if they hadn't pointed it out. I guess two-year olds are the same worldwide.

We sang karaoke with them for three hours, and they were driving Bryan and I to our respective homes when we asked if they would be so kind as to drop us off at the bars in the red-light district instead, it was saturday night, after all. They were happy to oblige. The snow was falling heavily at this point, so we ran to this Rock bar, only to find the proprietors on their way out. We looked so miserable and sad, however, that they agreed to open up shop again for one drink, which turned in to two before we made ourselves leave out of propriety; they would have, no doubt, stayed open all night just for us. Bless the Japanese service industry. (Plus, Bryan teaches their little girl at Higashi High School)

One thing lead to another and soon enough it was 7am. We had exhausted one of the more popular bars, Penny Black, and were exhausted ourselves. Bryan decided to head on home (and subesquently slept through his stop three consecutive times), but the weather being as terrible as it was, and since I had to go bowling in town again at noon that day, I decided to stay up all night rather than walk home for an hour of sleep before having to turn around again. It is with this experience in mind that I bring to you:

The All-Nighter's Guide to Toyama Station and its Immediate Surroundings!!!

So friend, you've decided to stay out all night? Well, let this guide ease you in to the next day as gently as the smell of Folgers in the morning.

First and foremost, the station itself: Don't look for warmth in the bathrooms, you won't find any. However, the station bathrooms are fairly clean. If you are planning on staying for several nights, you can probably rent out the pay toilet, but that's never a good option since no matter how clean they are, station toilets always smell like tinkle. Rather, I would suggest to you go in to the small waiting room by the Soba Shop. It is a warm place, and the TV is always on. If you can sleep sitting up, feel free to grab an hours worth of intermittent cat naps on one of the many octagonal cushions in the middle of the room. Go ahead, people won't mind. Most of them are bums like you. Especially that real bum that often sleeps, laying down, across all of the cushions. You could ask him to leave, I suppose, but have a heart, the guy has no shoes for crying out loud.

Need some entertainment? Don't try the bowling alley, you silly ass, It's closed until 10am. I found this one out the hard way. I sat staring into its unfathomable darkness at 8am when I ran into one of the employees coming to clean for opening. She smiled that smile you smile at insane people that you half pity, and told me come back at 10. Buck up, though, kiddo. There is still much to do in the twilight hours of the morning! Might I suggest grabbing a hearty meal of mystery meat at Yoshinoyas? Always friendly, always warm, always cheap. Take a load off.

So you've eaten, you catnapped, you've walked about, but you still need to kill some time before you go bowling at 10am? Why not try Mr. Donuts? The family friendly atmosphere, rockin' music, and bottomless coffee make Mr. Donuts a must see for the all-nighter. Every twenty minutes or so one of the nice worker-ladies will walk around with a pot of coffee, filling up anyone who looks tired. Believe me, they will fill you up as long as you sit there. I sat there for over an hour, and they just kept coming! Four steaming cups of coffee later you might still be shaking when you step outside, but it won't be from the cold!

Cap off the remaining half of an hour before Golden Bowl opens with a quick visit to The Circle K across the street. Peruse the 999 yen movie selection while you grab a bottle of champaigne and some OJ. It's time to bowl.

Pop the cork and sip on some mamosas whilst you warm up your bowling arm for your 12pm engagement. When all is said and done, you will have been awake for over thirty hours! Kick back and relax, friend. You deserve it.

2005-12-10T14:22:00.000-08:00

I've had my first Japanese enkai experience and it pretty much turned out how I expected it to, that is, rather drunken and fairly sloppy.

Every year the teachers at Koho High School throw a party called bon enkai, which literally means "party to forget." Now, what exactly this refers to was the subject of many increasingly drunken jokes throughout the night by various teachers. At first it was "a party to forget this year and look forward to the next," then it was "a party to forget about work and relax," then it was "a party to help us forget about those damn students," then, inevitably, it was, "a party that i will totally forget."

It started with the traditional toast, I couldn't understand any of it, but I went along nonetheless. Following that about 10 different teachers and co-workers started working the room, never allowing a glass to be even 1/4 empty. I would knock back several sips of beer in a toast to one person just as another came up to me and offered to fill me up again, and toast again. Needless to say I was completely out of the park in about 10 minutes. I was volunteered to play this game where i picked up as many beans as I could with chopsticks in the span of three minutes. I got eleven. Eleven. That is less than four beans per minute. My principle got 43. I also sang a rather in-your-face version of Hotel California in front of God and everybody; my screaming talent stunned many a meek teacher. I would go so far as to say that most of them were not ready for my wicked use of the microphone as an air guitar during Felder and Walsh's infamous rif. One person, however, totally dug it: My Principle. He came up to me afterward and said,

"Brad-Sensei, you are not only a teacher, you are also an artist."

Bitchin.

At the end of part 1 of the party (thats right, part 1) the vice principle stood up and announced that everyone was going to do a bonsai chant for Koho High. Apparently the meaning of bonsai is not soley restricted to "I'm gonna slam my Zero into the side of your boat," it can also mean "cheers." Go figure.

Anyway, after this I proceeded on with a steadily dwindling crew of teachers to three other party locations. We sang, we ate, we drank, and at 1am we said goodbye. I ended up at Obata's place, playing the harmonica while he played the guitar along to the Nirvana Unplugged album at 2am in his den. The entire time I was emphatically saying "Nirvana is soooo awesome!"

I slept on his floor and I went to work the next day in the same clothes. People noticed and snickered. I snickered right back at them. My head was pounding and I kept thinking that while Nirvana is good, they aren't really that awesome. I almost lost it in my noodle bowl lunch, Obata felt the same. In fact, many people were late that morning. Thank God it was only a half day. You see, we had midterms this week and it screwed up the entire work schedule. We sacrificed half of a day on Thursday for half of a day on Saturday, which, crippling hangover aside, is about the stupidest trade I've ever heard of, since Saturday morning is worth at least two full weekdays.

On Friday night I went bowling with about seven other of my co-workers. As soon as we arrived at the alley I went to grab a beer, reasoning that a.) it was Friday night, and b.) I was bowling. This came as a surprise to every single one of my co-workers, who laughed at my Shenanigans and said, "You're so funny, crazy boy."

I tried to explain to them that in the USA, whenever you bowl you have a few beers. Bowling without drinking is just not done. "Never?" One asked. "Well, perhaps in certain Amish communities, but in general, not that I've ever heard of," I replied.

They ordered a round of sodas. I was about to say "Sodas? Why don't we just put the bumpers down now, Sally," but it's a good thing I didn't because I was the absolute worst bowler in the bunch. I had the worst score that first game.

I decided I needed to do two things:

a.) get one more beer, and
b.) step up my damn game.

Sadly, I did only one of these two things. I'll leave it to you to decide which.

2005-12-02T12:45:00.000-08:00

First, a few stats for all of you.

I just spent 16 hours over the past 2 days in a seminar.

Yesterday was the First sunny day out of a string of 15 straight days where the Japanese weather service recorded a significant amount of rainfall in my area during daylight hours. Once again, that ratio stands at 1:15. Today, of course, it has been pouring for the past 16 straight hours.

I just recieved a school lunch bill for 19,000 yen. Once again, that is a bill for 190 dollars for mediocre lunches. I have been given exactly 1 day to pay this.

In the past 9 days I have bowled 12 different games at Toyama Golden Bowl. Of these 12 games my high score was a mediocre 153. Shameful.

In between classes, since I can't really talk to anyone, I often read. To date, in Toyama, Japan, I have read, either at work or at home, a total of 25 novels, encompassing 7,383 individual pages.

I still have 1 lingering bruise from a nasty hit I took on the side of my head during a kendo practice that was 23 days ago.

I have been asked to make the entire midterm exam for 80% of the classes in which I teach. I have done this gladly because I think 1 more iota of workload would flat-out kill my supervisor.

First, a word on the seminar. It was boring, for sure, but some of it was actually insightful, if not into the world of teaching, then at least into the minds of other JET's. For instance, in the Life After JET lecture, I learned that absolutely nobody (at least in my section) had a concrete plan for their lives post-JET. Very, very few people had even a vague notion of what to do. I am now of the opinion that practically every single JET that I know is running away from something (family, debt, relationship, career, school, etc. etc.) and is perfectly content to do so until the day that they die. Can't renew your contract here? Sign one somewhere else, preferably very far away from home. Don't like teaching in Japan? Try Australia. Try Spain. Japan not wierd and foreign enough for you? Go to China. By all means, do not go home. Do not start a career, keep passing GO, keep collecting 200 dollars, never purchase any houses, just keep running, never stop for more than three years, for the love of GOD do not settle down!

Some ideas I heard for post JET life in the seminar:

1. Foreign Service
2. Peace Corp (2 year commitment)
3. Peace Boat (go around on some hippy commune boat teaching people how to speak English for a year)
4. Roadtrip Australia
5. Roadtrip Japan
6. Roadtrip Europe
7. Work at a ski resort

All of which offer completely stable lives, secure in the long term. (cough)

But then, I guess the idea is that we don't need no stinkin' stable life, right? We're the carefree youth of the world! Just try to tie us down suckers! We will run with the wildabeasts in Africa! We will swim with the dolphins of the sea! We will treaty with backwoods tribes in the Appalachians and the Amazon! We will learn the secrets of the ancient forest peoples of Inner Mongolia! We will one day look around ourselves at 35 years old and go "Oh, Shit!"

Further evidence of this "flight or flight" instinct amongst JET's was the abhorrence many of them had when the final speaker of the conference, in her speech, mentioned that she thought women should get married around 30. You should have heard the barely supressed outcry of femenine voices in that auditorium. Thirty? Are you kidding me? I'll be climbing K2 at thirty! I can't get married! When asked why the speaker thought this, she simply said "It's a matter of the woman's biological clock," meaning that thirty is the best age for women to have children. After this age it becomes increasingly difficult to conceive and bear a healthy child. This is a medical fact, of course, but I got the feeling that it didn't really fly with many of the JETs. "The greatest job a woman can ever have is that of a mother," the speaker said. I don't think this went over well either. If she had said "the greatest job a woman can ever have is that of a deadly ninja assassin, right alongside her current partner," she might have been better recieved. Alas.

Moving on, you read the above statistic correctly, I have indeed been spending a significant portion of my time creating tests for the vast majority of the classes in which I teach. This is a pain in the ass, for sure, but far be it from me not to find the silver lining of the cloud. You see, making the tests affords me certain opportunities: I have chosen what to cover and what not to cover, I have chosen how to ask the questions, I have chosen material that is actually important, material that the students need to know, etc. etc. etc. However, far and away the single greatest opportunity writing these tests has afforded me is this: I have specifically engineered each test so that the students I do not like will fail it.

Now before you get all huffy, you should know that the students I do not like are the bad students. In all likelihood these kids would have failed it anyway, I simply came along and have guaranteed this. Trust me, these people need to fail. They need to repeat the grade. They have serious academic issues that they need to seek help for. And who are you to tell me that I can't play favorites? You wanna sit there and tell me that there aren't students that you like more than others? Sure there are. I give everybody a fair shake, but at Koho, about 1/4 of the kids chose to walk away. Fine by me. Repeat the grade, suckers.

Sure maybe 3 students in 1o will ever go on to college. Sure most of these kids have a lifetime of factory jobs to look forward to, in which they will never use a foreign language. Sure many of them can't even speak Japanese that well, much less English, but if you care enough to show up, try to learn. Otherwise, don't even bother. Become like poor Kazu, a very bright 15 year old student in my 1B class that mysteriously dropped out of school the other week:

"Where is Kazu?" I asked.

"He quit school," Obata replied.

"You mean he transferred somewhere else?"

"No. He's done. He's going to try to get a job. I think he can!" Obata said, enthusiastically.

Sure he can, he's a bright kid. I guess we'll never know what he could have done, though. We threw his nametag out today.

2005-11-28T15:51:00.000-08:00

On the heels of my 810 dollar whipping, I recieved in the mail yesterday a random paycheck for 600 dollars. I love this, but it also concerns me. I love it because given the absolute lack of any other reason for this money, I have determined that somebody out there is finally paying me for no other reason than the fact that I am sweet. Whoever this is, I would like to thank you, but you certainly took your sweet fucking time.

It concerns me because it is yet another addition to the pile of mounting evidence I have accumulated that asserts that there is absolutely no rhyme or reason in the country. Case in point: the sheer number of middle aged people in this city driving around with pot-leaf air fresheners that have no idea that they are pot-leaf air fresheners. It's ludicrous.

You see, I'm losing my mind over here. I know this because I feel extreme emotional responses to otherwise quite normal occurrences, for example:

Recieve a random extra paycheck for something no doubt very ordinary, like subsidies: extreme egomanical happiness.

Punching a hole through the seat of my scooter whilst wiping it down from the fifteenth straight day of pouring rain: murderous rage.

Watching an old lady at the soba joint sneeze from the inordinate amount of red pepper I pour on my soba: unchecked hilarity.

Waking up after drinking anything alcoholic at all, whatsoever, either with or without a scratchy voice from singing crappy karaoke, and less money than I woke up with the day before: crippling guilt.

This last one in particular bothers me.

You see, I may seem like a superstar, devil-may-care millionaire, akin to Johnny Depp back when he was a hotel trashing bad-boy and owned that club that River Phoenix OD'd outside of. In reality, however, I'm like the new Johnny Depp, the one who would rather wistfully reflect about his past while changing his kids diapers or working in his garden like a sissy. The Johnny Depp that has absolutely no problem naming his daughter Lily-Rose Melody Depp. Or maybe I'm not like Johnny Depp at all, having never trashed a hotel room with Kate Moss, nor ever having really been a "bad boy," at least not in any way at all similar to how P Diddy would define the term. Also, Lily-Rose Melody is a pretty stupid name. Anyway, the point is I'm awash in emotion, and I have a question for you, gentle reader:

How come I feel guilty when I drink?

The easiest answer would be because drinking takes your money whilst slowly destroying you for your troubles, but I feel like there is more to it. Don't get me wrong, I don't have any sort of problem. I only drink on the weekends, with all of you, so before you get self-righteous on me just take a step back, jack.

I am not sure how, but I think that the answer to that question lies within these next two questions:

Am I actually doing anything over here?

and,

How can I leave this place with no regrets?

One acceptable answer is:

Just take it easy and live your life for Christsakes, you brooding pansy.

But that's just one of many acceptable answers.

2005-11-22T10:29:00.000-08:00

For a while Geoff and I have been joking that, since I always seemed to have more money than him, I was the happy victim of some accounting error in my favor. "You just wait," he would say, jokingly, "the other shoe will drop." Hahaha. Laughs all around. I buy another half bottle of wine. We toast to our good health.

Well, surprise, surprise. Truth is stranger than fiction. Yesterday I was told to go to the front office, apparently I had some backrent to pay. I was unaware of this backrent, but I knew I could float another 400 for rent, should worse come to worse. If this was my other shoe, so be it.

I walk in to the office:

"I hear I have a bill."
"Oh, yes," our bookeeper says, "here."

It's for 810 dollars.

"Do you understand the charges?" he asks. I'm silent for several seconds, reeling from this kick in the balls.

"What's this?" I manage to say, pointing at one in a long list of charges. "Landlord Negotiation Fee?"

"A yes. That's your landlord."

Me: ...

Him: ...

Me: "It's for two hundred dollars."

Him: "Ah, yes..."

Me: (Sigh)

There was also a bill for two hundred dollars in "Thanks Money" that I may or may not have recieved. Perhaps I would have had more of a claim to contest it if they could actually understand me, and if it weren't for the fact that the bill is four months old.

Anyway, that's not the point of this entry. They tell me more money is coming my way for some or other reason, I'll believe it when I see it, but since I am now out the better part of a thousand dollars two days before rent is due for this month, I think it's high time for an entry on "Things I Love About Japan." Hopefully it will steer me out of the dangerous and slightly postal mood I'm in...

I have four things I can say I love about Japan right now. The list will hopefully grow as time wears on.

Thing 1: Tipping. Or rather, lack of tipping. You never tip anyone here for anything ever. Bellhop carries your bags up twenty flights of stairs? No tip. Bellhop carries you up twenty flights of stairs? No tip. Taxis? No tip. Food, drink? No tip. In fact, they will be insulted if you give them a tip. Only in America do we insist on tipping even ungrateful members of our service industry with 20% on top of the bill. It's asinine.

Thing 2: The Soba Noodle joint in the train station. This place is very underrated. I am often caught in the delimma where I am already late to meet people for some drinks, but I haven't eaten all day. This is when you need to steer clear of McDonald's, it will destroy the empty stomach. If, however, you want soothing wheat noodles in a steaming broth, with fresh onions topped with some hot pepper, why then simply turn left instead of right at the station, my friend, and walk in to the cheap noodle place. Two Bucks Fifty Cents will get you all the food you need. Watch out for the random eggs cracked on top of the food though.

Thing 3: Single Serving Coffee. When they aren't working themselves to death here, they're drinking themselves to death, so what keeps them going for those 15 hour work days? More often than not it is one of the thirty-five or so different types of single serving coffee cans offered in convenience stores and vending machines everywhere. Several different types for each day of the week.

Thing 4: The Ten Different Sizes of Beer Available for Purchase. They have everything from giant fifty ounce jugs to tiny 4 and a half ounce shot cans.
Here I am holding a 4.5 ounce can of beer, the kiddie size. Seriously, what am I supposed to do with four ounces of beer? Feed it to my cat? Is this a beer for ants?

There you have it. Four things I love about Japan. Notice that "Freak 810 Dollar Charges" is not among them.

2005-11-18T11:53:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was a big day here. All classes were cancelled. It was the annual "Tournament Day" at Koho High School.

Every Japanese High School student is required to take a sport for PE class. Every boy at Koho is given the choice between Kendo or Judo. He must choose one. Sucks if he's a lover, not a fighter, but that's the way the cookie crumbles.

Every girl must take badminton, there is no negotiation here, girls get no choice. Such is Japan.

The administration thought it would be a great idea, once a year, for every boy to fight in a tournament of their respective sports until one emerges as the best at Kendo and another emerges as the best at Judo, everyone watches from the sidelines.

The girls must all bat little feathered rubber balls at each other in the far gym while no one watches or cares. Such is Japan.

Now, I imagine that Tournament Day terrifies 90% of the boys in this school and elates the other meat-head 10%. We have a lot of disabled kids here, a few have minor physical disabilites, many more have mild to slightly severe mental disabilities, it doesn't matter, everyone fights, only one winner.

A small part of me thinks this tournament is a good idea: this is the part of me that loves the movie Fight Club and that does not like sissies. The larger part of me is slightly horrified, but nonetheless amused. I keep thinking what it would have been like if I had been forced to fight in a tournament with everyone in my freshman class at Littleton High School. Yeeeesh. That wouldn't have been pretty. The meat-heads would have loved it though. It's V-Day for the big guys; they can't really speak english (many have trouble with Japanese), but they can sure as shit beat the living hell out of a skinny kid with a stick, or pin him on the ground with a choke hold.

There were several hilariously tragic fights throughout the day. One 4 foot 11 inch kid had a kendo match against a tall thin kid, I admit I laughed when I saw the little guy flailing around a sword that was just as big as him. Some kids never attacked, they just held up their hands like beaten puppies while their opponents wailed on them. In Judo, I saw several kids get thrown over the backs of their opponents within ten seconds of the match. They would get up, smile awkwardly, and move to sit down in the losers circles. One kid got himself on the bad end of a hold and just gave up, he sat there under the meat-head for a full minute, until the time was up.

Believe it or not, the boxing champion made it to the last round of Judo, he lost though. The winner was a big stocky guy. Surprise surprise. The final match was between him and this muscular beady eyed kid who looks like a stone cold killer at 15. The winner of the kendo matches were also big guys. They could have saved everybody a lot of trouble and just told me at the beginning of the day to pick out the winners, I would have been correct, and no little kids need have been humiliated.

In the afternoon was the big event: Teacher's Kendo Team vs. All-State Girls Kendo Team. Your's truly was included. Imagine, if you will, one ring, two opponents, every student watching on the sideline. There is a teachers dugout where each man waits for his turn, there is a student dugout where each lady awaits her turn. We eye each other accross the playing field. Three judges place themselves strategically about the ring. It's go time. Three teachers went before me, not one got even a single point. The girls are creaming us. I point menacingly at my opponent accross the ring, she doesn't understand what I'm doing, I look around me and figure out no-one really points here, I stop pointing.

It's my turn. Best of three points. I'm the red guy, she's the white guy.

I stand up, move to the edge of the ring and bow at my enemy. Together we walk towards each other and bow again. We take out our bamboo swords. Someone screams "START" and were off. Immediatley I switch into that cocky "sword above your head" stance, but uh-oh, she's in it too. Shit. Time to attack. I scream and unleash a fury of blows about her head. She blocks every one. She screams at me and attacks, we start pushing at each other, our masks touching. She looks me in the eye and I look her in the eye and we both scream again.

She tags me on the head. "POINT!" White flags go up.

We start again, I scream again, and I get lost in the battle. I use one handed whip-motions from far away because of my long arms. She blocks but she is overwhelmed by my hugeness. Somehow, in the heat of battle, I manage to throw her off.

I crack her on the head. "POINT!" RED FLAGS GO UP! HAHAHAHA! I GOT A POINT! The crowd loves it. White boy got a point! White boy got a point! I'm back in the game. Best of three. This is it. One more for the win.

We start again, I scream again, I move in to attack but it's sloppy. She tags me within 15 seconds. "POINT!" White flags go up.

I am defeated. She has chopped my right hand off.

We bow, many times. The match is done.

The rest of the tournament went similarly, but no one else got a point. I am the only teacher on our team that managed to get even one point off of the all-state girls team. True, part of it was a gimmie, no doubt they wanted to see me get a point in Kendo, but you know, I've always said (since yesterday) that a point is a point.

At the end of the match all of the girls ran up to us again and bowed again "Thank you Sensei!" my girl says. I point at her,

"You are awesome," I say. She doesn't understand. She looks at her friend for help

"Awesome," I repeat. Her friend understands and translates. My opponent smiles.

"No, you." She says.

I got a point.

2005-11-16T14:03:00.000-08:00

I believe I have just witnessed what is now the current winner in the "most flagrant show of blatant disrepect on the part of a student" category.

On tuesdays I team teach a class that is normally very quiet, so I always look forward to it, it is one of the few. Thus, you can imagine the look on my face when I walk in and find that we have a new student. It's one of the makeup whores, and the loudest one at that. My face fell fifteen stories, from smile to snarl. Just like that the whole class was ruined, I knew it. The show must go one, though, so I gave it my best foot forward. I started with my daily warmup where I ask the kids what the date is, and how the weather is.

As soon as I start talking, the loud girl starts talking too, to her friend. This pisses me off in two ways, the first is because she wasn't even trying to lower her tone. She was speaking in a LOUD OUTDOOR VOICE, and occasionally cackling in the way that young japanese whores do. This also pisses me off because the girl she is talking to is normally an attentive and enthusiastic girl. Naturally, her discussion starts more discussions and before I know it the entire class is talking, although none as loud as the Whore In Training. (WITs I call them, which is hilarious on so many levels, not the least of which is because they clearly have none.)

Two seconds into the lesson and I've already lost the class. My assistant teacher didn't really know how to tackle the situation. So I snapped and shusshed her very, very, very loudly, spit flew out of my mouth, and I affixed her with a stare that intimated I would go Jack the Ripper on her if she didn't shut the hell up. I see that she has a nasty hicky on her neck. I throw up a little in my own mouth.

Her eyes went wide, she stopped mid sentance. The whole class froze. The students were taken aback "What is this? He gets mad at the children? Why, that's unheard of!" I knew all of these thoughts went through his head.

I was granted about one minute of the most pure and blissfull silence I have ever encountered in my short life.

Eventually she started talking again, like she always does (you must understand that when she bothers to show up to class she does nothing, and no amount of constant reminding can get her or her slutty friends to stop being the worthless anchors that are slowly dragging this school down.) Although it's not much, I count it as a small victory that she didn't talk quite as loudly or as frequently. Then, halfway through the lesson she gets up and leaves.

Afterwards I spoke to my assistant teacher about her.

"She's not normally in that class," I said. I assumed that she switched classes because of some or other reason.

"I know," He said.
"Is she in the class now?" I asked.
"No," he said.

Do you realize what this means? This means that little bitch ditched her own real class to walk in to my class and disrupt everything and everyone. It wasn't even her class. When I think back on it, I recall similar behavior in other classes with other kids. THEY WANDER IN AND OUT OF CLASSES, WILLY NILLY! This tells me all I need to know about the general lack of respect in this school. When the kids think so little of the teachers and the lessons that they forego their own class to disrupt another simply because a friend is in it, they have really gone off the deep end. This is unfathomable to me, even in the worst schools in the worst districts of the worst cities in the worst states in the entire USA, someone would have told this girl to leave.

I don't care if you're Michelle Pfiefer and you have latinos with knives and skinheads with swastika tatoos running around, and Coolio is blasting Gangsta's Paradise in the background, the teacher would have said something if the wrong student just waltzed into a class and started running her mouth. I clearly will, now that I know, if she ever tries to come into another class like that.

Now, I would beat them if I could. They aren't little kids, they are 16-18 years old. They aren't armed either, at least I have that guarantee. Some of them would hit back, and some might win, too. I just found out that one of the sleepers in one of my classes took second in his division in the all state boxing tournament this weekend. Thank God this kid just sleeps all day and keeps to himself. He would be beating me. The problem is, far from beating the kids, the teachers won't even stop them from talking. The only Japanese teacher that does anything is my supervisor, and that's because he is young. He's a yeller. We need more yellers. Him and the PE teacher. The P.E teacher will go so far as to twist an ear, but in a friendly manner. I want bloody knuckles. I want Mother O' Malley of the Catholic Order of Beat Ass to come in here with about eighty sisters. I want ten nuns per class. Come to think of it, this would also solve the whole problem of everyone over here being a heathen. Two birds with one stone.

This school is going under. I hate to be the one to say it, but it's true, and the sooner people here understand that the better it will be for them. It already has a reputation across the state as a school for slouchers and troublemakers. We need serious outside consultation and major change. All cell-phones need to be confiscated before class and returned after school. All makeup kits need to be confiscated before classes and returned after school (or not, depending on if the girl needs any more goddamn makeup on her WIT face). Teacher's need kick kids out of class and these kids need to fail. Keep kids in this school for fifteen years if need be, and charge them for it.

I have started to see small changes, but I fear they are too little too late. For instance, the administration here all of the sudden recently announced that our caliber of student "be on par with those of competing schools." Well, isn't that nice. I'll just get right on that. Let me push my little "on par" button here under my desk and fix everything lickety-split. As a way to get smarter students, they made the entrance exam harder. That's all well and good, I'm all for syphoning out the idiots, but you have to make the smart kids want to come. A better entrance exam is important, but that does nothing to help the 200 odd kids already here. I proofread the English section of the new exam today and I know without a doubt that not a single student i've ever come in contact with here could understand the English section of that exam. What kind of a school is it when the seniors are all dumber than the freshman?

If anybody knows any nuns doing freelance work, shoot me their number.

2005-11-11T18:25:00.000-08:00

Kendo Practice Day 2:

Since it seemed so enjoyable to the two Japanese dudes kicking my ass, i thought you all might find it interesting as well.

Today I trained with a guy on the men's Kendo team. Whereas the girl had the standard "arms in front, sword pointing at me" stance, this punk had this cocky "arms in the air above his head, sword pointing at the sky" stance. You know what that stance says to me? It says "Brad, look at all this open chest space, c'mon in! Give it a shot! It looks sooooo easy, doesn't it? C'maaaan...what are you, some sort of pussy? Hit me!"

I believe I can sum up both of my fights with this guy in the following sentences:

Me (to myself): Wow, that looks like a pretty vulnerable spot, maybe I should-

-WHAM! I get cracked right on the top of the head. Hard.

Me (to myself): All right, ouch. My ears are ringing a little, fool me once shame on-

-WHAM! I get cracked right on the top of the head. Hard.

Then I get frustrated and start flailing at the kid and land an illegal blow on the armpit-above the chest guard, below the head guard. He winces, the judge goes "ooooo".

Me: HAHA! Got you you fucker!-

-WHAM! I get cracked right on the top of the head. Hard.

Now I ask you, is this any way to go in to a weekend? Did I sign up for this? Sure it's sort of fun and all, but now I have two golf-ball sized lumps on my head, one right in the center, and the other just at my hairline above my right eyebrow. I'm serious. I'm talking the kind of lumps Daffy Duck gets when Bugs Bunny wails on him with a mallet. The worst part? Now I have to go out drinking with a splitting headache. The headache isn't supposed to come until tommorrow! What's the deal?!?

Did I mention that this kid was doing these vicious overhead hits one handed? It's ok though, I got in one more of those illegal armpit hits before the day was done. The little bitch.

2005-11-08T18:58:00.000-08:00

In the typical fashion of stilted Japanese Teacher-to-Jet communication, I was sitting reading peacefully at my desk the other day when the teacher next to me, whom I don't talk to all that much, turns to me and says "when can you practice?"

"Excuse me?" I said. (I say that a lot here.)

"For the Kendo Tournament."

"Tournament?"

"Yes. Teacher's Kendo Club. Students vs. Teachers. Tournament is in a week and a half."

"Oh, right." (I have no prior knowledge of this club existing, let alone my being a member of it. Of course, I smile and give him three dates in which I can practice "Kendo.")

So there you have it. One second I'm reading Brett Easton Ellis, the next I'm a member of the Kendo club. Funny how life works.

Now, for those of you not in the know, kendo is a big time Japanese sport in which men and women outfit themselves in blue skirts and helmets and wail on each other with bamboo swords. At least, thats what it looks like they are doing when I pass kendo practice every day on my way out the door. As it turns out, there is a lot more to it. Go figure.

Anyway, today was my first practice. One of the members of the girls kendo team is set aside to teach me how not to make myself look like a complete idiot in front of the whole school next week. She is a very sweet girl, and one of the smallest, most innocent looking people you will ever meet. Naturally, she whuped my ass. She was polite about it though. You see, short of bowling and walking from the Sunshine 88 apartment complex to Toyama station hungover on the weekends I don't get much excercise, so she ran circles around me. Apparently, you cannot score a point in Kendo unless you hit your opponent on either the top of the head, the right wrist, or the abdomen. On top of that, you cannot score a point unless you scream the name of the area you want to hit, sort of like calling your pocket. So imagine, if you will, a lanky white boy running at a 5 foot 3 inch Japanese schoolgirl with a stick and yelling

HEAAAAAAAADD! AHHHHHHHH!!!!! WRIIIIIIIIIIIIIST!!!!!!!! HIYAAAAAAAA!

And then getting really winded after five minutes and asking to take a break.

Suffice to say, had those little bamboo shoots been real steel, this little girl would have split my skull, chopped off my right hand, and gutted me in three minutes.

One of the teachers turned to me and said proudly, "this girls kendo team is the best."

"Oh really?" I replied, "in the whole school?"

"No, in the whole state. Boys too."

Wonderful. This tournament should be a real show.

2005-11-04T17:27:00.000-08:00

Japanese kids are either always at school, or they never change out of their uniforms. Let me explain:

Last weekend I didn't come home. Well, that's not entirely true, I came home for some whisky and a cigar, but then I left again. I hadn't planned it that way, everything just panned out that way.

You see, last friday was the "wild and crazy" Jet Halloween party. And you know what? It was pretty damn wild and crazy, and I liked the music. You gotta love any party where afterwards a grown man dressed up as a bumblebee is barfing into a bag in the isle of a night train home at 2am. In fact, I would go so far as to say that the train rides to and from the event were the best part.

On the ride up: Japanese Businessman, Sleeping Japanese Businessman, Witch, Drunk Japanese Businessman, Sleeping Japanese Businessman, Slutty Devil, Sleeping Japanese Businessman, etc. etc. etc. Five hundred Japanese schoolchildren in uniform at 8pm.

On the ride back, at 2am, there were no schoolchildren, thank heaven. This was the scene: Drunk Japanese Businessman, Sleeping Japanese Businessman, Drunk Witch, Drunk Japanese Businessman, Drunk Japanese Businessman, Drunk Slutty Devil, Sleeping Japanese Businessman, Barfing Bumblebee, etc. etc.

My costume? Well, I tore a page right out of the playbook of a good college buddy of mine by the name of John Hamel (who, coincidentally, is also living in Asia right now, sandwitched between two regimes of commies; North Korea and China) and dressed myself up as a present with a note on it that read "TO: WOMEN, FROM: GOD." I think you can get the joke. Kudos to John for that one, it was undoubtedly a hit. The only problem was putting the unwieldy box on myself whilst on the train. I had to put my beer down and move to the side, out of the way, and lift the thing over my head. One major drawback of this costume, however, is the fact that while wearing it you cannot bend your knees. John might have told me that, but whatever. So, after I got this huge box over me, I couldn't even bend over to pick up my beer again. I had to bother a frightened/amused Japanese businessman and ask him to pick my beer up for me. He did it, though. Kudos to him for that one.

Anyway, the party was fun, I got home very late and crashed at Geoff and Robin's place, and woke up at 12:15 on their cot. After a delightful breakfast (Kudos to Geoff for that one) I suggested bowling. Goeff agreed and we went to get beer and bowl, because Lord knows you cannot bowl without drinking. Anyway, we start drinking and bowling and I look around and lo and behold there are at least twenty Japanese schoolchildren bowling in full school uniforms. WTF? It's Saturday, its 3pm. Let it go, right?

We get to drinking and bowling, and we decide to just coast right in to the night. I suggest whisky and cigars, and so Geoff and I head back to my place. On the way back, at 8pm, lo and behold we run into seven of my students, in full uniform, walking back from school. Now, I was unsettled by this. These are kids from my school. What are they doing in uniform at 8 on a Saturday night? No wonder these kids lead boring lives. I felt sorry for them, but then I had a cigar and some scotch and I felt ok. We ended up back in the city, and I fell asleep on the cot again after arguing vehemently with Geoff over God and politics until 7am. Naturally.

So the next day I got up at noon again and I had a delicious breakfast (kudos to Geoff for that one) and I asked Robin if maybe I should go home, I dunno, take a shower or something. She says that her Halloween party is in less than five hours, and I would have to be back anyway. What should Geoff and I do to kill time while she sets up? Why, go bowling, of course. So we go get some beers and end up back at the alley. Lo and behold there are another twenty fricking kids bowling in full school uniforms! Now, this is just rediculous. Things have gotten out of hand. Its a Sunday afternoon and these kids are still in their school uniforms. They are wearing the same thing. Granted, so was I, but at least it wasn't a school uniform.

When all was said and done I got home at 10pm on Sunday night for the first real time. I probably saw kids in uniform on the train ride home, but I was a little tired by then and I wasn't paying attention. It's a good thing too, because if I had actually seen one while paying attention my mind probably would have blown wide open right there on the 9:46 Eastern Bound Tonami Line train.

2005-10-28T15:45:00.000-07:00

Today was a big friday for me, not only is it the end of another "work" week, but it is the all school festival at Koho. Part of last week, and all of this week, the kids have been practicing little speeches, getting together a talent show, decorating rooms, making pottery, painting stuff etc. etc. All for today. Now, I wasn't expecting much in the way of a blog entry for this festival, but I was wrong. It was, truly, a showcase in unintentional comedy.

Which is good, because I was in need of a laugh. Until today the week had been relatively dry, with the notable exception of last night, when I went out drinking with my insurance agent's brother, his friend Keiko, and two Jets. I was complimenting Keiko's nose piercing in a rather long-winded fashion until one of the Jets pulled me aside and whispered that it was not actually a nose piercing, but in fact a mole. whoops.

Anyway, about the festival. Before I go on, you have to understand that these Koho kids don't stir for anything. Last week, for instance, I jumped in to class wearing a vampire costume and I got perhaps one additional kid to look up and pay attention out of 5. A vampire costume. With teeth. So you can imagine what a rip-roaring audience they were for the festival. A few of them were into it, maybe 10 in the whole school, the rest of them sat there dead.

We started with a play in which several of the super shy kids starred. None of them wanted to approach the mike to read their lines, and several of them held their scripts above their faces to block themselves from the crowd. I turned to my supervisor and mouthed what are they saying? He mouthed back I have no idea.

After that came a musical set where my supervisor played the electric bass, and both he and the band were very good, but aside from a spattering of people trying to clap in time there was no response from the crowd. So you can imagine how I cringed at the end of the set when the guitarist threw his axe on the ground Metallica style. The crowd? Dead. He smashed his guitar and all he got was the same polite golf clap from the kids and majority over-50-years-old guest audience. Oh well, it was a nice try.

After that we had a happy-hands hearfelt sign language song and dance, which was humorous because one of the teachers was up there in a suit and tie and bright blue gloves singing about a candle in the wind or whatever the hell they were singing about. After that came the keyboards, they were pretty good, except for this one kid accidentally hit the demo button during the performance of a slow, sonorous number; All of the sudden a hip drum beat chimes up, and he freezes like a deer in the headlights. One of the other keyboardists has to stop her playing, get up and move over to this poor kid, and with a push of one button she stops the beat. Everybody was laughing at that, even me, although I admit I did feel sorry for him. I patted him on the back after the number, he didn't look worse for the wear.

Following that was a school quiz in which anyone and everyone who wished could guess the correct of two answers to several questions, the winners move on. About a third of the school threw their hats in to the ring, and were slowly knocked out in each consecutive round until only two remained. Both of them, unfortunately, lost on the question "what number question is this question?" I thought that ironic.

Then, however, my number came on. The coup de grace. You see, the kids had recruited me to be a part of this very fast, cheerleader style dance called Pecori Night. In fact, in the music video for this song (which the dance is modeled on) the dancers are all cheerleaders and the lead cheerleader is a man dressed as a woman. It has everything a super fast, femenine, slightly sexual cheerleader dance might have, including jazz-hands, spins, hip thrusts, hat throwing, ride-the-pony type moves, and me. Naturally, I gave it my all, which is quite a lot. I got up there with seven other Japanese kids half my size and shook my groove thang. At the end we all go crazy and cheer: I jumped about and almost tripped a kid right off the stage, thankfully I managed to grab him by the collar and pull him back on. When the kids saw me going crazy, they all went crazy, and the final seconds were a shmorgazboard of screaming and Spartan Cheerleader jumps. The performers all had a great time.

Yes, we were a hit (i.e. we, too, got a polite golf clap).

2005-10-26T22:11:00.000-07:00

A lot of the kids at Koho annoy me, some very much so, but there is only one (to date) that I actually do not like, and am angry at all of the time. This kid is a fucker. He is a bully, and a jackass, and is all around trouble. He is also stupid (believe me, i know this, I teach him twice a week), and we all know that stupid trouble is the worst kind of trouble.

I maintain that I didn't like this kid as soon as I set eyes on him. Does this make me judgemental? Maybe. Probably, actually, but I'm a pretty good judge of character, and in this case I was correct.

The kid stared me down in class a few weeks ago, but at the time I wasn't sure whether or not he was vacantly staring at me, much like a cow might stare at the hydraulic punch that is about to go through its forehead before it is butchered, or if there was actually animosity behind it. I can't tell with his watery eyes. It was probably a bit of both though, because we don't like each other, and we both know it. That same day he popped off at my co-teacher. He has yet to pop off at me. I eagerly await the day.

Yesterday on the train I saw him ruthlessley bullying a fellow student and baseball teammate while six or seven other teammates watched and laughed. He was slapping him in the face. Whenever the poor kid tried to put his hands up, this jackass said to be strong, and pushed his hands down. You see, this bastard is the vice-captain of the team (god knows why), and also a starting pitcher. The poor kid (who sits the bench) put up with it, and tried to maintain his dignity and feebly smile (no doubt because he wanted to be a part of this fuckers entourage), but when I asked him afterwards if he was ok, he looked close to tears and said "no."

What did I do while this shameful display of alpha male bullshit was going on? Did I sit idly by? Well, no. I went up to them and asked repeatedly what they were doing. I knew one of the laughers knew english, so I raised my voice and asked him. He said, "its a japanese game." I shook my head no and repeatedly asked "why? Why is he doing this?" The laugher said, "communication." Communication my ass. What the hell does that even mean, communication? I guess thats what you get when you teach at a school half full of idiots. Thankfully, the train stopped and the victim got out with me. Should I have stepped in and told the jackass kid to stop bullying? Probably. Of course, there was a good chance he would have said no, and then what would I do? Physically restrain him? Also, would I be helping the poor victim by stepping in, or hurting him? Regardless, I felt ashamed at myself for not kicking his watery-eyed ass right in the middle of the train. I hated him and his attitude, and I hated the position he put me in.

Today I ate dinner with my supervisor, Obata. I told him about my ordeal. I asked him if there are a lot of bullies at Koho.

"yes." he said, "Koho can be a shit school. Fights break out a lot. Kids talk back to teachers. We have a lot of absences."

I've never seen a fight break out at Koho, but I don't doubt it. I've certainly seen the absence problem first hand. On monday I taught a class where a full 55% of the kids were absent. I don't have to put that number in perspective, but I will anyway: On monday, in that class, if I were to randomly choose any name in the roll, there was a better than half chance that the kid wasn't there. Where were they all? Who knows? It certainly seems that their friends don't. We ask them and they just shrug. This isn't a rare thing, either. What is rare is when I teach a class with less than four absences.

At dinner, Obata took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
"I teach mostly bad students," he said, "kids that graduation means nothing to. I don't know how much more of it I can take, sometimes."

"When I came to Koho, I tried very hard to make them listen in class. But some don't listen. Some kids are monsters," He said.

It's times like that when I feel very sorry for him, and I wonder if the kids have finally just beat him down. He said he would report the jackass to his homeroom supervisor, who is also his baseball coach. I asked him about bullying and if a teacher should step in, or if it might hurt the victim even more. I expected a vague answer. I was wrong.

"step in," he said, flatly.

Hallelujiah.

I know the fuckers name now, too.

2005-10-24T11:20:00.000-07:00

I can't tell you how many times I've wondered to myself, or asked aloud in exasperation, "where the hell are all of the young people in this town?" I look around myself downtown and all I see are old people. Old people wandering about the jelly sections of the supermarkets, old people riding those three-wheeled, idiot-proof granny bikes. Whats the deal, right?

Then I heard some disturbing news. The 2nd and 3rd year Jets told me that Toyama was a place where the young kids either marry early or they leave, they said that a full 1/4 of the population in this town is over sixty. OVER SIXTY! You would think that all the rain we get here would inflame their frail elderly joints.

I didn't really believe it up until a week or so ago when I saw evidence of this disturbing "get hitched or get out" trend first hand.

I had been in Uozo for the night, going to karaoke clubs and blowing hard earned money like a fool, when I looked up and all of the sudden it was 3am. My friend Jake turned to me and in a heavily slurred, Birmingham accent, said "we're going to go home, you can crash on my floor." I agreed, but by the time we got to his place it was 3:45, and its always at about 3:45 in the morning when I start to weigh my options as to whether or not to catch that first 6am train. I was on the fence until about seven more JETs came stumbling in to the 8 by 10 apartment, threw themselves loudly onto the floor, and fell right asleep over every inch of the room. It was now 4am. I looked about myself. Every single person had fallen asleep in less than four minutes.

Me: Hello?

No real answer. Seven people grumble drunkenly.

Me: Hello? Anyone awake?

Silence.

Me: Uhm, I think I'm gonna catch that 6am train, ok?

Silence.

Me: Thanks for the offer to crash though, Jake.

Silence.

Me: Ok, fun night guys, talk to you later.

Silence.

I got up and left the room.

It was raining lightly outside, and I had about an hour and a half to kill, so I walked about Uozo, got a coffee and some noodles in one of the 24 hour convenience stores, and was waiting comfortably at the station when these two hammered japanese kids come in. Amazingly, they look to be about my age. Naturally, they see me, and move right over to talk.

Me: Hi guys, how are you?
Drunk Japanese Kid: EHHHHH!! How are you! Good!
Me: You been drinking tonight?
Drunk Japanese Kid: Drink, Drink! Good! (rests his head on my shoulder)
Me: Ohhkay. Are you catching the 6am train too?
Drunk Japanese Kid: American?
Me: American.
At which point the Japanese Kid reaches for my package. And I'm not talking about the kind of package you get in the mail, I'm talking my balls and dong.

Me: Whoaaa, alright buddy. Eaaasy.
Drunk Japanese Kid: Come meet my wife.
Me: Excuse me?
Drunk Japanese Kid: Wife.
Me: How old are you?
Drunk Japanese Kid: 24. (He takes me by the hand and pulls me outside to a waiting minivan.)

I look inside the minivan and lo and behold, there is a tiny little japanese girl in her pajamas, waiting dutifully to pick up her wasted husband at five in the morning. I didn't know whether to be sad, or to laugh, or to tell her that her hubby just grabbed at my shlong. Instead I just said, "hi there, nice to meet you." She smiled in an awkward and sleepy way. I told them all goodbye, and went back into the station. Shortly thereafter my train arrived. I got home at 7am, once again.

Strange? I thought so, until I remembered the words of the vetrans: "you get married, or you get out."

What a town.

2005-10-17T20:13:00.000-07:00

It has become clear to me over the years that the harder you go looking for a good time, the more it can elude you. I got into an arguement with someone about this last weekend, and I still hold it to be true. It seems to me that most often the moments worth remembering happen all of their own accord.

For instance, take the trip to Kyoto I went on recently. It was a well planned out trip, complete with great lodgings and cool people. What types of memories do you think I have taken away from that trip? Kyoto is a beautiful city, with millions of ancient temples and shrines and hidden ninjas and whatnot. If you look at a piece of wood in that city, chances are it's older than the US of A. There are kodak moments everywhere, and what do I remember? I remember how hilarious it was when I woke up at noon to find that everyone in my bunk room had gone off to see these beautiful temples while I slept. I remember returning from the shower at 12:30, in my towel, to find that somehow the door had locked behind me. After that we went to an art museum for a little while. I do remember one painting that I liked. It looked like a glass of wine, or maybe it was a woman, or something.

The next day I saw two temples. My camera died that first day, so I have no pictures of either of them, save whatever a few other JETs might have taken of me. I've forgotten the names of both of them, but they were pretty. They had little curlycue roofs and dragons all about. One of them was a temple to water. It had water.

Now, please don't misunderstand me here, I have a lot of respect for all of those sights, but I'm just not the one to go visit them. I am a pretty bad tourist. I get sleepy as soon as I set foot in a temple or museum. I look for the coffee shops and restraunts and prefer to sit and eat or drink. I'm perfectly content to wait for you while you flit about. I got nowhere to be.

If it was up to me, I could have eaten and drank my way across all of Kyoto and considered it a victory of a weekend. I can't remember the name of that fox-temple, but I can tell you how great that Pizza place was I chilled at with a few of the Jets. It was at the top of the station. You should check it out.

You want a random sweet moment? How about this one: the other day the owners of this ramen shop I go to several times a week took a picture of me with their little niece, and one of me on my scooter. I assumed it was all in good fun, a bit of a momento for their scrapbooks. I walked in the restraunt the other day and what should I find hanging above my usual seat? That's right, an 8 by 10 portrait of me sitting on my scooter with my helmet on. The other photo of me and the little niece was prominently featured, in portrait size as well, right above the cash register. Now thats something I'll be telling people about.

2005-10-14T10:10:00.000-07:00

The other day one of my co-workers caught me muttering a cuss word during class, this after the kids sat in silence, refusing to repeat my phrase of the day, for the third time; "fucking crazy kids," i muttered. Now, I probably shouldn't have done this, and I wouldn't have if I thought that a single one of them could understand me. I know for a fact that very few of those children understand the difference between 13 and 30, much less a muttered slurry of words, so I was a bit taken aback by my co-workers response.

"Don't say that," he said.
"What?" I said, knowing damn well what.
"That word."
"What? 'Crazy'?" knowing damn well that he wasn't talking about "crazy."
"No, swear word."

I was confused for a bit, until i realized that he pointed out my swearing largely because he wanted to show me that he could point it out. Sure, he might have worried about the virgin ears of the juvenile delinquents (pshaw), but I bet he also wanted to show me that he could catch it.

You see, this guy is without a doubt one of the most entertaining characters I have met in my life, let alone in Japan. He came to me later that day and asked me to define teacher for him:

"Well," I said, jumping at the chance to be usefull, "I would say it means 'one who instructs'."
"No," he said flatly, "Not here."
"Well, what does it mean then?" I asked.
"It means Slave" he said, shortly, just before bustling off.

Today I was wandering about during an off period, bored, when I found him and an assembly line of students in the teachers room, fixing errors in hundreds of pamphlets.

"What is the pamphlet for?" I asked.
"Advertise for kids to come to Koho High School."

I sat back in my chair and watched the kids work. Obviously the pamphlet was designed to make the school look appealing the potential students.

"It's a lie." he said, a minute later.
"Excuse me?"
"The pamphlet."
"Oh."

a minute later:

"It's not just a lie, its a malicious lie," He said. He actually used malicious.
"Malicious?"
"Yes."

I sat back and pondered the insanity of this conversation. A minute later:

"It's like kidnapping," he quipped.
"Kidnapping? How can a pamphlet be like kidnapping?"
"We use the pamphlet for kidnapping kids, and the school fees are what the parents have to pay for ransom."

Don't you think this is all a bit of an exaggeration? In my opinion its the other way around. The parents will do anything not to have to deal with these kids all day, so they schlep them on us. We ask one thing of them: don't be disruptive. And half the time they screw that one up. My eccentric friend has it all backwards, we teachers have so little power over these kids its laughable. Its more like they've got us by the balls.

2005-10-11T18:33:00.000-07:00

Every day I give the kids I teach a "phrase of the day" and recently I noticed a disturbing trend: the phrase of the day corresponds directly with what I am feeling at that time. You could catalog my day-to-day existence based soley on the phrase of the day I assign. It's uncanny.

for instance, the beginning of last week I was feeling pretty damn good. I had a three day weekend coming up, I was excited and carefree. The phrase of the day? "Take it Easy." I had the kids repeat it after me, and I felt my spirits rise with each repetition.

Take it easy.
Take it easy.
Taaaaakke it eaasssyy.

The next day was Tuesday, the worst day of my workweek, but I was still riding high off monday, the phrase of the day? "Nevermind" hmmmm. I see now that I was becoming distracted. It got even worse the next day when I assigned the phrase "Something's come up." What the hell kind of phrase is that to assign to a group of delinquent 16 year olds? Something's come up? I must have been spaced out. I imagined people coming up to me to ask me questions, and my dismissive reply was "ohhh, sorry, something's come up." I assigned similarly mediocre, flighty phrases for the remainder of that week, things like "forget about it." I admit it, I was completely checked out.

The next monday I was pissed. Mondays suck. The phrase of the day? "Knock it off." I told the kids that this is what I would be yelling at them when they refused to stop their inane gibbering. I said that it meant to shut up, and stop doing whatever they were doing. I got a little out of hand in the repetitions:

Knock it off.
Knock it off!
KNOCK IT OFF!

The next day was Tuesday again. Uh oh, worst day of the workweek, and I was slipping fast. I couldn't help myself. The phrase of the day actually came from my supervisor. I asked him how he was doing, he looked tired. He took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes, and said "I'm fed up."

BING! Phrase of the day!

The repetitions were particularly fun:

Me: I'M FED UP!
Kids: I'M FED UP!
Me: I'M FED UP!
Kids: I'M FED UP!
Me: I'M FED UP!
Kids: I'M FED UP!

Now, of course, life is strikes and gutters, so things get better, and then they get worse, and then better, etc. etc, but it's true that these phrases of the day are like the mood rings of our childhood. I have complete power over these phrases, so they can be as insane as I want. Tommorrow's phrase of the day? I'm honestly considering "Is the Pope Catholic?"

Either that or "Big in Japan" which I looked up and found out is slang for "a failed act." Ouch.

2005-10-04T15:00:00.000-07:00

When i was in elementary school, we would all gather around in music class and squeak out "If I Had A Hammer" about once a week, in our singing time. You all know the song, it elaborates on what the singer would do to the world if he or she had various tools. A hammer would hammer in the morning, hammering out love between everyone. A bell would do the same, etc. etc. all over this land. You get the picture. How the hell do i remember that, you ask? Well, I never would have if I hadn't had such an uncanny reminder of my childhood today in one of my classes. We sang another such song, one that the teacher thought the students might be able to catch because its lyrics were so slow. (Yes, the lyrics are very slow, and no, not one of the students really got it.) What song is this, might you ask? No, it was not Bang a Gong by T. Rex, although that would have been awesome.

It was From A Distance. By Bette Midler. As if the children didn't already have trouble staying awake.

Did you ever stop to think about the lyrics of that song? No? Well thats probably a good thing. I had to, because I've heard it three times today, and two more before that.

From a distance you look like my friend
Even though we are at war.
From a distance I just cannot comprehend
What all this fighting's for.

What the hell is that supposed to mean? That everything looks peachy from far away? That your friends are really your enemies up close? That while you can't comprehend the fighting from far away, you damn sure understand it close up? What are you trying to tell me Bette?

One things for sure, there was a little classroom full of Japanese students this morning in Toyama that had absolutely no idea what was going on, nor why Bette was lulling them softly to sleep with her talk of marching in a common band.

2005-10-04T10:31:00.000-07:00

The other day, in an effort to garner more ideas about lesson plans, or maybe just in an effort to get out of any real work on a Friday, my principal took our English department to what amounted to an "open-house" at another Japanese High School in which ALT's are employed. Apparently, there are three schools randomly situated about the prefecture that are dubbed "SELHi's" "SELHi", hilariously enough, stands for "Super English Language High Schools." Honest to God. What a super name right? It makes me feel super knowing that super students have a place to go, that's just super. Anyway, the school we visited was one of these super schools.

Now, I'm not sure what my supervisors expected me to garner from watching the lessons at this fairy-tale land of a school, because what went on in those lessons was not what happens in any other high-school anywhere, to my knowledge, ever.

I don't know what they feed those kids, but whatever it is has made them obedient, brilliant, and quiet. Maybe its a horse tranq or something, like what they give purebreds. One word from the teacher and the students immediately gathered in neat little groups of four, evenly spaced about the room, each promptly took out their textbook and opened it to the correct page, then each took out their little electronic dictionary and propped it open on their desk, eager little Japanese faces (and one Australian exchange student) attentivley watching the ALT and his co-teacher.

Now, see, at my school we don't have textbooks, but I'm sure that if we did, it would take more than one word to get the kids to wake up, much less open their backpacks, much less take out their textbooks, much less open the textbook up, much less open the textbook to the correct page, much less pay attention to said open page in said open textbook, all without someone falling back asleep, turning to look out the window, or going back to doing their makeup.

Also, an exchange student? One with native english speaking ability? That just is not done at Koho High School, where I work. I asked my supervisor if Koho had ever had an exchange student before. He said we have a brazilian guy, but he speaks Japanese, and is in fact a Japanese citizen. So much for that.

So, after this little display of talent, I moved on to another showcase classroom, and as soon as I walk in the door I hear, in perfect english, a rehearsed dialogue being performed by five Japanese students...on Keynesian Economic Theory. Now, after the 15 year olds finished their powerpoint dissertation on Keynesian Theory, I, the degreed 23 year old, ran away to google it before anybody asked me my opinion. For those of you in the dark, here is what I found:

"In essence Keynes argued that markets would not automatically lead to full-employment equilibriumBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHHOLYGODWHATABORINGARTICLE.

And there you have it. Shortly after this another group got up to deliver a powerpoint presentation on article nine of their consititution, another for the merits of capitalism vs. socialism, and still another with a presentation on a mono-racial society. After each a group of kids desegnated as "the press core" would stand up and pretend to be from a major newspaper, and ask follow up questions. It all made me a little ill.

In contrast to that, I would like to give you a snippet of dialogue about the types of presentations that my class might give:

Me: Ok Tanaka, lets do your self introduction.
Tanaka: ...
Me: Tanaka, put down the cell phone, its time for a self introduction.
Tanaka: ... hellomynameisTanaka. PleasecallmeTanaka.
Me: Great! That's Great! Now, how old are you?
Tanaka: ...
Me: How old are you, Tanaka?
Tanaka: ... I am... jyurokusai.
Me: In English, please, Tanaka.
Tanka: ...
Me: 16.
Tanaka: 16.
Me: ...years old.
Tanaka: ...years old.
Me: Wonderful! Here is a sticker of a little bear holding an ice cream cone. Great Job!

Now, this is honestly the type of stuff that I do, and you know what? I wouldn't have it any other way. Watching those wunderkids made me nervous. I don't like being trumped by my own students. Also, when one of the little SELhi girls burst into tears while we were all watching her give a speech, i realized that attaining that level of English proficiency at 15 takes a lot of sacrifices and a lot of relentless, driving work and stress. A hell of a lot of stress. Give me Koho High School, with its broken doors and its smelly patches of hallway, it's creaky, taped up chairs, and it's forty-year old desks anyday of the week.

2005-09-30T18:19:00.000-07:00

Last night I went out for a few drinks with my insurance agent and his brother.

My insurance agent, Hiro, is in his early thirties, he has a wife and a one year old son. He helped me get rid of the deathbox of a car that was left to me once the plates expired, and he helped me find and purchase the killer scooter that I can currently be found zipping around on. His Brother is a 26 year old college student, he was abroad getting a degree from North Carolina, and he is back for a few months. Both speak pretty damn fine English. We went to this small, all wooden, traditional Japanese hole in the wall that was down an alley in Toyama City, it was a really cool place, as these out-of-the-way joints tend to be. Early in the night he turned to me and said "you had better tell me now anythings that you don't like." I said I would try anything. He laughed, and fired off a ripid order of four or five different dishes that we could munch on while we drank our beers. One of them turned out to be a slimy radish thing that was all right, another turned out to be some "fisherman food" junk that almost made me barf, etc. etc. We ate while we drank, and we talked about this and that.

Anyway, about two beers and three or so shots of sake later the next dish comes out. It looks red and mushy, clearly a meat of some type.

"What is this?" I ask.
"Try it."
"Ok, but what is it?"
"Meat."
"I can see that, what type of meat though?"
"You can just try it."

So I look at Hiro with a wary eye, shrug, and eat it. It tastes salty, but clean and not even that fishy. I would go so far as to say that I halfway enjoyed it. A bit later, Hiro, a bit drunk, looks at me and smiles.

"Ok, you know that stuff," he says, pointing at the red mush, "its not just meat."
"What was it?" I ask, warily.
"Whale."
"Whale? You mean to tell me I just ate Baby Beluga?"
"What?"
"Baby Beluga."
"No, it's not Beluga. It's a big whale."
"Nevermind."

I guess Raffi never made it over the pacific.

He then turned to me again, pointing at another dish: Raw cow liver covered in sunflower oil.

"This liver, it is cho-umae."
"What's that mean?"
"Well, umae mean great, or cool, or somethings like that."
"And what about cho?"
"Fucking."
"Excuse me?"
"Cho means fucking."
"Fucking?"
"Yes. Like 'fucking cool'"
"Oh, I see. An emphasis."

Conversations like this are part of the reason why I love this country.

2005-09-27T18:01:00.000-07:00

Apparently, every year the Toyama Jets do some sort of variety hour for charity. I know nothing about this except that there is a play involved, and that they need actors. It is a musical number. So, being the musical buff that I am (cough) I decided to sign up expressing interest in a part.

Today a man named Tim Lindenschmidt emailed me in response. This is what he said

What I'd like from you is the following:
Name:
Acting Experience:
Talent/Thing you want to do (in the play):

This was my response, word for word.

Let's see, acting experience, acting experience...

Well, in middle school I played a part called "Felix the Feeling Finder" in a play, but I forgot the name of the play. Honest to God.

Also, when I was very little I would record myself like I was on a talk show. With myself. I was about seven at the time.

Let's see, acting experience...

Oh! In 8th grade my class did a wicked civil war re-enactment of the battle of Antietam. I was a Union soldier, of course. We had an amateur film crew film it for our parents. The re-enactment took all day, but the whole thing was cut into about 20 minutes. I, however, made the cut because of a particularly well-acted death scene I did in which I threw myself down a hill. It was glorious. In fact, I think the soundtrack was "battle hymn of the republic."

Thats about it for acting experience, unless you count my entire life now, which is one big fucking sitcom while I'm here.

What would I like to do in the play? Well, if it is at all possible, I would like to shoot a flaming arrow over a giant butane torch, exactly like they did to start the 1992 Winter Olympics in Barcelona.

Failing that, I could do a wicked death scene (see above).

Thank you.
-Brad

Here's to hoping I catch that big break.

2005-09-27T10:34:00.000-07:00

A couple of interesting things have happened today, a day of surprises, and its only 10am, so i felt the need to inform all of you.

The first thing was that when I showed up to school today all of the men were wearing ties. This is never a good sign. Also, the kids were cleaning the school at the beginning of the day as opposed to the end. Everything was topsy turvy. I sat down to read the daily paper, just like I always do, except that today, just after I reached the first hysterical anti-Bush diatribe article of the day, and just before the usual solemn doomsday article about global warming shooting the world to hell in a handbasket, my supervisor tapped me on the shoulder.

"Ok so today," he started, "is closing ceremonies-"

Well, that was a quick trip, time to go home. It was fun here in Japan. I met a few people, had a few laughs, and learned some very important lessons about myself...

"-Term closing ceremonies," he continued.

I see.

I quickly buttoned the top button of my collared shirt, straightened out a few wrinkles in my ubercool linen pants, and aligned my buttons with my belt buckle in an attempt to make myself look as formal as possible. I then followed the throngs of kids to the gym to listen to some people talk for a while. With the notable exception that some too-cool-for-school little punk got kicked out for running his teenage mouth when he should have been listening, it was a hell of a lot like the opening cermonies, actually.

The second thing i found out was that apparentlythere are no classes today. Nor are there classes tommorrow. Nor the two days after that. I have no classes for four days. Now, you would think I would be jumping for joy, right? Except that I'm a teacher, now, see, I teach. If I were a kid, I could run home on my vacation and go play with my GI Joes, or my Polly-Pockets, or whatever the hell high-school kids play with nowadays, but since I'm a teacher I have to stay here for these five days and do nothing. I could lesson plan, I suppose, but I feel i do my best lesson planning work when the deadline is fast approaching, not six days away (four plus the weekend). Don't get me wrong, I'm getting paid, and I could be doing a lot worse things for a lot less money, but the chair I sit on makes my ass fall asleep after half an hour, man! Also, I start to fall asleep myself, and in an embarrasing way, not all quaint and practiced like the Japanese. When I fall asleep sitting up I fall asleep awkwardly, my face droops dangerously near the desk, and any limbs i might have elevated fall loudly to the floor. Also, I might drool.

Nonetheless, I could get some reading done, perhaps walk around a bit. Chat it up with students or teachers, or whatever. I'll just have to play with myself. Not in any way that could get me fired, of course.

Also, I laughed out-loud at a Garfield comic strip today for the first time in probably ten years. I told you it was a day of surprises.

2005-09-23T09:36:00.000-07:00

This is the second of two back-to-back three day weekends for all us teachers. Last weekend I went to Osaka, you can read all about that little adventure in the previous post. This weekend there was a mass-exodus to Tokyo. I held back, however, because I think it is high time to explore the natural beauty and wonder of Toyama. For instance, I will be exploring the natural beauty and wonder of Toyama Golden Bowl today, when Geoff and I bowl five straight games. When that bowling ball hits those pins, and those pins fall down in a tinkling melody, you bet your ass I'll be thinking, "Isn't Toyama beautiful?" Plus, Tokyo is for suckas. I'm a homebody.

Also, I'm pretty much too busy celebrating my birthday to do anything else. Some of you know me fairly well, and some of you don't, but I tend to drag out my birthdays until they've got nothing left in them. Days and days. I beat people over the head with my birthdays. I'm talking several days of 100 percent Brad, here. I, for one, feel i deserve it. I started getting into my birthday mode when I was in Osaka. I would rationalize things in terms of my birthday. I had internal dialogue that went as follows:

"Brad, do you really need to pay eight dollars for a beer?"

"Of course I do! It's my birthday! Plus, we're in a karaoke joint. I deserve a beer."

"O.k. then, one beer. But do you really need to buy the fried octopus balls too?

"Um, hello? It's my birthday. How could you even ask me that question? I need those octopus balls."

"(sigh) All right then, octopus balls it is."

And so on.

Now, on my actual G0d-given birthday I went out to eat with 15 or so JETs and had a wonderful dinner that was paid for, I would like to thank all of them once again.

Later, I went out with a different crew for my Birthday, again. I had a wonderful dinner that was paid for, I would also like to thank all of them, once again. At the table I had a conversation with Rich, an English fellow, that went something like this:

Rich: So! Happy Birthday!
Me: Well, actually, it was a couple of days ago.
Rich: Oh really?
Me: Yeah, but, you know, it's like a timezone thing, It probably still is my birthday back at home.
Rich: I'm not so sure about that, what is the time difference? 12 hours or something? I think that would still put you a bit late...
Me: Um, I believe it is something like 25.
Rich: 25 hours?
Me: Yeah, Colorado is like that. I don't understand it much myself, but I prefer not to ask questions. So yeah, It's still my birthday! Happy Birthday to me!

Needless to say, I will be further celebrating my birthday today, splurging at the lanes. Strikes and Gutters, baby.

In closing I would like to show you all first hand the kind of difference that I am already making in the lives of Japanese schoolchildren. Take a look at the little girl sitting between Adam and I.
And there you have it.

2005-09-22T11:07:00.000-07:00

Before it flits out of my mind, I suppose I should say something about this past weekend and Osaka.

This past weekend was a long weekend for us JETs, monday was a national holiday of some nature. With the extra time, I and several others decided to take a trip over to Osaka. The others were leaving early in the morning on Saturday, but I had to work that Saturday, so I didn't book a train with them. Last minute, I decided to take a half day of my vacation time so I could get out early as well and perhaps meet up with them sooner than I had planned. So, I file the necissary papers for a half-day vacation, they get stamped by the six proper authorities, I stamp them myself with my official little stamp, then I'm all set to take off the half day, which technically translates to about three and a half hours. Effectively, I had to file for vacation time to nix the work I would have had to do on Saturday, which I normally have off. Whatever, I don't care at this point, I'm gonna be able to get up early and go to Osaka, right? Wrong.

At the last minute I'm told I absolutley have to go to this hip-hop night in town. It's offered only once a month, and it's a "hell of a time." I think to myself, "self, you have to get up early to go to Osaka, but you can go out for an hour or so, have a drink, and check out this hip hop whatsit that all the kids are into these days." So I go. Naturally, the "one drink" turns into many more, and the "hour or so" turns into a solid eleven hours. I end up having to take the first train out in the morning at six AM, get to sleep around seven AM, and get up at 11AM to take a train to Osaka, kicking myself the whole time.

For what it's worth, the club itself was a fun time. It was a dance club: you dance, you drink. Pretty standard. The one notable exception was the "hip hop show" that they had at around 1AM, where all these groups of Japanese kids come up on a stage and perform these routines that they have been practicing all month. You can see a picture of one of the performances to the right. I would like to draw your attention to the rapt audience of Japanese kids sitting crosslegged on the ground. How very Japanese of them.

Then I went to Osaka. Osaka is a killer city, a true Japanese super-city with millions and millions of people and bars and restraunts and shops. Each night we went out we stayed past our last train, and had to get the first one at seven in the morning. With nothing else to do between the hours of midnight and seven in the morning but dance and drink, you tend to spend a lot of money, and feel not so good in the morning. Regardless, I never got very tired until I walked out of the clubs and saw the sun up, then it all hit me. The picture below is of a main street in Osaka. The sheer volume of humanity is staggering.

The first night we went to this place called Club Pure, which was a foreigners haven. I don't think that there were more than maybe six Japanese people in the whole club, which was rather strange. The music was deafening and the drinks were bottom of the barrel, so after a while you had a bit of a headache regardless of what you did, but all in all it was a fun time. It made me realize how sloppy us westerners can get. Two of our company were puked on, and one of our company puked on someone else. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. I, of course, was in control the whole time.

We slept until 2pm, and got up to find some food and prepare for the next night's activities. I strongly advised against going back to club pure, since I had had about all i could take of that style of club. Instead we wandered around Osaka hoping to hit a hidden gem, and we did. The first bar we went to was this tiny joint called Mojo that advertised "Let's stepping back in time to pay tribute to the oldies," or some equally awkwardly phrased tagline. Inside there was a tiny middle-aged Japanese woman with a white blazer and bell-bottoms on, wearing huge bug eyed glasses, and spinning tracks by the beach boys, and other late sixties artists, the type of stuff Quentin Tarantino prefers in his wierdo movies. Dancing to it were five Japanese people, one of them, presumably gay, kept thrusting out his ass in our general direction and backing up into Bryan and Justin, two of our company. We had some drinks, some laughs, but we had to go. As Bryan said, it was our "buffer bar": The bar in-between bars.

From there we went to a Japanese hip hop club called strawberry on the advice of two girls loitering in a shady alley. Unlike Club Pure, in Strawberry we were the only foreigners. Low and behold, as soon as we got inside, a hip hop show started up, just like the one I saw on Friday night; seriously coreographed, and about thirty minutes long. It occured to me (and validated by the vetran JETs) that these people (the Japanese thugged-out hip hop crew) are a very tight nit community. They are also hilarious in their attempts to be ghetto. We realized that, ultimatley, we were intruders in their little world, so we decided to leave.

The final stop in our night was an African bar that we passed up earlier because we thought it was a brothel, situatued as it was in between two very shady hostess joints. Turns out that it was a family run, very friendly establishment owned by a father and daughter from Ghana. They told us that we were welcome to their little slice of Africa, and that as long as we were there, we were home. The patrons kept pulling us out of our seats and pushing us to the dance floor, where we got jiggy with ourselves. We liked it there, so we stayed on a while, and near the end they gave us each a free shot of a hemp infused native African drink that came out of a bottle full of what looked to be woodchips. It was very kind of them to offer us the free drinks, and we took them graciously, but they were, unfortunatley, godawful. Like I said, woodchips. Also, as a cherry on the cake, the Japanese bartender threw up in his own mouth right after taking the shot. He quickly covered it up with his hand but not before a fine little spray hit me and Bryan. We all had a good laugh, but after the bartender pukes you know its time to leave. We went to sleep around 8am, and got up at 11am to leave for our train home.

On the train home I tried very hard not to move, put on my headphones, and listened to Enya. Thankfully, her melodic humming, and her magnificent synthesizer work mercifully lulled my frazzled body to sleep. I listened to five straight albums of Enya and awoke when we arrived back home.

In conclusion, I feel I should say that if I continue to maintain this caliber of nighttime activity whenever I go outside of Toyama, I will surely die. I was happy when there, and glad when it was done. Just like life should be.

2005-09-14T19:55:00.000-07:00

I saw two things the other day that, for one reason or another, seemed very Japanese to me, and I thought I would share them with you.

What is the first one, you ask? Was it a gorgeous Bonsai tree, pruned to perfection, a tiny model of reality? Was it an exquisite flower arrangement? Was it a Ninja? No. It was a 65 year old man in a jumpsuit pissing in the middle of the street at noon. Believe it or not, this has Japan written all over it. Men, especially old men, are given free reign to whizz wherever they damn well please. This man wasn't drunk, he wasn't even tipsy, he was just elderly, and pissing in the street.

The second one I'm not so sure about, it could just be my school, but it struck me as odd, and most odd things that happen in Japan happen for a reason and that reason is Japan. I was leaving my school to go home for the day, saying my goodbye's to the various students still hanging about, and I came across a teacher, a full grown man, getting his back massaged by a third year high school student in baseball regalia. Can you fault me for a double take? This is not a homosexual thing, it is a question of decorum. The students are the students and the teachers are the teachers; there are walls that should not be crossed. Think about your High School English teacher. Mine was Mr. Siekmeyer. Now think about giving him (or her) a back massage. How does it make you feel? Not so good, right? I would never have given Mr. Siekmeyer a back massage. At least not during school hours, for crying out loud!

Oh well, to each their own, know what I'm sayin'? Cultural differences abound.

2005-09-12T09:32:00.000-07:00

My opinion changes often on this point, but right now I'm going to have to say that Himi is the bitchin'est town in Japan.

I'm not going to lie to you, despite the fun I had last time I went out there, I wasn't that pumped to make the hour and a half treck by train. I was feeling a little queezy from the night before, I had slept through dinner, I had forgotten to get out money before the ATM's all closed at the rediculously early hour of 7pm, in short, a lot of things were working against me. Not to mention the fact that when I purchased some soba noodles at a random soba shop in Takaoka, after I gave the worker lady a ticket that I thought was going to get me a coke and some change, she instead took my soba away from me, cracked a raw egg over it, and handed it back with a large smile on her face. (In all fairness, the egg was pretty good.)

The point is, the night wasn't boding well. However, as soon as I saw that little one-car train, all painted up in happy blues and yellows and greens, with little cartoons all over it, I thought to myself, "Brad, this could just shape up to be one hell of a night," and you know what? It did.

Himi has three main things going for it. The first is the PR campaign that the whole city tirelessly runs. Every season they put up little signs reminding you of how nice Himi is in said season, for instance, "Autumn... A Beautiful Season" was the one I saw this time. Also, the city has created and patented a series of mascots that they pepper the city with, things like fish with tophats, and manta rays with tophats, and octopuses with tophats, and flying fish with tophats. I think you get the idea. These little statues have motion activated recorded voice-overs, which I sure as hell can't understand, but which I appreciate nonetheless.

The second thing Himi has going for it is Manyo's, the sushi joint with pizazz. I forgot the name of the proprietor, but he speaks very good english, and has a rockin' hippy haircut. Also, he makes a spicy tuna roll that makes your mouth `asplode with flavor. He also throws in different, new, and exciting ingredients into every dish he makes. This time, he gave me some miso soup that had bits of a 100 dollar mushroom in it, a very famous mushroom, reknown (amongst those in mushroom circles) for its earthy aroma and flavor. How does a 100 dollar mushroom taste, you might ask? Well, just like every other mushroom I've had in my life, but don't tell him that. The soup, as a whole, was extremely good.

The last, but not least, thing Himi has going for it is Wyatt, a one stop bar, karaoke joint, eatery, and hip hangout. Adam and I stumbled into Wyatt totally by divine providence one night after hitchhiking into town at four in the morning. A nice guy picked us up in his pimped out minivan, we said we wanted to go to a bar, he obliged us, and we ended up at Wyatt. Wyatt doesn't really work on normal time, in fact, I would venture to say that the concept of "time" is totally foreign to the barstaff. Adam and I sang karaoke until 8 in the morning, looked up and saw the sunrise, and decided to call it a night. We apologized to the bartenders for keeping them up so late, but they just comped us free booze, laughed, said they were going to hit the pachinko parlors, and then come right back to open up shop.

Last weekend was another winner at Wyatt. People were a little hesitant to break into the karaoke until I did a rousing rendition of California Dreaming that (if I may say so myself) was like a shot of pure adrenaline to the crowd. We sang and talked and drank until the early hours of the morning. Settled up (our bartender was quite generous), said our goodbyes, and promised to return.

Himi is the kind of town I never would have seen if I had been thrown into Tokyo, or Osaka, or whatever, and not sleepy little Toyama. Places like Wyatt are the gems that remind me that one needn't be in a big city, in a famous district, or in a fancy-pants lounge to find good-times. In fact, it is precisley because Wyatt is none of the above that I jive with it so well. I must be careful not to overstay my welcome at that great place, "everything in moderation" and all that, but you bet your ass I'll be back before long.

Three cheers for Himi, don't you ever change.

2005-09-09T14:24:00.000-07:00

Like Oz (the KBCO dj, not the wizard) says, it's Finallyfinallyfinallyfinally a Friday. I feel I've earned it, and yet I know that even as I sit here writing, in a blink it will be gone. Today I taught two classes, one of them for (supposedly) one of the most advanced levels, and one of them for a not so advanced level. Now, I don't know who has the final say about which students go into which classes, but I'm not so sure they really have their head screwed on straight. For instance, today we did worksheets (created by me) about opposites and parts of the body. As soon as I passed it out, I had several students fill them both in quickly and correctly, and then fall asleep. This is fine with me, if they get it right they can sleep all damn day as far as I'm concerned, at least they're not running their mouths. The problem is, sitting right next to these whiz kids are several other students who cannot, for the life of them, figure out where a persons toe is, or what a knee is. In fact, with some of them, just a simple introduction is like pulling teeth. I suppose this is what comes with having a very small school, however. With so few classes, we are bound to have overlapping talent. Such is life.

We have trouble makers at my school. It is a private school, one that takes the dregs of Japanese academics; the kids that get kicked out of other schools, or that can't hack it in the public school system, or that have certain learning disabilities. Sometimes this fact is hardly apparent; i have my fair share of classes in which the kids seem genuinley interested to learn, and several students in particular that make you feel like teaching is a good thing. Other times, however, when half of the class is talking or sleeping, I go "oh, rightrightright... I had forgotten about the whole "private school" thing." No student is rude to me or anything, I think the fact that I am tall and male helps with that, but several students just don't give a damn about anything. Or, more precisely, make a concerted effort to get noticed as they are not doing anything, to impress other classmates. In this sense, I suppose the only thing they give a damn about is not giving a damn. The boys aren't so bad. They generally just space out, or sleep. The other day I tapped a boy and he wouldn't wake up, so i hit him softly on the head with some paper, and he wouldn't wake up, so I took out a permanent marker and drew on him. This woke him up. However, as we all know, you can wake a kid up, but you can't make him care.

Now, let me tell you about girls.

I do not understand Japanese High School girls. Quite frankly, i still often have a hard time understanding any girl, but High School girls are bad, and Japanese High School girls can be really bad. Once again, there are many well behaved and polite, happy to learn girls in this school. There are also the tramped out, glitz-girls that the Japanese call "Gal Girls" (a bit redundant, but whatever). These chicks blatanly and fragrantly abuse the good graces of the hard-working teachers at this school. They loudly chat over lessons, and repeatedly check their cell-phones for text messages. (Yeah, I see you, we all know people text you, we get it, Ho.) But worst of all, they will take the worksheets you make before hand, put them away without doing them, and take out their little mirrors and makeup and combs and hair-pins and do their makeup for a solid hour. Every period of class. Nobody, not even the vainest, most self-absorbed, conceited woman in the world needs upwards of four hours to do makeup. Nobody. They pluck their eyebrows, and apply base, and use that little thingy to pull out their lashes, and they put on a bunch of other shit, and then they start in on their hair, all the while giggling and laughing like a bunch of doped up circus clowns. Which is what they generally end up looking like after four hours of applying make up.

Oh well. If it was up to me, every student would be required to submit their cellphones and makeup and mirrors to an armed guard before class, and then sign for them after school to pick them back up, Folsom Prison style.

As it is, I'll just have to keep making the handouts, and keep reminding them of them as they sit staring into their mirrors, and keep sighing as their gerbil-like attention spans get the better of them and they go back to giggling like idiots. The worst part is, I know they could do it if they actually tried.

2005-09-08T22:41:00.000-07:00

I'm convinced that my supervisor is rushing to an early grave.

I haven't yet had the opportunity to introduce my supervisor, but his name is Obata, he's 26 years old, and he's running himself into the ground. Or rather, he is being run into the ground. I think society is to blame. No, really. It was a bit of a running joke back in college to say "society is to blame" for things, like when someone would go, "Brad, I notice you sit outside a lot smoking a cigar and having a beer. Why aren't you doing something with yourself?" and I would answer "Well Mr. Nosy, society is to blame," and we would all have a good laugh and go back to doing nothing. Here, in Japan, society really is to blame. Obata is the newest full time teacher at my school, so he gets stuck with all the bitch work, most notably taking care of my floundering self. Also, putting together superflous newsletters and visiting the homes of students who have zero initiative and don't deserve the time of day, in order to attempt to convince them to come back to school.

The poor guy is at work before me, and stays three (yes, three) hours after I leave. And he makes one half of what I make. Now, I know JET is well respected and quazi selective and all, and if you talk to any of us, I think eventually you will come to the conclusion that we are all overpaid, but for crying out loud, there is something very wrong with this picture, no?

When you couple all of this with the fact that the man is consistently positive, seems to genuinely enjoy helping me out, and has quite literally been my saving grace in this country, you wonder what in the world keeps him going for 14+ hours a day, five to six days a week.

Perhaps it is the seven cups of coffee he drinks daily. I'm sure that helps, anyway.

Now, people will tell me "It's the culture, Brad. It's what they do! Everyone does it!" And you know what I say to that? It's the culture to flog people to death for stealing a loaf of bread in some places. Sometimes cultural norms are problemic. Then those same people will say, "you can't compare cultures, Brad, these cultures have to be examined case by case." And this is usually when I stop talking to these people because I'm getting a headache.

It's true, working yourself to the bone for a living and getting stoned for adultery are two very different things, but that doesn't make them suck any less. Anyway, I'm not out to change Japan, a lot of other countries have a lot worse problems, and this is one stubborn country, but I still reserve the right to cynically critique.

Also, he smokes 20 cigarettes a day, and that can't be helping him either.

2005-09-06T20:35:00.000-07:00

Whatcha doin' there Kiefer? Does Jack Bauer need some energy? Is that why he's got that Calorie Mate energy goop?

I see you. Making that extra half a million on the sly, eh? And you know what? I don't blame you, even if you do look angry on that cell phone.

Plus, any true 24 fan knows Jack Bauer doesn't wear his badge around his neck like some beat cop. Hell, Jack doesn't even have a badge anymore, does he?

2005-09-06T09:38:00.000-07:00

All of us JETs love finding products in which the Japanese attempt to market using English, because more often than not they screw it up. I guess this is why we are here. I saw this one while I was on my way to the welcome weekend, I believe it was the Japanese equivalent of a processed beef log. Seriously. I've seen some wacked out English in my day, but this one takes the cake. Who the hell Ok'd this one up at corporate? One of my fellow JETs had a theory, which I am inclined to believe, that some smartass American runs the marketing for this sausage company. Can't you just see the conversation in the board room?

American Smartass: "no, no, i swear, Homo is perfect for sausage."
Japanese Boss: "are you sure? It's popular?"
American Smartass: "Oh for sure! In fact, I would say that no American would even think of buying a sausage unless it's a Homo Sausage!"
Japanese Boss: "Well, you are the expert..." and so on.

Anyway, about this welcome weekend I just went through: It was an all day drinking affair, and as many of us know, when you drink all day you often get very drunk, and when you get very drunk you often get in long winded and/or heated conversations with people. Usually, with me anyway, things devolve into politics. Mostly because I seem to constantly surround myself with tree-hugging, bleeding-heart, red, commie, liberals. JET has more than its fair share of these, for sure, and they`re wonderful fodder for debate, especially that charming welshman Geoff, but what is interesting is that now I have another topic that I usually settle on when I`m knocking a few back, one in which the hippies and I are more often than not in agreement: bitching about Japan.

I will say that I generally am on the listening end of these rants, at least for now, newly arrived as I am. I am consistently struck by the differing stances JETs take when we talk about our jobs here. Some JETs do it for the kids, they love kids, the kids are so damn cute, etc. etc. Now, I don`t like children, so I`m not doing anything "for the kids." If anything, I`m doing the teaching part "for the money." Beyond that, of course, I`m here for the culture and the food. Beyond that, of course, I`m here because they threw a degree at me when I begged to stay for a fifth year at my school.

Another hot-button topic amongst us is foreigners (foreigners being ourselves.) Some people hate 'em, some people love 'em. I spoke with one girl who said that she consistently looks forward to the JET outings because she is simply happy to finally be able to hold an extended conversation with someone, a luxury that her daily life does not afford her. (I got lucky with my supervisors, and can hold a halfway extended conversation when I choose to make the effort.) I`ve spoken to others who assert that "They're not all about hanging out with a big group of white people." Hey, whatever, each to his or her own. These people (rightly) claim that they can hang out with Americans (or English, or Irish, or whatever) at home. Here, they want to hang out with Japanese. Easier said than done, of course, because its all fine a good wanting to hang out with the Japanese, but you must ask yourself if the Japanese really want to hang out with you.

I am of the school of thought that if I can hang out with Japanese people (a.k.a my supervisor) then I will take that opportunity. I have in the past, and I will in the future. At the same time, if I'm going to get drunk and make an ass of myself in a karaoke bar or something, I think I would rather explain myself away to somebody that can understand me. You know what I'm saying?

2005-09-04T03:23:00.000-07:00

It seems like weblogs are quite popular in the circles in which i run nowadays. As distanced from our "normal" lives as we all are here in Japan, I suppose that they provide the surest, most economical means of staying in touch. We all flatter ourselves that people actually care to read about our everyday lives, and if we throw in a witty phrase or two, or a funny story, so much the better. I'm not sure who is actually going to read this outside of close friends and family, and perhaps the occasional stray kid who stumbles across it while looking to download music or worse, but nonetheless I think I should start at the beginning.

The problem is, the beginning was a month ago, and I've forgotten a lot of it. Better late than never, however, so I'll provide for you all a brief rundown of the all important, formulative first four weeks of my stay here in the house of the rising sun.

Week one: Flew in to Tokyo, was tired. Went to several workshops tired. Went out to sing Karaoke, pepped up a bit, spent money, and then was tired. Got on a plane, fell asleep and woke up in Toyama, tired. Met my supervisors, who are very sweet, and who realized that I was tired, so they took me to lunch, and sent me home to sleep. That's pretty much the gist of it.

Week two: We had several welcome events, hell, we're still having "welcome events." Of note were the two "beer garden" parties that were designed as ice breakers. Now, a month later, I've gotten to know the vetran JETS who have been here for a year or more, and the other day we talked about these parties, and several of them admitted that they were grumpy at the time and didn't want to meet new people. I'm glad they admitted this, because at the time I got this slightly hostile vibe from some of them. I still think that most of them pride themselves on having lived here for a year just a bit too much for their own good. Most of them rock, though, and I haven't met one who I would go out of my way to avoid, which is saying something, right?

Week three: Every day I sat behid my desk reading until my ass fell asleep. Then I went to go get some lunch and then I sat back down again. It was pretty slow at work this first month. REAL slow. I read, no joke, eight books. Seriously.

Week four to now: Things are picking up, school started, things are movin'. I taught two classes the other day, and realized just how little english these kids actually know. I know at least twice as much Japanese as they know english, and my Japanese is a crock of poo. The kids cant tell me where they live, but they can ask me if I have a "sex friend." Wonderful. Its nice to know where their priorities lay. I don't know for sure what a "sex friend" is, but I have a pretty damn good idea, and I don't want a 16 year old girl asking me about it when all I want is to go get some coffee from the vending machine so I don't fall asleep reading the newspaper. Don't get me wrong, I love talking to the whelps, but how about lets talk about movies or the weather or something? I'll even meet you halfway there in Japanese. Hell, I'll meet you all the way there. Also, stop checking your damn cell-phone during class.

Enough for today. I'll write again when I can. Keep it real.