電武士

In This Issue:

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Administrivia

 

Hello again, and welcome to another action-packed edition of the BMJ!

First I’d like to say congratulations to those friends our there who are
graduating this quarter, or are at least looking forward to a long Summer
vacation. Omedetou!! And for those of you coming to Japan, you are
welcome to stay (only temporarily, of course) in my 6-mat hovel in Ogikubo.
What could be finer?

What’s new this month? Well, I’ve been working on sprucing up the WWW
version of this thing, and have added a couple of interesting features.
The first is graphics, mostly photos of places or people that come up in
the Journal. In most cases I’ve opted for a “thumbnail” image in the main
page that’s linked to a larger image that you can view by clicking on it.

Additionally, the Netscape version of WebSpace now has frames and a hip,
tres elegant interface. Finally, I added a Japanese-English dictionary
function (written in JAVAScript) that will allow you to look up Japanese
words that appear in the BMJ (as well as allow me to dispense with those
tiresome parenthetical entries.) You need at least Netscape 2.0 to use
these functions. Also, for the frames version you’ll need to start from
the main page, so if you’re bookmarked somewhere within you may want to
back out a couple of steps and start from the /~denbushi/netscape/webspace.html
file instead. I should add that you might want to use your browsers Reload
feature to clear the old version of the page out of your cache and load
the new one.

Lose anybody yet?

Right, so anyway, I’m looking for a logo for the BMJ, and I wonder
if some kind soul out there with a nice graphics package and an artistic
eye would be willing to throw something attractive (like maybe the outline
of a blue mountain) together and let me put it to use? I’d be ever so grateful,
and you would even get full credit right there on the pages themselves,
read by, oh, tens of people every month! What an opportunity! Seriously,
though, if you’re interested (Lucien?) please do let
me know.

 
 

A Weekend in Takahagi

Shortly after arriving at Aoyama we exchange students were asked to, if
interested, sign up for a weekend homestay program in Takahagi, Ibaraki
prefecture. I didn’t intend to participate at first, but as the cutoff date
approached the number of students planning to go was still rather slim,
so the staff at the International Exchange office tendered the offer once
again. As it was free and classes were out that weekend for Golden Week,
I added my name to the list. As it happens, I’m really glad I did.

Takahagi is a small town on the coast three or so hours (by bus) North
of Tokyo. For our trip, however, it took more like five. The “highway” was
crammed to capacity with carloads of Japanese on their way to points unknown
(but presumably also North of Tokyo) during the abbreviated vacation known
as Golden Week. There were about ten students from Aoyama on the bus, and
forty or so from other schools in the Tokyo area, including ICU and Asia
Daigaku. It was a pretty international group all in all, with people from
Britain, New Zealand, Korea, the Philippines, the US, and China. Everyone
spoke some Japanese, but the spectrum of facility with the language was
nonetheless pretty broad. We passed the time talking, reading, and making
new friends. Free Willy was onscreen for an indeterminate length
of time, but aside from the requisite “I’d like to free my Willy!
Haw haw!”-isms that always seem to resound whenever the name of the movie
is mentioned, I don’t think anyone paid attention.

The bus came to rest just outside the grounds of some historically important
building near Takahagi, and we all stretched and groaned and shuffled from
the bus. We rounded a corner, and found ourselves in the midst of a sizable
crowd of Takahagians that immediately began waving little banners and singing
something indistinguishable in Japanese. There was an awkward moment of
uncertainty when we all thought “Er, huh?”, but then someone ventured forward,
and we followed.

The throng parted to allow us to pass through the main gate and into the
outdoor reception area, and we blushed and bowed and tried to do whatever
was expected of us under the circumstances. (I secretly wondered if the
others, like I, were in the process of making a quick mental inventory of
all of their Japanese lessons in hopes of recalling some obscure chapter
called “Sumisu-san Gets Greeted By A Mob Of Singing Townsfolk“) We
came presently to the interior of the small complex and milled about bovine-like,
gazing around and waiting for something interesting to happen.

The area was dominated by a rather large, traditional Japanese home. The
doors on the side facing us slid open then, and the lilting notes of ten
kotos emerged from within. The music was live, and each of the musicians
was dressed in the traditional kimono. To the right of the building
was a small koi pond and Japanese garden. It was quite majestic to
behold (contemplative sigh here), and we all stood there for a handful of
minutes taking in the sights and the sound of the music (they were playing
Haru no Umi).

We were formally greeted then by a representative of Takahagi who was
equipped with both a bullhorn and an excellent command of English. He explained
that we would be treated to a koto performance, Tea Ceremony, some
mochi pounding, and lunch. I sampled all of the above in turn and
had a smashing time. Especially noteworthy was the tea, and although it
seems I heard somewhere that the tea prepared during sadou is less
than tasty, I found it delicious.

We dallied there for awhile, glad to be off of the bus and in the care
of such kind people, then filed back into the vehicle for the short trip
to the Daishien where we would spend the night.

The Daishien is a large, hotel-like affair that is presumably designed
to provide lodging for sports teams and so forth that are in the area temporarily.
This was to be the location for the formal opening ceremony where families
would be introduced to their respective exchange students.

The students were divided along gender lines and by school, and I ended
up in a room with three other Aoyama guys: Adam, Jae, and Rob. The rooms
at the Daishien were setup for four people each, and were quite comfortable
with tatami flooring, dark wood pillars and sliding glass doors that
looked out over the ocean from the building’s fifth floor. The narrow balcony
was large enough to accommodate standing, but frisbee, for example, was
out of the question.

We killed time arrayed about the TV, watching Date-san ganbaru
on the tennis court before being called to join the Opening Festivities.
The ceremony itself was predictable, lots of super-polite Japanese speech
being thrown around as the Town Fathers all took a turn at the mic, and
applause at all the required intervals.
When the time came to introduce the students and families, students’ names
were called out one by one, and the families and student would converge
at the front of the room for The Group Photo, awkward in the intense scrutiny
and nervous smiles quavering, before returning together to seats near the
rear of the room. When my turn came at last I was immediately surrounded
by a family of five, and we must have looked odd, with my head and
shoulders above the tallest of them.

We hit it off right away. The family’s name was Nakata, and there were
three boys (14, 11, and 7) in addition to their parents. The father, Cedric
(not his real name), works as a Chemical Engineer in Takahagi, and loves
his work and his life there on the coast. This year was the first time for
them to participate in the homestay program, although it’s been an annual
event in the town for twenty-five years.

After The Big Ceremony we were herded into a spacious room that had been
stocked with scads of food and drink and beer and assorted other tasty things
for some good old-fashioned gorging. There were games with messy food, group
renditions of at least one John Lennon tune, a taiko performance
and more. It was, to be sure, a wholesome and heartwarming slice of old-fashioned
family fun.

And then it was Disco Time.

That’s right, Disco Time. (I swear that’s what the schedule read)
The lights seemed to dim on their own, the music started, and we cut loose
under the mirrored orb rotating slowly above us, hypnotized by the flashing
lights and the heavy bass beat pounding out of a boom box in the corner
of the room. Before we knew it we were down to our undergarments or less,
a single seething mass of human flesh, swaying and jostling in the din like
the animals we had become, savage in our desire and wanton with dance fever.
It was Disco Time, baby, and we danced.

Actually, it was a bit more tame than that. By this point most of the
families and departed for the evening, and all that were left were the students
and some younger members of the Takahagi population. And the bass didn’t
actually pound, either. I mean, it was a boom box fer chrissakes.
But we had fun, and after awhile the lights came back on and everyone squinted
alot and dispersed through one of the numerous exits.

We ryuugakusei, of course, did the only logical thing, which was
to seize every unopened bottle of beer and whiskey in sight and relocate
them and ourselves to one of the suites for some serious drinking.
Everyone had stopped in to the ofuro to wash the sweat and whatever
else from their bodies, and arrived comfortably attired in the stylish yukata
that were provided. Most of the revelers preoccupied themselves with the
serious business of getting shitfaced, while I and a couple of others talked
and watched them tread the meandering Road to Oblivion. The hardiest of
them lasted until 2 a.m. or so, and then collapsed atop the heap of unconscious
bodies with an audible grunt. The formalities presumably dispensed with,
we took our cue to leave and called it a night.

I met the Nakata family the next morning bright and early, and we struck
off together in search of fun and adventure. We spent most of the day traveling
around the Takahagi area, stopping at the beach and exploring the woods
in the nearby hills, checking out temples and pretty much taking things
easy. Gaku, the youngest of the boys, and I got along especially well (I
could understand everything he said!) and it was a really good time. That
evening we had a feast of a dinner in their home and stayed up late into
the night talking, drinking and listening to Nakata-san’s impressive collection
of classical music.

The next day bought with it a light drizzle that lasted throughout the
morning and into the early afternoon. We had planned a trip to the beach,
but opted instead for a tour of some of the prettier areas in the vicinity
from the dry comfort of their minivan. The country surrounding Takahagi
itself is strikingly beautiful, and especially lovely were the mountain
cherry trees, whose blossoms bloom a little later than their counterparts
in low-lying areas. Dotting the steep face of the nearby mountains in small
stands, they offered a splash of pale pinks and reds against the soft green
hues of the other foliage. According to Nakata-san, their awai colors
represented a beauty that the Japanese have prized for centuries, and can
be found in many forms of Japanese art. The light rain contributed to the
appeal of the scene by blurring all of the edges and lines, and for long
moments we simply sat and enjoyed it.

Arriving back at the Nakata household around noon, we set about preparing
lunch. We were having okonomiyaki, and I volunteered to grill and
top the pancake-like fritters. All of the kids shortly joined in as well,
and the following hour or so was spent leisurely, cooking and eating, eating
and cooking, and only putting the twin spatulas down to grab my chopsticks
or a drink of beer. Mrs. Nakata seemed surprised and pleased by the offer
of assistance, and when Mr. Nakata moved as if to lend a hand she feigned
shock and announced to all that this was his first foray into the kitchen.
He just blushed, smiled, and quietly set about chopping cabbage.

We left for the final reception after lunch, and all of the families and
we students gathered one last time in a large room in a nearby community
center. The occasion was marked by a great deal of fanfare, some speeches,
and an unexpected Flower Gauntlet thing that required all of us to walk,
single-file, through the center of two long rows of Takahagians, shaking
hands and saying thanks. When each of us reached his or her particular host
family we were presented with flowers, and I wouldn’t be exaggerating if
I said that the whole thing left me a little misty-eyed.

The bus pulled up to the building, and it was suddenly time to go. The
time had been short, indeed, but the parting was still a little sad. I reminded
the boys to study hard, thanked Okaasan for her wonderful hospitality,
and then tried to think of a way to tell Nakata-san in a few short sentences
all of the things that I wanted to say: that I had had a wonderful time,
that he had let me into his home and for two days I had felt like a part
of the family, and that I was grateful, and that I didn’t really want to
go yet, not just yet. However the time had come for words, and they hadn’t
arrived, so all I could do was thank him. But he just looked at me, saying
nothing, and I could see then that he knew, and he knew that I knew, and
it was enough.

I climbed on the bus, the doors snapped shut, and I walked to my seat
at the back. We waved our farewells at one another through the glass of
the rear window as the bus pulled away, Tokyo bound.

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I’d like to lick the coil someday
like Icarus, who had to pay

with melting wax and feathers brown
he tasted it on his way down…

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The Enigma of Bad English, Solved!

Many Japanese seem to lament that, even after years of study, they are
still unable to communicate (verbally, anyway) as well as they would like
to in English. Indeed, for many Japanese, conversational English is perhaps
less… smooth than one might expect after six or more years of study.
Speculation for this phenomena abounds (I use the word “phenomena” only
because it is so utterly pervasive), and the reasons offered for it many.
However, after long weeks of intense research and laborious study, I feel
compelled to share with the world my own hypothesis, one which I feel will
dispel once and for all the enigma of Bad English in Japan and herald in
a Golden Age of Eikaiwa. Ready? Okay, here it is:

Japanese people have a hard time
using English correctly and proficiently because they are bombarded
with Bad English from birth.

It is my considered opinion that television, radio, advertisers, college
newspapers, musicians and who knows who else are involved in a grand conspiracy
to propagate Bad English throughout Japan. “But why??” you ask? Well, I’m
not sure, but I think the answer should be given the attention afforded
The Third Gunman, White Water, and OJ combined.

Bad English is rampant in this country, and you wanna know what the really
funny thing is? Nobody even cares. You see, English isn’t a medium
for communication at all, it’s simply window dressing. It’s an advertising
tool. It “looks neat.” Manufacturers and producers slap all manner of random
names and slogans on their products simply in order to enhance market appeal,
such as: Relax Coffee, or Strawberry juice, just like your mother
used to make, and my personal favorite, Let’s Wedding! Was there
not one single native speaker around that they could ask (or better
yet, pay) to look things over for general accuracy or weirdness factor?
The answer: Yes, there were plenty. Were they consulted? No.

The answer to the next obvious question (i.e.- But why not?) is that it
doesn’t really matter if the English is weird, grammatically incorrect,
or downright hysterical to read, because the target market doesn’t know
the difference anyway. “Mr.” brand coffee (that’s right, just “Mr.”)
sells not because it’s superior to “Georgia” brand coffee. but because the
hip black and brown can has two massive Roman characters on the front. (Sidenote:
their commercials with an attractive black man saying “ii DEshou?”
probably don’t hurt, either.) Anyway, not to belabor the point, it really
doesn’t matter, and so the trend to butcher English goes on and on, and
therefore the average Japanese will have to overcome years of subtle conditioning
in Bad English in order to acheive any measurable proficiency in the language,
should he or she want to, that is.

It’s for the reasons that I’m calling for the formation of a new government
body to deal with this problem directly. The agency I envision would be
called the Ministry of Grammatically Correct Gairaigo, and would
be staffed with capable and very highly-paid foreign experts (like me, for
example) that would be responsible for proofing all English before it is
released to the public. That way current slogans like Acheive the Top
of High Mountain for a currently popular 4WD would never make it to
press.

The major benefits I see here are, first, that the Japanese population
could be comfortable in the knowledge that their years of arduous study
will not be corrupted by the reckless use of Bad English by the media, and,
more importantly, that I would be well-paid.

Please write your representative as soon as possible with your endorsement,
and be sure to specify that a certain W. Michael Rollins be given
the top post.

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Dare mo sawarenai
futari dake no kuni
kimi no te wo hanasanu you ni.
Ookina chikara de
sora ni ukabetara
furara uchuu no kaze ni noru…

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Tokoya Tengoku

I just paid forty bucks for a haircut.

Am I angry? Am I accosting the locals at random, demanding in broken Japanese
some explanation for the sky-high cost of, well, everything in this
country. No. In fact, I haven’t felt this good in months. I can’t wait
for my hair to grow out enough for me to justify coming back.

The Japanese haircut is unlike anything you’re likely to find in the states,
provided you, like me, live on a peasant’s budget and are relegated to frequenting
the local Supercuts or Hair Masters. As far as I can tell, the Japanese
have transformed the relatively mundane business of cutting hair into an
art form. In a few broad strokes, it works something like this:

The Preliminaries
Once seated in one of the eight or so Thrones of Pleasure, the customer
is greeted by a crack team of uniformed, smiling young women that turn the
usual “Howdy’awannit?” into what seems like the Command and Control center
aboard the USS Nimitz. They stand at attention, listening intently to your
detailed instructions and periodically trumpeting “Hai!” in unison.

Once the specifics of how the next couple of hours will be spent are defined,
they disperse in different directions, reappearing moments later with all
manner of tools, blankets and assorted gadgets. All but two then depart
for the special Deployment Center located somewhere in the back of building
until called into service. The remaining pair begin at once, one busily
snipping away at the excess strands of hair, the other standing at the ready,
passing tools over from a nearby wheeled cart and saying “Hai!” alot. Should
one’s plastic Hair Barrier slip even an inch from its moorings on either
side of the chair the assistant will rush in, emit a barrage of shiturei
itashimasu’s (Roughly translated: Geez, how RUDE of me! Gawd! Just shoot
me if I screw this up! Gosh I’m sorry!) and return things to their proper
place. As quickly as she came she’ll return to attention at her station
with an audible shhhhwack!. This lasts for maybe an hour, or until
all offending hairs have been lovingly snipped and carted off to the Illustrious
Customers’ Hair Graveyard some miles distant.

The Really Good Stuff
At this point the team members call in the Shampoo Expert, who appears at
your side as if teleported there and then begins deftly manipulating the
drawers and panels of the mahoghany bureau before you to reveal (gasp!)
a wash basin. She and the assistant (Hai!) set about protecting your shirt
and collar region with an elaborate system of towels, clips, and rivets.

Once prepared to brave the water, you are invited to lean forward in your
chair and endure the many and varied pleasures of The Wash. In my case,
I suffered perhaps seven separate scrub cycles: Shampoo, Shampoo II, Conditioner,
Really Good-Smelling Stuff, Scalp Prep, Super Tingly Scalp Treatment, Rinse,
Rinse The Rinse Out Rinse, etc. etc. At some point I think I passed out,
but was revived by a pair of firm hands massaging my back and shoulders,
and another toweling off my soaked noggin. Hauled vertical once again, I
was greeted by my dazed and giddy reflection in the mirror. And then the
chair dropped backwards…

The Shave
Next, hot towels were brought on a cart and draped carefully across the
upper half of my face. Some unseen steam-generating device was then employed
to blow hot, moist air on my cheeks and neck. That done, more towels were
added until only my nose remained, poking comically I’m sure from the middle
of them like some remote, fleshy mountain. I dozed.

The towels were gingerly removed, and my face was introduced to hot lather
(instant friends, those two) and I fell under the skilled manipulation of
a gleaming, gold straight razor. Each area of my face was shaved at least
twice, including that bothersome area between the brows, and each instance
(yes! more!) was preceded by the gentle application of steaming lather.
My facial hair probably won’t emerge again for a week or two. The finale
was a somewhat unexpected clippity-clip that emerged from my nostril region,
and it was good to know that I wouldn’t have to worry about that
for the next few days. Anyway, many and varied other delights followed,
but in the interest of keeping this a family-oriented journal I’ll dispense
with the details.

The Capper
Following the grooming ops the team assembled once more around me, waiting
with bated breath for the appraisal. My delirious, croaked reply “G, uh-hungh”
seemed to get across to them, and they smiled, bowed in unison and dispersed.

I rose to leave, and as I approached the register a young woman profferred
an open mahogany box filled with assorted cigarettes. I took one, she lit
it, I paid my measly forty dollars and walked out into the night, a chorus
of arigatou gozaimashita’s reverberating in the air of the doorway
behind me. As I walked I took note of the sappari feeling that filled
my entire body. The air was cool on the exposed skin around my ears. My
scalp was abuzz. My skin was clean and tight. My nostrils were unobstructed.

I rubbed my scalp and thought “Grow, baby, grow.”

 
 

Random Observations

• The average height of the little spikes that protrude from the edges
  of opened umbrellas in Japan is 6′0″ (the exact height of my eyeballs).
  As such, walking into a crowd on Tokyo’s packed sidewalks on a rainy day
  is akin to having a friend hold a chain saw horizontally at head level
  and then run toward you.

• The general consensus here seems to be that Whitey Can’t Speak Japanese.
  And if he can, he damn sure can’t read it. I’ve had people ask,
  even after speaking to them for an hour or more in Japanese and having
  said that I’ve studied Japanese for three years, “Can you read hiragana?”
  (Hiragana is one of the phonetic scripts used in Japanese. It’s
  usually the first part of the written language taught, and I learned it
  in two weeks. Compared to some, that’s a _long_ time) Even in the advanced
  Japanese class I’m enrolled in at school now I can tell that the teacher
  handles me with kid gloves, even though there are those with ability at
  or below my level. I am, however, the only non-Asian in there. I’m not
  going to turn this into a rant on the subject (if you want one, click
  here), but it’s something I had heard
  about yet never experienced first hand. Until now, that is.

• I’ve been experiencing some rather odd physiological changes since
  arriving here. For example, the rate of growth of my hair and fingernails
  has increased dramatically. And as if that wasn’t vexing enough, I’ve
  lost about eight-five pounds thanks to this new Bimbo Seikatsu
  diet I’m on (”The Rice and Ramen Way to a Thinner, Emaciated You!“).
  Pretty soon I’m going to look like that aborigine fellow from the Guinness
  Book of World Records, all hair and nails coiled up on themselves, and
  fifty pounds dripping wet. SEND FOOD!!

 
Owari