Monthly Archives: March 2014

And Then Everything Changes and Nothing is Normal

Three years ago today. Friday. I was wasting time at home as final grades weren’t due until Saturday morning. I was in post-marking malaise and already pondering asking someone else to check my marks so that I didn’t have to go in. At 2:46 in the afternoon we started to feel the tremor. We’d felt a big one two days before and, well, there were always big ones happening and we’d grown fairly complacent. We even tried to guess the size before the official news report.

I felt it first, as I was sitting down. My wife was standing it didn’t feel it until the ceiling lamps started swinging. Unusually, it got stronger and didn’t stop. As everything began to rattle in our first floor apartment we decided to head outside.

Idiot me didn’t even think of taking a camera. Or, for that matter, an emergency kit (more on that later). The large tree near our building was rocking back and forth and we could hear it cracking. The cars in the parking lot were dancing. The tin roof of the bicycle shed was rattling. I felt dizzy and had to hold on to a sign to keep standing. At about three minutes one of our neighbors joined us. She’d been on the third floor.

I remembered that, about four years before, after a big earthquake in Niigata, our in-laws had sent us an emergency kit. I couldn’t remember where it was. Finally, after four minutes. It all stopped and we went in to watch the news. Then we started to get the aftershocks; one was strong enough to send us back outside.

We watched news about the tsunami and then about Fukushima Number One. Telephones and cellphones were down, although data plans were still usable. Even though the internet was working, email was having problems. Oddly, Facebook was working, but in strange ways. One of my friends was stuck at school. Her husband worked in Tokyo. Each could contact me via Facebook, but they couldn’t contact each other. He eventually walked the 13 miles to be with her and escort her back home.

Japanese tv stopped showing commercials and started running Ad Council PSAs instead. This was creepy, especially as the “AAAAAA CEEEEEEE” jingle got stuck in everyone’s heads. (The jingle was eventually pulled, too, although the spots kept running.)

The emperor, who usually remains silent while the government operates, went on television with a quiet, yet surprisingly powerful “don’t give up” speech.

We learned, eventually, that the quake had literally moved the Earth by shifting it 4-10 inches (10-25 centimeters) on its axis. It had also moved Japan’s main island, Honshu, eight feet (2.4 meters) East and dropped the coast around four feet (1.2 meters). The sound waves from the quake were detected by satellites in low orbit.

We then entered a phase where the government was denying what was happening in front of our eyes (explosions at Fukushima) and the big shots at TEPCO started citing, in mumbles no less, incomprehensible technical bullshit that pissed off even the docile Japanese press. The anti-nuclear industrial complex started screaming, and have been screaming ever since, about how we were all going to die; in fact, we were already dead. All of the above have since been discredited and it’s no joke to say we trust the thousands of people who now own Geiger counters (including a colleague of mine) more than we trust anyone in an official work uniform.

The Japanese became a lot less trusting of government. They also discovered the absurdity of having incompatible electrical systems in the same country (Western Japan in on a 60hz system; Eastern Japan is on 50hz.) Back in the day, when I visited my friends in Niigata, there was a crossover point where the lights suddenly went out for several seconds as the grids changed. (Yes, that’s right, incompatible power grids in the same COUNTY.)

As for us, we were about as lucky as people could get. Our apartment is apparently in a geologic sweet-spot that limited much of the shaking (which is why we didn’t feel it at first.) Not even a single book fell off a shelf. We had ways to get food, but only because some transportation was still working. We avoided the rolling blackouts and the worst that happened to me is I had to walk home seven miles from school when rolling blackouts shut down our train line for 10 hours.

The hardest part was the aftershocks, which lasted the rest of the year. It was impossible to relax. I remember my wife and I talking about that and me saying “Nothing is normal, right now. Nothing is normal.”

This video shows the larger quakes that occurred two days before and three days after. It’s worth watching it all, but the real action starts at 1:18 or so. I recommend watching it full screen, so you can see the date and time:

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This video shows all quakes for the entire year. The real action starts at around 1:40. Note the line at the bottom that shows how rapidly the number of quakes increased.

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Finally, this video shows the quake and tsunami as filmed by a number of survivors:

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Now: The aftershocks ceased a long time ago and although we’ve been more diligent with our preps, we’ve started to slip back into complacency. I know where my emergency kits are now, though, and I carry one every time I go to Tokyo.

Last year, there was another tsunami warning, and the announcer didn’t mess around. He basically started shouting for people to get to high ground. His tone was “Do you remember 2011? Do you want to f&#%ing die?” which scared us, even though we live a long way from the ocean.

Only the oldest member of the Fukushima 50 has died, and that from esophageal cancer unlikely to have been caused by radiation exposure. (Thyroid cancer is more likely from radiation exposure.)

The government is still run by idiots who manage TEPCO in an idiotic way. Relief funds seem to have been spent everywhere EXCEPT the areas in need of relief funds. They’ve supported the whaling industry, Tokyo Sky Tree, fighter pilot training, wine and cheese events, turtle counting, and a contact lens factory.

Everyone thinks there was no looting after the quake and tsunami (there was) but the worst looting is happening now.

Note: Edited 3/11/2014 to add links to AC Japan videos.

That Went About As Well As Expected So Now What?

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I’ve just spent a fortnight staying up late and passing judgement on the work of young men who most likely won’t even read my comments. In some cases, I put more red ink on it than they put pencil marks.

We’re now in pass-backs, which is basically 10 minutes of writing answers on the board and passing out the marked exams followed by five minutes of reactions and trying to get everyone quieted down again. I’ve seen entire classes celebrate having the lowest average. I’ve seen students celebrate their low scores. I’ve had one student doubt that his low score was real because it was the highest test score he’d ever received. I’ve received and passed back tests with blood on them but no writing. I’ve even passed back a blank test that had been glued to the test behind it, because, apparently, the proctor fell asleep or knew it was unlikely the student would ever write anything on a test.

This period of celebration and hand-wringing is followed by a few minutes of answering questions from the handful of students whose parents will give them a hard time about their grades, followed by a half-hour of baby-sitting while the students enjoy free time. (My only limits on the free time: no fighting, no kissing, no sports, at least while I’m in the room because I don’t want to have to do paperwork.)

Eventually all this ends and I am suddenly left to my own devices. Which means I enter the post-marking malaise. My old schedule has been scrapped and I have to start remembering what I used to do in the evening before I marked exams. It’s especially difficult at the end of the school year–Note: Japan’s school year runs from April to March with only a short break between years–as different grades end at different times which means we are marking exams for one group and still teaching another.

That said, I can’t complain too much. With a few exceptions, my students are loud but not rowdy. Even the rowdy classes aren’t as bad as similar classes in the USA or the UK would be. (I’ve heard that even Australia and Canada have some, um, challenging groups of students.) The work is only crazy a few times a year, and crazy me decided to start a daily blog during that time, mostly to see if I could maintain the habit through a busy time.

Now that I’ve finished that for today, I have to figure out what to do next. I could start an online business, or write, or play free games online.

The First Half is the Hardest to Reach the Full Pint

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In a recent comment on a recent bit of blather, my friend Steve Brisendine reminded me of our first trip to London which, naturally, has me thinking about beer.

For me, that trip was a big deal. At the time the farthest I’d been out of the United States was a trip to California complete with a foray to Tijuana, Mexico. Suddenly I was walking in places I’d read about in novels and history books and tracking down traditional English cuisine (fish and chips, curry and Chinese.)

While we were in London we saw lots of theater performances, old churches and random museums and adopted very weak English accents. (Steve is better at cockney; my specialty is upper class twit.) We also took a few walking tours, such as the Sherlock Holmes walk–which must be really annoying now with everyone wearing trench coats and going “Mind Palace” “Mind Palace” and “I’m certainly not a more Aspergery Doctor Who.”

The most difficult part, though, was trying the warm beer. After sticking with cowardly lager for a few evenings out, we finally decided to try a half pint of best bitter. (Best, at least in the mid-80s, meaning it had the highest percentage of alcohol; bitter meaning it was a pale ale.) I remember us staring at the half pints for a minute before trying them.

We were immediately smitten–it wasn’t actually warm and it didn’t lose its flavor as it sat on the table meaning it could be sipped slowly and thus conversation was possible at a lower price. Many full pints were quickly ordered and consumed and much feeling in our feet lost although we were able to stagger back to our rooms. We then spent the rest of the trip acting like drug dealing cult members trying to get the rest of our tour group to try the bitter. We bought lots of half-pints with promises to buy other drinks as necessary. (The first hit’s free. It won’t cost you anything.)

When I got back home, I immediately started experimenting with different dark beers which, while they were weak when compared to best, had the advantage of being the only beer no one in my fraternity house was likely to steal.

All By Myself I Wanna Be Every Now And Then

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There is one key thing introverts need to know about marriage. The vows are pretty straightforward: love, honor, cherish, obey, listen to as necessary, surprise with steak on occasion, warm your damned icy feet before getting into bed, for richer/for poorer, in sickness/in health, full of crap/not full of crap etcetera, etcetera till death do us part. (At least those are the ones I remember.)

The part that introverts need to pay attention to is the “to have and to hold from this day forward … till death do us part.” They need to realize that the other person will be around them for a very long time, in the same house, touching your stuff, sharing your stuff, questioning why you have so much stuff that runs on batteries, questioning why you want to buy more stuff. Add children into the mix and introverts are, well, having some issues.

From what I’ve read here and there, and things from here and there are always right, extroverts gain energy from social interactions. The more people there are around, the merrier the extrovert becomes. Introverts, on the other hand, expend energy during social interactions. The more people around, the more energy that’s spent. It’s no joke to say that introverts need time to recharge after extended social interactions, especially if karaoke and/or family are involved or an “interested and perky demeanor” is required. (For the record: I don’t do perky. Instead, my goofy is spot on. It’s quite natural, actually.)

This hit me a couple years ago when, for various complicated reasons, my three lovely ladies stayed home during the summer rather than heading off to the in-laws. Eventually, we traveled together to the in-laws where I had to interact with even more people and maintain an “interested and goofy demeanor”. In the past, I’d be working in the summer and would eventually make my own way to the Japan Sea coast, or just stay home and visit over the new year’s holiday. It was a nice break for everyone, especially this introvert. A couple years ago, though I found myself getting stressed and anxious and developing a kind of cabin fever where I couldn’t focus on anything for more than a short time. That feeling carried on throughout the rest of the year. I couldn’t figure out what was going on.

I eventually realized that it was the first year since I’d started at university, that I hadn’t had had any time alone. I’d always had at least a week to recharge. This time, though, the introvert in me had spent all its energy and wasn’t getting the chance to recharge.

I explained all this to She Who Must Be Obeyed who recited the “full of crap/totally full of crap” vow (something like that) but accepted that even though I like my in-laws and love my family, I don’t always like being around them. Absence doesn’t just make the heart grow fonder, it makes the heart stronger, at least for a little while.

Everybody’s Culture Shocking

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One of the early side effects of living in a developed foreign country is that you are the happiest person in the land. You glow. You are imbued with a teenager level of knowledge and wisdom that lets you know everything about the country and lets you see things the old, bitter veterans have never noticed before and clearly don’t understand.

Everything about your new home is better than your old, decrepit country. It’s cleaner, healthier, nicer, safer, cooler, more beautiful, more cultured and, in general everything is just more awesomer. Anything that’s bad is, just, well, that’s just something you’re going to have to get used to–it’s not YOU it’s ME–and it’s probably just your lack of language ability causing a miscommunication.

This lasts about three months.

At that three month mark all those niggling little annoyances become big annoyances and full blown culture shock. Suddenly the country you’re in is the most ass-backwards, low-life, 19th century wretched hive of scum and villainy you’ve ever had the displeasure of living in. It’s not ME it’s THEM idiots. Everyone is racist and all those people you thought were cool are just racist metro-sexual scumbags who’ve been lying to you and withholding the truth from you the entire time. You’ve been making all these efforts to communicate with your new language skills but clearly the racists and their racist ears can’t hear a foreigner, however brilliant, speak.

This feeling lasts two to three months and then suddenly the country you’re in isn’t that bad again. It’ll never be as cool as it was, but it’s pleasant. A few months later, the culture shock comes back, but not as bad. That cycle goes on and one, with slowly leveling swings between happy and culture shocked.

Even after all these years, I still experience bouts of culture shock. Normally, it doesn’t bother me that when I’m at the front of a line, especially at a train station, no one in Japan believes that’s the right line. I’ve even seen station masters look confused about which line was which when they saw me. I also find that Japanese are hyper-sensitive to little pronunciation mistakes. When I say the name of the school I work at: Rikkyo, I get lots of puzzled looks. This is because the pronunciation has a slight pause “Reek-kyo” and the “o” is long. If either of those features is left out, puzzled looks ensue, even though there’s no other school with a similar name. It’s like saying “I work at Princetown University in New Jersey” and having people go “where?” even after you’ve pronounced it several times.

However, when I find either of these things making me angry, I know I’m in culture shock. I usually try to relax at home and, whenever possible, try to watch a US news program. Several minutes of suffering that vapid and superficial emptiness, especially if it’s CNN International or NBC, usually reminds me that things could always be worse and I start feeling better. At least until the next time.

You Don’t Need No, er, An Education

Who What Where When Why Which Whore Wine-Whine Merger

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Because I’m still in the middle of marking exams, and because I’m collecting a fourth batch tomorrow, English teaching has been on my mind.

Even though, as mentioned before, I’ve lost most of my native accent, the one vocal quirk I’ve kept is the one vocal quirk I shouldn’t have.

When I was attending Edison Elementary School in Hayden, Colorado, I remember one of my teachers–I think it was Miss Trimble when I was in, maybe, 6th grade–explaining that the “wh-” in words like “what” and “where” should be pronounced as “hw” making them “hwat” and “hwere”. This was done in order to distinguish them from “watt” and “wear”. This is the reason words such as “who”, “whole” and “whore” have an “h” sound and aren’t “woo”, “wole” and “wore”. (For the record: she probably didn’t use “whore” as an example.)

Although I ignored and then forgot most of the useful things I was taught in elementary school, like, say, math, for some reason I retained that and incorporated into my way of speaking. A sentence like “Watch where you wear those clothes lest your father whine and wail and drink a bottle of wine before butchering whales in Wales” is to me “Watch hwere you wear those clothes lest your father hwine and wail and drink a bottle of wine before butchering hwales in Wales”.

Now it turns out that this was the way most of the English speaking world once said these words. However thanks to something called the “Wine-Whine Merger” (which could be the name of a country music album) most of the English speaking world now pronounces those words the same. (For me, “white wine” is pronounced “hwite wine” or “pinot gris”.) There are a few pockets where the “Wine-Hwine Merger hasn’t been completed, mostly across the US Southern states–although I don’t remember anyone speaking that way when I was at Ole Miss or visiting friends in Georgia–and, apparently, large portions of Scotland, but I’m from Kansas and grew up in Colorado so I shouldn’t speak this way at all.

Oddly, only a couple students have ever called me on this–one of them a couple weeks ago– and asked “Why do you speak like a complete fool?” (Or something like that.)

I, of course, took full responsibility for the way I speak by blaming my Miss Trimble.

Judge Not Lest Ye Become Ye Own Enemy That is Ye

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Back in 2,000, before the turn of the millenium, I dragged my in-laws and my wife to the USA for our second wedding ceremony–for the record, there were three total in two hemispheres. While we were there, we went to Kansas City to visit my friend Steve Brisendine and his family.

We were staying in a hotel and I had to call him and let him know our hotel phone number so we could arrange mind-numbing consumption at KC Masterpiece. (This was a compromise as we thought the shouting at Gates would scare the hell out of them.)

After a half-hour of listening to me carefully recite the numbers, Steve paused, perhaps to splash water on his face to wake up, and said something to the effect of “I can tell you’re used to talking to people who don’t speak English.”

Talking funny is one of the unusual side effects of living overseas, especially if you’re a teacher.

First, to communicate with your students, you begin to speak slowly and carefully. The challenge is to retain normal intonation: “NOW-OO EV-ER-Y-ONE LIS-TEN TO MEEEE” is not particularly helpful to your students. (Neither, it should be added, is a rapid “Y’alllisnup”) Eventually, your native accent begins to erode. Professor and musician Dan Strack wrote the song “You’ve Lost Your Native Accent” (Sung to the tune of “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling” ) in honor of this. (He also included, ominously, the line “you’ve lost nearly half your vocabulary”.)

In my case, my Kansas twang, stretched “A”s (It’s not Kansas it’s KAAANsas) and dropped “G”s (it’s lovin’ not loving) disappeared and I now have a broadcaster’s voice that would be right at home on CNN or MSNBC (unfortunately I can’t work at either place because I’m only a partial moron not a total one.)

I also, despite my best efforts, I still speak numbers slowly. In my defense, that’s often necessary when talking on the phone with airlines and banks in other countries.

The effects of this are especially brutal on people from England, Scotland and Australia, who, despite admirable resistance, eventually begin sounding a lot more like me.

Then there are the odd grunts and sighs you pick up. I also find myself bowing a lot when I go home and the occasional arigato slips out.

I do have one quirky way of speaking that’s stuck with me, but that’s fodder for another entry. (Hint: Who What Where When Why Which and Whore.)

Chocolate for Me White Stuff for Thee Times Three

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A short one tonight, as I run out of time before midnight Japan time. Damned exams.

On the occasional odd Sunday, I teach high school students who plan to study at universities in the USA, Canada, the UK or Australia. Part of my job is to prepare them for their entrance exams and to crush the hopes and dreams of the young men. (Technically, that’s my day job, too, but the goals are different.)

One of the things Japan gets very right is Valentine’s Day. On that day, although men may spring for dinner for their loved ones, it’s the women who provide the chocolate. A woman in love will make chocolate candies from scratch for her loved one. This is called honmei-choco (or chocolate of love). It’s also common practice–although this is slowly fading out–for all women at a company to provide some kind of chocolate for the men at their offices. This is giri-choco (or courtesy chocolate).

Later, on March 14th, it’s the men’s turn to provide something on White Day, usually cookies, white chocolate, jewelry, stockings and, for men who want to sleep alone a rather long time, marshmallows. It’s also expected that the White Day gift be “triple the return”. Lately, though, that seems to have become “triple the excuses”. (I refuse to testify on the grounds that my testimony will be used against me.)

Where the hope crushing comes into play is when I have to tell the young Japanese lads heading off to the West that Valentine’s Day there is backward. The man is expected to provide chocolates, flowers, jewelry and dinner. If he doesn’t his relationship is going to suffer a bit of stress.

The final hope crushing is when I point out that there is no White Day in the West and no triple return where the women are expected to pay up. The young men ask why and I tell them it’s because they’re men. They nod and say “No, really, why?”

The young ladies in the class, by contrast, seem to like this one way responsibility idea a lot.

Now I have to post this and start thinking about what I’m going to get my girls for White Day. Actually, they didn’t give me much chocolate this year–daddies aren’t that cool–so maybe all I’ll need is some excuses. I should work on those, too.

One Film to in the Darkness Bind Them

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I’m in the mood to talk about stinkers today. The influence of reading too many bad student essays may be the cause of this.

The other cause is that an acquaintance of mine is about to, or already has, crossed a major turning point in his life. He is about to watch Tommy Wiseau’s epic disaster The Room.

Back when I was at university, discussions of bad films with my English Department friends always included some version of the following exchange:

A–Dude, that movie sucked.
B–Was it worse than Stalker?
C–(appearing out of nowhere and interrupting like a Greek chorus) Nothing is worse than Stalker. (C disappears.)

Stalker is a Russian sci fi film with an interesting premise and lots of atmosphere but very little else. It has a running time of 163 minutes, although it feels much longer. It was the worst movie I’d ever seen until I saw After Dark, My Sweet which is another slow atmospheric film with little going on underneath the cinematography.

Both these films satisfy my main requirement for being truly epic stinkers: They take themselves oh so seriously. Plan 9 from Outer Space is cult classic bad because it tried so hard to be Shakespeare. The remake, Independence Day, just sucked because it was a spoof of a long dead genre. Roadside Picnic, the novel Stalker was based on, had humans living in a world changed after aliens paused a bit for lunch and a toilet break and left their trash behind. Stalker wanted to be about dreams and wishes in a bleak world but instead showed us people riding carts for several minutes or watching water go calm with no action and no dialogue. Believe it or not, it was slower than Heaven’s Gate. After Dark, My Sweet had Jason Patric, Rachel Ward, Bruce Dern and a Jim Thompson pedigree, but it went nowhere slowly and then slowed down for effect.

The Room, however, exceeds them all and it is fair to say that there only two kinds of people on this earth: those who’ve seen The Room and those who still have souls.

Tommy Wiseau’s acting style combines William Shatner’s staccato and LOOK-AT-ME! ego with Christopher Walken’s random inflection on top of an accent that is not of this world. Scenes happen almost at random; serious issues are brought up and then dropped; one character changes actors and characters because the actor had to leave–they do give the new guy a new name, just no reason for him to be there; men toss around a football from only a few feet away from each other–it’s no joke to say the football is the best actor in the film–and Wiseau can turn trashing a room into a boring, yet comic masterpiece as he pulls the drawers out with much angry fury.

After you see it, you’ll see someone throw a ball and always think “Oh, hi, Mark.” After a friend tells you a horrible story of pain and death, you’ll laugh and say “Ha ha ha. What a story, (person’s name)”. At your birthday party you’ll say “You invited all my friends, good thinking!” When you meet a woman named Lisa you’ll always think “You ahhre tearing me apahhrt, Lisa!” which is simultaneously shouted and lifeless in the film.

Also, before you are tempted to watch it, remember this: One does not simply watch The Room. Its black heart is populated by more than just bad actors. There is evil there that does not sleep. Tommy Wiseau’s eyes are ever watchful and his melted-wax ass unforgettable. It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire, ash, and dust. The very dialogue you hear is a poisonous fume. Not even with 10,000 beers and all the lights on should you watch this. It is folly.

I’ve never actually met this acquaintance. He is a friend of a friend and I only know him via Facebook and email. He seemed like an interesting guy.

I wish I’d had the chance to meet him before he watched The Room, though. The person I’ve been exchanging emails and texts with for several years no longer exists. He is no longer who he was.

Mere Blather

A Bad Reputation and Too Many Pens