Category Archives: Life and Stuff

Back to the Past Here in the Future

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For the past few weeks, just looking at college football scores and seeing Kansas State blown out by Oklahoma and then losing to Texas, I’m pretty sure I’ve time-slipped back to the 80’s.

During the time I was at Kansas State, both as an undergraduate and a graduate student, Kansas State had (if I did the math correctly) 16 wins, 60 losses, and 1 tie (more on that in a minute). The only winning season was my final year when Bill Snyder finally pulled off a 7-4 record in his third season.

Along the way, during a 2-9 season, there was a “riot” in Aggieville after Kansas State defeated the Hated Kansas University Jayhawks. (The week before the Cats had been blown out by Oklahoma 56-10.)

Somehow, during the 1987 season (the year after the “riot”), my fraternity got the responsibility of providing ushers at the football stadium during games. This meant a great many of us were “volunteered” for service. That’s how I ended up wearing a sun visor around my neck whilst I stood around a cold stadium checking tickets. (Note: I wore the sun visor around my neck because that seemed less stupid than the hat-head I’d get to wear all day if actually wore the sun visor during the game.)

I did get to see the games for free, but that wasn’t that great of a perk that season as Kansas State lost to such powerhouses as Austin Peay State and Army. I ended up in the stadium for the game versus the Hated Kansas University Jayhawks and I remember the anticipation being high. The Cats had defeated them the year before and had just suffered a three week run that included losses to Oklahoma, Nebraska and Oklahoma State for a combined score of 171-20.)

The Hated Kansas University Jayhawks were 1-7 and the Cats were 0-8. Aggieville had been converted into a series of barricades and bunkers and extra police had been called in from around the state. Aggieville became known as, if I remember correctly “Aggietraz”. The game itself had been dubbed “The Toilet Bowl” because both teams were shitty.

The joke, of course, was on us as the game ended in a 17-17 draw after Kansas State blocked a field goal in the closing seconds. There was no riot after the match. In fact, I don’t think anyone went to Aggietraz at all.

The only people who ended up being happy were the police because they got lots of overtime and no riot.

 

Music With Lots of Gratuitous Wrestling

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It’s been a musical weekend thus far. Our oldest performed yesterday, our youngest performed today. I had four jobs, 1) stay out of fights; 2) take video of the proceedings, 3) escape as soon as I could, 4) avoid crushing children even if they deserved it.

The event is the annual music festival and open house at our youngest’s elementary school. Parents arrive in the morning, many of them apparently jumping the fence to get the best seats. They then compete for the best video angles. The most dangerous are the parents and grandparents of the first year students. This is their first event and it’s still exciting to them and they have a level of ruthlessness that is truly astonishing. If you get a good camera angle, you will be jostled, deliberately bumped and someone will set up in front of you.

Luckily, I’m tall, so I can usually get a good camera angle despite the best efforts of the others. Because of that, I tend to find a chair until it’s time to go to work.

Complicating matters, is that, because it’s new to the first years, they bring more people than necessary: grandparents, aunts and uncles, random small children off the street. They also feel the need to stay for the entire proceeding. They also chatter a lot and school staff members wave giant placards that say “Shut up, please.” during the inevitable speeches. (Unfortunately they point them at the crowd not the speech makers.)

In my case, the novelty of all this wore off a long time ago. “That’s my daughter up there! That one right there!” becomes, over the years, “Do we really have to do this shit again?” I’m not saying this is a good thing, but it happens. I do enjoy seeing our daughters play, especially when they rock the piano as our youngest did today, but I also beat a quick exit whilst She Who Must Be Obeyed attends the open class. (Note, she was on the PTA so it’s more of an obligation for her than it is for me. Also, the school encourages only one parent to attend the class.)

The other complication today was other people’s children. They were standing on chairs, staring at me and saying “LOOK FOREIGN GUY!” I usually respond to this by looking around and going “Where? Where is the foreign guy?” This I can forgive, but the two kids wrestling in the middle of the floor during our youngest’s performance had me trying to figure out maximum sentences for zapping children with a stun gun. Luckily for them, I was working. However, I learned later that She Who Must Be Obeyed was looking for a stun gun.

Next year, we’ll do this again. I’ll have the same jobs and part of me will be proud of our girls. The other part will get out as soon as it can.

Cheeseburger Hold the Temptation

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Since I’ve been doing the diet/lifestyle change, I’ve managed to avoid most major temptations. Well, there was that pizza that time, and there was that time at the in-laws where beer became as much a staple as rice, but other than that I’ve been a good boy.

Then, today, She Who Must Be Obeyed wanted to go to a burger place for lunch.

We were in Kawagoe because our oldest had a chorus concert that featured only her school. They had it at a new Kawagoe city office branch that also features a large concert hall because “other people’s money” and “we have the firearms and you don’t”. Having built it, though, the city is encouraging local schools to find excuses to use it rather than hold the concert down the street at the school.

I skipped the morning show (long story) and met She Who Must Be Obeyed, who had gone early, for lunch. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to eat around the concert hall except Baskin-Robbins and burgers. (In my past life, that was pretty much a between meal snack.) We opted to eat at MOS Burger, the second largest “fast” food chain in Japan (after McDonalds).

This led to a number of dilemmas: 1) MOS Burger has good fries and always includes a couple onion rings with their fries. 2) apparently, according to the menu, large numbers of their burgers are actually made from soy beans. 3) They have good fries and onion rings. 4) the burgers come with carbs attached.

I ordered a burger with real beef and a chili dog with real, well it was a chili dog so who cares what was real. She Who Must Be Obeyed was so surprised I didn’t order fries that she kept asking me if I wanted them.

I enjoyed the burgers (haven’t had them for 75 days) but felt the craving for the fries. This lifestyle change stuff can be hard.

Note: Our oldest’s class finished second in the contest. (They were robbed. oya baka.)

For The Times When You Can’t Be Bothered

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A while back two people, one friend and one YouTuber, tricked me into playing a game regularly. Lately I’ve found myself watching the game more than playing it. I call this studying.

As much as I enjoy the game, every now and then I’m not in the mood to play it or I’ve been playing it and I’m no longer in the mood to do so. I’ve got a bad internet connection to the USA so playing the game involves watching my tank hop around and die rather than moving around smoothly than dying. (That says a lot about my play style, now that I think about it.) Or, on the Asia server, I’ve got a better connection but the play style there is maddening enough to make me prefer doing work.

However, instead of doing work anything even remotely productive, I inevitably track down a couple people livestreaming the game via Twitch.tv. and watch them play instead. That’s right, sometimes I’m so lazy I can’t even be bothered to play the game myself. I make someone else play it for me.

The streamers playing World of Tanks fall into several categories: 1) the Ragers, who’ve been known to break their keyboards during play; 2) the Teachers, who carefully explain what they’re doing and why they are doing it in an attempt to make other players better; 3) the Nice Guys, who don’t teach but seem to be having fun; 4) the Hot Chicks who, well, you really don’t care how well they play, and 5) the Scary Good Snobbish Assholes. They are so good they’ve lost the ability to empathize with people just learning to play the game at higher levels. This group is also known as the Whiners.

I have learned a lot about the game and the best streamers are more fun to watch than most television programs in the world. Every now and then life intervenes for some of the streamers–one man’s fiance broke up with him while he was streaming–and they get real to the point that you can’t help but watch even as you want to look away.

Very raw, but it beats playing the game. It also beats working.

 

 

Watching What You Eat When it all Looks Good

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Looking for a place to eat lunch yesterday was actually kind of painful.

As I mentioned in my last post, I spent yesterday at a knife show and then did some window shopping at a couple stores near the knife show.

The problem was, at some point, I needed to get something to eat. As I’ve been on a weight loss program/lifestyle change–down 10 kilograms/22 pounds as of two days ago–my choices were suddenly limited. Complicating things was the fact I was in Ginza, one of the most expensive shopping districts in the world. (Sukibayashi Jiro, the currently trendy sushi restaurant is there along with other expensive restaurants.)

I looked over the menu at a steak house (my eating plan involves light carbs not light eating) but couldn’t find any prices on the menu and Ginza is not the kind of place you want to find yourself in an “if you have to ask, you can’t afford it” situation.

My next choice was to wander around until something caught my eye. Unfortunately, several fast food places caught my eye and I found myself struggling between my default mode (fast and cheap) and my eating plan (think, moron, think).

That’s when I suddenly felt hungry (in a cranky, burn the world sort of way–oh you like you don’t ever feel that way) and the devil over my left shoulder began whispering “McDonald’s French fries. Hot and crispy. Salty, tasty French fries. Cheese burgers with French fries. Hot crispy salty.”  The devil over my right shoulder suggested KFC, because I could get chicken, wouldn’t have to worry about the bread, and I don’t like their fries. The devil over my left shoulder kept whispering about French fries crispy and hot at the other place.

I fired up the maps on my phone and went looking for the KFC and instead found a large sign advertising a food court in the basement of the building. The sign had color pictures of the restaurants’ signature dishes and I went “yes” to all of them, temporarily forgetting it wasn’t a menu.

I chose a chicken place that turned out to be closed from lack of gas and a sushi place that was also closed because of a lack of gas. I ended up at a tonkatsu, or pork cutlet restaurant. It was exactly my kind of place: a bit grungy and full of locals. The pork was breaded, and the meal came with rice, but it also came with miso soup and a metric ton of cabbage (more or less). Either way, it was fewer carbs than I’d have eaten at a place with French fries hot and crispy and definitely had a lot more vegetables, all for about the same price.

I came out feeling full and, more importantly, didn’t feel hungry later as my body wasn’t searching my meal for traces of nutrition and, finding none, demanding more food.

Next time I go out I’ll carry a healthy snack and I’ll plan where to eat in advance. Or I’ll just burn the world.

 

The Twenty Minute Rule

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Several hundred years ago, when I was at Ole Miss, I walked out of restaurant without eating. A few months later, I made my then girlfriend leave a restaurant.

For reasons I don’t fully understand, I have a 20 minute rule about service in restaurants in the South. In other places it’s a 10 minute rule, but in the South things are a bit more leisurely and you have to make allowances. (I once went to a party 20 minutes or so after the scheduled start time and had to help set up the party because, by Southern time keeping, I’d arrived early.)

I’ve heard of people leaving expensive stores because they couldn’t get a clerk’s attention to get a simple question answered. When I bring this up to Southerners, they usually frown and say a general “on behalf of the South I apologize to you” apology but also add “it’s a Southern thing” and then wonder out loud why I’m so impatient.

The first time I left a place I was looking for lunch. I went to a popular bar and restaurant and sat down at a table. There was a bartender there but he seemed busy with something and I just pulled out a book and started reading. After 10 minutes or so, I realized I hadn’t been served and looked for the bartender, who seemed to still be busy but his job did not, as near as I could tell, involve speaking to me, bringing me water, asking me if I wanted a drink or tracking down a waitress to do all of the above. After 20 minutes of waiting, including 10 minutes of pouting, I got up and left.

As I started to leave, the bartender finally said “can I get you a drink?” and I just said “too late” and left.

Later, my then girlfriend and I decided to go to a famous and fairly expensive restaurant on the square in Oxford, Mississippi (home of Ole Miss). I followed her as she bypassed the reservation stand and commandeered a table. We then waited and waited and waited whilst the wait-staff walked past us and ignored us.

After 20 minutes, I invoked the 20 minute rule and suggested we go to the other side of the square to a different restaurant. She said we’d only been there 20 minutes and needed to wait another seven days before they noticed and served us. (Something like that.) My response was a caring and touching and understanding “why the fuck would we do that?” (Note: I probably didn’t use those exact words, but they convey exactly what I was feeling.)

We went across the square and had a good meal but I suspect it was that moment that doomed the relationship. (More on that in another post.)

I never did eat at that expensive restaurant.

Excavation and Winterification

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Taking our apartment from summer mode to winter mode involves a surprising amount of excavation and spelunking.

The transition begins with notice from She Who Must Be Obeyed that it’s time to put the fans away and get our large blanket out of the closet. This is followed by me thinking of every excuse I can to do something else. Luckily, once the decision is made, She Who Must Be Obeyed usually gets distracted by some other task.

When we are finally both ready, we move the “variety pile” from in front of the “variety closet”. (Why the variety pile is not in the variety closet is a long story.) Once the path is cleared, I don a silly hat with a flashlight attached, open the closet door–the closet actually has two doors but one is blocked by the variety shelves–and begin exploring.

Luckily, after the big cleaning I did this past spring there are fewer boxes taking up space and I was quickly able to retrieve our kerosene heaters and our winter blanket. We also only had to find space for one fan as the other one had begun to show its age (its 14) and has been “retired” (i.e. dismantled by me and put in a trash bag for future disposal). Next summer we’ll just buy a new fan.

I also decided we should go ahead and dig out the electric carpet put it in the living room so that we won’t have to get back in to the “variety closet” until the spring. Placing the electric carpet involves moving the piano but not much more than that.

Although we won’t be needing them for a while, and don’t even have any kerosene, we’ve already decided to retire our oldest space heater as it has become temperamental and has a tendency to take random rest breaks. If those issues continue, it might not make it to spring.

Now the at we’re ready for the cold, I suspect it will be warm the next few days.

Tasting the Devil’s Brew

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We talked about booze tonight with our youngest, and our oldest had, at least officially as far as her parents know, her first taste of beer. It ended badly. Which is kind of good.

I’ve mentioned before about how I had my first taste of bourbon at the age of 10 and about how my parents would give us watered down wine with either Christmas or Thanksgiving dinner. It turns out there’s also a tradition like that here in Japan, but we haven’t really acted on it until today.

At supper, our youngest asked She Who Must Be Obeyed about the beer we were drinking. Our youngest seemed to know from reading and/or television, that beer is made with hops which makes it bitter and it’s the bitterness that makes it beer. (Something like that; she seems to know more about it than I do so ask her for clarification.) SWMBO tried to explain it and then gave up and offered her a taste instead.

Our youngest was surprised and didn’t act interested, even when we assured her one sip wouldn’t make her drunk. Now that I think about it, though, that’s probably not the best way to get her try it. She ended up refusing.

Our oldest seemed more interested and finally agreed to try a sip. Keep in mind, we were drinking Yebisu All Malt Beer, which is one of my favorite beers in Japan. In fact, it was the first beer I drank after I moved to Japan which also means it’s a sentimental favorite. It is, however, more bitter than most national beers which is part of what I like about it. It isn’t alcohol infused soda water, it’s got flavor.

Our oldest, though, was unimpressed. She took one sip. Made a face that was one part “you tricked me” and one part “bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntu onnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk!” and ran to the sink to spit the beer out and flush her mouth with water.

One part of me was pleased she’d had that reaction. Another part, though, was thinking “Don’t waste the beer you little idiot! Don’t waste the beer! You’re no daughter of mine!”

The next step, I suspect, will be a taste of sake with New Year’s breakfast. I need to find some bad sake for that event, though. Just in case.

 

 

Rest in Peace, Roomie

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About a hundred years ago when I was at Ole Miss, my African-American roommate’s friends accused me of corrupting him because we were watching hockey when they came over. One of them pointed at me, whilst speaking to him, and said “you’ve been hanging around him too long”. My only defense was to point out that he was corrupting me.

In 1994, for one year, I was roommates with Michael Robinson, who was a law student at the time. He turned out to be a terrific roommate (I am traditionally, not a good roommate at all) and was full of Southern graciousness and patience. He also taught me a lot about hockey, mostly as a defense mechanism to shut up my stupid questions. For example: “Why does that guy have a C on his sleeve and that guy has an A?”. or “Why do they keep changing players all the time?”

(For the record, given the reaction of his friends, I’m pretty sure he was the only African-American hockey fan in the entire Southern United States.)

He was also, and this I never understood given that he was from Mississippi or at least spent most of his life there, a Dallas Cowboys fan. At the time we were roommates, the Cowboys were attempting a three-peat of Super Bowl wins.

When I doubted this, the future lawyer in Mike took over and he demonstrated, with surprising energy, the three-peat speech that Emmitt Smith was going to give when they won. I was one part horrified and one part embarrassed for him so I didn’t listen as closely as the speech deserved, but I remember it went on quite a while.

When I questioned his love for the Hated Cowboys (the team’s official name outside of Dallas) he pointed out the Denver Broncos, my favorite team, had already lost four Super Bowls, often in spectacular fashion and that I should shut up. (Something like that.)

After a year, he moved in with another roommate and a year later I moved to Japan and lost touch with him.

Then, a couple months ago, in fit of nostalgia, I looked him up and friended him on Facebook. As a rule, although I will make a few comments on posts, I typically don’t start interrogating people about their pasts, especially if I haven’t seen them since the George H. W. Bush administration. All I know is he’d been sick and looked a lot thinner than when I knew him. I also knew he’d started his own law firm.

Then right after I published yesterday’s post, I learned he’d suddenly died. I don’t know why but his family members are in our prayers tonight.

Right now I’m raising a glass of whisky in his honor and wishing him the best and wishing I’d contacted him sooner and been more nosy about his life.

I also hope the Dallas Cowboys lose every game. (That will never change.)

Goodbye, Mike. Thanks for all the interesting times.

 

Hatred Skips a Generation

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Today proved that our oldest hates insects maybe more than my mother does.

As I’ve written before,  my mother has only two classifications for insects: bad bugs (those still living) and good bugs (those smashed on a hard surface). My mother even has a soft cackle in her voice after she kills a bug and declares it a “good bug”. You only hear the cackle if you listen closely–and let’s face it, who listens to their mother?– but it’s there.

Every now and then we get a small infestation of gnats in our apartment. This is especially true now as the weather is changing and the gnats are attempting to get “refugee” status in our house.

Our oldest seems to get especially annoyed by the gnats as they seem to hang out near her desk. This has led to a couple angry outbursts and noisy desk slaps. I sympathize with this as I’ve snapped and felt a rush of blood lust whilst killing insects but I’ve never felt the visceral hatred my mother had.

Our oldest seems to have inherited that hatred, but my mother doesn’t have the look in her eyes that I saw our youngest give today.

As we sat down to eat, our oldest suddenly tracked some movement and the look of hatred in her eyes was one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever seen. The look was what a hunting dog would give if it had not only spotted a duck, but also hated the duck with a passion. This wasn’t just “there it is” this was “I want to watch you bleed.”

Once I drew attention to the look, by crossing myself and saying several Our Fathers and Hail Marys, the look went away and I almost threw more bugs at her just to see the look happen again.

I also hope she learns to deploy that look at annoying boys.