Category Archives: Life and Stuff

The Application is Half the Battle

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For reasons I still don’t fully understand, when I was in high school a few hundred years ago or so, I received an application from Oral Roberts University. I hadn’t requested one and still don’t know how they got my name. Although I didn’t apply, I was impressed by the lengthy application form, which I remember being somewhere around 10 or 12 pages and included things like personal Christian testimony and pledges to have no fun whatsoever for four years. (Something like that.) It was also the first application I’d ever seen that required a photo.

Little did I know, this application was pretty much an omen for my future.

When most normal people apply for jobs, they fill in a one or two page application, turn in a one or two page resume and sit through an interview with “What are your strengths?” “In what ways are you a moron?” etc. In my case, with the exception of some summer work, every job I’ve ever had, and one I didn’t, have involved lengthy applications and application processes.

First was for the Air Force which involved exams, physicals, repeat physicals, physical fitness tests, pupil dilation and marching about the square shouting orders. Oh, and six weeks of getting yelled at by men in campaign hats.

When I decided not to go into the Air Force, I applied for the Peace Corps. Once again, I had a huge application that included authorizing a basic background check and then was subjected to a series of physical examinations. The only problems I had involved my ears. For my initial physical, the nurse checked my ears and ran out of the room screaming and praying. I won’t get into details, but the praying was followed but a thorough cleaning. (More on why this was necessary later.) Despite that cleansing, I still failed the hearing test which put my application on hold.

Eventually I tracked down a professor at Kansas State who offered free hearing checks if the testee allowed students who intended to be doctors and/or mad scientists to conduct the test whilst the professor supervised. I was then taken to a dark room in the basement of either Lafene Student Health Center or Leasure Hall where I failed the hearing test again. The professor did a quick survey of my ears, which involved nearly pulling them of toward the back of my head and declared I had weird ears.

More specifically, rather than a straight ear canal, mine curves slightly. This means, um, ear matter doesn’t always exit the way it is supposed to and can build up if I don’t take precautions. That’s what had frightened the nurse in the first test. To make matters even more complicated, because of my weird ears, when I put on headphones, the way they sit over my ears causes them to partially block my ears which is why I failed the second test.

The professor was giddy at the thought he could now give his students a chance test my hearing via bone conduction. This meant using devices that attached just behind my ears and sent sound vibrations through my skull to my internal ear. Oddly, it sounded just the same as using headphones. Using this method, I passed and was medically cleared for the Peace Corps. (Since then I’ve learned how to better position headphones during hearing tests to keep them from closing off my ear canal; also, since I passed the Air Force hearing test, either the headphones fit better or the Air Force has lower standards.)

The last long application was for the JET Programme which involved 15 or 20 pages of information and a personal essay and more physicals. (All of which I passed.) It also required a photo be included, which apparently almost caused me to fail because it gave the impression I was very serious. Either way, it got me to Japan.

 

 

The Old and The New High Places and Fear

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Today the oldest and I both had the day off (well, sort of, I had to do some “work” in the morning, for six hours, no really, six hours, officially). Because of this, and despite the heat, we mustered up the energy to go down to Tokyo and visit Tokyo Sky Tree, which is the tallest tower in the world and, for now, the second tallest structure in the world.

Tokyo Sky Tree is just a short walk from Asakusa and the Asahi Brewery Headquarters (which is designed and colored to look like a tall glass of beer) and the Asahi Beer Hall which is famous for, well, let’s just say I had to explain to our oldest that it was designed to look like a hibachi and flame but apparently no one told Philippe Starck that the design looked like the standard Japanese cartoon depiction of poop.

The adventure, as all things tend to do in Japan, involved an hour waiting in line. Oddly we didn’t complain as, unlike Tokyo Disneyland/line, the wait was indoors and air conditioned. Once we had a ticket, we were hustled to an elevator and whisked up to 350 meters (1,148 feet). At this stage, there are restaurants and shops and a ticket counter for getting tickets up to the highest deck. I splurged and we were whisked up another elevator, this one with a glass top and glass doors to 440 meters (1,443 feet). At this point, to get back down, you have to walk up what’s basically a glass tube to get to 450 meters (1,476 feet) and the down elevators.

Oddly, at this point, I wasn’t having too many issues with heights.

The elevator takes you back down to the 350 meter deck and you then have to walk down to 340 meters (1,115 feet). At this level, which is the bottom of the three level lower deck, there’s an area with a glass floor. Our oldest walked out on it with no problems. In my case, however, the different parts of my brain had a short chat. My logical/reasoning brain, as small as it is, pointed out that there was nothing to fear as not only was the floor well designed, there was a actually a second floor below it. My lizard-brain responded with “Gyahhh! No! No! No! Danger! Bad! Fall Bad! Splat Bad! Glass fail! People fall! People die! People stupid! Me smart! You die!”

I took a step on to the glass, took a picture, then stepped back off as my logical/reasoning brain started listening to my lizard-brain and realized that the reason there was a second floor was because it was possible for the first floor to fail.

Part of the problem was there were dozens of people around and on the glass floor. If I stood in place trying to get my courage and focus built up, I was constantly getting jostled. If I could focus, it wouldn’t be as much of a problem. For example, I no longer have problems with the skywalk in the NS Building in Shinjuku because I’m able to relax and focus.

I crossed around to the other side of the glass floor near the window determined to try it again, but the view and the realization we were hanging over nothing made even my logical/reasoning brain shout “Fly, you fool! Fly! Er, I mean FLEE not FLY because FLY is totally what you want to avoid! Although, technically it’s FALL not FLY.” Of course, my escape was cut off by a little old lady who refused to move which meant I had to listen to my logical/reasoning brain snap and start comparing the glass floor to the Moon Door in Game of Thrones.

Eventually we went back down to the ground level and had lunch. Then, since our oldest had never visited Kaminarimon and Senso-ji, we took a brief side trip down Nakamise Street to eat agemanju or deep-fried sweet bean pastries (which, against all reason, are among my favorite sweets in Japan).

Unfortunately, we too hot and tired at that point to enjoy the temple, so we packed it in and went home. Luckily we woke up before our stop.

Strengths Weaknesses and Other Fish in the Sea

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In keeping with the weekly theme of long walks, I thought I’d talk about job interviews.

I’m pretty sure I had a job interview for my first job (delivering booze to liquor stores) but it wasn’t that memorable. The first job I remember applying for at university involved programming. I do not remember why I thought I was qualified to apply, but I vaguely remember someone I knew had suggested I apply because I was a decent writer. I also vaguely remember that it may have had something to do with proofreading text and writing the manual. All I remember for certain is putting on a suit and having to walk a long way across campus and being “that sweaty guy” at the interview.

I didn’t get the job–oddly, someone I graduated high school with did–but it was an experience that taught me a lot–mostly, park closer to the interview site.

The next job interview I remember was my Peace Corps interview. I suited up, parked closer (although this was probably in autumn so it was cooler) and waited patiently. The interviewer turned out to be one of the best friends of one of my best friends. We mostly chatted about our mutual friend and I was moved on to the battery of tests and retests that followed (more on that some day; until then a two word hint: weird ears).

There were small interviews for part time work after that but my next big interview was to join the JET Programme and go to Japan. (This was thanks to the suggestion of writer Bryn Greenwood, whose novels Last Will and Lie Lay Lain I recommend you all check out as she is an excellent writer and neither this blog nor my children would exist if she hadn’t recommended Niigata.) The JET interview was memorable for being my first group interview (A Japanese official; a professor and a former JET) and for me suddenly blanking and being unable to think of a subject verb disagreement. (I is stupid that way sometimes.) I also had to pretend to be a cowboy. (No kisses were involved, though.)

After all those interviews I’ve gotten pretty good at figuring out if I did well in the interview or if I did poorly. However, until I applied to my current company, I’d never had an interview that left me going “What the hell just happened?”

Things didn’t go well before the interview. It was my first internet application and, oddly enough, no one would actually tell me how to spell the name of the recruiter doing the interview. I’d sent letters to him with his name misspelled and all he would do was try to pronounce it as if that would help me magically understand how to spell it. (For the record: I only learned after I had the job and only because it was on a form.)

The interview was on a Sunday which meant we had to enter the building through the basement. We then went through the usual questions about strengths and weaknesses and ideal jobs and “Are you now or have you ever been a member of a union?” (None, plenty, all pay for no work; probably not.)

It went on long enough that it turned into a chat, which set off my warning system as I don’t always do well in chats. However, he then said something to the effect of “I don’t know how serious things are with this woman where you are now but there are a lot of women in Tokyo.”

I think I kept my mouth closed but I’m not sure. I then wondered if dumping She Who Must Be Obeyed was a prerequisite for the job.

In the end it didn’t matter. I got the job and they’ve treated me pretty well for the most part and I didn’t have to dump She Who Must Be Obeyed.

This Truck Rolls Without Brakes

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Since yesterday I talked about my long walk to visit the future in-laws, I thought today I’d talk about She Who Must Be Obeyed’s long walk. In her case, though, a flight was involved.

I had just finished my three years in Nou and was in a transition phase that involved going back to the USA for a new visa to be processed. As soon as I got the USA–there were a couple complicating factors involved–She Who Must Be Obeyed called me from Japan and pretty much invited herself to Salina for a visit.

I told my family about this and asked if it would be okay if she visited and the conversation went something like:

Me–Mom, She Who Will Eventually Be Obeyed is coming to the USA. Is it okay if she–
Mom–(on phone) Assemble the team. We have planning to do.

At that point, a truck was rolling and I pretty much lost control of SWWEBO’s visit. Old friends were assembled at the dinner table and they started planning a reception. As I half listened to what was going on behind me, I heard the reception growing and growing and growing. When it reached the point of renting a hall and inviting the Governor, I finally had to grab control of the steering wheel and point out the level of shock involved in arriving in a strange town and discovering a party in rented hall being thrown on your behalf by people you’d never met. Also, Bill Graves‘ hair was way too perfect for him to be much fun at a party.

You’ve never seen such an unhappy group of ladies in your life. (I suspect at least two of them never forgave me.)

Eventually, the plan was modified to a reception at my grandmother’s house with everyone arriving at staggered times to allow SWWEBO to acclimate to everyone. My only job was to casually announce the reception and make sure SWWEBO didn’t jump out of the car and run back to the plane.

When I told her, there was a brief moment where she eyed the door handle but she never jumped out. I then got to enjoy her reaction at seeing a Hardee’s chicken sandwich for the first time. She just stared at it for several seconds with an “is that all for me?” look. I said “Welcome to America” and “You can take half of it with you if you want.”

The staggered arrival reception went well and I was pretty much ordered to keep her around. More specifically, I was told I’d be an even bigger fool–interesting wording that–if I “let that one get away.”

So far, so good.

Walking the Long Walk and Talking

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One of the hardest walks to make in this life is the walk into the house of your possible future in-laws to receive their approval, blessing and/or open contempt/hostility. This is an especially difficult walk if 1) it’s going to occur in another language and 2) you’ve been keeping your relationship secret.

In my case, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I had been dating for several months before she showed my picture to her parents. The reaction, according to her, was a heavy sigh from her father. His major concern was if I’d stay in Japan or not, especially if the relationship became more serious. I was delighted by this as my ex-girlfriends typically had  much larger lists of major concerns than that.

Eventually, I had to make the walk and introduce myself. I entered the house and took off my shoes and was pleased no one passed out or chased me out. I was then directed down the hallway. I took two steps and stopped next to an open pit that covered the entire width of the hallway and was too wide to step across. I remember thinking, “Wow, letting me in only to drop me in a pit is cold; way cold.” They kept gesturing “go on, go on” but I didn’t go on until they explained it was the winter home of their koi and what looked like an open pit actually had a thick glass cover. I still didn’t go on until She Who Must Be Obeyed stepped on it and survived.

We then had the awkward gathering in a Western style backroom where we sat on opposite sofas while Mother and Father of She Who Must Be Obeyed put on looks of inscrutable contempt and skepticism that the Japanese have perfected. They offered the usual pleasantries and I gave them the usual personal information. Then they offered me chocolate cake. After nearly being killed in a pit, I was pretty sure I was about to be poisoned, but I decided to risk a bite. I then discovered that the real purpose of the cake was to test if I ate like a human or like an animal.

The question was answered when I dropped a bite of cake on their carpet.

I apparently showed the proper level of remorse and I was 1) allowed to live and 2) allowed to keep dating their daughter. Eventually I’d be taken to dinner with the entire family for a test of my ability to eat large amounts of food. Oddly, and surprisingly for those who know me, I almost failed. But that’s another post.

Endlessly Shorter and Shorter

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One of the things I miss the most from childhood is a summer so long you get bored and want to go back to school.

I realize this is more of a North American thing, but I still remember being able to visit my grandparents, go camping, play games, watch summer reruns and replacements on TV, complain about going to bed while the sun was still out, get cabin fever and complain about having nothing to do, and still have a full month of vacation left.

Now, even though I sort of, kind of, get summer off, those weeks go quickly. I feel especially sorry for those who only take two weeks for vacation.

Part of it is that sense that time speeds up. When I was 10, three months was 2.5% of my life. Now it’s .005% I remember reading that part of the reason it would suck to live a million years is that each year would seem like only a few hours or so (if you’re exactly my age anyway) and that would be a huge burden on you as you try to find a place for all your presents. (I may be misunderstanding how that works a bit). A 50 year marriage would feel like it lasted only 21 hours or so.

The other part is that there’s no longer that sense that you have nothing to do. I can waste time with the best of them. Slothful teens are amateurs compared to what I’m capable of. I can get the house messy enough that even extreme hoarders go “Dud, that’s a bit messy.” But in the end the slothful teens will enjoy it more because they don’t yet realize there are other things they need to do (or more specifically, they are not chemically/mentally able to care). Your parents got up so early because they had to even if they had nothing to do. You end up filling your days even if it’s only to seem productive so that you set a good example.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s 11:20 p.m. and I have to wash dishes.

Questioning the Nature of Personal Questions

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Since yesterday I mentioned how the Japanese have no problem announcing the personal to the public, today I thought I’d talk about the personal nature of the questions people are often asked prior to the personal being made public.

The first question I always get is “How tall are you?” My first reaction is “Why the hell do you need to know that?” but then I realize such questions are possible back home and in Japan I used to be freakishly tall compared to most Japanese–that’s slowly changing–and I decide to answer. But that leaves me with a problem: Do I tell them I’m 6’2″ and shrinking knowing it will be lost on them or do I spend a minute doing metric conversions and tell them I’m 188 centimeters tall?

The second question is “What is your shoe size?” Again, I have a problem. It’s not that one foot is a 12 and the other foot is a 12.5, it’s that I don’t actually know my shoe size in Japan as the stores rarely have shoes that fit and I’m forced to import. I think I’m a 31 but I can also wear a 29 in some brands. This question is so popular I’ve had naked guys in saunas stick their feet next to mine in order to compare foot size. This usually triggers a response along the lines of “What the hell are you doing? Do you know how gay that is?” (Because, going to a bathhouse and getting naked with your male friends once a week is totally not gay, right?)

The third question is the Japanese equivalent of “What is your sign?” The problem here is they don’t understand “Scorpio” they want to know if I’m a tiger, snake, dragon, rat or any of the other eight signs in the Chinese zodiac. The answer is “I’m a horse.” (And by the way, 2014 is the Year of the Horse so #$%^ you, rats, sheep, roosters and pigs.)

The fourth, and most important question, though is “What is your blood type?” Here, positive and negative variations are unimportant, all that matters is A, B, O or AB. In my case I tell them “I’m A.” As soon as I do this people typically go “oooh” and their smiles become more forced and they look around to make sure they know where their children are (even if they don’t have kids).  A’s are considered calm, patient, sensitive, responsible, overcautious, stubborn, and unable to relax. (Pay no attention to those contradictions behind the curtain…) It’s also interesting to note that famous A’s include Adolph Hitler, Ringo Starr and Britney Spears. (I think it’s that last one that worries them the most.)

There are other random questions about income and weight but they aren’t that important.  The best question is reserved for women: “What is your BWH?” (Meaning Bust, Waist, Hips.) It’s a terrible thing for someone to ask, but it is fun to watch a Western woman get asked it.

 

The Madness of Minding Another’s Trash

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Right around this time 15 years ago I left Nou-machi for a return to the US. My last day was spent assisting a team of city office folk in the stripping down and cleansing of my apartment (which, technically, was THEIR apartment).

It was bad enough having people around at a stressful time, but I also ran headlong into the way Japanese recycling law meets personal privacy. Except for a final polish on the kitchen and some final packing of boxes, my apartment was in decent shape. I’d even bagged the garbage and tied the bags shut. As soon as the team arrived, they broke open the bags and started sorting the paper garbage in to various types of recyclables. As I’ve mentioned before, to me, what makes something burnable garbage is the ability to burn. If it burns it is not necessary to consult a checklist and or book of rules especially when it leads to a privacy busting conversation.

I then had to explain 1) why I had a large collection of Psychometrer Eiji comic books and 2) why I was throwing them out and 3) was okay if one of the staff took them. (It was an awesome comic and good language study material; they were too heavy to move; yes, by all means now stop picking through my trash!)

My stress level was pretty high when I was driven to the post office to ship some stuff.

My employment status was vaguely uncertain and the people I was dealing with in what is still the company I work for (sort of) weren’t being helpful and I wasn’t sure if I had a job or when I’d start. I also didn’t have a place for my stuff.  Because of this, I didn’t know how long I’d be in the USA and I sent a bunch of stuff home the expensive way. This was annoying enough, but when I got back to the apartment, the worker who’d driven me to the post office immediately announced to everyone present how much I’d spent.

An observer at that moment would have seen my head fly up off my body, spin around a few times and land back on my head at a slightly crooked angle. I was so angry I could barely speak English. Japanese was right out.

The infuriating thing was that none of them thought anything special about it at all until my head flew off. I’d made the big deal out of it; for them it was natural to know everything about everyone. It was like being in an especially small town.

After all these years, I still haven’t got used to having my trash exposed to the world. (Except via blogging, of course.)

The Boilerplate and The Tears

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Yesterday I mentioned a trip to a Renewers’ Conference and the ticket hi jinx that ensued thanks to the people who helped us without telling us. Today I thought I’d focus on people who told us but didn’t help us.

At least once a year JET Programme members assemble for various conferences where we were expected to suffer through, um, I mean experience and learn from various presentations. One of the regular occurrences was what I like to call the Robot Reads Boilerplate.

Basically, a spokesman for some part of the JET Programme would gather us all in one room and then answer our questions. The questions, of course, had to have been submitted in writing something like seven years in advance in order to be read. The problem with the answer guy we got was he wasn’t even trying to pretend that he cared about our questions or that he wasn’t giving us answers we already knew. He also told us he would not accept any follow up questions sooner than five years from now. (Something like that.)

For example, if a person submitted a question like “I live in Niigata City and it’s fairly expensive. Since the JET Programme considers cultural sensitivity to be vital to our jobs, why doesn’t the JET Programme pay for our Japanese lessons?” (Note: This used to be true; I don’t know if it is now.) The answer guy would read word for word, in an emotionless robotic monotone, a paragraph from the guidelines we already had: “JET Programme members are more than adequately compensated for their efforts and should have little difficulty affording a local tutor to help them improve their language abilities.” This is the bureaucratic way of saying “Paragraph 37, subsection 2, caveat 3, bitches. Read it. Know it. Live it.”.

It didn’t matter what the question was, there was always a boilerplate response. “My school principal splashes gasoline on me and tries to set me on fire by tossing lit matches at me. What can the JET Programme do to help me?” The emotionless robotic response was something like “Cultural sensitivity is a vital part of the ALT experience in JET and a part of the ALT’s job. ALT’s are encouraged to tolerate and be patient with different teaching techniques and different ways of interacting with colleagues.” (Translation: Shut up, slaves.)

This is how it went until one of my last conferences. At the final assembly, which is traditionally sparsely attended and/or full of hungover slobs, Robot answer guy criticized those of us were there because of the people who weren’t there. Robot answer guy followed that with his usual reading of the boilerplate and then read a series of announcements.

One of the announcements was about a JET Programme member who had recently died while rock climbing. Suddenly, the robot’s voice cracked and he cried and struggled to get through the announcement. Then, his voice full of tears, he asked for a minute of silence. He got it because most of us were stunned speechless, and more than a bit creeped out, by what we’d just witnessed. It’s sad but true that we gave more attention to that than to the death of one of our own.

Those of us who’d witnessed what happened then spent the rest of our time in JET trying to convince those who’d skipped out that it had actually happened.

Help Without Awareness is Not Helpful

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I’ve mentioned before about how complicated the Japanese train ticket system can be. However, I did once learn that the train staff being too subtle can also be some danger. Well, especially if you’re dealing with people who believe that you didn’t believe everything you said and acted accordingly but didn’t bother telling you and thus left you believing that they believed you.

Confused? Well, let me try to explain. At the end of our first year in Japan, the group in my area decided to head down to Kobe for the annual Renewers’ Conference. This is a time of great seriousness where those who’ve decided to commit to another year in the J.E.T. Programme gather to enjoy a series of lectures and presentations by those who’ve been there and done that and then enjoy a pleasant time in the evenings with new and interesting people. (Translation: it’s one giant festival of bacchanalia interrupted by boring lectures and one of the world’s most boring dinner parties.)

Because the party, er, conference starts on a Thursday, it is a renewers’ tradition that people heading to the conference take Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday off and do some traveling on the five day weekend. In our case, we decided to pass Kobe and go to Hiroshima and then work our way back toward Kobe. Because we had a lot of time and masochistic streaks the size of, um, well, a bullwhip, we decided to take an express train to Kyoto and then save money by taking slower local trains from Kyoto to Hiroshima. I bought my tickets in Nou-machi, some bought their tickets in Itoigawa whilst at least one person bought his tickets in Toyama.

When we were in Kyoto trying to figure out which platform our train departed from, I showed my ticket to one of the JR employees. He said something in lightning fast Japanese and pointed toward the bullet train platforms. I decided I’d misunderstood and we boarded our local train and took our slow ride to Hiroshima.

Towards the end of the long ride I, bothered by the JR employee’s reaction, took a good look at my tickets. I realized I did, in fact, have a bullet train ticket from Kyoto to Hiroshima. The others mocked my mistake for a minute before realizing they also had bullet train tickets. It turned out that there was a special package deal. If we took the express to Kyoto, there was a discount on the bullet train.

What surprised us was 1) that even though we’d purchased our tickets in different stations in different cities and had all carefully asked for local trains, we’d all received the package deal and 2) that no one had bothered to tell us that we didn’t have the tickets we thought we had.

We then spent the rest of the ride and 25 minutes in Hiroshima trying to get a refund for the difference between what we’d bought and what we thought we’d bought.

In the end, the difference was only about $18 each, making us wish we’d actually taken the bullet train and/or had bothered to look at our tickets.