Category Archives: Personal

Musgoes and Super Simple Complications

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I’m in the mood to talk about food because today we had some of my favorite foods for lunch and supper. Most of them, though, were made sometime last week.

With the possible exception of having popcorn for supper, my favorite foods to have for supper on weekends are usually leftovers. I don’t know why this is. I also don’t know why one of the few phrases my mother used that’s stuck with me is “musgoes”. There was also some mention of washing something after supper and putting something away and cleaning some place or another that I used to sleep in. I was also supposed to make something, but none of that is as important as food.

Because I like the phrase “musgoes” I’ve now exported it to Japan and have She Who Must Be Obeyed saying it, too. Today was actually the perfect day for musgoes. I’m cleaning the office after the neglect induced by the end of the school year and exam marking; our oldest was at club; She Who Must Be Obeyed was running our youngest around to something called “Mini Kawagoe” which is an occasional event where kids get to try out “job simulators” and pretend they are firefighters and police officers and the guy who runs the cash register at the convenience store and lets his friends by beer and cigarettes. (Something like that.)

She Who Must Be Obeyed came home after passing our youngest off on her friends and her friend’s mother and declared we were having musgoes for lunch. This was not, technically, the way things were supposed to be–musgoes for lunch are properly served on Sunday– but it was delicious, even though it involved several types of carbohydrates.

Then, for supper, none of us were really hungry. I opted for my other favorite phrase “Super Simple Supper” which, to me, involves the purchase of pre-made food. She Who Must Be Obeyed went shopping and came back with some chicken and some sashimi.

Unfortunately, it turned out there was also rice to be finished, so the Super Simple Supper turned into a bowl of fish on rice. it was delicious but it wasn’t super simple. It also involved too many of those things I was supposed to wash and or put way sometime or once.

Maybe our oldest remembers. I’ll have her wash that stuff.

Skates and Sports and Tippy Toes with Bad Ankles

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I once had a very strange and informative discussion with a Canadian that revealed a lot about cultural differences and religion (or maybe it was sports; it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes).

For reasons I don’t remember, we were discussing the fact that I had once owned a pair of ice skates. He thought it funny that I’d owned what I guess are called “Tippy Toe” skates when I should have had hockey skates. (I don’t know if this is true or not and, quite frankly, don’t care. It’s just hockey and figure skating, after all.) I kept trying to point out that wearing hockey skates, at least where I grew up, would be the equivalent of wearing football cleats to run a marathon but he kept accusing me of being Johnny Weir.

I put it all down to cultural differences. Where I grew up we were into skiing not skating; where he grew up hockey is religion and so important that a loss in the Olympics will send an entire nation into mourning for a week, especially if that loss is to Finland and keeps them from even getting a bronze medal. (I saw this happen in 1998; my Canadian friends still cannot talk about it without choking up a bit.)

The most curious thing about all this is I don’t remember why I owned ice skates in the first place. Either I had requested them, with visions of me being more athletic than I was, or someone had thought it a good idea that I own a pair. (Every boy should own a pocket knife, a baseball glove and a pair of figure skates?) Something like that.

However I ended up with them, I joined a group of people at a small frozen pond in a gully near my house in Hayden, Colorado. I got on the ice, and well, things didn’t go so well. Weak ankles run in my family and I found it hard to keep the skates vertical. Most of the time I was walking on the sides of the skates and trying to actually, well, skate.

I tried skating a couple more times after that and it went badly again.  I did the manly thing and gave up and put the skates away forever.

For all I know, they’re still tucked away in a box somewhere.

Crumbs and Licked Fingers

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Today we celebrated our girls by eating way too much.

Today is Hinamatsuri, also known as Girl’s Day. Traditionally, families with daughters set out dolls that represent the Emperor, Empress and the Imperial court from 1,200 years ago. The dolls are handmade by artisans and it is tradition to start with a small set and then add to it every year. We are cheap and lazy which means we stuck to the original set and never added to it. However, we also carefully avoid any Hina doll artisans shops when we are with the girls.

Akira Kurosawa had a gorgeous scene in his occasionally interesting, often boring film Dreams where Hina dolls came to life and started dancing. (The scene is here, but some moron has added Philip Glass music to it rather than the traditional Japanese music. It still looks great, though.)

It is also tradition to eat Chirashizushi, which we did, but we also added a side dish of fried chicken, honoring our daughters with the ultimate version of surf and turf. The surf and turf dishes were followed by the cake, which She Who Must Be Obeyed spent the better part of the day preparing an shaping like a Hina doll set:

This looks great now but a few minutes later it was nothing but crumbs and licked fingers.

This looks great now but a few minutes later it was nothing but crumbs and licked fingers.

Unfortunately, our bookshelves are full of books, including the small one we used to use to display the dolls. Because of this we didn’t have room to ward off the bad spirits which means we’ll still have to deal with our oldest being a teenager.

Step By Step with Frozen Brass and Ice Cold Hands

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For reasons I still don’t understand, my band director when I was in high school in Kansas decided we needed to march. Not in straight lines during parades, mind you, but in patterns on the field during games. My response was “how about if I just shoot myself in the knee instead?”

Although I liked playing trumpet, I never liked putting on bulky leather vests–complete with dangly bits on the shoulders–and funny hats–complete with fuzzy things sticking off the top–and marching around trying to hold the trumpet out, stay in step, stay in tune, stay on the downbeat whilst trying to avoid collisions with random objects and/or people.

It was bad enough in parades but in Kansas the torture of “pattern” was added to it. Go here, turn there, pause, swing your horn (which is totally not dirty) and end in a neat little geometric pattern whilst playing your heart out. Mind you, we were no Sonic Boom of the South, but then they have talent and dedication and actually volunteered for the job.

With us, we were dragged to school early and forced to march around the parking lot in the cold. This wasn’t that hard except that, in the case of the trumpet players, we were holding large twisted bits of frozen brass and couldn’t wear gloves. (Well, we could, but then we couldn’t actually operate the large twisted bit of frozen brass.)

To make matters worse, as trumpet players we had to buzz our lips against another frozen bit of metal and try to make everything stay in tune. Basically, we ended up with numb hands and lips.

Now, as if that wasn’t bad enough, it was decreed that on the night of Homecoming, all the seniors performing in their last Homecoming would be given the “honor” of solo performances section by section. I was like, “Aww, shucks, you don’t have to do anything like that. No, really, you don’t”, but the person who made the decree was like “get out there and practice. You will be honored whether you like it or not.” (Something like that.)

This meant my friend Randy and I had to march out to the middle of the pack and perform a duet. If we had done this at the beginning, I would have been fine, but by the end of the performance I could barely feel my fingers and could barely play more than a sharp honk. Luckily, Randy was a better trumpet player and carried the performance.

I was honored when it was all over. Or maybe I mean relieved.

Cleaning Out The Old Or Students’ Revenge

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One of the things I don’t do often enough is clean my stuff. Instead, I use my stuff until it breaks and then try to use it some more.

Lately, though, I’ve been cleaning stuff, and taking pictures of it, in order to sell it.

I started with some of my oldest pens, a Pilot Vanishing Point and a Namiki Vanishing Point I got back in the mid-90’s. I used both pens enough that I actually cracked the barrels on both. I managed, though, to get a replacement barrel on one. (I apparently got the last barrel in Japan.)

One of the pens was my workhorse for many years. I used it every day and ran various colors of ink through it (well, if black and blue-black count as “various”) and even hand wrote my first “novel” with it. It cleaned out fairly quickly.

The other pen, though, was my marking pen. I filled it with Pilot Red ink and used it to ruin the days of hundreds of students (at least during exam times). In fact, in some cases, I put more marks on exams than the students did. I used that pen until it cracked and then kept using it until the converter broke when I was filling it, covering my hands in red ink. Washing my hands only changed the ink to pink.

In the past, I’ve tried soaking them in water, but after each try, I could still see the red stains on the feed of the marking pen.

Finally, I bought some pen cleaning solution and soaked the pen for a day. Lots of red ink came out. When I decided the red ink had suffered enough, I removed the nib assembly and dried it off.

Of course, the paper towel immediately got red ink spots on it. I let it dry off and, just in case, decided to try again. The result was this:

Red ink started leaking out right away, even after one cleaning.

Red ink started leaking out right away, even after one cleaning.

I’ll let it sit over night because, even as I write, I can see wisps of ink leaking out, despite it having sat there in the solution for four hours.

The only thing I can say is, all those students are getting the last laugh.

Time and Time and Waste Time and Rejected Again

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Yes, I am a sick man and, yes, I probably have a problem.

I’m in the process of making my calendar for next year. I make my own because 1) I’m picky and 2) it’s more fun than doing real work but leaves me with the impression I’ve actually been working.

During university I had a bad habit of forgetting assignments and meetings and accidentally double booking events. To try to cure myself of this, for many years I tried to use calendars of various sorts. I remember Kansas State University used to publish a school year calendar that may (or may not) have been nicknamed “the Annual” which, I’ll grant you, is a bit like naming it the “school year calendar thingee”. It was a spiral-bound book with one week on two pages. Every year I tried using it but after a month or so abandoned it.

The “school year calendar thingee” had two fatal flaws: 1) spiral-bound and 2) the school itself hogged the days. Basically, the school pre-filled important events, including sports, and it was common for at least one day a week to be completely full before I’d had a chance to enter my information.

I then went through a series of calendars of various sizes but all of them had at least one fatal flaw and I never found them particularly useful.

Then, after I came to Japan, the JET Programmed gave us some small planners that had a full week on each page and included lots of useful information such as medical terms and basic legal advice–which could be summed up as “don’t be stupid” and “Even if you are stupid don’t do stupid stuff”.

I used that planner a lot and, to this day, still kind of miss it.

Eventually I realized I needed a monthly overview and a weekly schedule. This led to me making my own monthly calendars and, eventually, my own bible-sized inserts for a Filofax. (Yes, I actually made them from scratch. I wasted time to make time. Something like that.)

No birthdays here, just a couple holidays.

No birthdays here, just a couple holidays.

Making my own let me add birthdays and pictures of the family.

All my girls in one place.

All my girls in one place several years ago.

My unoriginal cover decoration as to put various versions of “Front” and “Back” on them.

This is the character I used to represent "front".

This is the character I used to represent “front”.

Eventually I even abandoned those. My new planner is a system that involves an electronic calendar on my computer (and which I hopefully will be able to sync to my phone) and a 12 days per page paper calendar that covers the entire year. The 12 days format lets me see what’s coming, but still leaves me room to write.

I’ll probably abandon that in a couple years, too. It’s already in its second incarnation.

 

Red Shirts and Other Lessers

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I’ve been watching Gotham and doing my best to like it. The problem I have with TV shows like Gotham is I know how they’re going to end and that makes them pretty boring.

I know that, no matter how dangerous the situation is, the Penguin is going to survive. I know that no matter how many bullets are fired at young Bruce Wayne, he’s going to survive to become Batman. (Spoiler warning.) I know that Detective James Gordon has to survive so that he can become Commissioner Gordon.

Gotham‘s gimmick is to essentially focus on the doomed to die red shirt characters and the characters in the background who don’t even get a uniform. This makes the show character and actor dependent. Future major characters make appearances, but some of them are only 12 years old. Some of them haven’t even been born yet, but their parents finally get together.

Gotham’s strength is Robin Lord Taylor as a young, jittery and ruthless Penquin. He’s one of the few actors who recognize that a little camp can carry him a long way. He’s got a talent for being jittery and afraid and then turning psychotic and ruthless. (He’d make a great teacher.)

Unfortunately, he’s pretty much carrying the show. Ben McKenzie, who plays the center of the show James Gordon, suffers from what I call “Colin Farrell Syndrome”. This means 1) he’s handsome; but 2) surprisingly uncharismatic on screen; and 3) not a particularly good actor. Donal Logue, who plays his partner Harvey Bullock is much better.

Because of its premise–instead of jumping to the future after the death of the Wayne’s it stays in the past and follows the investigation–the show also suffers from “Anakin Skywalker Syndrome” which means it’s populated by annoying kids who can’t act. The actor who plays young Bruce Wayne (David Mazouz) is terrible. If I were king of the show, Bruce Wayne wouldn’t even appear in the show more than once or twice. He’s not actually important to the story, especially when his version of intense anger sounds a lot like whining. (It’s like, Alfred, why am I like always angry and like so full of anger? It makes me angry!)

Camren Bicondova, who plays 15 year old Selina “Catwoman” Kyle suffers from being annoyingly cute and clean for a girl who supposedly lives on the streets. Her hair is always perfect, even in the rain, as is her make up. The leather jacket and hoodie she always wears must be pretty ripe by now. By contrast, Clare Foley, who plays Ivy Pepper (the ridiculous name given to Pamela Lillian Isley who will eventually become Poison Ivy) looks dirty and her clothes keep getting more and more tattered. She also plays creepy well by not saying much.

The show’s other problem is a lack of control over tone. Robin Lord Taylor, Cory Michael Smith (who plays Edward “Riddler” Nygma) and Jada Pinkett Smith (who plays the non-canonical and badly named Fish Mooney) are in a different TV show than all the other actors. Their attitude is “Scenery motherf@#ker! Do you chew it?” Jada Pinkett Smith’s problem is she doesn’t realize she’s imitating Catwoman.

The only character I feel sorry for is the young actor playing the character who will eventually become the Joker. He gets the duty of being the first post-Heath Ledger Joker. I do not envy him that task, especially as he’s not very good. A leer and a cackle do not a good Joker make.

I’ll probably finish out the season, but I’m not expecting much. I just hope they remember the Joker has green hair and not red.

Lacking Grace and All Sense of Balance

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This one time, I fell in a rice paddy. The funny part is, I was sober when I did it.

After I moved to Nou-Machi, I was presented with an apartment and a bicycle. The bicycle was just barely the right size but I could get around on it. The biggest problem, at least at first, was that second gear didn’t work.

I drove it for a long time until second gear started causing the chain to slip and me to swear and me to spend time trying to fix it which caused me to swear some more.

Eventually, I took it to the town to be repaired. They didn’t repair it. Instead they gave me a new bike. Unfortunately, they didn’t bother actually measuring me to see what size bike I actually needed. Instead they ordered the Gargantua model which was too big for me. Despite that problem, I used the bike a lot but was never comfortable with its size.

Also, to understand how I ended up in a rice paddy, you also have to understand that 1) there was a rice paddy right next to my apartment; and 2) I lost a fair amount of weight while I was in Nou-machi. (Not as much as I’d lose in Albania, but that’s another story.) This made my jeans and shirts baggy.

Then, one day, for reasons I don’t remember, I was in a hurry. I rushed back to my apartment, rode my bicycle up to its parking place under the stairs and attempted a dismount (official level of difficulty: 2).

However, the crotch of my baggy jeans caught on the seat and and everything shifted toward me and I started to lose my balance.

An observer would have, well, observed a tall foreigner on Gargantua’s bicycle doing a slow “TIIIIMBEEEER” back into the rice paddy which, by the way, had meter high walls. Luckily for the tall foreigner, the rice was tall but not yet ready for harvest and that helped break his fall and make the situation less messy than it could have been.

I landed on my back and the bike landed on top of me. After a few moments I managed to extricate myself from the bike and then exit the rice paddy.

I ended up with gray clay mud all over my shoes, jeans and book bag. I left an impressive divot in the still growing rice, too. (To this day, I’d love to have seen the farmer’s reaction to that divot.)

In the aftermath, I had to run my shoes through the washing machine to make them even remotely useable.

I never did that again but, quite frankly, once was one time too many.

Three Hundred Sixty-Five

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In God’s name and under the stars, what for? –Jack Kerouac On the Road

It seemed to be a good idea at the time. — The Magnificent Seven

 

I really need to be more careful about getting inspired by friends.

A year ago, a friend of mine was coming to the end of a year long project to write a blog post every day. In a fit of madness, I decided that was a good idea and started doing it myself on February 20, 2014.

Today marks the end of that the year and the start of a crisis about what to do next.

I’m still amazed I managed to pull it off without missing a post (there were days, though, there were days). I did make a few changes along the way. I started going to bed at 11 which cut down my writing time. I also started shortening my minimum word count to 300 words instead of the original 400.

At times it has been a struggle, especially this past week. Last night’s post, in particular, was a bunch of crap that came to me after staring at the screen for nearly 20 minutes and thinking about the quote that started this post. (It’s probably my worse post, although that’s debatable.)

Sitting down to write without having a topic ready has actually happened several times. Sometimes I’ve been pleased with the posts, most of the time not.

Readership, according to analytics, has been small but consistent with periodic bursts of readership, usually as a result of something I’ve done on another site.

On three occasions, WordPress has crashed as I pressed “Publish” and I’ve lost the post and had to start over. No, I didn’t learn to save as I went along and, no, I didn’t copy the text before hitting publish, just in case. It brings to mind the old saying:

Fool me once, shame on you;
Fool me twice, shame on me:
Fool me thrice, I’m a moron.

Something like that.

Now, as I start the second year, I’ve got a few changes in mind. My goal is to keep up the daily posts, but the nature of the posts will change. Now that I’m not worried about losing track of which post I’m on, I’ll start doing multiple posts each day. I’ll publish a few photos and start doing  book reviews and product reviews (probably fountain pens and pen related goods). I’ll also start posting articles from other sites I find interesting and or amusing. I hope to keep my own content going and will do at least one such post a day, but probably a lot shorter than what I’ve been doing.

At least once a week, maybe twice, I’ll do a much longer post.

Eventually, I will assemble the Albania posts and the Japan posts as an ebook of some sort.

In the end, I’m glad I did it. I wasn’t always happy writing the posts, but I was always happy to have written them. I think there are more pearls than swine here, but I’m not necessarily the best judge of that.

Thanks to all of you who’ve followed along for the entire year, and to those who have commented on Facebook or on this site.

I hope you’ll stick around.

Crime and Crime Again

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I committed my first crime when I was in elementary school. I learned that, if you have to go to jail, steal more than a couple Life Savers. The people inside aren’t real impressed by that.

In my defense 1) the package of Lifesavers was already open; 2) there was no evidence it belonged to the store–it could have been left behind by someone by accident; and 3) I was just a kid so it all made sense.

I helped myself to a couple and my “friend” whose name I’ve long forgotten, reported me to my mom who reported me to the manager of the store. I remember feeling ashamed but I don’t remember anything I was told by anyone at that point. I also don’t remember where it happened.

Then, in high school, I robbed a CD shop. In my defense, the store manager was in on it. I was editor of the high school paper and, in a fit of madness, I thought it would be interesting if we robbed a store as a group and then wrote about it. I was then informed by the school newspaper adviser that it would probably be best if we arranged such things with the store manager in advance.

I still disagree with that conclusion, but went ahead and arranged it.

Three of us went into the store and looked around and, in the end, because I was technically an experienced criminal, I was the only one who actually took something. The others chickened out (which also became part of the story). I then left the store and was chased down by some young lass who caught me in a different store and ripped my jacket open. The moment of panic when she didn’t see the stolen CD remains a priceless memory. She popped another button and found the purloined CD.

(Note to people under a certain age: music used to be sold on small discs from actual stores. This way singers and bands could sell a bunch of crap along with a few good songs to make you think you’d bought something special.)

The brave employee took me to the manager who then described what would have happened to me if I’d actually been caught shoplifting. (The description was similar to things that would eventually happen to characters in Sons of Anarchy.) He also praised his employee for doing her job perfectly. Later, after she’d calmed down, I went back and interviewed her.

It all made an for an interesting experience but I’m still trying to remember if I gave the CD back or not.