Category Archives: Personal

Lower and Lower and Worser and Worser

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Yesterday I mentioned that She Who Must Be Obeyed was going to use a minor flood from upstairs to try to get our rent lowered. I do not doubt her powers because she’s actually done this before.

First some background: when we first moved to Tokyo we lived in a tiny apartment above the storage garage of a flower shop. The rent was decent for Tokyo, especially as it came with an air conditioner, but it was still expensive and tended to shake when trucks drove by. The only good thing about it was its location. There was a store across the street, a convenience store down the street, and it was practically walking distance from Tokyo Disney Resorts.

Then both stores closed and I got assigned to the school where I work which meant I had an hour and forty-five minute commute on three different train lines. We, therefore, decided to move closer to the school.

We chose our current apartment because it was more apartment for what we were paying in Tokyo, got lots of sunlight as it was next to a large field and was about a 10 minute walk from the closest train station. It also had a little play area for kids and was far enough from the main road that we didn’t get much noise even in the few times it got busy. Granted, there was nothing nearby except one grocery store we used to call The Green Pork Supermarket because they sold us green pork (as in chemical green, not moldy green). Also, I wanted the third floor apartment not the first floor because we could leave our windows open at night without passerby’s getting to peek in, but SWMBO insisted we get the first floor as it would be easier for her to bring our youngest up a few stairs than all the way to the third floor.

Although it was out of the way and we got some dust from the field, the apartment was nice. It also had a parking area and we ended up buying a car and renting a parking place. (Yes, in Japan parking places don’t come with the apartment, they are separate fee.)

Then a bunch of things happened. First, the owner of the field sold it to a developer which meant we suddenly had houses 15 or 20 feet from our back window. This blocked most of our sunlight. SWMBO complained for a while–oddly, I refrained from reminding her which floor I’d wanted to live on–and then called the management company and got our rent lowered. Keep in mind, the Japanese take sunlight very seriously. Tall buildings often have to be built at odd angles to allow a certain amount of light past them.

A few years later, SWMBO heard that other tenants were paying substantially less than we were and managed to get rent lowered again.

In fact, if she weren’t so good at that, we’d have probably moved a long time ago. Now, though, there are other issues. Besides the flood from above, our parking area tends to fill with water prompting us to move our car every time there’s a heavy rain. There’s also bad drainage in front of our apartment and every time it rains we have a lovely mosquito maternity hospital right below our front balcony.

Now, SWMBO is going to call again. I’ll bet she gets our rent lowered. That said, I’m not sure I want her to, as that’s a good excuse to move.

The Flood and the Anger

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Today I got to see She Who Must Be Obeyed get really angry. Surprisingly, it wasn’t at me.

I had to go down to Tokyo today to do some running and buy some shoes at one of the few shoe stores in Japan that specializes in shoes for big feet. While I was away, the girls were all working on making chocolate for Valentine’s day. (As I’ve written before, in Japan the women give the chocolate to the men.) It’s actually good for me to be away when this is going on because 1) I sample and 2) there’s always some arguing going on between the chefs.

I would save my sampling until I got back from Tokyo.

However, when I returned, I walked into the aftermath of a flood. The washing machine drain in the apartment directly above us had apparently stopped up and water had flooded the apartment. She Who Must Be Obeyed discovered this when she heard water dripping on our ceiling. Then water began dripping FROM our ceiling.

When I arrived home at 2:30 or so, the management company still hadn’t arrived even though the flood had occurred at 11:00. The candy factory had been stowed in the living room and there was a pot of leftover curry on my desk. There were also buckets on the floor in the kitchen.

She Who Must Be Obeyed ranted to me about the situation and then called the management company, who suddenly started acting like a cable company. (Someone will be there. They will do something. No details to follow. You will see them when you see them.)

Eventually, the Japanese equivalent of the Roto-Rooter man cleaned out the drain upstairs and started to leave. She Who Must Be Obeyed grabbed him and made him clean our drain, too, and quizzed him about what was going to happen next. He grudgingly did the work and told us the water would eventually stop dripping.

That’s when I got mad and pointed out that just because it wasn’t dripping, didn’t mean there wasn’t still water on our ceiling. Then there was the mold and mildew problem that would occur if it was still wet. He said–in a very polite Japanese way–that he wasn’t there to do anymore than than he’d already done. Then he left.

The water did eventually stop dripping down our walls but we are still worried about what is still up there. SWMBO is already planning her argument for why we should get our rent lowered again. (Long story.)

On top of all of it, I didn’t get any chocolate.

A Story of the Flouting Flautist

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Today we bought our oldest a flute and I started having flashbacks.

About 800 years ago (plus or minus a few years), when I was starting junior high school in Hayden, Colorado (or maybe it was before that when my helicopter was taking rocket fire from the knights in the Third Crusade; it all runs together) I remember being taken to a large room where some guy tried to sell us musical instruments. Although I expressed a brief interest in the saxophone, I ended up with a trumpet.

All I remember about that was the trumpet was made by F. E. Olds, who pretty much closed up shop right after my parents brought the trumpet. I also have the number $250 stuck in my head ($815 now) and that may have been the price of the thing. I played all through junior high and high school and then finally gave up the trumpet.

After delaying almost two years, and with the promise that she’ll keep using it in high school (long story involving getting recommendations is involved there) we finally decided it was time to retire the old school flute and buy her a flute of her own.

First, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I had a consult on our acceptable price range and SWMBO surprised me with number much higher than I expected her to say. After treating me with an AED we went to a local shop and began choosing flutes. This involved our oldest practicing with different flutes (and actually impressing the sales lady).

Although our oldest knew what the approximate price range was–for the record, it was not my idea to tell her–or perhaps because she knew it, she managed to play the more expensive flutes better than the cheaper flutes. I was ready to do a blind test to see if she was just messing with us, but I know from experience a better made instrument sounds better than a cheap instrument.

In the end, she’d narrowed her choice down to the Damned Expensive One and the Freaking Expensive One (not actual brand names), and seemed to be favoring the Damned Expensive One. However, She Who Must Be Obeyed kept saying to get the Freaking Expensive One and I kept looking for an AED to use on her in lieu of professional shock therapy.

In the end, our oldest chose the Freaking Expensive One and has agreed, although she doesn’t know it yet, to wash dishes for 20 years (or until she’s 20, something like that). All we, the parents, got was a bottle of cheap Bordeaux.

Yes, that’s right, the store gave us a bottle of wine after the purchase to help us ease the pain.

A Boss is Not a Booster But Rhymes With Rich

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I once had a boss so bad that the women I worked with were encouraging me to hit her.Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say, they weren’t discouraging me from doing so.

I’ve mentioned yesterday that I once spent a summer working in Kansas City, Kansas as part of a Peace Corps inspired project to help community development in Kansas. I also mentioned that our team was five brilliant women and me.

I never understood why such a large group was assigned to the project, but luckily we all got along well so we never spent our time pondering “How the hell did we get here?” (something like that). I think part of the reason we got along was we didn’t like our boss. Let’s call her Bad Betty (not her real name).

The trouble with Bad Betty started before we even technically worked for her. Part of the project involved spending the semester beforehand doing research on the community. This included visiting the community and conducting interviews and trying to figure out who the movers and shakers were. Somewhere along the way, we met Bad Betty, who was a social climbing government worker with a “vision”. All of us were put off by her–working with someone who is always right can be very tiring, as I’m sure my colleagues know.

Sometime during our eight weeks in Kansas City–or maybe, because our faculty adviser joined us, before as part of our preparation; the timeline has grown fuzzy–we joined a group of neighborhood kids on a trip to Worlds of Fun. We had a great time, met some great people, and emerged looking like, as one of the team put it “drowned rats”.

At the end of the day, we returned to the community center that would serve as our headquarters and stumbled into a meeting of VIPs from the community center and the community. We were exhausted, but one of the ladies explained what we were doing and the rest of us just grunted and nodded and went “grrto rmto gootagoo” (something like that). At least that’s how were were treated. About the time we were ready to suck down gallons of coffee and head back to Kansas State U and shower, we were instead asked to stay for a short meeting with Bad Betty.

Bad Betty then proceeded to lecture us about the importance of leadership and praised the person who spoke up and then berated all of us for not being ready for a meeting of VIPS we didn’t know was going on before we found out it was going on. We were all stunned speechless as we thought we’d done a pretty good job. Somehow, we all managed to stay quiet although I did have to whisper “Wait until we’re in the car. Wait until we’re in the car.” to a couple team members.

Yes, believe it or not, for a few moments, I was actually the one calling for reason and restraint while others were suggesting I slap my boss. Then we got in the car and I had to be restrained. Bob, our faculty adviser–and all around great guy–eventually intervened on our behalf which earned him the full wrath of Bad Betty and us little bits of snark.

I still wonder if we’d have been such an effective team as we turned out to be if Bad Betty hadn’t gone full bitchtard (a technical term) on us that day.

 

Making Silly Newsletters and Not Working

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There’s a hell of a distance between wise-cracking and wit. Wit has truth in it; wise-cracking is simply calisthenics with words. –Dorothy Parker

One of the oddest things about my writing history is that it’s full of silly newsletters. One of my strange skills as a writer is taking work events and turning them into occasionally witty silliness. I’ve done this at least three times, four if you count this blog. Well, maybe five.

The first newsletter I remember working on was during the summer I spent working in the Chelsea District of Kansas City, Kansas as part of a Kansas State University development project. I was part of team that consisted of five brilliant women and me (technically the mascot). Oddly, we all got along well, worked together well, and, well, didn’t like our boss. (Long story.)

Unfortunately, although we were often busy, occasionally we weren’t. During those times, I took it upon myself to “report back to headquarters”, which we were encouraged to do, via a strange newsletter I think I called the Gremlin. Its catchphrase was “Because We Know You’ll Pay”. In it I reported the odd news events involving us. Usually I reported our successes, but I also remember reporting on the issues two of our number had with cockroaches. It was silly, but well received, but full of the kinds of stuff you “had to be there” to find funny. (For example, the story of the girl, the cockroach and the towel that had been used for days.)

The next summer, I did the same thing when I was assigned to work in Jetmore. I don’t remember the name of the newsletter or its catchphrase, although I do remember reusing “Because We Know You’ll Pay” and then changing it.

My next newsletter appeared when I was in Albania. This one I also called the Gremlin and it also had a catchy catchphrase that has slipped my mind. The Peace Corps Gremlin was more angry than the others and was written and printed during my frequent trips to the Peace Corps office. (I may still have a copy one of these tucked away somewhere but the odds are slim.)

The next newsletter came about as my friends were leaving the JET Programme. As I’ve mentioned before, I kept friends up to date on sumo news and Japanese pop culture news. I dubbed it the “Crazy Japan Times” after the slightly more prestigious Japan Times newspaper.

When I put it online, my only real gimmick was a series of ever-changing “Pithy Epigraphs” under the masthead of the page. They were random, often famous, often insane and, to my mind were  often funnier than the newsletter:

Jolly Obfuscatory
A Tale Told By An Idiot
Prohibited Where Voided By Law
Crusty But Benign
Life With the Boring Parts
The Only Sane Man In The Room
Never Better Late
Eas In Crucem  (Note: To hell with You.)
Bobby Thumbed a Diesel Down Just to Watch Him Die

These newsletters have been a lot of fun, but they are ultimately empty and, if I were to go back an look at them, dated. (In my defense, in the last news letter I wrote back in 2006, Shinzo Abe was Prime Minister so maybe it’s not THAT dated.) They also didn’t have any momentum.

As for this blog, well, it’s my latest newsletter.

 

 

 

Putting Off Until This Year What Should Have Been Done

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About thirteen years ago I started a website. Several years ago I pretty much abandoned it. Last year I almost lost it. Something about it, though, haunts me. Today, though it’s a good chance to talk about procrastination.

The website I started was called the Crazy Japan Times. It grew out of a series of newsletters I wrote to former JET Programme members and friends. The newsletters were based around Sumo tournaments, which happen every two months, and I started adding in quirky bits of pop culture and Japanese news along with the tournament updates. Eventually, someone suggested I actually start posting it online.

That part was pretty easy. However, because I only wrote a newletter every couple of months, the site never built a regular audience and I didn’t try to monetize it. I added a section on moving to Japan and getting an apartment that’s been reasonably popular, but once it was done, there wasn’t a lot much more to do with that.

Then, around 2006 or so, I got tired of doing the newsletters and then posting them, old school style (more on that later), on the site. Even though they only came out every couple of months, the newsletters were a lot of work. I’ve added a few book reviews and a couple videos about Japanese knife laws since I stopped the newsletters, but for the most part, the site’s remained untouched. The handful of “posts” I’ve done–Sochi Olympics news and a recent Super Bowl report–have all been done on Facebook.

Last year, I accidentally almost let the name lapse, but managed to get it back. That was more habit and hope than plan, though.

The problem is, the site needs a major overhaul and update. It’s so old-school it won’t show up on mobile devices. It’s also a pain to update without doing a lot of old school html coding (yes, it’s that old and yes I still code by hand. Sort of). Because of this, I’ve been putting off the update for almost two years. (You think you can procrastinate? You are an amateur. I’ll prove that to you later.)

This is mostly because there will be a lot of work in a short amount of time with a lot that can go wrong. (This leads to swearing, some stress, and a lot more swearing.) It’s also because I’m going to have to jettison the old design and start over, which feels kind of strange.

That said, my goal is to start that site again, maybe with some guest contributors, as the daily posts here come to an end or change in 12 days. (My year of posts ends February 19th.)

Tomorrow, when it comes, I’ll start the prelims of updating the CJT. If it goes well, I’ll be really happy this time tomorrow. If it doesn’t, well, at least I’ll have something to write about for post 354.

Fear and Loathing in Prague

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I mentioned before how I traveled with a pair of beautiful women and then got driven insane by show tunes. I also learned, on that trip, why you should never travel with friends.

Our Prague trip started out well. We ran into a guy in the train station who rented us an apartment one block from Wenceslas Square, which is the heart of pretty much anything anyone would want to do in Prague. The apartment was nice, we could come and go as we pleased, we could cook for ourselves and it was a reasonable price.

Everything went downhill after that. Although there was a Mozart Festival going on, we’d apparently landed during a short hiatus. This meant there was nothing to see except a puppet version of Don Giovanni which is not something that interested us as 1) it’s a dark, depressing opera; and 2) puppets. (To see what we missed, see here.)

Instead, we ended up roaming around Prague, which is not a bad place to end up roaming. It’s almost annoyingly beautiful and well preserved. I managed to check out a couple exhibits about Franz Kafka and visit the castle that inspired his novel.

The problem was, we were three, which meant we didn’t always want to do things that interested all of we (something like that). Tension began building, especially as we had no real distractions other than each other, and we ended up going to a cinema to watch Schindler’s List (because that’s totally not more dark and depressing than an opera about sin and punishment).

After we watched Schindler’s List, we decided to go party. Yes, to understand how messed up we were at that point, and remember, alcohol was not yet involved, we watched a movie about the holocaust and then went out to find a disco.

Something punished us for that choice, though, because we saw a disco on top of a tall building and decided to go there. When we got there, we paid a hefty cover charge and then bought an expensive drink each. The club was well decorated and modern and mostly empty. It was playing some of the worst music ever. It was like someone was playing the music backward. Even if I’d wanted to dance, the music was impossible to dance to. (To this day I’m shocked such music exists.)

We left and found another club which turned out to be a lot of fun. It was full of locals and was great for people watching. (Unfortunately, I was still in my “stand off to the side and watch people” phase which, I’m assured, is normal and which, I’m also assured, I’ll move past some day.)

That one ended badly as well. One of my travel companions had decided she’d had enough, got the coat check ticket from me, and retreived her coat. Unfortunately, she neglected to all the coats. I then spent the next 20 minutes arguing with the coat check guy and describing everything in my coat and my other travel companion’s coat.

Eventually, all coats were retrieved. It’s the friendship that never quite got retrieved.

I should have gone to see the puppet show.

The Last Temptation of Campus

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Back when I was in graduate school, I decided to see how many Christians I could possibly anger at once.

In my defense, I wasn’t the only one who thought this would be a good idea.

For reasons I don’t remember, I was part of a group called Kaleidoscope Films. Kaleidoscope operated out of the Student Union and specialized in bringing “little” and/or “artsy-fartsy” films (a technical term) to the union. Each member was assigned to recommend a film and then the group discussed and voted on them.

Once a film was chosen, a couple members were assigned to handle publicity.  This meant we had to make a large poster to put outside the Union Forum Hall and a smaller poster that fit on an A-Frame somewhere else on campus. This was all pretty painless and involved projectors and minimal art skills and couple hours every couple of weeks.

At least that’s what it involved before we decided to bring Martin Scorsese’s The Last Temptation of Christ to campus. We did this even though it had never been shown in Manhattan, Ks during its original release and even though we knew some people would have “issues” with it.

Like all things involving blasphemy and religion and evil, several meetings with “important authority figures” (IAF; another technical term) ensued. We were basically told to justify bringing such a controversial movie to campus and were are also assured, in so many words, that “free speech” was not an acceptable reason. So there.

In one meeting, I think with the man in charge of the Student Union, a group of us fielded several questions about our choice. The meeting was tense and we were all intimidated by the IAF and were stumbling around trying to avoid using the phrase “free speech.” At some point, the man asked why the movie was even worth seeing since someone in our group had just admitted it wasn’t textually accurate.

For some reason, although I knew better, the devils over my shoulders took over and I started talking.

Keep in mind, as you read what comes next, I don’t think I’d actually seen the movie or read the book at that point.

Also keep in mind that if you’re relying on ME to say the right thing, you are in desperate, desperate trouble.

I told the IAF that the movie allowed the director to focus on one element of the Christ story: his part human side. By trimming down the actual text, the director could explore that issue more than had been in other movies about Christ. It explored what was good about being human and what Christ was giving up to be the messiah. (I actually said more than that, but that was the gist of it.)

Whatever I said, it worked and we were allowed the show the movie. I don’t take credit for it, because a lot of people worked hard, but our chairwoman told me my answer was perfect. We did have to host a discussion about the movie, which is a policy exception we didn’t have to make for other movies. (If you search “The Last Temptation” in this link you can read Kansas State Collegian articles about the controversy.)

Although it did have some great moments, I was underwhelmed by the movie. The ending was kind of predictable.

Going Back Home to Not There

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My only explanation for how I ended up at Ole Miss after the Peace Corps is one I stole from a movie: At the time, it seemed like a good idea.

Dating a poet, though, was not a good idea.

I’ve mentioned before that my plan was to get a “regular” Ph.D. in literature at a school with a strong creative writing program. This is because my Master’s degree had a creative final thesis and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to have a more rigorous thesis for my Ph.D.

After I got there, everything started out reasonably well when I managed to land half a teaching position–which was all that was still available at the time. I found myself once again teaching non-native speakers of English and once again in the familiar territory of school.

Unfortunately, the culture shock that hit was brutal. After two years in Albania, I suddenly found myself surrounded by people aspiring to be Marxists rather than those attempting to recover from the mess left by Marxists. (I won’t get into this, but suffice it to say that all university Marxists hear when you talk about the perils of Marxism and communism is “blah blah blah free stuff blah blah blah free stuff blah blah blah for me”.)

But even that wasn’t as bad as my sudden lack of interest in studying literature. I still liked reading it, I just didn’t enjoy the “oh so serious” discussions of it and the “oh so serious” and “freaking long” papers we were supposed to produce. The comfortable lifestyle was no longer comfortable. It also wasn’t interesting.

In the midst of this culture shock I started dating a poet. Let’s call her Abbey. Now this relationship broke a couple of my hard learned rules

1) never date someone in the same department;
2) never date a woman who has “it” when exposure to “it” makes you stupid and incoherent;
3) never date someone when you’re in culture shock and, thus, stupid and incoherent;
4) never date a recovering alcoholic;
5) if you do date a recovering alcoholic, don’t date her in her first year of sobriety;
6) Don’t start a magazine with someone you’re dating.

The relationship was intense and passionate right up until the day it ended. Unfortunately, at that point rule six had been violated and we had to work together for a few more months until the magazine’s first issue was published. We were both happy to see it finished and both happy to be finished with each other once and for all.

I spent most of my second year at Ole MIss applying to get out. My plan was to go to Japan for a couple years, do the reading for my comprehensive exams and then go back and finish.

I did all the reading, I just decided not to go back.

 

 

Demons Out Good Luck In Beans On Floor

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Today my wife and children tried to run me out of my house by throwing packets of beans at me. First, though, we tried to drive our youngest out of the house.

While the USA is waking up hibernating rodents–and hoping New York Democrats don’t kill another one–all in the name of shortening Winter, Japanese people are throwing beans at demons to celebrate the end of winter and the lunar new year. (And they’re eating sushi. More on that later.)

Today is Setsubun, which in the traditional Japanese calendar is supposed to be the last day of Winter. Because it also serves as a kind of new year, it’s traditional to take the opportunity to drive out the evil spirits of last year and make room for good luck in the new year.

A lot of people do this at temples where they try to catch bags of peanuts thrown by celebrities.

This involves a couple steps. First, everyone eats an uncut sushi roll. To do this, a compass used to figure the exact direction to face (West-Southwest this year) and then everyone must eat their entire sushi roll without talking. In many ways this tradition is absurd and may be the result of clever marketing by fishmongers, but it guarantees five to ten minutes of glorious, relaxing silence at supper. Once that’s finished, everyone can talk again and finish the rest of the sushi (which can be cut and enjoyed in small bites).

After that, one family member puts on a demon/ogre mask and then gets beans thrown at her as the other family members say “Demon out. Good luck in.” The mask is then passed to another family member who goes to a different room and suffers the bean barrage. this continues until each room has suffered a barrage.

Today, though, our oldest “had a headache” (i.e. was too cool for such stupid crap) and She Who Must Be Obeyed used her make up and not wanting to ring the mask as an excuse (i.e. was too cool for such stupid crap). This left our youngest and me to take most of the abuse.

Well, actually me.

Granted, throwing food at me is probably not the best way to get me to leave the house, especially when the “beans” we use 1) are actually coated sunflower seeds, mini-almonds and mini-pumpkin seeds; 2) are still in small bags; and 3) are highly addictive.

Poor little demon. Everyone wants him gone.

Poor little demon. Everyone wants him gone. (So they should stop feeding him.)