Because I finally ended up buying a smartphone, I suddenly find myself thinking about my history in telephones.

I vaguely remember that, for a short time after we moved to Hayden, Colorado, we had a party line. I still remember answering the phone once and being told, more or less, that I had/was the wrong number. I also remember that not lasting long–which may mean I’m completely full of crap and basing all this on false memories.

Those were the rotary phone days. To this day I still like the idea of those as the slow dialing process gave you time to seriously consider if the call you were about to make was a good idea or not. That would have saved me a lot of trouble at university, where we had touch tone phones with memories and speed dial. Those left you with enough time to think “You know, I probably ought to wait–” before “Hello?” and then the crap fell where it fell.

After we moved back to Kansas my experience with phones was as my sister’s answering machine and listening to her have conversations with friends where no one seemed to speak other than in grunts and monosyllables. On my sister’s side it sounded like “Howydoin?” “M’too.” “Ya.” “Ya.” “No.” “Really?” “Ya.” Call-waiting would allow her to have that same conversation with multiple friends at the same time.

In my fraternity, we were assigned various chores around the house and the most hated was “Phone and Door” which required the victim, er, loyal trustworthy clean and reverent (so to speak) brother to sit for three hours from 6-9 and answer the phone and door and fetch the intended recipient or take messages and/or try to figure out which girlfriend was calling before saying that the intended recipient was actually present. (I did this part with such deliberate obviousness, and caused more than one argument, that I soon got myself out of phone and door duty. Or maybe I just sucked at it because I didn’t actually care if anyone got messages.)

My first experience with an actual answering machine came after I won a drawing at university. I quickly realized that the problem with them was that 1–it was difficult to deny that you HADN’T received a call (No, mom, my roommate must have erased it…) and 2–if you called back long-distance, it was your money being spent and not the other person’s which meant the calls were a lot longer.

The answering machine eventually died, which was probably for the best.

In Japan I faced my first experience with paying for local calls. This meant that if I used my full 15 hours of “free” dial-up internet time, I was actually paying 90 dollars or so for the phone costs. This, by the way, is part of what caused Japan to jump ahead in cellphone use and technology.

Still plagued by the notion that only jerks had cellphones, I held off buying one until I moved to Tokyo and having a cellphone made my job easier. (For the record: this does not mean that I am not a jerk; it just means I didn’t buy a cellphone until I needed one.) My first cellphone was a Nokia DP-154EX, which I got mostly because it had a large ear hole. It sucked and I understand why Nokia didn’t do well in Japan.

However, after I started working at the school, I was till teaching a few part-time classes but the cellphone wasn’t as important, just useful. Even though it sucked, I kept it until I found that squeezing the sides caused the power to go out. I then switched to Toshiba cellphones, culminating in the 810T that was due to be replaced. I bought that one because it had, for the time, a good built-in camera.

After a careful research, and She Who Must Be Obeyed declaring she wanted to keep her phone, which meant we had to stay with our current provider, I decided to go with the Fujitsu Arrows A 301F, mostly because it has a good camera and reviews said it had  good battery life.

I’m also waiting to see how long it is before I actually need to use it as a phone and not just as an electronic map, email checking device and a portable message writer.

For reasons I don’t fully understand, I’ve never enjoyed going to concerts. In fact, except for plays, I’m not big fan of live performances in general. Fiction readings are usually dull as are most poetry readings. This is partly because, in my experience, two thirds of all fiction writers and 99% of all poets are not big fans of people in general and often lack confidence and a sense of performance. The result is whispered monotone droning that seems to go on quite a long time.

I call this phenomenon Poet’s Voice. Example below. (You might need to turn up the volume some):

I think part of it is that such performances, concerts included, despite their group nature, are fundamentally individual experiences. You may go to a performance with friends, but each of you must experience the event in your own way. To me it’s like going to a restaurant and having everyone spend time fiddling with their smartphones.

With readings, I have a hard time surrendering to the words, especially when delivered in Poet’s Voice. Bad poetry makes my brain switch off–even when I’m reading it–and it’s no exaggeration to say I have a harder time finishing a bad 200 line poem than a bad 200 page novel. With fiction readings, unless it’s extremely short or an entertaining reader, I don’t find myself interested in the thread of the story enough to take it all in. I’d rather sit down and read it.

With concerts, especially in large arenas, I find myself overwhelmed by the absurdity of it all. Lots of people standing about gawking at tiny figures on stage. The tiny figures on stage, however, are often broadcast via a large screen. This, to me, is no different than watching the concert on TV, except the chairs are crappier. Some concerts compensate by special effects and light shows, but that’s the same as watching a movie, except the chairs are crappier. I’m convinced that people only hold up lighters in concerts because the pain in their thumbs provide actual evidence that they are awake.

I prefer live music in small venues–and no one puts on a better show than the Flaming Lips–but even that isn’t as much fun for me as it is for others. I have a hard time surrendering to the moment. Alcohol helps, but can lead to such absurd horrors as me dancing. And no one wants that.

I’ve spent most of my life around smokers. Both my parents smoked, although my mom quit in the early 70’s, and both my paternal grandparents smoked. I lived in Albania where men didn’t just smoke, they smoked as if they were James Bond smoking a cigarette. I now live in Japan which until recently was a smoker’s paradise.

I’ve therefore inhaled a lot of second hand smoke. (For the record, I don’t believe the BS that second hand smoke is more dangerous than smoking. If that were true, it would have been safer for me to smoke cigarettes while my parents were smoking rather than just sitting in the room with them.) Either way, it’s pretty amazing that I never started smoking. In fact, I never had any interest in smoking cigarettes. I’ve smoked the occasional cigar, especially when I could find decent Cuban cigars in Europe and Canada. In a fit of pique I also tried smoking pipes. (Way too much work and affectation for my taste. Also, I don’t have a proper beard or proper smoking jacket.)

Because of this, people smoking doesn’t bother me that much. When I first came to Japan, the no-smoking section was a tiny closet, often lacking full facilities at the back of the restaurant and I would occasionally sit in the smoking section (i.e. the bulk of the restaurant). I did make the mistake once of sitting in the smoking section of a bullet train–simply because it was a crowded train and that was the only seat reservation I could get. I was sick the next day and will never ride in one of those again.

I’m also bothered by people who walk and smoke. This is a phenomenon that seems unique to Japan. Every other place I’ve ever been, smoking was considered a break and the smokers stopped to enjoy a cigarette, or rushed home to have one. In Japan, though, people light up as soon as they exit the train station. It’s common to to be walking behind someone and, all of a sudden, like an old truck changing gears, a cloud of smoke will suddenly billow from the person in front. I’ve also had people flip ash on me and a straight up moron ruin my trousers as he swung his cigarette down around his side. (Children have also been blinded by people doing this.)

Because I don’t mind smokers, I’ve always had a great time hanging out with smokers. At university that was pretty much the the majority of English graduate students and the entire theater department.

My karate sensei and his friends are especially fun after karate tournaments. Sensei smokes, although he’s slowly weaning himself off cigarettes. His friend, though, is the first chain smoker I’ve ever seen light his next cigarette with his current cigarette. He goes through almost an entire pack during a meal. In between puffs, and swigs of alcohol, they will discuss the tournament and complain about the judging. They will also explain everything I did wrong that led to me not winning. Every now and then, though, they will disagree about a technique and that leads to several minutes of drunken fun.

I just sit back and drink. And, on occasion, wish I had a cigar.

One of the things I miss from growing up in Colorado is fishing just down the road from my house. We had a couple fishing spots we used to frequent (Two Mile bridge? One Mile bridge? I don’t remember what they were called.) At that time carp was bait. You’d catch it, hack it up and use it to catch something else. Or you’d use salmon eggs. (Now, here in Japan, carp and salmon eggs are dinner.)

We also used to attempt fishing at Vaughn Lake, but always came away with naught but new swear words from my dad and a reasonably pleasant camping experience. (That’s no joke, by the way. We never caught a fish in Vaughn Lake.)

I did, however, discover that I was allergic to pretty much everything in the air. This reached its extreme after I helped my dad photograph a rodeo. I was down in the unkempt area between the arena and the outer safety fence and inhaling all kinds of animal related microorganisms and various kinds of pollen. The result was a runny nose and swollen eyes. More specifically, my reaction was bad enough it triggered scleritis (scleral edema) and my eyeballs swelled.

A trip to the doctor was followed by a motorcycle trip to Denver to see an allergist. I was allergic to all 32 things he injected into my back and was put on a lengthy treatment that involved drinking a cocktail of allergens in a cold drink each morning and evening. When we moved back to Kansas, I discovered a couple other things I was allergic to and those were added to the cocktail.

In the end, my allergies are 95% cured. I still get a mild reaction if I’m locked in a room with cats, but most trees don’t bother me. Except here in Japan.

Although I’ve always wanted to take the girls fishing and camping, there are some complicating factors.

1) Fishing laws are confusing here.
2) She Who Must Be Obeyed isn’t interested.
3) Our youngest suffers from mild asthma, mostly during weather changes, and also seems to have inherited some of my allergies.

Making things worse, back in the 50s and 60s Japan hacked down 43% of its domestic trees and replaced them with fast growing industrial cedar. The mono-crop not only destroyed ground cover and chased off wildlife, it also created a cottage industry in masks and other allergy goods when it was discovered that many Japanese are allergic to cedar pollen. The pollen gets bad enough that it looks like smoke pouring off the trees and the national news gives pollen reports the same way they report the weather. (Their scale runs from “It’s Okay” to “It’s hell out there” to “Stay the hell inside and don’t breathe.”) Every other year, despite those years of treatment, even I have some problems because of it.

We therefore haven’t been camping with the girls and they’ve never had the joy of catching a gorgeous fish and then killing it and eating it. My goal is to take the girls to Vaughn lake one day and finally pull a damned fish out of that lake.