New JET Food Guidelines

I have heard from a reliable source that the New Zealand JET interviews have been completed for this year's intake. Because I am all about giving back, I want to share - free of charge - some of my amazing wisdom with these new JETs. You're welcome.
I want to talk specifically about food. Because it's important.

I have to make something clear before we begin: this is not one of those articles like, “Oh my God, I think I just ate the scrotum of a wildebeest”. I feel like when you move to a completely alien culture you should expect to have at least 17 of those moments, minimum. In fact, I probably went too far that way when I was considering the move to Japan. My imagination went into overdrive about what I could be fed.
It probably didn’t help that I had a fairly narrow view of what happened in Japan. It went like this:

- Everyone eats fish.
- Robots fly you to work.
- Sometimes space tentacles will try to have sex with you while you’re hogtied.
- Everyone is a ninja. Except the Red Herrings (people who just look like ninjas)

One of these people is not a real ninja.

So far only one of these preconceived ideas has turned out to be true, and it’s not the fish one. Which is a huge relief, because I think fish tastes like a combination of metal, slime and ass.

This plus Ass equals Fish.

In my case the ‘fish’ rumour was reinforced when one of my first school lunches included what I was told were ‘Vegetables from the Sea’. This sounds like something Jessica Simpson invented and tastes like something Vegemite invented so people would stop giving it shit about tasting so weird.

But it’s not all fugu and other foods from the sea lottery. There are some truly amazing foods here in Japan that I had no idea about until I arrived and experienced them myself. Why aren’t the Japanese people or the the JET organisation publicizing these foods? If it was my job to prepare uninformed morons like myself to come and live in Japan, these are the foods I would tell them about so they could really prepare themselves.

Kit Kats
What is it with Japanese people and Kit Kats? Before we even think about going any further with this discussion, look at this shit.

The cartography of my dreams.

That is a map that shows where you can go to get the regional specialty Kit Kats of those areas. In other words, if you want a sweet potato flavoured Kit Kat you have to go to ___________. You can’t just buy it wherever you want. You have to make a pilgrimage to show that you’ve earned it. I have heard about ‘Temple Walkers’ - people who travel around Japan visiting all the temples. I wonder if there are Kit Kat Walkers? Perhaps I shall be the first. But I’ll pass on Soy Sauce flavour, thanks all the same.
The Japanese way is actually that one person goes to that area, buys 68 of them and dishes them out to their colleagues.
That works too.

Beef
Everyone knows that Japan is 60% mountains and 40% train tracks. That doesn’t leave a lot of room to raise livestock. So the Japanese have to really get their money’s worth out of a cow. I’ve seen the Chinese approach to this problem: eat every single part of a beast, including the parts that normal people don’t even have names for and any farts that were left inside those parts.
But it appears the Japanese use science and technology instead. First they show the cows a good time by giving them a beer and a back rub. That’s not the science bit, that’s just lovely.

See if you like this next part as much, Clementine.

Then they slice them with what I can only assume is a laser made by a James Bond villain using bastardized alien technology.

Hold the fuck on. Has anyone tried this on a cow?

I’ve heard that medical science can slice a molecule-thin layer of someone’s brain for study. I’m pretty sure the Japanese are doing the same thing to entire herds of cows. The beef here is sliced so thin that I had to stack sixteen pieces on top of one another just to make something I could call a morsel. It’s so thin that if you accidentally dropped some it would slide between the atoms of your floor like The Flash and really piss off your downstairs neighbour.

Sorryimsorryiknowidothisallthetimepleasecontinuetoenjoyyourbath.

Oh, and one more thing about beef here: it’s delicious.

Chu-Hi
So no one believes me, but I’ve known for years that beer is a conspiracy. I’m pretty sure that no one actually likes beer. Anyone who says they do has already had too much beer, because they’re clearly drunk off their face. I sure as hell don’t like beer. But I also don’t like wine. That doesn’t leave a whole lot of options for getting smashed, unless you feel like sending a week’s pay on a bottle of spirits. (I dooooo!)
But in Japan someone awesome invented the chu-hi.

Probably Dr NakaMats. He's awesome.

Either that or it was invented by a pedophile. Chu-hi is the drink you should be using to introduce your child to the joys of alcohol. It sucks to go straight from Fanta to beer. There’s not a lot of common ground there. Chu-hi is like soft drink with trace amounts of ethanol added to it. There is more alcohol in the sneeze of any person on an evening train. This means I can drink, like, four chu-his before I get off-my-face-i-really-love-all-you-guys-by-the-way-i-am-the-best-dancer-in-this-room-let-me-show-you drunk, instead of my usual two. It comes in a rainbow variety of delicious colours and flavours.
Back in New Zealand, chu-hi would be considered a ‘girly’ or ‘gay’ drink. Actually, I get teased for drinking it here too… Goddamn it.
But not anywhere near as much, so yay!

After a hard day's work, sometimes a man just wants to crack open a peach chu-hi and relax.

Nabe
For over 50 years only the Emperor himself has known where nabe came from. It seems as though nabe was made by the Gods as proof that Japan is the ultimate place to go for eating. But the truth is a little more sinister…

The Secret History of Nabe
In 1953, over ten years before the first “official” moon landing, Japan sent sixteen space ninjas to the moon in a device that looked like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’s Great Glass Elevator. It was powered by bushido. The flight took seven hours, but it took them another hour to all get out of the Great Space Elevator because they all insisted that others go first.
When they took their first steps on the moon they were amazed to see little extra-terrestrial space whales. As a gesture of peace the aliens gave the space ninjas a giant meat laser and the secret of nabe.
Of course, the space ninjas used both of these things to make space whale nabe.

If you could put all of your memories of being warm and happy into a big bowl, boil the shit out of it and then chow down, that bowl of amazingness would be called nabe.

Pictured here: Happiness.

The weird thing is, I didn’t even know nabe existed until about three months after I got here.
Nabe is more a way of cooking than it is an actual meal. You put things in a big pot and cook it over a tiny gas stove. It’s like doing the best part of camping without all the dumb stuff like putting up a tent and being outside.

Pictured here: mostly mosquitoes.

What I really like about nabe is the cool communal feeling when eating it with a few friends, even when one of those friends doesn’t chip in any money for the ingredients, Mary.

In theory, the perfect way to commit suicide would be to cook up some beef nabe, then rinse it down with a chu-hi and 38 Kit Kats for dessert. You would die of happiness (or possibly hyperglycemia) and who could begrudge you for it?
That's all for today. Be sure to tune in for the next installment, we will spend sixteen pages discussing the merits of  Japanese cakes.

Jitensha Adventure!

Some people search their entire lives for meaning in this bleak, cold world. Those people need to jitensha! Jitensha is a noun. Jitensha is a verb (I have decided). Jitensha is a way of life. I myself have recently experienced the joy of jitensha. You could even say that jitensha has prompted me to get back on the jitensha and jitensha my way back into your hearts through my blog. My blog about jitensha.

I work at four different schools within the same district. If you were to map them they would make a very distorted square, like a square that was dropped on its head as a baby.

There came the day last Friday when I was at my Elementary School and I realized I had left my portable hard drive – which has all of my resources (and blogs) – at my Thursday school. Oh noes! Despite the fact that I do this every other week, I was distressed. But my first period was free. Maybe I had time to go and get it? Unfortunately the other school was the farthest from the one I was now at. A dilemma of Pythagorean proportions!

Pythagorean Theorem: Where a plus b equals Son of a Bitch!

I told my Kyotou Sensei that I had forgotten my hard drive (“Ah, long cord” as she calls it) and asked her whether she thought I could get to this other school and back in one period. “Walking?” she said, making the little yellow pages symbol with her fingers. I nodded. Then a look of beatific calm came over her face. She spoke the word with a quiet strength that I had never heard before and probably never will again, “Jitensha!”

Now, at this time for all I knew, jitensha was Japanese for “no chance!” I did what I always do in these situations: nod and repeat. “Jitensha” I said sagely.

Then the school secretary got in on the act. Apparently jitensha is like Beetlejuice, you say it a certain number of times and something magical happens.

Jitensha!

He jumped out of his chair. “Jitensha!” and ushered me out of the staffroom. We entered the bichikusouko (or storeroom when I'm not showing off). And there it was. Jitensha.

It stood there like it didn’t give a fuck. It was facing the other way; Jitensha wouldn’t even look at me. Then the school Principal arrived with its battery. Remember, it’s this man’s job to run the entire school. I think he just wanted to touch the jitensha. This is the jitensha equivalent of taking a meeting with no pants on. I know some US Presidents used to do that sort of thing. This just made me respect jitensha even more.

As further proof that it takes a village to raise jitensha from its thrice-cursed hellbed of awesomeness, none of the three staff who had so far assisted me in my quest stuck around to explain how to actually use the thing. That job was left to the school’s teaching assistant. Bless her; she is just the nicest and smallest Japanese girl I have ever met. So she could not hope to fathom the relationship that was already forming between jitensha and myself. She got as far as, “Don’t press this button while you’re-” before I cut her off.

“I don’t have time for this,” I told her. “I have to ride.” I was going to ride this thing like a man: recklessly and without using the instructions.

And maybe some flying.

As I adeptly wobbled down the hallway, two columns of 6^th graders marched around the corner. “Get out of the way!” I bellowed, followed by “Jitensha!” Each column hit their respective wall. As I zoomed by, I could see the mixture of admiration and terror on the faces of the students. It was a look I recognized from my English classes. Before any of them had a chance to holler an encouraging “Jitensha!” back to me, I was out of the school gate and gone.

Now at this point you may be feeling like I really built this up to be more than it in actuality is. You might be thinking jitensha is just a bicycle with an electric motor. You’re wrong. That’s like saying Robocop is just a cop with an awesome helmet.

I have one (1) dance move. But it is beautiful and complex.

Robocop would blow your arm off for even suggesting that.

I fully expect the next technological leap forward to be half human/half jitensha cyborgs – like modern day centaurs. 
Let me put my case another way: Jitensha is the closest you will come to experiencing what it would be like to be drunk Superman.

Fuggin' Lois I seen the way she looksh at Jimmy...

Jitensha combines the rickety unease of a half-century-old bicycle with the relentless power of the motorcycle my legs wish to be when they’re sleeping. Me and my jitensha did that round trip in under 10 minutes, laughing like a maniac the entire way. Well… only I was laughing.  But the red LEDs on jitensha’s handlebars were flashing and winking like Knight Rider’s KITT, so I knew it was pleased.

WHAT IS THIS FEELING? COULD IT BE... I LOVE YOU TOO?

Bonus Fun Activity! Now go back through this blog and substitute the word ‘bicycle’ every time you see jitensha.　

To Think like a Cartoon Detective Volume 1: The Case of the Inexplicable Extra Undies

I love cartoon detectives. When I reached the age where I realized superhero was not a real job (I was 26) I shifted my dreams to becoming a cartoon detective. Pop culture would have me believe that Japan is littered with cartoon detectives, in addition to actual litter.

Japan's answer to Batman and Robin.

Japan's answer to The Hardy Boys. But umm... just the brunette one, obviously.

Japan's answer to... well,you probably wouldn't see this outside Japan.

Perhaps with their help I can achieve my destiny.

Cartoon Detectives Presents Volume 1: 

The Case of the Inexplicable Extra Undies.

Disclaimer: If you are of a weak constitution, afraid to face the realities of the life of a mystery detective, then read no further. Better to return to your safe world of Private Practice, cups of tea, Martha Stewart and romance novels. This world is not for you.

But if you are intrigued by the darkest motives of the human psyche then read on. Perhaps you will be the one to solve my latest case:

The Case of the Inexplicable Extra Undies!

The Time: 7:49 am, December 20^th.

The Place: Nagata Jinja Mae, Station. Disabled Mens Toilets.

The Case: Bizarre.

If you’re ever out and about in the great wide world of Japan and you want to poo in a way that doesn’t contain the equivalent leg exercise to scaling a mountain, then the handicapped toilet is your best bet. Let’s just take a moment to thank Japan for that constant boon to my self-esteem.

Anyway, I was in need of those particular facilities as my train arrived at the station. I made my way to the men’s toilets but – Shock! The handicapped stall was locked!

I went into the toilets proper to check if there were any other western toilets, but they were all scary Japanese toilets! Noooooo. Whatever would I do now?

Just then I heard the disabled toilet unlock and slide open. Sweet relief! I raced back there and was confronted by a bizarre sight.

Well… it’s probably best you see it for yourself.

I just... Why?!

Clearly some sort of crime had been committed.

The Clues: 1) Packaging strewn around the vicinity. (LL size. Good for you, buddy!

2) Motherfucking underpants under the baby change table!

The Facts: 1) Size LL indicates that the suspect is either a fully-grown man or a really fat boy. 2) There are numerous trash receptacles around Nagata station (albeit none especially earmarked for ‘old gruts’). That the perp did not take the time to stash their ill-worn undies in one of these indicates that they were either rushed or unconcerned about the likelihood of someone finding said undies.

Hmmmm. They appear to be undies. Horrific undies.

Theories: 1) The perp, having soiled himself, went to a store, purchased new underpants, entered the subway station and changed there. (Detective Notes: This seems unlikely, but then again so does this whole situation.)

2) The perp is a salaryman. He works so many hours that he finally realized the futility of even having a home. So instead, each day before resuming work he simply buys a fresh pair of undies, washes his face and armpits in the sink (Detective Notes: the hobo’s bath) and voila – he is fresh as a daisy. (Detective Notes: this seems absolutely plausible. Ichiban theory!)

3) The perpetrator has stolen a brand new pair of underpants, used the handicapped toilet to change into them and then abandoned the packaging and his old, disgusting underpants for the subway weasels to use in the construction of their winter home.

Detective Notes: Goddamn subway weasels.

Whichever one of my theories was correct, one thing was for certain; you can’t just go around leaving underpants wherever the hell you want! Only hot women can do that, even in Japan!

...

I considered pitting my considerable intellect against this clearly deranged madman. I envisioned tracking him to his secret underpants-filled headquarters (Detective Notes: Are there any abandoned underwear factories in the area?) and bringing him to justice.

Then I remembered I really needed to do a poo.

So I did that instead.

Diary of a Desperate Man

It’s the second day of school for the year. Time to change the world!

I’ve got a plan, of course.

My Plan.

Phase 1: Eat this croissant.

Phase 2: See what happens.

Okay, the plan’s coming along nicely. I’m proud to say that Phase 1 went off without a hitch. Now entering Phase 2.

Eighteen seconds later, I am detecting a problem with Phase 2: nothing is happening. In fact, what do you call it when you go past the point of nothing happening and into a negative world of extreme nothing happening? That just happened.

Everyone in third grade just up and left for a meeting, so that leaves about four people in the staff room. Clearly I will need to make my own excitement. And that’s going to require a revised plan.

My New Plan

Phase 1: Eat this croissant. CHECK!

Phase 2: Daydream about Slash (but not in a gay way).

Phase 3: Pester my colleague.

I’m going to see Slash in concert in a couple of months. It’s pretty exciting for me. After all, there are two things in this world that are really hard to do: play guitar like an angel on a rollercoaster and wear a top hat without people laughing at you. Slash does both at the same time. I think he may be the only one who can.

 

One of the Four Horsemen of Awesome. You can literally see the light of  heaven coming out of his top hat.

He’s touring with Alter Bridge’s Myles Kennedy on vocals. If Slash plays like an angel, then Kennedy sings like Jesus in the deleted scene from Jesus Christ Superstar where he wins the lottery.

3.8 miiiiiiiillion. Oohhhhhh yeeeeeeeaaaaahh!

Okay, that’s enough daydreaming about long-haired, leather pants-wearing men. You’ve gotta put a strict limit on that sort of thing. It’s a slippery slope. Remember to counteract it with a brief daydream about

All better!

Moving into Phase 3.

The other English teacher at my school (whose name is Tran) confounds my attempts to give her a nickname. Even though I lead off with the incredible “Transfat”, an ironclad keeper as far as I’m concerned, the name never stuck (and almost certainly got me struck off her birthday party list.)

But I must not be dissuaded! Quitters can’t change the world. Did Bugs Bunny just up and quit when the Monstars stole all the NBA Stars’ talent? Hell no, he went and got inspirational ultimate weapon Michael Jordan!

You don't believe you can fly?! You're a goddamn duck!

I need to dig deep for the Michael Jordan of nicknames.

And here it is. Undeniable Brilliance.

I presented El PresidenTran with four glorious options. Surely one would reach its spiny tentacles into the depths of her soul and take a firm hold – a Tranglehold, if you will – on her imagination.

Brilliance denied.

As expected, Tranquilizer resisted my nicknaming efforts once again, trying to divert my attention by pointing out how much better she is at Japanese than me. Only an amateur would be so easily distracted!

I'm getting that present though.

It’s now… 11:30. Jesus, is that all?! I need to add more to the plan.

My New Plan 2.0

Phase 1: Eat this croissant. CHECK!

Phase 2: Daydream about Slash. (+MYLES KENNEDY) DOUBLE CHECK!

Phase 3: Pester my colleague. CHECK!

Phase 4: Decorate my desk.

Phase 5: Find my mechanical pencil.

Phase 6: Go home.

Phase 4 begin! It probably seems like I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel for things to do here, but let’s consider that I have been working at this school for 5 months now and really I haven’t done much to personalize my space. To change the world you have to start in your own backyard, you know? One day scientists are going to study my desk for clues as to the origin of my brilliance. It has to subtly deliver a message about the type of man I am and the type of man I aspire to be.

And... Done!

That was easy.

On to Phase 5! 
I have lost my mechanical pencil. I only have one. It’s not on the same level as when I lost my external hard drive last year. That was meltdown material. This is more of a minor annoyance. Still, I need it for writing on stuff in pencil! Check my pencil case. Nope. Check my desk drawers. Hmmm, nope.

I bet that Trandit Tran stole it. I’ll ask her.

She says no. I still think she has it. Better check my desk again though.

Dammit, it’s definitely not in my desk.

Oh, wait! It’s in my pocket.

Sigh. Now I have to apologise to sTranpede. Might as well put it on the plan.

I should probably eat lunch too. I’ll do that first.

My New Plan 2.1

Phase 1: Eat this croissant. CHECK!

Phase 2: Daydream about Slash. (+MYLES KENNEDY) DOUBLE CHECK!

Phase 3: Pester my colleague. CHECK!

Phase 4: Decorate my desk. CHECK!

Phase 5: Find my mechanical pencil. CHECK!

Phase 6: Eat lunch.

Phase 7: Apologise to Tran.

Phase 8: Go home.

As I eat my lunch it occurs to me that apologizing to exTraneous would be a sign of weakness. And really, accusing her of being a thief is one of the nicer things I’ve done for her in recent memory. She probably doesn’t need an apology. It's probably just enough to let her know I found it.

Message for Tran: Tran, I found my pencil! You can stop looking now.

I hope she reads this...

BMJ XMAS SPECIAL! Through the Eyes of a Santa Substitute

“Tanihata-sensei? Hello. I am Santa.”

With this confident proclamation I began a bizarre journey into the surreal world of the jolly fat man. I was on the phone with the Nagao Jidoukan children’s centre.

“Ah, Santa!” the lady at the other end – who may have been but probably wasn’t my contact, Mr Tanihata – replied before launching into a rapid-fire Japanese monologue. This was a problem.

From observation I have learned that one half of a Japanese phone conversation consists of the word ‘hai’ repeated at regular intervals for the duration.

Which is why many Japanese people feel safe allowing their dogs to take their calls. 

I decided this was the side of the conversation I needed to be on.

But three hais in, the lady on the other end of the line lapsed into an awkward silence. Dammit, she was on to me! In a panic I thrust the phone into the hands of my school’s secretary, leaving it to her to explain how I had inexplicably morphed into a fluent Japanese-speaking woman.

Ten minutes and an A4 page of notes later, the game was afoot. Santa Claus was, indeed, coming to town and he was coming on the 9:53 train from Hanayama.

The 9:53 train arrived at Yokoyama, Santa’s destination, at 10:23. A very nice lady met me at the station and drove me the kilometer or so to the jidoukan. I was ushered into the large, two-storey building with utmost secrecy. After all, it would not do to find a large white man who speaks no Japanese in a centre for Japanese children. The kids I was there to transport to an astounding dreamworld of Christmas magic were two to four years old, which made them small but not retarded.

Like the ninja I am, I made it to the changing room undetected, where I quickly squirmed into the suit, boots and beard. Looking at the end result, I was amused to note that this was the first time in my life that I had ever thought it would have been nice if I was a bit chubbier.

I'll keep working on it with the help of Coke(tm)! Fuelling Santa since 1928.

I had a flashback to my briefing. I knew it was a flashback because it was black and white and also it had just happened to me five minutes ago. The plan had been explained to me in the front office before I got changed. The combination of maps and hand signals made it seem two thirds covert military ops and one third joyful spreading of Christmas cheer.

Lock and load. Remember: nobody moves without my say-so. We are gonna Christmas these savages back to the stone age!

I decided I needed a codename. ‘Eagle’ was taken, so I went with ‘Mukade Foxtrot Hotel’. Yeah.

I looked at my expensive solar-powered wristwatch. It was almost mission commencement time. It was time to get into character.

I once read that Daniel Day-Lewis worked in a butcher shop, constantly sharpening knives and picking fights with complete strangers as part of his preparation for Gangs of New York. I didn’t have time for that bullshit, but even if I did, what was I going to do? Begin a short-lived flying deer breeding program? Go around offering midgets jobs?

Is there even a word for people who are compelled to employ only midgets? Seek help, Claus.

Nonetheless, I needed to be Santa. I needed to get in his head. Would Santa wear a solar-powered watch? He lived at the North Pole. I took off the watch.

Santa is a man who spends about 92% of his year preparing for the 8% of the year when anyone gives a damn about him. That’s got to take a psychological toll. It’s long, tiring, thankless work, but with the potential for a big payoff. It stands to reason that he is emotionally fragile, pinning his self-esteem on his ability to make children happy. By mid-December he would be flying partially on a magical sleigh pulled my reindeer and partially on a cocktail of anti-depressants and the manic side of a bi-polar disorder.

I looked in the mirror again and no longer recognised the man looking back at me.

With two fingers against the back of my ear I rasped the words, "Mukade Foxtrot Hotel: moving out," to no one in particular.

Eye of the Tiger, Santa. Eye of the Tiger.

I poked my head furtively out of the changing room door and whichever trickster god is in charge of this sort of thing made sure this was the moment a kid was standing in the hallway staring in that direction. In my agitated mental state, I wondered if I should choke him into unconsciousness. But after the eternity of a moment I decided that would be inappropriate. In that same moment, the child had made up his mind about what he was going to do too. I watched his face crumple; it was like watching a car crash in slow motion. Then he began to cry.

I did the sensible thing: said “hello, little boy” then whipped my head back into the changing room until the crying ceased.

5-10 minutes later, I mutter, “okay, that little bugger is out of the way, now it’s definitely go time,” tapping into Santa’s darker emotional spectrum.

Sneaking up the stairs, any worries I had melted away as I heard a chorus of tiny voices calling out for ‘Santa-san’. The heavy sack full of gifts was no burden. By the time one of the staff members began ringing their sleigh bells and the double doors were flung open the transformation was complete.

“Merry Christmas!” I boomed in a jolly cadence that I never knew I possessed.

And I wish all my readers the same. You don’t get the suit, or any presents. But still, Yay! Christmas! Stay safe and well. See you in the New Year ^_^

Can Smoking be Awesome?

I have had years of Pavlovian conditioning to make me hate smoking. Every time someone lights up around me I end up smelling like crap too. Must be all my luscious hair.

So I am in no way unbiased on the issue of whether smoking is fucking retarded. It is.

Hmm, but maybe you are a smoker. Don’t feel that I am judging you. Studies show that you probably feel guilty enough for the both of us.

And yet, in Japan I am starting to suspect that smoking could secretly be awesome. My past experience puts me in a position to evaluate this claim. Obviously because of my intense feelings on the subject it will be a hard case to prove. Are you ready, Japan?

Bring it on.

Advertisements

Where I come from, ads got banned so long ago I can barely remember watching them from my lead paint-lined crib. After that, we could only get our advertising subliminally through movies and TV. Then all of a sudden filmmakers decided that realism was important for some reason. It just didn’t make sense for the action hero to stop to catch their breath every hundred metres as they chased the evil criminal mastermind through the bustling train station/docks/market/slave factory/subterranean hideout/space brothel. So now smoking on TV is only for the truly evil or the infirm, as God intended.

The only advertisement you can see in New Zealand nowadays is teen mothers dutifully teaching their children about cancer.

Actually now that I think about it, I don’t think you can advertise smoking on TV in Japan either. It’s hard to know. When a sheep is dancing on a roller coaster and a space octopus gives it a yellow box while cheerfully singing into a floating microphone in a language I don’t understand then there’s about a 12% chance that that ad could be for smoking. It could be for sanitary napkins, trousers or buying insurance also.

Japanese ads are awesome.

But smoking doesn’t need your TV ads to make an impact. Japan has the most effective advertising campaign for smoking I’ve ever seen. It’s called life.

For example, there are some non-smoking areas in Japan. But I’m not sure why, because they’re usually located directly beside the smoking area in the same room. This is like having your Babies area next to your Dingoes area and expecting everything to work out fine. If there’s one thing smoke can be relied upon doing it’s whatever the fuck it wants.

Nobody puts Smoky in the corner.

So at present, I would estimate I’m smoking a pack a day, and that’s just out of my milkshake.

The most effective non-smoking area is the train. Even if someone’s smoking right next to the train, you just breezed by at 80km/h. Ahahahahaha!

Even if you could smoke on the train, good luck getting your hands up to your face to light it. Even if you could light it, good luck not burning someone’s ear off.

But we’re talking about advertising here. Stay on topic.

The second prong in Japan’s two-pronged assault on sissy non-smokers is the vending machine. Aside from the insane fact that you can buy cigarettes from a vending machine over here and they only cost 400 yen (which is amazing), every machine that sells cigarettes also has an ad for a particular brand prominently displayed on the machine or nearby. Or both, even if it’s the same ad.

I have snapped some samples of the truly magnificent ads I have seen in and around Kobe. I’ve used my innate genius to peer beyond the veil of advertising and tell you the underlying subliminal message for each ad. Now you can buy your death sticks with confidence, from a machine that is laughing at you and planning what to do with your planet when you’re gone.

Basic

The Subliminal Message: Smoking is Cute!

Oh my God, that dog is so cute! I bet that cute dog would totally smoke those if it could. But it has no hands so it can’t. That makes sense. But it’s really good at juggling, another activity that is usually pretty reliant on having hands. Did a person throw those cigarette packs at that dog but it caught them all on its nose and started juggling them? Ha ha, that’s funny! I wonder if I could teach my dog to do that…

This dog is so cute though. Did I mention that? But it’s kind of ugly too. And I find that cute. It’s cutegly.

Smart move, advertisers. Now your product appeals to the cute, the ugly, those people who like the dichotomy of cute and ugly things, and those people interested in canine juggling. 

That's pretty comprehensive.

Piannissiamo

The Subliminal Message: Smoking gives you Superpowers!

Did you notice that this hot lady has gold lips? This ad doesn’t come right out and say that Pianissimo cigarettes made her lips gold. But there’s a big old packet of them right there next to her gold-lipped face, so draw your own conclusions.

Let us assume for the sake of argument that Pianissimo cigarrettelettes caused this affliction. This is amazing! Ever since I was old enough to understand that with great power comes great responsibility I’ve been trying to get great power while avoiding great responsibility. With Pianissimo, I can do both, trading my own mortality for a delightfully slim and classy Midas touch.

Do you want some Pianissimo’s now?

What about now?

The one nagging doubt in my mind is, what if there’s something they’re not telling us? What if this woman’s entire respiratory system is now gold-plated? Obviously that would be fatal, in a James Bond villain kind of way.

Damn you, Pianissimo. God damn you.

I should probably try these out on a dog first. After I teach it to juggle the boxes, of course.

Marlboro

The Subliminal Message: Smoking is Badass.

Marlboro has been using the same subliminal message since 1876. Back then all their ads used to have a grizzled-looking cowboy sauntering around and smoking. I actually think this is a really good advertisement for smoking, for two reasons.

Reasons Cowboys are Good Advertisements for Smoking

1)    Cowboys are always out doing cowboy stuff way out in remote areas of the land. So the only person they will bother with their smoking is the other cowboy they have sex with.

You really should quit, darling.

2)    Nobody believes in cowboys anyway.

Anyway, for whatever reason Marlboro have done away with the cowboy. But they kept the horse?

What is it with smoking ads and animals? Are animals buying cigarettes now? Is that where we are as a planet?!

But there’s nothing much badass about a white horse all on its own right. It could be standing on a pile of kicked-to-death orphans, but we can’t see that. It’s just a horse, hangin’ out, wishing someone would put a sweet tasty Marlboro in its mouth and light it. The guy in charge of advertising, also standing on a pile of kicked-to-death orphans, sent this memo:

We need something more badass. And goddammit, Suzie, BRING ME MORE ORPHANS! Signed Bill.

So someone went back to the drawing board and we got this:

Holy shit, is that a mountain lion? I can’t even begin to fathom what that has to do with smoking. I guess it’s conceivable that this giant feral cat… wants… my smokes? And it’s going to lead with its special move, Ice Blast?

I’m really confused right now, but that’s what the Mountain Lion wants. I have to be ready. Red Dead Redemption has taught me that nothing good comes from meeting a mountain lion except for $6 worth of skin, if you’re lucky.

I also need to think of a special move, really fast. Jesus, I can’t believe I moved to Japan without a special move. It was on the immigration form and everything.

I’ve got it! Gold Lips Kancho Jugglllllllllllle!!! Oraa Oraa!

The Family Legacy

Finally, no discussion of smoking in Japan would be complete without taking about the social forces at work here. Japan is a very traditional country. And sometimes that manifests in unusual ways. 

I was in a café with a Japanese friend the other day and he pulled out his pack of smokes. I asked him whether he thought he would ever stop smoking one day. His reply went something like this: ‘My grandfather smoked and my father smokes. So I smoke.’

In other words, the men in his family hand down a legacy of death.

Is anyone else thinking about ninja right now?

"Happy birthday, boy, I got you these. I took them from a mountain lion that I choked to death."

So far I think we can safely say that I have proved smoking is more awesome here than I could have ever imagined. But I am not so easily convinced. I must investigate further. If you don’t hear from me in two months, give my notes to the Police and tell them that smoking has struck again…

How my First Japanese Video Game Purchase went Horribly Wrong

I need to be clear about something. I have played literally hundreds of Japanese video games. I have played, like, 5 video games in Japanese. That’s an important distinction. And you’re going to find out why.

See, the first four games I played in Japanese were arcade games that involved either hitting a drum or throwing a plastic ball at a hot air balloon. It’s fair to say I bungled my way through those tricky concepts.

Perhaps I was overconfident, but I figured the next step was to buy a game for my Playstation 3 that was entirely in Japanese. Ever since I was a little kid I’ve heard stories about people getting totally awesome games imported from Japan and just fudging their way through them. What’s the worst that could happen? I thought innocently, perhaps a little naively.

My first mistake was buying for the price. At only 2000 yen, what did I have to lose, aside from 2000 yen? Only my dignity and self confidence, as it transpired.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

They say not to judge a book by its cover. Perhaps the same is true of a video game. I looked at the front cover.

Sweet! There's hardly any Japanese going on here!

Buy it!

Like most J-RPGs, X-Edge is about a boy who looks like a girl (to the point where my wife PanPan said “Who’s she?” when the game started) wearing leather pants, fighting evil. Using my knowledge of Japanese culture, I figured I would just push the ‘fuck’ button whenever I saw a tentacle and the ‘shoot’ button whenever I saw anything else and it would all turn out fine. I would save the universe this way.

Unfortunately it wasn’t all shooting and fucking like in my real life. There was also talking. 

Good God, was there talking.

 It’s hard to know where you are plot-wise when you can only read the word です in any given sentence. But my Mama didn’t raise no quitter and my early childhood psychologist said I was “definitely not short of imagination” so I took my best guess. Here is the story of X Edge, as I interpret it:

Prologue

The Old Gods have awakened from their eons of slumber, thirsty for conquest. Their hoary gaze fell upon a planet so ridiculous looking, so physically implausible that utter domination was the only option.

And so they sent their godly golden war balls to that planet. Because nothing says domination better than hitting a planet with your balls.

Fade out. We fade in on two enigmatic youngsters. I think they’re drunk.

Effeminate Boy: Ugh, my mouth tastes like a homeless shelter for incontinent bears. Where the hell are we? And why am I wearing your pants?

Dowdy-but-obviously-secretly-attractive Girl: Never mind that now. We have to do something about those space balls!

Just then, something amazing happens!

Boobs: Hello. My name is Boobs.

Boy: Buuuuuh.

Girl: We didn’t order a stripper.

Boobs: Bitch. 

            I am here to help you fight evil. And by evil I mean wolves! Heaps of wolves.

Girl: We probably have it under control with handguns, but thanks for the offer. I’m sure your cape would have been really helpful.

This snappy banter continued for some time, in and around numerous wolf fights. But by then I was already bored. So I stopped paying attention to a story I was making up myself (which is a bad sign for my writing career). Then I got this:

Sweet Motherless Christ.

It was at this point that I realized if I wanted to feel confused and inadequate I would have stayed married to my first wife. I figured out how to save, and to this day I don’t know why. I played 5 minutes of a game I couldn’t understand, but at least now I can pick up where I left off?

If anyone wants a copy of X-Edge, drop me a comment. It’ll be 3000 yen.