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.

My First Japanese Thanksgiving Erotic Story Reading

This weekend I learned about Thanksgiving. 

Thanksgiving is about getting together with family (or friends works, if your family are really far away, or just annoying). 

Thanksgiving is about eating too much food and being thankful when you don't vomit. 

Thanksgiving is about sharing erotic fiction.

One of these things seemed out of place. I'd never seen the Tanners reading erotic fiction on Full House. I must have missed the episode where Rudy Huxtable asked what a 'swollen member' was. 

Oh.　Heeheehee.

But then again, what the hell would I know? I'm from New Zealand. We don't give thanks for a goddamn thing. So when the hosts of my forthcoming Thanksgiving Potluck Erotica dinner party told me that everyone was writing an erotic short story, I did the obvious thing: chugged a can of hot coffee, cracked my knuckles and got to work.

Much to my eternal happiness, I won the competition for 'Best Erotic Story', beating out such luminary works as the Grinch who fucked Christmas, a treatise on midget dicks, a high seas romp with a Paul Jennings style facial twist at the end, and a saucy song about birds. There was also an unusual number of stories about either Harry Potter or Jesus. In fact, if I am given the opportunity to defend my crown next year, it's probably a good strategic move to start from a 'Harry Potter and Jesus accidentally get locked in the sauna together' scenario and then just see what happens. 

The crown of 'Best Erotic Storyteller 2010' is an accolade I accept with an unusual mixture of pride and shame. That same pride/shame combo compels me to share it with you, the internet. And if you are by any chance my Granny, I'm so sorry. 

Doctor Suggestive recommends not reading the following story if you wear a pacemaker or are Bigmrjosh's granny.

Giving Thanks

The bright lights played off the white corridors of the hospital. At this time of the early evening visiting hours were over. The hospital was quiet, but for room 613. 

“How long has it been, Cindy?”

“Almost three months, Doctor Parker. Too long.”

“Well, your progress in physical therapy has been remarkable.” Dr Parker replied. “That car really messed you up. I mean, in ten years at this hospital I’ve never seen a spine bend that way. For a while there I worried you might never walk again.”

“But here I am.” Cindy pulled aside the thin blue curtain behind which she had finally shed tatty hospital gown for good. She had exchanged that less-than-flattering outfit for a tan skirt tight enough to showcase her therapeutically physical legs. On top she had chosen a shimmering green blouse. Since it was a special occasion she hadn’t seen the need to do up all of the buttons.

Doctor Parker was wearing a doctor’s coat. That much was probably apparent. Underneath he wore a pair of business slacks and a shirt. Presumably. This is erotic fiction. Anything can happen.

“Anyway, Doctor, I’ve waited a long time to thank you,” Cindy said as she sashayed across the room. “I really want to show you my gratitude.”

Doctor Parker swallowed audibly. “Cindy, ethically I shouldn’t-”

“Ssh,” Cindy said, placing a slender finger against his lips. “’Shouldn’t’ starts with ‘ssh’.”

All of Dr. Parker’s ethical dilemmas were washed away by the undeniable beauty and elegant power of Cindy’s words. Three months of repressed lust and need poured between them. He pulled her to him and crushed her lips against his. Cindy ran her hands through Parker’s thick brown hair. It felt good, like straw. Like good straw. It didn’t smell like straw, that’d be weird, and gross. In fact, it smelt like apples. And apples, like cheesecake, convertibles and a good episode of Gray’s Anatomy, got Cindy hot.

“ Oh, Cindy.”

“Oh, Dr Parker.”

“Please, call me Dave.”

“I’d really prefer to stick with Dr Parker, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Okay, works for me.”

“Oh, Dr Parker!”

“Oh, Cindy!”

“Take my temperature, Dr Parker!”

“I think a rigorous treatment is in order!”

“Oh, Dr Parker!”

With urgent fingers, Cindy pulled Dr Parkers coat away from his shoulders. Dr Parker moved in to kiss her neck, her beautifully scarred neck. Cindy moaned with pleasure, and a little bit of pain because the scar tissue was still tender.

Now her fingers were working at the buttons of his shirt and his fingers were working at the buttons of her shirt and then their hands got tangled and it turned into a kind of romantic Jackie Chan shirt button slap fight.

They each took off their own shirts.

Even after her grisly accident, Cindy was still an 83 percent beautiful woman. She hid the fact that she had 1/5 less breast now than before the accident with an excessively frilly bra she had imported from Japan. The smiling pink mushrooms that adorned it screamed ‘do me’. Not literally though. Again, that would be weird.

She unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor. Parker did the same with his pants.

Now there were only thin layers of fabric standing between doctor, patient and a totally erotic sexy sexfest. So they took those off too.

Oh yeah.

Cindy liked the way Dr Parker was staring at her body; it was like the way a bull stares at a china shop in that both looks said ‘soon you will be fucked.’

Their bodies came together again. “Oh Cindy, I’ve wanted you for so long,” Dr Parker moaned. “Normally my hot female patients give it up within two weeks of arriving here.”

“That’s not sexy for me. I’m going to pretend you didn’t say it.”

“Oh, Cindy!”

“Oh, Dr Parker!”

The moment they had both yearned for was upon them. Cindy’s bed was there, empty and beckoning to them. For long months it had cradled her frail, damaged body. Now the hydraulics that allowed easy raising of the top and the bottom ends would allow them to do some totally freaky shit.

Dr Parker hoisted Cindy into the air to carry her over to the bed. And that was the moment when Cindy’s sixth vertebrae slipped out of place.

“Oh, Dr Parker, I can’t feel my legs!” she wailed.

“Good sign. I haven’t even put it in yet!”

“No, I really can’t feel them. I think you broke my spine!”

That brought Parker to a halt. “Oh,” he said. “You’re going to need a doctor.”

SPECIAL FEATURES: Now if you didn't already, read back through it with a really British accent. This is called the 'Fergus Version'. It was in no uncertain terms his smooth and sexy reading of my story that helped propel me to victory on the night, ably assisted by his pedophile mustache. Good show, Fergus!

I say. That was some sexy shit, eh chaps?

Straight Screamin' at Trains

Guess my hobbies.

<Ahem> Hello, I’m the Train Screamer and welcome to the Train Screamers ‘Screamin’ at Trains with your host the Train Screamer.’

Today we’re going to be visiting the magical mountain paradise that is Hanayama. As my regular viewers know, I love to scream at trains all over Japan, all day and every night. And Hanayama is no exception. But Hanayama is special because it’s also my home. Come on, let’s check it out!

The rural alpine wonderland that is Hanayama is famous for two things: crazy people and insects the size of human infants. But don’t worry; I’m not crazy and I’m sure not a giant insect a-ha-ha-ha! I just really hate trains but I also really love trains. So there’s that.

But there’s so much more to the ‘Yama than those terrible, beautiful machines that you call trains and I call fulfilment. There’s also a diagonal lift! No, you didn’t hear wrong, this elevator moves along the X-axis and the Y-axis simultaneously! I love the diago-vator so much that I gave it its own name. It’s diago-vator. I also applied for world wonder status for the diago-vator, but it got beat out by some stupid statue that doesn’t even have a nose. Whatever.

I'm over it.

Remember, if you ride the diago-vator to be courteous. Always push the <ahem> button to send the lift back after you’ve finished riding it, even if there are people waiting at your end to get on.

That's just Common Sense

So as I said, Hanayama has many interesting sights: the diago-vator and those sweet, dreadful trains. That’s it. We better go see the trains before I wet myself.

The Hanayama train station is the unofficial meeting point for every crazy person in a five kilometre radius. Completely coincidentally, it’s also the perfect spot for those who enjoy the gentlemanly pursuit of train screaming. Unlike your average train station, Hanayama eki has stairs leading down to – and crossing! – the tracks. On the far side from the entrance, beside the barrier arm that separates me from my hate-bride, is a metal fence. When I stand here I am like unto a GOD! <Ahem> No train can withstand my righteous bellow! At about chest height, the fence doesn’t obscure your view of oncoming trains and it provides a handy handhold you can clutch for support if that’s your style. I prefer to hold onto my trousers, my wang and my dreams of locomotive rape-suicide.

Each to their own.

Well, that’s all for this episode of Train Screamer’s 'Screamin’ at Trains with your host the Train Screamer.’ Tune in next week when we- wait. Wait. Holy shit, do you hear that? A train’s coming. I have to, I need to, I - GUH!! A-CHA-PA-TSU-BA-RA-PA-GI-MU-TA-O-KU-RI-BA-RA-TI-E!!

<Ahem> And remember my Top 5 Tips when Screaming at Trains:

1)      Wear a Cap. That way no one will recognise you. A beanie is okay if it’s really cold.

2)      Warm Up your Vocal Chords. Try saying ‘uh’ continuously from the time you leave your home to when you arrive at the station.

3)      Don’t be Afraid to Scream Directly into Someone’s Ear. Remember, they probably either hate or love trains (depending on the day) just as much as you do. They just don’t have the balls to do anything about it. Help spread the word about train screaming. And we all know the most effective way to spread words is to scream them!

4)      Express is Best. Don’t waste your time and energy screaming at lacklustre slow-moving trains. The biggest rush comes from screaming at the trains in... the biggest rush. Plus with an express there’s almost no chance of someone getting off to whup your ass.

5)      Trains were Sent by Satan to Test You. Trains are like the reasonably priced prostitutes of the transport industry: you can scream at them and you can hit them with sticks, but you must never allow yourself to be seduced by them. Stay on your guard.

Check out Train Screamers new single, ‘Straight Screamin’ at Trains’ now available on iTunes. Rolling Stone called it “What... the fuck? 4 stars.”

For a limited time, get the free B-side, ‘Crazy Train (Train Screamer version)’ a harrowing cover of the Black Sabbath classic, delivered entirely in impassioned Japanese screaming.

Thanks to this guy for the sweet Train Screamer graphic. What a legend, and he draws other stuff good too! Check it out.

Hazardous Bees

I’ve been asked many barely intelligible questions since I first reported for my tour of duty in the Japanese Elementary school system, on a range of bizarre and surreal topics. But one of the first – and still one of the best – came from a fifth grade boy.

He said to me, with utter sincerity in his eyes, ‘Do you know bee o’ hazard?’

At least, that’s what I heard.

‘Holy Jesus,' I replied. ‘Are the bees here considered a hazard?!’ Then, because this sentence made for some complicated English, I mimed a bee buzzing its way towards me, stinging my face and then my head exploding.

It was some of my best “bridging the gap” work.

'RRRRUUUAAAAaaaaahhh!'

‘No, no, no.’ The boy is shaking his head. ‘Bee-oh-hazard. Bee-oh-hazard,’ he enunciates unhelpfully. Then his friends decide to help out by chanting the exact same thing as him. ‘Bee-Oh-Hazard! BEE-OH-HAZARD!’ Was it that my body odour was so intense they were concerned for their safety? I was starting to worry, but it turned out six boys screaming nonsense at me was exactly what my addled brain needed. Something clicked.

‘Oh!’ I yelped with a little too much enthusiasm for a grown man. ‘BIOhazard!’

‘Yes.’ The boy looks at me with that look that says, “I just said that 18 times and you are a retard.” Like when you have to explain a joke, he has lost all enthusiasm for the topic by this point but WHO CARES! I know that Biohazard is the Japanese name for a series of video games known as Resident Evil in English-speaking countries. It’s not my fault that the peculiarities of Japanese language turned the word Biohazard into some kind of pirate warning.

‘Yar, ‘twas the bee o’ hazard what done us in. ‘m sure of it.’

This kid made the fatal mistake of talking about Biohazard with someone who’d been playing Biohazard since before he was even born and goddam if we weren’t going to have a conversation about it in broken Nihonglish.

The beautiful dance of words went like this:

Kid: Do you like Biohazard 1?

BMJ: Hai!

Kid: Do you like Biohazard 2?

BMJ: Hai! Sugoi, ne!

Kid: Do you like Biohazard 3?

BMJ: Iie! It’s balls.

Kid: … Do you like Biohazard 4?

BMJ: Hai!

Kid: Do you like Biohazard 5?

BMJ: Hai!

Kid: Ok. Bye bye!

BMJ: We are best friends now.

He didn’t even ask about Code Veronica. Do your research, kid. (It’s a ‘hai’ if you were wondering.)

That conversation, like any conversation you have that’s completely amazing, got me to thinking. Biohazard is insanely popular in Japan, especially considering the number of creatures appearing in the games that aren’t cute enough to make a soft toy or keychain from. I mean, these are games about a virus that turns any living creature into a zombified killing machine. Even the monkeys! So what’s the appeal? Aside from zombie monkeys.

I think it comes down to this: obviously the country that gave us The Ring enjoys pissing its pants as a recreational activity.

'That’s… gonna be hard to sponge out of the tatami.'

Every game in the Biohazard series has three basic enemies. They occur early on in the game, so even if you suck at not getting eaten by zombies, fighting giant snakes or being a master of unlocking you will still probably meet them.

'I was almost a Jill sandwich!' 'Ahaha, yeah, I should have left you in there to die!'

These three basic enemy types are analogues of very real fears close to the hearts and minds of the Japanese people. Behold!

Zombie Person.

RE zombie person

Actual zombie person

The zombie person is your bread and butter in the Resident Evil games. In the real Japan, you only need to try and catch any evening train to see actual zombies in action. Overwork makes the salaryman shuffle about aimlessly and, for some reason thirst for braaaaains. That may be artistic license on my part.

Zombie Dog

RE Zombie Dog

Actual Zombie Dog (Also maybe Satan)

On the left side you will see a godless demonic beast rending the flesh from a human corpse. On the right you will see the Satanic Dog that I encountered one moonless night that wanted to rend the flesh from my corpse. If it’s not Satan then it’s making a fantastic effort to be like him with the dastardly red cape and all.

Japanese people love to take little dogs and put them in little outfits like this. But deep down in their souls they know that you can’t put any living creature in a fluffy frog suit and not expect retribution. There is a price, an eternal, horrible price. And they fear what will happen when the legion of tiny demoralized dogs wake up and smell the coppery tang of our blood.

Murderous Raven

Actual Raven

RE Raven

This one is pretty self explanatory. Ravens are bloody terrifying. The ones in Biohazard aren’t even necessarily scarier than real Japanese ravens; I’m utterly convinced that both want to eat my eyeballs like grapes. The only real question is, will they spit out the skin in the Japanese fashion or will they swallow the whole thing?

Japan Cribs BOOYAH!

This blog is unlike the blogs you are used to. Unlike every other blog I have ever written, I sat down to write this blog with a purpose. I mean a purpose beyond trying to salvage my native tongue, which I seem to be forgetting how to speak with any kind of fluency.

First up I want to apologise to my New Zealand friends and family. You’ve had to wait a long time to see the upcoming brilliance. But it’s not my fault! I’m about to do what I do every time something undesirable or unfortunate happens to me: blame my predecessor.

For example, once I tripped on some stairs and hurt my ankle, and goddamn if it wasn't my predecessor's fault. And don't even get me started on those times when my alarm has failed to go off in the morning.

The girl who lived here before us is pretty much a stranger to me. But I’ve read enough Batman comics to consider myself a master detective, and using my keen sleuth senses I have determined that she had two major hobbies.
They were: 1) avoiding cleaning, and
                  2) buying candles.
Seriously, we got rid of more candles than an 18^th century brothel liquidation sale. She must have been the easiest person to buy birthday presents for.

Oh my God, I love candles. How did you know!

Had we been sure the house was fireproof, it probably would have taken less time to just set the interior on fire and start from scratch. I hate candles now. Whenever I see a candle I just feel unclean.

Anyway, they’re all gone! So after 3 months of intensive feng shui and crying while I scrub away mould and redesigning spaces and assembling furniture that comes in 163 pieces, I present to you our apartment. Watch your head on the low beams in the ceiling, they’re brutal.

The Lounge

Ah, let's start in my favourite place. J Here lives the mega TV, the PS3, the computer, the giant couch, pretty much everything that is good in this world. Happy sigh...

It has tatami matting on the floor, which is really awesome until the day I turn over a cup of coffee. Which you and I both know is in my future.

Ssshh. There, there. Daddy'll be home soon.

Our little "office" slash where we keep our luggage.

The Kitchen

The kitchen is small. It’s definitely a one person kitchen, as I have found any time I’ve tried to get in there when my wife is busy doing the mysterious kitchen things that women do. The main challenge for the kitchen was finding a way to have enough room to store all of our appliances AND have room to prepare meals AND have room to put the dishes somewhere until I get around to washing them.

The Bedroom

The bedroom is a two person space, but only just. When I get up at morning I have to inch along the space between the foot of the bed and the wall. I’m not angry about it though; I like to just chalk it up as ninja training. We used to have a large black freestanding wardrobe in the corner, but I think my guitar looks much better in that space. Don’t you?

The Part that’s not the Lounge, the Kitchen or the Bedroom.

We could call this the bookshelf room, because that’s about all that fits in there. It used to house all the candles. Like the kitchen, it has no tatami, just this classy hardwood floor-looking linoleum. On top of the bookshelf, under the eternal guardianship of plushy Mario, is a tourist map of Kobe. I use a black marker to cross off places we have been. Eventually I want a whole map of black X’s. Because I’m emo that way.

The Toilet

Capybaras cuddling. The hanging thing is a deer from Nara.

Miffy & fruits = A happy poo times!

That’s right, I went there. Anyway, the toilet’s one of the biggest rooms in our house! You can see that it was difficult for me to squeeze my huge muscles in there just to take a photo. The Miffy theme makes such hardships easier to bear. On the notice board are souvenirs, tickets and brochures from various places we have seen around Japan. We try to scrounge or steal at least one thing for the board every time we go somewhere new.

The Genkan (Entrance)

It’s really all about the partitioning curtain on this one. That’s all I wanted to show you. There’s also a washing machine, a sink and about 32 shoes. Exciting!

Dogs, right? They know everything.

I hope you’ve enjoyed my virtual tour of our abode. Thanks for coming!

Now get out.