Licenced to Wait

I received a dubious compliment the other day: “I like your blogs the best when they’re about nothing, just you sitting around wasting time. First of all, that never happens.Secondly, was this person implying that my blogs don’t perform a vitally instructive public service? Did he miss my foolproof guide on how to be theultimate relieving teacher or how not to use the computer at school?

I recently had a mind numbing experience that combines doing nothing with a positive outcome. In some circles of Tartarus it is known as ‘converting your foreign drivers licence to a Japanese one.’ This is a trick. That makes it sound like a simple act, like you merely show someone one licence and they give you another licence with more Japanese on it. What it should be called is ‘waiting in a line until your will to live is gone.’

Please use these notes I compiled about the experience as guidelines to getting your own licence transferred or wasting six hours of your life. Whichever you would prefer. 

My impression of police life before licence change.

My impression of police life after licence change.

But it makes for the perfect blog! Read it!

Note: I wrote this blog in the style of Rorschach from Alan Moore’s Watchmen, partly because – and I’m sorry if I’m spoiling the ending here – the ordeal of changing my licence mentally unhinged me and partly because what do you care?! I do what I want!

I do what I want.

8:45 Arrive at Akashi Police Station. Must attain Japanese Drivers Licence. Took a number (#3).

9:30 Foreigners licencing department opens. For some reason, about 15 Japanese people rush the door and are seen first before hitting numbered folk like self.

9:50 Number 1 enters office. Notice he is Jehovah’s Witness, so probably only needs bicycle licence. Also note that licence is not necessary to ride Bicycle in Japan. Am confused.

10:25 Number 1 is still in office. Can only assume he is trying to convert licencing officer. Too scared to peek in door lest I too am converted. However, office is only open from 9:30 until 10:30. Begin to panic.

10:29 Notice piece of paper taped to bottom of sign in waiting area. Paper says if you took number between 9:30 and 10:30 they will stay open to see you. Consider taking another number just in case. Don’t.

10:33 Number 1 finally leaves. (On yer bike)

10:34 Number 2 enters.

10:45 Recognise that I have wasted two hours of my life.

10:50 Number 3 is called. Rejoice! Ask if number 4 can come too. (Number 4 is Tran. Read more about our adventures here.)

10:52 Interview about bizarre details irrelevant to driving begins. Interviewer shows intense interest in travel history. Writes details on piece of scrap paper, in pencil (for filing?) Appears to be determining probability we are spies. Frequently confuses Australia and New Zealand. Asks me to recall score on written driving test sat 13 years ago. Seems satisfied by answer I made up. (I hypothetically did really well.)

11:30 Eye Test. Pass easily, despite insistence that ‘green’ light was blue.

11:50 Interview is complete. Interviewer returns Tran’s passport to me, my passport to Tran. Explains next step: wait until 1:00. Fantastic.

11:55 Stand at door and wait for #5 to thank us for doing two numbers at once. #5 is an asshole.

12:00 Basement cafeteria. Counter lady mishears request for almond cake as order for two bowls of ramen. Counter lady doesn’t understand garbled Japanese. What is her angle? Observe ratio of people eating to people studying Japanese road code while sleeping. Ratio is 1:4.

1:00 Large group, maybe 100 people listen to man explain how to complete form interviewer already completed for us. Consider killing spree culminating in explosive murder suicide. Realise that would mean last 5 hours on Earth wasted. Lose feeling in butt.

1:30 Organised into numerical order to have license photos taken. Foreigners come last. Because they love waiting.

2:10 Have photo taken. Look like rapist. Or butcher. Look like rapist butcher. Don’t know Japanese for “any chance of a do over?” Sigh inwardly.

2:30 All line up to receive new license. Choose wrong line. Embarrassed. Fourth to receive new licence in my actual line. Abandon Tran to run to bus stop and ensure space on first bus back to railway. Tran catches up. Can’t blame me; hate waiting.

I have seen the city's true face. It is boring.

More Summer than Sonic

I paid about a black market kidney’s worth of money for a two day pass to the Summersonic music festival. Summersonic takes place in Osaka and Tokyo simultaneously over an August weekend. The acts that play Tokyo on the Saturday play Osaka on the Sunday and vice versa.

As a music fanatic, I am ashamed to say that this was to be my first ever music festival. So I was both excited and nervous as I queued for the bus that would take me and my fellow concertgoers to Maijima, the islands where Summersonic was to be held. Both emotions evaporated instantly under the harsh glare of the scorching hot sun. There were 1600 people ahead of me in that godforsaken line when I began to hallucinate from the heat. I was sure I saw countless nose piercings, tattoos and pink-dyed hair, but those things don’t exist in Japan, right?

Finally I made my way onto the bus. When I arrived at the venue, those feelings of excitement and nervousness came rushing back. It was like being hit with a solid wall of emotion, not to mention a solid wall of people and heat.

There were 3 stages: Sonic stage was the smallest of the three, and the only indoor stage. This is where the bands you’ve never heard of play. And James Blunt.

Ewww.

The Mountain stage was furthest from the entrance. The short uphill walk to reach it was sufficient for its hyperbolic name, presumably. Second string bands played on this stage.

The Ocean Stage was the “main” stage, and where I would spend most of my day.

Now that you have a rough idea of what we’re working with, please enjoy my insightful mini reviews of the bands I saw.

Hollywood Undead – My researchipedia told me that these rap rockers were known for their wearing of custom hockey masks and the use of rap pseudonyms. Two songs in and I could understand why. I guess the most important lesson I learned from Hoolywood Undead was that you can’t wear masks when it’s 40 degress.

Zebrahead – These guys inconsiderately started their set while I was in line for some pizza. Zebrahead are one of those bands that have two singers, but I think one of them’s a bully or something, because the other singer had very little singing to do. This poor bugger’s job was instead to run up and down the length of the stage telling people to “get the fuck up!” Do Japanese people understand this command? (I could use it the train.) Zebrahead are more popular in Japan than in their Mums’ houses, so probably not. Their best song was a cover of Avril Lavigne’s ‘Girlfriend’. Take from that what you will.

"I don't know what I'm doing with my life! Get the fuck up!"

Panic at the Disco – Lead singer Brendon Urie was obviously feeling the heat, because he mentioned it every eight seconds. I think most of the audience counted themselves lucky he was on lead vocals so that his mouth was occupied at least some of the time with something other proclaiming “shit, it’s hot.” He was too hot to even notice that some American girl – who I like to think had stalked him all the way from the States – was desperately declaring her love for him after each and every song. Which is a shame because she was a sure thing.

Maximum the Hormone – I felt death’s presence while watching this band. Prior to their arrival, a woman did something very unusual. In the mosh pit, she laid down a tiny tarpaulin, took off her shoes, whipped her phone out and just went to her special place. In the mosh pit. She then acted surprised and offended when the band started and people stood on her. For my part I lost a shoe as a result of someone deciding a double-handed shove to the spine would be pretty rock ‘n roll. I got it back using a supreme combination of willpower and elbows. However, in an ultimately tragic final twist to this bizarre tale I had to throw the shoes out when I got home anyway. Those shoes came out of the pit looking worse for wear than that weird picnic lady.

Give me your shoes give me your shoes give me your shoes BLEAAAARGGHH!!!

Bow Wow Wow: After four straight bands at the Ocean Stage – one of which tried to indirectly assassinate me – it was time for a break. I made my inside to the Sonic stage, where Bow Wow Wow had amassed an audience of about 100 people who were probably expecting this guy:

Pictured here: NOT Bow Wow Wow

P.I.L – When I dared to venture outside again I made my way sluggishy to the yakisoba stand, then up to the Mountain stage where P.I.L where redefining the definition of music in the worst way possible. I want you to really understand how much this band sucked. Let me put it this way: I love yakisoba. I would eat yakisoba every day if my health check doctors hadn’t already run out of ways to call me fat. P.I.L made my yakisoba taste bad by association. I was inspired by P.I.L to write them this song, which I hope they will record and use to torture music lovers the world over. It should be played using an e-bow and a beard. I haven’t included any chords, because P.I.L taught me that chords don’t matter. I call it Art Wank.

Art wank!

Art wank!

Vitriole!

Fuck your governments!

Art Wank!

Just repeat that until your whole audience hates you and goes back to the Ocean Stage. Which is, coincidentally, exactly what I did!

X-Japan – Every Japanese person had come to see X-Japan. I went into their set with almost no preconceptions, seeing as I knew very little about them. I feel like I learned a lot about Japan’s premiere symphonic metal band. For example, I can tell you that X Japan is made up of a drummer and four other unimportant guys. I can tell you that the drummer is supernaturally beautiful for a 50-year-old man. It probably doesn’t help that the singer looks like Yoko Ono but honestly, I’ve never seen so much footage of a drummer’s face at a concert. By my estimation in a 40-minute set it was about 38 minutes of the this guy’s face and forearms flailing gorgeously and 2 minutes of the cameraman just kind of looking around aimlessly while the drummer changed costumes.

"Cut the fireworks! All the smoke is making it hard for people to see my staggering beauty."

Red Hot Chili Peppers – Firstly, I stand firm on my opposition to the pedo ‘stache, even when someone as awesome as Anthony Keidis is wearing it. Secondly, the lack of John Frusciante was significant. Their replacement was certainly an able guitarist, although he did bad, bad things to most of the solos. But when your bassist is Flea, the guitar becomes secondary to a degree. Where Frusciante’s absence was most apparent was in the harmonies, or lack thereof. It’s just lucky I was there! I provided harmonies myself for the 500 people surrounding me. And did I receive a word of thanks? I did not.

I award best performance of the day to the sun. It overshadowed all the other acts, nearly made Brendon Urie cry and helped me decided not to bother attending on Sunday just to see Korn play a thirty minute set.

I would like to dedicate this blog to Brendon Urie. I hope he's somewhere cold. 

"You can be a real dick sometimes, Sun."

The Sound of Drums

In this hectic world it’s easy to miss destiny’s call. Like, if maybe you were on another call at the time, metaphorically speaking.

I know now that I have been so busy being the world’s greatest teacher of ‘ninjitsu that I just made up™’ and other-equally-important-things that I nearly missed my true calling!

I have a girl named Roo to thank for awakening my slumbering soul. You should know that Roo is not her real name – some people don’t like having their real name and real face on the internet. I reckon that’s fair enough because she looks like this:

 

In my case, I’m not so worried about it. For example, I can reveal that my real name is BigMrJosh and my real face looks like this:

 

And my pyjamas look like this! POW!

So now that mystery’s been solved, let’s return to my destiny story.

“Yeah, I’m going to get drum lessons,” Roo just dropped into the conversation one day.

I respected her gumption. You don’t see a lot of gumption nowadays. I decided to piggyback on her gumption. After all, hadn’t I wanted to learn drums for a few years? I already possessed pretty formidable skill on the air drums, the ancestor of the actual drum. This was a skill that I figured would be transferrable. So with the confidence that only comes from having achieved complete mastery of literally hundreds of songs on the air drums, I sauntered into my first lesson.

The first thing I learned about real drums is that there is a right way and a wrong way to hold the drum sticks. The wrong way is with them clenched in your angry, straining fist like a Neanderthal. I have to be honest and tell you that this technique had served me well when practicing the air drums, so I was loath to change.

Me am here to rock this shit!

Similarly the bass drum, which in air drumming is always right there when you need it, in real drumming is kind of a dick. The kick pedal kept getting snared in my pants leg – that’s when it wasn’t recoiling with enough force to drive itself into my shin.

Originally conceived as a torture device.

But I would not be deterred. In fact, I had my sights firmly set on the future. Here in Japan, the country where stripping down to your short pants and painting your body up to look like a sea otter doesn’t even require an explanation let alone an excuse, I figured it was time to start working on my showmanship.

Showmanship. It's important.

Skip to lesson 2, the following week. I came prepared, mentally and questionally.

+For the first 10 minutes we practiced hitting rubber pads with our drumsticks. I don’t know if it’s because all the other members of the class were girls, but this seemed redundant to me. I’ve been hitting stuff with sticks since I first closed my chubby baby fist on a stick. I mastered that particular skill at age four. It was time to move things along.

“Sensei! Sensei!”

“Yes, BigMrJosh?” (See! It’s totally my real name)

“Can you twirl the sticks like a rock star?”

Words were not necessary. Instead, he casually but deftly spun the stick in his right hand. It was like the stick moved through his fingers. I fell in love a little bit, then.

“Sweeeeet. Teach us.”

Now, the other students may all have been girls, but that didn’t mean they were immune to awesome. So even though stick spinning probably doesn’t appear until Chapter 6 of our official drum school textbook (which I, budding rock star that I am, cannot afford) the only percussion in the drums room for the next 10 minutes came from the sound of rookie drummer stick-dropping. Eventually, I could see realisation dawning on Sensei: the lesson had gotten away from him. As he cleared his throat to continue, I took that moment, hand stretched skyward, to unleash the ultimate salvo, that question on every aspiring drummer’s lips:

“Hey, do we have a cowbell anywhere?”

What people are saying about BigMrJosh’s drumming:

“You’re like a child trapped in the body of a man-child.”

- BigMrJosh’s Patient Wife

“Now the blog of the year has the soundtrack it so richly deserves.”

- Some Guy I Paid 1000 Yen to.

“Thank goodness you don’t still live at home.”

- BigMrJosh’s Mum

Using the School Computer, Part 11 - What NOT to Do

I was at my Junior High School looking for fun IT-related facts on the internet the other day. It was for an upcoming seminar presentation that by the way will rock your face like a hurricane if you’re lucky enough to see it at this year’s job training.

But I digress. So, fun fact about IT-related fun facts: there aren’t any. The best I could find was the spurious claim that for every ‘normal’ website on the ‘net there are five porn sites. That means that the internet is 83% porn. I have two questions about this: 1) which side of that fence do Twilight fan sites fall on?

Twilight Romance: "Oh yeah! Soon as she falls asleep it's go time!"

and 2) Who confirmed this?! Whose job was it to count the porn sites?!

Mine! Geh-hehheh!!

This completely fictional fact made me realize: at the last job training seminar it wasn’t made explicitly clear that we shouldn’t be looking at porn on the work computers. I think I just assumed it was a no-no. Hey! “Explicitly.” Good pun! Heh.

Anyway, there is a super amazing filter on all the school computers that refuses to acknowledge porn exists on the internet. Presumably this means if you search for ‘tits’ you are linked to the British Ornithological Society (or BOS for short). 

Totally just saw some tits. Like a BOS. I think they were a breeding pair.

Unfortunately, I think whoever designed this system set their sights a bit low. Obviously if you type in “Paris Hilton” or “Saucy Mums” or “Thai egg-shoot trick good time” you are looking specifically for something disgusting and should expect to be blocked. But what shocked me was how many seemingly innocent search terms brought up dirty, dirty porn on my school’s “filtered” computer.

In the interest of helping my fellow professionals, I began compiling a list of these search terms. But my seminar co-presenter, big stuffed shirt that he is, was all like, “Dude, we were told to cut down on the amount of porn in our presentation. We’re supposed to be professionals, goddammit!” Long story (and two fistfights) short, my cautionary tale won’t be going in the presentation. So I’m publishing it here. Think of it like Special Features on a DVD but with lower production values.

So you don’t think I’m just making this up I will include an explanation of what I was hoping to achieve by using that specific search term. Usually I use google image search to find basic images to pretty up worksheets – because no one likes a boring worksheet. Otherwise I am looking for larger, more complex images to put on my school’s English Board in the hallway outside the staffroom. I also have a weird thing about cutting out pictures of my head and putting them on other bodies. But as you will see, I accidentally uncovered the sort of bodies that only Miley Cyrus’s head should be maliciously attached to. Although actually you won’t see; I’m not going to include any of the offending images here because I’m a classy guy. And I don’t want records of me downloading them from the school computer! However if you’re really keen to see Princess Zelda getting sexed by Link’s cartoon pony, I have given you the tools to do so. You sick freak.

The Unholy List of Forbidden Search Terms

Santa’s Little Helper – for an English Board display on Christmas. It turns out Santa loves sluts.
Smurfs – I wanted to make a worksheet about descriptive words. You know, ‘grumpy’ smurf, ‘jokey’ smurf. But I was so disturbed by what they were doing to Smurfette I abandoned the idea altogether. They really need more girls in that village.
Zelda Heart Container – The best worksheet I have ever made “A Link to the Past Tense”. It was almost worth viewing someone’s attempt at hentai horse rape.
Mario & Princess Peach – Okay, so my love of video games borders on obsession and I let my freak flag fly in my worksheets and PowerPoint presentations. But I have never felt so obsessed that I felt like drawing Mario violating Princess Peach. Who thinks this is a good idea?!
Angry Hulk – Having another crack at that descriptive words worksheet (I never did finish it) using my secondary go-to knowledge base after video games: comics. I have to say I thought I was in the clear with this one. And why that Hulk action figure was angry about being wedged between that porn star’s breasts, who could really say.
Girl in Love – For the Valentine’s Day English Board. I’m just… not mandated to teach kids about that.
Cute Teacher – I wanted some encouraging clipart to motivate students to try hard at a worksheet I was making. Honestly, I should’ve seen this one coming.
Man looks in a Hole – I was asked to write a listening test for students and I decided on the scenario that my co-worker Helen had fallen down a hole and I was questioning her as to how this had happened. It was all going fine until I was asked to find a visual reference to give students a starting point. Then goddamn.

It seems like there is a pattern to my misadventures. I have determined that if you want to use google image search on the school computer, you should avoid any mention of the words ‘boy’, ‘girl’, ‘man’, ‘woman’ or any other creature that has holes you can put dicks in. Additionally steer clear of anything you have fond childhood memories of, or alternatively, be prepared to have them shattered.

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...