Japanese Haircuts
Now Playing: hana hana
Japanese Haircut

So I’ve been putting off getting a haircut for over four months, which is much shorter than my usual haircut procrastination, which averages around 6-17 months or so.

I got my butt out the door finally on a hung over Sunday—I spent the previous evening at a “bonenkai,” which is a Japanese forgettheyear party, which involved the employment of lots of alcohol and karaoke, and was with all Japanese friends associated with the calligraphy teacher at my school, who happens to be the nicest person in the world, so it was awesome—and I dropped into this salon I’d passed many times on my way to the mall. It looked a little flashy, with good-looking women—and good-looking men—but I was in no mood to shop around for things. For some reason, my patience for chores has been rushed here—maybe it’s Japanese culture, maybe it’s the number of caffeinated beverages I consume, or maybe I’m just an impatient jerk, so I just walked in. It was windy as hell and raining out, so my hair might have been the reason they were smiling. You never know here, since seeing a non-asian person is reason enough to react in any number of ways.

I should have known that a Japanese haircut is an ordeal of it’s own class. The first thing I said was that I just wanted a haircut, but maybe the word I used for haircut was “super-sweet new style that rides the line of postmodern fashion,” or maybe that’s the only word they have for “haircut,” who knows. I think it started with the samurais—they got some pretty sweet ‘dos.

After I sat down, there was some paperwork, of which I could only understand the basics-name, address, whatever—but then there were all kinds of questions about my hairstyle and everything. I’ve noticed how Japanese communication has almost a complete lack of questioning or criticism. When you talk to someone, you tell them every freaking detail you know about the situation, and if you’re listening, you say, “hai” every few seconds (or sometimes every second on the second—no kidding) because they are too shy or think it’s rude to ask questions. Also, they got to know everything about something before they do it. They make a plan and stick to it come hell or tsunami.

Later, the dude came over to show me some pictures of guys that look like 80’s rock stars, and I just kind of nodded at one and he seemed satisfied. He did kind of squint and look at my hair for a second, puzzled, but accepted the challenge, apparently.

There were no uniforms, which surprised me, so it was young people decked out in all kinds of sweet clothes. It’s as if you mixed 70’s clothes, 80’s clothes, and some old sci-fi uniforms together with some cowboy boots and zippers. Then there are the hairstyles. I’ve never felt so uncool in my life.

Another thing I’ve noticed. I’m in denial of how much I stick out here. All I see are Japanese people, so I forget how white and tall I am. Looking into the enormous mirror, that looked as though it were a salvaged piece from a very large mirror that had previously been broken, was a good reminder of what I am. I felt really big.

I don’t think the guy cutting my hair was gay, which made things more awkward for me. When two straight guys have to touch each other, it’s always a little awkward. If the dude were gay, at least one of us would enjoy the process.

So in the interest of excluding the excessive details, the process involved at least ten different scissors, a hair dryer, an electric shaver the size of a small pencil, two trips to the washbasin, a massage, styling gel, and an awkward, broken Japanese conversation. I speak less and less Japanese as I realize how poor I am at it, so much of my conversations with commerce personnel are comprised of saying how difficult it is to learn Japanese, where I’m from, where I’ve been in Japan, me asking the other person how many ninjas they’ve battled in their life, and me being disappointed when I learn that there are no more ninjas in the world.

Over an hour later, and after a bill that would have made my dad scream like a schoolgirl, I got my choice of green, yellow or blue 2006 planners (I went with blue, although the lemon yellow was tempting), a schedule of the shop, and a punch card that would save me about half the cost of a haircut after like another 20 haircuts. So I’ll have to be here another 10 years to redeem that baby, and that’s just the kind of ridiculous goal that would keep me here that long.

horse in the wine
I’m going to try out my skeptical, cynical, sarcastic voice with a vernacular twist. It’s been a while.

So I don’t like to go out like every night, you know, but my friends have always taken it personally when I don’t want to go out. Teaching really takes it out of me, so sometimes I just need some time to myself to recover, but I swear, some people don’t understand why you would not want to be in a crowded restaurant with a bunch of obnoxious, near-drunk people asking you why you haven’t finished your beer yet.

Like last Thursday when one of my better friends here keeps emailing my phone (that’s how we communicate in Japan), asking me why I’m not at the bar, after I’ve already told him I don’t want to go out. First of all, phone emailing (like text messages) is annoying as hell—you can convey short messages, but when you want to explain more complex reasons, it just leads to a trail of about 10 messages back and forth, and each message is a minimum 4-minute investment to typing. As a side note, Japanese people are ridiculously fast at writing on their phones. I think I saw some dude writing a term paper on the train on his cell, which is possibly the coolest thing I can think of right now. Except maybe the rock group Kiss. They’re definitely cooler, even though I don’t like their music. When I do go out when I’m tired, I usually just kind of sit their and nod once in a while, and then people get angry with me.

“Dude, what’s the matter with you? You’ve barely said anything. Say something funny,” someone will say.

“I slept with your girlfriend.”

“Yeah! That’s what I’m talking about.”

And other times I like cut loose and just make an ass of myself, which I’m not very proud of either, but it feels good. And it doesn’t help when my friends encourage it.

So after refusing to go out all week, I went out to someone’s birthday party in Osaka. We had our own room reserved in a nice Japanese Italian restaurant, not an Italian restaurant. In a Japanese Italian restaurant, they have Italian dishes, but they’re Japanified, like squid pasta or octopus lasagna and stuff.

There were a lot of other people from the teaching program I’m on, so they were mostly assistant language teachers in Japanese public schools plus some of the Japanese friends they’ve made. One guy, who is not at all attractive with an equally annoying personality—okay, so he wouldn’t be that bad if it wasn’t the coyote-like laugh he lets out at inappropriate times—walks in with three modestly good-looking women. Only in Japan, I guess.

On the other hand, the biggest asshole (and I don’t bust out profanity unless it’s very, very well-deserved) I’ve met in Japan, Mr. E, walks in with two ridiculously hot women, who I’ve met before, but I have to throw it in here as continuing evidence for the age-old theory that women like ass holes. I don’t know what it is. Women are always—and I mean ALWAYS—complaining about how bad their men treat them, but I honestly am starting to believe that they like abuse. Okay, maybe some women don’t, I don’t know, I’ve never been a woman, but at least there’s a good sized population of jerk-seeking women that simultaneously say they’re sick of winding up with jerks. I could go Freudian and speculate that they’re trying to recreate the abusive relationship they had with their father, but I’ll leave that up to readers to decide.

So, like I was saying, Japnaese Italian restaurant, hot women, stupid guys, and me and my buds Mr. M and Mr. N.

Then this good-looking girl sits down next to me. I’ve know her since my first day in Japan, but I barely see her. She’s a pretty dull person, and not very smart. She dumped her long-distance boyfriend to sleep with Mr. E, whom just had her as a vacation from his other Sunday girlfriend. This was the subject of some gossip among my friends, as we don’t really have anything else to talk about. It sparked a big debate about dating ethics, which will someday be added to other great philosophical works, I’m sure.

So anyway, she sits down, puts her bag between us and says, “This is my boundary, and I want you to respect my boundaries.”

I’d already had a couple of drinks, so my mouth was on autopilot, and my autopilot happens to be pretty honest. Without hesitation, I said, “Hey, don’t flatter yourself, honey. I just came for the beer.” Realizing what I said, I tried to divert her attention by reaching for my friend Mr. M on the other side of me, saying, “And to make sure this guy comes home with me. Don’t want him getting too chatty with the local girls, you know?”

“What do you mean, ‘flatter myself,’?” She asks?

“What?” I said.

And then, taking the cue, Mr. M says, “Whaaaat?” in high falsetto.

I was pretty entertaining the rest of the night, either intentionally or unintentionally. I have a habit of not caring what other people think of me, so I basically talk to entertain myself, which is a pretty obnoxious thing to witness.

There were two birthdays, officially, although at least four other people claimed it to be their birthday, or at least in the vicinity of their birthday, of which I was guilty of doing at some point. One of the birthdays was a Japanese woman in her early thirties, who I was meeting for the first time, and I was later explained that she had been hanging out with JETs like us for some time. Each year, some would go home and she met the new JETs, so her original friends on the JET program were long gone. It seems really sad to have to say goodbye to friends every year.

As we were ordering, I heard her say, “chotto matte,” a very basic Japanese phrase, but in my contented state, I felt compelled to explain it to the girl next to me.

“Chotto matte. That’s Japanese for ‘wait a sec.’”

“Really?” she feigned interest.

“Yes, it ah, it’s a very informal expression so you have to be careful.”

“So I should only say it to my friends.”

“Sure, sure. It’s actually a very old expression.”

She nodded.

“Yeah, if I’m not mistaken, it, ah, comes from the French saying, “chou matwah. And that actually means, ‘kiss me, you fool.’”

So the evening continued with my ridiculous lies and people pretending to be interested in them. On the other hand, as I was pretending to be interested in the girl next to me, Mr. N had slipped an iron horse ornament into my wine. They were originally set on the table as chopsticks holders, but he had somehow collected everyone’s iron horse, and put one in my wine. My response was very rational.

“Horse in the wine,” I said to the people around me. Then I said it over and over as though I were speaking in conversation. “Horseinthewine horseinthewine? Horseinthewine horseinthewine.”

Then the horseinthewine gag evolved into a contest to see who could say it the loudest. It wasn’t long before there was a horseinthebeer and everyone shouting horseinthewine. Later in the night, someone got up to make a birthday toast, and after saying something like, “to our Japanese friends,” or something, I had enough audacity and beer in me to say a resounding “horseinthewine!” which was met with an answer from everyone.

When we left the restaurant, the Japanese birthday woman found that Mr. N had stolen several of the iron horses as a souvenir, at which she visibly upset. But the Japanese don’t show negative emotions well, so she smiled and shook her head. Then she went back to the restaurant to pay for the horses. It seems like every time we go out, we find a new level of obnoxiousness to rise to. Or sink to.

On the Inside
I’m more selfish than most people I know. Too often, I find myself getting caught up in plans I’ve made, unwilling to compromise them for the sake of someone else. And I’ve hurt people I’ve cared about because of this habit.

There are very few foreign English teachers in my situation—teaching at a very academic high school. One of the top high schools in the Osaka area, and therefore one of the top schools in Japan. Designing lessons for these students isn’t easy. First of all, the teachers have their own agendas, and if I let them have their way, I’m just a tape recorder, reading lines for them to repeat and maybe talking about a trip I recently took or how in America, we don’t usually eat raw fish or fermented soybeans. Yeah, this kind of stuff helps, but often times it’s boring for me, and definitely boring for the students. Lately, I’ve been trying to push in some more fast-paced activities and worksheets and things to get students sharing with each other and with me. It’s kind of worked.

I’ve been having beers with two Canadian dudes at a school of similar academic level. They’re both really funny, easy-going guys, but they also share my passion for teaching. It’s really, really rare you find people like that these days, I don’t know why.

So last time, we went out to this place called the Lone Star. Oh, man, it’s been a while since I’ve had decent nachos and burgers and other George Bush food. And a pitcher of beer—the idea of a pitcher of beer hasn’t caught on in Japan. It’s a glass of beer or a bottle of beer, no pitchers. It’s little treats like that that are refreshing.

They brought along one of their teachers, who is in her first year of teacher, and on whom I definitely have a tragic crush. But that’s besides the point—I refuse to digress into a romantic soap opera rhetoric, so if you want that, then pick up one of those grocery store novels or read Dick Cheney’s diary.

One of the things they’re doing at their school is journaling. I checked one of these out, and their first year students can write better than most of our third year students. They always preached to me in education: students will rise to your expectations, and this is testimony to that. At my school, we yell grammar and complex reading passages at them in Japanese and wonder why they can’t write in their last year.

Next, they switched one of their classes to all English, which is a huge step, considering that most Japanese English courses do not involve speaking English, only reading or listening to it. Yeah, I don’t get it either. Language was first made from people speaking it, not writing it, so why can’t we learn it that way? Anyway, this class that was all English did the poorest on exams at the beginning of the year. Three months later, they’re the best. Coincidence? Well, if you teach at my school, then you say, “yes, defiantly a coincidence. No one can learn a language without having grammar yelled at them in Japanese.”

So I had a dramatic week wrestling for more free time after school last week, which was mildly successful. At least I made the point that I may choose not to do things after school, at the risk of being excommunicated by the senior teacher, which happened to the previous teacher in my position. Anyway, I can’t get fired for trying to do my job, as painful as it may get.

Next, I’m doing journals next year with the first year students(the Japanese school year starts in March). I don’t care if I have to respond to all 240 student journals myself, but it’ll be done. The plan is not to correct English. I just write back a page letter to them.

Then, I’m trying to convince teachers to do the whole class in English. This has proven to be a formidable challenge. Some teachers want to do it, and I’m almost there with three of them. Others, however, are scared, confused and therefore hostile about the idea. They have little confidence in the students and themselves. And I feel like a jackass trying to tell someone who’s been professionally educated to do this job and have been doing it for over 10 years, when I’m not educated in teaching English, and have been doing it less than three months.

I keep remembering bits of advice form teachers and my parents like in some over-dramatized kung-fu movie where the main character is like about to die, but then he remembers something his sensei told him—you know, like one of those cheesy lines, like, “move like water,” or “a man’s strength is behind his eyes,” or “get me a freaking beer already.”

Here’s what I remember:

1. You catch more flies with honey. My mom says this one. I actually hear my dad telling me that my mom says this, never her actually telling me. Anyway, it comes to me whenever I get worked up over something and want to argue with someone. So I back down and rethink. Pick battles.

2. Be persistent. My student teacher observer kept telling me this one. It’s sort of like the if you don’t succeed….saying, but I like this better. Every time I’m at my wit’s end, there’s always one more thing I can do, one more cheese ball you can eat. Just one more brownie, sir…(That was Monty Python).

I’ve seen to much potential in the students at this school to let another class slide into mediocrity. They have so much positive energy, talents and they’re all smarter than me. Time and time again I’ve been moved by their attitudes towards learning and speaking English. If only I could share that with the teachers… But in class, it’s sit down and shut-up time. I don’t understand this part of Japanese culture, and I don’t think most Japanese people understand it either, but it’s what they do. It’s this look in their eyes, if they’re even open—this kind of desire to open up in class, but they don’t think it’s okay. They don’t understand how learning can be interactive, and therefore, in order to show that they want to learn, they stare at their notebooks and don’t talk. The idea that they might ask questions and share with me and the rest of the class is associated with being a bad student. So every day I see incredibly talented students—students that can speak better in English than my president, students that have memorized ten or more American pop songs, students that have written essays with the words “refurbished” and “incentive” correctly used—and they just sit there, leaving their gifts, ideas and smiles inside their heads.

So freaking sweet
Now Playing: Canada punk--sum 41. Hey, when you're angry, what the hell else can you listen to, right? Ok, maybe Kiss.
So I've been trying to keep this blog less like a blog and more true to traditional writing—like essay or narrative, but forgive me this one indulgence in a more sloppy, arrogant entry.

First, if you've just been enjoying the blog, that's cool, but I highly recommend that you check out the pictures and videos and stuff available at the whiteguy home, which you can reach clicking one of the links on stage right, that is, your left.

Also, I have to say, the hits for this page have been jumping over 100 some days, which blows my mind. I don’t think I know 100 people, and I made a point not to submit this to search engines like google and stuff, unlike my other web page, pizzaninjas.com, which you should totally check out if you haven’t.

I’ve been told that my blog has been popular among people I don’t know, and I’m very flattered. Lately ego has been like one of those pop cans in the road that gets run over again and again, so this has helped inflate it to the healthy size of a pop can that’s in the road, but not getting run over again and again.

So thanks to people for the positive support. I honestly never thought anyone but my family and one friend would read this blog. Anyway, I’m running out of ideas and time to write lately, so if you have questions, post them on the blog, or email me at trogdar7@yahoo.com. And whatever you do, make sure you rock out. Life is short, and it’s the little things that matter in the end, like brushing your teeth, flossing, and rocking out. Seriously, put on some music you haven’t listened to in a few years—you know like Smashing Pumpkins or Offspring, turn it up loud and sing along in high falsetto. ROCK OUT!

Miracle of miracles
Life has been pretty freaking good to me here, I can’t lie, but I have this habit of idealizing and putting pressure on myself to make other people happy, specifically, the students. Lately, I’ve been getting really frustrated with the situation at work. Without going into great detail, I’ve been rained down on with extra projects, meetings and lessons with teachers. Some of these might sound nice and helpful, like the Geology lesson I taught with another teacher today, half in English, but they turn out to be only superficially enriching. The lesson itself was just one long lecture, throughout which most of the over 50 students in attendance dozed off or tuned me out. Leading up to it there were several meetings and practice runs which were pretty worthless, and after the lesson there was an hour-long discussion with visiting teachers from other schools. I’ve had to break promises to students over and over—saying I’d carve a pumpkin with them after school or go to their club—which hurts me and them, just so that I can go to these meetings and things. And it’s not just this one lesson…

I’m caught between contingencies—I want to keep the man happy at school, but I also want to do what I call, my job, which is basically spending as much time as I can with the students. Over and over again, I’m moved and impressed by students kindness, gifts, willingness to learn and talk to me, and some of the diamonds in the rough who speak so damn well, but never speak up in class. I’ve gotten gifts from over ten students and they take time to teach me Japanese, calligraphy or slap high fives with me when we finish a track workout. But these things are running thin, as my time is stolen by the man…

Why is the Japanese student suicide rate so high? Because we bark grammar at them, ignoring the social and emotional aspects of education. It really hurts me to see some of these kids made into robots, it really does. I actually heard that there’s like some condition where kids literally shut off socially, and just study all day, all night—I think I maybe know one or two of them. They just fade into the woodwork. It’s a kind of murder, I think, to ignore the problem.

On a lighter note, I found out that I brought the first two jack-o-lanterns to my school, as far as my teachers know. I was floored. How can that not have happened before? Also, I threw like the craziest Halloween party I’ve ever been to. Over 100 students came, and I put over 100 bucks into the things what with decorations and candy and costumes. I’m sure someone didn’t approve of it, but it was so freaking sweet, I don’t care. Some of the teachers dressed up too. Special thanks to my sister who sent some good supplies. That was almost a sentence. It needs another verb. And a subject.

We went on a school trip to a mountain—Mt. Kongo-san I think. I didn’t look around much because I was literally talking with students the entire time. It was mostly in English, but I somehow managed to fill up 60 flashcards with new expressions and stuff. There’s this one line that a student taught me that is so cheesy, and it goes over so well in any situation, even if you don’t use it correctly, and it goes like “sono hassou wa nakattawaa!” which is like a Leave it to Beaver-esc “Golly, gee, I never would have thought of that,” kind of thing. I’ve won over bar crowds and random people with this baby. It’s that sweet. If only I could teach the English department how learning phrases outside of the grammar books can help communication. Who’d have thought people could learn language without a book? Miracle of miracles.

The name game never gets old. I’m up to probably over 70 student names. But it is a bad feeling when students come up to me, pointing at their nose, smiling, waiting, and then the smile fades when they know I’ve forgotten their name, and then sometimes physical violence follows, of which I am the recipient.

Test me
Now Playing: Orenji Renji
(Written almost two weeks ago)
The school has gone into exam mode, where students are taking midterms without any normal classes for about a week. The second years started early, as they’re going on a school trip to Hokkaido. How cool is that? The entire grade goes. Everything about the school is more community-oriented like that which makes me wish I had that experience. I asked about going and I might be able to next year…we’ll see I guess.

So I have a lot more free time, in which I just study Japanese and do odd jobs. Like I’ve appointed myself the English Department janitor—anything I can do to help. During lunch, I go to the cafeteria, and while most of the boys still kind of treat me as a novelty, and most of the girls just smile and nod and don’t say much, I’ve found a couple steady groups that take an honest interest in speaking English and trying to teach me some cool Japanese. And these aren’t the so-called nerds of the school, but some of the more outgoing people, which surprised me. Since the kids really get a kick out of me attempting Japanese, I always check to see if they’re teaching me offensive words, but I’ve found I can trust kids for the most part. The only frustrating thing is that they often tell me their nicknames or just make something up, so that name game is still hard. I think by the end of the school I’ll be able to name all 450 students that I currently teach. I’ve got maybe 50 right now.

In other news, I had the second cancer scare of my life, but this was a very long shot—I found a hard lump under my left nipple that had a discharge. OK no more details, don’t worry. And while yes, I know breast cancer is extremely rare in men I managed to get worked up over it—I even called a family friend that day and embarrassingly forgot to check the time, which ended up being about one a.m. for Minnesota. But I got into the doctor today, and it’s nothing. One of my Japanese friends was there to translate, bless her soul, which made the four-hour hurry-up-and-wait process much easier.

The Force of the Prosaic
So the lesson we taught today was based on a passage from, “A Walk to Remember,” by the best-selling, sellout author, Nicholas Sparks, who brought you other cliche tearjerkers as, “The Notebook,” and “The Nice Guy Who’s Lonely and There’s This Girl Who Likes Him But for Some Reason Can’t Tell Him at Present.” You get the idea. It’s bad enough the kids have to suffer through this, with English that’s too complex for them. If we have to shove American Literature at them, at least make it something we’re proud of, I’m thinking. The selection can be explained by the fact that the text was written by the reigning English teacher, a guy who likes a little romance, I guess.

But seriously, it’s bad enough that this kind of book infects America, but now it’s making it’s way to other countries. This is the kind of book that makes chicks ask their boyfriends, “How come you never do anything that romantic?” or “Can we do something else besides watch football?” and the guys are like, “I sent you flowers on Valentine’s Day, what else am I supposed to do?”

And guys, those of you who haven’t figured this one out yet, I got news for you. You can do all the things that the guys do in the movies, including coming up with the cheesiest, fluffiest, Victorian analogies to her beauty—which I officially do not recommend, notwithstanding—but women will not stop wanting things from you until they have your very soul.

So what do you do? You burn every one of those books that you find. I recommend purchasing a welding torch, but a standard Bic lighter will do the job. Matches, I discourage, as you may not be quick enough with them. Good luck, men, and may the force of the prosaic be with you.

I Write, and What's Better, Express
Even the most extroverted (as much as I hate using the words, “introvert” and “extrovert,” I do here…), friendly student in class will not let out any kind of expression beyond looking straight forward and using their tape recorder voice in class in their responses to me. I’ve tried everything I can to get them excited about sharing something in English, but they’ve been trained so well by Japanese culture, that only outside of class can I succeed in this. It’s discouraging because this is how I like to teach, and I know some students want to learn this way in Japan, but I can’t give the chance to them.

This is what’s on my mind—that and trying to desperately learn Yamamoto’s name and Kitagawa’s name and the complex characters that stand for them. Sometimes I can’t come up with any image or mnemonic device to remember them and that’s trouble.

This, and one of my teachers was critical of my participation in class. I barely have any involvement, but I try to shine when I’m on. It’s hard to pay attention when all the directions are in Nihongo, and so I start trying to do something useful like learn a name or two, but then I’m distracted from the lesson.

I try to involve the students and get them to speak whenever I can because most of the teachers never ask them to, unless they’re asked to translate something, in which case they speak in Japanese and in the quietest voice imaginable. I seriously cannot tell which student is speaking unless I know where to look.

So I went to a student that I knew from calligraphy club and got her name wrong, but quickly recovered.

“Do you like calligraphy club?”

“Yes.”

“And what do you like about calligraphy club?”

“Ahh. Misuta (whiteguyinjapan) ees een carigurafee curabu.”

“Oh, great! Thank you very much. Okay,” I said, going to the board. And I write in penmanship more ugly than the teacher’s a sentence that relates to the relative pronoun construction of the day. Miss Yamamoto likes calligraphy club, and what’s better, Mr. Bly is in calligraphy club. My plan is that the students will wake up since I’m talking to one of their classmates, and also the girl can feel proud because she contributed to class. My teacher, who is one of the teachers I enjoy teaching with, doesn’t think this is so thrilling.

After class, she criticized most of my participation, especially this sentence, the only one I got to make.

“It has very mild relation,” she explained. Maybe she’s right, maybe I shouldn’t risk asking students things, at the risk of making a difficult sentence. (She was looking for something like, “Tom is smart, and what’s better, clever.”) I don’t think I can change the way I teach—no other way makes sense to me, but I am in a foreign culture, so maybe I’m not giving enough and trying to force what’s natural to me. And so, I will not bother the students. I will teach simpler, and what’s better, not controversially.

Japanese TV
It's hard to express the overlying trends of formality, organization, and intensity in Japanese culture. If you're going to go, go all out. If you're going to do something, you got to have the right uniform. There's a freaking uniform for everything. I bet some people even change into a TV watching uniform. I bet there's a different uniform for light strolling vs. walking or moderate-paced walking, but I'm not keen enough to pick it out.

The soap operas basically redefine the genre, with ultra-dramatic scenes that could squeeze a tear out of Dick Cheney and make their American counterpart look like a Jim Carry movie.

Right now there's all these music videos on, but they go so fast I can't tell who's who--there's a new one every 10 seconds. The dancing in the videos, I don't get. And the decorations vary from millions of pink and white balloons to a screen flashing cartoon designs with smoke coming down through stage lights. The singing...well...they try, and they throw in random English words a lot--it's common for them to write half a phrase in English and then switch to Japanese.

The there was this talk show I was watching earlier that was like a combination of Oprah, The Price is Right and Iron Chef--yeah, it's as awesome as it sounds. From what it looks like, honestly, what I think is happening is either a dude or a hot chick comes out with something they just cooked, and they serve it to several judges, who consist of celebrities and food critics, and then the people have to evaluate it and guess if the food was made as a joke or if it's actually a very odd delicacy. Sometimes they'd get up and spit it out. It was great. And then there's all these other people that comment randomly and a studio audience--I can't figure it out.

The commercials are by far the best. I've seen all kinds of washed up American celebrities endorsing things, as well as some pretty creative acting. I just watched this one where a shop owner comes out, starts yelling at the customers, and then all of a sudden, two customers come out with a limbo bar and the shop owner starts partying. I kid you not, friends. Or, there was one where people are eating rice in different situations and look really surprised. At the same time, there's this clapping and chanting I can't make out, and then they zoom out to hundreds of rice packages lined up in a bright room. And then my favorite was a bunch of car sellers sitting on top of a tall, computer-drawn garage, and they all shout something. That's it. Oh, and let's not forget the random cute cartoons that appear throughout all commercials. Those are
pretty sweet too.

Caligraphy Club
“You want to join calligraphy club?” K-sensei asked, a sudden interest coming through in the normally dry, careful way she speaks in English.

“Yes of course,” I replied.

K-sensei had just finished showing me how to make newspaper prints for student worksheets in the downstairs office, a fairly small chore, but one that I always hesitate to ask. I really don’t like bothering the English teachers so much and it seems like there’s always something. I had tried on several other occasions to do so, but the senior teacher at my department had always made them for me, as he enjoys taking my drafts from under my nose like fresh meat. It’s a bit flattering, but also alienating since it’s hard to retain ownership of anything I do. And then he tries to change things…

“I am in charge of calligraphy club,” K-sensei continued, as we abruptly changed course to go to the calligraphy (shodou) room. K-sensei is still an enigma to me—I don’t really know what she gets out of teaching. When she said she’s in charge of calligraphy club, I think it’s mostly a formality since she doesn’t participate with the students. I had met some of the students before, maybe two of all five that were there.

I was introduced to the calligraphy teacher, who was a very warm, friendly woman that smiled and nodded a lot. She had drawn the Chinese characters for my name a month earlier as a gift, but I never got the chance to meet her.

The participants were all girls, except one boy, who was a third year student and just kind of hung out there while he studied—third year students have too much pressure from entrance exams so they quit their club activities.

There was a big debate over what I should draw first and it turned into more of an ordeal than I expected. Finally, I just pulled out a simple one—“TEN,” which is the character for spirit/energy, as used in weather and stuff. The boy student, y-kun—the kind of person that’s all smiles, asks the shiest girl in the corner to draw it for me.

“She is the besto,” he explains.

K-sensei nods. “She has been practicing since she was a little girl. Yeah,” she says, still nodding.

The girl wiped and wiped the brush, took some practice strokes over the page, planning her attack. Then, slower than I imagined, and with great care, she drew the character stroke by stroke. It looked exactly like the sample sheet she had from class.

Then I took a stab at it. I don’t think I did that bad for a first time, but there was a very obvious difference in my creation and her work of art. The teacher chattered in Japanese that I didn’t understand and worked with me on drawing, guiding the brush as I held it. Other students worked with me and showed me some of their favorite characters, or just talked with me about school.

I joined the club in order to learn the characters, but already after my first day, I discovered how beautiful the characters can be. The brush stroke is unbelievably sensitive, and although I have a very poor conception of the art, I can appreciate the power behind it. Learning Japanese, I’ve felt more and more like a kid playing with his dad’s gun, which I’ve never done. The more I learn, the more easily I see how I can make mistakes and make even offensive or at least impolite, crude statements, on accident, or because I don’t know any other way to phrase myself. But the students are unbelievably patient and appreciative of my effort, more than I could ask for.

In return, I drew their names in the Japanese alphabet, which they were amazed at, but shouldn’t have been—I’m ashamed at how little Japanese I can speak. I titled it “shodou club,” and the boy y-kun promptly pinned it up on the wall, looking sort of like a two-year-old’s fridge finger painting.