Reading Nooks
In response to Madame Flamingo's words...

I need a place to read a good story on a rainy day. Bastion’s reading room in The Neverending Story comes to mind. There's a shortage of reading nooks in Japan, so I go to the Starbucks in the mall when I'm feeling reclusive and read there, but I get the urge to hide when I read, so it's not that satisfying.

When I was a kid I would make a fort out of sheets in my room and bring in all kinds of snacks. I was a very slow reader, so I mostly just ate.

As an adult, when I was in Minnesota, I would set a lawn chair out on summer/fall days in the shade with a beer. No one does lawn chairs in Japan. I’ll have to start that trend.

For my down time at school, I'll have to break through one of the walls at my school, put in an old couch and a table for a hot water dispenser and tea materials—that or sneak into the tea ceremony room. Here's to reading nooks...

Frailty, thy name is WOMAN!
For those of you who didn?t figure out the title, read Hamlet. And I don?t mean anything against women, but there is the overriding theme in Shakespeare that chicks cause evil, but that?s just because Shakespeare was a dude, and for dudes, that?s definitely true, in my experience as a dude, that is, I can say. If he?d been a chick, well then dudes would suck. But he wasn?t, so guys are awesome. Anyway. I should connect this theme to Japan pretty quick or you?re going to start reading that other blog, and then my sponsors would ditch me and I?d have to do some kind of work for suckers like teaching to make money.

So I?ve known for a while that half the bars I pass in downtown Osaka are one of several categories with different rules about the women. The most innocent are ?hostess? bars, where women are paid to get flirty with the gentlemen that visit the establishment, drink with them, eat with them, laugh at their bad jokes, etc., or as we know it in the west, ?marriage.? The very self-respecting women that have chosen this kind of career also have the responsibility of calling their customers, and?this part is optional?going out for dinner with him and more. These kind of establishments have shades of gray all the way to prostitution.

Now, who frequents these wholesome businesses? Unmarried, lonely, good-willed young men? I don?t think so. I?ve seen the drunk jerks that make up a good chunk of Japanese society. The ?salary men? (sarareemahn they say) who, as if it weren?t bad enough that they stay out late drinking and neglecting their families, also spend a good chunk of their time and money at these places.

It?s learning the sad facts about reality like that that make me remember Jr. High School moments: seeing my crush holding hands with another guy. I?ll never forget the times I was secretly broken by a girl, watching helplessly as she smiled and talked to some big, muscled guy. I remember telling myself, ?This is just growing up. Everything?s different when you?re grownup.? Then I think about the fairytales I read as a kid. I want to take one of those prince and princess stories, march into one of the hostess bars, slam it on the table, and yell, ?See?! See? They ride off into the sunset together, and they live happily ever after, damnit! Can?t you read? Get it together, man!? Then the guy will say, ?I donta supeeka da Engurishu!? And I?ll be like, ?This isn?t English, this is life! Figure it out.? Then I?ll look at the girl and be like, ?so, what are you doing later??

I guess, as I wrote recently to my dear sister, if you look at the divorce rates in America, we?re not doing much better. But at least we manage to pack all of our infidelities into the confines of Las Vegas (sorry Buckwalter and Madame flock hunt, you two may be the only pure souls in that city of debauchery). Still, it?s sad to think that according to statistics, whomever you marry, you will most likely have more than one infidelity and/or divorce in your lifetime.

But don?t let the numbers fool you. Man?s power of ignorance is stronger than his intelligence, as Bush has demonstrated, so the happy ending is still there, for you, my friends. So I bid thee: follow the yellow brick road, drink from the fountain of youth and jump over the slough of despond, for "Love from one side hurts, but love from two sides heals? (Shakespeare).

Did you drink a beer for saint patty?
As I’ve said before, I think one of the most important steps into adulthood is to admit you are a hypocrite.

I’ve never really liked going out to packed bars with people, and I can’t recall any time I enjoyed enough to justify the cost and the sleeping in and the hangover of the next day. I think it’s something people do in response to the week of work or studying, or if they’re a bum, just because they have nothing else to do. They’ve been starved for social contact, so they go and shout at people in a hot room with music so loud that no one can understand them anyway.

But it was my friend’s birthday and St. Patrick’s Day, and with those hefty reasons stacked against you, it’s hard to worm your way out of a social call. First off the train we met with some other foreigners that I didn’t know. There was a girl, teaching at a high school much like my position, and she had come with an exchange student from her school—a high school student. So he’s like 18. I started talking to him and it turns out he’s from Minnesota, gosh darn wouldn’t yabecha. And he was a pretty witty guy, if a bit insecure about his age—but can you blame him? Still, if I were in high school here, I’d just hang out with the other high school kids. He applied through some program that lets him spend a year in the school here, apparently free of the responsibility to do any of the homework, and in spite of the fact that he had not studied a word of the language before he got off the plane. Is this really where my tax dollars are going? Well, not this year, if my income tax fancywork pays off.

The first bar was named “McMickey’s” or “McMarlow” or whatever and it was full of English-speaking foreigners who all had something desperate to say to each other. I crammed myself next to the bar and my friends started taking pictures, celebrating the great five minutes they’ve spent together sweating with other strangers. The crowd was your usual bar crowd: guys with wooden smiles talking to girls while they nod like a Labrador and pretend to wave or give even cheesier signals to their “friends” across the room. Then there’s the guys whose idea of a joke is saying a story louder and with more hand gestures. The women, well, the common bar-going women I know mostly shed their personality at the door, and just like to smile and stare into a guys eyes, nodding and saying “yeah” or “no” or a “no way!” or “that is so cool!” with more and more emotion as the conversation continues, then move on to someone new. Repeat.

I just kept saying we should get ramen. That’s the only thing I like to do past midnight. And it’s also the only place I can speak to people, other than in the street between bars, but in the street, you’re just trying to figure out how to get to the next bar. We never made it to a ramen place; I’ll just spoil whatever weak suspense I had laid out.

My favorite part of the evening was when my friend Mr. Mi started puking. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t out of sadism, it just forced me and a few people to hang out in the street and chat while he recovered. And also we got some drinks at a nearby convenience store (you never have to go farther than ten steps to find a convenience store in Japan). The only conversation of substance that I had occurred at this time, with Mr. G, who was telling me how he decided to call it quits with the JET program after two years to go back to his woman in the states. I’ve had two friends that have decided to do this, the other is quitting after one year. Both say that if it weren’t for their women, they’d stay.

The problem with falling in love is that it usually doesn’t fit into your schedule very well. I guess there's other problems with it too.

The Fool's Paradise
"Traveling is a fool's paradise... I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea and at last wake up in Naples, and there besides me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from." --Mr. Emerson

I actually share a b-day with this man. But he has a more depressing view of traveling than I do. Kind of reminds me of my father in that way--even the things he loves, he will criticize and evaluate until they don't sound worth doing--everything except turning lights off. I think If my father were to have his own personal heaven, It'd be a long hallway with lots of lights on, and he could go running down it, turning lights off as fast as he can. "I'm saving so much energy! The electricity bill will be a fraction of what it was..."

So I went traveling. I'm in Japan, and I don't know when I'll be back here, so I figure it's worth seeing a temple or two before I get deported for acting too American.

There's a lot of people who came to Japan with me mainly because they like traveling. I'm sure most sane people enjoy traveling to some extent, but I'm a bit skeptical of people who list it as a hobby or they're favorite thing. I mean, if you're really interested in history and read about certain places as much as my father, or if you like nature a lot and you want to hike or ski, I can understand that. I'm not necessarily talking about checklist tourists, but I think some people travel because they honestly can't think of anything to do when they don't have work. There's people here that fly all over eastern Asia just to go bar hopping and sit on beaches or get cheap massages. Okay, if you're a soulless business executive, I say, bon voyage. Otherwise, grow up.

The age of airplanes will be short, I warn thee. Commercial airlines have been affordable to the mid to upper class for some 30 years or so, right? I can’t say that people will fly around the world the way they do for more than another 40 years. Other than gasoline, even if other technology were invented, it would never be nearly as economical, and therefore commercial airlines will never be the same. It will be a passing trend in human history, unless we get a shipment of oil from Jupiter or something. Then it’ll be back to trains and ships if you want to travel, suckers, and that means you just might have to read a book, or at least consider it during the long ride.

Then there’s people here than may or may not travel frequently, but I’m wondering why the hell they came all the way over here. There’s some that actually resist learning the language, culture or history. I mean like actually try not to. Maybe it’s an undiscovered disease called George Bush syndrome: must not educate self…must remain ignorant to other points of view…must used poor grammar…

I saw Hiroshima and southern Japan; you can check it out in the pictures section.

Playing the Fool
Why the hell did I move to Japan? Shouldn’t I be furthering my career on American soil and focusing on how great my country is? One of the hard things about living abroad, especially in Japan, is that you get the feeling that you’re a walking English lesson for everyone, and there the subtle strings of racism come through in passive aggression or through attitudes that you are not a responsible or capable person. Enough to give a guy a headache. Or at least an ache’n for a beer.

I can’t say that most of the foreigners here don’t fit the stereotypes made for them, but it’s so easy to meet the low expectations for foreigners because the Japanese want them to be clowns. (On a side note, they say JD Salinger's friends said that on the rare occasion he went out drinking, he 'played the fool.' I bet that guy dragged the piss out of everyone.) I work with a teacher who encourages me to be crazy in class, and for a while I was, but I realized that he liked to use me as a kind of toy—he the sensei and me the pet entertainer—he didn’t play along, as his own high opinion of himself and how a real teacher should behave was to only lecture from the podium in a monotone voice.

The other day, I was having dinner with the calligraphy teacher and her “family.” She has a daughter that’s in public health, a kind of adopted son who studies architecture and has a kid, and a kind of adopted daughter studying Japanese literature. They live with her and her husband. Good people, but it’s hard to speak with them since they don’t modify their vocabulary much for me, but unlike almost all Japanese people I meet, they’re willing to speak to me in Japanese, even though they know I might not understand it all. That’s really rare. And the calligraphy teacher cooks for me. You can’t beat a deal like that.

But try explaining the Bush administration to foreigners in your third language some time. It’s really quite an experience. I’d describe the mix of frustration and disappointment as something like trying to eat prime rib with a spoon, while both hands are tied behind your back. As you might imagine, there was a lot of crying and steak sauce all over my face by the end of it. At least they were relieved to know that I also think that our administration belongs in a Nike sweatshop somewhere in Mongolia. No, better make it Vietnam, I was planning on visiting Mongolia.

JET 1_28_06

I read somewhere this guy quoted another guy, so maybe he knew what he was talking about, and it was like, “The Japanese have perfected their manners to the point where they’ve become rude.” And I can’t say that I disagree. I’ve had this nagging feeling about how the Japanese manner bothers me at times, but it’s difficult to explain.
I’ve been missing America in little ways for this reason, which is a first for me. Like just going to the convenience store or something—let’s say I’m getting some beer or something, right, and I remember this one time the clerk said, “Oh hey, d’joo ever try the pale ale they make? It’s really good.” And I was like, “no, I’ll check it out.” That would never happen in Japan. The clerks have a string of lines that never change in the honorific/humble speech pattern. They hand you your change very carefully, taking care not to brush their hand against yours, or present it in a plastic tray, and bow to you. And if you ask them a question or remark on something they react like someone just dropped an ice cube in their pants. Let’s say I ask, “Oh, do you guys carry gum?” They’d nod fiercely, and then book for the gum rack ahead of you, and then patiently wait for you to select your brand.
I mean that’s nice and all, that they go all out and stuff, but it makes me really nervous, and this kind of attitude—the “must avoid conflict at all costs” attitude—makes it hard to trust people. I’m getting better at figuring out what my co-workers are really thinking. There’s one teacher who lays on her “kind voice” so thick, it’s almost sarcasm, and sometimes it morphs into passive aggression so hot you could turn your sushi into fried rice. “Bly-sensei, can you tell me if this sentence is correct?”
“Yeah, well, it’s a little awkward. I would say, ‘If I had remembered my textbook…’ not, “If I had remembered a textbook…’”
“Yes, but zat’s not zah paht I’m concerned abaut. What I want to know, is if zis is zah transitive vahb or intransitive vahb.”
“Ah, I think it’s both.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
And it goes on like that forever. I remember one time I had to listen to a teacher read the same sentence for like fifteen minutes while I just sat there nodding each time she finished, affirming that it was correct.
It’s ironic how the Japanese have become so obsessed with teaching their kids to be able to read college level English by the time they graduate high school, that they seem to have forgotten the purpose of language. Most students can’t make a sentence without the use of a dictionary, but they can recall words like “terrorist” or “influence” without batting an eye.
I remember yesterday the teacher was late, so as I was telling an amusing story, I translated student comments, which they had no idea how to say. One girl who jumped when I responded to something yelled, “bikkurishita!” So I asked everyone okay, “Okay, how do you say that in English?” “Surprise!” “Yes, or you can say, ‘You scared me!’” And by the end of three minutes, I had given them more communication ability than four years of intensive English.
What really kills me is how teachers say simple things in Japanese (now that I can understand most of the Japanese used in class) “this means…” or ask students “What is this in Japanese” which are such simple English phrases, but in order to save a few seconds of class time, they rattle it off in Japanese.
In another class, I explained the Skittles commercial slogan, “Taste the rainbow,” and then figured out how to say it in Japanese. I do stuff like that all the time. The teacher asked me, “Why do you learn these silly things in our language?” during class. Such and easy question. “If I make learning fun, I learn.”
Or there’s the other day when I listen to a teacher give a ten minute speech in Japanese how Japanese people have a disadvantage in speaking English compared to Chinese people because of the language phonetics. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry because the irony here is dual—not only is he discouraging students from speaking English, he’s ignoring the chance to actually speak English in class and use me. Oh, no, I’m sorry, threefold, he’s also showing them that it is useless to try to communicate in a second language. Brilliant teaching methods.

Enough complaining. I’ve been trying to avoid the English department as much as possible. The less I’m there, the less chance that a certain sensei will try to have me give him a synonym for “inorganic,” or another equally ridiculous task.
I’ve gotten to sit in on some homeroom classes, where kids are practicing for the coral competition, the likes of which I’ve never seen in America. The way the whole class works together…it’d be impossible in America. It’s great. I’d have thought that the guys would mess around or refuse to sing or something, and they do kind of joke around, but when it’s time to sing, they turn into good choir boys and listen to the quick-tempered, 4 and a half foot-tall girl conducting.
Another thing I do is I’m working on the workbook that second grade elementary students use to learn to write—which is tough, by the way—and then ask students to translate sentences. There’s even some racy sentences like “I wash my head and face in the shower.”
The teachers of course think it’s funny that I’m learning this way—as they do every thing I learn in Japanese, but ironically, they are blown away when I can read a note they put up on the whiteboard. “How did you know we had a meeting then?”

Well, I forged a letter from Bush to Prime Minister Koizumi, complete with southern vernacular speech rhetoric, stutters and spelling errors, officially giving Texas to Japan, but it must not have worked since some government officials visited me the other day. Talk about touchy. Someone got to tell them to lay off the coke or something.

So I went to the Ise Shrines and Gifu castle over break. The Ise shrines are supposed to be like the Mecca of Shinto, so they were pretty sweet. And Gifu castle was built on a big hill. I got kicked out for yelling “bonsai” too much and pretending I was a drunk samurai. They should put up a sign or something if they don’t want you to do that. It’s a freaking castle, what the hell else are you supposed to do?

My friends here are all debating whether they’ll stay another year, including me. I’m pretty sure I’ll stick around, but most of them are calling quits. If it weren’t for a certain teacher in my department, who continually invades my workspace and gives me projects centered around his neurotic learning of the English language, I would happily stay.

Not only my foreign friends are leaving, but many Japanese are leaving. The population here is actually decreasing. A similar trend is happening in America, with the expatriate thing, but they’re being replaced by lots of immigrants, of course. The most intelligent people are leaving, say the stats. It reminds me of Tolkien—the Elves are leaving.

The students continue to win me over. The other day two girls came to talk to me in the English department for like an hour. Then one of them wrote me a letter thanking me for my time, with no grammar or spelling errors. It was incredible. And she’s a first year student.

It’s taken me a long time to get them to speak to me freely. I’ve had to continually praise them and smile and nod when they actually attempt speaking for the last five months, and they are still scared about speaking and even listening. I’ve got enough Japanese so that I can sometimes translate difficult words and phrases, but there’s still times where they just smile and shake their heads. The most precious ones are the students that get really excited about something, making hesitation noises and hand gestures, but are forced to resist the anticipation and communicate at the speed of second language.

I had a long lunch with one of the Canadian ALT’s that comes on Fridays. He’s been at my school a long time and we talked a lot about how to deal with the old, controlling, curmudgeon teacher. He suggested that I get my recontracting papers signed, and then stand up to him. While he can get other teachers transferred for refusing his delegations, it is almost impossible to get me to leave. And he knows that after his excommunication of my predecessor.

It’s really amazing what culture shock does to people, especially under the influence of alcohol. At our weekly izakaiya (traditional Japanese family restaurant) last night, I refused the last 5 or so sake shots, as I don’t enjoy hangovers. But as to culture shock, Mr. E, for example, asked me permission to have one of my Japanese friends--he phrased it somewhat less elegantly (I gave my permission, knowing he had no chance), tried to seduce one of our mutual Japanese friends unsuccessfully, and after being refused, repeatedly stood during the rest of the evening and offered to show what—in his exact words—“would be missing out on.” I had a good time, but I do miss, to a certain extent, dignity and grace, but not yet enough.

Planes, Trains and Family
I got back from my family vacation last week—10 days in Hawaii with my family and some family friends, with very caring and kind hosts that were my sister and her man.

It didn’t really feel that strange being on U.S. soil—I’ve been in close contact with lots of Americans in Japan, so there wasn’t really any reverse culture shock, although I found myself missing Japan and my friends there. Hell, half of Hawaii Japanese anyway. I think we should just give them the island since they like it so much better than us. It’d be a great Christmas present, and a way for apologizing for putting Bush in office. I mean, it wouldn’t totally make up for that, but it’s the thought that counts. Hell, why don’t we just give away Texas too, while we’re at it? Who’s with me?

I spent most of my time in Hawaii studying Japanese, as it’s been a kind of obsession lately, but that’s what I do—I take something on and I want to learn it so badly that it’s almost all I can do. You can only spend so much time with family anyway—when you see your family after a long time they feel like your best friends in the world. After a few days, though, they start to feel like family again.

I like to think I’m becoming a mature adult, you know, having a job and my own apartment. Teaching especially makes you feel like an adult because you have lots of people listening to you, even if it’s just because they want to pass a test.

But being with your family has a way of making you regress about a decade. I don’t know what it is, but I felt like I was just a bratty high school kid again. I was really impressed by my sister and her man, Mr. K, and how they managed to keep the family occupied and free of arguments, for the most part. They were really amazing. Mr. K especially was a kind of role model of how to put up with someone else’s family. While I was antisocial at times, trying to study or something he was always driving people places, helping with food and cleaning, keeping people out of trouble, or listening to old people talk about how cool they were when they were his age. I can do that for a while, but I really get sick of it, and I couldn’t keep that charade up unless I really wanted to impress someone like a senator or the author of The Princess Bride, or my future wife’s family (if I ever have a future wife).

I like spending time by myself too much. That’s going to be a problem, I can tell. Oh well, I’m sure it’s nothing a few beers can’t take care of.

It’s also hard to share Japan with people who’ve never been their before. Some people don’t really know what culture shock is, or how it feels to connect with another culture and land. They don’t really know how to ask about it, and I don’t really know how to explain it. How do you answer, “What’s your best Japan story?”? The whole thing is a good story, actually. People don’t understand why I wanted to leave my own country to begin with or why it’s such a meaningful experience to me.

Plane rides make you think. Flying to Hawaii really put things in perspective. Going to Japan was a real time-stopping experience—thinking about what I was leaving behind—and leaving Japan kind of made me remember what life was like before that. My memories are tied mostly to the people and places I’m around, so it’s easy to forget your past in another country.

A plane flight is a lot like church—a bunch of people trapped in their seats, not going anywhere for a while, with only a tiny snack. I guess the food on an airplane is maybe a little better than your average communion, though.

That and the GPS screen with the plane going over the world really makes you think big. It’s different than staring at a globe because you’re really watching yourself go over places you’ve never been…kind of makes the world pretty small.

Right off the plane it’s Japan again. You don’t have to walk to the baggage claim, there’s a futuristic shuttle. At the baggage claim, everyone respects the line in front of it, except for one foreigner in front of me. To my right is an American with his Japanese fiancee talking about future plans. To my left is a guy I recognize as a JET with a kid astride his shoulders. He’s half Hawaiian, half Japanese.

It was hard to speak Japanese to the train station attendant. The more Japanese I learn, the more mistakes I realize I make. On the ride back, I start talking with a foreigner—that never happens. For some reason, foreigners try to avoid talking to each other in public, as it may disturb their Japan experience or something. That, and other foreigners tend to be really arrogant about their Japan knowledge for some reason. But this guy was nice. And it’s strange how easy it is to talk to a stranger who’s from your homeland, who you might never otherwise have anything to say to.

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.