FI-GA-RO FI-GA-RO FI-GA-RO

I`m almost thirty years old and I`ve never owned a car. Actually, I`ve never owned a lot of things. Since I moved to a city more than 10 years ago, I have become a cyclist, a pedestrian and a hard core advocate for public transportation. In other words, I`ve been on my high horse where cars are concerned and have suffered great hardships at the expense of these beliefs--sitting in bubble gum on the subway, getting splashed by speeding SUVs and riding the all-night `Vomit Comet` home from the bar immediately come to mind. Never mind that Christopher used to drive my ass to work, or home to visit my folks. I conveniently denied having any connection with his car (though it served me well, that little Prelude).
And now, something dreadful has happened. I have fallen in love, found my soul mate--in a car.
I saw her for the first time at a stop light, purring like a kitten. I was temporarily hypnotised by her shiny metallic blue body and gorgeous curves. Like Blanche Dubois, her age was elusive. Was she a classic beauty, restored to her former glory, or was she something entirely new?
Never in my wildest dreams would I have guessed she is a Nissan Figaro! And affordable too. I`m going home now to don a handkerchief and my cat glasses. And when Christopher comes home from work I will affect a flirty Audrey Hepburn and say: Do be a doll and buy mama this little baby...

-What do you do for exercise?

-Tiddly winks. And an occasional anxiety attack.

On the curious charm of men traveling together…

The circus has left town. I’m left with my sides split and a pickled daikon for a liver. 4 days of just given’r takes its toll on a girl. Words cannot possibly express the laugh riot of a time we had. So I'll say it with numbers.

hospital visits: 1

100 yen McChickens consumed: 12

rules of etiquette broken: 976

karaoke songs: 20

king cans of Asahi consumed: 483

Cincinnati Bowtie jokes: 141

pens mangled: 8

hangovers: 25

displaced Japanese people in the bath: 7

minutes spent looking for Gold Bond: 26

neighbours who won't speak to us: 8

photo shoots with auto-timer: 39

laughing fits: 544


And now, introducing the cast and crew of the Mike, Moose and D shit show...

Osaka

C and I were eating lunch when the call came in. They had arrived in Osaka in one piece--though Moose left Tokyo with a souvenir of 5 staples in his head. WHA????

We met and checked into a traditional ryokan, or, Japanese style hotel. Instead of the standard double bed, bolted down lamp, bad art on the wall and Gideon bible in the drawer, a ryokan boasts tatami mats, a low kotatsu, rice paper screen doors and folded futons in the closet. There are also yukata in the drawers in varying sizes. As you can see, Mike put his on immediately—over his clothes.



Having sung the praises of a ryokan, I neglected to mention that they are missing one essential amenity: a private shower or bath. Guests at a ryokan must use a shared bath and adhere to the prescribed etiquette. The first thing you must do is pull up a stool and wash yourself three times with water from a basin or tap--the idea being that you should be clean before you soak together in the large bath. Needless to say, the boys caused quite a sensation in the bath, driving half a dozen Japanese men to evacuate before the tsunami of foreign ass even hit the water. Luckily for me, I was the only guest in the Ladies bath and had a wonderfully relaxing soak…

sumo

Sumo in Japan is, in a word: huge. And I mean that literally. We had the cheapest seats in the house and these guys still resembled giants in the ring. Their obesity is deceiving though. It may look like the wrestlers eat their weight in cheeseburgers but they are marvelously skilled athletes with layers of muscle under all that jiggling flesh. When two wrestlers face off, the impact is something like 700 kg.





My favorite wrestler is the Bulgarian, Kotooshu. His birthday's the same as mine almost. Unlike the archetypical sumo body, his is tall and lean—well, leaner than most. He’s considered a lighter weight wrestler at 6ft, 8 inches tall and 312 pounds (the former yokozuna weighed 517 pounds at the same height) As far as I can tell (and I’m certainly no expert), one of his strategies is to cleverly dodge the oncoming brick shithouse, throwing his opponent off balance before taking him down. When it works, he looks like a matador taunting a bull with an invisible cape.

this is a song I wrote about life...

After the sumo tourny, we found ourselves at Murphy’s Irish Pub. We arrived at around 7 and were somewhat put off by the two piles of vomit outside the bar. The waitress explained that the St. Patrick’s Day festivities had been a little crazy on Friday night. Still, it was Sunday. One would think that 2-day old vomit is bad for business. Apparently not.
It turned out that 7 was a little early for the Murphy’s crowd. We were the only customers in the bar but that didn’t stop us from tearing it up. We borrowed a beat-up acoustic guitar and ripped with Neil Young covers and Moose originals. The Irish waitress asked if we were Canadian. She said we were having way too much fun to be American… (I think what she meant to say was that Canadians are bigger booze hounds)


loving Moose's guitar face...I imagine he wore the same expression when the staples were going in.

The Shogun of Japan

What can I say about these pictures? The shotgun, dubbed “shogun” for all intents and purposes was a recurring theme over the course of this visit. The beer in Japan comes in cans, which for Canadians, is an open invitation to grab the closest pen at hand and shotgun it. These pictures were captured on a street corner in Kyoto, just after visiting the beautiful Zen gardens of Eikan-do temple. Notice the small child approaching in the distance--classy.
This was the first of many shoguns. It was a topic much discussed and debated. Can we blow air through a straw and get the beer to come out faster? Can we put this bicycle pump to use? If only we had some compressed air! Is there a hardware store around here?

While most people start their day with a hearty breakfast, these guys did not object to kicking things off with a shogun. They seemed to want to sharpen those drinking skills dulled in the years since living in dorms and sleeping on misshapen futons. With each passing day, the stakes grew higher--the suspense building towards something truly awe-inspiring. At one point, Mike punched the empty can down with his head, taking out clumps of his own hair. What could possibly come next?

And then it found him. I can only assume that it was destiny that brought the two of them together: the 1 Ltre can of beer--Mike’s Mt. Everest.

Mike’s date with destiny was slotted for the last night with us in Kurashiki. We put down towels, brought out the bucket and closed the curtains to keep out prying eyes. Mike donned a bright yellow rain slicker and brandished his pen. Let the cameras roll...

What happened? I'll keep you in suspense for a little while...stay tuned for a link to the live footage.

Kyoto Temples

kingers and karaoke

Okay, so we cheated a little by bringing our own beer to the karaoke booth. I think Derek had the most king cans stuck inside his jacket. I had one conveniently tucked into my sock, concert style. By the time we arrived, most of us were slightly in the bag already, which is the state you want to be in before singing yourself hoarse in front of your friends. We spent a raucous two hours making musical history...


Give to me your leather...take from me my lace

miya jima

Our day in Miya Jima was rainy but enjoyable. We bought cheap umbrellas (the handles of which broke off before the end of the day) and strolled around the idyllic grounds of the town and shrine. It is a magical place, where tame deer roam the streets and the smell of cedars is overpowering. The famous Tori is anchored near the shore but has a floating quality as the waves gently lap against it. We took a cable car up the mountain and were only slightly disappointed that the view from the top was obscured by mist. The walk itself to the summit was invigorating.
Later that night we dined in Hiroshima and walked through the Peace Park with its A-Dome and monuments of peace and remembrance—one of our few contemplative moments.

Perhaps the highlight of the night was the train ride home. With a plastic bag full of “kingers” we attracted a lot of attention. A little Japanese man in his fifties gave up his seat so that we could all sit together. He looked like he really wanted to talk with us so we invited him to sit with us and have a beer. He took quite a shining to Moose and wanted to touch his legs and arms—get a feel for his girth and size. Moose handled the squeezing and groping with utmost composure but the rest of us were giggling uncontrollably. At one point the little man enthusiastically ripped off his jacket and invited Moose to square off with him in the aisle, sumo style. Thankfully Moose wouldn’t take the bait. After a few rounds of shaking hands, he reluctantly got off the train in Mihara. We could see him feverishly dialing a number on his cell phone, no doubt wanting to recount his adventure with gaijin to his family. As the train pulled away from the station he chased it, waving frantically with a huge grin spread across his face. Sayonara!!!!

kamikaze cuisine

“Ah, the Golden Arches--the international symbol for delicious!”

As a vegetarian, I have reluctantly declined many opportunities to try different foods in Japan. Luckily, I can live vicariously through Mike, who will eat anything. From the hundred yen McChicken with wasabe mayo to the hot dog edge pizza, there is nothing too sketchy for his reckless palate. Honorable mention goes to the sweet doughnut encased hot dog and the whipped cream and fruit salad sandwich.

when pizza meets hot dog

Notice the ketchup and mustard inside the box--nice touch.

anybody got any change?

when doughnut meets hotdog

" As it stands, Plan B is to just keep on givin'r "

Nice One

Tonight my blue bicycle, the "Nice One" met an untimely death. Yep, we were mowed down by a car on our way home from Happy Mart. After accelerating into me and swallowing up my front tire and nearly my legs, the lady was kind enough to stop. She called the police immediately, who, like idiots couldn't seem to find us (though we spotted them three times and tried to get their attention..."A cop couldn't find his butt if he had a bell on it") Once they clued in to our whereabouts they were quite efficient. The Nice One even had its very own chalk outline, I kid you not.
In the end, I came out pretty well. Our reckless driver offered to buy me a new bicycle and lend me her own bike in the meantime. I tried to decline because my bike was such a junker to begin with but no, this is the way it's done in Japan. Just accept it. Nice one.

When you leave, I still have to live here

I once overheard Jim’s mom, Connie say: “You know, when you leave Port Elgin, I still have to live here”. She said it composedly, and with a smile, but it was a rebuke nonetheless. What she meant to say was: you may think it’s funny to get drunk and play Celery Generals* in front of the house but we have neighbours for Chrissake!

As we prepare to entertain visitors this weekend, I can’t help but hear Connie’s words reverberate in my mind: When you guys leave, I still have to live here.

In his Souvenir of Canada, Douglas Coupland claims that Doug is the most quintessentially Canadian name (insert shovel joke here). As a Canadian, I can boast of knowing at least a dozen Dougs. Hell, I even have an uncle Doug. And to elaborate on this idea, I would argue that if there was ever a quintessentially Canadian nickname, it would have to be “Moose”. Ah, yes. The great, Canadian Moose--so splendid in his natural habitat.
But what happens when Moose gets on a plane bound for Tokyo? Well, we are about to find out when Mike, Moose and Derek arrive on Saturday.

You might think by the tone of this entry that I am somewhat apprehensive and anxious about the arrival of three of C’s notorious friends. Perhaps. But the overriding feeling is one of anticipation, of gearing up for some good old-fashioned tomfoolery. How dreary and dismal Japan has seemed to me through the winter. Okayama needs a good dose of over the top. And frankly, so do I. It’s true: when they leave, I still have to live here. And like Connie, I will miss them when they’re gone.


* Celery Generals: a brilliant game dreamed up by the likes of Tom Green (when he was obscure and funny). It involves making figures out of vegetables and putting them on the road in the path of passing vehicles. If you manage to get your Celery General run over, the other guy has to eat it...so everybody wins.

We love you very much. If you were Jeffrey Dahmer, we would still love you.

I meant to do that

I pulled some real boners today at work. The first was stealthily sneaking out the back door to take a long lunch. When I was down at the bike racks, trying to extricate my bicycle, I accidentally knocked down every single bike in the lot. I just stood there gaping for a moment as I watched the whole row come crashing down like dominoes. I meant to do that. A bunch of students rushed to my aid but it was too late. My cover was totally blown. Way to go, Pee Wee.

The next incident happened after lunch as I was perusing the latest edition of This magazine that just arrived in the mail. I was so engrossed by an article that I didn`t notice my VP loitering behind my desk. He asked if he could take a look at what I was reading. Oh god, I thought. Anything would be better than the subversive This magazine, even a Teen People splashed with glossies of Paris Hilton.
Reluctantly, I handed it over. He must have leafed through every page. He paused at the article about the tatooed lesbian artist whose exhibit features 10 foot tall female sasquatches.

Utterly excruciating.

Boredom Is The True Enemy

Boredom is the true enemy
And before you stop to answer
Remember, it takes more lives than cancer
Boredom is the true enemy

-Geoff Berner (the messiah of klezmer-punk)

I'm officially bored at work. There is nothing to do until April 10th when school starts up again. What's a girl to do? Why, there are lots of remedies for boredom. One of my personal favourites is boozing it up. Shall I stash a whisky bottle in the bottom drawer of my desk? I think perhaps not. I must use my power for good. Do something productive.
Actually, I am finding things to do. Today, for example I stumbled on a website that will give you a Wu-Tang name. My Wu-name is Dependable Skeleton. C's is better though. He gets to be Ol' Mucky Terrahawk. I think I will start calling him Old Muck around the house.

Find Your Wu-Tang Name

"I'm a choreographer. That's what I do. You are cheerleaders. Cheerleaders are dancers who have gone retarded."

Haven't you heard?

"Times are changing, Betty. These nerds are a threat to our way of life."

When will she ever learn?

As a child I dreaded piano lessons. Every Tuesday I would race home from school and cram a week’s worth of practicing into one afternoon. My piano teacher Jeanette always arrived promptly at 7. Pathetically I would try to stall her by asking a million questions: How may cats do you have? How many miles does your car get to the gallon? Did Heidi Reinhardt practice her scales this week? Sometimes I would even antagonize the dog right before she arrived to take care of another 5 minutes. But Jeanette was no fool. Under her steady gaze my courage would falter and I would confess all. I thought eventually she would snap and stab me with the needle of the metronome. But she never got angry. She simply pushed. Gently. After every lesson I felt as if I had been given a second chance. I was a sinner who had finally seen the error of her ways. I vowed from that day forward, I would practice. I would be a model pupil and the protege I was born to be...

And so it was until the door closed behind her. From the far reaches of the house I was lured by the theme song of Who's The Boss (the crack-cocaine of all the sitcoms). I would wander into the living room to find my Dad lounging on the couch, asking me between mouthfuls of potato chips how my lesson was. Lesson? What lesson? What episode is this? Is it the one where Tony sees Angela in the shower...

And so this snippet of my childhood seems so heartbreakingly resonant here in Japan as I struggle to learn Japanese. Last night was our seasonal enkai (staff party). As I was getting ready to leave the house, I was filled with that same guilt and dread. I showed up and squeezed between two teachers who spoke not a word of English. I tried to fake it. I remarked in Japanese that it was raining but had no witty follow-up. Instead, I nodded like a mindless idiot to everything asked of me. It vaguely crossed my mind that they were asking me to lead in karaoke or wondering if I fantasize about seeing the kocho sensei naked: questions to which an emphatic nod is not the appropriate response. And like Jeanette, they pushed. Gently. In the words of my Kyouto sensei: "She must learn Japanese because I can't talk to her". I had an epiphany. I felt inspired. I must learn Japanese. I must practice. I must become the model pupil and protege I was born to be. I am going straight home to study now...goodbye.
To borrow a line: "Destiny spies a man with a blindfold". Surprise, surprise! My good intentions were foiled again! The last time I registered consciousness I was singing a raunchy duet of Careless Whisper with my supervisor and spilling beer down my blouse. Which leads me to an important question: Are we doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past?

I think I've come up with an adequate answer. Dad, it's your fault. You ruined my life.



footnote...don't you think it's about time they made a movie about Wham? My casting choice for the 80s Wham would definitely be Nick Lachey and a platinum Orlando Bloom. Wham 20 years later could be played by George Clooney and a platinum Nicolas Cage...