All the Comforts of Home...

One of the things I truly love about my life here in Japan is the office I have at work. It's got just about everything a man with time on his hands could desire. It's spacious, it's got a view, and the amenities, well, they're to die for! What, you think I'm joking? I'm dead serious, friends. Japan places a great premium on maintaining the appearance of being busy while actually doing nothing, and the best way to appear to be busy is not to "appear" at all! I don't come out of my office all day (except to attend meetings), so I must be busy! And since the diligent "worker" is expected to be "busy" in his office all day, he might as well be comfortable. Allow me to show you what I mean.

My office has a very large window affording a lovely view of the parking lot. (Hey! There's my car! It's the blue one in the middle of the "top" row.) And you know, on clear days I can actually see the ocean from here! Sometimes I just stare out the window for hours on end...


As you can plainly see from the shot below, my "work" area is spacious and comfortable. The university has spared no expense providing me with the means necessary to do my job well: a computer with broadband internet connection, a fax/phone, a color printer, and all the office supplies I can pilfer!


My office also comes equipped with it's own portable stereo, complete with CD/MD/Tape /Radio functions. And, what better way to use my broadband connection, printer, and office supplies than to provide myself with a little music to help make the hum-drum of the work day a little more enjoyable!?


As a university "professor" I'm expected to be well-informed about what's happening in the world and in my special area of "expertise". I'm provided, at no expense to myself whatsoever, with any reading materials I desire.


Of course, on that rare occasion when someone actually comes to see me with a question, it's only fit and proper that I have the necessary reference material at my disposal. Can't have those pesky students tripping you up with some trick spelling or grammar question!


Care for a hot or cold drink? A snack? Need to wash up? Not a problem! (I'm still angling for a way to get coffee covered by my office budget...)


And finally, after a long day of blog--, er, working, sometimes I feel like taking a little nap. Looks inviting, doesn't it?


Yes, indeed. I sure love my office!

Satan Lives!

After finishing the previous post I decided to do a bit of "satanic" googling in an attempt to get to the bottom of this Satan character (and to beat a dead horse just a bit more). Let me tell you, people, I was shocked at what I found. Satan, it appears, is indeed alive and well and exerting a palpable influence in the world in which we live (er, as opposed to the one in which we don't live... anyway, onwards!). Below you will find actual news stories in which Satan figures prominently!!! Behold evil and its manifold, er... manifestations!

The stupid: Pope Benedict XVI says "all rock music is the work of Satan" and opposes the use of guitars in mass. [Thanks Glenn.]

The obvious: Britney Spears is "Satan Crazed". [Thanks Chez.]

The usual: A BBC poll has found that Israel is Satan's bastard child.

The shocking: Satan is real and global warming is the myth.

The contradictory: Satan is behind global warming.

Da bomb: Satan is an ICBM, and has been targeting the US for the past 20 years.

The chosen: Ann Coulter has been named as Satan's Great Whore for 2007.

Satan Is Dead!

Umm, well actually he plays for the New York Islanders...

Like (I think) most bloggers I frequently check my stat pages and I'm sometimes amused and/or puzzled (and one time a bit disturbed) by how this or that particular search phrase brought someone to my site. One search item that has been a regular source of page hits usually contains the words "Satan" and "images". (The thought of someone scouring the web looking for pictures of Satan is enough to make me cackle with glee!)

Now, aside from my stated fondness of The Rolling Stones, I don't think there's anything particularly "satanic" about this blog. So, what is it that brings these seekers of Satan to my blog? Behold, the final resting place of Satan:



Satan was a dog, a black Labrador Retriever, and he was the faithful pet of one of my uncles. I took this photo while visiting the "old country" (Nova Scotia) a few years back. While I was saddened to hear of poor old Satan's passing, I was greatly amused at this image of Satan's grave site, and I incorporated it into this rather silly post back in the early days of this site.

So, all you denizens of darkness seeking a glimpse of the cloven-hoofed one's image, get thee behind me!

[Say, do you think that by posting the image again I might actually increase the page hit count? Aw, shucks...]

Low-tech/High-tech (?) Screen Grab...

I don't know if there's anything unique about it or not, but I seem to suffer from a double curse--I'm both easily bored and easily amused, sometimes (or so it seems) simultaneously. Today, in a fit of boredom, I started thinking about "alternative" uses for my cell phone. (I've found this to be a good time-killing activity in the past, devising alternative uses for things.) This was a particularly challenging task because cell phones here in Japan already do damn near anything you can imagine. (I've mentioned before that mine has a setting which which allows the phone to emit the sound of maracas when shaken. This has been a source of endless amusement for me in the past, a fact which perhaps gives you a bit more insight into my character than you might have wished for.) I thought the camera function might be a fruitful area to explore, so I turned it on. As I panned the phone/camera around my office my computer monitor came into the viewscreen. Eureka! I've been trying for months to figure out how to do a screen capture with XP. Here was the answer! And the sheer symmetrical beauty of this solution, somehow both low-tech and high-tech at the same time, why, it was overwhelming...

... as somebody once said, it's not easy being me...

One for the Women...

I trust you'll find this one amusing...

[Via Konserverad gröt.]

Sun, Sky, Clouds, Mountains, Flowers, a Burial Mound... and a Dork with a Camera

I haven't posted any photos for a couple of weeks, so here are a few from a "Sunday drive" outing I took with my family yesterday.

A burial mound in Saito.

Clouds, mountains, and flowers (nanohana).

An island, of sorts.

A mountain on a cloudy day.

The sun through some clouds.

A dork with a camera.

Untitled, Pt. 2 (Fiction)

Gerry's apartment was upstairs from a downtown restaurant we all used to hang out at. One night, around midnight, me and Gerry were sitting outside on the steps that led up to his place. We were both stoned and drinking beer in paper bags. We were talking about the latest Sabbath album, comparing it to earlier albums and debating whether or not it was a good or bad thing that they'd started using more keyboards. We noticed a guy stumbling up the street toward us. As he got closer I realized that I recognized him. When I was a kid there had been a small church in my neighborhood. It was always empty through the week, but on Sundays these yokels from the countryside would drive into town, file into their church, and proceed to sing songs and scream things like "praise the lord!" and "Satan, get thee behind me" and a bunch of other stuff. The guy stumbling up the street had been one of their kids about the same age as me. We'd assumed he was drunk when we first spotted him, but as he got close we could see that he was white as a sheet. He was holding his right forearm. We asked if he was OK, but his eyes were all glassy and he just gaped at us. He stumbled and had to let go of his arm to grab a parking meter to keep from falling down. Blood started gushing from his other arm as he did that, and he fell to his knees. Somebody'd cut him pretty badly. We took him to the hospital in Gerry's beat up old VW, but Gerry bitched for weeks about the bloodstains on the seats.

-----

He's 15 and it's only a few days before he starts high school. It's a Friday night, and he's sitting in an alley between a couple of dumpsters. He's drunk. He'd poured a little bit of booze from each of the bottles in his old man's liquor stash into a plastic Coke container and smuggled it out of the house. He's been here for a couple of hours now, drinking the booze, smoking cigarettes, and thinking about things. A couple of guys walk into the alley to take a piss and they notice him. They see his bottle and tell him to hand it over. He tells them to fuck off. They beat the shit out of him. He wakes up in jail.

-----

Gerry was a terrible driver, and driving anywhere with him behind the wheel was generally a white-knuckle ride into terror. I say "generally" because when Gerry was on the glue he drove like a little old lady out for a Sunday drive. One night me and a couple of buddies arrived at Gerry's place for an evening of drinking and getting high (and, of course, listening to Black Sabbath, although Gerry had been a bit "out of sorts" since Ozzy had quit the band). When we arrived Gerry seemed a bit tense. He said he was going out for smokes, but that we should go in and hang out until he got back. We understood that he must have run out of glue, and that he was going out to pick some up. Apparently, on his way to the hardware store Gerry hit a woman with his car while she was crossing the street. The woman was killed instantly. None of us ever saw Gerry again.

-----

He's 16 and it's been a few months since he quit school. It's the middle of the day, it's hot, and he's completely fucked up. He's sitting on the steps that lead up to some apartments above a downtown restaurant that he and his friends hang out at. He's just thrown up all over the steps and the sidewalk. People walking by are looking at him with disgust. He's studying the needle mark on his arm and the puke all over his sneakers and jeans, and wondering if he's ever felt this bad. He sees a shadow approach and stop in front of him. He looks up into the face of some old guy with a concerned look on his face. The geezer stares at him for a moment and then tells him that he lives upstairs and asks him if he wants to go up and get cleaned up. He lets the old guy lead him up the stairs.
"What's your name, kid?" he asks. He tells him his name.
"OK, cool. I'm Gerry... You like Sabbath?"

Untitled, Pt. 1 (Fiction)

When I was in my late teens and early twenties, about 30-35 years ago, I knew this guy named Gerry. Gerry was about 40 or 45, and he used to let me and my buddies come up to his apartment and drink beer, smoke dope, drop acid, whatever. Gerry was a serious glue-sniffer. He was always shoving a bag of glue into his face and then offering the bag to anyone who happened to be around. Me and my buddies used to joke about Gerry's "generosity" with his $1.98 tube of glue. Aside from his somewhat unhealthy habit of sniffing glue though, Gerry was a pretty good guy. Sure, he was kinda an old fart, but he let us hang out and he never tried to fruit us up or anything. Another important thing to know about Gerry is that he was the ultimate Black Sabbath fan. It was a bit weird watching this geezer sniff his glue and then totally space to Sabbath but, like I said, he was an ok guy.

-----

He remembers when he was 13. "Don't hold it too close to your face," Nancy said. "It" was a plastic bag with lighter fluid at the bottom. He held it to his face and inhaled... way too fucking deeply. Lighter fluid gushed into and through his entire breathing apparatus, his mouth, nose, throat, and lungs. It seemed to land like a flaming bomb in his stomach. He may have gotten "high", but he would never really be quite sure. He puked. A few weeks later large flakes of skin appeared on his scalp and, strangely, around his ass hole. He'd been poisoned, but he never realized it. It only lasted a few weeks, so he never told anyone about it. He would never hold a plastic bag to his face again.

-----

One night we were at Gerry's and we were all completely out of it--we'd all been drinking and smoking, and Gerry, of course, was on the bag. A knock came on the door. Gerry opened the door and there was a friend of ours, Mary, with 3 or 4 black guys. Gerry let them all in, so now there were about 10 people in his one-room apartment. We'd been listening (of course) to Sabbath before this arrival, but right away the black guys wanted to change the music. I was too wasted to give a shit, but my buddies put up a mild protest, which was slapped down by Gerry. "Play what you like," he said. The black dudes stuck in a James Brown tape. Yeah, this is ok, I thought. Later, Gerry wondered (to me) how Black Sabbath became "black power"...

-----


He's 14 and he's dropped his first hit of acid, the night before the first day of school. It's his "first time", so it's a completely subjective experience for him. There's nothing to measure it against, nothing to compare it to. He can't analyze it and he wouldn't care to even if he could. Colors. Colors rushing to him, colors rushing from him. There's a vague ache in his gut. He's walking down the street, and he sees some older girls. He thinks they're very pretty. One of them says, "nice ass"! He doesn't quite understand, but thinks this might be good. He's only 14.

continued...

Friday Afternoon Skiving Off Work with William Shatner

Well, it's late Friday afternoon and I'm in my office, diligently doing nothing remotely useful. Yes, I'm feeling creative, and what better way to show off my creativity is there than posting a bunch of YouTube clips? Dear readers/viewers, I give you the greatest Canadian ever, William Shatner!

I guarantee that you won't see this every day:



Thrill to the horror of satanic ritual!
Tingle with excitement at the succubi sisters!
Look on with bewilderment as William Shatner speaks in tongues!



Keep it gay, eh!



And last, but not least, William Shatner's stirring rendition of the Elton John/Bernie Taupin classic "Rocket Man".



[Inspired by Theft is good.]

Background Music Makes My Ears Bleed

I came across a very interesting article over at collision detection about how "loudness wars" are killing today's music. It's a bit technical, but not so much so that a science dimwit like me couldn't catch the drift of it (there are links to more a technical argument from which this article was drawn). Basically it explains something that older music listeners like yours truly have been noticing for years now: older albums, particularly on vinyl, have a much broader dynamic range than music recorded in the last 10 years or so. Newer music just doesn't seem to have the peaks and valleys, the dynamic highs and lows of the old albums we love and cherish. Newer music does, however, seem more intense, and is more apt to grab your attention more quickly, mainly because compression has made it louder. But now an apparent paradox comes into play. Sure, the music is louder and more immediately noticeable, but because it doesn't have much in the way of dynamic range, it's not actively listened to and effectively becomes background music.
I've likely botched this, so please check out the article for yourself.

And, speaking of music that's loved and cherished, please enjoy "Supernaut" by Black Sabbath, accompanied by scenes from Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow.

Start Me Up

I made a brief reference in a post back in December to the fact that I was once a professional musician, a rock drummer. By way of proof, I offer the rather poor photo on the left, which somehow manages to be both grainy and blurry at the same time (it's actually a photo of a wallet-size picture, taken with my cell phone, and you can click for a larger view, but it won't help much). (This photo is also evidence in support of my generally dis-believed claim that I once had hair on my head.) In fact it's been about 16 years since I've done any serious playing, and about 10 years since I've even sat behind a kit. How rock 'n' roll has survived my absence these long years is perhaps a mystery fit only to be investigated by my own fertile imagination during late-night bouts of drinking and listening to old Stones albums... But, I digress! You probably didn't notice it, but there was a tremor in the rock "ether" last Friday night...

I don't go out to bars much these days, what with being a "family man" and holding down a "respectable" job and being a "pillar of the community" and all that stuff that "normal" people do. No, these days I might head out to a bar an average of once every few weeks, and then it's usually to do some face-to-face catching-up with the few friends that I have here in Miyazaki. Well, last Friday was one of my rare excursions to the land of sin and salvation that is downtown Miyazaki. I met a Canadian friend at what is currently Miyazaki's "gaijin" bar, a place run by an Israeli friend of ours. I gave my friend a Stones disc I had made for him, and we proceeded to drink beer and talk. My friend plays guitar, and he frequently does live gigs around town in the evenings and on weekends. We talked mostly about music, and as we plied ourselves with beer we began to discuss the possibility of maybe putting something casual together, just for fun, and playing the odd gig here and there. Beer has the magical quality of making the "impossible" seem imminently do-able, and soon I was imagining that, hell yeah, my wife wouldn't have any problems with me dropping a couple of thousand on a new drum kit and spending my evenings and weekends jamming with my friends, drinking beer, and hanging out at bars. A man needs a hobby, after all! (There is perhaps a scientifically verifiable reason why wives, apparently through all of recorded history, generally have a dim view of their husbands' friends, and get visibly nervous when their husbands go drinking with friends...)

Later that night we went to another bar where there was an informal jam happening. There were only a few people there, and they were all musicians. My friend got up on stage and played a couple of tunes, and the next thing I knew I was being invited to play a couple of tunes. I initially declined, thinking that the combination of rustiness, nervousness, and drunkenness would render me incapable of playing anything. Everyone kept insisting, though, until eventually I found myself on the stage with my friend and some other guys. I was sitting behind a drum kit, with a pair of sticks in my hands! My friend started playing Hendrix's version of All Along the Watchtower on his guitar! I couldn't breathe! I couldn't move! You've been here before, moron, I thought to myself, and started playing the drums...

Now, as pleasing as it would be to tell you that I rocked the joint that night, I can't. I sucked pretty hard, actually. But, I had a really good time and this was a pretty good bunch of guys. Once they found out that I hadn't played for a really long time it seemed to become their holy mission to give me as many turns on stage as the other drummers. A couple of guys even insisted that I needed to play, that my very life depended upon it. They were right, of course. They were, and are, every one of them, my brothers. Now if only I can figure out how to sneak a drum kit into the house without my wife noticing...

Who Needs Math When You've Got Common Sense?

[Shamelessly stolen from Chez.]

I suck, have always sucked, and will forever suck at math. I only wish I'd been as cool about in school it as the people who answered the following math questions.

Seek and ye shall find...

And really, if math teachers want precise answers, shouldn't they be a bit more precise with their English?

Very funny, indeed. What the "hard" sciences really need is a few more jokers like this.

Flight Plan: Crash Landing

Between living in a foreign country and being a family man, I rarely get to see any movies while they're still "new". Back home in Canada, being footloose and fancy free and living the life of Riley, I used to go to the movies all the time. When I first started dating my wife here in Japan we regularly went to the movies. (I remember our first "date", actually. She took me to see Deep Impact, which was then a "new" movie in Japan. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I'd seen it several months earlier, in fact the day before I came to Japan.) Since our wedding, however, my wife and I have not even once gone to a movie together, and the last movie I saw in a theater was The Return of the King. (Shit, how long ago was that?) These days I don't usually get to see new movies until they come out on TV, which in Japan usually means about two years after they've finished in the theaters.

Anyway, I want to write a bit about a movie that I saw on TV recently, Flight Plan. It's not a new or recent movie.

I wouldn't call myself a fan of Jodie Foster's movies, but I will say that, generally speaking, I've liked most of the movies I've seen her in. I didn't much like Flight Plan. In fact, calling it an unmitigated turd would, in my estimation, be an expression of restrained subtlety. It's difficult to figure out where to begin, but let's start with the basic "suspenseful" premise that was used to dupe unsuspecting (i.e. "gullible") viewers into theaters: a woman's child goes "missing" on an airplane. Right. First of all, there's nothing particularly suspenseful about something that common sense tells us is impossible. People do not go missing on airplanes. Secondly, if Foster's character is somehow delusional (a possibility the script does its best to put forward), then she's just a crazy woman on a plane. This might hold some suspense for us, but it would be a different movie. To put it briefly, a missing child is suspenseful, a missing child on an airplane is impossible, a missing imaginary child on an airplane (or anywhere) is stupid.

Anyway, defying all logic, the child has, in fact, been kidnapped from under Kyle's (Foster) nose and secreted away somewhere on the airplane. Nobody, not one fucking person, on the plane sees or remembers a man going somewhere on the plane with a young girl in his arms. The man, the kidnapper, as it turns out, is a sky marshal. His accomplice is one of the flight attendants. It's all part of a complicated (i.e. stupidly elaborate and illogical), Rube-Goldberg-device-like plot to extort a large sum of money from the airline and leave Kyle as the (dead) patsy. You see, they killed Kyle's husband and somehow managed to get themselves on the same flight back to the states. Kyle is some kind of airplane engineer, so they know she'll know where to look for her daughter and would have the necessary skills to plant a bomb on the plane. They've bribed a funeral home operator to tell the pilot that Kyle's husband killed himself and their daughter so everyone will think Kyle is crazy. Do I need to go on? For fuck's sake, whatever happened to just sticking a gun in someone's face and saying "give me the money"?

Before we learn the identity of the kidnappers, there's an interesting moment when the plot tries to decoy us with some Arabs who happen to be on the plane. Kyle "remembers" seeing some Arabs "spying" on her. It must be the fucking Arabs! As we learn, however, it's not the Arabs (although, strangely, this movie would have made a lot more sense if it had been the Arabs, negative stereotypes notwithstanding). Having presented the not-bad-guys Arabs, however, this script can't even be bothered to muster some basic symmetry by having them, at some crucial point, help Foster's character. As for the actual bad guy, the sky marshal, at no point in the movie are we given even an inkling as to what motivates him. Is he unhappy with his pension plan? Was he beaten with a toy airplane when he was a child? Does being a sky marshal disqualify you from collecting air miles? We'll never know...

Is it just me, or does economy class on a "movie airplane" seem a lot more spacious?

Brain Dead

Sorry, I've been really busy at work and I've been feeling too tired and too brain dead to post anything the past few days. Hope to be back very soon (that's not a threat, it's a promise!).

Death Metal

You know, I quite like a lot of death metal bands, but recently I've become a bit concerned about death metal singers. I mean, it can't be good for the throat to be singing in that "cookie monster" voice all the time. And if one actually had that as a natural voice, it might be a bit awkward going to the pharmacy and asking for condoms, let alone ordering a beer at the pub...

Mirrors

[This story originally appeared here.]

For some reason, lately he'd become obsessed with mirrors. When he was alone in a room with a mirror he would find himself absently gazing into it. Simple, routine things like brushing his teeth or shaving, tasks which used to take up a perfunctory few minutes of his day, now seemed to last for hours, and he frequently found himself rushing to work or other appointments because he was spending too much time staring into the mirror. His wife began to notice his odd behavior, but didn't comment on it. She thought he was obsessing about the vicissitudes of middle age, worrying about his receding hair and encroaching wrinkles. She empathized, but was unsympathetic. Welcome to the club, she thought. His young daughter didn't notice anything at all odd about his behavior. She liked looking into mirrors too.

In fact, there was nothing particularly vain or narcissistic about his obsession with looking into the mirror. No, it was more like he was looking for something; however, he couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was that he was looking for.

He had a dream. He had just finished brushing his teeth before going to bed, and once again he found himself gazing into the mirror. He studied his face. He looked closely at what was in the background behind him on the mirror's surface. Somewhat irrationally he began to wonder about what might lie beyond the reflective surface of the mirror. When he found himself hefting his ceramic shaving mug there was no turning back. He threw it at the mirror. To his profound shock, the mug smashed through the mirror, taking large shards of glass with it. There was some kind of dark space on the other side. The next thing he knew, he had cleared away all the edges of the shattered mirror and was slowly poking his head through what had once been its surface. He could barely believe his eyes. The other side was like a large corridor, with no apparent floor or ceiling. As far as he could see—left, right, up, down, were what appeared to be windows. In each window was a face. He could see thousands of faces, and it dawned on him that what he was seeing was thousands of people gazing into their own mirrors, each one oblivious to all the others (including him). He found this sight unbearable, repulsive. He became angry. His anger turned to rage, and grew to such a proportion that, by a sheer act of will, he smashed all of the mirrors in the corridor. When he looked again, he saw thousands of copies of his own astonished face staring back at him...

As he emerged from sleep to this side of consciousness he felt a presence, a soft breath on his cheeks. He opened his eyes to find the dark, inquiring eyes of his daughter staring at him. Looking into those eyes, he saw a small reflection of his own face. He smiled...

And the Winner Is...

...not me! Maht over at The Moon Topples has announced the winners of the Vision Fiction Contest (scroll down a bit to read the stories) that I've told you about in some earlier posts. While I didn't win any prizes it was fun to have participated nonetheless. The winning stories really were outstanding. In fact, all of the stories were quite good (well, with the possible exception of mine, which I'll be posting here as soon as I'm done writing this; be gentle, dear readers!).

I want to give special congratulations to my online friend, Emarie, over at Disaffected Housewife, who took third place in the writer's category. Her story, "Eye Exam, 2208", is well worth checking out. After you've read it, go visit her blog!

Introducing... the Book!

Watching the video below reminded me of teaching my wife (bless her heart!) how to use a flash memory stick. If you've ever tried to teach anyone how to use a new piece of "technology", you'll probably laugh as much as I did at this very funny clip.



You can close the book now...
[Via Sivacracy]

Gimme That Giri Choco!

[Note: Most of the readers of this little blog don't live in Japan, and we here at Kyklops are bombarded with daily requests for the real lowdown on the Japanese and their customs. As part of our ongoing mission to slake the thirst of our faithful readers for accurate and complete coverage of the economic and cultural behemoth that is Japan, we proudly present the following article on Valentine's Day in Japan.]

Valentine's is a special day in Japan. Yes, today men all over Japan can look forward to receiving a special little something from their wives. In fact, there's a good chance they'll receive it from pretty much every woman they work with! Yummy... What? No, not that you filthy-minded louts! On Valentine's Day in Japan women give chocolate to men...

Yes, in much the same way that Christmas is for screwing, New Year's is a contest to see who can be the most boring, and Green Day is not a band, the Japanese have taken another Western "tradition" and twisted it to suit their own nefarious ends. (Research is still underway to determine just what those ends actually are...) Valentine's Day in Japan focuses on something called giri choco (lit. "obligation chocolate"), and women in Japan are "obliged" to give chocolate to every stinking scumbag they live with, work with, or work for.

On a possibly related note, when I first came to Japan I was struck by how few of the murders that I read about in the papers were committed with guns. Poison seemed to be rather popular...

A Day at the Zoo, Part 2

A few more pics from Sunday's trip to the zoo. As my Japanese students (of English) say, "That's all..."

Another cheerful looking chimpanzee. They really should give these guys some beer or something...

Don't mean to be offensive, but this ostrich looks like he's been eating shit...

"You lookin' at me?"

I swear, I used to be in a band with this guy...

You Can Speak Japanese!!

Most of the dialogue in the clip below (from Scary Movie 4) is in Japanese. Believe me, you'll be surprised at how much Japanese you already know and understand...



[Via Japan Probe]

A Day at the Zoo, Part 1

Miyazaki has a small zoo, the Phoenix Zoo, and I spent today there with my family. Yes, that means I'm going to bore you some more with some pictures. These ones are mostly head shots of a few of the animals we saw at the zoo today.

I suppose different people might have different views, but when I see some of the "higher" species at a zoo (or more generally in any kind of cage) it makes me wonder if it's really such a good idea. This chimpanzee looks to me like he'd, on the whole, "rather be in Philadelphia..."

One of a pair of young elephants recently acquired by the zoo. They make them work, having trained them to do different tricks during regular-scheduled "shows".

I don't know what it is about giraffes, but I quite enjoy looking at them...

Pelican in profile.

This camel doesn't seem to mind life in the zoo too much...

Cranes, Drones, Hüsker Dü, Keef, and Neko

You know, I usually don't feel like writing. It's odd, really (because I really love talking). I think it stems from my days at university. They kept making me write all these papers to show that I understood the topic and whatnot. I would write them and they would (generally) praise them. Then they would make me write some more. Why the fuck couldn't they just ask me? Couldn't they see my genius? Well, actually, I'm neither stupid nor naive enough to seriously ask that question. Not here, anyway...

So. While I'm killing time and avoiding writing, please let me recommend to you some music I've been listening to tonight. (Actually I like music a lot more than I could ever like reading and/or writing. That's another story, however... [From the "Did I say That?" Dept.: I may have over-stated myself here...])

I've recently discovered a very cool and interesting Australian band called The Drones. You've probably already heard of Hüsker Dü (there's supposed to be some kind of umlaut-looking thingie over the 'u's, but I can't be bothered finding the right fucking font or whatever just so I can perfectly capture the correct spelling of a fucking rock band--they're fucking good, though). [UPDATE: Copy and paste umlaut goodness courtesy of Maht.] If you don't know Keef (Keith-fucking-Richards!! Talk Is Cheap is the one to look for), go crawl back into your hole. By now everyone must have heard of Neko Case. If you haven't, I demand to know right now what the fuck you've been listening to.

There's more, actually: Comets on Fire (psycho-delic!), ...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead (So Divided was maybe the best rock album of 2006), Irma Thomas... shit, I could go on forever...

Anyway, here's some pictures I took of cranes. They're ubiquitous in Japan (as is any and all manner of construction).

Here's a crane in Atami.

In Tokyo, cranes litter the landscape (heh, what a stupid sentence!).

Cranes in Nagasaki harbor. This is a repeat pic, but for some reason I really like this one...

[UPDATE #2: I completely forgot about the two cranes in the picture below from the zoo in Miyazaki .]

For the Birds...

Well, after some initial problems with email, I submitted my entry to the Short Fiction Contest at The Moon Topples. There are some great stories there waiting to be read (scroll down a bit), so by all means head over and check them out.

While I try to get back into "blog mode", here are some more thematically linked photos for you to look at.

A bird of many colors.

Six birds on a rail.

Bird on a wire.

Plague ship?

Shiny Things and a Struggling Dork with a Camera

Not being the most creative person even on the best of days, I have absolutely no "creative" energy to spare on blogging for the next few days. I've committed myself to submitting an entry in a Short Fiction Contest over at Moon Topples and, frankly, fiction has never been something I've really tried doing in a serious way. I will submit something, even if it does turn out to be mildly embarrassing.

In the meantime, as I'm completely consumed trying to come up with an idea for a story, this week's posts will probably consist mostly of some of my dubious "photography". This post is no exception!

Shiny Thing #1

Shiny Thing #2

A shiny thing reflecting a struggling dork with a camera.

Gaijin Hanzai Ura File

[Note: So far as I can tell, the primary source for the information below is Debito.org, and the translations for the picture captions are by "Steve" at that site. I came across this information at Japan Probe. If anyone thinks I've made a mistake in these attributions, please let me know.]

Japan is not really much different from any other place when it comes to things like racism and discrimination (no matter what the Japanese themselves might say). Just like in Canada or the U.S., many foreigners face discrimination on a daily basis. [Disclaimer: To my knowledge, I have never been the target or victim of discrimination, racial slurs, etc. in the almost 9 years I've been in Japan. I have no particular axe to grind on this matter. I should also point out that I'm a member of a somewhat priveleged group of foreigners--I'm an educated white guy from a "developed" country. None of this negates a) the presence of racism and discrimination in Japan, nor b) my right to get pissed off about it and my obligation to point it out.]

Now, it's not the actual fact of discrimination and racism here that irks me about Japan. No, it's the generally lazy attitude of Japanese society in dealing with these problems that is troubling. Below are some scanned pics from a magazine called Gaijin Hanzai File ("Gaijin Crime File"). It's available at Amazon Japan, and other major book/magazine sellers. It's available on the shelves of at least one major convenience store (Family Mart; also check the links/comments at Debito and Japan Probe, above). Check it out:

Back Page:日本における外人犯罪件数年間47000件!!
47,000 crimes by foreigners each year!!
The map, with suggestive images of guns, knives, and syringes, assigns a "danger rating" (危険度) for each country: China: 14, Russia: 5, Korea: 9, Brazil: 8, Colombia: 3, etc. The USA, Canada, Australia and the whole of Europe are conspicuously blank...

Picture accompanying an article about foreigners scamming Japanese for money:毟られる日本人。『シャチョサン、ATMコッチデス』
Japanese getting conned: "Theesaway to ze ATM, Meester Managing Director."

And, of course, "sex crimes" by foreigners seem to feature prominently. The picture below shows a black man (clearly with consent) touching a Japanese woman's behind. If you weren't shocked by the above, check out the caption for this picture:

おいニガー！！日本婦女子のケツさわってんじゃねえ！！
Oi Nigger!! Get your fuckin’ hands off that Japanese lady’s ass!!

Yes, that's what it says. And believe me, there's lots more where that came from, and not just in magazines (Japanese television frequently has some pretty offensive stuff that would cause riots back home...).

What do the Japanese do? Nothing. Zilch. Zero. That this kind of thing is tolerated in a so-called "developed" country is enough to make anyone nauseous. And Japan will continue to tolerate this bullshit until they are shamed by the community they so very much desire to be a leader of.

[Update: I've added a link (above) to confirm that Family Mart is in fact selling the magazine. This link also has information regarding the possible beginnings of a boycott. I also corrected the post title.]

From the Annals of the Absurd

I don't know, maybe I'm making too much out of it, but...

Recently my 4-year-old daughter has expressed some unhappiness about going to her kindergarten. Why? Apparently a couple of kids at the kindergarten, on two different occasions, have told her that they they didn't want to play with her because she's "fat" (futotte iru, in Japanese). Both my wife and I had strong reactions to this. Unfortunately, they were very different reactions...

Now, before I continue I should probably point out a couple of things. Firstly, the Japanese are typically quite slim, especially compared to Westerners. That does not mean, however, that there are no "fat" or "chubby" people in Japan. There are plenty. Secondly, the Japanese are more keenly aware and less tolerant of "difference". (People will debate this point, but frankly they don't know what they're talking about.)

Regarding my daughter, yes, by Japanese standards she is quite big--she towers over her playmates and nobody (not even me!) would call her "slim". I've got no problem saying that my daughter is a little on the "chubby" side, but where I come from she looks perfectly "normal" and only an anorexic psycho would look at her and see a "fat" person. So, on top of being a "half-baby", my daughter is also bigger and taller than other kids (she's bigger and taller than most first- and second-graders here). Since she's been born I've been preparing myself to deal with problems related to "race" and "ethnicity". This "fat" thing is another can o' worms altogether...

My wife, being Japanese, thinks my daughter should start dieting and getting more exercise and the problem will go away. (To be fair, this is Japan we're living in, so I can't just dismiss my wife's views simply because they go against my gut feelings.) I, of course, don't think my daughter has a problem at all. The "problem" is with Japanese attitudes and perceptions, and I don't like the idea of forcing her into some action just to conform with other people's ideas about what is "normal" or "acceptable". She's a sweet, beautiful, healthy little girl. Why mess with that?

PSA

Maht over at Moon Topples has announced a Short Fiction Contest (with prizes!). Any readers of this blog (I'm looking at you Maliha and Emarie!) who are interested should head over there and get the details. It starts today. Time is of the essence. And yes, yours truly is going to give it a shot, so it's worth checking out if only to see what mad scribblings pour forth from the demented pen of Kyklops!

Hole in the Sky

Nothing to say, really. I kinda like this picture, taken here in Miyazaki last October.

Songun Blog

I stand in humbled awe of Songun Blog, "Single-mindedly united as one under the Banner of Songun held aloft by the Dear Leader Comrade Generalissimo Kim Jong Il, brilliant statesman, political genius, and invincible military commander".

I'd always (arrogantly, as I see now) considered myself to be a fairly eloquent guy. Until I read this:

Bush the war criminal warmongering mental retard stupid corporate redneck capitalist cowboy is evil to the point of sucking out the blood of veterans of his criminal wars of aggression, but the Dear Leader Comrade Generalissimo Kim Jong Il the brilliant statesman political genius, prodigious humanist and invincible military commander is a very loyal leader who take the loving care of the veterans of the Revolutionary Anti-Japanese Liberation War and the Fatherland Liberation War.

I am but a worm, unfit to be squished under the Dear Leader's boot.

They've got some pretty snappy videos, too. (Anyone who teaches English to kids in Japan may even be surprised to recognize the melody of the song--"If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands!")



And who could read the Song of General Kim Jong Il and not be moved by it's poetic beauty? (Scroll down through the comments for some amusement...)

Mt. Paektu reaches across
To shape our beautiful land.
Cheers resound all over the land,
Hailing our dear General.
He's the leader of the people,
Carrying forward the Sun's cause.
Long live, long live, General Kim Jong Il.

Most impressive! Keep up the good work!
[Original link Via The Ill Man in the comments of Konichiwa Bitches.]

[Update!! Juche Girl rocks!! Juche Girl, where are you? Please update your blog!]

Sun, Moon, Sky, and Trees

Here are some photos I've taken over the past few weeks. As you can see, they're thematically linked (but please don't take that as a claim for "art"!).

A rather barren tree with the sun and sky in the background.

The same tree, on a different day, with different light.

A whole mess o' branches.

Another barren-looking tree.

Tree, moon, and sky #1.

Tree, moon, and sky #2.

The leaves of a tree with the moon in the background, early evening.

I've Seen Every One of Them...

It's almost the end of term here so I've been a bit busy this week making and giving tests to the couple hundred ungrateful wretches I call my "students"; too busy to give much thought to any written content here. (Yeah, yeah, "so what's new?" you groan...) Anyway...

I came across the video below while browsing YouTube the other day, and it really took me back to my childhood-- sitting in dark movie theatres with my buddies on Saturday afternoons, throwing popcorn boxes, sticking gum in girls' hair, making farting sounds during "romantic" scenes, and all the goofy stuff boys do (did?).

I've always been a big fan of the "fantastic" on the movie screen, and when I was a kid the master of this genre was Ray Harryhausen. Ray's art was stop-motion animation, and in movies like Mighty Joe Young, The 7th Voyage of Sinbad, Jason and the Argonauts, and One Million Years B.C. (with a very hot, animal skin-clad Raquel Welch!! [swoons with the memory of his first, unrequited childhood love...]) he brought to life on the screen all manner of fantastic creature, big and small. The video below features every one of Harryhausen's creations. It's perhaps a bit long-ish, but if you watch carefully you'll see where I got my profile pic from...

Fitter, Happier

For the past couple of weeks my daughter had been acting like a mean-spirited, spoiled little brat. Then, during dinner yesterday, as I was yelling at her for what seemed like the hundredth time that day for I-can't-remember-what, she stopped me dead in my tracks with the following earnest, deeply troubled words: "Daddy, why don't you smoke a cigarette? It's OK, you know." Ouch. Out of the mouths of babes...

What a miserable prick I've been the past couple of weeks, especially to my little girl, but to my wife as well. Damn the day I lit a cigarette. Tonight after work I formally apologized to my daughter for being mean to her lately. When I asked what I could do to make it up to her, she told me I should come home from work early more often so that we could go to the park before it gets dark. Easy to please. My wife is another story...

Anger management classes are not really an option, but clearly I'll have to tame some of the "ill-effects" of a smoke-free life. Reader suggestions are welcome (but please, comments of the type "once a prick, always a prick", aside from stating the too-obvious, are not really helpful...).

Plan A: Tomorrow at 6am I will wake up and go for a brisk 30 minute walk, and possibly I'll even run a bit (if I don't keel over in agony too quickly). I will do this every day. Soon I will become a lean, mean sex machine, and I will wonder what ever possessed me to smoke those vile cigarettes. My wife will be happy to have such a non-smoking hunk o' manhood for a husband. My daughter will be happy that I don't throw out my back when I carry her to bed. I will be happy because, well, dammit, life will be good and we will be happy and healthy...

Fitter, happier, more productive, comfortable...

Holy Shit, a Techno Band I Like!!

Are The Knife fucked, or what?
[Update: I got new headphones today, so I'm catching up on some listening.]
[Update #2: I suppose it was really "poor form" of me, in this day and age, not to have included a sample of what The Knife is about. Below are two videos by The Knife: "Heartbeats" (2005) and "Like a Pen" (2006).]

Great Drum Fills, Pt. 3

I've written here before about my love for the Rolling Stones. Perhaps one of the truly neglected drummers in rock, Charlie Watts was my personal hero for many years. To my mind Charlie has always been the embodiment of the unspoken/unwritten "rule" that it's the drummer's job to make everybody else sound good. Certainly nobody would ever accuse Charlie Watts of being a show-off. No, Charlie has instead, for the past 40+ years with the Rolling Stones, simply just "laid it down". Fact is, Charlie lays it down better than anybody. So well, in fact, that the rare "flashy" moments often go un-noticed. Well, no more!

Exile on Main St. is, arguably, the Stones' best album. There is no question that this album was Charlie's finest hour. He plays with an abandon that is transcendent. Simply, he fuckin' rocks the joint. He is the star of this, one of the greatest albums in rock 'n' roll history, performed by it's greatest band. It's a bit odd, really, because it's not as though Charlie turned into Neal Peart or something for this album. No, he just did what he usually does, only this time a bit more ...loosely. Anyway, this brings me to tonight's Great Drum Fill:

Drummer: Charlie Watts
Group: The Rolling Stones
Album: Exile on Main St.
Great Drum Fill: "Tumbling Dice"; surely the Stones' best single and possibly the best song to grace commercial radio ever. You really have to listen to the whole song to get the point of this drum fill (it may surprise some people that, yes, there is a point to everything in a good song). At about the 2:20 mark of the song the band "drops out" a bit and then begins to build up to the song's climax. As this is happening Charlie is there, providing minimal backing but building in volume and intensity until at, about the 3:02 mark, the tension releases with a classic drum fill, followed by several more until the end of the song.

Yeah.

[Updated 10/4/13: You'll find the drum fill at the 3:00 mark in the clip below.]