So my trip to Arizona went well. My flights and the overall traveling experience was better than I could have hoped. I usual tend to get a bit claustrophobic on the plane, especially for eleven hours, but it all went well. The perk of the H1N1 piggy scare is that very few people are traveling. My flight to the states was nearly empty and I had my own row. My flight back to Japan was similarly populated but I was seated next to some skinny Japanese people, that allowed me to usurp some of their elbow room. There were no crying children like my flight to Rome and there were no karate practitioners honing their skills on the back of my seat like my flight from Barcelona. They were good traveling experiences this time.
It was a bit strange returning to America. As the JET infomercials stated, there was a bit of reverse-culture shock and my first attempt at driving my car led me errantly down the left side of the road for a moment. I did decide to get all of the culture shock out of my system in one fell swoop. My first stop, after I slept off the jet lag, was to the hub of American culture, in its most repulsive and repugnant incarnation, Walmart. It was a planned trip, designed to shock my mind back into the way of the "American Way." The second I entered the store I felt my soul cry. There were children running aimlessly, hyped up on sugar and Ritalin and adults shuffling about in slippers and stretch pants, to better suit their flab, pushing carts filled to the brim with cheap Chinese made goods.
Now, I'm not going to lie to you all, I enjoy Walmart for two reasons. First, because they have a five dollar DVD bin and one can always find a decent deal there. And secondly, because Walmart is to me, what IHOP is to Lewis Black. (If you have never heard Lewis Black, the comedian, talk about IHOP, I suggest you YouTube that.) Mr. Black states that he considers IHOP to be his health club because, "No matter how fat you are, there will always be someone there who weighs 350 pounds more than you will ever weigh." And thus is true for Walmart as well. If I've said it once, I've said it a million times, Walmart is a cesspool for Americanism, where hope and self-respect go to die a horrible and miserable death. (my own included)
Now purged of my own feeling of superiority over the Walmart shoppers, I could enjoy my vacation. A vacation which included a trip to the dentist, a few loving family dinners, a graduation, a huge family party, a drive California to be accompanied by several games of beerpong, a geocaching day with the father, several trips to Papago Brewery to drink real beer and several boring days spent surfing the internet and watching HBO.
If only everyday could be spent lounging around eating leftover lasagna, watching HBO and trolling Facebook, what a life that would be! Alas, one's life cannot be wasted as such though. And now I have returned to the daily grind at work.
When I finally returned to work, after passing the swine flu test, my principal came up and tried to talk to me. He said that he liked my beard and wondered if I shaved it everyday. Then he asked how often I go to the dentist to keep my teeth strong. And now today, several teachers asked me why I changed my hairstyle, but didn't wait around long enough to hear the whole story, they merely nodded and said that they liked it. So with that, I have returned to a place where my mere appearance is a novelty which doesn't grow old.
It's good to be back.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
I Call Shenanigans on You, Japan
So, as most of my six steady readers know, I am returning to the States for a triumph. (Yes, I expect four white horses, a Roman chariot, trumpeters, slaves throwing olive branches in my wake. All that jazz.) But it has come to the attention of my supervisors and the Kyoto Board of Education that my trip home to Arizona is planned right, smack dab in the middle of the most vicious, vile and murderous plague on humans since, well, the Plague of a blacker nature.
Yes, of course you all know what I am talking about. Now introducing, in the left corner, coming straight from the pig's mouth, transmitted humanoid to humanoid, the most delicious sounding of all the flues in human history; the Sultan of Swine, the Frothiest of Flues, the most Dangerous of Diseases, the most Porkiest of all Plagues: H1N1.
My upcoming trip to "ground zero in the fight against the Pig" has my supervisors and their supervisors up-in-arms. I'll start from the beginning of the story because, well, that's usually the best place to start. I will do my best to retell the story as accurately as possible, it may falter here or there but that is because during the meeting that occurred on Tuesday May 12, between 5:01pm and 5:32pm, I was laughing my ass off inside my head.
The Tuesday began as any other Tuesday, me sitting at my computer at my visit school about an hour and twenty minutes trip from my base school. When all of a sudden, the vice-principal approaches me and in his limited English tells me that, "After work today, You should go to your base school for an important meeting." I was a bit shocked and slightly alarmed. I knew my base school would have a meeting with me about my trip but what could be so urgent that they would need to talk to me today that could not wait until Thursday when I would return to the base school. I was afraid that they would ask me to cancel my trip because they needed me to do work at school. (HAHA, "work") So the rest of the day went off with out a hitch. After my last class I decided to check my email and relax until the bell rang and I could legally stand at the bus stop and wait twenty minutes for the infallibly late bus. (They really should just update the bus schedule if it is going to be late every day) It was at this time when a teacher came to me and told me that I was supposed to be gone an hour ago. Of course the difference between, "Go after you finish your work" and, "Go after work," was lost on the vice-principal.
So I ran two kilometers down hill to the train station so that I could make the early train and get to the other school fifteen minutes earlier (What a waste of energy this would turn out to be.) Eventually I arrived at my other school and sat down for my meeting with the vice-principal, the principal and an English teacher for translation. The principal showed me an article in the Kyoto newspaper that showed the numbers of the world wide plague, known as Swine Flu, broken down country by country.
He decided to have this meeting to tell me that, of the 6,000,000,000 people there are in the world, 5,200 have Swine Flu. And of that 5,200 people world wide, 2,600 people have it in the United States. As a result, my trip to America was not only my concern, but a National and International concern. According to my principal, I am to:
1. Take my temperature everyday while I am home and keep a log to show the people at the airport.
2. Where a face mask, constantly.
3. Be prepared to give a blood sample at the Kansai Airport when I return.
4. Be prepared to be quarantined in a hotel near the airport if I have a fever.
5. Call my school the day before I am to come back to work to ensure that my blood test at the airport passed. If it does not, I will be suspended from work for ten days.
6. Wash my hands all the time, I think he said, "ichinichi" meaning "all day long."
7. Gargle with the patented Japanese brown garble sludge, which reputedly is supposed to kill germs and ward off evil hippo spirits (there's a hippo on the bottle.)
8. Don't come to work if you have the coughs, sneezes, farts or blinks.
9. Don't return if you to work if haven't bathed in fire and gargled bleach.
And So On. (The last two rules were slightly exaggerated.)
All-in-all, I am very excited to have the same exact meeting again on Monday to ensure that I understand everything. I wonder how freaked out they would be if I brought them bacon back as Omiyage (souvenirs).
Yes, of course you all know what I am talking about. Now introducing, in the left corner, coming straight from the pig's mouth, transmitted humanoid to humanoid, the most delicious sounding of all the flues in human history; the Sultan of Swine, the Frothiest of Flues, the most Dangerous of Diseases, the most Porkiest of all Plagues: H1N1.
My upcoming trip to "ground zero in the fight against the Pig" has my supervisors and their supervisors up-in-arms. I'll start from the beginning of the story because, well, that's usually the best place to start. I will do my best to retell the story as accurately as possible, it may falter here or there but that is because during the meeting that occurred on Tuesday May 12, between 5:01pm and 5:32pm, I was laughing my ass off inside my head.
The Tuesday began as any other Tuesday, me sitting at my computer at my visit school about an hour and twenty minutes trip from my base school. When all of a sudden, the vice-principal approaches me and in his limited English tells me that, "After work today, You should go to your base school for an important meeting." I was a bit shocked and slightly alarmed. I knew my base school would have a meeting with me about my trip but what could be so urgent that they would need to talk to me today that could not wait until Thursday when I would return to the base school. I was afraid that they would ask me to cancel my trip because they needed me to do work at school. (HAHA, "work") So the rest of the day went off with out a hitch. After my last class I decided to check my email and relax until the bell rang and I could legally stand at the bus stop and wait twenty minutes for the infallibly late bus. (They really should just update the bus schedule if it is going to be late every day) It was at this time when a teacher came to me and told me that I was supposed to be gone an hour ago. Of course the difference between, "Go after you finish your work" and, "Go after work," was lost on the vice-principal.
So I ran two kilometers down hill to the train station so that I could make the early train and get to the other school fifteen minutes earlier (What a waste of energy this would turn out to be.) Eventually I arrived at my other school and sat down for my meeting with the vice-principal, the principal and an English teacher for translation. The principal showed me an article in the Kyoto newspaper that showed the numbers of the world wide plague, known as Swine Flu, broken down country by country.
He decided to have this meeting to tell me that, of the 6,000,000,000 people there are in the world, 5,200 have Swine Flu. And of that 5,200 people world wide, 2,600 people have it in the United States. As a result, my trip to America was not only my concern, but a National and International concern. According to my principal, I am to:
1. Take my temperature everyday while I am home and keep a log to show the people at the airport.
2. Where a face mask, constantly.
3. Be prepared to give a blood sample at the Kansai Airport when I return.
4. Be prepared to be quarantined in a hotel near the airport if I have a fever.
5. Call my school the day before I am to come back to work to ensure that my blood test at the airport passed. If it does not, I will be suspended from work for ten days.
6. Wash my hands all the time, I think he said, "ichinichi" meaning "all day long."
7. Gargle with the patented Japanese brown garble sludge, which reputedly is supposed to kill germs and ward off evil hippo spirits (there's a hippo on the bottle.)
8. Don't come to work if you have the coughs, sneezes, farts or blinks.
9. Don't return if you to work if haven't bathed in fire and gargled bleach.
And So On. (The last two rules were slightly exaggerated.)
All-in-all, I am very excited to have the same exact meeting again on Monday to ensure that I understand everything. I wonder how freaked out they would be if I brought them bacon back as Omiyage (souvenirs).
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Adventures of a Fantasy Fan: Part 3
Keto could, of course, return to his marching war party and tell those that sent him that his party fled in the night out of fear and his goblin commanders would not likely bat an eye at his story. Goblins have always been a resourceful and despicable race, yet dependability and loyalty were not common traits among this small statured race of green, orange, and yellow skinned monsters. Thus, Keto should have returned. All of his logic told him that he would survive longer in his war party but something was wrong, or at least, something felt wrong about returning.
Something was indeed "wrong" with Keto, in terms of his race's usual disposition. Keto had killed his kin before this most recent massacre, yet never so unprovoked as the occasion in the cabin. He had no regrets as warfare amongst the goblin kind were far more common than war against the humans. Keto had acted on his own. That was unusual.
Keto was a well trained forward scout for an ancient goblin tribe from the North, from the foot of the Dragon's Tooth mountain range. His tribe, the Vactea, were a large and powerful clan indeed. They controlled a large swath of land in the North and existed, and reproduced, unchecked by humans and other goodly races. Their numbers had swelled beyond the capacity of the Dragon's Tooth. In the past, frequent and deadly human war parties had rampaged through the mountain range thinning the Vactean numbers and sending the survivors running through the mountains to find holes in which to crawl. But in the last generation, there had been only one human raid on the Vactea.
That raid ended terribly for the humans who were caught off guard by an untimely spring snow storm. Those few that survived the weather met gruesome deaths at the claws and teeth of the beasts in the Dragon's Tooth, none survived to return to the town of Last Haven. Since then, nearly twenty years, the humans of Last Haven and the new outpost of Laybren have kept themselves far from the dangerous mountain slopes.
--------
On the word of the tribe shaman, the Vactea clan warriors left their rocky homes and marched South into the realm of men. The one-armed and withered orange-skinned shaman came to this decision as a result of a vision induced by the spewing vapors of shaman herbs. He saw, in his prayers of intoxication, the Vactea clan and all goblins of the land living in the forests and rolling hills to the South. He saw a successful clan, a health leader, a thriving goblin population and a destroyed human town. Tamoz, the shaman, had never felt such a strong guiding presence in his daily prayers before. In all his years he had never been so touched by the blessings of Gromth, the chaotic goblin deity.
Immediately after his holy encounter, he met with the clan chief. Bachu the Ugly had been the clan chief of the Vactea for a decade, which is a rather long time to be in such a dangerous and sought after position in the goblin hierarchy. Bachu came to power after he defeated his own father in combat. Bachu poisoned his father's grog one night and when the grog seemed to be taking its effect, Bachu made his patricidal move. He was over anxious and before the poison had taken his fathers strength his attack was met with more than a little resistance. In the fight, Bachu took a sword slash to the face, leaving him with a hideous scar from forehead to jaw and blind in one eye. His grievous wound earned him the surname to which he affectionately referred.
Tamoz and Bachu met late one evening after Tamoz's vision in the clan chief's cave.
"And when I closed my eyes," Tamoz exclaimed while raising his hands to the air, "I saw the Will of Gromth."
"Th-The Will o' Gr-Gromth?" One stuttering goblin body guard asked incredulously.
"Yes. Me s-saw Gromth's de-s-signs for Vactea. Great designs He have." Tamoz said, mocking the interrupting goblin's speech impediment.
Bachu waved his hand as a signal for the stupid goblin to shut his mouth and for Tamoz to continue. Although Bachu was not a terribly religious man, he knew the power superstition and religion had over his clan. He also knew the immense power that Tamoz held as chief shaman. To most of his goblin clan the shaman's word on religious matters was law. That power made Bachu nervous. His position in the clan was unrivaled, yet this shaman and his religious blather played an essential role in the culture of his tribe. Perhaps Tamoz was stretching his reach, he thought.
"Gromth wants me- us, to lead the tribe South, into the lands of the humans. He wants war on the humans. I have seen the future in my vision and I-"
"And you what?" Bachu interrupted. His interruption startled Tamoz who jumped at the sound of the imposing war chief's voice. " 'Will lead the tribe against the masses of humans raising your staff high in the air and calling the name of Gromth.'" Bachu bellowed a laugh, patting his leather armored chest. "Do not forget your place dear shaman. I lead Vactea."
For now, Tamoz thought. "Indeed. Which is why I have come. To discuss the importance of my vision. Gromth demands this of us. I saw a city destroyed and a tower-"
"A tower?" Bachu interrupted again with a smile, knowing this interruption would infuriate Tamoz. "Towers hold wizards, shaman." He scoffed.
"And the only tower in the south is in the human town of Laybren." Tamoz said bravely. Although the witty shaman, witty for a goblin that is, was quite powerful in the tribe, his offensive, martial prowess left much to be desired. He feared the strong war chief, whose corded muscles and unrivaled height made Bachu look more human than goblin, albeit a green one. Yet, Tamoz feared Gromth, his wicked and horrible god, more than this mere mortal in front of him. "So we know where we must go." He finally said with as much conviction as he could muster.
Bachu paused for a long moment, reading Tamoz. He was trying to understand what gave the shaman the audacity to come to his cave and tell him how and when to conduct a war. He touched his calloused green hand to his face and shook his head. The idea was ridiculous, of course. There would be no feasible way for the Vactea to raid and besiege the walled and magic protected town of Laybren. Not now and not with his current numbers. Yet, he knew the predicament he had been thrust into. He could not deny to Tamoz outright because that would be blasphemy in the eyes of his people, the raid is apparently demanded by Gromth. To ignore such a omen would bring chaos and internal strife to the clan and would likely lead to a civil war, an all too common goblin affair. But, to go through with this haphazardly planned attack would be suicide. Bachu contemplated throwing his spear through Tamoz's heart to silence him, but he didn't know who knew about the dream.
Finally, he sighed in resignation, "Very well, but it cannot be done alone. Send word to the other tribes in the North. Tell them that Bachu and the Vactea march to bring revenge and death to the humans of Laybren." He stood from his hide-adorned rock throne and raised his his arm, spear in hand. "To war."
Something was indeed "wrong" with Keto, in terms of his race's usual disposition. Keto had killed his kin before this most recent massacre, yet never so unprovoked as the occasion in the cabin. He had no regrets as warfare amongst the goblin kind were far more common than war against the humans. Keto had acted on his own. That was unusual.
Keto was a well trained forward scout for an ancient goblin tribe from the North, from the foot of the Dragon's Tooth mountain range. His tribe, the Vactea, were a large and powerful clan indeed. They controlled a large swath of land in the North and existed, and reproduced, unchecked by humans and other goodly races. Their numbers had swelled beyond the capacity of the Dragon's Tooth. In the past, frequent and deadly human war parties had rampaged through the mountain range thinning the Vactean numbers and sending the survivors running through the mountains to find holes in which to crawl. But in the last generation, there had been only one human raid on the Vactea.
That raid ended terribly for the humans who were caught off guard by an untimely spring snow storm. Those few that survived the weather met gruesome deaths at the claws and teeth of the beasts in the Dragon's Tooth, none survived to return to the town of Last Haven. Since then, nearly twenty years, the humans of Last Haven and the new outpost of Laybren have kept themselves far from the dangerous mountain slopes.
--------
On the word of the tribe shaman, the Vactea clan warriors left their rocky homes and marched South into the realm of men. The one-armed and withered orange-skinned shaman came to this decision as a result of a vision induced by the spewing vapors of shaman herbs. He saw, in his prayers of intoxication, the Vactea clan and all goblins of the land living in the forests and rolling hills to the South. He saw a successful clan, a health leader, a thriving goblin population and a destroyed human town. Tamoz, the shaman, had never felt such a strong guiding presence in his daily prayers before. In all his years he had never been so touched by the blessings of Gromth, the chaotic goblin deity.
Immediately after his holy encounter, he met with the clan chief. Bachu the Ugly had been the clan chief of the Vactea for a decade, which is a rather long time to be in such a dangerous and sought after position in the goblin hierarchy. Bachu came to power after he defeated his own father in combat. Bachu poisoned his father's grog one night and when the grog seemed to be taking its effect, Bachu made his patricidal move. He was over anxious and before the poison had taken his fathers strength his attack was met with more than a little resistance. In the fight, Bachu took a sword slash to the face, leaving him with a hideous scar from forehead to jaw and blind in one eye. His grievous wound earned him the surname to which he affectionately referred.
Tamoz and Bachu met late one evening after Tamoz's vision in the clan chief's cave.
"And when I closed my eyes," Tamoz exclaimed while raising his hands to the air, "I saw the Will of Gromth."
"Th-The Will o' Gr-Gromth?" One stuttering goblin body guard asked incredulously.
"Yes. Me s-saw Gromth's de-s-signs for Vactea. Great designs He have." Tamoz said, mocking the interrupting goblin's speech impediment.
Bachu waved his hand as a signal for the stupid goblin to shut his mouth and for Tamoz to continue. Although Bachu was not a terribly religious man, he knew the power superstition and religion had over his clan. He also knew the immense power that Tamoz held as chief shaman. To most of his goblin clan the shaman's word on religious matters was law. That power made Bachu nervous. His position in the clan was unrivaled, yet this shaman and his religious blather played an essential role in the culture of his tribe. Perhaps Tamoz was stretching his reach, he thought.
"Gromth wants me- us, to lead the tribe South, into the lands of the humans. He wants war on the humans. I have seen the future in my vision and I-"
"And you what?" Bachu interrupted. His interruption startled Tamoz who jumped at the sound of the imposing war chief's voice. " 'Will lead the tribe against the masses of humans raising your staff high in the air and calling the name of Gromth.'" Bachu bellowed a laugh, patting his leather armored chest. "Do not forget your place dear shaman. I lead Vactea."
For now, Tamoz thought. "Indeed. Which is why I have come. To discuss the importance of my vision. Gromth demands this of us. I saw a city destroyed and a tower-"
"A tower?" Bachu interrupted again with a smile, knowing this interruption would infuriate Tamoz. "Towers hold wizards, shaman." He scoffed.
"And the only tower in the south is in the human town of Laybren." Tamoz said bravely. Although the witty shaman, witty for a goblin that is, was quite powerful in the tribe, his offensive, martial prowess left much to be desired. He feared the strong war chief, whose corded muscles and unrivaled height made Bachu look more human than goblin, albeit a green one. Yet, Tamoz feared Gromth, his wicked and horrible god, more than this mere mortal in front of him. "So we know where we must go." He finally said with as much conviction as he could muster.
Bachu paused for a long moment, reading Tamoz. He was trying to understand what gave the shaman the audacity to come to his cave and tell him how and when to conduct a war. He touched his calloused green hand to his face and shook his head. The idea was ridiculous, of course. There would be no feasible way for the Vactea to raid and besiege the walled and magic protected town of Laybren. Not now and not with his current numbers. Yet, he knew the predicament he had been thrust into. He could not deny to Tamoz outright because that would be blasphemy in the eyes of his people, the raid is apparently demanded by Gromth. To ignore such a omen would bring chaos and internal strife to the clan and would likely lead to a civil war, an all too common goblin affair. But, to go through with this haphazardly planned attack would be suicide. Bachu contemplated throwing his spear through Tamoz's heart to silence him, but he didn't know who knew about the dream.
Finally, he sighed in resignation, "Very well, but it cannot be done alone. Send word to the other tribes in the North. Tell them that Bachu and the Vactea march to bring revenge and death to the humans of Laybren." He stood from his hide-adorned rock throne and raised his his arm, spear in hand. "To war."
Monday, April 13, 2009
The Japanese Gangster Pope
Before all of you religious fanatics get "all up in my digital grill," just continue reading on for a few lines and most all will be explained.
I spent my Sunday in a sweaty dogi and a too small white belt standing amongst a group of 40 or so Japanese Karate practitioners from about 10:30 a.m. until 6 p.m. I will say that it was one of the best days I have ever had. First, before I get down to the details I should set up the scene. The dojo was about the size of a large living room, about 50' x 25', with hardwood flooring and a small shrine in the front of the room. The shrine is adorned with a small sitting pillow, an arm resting stool and a pair of ornamental wooden swords. There is also a framed picture of the Japanese flag and another framed picture of the recently deceased head of the school(the Soke-Sensei). The school is now run by his son who, after an appropriate 1 year mourning period, legally changed his name to his father's name to take over the school. This is a rather common Japanese custom in terms of the arts and martial arts.
So now back to the action. All of the students and teachers, ranks ranging from 10kyu (lowest white belt) to 8 and 9 dan black belts, line up in this small dojo and await the arrival of the main man, the emperor's enchilada, the Soke to end all Sokes, the Japanese Gangster Pope. Yes, that last title is not only insulting to the Pope, but also the head of my Karate school. So, shh. Don't tell anyone. I call him the Japanese Gangster Pope for a couple of reasons. First, he is treated with such reverence and piety that upon his choreographed entrance into the dojo, after exiting his Mercedes, everyone drops to their knees and bows, putting their heads to the hardwood floor. Secondly, he is a gangster because the suit that he was wearing when he walked in the dojo was straight out of a 1990's "yakuza/Japanese gangster" movie. His navy blue and white pinstripe suit was only accentuated by his perfectly greased-back 1950's "Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli" hair. Lastly, he is Japanese so I think it is perfectly appropriate to call him the Japanese Gangster Pope, although not nearly reverent enough.
Throughout the whole day I kind of felt like an outsider looking in on a secret cult, not only because the entire thing was conducted in Japanese but because everyone seemed to know the rhythm and method of the seeming madness. The day started off just like all of my karate practices, warm ups followed by punching, kicking and blocking routines to ensure that they are being done properly. Upon my failure of one of these blocking techniques, the Head Honcho, Soke-Sensei, came over and brought the whole group of people to kneel around me while he showed me how poorly I was doing. It was slightly embarrassing but I felt a little honored to be directly instructed by the man himself.
The day continued for another 2 hours until lunch time. With hardly a word, tables, cups, tea, soup and "obento/box lunch" were brought out and set up in the dojo. For several long, agonizing minutes all of the students just floated around the room trying to decide where to sit and what would be appropriate. I asked one of my Japanese friends if this was normal behavior and his response was, "In Japan there are many implied rules about things like this...but we don't know what they are." So eventually one of the instructors noticed everyone's awkward behavior and told us to sit down where ever we liked. After lunch, my friend told me that my pants were quite yellow. Knowing that this would happen, I was not surprised at all. When one's clothing gets soaked from sweat and one sits on dirty hardwood floors, the color of the floor gets easily transferred to the white fabric of one's pants. It happens to me every practice so I am no longer surprised, but only after practice when I changed my clothes could I truly acknowledge the seriousness of the stain. Boy, was it hilarious looking.
The day went on for 6 more hours after lunch. The people who were testing for their next belt ranks took their tests and then we prepared for the practice "kumite/fighting". This was so much fun. I only had one match, and I lost 4 points to 0, but I had fun. I blocked one of my opponent's punches so hard that he nearly fell over and I got one punch to the chin and neck that didn't count because I didn't retract my fist fast enough.
At the end of the day, the Soke Sensei came up to me again and said in Japanese, "Thank you for coming today and for working so hard. Next time I have one of these seminars, you are welcome to attend." I was pretty honored and held my head a little higher. Although I didn't win my match or even do very well, I still had a good day but 9 hours of karate will make anyone tired.
I spent my Sunday in a sweaty dogi and a too small white belt standing amongst a group of 40 or so Japanese Karate practitioners from about 10:30 a.m. until 6 p.m. I will say that it was one of the best days I have ever had. First, before I get down to the details I should set up the scene. The dojo was about the size of a large living room, about 50' x 25', with hardwood flooring and a small shrine in the front of the room. The shrine is adorned with a small sitting pillow, an arm resting stool and a pair of ornamental wooden swords. There is also a framed picture of the Japanese flag and another framed picture of the recently deceased head of the school(the Soke-Sensei). The school is now run by his son who, after an appropriate 1 year mourning period, legally changed his name to his father's name to take over the school. This is a rather common Japanese custom in terms of the arts and martial arts.
So now back to the action. All of the students and teachers, ranks ranging from 10kyu (lowest white belt) to 8 and 9 dan black belts, line up in this small dojo and await the arrival of the main man, the emperor's enchilada, the Soke to end all Sokes, the Japanese Gangster Pope. Yes, that last title is not only insulting to the Pope, but also the head of my Karate school. So, shh. Don't tell anyone. I call him the Japanese Gangster Pope for a couple of reasons. First, he is treated with such reverence and piety that upon his choreographed entrance into the dojo, after exiting his Mercedes, everyone drops to their knees and bows, putting their heads to the hardwood floor. Secondly, he is a gangster because the suit that he was wearing when he walked in the dojo was straight out of a 1990's "yakuza/Japanese gangster" movie. His navy blue and white pinstripe suit was only accentuated by his perfectly greased-back 1950's "Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli" hair. Lastly, he is Japanese so I think it is perfectly appropriate to call him the Japanese Gangster Pope, although not nearly reverent enough.
Throughout the whole day I kind of felt like an outsider looking in on a secret cult, not only because the entire thing was conducted in Japanese but because everyone seemed to know the rhythm and method of the seeming madness. The day started off just like all of my karate practices, warm ups followed by punching, kicking and blocking routines to ensure that they are being done properly. Upon my failure of one of these blocking techniques, the Head Honcho, Soke-Sensei, came over and brought the whole group of people to kneel around me while he showed me how poorly I was doing. It was slightly embarrassing but I felt a little honored to be directly instructed by the man himself.
The day continued for another 2 hours until lunch time. With hardly a word, tables, cups, tea, soup and "obento/box lunch" were brought out and set up in the dojo. For several long, agonizing minutes all of the students just floated around the room trying to decide where to sit and what would be appropriate. I asked one of my Japanese friends if this was normal behavior and his response was, "In Japan there are many implied rules about things like this...but we don't know what they are." So eventually one of the instructors noticed everyone's awkward behavior and told us to sit down where ever we liked. After lunch, my friend told me that my pants were quite yellow. Knowing that this would happen, I was not surprised at all. When one's clothing gets soaked from sweat and one sits on dirty hardwood floors, the color of the floor gets easily transferred to the white fabric of one's pants. It happens to me every practice so I am no longer surprised, but only after practice when I changed my clothes could I truly acknowledge the seriousness of the stain. Boy, was it hilarious looking.
The day went on for 6 more hours after lunch. The people who were testing for their next belt ranks took their tests and then we prepared for the practice "kumite/fighting". This was so much fun. I only had one match, and I lost 4 points to 0, but I had fun. I blocked one of my opponent's punches so hard that he nearly fell over and I got one punch to the chin and neck that didn't count because I didn't retract my fist fast enough.
At the end of the day, the Soke Sensei came up to me again and said in Japanese, "Thank you for coming today and for working so hard. Next time I have one of these seminars, you are welcome to attend." I was pretty honored and held my head a little higher. Although I didn't win my match or even do very well, I still had a good day but 9 hours of karate will make anyone tired.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Self-realizations and a bit of Philosophy
I came to a surreal and shocking realization this weekend. As the death throes of winter sputter out and are exorcised by the warming weather and the blooming white and pink flowers, I realized that (1) I am extremely happy, and those that know me should be shocked at not only my ability to admit this but also at the sheer rarity at which those words come from my mouth. And (2), I am entertained, and those of you that know me should be shocked at this because I am usually the one in the corner bored to tears at any particular event.
I am not sure what brought about these sudden realizations whether it be the weather or the fact that I have finally turned introspective since arriving here in Japan. I am not sure. But I had a conversation recently where I said, without hesitation, that coming to Japan was the best decision I could have ever made. I am not someone who usually regrets many things he says or does, because I usually am very careful about what I say and do. But on more than one occasion I have experienced the emotion of "buyers remorse" for my actions, as we all do. Being as close to perfect as any human being can be, I feel those emotions very rarely, more rarely than most other humans, I would suppose. And thus the surreal experience of self-realization and introspection. When one believes oneself is the gods gift to humanity, as I often consider myself, it is a strange moment indeed to examine one's soul. Stranger still, to find things you were not expecting, like complete comfort and confidence in the path one walks.
Maybe these new emotional and intellectual responses to my, up until recently, unexamined essence are the result of finding things that I truly enjoy doing and friends I have grown to love and trust completely. That is not to say that my life, up until now, and my friendship, up until now, have been disingenuous in anyway, merely that I have come to see the grandness in companionship in a new light.
------Philosophical Speculation Below, Stop Reading Now--------
There is a poignant line in a bad movie which I always seemed to expound as an utilitarian philosophy for life: "What good is a flower? You can't eat it...It does nothing for you."
This point of view, that usefulness is always preferable to the solely aesthetic, was my mantra for a long time. And I prided myself on the "sensible" nature of this line of thinking. Of course, limiting oneself to the narrow path of usefulness alone is a self-handicapping philosophy. I now ask myself, "Why can't it be both?" I have come to believe that the beautiful and the useful can be just as easily intertwined as they can be stripped apart.
Let's look at the flower from the movie quote. What good is a flower to human beings? (Aside from the strictly scientific answer that says that the flowers germinate and spread pollen through bees and so on and so on. But that in itself is an answer) Well, there is no utilitarian purpose to the flower, where humans are concerned. As the quotation says, we can't eat it, it doesn't bring me a newspaper like a well trained dog, or juggle flaming bowling pins like a jester on television or an ill-trained buffoon. What then is the utility of a flower? So many people are allergic to their pollen and despise their smell, yet what makes the millions, and I mean millions, of people come to Kyoto or Washington D.C. to see a flower? Even as I sit here looking out my window at work, there are hundreds of people crowding around the canal and the handful of さくら(sakura) cherry trees. They are all happy, smiling, talking, strolling, photographing, remembering, reminiscing, and breathing. Those people sitting out on their blue tarps are truly living. Each breath an enjoyable adventure, filled with the promise of new and coming experiences and the recollection of their own short lives, made evidently clear by the truly sad and mockingly short life of a sakura blossom.
And thus, that is the purpose, the utility, the whole point of the existence of a flower, from a human's point of view. It is for enjoyment. The flower's momentary existence mirrors the short and also rather useless existence of a human. The 10 days lifespan of a flower is a relative pin prick in the existence of a human who will live more than 295,000 days. And the existence of one human who will live 295,000 days is a relative pin prick to the over all history of the Earth who has already lived 1,460,000,000,000 days and will likely live that much more again. And Earth's meager existence is a mere pin prick in the overall history and expanse of the universe.
And thus, what is the purpose, the utility, the whole point of existence of a human, from the universe's point of view? Do we bud, cluster, and bloom for the enjoyment of the universe? Do the gods, the universe, or whatever we believe in look down on these old and young people, clustered together under these cherry trees like the blossomed and still budding flowers they admire so much, and smile in ironic omnipotence? Maybe. That sure would be funny.
I am not sure what brought about these sudden realizations whether it be the weather or the fact that I have finally turned introspective since arriving here in Japan. I am not sure. But I had a conversation recently where I said, without hesitation, that coming to Japan was the best decision I could have ever made. I am not someone who usually regrets many things he says or does, because I usually am very careful about what I say and do. But on more than one occasion I have experienced the emotion of "buyers remorse" for my actions, as we all do. Being as close to perfect as any human being can be, I feel those emotions very rarely, more rarely than most other humans, I would suppose. And thus the surreal experience of self-realization and introspection. When one believes oneself is the gods gift to humanity, as I often consider myself, it is a strange moment indeed to examine one's soul. Stranger still, to find things you were not expecting, like complete comfort and confidence in the path one walks.
Maybe these new emotional and intellectual responses to my, up until recently, unexamined essence are the result of finding things that I truly enjoy doing and friends I have grown to love and trust completely. That is not to say that my life, up until now, and my friendship, up until now, have been disingenuous in anyway, merely that I have come to see the grandness in companionship in a new light.
------Philosophical Speculation Below, Stop Reading Now--------
There is a poignant line in a bad movie which I always seemed to expound as an utilitarian philosophy for life: "What good is a flower? You can't eat it...It does nothing for you."
This point of view, that usefulness is always preferable to the solely aesthetic, was my mantra for a long time. And I prided myself on the "sensible" nature of this line of thinking. Of course, limiting oneself to the narrow path of usefulness alone is a self-handicapping philosophy. I now ask myself, "Why can't it be both?" I have come to believe that the beautiful and the useful can be just as easily intertwined as they can be stripped apart.
Let's look at the flower from the movie quote. What good is a flower to human beings? (Aside from the strictly scientific answer that says that the flowers germinate and spread pollen through bees and so on and so on. But that in itself is an answer) Well, there is no utilitarian purpose to the flower, where humans are concerned. As the quotation says, we can't eat it, it doesn't bring me a newspaper like a well trained dog, or juggle flaming bowling pins like a jester on television or an ill-trained buffoon. What then is the utility of a flower? So many people are allergic to their pollen and despise their smell, yet what makes the millions, and I mean millions, of people come to Kyoto or Washington D.C. to see a flower? Even as I sit here looking out my window at work, there are hundreds of people crowding around the canal and the handful of さくら(sakura) cherry trees. They are all happy, smiling, talking, strolling, photographing, remembering, reminiscing, and breathing. Those people sitting out on their blue tarps are truly living. Each breath an enjoyable adventure, filled with the promise of new and coming experiences and the recollection of their own short lives, made evidently clear by the truly sad and mockingly short life of a sakura blossom.
And thus, that is the purpose, the utility, the whole point of the existence of a flower, from a human's point of view. It is for enjoyment. The flower's momentary existence mirrors the short and also rather useless existence of a human. The 10 days lifespan of a flower is a relative pin prick in the existence of a human who will live more than 295,000 days. And the existence of one human who will live 295,000 days is a relative pin prick to the over all history of the Earth who has already lived 1,460,000,000,000 days and will likely live that much more again. And Earth's meager existence is a mere pin prick in the overall history and expanse of the universe.
And thus, what is the purpose, the utility, the whole point of existence of a human, from the universe's point of view? Do we bud, cluster, and bloom for the enjoyment of the universe? Do the gods, the universe, or whatever we believe in look down on these old and young people, clustered together under these cherry trees like the blossomed and still budding flowers they admire so much, and smile in ironic omnipotence? Maybe. That sure would be funny.
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