Today is the last day of work during this "baching it" period for the Cosmic Buddha. Goddamn, how time flies. It seems only yesterday that I started off eating strange chili concoctions out of the pan and declaring atomic jihad on the world. Fast forward through two blurry weeks of the flurried singledom that defines my bachelorism process to this morning, where you find me eating kimchi & eggs w/leftover pork out of the same pan.

Sometimes using my pan as a plate and the spatula as silverware makes me yearn for the good ol' dormitory days at Tenri U... Then I remember finding rotting fish carcasses half-flushed down the crapper by the Chinese students, constant hazing by karate club senpai that left one Korean-blooded boy brain damaged for life, heinous Japanese lessons from moronic gaijin teachers (forever mentally entrenched in a time when they were revered as gods A.K.A. the "impale yourself on white penis" period of Japan), and all the other bullshit that defined daily life then. I'm much better off now getting paid to deal with similar shit. But as far as life in Japan goes, shit is a constant that must be dealt with or duly ignored. You know what they say, "Same shit, different flies." Wow I went from food conveyance to waste excretion in one paragraph - truly a healthy movement, no?

Anyway, anyway - My girlfriend is coming back on the 2nd. I must clean the house enough not to get yelled at. I recently discovered that we have been out of laundry detergent from before she left. I will no doubt forget to buy some on my way home tonight, and will be forced to use dishsoap or baking soda or another "field expedient". Also, I am at a loss as to why indoor plants are so GODDAMN WIMPY. What's two weeks of drought to, say, a cactus or dandelion in the wild fer chrissakes? These limpwrist plants up and died on me, man! And they died rather grisly deaths, I fear - their twisted, brown, hardened skeletons are a karmic vote for my next life as an abandoned ficus. It ain't my fault, I say; nobody told me they weren't self-watering! Just great. Now I gotta find similar ones at the nursery and transfer them to our planters. (I wonder if this will darken any future experiences I have switching a healthy goldfish for a bloater for my kids. Maybe I'll just tell them about death right off the bat, despite any crying over dearly-departed Nemo, nightmares about an ominous beyond, and sleepless nights of hand-holding solace... Nah, scratch that. I'll replace Nemo with sea monkeys and teach them about evolution instead.)

Note: Thanks to my truly adoring fan Jen (even if she is one of my friends having a great time impersonating a truly adoring fan at my expense, although I will kick your ass soundly if this is the case) for the link that enabled the photo editing.

I spoke with a friend about this the other night and we did some rough (read: beer-inspired) calculations to estimate how much money every Japanese taxpayer paid for the release of the Japanese hostages in Iraq this month: about 2,000 yen. I do not vouch for the accuracy of this figure, but I want to make it clear that I do not agree with the decision to pay for their release, no matter what the cost. They chose to go where their country told them not to, and tear-jerking death threat footage aside, the burden of consequence should not fall on our shoulders. 2000 yen per taxpayer for the whole country is way too much to pay for 5 people's ransom, for that matter, so is a single yen. I bet you I'm not the only one who feels this way, either.

The anti-government views of the hostages are obvious, and there are rumours about their possible collusion with enemy forces - that the whole incident including abduction, videotaping, etc., was a set up. Obviously, I can't vouch for the accuracy of this, either. The situation is being looked into, and hopefully the truth will eventually come out. I won't pass early judgement, but if it turns out that those taken hostage were, indeed, working with the enemy, I think they should be punished, harshly.

That a portion of my tax money is now most likely being used to prolong the insurgency in Iraq is almost more than I can bear. I would like to think it affects the average Jiro the same way, if he would only stop to think about it.

I placed a down payment on a theremin yesterday. I have no idea what it will end up looking like, but this is for the best, I feel. For this particular instrument (which I have never played before BTW), not knowing how it will turn out creates a certain excitement I could never attain by simply ordering online or through a music catalog. This was only made possible by hiring an otaku to do the job. Kasama-san is a nice guy, a most skilled bassist, Taro's business partner (they sell antique condensers, specialized mic shields, and other maniac music shit), and one of the most functional denki-otakus I have ever met.

When I found a loose circuit board connection to input RCA connector jacks inside my 500 watt amp, I used what tricks I could to keep it working temporarily. Unwilling to be without decent sound in my car for even a short time, I never even considered having it fixed at a professional shop since they generally take forever just to tell you (approximately) how badly you will get raped for repairs. I looked around for a decent replacement instead, but couldn't find a good deal before the connection got a lot worse and basically made my amp unuseable. So I turned to Kasama-san, who I knew at the time as a tinkerer of guitar amps, and he replaced the part I needed on the board for a pittance - so I tipped him well. The skills he possesses are very special in our modern world of cheap throwaway electronics. Like some of the engineers at work, he can read the circuits on a PCB like a roadmap, and tell you where you can find shortcuts, bypasses, and hidden paths, among other things. This is a very valuable skill.

Anyways. Theremin of unknown specification and design will be mine in a couple of weeks, and I take great comfort in knowing that the creator has spent countless hours worrying about each subcomponent, optimizing it as a whole system, and tweaking it to perfection with the cold twisted love of electronica.

Handy display at the Tarumi parking area shows you how to operate a fire hose: "water comes out!" Backdraft for Dummies.

This was the luckiest finger puppet in the world. Alas, I fell asleep at the bar and somebody kidnapped him. Bastards.

@ Mickey D's next to new WINS and Namba Parks.

Well, Slate followed up the wonderful variety meat article with one written by a food critic weenie from England, of all places. Perhaps his wittiest assertion in comparing London's Chez Whiteys with their counterparts in Los Angeles is: "The reason the food is better at London's top restaurants is that Britain is closer to France." Although I kind of doubt that the American chefs would accept losing to kidney pie slingers very graciously. The critic's self-proclaimed noobosity (18 months on the job) is proven with the following:

However, once you drop down a couple of notches, L.A. knocks London into a cocked hat. The restaurant I've been most impressed by so far is the Cheesecake Factory in Brentwood. I had a cobb salad there last week that was every bit as tasty as the cobb salad I had at the Ivy, yet it was brought to my table in half the time and it was a quarter of the price. In Britain - indeed, in France - there just aren't any midmarket restaurant chains to match the quality of the Cheesecake Factory. And there are dozens of similar chains in this country that are equally first-rate. When it comes to this kind of food?good, solid, dependable fare at reasonable prices?America leads the world.

Cocked hats aside, I think I see where this is going - that's a big know your bloody place you yankee dogs only half-assedly disguised as a compliment. He's only admitting that average American chain restaurants make American food better (even though the Cobb is also known as the King of Salads and the Crab Louie Salad, it originates from and was made famous by the west coast). Yeah, well I can only retort that the "average Brit's ability to skillfully open doors is only offset by their tendency to run their bulbous noses into them first."

That said, this is a pretty fun article to read. I like the guy's writing. I just can't understand why he has such a hard on for the Cheesecake Factory (and for the uninitiated, said restaurant's cheesecake leaves a lot to be desired).

I'm all for this. As anyone I've ever gone to yakiniku with can attest to, my fondness for what even what a lot of Japanese won't eat. Slimy cow guts taste goooood when they're fried nice and crispy. And nothing beats a crispy fried pig's tail.

Pig's foot Milanese is pounded so thin and breaded so thickly that the flavor of the pig's foot is not readily discernible through the fried bread crumbs. Beef cheek ravioli are delicious, light and pillowy, with only a hint of fibrousness to the meat and a telltale chalky aftertaste. Lamb's brain francoboli are so heavy on cheese and so light on brain that they taste almost vegetarian. While all of these dishes are delicious, the question inevitably arises: If the recipe requires that you camouflage the central ingredients, why use those ingredients at all?

There is only one answer: Because it requires the slaughter of a pig, cow, and lamb, respectively, and flips a big fiddle minger to PETA.

Reminder to self: Post pic from restaurant in Khon Kaen here later.

Look at what they're finally confirming:

Japan Offers by Far Fastest, Cheapest Broadband Services: OECD
April 21, 2004 (PARIS) -- Japanese firms are offering by far the cheapest and fastest broadband services of companies operating in 30 member countries of the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD), according to the first such report compiled by the international organization.
The survey, which was conducted in October 2003, shows Japanese companies leading the pack with KDDI Corp, NTT East Corp. and usen Corp offering throughput of over 100Mbps with their fiber-optic networks.

This really trickles my bits. My pal and I talked about this happening over three years ago, when Korea was still the place to be for broadband, and I was paying about 18,000 yen per month for dual channel ISDN (including both ISP and telco charges) service out here on Awaji Island. Since then my upgrade path went from 1.5 Mbps ADSL to 8Mbps ADSL, and finally to what I use now, 100Mbps FTTH. I am really sad because now there is nowhere to move up from here (maybe I can hope for that laser-based transmission technology next). In fact, I am planning on moving down, as far down as I can possibly go: dial-up. That's right, the shrill screeching of analog modem handshakes will keep me company once again. I wrote about it in this post around when I started this blog, and Thailand still has no viable plans for broadband in sight. Things move slower there.

This passage was very interesting:

It has been difficult to conduct a comparison of telecom services offered in various countries, since there is no fixed worldwide definition for broadband. The OECD report defines a broadband service as one offering round-the-clock Internet connectivity and a download speed of at least 250kbps.

If this 250kbps standard was adopted worldwide, I think a lot of people in the US would be angry that the ADSL service they pay for isn't even considered broadband. I was really shocked by the number of regular computer users in the states who say they don't need broadband or can't afford it. That's a crying shame. It really should be made a lot cheaper and a hell of a lot faster than it is now.

Then again, why am I worried about you guys back home? When I'm checking line polarity before jacking in somewhere along the Mekong in a year or so, I will envy all of you. I do not relish the thought of reverting from the instant gratification of always-connected mode to a dial-up frame of mind: No downloads. No multiplayer games. No mindless clickfests. Oh, well. I guess I'll spend my time finding other things to do. Maybe I'll get my laughs by training an army of pocket monkeys to fling feces at passing water buffalo riders, or something.

Gecko racing, anyone?

Heh. Scroll down to comments on this page.

This was taken at Phuket Airport. These monk only-designated seats (3 in total) were next to the benches for people who take showers and don't beg for money at airports (I'm not being mean, monks really are smelly leeches!). I really wish I had taken the time to use my Coolpix for this photo, but it was hot and humid, and I was on vacation. What else can I say?

OK this is Japanese Translation humor, so it may not be of interest to 99.999% of the world, but I have 100Mbps FTTH so here we go:

Setting: Terminal for high-speed ferryboat (hydrofoil, to be exact) in Sumoto City, Awaji Island. (The ferry shuttles between my island and Kansai International Airport and the terminal is a 10 minute walk from my front door. 45 minute ride to KIX. Convenient as hell.)

Photo is of a button on a vending machine for buying a ferry ticket for children. The kanji characters are pronounced "kobito", literally, "small person". It's more commonly used for "dwarf" than it is for "child", which is the first reason I think this is funny. Can you imagine a ticket machine with a button for "midgets"?

Secondly, whatever Einstein decided on the kanji also decided to make a stab at the English labeling. Instead of "child", he decides on "HALVES"? Hmm...

Just in case you were wondering, the smaller kanji in the greps reads "katamichi", meaning "one-way". However, the "HALVES" probably does not refer to "half of a round-trip ticket", because on the button above this one it says "ADULTS" in the same location.

Slogan:
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Lead-in: Do your "rhoids" scream at the sight of the sandpaper-like rolls stocked in public bathrooms?
Do you enjoy reading on your "throne" long after "making a deposit?"
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The main reason I didn't feel like posting until today was:

Yowch.

This isn't me by the way, I just took the picture. As you can see, I must have made a fine pinhole camera out of a beer can. Not that I remember it that well. As a week early birthday present, we took Bill away from his bar in Nara in order to take him to, you guessed it, another bar. Tramp's bar in Osaka, where I hadn't been to for years, but where happy hour is still 180 minutes long. It was a great night, but reminiscing about it in detail still makes me slightly ill. To make a long story short, I think we discovered a shit hot way to feel like Fido's ass for days on end. A recipe for it would look something like this:

Official Recipe for Fido's Assmaker

Ingredients:
Mediocre beer (we used Asahi Super Dry, the MGD of Japan)
Cheap tequila (they only had Cuervo, but anything will do as long as it's warm - this is important!)
Ouzo (also warm - not that it matters with this shit)
B-52s (no comment)
Baked cheese fries (sprinkled with paprika, no garnish - this is completely irrelevant)

Preparation:
Show up late for happy hour with an empty stomach.

Directions:
Pacing yourself against the end of happy hour, after which prices double (not a joke in Japan), inhale as much beer and tequila as possible in a 1:1 pint-to-shot ratio. Note that lack of refrigeration multiplies the nastiness factor of cheap tequila to the point where you can almost forego the salt and lime (heresy, I know). At the halfway point of the evening, pound the Ouzo. Regret it, both instantly and for days hence. At this point, cleanse the palate with cheese fries and beer, and allow the walls to blur quite nicely.

If you are sitting next to guys who insist on staring at your group and making loud comments about you because the possibility that you just might understand their language hasn't entered their minds, try ignoring them for a while. If their voices rise to more irritating levels because the noise in the bar is getting progressively louder, give them them the look. You know, the crazy gaijin's gonna stick his foot in your ass and make you his little geisha boy look. Even racist fuckwits deserve fair warning, after all. If they persist, however, and you start fantasizing about escalation and how nice it would be to "accidentally" elbow them in the face on the way to the pisser - sit back as your friend takes the initiative and starts an ad hoc lesson in foreign affairs. Note their shock at your friend's fluency in their language with smug satisfaction. Prepare for some serious entertainment because you're just sure that he's gonna take the piss out of them (it's time for PAYBACK, baby)... Then watch in utter amazement as he chooses not to do so, and ends up chatting with them like old friends for the next couple of hours. In retrospect, that was the right thing to do, of course, but it would have been so much more fun to write words like, "hamlike fist," or "smashing right hook," or the time-tested "tiger uppercut." Ah, well. I didn't have my camera, anyway.

Additional Tips:
If you try this recipe in Japan, like us, make sure you hit the bar on open mic night. It's a whole new world of irritation to hear a guy alternatively moaning "hey mannn," "oh maaaaan," and "hey maaaaaannnnnn," with a Japanese accent into the mic for thirty minutes, but luckily, the tequila should help take the edge off your nerves. Speaking of which, I must reemphasize the importance of using warm tequila. I am fairly sure that this was a major factor in the earth-shattering headache I experienced the next day. And of course, the Ouzo did its job by making me feel sickly for a few days.

I may have gotten off lightly, though. I received the following mail to my phone the next day:

From: xxx
Date: Sun, 18 Apr 2004 10:40:35 +0900(JST)
To: Justin Yoshida
Subject: ouch

woke up in an alley behind my local train station..must have taken a cab...

The poor guy doesn't remember that I put him in it, and that he couldn't tell the cab driver his whole address because he kept falling asleep after reciting the city, Higashi Osaka. After the third try, the cab driver agreed it would be best to let him sleep it off some and ask him again after getting to the general vicinity. Guess that didn't work out too well...

To William Gibson, who I have never met but who may find this post while vanity googling for, say, "mnemonic osaka blackice bbs standover tokyo burningchrome nagoya underground fleshpuppet keiretsu pattern blackmarket translation monalisa oyabun": I'm back.

Last week was a milestone of sorts for this weblog, the product of several weeks of consistent posting and increasing traffic from other sites, so I would like to thank all of you for reading. I wish I could keep up what other bloggers consider to be a normal pace - posting at least once every weekday - but I just don't have the time, and I will not post for the sake of posting. That would make it seem like work, and believe me - I already have enough of that.

Speaking of which, every day this week I have come to work in the morning and ended up feeling like wilted produce - harvested by migrant farm workers and then left in the back of a truck for hours under the glaring midday sun as the driver impatiently chews a toothpick and waits for clearance at the border. That is to say, it is hot enough for crotchpot cooking, with no relief in sight. The building managers haven't turned on the air conditioners yet, and I can't help but wonder if they receive some type of bonus for every day they put off flipping the switch. Or maybe they just don't get out much from their offices in the basement, where it's ten degrees cooler. I might collapse with heat stroke if I keep ranting much longer, so I'll switch gears and tell you another reason why it took so long for me to post again.

Just thinking about the day after I took this makes me feel nauseus. A great memory.

Many innocent brain cells sacrificed themselves for this picture. At Tramps, in Kyobashi.

Hat tip to Osaka Bill ("bill" in the comments, not "Bill",- that's Nara Bill) for the link.

The other day I wrote a fairly long reply in the comments after derailing my own train of thought and forgetting whatever it was I originally intended on saying. It was in response to something my mom wrote in the comments about cleanliness being next to godliness. Since a couple friends and I have since hijacked that comment thread for a debauchery support group meeting this weekend, I figured it was only fair to bring that long comment out and let it stand on its own out here in the light:

Cleanliness: Diligence in keeping clean
Godliness: Piety by virtue of being a godly person

I can say with some confidence that these are fairly inaccurate descriptors for me. Need proof?

_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/

AN EXAMPLE OF WHY I AM NOT CLEAN OR GODLY
- BY C. BUDDHA

I've forgotten to dry the same load of laundry for two straight days now; I go home after work and upon tossing my sweaty clothes in the washing machine, I see that there is still a damp load in there from the night before. Not knowing the proper course of action, I simply start the washer again.

I can hear the merry sounds of rinse, spin, and drain cycles in the background as I make dinner or watch the news on tv, but by the time the machine is finished, I have invariably forgotten about it again. Not just for a few minutes, though. Not even for a few hours. No, I generally remember that I have to hang the clothes to dry right before I step out the door the next morning - by which time I am in a rush to get to work and will stop for nothing. So I curse and go to work and think about the ball of damp clothes fermenting in my washer at home periodically throughout the day. And I go home and the cycle starts anew...

This is not a big deal as of yet this time. My girlfriend has been gone for only two days, so we are not into a scary duration or anything - YET. Last time, she was gone for 19 days and I finally remembered to dry the laundry on the 18th day. I know what you're thinking, I only remembered because I ran out of clothes, right? Wrong. You forget that I am a man. A normal man. And as such, if there are no clean clothes, I will recycle dirty ones for multiple uses without washing and never think twice about it.

The truth of the matter is, I only remembered on the 18th day because she called and specifically asked if the house was clean, the plants watered, the laundry done, etc., etc., etc.

Now, any man in his right mind would answer "yes"
in this situation:
- A cleanly man could truthfully say "yes" (but probably wouldn't be asked in the first place.
- A godly man would have said "yes", but later may have whispered "help me lord, I need a miracle."
- I lied quite bluntly by saying "yes", and in a total frenzy, attempted three weeks of laundry, dishes, and cleaning in one night.

She wasn't fooled for a second. I guess it must have been pretty obvious with closetfuls of clothes hanging out to dry. This time, I know better. I am prepared. I will answer, "no."

THE END

Taro always goes on and on about this movie we saw about moth-monsters killing people in abandoned subway tunnels; he used to run around saying "Mimic-san, mimic-san"whenever a moth would fly in the house... Hence the title of this post; the movie title was MIMIC here in Japan, but maybe went under a different name in the states (Country-specific movie titling is common in all countries. Well, maybe not in Luxembourg.). The title stemmed from the young autist who used spoons to create moth-like sounds to attract the monsters.

Obscurity of the day: The moths might have gone aggro if someone played track 8 from Soundgarden's SUPERUNKNOWN album. (Google it you lazy bastard!)

This photo was taken at a highway rest stop at night, when 2 moths of the type shown were attracted to the white glow of an Asahi Beverage Co. (non-alcoholic) vending machine.

Well, I decided to post this pic in memory of my friend Tatsuya who died last year. The foremost gravestone in this photo is not his, but it is pretty and so I took this pic to commemorate the hill where he is buried. I posted this today not in conjunction with any fixed date or anniversary, rather, I just got to thinking about Tatsuya today as I made a left turn in the car he gave me, listening to an old song we both liked.

Some people say it is not right for me to take pictures like this or to post them, because it is disrespectful. I fail to see the logic in this. I am simply remembering a friend. If pictures of headstones make you uncomfortable, that's your insecurity. We will all end up dead someday. Get used to it. (OK, maybe this post is a bit influenced by my curret rereading of Eiji Yoshikawa's MUSASHI)

Tatsuya's nephews. Live across the street from Nam's old apartment in Tamade.

Currently residing on my monitor.

You all must have seen these "keyword" spam messages by now, right?:

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Some of these spammers are real poets. He gets bonus points for using the words varistor, hyterectomy, and matisse all in the same message.

And now I have this sudden urge to "Get Harder Than Steel" and "Make Her Scream - with 100% EFFECTIVE Generic Vi@gr'a."

Well, go ahead and sign me up for 50 cases, Mr. Chester Ott.

Do you take checks for international bulk orders?

That is all.

Today's tip for lonely nerds: Forget the present, it is over by the time you think about it. Instead, relive the past and play a text-based adventure game. Like this:

Welcome to Zork. This version created 11-MAR-91 (PHP mod 25-OCT-2001)
There are 2 users playing Zork.

You are in an open field west of a big white house with a boarded front door.
There is a small mailbox here.

> open mailbox

Opening the mailbox reveals:
A leaflet.

> read leaflet

Taken.

Welcome to Zork!

Dungeon is a game of adventure, danger, and low cunning. In it you will explore some of the most amazing territory ever seen by mortal man. Hardened adventurers have run screaming from the terrors contained within.

In Dungeon, the intrepid explorer delves into the forgotten secrets of a lost labyrinth deep in the bowels of the earth, searching for vast treasures long hidden from prying eyes, treasures guarded by fearsome monsters and diabolical traps!

No DECsystem should be without one!

I get very sentimental playing these games. The simulated command lines and monochromatic display of modern online versions effectively invoke that special 80's hacker nostalgia. I fondly remember going to basic programming workshops in the summer and coding my mom a scrolling ASCII birthday cake for her next birthday ("just type R-U-N, mom!"). My parents were pretty cool that way, come to think of it - maybe the reason I never really got into the dark side like some of the other kids was that I was raised in a home where computing was openly encouraged from an early age.
Disclaimer: I did get busted once by my parents at about age 13 for calling phone sex and dial-a-joke numbers. I had failed at my attempts to make the calls for free and charges showed up on the monthly bill for 1-900-SEX-TALK or whatever. That ended my brief career as a phreak, and quite possibly affected the timing of the "birds and the bees" talk from my dad a short time later.

It's Monday. My girlfriend went back to Thailand yesterday to do research for her doctorate. She will come back in a month or so, so the "hundred years" I used in the title are just my props to Gabriel Garcia Marquez, who wrote the only book I have ever attempted to read in Spanish. (Huge digression alert!) I can only speak enough cholo to bum a cigarette from Mexican kids smoking in the school bathroom, but I kept the English version of the book next to me for reference. It worked, in a way, but forever convinced me that mandatory foreign language classes in public high schools are good for mainly one thing: Emphasizing the gap between kids who can use their own native language well and those who can't. Which is not to say that mandatory foreign language education is a bad thing. It is just disappointing that there is so little to be gained regarding practical usage at the mandatory levels; around my home in southern California, at least, you can practice more Spanish comprehension by ordering at certain drive-thru windows than you can at school, ese.

I ate two fried eggs and canned chili from the pan this morning because I was too lazy to go shopping last night and I figured it was a sterling way to kick off a month of celibacy: Table manners have been shed for the next month, and, knowing that I won't get reprimanded from my better half, the world is now officially my blast radius. I should have written a warning on my name tag today, something along the lines of Danger: Toxic Fumes (w/New Spicy Jalapenos).

I went after photos of a matsuri at Miwa Jinja today. It turns out that I like the photos of the grounds more than the ones of the actual festivities. Recently I don't like taking photos of people as much as I do taking photos of things. It's interesting: On one hand I find myself wondering if this somehow has a deeper psychological meaning and on the other, I really don't care if it does or not.

I almost never feel guilty taking photos of random things, but human subjects sometimes cause me worry or even grief. This stems partly from the Japanization of my perception and values over the past decade, I'm sure. I still don't bow when I speak on the phone at work to clients, although this is somewhat of a conscious effort not to do so when it's a really high ranking executive who could affect our bottom line to any significant extent, or have my head by expressing displeasure at the tone of sincerity in my transactions.

I have determined that my Vaio U3's screen is just too damn small for me too edit photos effectively when I'm drinking. I'm really curious as to how this photo will look when I'm sober, because it looks absolutely brilliant right now.

Last week I received an e-mail from Ed Jacobs, the editor at Japanzine stating that this blog had been chosen for a "Best of the Web" award. Japanzine is a free magazine of high quality distributed all over Japan and I have been reading it since its past life as The Alien. Anyway, they have an online version of the zine as well and the "Japan Blogging Scene" article this blog was featured in can be seen at:
http://www.japan-zine.com/0404/Feature1.htm (link updated 4/30/04)

C. Buddha's Hasty Musings is sandwiched between Antipixel and 35 Degrees, two of my favorite photo blogs (if I can be so forward as to term them such). All I can say is: We're. Not. Worthy.

Props to Japanzine!

P.S. to Bill: You should stock Japanzine at the bar. They are looking for new distros. I'll bring the current issue this weekend to show you the ad (read: to brag with).

P.P.S. to Japanzine's webmaster: Please fix my link! (It's appearing as a relative URL because there is no protocol prefix.)

Went to do the annual physical for work today. Came back with bruised needle tracks. It was frightening to watch this inexperienced nurse with sweaty, fumbly hands try to find a vein in my arms. I swear to god this chick was blind in a previous life, because she used that needle like a walking stick, tap tap tap on one arm and then the other. Frustrated by lack of success, she binded both my arms with surgical tubing at the same time and told me to open and close my hands and sit in a corner for a few minutes (bitch, my arms turned blue before you came back).

No longer willing to persevere with the standard setup, she pulled the QUEEN MOTHER OF SYRINGES from a toolbox of medical goodies and started waving it in front of my face, saying, "now this might hurt a little." I started whimpering in protest right then and there - the goddam thing looked like a turkey baster with a really long bicycle pump needle fitted on it. In my mind, we had the following conversation:

"Now wait just a goddam minute - just how much blood do you need?"

"Just a bit"

"So why can't you use a smaller syringe - the hollow tip of that needle looks like a fucking cookie cutter!"

"Why, you're right. You know what? I've stabbed you so many times today, I'll just collect the blood smeared on all the needles I've used and that should be enough for our purposes. You are free to proceed to the hearing test."

In reality, of course, things happened differently. She sucked many shot glasses worth of blood along with half of my right bicep into that syringe like a Hoover and the high point of the entire day was that I got to yell "OOOW! YER SUCKIN' TOO HARD!" in public and started trembling with the kind of laughter that causes physical pain (needle in arm), but is somehow worth it.

By the time my exsanguination was complete, there were fifteen other guys waiting to get poked and they all thought my outburst was pretty funny. Except for the next guy in line. He was visibly disturbed when Nurse Naomi started squirting my blood from the syringe into the vials.

Update: It turns out that about one in four people are getting poked in both arms by this angel of destruction. Those are some seriously horrendous numbers. I can understand that doctors suck at needlework, but for nurses this sort of incompetence is unforgivable. To my little sister who plans to start med school next year: Please take this advice. Practicing on lemons and oranges isn't good enough.

You are a GRAMMAR GOD!


If your mission in life is not already to
preserve the English tongue, it should be.
Congratulations and thank you!


How grammatically sound are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Um, as flattering as that is, I think this quiz is kinda sus. Aside from the fact that my English has acquired that unmistakably "Fresh Off the Boat" quality from living overseas for a decade, every single person whose results (I just mistyped that as "resluts") I've seen have been "Grammar God." I object to this title being passed out like penicillin ampules at a syphilis convention; it's a stinging insult to my monotheistic way of life (I worship the One True God of Technoeroticism and may you heathens forever burn in Luddite hell).

Finders fee (TBD) goes to Biggie for the quiz.

After lengthy observation, I have come to a conclusion: In Japan, the Toyota Prius is a car marketed for a single demographic, namely, painfully slow drivers. I have never seen such a bunch of I-can't-drive-55 brake tapping, hesitating, yellow light anticipating, slow-ass idiots. If this is the price us normal folk must pay to "save the environment," I say we start a "Spit at the Prius" campaign in retribution.

Seriously, the way these people drive really makes me wonder if there actually is a gasoline engine in there among the fields of capacitors and NiMH batteries. A Prius owner I recently spoke with affirmed his penchant for driving at Nader-like levels and explained that the more he idles and breaks, the more the batteries are recharged. Now this is a level of idiocy I hadn't previously regarded as being possible, but there it is. This guy had been blindfolded and brainwashed by the "eco-driving" crowd and somehow thinks he is doing the world a big fucking favor by stepping on the brakes and imitating an electric wheelchair.

Let me tell you pal, I'd be a lot happier if you rode a goddamn mamachari (granny bicycle) and got the hell off the road. You might not be saving mother earth, but you might not get a tree planted in your ass, either.

Posted at Nam's request:
Show Me, Show You

The albino black sheep site it's hosted on has a lot of interesting stuff on it, check it out. The site's claim to fame is the famous google spoof , French military victories and its accompanying list of French military defeats.

Cruftety, cruftety, cruft. Anybody who comes here now can see how cruftily I have crufted together this site. I spent so much time on the css with no clue of what controlled what, I have ended up with a hodgepodge design. Still, I kind of like it but my inability to tweak the little places that need it is driving me insane. Of course, it might help if I spent more than ten minutes on it at a time, but then again maybe not.

Dear Ama-chan,

I am sorry that I called you a man. Please forgive me; as a typical male I automatically attribute spears, muddy work, and world creation to other men without thinking that it might be the work of a female.

Please do not pout (it makes your eyes all puffy and swollen) and stay in your cave all year; rice is too expensive as it is.

Love,
Justin

P.S. Here is a link to one of your other fans:
"The rice does not grow without Her."

Update: I was apologizing for the wrong reason. While Amaterasu IS a female deity, Izanami was the one who did the spear work (yeah I KNEW a girl couldn't do that!). Timothy Takemoto straightens me out in the comments of the original post. You see, I really am fascinated by this stuff. It's just my chronic memory loss that gets in the way.

The reference in my new top banner to monster island is not a reference to Godzilla or Mothra, but rather to the cats that insist on crapping in the vicinity of my car. Some friends in Nara insist on calling me, alternatively, "tamanegi-kun" (onion boy, a reference to the famously delicious onions grown here), or "the guy from monster island" (This is a reference to the fact that I live out in the boonies. Alas, 'tis like the pot calling the kettle cookware.)

Also, not to be misleading, but the bridge in the photo is not the Awaji Kaikyo Bridge (the longest suspension bridge in the world connecting my island to Kobe). It's the Kansai International Airport Access Bridge (click here for details) that links the airport to the mainland. In an ironic twist of fate, however, the airport is a manmade island created by digging away entire mountains on my island and dumping them into the sea. Even today I saw the huge earthmoving machines transporting the dirt onto barges at Sumoto port, preparing them for the next runs to the airport where they are adding to the island to create more runways. For some reason, I think this sucks. Of course, I think everything sucks, but I find this disturbing on a spiritual level.

You see, according to ancient myth the island of Awajishima (uh, what I have been referring to as "my island") is the origin of the rest of terra firma. Some bad ass named Amaterasu stuck his spear in the ocean floor and when he pulled it out the first drops became Awajishima (actually the very first drop became Nushima). I guess when Amaterasu busted out the shovel to dig the Mariana Trench things got messy and he created the continents, and when he hocked a random loogie it became Tsutenkaku (go read my comment before they delete it).

They have finally opened the grounds used for the Awaji Hanahaku (Flower Festival) in Y2K for public viewing again. It has been scaled down in size and now esists as a nice place to spend on a sunny day. The number of flower exhibits is much less than before, which is actually nice because it should keep down the number of tour buses trundling over the bridge during the summer. I took my girl and a couple of her visisting friends there today and fought against the dwindling sunlight to capture a few decent photos. I like how they turned out and have put them on a dedicated page because of their cumulative size. Click on the link below to see them.

Last night, I ordered tickets to the Nagoya Sumo Tournament in July for myself and 11 other lucky peeps (You can order Sumo tickets for any of the Nihon Sumo Kyokai-sanctioned tournaments through English language websites by following the links on the official page. For unsanctioned matches, visit any university judo dorm after the mat-burned, caulifower-eared judo-ka are done with their circle jerks and herd into the baths for communal back rubs.).

It's gonna be an OG-style Cosmic Buddha roadtrip! I think the last time we did one of these was back in college! Characteristically, we are still lacking a good bass player. No worries, though, we always find someone at the last minute. Since I only have 9 solid members for a total of 12 tickets, I guess I can bribe some random bassist if it comes to that.

From: sumo@chunichi.co.jp

Thank you very much for buying your Grand Sumo Nagoya Tournament tickets through us.
Sagawa Express will deliver your tickets to the address you entered.
Please pay the delivery person for the tickets at the time they are delivered.

Sub-total: 123,600yen (including tax)
Shipping fee: 950yen (including tax)
Amount billed: 124,550yen

If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to contact us.

QUESTION!: Why the HELL don't you have a different payment system going you stupid idiots? Ten years ago if you asked ANYONE IN JAPAN to hand over a grand in cash over to ANY EMPLOYEE of SAGAWA EXPRESS, you would be laughed off the World Wide Web. Aside from the fact that very few people keep over a hundred thousand yen in cash on top of their getabako (shoe box) next to their inkan (personal seal/stamp), WHY THE FUCK WOULD WE WANT TO HAND OVER THAT MUCH MOOCH TO THE EMPLOYEE OF A TROUBLED COMPANY KEPT AFLOAT BY ITS PRESIDENT BRIBING GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS WITH OVER FOUR MILLION DOLLARS IN ORDER TO KEEP BANKERS FROM COLLECTING ON THEIR DEBTS?

Actually, that doesn't concern me so much as the fact that I have to prepare exact change. I hate that the delivery company guys never carry any change when they go out on daibiki (cash on delivery) runs. I mean, if the pizza boy can do it, you should be able to, too.

Disclaimer: The above rant about former Sagawa Express President Hiroyasu Watanabe was not intended to be critical of modern-day Japanese gangsters (who by the way, almost never cut off fingers), and yes I am aware that with the present day economic situation you could probably bribe a politician with Hello Kitty seat covers for his Toyota Prius and a twenty dollar handjob.

Work screed alert: If my writing about work at a large Japanese electronics company doesn't tickle your fancy, please take a minute to bite me (I'm tired of e-mails dictating what I can and cannot write about, particularly ones from "Japan experts". Go and kiss chrysanthemums somewhere else.).

Now then. Suppose that you were late for work on the first day of the new fiscal year, and that you walked into the office as your co-workers were halfway through the "morning exercise" routine. Would you:
A. Enthusiastically do jumping-jacks with the rest of the sheep while moving toward your desk
B. Sit at your desk and wait for normalcy to return while starting up your PC
C. Upon seeing the madness as you entered the room, quietly slip back out the door and lurk in the john for a few minutes
D. Run into the room, scream "FIRE", and run back out

I am not a total ovine quite yet as I chose B. A guy who sits close to me opted for A, and another opted for C. Now that I have had my ass chewed off for choosing B, I wish that I had instead chosen D. A brand new senior manager made a point of getting in my face about not performing the exercises, which would be fine except that he did it out loud so that everybody could hear, a full-on drill sergeant dressing-down. Luckily, the general manager, who is a great friend, stepped in and squashed the whole thing, ending with "Anybody else who can do the work Justin does is entitled to ignore the exercises as well, hell I might stop doing them myself." As flattering as that statement was, about 50,000 red warning lights went off in my head at once and all I could think of was getting out from between two duelists. The room was silent. Nobody in the office is coming over to chat today. It's days like this when I really look forward to my future life in Thailand, perhaps tending a herd of water buffalo or chasing flocks of birds away rice paddies with the kids.

I wish I had kids already. I would go home tonight and sit with them at dinner and they would ask what I did at work today. I would say, "kids, today daddy became a pawn in an inter-office power play!"

"Wow, coooool" they would reply.

Then I would relate to them all that happened today in detail and what was to be learned from it all. Which is, of course, "if you ever walk into an uncomfortable situation, scream 'FIRE' at the top of your lungs and run out of the room as fast as you can."