Could male masterbation be considered genocide? With the apparent dearth of great minds in the world today, I shudder to think of the potential which may have been squandered in a pile of tissues.
On the turntable: Ray LaMontagne, "Trouble"
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
On the Rails Again
I remember when I first got to Japan, the new Kyoto station was in the midst of becoming the monstrocity it is today. Wandering through it was to traverse long featureless corridors enshrouded in white Christo-wrapping. (In fact it looks like Shinjuku station at this current moment of typing. Two weeks back, had much fun, drunkenly trying to find my locker with minutes to go until the last train. But at midnight in Shinjuku everyone else is drunk, so...)
I digress. The present Kyoto station building looks like a big Boom Box circa 1982. Pure Radio Shack architecture. Everytime I pass the place, I expect to hear Run-DMC blaring loud.
With each trip to Tokyo I also pass through Nagoya and therefore get to see the ongoing destruction of the Expo grounds. The now bare plots have been heavily pressed by Caterpillar treads. From above it looks like one of Mondrian's minor works.
On the turntable: Putumayo Cover the World
On the nightable: Hanif Kureishi, Midnight All Day"
I digress. The present Kyoto station building looks like a big Boom Box circa 1982. Pure Radio Shack architecture. Everytime I pass the place, I expect to hear Run-DMC blaring loud.
With each trip to Tokyo I also pass through Nagoya and therefore get to see the ongoing destruction of the Expo grounds. The now bare plots have been heavily pressed by Caterpillar treads. From above it looks like one of Mondrian's minor works.
On the turntable: Putumayo Cover the World
On the nightable: Hanif Kureishi, Midnight All Day"
Thursday, November 24, 2005
At a Bus Stop in Santa Barbara
A young, somewhat effeminate punk guy had just told his friend that he'd been accepted to law school.
"I just don't see you in a suit, Kyle," the girl said laughing. "You'll have to let me go shopping with you, we'll get some really outlandish stuff. Silk shirts with ruffled fronts and sleeves that are slitted, like the swashbucklers wore. Oh! And those mid-seventies suits with the flaired trousers and 1958 Buick fins. The jury'll take one look at you and they'll know that a man dressed as un-selfconsciously as you has to have his shit together. Wait! Or even better, a dress. Ha, ha, ha! Yes! Have you ever worn a dress, Kyle?"
The guy just looked at her and smiled.
She continued, "You really should. It's amazing what it'll do for a guy's psyche. No really, every man should have a dress and pair of pumps in his closet that he can put on at certain times, like when he has a fight with his girlfriend or if she won't ball him because she's menstruating or something. Just so he can relate a bit and open up to his femine side. I dated this guy and he did it. It was wild, he was this big jock type, all hung up on his attitudes and macho role playing. But he wore it. We went out to dinner and laughed and laughed, just like old girlfriends."
The guy was really grinning now. "Why'd he do it?" he asked.
"He had to! I made him! See, for my birthday, his present to me was that he'd be my slave for a day, do anything I said. So, I had him put on a dress. Nothing too obnoxious. He even bought it himself. I helped him pick it out, which was hilarious! Later on he did this little strip-tease for me. It was really fun" She hesitated a moment, smiling, either for effect, or in reminiscense. "Yeah, Kyle, you should try it. Let's shop when we hit the city. It'd be good for you. It really loosened him up."
"Did he ever wear it again?"
"No. Well, I doubt it. We broke up pretty soon after that. He screwed around on me a bit. The way I found out was that he got eyebrow crabs.
"On the turntable: Bloc Party, "Silent Alarm"
"I just don't see you in a suit, Kyle," the girl said laughing. "You'll have to let me go shopping with you, we'll get some really outlandish stuff. Silk shirts with ruffled fronts and sleeves that are slitted, like the swashbucklers wore. Oh! And those mid-seventies suits with the flaired trousers and 1958 Buick fins. The jury'll take one look at you and they'll know that a man dressed as un-selfconsciously as you has to have his shit together. Wait! Or even better, a dress. Ha, ha, ha! Yes! Have you ever worn a dress, Kyle?"
The guy just looked at her and smiled.
She continued, "You really should. It's amazing what it'll do for a guy's psyche. No really, every man should have a dress and pair of pumps in his closet that he can put on at certain times, like when he has a fight with his girlfriend or if she won't ball him because she's menstruating or something. Just so he can relate a bit and open up to his femine side. I dated this guy and he did it. It was wild, he was this big jock type, all hung up on his attitudes and macho role playing. But he wore it. We went out to dinner and laughed and laughed, just like old girlfriends."
The guy was really grinning now. "Why'd he do it?" he asked.
"He had to! I made him! See, for my birthday, his present to me was that he'd be my slave for a day, do anything I said. So, I had him put on a dress. Nothing too obnoxious. He even bought it himself. I helped him pick it out, which was hilarious! Later on he did this little strip-tease for me. It was really fun" She hesitated a moment, smiling, either for effect, or in reminiscense. "Yeah, Kyle, you should try it. Let's shop when we hit the city. It'd be good for you. It really loosened him up."
"Did he ever wear it again?"
"No. Well, I doubt it. We broke up pretty soon after that. He screwed around on me a bit. The way I found out was that he got eyebrow crabs.
"On the turntable: Bloc Party, "Silent Alarm"
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
When we was gaijin
During my first few months in Japan, before I began to settle into my life in the 'Nog, I used to make bimonthly trips into the Kansai area. It wasn't such a long ride, about three hours by bus, and the lure of quiet afternoons spent strolling Kyoto's Higashiyama area followed by a few beers in the expat bars of Shinsaibashi allowed me to forget for awhile how far away from home I was.
About three months into my stay here, I was coming back from one such weekend. After leaving Kobe, the bus would follow the Chugoku expressway, a long concrete path through high sheet-metal-lined walls which barely hid the uninspiring landscape of pachinko parlors, golf driving ranges, and identical, non-descript department stores. On this particular day, the bus driver was going faster than usual, probably to make up some time before taking the route through the mountains, usually snow-covered this time of year. Time seemed to be marked by the rhythmic hum of our engine reflected off each car we passed.
At some point in my trip, I happened to look up from my book and out the window to the express bus running alongside ours. Inside was the usual scene of middle-aged Japanese on a day trip, the majority of heads bowing in slumber, jostling with the motion of the bus. Yet what made this group unusual was that each bobbing head was shaped into a samurai topknot. They were wearing wigs of course, but every man on that bus was dressed in a style most familiar to me from noisy afternoon TV. I'm still not quite sure how these men could fit into their seats, sitting side by side while wearing those kimono with long pointed shoulders. The women too were straight out of the Edo-period, their eyebrows a mere pair of dots high up on their heavily made-up foreheads.
As we came alongside the next vehicle, I saw the same thing, and on the bus in front of that one was still another scene of slumbering samurai. My usually uneventful ride home had placed me at the center of a Fellini/Kurosawa co-production.
On this front bus, one man was awake, looking out the window in obvious boredom. As our eyes locked, he did a visible double-take, noticing that the face staring back at him was not Japanese. To a foreigner living in the countryside, this sudden change of expression can be seen a dozen times a day. Being still somewhat new to Japan, I was just beginning to flinch at the sound of the word "gaijin." Not long before, I think that I had probably found the attention flattering, but by now I wanted to be considered just another unrecognizable human being in the midst of a daily existance.
So, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, I recognized the familiar double-take and the ensuing stare. But then I noticed something new. A look of sadness passed across this man's face just before he looked down into his lap. It was if he had realized that due to his attire and make-up, he was the one who looked different, the one on display. It was if he had realized that I had had more reason to stare than he. And with this realization, this sudden enlightenment on his part, we seemed to share a brief, mutual understanding of what it is like to stand out in a country which prides itself on conformity. And for a moment, I didn't feel so far from home after all.
On the turntable: David Bowie, "Heroes"
On the nightable: Bill Bryson, "Notes From a Small Island"
About three months into my stay here, I was coming back from one such weekend. After leaving Kobe, the bus would follow the Chugoku expressway, a long concrete path through high sheet-metal-lined walls which barely hid the uninspiring landscape of pachinko parlors, golf driving ranges, and identical, non-descript department stores. On this particular day, the bus driver was going faster than usual, probably to make up some time before taking the route through the mountains, usually snow-covered this time of year. Time seemed to be marked by the rhythmic hum of our engine reflected off each car we passed.
At some point in my trip, I happened to look up from my book and out the window to the express bus running alongside ours. Inside was the usual scene of middle-aged Japanese on a day trip, the majority of heads bowing in slumber, jostling with the motion of the bus. Yet what made this group unusual was that each bobbing head was shaped into a samurai topknot. They were wearing wigs of course, but every man on that bus was dressed in a style most familiar to me from noisy afternoon TV. I'm still not quite sure how these men could fit into their seats, sitting side by side while wearing those kimono with long pointed shoulders. The women too were straight out of the Edo-period, their eyebrows a mere pair of dots high up on their heavily made-up foreheads.
As we came alongside the next vehicle, I saw the same thing, and on the bus in front of that one was still another scene of slumbering samurai. My usually uneventful ride home had placed me at the center of a Fellini/Kurosawa co-production.
On this front bus, one man was awake, looking out the window in obvious boredom. As our eyes locked, he did a visible double-take, noticing that the face staring back at him was not Japanese. To a foreigner living in the countryside, this sudden change of expression can be seen a dozen times a day. Being still somewhat new to Japan, I was just beginning to flinch at the sound of the word "gaijin." Not long before, I think that I had probably found the attention flattering, but by now I wanted to be considered just another unrecognizable human being in the midst of a daily existance.
So, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, I recognized the familiar double-take and the ensuing stare. But then I noticed something new. A look of sadness passed across this man's face just before he looked down into his lap. It was if he had realized that due to his attire and make-up, he was the one who looked different, the one on display. It was if he had realized that I had had more reason to stare than he. And with this realization, this sudden enlightenment on his part, we seemed to share a brief, mutual understanding of what it is like to stand out in a country which prides itself on conformity. And for a moment, I didn't feel so far from home after all.
On the turntable: David Bowie, "Heroes"
On the nightable: Bill Bryson, "Notes From a Small Island"
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
New Lint in Old Navels
Memories are silly. An event rehashed verbally becomes little more than anecdote eventually, the story, molded again and again, pieces added bit by bit like globs of clay, replaces the experience, creating it's own form of art. The experience itself, in the larger scheme of things, becomes minimalized. Each event is an acid test; it either helps support a beforeheld opinion reassuringly, or it does the complete opposite and reverses our taste about something. From here we progress, making future decisions which are tied to that particular event linearally. In its most basic form, each random causal event creates a scenario which is as simple as, yet simultaneously as incredibly significant as, the minor decision as to whether to take the right or left fork in the road. Our perception of reality based on said event will determine our live's outcome. So obviously, our present is invariably decided by interpretation of past events which individually have come to play a part in our future (as it becomes present). Yet, paradoxically, the memory of past events (which created this present moment of reflection), can in turn hinder the progression toward the future. The longing for something lost long ago muddles the decision-making process. When is it that we learn something? It's when an event enters our realm which deviates somewhat from the existing program. But what about the little details? Why is it that we remember certain things in our lives and forget about others? And why is it easy for our friends to remember those events that ourselves cannot? Conscious memory is a funny thing; it acts as the rudder to the ship of our active decision-making, yet it is the subconscious memory which is the tide and the wind. Memory exists where we changed course...
On the turntable: Putumayo Calypso
On the nightable: Michael Cunningham, "Speciman Days"
On the turntable: Putumayo Calypso
On the nightable: Michael Cunningham, "Speciman Days"
Monday, November 21, 2005
Long Forgotten Stream of Consciousness Post From Way Back In June
...Fishnet stockings. Fishermen net fish. Clerks stock fish. Sharks stalk clerks. And a few celery stalks, attached to bulemic twigs gingerly moving over Shibuya crossing, each step ready to bring down the whole house of carbs, balanced over chubby high heels, clip-clopping like pigs' trotters. And the Frankenstein high heels shuffling behind Tottori Station, legs angled like tweezers, sheer daylight at crotch-level. And another high-heeled slave, shoe caught in the train crossing near Hopetown. And Shell's right foot, tracing the circles of distant moons as her thoughts pass through their phases...
On the turntable: Milt Jackson and John Coltrane, "Bags and Trane"
On the nightable: Yagyu Munenori, "The Way of the Living Sword"
On the turntable: Milt Jackson and John Coltrane, "Bags and Trane"
On the nightable: Yagyu Munenori, "The Way of the Living Sword"
Sunday, November 20, 2005
I saw god today...
I saw god in the snow covered peak mimicking a scallop shell on a blue platter of autumn sky.
I saw god in the fog gently caressing the long slender fingers of valleys.
I saw god in the tree-lined stubble silhouette on the hilltops.
I saw god in the red and yellow leaves anointing my truck as it exited a tunnel.
I saw god as I traced a high, grey ribbon, playing connect the dots with mountains...
On the turntable: Traffic, "Mr. Fantasy"
I saw god in the fog gently caressing the long slender fingers of valleys.
I saw god in the tree-lined stubble silhouette on the hilltops.
I saw god in the red and yellow leaves anointing my truck as it exited a tunnel.
I saw god as I traced a high, grey ribbon, playing connect the dots with mountains...
On the turntable: Traffic, "Mr. Fantasy"
Saturday, November 19, 2005
I passed a week...
...or the week passed me, slung along by the autumn winds bringing snow to nearby peaks and rain to my rooftop. My limited free time was spent making sense of the 1's and 0's taking their respective places to form moving pictures which dazzle us again and again and help me temporarily forget the dreary weather which affects me as much inside as out.
"Carnivale" was a reoccuring theme, its creepy, surreal pacing a perfect dirge to this dying year.
Blown away by "Open Water, " especially after reading that the sharks swimming below and around the actors are not CG. Teeth with tails.
Two J-films round out our list. "Hana and Alice," showing us why Shunji Iwai is one of the best directors out there. Extreme close-up of the face of a jilted lover is held to the point where our agony begins to match hers. And then there was one... Fifteen years in the making, "Nobody Knows," goes beyond words. Could I possibly cry harder? Or more? The rain had stiff competition that night. Though it always does, as I once again begin my annual slide into seasonal melancholy...
On the turntable: Pink Floyd, "Atom Heart Mother"
On the nightable: David Sedaris, "Me Talk Pretty One Day".
"Carnivale" was a reoccuring theme, its creepy, surreal pacing a perfect dirge to this dying year.
Blown away by "Open Water, " especially after reading that the sharks swimming below and around the actors are not CG. Teeth with tails.
Two J-films round out our list. "Hana and Alice," showing us why Shunji Iwai is one of the best directors out there. Extreme close-up of the face of a jilted lover is held to the point where our agony begins to match hers. And then there was one... Fifteen years in the making, "Nobody Knows," goes beyond words. Could I possibly cry harder? Or more? The rain had stiff competition that night. Though it always does, as I once again begin my annual slide into seasonal melancholy...
On the turntable: Pink Floyd, "Atom Heart Mother"
On the nightable: David Sedaris, "Me Talk Pretty One Day".
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Haiku season words
Is smoke a "kigo" for autumn? 'Tis everywhere...
On the turntable: Son Volt, "Okemah and the Melody of Riot"
On the nightable: Sun Shuyun, "Ten Thousand Miles without a Cloud"
On the turntable: Son Volt, "Okemah and the Melody of Riot"
On the nightable: Sun Shuyun, "Ten Thousand Miles without a Cloud"
Monday, November 14, 2005
Okinawa Getaway, Getaway
As I do every November 3rd, I set off to Tokyo to see the koryu demos at Meiji Jingu. It's a day of flying bodies, swirling staffs, and flashing steel (and worn out martial arts cliches). It culminates in the firing of ancient matchlock weapons, their surprisingly loud retorts filling the sky with crows startled from their treetop aerie. It's also a good chance for me to temporarily plug back into the Tokyo budo scene.
The next morning I headed out to Haneda to catch my Okinawa bound flight. The traffic was horrendous, making it look entirely possible that I'd miss the plane. So I sat there formulating a plan B: more yoga, more live music, more hang time with friends under blemish-free autumn skies. Plan B won. Though I made it to the airport on time, I cashed in my ticket and headed back to town, spoon-feeding my spirit a week of hedonism.
A major factor in my decision to stay is what occurred the night before. My jazz-singer friend Yumiko took me to see Toku at Body and Soul in Aoyama. He is amazing, alternating between flugelhorn and vocals ala Chet Baker. His jams were loose, his backing band incredibly tight. It's no wonder he's a major player on the J-jazz scene. Yumiko and I had a table dead center in front of the stage, the perfect position from which to watch the magic.
Near the end of the second set, Toku's attention was drawn to something going on in the corner of the club. It turns out Cyndi Lauper was there, with some famous kimono-clad enka singer. They came on stage to engage Toku in the usual babble best left on Japanese TV. Then Cyndi joined Toku in singing "Time After Time." The crowd sat with jaws on the floor. When Cyndi came off stage, she had to pass my table, so I held out my hand, which she took. I said, "Cyndi, thank you so much," to which she said, "That was a trip!" Toku took an encore, calling another 
celeb out of the crowd. Ogura Maki is a R'n'B singer, hot about a decade ago. She and Toku sang a couple songs together, then two more apparently famous jazz singers joined the fun singing backup to Cyndi Lauper doing Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On?" Crazy. By the time they'd finished, the trains had stopped running. I was forced to take a cab home. Just another $200 night in Tokyo. God bless that city.--------------------------(Cyndi, Toku and Ogura Maki on piano)------->
On the turntable: Gorillaz, "Demon Days"
On the nightable, Thad Carhart, The Piano Shop on the Left Bank"
Jumpa Lahiri, "The Interpreter of Maladies"
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Gettin' the Willies on Halloween
I'd been putting off seeing the new "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" movie for months, due in part to the creepy-Michael Jackson vibe I got from Johnny Depp in the preview. But being that it was Halloween, and this is rapidly shaping up to be Johnny Deep Theme Week, I gave in and hit the late show. Rather than grossing me out, Depp's Wonka had me rolling at his absurd, pseudo-hipster lingo. He had quite the flair for comedic timing, like Jim Carrey with a leash. It was weird seeing the film in Japan, considering the OompaLoompa subtext. I won't be so uncharitable as to make height comparisons, but I found similarities in terms of fondness for uniforms, group exercise and para-para dance moves. Plus the strong work ethic. Yet, notice how only the boss got to break through the glass ceiling.
Best of all, the film is interactive.
Quoth Muffin:
"For each mention of the word "chocolate," in a movie
about a goddamned chocolate factory, we ate a
bite-sized chocolate bar. it's a like a drinking game
except the puke is a different color and you won't be
able to fall asleep for 3 days, as opposed to passing
out on the spot.
so now i ask of you, my sweet-toothed friends, my
super competitive arch nemesises to bring this
generation-defining challenge upon yourselves.
the entice you even further to join in on this slighly
dangerous jolt to your central nervous system, the
added benefits were a late night creative period where
i did some of my best work with wonka's river of
chocolate coursing through my veins. first, a haiku:
involuntary
twitch. look, an oompa loompa.
maybe you should drive."
Now Steve:
"So yes, as Katherine already told you, I have come up with the idea
for the Charlie and the Choco Challenge. All you have to do is go
see the movie, and everytime someone says the word chocolate, you
eat a piece of chocolate. Simple, right?
Some bits of advice:
1) Don't jump the gun! It takes surprisingly long for this movie to
say the word chocolate, but when it does, oh man... Remember, this
isn't a sprint, it's a marathon!
2) Have some bite size choco ready. Sometimes the word chocolate
comes up about 10 times in a minute. You've gotta be on that!
3) DON'T SEE THE LATE SHOW ON A SCHOOL NIGHT! The caffeine crash
won't hit you until about 2:30pm the next day.
For the record, I was not able to complete this crazy challenge
myself. I gave up with only about 15 minutes to go, but it was
probably for the best. We had Snickers, Nestle Crunch, Kit Kat,
Choco Almonds, and Peanut M&Ms. When I close my eyes, all I see is a
big chocolate waterfall...
For those of you who don't care for chocolate, here are some other
versions of this challenge that you can try:
1) Whenever people say the word candy, eat some candy.
2) Whenever the fat German boy says or does anything, laugh.
3) Whenever Willy Wonka says "let's move on", consume an
entire "Fuji Combo" in less than 30 seconds.
4) Whenever the Umpa Loompas dance, do your best to imitate them in
the aisle."
On the turntable: Sonic Youth, "Goo"
On the nightable: Douglas C. Haring, "Okinawan Customs, Yesterday and Today" (Guess where I'm going...)
Best of all, the film is interactive.
Quoth Muffin:
"For each mention of the word "chocolate," in a movie
about a goddamned chocolate factory, we ate a
bite-sized chocolate bar. it's a like a drinking game
except the puke is a different color and you won't be
able to fall asleep for 3 days, as opposed to passing
out on the spot.
so now i ask of you, my sweet-toothed friends, my
super competitive arch nemesises to bring this
generation-defining challenge upon yourselves.
the entice you even further to join in on this slighly
dangerous jolt to your central nervous system, the
added benefits were a late night creative period where
i did some of my best work with wonka's river of
chocolate coursing through my veins. first, a haiku:
involuntary
twitch. look, an oompa loompa.
maybe you should drive."
Now Steve:
"So yes, as Katherine already told you, I have come up with the idea
for the Charlie and the Choco Challenge. All you have to do is go
see the movie, and everytime someone says the word chocolate, you
eat a piece of chocolate. Simple, right?
Some bits of advice:
1) Don't jump the gun! It takes surprisingly long for this movie to
say the word chocolate, but when it does, oh man... Remember, this
isn't a sprint, it's a marathon!
2) Have some bite size choco ready. Sometimes the word chocolate
comes up about 10 times in a minute. You've gotta be on that!
3) DON'T SEE THE LATE SHOW ON A SCHOOL NIGHT! The caffeine crash
won't hit you until about 2:30pm the next day.
For the record, I was not able to complete this crazy challenge
myself. I gave up with only about 15 minutes to go, but it was
probably for the best. We had Snickers, Nestle Crunch, Kit Kat,
Choco Almonds, and Peanut M&Ms. When I close my eyes, all I see is a
big chocolate waterfall...
For those of you who don't care for chocolate, here are some other
versions of this challenge that you can try:
1) Whenever people say the word candy, eat some candy.
2) Whenever the fat German boy says or does anything, laugh.
3) Whenever Willy Wonka says "let's move on", consume an
entire "Fuji Combo" in less than 30 seconds.
4) Whenever the Umpa Loompas dance, do your best to imitate them in
the aisle."
On the turntable: Sonic Youth, "Goo"
On the nightable: Douglas C. Haring, "Okinawan Customs, Yesterday and Today" (Guess where I'm going...)
Monday, October 31, 2005
It's Halloween and You Feel Like Dancin'
How I spent my Saturday night:
Bob Dylan, "Like a Rolling Stone"
Medley:
---Rascals/Grateful Dead, "Good Lovin'"
---Stones, "Can't You Hear Me Knockin'?"
---Bob Marley, "Exodus"
Smiths, "How Soon Is Now?"
ZZ Top, "Jesus Just Left Chicago"
Dead Kennedys, "Holiday in Cambodia"
The last three had me on vocals.
I was dressed as Johnny Depp in Pirates. This led to the following quote:
"With this getup, if I don't get laid tonite, I don't deserve a penis."
I didn't and I don't.
On the turntable: Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, "Howl"
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Bring us Mingus
I can't get enough of Mingus lately. His stuff is just manic. Bass lines like the footfalls of someone running through a Rashomon forest freckled with light. Growling horns the encroaching beasts. "The Shoes of the Fisherman's Wife Are Some Jive-Ass Slippers," besides having a fantastic title, is one of the most perfect jazz records ever recorded.
On the turntable: (Don't make me say it. MINGUS! Aw yeah!)
On the turntable: (Don't make me say it. MINGUS! Aw yeah!)
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Stranger than...
Over coffee with E-Ma Eric, he told me that I remind him of Ben Sachs from Paul Auster's "Leviathan." I was flattered of course, being a big fan of Auster, who can floor you when he's on, and break your heart when he's not. I was also a bit confused, never having really blown up anything of consequence. Besides, all my life I've been living like Larry Darrell. While aspiring to be Japhy Ryder.
It wasn't the first time I've been compared to a work of imagination. (Though aren't we all really, imagined into life by our parents?) Years back, in a Kobe bar long since flattened in the quake, my friend Mark said I reminded him of a cartoon character. I suppose he meant my vast range of facial expressions and exuberant way of communication. But Mark was cartoon-like in his actions. After all, this was on the night we were about to play William Tell with a dart, Mark's cigarette and far too much booze. The bartender leapt over and grabbed my arm just as I drew it back. I wouldn't have actually thrown it. I just wanted to see how far Mark would go. But I don't doubt the crazy fucker wouldn't have flinched, all the way up to the moment where the dart pierced his cheek.
On the turntable: Widespread Panic, "Uber Cobra"
On the nightable: Toni Morrison, "The Bluest Eye"
It wasn't the first time I've been compared to a work of imagination. (Though aren't we all really, imagined into life by our parents?) Years back, in a Kobe bar long since flattened in the quake, my friend Mark said I reminded him of a cartoon character. I suppose he meant my vast range of facial expressions and exuberant way of communication. But Mark was cartoon-like in his actions. After all, this was on the night we were about to play William Tell with a dart, Mark's cigarette and far too much booze. The bartender leapt over and grabbed my arm just as I drew it back. I wouldn't have actually thrown it. I just wanted to see how far Mark would go. But I don't doubt the crazy fucker wouldn't have flinched, all the way up to the moment where the dart pierced his cheek.
On the turntable: Widespread Panic, "Uber Cobra"
On the nightable: Toni Morrison, "The Bluest Eye"
Friday, October 28, 2005
Whole Lotte Love
Took my weekly trip to Kansai, a region now awash with misery at its homegrown Tigers miserable performance in the Japan Series, which harkens comparisons with a Little League squad. Not everyone is unhappy with the team's misfortune apparently. Middle-aged women are thrilled that the victorious Lotte team is owned by a Korean company, therefore guaranteeing a handful of K-bot boy eye-candy making their way to commercials nationwide.
Safety Tip! On the train, take care not to sit beside any salaryman type who has an obvious cold. With a nose closed with congestion, he'll be forced to mouth-breathe, sending forth an odious collection of aromas which defy the staunchiest of nostrils.
On the turntable: Woody Guthrie, "Ballads of Sacco and Vanzetti"
Safety Tip! On the train, take care not to sit beside any salaryman type who has an obvious cold. With a nose closed with congestion, he'll be forced to mouth-breathe, sending forth an odious collection of aromas which defy the staunchiest of nostrils.
On the turntable: Woody Guthrie, "Ballads of Sacco and Vanzetti"
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Tales from the 'hood
Checking my bank balance recently, I noticed a couple zeros that hadn't been there before. So I did what any red-blooded American would do: squander it. Time for some antique bling-bling. Came home with a couple 19th Century iron weapons and spears. As I carried them to my door, some neighbors gave me funny looks. It can't be a good thing when the gaijin begin to arm.
I live in an old house in the old part of town. Pre-westernization, this area would have been a lesser samurai quarter, not far from the castle, Buddhist temples, and red-light district. I know a trolley used to run by here, past a large ironworks which once covered this sector. The fact that my house was built just after the war leads me to assume that this area may have been bombed. Today, most of the homes surrounding ours are of a more recent vintage, the average life span of a house in Japan being a mere 24 years. One of the newest additions is a featureless blue box. One of these days, I'm going to knock on the door and pretending I mistake it for a dental clinic, make an appointment.
A month ago, in the Nog's bar district, somebody, apparently in an alcohol-fueled rage at an uninspired life, decided to take it out on my bicycle. The shape of the front wheel now resembles a flattened pumpkin. I took it to the nearby bicycle guy. He must've vibed my musical "talent", for in the five minutes we spent talking, he knocked over just about everything in his shop, causing such a wonderful symphony of mechanical clamor that I don't doubt he was channeling John Cage. As I applauded, he told me I'd be better off just stealing a wheel from someone else's bike. I eyed his stock suspiciously.
A block or so away is a soup line for cats. Everyday at noon, a dozen or so stand below a window which I assume is the kitchen. Next door is an overgrown yard which nearly hides what I call the fairy-tale house. It is a wonderfully ancient structure of angles which I'd call gothic, if the home weren't Japanese. The overhanging trees create arches leading to magical realms beyond. In the front is a large circular stone which would be considered small currency in the Yap Islands. It's probably leftover change from a recent trip.
One of my elderly neighbors is dressed up today. He's wearing a suit with a cut thirty years old. The tie is simply massive. Must be Koizumi's new "Cool Breeze" campaign.
A low concrete wall runs along perpendicular to the houses. It separates the sidewalk from a large vegetable garden. At the base of the wall are a line of colorful weeds and flowers which grow right from the concrete, looking like they're climbing under the wall in an attempt at truency. The unpredictability of nature.
On the turntable: Eleventh Dream Day, "El Moodio"
On the nightable: Jay Rubin, "Haruki Murakami and the Music of Words"
I live in an old house in the old part of town. Pre-westernization, this area would have been a lesser samurai quarter, not far from the castle, Buddhist temples, and red-light district. I know a trolley used to run by here, past a large ironworks which once covered this sector. The fact that my house was built just after the war leads me to assume that this area may have been bombed. Today, most of the homes surrounding ours are of a more recent vintage, the average life span of a house in Japan being a mere 24 years. One of the newest additions is a featureless blue box. One of these days, I'm going to knock on the door and pretending I mistake it for a dental clinic, make an appointment.
A month ago, in the Nog's bar district, somebody, apparently in an alcohol-fueled rage at an uninspired life, decided to take it out on my bicycle. The shape of the front wheel now resembles a flattened pumpkin. I took it to the nearby bicycle guy. He must've vibed my musical "talent", for in the five minutes we spent talking, he knocked over just about everything in his shop, causing such a wonderful symphony of mechanical clamor that I don't doubt he was channeling John Cage. As I applauded, he told me I'd be better off just stealing a wheel from someone else's bike. I eyed his stock suspiciously.
A block or so away is a soup line for cats. Everyday at noon, a dozen or so stand below a window which I assume is the kitchen. Next door is an overgrown yard which nearly hides what I call the fairy-tale house. It is a wonderfully ancient structure of angles which I'd call gothic, if the home weren't Japanese. The overhanging trees create arches leading to magical realms beyond. In the front is a large circular stone which would be considered small currency in the Yap Islands. It's probably leftover change from a recent trip.
One of my elderly neighbors is dressed up today. He's wearing a suit with a cut thirty years old. The tie is simply massive. Must be Koizumi's new "Cool Breeze" campaign.
A low concrete wall runs along perpendicular to the houses. It separates the sidewalk from a large vegetable garden. At the base of the wall are a line of colorful weeds and flowers which grow right from the concrete, looking like they're climbing under the wall in an attempt at truency. The unpredictability of nature.
On the turntable: Eleventh Dream Day, "El Moodio"
On the nightable: Jay Rubin, "Haruki Murakami and the Music of Words"
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Unspeakable Visions of the Individual
Watched "The Source" again last night, a documentary about the Beat Generation, which reminded me of the time Zach and I got tight on Guinness at some open-mic thing in Ebisu, beer and words fueling the city-hiking muse, Zach having been stuck in the office all day, the whole while longing to wander the megapolis' s narrow streets, stepping through their shadows, past shoji-papered windows that hint at shapes beyond yet refusing detail, in the paper-picture perfect way of the hidden depths of the Japanese soul, many filled with dreams of time in foreign climes, just like we two perambulating buddhas, our footfall scrapes the sound of gutter-blown leaves, shrivelled and curled like a old man's fist, shaped by long toil with the masses, beasts of burden for Moloch, who herds them onto trains, fast trains high above the streets, like Trunk Road nagas moving the branches ready to swallow Ole' Zach and I as we lumber drunkenly in their direction, which is every direction, surrounding us in this jungle, the alleys and lanes we wander sans map, making turns by whim and instinct rather than landmark, though after one sudden unexpected turn the familiar is revealed in the form of an English couple whose apartment we suddenly found, the door before us opening to reveal their surprised faces red with whisky, brows furrowed in deep-thought at the viewing of said "Source," the final thirty minutes spinning in the machine, below TV screen revealing scenes of a 1994 Boulder and a Beat event, with Zach and I both in attendance, yet our foggy minds refusing to recall any previous discourse before that time we crossed paths in beer-sodden Chiba circa 2000, building a friendship which led to this serendipitous moment, watching a beat documentary revealing random audience shots, causing Zach to suddenly yawp, "There I Am!", bringing much laughter, until seconds later, it's my turn to yell the same, finding my own face there in the dark hall a decade gone, though the face has gone all red by now with the laughter and the whisky and the friendship, in this warm apartment safe against the cold Tokyo night in an autumn coming slowly to a close.
("That's not writing, that's typing.")
On the turntable: Thelonious Monk and John Coltrane at Carnegie Hall"
("That's not writing, that's typing.")
On the turntable: Thelonious Monk and John Coltrane at Carnegie Hall"
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
The Great Gig on the Fly
A month ago, Ushi asked me to play at a gig he organized at Jazz Inn. Tim and I called a couple friends and created a short set. It was smoking, probably the best we've played. We played two Marley covers in deference to a bass playing friend who is unbelievably rigid and tight, despite coming from a funk/reggae background. On the surface, reggae seems pretty simple --I mean even potheads can play the shit. But the drumming is ridiculously complex. Tim chose to stretch "Exodus" to about ten minutes, and by the end, sweat was pouring from me, starting with my burning shoulders and forearms. I got my reprieve behind the mike. I'm really starting to get a feel for singing, though I am still not ready to look at the audience when I do. Ushi's funk band went first, and midway through their set, he called me up to take the vocals on "Superstition." I also sang again during the session that followed once the bands were done. We blazed through a fifteen minute version of "Born Under A Bad Sign," every one taking a solo, including Tim playing ragtime like piano runs with his elbows. I didn't even know he could play. Fronting the combination of Motoi on guitar and Aa-chan on bass was magic. Add Alama to the mix and satori is sure to be mine.
Monday night we went to Hi High on the pretext of a short meeting with the owner about this week's upcoming gig. Somehow, we all ended up on stage, Tim, Zach, and Cian on guitars, me on congas. A quick twenty minute set for a single salaryman flanked by three hostesses. As we played, a couple other guys came in, one of whom bought us beers. Feeling I should sit and talk with him awhile, I turned obligation on it's head by pretending I was a hostess like the two on either side of him. I copied their actions the best I could, clapping when he sang, complimenting him profusely, signing karaoke he suggested. I didn't go as far as wiping his glass or touching his knee. Maybe next time. I was having a hilarious time, and the two Filipinas got it, but he seemed clueless. I hope he doesn't read this, these memoirs of a gai-sha...
On the turntable: The Heart of Bluegrass"
Monday night we went to Hi High on the pretext of a short meeting with the owner about this week's upcoming gig. Somehow, we all ended up on stage, Tim, Zach, and Cian on guitars, me on congas. A quick twenty minute set for a single salaryman flanked by three hostesses. As we played, a couple other guys came in, one of whom bought us beers. Feeling I should sit and talk with him awhile, I turned obligation on it's head by pretending I was a hostess like the two on either side of him. I copied their actions the best I could, clapping when he sang, complimenting him profusely, signing karaoke he suggested. I didn't go as far as wiping his glass or touching his knee. Maybe next time. I was having a hilarious time, and the two Filipinas got it, but he seemed clueless. I hope he doesn't read this, these memoirs of a gai-sha...
On the turntable: The Heart of Bluegrass"
Monday, October 24, 2005
A Weekend In Autumn
Saturday night I went to the local Budokan for Aikido practice. At the front of the large hall was a banner announcing the "Moto-ha Yoshin-ryu Jujutsu Taikai." Beneath it were the flags of a dozen countries, most of them Scandanavian or former Soviet States. After playing guess that flag awhile, I pondered why an international event like this was being held in the 'Nog, of all places. Sunday, I went to watch and soon had my answer. It turns out this group is an offshoot of the Nishinomiya-based Hontai Yoshin-ryu, whose current head is originally from the 'Nog. It was strange to see a group of foreigners in my small city, in MY martial arts hall (and it is mine, since I'm the only foreign budoka to train with any consistancy). Their numbers were far greater than this city's non-Asian gaijin population of around thirty. Stranger still was to hear languages other than the current lingua franca of Eigo.
Beside the fights in the dojo, I also saw two out on the streets. In front of Tsutaya, a young guy was aggressively standing inches away from some teenager, in the face-to-face way that Japanese guys get, which always builds tension in me as I wonder whether they'll kiss or kill. Later, at Buchschule, a blue kei car weaved erratically through the parking lot. I thought he was cutting off others in an attempt for the "rock star parking" space I'd just pulled out from, but instead he passed it and purposely stopped in front of another kei car. The maniac then leapt out and began hollering at the driver of the other car, madly gesturing like a marionette and pointing up the street. I wanted to see how it would play out, but the signal changed and I had to go. Strange things are afoot in the 'Nog, especially outside places which sell overpriced books.
Maybe it was the full moon. To better bathe in its perfect light, I drove up to Daisen. Coming down through a quiet stretch of forest, I startled a group of wild boars, which began to run in different directions, bumping into one another in a textbook definition of the expression, "utter confusion." Their erratic stupidity, and the obvious pig-police reference brought to mind the Keystone Cops, or maybe the more local variety. The boars ran down the hill awhile but never darted into the obvious safety of the trees. Like the jackrabbits of New Mexico, they ran out ahead of my truck, but were more frightened of running into the uncertain darkness outside the headlights. So, I slowly pulled alongside the boars and watched them awhile. My only prior experience with inoshishi had been to fish pieces out of a stew with my chopsticks. Alive, they were much more exciting. They run a little and stop, run a little and stop. The biggest one actually walked up to my door, then ran back. Then another car pulled up, coming from the other direction. Imagine the confusion! It was an agonizing few minutes. Then, as if getting some silent cue, they all ran past my car and up the hill. The other car followed, which caused them to stop again. This stalemate quickly became, well, stale, so I headed home.
The whole thing reminded me of yet another fight I saw a few years ago. While driving the mountainous roads which weave back and forth across the Tottori-Okayama line, I saw strange goings on up ahead. In the middle of the road was a huge coiled viper, under full attack from a weasel which kept running from the brush, coming at the snake in large leaps. The snake would strike, but the weasel kept jumping back to a safe range. Here too, I was able to roll up on the scene, to where the viper was just under my window. After taking a few more hits, the snake quickly moved off the road into the brush, the weasel hot on its flank. Rikki Tikki Tavi lives!
(By the way, this is my hundredth post! Fighto!)
On the turntable: Serge Gainsbourg, "Gainsbourg... Forever"
On the nightable: "The O'Henry Awards: Prize Stories 2000"
Beside the fights in the dojo, I also saw two out on the streets. In front of Tsutaya, a young guy was aggressively standing inches away from some teenager, in the face-to-face way that Japanese guys get, which always builds tension in me as I wonder whether they'll kiss or kill. Later, at Buchschule, a blue kei car weaved erratically through the parking lot. I thought he was cutting off others in an attempt for the "rock star parking" space I'd just pulled out from, but instead he passed it and purposely stopped in front of another kei car. The maniac then leapt out and began hollering at the driver of the other car, madly gesturing like a marionette and pointing up the street. I wanted to see how it would play out, but the signal changed and I had to go. Strange things are afoot in the 'Nog, especially outside places which sell overpriced books.
Maybe it was the full moon. To better bathe in its perfect light, I drove up to Daisen. Coming down through a quiet stretch of forest, I startled a group of wild boars, which began to run in different directions, bumping into one another in a textbook definition of the expression, "utter confusion." Their erratic stupidity, and the obvious pig-police reference brought to mind the Keystone Cops, or maybe the more local variety. The boars ran down the hill awhile but never darted into the obvious safety of the trees. Like the jackrabbits of New Mexico, they ran out ahead of my truck, but were more frightened of running into the uncertain darkness outside the headlights. So, I slowly pulled alongside the boars and watched them awhile. My only prior experience with inoshishi had been to fish pieces out of a stew with my chopsticks. Alive, they were much more exciting. They run a little and stop, run a little and stop. The biggest one actually walked up to my door, then ran back. Then another car pulled up, coming from the other direction. Imagine the confusion! It was an agonizing few minutes. Then, as if getting some silent cue, they all ran past my car and up the hill. The other car followed, which caused them to stop again. This stalemate quickly became, well, stale, so I headed home.
The whole thing reminded me of yet another fight I saw a few years ago. While driving the mountainous roads which weave back and forth across the Tottori-Okayama line, I saw strange goings on up ahead. In the middle of the road was a huge coiled viper, under full attack from a weasel which kept running from the brush, coming at the snake in large leaps. The snake would strike, but the weasel kept jumping back to a safe range. Here too, I was able to roll up on the scene, to where the viper was just under my window. After taking a few more hits, the snake quickly moved off the road into the brush, the weasel hot on its flank. Rikki Tikki Tavi lives!
(By the way, this is my hundredth post! Fighto!)
On the turntable: Serge Gainsbourg, "Gainsbourg... Forever"
On the nightable: "The O'Henry Awards: Prize Stories 2000"
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Tragedy in Four Parts
Last weekend, Zach and I set off toward Aoyama. We were both wearing light, summery clothes, with sandals. But everyone else had on jackets and sweaters and scarves. Granted, it was a rainy day in Tokyo, but it wasn't THAT cold. Said Zach, "Tokyo has apparently decided that it's fall." Two days later in the 'Nog, the temperature took a steep dive and summer was instantly gone. I've never seen a season die so dramatically.
Lately in these "Notes," the mention of death abounds. As stated before, the 14th was the three-year anniversary of the death of my son. Ironically, on or around that day, 2 friends also blogged about death. Another friend sent a consolatory text from abroad, at the exact time that Ken died. It leads to believe that there is such a thing as the "Collective Conscious," where we are all plugged into something far greater than ourselves. Perhaps my friends "read" my thoughts and feelings that day. Or perhaps it is simply the nature of autumn, with the obvious decay of things well within sight.
On the turntable: Iron and Wine, "The Sea and the Rhythm"
Lately in these "Notes," the mention of death abounds. As stated before, the 14th was the three-year anniversary of the death of my son. Ironically, on or around that day, 2 friends also blogged about death. Another friend sent a consolatory text from abroad, at the exact time that Ken died. It leads to believe that there is such a thing as the "Collective Conscious," where we are all plugged into something far greater than ourselves. Perhaps my friends "read" my thoughts and feelings that day. Or perhaps it is simply the nature of autumn, with the obvious decay of things well within sight.
On the turntable: Iron and Wine, "The Sea and the Rhythm"
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