I Went To Japan
In response to both the sobering nothingness that appears to be my future and a rapist's desperation to escape the daily eyeball torture I call "my job," I've completed an application to an absolutely fucking insane teaching job named the JET Program (Japan Exchange & Teaching). If accepted, I will be plucked from my happy, but boring, little town of Bloomington and placed in the middle of a sad, but boring, tribal village known to all as Nottokyo, Japan under the suspicious guise of teaching English. Those in the know will tell you that you will neither teach nor speak much English, but rather participate in the larger mission of 'internationalization,' which means participating in things like competitions to suck seal ass through a straw whilst wearing a flaming kimono. I wait eagerly for the embassy's response.
This provides about as good a segue as I'll ever get to talk about my little trip to Tokyo, which took place 5 fucking months ago now. Anthony landed a summer internship at his old study abroad office right outside Tokyo, receiving a nice stipdend, this time, in exchange for his getting drunk and photographing booth girls rather than just good grades. So, naturally, Brian and I went to go drink with him.
Brian and I flew separately, because this was the logical thing to do, and once I'd reached Los Angeles airport en route Tokyo, I immediately felt a heavy dose of fish-out-of-water wheresindiana-ness and wished very much to suck my thumb to prevent my oncoming tears of racial solitude. I was surprised to find that I would be one of only about 10 "Westerners" boarding the long flight back to The Motherland, which makes total sense now, but at the time I was in denial of this fact while I frantically clung to my last breaths in an English setting. I boarded my plane and minutes later the wave of withdrawl had hit like a ton of bricks:
"SAKEEEEEEEEEEEE! [breathe in] SAAAAAAAAAAAKKKEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
Repeat ad infinitum.
It took a while for the flight crew to straightjacket me to my seat but I persevered, managing to curl up into a fetal ball wanting some sake. I arrived at Narita Airport and the hilarity of my 10 days of utter confusion ensued. I won't summarize every little thing I did and saw on a daily basis, but I'll try to highlight some of the things that seem to stick out when one visits Japan, like situations requiring the wear of flaming kimonos.
Trains - The Japanese train system is celebrated for its on-the-second punctuality and unparalleled efficiency, two things in stark contrast to American public transport where you're lucky if the driver isn't drunk that day, if he even shows up at all. Tokyo is home to some of the busiest stations in the world, owing to the massive numbers of comatose, suit wearing zombies zig-zagging the city all day in search of the elusive used-panty vending machine.
One night Brian and I met up with a different friend/classmate of ours in the stylish 20-somethings mecca that is Shibuya (Tokyo) and sort of lost track of time between rounds of beer and face-punching insults cast at one another. It became increasingly apparent to us the closer we got to the station that, had we even succeeded in cutting through the wild imbroglio of ticket buyers, Brian and I would miss our train. Turning to our friend, who was well versed in the train schedule and had a place to stay, we all put our thumb and forefingers to our chins and evaluated how Brian and I were going to get home, during which said friend helpfully pointed out to us that we were, quote, “fucked”. Thus began our epic overnight struggle to stay awake until the morning train opened up at 5am, which comprised of a whole lot of NOTHING*.
Waste Removal – My God. Definitely NOT celebrated for their dearth of toilet paper, public restrooms in Japan will often have everything you don’t need, such as your very own personal sumo covered in mayonnaise from head to toe to keep you company in the stall, but lack that vital apparatus aiding in the removal of POO from one’s ARSE. Lucky for us, zillions of little packs of tissues are handed out on the streets as promotion material for businesses, effectively counterbalancing their furious efforts to recycle EVERYTHING under the sun, including the zombie train riding “salarymen” who tend to fall down the platform stairs because they’re actually DEAD.
Ah, recycling in Japan. We at home are thinking that it can’t be that hard; separate bottles and shit from, you know, the wastebasket reserved for vomiting and we’re good. If it were only that easy. In fact, in 1948, following the onset of the occupation, Japan nominated a Director of Environmental Affairs from the same fraternity that produced the Director Of Batshit Insane Subway Horror Planning Commission Person, who is credited with today’s cavernous subway underneath Tokyo by way of:
dropping a wad of rainbow spaghetti onto a map and yelling “I’M DRUKN, PREASE TO MAKE SUBWAY NOW!!!1”
So anyway, someone decided it would be prudent to require garbage be conveniently separated into these simple categories: combustibles, plastics, zombies, torched kimono, chopsticks, and the. list. goes. on.
Language Follies – This category largely dominated my daily schedule of searching for panty vending machines. Just as it had the previous year during the spring break Tokyo class I took. That year, one of my most heart-thumping moments came when I ventured into The Unknown (ie, out of my hotel room) to buy a camera memory card, and, by sheer luck, I found what I was looking for and proudly strode to checkout, card in hand. I gave it to the clerk, immediately looking elsewhere, and then a flurry of staccatoed sound which could have been Japanese royally disrupted the happy state of gaijin** obliviousness I was enjoying. Probably due to my knee-jerk response of,
“Uh,”
the clerk thankfully shifted to changing my 10’000 yen note into a pocket-ripping pile of coins. This year, I kind of terrorized the poor girl working behind the counter at one of Japan’s ubiquitous “conbini” (convenience stores) near Anthony’s apartment by Asking Questions. Only one in five tries would I actually say what I wanted to say (regarding stamps), with the other four being some variation on “my name is Fucktard Magoo and I’m here to eat your face”.
This entry is illegally long and its time to stop the pain. Next entry will possibly return to my woes of fiefdom at work.
____________________________________
*However, I want to add that I didn’t do all-night karaoke with Brian because, well, I aint singin’ to no man till the break of dawn, NUH UH.
**Foreigner
This provides about as good a segue as I'll ever get to talk about my little trip to Tokyo, which took place 5 fucking months ago now. Anthony landed a summer internship at his old study abroad office right outside Tokyo, receiving a nice stipdend, this time, in exchange for his getting drunk and photographing booth girls rather than just good grades. So, naturally, Brian and I went to go drink with him.
Brian and I flew separately, because this was the logical thing to do, and once I'd reached Los Angeles airport en route Tokyo, I immediately felt a heavy dose of fish-out-of-water wheresindiana-ness and wished very much to suck my thumb to prevent my oncoming tears of racial solitude. I was surprised to find that I would be one of only about 10 "Westerners" boarding the long flight back to The Motherland, which makes total sense now, but at the time I was in denial of this fact while I frantically clung to my last breaths in an English setting. I boarded my plane and minutes later the wave of withdrawl had hit like a ton of bricks:
"SAKEEEEEEEEEEEE! [breathe in] SAAAAAAAAAAAKKKEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
Repeat ad infinitum.
It took a while for the flight crew to straightjacket me to my seat but I persevered, managing to curl up into a fetal ball wanting some sake. I arrived at Narita Airport and the hilarity of my 10 days of utter confusion ensued. I won't summarize every little thing I did and saw on a daily basis, but I'll try to highlight some of the things that seem to stick out when one visits Japan, like situations requiring the wear of flaming kimonos.
Trains - The Japanese train system is celebrated for its on-the-second punctuality and unparalleled efficiency, two things in stark contrast to American public transport where you're lucky if the driver isn't drunk that day, if he even shows up at all. Tokyo is home to some of the busiest stations in the world, owing to the massive numbers of comatose, suit wearing zombies zig-zagging the city all day in search of the elusive used-panty vending machine.
One night Brian and I met up with a different friend/classmate of ours in the stylish 20-somethings mecca that is Shibuya (Tokyo) and sort of lost track of time between rounds of beer and face-punching insults cast at one another. It became increasingly apparent to us the closer we got to the station that, had we even succeeded in cutting through the wild imbroglio of ticket buyers, Brian and I would miss our train. Turning to our friend, who was well versed in the train schedule and had a place to stay, we all put our thumb and forefingers to our chins and evaluated how Brian and I were going to get home, during which said friend helpfully pointed out to us that we were, quote, “fucked”. Thus began our epic overnight struggle to stay awake until the morning train opened up at 5am, which comprised of a whole lot of NOTHING*.
Waste Removal – My God. Definitely NOT celebrated for their dearth of toilet paper, public restrooms in Japan will often have everything you don’t need, such as your very own personal sumo covered in mayonnaise from head to toe to keep you company in the stall, but lack that vital apparatus aiding in the removal of POO from one’s ARSE. Lucky for us, zillions of little packs of tissues are handed out on the streets as promotion material for businesses, effectively counterbalancing their furious efforts to recycle EVERYTHING under the sun, including the zombie train riding “salarymen” who tend to fall down the platform stairs because they’re actually DEAD.
Ah, recycling in Japan. We at home are thinking that it can’t be that hard; separate bottles and shit from, you know, the wastebasket reserved for vomiting and we’re good. If it were only that easy. In fact, in 1948, following the onset of the occupation, Japan nominated a Director of Environmental Affairs from the same fraternity that produced the Director Of Batshit Insane Subway Horror Planning Commission Person, who is credited with today’s cavernous subway underneath Tokyo by way of:
dropping a wad of rainbow spaghetti onto a map and yelling “I’M DRUKN, PREASE TO MAKE SUBWAY NOW!!!1”
So anyway, someone decided it would be prudent to require garbage be conveniently separated into these simple categories: combustibles, plastics, zombies, torched kimono, chopsticks, and the. list. goes. on.
Language Follies – This category largely dominated my daily schedule of searching for panty vending machines. Just as it had the previous year during the spring break Tokyo class I took. That year, one of my most heart-thumping moments came when I ventured into The Unknown (ie, out of my hotel room) to buy a camera memory card, and, by sheer luck, I found what I was looking for and proudly strode to checkout, card in hand. I gave it to the clerk, immediately looking elsewhere, and then a flurry of staccatoed sound which could have been Japanese royally disrupted the happy state of gaijin** obliviousness I was enjoying. Probably due to my knee-jerk response of,
“Uh,”
the clerk thankfully shifted to changing my 10’000 yen note into a pocket-ripping pile of coins. This year, I kind of terrorized the poor girl working behind the counter at one of Japan’s ubiquitous “conbini” (convenience stores) near Anthony’s apartment by Asking Questions. Only one in five tries would I actually say what I wanted to say (regarding stamps), with the other four being some variation on “my name is Fucktard Magoo and I’m here to eat your face”.
This entry is illegally long and its time to stop the pain. Next entry will possibly return to my woes of fiefdom at work.
____________________________________
*However, I want to add that I didn’t do all-night karaoke with Brian because, well, I aint singin’ to no man till the break of dawn, NUH UH.
**Foreigner
posted by Nicky @ 12/05/2005 09:04:00 PM
6 comments
